THE ROOKIES GUIDE TO THE BIG APPLE

So you want to live in good old Gotham eh? Well, the first juicy little fact one must cradle in the bosom of understanding is this: no matter what goes wrong in this city, it is always your fault. Die-hard New Yorkers have a collective PhD. in blaming; someone, anyone, rather than admit to fault. If you plan on being a dweller in the city that never takes an afternoon nap, you can take comfort in knowing there is always somebody to hold responsible for any misfortune that should befall you. Try that one in Iowa.

Seeking Advice

We New Yorkers are a prideful lot and consequently find it damn right impossible to enunciate the words: “I don’t know”. No New Yorker worthy of a MertoCard would dare utter such a thing. We sincerely believe it is far more accommodating to furnish incorrect information as opposed to none at all. I once witnessed a lost tourist asking a man how to get to Trump Tower and being told it was in the Bronx. I’m sure the Donald does owns something in the Boogie-Down, but that’s not where he lives. More untrustworthy than live encounters, is trying to obtain facts over the telephone. I can’t stress this enough, if you are seeking direction of any kind, phone-up the place no less than three hundred times. You will get a different answer every time. The one thing they will all tell you is: the incorrect information you received on the previous call is not their fault. This is simply a polite way to suggest, it must be yours.

Shopping

Merchants will not say thank you when you purchase items from their store. Yes, I know in every other corner of the civilized world they actually say: “thank you” for shopping in their humble establishments. But not in La Pomme Gros mon cher! It is outright rude and totally inexcusable however, not to thank the ungrateful and indifferent proprietor. After all, they didn’t have to sell you the thirty pound box of boric acid you need to feed the families of roaches that live, eat and procreate in your $2.300.00 per month studio apartment …rent free. Any card carrying New York City chick will eagerly testify; one needs attitude, and super-human forbearance to successfully shop here. Customer service, in the rare places one might stumble upon it, is considered an annoying anomaly that, for the most part (whew!) does not exist in Manhattan. You will get great customer service in Blomingdales, Lord and Taylor, and Starbucks. But that is only because these companies have strict “Must Smile At Customer” policies and powerful surveillance cameras spying on every gesture of employees on the floor. Ironically, the customer service at Barnes and Noble is absolutely awful and that is one of the reasons so many New Yorkers seek comfort there. Feels like home.

Apartments

Finding a decent place to live, hell, any place to live for that matter, is immeasurably more complicated than securing a well-paying job, a good shrink or a reliable drug dealer. If you do happen to find an apartment… anywhere be sure to pull out your Reverend Ike prayer rug, drop to your humble knees and thank God almighty for the miracle. And by no means ever give up the lease. Even if you die. Keep that lease dammit! A lot of dead New Yorkers are still only paying four hundred dollars a month. You should understand however, all rentals are fairly priced. Well, from the landlord and the broker’s perspective. Nobody cares about yours.

The City Is Not As Dangerous As It Used To Be

What constitutes a threat varies from person to person. For example, to a little old white lady, a posse of seven dew-rag wearing African American teenagers is a threat. To those same kids the police pose a threat. And to all New Yorkers, Chinese food delivery guys are a threat. But remember, after they come barreling the wrong way down the street and knock you to the ground, think. Before you wipe the General Ts’s chicken grease off your face, before you curse him out in the little bit of Mandarin you know, ask yourself: who’s fault is this? I can promise you the delivery guy will fall all over himself with apologies, but, he won’t mean it. In his mind it’s still your fault for being there in the first place.

So you see, safety on the streets has little to do with crime. It basically means one must be careful that someone or something doesn’t knock you down, run you over or drop on your head. take crossing the street for example. All new Yorkers, and i do mean every single person in this city stands five to ten feet off the curb while waiting for the light to change. don’t worry about the cars that are trying to make a turn. your being in the way is their problem, not yours. and mothers are just as guilty of this as anyone else. when you arrive here you will see scores of mommies pushing their precious little ones in strollers and standing out in traffic waiting for the opportunity to jay walk. i know the idea defies logic. why would you stand with your child IN traffic and then subsequently cross the street illegally? Nevertheless, please keep your dismay and wonder to yourself. if you attempt to point out to the mother how dangerous it is, you’re risking a smack in the mouth. But she will defintily curse your ass out, and good too.

Men or Gay People

It is a sad but fact of reality that most of the few straight men that do exist in Manhattan are nothing to look at. Although to any dyed-in-the-wool New York City Chick, having a man with money is far more important that good looks, ethics or high principles. So here it is ladies, if you want to look at good-looking men without having to talk to them, hangout in the West Village or Chelsea. If you want to look at good looking straight men, keep watching Sex and The City.

Social influences

The social pathology of the typical New Yorker is as extraordinary as the city is over-priced. Consider this strange little nugget of observation: there are no shy people in New York City. Think now, do you know one shy person who lives here? This is a wonderful city, but an aggressive environment that will beat this social disease out of your innocent character against your will. But think of all the juicy advantages of living in a town where you can tell a total stranger to fuck-off and it is perfectly acceptable.

