Since the dawn of existence, man has gazed upon the limitless sky and dreamed but one dream: to fly with the birds, to christen the clouds, to dine with the gods.
Sadly, all efforts to levitate toward the heavens have been physically thwarted by gravity. Hope endured throughout the centuries until that bookworm Isaac Newton came along and officially spoiled the fun. Just as he predicted, all skyward launches have tragically plummeted back to the earth at -9.8 meters per second.
...Until now. I have taken it upon myself to defy gravity. No longer will I be bound to the land. The days of lowly loneliness are over. I believe I can fly; I believe I can touch the sky. In the names of R. Kelly, Brent Barry, and Woody Harrelson, I will dunk a basketball on a standard 10-foot rim by September 1st. You are all witnesses.
Cheerful rhetoric aside, let's briefly examine this endeavor in scientific terms. Here are my measureables:
Height
5'11 3/8
Weight
158 lbs. of pure athleticism
Vertical Leap (as of 5/27)
25 inches
Gender (as of 5/27)
Male
Sign
Leo
Career Dunks
0*
*Subject to change
With a running start, I can catch the rim with my right hand, as well as dunk a tennis ball. The problem is that I cannot reliably grip a basketball, so I need to be able to jump high enough to comfortably dunk two-handed. As such, by my esitmate I'll have to improve my vertical from 25" to about 29" over the course of the next three months. Thus, my incremental goal involves adding at least 1.5 inches per month, which would put me at 29.5" on September 1st. If I can build myself all the way up to 32", I might be able to throw one down within the flow of an actual game. Make no mistake: this is going to happen.
I'll be back with periodic updates, recounting the successes and failures throughout my noble quest to inhabit a new altitude. Please try to contain your excitement.
-----Original Message----- From: Will "The Thrill" Grasty Sent: Friday, May 22, 2009 1:30 AM To: Self-righteous bouncers Subject: The futility of your existence
Dear cocksuckers,
Allow me to speak for the general public when I say that we're all terribly intimidated by your husky physique, cargo shorts, and $1 sunglasses. Your brand of toughness should be bottled, packaged, and sold in GNC store locations everywhere. We cannot help but envy your status amongst the cultural elite. If only one day we could have the power to waddle into a bar, fill out an application, and sheepishly admit to having no skills beyond existing. What a wonderfully impressive form of social climbing. But alas, that's what separates the doers from the dreamers.
Yeah, I get it. You smash that which you don't understand, you think Lattimer from The Program is the coolest guy since Rocky Balboa, and you were voted Most Likely to Commit Statutory Rape in high school. You are a regular Joe Beefcake, women swoon at the sight of your barbwire tattoo, and the world salutes your courageous efforts in the war against underage drinking. Every night you pound your HGH shake, drive your Mazda 6 to work, use the employees' entrance, and flat-out get the job DONE. You are a true competitor; your prideful spirit coupled with your minimum wage salary has cemented the bouncer species as recession-proof.
Unfortunately, you are not the gatekeepers of responsible alcohol consumption, nor are you the heroic protectors of sanctity. You are not a beloved warrior who gracefully walks the earth, instilling justice and retribution along the way. Nope, you are just another guy with a buzzcut and misappropriated facial hair who just happens to sit on a stool outside a bar with the task of subtracting 1988 from 2009. While you might believe that you stand between good and evil, much like Gandalf (oops, nerd reference), you actually stand between prospective drinkers and their inevitable battles with their own inner demons. In the grand scheme of things, that's a pretty insignificant place to occupy.
In case you forgot, your primary job requirements involve (a) wearing a t-shirt, (b) sweating a lot, and (c) taking up space. Without question, security is a necessary evil, especially when alcohol is prominently involved. But you untrained and unskilled meatheads don't secure anything. If I'm ever in danger, I really hope my livelihood doesn't rest in the clumsy hands of Ram, the former D-III special teamer.
Please don't misunderstand: this is not to say that all bouncers are bad. Certainly there exists a noble contingent that thankfully understands the meaningless nature of their career. We appreciate the humble bouncers who quietly and respectfully spot fake IDs, escort belligerent patrons outside, and even break up the occassional fight. But too many of you take yourselves too seriously. You know who you are. If you cross your arms, chew on a toothpick, and use oh-so-witty catchphrases like "Time for you to leave," then do us all a favor and reevaluate your inflated sense of self-worth. Your cankles are not a force to be reckoned with. For realz.
