My dad, edited and reposted

I'm working on trying to turn this into a comedy set. Not sure how to go about it. Please feel free to comment with tags and suggestions...

DAD.


Not too long ago, I was lucky enough to perform at the world famous Comedy Store in Hollywood. This was the first time that I performed in Hollywood and the first time my father would see me do standup. Most comics, I assume, are afraid of how their parents would handle react to their material because presumably it is within the nature of a good comic to push the envelope as much as possible. For me, this was more of a secondary issue, really. I have never been one for self-censorship around anyone, especially my parents. I would rather put all the cards on the table. My worry was more in the fact that my dad has always had a way of embarrassing me. This is why, before the show I reminded him to behave. This was done in the same way that a mother would ask a five-year old child to be on their best behavior. I even offered him a happy meal and a pack of cigarettes. While my dad is a man in his 50s, and one might assume that he would be filled with wisdom and life experience, he recently was spotted wearing MC Hammer pants. For this reason, his judgment must be questioned at all times.

My father has always been a peculiar man. As a young child, I often hoped my life would turn out like many late-80’s after-school specials. I hoped I would eventually find out that I was adopted. I, at the least hoped that my mother had a secret affair with some celebrity but was given hush money as to not ruin his career. Ideally, I for some reason hoped that my father was someone cool like Bob Saget, or J.R. Ewing's hot son, the one that was later on Step By Step. I loved Dallas as a child, which alone was proof that no one chooses to be gay. Unfortunately, I never saw signs of money anywhere in our house. My mother wasn’t secretly looking into adding a train that would go through our entire house like the one on Silver Spoons. Looking back it became apparent just how poor we were. As a small child, my favorite toy was a cardboard box which I used to pretend was a space ship to take me to the planet Evie was, from on the sitcom Out of this World. I would quietly pass my mother little drawings at the dinner table asking for a paternity test. Unfortunately, she would always just smile and pretend she understood, even though she clearly didn't understand my 6-year old doodle-cartoon. It was of us on Sally Jesse Raphael-- finding out the truth. Mom just told me that the ghost-buster looked very nice, as she would plopped some more food on my plate. I would shake my head quietly and gobble down the rest of my hot dogs, ketchup and mashed potatoes, because my family was Russian, and my mother was a horrible cook, so we called it a day. To put it mildly my mother’s cooking was on the same level as Lucy’s in that episode where she was trying to make bread. The ingredients were all there, and the fire was always blamed on the oven or the recipe. As I got older, I realized that I kind of looked like my father in question, though I had a full head of hair. I eventually developed a love-hate soft spot for him.

A little background, my father, like most Russian men and Wayne Brady, he has always thought he was black. He has always seen himself as a body builder/boxer. Like any Russian, he always saw himself as a health-fitness-enthusiast. In this fashion, he would start every workout with a pack of Benson Ultra-Lights, which he would finish off with a whey shake and some stuffed cabbage. Since the mid-80’s, he has worked out at a boxing gym in the middle of Compton, because, that apparently was the calling for a 5'7 and 3/4 inch tall Jewish man. He was the only white, Jew in the middle of the L.A. riots-- for no apparent reason. He claimed it was because he needed cigarettes. When I was 7, he shaved marks on his buzzed-balding-head, similar to the way some rappers shaved money signs into their hair. He did this to look like his idol, Mike Tyson. When I was in the 6th grade he bought the sound track to "Gangster’s Paradise" because he claimed that Coolio was the "shizot." Just imagine that word being said with a moderate Russian accent. In the modern day, if he still had hair, he would have a flattop circa 1988. Does that paint a picture of the man who has claimed to be my father all of these years?

In 2010 he was the only man still quoting Coolio and leaving me messages, "Yuri, call me, Gotta get up get down."

Even Coolio stopped quoting himself by the year 2010.

Growing up with a Russian/Wigger father has proved interesting. As a child, when I came home upset because kids were making fun of me for having a head too large for my body, I looked like a bobble-head, my dad would try and console me and make me feel better. He would try to use American expressions, but then mix them up. He would take this one step further though and then gangsta' it up.

As I was crying, he would say (with his Russian accent) , "Yuri... (insert exhaling) hand me my Benson Ultra- Lights…”
He would then light his cigarette and continue, “ they aren't laughing with you, (insert cough here) they are laughing at you." (Insert choking cough)

I would be confused at this point and crying harder as I started to drowned my sorrows in a large bowl of ice cream. This was because food was and always will be love, whoever said otherwise wasn't raised by Jews.

My dad would then add this statement, "And don't worry you young blood, we can have them rubbed out." He also thought he was in the mafia.

So, at my recent show, as my dad sat down in his Run DMC shirt, and In Living Color white pants with neon squiggles on them, he seemed calm and behaved. The host of the show was a racist black comedian that was a marginally funny. He essentially kept every stereotype alive, and offered one of the white guys in the front row some “cracker-aid.” Everyone knows racism is hilarious, that is unless you’re Mel Gibson, and then it’s just a nail in the coffin. Three minutes into this guy's set, my dad started to whisper, "this guy is no Eddie Murphy." The thing was that my dad couldn’t whisper to save his life. He is one of those people at the movie theater that talks the whole time, while taking food that he brought from home out of a plastic bag that that would make that plastic crunching noise. He said the Eddie Murphy noise so that everyone could hear him, including the comedian. Really? Eddie Murphy? What the hell did that mean? Was he saying that the comedian had lost his funny, now sold out and was doing crappy movies? My dad did this every 5 minutes for the next hour until I got to the stage.

While I was performing he remained behaved. I was amazed and proud. As I closed my set, the host came up and shook my hand, then my dad got up. He was the only person standing.

Dad then yelled, "my brotha stand there and let me take a photo of you two."

The audience was really confused by the whole situation. They all let out a polite giggle and then were silent. Now, that they maintained a deathly silence of confusion. My dad snapped the photo and then, he started to howl like a dog with his arms flapping in the air. He for some reason thought he was on Arsenio Hall. As I walked off the stage I came up to him and gave him a hug to get him quiet. This was in the fashion that one would hand a baby a pacifier. People clapped because they were confused by the whole situation, as was I.

My dad then leaned into my ear and whispered, "I'm very proud of you. But the guy on stage is no Sinbad." It was odd.