Word: clays
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...struts onstage, and 17,000 New Yorkers start to cheer. Andrew Dice Clay tells jokes for a living -- dirty jokes, stag-party jokes, jokes designed to singe a churchgoer's soul and turn a feminist's stomach -- but he attracts crowds whose size and ardor would thrill a rock star. In sold-out Madison Square Garden, he looks like a samurai biker, with Brando's pout, Elvis' sideburns and a sequined jacket, its back stitched with the phrase DICE RULES. And he does too. He is America's rajah of comic raunch, ready to beguile fans who dress like...
...destined to be the Filth Decade? What has happened to comedy, not to mention the English language, if a scoundrel like Clay can twist these fine old instruments to touch minds and make a mint? Clay may be at the rough edge of popular entertainment, but he stands there proud as well as profane, and he does not stand alone...
...Andrew Dice Clay's mouth. A few years ago, Clay was playing small clubs and working as a supporting actor. Now he is poised between stand-up and stardom. He is top-lining in two summer movies, one a comedy concert film, the other a detective spoof called The Adventures of Ford Fairlane. With his suave prole looks and his studded, studied cock-of-the-Brooklyn-walk demeanor, Clay wears the aura of danger that Hollywood wants in a movie star. So maybe he'll be one. That still leaves doubts about his popular appeal...
...Clay's comedy, woman is only a sexual convenience, a sentimental slag, a "dishrag hoo-er." For him, all romantic encounters hover between mechanical sex and date rape. "So I say to the bitch, 'Lose the bra -- or I'll cut ya.' Is that a wrong attitude?" The obvious answer is yes. Nearly everything he says is wildly heinous. Clay knows this, and so do his fans; their laughter is a release at hearing forbidden thoughts twisted into jokes. Says Leonard R.N. Ashley, an English professor at Brooklyn College: "Because the seven dirty words are in now common usage, there...
...Clay spills his latest secrets on a double comedy album, The Day the Laughter Died, which, the warning label advises us, "contains filthy language and no jokes!!!" Talk about truth in advertising: in 100 minutes of banter there are not half a dozen good dirty jokes. Yet some of the loudest laughter comes from women. Good sports at their own immolation, they giggle and groan along with their beaux. Perhaps proving they are tough is as important to them as it is to men. Others have found the spectacle less edifying. One woman at Madison Square Garden listened to Clay...