Poking A Dead Frog Part 1

Poking a Dead Frog.

Conversations with today's top comedy writers.

Mike Sacks.

For K & Little D, and for my parents, Elaine and Jerry.

"Sometimes magic is just someone spending more time on something than anyone else might reasonably expect."

-Teller.

"I was not the cla.s.s clown. . . . I've always maintained that the cla.s.s clown, the guy [who] when the teacher is out of the room sets the clock back, makes noise, throws water balloons around the room, those kids . . . grow up and they're killed in a motel shoot-out."

-Conan O'Brien.

"I wanted to play on the dark side, a little bit under the center of tonality. Not really flat, but just on the underneath side."

-Chet Baker.

"And now I'll serve you the beans you so justly deserve."

-Chris Elliott as Marlon Brando, Late Night with David Letterman.

INTRODUCTION.

The late comedy writer Jerry Belson, a veteran of The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show, The Odd Couple, and The Drew Carey Show, among other cla.s.sic sitcoms, wrote a joke that became one of the most well known, and most retold, in the history of television. It's from a 1973 episode of The Odd Couple: "Never a.s.sUME. Because when you a.s.sume, you make an a.s.s of U and ME."

The joke is undeniably great. But perhaps the best and most effective joke that Belson ever wrote-and he wrote untold thousands-is the inscription that he wanted engraved on his tombstone: I DID IT THEIR WAY.

In other words: Hollywood's way. The executives' way. The wrong way.

Belson's tombstone epitaph never made it beyond the first-draft stage, but regardless, one would think that Belson had done it his way. Plenty of credits. Plenty of money. Plenty of respect from those within the industry. And yet, if there's one motif evident in the lives of comedy writers, it's the nagging feeling that one can never have it his or her own way. That a comedy writer must always genuflect to those with the power, with the money-those who deem themselves arbiters of What Is Funny.

Whether through executive negligence or creative bartering on the part of the writers, the most beloved comedies of our time have avoided this trap. When Monty Python created their four-season television series, Flying Circus, they did so with minimal help from the BBC. In fact, as one of the Pythons, Terry Jones, explains in this book, BBC executives were disinterested in the result-until they saw the final product. Then they came terribly close to erasing the entirety of Monty Python's first season for the grand purpose of reusing the tapes to record more "serious" entertainment.

The creators of The Simpsons made it clear from the show's inception that there would be no executive meddling. James L. Brooks, also interviewed in this book, declared, in essence, Stay away from our jokes, and we will produce a show for the ages. Actually, Brooks might have hired a lawyer to say as much in very clear legalese, rather than "in essence." Whatever the case, Brooks saved the show and helped to create a cla.s.sic.

The creators of the U.K. version of The Office, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, flew so low under the radar that by the time executives became even vaguely aware of what their money had wrought, it was too late. Due to this neglect, the show set an influential precedent for its combination doc.u.mentary-style format and cringe-inducing humor.

It's clear then: All great comedy has managed to circ.u.mnavigate executive meddling. But this is easier said than done.

Since at least the fifth century B.C., when the playwright Aristophanes needed the financial help of a chorgos, or rich benefactor, to help stage his comedies, writers have had to rely on others. The creative have never been fully in control of the marketing and distribution of their creativity. Playwrights have needed sponsors and performance s.p.a.ce. Screenwriters have required even wealthier sponsors than the playwrights: Hollywood production studios. Humor writers for print have needed the acceptance, and then distribution, provided by magazines and publishing houses. The keys to the kingdom have been controlled by the less creative.

Until now.

I cannot overstate that there has never been a better time for writers of comedy-or, for that matter, writers of anything. A twenty-one-year-old in her room in Oklahoma who writes hilarious jokes on Twitter is potentially just as important (or influential) as any professional comedy writer for The New Yorker. A teen making funny videos in his suburban garage can reach just as many people-certainly, just as many of the right people-than any director of a movie to be distributed by the large studios.

