���<--------- http://www.paulsfunhouse.com --------->��� and ���<----------The Grand Pooh-Bah of Humour ---------->��� presents
<---------------------PureHumour Joke Ezine!---------------------> Grab a seat and get ready to roar in laughter...you have reached the original home of PUREHUMOUR! In the unlikely event that you no longer wish to receive the "Best Humour on the Net" then you will find the unsubscribe instructions at the bottom of every mailing! Well...my oldest son turned 16 a few days back...and you know what happens to boys when they turn 16? No their thoughts do not turn to love...they turn to driving! So now I have this 16 year old with a learners permit...want grey hairs? Give a 16 year old a license to drive...and now his friends can't wait until he gets his full license...cause then they think he will have access to my mini-van....NOT a chance there....the last thing that I want to happen is to have my mini-van christened by a bunch of horny teenagers! He is gonna have to wait a while before he gets access to a vehicle...oh well...such is God's punishment for enjoying sex! Today's issue includes contributions by: Ruth, SunAmy, Rubin, Marina, Keli. If you want to see your name here...send your jokes to: <a href=" mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED] ">Jokes</a> ���-------------------------QUICKIE----------------------------------��� Lets start with a quickie: How does a Jewish wife cheat on her husband? She has a headache with the kosher butcher. ���--------------------------TOON TIME------------------------------��� Roasted Chuck... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.439 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.439 That's the spot... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.440 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.440 ���------------------------SPONSOR---------------------------------��� Today's issue is brought to you by: If you like old-fashioned, traditional country music from the 1950's thru the 1980's, COUNTRY MUSIC CLASSICS, a FREE weekly email newsletter, is for you! Stories behind the songs, questions and answer section, contests and more. If you love country music back when it was REALLY country-- then subscribe TO THIS free NEWSLETTER by sending a blank e-mail to: [EMAIL PROTECTED] ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� The handsome young gynecologist, fresh from medical school, took one look at his voluptuous new patient and abandoned his professional ethics entirely. As he stroked the supple skin of her naked body, he asked, "Do you understand what I'm doing?" She replied, "Yes. You're checking for dermatological abrasions." "Uh, right," the doctor lied. As he lovingly fondled her breasts, he asked, "Do you understand what I'm doing now?" "Yes," she answered. "You're feeling for cancerous lumps." "Why, yes. Yes, I am," he lied again, growing more excited. Then he placed her feet in the stirrups, dropped his pants, and entered her. "And do you understand what I'm doing now?" "All too well," she shot back. "You're contracting herpes." ���--------------------ADVERTISEMENT---------------------------��� LIKE MY LIST? Why not give us a vote or recommend us to a friend? Vote Now : <a href=" http://www.fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.30.0 ">Vote for Me!</a> ���------------------------GUS COOKS!------------------------------��� Gus really gets cooking...a new strip each day! <a href="http://www.guscooks.com/strips.php";>Click</a> http://www.guscooks.com/strips.php ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� The waitress was tired of this one patron always hitting on her, so she came up with a plan. "I'll tell ya what, stud. I'll have sex with ya on two conditions. First, it'll cost ya 50 bucks. Second, you have to guarantee me that bells will ring and lights will flash." He smiled, handed her $50 and led her over to the pinball machine. ���----------------------PUREHUMOUR POLL----------------------��� Still not working! Check out the poll at: <a href="http://www.paulsfunhouse.com/fun/";>FunStop</a> http://www.paulsfunhouse.com/fun/ ���-----------------------QUICK QUOTE----------------------------��� "There's no trick to being a humorist when you have the whole government working for you." -Will Rogers (1879 - 1935) ���--------------------------TOON TIME------------------------------��� A boy for sure... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.441 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.441 Was it good for you.... