I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep

By Richard Crasta

This highly varied humor collection, formerly a No. 2 humor bestseller, begins with an imaginary child's humorous response to "Go the F**k to Sleep" (a 2011 megaseller), asking:

--What if a child, asked to go the f**k to sleep by its father, could respond in adult language?

--What does a Daddy do if the new kitten and the Baby are at war?

--Imagine 100 Indian super-yogis exported to the USA to help balance the Indian budget.

--A Nuclear Weapons Fire Sale.

--What does an immigrant do with a rotten chicken from the supermarket?

--What's the real story of Adam and Eve getting kicked out of Paradise? etc. etc.

This is an anytime book for adults who refuse to grow up or to go to sleep in this unreal and wacky world of jet-setting yogis, retired nukes, and presidents named Bush.

This wide-ranging anthology of humor touches on daddies and kids, nukes and wackos, politicians and promises, and cats and Daddies. If you like occasionally silly, occasionally witty nonconformist humor, and are non-pc and NON-UPTIGHT, and are weilling to give humorists their license to totally change the subject, you will probably love this book.

"Hysterical and informative. For the rebel in you. Great style and humor"--Linda J. Lundy, 5-star review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Invisible Man Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498982917

Richard Crasta

Richard Crasta is the India-born, long-time New York-resident author of "The Revised Kama Sutra: A Novel" and 12 other books, with at least 12 more conceived or in progress. "The Revised Kama Sutra," a novel about a young man growing up and making sense of the world and of sex, was described by Kurt Vonnegut as "very funny," and has been published in ten countries and in seven languages.Richard's books include fiction, nonfiction, essays, autobiography, humor, and satire with a political edge: anti-censorship, non-pc, pro-laughter, pro-food, pro-beer, and against fanaticism of any kind. His books have been described as "going where no Indian writer has gone before," and attempt to present an unedited, uncensored voice (James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, and Philip Roth are among the novelists who have inspired him.).Richard was born and grew up in India, joined the Indian Administrative Service, then moved to America to become a writer, and has traveled widely. Though technically still a New York resident, he spends most of his time in Asia working on his books in progress and part-time as a freelance book editor.

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About this Book and Disclaimer

RICHARD CRASTA (WHO occasionally uses the pseudonyms Benny Profane and Vijay Prabhu) is the author of fifteen other books.

This is a multidimensional humor collection, titled after one of its component essays, which is a parody of Adam Mansbach’s Go the F**k to Sleep). A special edition of this humor collection, under the pseudonym Benny Profane, is available in paperback and as an e-book.

Dedication

Dedicated to Jeff Bezos, but for whose Big Brotherly business model, this title (though not its component essays) might long ago have been withdrawn and vanished from all platforms and from my biographies. Dedicated also to George Carlin and Bernie Sanders and the spirit of resistance and nonconformism which informs this book. Dedicated also to the spirit of rebellion, skepticism, satire, and resistance to slavery.

Preface: Why We Laugh

CONSIDER THESE TWO limericks:

There was a young man of Calcutta

Who had a terrible sttttt-tutter

He is reported to have said

Please pass me some bbbbbb-bread

And also some bbbbbb-butter!

There was a young man of Ghent

Who had a penis so long it bent.

It was so much trouble.

That he kept it double.

And instead of coming, he went.

You can’t repeat these in the U.S., these days, because both of these unfortunate young men are Persons with Disabilities — one has a speech disability, and the second has a sexual otherly ability (Peyronies’ Disease? Acute Pathological Perverse Clintonitis?) that might result in — please pass the tissues, sniff, sniff — his not having babies (he’s going instead of coming) or being able to lead a normal love life (after one try for curiosity’s sake, no woman is going to stick around with a penis that’s bent like a horseshoe), the poor thing. He needs advanced and expensive plastic surgery, baby, so let’s not laugh at his expense, let’s instead pass the hat around and take up a collection for this unfortunate soul.

But some of us can’t help it: what makes us laugh makes us laugh, if we control laughter, we do it at grave risk to our health and our mental balance.

So what if both these limericks appeal more to men — those who are being honest with themselves and not clenching their sphincters to stop themselves from laughing? What we’re laughing at is the absurdity of language, especially of the English language. We’re not laughing at disabled or otherly abled persons, but at the spectacular inventiveness of the first limerick — in which the word stutter is itself uttered with a stutter by a speaker who does not really have a stutter; also, at the way stutter rhymes with Calcutta and butter.

