By Darrell Hammond
A uncooked, poignant, and sometimes hilarious glance contained in the afflicted lifestyles and brain of an American comedian icon From his harrowing formative years jam-packed with actual and emotional abuse, to a life of alcoholism and self-mutilation, psychiatric hospitalizations and misdiagnoses, to the height of reputation and luck because the longest-tenured forged member of Saturday evening reside (where his hilarious dead-on impressions of invoice Clinton, Dick Cheney, Chris Matthews, and 100 different sought after figures ushered him to the height of stardom), Darrell Hammond delves into the darkest corners of his lifestyles, either in entrance of and in the back of the digicam, with brutal honesty and fierce comedian wit.
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Additional resources for God, If You're Not Up There, I'm Fucked: Tales of stand-up, Saturday Night Live, and other mind-altering mayhem
On the surface, everything looked just as it should, very Ozzie and Harriet. ) But that was just for the neighbors. Before I was old enough for school, each morning my mother and I drove to pick up Myrtise. We had to cross a bridge to get there, and every time we did, my mother would swerve as though she were going to drive the car right off. I was never convinced that she wouldn’t do it some day. On Sundays throughout my childhood, I went to church with my mother, but when I was little I asked questions that got me in trouble.
He was small then, but he had a major league arm. ” Twelve was good, but thirteen and fourteen were better than anything that ever happened. Nothing but sweating, body surfing to cool off, sweating, swinging, sweating, swinging, sweating all day. Some of the folks in the neighborhood would let us use their garden hoses to cool off. Heavy calluses formed on our hands. Every day, the second I woke up, I wanted a bat in my hand. I couldn’t wait to get my hands around the bat handle, go out in the neighborhood, and rustle up the kids for another game with a tennis ball.
You strike the guy mildly, and he laughs. But he strikes you back harder, and you laugh a little less. You strike him back harder than he struck you, and he doesn’t laugh now. He strikes you hard. You hit him back harder. That’s the natural human instinct. There was this one kid named Johnny, fifteen years old, six foot four, a fabulous athlete. But he also surfed, and to some people on the inland side of the Indian River in Melbourne, surfer boys were reprehensible, or even worse, gay. One day a coach was slapping Johnny on the helmet while he ran in place.