Day CCXLVII

Bulls Penis

     “Damn man, diz sheeeet goooood, man.”

     He was going at it like a construction worker on an Italian hero. The dude was eating like it was his last meal, shoveling rice and beans into his mouth, handling the morseeyah with his bare hands, the sauce drippingd down his arms, off his elbow and unto the counter.

      “Uh ummmmm umm ummmmmm, good shit, man…diz be some good shit!”

I paid for my meal, and as I was walking out the door, he asks,

      “Yo bwa what is diz hea black shit, man .”

      “Well it’s…dude, ya like it, man?”

      “Wada ya thunk, man,” he responded with a wide grin, and continued, “So wat is it?”

    I looked at him, and said,

      “It’s sausage man!”

      “Ina det, but wat kinna sausage?”

    I hesitated, looked him in the eye, then without thinking much about it, with my best poker face, I heard myself saying:

    

     “Bwa, it’s bull’s penis, man.”

     He turned pale, as white as Michael Jackson, his eyes seemed to dilate almost out of his head, he turned back to his meal, then back to me, and said,

     “Ya kidding me! A ite man ya kidding, wite! He hee heee…funny man, ya a funny dude!”

     “Ya see me laffing, man?”

     I laid down my tip, slipped out the door, then I peeked back in, the dude was heaving his brains out unto the counter. I lit up a smoke, turned, started walking up the street, and as I exhaled I heard Che yelling from the door:

      “Wada fack ditcha tell im, man?’

     I smiled and waved, I was feeling good, and I remember him screaming:

     “Don’tcha eva facking come back hea, eva, no mo, man.”