We are now all on equal ground. If you want to write comedy, you can. There's no one to stop you. And there's no one to tell you what to do. This can be bad. It's far too easy to create sloppy, forgettable work. On the other hand, it's no longer a requirement to work on The Harvard Lampoon to eventually earn a professional living writing jokes. That can only be a good thing.

It is also so much easier to communicate with our peers and mentors than ever before. We can access material in a few seconds and reach out to others almost instantly. I have fond memories of growing up in suburban Maryland, biking to the local library to look for inspiration, and staying up late to watch Letterman and whatever obscure, random shows that might air in the wee hours. I compiled dozens of files of clippings and took them with me when I went to college and everywhere else I eventually moved. Many of these clips were written by comedy writers; others were in-depth interviews with comedy writers. I pored over the mastheads of my favorite humor publications and the credits for the shows that I thought were the funniest. I occasionally wrote to these writers, seeking advice or attempting to sell jokes.

This book is really an extension of my youthful attempts to contact those in the business whom I admired most. If there is a common trait among those I chose to interview for this book, it's that each of these writers has always done it his or her own way and no one else's. Each came to this business primarily because he or she wanted to create the sort of comedy that they themselves enjoyed the most. For all of them-be they writers of sketches, graphic novels, screenplays, New Yorker cartoons, fiction, nonfiction, television, stand-up, the radio-success was a by-product, not the goal.

I am no humor expert; I don't think anyone is. If something makes you laugh, it's good. But if there is anything about which I am certain, it's that we are now living in a comedic Golden Age.

Never before have there been as many comedy writers in the early stages of their careers producing the type of work that means the most to them and to others. By the time my five-year-old daughter reaches my age, most, if not all, of the young writers in this book will have already become the comedy legends of the next generation. Who are these writers? How did they choose this very odd profession? What do they want to accomplish? How exactly do they do what they do? And, perhaps most important, why? One of the reasons I wrote this book was to find out and to share what I learned with others who might find all this of interest, too.

Luckily, there also still exist a good number of elder statespersons of "cla.s.sic" TV comedies, film, and radio. Soon this ratio will be tipped more toward the young, and a bridge to another time will no longer exist. This is another reason I decided to write this book. How do these older writers want to be remembered? How do they think they changed the industry? Who influenced them? I feel lucky to have been able to connect with these older comedy writers, some of whom have not been interviewed in many years or at all.

The writers in this book have played major parts in everything from creating what's been called the first-ever sitcom to coining the term "black humor" to writing for Monty Python, Cheers, The Office (both the U.K. and U.S. versions), Sat.u.r.day Night Live, The Daily Show, The Onion, The Colbert Report, Parks and Recreation, National Lampoon, The New Yorker, Seinfeld, Mr. Show, Bob's Burgers, 30 Rock, Anchorman, Juno, Ghost World, Get a Life, Cabin Boy, Late Night, Late Show with David Letterman, the Tonight Show, and more. A writer or two may have even written the jokes you read this very morning online.

Interspersed throughout this book, between the fifteen full-length interviews, are "Ultraspecific Comedic Knowledge" and "Pure, Hard-Core Advice." The former includes specialized materials and information that might appeal to the comedy geek. "Pure, Hard-Core Advice," as you may have guessed, contains straight advice-no muss, no fuss-from successful comedy writers or those within the industry, such as agents, that might prove helpful to writers just starting out or for those writers wanting to improve their standing in the industry.

If you're not familiar with some (or even most) of these writers, I hope that you will find them as interesting as I do and seek out their work. If you are familiar with these writers, I hope you might learn something new about their writing, their careers, their lives-and their humor.

As E. B. White once wrote for The New Yorker: "Humor can be dissected, as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind. . . . [Humor] won't stand much poking. It has a certain fragility, an evasiveness, which one had best respect." This bit of wisdom is often misquoted or, at least, cut short, with the second half making no appearance. Yes, it's true that the poor frog dies (and as the owner of five dearly departed African clawed water frogs, this strikes particularly close to home). But the crux is that the process can be fascinating to a certain type of person.

