Bootleg (9 page)

  W
hen 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!”

  A
ny 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 Jackson! 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.

  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.

Mr. Louima, being from Haiti, probably thought he had some special privileges here, like freedom of
speech. I can just picture him in the backseat of the police car yelling at the cops:

Louima
: Ya can’t treat me like this. I’m not black, I’m Haitian!

Cop
: Hey, look, nigger, just shut your fucking pie hole back there!

Louima
: Don’t talk to me like that, I’m not black, I’m Haitian! Take me down to my embassy! I got rights!

Cop
: The only rights you are going to have is this right hand going right across your face! You shut your trap! You want to talk shit to me, pal? You want to be a shit talker? Huh? I’ll shove … a … a fucking… uh … plunger up your ass!

Louima
: I dare you. I’ll report you so fast it’ll make your head spin! I’m not black, I’m Haitian!

Cop
: (
to his partner
) Tommy, pull over to that hardware store right here!

They shoved that plunger deep in his ass, then stuck him to the wall.

Louima
: For God’s sake, get me down from here! I’m not black, I’m Haitian!

I want to know what made these cops think they could get away with this crime? Did they think they could just falsify the report and it would go unnoticed?

Cop
: Ah, the suspect dhere tried to escape true the bathroom window. And after repeatedly falling on a plunger twenty-six times, we were finally able to apprehend him. P.S. He’s not black, he’s Haitian.

  B
rothers can’t afford to get too comfortable in show business ‘cause that’s when you become their pawn. They use your ass. Any time white people want to show how wonderful the world has become, they go get that rich nigger and put his ass on TV to represent all black people.

Then they ask questions like, “Mr. Wilson, now that you’ve made thirteen million dollars on your last film—not that we’re counting—let me ask you a question. I’m gonna throw it out there and you just respond any way you want—Is there racism in America?”

Now he’s sitting there on national TV thinking about that paycheck and this is what comes out of his mouth, “No, sir, an ifin there is, I ain’t seen nun.”

  I
t amazes me that we can send men to the moon, make cell phones that are smaller than the human hand, yet we can’t stop racism. I’ve come to the conclusion that it has to be about money. Hate generates big business. I believe the Ku Klux Klan, for instance, is just an excuse to sell sheets.

Klan Salesman
: Hey, Jethro, you still hate that nigger ‘cause he took your job?

Jethro
: Hell, yeah.

Klan Salesman
: Shit, you can’t go hatin’ no nigger in a pair of jeans. He’s liable to see you hatin’ him and kick your ignorant white ass. What you need is a disguise. You know what them niggers are scared of? Ghosts. Now, I got some sheets here that’ll make you look like Casper. That’s right, just $19.95 and I’ll throw in a pillowcase for free.

Jethro puts the sheet on. He’s happy.

Jethro
: This is great! I’m gonna go scare me some niggers.

Klan Salesman
: Just hold on a minute, there, boy. Where are you runnin’ off to? You can’t go hate no nigger with just a sheet on. He’s liable to pull that sheet off your head and see you hatin’ him and kick your ignorant white ass. What you need is a gun.

Jethro
: Really?

Klan Salesman
: Hell, yeah, boy. Now, I got me one of these here shotguns that sprays buckshot so far you can get the nigger and any of his nigger friends that’s liable to take the gun away from you and kick your ignorant white ass.

Jethro
: How much is this here weaponry?

Klan Salesman
: For you? Only $49.95. Okay, now where you gonna find a nigger at?

Jethro
: I don’t know. Where do I find ‘em? It’s getting dark.

Klan Salesman
: See, I knew you wasn’t as dumb as you look. Now, what you need is a dog, boy. Not just any dog, you need a nigga-hunter. Now, this here dog I gots is kin to the very dog that caught Kunta Kinte. He’s just $29.95 and I’m fixing to throw in this here Ku Klux Klan secret membership patch which makes you o-fficial.

Jethro
: Thanks. I’ll take him.

Klan Salesman
: My pleasure. Y’all come back now, ya hear? And tell some of yo ignorant white friends.

  W
hat is this obsession that white guys have with tits? They can be so creative when it comes to describing them.

White Boy
: Hey, man check out those cones, man. You see those babies? They’re titanic. No, they’re bodacious, dude. They’re like headlights, or door knobs, man. No, they’re cow tits, twin towers, hooters, cantaloupes, one-eyed melons, bowling balls. Half moons, Neanderthals, softballs.

Black Guy
: Yeah, she ain’t got no ass, though. That’s an ironing board. It’s like a crack in a wall.

Another thing that makes me laugh about white guys is when they get upset. They can be so verbally aggressive, it’s scary.

White Boy
: That fucking guy over there pissed me off, man. I’m gonna stick my finger up his fucking nose and pull his goddamn head off his shoulders, then shove my cock down his fucking neck, that jerk-off, man.

