Recently more memoirs have been exposed as fakes. That’s right, fakes, folks! (Insert indigent sneer here.) From the book “Love and Consequences” which details gang life in South Central LA, to the recenlty discovered memoir of President Herbert Hoover in which he confesses to never having been President of the United States but instead inventing One Hour Martinizing. (This particular memoir was found to be written by a Hobo named Stinky One-Eyed Stan living in the guest house of Hoover’s palatial estate.)
It’s hard to believe that an author, nay, a literary agent of our culture and world, would stoop to this level just for fame, money and prostitute-type love! Who else is ready to pimp their integrity? Reality TV celebrities? I think not! Only a writer and maybe an ex-IRS agent would sink to this level!
Has the publishing industry learned nothing from James Frey, that bad-boy of fraudulent behavior and skin-tight chinos? In light of all of this new controversy, we here at Scott Brothers and his Catalogue of Curisoties are publishing the the Author’s Note from the new edition of James Frey’s infamous memoir to remind all of you literary LIARS out there how embarrassing exposure can be, especially if you are wearing adult diapers. Enjoy!
In the interest of full disclosure and gaining back some of the trust that I have since lost, I am including this author’s note in the new edition of my memoir-A Hundred Little Pieces (actual title)-which will hopefully clear up any misconceptions or misleading sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters, etc. that were so prevalent in the previous edition. I understand the feeling of betrayal that you, my readers, must be feeling. In fact, I am quite aware of how deeply this duplicity is felt among some of you. Last week, while out buying ostrich meat, a passerby on the street hurled a copy of my memoir at my head (it was the paper back edition, thank goodness) then was heard to have said, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” While I concede fully and resolutely to the “liar, liar” part, the section that describes my pants as being on “fire” is utterly and willfully fictitious. They were not, in fact, on fire. Three years ago I might have said they were indeed on fire and that the fiery pants caused first degree burns, that I had to urinate in my pants to put out said fire, that the entire ordeal was extremely painful, both emotionally and physically and that I was forced to undergo penis replacement surgery without anesthetic and are now living with the penis of a gnat because they ran out of bull penis. But not anymore. I have turned over a new leaf as they say. (However, it should be noted that on occasion when I have worn my oatmeal-colored corduroy pants and broken into a brisk walk, that the friction between my legs was enough to perhaps cause some heat, if not a potential fire.)
First, let me address the assertion that I spent three months in jail. As you’ve probably heard on Oprah and elsewhere in the media, my time in jail was actually closer to an hour. But let me tell you, that hour was hell! I was without a cell phone which made it hard for me to pass the time by say, ordering chinos from Eddie Bauer.
Jeez! There I go again! I’m sorry. I apologize. Let me begin once more. I must state unequivocally that I’ve never actually spent anytime in jail, not even and hour. Of course, there was that time when I was ten my mom caught me playing her West Side Story record signed by the entire original cast just as I was belting out the chorus of “I Feel Pretty”. I subsequently tried to blame Stinky-my imaginary friend who was convicted several years ago for smuggling Andalusian ferrets into the country-for enticing me to play the record. But my mom was too savvy for such an obvious ploy as the Blame-Your-Imaginary-Friend-Or-Actual-Sibling/Household-Pet/Piece-Of-Fruit gambit. She swiftly grounded me for three months, which is analogous to being in jail, so there you have it. There’s your three months.
Moving on I would like to attend to the opening of the book where I am sitting on the plane with a bloodied hole in my face. The latter did not happen. Whew! This is getting easier! I did, however, have a bloody nose before I boarded the plane that day, but that was due to my dry nostrils and, well, I really don’t want to go into the specifics of dry nostrils because it can be pretty disgusting. Let’s just say I suffer from dry skin and leave it at that. I will say this about that plane ride, however: there were no complementary honey roasted peanuts. Apparently the airlines have banded together and decided to stop handing out bags of peanuts because they are too expensive. Well, I don’t have to tell you, this was very upsetting. The only thing I look forward to on a plane ride besides the free honey roasted peanuts is the chance to join the “mile high club” with one of those comely stewardesses, I am right, guys? Huh? Am I? OK, OK, the truth is I’m a very shy individual and I would never attempt anything even remotely similar to the “mile high club”. I can’t even use one of the complementary pillows that they hand out at the beginning of the flight without blushing.
Since I am purging my soul, I should tell you I was never actually addicted to illegal narcotics. I am, however, addicted to watching figure skating and gorging on pudding pops, both of which can be fairly debilitating obsession, especially if you’ve just bought a box of pudding pops and the winter Olympics skating trials are on TV. It is a certainty that I will not move from the couch for hours and if one Ms. Peggy Fleming is handling the color commentary I could be happily comatose for days.
And while were on the subject of addiction, there is another mania of mine that I forgot to mention: musicals. I love musicals, L-O-V-E. My favorite, hands down, would have to be Cats. I once followed the touring company around for several months with a group of other Catheads (the name of the Catsgroupies; rather clever if I do say so myself). We’d dress as our favorite character, (I was, of course, Grizabella) then set up out in front of the venue a few hours before the show, eat some catnip, watch video of the previous night’s performance (this is where some people can become noticeably catty! Pun intended!) then later, after we’ve reached the zenith of our budding anticipation, file into our seats and succumb to the absolute magic that is the music of Mr. Andrew Lloyd Webber!
While you are here, let me also unburden myself even further by completely shedding the mystique of the drug addicted hobo that I have so carefully crafted over the past few years. In the mid 90s I was the founder and president of a version of the Hugs not Drugs program called Pugs not Drugs. This was a somewhat successful program that paired drug addicts with pugs in exchange for whatever narcotics that said addicts might have stashed in their sock drawers, under their mattresses or in their nasal cavities. Of course, this did not always turn out as we had anticipated. Once, one gentleman, a fanciful coke-head calling himself Captain Salzburg and the French Revolution, attempted to smoke the donated pug ass-first, which was a sight to behold let me tell you! But I digress.
There. I feel much better now. Telling the truth is fabulous! It’s like collecting Beanie Babies; once you start, boy howdy, look out!
As for what is next, I am currently putting the finishing touches on my new memoir: Bigfoot, Hitler and Me: The Untold Story in which I chronicle my first meeting with the famed Bigfoot whereupon we build a time machine, journey back to the last days of World War 2, meet and mingle with Hitler in his bunker, then steal Eva Braun’s designs for some whimsical Hedgehog Hats, race back to the present and sell the hats at a fashionable little boutique, making a fairly substantial profit. I finally bare my soul truthfully and openly in this book. Nothing is inflated or fabricated and I’m excited to see the public’s reaction to it. And, if you preorder the book now, you’ll receive one of our 2008 Hedgehog Hats absolutely free.