I want my F&*king 10 Million, George Bush!!!

I have long said that all you need is 3 crackheads and a promise of 500 dollars and you could find Osama Bin Laden.  Just drop their asses in Tora Bora, tell them he has a dime bag for warm up, a jum, a base house, and will be on the corner in Kandahar cracking; on top that bring him in and you get 500 dollars.  He will be found in 48 hours.  no special forces needed.

Everyone must know, a crackhead measures everything in terms of crack volume and those of you who know crackheads know, "the promise of a vile will keep them busy for a while".  I once had a crackhead pull a dead cat out of my car, for how much?!? 10 dollars!! In crackspeak that is 3 hours of bliss... You all can act like you don't know any crackheads, but I know better.

Anyway (back to my 10 Million) on a connection through JFK Airport I saw him.  Not a crackhead, but Osama Bin Laden.  Sitting in the waiting area, waiting on his flight to DC to meet with DIck Chaney.  He has made a few chan

ges to his appearance and now goes by Osama Bin Rockin' but I am sure it is him.

Now I have to call off the crackheads and call George Bush.... I think I will ask for 10.2 Million dollars... shit... the dollar is DOWN!!!

Judge for yourself ... Osama Bin Rockin' --- HE WAS JAMMIN' to his iPod.. WHAT!?!

Blast From the Past, Vol. 1 -- Sh'Monica

Every week I will begin including stories that have been aired in the past to people who have heard my rants.  They will be sure to please.  In this first edition I decided I would introduce my first muse, Sh'Monica.  I met Sh'Monica under the following circumstances in 2001, it was a HOT MESS!!

Enjoy...

Cluck-U is a chicken place here in DC that is kinda like Wings to Go or WingsStop whatever you have in your area. Given that DC has it share of ghetto folks i find most of them on my visits to Cluck U. Wednesday, September 19 I am at the Cluck U close to Howard University and it is getting dark so i know it is time to get my ass out of that hood. BAM", just as i am walking out of Cluck U, it happens right in front of me, a huge 3 car pile up. I was like oh well, that sucks. i look and see that everyone is ok, and I begin to get to my car. Then I hear it, the voice. We all know the voice, the voice of that ghetto black person we know, for some of you it could be my voice or the voice of a friend from school. Imagine if you will a Ghetto Fabulous black woman, who is far too large for her Kia Rio but drives it anyway, getting out of her car yelling "Ahhhh, shit Ahhh shit, somebody is going to pay Ahhh Shit ...." Now i know a few of you know me really well and know that normally i would be on my ass laughing at this sight. Well I have instituted a new policy of "breathing" when something is really funny, the way it works (do this with me now) you fix your lips like you are puckering up and then you just blow puffs of air like you are blowing out birthday candles until you do not have to laugh anymore. What happens is I begin to focus on how much of a fool i look like that I stop thinking about what is funny. So i am "breathing" at a small rate when she gets out and starts yelling. So at this point I decide that I will sit on my trunk and watch the circus from a safe distance, just in case i need to run i leave my car running. So I am sitting, and she begins to wail on the guy who is apparently Jamaican who hit her causing her to hit the car in front of her. She calls him everything from A to Z, and i just "breathe". Then it happens, the police come to interview the people who saw the accident, so as i am eating my cheese fries and about to transition to my chicken, she ( i find out in a moment her name is Sh'Monica (just like that)) points to me and says "he saw it, him the one with the Asthma", apparently Sh'Monica had seen me watching them and gathered from the way that I was breathing that I had Asthma, little did she know that I was laughing at her ass. Nonetheless, she and the officer and the other parties walk over in my general direction, so I begin to pack up my food and turn off my car so that I can talk. I explain what happened to the officer and just when I think all is well, Sh'Monica hits me with "can I have some of yo' chicken", i cannot tell you all what it took for me not to begin laughing right then and there, but I began my "breathing" and she goes "you okay?" I just nod my head to signify that i am saying "ok" becuase i know the moment I stop is the moment when I will begin to laugh like there is no tomorrow. So imagine if you can a grown man standing in front of this woman "breathing" like a fool, that was me. Well I did give her some chicken though, but she could have done without :)

That is some nasty shit...

