Everybody Curses, I Swear!

by Carrie Keagan

  Ken, in his own way, like Robin, was so brilliant, and yet, so tortured. He took his own life, too. It just took more time. Left behind are fragments of thought, splinters of memory, and misplaced photographs of doppelgangers trapped in time and space. What are they so happy about anyway? The only thing remaining that feels real is the discomforting feeling of unfulfilled déjà vu; a haunting reminder that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It’s little consolation as you struggle to stay on good terms with a life that continues to unfold at the same pace as his memory continues to fade.

  A Scooby-Doo doll in a Zorro mask, Care Bear Christmas cookies, a giant ball of tin foil, a column on a worksheet labelled “number of nothing to encode,” Mr. Dizzo, a bus-stop poster for Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country signed by the entire cast, “the Nelson tradition of hot-tubbing,” McRib, the Tidal Wave ride at Magic Mountain, and a car horn that sounded like a kitten meowing are just some of the stupid mementos I cling to that remind me of my times with Ken. He’s never far from my thoughts. But of all the stupid things that bring him to mind, I will never forget the French kangaroo with huge balls.

  To this day, when I think about Ken, I cuss him out aloud, almost involuntarily, as if we were sitting next to each other editing an interview at 2 A.M. “Whatever, Ken,” I say. “Asshole! Fucker!”

  If you really think about it, what is life but a strange and wondrous place filled with beauty, belligerence, and all-you-can-eat sushi buffets? Some people journey through it in private jets overflowing with rose petals and cocaine while others find themselves trapped in the back of a packed Greyhound bus with an overflowing shitter and a talking Kylo Ren toilet brush. Either way, we are all just tourists here. Tourists in exciting and unfamiliar surroundings, frantically rushing around trying to see and do as much as possible before our temporary visas expire and this bizarre trip comes to an abrupt end. If we’re lucky, the most we can hope to do is collect a few mental souvenirs along the way to remind us of those defining moments that caught us in their wake as we passed by. Much like a collection of snow globes that each depict a point in time from an experience and are designed to activate the entire memory perfectly.

  Ironically, we don’t get to choose the mental markers that remind us of the most profound and impactful events in our lives. Our subconscious does. And that’s why my emotional scrapbook seems as though it has been heavily influenced by a drunken David Lynch. But no matter how ridiculous, disturbing, sweet, or abstract my mental souvenirs are, they are as much a reflection of me and my incredible journey as the memories themselves.

  EPILOGUE

  Kourosh, Ken, and I met when we had nothing. We joined forces because we believed in something. Only to realize along the way that within each other, we had everything. Losing Ken felt like the end of our No Good creative unit we affectionately called the dickshow, but as he was in life, so he was in death. Which means this story can only end one way: complimentary reach-arounds for everybody! (Probably somewhere in Koreatown.) So, boys and girls, it was only the beginning. It was just a matter of time before someone showed up with a milking table and a new era of dick-handling would begin.

  However, one knock on the door became five, and a lone table at our local Buddhist meditation hut transformed into an international showroom for horizontal glory holes. It turns out Ken had decided to fill his void with more than one person, and additionally, he was looking to expand our circle of jerks by five.

  Beth Spruill (Writer/Producer): a born hose slinger from D.C. She can double-dick and triple-dick with the best of ’em and has. Anytime we’ve needed dick, day or night, she’d have it coming at us from every direction. She’s funny as fuck, has the biggest heart, and is a complete jackass! Together, we tried to answer many of life’s most perplexing questions, like can you get a Brazilian wax while on your period or, more importantly, should you? She’s my right hand, and I’ve hated everything about her from the moment she walked into my life. She’s both my giant and my mini-giraffe. She’s like the little sister I never had nor wanted and not a single day goes by that I’m not grateful we found each other. Like they say, keep your friends close …

  Michael Ore (3D Motion Graphics Artist): a professionally trained hot-cocker from Baltimore, Maryland! Nobody can make a cock look as hot as Mike can. I go to him with an inordinate amount of cocks that need attention, and he makes it look like child’s play. What can I say? The man is an artist! We met each other on a mustache Friday and we’ve been partners in crime ever since. Together, we “fucked” Spider-Man, discovered the wonder that is Campari (btw … it doesn’t need a mixer because is just as good served straight and at room temperature), appeared in the movie Miss March and have seen each other naked more than any “brother and sister” should. He gave life to Shark Firestone, the greatest seventies porn star that never was, and taught me the true definition of CLASS: Come Late And Start Sleeping.

