Hi my name is Brett, and I live in New York City. With the exception of that time I spent in a Mexican prison for male prostitution, I’m pretty much just an average guy. The Mexican prison thing was really just a big miss understanding. While visiting Tijuana, out of sheer curiosity, I decided to ask these guys what the local rate was, say if a fella should want to “receive”, fellatio from a “working girl”. Since my Spanish is horrible, they thought I was male hooker trying to negotiate a group rate, and the whole thing just got blown way out of proportion.
I’m originally from a small town called Grand Rapids Michigan, home of the Keebler Elf and the 80s sensation The Debarges. After graduating with honors from a very “prestigious” online university, where I majored in neuro surgery and minored in lesbian studies, I eventually set out to the big city in order to make a big name for myself. Unable to find a job in my chosen fields, I somehow found myself working for a small midtown company, selling copiers. Trust me, it’s even more glamorous then it sounds.
For some strange reason, all my life the craziest things always seem to happen either to or around me. So finally, with not much else to do with my time, I decided to write about it. I’m definitely not on track to win a Nobel Peace Prize with this blog. However, if you ever just want a quick chuckle in the middle of your day, please stop on by.
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Stop the press!!! I just found out that Yvonne the Ghetto Receptionist speaks Chinese. WTF??? If you follow Brett and the City, then you know all too well who Yvonne the Receptionist is, and just why this statement is so shocking. For those of you who may be new to the column, before you go any further, I’d strongly suggest that you stop right now and immediately read the previous post titled: Meet Yvonne the Receptionist.
I used to refer to Yvonne as “the most ghetto receptionist in the world”; but after careful deliberation, I am afraid I’m actually going to have to retract that statement. A woman whose cell phone was once actually repossessed for failing to make her weekly payment to Tuffy’s Rent-a-Phone; and a woman who every Monday makes a giant pitcher of Kool-Aid at her desk to last her through the week. The word “ghetto”, would actually be considered a step up. Perhaps even something for Yvonne to aspire to. With our office being located merely steps away from Manhattan’s Red Light District: we often have to walk past all the local undesirables to get to work. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen random street hookers, literally point and laugh at Yvonne as she struts by in one of her infamous work outfits. When your taste is so bad that even common street whores have lost respect for you; I can honestly say that’s probably not a good thing. Truthfully even when I first met Yvonne, not knowing: during my interview I commented to the CEO, how admirable it was that he participated in the State’s “Prison to Work” program. Boy did I feel stupid when he told me he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. In my defense I explained, “I’m sorry; Yvonne just has the essence of a woman, struggling to ease back into the work force, after having just done a 7 to 10. But in a good way of course.”
Now that February is finally over, it’s official. Brett and the City is boycotting Black History Month. Yes folks you’ve heard me correctly. I am done with it for good; and for well enough reason. In 28 days of Black History programming on every network from PBS to the Spice Channel. Once again; no one ever brings up Rosetta Stone. And I for one am speaking out! It’s amazing to me that an old slave could learn so many different languages, at a time when most of them could barely even read. And I didn’t hear Rosetta’s name mentioned one single time the whole month. Not even on BET.
When we teach our kids about all of the Black people that died for our freedom: for the life of me, I can never seem to understand why everyone keeps forgetting about Rosetta. If you ask me, it’s downright deplorable. We spend all this time learning about some crazy man who figured out 16 ways to play a record with a peanut; and some old madam who’s famous for combing a few naps out of her hoe’s heads. Big deal, she heated up a damn comb. That doesn’t make her a genius. If you ask me, she was just a good business woman. Hell, times were hard back then. Men were tired of spending their hard earned cash to go lay up with a bunch of nappy headed hookers. I’m sure if I was running hoes back then, I would’ve probably figured out something too.
Meanwhile, here this old slave woman named Rosetta manages to learn 52 different languages; all while helping to free the slaves along the Underground Railroad, and no one even so much as says a peep. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves as a people. They gave Rosa Parks a Congressional Medal of Honor just for refusing to sit on the back of a city bus. If my memory serves me correct, I don’t even think they had seats on the Underground Railroad. Not to mention a fancy little bell to ring to let the driver know you reached your stop. Yet we treat old Rosa like she parted The Red Sea; or came up with the idea for the barbeque size George Foreman Grill. So where is Rosetta’s Parade? Where is her Grammy winning rap song featuring Big Boy and Andre 2000? Not only did Rosetta free all the slaves on foot: but amazingly enough, she managed to learn Swahili and German along the way. Do you know how difficult it is to learn German, running through a pitch black swamp with a pack of Basset Hounds hot on your ass? Let me tell you it’s not easy. That’s what you call some serious multitasking. She gives a whole new meaning to the term “woman on the move”. So it deeply disturbs me that poor Rosetta never gets her just due.
