I Ain't Scared of You

by Bernie Mac

  Stop being a hypocrite, man.

  Face it. You’ll show your son how to hit it. You will teach him how to get some pussy. “Move ya hip like this, man. Yeah, they like when ya hit it like that.”

  If I had two or three kids, I don’t know how I would be. I see a lot of instance where parents have kids and you heard kids saying, “I never got away with what he got away with.”

  You raise two or three kids, and the last one gets away with murder.

  By me having one, I wanted too much. I had big expectations for my daughter—and she’s meet them and then some, man. But I had to learn how to back off.

  Sometimes, I put too much pressure on her. I could have really messed her up. By me being so cold and strict, she might’ve been a damn lesbian.

  But my daughter always had nice taste in men. She ain’t pick no poot-butts. They were always good guys.

  But you know, I still had to make sure and let the niggas know.

  I’d be all nice, invite the nigga to do shit. Man, I took one of them niggas huntin’ with me, right? Let the gun go off by his feet. You know.

  Blam!

  “You all right, nigga?”

  I got the gun pointed at him and shit, smiling and talkin’. I tell him: “Man, many accidents happen huntin’.”

  So now she’s about to get married, and I think that’s great. He’s a nice guy who has his head on straight. And he’s getting a good woman.

  My daughter wasn’t one of those girls with a bunch of dudes in her life. As far as I know, she was only with those two guys.

  Now she’s living away from home with her fiancé. And I know they play house where they live. And there’s nothing I can do about that. That’s on them.

  But when they come to my house? Oh, no. Ain’t none of that goin’ on. They can’t stay here together. Come in and it’s ooohs, and ahhhs and shit? Oh, no.

  Ain’t nothin’ but one dingaling in my house.

  You go to your mama house. Get a hotel. But I ain’t got that open-minded yet. I’m not going to sit in the next room and listen to you with my daugher. Sorry, it ain’t g’wains on.

  Tell you a true story: They came home for Christmas one year, my daughter and her fiancé. And when they came, it was during a snowstorm.

  This was only the second time we had met him. It was snowing when they came in. We helped them bring in their stuff. My daughter unpacked. We all talkin’, right?

  So my daughter gon’ tell me, “Daddy, it’s snowing outside. Can he stay over? I know you ain’t gon’ make him go all the way to his mama’s house in this weather!”

  Now grant you, it wasn’t snow—it was a blizzard.

  I ain’t give a fuck. I wanted him out.

  Rhonda told him he could stay. I ain’t care if he had tennis rackets on his feet. I wanted that nigga out.

  I told him he could spend the night this time. “But he ain’t spending the night tomorrow!”

  He’s over in the guest room. I went in there and slept with that muh’fucka.

  Somethin’ else that got me. While they were home for the holidays, I noticed that my daughter was picking him up, dropping him off. Running back and forth to take him around.

  Now, I’m from the old school. I used to ride the bus to go see her mother. I rode the bus winter, spring, summer, fall. Rhonda’s father never dropped me off. I don’t give a fuck if it was below zero out that muh’fucka. When it was time to go, I got my ass on the bus.

  And he did right. You ain’t fuckin’ my daughter and I’m droppin’ you off. You ain’t gettin’ livery service.

  So one night, it’s about 12 midnight. My daughter gotta drop him off. She leaves, and she calls me back about five, six in the morning. She talkin’ about, “I fell asleep. We got here late, and I didn’t want to drive back in bad weather.”

  I said, “Who you think you bullshittin’? He should have jumped his ass out the car while it was still movin’. Nigga shoulda tucked his knees and rolled.”

  So the next day, I saw him and I says to him, “Come here, let me talk to you, man.”

  I told him I didn’t want her dropping him off somewhere. I told him, “You a man. Think about it. She’s out on the road by herself. If something happens to her, you ain’t gon’ do nothin’ for her. You’ll be too far away. My daugher ain’t got no business leaving the house at one, two in the morning droppin’ your ass off.”

  Man, the nigga got tight with me, man. He ain’t speak to me for a couple of days.

  I ain’t give a fuck.

  So New Year’s Eve comes. We all over to the house, my daughter, my wife, him, me. I had my shotgun. I went out back, fired it off.

  Blam! Blam! I came back.

  He lookin’ away.

  I looked right at him: “Happy New Year’s, muh’fucka.”

