This is a total no-no in LAPD copland. No back talk, and no black talk. The police will wear a black person out.

"Are you on probation or parole?"

"What?"

"Don't be offended. We ask everybody that. Does the owner of the car know that you have it?"

"What? I'm the owner of this car!"

"Where are you going?"

This bulls.h.i.t is annoying me. "I'm going to drive until I run out of gas. You want to follow me?"

He gives me the stink-eye and tells me to drive off. There are two LAPD rules that every black second-cla.s.s citizen of Los Angeles knows. One: you mouth off, you get run in. Two: you flee from a cop, you get a beatdown. That's what happened to Rodney. He got beat because he ran. He broke the unwritten rule of the LAPD.

I've been at a traffic stop in Beverly Hills where the cop reaches across the driver and another pa.s.senger, both women, to ask me for my ID. Just me, not the two white women I'm with-and I'm not even driving. I've been hauled out of a store in Hollywood in manacles, taken to the station house, and then told it is all a big mistake. No apologies, no nothing, just a curt, "You're free to go."

"I'm free to go? Then take me back to the store in handcuffs, uncuff me in front of everybody and apologize! You handcuffed me in public, now make it right in public, too!"

No back talk, Negro.

Yes, it might be all new to you, but it's real old for me. For white people, watching the Rodney King video is like a world premiere movie. "Oh, I didn't know the nice policemen did that that." For black people, it's a rerun. It's been in syndication for a long time. We've seen it all before.

After the King verdict, Richard and I meet up at the Bel Air rental house to watch the fires downtown and in Pico-Union. I think about The Crazy World of Arthur Brown The Crazy World of Arthur Brown: "I'll take you to burn, burn, burn, burn, burn!" And of the slogan during the riots of the 1960s: "Burn, baby, burn!" Yes, we've seen it all before. You can only put pressure on people for so long before they explode.

A month later, at the Pantages that night, the nervous promoter practically follows me onstage. "So will you please not mention race? Please? Mr. Mooney?"

I go out and check the crowd. Black people and brave white people-my kind of audience.

"They don't want me to talk about race!" The first words out of my mouth.

The audience members scream. They scream scream!

"You all got matches? Here, I got some, if you don't have any." I toss out a half-dozen books of matches to the crowd.

They scream. They scream scream!

Who says you can't yell "Fire!" in a crowded theater?

I'm just keeping it real. And my kind of audience likes it real.

Back then, I'm living with a white girl, Lori Petty, the actress. Keanu Reeves's surfer girl in Point Break. Point Break. Kit Keller, Geena Davis's character's little sister, in Kit Keller, Geena Davis's character's little sister, in A League of Their Own. A League of Their Own. Tank Girl. Lori's the coolest. During the riots, she's quoting George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic-"Let's go downtown and blow the roof off of this sucker!" Tank Girl. Lori's the coolest. During the riots, she's quoting George Clinton of Parliament Funkadelic-"Let's go downtown and blow the roof off of this sucker!"

Lori and I are together for five good years, until we fall out on the set of a movie we're both acting in, a Pauly Sh.o.r.e comedy called In the Army Now. In the Army Now. That film kills more than our relationship. Mitzi's son Pauly sees his career pretty much left for dead after it, too. That film kills more than our relationship. Mitzi's son Pauly sees his career pretty much left for dead after it, too.

I am too busy to notice whether or not my film career is tanking. I finally come out with my first alb.u.m, Race Race. It's good timing, right after the riots. I do a lot of my stand-up routines that feature the same upside-down view of the world that I learn back in childhood, from the "Mama getting her a.s.s whupped" story that makes me laugh so hard.

A lot of times, I just take a black situation and turn it upside down by putting white people in it. The most popular singing group in the country back then is from a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned TV commercial (ain't America great?). The California Raisins. The cartoon dried fruit sing "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" with Jimi Hendrix's old drummer, Buddy Miles, on vocals. On my alb.u.m Race, Race, I go off on the whole California Raisin phenomenon. I go off on the whole California Raisin phenomenon.