It is too much for me to attempt to make this a nice culturally sensitive post. It is going to be far too much. But here it is. I don’t like nasty ass people. I don’t like people who don’t clean up after themselves. I don’t like people who don’t have enough control over their ‘mantool’ that they don’t piss on the floor. I just got to work and all I wanted to do was take a pee in the sweet bleach smelling serenity of the 8th floor restroom. NEGATORY. Some nasty, shifty, shady, piss pot needy no sanitary habits having, bitch pissed all over the floor like they were trying to put out a 3 alarm. Now that is some nasty repugnant shit. You a grown ass man. If you cannot handle your flow, get some damn FloMax, or stop standing to pee. Nasty MuthaFuckahs!!

What really gets me is I know who the culprits are. They are from across the hall. In Camp Polio. The office suite across the hall that has been aptly named because an usually high number of people with limps work there. Now I am very observant and aware of the physical maladies that manifest in my presence because I am not trying to catch anything. So I call the office Camp Polio, because there seem to be too many maladies to be counted.

I have thought this through and here are my internal battles:

Statement:

‘scooter, maybe they are really Polio victims!?!’

Answer:

‘they need some iodine drops, a Rotary Club, and a referral from Dr. Salk; and after all that they need to learn to piss’

Statement:

‘scooter, maybe they cannot help it ?!?’

Answer:

‘who gives a fuck? When they feel the piss on their feet they should know they did something wrong, and if they do not they need more help than I can provide”

Statement:

‘scooter, maybe it is cultural or religious?!?’

Answer:

‘huh?, to piss on the floor? I have never heard of the land of Piss-On-Tile and further more… I don’t know the church of St. Piss on the Floor either, where the hell is that?’

Statement:

‘scooter, maybe they were injured by mines and cannot stand at the urinal’

Answer:

‘what? , muthafuckah, what? Muthafuckah, why? Honestly, this may be viable and I deeply hurt in my heart for anyone injured by the injustices of global conflict …………………………… BBBBBBUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTT …………………………….. I cannot help it that Princess Diana did not make it to clean up said mines before she met her horrible demise, but this I can say, she would not approve of piss on the floor, and neither will I’

Conclusion:

There used to be a sign up that was fashioned by a coworker that said “please do not urinate on the floor”, and surprisingly there was no piss on the floor. What does this mean, these people know they are on notice. As they should. Given that the sign was duly taken down after about 2 weeks one would think they went to piss rehab. But you wanna know what happened? Today I go to the bathroom and it is Lake WannaPissYa all over again. I mean really, take your shaky legged, Jonas Salk Needing, Land Mine dodging ass to a stall sit the fuck down and piss.

You are nasty and your whole family has been disgraced by your actions. Nasty Raggedy Bitch…I would tell you momma but she taught you how… Nasty Bitch.

Oh so little time... to tell it all

I would love to tell you all every bit of mess that occurred since last week but I can’t do it and keep from getting carpal tunnel. I did though pick just a few, hot fabulous messes to write about… so here we go.

Oh, let me begin by saying this, I have sent out my monthly invitation to those that can kiss my ass. So be on the lookout.

Miss Gay American Airlines

One would think that after the success I had with Miss Carlton he would have spread the word through the gay grapevine that I fly American Airlines, and I after all need to know ‘why we fly’ . Nevertheless, I did get to see my friend “Campy” in the Admirals Club in DC and he (as he always does) made me a bloody mary (for free). So moving on… I got on this Shit Ville USA American Eagle pencil dick plane with popsicle stick wings. It was all worthwhile when the flight attendant walked by. He or shall I say Shim was standing in full glory, lip gloss, foundation, eye brows arched, and wait for it….. MASCARA. I knew from this point on that Miss Fabulash was gonna be a mess. A hot CVS, makeup from aisle number 8 mess, and boy (or giiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllllllllll) was he. Miss Gay AA swished-swished his ass up and down that little narrow as plan aisle like it was the runway at Miss Universe. If only you could have heard “please fasten your safety belts, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belt light”, I am telling you I had to duck to keep from being batted out by the Fabulash.

