Chocolate, Please

by Lisa Lampanelli

  As far as the friends and enemies I made in my various rehabs, there are some I keep in touch with and some I don’t. Obviously, crazy Kim and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies—in fact, when I played her home state recently, I gave a photo of her to my security guard so he could keep a watch out for her in case she tried to kill me. Needless to say, she didn’t. Although I’ve lost touch with most of the people from my 2007 codependency rehab, I keep in very close contact with my three friends from the first food addiction group—Kyle, Karen, and Charlotte—and I count them among the few people I can call at four in the morning in case I need to talk. On the other hand, I have little contact with the girls of Rosewood. This is probably due to the intense feelings that come up when I think of talking to them. But hopefully, by the time this book is published, we will all be back in touch and maybe even have a reunion where they actually keep their food down. But if any of you Rosewood bitches are reading this, know that I love you all and think of you daily, and chuckle remembering our times around that table doing the Rosewood cheer.

  When it comes to my twelve-step meetings, I don’t attend them as often as I should. At last count, it’s been about three weeks since I’ve gone to one. That being said, it’s a real comfort knowing that whenever I decide to get off my ass and go to a meeting, there are eight thousand to choose from in New York City. There are meetings for overeaters (where you can’t name specific foods in case it would trigger someone. In fact, in one meeting, a woman referred to a birthday cake as a “round thing with candles.” I nearly became a puker on the spot). There are meetings for codependents, and there are meetings for every other addiction I may or may not take up by the time you’re reading this. So it’s nice to know that free help is just a few blocks away.

  As far as men go, I still receive the occasional text from Tommy but, of course, have not responded. Tommy, if you’re reading this, it’s nothing personal. I have no anger toward you, and I wish you nothing but the best. And fuck you for not buying this book but borrowing it from somebody else. Regarding other men, I have good news to report. After taking enough time off to get to know the real me and get comfortable with being alone, I began dating again. After a few false starts, the unimaginable happened: I fell in love with a cuddly bear of a man who loves me back. Now I finally see what love without codependency feels like. And what it feels like can be summed up in one word: magic!

  Oh, uh, and for all of you who ask, “Lisa Lampanelli, is he black?” Guess you’ll have to read the sequel to this book to find out.

  Professionally, things couldn’t be better. My one-hour special Long Live the Queen debuted on HBO in January ’09, and I recently sold out the world-famous Radio City Music Hall in New York City. And that sitcom produced by Jim Carrey? Well, we just handed in the script to HBO, so by the time you read this, I’m either part of a wildly successful weekly TV show on the best channel on TV, or I’m just another comic who had a pilot that never aired. Either way, I’ll survive. Hell, I’ll just blame it on the writing.

  As far as how I see my future, who the fuck knows? I do have a few fantasies. Like, I could suddenly wake up maternal at fifty and decide to adopt two children like Diane Keaton did, but by then, I’ll probably only have a spoiled dog and a droopy plant. I also dream that someday I will finish one of the six dozen self-help books that line my shelves and windowsills. Lastly, I would like to write a miniseries about my rich history with men of the African-American race—kind of like Roots but not as funny.

  I guess all I do know is that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life since those carefree days of high school. And for now, that’s good enough for me.

  You know, my father says he always reads the first line and the last line of a story to see if he’s going to like it. So, since that’s what he’ll probably do with this book and since the first line of my story was the surely disappointing-to-him “Once you go black…,” I’d like to leave him with a good final line instead:

  I would like to say that in the future, I hope to be the little girl my dad always wanted—sweet, gentle, and shy. I would also like a team shower with the Miami Dolphins, but that ain’t gonna happen either. So I guess my old man will just have to settle for an obnoxious, rough, loudmouthed bitch who makes enough money to get him a private room at the nursing home. In advance, Dad, you’re welcome!

  part five

  Lisa’s Rules to Live By

  As most of my fans know by now, Lisa Lampanelli has an opinion on everything—even things I know absolutely nothing about. So, as a parting gift to you, dear reader, I have included some random thoughts and musings on everything from addiction to xenophobia for your perusal, entertainment, and perhaps most important, your edification.

