Bootleg Read online

  Damon

  Wayans

  Bootleg

  with David Asbery

  It’s easy to create a great joke.

  It’s harder to create great joke tellers.

  This book is dedicated to my parents,

  Howell and Elvira Wayans, who did it ten times.

  They probably laughed a lot during sex.

  Contents

  Part 1: The Cult of Personality

  Canceled!

  Magic and HIV

  Would You Rather Have HIV of O.J.?

  White People Loving Me

  Being Famous Ain’t Fun

  Mike and the Hit Man

  A Bodyguard’s Bitch

  You Don’t Remember My Movies, Do You?

  Amistad

  Adopt a Nigger

  A Cool Slave

  Tatoo and Corky

  Gary Coleman

  Oprah’s Looking Good

  Dr. Death

  How Fat Can You Get?

  Got to Leave LA

  The Pimp and the President

  Mr. Bill

  Mrs. Bill

  Mo’ Money

  I Love Rap

  Fishbone

  Rap Attacks

  Rappers

  Part 2: Marriage & Family

  The Scariest Words Known to Man

  The Out Clause

  Running Out of Things to Say

  How to Make Your Man Not Forget Your Wedding Anniversary

  Talking Nasty to Your Wife

  If Your Wife Doesn’t Like Your Friends, Watch Out

  Me, Not Communicate?

  Marriage Counselors Suck

  Sneaking It In

  Making Love to Free Willy

  The Delivery Room Is No Man’s Land

  Your Kids Will Ruin Your Sex Life

  Aerobics Are Not Good for a Marriage

  Father v. Son

  He-Man

  No Cussing in the House

  Laying Down the Rules

  You’re the Proud Parents of a Baby Girl Named Monica

  Where’s the Rule Book?

  My Son Is a Nerd

  Disneyland: White Man’s Paradise

  Taking Revenge on the Family Dog

  Appreciate Your Parents or Die

  Po Me

  Clubfoot

  Open Wide

  My Last Hero

  A Mother’s Love

  A Mother’s Love II

  Antonie

  Hot Steaming Stinking Bad Breath

  Seymour’s Rotting Mouth

  Part 3: Race

  Black Reporters Got It Hard

  A Haitian, a Plunger, and the NYPD

  Racism? What Racism?

  White Sale

  White Boys

  Black Leadership

  Al, Jesse, and Farrakhan

  Africans v. Americans

  The Good Reverend

  Nigga Business

  One-Night Stand

  Handi-Man to the Rescue

  Interracial Couples

  Part 4: Relationship & Sex

  Mrs. King, Meet Mrs. Ghandi

  Never Big Enough

  Can’t Go That Long

  The Penis Worship Program

  Relationship Tip #1 for Him: Keep Clean

  Peany Pads

  Relationship Tip #2 for Her: Communication

  Real Men Can’t Talk

  Don’t Give Him the Finger

  The Condom Theory

  Relationship Tip #3 for Her: The Power of Lookin’ Good

  Get in Shape

  On Impact

  The Gay Way

  Relationship Tip #4 for Her: Insensitivity and Men

  So Romantic

  Reality Check

  Still Standing

  Thank You, Viagra

  Relationship Tip #5 for Her: The Power of Indifference

  Don’t Fake Your Orgasms

  Love Noise

  Finding the Touch Again

  Relationship Tip #6 for Him: Women Can’t Mind Their Business

  Women Know!

  Just Sex

  Female Friends

  It’s All in the Mind

  Relationship Tip for Her #7: No Farting

  Women v. Women

  Save the World with a Dick

  A Female President

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part 1

  The Cult of Personality

  Canceled!

  I was very sad to see my brother’s show get canceled because out of the three black talk shows—Keenen’s, Sinbad’s, and Magic’s—I think that Keenen had the best one. At least he was good looking, articulate, and occasionally funny. Sinbad is a good friend of mine, and I love him, but, I just think he’s too yellow to be on TV. I never had to use the hue button before on my remote control until he showed up in late night. The first time I watched the show I said to my wife, “Is something wrong with my hue? My tint must be off. Is the brotha supposed to be pink with freckles? And the damn contrast must be broken’ ‘cause I can’t believe that he’s wearing a purple, red, and green outfit.”

