Wow, apparently this interaction I had with a young man on Facebook has been floating around the internet and just got back to me! It’s being referred to as my “feminist period joke.” For clarification, I was referring to both menstruation AND childbirth.
(Originally published on StageBuddy.com)
The Miami Heat have won the 2013 title in six games. To celebrate another lucrative, fascinating season, the league’s starting fives gather together at club LIV™ at the Fontainebleau in Miami. How much does it cost to rent out the famous nightclub? Only what Lebron James made to laugh at the Toronto Raptors one night in March. In fact, the Raptors haven’t been invited, and neither have the Bobcats. No one seems to care.
In the expansive, neon-soaked club, the players stand in bow-ties and lensless pedophile glasses, admiring one another’s flowing scarves, pink shirts and dinosaur-printed attire. While there is a sense of community and brotherhood, extreme cliquiness permeates throughout the gathering. In the center of a huge group of the league’s stars (including Lebron James, Dwayne Wade, Marc Gasol, Kevin Durant, Paul George, Carmelo Anthony and Derrick Rose), Chauncey Billups and Chris Paul hold court. They tell Joey Crawford jokes (turns out he’s an asshole), as well as a host of thrilling private jet anecdotes, and even perform spectacular sleight of hand tricks with their ridiculously quick, dexterous fingers. Their leadership is unquestioned by most, but some jealous urchins lurk close by.
“He’s not that funny,” says Blake Griffin to DeAndre Jordan, glaring at Chris Paul.
“I’m glad I’m not short,” Jordan whispers softly, so no one will hear. Unfortunately, nothing ever escapes Paul’s enhanced senses.
“Someone’s talking shit about me,” Paul hisses, as his eyes narrow. He quickly spots Griffin and Jordan’s conspiratorial stances.
“Hey, why don’t you two come over here and learn how to pass, rebound and defend? I know, hard work isn’t as fun as dunking, but maybe if you tried harder something cool would happen, like winning a championship. It’s only what I’ve been working my whole life to accomplish,” Paul shouts over, oozing snark to the delight of the other superstars.
“You make me feel like I’m nothing!” Griffin howls in a deep, escaped sob. “Come on DeAndre, let’s take a ride down the beach in my Kia, the one they gave me because I dunk so beautifully!”
He and DeAndre storm out, upending tables and purposely head-butting chandeliers in an immature, melodramatic display. The superstars shake their heads emphatically, suck their teeth and roll their eyes to one another.
“Kids these days. I looked up to Joe Dumars, and they just want to be Dwight Howard,” Billups says, as everyone chortles.
Dwight Howard keeps smiling at himself in the vanity mirror he keeps chained to his Givenchy pants, but inside his soul burns with shame and an insatiable desire for acceptance.
The Spurs sit at their own table, dejected outcasts with no concept of entertainment, enjoyment, nor any personality to speak of. Kawhi Leonard quietly teaches Manu Ginobili, Tony Parker, and Matt Bonner how to braid hair. Tim Duncan rubs his limbs, rediscovering their existence every five minutes, deep in a peyote trip.
From a balcony above, Mike Conley and Zach Randolph shoot spitballs down on the Spurs, giggling and ducking behind the expansive plastic fauna littered throughout the club. Just as Ginobili’s had enough and jumps up with murderous intent, a door slams and everyone looks towards it, startled and inquisitive.
There Blake Griffin stands, covered in blood, with his eyes wild and his freckled face pulsating madly.
“There’s been a murder!”
Chris Paul and Chauncey Billups’ eyes narrow and they look at each other.
“Sounds like a case for us,” Billups says stoically. “Everyone stay here, Chris and I will handle this.”
Just then, Griffin falls face-first to the gorgeous floor of Club LIV™, with a large dagger protruding from his back, glinting in the chandelier-light. A tall, dark, shadowed figure flits by the doorway briefly, and is gone. Everyone gasps as Billups and Paul leap into action, running outside in hot pursuit. As they hit the street, they look in all directions, but see nothing.
“Who would do this?” demands Billups.
“I think I just might know,” says Paul, as his eyes narrow dramatically.
TO BE CONTINUED
I put out my first & only DJ mix a year ago. It contains some of my favorite songs (and I edited almost all of them). You can now download it, with all the tracks separated and labeled as individual songs, for free: