Bootleg Read online

  Hervé: He said to touch my little fingers gave him the willies. He said it would make his palms itch for the rest of the day, if I ever shook his hand. That son of a bitch! He makes me sick to my stomach.

  Chris: Well, life goes on.

  Hervé: I guess you’re right, but he didn’t have to treat me with disrespect. I’m a man, not a little boy. Do you know that he was the one that made me call him boss? I said to him, “But why do I have to call you boss?” And he said, “Because you’re down by my balls.” And then, he used me to make the girls laugh. Always trying to impress the Fantasy Island girls. His big joke was every time we’d do a scene together he’d find a reason to put his ass in my face. One time we were filming a two-hour special and he ate six burritos with extra guacamole and a jalapeno sauce. He didn’t have to do that. Well, I’ll tell you this, the girls wouldn’t think he was so sexy if they knew what Ricardo Montalban’s ass smells like!

  Chris: Well, life goes on. I mean, I could think of one hundred reasons to be upset. I’m not bitter. So what, I didn’t get the part in Rainman. Who cares, they went with somebody else for My Left Foot? Even though I would’ve been perfect for Sling Blade, I’m not going to wallow in self-pity. You know what? We have to count our blessings. It could always be worse.

  Hervé: You got that right. I mean, we could be niggers, right?

  Chris: I’ll drink to that!

  Gary Coleman

  Hervé’s not the only short guy who’s had problems. I heard the other day that they arrested Gary Coleman. Damn, what’s the world coming to when little Gary Coleman starts getting arrested? What’s sad is he’s been reduced to working as a security guard in a shopping mall. I don’t know what he’s guarding at four feet tall—must be somebody’s nuts or something.

  “What you talking bout, mister?” He’ll be screaming, “Can’t touch these nuts, brother!”

  Gary got back in the spotlight when he had an argument with a woman at the mall. Apparently, the woman wanted an autograph. He said, “Not while I’m on duty.” So, she got mad and called him a little has-been. And then he punched her in the thigh. I feel sorry for him. He started out so little and cute. People were coming up to him saying, “Awww, look how sweet.” Then, he stayed four feet tall and grew a beard, and started scaring people. “Oh shit, what is that thing?”

  “What you talkin’ ‘bout, mister?” Gary would say, his lower lip sticking out.

  “Oh God, it talks! It’s a little black Ewok! Run!”

  Oprah’s Looking Good

  I saw Oprah recently on the cover of Vogue magazine. Damn, she looks good! Nothing like The Color Purple days. The woman lost over fifty pounds, which is an amazing feat. But she had to lose weight because there was a time when Oprah would come down the aisle on her show and knock people off their chairs with her big ass. I remember one show in particular that was really frightening:

  Oprah: Okay, we have a caller. Who’s on the line?

  Caller: Hello, Oprah, my name is Harry and I’m calling from inside your ass.

  Oprah: Really?

  Caller: Yeah, you remember last week when you dropped the microphone? Well, I was right behind you when you bent over to pick it up.

  Oprah: What is your point, caller?

  Caller Well, I just wanted to say, I like what you did with your ass. It’s really comfortable in here and I don’t think I ever want to come out. They’re actually building a mall on the right cheek of your ass.

  Oprah: Thank you, caller. If you see Stedman tell him I don’t care how long he hides out in there, I’m still not going to promote his book.

  Ain’t that a bitch. Stedman Graham wrote a book titled, How to Be Successful in Business. It should have been one page. Chapter One: “Marry Oprah.” He’s a lucky man, because if I were Oprah—smart, rich, with my own successful talk show—not only would I have stayed fat, but I would’ve gotten fatter. I would’ve made it my goal to gain a pound a day. I would have made him lay down with me and feed me cake and ice cream and tell me how pretty I am and how much he loved me for who I am. That would’ve been his job. Then he would’ve added a second chapter to his book. Chapter Two: “How to Kill Your Woman and Hide Her Fat Body Without Getting Caught.”

