Alright, let’s save us both the bullshit and wasted breath here. It’s all good. I’m cool. I don’t mind you NOT asking me how i’m doing. In fact, I’d rather like it, nay, LOVE IT, if we could just bypass that part completely. Or at least let’s be honest about the fact that we really just don’t give two shits about what each other have been up to.
I know it’s the “polite” thing to say, and the go-to small talk starter… but I was thinking, maybe we could just skip that part entirely???? I don’t know… just thoughts. Because to be completely honest, I like you… I really do! It’s just that- I can’t really seem to remember your name, or where I first met you, or why I’ve been greeting you for the past 3 years in the first place. If you think about it, it’s sort of funny. I mean- twisted, but funny nonetheless. It’s my fault, I’m sure of it. Blame the lack of ginko biloba or the chronic illness I’ve had since a child that my sister likes to call “Absurd name making-up”. Yes, it’s true. I admit it. I perpetually replace forgotten names with absurd substitutes and somehow find myself convinced that my neighbor of 10 years name is indeed Rodrigo, despite the fact that I don’t live in a shanty in Mexico or anywhere remotely close to someone whose name would be anything like Rodrigo. Fucking Typical.
But regardless, it’s seems to be the case that here I am. Stopping in the produce section to discuss the uneventful nothingness that’s filled my life since the last time we’ve done this. I really just don’t know how to answer the question. I mean- if I knew you a little better, maybe I’d know what angle to come from. Are you artsy? Wanna hear about my recent backyard creative spurts? You into fitness? Should I rave about my new tennis addiction? Or maybe I should hit you with some REAL SHIT and admit to my thursday night mani/pedi dates with Adult Swim. Naw- you seem like the type tha’d raise an eyebrow. Or worse, ask me what Adult Swim was, and THAT I just could NOT respect. I’d probably start awkwardly reciting vietnamese impersonation comedy… “Bu-tih-fou naye-yol”…. No??? Not farmiliar? Go Figure.
Well, I guess I can’t blame you. I know you were trying to be nice, and by nice I really just mean NOT awkward. I know you were just trying to acknowledge my existence, and validate me, which is all WONDERFUL stuff… just wonderful. And hey- I’m not about to get self-righteous here and pretend like I don’t get caught asking the same question when I’m in dire need of an anti-awkward social lubricant. It’s just that my inner angst usually manifests itself in an overpowering awkward speed walk past you while simultaneously spitting out the line at an alarming volume. Sorry bout it. It was something I picked up in the fast pace passerby norm of San Francisco. My bad. I really don’t mean to be THAT rude.
But for a second, let’s be honest with ourselves here, and dare I say be real for a minute. I know you already know what I’ve been up to. It’s an island. “I know you heard about me through the coconut wireless” (Thanks for that Kepa Cruise). So don’t act like you don’t already know. Because I KNOW that YOU KNOW that I KNOW that YOU KNOW what I’ve been up to. And even if you don’t- I know you don’t care. Cause shiet… I sure as hell don’t care. I mean, how could I? I don’t even know your name.
Either way, I’ll just play it safe and talk about MMA.
Well shiet… no wonder you feel like you KNOW me. We talk your passions in produce. Ahhh- now, it’s all coming back to me. We’ve done this before, haven’t we?
Okay… Okay… I get you. But c’mon please, can we NOT talk about me and what I’ve been up to? Cause really, I don’t like sharing… barely with my own family let alone with nameless strangers. Plus, if you were REALLY interested in what I was doing… well then, I have a blog for that. Then I wouldn’t have to tell you that I’ve been humped by a horse head and have friends who believe I should dismember my metaphoric penis, or hang out with people with names like Horny McHornerson. Cause in all truths- when you ask me what I’ve been up to- a stream of ridiculous images flash through my mind at a stuttering pace… and I go into blank blink. And thank God for it. Because somehow I have a feeling that all that information might come off a little earth shattering in the produce section. That’s topic definitely saved for the alcohol isle.
Either way, I apologize for my seemingly rude behavior. It was only in my attempt to mask my inner ridiculousness. But enough about me…
Fishy and I apologize. How were we to know that your self-proclaimed “Dumbo Ears” would “sonic hear” (as you ALSO said), through the blaring bar music? You have to believe us that we were absolutely NOT intending ANY ears to overhear the filth that was escaping our dirty lil’ mouths.
But really… what could you expect? It was 1am, there was alcohol involved and then of course Pony by Ginuwine came on with that nasty lil beat that could make a nun wanna gyrate if not dry hump.
We were SORTA joking too. Sorta…
I mean- you couldn’t possibly believe that we’d really wanna hump the broomstick that was sweeping up the broken glass at the bar? Right???
We couldn’t expect you to understand that kind of overtly sexual and derogatory female humor. At least not with that bar bone you just caught. Just to let you know though- embellishing is part of the act, if not THE act. That IS the humor of it. Just in case you, or your “Dumbo Ears” were wondering.
But hey- thanks for being such a gentleman about it and introducing yourself shortly thereafter, mid-filth conversation. For a second there, I thought Filthy knew you…. AHEM, I meant Fishy. I thought FISHY knew you. (You know what, I think I like Filthy better. Filthy Fishy it is!) Let’s try this again- I thought Filthy Fishy knew you.
That’s why when you waved from across the table saying, “Hi. I’m right here.” I poked Filthy Fishy as to say, ‘your friend is trinna get your attention.’ I was half right. You definitely WERE trinna get our attention. But we definitely WERE NOT trinna get yours.
Honestly bro- you DO have some sonic hearing. Either that or your penis serves as an antenna for any and all things remotely sexual, even if it is nasty-long-island-jokie-talk. It was pretty impressive. Embarrassing… but impressive nonetheless.
Regardless, Sorry bout it, but I’d still prefer the broomstick. No word on Filthy Fishy yet.
