Frazer’s open mic
“Yeah, but that’s not even the good part. Did I tell you what happened next?”
One of the fun things Frazer would do on his show was to come back from a commercial or song, pretending that he hadn’t noticed that he was on the air. He’d be talking with someone (on the phone, presumably, because you only heard Frazer’s end of the conversation, and with Al Ramirez, presumably, because he was Frazer’s confidant), and he’d be relating a tale of something that had just happened to him. It was always incredible, and juicy.
Right when he’d get to the “good part,” though, he suddenly notice that he was back on the air, and interrupt the story to get back to work. Of course, at that point you didn’t care about anything else except how the story ended, but somehow those endings never saw the light of day.
The best part is that you can play along. The next time you’re at a restaurant with a friend, start telling one of these stories in a conspiratorial tone, but loudly enough for others to hear. When you get to the “good part,” suddenly look up and notice the person sitting there. Fun for all!
Are you kidding? I didn’t get any sleep last night. You know Brando’s crashing at my place, and he sets the thermostat so it’s like Ice Station Zebra. So around midnight, I wake up and I’m freezing. Then, I notice that the blankets aren’t even on the bed. I’m feeling all around, and suddenly, I hear this voice ask me, “Looking for something, Frazer?” I wake up in a hurry now, because I think I recognize the voice, but it’s too dark to see. Then, she says, “Why don’t you look up here?” So I look up at the trapeze, and there, hanging by her knees, is Pam Dawber, you know, from Mork and Mindy, and she’s totally nude. It’s like a scene straight out of my movie “High School Cheerleaders Hung Upside Down.” Well, by this time, I’m awake all over, if you know what I mean, and Pam knows it too, because she says, “Do you still want your blanket back, or are you hot enough now?” Then she reaches down and starts tearing off my Christian Dior see-through edible pajamas. And let me tell you, she was one hungry chick. I mean, she must have had me stripped in less than a minute. Well, she swallows the last shred of my PJs, and she’s staring at me with those big eyes of hers. Then she says, “That was a nice snack, but I’m still hungry. Do you have anything more filling?” She dismounts and lands right on top of me. I swear I thought she broke my … uh … leg, you know what I mean? So she sees I’m hurt, and she says “Here, let me kiss that and make it better.” Oh, that’s nothing. You won’t believe what she did next. She … oh, I’ll tell you during the next commercial … hang on a minute.
I really shouldn’t tell you about my date with Julie Christie. I don’t want to spoil your fantasies. Well, alright. When we get to her place, the first thing she says to me is, “Do you know why chocolate syrup is so much fun? Because it takes so long to lick off.” Well, obviously, I should have known the answer to that one. Anyway, she gives me this wicked little giggle, and starts pouring the stuff all over my fingers. I mean, it’s getting all over the couch and everything. But she just goes crazy with the stuff. She soaks my hand in it, and then starts licking it off my fingers, one by one. Of course, by this time, I’m nearly crazy from the sexual tension, and then she says, “Now, you do it to me.” Well, I get the syrup and grab her hand and and she jerks away from me. Then she says, “Not there, stupid, here!” Well, what else could I do? I mean, I was trapped. I mean, I’d already devoured those pasties she wears. My hands were shaking, she’s quivering like there’s an earthquake, and … oh … are we back now? Oh, OK.
I didn’t even get home until four in the morning. Well at that point, I was still hoping to grab at least a couple minutes of shut-eye before coming in to work. Besides, those girls were trying to kill me. Well, if I’d known you were free I would have called you, but I didn’t realize I’d wind up being the only guy there. OK, OK, so anyway, I open the front door and the whole house was quiet, like all my groupies had gone home. Yeah, how crazy is that? Then, I heard it. It sounded like somebody had turned on a big fan in the living room, and believe me, I know what that sounds like. There was also this smell. It was sort of like perfume, but it also smelled like something burning, you know what I mean? So I walk down the hall to the living room, and there’s a huge Hollywood wind machine turned up to ten pointing at me. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention, because standing in front of the fan is Cheryl Ladd. She had her dress pulled over her head, but I could tell it was her because I recognized her tan lines. Anyway, she’s just standing there in front of the fan, letting it blow her … uh … “perfume” … if you know what mean, toward me. As soon as she sees me she tears off her dress and it wraps around my head. The next thing I know, she’s untying my shoes with her tongue. Oh, yeah. The laces are still a little damp. By this time, I’m beginning to get the idea of what she’s up to, so I grab her by the hair, because she’s started nibbling on my chest hairs, and I say, “Why don’t you put that thing to good use?” That must have pushed her over the edge, because she … oh, wait a minute … call me back later.
I’m sure, Al! You mean to tell me that if Susan St. James called you up at nine o’clock at night asked to to come over right away so you could have breakfast together, you’d say, “Wait a minute, baby, aren’t you married?” I didn’t think so. I sure didn’t. So, when I have almost all of her clothes off, there’s a knock at the door and she says, “That’s my husband!” You know where she lives, right? That penthouse there in Westwood? There’s one door out to the hall, and the other door is about three hundred feet above Wilshire Boulevard. There I am, hanging off the side of a building three hundred feet above the street, waiting for the all-clear signal and wondering if the parking valet would break my fall, when I notice that there’s a maintenance ladder that goes up to the roof. So I climb up and start trying to find a way to get down. Where would I have gotten clothes? I didn’t have time to grab mine. So I’m stumbling around on the roof of her penthouse in pitch dark with no clothes, right? I thought I had it made until I tripped over something, and I fall right through her skylight. Yeah, the stained-glass one in her bedroom. Fortunately I hit the bed, or I would have been dead meat. I thought I’d knocked the wind out of myself because I could hardly breath, but then I realize it’s because I have a face full of whipped cream. I look up, and there’s Susan, completely covered in whipped cream, with a cherry on each nipple. Husband? No, it was a girlfriend, and she’s naked and covered in whipped cream, too. Anyway, Susan sees me checking out her friend and she says, “You knocked one of my cherries off … put it back.” One of the cherries is kinda dribbling down the whipped cream. I reach for it, and she says, “Not with your hand, Fraze, use your head!” By this time, the whipped cream is starting to heat up, and the cherry is sinking fast, so I kinda had to dive and hope for the best. Oh, hang on, let me put you on hold for a second.
Yeah, I did, but I didn’t eat there. Well, it’s a long story. When I got there, Ed and Johnny were already there checking out the menus. I spot this hot girl at the next table, who’s checking me out, so I start checking her out, too. Just then, the waiter brings her an order of asparagus, and she starts eating them one at a time real slow, you know, first licking all the butter off, then sucking the buds off of the end, and then nibbling the rest with her lips. Anyway, she suddenly calls the waiter over and asks for the bill. While he’s getting that, she’s looking at me and eating the asparagus. She drops a Benjamin on the table and splits without waiting for her change. Ed and Johnny are still trying to figure out what to order, so I excuse myself and follow her out. At first I don’t see where she went, but then this car door opens next to me and she pulls me inside. She’s all over me, kissing me like crazy and moaning like wild. Then she rips open her blouse and says, “Get a load of these,” and pulls my head down inside of what’s left of her shirt. And talk about limber. I’ve never seen a woman get out of a pair of tight pants that fast, right there in the parking lot. Oh, hang on a minute, Al, I’ll be right back.
… no, you’re right. But I’m telling you: I’m never working with Timothy Hutton again. Wait, hang on …