Yeah, I Said It

by Wanda Sykes

  The show didn’t start until a little after midnight, but that was cool with me. I was ready for some “dance, music, sex, romance.” Prince was absolutely amazing, as usual. I’ve seen him live about seven or eight times. His band, the New Power Generation, was tight. Onstage there was all of these candles and drapes, it was sexy as hell. After two hours, Prince was still going strong, we were jammin’ our ass off. Then it dawned on me that Prince needs to recognize that the bulk of his fans are over thirty. Some time after two in the morning I was checking out the crowd; everybody was leaning on something, the wall, the bar, the stage, a rail, each other. There were people holding their shoes and fanning themselves, women and men. Shit, we were tired, but we were having a ball.

  After another hour passed, my friend Alyson was like, “If that purple mu’fucka plays one more song, I’m gonna go up onstage and blow those drippy-ass candles out myself.” We were hurting. I’m ashamed to say that we started wishing evil shit on him because we are die-hard fans. I wasn’t about to leave before the show was over. So we were like:

  “Oh God, please break his boot heel.”

  “Take his voice, Lord.”

  “Shock him, Father, not enough to hurt him, just enough to make him stop.”

  “Earthquake.” (It was California.)

  “Fire, not one of those Great White fires, just some smoke to close the place down.”

  I think his Royal Badness finally caught on that we don’t have it in us to party as long as he can and around 3:30, he finally said good night. That was probably the best night of my life.

  Of course, on the way home, Alyson and I talked about how we would never fuck Prince, because he wouldn’t know when to stop.

  O

  Oprah is like a god to us. We view her as someone we can pray to at night to make our lives better. She hands out blessings. She’s always giving something away on her show, “my favorite things,” the Angel Network, matching P. Diddy’s marathon donation. I don’t know what her ancestors told her, but mine told me to hang on to my shit. Giving away things we’ve worked for is what got us here in the first place. What kills me is that everybody has an opinion on how Oprah should spend her money. That’s not fair. Can we just let her keep and enjoy her own money? We love Oprah so much we talk about her as though she were a member of our family.

  “Guess what Oprah did the other day? She rented a private island for a weekend getaway for all her rich friends.”

  “She needs to invite people like us who never get to go anywhere or do anything. All we do is work, work, work. All she does is sit up there and talk for one hour a day. I do that on my porch every day and I don’t get paid shit!”

  The nerve of some people, please. We should allow Oprah to do what rich people do. Spend money on wasteful shit. I wanna see Oprah on BET’s How I’m Living, driving up to her studio, flipping switches in a Bentley bouncing on hydraulics. Gail chillin’ in the backseat, holding the remote, watching a DVD on the plasma-screen TV in the headrest. She deserves it! When I see Oprah smile, I wanna see a few diamonds imbedded in her platinum front teeth. She deserves it! Rather than building a library in Africa, I wanna see Oprah with a heavy-ass platinum chain around her neck. She’s earned it! She should hook Stedman up with one, too. His and her chains. That’s how I wanna see Oprah live.

  Whitney and Bobby

  I love Tivo. I cannot erase that Diane Sawyer–Whitney Houston interview. I just can’t. I tried to record a show on PBS, but Tivo said there was not enough room. It gave me the option to delete the Whitney interview and I was like, “Nope. Can’t do it.” I just love that damn interview. That was genius. Diane Sawyer was like, “What about these accusations of your drug use? Spending two, three hundred thousand dollars on drugs?” Whitney said, “Show me the receipts, where are the receipts?” I was thinking, Whitney is high. What is she doing, denying that she uses drugs and she’s high? This is some Richard Pryor shit right here. “Where’s the receipts?” ’Cause drug dealers are so meticulous with their taxes. “Let me see, that’s four rocks, gotta add the eight-point-

  five-percent sales tax, and here is your receipt.” I bet he had a punch card, too. Buy ten rocks, get one free.

