Bootleg (2 page)

  T
here’s something worse than having HIV, and that’s O.J. I feel sorry for O.J. Simpson, I truly do. Imagine being alienated from the world, totally alone, with no one wanting to have anything to do with you. I’d take the Ebola virus over what he got. The case will always fascinate me for the effect it had on everyone, black and white. I still don’t believe he did it. My blackness won’t allow me to accept it, much in the same way white people believe that Elvis is still alive. Maybe I’m in denial, but I just am not going to buy it.

Of the many things in the case I can’t understand, maybe the most puzzling is how he could kill two people at one time. I mean, the girl got stabbed thirty-seven times. That means that Ron Goldman didn’t have to die that night because while O.J. was working on her, he should have been running. That’s what I would have done. Curiosity will make you hang around for the first couple of stabs. You’ll be standing there in shock, thinking, “Man, this nigger is going off.” Then your feet take over and say, “Look, we’re getting the fuck out of here! You see how many times he stabbed her? You wanna be next? Run!”

I don’t know what happened that night. Maybe if I was there they’d have found me dead, too. But I can guarantee you two things: one, they would have found my body about eight blocks away, and two, most of those stab wounds would have been in my ass, the only thing the killer could reach while I was running. They would have found me with a knife lodged in my butt. I bet nobody would have messed with that evidence.

The funniest thing about the O.J. trial, to me, was the verdict. To see white people lose their cool was damn funny. White folks are known to maintain their composure. They don’t get all emotional. You see them on the news and they calmly say, “America is at war.” Or, “There’s a ninety-trillion-dollar deficit.” Or, “Last night, fifty-three people died in a fire.” Each time with no emotion. And white people watching this would at most shake their heads and say, “Tsk, tsk.”

But when O.J. was acquitted, white people lost their minds: “This is BULLSHIT! I am OUTRAGED! This is HORRIFIC! I’m FLABBERGASTED!” They were making up new words: “This is some FRAGA-NOCAL BULLSHIT!”

I thought white people were gonna riot. I was thinking, “Yeah, finally we’re gonna get something out of the deal.” I was up in Beverly Hills with a stack of bricks, trying to instigate a riot. “Hey, white man, you heard about the verdict? Ain’t that some fraga-nocal bullshit? Here, take one of these bricks and break this Gucci window. Let’s get us some!”

I didn’t understand why they put him through
civil court. How do you go from criminal court to civil court? What kind of new nigger rule is that? I’m telling you, they were going to try him in every court in America. They were determined to get that brother. If they hadn’t won in civil court, they’d a brought him to the People’s Court, and after that the Tennis Court. “You lose this match, Mr. Simpson, and you will be found guilty.”

As much as I believe that O.J. did not commit the murder, I also believe he is not a smart man. He should have taken the verdict and left the country. He should have stepped out of the courthouse and onto a plane, gone to Ireland, and become the King of the White Women. But no, he had to go put out a tape, his version of the circumstances surrounding the murder and the night in question. He started the tape off trying to discredit his wife. Not an intelligent move, considering she’s dead and can’t defend herself. I got some of the transcript from the video right here:

O.J. Simpson
: First of all it is ludicrisp … uh, not to be confused with Super Sugar Crisp, to think that I would want to kill Nicole. That was just some old ass to me. You know, I tapped it a few times, dropped a few calves, then I was moving on to some bigger, better, whiter women. I mean, everybody I know slept with Nicole Brown. Marcus Allen, Byron Allen, Woody Allen, Ethan Allen, Debbie Allen. Basically all your name had to be was Allen.

Now I want to walk you all through this “stuppossed”
crime scene. The district attorney said I “stuppossedly” jumped over a wall on the night in question. Now if you know me from football or maybe one of my Hertz commercials where I jump over the car, or as of lately the high-impact aerobic workout tape, you would know I got bad knees. Ashy bad knees. There is no way I could have jumped over the wall. And I’m gonna demonstrate to you that there’s no way I could’ve gotten over this wall by running and trying to jump ov— Oh damn! My knee! See, there’s no way I can jump over this wall.

