Yeah, I Said It Read online

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Sykes Entertainment Inc. f/s/o Wanda Sykes

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0557-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-0557-1

  First Atria Books hardcover edition September 2004

  ATRIABOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  I dedicate this book to Ava.

  Welcome to the world, sweetheart.

  I hope they don’t blow it up.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my family and friends for your love and support throughout my career.

  Many, many big-ass thanks to Sara Washington. Because of you, I’m not on the phone with my business manager going, “What do you mean the book people want their check back?” Thank you for getting my thoughts and bits down on paper, and thank you for including your thoughts, too. I enjoyed working on this book with you although I know at times you were ready to toss me off the side of the Hollywood Hills. I’m proud of you. Good job.

  Many thanks to Alyson Fouse and Dino Shorte. You always got my back. I truly appreciate your talent and friendship.

  Much love to my partner, Lance Crouther. Thank you for holding it down at Brick to the Head Productions, Inc., while I was working on this damn book. You are a genius. I absolutely love working with you.

  Thank you to Simon & Schuster and Atria Books for giving me this opportunity. My editor, Malaika Adero, thank you for not hounding me for pages and for trusting that I would eventually send you a book. You have been very supportive throughout this process.

  Thank you to my team of agents at William Morris. Thank you, Mel Berger, you are wonderful. Thank you, Stacy Mark, a.k.a. “Agent House,” for hooking up the tour.

  Thank you to Jenny Delaney. I miss you.

  Thank you to my publicist, Danica Smith, for everything.

  Thank you to Mark Landesman and the ML Management crew. You make my life so much easier.

  Thank you to the Miller & Pliakas LLP crew. Roger, have you ever seen a contract that you liked? You kick ass. Thank you for being my friend.

  Thank you Riley for napping at my feet while I was writing and for chewing on them when you knew I needed a break.

  Thank you to Tiffany Moss, I appreciate everything that you do for me. Don’t quit.

  Thank you to my manager, Tim Brewer. You work so hard to keep me focused and sometimes it actually pays off.

  Thanks to the Comedy Cellar, the Improv, and all the other clubs that gave me stage time. And thank you to the fans for coming out to see me.

  Most of all, thank you for buying this book.

  Introduction

  I Can Do That

  You know, writing a book is one of the great American Dreams. It’s right up there with finding your soul mate, or buying a home, or raising well-mannered, nonsociopathic kids. A book that will be read and adored and well received by everyone, even your worst enemies. But normally, most folks don’t get the chance to do it until after they’ve acquired some sort of celebrity status. You see, when you’re a hot commodity (and let’s face it, right now, I’m on fire; did you see Pooty Tang?), you’re supposed to write a book. I don’t know why; it’s just what you’re supposed to do. One minute, you’re sitting at home; then the phone rings. You answer it and it’s…“they.” The proverbial “they.” They come to you and say, “Wanda, you’re hot. You’re it. Hot, hot, hot. WANDA, YOU NEED TO WRITE A BOOK!” And you get to thinking, Yeah. I am hot. Hey, a lot of people have done it. Why not me? I can write a “how I got to where I am” book, or a “what inspired me to greatness” book, or even a “whom shall I ridicule” book. This’ll be easy. People do it all the time. And not just actual authors, neither. Not just Stephen King, or John Grisham, or Octavia Butler, but other folks, too. Like running backs, serial killers, disciples, and hos. All you need is celebrity. Well, that I have, so I embarked upon the fun task of whipping out my book.

  This is cool. I’ll have my words and thoughts in print and they’ll be forever recorded in history. More important, they offered me a check. And ain’t nothing I like seeing in print more than “Pay to the order of Wanda Sykes.” So, I agreed to do this; then I realized I was actually going to have to write this bitch.

