Tina Fey: 'Ugly, pear-shaped and bitchy? I prefer offbeat, business class-assed and exhausted'

Peeing in Jars with Boys

My first show as a writer at Saturday Night Live was 27 September 1997. The host was Sylvester Stallone.

It was the first time I had ever seen a real movie star up close. Real movie stars do look different from regular people. They are often a little smaller and usually have nicer teeth, shoes and watches than anyone else in the room. Stallone smoked a cigar during the host meeting, which was pretty badass. I don't remember what sketch ideas I pitched, but I know that on that first writing night, I completely froze up. I sat at my computer from 1pm Tuesday afternoon until 9am Wednesday morning and nothing came out. I wasn't used to sitting by myself and writing. I ended up submitting an old sketch that I had written as part of my job application.

Needless to say, my sketch didn't get picked for the show, but I was assigned to help "cover" a sketch that the performer Cheri Oteri had written with another writer. I followed Cheri and writer Scott Wainio around through rehearsal, occasionally pitching jokes for the sketch that were (rightfully) ignored. During the dress rehearsal, Lorne Michaels, the show's creator, gave us the note that he couldn't understand Stallone in the sketch and we should ask him to enunciate more. I stood nervously outside the host's dressing room with Scott. He had been there a year already, so I figured he'd know what to do. Scott's experience level was evident when he looked at me and shrugged: "You tell him."

My trademark obedience kicked in and I found myself knocking on the door and being ushered in. Judge Dredd himself was on the couch in an undershirt, smoking another cigar. He looked up at me. I muttered, "In the sketch, you were a little hard to understand. Can you just enunciate a little more?" Stallone was unfazed. "Youcannunnastanme? Youneeme nanaunciate maw? OK." He couldn't have been more easygoing about it. My guess is that this was not the first time in his career he had been given that note. I went back outside and manually released my butt cheeks. Over the years I came to realise that the movie star hosts of the show were just people who wanted to do a good job and (with the exception of a very small handful of d-bags) were eager for any guidance. Who were the d-bags, you ask? I couldn't possibly tell you. But if you want to figure it out, here's a clue: the letters from their names are sprinkled randomly through this article.

The only other thing I remember about the Sylvester Stallone show was that they did a Rocky-themed monologue and they needed someone to play Rocky's wife, Adrian. Cheri really wanted the part – she was little, she was from Philly, she could do a good imitation of Talia Shire – but instead, somebody thought it would be funnier to put her co-star Chris Kattan in a dress. I remember thinking that was kind of bullshit.

I wasn't privy to the decision-making process at the time; it was my first week, after all. When I reminded producer Steve Higgins of it recently, he (understandably) couldn't remember whose idea it was, and thought that it might have even been Sylvester Stallone's. No offence to Kattan, whom I love, or Sylvester Stallone, but I think Cheri would have been funnier as Adrian. Now, an anecdote about somebody at the show being frustrated and feeling cheated is hardly worth mentioning. It happens to everyone, male or female, at some point every week. Saturday Night Live runs on a combustion engine of ambition and disappointment.

But I tell this specific tale of Cheri being passed over for Kattan-in-drag because it illustrates how things were the first week I was there. By the time I left nine years later, that would never have happened. The women in the cast took over the show in that decade, and I had the pleasure of being there to witness it.

People often ask me about the difference between male and female comedians. Do men and women find different things funny? I usually attempt an answer that is so diplomatic and boring that the person will just walk away. Something like, "There's a tremendous amount of overlap in what men and women think is funny. And I hate to generalise, but I would say at the far ends of the spectrum, men may prefer visceral, absurd elements like sharks and robots, while women are more drawn to character-based jokes and verbal idiosyncrasies . . ." Have you walked away yet?

Here's the truth. There is an actual difference between male and female comedy writers, and I'm going to reveal it now. The men urinate in cups. And sometimes jars. One of the first times I walked into my old boss Steve Higgins's office, he was eating an apple and smoking a cigarette at the same time. (When I started at SNL, you could still smoke in an office building. I might not be young.) I had only been there a few weeks, and Steve had been very encouraging and supportive. I forget what we were talking about, but I went to get a reference book off a high shelf in Steve's office.