White folks' favorite TV commercial is that you got to be a little shriveled-up wrinkled black raisin. Little n.i.g.g.e.r raisin with a hat, they think that s.h.i.t is cute. [White folk voice] [White folk voice] "Oh, look at the cute n.i.g.g.e.r raisin!" ... They've gone n.i.g.g.e.r-raisin crazy. They made Ray Charles ... and Michael Jackson G.o.dd.a.m.ned raisins ... They've gone n.i.g.g.e.r-f.u.c.king-raisin crazy. And the s.h.i.t ain't cute. I bet "Oh, look at the cute n.i.g.g.e.r raisin!" ... They've gone n.i.g.g.e.r-raisin crazy. They made Ray Charles ... and Michael Jackson G.o.dd.a.m.ned raisins ... They've gone n.i.g.g.e.r-f.u.c.king-raisin crazy. And the s.h.i.t ain't cute. I bet if I get me some G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallows, and put some arms and legs on the G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallows, and let 'em sing "Surfin' U.S.A.," they won't think that s.h.i.t is so G.o.dd.a.m.ned cute! No, it won't be cute then! White people will call up and b.i.t.c.h and s.h.i.t. "I'm not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallow! What kind of crazy n.i.g.g.e.r wrote this commercial?" if I get me some G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallows, and put some arms and legs on the G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallows, and let 'em sing "Surfin' U.S.A.," they won't think that s.h.i.t is so G.o.dd.a.m.ned cute! No, it won't be cute then! White people will call up and b.i.t.c.h and s.h.i.t. "I'm not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned marshmallow! What kind of crazy n.i.g.g.e.r wrote this commercial?"

Take a situation, turn it upside down, like you're in a bus plunge or you're an a.s.s-whupper getting a.s.s-whupped. Sometimes to go upside down, all I have to do is keep it real, saying stuff that no one else is saying.

Because I'm recording, I want to say some good things about white people. Because sometimes white people freak out when they see me. [White folk voice] [White folk voice] "He hates us! He doesn't like us!" I don't hate you-I hate your parents for having you. "He hates us! He doesn't like us!" I don't hate you-I hate your parents for having you. [White folk voice] [White folk voice] "It's a chip on his shoulder. He's bitter." You folks have names for n.i.g.g.e.rs. White people will label people. You're dirty when it comes to labeling. 'Cause it will last for years. "The only good Indian is a dead one." Ain't that a b.i.t.c.h? "The one thing I hate more than a n.i.g.g.e.r"-which you can't imagine what-"is a n.i.g.g.e.r lover." It's true, white folks know how to label you. They f.u.c.k white girls up. "Once you go black, you won't come back." Come back from where? What, do they fall into some deep black hole? "It's a chip on his shoulder. He's bitter." You folks have names for n.i.g.g.e.rs. White people will label people. You're dirty when it comes to labeling. 'Cause it will last for years. "The only good Indian is a dead one." Ain't that a b.i.t.c.h? "The one thing I hate more than a n.i.g.g.e.r"-which you can't imagine what-"is a n.i.g.g.e.r lover." It's true, white folks know how to label you. They f.u.c.k white girls up. "Once you go black, you won't come back." Come back from where? What, do they fall into some deep black hole?

Two-thirds of the way through the alb.u.m, I get down to it, trashing the whole idea of black and white labels.

