The Last Black Unicorn

by Tiffany Haddish

  When I left from the show, I walked to the police car in the parking lot. It was the car that was taking her to the station, and she was sitting in the back. She was like a rabid dog—mad, face up against the glass, yelling and cussing, and I was like, damn. That was an hour ago, and she’s still crazy like that?

  Another really bad night was when I was supposed to host this April Fool’s show in Atlanta. This place held three hundred people, but there was only thirty people there, and they didn’t pay me all my money. I only got half my money, and I had the worst set ever.

  They had me thinking it was gonna be so many people, but only thirty people showed up. And then, half of them were my ex-husband’s family members, so it was very embarrassing. And I don’t embarrass easily, obviously. His mom was there, and she was just staring me in the face. It was a horrible show.

  Then I fell on the stage. It was bad. I was wearing these pants that looked like leather, but weren’t leather, and I was trying to do this physical joke, where I squat down, like a dance, and then pop back up. I squatted down, and when I popped back up, I slipped and fell, so then my little fake leather pants tore a hole on the knee.

  I was trying to play it off like it wasn’t bothering me, and then, two minutes after I fell, I just kicked my shoes off. I just sat on the floor of the stage.

  I just gave up. I just sat on the floor, and just talked from the floor, just finished my time from there. I think I had twenty-five minutes left. It was horrible.

  No one laughed. People were rolling their eyes. Looking at me crazy. Nobody was laughing. It was not good.

  Afterwards, my ex-husband came up to me:

  Ex-Husband: “That set, you get a D on that set.”

  Tiffany: “I give you an F on being a husband. So suck on that.”

  I did a bad show at Howard (a black college) with Tony Rock as the headliner, and me as the featured act. It was like, four thousand black students.

  I knew immediately this was going to be a problem. I had never seen this many black young people in one place, ever in my life. In one room, I’ve never seen it. I don’t know why that freaked me out, but it did.

  I just tried to stick to my material, just do my material, and it was not hitting. I was too nervous and too scared and they were not feeling me at all. At first, it was real quiet, ’cause they tried to figure it out. I don’t even remember the first joke I hit ’em with, but it didn’t hit at all. That was horrible.

  I did the punchline, and nobody laughed, and I just was looking like a deer in the headlights. This one dude from the audience spoke up.

  Guy: “It’s all right, though, you fine. At least you look good.”

  Tiffany: “You got that right. Some of y’all get a female comic, and she don’t be funny, and she be ugly, too. At least I ain’t ugly.”

  And then one of the girls sitting next to him said in a real bitchy voice:

  Girl: “Yeah, whateva.”

  They were all on their phones, chilling there, giving attitude. That chick, she was just on her phone the whole time, just texting. She was sitting right in the front, so I could see her real good. If I saw her in the streets today, I would still know her right away.

  I was supposed to get paid $2500 for that show, and when I came off the stage, they had already called my manager. My manager called me fifteen minutes after I got off the stage, and he was like:

  Manager: “They’re only gonna give you $500 for this show. They said it was pretty bad.”

  Tiffany: “Yeah, it was pretty bad. I’m cool with that.”

  I started laughing. I sucked, and I still got $500 though. I might have been embarrassed in front of four thousand people, but I can pay my light bill, get groceries, gas money. I’m good.

  This is how I know I REALLY sucked: there was an after-party, and the student that was in charge of activities, when we first got there before the show, he was like:

  Student Host: “Yeah, you gotta come to the after-party. It’s gonna be so much fun. Tiffany, you definitely gotta be there. Everybody’s gonna be so excited to see you.”

  And then, after the show, that dude came and talked to Tony Rock:

  Student Host: “Yeah, so the party’s gonna be hype. We’re gonna pick you up from your hotel in about one hour. It’s gonna be great. We got bitches. We got booze. You gonna love it.”

  And then he looked at me, rolled his eyes, and walked the fuck out of there.

  Tony Rock: “Ooo, nigga.”

  Tiffany: “What?”

  Tony Rock: “Yep, your ass really was bad. You’re not invited to the party, Tiff.”

  Tiffany: “He didn’t say I couldn’t come to the party.”