A couple nights ago a good friend of mine, that we’ll call Horny McHornerson, decided to go out to a lil’ concert. Horny is named so for obvious reasons, she’s horny, nuff said. I’ve known Horny since we were 13 and we can easily pick up on each other’s personal quos, which makes going out together entertaining and safe. While we still manage to waste our breath talking about decisions we may or may not make, I can look her in the eyes and already know what she’s going to do before she does. I guess that’s what it’s like when you’ve lived with someone for so long. Horny has been many things to me over the years: a good friend, a trusted confidant, and a respected counselor. One thing she has never been for me however, is a moral compass. From the moment we met in summer school the summer just before we went into high school together we were fast friends. Her hyper sexuality and cunning wit coupled perfectly with my gullibility and naivety. She took me under her wing immediately because I was obviously a dumb ass. I had little clue about naughty things like sex, drugs and rock and roll and it was no wonder the class got a kick out of my inability to catch sexual remarks. I was constantly the butt of any and all sexual jokes that summer and for good reason. This is from a girl who couldn’t catch the most obvious of sexual implications. I can remember one instance when our old ass Asian summer school teacher had been explaining a historical pirate battle to the class saying, “To take a hold of their ships, they’d shoot sea men.” Of course everyone in the class was laughing hysterically, including my stuffy ass Asian teacher. I mean that was more obvious than Kimura Lee’s turkey neck. I looked around the class confused and bewildered. Why the hell was everyone laughing? Quick Keo, do something. Fit in. Laugh too. I swiveled my head back and forth like a jackass and mumbled, “Hah, sea mean, yah, that’s good” and privately tried asking Horny what the hell was so funny later in the summer. That biyach turned on me faster than a republican and told everyone about my dumbassedness and inability to understand sexual humor. Throwing me under the bus like that before I had even entered high school was risky business, but I forgave the trick because she was just too damn funny. Those shit head summer classmates of mine had even taken it upon themselves to craft up a sweet lil’ nickname for me to carry with me throughout my four years. They gave me the nickname “Bing.” They even convinced my teacher to start calling me by my full and proper name Keo “Bing” Eaton. (Take a second. And say that to yourself a couple times slow. Keo…. Bing…. Eaton. Then a couple times fast. Keo Bing Eaton. Now a few times slower again. Keo being Eaten. Get it yet? The clue is in the last name. Those effing turds!) When we’d arrive in the AC less classroom in the hot Hawaiian summer mornings, the classmate adjusting it always asked my opinion saying, “ I wonder if…. Keo, Bing Eaton feels good?” The class would laugh in sync. “Um.. I guess …. It’s pretty freaking hot.” I’d reply. The pervert, like most perverts, would always strike back with another hit, “Oh. So what you’re telling me is that Bing Eaton is hot?” “Uh Hell Yeah!! I’m sweating my ass off right now!” “Bing Eaton, is that better for you?” Feeling the cool breeze I’d moan in relief, ”Ahhh… much better.” “Bing Eaton is that pleasing you?” “Very much so, thank you. You’re such a good friend.” “I’m the best friend. Keo, do I or do I not know how to please you… Bing Eaton?” “Oh you sure do” I’d reply with zeal. Those turds would go all day with that shit. For most of the summer, they had convinced me that the nickname was due to the overwhelming amount of Bing Cherries I’d bring to school each day in my vintage tin lunch box. (I’m not shitting you about the lunchbox. It had a picture of a red ‘57 Chevy Convertible on it because at the time I was obsessed with ’57 Chevy Convertibles, for reasons I refuse to remember. Somehow I know it has something to do with my invisible friend Louis. He was quite the ladies man of the invisible world and I’m pretty sure he drove one or something, I can’t remember.) With an invisible friend and a tin lunchbox you can imagine my shock and dismay when I found out what the overtly sexual nickname had meant all that time. “Keo. Bing. Eaton. Get it? Keo being eaten?” Horny was speaking slowly as if I was a foreigner who didn’t speaka any englice. I heard the words but nothing was firing. “So let me get this straight. Keo, That’s me…. Being eaten? Am I right? …… Like, alive? And by another person?” I just couldn’t understand why being eaten alive by a cannibal would be so friggen funny all that time. And believe you me; I was NOT playing dumb to be cute. I actually WAS that dumb, and it definitely was NOT cute. As far as I was concerned, these people were fucking sick and they desperately needed Jesus. Horny piped up again, “She doesn’t get it guys.” She continued, “Keo, sometimes when people have sex a guy will eat a girl out.” I thought about that for a second, “You mean, take a girl out to eat.” I replied with as much certainty as my uppity 9th grade English teacher would soon do to correct me when I mixed up the order of my words. “No Keo. Not take a girl out to eat. Eat a girl out. He goes down on her. Muff Dives. Eats Carpet.” What the? I thought she was suppose to be explaining something to me, not making me more confused with all this diving and mufflers and carpet eaters. Long Pause. Finally Horny did what she usually does when people don’t understand her, and screamed obnoxiously in my face, “HE PUTS HIS MOUTH ON HER VAGINA!”