  I had a plethora of subjects to include in it. I mean, my mind was a fertile garden of humor just waiting to be harvested. And in that garden I’ve discovered one unshakeable truth: Fuck this! Writing a book is one of the most difficult things any human being could ever possibly undertake. I’d rather pass a kidney stone the size of a cell phone than have to do this again. That’s a walk in the mall compared to writing a book.

  What the fuck was I thinking? Hell, sometimes I can’t even finish reading a book, and now I’m writing one? Oh Lord. I mean, hours and hours of just sitting at the computer, butt cheeks going numb, shoulders getting all cramped up from tension. Then I have to turn the damn thing on. My pupils literally shrinking from staring at the computer screen so damn much (I now use Times New Roman font, 46 pitch), trying to come up with something good. Forget writer’s block. I had writer’s dam.

  It’s funny how you can just think up all kinds of hilariously funny shit while you’re doing anything else other than sitting at your keyboard. Hell, I’m the Benjamin Franklin of comedy while I’m jogging, or out drinking, or swimming, or out drinking, or in the market buying drinks, or cooking dinner…and drinking. But man, when I got in front of that black hole called a computer, sometimes I was literally lost in space.

  Do you know how many words it takes to even fill a decent-size book? Seventy to ninety thousand. Now if that doesn’t sound like a lot to you, try it. It’s not that easy. Sure, I could have just put down any old words, and several times during this experience you’ll find that I did. But for the most part, I tried to make a little sense. The only thing is I get so distracted. Like right now. I’m writing this book and my mind starts to wander and all I can think about is, maybe I should ask my doctor about Singulair. So what if I don’t have asthma? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. I’ll get back to this in a moment.

  Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. My doctor said I do not need Singulair. That’s the good news. The bad news is he also said if I ever call him at 12:45 at night again he’s going to put my entire medical history on the Internet. That wouldn’t be good. My mother never needs to know how hard I tried not to give her grandchildren. She thinks if I was going to be having sex, the least I could have done was make her a grandmother. Otherwise, I’m just a leg-spreading trollop. See, now that’s got me thinking about grandmothers. Not the leg-spreading-trollop part, the other stuff. I should call my grandmothers. Wait…they’re both dead. That would be a long-distance call. I’m sure somebody I know has a living grandmother that I could talk to. Hold on a minute. I’ve got to check this out.

  Wow, you’d be surprised how many people have dead grandmothers. And once I brought them up, they forgot all about me waking them up on a work night. I heard so many stories about how Nana used to bake me cookies. Or that time Nana crocheted me a sweater. Even memories of Nana using her home remedies to nurse me back to health. Nana sounds like cheap slave labor to me, but three of my friends cried themselves back to sleep. Then that one wrong number I dialed started babbling something in Spanish and put a curse on my family. That should make it really interesting when we get together for Christmas.

  Speaking of Christmas, you know it’s never too early to get your shopping done. And since I’m already
on the computer writing this book, I could go online for a little while and knock a couple of people off my list. Why don’t you dog-ear this page and think fondly of your grandmother (living or dead), while I surf the Net. This shouldn’t take too long.

  Man, do you know how much shit is on that Internet? It’s a virtual cornucopia…. Ooh, that’s a big word. You think they’ll count it as two? Where was I? Right, the Internet is a virtual cornucopia of bullshit. All I wanted to do is buy my nephews an early Christmas gift, but do you know how many dirty websites pop up when you put in a search for Xbox? I mean some dirty, filthy, nasty stuff. I think I saw my medical records on there. I went to over two hundred sites. I would have hit more of them, but my assistant started whining something about those pictures are gross, and if we’re not going to work on the book, could she please go home and feed her cat.

  Personally, I never liked cats, but if it would get her mind off actually writing this damn book, I was willing to ask her about the fur ball…bad move. Why the hell did I do that? She’s more attached to that damn cat than most people were to their dead grandmothers. “Paws is so cute when he purrs…Paws won’t eat tuna…Paws loves Michael Jackson.” I wish Paws would choke on a hairball. I finally had to tell her to shut up. I’m trying to write a book here.

