Just so there’s no confusion, I’d lay my life down for a five dollar steak and cheese foot long.  Los Angeles is a city where you can walk two blocks and you’re at some of the best bistros and eateries in the country. From steakhouses to Italian cuisine, LA offers an eclectic blend of down home favorites and regionals twists to dining classics, making the city a foodie’s wet dream.

 But I know my God given rights.

After enduring a 4 hour flight of a Honey Boo Boo-esque blonde haired tyrant screaming at the top of her lungs while the piece of shit stewardesses of the highly amenable United Airlines smiled and brought her more hard candies and cola, I sat in my seat like a proud solider of the confederacy and counted the minutes until we’d land safely in the city of opportunity. I collect my carry-on bag and move towards the exit, but not before shooting Honey Boo Boo’s mother a bird so powerful it almost broke my wrist.  The balls of some parents bringing their asshole kids on flights knowing full well their history for bitchassness.  “Oh, Samantha’s a little cranky because she just woke up from a nap,” or “Don’t mind Jr., he’s just lashing out because they were out of McFlurry Mix at McDonalds.” Meanwhile, we’re supposed to put on understanding smiles and assure unfit mothers with a “I know how that is, girl!” and join in an apologetic laugh.

Fuck that. Put little Jr. on Spirit Airlines and get your shit together. For those of you who haven’t heard of Spirit Airlines, it’s those cute little planes that only fly from Atlanta to wherever the fuck they want. But they’re black owned so we’ll just pretend they don’t exist like that gay cruise Rosie O’Donnell navigates through these pure American seas every year.

I step off the plane and flag down a cabbie because I was starving, having only eaten 3 bags of nuts and grilled chicken over a bed of white rice and an entire bundle of asparagus. I tell him to take me to the nearest Subway and if he hurries I might let him swipe my debit card before shouting “This is for 9/11” and perform a tuck and roll onto Sunset Blvd. We arrive at Subway and a warmth I’ve experienced before on several occasions pours over me and I know I’m home.  Jared from the Subway commercials tricked America into thinking Subway was a place the health-conscience could feel at home. A place where green leaf was God, and carbs were just a five letter world for recovery.  I made it my business to upset the order of the fake goodness Subway was hell bent on feeding the American public every time I walked into their establishment. My order never changed:

“I’d like a steak and American cheese on white bread. Extra steak. Extra cheese. And If you so much as think about toasting that bread, I’ll fucking lose it. Tomatoes doused in vinegar, mayo-oh wow, did you just touch that lite shit? Fuck off, lemme speak to your manager. Butter the top of it and wrap it up. Throw in three of those macadamia nut cookies and dump a couple bags of those cheesy sun chips in there. Bitch, you know how I like it. And please make haste because I’m likely to disappear in this motherfucker if I get any hungrier.”

I walk into the Subway ready to sound off my demands when I’m met with a line wrapping around the store.

 Cool.

I whip out the 3GS and allow 4 Non blondes to serenade my frontal lobe and before I know it I’ve worked my way to the front of the line. What’s Up? is 3:36 seconds long and after having repeated it three times, it still didn’t account for the swiftness in which this line was moving. Anyone who’s ever gone to a Subway knows full well the average sandwich could take anywhere between 5-10 minutes to make, depending on the mood the bitch at the toppings station is in. This was the work of a higher being. Being so heavily engulfed in the musical brilliance that is 4 Non Blondes, I pay no attention to the commotion happening in the rear of the store.  A single shotgun blast is fired into the ceiling and I immediately have a chilling flashback of that one time at an Applebee’s when I had to put one in my server’s dome for suggesting the meals under 550 calories menu like I was some sort of fucking animal.

“GET ON THE FUCKING GROUD AND DON’T MOVE!” the perpetrators shout, and we fall to the floor. “Who the fuck robs a Subway?” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment this was no time for my usual dose of shit talking. For my treason, the shorter of the two introduces the butt of his pistol to my head.

Welcome to Los Angeles.

It isn’t until after I wake that I realize these two bros had just robbed a neighboring bank and ran in Subway after a failed getaway attempt and we poor saps were just caught in the crossfire.  The taller one makes an announcement:

“Everyone get back in line and have your orders taken. Sandwiches are on the house.” Finally, a ray of light in this bullshit of a situation. I was rightfully next in line but apparently the blowback from the gun knocked me 6 places behind. I finally arrive to the glass, look up to the individual who is charged to make my dream of a steak and cheese footlong a reality, and my world shatters into a thousand pieces. Before me stood a 5’5 745 pound Precious: Based on the novel “Push” by Sapphire look-alike sweating like she’d just come from the cotton fields of west Alabama.

“Whatchu want.”

“No,” I say. “Let her make it.” I point to the devil ginger a third her size. “Nah, she new.  All she can do is warm the toast and shit,” Precious muses. With each passing moment the sweat drops from her face and arms and neck and drops ever so grossly onto the preparation table.  Who the fuck does this bitch think she is? I knew I was out of my league entirely with this heavyweight but I press further.

“Ma’am, pleas-“

“Who the fuck is that? My name Tisha.”

“Tisha please allow the young lady next to you to make my sandwich. You need to wipe your face because this shit you’re pulling right now is outrageous.” I knew then why the line had moved so rapidly. Tisha had single handedly grossed out 70 percent of the clientele just by refusing to stop for a gush n’ go following all the electrolytes she’d been dropping in everyone’s sandwiches for an hour and a half.  

“Nah, nigga I’m straight.  What you want?”

