Once again, it’s story time here at Get Like Me. I want to take you all back to the year 2000. Everyone was all geeked up that we had entered the new millennium (even though, technically, the new millennium didn’t start until 2001 but who really gave a fuck?). We had just gone through the whole Y2K scare. I was beginning my freshman year at one of those ultra-prestigious east coast colored colleges (HBCU). You know the ones filled with kids born and raised amongst the best of America’s “Black bourgeois”. Their parents sent them off to school with hopes that they’d come back even more stuck-up and full of shit than they were, at that age. Eventually, that would be true. In the mean time, their children would come home with drug/alcohol problems and nasty cases of the clap. Some even came down with yet to be named VDs that have all sorts of strange symptoms like warts on your eyebrows and blisters on your earlobes. I’m not sure what type of freaky shit you gotta do to get warts on your eyebrows but I would like to find out (minus the warts).
Somehow, in the middle of all of this, I was fitting in pretty well. Maybe it was my addiction to the ripe young vaginal walls of black preppy east coast co-eds with too much money to spend on themeselves. Whatever it was, I was having a blast.
My roommate was affectionately known as “Ole Black Azz Steve.” The name was so fitting. He was blacker than 1,000 midnights. If he closed his eyes it looked like someone poured motor oil down his face. Me and Steve was all about pussy, money, and sports. We both fucked too much and we both played for one of the University’s athletic teams. I can recall countless nights luring unsuspecting socialites back to our dorm room only to be plundered over and over again.
When it came to money, Steve would cut hair. He had the sharpest line-up clippers I’ve ever seen. So what if the nigga couldn’t see fa real, and our room wasn’t lit too well? For five bucks, it wasn’t too bad of a cut. Me on the other hand, I capitalized on the Napster phenomenon and was slanging more CDs than Circuit City. Our businesses were complimentary because of the many niggerish things in the world of niggerdom, fresh haircuts and unreleased music are at least in the top 5 of “shit we buy even when we know we don’t need em”. Everybody on campus would come to our room. Shit, I even got my old doctor to write me a note so I could get air conditioning in my room, a luxury at any HBCU.
In between fish fries, step shows, and spades tournaments (after all, that’s all they do at HBCU’s) we came across this ole whack ass nigga named Brandon. This nigga came at us with some of that bullshit. He was trying to hustle bootleg DVDs. It was a good idea but in 2000 he was about five years ahead of his time. He claimed to get ‘em shipped in from his connect in Japan that worked for the company that made the blank DVDs. Likely story. At the time, there was no reason to think he was lying.
One day, Brandon comes to the room. Me and Steve somehow both had the flu but we were still hustling. I had just got an advanced copy of Jay-Z’s Roc-La-Familia and I had to keep burning because all the New York Cats were knockin’ on my door sayin’, “Yo son, that new Jay-Z, a copy , you got it?” I’m not sure what grammatical structure they were using but, shit, I had to get my paper.
Being the kind man I am, I warned him before he came in. “Hey, Bitch Boy, I got the flu. Be easy.” He began explaining to me how he and his brother were “23rd degree black belts” and that I shouldn’t talk to him like that. I thought real hard and realized that though I didn’t know Karate, I was a master of “Karazy.” This nigga was clearly karazy. It couldn’t be but like four degrees of a black belt, maybe seven… I’ll even give you 10, but not 23.
The story takes a turn for the worse…
Bitch Boy Brandon: “Yeah, I’m glad I don’t get sick like y’all. I don’t never get sick.”
Me: “Nigga, how the fuck you never get sick? Everyone get sick.”
Bitch Boy Brandon: ” Nah. See, like, when I was nine, I had to get a spinal tap ‘cuz they thought I had spina bifida. They gave me a spinal tap and was supposed to put some medicine in there to clear it up but they got my chart mixed up and put some radioactive stuff in my back. So now I don’t get sick.”
Me: “………….”
Now let me point out that radioactive material kills mufukas. It took the federal government most of my adult life to clean up Fernald, a uranium processing plant near Cincinnati, OH. They were bagging up all types of shit and throwing it way. Shit like used cotton swabs and staplers, just because it came within 40 feet of radioactive uranium. And this asshole is trying to tell me he got some injected into his back. In addition, spina bifida is not a fuckin’ joke. It causes children to grow, what looks like, li’l sacks of shit and skin on their spines. This ain’t no shit you bounce back from.
Initially, I thought he was just playing. I gave him a jolly “ha ha.” Then he got all shitty. Kinda like, “How dare you make fun of the bag of shit on my spine and the radioactive juices that were injected to save my life.” From then on out he was known as “Ole Lyin’ Azz Brandon.”
True story…
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