Every Day is an Atheist Holiday!: More Magical Tales from the Author of God, No! by Penn Jillette Page B

plastic and we’d take our boxers off and have the audiences members check out everything. We showed them everything we had, lifting our penises and testicles and letting them check for hidden bunny rabbits. The plastic didn’t really cover much and people could always see over, under, and around it. This wasn’t a flash—this was a genital tour. The audience members would then examine a couple of long white tank tops and we’d put those on and nothing else. They were short enough that when we lifted our arms, well, on a warm or exciting night, the shirts wouldn’t cover the full frontal even during the magic.
    Big-band Penn & Teller theme music would play and, out of nowhere, we would produce a few liters of stage blood each and cover ourselves from head to toe with it while doing a little dance routine, soaking the T-shirts. That would be the end of the show, and we’d appear afterward in the lobby to meet people and sign autographs wearing Carrie-like, blood-soaked T-shirts with our little Houdinis hanging out. It was pretty great, because instead of having to sign autographs, we could just slap our chests and give them a bloody handprint on their souvenir programs.
    In Atlantic City once, a professionally beautiful woman came up to me, wearing a white minidress without undergarments just like me, and gave me a big hug. The blood left her dress slightly transparent and imprinted all of the private parts of my body onto hers. So sexy. It was a great moment. I felt I should invite her backstage to shower with me, help her pack up her souvenir minidress, give her a P&T T-shirt, but the girlfriend at the time wouldn’t have been cool with that. I’m such a loser. But it’s a great memory. Wow. I should have gotten her e-mail address and I could see that great tit/cock blood live gravestone rubbing. Shoot.
    I’ve stripped naked in public other times too, maybe not as much as Ginsberg, but a lot of times and I learned a few tricks and tips. I stripped in Zero-G on the Vomit Comet, and I stripped a couple times in business meetings (I once stripped naked for all the Disney execs and served them doughnuts to show I didn’t think a certain deal with us was going to happen), and on radio shows.
    Once while co-hosting radio with Alex Bennett in Florida, we had some Hooters waitresses on who served everyone chicken wings, including the whole live audience. Alex always had a live audience of about thirty people, and the women had brought enough Buffalo wings for everyone. They got to talking about how they themselves weren’t bad people like the topless dancers we’d had serving doughnuts on the air the morning before. Alex and I argued that the name Hooters was a joke about breasts, and it just wasn’t a classy organization. Alex asked the self-righteous servers if they would go topless if Hooters changed their policy and offered them more money. One of the women said, “Would you take your clothes off for a million dollars?” She thought that was a rock solid argument. She didn’t know whom she was saying it to.
    I took off all my clothes as fast as I could and threw them into the audience. I stood naked, not in front of the world, but in front of a Florida radio-station audience. I was standing on top of the engineering board. My friend’s elderly parents were in the audience to see me, and there was their son’s buddy naked. A few nights later the same couple came to see our show, and Teller, accidentally, picked my friend’s mom to come onstage for the stripping bit. My buddy called me up and said, “What is it with you exposing yourself to my mom?” He had a point: she had seen my penis twice in one week. That’s not right.
    I learned that day in the radio station why professional strippers don’t throw their clothes into the audience. When Alex threw to commercial and I wanted to get dressed, I had to walk naked among the audience trying to find all my clothes to get dressed again. No matter how