Upsetting Day: Bill Cosby's Childhood (Patreon)

I had a solid October. Sleeping more, eating better, ignoring chain letters, moving to 66th 6th Avenue, buying a clock stuck at 4:44 PM on Friday the 13th, hurling broken mirrors into flocks of ravens, giving kids Halloween carrots, the works. Let’s see what’s queued up.

Right.

Introducing: Childhood, a 1991 Bill Cosby memoir. It’s not overtly inept, insane, or unedited. Instead, it flips dramatic irony: the audience and characters know more than the author thinks. Let’s call it dramatic injury.

If you’ve just returned from fighting Ming the Merciless: Bill Cosby’s a prolific comedian, chemist, and sex vulture. In minutes, my entire Thanksgiving table will text me about that line. So there’s some division downtown.

Once upon a time, Bill thrived as “America’s Dad.” Maybe that’s why America lashes out. Our father figures are split between known demons and future surprises. Next week we’ll learn FDR leaked intel to Berlin, Grant drank in moderation, and John Matrix was fictional. As for the Founders, slavery jokes are as worn as their property’s flesh and souls. Let it go. No one questioned it at the time, except those weirdos with pamphlets. The Founders were busy fucking up the first Constitution.

Kidding. I have plenty of love for Jefferson. At the end of the day, he’s family.

I never had much for Bill. Before the charges, he was already a hackier version of my worst uncle. The source of Bill’s downfall depends on your perspective. For most, all the GHB. For bowtie owners, a vast conspiracy. In this, as in all things, I side with the Illuminati.

It’s nice when things work out.

Childhood reflects on time dragging Bill by the heels into darkness. And sometimes, his youth. Bill wants it back. Not in that universal “my joints are dust” sense. The Countess Bathory sense. Bill watched your parents steal his vigor, and never forgave them. It’s his second greatest lust, behind lust.

This memoir could’ve filled a column before Bill’s everything came to light. I’d have been fine sampling bottomless kids these days riffs and cashing out. Like this:

Or the Nintendo edition:

Or the Nintendo edition, again:

Bill hopes Mario chokes:

But that’s not why I’m here.

Childhood waxes lovingly about children, time, and young love, and leaks resentment of all three. Now that we know the author’s hobbies, it’s the second most haunted thing I own. And I live with three ghosts. Something about Christmas, I try to tune them out.

Then again, I have an axe to grind. L1 turns it into a halberd. Let’s get a Harvard counterpoint: Childhood’s introduction stars Bill’s friend, script supervisor, and victim goalie Alvin F. Poussaint, MD. The type that says his whole title, every time. Alvin F. Poussiant, MD, describes Bill’s habits in sunnier terms:

Slick. I’ll concede every point: Bill has his own rules, an active inner child, and army of ride-or-dies. I’m not setting anything up. Chapters One through Nine get a free pass, regardless of the present. I’ll skip Bill robbing his sleeping father, and wishing “Mr. Valium” would get rid of his daughter. All cloying fun, or at least a stretch as a pattern.

They’re not why I’m here either.

Childhood has a standout chapter. A drop of…nope, switching metaphors. A bone in a vegan stew. A nail in a running shoe. A landmine under third base.

Chapter 10 opens on Bill Cosby’s sexual awakening. He leaves out the eclipse and agitated pets, and focuses on his lack of game. Been there. Universal experience, really. Let’s make it weird:

Actually, that’s fine. I could spin it as incel-ish in bad faith, but clown bushido covers sex offenders. Moreso, historically. Maybe I imagined–

Well, mentioning fake drugs doesn’t mean he wants to—

No, it’s real. Divorcing tequila means I only hallucinate on the wrong side of 6 AM. Photoshop and I are enemies.

This is the semifinal chapter. The comedic heavy before the fluffy sendoff. The main event. And it’s a charming, relatable story about Fool’s Rohypnol. What a wonderful way to learn Fat Albert’s real, and his friends fucking hate him.

Believe it or not, this isn’t SVU: Kids. It’s just a sex locust making clean childhood jokes. “Clean” as in “no cursing.” With respectability goggles, leaving Batman polite clues to your sex crimes is fine. Forget what you do in your pants, just make sure they’re tight.

I’d call this undiscovered territory, but that’s begging Eris and Eros to prove me wrong. Every bit about a felony I’ve ever heard is now a loaded gun. As a Jeselnik fan, that’s terrifying.

