Chapitre 1
The Unvarnished Truth: A Comedian's Life Laid Bare
When I turn to look at the girl next to me in bed, with her bright yellow hair and red lips, I can't remember how she got there. The empty minibar bottles scattered around the hotel room tell part of the story. My agent had called earlier, laughing about my Wikipedia page claiming I'd died from a morphine overdose in this very Edmonton hotel room. Reading my own premature obituary was strangely fascinating-the only error being the tense. Standing in the room where I supposedly died, I decide to write my own story. I'll call it "Based on a True Story" because memory makes true stories impossible. Every story is just based on truth, sketched imperfectly like a courtroom artist trying to capture vanished moments. The girl wakes with no memory of last night either. My bruised hand tells me she was fought for, not bought. "I'll get us a bottle," I tell her. She has a pretty smile.
Chapitre 2
The Comedy Ladder: From Rural Beginnings to SNL
My childhood was spent on a farm in the Ottawa Valley, where the barber was the richest man in town. I'd watch my father scything hay, my mother pumping water, my grandmother slaughtering chickens for dinner. Old Jack, the hired hand and best man I've ever known, drove an ancient tractor while my brothers worked alongside. I observed everything from high in a blighted maple tree.
At age six, I learned a hard truth that would stay with me forever. Alone in the farmhouse, I watched through the screen door as our cat stalked a mouse. The cat would swat the mouse whenever it moved, playing with it before finally pouncing. After the mouse bit the cat's nose in desperation, the cat's eyes flashed black and it tore into the mouse, breaking its tiny bones. What frightened me most was when the cat flung the dead mouse into the hay and strolled away-this wasn't about food at all. I realized then that there's a difference between what a thing is and what it appears to be.
When I was thirteen, Old Jack died. At Coleman's Funeral Home, I panicked at the mention of his name. The undertaker noted there was no family for Old Jack, but my father said we had been his family for twenty years. My father found me hiding under a diseased elm tree and explained that every man is born with a debt that must eventually be paid. At the funeral, I approached Old Jack's casket with terror, fearing he might pull me in. But looking inside, my fear vanished with a curious realization-Old Jack wasn't really there. It was just something that resembled him, like a suit lying on a bed. The real Old Jack was gone.
My comedy career began in 1984 when Mark Breslin opened Yuk Yuk's comedy club in Ottawa, offering $15 per five-minute set. The decision to switch from manual labor was easy-I'd been making $21.20 a day working construction jobs for Charlie. Under Howie Wagman's guidance, I delivered my first-ever stand-up line: "How many of you guys own answering machines?" I quickly developed what I call a "cult following," though I explain that having a cult following is only advantageous when you're actually leading a cult. For a comedian, having a cult following simply means most people hate your guts.
After a disastrous appearance on Star Search, where I received just three-quarters of a star while a Bushman from Africa received a perfect four, I set my sights on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I understood that Carson-not Ed McMahon-was the true kingmaker who could transform a career with a simple wave to his desk. With Carson's retirement looming, my window was closing. But instead of seizing my chance when it came, I made the catastrophic decision to turn down an appearance, believing I wasn't ready-a decision that haunted me for years.
Chapitre 3
The Saturday Night Live Years: Rise to Weekend Update
Fortune struck when Robert Morton, Letterman's booker, caught my act at Catch a Rising Star. After Letterman gave me his stamp of approval, my friend Adam Sandler convinced SNL head writer Jim Downey to watch my performance. Jim, amused by my Carson blunder, recommended me to Lorne Michaels, and I was invited to audition.
At Mohonk, the lakeside resort where the SNL cast and crew gathered to bond before the season, I felt intimidated among talented newcomers like Jay Mohr, Sarah Silverman, and Dave Attell. I immediately connected with Jim Downey, whose street smarts I admired despite his limited formal education. The first night, while others raved about Chris Farley, I remained skeptical-until Farley burst naked into the dining room performing his "salad impression," shoving baby tomatoes up his ass while dousing himself with oil and vinegar. It was the most outrageous, committed comedy I'd ever witnessed.
During that trip, Lorne explained that SNL faced profound change as its brilliant sketch players departed, leaving impossible shoes to fill. The new cast-Farley, Schneider, Spade, and "top dog" Sandler-were different from their predecessors. They weren't sketch actors from Second City or the Groundlings; they were stand-ups who worked alone. They were adapting by playing to the camera rather than each other, often laughing at their own sketches' absurdity. Lorne called it "deconstruction" and in Sandler's case, "glorious dereliction of duty."
