Bootleg

by Damon Wayans; David Asbery

  Mrs. Bill

  Many people aren’t aware that the Clintons’ visit to Africa was really Hillary’s idea. The president didn’t really want to go, but Hillary said, “You want to fuck around, I’m fucking around, too. Now, you take me where the dick is so long that they can’t wear drawers!”

  So, there they were standing around all those Africans. And Bill was uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. Then he thought he could try make things right.

  President: I just want to apologize for your ancestors’ being taken over to our country and forced into the degradation of slavery.

  African Leader: Hey, redface white man! Shut the hell up. We don’t want to hear that sorry bullshit. Go apologize to the niggers in America. We are happy here. They are the ones that need your sympathy. We are here for white pussy. Now, back up, motherfucka, you are standing on my dick!

  Mo’ Money

  I found out that one of my partners, Larry, is in jail now. He got twenty five years for something that he didn’t do—he didn’t run fast enough. I always knew this brother was going to jail ‘cause he’s one of them dudes that wanted to make it in life but he wanted to get over. He was a con artist. Always had a plan. I called him the “street business man.” I saw him when he got out of jail the last time.

  “What’s up, D?” he said. “Yo, it’s good to see you, man. I heard you was out there in California, man. You doin’ comedy now, right? You funny? Go ahead—say something funny. Aw, man, you need an audience and shit…. Look, you keep doing it, man. You might be like the next Bugs Bunny or something. Yeah, but I ain’t got time for no Three Stooges type silliness. I’m trying to get me some income coming in. Word! Yo, this what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get me a full-time job at McDonald’s, then I’m gonna work my way up to manager, and let my boys come and rob the place. Mo’ money, mo’ money! See, I take all that stolen money and throw it in the bank. I won’t touch that. I’ll just step off, ya know. Let the interest fuck with that. It will be like boom … Mo’ money, mo’ money.

  “See, I’m gonna do this every other day. So they don’t catch on, ‘cause I don’t want to go to Mcjail or nothing, you know. Word. I’d be in the cell with that Hamburglar he be bugging me out with that head and shit.

  “Yo, then clock this—I’m gonna let my lady forge checks, right? ‘Cause she works in the bank. Then I’m gonna let her prostitute on the side. You know, just in case the bank thing don’t work out—she can have something to fall back on. Now this is only part-time, see? ‘Cause I can’t have no full-time ho living in my house.

  “Then dig this, I’m gonna adopt me a kid. One of them foster childs. ‘Cause they pay you to take their ass. And I’m gonna let him sell joints in school. Mo’ money, mo’ money! See, this is good for the kid, too. ‘Cause it teaches him responsibility, right? ‘Cause if he messes up my money, I’m gonna hurt him. Now I figure every day before he goes to school, I throw a hundred joints in his lunch box—get him one of those Fred Flintstone lunch boxes ‘cause kids need that type of thing, you know. And then I send him on out the door. Go make that money, son. Now if he gets busted, I just come to school and play the father role.

  ‘“What’s up, teachers? No, tell me what happened. I don’t wanna know your name, I don’t want to shake your hand, I just want the facts. Fuck that. Tell me, what was my little white son doing?’

  “Then I’ll play all surprised. ‘Oh snap, he was doing what? I am so surprised!’

  “And since this is a teacher, right, I’ll start throwing my big words on ‘em. ‘Circumcise me. Flatulate the information, ‘cause the whole constipation got my scrotum detached. No, no, no, let me shed my foreskin on the issue. You retain your liquids while I masturbate my ambeonic fluids. So this whole thing is super-calafragalistic expealladocious.’

  “See, when the teachers see how smart I am, they’ll probably put me in charge of the PTA. Then I’ll start selling crack to the parents. Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money!”

  I Love Rap

  I love rap music. I grew up on it. I actually wanted to be a rap artist, but my lyrics made me laugh and that’s not what rap’s supposed to do. It’s supposed to make you want to kill. The thing that I like about rap is that every time you think it’s over they take it to another level. At one point they were doing these rap love songs, which was all right. I appreciate brothers trying to express a sensitive side of themselves, but the shit… was rather corny:

  I was walking down the block the other day

  I saw a young lady, I didn’t know what to say.

