I know, I know, I know, I KNOW! I haven't talked to you since King Died. It's been ages. But mummy is back from the aid office and has refilled her flask. Stories. Lets? Yes.
Sooooo life has been pretty fucking good on planet Slick. I recently took a work trip to my beloved Chicago and jammed packed all kinds of Tom Foolery into the trip---
For starters, my friends & loved ones surprised me with a belated birthday party. My BFF called me up a few days prior and said that she needed to tell me something face to face. She told me to block off Friday night at a certain time so that she and I could talk. Naturally I complied and went to her River North office. She seemed flustered and annoyed. I took one look at her, and knew what was going on.
Me: Dude...are you pregnant?
Now me and the besty have gone through this before. She has a 12 year old son. She recently started dating a guy... a guy she's getting serious about. So its not entirely ridiculous to assume that when your girl rings you up and demands to see you privately, that some serious shit is goin on. So naturally I assumed some sperm attacked her egg, and now a baby will reside in her stomach.
See, that's the problem with sex. It always ends up in babies...or relationships.
Back to the convo:
Me: Oh my god. You're preggers. But I didn't dream of fish! Did you dream of fish? Your mom?
BFF: Nope...But I took two tests, and have a dr's appointment. I'm pretty sure.
Me: And the titty's--
Me: (beat...beat...beat...) Well fuck it. I'll change my flight. But first lets go get a drink. We'll decide over cocktails if we're going to Pea in the Pod or Planned Parenthood.
Now stop right there. Fuck you for judging me. She say's she pregnant, and my response is "lets go get a drink." I NEVER claimed to be a good person. But I am a loyal friend.
Me: We got this homes. We'll figure it out. Where you wanna go?
BFF: Juicy Wine Bar. I know the owner.
See problem solving is best done over discounted drinks.
I didn't pay attention to how beat back and sexy this girl was looking. All of my friends are fierce and have magnificent racks. Luckily I had combed my hair and racked up on samples from Sephora, and was able to spruce up a bit...See when women go for drinks, not matter the circumstance, some young prince from Arabia or Drugizstan might be willing to throw money at pretty girls.
The besty took the lead, and I followed her over to the bar and up the stairs.
BFF: Lets take the veranda.
Just when I reached the top a few fuckers jumped out and said "SURPRISE!"
Oh I felt like a dummy. My friends (even 3 that I had spent the entire work day with) were in on it. The music flowed, someone shoved a drink into my hand, and tears filled my eyes. Not because I was touched, but mostly because I was willing to introduce this poor little zygote of a baby to my corrupted ways.
ME: Bitch I thought you was pregnant! You asshole! You're all assholes!
It was a splendid night. Everyone was dressed so nicely (thank god! I have no tolerance for sneakers and sagging pants). For hours we had an open bar, slamming dee jay LA JESUS, food and sugary cake. My mama even came and had the nerve to shake her ass in the soul train line. People came and went all night. We danced and stanked the place to be damned. By the end of the night the staff was dancing with us, pouring us shots, and letting loose. I tell you, I felt like Zora Neal Hurston hanging at the Dark Tower in Renaissance Harlem. It was my own little Niggerati. Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Bruce Nugent, A'leia Walker, Florence Mills...all of the worlds finest chocolate (and white chocolate too) was in one room. Drinking. Drugging. Loving life & celebrating Art.
So to you clever fuckers, I humbly say: Merci bou coup mes amis!
Ciao for now kids,
next blog: How BP's Oil Spill reminds me of my grade school Jheri Curl. Both tragic.