فصل 11

11

The Long Road to Comedy Success

I don’t want to make comedy sound easy, because it is NOT.

After I got back into comedy, and got my first paid gig (“The Lesbian Bomb Show”), I started doing a lot of paid shows all over LA. Occasionally, I was getting out of town to Orange County or Colton, or something like that, or far off, like Lancaster.

Back then, I considered a two-hour drive to be a serious traveling gig. I wouldn’t now, but then I was driving a little Geo Metro that sounded like a lawnmower. Ride in that shit for two hours, you feel like you done crossed America in a covered wagon.

Right as I was getting going with comedy, I kind of blew up in the Bar Mitzvah scene. So I was traveling all over the country, doing Bar Mitzvahs. That paid better than my comedy gigs, but comedy was my thing.

Then I got on the show Who’s Got Jokes? and that helped my career a lot. It was my first time ever being on television doing stand-up, and I won the first round of competition.

I had to go to Atlanta, and I had never done comedy in Atlanta before. I’d only partied in Atlanta, so I really didn’t have a feel for the comedy scene. I didn’t know how they even felt about women comedians, or anything. I didn’t have a clue. That shit matters a LOT in comedy, and because I was not ready for the second round in Atlanta, I lost bad.

It was in a civic center. There were like three thousand people there, and it was my first time being in front of that many people. And right as I walked out onstage, I realized, Tiffany, there are motherfucking cameras here.

I was just so nervous, it was horrible.

At the time, I had this goofy bit about the song “Chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup and the soda on the side.” I would make fun of that song, do this goofy dance. I did that bit, but I screwed the timing up bad.

I knew I had fucked up. It was so quiet in there. And nobody made a sound. And then some man just went:

Man: “Booo!”

Just out of nowhere. He didn’t even yell, it was more dismissive. And because none of the other three thousand people were making a sound, it echoed all around that hall.

I looked into the audience, and all I could say was one word into the mic, real slow and serious:

Tiffany: “Niggas.”

That’s all I could say. I could get nothing else out of my mouth.

I got disqualified. This wasn’t a black comedy club, and you can’t say that shit on TV. I was done. I failed. It was bad.

First, I cried. I cried outside in the back of the civic center, hard. Then I started talking to myself and was like, You just bombed in front of all them people, all over TV. People are gonna be able to see that all over the world.

Then I responded to myself, Yeah, people gonna see me, though, all over the world. Then, my daddy gonna see me, and then he gonna come visit me, and then life is gonna be great.

I was trying to make myself feel better, and I did feel better.

Even though I bombed, getting to the second round helped my career. I did some stand-up on a couple of late night TV shows, and then I ended up doing HBO’s Def Comedy Jam, and then Def Comedy Jam started getting me other shows.

Then I got a movie with Mike Epps, and that started getting me to colleges. It’s kind of full circle, ’cause NYU wanted to charge me $30,000 a semester to attend, and now, I’m going to all these different colleges, and they’re paying me $2000 to tell jokes for like forty-five minutes. I felt like the dopest person in the world. I was getting paid to go to school. I wasn’t really learning anything, but still.

Once I got divorced, it was like the floodgates opened. The quality of my comedy just got way better. I had more time to focus on the art of it, and I was getting to know myself better. I was paying attention to my feelings about things.

In stand-up, you do need to be having fun up there like Richard Pryor said, but you have to know yourself well, too. You have to know when you make different faces, or do different things, you get certain reactions. You start learning and it’s like playing a piano. You just know exactly what keys to stroke, ’cause really with comedy, you’re like fiddling with people’s souls. You resonate on the same frequency as them, trying to get them to relate.

To do that, you gotta put yourself out there. And in order to put yourself out there, you’ve gotta have an idea of who you are and how people react to that.

A lot of shows during this time stick out in my memory. I did a show in Arizona that was sold-out, and the thing that I remember the most about it was this lady sitting in the front row. She had this mean face. She was mean-mugging me the first ten, fifteen minutes of my set.

I made it my mission to make her laugh, and she would not laugh. It took me like twenty minutes to get her to laugh, and once she did laugh, though, she laughed so hard that snot flew out of her nose. After the show, I went out and danced all night in celebration. I was so proud of myself.

