No Child's Left Behind, Groove on That...

Groove on this, playas. The names have been changed to protect the guilty and the astro-freakified funky... Cleveland, 1 a.m. on a Tuesday night, Shelly and I had just been hauled into the slammer for being drunken and disorderly. Smells aside, bums and streetwalkers made for awful company. The place reeked of piss and overflowed with bad attitudes. The only decent soul was a wisecracking Poli-Sci flunky who was telling me that he flirted with communism but never slept with it. This young political activist had been arrested for running on the Indians' field and carrying a sign that read: "Lick Bush." Witty he was; clever, we weren't.

The Fuzz had rolled up on us about an hour ago. We were playing midnight basketball with some local black kids. The music was booming while we sipped on Colt .45. For a minute, I felt like Billy D. Williams. Any illusion of coolness was shattered when the Robocop look-alike ordered us down on the ground as his partner, the Gestapo lord, shined his flashlight in our faces. After they dragged us behind the squad car, they pulled out their nightsticks and threatened to beat our wimpy assess. Just then a flash of light surrounded us. Funky music filled the air; everyone felt groovy. Someone said it was the ghost of Ghetto-Fabulous. I wasn't sure what that meant, and pondered the situation on the ride downtown.

A fat, balding detective motioned us over to his desk. His suit was too small for his tree trunk chest and the coffee stains on his polyester shirt were beyond permanent. Meaty fingers pawed at a pen that had the appearance of being chewed on heavily. Life hadn't treated this guy well and he was going to take it out on us.

"Listen up, smart guys, you got all kinds of problems tonight," he barked and I could smell that he had recently eaten a cheese steak sandwich. "Not only did get caught drinking in a park, a known fugitive is listed as living at your address. His name is Wan Lee, but he also goes by Hung Lo. Apparently, some kind of adult movie actor."

"Hung Lo," I thought, "he has to be shitting us." Knowing we were already fucked, I bit my tongue and tried not to laugh. "No, no one by that name lives with us, officer."

"Lookie here, buster, this court document lists your address..." he said sternly, shoving the piece of paper in my face. He had a chin made of steel, proud and protruding like it was tempting you to take a swing. I looked up at the fluorescent lights and felt dizzy. They reminded me of high school -- there I was always in trouble, because I had hung with the wrong crowd.

Insouciant, Shelly belched. His eyes lit up and the wheels started turning. It portended something very bad. "Hey, officer... " Shelly muttered while putting his feet upon the cop's desk. What was he going to say now, I wondered? Sweat covered me. Even my balls dripped wet. I was getting very nervous, because I knew Shelly liked to engage in brinkmanship. Although he was harmless, he didn't draw the line very intelligently at times.

"We ain't got no Hung Lo living with us. Do we look Korean? Oi vey! Hey, I gotta' a question for you, Kojack: If my balls were on your big ole chin, where would my cock be?"

The universe stopped and my life flashed before my eyes... The next time I came to was hearing the gavel slamming as the judge ordered us to forty hours of community service. We were supposed to teach inner-city kids the benefit of reading.

Dufus one and Dufus two, we sat inside the library and waited for kids who supposedly wanted help with reading. After hours of twiddling our thumbs, no one came in for help, so I headed out for a sandwich. I returned to find Shelly sitting with a bunch of teens at a table. I overheard: "Now, did you hear the one about the Rabbi... How about the one about the two Jews..." Guffaws and more jokes that upped the ante.

I joined the table and pulled out a deck of cards. We all got down to playing blackjack. A couple of hands later, these kids really opened up to us. They were teeming questions. My policy with these kids was: "Ask anything!" And, well, they did. I felt like Socrates, dispensing nuggets of wisdom to the youth of Athens. Analogies, comparisons, and allegories! I instructed them that mopeds and fat chicks are both fun to ride until one gets caught by his friends. I taught them about the 2nd Amendment: This is my rifle, this is my gun. This one is for fighting, this one is for fun!

Hot damn, we were a hit! Two charlatans rolled into town and cleaned up without anyone being the wiser. We closed up shop and headed outside to catch a bus home. I was just about to joke with Shelly about his wisecracks to the police when it started to thunder. I mean really thunder! Fire exploded in the sky. A deafening rumble filled the air. The earth shook and we lost our footing. Shelly yelped repeatedly that this was the end; that he'd been a bad Jew and had to finally pay. Maybe he was right? We were fuck ups and the time to pay the piper had arrived at last. As the phenomenon unfolded, it seemed more interstellar than apocalyptic.

A huge spaceship had descended from the night sky. It landed right there in the library parking lot. A ramp lowered and down strutted a man in a white tuxedo with a red bow tie. He looked like Billy D. Williams. Fuck me, but this was some Area 54 shit!

