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How can I insult you today?
It seems that quite a few people think
that you have to be Italian
to enjoy my humor—

so let me enlighten you
on that score once
and for all. The actual

fact of the matter
is that my humor is enjoyed
all over the world. For example,

a French newspaper stated,
“We don’t know what
he’s talking about.” It almost

sounds better in French,
but not nearly as insanely
gorgeous as it does

in Italian. But I’m pleased
to crack jokes about how I look
like Clark Kent when I wear my glasses,

and my first wife telling me,
“Hey Superman,
take out the garbage,”

and about my parents
calling me “Patsy,”
which I loved referring to myself as

in my flow—not an act—even though
I anglicized my name
from Pasquale Caputo

to Pat Cooper
because I had a problem
with the IRS. Uncle Sam

was out to get me, because
the system’s rigged. It’s designed
to screw people over,

even if they made it;
even if they made it
without making it,

like Frank Sinatra.
Sure, he sang a nice song. But
without naming other

names, let me tell you:
Frank had assistance
from some people you don’t

wanna mess with.
He never helped any
other Italian guy

in show business. You know why?
It’s because he didn’t want
any other Italian stealing

his spotlight,
not even Dean Martin,
who also never thought

about helping anyone like me.
It’s because Italian entertainers
are jealous of each other,

fratello to fratello,
paesano to paesano.
You think I wasn’t

being thoughtful? My lawyer told me
to go by Pasquale or change
my name legally. Pat

it was for the rest
of my working life. I made good money
for doing so; I got to live

medium in Las Vegas.
I was a guest star on TV shows
like Charlie’s Angels,

L.A. Law, and Seinfeld.
I was also in some movies, including
Analyze This and

Analyze That. I wrote
the book of making art
out of anger. My success gave me

the clout to call out
a list of celebrities
who thought they were better

than you or me.
For example, I called bullshit
on Paul Anka,

who thought he was too good
to say hello
to me. And fuhgeddabout

Johnny Carson,
who once got so drunk
he pissed on my foot

in a men’s room. Stugots.
I’m a human being!
How dare you

take that away from me?
I never, ever
appeared on his stupid,

overrated late night
TV show again. I don’t care
how brilliant he was

on it. So was Steve Allen.
Jack Paar, too, to be fair. Hell,
even my pal Frank Sinatra,

The Chairman of the Bored,
had the balls to demand
I remove a joke

from my act. I said to him,
“Hey Frank,
do I tell you

what song to sing?
Bada bing—”
I said that in 1958, in a routine

called The Italian Wedding, long
before anyone else did.
James Caan popularized it

when he said it
in The Godfather.
You’re welcome,

David Chase—I made
The Sopranos more
entertaining; your

audiences howled
with laughter every time
your show had a scene

in Bada Bing, The Bing,
Silvio Dante’s strip joint,
where Tony Soprano’s crew

shot stick, had meetings,
and saw the Virgin Mary, all
without me saying

a single word. I worked
with The Count Basie Band
at The Sands, and Ella Fitzgerald

in Washington, DC. Not too shabby
for a former cab driver, huh?
Eat your Long Island heart out,

Rodney Dangerfield.
You think that you
got no respect? Try

growing up with 45
statues of saints
in your parents’

house. Ever have 90 eyes
looking at you every time
you have to go

 
to the bathroom?
Have you ever had someone throw
tomatoes on you

and been superimposed
in a saucy mound of spaghetti
for an album cover

and between slices
of semolina bread
for another, even though

you wore a tuxedo?
I had to rinse
for about three days

to get rid of the tomato seeds.
I don’t wanna tell you
where the seeds

wound up. You get my flow?
Have you ever been married
multiple times? Do you know

what it’s like to be divorced?
Do you need to be Italian, American,
or Italian American

to know how painful
a breakup can be? To have a spouse
die? To know what it feels like

to be heckled? To be treated as less than
the big deal you know you ought
to be regarded as? I mean,

I was just a guy from Brooklyn—
a talented one—born in Coney Island,
raised in Midwood

and Red Hook;
a guy who told the truth
as he saw and felt it, only

louder, more intense and
aggressive, with a fury that could burn
every bar and warehouse

on Van Brunt Street
into ash, like every bridge
between me and my parents,

my siblings, my first
wife, and my children.
They all resented my success,

which is why
I made fun of them
on stage, screen, and radio

every time I could—
and when someone asks me,
hey, Pat, didn’t you ever miss

your children? Don’t you think
they missed you? I always say,
“To tell you the truth, pal,
I never really gave a fuck.”