I was blinking rapidly in silence for a few moments trying to absorb the concept she had just forced into my innocent widow mind. Finally, I replied, “Eul, Why?” “Because it feels good dummy.” “Seriously????” I reacted as if she had told me that she ate a cockroach and liked it. I was baffled and disgusted… and most of all confused. Like I said, Dumbass. They made it their goal that summer to corrupt me … and boy did they ever! Horny McHornerson is to blame for tainting my innocent mind with everything from sex to cussing. It’s with that background that Horny McHornerson and I have the relationship we do today. Today, I am the queen B of sexual innuendos. And more than anything in the world, I revel in making a goodie goodie go bad. Now look what you’ve done to me Horny…. I hope you’re pleased with yourself. It’s safe to say that Horny and I are pretty good friends. We lived together for years in boarding school and always kept in touch throughout college. Horny is quite possibly one of the worst people I could go out with because neither one of us has the ability to reason within a 12 foot radius of each other’s presence. There is some kind of quantum physics shit going on when we’re around because it’s like her mere presence de-wires my logic. We both suddenly become the non-judgmental friend on steroids for one another. Our friendship is a refuge from the persecution of our rigid and righteous other friends (Squares! Jk. Big ups to you guys for keeping Horny and I alive). Whatever it is, it’s been like this since the very beginning. Our deliberations go a little something like this, Horny: “Do you think I should go home with this guy?” Me: “Oooo I don’t know. Tough one. Do you want to?” Horny: “I don’t know. Maybe. Sort of.” Me: “Do it then.” Horny: “Are you sure?” Me: “No. But Whatever” Horny: “But. Are you sure?” Me: “No. I just told you that I’m not sure. But it looks like you’re gonna do it anyway.” Horny: “So what you’re saying is, I should do it.” Me: “Yeah, I mean, why not?” Horny: “Otay.” Horny has this rule of 3’s. If you ask her a question and the answer is No the first time, all you have to do is ask her 2 more times and Whallah, she says Yes. It’s a weakness she isn’t proud of, but nobodies perfect right? The next morning, always starts the same way: Horny: “KEO! You’ll NEVER guess what I did. I like to play along…. Me: “What Horny???? Tell me, I must know!” Horny: “I went home with that guy and woke up with a bed covered in mounds of sand.” Unable to believe her lack for better judgment the night before I’d persecute her, “YOU WOKE UP COVERED IN SAND? What were you thinking?” She continues, “Mer mer mer… mistakes, alcohol and more mistakes, and did I mention the guilt.” “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. These things happen. At least you’re safe and you had fun. Right?” “Right.” “Now let’s go jump in the valley and baptize ourselves, shall we?”
The both of us operate solely on what we feel like doing in the present moment, and when mixed with alcohol, we’ve got a recipe for disaster. This deadly combination made its presence our senior year when we both checked out of the dorm to stay and party with our friend Teacup Tities who was home alone that weekend. What parents leaves an obviously scandalous high school girl home alone to watch their condo over the weekend is beyond me, but nonetheless I was not complaining about it. The three of us had invited a bunch of our classmates over and had a lil pow wow at her parents place in town. With my sisters ID, I provided some alchy for our lil festivities. I had probably drank 3 times prior to this instant and ended up downing a 6 pack of Smirnoff Ices like it was holy water. It was safe to say that I was pretty messed up for my innocent lil’ angelic self. The stomach cramps and accidental hook up that ensued should have been expected, but for me it was all too new. My treasured innocence had been tainted and it was making me crazy on the inside. Horny knew I was flippin out after she walked in on me in the shower crying dramatically in the bathroom during the party. After I got out of my baptismal shower, I decided to erase my night’s hiccup with a few more shots of Smirnoff and a Gravity Bong hit. (I’m pretty sure that was Horny’s logic and advice in action.) I had never seen anything like it before, and couldn’t understand the concept of a large bucket of water and a milk gallon of smoke being force fed into my lungs. The soccer boys loading it we’re talking mad shit to me about it, so I jumped up like a gangster and ingested the gallon of green smoke to shut those little juggling bitches up. From what I recall, the only bitch I shut up was nervous system! I swear smoke billowed out of my mouth for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t get the smoke out fast enough. I felt as if a Sumo wrestler with a hot plate for an ass was sitting directly on my lungs. The burning and choking continued for some time. I remember taking two side steps and plopping on Teacup Tities leather sofa and immediately turning into a human sticker. What happened next was nothing short of a spiritual experience. I could see my friends laughing at me, I could see them moving around me and could hear them speaking to me, but for some reason I couldn’t communicate back to them. I remember thinking that this is what it must feel like to be a vegetable. The soccer boys were laughing at me, but I couldn’t muster enough energy or concentration to move my tongue let alone string together a witty comeback or a stinging backhand. At one point, Teacup Tities asked me if I needed anything and while in my head I could hear my thoughts perfectly say “Water”, the actual response that came out of my drooling mouth was much more similar to Helen Keller’s version of the word, and sounded a little like “Wah Wah…. (Then a louder) WAH WAH.” The water she poured into my agape mouth was streaming down my fucked up face. I knew I had to do something about this situation, I mean this was high school, this was my reputation at stake here. If I stayed there any longer I knew those bitch ass soccer boys were gonna shit talk me for life, so in one fluid and spontaneous motion I peeled myself off from the couch and stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door. I hovered over the toilet for what seemed like an eternity. Seriously, it seemed like an eternity. I was really starting to believe I had turned into a vegetable right then and there over that toilet seat, and man was it effing frightening. Shit, what was I gonna do if I had become a vegetable at 17? I would definitely get kicked out of my private school for this. I mean private schools can’t just have vegetables walking around their campus and shit, I mean it’s just unheard of. How the hell was I suppose to explain this to my Mom? I didn’t know what was gonna happen to me and while my body lay fucked up; my mind was squirming and praying to come back to my body. "Oh please God, I swear I’ll never talk shit again. And I’ll never even think about my beloved Track Coach Mr.Stripperman in a sexual way again I swear!" Horny was outside of the bathroom door trying to break in because my body refused to respond. When the entire party finally broke the lock and opened the door to the bathroom they found me crying over the toilet bowl. Horny asked, “Keo, Are you okay?” I looked up at Horny with pleading eyes, said a mind prayer for the gift of speech and blurted out, “I think I’m going to die.” Horny freaked out. She had never seen me like this before. She got me into the room and covered me with a blanket, but I couldn’t sleep. Poor Horny McHornerson was so scared she was crying over me. I was certain I had become a vegetable; I knew I had little time to waste; I had to say my goodbyes. While I could still hear and process everything around me perfectly, moving and responding was a different feat. So I started rambling off my goodbyes to Horny with what can what best be described as a down syndrome twang. “Horny, I’m gonna die. I feel like I’m gonna die. I wove you.” “I love you too. You’re not gonna die.” “Yes I am Horny. Listen to me, I AM GOING TO DIE. But before I do, tell my family I love them, tell all our girls I love them and I’ll miss them. And Horny, I love you.” At this point, Horny had broken down like a little school girl crying over me. I was sure that I was fading away into my untimely death. What can I say, I had always been one for theatrics.