Everything was great. He blessed us with his seemingly-endless talent. No one had ever seen such things, and from the most unlikeliest of sources, a 5'10 skinny white guy. There was no question he was the best there is, and then one day, he was gone. Without warning, without rationale, and without a goodbye. He left the industry, and it fell into disarray. Everyone was left thinking: "How can we replace him?" and "When will he come back?"
As time went on, these questions remained unanswered. Rumors of Pneumonia and Drug Abuse swirled. What little hope was left would soon become lost. Dark Times...
And just as the world forgot about him, he emerged once again, but with little fan fare. Privately, he showed his confidants that he's still got "it". He reached out to his closest collaborators, and told them it was time to begin his re-ascension. "When?!" they asked. "As long as nothing leaks, the week of May 18th" he assured them.
As sort of a concession to Will, I promised to note that I am not talking about Eminem, as I am referring to yours truly. I figured it was obvious, but Will said there might be some confusion. That being said, after a few dozen mid-afternoon naps, some heavy, stressful time spent on Xbox Live, and a miraculous 11-game streak on ESPN's Streak for the Cash, I have faithfully decided to return to Shirley, You Can't Be Serious in hopes of salvaging the blogging world while making good on the promise I made to my legions of fans (I will never EVER leave you unless there's money involved). Your dreams have been realized. Please. Don't mention it.
So, the question that remains on everyone's mind, "What's next?" Well, I learned from my first reign, and I now know not to set the bar too high. After all, you still need to be able to reach the bar when you want to adjust it. Thus, I've created the "No Bar" system. (Note: I must make sure to not confuse two of my more dedicated readers Pat and Joe, and let them know that this system refers to a fictional/metaphorical bar, not the type of bar that they spend half of their time and all of their money at. And Joe, there is no free restroom access at the type of bar I'm talking about.) The "No Bar" system means no promises and no expectations. Sure, the 1% of the world's population that refers to themselves as "Chuck's Detractors" are probably calling an emergency meeting at a conveniently-located Applebee's, and I'm sure that in between bites of half-price appetizers, they are saying "Oh boy, that darned Chuck has struck again! No bar system? That's just propaganda to justify sporadically updating his blog." So, I will take the time just once to address my detractors and their apparent dissatisfaction with my "No Bar System"....
In your haste, you predictably focused on the negative, and I now ask you to put down your 20 oz. Hateamin Water and listen to what I have to say. I removed the bar so, quite simply..... my blogs can fly as high as my dreams. Namaste.
(In my last 10 words, I made references to both LOST and The Office. Don't call it a comeback!)
Some of you might remember James Harrison as the Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker who returned an interception 100 yards for a touchdown in Super Bowl XLIII. Others might identify Mr. Harrison as a two-time Pro Bowl selection and the NFL Defensive Player of the Year in 2008. Now we can all identify him for what he really is: a misunderstood genius.
In American sports, every championship team receives a cordial invitation to the White House, wherein they share photo opportunities with the President, reflect upon their achievement, and drink Dr. Pepper. By virtue of winning the Super Bowl, the Steelers are scheduled to visit sometime this summer, which is a pretty big deal since the NFL remains the most profitable and visible league in the world (let's just say Barack Obama isn't exactly circling his calendar for when the Detroit Shock come to town).
In a rebellious display, Harrison won't participate in the Steelers celebratory White House visit. If you're like me, then your first instinct was that Harrison wants to Fight the Power, Public Enemy-style. But if you assumed that this is a sophisticated form of political protest, then you are quite wrong. It turns out that James Harrison is just really dumb...
This is how I feel -- if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Barack Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won.
So true. Obama totally would have invited the Cardinals and their God-lovin' Quarterback if they won the Super Bowl. Hey, when he's right, he's right.
Mother's Day holds special significance in our household. Not only are we big fans of maternity, but the holiday remains emblematic of the most tragic and retrospectively entertaining episode of my childhood...not to mention the worst day of my parents' lives.
As you might have guessed, the sad freckled little boy in that picture is me. I'm wearing a body cast that ranges from the bottom of my left foot to the top of my chest. My legs are stabilized by a horizontal rod that was built into the cast. Altogether, it's visual proof that God has a sparkling sense of humor.
