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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One night while walking through the Lower Eastside, I stumbled on a little Latin club with a sign out front that read: $3 Tequila Shots. I didn’t have anything else to do so I went in. I was the only Black person in the entire place, so I pretty much stayed to myself at the bar. After about 6 shots, I noticed this woman across the room in a bright red shawl sort of giving me the eye. I could already tell from where I stood that she wasn’t all that cute. But I was drunk, and by this time horny, so naturally I said “what the hell”. I walked over and introduced myself, and after a few minutes of talking she decided to remove her shawl. Suddenly, out popped this little miniature baby arm, and it had a stubby little hand on the end with about 3½ fingers. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Her left arm was completely normal. However, her right arm was only 11 inches long and just sort of dangled up by her chest like a dinosaur.
At first I thought maybe it was me. After all, I was pretty smashed. So I tried to shake it off, but when I opened my eyes the little funny arm was still there. I thought, “WTF?” I was devastated. I mean… are you allowed to just spring a little baby arm on people without some kind of a warning? This hardly seemed fair. That’s when it hit me. I, Brett Sanders had just been hoodwinked. She purposely used the old “bait & switch” by covering up her little baby arm. You see; she knew very well any descent guy would have to be pretty f*ked up to just run off when they saw it. As a result, the poor guy would be trapped into staying. It was genius. Like a sick game of poker. Old One Armed Sally was calling my bluff; and I wasn’t about to fold. So I just continued on with the conversation as if everything was normal. Score one for the kid. I tried to pretend I didn’t even see it; which was pretty difficult, seeing how she was one of those people who constantly uses their hands to emphasize their point. She must have been on to me, because she suddenly began gesturing, and pointed with her dead hand even more than ever. At one point she even used it to move her hair out of her face, which really f*ked me up. That’s when I thought, “Touche. This bitch is obviously a professional.” Nevertheless, I was determined to stand my ground.
After 3 more tequila shots she eventually wanted to dance, so she pulled me out on the floor. Now here I am, the only brother in the place; drunk out my mind, and Salsa dancing with a girl with a little T- Rex arm. Somehow, this was not what I envisioned for my Saturday night. Although the entire room was doing Salsa, I knew there was no way in hell I was touching that little dead hand. So thinking fast, I immediately broke into the Electric Slide. I tried to get her to join in, but she still insisted on trying to do her Salsa moves with me anyway. At one point she even twirled herself back into a dip, and ended up falling backwards into a row of tables. I tried to catch her, but unfortunately she reached out to me with the wrong hand. Thank God those bouncers were there to help her up. By the time she got herself together, I was already back at the bar for last call.
Believe it or not, but this is where the story really gets crazy. At some point I must’ve blacked out, because when I awoke we were now at her place having sex. I’m pretty sure she slipped me a ruffie; because when I came to, I was literally laying on my back with her on top riding me. It was like Quantum Leap gone wrong. Now, I’m not sure if it was the ruffie or the 11 tequila shots; but suddenly it actually started to feel good. I mean, for a one armed girl, she apparently had a few tricks up her sleeve. The only thing that kept throwing me off, was that her little baby arm just sort of dangled there the entire time. Because I was drunk, for some reason I kept thinking she was waving “Hello”. So I kept saying “Hi” back. It was freaking me out, so I tried to cover it up by hanging my hat on her nub, but it kept slipping off. I realized this position wasn’t going to work, so I flipped her around and then I got on top. But now, I realized her little claw was even closer to my face. I just couldn’t win. I tried to just block it out of my head, but the next thing you know she began slapping me in the face with it and yelling, “You like that..huh? You like that?” When I felt her little clammy hand on my face I literally almost died. Trying to keep my cool I replied, “Can you maybe find something else to do with that?” She asked what and I replied, “I don’t know. Anything…be creative.” Moments later, just as I was about to climax, I couldn’t believe it. The girl stuck one of her little fingers in my mouth. Talk about a mood killer. I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. I grabbed my clothes and ran out to the curb, where I proceeded to throw up about everything I had to eat that year. As soon as I got home, I jumped straight in the shower with all my clothes on, and sat there in the fetal position crying for like 3 hours. To this day, I have yet to have another drink.
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This past Saturday was our company’s 20th year anniversary, and to celebrate we threw our big annual anniversary bash. Because this time was the sales department’s turn to organize the event, I thought it would be a great idea if I volunteered to lead up the entire project. Showing this kind of initiative always looks good during your big year-end review; not to mention, since I sort of dropped the ball several weeks back with that whole “breast pump” incident, I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to redeem myself with the big boss and finally gain my way into his good graces.
Everyone knows that delegation is the most important role of any good leader, so I immediately went to work assigning responsibilities to the team. I placed Yvonne in charge of catering; Martin in charge of decorations; Sue in charge of the liquor; and since Gracie (the old Jewish lady with the drinking problem) has a tendency to get a little demanding after a few Manhattans; this year I even decided to assign Sherman in charge of security. Last year Gracie slapped the shit out of the bartender for forgetting her cherry, and no one wanted a repeat of that. The only thing left on the list was to book the entertainment. Since I was the only one in the office with the real inside scoop on the music industry, having auditioned for American Idol two years in a row; it only made sense that I be in charge of that. Besides, as a well respected music veteran; not only did I already “speak the language”: I figured with all my big inside connects– I’d be able to find us someone good in no time.
I immediately hit the phones calling around to all of the top music execs in town, putting my “feelers” out as we like to say in the biz. After not hearing back from a single one of them, my buddy Dave informed me that his Uncle Smitty had just gotten out of jail and was now managing this hot new group called SVL. Since Dave and I were buds, he even assured me that his uncle would cut me a great deal on their fee. I thought, “Wow, what office party wouldn’t love a performance from some hot new R&B group?” This was exactly what I needed to take this party to the next level. Not to mention, since this group was just coming out; how freaking cool will it be a year from now when they’re the hottest new sensation in the world, to be able to say that I actually got them to perform at our little office party? The idea was dare I say genius; so we put a call in to Uncle Smitty. Not only was SVL available that evening to perform; he even gave me the family rate of just $1,400 bucks, which was nearly two grand under my budget. So not only was I getting the hottest new band around; I was also saving the company a fortune. And there’s nothing the big boss loves more than saving money. That’s why it definitely pays to know people in the biz.
The day of the party finally arrived and everything couldn’t have gone any smoother. The food looked amazing; the decorations were on point; and Sherman had even managed to get a hold of a couple of tazer guns just in case old Gracie decided to go on another one of her war paths. I had literally thought of everything. As 3pm hit, all of the guests started to arrive with their families just as planned. Looking around the room, everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives. And for the first time in two years, the big boss actually smiled at me from across the room. I finally knew what it felt like to be a winner. I assumed that was my cue from the big guy to come over and meet the family, however as soon as he saw me making my way over, for some reason he gestured “no” with his head. I figured he probably just wanted to save all of my praise for his big speech. So with that said, I just continued to wave from across the room.
The only thing left on the itinerary was the big performance and you could already feel the buzz in the air. Roughly fifteen minutes before the show, I got a call from the driver informing me that SVL had just pulled up. The crowd was growing a bit restless, so I quickly grabbed the mic and announced that the show would be starting soon. All of the kids in the audience, including the boss’s, erupted in cheer as we all waited for the group to arrive upstairs. As the elevator doors finally opened, I could literally not believe my eyes. To my astonishment, out came prancing this bunch of old geriatric looking gay guys dressed in shiny red cat suits and riding boots. I shrieked “WTF?” You could literally hear the entire room gasp as the guys stepped off the elevator. Unsure of what was happening, I immediately ran over and exclaimed, “I’m sorry, are you guys here to see the show– because this is actually a private party?” To my dismay, one of the old gay men replied “Honey… we are the show.” Then one of the other guys added a Wendy Williams “How you doing?” from the background; which for some reason seem to tickle them all to death. Confused, I replied “There’s obviously a huge mistake here. Smitty said that SVL was supposed to perform today.” The guy then pursed his lips and replied, “Chile, who do you think you’re looking at?” Completely baffled, I replied “So you guys are R&B singers?” to which he responded “No Honey, we’re Voguers from the Gay and Transgender Senior Citizen Home in the village. SVL stands for Senior Vogueing League. Chile, you betta’ ask somebody.” This was of course followed by several more rounds of “How you doings” from the old “gay” chorale in the rear.