Not the type who wants comedy dissected to the point of death, necessarily, but the type interested in understanding the art and business behind comedy; of what it takes, exactly, to make a career out of attempting to induce laughter from complete strangers with only the words or images that you create. It is a fragile art. And as you will read here, it is a tough, yet fascinating life. These are writers who do it their way (and always have), and the rest of us, as well as the world of comedy, are much better off for their efforts.

-MIKE SACKS.

JAMES DOWNEY.

Sat.u.r.day Night Live has employed hundreds of comedy writers in its four decades on the air, but no writer has been a.s.sociated with the show longer-or had more of a lasting impact-than James Woodward Downey. If Lorne Michaels is the face of Sat.u.r.day Night Live, Downey is its behind-the-scenes creative force.

Downey first began to consider the possibility of making a living as a writer while at Harvard, where he served as president of the Harvard Lampoon. There he caught the attention of writers Michael O'Donoghue and Doug Kenney (both already stars at The National Lampoon), who suggested he come work with them in New York. But after graduating in 1974, with a major in Russian studies, he decided instead to accept a fellowship to tour Eastern Europe by way of ship and train. After a few run-ins with the KGB, and after meeting a Hungarian who partly inspired the "Wild and Crazy Guys" sketches he would later co-write with Marilyn Miller and Dan Aykroyd, Downey headed back to the U.S. and saw, for the first time, a new televised comedy show that he had only heard about through friends. "As soon as I saw it, I thought, 'Oh, this is hilarious,'" Downey says. "I would love to be a part of that."

After submitting a ten-page packet to Michaels that included a short piece about his pet peeves-"I guess my biggest pet peeve is when you're just sitting there, waiting for a bus, and a guy runs up with one of those fileting knives and opens up your intestines and takes one end of it and runs down the street screaming, 'Ha ha! Got your entrails!'"-Downey was hired by Lorne "more based on instinct, I have to believe, than on the packet itself." He became one of the first Harvard Lampoon writers to break into TV comedy writing, setting a precedent that would change comedy-writing rooms thereafter. "Jim Downey is Patient Zero," said Mike Reiss, a former Harvard Lampooner and long-time Simpsons show-runner.

After finding his feet, Downey-the show's youngest writer-began to make a deep impact on Sat.u.r.day Night Live, working closely with, among others, Bill Murray (with whom he shared an office for four years), Dan Aykroyd, John Belushi, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, and Laraine Newman. For the last four decades, Downey has worked with and written for every star the show has produced, including Martin Short, Jon Lovitz, Mike Myers, Eddie Murphy, Chris Farley, Norm Macdonald, Phil Hartman, Dana Carvey, Jan Hooks, Rob Schneider, Adam Sandler, Will Ferrell, Bill Hader, Amy Poehler, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Fred Armisen, Kenan Thompson, and dozens of others. Downey is one consistent on a show that has experienced an untold amount of changes, and has throughout earned a reputation as being a kind, patient mentor to countless young writers (most of whom he personally hired), including Jack Handey, George Meyer, Robert Smigel, and Conan O'Brien. "If anyone taught all of the young writers how to properly write a sketch," Smigel says, "it was Jim Downey."

Called by Michaels the best political humorist alive, Downey has been responsible for most of the political-centered pieces during Sat.u.r.day Night Live's run (many of which he co-wrote with now Senator Al Franken), starting with Jimmy Carter in the mid-'70s and ending, five administrations later, with Barack Obama. The power of Downey's political comedy extends beyond laughs; more impressively, his work has influenced the actual political landscape. In 2008-during a live, televised debate seen by millions-Hillary Clinton referred to one of Downey's recent sketches to make her point that perhaps the press was going just a bit too easy on her opponent. "I just find it curious," she said, "if anybody saw Sat.u.r.day Night Live . . . maybe we should ask Barack if he's comfortable and needs another pillow?"

