Bootleg

by Damon Wayans; David Asbery

  Seymour: Yeah, well, your mother’s so poor she can’t even pay attention.

  Me: Oh yeah, well, your sister is so ugly, they have to tie a pork chop around her neck so that the dog will play with her.

  Seymour: Yeah, well, your mother is so black every time she goes to night school the teachers mark her absent.

  Me: Hey, man, let’s not talk about mothers, man. Let’s just get off mothers, ‘cause I just got off of yours.

  Then, all the other kids would be laughing and trying to instigate a fight. This would usually provoke the kid to attack my disability.

  Seymour: Yeah, so, so, so, what about the crippled people’s shoes you be wearing? What about those, huh, huh?

  That’s when I would lose it. Something in my head would just snap and I’d go nonstop full-on frontal attack.

  Me: Oh, you want to get real now, huh, Seymour? How about when your father ran out on your mother and left her with six kids, that’s why two of your sisters have illegitimate kids, ‘cause there’s no one there to guide them. That’s why one of your brothers is a junkie and the other one is a homosexual and that’s why your mother’s a prostitute, ‘cause she can’t afford to feed y’all. That’s why when welfare comes over y’all gotta hide over my house ‘cause you’re trying to get two welfare checks and you’re only supposed to get one. That’s why you can stay outside so late ‘cause nobody loves you at home. You ain’t been hugged since you was a baby. And you’re gonna grow up to be just like your father who you hate ‘cause he’s a loser. Okay … your turn.

  POW! The game would usually end with a punch in my mouth.

  Open Wide

  Out of all of my brothers, I’d say Marlon has got the biggest mouth. And that’s saying a lot, believe me. I remember once when Marlon was younger, he got into an argument with some kid. Marlon was all up in the boy’s face telling him that he was going to kick his ass. Then, all of a sudden, the little kid spit right in Marlon’s mouth and ran away. It all happened so fast. Marlon couldn’t even chase after him. First, he had to get over the initial shock of what happened. Then he had to try and get the boy’s spit out of his mouth.

  That’s not right. You won’t ever see Mike Tyson spitting in your mouth, unless he’s trying to bite your tongue.

  My Last Hero

  The worst day of my life was the day I watched my big brother Keenen get beat up by a white boy. Hell, he didn’t just get beat up, he got beat down.

  Keenen was into karate or “The Arts” as he called it, when we were young. And this white boy was talking shit about my brother’s Chinese slippers that he used to wear, even in the snow. So, I went and told Keenen that he had to defend his karate shoes. I figured it was a win-win situation, and I’d enjoy seeing Keenen beat on the white boy.

  Everybody in the neighborhood gathered in the building to see this fight. Bets were placed. Keenen was favored to win with a flying sidekick to this guy’s nuts. But there’s this thing in the ghetto where black guys feel they have to take off clothing before they can fight. It’s supposed to show that they’re mad. So, if a brother is ever standing in front of you butt naked, ready to fight, you’d better run.

  Anyway, Keenen was in the middle of taking off his shirt when this white boy just hauled off and started whoopin’ his ass. It looked like one of those hockey fights. Keenen couldn’t even get one punch off ‘cause his arms were stuck in his shirt. I wanted to help out, but I was in such shock because it all happened so fast. Before I knew it Keenen was lying on the ground in a bloody pulp with his shirt still pulled over his head crying.

  I was yelling, “Get up, Keen! Use your nunchaku! Don’t let him get away! Taste your blood like Bruce Lee did in Enter the Dragon! It will make you mad! Here, suck on your eye, it should make you furious! Get up, Keen, fight him! I know you can do it.”

  But Keenen just laid there, wounded and crying, telling me to shut up before he kicked my ass. I don’t have heroes anymore. Everybody’s an ass-kicking away from being humbled.

  A Mother’s Love

  Mothers have the power to rescue their child in a time of need. Not just physically, but emotionally. I remember when I was in the seventh grade, I got caught making out with a girl in the assistant principal’s office.