Tourist

I hate to tell all you wide eyed tourist this but, the truth is, all New Yorkers hate you. Unless they happen to be merchants or cab drivers. But as soon as they have your money, they hate you again. And the reason? You folks are just too damn polite and friendly. We detest these human qualities because it reminds us of the kind of people we used to be. One of the foremost complaints about visitors is; you walk way to slow for us. We understand how badly you want to ride the subway or take the Staten Island Ferry for the mere fun of it. But do you have to have your transportation fete during rush-hour? When this happens in the morning it’s an annoyance. But all commuters have the energy for is to give you dirty looks. However, sight seeing after work, when people are rushing to get home or to the bar, is outright dangerous. And for god’s sake. Please please, please stop wearing those stupid-ass Statue of Liberty foam crowns in public. We already know you’re a tourist, there’s no point in wearing a sign that says: Stupid tourist.

Dog Town

In India they worship the cow. In New York City they worship the dog. If you are moving here from the Midwest or some other rational part of the country, you will need to change your entire way of thinking about dogs. In Michigan a dog is owned primarily for protection. The animal knows his responsibility to the house and family. Dogs in the Midwest spend ten hours a day in the frigid cold and not one of them owns a doggie sweater. In New York City, dogs are stand-in emotional support systems for people too wise or too unlucky to have children of their own. Consequently they are infinitely more important than pets. Dogs are members of the family. A city dog is no more expected to prevent a burglary than ten year old Timmy. If you want real protection, move into a doorman building or buy a gun.

If you should happen to run into an acquaintance or especially a stranger walking their own personal Tinkerbelle, remember to fawn over the mongrel as if you wanted to own it. After all, this is not only their substitute child, it is their heartrending and pathetic cure for bitter loneliness and living proof that something in this world loves and needs them. Therefore, you’ll need to humor the canine’s psycho-affectionate “parents” with some bonne bouche of deference. So plant this one in the old think-tank right now: all dogs are cute. It doesn’t matter how bone-sucking ugly the mutt is in real life, to the owner you must always verbally baptize the critter with: “Isn’t he the cutest thing?” Of course the overbearing “parents” really don’t care if you’re lying or not. Both parties know it’s just the socially acceptable thing to do. And if their precious little family member should suddenly lunge at you, without provocation mind you, and remove your middle finger, by all means apologize for antagonizing the animal to the point of violent rage. After all, it is your fault.

The End

The Rookies Guide To The Big Apple and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt The One You Love are protected by the United States Copyright office. Any publication, public performance, duplication or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author Gaz O’Connor. Copyright 2005

This is am uncorrected proof.

MÉNAGE A TROIS

MÉNAGE A TROIS

“Our cocks are no bigger than white men’s cock”. I shouted to the applauding audience of the university’s Jr. KKK Fraternity “And I speak for all black men everywhere, when I say,

“THANK YOU! Thank you for this flattering but preposterous myth. And they say white folks ain’t done nothing for us. Ha!”

This unbelievable line of bullshit yielded me a standing ovation and an session of signing autographs afterwards. Little did anyone know, I did the whole lecture strictly on a dare from my pot-head roommates. But such was the life back in the glory days of college. Living on a whim, flirting with danger and occasionally applying my self to the academics of freshman year. Not that School was an entirely wasted effort. I came to love French 101, because it was there that, I learned that the name of my number one sexual fantasy is called ménage-a –trios, clearly knowledge I co85uld use in the outside world and have a fucking good time in the process.

By spring break, I was obsessed with learning that which cannot be taught…in school at least. During our hiatus from academia, I contemplated the possibilities of a romp with two babes. In the mean time, nocturnal visions of Vanessa Williams, Jenna Jamison and I kept my dreams alive and my hand very busy.

I don’t recall how I landed my summer job, but all I can tell you is working the coat check room of Motown’s number one male strip joint was a gig made in heaven. Every night I’d rake in hundreds of dollars from beautiful, horny women who by the nights end were so hot and bothered they were desperate for any male contact. Since all the dancers were gay, inaccessible or both, I became the last chosen man. A position welcomed.

I collected dozens of phone numbers and had so many dates I could never spend time with any one chick long enough to actually get them in bed. But I didn’t care. That it, until I met Lisa. She was a virtual vision of lust at first sight.

Lisa was not just beautiful. She was deep. A regular academic genius. Her brains alone made my dick hard. On the night we met she told me I was the only real looking man she met all night and insisted we have a drink together…at my place. Lady luck was on my side that now infamous evening because my two roommates were gone for a week.

Several Singapore slings later, we were climbing all over each other in a heat of bestial passion. Mister happy was bursting threw my Fruit of the Looms and upon seeing this, Lisa said: see now I gotta fuck you. I’m not buying you a new pair of underwear.”