Dancing on the Ceiling

Most of you know I fancy myself a good dancer. Fuck fancy, I know I am a good dancer. So with that I saddled up my wagon and went to dance at a bar in Asheville, NC last week. Hot mess!! First of all, when I dance I dance serious. Like I dance like you are about to give me a government stimulus check. So since I was not in my element it took exactly one 40 oz Heineken (yes they sell them at the bar) to get me out on the floor. As I moved and grooved I had a guy come up to me and say ‘did you get off a flight from Charlotte today?’ I said ‘yeah I did’, then I hear ‘oh me and my friend saw you at the airport’. Ok, now really, this is North Muthafuckin’ Carolina I cannot be the only brotha to land all up in Asheville (at the same time as Dick Morris mind you) I mean there have to be some other brothas around. Shit North Carolina was a damn slave state after all.

So of course I keep dancing and having my ‘party of one’ and my airport friends think we are now a ‘party of three’. So I had to go let them bitches know, uh you don’t know me. It ended up with me saying, ‘well I hope the airport treats you well, but I like dancing alone, thanks’. Now it would not have been so bad if both these kats did not look like they were a dental school collage of what could go wrong in your mouth. Bitches mouths look like at set Lego Duplo blocks, just big and raggedy as hell…

Moving on…

Bad Drag…

A path was made to The Hippo in Baltimore earlier this month to see the Dragathon competition. Now you all know I love me some drag. Good drag is hard to find on the eastern seaboard, that is all I have to say. Just because you slap on your mama’s old dress from Lerner New York, put on some Pixie make up, and put on a dusty ass whig you are not a drag queen in fact you look closer to Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son than anything.

Now this Dragathon is an amateur drag competition. For those of you not fluent in drag that means Dragathon = Bullshit. These raggedy whores looked like Barbara Eden, Bea Arthur, Nell Carter, Jane Goodall, and Dixie Carter on a bad day. Then to top it off you had a bitch who did Reba. Now these ho took the cake. At the door she was smoking a Virginia Slim and talking about how some other bitch got kick out of the Reba look-a-like contest for getting arrested. HUH?!? I was like, and this bitch got in. She looks like she belongs in a paid advertisement for cleft palette surgery. I wanted to say, ooh child … Ugly looks good on you.

Rock Creek Parkway

I love the Rick Creek Parkway, I mean I love the Rock Creek Parkway; I drive it every chance I get. Even when I don’t need to. So the other day when driving to work the P0arkway was a bit congested and I was like, ok time for the daily soundtrack. So I scroll through the Ipod to the drive playlist and in the middle of Hello Brooklyn by Jay Z, I hear and feel this ‘kabammmm!!” on the side of Big Blue. (Keep in mind my car is big and wide like a Serena Williams’ ass) Turns out some piece of shit bike rider hit my mirror. He didn’t tear it off or anything he just hit it, which if you know me is just enough to piss me the f*ck off. I mean with gas being $3.89/gal I am sure that hit alone cost me $2.22 To make it worse this ignorant fool did not turn around to acknowledge my shit, he just kept going, which for his sake was probably a good decision. Of course now my mirror is all cock-eyed to the side and I am fuming. I don’t really know why I am fuming but I wanted to kill that bitch. So much so that when I rolled past his monkey ass I told him “you lucky I did not swing a jack at your ass”. Now I feel I should explain something … and I will break this explanation up into 2 pieces:

#1 – don’t be scared of any black person that yells a threat at you, people that yell threats are not about shit, they don’t have shit, and they are not going to do shit. PERIOD Now when I get quiet and just look at you, that means I am calculating bail, so be afraid. Or when you hear me calling the Police (yeah I proper nouned that shit) before I whoop yo ass, you better get to stepping, because I am gonna flash whoop your ass. That means your ass-whoopin will be so fast that you will not feel it until the Police show yo.

(now this is not a license to go talk shit, because I talk shit to everyone because I will pop a fool in that face and I have the complexion for the protection, and lastly I have bail money)

#2 – Jack Swingin’ is some old school gansta shit. Back in the day, you would swing a jack (yes a car jack) at a fool for feeling froggy. Ask my momz she will show you how.

Now I caution those of you that have to tan, don’t go using terms like swingin’ a jack and ‘you aint shit’ with people of color you don’t know REAL well. We are a volatile people and I would hate to have someone get killed over some avoidable shit, so explore your vicarious ethnicity through UrbanDictionary.com not on the urban streets.

Needless to say, I made it to work, mirror fixed. Bike rider lived to ride another day. Why? Because I yelled my threat.