The next morning I woke up to Horny lying next to me with her eyes closed. When she felt me move she jolted up, “You bitch! You’re alive, you bitch! You scared me to death!” “Huh?” “I believed you, you little bitch. I really did think you were gonna die. You’re such a bitch being all alive and shit.”
Horny and I will never forget that night for the rest of our lives I’m sure. And while we brushed it off like the badasses we often pretend to be, our little high school asses we’re scared shitless. I didn’t touch a gravity bong for years after that and never forgot what it felt like to be a vegetable for a couple of hours. ‘Till this day, Horny and I are still making mindless decisions in each others presence and play it off like the badasses we don’t have to pretend to be anymore. I can’t thank Horny enough for the contributions she’s made in my life thus far: the cussing, the mind corruption, and of course the non-judgement. Only a true friend could be so truly ruly dedicated to my corruption. This my friend, is and Ode to you Horny McHornerson. You go with your Bad Ass self girl! Cause I friggin love you….. even if you are morally inept.
When I lived in San Francisco there were too things I just had to get used to: Public Transportation, and Crazy Ass motha fuckas. Anyone who has ever been to the city of sodomy knows that the streets are home to thousands of residents young and old, short and tall, lovers and fighters, and all equally fucking crazy and reeking of their own piss. It was something that wasn’t easy for a Maui girl to get used to, but it’s amazing what an ipod, some tupac and loud earphones can do. Crazy was just part of everyday life in San Francisco and the longer I lived there, the more jaded to Crazy I became. I frequently was engaged in outrageous and irrelevant conversation on the bus and in the streets. I’ve sat on the bus next to a woman with a grocery bag full of her own piss, to another woman yelling profanities at the Chinese woman sitting in the seat across from her wearing a Dentist mouth cap like she was roaming around an Anthrax attacked city in China. While the white woman blamed those dirty Chinese for all the nasty diseases they brought to Americans, I sat there getting more and more annoyed with the woman’s voice. Sitting through 15 minutes of that kind of lunacy drove me insane. Finally at my stop, I lowered my tupac, empowered and a little bit gangster, I stood up and yelled in the woman’s face “Shut the fuck up already you crazy bitch!” And then darted as fast as I could off the bus like a little bitch, less she throw a bag of piss on me, or worse, spit in my face.
With a daily dose of that level of crazy, still by far, the craziest thing I encountered in that city was undoubtedly a crack head lying lifelessly on a side street near the place where I volunteered. The last year of my college career, I did my practicum work at a Blind Institute, teaching Art Classes.
And Yes. No need to re-read that statement over and over again. You read it correctly the first time. I taught ART CLASSES to the BLIND. Tons of people can’t get passed this point in the story, and wondering how and why I would do such a thing. And let me tell you, it was pretty easy. I mean, there were little expectations. I mean shit, they were blind, and secondly, I used a lot of detailed verbal direction. Plus, the the idea that I could direct a student all the while recreating some of the most famous paintings with penis’ for bodies without anyone knowing was too hard to pass up. Not that I ever did- but the idea alone was freeing.
By the second semester, the primary Art teacher, Phoebe, who was exactly the kind of character you’d imagine to be teaching art classes in San Francisco to a bunch of blind people, had entrusted me to teach the class alone on Wednesdays. The instructor, Phoebe, was really not much different from the infamous character Phoebe on the hit-show Friends. In fact, she dressed exactly like her and said the same sort of stinging random comments to the students that resulted in the perfection of my silent laugh. This lady was classic and I loved her for it. One day she had told one of our students Mira, who was infamous for talking 3 inches from your face with her offensive bad breath, in a kindsi sedated voice “Mira, if you don’t mind me asking are you having trouble finding your toothbrush?” This lady was wild.
Mid-way through the semester a new young volunteer we’ll call Jada had started volunteering in the class as well. When Jada volunteered, I was stoked. She was young and hip and we got along famously. She and I both loved art, dancing and making our own jewelry- and did all of the above during the classes. Most of the 2 hour class Jada and I spent sitting at opposite ends of the class facing each other, making our own art projects and rudely talking to each other over the class.
One of those days, she and I couldn’t help but notice a woman lying out on the street below us. The art class was located on the second floor of a building and had large windows for walls that perfectly over looked the side street.
Jada, amidst making her own earrings yelled to me, “OMG!!!!! Can you SEE that? Is it dead?”
Now, it’s sort of frowned upon to say a statement like “Can you see that” in a room full of blind people, and then watch as all their heads tilt upward like a sick game of heads up seven up, but this was serious. I mean- I never saw a dead body before and I started to think differently of that statement, there is a first time for everything. Jada and I were frantic and both stared down at the lifeless body below us wondering if we should call the cops. The body was in a split like position with her entire torso lying on the ground with her arms sprawled out. Either this was a dead man or a homeless yogi, but Jada and I were pretty sure it was the former.
“Maybe we should call the cops.” Jada yelled again.
The class began to stir. People were getting worried. Usually it’s polite for the “visually capable” to describe to the blind folk what’s going on, to make them feel comfortable and included. So I began my attempt to diffuse the situation and include the visually disabled,
“Just to let you all know, there’s a crack head outside the window and it might be dead.”
Damn. I’ve never been good at sugar coating, or worrying about what others thought but crap this was socially conscious San Francisco, practically everything was taken in offense. Was there was a crack head sitting in our class offended? Probably, but this was no time to be worried about the logistics. Oh hell- this was panic mode. Short and to the point is sort of my thing anyway.
