I Ain't Scared of You

by Bernie Mac

  I respect anybody who works hard for what they get. People who try. You got brothers who don’t work for nobody, who have paid their dues and can work at home taking care of kids.

  People get mad at shit like that. Some nigga out there mad. He’s just come home from work. He done got wrote up on the job. Meanwhile, you up on the balcony sippin’ a brew, watchin’ your kids and talkin’ shit into the mic.

  That’s the luxury of paying dues. I got my hat off to anybody who sacrificed their lives to better themselves. Michael Jordan was drinking milk. He wasn’t drinkin’ cognac and smokin’ squares. He flyin’ and you mad: “Aw, man, fuck all that shit. I coulda made the NBA, but you know. . . .” Nigga, while you hangin’ out, Mike is doin’ squats.

  Look at Tina Turner. She worked for hers. Her body looks good, better than a lot of 19-year-olds. Now, if she takes her teeth out, she’ll scare the fuck outta you—but her body looks good. She worked at it.

  Niggas don’t want to educate themselves, then get mad at you for trying to do better: “Ol’ brilliant ass muh’fucka. Fuck you.”

  I was reading a book one time. A nigga told me, “Man, put that shit down and come on over here and smoke this joint!”

  I said, “I’ll tell you what you do, muh’fucka. I’ll smoke that joint if you read this book.”

  That way, we’ll both be fucked up.

  See, man, most grownups ain’t nothin’ but some big ass kids and most kids ain’t nothin’ but some lil’ ass adults. People who call themselves adults be some stupid muh’fuckas a lot of times. You see where the kids get it from—and that’s where the humor comes from. Because you can’t believe this shit!

  I saw a woman trying to correct her daughter the other day. The daugher said, “I’m ain’t.”

  The woman got mad. She said, “What’d I tell you about sayin’ ‘I’m ain’t?’ It’s ‘I’m isn’t!’”

  Then niggas try to act like they finally get an understanding of things. But it be too late.

  I was at the doctor’s office one day. I met this woman who was pregnant. I asked her, “So how many is that? Two?”

  She said, “Naw, nine—but I ain’t havin’ no more.”

  I guess not, shit! Nine?

  And we ain’t even countin’ the abortions. A muh’fucka got nine kids, you know she done had about four abortions.

  But she wanna “get ahead in life.”

  People pass stupid shit on down to the kids. So the kids are in school and everybody hate the smart muh’fucka. They wanna beat him up on Friday. Muh’fucka done won the spelling bee. He spelled “philosophic,” and you wanna kick his teeth out.

  You remember those reading groups in school? It would be the first group, the kids who could do good. The second group was kids who were OK. Then there was that third group.

  The third group was that muh’fucka who had to put his fingers on the words. The teacher gotta read with that nigga so he can get through it:

  STUDENT: Uh, “He . . . s-s-s—”

  TEACHER: “Said!”

  STUDENT: Uh . . . “said . . . th-th—”

  TEACHER: “That!”

  STUDENT: Oh, yeah. “That.”

  Nigga, you got a fourth-grade education and you stutter! But you tellin’ your woman, “Heh-heh, our cheese is gonna come in, baby! Don’t worry ’bout it. I’m gettin’ mine.”

  But you puttin’ down the guy next door ’cause he talks proper: “Baby, l-l-l-listen to that muh’fucka. Ha ha. Ol’-ol’-ol’ white talkin’ m-m-m-muh’fucka.”

  Me? I was a pretty good student in school, and I wasn’t afraid to humbug with no muh’fucka. So the niggas got me, too, but it took more than one. I balled my fist up. That meant that four of them muh’fuckas would get my ass. They in school all tough until they know you’ll fight. That’s when niggas would be talkin’ that French shit: “We gon’ get this motherfucka.”

  Man, I’ll tell you: Niggas are funny. We go over the top with shit. Whatever is in, we gotta be trendy, too.

  Like these names nowadays. You look at the names from generation to generation. Our names used to be simple: “Betty,” “Cynthia,” “Lamont.”

  Then Roots came out, and niggas lost they mind. “Zaqueeda.”

  Now they tryin’ to be all superficial with names: “Paradise.” “Alize.” “Porsche.” “Lexus.” We get too buffoonish with that shit. You’ll fuck a kid’s head up with that bullshit.