By now a crowd had begun to gather to see what all of the commotion was about, and I was so mortified that I just wanted to melt right through the floor boards. I couldn’t believe that asshole Dave had screwed me over yet once again. I knew that there was no way in hell I was letting those old fruit loops perform. It would surely be the end of my job as I knew it. Sherman then came over and explained, “You might as well just let them go on. Who else are you going to get this late…besides you already paid them $1,400 bucks? As much as I hated to admit it, Sherman was absolutely right. There was no way I could have the company take that kind of loss. He then added, “Besides…who knows? The show might just end up being fierce!” as he and my other co-worker Martin fell to the floor laughing. This was slowly somehow turning out to be the office party from hell. With no other choice, I begrudgingly showed the old guys to the little performance area we had set up in the middle of the floor. I then just closed my eyes and prayed for the best.
I swear that watching all those old queens warm up proved to be just as much of a show as the performance itself. By the time they got finished calling each other “Gurllll”, and referring to inanimate objects as “Miss” (eg: “Miss Girdle seems a wee bit snug today” & “Gurl can I borrow Miss Lip liner? I must’ve left mine is Miss Car”); everybody in the entire room was confused. But the thing that really took the cake was when the biggest one of them all tipped over to the boss and asked, “Sugar, where’s your little girl’s room? Mama has to go tinkle.” I’d never seen a person turn so red in my life.
Finally it was time for the show. House music suddenly began to play over the loud speakers as the SVL’s all marched on to the floor in a single line like a bunch of majorettes. I don’t think anyone in that room was prepared for what was to come next. There’s absolutely nothing on this planet more excruciating then watching a bunch of seventy year old gay senior citizens attempting to vogue. We’ve all seen the infamous Madonna video with those legendary gay dancers demonstrating some of the most acrobatic yet graceful vogue moves ever caught on camera. Well, this looked absolutely nothing like that. Actually not even close. These had to be some of the most awful voguers in the history of history itself. Watching these old guys perform, one couldn’t help but wonder if they had even seen vogueing before. One old guy because of an obvious paralysis could only vogue with one of his arms; one guy simply just used his hands to point to different things in the room on beat; while one guy I swear as God is my witness was just doing the Village People “YMCA” dance. And to make matters even worse; each time one of them would do go to the front and do a move; the rest of the group would attempt to hype them up, by all yelling in unison “Work…bitch!!!” Everyone in that room was in a complete state of shock. The SVL’s were so uncomfortably awkward to watch, that all the kids in the room just started crying and yelling “Please make them stop!”
Finally, haven I guess taken all that she could stand; Yvonne (the ghetto receptionist) decided to kick off her shoes, and run out there to show the old lame queens how vogueing was really done. Not to be out done; Gracie followed suit. So now picture a bunch of old geriatric queens all on the floor, battling Yvonne and little old drunk Gracie in the most horrible vogue off you’ve ever seen. This day just couldn’t get any worse. Although Yvonne and Gracie did manage to add a little life to an otherwise horrific performance; the show soon came to a screeching halt when Gracie went overboard by ripping off her shirt and doing the Running-man through the crowd bare chested. All I have to say is, thank God we had those damn stun guns on hand. I hated to do it, but she was heading towards the boss’s kids; and I had to save the day somehow.
(FYI..Gracie is in room 3322 at NYU Hospital in case any wants to send flowers or get well soon cards)
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One day last week while cleaning up my place, I came to a startling realization. I suddenly noticed that the two bottles of Absolute that normally sat untouched on top of my bar were now somehow mysteriously empty. This really freaked me out; mainly because I live alone. Since I pretty much never drink at home; I just normally keep liquor there for the rare case I decided to entertain; I realized that this could only mean one thing. Someone had broken into my home when I wasn’t there. The thought alone instantly sent shivers through my body. With the exception of that time my ex girlfriend’s Pit-bull ran up and licked the crack of my ass when I was getting out of her shower; I had never felt so violated before in my whole life.
Whenever you’ve been robbed, the very first thing you should always do is immediately go make sure all of your valuables are safe. So I quickly dashed to my secret hiding place in my room to make sure that my midget porn collection was still there. To my surprise it was still safe and sound; all 62 DVD’s. Even the autographed limited edition one I got from Bridget the Midget herself, a week before she scarred her left breast in that big legendary knife fight. Talk about priceless. I realized right then that I was obviously dealing with an amateur. After checking the rest of my place and finding everything still there, I thought “Hmnh…that’s strange. The only thing that seems to be missing is the vodka. Who on earth would go through the trouble of breaking in just to drink up my vodka?” And that’s when it hit me. It was obviously one of those damn doormen. Since they both have master keys to all of our units in case of emergency, not to mention they’re the only ones who knew my comings and goings; it made perfect sense.
Since there were two of them I needed to figure out which one of them was the culprit. Seeing how the bottle of Hennessy I had sitting there was still virtually untouched; I knew right then that it was no way in hell that it was the brother. So that only left the old shifty eye Russian one that’s always giving me the once over when I walk by. Russian guy…Vodka… it didn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. I was beyond furious so I called up the management office and raised all kind of hell; as a result, they came right over to my place for an emergency meeting. I showed them the empty bottles; explained the scenario; and then demanded that they go have the jerk arrested. However, they explained that legally there was really nothing they could do without actual proof that it was indeed Ivan. Since the only way to do that was to catch him dead in the act; they devised an ingenious plan to put a hidden camera in the house. That way, if he broke in again the next day we would have him.
So that evening we replaced both bottles of vodka, and then mounted a little hidden camera on the wall. I then went to work that next morning just as I normally do as not to tip him off. I could barely even concentrate all that day just imagining everything I was going to do to that bastard when I caught him. I thought, “Should I kick his ass first and then call the police; or do call the police and then kick his ass?” Either way he was getting his ass kicked. I even spent my entire lunch hour in the gym that day jumping rope and busting out a few push-ups. I figured I better get my agility up just in case the little bitch made a run for it. Right after work, I high-tailed it back home as quick as I could. I ran straight to my apartment and low and behold; just as I suspected one of the bottles was nearly empty. I now had all the proof I needed. Fuming mad, I ran out to the doormen station to confront him. I shouted “Mutha’ F*ka I finally caught you! Get ready because I’m about to whoop yo’ thieving Russian ass!” I then charged at Ivan going full speed. I honestly wasn’t prepared for what came next. Ivan did some quick little move I hadn’t anticipated, and the next thing I knew; I was pinned in a headlock screaming “Get him off me! Get him off me!” to the Black guy. I had no idea Russians could fight so good. I imagine that’s why they make such good spies.
The police were eventually called because of all the commotion, along with the two original guys from the management office. Since Ivan still insisted on denying everything, we all went inside my apartment to review the tape. I explained to the officers since I left for work at 9am they’re sure to find him somewhere on there between then and now. I then gave Ivan the most evil look I could muster while we all waited for the officer to cue up the tape. As he slowly rewound the footage with us all looking at the monitor, there was absolutely zero activity on there between those hours. I thought, “Wow, how in the hell did he manage to do that?” Now more pissed than ever, I exploded “Great! He obviously saw you guys come back last night with the bag from Radio Shack and was on to us! That asshole must’ve erased the tape!” Just as Ivan and I were beginning to argue again, the officer cuing the tape interjected, “Guys, I think we got something here.” We all turned back to view the monitor.
