Every week, I interview a stand-up comedian for my comedy column,
"Dance, Monkey!" wherein I ask ridiculous questions in the hopes of
getting funny answers. This week's
subject was supposed to be Andrew Dice Clay. Apparently,
"Dice" was confused, and then angered, because he told me that this
was too easy for me, that it doesn't
seem fair that I get to "clock in at work and just ask this shit." At
first, I thought it was shtick. Then I realized, oh no. This was real.
Out of patience and politeness, I offered to e-mail him the questions, if
being put on the spot was too much pressure, and he told me, instead, to ask
him the first question and he'd make
a decision about the interview.
So, I did. And he hung up on me.
In an e-mail, his publicist explained that "Dice felt that you were
treating him like an ordinary comic - which he is certainly
not." and that I'd missed out
on an opportunity to "interview a 'One
of a Kind!'."
When I could see again, though the streaming tears produced by ten minutes
of flabbergasted guffawing, I saw that I'd
also been told that "Dice does not e-mail. He does not believe in
Which is strange. Because, unlike Santa, e-mail exists. You can't just choose not to believe in it, in the hopes
that you're correct about the
reasons why nobody ever tries to contact you over the Internets. It's not because e-mail doesn't
exist, "Dice." It's
because nobody gives a fuck about you.
And so, no Andrew Dice Clay this week, dear Monkey fans. I'm sure you're
bellowing in agonizing disappointment.
For the record? The aggrieving question:
"What do you think George W. Bush should do with all of his free time,
come Inauguration Day?"
I know. I'm a terrible,
blasphemous person who has no business asking such enraging questions. I am the
Katie Couric to Andrew Dice Clay's
You like that, ladies?