I received this in the mail today. I suppose it's only fair to let him make his case.
Dear internet writers,
Recently, as I was researching the value of my various stock and bond holdings (they're massively valuable, by the by), it occurred to me, on a whim, to try typing my name into an internet web search engine (gooble, I believe it was). I believe the process is referred to as goobling oneself. My nephew taught it to me. What do you imagine I found, oh, on about page 17 of the internet web "hits" featuring my very copywrited name? You know good and well what I found. It was your very irresponsible internet missive dated Friday, August 29, 2008 in which you compare listening to my 1991 College Music Journalist award-winning compact disk audio comedy concert album The Future of America with spending approximately 41 minutes and some odd seconds in a place I'm not sure I should mention on the internet.
What, may I ask, were you thinking? Did you not assume that a person of my obviously superior intelligence would not find the blasphemous slander you hurled at my enormously popular comedy album? How can you possibly justify dismissing the throngs of screaming fans who came to see my shows, bought my albums, and offered me their precious marijuana? I read your track-by-track hit job of my album and nowhere--NOWHERE!--did I see any indication that you understood the massive amounts of time, effort, brainstorming, and sponging that went into coming up with the comedy bits you so easily dismiss. Never do you acknowledge the countless hours of boos and hisses I had to endure while honing my craft on the road in countless bars all across this great land. Well, in case you didn't know before, let me tell you how many hours of boos and hisses there were. Not too long ago I sat down with my old manager over a pitcher of Michelob Ultra and tried to count all those hours. Turns out, it was too many to count. That's why I said they were countless.
Do you know how hard it is to come up with just one joke that people will actually laugh at? I tried and tried coming up with funny things to say, but IT JUST WOULDN'T WORK! So I took some advice from my mom who told me that to be really funny--really truly funny--I had to LIVE my comedy. Rosanne Barr stole my mom's voice; I decided to live my comedy.
What does it mean to "live" comedy? Do you know what it's like to design a condom with no head? I do. It's actually pretty easy. Can you possibly believe how hard it is to find a little man to put your condom on for you, much less stay hidden in a little alcove for the vast majority of the day and night? It's pretty hard. Can you conceive of the horrible, thoughtless, meaningless sex I've had with unintelligent females--all so I could study and imitate their voice! You probably can't. It was awful, but I had to do it! It had to be authentic! I tried--oh, how I tried--to make it convincing. Oh, how I tried. But they wouldn't laugh. I had to do the research. And you know what? It worked! It really worked! You heard the crowd's reaction. It really, really worked. But at what price?
Well, obviously I made millions and millions of dollars and had sex with many attractive and intelligent females as well as the aforementioned Lisas, but there's a dark side to all this. I have to live with myself. Oh, yes, internet writers, even the wheeze has some shame. And now I'm living that shame each and every day. At least 10 minutes of every day is devoted to regretting some of the things I had to do to put me on that stage. I usually spend about 10 minutes just after Pilates up until the time Charles gets me for my placenta bath literally swimming in regret. (Sometimes it's up to 12 minutes. Charles isn't very punctual.)
What do I regret? Calling women's breasts cones? I regret that. Making fun of my elders? I know that wasn't the right choice. Pretending I didn't have sex with Madonna? Inexcusable. But there's one thing I don't regret: being up on stage and seeing all those smiling, laughing dumbasses and knowing it was all because of me--knowing I was the one responsible for all that joy--all that money changing hands--all that blow on the coffee table in my dressing room. It's a good feeling, internet writers. And it's with that feeling that I let you off the hook. I could sue you for millions, but I'm not that guy. Come on! It's the wheeze! I just want you to know what you're really criticizing. If you choose, after reading my letter, to take down your hateful review, I thank you. If not…well, at least do me the courtesy of printing this as an open letter so all can read my side of the story. I hope you'll agree that the public deserves to make up their own minds.
You're new special internet buddy,
Paul Montgomery "Pauly" Shore
