November 18, 2008

Denis Leary can SUCK IT!

My daily dose of The Daily Show featured Denis Leary as the special guest tonight.

Hub wanted to turn the channel, but I wanted to hear what he had to say.

Leary’s book released today, and he’s still looking for any available outlet to deny what he said against autism in it.

Unfortunately, The Daily Show gave him some air time.

After listening to a bunch of nonsense/absurdity/irrationality/crap about why he’s using the professional title of Dr., Jon got down to why Leary was there to begin with.

Jon opened by saying Leary got into a lot of trouble over the chapter, Autism Shmautism, and Leary jokingly feigned ignorance.  He eventually agreed that his book caused a lot of controversy.


Of course, he’s still blaming The New York Post for taking the following paragraph of his book “out of context”.

There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumbass kids can’t compete academically so they throw money into the happy laps of shinks and psychotherapists to get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons. I don’t give a shit what these crackerjack whackjobs tell you—yer kid is NOT autistic. He’s just stupid. Or lazy. Or both.

He also stated that the next paragraph speaks of his appreciation for a true autistic.

I know a couple of autistic children and let me tell you something they both have in common-they are extremely bright and attentive and­ much like Rain Man-have individual talents and abilities that would lay your empty little tyke’s video game-addled soul to waste. A truly au­tistic child may be able to reproduce music he or she hears with perfect pitch-entire classical pieces, the rock opera Tommy, the latest hit Broad­way musical-over and over again. OR tell you instantly upon hearing what your birthday is-what day it has fallen on every year for the last four decades. What the weather was on those days. Who the president was at the time. What the number one song on the radio was just before singing it note for note and word for word. THAT’S an autistic child. Not some fat-assed simpleton whose brain has been fried by television and the Xbox and no proper daily attention from his or her supposedly caring parents.

Not sure where the appreciation lies as the paragraph is pretty insulting.  Since my son doesn’t display Rain Man-like “qualities”, he’s “just stupid. Or lazy. Or both”????

Hmmm.  Maybe this paragraph will show me his “appreciation”.

Maybe your kid is not autistic. Maybe he’s just a dolt. And thank your lucky stars for that. Face the facts. Autism is up and who knows why–parents who wasted time, their brain cells and a lot of healthy DNA on way too many recreational drugs is this doctor’s guess—but I refuse to sit here and believe that half the idiotic offspring I come across even amongst my own friends and family are a part of that problem.

Nope!  Still looking for that “appreciation”.

I didn’t seek out the diagnosis.  I sought out answers.  I haven’t wasted any time.  I haven’t wasted any brain cells.  And I damn sure haven’t wasted “a lot of healthy DNA”, to give birth to “idiotic offspring”?

The paragraphs that follow don’t get any better.

I recently heard an interview with the brother of acclaimed author Au­gusten Burroughs. This brother guy invented the gizmo that allows smoke and a small fireworks display to spazz out of electric guitars on­stage. He did it while working as a roadie/techie for the band Kiss. Ace Frehley turned to him one day and said Hey, can you make smoke ‘n shit fly outta my Axe while I’m playin’ it? So this guy did so. Not a huge con­tribution to society but hey—it is what it is and he made a good living at it.

The reason I bring this up is: the interview was about a book this brother had written because when he was about fifty years old he almost completely self-diagnosed himself as having Asperger’s syndrome. In the interview he said that all of his life people thought he was odd. He would talk to people but had trouble making eye contact with them and he knew—somehow, somewhere deep down inside—he was different. Because they wouldn’t talk back. They would usually just nod and walk away.



Here’s the textbook definition of the disease: Asperger’s syndrome is one of several autism spectrum disorders (ASD). Characterized by difficulty in social interaction and restricted, stereo­typed interests and activities. People with Asperger’s are not usually withdrawn around others, they simply approach others by engaging in a one-sided, long-winded speech about one of their own favorite topics. Where I come from, we don’t call a guy like that a victim of Asperger’s. We just call him an Asshole Who Won’t Shut The Fuck Up. You wanna find people who don’t think it strange or boring or mind­numbing to listen to you ramble on and on and on about what it takes to plug electronic boxes into electro converters and then into tubeless amplifiers THROUGH a remote-access special effects board and blap blappety blap until shit shoots out of a guitar played by a guy wearing fourteen-inch-high platform-heeled leather boots and a girdle? Here’s the list:

1. The guy in the girdle

2. You

3. People with Kiss T-shirts on That’s it.

You don’t belong in the spectrum of autism disorders. You belong backstage with a shitload of AA batteries and a suitcase full of roman candles. Long-winded and one-sided.

I heard the guy on the radio and believe me, folks, long-winded ain’t the least of it. This guy had his head so far up inside his own ass he could be interviewed about his memoir and perform his own colonoscopy at the same time. Odd? Yeah-you became a roadie for a rock band that dresses up in superhero costumes and wears twenty-seven pounds of makeup? Where and when is that considered normal. AND you made money at it? Sorry, pal. You don’t get to make guitars blow up for a living and then stake a claim as some kind of social retard. Lucky? Yes. Rain Man? No. Not on my planet.


Two days later I hear another person on the same show-a chick who made a documentary about her brother—another Asperger’s victim. This guy was incredibly smart and socially adept but for some reason couldn’t keep a job or cook or clean or do his own laundry and therefore was still living with his parents at age forty-two. My cousin has this version of As­perger’s. It’s called Mikey Ain’t Moving Away From Home syndrome. It’s a disease that makes you suddenly realize-hey, I gotta good thing goin’ here-rent-free-so my ass ain’t goin’ anywhere. Some guy tried it in Italy a few years ago and his parents kicked him to the curb. He actually took his parents to court-at the same age, forty-two-and the courts told him to grow up and move out.

I know a ton of Irish and Italian guys who would still be living at home being waited on hand and foot by their dot­ing mothers if their dads didn’t one day decide to lay down the law. But in America? It’s not pure, unadulterated sloth or taking advantage of a good thing until it goes dry. No—here it’s been coddled and studied and written about and fully vetted into a sickness. It can’t be that your kid is just a lazy, potheaded, beer-bellied slob. No. He must be “special.” I think the parents don’t wanna face the cold hard facts that their joining of the loins has produced a semi-retard with a nervous twitch so they jump on any available train—in this case the autism express—and blame good old Mother Nature.

And of course they find a doctor more than will­ing to tell them what they want to hear for close to seven hundred dollars an hour—not to mention the special pills and potions. This doctor don’t work that way. You bought this book so I’ll consider that my fee and here is the answer to the questions about your kid: give up. The next Steve Jobs he ain’t. Matter a fact—he ain’t even gonna be the guy who goes to get Steve Jobs his coffee in the morning. If he keeps himself on the straight and narrow and doesn’t get run over by a bus or go to jail—he MIGHT be the guy who cleans up Steve Jobs’s office after Steve goes home to his mansion every night.

Now I know how hard it may be to face the truth when it comes to your kids. If it was easy to be objective about your own progeny don’t you think Paris Hilton’s parents would have hired a short bus and special security to transport their daughter/whore/celebutard out of the public spotlight? Damn right they would have. Instead—they pimped their second daughter out into the marketplace to try and juice more money. Because—I’m sure—-they thought she was “special.” Just like Paris is so “special.”


I already blogged about this chapter of garbage being available, in its entirety, here.

Do yourself a favor… spend the $26.95/ price of $17.16 on something worthy like food, gas, a few cocktails with the gang.  Spend it anywhere; just please don’t waste it on this POS.

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