  Tony Rock: “That look said you can’t go to the party.”

  Tiffany: “Well, I don’t want to go to the stupid-ass college party anyway. I’m an adult.”

  How about that shit—a twenty-year-old college dude didn’t want me at his party!

  And then, this little fat girl brought the money in. She handed everyone their envelopes, and she looked like she did not want to give me my envelope. My little $500. She did not want to give it to me. I know I did bad that night, but I got my money, though.

  The Politics of Comedy

  At this point, I’m pretty well established in comedy and know most of the people and players. But man, it was not like this at the beginning. I’ve got so many stories about what it was like coming up as a black woman in comedy in LA. Where do I start?

  Lemme start with this one comedian. We’ll call him “Fats.” I was volunteering at the youth center, and I ran into him there. He mentioned to me that he surfs.

  Tiffany: “You surf? You don’t surf.”

  In case you don’t know, Fats is fat as hell. Three hundred pounds, at least.

  Fats: “Yes I do, I surf.”

  Tiffany: “Wow. I bet you be looking like a sea lion out there in that wet suit and everything.”

  Fats: “What’chu talkin’ ’bout? I got my own line of wet suits and my own line of surfboards.”

  Tiffany: “Is they plus-sized? That would make sense.”

  Fats: “NO! THEY AIN’T NO DAMN PLUS-SIZED!”

  Tiffany: “Wow. That’s pretty amazing. You know, I surf too. I take kids surfing every summer.”

  Fats: “Oh, maybe I’ll donate some surfboards. Here’s my number. Give me a call sometime.”

  So I gave him a call, but every time I called him about the surfboards and stuff, he don’t want to talk about that:

  Fats: “So you think we can go out to dinner? What do you like to do for fun?”

  Tiffany: “You trying to date me or give me the surfboards? I want the surfboards, I don’t want to date you.”

  Fats: “Yo, if you ain’t trying to go out with me, I ain’t trying to give out no surfboards.”

  I may have my issues, but I ain’t hooking up with some fat ass for free surfboards. Hell no.

  Then I ran into him at the comedy club, and he saw me get onstage and demolish it. Everything was different after that. Now he treats me like I’m one of the homies. Like I’m a fellow colleague.

  I love that, and now he’s a good friend of mine. He ain’t trying to take me out to dinner or nothing like that. He respects me as a comedian.

  Which before, he probably just thought I was one of them chicks saying I do comedy, trying to get pregnant by somebody rich. ’Cause some girls do that out here.

  I had something worse happen with another comic I’ve decided not to name. I’ll call him Rumpelstiltskin. I knew him, because some of my friends opened for him when he went on the road.

  Tiffany: “Hey Rumpelstiltskin, I would love to open up for you, you should let me open up for you.”

  Rumpelstiltskin: “I can’t take you on the road.”

  Tiffany: “Why?”

  Rumpelstiltskin: “Unless you opening up those legs, you can’t go nowhere.”

  At first, I thought it was just a joke, right? So the next time I asked him, he said the same th
ing. I was like, This motherfucker serious?

  Tiffany: “So lemme get this straight. Whoever’s on the road with you, open up they legs for you, is what you telling me?”

  Rumpelstiltskin: “I ain’t no motherfucking faggot. I’m not saying that, I’m just saying that you can’t go nowhere, you gonna ruin my marriage. Your type, you too cute and shit, you gonna have to give up some pussy.”

  Obviously, that was a no go.

  Then, after I got on a TV show and a movie, now his manager wants to call me asking if I’ll open up for him. And he wanted to pay me $500 for fifteen minutes. Fuck THAT. Rumpelstiltskin was so shocked that I turned down that offer, he called me up himself.

  Tiffany: “A minimum, MINIMUM of $2500 for me to open.”

  Rumpelstiltskin: “Nigga, what is wrong with you? Don’t nobody pay that much money for some goddam comedy. Not no female.”

  Tiffany: “Uh, yes they do. Yes they do. That’s what I get paid on a regular basis.”

  Rumpelstiltskin: “Well, I guess you gonna be headlining this for yourself, you can just go on out there and headline for yourself.”

