Silverman - The bedwetter: stories of courage, redemption, and pee

The Bedwetter

Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee

Sarah Silverman

For my family. I am so proud to be a part of us.

In loving memory of John O'Hara.

Contents

by Sarah Silverman

The College Year

Being on TV

Love

by God

by Sarah Silverman

W hen I first selected myself to write the foreword for my book, I was flattered, and deeply moved. It is not every day that someone is asked to write the foreword for such a highly anticipated book by a major publisher. There was a time in my life that I would not have trusted myself with a responsibility like this. The foreword sets the tone for the entire book, and I might well have said, "Sarah, you're not smart enough to handle this." I would have taken the safer route, and just asked someone other than myself to write it. To trust myself this much, to think so highly of my own literary skills, is a testament to just how far I've come--both personally and professionally. Personally, because I'm finally in a place where I can really look up to myself, and professionally, because I'm now able to see what a coup getting me to write my foreword really is.

Not everyone agrees that I should be writing this thing. Take, for example, the people at HarperCollins. They're staunchly opposed to it. Old media traditionalists that they are, they seem to be stuck on the idea that a foreword should be written by someone other than the author. They even went so far as to claim that the very point of a foreword is to have someone else writing about the author. Here's an excerpt of an e-mail chain between my editor and me regarding the issue.

In other words, I guess he's saying that if it was me writing, it would not really be a true "foreword," it would simply be the start of the book, thus making the book effectively foreword-less. I would argue that, if this book is foreword-less, how can you be reading this at this very moment? That said, if you aren't reading this, I can't blame you, since I've said literally nothing so far.

Now, then.

I have known Sarah (me) for thirty-nine years. I have watched her grow from a flat-chested, gawky little blastocyst into a full-grown woman with big naturals and a major career. Her contributions have ranged from telling offensive racial jokes in dingy comedy clubs to playing a decisive role in getting the first person of color elected president. She has peed on mattresses up and down the Northeast Corridor and has used the topic of human excrement to vault her from obscurity into the global fame she enjoys today. Her life has been an inspiration, and I look foreword (!!!) to seeing what she does next. With her tremendous reserves of talent, Sarah just might cure AIDS, or at least cause it in deserving people like those genocidal dinks in Darfur. She might become the first Jewish president, or win the NASCAR award if something like that exists, or start some kind of movement. Or stop some movement that's especially annoying. Like those people who denounce circumcision and insist on ruining penises across the globe. I guess the effort to stop a movement could be called a "Removement." That's a horrible joke. The first thing Sarah should do with her powers is to put a stop to jokes like that. Sarah is the embodiment of possibility and promise. I love her.

Wow. Now, that's a foreword. Egg on your face much, HarperCollins?

Okay, I just read this over and I have to be honest--I'm maybe coming off a touch insecure. A hair overcompensate-y. Maybe it's because I don't want to accept the hard truth about my precious book, which is that you are most likely going to be reading this, my freshman literary effort, while making a bowel movement. There's one birthing its way out of you at this very moment, isn't there? It's okay. In fact, I'm happy for you, and I'm honored that you've chosen to bring me into this very private and vulnerable part of your life. For all you know, I'm making one as I write this, except that I can tell you with all certainty that I don't do that. Ever. My asshole is as clean as a whistle. (Whistles are traditionally filled with gym-teacher saliva and women-who-fear-they-might-get-raped spit. So, yeah, that's the level of clean. You can see this is not a bragging thing...)

I'm not a literary genius. I'm not Dostoyevsky, whoever that is--I'm pretty sure I just made that name up. I'm only thirty-nine years old, with most of my final two years of show business still ahead of me. I was not an orphan. I have never blown anyone for coke or let other people do coke off any part of my body. I have never struggled with addiction and I was never molested. Tragically, my life has only been moderately fucked up. I'm not writing this book to share wisdom or to inspire people. I'm writing this book because I am a famous comedian, which is how it works now. If you're famous, you get to write a book, and not the other way around, so the next Dave Eggers better get a TV show or kill someone or something.

But I will say that my life has been interesting and often outright hilarious, so if you take it just one poop at a time, I think you'll find the journey worthwhile.

I will give you the same advice about your poop that I give myself while writing this very book: Don't push.

Now wipe thoroughly, wash your hands--boil them if you have to--and I'll see you back here tomorrow morning after your cigarette and coffee.

Love,
Sarah

My Life Started by Exploding Out of My Father's Balls, and You Wonder Why I Work Blue

L ike most children, I learned to swear from a parent. But most children learn to swear by mimicking moments when a parent loses self-control. That is typically followed by the parent stressing that such words are bad and shouldn't be repeated outside the home. When I was three years old, I learned to swear from my father, but he taught me with every intention to do so. It was like he was teaching a "cursing as a second language" course for one.

"Bitch! Bastard! Damn! Shit!" I proclaimed with joy, if not necessarily wit, in the middle of Boys' Market in Manchester, New Hampshire. Random shoppers stopped in the aisle, and watched me with delight--or at least curiosity--as I regurgitated this mantra. Dad stood by with genuine pride, beaming through the mock surprise on his face.

My guess is that when something is so easy, so greatly rewarded, and bears so few negative consequences, it's a recipe for addiction. From that moment on, everything I did was in search of that rush. So I guess I'm saying that I'm, in most ways, my father's fault. He filled my mother's vagina with the filthy semen that consisted of me, then filled my head with even more filth.