  I asked him if he was tight. He told me he ain’t like what I said to him, that I came on him wrong.

  I said, “Let me tell you somethin’, partner. I don’t care about you being mad. I told you the truth. I don’t want my daughter being played for a sucker. You a man; I expect you to treat her like you’re one.”

  He eventually understood where I was coming from, and he got over it.

  But shit, I don’t care if he didn’t.

  But yeah, like I said, I know they down there playin’ house where they live. I call down there, it’s 12 o’clock. I said, “Where’s Trey?”

  She says, “He right here. He just visitin’.”

  Yeah, right, muh’fucka. Nigga ain’t just visitin’. That nigga up in there in his draws sittin’ around watchin’ TV. He live there!

  I can accept that. That’s what they do down there. But in my house: Oh, no.

  Every man wants a woman pure.

  But we like a ho. Somebody on the side. Somebody nasty. Somebody who’ll swallow it all.

  ME: Man, fuckin’ will kill ya nowadays. Shit, I ain’t too keen on fuckin’. Pussy ain’t nothin’ but hard work. All that pumpin’, man. Man, I used to make love for an hour and a half. Until it hurt. I’d be chafed. Just raw. She just be layin’ there: “Do you feel it?” You just be dry fuckin’ after a while. Just burnt up. You gotta put some petroleum jelly on that motherfucka.

  One time, it was so raw, I had to put some Crisco oil on it ’cause she ain’t have no Vaseline. It was burnt up.

  Now? I ain’t lookin’ for no fuckin’ like that, man. You get yours. I get mine. Three minutes. Let’s get this shit over wit’. It don’t take all night.

  FRIEND: Aw, naw, man. You gotta go longer than three minutes.

  ME: How long you go, man? Four or five? Aw, c’mon, man.

  FRIEND: I’m more adventurous, man.

  ME: I ain’t talkin’ about the fo’ play and all that bullshit. I’m talkin’ about pure-dee fuckin’. You ain’t gettin’ nothing but about 90 pumps. ’Bout 90 pumps.

  FRIEND: Pure-dee fuckin’? Aw, I’d say I can go ’bout seven . . . seven, eight minutes. I want to make it last, man.

  ME: See, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, man! Seven, eight minutes is a looong time, man. That’s about 130 pumps!

  FRIEND: I pump slow, man.

  ME: All right then, I’ll give you a hunnit-thirty-five. Eight minutes is ’bout 150 pumps, man. I’ll give you 150 pumps, but that’s ’bout it.

  FRIEND: See, that’s you. We’re different.

  ME: Okay. How many pumps eight minutes give you? How many pumps you get in, man?

  FRIEND: I don’t know, man.

  ME: How many?

  FRIEND: I don’t count pumps, man.

  ME: Gimme an estimate, man.

  FRIEND: I don’t count pumps, man. All I know is—

  ME: Naw, c’mon. Count the pumps, man.

  FRIEND: Since I’ve been working out . . .

  ME: We ain’t talking ’bout since you been workin’ out! Count ya pumps, man. How many pumps you get off, man?

  FRIEND: I . . . don’t . . . know, man.

  ME: Approximately. You’re a mathematic
ian.

  FRIEND: I don’t know, man. It depends on what I’m doing. I gots to see. It might be 300 pumps.

  ME: A’ight, a’ight. Once you slide it in. Once you slide the hog in, right? Pow! That’s one pump. Pow! Pow! Pow!

  FRIEND: Ain’t nobody talkin’ . . .

  ME: Naw, naw. Hear me out, man. A’ight, you still pumpin’ . . . Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! That’s eight pumps . . . Pow! Pow! Pow! Now you goin’ at angle, at 45 degrees . . . Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Then it’s, “Agggggrrrhhh. . . ohhhh . . . awwwwwwwww.” That’s 25 pumps, man!

  FRIEND: Naawww, man. You gotta get up, get her to turn around.

  ME: Bullshit! Naw, man, that’s bullshit! I count 25 pumps, man. You get up and turn her around and she pull that ass to you, you can’t even look at it! ’Cause if you look at it, you’re gonna explode! If she got a full moon and she turn around, you holdin’ that shoulder, you can’t look at it going in and out of there. Ugghhhh, ewwwwwww, you gon’ bust.

  FRIEND: Naw. You don’t look at it.

  ME: All right, you look at it and what happens?

