Joel McHale - Thanks for the Money: How to Use My Life Story to Become the Best Joel McHale You Can Be

Y ou never forget that moment when your life changes forever. It leaves a lasting marklike the deep groove carved into sequoia bark by a loggers hatchet, the shimmering black sands that whisper of a millennia-old volcanic eruption, or the crescent-shaped scars from your multiple calf implant surgeries.

Everything seemed so perfect on that sun-dappled, breeze-kissed, nice-smelling afternoon. As I am wont to do in my downtime, I was drinking and staring into the middle distance. I had devoted most of the morning to dwelling on professional disagreements and some mild career envy, and as a result, I was tired. That lady I married was reading a book in the shade as our two young sons played in the pool of our new home.

Being surrounded by those I love had brought me a sense of... I dont want to say satisfaction, because that makes me think of two things: the emotional state of satisfaction, which I define as a cowardly capitulation to inner peace, and also Satisfaction, the criminally overlooked 1988 musical drama starring Justine Bateman and Liam Neeson. I loved that film, but it never caught on at the box officeat least, not domestically. I understand that its the highest-grossing film of all time in Estonia.

I had finally come to terms with the state of Justine Batemans film career and taken a celebratory swig of single-malt Scotch when my eldest son, Boy 1, innocently called out, Daddy, I can touch the bottom.

Thats great, First Boy, I murmured into my drink. You sure have grown up fast. Thats the kind of rapport I share with my children. We have great talks.

No, Daddyeverywhere. Everywhere I walk in our pool, I can touch the bottom.

A sudden panic washed over me, like a wave of hot turkey gravy. My throat tightened. My left arm went numb. I could smell nothing but the unmistakable odor of burnt hair. You were having a stroke, Joel, is what you might be saying. In which case, I would reply, Gee, I didnt know you were a doctor. Let me finish my story.

Look at me! My feet are flat on the bottom of the pool, and my head is above the water! My sons infectious joy sickened me. He paraded back and forth, waving his hands, making a real show of it. Yay! Look at me! Each step was a tiny foot-dagger in my heart.

I lurched out of my chair and staggered across the grounds of my home, which is a collection of fancy words for lawn, over to the car park, which is what we call our driveway, and made sick all over the hood of my Porsche, which is actually the trunk.

That lady I married appeared at my elbow with great concern. What is it, Joel? Why did you vomit? Thats the kind of rapport I share with that lady I married. We have great talks.

That kid in the pool is right, I barked, dabbing at my chin. We have no deep end. Its all one... one...

She placed a warm palm against the small of my back. Joel, take a breath. Find your words.

Its all one depth! I shrieked, and the tears came, hot and fast, dribbling down my face like salty rivulets of turkey gravy.

How did I let this happen?

How could I even think of purchasing a new home with an inground pool that possessed no deep end? How could I even entertain the thought of a pool that doesnt allow for reverse dives, inward dives, jackknifes, or even that lowest form of water sports japery, the cannonball?

After years of hard work, and perseverance, and screaming at people on various phone calls, I had done the unthinkable and settled. As a professional actor, stand-up comedian, and basic-cable television host, I had never settled for anything less than the best. Other than that time I agreed to become a basic-cable television host.

Is everything all right? a soft voice queried. It was Mateo, my loyal manservant. We have a running joke where he repeatedly asks that I not refer to him as a manservant, or Mateo. But this was no time for our classic Im a landscaper, and my name is Hector routine.

I grabbed Mateo roughly by his lapels. Yes, I make my support staff dress in formal attire. I dont know why everyone makes a big deal out of it. Anyway, I grabbed Mateo roughly by his lapelsso roughly, in fact, that his cummerbund came loose. Cut off my balls, Mateo, I hissed at him.

Mr. Joelplease, not this again. He was trembling.

Take those hedge clippers and chop off my penis and my testicles. Youll do it if you love me. At this point, that lady I married had spirited Boy 1 and Other Boy back into the house. I could hear the hydraulic hiss of the panic room door sealing shut, even over Mateos blubbery protestations.

Mr. Joel, Mr. Joelplease. The pool can be fixed. It can be done. You just need to dig a deeper pool.

I released him. He was right. The problemlike others detailed in the pages aheadwas challenging but ultimately surmountable. And the solutionlike many more detailed in the pages aheadwas to rent a backhoe.

I let out a long sigh of relief and, with great effort, tucked my genitals back into my pants. I cupped Mateos sweet, beefy, sunburned face in my hands, gave him a soft peck on the cheek, and straightened his top hat.

I would do it. I would dig a deeper pool. This endeavor would require money, of course, and a grueling, nearly five-minute Internet search to determine a baseline construction price, and... holy