The Cupid Shuffle (by Stephán Amery McKenzie)
I wish Dude-Trap was doing The Cupid Shuffle. I am in desperate need to clear some cob-webs and move some backed-up testosterone (experiencing another drought). Plus, I would have more confidence I would not end up in jail and able to make my meeting tomorrow with The Who. But NOOOOOOOOO. Dude-Trap was disrobing. Which I guess is not that bad. It could be amusing. Under the right circumstances, it could be poignant. Picture this:
It is spring break. Lake Havasu. On a boat. Broads in barely-there bikinis. Dudes in the best shape of their lives. The nectar of the Acan god flowing like the popular river Lowe-Rin-Hibi-T’ions. Drugs hissing, “You are The One.” Realizing this may be the best time in life and life may never get better than this – “THAT” dude disrobes and jumps in the river. Sparking a trend-frenzy. Ev-er-y-one dis-robes, jumps into the river. Naked. Music. Grinding. Loving. Bliss. THIS WAS NOT THIS PICTURE!
Dude-Trap starts displaying his uncut penis on his twenty-four carat, emerald-encrusted cigarette-case. “Yo. Do you think these are blackheads or herpes?” He kept asking guests as he put his free arm around their shoulders as if they were childhood friends talking about a new iPhone feature. That is right when The Chick from The Pound tugs on my hand-me-waaaaaay-down Tom Ford leisure jacket, “What are we going to do?” First, I wish she would stop pulling on my jacket. Another couple of tugs, the sleeves will probably rip off. It is not the quality of the jacket that is in question. I told you it was a hand-me-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-down. Now even though I do not try to puncture a woman every chance I get, I realize that they, as a collective phenomenon, are some of God’s greatest art pieces. Next to the Platypus (so sad) and the Loch Ness Monster (just because you do not see it does not mean it is not there). However, I really wish they stop saying stuff like, “Did you hear that?” Translation: “I heard something! Get your ass up and go kill it!” Or, “It’s not about the gift but the intention behind it.” Translation: “You better dig deep, real deep, in your heart AND your pocket to blow my socks off or it won’t be the only thing not getting blown!” Or, “What are WE going to do?” Translation: “What are YOU going to do? I’m wearing my good dress. I just got my hair and nails done. I don’t want to say the wrong thing (never stopped you before!). Besides, I’m a girl and you’re the man. Hop to it!”
Before I can respond – SIRENS! Turns out the promotes forgot the most important aspect of party-planning—grease the most important wheel when getting all the ‘right’ permits and police ‘sign-offs’. The Major, not the head honcho state major. The mini city major. Almost every city in Los Angeles has its own major. And though it is not highfalutin or the national stage, it has its off-the-book privileges and if you f’up by not paying proper ‘respect’, unwritten punishable infractions.
Cops get a bad rap. Unfortunately, when they do, they usually deserve it. But it is not the entire force. Just the loudest, worst of the Protect and Serve. Can you imagine walking into what looks like “Boogie Nights” on a tainted mushroom trip? Superfly’s evil twin selling drugs in the corner, trust-fund babies dumpster diving for fun, Prada-Toting socialites carrying vials of semen, wrappers from broken forties bottles and Polaroid pictures of homeless men with accidental ass-displaying chaps in their clutches as a legless transient humps a live panic-mannequin of a woman, and a clothes-less guy now asking, “Are these warts on the rim of my ass or harden bits of gunk?” Yeah, if I was a cop, I would be a bit trigger happy.
