with you. Weep and you weep alone.”
–Ella Wheeler Wilcox (author and poet)
“Laugh alone and the world thinks you’re an idiot.”
–Alfred E. Neuman (gap-toothed symbol of MAD magazine)
“Over? Did you say ‘over’? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no!”
–John Belushi as Bluto Blutarsky in Animal House
“Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.”
–Billy Crystal as Mitch Robbins in City Slickers
“Foul-mouthed? Fuck you!”
–Eddie Murphy as Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop
“Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one.”
–Clint Eastwood as “Dirty” Harry Callahan in The Dead Pool
“She thinks I’m a pervert because I drank our water bed.”
–Woody Allen as Miles Monroe in Sleeper
“There was a moment last night, when she was sandwiched between the two Finnish dwarves and the Maori tribesmen, where I thought, wow, I could really spend the rest of my life with this woman.”
–Ben Stiller as Derek Zoolander in Zoolander
“I have a penis and a brain and only enough blood to run one at a time.”
–Robin Williams on the Tonight Show
“Listen, let’s get one thing straight. In the hours you’re here taking care of my mother, no ganja.”
–James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano in The Sopranos
“Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
–Many people, including Michael N. Marcus
My only child, Hunter J. Marcus
He licks himself and he licks me, but he can’t laugh.
Introduction
This book’s title may seem strange. You might wonder why I didn’t name the book, Stories I Told My Children, or Stories I’ll Tell My Children.
I can’t use those titles because I don’t have any children that I know of, and I’m not likely to have any.
Unless some unknown offspring shows up to claim a percentage of my income, the closest I’ll get to parenting is with Hunter, my Golden Retriever.
Though he’s not human, Hunter is a pretty good substitute. He receives and returns a lot of love. He’s a good communicator. He’s empathetic. I don’t pay for college. I just pick up poop.
He listens while I tell him my stories. He smiles, holds my hand, licks his weenie and licks my face. But he can’t laugh.
I need an audience that laughs. So I write.
I don’t often dwell on my lack of human children. My wife Marilyn and I tried to reproduce, but we didn’t; and adopting seemed like too much of a gamble. Hunter, however, was adopted, and he’s just fine. If I had to be a dog, I’d like to be like him. But I’d want parents like us, to spoil me.
Sometimes I feel that by not reproducing, by not fully participating in the human continuum, I’ve never really grown up. Maybe I became my own kid—and that’s why I do some silly stuff (like this book?) and buy myself so many big boys’ toys. Maybe I’m like Peter Pan. (I won’t grow up and I hate to wear a tie.)
OK. That’s all the serious stuff I plan for the book. Now we can move on to the fun and the filth.
This book could be considered a “coming-of-age” book, with young male silliness and horniness in the tradition of Animal House and Porky’s. It is that, but there’s more to it.
It’s a collection of more than 100 stories that span 55 years starting when I was six. The stories are mostly short and funny. One is long and funny, and weird and chilling. Culture clash is a frequent theme. So are food, phoniness and incompetence. There’s lots of sex, drugs and rock & roll. Even the sex and drug stories are funny. Some stories were written as revenge for bad teachers and evil bosses. I also talk about some wacky relatives.
There are stories about the women I thought about marrying and the one woman I did marry (and what she had to do in bed to defeat the competition). And there are stories about painful encounters with Macy’s and Walmart, and a report on an excruciating software upgrade.
The stories took place in New York, Connecticut and Pennsylvania. There are four murders. If I get killed for writing this, there will be five and someone else will write the sequel.
Different parts of this book were written for different reasons.
The teacher stories started out as a warning, and later evolved into revenge and entertainment. People have said that living well—or looking good, or success, or just surviving—is the best revenge. Telling stories works best for me.
In 1963, when a guidance counselor asked what I most wanted to get out of high school, I shouted, “ME!” I’ve had a few wonderful teachers, but they’re not much fun to read about. My strongest memories are of the bad ones and nutty ones. Some were amusingly inept. But others hurt.
In the 1950s and 60s there were no “student rights.” Parents insisted that teachers should not be criticized, and must be respected no matter how evil, incompetent or deranged they were.
When I was in the sixth grade, way back in 1958, I was the victim of the first of those shitty teachers. I promised myself that someday I would tell the world what most of the kids’ parents refused to listen to. It took me over 50 years, but I’ve kept the promise.
I can still visualize exactly where I was standing when I made the decision to write about a sadistic, egomaniacal, lazy, ignorant bitch named Julia Quinn. I’m calling her a bitch because I decided not to use the “c-word” in this book. If people enjoy this book, it may be the only good thing that the evil horrible despicable cu—er, bitch—ever accomplished.
If I go to hell I’m going find Quinn and beat the crap out of her. But I may have to wait in line for my turn. If you think I didn’t like her, you’re underestimating my passion. I hated her fucking guts. And I still do.
The rest of the stories were written because I like to tell stories. I like to make people smile and laugh. I don’t perform on the stage, just on paper.
How do I know the book is funny?
For comparison, Marilyn also laughs at I Love Lucy, Boston Legal and Curb Your Enthusiasm. I, too, think Lucy is extremely funny, but I think the Larry David character on Curb Your Enthusiasm is an asshole. I can’t stand watching him, so Marilyn watches him with the dog. However, Larry is a good writer.
Where’d I get my sense of humor? It might be genetic. My father was very funny and my grandfathers, Walter Marcus and