  Part One: What I’m Known For…

  “Once You Go Black…”

  People always ask me if the saying “Once you go black, you never go back” is true. To that, I answer—yes! It’s true because once you go black, you never have to go to another family reunion. You never have to be in another person’s wedding either, because they don’t want a black smudge on their wedding photo.

  Don’t get me wrong—you could go back to dating white guys, but it’d be hard to return to them with their jobs and their one-woman-at-a-time policy. But come to think of it, why would you want to go back to whitey? Sure, with black guys, you may never get your front yard landscaped, but you’ll get your backyard expertly plowed. When you date the blacks you can weigh two hundred and still be considered skinny. Going out to eat is a lot easier when you don’t have to tip, and there are some shows on the WB that you simply don’t want to miss.

  Cooking for a black man is easy too. Just fry the crap out of everything! He’ll love it—I guarantee it will taste better than anything he got in jail. Sure, you might have to put up with being called a bitch and a ho, but the sex is worth it.

  In short, the saying is absolutely true. After the brothas, where’s a bitch to go? I make enough money on my own that I don’t need a white guy and his fancy salary. And when you take away income potential from the white guy, what are you left with? A small dick and a polo shirt! Italians? They all like to pretend they’re in the mob. The last Italian I dated never said he came, he would just say his dick sleeps with the fishes. Latinos? I have a hard enough time understanding what the blacks are trying to say. Besides, I like my relationships to last longer than migration season. Asians? Not those cheap bastards. The last one I dated wouldn’t even give me a discount on my dry cleaning after he dripped duck sauce on my back. At least I assumed it was duck sauce. Jews? No way. They require 15 percent down just to eat your pussy.

  No—it’s the black man for me. Now, I’m outta here. I gotta go post some bail.

  Black Women Hating on Brothers Who Date White Women

  Black women hate black men who date white women for a very important reason: Who else is going to date a black woman? A white man may get his jungle love on at a strip club, but he’s not bringing Shanequa home to Mom and Dad. He may want to father a professional athlete but he figures it’s easier to teach his kid tennis than deal with a crazy nappy-headed ho who’s bigger than him and not afraid of jail. An Asian’s not going to date a black woman. His little dick will get lost in a vag that was built to take on elephant cock. Latinos? No way! They hate blacks more than whites because they think blacks gave minorities a bad name, and they have to share the same social services. Even if a Latino man was attracted to a black woman, he would never get past Maria. All Latinas are named Maria, and they’re very territorial and good with a knife.

  Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think it’s right for black women to hate all black men who date white women. Sure, I can see that when we’re talking professional athletes or the few other ones who have a job. But when black women get angry when you date your run-of-the-mill, prepaid-cell-phone, living-with-his-mama black guy, that’s plain ridiculous.

  I myself am not above prejudice when it comes to some types of interracial couples
. For example, I hate when a good-looking, skinny white girl dates a black man, because she can get a good white one. I don’t know which is worse about seeing a brother roll into the club with a pretty white girl—the look of pride on his face, like he just won an ESPY, or the condescending look on her face, like she is somehow above petty things in life like race, class, and gender roles when it comes to paying for drinks. Skinny bitches, hear my plea! Leave the hot black men for the chubby bitches who need them.

  Black Men Who Live with Their Moms or Grandmoms

  People get down on black men who live with their moms, but that is not fair. Black men need to live with their moms because who can pay rent with the price of basketball shoes going up every day? Besides, when the whole family is under one roof, you don’t have to look any farther than the living room couch to find a capable accomplice. Black men like to live with their mothers and grandmothers because, quite frankly, no one can be expected to eat at McDonald’s at every meal every day.

  For a black man, the advantages of living with his mom or grandmom are virtually endless. First of all, black men like to have someone they can trust with the story when the po-po comes. Their baby mamas wouldn’t think twice about sending them to jail. But not Mama—she needs help with the bills. Plus, pit bulls like Mom’s backyard more than the deck off a one-bedroom apartment. And last but not least, Mom always has a menthol you can bum on the way out the door.