  Tiffany: “Will do. You bet.”

  And then I started headlining some shows and stuff, and I did pretty good. I guess he heard about how good I did, so he called me:

  Rumpelstiltskin: “Well, I just want to apologize. Nigga, you out here getting it. You really doing things. I want to apologize. I was wrong the way I treated you.”

  I thought that was cool of him, to admit he was wrong. Good for him.

  But I had to earn that respect.

  There was this other guy that pissed me off for a long time. Let’s call him “Cry Baby.” He’s a comedian you have heard of. When I was starting off, like twenty-two years old, I met him at an open mic. He said I had promise, but I needed to hang out with more comedians to get funnier. I was like, Cool, this guy’s trying to help me.

  So he invited me to a taping at one of his shows for BET. Well, that’s what he told me it was. I’m thinking he is on the TV show. I get there, and it’s not his show at all. He was just doing the audience warm-up! After the show, he was all excited.

  Cry Baby: “So what did you think?”

  Tiffany: “I thought it was pretty interesting, it’s cool.”

  Cry Baby: “You see how I’m the man up there?”

  Tiffany: “You not the man, you the audience warm-up. You warm up the audience.”

  Cry Baby: “Why you talking to me like that, bitch?”

  Tiffany: “Why you talking to me like that?”

  Cry Baby: “You disrespecting me?”

  Tiffany: “You’re disrespecting me, what do you want from me?”

  Cry Baby: “Girl, you know what I want from you.”

  Tiffany: “I do know what you want, and guess what? You not my type. Your titties are bigger than mine, I’m not interested, it ain’t never going nowhere. So you just need to chill. We comedians, and that’s that.”

  Cry Baby: “Man, fuck you, stupid bitch.”

  I just kinda laughed it off. I know his feelings was hurt, but whatever.

  But he and I were on the same club circuit at the time, and he was a bigger name than me then. So every time I seen him—for five years—he would bump me off of comedy shows.

  If I was supposed to go up next, he’d tell the manager of the club, “No, I want to go up.” He’d bump me. It got me pissed, but I just held back and waited. I knew my time would come.

  Four years later, we were at the Laugh Factory, and the Laugh Factory is my house. I host there, I headline there, it’s my home. So he tries to bump me off the show, and they wouldn’t bump me.

  Cry Baby: “Yeah whatever, Tiffany, you finna go up there and bomb, you ’bout to ruin the whole thing for everybody, you suck. You ain’t no real comic.”

  Tiffany: “Yes I am a real comic, and I’m about to destroy this room, and you gonna have a hard time following me.”

  Cry Baby: “Please. You ’bout to eat ass, you ’bout to bomb.”

  Tiffany: “You the only motherfucker be overeating in this bitch.”

  Right before I went on stage, I prayed to God to make me as funny as possible in this one moment. If I’m never funny again, make me as funny as possible in this one moment, so I can shut this motherfucker up.

  I did fifteen minutes, demolished it. I got a standing ovation, six people stood up for me, it was great. I came off the stage, and all the comedians were clapping. They had heard Cry Baby and me yelling at each other back and forth in the VIP area upstairs. So when I came off, they were all clapping for me like, “Yeah, nigga, you killed that, you did that, girl,” and I was like, Yeah I did. And it was his turn to go up next.

  Cry Baby: “I can’t believe this shit. You making me eat my words.”

  Tiffany: “Yep. Eat them. Eat them up like you eat all them free sandwiches.”

  So then he went up onstage and he bombed, bad. And then he came back upstairs. He came up, gave me a big ol’ hug, he was like:

  Cry Baby: “Man I am so sorry, Tiffany. Obviously somebody tried to teach me a lesson.”

  Tiffany: “Yep. God trying to teach you today.”

  Ever since then, we have been cool. You know how you can tell somebody can’t stand you, but you’re undeniable, so they can’t really hate? That’s how it has been ever since. So when I see him, he’s always cool, like:

  Cry Baby: “Yeah, I see your commercials, I see you doing little shows, I saw you on Oprah channel.”