And screw we did. And that’s pretty much all we did the next five months. Our endless and shameless bouts of eroticism eventually yielded me the power to face man’s greatest fear with the courage of Thor…commitment. I already knew that the mere idea of monogamy has been known to cause impotence and insanity, but I didn’t care. Because among my many incentives, was an addiction to Lisa’s wide array of uncontrollable pelvic gyrations.

By Thanksgiving, I was thoroughly pussy-whipped and we were hopelessly in love. Despite my happiness, I was suffering from an uncontrollable feeling of incompleteness. My friends said it was just something gong around, but I wasn’t taking any chances and sought professional help. An hour after shelling out a hundred bucks to Detroit’s top psychic, sister Beulah lifted her head from the gaze into a crystal ball and stared right at my crotch.

“Young man its al clear to Sister Beulah”, she began, you, you is suffering from an incontrollable sense of incompleteness. I damn near slapped her.

Soon it was Christmas time and word on the street was everybody who is anybody would be coming home this holiday. And this idled rumored turned out to be good news for me because this meant the return of Maria, my ex-girlfriend. She left her macrobiotic, lesbian, socialist commune in Nepal and came straight to my place. After a fruitless hour of me trying to talk her into some mercy-booty for all times sake, we settled in to talk.

“Ya know, for as long as I can remember you always wanted to try one thing, but still haven’t done it.” she began, “come on, it can’t be that hard to get two women in bed at once. You must feel so, so, incomplete.”

“I sure as hell do.” I confessed.

“Well I wouldn’t wait too long sweetie, I mean you could drop dead at any moment. Do you know black men have the lowest life expectancy of anyone in America?.”

Of course, I knew that. What brother doesn’t know that? But here’s something about any white person speaking in terms of life expectancy that makes me very nervous. Nevertheless I took a chance an indulge a whim.

“let’s say I find a woman who was …willing…would you be interested in…”

“Me? Sure, if I like the girl.” she replied with a wink of: set it up.

After a week of not-so innocent scheming, I slowly introduced the idea to Lisa, I realized she could be talked into it…with a whole lot of luck. All I needed was getting the girls to meet and be comfortable with each other. This feat turned out to be easier than even thinking about it. After meeting Lisa and Maria developed a quick friendship, Maria joined us in many nights of partying. Then they went shopping together. A time-honored stamp of official girlfriendhood.

“She’s a very sexy girl.” Maria said to me one day. “We were at Victoria’s Secret and she looked so hot in this bikini I went and bought it for her. The thought of these two beautifies trying on swimwear had me in a desperate effort for composure.

“I’m just glad you guys get along.” I managed. Whew!

That night I pried Lisa with a bong full of Humboldt County Heaven and repeated glasses of Châteaunuef du Pape. I then shifted the conversation to sex.

“My heart just bleeds for people who are sexually hung up.” I said carefully.

“Me too.” she added.

“But I guess everybody is hung up about something.”

“Not this girl.” she shot back, apart from animals, children, and blood, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do with you.” she said with a smile. “I mean what’s wrong with a little healthy pervasion among consenting adults anyway?” nothing I could think of. And if there was, I sure didn’t want to know what it was.

“But what about…ya know, sexual fantasies?” I asked attempting to segway the conversation.

“What about them?”

“Surly you must have a few.”

“Of course, doesn’t everybody/”

“Okay, okay, share!”

“Well, there is one thing I’ve always fantasized about but never did.”

“And what is it?’ I asked now a tad nervous because she was visibly embarrassed.

“I can’t… you’ll think I’m sick!”

“Impossible” I said“, there’s not one sick thing that could even enter your head.” She took a deep breath, lit a cigarette, gulped an entire glass of wine, and blurted out these words…

“I’ve always wanted to try waterspouts.”

“ What? Water sports? My innocent little Lisa into golden showers. Now that really is sick. I was logically, at a loss for words. I just stared on stupidly until she shook me.

“See I knew you’d react this way.”

“No, no, its cool, it’s cool”, I lied for lack of any better idea. Then I proceeded to sick my foot yet further in my big mouth by telling her I’d be happy to do that with her.

“You wouldn’t just say that would you?”

“Of course not. Tell me about it” I said bracing myself for tales of erotic peeing. And Lisa went into precise detail right away.

“Many a night I lay awake in bed imagining Gator aide being poured over my tits. Diet Pepsi running out of my navel and fresh squeezed mango juice oozing from my pussy hairs.”

“let’s do it all.” I said more out of relief than desire. So this is her idea of water sports? And you think you now a person.

ten minutes later e were at Wufang’s all night deli filling a shopping cart with an endless array of popular soft drinks and organic juices. Ten minutes after arriving at home, Lisa’s body was swimming in a wide array of beverages. She was in aquatic erotic heaven, and I was confused, but happy. I seized the moments of her erotic ease and decided to strike with my idea.

“Sweetheart, do you happen to know what the term ménage a trios means?”