So that’s half of Miss Marcia’s case right out the window. Now here’s the kicker. They say I “rellegedly” dropped a glove at the scene of the crime. Let me say this: I played football for some twenty-nine years. Never once did I drop the ball. So, how the fuck am I gonna drop a glove at the scene of the crime? Look at my hands. They are finely trained machines, and they can hold on to anything under any circumstances. And do you see how big they are? I can wipe my ass and scratch my head at the same time with these hands. A glove is not gonna just slip off a hand this big.

Now, I’m gonna demonstrate to you that there’s no way that I could have dropped a glove at the scene of the crime because my hands are so good. Now I want you take this ball and I want you throw it. Throw it anywhere you want and I’ll catch it. I don’t care where you throw it…. You know what, throw it over the wall. Go ahead, I’ll show you there’s no way I could’ve dropped it. Here I go, I’m running as fast as I can! I’m jumping over the wall and … I’ve got it! Heh, heh, heh. Still got the skills! Let me jump back over the wall. There, you see, there’s no way I would have dropped the glove at the scene of the crime.
O.J. has custody of his kids, which is nice. I’d sure love to be there for playtime because you know the kids are scared of him.

O.J.’d be wandering around the house, checking under tables and furniture, saying, “Y’all come on out now! Daddy’s not gonna hurt you. Where y’all at? And where are all of the knives in this house?”

I heard O.J. say in an interview that white people still love him. Is he crazy? White people are scared of him. The white half of his children is afraid of him. What’s he talking about, when he says, “The white people I know are very supportive of me. Wherever I go they’re standing outside, lighting candles, holding up signs with my name on them. They actually give me the thumbs-up sign whenever they see me.”

He can’t really be this stupid. First, it’s not the thumbs-up sign the white people are giving you, they’re actually aiming at your ass. Second, they’re lighting candles because they can’t light a cross. They’re praying that one of those candles falls and catches his black ass on fire and burns him to death. And third, O.J., you need to read the signs because they say
KILL THE NIGGER.

  A
fter I started on In
Living Color
, I had a problem O.J. is probably never going to have again: white people showing their love toward me. Sometimes things really got intense.

White Fan
: Hey, you’re Damon Wayans, from
In Living Color
, right?

Me
: Ah, yeah, how are you?

White Fan
: Gee whiz, I can’t believe it’s you. Man, I love you.

Me
: Thank you very much.

White Fan
: No, you don’t understand, dude, I really love you, you’re the tits, man. I mean, my whole family loves you. This is my eighteen-year-old daughter—she loves you, too. Why don’t you take a picture with her!

Me
: Sure.

White Fan
: No, get closer. Hug her, man, it’s okay. She loves you. Co ahead kiss her. Give her some tongue, dude. Don’t be shy, we love you. Ah, what the hell, go on, fuck her, man, you deserve it. You’re special. You’re not like the other black guys. Hey, where are you going, Damon? We love you!

This really messed with my mind. If you hear white folks say, “You’re not like the other black
guys, you’re special,” over and over again, you can really start to believe it. Until the cops pull you over.

Police Officer
: All right, nigger, license and registration.

Me
: But officer, I’m Damon Wayans—I’m not like the others, I’m special.

Police Officer
: So is my .38. Now, put your hands where I can see them before I put a special bullet in your special ass.

  S
ometimes people ask me what the hardest thing about being me is. And I answer, “Being famous all day long.”

This is what people think my day is like:

I wake up with three beautiful women in bed with me, then, I go to my window in my velvet robe, with a glass of Dom P., wave to my fans, then the Gucci truck shows up with something to wear then I go to the bank, count bags of money, come back home in my chauffeur-driven Rolls, while being fed grapes by three different girls in the backseat. Say hello to my wife, give her money, give my kids money, play with my lion, have an orgy, fall asleep to Barry White and Whitney Houston singing live in my living room on my piano, wake up and do it all over again.

Well, it’s nothing like that, except giving my wife money. Sometimes you don’t feel like being famous. Like, when you’ve got a toothache, or you’re being audited, or a relative dies. You just want to be by your damn self. I remember one time while I was in New York and I had this really bad stomach virus. I was throwing up and had a really bad case of diarrhea. I walked over to the drugstore to get something to calm my stomach. I went to the counter to pay for it:

Cashier
: Hey, you’re Damon Wayans, right?