I reached to move the paper cup that was in front of it, and Higgins jumped up. "Don't touch that. Hang on." He grabbed the cup and a couple others like it around the office and took them out of the room to dump them.

"Oh yeah, that's pee in those cups," my friend Paula later informed me. I could not believe it. I had never heard of anyone peeing in a cup except at a doctor's office. Maybe you'd do it on a road trip if it was too far between rest stops. I had definitely never heard of anyone peeing in a cup and leaving it in their own office on a bookshelf to evaporate and be absorbed back into their body through the pores on their face.

I told another male co-worker about what I had seen. Was it not the grossest thing he had ever heard? He answered matter-of-factly that he occasionally did it, too. Not all the time. He said it was just something guys did when they were too lazy to go to the bathroom. The bathroom, I should point out, was about as far away as you are from this newspaper. I started to feel like I was from space.

Once I was aware of this practice, I started noticing the cups in other places. In the Weekend Update offices – which were like the smarter-but-meaner older brother of the regular writers' offices – there weren't any cups. There was a jar. It was a jar of piss with a lid on it, and judging by its consistency, I suspect they sometimes spat into the piss. Or that one of them was terribly ill. You could see it when you came in the door, backlit by the afternoon sun, and at first it seemed to me like a little test. If you saw the piss jar and dared to ignore it and continue into the room, you were welcomed. Welcomed is too strong a word. You were . . . one of the guys? Nope, you know what? The more I think about it, I'm just projecting. It couldn't have been a test, because they really didn't give a fuck whether you came in the room or not.

And no, not all of the men whizzed in cups. But four or five of them out of 20 did, so the men have to own that one. Anytime there's a bad female standup somewhere, some dickhead Interblogger will deduce that "women aren't funny". Using that same maths, I can state: male comedy writers piss in cups. Also, they like to pretend to rape each other. It's . . . Don't worry about it. It's harmless, actually.

So, to sum up my room-clearing generalisations, men are in comedy to break rules. Conversely, the women I know in comedy are all good daughters, good citizens, mild-mannered college graduates. Maybe we women gravitate toward comedy because it is a socially acceptable way to break rules and a release from our daily life. Have you left me for the cheese tray yet?

Dear Internet

One of my greatest regrets is that I don't always have time to answer the wonderful correspondence I receive. When people care enough to write, the only well-mannered thing to do is to return the gift, so please indulge me as I answer some fans here.

From tmz.com

Posted by Sonya in Tx on 7/4/2010, 4.33 pm

When is Tina going to do something

about that hideous scar across her

cheek??

Dear Sonya in Tx,

Greetings, Texan friend! (I'm assuming the "Tx" in your screen name stands for Texas and not some rare chromosomal deficiency you have. Hope I'm right about that!)

First of all, my apologies for the delayed response. I was unaware you had written until I went on tmz.com to watch some of their amazing footage of people in LA leaving restaurants and I stumbled upon your question.

I'm sure if you and I compare schedules we could find a time to get together and do something about this scar of mine. But the trickier question is what am I going to do? I would love to get your advice, actually. I'm assuming you're a physician, because you seem really knowledgeable about how the human body works.

What do you think I should do about this hideous scar? I guess I could wear a bag on my head, but do I go with linen like the Elephant Man or a simple brown paper like the Unknown Comic? Too many choices, help!

Thank you for your time. You are a credit to Texas and Viking women both.

Yours,

Tina

P.S. Great use of double question marks, by the way. It makes you seem young.

From Dlisted.com

Posted by Centaurious on Monday, 21/9/2009, 2.08 am

Tina Fey is an ugly, pear-shaped,

bitchy, overrated troll

Dear Centaurious,

First let me say how inspiring it is that you have learned to use a computer.

