Private Parts (30 page)

"Hello, 'oward," she said.

"You got an accent. My grandparents worked their asses off to get rid of their annoying accents. You should do the same. Vere
you
from, honey?" I replied.

"Haiti. And I believe in voodoo. And if you don't stop saying bad things about Haiti, we gonna send a voodoo spell after you, 'oward."

"You know what, honey? You can do all the voodoo you want on me, it's okay. I'm not a backwards idiot who believes in voodoo. Don't embarrass the Haitian people."

She started screaming,
"I will! I will!"

"A bitch like you comes over here and starts screaming about voodoo and Haitians everywhere are embarrassed by you. You know what, lady? Because you are such a moron I'm gonna put a voodoo spell on you, what do you think of that?"

All of a sudden she started screaming about Washington Heights. "And Garcia was shot in the back! Police are shooting people in the back!"

I couldn't take her irrational behavior. "Okay, lady. Here it is. I'm now going to reverse the situation. Because I'm the greatest radio man alive I will now put a voodoo hex on you. Here you go.
Ooh ga booga, ooh ga booga looga."
It was an ancient voodoo curse I had picked up.

" 'oward, you're a jerk, 'oward."

"Shut up, lady. I'm not done.
Ooh ga booga looga."

"You think we're playing. We're not playing, 'oward."

"Ooh ga booga! Ooh ga booga looga!"

"We're gonna make a doll after you, 'oward."

"Ooh ga booga looga."

"And Robin is sitting there, a black woman, and she's taking all dat shit from you!" she yelled.

"What? A filthy word came out of your mouth? Is that what you learned in America?
Ooh ga booga looga."

"Voodoo is a religion and it's my religion."

"Good. Voodoo is my religion, too, so,
Ooh ga booga looga.
I'm going to kill a chicken today. What's your name?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Tell me your first name so I can put the chicken's head on a stick and run around my house nude with it," I said.

"I'm going to make a doll and put some needles in the heart and you're gonna have a heart attack," she replied.

"Do me a favor. Answer me honestly. Do you own a television set?" I asked her.

"Yeah."

"You own a car?"

"Yeah."

"You got a car here, you got a TV here. It's pretty good here, isn't it?"

"NO!" she screamed. "I want to go back home!"

"Ooh ga booga."
I couldn't resist.

"I want to go back to my country. George Bush is a moron."

"Let me say something. In Haiti you don't have the balls to say anything about your leader, do you? You keep your mouth shut, Miss Voodoo. But all of a sudden you come to America and you got a big mouth about our president. How come if voodoo works you didn't stay in Haiti and put a voodoo curse on your president?"

She's screaming over all this. "No, I'm gonna put it on you and George Bush. George Bush is a KKK."

"KKK. KKK. I'm going to send you a friggin' inner tube and float your ass back to Haiti."

"Dat's what you think! Dat's what you think!"

I continued the assault. "Let me tell you something. Tonight with your voodoo, you cut up a pigeon and you put the pieces in your underwear, you smelly wench."

"YOU PUT YOUR FINGER IN YOUR BUTT AND YOU SMELL, SO I COULD DO THAT, TOO!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"This is America, the phone system works fine here," I explained. "This isn't Haiti, you don't have to yell out the window when you're on the phone."

I heard a male voice in the background.

"Who's in the background, Papa Doc?"

"Maybe."

I could sense that this poor woman was tense, so I signaled to Fred, and he pulled out a relaxation tape done by an Indian guru.

"You are completely tense, I want you to listen to this. Do what this tape says."

Suddenly mellow music filled the air, along with the heavy, wooden tones of an Indian.

"Let's come to de neck area. Slightly roll de head to de right and then slowly to de left. Do this a few times and as you roll the head imagine that you are relaxing."

"Are you doing this, lady?"

"NO," she screamed.

"Do it," I encouraged her. "Roll your head. Roll your head right out the window."

"Do you have a job?" Robin asked.

"None of your business, Robin."