  Dr. Death

  Stedman could have gone to Dr. Kevorkian for advice on how to get away with killing someone. I’m glad they finally convicted this madman for murder. I mean, what kind of profession is that, where you kill people and call yourself a doctor? He must have been the worst student in his class. His professor must have said to him, “Maybe you should try law. You’re really not good at keeping these people alive.”

  Kevorkian answered, “Hmmmm, maybe I’ll be a death doctor. Carve my own niche.”

  Do you know this man has killed over a hundred people? That’s too much power for any man to possess. And he tries to justify it by saying he’s helping them make a transition to a better place. Do you know how many black men are down in county jail right now trying to use that same excuse?

  They’re standing before the judge, saying, “Your honor, I was trying to help these people get to the other side. And I knew they wouldn’t be able to get there with all that money they had. So I simply took their lives and wallets. But they are in a better place now. They don’t need all these material things that this world says you’re supposed to have.”

  I’m sure that in the beginning they were mercy killings and Kevorkian was sincerely trying to help these people by easing their suffering. But, like any job, after you do it over and over again, you start getting bored. You start looking for new ways to keep yourself entertained. Over time, he started toying with the way he took them out.

  Kevorkian: All right, Mr. Nadlehaff, just sign right here. And then I can help you make that transition. Now, why don’t we do something a little different here? We’ll put a little acid in your IV, just to mix it up a little. Help speed up the transition a little.

  By the twenty-fifth guy, he tried something even more creative. He walked in the room with a mallot behind his back.

  Kevorkian: How you feeling there, Mr. Johnson?

  Mr. Johnson: Not too good.

  Kevorkian: Great. Listen, I was talking to the nurse. And … hey, is that your wife over there?

  Mr. Johnson: Where?

  Crack!

  Kevorkian: Another one bites the dust. Yeah!

  I guess by the time he got to the seventy-fifth guy, he just walked into the room with a loaded gun.

  Kevorkian: All right, fucker. You’ve got three seconds to run.

  Smith: Aaahhhh!!

  Recently, he’s been feeling a little feisty and that’s what got him caught. He got way too creative and filmed it.

  Kevorkian: Hello there, Mary. How are you doing, sweetheart?

  Mary: Not good.

  Kevorkian: Great. Listen, Mare, do you trust me?

  Mary: Yes, doctor.

  Kevorkian: Good. ‘Cause I’ve designed a trip to the other side that’s gonna make you the envy of the deceased. This will be my greatest transition of them all. Okay, I want you to take your thumb and put it in your ass.

  Mary: Like this?

  Kevorkian: Yes, that’s right. Now I want you to grab hold of this electric cord. Okay, wave good-bye.

  BZZZZZZTTTT!

  How Fat Can You Get?

  I was looking through some old Jet magazines the other day and I came across the name Walter Hudson. Remember him? He was that fat guy who was confined to his bed because he weighed sixteen hundred pounds. Now, this just doesn’t make any sense to me. At some point he must have looked down and said, “Damn, I can’t find my penis. Maybe I need to work out a little.”

  But no, Walter refused to acknowledge the signs. He just laid there and continued to eat. I blame his family because they were the ones that kept feeding him. At some point if you love someone you don’t encourage that kind of behavior. For breakfast Walter would have two pounds of bacon, one dozen eggs, a large loaf of bread, and then he’d wash
it down with a gallon of orange juice. You’re not supposed to give him all that food. The family should have hidden a few of the eggs, or maybe switched to turkey bacon. It ain’t like he’s going to get mad. And even if he does, what is he going to do, get up and kick your ass? I think somebody in his family was making money off of him. They had some little sideshow. The billboard read:

  STEP RIGHT UP. SEETHE AMAZING WALTER HUDSON EAT

  A DOZEN EGGS IN ONE MINUTE FLAT. ONLY TWENTY DOLLARS!

  FOR AN EXTRA FIVE DOLLARS WALTER WILL ALSO EATTWO

  POUNDS OF UNCOOKED BACON!

  * Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.

  This man was so big he had to call the fire department to help him go to the bathroom. I guess twenty minutes after he ate that big breakfast he’d pick up the phone. “Hello? It’s on.”

