Bald Punk Rides Again
Sometimes I envision myself as the hero of my own life. Other times I daydream wacky stuff. And in whatever time is left, I sleep.
Staten Island BBQ Mayhem
So we were at a really nice BBQ on Staten Island this past weekend. I had gone there with my lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). We met lots of cool mofos.
If you want descriptions of us: my lady friend’s got long black hair and is cool as shit. When I look at num and nuts my eyes go bonkers. ‘They look real screwed up. I’m bald, by the way, duh!
Oh! The house we were at was a townhouse, one of about a million similar looking ones that are all ska-weeeeezedtogether. If that’s not bad enough, they are set into a maze of streets with too many cars and no parking spaces. If it sounds confusing, it was done on purpose. I don’t know why.
Also, the person who owns the place is related to the pizza delivery guy. I think it was either his mother or his aunt. And the really sexy ladies from Washington Heights were there, too. They also might be his relatives.
Don’t ask me to sort these people out. They were super-duper nice, I will say that. And when it comes to the pizza delivery guy, about as personal as it gets is when I think . . . is the bastard going to eat the last slice of pizza, or whine to my LF to keep me from watching Yankee’s Encore.
But if you want a tidbit, after this weekend, I’m pretty sure he and his fam are Spanish. I always thought he was Italian because, you know, he delivers pizza. Though don’t get mad at me, I’ve been living with him for months and don’t even know his name.
Though since you have me getting personal, I’m gonna show you the downside. Because if I had a family as nice as them I would never have left home. Then again, if the bastard’s relatives are so nice, why am I stuck with him?
One last thing on his fam: if there was a Zagat’s guide to families, his would be five stars. You happy now?
How the pizza delivery guy wound up the way he is–it’s between him and the Big Guy.
Whereas with the Chinese delivery guy, it’s a no brainer. No one ever calls for him, he never gets any letters, not even junk mail, and he never reads anything for that matter. Therefore, he’s whacked.
Now don’t start getting ideas, I’m not going to talk to either of the bastards. I’m not going to get to know them. Want to know why, because I’ll just get pissed at how f’d up they are.
Plus, I don’t do touchy feely friendships. I kick-it with my friends and that’s it.
But since once again you have me in a corner, I bet you wanna know how they got into my life. Well, if I remember correctly, and I do, the Chinese guy showed up to deliver food, and never left. The pizza delivery guy, I dunno… probably the same, because my lady likes to eat.
I won’t even get into how whacked the pizza delivery guy is, but the Chinese dude, he doesn’t speak or have emotions. I’ve smacked him (not hard, chick from Norway) once or twice and it doesn’t bother him. Yet every time it seems I turn around, there he is. Waiting . . . and I have no idea for what.
I will admit that I’ve heard the Chinese guy speak to my LF, and it doesn’t sound like English. But I don’t do foreign languages. CALM DOWN . . .
Now everyone hates Baldie and I’m supposed to be the hero. And you—because you demand so much of me, you have me undressed and exposed.
You likey ;.<>?
Anyway, you know the Chinese delivery guy won the lotto the day he met my LF. She’s his ticket to the good life. Same from the pizza guy. That’s why I’m stuck with the bastards.
But all I know is my LF has a big heart. Some people might say she’s a fat s- -b, but no, she just has a big heart.
So, the BBQ . . .
And they had MAYHEM!!!
Which went down once this guy shows up who may or may not be the pizza guy’s brother. He just came back from Arizona, the Grand Canyon or wherever the hell the thing is. He took awesome pics. He said he’d email me some.
He told me that while I was laying a dog on his plate, that’s cause Baldie was in the backyard, running the grill. I was working the burgers, grilling chicken, being all helpful and polite and shit.
(Dog Scoping Shit Out, SINY – Photo by Bald Punk)
Then someone comes outside and says to the guy who just came back from Arizona–that may or may not be the pizza guy’s bro, that he’s got a flat tire. Instead of thanking the guy and enjoying his dog, his eyes bulge and he bolts out the door.
All of a sudden, the woman who owns the house starts screaming like someone bit her finger off. “Blaaahhhhhhh!!!” was what came out of her mouth. Now I don’t really do descriptions, because all I can remember is that she had a bubble butt, and her breasts were jiggly. Does that help you to see her???
Anyway, she kept screaming. Her tongue was flapping and her breasts were slinging up and down like ships in a typhoon. The placed cleared out.
Everyone bolted through the house to the street and so did your hero. It was like the place was on fire.
By the time I’m outside the pizza guy’s “bro” and some other guy–the neighbor, they both look like they rolled around in the grass. And the neighbor has blood dripping down from above one eye.
And lickety-split the neighbor has a bat, and the pizza guy’s bro has a tire iron, and these two nuts are running at each other, ready to engage like gladiators. You had to see it—the bat is up in the air and so is the tire iron and we were seconds from an Anatomy 101 exhibition.
If you’ve ever seen men beat the piss out of each other, that’s pretty much the same look they have when they knock each other brains out. Only the equipment is different.
Now I’m gonna be honest with you, I didn’t have saving the day or being the hero in mind at that moment. I was thinking about the burgers and the dogs, especially the chicken that was on the grill. Which I was supposed to be back there cooking.
All this prime meat was two seconds from burning, and I didn’t know that the super nice lady who had a bubbly butt and jiggly breasts—and who owned the place—had a fridge packed with Noah’s Ark. I just acted.
I kinda yelled for them to stop. Only I yelled really, really loud. Like we were in a club and the music was thumping, and I wanted to make myself heard. (Hint, hint, I’ve been in this spot before.)
The words out of my trap were “STOP IT!!!” I kinda jumped and stomped around as I said it.
The bastards froze like in freeze tag. For a second, they looked at me like I was the one they should hit.
“I got burgers and dogs on the grill!” I said with a smirk, like it was a big deal. Plus my arms were in the air, and I pointed at them with a humongous spatula, so they knew I was telling the truth. Probably believed me too when I added, “Could you guys wait while I check on them? I don’t want to miss brains on the side walk.”
That gave enough time for someone to drag the neighbor away, and for the pizza guy to get his bro into a bear hug.
Then the cops came, but the hero, your hero, Baldie was back at the grill for that shit.
(Dog Chillin’, SINY – Photo by Bald Punk)
When things got settled, even before then if you must know, all the ladies in the pizza guy’s family were lovin’ them some Baldie.
Man oh man they couldn’t stop smiling at me. Especially the chick with the jiggly tattas and plump bottom. She was all googily-moogily for muah. “Can I get you this Saint Bald Punk, have another burger, Baldie,” and that was after she thanked me ninety eight different times.
More importantly, what I want you to know is—see how honest I am with you! Being a hero was not on my mind that day. I was thinking more about eating as much as is humanly possible. But that’s the way hero shit works. You just go ask A-Rod or a Marine.
This is getting way too long. It ends here.
Btw: Staten Island is whacked!
Here are all the posts in this series: Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)