"You have no job and a TV and a car. God bless America, you

should kiss George Bush's feet every night," I said.

"Oh, really! I spit in his face!"

"What has he done that's so horrible to you?"

"They kicked the president of Haiti out of the country and George Bush is part of this conspiracy."

"Why are you here?" I wondered.

"I don't want to be here."

"So why are you here?"

"Because of George Bush."

"George Bush brought you here?"

"I came here and I wanted to go back home."

"Do you want to go back home?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm going to do you the biggest favor of your life. I'm going to buy you a plane ticket to go back to Haiti, one way." But that wasn't good enough for her.

"Before you do that, there is a new government in there, get them out."

"Oh, now I have to topple a government. You know so much voodoo, why don't you go back there and get rid of them?"

"They have guns."

"So. You don't need guns, you have voodoo.
Ooh ga booga boo.
Tell you what. I'm gonna put you on hold, Gary will get your phone number and I will buy you a ticket. Leave your color television and car here and go home to your godforsaken Haiti."

I hung up on her. Just another day at the office.

THE FILIPINOS

You can't even open your mouth on the air without having some interest group write a letter. Here's a letter we got that I read on the air. It was addressed to K-Rock's general manager, Tom Chiusano, from some California assemblyman who wanted to complain about my remarks about the Filipino people. I don't even remember what the hell I said about the Filipinos, but thankfully this group had "monitored" my show and they provided this guy with my remarks.

This guy is from the Office of Asian and Pacific Affairs. They got

a whole office for these people. And he was writing to demand an on-air apology from me. Like I'll ever give him an apology. Anyway, he wrote:

Dear Mr. Chiusano,

I would like to bring to your attention the recent racial remarks made by Howard Stern. . . . "Filipinos are terrible people . . . Filipinos are the most depraved people in the world and probably worse than people from France ..."

First of all, I never said that. I was talking about a segment of the Filipino population that caters to horny Americans by selling off their women. It disgusted me that so many Filipinos were so poverty stricken that they condoned the selling of their daughters into prostitution and, worse, slavery. And besides, I never said the Filipinos were worse than the French. They're not worse than the French. The French are the worst. If in a moment of frenzy I happened to say that there was somebody on the planet worse than the French, I stand corrected. Besides, what's so distasteful about my comments? The reason we have Asian Pacific Americans is because the Philippines is so despicable they left. Why are these people complaining about what I say? They should be back there and they wouldn't have heard it. I have to say nice things about Filipinos because a couple of guys came over here and suddenly they had balls? If they had such balls, why didn't they kick Marcos out? Where were they all those years with the shoes? It took them ten million years to get rid of Marcos. Everybody's so brave here in America. In their own countries they never speak up.

The letter went on:

[Howard Stern said] "Parents are selling children for prostitution ... You can go in there and screw just about anybody..."

Well, prove me wrong.

My leader: Tom Chiusano.

There was also said to be a comment by a caller. "He was in Manila and stayed at the Manila Hilton. He hired four midgets for sexual purposes and paid $1,000 for them." Mr. Stern responded, "You paid $ 1,000? For half the price you can own one of them."

It's true! Truth is my defense! It's unbelievable what goes on in the Philippines. There are men who will sell their daughters to you and it is documented. Why am I a bad guy for pointing that out? I'm not saying all Filipinos, I'm talking about a segment of Philippine society. By the way, this doesn't hurt the Philippines. Me saying that you can own a woman there for half the price of renting them certainly will help Filipino tourism. Most of the deviants in this country will run right over there.

Am I the first one to point out that you can get a Filipino bride for ten cents? I think not.

Yes, I Am Fartman
Chapter 9

Why is it that guys who come from other countries like India, a country that's totally destitute, a country with no medical facilities, decide to stay here after they get their M.D.s? Why don't they go back and help their own people? No, they wind up here, buying expensive real estate. Then they dress normal, in business suits, and make their wives wear those saris with their bellies flopping out all over the place. It's demeaning to the Indian women. I don't see Indian men wearing those diapers that Gandhi wore.