Both the elaborate medical apparatus and the ensuing Kodak moment were the aftermath of Mother's Day 1993. On that day, my gift to my Mom was a remarkable stunt. Indeed, I managed to sustain the most statistically improbable injury to the human skeletal structure: somehow, against all odds, I broke my femur.
Some background info: This might be a surprise, but I was a showboat in my younger years. As you can see in the photo, I was an adorable little boy with sensational blond hair, a winsome smile, and a mischevious pair of blue eyes. I was quite the spaz in the classroom and on the playground because, hey, who the hell could stay mad at me? I was reckless, dangerous, and my favorite movie was Young Guns starring Emilio Estevez. The world was my stage, and I terrorized anyone who dared to interfere.
Some more background info: In an effort to get the kids outside, my Dad bought a swingset that featured two swings, one slide, a couple ladders, and a row of monkey bars. Little did he know that a structure designed for fun and exercise would instead become the source of pain, agony, and emotional trauma.
After its assembly, the swingset was an instant hit amongst the neighborhood schoolchildren. The collective enthusiasm extended into the winter of 1992, when several friends attended a playdate at my house. Because of the frigid conditions, everyone decided that the monkey bars were too slippery to cross without removing one's gloves/mittens.
As the local hero and authority on recreational gymnastics, I insisted that I could cross the monkey bars while wearing my GI Joe gloves. Not quite. Midway through the attempt, my hands slipped and I violently collided with the frozen tundra of 16 Robbins St. The result? I shattered my elbow and required three pins to set it properly. Note the camouflage cast and the Optimus Prime sweatshirt:
For most well-adjusted children, this would have been a humbling experience from which one could develop character. To the contrary, I learned that injuries create attention, ambidexterity is awesome, and asking someone to sign your cast is an endearing social tactic.
That brings us to May 9, 1993. It was a wonderful time to be alive. Bill Clinton was in the inaugural year of a spotless presidential term. Al Pacino won an Oscar for his stunning portrayal of Al Pacino. Janet Jackson not only had a functional wardrobe, but also her single "That's the Way Love Goes" began an eight-week stint atop the charts.
Anyway, 16 months after I broke my arm I was back at the scene of the crime, this time attempting to impress my family with a daring jump off the swing. In the spirit of Mother's Day I called everyone outside, got on the swing, generated momentum, and gracefully lept skyward.
Much like John F. Kennedy Jr., I didn't stick the landing.
The unfortunate combination of gravity, earth, and youthful frailty left me crumpled in a heap and crying uncontrollably. Despite my flair for the dramatic, my parents' laughter quickly turned into concern and they called 911. Enter the local paramedics.
Like all renaissance men, I've witnessed some astonishing forms of incompetence: Ashlee Simpson "singer," my brother's driving test, Chien-Ming Wang, etc. But the song and dance of volunteer EMTs assessing, treating, and mobilizing my serious leg ailment has to take the cake. Needless to say, nothing about their performance suggested "emergency," "medical," or "technician."
Their initial diagnosis was a fractured fibula. For those of you unfamiliar with the human anatomy, specifically the leg, here's an instructive diagram:
To use the parlance of our times: EPIC FAIL. In fairness, this was 1993; hospital dramas like ER and Grey's Anatomy had yet to educate obsessive American TV viewers, so perhaps I can forgive their inconceivable mistake. Nonetheless, unamused by the buffoonery, my Mom delicately pointed out that I was experiencing pain in my thigh, not my lower leg. Once the paramedics correctly identified the injury as a fractured femur, one of the brilliant EMTs said something along the lines of "Yeah, well, it's harder to tell with kids." Oh really, doctor? Let's revisit our leg diagram:
Despite the shenanigans, I was safely transferred to the hospital and successfully confined to the ridiculous body cast. For three months, I couldn't walk, swim, or go to school. Worst of all, I needed assistance every time I had to go to bathroom; believe me, there are few things more degrading than a bedpan.
In the end, everything happens for a reason. Because I broke my elbow, I became amidextrous. Because I broke my femur, I finally encountered the bitter taste of humility. I also discovered the joys of Mario & Luigi, but that's another story for another time. More important, every Mother's Day I give my Mom an intentionally stupid gift. Before she can express her disappointment, I joke "Hey, at least, I didn't break my leg!" Somehow, we regard this as funny and charming and it never gets old. Like Janet Jackson prophesized, that's the way love goes.
