Ghetto Copperfield

I've always had a weakness for redheads and it's been my undoing far too many times to count. Fuck, let's face it, simply getting out of bed in the morning has been my undoing far too many times to count, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about here are Gingers and my personal struggle with Ginger addiction. Let that sink in for a moment. Gingers.

Gingers are evil, soul eating monsters that have somehow managed to escape from the fiery pits in the lowest depths of Hell, clawing their way to the surface and eating the hearts of their victims; a noontime snack along the way.

As tools of the devil, these carrot topped demons are marked by the color red, the same satanic shade as their master, the Prince of Darkness. Cursed by God, Gingers cannot walk the Earth by day without bursting into flames and crumbling into a gritty, toxic, neon orange dust. In retribution for this curse, Gingers lurk in pools of shadow at night, waiting to steal unwary children from their beds, drinking their blood and eating their souls. Gingers scare the shit out of humanity and rightly so. One only needs to look at the history of civilization to see the havoc that the Ginger race has wreaked among our species. Even now, as I write this, my life and 'immoral' soul are in danger of being snuffed out. You see, I'm a race traitor and I'm currently dating one of them. A Ginger. A motherfucking Ginger. Think about that for a moment.  If you need a quick break to process that bombshell, I understand. Take all the time you need, I'll be right here waiting. Deep breaths. Baby steps. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.

I love the shit out of my Ginger, she's an amazing woman, but I also live in constant fear of her. She scares the living fuck out of me, because she is, after all, a Ginger and Gingers are some scary shit. Don't tell her that I'm afraid of her, though. Please, please, please do not tell her that. I've managed to keep her fooled for all of this time and I like to pretend that I'm all brave and manly and shit and Gingers can smell fear a mile away. I'm a fucking dead man if she catches one whiff of my terror. Maybe you could say like a little fucking prayer for me, or something. Everyone always says that I need prayer, so please pray for me. Oh please, please pray for me. It's all about the power of prayer. It's a long, long, really fucking long way to Heaven, when you spend every one of your nights trying to get to Hell.

Ain't no fucking way I'd ever get into Heaven.

How come there's a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven?

There's probably car pool lanes and shit.

While this is a story about a Ginger, this isn't a story about the current Ginger; this one's safe. For now. Oh, but do I have stories, fuck do I ever (insert maniacal, evil laugh here). Please don't cut off my dick, honey. I love you. I really fucking do. I fucking love the shit out of you. Besides, it's not like I want to piss her off or anything while we're both on the same continent. Fear has a lot to do with that. Fear and my desire for a sex life that doesn't involve my right hand. Plus, I'd like to think that I'm smarter than that. I'd like to think it, but we all know that I'm not. Fuck. It's like that whole math thing. I really should have been a stripper, but I would have starved. All the other dudes would be walking off the stage with g-strings stuffed full of cash and I'd be jingling and jangling with a few rusty nickels. Plus, "Nickels" as a stage name, well, it's not very becoming, is it? So no, this isn't a story about the current Ginger, no, this story is about another Ginger from a lifetime ago. Centuries, eons, eras, whatever. I was young. Younger. The wheel had just been invented, it looked promising, but no one knew what the fuck to do with it. Unfortunately, I was heavily invested in triangles, at the time.

My ship always comes in while I'm at the fucking bus station.

Back when I was eighteen, there was this girl, Andrea and she was beautiful. Her hair was a deep red with long curls. Hot stuff. Andrea was petite, fawn eyed and had the biggest and nicest pair of tits that I'd ever wanted to play with. Seriously. I just wanted to hug them and squeeze them, but fuck calling them George. Andrea was eighteen and she and her parents had just moved to Florida from Quebec. Her parents had struck up a friendship with my parents and they had been encouraging us to meet and hang out together. We resisted, but both sets of parents seemed hell bent matching us up. It's like they wanted us to fuck, or be besties, or something. Whatever. Look, at that age, if you introduced me to your daughter, you were basically telling me that it was cool for me to fuck her, because if you didn't want me to fuck her, you wouldn't have introduced me to your daughter. Makes sense, right? It's called logic, baby. Parents, you should keep that shit in mind when it comes to your daughters.