  I think it’s funny, however, when a black man lives with his mom or grandmom and then tries to act like he’s doing her a favor. “My mom needs me to help take care of her.” Really, Tyrone? Your mom is still in her thirties and gives you an allowance. The only thing you help her with is her exercise when she bends over to pick up your soiled undies. Your mom hasn’t wanted you around since you turned eighteen and WIC stopped counting you as a dependent. And by the way, if you can’t afford rent for your own apartment, you are no longer allowed to wear large gold dollar-sign medallions.

  I dated a black man who lived with his grandmom. He always said, “Well, Grams needs a man around.” Yeah, Grams needs a man who is courteous and helps her with her errands, not some selfish prick who sleeps all day and then steals her social security money so he can feel like a big shot at the club drinking Grand Marnier. And by the way, brothas, if you’re going to bring a girl back to Grandma’s, have the decency to not do your screaming and ass slapping in the very next room. Hearing aids can only be turned down so low.

  Black Men’s Credit, Cell Phones, Tipping, and Other Nonexistent Entities

  It is unfair to say that black men do not have credit. Black men do have credit—it’s just not at the bank. It’s with the local bookie, drug dealer, and/or pimp. That’s right, bitches—Leroy is diversified. To get credit at a savings establishment, you need to keep your money in a bank. The black man keeps his money in his sock, a trait he learned from his mama, who kept hers in her bra. Black men don’t invest in stocks and bonds—they invest in rims, basketball shoes, and throwback jerseys. I call them “throw-up jerseys” because nothing is more nauseating than a grown man wearing a Dr. J jersey with an under-shirt on underneath so you can’t see his man titties.

  One thing black men do have are cell phones. They usually have two—their regular one and one their baby’s mama doesn’t know about. But a black man’s cell phone is not just a cell phone—it’s a boom box, movie theater, and porn store rolled into one. A black man’s cell phone is the most sophisticated thing he owns besides his PlayStation 3. And black men know how to work those phones. He may not know how to open a Word document but he can download a Nelly ringtone and send it with a text in picture mail to his brother from another mother.

  FYI: Black people are the reason certain places automatically include gratuity. I didn’t know this until I started noticing that at comedy clubs, it was always the black people pissed off about included gratuities. “I always tip.” Then why are you so pissed? Now you don’t even need to do the math. “What if they don’t deserve a tip?” Hey, you ran them back to the kitchen twenty times to get hot sauce for your potato skins and to have the bartender put more booze in your drink. Trust me, they deserve a tip.

  Does Size Matter? Is the Myth True?

  Does size matter? Of course it does. Like the old saying goes: You need the right-size key to open the lock. It doesn’t have to be one of those keys the mayor gives you to the city, but it shouldn’t be a key for your luggage lock either. Women don’t want anything too huge. You don’t want to deep-throat someone and crack a rib. Sometimes a cock is too big and gets in the way. Like the time I sat on Santa’s lap and he was halfway up my chimney.

  That being said, men care more about dick size than women do. Guys with big dicks are confident—that’s why they get more pussy. If they had more confidence, guys with small dicks could get just as much pussy—they just wouldn’t get as many repeat customers. You can tell a guy has a small dick by looking in his eyes. It’s a secret he wants to tell you but can’t.

  To tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about the size of a guy’s balls. One time I was sixty-nining a guy and came home with two black eyes.

  Some people swear by the old adage “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.” That may be true, but it’s been my experience that the ocean moves about the same no matter what boat you’re in, so it might as well be a luxury liner. The women didn’t jump into the little boats until after the Titanic sank. I like a penis so big I don’t know whether to grab it or feed it a peanut. A little penis is like an egg roll—five minutes later, you’re hungry again. But a big penis is like a buffet—when it’s over, you sit there with your pants undone, moaning, “Why did I eat all that?”