Another time, in the middle of the show, the heel on my shoe broke. So I just did like ten minutes about my shoe, how cheap the shoe was, why the shoe broke, all that. When I came off the stage, this lady came up to me.

Lady: “You were amazing. I peed on myself. I peed on myself.”

Tiffany: “Oh, thank you. How many kids do you have?”

You know, because women be peeing themselves after they have babies.

Lots of bad shows, too. I used to host this room at the San Manuel Casino every Wednesday night, and this one night, a girl was definitely intoxicated. She kept talking through everybody’s set, and I was hosting the show. I kept saying, “Watch yourself. Let everybody enjoy the show. You need to be quiet. Calm down.” After the third comic, she started again, and it went off.

Drunk Girl: “Yo, is this guy gonna be funny? Them others was stupid!!!”

Tiffany: “Look, I’m getting tired of you talking to people all disrespectful, and if you don’t quit, you’re gonna have a problem.”

Drunk Girl: “Bitch, you’re gonna have a problem, bitch.”

I went the fuck off. She started gangbanging, throwing up signs and talking crazy, so I started banging back. I ain’t even from no gang, but I start representing my old hood.

Drunk Girl: “Don’t trip. I’ll beat your ass right now, in front of everybody.”

Tiffany: “Come on. Come, beat my ass, bitch!”

At first, people were laughing, ’cause they thought I was just playing. Then I pulled my hair off. I took my shoes off, I took my earrings off. I balled up my fist, all furious, and I started praying into the microphone:

Tiffany: “Heavenly Father, give me the strength and the power to beat this girl down to the ground, and teach her she ain’t never supposed to be this disrespectful to anybody, because I give zero fucks, Lord. Just give me the power to whip her ass. All these things, I ask in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

I guess it was the way I said it, because people stopped laughing.

By the time she got close to the stage, security had grabbed her. Then two big Samoan chicks, who used to come every single week, came down right behind her. And then, these other two black girls that came all the time, they started whaling on her. Security had to drag that girl out, to stop her from getting killed. I was yelling from the stage:

Tiffany: “Bitch, getting your ass beat before you even get to the stage. We beating yo ass right now!!”

Everything got settled, and I introduced the headliner. Poor guy, how’s he gonna follow that shit? And I was so embarrassed. I had prayed out loud, in front of everybody, for the Lord to give me strength to whip a girl’s ass. It was so unprofessional. I was so embarrassed that I went so ghetto, so fast.

When I left from the show, I walked to the police car in the parking lot. It was the car that was taking her to the station, and she was sitting in the back. She was like a rabid dog—mad, face up against the glass, yelling and cussing, and I was like, damn. That was an hour ago, and she’s still crazy like that?

Another really bad night was when I was supposed to host this April Fool’s show in Atlanta. This place held three hundred people, but there was only thirty people there, and they didn’t pay me all my money. I only got half my money, and I had the worst set ever.

They had me thinking it was gonna be so many people, but only thirty people showed up. And then, half of them were my ex-husband’s family members, so it was very embarrassing. And I don’t embarrass easily, obviously. His mom was there, and she was just staring me in the face. It was a horrible show.

Then I fell on the stage. It was bad. I was wearing these pants that looked like leather, but weren’t leather, and I was trying to do this physical joke, where I squat down, like a dance, and then pop back up. I squatted down, and when I popped back up, I slipped and fell, so then my little fake leather pants tore a hole on the knee.

I was trying to play it off like it wasn’t bothering me, and then, two minutes after I fell, I just kicked my shoes off. I just sat on the floor of the stage.

I just gave up. I just sat on the floor, and just talked from the floor, just finished my time from there. I think I had twenty-five minutes left. It was horrible.

No one laughed. People were rolling their eyes. Looking at me crazy. Nobody was laughing. It was not good.

Afterwards, my ex-husband came up to me:

Ex-Husband: “That set, you get a D on that set.”

Tiffany: “I give you an F on being a husband. So suck on that.”

I did a bad show at Howard (a black college) with Tony Rock as the headliner, and me as the featured act. It was like, four thousand black students.

I knew immediately this was going to be a problem. I had never seen this many black young people in one place, ever in my life. In one room, I’ve never seen it. I don’t know why that freaked me out, but it did.