You know that Spike Lee movie? What's that, Jungle Fever Jungle Fever? All that is bulls.h.i.t. I'll tell you why. There's no such thing as jungle fever. The white man saw to it that everyone is mixed. Blame it on the white man ... Because he did a lot of f.u.c.king, okay? ... Ain't no "jungle fever," we're too mixed up. Don't let them run that, they're four-hundred-and-fifty years too late for jungle fever. such thing as jungle fever. The white man saw to it that everyone is mixed. Blame it on the white man ... Because he did a lot of f.u.c.king, okay? ... Ain't no "jungle fever," we're too mixed up. Don't let them run that, they're four-hundred-and-fifty years too late for jungle fever. [White folk voice] [White folk voice] "Oh, it's all true, we're all G.o.d's children." No, we're all black. Everybody is. It's the truth, it's cold, ain't it? But it's real. People in America-because black is negative in the Western world-you can't get them to admit it. They'll admit they got any blood but black. They'll admit their mama is anything but black. "Isn't your mama a goat?" "Oh, it's all true, we're all G.o.d's children." No, we're all black. Everybody is. It's the truth, it's cold, ain't it? But it's real. People in America-because black is negative in the Western world-you can't get them to admit it. They'll admit they got any blood but black. They'll admit their mama is anything but black. "Isn't your mama a goat?" [nod-ding] [nod-ding] "Sure she is-that's why we call her 'Nana'!" Isn't your cousin black? "Sure she is-that's why we call her 'Nana'!" Isn't your cousin black? [screams] [screams]

Tell me that ain't keeping it real. The Race Race alb.u.m just takes what I've been saying onstage in my stand-up act and bottles it. For some people, it's poison, but for other people, it's tonic. I know for a lot of white people, it's a f.u.c.king relief to get this s.h.i.t out in the open. alb.u.m just takes what I've been saying onstage in my stand-up act and bottles it. For some people, it's poison, but for other people, it's tonic. I know for a lot of white people, it's a f.u.c.king relief to get this s.h.i.t out in the open. Race Race earns me my first Grammy nomination. earns me my first Grammy nomination.

Keenan Wayans plays the alb.u.m to his writers on In Living Color. In Living Color. "This is the kind of jokes I want," he tells them. "I want Mooney funny." "This is the kind of jokes I want," he tells them. "I want Mooney funny."

The whole country must like it, because for my next alb.u.m, America gives me the greatest gift anybody has ever given a comic.

O.J.

CHAPTER 30.

There's a time when every black person I see looks like O.J. to me. It's the one period when I can say we all look alike. Let me bring you back to the mid-1990s: TV is all O.J., all the time. Same with newspapers and magazines. I spend months O.J.'d out. The coverage b.u.mps Oprah, Oprah, it b.u.mps the soap operas. It's a modern-day it b.u.mps the soap operas. It's a modern-day Oth.e.l.lo Oth.e.l.lo.

I see that white Bronco on the freeway on TV, and I'm screaming "Run, run, run run!" Because all black men know that if they're chasing one of us, they're chasing all of us. He has the gun up to his head, I'm saying, "Please don't kill us!" Just like Black Bart in Blazing Saddles. Blazing Saddles. When O.J. finally turns himself in, I can finally get some sleep, because I'm not up all night waiting for the LAPD storm troopers to kick in my door. When O.J. finally turns himself in, I can finally get some sleep, because I'm not up all night waiting for the LAPD storm troopers to kick in my door.

Like I say, I may have been born yesterday, but I stayed up all night. I may not know anything about complex s.h.i.t like the s.p.a.ce program, but I do know one thing that's pretty d.a.m.ned simple.

O.J. ain't did that. He ain't did what they say he did. That boy ain't did that. No murder weapon, no eye-witness. He's not guilty in a court of law.

White folks just want to play blame-a-n.i.g.g.e.r. Blame a n.i.g.g.e.r, any n.i.g.g.e.r. He kills two people and still catches the red-eye? He wasn't that quick even on the football field. He ran like any good black man will run. We know our history. If the police come through the door with a simple traffic ticket, I know what can happen, and I'd run, too. Any brother will run if he has any sense.

O.J. is under that illusion of inclusion-he ain't been black since he is seventeen years old. He's the only black man in America who can get on any golf course, any time. White America loves that boy.

But he finally gets what I always describe as "the n.i.g.g.e.r wake-up call." We all get it. Michael Jackson gets it when cops bust into his Neverland Ranch and search his bedroom. Oprah gets her n.i.g.g.e.r wake-up call when she is closed out of that upscale store in Paris. (I blame her. You can't recognize that woman as being Oprah without makeup. If she doesn't have her hair done and her makeup on, I wouldn't let the woman in my own backyard.) O.J. finds out but quick that he ain't white, that he's a n.i.g.g.e.r after all. If he wasn't on camera in the Bronco, they would have found him dead somewhere. The coroner would solemnly testify that he'd broken his neck somehow. Where are all his solid white friends when he is on the run? He has to get his black friend Al to drive him in that Bronco. He has to go back to the ghetto and find someone to help him out, his black friend, his diaper buddy who he grew up with. A n.i.g.g.e.r wake-up call is the fastest way to see your white friends vanish.