  Okay, she wasn’t just a girl, she was the town whore. Every school has one. You know, the girl who’s overdeveloped and has no father at home. The only attention she gets is the boys in school that feel her up, even the handicapped ones. Well, this girl named Sharon had the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen, and the first ones I had ever touched. I’ll never forget how warm they were. Felt like fresh-baked muffins. Anyway, she was one of these girls that pretended that she didn’t like it. She would say, “No, no, no,” while putting your hand down her pants. I got caught. The principal suspended me, and I had to bring my mother to school in order to get back in.

  I was too embarrassed to tell my mother what had happened. So, I just said, “The teacher wants to see you.” So, there I am, sitting in the principal’s office with my mother seated next to me, and the guy is going on and on about me being a pervert. He was making me out to be the next Jeffrey Dahmer. I could feel my mother looking at me, even though I had my head down. I was so ashamed. And she felt that.

  So, right in the middle of the principal’s speech, my mother cut him off and said, “Look, don’t waste my time with this bullshit. I can’t help it if my son is a lover.”

  Right then and there, I fell in love with my mother. I looked over at her and she smiled at me. I thought to myself, “Yeah, I’m a lover.” I felt good about myself. I actually told the principal, “Yeah, don’t be wasting our time. I’m a lover, and I got some more lovin’ to do. What’s your wife doing later?”

  My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the office before I was a dead lover. When we got outside, she slapped the shit out of me, and told me if I ever did that again, she’d beat my Billy Dee ass with a billy club. I’ll always love my mama.

  A Mother’s Love II

  Mothers also keep things real. When you do business with your family, things can get out of control sometimes. My sister submitted ten scripts for a show I was producing called 413 Hope Street. I rejected them because they were … well, okay, they sucked. When something like this happens in the Wayans family, you can bet you’re gonna receive a call from Mama Wayans.

  Mom: Now, Damon, you mean to tell me that out often scripts that your sister sent you, you couldn’t push through one of them?

  Me: Mom, I have to put my name on this work. I can’t just send out anything.

  Mom: Well, you sent out Blankman. That was some bullshit if I ever saw some. Your name was on that, wasn’t it?

  Thanks, Mom.

  Antonie

  My mom and dad did have their hands full with the ten kids, especially when we were dating. My sister used to go out with this dude named Antoine. He used to speedball, where you mix heroine with cocaine and shoot it into your veins. Once he came by my house to meet my parents right after speedballing. He knocked on the door like he would never stop: knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knock,knockknock…

  When my father answered the door, Antoine was nodding out, digging in his butt.

  “Aw, hey, hey, hey—what’s happening, daddy-O?” Antoine said. “Oh, you gonna pass on the handshake? Oh, I’ll just finish doing what I was doing then, I got a wedgie. Look, I’m here to pick your daughter up. I’m gonna take her to the movies. We gonna go see Caligula. Say, this is a nice place you got here, Mr. Wayans. This is all right for the projects. I especially like this color TV you got here. That’s one of them Sony Trinatrons. What’s that—a nineteen-inch? Let me ask you something, Mr. Wayans, about how much do that weigh?”

  My dad was stunned speechless. Then my sister walked into the room.

  “Oh, hey, what’s happening, Diedre? Come here, give me a kiss. No, give me some tongue. I don’t care if your daddy’s watchin”. What you had for dinner? Chicken? I can taste th
at. Look, I was just talking to your pops. He has some sorta attitude problem. Oh, he’s a preacher? Oh shit. Let me go talk to him. Excuse me, Mr. Wayans. … Look, I know you’re concerned about your daughter. I understand the father-daughter relationship. I got five kids of my own. But I want you to know that I love your daughter. This is some good pussy right here. See, I’ve been through a lot of hoes in my day, and your daughter stacks up number one. I mean if your wife is half as good as Diedre in the bed, then I see why you got all these kids running around here. Give me five. Oh, you gonna leave me hanging…. Damn.”

  My mother came into the room to see what was going on. Antoine went right up to her.

  “Oh wow, this must be your moms, Dee. The Queen Bee is in the house. How you doing, Mrs. Wayans?”

  He tongue-kissed my mama’s hand, and she pulled it back right away.