Hope I didn't cock block anyone.

Anyway, one night when our parents were hanging out, or smoking up, or swinging (double shudders), or whatever they fuck they did, Andrea and I were introduced and then forced upon each other as companions for the evening. Apparently, it was my lucky fucking day, whether I wanted it to be, or not. It was one of those, "Hey, Steve. This is your new friend, Andrea. Why don't the two of you run along and play?" kind of moments, like I was five years old and shit. I wanted to shank a motherfucker, but at least she had hella nice titties. As the two of us ran off to play and being the friendly little motherfucker that I've always been, I asked Andrea if she wanted to smoke a little weed. She stuck her nose in the air and she sniffed. Literally. Fuck me. Well, that bitch was just too fucking cool for school to smoke my fucking pot, what with her being a super fucking cool Canadian and all, but if a troglodyte like myself could somehow hook her up with some high class hash, she'd be down with the clown and might even deign to smoke some of it with me. My treat.

Hash? Yeah, sure, no problem. Why not just ask for the fucking moon while you're at it? I could find weed all fucking day long, figuratively pull it out of my ass, but where the fuck was I going to find hash? No one that I knew bothered with it, because we weren't super fucking cool Canadian dickheads who sat around in our fucking igloos, munching on fucking homemade whale blubber jerky and smoking fucking hash mixed with tobacco, all while trying to not be eaten by a motherfucking polar bear, or getting ass raped by a moose. I'd smoked plenty of hash and I wasn't impressed, it really did nothing for me. Yet, Andrea liked hash and she liked her hash mixed with tobacco, no less. Seriously? That's fucking disgusting. Who does that shit? Obviously, super fucking cool Canadian dickheads do that shit, but I digress. I was pretty sure that there was no way in hell that I was going to find any hash.

So yeah, there just might be one teeny, tiny little fucking problem, one little speed bump along the way. Reality was intruding, but who was I to let reality stand in my way. I brushed that shit aside and eyed up those bodacious tatas.

"I can get it," I blurted out. "No problem."

Did I really just fucking say that? Seriously? What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck am I ever fucking thinking? That's a rhetorical question, you don't need to fucking answer it.

Tits on the brain.

I made a few calls to a sundry assortment of drug dealers and numerous friends, finding nothing other than bullshit promises and my usual disappointment. Everybody knew somebody, but nobody could deliver the goods. Fuck me, I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties if I couldn't deliver the goods and I really wanted to squeeze those magnificent Canadian titties, even if the girl that owned them was an uptight bitch. I needed to think of something quick.

Fortunately, I've always been a quick thinker and fast on my feet. We're talking motherfucking light speed, when I have the proper motivation and I find a spectacular pair of breasts to be very motivating. Very motivating, indeed.

In hindsight, maybe it was a little too quick, but fuck me, that girl carried quite a bit of motivation.

Whatever. Fortune favors the bold, motherfucker and I was one bold motherfucker.

Inspiration struck. Inspiration, desperation, insanity, whatever. One man's insanity is another man's inspiration or some shit like that and I'm all about being inspirational. Anyway, the point is, I had this bright idea and hatched an amazing plan that was both simple and elegant, like all of my plans. That shit was foolproof. There should have been no way for me to fuck it up. None. I would drive us down to the projects on Ali Baba Avenue in Opa Locka (you can't make this shit up), score some hash, drive Andrea back to my apartment, smoke up and then I'd get to squeeze the titties like they were rolls of Charmin and fuck you, Mr. Whipple. Except... there was no way that I was going to find any hash and Miss High and Fucking Mighty Canadian was going to be forced to smoke my common man weed and I was still going to squeeze those titties. It was a fucked up plan, I acknowledge that, but it was a plan nonetheless. It was a simple and straightforward plan and those sun ripened titties were practically in my hands and begging to be squeezed. What could possibly go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong, if you think about it, but that uppity fucking Canadian was too good to smoke my fucking 100% American weed (from Jamaica) and she just had to have her fucking hash and I just had to squeeze those titties, so I didn't think about it quite as much as I should have. Oops, my bad.

