Acknowledgements

I've read a great many books in my time. No, really, it's true. I've read the greats: Tolstoy, Dickens, Hemingway, Lee Roth. I've read them all and do you know what they have in common? When you get to the acknowledgement section at the end, they go on and on about the little people who helped them along the way. To that I say, who cares? So, some schmuck proofread a manuscript for you. So what? Do you think anyone gives a damn? Nay, my friend.

So if you expect me to fall in line and rattle off a list of the people who claim to have helped bring this book to light, then you've got another thing coming. These are my memoirs. I am the author. I deserve the credit and everyone else can go to hell.

Still, my publisher told me I had to write an acknowledgements section, so here we are. As I was arguing with my publisher about this very subject, it occurred to me that an acknowledgement can mean many things. Merriam Webster defines the word acknowledgement as the act of acknowledging something or someone. She then further describes the word acknowledging as the act of taking notice of something or someone. I believe that definition is broad enough for me to work with. So, rather than follow suit with the literary hacks that have come before me with a long, boring string of saccharin thank yous and hollow recognitions, I decided to blaze my own trail. I am nothing if not a pioneer. Thus, I shall use my acknowledgements section to acknowledge all those who have wronged me along the way. So, if you have ever taken aim against me, attempted to keep me down, or otherwise made yourself my enemy, buckle up! This section is for you.

Let's begin with Mr. Klamm, my middle school English teacher. I bet you thought I'd forgotten about you. Nay, my friend. Many years have passed, but I have not forgotten the day you told me I would never amount to anything unless I applied myself. Well, look at me now! I have amounted to ten times the man you will ever be in spite of my strict policy of never applying myself to anything. I also have not forgotten about the day you called my mother to tell her you had caught me sneaking into the faculty break room and stealing food from the refrigerator. That act led her to believe I did not appreciate all the precious sandwiches she prepared for me each month, prompting her to stage a kitchen strike. I nearly starved to death! I hope you're happy. Just remember, my memory is long and I hold firm to the belief that forgiveness is for suckers.

Then there were my middle school friends. Or should I call you fiends? Tommy, Neil, and Greg, I suppose a blood oath doesn't mean anything to you. Just because you hit puberty sooner than me you thought that erased the promises we made. I have not forgotten the ways you tortured and tormented me simply because you thought it would make you more popular. I'm sure you intended to keep me down—to dishearten me to the point that I would shrink into the shadows and you would never have to pay for your disrespect. Well, guess what, chums? Your mockery and ridicule only made me grow stronger. It made my heart blacker. You taught me to never be so foolish as to trust another living soul again. That is where I have found the strength for my rise to prominence. Your efforts to keep me down only raised me up further. And where are you all now? Tommy is in pharmaceutical sales, a woman's profession if there ever was one. Neil works retail like a commoner. Greg is a teacher, because, of course, those who can't do, teach. All of you are tied down with a ball and chain and a houseful of kids, while I'm out here living the life. Who's laughing now, boys?

Of course, I must call out some of my fraternity brothers. While many of my brothers earned my respect, treated me as equals, and seemed to envision the greatness which I would one day achieve, there were a couple amongst the pack who wished to see me fall from grace. You know who you are, Allen and Don. That's right, I know it was you who orchestrated my fall from the rooftop of Sigma Nu as I delivered the most incredible Treasurer's speech in the history of the fraternity. I know it was you who made sure my fall would be cushioned by a pile of horse manure. I bet you thought you got away with it all these years. I knew you were to blame all along. I'm sure you think you got the best of Bill McNeal, but I assure you I will get the last laugh. Yes, I am already laughing because I have achieved fame and glory since my time with Sigma Nu, whereas you are a couple of nobodies. However, that alone is not enough repayment for the sins you committed against me. Just you wait. I have spent years compiling evidence against your character—some of it real, some of it purely fabricated by me—and when the time is right I will reveal it to everyone you hold dear in your life. Then we'll see who is laughing. It will be me. I will be the one laughing and it will be at your expense.

I would be remiss if I did not include my Aunt Becca in these acknowledgements. Oh, you thought you would get out of this public shaming because we're family? Think again, Aunty. You knew exactly what you were doing the day you ripped me from my collegiate home and put me to work doing your slave labor. I've got your number. You had a plan all along. You would place me in your radio station so that you would have someone to blame when everything went to hell. You tried to pin your business failings on me. Then you tried to piggyback on my success and follow me to the top of the news radio empire. Well it didn't work, did it? Too bad, so sad. Restraining orders were invented for people like you. So go ahead and try to rebuild your radio career. I'll be there to tear it right back down again.

