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Published: July 23rd 2010
The "Real" Deuce
Clint Dempsey, US Men's National Team starting midfielder
As usual ask for a private entry to read the more interesting entries I have to hide.
This entry is continued from the previous entry
After handing off the choke-artist pitcher (what an apt name on so many levels) to her friends, I sauntered back to the bar and told Kentucky all that transpired in the bathroom. Like most people who’ve partied with me, he was slightly disbelieving.
Now some of you readers are confused. This guy just claimed to have almost gotten head in a bathroom, but she threw up, and he managed to do pull some Matrix move to get out of range? And add to that, both parties were Asian—Asian pitchers are notoriously hard to hit and Asian men are not graced with athletic prowess—so how the fuck is this believable on any level?
Well, hang out with me, party with me and you’ll soon realize I typically find myself in unbelievable situations. There’s no need to list them out as this blog was made for that very sole purpose, but reading some online blog entry written by a guy who frequently makes self-deprecating comments about his skinniness, his inability to pick up
women and his torrid masturbation rate, is not the same as actually experiencing The Gen ------ Shitshow.
So Kentucky raised his eyebrows, walked around the bar, down the hallway towards the bathroom, came back with one of those “this is too ridiculous” shakes of his head and then simply stated, “We need to drink more.”
We pounded the rest of our beers, and then chugged back some of the roadie. It was half empty now, which meant with our combined powers, we had gotten through half a fifth of scotch.
We promptly bade Dutchman, 11/16 girl and her two linebackers adieu and got outside. And this is where shit got hazy really quickly.
At one point we were in some seedy club, each with a girl approaching, semi-grinding, but we didn’t care. We were staring at some 14/16 (or so our drunken minds assessed) on the other side of the dancefloor. I glanced at Kentucky, he shrugged his shoulders, we pushed the girls dancing with us away, we started shouldering through…and then I ran into someone doing some crazy dance…
I stared at him for a moment, then started dance battling him…I was winning…
We were at another club. I was in the middle of the dancefloor, pop-locking and Kentucky was off to the side, laughing his ass off. Probably because I thought I was doing something crazy nice while the rest of the world was laughing at how inept I was at dancing…
We were on the street corner, talking to the most ghetto white person I’ve ever met. Not ghetto in the sense of wigger/Eminem, but ghetto in the sense of hood. He was telling us stories about prison and how he had to constantly fight goons because he had a gambling debt. And then I look around and realize we’re in the ghetto. It’s crowded but the only reason I could tell it was crowded this night was because everyone is smiling.
Wait. Wait. Where is Kentucky?
I swivel around and he’s going up to every black woman he sees and is grinding up on them screaming out “MY CHICK BAD! MY CHICK HOOD! MY CHICK DO THINGS YOUR CHICK WISH SHE COULD!”*
A lot of them are loving it (who isn’t drunk on a Friday night?), but there are some men around. And some of these men are boyfriends, or brothers, or husbands. And all of them are black. And they are menancing.
Behind me I hear Ghetto White Man (who I started called Deuce because he looks like Clint Dempsey aka Deuce
) start cracking his knuckles. Flashes of race wars fly through my conscious. This is bad. This is really bad.
My crazy good instinct was telling me to jet or slink away. In a white vs black fight, no one would notice the Asian jumping shit. And if they did notice me, I could just pick up a brown paper bag and pretend I was delivering Chinese Food. But for once in my life, I couldn’t follow my instinct. Kentucky was a friend…and…and…my drunken mind churned…and…and Deuce needed to be in top form for America’s game against England tomorrow.
I grabbed Kentucky by the collar and flung him back (an amazing feat considering he outweighs me by a solid 100 pounds) while shooting a restraining hand out towards Deuce.
Time stopped as everyone’s eyes shifted towards the Asian.
But no...one of them slowly approached us. I could feel Deuce edging forward against my still outstretched arm and Kentucky tensing underneath my grip. This was bad. I gripped harder on Kentucky's collar and used all my puny arm muscles to keep Deuce at bay...
He shuffled to a stop in front of us, glanced at the absurdity of a tiny Asian holding back two huge white dudes and then placed a hand on his fedora, dropped one leg low, started swinging his hips and while doing a perfectly executed stanky leg he hollered out “My chick bad!”*
And Kentucky in front of me jumped straight up, Deuce leaned back with his head pointed to the sky, the guys on the wall exploded out and I still had a hand on both of them, my body catapulted into the sky and all together we all yelled out the rest of the hook:
“My chick hood! My chick do shit yo' chick wish she could!”*
*For people over the age of 40 and for the few suburban white kids who don't have MTV, and have no idea what this song is, check here
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