“No, I was born a half hour ago. Of course I do. Isn’t that everyman’s fantasy?”

“Okay, so it’s not that creative.”

“I’ll give ya that baby,” she said. “But tell me; am I one of the two chicks you fantasize about?”

“Why no, I mean yes, I mean I would never dream of asking you to…”

“And why not?” she said with a kind of scary anger, “I may not be a lesbian or even bisexual but don’t sell me cheap”.

I couldn’t believe it. I asked my brain if my ears were just fucking with me. Lisa grabbed a half gallon of carrot nectar I was holding and poured it all over her naked body.

“I’ll bet you like to see some redhead lick this off me wouldn’t you?”

Checkmate! That night as we laid in bed I wondered, was it this easy for white men? And if not, life truly is not fare.

Within a weeks time I had introduced them and felt confident the wheels of potential a three-way lust fest were adequately in motion. One night after dinner at Balthazar, I persuaded the tow girls to go for a walk. I purposefully lead us over to Hudson Street and we were suddenly sanding right in front of Henrietta Hudson, a known lesbian hangout.

Inside, the place was packed with some of the best-looking women I’d ever seen. But I really was more concerned with keeping Lisa and Maria’s glasses full. They spent the time pointing out one beautiful chick after another to each other. I was thinking, the lords of karma are truly on my side so far. I decided to shrike.

“Look, girls, its getting late, and we have to drive Maria all the way back to Canada.” I said to their minor disappointment. But we left. In the car, conversation took a turn for the unexpected.

“I really got turned on looking at all those chicks.” Maria said.

“Me too,” Lisa whispered, giving me a look.

“I just wish they were naked, that’s all.”

“Yeah.”

“Pardon me, but if you all really want to look at naked chicks why don’t we just rent a movie. I said like an idiot. Surly my plans were becoming obvious. But,

“Oh baby that would be a great idea.” Lisa said with a triumphant smile.

“I finally got a DVD player so… you know our guys can even stay over if you want.” Maria said looking directly at Lisa.

We made a stop at Stains xxx video warehouse and left with where he Boys aren’t 2, 7, 8, 12, 13 and a copy of Kobe loves Jenna. As we breezed down I-75 towards the border, Maria fascinated Lisa with erotic stories of things that happened in her lesbian commune and it clearly turned her on. So we cruised along. I had a song in my heart and rocket in my pocket. I hadn’t a care in the world. That is, until the Michigan State Police car pulled up beside me. The officers peered inside my red Bug and it suddenly occurred to me that I was committing an a-101 offense: driving with two drunken white girls in the car. A damn good excuse for breaking into the cold sweat I had broken into. Wait a mine I thought. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. What an I so nervous for? I looked down at the speedometer, then over at the girls who were not laughing and waving at the two cops. The flashing lights come on and they ell me too pull over.

After stopping, I exited the car holding up my license, registration, and proof of insurance. They took it but were more interested in the girls who sat motionless and repressing a giggles.

“What did I do officer?” I asked nervously. “I’ll bet I was driving too slowly. Yeah, I do that on snowy days. Ya know the car is so small and all…” I babbled on but hey were evidently annoyed as they circled the car looking it over. Finally the uglier one spotted something that put a slight grin on his face and whipped out his citation book.

“See that?” he said, pointing to my cracked side view mirror, do you have any idea how many accidents a thing like that causes a year?”

“Oh my gosh officer,” I said going into a grateful-nigga routine. “How can I thank you for pointing that out to me?”

“My getting it fixed so I don’t have to come and arrest you…boy.”

Boy? What are we in the south now? What ever, the most important thing is, he let us go.

We hit the road again with the mood of earlier destroyed. Judging by the looks on the girls faces, I knew there would be no French lessons tonight. Then I did a double take of Maria. She was frozen with terror. Lisa noticed it and took her hand.

“What’s the matter with you girl? You look like that bitch from night of the living dead.

“You sue do.” I added like a senselessness.

“For your information oh sensitive one,” she said looking at me. She then pulled a gigantic cigar sized joint from her brassier. “I totally forgot I was carrying this.” Lisa reached in the back seat and took Maria’s hand.

“You poor thing, you must have been freaked out of your mind.”

“Man I was. I was so frightened I came right in my panties.”

“What?” I shouted nearly running off the road. “ We were together four years and I never knew you had organisms when you got scared”

“It didn’t start happening until after we broke up.”

“It must be great.” Lisa said.

To be honest, I do enjoy it most of the time.”

“Well now that it’s all over just toss that thing out the window and we can…”

“No way man.” she shot back lighting up the refer. “If I don’t smoke this baby I’ll start climbing the walls.”

“Yeah what’s the big deal honey?” Lisa ask me.

“The deal is, we’re about to enter a foreign country with a car reeking of marijuana.”

