Unwifeable(26)

“We have low tolerances,” his friend says, laughing.

“How did you like my sober performance?” Andy asks.

“I thought it was funny,” I say.

“Really?” Andy replies. “Do you want to do some blow then?”

“No,” I say.

Things are getting out of control quickly.

Andy continues, “I went onstage and did my bit real funny and whatnot, and then after that I had a couple—just two vodka cranberries—and then that gave me the courage to talk to Farrah. And me and her have a date. On Tuesday, I’m going to fuck the shit out of her.”

“Put that in Page Six,” his friend shouts.

“Put that in Pages Six, Seven, and Eight, you fucking bitch, that’s how big my dick is,” Andy seethes.

Trying to combat the situation with logic, I return to his offer minutes before for me to do cocaine.

“Why did you ask me if I wanted to do blow?” I ask.

“I don’t have any,” he says. He combats me with logic of his own. “You look like a fucking coke whore.”

“I do?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Do you want some? Do you want some? Do you want some?”

“No,” I say.

“Well then, I guess I was wrong, you’re not one,” he says. “I love coke whores. They’re so easy. I guess you’re not as easy as I thought. What do you want? Do you want me to fuck the shit out of you? What’s your problem? You want me to fuck you. Give me a kiss.”

“No, no, no, no,” I say squirming away from him onto a chair.

“I think you want to fuck me,” he says. “I think you want to fuck me.”

“No,” I say, and at that point, he reaches over and feels my breast.

I am half frozen, half clinging on to my voice recorder for dear life.

“Then what do you want?” Andy asks. “There’s nothing dirty here.”

“He hasn’t even puked himself, look,” his friend says.

“I’m not the fuckup you think I am,” Andy says.

“Then why are you, like, pulling out your penis and, like . . .” I begin. This enrages Andy.

“Oh, that’s good,” he says. “Good try, lady. You’re in my room, and I have to pee. I don’t close the door, and you know why I don’t close the door? BECAUSE IF I CLOSE THE DOOR PEOPLE THINK I’M DOING DRUGS, YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

“I think she broke in,” his friend says.

“I’m going to pee again on you if you don’t fucking . . . for real, dude,” Andy says. “You need to loosen up. You need to fucking help me out. You’re either on the team or you’re off the team. You’re either on or you’re off. I’m not a come-and-go kind of guy . . .”

“He’s a come-in-your-face kind of guy!” his friend yells, high-fiving him.

“Ow,” Andy says. “My broken finger. I’m a come-in-your-face kind of guy. Yeah.”

“So, when you were licking everyone’s face . . .” I say.

“I was doing it because I was desperately trying to tie the show together like a fisherman with tuna,” he says. “And you’re a little piece of fresh tuna . . . But thanks for asking. Do you want me to lick your face now? Do you want me to lick your cunt?”

I take this all in, looking for the Big Idea.

“Whose face did you like licking the most?” I ask.

“Yours,” Andy says, lunging toward me and licking my face. “Yours.”

At this point, I am heading toward the door to get out of there.

“I love her, I don’t want her to leave, don’t leave,” he says to his friends. And then to me, “Don’t be a fucking pussy, don’t puss out.”

I turn the voice recorder off, and as I am walking out, Andy leans in to try to kiss me one last time. I ward him off, but not before he bites me on the right hand.

The door shuts. I look at the teeth marks on my hand. No skin broken. That’s good, I guess. I stand there, stunned.

What the fuck just happened?

I walk, dazed, past the security guard and into the after-party, where I first run into Jeffrey Ross.

“Andy Dick just bit me,” I say.

“Better get tested,” he says. He isn’t smiling. He knows I’m not joking.

I bum a Marlboro Light, type up my notes, and email Paula Froelich at Page Six the details. Short, straight, to the point.

The next day, it’s the lead item in the gossip section—“Comic’s Worst Gross-Out Ever”—and is picked up by outlets around the world. Childhood friends I haven’t talked to in twenty years are calling.

“Turned out great,” Richard Johnson emails me. “Thanks.”



* * *




I WATCH AS savvy industry people piggyback on the gossip item (not quite a feeding frenzy, but a feeding snack, to be sure). The entire experience gives me a chance to see firsthand how the tentacled gossip industry operates. Ryan McCormick, a publicist who is running New York’s Funniest Reporter contest, places an item in Page Six that Andy Dick is banned from the festival unless he wears protective headgear. Howard Stern asks for the audio, and when I turn it over, they talk about it for days on air, with Artie Lange observing it sounds like a “pre-rape tape.” When I walk into the Post after returning from the trip, executive editor Steve Cuozzo looks at me with wry amusement. “You’re famous,” he says.