When a person only has 4 followers, yes I’m going to notice 1 is missing. Was it my comparison of TLC to a trio of MKE zombie shoplifters, or ‘boosters,’ if you will? Duly noted, I’ll turn it down a bit.
Was it the Patti LaBelle bomb threat? Again, don’t see where that could be offensive other than to the person who CALLED IT IN and the odds of my lost Follower being that bitch is Powerball ratios. Unless she is an Usher (not the musician) or Concessions (not UAW) worker @ The Riverside Theatre--yeah, okay, I see u.
I don’t think I’ve yet to mention nor describe a trio similar to the one above that I encountered as Spring In The Ghetto neared in 1984--my first. Real DAFFODIL shit here, if daffodil is a Code Term for a trio of Zombie Prostitutes from the NW Side (an exotic, faraway place for us Center Street types) who were at my boyfriend’s house off of Sherman (Helmsley) and Burleigh when I decided to ‘drop in’ unannounced with my friend’s youngest along.
We did not know the ParkLawn or WestLawn housing projects world.
I always wondered why dude had a PADLOCK on the chest freezer in his tiny Bonny Place kitchen. I mean, what kind of lifestyle is a motherfucker living when you have to lock down your meat?! I didn’t think to ASK questions like that at the time, I was busy proving my value as a girlfriend by cleaning the pink & black ceramic tile in his filthy bathroom and trying to figure out how a pressure cooker filled with neckbones works.
Editor’s Note: Do NOT try to remove lid on pressure cooker. I was met with resistance, so I really put some muscle into it...Then it BLEW THE FUCK UP and those neckbones became projectiles far more dangerous than any chinky chong kung fu STAR. I meant to file that under INTRO TO SOUL FOOD, but I’ve been lax in sharing culinary memories this week.
Over the decades, I’ve retold that pressure cooker story and have been informed what I described CAN’T BE DONE. Yeah, okay. “Idiot Proof” they say, but not White Girl Proof. And I know those NECKBONES weren’t part of that coveted freezer loot, but after meeting the Appleton Avenue Mary Jane Girls, I learned some folks will steal anything that’s not nailed down. Even then, give ‘em a few minutes!
My plan that early afternoon, since my co-pilot was in half day kindergarten at the time was for us to joyride, roll up @ Bonny Place and then go to McDonald’s. First off, I was NOT expecting 3 females there when I arrived--one of whom opened the door (iron ghetto door, also locked from the inside--scary shit that came to light one night when I was about to get my ass beat; no not over those neckbones). James was no where to be found, but I noticed 2 other hoes milling about. The house was less than 700 sq ft, so relatively easy to make a quick assessment. I opened the door to the only bedroom and dude ‘appeared’ to be sleeping. When I began to SPEAK, one of the hoes sauntered into the bedroom, matter-of-factly RETRIEVED A CLEAR LUCITE STRIPPER SHOE and walked out. I was DED. I grabbed my purse from the dining room table (one of the few flat objects in that general dining/living room area that wasn’t encased in plastic, though I believe the dining room chairs were). Signaled Tawanda and we left. I was processing it all as I drove to McDonald’s. We ordered and when it came time to pay, ALL MY MONEY WAS GONE!! Yep, Ye Olde Zombie Hoe Trio doing what they do best--hide yo kids, hide yo neckbones! I went without anything at McDonald’s so Tawanda could eat and that was only after mining every last errant quarter-penny-nickle from the bottom of my purse.
I called his house from the payphone at work later that night about being cash poor--I could hear one of those hoes in the background, she repeated “Ask da Baby, Ask da Baby.” Like a 5 year old would be aware, when even I wasn’t!! Then again, Tawanda possessed both street smarts (favorite Summer outside game: Rapist Man--not a typo, it involved running) and home bartending skills, in addition to unrivaled Hospitality when it came to making the sofa up when I stayed over.
At some point--he more than likely passed out or was getting a lap dance/his pocket picked--the phone receiver was just setting on the coffee table giving me a glimpse into a lifestyle where one WOULD, indeed, lock up their meat! About 17 minutes into the call, these hoes started TUSSLIN’ over (wait for it) WHO HAD THE BETTER PIMP!! Right when I could hear cutlery clanking, I had to go back to work. That “Best Pimp” game was hilarious, as each brought up stunning and stupefying reasons why HER pimp be the best.
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