Jim Norton - Happy Endings: The Tales of a Meaty-Breasted Zilch

My new foreword, since I just read the whole fucking thing

I HAVE JUST finished reading Jim Nortons new book a day after I received my second Lasik eye surgery. I mention this not just because I am finished to the point where Ive had two Lasik surgeries, but because the fact that I shouldnt be straining my eyes to support a friend means nothing to Jim, as long as his book comes in on time. So I sat here all day and I have to be honest, I could not stop laughing. This ass has really written a hilarious and unpitying look at his awful, sex-addicted life. In addition, there are many heartwarming chapters of his teen years, including several secret documents that he has uncovered in the form of awful poetry and cowardly self-interested love letters. But you have to give credit to a man who is so brutally self-analyzing that he even questions the sincerity of his own suicide attempt.

This book is really hilarious. Even if it wasnt I would probably say it was because I feel important being asked to write a foreword for a book, but I swear to you, you will never read an autobiography like this. Its obscene, profane, intelligent, depressing, Godless, and hopeful. When God made Jim Norton he broke the mold. Or when God broke the mold he made Jim Norton. Please enjoy this work of comic brilliance. Or dont. Honestly, I am not that invested in the success of this one way or the other.

Love, Colin

I HAVE NO fucking idea where to start. Im supposed to write a proposal for this stupid book, but no one has told me what that entails. Should I be melodramatic and talk about the mortality rate of children under six in Third World countries? Or should the tone be breezy and whimsical, perhaps an anecdote about spilling a semen sample on my tie? Either way I win, I suppose; I love whimsy and hate children.

I had lunch this afternoon with Lydia, my potential literary agent. We met in a place on Forty-fourth Street in Manhattan at noon, which is still horribly early for a Saturday. I pried myself out of bed about eleven fifteen, all groggy, and sat stupidly in front of the computer until it was time to leave. Last night I took some cold medicine to help me sleep and now I feel hungover and shitty. We were brought to a table next to three fat businesswomen who were laughing and prattling on about nothing. And not only are these blathering fatsos having the time of their lives, theyre doing it loudly. My head hurts and my fucking sinuses are blocked; I really want to pick up a baseball bat and smash one of their heads on the table like DeNiro in The Untouchables . A nice solid CLUNK, the sound of a coconut being split open, followed by blood and brains all over the table and a stunned, uncomfortable silence. Since I am basically a coward and can never find a bat when I need one, I enjoyed that thought for a few moments and giggled good-naturedly.

I tend to be incredibly awkward at these lunches, and the fact that Lydia is very attractive doesnt help. Attempting to idiotically flirt with her is out of the question, as she is married to a 6'4'' martial artist. Not to mention that as were talking Im coughing and literally have snot leaking out of my nose. We must be an enchanting sight: the hot blonde and the leaky nosed, unshaven fat neck in the Comedy Cellar T-shirt. After about ten minutes of mindless prattle from the sea lions at the next table, a tan, bisexual waiter sashays over to take our orders. We both get crab salads, which come in portions that a Somalian would laugh at. After finishing our shitty, two-bite lunch, we began to talk about me possibly writing a book of some sort.

When I refer to Lydia as my potential literary agent, I say potential not in reference to her willingness to work together, but in reference to my complete laziness. I love to write but I dont do it often because I am such a quick-fix junkie. I need a reaction now . One of the more satisfying things about stand-up is that I know within a second whether a joke is working or really shitting the bed. Writing a book, though, is another matter. I have nightmares about finishing it with a flare, getting hopeful, and selling eight copies. Theres nothing worse than managers and agents who want to tell you the project youve worked so hard on sucks gorilla cock but cant, so they have to stand there and stammer on about how the economy is tanking and people just arent buying books from mediocre, sex-addicted comedians at this time. And I am addicted to sex. As I write this I am waiting for a massage girl to come over. Im getting the forty-minute special, which I imagine will end with me wiping tadpoles off my stomach.