And since I dragged you through another boring personal story, here's an SNL Digital Short starring Chuck's favorite entertainment icon ...Susan Sarandon.
When I woke up just after dawn on September 28, 1928, I certainly didn't plan to revolutionize all medicine by discovering the world's first antibiotic, or bacteria killer. But I guess that was exactly what I did.
- Alexander Fleming
History has taught us that some of our greatest achievements were accomplished by mistake. In the case of Mr. Fleming, the brilliant though absent-minded biologist accidentally forgot to enclose staphylococci (pronounced staff-feel-your-COCK-hard) culture dishes before going on vacation. When he returned, the dishes were contaminated by fungus and Fleming was resigned to discard them. Shortly thereafter, however, he observed that the fungus actually had an anti-bacterial effect. Further research resulted in the medical application and production of penicillin, which remains one of the most widely used antibiotic agents in the world.
In addition to penicillin, some of society's most famous inventions were discovered unintentionally: Post-it notes, super glue, the popsicle, etc. Clearly, necessity is not the mother of invention (it's more like the adoptive parent); indeed, sometimes our best moments of clarity are completely serendipitous. Under similar circumstances, I recently figured out how to destroy Superman. This revelation happened during an acid trip, so you know it's legit.
Far be it from me to brag, but it's the perfect crime and it can be summarized in two words: Kryptonite. Balls.
Here are the essentials:
- One man - Moral and sexual flexibility - Chiseled good looks - Charm - Full medical coverage - $3,500 - Functional scrotum
Phase 1: Get the ball(s) rolling
Like all leading members of the medical community, I'm aware of a nascent cosmetic procedure known as implantation of testicular prostheses. You read that correctly.
As this article illustrates, testicular implants require a simple cost-effective out-patient procedure under general anesthesia. HOWEVAH, instead of inserting the standard gel implants, you would have your testicles surgically replaced by spherical kryptonite implants.
For those unfamiliar, kryponite is the one element that weakens Superman and, if deployed strategically, could be fatal. The viability of kryptonite balls producing kryptonite-flavored semen has sparked extensive scientific debate without any consensus.
As you could imagine, this plot involves pressing ethical dilemmas, so convincing the surgeon to cooperate might involve some bribery, violent persuasian, and political favor. You must be prepared to do whatever it takes. When it comes to murdering The Man of Steel, you have to play dirty.
Finally, if collecting funds becomes problematic (estimated cost: $3,500) then it would be advisible to contact an independent financer. Someone who has designs on world domination and wants Superman dead. Someone who specializes in futuristic weaponry and has access to kryptonite resources. Someone like Lex Luthor.
Phase 2: Seduce Superman
Easier said than done ...but no one suggested this would be easy. If you don't have the game to sweep Superman off his feet and subsequently kill him (otherwise known as The Patrick Bateman), then go frolick with that ultra-sensitive pussy Spiderman.
So here's the question: How do you impress The Man of Tomorrow? How do you strike his fancy? How do you lure him to the dark side? I don't have the answers to these questions, but I imagine it starts with a thick juicy steak, a sophisticated bottle of wine, and some good conversation.
After a successful courtship, your relationship will blossom into a torrid sexual encounter. Your next move will be critical - only a very specific assortment of well-executed bedroom tactics can complete the job.
Before you do anything, activate your iTunes and play Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran. The vintage New Wave synth-pop will establish a free-spirited ambiance that screams, "Hey! We're two responsible adults. We enjoy each other's company and we're here to party! Judge not, lest ye be judged."
Skip the foreplay and proceed to business time. Once your genitals are exposed, you have to act quickly. Superman will be instantly weakened by the presence of your kryptonite balls; hopefully he will be too infatuated by an exciting new love to notice his declining physical state.
Carefully and forcefully encourage Superman to perform fellatio. Judging by his super powers, he can probably trigger an orgasm within five seconds. I recommend masturbating in advance, thereby desensitizing your arousal level and buying an additional 30-90 seconds.
With the toxic testicles resting on his dimpled chin, Superman's jaw will painfully implode, leaving him unable to cry for help, blow his rape whistle, or use his sub-zero freeze breathe. Along those lines, if he delicately fondles your stepchildren, his hands will shatter and he won't be able to capably engage in fisticuffs.
Conversly, you could administer the fabled but elusive Arabian Eye Goggles. While Superman would be able to speak, you would burn his eyes out and render him blind. More important, he would be prevented from using his deadly heat vision.