  We go over the top with shit. Like with the tattoos and the earrings. I’m sick of tattoos! You know how some muh’fucka got a problem with smoking? I’m like that with tattoos.

  Niggas be havin’ tattoos on they throat and wrist, on they belly. Tongue pierced. Eyelid pierced. On the ankle. In the crack of they ass. Then your child has to say, “This is my mother.”

  Just over the top. Like these niggas with cell phones. Muh’fuckas got cellular phones and no education. Muh’fucka got no job, but he got a cell phone—for a month. He in the mall, at the show, talkin’ on that muh’fucka. I’ve even seen cats at my show on the phone.

  CONCERT GOER: Hello? Yeah, man, motherfucka onstage now. Yeah, he clean than a muh’fucka. What aisle you in?

  But one thing about black folks: We smart when it comes to some ol’ bullshit. Whatever man make, a nigga can break. Slick. Hustlers.

  We can’t take orders, though. On the job 9 to 5? We can’t work no 9 to 5. We come in late. You supposed to start at 6:30, but if you come in 6:37, to us, you ain’t late.

  BLACK EMPLOYEE: I know you ain’t tripping over 7 minutes.

  But you been coming in late for the last three months!

  Then you’ll tell on somebody else in a minute.

  BLACK EMPLOYEE: Ain’t this a bitch!? You gon’ trip on me, because I done came in late, but your boy Sam over there come in late every muthafucking time, and you don’t say nothin’!

  And we always talking about what we gon’ do on the job.

  BLACK EMPLOYEEE: I’ll blow this muthafucka up!

  You ain’t never known a black terrorist in your life! You ain’t never known no black man with no nitroglycerin or no dynamite. First of all, where they gon’ buy the dynamite from? When he go in to purchase it, he goin’ straight to jail.

  BLACK EMPLOYEE: Gimme four sticks of dynamite!

  DYNAMITE SALESMAN (picking up the phone): Mutha-fucka, hold on.

  He on the phone calling the police. You’re going to jail.

  But that’s how we do. When it come to picking up the paycheck? That muh’fuckin’ check better be there.

  BLACK EMPLOYEE: I’m here to pick up my check. What? What do you mean you don’t see it, muh’fucka?

  That’s when we back up and start talking shit. But we don’t just talk to the person we should be talking to. We gotta turn around and look at everybody in the room and talk to them, too.

  BLACK EMPLOYEE: You see this shit? He don’t know, do he? Somebody better talk to them motherfuckers! I know they gon’ find mine! I’m going to use the phone. Hey, man, you tell ’em: When I come back, they betta have my muh’fuckin’ check—or I’ll blow this motherfucker up! It’ll be a parking lot!

  Another thing. Even after we do work hard, we don’t enjoy life like we should. Not even after we get old. When we had grandparents—real grandparents, not these young muh’fuckas who had kids when they was little—they didn’t really know how to enjoy their retirement because they didn’t know what to do. When you see white folks retire, they truly retire. They go get them a summer home. They go down where there’s a warm climate. They fish every day.

  Us, we get old, we don’t go nowhere. When black folks retire, we go hang out at the barbershop. We go get another job. One day the nigga done retired from the plant, the next day that sum’bitch working as a janitor down at the bus depot or something.

  I think back to Vietnam, when black and white issues were strong in this country. Blacks couldn’t do this or that. We was janitors, couldn’t do nothing. Those days are over. We had those days to have these
days. You can’t keep bringing up the past, that we’ve been oppressed. Every ethnic group that you can think of was slaves, if you do your history. Orientals were slaves. Indians, Mexicans. Look at the Israelites. Look at the Egyptians. They had them on posts, whipping them. Throwing salt on their backs. They was rowing and shit.

  But everytime we talk, “We been oppressed!” Let it go. Don’t nobody want to hear that bullshit.

  We act like we want to talk about the past. Shit, let me talk about something from the 70s, and see what people say.

  ME: Man, I had a pair of platform shoes and a Cadillac back in the day. I used to be killin’ ’em, boy . . .

  You gon’ be like, “Man, let it go! Talk about something else. It’s 2001, and you still talking that ’74 bullshit.”

  See, we got two sets of rules. Rules for us and rules for somebody else. Blacks think we the only ones on this earth. White folks and us. Straight up. We don’t say shit about the Orientals. If I was Chinese, I’d be mad than a mutha.