It bothers me to no end to turn on BET and see someone like Fantasia getting her 2nd Life Time Achievement Award, when honestly, I don’t even think the girl has quite mastered English yet. Try closing your eyes while watching her family on their new VH1 reality show. You’d swear on a stack of bibles you were watching Roots. The episode where Chicken George gets his foot cut off. So it makes no sense whatsoever, that someone like Rosetta Stone dedicated her whole life to freeing the slaves, and she can’t even so much as get a Soul Train Lady Of Soul Award. Teena Marie even has one of those. Black people, we have got to do better at learning our history. From here on out, I dedicate March 1st to the memory of Rosetta Stone. May you rest in peace.
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I have to be unarguably the worst copier salesmen in the world. I always have the best intentions, but no matter how hard I try, everything always seems to go completely wrong. This morning I had a very important meeting with the CFO of Hearst International. After stalking him by phone for literally 13 months, I was finally granted 10 minutes to come in and pitch him on our new line of MFP’s.
I arrived 15 minutes early. When I have a really big meeting, it helps to have a few extra minutes to prepare. The office was stark white and much grander than I had imagined. I walked over to the receptionist, a middle-aged Jewish woman, and said in my best business voice, “Good Morning, Brett Sanders here to see Mr. Oliver.” She explained that he was on a call, and asked me to take a seat. I began going over my presentation while I waited; after all practice makes perfect. The receptionist was soon called away somewhere, and while she was gone I realized I was a bit thirsty. I noticed a big water cooler over in the corner of the room, but when I went over I discovered the tank was empty. Since no one else was around, I figured I might as well just change it myself. Although I had never changed one before, I thought how difficult could it be? I’ll just grab myself a little water, and in the process score a few brownie points with the old lady. I figured, she’d love the fact that I wasn’t afraid to show a little initiative. You see it’s little things like that, which separate sales guys like me from the amateurs.
I removed the empty water jug and placed it on the floor, and then peeled the cap from the refill sitting beside it. Having seen it done literally dozens of times before, it’s really pretty simple. The idea is to lift the container up over your shoulder, and down into the cooler in one fell swoop. As I bent down to lift the huge 40 gallon jug of water, I quickly realized it was quite a bit heavier than I had anticipated. Judging by the sheer weight, it was pretty evident, this was a job that would require razor like speed and accuracy. With that being said I squatted down in my suit, and with both hands proceeded to lift the heavy water jug. With a big heave-ho, I managed to swing the heavy jug over my shoulder. As I was coming down swiftly to place it into the base, I somehow missed the whole damn water cooler; dousing the front of my body with roughly 4 gallons of water. I had no idea water could shoot so fast out of such a small little hole. After a few second of struggling, I finally managed to flip the gushing container back right side up. Attempting to swing this now wet jug over my shoulder again into the cooler, the entire thing somehow goes flying out my hands across the room. Now here I am chasing this 40 gallon jug of water around the waiting room, with literally gallons of water gushing out all over the place. This was somehow not the way I imagined it going in my head. By the time I finally managed to get the runaway jug back into the cooler, believe it or not, the damn thing was completely empty. I thought, “WTF?”
At this point the receptionist finally comes back in. She opens the door and the first thing she sees is 40 gallons of water all over the floor, and me soaked from head to toe. She yelled, “What the hell happened?” At a loss for words, the only thing I could think to say was, “I’m sorry, I was a little thirsty.” She took one step onto the slippery floor and completely wiped out, sailing head first into the water. Now soaked herself, at the top of her lungs she just began screaming, “Get the f*ck out!” Startled, I quickly grabbed my jacket and ran out the door. As a result, I had to walk 15 blocks back to my office, completely drenched in the dead of winter.