Not long after we got into my car, Andrea straight up tried to friend zone me. Oh no, motherfucker, I'm a titty squeezing kind of friend, let's get that shit straight right now. Andrea mentioned something about some dumbass boyfriend that she had who was back in Canada and how much she loved him and was staying faithful to him until some crackhead dream time that she would return to Canada and they would live happily ever after, blah, blah, fucking blah. Yeah, fuck that. I wasn't about to let some redneck Canadian fuck, named Derek, of all fucking things, stand in the way of my squeezing those magnificent tits. There was no way that I was going to be defeated by Derek the Douchebag, no fucking way. Sorry Derek, but fuck you. Find a new girl, dude; maybe buy her some hash.

We drove down to the hood, passed the Circle K, cruised around the block and pulled up in front of the projects. My car was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motherfuckers that were all pushing little manila envelopes filled with dime bags of weed at me.

"Anyone got any hash?" I asked. All of the hands that had been reaching through my slightly open window disappeared. No bueno.

Dude made three grams of hash appear in my hand like he was some kind of ghetto David Copperfield. Get. The. Fuck. Out. I couldn't believe it. There was no fucking way and yet, there it was, the Holy Fucking Grail was in my grasp. Holy shit. I was going to squeeze the motherfucking titties. Hallelujah and praise Jesus, but it was my lucky fucking day.

Some people want to win the lottery, I just wanted to get laid. Tits, ftw!

That space between heartbeats and everything changes. It only takes a fraction of a second to go from squeezing the titties to not squeezing the titties, because that was the moment that the night lit up like a fucking Christmas tree as a police car, that I had somehow missed seeing, rolled up on us, lights flashing. Totally not cool.

Fuck. Yeah, no. This was so far beyond fuck that a word to describe it still hasn't been invented.

Andrea screamed. Seriously? Who fucking screams? She screamed again. Really? Omg. Shut the fuck up.

I told Andrea to calm down, because when you tell a woman to calm down, she immediately realizes that she's being completely irrational and she instantly calms down. Trust me on this one, it works every time. Guys, you should try it.

Andrea became a bit more animated. Okay, she started flipping the fuck out.

The crowd of kids that had been surrounding my car scattered and slithered into the shadows, escaping into the night. That really wasn't an option for me. The cop was out of his car and waddling his doughnut heavy, fat ass up to my car just as fast as he could weeble and wobble.

Andrea screamed a third time. I looked at her.

"We're going to jail! This is all your fault! I fucking hate you!" Andrea wailed.

"Jesus Christ! Would you shut the fuck up?" I yelled at the terrified girl.

Andrea shut the fuck up. Thank fucking god. The power of motherfucking prayer in action, my friends. The power of motherfucking prayer.

I looked at the three cubes of hash in my hand and I did the only thing that I could possibly and sensibly do. I ate that shit. Popped it all right into my mouth and started chewing like a motherfucker. Three fucking grams of hash. Chew, chew, chew like a motherfucker. Three grams of hash is a fucking mouthful. It also tasted like shit. No, it tasted like dried up shit rolled in dirt and then topped with some more shit. Think about that for just a second, I was chewing a mouthful of dirt encrusted dried shit. Just wanted to throw that out there.

The police cruiser was nose to nose with my car, blue lights flashing and the spotlight was on and it was blinding me and I'd lost sight of the cop, but there he was, popping up at my window like some kind of Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh jack in the box motherfucker with his flashlight shining in my eyes and I couldn't see for shit. I was still frantically chewing the fucking hash which had dried my mouth to a fine crusty pucker. I tried to swallow and I couldn't. I kept chewing.

The cop starts shouting at me, "Where are the drugs?"

"Drugs? What drugs?" I answered. "We're lost. We only stopped to ask for directions."

As I'm speaking to the cop, I noticed that little chunks of hash were shooting out of my mouth like little brown cannonballs of shit and those little cannonballs were being fired at the cop, hitting his uniform shirt and tie and then bouncing back at me.