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.217 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.217 ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� A construction boss in Boston was interviewing men when along came a guy named VINNY from New York. I'm not hiring any wise-ass New Yorker, the forman thought, so he made up a test hoping that Vinny wouldn't answer the questions, and he'd be able to refuse him the job without getting into a dispute. "Here's your first question," the forman said. "Without using numbers, represent the number 9." "Widout numbiz? " Vinny says. "Dats easy !" And he proceeds to draw 3 trees. "Whats this ? " The boss asks. Vinny replies, "Ain't you got no brains ? Tree and Tree and Tree makes nine. FAGHEDABOUTIT......" "Fair enough, " says the Boss."Here's your second question. Using the same rules, but this time represent the number 99." Vinny stares into space for a minute, then picks up the picture he has drawn, and makes a smudge on each tree. "Dare you go Buddy!" The Boss scratches his head and says, "How on earth do you get that to represent 99 ? " Vinny says, " Each a da tree's is dirty now! So its dirty tree 'n dirty tree 'n dirty tree-DATS 99 !!" The Boss is getting very worried that he is going to have to hire Vinny, so he says, "All right, last question. Same rules, but this time use 100 ." Vinny stares into space again, then picks up the picture again, makes a little mark at the base of each tree, and says, "Dare you go Mac, a hunnert." The Boss looks at the picture for a moment, and says, "You must be NUTS if you think that represents 100 ! " New York Vinny leans forward, and points to the marks at the base of the trees. "A little doggie comes along and takes a shit on each them trees. so now you got dirty tree an' a turd, dirty tree an' a turd, dirty tree and a turd - which makes one hundred, BADDA BOOM, BADDA BING, WHEN DO I FREAKIN' START ???? ���------------------------TOON TIME--------------------------------��� Buffy and the Banister http://hee-hee.com/i.php?P=1-2-22&R=2-10-1 <a href="http://hee-hee.com/i.php?P=1-2-22&R=2-10-1";>Click Here</a> ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� The Art of Taking A Pee (Written to a woman who accidentally walked into a men's restroom...) Please don't feel bad, lady. It wasn't you entering the men's washroom that caused that guy to pee on the guy next to him. Hell, we do that all the time. It's rare for us guys to ever hit what were aiming for. Sometimes I go into the washroom, start to pee, and then just start spinning around; just so I'll make sure I hit something. You see, something you ladies should understand by now is that men's penises have a mind of their own. A guy can go into a bathroom stall because all the urinals are being used, take perfect aim at the toilet, and his penis will still manage to piss all over the roll of toilet paper, down his left pant leg, and onto his shoe. I'm telling 'ya those little buggers can't be trusted. After being married 28 years my wife has me trained. I'm no longer allowed to pee like a man - standing up. I am required to sit down and pee. She has convinced me that this is a small price to pay. Otherwise if she had gone to the toilet one more time at night and either sat on a pee soaked toilet seat, or fell right into the toilet because I forgot to put the seat down, she was going to kill me in my sleep. Now another thing us guys don't usually like to talk about, but because you and I have become such good friends and you think I'm a classy guy, I might as well be candid with you because it's a real problem, and you ladies need to be understanding. It's the dreaded "morning wood". Most mornings us guys wake up with two things. A tremendous desire to pee, and a penis so hard you could cut diamonds with it. Well, no matter how hard you try, you can't get that thing to bend, and if it don't bend you can't aim, well hell, if you can't aim you have no choice but to piss all over the wallpaper and that damn fuzzy toilet seat cover you women insist on putting on the toilet. And by the way, when you use those damn fuzzy toilet seat covers, the friggin' toilet seat won't stay up by itself. So that means we have to use one hand to hold up the toilet seat and the other hand to try to control ourselves for that perfect aim. Now sometimes, when you're newly married, (and I know the guys in here will back me up on this) you think you can get the toilet seat with that damn fuzzy thing to stay up. You jam it back and compress that fuzzy thing until the seat stays there. OK, so you start to pee, but then that compressed fuzzy starts to decompress and without warning that damn toilet seat comes flying down and tries to whack off your weenie. So us guys will not lift a toilet seat with a fuzzy, it's just not safe. I tried to delicately explain this morning situation to my wife. I told her... look, it won't bend. She said, "sit down like I told you to do all the rest of the time." OK. I tried sitting down on the toilet with "morning wood". Well it's is very hard to get it bent under the toilet seat, and before I could manage it, I had pissed all over the bath towels hanging on the wall across the room. Now, even if you are sitting down and you can get it forced down under the toilet seat, when you start to pee the pee shoots