“What the fuck is the hold up?” the taller robber asks.

“He don’t want me to make his sandwich.”

“What, are you some sort of a racist?” I look around the room because clearly he couldn’t be speaking to me. “No, I’m not a racist. I just would rather have someone else make my sandwich.” “You’re a fucking racist.” And as if I were a middle aged white man who just shouted the “N” word in a crowded Tyler Perry viewing, I was trapped between waves of angry protesters, furious at my decision to have my sandwich with as less sweat as possible. I finally give in and asked Precious to make my sandwich, visibly watching as each drop made its way closer and closer to my steak and cheese perfection. I promised God at that very moment, if he got me through this, I’d take the long way past the church on my way to McShrrie’s Tavern next Christmas.  My prayers were answered as the devil ginger packed my sandwich and handed it to me unscathed. I took my seat next to a window and waited for the cavalry to arrive. I knew that just by being black in Los Angeles there was a 90% chance I’d be the first one to receive a live round to the jugular so I took my sweet ass time eating what might quite possibly be my last meal. I’m halfway done when I hear the second shot from the men’s restroom and a gentleman of about 35 years old falls to the floor.

Hostage negotiations had begun.

Rub a dub dub. Dead bitch in the tub.

I was recently asked to “do a blog about The Shades of Grey Trilogy.” Having recently finished the first book, I’ve decided to do you one better. Below is the story of what happens when you don’t have any immediate problems with nipple clamps, whips, or white people in general.

I met up with a former lover of mine at our neighborhood Applebee’s because there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for a plate of wings and a bud heavy. We small talk for what seems like hours, or maybe he was saying something important but I wouldn’t know because I was playing Angry Birds in plain sight. What catches my attention is his recent affinity for the Shades of Grey series and I wave over our sever to bring us another round because I know I needed to get a buzz going if we were going to have this conversation. He tells me when he first heard about it, he thought’d it be a shitty book because “anything he can’t pull up on his iPhone in big words wasn’t for him.” I know what you’re thinking and like Chris Jenner, I will not apologize for likin’ em dumb. The night carries on and I stuff my face with 10 or so wings-Applebee’s does this cool thing where if you come in looking for hot food and 4,000 calories, they’ll treat you like a goddamn state senator. He pays the lady because I got up to go to the bathroom TWICE at the restaurant and he got a perfect view of my unshapely ass and highbrow plumber’s crack, warranting his payment of my meal. We walk outside and I haul ass to my car because I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here-sorry, I can’t lie to you guys-I witnessed his roommate dropping him off at the restaurant and I had to sit there and take seeing that shit like some sort of fucking monster. I knew he’d need a ride but that just wasn’t in the cards for me. He called after me and after pretending I didn’t hear him for a solid 27 seconds, I contemplated jumping into oncoming traffic but quickly reconsidered because a new episode of Storage Wars was premiering tonight and I wanted to be a part of it. I tell him to hop in and we ride on down to his apartment. I’d like to make this as painless as possible so I come to one of those roll and stops and unlock the door hoping he’d tuck and roll into his parking lot. He stays for a while pretending he’d lost his keys, meanwhile I’m thinking “bitch, you don’t carry a purse. Where else could they be but your pocket? He finds the keys and asks if I’d like to come in for a drink. I quickly decline, reminding him of my Storage Wars date. “Well you wanna just watch it here?” he asks, and can I just say, I really hate when people put you in that position- you tell them you have to go and they have a million reasons as to why you should stay: “I gotta take a dump.” “Oh that’s ok, silly! Just use my bathroom!”

or

 “Gosh, I’m starved. I’m gonna run home and grab something to eat.”

“HAHAHAH no no! I’ve got some leftover Boca Burgers in the fridge and some of that spicy salsa you like.”

or

“I’ll see you later bro, I’ve gotta lot of stuff on my mind. I’m gonna go nap.”

“Dude. David left the pull-out couch when he moved out and I’m pretty sure it’s the most comfortable bed in the house, man. Just chill here.”

Shit like that.

To negate being an asshole, I accept the offer and we stroll into his apartment. I knew immediately this was a fucking mistake. Playing on mute was what appeared to be an Anime episode where some bitch was sweating and stabbing some guy in the dick. Riddled across the living room were different Japanese Anime posters and paraphernalia. Jesus Take The Wheel. I can’t believe this is happening and I need to take a seat before I pass the fuck out from this nonsense. He tells me to make myself at home and I said “not a chance, where’s the clicker.” He waltzes to the back and closes the door. “Good, maybe he’ll jack off and pass out and I can watch my episode in peace,” I thought. Thirty minutes or so pass and the show has moved on into the Ice Road Truckers season premiere and frankly, I’d rather sit across from Khloe Kardashian while she practices her O-face in the mirror than watch that bullshit. It isn’t until about an hour or so that he’s disappeared into the back room that I hear something coming from an adjacent closet. What with the Anime nonsense layered across the room, It’d be my luck that the Japanese bitch from The Ring would have her ass posted up in that closet waiting to send me to an untimely death, so I figured I’d get her before she got me, tuck and rolled across the coffee table like I was Uma Thurman in delicious ass yellow spanks beating the shit out of Vivica A. Foxx and kicked open the door:

Well Shit.

What laid bound, tied and gagged was a brown-haired, green eyed hot mess and she was staring up at me like I was Barack Obama and she was The White Guilt incarnate. I cannot deal. I swing around to close the door because if I’ve learned anything from 23 years of horror movies its blacks die first, and if you try to help a fallen bitch, you’re dead too. I was in no mood to pull some Band of Brothers shit and go into Super Save-A-Hoe mode so I figured I’d make a break for the car and call the Po Po and give them the address once I was safely away. I close the door and whip around, and guess who’s decided to make an appearance?

