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Rude Behavior

Rude Behavior

by Dan Jenkins

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The good-ole-boy heroes of Dan Jenkins' Semi-Tough and Life Its Ownself are back in this exuberant tale of football and other excesses. Rude Behavior finds Billy Clyde Puckett, former New York Giant football god and later television announcer, as general manager and part-owner of a new NFL team, the West Texas


The good-ole-boy heroes of Dan Jenkins' Semi-Tough and Life Its Ownself are back in this exuberant tale of football and other excesses. Rude Behavior finds Billy Clyde Puckett, former New York Giant football god and later television announcer, as general manager and part-owner of a new NFL team, the West Texas Tornadoes. His old drinking partner-in-crime and favorite receiver, Shake Tiller, has written a bestselling book, The Average Man's History of the World, and his nearly perfect wife, Barbara Jane, is in Hollywood, making a movie with Shake, who happens to be her old flame. Meanwhile, Billy Clyde's father-in-law, Big Ed Bookman, who is more Texas than oil and is majority owner of the Tornadoes, is trying to lure the old Giants coach, T.J. Lambert, to run his new team. And Billy Clyde has met a bartender named Kelly Sue Woodley, a wiseass beauty who works at a joint called "He Ain't Here" and causes some major marital discord.

All these folks are back to take part in some serious fun, which in Jenkinsland means football, plenty of "young scotches," athletic exploits on the field and in the bedroom, a lot of riffs about the stupidity of "gubmint reg-you-layshuns," and the sublime beauty of country music. Hilarious, stubbornly retrograde, and laced with affection for everything Texas football stands for, Rude Behavior is vintage Dan Jenkins.

Editorial Reviews

Charles Salzberg
It's been a very long time since those lovable bad boys...led the New York Giants to the Super Bowl, and now they're back. The question is, Do we really want them?
The New York Times Book Review
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
In this continuing saga of former sportswriter Jenkins's sardonic alter ego and narrator, Billy Clyde Puckett (Semi-Tough, etc.), the former footballer and gadabout sports junkie slips from redneck obstreperousness to fundamentally racist and misogynist stupidity. The plot of this very shaggy, junior-high-school dirty joke centers on Billy Clyde's attempt to use the money of his father-in-law, Big Ed Bookman, to establish an NFL expansion team in the semiarid Texas wasteland between Amarillo and Lubbock. This improbability is of small concern to the book and occupies less than a tenth of its length. Billy Clyde spends most of the time regaling the reader with the mind-numbing back stories of every character--no matter how minor--who crosses his path. Most all of these have three unlikely names or nicknames, none of which is believable or in good taste. Other diversions include a timeline tracing the history of the NFL, lots of babe-ogling in bars and arguments over the stats of yesteryear. Billy Clyde is too much a part of the absurdity to provide a satiric norm or to separate wisecracks from wisdom. In places, Jenkins gets off an amusing zinger or two, but far too much of this overdone but underachieving farce reminds one of a comedian who grows nastier the fewer laughs he gets. Author tour. (Sept.)
Library Journal
Anyone who has read Semi-Tough (LJ 10/15/72) will not be surprised that this book, which continues the adventures of Billy Clyde Puckett, is sexist, racist, redneck, antigay, politically incorrect, and guaranteed to offend virtually every category of human being. It is also rolling-on-the-floor funny. Billy Clyde and his rich father-in-law win one of the NFL expansion franchises, the West Texas Tornadoes, and extravagantly cheat their way to the Super Bowl. Along the way there is plenty of time for comments on Hollywood (Billy's wife is a movie star), corruption in college football (he's in favor of it), cheerleaders, lawyers, developers, and diners in small Texas towns. Public libraries should buy multiple copies; librarians should grab them first for a fun read. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/98.]--Marylaine Block, St. Ambrose Univ. Lib., Davenport, IA
Kirkus Reviews
The veteran sportswriter rounds up his gang from Semi-Tough and Life on Its Ownself for a crassly funny, cynical, but ultimately endearing nod at professional football. This time out, former New York Giants Superbowl winner Billy Clyde Puckett puts together his very own NFL team and takes them to the Superbowl. Jenkins's latest roman-à-clef is really about growing old. Back in his hometown of Fort Worth, where men are men (unless they're gay "shirtlifters") and where women are "rack-loaded wool drivers" (unless they're "mature"), Puckett defiantly smokes Marlboros and knocks back on the booze in a woebegone little bar called He's Not Here, as he contemplates football's pointless afterlife. Most people no longer recognize him; he's bored with giving motivational speeches to CEOs; and his stint as a TV sports commentator was too silly to endure. Now his wife, sexpot movie star Barbara Jane Bookman, has gone to Switzerland to film a stupid movie directed by Billy Clyde's best friend, Shake Tiller; T.J. Lambert, here a college football coach, is stoically bailing his brainless players out of jail; and sportswriter buddy Jim Tom Pinch is still picking up young bimbos. But just as Puckett's bleary eyes are beginning to wander toward the mature silhouette of bartender Kelly Sue Woodley, Puckett's billionaire "bidnessman" father-in-law Big Ed Bookman gives him a blank check so he can find a town (code-name: Big Food), build a stadium, sign up players, and otherwise invent the West Texas Tornadoes. Puckett goes at the task over infinite quantities of booze and food. But despite false starts, phony injuries, bad calls, and dumb fumbles, the West Texas Tornadoes make it tothe Superbowl, where they prove that winning is a matter of making the best of what little you can call yours. A coarse mix of good ol' boy put-downs, below-the-belt slurs, sports gossip, and aw-shucks sentimentality can't mask the sadness in this tale of men building monuments to their former glory.