Speaking of family, I can't leave my brother Johnny off this list. You always thought you were better than me. Yes, you saunter around in your business suits with your slicked back hair, looking all handsome and charming, somehow appearing to be decades younger than me. But I know who you are on the inside. On the inside you're the cretinous meathead who tricked me into drinking my own urine. You're still the teenager who kicked the living crap out of his little brother every chance he got. You're still the little boy who used to cry himself to sleep every night because he thought his mommy didn't love him. Yes, I know the real you, Johnny. You can change your last name, but you can't hide who you are. You will always be a McNeal, whether you like it or not. You will forever be John's son. You thought you could demoralize me by sleeping with every girl I ever loved. Well I figured out how to beat you, didn't I? I have sworn myself to a life of bachelorhood. There are no women left who love me. So who has the upper hand now, Johnny? What's your next move? Are you going to come to New York City, take over WNYX, ruin my life along with the lives of all my coworkers and steal Dave's woman? I'd like to see you try.

If I'm writing a grudge list, you know I have to include the security guards at the Criterion building. What did I ever do to you, Lorenzo and Junior? I am, without a doubt, the single most famous person who works in that building. Yet, you demand identification from me like I'm nobody. Is it your jealousy showing? Are you so overrun with envy of my stardom and success that you have to pretend I'm a plebeian to make yourselves feel better about your sad little lives? You would do better to revel in the gift of your proximity to me than to try to pull me down to your level. You cannot pull me down if you cannot reach me, sirs. If you want to feel better about yourselves, might I suggest taking a little more pride in your work? As security guards, it is your duty to guard the building and everyone in it. A sense of security is the last thing I feel when I look at the two of you. Let's not forget that a death threat was made against me, not only within the confines of the Criterion building, but right in the middle of the lobby with both of you present. And what did you do? Did you stop the murderer in his tracks? Did you have him arrested? Did you throw him out of the building? Did you take any action whatsoever to ensure my safety? Of course not. You laughed it off and told my assailant to have a merry Christmas. When the walls of your precious lobby are painted with my blood, we'll see whose Christmas is merry.

Speaking of death threats, I want to give an honorable mention to my many stalkers and attempted assassins. Yes, many of those who would have wished me harm have been identified and I have been handled through the appropriate channels, legal or otherwise. But rest assured, I know there are more out there. I may not know your names, but I sense your presence. I will not rest until every last one of you has been flushed out and your threat has been eliminated. I may sleep with one eye open, but you would be wise to do the same. I am a survivor. I will do whatever it takes to ensure you do not succeed in your mission to ruin me and/or kill me. Your efforts will be fruitless, so you might as well just give up now. Go find some other broadcasting superstar to obsess over. I hear Dan Rather hasn't had any death threats in a while.

Speaking of other broadcasters, I want Laura, one of the daytime anchors at WYXP, to know she's not getting off the hook either. You walk around all smug just because your station consistently tops the ratings and always pushes WNYX to number two. You think you're so special because you have some fancy college degree in journalism. Well I have a degree in being better than Laura of WYXP. How do you like that? Do you think I don't notice the underhanded way you subtly trash me and the rest of the staff at WNYX while you're on the air? Well, you're right, I don't notice because I would never listen to that garbage you call a news broadcast. All these years you've thought you could hide behind your news director. Now that Marty "The Party" Jackson drank himself to death, there's no one left to protect you from the consequences of your baseless claims. You've accused me of stealing your stories. I am insulted that you would even say such a thing. Stealing from another broadcaster goes against my journalistic integrity. Besides, it's not stealing if you fail to take the proper precautions to protect your work. If you think storing your encrypted files on a hard drive that you keep in a locked safe inside a secure building is a sufficient way to protect your precious stories, then you have a lot to learn about this business, lady. If you don't like it we can always take it up with the proper authorities.

Since we're on the subject of proper authorities, what's so proper about the Federal Communications Commission anyway? In particular, I would like to lodge a complaint against Jen Ether of the FCC. I don't know exactly what her rank is within that bureaucracy, but she seems to have been assigned solely to levying fines against me. I have been fined by the FCC a total of 32 times for a total sum of $12,821. Those are just the fines against me personally. I understand the fines paid by the station are significantly higher. So much so that Mr. James had to create a separate budget line item to cover the expected fines I will generate each year. My question to Ms. Ether is, what did I ever do to you? Did I personally offend you in some way? What vendetta do you have against me that you are so hell bent on taking away my God given right to say the word penis on the air freely? If it goes against your strict puritan values, then perhaps you are in the wrong business. I suggest you clutch your pearls elsewhere. In the meantime, I say, free the penis!

