Smith Kevin - Tough sh*t : life advice from a fat, lazy slob who did good

Tough Sh*t

K E V I N S M I T H

G O T H A M B O O K S

GOTHAM BOOKS

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Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First printing, March 2012

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright 2012 by Kevin Smith

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Smith, Kevin, 1970
Tough sh*t : life advice from a fat, lazy slob who did good / Kevin Smith.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-55424-1

1. Smith, Kevin, 1970- 2. Motion picture producers and directors
United StatesBiography. 3. ScreenwritersUnited States
Biography. I. Title. II. Title: Tough shit.
PN1998.3.S5864A3 2012
791.430233092dc23

[B] 2011047663

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words
are the authors alone.

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

Like its author, this book is dedicated to Jen Schwalbachthe gorgeous mother of my child, the seductive temptress who keeps me faithful, and the friend Ive always had the most fun with. My best friend, even.

Also quite like its author, this book is additionally dedicated to Jen Schwalbachs asshole.

Everything above also applies here, obviously, except the mother of my child part: Referencing my kid and my wifes brown-eye in the same sentiment might come off as crude or something.

(And have a heart: Please dont go telling my kid you read in her old mans book that shes some kinda Butt-Baby. Shes gonna have a hard enough time as it is being Silent Bobs kidthe daughter of the Too Fat to Fly guy.

Also: Please dont tell my daughter I dedicated the book to her mothers sphincter. Thatd be weird.)

Whatchoo Talkin bout, Willis? And Other Shit It
Took Me Twenty Years to Figure Out

When the Shit Hit the Fan:
Red State, Part I

The Glowing Shit That Was in the Briefcase:
Red State, Part III

I am a product of Don Smiths balls.

Thats important to establish and acknowledge right off the bat, not only because it makes what Ive accomplished in life seem even cooler, but also because Dads balls have been, to my way of thinking, too rarely celebrated. Unless you count whatever attention Mom threw their way, I dont feel theyve gotten their proper due for their part in what became of me. And shes certainly never hailed his nuts in print, so this right here is a real coup for the Smiths of 21 Jackson Street, Highlands, New Jersey. Though if you could ask my father, hed likely admit that while having his balls in print is flattering, having his balls in my mothers mouth was way better.

People need to be regularly reminded that they began as cum. Not to diminish or cut em down to sizequite the contrary: I tell people they were cum once as a gesture of my awe at their very existence and to pat em on the back. There are no losers in life because every one of us who is born is a huge fucking winner.

Chew on this: When I was in film school, there was this specious statistic floating around stating there were more film school students than law school students. That was one massive pool of wannabes whod have to bottleneck into a souvenir teacup full of opportunities waiting on the other end of the rainbow. Breaking into the movie business? Dont worry, Capn Solo; even C-3PO cant calculate those odds. Might as well try to navigate an asteroid field.

And thats what people congratulate you for: the fact that yousimple, normal youcracked the code and got into the club. You get to see your name in lights and somehow thats impressive. I remind these people that my most impressive accomplishmentlike theirs (and yours, dear reader)is that we beat out billions of tough competitors for the job of a lifetime. Motherfuck being the Sundance flavor of the month; being the sole product of that careless cumshot my old man somehow kept in my mom is akin to beating the Kurgan and becoming the Highlander. There can be only one (aside from twins, triplets, quadruplets, and quintsthe monsters and freaks of the baby world). Whenever someone tells me Im fat, I tell em I wasnt always: Apparently, at one point in my life, I was fit enough to out-swim a legion of sperm. And now, like any past-their-prime athlete, Im enjoying the good life: I hoisted my Cup already, so at this point, fuck off and lemme enjoy bacon and brownies (maybe even together).

You beat sock drawers full of dead cum that didnt have a chance coming out the gate. The odds that you wound up in an egg instead of a paper towel? Astronomically against you.

Some might have considered Don Smiths balls mere mute witnesses in my fathers masturbatory war against his dick, but not Grace Schultz. My mom saw the potential in my dads balls. She didnt see her unborn children in his eyes, she saw them outlined in the nooks and crannies of his testicles. And of all the wads my father busted during his too-short stay in this sector of the galaxy, I wound up in the moneyshot. And more than that, I didnt get burned to virtual death like Anakin Skywalker on the lava shores of Moms nethers. I am, you am we