Jim Norton Talks About His Genitals Every Day for Four Hours

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Name: Jim Norton
Age: Physically, 41; emotionally, 14
Neighborhood: Manhattan, West Side
Occupation: Comedian, author, radio-show host, “employer of prostitutes.” You can catch him tonight in his role as a correspondent on The Jay Leno Show.

Who's your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
Bobby Fischer. I absolutely love him. Even though, in later years, he became very anti-Semitic and anti-American. Basically, he became a horse’s ass. But I guess there’s always a price to pay for that kind of genius.

What's the best meal you've eaten in New York?
Probably the blackened cod and rock shrimp at Nobu. And what made it a great meal was that the apple martinis they served got my date drunk enough to sleep with me.

In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
I wake up very early and talk about my genitals for four hours.

Would you live here on a $35,000 salary?
Sure, if it was 1916. Then I’d pontificate to my girlfriend about the virtues of voting and ridicule her because she couldn’t do it yet.

What's the last thing you saw on Broadway?
A transsexual on the corner of Broadway and 43rd. Actually, that’s not true, the last place I saw her was in my apartment.

Do you give money to panhandlers?
Yes, and then I report them to the IRS for not declaring it as income. The homeless in this city are getting away with fiscal murder and I’ve had it up to here (I am making the "up to here" motion with my hand at about eye level).

What's your drink?
Jizzum straight up with a twist of lime. If that’s not available, I’ll take a Diet Coke, please.

How often do you prepare your own meals?
So far, about once every 41 years. I can’t cook for shit. The kitchen terrifies me; I use my oven to store my socks and underwear.

What's your favorite medication?
Valtrex, what else? Before that it was Cialis, if that’s a medicine.

What's hanging above your sofa?
My David Carradine mannequin, complete with wig, stockings, and tightly bound testicles.

How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
Anything over five dollars. If your barber can’t make you look like Forrest Gump for five bucks, your barber sucks.

When's bedtime?
When the sun is peeking through the shades and I’ve been masturbating for so long my back hurts.

Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
The new one, because I love to proposition Midwestern tourists like they’re hookers. And I won’t take no for an answer.

What do you think of Donald Trump?
As megalomaniacs go, he’s not a bad fellow. I’d fuck him.

What do you hate most about living in New York?
Those dickhead bicycle taxis, or whatever they call themselves. They tie up traffic with their shitty, late 1800s method of transportation. I wish I weighed 500 pounds so I could make one of those ass hats pull me all over the city until they had a stroke.

Who is your mortal enemy?
Corporate lawyers. These unfunny dildos have been destroying radio and television with their panicky "don’t go too far" paranoia. Special-interest groups (ALL of them) should also throw themselves down an elevator shaft.

When's the last time you drove a car?
Two days ago; I have one in the city. I decided to get one once I realized how hard it was to get oral sex in the backseat of a taxi with a foreigner babbling into his Bluetooth two feet in front of you.

How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Clearly, it made the Bernie Madoff tattoo on my chest look dated and silly. It also brought the three-hundred-dollar Ponzi scheme I had going down like a house of cards.

Times, Post, or Daily News?
Hustler; it has the same journalistic integrity and bias level. If Hustler is sold out, I opt for the Post since they’re the only one of the three that will even think of talking about hate crimes that aren’t white on black. New York Times and the Daily News simply refuse to.

Where do you go to be alone?
Center stage at my shows. That’s the one advantage to being a total flop in entertainment; plenty of alone time.

What makes someone a New Yorker?
The ability to see someone get run over by a bus and immediately get annoyed that it’s somehow going to make you late for work.