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Random House Publishing Group
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It was with his usual alertness that T.J. Lambert noticed the shapely adorable when she came in the bar with her two best friends, which some people used to call tits. My astute wife would have given her an endearing name right away--Too Tight and Too Cheap. T.J., on the other hand, made some kind of noise that could pass for a whimper and said, "Damn, Billy Clyde, that little sumbitch down there is so good-looking, I believe I'd crawl through two sewers and walk across a mile of razor blades just to touch the hammer of the guy who's nailing her."

Maybe you think that's a crude way to begin. But I can tell you that in all of my saintly, uncrude life, I've never seen anything totally crude, except for some of those photo-op delicacies Chef Timothy or Chef Bernard likes to put on your plate--at $50 an organic baby carrot.

Dine out often, you get to see your share of those carved-up deals. I've seen a melon swan, no bullshit. A tomato looking like a rose. I've even seen a mashed potato ocean, this big splat making little waves all around my meat.

Actually, I guess I have seen a few other crude things. A fumble on first down is as close to crude as you want to be. And a good many of those end-zone celebrations can be fairly crude, particularly when they dance all the way to Mozambique and back.

Then there are those tricks the fun-loving zebras like to play on you. Call holding whenever it strikes their fancy. Ground can't cause a fumble. Hands in the face. Pushing off. Defensive holding. Call "inadvertent" something or other. That kind of crude shit.

Life was simpler when me and Shake Tiller and T.J. played. The quarterback didn't wear an evening gown and a string of pearls. Pass interference was when you broke a guy's ribs. Today it's excessive frowning. Shake got so many ribs cracked on crossing patterns, he'd have a right to be a full-time painkiller dope fiend today.

We were sitting at the bar on a late April afternoon in T.J.'s new favorite hideout. A cozy tavern called He's Not Here.

I'd taken a flight out of La Guardia, landed at D/FW around two in the afternoon, and rented my Cadillac-Buick. A Cadillac-Buick was what my Uncle Kenneth used to call any car that cost more than the one he could afford to drive.

For me a Cadillac-Buick was something big enough to climb in and out of without getting a clubfoot or a withered arm.

Giving me directions to He's Not Here, T.J. had said, "Go out Camp Bowie past that freeway fork where you have to get killed, but not as far out as where women go to buy things." Which meant Neiman's. I'd eventually found the joint in an old shopping strip, snuggled in there with Ewell Dewell, chiropractor, Idella's Fashions, and Little Slim's Barber Shop.

