I Ain't Scared of You

by Bernie Mac

  If I was a young player and the Bulls drafted me, I’d never play for them. Draft me, I’d go back to school on they ass. And if I can’t re-enroll, nigga, I’ll join the Army.

  Fuck the Bulls.

  I was watchin’ the basketball finals between Philadelphia and LA. I like that muh’fuckin’ Iverson, man. He got heart, same way Jordan did. And the other teams do him like Jordan. They knock him around and shit, foul him even when he ain’t got the ball.

  The Detroit Pistons used to do Jordan like that all the time. They used to beat Jordan’s ass. They took that nigga to the bridge every time he touched the ball! They ain’t give a fuck who was open.

  One time they tackled his ass. All of them just rushed him. He shot the ball, made it, but he couldn’t even shoot the free throw. Rodman had stepped on his fingers. Isaiah beat him. Mahorn threw him down. Laimbeer sat on him. And Vinne Johnson’s ugly ass was lookin’ at him.

  Aw, man, Detroit was rough.

  * * *

  I like Shaq’s game, too. People are always sayin’, “Well, he just does that because he’s big.”

  So? Shaq can’t help it that he’s big. He’s playin’ like a big strong muh’fucka is supposed to play: Knock the fuck outta ya. ’Bow you in the mouth. Make you bite ya tongue. Put yo’ eye out.

  He’s lettin’ you know: Any time you put your hands on me, I’m coming around with my fist balled.

  They say all he do is dunk. So what? You be under that basket Shaq gon’ bust yo’ got-damn lip.

  Pete Rose, now that was one tough sum’bitch. That’s the kinda ballplayer I like. That sum’bitch, he was no joke. Charlie Hustle. He know he had to be the one to start that sliding head first, diving on your stomach.

  I dug Pete Rose—and I fucked myself up trying to do that shit.

  I was playin’ in a softball game, and caught myself tryin’ to steal second. Burned my chest up trying to dive on my got-damn stomach.

  You ever seen a black muh’fucka with a pink chest?

  I burnt all the skin off my ass. I said, “From now on, tag me out.”

  I’m not diving no muthafuckin’ more. I’m out. Shit, game after that, I was running to third base. The ball got there. I was undecided as to whether I was gonna slide. Before he could even tag me, I says, “I’m out.” Slide? Fuck that!

  Man, skin was all off this sum’bitch. I’m sitting there that night, pouring peroxide onto my chest. Man, all this shit on my chest was all white, like snow. Tryin’ to slide, watchin’ Pete Rose.

  Now tell me he don’t belong in the Hall of Fame.

  These sportscasters today get on my nerves, too. I mean, I know it’s what the audience wants, all this hip hop, but these sportscasters just go overboard. A muh’fucka hit a jumpshot on ESPN and it’s, “Oops, upside ya head—bang, bang, ya dead.”

  Muh’fucka, sit yo’ ass down.

  * * *

  I’m not jealous by nature. I’m just not. I don’t have envy toward anybody for shit they got. I’m focused on me. And most of my life, I was always like that.

  Except for when it came to that got-damn Marvin Gaye.

  Man, Marvin Gaye. I was jealous of Marvin Gaye. I have to really be honest. I was jealous of Marvin Gaye. Because Marvin had what I wanted. I wished I had the charisma, the magic that he had with his fans. And I was an aspiring entertainer then.

  Marvin Gaye would come out on stage: “Hey, what’s happening?” They said he was a sissy, all that shit—but that mutha-fucka was smooth, man. “Hey, what’s happening? Distant love . . .”

  Aw, man. You be sitting there, trying to hold tight, all the women be screaming. You all mad, but you tryin’ not to let nobody see it. You got yo’ face all frowned up and shit.

  See, back then, we hid our jealousy. You’d be jealous as hell, you be doing just rocking in your seat, poppin’ your fingers, actin’ like you into it, but you frownin’ like a muh’fucka.

  Your girl be going, “Ohhh! Ahhhh!”

  You mad as hell, but you keep snapping your fingers and grittin’ your teeth and you go, “Yeah, he jammin’.”

  Then Marvin hit that note. “Wooo-Hoooooooooo!” He be holdin’ that shit! His process be sticking out a little bit!

