Hola, my chilly tators. It is bitter-er than an ex-girlfriend of your significant other because you are the one scorin' that fine ass and not her out there! Well, today is "National Hugging Day," which I have done numerous times with my Blackcherry. I bid a found adieu to my trusty red Razor as I laid it to rest in my phone retirement home (NOTE: It is not really a home, but a draw that also contains a rubber band ball; which I thought was both practical and cleverly designed; old keys to who-know-who's-house, five crusty tubes of Crazy Glue, a half a dozen of pencils that are either broken or missing an eraser, and assorted buttons, paper clips, and take-out menus.).
You might be pondering...
"If she was so happy, why did he give up her Razor?"
Well...
Carl-E is really to blame for this one. See he has Blackbetty, and she craves his attention 24/7. She is so needy, like a new puppy or a sister-n-law that constantly asks for money; hummmmm! Well, after she began to interfere with my dinners with Carl-E, I had to tell her to get to steppin' because my pimp hand is strong!
So...
Carl-E and I made an agreement, while we are eating she had to take the backseat. But, as soon as I would leave the room to get more H2O, a napkin, or a what-ever Blackbetty would be in my man's hands winking her red light seductively at him. Astonished but not surprised, I would fly into Jersey rage. I would be like, "You best be not be pushin that hoodie rat's buttons on my time!" And Carl-E would be like, "What are you talking about?" I would be like, "Oh so that's how it's gonna be, uh?! Well, you best be get to steppin and yous know I will take your sorry-cheatin-ass to court because you willz not deny my babies!" And, he would be like, "What ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" To which I would just stare until he gave up. After about, oh 2 of these episodes, he FINALLY got the hint and she never came out during dinner again.
Until...
A few weeks ago, Carl-E's knee injury must of traveled to his head and effected his memory, because during a delish dinner of saute spinach with tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil, turkey sausage, pasta, and home-made sauce Blackbetty surfaced. At first he did not notice that I was yakking about something-that-was-very-important-to-me-at-the-time-however-I-cannot-tell-what-it-was-now-but-at-the-time-it-was-Earth-shatteringly-important. At the end of my rattling, I provided the response pause (NOTE: For those of you who do not know what this is, this is when you are talking, talking, and talking, not giving the other person anytime to interject because you know that the interjection will screw-up your train of thought, so to be polite, at the end of your stream of conciseness, you give them an opportunity to respond.).
However...
He did not respond. So, as the fabu wife that I is, I gave my man a few extra tick-tocks of my Tiffany watch. Well, when no response filled the VERY empty air, I looked up to see him handling Betty! Our eyes met, and he began to quiver with the fear of category 10+ hurricane of pure Jersey rage that was about to hit him full force; yes he was ground zero!
Instead...
I smiled, and said, "I want a Blackbetty, too!" He blinked a few times, and said, "Ok." And that was that!
So...
On Monday, my version of Blackbetty arrived. But, my version is not the mom-jean-wearing, roots-need-of-dying, jugs-swingin-to-her-knees version. Mine is the 24-year-old-smokin-hot-cocain-skinny-trophy-wife-complete-with-silicon-implants-and-blond-hair-extensions (NOTE: Not the Britney-bad extensions, but the Jessica Simpson good ones). Mine has a roller ball, not some ghetto wheely-thingy on the side. Mine is not some scratched up faded-silver color, a deep succulent red, hence the name Blackcherry.
At first sight...
it was true love. But, Blackcherry did not understand that I was the boss and tried to man handle me. We fought, we bickered, we tussled, we scrapped, until I finally won. I am the mistress of this hee-ouse. Now, I have a submissive smartphone. And when I have to trade Blackcherry for a younger and hotter version, Blackcherry will spend the rest of its days in that junk drawer with the Razor, safety pins and old post-it note pads.
86 me 'cause I am done!
No comments:
Post a Comment