Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian Read Online Free PDF Page B

in show business, nixing the devout part.
    I am getting to a point with all of this. It’s just hidden somewhere, like a Golden Ticket. Look, a bad plastic surgeon can really fuck up your life. Then again, it’s really nice during awards season, as we call it out here in Los Angeles, to view an actress you haven’t seen for a while and say to your significant other in bed, “She looks so much better this year, doesn’t she?” and then they correct you: “That’s ’cause the swelling went down, honey.” (This comment pretty much includes everyone you could bash with exception of a true survivor, Mickey Rourke. When you look like that, you’re entitled to walk around carrying your get-out-of-jail-free card.)
    But back in the day, with no plastic surgery, all you could do was change your name. So Saget was originally something like Zaget, Zogut, Zagget. Interestingly enough, I did have an uncle named Bill Sage, not Saget. A great man. And such a nice name, Sage. Rolls off the tongue. Not like Saget. Add the T and you’re in for it at school . . . Saget the Faggot, Sag-ass, Sag-nuts, Sag-balls—I’ve heard all the variables. As I got older I tried to make fun of my own name before other people did: “Sag-balls, don’t mind if I do . . .”
    Man, this is a cleansing, purging experience. And so is this book. It’s fun to be able to release anything you want to say.
    But back to names. I met the Zagat guy—of restaurant-guide fame—in an elevator in New York once. He didn’t say a word until I broke the silence with something not so clever: “You’re the Zagat guy, right? I’ve been told we are not related.” Then after a minute or so of staring at me blankly with no emotion, he said, “No, we are definitely not related.” I then asked if he could help me get restaurant reservations. Not my best move. He said, “No, I don’t do that.” He had a good presence though. Reminded me of the Community Chest guy in Monopoly, except no monocle. And much taller. And no mustache. Come to think of it, he was nothing like him.
    I don’t know what I’d have called myself if I could’ve picked my own name. If you could name yourself anything you wanted to, would you make your life easier and change your name to one word like Prince, Madonna, and Bono did? The great thing about life is you can change your name at any time. Maybe I’ll release this book as Bob Mellencamp Saget. Or Jew-el. Or Bobby Gaga. Nah, I loved my dad so much I am proud to wear his last name, odd as it may be, like a banner. Displaying it completely nude across my chest with just the “Sash of Saget” creating a diagonal beauty pageant cover-up—from right nipple to left nut. This idea is so strong, I’m feeling a killer poster here to be sold at my concerts. It’s all about the merch.
    That’s right, I’m proud to be the son of Ben and Dolly. My mother, Dolly, who is still around, is the matriarch of my family, being my mom and all. She is like a great snow owl in her late eighties . . . Love her. And everyone’s kids and grandkids love her. That’s my mama.

    My early memories of Dolly are of her cooking family dinners for us when I was a kid. I wouldn’t want to eat the food she prepared and my dad would reprimand me with, “Do you know what this meal would cost in a restaurant?” One time I answered him: “No, but I’d love to find out. Please can we go out to eat?”
    I remember those family dinners as being loud and boisterous. There wasn’t much room for conversation. There was a lot of love, but also a lot of fast talking and not much listening. Sounds like a lot of people’s homes, right? I guess it’s better than complete silence at the table. I’ve been over to people’s homes where that’s the case, and there’s no easiness at a table of awkwardness. Woody Allen broke the ice best in Annie Hall with his tension-defusing line: “Dynamite ham . . .”
    If you’re reading this book, perhaps