In 2013, after working on SNL off and on for thirty-three of its thirty-eight seasons-and serving as head writer for Late Night with David Letterman in 1982 for two years (where he created the Top Ten List)-Downey retired from the show, and now divides his time between New York City and rural upstate New York, where he hopes to achieve his goal of "harmless eccentric."

Do you have any comedy pet peeves?

What has bothered me most for the last few years is that kind of lazy, political comedy, very safe but always pretending to be brave, that usually gets what my colleague Seth Meyers calls "clapter." Clapter is that earnest applause, with a few "whoops" thrown in, that lets you know the audience agrees with you, but what you just said wasn't funny enough to actually make them laugh.

Bill Maher is a funny guy, but he seems to prefer clapter instead of laughs. A lot of his material runs to the "white people are lame and stupid and racist" trope. It congratulates itself on its edginess, but it's just the a.s.s-kissiest kind of comedy going, rea.s.suring his status-anxious audience that there are some people they're smarter than.

My own politics are sort of all over the place in terms of issues, but as far as the writing goes, the only important thing is that it's funny, and that it's an original comment. That the audience agrees with me isn't necessary and probably isn't even a good thing. It's so easy to coast by, just hitting the same familiar notes you know are popular and have been pretested for effectiveness. The audience will always at least applaud, so you never have to risk silence.

How about pet-peeves specific to Sat.u.r.day Night Live?

Celebrity walk-ons bother me. I remember there was a piece from the final show in 2009-Will Ferrell was hosting-and he's sitting in a restaurant with a few buddies, one was Bill Hader, and they were talking about Will's experience in Vietnam. And Will starts singing the Billy Joel song "Goodnight Saigon." It ends with the lyrics, "And we'd all go down together. And we'd all go down together." What started out as a comedy sketch quickly became a vehicle for name-droppy celebrity walk-ons. And by airtime there were about thirty-five celebrities in that piece. It became a ma.s.sive w.a.n.kathon, star-f.u.c.king extravaganza. Some of the other writers had predicted the piece wouldn't survive dress, and I would have said the same thing after read-through, but when I learned that Anne Hathaway, Tom Hanks, Paul Rudd, and so on were going to appear, I knew it would be the least likely piece to go. "I absolutely flat guarantee you the piece will make air, and if the show starts to spread, that piece will be protected. It is a pure display of star-f.u.c.king power."

And sure enough it ran, even though funnier pieces were cut to make room for it, including a great sketch by the same writer. I suppose it's all part of the business, but, to me, that seemed almost like a commercial. But, hey, it pays the bills.

How about appearances by such quasi-celebrities as Monica Lewinsky or Paris Hilton?

I found it especially embarra.s.sing when Paris Hilton hosted the show [in 2005]. What was really humiliating was that, on that very same week, South Park was doing that brilliant "Stupid Spoiled Wh.o.r.e-Off" piece that just annihilated her. The contrast was dramatic and not to our advantage.

And then when Monica Lewinsky was on the show in May 1999, that was the week poor Cuba Gooding Jr. was hosting, and apparently he became increasingly annoyed as the shape of the show became more of a cohosting thing: "With Cuba Gooding and Monica Lewinsky." And I don't blame the guy at all.

I wrote something for Monica Lewinsky that week that she refused to do. It was hardly a savage piece, just one of those C-Span histories about presidential inaugurations; in this case, the history of the presidential knee pads. How during the Andrew Jackson administration there were knee pads made of hickory and leather, forged by harness makers and so on. And we were working our way through history up to Monica. In the piece, all she had to do was stand there, and Kenny G -played by Jimmy Fallon-was going to serenade Monica with a creepy saxophone solo. I watched her read the piece and she was like, "No, not interested," rather contemptuously, as if it weren't up to her standard. You know, the Monica Lewinsky standard.

I thought the piece was funny in and of itself, but I'd also add that it would have helped her, and us, by letting her do some penance, by acknowledging that we booked her for her scandal value.

