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  Now, I’m gonna demonstrate to you that there’s no way that I could have dropped a glove at the scene of the crime because my hands are so good. Now I want you take this ball and I want you throw it. Throw it anywhere you want and I’ll catch it. I don’t care where you throw it…. You know what, throw it over the wall. Go ahead, I’ll show you there’s no way I could’ve dropped it. Here I go, I’m running as fast as I can! I’m jumping over the wall and … I’ve got it! Heh, heh, heh. Still got the skills! Let me jump back over the wall. There, you see, there’s no way I would have dropped the glove at the scene of the crime. O.J. has custody of his kids, which is nice. I’d sure love to be there for playtime because you know the kids are scared of him.

  O.J.’d be wandering around the house, checking under tables and furniture, saying, “Y’all come on out now! Daddy’s not gonna hurt you. Where y’all at? And where are all of the knives in this house?”

  I heard O.J. say in an interview that white people still love him. Is he crazy? White people are scared of him. The white half of his children is afraid of him. What’s he talking about, when he says, “The white people I know are very supportive of me. Wherever I go they’re standing outside, lighting candles, holding up signs with my name on them. They actually give me the thumbs-up sign whenever they see me.”

  He can’t really be this stupid. First, it’s not the thumbs-up sign the white people are giving you, they’re actually aiming at your ass. Second, they’re lighting candles because they can’t light a cross. They’re praying that one of those candles falls and catches his black ass on fire and burns him to death. And third, O.J., you need to read the signs because they say KILL THE NIGGER.

  White People Loving Me

  After I started on In Living Color, I had a problem O.J. is probably never going to have again: white people showing their love toward me. Sometimes things really got intense.

  White Fan: Hey, you’re Damon Wayans, from In Living Color, right?

  Me: Ah, yeah, how are you?

  White Fan: Gee whiz, I can’t believe it’s you. Man, I love you.

  Me: Thank you very much.

  White Fan: No, you don’t understand, dude, I really love you, you’re the tits, man. I mean, my whole family loves you. This is my eighteen-year-old daughter—she loves you, too. Why don’t you take a picture with her!

  Me: Sure.

  White Fan: No, get closer. Hug her, man, it’s okay. She loves you. Co ahead kiss her. Give her some tongue, dude. Don’t be shy, we love you. Ah, what the hell, go on, fuck her, man, you deserve it. You’re special. You’re not like the other black guys. Hey, where are you going, Damon? We love you!

  This really messed with my mind. If you hear white folks say, “You’re not like the other black guys, you’re special,” over and over again, you can really start to believe it. Until the cops pull you over.

  Police Officer: All right, nigger, license and registration.

  Me: But officer, I’m Damon Wayans—I’m not like the others, I’m special.

  Police Officer: So is my .38. Now, put your hands where I can see them before I put a special bullet in your special ass.

  Being Famous Ain’t Fun

  Sometimes people ask me what the hardest thing about being me is. And I answer, “Being famous all day long.”

  This is what people think my day is like:

  I wake up with three beautiful women in bed with me, then, I go to my window in my velvet robe, with a glass of Dom P., wave to my fans, then the Gucci truck shows up with something to wear then I go to the bank, count bags of money, come back home in my chauffeur-driven Rolls, while being fed grapes by three different girls in the backseat. Say hello to my wife, give her money, give my kids money, play with my lion, have an orgy, fall asleep to Barry White and Whitney Houston singing live in my living room on my piano, wake up and do it all over again.

  Well, it’s nothing like that, except giving my wife money. Sometimes you don’t feel like being famous. Like, when you’ve got a toothache, or you’re being audited, or a relative dies. You just want to be by your damn self. I remember one time while I was in New York and I had this really bad stomach virus. I was throwing up and had a really bad case of diarrhea. I walked over to the drugstore to get something to calm my stomach. I went to the counter to pay for it:

  Cashier: Hey, you’re Damon Wayans, right?

