The Propagation

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July 3, 2005

Q' up Behind Your Sister

Mmmm-mmm, finger-lickin’ good, with that rub and the sauce, and the smoking and the sizzlin’ heat…just makes that tender, juicy meat like melted butter seeping down into the dark cleave of your ass…

…yeah, I was ‘spearminting there to see how suavely salacious and sneakily shocking I could be…let’s saunter on…

PLUS ATE you fucking math nerds and you slacks-sporting statisticians scoring with the stealthly sub-radar sex purr. Maxinque came through with my Eighteraid, chock full of the Electro-Lights my body needs. I’m barbecuing the bags like bitsy-baby beef burgers, burning my way through bull, bun, and buffet. .I’m sorry, this carried-away tendency I have the the aliteration. I don’t think it’s cute or anything. It’s just a game for me. Crazy that “C”ra”c”k “C”o”c”aine causes that cacophony.

Anyway, anyway, I got on to log that accounting and more summer juicingly, to relate the little anecdote that gave birth to all that briar bramble. Just that Macks asked me at the car window what I was doing for the fourth. Hard to explain in a sound—heheh, quick interruption, a just clicked on a song I didn’t recognize, something I dragged off somebody’s drive one day because it looked interesting, and it turned out to be a song entitled and enchorused “Drugs work.” Over( )time.—bite that I have this big, blubbery project on which I love withering whole weekends. He told me he had a couple BBQs (one in Bed Stuy and the other on the block, by the way). So when I called again Saturday (that was FRYde), I acted like I was calling to get the time of the event and an indication of how I should dress and some little minor insecurities assuaged with reassurances that he would, as I put it, “hook me up with one of your fine African sisters.” Hee haw.

I’ve heckled him a couple times about inviting me out to bro around or whatever and he always seems amenable to it. Sure he’s playing along, joking back—to some degree—but there’s a decent measure of ‘yeah, I’m game.’ We do get along. Today I made the abbreviated version of the joke in front of his friend in the front seat, and he fast and enthusiastically came back with, aoh, D, you know I’ll hook you up, I gotcha. Cool. I’m kind of tempted to push it a little and see, and then also, if I’m lucky, to meet some hot ass bitches, yo! I’m sure to be the White Wonder at the social outing, so baked in attention. But I’m in no shape now for such shenanigans.

So, kind of still on a roll with that going into the afternoon, Rich called. “I haven’t heard from your ass all week, muthafucka! Yao, what up?” I had noticed that both he and Max had called a few times over the work week. Without going into spiritual detail or self-actualization plans, I summarized that I need to chill out on that shit for a bit. That I was working (no need to jealousificate him re: Max), and that I was good but maybe I’d call him later tonight. Then he responded like it was a sure thing. Well, you never know with me, sweetheart.

Op, but I see I’ve swerved astray a second time. I was gonna say that following my minor success with the ‘cue quips, I tried the same out on Rich. Soon as I picked up, I was asking if he was calling to invite me to his 4th of July barbecue and beery, boistrous ho-down. He was like “I don’t celebrate that shit!” I knew where this was going: to that dreamy, hazy, heady, confounding nether world of the Black Hebraic roots reggae ritual and religion. But I wanted to egg him on, hear him say it, or, on the off-off-Broadway chance that he’d honor me with some half-baked anti-patriot rational for me to thrill to and file away for later social tellings. So I asked why not, and he said, “I celebrate Jewish holidays.” “Alright, then, let’s do some passover, then?” “Passover? Heh. That’s over!” “Fine, then we’ll have Rosh Hoshanna…nah, or whatever you call it. That’d be cool!” Being a typically fairly humorless, down-to-business kind of guy, he went ahead and moved right into the wherhe-have-you-been query, punctuated with a far-more-than-four-letter matriarchal perjorative, from which I actually took a touch of in-crowd satisfaction, but the game in my mind freewheeled, like a popped and errant hubcap, off into a better conversation in which I riffed convincingly on, how, hell, if he was going to use that kind of language with me, the white-slice bread and butter benefactor of his babygirl, then we’d better make it a last supper, him with his raggedly nappy beard could play Jesus (the Morrissey of the Meso-Sandalstocks Period, by the way), while I take on the bastardly Iscariat role of blindsiding, backstabbing betrayal with a beso (blog?), handing his Jew ass over to the blackhearted authorities on a TV tray, to die and belabor his death, only I’d have mono, motherfucker-sayer, so my bad-breath beso will not only get you nailed, in a very literal bone breaking way, but it will also get you sick, so on top of all that pain, and the burden of the the blasphemous buggering sins of the world, but your black ass is going to be draggin’ like a dog’s, boy. You bet it will. And all you’ll want is a bed and your blankie, but you’ll be stuck up there until you take your final breath. How does that sound? Does that sound good to you. You want to do that? Because it sounds like that’s exactly what you want, the way your talking. So, let’s do it! Let’s find out how Babylon badass you really are. Either that, or we could get a coupla bagels and treat each other with the respect that we both deserve. Have a nice little boring conversation, and then go back to our respective barrios. Does that work for you chief? You like Option B a bit more? Okay, then. I don’t want to hear anymore bad words come out of your mouth. What,were you born in a barn? What, next you going to tell me you rode a burro to Bethlehem and all you could get was a couple bales of hay beside the beasts? Yeah, I know The Bible, bitch! Don’t fuck with me. [And that’s when, with precision military-muster synchronotimized timing, I hang up, and not without an inescapable, handsomely hardass flair tipped with pistachio panache.]