This, to me, was a real indicator that the show was well past the days when we could book strange types of hosts and music acts like [old-timey guitarist and singer] Leon Redbone or ['70s punk group] Fear, just because we thought it might be interesting. When the show was coming to its last year of the original cast and writers, in 1980, as sort of a graduation present Lorne said that each of us could pick either a musical or a guest host. Just imagine that. I chose Strother Martin, a character actor I'd been obsessed with since Butch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid [in which he played a boss at a Bolivian mine]. He was also in Sam Peckinpah westerns, and was the prison warden in [1967's] Cool Hand Luke. He was a great, great host.

The notion that we could ever in the modern era book anyone like Strother Martin again is unthinkable. These were just people we liked and wanted to present to the public. The issue of ratings never came up, and the episodes that did get smash ratings at the time were sort of unpredictable.

Over the years, have you noticed any specific traits that a performer must have in order to successfully host the show?

When the hosts come in, they can either be walking premises-certain hosts can just bring certain ideas to audiences, like [NFL quarterback] Tom Brady or Senator John McCain-or they can be just really funny people who are not necessarily great actors but have great comedic minds-Conan O'Brien or Jon Stewart. Or they can be really brilliant actors who aren't necessarily known for being funny but can be wonderful with the right script.

One host, in particular, I just loved was Nicolas Cage, who was there in 1992. He played this kind of pa.s.sion, this innocence, so beautifully. He was great in everything he did. Jeff Goldblum was like that, too. He was a brilliant comic performer-perhaps not the funniest guy to hang out with-but he approached it as an actor. "What's my motivation? How do I do this?" And then he goes out and he's perfect. Justin Timberlake is another favorite. He started off as mainly a cool presence, but as he's matured, he's become a very funny actor and performer. And he brings that straight line with him, the lady killer.

But of course some of them turn out to be better live performers than others. As a host, you do have to surrender control to us [the writers], which is why we always feel a sense of responsibility for anyone willing to put himself in such a vulnerable position. We have a thing about not bad-mouthing them, although some people have occasionally broken that rule here and there. It's like Alcoholics Anonymous. What goes on in private, when you're here, stays here.

With that said, there have been some terrible hosts over the years, including an infamously bad 1991 show with actor Steven Seagal at the helm.

Yes, that was a case where it was all we could do not to talk about what a douchebag he was.

What was his specific problem? Did he refuse to do what was necessary to put on a good show?

Well, I guess now it can be told. He was just so f.u.c.king stupid. Rob Schneider had the funniest idea for a monologue. It was Seagal coming out and doing the "You know, I've obviously made my career with action pictures, like Hard to Kill and Out for Justice and so on." Applause, applause. "I don't want to apologize for them, I think they were good. But the fact is I've moved past that. To me, it's all about the music now." Then he was going to pick up a guitar and perform a very moving version of [the 1974 hit song by Carl Douglas] "Kung Fu Fighting." Not a rockin' one, but playing it like it was "Amazing Grace" or something. Real slowly: "Everybody was . . . kung fu fighting. Those cats . . . those cats were fast . . . as fast as lightning." And I thought it was a really hilarious idea. So of course, Seagal steps out on stage and decides to go with his "instincts," which were to play it loud and bada.s.s, like a Hollywood actor with his own band. It's like when you go to a barbecue joint and realize, "Oh f.u.c.k, we came on blues night? d.a.m.n!" And you can't have a conversation because the fifty-five-year-old guy is really rocking out.

You worked at SNL longer than any other writer in the show's history. And yet as respected as you are, you were actually fired by NBC for a season, beginning in 1998.

Well, that was all due to [then NBC executive] Don Ohlmeyer. Norm Macdonald, the anchor for Weekend Update, and I were writing a lot of jokes about O.J. Simpson, and we had been doing so for more than three years. Don, being good friends with O.J., had just had enough.

Your O.J. jokes were not light taps on the head. These were jokes that would often end with: "Because O.J. murdered two people."