I see O.J. and Al Cowlings in that Bronco and I have to ask myself: if I am accused of a double ax murder, who can I ask to give me a ride? How about if someone else who is accused of a double ax murder comes to my house and asks me to drive them? Ask yourself. Is there anyone I would do that for?

In that situation, I might might drive Richard around. I might. We're that tight. I am with him after he shoots up Deborah's Buick. I am with him when he's lying in the burn center. But if he kills someone? I don't know if I could drive with him. In fact, I don't know if Mama came around that I would go with her. "Here, Mama, here are the car keys. I love you, Mama. Call me when you get to Mexico. See you on drive Richard around. I might. We're that tight. I am with him after he shoots up Deborah's Buick. I am with him when he's lying in the burn center. But if he kills someone? I don't know if I could drive with him. In fact, I don't know if Mama came around that I would go with her. "Here, Mama, here are the car keys. I love you, Mama. Call me when you get to Mexico. See you on Hard Copy Hard Copy."

It's times like these that I miss my friend Richard. He's still around, but he's gone. The MS has already taken him. He can't talk much now, can't form words, can't use sign language. I would go up to his house, and I would talk about O.J., trying to get Richard to laugh.

"Just in case he did do it, I'm sending my resume to Hertz."

Richard laughs, but his laughter immediately turns into a horrible bout of coughing and hacking. When he finally quits, his mouth hangs open, slack and round, like he's in shock or something. It's awful to see. When I leave him, I'm grieving.

O.J. is exactly the kind of thing we'd crack up over, because it lays bare the kind of race s.h.i.t that America usually keeps so well hidden. It's that old complexion for the protection bulls.h.i.t. White people have it, and that means they have the luxury not to think about race except when it suits them. I see a white homeless person on the street, acting the b.u.m in downtown L.A. or somewhere, and I think, What a waste of a white skin What a waste of a white skin. He could use that skin for protection, and instead, he's throwing it all away.

Friends to the end: Me with Richard in the last days before MS takes him It's during the O.J. trial that I start to feel how alone I really am. I've broken up with Lori. Richard is gone without being gone. I turn more and more to my children.

I do another alb.u.m, Master Piece Master Piece. O.J. is front and center, race is front and center. It is a bad time for black people in America. There are n.i.g.g.e.r wake-up calls being placed right and left. The f.u.c.king mayor of Washington, D.C., Marion Barry, kicks it off by being caught on tape smoking crack. James Brown, Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson, O.J. They all get their wake-up calls. I lay it all out on Master Piece, Master Piece, and sometimes I flip it over and do it upside down, too. and sometimes I flip it over and do it upside down, too.

Michael Jackson went out and married Elvis's daughter? Go, Michael, go! Elvis Presley's daughter? I was celebrating. I was getting naked and pouring champagne over myself. Yes, yes, yes! I love you! Elvis Presley's daughter? Elvis's daughter? Pimped his a.s.s. Elvis Presley stole so much from black people, it's about time he gave us something back!

I record the alb.u.m in Harlem. I still keep a house in L.A., but I am spending more and more time in the city. I like it there, because they like being black in New York. They're very comfortable and not in denial. It's not Hollywood-it's the neighborhood. It's where I feel safe.

