I’m waiting to turn left on the corner of Freedom Parkway and Ponce de Leon Avenue, when a man approaches my car and taps on my window. He motions for me to roll my window down. I just look at him. I don’t even turn down the radio, so he scowls and continues to move his lips soundlessly on the other side of the glass, as I continue to say, “What? What?!”
He begins to grow more and more frustrated, while Hot 107.9 plays in the background. Hot 107.9 is the radio station I’ve been listening to on the drive home from work, because my girlfriend made a joke about how all my music references stop at the Master P “Make Em Say Uhh” period of rap, so I’ve been trying to expose myself to more contemporary music. I hope the strange man getting more and more agitated a few inches from my window appreciates that I’m getting with the times.
“Somebody point me to the best ass-eater.” Nicki Minaj says from my car speakers. I can’t imagine Master P saying that, even if it is a direct route to making someone say, “Uhh.” Maybe it’s true what they say—women are more willing to ask for directions than men.
I imagine one of those Far-Side-rip-off one-panel cartoons, featuring Nicki Minaj berating a dumpy looking man with a look of chagrin on his face. Before them stands a beaming man holding a trophy that reads, “#1 BEST ASS-EATER.” Nicki Minaj is saying, “We would have gotten here a long time ago if you’d let me ask for directions.”
I consider developing a Yelp-style iPhone app that lets you rate and review ass-eaters in your own city. You’d receive up-to-the-minute updates and GPS coordinates that point you in the direction of the verifiably-best ass-eater in your hometown. It would be a useful tool for people who are into that kind of thing (not me, definitely, haha, right?).
I wonder if people looking to make a name for themselves would start hunting down the best ass-eaters in their city to challenge them to duels. Once you became the best, you’d start to feel like the Wild Bill Hickock of ass-eating, always watching your back, lest some young gun come along and take your title. You’d barely have any time to enjoy eating ass any more, you’d be spending so much time just trying to stay at the top. Eventually, it would start to feel like a grind.
Legend has it that Wild Bill was holding a “dead man’s hand” of aces and eights when he was gunned down in a saloon during a poker game. I wonder if he felt a little bit relieved when it finally happened.
I can only imagine you’d feel a sliver of the same relief, after being replaced in the top rankings of an iPhone app devoted to pointing users in the direction of the best ass-eater. Maybe in honor of Wild Bill, we could call the app “A$$es and Ates” or something. I’ll leave that to the marketing department.
The stranger at the intersection finally gives up and tries a different car. As he bends over to tap on their window, I notice the butt of a gun peeking out from the waistband of his sweatpants.
I guess it doesn’t matter where you fall on the ass-eating spectrum; there’s always somebody out there who’s willing to shoot you down—and if you’re not holding a dead man’s hand, you’re holding a butt.
Nobody being willing to roll down their window, the man wanders away, and the light turns green. The direction of the best ass-eater in my city remains unknown to me, so I drive in the direction of home instead, feeling a small sliver of relief.