Last night I was on a stand-up comedy tour with Richard Pryor (there was a documentary about him on tv before I went to bed). We were on stage together and I was having to work with his unpredictability to make the shows swing. Feed me the motherf*ckin line like last night, he whispered urgently at one point with his hand over the microphone, after he'd been staring at me for a while. The glare of the spotlight had painted a film of sweat across his furrowed forehead. I fed him the line and he said something astoundingly funny. The audience was in uproar!
When we left the last show to go to the car Ruth was there, only fifty pounds heavier than she is in real life. And someone else was sitting in one of the seats in the limo. I knew she was part of the tour, but I didn't know what she did. She looked like the woman who sold her babies to Michael Jackson. I was wondering how I could pleasantly throw her out of the car so we could get going, and then I woke up.
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