I play Master Piece Master Piece for Richard. He doesn't get out to the clubs anymore, so all the material is pretty much new to him. He listens, and when I look into his eyes, they glitter and smile. I know he is getting it. But he can't communicate what he's feeling. He can't express himself. There's good days when he can whisper out a few words, and bad days like this one, when he's mute, locked into silence by the disease. Richard lives to connect, convey, communicate. That's when I know the truth: MS is the last demon he'll ever face. Richard Pryor is in h.e.l.l. for Richard. He doesn't get out to the clubs anymore, so all the material is pretty much new to him. He listens, and when I look into his eyes, they glitter and smile. I know he is getting it. But he can't communicate what he's feeling. He can't express himself. There's good days when he can whisper out a few words, and bad days like this one, when he's mute, locked into silence by the disease. Richard lives to connect, convey, communicate. That's when I know the truth: MS is the last demon he'll ever face. Richard Pryor is in h.e.l.l.

BLACK.

CHAPTER 31.

In 2001, my darling youngest son, Symeon, is murdered. It's a mean, ugly death. He's shot from close range in a car parked in an alleyway in L.A. The kid who shoots him, somebody he knows and hangs out with, later drives to Las Vegas, checks himself into a hotel, and commits suicide.

I'm in New York when it happens, and my close friend Eric calls me and tells me that Symeon is gone. My son is in the police station morgue for hours before he is identified. All the morgue knows is that it is holding the body of someone with the last name of Mooney. At first the news organizations think it's me who has died. My close friend, the actor Glynn Turman, sets the situation straight at the morgue.

Symeon is always the kind of child who makes things hard on himself. He even whistles backward. In his late adolescence, he falls in with Ramone, the son of my cousin Raquel. Symeon and Ramone add up to a bad combination. The streets kill my son and send Ramone to prison.

RIP: My son Symeon, who died tragically When a child of yours dies, you join a very exclusive club. Your children are supposed to outlive you. That's the natural order of things. The only ones who really understand are those who have had this particular tragedy befall them. It's pure torture. The whole family is emotionally wrecked by it. I am only glad that Mama, my dear Mama, is gone so she doesn't have to feel the pain. She pa.s.ses away the year before in Oakland, and I am at her bedside.

Suddenly it seems I am surrounded by death. Nothing feels funny anymore. It's the most difficult time in my comedy career. I have to work, I have to support my family. But I feel as though I am two separate people. Mooney at the microphone, and Mooney who has to live his life in grief.

It takes me a long period before I am back on my feet professionally. When Dave Chappelle creates a new sketch comedy TV show on Comedy Central in 2003, I recognize what it is right away. It's got an informal, just-friends-hanging-out-at-a-party vibe and a familiar edge to it. Chap-pelle's Show Chap-pelle's Show is done as if is done as if Playboy After Dark Playboy After Dark collides with collides with The Richard Pryor Show The Richard Pryor Show.

One way to tell that someone is good is when Hollywood doesn't know what to do with them. For years, I run into Dave Chappelle on the stand-up scene around the clubs and I see how funny he is. He comes into the Store and asks if he can do a set in front of my audience. When we talk, I always like him personally. I meet his mom, Yvonne, and really like her. Dave is raised in a middle-cla.s.s household in Washington, D.C., with his father and mother both college professors.

So of course a smart, funny black man like that has trouble finding his place in Hollywood. He turns down the role of Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump Forrest Gump because he sees the de-meaning bulls.h.i.t behind the character's shuck-and-jive smile. He gets his own sitcom, because he sees the de-meaning bulls.h.i.t behind the character's shuck-and-jive smile. He gets his own sitcom, Buddies Buddies, a spin-off of an appearance on Home Improvement, Home Improvement, Tim Allen's joint, but Dave's show gets cancelled right away. Tim Allen's joint, but Dave's show gets cancelled right away.

Dave doesn't come into his own until Chappelle's Show, Chappelle's Show, which starts out small on cable but blows up huge on DVD. which starts out small on cable but blows up huge on DVD. In Living Color, Chappelle's Show, In Living Color, Chappelle's Show, they all come from they all come from The Richard Pryor Show. The Richard Pryor Show. They grow from it. That ain't an insult. It's a natural thing. They grow from it. That ain't an insult. It's a natural thing.