Oh, fuck.

My eyes were watering like crazy. I'm not sure if it was from the lights or if it was the taste of the hash that was making my eyes water. Probably both.

I glanced over at Andrea and she looked like she was one wet fart away from spewing shit all over the passenger seat of my car.

"Don't play games with me, son," the cop said.

What? Did he think we were playing fucking Chutes and Ladders? Dude, you need to take this shit seriously.

I finally managed to swallow the hash. Finally. The taste was glued to the inside of my mouth like a fecal fondue, but hey, I'm just guessing here, having never tasted a fecal fondue. Hey, we all need to swallow a little unpalatable shit sometimes.

I looked at the cop and I laughed. I couldn't fucking help myself. The cop became visibly agitated. More agitated, I should say. I thought that sonofabitch was going to have a fucking stroke or an apoplectic fit. Fuck that guy. The evidence was gone, I was clean, my car was clean (except for Andrea's shit stains and the usual mess of candy bar wrappers, empty cups and fast food detritus) and there wasn't a fucking thing that prick could do to me, so yeah, fuck that guy.

Meanwhile, Andrea is still squirming in her shit, but at least she kept her mouth shut. The power of prayer... It's real.

"What's so funny, boy?" the cop asked me.

"I don't have any drugs," I said just as smugly as I could.

As I spoke, I noticed that the cop's shirt took another broadside of hash cannonballs. Thought I had swallowed all of that shit. Surprise!

"Don't bullshit me, boy," said Officer Smooth. "Give me the drugs and you just might go home tonight. Don't make me go looking."

Did this motherfucker really think I would be stupid enough to hand him drugs and expect to go home that night? Fat fucking chance of that, but since I no longer had any drugs, fuck that and fuck him and I planned on being in my own bed that night, hopefully squeezing some titties, but that was starting to look like it might not happen and it was all this fucking guys fault and I was none too happy about it. Fucking cop blocker.

I grew cocky. Cockier.

"I don't have anything," I laughed.

The cop turned a very pretty shade of purple. Temper, temper...

"I don't have anything," I repeated. "Search all you want. Search me, search the car, you can search your own fucking asshole and anything else you want, but you won't find anything. You were too fast, you jumped the gun. I didn't have a chance to buy anything."

I had finally confessed my guilt, but I was clean and there wasn't a thing in the world that cop could do to me, other than to break my balls and waste my time, so if he was going to fuck with me, I was going to fuck right back. I was eighteen, cocky and stupid and because fuck that guy.

The cop glared at me and that fucking prick kept his fucking flashlight aimed straight into my eyes. Yeah, fuck that guy.

"Don't make me get a dog," the cop threatened.

"Go ahead and get a dog," I replied. "search all you want, I'm clean. Maybe you and the dog can play a little fetch?"

The cop scowled and looked like he was about to say something nasty and had thought better of it. He ordered me to hand over my drivers license, proof of insurance and vehicle registration and I complied. He told me to stay where I was and he walked back over to his car to run my license and registration. Where did he think I was going to go? Out for pizza?

My documentation checked out and came back clean. He looked crestfallen. The cop waddled over to my car again and he gave me back my shit.

"Please step out of the car. I'm going to search your vehicle," the cop said.

Oh goody, an illegal search. You go right the fuck ahead, fat boy.

Andrea and I got out of the car. She didn't look very happy. Actually, she looked terrified and entirely too pissed off. Plus, she was shooting me some serious fucking stink eye. Wtf? What the hell did I do? Fuck. Try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you? Wtf? Some people just have no appreciation. Bitches.

Anyway, the cop searches and searches, but he can't find shit, because I ate all of that shit and there isn't shit for him to find, but if he wanted to search through all of the trash and shit in my car, that was fine with me. Holy shit! That's a lot of shit.

"Do you ever clean this thing?" the cop asked rhetorically.

"Not really," I answered.

After what seemed like forever, the cop finally gave up the ghost and ended his search, allowing us to get back into my car. The cop was pissed off and frustrated by his inability to find any contraband. He had no option other than to let us go off on our merry way and he bid us a fond farewell with one final threat.