  Sinbad should have fired everyone in the wardrobe department. One time he came out with balloon pants, a tuxedo jacket, and sneakers. Even Prince used to laugh at the way Sinbad dressed. And another thing, Sinbad thought “talk show” meant he’s supposed to talk during the whole damn show. Have you ever watched Sinbad do an interview? He asks a question and then answers it. All the guest can do is shake his head.

  Sinbad goes off like, “Man, I saw you in your last movie. You was good, too, and, man, you had that pretty girl. What’s that pretty girl’s name? ‘Cause I worked with a pretty girl that looked like that pretty girl, she had big breasts—Plow!—and butt all over the room, HA HA HA. She was fine, too, but hey, do you do your own stunts? ‘Cause I know somebody that did that, fell down, broke his back, he ain’t worked since. They replaced him with two midgets, HA HA HA. Man, I would never do my own stunts, ‘cause I ain’t gettin’ any younger and neither is this interview. Listen, we out of time. Why don’t you come back and do the show again?”

  “Uh, yeah I…” the guest would try to answer.

  Sinbad would flap his arms, saying, “I’m sure you can. Everyone give him a hand. Up next a funky fresh fella from Philly that never fakes the funk. He’s the original funk master funkateer, Bootsy Collins.”

  Then, there was Magic. Who the hell told Magic that he should do a talk show? Anybody that says “bassetball,” repeated says “bassetball,” doesn’t have any business doing a talk show. I’m sure that sometime in his life someone tried to correct him. When he was a little boy his mom must’ve tried.

  Magic’s Mother: Hey, Earvin, what are you going to be when you grow up?

  Magic: I wanna blay BASSETBALL.

  Magic’s Mother: Now, Earvin, it’s called BAS-KET-BALL BASKETBALL.

  Magic: That’s what I said, BASSETBALL. BASSETBALL, BASSETBALL

  Magic’s Mother: Well, baby, I hope you can play it ‘cause you sure can’t say it.

  Magic went through college. He was in the NBA. Someone had to sit him down and try to make him say it correctly. I’m sure when he was with the LA Lakers Coach Pat Riley must have pulled him aside.

  Riley: Magic, if you’re gonna represent the game you have to say it the right way. It’s called BASKETBALL. BAS-KET-BALL Now you try.

  Magic: BASSETBALL BAS-SET-BALL Danks, Toach!

  Riley: Ah, yeah, well, I’m glad you can play it ‘cause you sure can’t say it. That’s enough practice for today. Tomorrow we’ll work on saying “coach.”

  I was actually sad to see his show get canceled because it gave me a lot of laughs, most of the
m for the wrong reasons. But I’ll take comedy any way I can get it. I wanted to be on his show so that I could sit down and be the one to figure out what he was saying when he went to commercial. It always sounded like, “Y’all dick around and mill be might back after a bird from our bonsor.”

  I’d sit there thinking, “Did he just say ‘might back’ or did Buckwheat just grow up and get a talk show?”

  I saw one show where he had Howard Stern on as his only guest. Howard Stern prides himself on being a jerk. Then, he talks about how flat his ass is, how big his nose is, and how tiny his dick is. So, he doesn’t leave you room for retaliation. He was very disrespectful to Magic. He asked Magic if he had fun contracting HIV, and Magic just being a nice man sat there and tried to smile it off. If that was me, I would’ve spit in his mouth right in the middle of that question and I wouldn’t have stopped there. I would’ve leaned over and bit him and drew blood and then asked him, “Now, did you have bun catching HIB? Y’all dick around we’ll be might back after a word from our bonsor.”

  After that show, Magic should have fired everybody that worked with him. He was ill advised. I knew Magic’s show was in trouble from the start. His first show Magic picked Arnold Schwarzenegger as the lead guest—another man who can’t talk! I didn’t understand either one of them during the interview.

  Magic: Oh, Arnold, you beally great man. I doryo lass moobie. It was babulous. The way they blow you up, man, that was fantastic. I fell like I was watching Michael Chordan duckin’ fro the free trow line.