The weather was an in-betweener. I was wearing my standard-issue khakis, brown loafers, white button-down shirt, and the dark blue windbreaker that advertised Mondo Bimbo, one of Shake Tiller's more deeply philosophical films.

I was also wearing my plaid golf cap, not as a disguise but to keep the Texas wind from making my thinning brown hair look like the last, tattered flag above the Alamo.

As I might have expected, He's Not Here was one of those establishments where you were likely to find a few more whipdog salesmen than you would polo players. Splotchy gray industrial carpet with tales to tell. A few tables from the oilcloth family. Dark booths along two walls. A filling station clock. A cigarette machine, a small parquet floor in a corner for the Freds and Gingers, and an L-shaped bar with swivel stools and Naugahyde padding for the elbows of customers who needed to think it over awhile longer before they went home to the cuss fight.

A jukebox and Fritos joint. Dining and dancing.

The tunes on the jukebox indicated that music began with Hank Williams and ended with Patsy Cline, but today's anthem, being played constantly, was Gary P. Nunn singing, "If You Don't Believe I Love You, Honey, Just Ask My Wife."

Much of what you needed to know about the ambience of He's Not Here could be found in the black lettering on the white sweatshirt worn by the convivial lady behind the bar. I didn't normally take the time to contemplate the messages on T-shirts and sweatshirts, but this one asked to be studied more closely. In black lettering, the message smartly said:


I asked the bartender what her name was. She said she'd like for it to be Michelle Pfeiffer, but she'd had to settle for Kelly Sue Woodley.

Her snug jeans suggested good legs. She had creamy skin, a sharp little nose, shrewd eyes of swimming-pool blue, and America hair. Amber waves of grain.

Good-looking stove. Lady somewhere in her forties. One who'd seen two husbands run off with go-go dancers, a mobile home burn down, and a Honda Civic wash away in a flood. But all that was purely a guess on my part. It had to do with the so-what expression on her face.

After T.J. made that romantic remark about the shapely adorable, I rattled the ice in my Junior and water and said I was glad to know he still read Keats and Shelley. Thought I was being funny.

"Shirt-lifters." The coach smirked.


"Look under an old boy's shirttail, see if he's got a mule dick."

"Shirt-lifters," I said again. "Keats and Shelley?"

"All them poets."

Not all of them, I said. I was pretty sure I remembered from college that old Percy Shelley tried to drop the hammer on every woman in Europe except the madonnas in the picture frames.

"Vast majority will lift your shirt," he said. "And you better not call 'em fags anymore, Billy Clyde. A bunch of sensitive sumbitches might run a parade through your livin' room."

I said I didn't need to be told that. I'd been to Broadway shows. I read newspapers. I watched television. I'd listened to acceptance speeches on Oscar night. I was aware the PC brigade even wanted to rewrite the Bible. One of these days I'd look up and God wouldn't be Our Father. God would be Our Ellen or Our Gavin, hallowed be thy sexual orientation.

"We get our share of PC crap around school," T.J. said. "Seems like every professor on campus can find something he wants to fuck with."

"I never did trust a man who carried sonnets in his pocket."

"Save the Hispanials. Salute the gender women. Support your local shirt-lifters. Teach more Africranium literature. I told our chancellor the other day his professors better not bring any of that do-good bullshit around my football players."

"It's good to have a chancellor you can talk to."

"He's a realist, you know that. Likes to win, get him another wing on the library. Get him one of those buildings where the beards and smocks jack around with test tubes . . . collect insects."

"I suppose shirt-lifter is better than fag," I said casually. "Sounds almost jovial."

"Shirt-lifters . . . greyhounds . . . Fifis . . ."


"They like their bus stations."

"I should have studied the poets closer."

"All I remember is some of the junk they tried to get you to read. If they were good poets, it rhymed. A bad poet didn't make any sense at all, except to other bad poets. I did notice the shirt-lifters wrote more about daffodils than they did pussy."

"Not easy to rhyme pussy," I said. "I guess Shakespeare found that out soon enough."

"I didn't have much luck with Shakespeare."

"Made people talk backwards is what I remember."

"Forsooth," T.J. said, his lip curled up on his pink face.

"Do what?"

From the Paperback edition.

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