He goes to the door and locks it then glares back at me.

 “Hey, man. Stay a while.”

Fuck.

Part 2

My mind travels back to earlier at dinner. The signs were all there.  Wings were clearly half price and so was the beer but he ordered chicken pasta and a Long Island Ice Tea like he was a 40 year old divorcee named Roger who cooked meth in his basement. The signs were all there and I fucked up. I found myself surveying the room for any possible escape routes. My stomach growls because I’d been there over two hours now and it was time for fourth meal. I notice a can of Planter’s Mixed Nuts on the coffee table and I lean down while keeping my eyes steady on this asshole across the room and scoop out a hand full. I pop a few in my mouth, never once wavering from eye contact. I chew the seeds and immediately notice he’d bought the can with sunflower seeds in it and now I know full well I’m up against a fucking lunatic. He crosses the room to the couch and takes a seat. The girl tied up in the closet is crying frantically. I give her a once-over, and from the looks of her clothing she’s been in captivity no fewer than 3 days. I’m pissed because after that shit Elizabeth Smart pulled I have zero tolerance for bitches who don’t want to help themselves. The closet she was stored in had no locks and was unblocked. She was bound loosely enough that had she wanted to, she could have easily gotten free. He stares at me from the couch and then at the girl sobbing on the floor. “Enough,” he says casually to her, and upon hearing the command she wedges her arms free, then her legs, and finally she pulls the tape from her mouth and smiles slyly at the asshole on the couch and takes a seat. I’m standing there half waiting for Leo DiCapro to appear and make that stupid fucking face he made the entire time in Inception before hauling me off to bed when the girl finally speaks:

“I know this may come as a surprise, but I’m here of my own free will.  I know you’re in a state of shock, but I’ll do my best to explain to you the nature of these activities. What you’ve just witnessed is a very well organized episode of doggie play. “

I glance at the fool sitting next to her. He’s smiling like Levi Johnston after he’d taken Bristol Palin’s virginity and I feel the wings start to make reappearance in my small intestine.

“That’s cool and all but I think I’ll ride out and let you guys finish whatever freaky shit you started,” I say. She laughs that crazy white bitch laugh you hear on The View or The Today Show or any number of daytime television programs where white bitches laugh on command. “Thing is, I can’t play anymore. I’m in time out,” she muses. “It’s your turn.” I look around the room for the other 6’4, chocolate, undisclosed weight bitch in our general area until I realize she’s talking this noise to me. I laugh loudly from a healthy place because at this point I’m just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the bathroom and tell me how I’ve been punk’d, at which time my spirit animal, Demi Moore would come pouring out of my asshole, killing Ashton and ridding the world of shitty attempts at comedy for good. “Thanks, but no thanks. The only time I like being tied up is when I’m at a Church’s Chicken and I want em to keep the okra from rolling around in the bag,” I tell her. I glance around this loony bitch standing before only to realize our good friend and exceptional host has begun to pleasure himself on the couch, no doubt occurring as a result from the Church’s Chicken imagery. I figure it’s now or never and I lunge towards the door and right before my hand hits the doorknob and not a second before, the recently tied up bitch delivers a roundhouse kick to my abdomen, knocking me to the floor. And here was me thinking I was dealing with an ordinary hoe, only to find out this bitch was evidently an extra in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, and homeboy on the couch was real good friends with Jeffery Dahmer and is turned on by violence. I double over in pain and look up to the heavens, apologizing for every time I’d ever dined and dashed at Red Lobster’s or told my mother my friend Tony’s dad beat him and that’s why he sleeps over in my bed every night during the school week and why the blow up mattress made him feel vulnerable.  I’m halfway through my attempt at spiritual atonement when my hosts grab my arms and drag me into the kitchen, tying me to the pantry hinges. I’m lying there sweaty, defeated and knowing this is what Courtney Love must feel like after selling tubes of Kurt Cobain’s stored semen on the black market to those die-harder-type fans. I pass out.

 The duo must have gone out for a snack or something because when I came to, no one was there but me.  And can I just say, white people, with the exception of Casey Anthony, have mastered the art of appearing normal as shit after participating in abnormal fucking things. You think Ted Bundy flew down I-85 after killing some unsuspecting bitch who was in the wrong place at the right time? Hell no. He settled down at an IHOP and ordered a five stack and wondered to himself which one of the syrups best represented the color of that poor girl’s blood that stained the inside of his Chevy Astro. No doubt my two perpetrators were at a Target picking up a copy of “Precious: Based on the novel ‘Push” by Sapphire,” surely planning on reenacting that one scene where Precious and Monique have a night fight in the den.

I have to get out. I survey the room for something to free myself from the door hinge, and then I realize I’m still not the skinny, Caprese Salad eating, 4 mile a day running, modern day Audrey Hepburn that I’ve conditioned my subconscious to behave as and channel my strength to rip away from the door. I pull several times extremely hard and it doesn’t budge. I go again, successfully pulling out my shoulder, at which time I say “Fuck it.” I lean back defeated for a while until I realize if I don’t free myself from this door, there’s a 94% chance they’ll sauté my dick in a wok pan when it’s all said and done. I give it another tug with all my might and hinge releases, freeing the door and it falls on top of me. I feel like that one asshole from Shawshank Redemption after climbing through 12 miles of shit. I gather myself and look for my keys, run for the door and I’m finally out into the yard. I’ve never been more grateful for that extra muscle that black people have in their leg, and I take off for my car. After climbing in and starting Ursela, I see the two nut jobs in my rearview mirror making a useless gallop towards my whip. Holy Shit, neither one of these assholes has a car. I roll down my widow, mustering the biggest “fuck you” I can and release my middle finger to join in celebration.