You better be ready to get scrappy…

Straight men straight men. Don’t go around looking grown ass men in the eye. Today on the elevator some man was all about looking me in the eye. Now to gay men that means something altogether different, like you are interested or some shit. So, me being a person who will stare and sigh a bitch down (lessons for the stare and sigh coming soon) have had to stop looking people in the eye. Anyway, this Bilbo Baggins looking creature was all in my ocular, and not saying shit. So, you know me; I sighed and looked right back, like “and what?, and what, bitch”

This is how it works, do not look a grown ass man in the eye unless you are ready to get scrappy. I will look slap past you and be talking to you, but when I am looking you in the eye, only one of two things are happening and trust… only one has a happy ending.


Only to be fair…

Straight women Straight women. You need some advice too. Spend money on your assets, because I can tell when you don’t. If you are bottom heavy, buy good pants; if you are top heavy, buy yourself a Wacoal bra. There is nothing worse and that big assed woman in cheap pants and a big breasted woman is a raggedy ass bra. If your bra has seen more than one congressional term, do us all a favor. Send that shit on a hike.

Good Day…

THIS IS WHY I'M HOT!!!

This is why I’m HOT!!!

So I was bumped off my second whirlwind flight with American because the shit was cancelled due to some safety bullshit (along with about 1700 others, you bitches have CNN right?). So you know I was HOT!! Mad like a postal worker. So I ticketed for a flight tomorrow at 1045AM out of Dulles (haven’t we been through that before?) and go in to talk to someone at the ticket desk. Now I have a bad bad shady history with the people at the AA desk at just about every US airport, I just don’t get along with them, it is like they have Scooter Repellent.

Anyway I wait in the line and I think to myself I just need to get close to Dallas... Options come to me Houston, Austin, Little Rock (yes Little Rock) just close... Alas they all fail me then I get up to the agent and I work my jelly. I should start by saying I have on a t-shirt that looks poured on (as in it shows off my body, not in a “popped-biscuit” kinda way but a ‘this is why I’m hot’ kinda way) .. So I get to the agent, a middle aged ‘gay as day’ African-American man we will call, Miss Carlton. I explain to Miss Carlton that I need to get as close to Dallas as I can, and he says “is that all?” This whole exchange occurs amidst the howling and yelling of people who have been waiting for hours and I have been in line only 35 minutes. He says “let me see what I can do”, I told him I was told there were 19 people on standby for the last direct to Dallas so I assumed there was no hope, but I would appreciate his help, and I smiled.... Then the heavens opened.

I leaned in and make conversation with him, he asked me how long I had live in the area, blah blah blah. Then I leaned in more and my chest touched the counter, as in my bare chest. I am wearing a DEEP V-neck t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. (tell your friends) Believe me when I say I look good in it too. Everyone cannot and everyone should not wear one of these shirts. Call yo’ mama and tell her that....

Miss Carlton goes to the back room, comes out, picks up the phone calls the gate and I hear “I need a customer ticketed....” I was like, What WHAT!!! I get my ticket, get my bag tagged and as I am leaving Miss Carlton says ... “the shirt and the dimples got you that ticket, enjoy your flight!!”

This is why I’m Hot!!

WHAT WHAT!!

Dish Pan Hands....

Dish Pan Hands

I am known to shy away from shaking a hand or two but you know since that is not so kosher in the business world I am often left to rub hands with the roughest hands on the eastern seaboard. Now, in my opionion there is not much worse than a hand that is ‘hard’ or a hand that is too ‘soft’. A ‘hard’ hand can be defined as a hand that is extremely dry (dry beyond ashy). A ‘soft’ hand is one that is mushy. Easy enough.

So I decide for lunch that I will find my ‘Crouching Tiger Hidden Negro’ and I go to Sushi Buffett for lunch. I was doubtful but it was quite good, no regrets. As I enter the buffet line a gentleman in front of me is ‘announcing’, now ‘announcing’ as it is stated here is the art of just talking out loud with hopes that someone will latch on a remark, then ‘BOOM’ that person is wrangled into a meaningless conversation with you about cherry blossoms, butterflies, or some other useless bullshit. So as he is ‘announcing’ things like “ooh Gen. Cho’s chicken, spider roll, etc” I am trying my hardest to not be taken in be his villainous ways. Of course he says, “how are you today”, and since I was raised right I had to say ‘fine and you?’, at that point it was over; he caught me.

