Which brings me to Barney Stinson, through whom I became a bro. Barney was my second long-term TV role. Doogie Howser was a great character, but he was the center of the chaos, the calm nucleus around which dozens of crazy electrons swirled. He wasn’t very fun. Whereas Barney was a crazy insane person: two parts Larry from Three’s Company, three parts Vince Vaughn from anything, a dash of David Beckham, and a heaping spoonful of Tom Leykis. (Look him up, kids.) The fun of Barney was that he was incredibly damaged and no one quite knew why. He tried to maintain an aura of mystery about him. He did magic sometimes, and he had a mysterious job he refused to talk about, and he had huge daddy issues: for some reason he believed his real father was Bob Barker.
In time actors naturally take more and more ownership of their characters, and that certainly happened with Barney. From the outset I played a major part in shaping his wardrobe. My role model for his look was Dean Martin: well-tailored dark suit, light shirt, and a skinny-but-not-so-skinny-it-would-look-dated-in-syndication tie. So the clothes I wore on the show were by great designers like Dolce & Gabbana and Paul Smith. I wanted people watching old episodes to think, “Man, Barney still looks sharp.”
I began taking ownership of Barney’s psyche too. He was a damaged cat, no question about it, and as a friend of his I wanted him to grow and evolve. So I decided to start angling toward Cobie Smulders. Robin was the potential mother in the pilot, the girl of Ted’s dreams, the one he thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. But I loved Robin. I don’t mean Barney loved her; I mean me, Neil. I loved that she was a tough, cigar-smoking broad who wanted nothing to do with a relationship. That struck me as something Barney would dig. So in Seasons 1 and 2 Barney (with my full approval) began giving her extra-long looks or surreptitiously checking out her ass every time she left the bar. I wanted to see what the writers would do with that. And sure enough our characters wound up making out one episode. Our chemistry worked well, and I cherished every scene I got with her. And the years went by, and the plot thickened, and by the end lo and behold, the wedding anchoring the final season wasn’t Ted’s, but Barney’s. And I couldn’t be happier. I firmly believe marriage is a sacred union between a fictional man and a fictional woman.
The character took on a life of his own. Eventually Matt Kuhn, one of our writers and producers, was asked to write a Barney Stinson book, which sold very well. And there’s Barney’s blog. I always wanted Barney to have a blog concurrent with the shows as they aired. And out of that arose a series of three successful Bro Code books, which I voiced for the audiobooks. I grew incredibly fond of Barney. And, as I hope the following testimonial shows, he grew pretty fond of me too.
GIDEON: Wait, wait! You never told us how How I Met Your Mother ended!
HARPER: Yeah! Did Uncle Josh meet the kids’ mother?
GIDEON: Did you get married to Aunt Cobie?
HARPER: Was the final episode greeted with as much acclaim as the rest of the show?
GIDEON: Did it provide a resolution to the five characters’ life situations that viewers universally found satisfying?
YOU: Kids, sometimes things don’t end the way everybody wants them to. Sometimes they just kind of … end.
[Long, awkward pause.]
HARPER: That’s how this chapter ends?
GIDEON: What a rip!
* * *
To hear from Barney Stinson, go HERE.
To kill someone, go HERE.
* * *
1NBC actually invented and added a forty-ninth half-hour to their daily schedule just to air Community.
2Or, you know, wake up late, have lunch with friends, watch TV, and generally do nothing. That happened too.
3Whereas I’m more of an NPH guy.
4Get it? “NPH”?
5I’ll show myself out.
And now a few words from …
BARNEY STINSON
When Neil Patrick Harris asked me to pen a few words for his book, I suddenly felt all warm inside … like I was rocking a giant heart boner. And even though my daily agenda is crammed to the rim with cramming chicks to the rim (What up?!), I made time to jot down some awesomeness for my bro, NPH. Why? Because with his love of magic, penchant for fine suits, and dogged determination to have sex with as many women as he can, NPH is arguably one of my greatest success stories. Top fifteen for sure.
Once upon a time, Neil only knew one move to pick up chicks: pretend to be a doctor. Sure, posing as a physician is a great way to nail slutty nurses and hotties fresh out of a breast augmentation, but it doesn’t work so well when you’re, I don’t know … sixteen years old! Thankfully, Neil got his curly head out of his ass and started using my techniques. Slowly, he transitioned from an awkward, Gremlin-eared bed wetter who couldn’t even parlay his Teen Beat cover into some PG “under-shirt over-bra” action, to the full-grown, well-manicured, chick-banging machine he is today. Seriously—you just know NPH is backstroking in vagina! God, that guy loves chicks!