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Last week, the very thing I fear the most actually happened to me. I was trapped alone on an elevator for nearly 25 minutes. On the way up to my 18th floor office, the elevator froze, leaving me trapped between the 9th and the 10th floors. Among my many psychological disorders, claustrophobia is on the very top of the list. So although most people would probably just think, “Hey, no big deal…I’ll just play Tetris on my phone until they fix it.” For me, I might as well have been stuck on that elevator with Jaws, Freddy Kruger, and a little rabid monkey waving a switch blade. I couldn’t have possibly been any more gripped with fear.
The emergency button on the elevator was broken, and there was no cell phone reception whatsoever. So at this point, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I was going to die. I thought, if I didn’t suffocate from running out of air; the cable was sure to snap, sending me plunging 10 stories to my death. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pretty. It’s funny how your mind works. Even though I was trapped in a steel box faced with death, the only thing I could think of was, “Dammit; I forgot to put away my midget porn!” When you walk out your door, you never in million years think there’s a chance that you won’t ever return. If I did, I certainly would not have left all of my Bridget the Midget dvd’s sprawled across my bed for the world to see. Now, no matter what good I’ve contributed to this world; or how many pairs of shoes I donated to Haiti. The only thing anybody would ever remember of me, is that I didn’t make up my bed, and I had a fetish for little foul mouthed Mexican Midgets. This was somehow not the legacy I had imagined for myself.
Suddenly I began banging and screaming for help like a mad man. I prayed to every deity I could think of. I called out to Jesus, Moses; hell I even called out a couple times to Superman. Desperate times call for desperate measures. In a state of sheer panic, I remembered my therapist once saying that if you ever find yourself in a claustrophobic situation, the trick is to do whatever you normally do to relax your mind. So with no other choice, I did the only thing I could think of to relax. I began to masturbate. Now, typically I’m not the kind of guy who whips out his Johnson on the elevator at work, and starts spanking his monkey all “Willie Nillie”. But, this was indeed a life or death situation. I wasn’t doing this for pleasure sake. My life was on the line. And dammit I wanted to live.
I have a rather obscure way of masturbating that requires me to lie down on the bed and simulate sex by humping the mattress. A technique I accidentally discovered in the 6th grade. With no bed in sight, I had no choice but to use the floor of the elevator. With that said, I got down on my knees, pretended that floor was Bridget the Midget, and I went for broke. Since this was no doubt, sure to be my last time: I pulled out all the stops. I did every move I knew, and even a few I had always wanted to try. I tried “downward facing dog” with one leg hiked up on the wall. I even tried this helicopter move I saw once in Japanese film. That one didn’t go so smooth. I guess some sexual positions really do require a second person. Otherwise it just comes off as awkward. Before I knew it, I had worked up a sweat. And believe it or not, that therapist was actually right. I could suddenly breathe again. It was a miracle.
I don’t know if it was one of my prayers, or if during all the humping I somehow managed to jiggle one of the circuits back in place. But within several minutes, the elevator started to move again. I was saved. Just in time too, because normally after one of my “self love” sessions, I have a tendency to fall out like a light. If that elevator door had opened up, with me sprawled out asleep, face down with pants to my knees. I imagine some people would’ve probably gotten the wrong idea. People can be so damn negative. Thankfully, I had just enough time to get up and button my pants before the elevator got to my floor. As I looked up to the sky to thank God, I could not believe my eyes. Mounted above me in the corner of the elevator, was a big ass security camera, aimed directly at me. I gasped and thought, “Had that been there the entire time?” I guess I was so hysterical that I didn’t even bother to look up. This was definitely not good.
I went back to my cubicle and immediately began packing up my desk. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that my black ass was as good as fired. I’ve talked myself out of some doozies in my day, but there was no way in hell I could talk my way out of sexually assaulting the elevator. But to my surprise, no one said anything the entire day. In-fact, I went back to work every day that week and still absolutely nothing. Could it be that nobody saw the tape? I thought, “It is an old elevator. Perhaps that camera doesn’t even work.” Then this morning as I was walking out of the building, something told me to turn around. As I turned, I discovered a big group of security guards gathered around the monitor, doubled over in hysterics as they pointed in my direction.