In Bill’s defense, he kept busy. So he definitely pitched a coming-of-age sex comedy called Spanish Fly. Featuring Fat Albert and Weird Harold on a date rape pilgrimage. It has that Revenge of the Nerds scene, but with Fat Albert. His catchphrase is involved.

I could pantomime losing my mind. But this feels right. This data fits Earth, 2023. The Old Gods are in a cafe down the street, sketching their next move on a napkin. Audiences expect WorIIId War, but the Nameless Kings want to keep things fresh.

The team finds an unoccupied sailor. Counting on my fingers, this story overlaps with the Korean War. Meeting Bill is still the worst danger this soldier will face.

This book’s a brick joke from Satan.

To be clear: writing about anything isn’t an automatic endorsement, or victory lap. A non-rapist could print this, and merely be unlovable. Context turns Childhood into a hell gate. King wrote about kicking addiction, struggling with art, and shooting wizards. But he mostly shoots wizards.

Maybe I’m wrong about being wrong. Let’s revisit the hallucination theory. Alvin F. Poussaint, MD, do you see this shit?

Gotcha, broken stair. Charging along.

Entertained, the sailor sells them magic beans. That’s a funny idea, if you’re not Bill Cosby, and don’t do what Bill Cosby does. Character is king.

If you’re well, you’re focused on the '50s sex standards. I get that. But I’m stuck on how eagerly Bill shits on the real Fat Albert. This is a short, “fun with margins” style book, but a good tenth of it is Everyone Laugh at Whale Boy. “Hey hey hey” is the cry of a shattered childhood. The real Al may have burned Bill’s checks.

Aw, they really do care.

Here, Bill shines as an educator. This story’s about building lifelong workplace skills. You can waste your mind playing Devil Plumber, or plan frat party dry runs and learn something.

Lil’ Bill learns the value of logistics. His punch looks like a drink from Bill Cosby:

I’m glad I get to mix things up. Not like that. There’s some rhythm here: Bill Cosby’s heard of, and even made, jokes for humans. Cutting pure incompetence from my formula really lets the horror shine.

How did Bill survive as America’s Grabby Uncle? He wasn’t shy about it. Bill wrote his If I Did It before a trial, or even exposure. He could have called this How I Do It, or I’m Still Doing It, or When I Do It, Again. Hannibal Buress was less like Van Helsing, and more like Dib.

Skip searching them on SparkNotes/TV Tropes, we’re on our own hunt. And so is Bill:

I’ll never say “Write what you know” again. I didn’t before, since Ray Bradbury didn’t spend much time on Mars. But I’m making it formal: lie to me. Lie like a climatologist that wants kids.

That said, I’ll admit there’s something to clean comedy. How many slasher films build tension this well? I can cuss through an ironic bloodbath, but is the fear real? Would you rather enter a cabin in the woods, or a happy hour with Bill Cosby?

A wrinkle emerges: Al’s mom is one of those consent fundamentalists. Time to play defense.

“Hey Al, I’ve adapted more timeless japes from our childhood.”

“That’s great, Bill.”

“Specifically your childhood. When none of us liked or respected you.”

“Sounds good, Bill.”

“I worked in The Ink Spots.”

“Leave The Ink spots alone, Bill.”

Childhood has chapters about Lil’ Bill trying jokes. But this is his origin story.

And inspirational, in a way. Look at the human drive to survive. While Bill presses like a salesman short on rent—or more relatably to you screen-addicted swine, a wartime web troll—Elaine stands her ground. She won’t let microwaved Entenmann’s be her last meal.

Bill’s famous for pudding, but he makes excellent ads for mace. Good luck keeping it on shelves. Forget new footage: just splice in Bill’s live version, before he recycled it here. Like many content factories, Bill loves refried ideas. I guarantee that Generation V leads to Homelander High.

The party ends without incident. Spanish Fly, like most of Cosby’s defense, is a pop myth. If you could trust those, ape gifs would’ve replaced insulin. Childhood closes on a drawn-out, true crime version of the stock oregano weed joke.

Hey, it was a different time. And Bill Cosby never judged anyone.

Childhood’s Spanish Fly detour is too bizarre for me to extract meaning. It’s a glitch. An unprovoked confession by a man that assumed, mostly correctly, he’d gotten off clean. I’m pushing it all the way down my mind’s Marianas Trench. Just like my childhood.

As for the future? Telling on himself worked for Bill. I’ll give it a try.

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