  The beauty is that when you look at Whitney and Bobby, you go, “Okay they live in a mansion.” When family or girlfriends come over, you know they don’t put their purse down. You know when you walk into your girlfriend’s house you can just throw your purse on the couch. Well, when you walk into their mansion, first you ask, “Is Bobby home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll hold on to my purse.”

  BB

  I bet you Bobbi Brown the cosmetics guru is pissed she has the same name as Bobby Brown the crackhead. I’ve tuned in to Oprah several times thinking I was gonna see Oprah get Bobby off the pipe, but it was Bobbi getting women off of blue eye shadow. I met her at a Nets play-off game, very nice lady. But when they told me Bobbi Brown wanted to meet me, I was like, “Aw, shit, Bobby Brown is here? Where’s my purse?” So you know Bobbi Brown is like, “Damn, I’ve worked hard all my life for people to mistake me for a crackhead?”

  What if Bobby Brown the crackhead capitalized on his name and came out with his own line of makeup? “When you get your ass kicked by drug dealers you owe, you’re gonna need lots of concealer. What can you do about all that sweat? Bobby Brown’s powder and foundation. You can also try our natural lipstick for cracked-up lips.”

  Siegfried and Roy

  I’ve never seen the Siegfried and Roy show, but if they ever make it back to the stage, I will be there in the front row wearing a poncho like I was at a Gallagher concert. I don’t blame the tiger for snapping at all. They said that the tiger attacked because he became disoriented. Well, yeah, he’s in a damn casino! A tiger does not belong in a casino. I love Vegas and I love to gamble, but after five hours in a casino I’m ready to rip somebody’s throat out.

  Then they tried to blame the tiger snapping because of some woman’s hair in the audience. Have you seen Siegfried’s hair? The tiger works with Siegfried every day and they want to blame some woman from New Jersey for having big hair. I heard next time they have a show they’ll have a sign that says your hair must be this tall in order for you to see this show.

  As you can tell, I have little sympathy for people who get trampled running with the bulls, or crushed by an elephant at the circus, or any silly shit that involves a wild animal. Animals don’t want to be in the damn circus, jumping through hoops on fire or standing on one foot. If they weren’t so drugged up, more of them would snap. I mean, we have people doing regular jobs that lose it and shoot up their place of employment. I bet the post office would have way more casualties if we made them balance the mail on their noses.

  Part Thirteen

  Leave a Message

  After the…Click!

  I hate answering machines and voicemail. It just pisses me off. As soon as I hear that mechanical tone before a voice…click! I bail. I’m one of those people who won’t leave anything but a dial tone as a message. Oh, you might catch a swear or two before I hang up, but that’s it. I used to leave messages, but years of experience have taught me that the majority of outgoing messages are stupid. The only thing people need to say is, “Leave a message.” That’s all the information I need. Unfortunately, people tend to feel that an outgoing message gives them a license to be creative. Stop irritating people and go buy a clay wheel. Let me give you a few examples of the kind of outgoing messages that have made me wish we still communicated by drums.

  If I call to ask you what time the movie starts, I don’t want to be serenaded. Just because you broke up with your boyfriend, why do I have to listen to Beyoncé? “Me, myself, and I. That’s all I’ve got in the end. I’ma be my own best friend…I can’t come to the phone right now, but I’m strong. Leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.” Beep!

  I lose it. “Look, I just called to tell you, yourself, and that other bitch that I can’t make it to t
he show. I decided to stay in and rent a movie with your ex. We’re going to get high and watch Fatal Attraction. Girl, you didn’t tell me you branded his initials on your back. No wonder he left your crazy ass. And don’t bother calling me back tonight. I’ll be screening.”

  Other people I hate are the ones who think it’s cute to help their kids record their message. That would only be amusing if the kid was retarded. Let me give you an example. Now bear with me. This is a book, so you’ve really got to imagine a really retarded kid saying these things.

  “Say, we can’t come to the phone right now.”

  “Eight.”

  “But leave a message after the beep…”

  “Graham cracker feet.”

  “And we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “No more hospitals.” Beep!