Jada and I watched as a man walking down the street approached the lifeless body and started kicking it to wake it. He kicked the body a few times and I knew we were looking at a dead man. Oh fuck. Did I just discover a dead body? Now what? Years and years of watching unsolved mysteries flooded my mind and I started hearing the dreary tone of the jingle.
Then suddenly…. the beast awoke. “AHHHHHHHHHHH” Jada and I yelled in unison. The class was blind- sided (Sorry…. I couldn’t help myself). They all jolted in fear. It was obvious that the class was worried and wanted to be filled in as to what we were screaming about. For all they knew it could’ve been a crack head terrorist attack.
“Holy Crap. What is that? Is it a…” Jada was searching for descriptive options for the beast “a… a…” she found it, “a man or a woman?”
“It’s a crack head!” I yelled as if I were Tokyo town Asian extra seeing Godzilla.
“Yikes!” Jada responded in disgust.
The illusion of breasts signaled that this beast was in fact a woman, but that was the only signaling we’d get. I mean this woman had the body of OJ Simpson, and a face like Charley Murphy. She had scabs up and down her arms, was sporting navy sweat pants, mis-matched socks with hotel house slippers. Girl had better days.
Jada and I watched as the man kicking the street hooker gave her a lil som’t som’t. The street hooker took that som’t som’t put it in a glass pipe and started smoking it right there on the street.
“OMG. Is this really happening?” Jada yelled. Jada was obviously new at this blind thing, so I decided keep the rest of the class informed as well. “Yeah looks like it. She’s smoking crack.” I said jaded. I wasn’t all that impressed, I mean it was after all a crack head, and this was crack she was smoking- this was her SOUL FOOD. While we were a little relieved that we didn’t have to report a dead body to the cops, and a little jolted by the witnessing of crack smoking, we were nowhere ready for what was to follow. The street hooker in all her crack glory got up off the ground and started her very own crack influenced performance. It looked like a crack head Charley Murphy had eaten Beyonce. Crack head Beyonce started shimming and kicking down the alleyway. SHIMMY KICK AND SHIMMY, DROP IT LOW, AND BOUNCE DAT ASS. AND SHIMMY AND KICK AND SHIMMY AGAIN.
What the hell was going on? Jada and I started laughing hysterically watching the Crack Head Beyonce shimmy her way up to the window of a parked car, look at her reflection and sexily shake her goodies like she was in the Single Ladies video. Crack Head Beyonce shimmy, kicked and shimmied her crack head ass for a good 45 minutes, with her crowd of 2 laughing hysterically from the upper balcony seats surrounded by a room full of paint covered and annoyed blind students.
“Oh my god. LOOK!” Jada yelled. Realizing the word she had just yelled in the room full of blind people she shamefully caught herself, sighed and covered her mouth, adding, “Whoops. Sorry.” Jada was awful at being conscious of the “visually impaired.” This was exactly the kind of situation they brought up in the introductory class about working with the blind. Blind people just want to be treated like everybody else and saying something like “Look” and then taking it back with regret is more embarrassing than saying it in the first place. I mean- did she even take that class or what? I was starting to question her professionalism and whether or not this was gonna be a good fit for her. I mean I was a pro at treating the disabled equally. In all my games of solitaire and poker, ask me how many I lost to a blind person? That’s right- ZERO! Just cause you’re blind or a 12-year-old boy with the mental capacity of a 4 year old doesn’t mean the rules of the game change. No Freebies. Equality, remember. But still, I liked Jada, a lot, so I was willing to over look the mishaps. Plus I got too distracted to even think about being conscientious.
“There’s a guy walking down the street” she chuckled. Jada and I watched as a tall black man in a baby blue matching velour sweat suit and a head full of cornrows walked down the street. When crack head Beyonce noticed him walking down the street she shimmied and kicked her way over to the man with an intense look of seduction in her eyes. I thought I was gonna vomit a Van Gogh. The man continued walking in her direction but looked around to see if there was anyone else seeing this. Little did he know, there was. When he thought there wasn’t he smiled for a second as the disgusting crack head started rubbing up on him.
At this point I couldn’t control myself. I was laughing hysterically watching this man enjoy a little daytime booty shake from a disgusting crack whore. I tried filling in the class, “The Crack head is dancing up on an unknown bystander.” Again I watched as the man looked to his left, then to his right, pull out a $5 dollar bill and give it to Beyonce. Beyonce, a true professional, grabbed the $5 dollar bill, sexily stoked it over her body and her mouth licking it seductively and tucked it into her stained white wife-beater. I swallowed the hot pocket coming up into my throat before it became projectile vomit. But it was just getting better and better.
Suddenly the man in the velour suit pulled down his sweat pants and whipped out his dick.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I shrieked. “ARE YOU SEEING THIS? ARE YOU EFFING SEEING THIS RIGHT NOW? HE JUST WHIPPED OUT HIS DICK.”
Jada yelled back to me in true female form louder and louder with every word, “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD. YES YES YES. IM SEEING THIS. IM SEEING THIS. IM SEEING THIS.” Further validating my soccer coach’s theory that women in moments of extreme emotions must yell everything in 3s.
Crack head Beyonce wasted no time. Bent down and started giving the most grotesque crack head blowjob in the history of crack head blowjobs. Now, I wasn’t very familiar with crack heads, or their way of blowing a job- but the sheer physics of this technique was debatable. Crack Head Beyonce, with the Cornrows shaft in hand, opened her disgusting mouth, stuck out her tongue like a kid tasting the rain, and swiveled her head back and forth at an unnatural pace. She did this repeatedly for about 45 seconds.