  Avi Kipper (Chief Audio Engineer): a cocksolid ear-fucking dynamo from Israel. A highly skilled audio Ninja, lingual assassin, and trained master of aural manipulation. A formidable street hustler with two streams of consciousness running parallel to each other creating the blurring effect of his frenetic presence. With no regrets from the past and no fears for tomorrow, he exists in a continuous state of death and rebirth. This motherfucker is biblical in his aspirations, and I’m talkin’ Old Testament!

  Quentin Owens (Wardrobe Stylist): an internationally renowned hypno-dazzling packaging connoisseur from Oceanside. He knows how to put a bow on your business like nobody’s business. His cocksure persona is the lovechild of Grace Jones, Diana Ross, and the Marquis de Sade. A brutally kind and perversely fun fashion Messiah in the form of a six-foot cock rocket, he regards haute couture as something to covet at all costs and then wipes his ass with it the first chance he gets. He’s my drinking partner, social concierge, and body man.

  Natasha Hamidi (Finance Guru/Line Producer): a Cirque du Soleil–trained master ball juggler. Able to manipulate any number of balls of any size from any position. With all the double-dickin,’ ear-fucking, and hot-cockin’ in play, somebody had to juggle all the balls. She’s fluent in multiple disciplines including object, method, trick, and team juggling. Her style skills dominate circus, comedy, gentlemen, and sports, with a PhD in street! An intelligent, proud, and powerful woman who exudes grace and compassion, and I am honored to call her family.

  I call them: The Five Cocksmen of the Ken-ocalypse!

  18

  YOU GOTTA STAND UP TO GET DOWN

  What I’m saying might be profane, but it’s also profound.

  —Richard Pryor

  When was the last time you experienced a teachable moment that was as impactful as accidentally swallowing a blood clot during oral sex? Okay, Okay, Okay. Calm down. Shhhhhhh. It’s okay. Take a DEEEEP breath. In … out. Now, slowly shake it off. It’s going to be okay.

  Now, in my opinion, it could have only happened in two situations. Either when you were physically faced with a calamity like the time you pulled the anal beads out of your girlfriend’s ass too fast and triggered a horizontal fecal-fountain so forceful it stained your teeth, or when a stand-up comic told you about it. In either situation you learn the lesson. Except in one scenario, you’re laughing your ass off and high-fiving your friends and in the other one, you’re scarred for life and may never kiss another person again. And that, in an extreme nutshell, is why stand-up comics play such a critical role in all of our lives. And why they have always been such a great source of inspiration in my career.

  I’m not a stand-up. I’ve never had the urge to publicly castrate myself for other people’s amusement. And this is by no means a criticism. Quite the contrary, I could sit here and discuss the pros and cons of public self-mutilation for days, and we would laugh and laugh and laugh. And, to some extent, that’s exactly what we’re doing right now. The truth is I’ve just never experienced that life-altering event that skews your view of the world. Like coming home early on a
school day and finding your dad standing butt-naked on the dining room table, squatting with his hairy balls in a bowl of chicken soup, while your sister blows bubbles in it through a straw screaming “Ballcuzzi!” That’s the kind of shit that turns a cute little kid into a dark twisted motherfucker with a mental limp … better known as a stand-up comic.

  They’re the hot teacher, the bizarre street philosopher, and the sarcastic prick who tells it like it is, whether you like it or not. They are the whistle-blowers of pop culture. Speaking uncomfortable truths to help remove that bunk of denial you’ve been subconsciously hanging on to like a used condom that’s been sitting inside you for two days. Tearing into your brain, gnawing at your pudendum, and when necessary, throwing up in your mouth to give you a line of that straight dope. Their comedy acts fill the only textbooks in our fucked-up society that we actually retain any information from. In five-minute bursts, they do the real schooling like a hotshot into your jugular.

  “What would your mother say? She’d say, ‘She’s no fucking daughter of mine,’ that’s what she’d say!”