  “Haaaaa! I know I’ve called you at least ten times, but that shit is hilarious. I’m going to hang up and call you right back. I want to let my nephew hear it. We laughed our ass off when I took him to see that movie Radio.”

  C’mon, retarded kids are funny. Besides, you’re probably reading this book alone, so it’s okay to laugh. Then again, if somebody’s reading it to you, then you might be retarded. But if this bit just downright makes you uncomfortable, pretend the retarded kid is Frankenstein and read it again. It’s still funny.

  Now the best argument I can think of against stupid outgoing messages has to be 9/11. You would think that would have taught people a lesson. Can you imagine how a person on one of those flights would have felt if they’d have wasted their last phone call on one of these?

  “Hello? It’s me. I don’t have a lot of time. The plane’s been hijacked and we’re all going to die. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and—”

  “Gotcha! Ha ha, I’m not home right now, but leave a message after the tone and I’ll call you back.” Beep!

  “Fuck!” Click!

  “Let’s roll.”

  “What?!”

  Leave a Message

  When you call me, do me a favor. Leave me messages saying why you called. Do not leave a message telling me to call you, because I won’t. “Hey, Wanda, it’s Dino. Call me.” Why? I sense no urgency in your message. At least mention jail, or bail, or drinks or something. Don’t be all vague or you will not hear from me. I figure if you’re just calling to talk, you’ll call back.

  The only person I call immediately back is my gynecologist. In fact, she can be in the process of leaving a message for me and she’ll have to click over to pick up my incoming call back to her. “Yeah, Doc, you were calling me, what’s up? Everything okay?” Other than her, you’d better leave me some info.

  Hey, That’s Me!

  I want a clone. That would be so cool. Somebody to hang with when I didn’t feel like being bothered with anybody but myself. Somebody that I could relate to, who’d always love me no matter what. Like a sister, but without the sibling rivalry or jealousy. Boy, we’d get along great, Cloney and me. That’s what I’d name her, Cloney. What a great alibi she’d make. Or a witness. “Your Honor, that wasn’t me driving that truck. I was miles away, at home. Alone. Ask Cloney.” Some say that clone research is a sin. But where’s the sin in having your very own “occasional” decoy if necessary? For protection. The Lord helps those who help themselves. I’d be helping myself two times over. If a crazed fan started stalking me, I could just send Cloney out like bait. Then I could shop without being bothered. I wouldn’t even tell anybody I had a clone. We could trick people just like in Freaky Friday. Or rob banks, just like in Heat. I could literally be in two places at once. Plus, if something ever went wrong with me physically, like say with my kidneys or heart or liver, I’d have all those parts available. Sure, some people think mankind would commit great sins by only using our clones to harvest new body parts. Well, to that I have two rebuttal comments. Number One: “Not me, Cloney and I would be great pals.” And Number Two: “And?” A clone would be like an organ savings account. If my liver was overdrawn, I’d just deposit another one from my account. What’s going on with clone research and development? I’m ready for mine.

  My Beneficial Mouth

  I always get in trouble when people tell me what not to say. I’m like a kid with a hot stove. One show, I did a benefit for a feminist organization. Benefit means no money. So I figure I should be able to say what I want to say. I figured if I pissed them off, who cares? What are they going to do? Get mad and pay me? There is nothing to lose. So it’s all feminists. Gloria Steinem was sitting right up front. I walked out and said, “Look here, I can’t stay around here too long with you broads because I gotta get home and cook my man a nice hot dinner. Plus, he likes a blow job by nine forty-five.” I thought it was funny. They didn’t. They didn’t find anything funny. I thought, Oh Lord, I made these women mad. I stepped over the line. I continued. “Ladies, calm down. I’m just joking. He likes a blow job anytime.”

