Free Rubber Balls and Liquor by Gilbert Gottfried

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    The reason I say I went to the greatest film school in the world is because we had a television, and I took full advantage. Now, you might read this and mumble to yourself, “Gilbert, what the hell are you talking about? Television in those days was nothing like television today. There were just a few channels. The reception was lousy. You’re an idiot.”
    All of this was certainly true—but then, I’m not the idiot on the other side of the page, mumbling to myself as I flip through a minor work of nonfiction, so I must have learned something from watching all that television. At the very least, I learned not to talk back to a book. (Do this out in public—on a park bench, say—and people tend to move away from you, or start pointing.) But even more than that, I learned that sooner or later everything I needed to know about life and show business would filter through the rabbit ears on the black-and-white television set in our living room. It was like having a front-row seat to the whole wide world. And the best part: it came with catering. Most of the time, my mother would bring out a little tray of something for me to snack on as I watched and took notes. Other times, I could usually find enough crumbs in the cushions of the couch to keep from going hungry.
    Back then, they’d always show these great old movies. They’d be edited for television, and sometimes there’d be huge chunks missing—like, the entire second act—but you’d get the idea. Boris Karloff, Danny Kaye, Greta Garbo, Buster Keaton … all these great stars, splashed across the small screen in our living room. Afternoons, I’d watch game shows, or The 4:30 Movie on Channel 7, the local ABC affiliate. Evenings, which we now know as “prime time” but was then known merely as “time,” I watched variety shows and dramas and situation comedies. Sometimes, the only way I could tell the dramas from the situation comedies was because there were people laughing in the background on one type of program and not on the other. That was my cue—and despite the misgivings of my high school guidance counselor I was frequently able to make the distinction. Late at night, it was The Tonight Show, or some classic or not-so-classic horror film on Chiller Theater or Creature Features . All weekend long, it was one movie after another, sometimes grouped by theme. You could catch a Martin and Lewis marathon, or a Charlie Chan double bill, or a bunch of beach-blanket Gidget romps or Bowery Boys features. In fact, from the time of JFK’s funeral to the time of RFK’s funeral, I don’t think we turned off the television set—except once or twice I might have pulled out the plug by accident, and another once or twice I might have warmed a cup of cocoa on top of the set and accidentally spilled some of it as I lifted the cup for a sip and had to shut it off while all those tubes dried out.
    When it was working properly, and plugged in, there was an endless parade of news and entertainment coming through our television screen, in all shapes and sizes, and I took it all in. I wasn’t exactly a discriminating viewer. If you put it on, and it was somewhat more interesting than what was showing on the other few channels, I’d sit back and watch. If I could jerk off to it, so much the better.
    Oh, have I mentioned that I jerked off a lot? Do you even know whose book you’re reading right now? When I was a kid, I would have jerked off to anything. When you’re thirteen years old, you’re just walking around with a twenty-four-hour hard-on. There’s no such thing as getting a hard-on, and maintaining one isn’t such an accomplishment, either. It’s more like a constant state of being than a state of arousal. Some people might call it an affliction—and I was certainly well afflicted. I can still remember watching Bette Davis on The Tonight Show, when she