Garrett - When the Balls Drop

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Gallery Books

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2015 by Brad Garrett

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books hardcover edition May 2015

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Interior design by Jill Putorti

Cover photography by Tom Caltabiano

Author photograph by Isabeall Quella

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-4767-7290-5

ISBN 978-1-4767-7292-9 (ebook)

To my children Max and Hope, with love and adoration.

My decision to write this book, and the inspiration for its title, came as the result of an experience I had shortly after my fifty-third birthday. I had gotten up to take my third piss of the night... like I do every night. I had actually learned how to navigate to the bathroom in complete darkness, thanks to my slightly enlarged prostate. I sat down to pee. Yes, thats right, I sat to pee, for a few reasons. (Rednecks, laugh here.) For one, Im circus-freak tall, and balance at two A.M. when Im half asleep is not to be taken for granted. Two, aim has never been my forte. And three, Im a bit OCD, and I didnt want to spend the rest of the night on all fours with a can of Lysol, trying to figure out where the misfires landed. So I decided to sit my jumbo can down to cut my losses.

As a side note, Id like to propose that aim is more mathematical than we tend to acknowledge. For me, its: smallish dick long torso = distance to bowl2. And for those of you who dont know, your early fifties are when your strong single stream of whiz morphs into several unevenly dispersed rivulets, like a sprinkler that was backed over by a mower. In my case, there are four unruly streams: the one on my far right was apparently designed with the sole purpose of hitting the roll of toilet paper; next to that is Mr. Noodle, who prefers to dribble straight down onto my foot; then theres the second-to-the-left stream, which reminds me of my youth as it arcs high enough to hit the fuzzy toilet seat cover; and last but not least, my far-left offender, who doesnt show up until my junk is put away and Im driving to work in my new khakis. Its crucial to understand that at this point in a mans life, his one-eyed liar is no longer his friend, so guys, erase that from your happy place.

The moment I sat down on the john, I noticed something alarmingly different. Something I had never felt in my fifty-three years on earth. I became aware that the very bottom of my balls was wet. Thaaats right. Not damp or overheated but wet . My middle-aged mind was trying to think back. Could I have been sleepwalking and done a snow angel on my Los Angeles lawn only to return to bed and continue my slumber? Could I have pissed myself while dreaming about the chocolate rugelach at Beas Bakery? Unlikely. After all, my sheets werent wet, and if Id already released the hounds, I wouldnt have needed to get up to pee. For the third time.

The harsh reality is that my sequestered twins are advancing in the opposite direction of my earhair. Mother Nature has me by the balls, literally. They have actually started a race with my ex-wifes tits. And she will prevail, because she will get hers done as I continue to disappear into the abyss of recycled toilet brine. In the end, gravity always wins, people. Remember: when you have a heart attack, you fall down, not up.

Middle age is upon me, and I dont remember this shit being in the brochure. I have six different doctors on speed dial, and the font size on my smartphone is at ten with a maximum setting of twelve. That doesnt give me much wiggle room for the golden years.

Now, before your denial causes you to throw this book away or use it to flatten out your coupons for Metamucil, please remember that being a comedian allows me to have a more realistic, if not darker, outlook on life, death, aging, hookers, marriage, parenting, travel, premature ejaculation, politics, religion, race, and evolution in general. Add the Jewish component to that equation, and the outlook becomes even bleaker. My people usually have their burial plots picked out by the age of twenty-one, and they try to reserve them in the vicinity of their passed-on relatives whom theyve hated for most of their lives. Guilt after death, I suppose. Personally, I want to be cremated and sprinkled in with Love My Carpet in the Pardon my Pet scent, and then vacuumed up by an illegal Filipino in a sundress. Thats right, illegal. Because that adds to the danger.

Dont judge me yet. You have many more chapters to do that.

* * *

After inhabiting this odd planet for over half a century, Ive discovered the only thing I know for sure is that middle age is the window to your eventual end, and the view is often foggy, with sporadic flashes of light that could be the Lord, a bus to Atlantic City, the cops, or the beginning of a stroke. This book is not meant to be depressing, its meant to be liberating, because its written through the eyes of an optimistic pessimist. The boneheaded and self-absorbed pseudo-optimist will be familiar with disappointment, whereas the realistic pessimist has the luxury of being pleasantly surprised.

There are those of you who may choose to live in a dream world where the glass is half full, but if you do, youre an imbecile. The glass will never be half full. Nor full ever again. Its simply on its way to empty. Its half empty, three-quarters empty, then totally fucking empty. Pretty much like your upcoming golden years, if you dont start catching my drift. When you turn fifty, are you halfway to death or halfway to birth? Point made.

I feel its my job as the village idiot to prepare the townspeople the best way I can: through honest observation that their chances of getting to old age without making at least one stinky in their pants while shopping at Target is very unlikely. If you try to oversteer the inevitable course of life, you will ruin the journey. I know that sounds like a crock of shit, and it is, but its my book. And please understand, the moral of this story is not just about giving up the crap that continues to disappoint, its also about me helping you. Using my high school education and suburban street smarts, I can teach you that by simply letting go of the bullshit thats been drummed into your brain by others, you shall experience a newfound freedom that comes with not giving a damn. Because if you havent noticed, the clock is ticking, hombre.