This New York Times bestselling author may hate your guts, but you’ll be laughing too hard to care in this blisteringly funny collection. What do Steve Martin, The Reverend Al Sharpton, and Dr. Phil have in common? Jim Norton hates their guts. In his deviant pseudo-memoir Happy Endings, Norton delivered his uncensored and controversial brand of humor on everything from his affinity for hookers to his romantic woes. Now, he unflinchingly spews his thoughts on everyone from the bully he despises from high school, to Hillary Clinton and Al Sharpton. Offensive, brutally honest, and most important, sidesplittingly hilarious, I Hate Your Guts features 35 essays showcasing the candid, outrageous brand of dirty comedy that has earned him legions of devoted fans both on the radio and on the road. Jim Norton is stand-up comedian who is best known for his extremely raunchy brand of humor. He was a regular on both seasons of Comedy Central's Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn, played the caustic Rich on HBO's Lucky Louie, and has starred in his own HBO comedy specials. He has also cohosted the AVN awards twice, and performed his stand-up all over the country . He is the author of two books and lives in New York City. I Hate Your Guts By Jim Norton Simon Spotlight Entertainment Copyright © 2009 Jim Norton All right reserved. ISBN: 9781416587866 Heather Mills: I Am Woman, Hear Me Hop I think Paul McCartney has lost his fucking mind. It's the only explanation I can come up with as to why he not only would marry a one-legged woman in her thirties, but also knock her up and then divorce her without a prenup. What a complete and utter idiot. This is the equivalent of putting an oscillating fan in front of a giant pussy and throwing $1.5 billion into it. How good of a bang was she, for Pete's sake? When he licked her twat did it open up and sing "Band on the Run"? Or maybe it was the stump that got him; I hear he used to put a fedora on it and pretend it was Jack Ruby. Whatever it was, something about their sex took an otherwise brilliant man and turned his brain into mush (which supports my theory that she was also fucking George Harrison). If a woman is good in bed, and I mean really good in bed (not just perfunctory moves like winking while she's giving head or queefing the national anthem), there is virtually no limit to what she can motivate a man to do. And I don't want to hear that he loved her; I've seen her interviewed, and she has the personality of the Queen's asshole. She absolutely sucks. But, she is undeniably sexy. There is something about that accent, combined with the rumors that she used to be a high-priced load receptacle, that makes her appealing. The former secretary of arms dealer (wrong limb, Heather, wrong limb!) Adnan Khashoggi claimed that he paid thousands to sleep with her, and that she was "very athletic" in bed. (Maybe he liked his big Arab balls juggled by a gal who could dismount parallel bars and land with her brown eye directly on his nose.) If she really was an international hooker, it certainly explains why dumb Paul displayed financial Down syndrome. I'm sure Linda was a terrific gal, but there's no way she could've competed in the sack with a girl who fucked swarthy billionaires for a living. Reading accusations that Heather used to be a whore actually made me want to meet up with her to try to work a little something out. I'd love to pinch and squeeze my hog through my khakis while haggling prices with her: "All right, you drive a hard bargain, but here's what I'll do. You get five hundred if you leave the leg on, or a dollar fifty if you insist on taking it off...minus the cost of fumigating the room. You get another hundred if you let me stick it in your ass, a hundred and fifty if you're bent over wearing a flamingo outfit. And just to show you that I'm not a hard-hearted man, that it's not all dollars and cents, you get fifty more if I accidentally cum in your hair, and an extra fiver if you hop around the room screaming, 'I'm a cunt!' while holding the fake leg against your forehead like a rhinoceros." Negotiations like that would have undoubtedly been good-natured and fun, while sending her the message that my finances would be doled out generously, but not up for grabs. Apparently McCartney was old-school, and not comfortable tossing her a few hundred just to lick his balls while he jerked off in the Bentley. Heather told Vanity Fair that she offered to sign a prenup so that he would know she loved him for him, and that Sir Lovestruck turned her down (thereby justifying my opening line in the first paragraph). This is the most blatant case of reverse psychology I have ever read, and to fall for it one would have to be completely retarded or completely enthralled by a vagina that's a quarter-century younger than oneself. So for any woman who really doesn't want to sign a prenup, don't fight it -- suggest it! Bring it up aggressively and the pussy-whipped