And while I hesitate to take full credit, it’s pretty clear that Neil has studiously followed in my bespoke, calfskin, cap-toe footsteps. If imitation is indeed the highest form of flattery, then NPH must flatt me very much. Just look at the ways he’s ripped me off:
BARNEY STINSON NEIL PATRICK HARRIS
Wears suits ✓ ✓
Magician ✓ ✓
Enormous penis ✓ ✓
Blond hair ✓ ✓
Has played a doctor ✓ ✓
Number of sexual partners Please Please
Wealthy ✓ ✓
Appeared on The Price Is Right ✓ ✓
Dog lover ✓ ✓
Published author ✓ ✓
(I’ve got 4 books to his 1, but who’s counting?)1
Am I hurt that he has achieved fame and fortune by blatantly stealing my moves? Am I offended that his meteoric rise to stardom could only be achieved by standing on my well-toned shoulders? Am I meeting several times a week with a team of high-priced attorneys to consider legal action against him, his representation, and various studios both domestic and abroad for his brazen theft of my signature blend of witticism, comedic timing, and general awesomeness? No comment. But I will admit that I’m impressed with his creativity when it comes to seducing women.
As the author of The Playbook: Suit Up. Score Chicks. Be Awesome, I can literally say I wrote the book on how to bang women. But NPH—with his never-quenched thirst for the pootie—has thrown down the gauntlet with some truly masterly plays of his own:
“THE MAGIC MAN”
As NPH and I well know, nothing wets the panties faster than a guy who’s into magic. So what did he do? He became so good at his craft he was able to trick the Academy of Magical Arts into naming him its president. That makes him head of the Magic Castle, the preeminent clubhouse for illusionists, manipulation artists, and close-up magicians in the world. With that sort of power, NPH practically has to beat the chicks away with a wand.
“THE THEATER KING”
Since the dawn of time, guys have been obsessed with cracking that most impenetrable sphere of babedom—theater chicks. This tantalizing world of young, impressionable wannabe starlets surrounded only by gay dudes lay untapped for millennia, despite countless attempts to gain entry (hello!).
• The Ancient Greeks created a “chorus” as an excuse to crowd a bunch of bros on stage. Tragically, nobody ever got past second base.
• The Japanese invented Kabuki: an art form in which guys dressed as women to get closer to theater chicks. This backfired in its own dramatic twist when they discovered that the “chicks” were simply other dudes trying the same play.
• Cats. I guess the plan was to squeeze a bunch of chicks into skintight cat costumes and pray for some sort of slutty Halloween miracle? After 7,485 unsuccessful shows, that sad but noble bunch of bros who had cat-suited up in search of tail finally gave up.
To ensnare those elusive theater chicks, NPH devised a simple yet deliciously diabolical plan: become a supertalented acto
r. He got so good, in fact, that he is now the de facto host of the Tony Awards. In this capacity, not only can he invoke Prima Nocta (the right to bang any actress on her “opening” night), he can also demand favors in exchange for awards. As impressive as this is, I’m a little upset he hasn’t leveraged his power to stage a production of Broklahoma!—it’s sitting right there, buddy.
“THE TWINS”
Neil took one of my oldest maxims (“Nothing attracts a hottie like a tottie”) and began seducing chicks using a young child as a prop. But—as is so often the case with Neil Patrick Harris—it simply wasn’t challenging enough. So what did he do? He teamed up with his wingman, David Burtka, and adopted twins! Genius! Now he and his best bro can troll for strange using the irresistible lure of two adorable infants! They even gave them names and clothes and everything! Legendary.
With the creation of these amazing plays, I’m forced to admit that the student has finally become the master. Neil is now the accepted worldwide leader in fooling women into having sex with him. Respect. But don’t count Barney Stinson out. If NPH thinks he can use his forces of awesome to outduel me in a high-stakes match of chick-banging, then I only have one thing to say: “Challenge accepted!”
* * *
If, despite Barney’s perpetual youth, you want to get older, go HERE.
If, despite Barney’s lady-killer status, you want to get gay, go HERE.
* * *
1Actually this should count as another book for me too, so it’s 5–1, Stinson.
The cryptic clues below all refer to your life. They are in random order. Solve them (the number tells you how many letters in the answer), and figure out where they fit in the grid on the opposite page. When you are done, the shaded letters will reveal a special word.
Sounds like an assortment of taxis in which you were the MC (7)
Decorate John’s companion (7)
Wise-ass magician in the Ivy League (4)
Symmetries halved and reversed produce a ceremony (5)
Mixed, weighed, de-energized, played on Broadway (6)
Costar a large, fake amount of money? (7)
Collaborator with Apple by the other side of the road (10)
Kind of trooper preferred by Jefferson? (8)
Friend raised awkwardly and Southern (7)
You’re this doctor, so doctor, broil her (8)
Up in the only actress who berated you (6)
Funny woman marvels in confusion (9)
He was against you, and it sounds like he’s against everything (4)
He treats drunk whores (6)
Let show (4)
He gave you your big break in a domed office (6)
Musical to escort without air-conditioning (7)
For you he’s an oldie but a goodie, almost (6)
She will be missed; a talk-show buddy (4)
Fancy award (4)
A friend and basket in Wisconsin (6)
Starts to build up romance to keep a lover (6)
Lothario! Unhinge 90 bras, boy! (13)
Idly wonders about your favorite place on earth (11)
Click here to download the crossword puzzle.
* * *
Return to the page from which you came.
And now a word from your friend …
PEREZ HILTON
Dear NPH,
In the past, I was a douche. I’m not Oprah these days, nor am I trying to be, but I hope I am slightly less of a douche.