When he sees Chappelle's Show, Chappelle's Show, Richard talks about "pa.s.sing the torch" to Dave, which considering his relationship with torches and fire, is pretty funny. He's not threatened by Dave, and neither am I. The mothership isn't threatened by all the other ships coming up to it to suck teat. Richard talks about "pa.s.sing the torch" to Dave, which considering his relationship with torches and fire, is pretty funny. He's not threatened by Dave, and neither am I. The mothership isn't threatened by all the other ships coming up to it to suck teat.

Dave puts together an ensemble that includes Charlie Murphy (Eddie's brother), Bill Burr, and Donnell Rawlings. Dave asks me to write for Chappelle's Show Chappelle's Show and I lay out my conditions for him right away. "I've been in this business too long," I tell him. "I can't get into another bulls.h.i.t situation where I have producers and executives picking apart my s.h.i.t." and I lay out my conditions for him right away. "I've been in this business too long," I tell him. "I can't get into another bulls.h.i.t situation where I have producers and executives picking apart my s.h.i.t."

"I won't let them f.u.c.k with your stuff," Dave promises.

It ain't the easiest work in the world, running interference for me with Hollywood people who don't understand comedy and never will, but Dave does it like a pro. But it's like I'm seeing Richard's response to Hollywood playing out in Dave's experience, too. They're both comic geniuses. They're both trying to maneuver through the Hollywood minefield. They both feel stressed out by white people loving their s.h.i.t so much, as though that means they aren't keeping it real. And they both wind up fleeing Hollywood for Africa. Seeing the way things turn out, I feel bad that I probably added to Dave's stress level. But I can only do what I do.

One thing I like to do is f.u.c.k with things that white people consider their own. White folks love them some mysticism. They like funny-a.s.s religions like Buddhism and Scientology because it helps them get out from under the Ten Commandments. They like tarot cards and aliens and all that s.h.i.t. And they believe in Nostradamus seeing the future. Nostradamus is a French druggist from half a millennium ago, and white people are reading books about him, nodding their heads like he's Dionne Warwick down at the Psychic Friends Network.

White people have Nostradamus, so I give Chappelle's Show Chappelle's Show Negrodamus. We intro the bit with trippy music and random voices asking questions. Negrodamus. We intro the bit with trippy music and random voices asking questions.

What's the meaning of life? Am I going to find a husband? Who is my real father? Does G.o.d really exist? [female announcer] [female announcer] For centuries, people have turned to one man for the answers to life's great mysteries. That man is Negrodamus. For centuries, people have turned to one man for the answers to life's great mysteries. That man is Negrodamus.

I come on tricked-out with a burgundy fop hat, a French beard, and a doublet. I field questions from the audience.

Audience member: Negrodamus, what mistakes did Michael Jackson make before he was arrested?Negrodamus: Michael Jackson should not have been a singer. He should have been a priest. That way, he would have just been transferred.Audience member: Negrodamus, why is President Bush so sure Iraq has weapons of ma.s.s destruction?Negrodamus: Because he has the receipt.

I also f.u.c.k with movie review shows like Siskel and Ebert, Siskel and Ebert, because none of them ever use a black critic. For "Mooney on Movies," I ask Dave to hire me the "whitest white girls you can get." I have blond actresses on either side of me, playing the kind of women whose media-created opinions come out of their mouths totally prefabricated. because none of them ever use a black critic. For "Mooney on Movies," I ask Dave to hire me the "whitest white girls you can get." I have blond actresses on either side of me, playing the kind of women whose media-created opinions come out of their mouths totally prefabricated.

White woman #1: Our first film is Gone With the Wind. Gone With the Wind. This film is an epic romance centering around Scarlett O'Hara, a damsel in distress during the Civil War. It is a must-see, must-own movie. I highly recommend it. This film is an epic romance centering around Scarlett O'Hara, a damsel in distress during the Civil War. It is a must-see, must-own movie. I highly recommend it.White woman #2: I couldn't agree with you more. I've actually seen Gone With the Wind Gone With the Wind thirteen times since I was ten years old, no kidding. thirteen times since I was ten years old, no kidding.Mooney: You must be on crack. I don't think we've seen the same movie. I thought Scarlett was a ho', because she went to bed with everybody but Mammy. I love Mammy. The best scene in the movie is when Mammy told the people, "Get off my porch, white trash." I stood and I applauded. I liked every bit of it.White woman #2: I liked Mammy. I thought she was great, I thought she had a great role.Mooney: It was Hattie McDaniels. Do you know in real life they wouldn't let Mammy go to the opening? Hollywood goes too far. She's dead, but everybody comes back to get their money. She came back as Oprah Winfrey.

