#2439 - Johnny Knoxville

He was cracking jokes like only he could—how’d you first cross paths with Judo Gene LeBell?

On Men in Black 2; stunt folks literally lined up to get choked out and earn his patch, and he once dumped a guy who slapped him right after waking him up—he even schooled Bruce Lee on grappling by scooping him up like nothing.

He was doing mixed‑rules before it was a thing, like Milo Savage, and most people don’t realize how helpless you are once a real grappler clamps on.

You’ve lived a wild life—how did Jackass actually start?

My girlfriend got pregnant, I needed money fast, and a Big Brother magazine piece where I tested self‑defense gear ended with me filming a .38 into a cheap vest; that snowballed.

Necessity flips a switch, but how often did you brush death—and did topping yourself become a trap?

Bulls want you to stop moving forever, and a 20‑foot steel wall once dropped and folded me without taking my head; after the first movie I froze on outdoing it until Tremaine said, just be funny—then we still escalated while I kept plans secret, which made everyone jumpy.

How long do you shoot, and did anyone step in?

We go months on and off; number two dragged eight or nine months until they staged an intervention to stop me and kill my Olympic ski‑jump idea, though I squeezed two more weeks.

Are you done taking hits?

No more concussions for me; the magician‑with‑a‑bull bit mis‑timed on hard dirt gave me a brain bleed, broken rib, and broken wrist when my head met the ground.

And you let Butterbean sleep you—do you feel responsible for inspiring others?

The KO didn’t hurt but the fall did, and I had vertigo for weeks; I want to entertain, not recruit, so please don’t do this at home.

What still nags you?

My lower back is wrecked with two herniations; I burned nerves with an intercept procedure and steroid shots didn’t help much.

Try a reverse hyper and the Teeter Dex—they decompress and strengthen my back and might help you.

How’d Fear Factor happen, and how wild did it get?

I said yes over lunch with Sharon Levy—she felt like a rebel running a network.

We kept cranking it up—bull riding and a few vehicle stunts got too close—and the show died after a donkey‑semen episode leaked, even though standards cleared it.

On your set I’d eat bugs or a roach to coach people through, then step aside so it didn’t look easy.

Snake phobias feel ancient, and I’d coach folks through panic to the payoff on the other side.

That rush is survivor’s euphoria; Colonel John Paul Stapp chased it doing 49 Gs on a rocket sled, helped give us seat belts, and even went blind for days.

I flew with the Blue Angels and learned to hook to keep blood in my brain at seven and a half Gs; it’s brutally physical and they don’t wear G‑suits.

In Russia they’ll let you do almost anything—we even fired missiles and tossed Steve‑O in a jet back when that was possible.

You got famous, then jumped back in.

A Russian Special Forces run with dogs and rubber rounds made Jeff say, let’s do another movie; we’re gearing up again, and I’ll accept broken bones but no more head trauma.

That’s the part therapy should probe.

The producer in me values footage, so I told my therapist the stunt part is off‑limits, and we insured bits one by one when others balked.

Ever tire of injury talk—you seem sharp; where did this mischief come from?

I’m grateful and I weave writing into it, but I’m really replaying my dad’s prank‑filled tire shop.

He staged fake gunfights at Christmas and mailed bogus clinic letters that drew real guns and the state investigators—mischief started at home.

Wildboyz lions climbing trees still haunt me.

Animals are chaos and our plan was often hope it lets go; I nearly got rushed by a lion in mating season until keepers yanked me out.

You’ve dodged death a lot—how do your kids handle it?

I delayed and curated what they saw, and they’ve got options, so I’m not worried they’ll copy me.

I have a harder time watching women get hurt.

A female castmate fractured her lower back on a simple hill slide, which crushed morale; later I curated our twenty‑fifth anniversary art show and it drew serious artists.

You didn’t just make a show—you carved out a chunk of pop culture.

Thanks; we still shoot like a pickup game and somehow end up with footage.

Animal bits freak me out most.

Retakes with bulls are misery, and I pushed back on the shark‑hook bit—Steve‑O narrowly avoided a bite with a hook through his cheek.

He’s mentoring a new wave, and the injuries are brutal.

Zach’s ankle folded in ways it shouldn’t; strange life, but I’m okay.

I’ve seen thousands of knockouts; leg snaps and savage cuts stick with me, and a warrior fought on with a forehead split while the doc let it go.

Women’s fights are ferocious, and Fedor was my guy.

He’s an all‑timer—stone‑faced, survived Randleman’s suplex on his head and still got the tap.

Watch that Randleman slam—Fedor stays calm, rolls, and snatches the kimura in under a minute. He was the most complete heavyweight of his era, dangerous everywhere.

I got nervous with Nogara, thinking it might go bad for Fedor. He handled him twice and shut that worry down.