  Besides, I’m a dog person and if you want to talk about cute, you should see the way my Riley chases his favorite ball around the house. He gets to barking and jumping around. Then his little tail wags so hard…. Hey, where’s she going? She just walked out of the room. Was that my front door slamming? I think my assistant just quit. Oh well. One less person to nag me about writing this damn book.

  Hell, I should be almost finished by now anyway. This piece alone should be what, thirty, forty thousand? Let’s see what the computer says. Shit. This is only nine hundred and three words. I’m fucked. I wonder how much of the check they’ll take back if I’m short eighty-nine thousand or so. I can’t afford to do that. I’ve already invested most of that money. And I don’t think you can return tequila. I’d better get serious about this.

  Fuck it. I’m going to bed. I’ll write some more in the morning. Well, not first thing in the morning, because I want to learn how to make a breakfast burrito. But I should be done with that by noon. Then I’ll write. If there ain’t a game or something on. If so, I can just pull an all-nighter. Shit, how many words is this now? One thousand and twenty-seven. Oh, they are so going to sue me.

  Before You Start…

  God gave us the ability to think. Being an American gives us the freedom to express our thoughts. I love my country. So please don’t pull that Dixie Chicks scare tactic of labeling me “anti-American.” Although in America you have the freedom to do so, just like I have the freedom to tell you to kiss my red, white, and blue ass.

  Part One

  Are We Mad?

  I don’t mean to disrespect the president…that’s bullshit. You know I do. Hasn’t anyone noticed that his eyes are getting closer and closer together? Pretty soon his left and right eye will be the same eye. If you look at him in just the right light (i.e., the light of truth), he resembles that weasel from the Kipling story, Riki-Tiki-Tavi. Talk about beady. And I’m supposed to trust this guy? He’s either the greatest hypnotist since Svengali or we’re just stupid.

  Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we get rid of one president for lying about a government-sanctioned hotel break-in? And didn’t we oust another because he lied about whom he had sex with? Last time I checked lying to us to justify a war trumps breaking into a hotel room and a blow job. Note the key word: lie. The only thing Bush II has done is get caught in lie after lie. Lies about the deficit, tax cuts, Social Security, the Iraq war. But we let him just keep on keeping on. What’s wrong with us? Would we put up with that kind of treatment from anybody else in any other situation? Hell no!

  Are we nuts? Why aren’t we having a fit? Bush said that Saddam was an “imminent threat to our security.” He said Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. He lied. We didn’t find shit. Then he tried to twist it by telling us they found some equipment that could possibly be used to make WMDs. What kind of bullshit is that? Either he’s retarded or he thinks we’re retarded. I took a physics class when I was in high school, that don’t mean that I’m at home whipping up bombs.

  Why aren’t we in the streets screaming for him to be impeached? Are we under some fear spell? He lied. I’ve seen people more upset when Whitney is a no-show. Let Streisand cancel a performance. It’s chaos. “Babs said she’d be here tonight. She lied! That cockeyed bitch lied!”

  See, to me, America is like my car. I love my car. And my car is supposed to take me wherever I want to go as long as I keep the “governing” fluids changed and get regular tune-ups. That’s what elections are: a nationwide tune-up—every four years. So that makes the president sort of like…our mechanic. And all we want from him is to just keep our shit running good. That’s all. If he can do that without costing me an arm and a leg, cool. But, what if my mechanic was not only incompetent, but constantly lied about what’s wrong with my car. A real-live Mr. Badwrench. Actually, more like a Mr. Fucked-up Wrench. Never fixed the car, just kept washing it. That’s all, just washing it over and over and over again. My car’s falling apart, but “it looks clean.” Wouldn’t I get a new mechanic? Or at least give another mechanic a shot? Wouldn’t I report him to wherever bad mechanics get reported? Damn right. Look, in November, since we can’t just up and buy a new car, can we at least get someone to get this bitch up and running?