I hate for our correspondence to be confrontational, but you have offended me deeply. To say I'm an overrated troll, when you have never even seen me guard a bridge, is patently unfair. I'll leave it for others to say if I'm the best, but I am certainly one of the most dedicated trolls guarding bridges today. I always ask three questions, at least two of which are riddles.

As for "ugly, pear-shaped and bitchy"? I prefer the terms "offbeat, business class–assed and exhausted", but I'll take what I can get. There's no such thing as bad press!

Now go to bed, you crazy night owl! You have to be at Nasa early in the morning. So they can look for your penis with the Hubble telescope.

Affectionately,

Tina

From PerezHilton.com

Posted by jerkstore on Wednesday, 21/1/2009, 11.21 pm

In my opinion Tina Fey completely

ruined SNL. The only reason she's

celebrated is because she's a woman and

an outspoken liberal. She has not a single

funny bone in her body

Dear jerkstore,

Huzzah for the Truth Teller! Women in this country have been overcelebrated for too long. Just last night there was a story on my local news about a "missing girl", and they must have dedicated seven or eight minutes to "where she was last seen" and "how she might have been abducted by a close family friend", and I thought, "What is this, the News for Chicks?" Then there was some story about Hillary Clinton flying to some country because she's secretary of state. Why do we keep talking about these dumdums? We are a society that constantly celebrates no one but women and it must stop! I want to hear what the men of the world have been up to. What fun new guns have they invented? What are they raping these days? What's Michael Bay's next film going to be?

When I first set out to ruin SNL, I didn't think anyone would notice, but I persevered because – like you trying to do a nine-piece jigsaw puzzle – it was a labour of love.

I'm not one to toot my own horn, but I feel safe with you, jerkstore, so I'll say it. Everything you ever hated on SNL was by me, and anything you ever liked was by someone else who did it against my will.

Sincerely,

Tina Fey

PS You know who does have a funny bone in her body? Your mom every night for a dollar.

Breastfeeding v formula

Invented in the mid-19th century as a last-ditch option for orphans and underweight babies, packaged infant formula has since been perfected to be a complete and reliable source of stress and shame for mothers. Anyone who reads a pregnancy book knows that breast milk provides nutrition, immunities and invaluable bonding time. The breast is best.

When I was pregnant for the first time I asked my mother for advice. "Don't even try it," she said. This is a generational difference. This is the same woman who told me to request "twilight sleep" during delivery. (Twilight sleep is the memory-erasing pain medication that doctors gave women in the 1950s whenever they had to take a baby out or put a body snatcher in.)

As a member of Generation X, I was more informed, more empowered, and I knew that when it came to breast-feeding I had an obligation to my baby to pretend to try.

There are a lot of different opinions as to how long one should breastfeed. The World Health Organisation says six months. The American Association of Paediatrics says one year is ideal. Mothering magazine suggests you nurse the child until just before his wedding rehearsal. I say you must find what works for you. For my little angel and me the magic number was about 72 hours.

We tried the football hold, the cross-cradle hold, and one I like to call the Bret Michaels, where you kind of lie over the baby and stick your breast in its mouth to wake it up. We didn't succeed, so that first night the nurses gave my little one some formula without asking. I tried to be appalled, but I was pretty tired. Once we got home, we tried again. I abandoned all vanity, as one must, and parked it shirtless on the couch. Here we experienced another generational difference.

Gen X wanted to succeed at this so she could tell people she did it, and little Gen Z wanted me to hand over that goddamn formula, and she was willing to scream until she got it.

One of my 500 nicknames for my daughter is Midge, which is short for Midget, because she was a very small baby. She was born a week early and a little underweight at 5lb 7oz. My obstetrician suggested the next day at her bedside visit that perhaps I hadn't rested enough during my pregnancy and that was why she was so small. "What a cunt," I thought to myself in what was either a flash of postpartum hormones or an accurate assessment of my doctor's personality.