out from the crack between the bottom of the toilet seat and the top of the bowl. You piss all over the back of your knees and it runs down the back of our legs on to that damn matching fuzzy horseshoe rug you keep putting on the floor in front of the toilet. I have found the only effective manoeuvre to deal with this morning urinary dilemma is to assume the flying superman position laying over the toilet seat. This takes a great deal of practice, perfect balance, and split time precision but it's the only sure way to get all the pee in the bowl during the first morning pee. So you ladies have to understand that us men are not totally to blame. We are sensitive to your concerns about hygiene and bathroom cleanliness, but there are times when things just get beyond our control. It's not our fault, it's just Mother Nature. Now, if it was Father Nature,... there wouldn't have been a problem! -Author Unknown ���--------------------ADVERTISEMENT---------------------------��� It's True...you can get paid for doing what you are already doing! Get Paid to read email: <a href=" http://www.sendmoreinfo.com/id/9079 ">Click Here</a> ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� An elderly couple were watching TV one evening, and during a commercial break the husband turned to the wife and said, "Whatever happened to our sexual relations?" After a long period of thoughtful silence, she turned to her husband and said. "You know, I don't think we even got a Christmas card from them last year." ���--------------FROM THE BATHROOM WALL -------------��� The irony of life is that no one gets out alive. ���-------------------------DEAR AGGIE--------------------------------��� [If Aggie doesn't start getting some mail...she is gonna get really nasty with you folks!] Dear Aggie: All the women I meet only want me for sex and are not interested in a meaningful relationship. They take what they want and then beg for more hot heavy sex without considering my feelings. This was ok for awhile, but now after several dozen empty encounters I feel used. What do you suggest....... Loverboy ]~[ Dear slobberboy... I suggest you lower your ego, and enjoy what you get ! Idiot. Aggie NEW...check out Aggie's Webpage at: <a href="http://www.paulsfunhouse.com/aggie/";>Dear Aggie</a> http://www.paulsfunhouse.com/aggie/ ���--------------------------TOON TIME------------------------------��� The Maths of life... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.442 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.442 Crushed Nuts?? <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.219 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.219 ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� A hamburger walked into a bar, climbed up onto a bar stool, looked at the bartender and ordered a tall cold beer. The bartender looked at the hamburger for a moment and replied, "I'm sorry sir, but I can't sell you that drink." The hamburger thinks about that for a moment and then says, "I'm over 21. Why can't you sell me a drink?" Pausing for a second, the bartender looks the burger over and the replies, "Sorry, we don't serve food in here." ���--------------------IT'S NOT PUNNY!------------------------------��� A distiller's son took his best girl upstairs to his bedroom and presented her options quite nicely, "So, what'll it be, hon? Scotch & Sofa? Or do you prefer Gin & Platonic?" ���------------------------TIMEKILLER-------------------------------��� Bird Feed http://hee-hee.com/i.php?P=1-2-23&R=2-10-1 <a href="http://hee-hee.com/i.php?P=1-2-23&R=2-10-1";>Click Here</a> ���--------------ON THE ROAD WITH AN IDIOT---------------��� The Napoleon Complex. This driver can be identified by a constellation of findings, which include, but are not limited to: 1. Driving a French car 2. eating French Fries while driving a car 3. speaking in French or asking people to pardon their French 4. thrusting their hand inside their shirt while driving 5. wearing a French Admiral's hat while driving (if it weren't for the hat, you might not be able to see them at all since they tend to be altitudinally challenged 6. anyone married to Josephine 7. delusions of grandeur, such as boasting how fast your '74 Fiat can go. In psychology, a patient suffering the Napoleon Complex tends to be an undersized person with an underlying sense of inferiority who feels compelled to challenge the world with his or her delusions of grandeur. In Fordian psychology, this translates into anyone with a small car who thinks they can go faster, drive better or is otherwise more entitled to the road than someone who possesses a bigger or faster vehicle. The treatment for the Napoleon Driver: force him to drive to Waterloo or exile him. Next Thursday: The Savior Complex. � 2002 by Todd A. Sponsler Todd A. Sponsler, MD is an opto... ofphtha... offtha... an eye surgeon trying to prove that doctors can write something other than illegible prescriptions. He currently composts (I mean composes) a humor column on his website called The Lions Den. For humor dispensed in nearly fatal doses go to www.geocities.com/psulionsden. ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� "I had the strangest dream last night," Morris was telling his psychiatrist. "I saw my mother, but when she turned around to look at me, I noticed that she had your face. As you can imagine, I found this very disturbing. In fact I woke up immediately, and couldn't get back to sleep. I just lay there in bed waiting for morning to come, and then I got up, drank a Coke, and came right over here for my appointment. I thought you could help me explain the meaning of this strange dream." The psychiatrist was silent for a full minute before responding: "A Coke? That's a breakfast?" ���--------------------ADVERTISEMENT---------------------------��� This is the WORLD'S MOST DANGEROUS BOOK! Get it now before it is banned...See why US Senators have been trying to block the sale of this book...learn the secret of the pros...that NO ONE wants you to know! It is all here...and the price has never been lower! <a href="http://ads.paulsfunhouse.com/12.html";>Click</a> http://ads.paulsfunhouse.com/12.html ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� While working on a lesson in world religions, a kindergarten teacher asked her students to bring something related to their family's faith to class. At the appropriate time she asked the students to come forward and share with the rest of the students. The first child said, "I am Muslim and this is my prayer rug." The second child said, "I am Jewish and this is my Star of David." The third child said, "I am Catholic and this is my rosary." Little Johnny was the final child and he said, "I am Southern Baptist and this is my casserole dish." ���--------------------------TOON TIME------------------------------��� Controlling the sexes. <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.443 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.443 Not tonight honey... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.444 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.444 ���-------------------------WEIRD NEWS---------------------------��� A sex industry spokesman says people are having sex every day in the Australian parliament building. Eros Foundation co-ordinator Robbie Swan says couples regularly have sex in the building's meditation room. His comments come after reports of a former Labour spin doctor having sex in the Northern Territory parliament. He says the meditation room is still being used for sex "almost on a daily basis". "This has been going on in parliaments all over the country for many years," the Canberra-based spokesman told The Australian newspaper. "The meditation room up in the federal parliament house above the Senate has been used for all sorts of people to have sex since parliament house opened here in 1988." "There's 7,000 people working in parliament house here when it gets going. Some of them will have sex on the job - it's just part of what you do," Mr Swan added. On the scandal in the Northern Territory, he commented: "It was a lot less offensive for most people than some of the parliamentary debates that take place where people call each other names and are abusive." Weird News is a daily feature of Purehumour...it contains a previously published News Report. If you find an article that you wish to see here..please send the article, name of the publication and date to: <a href=" mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED] ">News</a> IF you like Weird News...subscribe to my weekly ezine of Weird News Weekly: <a href=" http://lists.paulsfunhouse.com ">Lists</a> ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� Monica went to the dry cleaners and said," Excuse me, I would like to get my dress cleaned." And the little old man was barely able to hear her and said,"What did you say?" She replied,"I would like to get my dress cleaned sir." And the old man still could not hear her and said,"Come again?" She replied."No, Mustard." ���-------------------------QUICK WIT-------------------------------��� [||||] T O B A C C O R O A D [||||] NASCAR wheelster Tony Stewart won the MBNA America 500 at Atlanta's Motor Speedway in his quest to capture the Winston Cup. (USA Today) The racing award. . . not the urn Winston smokers' ashes often end up in. Copyright � 2002 by Bob Mills, all rights reserved. http://www.topica.com/lists/funnysideup ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� Tony goes to the therapist. During the session, the therapist asks, "How is your sex life?" "I have a lot of issues with sex," Tony replies. "What kind of issues?" the therapist asks. "Oh, mostly Hustler, and Penthouse." ���--------------------ADVERTISEMENT---------------------------��� Website hosting at a price YOU can afford...great features... all the bells and whistles...get YOUR spotlight now: <a href="http://ads.paulsfunhouse.com/16.html";>Hosting</a> http://ads.paulsfunhouse.com/16.html ���--------------------------TOON TIME------------------------------��� Wake me I'm Dreaming again... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.223 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.223 A female tribe for sure... <a href=" http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.445 ">Click Here </a> http://www.Fun-lists.com/cgi-bin/g.cgi?386.6.445 ���--------------------------HUMOUR---------------------------------��� It's forty below zero one winter night in Alaska. Pat is drinking at his local saloon and the bartender says to him, "You owe me quite a bit on your tab." "Sorry," says Pat, "I'm flat broke this week." "That's okay," says the bartender. "I'll just write your name and the amount you owe me right here on the wall." "But," says Pat, "I don't want any of my friends to see that." "They won't," says the bartender. "I'll just hang your parka over it until it's paid." ���---------------------------QUICKIE----------------------------------��� Did you hear about the Irish gay couple? Michael Fitzpatrick and Patrick Fitzmichael ���--------------------------EDITORIAL--------------------------------��� {John Belushi left us on March 5th 1982...this column was written to commemorate this anniversary. Belushi was well ahead of his time with his artistic comedy...and he passed away at the prime of his carreer... still missed...and never equalled!] The Life and Death of Captain Preemo or Bob Woodward vs. John Belushi and Me There was a knock at my door in 1979, I opened it, and there stood John Belushi. One moment earlier, I had been playing guitar on the sofa, writing a funny song, and if you had asked me who was the one person in Hollywood I wanted to meet, it would have been John Belushi, the man at my doorstep, smiling broadly. "Are you Michael Dare?" he asked. "Yeah?" I replied. "Can I come in?" "You bet." Turned out that day was his first on the set of "1941." It was his first big Hollywood picture after the success of the low-budget "Animal House." He was in a great mood, having just spent the day on the set with Steven Spielberg. Turned out a friend who was also working on the film had bummed a joint from me the day before. Turned out he shared it with John. Turned out John was used to New York brown Colombian dirt weed, full of seeds and sticks, and had never had anything like fresh green pungent sparkly California sensimilla. He grabbed my friend by the lapels, pinned him to the wall and said "Where did you get this?" At this point, my life could have turned out quite different, but my friend dispensed with all the standard drug protocol and just told John all about me. Armed with my address and phone number, John ignored the latter and headed towards the former. He knew he didn't have to call first. He was John Fucking Belushi and he knew he was welcome anywhere, especially somewhere that was a source of fine bud. He was right. I whipped out the bong, we both took a couple of blasts, and John headed for my record collection, complaining I didn't have enough R&B. We found stuff to listen to anyway, I sat at the piano, and he started singing. We played together for hours. Finally, when it was time to leave, he asked me if I could get more of that pot. I said sure. He pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills and handed them to me, saying "Take what you need," turning his back to me to look through records, showing not a care in the world for how much money I took, an astonishing display of trust. I peeled off a couple bills and handed back the rest. The next day, I went to my dealer and told him all about my visitor. He flipped out, took the money, gave me some pot, then asked "Do you think he might want some mushrooms? How about some hash?" before fronting me his entire inventory which I gladly accepted. The next day John came by again, this time with Dan Aykroyd. They bought my entire stock. The next day, John brought by another actor from the film, then another, then an Eagle, a couple of directors, the head of a studio, and basically everybody he met in Hollywood. My house became his hangout during the whole shooting of "1941." His stamina was astonishing. He would come by after shooting the film on Friday, hang out for a few hours, leave late at night, fly to New York, rehearse "Saturday Night Live" the next day, and I would watch him from L.A. live that night. The next morning he'd be banging on my door. There was never a point at which I actually decided to become drug dealer to the stars. I just couldn't say no to all the fabulous people I was being introduced to, despite the fact that what they were after was more drugs than my companionship. Within months, I had to move to a bigger house which became known as Captain Preemos, a hippie Algonquin speakeasy where stars not only got high but hung