In the second case, we are laughing at how ridiculous the English language is — of how coming is a word with double meanings, one of which is sexual, whereas no one thinks of went in the same sexual sense. This is why a child can find anything funny, especially a joke that relies on wordplay; its laughter is pure, uncensored by social rules and fashions or by the fear of giving offense.

The basic rule of humor is this: there are no rules, no sacred cows.

And that’s it, folks: this is a book of humor, and I’ll not apologize for it, nor for sometimes taking risks with the risqué in order to pay my rent and write more of the stuff I care for. And I am sure glad that Michelle Wolf didn’t apologize for her White House Correspondents’ Dinner speech.

I Will Not Go the Fuck to Sleep

(or, Resistance is Not Always Futile)

[The first rule of parenting is: Never negotiate with terrorists. The second rule is: Forget the first rule.]

]

HEY DAD — GRAND PATRIARCH, Pater Sanctus, Daddykins, King-Emperor of this Household, Lord and Master of all you survey and of much that you don’t, my dearest, darling Pop — I, your humble child, loyal vassal, indentured slave, byproduct of a glorious night between you and Mom, bow before your Awesome, Almighty power, and offer virtual incense before your idol. But I Will Not Go the Fuck to Sleep. Consider that on this one issue, I have drawn a line in the sand, like George H.W. Bush did with Iraq, get it? And my laughable but absolutely sincere excuse is:

The dog ate my sleep.

Too late, Daddy, I just injected myself with amphetamines.

How can you tell me to practice what you’re not? I don’t see you going the fuck to sleep.

Your bedtime story sucked, it actually woke me up when I was about to go to sleep. You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that and tell me a really, really fucking boring story to put me to sleep now.

I have had a stressful day in the playroom trying to stave off a hostile takeover by my teddy bear in collusion with the Axis of Evil. I need a few of Mommy’s Little Helper pills to help me wind down.

Can I first have a few nips of that delicious rotgut you were just drinking? Tasted just like the brew the natives slipped me when I was in the Sunderbans hunting a man-eating tiger back in 1896.

The world is going to end tonight. It says so in Deuteronomy xii.7. Or whatever. And I can’t possibly miss that — it’s bigger than a Justin Bieber concert. What’s a couple of hours of sleep compared to that?

I cannot, because I was just surfing the Internet and discovered that I have Circadian Rhythm Sleep Disorder.

How do you spell fuck, Daddy? One asterisk or two?

An angel came and told me that I am really a Thai girl inside an American body, so I can only follow Bangkok time. Which means it is 9 a.m. now, and I am already late for school.

I tried counting sheep but I can only count till 20. Could you first teach me how to count to 100?

Shouldn’t you be helping Mom to sleep and helping to make a little baby brother for me instead of worrying about whether I sleep or not?

Haven’t you seen Inception? This is my dream and in my dream you are dreaming that you are telling me to go the fuck to sleep and you better fucking stop or else you will really fucking wake me up!

Not before you explain the word fuck and what fucking is all about.

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death (etc. etc. for one hour until Good night, Sweet Prince, and until you have been put to bed, so she can surf the Internet or watch late night television).

I really must be asleep and dreaming or else you wouldn’t have said the word fuck.

Sleep is like the unicorn. It is rumored to exist, but I doubt I will see any. — Who was the person who said that, Daddy?

You shouldn’t be using bad language with a mere kid. I could report you, you know. I have the Child Protective Services hotline on my iPhone.

If I refuse, will you waterboard me? Please?

Help! There’s a monster in my bedroom and he is violating my human rights!

How to Make Twelve Billion and Change

THINK OF RODNEY KING, the black Los Angeles resident who had his head beaten blue, green, and indigo, and his body squished to guacamole by Los Angeles cops after a high speed chase — and a Los Angeles jury awarded him $3.8 million for his ordeal (but only after black people had burned a chunk of Los Angeles in their fury). Whereas somewhere else in America, a jury awarded $2.7 million to an old white lady who spilled hot coffee on her lap after driving out of a McDonald's restaurant with a cup of scalding hot coffee — because the hot coffee happened to be hot.

The cumulative moral?

1. In America, a young black man's brain and entire body put together are worth only forty percent more than five