I just tried to stick to my material, just do my material, and it was not hitting. I was too nervous and too scared and they were not feeling me at all. At first, it was real quiet, ’cause they tried to figure it out. I don’t even remember the first joke I hit ’em with, but it didn’t hit at all. That was horrible.

I did the punchline, and nobody laughed, and I just was looking like a deer in the headlights. This one dude from the audience spoke up.

Guy: “It’s all right, though, you fine. At least you look good.”

Tiffany: “You got that right. Some of y’all get a female comic, and she don’t be funny, and she be ugly, too. At least I ain’t ugly.”

And then one of the girls sitting next to him said in a real bitchy voice:

Girl: “Yeah, whateva.”

They were all on their phones, chilling there, giving attitude. That chick, she was just on her phone the whole time, just texting. She was sitting right in the front, so I could see her real good. If I saw her in the streets today, I would still know her right away.

I was supposed to get paid $2500 for that show, and when I came off the stage, they had already called my manager. My manager called me fifteen minutes after I got off the stage, and he was like:

Manager: “They’re only gonna give you $500 for this show. They said it was pretty bad.”

Tiffany: “Yeah, it was pretty bad. I’m cool with that.”

I started laughing. I sucked, and I still got $500 though. I might have been embarrassed in front of four thousand people, but I can pay my light bill, get groceries, gas money. I’m good.

This is how I know I REALLY sucked: there was an after-party, and the student that was in charge of activities, when we first got there before the show, he was like:

Student Host: “Yeah, you gotta come to the after-party. It’s gonna be so much fun. Tiffany, you definitely gotta be there. Everybody’s gonna be so excited to see you.”

And then, after the show, that dude came and talked to Tony Rock:

Student Host: “Yeah, so the party’s gonna be hype. We’re gonna pick you up from your hotel in about one hour. It’s gonna be great. We got bitches. We got booze. You gonna love it.”

And then he looked at me, rolled his eyes, and walked the fuck out of there.

Tony Rock: “Ooo, nigga.”

Tiffany: “What?”

Tony Rock: “Yep, your ass really was bad. You’re not invited to the party, Tiff.”

Tiffany: “He didn’t say I couldn’t come to the party.”

Tony Rock: “That look said you can’t go to the party.”

Tiffany: “Well, I don’t want to go to the stupid-ass college party anyway. I’m an adult.”

How about that shit—a twenty-year-old college dude didn’t want me at his party!

And then, this little fat girl brought the money in. She handed everyone their envelopes, and she looked like she did not want to give me my envelope. My little $500. She did not want to give it to me. I know I did bad that night, but I got my money, though.

The Politics of Comedy

At this point, I’m pretty well established in comedy and know most of the people and players. But man, it was not like this at the beginning. I’ve got so many stories about what it was like coming up as a black woman in comedy in LA. Where do I start?

Lemme start with this one comedian. We’ll call him “Fats.” I was volunteering at the youth center, and I ran into him there. He mentioned to me that he surfs.

Tiffany: “You surf? You don’t surf.”

In case you don’t know, Fats is fat as hell. Three hundred pounds, at least.

Fats: “Yes I do, I surf.”

Tiffany: “Wow. I bet you be looking like a sea lion out there in that wet suit and everything.”

Fats: “What’chu talkin’ ’bout? I got my own line of wet suits and my own line of surfboards.”

Tiffany: “Is they plus-sized? That would make sense.”

Fats: “NO! THEY AIN’T NO DAMN PLUS-SIZED!”

Tiffany: “Wow. That’s pretty amazing. You know, I surf too. I take kids surfing every summer.”

Fats: “Oh, maybe I’ll donate some surfboards. Here’s my number. Give me a call sometime.”

So I gave him a call, but every time I called him about the surfboards and stuff, he don’t want to talk about that:

Fats: “So you think we can go out to dinner? What do you like to do for fun?”

Tiffany: “You trying to date me or give me the surfboards? I want the surfboards, I don’t want to date you.”

Fats: “Yo, if you ain’t trying to go out with me, I ain’t trying to give out no surfboards.”

I may have my issues, but I ain’t hooking up with some fat ass for free surfboards. Hell no.

Then I ran into him at the comedy club, and he saw me get onstage and demolish it. Everything was different after that. Now he treats me like I’m one of the homies. Like I’m a fellow colleague.