As freshmen "featured players," my fellow newcomers and I occupied an awkward position between writers and performers, expected to write sketches for established cast members while occasionally earning small roles ourselves. We stand-up comics struggled against actual sketch writers with Ivy League educations-brilliant minds like Ian Maxtone-Graham, Lew Morton, Dave Mandel, Steve Koren, Marilyn Suzanne Miller, Steve Lookner, and the incomparable Jim Downey.
My sketches rarely made it to air, though writers like Ian Maxtone-Graham, Adam McKay, Steve Higgins, Tim Herlihy, and especially Adam Sandler occasionally gave me small parts. Every Wednesday I submitted my "Answering Machine" sketch-based on my first-ever stand-up joke-always writing in a part for Sarah Silverman, whom I was falling for despite her relationship with Dave Attell.
After my first on-screen appearance-a single line ("Beam me up, Scotty") in a Star Trek sketch-Steve the doorman became my biggest fan, enthusiastically greeting me as "Beam Me Up Scotty" and introducing me to his friends by this moniker, much to their confusion. A little fame brings awkward moments, like when Slash approached me on the street assuming I knew someone named "Chucky" who wasn't doing well. Rather than admit I had no idea who Chucky was, I played along, nodding solemnly.
Chapitre 4
Weekend Update: Finding My Voice
With my second SNL season approaching, Lorne Michaels and I were discussing my future role. Lorne bluntly told me I couldn't write, act, or do characters, wondering how to use me. Though hurt, I insisted my stand-up bits could become sketches. Lorne had an epiphany: I could simply read cue cards while sitting behind a desk. The only obstacle was Al Franken, who wanted the Update spot and was far more qualified. I bluffed, claiming I could make Franken a U.S. Senator if he stepped aside. Remarkably, Franken actually became a Minnesota senator years later.
I assembled a dream team for Weekend Update, starting with Lori Jo Hoekstra, a writers' assistant whose comedy talent was being wasted. Her sharp humor could keep up with even Sandler, and her comedy instincts were nonpareil. I convinced her to produce the segment.
Our team developed a distinctive style: Ross Abrash wrote concise jokes without an ounce of fat, while Frank Sebastiano created preposterously blunt punchlines and catchphrases like "Or so the Germans would have us believe" and "Note to self" that became the most copied in comedy. At our first meeting, Jim Downey suggested we follow Sandler's lead and develop Update with a punk sensibility.
Despite disagreements over my introduction line "I'm Norm Macdonald and this is the fake news" (which everyone rejected but later became standard industry terminology), Weekend Update premiered in fall 1994 to instant success. The New York Times called it "punk-rock comedy," exactly what I'd intended.
With thousands of jokes generated weekly and whittled down to a perfect dozen, plus features from comedy giants like Sandler, Farley, Breuer and Quinn, the segment thrived. My power grew along with the size of my cue cards, which eventually became four times larger than any other cast member's. Despite eventual grumbling about me, I remained confident-when you're that funny, you can't be fired.
My jokes targeted everyone from O.J. Simpson ("That's my lucky stabbing hat") to Dr. Jack Kevorkian ("When are people going to realize this man is not a good doctor?") to Bill Gates (sad when he sees "other people with any money whatsoever"). The collection included classics like the "Better than Ezra" joke (with Ezra at number two), the "free therapy for gun owners" bit, and my deadpan delivery of "Yippee! Jerry Rubin is dead" (corrected to "Yippie Jerry Rubin").
Chapitre 5
The Fall: Fired From Update
"Norm, I told you this when I first spoke to you four years ago. It is imperative that you always have an exit strategy," Lorne said, his voice carrying its usual measured tone across his dimly lit office at 30 Rock. The statement hung in the air like cigarette smoke.
I was baffled. I had no desire to leave SNL - I enjoyed what was essentially the cushiest job in comedy, the minimal workload of reading from cue cards for ten minutes a week. Weekend Update had become my signature platform, where I could deliver razor-sharp commentary wrapped in my trademark deadpan style. I'd just finished shooting my first starring role in "Dirty Work" and thought my emerging movie star status would be an asset to the show, not a liability. It had never occurred to me that leaving wouldn't be my decision.
The summons to Los Angeles came swiftly. Don Ohlmeyer, the powerful head of NBC entertainment, sat behind his massive desk, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the studio lot. "Norm, are you aware that I am very good friends with O.J. Simpson?" he asked, leaning forward. He explained, with an unsettling mixture of pride and amusement, that he used to visit O.J. in prison and tease him with my Update jokes. But since O.J.'s acquittal, I'd stopped the jokes, leaving Don with nothing to "zing" his golfing buddy with during their regular rounds at Riviera Country Club.
