Fall 2012

Meet Tracy Morgan, True Romantic

Fall 2012

Meet Tracy Morgan, True Romantic


Tracy Morgan is more than an hour late, but the crew that’s amassed in the sweltering Chinatown studio where the accompanying photos were taken seem appeased by his publicist’s assurances that it’s just “Tracy living on Tracy time.” Perhaps it’s because they’ve seen 30 Rock, Tina Fey’s razor-sharp meta-sitcom, in which Morgan plays Tracy Jordan, a loutish comedian who seems to have been sent from another planet where manners, self-awareness, and restraint simply don’t exist. Fey has said that the character is heavily based on Morgan himself, whose oddball tendencies she became familiar with during their time together as series regulars on Saturday Night Live. So when Morgan finally does arrive, eschewing the dressing room and stripping down to his skivvies on the spot, we simply shrug: That’s just Tracy being Tracy.

Chronic tardiness aside, the 43-year-old comedian is a decidedly calmer version of the man who, in his heyday, was tossed from Prince’s house one night, and The Viper Room the next, for “going too hard,” as he proudly puts it. But despite a newfound disdain for nightlife (“shit is corny”), Morgan’s mouth remains in dire need of a scrubbing. “When I get on planes they make me put my junk in the overhead compartment!” he says of his allegedly plus-size manhood. It’s that trademark aversion to self-censorship that landed Morgan in hot water, when, in 2011, he incurred the wrath of the gay community after making incendiary comments about homosexuality during a standup performance in Nashville. The backlash was immediate, and Morgan took it hard, admitting in a public apology that he’d gone “too far.” The scandal is probably why he now leaves the political and social wisecracks to the Chris Rocks of the world, preferring to aim his comedic crosshairs directly at the bedroom. Here, the unbridled star of this summer’s drug comedy Why Stop Now (in which he appeared opposite Jesse Eisenberg and Melissa Leo as a dealer named Sprinkles) and the upcoming David O. Russell film Nailed, lets us in on the secret to keeping the spark alive with his fiancée, model and actor Megan Wollover: plenty of foreplay and butter-crunch cookies.

You gotta role-play. Me and my lady just finished playin’ out Girl Scout last night. I bought her the outfit, ponytails on the side and everything. I told her to go outside and knock on the door and try to sell me some cookies. And I came up to the door with my dick hanging out of my boxers. She was in character—she said [in a high-pitched voice ], “Mister, do you wanna buy a box of butter-crunch cookies?” And I looked outside and I said, Yeah, little girl. Come in here and lemme buy a couple of boxes. Then we sat on the couch and I fucked the shit out of her. And then we ate the cookies.

Foreplay is something you gotta do every day! Foreplay isn’t just before you have sex. It’s all day long. [To Wollover ] That’s when I slap you on your ass or touch your titty in the cab. That’s foreplay! All. Day. Long. Some people are wretched at that shit. I don’t need you suckin’ my dick just before sex! Why don’t you do that for me in the elevator? When we at the restaurant, let’s go to the bathroom and do it! Let’s run a risk!

If you young, it don’t take no money ’cause y’all ain’t got no fuckin’ money. But when you become our age, you got to have some bread. Why the fuck should she give you some head or some pussy, possibly some breast or some asshole? Why should she give you all that if you can’t even buy her some fuckin’ pearls? You can’t do shit for her so why should she go all out? You can’t even afford her. You got to get paper to have a real woman, man.

If I gotta beat my dick, I beat my dick. I get that out. Five minutes. She don’t get mad at that ’cause it’s about being self-sufficient! If she needs me to make her come, that’s bullshit! I don’t get in the bed for her to come. I get in the bed so I can come. It might sound selfish, but she has to take care of herself.

I need a woman who can cook. Society got them really twisted now and wants them to focus more on being CEOs and entrepreneurs. But when I was comin’ up in high school you had to pass home economics. Why would I want to keep a woman who fucks up the cream of wheat? But if my woman can cook lasagna with six cheeses, muh’fucka, I’m comin’ home. I might be out all night, but I’mma come home.

In the hood, we don’t call it “your heart being broken.” It’s called “turnin’ out.” I was 19 during my turn-out. She was the first one who made me eat her out—she made me toss her salad. She took me from a boy to a man. And it meant nothin’ to her.

I’m a man. I was here first. You come from one of my ribs. This is the problem with society now: nobody wanna be obedient. Men don’t wanna obey God and women don’t wanna obey men. I don’t give a fuck what any other women do, but mine better obey me. And that doesn’t mean be subservient. That means submit to my authority. I know where I’m taking this family. I’m the Indian chief, and I know where the buffalo roam.

People talk to me every day and I find myself going, That ain’t your real voice, is it? That’s a fuckin’ façade. I see through that bullshit. People are so busy with façades that you don’t get the real them. Life is about peelin’ back the layers and getting to the bare necessities. A great artist doesn’t keep adding clay. He strips it away until he gets to the bare fucking essentials.

You’ll know when you know, but the key to it all is patience. It takes time for a woman. If she loves you, when she says it, you’ll know it. Period. But if it ain’t real and she say, “I love you,” you gonna know it, too. And she must have a great gag reflex.


True Romance, in the issue! Get it now at the Bullett Shop!