In the past, I said things and wrote things that hurt people. I don’t know for sure if I ever caused you and your family pain. If I did, I’m sorry. Genuinely.
If I didn’t cause you pain and you viewed me more like an annoying mosquito, then I’m sorry for that too. No one likes annoying mosquitoes!
In the past, I outed people, like yourself. I don’t do that anymore.
Thankfully, I don’t live in the past. My present is very different.
In addition to having a son and being a much happier and healthier person, I am thrilled to live in a present where you are a genuine inspiration to me and countless millions of people worldwide—gay and straight.
You are unapologetic about who you are—a dude who loves magic! Ha!
Kidding!
You are a successful and extremely talented actor, singer, father, and lover—who just so happens to be gay.
Your career has not suffered as a result of your coming out. In fact, I would argue that since you came out you are more successful than ever!
In the future, I only see your career trajectory continuing to go up!
In the future, I hope other actors follow your lead and see from your example the impact that living openly can have not just on one’s own happiness but on the lives of others.
In the future, I hope I am more like you!
From the heart,
Perez Hilton
* * *
Return HERE.
DR. POURABLE’S DRINK-ALONG GROG
Whenever you need to relax after a long day of acting, awards-show hosting, or serving as guest judge at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, you like to relax with a fine bespoke cocktail. Here’s one of your favorites. This one has a lot of kick as a result of the jalapeño. While you definitely pick up on the cucumber and mint, the rum still shines. Velvet Falernum is one of your favorites, a tropical liqueur with notes of almond, clove, and allspice that help give this cocktail an easy-drinking, tiki-like component.
2 cucumber slices
4 mint sprigs
½ ounce simple syrup
2¼ ounces Flor de Caña Centenario 12-Year-Aged Rum
¾ ounce fresh lime juice
½ ounce Velvet Falernum
¼ ounce Cherry Heering
1 jalapeño slice (depending on your desired heat, you can leave or remove the seeds)
In a shaker, muddle 1 cucumber slice and 2 mint sprigs with the simple syrup. Add the rum, lime juice, Falernum, Cherry Heering, and jalapeño and shake. Fine-strain into a tiki filled with crushed ice. Garnish with the remaining cucumber slice and mint sprigs.
* * *
Return to the page from which you came.
Or, to star in the musical for which this drink was named go HERE.
Sweeney Todd is one of the greatest and most satisfying experiences of your professional life. So when Stephen Sondheim calls you out of the blue to say he wants to discuss another possible project for you, you jump at the chance.
It’s a beautiful day, so you decide to take a nice leisurely stroll to Sondheim’s house in the jungle. You start wondering what he has in mind. You lose yourself in happy speculation.
Suddenly you notice the world slowly turning watery all around you. Looking around, you realize you have stumbled into a murky Amazonian river. You are being eaten by piranhas!
You desperately struggle to escape, but your efforts only cause the fish to sink their teeth in deeper. You look around for something to pull yourself out of the river with. A vine attached to a banyan tree dangles tantalizingly a few feet in front of you, but you can’t quite reach it.
With your last breath you scream, “Help me, Stephen!” but your cry is quickly throttled by the angry piranhas gnawing at your throat. The last thing you see is Stephen Sondheim running to you wailing, “No, Neil! Not before we stage Sweeney Todd 2: The Legend of Toby’s Gold!”
Your body is never found.
THE END
You and David are taking a hiking trip in northwest Ireland. You hike to the famous Giant’s Causeway, which you reflect looks like something out of Myst before reflecting on how funny it is that to your twenty-first-century imagination, natural landmarks look like video games, not the other way around.
David has the intense desire to spend the night in a castle, which, of course, is sooooo David. He has an appreciation for certain finer things, like good food and good castles, and to be honest you’re not averse to them either. But the place he has in mind, Ashford Castle, is an hour out of the way, and the room
s start at nearly 200 euros. You refuse on principle to devote that much time and effort to wasting that much money.
So you head to a nearby castle that’s a little cheaper. When you get there you discover that as castles go, it’s pretty much just a leftover turret. A turret trap, if you will.1 You check in with a woman who has a lazy eye and a monotonous voice who looks like one of Macbeth’s witches. You will be the hotel’s only guests. She casually asks if you want “to stay in the room where the suicides happened.”
The story, she explains, is that a girl had once occupied the castle, a girl in love with a boy on the other side of the lake. She was forbidden to see him, and she died of pneumonia, and then her grieving mother jumped out the window, and now their two ghosts haunt the hotel. It’s exactly the kind of tragedy that seems to happen only in old picturesque buildings that evolve into out-of-the-way hotels desperately looking for guests. You are none too impressed. You are a skeptic. You can do magic. You are from Hollywood. You are a fancy-pants person. Yes, you will stay in the g-damned suicide room.
Now, before going to Ireland you and David had stopped in Amsterdam, and lo and behold, you still have a leftover space cake. And you are slated to return to the States the next day. Well then, thinks you, what better place to eat an old, moldy space cake than at a haunted hotel in rural Ireland whose lobby is filled with taxidermied animals and the scent of decay.