A couple of things are going on here. I'm playing a role, a movie critic. Even though the t.i.tle of the bit is "Mooney on Movies," I'm not being me. I'm sending up a TV movie critic such as Roger Ebert. Also, I'm getting at something that has happened to me again and again: a white person and a black person encounter the exact same material, and they come away with opposite reactions to it as different as black and white.

I get more street recognition from Negrodamus and my other characters on Chapelle's Show Chapelle's Show than I have ever gotten before. Even with no advertising push behind it, the program is huge. It sells like ice in h.e.l.l on DVD, moving more than 3 million copies, becoming the best-selling TV show on DVD ever, ahead of even than I have ever gotten before. Even with no advertising push behind it, the program is huge. It sells like ice in h.e.l.l on DVD, moving more than 3 million copies, becoming the best-selling TV show on DVD ever, ahead of even The Simpsons The Simpsons. America is like a thirsty dog at its water bowl. It drinks that s.h.i.t up. Richard Pryor has been away from the scene too long. But Dave Chap-pelle gives them the next best funnyman.

As a result of my new high profile, the BET channel folks invite me to appear on their awards show in September 2005. It doesn't turn out well. They hire Mooney, they get Mooney. Maybe they were under the mistaken impression that they had hired Mickey Rooney. I give my n.i.g.g.e.r Wake-Up Call Award, with the nominees being Diana Ross, Lil' Kim, Michael Jackson, and Oprah Winfrey.

Diana Ross, Diva! They arrest her for DUI, and she says, "Do you know who I am?" They say, "Yeah, you're the b.i.t.c.h who's going to jail!" She's in the jail hallway [singing "Love's Hangover"], [singing "Love's Hangover"], "If there's a cure for this, I don't want it, don't want it." "Get back in your cell, b.i.t.c.h, and shut up!" "If there's a cure for this, I don't want it, don't want it." "Get back in your cell, b.i.t.c.h, and shut up!"

Diana Ross's daughter Tracee is in the audience that night, and she runs out of the auditorium crying. I get slammed left and right. My bit is almost completely edited out of the broadcast. I never felt the love at BET, which I call "almost black television," because I know it's owned by white folks. But getting f.u.c.ked with for doing my own comedy is too much. I watch Dave Letterman and Jay Leno every night. They f.u.c.k with celebrities and get off scot-free. When folks start calling them down, start criticizing them, then they can start in on me. Until then, don't bother me. I've got shows to do.

CHAPTER 32.

Richard Franklin Lennox Thomas Pryor III, RIP, December 10, 2005.

He was the better part of me.

CHAPTER 33.

I know it's coming, but when it happens, I'm still not prepared for Richard's death. Ever since Symeon is murdered, I have a sense of foreboding. The last years of Richard's life are so painful to watch that I feel guilty for wishing the good Lord would just take him to rest. MS is pure evil. It breaks a man down into a baby again. know it's coming, but when it happens, I'm still not prepared for Richard's death. Ever since Symeon is murdered, I have a sense of foreboding. The last years of Richard's life are so painful to watch that I feel guilty for wishing the good Lord would just take him to rest. MS is pure evil. It breaks a man down into a baby again.

I find it hard to keep the real Richard in my mind the way I want to remember him, laughing during a roast on The Richard Pryor Show, The Richard Pryor Show, hanging out at Redd Foxx's club, singing Motown at the top of our lungs on the drive north from L.A. to Berkeley. hanging out at Redd Foxx's club, singing Motown at the top of our lungs on the drive north from L.A. to Berkeley.

f.u.c.k the world. f.u.c.k the world for being poorer without Richard Pryor in it.