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Interview by Chris Azzopardi
Few Words From the Writer
Some things shock me. Most don’t. But, never having endured Lisa Lampanelli-like interviewees (Kathy Griffin came close), her hilariously sexual frankness took the interview up umpteen notches when she didn’t hesitate to pull out her journalism card and turn the interview around on me, asking, “Are you a top or a bottom?”
I guess if she shares her sexcapades with reporters, she expects the same in return. I had no qualms – especially as I knew Lisa wasn’t trying to get in my pants – about telling her that I’m a switch hitter. That’s when, bless her soul, she retorted: “You’re both?! You know what? You are multi-dexterous! Congratulations! God bless ya.”
Thanks, Lisa. You da bomb! If I ever step outside of the meat market for a hot mama (can’t guarantee this), I’ll give you a buzz. And we can smooch night and day. Or until you score your next black dude.
Lisa Lampanelli calls herself “Dr. Phil with a twat.” So, we let her prove it.
How does a gay man decide if a boy-ish looking lesbian is male or female?
What I would do is you sit on the couch next to them and subtly run your hand up their crotchal region being very subtle to do an outside-the-pants ball rub. Now who’s gonna resist an outside-the -pants ball rub? But if you start rubbing and there’s no balls, I think you’re barking up the wrong twat.
On “Dirty Girl” you remind gays to be careful, telling them: “Once you go queer, you stretch out your rear.” How do you recommend treating an anal fissure?
I’m not into fishing. I don’t know what that word means. But I do not fish or hunt. So next question?
How can gay people keep a relationship afloat?
I don’t think you should keep ’em going. If the sparks go after a week, move the fuck on. There’s enough faggots out there. ‘Cause, really, think about it. For people who can’t multiply where the fuck are ya’ll coming from? Every other day there’s one falling out of a closet. So – you know what? – don’t make it last. Just move on. You’re two horny guys, go bang everybody! Gay guys would bang a parking meter if there was time left on it. Go for it!
As a former journalist-turned-comedian, what do you think I should be doing instead of reporting?
I would say, if you’re a good looking guy and you have no body fat like a lot of you faggots, you could dance, be one of those boys in the box at the dance clubs and have them throw little dollars in your G-string. If you’re a fat, out of shape queer I would expect you to gain a lot of money somehow, like from your dead parents or something, and get little twinkie boys to then fulfill your fantasies that way. Either way, you know what? I don’t see you lasting in this career.
8 p.m. Feb. 16
State Theatre, Detroit
Lisa Lampanelli sucks at sex. The dirty comedienne advises curious gay men to steer clear of her unless they want to lock lips and tie tongues with the veteran “maker outer.”
“Dude, I’d turn him right back to gay. Are you kidding me? I stink,” retorts Lampanelli, 45, who notes she’s the anti-Energizer Bunny of screwing.
Sex – particularly with big and buff black men – has become a staple of Lampanelli’s crude comedy, a side-splitting rant of sexual conquests and racist remarks paralleling Sacha Baron Cohen (“Borat”) and Sarah Silverman’s social satire style. The equal opportunity offender’s “Dirty Girl,” recently released on CD and DVD, boldly and shamelessly lets loose on her sexcapades – again with black men – and spares no one, least of all gay folks.
“I’ve only got one gay friend so I can make fun of the gays. See, that’s what you do. You pick one of every group and be friends with them so then you can say, ‘Hey, I have a gay friend; I can call them a cornholer.’ It’s all carefully plotted my friend,” she says, her villianous voice recalling the Wicked Witch of the West. “That’s why I’m a n-gger lover. I bang the blacks so then: instant black jokes.”
She graciously admires gay people for their loose vibe and ability to crack jokes at themselves with the “fag list,” which includes some of Lampanelli’s prized gay nicknames (courtesy of the queers).
“An easy target doesn’t mean just, ‘Hey, he takes it in the ass,'” she insists. “Although that’s funny too; it’s like someone who can actually laugh at their own shit.”
An Oregon reporter, though, couldn’t digest the crass comedian, who she called racist.
“She’s probably a dyke who wants to lick me. The dykes always hate me ’cause they – no, the dykes like my sense of humor – but if I won’t lick them they get all jealous,” Lampanelli urges, noting that the negative article’s reference in other media has only spawned more press for her.
On the rare occasion she receives hate mail, her assistant weeds it out of her box. The last one she read said: “Stop f’ing n’ers because it makes white people look bad.”
“It’s never anybody going, ‘I’m gay and you shouldn’t make fun of me. My ass hurts after your show.’ Your ass hurts because of your own dirty gay sex!” she shouts. “I’m responsible with my act and (I) know it’s comedy and not true. So I don’t really need to read, ‘You’re a racist.’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, OK, nice try.'”
Perhaps the soccer mom getup – dresses decorated with crinoline and sun hats – softens the blow?
“It’s just an ironic twist,” she confesses.
To further the spin on the June Cleaver look (which, she notes, drag queens are diggin’), she only worhips the dark meat. The 45-year-old’s first black lay was like a buy one, get one free sale (without paying for the first one). Not only did she get to look – and who knows what else – at his package, but when he unzipped his pants, she witnessed her first uncut penis. “It was a blessing in disguise,” she admits. “It was the circle of life. But that thing looked disgusting. It looked like a big, huge earth worm.”
She continues ranting about the luxury of lubing up an uncut-er for masturbation purposes when sexual appeal’s below zero, trying to convince me I’d dig it because the friction of the foreskin is like driving a Ferrari instead of a Yugo. “See, sex tips from L.L. Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Lampanelli just got laid. Her voice coy, she admits to meeting a rapper who she thought would turn into a one night stand. But now she’s getting poetry.
“Everytime this little darkie calls, I’m like, ‘Rawr! Hollaback!'” she says. If he doesn’t last and she’s still hunting at 50, she might jump ship – or at least onto another one.
“I’m going tuna boat,” she spills.
Lampanelli’s never been one to shield her sex acts. Or her abrasive swearing. The always-outspoken comedienne wasn’t the class clown, but she’s always had a slippery tongue. “I remember getting in trouble for my mouth. I got kicked off the schoolbus for cursing. I was telling the bus driver, ‘Fuck this, fuck that,'” she recalls. “I went to Catholic school so that was considered pretty bad.”
Leaving Rolling Stone and Popular Mechanics behind, she went from copy editor to “Queen of Mean” at 30. Now, instead of interviewing hair bands, she’s on the flipside and she’s psyched “’cause you’re licking my asshole!”
What happened to just making out?