I woke up yesterday and for the first six hours, I didn’t know that I had another rendezvous scheduled with the Harvard Negroman. When my bestest advisor came over, I thought it was to feed me my 16-jar, strawberry‘nana baby food brunch, but he left the front door open and the “Straight-Talk Express” Humvee running. Sarah was still in her underoos, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and watching Nickelodeon with Pinko when we all realized I was in “the shit.” Debate? Christ, I’d spent all of Monday scouring Youtube for backyard Kimbo Slice fights and footage of that new “free-running” sensation the French kids are jazzing about. I didn’t even hit the hay until 8:45 in the pm!
The Negroman, whom I’ve affectionately decided to call Lenny, was mad at me most of the time and showed signs of what I can only assume is “Black Rage.” I really should have considered him to be more than just an exotically pretty face. He doesn’t shoot from his hip, Maverick-style, like me. He shoots from his mouth, and to be honest, friends, I’m not even sure he’s speaking English, especially when he talks about the economy. He’s so smart.
I understand there’s an election in November, and if Lenny keeps impressing me the way he does, I might just send my McVote his way.
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2 months ago