  “My name is Antoine. I’m French, as you can see. Now, I see where Diedre gets her big ass from. That’s your genes, huh? Yo, Dee, what’s wrong with your mama? What do you mean, I offended her? All right, look. I’m gonna apologize and get out of here. Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Sensitive. Diedre told me I offended y’all poor niggers. You must forgive me. I’m a little nice, is all. I just shot up before I came. Anybody got some matches? I wanna light up this joint. Maybe it will take some of this tension out the room.”

  Hot Steaming Stinking Bad Breath

  I got a little nephew in New York who I got out of the projects. Damien is a sweet eleven-year-old, but he’s real tough and he acts like he’s in his twenties. You bump into him and he may take your life. I have to hide my wallet from him when I know he’s coming over, so I put it under the couch.

  “Yo, what up, Uncle Damon?” he said when he came over last week. “How you livin’? You living large or what? Shit is lookin’ lovely ‘round here. Your shit is looking mighty fine.”

  I can’t do the same cute kid stuff that I do with my son with him. For example, I wanted to take him to Disneyland. My nephew looked at me like I was crazy.

  “What I want to see some swollen rat for? You want to do something with me? Take me to see Pulp Fiction. Yo, I love the way they be talking about them bitches. That shit is true. That shit is true.”

  I was going to buy him a video game ‘cause my sons love ‘em. Again, my nephew was offended.

  “Yo, don’t play me like a Spice Girl. You want to do something for me? You trying to show me some love and affection? You wanna say, ‘Hey, I love you’? This is what you can do for me. I saw this five-finger gold ring. I saw this seven-inch gold chain. I saw me a BMW 318i. You want to do something for me? Do dat shit for me! That’s the way to my heart.”

  “You know I don’t have no money like that, Damien,” I said.

  “Oh, you ain’t got no money? You ain’t got money like that? Uncle Damon, helloooo. I be seeing you on TV. I know you getting paid out the gluteus maximums. Okay, okay. All I find I keep.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. All I find I keep! ‘Cause I know where your wallet is. Your wallet is right under the couch.”

  Like I said—he’s a sweet kid. He just needs a little guidance. He got suspended from school for telling the teacher her breath stank. My sister got all bent out of shape. I told her not to spank him. He’s just expressing himself. You can’t beat him for that. I wish I could tell somebody that their breath stinks.

  Have you ever talked to someone and their breath is just kicking? Just burning the hair out of your nostrils? But we are taught to be nice and to just stand there and take it. You try and be polite and offer them gum. And they say, “No, thank you, I don’t chew gum.”

  And you’re thinking, “That’s why your breath smells like shit! Maybe you should try sucking on a piece.”

  We’ve all had a bad breath teacher. I had one named Miss Anonoff. Her breath smelled like hot garbage. She was my math teacher. It’s always the teachers that have to talk the most that have the worst breath. She used to smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and on her desk she had this block of cheese she would dip into. I guess the cheese was to seal the nasty smell in.

  This lady would be all up in my face, trying to help me, her hot steamy breath stinking up my clothes, “Nooo, honey. That’s wwwrong. What you want to dooo is carry the fffiive over the ttthree. Then multiply it by twooo.”

  “Look, just fail me,” I said. “Give me an F and get the hell out of my face.”

  “Hhey, don’t talk to me like that, young mmman,” she said, bristling. “I’ll call your mmmother.”

  That actually seemed like a good idea to me. “Yeah, just talk to her. She’ll understand. Matter of fact, just write her a note and lick the envelope. She’ll get it.”

  Seymour’s Rotting Mouth

  When it’s your friend who has bad breath, that’s a whole different story. For as long as I’ve known Seymour, he’s had this horrible problem. He’s so afraid of the dentist, he will let his teeth rot out of his mouth. When he has a toothache, I ask him why he don’t go to the dentist and he’ll just say, ‘“Cause the tooth is almost gone. Soon, there won’t be any pain.”

  See, when we were young, we used to go to the community health center to get our teeth fixed. When you don’t have money or insurance, they don’t fix your teeth. They pull ‘em. No matter how big or small the problem is.

  Dentist: Oh, we’re going to have to pull that out.

  Seymour: But it’s just a little chip.

  Dentist: Yes, I see that, but it still has to go.

