Thursday, December 31, 2009

Middle Finger Glory

Recently I found myself driving, and just like always, I was the only person with any clue how the hell driving should go. Slow drivers right, fast drivers left. Apparently, I'm the only one that got the memo that says that this is how the freeway works. I guess I live in some type of alternate universe where people walk on their hands and flamingos run the city council.
Anyway, the genius driving behind me seemed to think that I was driving too slowly. Either that or his steering wheel suddenly ceased to work, rendering him hopeless to tail behind me at a staggering 75 mph. Eventually he broke free of his errant steering wheel and passed me on the right, giving me a look that said that I was somehow responsible for the fact that he would be late to his appointment, because I was obviously the person that made him leave out of his home later than he should have.

Now the old school Malika would have given him the glorious Middle Finger and kept it going. (I just realized that M and F are also my initials. Coincidence? I think not.) Just before I got ready to give him the "one finger wave" I stopped short. What if that person was crazy? What if waving my favorite finger would have set him off and he would have tailed me and broken my tires and windshield? Worse yet, what if he had a gun?

That's when it occurred to me that things just aren't the same anymore. What happened to the good old days of being able to flip someone off and living to tell about it? What kind of society do we now reside in, where you can't even let someone know where to go and how to get there, without being in fear for your life? How sad.

I just can't help but to wonder how a bunch of sensitive candy ass pansies have made it hard for us middle finger wavers. They can't just take it, or even flip it back, no, they have to go all OJ Simpson and start stalking and cutting people. Some people just have no backbone. I've been called many, many, many names in my life. I'm not going to bore you by naming all of them, but three of the most common names rhyme with "Bore," "Mut," and "Jalcoholic." But do you see me cutting tires over it? NO!? Mainly because I'm too quick to get caught and I don't do it where cameras are, but that's for another post.

Anyway, dear readers please be safe. I'm not going to urge you to stop giving "the bird," I'm just going to advice careful flipping. Because you, my fellow middle finger saluters, and I are among the last of a dying breed. We can't let people that got their asses kicked growing up, take the joy out of our special waves. We can't give them that kind of power. But please be careful of who you piss off. Because some people simply aren't strong enough to swallow your finger.

Happy flipping!!!

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Malika Hits the Pole

I, like most broke women, have occasionally considered what it would be like to make a living as a stripper. Anyone that’s actually looked at my body would tell me that I did right to go to college and leave stripping to women that aren’t shaped like Foghorn Leghorn from Loony Tunes. Typically I might agree with those people, if I hadn’t ever visited the Clermont Lounge here in Atlanta.
The Clermont Lounge is the total opposite of any and every other urban strip club. It is no place for women with huge fake boobs and expensive hair extensions. There you’ll find out of shape women that are in their 40’s with bad dye jobs that are growing out, accompanied by the occasional bullet and stab wounds. Occasionally you may find women that are young and attractive, but not often. The cool thing is that the locals know better than to expect high quality strippers there. It’s all about good cheap drinks, fun music and lousy strippers. You won’t find twin strippers named Mandy and Candy with size 2 waists and f-cup boobs. And that’s just the way we like it.
When women are broke or drunk, or worse yet, broke and drunk, the Clermont is the kind of place where we can make rent and collect interesting stories to tell. Any average looking woman can hit the stage in her full natural splendor. Don’t want to shave? Don’t worry about it! C-section scars? Even better! It’s almost like the worse you look, the more character you bring to the stage. You don’t even have to dance well. As a matter of fact I’ve seen plenty of old fat grandmothers with no rhythm make plenty of tips based on pity alone. Who cares why people tip you as long as they tip you?
Clermont is a dangerous place for a woman like me. There I can shake my jiggly dimpled butt and be paid well for it. I can hang out with drunken hipsters and hug on them and have them buy me drinks. Who needs a college education, when places like this are within my city?
I always imagined how my routine at the Clermont would go. I can clearly envision the smoky club, filled with 20 and 30-somethings, drunk and downing tequila shots. That’s when the intro to my song comes on. I don’t know what it is about the song “Darling Nikki” by Prince, but I’ve always wanted that to be my stripper song. Then I’d climb my 5’8 husky frame onto the stage. Of course I’d be adorned with 7 inch, clear Lucite stripper shoes and some tacky cheap cheerleader outfit. Not that I’ve thought about this every day since the onset of puberty or anything like that.
My deep dark secret is that if I had been born with a different body, I’d have been stripping since the first Bush was in office. However, God is a cruel one. Aside from a belly that refuses to shrink no matter how many hours of crunches, sit ups, Pilates, and laps I do, I was born with something no Black woman wants to be cursed with; I’ve got no butt. Just like all White women are not born with full blonde hair, cute little button noses, and cellulite-free thighs, not all Black women are born with big stripper booties. Oh, but how I want a stripper booty.
I’ve always been fascinated by stripper booties. They’re so big and round. Lucky bitches. I want a behind that’s so big, if you smack it once, three minutes later it’s still moving. I want a butt that’s so big you can play spades on it. That’s the only way to make money as a Black stripper; you need a big butt. But I was cursed with no butt. God decided that rather than giving me a physique like Buffy the Body, he’d give me something else like a good personality. I’m a riot at parties, but I couldn’t touch my toes if my life depended on it. Who the hell wants a good personality when you can have the ass of a stripper? With the right booty, you can have the personality of a bag of nickels and men will still drop to your knees and beg to pay your rent. Instead, I was given the ability to tell a good joke. Lucky me.
So I’ll never be a stripper. I can’t do it simply because I could never accept that I spent 10 years in college just to graduate and then simply take my clothes off for money. I guess it’s pride that keeps me from stripping. That and my flat butt. But would you like to hear a good joke instead?