So we started supplementing Midge regularly with formula. She was small and I didn't want her to get any smaller while I mastered the ancient art of breastfeeding to prove how incredible and impressive I am. Of course, I still provided her with breast milk. You must, must, must provide them with breast milk. You owe it to your baby to get them that breast milk. Here's how it works.

If you choose to not love your baby enough to breastfeed, you can pump your milk using a breast pump. I chose to pump every two hours while watching episodes of the HBO series Entourage. Over the whir of the milking machine, I could almost hear my baby being lovingly cared for in the other room while Turtle yelled across an SUV, "Yo E, you ever fuck a girl while she has her period?" I was able to do this for almost seven weeks before running out of Entourage episodes and sinking into a deep depression.

Shortly thereafter, we made the switch to an all-formula diet. If you've ever opened a can of infant formula mix, then you know it smells like someone soaked old vitamins in a bucket of wet leaves, then dried them in a hot car.

Also, formula is like $40 a can. They keep it locked up behind the counter with the batteries and meth ingredients. That's how bad people want this stuff!

However, the baby was thriving. I was no longer feeling trapped, spending 30 out of every 90 minutes attached to a Williams-Sonoma Tit Juicer. But I still had an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. I had failed at something that was supposed to be natural.

I was defensive and grouchy whenever the topic came up. At a party with a friend who was successfully nursing her little boy, I watched her husband produce a bottle of pumped breast milk that was the size of a Big Gulp. It was more milk than I had produced in my whole seven weeks – I blame Entourage. As my friend's husband fed the baby, he said offhandedly, "This stuff is liquid gold. You know it actually makes them smarter?" "Let's set a date!" I screamed. "IQ test. Five years from today. My formula baby will crush your baby!" Thankfully, my mouth was so full of cake they could not understand me.

Remembrances of Being Very Very Skinny

For a brief time at the turn of the century, I was very skinny. This is what I remember about that period.

I was cold all the time.

I had a pair of size-four corduroy short shorts. That I wore. To work. In the middle of Manhattan.

I loved it when people told me I was getting too thin.

I once took a bag of sliced red peppers to the beach as a snack.

I regularly ate health food cookies so disgusting that when I enthusiastically gave one to Rachel Dratch she drew a picture of a rabbit and broke the cookie into a trail of tiny pieces coming out of the rabbit's butt.

Men I had met before suddenly paid attention to me . . . and I hated them for it.

Sometimes I had to sleep with a pillow between my legs because my bony knees clanking together kept me awake.

I had a lot of time on my hands because I wasn't constantly eating.

I ran three miles a day on a treadmill six days a week.

I felt wonderfully superior to everyone.

I didn't have a kid yet.

We should leave people alone about their weight. Being skinny for a while (provided you actually eat food and don't take pills or smoke to get there) is a perfectly fine pastime. Everyone should try it once, like a super-short haircut or dating a white guy.

Remembrances of Being a Little Bit Fat

For a brief time at the end of that last century I was overweight. This is what I remember about that period.

My boobs were bigger.

I once left a restaurant in the middle of dessert to get to Krispy Kreme before it closed.

Even though I only liked McDonald's fries, I believed it was more nutritious to make a meal of it and have two cheeseburgers as well.

If I was really ambitious, I would get a Whopper Jr at Burger King and then walk to McDonald's to get the fries. The shake could be from anywhere.

I could not run a mile.

I wore oversize men's overalls that I loved.

Guys who were friends did not want to date me . . . and I hated them for it.

On at least three occasions, I vomited on Christmas Eve from mixing chocolate, peel-and-eat shrimp, summer sausage and cheese. No alcohol was involved.

As a size 12, I took pride that I was "real woman"-sized. "Size 12 is the national average," I would boast, "no matter what magazines try to tell you."

Once, while ironing in my underwear, I grazed my protruding belly with the hot iron.

We should leave people alone about their weight. Being chubby for a while (provided you don't give yourself diabetes) is a natural phase of life and nothing to be ashamed of. Like puberty or slowly turning into a Republican.