  And he be high than a motherfucker! Marvin Gaye used to be hi-iiiiiiigh.

  And yo’ jealous ass, that’s the only thing you can say about him, so you turn to your girl and be like: “Man, he fucked up!” And hope that just scared somebody.

  Your girl just say, “That’s all right, but he jammin’, though! Go ’head on, Marvin, with yo’ high ass!”

  That make you even madder.

  “Hmph. He probably on some . . . some her’on!” Trying to make it harder than what it is: “Look at him, he look like he about to fall out! Fucker!”

  That’s when Marvin’d say, “I’m going to sing one more for y’all.”

  Your girlfriend: “Sing one more, Marvin!”

  Here you go: “Why don’t you go up there with the mutha-fucka then, you know? Why don’t you let him to take your ass home?”

  “Aw, everytime we go out you starting some bullshit. You be jealous!”

  I was jealous, man.

  * * *

  It was the same thing with Michael Jackson. He was nice-looking when he was a boy. All of the Jackson family, they were a nice-looking family. And every brother was jealous of the Jackson 5. You’s a damn lie. You was, too.

  The Jackson 5 would come out, be jammin’ like a sum’bitch.

  And I’d have that same jealous face. You know that look mixed with a smile and a frown? Niggas be listening to Jeffrey Osborne, muh’fuckas like that. “Oh, they bad!” And you have that face, tryin’ to smile like you ain’t jealous, talkin’ through your teeth, like, “Yeah, heh-heh. They bad. They bad.”

  Knowin’ you jealous as hell.

  Back in the day, they had lyrics. They sang about something. They didn’t just talk about themselves. They started with love songs. It was, “Baby, I miss you. I need you back.” With the bands and the instruments, it was entertaining.

  When you went to a show and you saw Earth, Wind & Fire! People be sitting there, talking, “Blah-blah . . . When the show gon’ start? . . . Blah-blah.” Then that curtain came up! The music started! It was smoke and shit, powder’d be flying over your head.

  If you was smokin’ a joint, you’d be done fell out.

  See, that was fun. Wasn’t nobody shooting and shit, man. You were entertained. When you heard that music! Oh, man!

  You got you some pussy that night!

  You got you some good pussy that night. After the show, you went and got some chicken and got a room. And she gave you some pussy. Now we call that sympathy pussy.

  HER: I really want to thank you for tonight.

  HIM: Yeah? You had a good time?

  They lookin’ at each other. Then she just flop over on you, don’t say a word, and motherfucker start tongue-kissin’ and shit.

  Muh’fuckas fuckin’ to music today don’t even kiss or get intimate no more. They leave the show, go get a room, and when they fuck, they fuck with their clothes on! They just pull out, pull one leg out the pants. Shirt still be on and shit. You see deodorant stains under their arms.

  That’s the difference between today and back then.

  When they come out nowadays, most performers don’t even entertain. They sing two, three songs, and it’s, “Good night, good night!” and then they break the microphone. Pow!

  You be sitting there: “This bitch ain’t shit.”

  And they be lip-syncing, too. And the next thing you know, the record start skipping. “Hello, baby! Baby-baby-baby-baby . . .”

  You be sitting up there: “That sumbitch hoarse, she must be high or something. She ain’t singing!”

  Old entertainers, man. I’ll give you a perfect example. I was on a show and on the bill was also the Intruders. I was young when they were out, with that song “I’ll Always Love My Mama.” They could jam.

  One night, I’m do
ing the show, and I was backstage with them. The lead singer was real sick. Sick as a dog. Throwin’ up and shit. And they was doing their little steps and singing: “Whodoopwhodoo-dooo . . .” They steppin’ and spinnin’ and doin’ their whole routine. And I mean, they were doing that shit, right? And as soon as they marched off stage, the lead singer bent over and—blwwwwaaappp—just threw up right there on the spot.

  Man, and I ain’t lyin’, that muh’fucka just spit, wiped his mouth off, and was right back in line as they came back on that muh’fucka!

  He ain’t miss a beat. He just went back on, “Doo-doop! Doo-doop! Doo-doop!” They was doing that shit, right? and they started marching off again. The lead singer was still doing his thing, stepped, spun around in his little, circle, “Doo-doo! Doo-doo, doo-doo!”