“Here, I’ll roll down the window.” she and Maria passed the joint back and worth and finished it just three blocks before we entered the Windsor / Detroit tunnel. Now they were completely baked and having a mutual hysterics fest. They were laughing over tales of graphic sex and I was frantically spaying the interior of the car with three different kinds of air cleaners.

I drove up to the tollbooth, dropped in some cash and headed into the tunnel shaking like the national debt. Maria and Lisa were busy a round of sing-along and bad jokes. We exited and drove up to the Canadian customs window. I fought to look the agent in the eye, but his eye was on Maria’s barley covered legs.

“Why are you coming to Canada?” he asked condescendingly.

“Coming?...coming to Canada?” Lisa laughed.

“It’s a verb Lisa. To come.” Maria snorted out.

The guy ask the question again.

“Well if you must know, we are coming to Canada to buy some warn cloths for my dog.” Maria blurted out causing them to crack up even harder.

“I’ll tell ya what, you just pull right over there and the nice man with the gun will tell you were you can buy some nice warm cloths for your doggie.”

A half hour later my poor beetle was completely stripped and I was put threw a round of twenty thousand dumb-ass questions. The girls were in the corner being flirtatiously interrogated, giggling and smoking with the boys on duty. I, in the mean time was taken into a little room and stripped searched. When I asked what he was looking for up my ass hole he said: “you might be a terrorist”. I may not know a lot about suicide bombers, but I’ve never yet heard of one hiding explosives up there.

By the time I was dressed and released, the girls were long gone. They left a note with Maria’s

Address: join us, if you ever get out of there.

But I didn’t go. I thought it better that I go digging threw garbage cans in search of my dignity.

The two did make love that night. And many nights after that. Not long after that, they moved to Santa Fe and I never heard from them again.

The End

Ménage A Trois and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt the One You Love is protected by the United States Copyright office. Any publication, public performance, duplication or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author Gaz O’Connor. Copyright 2009

This is am uncorrected proof.

2,891 words / Copyright 2004

THE WHITE FOLKS GUIDE TO BEING GHETTO-FABULOUS

So you long to be ghetto.

That’s fabulous honey-bunch. It’s nice to want things. However, before we go skipping merrily down Frederick Douglas Boulevard on a quest of ghetto enlightenment, let us get a stranglehold on the facts. It takes a lifetime to perfect the art of being truly ghetto. Hence, it should never be regarded as fully perfected. So kiddies, let us get one thing crystal clear and Windex clean: being ghetto is not an act and should never be mocked or cheaply imitated. This kind of conduct is not only condescending and offensive, but it could also lead to a beat-down.

Though the title of mon petite treatise is deliberately deceiving, this humbled exposition is by no means an attempt at a “How-To” guide or even a ‘crash-course’ in obtaining ghetto-dom. It is, at best, a semi-formal checklist to make darn-sure one understands the very nuts and bolts of being truly ghetto, least you be laughed at, chased or both.

Clearing the Social Air: White trash is not ghetto.

This is an all too common misconception made by innocent, yet, ignorant people. White trash is mired in slothfulness and a complete lack of effort to achieve a social signature. But an enormous effort is put into being black ghetto, which I admit is over-stating the obvious. In white trash-dom, clean cloths, or even concern about clothing at all, is entirely inconsequential. In white-trash-dom clothing that is chosen is always in pour taste. In the ghetto, clothing is tantamount to ones identity, and consequently of great social value. Bad taste in clothing is carefully thought out and labored over. In white trashdom, the tongue is lazy resulting in the mispronunciation of words. In the ghetto, the mispronunciation of words is deliberate. For example: “You’s stoooped!” is correct. Whereas “You are stupid” or, “You’re stupid” is incorrect. Carefully crafted miss-use of common expressions is also done intentionally with admirable effort.

It might be necessary to change your name. Even if, you have never ventured to the inner urban jungle, you should already know there are no sisters in the hood named Amy, Sue, or Alexa. Conversely, one will never encounter a white girl named Shanniqua. ,life is strange that way. A nickname is good beginning. But white girls beware! In the hood, Becca is not an acceptable nickname for Rebecca.

We now unravel one of the infamous mysteries of ghetto life. The “N” word. An offensive remark that was originally intended to insult black people. Liberal-minded white folks today cringe and sweat when hearing it spoken in public. This happens for understandable reasons. White folks are hearing the word “nigger” being spoken when “nigg-guh” is what was actually said. Understandably, confusion ensues. Believe me, I know behind closed-doors white folks are nudging each other and whispering: “Why do they call each other … you know, the N-word?” It is very important to understand that no matter how ghetto you actually become, it is still never okay for you to use the word no matter how it is pronounced. It is true that many ghetto white folks use it, But at great personal risk.

