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...)
Open ass—insert the Bill of Rights.
Here's another inarguable factoid:
Racial and ethnic stereotypes exist because they are TRUE. For instance—don't tell me the Irish don't love to drink. I AM Irish. We invented whiskey, for crissakes. You know what whiskey means in Gaelic? Water of life.
I rest my case.
Of whiskey.
On YOUR political correct goddam lap.
Years ago I wrote a piece for the New York Post about the St. Patrick's Day Parade in which I made fun of the fact that most of the Irish and a few of the Puerto Rican guys I knew would annually—which means every single fucking year—spend the unofficially holy day painting their faces green and getting drunk and then beating the living shit out of each other after an argument broke out over who had better pitching, the Yankees or the Mets.
The Irish Defamation Society threatened to file a lawsuit against me for perpetrating an awful and ruinous myth about Irish Americans.
Several weeks went by and no lawsuit emerged. Why?
Because they soon realized that all I had to do was call up any local news channel and request footage from ANY St. Patrick's Day Parade held since the invention of the television camera and there in front of our eyes would be green–faced Irish Americans in a drunken punch–up with their own cousins and best friends and actual brothers—many times right in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The Puerto Ricans and the New York Mets didn't enter the equation until they both started playing baseball during the 1960's. Otherwise?
Case closed.
The right to bear arms and the right to vote and the equal rights amendment and freedom of speech and every other piece of paper evidence you wanna throw onto the pile may guarantee you the right to spout stupidity (see Newt Gingrich, Mel Gibson, Barry Bonds, et al.) but it also guarantees that the rest of us don't have to buy into it.
Ya wanna build a giant fence to keep all the Mexicans out? Fine. Who's gonna build the fence? Where are we gonna get our cheap Mexican weed? Who's gonna host The Dog Whisperer?
Our country has been so driven into debt by a drug–addled, imbred, dry drunk of the Republican revolution—a man who ran an oil company into the ground (do you know how hard it is NOT to make money off of oil? My daughter's Chihuahua could pull it off)—that we are now borrowing money from China.
China.
The same country that tried to KILL our dogs with poison dog food three years ago.
China.
Where there are seventeen BILLION people and eight automobiles.
China.
A country so corrupt that if I lived there and typed the words "CHINA SUCKS" as I did just now? Within a day I would have disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving my wife and the only child we are allowed to have—and our three bikes—to fend for themselves.
We will delve deeper into each and all of these matters during the next couple of hundred pages.
And I do so as a doctor, ladies and gentlemen.
Dr. Denis Leary.
You don't believe me?
Here's a photograph of the actual degree I received from my alma mater Emerson College on the afternoon of May 16, 2005.
Suck on that, Dr. Phil.
Or as I like to call him—Dr. Full.
Hey—I don't know what his actual weight was when he started pushing his diet book, but let's just say he was more than a little puffy and really now what I would call an authority on that particular subject. Hell—he might as well have written a book on how to stop being bald while he was at it.
Let me point something out—Dr. Full doesn't even have a license to practice in the state of California, which is where he tapes his daily talk show.
Let me point something else out—if I needed to go on a diet, I'd want the guy selling me his diet book to not only be thin but actually be in shape—is that too much to ask?
But this is America—where if you're on TV—especially if you appear on Oprah—you MUST be some kind of authority.
Well, I haven't been on Oprah but I DO have my own TV show and a degree that calls me a doctor. So here's my point—if Dr. Full can write a diet book then I can sure as hell write a self–help book. And that's really all I'm trying to do here—help you to help yourself AND make a shitload of money while I'm doing so.
Because I really do believe we live in the greatest country on earth but—just like that fixer–upper you get a very good price on—there's still a lot of work left to do.
We live in a country that's still very very young, as countries go, and I think the whole idea of the American Dream has been convoluted and undone.
We live in a country where the first pictures of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's baby were sold for over four million dollars. Shit—for THREE million dollars I'd sell you the pictures AND the kid.
We live in a country where Rosa Parks had the courage and conviction to sit down long enough to start a revolution that led to Al Sharpton screaming racism every time Barry Bonds gets indicted for taking performance–enhancing drugs in order to break a home–run record set by a black man who didn't even have the benefit of Advil.
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