  I said, “Man!” Now, that was how the old school used to do it. They were real entertainers, and they gave you a show no matter what.

  I know rap is the hot thang right now, but I’m a jazz man. I am not a rap person. I ain’t knocking rap. But you get your average black kid and white kid, they don’t want to be a doctor, lawyer, chemist. All of them, when I do a seminar and ask, “What do you want to be?” say they want to be a rapper.

  Because they think it’s easy. Because you ain’t got to be great, all you got to do is pick out a song and talk over it. And they see what cats get. Cats get four or five million dollars, man, riding around in a Bentley with braids and gym shoes.

  You don’t drive no fucking Bentley with gym shoes on, okay? If you’re going to be a millionaire, you got to act like a millionaire. You don’t come out in no Bentley or no Rolls, man, with your scarf on your head and your hair braided and your tongue pierced and in no gym shoes. I’m sorry, that ain’t no put-down, I’m just putting you where you belong.

  That ain’t nothing but some nigga shit.

  Get you a Lexus or something because you messing up the traditions, man.

  You a millionaire got-damnit; you’re supposed to walk like a millionaire! Man, when you come out the door, you’re supposed to be clean from head to toe. Naw, I’m sorry. You give a millionaire a whole new name. You keeping it real? That ain’t real, dog. That’s ghetto like a muthafucka.

  A millionaire, you can smell him when he leaves the room. You got to put some C-L on your A-S-S, man.

  Music when I was coming up, man, those were the good old days. I used to go see the Ohio Players: “Aw, girl. If you want to listen to what people say behind my back . . . You’ll be making love to me, alright! . . . Gimme me an L and an O got a V and an E . . .” They’d be jamming. Parliament. Bootsy. That was funkin’.

  And they gave a show. Bootsy had the binocular glasses on, the knickerbockers, the big-ass shoes with the curve on the toe. And the smoke and fire. Rick James, Earth, Wind and Fire—that was entertainment.

  They were creative with the songs. The way music is today, you got the bottom and the top. Right now it’s at the bottom. There’s no creativity now because the new jacks just take old shit and reuse that.

  Kids don’t know. They trip me out. They hear a new song on the radio, and they they be like, “Oh, that’s ‘Elbow!’ He got a new one out?”

  That ain’t no muthafucking ‘Elbow’! That’s Smokey Robinson!

  I tell my nieces and nephews, “That’s the same song! Let me go get my LPs!”

  When I play the song, they just be lookin’. They be in silence.

  Then they go: “But I like the new one better, though.”

  How you gon’ like somebody unoriginal shit better than the original? How you gon’ do that? He stole it from him! All you hear is remakes: When I’m riding through the alley with my gat in my hand/And I had four women, you understand. Bitch is dead/muthafucka kill ’em, shoot ’em dealing with Fred/I told him that he’d be dead.

  Naw, man. Naw, man. How you gon’ dance to that when you get 70? (If you make 70.) You’ll be toothless, still cussin’, talkin’ to your grandkids: “That muthafucka there was the jam!”

  Naw, man.

  I’m not a a big fan of the music today, but one thing’s for sure: I’m not one of those people who blames music for everything. People are always sayin’ that music made their kids do wrong.

  Bullshit, man.

  I don’t think anybody can influence your child except for you. Your responsibilities are yours. My grandmother used to say, when you act a certain way when you’re outside, it’s a reflection of your home.

  You can put it on Snoop if you want to—but Snoop ain’t got a damn thing to do with your crib. His video ain’t but two minutes long.

  So if something’s wrong with your child, something was wrong from the get-go. If the people in your home ain’t shit, you ain’t gon’ be shit. People want to censor this and change that or put a sticker on this.

  Man, put a sticker on ya mama. She’s raisin’ you.

  I still love comedy, and not just as a performer. I love to laugh, to be entertained. But speaking just as a comedy fan, not as a comedian, I don’t really like a lot of what I see. They want everything fast, quick. They’re just in it for the money.

  They don’t have the proper training. They just accept whatever. They don’t commit themselves to the joke. They want something right away because cable TV has destroyed the comedy system. There’s no more comedy club where you could get the basics. Comedy owners had control. They told what you could and could not do. You couldn’t mimic. You couldn’t steal; you couldn’t copycat a motherfucker—or they put your ass in the back of the line, and they wouldn’t hire you.