The officer went back to 3:30am on the tape and I literally could not believe what I saw. To my surprise; all of a sudden I appeared on screen walking from my bedroom in sort of this strange sleep-like trance, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and my little tidy whiteys. I then walked over to the cabinet and took out a martini glass and a shaker, along with some other ingredients from the fridge. Next, I went over to the bar and proceeded to make myself a full out cosmopolitan, garnish and all. It was unbelievable. I thought “WTF?? I don’t even like cosmopolitans.” To everyone’s dismay, I knocked four of them back and less than ten minutes. Standing there watching myself, I thought “Wow, not only am I a raging drunk in my sleep; apparently I’m a gay one too.” After everything was over, still in my trance I went over to the sink and washed everything up and put it back neatly in its place. Finally, I then staggered back to my room and shut the door again. I swear this had to be the spookiest thing I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. But then again, I guess it does kind of explain those few times I woke up in my bathtub wearing nothing but my some dress socks and a rape whistle. Not to mention all those damn excruciating morning headaches.
Everyone began instantly looking at me. Talk about awkward. At a complete loss for words; the only thing I left to say was, “Hey…since we’re all here, would anyone care for drink? Apparently I make one hell of a Cosmo.” None of them thought the joke was funny whatsoever. Then, just as I was in the middle of my apology to poor Ivan, believe it or not, it suddenly got even worse. The officer cuing the tape replied, “Uhh.. guys, there’s actually more here. You might want to see this.” I thought, “What the hell else could there be?” At exactly three minutes later on the tape, I suddenly emerged from my room again; only this time with one of my midget porn DVD’s in my hand. I shrieked to myself “Oh God no!” Still sleep walking, I headed directly over to the DVD player and popped the disk in. Next to everyone’s astonishment; I took off all my clothes and then proceeded to do the most lewd and despicable “self love” session probably ever caught on camera. I’m sure of-course every guy has a little freaky side in them. But this stuff made that infamous sex scene between Mickey Rourke and Lisa Bonet in Angel Heart, look more like a Disney film. It was so disgusting I just wanted to drop to my knees right then and start doing Hail Marys, and I’m not even Catholic. It was almost impossible to watch. I used random stuff around the house as props, and pieces of furniture for positions that required leverage. One move, for some crazy reason even required me to get a running start. That was the point that everyone just winced, “Ouch”. At one point it got so bad that the two officers even had to look away. When you can weird out two NYPD officers, who’ve no doubt seen some of the most horrific crime scenes known to man: that is technically not a good thing.
The situation was so awkward, that when the tape was over nobody literally said a word including the two officers. Everyone just sort of walked out in silence without making eye contact with one another, no doubt in hopes of forgetting everything they’d just seen. As soon as they all left, the very first thing I did was go put on a rubber glove and immediately throw all my remotes in the trash. It was pretty damn clear after seeing what I did with them on that tape that I was never touching those again. I then went to my computer and began searching through Craig’s List for a new apartment, because there’s no way in hell I can stay in this building after that.
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This past weekend I flew home to Grand Rapids Michigan for a family event. Boarding my flight, we were all greeted by two very wholesome Marsha Brady looking flight attendants. They both had perfect blond hair, pearly whites, and smiles that went from ear to ear. As I headed to my seat I thought to my self “Wow, what a professional looking crew.” Just then from behind a long line of passengers came barging through, this chubby ass middle aged black woman, dressed in a “way too tight” and bedazzled stewardess uniform; and announcing to the crew at the top of her lungs.. “My bad…I know I’m late! My daughter got arrested again.” I turned to see what all the commotion was and I could not believe my eyes. As soon as I saw her honey blond extensions, dirty pink house shoes, and gold plated necklace that read “Niecey”; something just told me I was in for an interesting flight.
Our plane checked in full; so from the moment we hit the sky, the flight attendants appeared somewhat overwhelmed as they scrambled to assist all the passengers. Instead of lending a hand to help the other two ladies who were obviously struggling; Niecey “the ghetto flight attendant”, just sat in the rear of the plane the entire time with her shoes off, and repeatedly cracking her toes while playing Tetris on her phone. And every time a passenger would walk over and ask her for something; without even looking from the phone she would just reply “Chile…my feet hurt, you gone have to ask somebody else for that”. I had never seen anything like it before in my life.
Since the flight was just under an hour there was no meal service scheduled, not even a measly bag of peanuts. However about 20 minutes into the flight, everyone noticed that the entire cabin suddenly began smelling just like old greens and feet. Curious, I leaned my head around the corner to investigate the smell and I could not believe my eyes. Niecey’s ghetto ass had stunk up the entire plane warming up an old plate of soul food that she brought from home. And from the smell of things, that plate had been sitting in the back of her refrigerator for two weeks. She had catfish, greens, macaroni, yams; you name it, she had it piled up on that plate. She then proceeded to douse the entire hot sauce; sit back down in her seat with a bottle of Grape Crush, and loudly smack her way through the entire plate. So not only did we not get a meal service on the plane; we all had to sit there and smell Niecey’s old catfish and greens for the entire flight. This was slowly turning into the flight from hell.
About 20 minutes later I realized I had to use the rest room. Since there was a long line of people waiting to use the one in the back near me, I decided to walk to the front of the plane and use the one in first class. Just as I was reaching for the restroom door, Niecey literally came sprinting up from the rear of the plane barefoot with her stockings on, and screaming “Nuh Uh!! Nigga you know you can’t use that! That’s first class!” Startled, I explained to her that the other one was crowded and no one was using this one. But by this time she had jimmied herself between me and the door, blocking my entrance. Taken aback I asked,“What’s the big deal? It’s just a bathroom, besides I’m already up here now.” But with her lips pursed sideways she just kept exclaiming, “Nope, rules is rules. You can not use these people’s bathroom! Go to the one in the back!!” I tried to open the door anyway, but it was pretty clear that she wasn’t going to move out of my way. So with no other choice, I decided to fake her out. I pretended to walk back to my seat, and as soon as she turned around, I quickly doubled back and darted into the restroom. Enraged, she began banging and yelling on the door for me to come out; but I figured, at this point there was pretty much nothing she could do. So I thought. Just as I was coming out and heading to my seat, now determined for revenge, Niecey quickly pulled the beverage cart over into the aisle and began serving drinks all over again just so I couldn’t get by. With all of the other flight attendants looking confused as to why Niecey was serving drinks again just 20 minuets later, she made sure to take even 4 times longer than usual. I thought to myself, “This is one petty ass bitch.”.
About 20 minutes later, the flight attendants began walking through the cabin to prepare for arrival. By this time, I was sitting half asleep in my seat, and I didn’t realize that my foot was slightly sticking out into the aisle. As Niecey was walking backwards through the cabin collecting last minute trash, she accidentally tripped over my foot and fell completely backwards to the floor. Her big bag of trash flew in the air. Completely in shock, I quickly apologized and went to help her up from the ground. As soon as she saw that it was me that tripped her, assuming that I did it on purpose to get her back from earlier, she instantly hopped back to her feet and to my surprise, she hauled off and slapped the dog sh*t out of me. “WHAP!” Boy was I not expecting that. She actually hit me so hard that I went delirious. For a second I thought I was back in my grandmother’s kitchen playing scrabble with Jesus. I had never been hit that hard before in my life. It was like she had a bag of nickels in her hand. Thank God, my Grandma’s chihuahua Smokey came running in when he did and warned me to “Stay away from the light”. Otherwise I would’ve for sure been a goner. Just as I came to, and tried to explain to her again that it was really just a mistake; before I knew it, she had done slapped me again with her other hand only this time even harder. I thought to myself, “WTF?? Is this bitch ambidextrous?” As much as I wanted to sit there and rationalize with her, it didn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was coming back for thirds. So thinking fast, before she could hit me again, I quickly leaned in and caught her in the stomach with a quick uppercut. I must’ve knocked the wind out of her too; because she doubled all the way over to the floor holding her stomach.