"Don't ever let me catch you around here again," he said.

Or what? Fat fucking chance of that, you fat, fucking asshole.

I started the car, put it in gear and I got us the fuck out of Dodge. My mouth was still as dry as a fucking desert and the noxious taste of the hash was clinging to my taste buds like a sweat soaked dollar bill stuck in a stripper's ass crack. The taste in my mouth was akin to licking the inside of an abandoned outhouse. Once again, I feel obliged that I need to mention that I have no personal experience of this. No pics, no proof.

Here it is, more than thirty years later and I'm fucking gagging, just thinking about the taste of that shit.

I looked over at Andrea. Yeah, that girl was definitely going to need a change of clothing. Fucking dropping deuces on my car seat and shit.

Once we got back onto the main road, I saw the shining lights of my salvation just ahead, a gleaming beacon in the darkness of the night, BK in da hood. A brightly colored mecca of frosty beverages that could be used to wash the taste of sin and nasty fucking dirt hash out of my mouth. I made a beeline for that oasis of light in the urban desert, that brightly burning beacon of hope with a motherfucking drive thru. Hallefuckinglujah!

As I was about to pull into the Burger King, Andrea finally found her voice and she unleashed a torrent of harshness and invective upon my gentle soul. It was pretty fucking mean, if you ask me. After all, I'm all sweetness and sensitivity and innocence and light and shit and here that bitch was, acting like her sister had just been crushed by a fucking house. Click your heels three times and fucking go back to Canada, bitch.

She was pretty fucking creative, let me tell you. I don't think she used the same curse word twice at any point during her tirade. That motherfucker called me all sorts of names, but I refuse to use language like that. I'm much too much of a gentle soul for that kind of bullshit.

I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be squeezing any titties that night, but then she called me an idiot.

An idiot? Once she said that, I was pretty sure that she liked me. Things were looking up. Maybe a quick squeeze? Tune in Tokyo?

I ignored the shit out of Andrea and I ordered myself a chocolate shake. Maybe if Andrea had shut the fuck up, I'd have ordered her something too. Lord knows, she needed a dick, or something in her mouth in order for her to shut the fuck up. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Fer fuck's sake. I attacked my drink like a dying man looking for a last chance to jerk off before he dies. That chocolate shake was like manna from heaven and it cleansed the taste of the hash out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, the bitch kept bitching and babbling on.

The way that Andrea kept going on (Jesus, stop and take a fucking breath, would you?) I was starting to rethink my position. Maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties. That's all kinds of fucked up, I know, but fuck it, you can't squeeze all of the titties all of the time.

But you can sure fucking try.

To be honest, at this point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to squeeze her titties anymore. Okay, that last part is complete bullshit, I'm always down for squeezing some titties. Silence is golden. duct tape is silver. Just sayin'.

I drove us back to my parent's house and I had to listen to Andrea bitch the entire way. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch... like it was my fucking fault or something. Like I'm the one who wanted the hash. Was I the one who was too uppity to smoke good old American weed from Jamaica? Fuck no. So, how the fuck was any of this my fault? Fuck, you try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you?

Finally, I turned to Andrea and said, "Would you shut the fuck up, already?"

Andrea was so shocked, she shut the fuck up. Finally. Praise Jesus.

The car was now silent, which was a good thing. I cranked up the stereo. Andrea scowled, but she kept her fucking mouth shut and that was a good thing too. Like, the bestest thing ever.

The hash kicked in. I was one stoned motherfucker. At least something good would come out of all of this, a free buzz. I'd never paid David Copperfield for the hash. Plus, I made that shit disappear.

Who's the better magician now, motherfucker?

We made it back to my parent's house and I parked. Andrea couldn't get out of the car fast enough. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my apartment and catch a buzz, but she totally freaked the fuck out and started crying and then she took of running. Wtf? Was it something I said?

Needless to say, I didn't get to squeeze Andrea's titties. Not that night, anyway, but I did eventually.

Bitches can't resist my charms.