  FRIEND: Oh, you look at it, oh . . . it’s over. Especially one of them asses with the tuck. You stick a pencil between that thigh and that booty and it stay, that mean she got a tuck. She move that motherfucka it’ll be over. You call them “ceiling booties.” You gotta look at the ceiling when you hittin’ that ass.

  ME: I hate when they twirl that ass. That drive me bonkers. I can’t be around no shit like that. But see, niggas lie on they dicks, man.

  FRIEND: Naw, naw, man.

  ME: Unh-unh. Niggas lie. Lemme tell ya something. I been black a long time, man. Niggas lie on they dick. “Man, I was in that motherfuckin’ pussy, I tore that shit up all night. I fucked three times, then I rolled over.”

  FRIEND: Aw, I ain’t sayin’ that. But I used to.

  ME: When you was 21, 22, yeah, we did do that. But we ain’t doin’ that shit now. You don’t do it. You a damn lie!

  FRIEND: Used to be, you go to a hotel for eight hours, you might get 20 minutes sleep. You’d fuck for four hours.

  ME: Yeah. Your mattress be tilted. Box springs all fucked up.

  FRIEND: But now, you go for eight motherfuckin’ hours. You figure you gon’ fuck about 12 minutes.

  ME: Shit, he givin’ hisself an extra four minutes.

  FRIEND: And then you gon’ sleep about four hours, and rest of the time you watchin’ TV.

  ME: Sho’ is. And you gon’ get up and eat ’cause you went and got some ribs and some chicken. And then you don’t want to see no mo’ pussy.

  People always ask me about the kids who I talked about when I did that “Milk and Cookies” bit in The Kings of Comedy. The kids actually done turned out all right.

  When I first got them, man, they was ignorant. They better—but that’s training. They was ghetto-ized. They couldn’t complete a whole sentence. Just ignorant. You know how you get a dog and he ain’t trained and he chewing on the couch and all? That was these suckas. They was chewing on the couch. Piss all around the toilet—wouldn’t even wipe it off. You come you sit on it, and you got a wet ass. Just nasty, you know.

  So now, they’re obedient. The oldest girl, she doing good. She got married, got two kids. She married a guy in the Marines, made a career.

  The little one, she’s growing up, she’s doing real good. She’s a good student, and she’s gon’ be going to college.

  It took training, man. It took love. But it was hard. They used to stress me the hell out. That was the first time I was under some stress. I was getting the older girl’s hair done every week. I had the little one in school. Man, she was taking the little girl out of school, gang-banging. Smoking reefer in front of her. It was a transition.

  The boy is doing great, too. My nephew is very, very smart, on top of his game.

  But he still a faggot.

  He just know he is now. He didn’t know then. Now, when he walk past a man with a big booty, he hums.

  Hmmmhmmmm.

  That’s a fag there. A homosex’yal. But he gon’ be what he is. I still love him.

  Chapter Six

  In Case I Didn’t Mention

  Recently, it was hot outside. Hot than a muh’fucka. 100 degrees. Devil smilin’ and shit. The sun is hot. I’m too dark, man. Naw, I ain’t shamed to say it: I’m too muh’fuckin’ black. When I looked in the mirror, I said, “You’s a black motherfucka, boy.” I started to come outside butt-motherfuckin’-naked. I got some shoes to match. They sharp than a motherfucker.

  Black women don’t cook when it’s hot either.

  HUSBAND: Why don’t you cook me somethin’?

  WIFE: I ain’t cookin’ a motherfuckin’ thang.

  You wanna get on your woman’s nerves? Just say, “Damn, baby, you kinda stank.”

  “You a motherfuckin’ lie! That’s your top lip, motherfucka!”

  If you tell black people they stank—black people’re too clean, man! We don’t like nobody talking about you musty or somethin’ like that, man.

  Just fuck wit’ ya woman. When she come by and try to hug you, you know, just say, “Damn, baby, what the fuck you been doin’?” “What you mean, what the fuck I been doin’?” “You kinda tart. Kinda tart.” “Yo’ mama tart! Yo’ mama tart!” Now she wanna talk about my mama and shit, see.

  Black women somethin’ else. I love me some black women, boy. But black women, they want to be your mama, your father, your woman, your pastor. They want to tell you what the fuck to do all the got-damn time.

  You go out to eat, they wanna order for ya.

  GIRLFRIEND: Naw, he don’t need nothin’ but a salad.

