by Bernie Mac
The most we’d ever done was kissed. But one night, we were in her house. I told her I was getting ready to go. She told me her mother was working nights and that I didn’t have to go. I put my deep, sexy voice on and said, “Well, I’ll stay a lil’ bit.”
We got on that couch, man, and she moved her panties to the side. This my first real piece, okay?
I said, “Daaaaaamnnn.” I was rubbing her, and it was like somebody turned the water on my hand. That’s how wet it was.
She laid down, man. This is true shit. I took my pants off, man.
. . . and exploded. I mean, soon as my dick went in that muh’-fucka, man, all I remember is, “Ugggghhhhhhhhh . . . rrrrrrgggggggh-hhh . . . uuugggggggggh.” Man, I shook so hard.
She just looked up at me and said, “No, you didn’t.”
I couldn’t help it. That muh’fuckin’ nut was so damn good, I wish I could’ve saved it!
Not long after that, I started going steady with another girl. First time I bust a nut in my slacks was with her. I was going steady with her. Her father was a minister. I grew up in the church, too. I really dug her.
We talked about sex. We’d grind. But her big fear about sex was, she didn’t want to have sex and God come down. Her mother and them had instilled that in her head. “If Jesus come while you’re having sex, you’re going to hell.” She really had that concept in her head. That was her belief.
She got to me with that shit. I’d be like, “Yeah, I believe in the Lord, too, and I—I—I don’t want to die on a piece of pussy.” I didn’t want to go to hell smelling like pussy.
So we would just grind. Man, I bust so many nuts in my slacks messing with her that I broke out in a rash. We used to be on the floor before I’d go home, grinding like a muh’fucka. I’d get that nut and it’d be so strong it’d have my motherfuckin’ voice changin’. But I dug her.
As I got older, I got into all kinds of things in the streets—but for some reason, I never got caught up with the gangs growing up. Everybody dug me, man. I never had problems.
Well, actually, I had a couple of incidents, but they weren’t that big. I once had a situation where they tried to draft me. They just walk up on ya and try to recruit you.
One day, I was in the alley with my friends, playing football. I was quarterbacking. This one play, I told my receivers to go for the bomb. I said, “Hut one, hut two. Hike.” And they took off running—but then those muh’fuckas kept runnin’!
I turned around and there was about five members of this gang, the Seven-Oh Gangsters, standing there surrounding me. They said, “G-thang” and put their hands across their chests. Then one of ’em said, “You in a gang, nigga?”
I said, “Naw.”
He said, “Well, you is now.”
They took me to a basement and jumped on me. That was part of their recruiting ritual; they beat yo’ ass, then you were a part of the gang.
But I was cool with the leader of this gang, and he knew I ain’t have no business in that bullshit. So the next day, he told me not to worry, that he wasn’t going to let them force me to be in the gang.
It was a good thing, too, because two days later the Seven-Oh Gangsters had a falling out with the Mafia Gangsters. They had been allied, but now they was enemies. You know: Nigga shit.
Man, they was shooting each other, coming into the buildings popping each other. The Mafia Gangsters had a dude whose name was Sam. Crazy-ass nigga, but he was more cockeyed than a muh’fucka. One night, he caught the leader in an apartment building and was gon’ kill him. He had a shotgun up to the leader at point-blank range. He pointed and fired two times.
Chk-chk . . . blam! Chk-chk . . . blam!
Ed turned and flinched, but the shells only hit the two sides of his jacket.
Sam missed him! Twice! Cross-eyed sonmofnabitch.
When I was real young, we lived above a church, Burning Bush Baptist Church. We was also members. It was one of those small churches. You know the kind: they got three members—and all of ’em are relatives.
Maaaaaan, we was in church all damn day, every day. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Bible class, rehearsal. Sunday, I used to set up the church. Had to clean the benches, set the hymns out. Run the Baptism pool. Sunday evening we had Bible Training Union. Then there was Young Deacon Night.
And because we lived right above there church, we had to be there. You know how you wanted to miss school, so you played like you was sick the day before or that night? Or you go to bed early so they’ll figure you’re sick. That next morning you get up and ya mama tell you, “Time to go to school.” You tell her “I don’t feel good. It’s my head, my stomach, something.” She tell you to go lay down.
