Entertainment
A hilarious blast of scathing irreverence from the award–winning actor and comedian.
"A pissed off Leary is the best Leary," says one critic of the writer and comic. In Why We Suck, Dr. Denis Leary uses his common sense, and his biting and hilarious take on the world, to attack the politically correct, the hypocritical, the obese, the thin—basically everyone who takes themselves too seriously. He does so with the extra oomph of a doctorate bestowed upon him by his alma mater Emerson College. "Sure it's just a celebrity type of thing—they only gave it to me because I'm famous." Leary explains. "But it's legal and it means I get to say I'm a doctor—just like Dr. Phil."
In Why We Suck, Leary's famously smart style and sardonic wit have found their fullest and fiercest expression yet. Zeroing in on the ridiculous wherever he finds it, Leary unravels his Irish Catholic upbringing, the folly of celebrity, the pressures of family life, and the great hypocrisy of politics with the same bright, savage, and profane insight he brought to his critically acclaimed one–man shows No Cure for Cancer and Lock 'n Load, and his platinum–selling song, "Asshole."
Proudly Irish American, defiantly working class, with a reserve of compassion for the underdog and the overlooked, Leary delivers blistering diatribes that are penetrating social commentary with no holds barred. Leary's book will find wide appeal among people who want to laugh out loud or find a guide who matches their view of what's wrong in America and the world–at–large; and fans of his one–man shows, his many movies, and Rescue Me, Leary's Golden Globe and Emmy–nominated television show. Why We Suck is the latest salvo from one of America's most original and biting comic satirists.
Disclaimer: Please be advised that this excerpt contains offensive language.
Read an excerpt from Why We Suck (Continued...)
Responsibility, research and actual factual thinking have gone out the window. If most people in this country see something on TV it must be true/news/necessary/important. Therefore, when things go wrong—how can the innocent citizen/TV watcher be at fault?
I spill a vat–sized "cup" of morning coffee onto my giant cellulite–dimpled thighs at the take–out window and suffer third–degree burns because it was hot and I desperately needed to wash down the two–ton doughnut I just manhandled into my gaping mouth—do I blame myself and go on a diet and start working out?
No.
I sue McDonald's because the take–out window kid who handed me the cup of joe—who's from Bumfuck, Mexico, and has been in this country all of eighteen weeks and only knows the English words "can I take your order, please," "would you like fries with that" and "go Yankees"—didn't warn me that the coffee was the same temperature as the air in the hut he grew up in was every single day of his childhood.
Open ass—insert head with flame–red tongue.
My kid is the size of an out–of–shape NFL offensive lineman, has what within two months might become a full–blown Fu Manchu mustache and is already smoking two packs a day and watching Internet porn even though SHE is only twelve years old.
Do I put her on a diet and make her start working out?
Fuck no.
I sue McDonald's because they make shitty, hormone–and–chemical filled food that she eats every single day three TIMES a day because I'm very very busy living my selfish extended adolescent life and don't have time to:
A. Cook her normal food.
B. Monitor her free time.
C. Stop smoking pot and drinking so her easiest sources of alcohol and marijuana dry up.
Open ass—insert thick, self–medicated head.
An out–of–shape and overweight guy in Denver, Colorado, claims he developed lung cancer because he ate microwave popcorn with artificial butter flavoring. He loved when he would pull the bag out of the microwave and tear open the top and it would go "WHOOF" and he would stick his face in and inhale the aroma. You can just hear him sucking in the sweet sweet smell of all that great fake butter, can't you? Just like Homer Simpson: Ooooh—buttery fake butter. After whiffing up the cloud of chemicals, this moron on a mission would proceed to scarf down the entire bag and then—that's right—start the whole process all over again. He admits to snorting and scarfing two bags a day so let's do the actual math and add the two more bags he won't admit to because he probably figures four bags a day would be really embarrassing so what we have here is a guy who ate and sniffed so much fake butter that he developed the same cancer that people who work in the plant where they manufacture the butter did—people who make thousands of bags of pretend popcorn every single day.
Should he blame himself for his lazy butter–assed slovenly ways?
Nope.
The popcorn factory workers filed a dangerous workplace/permanent health damages lawsuit and he decided to ride their cancer coattails all the way to the bank.
Let's up his total to at least five bags a day. Whatever the actual number might be I'll guarantee you one thing right now—you don't wanna be THIS guy when you're sitting down in the lung cancer chemotherapy waiting room. 'Cause when the guy who worked in a coal mine for twenty–seven years or the fireman who spent decades pulling people out of asbestos–ridden burning bags asks how YOU got lung cancer the last word you wanna mention is "popcorn."
Open ass—insert fake butter bag.
And I don't wanna hear the words "misogyny," "racial profiling" or "politically incorrect."
I'm talking common goddam sense.
Misogynistic means you hate women—it doesn't mean you hate women because you are trying to tell them what they do not want to hear.
Like yes, your ass IS fat.
Or no—most heterosexual men do NOT find Renée Zellweger attractive.
AND—it's not possible that every single pair of shoes or every dress you decide to buy can be on sale. Maybe four hundred and seventy–nine dollars is the ACTUAL price and "marked down from seven hundred" is what they teach the salesclerk to tell you.
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