  She had lovey dovey hair, and lovey dovey eyes.

  Her lovey dovey dovey had me hypnotized.

  Then, I went to her house,

  I saw a little mouse.

  He ran over there

  Near her underwear.

  I need her job.

  There are some rappers who can’t do a love song. They are just too hard. Like DMX. I want to hear DMX make a rap love song. It would probably go something like this:

  I know these two bitches

  with hair shorter than stitches.

  One is into voodoo,

  and the other smells like doo-doo.

  But I love them oh so,

  even though they both hoes.

  Fishbone

  I went to see this band called Fishbone. Now I know black people are saying, “What the hell is a Fishbone? Got one caught in my throat once. Is that it or is it a soul food restaurant?”

  No. Fishbone is a group of brothers that play that heavy metal music. It’s that stuff that you see on MTV and turn from. When I saw the brothers had dreads in their hair, tattoos on their arms, and their nipples pierced—I knew I was in for some different shit. One of them picked up the guitar and started knocking shit over—amps, mike stands, and people. There was nothing but white folks in the crowd. They were all yelling out, “Radical, dude! Radical!”

  Another one of the guys from Fishbone jumped into the audience and they caught him and passed him around like a joint. See, that can only happen with white people. You can’t jump on no niggers. Black people have this understanding. If I pay thirty-five dollars for a ticket, keep your ass on stage. I won’t come up there and fuck with your amps and you don’t come down here and fuck with my clothes. As much as black folks love Bobby Brown, if he were to jump off the stage and into the audience, that shit would part like the Red Sea. Bobby would be lying on his back, moaning, and brothers would walk over, shaking their heads saying, “It’s your prerogative.”

  They were also slam dancing at this concert, which is nothing like the dancing you see on Soul Train. I just don’t understand it. The dance floor is filled with only guys, for one. I saw two white boys in particular look at each other from across the room. Both guys took a shot of their drinks, backed up, and ran full speed into each other. They collapsed on the floor, then got up and started fighting. If they were doing this to each other, imagine what they would do to my black ass if I joined in. I had to leave. But before I left, I kind of got into it a little. As I walked through the crowd, I was sneakin’ some of the poor bastards—punching people in the eye, pulling hair, pinchin’ titties—when I left, there were about twelve people lying on the floor. I heard someone say, “That’s Damon Wayans, he’s a great dancer. Look what he did to my nuts!”

  Rap Attacks

  I can’t believe that rappers are killing each other. Over what, lyrics? How ignorant can that be? I can just see some angry rapper saying, “Hey, man, that’s my shit! I rhymed ‘now’ with ‘cow.’ So, you remember that’s my shit. Now and cow! Don’t even think about using it!”

  I hope this kind of ignorant shit doesn’t start happening in the comedy world, “Man, did you hear Eddie Murphy shot Chris Rock because Rock stole his doo-doo joke? Yeah, man, Eddie shot him dead. Eddie says that he wants his doo-doo joke back.”

  Rappers

  There’s a real contradiction with rappers. They can be so poetic on their albums. Lyrics like,


  I’m innovative, extremely creative,

  I look African, but I’m an American Native.

  Like the Indian I’m brave,

  like the Jew, I’m a slave.

  My real name is Dave,

  I take dignity to my grave.

  Their lyrics are just so fluid, you’d swear they were educated. But if you sit one of them down for a one-on-one interview, you feel like you’re talking to a third grader.

  Interviewer: So, Intelligent B, why don’t you explain to us the history of rap and the hip hop genre?

  Intelligent B: Well, you know it’s like … trying to represent. Keeping it real, you know what I mean?

  Interviewer: Ahh, yeah? So, Intelligent B, let me ask you a different question. Maybe you didn’t understand the last one. Do you think that rap transcends culture and social status?

  Intelligent B: Word.

  Interviewer: Word?

  Intelligent B: No doubt.