  Seymour: Well, what about this other tooth with the coffee stain?

  Dentist: Oh, that’s gotta go, too.

  Seymour: That can’t be!

  Dentist: Well, when you get some insurance, we’ll talk about saving some teeth.

  So, after dealing with that, Seymour never went back to the dentist. And now he has that halitosis. His breath stinks through his face. He doesn’t even have to say anything. All you have to do is stand next to him, and you’ll be like, “Hey, man, what’s that rotting smell? Damn!”

  When Seymour and I used to go clubs, I would always instigate trouble. I would try to get him to talk to girls just to watch their reactions. I remember one night when it was especially scary.

  “Yo, Sey,” I said while we were hanging out at the bar. “Check out that girl over there—she’s givin you the eye.”

  Of course, she was the hottest woman in the club, and she was completely oblivious to him.

  “Yeah?” he said, checking her out. He licked his lips, which is not a good thing.

  “Yeah, man,” I said, encouraging him. “She’s scoping you out. Go over there and talk to her.”

  “How’s my breath?” he asked me, giving me a whiff.

  “Ahhhhh, it’s cool, man, it’s cool,” I said, trying to keep my balance. It was getting hard holding my breath so I couldn’t smell it and talk at the same time.

  Seymour grabbed his drink; he thought the alcohol would kill the smell but it would actually intensify it. He walked over to the girl all cool:

  “Hey, baby, what’s up? Where you going? Come back. Don’t run from me. Come back and talk to me. Damn, girl, why you in such a rush? What’s all this blinking about, got something in your eye? Are you crying? Hey, why are your eyes rolling back in your head?! What the fuh … ? Oh, oh, now you gonna lay down on me, playing dead?”

  Seymour returned, playing like he had a real shot at her. “Yo, Dee, man, I had it going on there a little while and then she passed out on me. I guess she just couldn’t handle my shit!”

  Part 3

  Race

  Black Reporters Got It Hard

  Any time there’s a disaster in the news, the black reporter gets that assignment. They never get the fun stuff—like the space shuttle launch, or the Oscars, or the Thanksgiving Day Parade. It’s always a war or something where bullets are flying and people are dying. Remember when we had the riots in LA? There was nothing but black reporters out there.

  Black Reporter: This is Leon J
ackson! I’m standing on Normandie and Crenshaw….

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Black Reporter: Man they’re shooting out here! It’s getting pretty bad. They’re looting everything, everywhere…. Hey, nigger get off me…. They got my camera…. Come back with my camera!

  We had mud slides. The brother was buried up to his neck in mud.

  Black Reporter: This is Leon Jackson—I’m swimming in, aggghhh, approximately twelve feet of mud. It’s pretty, aggh-hahghh, bad out here as you can see. I’m not gonna be able to breathe in a minute. Aaagghh. Help!

  Meanwhile, the white anchorman is always in the studio, safe and sound, trying to act concerned for the brother.

  White Anchorman: Gee whiz, Leon, it certainly looks bad out there. Our hearts go out to poor Leon and his all-black crew. We’re hoping that somehow he’ll make it through this.

  Then they try to interject some humor:

  White Anchorman: Hey, Leon, don’t get anything on that camera or your name will certainly be mud around here. Har har har.

  A Haitian, a Plunger, and the NYPD

  I Love New York City. It’s the only city where people pride themselves on “keeping it real.” That means they’re just plain ole rude and don’t plan on apologizing for it. And there are times when some real mean things can happen. Like when some New York City cops got together and shoved a plunger up the butt of a Haitian man named Abner Louima. This happened about a year ago. When I heard about it my first thought was ouch. Then I was thinking, “Where did the cops get the plunger from?”

  It’s not like cops have plungers as part of their uniforms. If it were a ticket book, a badge, a pair of handcuffs, or maybe a doughnut up his ass, you would be able to say, well, the cops got mad and grabbed for the first thing they could find. But a plunger is so unusual. I think what happened was Mr. Louima didn’t know the “nigger rule,” which is, if you’re black you don’t talk back to cops. We have past examples (like Rodney King) of what could happen to you when you’re trying to cooperate with the cops, let alone resist.