  The fire truck would arrive with sirens going and people from all over the neighborhood would show up in front of the house. The squad of fireman would haul his huge body down the hall and into the bathroom, then, with their gas masks on, they use the jaws of life to hold his ass open long enough for him to do his business. The neighbors would let out a cheer until that smell hit them. Then, they’d have to call the sanitation department to clean the mess up.

  Got to Leave LA

  Los Angeles has nice weather most of the year and if you’re going to work in show business, this is where you’ve got to live. But I’ve got to get out of LA for one very important reason: earthquakes. We had one a couple of years ago that scared the life out of me. I haven’t shit on myself since I was about five, but the day of that earthquake I let a chunk go. I was especially afraid because I have children to think about. I remember I was standing in front of my house butt naked, thinking, “Man, I hope them kids make it out here. And I hope they’re smart enough to wake up their mama, ‘cause this place is shaking.”

  The funny thing is that Angelenos are not fazed by earthquakes. After almost every earthquake they’ll be saying, “Dude, that wasn’t the big one.”

  I guess they’re waiting for the whole state to break off and fall in the ocean. See, I’m packing ‘cause I know that the ground is saying, “Get the fuck up off me!”

  I did some research and found out that the largest earthquake ever recorded took place in Anchorage, Alaska. It was a 9.2 on the Richter scale. See that’s twenty-two percent stronger than the Northridge earthquake we had in 1994. It shook for over fifteen minutes. So that little 6.5 we had was a gay earthquake compared to a 9.2. This thing’s like, “Rumble, rumble, rumble … knock this over, knock that over. Ooh, I’m exhausted. I’m out of here.”

  I saw footage of the Anchorage earthquake. It was terrifying. I wonder what goes through your mind during fifteen minutes of earthquake? I guess the first thirty seconds you’re thinking, “Oh my God, I’m gonna die.” Then twenty seconds later you’re thinking, “Damn, when is this shit gonna stop?” Five minutes into the earthquake you just say, “Fuck it, I might as well go to work. This must be the norm. Let me go brush my teeth. Man, I ain’t scrubbed so well before! Scramble myself some eggs and get a quickie in with my wife. Baby, I may not be this active again until the next big earthquake. Hang on!”

  The Pimp and the President

  Let me tell you, being in show business, I really get to meet the sickos of the world. And it seems like everybody wants to be in show business. Everybody! I met a pimp from East St. Louis on my last movie who was trying to break into show business. He was on the set doing extra work with two of the ugliest hoes I’ve ever seen. He walked up to me one day and pitched a movie to me.

  “Hey, Damonson—how can I get some dialogue up in this motherfucker? Man, they got me doing this extra work. I’m too pretty for this shit, nigger. It makes me look bad in front of my bitches. But listen, I got this movie for you. I got this script I wrote…. What you laughing at, nigger? I seen Blankman, you better listen! No, nigger, that movie was not funny. My retarded son didn’t even laugh at that movie, and that boy laughs at car accidents.

  “Now, look, I got this movie about these alien bitches that come from another planet and they got three titties. Two up top and one right above the navel. And everyone is trying to freak with these alien bitches but what they don’t know is that that third tittie is poisonous. It got poison tittie juice that kills you in three days. And everybody’s dying all around the world. Over in Russia they’re dying. Over in China their little dicks are falling off. Looks like somebody spilled a bag of rice over there. So the president of the United States sleeps with one of these alien bitches and he’s only got seventy-two hours to live. So he calls a meeting at the White House.

  “‘What to do? What to do?’” the president asks.

  “Then Colin Powell stands up and says, ‘We need a pimp up in this motherfucker.’

  “So the president says, ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. Don’t you have one in your family?’

  “Anyway, they go out to Washington, D.C., and find the baddest pimp they can find. His name is Silky Smooth. That’s who you gonna play, Damonson. Silky struts up in the White House stairs. He got on a lime green jumpsuit with bright orange shoes and a big leopard skin hat. Just like the shit I got on right now. He walk up to the president and says, ‘What’s the deal motherfucker, I’m losing money being here. What you want with me?’

  “The president says, ‘Mr. Silky, please sit down. May I get you something to drink?’