  Me: Yes. How much is this Kaopectate? I gotta hurry up and get out of here.

  Cashier: Hold on, buddy. You gotta give me your autograph before you leave.

  Me: Look, man, I’m really not feeling well.

  Cashier: Aw, come on. Don’t be such a “Homey the Clown.” Hey, Billy, Damon Wayans from In Living Color is here.

  Now Billy came over.

  Billy: Hey, Damon, I really love your work. Gimme two snaps up.

  Me: I’m about to give you more than two snaps.

  Billy: Come on, dude. Do one of your characters for us.

  Me: Okay, I’ll do Anton the Bum.

  Billy: Jesus Christ, what’s that smell?

  Me: My pickle jar must be backed up. HA HA HA.

  Finally, I left the store.

  Billy: Dude, he must be a method actor because I really believed he had diarrhea. He smelled like shit, dude!

  Mike and the Hit Man

  On In Living Color, we used to get people upset. But we were just having fun and you can’t take comedy serious. Mike Tyson got really upset once. That’s one brotha I didn’t want to make mad. Keenen was the one that did the impression of Mike in a sketch called “Three Champs and a Baby.” Mike thought it was me.

  One day, I walked out of a jewelry store where I was looking for a gift for my wife. Tommy Hearns and Mike were standing on the sidewalk.

  Mike shouted, “Dhere he is!”

  I tried to run back inside, but the store had one of those electronic doors that lock on your black ass. I was nervous as hell. Mike grabbed me and bit me on my neck.

  “I saw you doing me on TV,” Mike said, his veins popping on his head. “I didn’t like that, funnyman. You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “No, Mike, that wasn’t me. It was my bro—”

  “Don’t try to lie to me,” Mike’s voice went up a notch. “Tommy saw you, too. Tommy, didn’t you see him doing me on TV?”

  “That’s wite,” Tommy mumbled. “I was with the nother side, she said go on with the nother side and go on with the nother side.”

  “What did he just say?” I asked, as politely as I could.

  “He said yes,” Mike answered. “I don’t want to see you doing me on TV anymore, funnyman. If I do, I’m gonna design a punch dat will make your wiver bleed.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Tyson.” Man, I was lucky to get out of that alive.

  Now don’t go thinking I’m a punk. I mean normally if another cat grabs me, even if I think he can beat me, I’m going to fake it. Put some bass in my voice and say, “Yeah, you better hold me, motherfucker! Hold me tight, jack, ‘cause if you let me go you’re dead!”

  There was none of that with Mike. I just laid there like a bitch in his arms. What am I gonna do against Iron Mike Tyson? If Mike came up to me and said, “Listen. I want to fuck you in the ass.” The toughest thing that I could say back would be, “For how long? See, ‘cause I need some sort of time frame, my brother. You just not gonna be fucking me in my ass all day long. Now, you got about three hours to do what you got to do then the ass reverts back to me.”

  A Bodyguard’s Bitch

  I was in New York a couple of months ago putting the final touches on a film. The production company hired a bodyguard for me. I didn’t like it. To tell the truth, it kind of made me feel uncomfortable. I had this big guy opening doors for me, pulling out chairs, pushing people out of the way. I felt like I was this guy’s bitch. One time I think I heard him say, “Back up, everyone, Miss Wayans is coming through!”

  That’s one reason why I don’t have security. Another reason is, I don’t think that I’m
famous enough to have a bodyguard. You ever see somebody who shouldn’t have a bodyguard with a bodyguard? That’s the funny thing about LA. You’ll see a big crowd, a lot of commotion, and you run over to see what’s going on. You push your way to the front of the crowd. When you finally get there you see … Scott Baio?!

  The final reason is I figure God is my bodyguard and he gives me the good sense to know where to be and where not to be. There’s always a sign to let you know if trouble is around. If I go out to a party and a guy is standing in front of the club saying something like, “If y’all don’t let me in, I’m gonna shoot everybody up in this motherfucka!” See, that’s the sign. I’m not hanging around to see if he was bullshittin”. I don’t want to see what kind of gun he has, whether or not the police are gonna show up in time, or who it was that pissed that brother off. I’m taking my ass home to watch a video. It’s a Blockbuster night. You can’t get shot watching porno. You may shoot, but you won’t get shot.