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Have you ever had to give anyone over seventy someone’s number over the phone? Talk about nerve wrecking. Today while on the phone with my grandmother, she asked me to give her someone’s number. Honestly, I’d rather she had just asked for one of my kidneys. Something tells me it would’ve been less painful, and no doubt taken half the time.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my grandmother. She is literally the sweetest woman in the world. But, I would rather gnaw my own arm off; before I give that lady someone else’s number over the phone. No one on earth has that much patience. That woman would make Mother Theresa curse her out. And then go light up a joint. Sure, anyone can heal lepers. But it takes a special kind of patience to give Mrs. Mae-Ruth Brown someone’s number, while she attempts to write it down.
Since I moved to New York, I make sure to call my grandmother at least once a month, and I always have the same strategy. Get in and out in under three minutes, and never under any circumstances do I mention another family member’s name; because that will no doubt lead to her asking for their number. A typical call goes something like this: “Hey Grandma. New York is great, the weather is great, hey sorry to hear about your hip…well at least you still got one good one…okay talk to you next month.”
It took me years to develop this strategy, and it normally goes without hitch. But as luck would have it, today I caught her in the middle of a huge crisis. My grandmother sings in what’s called The Old Folk’s Choir at church, and this was the Sunday of their big annual performance. It seemed Grandma was all in a panic, because the market across the street had apparently just run out of Depends. You see, its common knowledge that whenever Grandma Mae-Ruth “catches the spirit”; she unfortunately lets go of everything else. And that includes control of her bladder. Last year, she got a little overly excited in the middle of their big number, Wade in the Water. And let’s just say, by the time she was done; they all did just that. Talk about life imitating art. Grandma Mae-Ruth gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Let go and let God”. She gives it all to Jesus. Literally.
Given the circumstances, she needed my brother to drive her to the mall, and had “coincidentally” just misplaced his number. As much as I wanted to say I didn’t know it, or pretend I was going through a tunnel at that moment. Something told me that letting your grandma piss herself at church, probably wasn’t the most Christian thing to do. I kid you not, below is the exact transcript of our conversation:
Me: Alright are you ready Grandma? It’s 616, 242-635…
Grandma: Wait a minute. Slow down. Now, first you said 6?
Me: Yes Grandma, it’s 616. Then it’s 242-63…
Grandma: Wait a minute you’re going too fast. I’m not a computer. Just slow down and breathe. Now you said it was 6, then a 1. Now what came next?
Me: I said 6 Grandma! It’s a 6! You got that? Then it’s 242…
Grandma: 242? Are you sure? Cause that don’t sound right.
Me: Yes Grandma that’s it! If you already knew it, then why did you asked me? You asked me for brother’s number, so I’m giving it to you. It’s 616, 242-6355. Now did you get that?
Grandma: Alright, hold on then. Let me go find a pen.
After 15 minutes of listening to her rummage through literally every drawer in the house: she finally returned for what seemed like a never ending game of “Who’s on First?” She repeated that number back to me so many times; after a while, I actually started to get confused. By the time she finished cutting me off, transposing numbers, and repeating back what she thought I said: hell, I began to second guess own myself. I started to think, “Damn Brett, maybe you really don’t know the number after all.”
Now, this is the point of the conversation that my mind always begins playing tricks on me. Paranoia sets in, and I immediately start to think, “Wait, is this lady just f*king with me?” “What if this whole ‘sweet grandmother’ thing is nothing but one big act? Maybe after all these years, this is just her sick little way of paying me back, for that time I hid her dentures.” When I was nine, the church named my grandmother, “Usher of the Decade” which meant her picture would be on the front page of The Grand Rapid’s Press Newspaper. I was a mischievous kid; so on the morning of the big photo shoot, I thought it would be funny if I hid her teeth before school. How was I supposed to know she would still go through with the shoot?
Looking back, I realized that I probably shouldn’t have done that. But, at least she did get a new set of dentures out of the fiasco. It turned out that next to JFK’s assassination, for some strange reason, the “Toothless Grandma” edition, ended up being one the biggest sellers ever in the history of The Grand Rapid’s Press. As a result, a local dentist ended up hiring Mae-Ruth as the spokes model for his new line of dentures: which made perfect since. Especially seeing how everyone within the five neighboring counties, had already seen her “before” shot. And unlike her previous set, at least the new pair didn’t constantly slip out her mouth when she did the morning announcements at church.