And I used to really act out: I would chew some food or drink some water so—bllleuuch!—I could throw it up and make it look like it was vomit.
Couldn’t do that on Sundays.
Sunday? “I’m sick! Bllleuuch!”
“Just sit your ass in the back. You going to prayer service.”
You’d have to sit right in the damn back. You couldn’t miss no church. If the kids was upstairs, we used to slide our feet across the floor to keep from lifting them up walking. If they heard you walking, my grandfather would come up from the church: “I’ma whoop your ass.”
Preaching, praying, and everything—and he’d come upstairs and beat the fuck outta ya.
That was them: They’d cuss your ass out and then pray.
“Bernie, sit yo’ ugly-ass down, ya black bastard!
“But you know, the Lord been good to me . . .”
I talk about ’em, but my family didn’t know any better. They used to whoop my ass. I was always put down. I was always told,
“You too black.” I was always told, “You ugly.” I was always told, “Sit your ugly ass down.”
But I guess I was too ignorant to listen. I didn’t know the validity of what they were saying, I just kept on laughing. “All right, okay.” That’s how my mind was, I didn’t dwell on it.
I’d go sit down and start amusing myself. And that’s another way I learned to act and do voices and be creative on my own. I’d play with pencils and shit. I’d have ’em talkin’. I’d have a GI Joe doll, take my sisters’ Barbie dolls and make my own stories. So Ken was screwing Barbie, but so was GI Joe and Captain America. Later on, they all pulled a train on her.
That’s how I was playin’. Lil’ sick muh’fucka, you know.
There was plenty of shit I got into as a kid, but because I was an athlete growing up, the one thing I really didn’t get off into was drugs. I tried. But very, very seldom.
I had a bad experience with marijuana, man.
Back when I was in high school, I used to play like I was high all the time. I’d be slurrin’ my words and shit: “Ha-ha. Yeah, nig-gaaaa.” Cats would say, “Bernie, fuuuuucked up, man.”
A cat named Joe, he knew I was bullshitting. He trapped me. He came to the lunchroom and said, “Gimme a dollar on a bag.” That was when reefer was five bucks and you’d get 15 joints. I would put money in, but I would never show up. So word got around that Bernie be bullshittin’.
But this time, they got a dollar from me and came and got me. They took us over to the west wing of the high school.
Man, they had me doing everything: shotgunning me, had me firing up shit. They gave me the joint with instructions.
JOE: Okay, puff. Now, hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Keep holdin’ it. Hooooold it. Let it go. Nowtakeanoth-erone!
Whooo! I was so blowed! And my chest, I could hear my heart racing. My heart was pumpin’ so hard it was hurting. It felt like something was pulling my esophagus down. My eyes closed.
Then I just took off!
People just started bustin’ up laughing. I was running so fast. I jumped on the bus. I sat next to this lady. I was sweating profusely. My heart was going bump, bump, bump, bump.
I said, “Lord, please!” I felt like if I closed my eyes I’d die.
The lad
y said, “You all right, son? Bus driver, slow down. Something is wrong with this man!”
I jumped off the bus and took off running again. I ran from 87th Street to 69th Street in four or five minutes. Cars almost hit me and everything.
I got home, my grandfather asked me what was wrong. I just started trippin’.
Next thing you know, they rushed me to the hospital. Man, my whole nervous system was shot!
They had angel dust in the weed. That was my sophomore year. I was on medication ’til my senior year.
So, ah . . . I’m kind of . . . ah . . . anti-drugs.
After that, I was never really no marijuana guy. It took a while for my body to be strong enough to even be around marijuana. I would have flashbacks.
My buddies would do powder. They would always try to get me to do powder. I ain’t gon’ lie: I did a line or two.
Every time I came around, they wanted to try to get me high. By you not gettin’ high, muh’fuckas always want to get you high. Now, if I got high, they’d have been talkin’ about, “Put it up! Put it up! Here come that muh’fucka!”
But I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel when I did it. I’d seen all these cats spending all this money. But the shit was like an inhaler to me. It just opened up my damn sinuses.