out. Any paranoia I would normally have had concerning strangers appearing at my door looking for drugs was obliterated by the fact that I recognized them all. They were my heroes, people I admired, people whose doors were closed to me during the day just showing up at my house at night. Before Preemos came along, most drug deals consisted of clandestine meetings where cash and a baggy were quickly exchanged. Preemos was different. It was like a deli. Nothing was pre-measured out. I functioned like a maitre d', offering a menu and samples. Instead of just handing over $50 for a bag of something, people would order $30 worth of Hawaiian, $10 of Afghani hash, and a couple of Qaaludes. I had an employee in the back who did the measuring while I hung in the living room keeping the party going. People rarely split after their purchase, preferring to stay and share a bit with the rest of the crowd. With guitars, piano, and other instruments available, I was host to some mighty fine jam sessions. One particular star who found themselves simultaneously on the cover of three major magazines was so embarrassed by the public attention they spent the whole week hiding out on my sofa. John invited me to the set of "The Blues Brothers" and he showed me Chicago. I got to be in the movie as one of the soldiers chasing them through Daly Plaza. On the day "The Blues Brothers" album came out, John brought it over and sang along with the whole thing in my living room. A year and a half later a jilted ex-lover of mine wrote an anonymous letter to the LAPD telling them all about me, including bodies buried in the backyard. Two detectives showed up to check it out. They barged in and busted me, taking everything, including pictures of my cat. There was an interesting look on the judge's face when the evidence against me was presented: Bags of pot, mushrooms, hash, coke, boxes of every conceivable size of Ziplock bag, dozens of gram bottles, and a sign saying "Welcome to Captain Preemos" with a menu listing "California Sensimilla: $10 a gram, Hawaiian Sensimilla: $15 a gram, Colombian rock: $100 a gram, Peruvian Flake: $120 a gram, mystery grab-bag: $20." It would have been difficult to claim it all for my personal use. But the most damning pieces of evidence against me were the pictures of my cat, who was their only excuse for conducting a search in the first place. They heard a noise. For officer safety, they had to search the house. Turned out to be the cat. Pitiful. The judge called it an illegal search, threw out the evidence, and the case was dropped. It still took a while to get out of the drug trade but I got on with my life, writing scripts, becoming a film critic for the L.A. Weekly, and a successful freelance journalist. I ran into John all over the place over the years and we remained friends. My scandalous past gave an interesting spin to my new life as a film critic. Hardly a week went by that I didn't see a movie or TV show in which the bad guy was not a drug dealer, and I always got momentarily annoyed because I was a drug dealer and I was not a bad guy. I didn't sell to youngsters, I didn't carry a gun, I didn't sell heroin or crack, I didn't kill anyone, and neither did anyone else I knew in the business. They were all pretty nice and honest folk. We got people high, just like a good bartender, and I made as honest a living as any of your standard vice-presidents at the WB. It was 20 years ago, March 5th, 1982, and I was riding through the tulip fields outside of La Conner, Washington with Tom Robbins when the news came over the radio that John Belushi had died of a drug overdose at the Chateau Marmont. I started crying. It was the worst thing I'd ever heard. Here I was on one of the primo writing assignments of all time, adapting a Tom Robbins novel with the man himself, and I was blubbering like a baby. It must have seemed a bit extreme. "Did you know him?" asked Tom. "Yeah," I said, "I did." When I got back to Hollywood from La Conner I was anxious to find out what really happened to John, so I started asking around. Through my old drug connections, I found that the drugs that killed John had come from the LAPD, that it was a sting operation gone bad. Apparently Cathy Smith, a snitch with drugs from the LAPD evidence locker, was getting high with John at the Chateau Marmont. She had told her police connection that Robin Williams and Robert DeNiro might be coming by. This bit of information tantalized them. Smith was told to keep getting John high till Williams and DeNiro showed up so the bust could be bigger and higher profile. Three for the price of one. Williams and DeNiro didn't show up. Cathy kept getting John high till he overdosed right in front of her. She immediately called her connection, a woman who was sleeping with the officer who supplied the drugs. He got on the phone and told Smith not to do a thing, to just wait for him. He showed up at the Marmont, told her to