  “Silky says, ‘I don’t want nothing to drink, this is the White House. Bring me some cocaine.’ So they go out and get the best cocaine they can find. They get him some shit out of Marion Barry’s personal stash. While Silky’s sitting there, getting his freeze on he says, ‘I’m gonna help you out, Mr. President, ‘cause I know you like niggers. But, I’m gonna want something in return.’

  “The president says, ‘Anything, Silky. We’ll make every Tuesday Big Hat Day just for you.’

  “Silky says, ‘I don’t want that shit. I want your daughter in my stable.’

  “Well, the President’s wife jumps up and says, ‘Oh no, you ain’t taking my baby, no no no.’

  “And Silky walks over and slaps the shit out of her. BAM! He uses one of your lines, Damonson: ‘Silky don’t play that shit.’ He picked her up and said, ‘I’m taking you, too. You’re my first lady now. Get your ass up and go get that little bitch and wait in the car for me.’

  “The president comes over and says, ‘Silky, thank goodness you took them. Between Whitewater and my ugly daughter I almost didn’t get reelected!’

  “So now Silky got to find the antidote to save the President. He goes out and has to talk to them alien bitches to find out where their leader’s at. He walks up to them and he says, ‘Hey, ho, who’s your pimp?’ The aliens don’t speak no English, though. They start speaking all of that gibberish. See Silky knows they don’t speak English but everybody understands an ass whupping. So Silky gets to kicking them bitches’ asses pimp style. POW, POW, POW! He takes his hanger out and heats that shit up with a lighter. WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! Them bitches started speaking English better than Margaret Thatcher.

  “She says, ‘Bob Dole is my pimp daddy.’

  “So here’s the surprise, Damonson. You find out that Bob Dole is really Bob Dolomite, a pimp from another planet called Tittoris. He failed at becoming the president of the United States, but that’s not going to stop him from pimping the world! You find out that this motherfucker didn’t get his arm blown up in the war. He slammed it in his spaceship door!

  “Silky goes to his house in the middle of the night to get the antidote for the poison titty juice. He unlocks the door with his hanger and tiptoes in. He looks around and sees Bob Dolomite sleeping, but he don’t got his arm on. Bob Dolomite takes the shit off at night and puts it in a glass case like that motherfucker from that movie Enter the Dragon. Silky sees the arm in the case on the dresser with the antidote laying inside the hand.

  “When he tries to remove the antidote, Bob Dolomite jumps out of the bed and s
ays, ‘Hey, nigger, put my arm down!’

  “And then Bob Dolomite starts twisting his leg around. See, this motherfucker comes apart like Mr. Potatohead. He twists his whole leg off and uses it as a weapon. WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! Silky goes down. Bob Dolomite hops over to him and is about to drop the nub on his head to finish him off. Silky sees him coming and kicks his other leg out and it breaks off. Now Bob Dolomite starts crawling toward him like the Terminator.

  “Silky grabs the antidote and starts running for the window. Bob Dolomite twists his dick off and it turns into dynamite. He then bites off the tip and throws it at Silky. Silky sees the dynamite coming and he kicks it back and it goes up Bob Dolomite’s ass and he explodes. So, what do you think?”

  Actually, it did sound better than Blankman.

  Mr. Bill

  I don’t know what the big deal is with the president getting a little head. I think the president needs some every now and then to help relax him. Imagine what it’s like running a country. A little head would take the edge off and make him more generous in his decision making.

  President: Ahhh, ohhh yeah! What a great idea, let’s put a little more money in welfare reform. That’s it for today, I need a nap. Zzzzzzzz.

  I have a problem with the face that gave the head. Come on Bill, Monica Lewinsky? You could do better than that. Kennedy had Marilyn Monroe. You could have had the Baywatch girls, Playboy bunnies, Cindy Crawford, Elle Macpherson. All of them would have given the president head if they thought it was a matter of national security. But Monica? Yuck. I wouldn’t trust that big fat girl around my dick. She might think it’s a frank and try to eat it. Monica Lewinsky didn’t need any more protein in her diet, what she needed was some fiber. Mr. Clinton should have let her toss his salad.