Never let an American ‘buy’ you a drink

Self Editor’s Note: Yay, ill wishers! It took him more than three days but Our Man in America has resurrected. He survived the crucifixions of Jay C’s holidays!!!!!!!!!

WHY GONE for so long? In the spirit of Christmas, I’ve been playing this game called “Spend All Your Money and See What Happens.” Don’t play this if you have a home, a wife and kids, albeit imaginary.

I’ve gotta tell you, when an American says he’s going to buy you a beer, please say no. They are not like “you people,” who when you say, “Let me buy you a drink” mean, “You are my brother. You won’t owe me shit.” <== I don’t usually talk like this. I’m in bar mode, pissed off and broke, but not drunk. Can you imagine how fucked up that is?

Anyways, so I’m sitting alone at a bar when one of “these people” approaches me, points to the stool next to me  and asks, “Is anyone sitting here?”

“Yes,” I answer. “My wife is, but you can sit on her. That bitch is invisible and mean.”
You can imagine how hard all six of these people laughed.

“Are you from Nigeria?”

“Sometimes I am — usually when Africa’s largest oil producer — screw Angola — is taking money from its poor souls and dispensing it to foreign bank accounts. And I’m not talking about those 419 petty crooks. But after this Christmas who wants to be Nigerian?”

“Really? You are Nigerian? Did you know Umar Abdulmutallab, the Nigerian Arab terrorist who tried to blow up our plane and be rewarded with virgins on the day our 40 Year Old Virgin Mary Magdalene gave birth (you better believe it) to our Savior?”

“I did,” I said assuredly. “Jay C and me grew up together in the Midwest 10 million years ago. We used to turn water into wine and perform miracles. That whole walking on water game was my invention but during that era black people hadn’t even been promoted to slavery, but your people gave Jay C all the credit.”

“Wow, dude!” he said, turning to his friends, as he grabbed my soiled, blue collar. <== Get it? “He used to know Jay C!”

“No shit?” All five of his friends wondered in unison, loudly.

You’d think that having told them that Jay C and I used to make chang’aa (moonshine) from water they’d ask me to multiply the pretzels they were fighting over, and make the taps in the restroom run with Jägermeister elk/deer blood or whatever the fuck these frat boys are into.

“Let me buy you a drink,” one of them says.

What do you think I said? One after another, all six of them buy rounds of seven drinks. Jägermeister, Jameson, Fat Tire, 100% de agave top-shelf tequila for me. (Thanks, Mexicans).

My turn comes. They wait. They wait. Wait.

Dude!

“It’s your turn to buy,” one of the two girls in the pack of “these people” says.

Now this is where I begin to act like “you people.”

“What do you mean?”

“You owe us a drink.”

Thinking she’s trying to seduce me, I pull out $7 — my budget till payday — from my wallet and call out to the bartender: “Let me have a Sex With the Beach for her.”

“Whatchu say to my wife?” a white guy so big he looks like a son of slaves says as he grabs me by the collar.

“Just kidding, but she shouldn’t be drinking,” I say. “She is pregnant.”

Turns out the woman isn’t some expectant mother boozing to have a baby with green, iguana-like tentacles. It’s a beer gut. But do they give me a chance to explain myself? In these Unforgiving States of America?

“OK, OK, OK, I’ll buy,” I say. “But I forgot my wallet in the car, so let me get it.”

Do you think they believed me?

I dash out. They follow. I have no car. I try to commandeer a car. But it’s yellow. Like the ones I tried to take home once in Minneapolis but ended up having a cop point a taser at me, hundcuff me and take me  jail for “failure to pay taxi fare,” “abstraction of a legal process” WTF? and “disorderly conduct.”

(Don’t you like how I write in short, poetic sentences and just when you’re about to relax, I hit you with a 75-word narrative? I swear I never mean to. It comes naturally).

So I start to run. But here is the problem: Although I’m as drunk as a Kenyan should be, I’m fatter than most. They catch up with me.

“Call the cops!” the guy I thought was an anarchist shouts.

“Yeah,” I say. “Tell them my car has been stolen and I have been kidnapped by the CIA.”

It’s time to end this story, so let me cut the crap. I handed them my ATM card.

“Keep it open,” the white son of slaves instructed the bartender, after ordering two bottles of Clos du Mesnil champagne at $750 each.

“What the fuck happened to Jägermeister, you watch-me-do-the-keg-upside-down boys?” I scream.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Tell Jay C we love him.”

Sent from Black President Barry’s BlackBerry®

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