  —Ricky Gervais

  If I have a fatal attraction for anything, it’s stand-ups. They’re like hot firemen. We don’t think about them as often as we should, but when the world is burning, they’re the first ones running in to save us and hose us down with their powerful spray. They are the brave and suicidal fuckers who stand on the front line of the battle for ideological progress. While the rest of us are casually accepting our fate, they are the ones that are changing the world with one seriously fucked-up joke at a time. We laugh. We cry. We’re offended. We move forward.

  They all pay a heavy price because everyone’s a critic. And some of them don’t survive the battle. But at the end of the day, how the fuck else does society address the horrors of pedophilia, rape, racism, misogyny, homophobia, politics, abortion, stereotypes, and what women really think? (Wooooh … that last one is a real bitch to deal with!) Through the lens of comedy, which gives its operatives the right to shoot all the up-skirt shots they need in order to reveal the different assholes hidden all around us. You’ll learn more about what’s fucked up with you and the world around you by browsing through the candid photos of Roseanne Barr, Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Eddie Murphy, Sam Kinison, Natasha Leggero, Bill Maher, Wanda Sykes, Jon Stewart, Rosie O’Donnell, Redd Foxx, Lisa Lampanelli, John Oliver, Tig Notaro, Don Rickles, Amy Schumer, Mitch Hedberg, or Robin Williams than from anything in schoolbooks or on the news. Or even by reading that daily diary your mother has been keeping on your secret masturbating habits since you turned twelve. Yeah, she knows about the curling iron accident that left you on a donut pillow for two months.

  They are the verbal gymnasts that redefine the boundaries of language. It’s their routines that bulldoze the soundproof walls that society insists on building around us. In some small way, and in my own way, I try to follow in their footsteps. I’m all about free speech, binging on the things that make us uncomfortable, eliminating stereotypes, looking at life with a sense of humor, pushing buttons because what else are they there for, changing perceptions, empowering women, and most important of all, I’m all about the funny. And I owe a lot to the ones that paved the way for me.

  Anyone who curses onstage owes a debt to counterculture innovator Lenny Bruce, who was arrested several times in the 1960s for saying these simple words onstage: ass, balls, cocksucker, cunt, motherfucker, piss, shit, and tits. Anyone who curses on TV or other media is only paying forward the “fuck the system” social commentary of George Carlin, also arrested for his infamous monologue “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.” What about Richard Pryor, who demolished all preconceived notions of what was okay to joke about and turned cursing into poetic slang? Or Andy Kaufman, who turned stand-up into whatever the fuck he wanted it to be while raping our minds in our comfort zone? And, of course, Joan Rivers, who set a new standard for truth in comedy and bravery in real life, for men and women alike. She motherfucked the system that motherfucked her through sheer will and audacity. She’s my fuckin’ hero, may she rest in peace.

  So when I have the chance to go toe-to-toe with stand-up comedians, I’m in heaven. I love those fearless fuckers who aren’t afraid to play. Their lack of inhibition is something most of us wish we were brave enough to have but are too worried about what other people will think of us. I’ve had the good fortune of going to the dance with some of the best, including Kevin Hart, Adam Sandler, Chris Rock, Bob Saget, Cedric the Entertainer, Margaret Cho, Jeffrey Ross, Chelsea Handler, Whitney Cummings, Judah Friedlander, Paul Provenza, Loni Love, Martin Lawrence, Joy Behar, Eddie Izzard, Sandra Bernhard, Tracy Morgan, Penn Jillette, Kathy Griffin, Steve Harvey, Bernie Mac, Jim Carrey, and Lewis Black, to name a few. I also had the privilege of being Ken Jeong’s first-ever video interview.

  Want to hear about the most important lessons I learned from all these amazing stand-ups? Well, Dr. Ken taught me that if a gynecologist offers you a happy ending, then he’s probably not a gynecologist. Margaret Cho taught me that if you fart during anal sex, the force is so strong that your guy will experience something similar to slipping on a treadmill at high speed, falling on his face and being tossed against the wall. Yeah, those would be the big ones. Thanks, guys! Now, let’s take a Vespa down the long and dangerous Spanish Steps of depravity with some of my favorite filthy exchanges with the men and women who stand up to get down!