  Interview: Let me try one more question. Do you think rap is a fad? Do you think it’ll fade? Like bellbottoms and high-heel sneakers?

  Intelligent B: Yo, it’s like cigarettes, you know what I’m saying?

  Interviewer: No. I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying. And how the hell did you get a name like ‘Intelligent’? Why don’t you just rap your damn answers to me?

  Part 2

  Marriage & Family

  The Scariest Words Known to Man

  I’ll tell you what scares men. When the preacher says, “till death do you part.” Those are the scariest words a man can ever hear. We can take “to love and to cherish” or “to have and to hold.” But “till death do you part” sounds like a long, long, long time. Why not until my car breaks down? Or until I run out of money? Or until her ass gets too big?

  God gave women something that he didn’t give men: a heart. For women, relationships are built on emotions and feelings. They’re more mature and not as superficial as men. The proof? I’ve seen plenty of pretty women with fat, bald-headed men. And as long as this man treats her right, she’ll stay in love with his big, bald-headed ass. Be hugging all over him, just happy to be around him. Me? If my wife got fat and bald? I’m out like a scout on a new route. I’d be in court, saying, “Yes, your honor, she’s a good woman, a fine woman. Takes care of me and my children and has a heart of gold. But look at her! She looks like Sherman Hemsley.”

  The Out Clause

  While I am committed to being married, I do want to know what the out clause is. I’m trying to find the loophole. I play this little “what if” game with my wife:

  Me: Hey, baby, what if, just hypothetically speaking, what if you found out I was cheating on you? Would you stay with me?

  My Wife: Yeah, I guess. Unless I saw you with her, then I’d kill you both.

  Me: Okay, that ain’t it.

  One time I was digging way down in the bottom of the “what if” barrel:

  Me: Baby, here it is. I think I got it. What if I’m walking across the street, right, and a big Mack truck comes and … POW… knocks my legs and arms off. Would you stay with me then?

  My Wife: (without batting an eye) Yes.

  This one messed me up. If the shoe was on the other foot, even if the other foot was out on the freeway or something, would I be man enough to stay? Now, of course I’d have to stay for a little while. It’d be too cold-blooded to show up at the scene of the accident saying, “Hey, baby, how you doing? Ah, look, its just not gonna work out with me and you. Now, I done packed up all your shit… your legs are in the bag … got both your feet… oh, I don’t know what this is, I think it’s your baby toe. I’m gonna put that in the bag, too. Open your mouth … here’s a little money. Buy yourself a skateboard and you be happy.”

  I’m talking more about as time goes by, as the years roll on, would I be able to hang in there and be supportive? Probably not. I’d probably start by trying to make her feel guilty about me staying. I’d walk around the house saying things like, “Yeah, I’d sure like to go out dancing. Haven’t run a mile in a long time. I’d sure love to buy a trampoline.”

  I don’t know if I’d even be able to get in the same bed as her. If one of those cold nubs rubbed up against me in the middle of the night, it would freak me out. I’d jump out of the bed, and say, “Girl, you gonna have to put some socks on or somethin”. I’m gonna have to get you some booties.”

  No, really, I’d stay. I love my wife. I’m here forever. I would even make love to her without the legs. Might be easier without legs. Sometimes the legs get in the way. You can do tricks with no legs. Put her on that skateboard, roll her ass into the bedroom, then throw her up in the air and spin her around on my dick. That way I’d turn a negative into a positive and we’d all have fun.

  Running Out of Things to Say

  I respect anybody that can stay married for a long period of time, because marriage is giving two hundred percent of yourself and not expecting anything in return except for some love. It’s hard to please somebody physically, emotionally, and sexually for the rest of your life. And, believe me, I’m no superman. My wife still wants me to talk to her in bed. When we first got together, I could say things like, “You have beautiful eyes,” and “I love making love to you.”

  Now that we’ve been together for seventeen years, I’m running out of things to say. Last night it was, “I like the way you stack the groceries in the freezer. The meats provide a real good foundation for the bulky bags of frozen vegetables, and then the way you balance the ice cream containers on top of it all. It really turns me on!”