Believe it or not, it took me almost a half an hour to give that lady a simple 10-digit phone number. Can you believe after all that, she actually had the nerve to ask me, “Now, do you have his email address too?”
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Sitting #2
More than anything on this planet, I hate using the restroom at the office. Our men’s room only has one stall in it. This means, whenever anyone enters and the stall is in use, the first thing everyone does is immediately look to see who’s in there. Since we have a rather small company, you can pretty much always tell exactly who’s taking a dump, simply by looking at their shoes.
I have a serious problem with this concept. Whenever I’m in the stall, and someone else walks in, I instantly feel like I’m being judged. I can’t even relax, because I just know inside their heads they’re thinking, “Boy, Brett must’ve eaten at that Italian place again last night”, or “Hmnh, I wonder if Brett’s okay…this one seems to be taking a little longer than usual.” How can anyone take a dump under that kind of scrutiny? I know if I had a dollar for every time I walked in and yelled, “Oh God Chuck, that smells awful! What the hell are you eating at night…people?” So, I can just imagine the things they think about me when they leave out. I developed so much an anxiety about using the restroom at work that my doctor actually had to put me on nerve pills.
Truthfully, I really don’t understand this philosophy. We can fly people to the moon, and shoot and edit full-length feature films from our phones; yet we can’t find a way to design a bathroom stall that goes all the way to the ground. What’s with the whole peek-a -boo shoe action thing anyway? Is it supposed to be some kind of an emergency crawl space, just in case something goes wrong, and somebody else needs to shimmy under and help? My feeling is, if you can tell who’s in there simply by looking at their shoes, the whole anonymity thing just goes completely out the window. Why not just remove the stall all together? That way when people walk in and see you on the toilet, they can just wave and say, “Oh hey there Rick…I see you’re back on oatmeal” or “Wow Sue, love the new hair cut…we should do lunch when you’re done?”
Finally, I came up with the perfect solution. I started bringing in extra pairs of shoes to work just to wear whenever I took a dump. I’d wear my normal shoes throughout the entire day. Then when it was time for a “sitting”, I’d just slip on the other pair that no one’s ever seen before. It was genius! It didn’t matter what I ate the night before, how much time I took, or even how much noise I made. I could completely go to town in there, and no one ever had the slightest clue it was me. I’d even sometimes hear people on the other side comment, “Hey, who’s the new guy?” It was the most freeing experience of my life. For the first time ever, I actually enjoyed going to work every day.
One day last week, running late for work, I completely forgot my duffle bag. When it was time to go to the bathroom, I was devastated when I realized I left my sh*tting shoes at home. Out of all the things to leave at home, how on earth did I leave my damn sh*tting shoes? I went into that stall, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to go. I tried lifting my legs off the ground so no one could see my feet; I tried sitting on the toilet Indian style; hell, I even tried going with both legs hoisted up over the handicap bars. Just when I was about to give up hope, that’s when I remembered that Gracie was gone.
Gracie is the little old Jewish lady, whose cubicle sits across from the men’s room. With the exception of her drinking problem, Gracie is literally one of the sweetest woman you’ll ever meet. Ever since Gracie got hit by that school bus a few months back, she spends all of her lunch breaks in physical therapy. Since she puts on her sneakers right before she leaves out, I figured her everyday shoes had to still be under her desk. I opened the restroom door and just as I thought, there they were. A pair of beige Easy Spirit sling backs. I thought, “Could I possibly get away with this?” Of course, they were about five sizes too small, but then again I thought, “I just need a pair of sh*tting shoes.” It wasn’t like I was going jogging in them.
I quickly slipped them on before anyone came, and darted into the bathroom stall. Finally, I could go in peace. Sure when people walked in, it must’ve looked a little strange, to see my big size 10 dress socks, sticking out the fronts and the backs of Gracie’s very sensibly cut Easy Spirits. But let me tell you, that was one of the best sittings I’ve had in years.
When I was done, I placed Gracie’s shoes back where I found them, and no one was ever the wiser. With the exception of Gracie, trying to figure out why, she all of a sudden kept slipping out of the front of her shoes, I was pretty much home free. That is until I was walking by later that day, and heard her boss walk over and say, “Hey Gracie, HR wants to see you down stairs. Something about you using the men’s room today?”