  You Don’t Remember My Movies, Do You?

  I’m doing standup again because my movie career wasn’t happening. I wasn’t happy with it. I had turned into a total whore, doing movies that I didn’t care about. I just did them for the money. I felt like that little cartoon penguin—Chilly Willy. I was just being greedy. They would say:

  Hollywood: You want to make a movie about basketball?

  Me: Mmhmm. That’s nice.

  Hollywood: How about boxing? Do you know how to box?

  Me: Yes, I box. I’ll hit-em like this and hit-em like that.

  But even at my lowest, there was one line I wouldn’t cross.

  Hollywood: Would you play a slave?

  Me: No! I’ll get the hell out before I sell out!

  Amistad

  A lot of people ask me if I’ve ever thought about doing a dramatic role. The answer is yes. I tried to get a role in the movie Amistad, which was directed by Steven Spielberg. Unfortunately, Steven wouldn’t even see me. They said I wasn’t black enough. I was a little offended by that at first. But then I thought about the audition process and what I would’ve been subjected to, and I started to feel a little better. After all, it’s hard to get your dignity back after auditioning for a slave role.

  Spielberg: Action!

  Me: I is da bestest nigger you gots, sa. I’s can picks da cotton with my feets if I has ta. I’s do anything to be yo slave, sa. You can beat me and I don’t bleed much. Plus, I’s tells on all the other niggas. Please, please, massa, don’t give me my freedom.

  Spielberg: Cut!

  Me: Thank you, Mr. Spielberg, for giving me the opportunity to showcase my talents.

  Spielberg: You’re welcome. But I’m sorry, Damon, you’re just not nigger enough. I’m looking for someone more coonish. I need a more … Danny Gloverish type.

  Adopt a Nigger

  When I found out that Spielberg has two black kids, I was amazed. What I want to know is, where the hell did he get these black kids from? Are they a prop left over from The Color Purple? Probably after the movie he was walking around the set, saying “Okay, I want those two spears, Oprah’s handkerchief, Harpo’s hat, and wrap those two little niggers up over there.”

  I guess when you have a lot of money you can do anything. I hope one day to adopt me a little white kid. Maybe a nice little Jewish boy. He’ll be able to help me out with my taxes and manage my career. We need a lawyer in the family. I’m tired of all these damned comedians.

  A Cool Slave

  Even if Spielberg didn’t want to consider me for Amistad, it seems every time I look up there’s some Hollywood producer coming to me with a slave role. I can’t play a slave. I refuse to play one ‘cause I’ve got four kids. How are my kids ever going to respect me if they see me being beaten and treated like a slave?

  Me: Little Damon, get off that chair before I spank your behind!

  Son: Yeah, you weren’t so tough when the massa was kickin’ your ass.

  Besides that, there has never been a cool slave role. Every time you see a brother playing a slave he’s always whining and crying. If I had to play a slave, I’d want to play the one that gets raped by the white woman, and has to go to trial and defend himself:

  Slave: I didn’t wants to do it, yo honor. She forceded herself on me. I was outs in da fields bustin’ up the chifferobe. I don’t even know what the chifferobe is. But they say I have to bust it up. So, I bust it up.

  Then, I hears Missy, off in the distance. She comes just a jumping and a skipping singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” And I’s knows somethin’ was a wrong, Massa, so when she comes close to me I looks away. She said “Timbuck, look at me.” I said, “No, Missy, yo whiteness is hurtin’ my eyes.” Then she comes over and toucheded me on my privacy. My eyes sprung up as wide as dey can be. I said, “Missy, you don’t want to let this here monkey out of the bag. ‘Cause you know once you go black you don’t come back.”

