David Sedaris Drops Scatological Satire at the Fillmore

David Sedaris talks dirty. That's the major difference between his New Yorker and This American Life stories and his live events like last night's at the Fillmore Miami Beach. Diminutively perched behind a professorial podium, Sedaris talked about the human turds covering China, blow jobs, and shitting in your own hand. He had us mesmerized.

As if answering an unspoken vibe, he said that after one of his readings, an offended audience member reprimanded him for such crudeness with I thought you were better than that. His response: Whatever gave you that idea?

He started the night by reading his hilarious essay on language programs from The

New Yorker, and we were a little concerned that we'd hear no new

material. Yet he followed up the story with explaining how ridiculously

thorough New Yorker fact-checking is and how the language software

company responded to his work by adding I am a homosexual to their list

of common phrases.

Thankfully, the rest of the night was all new material -- at least to

our ears. He launched into an essay about the difference between

socialized healthcare where he lives in Paris and the American system.

When Sedaris discovered something the size and consistency of a deviled

egg protruding from his side, his French doctor considered him an alarmist

for bringing it to their attention. As an American, he wanted the doctor to

call it by a scientific name, deliver the news gravely, and then offer an

expensive surgical option.

Sedaris's cleverness and nasal-tinged delivery sells out theaters. But

when he simply reads his writing, there is very little difference

between his live events and the Sedaris coming out of our radios. And

just when we started hoping he'd be more like Rick Perry and go off the

script a little, he began a piece titled "I'm Not Running for


This satire of passionate conservatism was like red meat for the NPR

crowd. It contained hyperbolic gems befitting of the Colbert Report: we

should make illegals push our cars to solve both the gas and immigration

problem. Or we should give babies the chance to abort their mothers

through a thumbs up or thumbs down program during ultrasounds.

In the next piece, Sedaris relayed episodes from his childhood that made it

seem like he grew up in the pages of Go the F to Sleep. Instead of good

night, his parents sent their kids to slumber with shut up. And after a

neighborhood boy shouts profanity at his mother, an 11-year-old Sedaris

explains to his brother that bitch means "female dog" and also "a crabby

woman who won't let you be yourself."

The Fillmore was way too cavernous a venue for the humorist. Ideally,

we'd like to commune with Sedaris in the back corner of a cocktail

party, where he'd regale us with tales from his North Carolina childhood

and offer witty jabs about the rest of the people in the room. As one of

2,000 in the theater, the closest we came to this was when Sedaris read

excerpts from his diary, revealing short outbursts of observational


As an essayist, he admitted that keeping a diary was an absolute must --

as was collecting the names of folks who's random anecdotes might one

day make it into his New Yorker pieces. He ended the hour-and-a-half reading

by inviting all to a book signing in the lobby, and if there was anyone

who was like his friend, and pooped in their hands, please come

introduce yourself.

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Amanda McCorquodale