  Look Over Here!

  We have U.S. soldiers being killed every day over in Iraq because of an unjustified war that Bush started. The economy is in the toilet. The education system is failing our kids. The deficit is out of control. However, instead of fixing any of this shit, the president focuses on nonproblems. We won’t think about what is really going on if he makes us think that the real problems are steroids in sports, space travel, and gay marriage. You’ve got to be kidding me. Sometimes I feel like we’re trapped on a bad Fox reality show, Joe President. He’s not really a president. He’s a construction worker. If he gets reelected, he gets a million dollars and we get screwed.

  Enhancements

  In what will hopefully be his last State of the Union Address, George W. said that we needed to crack down on the use of steroids in professional sports. When he said that, I was like, “Nigga, what?” I’m sorry, I rarely use that word, but he deserved it for saying some dumb shit like that. With all that’s going wrong in this country, steroids in pro sports should not even be on his radar. Steroids are flying right above Nick and Jessica. Right now the president should not be concerned about athletes who are playing “too” good. The guy who has been unemployed for the past six months doesn’t give a shit about millionaire ballplayers getting in trouble for using performance-enhancing drugs to elevate or in some cases sustain their careers. This broke guy isn’t going, “Hey, I think there might be an outfielder position opening up in San Francisco. I better get my résumé together.” This guy is wishing he could have taken some performance enhancers; maybe he could’ve kept his computer engineering job. Who is Bush trying to fool? Not me.

  Now why shouldn’t athletes be allowed to take performance-enhancing drugs? They get to wear performance-enhancing clothes, don’t they? What the hell do you think a kneepad, or a bat, or cleats are for? To enhance performance. A football player isn’t born wearing a face mask. But you’d think Jerry Rice was nuts if he went on the field without one, wouldn’t you? I never saw Barry Sanders blast one up the middle without wearing a helmet. Or Ken Griffey Jr. slap a line drive down the third base line with his hand. So we shouldn’t be upset if athletes take the “equipment” to the next level and make it “internal equipment.”

  How about shoes? Ever try driving the lane while barefoot? Don’t shoes enhance normal human performance? Of course, but they’re perfectly legal. So what if steroids can alter mental ability and capacity for clear thought? Ta
lk about fun players, I’d love to see somebody get tackled during the National Anthem. There’d be bench-clearing brawls after the game. My kinda players.

  So what if steroids eventually destroy the prostate and testicles and totally kill the sex drive? Hey, some of those guys need their sex drives tamed a bit. Holla at me, Denver! Hell, these guys need to take something with all that pressure they’re under. It’s not easy being a multibillion-dollar franchise player or even a benchwarmer. They’ve got so much to worry about: the games, the interviews, the parties, the checks, the chicks, endorsements, paternity suits, late-night car crashes, DUIs, murder investigations. No wonder they need some drugs to help them compete. Let them take all the steroids they want, if you ask me. Let ’em shoot up on the field, or snort during the half-time interview. Who cares? We just want a good game.

  Space Program

  Bush announced an initiative to spend twelve billion dollars to create a permanent moonbase by 2020. That’s the first smart thing that he has proposed. He knows by the time he gets through, we will be so fucked on this planet that we’re going to be needing another home real soon. We’re not getting our deposit back on this one. We’re going to have to sneak off and move in the middle of the night. Between the pollution, lowered emission standards, drilling, and pissing off every other country on the planet, Bush knows it’s time for us to start packing up.

  NASA, the JPL, it’s the welfare for nerds. It is a billion-dollar welfare program for really smart dorks. Where else are they going to work? They’re too smart to do anything else. They can’t fit in with us. They know a bunch of stuff that us regular folks could give two shits about. They would annoy us to the point of hurting them. “Hey Wanda, did you know that the atmosphere on—” Pow! “Shut it up, dummy on the moon.”