  “They, ahh, don’t nevah say nof’ing ’bout us! Nevah!”

  Ain’t no A-rabs, ain’t no Russians, ain’t no Germans. Ain’t nothing but black and white. All you hear is black and white issues. You don’t see no Chinese channels on TV, and you don’t see no Chinese actors.

  Hispanics? They don’t got nothing. They give you that one Mexicans channel. And everybody ain’t got cable.

  You don’t see in the movies, “Starring Hector Merero.” Naw, he ain’t starring in a motherfuckin’ thing. Ain’t no fruit stand in it.

  One lady asked me in an interview, “Would you date outside your race?”

  I . . . don’t . . . know! I never have, but I don’t know. If I like her, shit, I probably would. I can’t say what tomorrow bring. If something unfortunate was to happen to me and Rhonda, I don’t know. Shit, if the woman is Asian and I fall in love with her ass—I fall in love with Ping Pong—fine. I can’t say. I probably would. I ain’t into that. People talk about things that have happened, but those are isolated incidents. Those are isolated incidents. What that got to do with me falling in love? That’s apples and oranges.

  “Oh, they dragged a nigga down in Texas, so I can’t marry no Filipino. Ain’t no need in me messing with you.”

  She’s like, “We been oppressed, too. We were sold—for rice!”

  Black folks were oppressed, yeah, but we have to get past that. We got enough millionaires now, we can start our own businesses, our own networks, something of quality, substance. We got cats making $20 million a movie. We getting back end. We can put together our own independent films. We can buy our own doggone station now, have black soap operas.

  But who gon’ run it? Who gon’ be in charge? That’s where the fight gon’ start. “I been doing this 30 years, you ain’t gon’ tell me—”

  “I don’t know what you talking about! Your day is over! You had your day. Nigga! That old shit you talking nigga, ‘Up with Hope. Down with dope.’ Get an apple, hope you choke! Ain’t nobody going for that bullshit.

  “Martin Luther King? Sick of that dream! Can’t nobody else have no muthafucking dream? That’s why they called it a dream. He woke up!”

  Chapter Three

  Entertainment

  I’m watching the U.S. Open golf tournament the other day, and I’m tripping on all the people who are standing on the side watching. Muh’fuckas are just lined up in the crowd lookin’ at these cats hit the ball. Somebody hits the ball—whack—and they go, “Ooooo . . . Ahhh . . .”

  I’m waitin’ on somebody to hit the ball like a regular human being.

  Because somebody’s going to get fucked up.

  See, white folks are something else. They’re all standing out there with their heads poked out. I want to see somebody get fucked up. To teach them white folks to keep they heads inside.

  I’d knock somebody upside the head. Bust ’em right in the scalp. It’ll look like their toupee is hanging off.

  I can hear people talking ’bout, “Bernie Mac is hitting! Get back! Get back!”

  All you’d hear is me hittin’ the ball . . . whack.

  And then . . . Pow! “Ahhhhhh!” “Call the ambulance!”

  Man, mark my words: one day, somebody is gon’ get fucked up standing out there. They’re too close. I’ve seen pitchers get hit by balls. I’ve seen the football slip out the quarterback’s hand. These athletes are great, but they are human.

  But these golf muh’fuckas ain’t gon’ be satisfied until somebody gets hurt.

  And I bet it’ll be a black person who gets fucked up. They come, doing like them white folks and stick their head out. Watch it’s gonna be a minority.

  That white ball gon’ find one of them. It’ll put yo’ eye out.

  I can’t fuck with a lot of the athletes today. A lot of them have the talent, but they don’t put in the work. They aren’t trying to match up to the legacy of the older greats. They more concerned with makin’ money or being famous.

  One of the bigger disappointments in sports has to be Mike Tyson. Mike’s my man, but he never did realize all the potential he had. That was because he was more concerned with being a bully than with being one of the greats of his division. Anybody who stood up to Tyson, who wasn’t afraid of him, beat his ass. From Buster Douglas to Evander Holyfield, twice. Holyfield matched up with him too damn good. He couldn’t intimidate Holyfield. Plus, Holyfield hit his ass back.

  In my neighborhood, Mickey was a bad ass sum’bitch. You’d be on the corner talkin’: “Oh yeah, man, that’s—uh-oh, here come Mickey.”