Prime windows are short, so judge greatness by the peak. Cain Velasquez was another freak—stoic and relentless—guys wilted by round two.

I once saw Brock Lesnar scoop up Wee Man at a hotel restaurant and put him through a table like a saloon fight prop.

Brock was an NCAA champ who jumped to MMA late, barely trained striking, and still beat Couture and Mir. If he'd gone straight from college to fighting, he might've been an all-timer.

The young hammer is Gable Steveson. That guy looks like a problem.

He’s a 250-pound blur with Olympic-level wrestling, power, and a ruthless mindset. I texted Dana a clip—left hook drops a guy, then he closes and slams him before the ref arrives; nobody on the regionals wants that smoke.

You’ll need a daredevil to step in, because most won’t touch him. If you do, it might be a very short night.

Boxing built prospects on journeymen, and early Tyson flattened overmatched dudes like a storm. Mitch Green went the distance, then got tuned up later in a Harlem shop.

Tyson’s look was all business—towel, no socks—total throwback energy.

Tyson studied film through manager Jim Jacobs’ massive archive, learning from old masters. Sugar Ray Robinson stacked wins fighting constantly, then faded into a heartbreaking decline.

Getting stopped changes you—I got easier to knock out over time. I’ve been out around sixteen times.

Did scans show anything, and do you feel lingering effects?

The scans weren’t pretty, and you can’t diagnose CTE while alive; my short-term memory got spotty. After that magician hit, I spiraled into anxiety and depression, tried TMS mid-episode, then meds pulled me out; it’s why I quit doing that kind of thing.

It’s scary seeing fighters still competing while slurring. You have to seed retirement early; I love that Andre Ward left undefeated and stayed out.

I wonder how we’d rate Roy Jones Jr. if he’d walked after beating Ruiz at heavyweight.

Going up and then cutting back to light heavy wrecked him; he lost lean mass and resilience. Extreme cuts are brutal—Pereira lived it—because the brain doesn’t rehydrate as fast, so you’re easier to switch off.

If you’re slurring, you shouldn’t be licensed. Is Wanderlei still fighting?

He had a boxing match in Brazil that devolved into a ring brawl, and someone cold-cocked him bare-knuckle during the melee. Pride was wild—stomps, soccer kicks, and an open secret on gear; Enson Inoue even said they flat-out didn’t test.

Do you think Fedor was on anything?

He didn’t look juiced, but Russia’s system was dirty; watch Icarus for how Rodchenkov detailed Sochi’s urine swaps and ended up in witness protection. They avoided doping figure skaters because drugs hurt fine motor control.

Whatever you are, just be it; those “pray it away” routines were absurd.

For years it was dangerous to come out, so seeing acceptance matters. Turing gave us the test that basically says, if you can’t tell it’s a machine, it’s there—and they chemically castrated him for being gay.

Brutal, given he helped crack Enigma and laid the groundwork for modern computing.

It’s not even that long ago. World War II looms large partly because it’s the last clear hero story for Americans, but plenty of wars started on lies—Tonkin proved it; read Blitz on Nazi drugging.

Troops got Pervitin, then paid the price once they crashed.

They blitzed through Poland wired for days, while Hitler’s personal doctor kept him on a pharmacy. There’s evidence of Kallmann syndrome and an undescended testicle, which likely fed insecurity and rage.

Switching gears—Julian Nitzberg found Jesco White, and we turned three days of jaw-dropping footage into The Wild and Wonderful Whites with MTV’s help. It’s charisma and chaos in equal measure.

It also shows pill-ravaged Appalachia and the uneasy laugh-cry mix you feel watching it.

Company towns gutted them, then pills finished the job, and most didn’t see a way out; a few moved to Michigan and made it. We flew Jesco and Mamie to the premiere, and there were surreal moments—including Mike Judge hanging with us.

How did they take the crowd reaction, and would you ever do a follow-up?

They seemed to enjoy it that night, but I didn’t keep in touch, and a sequel feels exploitative. I’m working on docs like one about David Allan Coe—wild life, prison-made racist songs Shell Silverstein pushed him to cut, then a late turn into magic and ventriloquism; his son’s podcast is great.

Ventriloquists can blur lines with their dummies; I knew Otto and George, and the puppet felt alive in that act.

How did he manage day to day? Sounds like he lived hard.

He did, and one night a heckler rushed the stage and stabbed the dummy at Dangerfield’s. There’s talk of a doc on him—brilliant comic, zero business instincts.

I’m going to look them up after this.

Listen, good luck with Fear Factor—I hope it runs like the old days and everyone stays safe. Thanks for coming; you’ve cracked me up and stressed me out for years, and the premiere is tonight, the fourteenth.

It’s on tonight, the fourteenth—thank you for having me and for the well wishes.