I am the original David Chapelle. If you’re expecting me to be a tall, bald, and successful stand up comic ... you’re in the wrong place. Sorry. I am a short and fuzzy man who dances like a middle aged white guy. Saddest of all is that I’ve danced like a middle aged white guy since I was ten years old. The pain of being seen dancing like that hasn’t lessened now that I am a middle-aged white guy.
If you happen to be a fan of the other guy and think he’d like a call from you at three o’clock in the morning ... I’m betting you’re wrong. If you’re calling a number outside of the LA area code you’re totally screwed. If you insist on getting baked and calling any Dave Chapelle you can find I’m totally screwed.
The other guy’s name is spelled Chappelle by the way.
My favorite phone call to date was the guy who called up and asked me to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ It was a birthday gift for his thirteen year old son. I did my best to explain I wasn’t the right Dave Chapelle but he insisted it didn’t matter. He said he had promised his kid Dave Chappelle was going to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ and I was close enough to good to suit him. “He won’t know the difference,” was Dad’s rationale.
Even if Dad was okay with this I was having issues with this plan. First there was the issue of impersonating a famous person. Second, there were possible problems arising from impersonating a famous black person. Last but not least I seemed to be having some problems with calling a thirteen year old kid ‘bitch’. I sighed deeply wondering if I was going to get a good seat on the bus to hell. I told Dad if I went to hell for this I was blaming him.
I told him to hand the phone over to the birthday boy.
The kid came on the phone and said, in a hesitant thirteen year old voice, “Dave?”
“No,” I said, doing my best not to sound either disrespectful or like the whitest guy on the planet. “I’m Rick James bitch!”
I could hear the sound of the phone being dropped and the screams of merriment and laughing in the background. “He said it! He said it!” The kid was chanting. “It was him! It was really him!”
Dad picked up the phone again. “Thanks man,” he said, “You rock!”
I’m a Dad too so I can understand wanting to get your child that perfect present. So if any of you happen to have a number for Paris Hilton please share. Not for my daughter ... it’s for me. I have a thing for tall, skinny, rich girls and I do have a birthday coming up.
If you happen to be a Dave Chappelle groupie, the other guy, and want to leave him a message do please call and leave it on our answering machine between the hours of 8:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. so you don’t wake anybody up. It’s always so much fun trying to decipher messages from stoners with a cell phone.
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