Shockaholic by Carrie Fisher

Author:Carrie Fisher
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl, happier than two people have ever been (clothed).

Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl standing on either side of President John F. Kennedy, a photo opportunity they would later re-enact (in bathing suits) with a lesser president.

Naturally he had hemorrhoids, which was probably partly why he eschewed pajama bottoms, leaving him to sleep bare bottomed on a towel. (Yes, with an HK monogram.) He also had a special toilet so he didn’t have to exacerbate the tissue down there with any undue wiping. I apologize for these descriptions. Horrific, I know. But, having shared this, I hope you’ll someday be able to find a way to forgive me. I know I won’t be able to forgive myself. Harry would push this little lever on the side of the toilet and it would spray water on him, after which he’d push the lever the other way and a tiny door would open and blast warm air to dry his now shiny clean parts. This was my favorite thing in the house to demonstrate to my fellow teenage classmates.

Given what I’ve told you so far, you won’t be surprised to learn that, in addition to Harry’s previously catalogued attributes, he was also a lifetime member of the Frequent Farter Club. He rarely spoke, apparently preferring to converse flatulently. He communicated in Morse code from his ass.

He was almost twenty years older than my mother, and had informed her of his impotence early on. I doubt that this was much of a heartbreak for her, for a host of reasons, but—as it turned out, this “impotence” turned out to be more that he just preferred to have sex with hookers who came to the house pretending to be manicurists.

After my mother found out about the “manicurists,” a gossip columnist named Joyce Haber wrote that the marriage was on the rocks. That night my mother came to my room (because by now you’ll perhaps be happy to hear that all four of us were finally sleeping in separate bedrooms), and, shutting the door discreetly behind her, she held out this article, held tight in her right hand. “Don’t show this to Harry,” she instructed me solemnly. The chances of my doing this were quite slim, as Harry and I rarely spoke—but I assured her I had no plans to do so. Later the same evening Harry uncharacteristically also came to my room, saying and doing almost the exact same thing my mother had done moments before. Clutching another copy of the same paper he said, “Don’t show this to your mother.” As if, in either case, this was something I would have done.

Then, in part as an effort to keep the family together, we all went to Europe. Todd and my first trip there. My most vivid memory of the trip occurred one evening when we were in Venice. As we floated along in a gondola, Harry’s hand drifting beside him in the water, while the gondolier singing his passionate song—la,

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