Now I don’t know exactly what was in those greens; but she suddenly got up and shook that punch off like the Terminator, and then began taking off her jewelry. Now, I don;t know about you… But I’ve seen enough Ghetto Brawl clips on YouTube to know that this was technically not a good sign. Although I normally would never in a million years condone hitting a woman; from the look in her eyes, it was pretty clear that I was going to have to fight this bitch to the death. The next thing I knew, Niecey and I were rolling through the aisle fighting like two alley cats. And I am actually man enough to say, that this bitch was whooping my ass. I probably would’ve had a better chance against a pack of wild orangutans. I had no idea a person could even move so fast. I began praying aloud, “Can somebody ‘PLEASE’ come break this up?” But to my surprise, the entire plane started chanting in unison, “Kick his ass… kick his ass”. I thought, “Kick ‘my’ ass? What the hell did I do to them?” Not to mention, the last thing this bitch needs is more encouragement. By the time the air marshal finally made his way over; Niecey had me pinned between the aisle in a half nelson.
As soon as the plane landed, we were both detained in the security office for questioning. As it turned out; because Niecey had violated the airline’s strict policy against kicking a passengers ass, she was let go right there on the spot. And as consolation, I was released with a formal apology from the airline and 500,000 frequent flier miles. Apparently, this wasn’t Niecey’s first time fighting a passenger. My only prayer is that the footage isn’t somewhere floating around on YouTube. The last thing I need is it getting out that yet another woman publicly kicked my ass. Women tend not to be attracted to that.
*This B&TC Rewind Originally Ran back in April.
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One day while riding the A, I met this extremely attractive woman and we decided to exchange numbers. After a couple of weeks of talking on the phone, I realized that I was really beginning to like her. Aside from the fact that for some reason she never seemed to answer her phone after 7pm; I’d say she was pretty much everything I was looking for in a woman. I figured hey, so what if she goes to sleep way earlier than most people I know. Hell, my grandmother goes to bed every single night right after the five o’clock news: and that doesn’t make her a horrible person. Personally, I kind of liked the fact that she really valued her rest. Not to mention, I figured if we ever started dating; I’d save a fortune on matinee movie tickets. The last time a date insisted on going to a movie after 6pm, the tickets were $13 dollars a piece. Plus she had the nerve to ask me for popcorn and snacks on top of that. I was actually offended. That’s another $30 bucks. I replied, “Who the hell do I look like…Jay Z?”
Last Wednesday, she and I finally decided to go on our first date. To my surprise, instead of going out to some expensive restaurant and a movie; she actually invited me over to her place for dinner. Talk about ecstatic. Under my calculations, she had already just saved me roughly $80 bucks on our first date alone. Now in my book, that’s what you call a real keeper. To me, nothing on earth is sexier than a woman who’s fiscally responsible. Walking up to her building, I thought “Shoot, if things keep going this good; I could actually see myself marrying this girl. And plus, now that the library near my mom finally has a computer; we might even be able to scratch the whole ceremony and just do the entire wedding via Skype? Wouldn’t that be cost effective?” Ringing the buzzer to her building, I pondered “I wonder if instead of a wedding gown, she’d be willing to go more business casual? I get 30% off everything at The Work Barn; not to mention I’m sure a lot of women would love getting married in nice pant suit.”
When she opened the door, she was even more beautiful than I remembered on the train. However it could’ve had something to do with the fact that she was wearing nothing but a teddy. My first impression was, “Wow, she really does go to bed early.” I had assumed we would sit down for a nice meal, but before I knew it within minutes, we were literally upstairs in her bedroom going at it. This was without a doubt the easiest date I ever had. We had already pretty much made it to 3rd base; and the only money I had to spend money on was pack of Dentine and an across town bus transfer. I thought, “Damn…God is good!” Then just as things were really starting to get hot and heavy, she excused herself to the restroom in order to go “prepare”. And every guy knows what that means. I thought, “OMG, first the $80 bucks and now this. This night just keeps getting better and better!”
The second she left the room, I quickly ripped off all my clothes. I even put on my condom in advance so I wouldn’t have to fuss with it later on in the moment. I learned from experience that no matter how many times you explain that they all come from the same factory; some women get a little put off the second they see a Walmart brand condom. All of a sudden her phone began to ring. After several rings, to my surprise her answering machine picked up. Suddenly, on the other end of the line I heard a man’s voice screaming “Sheila! Answer this damn phone! I know you in there with some other nigga! I’m parked out front and I can see his shadow moving around!” Startled, I thought “Jesus Christ…what the f*ck?” I darted over to the window and looked out; and sure enough, parked directly in front of her building was a white minivan with the lights on. I thought “Oh no!! This sh*t is really happening!” Suddenly, he startled me by screaming through the machine “Nigga I see you looking out the window! I’m gone kill yo’ ass…you hear me? I’m gone kill both of yawl mutha f*ckas!” Frighted, I tripped backwards over the night stand trying to jump out of the window.
Next I began totally freaking out. I’ve seen enough episodes of Snapped to know that this kind of thing never ends pretty. Panicked out of my mind I thought, “Man, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend! No wonder she never answers after seven! And now he’s s about to come up here and blow my head off! This was technically not a good date any more!” Completely frantic by this point, I quickly began throwing on clothes. I accidentally knocked two pictures off the wall, just trying to get my leg back in my stupid underwear. Clothes always seem smaller when your in a rush; and I only had seconds to get the hell out of there, so this was no time to be neat. Hearing all the commotion, suddenly Sheila came running into the room and yelled “What in the world is going on? And why are you stretching out my good panties?” Almost completely out of breath from hyperventilating, I shouted “There’s no time to explain! The jig is up! Your boyfriend knows and he’s parked out front! He said he’s about to come up here and kill us both!” I then yelled “Save yourself!” as I headed for the back fire escape with my pants and shoes still in my hand.
In the midst of all of the madness, I realized that for some reason she seemed to still be cool as a cucumber. Baffled, I thought “Oh great! The poor thing is in shock. Now I’m gonna have to try to lift her big ass down the damn fire escape too!” This was not looking good. Again she yelled “Wait…stop! It’s okay; you don’t have to go anywhere.” Still in a frenzy, I snapped “You stupid bitch didn’t you hear me? He’s on his way up here to kill us both!” Still relaxed and now slightly chuckling she replied “Calm down. You’re perfectly safe. He can’t come up here. He’s in a wheel chair.” Now more confused than ever, I replied “What do you mean? He’s down there right now, I saw him!” She finally explained “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. That’s actually a special van he has. He can drive it all across town, but he can’t get out unless I go carry him out!” She then showed me a picture that they took together the year before in Hawaii; and just like she said, he was indeed in a wheel chair. She then added “See relax….he can blow and circle the block all he wants, but he can’t get out that van unless I go get him.”
I sat down on the bed in order to catch my breath. Seconds later she began massaging my shoulders and chest very sensually. She was obviously pretty set on continue what we had started. I was still a little frazzled, but I thought “Hell, there’s no use in wasting a good condom. That’s like throwing $1.23 right down the drain.” With that said, we continued doing the do. Although it was a bit difficult to get into with her boyfriend constantly honking his horn, and yelling through the machine “Bitch…I said come out here and get me!” and “I can see yawl shadows up there! Whose foot was that??”
By the time I finally left her apartment that morning; her poor boyfriend was out there sound asleep in his little special seat inside the van. I felt just awful too. Standing there looking through the window at him sleeping so peacefully, I suddenly realized “Wait….why am I feeling so sorry for this guy? After all, I’m the one that had to back to paying for full fare movie tickets now. Standing beside the van, I whispered softly “I may have won the battle last night. But you sir have won the war. Touché my friend…touché.”
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I got a tip from my supervisor Chris that the major account rep position I had been wanting had recently just become available. It seems that Gracie, the little 68 year old Jewish lady that originally had the position; went on another one of her drinking binges and apparently got hit by another bus. Since this time Gracie was going to be in traction for at least a year, the position was pretty much up for grabs. It’s no secret that I had been after this position for a while. However, since the owner of the company Mr. Randall is known for being somewhat distant and cold, it makes him extremely hard to warm up to. Every single morning for the past 2 years, whenever I pass him in the hall, I always smile really big and say “Good Morning Mr. Randall! How are you doing on this beautiful day?” And every single morning for the past 2 years, he just looks at me with a blank face and says absolutely nothing. Although once I got excited because I thought he was finally waving hi; but as it turns out there was just a stupid fly in the hall.