Black Guy
: Why don’t you just fight him?

White Boy
: Naw, man, I’m not into violence, dude.

  I
wonder who the next real black leader is going to be. It seems that nobody wants to step up to the plate and try to fill the void. I don’t think there is a real leader out there who would be willing to risk his life for the complacent black people who live in this country. I guess it’s because part of the job description is you must be willing to get shot in the head to be a good leader. I don’t blame them for being afraid. Any time someone starts talking pro black they’re liable to get shot. Here are three speeches given by the next three black leaders.

October 3,1999

Announcer
: Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce to you a man who will lead us into the twenty-first century. He’s a graduate from Harvard and received his doctorate from Columbia. He has been fighting for black people all of his life and now he’s here to speak to us. Give a round of applause for the one and only Dr. … Troy… Watson, (
long applause with a standing ovation
)

Troy
: Good evening, my beautiful black brothas and sistas …
POW!

November 3,1999

Announcer
: Ladies and gentlemen, we have here today the late Dr. Troy Watson’s younger brother, the Reverend Kevin Watson.

Kevin
: Thank you. You know before my brother was shot down he said that black people need to unite….
POW!

December 3,1999

Announcer
: Ladies and gentlemen, the second cousin of Kevin and Troy Watson, Cecil Watson.

Cecil
: Hello.

POW, POW, POWl

So, now, all we have are the sell-outs. Their speeches are very accommodating.

Sell-out
: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m here tonight to talk about racial harmony. Not of just black people but I’m talking total integration. One race, the human race. Black people need to know white people are people first, not the animals that they’ve been made out to be. They’re just like us, except they got a lot more than we do. And that’s okay ‘cause we should be happy with the meal that’s put on our plate. We have a lot of programs designed to ease our burdens that we don’t fully take advantage of, like welfare, WIC, and the newly instituted “nigga don’t work program.” And if black people want more than that then they need to come together …
POW!

  I
f you take a good hard look at black leaders today, there’s not much out there. Things, in fact, look pretty bleak. Take Al Sharpton, for instance.

I must have been asleep the day they elected Al Sharpton as the black representative. He is the only leader in history to show up to a rally wearing a tight red velour sweatsuit. The suit was so tight that you could see his balls imprinted on the sides of his legs. It looked like he was hiding olives. I say, if you’re gonna be the representative have a bigger set of balls than that.

And what’s up with the brother’s hair? It looks like he swallowed James Brown. One time he showed up to a rally with a roller in his hair. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he was wearing a whole set of rollers ‘cause we as black people can understand this, but no, not Al. He shows up with one big roller in the front of his head, looking like he’s Wilma Flintstone. I’m not sure Al is what Martin Luther King, Jr., had in mind when he was imagining the future of black leadership.

Then there’s Jesse Jackson. I just have one question for him: Why is he at every sporting event that ever takes place? I just saw him at the Tyson fight.
That’s strange to me. You never saw the old civil rights leaders at basketball games, right? You never saw Martin Luther King at a Muhammad Ali fight yelling, “Kick his ass, kick his ass. By God Almighty, kick his ass!”

No, Martin had things to do. Marches to lead, rallies and speeches to give. He had an agenda. Jesse used to. But all that rhyming in his speeches diluted his cause. The last speech I saw Jesse give had everyone scratching their heads.

Jesse
: It is a fact that we are under attack by people that stab us in the back simply because we are black. Now I must go pack, I will be back. Going to Iraq to meet up with Shaq and have a Big Mac attack. They’ll be nick nack, no paddy wack. Or give a dog a bone like Macaulay Culkin who’s home alone. Pick up his phone there’s no dial tone.

But I am somebody who rocks the party. I am somebody who rocks the body-body.

Finally there’s Minister Farrakhan, who to me is a very interesting black leader. I can’t help but laugh when he speaks because he scares the shit out of white folks. He ain’t trying to make friends in the white community. White people are scared of Farrakhan because he’s such a passionate speaker who can get black folks riled up. His speeches are so powerful he can make black people stop celebrating Christmas.

Farrakhan
: Christmas is the Devil’s holiday. It started back in slavery where the white slave master would put on a red
sheet and climb down the slave quarters’ chimney. And just like the devil he was, he wouldn’t get burnt by the fire. That’s why they call him Santa because you take the
N
in Santa and put it at the end of Santa and you’ve got Satan Claus. Then he’d grab that slave out of the bed ‘cause he knew when he was sleeping, and he knew when he was awake. He knew ‘cause he owned him, for goodness sakes. Then, he’d castrate that slave and start singing “Jingle Bells.” And when the slave’s woman would protest, she’d get down on her knees and beg, “Please, Massa, don’t take him. Let my man go.” And the massa would look down at her with those beady blue eyes of his and say, “HO, HO, HO, go back to bed before we hang your black ass, too.”