  Fans

  I quickly learned that being on TV is a lot of responsibility. If it sucks, people will tell you, “Oh, you suck.” And there are people who are not afraid to tell you. People come up to me on the street, “You look so good in person. Girl, that camera don’t love you.” I don’t understand the logic behind doing something like that in the first place. You don’t tell the person you recognize in a police lineup that they suck. You don’t even want them to know you exist. You’re too scared to see how they’ll react. I wish they’d treat seeing people on TV the same way. We’re both behind a glass; we can’t see who’s watching us. Well, that’s what I would prefer these people to do. Act like I’m one of those crazed-looking psychopath girls who’s been interrupted. Don’t know what I’m gonna do or say next. No telling what medication they got me on that day.

  Fans think they can come up and say anything to me. It’s cool because they feel like I’m accessible, down to earth, and approachable. I am all those things, when you got something nice to say. But you can keep that negative shit to yourself. “I thought you looked way fatter on TV.”

  I really don’t give a damn what a fan thinks about my personal appearance. Do fans actually think I look in the mirror and ask myself, Hmmm. I wonder what the fans will think of my outfit tonight? Maybe I should put on the bright red lipstick for the fans. They’d really appreciate it.

  I was picking up some takeout and the guy in the kitchen yelled, “Wanda, you cut your hair. I liked it better longer.” Oh my bad, next time I’ll come down here to the chicken joint and ask your greasy ass for permission.

  The fans never cross my mind when I’m getting my hair done. Now when I’m in a Motel 6 shooting heroin with three strippers, that’s when I think, How will the fans feel? I’m joking. I’d never stay at a Motel 6.

  But seriously, if you see me on the street, don’t come up to me. I am off work. That means I am not working. That means I am not performing at the current time, please redirect your route. Thank you. I mean, it’s one thing to just say hello, but people will come up to me and say, “Say something funny.” “Fuck you.” Then they laugh. As I walk away I think, That’s not a joke. Fuck you. Like I’m a damn toy. Look into its eyes and it’ll make you laugh.

  One time I was just standing at the corner waiting for the light, minding my own business, and this old lady came up to me and pinched my titty. After molesting me, she laughed and said, “Girl, you crazy.” I’m crazy? Who’s the one going around pinching titties? You’re the crazy one. See how y’all treat me? I bet you no one ever walked up and grabbed Maya Angelou’s titty.

  Bad Show Ideas

  The whole process of getting a decent idea to work requires a walk through hell for a warmup. See, before you get to do a show that you want to do, you gotta listen to all of their bad ideas. And they have a lot of bad ideas. After hearing them from my representation, I’d think, Do people actually say yes to these roles? and Why am I paying you? Aren’t you supposed to filter this bullshit out before it gets to me? I would hear shit that would really fuck with m
y mind. It made me forget what year it was. My agent would call me, and she’s like:

  Agent: Wanda, they want you to play a maid.…And you win the lottery. But you love working for this family so much that you continue to be their maid.

  Me: Set it up. I want to meet these people. So I can slap the shit out of them.

  The Millionaire Maid. What the hell is that? I think, What am I doin’? Cleaning the toilets with my thousand-dollar bills? “How you doin’, Senator? Oh, I love this maidin’.” What the hell is that? What makes you think people want to work for you like that? That’s ridiculous. I’m gonna tell you right now, if somebody walked in here and told me I just won the lottery, I would stop writing in the middle of this book. The rest would be a journal of blank pages for you to fill in. I love to make people laugh and everything, but I’d love to sit on my ass all day and watch Real World marathons.

  What’s next? I play a single mother with twelve children. All fathered by different men. Call it Who’s Your Daddy? You know, it’d be like one of those reality shows. I’d travel the country with a DNA expert. Voting daddies off. Last daddy standing owes a million dollars in child support.

  I would hear shit where my body wouldn’t even allow me to go through the motions, just for money. Although I’ve turned down gigs and imagined a single woman glaring at me, with four jobs and five kids, struggling, screaming, “Who the fuck are you? You got some nerve!”

  Turning down money like that makes you feel a little arrogant. Some of y’all are going, “No, it makes you feel arrogant; it would make me feel stupid.” I hear ya, but I know if I did some sellout bullshit y’all would be the first ones to say, “Damn, what’s up with Wanda? You see that bullshit? She fell off, man. She sold out.”