In any case, the kryptonite balls will leave him helplessly vulnerable and at your mercy. In the tradition of Mortal Kombat, FINISH HIM. Fatality.
Phase 3: Profit
________________
Of course, this plan presupposes (1) Superman is gay or bi-curious, and (2) you want to kill him. Both points are controversial, and I'll address them separately.
First, in popluar culture we are led to believe that Superman was raised in Smallville, Kansas as a red-blooded heterosexual American man with midwestern sensibilities and a strong moral compass. He led a normal life until he uncovered his super powers and the truth about his origin. According to legend, Kryptonians become more powerful as they get closer to Earth's yellow sun. This explains why Kal-El was an unspectacular infant on the planet Krypton, yet in our corner of the solar system he's Superman.
WHAT IF the closer Kryptonians get to the sun, they become not only stronger but also gayer? I know, I know - it's a stretch in logic. Scholars know very little about the genetic orientation of Kryptonians, so any working hypothesis can only be determined on a theoretical/anecdotal basis. Presented in graphical terms:
The null hypothesis states that Superman isn't gay at all and his proximity to the sun has no impact on his sexuality. If that's true, let's explore some sociological factors that might explain Superman's alleged bi-curiosity.
After he moved from Smallville to Metropolis -- the zenith of alternative lifestyles -- perhaps he has changed. Perhaps he's grown weary of the social obstacles than stand between him and Lois Lane. Perhaps the awkward gay subtext with Jimmy Olsen has reached a tipping point. Perhaps the demise of the newspaper industry has forced Daily Planet journalist Clark Kent to explore different avenues for sustenance, such as salacious acts or interent pornography.
With regard to Lois Lane, Mallrats proposed that Superman could not have sex with her because his super-baby would tragically kick through her uterus. To prevent pregancy, "He would have to use a kryptonite condom, which would kill him."
Therefore, if Superman participated in sexual relations with men, he would not need to worry about such devastating reprecussions. Instead, he would have to concern himself with the transferral of sexually transmitted diseases, but, frankly, that's a private discussion between him and his partner (i.e. you). Altogether, even if Superman isn't genetically predisposed to homosexuality, it appears that he has experienced several social motivations to stray from his Smallville upbringing.
Second, why would you want to kill the most iconic mythical hero in our cultural ethos? I have no idea. I won't pretend to know or understand your reasons. Ongoing interest in criminal mastermind activity? Secret crush on Lois Lane? Secret crush on Jimmy Olsen?? Whatever. I'm merely a noble messanger, equipping the world with pertinent information. Use it however you please.
When I woke just after noon on April 12, 2009, I certainly didn't plan to revolutionize all crime-fighting by discovering how to eliminate Superman. But I guess that was exactly what I did.
________________
There you have it: Operation Discreet Scrotal Trojan Horse Surprise. The final piece of the puzzle involves finding the right operative: the man who has the charismatic power and social capital to seduce Superman. There are several qualified candidates, and chosing the best will require an extensive evaluative process.
After failing to update the blog for an entire month, we thought we owed the readers an explanation. And while we're explaining ourselves, we'd like to take this opprtunity to answer some other frequently asked questions that may or may not be on your mind. Fire away!
Where the fuck have you jerkfaces been and why haven't you tried to entertain me since February?
Everything in good time, and please - keep the profanity to a minimum. Pejoratives are the currency of scoundrels.
To answer your question, Will went to Jamaica because he's emotionally unequipped to responsibly reliniquish the vestiges of his youth. Upon returning to the mainland, he spent several weeks bed-ridden with an undefined sexually-transmitted illness. With God on his side, he has blessedly made a full recovery.
Chuck, on the other hand, has abandoned the blogosphere altogether and migrated to the greener pastures of Twitter. You can follow him under his new alias, Kobe24SuperFan4Eva. He spends his free time developing a finger-painting collage that commemorates the forbidden love affair between Vito Spatafore and Jim "Johnny Cakes" Witowski.
How did you two meet? Tell us your story.
Ah, memories. Hard to believe, but it's been almost nine years since Will heroically rescued Chuck from the bullies at Christian Brothers Academy.
With tears in his eyes and shame in his heart, Chuck thought he was doomed to a freshman year of torture. But at the darkest hour, Will saved the day with his disarming brand of karate, mind games, and dry wit.