I am grabbing The Chick from The Pound and skedaddling when He-Man steps up and takes permanent residence in my grill. Huffing and puffing he spits, “This is your fault!” I am confused. Did I plan this debacle? Was I the one raising money to get an ordinance passed to keep retailers from imposing minimums on purchases to use credit cards (which I believe is already a law— Oopsie-pie)? Am I the fool that did not personally invite city council members? Where is Judge Brown or Judge Judy when you need them? “THAT wastoid is with you, RIGHT?!” Oh, shi…now it all makes sense. Perv, aka Dude-Trap, is the scapegoat for this Faces of Death excursion. I mumble, “I see said the blind man” (someone explain that colloquialism to me later, PLEASE). Turns out the head party-planner is He-Man’s girlfriend. She is reduced to a blubbering idiot (not too hard to do as she is a carbon copy of Elle Woods without the backbone) in tears, sitting on an egg crate, as a topless homeless woman consoles her. I can understand his outrage. “Look, I am willing to accept—some—blame, offer a donation and vacate the premises with my Bad News Bears…,” I thought I was getting through to him until he drunkenly took a swing.
Have you seen the “Matrix?” Relax. I am not about to bust out and say I am an expert in Kung Fu, that I am Jesus incarnate. But remember the scenes when Neo realizes he moves an itsy-bitsy faster than his opponents? He sees everything in slow motion? Yep, that is what is happening. He-Man was already at a disadvantage. He was HUGE, yoked. But not the optimum when trying to hit a spry, somewhat in-shape hundred and sixty-five-pound dude. He is drunk. I am not. He is probably okay with getting hit. I have an aversion to it. He managed private school. I survived public school. He fights in the ring. I fight on the streets. Yeah, it is like playing with a harmless house spider. I decided whether it lives or dies. After tiring of his misses— WHOP! I knock his ass out.
Cue cops. Now they want to put me into the paddy-wagon along with the real crazies. Of course, they missed two-left-feet Frankenstein trying to pull a first round Tyson knockout on my ass. They sure did not miss me throwing the only punch, out of annoyance.
Cue The Chick from The Pound. My new best Godsend friend. “Officers. I’m going to tell you the truth, which I’m sure that’s rare for you. Wow. Did you press your uniform yourself or send it out?” “I pressed it myself,” the bulkier of the two cops said, matter-a-fact. A smile she thought she was keeping hidden emerges on her face. Apparently, it was not The Pound, The Pound The Chick needed to find a man. She needed an LA Zoo. I took notes. “My best brilliant friend here tried to let this bullish of an excuse of a man tire himself out but he wouldn’t stop swinging at him so he knocked his butt out. We really came to support my friend’s friend, who by the way is getting accosted by a three-and-a-half-foot sex offender that nobody seems to think is a legit crime. We’ve barely been here an hour. We’re way too sober to really enjoy this raid and the only thing we’ll take responsibility for is…” As she searches for the words, I cannot help but chime in, “Mr. One Step From A Knock On The Door From Chris Hanson?” She stifles a giggle and continues, “All I can guess is his father didn’t love him and his mother only loved herself. I’ll promise we’ll vacate faster than you can say— “Sa-man-tha!!!” I cannot help myself. Maybe it is me that has Tourette’s and not Faker. Seeing their blank faces, I offer, “Bewitched? No fans?” Dead stares. I shrug it off. “The only trace of us will be the engrained image of exposure-boy over there and hopefully, my smile when I call your precinct tomorrow looking for you,” She points to Pressed-Himself, “Asking for your number.” She finishes with a deep breath and a coy tilt of the head. I do not know if it is because she is a girl, or her honesty-speech, or Pressed-Himself was experiencing a drought too— but all four of us got escorted out of Hades’ Den like Hollywood royalty, without a hassle or a citation.
As I drive us home, I cannot help looking over to see my new best Godsend friend sticking her head out of the passenger side window like I am sure her new mutt does. Yes, I let her have the dog. It was not too hard letting her take the pup. I was not really there to look for a dog anyway. The Wonder Twins slept in the backseat, spent from overstimulation. I park in front of The Chick from The Pound’s place. I cannot help myself. I blurt out, “THANK YOU.” Embarrassed, she looks away. Under her breath, “I’m just glad I didn’t have to mention my father.” My ears perk up like Lassie and before I knew it I was speaking, “Who is your father?” Smile-less, she faces me, dead-eyed, “The GOD of LA.”