When I saw this I just about lost it. I jumped up on the table and started yelling and simultaneously jumping on the table. Looking at the scene in front of me, then at Jada, then at the scene again, and then at Jada again all the while yelling in disbelief and in 3s,
“ARE YOU SEEING THIS? ARE YOU SEEING THIS? (Occasionally including a curse word) ARE YOU FUCKING SEEING THIS? AHHHHHH. AHHHH. AHHHHH.”
Jada and I were now having a yelling competition. Looking at each other yelling “AHHHHHHHHH”
Then looking at the crack head blow job in front of us, “AHHHHHHHHHHH”
Then looking at the classroom full of blind people who couldn’t see this madness and yelling, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”
I couldn’t believe how this had all panned out. I mean first dead crack head, then a crack head smoking crack with a room full of blind people. Then the crack head Beyonce performance, and now a crack head Beyonce performance of a blowjob. My body and my vocal cords couldn’t take anymore. I was exhausted with disbelief.
Finally, Cornrows pulled up his velour pants and started walking down the street like nothing had happened. The Crack Head Beyonce Shimmied on back to her starting point, pulling out the $5 dollar bill she had just made, waving it around like it was a thousand dollar bill, rubbing it all over her body and giggling like a disgusting Charley Murphy look alike. Minutes later the crack started wearing off and Crack Head Beyonce sat her ass back down in dead man’s pose.
Upstairs Jada and I were finally settling down and lowering our voices, trying to bring the class to an end. I couldn’t help but be endlessly grateful for Jada’s presence I thanked her catching my breath, “thank” breath “you so much” breath “for” breath “being her today” BIG breath. “No one” breath, “would’ve believed me” breath. Breath breath breath.
Till this day, I’m in shock at the events that took place that faithful day and grateful beyond belief that there was someone “visually capable” there to witness it with me. Oh San Francisco!
I love nothing more than a foreign holiday revolving around the consumption of alcohol. So come St.Patties day I dust off my old green threads and regress back into a sloppy college co-ed. This year a wonderful Irish pub on the south side was the locale for my great demise. I was working all night and ended up playing the game no one wants to play: catch up. By the time I arrived, everyone at the pub was beyond a mess and in the stage of drunk I like to call the “Lovers Lane”. You know that point of drunk when the “I Love You’s” start rolling off your tongue faster than Japanese at a rice sale. The moment I walked into the oversized pub I was feeling love from EVERYONE in there. I quickly found my friends hanging out at the upper bar and I approached with speed and tenacity: I was 5 hours late and it was “Go Time”. I callously shrugged off hugs and hellos and headed straight to the bar saying nothing but three little words: “Irish Car Bombs?” While my friends looked at me hesitantly they were in no condition to comprehend let alone disagree with my intense desire to consume alcohol. While I turned to order I was unaware that a Chris Angel show was taking place behind my back. Poof. It was real life magic here in Maui. In an instant, 8 people had pulled the most impressive disappearing acts ever seen by my slit retinas. I wasn’t all that bothered, I mean-I was parched after all; I figured I could handle 8 drinks, right? Honestly I was more concerned about the bill than the idea of consuming all that poison, so I turned back to the bartender to see if he had started mixing. Shit. Mixing had ensued. Guess I’d have to drink it alone. An eternal optimist I thought inevitably this would turn out to be a loose-win situation. Lose, Money. Win, Drunk. Boo, wallet. Yay, Beer! Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see my friend Osh-Kosh staring blankly into my eyes. Again I repeated those three little words: “Irish Car Bombs?” She continued to stare into my eyes with zero reaction to my inquiry. I decided to stutter, “Irish Car Bombs?” Osh-Kosh intensely stared into my eyes. Osh-Kosh is one of the brightest and shiniest bulbs in the tanning bed, a capable young woman, so the staring and lack of reaction honestly startled me, “Are you okay Osh-Kosh?” I asked. Now this was a statement Osh-Kosh knew well. “YES” she practically yelled back at me, “I JUST NEED WATER. CAN YOU ORDER ME WATER?” Oblivious to how inebriated Osh-Kosh really was I yelled back in her face amidst fist pumping “HELL NO H2O! HELL NO H2O!” I was ready to party and had little time for poopers. “Seriously, I NEED water!!!!” she snapped. Crap. She was serious. I stopped yelling but the jumping and fist pumping ensued as I turned to the bartender to add water to my drink list of Irish Car bombs and vodka tonic. He didn’t look too pleased and ignored my water order multiple times. As I looked to Osh Kosh behind me to break the news that the water was not likely to come her way I turned to meet her blank glare, cocked head and a handful of boob in her right hand that was now jiggling with the tap of her hand. “Uh-“ I was baffled, what the hell is she doing with all that staring and all that boob? “Osh Kosh… what are you doing?” I asked, bewildered. “My boobs….” She started, “they’re fuckin flat tonight. They look like fucking pancakes.” Boob jiggle, followed by three consecutive boob jiggles. Now Osh Kosh is a tiny hot Lolita with a pair of the most glorious natural racks known to humanity, and they are nothing close to pancakes. I don’t know what to say. I’m at a lost. I’m starting to evaluate whether she’s one of those annoying beauties that fish for compliments. I had a classmate like that in boarding school who I constantly contemplated strangling in instances like this one. She looked like she walked straight out of a Victoria Secret magazine, and this was in high school, when most teens still had braces and didn’t know what to do with their hair let alone their face. This bitch was perfect from day one. No pores, sultry waved hair, beautiful skin tone, and an absolutely perfect curvaceous body. Too bad the poor bitch had the self-esteem of a pound dog. She was a bonafide fisherwoman throughout high school always fishing for any compliment she could conjure, and I just got straight annoyed with her shenanigans and finally starting agreeing with her that she looked fat and ugly in just about everything she wore. Poor girl believed me and went on a cereal and veggie only diet, and started covering up her victorious breasts with little boy tees from Savers and was practically invisible to guys radar by senior year. What a loss. Is Osh Kosh fishing? I couldn’t really be sure. I stare in disbelief, looking at our outrageous and populated surroundings. Looks like I’m about to find out. She looks down at her “pancakes” and continues to jiggle at an increasing pace, “Pancakes Keo. Pancakes.” She looks up at me in all seriousness and asks politely while simultaneously jiggling her boob with each word and almost chocking up on her words as if she might just cry, “Would you like me to make you pancakes Keo?” I began blinking rapidly as I usually do when I’m a bit confused, “Ugh- no thanks, I’m actually not that hungry for pancakes” I respond, giggling patronizingly to myself at the amusement of intoxication. Hah, drunken people are a hoot. Suddenly I see Osh Kosh’s eyes widen and she darts towards the bar. Our order is ready and she gulps her water and lime in 2 swigs. Irish car bombs check, beer, check. Vodka tonic???? ALL RIGHT. Where the hell is my vodka tonic? There is just no way, no way, no way, that I am even slightly capable of ingesting this putrid drink without my vodka tonic. Suddenly I see pancakes bouncing up in the corner of my eye, it’s Osh Kosh and she’s spitting up and gagging in my peripheral. What’s with her now? “How’s that water?” I ask. She looks like she might just hurl out the words but somehow she mutters, “I must be really sick because even this water takes like its alcohol.” “Give it here!” I order. I take a sip and giggle to myself as I give it back to her, “Tastes like water to me.” She gulps the rest of my vodka tonic in two sips and sprints out of the bar, probably to puke pancake mix and Aunt Gemima Syrup. It’s the last I see of Osh Kosh that night and my vodka tonic, but somehow I survive.