“Oh do you work in the building?” he asks. “uh no I am across the street”(lying), "oh really? Do you work for …." of course at this point I have to make a calculated decision about where this convo is going. I make my decision and say “No, I do not.” “Well, good because they are in trouble.” “Well, good then” I say. Thinking this is over and pick up my sushi and trek to find a seat. Who follows me along – still ‘announcing’? You got it, ‘DIPSHIT!’!!

Now he did not sit next to me but just at the same ‘U’ – shaped table (think Benihana) and he just blabbed and blabbed and blabbed to his sidekick. This piece of shit went on and on until he struck something so hard I was like ‘excuse me what?’ What this blowhard said was, “my uncle and grandfather own a phone company” and he said it with such vigor I knew that he believed it in his spirit. The next thing I did was look at his shoes and for a wallet bulge.

Quick lesson:

Men

Point#1

• you can fake everything except a shoe. PERIOD. CHEAP shoes look cheap. And old shoes look old as hell…

• FYI – Kenneth Cole makes a shitty shoe, so tell your friends, tell your mama, tell your metrosexual friend who is still wearing his shiny black shoes from Kenneth Cole that that shit is wiggity whack!!! So that is why I looked at his shoes, they failed miserably. So look in your closet and check out those shoes, unless you work for the government, if you have some raggedy ass cheap shoes, light that shit aflame like Angela Basset in Stella Got Her Groove Back…

Point #2

• I look to the wallet bulge because… and I hate to dog on this but it has to be said. You a grown ass man but your wallet in your ass pocket or carry it in your hand!! PERIOD!! And unless you are carrying money like Cash Money Millionaires you need to have a slim wallet. Slim Wallet = style. Fat wallet = bad credit. Just a thought… I mean do you really need to carry around your Barnes and Noble loyalty card? I mean really… This test he failed too, he had a fat wallet in his front pocket.

So when I quickly surmised that this saddle bag of mess was pulling my leg (or thought he was) I was like ‘really? A phone company?” He said, ‘well not a company (as I thought, no shit) it is really a telephone co-op in Vermont’, again I sat shattered by the shear messiness of what I was hearing, I mean having spent a fair amount of time in VT in the last few months I was at a loss as to what phone co-op was. He went on to explain that he aunt is actually a llive operator who answers the phone and provides numbers and all that other operator shit, FROM THE HOUSE!!! I obviously must have looked flabbergasted because his friend who I like to think of as Piglet (work with it) was like ‘yeah she used to have a light up switch board', and of course speaking out of turn I said, “like a LIteBrite?” They just looked at me... But apparently it is true and no so uncommon in rural areas.

My grandfather and my uncle own a phone company … can you believe that shit?

It was all good until went to share Announcer and Piglet’s hands and lie to them saying “nice to meet you”. Announcer’s handshake went ok, but Piglet; Piglet’s hands were hard as bricks. Like when they touched my skin I jumped. Just hard as a damn rock (hard like he skin makes noise) and BEET red, I could not get upstairs fast enough to wash my hands with a mixture of Purell and liquid Dial. Brick Hands. Buy some Aveeno....

Wednesday... And the Bullshit Continues...

The bullshit continues…

You know I try to be right, but I am sure the world is against my black ass. It aint right, I say it aint right. You know, I mean I give to charity, I patron the homeless, I make sure the crack head is heading in the right direction, I even talk to old people in Safeway; so why in the hell can I not get customer service when I need it.

Wednesday at work was fine. I mean I listened to my Miss Jones in the Morning and I went in with the previous day’s monkey on my back, but I knew I was gonna shake that bitch off because it was a new day and I was going to resolve problems not have more of them (so I thought). So I begin by calling Hertz and explaining that my car smells like it was part of a Native American Peace Pipe smoking contest, the lady tells me the only other car I can get is a (get ready) a Kia Rondo, I said ‘a who?’, I mean I don’t know Kia Rondo but I think that bitch’s sister works at a nail shop on Jefferson in Oak Cliff.

