Here's one of the things I read at Comedy Central's CLIP JOINT last night. It was something I'd been kicking around for the last couple of weeks, and premiered it at the show. People seemed to like it, which was kind of a relief. I'm posting it here because I love you, and because I realize this piece is nearing the end of its cultural relevance shelf life:
"My Best-Selling Non-Fiction Memoir"
This is a prepared statement.
Good evening. My publisher has requested that I appear here tonight to address some of the recent controversy surrounding my best-selling memoir, and the integrity of some of the facts contained within.
Before I begin, let me just say thank you. Thank you all for purchasing my nonfiction memoir, Kickboxing with Jesus: Small Miracles in the Life of a Three-Legged 65 Year-Old Black Woman. Your support has been extraordinary, even as the media has been labeling me a "literary faker" and a "con-fiction writer" and "clearly neither old, nor black, nor a woman, and certainly not three-legged, but really just a sort of typically Jewey-looking writer type."
I have, and will continue to insist that the events documented in my non-fiction memoir are essential truths and facts according to my memory—in that I remember writing them down and, on the page, they looked pretty fact-y to me. That said, I confess there were a few details where I might have massaged the truth. Somewhat.
For example, I was not in the U.S. Special Forces during Desert Storm. As some newspapers reported, there is no super-secret division of the U.S. Special Forces for three-legged soldiers who can run very fast on sand. As many witnesses have corroborated, during Desert Storm I was actually at home, playing Tetris.
As records have shown, I was never admitted to rehab for an addiction to a deadly street drug called Skittles®. Several investigative sources have gone public with research indicating Skittles® are not actually a deadly street drug. Rather, they are a delicious fruit-flavored candy. Most importantly, they are not physically addictive. They are merely irresistible.
I do not own a pet dragon. I own a housecat named Gene Siskel who is a Canadian Hairless – a breed known to some as "the dragons of the cat world." I fabricated the dragon thing because, without it, the part about being forced to sell rare dragon eggs to pay the eleventy-jillion dollar monthly rent on my Moon casino would not have made any sense. It was a continuity issue, and I am sorry.
Chapter Sixteen, titled, "Here Come The Sexbots," was a work of complete imagination. I didn't even write it, really. I just transcribed it from a story I found on a Battlestar Galactica Fan Fiction web site.
If some of the passages in Chapter Four, "January Is The Cruelest Month," sound familiar, it's because I just Xeroxed pages from the the book of Revelations, and replaced all mentions of "The Dark Prince" with "my father." It's funny, because I sincerely don't even remember doing that, and I can only presume at the time I must have been high on Skittles.
Finally, I realize this has already come to light elsewhere, but I am not a three legged, 65 year-old Black Woman. Technically, I am a mulatto, though I prefer the term "HALF-rican-American." It's more respectful. Thank you.
[OK. After posting this, I appended a VERY LONG story about how I came about choosing this for the show, and my terrible habit of bringing 100% untested material to important shows, even at the risk of totally sabotaging my act. However, it's a really navel-gazing story and analysis, so I can't really justify making it public. If you care about that kind of process, it's ok to contact me and I'll just email it to you, without another word on the subject. It will be our delightfully boring secret.]