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size of a garage door down there. It was like a blowhole. And all because I never learned how to wipe properly. Now don't laugh at me, because judging from the amount of hemorrhoid creams and ointments being sold, a lot of you don't know how to properly care for your sphincters, either.
    HOWARD'S R ULES FOR A HEALTHIER RECTUM
    So, as a public service to my readers, I will now impart to you the wiping wisdom I've learned from sources other than my mother. Pay attention because you will never have another hemorrhoid or problem back there again. I used to overwipe. I would scrape and strain. But you must only take three swipes and that's it. Oh, and stay away from dyed toilet paper. Use white and you'll be all right. If you feel dirty down there, jump in the shower and scrub down. But stick to the three-wipe maximum. Also never push. Wait until that bowel movement is sliding out of your ass before you go to the bowl. If you're pushing a lot, you probably need oat bran cereal for breakfast plus three tablets of Evening Primrose oil, one with each meal. That should grease it all up.
    My mother also had this kooky compulsion to constantly monitor my temperature. And, of course, she used a rectal thermometer every day of my life until I was eighteen years old!
    It's amazing I didn't become a mass murderer like John Wayne Gacy. When my mother dies I'm going to have her mummified. I'll prop her up in my attic and tie her to a chair. I'm going to save all her clothes and I'll wear a bad wig and parade around the house in her housecoat and panties.
    Mom, I love you. And thank you for putting me in touch with my feminine side.
    RAY: Howard, I can't believe these stories you're making up. You exaggerate everything.
    HOWARD: Don't say you didn't make me put on your panties.
    RAY: I never did.
    HOWARD: Well, what about taking my rectal temperature until I was eighteen years old? You humiliated me by raping me with that piece of plastic!
    RAY: Don't make a big deal out of everything. You grew up to be a very well-adjusted individual.
    HOWARD: It's a miracle I'm not a homo.
    RAY: That's what a homo comes from?
    HOWARD: You better believe it. Before you know it, you're putting ashtrays up there. It's a miracle I'm normal. Although I did pay a woman $150 the other night to take my temperature with a drumstick. Thermometers just don't satisfy me anymore.
    "SHUT UP! SIT DOWN, YOU MORON!"
    My father, Ben, is a no-nonsense guy who has guided me in my career and stood by me no matter what. He loves me, but he was tough on me. It was understandable, though, because his dad had been real hard on him, too.
    My father was a radio engineer who eventually bought his own recording studio with five other guys. He never made big money, though. We were living in Roosevelt in a house that cost my old man $14,000. A good house would have cost about double that back then, but my father didn't mind driving an extra fifty miles to save money. Every day he'd drive to Queens, park, and take the subway to work. Then he'd come home and sit down at the dinner table and expect to be served like a king. Even today, he just sits there with a miserable expression on his face until his wife serves him.
    As a kid I was disturbed that my mom had to serve my father like
    that, but then I started to analyze it and I realized he was right. In fact, I try to do the same thing with Alison. I just sit there while Alison sits down with her plate all full and eventually she'll look over at me and go, "Oh, Howard, you don't have anything." Then I get up and get it myself.
    King Ben would come home and sit on his throne and everything had to be just right. One of the nightly rituals was serving him a Rob Roy, his favorite drink. I swear they tasted like paint thinner. But my mother didn't mind making him toxic drinks because she figured they'd tranquilize him. She'd spend half the day preparing the Rob Roy for his dinner. And he would give her explicit directions on how to do this.