The bullies would never bother young Chuck again. As gratitude for saving both his life and his high school reputation, Chuck has forever pledged to be Will's personal servant, Facebook friend, and Madden opponent.
Are "Chuck" and "Will" pseudonyms for famed sports/pop culture writers Chuck Klosterman and William 'Bill' Simmons?
Unfortunately, no. But if it will inspire to continue reading, then yes.
Yup, these are my readers.
What are you sports allegiences?
Indeed, we are enemies. Will worships at the cathedral of Giants/Mets, whereas Chuck annually deepens his depression by supporting the Yankees and Jets.
We understand that you two have squared off in Madden. How did that go?
All joking aside, we have battled only once on the virtual gridiron: Madden Tournament 2004. Championship Game. Jets vs. Giants.
With immortality at stake, the G-Men raced to an early 7-0 advantage on an 80-yard touchdown pass from Kerry Collins to Amani Toomer. The Video Giants, led by Will's masterful coaching, never looked back en route to a decisive 35-21 victory. "This is bullshit," commented Chuck in a losing effort.
You both have such strong and distinctive narrative voices. Who are your literary inspirations?
Will: The aforementioned Chuck Klosterman. Michael Lewis. Plaxico Burress. Lord Byron.
Chuck: Aside from Will? Mike Lupica and Rick Reilly.
Favorite movie?
Will: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Chuck: Close call between Godfather III and Medellin.
Favorite TV show?
Will: "Will [& Grace]"
Chuck: "Chuck"
I knew my life would never be the same when...
Will:
...I composed and performed a song called "iRap" for an advertising class during my senior year of college. The subsequent music video was presented to the class as the centerpiece of Apple's new promotional campaign. It was then and there that I realized my theoretical future was not in business, but rather in writing, comedy, and entertainment. To quote rapper/philosopher Bizness Casual - I got 99 problems but a glitch ain't one!
Chuck:
...'N Sync released the classic album No Strings Attached in 2000. Oh. My Gawd.
Strengths/skills...?
Will Speed/quickness/athletics Handsome Rock Band 2
Chuck Ranting Raving Not updating his blog
Weaknesses?
Will N/A
Chuck Talking to girls AP Physics Updating his blog
Ok, important question. Let's say we consider you to be boyfriend material. What are your turn-ons?
Will Flowering meadows Rivers flowing of chocolate Children dancing and laughing and playing with gumdrop smiles
Chuck Chad Pennington Jamie-Lynn Sigler Chad Pennington
Turn-offs?
Will Fantasy baseball owners who don't respond to trade offers Turmoil in the workplace People that brutally murder jokes
Chuck Alex Rodriguez Turtle from "Entourage" Self-hating Jets fans
Final question: I respect my counterpart because...
Will:
...Chuck injects all his endeavors with unrivaled passion and unshakeable conviction. Quiet and unassuming, he knows how to artfully temper his thoughts with salient, authoritative insight, as well as fearless trust in his comedic instincts. Chuck demonstrates a rare ability to balance his professional responsibilities with his creative aspirations, and he understands the importance of surrounding one's self with vibrant and capable individuals...such as myself.
Chuck:
...because I'm contractually obligated to say something nice. Boom. Roasted.
---------
Thank you for your time. I think we can all agree that this has been educational. Keep the faith and stay tuned.
Behold. The prodigal son has returned. I apologize for the prolonged absence; during my stay in Jamaica I mysteriously contracted some hybrid disease that involved symptoms of pneumonia, bronchitis, and the Avian flu. But with the assistance of medical expertise, I have reclaimed my traditional position behind the keyboard. I've also spent the last couple weeks meticulously preparing for the upcoming fantasy baseball season; just another résumé-builder for the Coolest Man Alive.
It's true what they say: We learn a lot about ourselves while traveling. It makes me wonder if anyone can ever really learn anything by remaining in one place their entire lives, subconsciously protecting themselves from potentially uncomfortable realities. Or maybe those people are actually happier. Who the fuck knows?
In any case, I went all the way to Negril to discover that I'm the absolute worst person at distancing myself from prostitutes, save for maybe Ben Affleck. This crippling inability to issue the verbal b-slap belies my affinity for elitism (as well as my not-so-subtle desire to capably exude pimp-like qualities). I guess that I'm too nice. For this reason, I could never become a lawyer. Pimpin' ain't easy, and neither is law.