I love that, and now he’s a good friend of mine. He ain’t trying to take me out to dinner or nothing like that. He respects me as a comedian.

Which before, he probably just thought I was one of them chicks saying I do comedy, trying to get pregnant by somebody rich. ’Cause some girls do that out here.

I had something worse happen with another comic I’ve decided not to name. I’ll call him Rumpelstiltskin. I knew him, because some of my friends opened for him when he went on the road.

Tiffany: “Hey Rumpelstiltskin, I would love to open up for you, you should let me open up for you.”

Rumpelstiltskin: “I can’t take you on the road.”

Tiffany: “Why?”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Unless you opening up those legs, you can’t go nowhere.”

At first, I thought it was just a joke, right? So the next time I asked him, he said the same thing. I was like, This motherfucker serious?

Tiffany: “So lemme get this straight. Whoever’s on the road with you, open up they legs for you, is what you telling me?”

Rumpelstiltskin: “I ain’t no motherfucking faggot. I’m not saying that, I’m just saying that you can’t go nowhere, you gonna ruin my marriage. Your type, you too cute and shit, you gonna have to give up some pussy.”

Obviously, that was a no go.

Then, after I got on a TV show and a movie, now his manager wants to call me asking if I’ll open up for him. And he wanted to pay me $500 for fifteen minutes. Fuck THAT. Rumpelstiltskin was so shocked that I turned down that offer, he called me up himself.

Tiffany: “A minimum, MINIMUM of $2500 for me to open.”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Nigga, what is wrong with you? Don’t nobody pay that much money for some goddam comedy. Not no female.”

Tiffany: “Uh, yes they do. Yes they do. That’s what I get paid on a regular basis.”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Well, I guess you gonna be headlining this for yourself, you can just go on out there and headline for yourself.”

Tiffany: “Will do. You bet.”

And then I started headlining some shows and stuff, and I did pretty good. I guess he heard about how good I did, so he called me:

Rumpelstiltskin: “Well, I just want to apologize. Nigga, you out here getting it. You really doing things. I want to apologize. I was wrong the way I treated you.”

I thought that was cool of him, to admit he was wrong. Good for him.

But I had to earn that respect.

There was this other guy that pissed me off for a long time. Let’s call him “Cry Baby.” He’s a comedian you have heard of. When I was starting off, like twenty-two years old, I met him at an open mic. He said I had promise, but I needed to hang out with more comedians to get funnier. I was like, Cool, this guy’s trying to help me.

So he invited me to a taping at one of his shows for BET. Well, that’s what he told me it was. I’m thinking he is on the TV show. I get there, and it’s not his show at all. He was just doing the audience warm-up! After the show, he was all excited.

Cry Baby: “So what did you think?”

Tiffany: “I thought it was pretty interesting, it’s cool.”

Cry Baby: “You see how I’m the man up there?”

Tiffany: “You not the man, you the audience warm-up. You warm up the audience.”

Cry Baby: “Why you talking to me like that, bitch?”

Tiffany: “Why you talking to me like that?”

Cry Baby: “You disrespecting me?”

Tiffany: “You’re disrespecting me, what do you want from me?”

Cry Baby: “Girl, you know what I want from you.”

Tiffany: “I do know what you want, and guess what? You not my type. Your titties are bigger than mine, I’m not interested, it ain’t never going nowhere. So you just need to chill. We comedians, and that’s that.”

Cry Baby: “Man, fuck you, stupid bitch.”

I just kinda laughed it off. I know his feelings was hurt, but whatever.

But he and I were on the same club circuit at the time, and he was a bigger name than me then. So every time I seen him—for five years—he would bump me off of comedy shows.

If I was supposed to go up next, he’d tell the manager of the club, “No, I want to go up.” He’d bump me. It got me pissed, but I just held back and waited. I knew my time would come.

Four years later, we were at the Laugh Factory, and the Laugh Factory is my house. I host there, I headline there, it’s my home. So he tries to bump me off the show, and they wouldn’t bump me.

Cry Baby: “Yeah whatever, Tiffany, you finna go up there and bomb, you ’bout to ruin the whole thing for everybody, you suck. You ain’t no real comic.”

Tiffany: “Yes I am a real comic, and I’m about to destroy this room, and you gonna have a hard time following me.”