"If you want to save your job, get back to the O.J. jokes," Don offered, as if suggesting nothing more controversial than a change in wardrobe. The ultimatum was clear - compromise my principles or face the consequences.
But I couldn't do it. My friends and I had spent long nights discussing the case, and we agreed what we'd done to O.J. was unconscionable, fueled by what I now recognized as my own "institutionalized racism." The relentless mockery, the assumption of guilt, the pile-on - it all seemed wrong in retrospect. The only thing O.J. Simpson was guilty of was being the best running back in NFL history, breaking rushing records and defenders' ankles with equal aplomb, while I was guilty of rushing to judgment, allowing myself to be swept up in the media frenzy that had consumed the nation.
The writing was on the wall. My principled stand would cost me my dream job, but at least I could look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes, I realized, the price of integrity is paid in prime time television slots.
Chapitre 6
Dirty Work: A Movie of My Own
My advice for success in show business is simple: "Meet Adam Sandler." Without ever thanking him, I acknowledge how Sandler got me on SNL, cast me in Billy Madison, and convinced producer Robert Simonds to give me my own movie-though I still consider myself "a self-made man."
With an offer but no concept, my friend Frank saved me by pitching a revenge-for-hire business story. We brought in Fred Wolf as a third writer, but faced a directorial dilemma. I wanted Frank to direct so I wouldn't have to meet someone new, but Simonds insisted on Bob Saget, surprising me with Saget's film credentials including a Student Academy Award for a documentary about facial reconstruction surgery.
For casting, we wrote parts specifically for actors we wanted: Don Rickles, Chevy Chase, Jack Warden, Sandler, and Chris Farley (all confirmed), with Bill Murray still pending. The only challenge was finding my buddy character. After searching Hollywood, I discovered Artie Lange on MADtv and immediately knew he was perfect, appreciating his melancholy Belushi-like quality rather than relying on fat-man tricks.
Working with experienced actors was both educational and challenging-I could study their techniques, but I constantly felt their lack of respect as they exchanged withering glances during my scenes, looking at me "the way real vampires look at Count Chocula."
Meeting Don Rickles was deeply disappointing-not as an actor, but as a human being. Though I knew him from his Mr. Potato Head role in the Toy Story films and his appearances on The Tonight Show (where Johnny Carson kindly introduced him as "Mr. Warmth"), I never found his insulting style funny. When I approached him in the makeup trailer to express my honor at working with him, he immediately responded with insults, suggesting I was headed for a nursing home. Despite my attempts at kindness, including offering to take him to dinner, Rickles continued his relentless mockery, making me flee the trailer in tears.
Chapitre 7
The Gambling Addiction: Chasing Losses
It happened the night I was fired from Update. Within twenty-four hours, I would become a compulsive gambler. I hit the blackjack tables at the Tropicana Casino in Atlantic City, surrounded by boarded-up houses and signs reading "WE PAY CASH FOR GOLD FILLINGS."
My luck changed when I reluctantly joined a craps game despite not knowing the rules. An Asian player went on an incredible roll, and I kept pressing my bets. Within an hour, my $100 had transformed into $118,000 in chips. I felt an extraordinary transformation within myself-physically the same size but worth a thousand times more.
Years later, with a duffel bag of cash in the trunk, I sat by the Salton Sea contemplating my next move. Vegas was out since I'd lost a million at four different casinos. Atlantic City was our only option, though it meant winning at tables rather than sports betting. As we drove east, I experienced a profound realization about my twenty-year gambling addiction-it wasn't the money I'd wasted, but the time.
For a brief, liberating moment, I felt my gambling fever break. The car filled with our hysterical laughter as I tasted freedom from my addiction. When we calmed down, my friend sensibly suggested we return the money to a loan shark and work to pay off my debts legitimately. I nearly agreed, but then remembered Atlantic City was where my troubles began-it seemed fitting to end things there. Just as I convinced myself I couldn't lose, the car hit ice, slid off the highway, and was torn apart by trees.
I found myself walking on white sand, bodiless at first, then imagining myself young again in jeans and a plaid shirt. In the brilliant whiteness, I saw figures-my aunt Barbara, Uncle Bert the beloved town doctor, my childhood dog Tracker, and Anna, my teenage love who committed suicide. They beckoned me toward them as a distant voice pleaded, "STAY WITH ME."
Despite the temptation to join my loved ones in the afterlife, I hesitated, realizing I had unfinished work in the real world. I worried about having to admit I'd accomplished nothing if asked. But when Uncle Bert offered to take me fishing and I saw the still-eighteen Anna, I remembered our promise to be together forever.