  Missy said, “Timbuck, I wants to give you head.” Shucks, I thought she was gonna put me in charge of the other negroes. I want’s to get ahead, sa. But she had her lil’ mind on somethin’ else. She gets to kissin’ me all over my black face with them little thin lips of hers. It felt like two pieces of baloney on the side of my face. Then, she says, “Timbuck, I loves you.” And she put her head down there where no white women’s head belongs, sa…. That’s right. In the jungle. Then, she looked up at me and there was this shadow going across her face. Must have been one of them trees or somethin”. And I remember she look up at me and said, “Timbuck, yous might hang for this.” I said, “Yassum, but you gonna choke first, Missy.”

  Tatoo and Corky

  When I get bitter about my acting career, I just think about the other people that had it worse than I do. Guys like Hervé Villechaize, the little guy that played Tattoo on Fantasy Island. Imagine how tough it was for him. I mean, what possessed him to look into the mirror and say, “I’m going to be an actor. I want be the next Latin lover.”

  What people don’t know is, Hervé didn’t get discovered. He had to audition like every other actor in Hollywood. I’m sure there were several parts he auditioned for that he didn’t get because he was just totally wrong for the role. As an actor you are taught to believe that you can play anything. So, Hervé would walk into the casting office confident.

  Hervé: Hello, my name is Hervé Villechaize and I am here to audition for the part of Superman.

  Casting Director: Well, you may not be right for the part.

  Hervé: What do you mean I’m wrong for the part? I got a big chest. I got little legs but my chest is wide. You can stand me on a table or something. Just let me play the part. Please give me a chance. I drove all the way here on my Big Wheel so I could read for the part. Look up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s da plane, da plane, da plane!

  Casting Director: Well, thank you very much for coming in. That was great. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

  Hervé: Aw, fuck you. You don’t know talent when you see it.

  The next day he’d be back in the casting office for something else he wasn’t right for.

  Hervé: Hi, my name is Hervé Villechaize. I want to audition for the part of the Terminator.

  Casting Director: Sorry, but we just gave the role to Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Hervé: Aw, fuck you! You don’t know talent when you see it. I’ll be back.

  Casting Director: Hey, that’s a great line. We should put it in the movie. I’ll be right back.

  The worst thing that can happen to an actor is for the public to know him for a single role. An actor does all of this work over the span of a career and all the public can remember is the one thing. For example, Jimmie Walker is forty-nine years old, has a big gut, and looks like a swollen rat. People see him and all they can think to say is “Dy-no-mite.” Jimmie doesn’t want to hear that shit. The same thing happened to Hervé. He will forever be remembered as Tattoo, the guy who said “da plane, da plane.” When he was out in public, it must’ve been a nightmare.

  Brother
: Yo, man, that’s the dude. That’s the little mother-fucka from that show, Fantasy Island! Yo, little man, say that shit that you be sayin’ about the plane. Yo, me and my boys be laughin’ off at that.

  Tattoo: Please, I’m standing in line here to get some hemorrhoid cream. Please don’t bother me right now.

  Brother on the Street: Come on, shorty, just say it. Just once, man.

  Tattoo: Okay, okay. You want me to say it even with hemorrhoids? Here you go. Look, boss, da plane, da plane, da plane. You satisfied now?

  Brother on the Street: Yo, fuck you. You ain’t that good anyway. Big-headed freak!

  I believe that’s one of the reasons Hervé killed himself. I heard that before his death, he would hang out in bars getting drunk with his best friend Chris Burke, Corky from Life Goes On.

  Hervé: No one loves Hervé. They only like Tattoo. Tattoo this, Tattoo that. They can kiss Tattoo’s ass!

  Chris: I know what you mean, Hervé. ‘Cause no one cares about me either. It’s all about Corky.

  Hervé: You know something, Corky, I never liked Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island. He was an asshole, a real son of a bitch. You know that in the five years that we worked together, he never once shook my hand?

  Chris: Why not?