Cry Baby: “Please. You ’bout to eat ass, you ’bout to bomb.”

Tiffany: “You the only motherfucker be overeating in this bitch.”

Right before I went on stage, I prayed to God to make me as funny as possible in this one moment. If I’m never funny again, make me as funny as possible in this one moment, so I can shut this motherfucker up.

I did fifteen minutes, demolished it. I got a standing ovation, six people stood up for me, it was great. I came off the stage, and all the comedians were clapping. They had heard Cry Baby and me yelling at each other back and forth in the VIP area upstairs. So when I came off, they were all clapping for me like, “Yeah, nigga, you killed that, you did that, girl,” and I was like, Yeah I did. And it was his turn to go up next.

Cry Baby: “I can’t believe this shit. You making me eat my words.”

Tiffany: “Yep. Eat them. Eat them up like you eat all them free sandwiches.”

So then he went up onstage and he bombed, bad. And then he came back upstairs. He came up, gave me a big ol’ hug, he was like:

Cry Baby: “Man I am so sorry, Tiffany. Obviously somebody tried to teach me a lesson.”

Tiffany: “Yep. God trying to teach you today.”

Ever since then, we have been cool. You know how you can tell somebody can’t stand you, but you’re undeniable, so they can’t really hate? That’s how it has been ever since. So when I see him, he’s always cool, like:

Cry Baby: “Yeah, I see your commercials, I see you doing little shows, I saw you on Oprah channel.”

You can tell it’s bothering him, but I am always cool to him, because he apologized and made his shit right. And I will always forgive. I may not forget, but I will forgive anyone, if the apology is sincere, and I feel his was sincere.

• • •

Comedy is hard for anyone, but women have a different level of hard.

So many promoters try to pull shit on women. I can’t tell you how many tried to tell me that to get onstage, I had to get on my back. Hell no!

I see young female comics now, and I can see the same thing happening. Dudes try to take advantage of them, hold a little bit of power over their heads. I see that going on so much, and then I tell them, “Girl, don’t let him pull your ho card. You’ll get more if you keep your legs closed, trust me. You’ll get more stage time, you’ll get more performances, just keep your legs closed.”

And it’s true. It is so funny, ’cause nobody told me that. I saw all these girls fucking all these dudes and getting stage time, and I just felt like I’m probably ruining my career, ’cause I wasn’t going to do that.

But those girls aren’t doing comedy no more. None of them. Those girls that I started with that slept around, they all got kids or they quit. Or it’s “I became a social worker” or “I’m a nurse now.” ’Cause they was getting run through, and how long can that go on?

They thought that was the way, and it’s not. You can’t get your comedy stripes on your back, you got to earn ’em on your own two feet. ’Cause you can’t fake funny.

This one promoter, he tried to fuck me, and I said no. So he told everyone he fucked me in a car at the back of the comedy club. He told this lie to everyone.

I found out he was saying all this, and I went straight hood. I stormed into the club he was promoting at, right when all the comics were going to be there:

Tiffany: “What you saying about me? I was in your motherfucking car? When was this?”

Promoter: “You wasn’t in my car.”

Tiffany: “Goddam right I wasn’t in yo trashy, broke-ass hooptie. But you out here telling people that I was in your car, and you fucked me in that car? And that I was terrible in bed?”

Promoter: “No, I said that your attitude is terrible, because somebody trying to be with you and you ain’t trying to give nobody the time of day.”

Tiffany: “Well these niggas told me that you said that you fucked me in the back of your car. And I’mma tell you right now, you need to keep my motherfucking name out your mouth, or I will have these goons come up here and fuck you up.”

And I got all up in his face and I pushed him. Mind you, this dude is like twenty years older than me and probably a hundred pounds heavier than me.

Tiffany: “You’ll get fucked up in these streets. Keep my name out your mouth and don’t say shit to me.”

That was twelve years ago, and to this day, when he sees me at the comedy club and tries to speak to me, I don’t say shit to his ass.

I’ve learned how to handle those types of situations better now, I don’t make threats like that anymore. But at that moment, I had to save face. He was a bitch. He spread rumors about people that ain’t true, and gossip, and that’s not funny. That shit has an impact.

But sometimes, my friends make the threats for me.