  I had been a Dr. Ken fan for years, so when we had the chance to have him in-studio, I jumped at the opportunity, and he did not disappoint. It’s ironic because when you see him in movies like The Hangover, you’re left with this fucked-up impression of this crazy twisted perverted asshole. But when you get to hang out with him and really get to know him, as I did, you realize that that’s just the tip of the iceberg and that you might really be in danger, wishing you had your grandma’s Life Alert necklace because there’s a good chance you’re going to be falling and he’s not going to let you up!

  Of course, I’m kidding. When this sweet unassuming guy showed up, I was beyond curious. How would we start his very-first-ever on-camera interview? Maybe a biographical journey through his past career as a doctor or a retrospective on his comedic career followed by a quick workshop on style and flow? Nope, he wanted to start with shooting something called “bukkake Asian style.” Well, I love Japanese food so I was down to taste his family noodle-and-broth recipe. As it turns out, he’s Korean and that wasn’t the bukkake he had in mind. So after a bit of back-and-forth, we settled on him just teaching me the blowjob technique he used to get his role in the movie Role Models, in the hope that it might help me get more work:

  Me: Do you often talk to your friends about how much you love their comedy?

  Ken: Yeah, I do actually.

  Me: Are you like, “Dude, I love when you said that thing!”

  Ken: Yeah!

  Me: When you see Paul Rudd, you’re like, “Dude!”

  Ken: Oh absolutely! It gets me work so it’s good. You know. (He shows me how he talked to Paul Rudd to get the job.) “I love your work!” (Pulls his clenched left fist up to his mouth and starts simulating giving a blowjob, with his tongue pushing on his right cheek while his fist goes up and down and he makes guttural sounds.) “AARRR ARRRR GHGHGH. You’re a genius! Such irony! AARRR ARRRR GHGHGH. Can I please be the king? I’ll suck more cock to be the king!”

  Me: You know, I’ve tried that. It hasn’t really gotten me any work.

  Ken: Really?

  Me: Am I doing something wrong? Can you show me what you do?

  Ken: I think you are … (Cheekily … we both turn toward the camera and amusingly stare and hold.)

  Me: Are there tips you can give me?

  Ken: I’ve never seen you suck cock so I don’t know. (Looks at camera.) I don’t know you that well.

  (Ken then begins to physically demonstrate and share his personal method.)

  Ken: You know this, right? Counterclockwise … you know you start at el
even o’clock. A lot of people start at two, which is fuckin’ hack!

  Me: Oh?

  Ken: You gotta start at eleven o’clock, and like, go, work your way …

  Me: All the way around?

  Ken: (Demonstrating with both hands how the tongue works the rim of the penis.) In that kind of area. And then, a lot of people think they stop at, like, once. That’s just like the initial rim … you just have to … you know, make it a good pacific rimming. Then you gotta do it over and over again.

  Me: Pacific rimming?

  Ken: Pacific rimming. That’s my style. I’ve actually copyrighted that term. I mean … you know. Seriously … it’s a thing that I’m very passionate about … is pacific rimming a guy’s cock!

  Me: What about pacific rimming the asshole? (Making a circle in the air with my finger.) I mean, there is that as well.

  Ken: That’s a personal question.

  Me: Oh … sorry. I didn’t mean to go too far ’cause we don’t do that at No Good TV. We don’t get personal.

  Ken: We just talk about … I talk about cock and I … leave the ass alone.

  Watching Ken Jeong’s career explode has been such a joy. Every time we run into each other, it’s like seeing an old friend … pretending to like you because he knows you’ve got a very compromising video of him. “Bukkake Asian style” Ken!! I didn’t say we didn’t make the video; I just didn’t reveal whose noodle was on the receiving end of the broth!

  As I’ve discussed in other chapters, my In Bed With show never failed to create some truly groundbreaking moments. Let’s face it, for a celebrity, lying in a bed for a press interview is a bit bizarre and could be pretty discombobulating. Add to that an uncensored format and a host who thrives on the crazy and unpredictable, and your standard press opportunity has now morphed into a Las Vegas stunt show. You’ve really got to be a fun-loving free spirit who’s willing to bring your A-game. When all the stars align, it can be truly amazing. But when a stand-up comic enters the ring, all bets are off. These guys live to fuck around, and it’s a recipe for pure delight. So when I jumped into the sack with Eddie Griffin, I was fully expecting the big “D,” and he gave it to me in the form of some afternoon D-light.