Bootleg by Damon Wayans with David Asbery Page B

hands, it’s time to eat.”
    He’ll come to the table, embarrassed and uncomfortable. I’ll just sit there and stare at him. Then I’ll say something like, “What’s the matter, you’re not gonna eat your sausage?”
    It’s such an awkward age for him. He’s growing so fast, and now he’s even big enough to start wearing my clothes. He’s so insecure about his size. His hands go past his knees, so he keeps them inside his pockets so his arms look normal. His voice is changing and cracking. And he’s got three hairs on his nuts. He kinda has to jerk off, just to build self-esteem. He just abuses it, though. Anytime there’s something he can’t handle, he goes to play with himself.
    “Spaghetti
again?
I’ll be right back,” he’ll say, marching off to the bathroom again.
    I feel bad for him because he has started something that he’s never going to be able to stop. Once you start playing with your knob, you’re in it for life. You’d think with technology as advanced as it is, they could invent something to help you to stop jerking off. They have a patch that you put on your arm and it stops you from smoking. Why can’t they invent a patch you put on your nuts that can relieve stress and keep you fromjerking off? They can call it Dickatine. It simulates an orgasm when you get stressed out.
    Then when you get into a car accident and you jump out of your vehicle all upset.
    “Man, what’s wrong with you? This is a brand new car. I ought to beat your motherfu—”
    And then the Dickatine kicks in:
    “Oh my God … oh damn … hold up … hold up … don’t touch me, don’t touch me oh damn … aaaaarrrgghhhhhaaaahhahiahaiaiagyyahyyya … Hey man, I’m sorry, it’s just a car…. Look, can I offer you a patch?”
    They can’t really invent anything like that because it would become the new drug on the street. There would be patch houses all across America. Neighborhoods would declare war against them. Self-righteous leaders would say, “These patch houses are ruining our community and we’re not gonna … oh God, oh shit. Don’t touch me! Aarrrhggaghajumba-layashuckakakakakahhgg … Oh man. What the hell was I talking about? Let those kids have their fun. I need a cigarette.”

He-Man
      I remember the last time I got high I realized that smoking herb makes you stupid. I was sitting in the living room looking at my three-year-old son, who was watching his favorite show, called
He-Man
, which is a cartoon that’s kind of like Hercules. Little Damon had a sword in his hand and was running around the house with his diaper hanging down, screaming at the top of his lungs, “By the power of Grayskull, I have the power!”
    After about twenty minutes of watching him run around, the only thing that I could think to do was trip him as he ran past me. The poor kid got up off the floor and looked at me as if to say, “What’s wrong with you, asshole? What the hell are you doing? You broke my damn sword and put a hole in my diaper. Now there’s shit all over the place. You happy now? You clean it up, ‘cause I’m not. I’m gonna go tell Mama. Damn, I wish I was He-Man, I’d bust your stupid ass.”

No Cussing in the House
      W ith four kids, I’ve had to make sacrifices. Like, I can’t curse in my own house. This may not seem like a big deal, but when you’ve got kids that make you want to curse, it really is a burden. Still, I watch my mouth in my house because kids say what you say, not what you don’t say, and they’re so incredibly impressionable.
    I took my oldest son, Damon, to the movie
Home Alone
when it first came out. After we got back to the house, this fool went and put Krazy Glue on the toilet seat, hoping to stick his little sister to the bowl. This was his idea of a joke. I’m the one that took her to the bathroom, thank God. She was about two years old at the time. I removed her diaper and went to put her on the toilet. I looked down at the toilet seat, though, and saw the