One time, this promoter flew me and my friend Marlow up to Seattle. He was supposed to give us our money before we got onstage. He gave us half our money:

Promoter: “I’m gonna give you the rest when you get off.”

We get offstage, we finish the show.

Promoter: “Okay, I’m gonna give you the rest of your money when we get to the hotel.”

But we didn’t go to a hotel.

Promoter: “Okay, we got to go to a casino right quick, and then I’m gonna take y’all to the hotel.”

So we at the casino, he buys us some drinks and runs off, and the next thing we know, it’s five o’clock in the morning, our flight’s supposed to leave at 7 a.m.

Promoter: “Aw man, can I write you a check?”

He was a reputable promoter, so we said, “Yeah okay, write us a check.” So he wrote us a check, dropped us off at the airport. He had printed out our return tickets home. We went to check in, ain’t no ticket, ain’t no flight, nothing.

There’s nothing for us to get home. So we start calling, we blowing up his phone:

Promoter: “What do you mean, there’s no ticket? There’s a ticket.”

Tiffany: “Motherfucker we are not calling you because we want to talk. THERE’S NO FUCKING TICKET. You sure we at the right airline?”

Promoter: “YES! My homegirl work at Southwest, she sets me up, she do everything, that’s the only airline I use.”

Turns out, homegirl canceled everything. Why? Because she caught him with another bitch the day before. He neglected to mention that shit about his “homegirl.”

Marlow was having none of this. I don’t know who Marlow called, but the next thing you know, an hour and a half later, the promoter showed up at the airport, and he paid cash for these tickets. And he gave us the rest of our money in cash.

Promoter: “Marlow, please don’t have that man call my phone no goddam more. I don’t want no problems, and I ain’t never booking y’all for nothing again. Please, just leave me alone and let me live my life.”

Marlow: “Yeah, motherfucker, we don’t never want to do your shit again, treating us like shit ’cause we women. If we was men, you wouldn’t treat us like this, motherfucker!”

I never asked Marlow who she called. I just know that Marlow’s from Compton, and she knows a lot of motherfucking gangstas. She knows Suge, all them. I don’t know who she called, but I will tell you, this promoter had the fear of God in him.

All this shows, it’s really hard as a woman in comedy. But I don’t want to make it out like all dudes is bad. Some guys are amazing. Like Kevin Hart. He’s like, my comedy guardian angel.

There was a time, early in my comedy career, when I was homeless. I was living in the Geo Metro. I used to be homeless in Beverly Hills, and I thought, If I’m homeless, I’ll be homeless with class. Keep my nails done. Keep my hair pretty, baby wipes, I’m fresh, it’s okay. I’m in Beverly Hills. As long as I’m sleeping in Beverly Hills, I’m safe.

I pulled up to the comedy club one night, and Kevin Hart saw all that shit in my car.

Kevin: “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Tiffany: “Nothing. I’m good. I’m just in between houses.”

Kevin: “No. What the fuck is going on?”

I told him what was up. I cried and everything, I opened up to him.

Kevin: “Tiff, you can’t be living like this. You a pretty girl. Like, you a beautiful woman. Why are you living in your car? Any dude will be happy to let you live in his house.”

Tiffany: “I’m not fucking for a roof. I fuck people to heal them. Okay? I’m a healer. That’s why I fuck, not for no roof over my head. I got a car. I got a roof.”

Kevin: “Tiffany, you crazy as fuck. You should not be sleeping in your car. Here is $300, get yourself a hotel room for the week.”

That was so nice of him, and I should have been more appreciative, but I had to point something out:

Tiffany: “What? I cannot get no hotel room nowhere for no week for three hundred bucks?”

He told me to write out a list of the goals I wanted to accomplish, like what I want out of life. I wrote the first thing on my list, “I want my own apartment.”

The next day, I got a phone call from one of our mutual friends:

Friend: “Girl, there’s an apartment for you. You should check it out. Kevin talked to some people, you should go check it out.”

I went to check it out, and like—it was wack. The neighborhood was terrible. There were crackheads everywhere. It straight looked like the Walking Dead set or something. I pulled up to the apartment building. There were bars everywhere.

But I had this weird feeling—this place is secure. It’s safe.

I ended up taking the apartment, and I fixed it up, and I still have it. The neighborhood is actually really nice now.

All thanks to my comedy guardian angel, Kevin Hart.