Music

Music is not only vital for pleasure, but also critical to survival. It is dangerous to your health to walk or drive around without it. There are large spectrums of artistic talent to select from, But, remember, if you do not absolutely love, love, love, gangsta rap; you might as well throw in the towel now.Furthermore, if you find rap lyrics “sexist”, please shut the *&%@ up and go cry your wretched case to Andréa Dworkin. Let us enjoy out jams in peace. For the beginner in ghetto music, 50 Cent, Ja Rule, Foxy Brown, and Lil Kim are good jumping off points. They are also good role models. Remember, when listening to your chosen artist in a public place, or in your car, the volume must absolutely be deafening. If everyone can’t hear it, what’s the point of listening at all?

For the white person who aspires to being a Rapper, frankly, the odds are stacked unfairly against you. Are you listening K-Fed? It is not, in reality your fault (or maybe it is) that you never lived in the good old ghetto. Since rap music is created from reporting the truth about the hood, it is damn near impossible for a white person to achieve empathy with the hip-hop community when rapping about trying to decide between Harvard and Yale. By the way, if anyone is even thinking of combining say, Mozart and The Ohio Players to make a new form of music, please do us all a favor and kill yourself now.

For any person attempting a career as a rapper is essential to know these facts: if you are a musician who can read music or play a musical instrument, you will never make it. Rapping is all about bustin rhymes and kicking dope lyrics. Who cares if you can play the flugelhorn! Can you scratch on a turntable? Program a drum machine? Or for that matter, do you even know the difference between a pimp-slap and a bitch-slap? Think-think.

Lifestyle

When talking on your Nextel, please remember your manners! Make sure everyone within gunshot can hear you. It is darn right rude and annoying to hear that loud beep go off and then hear no juicy tête-à-tête. Cell phone calls made in public should always be gossip related, attempting to get money owed to you, trying to hook up or cursing somebody out.

Having good credit with Chemical Bank is nice. But having good credit in the street in necessary if you plan on doing ghetto But news travels fast in the hood so you’d better be on top of your game.

Smoking.

Yes, it is an unhealthy habit. But if you must, by all means please smoke Newport’s! I should not have to tell you this, but why take chances. Come on, how on earth can you possibly call yourself ghetto and destroy your lungs with anything less? Frankly, I’d feel horrible and personally responsible if some otherwise, ghettoized white person was at a party and unwittingly pulled out a box of American Spirits, or, god- forbid, Nate Sherman’s.

Diet and Exercise

There are presently no established rules of order regarding exercise, however diet is another matter. God bless Dr. Atkins’, but you won’t find him or the South Beach Diet doctor flogging their best sellers at the Barnes and Noble on 125^th street. Not in this life girlfriend. The basic rule of thumb is this; eat at Pop-Eye’s whenever you want, just don’t eat too much.

Not Having A Booty

This is a depressing and painful genetic disadvantage of being born Caucasian. The very subject is an exceptionally slippery slope for white girls because they have been programmed since puberty that a girl can never be too thin. Psychologist Elizabeth Uzi told me: “You just don’t understand, having booty is not a good thing in a white girl’s life.” But it is in the ghetto, and herein lays the problem. Even if a white girl could psycho socially get herself to aspire “ghetto-booty”, how would she acquire it? That however, is the subject for another article.

Clothing In General

Designer cloths are another example of the difference between ghetto and white trash. You will never see a hillbilly in an Armani suit he can’t afford. But you will see a brother. A hillbilly will be poor and look poor. But a brother will be flat broke and not only look good, but will look like he’s got some money. Sean Jean, J-Lo, Baby Phat, and Eve’s Fetish line, are all excellent labels to max-out a credit card with. Tommy Hilfiger is acceptable if your black and ghetto. If you are white, it looks a little different. Think about it.

Clothing: Men

You have a long list of styles to choose from, but it is important to remember to wear a do-rag. Yes, they are perfectly acceptable attire at weddings, funerals and in mug shots. Personally, I have still yet to see a white boy, other than Eminem, sporting one.

It may be overstating the obvious, but just in case, pants absolutely MUST be a minimum of ten inches too long and bunched up at the ankle. Nine inches is not enough, you could loose your woman over a gaffe like that.

Sneakers are an indispensable and sacred part of your wardrobe. It isn’t essential which of the top designers made them. It is infinitely more important that you paid too much money for them. And please, keep them sparkling white … at all times! If someone should accidentally step on them, you must react as if they tried to murder your child. Another thing to keep in mind; the sneakers you wear on the street are not the same ones you play ball in. Get it?

Clothing: Women

Pants protocol for women is the polar opposite of men. Jeans must be at least one size too small. You can gauge the effectiveness of your efforts by remembering; the greater the struggles to get them on, the better you look!

Large, gaudy, gold earrings, though not as popular as they once were, are still in vogue,. Oddly, they greatly accentuate a white girl’s ensemble, particularly if her hair is braided. And please don’t ever publicly use the expression: “I went to the beautician and Antonio cut and colored my hair” or something comparably inane. There is only one acceptable way to say it: “I got my hair did.”

Yes, I know on Park Avenue, women have there hair done. But in the hood, your hair gets “did.”

