Why Denis Leary Sucks, Part One

Denis Leary

Madam spent one of her college years commuting via rail between the Killjoy Homestead in “Upstate” New York and Manhattan, and during this time she spent many hours on the train reading a variety of assigned text books. On the last day of spring semester, she treated herself by purchasing several books to read for pleasure that summer. “Watership Down” was one of them. “No Cure for Cancer” by Denis Leary was another. It was a short book, so Madam decided to begin reading it that very evening, on her final commute home.

Much to the displeasure of her fellow travelers, Madam found the book to be hilarious, causing her to guffaw loudly and often, as she wiped tears from her face and tried, for decorum’s sake, to control herself. Yes, Denis Leary almost made Madam piss herself in public.

Look, I like Denis Leary. I think he’s funny. Most of the time. I even think his latest book, “Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid” makes some spot-on observations about American popular culture, several of which are indeed humorous.

HOWEVER, this book is also chockfull of some blatantly sexist (and in Madam’s opinion, entirely unnecessary) bullshit of the highest order. To be fair, Leary does warn us on the first page of the prologue that if you are a woman daring to read his opus, “you will soon be livid.”

You got that right, pal.

When some asshat finds it necessary to continue perpetuating the same old stale men-like-boobies-women-like-shopping jokes as if it’s some sort of edgy “humor,” yes, I get perturbed. Not only is it offensive – to men and women – it’s downright fucking lazy.

Let’s start with this little gem:

Exhibit A

What you see above is EXHIBIT A: The Male Brain. I know the image is tiny, but don’t worry, I will fill you in on what remains of the Male Brain aside from the entire frontal lobe, which, as you can see, is dedicated to thinking about (what else) S-E-X.

Now, here is EXHIBIT B: The Female Brain. I ask my dear readers who happen to actually possess “female” brains: Can you guess what your frontal lobe devotes its thinking power to more than ANY OTHER SUBJECT IN THE WORLD?

Exhibit B

SHOES! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!! Oh, God, I… can’t… stop… laughing!! Must… breathe! Oh, no, I’m going to piss myself! HA-HA-HA!

Whew. Now that there is some seriously funny shit, is it not? And original, too! Why, I’ve never heard a joke before about women loving shoes as much as men love sex! Ever!

Now, I don’t know about you, but I spend very little time actually thinking about shoes. You know when I think about shoes? When I’m deciding which ones to put on before leaving the Mansion. And, on occasion, when the shoes I am wearing are hurting my feet. Since I have a limited selection of shoes from which to choose, and since I rarely wear uncomfortable shoes, I can tell you with confidence that I think about sex, among many other subjects, WAY more than I think about footwear.

But let’s see how else the manly Male Brain and the Female Lady Brain differ. According to our  good doctor, not only is the entire frontal lobe of the Male Brain dedicated to sex, of the remaining seven sections, another three are also – surprise! – related to sex: Blow Jobs, Tits, and More Sex, specifically. The rest of the Male Brain is devoted to Cool Guitars, Naps, Great Sandwiches I Have Eaten (what, no Great Pussy I Have Eaten?), and the Starting Lineup of the 1967 Boston Red Socks.

On this last nugget of dudely brain composition, Madam snickers, for as all men with Male Brains know, 1967 was the year that Leary’s beloved Red Socks captured their first pennant since 1946. Twenty-one straight years of loser status suddenly upended! A chance at the championship! Hope for Red Sox fans! A hope that would eventually be crushed when the Sox were bested by the St. Louis Cardinals in a seven-game World Series (the same team, by the way, that beat their asses in ’46), kicking off another nine-year drought of pennants for the Red Sox. Sounds like a Certain Someone’s Brain is bitter. But we digress…

Now that we know the Male Brain is utterly incapable of contemplating anything that does not involve sex, food, sleeping and sports (oh, and cool guitars), let us look at the part of the Female Brain that is not obsessed with shoes.

Apparently us womenfolk do think about sex, but not that much, as we have bigger sections of our lady brains that are dedicated to thinking about Kids, The Past, My Mom, Money, My Ass and Other Women’s Tits. Then we have this little weird section of our brains comprised of eleven Special Compartments, five of which concern Kids (including their shoes), as well as the following: Cute Guy at the Gym, Sex on the Beach, Sex on the Beach with Cute Guy from the Gym, More Stuff from the Past, Trip to Italy, and Stepdad.