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Sitting #1
It all started with a gift from my mom. Every year she sends me underwear for Christmas. This year for some reason, she decided to send me this thing called a ‘one-piece’ by Hanes. Basically, it’s a tank top and a pair of boxer-briefs all combined in one. Now for the life of me, I can’t imagine why any grown man would ever feel the need to walk around wearing a onesie. But, I figured it was free and it was from my mom. With that said, I threw them in the back of my underwear drawer.
One morning, running late for a big meeting with a client, I realized I didn’t have a single pair of clean underwear left. Suddenly, I remembered that strange pair I got from my mom. With no other options, I found them, slipped them on under my suit, and out the door I ran. Heading to the train, I thought to myself, “Hey, this one-piece thing isn’t so bad after all.” It’s warm, it fits like a glove, and believe it or not, I actually enjoyed the extra support you get from the stretch fabric. I thought, “Mom might be on to something here after all.” I may have to pick up a few more of these.
The meeting was a huge success. I couldn’t wait to get back to tell my boss we were finally bringing Bailey & McLane on as clients. I began to smile just thinking about my commission check. Yep, I was definitely taking that trip to Jamaica this year. Waiting for the elevator, all of a sudden I noticed a slight rumbling in my stomach. I thought, “Hmnh, this is strange.” Then it happened again, only this time even stronger. I thought, “Wait, this can’t be good.” Just then, I remembered that 12-Bean Chili the waitress talked me into ordering the night before. “Damn her” I cursed. I don’t even like chili. After rumble number 3 hit, it became pretty clear, there was no way in hell; I was going to make it all the way back across town to my office. Truthfully, at that point, I wasn’t quite sure if I could even make it off that floor. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.
In a state of panic, I noticed there was a little restroom next to Mr. McLane’s office. Now; one of the first things I think they teach you in business school, is that you pretty much never take a big 12-Bean Chili dump in a potential client’s restroom. That’s sort of not the first impression you ever want to leave. Or the last one. Now, even though I don’t recall ever discussing this one in class. Something told me, that letting one go on their lobby floor, was even far less professional. How on earth do you lead into that conversation? “Excuse me Mr. Customer, do you have a mop? I accidentally just took a dump on your floor.” With no receptionist in sight, I quickly slipped into the restroom.
The restroom was small and extremely plush. It was no doubt Mr. McLane’s executive washroom. I figured if I was quick; I could be in and out, and no one would be the wiser. I immediately sprung into action. After unbuttoning my pants, I realized there was a bit of a problem. For some odd reason, no matter how hard I pulled, I couldn’t for the life of me seem to get my underwear down. It was like one bad dream. I instantly began to freak out and think, “What the hell is going on?” Looking down, I realized I was wearing that silly one-piece contraption my mom sent me. “Damn her and those stupid TJ Max bargain bins!” I thought. This is just great. Now I’m going to end up sh*tting on myself at work again, all so she could save three dollars. There’s only so many times a fella can leave early with that excuse, before people just start looking at you strange.
I figured, there surely has to be some kind of a quick release/emergency drop hatch built into this thing. However, as I searched my body there was nothing. This was definitely the unitard from hell. I could not believe I was going to have to take off all of my upper layers of clothing just to take a dump. Who in the name of God would design such a thing? Frustrated, I whipped off my suit jacket and placed it on the hook. I then removed my shirt, tie, and did the same. Free of all clothes, I was then able to slip the one-piece off my shoulders, and down to my ankles. With goose bumps on my chest from the cold air, I finally took a seat. To kill time, I figured I might as well finish the video game I started on the way here. So I pulled out my iPhone and began to play. In all the madness, I guess I somehow forgot to lock the door to the restroom. To my surprise, the door all of a sudden whips open, and in walks Mr. McLane. Meanwhile, here I am completely naked, sitting on his toilet playing Ms. Pacman. Talk about awkward. At a complete loss for words, the only thing I could think to muster was, “Wow, I bet this looks weird doesn’t it?” It goes without saying, I didn’t get that deal.
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I finally got a chance to see the new Lee Daniels’ film Precious, everyone has been raving about. And I am pretty darn sure this is just another Hollywood attempt to try to pull a fast one over our eyes. And I for one, am tired of the old flim-flam.
