Just when I was ready to tear up my high school library card, here I am trying to write a new book.
Unlike my first one, Rickles' Book, this one isn't fact. On the other hand, I wouldn't exactly call it fiction. Truth is, I don't know what to call it. So I'm calling it Rickles' Letters. Okay, so I haven't mailed any of 'em — go tell it to the FBI.
They're just crazy letters that let me express myself. After all, I'm an artist.
Besides, I'm in my eighties, so what can they do to me? Take away my milk and cookies?
What else do I have to do except write letters? How many Indian casinos can you play in one year? How many Dodgers games can one man watch?
I gotta entertain myself and, in the process, I hope to entertain you. Example: I enjoy writing kidnap letters to myself, then letting the cops figure out who's missing.
I want to reach out and write to my close friends — as in the ones who send me a card every New Year's to see if I'm still alive. I also want to reach people who aren't so crazy about me — as in the ones who've seen my act and didn't bother to applaud.
I want to get more involved in American history. Like, "Dear Mrs. Lincoln, Sorry the show at Ford's Theatre didn't go well last night. But could you get me a couple of aisle seats for the Saturday matinee?"
I want to write to a lot of the stars I've known over the years, so they won't forget how I contributed to their success, and ask them to leave me something before they die — like their estates.