Me:
Yes. How much is this Kaopectate? I gotta hurry up and get out of here.

Cashier
: Hold on, buddy. You gotta give me your autograph before you leave.

Me
: Look, man, I’m really not feeling well.

Cashier
: Aw, come on. Don’t be such a “Homey the Clown.” Hey, Billy, Damon Wayans from
In Living Color
is here.

Now Billy came over.

Billy
: Hey, Damon, I really love your work. Gimme two snaps up.

Me
: I’m about to give you more than two snaps.

Billy
: Come on, dude. Do one of your characters for us.

Me
: Okay, I’ll do Anton the Bum.

Billy
: Jesus Christ, what’s that smell?

Me
: My pickle jar must be backed up. HA HA HA.

Finally, I left the store.

Billy
: Dude, he must be a method actor because I really believed he had diarrhea. He smelled like shit, dude!

  O
n
In Living Color
, we used to get people upset. But we were just having fun and you can’t take comedy serious. Mike Tyson got really upset once. That’s one brotha I didn’t want to make mad. Keenen was the one that did the impression of Mike in a sketch called “Three Champs and a Baby.” Mike thought it was me.

One day, I walked out of a jewelry store where I was looking for a gift for my wife. Tommy Hearns and Mike were standing on the sidewalk.

Mike shouted, “Dhere he is!”

I tried to run back inside, but the store had one of those electronic doors that lock on your black ass. I was nervous as hell. Mike grabbed me and bit me on my neck.

“I saw you doing me on TV,” Mike said, his veins popping on his head. “I didn’t like that, funnyman. You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“No, Mike, that wasn’t me. It was my bro—”

“Don’t try to lie to me,” Mike’s voice went up a notch. “Tommy saw you, too. Tommy, didn’t you see him doing me on TV?”

“That’s wite,” Tommy mumbled. “I was with the
nother side, she said go on with the nother side and go on with the nother side.”

“What did he just say?” I asked, as politely as I could.

“He said yes,” Mike answered. “I don’t want to see you doing me on TV anymore, funnyman. If I do, I’m gonna design a punch dat will make your wiver bleed.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tyson.” Man, I was lucky to get out of that alive.

Now don’t go thinking I’m a punk. I mean normally if another cat grabs me, even if I think he can beat me, I’m going to fake it. Put some bass in my voice and say, “Yeah, you better hold me, motherfucker! Hold me tight, jack, ‘cause if you let me go you’re dead!”

There was none of that with Mike. I just laid there like a bitch in his arms. What am I gonna do against Iron Mike Tyson? If Mike came up to me and said, “Listen. I want to fuck you in the ass.” The toughest thing that I could say back would be, “For how long? See, ‘cause I need some sort of time frame, my brother. You just not gonna be fucking me in my ass all day long. Now, you got about three hours to do what you got to do then the ass reverts back to me.”

  I
was in New York a couple of months ago putting the final touches on a film. The production company hired a bodyguard for me. I didn’t like it. To tell the truth, it kind of made me feel uncomfortable. I had this big guy opening doors for me, pulling out chairs, pushing people out of the way. I felt like I was this guy’s bitch. One time I think I heard him say, “Back up, everyone, Miss Wayans is coming through!”

That’s one reason why I don’t have security. Another reason is, I don’t think that I’m famous enough to have a bodyguard. You ever see somebody who shouldn’t have a bodyguard with a bodyguard? That’s the funny thing about LA. You’ll see a big crowd, a lot of commotion, and you run over to see what’s going on. You push your way to the front of the crowd. When you finally get there you see … Scott Baio?!

The final reason is I figure God is my bodyguard and he gives me the good sense to know where to be and where not to be. There’s always a sign to let you know if trouble is around. If I go out to a party and a guy is standing in front of the club saying something
like, “If y’all don’t let me in, I’m gonna shoot everybody up in this motherfucka!” See, that’s the sign. I’m not hanging around to see if he was bullshittin”. I don’t want to see what kind of gun he has, whether or not the police are gonna show up in time, or who it was that pissed that brother off. I’m taking my ass home to watch a video. It’s a Blockbuster night. You can’t get shot watching porno. You may shoot, but you won’t get shot.