I saw the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in Milwaukee last night. She approached me in slow motion. A gentle lavender spotlight shined on her curvaceous body as she smiled with seduction radiating from the luxurious fabrics of her Forever XX1 dress. She leaned in close to say something meant only for my ears as I stood there in VIP, fly, still sore from the 400 push-ups I did earlier at home in the dark with Trey songz playing while I was getting ready. She touched my chest gently, smelling like a peach and pineapple smoothie hand crafted by a chef in Jesus’ kitchen. Her voice was angelic as she seductively spoke words that changed the complexion of my entire evening: “Can you hand me my purse, it’s right behind you under that table?”
Ever since my one night transformation into Tiger Woods in Chicago a few years ago, Halloween has been one of my favorite holidays. This year I’ve decided to be Yeezus aka Kanye West. I’ve already ordered a Jesus piece and two Cuban link chains, a pair of red Yeezy’s, some black leather sweatpants, and a bedazzled black ski mask (All of which are fake as hell so don’t rob me). All I need now is for someone to be Kim Kardashian. I was gonna put up an ad on Craigslist but that’s shady. I don’t want some 6’8” fat dude showing up at my door wearing nothing but an open trench coat and some roller blades eating a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles asking to buy gently used underwear. So if you look like Kim, got the cheeks, and are prepared to have every girl in the club hate you and wanna be you at the same time, fax me your info and we can make it happen. Also if anyone has a spare baby they wanna lend us to play North West that’ll be dope. Otherwise I’ll be carrying around a really large compass with a diaper glued to the bottom of it. HURRY UP WITH MY DAMN CROISSANTS.
The trials and tribulations I’ve put myself through during various voyages for vagina has always amazed me. A few years ago one December evening, a fine Latina I knew from the suburbs invited me to celebrate her birthday with her and her friends on a party bus they rented downtown for the night. “Drinking? Party bus? Birthday? She invited me? Oh yeah, time to rush deliver some good old-fashioned birthday sex,” is what was running through my mind.
I didn’t have a car at the time so I had to use my dad’s Lexus chick truck. I parked downtown and started walking towards the bar they were at. I was as sober as a newborn baby llama. I arrived at the bar only to find that everyone was leaving to get back on the party bus. The Latina looked amazing. Wasted, but amazing. “Come with us” she said with lust in her eyes. Terrible idea, I had no idea where they were going and I barely knew this chick. I boarded the bus anyway. I was job interview sober on a bus full of wasted women and her gay best friend who kept calling me “Safari” for some reason. It was too much to handle, but I only had to endure this strife for a little while longer.
After a 30 minute drive the bus stopped. Everyone got off. I assumed we were at another bar. Thank God. I got off the bus ready to drink, but we were in a residential neighborhood I’d never seen before. Everyone on the bus started getting in their cars and going home. The empty bus drove away. I was standing there halfway through 1 warm beer trying to hold a conversation with 5 drunk women and one gay guy who hated my name. Their plan was to continue drinking at one of their houses nearby then we’d all crash there. My problem was, I parked downtown, and they tow cars parked on the street I parked on starting at 6AM. It was 3:45AM so I had to act fast. We entered the house and everyone started passing out fairly quickly. My lady seemed like she sobered up a little bit. She even started dipping chips in some leftover sloppy joe and eating it.
We made up a futon to sleep on then laid down. We cuddled, kissed, and giggled. Things were finally looking up. Right as I things began to heat up, I heard the most heartbreaking sound ever: zzz….zzzz….zzzz. She was knocked the fuck out. I tried to revive her with some fake coughs and exaggerated stretching. I tried nudging her once, which caused an evil drunken sleep fart to slip out of her. I was devastated. I turned over, pissed off like a neglected wife. Staring at the ceiling with tears and shattered dreams in my eyes. Partly because my leg was warm from her fart, partly because the room smelt like boiled sloppy joes now, partly because I knew my chances for coochie decreased by 119%, but mostly because I had no way back to my dad’s car. It was 5AM so I had no choice but to escape on foot. I walked in the freezing December weather through the shadiest of neighborhoods and arrived downtown promptly at 7:48AM. To my surprise, and amazing luck, Dad’s Lexus chick truck was still there, un-towed. I got in, drove home, ate two bowls of Lucky Charms and went to sleep. That was the last time I ever saw that woman. Those close to me will tell you I’ve haven’t been the same since. And that is the story of why I hate sloppy joes.