I’m really not angry, and I like Rich. These alternate elaborations, doused in a dickering dramaturgy of drag-queen dimension, are my own little auto-performative absurdist—therefore hilumorous—theater pieces in one act and boasting a track record of delivering happy endings with a reliability-rate approaching that of a veteran Chinese masseuse! And those are outcomes over which I retain unique and private ownership, buddy. It’s hilarity husbandry, is what it is, and it’s habit forming in a healthy way. AND…it comes without hidden charges of selfishness or tack-on expectations of baleful benevolence on my part; free from the burden of dingle-dangle lingerberry breakup or bad-boyfriend baggage; no bedfellow blackmail, pussy politicking, linen lobbying, blowjob bartering or blanket banking; no tit-for-tat/clit-for-clap equality; no mattress manipulation, mismanaged mothering impulses, or mathematics mania as you try to multiply the square root of her per-minute rate of reciprocal motion by the degree of difficulty and favoring factor of your position to date, in order to determine how much longer at this station and to which station your calculations direct you next; no faked fantasmorgasms or fainthearted, feeble, phallus-fear fellatio; no post-conjugal replay, rehash, regretment, or refereeance; no begging, blocking, badgering, bullying, bitching, bragging, or ballyhoo of any build, brand, or bent—I don’t even have to stay awake ‘til the bitter end if I’m beat, bushed, or bored. A bellhop in a bordello couldn’t do better.

[^I couldn’t keep it up, stick-out the seriousness; I slipped. And when I don’t slip I slide. I’m like a nineteenth-century Bavarian carpentery craftsman specializing in ornamental and flauntive d’objets d’ornamentia hutches for grand dining and pass-way halls, a court certified (and sanctified) cabnetrist dabbling, when done with his daily duties, in a delectable dual-dedivotion to designer deskery demonstrative of degree of Deutschelander designation or dubious-by-deleterious distinction for diligent dilinquency and direction thereof, demonic disregard for all that’s held dear, or the dispassionate dealing of death, dispossesion of dames their damsel daughters in his dastardly daily distribution of distress, duress, damage, and damnation to his dark, dungeon, depending on the duke or don that commandeered the helm of a desk whose decorations and decoration’s decorations are decorated with diamond-dazzling details that simply defy description. … Doagh, there I go doddering again…my desist is disabled…the drugs have deactivated, dismantled, and destroyed dozens of dopamine-dependent depots, distribution hubs, and dojos, as well as decommissioned, disappeared, or otherwise discharged and decapacitated their respective and disrespected directors and direct delivery drones, decisevely depriving [neighme] of the dominant and determinative dynamics of decision-rendering, dedication, discipline, and other default doables and defenses. …

Damn, it! It’s devious. Okay, so I said it was a game above, but sometimes I just can’t get out of the looptrack, I get stuck, trapped, and keep thinking for hours (on end?) that I’ll just finish the run-on (and on and on) sentence. Dang-darned dumbing down and distractions of the dadgum dope and my debilitating dedication to druggery! Ok, Done.!.

Posted by peligrito at July 3, 2005 4:59 PM

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