Like millions of other die hard fans, I’ve always had my suspicions. However now after having seen the film, I am even more convinced than ever that the legend still lives. My theory is, that after a life of nothing but turmoil and strife, Biggie Smalls devised an ingenious plan to fake his own death, and hide out somewhere far away from the world for the rest of his days. A place where no one would even blink twice, at a 400 pound black man with gold teeth and a mink coat, walking down the street. So the Notorious B.I.G. went to the only place in the world he could live virtually undetected among the local citizens. He moved to Akron, Ohio. A plan that would’ve no doubt worked seamlessly if not for one thing. He eventually started to miss the limelight of show business.
They say fame is just like crack. Once you’ve had that first hit, you’re hooked for life. The VH1 Network was practically founded on this principal. Finished with the rap industry, rumor has it that for years, Biggie Smalls had been racking his brain in search for the perfect way to re-enter the business. With his only two other options being VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club, and Dancing with the Stars, hope was almost gone….until one day, while standing in the checkout lane at Winn Dixie. Biggie read in a Jet Magazine, that Lee Daniels was scheduled to begin casting for the film adaptation of Push; a story of an overweight, nappy headed, teen mother from the Bronx, with a speech impediment, and a love for eating fried chicken straight out the box. He knew in that very moment, this was his one shot back to the big time. So with no time to spare, Biggie got a sex change operation, a bad perm, and a 12 piece extra crispy bucket from Popeyes. The rest my friends, is showbiz history.
With all of the Oscar buzz surrounding the acclaimed performance, Mr. Smalls is sure to beat out Mickey Rourke and Whitney Houston as the comeback story of the millennium. “Who knew the guy could act so well?”, critics are saying. I’m simply saying, “Congratulations Biggie!” to a job well done. We wish you all the best in your career as Hollywood’s newest leading lady, and we can’t wait to see what other projects you have in store. Move over Queen Latifah, there’s a new girl in town. And she goes by Notorious G.A.B. “Baby Baby!!”
Biggie taking time out to pose with a few of his younger cast members.
Biggie spitting a few rhymes with Lenny Kravitz between takes to show him he’s still got it.
Biggie at the New York premiere looking radiant in an all red Vera Wang.
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Most women probably see a sequin mini dress and automatically think special occasion. Like New Years Eve, The Oscars, or The Annual Pimps Up Hoes Down Convention in Vegas. However for Yvonne the receptionist, this is merely a Wednesday. On my very first day with the company, baffled, I turned to a coworker and asked, “Wow, that lady is pretty dressed up. Is today a special occasion?” To which he rather simply replied, “Oh no that’s Yvonne. She’s just ghetto.” I eventually learned that no truer words would ever be spoken.
Already somewhat of a celebrity on my Facebook page. What started off innocently as just a random post, somehow has surprisingly evolved into a series. Before I knew it, there were people from all over the country sending me regular requests for Yvonne updates. For those of you just now joining in, let me take a moment to catch you up to speed.
Yvonne is without a doubt one of the most intriguing woman I’ve ever known. A 48-year-old grandmother of two; Yvonne never leaves the house without her pocketknife, her ‘baby hair’ grease, and literally starts every conversation with, “Last night at the club…” She was originally hired as the office bill collector, and from what I hear did an amazing job. That is, until her bill collectors eventually found out where she worked. Turns out, Yvonne owed everybody money from Con Edison, to the man that ran numbers on the corner. She even had the Deacon from church calling about a couple bounced checks she put in the collection plate. Bottom line is this. If Yvonne can bounce a check to the Lord, then what she cares about paying Metro PCS ain’t about nothing.
I guess her philosophy is hey; who better to collect money, then someone that owes everybody money. Yvonne had so many bill collectors calling; at one point, my company actually considered changing our number. She’d be busy collecting money on line 1, with her bill collectors calling in on line 2. Eventually, they solved the problem by just making Yvonne the company receptionist. I guess they figured, it’s kind of hard to say you’re not in, when you’re the one answering the phone. But oh let me tell you; the cursing you’d hear when you walked through that lobby.
I must admit, Yvonne confused the hell out of me when I first started. She had so many different looks, I always thought there was a new Black girl starting at the company. She would come in the morning looking like Beyonce, and leave looking Florida Evans. Yvonne switched wigs so much; I actually just assumed she was in the witness protection program my first three weeks. Yvonne changes more wigs before noon than most hairdressers will all day.