And what is it with the dots on their heads? Someone told me that the dot is actually a garage-door opener. If the husband presses the dot, it opens the double doors on the garage. Look, the Indians are very nice people but they worship cows and make bad movies and have dots on their heads. Then they move into white neighborhoods and ignore everyone in the town. They should loosen up.

This is America. They should assimilate. Here's my philosophy and it's very simple: IT'S VERY IMPORTANT THAT WE ALL ACT AS ONE!

I'm all for different races being here, but make an effort. Don't wear your culture like a badge of courage. Those wacky dots. Italian women don't walk around with pizzas on their heads. Jewish women don't go around with matzo on their backs. There are a couple of wackos like the Hasidim, but nobody takes them seriously. I'm trying to solve the world's problems. When they ask me to lecture before the United Negro College Fund (I know they will one day), I will tell them to try to act like white people. I tell the Jews to try to act like Christians. Everyone should try to act like white Christians.

But, you know, maybe it would be better if everybody just went back to where they came from. The Hispanics who come here and get into college by passing those ethnically weighted entrance exams (Question Two: Recite the words to "La Bamba"), go back to your people. Use your education to help them. Nobody wants to go back, nobody answers to a higher calling in life anymore. Except for me. I'm busy saving my country every day. I serve my country by marshaling my extraordinary superpowers in the pursuit of truth, justice, and the American way.
Yes, I am Fartman!

Fartboy, age three.

THE ORIGINS OF FARTMAN

Like all great superheroes, I had a traumatic childhood. My planet didn't blow up and my parents weren't killed, but I had hardships to overcome. I had a nervous stomach. And who wouldn't with a father who terrorized me so much.

My father would yell at me all week and then Sunday was family day. Sunday, my parents would take me and my sister into the city to get some culture. We'd go to a play or a movie at Radio City Music Hall, whatever. I hated going into Manhattan. I had a

fear of the city. I don't handle things that well to begin with. I don't like walking around. I get confused. For me, it's better to stay at home where I know my environment.

But the main reason I hated going into Manhattan was gas. First, we'd eat a big meal at someplace like Joe's Pier 52.1 was kind of a pudgy kid and I'd go wild. I'd have lobster bisque to start, and they kept bringing out this fresh hot bread so I'd eat a couple of loaves of that, then a whole bunch of salad and then a nice piece of fish and fries. Plus I ate real fast because at home when I got up from the table for a moment during a meal, my parents would assume I was done and would just grab my food. So I ate like a maniac and as soon as we left the restaurant the gas pains would start. During the show, I'd get horrible gas pains. I'd be moaning, fidgeting in my seat, and my parents would be really annoyed. I was ruining the show for everyone. "What's wrong with you?" my father would say.

"I gotta get home quick. I gotta go to the bathroom. I have bad gas."

"What's wrong with you? Why don't you pass some wind here? Do what I do. At the intermission, after the Rockettes are finished, go out in the lobby, walk over to the side, and let a few out." Fatherly advice.

"You're kidding. I should do that here in Radio City?"

"Who's gonna know it was you?" he said.

I couldn't believe my father was telling me to pass wind in Radio City Music Hall. At intermission my father took me out to the fancy lobby with the big chandeliers and everything. We walked over to the side and he said, "Make like you're talking to me. Just force it out while you're talking to me." I couldn't do it. I couldn't just force it out in the middle of the lobby of Radio City Music Hall. He was saying, "Go ahead, do it. Do it already. What's the problem with you, you're ruining the day." I'm sorry, I couldn't pass wind in the middle of a theater with my dad yelling at me to hurry up and fart. So we went back to our seats and I suffered through the movie. I was really in pain. I sat there for two hours wishing I was home. Misery.

Finally, fucking family day was over. We got in the car to drive back home to Long Island and I was in the backseat with my sister. My parents were in the front and I was holding my stomach and moaning.

My father was yelling at me to fart but I still couldn't, I was too embarrassed. I was moaning and my mother couldn't take it, so she