Osh Kosh’s pancake tirade can’t help but take me back a few years when I had gone out to dinner with another very hot tamale of a friend I have, her boo and my love interest of the season. The four of us had gone out to dinner and drinks and had walked over to a small grungy beach bar known for it’s even grungier cat litter they so rashly threw at the entrance of the bar and tried to play off as sand. I was never a fan. It was a slow night in there, which was perfect for us because the four of us were getting wasted FAST. At the time, I couldn’t tell you who the worse drunk of the four was. My friend Cholula is named so because she’s HOT sauce, in both looks and attitude. A little 5’1’ mama with banging legs, great boobs and a hilarious reaction to alcohol, she’s one of those people that were born for confrontation. It’s not that she likes it, or even seeks it out really. But rather, confrontation seeks her ALL of the time- and I’ve never known her to back down, Not Ever. I was back from college for a break and in probably the worst phase of my drunken co-ed rage that could last weeks at a time, coupled with an insatiable thirst for adventure and a filter-less mouth and we have a calculation for disaster. My love interest at the time was back home from college too and let’s just say the last time he was back he got tazed in the eye, broke his arm, and crashed his car. Cholula’s lovah was no better. The first time I had met the strapping lad; Cholula’s insisted that we do a chug contest. He ingested his full beer in one fluid gulp. It was the most impressive maneuver I had ever seen in all my liquid consumption years. I still don’t really understand it. I liked him instantly. Anyhow, a drunken foursome mess stumbled into the kitty litter infested bar that night. While me and my boo were talking toward the side of the bar, Cholula and her lovah were trying to order drinks at the bar. My drunken intuitions and Cholula’s cobra neck snapping in my peripheral signaled a problem. I turned to see Cholula lips pursed; one eyebrow raised staring at the bartender. I missed something pivotal, and now I knew it because in a split second Cholula turned Puerto Rican on me. As I continued to stare in I realized that Cholula and the bartender were fighting about her lovah. Uh Oh. I started to pay attention. Cholula had just snapped a witty comment I could tell and started leaning her hotness over the bar. The disgusting blonde, sloppy 30-something bartender was obviously enraged and needed to snap back quickly, her eyes darted from side to side, as if she was searching for a comeback comment in the corners of the room, but she couldn’t muster up anything quick enough so she blurted out the first thing she could think- a compliment. “Well… you can just get outa here with those fake boobs of yours.” Cholula was practically on fire when she grabbed her double D’s in both hands rubbed them together all the while leaning over the bar, smirked and yelled back, “Oh baby, these are ALL REAL!!!” and started laughing demeaning. The bartender was defeated and she knew it. Again she darted her eyes left to right looking for the next comeback hidden in the kitty litter walls, “THAT’S IT!!!!” she yelled, she couldn’t take anymore of this, “YOU’RE OUTA HERE!!!” Her umpire impersonation was impressive but her comebacks were not. I honestly started to feel bad for her because the bar was shutting down anyway and it was obvious that her insecurities about the skin folds she was trying to pass off as boobs was more obvious than her orangutan tities hanging out of her halter-top. I walked calmly to Cholula at the bar to get her from the bar lest she leap over it and start pounding this poor bartender with no boobs and worse no wit. As I made my way over, slightly giggling to myself about how hilarious it was that she had tried so hard to make a hit at my friend but really just complimented her instead, the bartender turned to me with her rage and practically shrieked with pure uncontrollable anger and frustration, “YOU TOO!!! YOU CAN GET THE FUCK OUT” She continued to the bouncer, “GET THEM THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! AHHHHHHHHKKKK.” She was like a fem-bot malfunctioning. Oh hells no. Bitch just misstep. For a split second I blacked out, and then I heard the words, “FUCK YOU AND YOU’RE FLAP JACK TITTIES!” stream out of my mouth at an uncontrollable pace. Oh shit. A bouncer had pounced on me faster than a Filipino at a garage sale. And at that point I was calm and started walking out of that bar. On the way out Cholula couldn’t help but yell out her hysteria, “Ahahahahaha. Flap Jack titties. Now that’s good!” Honestly though, her “boobs” had the consistency of a pancake, there was nothing left to be said. Hot bitches and their boobs I tell you.