After years of trying to get into Mr. Randall’s good graces, this past Friday God finally threw me a bone. It turned out that his wife Mrs. Randall was in the city for the day doing some shopping, and decided to drop by the office to take her husband to lunch. Although I had never really met Mrs. Randall before, she seemed like a pretty nice woman. Unlike her husband, she actually smiled at me as I walked by. That’s was when it finally hit me. I thought “Wait a minute! Everyone knows the easiest way to a person’s heart is through their family. If I could somehow find away to make Mrs. Randall love me; Gracie’s position would no doubt then be mine.” Since I saw that she was expecting, it was easy. I’d just surprise her with a really nice gift for the baby. What lady wouldn’t get all mushy over that sh*t? The idea was dare I say genius. Why didn’t I even think of it before? Since they were going out to lunch I realized I had about an hour to work my magic. So with minutes to spare, I hit the streets of Manhattan.
I stumbled across this really nice baby store on 5th avenue. All though the prices were way more expensive than I originally thought; I figured it really didn’t matter. After all, I was investing in my own future. The saleswoman immediately sprung into action helping me to find the perfect gift. Shopping for wealthy people can be somewhat tricky. Mainly because you never want to get the wrong thing and come off as cheap. Sometimes you have to spend big in order to play in the big leagues. With that said, I spared no expense and decided to go with the most expensive breast pump in the entire place. Talk about state of the art. This thing even had a special little feature to massage the tit after the baby was done. I literally thought of everything. Who cares that it cost more than my damn computer? Because of my gift, Mrs. Randall and her child would now have a bond that would last for the rest of their lives; and in my book that’s priceless. I had them gift wrap it beautifully, and also bought a dozen pink and blue balloons to give it that extra “wow” affect. It was so huge by the time she was done that I could barely even get through the door.
Heading back to the office, I could hardly wait to see the looks on their faces when I walked in with my gift. When Mr. Randall sees his wife all overwhelmed with emotion from her new breast pump, he would have no choice but to finally take notice of me. As a result, Gracie’s position would definitely be mine. Walking down the street I also thought, “Hey, wouldn’t it be so cool if after this, Mr. Randall invited me out to the house one Sunday afternoon for a round of golf?” Being that I was never all that close to my father growing up, I imagined “What if Mr. Randall even became that father figure in my life that I always dreamed of? Wouldn’t that be incredible? I could go with them on their little family vacations to the Hamptons; and even call him whenever I needed a little fatherly advice on dating situations or early detection of STD’s. Believe it or not but I actually got a little misty eyed just thinking about it; and wondering just how long it would be before I could start calling him pops. Most other sales reps would never even dream of spending three hundred dollars on a gift for their boss’s wife. But, I guess that’s what separates losers like them, from ingenious business mavericks such as my pops and I. In life it just never pays to be cheap. Sometimes in you have to just take a risk in order to win big.
I just happened to walk back into the lobby at the same time that Mr. & Mrs. Randall were kissing each other goodbye. This was finally my big moment of truth. There in front of the entire office, I walked over with the gift and balloons in hand, and exclaimed “Excuse me Mrs. Randall, I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Brett Sanders and I’m a sales rep here. And I just wanted to congratulate you on this very special time in your life. This gift comes from the bottom of my heart. And don’t bother thanking me, because we’re family here. That’s just what we do.” To my surprise, the entire room went completely silent. And for nearly two minutes no one absolutely said a word. Somewhat confused, I took the breast pump out of the bag so she could see it, and explained “I wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl, so I just got something you could use regardless. From the look of things you obviously don’t have long. Have you already started picking out names?” At this point Mrs. Randall’s face turned almost fire engine red. Still not catching on, said to her “I imagine you’re probably too over whelmed with emotion to speak right now.” At that moment Mr. Randall just looked at me like I was the plague and exclaimed “My wife isn’t pregnant.”
Talk about awkward. That was so not the response I had expected to hear. Freaking out inside, I thought “How the hell was I supposed to know? Her stomach is so big she almost looks overdue.” I couldn’t believe what I had just done. I was so embarrassed that I just wanted to melt. Not to mention that by now it was so quite on the floor that you could literally hear everyone’s heart beating. At a complete loss for words, and about four months too late to yell “April Fools”; the only thing left I could think to say was “Wow. Uhm…are you guys by chance planning to have kids anytime soon?” With fire shooting from his eyes, Mr. Randall very calmly replied “No. We’re actually not.” I thought, “F*ck!! This is not definitely going as planned. I guess there goes the father son sack race at the next company picnic “ At this point literally grasping at straws, I responded with “Uhm…would you perhaps believe me if I told you I was Psychic?”
With everyone on the floor still pretty much standing there in shock; I figured it would probably be best if I just left early for the day. With my head down as low as it could go, as I walked by my supervisor on the way to the elevator; he looked at me and remarked, “But even if she was pregnant Brett. A breast pump? Really?”
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Sometimes I swear that my parents must’ve lost a bet to the gods the day I was born; because no one on earth could possibly have any worst luck than mine. Case and point; last Friday night after having one too many vodka gimlets in the city, I decided to take the A train back home to Brooklyn. Even though the A train is notorious for having somewhat shady characters late at night; I figured “Hell I’m a guy, what’s the worst that can happen to me?”
It was about 3am, so the trains were all pretty much a ghost town by now. When I stumbled on to the A, I immediately noticed a group of about 6 girls huddled over on the other side of the car. Judging by the fact that sitting there together, you would’ve sworn that you were looking at the Wu Tang Clan and with voices just as deep; I think it’s pretty safe to assume that they were all lesbians. In fact, I’d never seen so many manly looking women before in my life. Between all of their work boots; their baggy jeans sagged low over their boxers; and the way they pulled their Yankee caps low as they each took turns spitting their favorite Jay Z lyrics; it suddenly donned on me that they actually kind of looked more masculine than me. Sitting there in my skinny jeans, new white espadrilles, and my yellow metro-sexual v-neck I just got from American Apparel; I think it was pretty darn obvious who the bitch was on that train. With that said I just leaned back in my seat, and continued listening to The Best of Mariah Carey on my Iphone. I’ll tell you; absolutely no one belts out a ballad like that lady.
When the train made a stop at Canal, to my surprise another big group of lesbians got on. Believe it or not, but this group was even more masculine than the first. Actually this group of women was so big and Black, that my first thought was “Wow, there must be a Biggie Smalls lookalike conventions in town.” In fact, these new bitches were so butch that they actually made the first group look like The Pussy Cat Dolls. Several of them even had goatees, which really f*cked me up. At 3 am when you’re already tipsy, the last thing you need to see is a bunch of women looking like Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes. It took me a few extra minutes to process it. Now normally, it would be every guy’s fantasy to be stuck on a subway car at three in the morning surrounded by large groups of lesbians. However, this was most certainly not one of those occasions.
Apparently, the two groups of lesbians must’ve been some kind of rivals. Because moments after the 2nd group got on, there were lots of dirty looks followed by several nasty comments coming from both sides. Eventually things escalated because before I knew it, both sides had jumped up and began squaring off right there in the center of the train. Just as I’m really starting to get into Dream Lover; I looked up and suddenly everyone is now holding knives, bats, and brass knuckles around their fists. One girl even whipped out a big 12 inch black dildo with metal spikes around the head. I thought “What the f*ck is she going to do with that monstrosity?” Truthfully, it kind of scared me a little. I thought to myself, “I hope to God these sex toy companies are not using “real” models when they come up with these sizes. Because if there are really guys out there that big; then my ass is in a heap of trouble.” It would certainly explain why after all these years, women never seem to get a call back the next day.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, the prettiest one of the bunch who looked like a cross between Marsha Warfield and Refrigerator Perry threw the first punch. The next thing you know the entire train broke into complete pandemonium. Meanwhile here I am, a little 5’6 Black guy, trapped in the middle of a pack of big lesbian gang bitches out for blood. I had never seen women fight like this before in my life. Truthfully, men either. There were chin checks, body blows, and bitches hitting bitches with bats. For a second there, I actually thought I was watching that movie The Warriors in 3D (The Deleted Scenes). The only thing missing was the little guy with the freaky voice clinking two bottles between his fingers. It was pretty clear that the first group of lesbians were no match for the second. They did their best to hold them off; but as soon as the train came to a stop at Hoyt Street, they decided to make a run for it. The second group took off running right after them. Now here I am, still completely floored, and thinking “Okay, did I just stumble on some kind of secret underworld war zone?” Who knows; maybe lesbians always fight each other to the death, late at night on the trains when no one else is around? As far as we know, this could’ve been going on since the beginning of time. I could hardly wait to go write a letter to the people from True Blood and tell them damn those werewolves. If they really want to up it a notch, they need to introduce a pack of butch lesbians on the show. Talk about scary; those poor vampires wouldn’t knew what hit them.