  Arnold: Oh yeah, Magic. OH AHH EHH OH OOH SEE.

  Magic: Juss hole on, Ahnol. We want you to binish your dory. But we wanna pay a bill right naw. Y’all dick around we’ll be might back with Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, and Mike Tyson after a bird from our bonsor.

  Magic and HIV

  Before he had his own talk show and even after his first return to the NBA, there were always rumors that Magic Johnson was going to come out of retirement and play for the Lakers again. Now, I didn’t know much about HTV, but it sure seems to make you real indecisive. Magic just could not make up his mind. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Still, when he returned, I was glad to see the players embrace him. I thought there would have been a lot of controversy. I mean, there he is, coming down the court, all sweaty. You just can’t play the same defense that you used to play on him.

  Player: Whoops, couldn’t block that one. Magic just went by me, man. Hey, coach, that’s Magic! I can’t check Magic.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if someone put on one of those outbreak costumes while defending him.

  Player: You know what you got. Let’s play the game!

  The only player in the NBA that showed him no mercy was Dennis Rodman. He just did not care. Hell, he played him like he was HIV-positive, too. He was not afraid of the contact. He just kept throwing Magic to the ground, saying, “Look, I fucked Madonna.” He didn’t know what he had.

  I make jokes about Magic, but the truth is I have nothing but respect for this brother, and I mean that from the heart. I cried when Magic Johnson made the announcement that he is HIV-positive. I just wasn’t ready for it. Why couldn’t it be Little Richard that made this announcement? I would have seen that one coming. At his press conference he would’ve said, “Guess what? I’m HIV-positive! HEE HEE HEE! Shut up! I started AIDS. It wasn’t no green monkey. The monkey stole it from me. I had it first. I was HIV-positive when Rock Hudson was just a pebble. Shut up! I gave everybody some of this tutti-frutti, good booty.”

  But, no, it was Magic. Just the fact that he came forward and announced that he was HIV positive makes him a better man than me. He risked his family, his career, and his lifestyle to tell a whole bunch of paranoid people about having the virus. There are not a lot of men that would do this. Myself included. No, you would not have got that kind of honesty from me. I would have been the skinniest brother in the NBA. Manute Bol would have been saying, “Look at how skinny this motherfucker here is. He’s trying to take all of the flies!”

  I would have lied my ass off at interviews.

  Interviewer: Damon, rumor has it that you are sick.

  Me: Man, that’s bullshit. Yeah, I might have dropped a few pounds. But, you know, I’m working on my inside game. Why a brother gotta be sick?

  I know what Magic was trying to do. He went public to reach out to all of those women he slept with. Of course, I would have felt that I had the same obligation because that’s some foul shit to pass on to somebody. But the way I look at it, you can’t take it back. So why go public? I would have made a bunch of anonymous calls or something. Get that ten-cents-a-minute calling plan. I would have been dialing my ass off.

  Ring, ring, ring. “Hello. Hi, I’m sick, you’re sick, too.” Click.

  Ring, ring, ring. “Hello. Hey, if you’re losing weight it’s not Jenny Craig.” Click.

  Ring, ring, ring. “Hello. Hey, you feel indecisive? You don’t know? You got it.” Click.

  It’s strange to hear guys in denial about how Magic got it. I’ve heard guys saying, “Man, he was kissing on Isiah Thomas that’s how he got that shit.”

  Isiah isn’t gay. And neither is Magic. The man is too tall to be gay. The brother is six-foot-nine! You’d have to climb a ladder to get into his ass.

  Potential Gay Lover: Okay, Magic, we’re going to try something different now. You just stand there and let me get this ladder set up. I never done it like this before. Okay, here I come … Shit, I still don’t reach! Listen, I’ll be back. I’m going to get my stilts.

  Would You Rather Have HIV of O.J.?

  There’s something worse than having HIV, and that’s O.J. I feel sorry for O.J. Simpson, I truly do. Imagine being alienated from the world, totally alone, with no one wanting to have anything to do with you. I’d take the Ebola virus over what he got. The case will always fascinate me for the effect it had on everyone, black and white. I still don’t believe he did it. My blackness won’t allow me to accept it, much in the same way white people believe that Elvis is still alive. Maybe I’m in denial, but I just am not going to buy it.