Now I will not drive a Kia Rondo, I mean I will valet a Prius at a Jay-Z party but I will not drive a Kia Rondo. I said,l simply, rather simply, Miss Irene can you find me a Ford Edge and call me back please. One down. One to go. So I called the Hilton and said “I am in a handicapped room with a wheelchair shower, and I reserved a concierge room.” After a bit of bantering, “Mr. Ward I will get you a room and you can switch this evening.” So I get back to my hotel at 7:30PM and the shit goes down. “Oh we gave your other room away”, you see this is where I go E-40 on a bitch. If you don’t know who E-40 is I am talking that, Sprinkle me shit…

Timah timah … Fortee Wida … Sprinkle me man…. Sprinkle me man…

Now if you do not know what that means ask the 3 black people you know, or email Flavor Flav, he so black he look like brake dust. (I can say that because I am dark, don’t go getting your ass kicked quoting me and trying to be fancy with a dark skinned drag queen, because a bitch will cut)

See there are moments when I catch feelings and I am ready to fight, this was one. But I held my cool with David as he tried to find me another room on the concierge level. “Mr. Ward I have you a room on the 5th floor, it is a junior suite blah blah blah…” before I knew it I snatched the keys and I was up in the room. Here’s the shit it is the same as my room on the 3rd floor, wheelchair locks and all. I just leaned up against the wall and thought, aint that a bitch. I go back down to David, explain to him that he should change my rate, and that I will be staying in the handi-room on level 3.

I sauntered away head hung low. One good thing came out of the calls, I got my Ford Edge.

I was actually really juiced for Wednesday night because it was Hip Hop Karaoke at the Knitting Factory. For those who do not know the Factory it is home to people like John Legend, Alicia Keyes, Natasha Bedengfield, etc. they all come and slum it with the regular folks, you know, people like you.

Now, Hip Hop Karaoke is a hot mess. A HOT MESS… A HOT MESS!!! People had acts. I want you to take 15 seconds and re-read that eight times. PEOPLE HAD ACTS!!! The best of which was Aaliyah. This bitch had the hair, the outfit, the dance steps, and wait a minute, the dancers. I was speechless. When I thought that was enough there was a Busta Rhymes Karaoken (not a word but I am going to noun that shit) who brought his own hype man… I was thinking who does this shit?!? Then I got the song list and realized there was no Journey so I was like fuck it, I will spectate (not a word but I will action that shit from noun to verb).

In Karaoke the way you can be a mess is sing the song of a mess. So of course why not do Mary J. Blige. Of course you have to be Mary J. Blige pre-Peace and do anything off “What’s the 411?”. The raggedy bitch got up on stage, and sang a montage from the CD. When she hit the track “I’m going down” bitch was on the floor, like she went down and never came up. Just think, Mary J. got busted in the eye over that kinda shit back then.

OH Humpday!!!

Tuesday ... Mess!!

Hello Friends,

It is a beautiful day in my world, you know why? Because Oprah said so, bitch. And even Jesus consults with Oprah before making great decisions. That said I want to give you all the rundown of my ‘Week in Review’(you may not get it all today, but you will get it).

Last week all started with some mess about having to travel back out to the Middle of Long Island. Now I say the middle of Long Island because there is nothing in the middle of Long Island except the smell of hair gel and cellulite. It is much like Middle Earth where Frodo and Sam Wise Gamjee lived…

Well I went along with it, well, because daddy has to work for a living.

Tuesday 4/1/08

Not much happened on Monday so roll with me here. Tuesday afternoon Super Shuttle picks me up at the house and carts me out to Dulles Airport for yet another glorious JetBlue flight to hell. For those of you who have never been to Dulles or do not know geography this is how it works. Dulles International Airport is an exercise in inefficiency, it is not close to anything, you have to ride these mechanized roaches out to your terminals, and JetBlue makes a practice of employing punk-ass bitches.

So I get to the airport at about 5:30 PM for my 7:40 flight to JFK. Jatisha (the lady who helped me) says “sir do you know your flight is delayed until 9:10PM, I said ‘well I do now’ followed by ‘what do I get for free?’, Jatisha looks up at me trying to balance between her fake nails, fake eyelashes, and fake hair she says ‘well nothing sir the delay is weather related’ I say ‘well ok my JetBlue experience (what they call it) is jacked up because you all cannot pick me up or drop me off on time, and when you do you steal my bags’; she really was not trying to care as I was all but too distracted by her eyelashes anyway.