Finally, you must wear excessively large, fake acrylic fingernails. But please, always opt for outrageous designs in colors that clash. Single-colored nails just screams of white chick.

Good Luck!

The White Folks Guide To Being Ghetto Fabulous and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt the One You Love is protected under the law by the United States Copyright office. Any publication, public performance, duplication or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author Gaz O’Connor. Copyright 2011

This is am uncorrected proof

THE LOAN SHARK

Al Kruger returned from a funeral with two friends, completely disheartened. The struggling infant toy store-owner was deeply grief-stricken by the loss of his old acquaintance, yet that was not the cause his very noticeable misery.

“Some funeral that was.” Morty said, patting his over-sized perspiring forehead.

“I’ll say. Can you believe that shameless wife of his, trying to climb in the coffin with him? Oye!” Sol threw out with evident exhaustion. He then pulled out a T. Anthony leather-bound flask from the inner pocket of his Mo Ginsberg trench coat. He threw back a shot with the skill and grace of a skid row bum and passed the bottle to Morty.

“Yeah, that damn box was heavy enough without that heifer on board.” Morty took a swig of gin. “Sure is too bad how he went though.”

“You’re not going to start with that again are ya?” Sol said.

“What?”

“With this, this shark business.”

“Hey you didn’t see the body. I saw the guy after he was killed, okay? Even the coroner said he was attacked by a shark!”

“A shark huh? Morty, you knucklehead, Herbert Tenenbaum was killed right here in Brooklyn. In his own store. How does a shark get all the way from the Atlantic Ocean to Flatbush Avenue? Huh? Take the Subway? A gypsy cab?”

“Look, I’m just telling you what the man told me.”

“Okay mister know-it-all, tell me why the police are still investigating it as a possible homicide, huh?”

“I can’t believe you guys”, Al interrupted grabbing the flask from Morty’s hand. “I’m days away from loosing my entire business, and all you two guys can do is sit around and argue about how poor Herbert died.”

“Eh, you’re not gonna loose the store Al. Don’t worry.” Sol said earnestly trying to reassure his friend. “But I’ll tell ya what, I’m going to get this conspiracy theory nutcase outta here so you can get some rest.”

Al’s ears heard the words, but nothing registered in his preoccupied brain. He didn’t even notice his long-tried buddies exiting. He was altogether lost in self-torturing thought and wracked with worry.

“So this is how it all ends?” Al said throwing up his arms and yelling at the ceiling, “Sixty six years old, and still a failure”. He fell dejectedly into a stool behind the front counter and pulled out a gigantic ledger. He stared at it a cheerless moment, then broke down and began sobbing. “Why me God? Why me?” He repeated between sniffles, “I’ve been a good man haven’t I?. I kept this shop running for thirty-five years. Always paid my taxes. Okay, I messed up with the first wife. But is that any reason to punish a man in business?”

The door opened and like a gisele, Buffy Kruger breezed-in. She was the sweet, but dim, trophy-wife that made Al the envy of his fellow midlife crisis friends. Though she was drop dead gorgeous and truly loved him, Buffy came with her own set of headaches for Al. Buffy was thirty-three years his junior, astonishingly gullible and very expensive. Nevertheless, she had a heart of gold. And a lot of designer cloths to match it.

“Baby you look so sad, what’s the matter sugar?” she asked.

“Buffy, I’m gonna loose the store.” Al uttered like a shameful confession.

“What? Oh don’t be silly honey, you’re not going to loose this place.”

“If sales don’t pick up, I don’t know baby”,

“Al, you are not going to loose this store.”

“And how do you now that?”

“Cause if you loose the store, you loose Me.” She said with a giggle as she snuggled up against him. “Sweetie you have got to start thinking positively. I mean it darling. You should write some prosperity affirmations.”

“Prosperity affirmations?”

“Yeah, Swami Pluribus says if you pull out a sheet of paper and write money now comes to me easily and abundantly 100 times and a miracle will happen.”

“That’s a great idea Buffy, I’ll just sit here and write ... prosperity affirmations, and fifty grand will just materialize”.

“See sweetheart, your problem is you don’t believe in miracles”.

“Oh, that’s what my problem is. I see. I thought I was just a lousy businessman”.

“You’re not a lousy businessman Albert. You just lost your sense of optimism.”

“See I feel better already”.

“No you don’t, but if you write those affirmations and really believe things will work out, they will. So do it sugarpie. Do it for me”. She gave him a kiss and glided out the door.

Great, he thought. New age advice from a woman with an I.Q. of 16. He kicked open the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Old Bushmills. Al stared it a moment like a lost old friend, took a deep breath, poured a shot, and knocked it back like a dehydrated pirate. Finally he forged courage to unbolt his ledger.