While I will always keep a soft spot in my heart for my ex-girlfriend, Linda, I will say I have a bone to pick. I am familiar with the ways of a woman. I fully acknowledge that your illogical and sometimes erratic behavior is beyond your control. You are awash with hormones day in and day out and that is largely why women behave the way that they do. I do not pretend to understand it, but I accept it. It's not your fault that you commit arson on a regular basis. It's not your fault that you're a compulsive liar with more personalities than I can count. It's not your fault that you cheat and lie and steal, all in the name of finding an outlet for your raging estrogen. I was willing to accept you, flaws and all. However, you committed one atrocity for which I cannot stand. It was an act so unforgivable that I can't write this chapter without acknowledging the wrong you have committed. Just before you walked out of my life forever, you listed my phone number in the PennySaver as the "I Love Baba Booey Hotline." I get calls at all hours of the night with rowdy young men screaming "Baba Booey!" into the receiver. It's becoming more than I can bear. I would change my number, but it's the only way my mother knows to reach me. Not that she ever calls, but if she does, I need to make sure she can get through. It's become a real nuisance and I just don't know that I can ever forgive you for this horrific grievance.

Another horrific grievance is the usage of my personal space at WNYX as a public dumping ground of half-eaten food and discarded coffee cups. I know that many of you are to blame, but I have come to believe that the ringleader of this effort to drive me to madness with office refuse is that bearded guy with the bomber jacket. Don't think I haven't noticed you strutting around the office like you're king of Garbage Mountain. I know you think you've gotten away with it, but I assure you that you have not. I'm onto your little game. Did you think you could drive me to the brink of insanity by sneaking food remnants into my personal space while I wasn't looking? Well it didn't work! I'm nowhere near the brink of insanity. Try as you might, you will never scratch the surface of my mental fortitude, so you might as well quit now. Reign in your gang of trash hooligans or I will personally remove that hippy haircut of yours with a straight razor.

I have had some reason to believe that Beardy may have teamed up with Karl in Accounting for this effort. Even if that proves to be incorrect, Karl, trust that you are on my list of enemies for life. Stop trying to eat lunch with the rest of us true WNYXicans. No one cares what your name is and we certainly don't care how many years you've worked here. Learn your role and take your sad little sack lunch elsewhere. Why don't you eat in the stairwell with the rest of the rank and file? Everyone who has the honor of lunching with Bill McNeal has earned their seat at the table. You better fall in line or I'll tell Matthew that you won the floor fire marshal election by running on an anti-cat platform.

Beardy and Karl aren't the only people who have tried to drive me to insanity. Another guy who thought he could get one over on Bill McNeal was Clint, my rage management therapist. I was referred to Clint after a minor dustup with law enforcement over a parking ticket. They say therapy is medicine for the soul, but medicine doesn't taste so good when its court ordered. At any rate, Clint, by all appearances you seemed like a professional individual. Everything seemed to be going along just fine. You would ask me how I felt. I would give you some bland answer so you would leave me alone. The system was working the way it should. But you had to go and rock the boat, didn't you? You could have just signed the paper for the judge and we both would have been out of each other's hair. But no. You had to stir up trouble by ordering me to confinement in a mental facility all because I screamed, "No, your mother was neglectful and abusive!" If a man isn't entitled to defend his own mother's honor by declaring bold insults against another man's mother, then maybe America isn't the land of the free after all. You may think you got the best of me, but I promise I will exact revenge one day.

While we're on the subject of sham medical professionals, I'd like to also call out my colon hydrotherapy guy, Steve. I've given you my business for many years. I've even referred friends and coworkers to your practice. And how do you repay me? By refusing to sign my medical documents certifying me as clinically sane. Talk about being ungrateful. Aren't you a doctor? Didn't you take an oath? All it would have taken was one halfway legible signature to keep me out of the looney bin. Apparently that was too much to ask. I'll remember this Steve! Trust me you won't be receiving any more referrals from me.

Finally, I feel the need to acknowledge my editor. You were assigned to edit my book by my publisher and since that time I have never been so insulted in my life. You have questioned my spelling and grammar relentlessly. When a US president uses a nonsense word in a public address, that word is adopted into the English language. That's how we got the glorious terms "normalcy" and "lunatic fringe." My words should be treated with such reverence. You also insist on refuting my baseless claims in the footnotes. These are my memoirs. This is life as I see it. When you attempt to find inaccuracies in my story, you are calling my life a lie. You are a coward who hides behind a computer keyboard. Unfortunately, the publisher has told me they will not print my book without the footnotes. So, it would appear you have won this round. I assure you, dear editor. The war is far from over.

You read my book,

you magnificent bastard!