Those kids went green, and so should you.

But remember, Rape rolls in a four-wheel drive.

I was recently asked to “do a blog about The Shades of Grey Trilogy.” Having recently finished the first book, I’ve decided to do you one better. Below is the story of what happens when you don’t have any immediate problems with nipple clamps, whips, or white people in general.

I met up with a former lover of mine at our neighborhood Applebee’s because there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for a plate of wings and a bud heavy. We small talk for what seems like hours, or maybe he was saying something important but I wouldn’t know because I was playing Angry Birds in plain sight. What catches my attention is his recent affinity for the Shades of Grey series and I wave over our server to bring us another round because I know I needed to get a buzz going if we were going to have this conversation. He tells me when he first heard about it, he thought’d it be a shitty book because “anything he can’t pull up on his iPhone in big words wasn’t for him.” I know what you’re thinking and like Chris Jenner, I will not apologize for likin’ em dumb. The night carries on and I stuff my face with 10 or so wings-Applebee’s does this cool thing where if you come in looking for hot food and 4,000 calories, they’ll treat you like a goddamn state senator. He pays the lady because I got up to go to the bathroom TWICE at the restaurant and he got a perfect view of my unshapely ass and highbrow plumber’s crack, warranting his payment of my meal. We walk outside and I haul ass to my car because I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here-sorry, I can’t lie to you guys-I witnessed his roommate dropping him off at the restaurant and I had to sit there and take seeing that shit like some sort of fucking monster. I knew he’d need a ride but that just wasn’t in the cards for me. He called after me and after pretending I didn’t hear him for a solid 27 seconds, I contemplated jumping into oncoming traffic but quickly reconsidered because a new episode of Storage Wars was premiering tonight and I wanted to be a part of it. I tell him to hop in and we ride on down to his apartment. I’d like to make this as painless as possible so I come to one of those roll and stops and unlock the door hoping he’d tuck and roll into his parking lot. He stays for a while pretending he’d lost his keys, meanwhile I’m thinking “bitch, you don’t carry a purse. Where else could they be but your pocket? He finds the keys and asks if I’d like to come in for a drink. I quickly decline, reminding him of my Storage Wars date. “Well you wanna just watch it here?” he asks, and can I just say, I really hate when people put you in that position- you tell them you have to go and they have a million reasons as to why you should stay: “I gotta take a dump.” “Oh that’s ok, silly! Just use my bathroom!”

or

 “Gosh, I’m starved. I’m gonna run home and grab something to eat.”

“HAHAHAH no no! I’ve got some leftover Boca Burgers in the fridge and some of that spicy salsa you like.”

or

“I’ll see you later bro, I’ve gotta lot of stuff on my mind. I’m gonna go nap.”

“Dude. David left the pull-out couch when he moved out and I’m pretty sure it’s the most comfortable bed in the house, man. Just chill here.”

Shit like that.

To negate being an asshole, I accept the offer and we stroll into his apartment. I knew immediately this was a fucking mistake. Playing on mute was what appeared to be an Anime episode where some bitch was sweating and stabbing some guy in the dick. Riddled across the living room were different Japanese Anime posters and paraphernalia. Jesus Take The Wheel. I can’t believe this is happening and I need to take a seat before I pass the fuck out from this nonsense. He tells me to make myself at home and I said “not a chance, where’s the clicker.” He waltzes to the back and closes the door. “Good, maybe he’ll jack off and pass out and I can watch my episode in peace,” I thought. Thirty minutes or so pass and the show has moved on into the Ice Road Truckers season premiere and frankly, I’d rather sit across from Khloe Kardashian while she practices her O-face in the mirror than watch that bullshit. It isn’t until about an hour or so that he’s disappeared into the back room that I hear something coming from an adjacent closet. With the Anime nonsense layered across the room, It’d be my luck that the Japanese bitch from The Ring would have her ass posted up in that closet waiting to send me to an untimely death, so I figured I’d get her before she got me, tucked and rolled across the coffee table like I was Uma Thurman in delicious ass yellow spanks beating the shit out of Vivica A. Foxx and kicked open the door:

Well Shit.

What laid bound, tied and gagged was a brown-haired, green eyed hot mess and she was staring up at me like I was Barack Obama and she was The White Guilt incarnate. I cannot deal. I swing around to close the door because if I’ve learned anything from 23 years of horror movies its blacks die first, and if you try to help a fallen bitch, you’re dead too. I was in no mood to pull some Band of Brothers shit and go into Super Save-A-Hoe mode so I figured I’d make a break for the car and call the Po Po to give them the address once I was safely away. I close the door and whip around, and guess who’s decided to make an appearance?

He goes to the door and locks it then glares back at me.

 “Hey, man. Stay a while.”

Fuck.

….Tune in tomorrow and see what happens in this shit show.

