For those who don’t know, last Sunday, my wife produced the Ed Decker 50th Birthday Roast held at Winstons Beach Club. It was great, and, by “great,” I mean the way being shackled to the Judas Chair for a two-hour Spanish Inquisition is great. In all seriousness, a good time was had by all. My only regret was that the roast lasted so long that I didn’t have time to rebuke a lot of what was said about me.
Perhaps I’m breaking some sort of unwritten roast rule by responding ex post facto, but after the ass-reaming I received by my so-called friends, I don’t give a flying fart-factory about rules.
For instance, Jose Sinatra opened his set by saying, “I thought this was a wake!” and proceeded to sing a song about me being dead, which is funny coming from a man who appears to have been hit by a train and then reassembled by a hook-handed, alcoholic mortician.
Manya Buske told the crowd how—years before she met and married my pal, Duane—I got her drunk and tried to make out with her after she threw up.
Horseshit! I tried to make out with her before she threw up, when she was still passed out. What kind of monster do you take me for?
Nearly all the roasters cracked wise about my uncommonly soft hands, questioning my masculinity. Yes, it is true, I do have soft hands. However, isn’t the most important function of the hands to masturbate? So, whose masculinity is in question here? The guys who get their trophies shined by their own callous-covered, man-mitts or me for being manually serviced by my soft, sensual girly muffs?
Speaking of soft young women—a lot of grief was dished about how an old, fat slob like me could have scored a hot piece of ass like W. Well, there are only three possibilities for this: 1) money—which we can eliminate immediately as I don’t have any; 2) girth—I could have an extraordinarily large phallus; and 3) damaged goods—perhaps there is something wrong with W.
Maybe her credit has been ravaged or the vagina broken. Maybe she nagged all her previous boyfriends into the grave. Well, I can tell you that one of the latter two are true. Either I am extraordinarily endowed, or there is something terribly wrong with W. I don’t care which you believe.
Ted Washington told grandiose lies about my basketball skills.
Sandy Fimbres cruelly cracked wise about my cotton phobia. (Cotton phobia is no laughing matter woman!)
My old chum from boyhood, Tony Perrello, told some horribly embarrassing stories from my youth. For instance, he shared the now-infamous anecdote of The Zit Pin.
Yes, it’s true, during my acne-addled teenage years, I used a sewing pin to pierce and drain whiteheads. Laugh all you want, but anyone who’s had teenage acne knows it’s tolerable to have a few pimples—but whiteheads must be annihilated! And what do most teens do when the blinding, blanched sun of a whitehead dawns upon their faces? They squeeze them, which is an unsanitary and violent act (from the pimple’s perspective), only serving to anger and inflame the abomination.
So, I invented the Zit Pin Technique: You take an ordinary sewing pin, sanitize it with a lighter and prick a tiny hole into the beast with surgical precision. You then drain the fluids, pat with tissue and— voila—no more whitehead. Naturally, my “friends” all laughed about this. Alas, that’s how the world responds to innovative genius.
One of the big hits of the roast was when The Mother got on stage. Mom, who flew out from New York to attend the roast, complained about how she was in labor for 22 hours during my birth and that I’ve been an ungrateful bastard ever since. For this, and other comments, she received a robust standing ovation. Fine. Whatever. I just think you should know a little bit about the person for whom you applauded.
This is a woman who would come into my room in the wee morning hour and smush a cold, wet rag in my face singing, “Rise and shine and give God your glory-glory,” at the top of her lungs.
This is a woman who, to amuse herself, would kick over the Monopoly game my friends and I had been playing for three hours.
This is a woman who, when I was 10, made me watch Psycho before bedtime, spurring a three-month recurring nightmare about her slashing me in my sleep.
This is a woman who’ll stop at nothing to embarrass me. Get a load of this move: On a visit to New York last year, I asked if she wouldn’t mind dropping me off at the local watering hole on her way out to do some shopping. When we pulled up to the bar, there were about six or seven people out front smoking cigarettes. I stepped out of the car and shut the door—somewhat embarrassed to be 49 years old and driven around by mommy.
As she pulled away, this Monopoly-stomping, nightmare-inducing, wet-rag-smushing matriarch of maternal misconduct rolled down the window and—using the voice of a woman who just dropped her son off for his first day of school—shouted, “Now, Eddie, be a good boy and don’t stay out too late.”
The entire smoking lounge erupted in laughter as I darted past them to get inside.
Twenty-two hours of labor? Pffft! I’ve spent 30,000 hours on the phone, fixing The Mother’s computer problems—which range from, “How do I turn it on?” to “What’s this mouse-like-looking thing?” The last time, she needed help using the Internet. I told her, “OK, now cut and paste the URL into the browser,” and she blurted, “Cut and paste!? You know I’m not good at arts and crafts!” Remember all this the next time you’re considering applauding her.