  Now, they comedy at McDonald’s, Burger King, I Fry Kingdom, Kentucky Fried Chicken. A motherfucker goes up there and talks about somebody’s mama. People ain’t payin’ they money to be humiliated. They don’t know how to host. They don’t know how to MC.

  Comedy clubs provided the right training. Those things are gone. People don’t really go to comedy clubs. They turn on BET. They turn on Comic View. They get the raw image. So now they think, “Hey, that motherfucker is doing it. I can do it. I can go out and talk about a sum’bitch all night, and I can get paid. That’s not comedy. Comedy comes from the heart and from the soul. You have to know what comedy is. You can learn to tell a joke. But being funny comes from inside. Everybody can tell a joke. Everybody can’t tell a story. A storyteller is someone with imagination, someone who has range. This motherfucker ain’t sittin’ up here perpetrating a fraud, going up there listening to somebody else, and then going across the street and re-telling a joke you already heard.

  But when you’re a comic and those sum’bitches don’t laugh? You ass out! And that’s the difference between then and now. They don’t want to pay their dues.

  Bernie joins the band on the Midnight Mac Show.

  You got to pay your dues. It’s no different than if you gotta take a bullet outta somebody’s ass on a Saturday night. You lucked up and took that motherfucker out with some pliers. Now they want to call you a doctor?

  One thing comics do that I don’t like is, they pick people out of the audience and make their act about that person.

  People who did do that who were great were people like Don Rickles and Robin Harris. Some cat imitating them might pick you out of the audience, “Look at this muthafucka, he . . .” And you got your woman with you. See, Don and Robin didn’t do that. They say, “Hey, man, your head is like a question mark. You should be at the end of a sentence.” And you start laughing with him because he had a certain look on his face that described that it was all love. He made you part of the show, so to speak. He didn’t try to damage you.

  But now? You got your girl with you for the first night and you trying to impress her and some sum’bitch talk about you? You know, how one arm longer than the other one. You know, you sitting up there—you got cerebral palsey, your mouth twisted, your shit just now straightening up. Your girl, only reason she out with you is you got a little money. You sitting up there gettin’ talked about. You want to square up on him and fight, but you
know one leg is longer than the other. You walking all off balance and shit. Only reason you sit in the front row is you can’t see from the back, you know.

  And you a comic and you want to eat him up? Naw, I don’t believe in that.

  Not that I couldn’t do it, you understand.

  I like Eddie Murphy. I think he’s the most talented sum’bitch when he ain’t into himself. Like when he did Raw. It was the glove and diamond on the glove. I think he lost a few muh’fuckas with that.

  But if I had to see somebody who can do standup, I think it would be Eddie. The funniest comics are when they aren’t into themselves. You see the best. When they aren’t tryin’ to be politically correct, they can be funny.

  Today, I can’t even watch a lot of these movies. Back in the day, it used to be Cagney, George Raft, who talk to you like, “Yeah, you double-crosshed me, shee. Yeah, shee, now I gotta bump ya off . . .”

  Now? If it ain’t no soundtrack or explosions, the movies ain’t shit. Now you gotta have a muh’fucka run up a wall, flip backwards, then that sum’bitch gotta slide on two knees shooting guns from the side.

  We had some bullshit in our day too, now. A muh’fucka could pull a gun and shoot your gun out your hand. Pow! “Ahhhh . . .” Man, please.

  Or muh’fuckas would have his hands in his pockets and act like he had a gun and could away with. He’d stick his hand in your back and be like, “Keep walkin’. Don’t look back. If you turn around, I’ll let you have it.”

  People would be all scared and shit. “Don’t shoot!” That muh’-fucka ain’t have shit but a comb.

  Chapter Four

  The Career Track

  The first bomb I had was here in Chicago, when I first was starting off. The producer of the show had seen me actin’ a fool at a barbecue that my mother-in-law was having. He saw me clowning and said, “Man, you funny than a muh’fucka. I got a show, and I want to put you in it.”

  Then, my black ass.

  I went on. Two minutes into my act, I heard people in the crowd: “Get yo’ black ass off, man!” “Fuck you!” “You ain’t-funny sum’bitch!”