  There are, however, some advantages to a little penis. For example, if you’re not in the mood, you can still do it and barely notice. Also, if you get a divorce, you’re not ruined for anyone else.

  The biggest problem with a man with a small penis is all the extra expense—the Hummer truck, the weight-lifting equipment, the huge house. No offense, but why don’t we just stuff your pants with a sock and drop that second mortgage?

  Black Names

  Black people have the most ridiculous names. They make it so you have to call them a racial slur because you can’t pronounce their real name. Now, I don’t mean their gang names or the names they get when they join a bastard religion, I mean the names their mamas give them. I know they can’t be named after their fathers because they don’t know who they are, but black people are named like the Scrabble game fell on the floor. Blacks name their kids after cars they have to steal to get their hands on, like Porsche and Mercedes. Some black names sound like STDs—Syphalinda readily comes to mind. Some blacks go French and add a “Le-” to regular names like Roy to get “Leroy.” Girl names always seem to have an “-isha” or an “-anda” at the end. Those must be Swahili for “ho.” Shaniqua, Tawanda, Propecia. I can’t tell if these are people’s names or something men rub into their scalp. I actually tried to spell-check “Shaniqua.” The computer suggested that I “just call that bitch Sharon.”

  Some black people say these are family names. I beg to disagree. All the old black women I know are named Shirley or Jemima. And don’t act like you are trying to get back to your African roots either. In Uganda, if you name a girl Lakeisha, the tribe takes you out of the village and has you stoned.

  As Americans, however, it is our right to name our child anything, even if it is something ridiculous. But if you choose to do so, you don’t have the right to complain when you can’t find a “Laquetta” key chain at Cedar Point. And it’s not your daughter’s first-grade teacher’s fault when she keeps mispronouncing the name “Tangenika.”

  Professional Athletes

  All boys who aren’t gay grow up wanting to be professional athletes. However, what they don’t realize is this means they’ll be addicted to painkillers, crippled by forty, and dead by sixty. If the steroids don’t rot their brains, the constant adulation
does. A pro athlete is more selfish than a four-year-old only child. Pro athletes play games for a living and then bitch when they don’t think they’re getting enough money. Who would think dunking a basketball is worth more than saving someone from a burning building? But pro athletes need all that money to pay all of their child support. Getting knocked up by a pro athlete is the ghetto version of winning the lottery.

  Pro athletes spend most of their time in strip clubs, but when they do the occasional good deed for charity, it’s reported like a moon landing. All they have to do is go to a hospital and hand out free shit and they’re treated like Jesus, while the nurses who are there 24/7 get rocks thrown at them if they go on strike for better health benefits.

  Professional athletes prove that money doesn’t solve all your problems. It just pays for the lawyers so you don’t have to suffer the consequences. These athletes always travel in a posse from their old neighborhood, not because they enjoy their company, but because they need someone to take the rap if the cops find marijuana in their car. And, trust me, they always have marijuana. They keep it right under the gun that’s registered in their cousin’s name. You would think that if you got paid millions of dollars to play a game, you might want to avoid places where you could get shot. You’re rich, a-hole! Stay out of the titty bars! Learn from Donald Trump. Buy yourself a beauty pageant and then tell the runner-up if she blows you you’ll disqualify the winner.

  Part Two: How the Hell I Turned Out This Way…Macy’s and Hamburger’s

  Pregnant Women in the Workplace

  Pregnant women are appearing in more workplaces because the economy sucks so bad a woman needs to work until the kid is crawling down her leg. And, boy, do these women love being pregnant at work! Every pregnant broad is treated like a queen and she has an excuse for everything. It’s like she’s having her time of the month for three-quarters of a year. She can cry anytime she wants to and she’s suddenly entitled to the biggest piece of cake at the office parties. And of course, the cow loves all the attention. She is the star at every meeting, she gets to put her feet up, and if she falls asleep, no one gets mad. Plus she gets to burp like a trucker and fart like a middle-schooler, and everyone turns a blind eye because she can sue if anyone says a damn thing.