My vice used to be cigarettes. I smoked cigarettes for years before I quit about six years ago.
I started off puffin’ a little bit in high school. I’d puff just a lil’. Cool Daddy, you know.
I used to like to smoke so that smoke would come out of my mouth when I talked. It would make you look real cool: “Yeah, I tol’ that muh’fucka”—you laugh, a whole bunch of smoke comes out—“hahahahaha.”
I started off smoking Kools. Then I started smoking Salems. Then I left Salems and went to Newport. Then I went back to Kool Mild. Then I went to Newport Long.
Then I started picking up the habit for real.
When I started going in the clubs, I started smoking after shows. I was going to four clubs a night. I’d wind down, have a beer, and smoke a square.
A pack would last me a week. Me and Big Nigga. He’d have a pack, I might have a pack. I went from ten to a pack a day. Then I went from a pack to a pack-and-a-half.
When I quit, I had been smoking two packs a day.
When I finally quit, I just up and did it. I didn’t need anything except myself saying it was time to stop.
It had gotten to the point where, every time I’d breathe, I would whistle.
One night, I’m in the bed with my wife, and I just keep hearing tweet, tweeeettt. I’m lookin’ around, all out the window and shit. But it was me.
That next day, I couldn’t even walk up the stairs. I would cough and nothing would come up. I thought I had a cold. I was takin’ short breaths. I asked my wife to take me to the doctor.
My lungs were closed. I wasn’t getting air. The doctor sprayed a mist in me and opened my lungs back up. I had bronchitis of the worst kind.
When I walked out that hospital, I had a pack of squares in my pocket. I said, “Mac, you dyin’, man. Is this what you want to do?”
I grabbed those cigarettes and threw them as far as I could. And I haven’t smoked since.
I was never an alcohol cat either. I sipped some wine; I threw up on myself.
When I first started drinking beer, I was out of high school. I was playing in the summer league after school. A brother said, “Great game” and threw me a beer. Now, they’re smoking marijuana, and I’m having flashbacks. I’m trying to be cool.
I had two beers. Between the contact I was gettin’ off the reefer and the beer, I was high as a Georgia pine. It was like somebody injected propane in me.
But I think it’s good I can’t do all that. Plus, that was a motivational thing for me, watching people who did drugs. I keep saying entertainment is a bad business, man. Cats be wanting you to fall. I used to be around a lot of athletes, and I saw how cats were jealous and were constantly giving them shit. You would see how their games would just diminish. That was drugs, man. Even in the comedy clubs. I saw it all in the comedy clubs.
I’ll drink some brews, but that’s the strongest I do.
Plus, anything stronger than that and I’m givin’ you a lap dance.
Chapter Two
How People Are
I love playing black audiences, I really do. They’re the people who made me, them 9-to-5 people who work hard and come out to the club to see you perform. But they can be hard on a muh’fucka. I mean, a black audience will tear yo’ ass up.
White people, you can struggle sometimes, and they will still respond. You get off stage, they clap real polite and go, “All right.”
Blacks? “Aw, Nigga, you ain’t funny!”
They will eat you up. They will kick you down. If you ain’t strong, they make you feel like dirt. Shit, black people will keep on even after you off the stage. They’ll take what you do into your everyday life. If you ain’t no decent ball player or you ain’t no helluva singer or you a mediocre comedian, when they see you in your real life, they feel like they can disrespect you. If you a ball player and you messed up a game or something, they’ll say, “There go that old punk-ass muthafucka! That nigga, he ain’t shit!”
They think you ain’t no man or something because you blew a layup.
Or you ain’t funny, they think they can just come say, “Man, this old unfunny muthafucka!” Now they think they can disrespect me because I ain’t get no laughs. That ain’t true, but that’s how they think.
Muh’fucka singing the national anthem: “Oh, say can you seeeee . . .” Muthafucka can’t sing, right? But black people see that muthafucka in the hall and let you know: “Sit your punk ass down, old hoarse-voice muthafucka.”
I’m serious. We take the little thangs to bust your balls with. Movies. Art. You don’t see no black folks at art galleries. Am I lying? White folks be at art galleries, walking quietly up and down the aisles, minding their business.