Since Hoyt was also my stop, I got off the train too. Walking up the stairs, I thought “Damn why didn’t I take pictures, because no one is ever going to believe what I just saw.” Still giggling to myself, I pulled out my phone to send off a tweet. Just as I was pressing send, I heard a voice yell out “There goes another one! Get em’!” When I looked up, I saw the 2nd group of lesbians running towards my direction. Still a bit tipsy, I thought “Wow, it’s still not over! Let me get phone ready so I can record it this time.” Just as I turned around ready to push record; I realized that for some crazy reason, they all had now surrounded me; hyena style. Somewhat confused, I explained “Oh I’m sorry. There’s obviously some kind of confusion here. I wasn’t with that group of girls just now.” The leader of the pack all of a sudden stepped up and said “Don’t try to sell out yo’ crew now! I’m sick of you bitches always talkin’ shit at the club!” It suddenly hit me what was going on here. I quickly exclaimed, “Wait, you have this all wrong! Really! I’m not a lesbian.” At that point, all of the girls literally fell out on the floor laughing. The leader then replied “Bitch please! You may not be the most masculine one of the bunch. But I know a tired ass dike when I see one. Y’all get that bitch!!”
Thinking fast; I quickly socked the smallest one in the eye who looked just like Gary Coleman, and then took off running. So now here I am, running for my life through the streets of Brooklyn, with a pack of angry butch lesbians hot on my ass. This was definitely not the way I wanted to end my Friday night. The next thing you know, I tripped over one of my damn espadrilles; and before I knew it they were all standing over me kicking and punching me in the side. And just for the record, lesbians are extremely heavy handed. Next, a few of them held down my arms and legs so that I couldn’t get up. Suddenly, the leader steps up and yells “It’s time to really punish this bitch now! Break out Big Brutus!!” Now of course I’m thinking “Uh oh…what the hell is Big Brutus? This is not looking good.”
The next thing you know, one of the girls pulled back out the big black 12 inch rubber dildo with the spikes from earlier on the train. Then as if on cue, two others began unbuttoning my pants. I swear; you would’ve sworn that Liam Neeson had just announced for them to “Release the Kraken!”; because as soon as I looked up and saw that big black rubber dildo whipping back and forth in the wind; I thought to myself “Oh God, No!!!.” Panicked beyond belief, the only thing I could do was yell out “Jesus please be with me” right before I passed out cold. I guess my brain had seen enough episodes of OZ to realize that I probably wouldn’t want to be conscious for what was coming next. So just like when I was five, and my alcoholic grandmother used to breastfeed me, just so she could buy Colt 45 with the money my mother left for food; I went inside to my little happy place to hide until it was all done.
In the middle of being unconscious, I suddenly heard them saying, “Oh sh*t… we f*cked up! He really isn’t a lesbian.” When I came to seconds later, with my underwear still down to my ankles; the lesbians were all extremely apologetic saying repeatedly how sorry they were; and how it was an honest mistake; and that it really could’ve happened to anyone. But as I stood up to gather myself, I realized that they all seemed to be looking at me with judgment, and snickering. When I realized exactly what they were all laughing at, it absolutely infuriated me. I yelled “What the hell is so funny? Obviously this isn’t my normal size! I was scared! ” Hell, everyone knows that being petrified is just like being in water. It causes severe shrinkage. Still snickering as they walked away, they tried patronizing me by saying, “Hey man… it’s not a problem. We totally get it.” As I walked back home that night still battered and bruised, I declared in that moment that I absolutely hate all lesbians: what the hell do they know about penises anyway? And I can’t wait until I see another one on the train, so I can finally show them what my “normal” size looks like.
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It all started with a call from my friend Dave. Dave works part time at the local senior citizens home taking patients out for their daily walks. Some people walk dogs for a living; Dave walks old people. Apparently Dave had lost his wallet the night before, and was now stuck all the way in the Bronx. He explained that he would definitely be fired if he missed one more day at work, and then begged me to cover for him just this one time. He pleaded, “Please, I promise you it’s so easy. My patient’s name is Miss Clarabelle, and I swear she’s literally the sweetest old lady in the world. All you have to do is go take her on a walk around the block; and then to her favorite little diner on 7th Ave. She even pays for lunch, how simple is that?” Of course I’ve learned from experience that nothing is ever that simple with Dave. However as much as I had no desire to spend my whole Saturday afternoon “Walking Miss Daisy”, I couldn’t just let my friend lose his job. Mainly because then his stank feet would be on my couch for the next 3 months. So, I finally agreed to cover for his ass just this once, for 45 bucks and plus of course the free lunch.
When I arrived at the center, as promised Miss Clarabelle was already sitting in her chair ready to go. Miss Clarabelle was a little frail 75 year old white woman with varicose veins and smoking a huge cigar. With a big smile I introduced myself and explained that I would be replacing Dave for the day. To my surprise, she didn’t say a word. I assumed she had a bit of a hearing problem, so I repeated myself again much louder. Still, although she was looking right at me she said absolutely nothing. At that moment Miss Clarabelle’s day nurse walked in the room and said “Oh she heard just you fine. She’s just being difficult. She won’t say too much to you today at all. Although she may call you a spear chuckin’ nigger if she gets the notion. But pay her no mind.” I thought “Wow, this is just great. I’m stuck for the day babysitting Mel Gibson’s grandmother. Dave strikes again.” As I began helping Miss Clarabelle to her walker, the nurse turned to me and said “By the way, did Dave tell you? Because of Miss Clarabelle’s medical condition; she must go to the bathroom every single day at noon. If bowel gets backed up in her system, she could get real sick and die. Now she’s not going to remind you, because she absolutely hates to go. But it’s extremely important she does. She doesn’t have a choice.” I thought “Great, another thing that asshole conveniently forgot to include.” I swear it never pays to be nice. Miss Clarabelle and I then began our journey around the streets of Brooklyn.
I quickly learned that nothing on this entire planet is near as excruciating as trying to take an old 75 year old woman for a walk. Every single step seemed like an eternity. First, it would take everything she had just to scoot her little walker up literally a whole half an inch. Then, I’d have to sit there and watch patiently while she spent the next five minutes trying to catch up to it with her feet. Then if that wasn’t bad enough; every now and then she would somehow get confused and forget which way she was walking. This of course meant I’d have to wait an additional 6 minutes just for her to untangle her legs and head the right way again. Believe it or not, it took us close to 45 minutes just to make it out front to the sidewalk. Finally not able to take it anymore; as soon as we got out of eye range of the building; I placed Miss Clarabelle in the little built in seat and proceeded to push her the rest of the way. I figured at that rate, summer would be over by the time we made it back.
We finally arrived at the little diner around the block, and sat down for what had to be the most awkward lunch of my life. The entire time we ate, Miss Clarabelle just sat there and dog stared me in complete silence, while she gummed away at her little low sodium pretzel sticks she brought from home. I mean, you could literally hear a pin drop at the table. This lunch could not go by fast enough. I just happened to look at the clock and realize it was noon. Remembering the stiff warning I got from the nurse, I immediately sprung into action. The following is a transcript of our conversation:
Me: Uhhm Miss Clarabelle. You see the clock? It’s 12:00pm.
Clarabelle: So.
Me: Well, you have to go to the restroom right?
Clarabelle: No I don’t.
Me: But your nurse said you have to go every day at noon.