"Stand up, my brothers, fear not for I am Lando Calrissian. Be one with the pomp and circumstance, for you have been most ceremoniously summoned by the grooviest master this side of the universe for a one-time only, exclusive audience with the honorably funky Ghetto-Fabulous. 'So put a glide in your stride and dip in your hip and come on over to the Mothership. Word!'"

A one-word summation: smooth... He could have had us eating from his palm. In a trance, we strutted over. I never strutted before, but somehow I was injecting hip into my gait. Shell moved like he was Shaft.

The inside of this most pimpest cockpit were only the finest accouterments an inter-galactic playa's money could buy. Wall-to-wall leopard print carpet, disco balls, strobe lights, furry white couches and the most bitchin' sound system ever! Fat bass reverberated off the walls. So fat, you could feel it shaking the room.

High upon a throne replete with diamond fixtures sat Ghetto-Fabulous. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to George Clinton, he wore a sparkly red fedora and a pair of star-shaped sunglasses. One crocodile shoe was red and the other white. He silvery cape flowed over his body. He had a sweet little Japanese honey girl on his lap. He whispered in her left ear: "Sexiness to the left of you." In the other ear he whispered: "Sexiness to the right. Baby, if there were two of me, you'd get the pimp-sandwich tonight." He raised his knee and patted her ass away.

Suddenly a stage rolled out in front of us. A 24-piece locker-room funk band busted out the jams. Bootsy Collins thumpin' the bass, Herbie Hancock on the keys... Shit, man, Eddie Van Halen was sitting in with them and just killed with high octave, high octane guitar leads. My ass couldn't keep still. I found the two, I found the four. All the beats and the spaces between, man my ass owned the groove. Hot girly girls in bikinis were strutting their lovely stuff everywhere. No ugly ones, just fine faces. Shelly was in heaven. The man danced like he was possessed. He even did the splits, taking his sucker all the way to the floor.

"Everybody stop on the one... ," Ghetto-Fabulous said as he snapped his fingers. The room fell silent. "Friends, Romans, countrymen... Welcome my most esteemed guests. To my guests, fear not, least ye be played instead. For I have summoned you from your earthly commode to my inter-space pimpified abode. The groovy children of Cleveland require your reading instruction, instead of providing, facilitating and liberating young minds, you have been playing it off with time-wasting corruption."

Shit, someone really is watching over us all! And had we screwed up big time.

"Reform from your unschooled ways, least ye labor at McDonalds the remainder of yer days," Ghetto-Fabulous commanded this to be so and raised a diamond encrusted scepter. "You must tutor them well, or I shall return to whoop ass on you; that's all this pimp will tell."

Lando Calrissian added with the most wondrous diplomatic coolness: "No child's left behind should be placed in the hands of two half-assed minds."

Word!

The cosmic, poetic double meanings jumped across the room like asteroids. At that moment, we knew weren't exactly on mission from God, but it was pretty damned close. The next day we had those kids hooked phonics. We'd seen fire in the sky. We had boarded the Mothership, an unidentified funky object... For the die was now cast: We came, we saw, we kicked ass. Word up, we made sure everyone would pass. Now who says I wasn't the good son?

Classified Ads, Hot Wife & No Cash For Burgers and Fries

It was a dull Saturday afternoon in Cleveland, especially since our TV had been stolen by the crackheads who lived next door. Man, they didn't have the decency to shut their curtains to conceal the newly plundered booty. Without an idiot box, I was forced to find an alternative source of entertainment. I thumbed through the classifieds, going past the garage sales, cars, heavy equipment and whatnot, I came to the "Adult" section. I grew silent, which Shelly noticed.

"Hey, what are you looking at now?" Shell inquired.

"Checking out these escort ads," I replied dryly.

"Oh yeah? Anything good? I need to get laid, you know."

"Don’t we all, but you ain’t got the cash for these broads – It’s like $250 bucks for an hour of full service."

"Damn that’s expensive… I could do $125 – tops" he said like an agent negotiating a contract.

"Man, that would be your whole unemployment check and some food stamps," I said, trying to impose some sort of financial reality. His gonads were in the driver's seat and he wasn't listening to my advice.

"It would be worth it…" he said with his eyes trailing off into the corner of the room. "Hell, I could go back to work cleaning toilets to get banged on a regular basis. Tell me what it says in there. Don't leave me to my pathetic imagination, come on!"