  Of the many things in the case I can’t understand, maybe the most puzzling is how he could kill two people at one time. I mean, the girl got stabbed thirty-seven times. That means that Ron Goldman didn’t have to die that night because while O.J. was working on her, he should have been running. That’s what I would have done. Curiosity will make you hang around for the first couple of stabs. You’ll be standing there in shock, thinking, “Man, this nigger is going off.” Then your feet take over and say, “Look, we’re getting the fuck out of here! You see how many times he stabbed her? You wanna be next? Run!”

  I don’t know what happened that night. Maybe if I was there they’d have found me dead, too. But I can guarantee you two things: one, they would have found my body about eight blocks away, and two, most of those stab wounds would have been in my ass, the only thing the killer could reach while I was running. They would have found me with a knife lodged in my butt. I bet nobody would have messed with that evidence.

  The funniest thing about the O.J. trial, to me, was the verdict. To see white people lose their cool was damn funny. White folks are known to maintain their composure. They don’t get all emotional. You see them on the news and they calmly say, “America is at war.” Or, “There’s a ninety-trillion-dollar deficit.” Or, “Last night, fifty-three people died in a fire.” Each time with no emotion. And white people watching this would at most shake their heads and say, “Tsk, tsk.”

  But when O.J. was acquitted, white people lost their minds: “This is BULLSHIT! I am OUTRAGED! This is HORRIFIC! I’m FLABBERGASTED!” They were making up new words: “This is some FRAGA-NOCAL BULLSHIT!”

  I thought white people were gonna riot. I was thinking, “Yeah, finally we’re gonna get something out of the deal.” I was up in Beverly Hills with a stack of bricks, trying to instigate a riot. “Hey, white man, you heard about the verdict? Ain’t that some fraga-nocal bullshit? Here, take
one of these bricks and break this Gucci window. Let’s get us some!”

  I didn’t understand why they put him through civil court. How do you go from criminal court to civil court? What kind of new nigger rule is that? I’m telling you, they were going to try him in every court in America. They were determined to get that brother. If they hadn’t won in civil court, they’d a brought him to the People’s Court, and after that the Tennis Court. “You lose this match, Mr. Simpson, and you will be found guilty.”

  As much as I believe that O.J. did not commit the murder, I also believe he is not a smart man. He should have taken the verdict and left the country. He should have stepped out of the courthouse and onto a plane, gone to Ireland, and become the King of the White Women. But no, he had to go put out a tape, his version of the circumstances surrounding the murder and the night in question. He started the tape off trying to discredit his wife. Not an intelligent move, considering she’s dead and can’t defend herself. I got some of the transcript from the video right here:

  O.J. Simpson: First of all it is ludicrisp … uh, not to be confused with Super Sugar Crisp, to think that I would want to kill Nicole. That was just some old ass to me. You know, I tapped it a few times, dropped a few calves, then I was moving on to some bigger, better, whiter women. I mean, everybody I know slept with Nicole Brown. Marcus Allen, Byron Allen, Woody Allen, Ethan Allen, Debbie Allen. Basically all your name had to be was Allen.

  Now I want to walk you all through this “stuppossed” crime scene. The district attorney said I “stuppossedly” jumped over a wall on the night in question. Now if you know me from football or maybe one of my Hertz commercials where I jump over the car, or as of lately the high-impact aerobic workout tape, you would know I got bad knees. Ashy bad knees. There is no way I could have jumped over the wall. And I’m gonna demonstrate to you that there’s no way I could’ve gotten over this wall by running and trying to jump ov— Oh damn! My knee! See, there’s no way I can jump over this wall.

  So that’s half of Miss Marcia’s case right out the window. Now here’s the kicker. They say I “rellegedly” dropped a glove at the scene of the crime. Let me say this: I played football for some twenty-nine years. Never once did I drop the ball. So, how the fuck am I gonna drop a glove at the scene of the crime? Look at my hands. They are finely trained machines, and they can hold on to anything under any circumstances. And do you see how big they are? I can wipe my ass and scratch my head at the same time with these hands. A glove is not gonna just slip off a hand this big.