I’ve seen you here on occasion, made eye contact more than a few times, and even offered up a little awkward small talk. So I’m thinking, that YOUR thinking, that we know each other pretty well by now.
Yeah, I recognized you and your white friend, how could I ever forget those muscular legs? There’s no way I would bypass without a polite raise of the eyebrow. I mean- this might surprise some people but I’ve got tact.
I know that USUALLY I’d lower my music or turn it off all together, just in case, you and your friend wanted to kick it, but I was just having one of those days- you feel me? And I walked right by, probably wording out the lyrics to Roman’s Revenge far too loud than your average hiker. I get it.
I guess I should’ve known better than to call unnecessary attention to myself, but like I said earlier- I WAS JUST HAVING ONE OF THOSE DAYS. One of those days when you’re so high off a beautiful hike and good music that you just bypass any sort of life, waltz to the nearest hilltop and SCREAM derogatory rap lyrics as you goddamn please. Your allowed that every once in a while, right?
And I was KILLING it too! Straight murdering that beat WHILE doing a picking pineapple stretch. I wanna see Minaj or Mathers pull that off?
I feel you. Your hot breath at the calf of my left picking pineapple leg. So I did what any person with a reflex would do- I twitched and turned- almost pulling a hamstring in the process, only to see you- all up on the rear of my left leg with your white friend close behind snacking.
Excuse me when I say, HOLY CRAP!! It had only been one rap chorus since I first eye-brow greeted you both, and suddenly you two had my back. I was out numbered and HEAVILY out weighed. So I tried to play it cool…. Composed…. Non-chalant.
While my insides were doing squat jumps, my outsides were, for the most part, calm with a slight Parkinson’s shake complete with a confused and distorted expression.
“Hey….” I said, sounding like the human manifestation of Stewie, “whatcha doin?”
You looked up at me with a decisive gaze, as if to tell me, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m licking your goddamn leg.” But no words escaped your mouth, and there was no need to. I knew precisely what you were doing. You were licking my goddamn leg, for reasons that are still unknown to me.
Was this turning out to be some sort of a plotted gangbang? I couldn’t be sure. I turned back to your friend to see if he had inched closer to me or gave me any reason for me to shit my Nike spandex. But luckily for me and my spandex, he was still just snacking. I didn’t want either one of you to think I was in any state to dig- that’d just throw MY whole plot to sprint the fuck. I had to stay calm.
“Remember me?” I said polite but a little patronizingly.
Still, nothing. Just stoned cold licking.
So I did the only thing that felt natural to me. I pet you… I so very nervously pet you. Followed by my oh so nervous laugh. “Ha ha …. Like that?”
I guess you did because suddenly and abruptly you were aggressively rubbing your horse head from my inner thighs up toward my belly button in striking repetition. Now- I’m not going to say that I DIDN’T like it, but I’m not prepared to say that I DID.
WHOA… WHOA…. WHOA…. I jumped back with each rubbing thrust- my ass jolting back, both my feet lifting off the ground and my ponytailed hair whiplashing back with each burst of force.
Shit. SLOW DOWN!!!
But you wouldn’t. What the fuck? This WAS turning out to be full-fledged horse molestation.
“Hey now…” I started gently pushing your horse head down and away from my goodies. But you wouldn’t quit.
I turned to see if there were any human eyes within earshot of the “HORSE RAPE” I was so ready to shout. But no one. Just the white hoarse behind me- who was now NOT snacking on grass but gazing at my crotch as if he was ready for a NEW snack.
“Oh shit” was all that escaped my horse victim mouth. Was my vagina really getting horse head rubbed right now in the light of friggin day? This cannot be happening.
But then of course- there was my vagina.
And… there was a horse head rubbing it.
Yup. This was DEFINITELY happening.
Shit, If this white horse behind me starts hitting up my ass, while his jerk off of a friend keeps thrusting at my crotch- I’m surely doomed to centaur birth.
As much as every morsel in my body wanted to sprint toward the direction of the barbed wire exit, I knew I couldn’t outrun two horses in a rugged 100-yard dash. I remember going on a horse tour in Kipahulu once and the instructors saying something about how horses are oober perceptive and can sense any sort of anxiety and start bucking. I WAS ABSOLUTELY NOT PHYSICALLY PREPARED NOR EMOTIONALLY STABLE FOR BUCKING.
So I just inched my way backward, talking all the while to keep the horse molesters calm and at bay.
“Cool guys, well, this was nice. “ I’ve always been an expert at “NOT jokes.”
I got 10 yards before the two molesters were following behind me with buck in their eyes.
Shit. They were surely going to chase me. I was evaluating whether or not playing dead would work in this scenario. Maybe I could hide in some tall grass and they’d trod on by, or forget about me all together. Horses can’t have THAT good of memories right? I realized I didn’t know much about the animal I had 8 years consecutively asked Santa for.
What I DID know though, was that they had one hell of a fucking kick that not even MY thick build could withstand.
This was a hiking disaster of epic proportions and probably the reason why people shake their heads at me when I say I’ve gone hiking alone.
So I kept walking and trying to turn back inconspicuously to see through my peripherals if the two were following. They were. So I sped up a little, and so did they. Now, I was REALLY scared… for my Nike spandex sake.
Oh fuck. My mind was racing thinking about baby centaur adoption agencies, names, and preschools. I could even see baby centaur in a nautically themed school picture. This was ALL too much.
Amidst seeing this, I seen IT. The barbed wire exit within 20 yards of me. I took one look back to see how close the horse molesters were and took off like a pathetic shit.
Hewh. By the hand of God’s good grace I made it- my womb- centaur free.
If what they say is true, and you attract what you put out- what exactly am I putting OUT that’d attract a hypersexual horse? One of life’s burning questions I guess. Get back to me on that.
You know what? I take that back. DON’T. Something’s are better left unsaid. Maybe even horse molesting stories. Either way, I’m traumatized!