Yvonne’s Hair Dairy:
Day 1 Day 2 Day 2.5
Yvonne always credits her mother as being her fashion muse when it comes to her hair. She always says, “My mama is the classiest woman I know.” Now, we’ve all heard of the term ‘driving gloves’ before. Well apparently, Yvonne’s mother has what’s called a ‘driving wig’. Basically, it’s a spare wig she keeps in her glove box just for driving. Every day after work, she slips off her work wig, and then switches to her driving wig before pulling off. To quote Yvonne, “You know that ain’t nothing but class!”
Yvonne actually comes from a long line of weave wearers. As far back as she can remember, she said, the women in her family have always been known for two things: fighting and wearing wigs. In my mind, I instantly imagine an ancient tribe of African women, prancing through the Serengeti, swinging their long luxurious blond hair. And a neighboring community of bald headed, pissed off Lions. Can you imagine being a lion, just walking through the jungle minding your own business? When all of a sudden, out jumps a pack of light skinned, bald headed, African women with rocks and sticks. Who knows, maybe that’s the real reason lions started sleeping in trees? I wouldn’t be surprised if one day while watching The Animal Planet, we discover that lions actually adapted their hunting style, from an even wilder pack of bald headed African tribeswomen, called “The Yvonnas”.
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During the holiday season, Manhattan is even more crowded than usual. This means even longer lines for the restrooms. It’s no secret that Starbucks is the restroom of choice for most New Yorkers. No purchase is necessary, there’s one on every block, and most important; the homeless people use the ones at McDonald’s. There is an unspoken pact we have here in New York with the homeless. They stay out of the restrooms at Starbucks; and we stay clear of the ones in McDonald’s. A lesson I had to learn the hard way. I’ll never forget the day, I accidentally stumbled in on an old naked man, giving himself a foot bath in the sink. A sight I wouldn’t even wish on Osama Bin Laden. To this very day, I’ve never looked at chicken nuggets the same way. Or sinks.
Today while shopping in Union Square, I really had to go. So, I ran into a Starbucks to take a quick leak. I ended up waiting 12 entire minutes for a lady to come out of the restroom. Talk about being pissed off. In my book, holding up a Starbucks restroom, is one of the absolute rudest things a person can ever do. It’s right up there with licking a spoon at the salad bar, or giving yourself a toe job on the bus. It’s inappropriate, classless, and shows a definite sign of low breeding. I mean, I really had to pee. So naturally, I did what anyone else would do. After the clerk refused to give me the key, I banged on the door and shouted “Lady, what the hell are you doing taking a nap?” I think the woman behind me was even more upset. Because she stated loudly, if she didn’t see a wheel chair roll out, she was whooping somebody’s ass. Just for clarification, I asked to make sure she didn’t mean mine. She was pretty big, and that word “somebody” is rather open ended. I find in life, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
My question is this. Unless they start installing showers and halogen reading lamps in there, what can a person possibly be doing in there that long? Public restrooms are disgusting. You get in, get out, and try like hell not to touch anything but yourself. I always question these people that go in there and actually do number two. Where were they raised: in a crack house? Some things you just do at home. No one’s time management can be that off.
I am a germaphobe like you wouldn’t believe. The scariest day of my life, was the first time I had to take my daughter into a public restroom. Toddlers have a tendency to touch everything and put their hands in their mouth. I remember in that moment praying to God, “I love this little girl with everything I have. But I swear if she touches anything, God I will leave her here.” I would just sit her down and run. She’s a beautiful little girl, and she already can count to three. I’m sure somebody would make her a nice home.
I think Obama needs to pass a new public restroom bill. It should state that each person is allowed just 2 ½ minutes to use the restroom, and that’s it. When your time is up, whether you’re done or not, the door should automatically swing open for the world to see. This would totally revolutionize the world of public restrooms as we know it. It would force people to prioritize in that bathroom like never before. Sure, it will take some getting used to in the beginning. But like anything else, you just practice first. Run drills at home with the family until everyone is up to speed.
This may sound a little harsh to some. But the way I see it. If you can’t do whatever you need to do in under 3 minutes. Then perhaps you just shouldn’t be going in public, period. Grandma, this means you too. I love you but truthfully, it’s not fair to the rest of us to have to wait 22 minutes for you to untangle your bloomers from your stockings.
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