  You can tell it’s bothering him, but I am always cool to him, because he apologized and made his shit right. And I will always forgive. I may not forget, but I will forgive anyone, if the apology is sincere, and I feel his was sincere.

  • • •

  Comedy is hard for anyone, but women have a different level of hard.

  So many promoters try to pull shit on women. I can’t tell you how many tried to tell me that to get onstage, I had to get on my back. Hell no!

  I see young female comics now, and I can see the same thing happening. Dudes try to take advantage of them, hold a little bit of power over their heads. I see that going on so much, and then I tell them, “Girl, don’t let him pull your ho card. You’ll get more if you keep your legs closed, trust me. You’ll get more stage time, you’ll get more performances, just keep your legs closed.”

  And it’s true. It is so funny, ’cause nobody told me that. I saw all these girls fucking all these dudes and getting stage time, and I just felt like I’m probably ruining my career, ’cause I wasn’t going to do that.

  But those girls aren’t doing comedy no more. None of them. Those girls that I started with that slept around, they all got kids or they quit. Or it’s “I became a social worker” or “I’m a nurse now.” ’Cause they was getting run through, and how long can that go on?

  They thought that was the way, and it’s not. You can’t get your comedy stripes on your back, you got to earn ’em on your own two feet. ’Cause you can’t fake funny.

  This one promoter, he tried to fuck me, and I said no. So he told everyone he fucked me in a car at the back of the comedy club. He told this lie to everyone.

  I found out he was saying all this, and I went straight hood. I stormed into the club he was promoting at, right when all the comics were going to be there:

  Tiffany: “What you saying about me? I was in your motherfucking car? When was this?”

  Promoter: “You wasn’t in my car.”

  Tiffany: “Goddam right I wasn’t in yo trashy, broke-ass hooptie. But you out here telling people that I was in your car, and you fucked me in that car? And that I was terrible in bed?”

  Promoter: “No, I said that your attitude is terrible, because somebody trying to be with you and you ain’t trying to give nobody the time of day.”

  Tiffany: “Well these niggas told me that you said that you fucked me in the back of your car. And I’mma tell you right now, you need to keep my motherfucking name out your mouth, or I will have these g
oons come up here and fuck you up.”

  And I got all up in his face and I pushed him. Mind you, this dude is like twenty years older than me and probably a hundred pounds heavier than me.

  Tiffany: “You’ll get fucked up in these streets. Keep my name out your mouth and don’t say shit to me.”

  That was twelve years ago, and to this day, when he sees me at the comedy club and tries to speak to me, I don’t say shit to his ass.

  I’ve learned how to handle those types of situations better now, I don’t make threats like that anymore. But at that moment, I had to save face. He was a bitch. He spread rumors about people that ain’t true, and gossip, and that’s not funny. That shit has an impact.

  But sometimes, my friends make the threats for me.

  One time, this promoter flew me and my friend Marlow up to Seattle. He was supposed to give us our money before we got onstage. He gave us half our money:

  Promoter: “I’m gonna give you the rest when you get off.”

  We get offstage, we finish the show.

  Promoter: “Okay, I’m gonna give you the rest of your money when we get to the hotel.”

  But we didn’t go to a hotel.

  Promoter: “Okay, we got to go to a casino right quick, and then I’m gonna take y’all to the hotel.”

  So we at the casino, he buys us some drinks and runs off, and the next thing we know, it’s five o’clock in the morning, our flight’s supposed to leave at 7 a.m.

  Promoter: “Aw man, can I write you a check?”

  He was a reputable promoter, so we said, “Yeah okay, write us a check.” So he wrote us a check, dropped us off at the airport. He had printed out our return tickets home. We went to check in, ain’t no ticket, ain’t no flight, nothing.

  There’s nothing for us to get home. So we start calling, we blowing up his phone:

  Promoter: “What do you mean, there’s no ticket? There’s a ticket.”

  Tiffany: “Motherfucker we are not calling you because we want to talk. THERE’S NO FUCKING TICKET. You sure we at the right airline?”

  Promoter: “YES! My homegirl work at Southwest, she sets me up, she do everything, that’s the only airline I use.”