::Ponders this… gasps with sudden realization::

Dear Readers, I have an announcement to make. I am apparently a dude. Believe me, I am as shocked as you are! But, since I lack “Kids,” avoid the gym, cannot even afford to daydream about a trip to Italy and am sans Stepdad, I don’t know what else to think (especially given the fact that the huge section of my gray matter devoted to shoes is apparently not functioning, nor is the part concerning other women’s tits – with which I am not concerned at all, except for keeping them cancer-free and safe from public groping). The only things on either of these incredibly stupid diagrams I do think about are sex, money, food, sports and sleeping, apparently giving me a serious case of Dude Brain. But wait! I guess I can’t be a dude what without all that Blow Job pondering. I’m so confused! Won’t someone help me?!

Denis Leary, YOU suck for hurting Madam’s Lady Brain with your oh-so-not unique and clever take on the vast and obviously innate differences between the sexes. Yawn. Call me when you want to compare Jesus to Elvis again, ’cause THAT, my friend, is funny. Not to mention original (which is, ahem, probably why it still makes Madam laugh).

To be continued…

Published in: on June 21, 2009 at 00:52  Comments (2)  
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  1. Dr. Leary’s book sucked dead green ones. I didn’t get ONE single laugh out of it. Unlike Madam, I’ve never read, seen or heard anything by him. So I went in with NO preconceived opinions. I didn’t even know who he WAS (no, Denis, ir’s not that I’ve been spending too much time reading books or whatever else it was you said that people who don’t know about “Sweet Sixteen” [or whatever the fuck] on MTV do. It’s just that, just like your suck-ass book, I think television sucks and have never watched cable).
    I bought your suck-ass book because the cover lead me to believe that it would be cutting-edge, anti-American humor. Instead, it turned out to be mainly a sexist tirade that addressed little that is wrong with this country and its sheeple.
    Madam, my brain, too is Dude-like, except that it contains much more anger and cursing than this fuck-head’s diagrams indicated. And instead of “Blow Jobs”, THAT section is labeled “Pussy Licking/Sucking” and includes tied-up pasty-assed wads like him on their knees, going to. I’m getting horny right now just thinking about it. It’s a good damned thing I’m not a mom, ’cause moms aren’t supposed to think about non-empathic things like dominating fuck-heads. Their job is to raise children and fuck their HUSBAND’S brains out.
    Well, Denny, I did what you suggested – I didn’t have kids. But being a single WOMAN (vs. “girl”, which you are so fond of labeling women as) it IS perturbing to have more than 10 years of higher education, a brilliant mind, a mechanical bent and a strong, hard-working body but continue to be paid 67 cents for a man’s dollar simply because I was not priviledged enough to be born with a pee-pee.
    I’m SO glad you got that facelift, Denny-boy, ’cause I likes a pretty face and your old one was too craggly. Now get rid of the fucking sideburns and I’ll consider letting you get tied up. I’m sorry to say that you will not be able to feel my tits (I’ll do that) or put your pink little “Irish-American” pee-pee in my poo-poo. You only get to face-worship at MY alter. But I WILL let you take pics of it to give to your daughter. She deserves as much, having such a loving, caring dude for you as a dad.

    MADAME: If you are in touch with this pathetic puddle of smegma, you can give him my e-mail address so that we can arrange a tryst. Please inform him that, as a Southerner, the Irish roots are deep (old – we didn’t get off the boat yesterday and we had the good sense to come here first, not go to Yankee-land and get beat up by Irish-haters) and Protestant. “Gone With the Wind” is an inaccurate portrayal of the South – there were few Irish Catholics here. Where I grew up, there were few Catholics, period. We didn’t live and breathe stereotypes down here, either. People were just people. We didn’t drink whiskey at Thanksgiving and fight each other. We just enjoyed giggling a lot/concocting obscene stories about fuck-head dinosaurs like him.

    • While Madam would not normally approve a comment that recommends unwanted or coerced sexual activity, your rant is so-upside-down-troll-ishly feminist and outraged, and your observations dead-on, I felt compelled to share your screed with the approximately three other human beings who on rare occasions peruse this blog. Madam also did neglect to mention his gross ethnic stereotypes (which are also fucking boring). This book was lent to the Mansion, and finally had to be returned, so I am unable to pen Part 3 of Why Denis Leary Sucks, which was to include the above as well as the insane level of fat hatred. Again: boring. Making fun of people who have been made fun of since, oh, for-fucking-ever, is not edgy. It’s not even original. The only purpose it serves is to justify and perpetuate the sea of misogyny (and other hatreds) in which we swim.


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