Clarabelle: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: She said it’s kind of crucial that you go, or else you’ll get sick.
Clarabelle: I don’t have to go. I went before we left.
Completely baffled, I’m now thinking “Well if she doesn’t have to go, I certainly can’t make her.” Just to be safe, I called up the nurse and informed her that she obviously didn’t have to go. The nurse then replied, “Don’t pay her any mind. She does this all the time. You need to make her go otherwise she will die.” I thought “WTF!! I basically had minutes to force Miss Clarabelle to go pee against her will; or else end up with an old dead white woman on my hands. What kind of a f*cked up Bruce Willis movie was this? I felt like I was starring in “Pee Hard 2 With a Vengeance”. This was not how I imagined my Saturday afternoon going. I finally took a deep breath; and then calmly explained, “Miss Clarabelle, I just spoke with your nurse. She says that you have to go to the restroom whether you want to or not. Now either we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. It’s up to you?” Miss Clarabelle just looked away and began whistling like I wasn’t even there. I realized then that this was not going to be pretty.
Determined to save this old lady’s life, I stood up from my seat and exclaimed, “Okay Miss Clarabelle, time to go make water.” To my surprise, as slow as she moves; she suddenly jumped up without her walker and tried to make a mad dash for the door. Or at least her version of one. The diner was small and pretty narrow, with about 5 booths on each side and a little restroom back in the center of the room, just big enough for a toilet and a sink. With no other choice; I grabbed Miss Clarabelle by the arm, and literally began pulling her back to the restroom kicking and screaming. Now picture me; a little 5’6 Black guy; struggling to pull this 75 year old white woman into a public restroom against her will while everyone in the whole diner looks on. In that instant I thought, “Why does this sh*t always end up happening to me?” Of course being the only Black guy in the place, I could only imagine what was going through everyone’s head. I’m sure they all thought I was some perverted little geriatric rapist, out for some poontane at any cost. Any second now, I just knew someone was going to reach for their pepper spray. After about several minutes of us seriously struggling in the middle of this dining room; one of the ladies eating at the counter shouted out “The other guy usually just carries her in there. It’s much easier that way.” Then everyone went back to eating as if this happens every single day. I immediately thought, “I’m gonna kill that f*ckin Dave!” Then just as she suggested, I picked Clarabelle’s old ass up over my shoulders, and carried her into the restroom with her screaming and fighting.
Once inside the little bathroom stall, Clarabelle still refused to go. For the next 10 minutes I had to literally wrestle with her to get her panties and stockings down; while she tried to bite my hands with her dentures. I thought, “Man…this picture is wrong on soooo many levels.” As soon as I finally managed to get her little old lady stockings down below her saggy ass; she quickly crisscrossed her legs so I couldn’t get them down below her knees. This old brawd had skills. When I still didn’t give up, she yelled out “Rape! Rape! There’s a spear chuckin’ nigger in here trying to rape me!” I then heard a random female voice yell casually back from the other side, “Clarabelle honey, you know its noon! You have to go or you’ll get sick and die!” I guess Clarabelle finally exhausted herself out and decided to give in; and talk about “Thar she blows.” The second her old ass hit the seat it was like a giant pee bomb suddenly went off inside her vagina. Honestly, I had no idea pee could even shoot out at that velocity. And nothing on this entire planet, can compare to the odor of a 75 year old woman’s piss. The flies in the room even had a look on their faces like, “Man…what the f*ck is that?” I mean; I’ve even been tear gassed before, but tear gas had nothing on Miss Clarabelle’s piss. I could physically see the oxygen leaving the room. I quickly realized if that was what number 1 smelled like; there was no way in hell I was waiting around for number 2. Unable to hold my breath a second longer, I mustered up enough strength to say, “Miss Clarabelle I’m going to step out for a moment and give you your privacy.”
I went back to my seat and attempted to catch my breath for a few minutes. I seriously could not believe what I had just gone through. I immediately pulled out my phone and tried to call Dave, but of course that bastard was nowhere to be found. I eventually calmed down when I realized that as crazy as that whole ordeal was; I was just beyond grateful that the difficult part was now at least over. I thought, “Finally, I can finish up my little lunch in peace.” Just then; the bathroom door suddenly swings wide open; and Miss Clarabelle is sitting there on the toilet with her panties down to her ankles, for the whole world to see. Then… at the top of her lunges; she yells out,”Okay I’m done. You can come wipe me now!!!”
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Selling copiers in New York City, literally every day is a new adventure. One moment you could be at a Fortune 500 company on Wall Street; and the next some hole in a wall organization in the Bronx, set up to teach old retired street whores how to read. There’s literally no telling where the day might lead. Once without knowing; I was accidentally scheduled an appointment with, what ended up being the New York branch of the KKK. Boy were they surprised to see my Black ass walk in. However, being the consummate professional; I actually still ended up selling them three copiers that day. In fact I gave them such a great deal, that the grand wizard himself even walked over to me and said, “Son, thank you kindly. And if you weren’t a coon chassin’ nigger…I’d actually shake your hand.” Strangely enough, I was actually kind of touched. I guess you just had to be there. Today was definitely one of those days as well. After months of trying, I was finally granted a meeting with the Permanent Mission of Nigeria; which basically is Nigeria’s embassy located here in Manhattan. From KKK grand wizards, to a room full of Nigerian diplomats: you couldn’t possibly get more polar opposite.
When I first arrived at their building, I was completely blown away. In one of the most exclusive sections of Park Avenue, was this enormous townhouse made completely of marble with two big Nigerian flags posted out front. It felt like a scene right out of Coming to America; and in any moment James Earl Jones himself, was going to answer the door wrapped in a Lion, followed by three topless women sprinkling rose pedals. As I approached the grand foyer that was carved out of gold; even with my suit on I still felt somewhat underdressed. After giving myself the standard pep talk, I eventually rang the bell. After stating my credentials I was finally buzzed in. Once inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Looking around the room, it was evidently clear that whatever decorating budget they had; must’ve been spent entirely on the outside. Because inside had to be one of the most ghetto offices I had ever seen in my life. The paint was chipping off all the walls; the sofa and chairs were all covered in plastic; and above the fireplace was a gigantic poster of their president, stuck to the wall with scotch tape. For Nigeria to have so much money; their décor was… let’s just say, very “apartheid-chic”. When I informed the receptionist that I was there to meet with Ambassador Obutu; he instructed me to have a seat in the lounge.
At 98 degrees, today had to be one of the hottest days we’ve had all year; and as a result waiting for Mr. Obutu, my ass had already began to stick to the plastic sofa. Across the room they had one of those old wooden floor model TV’s from the 70’s; and then propped on top of it, was a little 17 inch flat screen TV that actually worked. Apparently they didn’t have cable, because sticking out from the back of the flat screen was a stretched out hanger used as a make-shift antenna. Now you would think that in a place as official as a government embassy, the TV would broadcast CNN or the BBC all day. However to my surprise, the TV stayed locked on The Jerry Springer Show the entire time. And judging by the reaction from everyone in the room; you’d swear they were watching Masterpiece Theater. Now I’m assuming that the place also served as some sort of residential center; because sitting on the sofa I saw several pets just casually stroll by. There was an old dirty cat; a couple of mangy dogs; I even saw a little chicken run by the TV, which scared the living sh*t out of me. I thought to myself, “Now if I see a damn wildebeest run through this room, I am out.”
Ambassador Obutu and his advisory board finally came down, accompanied by one of Nigeria’s highest ranking ministers who had just flown in that morning. After our introduction, we all took a seat in the boardroom and began going over the presentation. Inside the boardroom had to be about 110 degrees easily. I had never in my life experienced such heat before. And the craziest part of all was that nobody else in the room seemed to be bothered by the heat, but me. Finally I in the middle of his speech I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt Mr. Obutu, but is someone going to turn on the AC?” To my surprise, he replied in his strong accent “We don’t have an AC. We don’t like them.” and then continued on with his speech. Now, inside my head I’m thinking, “Is he f*cking kidding me?” That room was hotter than a damn oven; not to mention without any ventilation, that strong Nigerian funk they were all giving off, seemed to be intensifying with every second. It smelt like somebody let loose a bag of angry skunks in the room; after they played 3 games of basketball. Suddenly in the middle of his speech, I interrupted again “I’m sorry…but can someone please maybe open up a window?” The head minister himself then replied, “No Window. It’s way too loud out there.”