The year was 2004 and I was a freshman in high school with huge tits and daddy issues. What I remember most about that year was the introduction of a little something I liked to call “sobbing into the school nurse’s phone to my mother because no one picked me for their kickball team so I’m walking around the track with the gothic kids and two pregnant girls like a fucking degenerate.” That was a goddamn treat. I knew from the very beginning I would never give two shits about kicking a ball and running around a dirt diamond field because unlike the rest of the dumbasses from the graduating class of 2007, I knew we were playing kickball because two years prior some goon nigga took a bat to a kid’s head while Coach Pearson taught a couple girls from my Spanish class how to properly suck a dick. After a while I settled in with the hour long track walk and met a couple of gothic kids who were cool as shit. From the couple of pregnant girls I learned the best way to treat unsightly stretch marks, a skill which proved most useful later on in life after that stunt I pulled at the county fair where I ate 4 funnel cakes and 6 corn dogs because I was a bitch at the end of my rope.  It was during that same hour long track walk on that fateful Tuesday afternoon,(I remember it was Tuesday because Tuesdays were fried or bbq chicken day and I use to pack an extra bottle of Texas Pete in my Jansport just in case Juanita from food services had a meltdown before 3^rd block and left the condiments in storage), that fortune literally landed at my feet. Fortune Jones was a 5’3, 230 pound black girl from the neighborhood who was pregnant with her third little gem at the ripe old age of 16. No one fucked with Fortune because when she wasn’t poppin’ out babies she was poppin on bitches in the lunch line and telling Principal Kennedy to “eat her pussy,” when asked to take a seat.  Naturally, I found her wholly entertaining because she satisfied the scandalousness I was missing in my everyday life.  Fortune tripped over a lacrosse net which she later promised to put up Michael Rieben’s “tight white ass,” and landed cooch first on the toes of my Chucks.  As I helped her up she mused, “Why you walking ‘round this raggedy ass track? Aint you got no friends?”  I replied “Yes Fortune, I have friends. Just not the kind who get a hard on for team sports,” but not before I reminded her she’s been in school too long to still speak like a character from Uncle Tom’s Cabin.  “You ain’t got no damn friends,” she says. “So I may as well turn you on to some game.” I was never the type of bitch to question possible shenanigans so I was all ears. She asked how much money I had in my knock off Lou Vuitton and I told her enough to make ends meet. (12.17) She laughed and called me a useless bitch and asked how much I weighed. I was immediately offended because I’d been busting my ass at the Dave and Busters on the Dance Dance Revolution Machine getting ready for Homecoming so I knew I was looking damn good those days. She noticed I’d lost some weight since I started my daily walk around the track and was averaging about 2 miles a day. I was not to be fucked with.  She told me since I was less of a fat fuck than I’d been, and if I wanted to make some folding cash, I needed to sit my ass down and retain some of that water weight. I was interested immediately.  I asked what she was talking about, to which she replied  “You can use what you got to get what you want.” I told her to save that Player’s Club shit because she was 6 months pregnant and I stored blue cheese dressing in my locker. She told me to shut the fuck up and meet her at the track tonight at 1030. I told her hell no because it was To Catch a Predator night on MSNBC and if I didn’t care about cleaning up our streets, who would? She threw me a bird and told me to have my ass there so I told mom to TiVo the show and she said I’ll have to get some tapes and use the VCR like a goddamn animal because she was recording “Ray” on BET and we didn’t have the room for that freaky sex crime shit. I stole the Suburban and came out to the track. Low and behold, Fortune is there with her two kids and her Baby’s Daddy smoking a Black and Mild and drinking something that looked like 98% Parrot Bay Strawberry Daiquiri and 2% of her giving zero shits that she was with child. “You ready to make some money?” asked Fortune,  and before I was able to answer, her Baby’s daddy Lil Duke had me in a chokehold with a wet paper towel over my face. The first thing I thought was goddamnit I hope my computer has  enough sense to self-abort once  this nig kills me, I recently searched  “Are condoms just kidding?” and “How bad is cocaine, REALLY??” and I wanted to save my mother the embarrassment.  When I came to, I was in the back of a Kia Sportage flying down I-85 like Whoopi Goldberg at the end of “Boys on the Side. “ I passed out again and woke up on the curb outside of what appeared to be the only non-supercenter Walmart left on the east coast. Fortune kicked me in the gut and told me to wake my ass up so we could get this money. I asked why I had to be knocked out- they could have just as easily asked me to get into the car and there’s a fair chance I would have gotten in without argument. Lil Duke chimed in and told me he really wanted to try “that napkin poison shit” on someone. Lil Duke was in a GED program to get his Medical Assistant certificate and further proving the age-old prophecy, if you give a nigga an inch, he’ll take a mile. I got my shit together and surveyed my surroundings. Ford F-150s and a host of 4x4s riddled the parking lot and I smelled a goddamn lynching a brewing. I asked Fortune where the fuck were we and she told me “you at yo fucking destiny, bitch.” She was particularly superstitious following an after school viewing of the Blair Witch Project and I learned to ignore her bullshit before it got out of hand. Lil Duke unties me and the three of us make our way to the steps of the store, my mind was racing and I was nauseous because I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I was remembering how I pretended to be a skinny bitch at lunch because sexy ass Ryan Jameson was directly behind me in line and I didn’t wanna seem like a fat fuck so I ordered a chicken breast over a bed of lettuce and laughed when Juanita from food services asked if I wanted fries with that- “HAHA are you serious? Of course I don’t want fries. Carbs, Juanita? Give me a goddamn break. “Meanwhile, Ryan was turned around talking to some blonde bitch with average tits in the line so I took my skinny bitch salad and chucked it into the trash can and sashayed my ass to the vending machine for a Swiss Roll and a bag of Chili Fritos, dedicating the meal to the struggle of fat bitches everywhere. We get to the doors and lil Duke’s dumbass stands in front of them and asks “Ain’t they supposed to open automatic?” I immediately fall to my knees and pray to God to have mercy on the unlucky bitch that gets this motherfucker as their nurse’s aide.  Fortune moves to the door and pushes it in. To my surprise, I was still standing there being party to the bullshit that was the situation I was in. We step into the empty Walmart and Fortune tells me this is where she and I will part. “The fuck we are,” I said, and told her I was in no mood for this class A ratchet shit she was pulling. “This is for yo own good, you ungrateful bitch nigga,” she yells, and up pulls Lil Duke in the Sportage and Fortune nose-dives into the rear door.  I’m standing in the middle of a the 20 items or less lane reminiscing on the days when I clotheslined a 20 year Walmart employee who refused to check me out because I was two items over. There’s light coming from the dairy section towards the back of the store and I make my way along the deserted aisles to meet my maker. I round the corner to the back of the store and I stop midstride by what’s taking place before my naked fucking eyes.  Off in the distance, lodged deep between a pair of coolers lies 12 or so cast members from who I assumed were The Sons of Anarchy in faded levi’s and denim jackets sitting atop flipped over buggies gazing onto a makeshift stage where stood what appeared to be several black plus size women filing onto the stage from a back room. What the fuck was happening. The girls begin to remove their clothes and rush to the calls of the beckoning men situated around the room. This, my friends, was a fucking after hours whorehouse. I backed up and turned to leave because clearly this was shit for a different day entirely.  As I’m backing up I run into this 6’8”, Hungry Giant looking motherfucker and he asks me to dance. I reminded him that this wasn’t a fucking prom and I’d been bamboozled. “50 dollars says it is.” I immediately feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Greer’s piece of shit friend tries to rape her in the hotel until Dick busts down the door and saves her like a goddamn American Hero. I quickly survey my surrounds for nearby exits, prepared to fight my way out. “150. 20 minutes take it or leave it.” Surprisingly, I found myself removing clothes and folding my jeans because somehow in my subconscious I remembered the lonely ass 12 dollars in my wallet and my pride was clearly on sabbatical. We found a quiet spot by the canned biscuits and cartons of eggs and he takes a seat. He ask me can I do I split and I tell him to hold the fuck on and let me get myself together. I then asked if he can pull some tunes up on his iPhone because I needed to be inspired. He asks how I felt about Eric Church and I asked him to not open his mouth again. Since acquiring music from this brother was going to be virtually impossible, I knew I had to tap into my creative subconscious. For some reason my brain jumps to Shakira’s “Hips don’t Lie,” and I went with that shit. I’m 100% percent sure I look like Mo’nique in that scene from Precious where she talks about her abortion and then proceeds to dance in front of the tv, but since he was foaming at the mouth I was certain he was blind. He asks would it be weird if I smashed some eggs over my tits and crawl over to him like “that bald bitch from True Lies did,” as if this entire situation wasn’t fucked up beyond belief. I silently apologized to Jamie Lee Curtis and did as I was told because I’d already spent 30 bucks of that 150 dollars in my head on season 3 of Dawson’s Creek and bills didn’t pay themselves. I checked my phone and his 20 minutes were well spent. He coughs up the cash and I walk out of that place with my dignity intact. As I’m making the hike back to my house, I text Fortune and tell her I’ve decided to press charges.  She reminds me that I just turned tricks inside of a Wal-Mart, which was also a misdemeanor. Fuck this day, I thought.

