In the wake of James Frey’s comeuppance on Oprah, and with my own memoir of hardship, addiction and persecution heading to press, I feel it behooves me to come clean now.
Rather than “I stormed the beaches of Normandy” I should have said “I walked out to the water line 50 years later to get a D-Day soldier’s perspective.” I’m sorry if “stormed” suggested otherwise.
Though “I suffer from poliosis” sounds serious, it actually means premature graying of the hair. I am expected to recover.
I never met “the Bachelorette” and did not “high-five her with Sidney Poitier.”
My friend Karl and I did not overdose on a combination of cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy. We shared a bottle of Shiraz and fell asleep watching The Suite Life with Zack and Cody.
When I said “some of my best ideas came while walking between classes at Harvard” I did not mean to suggest I attended Harvard.
I was not “abused” as a child, but my father never let me win at Monopoly.
I did not lose a sister to Cat Scratch Fever.
My boxer is named Rommel, but he was not a member of the Bow Wow Wermarcht and Hitler never threw VolkSnacks at him.
My uncle did not invent a hover tractor.
I did not call Monika Lewinsky a “tubby tartlet” to her face. Rather, I was across the street and muttering to myself.
I “dined with Donald Trump at Nobu” in the sense that he was at another table talking to Mark Burnett. I do not wish to give the impression they know me.
The statement that I “slept with” 118 women in one night was a rough estimate based on the number of guests at the Holiday Inn. It was not meant to suggest I was in the same room with them.
My only knowledge of the Kamchatka Peninsula comes from playing Risk, and therefore most of my travel tips will not be helpful.
By “I had a large group of followers” I meant people behind me on the escalator at Best Buy. Not necessarily people who revered me.
The only evidence that I am the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln came from a ditzy tarot reader and not “a government think tank.”
I am a billionaire only if you convert dollars to Mozambique Meticais.
My understanding of twelve-step recovery programs comes from something I heard on NPR while driving in the rain, not from actually attending them for eight years.
I do not operate Raven Riley’s Webcam, and she does not “pay me in coochie.”
You can disregard this chapter as I was never a bishop.
De Gaulle did not “hit on me at a rockin’ bat mitzvah.”
I was indeed named after Irish king Brian Boru, but there’s no evidence he’s my grandpa.
The Pop Rocks Kid did not die in my tree fort.
The term “gonzo journalism” was not coined by Madonna.
When I said I accidentally ran over a cop, I neglected to mention that I was playing Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.
When I said I grew up in the ‘hood and know what it’s like to be black, I neglected to mention I was playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.
“Made out with Heidi Klum” is misleading. It was a peck on the cheek, and her name was Velda Ross.
Para-sailing in Cancun does not qualify me to call myself a stuntman.
Usher is not afraid of me.
My grandmother did not bequeath me an Orc Sword.
“I have a fleet of cars at my disposal, 24/7” is a reference to taxis.
Steven Seagal and I were not in the CIA.
“Let’s do this” is not a phrase I hold the copyright to.
It’s possible “an orgy of gruesome decadence” is a little heavy-handed when describing the purchase of an overpriced organic lemon at Whole Foods.
I do not have a memoir.