Your memoir, Dear Mrs. Fitzsimmons: Tales of Redemption From an Irish Mailbox, is out November 9. Given the years of relative hell you put her through, what does your mother now think of your career as a successful comic?

For an Irish mother there’s two realities. One is, “My son is successful.” That’s the headline. And then there’s the reality where you’re dirty and you’re sharing secrets. And that’s not a headline. That’s a note to the editor.

What is the greatest infraction you ever got away with?

Me and, well, we called him The Hick in college because he was a sheep farmer from Ohio, we were urinating in the second-floor stairway freshman year. It leaked down and was dripping on the security guard booth. The guard ran upstairs and caught my friend but didn’t catch me. He had to do 40 hours of community service for not turning me in. Later that year my father came to Boston with an extra ticket for the World Series. I brought him to game four of the Red Sox 1986 World Series, perhaps the greatest World Series game in history.

What does a guy who’s been sober for 20 years do for fun in Vegas?

Let’s see. I don’t gamble anymore since I had a kid. I have fun in Vegas. I see shows, Cirque du Soleil. Don Rickles was in town last time I was there. I’ll have lunch with George Wallace. I just look in the Weekly calendar and see who’s performing, and inevitably, we all meet up late night at one of the casinos. Jesus, I sound boring.