WHITE ART PATRON (whispering): Mmmhmm . . . Ahh, wonderful use of blue here. . . . Mmmm. . . . Say, is this frame real oak? Wonderful. Ahhhhhh.
But black folks? We don’t fuck with no shit like that ’cause we got to bust they balls about something.
BLACK ART PATRON: Got-damn, it’s too muh’fuckin’ quiet up in here! Damn, they ain’t got no music up in this muh’fucka? This ain’t nothing but some ol’ bullshit! Plus it smell like wet dog up in this muthafucka. Maan, I’m goin’ outside to smoke a cigarette.
We gon’ find something wrong. Why are we like that? That question is always asked.
I’ve been a White Sox fan all my life, mostly because the White Sox ain’t never got respect. I always was the cat who never went first, so I always had a love for the underdog, and the White Sox were always that—even though the Cubs ain’t never won shit. Plus, in Chicago, the White Sox are the black team; the Cubs are the white team. And when you go to Wrigley Field, they make sure you know it. White people own that sum’bitch. You start some shit if you want. Your ass will be thrown over the bleachers.
They run shit out there. You go in there talking that Black Power shit if you want to. You’ll have pink showing on your ass.
We went out there for a playoff game. There was about ten blacks. Those white folks was smoking, drinking, spilling beers. This one brother was trying to get a little upset. We said, “Man, you’d better sit your ass down before you get humiliated out here.” They’ll throw yo’ ass out. Their shirts be off. They be red. Cheeks be flushed.
There are just certain places you don’t go talkin’ that shit—rodeos, NASCAR, shit like that. Don’t go to no rodeos talkin’ that nigga shit: “Man, fuck these white people.” Lemme tell ya some-thin’: They’ll ride yo’ ass like steer up in that muhfucka. Muhfucka talkin’ about Brahma Bull?
See, brothers don’t know how to go nowhere and shut the fuck up. Brothers think white folks scared of ya. But not all them white boys are scared. Some of them can fight. But they don’t fight l
ike we do. See, brothers, we swing from the arms. We can dance around, back up, bob, weave. A black motherfucka can throw a punch and steal a nigga.
But them white boys? Them muhfuckas wrestle. Those muh-fuckas get that Bulldog Frog on ya—wrap they legs around your ribs—and you be, “Ghaaah!”
You hear a motherfucka holla like that? “Ghaaaah!” That white boy got a grip on yo’ ass. Those cowboy boots with that knife in the toe? They hit you all in the shin and shit. They wrestle.
Black folks can’t wrestle. We ain’t never been no scrappers. But when them white boys pick yo’ ass up and slam you on that concrete? And put that little chokehold on you? ’Cause you know white boys like to choke you. Aww, white folks’ll choke the shit out ya.
Now, brothers—brothers stomp you. It’ll just be, Stomp, stomp—“Mother . . . fucka . . . I . . . will . . . kick . . . yo’ . . . ass.”
White folks be chokin’. Your motherfuckin’ ass’ll be there tryin’ to scratch their hands and shit.
See, brothers think all white people are scared of them ’cause we talk loud. “YEAH, MOTHERFUCKA, YEAH. RIGHT! RIGHT!”
But you’ll get some of those white folks who don’t give a fuck ’bout that loud talkin’. Them white motherfuckas with a lot of hair on their backs? You see a white boy with a lot of hair on his back—he ain’t no punk. That motherfucka with them two teeth missin’ down at the bottom? They been knocked out! That motherfucka can take a punch!
Brothers? We ain’t gon’ fight long. You look at the average black fight. It’s 15 seconds. Somebody get stole on, a coupla punches get thrown, somebody’s coverin’ up—then somebody’s breaking it up.
’Cause we gon’ have a heart attack.
We drink. We smoke. We eat hamhocks. Hot sauce potato chips and shit. We don’t eat no salad. No kinda vegetables. What nigga you know don’t eat no chicken?
So you know, black folks, boy, you get in a fight and hit a nigga in the stomach, he gon’ throw up all on your back. We ain’t in no shape.