I'm the Sidekick for You--to Poop On!

By Joel Stein

In between my morning game of hearts and my post-lunch game of foosball, I started to wonder if perhaps there was not a job easier than mine. The only one I could think of, that Survivor host already has. But as I was realphabetizing all the CDs I get for free, I remembered that Andy Richter, the last great American sidekick, had vacated his seat on Late Night with Conan O'Brien. A seat that should be replaced with my lazy ass.

I'd always wanted to be a sidekick. I need an alpha male to accompany my Scottie Pippen cockiness, my Barney Rubble joie de vivre and my Siegfried love of feeling the soft, warm fur of a white tiger against my naked body. Plus I'd had experience interviewing celebrities. And in person they won't be able to hang up on me.

"I'm looking for someone who will nudge the guest, point to me and ask, 'Isn't Conan something,'" O'Brien told me when I offered myself as a candidate. I told him I was more interested in putting the "kick" back in sidekick, mocking him ruthlessly at every opportunity. He then tried several methods to dissuade me, including telling me the salary was $26,000 a year, demanding I have Samoan heritage and making vague sartorial threats. "You're going to have to do a lot of cross-dressing segments," he said. "Andy looked good in low-cut gowns."

"I have great legs," I assured him.

"I wish you hadn't said that," he replied. "That depressed me for some reason."

I told Conan that this was the kind of banter America loved to hear at 1 a.m. as they slept soundly. It seemed the only thing keeping me from the job was my previous experience on TV. When most people are asked to relate their most embarrassing moment, they inevitably tell some suspicious story about "accidentally" getting naked in public. At least they do in the kinds of magazines I read. But all my most embarrassing moments happened on television. There was the segment for Entertainment Tonight, when the interviewer asked me if Bruce and Demi's divorce would affect their children, and I said, "Only if they are selfish, vindictive parents like mine." We still talk--on holidays.

After that episode, TIME sent me for media training with Joanne Stevens, M.S., who runs Stevens Media Consulting Ltd. Her office had a very Jack Paar-inspired set with a desk in front of a painted New York City backdrop. She gave me advice like not to wear hats "unless you have a clever or serious reason for wearing one" and to avoid the temptation of swivel chairs. She also told me, "You're the man," "Be the man," "Just be the man," and "It makes you the man." After reviewing the tape we had made, where I did fine because I wasn't really on TV, she tried to encourage me by saying I was handsome and had "a sexy mouth." I looked at the video camera on the tripod and told Joanne I had to leave.

I know TV isn't for me. It makes me nervous and self-aware, and it makes me ask myself troubling questions about why I like wearing makeup so much. But that's why I want this sidekick gig. I get all the benefits of having my face on TV every night, sitting next to famous people, without bearing the responsibility of talking. Just as long as it doesn't conflict with foosball.