 But shit, sometimes closed legs do get fed.

This weekend I chaperoned a prom.  People are always up in arms about giving back to the community so it was high time I started giving a fuck. I emailed my old principal, Dr. J, about my interest and if I remember correctly, he seemed to think it was “A really fucked up idea. Awesome. “But a really fucked up idea.” And before you throw your judgments on the nature of conversation between a school administrator and a former student, need I remind you I am a former resident of Florida and if the Casey Anthony trial didn’t give you an indication of how we roll down on the Gulf coast then there’s not much left to say.  I got the details of Prom Night in the mail a couple weeks before I’d have to make the trip down to the coast, and can I just say, Jesus Christ we were dumb shits in High School.  The student body took a poll as to what the Prom theme should be and chose from the following options:

1.       “Midnight in Mexicano”  (this is the one I read and immediately called in a bomb threat)

2.       “GLEE” (if chosen, students would then vote on their favorite episode and reenact a theme based on the musical selections. Initially I thought this was the most inventive of the ideas until I realized the girls wouldn’t have the opportunity to give up some post-prom pussy because their dates would be sexually confused by night’s end)

3.       “Thanks For the Memories” (which I’m convinced school administration conjured up this little gem  because no respectable 17 year old is still listening to fucking Fall Out Boy)

4.       “Rodeo” (which to me read “Brokeback Mountain 2: Unfinished Business,” and I pictured James McAvoy and Chord Overstreet having themselves a little night fight up and down that hill so I closed that tab and looked into a nearby LL Bean catalog and began to pick out a pair of jeans that I could see myself losing my 12^th virginity in, provided Coach Neely was still down for the brown).

5.       “American Beauty” (the final and winning selection by the student body. I was indifferent to the theme, I just knew I had to step my shit up if I planned to look better than everyone in the room and I’d have to tape the tits up for the weekend).