As I approached them, I noticed troubling absences and recalled disturbing facts-rumors about Uncle Bert injecting patients with polio, Tracker being put down after killing an infant, the unsolved fire that killed Anna's parents. The serene scene transformed into horror as they attacked me. I awoke coughing blood onto snow as someone performed CPR, their hands pressing desperately on my chest.
Chapitre 8
Legacy: The Final Chapter
There is the way things are and then the way things appear, and it is the way things appear, even when false, that is often the truest. If I am remembered, it will always be by the four years I spent at Saturday Night Live and the events surrounding my departure. As long as SNL exists, then so do I.
People come to see me do stand-up because they remember me as Burt Reynolds on SNL, insisting Alex Trebek call me Turd Ferguson. They are happily disappointed when I'm old and fat and don't mention SNL. They take pictures with me like a roadside donkey, claiming they understand me when nobody else does.
It's difficult defining yourself by something long gone. Like an old man at a bar showing off his high school medal. I've been sprinting since SNL, trying to outrun the wolves of irrelevancy that devoured me years ago. But not completely-Lorne would see to that.
People assume I must be bitter about not becoming a superstar after SNL. But it's impossible for me to be bitter. I've been lucky. I've performed thousands of hours of stand-up comedy across Canada. Fame made the cold world a little warmer. And my gambling losses came from taking long shots that never came in. But I still have time before crossing that river.
A lot of people need to be thanked. I start with family-my brothers Leslie and Neil, my mother who gave me everything, and my late father who I'll meet again someday. I thank my son Dylan, who helped write this book and is a better writer than me. I'm grateful to Julie Grau and the team at Spiegel & Grau, my agent Joe Veltre, and friends Avard MacGregor and Gord McDonald. I acknowledge those who believed in my stand-up career-Howie Wagman, Mark Breslin, and comics like Kinison, Spade, Schneider, and especially Adam Sandler, without whom I'd have no career. Dennis Miller gave me my first job, Roseanne taught me to fight, and Bruce Helford taught me to write sixteen hours daily. I thank Lorne Michaels for fighting for me, SNL writers Jim Downey and Steve Higgins, Steve O'Donnell, my producing partner Lori Jo Hoekstra, and my manager Marc Gurvitz. Special thanks to David Letterman who made my dreams come true and became my friend. Finally, I thank two brilliant writer friends: Billy Joe Shaver and Louis C.K., with whom I talk about one day retiring to the road, to stand-up comedy-the greatest thing there is.
Chapitre 9
The Truth Behind the Story
What makes "Based on a True Story" so fascinating is its deliberate blurring of fact and fiction - a masterful demonstration of Norm Macdonald's genius for subverting expectations. Macdonald, widely regarded as a "comedian's comedian" for his sophisticated understanding of joke structure and timing, crafted this memoir as an intricate satirical take on the celebrity autobiography genre. Since its 2016 release, the book has achieved cult classic status, spawning countless online discussions and debates about which elements are drawn from reality and which spring from Macdonald's imagination.
Throughout various interviews and public appearances, Macdonald consistently maintained that much of the book is fictional, explicitly referring to it as "a novel" rather than a traditional memoir. The book's unreliable narrator - who shifts between earnest confession and obvious fabrication - serves as a meta-commentary on the nature of truth in storytelling. The narrator's supposed morphine addiction, catastrophic gambling problems, and increasingly outlandish scenarios (including supernatural encounters with Satan and near-death experiences with deceased relatives) function as carefully constructed literary devices rather than biographical facts.
What emerges through this carnival of absurdity is Macdonald's distinctive comedic voice - the same measured, deadpan delivery and subversive humor that made him legendary during his tenure on SNL's Weekend Update. While certain historical events are anchored in reality - such as his controversial departure from SNL over O.J. Simpson jokes - the book's version presents a wildly embellished account that serves the greater narrative. Similarly, though Macdonald did indeed work alongside many of the celebrities who appear in the book (including David Letterman, Adam Sandler, and Sarah Silverman), their portrayals are deliberately exaggerated for maximum comic impact, turning real people into almost mythological characters in his personal narrative.
The book takes on additional poignancy following Macdonald's death in September 2021 after a private nine-year battle with cancer - a struggle he deliberately kept hidden from the public, much like the narrator of his book conceals truth behind elaborate layers of storytelling. This parallel between author and narrator adds another meta-layer to the work, suggesting that sometimes the deepest truths can only be expressed through fiction. The memoir stands as a fitting testament to a comedian who elevated misdirection to an art form, consistently keeping audiences guessing about where the joke ended and reality began. In this way, "Based on a True Story" becomes more than just a memoir - it's a master class in comedy writing and an exploration of how stories shape our understanding of truth.