Yeah, we weren't holding back. [Laughs] That's the thing I kind of liked about Don, actually: His friendship with O.J. was so old school. It was so un-s...o...b..zzy. He ended up firing me, as well as Norm, but I can't honestly say that a part of me doesn't respect Don for his loyalty. Most people in show business would sell out anyone in their lives, for any reason at all, including for practice. Don was the opposite. He threw a party for the jurors after the 1995 acquittal. And he stuck with O.J. through it all.

I don't know that Norm enjoyed the experience of the firing quite as much as I did, but to me it was exciting. It was certainly the best press I ever received. We got tremendous support from people I really admire, some of whom are friends and some I didn't really know that well, but who stepped up and called me. It was a fun time.

You had been on the show for twenty years. Being fired must have stung a little.

To tell you the truth, Norm and I had done Update for three and a half seasons. I felt like we had made our point. What I did like about the way we approached Update was that it was akin to what the punk movement was for music: just real stripped down. We did whatever we wanted, and there was nothing there that we considered to be a form of cheating. We weren't cuddly, we weren't adorable, we weren't warm. We weren't going to do easy, political jokes that played for clapter and let the audience know we were all on the same side. We were going to be mean and, to an extent, anarchists.

Shouldn't there be some connection with the audience? Can you be a complete anarchist when it comes to humor?

Yeah, well, that's Norm Macdonald. He does things for the experience of doing it, and he doesn't fear silence at all. Take his performance at the 2008 Bob Saget roast where he did jokes that could have come out of a 1920s toastmaster's manual: "[Comedian] Greg Giraldo is here. He has the grace of a swan, the wisdom of an owl, and the eye of an eagle. Ladies and gentlemen, this man is for the birds! [Actress] Susie Essman is famous for being a vegetarian. Hey! She may be a vegetarian, but she's still full of bologna in my book!"

One summer, when SNL was on hiatus, Norm and I read a story about a newspaper published by and for the homeless. We were improvising around that idea, doing the tough newspaper editor handing out a.s.signments to his homeless reporters: "Edwards! I want a thousand words on going to the bathroom in your pants! You! Davis! How about a human-interest feature on urine-stained mattresses! Bernstein! Can you give me a long 'think piece' on people whose brains are being monitored by the CIA?!"

I had forgotten all about this conversation, but the first SNL episode back that fall, Norm says to me, "Hey, Downey. Remember that homeless idea we had? About the newspaper by and for the homeless? Well, I was out in LA, you know? And I was doing this benefit for the homeless . . . "

And I'm thinking, Oh no . . .

And he says, "Yeah, I did that bit for the audience . . . at this benefit, you know? And they hated it!"

He's just the most courageous performer. Norm would sometimes hang on an Update joke because he wanted to make it clear to the audience that yes, the joke was over, but we still thought it was funny. He didn't make the panic move of quickly jumping to the next joke so he didn't have to hear the silence. He wanted to give people a chance.

I'm not sure how big a fan Lorne was of our Update. I think it was probably too mean for his sensibility, and he didn't like the deadpan aspect of it. But he supported us as long as he could, bless his heart. And I stand by it. I'm proud of what we did there. Nearly all of those Update segments have been edited out of repeats, by the way.

Over the years, critics have had a strange relationship with SNL. They take very personally what they perceive as the show's low points, almost as if a good friend has let them down.

I remember there was the most cretinous review of the show in the fall of '84. I will never forget this. It was a new cast with Chris Guest and Marty Short, and there was a review in People disparaging the show. Now my idea of the lowest rung in h.e.l.l is to be surrounded and condescended to by idiots. In fact, I tried to write a sketch one time about that. It was Galileo getting teased by other astronomers at the [seventeenth-century] Papal Court. He'd be surrounded by these other scientists, who'd be like: "Oh, geez, Galileo! I'm getting sick to my stomach. It must be all this spinning from the earth rotating on its axis!!! Awww, I'm just ribbin' ya!" Galileo would be getting this constantly and he'd be losing his mind.