leave and come back in an hour. He then prepared the scene the way he wanted it to be found, then went down the block and waited for the body to be discovered. Basically, if the LAPD hadn't gotten piggy for the big bust instead of just arresting him alone, John Belushi might still be alive today. Smith's early release, plus the total lack of police investigation into the source of the drugs, seemed to back this story, but with my drug past, and with none of my sources willing to go on the record, I sure as hell wasn't going to write about it. A year went by. The phone rang and it was Bob Woodward. "Sure it is" I said. "Hang up," he replied, "call information, ask for the number of the Washington Post in Washington D.C., call the main number and ask for me." I did. Got the same guy. He told me he was writing a book about John Belushi and had heard that I knew him. I told him I did, but expressed justifiable reticence in telling him my story. He told me everyone was cooperating and I should talk to Judy Belushi, then call him back. I called Judy. She confirmed that she had personally asked Woodward to write the book, and that she was asking everyone to cooperate with him. She wanted the whole story to come out, and if I was scared to mention drugs, I shouldn't be because John did drugs with everybody. I'd be part of the crowd. I should just tell Woodward everything I knew. Bad advice. Maybe I kept picturing Robert Redford in "All the President's Men." Maybe I had this fantasy of being the new Deep Throat. Hell, maybe I just wanted to be in the book. All I know is that I called him back and told him "Follow the drugs. You won't believe where they lead." "How do you know all this?" he asked. In order to prove the reliability of my information, I told him the whole back story of my drug escapades, including how I met John and the life and death of Captain Preemo. Who knew he would turn the assignment around and destroy John Belushi with the same fervor he used to destroy Richard Nixon? When "Wired" came out, it mysteriously included absolutely none of the story about the sting operation, not even as a wacko theory. It was a vast compilation of "just the facts, ma'am" that managed to totally mistake lists of information for truth. I later found out that my version of events had been corroborated by several other sources. "It was going to be the story," one of Woodward's research assistants told me, "but he went to L.A. to meet with Daryl Gates, came back and killed it." (A trip where he had promised to take me to lunch but didn't) Woodward did manage to include all of the back story concerning Captain Preemo, which did me no good to put it mildly. He somehow structured it so that I looked like the bad guy. John's life was going along just fine until he moved to Hollywood and met me. The very first excerpt from the book was printed in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner. It was the story of Captain Preemo, naming me by name, clearly one of the bad guys leading to John's demise. How come the man who took on Richard Nixon refused to take on Daryl Gates? My theory? He's an alcoholic. He's never done drugs and knows nothing of the scene. Thinks booze is good and pot is bad. He's an anti-drug warrior, eager to point out that "the scene" killed John, not just the drugs. His book subtly proposed that people like John deserved to die. My picture of him as Robert Redford was quickly replaced with one of Satan. I was actually out the door on my way to the first day of a new job as film critic for a local cable channel when the phone rang and it was the cable channel telling me not to bother coming in. They never explained why I was fired. I found out hours later when I saw the Herald. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when the opposing attorney in the custody case for my son walked into the courtroom with "Wired" under his arm and tried to introduce it into evidence, claiming it showed I was a drug dealer, therefore an improper caregiver for my children. "I've read the book," said the judge, "and you may not introduce anything from it into evidence unless you have Mr. Woodward here to corroborate it." Right on, otherwise you could bring in a Jackie Collins novel or a National Inquirer to use as evidence against someone. The judge was Stanley Weisberg, who went on to judge the McMartin Preschool case, the Menendez Brothers, and Rodney King. A guy with a future history of letting people off. He ordered that any mention of Woodward's book be stricken from the record, but obviously it wasn't stricken from his brain. Opposing council got what they wanted. Weisberg now knew I had a drug history, one he could look up at home. I got custody anyway, no thanks to Bob Woodward. Then the film of "Wired" came out and it had one scene that wasn't in the book. John would have loved it. In the scene, John's dead body is wheeled into the morgue by an attendant who accidentally