I get to security and begin to get naked like they make you do these days. I walk through the machine that I am sure will give me an eventual brain tumor and Tim the TSA agent wants to berate me about how I left my boarding pass in the bin. “Male assist” he yells and I go into the ‘holding area’; now I try to be real cool in airports because I know they will through my black ass out on the runway and make me catch the Soul Plane. So I stand in the holding area and I see my boarding pass on the roller and I hear, again, “Male Assist”, the man who comes to ‘assist’ me is about 490 pounds and has questionable hygiene at best. You know when someone is fat, like real fat, like trip to Zoo to visit them kinda fat, those people have what I like to call – Sanitary Marks – discolored portions of skin around the neck and underarms that look like dirt. I digress. Officer Fat Ass runs me through the mill. Spread your arms, your legs, your feet, etc. then he waves the wand, only problem is he should have waved the soap through the water and let it hit is skin. He smelled like he wore shit cologne, it was gross. After the attack on my olfactory glands I was allowed to go on though to the gate and move on.

So I get on the motor roach and trek over to Terminal B gate 60 which is right down from the Lufthansa gates. Of course I sit down and get ready to surf the web with the ‘Free Internet Access’ that JetBlue promotes, well the only problem is the shit doesn’t work. So I go up to the counter ask the guy if there is internet. He says ‘sir, the free internet does not work but you can go over to gate 62 for paid internet. ‘ Rather than get in a fight with Zubair, I moved on because he was so ugly he looked like he could cast spells. I get to the Lufthansa gate and “tada!!” I have internet, but every other word I hear over the loudspeaker is in German. Now I love Germany, in fact I kinda like German people; but the language is a mess. When speaking German one sounds like they are in the midst of taking a really rough ‘shit’. Even as pleasant as Hilda’s voice was it still sounded like she was passing a foot-long turd when speaking.

Finally my flight is moved up to 8:40 and I begin to board. The flight would have been great aside from the fact that the DirectTV in my seat did not work. Now I fly JetBlue for 3 reasons; cheap, Internet, and DirectTV. Now they have conspired to snatch 2 of those reasons from me; internet and DirectTV, so instead I sleep. I can only imagine that I was either snoring of kicking in my sleep because everyone looked at me when I woke up like “damn he is done snoring”. Whatever, they can kiss my no DirectTv having ass.

I get my bags, no problem, I ride the AirTrain to Hertz, no problem. Then the shit begins to go downhill. Did I mention it was raining. Well, it was raining. Ankle deep water.

I go into Hertz because my name is not on the board for my Gold Reservation. Now, those of you who know me know I don’t ask for much except for shit to be right if I am paying for it. I have a “fuck it up if it is free” philosophy, but if I am paying you some hard earned skrill you better come with it. So the guy at the desk, whose teeth looked like Jolly Ranchers proceeded to tell me “you are not a Gold Member”, I turned around looked behind me and looked back and slid my card over to him and said “I have a Gold Card”; ‘but the system says you are not gold’ he says. Again, trying to be a good Christian I say, ok I will fix this later. He then says “oh we gave away the car we had reserved for you”, again I turn around breathe and turn back and say “excuse me, why?”. Then there is some protracted tale about a person who wanted a different car than they reserved blah blah blah… I decide I will let this go to. Very Christian of me.

Now I have to walk through the rain to my car which is a White Hummer H3, sounds nice right? HELL NO. The car has no navigation, no keyless entry, and smells like Snoop Dogg rented it before me, but by now it was 11:20 PM and I cannot really fight the fight before my 35 minute drive. So I get to hell, also known as the Hilton Long Island and I am ready to go up to my concierge level room. But guess what, they had some shit in for me.

I check in, I get my room jacket with my room key and I headed up to room 561. I get to the room slide in my room key and I get the “red” light. Those of you who stay in hotels know the red light is not good. So I try again and again. I try until the person staying in room 561 comes to the door. I apologize and I walk away. Imagine this you are an older white man who wakes to me at your door trying to jostle it open. Well luckily he did not call the law and I was not shot 17 times. So I call downstairs and I am told – “we gave your room away you are in a Junior Suite, room 315” I get to room 315 and on first sight it is great. Cavernous and warm. Then I proceed into the restroom, the restroom is like that in a nursing home, so much so it has wheelchair locks in the shower. Question. How do you wash your ass if you sit in a wheelchair?

Fuck that. But by now I am sleepy and nothing else can really happen, so I decided I will take care of it on Wednesday. (more to come)