Anyway, in the People review, the critic was talking about the [October 1984] "Synchronized Swimming" bit with Chris Guest, Harry Shearer, and Marty Short. It was about two guys training for the Olympics as male synchronized swimmers. And Chris did this brilliant turn as a not-very-funny, inarticulate gay ch.o.r.eographer: "I've been directing regional theater . . . and if I ever do that again, I'm just going to kill myself with a Veg-O-Matic." So the People review says, "How bad is the new SNL? They do Veg-O-Matic jokes." Which, of course, misses the entire point of the reference. The lame Veg-O-Matic reference was a character joke, you f.u.c.king moron.

It seems that the sensibility of many TV critics rarely matches those found in professional humor writers. There seems to be a disconnect.

Well, I think most of them have terrible senses of humor. Tom Feran, a guy I knew in college, was the critic for the Cleveland Plain Dealer and had a great sense of humor. He always championed smart, funny stuff and always tried to get it noticed. He wasn't mean, but he wasn't the kind of easy mark for fake "genius" that gets pushed on you all the time. Most critics, though, have no sense of humor. And all of the mean ones have crates filled with humor pieces rejected by The New Yorker.

There also sometimes seems to be a disconnect between the censors for SNL and the writers. Over the years, have there been many instances in which you've written sketches that you've loved but were ultimately not allowed to air?

I can think of two: One was a commercial parody written by me, Jack Handey, Al Franken, Robert Smigel, and probably some others. It was one of the few times all of us have worked on the same piece, one that was gang-written. It was for a car called the DWI, the only car built expressly for driving drunk. We wanted to get James Earl Jones to do the voice-over: "It. Is. A. Drunk. Driving. Machine." One of the jokes was that the car keys would be gigantic. I don't remember the rest. But I do remember the network saying "Absolutely not!" And I honestly did not understand. There was nothing dirty in this piece. This was not making light of drunk driving. It was making fun of people who drive drunk. It was holding them up to ridicule; it was fighting the good fight as far as that goes. But their att.i.tude was, Nope, we don't want any letters along the lines of "I wish I could laugh, but, you see, I lost my fifteen-year-old daughter to a drunk driver." So it's that defensive thing.

The other piece [in 1990] was called "p.u.s.s.ywhipped." Jan Hooks was playing the host of a talk show and there were a few male guests, one of whom was Tom Hanks, and they had to keep excusing themselves to go call their girlfriends. The piece did run, but the censors absolutely would not let us use the t.i.tle "p.u.s.s.ywhipped." And I kept saying, "C'mon, it doesn't mean v.a.g.i.n.a. It means female-dominated." But that's where the NBC standards lady says, "Well, as a woman . . ." Which was her way of reminding me that her sense of humor had been removed at birth.

And so I lost that one, and we called it "P-Whipped" or something. I always hate it when you have to do a lame euphemism that no normal person would ever use.

Overall, though, I never really chafed under the restrictions, even when sometimes they got really crazy. One of the points I pride myself on is that I avoid anything I feel is a cheap laugh based on shock or just being dirty. You can always get a laugh, but you don't want it to come at the price of your dignity.

You wrote a sketch for an October 1990 SNL episode that's often listed as an all-time favorite from fans: a very fit Patrick Swayze and a very unfit Chris Farley compete with each other for the last spot on the Chippendales male exotic dance team. But as much as fans love it, there have been some comedy writers who have taken offense to the sketch, thinking that it was demeaning to Farley's true character.

Well, I don't think they understood what I thought was funny about it, and what the audience liked about it. I think they read it as just making fun of the fat guy dancing. But, to me, what was crucial was that Farley wasn't the least bit embarra.s.sed. To me, it was all about the reactions from the judges. The whole point was that not only did they make Chris audition in the first place, but then the judges took the time to patiently explain, at great length, why they were going to choose Swayze over him.

Does it upset you when other comedy writers are critical of your pieces?