July Newsletter
By Clay Allen

There are quite a few misconceptions about the life of a hot young writer such as myself. People seem to think it’s all cocaine and fucking, and I wish it were. The truth is that a hot young writer has to take a lot of pretty strange assignments, a series of which I’m forcing the New York Hangover to run. Commissions such as these take skill, concentration and, above all, courage.

ASSIGNMENT: Ghostwritten, unauthorized auto-bio of Robin Williams, delivered complete, no less than 250 pages.
COMMISSIONED BY: The Quippig Corp., Inc.
PAYMENT: $30 adv./ $250 and 9% royalties if published.

NOTE: The excerpts from the following book are currently the property of Quippig Corporation. I cannot claim to have actually written any of them. Also, I wish to thank Susan Meyers in Rights and Handling. Without her approval, the New York Hangover would have no chance of running this piece. She said to say that the only reason she allowed this breech was because the book had no chance whatsoever of being published and that "only the biggest fucking idiot in the world would believe that Robin Williams had actually written it." Meyers also wanted me to say that I would never be allowed to submit material to Quippig ever again. I did receive my $30, though, and I got a pretty cool Super Soaker with it. Without further ado, excerpts from Robin Williams, Hobo’s Envy, by Robin Williams.

From Pg. 44: I am Robin Williams, and it’s been a wild ride. From my time with the hobos right on up. And it’s really the work I did with the hobos that has made all the difference. At night, around the trash fire, I talked in funny voices and leapt about, enthralled by the way their punched rotten heads twisted into sooty smiles. Oh, I’ll never forget those times with the hobos.

From Pg. 63: The set of "Mork and Mindy" was a dream for me, Robin Williams. It was my own personal playground. They set out plenty of food and drinks and I just gobbled it all right up. At the close of each day, I would pick through the trash for some scraps to give old Hobo Pete down at the yard, but very rarely did he ever receive them. More often than not, I would devour them myself before passing out behind a stack of folding chairs on Lot 6.

From Pg. 141: Being Robin Williams has never been easy. People often ask, "Robin, what makes you such a funny guy?" I like to tell them it is the time I spent in Hobo camps across the country, and that if everyone were a hobo, the world would be a fucking hysterical place to live in.

From Pg. 155: Being a movie star is great. Just ask me, Robin Williams. It provides you the time to develop muscles you never knew you had, like the one that makes your butt open and close. What’s that called again? I think they should call it the "Robin Williams muscle."

From Pg. 200: No doubt about it, there were some dark hours. I recall with disgust the time I let a strange, unfamiliar hobo stick his hands down my pants to warm them up. At least, that’s what he said. He began to fondle my testicles, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, telling me that he had cans of condensed soup that he would share with me if allowed to continue his testicular examination. I hadn’t eaten in three days, and my dog Patch Adams was very sick. Hollywood is quick to romanticize the life of the Hobo, but let me tell you, it’s not all cheap booze and trash fires. No, not hardly.

ENDNOTE: If anybody has any need for a 150 pg. "auto-bio" of Bob Saget, currently titled "I’m Bob Saget, I Eat Bones and Skulls," please contact me immediately. I can be reached at clay@nyhangover.com.