As reading aloud the ads came to life -- hot blonde this, sexy brunette that, and all sorts of weird sexual variations – fat ones, pregnant ones, ones that will let you whip them, others that will whip you. All too fucking expensive for two unemployed guys, but add college-educated to the algorithm and there’s bound to be a scheme cooking. Still, I figured, I didn’t need to pay for it, because I was in good shape for a lay-a-bout in his late thirties. Shell on the other hand was losing most of his hair and had a pot belly.

"Whoa, shit… I think I got one for you Shell!" I announced loudly, sitting up in the old chair – the armrest was held together by electric tape.

"What, what…" he eagerly returned like a kid waiting for a Christmas present.

"’Hot wife: 24, 5’2, 105 lbs, green eyes, long blonde hair, C-cup breasts, will do you for $100 but hubby watches.’"

Shell stood up and danced. "We’re gonna get laid!!! We’re gonna get laid by the hot wife… I got 90 bucks. Can I P-L-E-A-S-E borrow a ten spot? Oh and a ride down there, too? I'll pay you back next week when my unemployment check comes in... I know, I know... I'm a lousy, broke Jew. Don't play the Catholic martyr bit... Help old Shelly boy get laid."

Fine, I thought, he's helped me when I needed some brews and was short. But part of the deal was that I get to tag along and see this chick. I picked up the phone to arrange the seedy rendezvous. A gruff, hillbilly male voice answered.

"Hell-low…Hell-low…"

"Y-e-a-h…" I said, drawing out the word like a southerner. "Do you have an ad in the paper?"

"Y-e-a-h, we do," he said proudly. "Just like it reads. No bullshit. You can fuck her, but I stay in the room so there ain’t no funny business."

"Uh huh," I said as Shell leaned his head near the receiver to listen in on the conversation. "Well, my buddy wants to meet her, and I might come along -- so there’s no funny business either."

"H’ail, do what you want… We’re out here in Copley," he explained, sounding like even more of a hick.

Riding for about nearly 50 minutes to this motel outside Cleveland didn’t faze me in the least. Being silly, I keep repeating: "We’re out here in Copley…".

Overly anxious, Shelly could give a shit about anything other than fucking. A vision quest, he was "on a mission from God" like the old Blues Brothers movie. Cool air whipped through the window of my old blue Chevy Nova – a car with no less than 100,000 miles on the road – and Bob Seger’s "Old Time Rock’n’Roll was dripping out of the speakers." What a great spirit Shell had about life. I joined him with some out-of-tune harmonies on the refrains.

We pulled into the parking lot. Shell needed no encouragement and nearly lunged out of the car; I stepped quickly to keep pace. We knocked on the motel room door, room 3 to be exact. Talk about an entrance, this 6-foot-5 Hercules dude with a bald head and cigarette dangling from his lips answered the door. He loomed over both of us. Squinting his eyes, the guy checked us out and then waved us inside. I didn’t see a hot wife and asked what gives? No reply... We all sat down, and he asked us which one of us was going to fuck her. Shell raised his hand like a kid at school. Clay, as he called himself, asked for the money, which Shell was all too quick to fork over.

"No… no… no…" I said lifting my hands in protest. I was always suspicious and I needed to see the wife before any money would be shown. "Let the man see the goods first," I said firming up my voice to let him know we weren’t dicking around.

"Baby Rhonda, come out here and show these guys how good you look."

Help me Rhonda yeah… She strutted out of the bathroom, ass naked save for a little white towel. Man, she looked good, precisely as the ad said.

"You want her now," Clay asked the lusty Shell.

"Fuck yeah!" he said, shoving the money at Clay and dropping his drawers.

Like a wilder beast, Shell pounced on the petite love bunny. He forgot to take off his tee shirt and black socks. I sat there cracking up as he yanked the towel off of her and tackled her on the bed.

"You’re an ornery one," she said playfully.

Shell lifted her legs straight up in the air, and he proceeded to fiercely pump away. He was too damned horny to worry about foreplay. Clay sat by my side. He eyed the situation like a referee at a boxing match, watching to make sure every blow was above the belt.

Guffawing, I could barely look at the spectacle and almost pissed my pants when Shell asked Rhonda: "Who’s your daddy?" Shell turned Rhonda on her stomach and smacked her ass. He yelped like an Apache warrior. Shell was a man possessed. He rammed her doggie style. The orchestra: Loud creaks from wont out bed springs…The performers: the hooker and Shelly…

Man, it just picked up from there...

Oh my god…

Creak…

Fuck me, harder, harder…

Creak, creak, creak…

Oh god yes, I’m cumming…

Creak, creak…

The ride home seemed a to last forever and both of use were getting really hungry. Shell kept saying what a great fuck she was, and that I should have splurged for one, too. While Shell was in hard-on, sweet pussy reminisce, all I could think about was that damned bed’s peculiar sound and that I would have to spring for his burger and fries.