“Staff was instructed to arrive at the Gym where the prom was held an hour and a half prior to kick off” and I found this to be wholly exhausting. I parked my ’89 escort in the spot “reserved for vice principal Sheridan” and moseyed on into the gym 45 minutes late.  “NICE OF YOU TO SHOW UP, J.BANKS!”mused my piece of shit Española partner from 11^th grade Spanish 2.  Her name is Donna and she can’t do a goddamn thing about it so I gave her a fighting chance by taking her under my wind and giving her a smidge of credibility in our last two years in that place. She found out I was chaperoning the Senior/Junior prom and flew down from New York like a fucking degenerate to be there with me as I engaged in high doses of Tomfoolery.  I tell her to chill her tits and play it cool because this night wasn’t about us, it was about da kidz. I quickly realized what I was saying and popped a Vicodin because I was obviously talking out of my ass. Sure, this was their prom but I’d be damned if I didn’t get some sweet, blissful, scandalousness out of the deal. Dr. J tells us to “TAKE YOUR POSITIONS ON THE FLOOR. MAKE SURE TO MONITOR ANY LEWD BEHAVIOR OR INAPPROPRIATE DANCING.” If memory serves me right, I was doing backflips off our wide receiver’s dick during my glory days at Prom, so I was hoping I got the section with kids willing to let their freak flags fly because I wanted to be amongst friends.  Dr. J knows me and my antics too well, realizing that if he turned his back for even a moment I would be poppin’ my pussy to “Single Ladies” in the corner with the black chicks. Instead, I was put on “Door Duty,” and my main task would be to check ticket vouchers and IDs while making sure the names lined up, and turn away any students who did not follow the strict “Formal” dress codes set forth by administration.  Jesus H Christ, I was in Heaven.  I remember walking past kids in khaki pants, Hollister graphic tees, and Sperry’s at my prom and I was disgusted that I’d spent 3 weeks as a workin’ girl up and down Lavista Boulevard to make enough money to fit my plus size ass into a fitted, vintage, Calvin Klein spring edition 3 piece tux that I earned ON MY HANDS AND KNEES, and these assholes had the audacity to come into that sacred place in Levi’s like we were in route to a hoedown.  Needless to say, I refused to have those same unfortunate events befall the graduating class of 2012, and I made it my job to stay sober enough to make sure only the best would past the lips of that Gym.  “DOORS OPEN IN 10, 9, 8, 7, etc)” Dr. J counted down like a douchebag until  it was time to open the doors, and much to my immediate surprise, 7 kids awaited their fate outside, ready, willing to meet their maker if it came to it. Any rational, non-lame 18 year old knows you don’t get to prom until there’s an hour and a half left of it, so naturally I was brimming with joy when I opened those doors and found only a few senseless nerds, happily there first to take their rightful places in various chairs and booth on the outskirts of the dancefloor. I’ve never been more proud. I was expecting to find 600 horned up kids waiting to be the first asshole to run up to the DJ and request Flo rida’s “Low.” I was wrong. And at that very moment, I was goddamn proud to be an American.  I take a swig from the 5^th of Belvedere I siphoned into a flask.  You’re thinking “Oh,wow I didn’t think a flask could hold that much vodka in it?,” you’re right, I chugged half the bottle in the girls locker room right before we had to suit up for the night.

Sometimes you have to think on your toes, folks.

Sometimes you have to get off the bench and get in the fucking game.

 I plop down in the desk chair feelin’ like Ricky Ross and call the first of the nerds up to show me his ticket. He’s wearing an awful two piece shit green number which he clearly borrowed from Daddy-O, and I let him through on pity alone. Next was two guys the same as the first, as hopeless as that time I wasted an entire bag of skittles on the bathroom floor of a bar and had every intention on picking every single one of those little fuckers up and eating them because I was drunk as shit and things fell apart that night.  After about 16 boys and no girls and just as I started to think Chelsea Handler was about to pop out of a trashcan to tell me “I’ve just been duped on Girls Behaving Badly!”, in walks what I would describe as Hillary Swank from her  Academy Award- winning role in “Boys Don’t Cry.” She was smoking a cigarette and looking like she could kick my ass if shit got real.  I asked for her ticket and she says “I’m on the list. Check the list.” I tried to match her voice in deepness but it was no use. She sounded like a young George Clooney and I had to constantly remind myself this wasn’t a fucking dream.

Maybe I’d had too much to drink.

I get my voice as deep as I could and tell her “there is no list, Ms. Where is your ticket?” She looks at me like I’d called her mom a cunt, and I soon realized “Ms” cut her testosterone-injected body like a knife. She informs me to look again. Again I tell her there is no list, while simultaneously trying to unlock the iPhone in my pocket just in case this man-bitch jumped on me and I’d have to call the law. She walks away and tells me “She’ll be back when there is one.” I say “OK,” because I know when to roll the dice and when to play it cool around an aggressive butch.  What happens next is a series of oddities: Nearly 400 students show up to prom a solid 2 and a half hours before it ends and I immediately take back everything I said before. CLASSLESS mothafuckers, the lot of em.  I pass out in the desk chair that I’d been handing the wristbands in, and I wake up with my Spanish partner looking at me like a fucking cast member from “The Hills Have Eyes. “ You were out cold for a solid 30 minutes, she says.  I ask her how long she’d been watching me sleep so I could figure out how many lashings I was going to need to dole out, but she interrupts and tells me they’re announcing prom queen in a few minutes. I’m anxious as fucking Diego from Dora the Explore because I had yet to meet the kiddies. I’d slept through all three kings and two of the queens as they sashayed into the gym. I’m annoyed my Spanish Partner didn’t wake me to meet the candidates so I tell her I think she’s started her period in that cute little white number she’s wearing, and I make my way onto the dance floor. I’m classically trained in the art of ass-clapping so it shamed me to see girls and guys swaying and grinding poorly to Freak Song Greats such as Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” and 50 cent’s “Drop and gimme 50.” Beautiful selections.  Dr. J walks onto the DJ stage and quiets everyone down; as I sneak to the snack bar, I discover 4 untouched mini snickers and quietly thank the Heavens for their continued support of my obesity.  Dr. J calls in the first two King candidates and I see my Spanish Partner enter the gym from the little girl’s room and mouth “fuck you”  to me from behind the punch tub. The last king is called and after a slight delay of people not giving a shit, the douchebag starting Quarterback on the team takes the crown. After a short clap, the remaining candidates are hurried off the stage to make room for the Queens. You have your token black girl as usual, a blonde, and a brunette. All stunning. All in collusion to bore me to fucking tears. I needed a drink bad because my Vicodin was threating to wear off so I started making my way to the exit. The final queen is called, and I turn nonchalantly to make sure it wasn’t some god-awful devil ginger, and who else do I see walking onto that stage?