Now cut to me sitting at a table full of powerful smelling Nigerians; my suit dripping with sweat; while everyone else at the table was basically cool as a cucumber. This was not looking good. As much as I wanted to leave, I desperately needed the sale to make quota. So with no other choice, I took off my jacket and just continued on with the meeting. Moments later, everyone at the table began looking at me strangely as I slowly began peeling off layers of my clothing one by one; anything to cool myself down. The next thing you know, I was literally sitting at the table in my white Fruit of the Loom tank top, fanning myself with some guy’s organizer. I mean, this was some serious ass heat. I must’ve lost consciousness for a second; because I was suddenly awakened by Ambassador Obutu yelling, “Mr. Sanders!! In Nigeria it is considered unacceptable to sleep during a meeting!” Now I’m not sure if deliria had set in; or if I just went loopy due to the heat-to-funk ratio in the room; but all of a sudden I just snapped. Not able to take it any longer, I stood up and shouted “Dammit I wasn’t sleep! I passed out! It’s hot as Satan’s ass in here! I don’t know what yall do in Africa; but over here in America, we use AC’s!” From then on, suddenly everything just went completely black. When I woke up, I was laying on the floor with a bunch of frantic Nigerians standing over me. I thought to myself, “Sh*t! I done died and went to the wrong damn heaven. I knew one of them mutha fka’s had a blow dart on him.” I realized I probably shouldn’t have opened my damn mouth. Now I’m gonna have to smell Nigerian funk for the rest of eternity.
I must’ve gone right back under; because the next time I woke up, I was at NYU Hospital with an IV sticking out my arm. Never in my life had I ever been so happy to see white people. As it turned out, I suffered a heat stroke and it took nearly two days for them to restore all of my fluids. And just in case you were wondering; once again, I did not get a sale. But the good news is; this morning I received an email from the President of Nigeria apologizing for my hospital stay; and stating that he would gladly reimburse me $10,000,000.00 dollars for all my medical expenses. All I had to do in return was simply email him back my social security number and bank account information.
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When we left off last week in “Part 1″, I had just gone to Starbucks to meet my blind date, who ended up being this psycho “Special Needs” super model with “Fake Down Syndrome”.
So now here I am, standing there looking bewildered while this little 4’6” women with “fake Down syndrome”, beats the crap out of herself in the middle of Starbucks, with everyone looking on. At that point I just looked up to the sky and said “Wow God, really?” Unfortunately this is all just a typical day in my world. With no other choice, I finally said to her “Alright already, I’ll go with you to your stupid event! Just stop making a scene!” At that point she literally stopped crying on a dime, and said “About f*ckin time. Look Buddy; I get that that there’s no love connection here, on either part. Obviously, I can tell buy those shoes you need cash. So, there’s five hundred bucks in it for you if you make it the end.” Appalled, I shouted under my breath “What a f*ckn bitch! You know, I can tell you don’t have really have Down syndrome. Because I watched that documentary on HBO, and they’re all much nicer than you! And for the record, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with these shoes!” As much as I wanted to call the whole thing off, I realized she had a valid point; I really could use the cash. So with minutes to spare, we jumped in a cab and headed over to Midtown Manhattan.
The cab pulled up in front of The Jacob Javits Center, and I could not believe my eyes. The Marquee read “The National Down Syndrome Awards”, and the entire place was filled with people with Down syndrome as far as the eye could see. There were literally thousands of them, in all shapes and sizes too. To be honest, at first it kind of freaked me out a bit. I don’t care how cool you are; nothing in your life ever prepares you for seeing two thousand Down syndrome patents at the same time, wandering around aimlessly in formal wear. It was almost as if we had stumbled onto the set of some weird new Tim Burton film. Some had on little tuxedos with top hats, some had on glittery evening gowns, and there was even one woman there dressed like a Down syndrome version of Lady Gaga; which to my surprise actually kind of turned me on a little. We eventually pulled to a stop at an area designated for celebrity drop offs. Sensing I was still a bit confused; Rena turned to me and said “Listen up; I don’t want to be around these freaks anymore than you. So let’s get this sh*t over with.” I kid you not; as soon as we stepped out onto the red carpet the crowd literally went berserk. Hundreds of people started running over. There were cameras flashing, teenage girls crying; I had never seen anything like it before. In all the frenzy, I even suddenly started to get excited myself. Turning to see what all the commotion was about, I said to Rena “OMG! Somebody big must be here! You think it’s Oprah?” She looked at me and replied “No, idiot it’s me. Look; just shut up and look pretty. You’re here to make Mama look good alright.” In that moment it then finally hit me, “Holy Sh*t, I’m here with the Down syndrome version of Madonna.” The entire way up the red carpet we were constantly bombarded by both fans and paparazzi alike. Even the reporters had Down syndrome, which made it a little hard to understand their questions. But excited to be there; every time they asked me a something, I just smiled real big and said into the camera “Down syndrome rocks!”
We made it to our seats just as the show was beginning, and oh what a show it was. In addition to all of the many awards being given out that night, were several choreographed song and dance numbers performed by the honorees. My favorite was the three girls that attempted the Down syndrome version of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”. Talk about cool. With the exception of the one girl that kept stopping in the middle of the number to wave to her mom, and the other one that accidentally got tangled up in the curtains; it had to be hands down one of the most entertaining versions I’ve ever seen. During intermission, Rena and I went back to the greenroom to relax a bit before her appearance. Just as we were sitting at a table having a bite to eat; suddenly this 5’8 Down syndrome version of a gangster rapper, with gold chains and a baseball hat walked in, with his entourage in tow. Instantly the whole room became silent, and for some reason everyone started looking at me. Having no idea what was going on, I just continued eating my little sandwich. The next thing you know, this guy starts flipping over all the tables like a madman as he walks over in our direction. So now I’m completely freaking out. With my sandwich still in my mouth, I look over at Rena like “WTF? Is there something here I should know?” She then just rolls her eyes very casually and says, “Great, I can’t go anywhere. I knew this was going to happen.” With food spitting out of my mouth, I asked “Wait…what do you mean you knew this was going to happen? What’s going to happen???”
Now standing directly over us, the crazed rapper yells “Oh, so you come up in here with this cheap shoe wearing N*gga to get back at me?” Pissed, by now I’m thinking “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with these shoes!” Rena then shouts, “Killa G, I told you last night you and I were threw. I don’t love you anymore. This is my new man now!” Now really freaking out, I shouted “Why’d you tell him that? Look Killa G, we just met today!” Suddenly Killa G starts taking off his jacket and all of his gold chains as if he’s preparing for battle. Meanwhile, Rena shouts “Oh really Killa G, that’s so original! He always does this Brett. Just ignore him and act like he’s not even here.” Frantic I respond, “What the hell do you mean ignore him?” The next thing you know I felt a huge blow to the back of my head. Killa G had whacked me one. He then grabbed me in a headlock, and pulled me backwards out of the chair. I could not believe I had just gotten snuck by a gangster rapper with Down syndrome. This was indeed a new low point in my life. With no other choice I turned around, and to my surprise beat the living crap out of Killa G right there in the greenroom. I’d never whooped anybody’s ass like I did his that day. I discovered apparently people with Down syndrome don’t fight all that well. But that was his problem. Because he should’ve thought about that before he snuck me in the back of the head. Several members of his entourage jumped in to help, and believe it or not I whooped all their asses too. Never in my life did I dream I’d be able to kick a room full of guy’s asses. Talk about cool. It was like a scene right out of a karate movie. I thought, “Where are all those damn youtube cameras when you need them?” Suddenly, security came running over and tasered me a few times to calm me down. I was then escorted out of the back door and banned from ever attending the Down Syndrome Awards again. And the worse part of all was I never got my damn five hundred bucks.
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