[Note: Today’s story is mine but it was written by Miles Smith, my bestie, editor at the Lockhart Post-Register and censorship meanie, who deemed my version of the story too “racially insensitive.” This story is not at all how I wrote it, but is, in fact, much better and contains a wealth of knowledge about rap music I do not possess. Enjoy today’s story as I go off and reflect as to why I felt the need to compare rappers to badgers in my version of events and whether or not that makes me a bad person.]
So, here’s a first. A couple of weekends ago, the club turned into a petting zoo, with my ass as the main attraction.
A group of tall, dark and attractive men came in, each one more massive and chiseled than the next. They claimed to be from Houston and claimed to have a celebrity rapper in tow. If one of the chiseled hunks of onyx was Tyrese, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The guys took a table in the VIP section each evening and, when the playlist landed on rap, they rapped along with the proficiency of NWA, minus Easy E, of course (RIP.)
Then again, maybe the celebrity rapper in tow was Juvenile, because they were certainly interested in seeing me back my azz up.
Let me explain: the first night they arrived, they took bets on whether or not my booty was real and called me over to poke it several times in order to confirm its authenticity. Then a pile of bills changed hands, and I regretted not charging a commission.
People, my booty is so real it will curl up on the couch and share a tub of ice cream with you when your asshole boyfriend dumps you. My booty is so real that I squeeze it instead of a stress ball when I’m getting drilled. (At the dentist, I mean.)
I kinda want to high five whomever won that bet.