Thursday, July 4, 2013

That Time I Should've Quit While I Was Ahead

Still relishing the victory of getting away with slipping “Straight Outta Compton” on to our kickboxing playlist, (the clean version-I'm not that gangsta) the mood began to shift as I caught sight of the most peculiar shadow in my peripheral. Half blind without glasses, my first assumption was that a tiny, fat stripper had made her way into class at some point while I was busy doing lousy pushups, thinkin’ I was the shit because I know Eazy-E lyrics.

This is pathetic and completely true.  

It didn’t seem right though. A midget pole dancer just decides to wander into a Martial Arts school WELL after the class has commenced? Right when N.W.A. is blaring? But then…maybe that’s exactly what drew her in? Maybe she was a crack baby from Compton and that’s what caused her dwarfism? It was fun to think about such scenarios and as much as I would’ve loved to believe that classic West Coast gangsta rap might be like some Pied Piper shit for the tiny, crack bred dancers of the world, (and it might be)- not so much in this case. No, as it turned out, it was the child.

I saw her briefly when she came in with her mother, taking notice of Mom’s right away as she reminded me of a woman who tried to scam me for cash back in Detroit. We had a slight fender bender that she found no need to report, which was perfectly fine by me since I was driving the group home van when it happened and my record was already total ass. But then the estimates for her bumper kept going up… and up…. and up until my friend Terry stepped in and talked her into not being such a scummy bitch. He knew this woman. She worked for another group home and was picking up in the same parking lot as us. He banged her a few times after the dust settled then stopped calling her. I felt vindicated.

“Never trust a woman who wears gold shoes and silver lipstick, that’s what I learned.”

He was right though, that should’ve been a dead giveaway that she was going to try and soak me.  I mean who color clashes metallic’s like that if they’re not a piece of shit? I will now say it just stands to reason.

Anyways, back to the fucking story which is about the kid, not the mom, I just smoke too much weed. Sorry.

She was a chubby little dumpling, I did notice that when she came out on the floor, but she was wearing a baggy t-shirt and bike shorts. Pretty legit, nothing beyond what she could pull off.  And I mean that literally ladies and gentleman as that is exactly what occurred.  Midway through MC Wren’s poetic flow, the girl who I pegged to be around 9 years old, tore off that confining Hello Kitty t-shirt, revealing the silver lame' sports bra that went with those bike shorts and the swash buckling belly that did NOT.  It was like a lava lamp, filled with chocolate, completely mesmerizing all on lookers with every fluidic swish. If you’ve ever seen the SNL sketch where Chris Farley competes with Swayze for a Chippendale’s spot, then you’re half way there. 

Now picture Farley as a little fat black girl with really long braids and yep…that’s it.

When I tell you that this child was “feelin’ herself”, you need to understand that she kept the boxing gloves ON as she gyrated seductively to Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Ya Shoulder”, while staring at herself in the mirror , right into the eyes of that future sex kitten she just knows she’s gonna be.  It was haunting to the point that the manager of the gym came over to discuss it with me during my workout.

GYM MANAGER: I feel like there’s a weird energy in here tonight.

ME: I think it may have something to do with what’s happening over there (gestures to the girl with a neck twitch).

GYM MANAGER: I don’t understand what’s going on. I go into the bathroom for like two seconds and when I come out, there’s a 6 year old in a sports bra trying to “make it rain” in my gym.

ME: She’s 6??!!

Guys, when I tell you this kid was already in a fucking “C” cup-I’m not even slightly exaggerating.  She had some tig-ol-bitties and while I realize they were mostly from being incredibly overweight, it was horribly confusing for on-lookers to put together with a girl of that age. 

The class grinded on for another 20 minutes or so, as people tried their hardest to focus on the instructor instead of the milkshake that would bring only the creepiest to the yard. Walking past her, I didn’t make eye contact because I wasn’t sure if I could do it without laughing, then my inner monologue kicked in. The one that usually tells me when I’m being a turd and who is almost always 100% on point.

This time it said “Hey asshole! Remember when you were a little fat shit? How you always wanted to be invisible? Yeah- well this kid actually has some self esteem and you should respect that seeing as you’re still so fucked up that you won’t even wear a tank top in public.”

True dat inner-self.

She beamed with pride as I complimented her on making it through such a tough class. Mom’s appreciated the shout out, replying “Dat’s my baby”.  Indeed. Taking two seconds out to acknowledge her definitely made me feel a lot better about being such a shallow realist who worries far too much about what others think sometimes. Especially when I realized that none of the other “adults” in class said a fucking word to her which is pretty lame. Really? Do you think they won’t let you sit at the “cool” lunch table if you speak a kind word to mini-Precious?  She may have the body of a sixty year old but she's only six. C’mon dickheads.

Driving home that night, I was lucky enough to witness one of those sky miracles. A brilliant, perfect, orangey-pink sunset that was just a perfect visual moment. The kind a person hopes might be the last thing they see before final curtain call. A biker had pulled over to the side, snapping pics of the odd strikes of lightning that were popping in and out of the horizon commanding driver’s attention to the degree that we we’re running 10 miles under the speed limit with smiles on our faces.

When I finally put my eyes on the road, I noticed something in the turn lane. A turtle. A turtle with his legs pulled into the shell, just lying there. I kept driving but couldn’t stop thinking about him. What if he was afraid? I mean what would be the point of setting things right with little fatty if I let this turtle get smashed to bits? I decided this night of big girl kindness and ghetto Aurora Borealis’ would not be marred by the image of a splattered reptile on my way to work in the morning.

Speeding and praying all the way there that my delayed conscience would not be the death of Filbert (See Rocko's Modern Life), I cut off two people. One was driving a Porsche’ Cayenne so screw him since usually everyone who drives one of those deserves to be smothered in their sleep anyways. Closing in, I saw his perfect shell was still intact so I whipped into the turn lane fully about to Baywatch sprint and then the truth emerged.

I had risked a multitude of traffic tickets to save a fucking Wendy’s salad bowl. 


  1. your inner monologue is not someone I ever want to get on the wrong side of, I fear smiting with righteous fury.

    1. It's pretty brutal Barnes. I wish it translated into more self discipline, especially when it comes to writing!