Hillary Fucking Swank.

 She’s standing there clear as day and my heart is beating from my chest and out through my asshole. I run full speed to the stage like a goddamn secret service agent ready to give my life for these bitches because there’s clearly an assassination brewing, but not before Dr. J places that crown on her head.

I collapse mid stride into the picture booth.

When I came to, I was sitting on the school nurse bed with my Spanish partner by my side. She’s extremely exhausting.  She told me I passed out 2 hours ago and everyone had already left. I was also told to expect a displeasing email from Dr. J on Monday, and to relinquish my rights to visit the campus again. Apparently Hillary Swank was one of the popular kids and I fucked her over. Christ, times have changed. I got back to find my  escort riddled with drawn-on dicks and Saran wrap so I hitched a ride with my Spanish Partner back to score a couple of drinks down at Friday’s. We have our drinks in silence and then I tell her to take me to the airport and I’ll sleep there. She calls me pathetic and I spend the night on her futon.

 There’s an old saying, “What doesn’t kill you, makes your stronger,” but that’s a fucking joke.  I’m living, breathing proof that what doesn’t kill you, kills you later.

The first drink I ever had was a vodka orange juice with a splash of I-knew-I-was-queer-at 12. My cunt of a sister-we’ll just call her Sandra, no-Sandy. Why? Because that’s a stupid fucking name and it’s fitting. So Sandra was like “J-Baby” (J-Baby is what my older sister called me before I delivered a round-house kick to her ovaries on the day I realized slaps don’t leave nasty bruises on blacks), anyway she was like “J-Baby!!” come in the kitchen and see if this is too strong.” Let me stop you right there, people all like “OMG he was 12!! that’s child abuse!!” OMGGGGGG I KNOW!!!!

-__- Shut up bitch. At 12, I was driving our Chevy Suburban to the circle K for mom’s daily scratch-off tickets and wine coolers. Listen up, white people. This is the type of shit that goes on in African-American families. And then I got home and mom was like “did you get my cigarettes?” and I was like “No, they didn’t have em, but I played your numbers, though.” Meanwhile, I’m washing dishes jammin out to Mariah when Mom sends a frying pan at my head- I fall to the floor stunned by the sudden shift in events. I’m out cold and dreaming of how I could replace Bob Saget’s wife on Full House, knowing full-well I’d be just what those two little pieces of shit twins Mary Kate and Ashley needed and if we’re being honest, I would have been completely fine with breaking a lil piece off for John Stamos every now and then if Bob promised not to get weird about it- SPLASH- mom dumps a pan a water on my face and tell me to “get my fat ass up,” and I do and then somehow we’re at the top the stairs and mom is screaming “get down here, bitch!” and then I walk down the stairs and I’m looking down at her like “Que?” and then Mom goes on to win an Academy Award for Best Actress in a Lead Role for her work in “Precious based on the novel “Push” by Sapphire.

:O

That was everyone’s face just now. And I’m not going to apologize for pulling that story out of my ass because that movie was fucking tits. For that one bitch reading this right now and saying “OMG is his mom really Mo’nique??”: -__- #killyourself.

Moving along, so my sis was like hey J-baby see if this is too strong, naturally,I tip it up like a fucking thug and take it to the head like a Goddamn American hero and tell her simply, “I’ve taken stronger shits.” (exits kitchen doing gangsta lean, runs to bathroom and throws up for 2 hours.) And just so we’re clear, I didn’t throw up because I was a 12 year old asshole who’d never had a drink in his young life, I didn’t throw up because there was fucking pulp in the orange juice, further verifying my earlier claim that my sister is beyond ridiculous- pulp? really bitch? And I didn’t throw up because I craved attention like my younger siblings- MOMMY I’M A DUMB SHIT AND I JUST DRANK A FIFTH OF VODKA HOLD MEEEEE- -_- no.

Folks, I threw up for a far more fundamental reason: My body rejects bullshit.

Had I stopped a moment and read the label on the vodka bottle, it would have clearly said “Aristocrat.” *Gasps.* That’s right, folks. I drank shitty vodka one time in my life and that was all it took. If my body could talk, it would have said this:

“Go fuck yourself. if you’re going to drink Smirnoff than I’ll shut your goddamn intestines down and you’ll die in your own feces. The only thing that passes these lips for here on out had better be on the top of a shelf looking down at you like the asshole you are.”

And that’s all I needed.

So began a love affair with Belvedere, Kettle One, and probably your dads,who’ve been my ever so faithful benefactors.