Como Se Siente?

Brigitte Bardot and I once spent a coke-fueled month in Mazatlan back in '76.

Some asshole was opening a bunch of timeshares there and he needed celebrities to glad-hand potential investors.

You know. Show up at parties, sing some songs.

It took four days for things to get rowdy.

I'm still not sure how we got up there, but I have a brief memory of Brigitte on all fours on the roof of a house.

We were just grinding and watching the waves roll in - and then nothing.

They found me naked, somewhere along the beach, with the head of an ice sculpture swan broken off in my ass.

A federale was standing over me, yelling "COMO SE SIENTE?" over and over and over. Then he tried some German, I believe.

I spent two days in a hammock, drinking Abuelita, reading cheap novels, and waiting for that fucking swan to melt out.

And that's how Norman Mailer and I became pen pals.

The End.
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I Blame Coyotes

Lloyd Bridges was a son of gun. We did Airplane 2 together.

He and Rip Torn had a trailer, and I was the third wheel.

Rip had a nitrous tank hooked up where his propane should be.

That and two bottles of Johnnie Walker Red pretty much did us in.

Woke up with no pants.

Rip was gone and Lloyd's shirt was bloody.

I never asked.
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Inconceivable

Andre the Giant also visited my ranch before he died.

He had just bought a ranch himself and was shopping for studs in California.

He reminded me that we were both on The Six Million Dollar Man. Separate episodes, of course.

He was Bigfoot, and I think I played myself. An astronaut, or a tennis pro. I can't remember.

Anyhoo, we were both laughing about what a handsome, self-important jackass Lee Majors was, when Andre filled his pants.

I mean, he filled them like a dump truck. The air around us actually shifted, like God had decided to make some changes to the world.

At first I thought it was because he was a gigantic, loose-boweled circus freak with no self-control.

But he blamed it on truck stop jo-jos.

Nice guy. Big poops.
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Mystic Rhythms

I invited Neil Peart to my ranch once. Loves to cook.

I had some Argentinian beef that had just arrived, so he grilled steaks and caught drippings for poutine.

Thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Later I woke up and shuffled down to the kitchen for a late-night Ensure.

Neil and one of my ranch hands were rutting on the island, covered in tallow.

I'm glad I keep the fire extinguisher near the fridge.

Still an amazing drummer.
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What's The Hold Up?

Donald Sutherland and I stopped a bank robbery in 1974.

I was refinancing my house and he was opening a rainy day savings account.

Everyone was on the ground and the women were whimpering.

I couldn't take it anymore.

We both cracked up at the same time and threw our masks on the ground.

Once everyone recognized who we were, some started laughing.

Even those who'd wet their pants.

No moral to this story.

Don't wet your pants.
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Rocking Robin

I was at a wrap party with Burt Ward back in the 90s.

I think it was for "Assault of the Party Nerds 2: The Heavy Petting Detective".

I'm not making that up.

Linnea Quigley was dancing on a pool table and had drawn quite a crowd.

Burt's not a big "party man". Family, dogs, etc.

The Rohypnol I dropped in his Seven-Up did the trick.

Within fifteen minutes, he was giving a kendo demonstration with pool cues.

A boring story, yes.

But true.
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Stinking Drinking

Liza Minelli and I rolled a hobo in Brooklyn back in 1977.

Well, we didn't exactly roll him. He flopped around a lot.

We'd just left a bar in Bed-Stuy, laughing like crazy about something.

I can't remember what now, but I'm sure it was funny. Or mean.

Anyhoo, this rotten corpse snuck up on us and put his arm around Liza, offering us a nip from his bottle.

Some kind of sulfite grape juice mouthwash.

I punched him, his head hit a parking meter, and he went down.

Liza kicked him for a while, laughing.

We kept the bottle.

True story.
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Shark In The Water

James Woods and I were golfing naked once at St. Andrews.

That's Scotland. Google your Earth, or whatever you kids do.

Well, I caught his balls on my backswing.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been standard, comical slapstick. But it was after dark.

We had doused the heads of our clubs in lighter fluid and lit them up for our swings.

Okay, it was pretty comical.

To answer your next question: Yes, his balls are smoother than his face.

Hideous man. Smells like sausage.
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South By South America

I did a celebrity ride-along once in a crop-duster over Colombia.

Tito, the pilot, was a cut-up. At least, I assume he was. I don't know much Castilliano.

Doesn't matter - he was a happy fellow.

Tito did some wild banking when we took rifle fire, but never enough to spill my drink. Very professional.

He came in low and started dumping herbicides.

Field workers ran for cover, screaming. Women clutched their babies.

Birds took flight and monkeys scattered.

Turns out it was a corn field. Tito said something about a maze. I think he was hallucinating.

Apparently the amphetamines were making us both confused.

Either way, it taught me a great thing about laughter.

It's the same in every language.
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Bosom Buddies

Friends, I received my first blogamabob letter.

I'm very excited.

Buddy Hackett? I remember him mentioning you on
Carson.

your true fan...

Teh Swedish Chef
mork mork mork

Buddy Hackett was making fun of my spoken word performances.

Nobody makes a chump out of me in front of Johnny.

He was filming Herbie The Love Bug at the time.

I got a motel room near the studio, and found the dive bar he frequented at the end of the day.

Christ, what an ugly bastard. Like a badly beaten badger stuffed into a suit.

That kind of scary, twisted, sucking face that comes at you in the middle of night.

You know, the between-time, when you've just fallen asleep.

He didn't recognize me. I was in drag. Brunette.

I showed him who's talented.
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