My education in prostitute psychology happened at an extravagant night spot called The Jungle, which is Negril's closest imitation to Las Vegas. The sign outside the entrance outlawed (among other things) pimps, prostitutes, gigolos, solicitors, hoodlums, drugs, weapons, skull caps, and bandanas. Despite being guilty of several infractions, I somehow managed to advance through all three security checkpoints. That's why they call me Sly.
Once inside, I was immediately accosted by a young Jamaican woman who was of virtue untrue. Perhaps something about my general attitude suggested that I was a player in the money-for-sex marketplace. Without any pleansantries, she grabbed my arm and coldly said "Buy me a drink." Privy to her nefarious intentions, I said "No thanks," which was admittedly an overly polite response. "Get the fuck away from me" probably would have worked better.
Like all ambitious go-getters, she refused to take 'no' for an answer. Since social graces were insufficient, I resorted to Plan B: economics. I had no Jamaican money except for $180 JMD in coins, which is the equivalent of about two American dollars. Of course, the bar would not accept coins, which makes perfect sense considering that coins are part of the currency. Alas, I did not have the means to buy this eager whore the drink she so assiduously craved. Certainly, she would understand. Problem solved.
Not quite. The prostitute still insisted that I buy her a drank (she must have taken me seriously when I told her my name was T-Pain). In fairness, I have to respect her impressive display of relentlessness. She would not be denied. She was like Tyler Hansbrough, except that she was short, black, and talented.
Her tenacity led me to Plan C: full-fledged lying. I claimed to be accompanied by my girlfriend, a classic beauty who would surely disapprove of my associating with unsavory streetwalkers. Unfazed, the prostitute shockingly demanded, "I want to meet her." Sure thing. Hey honey, allow me to introduce you to this vivacious skillful practitioner of the prostitutional arts. You two have so much in common!
By this time, I was perfectly aware of a strange social dynamic:
Problem - The prostitute wanted money. Problem - I had no money. Problem - The prostitute would not leave me alone until there was a satisfactory exchange of goods and services. Problem - I did not want to be near the prostitute. Solution - ?
In a last-ditch effort to resolve this confusing interpersonal situation, I offered her the $180 JMD in coins that the bar had previously turned down. Stated differently, I was paying a prostitute two American dollars to not have sex with me (reminiscent of the famous Charlie Sheen joke, "I pay them to leave.") Well done. She reluctantly took my pile of change and went on her way, without so much as a courtesy ZJ (if you have to ask, you can't afford it). In retrospect, this probably would have been enough reason to arrest me on solicitation charges.
The lesson: You get what you pay for.
------
Earlier on the trip, I also learned that it's unwise to accidentally smoke cocaine (it's a wonderful experience if done purposefully). While enjoying a good-but-not-great reggae concert, a random Jamaican guy nodded at me, as if to say, "Do you like drugs?" I grinned and nodded back, as if to say, "I'm white and stupid." He politely offered me his blunt and -- despite every piece of advice I received prior to the trip -- I smoked it and passed it back to him. Like a gentleman.
Thirty seconds later, my new friend tapped me on the shoulder and started demanding money. Evidentally I had mistakenly believed him to be a Good Samaritan; he was actually an aggressive enterpriser. After some debate, he told me flatly, "That [blunt] had ganj, opium, cocaine. $50." Upon learning this interesting tidbit, I made some hilarious quip about not being able to read the nutritional facts on the tiny rolling paper.
Maybe my quip wasn't so hilarious - the angry drug-dealer (?) insinuated that if I didn't pay him, then he and his mercenaries would kill me. I felt this was an extreme counteroffer. With my livelihood hanging in the balance, we settled at an agreement that involved $20 U.S. and $1,000 JMD (about $31 U.S. altogether). Honestly, the guy should have held out for more money; I probably would have payed upwards of $65-70 to save my own life.
Shortly after our delightful transaction, I began to feel energetic, charismatic, and danceable (well, moreso). I might have requested that the reggae band perform "Summer of '69" (they might have declined). I may or may not have returned to my hotel room, completely rearranged the furniture, decided that the original arrangment was better, and restored the room to its original appearance. It's also possible that I did 100 push-ups as penalty for my poor decorating instincts. Use your imagination.
Like all geniuses, I rarely admit to being wrong; however, in hindsight, it was a mistake smoke marijuana laced with cocaine and opium.
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