  E’erybody just walk off.

  That’s when Mickey call ya.

  “Mac! Mac!”

  You play like you don’t hear that motherfucka. You just kept on walkin’.

  “Man, don’t let . . . Come here, Mac!”

  Kept on walkin’.

  Then he caught me. I was goin’ to the store. He came ’round the corner.

  “Didn’t you hear me callin’ you?”

  I said, “N-n-naw, man, I-I-I ain’t h-h-hear you call me. Y-y-you was callin’ me? If-if-if you was callin’ me, I woulda came.” I turned to my friend: “D-d-did you hear that he was callin’ me?”

  He said, “I heard when he was callin’ ya.”

  “W-w-well, why you ain’t say nothin’? You ain’t say nothin’.” I’m gettin’ mad at him.

  “I ain’t know. I thought you heard him.”

  That’s how Tyson was. He used to scare the shit outta people. Then when he got with all those other brothers . . .

  But it’s not like Don King messed him up. He messed himself up. He’s a grown damn man. That’s something we gotta get out of, too. Quit blaming every damn body. “Awww, poor thang.”

  What the fuck you mean “poor thang”? He done made over a $100 million. “Poor thang?” I can’t feel sorry for somebody that made over $100 million. A grown-ass man.

  I believe in letting the young brothers have their day in sports. I have my opinion, then I have my respect. It’s their time, but I think they lack a lot of sportsmanship. I think they lack a lot of the fundamentals. They can shoot three-pointers and hang on the rim, but they can’t shoot free-throws. They miss more open shots than I’ve ever seen in my life. And they can’t lay the ball off the glass. When brothers my age was playing ball, we was playing in our panties. Shorts be so damned tight your balls used to be separated—one ball on this side, the other one on that side. It was like we had on hot pants.

  Now, these niggas got to have the long shirt, the long shorts. Out there playin’ in they pajamas, and still ain’t got game.

  * * *

  We had style. We was hooping with our naturals. That’s what they trying to do today: they trying to wear naturals, but they afros ain’t shaped. Our shit used to be shaped.

  And when we played, we played defense. It was physical. I was physical before physical came out. That’s how your game got better. Especially on the playground, man, when you started bumping and grinding. If a cat e
lbowed you, it was “Hey, man, watch your ’bow.”

  Then the arguing would start. “You ’bowed me!”

  “You ’bowed me! I ain’t gon’ let you move!”

  “You ’bowed me in the chest, I ain’t say a got-damned thang, nigga!”

  “Nigga, I’m just telling you.”

  That’s how it was, that was trash talking on the courts. You know you ’bowed a cat. When you came back down, he ’bowed you back. It was fair game. You know, if a brother pushed you off, it was all good.

  Now, they fight about any damned thing. But the thing is, they don’t fight—not for real.

  Don’t nobody hit nobody.

  I done seen more misses in a humbug in the NBA than ever in my life. I remember when Alonzo Mourning got into the fight with Larry Johnson during the Heat-Knicks playoff game a few years ago. Everybody all upset—and they just wailin’.

  And ain’t nobody hitting no damned body.

  Tracey McGrady got into a fight in the playoffs with some guy. He pushed the guy, then swung and missed him by two feet. Then them two niggas gon’ fall down and start rolling on the ground, tryin’ to wrestle.

  Shit, I’d rather watch the WWF.

  And baseball? These ballplayers today ain’t shit. A motherfucker steal 20 bases, they call him a “threat.” Lou Brock stole 100 bases, man! These motherfuckers don’t even steal 50. Or if you hit 20 home runs and 73 RBIs, motherfuckers are like, “Man, you gotta pitch around that sum’bitch!”

  If it’s not that, then it’s going too far the other way. Some of these sorry motherfuckers today got 90 home runs, 204 RBIs. What are they doing? Pitching underhanded to these motherfuckas?

  I want to say something to the young athletes who may be readin’ this book:

  Whatever you do, don’t play for the Chicago Bulls!

  Fuck the Bulls.

  That fat muh’fucka Reinsdorf broke up one of the best teams ever. They did Phil Jackson wrong. Did Mike wrong. No way Phil should be in Los Angeles, or Michael Jordan a fuckin’ Washington Wizard.