“Man, I’m going to have lay people off. In thirty-five years I have never had to lay anybody off. Goddamn! And I was hoping to give nice Christmas bonuses this year. Instead I’ll be handing out pink slips. Son of Abraham, life is so unfair. If only I could make it until Christmas. Maybe I can mortgage the house. Maybe I should just jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and save myself the headaches.” Al couldn’t stomach to look at the actual the life-threatening tale the numbers told. The firewater began to dull the pain a tad. For his own amusement he began ‘writing money now comes to me easily and abundantly’ over and over on one of the pages. This will at least make bunny happy he thought. The last happiness she’ll know before moving into the poorhouse.

Three hours later, Al was passed out and slumped over his accounting books. The humble toy merchant was startled by the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head and was looking face to face with a shark. Too dazed to become aware of it he immediately speaks to him.

“Uh, sorry but were closed.” Al said squinting to get a better look.

“That’s okay, I’m not here to buy anything,” he said.

“Listen; don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, you kind of look like a shark to me.”

“Ah, I see. You know in an advanced society one would be judged by their principles and values, not their appearance.”

“Well I just woke up.”

“Could use a little help could ya Kruger?”

“I could use a little business.”

“Yeah, I know how it is.”

“Ya see if I could just make till Christmas everything would be fine. I always have a good Christmas. And this year we have a completely new line of educational toys coming out that is the rave in Japan. I’m looking at making a fortune. Wait, why am I telling you this?”

“Cause I care Al. I cause I care. I’ll bet fifty grand would tie ya over till Christmas.”

“Are you kidding? I could make it pass the holidays and open another store with that kind of dough.” The shark tossed a wad of cash on the table. Al picked it up.

“Hey, that’s fifty thousand dollars.” Al said astonished at what was in his hand.

“Pay me back when things pick up Al,.” The shark said as he was exiting.

“Wait a minute, who are you? Cause you still look like shark to me.”

“A friend Al. A friend.”

[One year later]

Al is busy at work in his very crowded store. It has been completely renovated. Bunny Krueger is holding court by showing off the hottest educational toys to a cheerful gackle of wealthy Japanese mothers. Jesus has his hands full at the register, which is lined with customers. Al is on the phone trying to speak above the clamor.

“What? No I can’t hear you…no, no, I need ten of those flat screens. For Christ sake, I do have ten computers, not five. Yeah, that’s two for each store. What? Wait let me go in the back so I can hear.” Al steps into a back office and closes the door.

Meanwhile Buffy has a captive audience demonstrating a crib toy that teaches an infant mathematics. Mrs. Yi purchased three dozen Infant Calculus Mobiles®. .

Meanwhile, the shark enters. immediate pandemonium ensues causing the ladies to run around screaming and ultimately jumping threw the windows to get out of the store. the sound of glass breaking causes Al to comes out from the back. He is taken back with shocked when his eyes fall on the shark standing at the front desk . He clearly looks down on his luck.

“How ya doing Kruger?” he asked Al who is shaken to the bone.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re not even gonna ask how I am? I thought we were friend’s Al.”

“Uh, er, we are friends…I’m uh, just surprised to see you that’s all. Uh, how are you? How have things been going?”

“Things have been rough for me Al; it’s been a really, really bad year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks Al. It is real kind of you to say that. But you’re doing well I see. Five stores now.”

“And five times the problems.”

“But you’re doing good Al. I’m happy to see that. Look, Al, I’m going to get right to the point. I need the money you owe me.”

“Huh?”

“Ya know the loan, I need the cash now. I’m really busted Al.”

“Oh, of course. The money. Ya see I don’t have it on me right now.”

“I’ll take a check Al, I trust ya.”

“It’s not that, it’s uh, you see all my money is tied up in investments and running the business, I don’t have fifty grand just lying around.”

“I don’t understand Al, I mean, you owe me that money,” he said getting a little closer.

“But, I mean, where have you been?”

“I been busy Al, but I ran into some bad luck. You know what that’s like. Remember Al? Now I’m busted and I need that loot. I’m gonna be honest with you Al, I’m really hungry.”

“I could order us something in.” Al said nervously trying to lighten the situation.

“I’m not really in the mood for jokes Al. It’s not your fault, I’m hypoglycemic. I need to eat every three hours otherwise I get, well, let’s just say, it ain’t a pretty sight.”

“Uh, I can, I can get you the money in a few days, but…”

“That’s nice and all Al but ya see my blood sugar is crashing now.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I just can’t…”

[Three days later]

Morty Goodman, Sol and another elderly man named Stu walk into Stu’s deli, which is completely void of customers. They take seats in a corner booth.

“Some funeral that was.” Morty said wiping his brow.

“Yeah, poor Al.”

“Too bad how he died.”

“You’re not going to start with that again.”

“Come on man, it was as clear as day. He got it the same way Herbert did.”

“I can’t believe you guys,” Stu interrupted“,I’m loosing my business, and all you guys can do is sit around and argue about how Al Krueger died.”

The End

The Loan Shark and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt the One You Love is protected by the United States Copyright office. Any publication, public performance, duplication, or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author Gaz O’Connor. Copyright 2005

This is am uncorrected proof.