  Don’t order for me! Don’t order for me! I’m hungry than a motherfucka right now. Salad my ass!

  BARTENDER: You want a drink?

  GIRLFRIEND: No, he don’t need nothin’. He had two beers already.

  ME: Bitch, I wanna get drunk tonight! Don’t fuck with me!

  What type of shit is this?

  You can’t drive. You be drivin’ all nice and smooth, going to pick your woman up, man. You be singin’ with the radio and all that type of shit.

  Soon as you pull the fuck up and she come out the door, there it go, it’s out the motherfuckin’ window. Here she come, gettin’ on your fuckin’ nerves: “Slow down. Watch that light. You see those kids playin’ over there? How come you ain’t park there? Back it up!”

  Shut the fuck up talkin’ to me! Before I choke the shit out you! Shut up!

  Bernie Mac and wife Rhonda McCullough.

  I love you. But black women gotta run shit. Black women always wanna tell you what the fuck you can’t do. Especially when it’s company around.

  GIRLFRIEND: Uh, no, no, no, no, no, no, noooo!

  What the fuck you mean, “Uh, no, no, no, no, no, no, NOOOO?” I’m a grown motherfuckin’ man.

  And if you get a page? Man, I don’t give a fuck where you are, if you with your woman and somebody page ya? You better call somebody the fuck up. You better call somebody back, I’m not bull-shittin’.

  VOICE ON PHONE: Hello, police department . . .

  ME: Is John in?

  VOICE: Police . . .

  ME: John!

  ’Cause she lookin’ at you. Hard, too. That’s when they take a long “blink.”

  And if you don’t call?

  GIRLFRIEND: Ain’t you gon’ call?

  ME: I’ll call him later.

  GIRLFRIEND: Why you can’t call him now?

  ME: ’Cause I don’t want to, mammyfucka, I don’t want to! Nosy sonofnabitch!

  You know I ain’t lyin’. Black women somethin’ else, man.

  See how the world is now? I’m gon’ show you how the world changin’. Water used to be free. The shit is $2 now.

  By the year 2000, if you ain’t got your shit together, you gon’ be fucked up. If you and your woman ain’t tight, you gon’ be fucked up.

  See, everythin’s changin’. Milk changed. I love me some milk. But I can’t drink no motherfuckin
’ milk. I’m lactose intolerant. Milk fucks me up. If I drink some milk, you gon’ have to get the fuck away from me. I’m tearin’ that room up! Fffffrrrrrttttttttttt!

  You’ll be like, “Gotdamn!”

  You ever have a fart pain that come up by your heart? Fffffr-rrrrttttttttttt!

  You be like, “Man, that feels so much better! Got-damn!” You ever have a fart and your covers shook? Fffffrrrrrtttttt!

  Your woman be asleep; she just roll over, but she cuss you out: “You nasty motherfucka!”

  How you sleep under that funk, man? I cut a fart the other day, and my wife was laying in the bed. I took the cover and put it over her head. All I seen was the bottom of the cover kickin’ like a motherfucker!

  All I heard was, “You tryin’ to kill me!”

  Everybody do it. Everybody.

  But when you’re with your woman, and she passes gas, she thinks it’s cute.

  Fffrrrrttt!

  “Hee-hee-hee. You heard that?”

  Like it’s gon’ be all right.

  “Yeah, I heard it, you stankin’ ass! What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”

  A woman, on the first date, when you first meet her? And she cut a fart? It takes years to cut a fart in front of somebody, man. That means you tight. You got a relationship. You don’t just meet a woman and she think she can just poot in front of you, like y’all “strong.”

  You take her out on the night, you bring her to the door. “You know, I really enjoyed myself.”

  “Me, too—” Fffffffttttttttt.

  You be talkin’ to yourself: I know this bitch ain’t farted!

  You know I ain’t lyin’. All of us human. Everybody make mistakes. We’re human.

  Me and my wife been together a long time; we’ve had our humbugs. Oh, we’ve had our humbugs!

  You ever had a humbug wit’ your woman, and y’all ain’t speak for two weeks? Oh, that’s some distressed shit! See, I’d rather cuss and fuss and for you to throw somethin’ at me. But you don’t talk to me for two weeks?

  I don’t know what’s on you mind. I can’t go to sleep around that kind of atmosphere. You ain’t sayin’ shit to me but want me to lay down. Everytime that motherfucka got up, I got up, too.