  How to Make Your Man Not Forget Your Wedding Anniversary

  After all these years of being married, I’m realizing that I don’t make the same effort that I used to in the romance department. This is messed up because my wife really deserves it. Sometimes I’ll be watching TV and she’ll walk into the room and I just get overwhelmed with love and appreciation for her.

  I’ll look over at her and say to myself, “Damn, look at this woman. I’ve known her almost eighteen years. She’s given me four beautiful and healthy kids and she’s still looking good. I need to go over there and tell her how much I love her and how much I need her in my life.”

  But then the commercial’s over, the game’s back on and I’m like, “Ahh, I’ll tell her later…. Jordan’s got the ball!”

  Things had gotten to a point where we just had an anniversary recently and I almost forgot! It wasn’t until she said “Happy Anniversary” that I remembered. I felt real shitty and selfish. I pondered and asked myself “Why?” Why did I forget? Even more, why do men in general forget? I’ve had friends who’ve forgotten their anniversaries. It’s unforgivable, yes, but there’s got to be a reason for it. And now, I think I’ve figured it out.

  If you’re a woman, I know what you’re thinking—your man doesn’t love you. But it’s not that at all. It’s because anniversaries are a celebration of the wedding ceremony. And the wedding ceremony was something dreamed up by the girl. That was y’all’s little day on the town. The rice, the flowers, and all your girlfriends … Men didn’t have any input into that. We just wanted to get laid and got tricked into all of this other stuff that in our minds is really just beside the point.

  Let me illustrate my point:

  Man: Hey, look, baby, I got to have sex with you or I’m gonna explode.

  Woman: No, if you want me, it’s going to be forever. Now, what you need to do is drop down on one knee and confess your love to me. Tell me that it’s me and no one else and then I want you to give me a diamond ring to show me you mean business. And I mean a bigger diamond ring ‘cause this little piece of shit you gave me for my birthday ain’t working.

  Man: Then am I gonna get some sex?

  Woman: No, not yet. First, what we’re gonna do is have this big celebration, and we are going to invite all my friends and family and everybody that you hate. And we are gonna congregate in church and in front of God and my father you are going to confess your love to me a
nd you’re gonna tell me till death do you part you’ll love me and only me.

  Man: Then can I get some sex?

  Woman: No. Then we’re gonna run out into the limo.

  Man: We gonna have sex in a limo?

  Woman: No, we’re going to the airport.

  Man: We gonna have sex on a plane?

  Woman: No, we’re going halfway around the world to an exclusive little island infested with mosquitoes. Then you gonna pick me up and carry me across the threshold and tell me how beautiful I am and how much you love me.

  Man: Then we can have sex?

  Woman: No, silly, I’ll be on my period by then!

  So you can clearly see why a guy can forget his anniversary. Ladies, if you wanted your man to remember your anniversary, you should let the men come up with the wedding ceremony. We would have come up with something that we would never forget.

  Consider this alternative scenario:

  Man: All right, girl, before I get all sentimental, this is what I need you to do. I want you to drop down on one knee and suck my dick like it ain’t never been sucked before so that I know that it’s you I want sucking my dick for the rest of my life.

  Woman: Then you’ll confess your love to me?

  Man: No. Not just yet. First we’re gonna have this big ceremony, and we gonna invite all of your friends—all of the fine ones, none of those fat bitches. They’re gonna be dressed up in those little bridesmaid dresses with no panties on. I’ll be wearing my all-white Nike sweatsuit, my Air Jordans on-unlaced. You’ll be in white, too—an all-white bra and G-string panty set so my boys can get a good look at the ass that I’m getting for life. Then we will walk down the aisle while they’re singing my wedding song, “Here comes pimp daddy. Here comes pimp daddy.” I’ll put my hand on your ass and look at your father like, “Yeah, what’s up, Mr. Man? This is mine now!” Then the preacher gives us our vows, you say, “I do,” and I say, “Till death or another woman do us part.” Then he’ll pronounce us man and wife.