leaves a half-eaten ham sandwich on the body bag. The temptation is too strong. John unzips the bag from the inside and reaches out for the sandwich. Finally, he crawls out of the bag and says "What happened? How did I get here?" His guardian angel comes down in the form of a Puerto Rican taxi driver and gives him a tour of his life that thankfully did not include me. Meanwhile, John's widow hires Bob Woodward to do some quick detective work and try to discover the truth about her husband's death. The film is a race between Bob Woodward and John Belushi's ghost to discover why John died, building to a final showdown between the two of them. I like that idea, and there are moments in the film of "Wired" that are under-appreciated. Woodward is accurately portrayed as the Sgt. Friday of journalism. In the movie, John gets the opportunity tell Woodward off for only writing about the bad things. Good for him. Unfortunately, the prevailing message of "Wired," the book and the film, was simple, do drugs - die. This may be a popular thing to say but it is a lie. Everybody who does drugs does not automatically die. Some people do drugs and then get on with their lives. If everybody who did drugs died a horrible death like John Belushi, illegal drugs would be a very small industry. What is the growth potential of a consumer item that guarantees certain death? Obviously SOMEBODY is doing drugs and living or the enormous drug trade would have no repeat customers. I wouldn't expect a film about James Dean to be an endless diatribe against Porsches, though speeding around in one is indeed what killed him. When I remember James Dean, I like to think of that black and white poster of him walking down a wet New York street, not his mangled body in a sports car. I don't want to see a film called "Speeding" about Dean's obsession with driving fast and his determination to own faster cars. I would feel cheated. I would want a film about Dean to focus on his life, not his death. But "Wired" was almost exclusively about John Belushi's death. Without the death, there's no movie. What Woodward and the other perpetrators of "Wired" were inferring was that John Belushi's life was meaningless and not even worth exploring. His only use was as a momentary anti-drug poster child. They reduced a complicated man into a wretched clich� in order to further our country's ludicrous anti-drug campaign. Its twenty years later and I can't help but think that if somebody who never heard of John Belushi looked at "Wired," they would wonder why anybody bothered to make a movie about such a pathetic human being. So let me reiterate. "Wired," the book and the movie, got it wrong, even though they kept sporadically reminding me of a man I loved. A man I remember. At Sunset was a secret nightclub next door to the Whiskey on Sunset Blvd. The front was boarded up, but there was a back entrance that hosted a party every weekend. The meat locker in the kitchen was the hippest place to hang out. Loud music would be playing and the kitchen would be packed. It was where you went to do drugs, so that was where you normally found John, and anywhere you found John immediately became the hippest place to be. He gave validity to a whole scene that was screaming out for recognition. Members of such obscuro L.A. groups as Fear and Black Flag would go home bragging that John Belushi had been in the audience. After John died, somebody scrawled BELUSHI'S ROOM across the meat locker wall in crayon. Years later, At Sunset closed and it became the new Dukes Coffeeshop, where I have as yet to order any meat dishes. The last time I saw John, he was obviously tired. He was sitting at the back of another club, the Zero Zero, watching people dance, listening to very loud music, aware that his presence in the room was known by all. He was on the cover of Rolling Stone and TV Guide that very week, so he was royalty. He was sitting in a chair near the dance floor when somebody dancing accidentally spilt a beer on him. John did nothing, just sat there, neither indignant nor angry, no reaction at all. The dancer laughed and spilt more of his beer on him, obviously hoping for some sort of response. He got none. A bunch of others joined in, and pretty soon it turned into "Let's Spill our Beer on John Belushi Night." John became soaking wet but he took it like a Buddha. When he spied me through the crowd, he simply reached out, put his hand on my shoulder, and I led him through the rain of beers, out of the club, to his limo, and on to my place where we listened to music till four in the morning, both of us whacked out of our minds, singing songs, listening to records. These are good memories that can't turn sour just because I got high with the guy. Even before he died, John could drift off into space and become an angel, a tribal God of comedy, and I worshipped him. 20 years later, I still do. 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