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“Yo, will you stop sayin’ that shit. We don’t have shit; feel me? And my wife has nothing to be jealous of. You’re no threat to her, period, point blank. Believe that.”
She laughs. “Oh, I’ma threat all right. And I’m going to have you, papi. We’re gonna be together real soon, baby. You wait and see.”
I laugh.
“Oh, you think this is funny, huh, motherfucker? You think you can toy with my emotions, then dismiss me? Laugh all you want, MarSell. But I promise you. We’re gonna see who’s laughing last.”
I grit my teeth. “Yo, you’re delusional as fuck. And I’ma tell you again. Stop fuckin’ callin’ me!”
I hang up.
“What the fuck?!” I snap, running my hands over the top of my head. I take a few quick breaths and adjust my headphones, then we’re back on in five…four…three…two…one…
“Yo, what’s good, my freaky-peeps, we’re back. And tonight it’s your time to speak ya peace. That’s right, peeps, tell ya boy what’s on your mind. The phone lines are open now. 212-FreakMe.” I answer line one. “You’re on the air, what’s on ya mind?”
“What’s good, fam? This Peanut from Flatbush. Man, I don’t know what’s up with these chicks out here. It’s like they say they want a good man, but then when one is looking them right in the face, he’s not good enough. I’m like, what the hell. Real ish, man. Me and my mans, we are all college-educated cats, business owners, Wall Street-type cats between the ages of twenty-eight to forty, and none of us can seem to get a decent black woman. What’s up with that?”
I shake my head. “Yo, that’s crazy, playboy. Maybe you and ya peeps are looking in the wrong spots. I know there are lots of black women who want a good man.”
He huffs. “I can’t tell. Seems like all they want is a thug. Somebody to beat their asses, disrespect them out in the streets, and knock ’em up, then leave ’em for the next chick. It’s real funny the shit chicks do for the bum guy. I own my own home, drive a high-end luxury car, my credit’s on point, and I keep my passport stamped up, but that’s not good enough.”
“Man, that’s crazy. Don’t give up. That good woman you seek is out there for all of you.”
“Man, fuck it. I’m gonna sag my pants and tell these sistas I flip burgers for a living, or push weight, then I bet I’ll get some damn respect. If I had a state number instead of a college degree, I bet they’d be tryna worship me. But it’s all good. I’ma start dating snow bunnies. They seem to know how to treat a brotha. Get me a white woman; she’ll know how to appreciate a man with a Black Card.”
“Bruh, keep hope alive. Yo, my black beauties, stand up! Where you at? Represent ‘n’ let my man Peanut know that there are good black women out there who still exist and who want good men. Next caller, you’re on the air.”
“Hey, MarSell. This is Juicy from East Orange.”
“Juicy? Damn. Why my mouth get all wet saying that.” I chuckle. “But I’ma leave that alone, ma-ma. What’s on your mind, baby?”
She giggles. “MarSell, ooh, you’re so bad. I love me some you, boo. But I gotta get this shit off my damn chest before I kill somebody.”
“Damn, baby. We don’t want you going out there doing something you’d regret. Go head ‘n’ speak ya piece.”
“I found out my man…George Gregory the Third, aka Freedom Lord God Rush has been fuc—bleep—ing some dirty bitch named Temeka Bush he met on Facebook. And I want him to know live and direct that he better let that gremlin-looking bitch pay his child support and his fines from now on because I’m done with his cheating, lying-ass. So, George Gregory, you can come get all your shit I just cut up and bleached up and tossed out in the yard because you ain’t stepping foot back up in here. That crusty bitch can ride it out with you from now on.”
Ghetto! “Daaaaaayum, ma-ma. That’s wild. How’d you find out about ya man gettin’ his FB creep on?”
“I hacked into his Facebook account and read all his inbox messages from that ugly, horse-faced bitch. That moose head bitch must suck a good dic—bleep and take it in the ass for him to fuc—bleep up five years. I tell you. Niggahs ain’t shit! I’m done with ’em. I’ma turn gay and find me a damn stud.”
Nina comes over and slides me a note stating the chick Temeka is on line four and she wants me to put her through. Aww, shit. It’s about to get real. “Yo, Juicy, hold on a minute. Your man’s Facebook boo is on the other line; let me bring her on.” I place Juicy on hold, then pick up line four. “Yo, Temeka you there, ma-ma?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she says with lots of stank.
“Oh, aiight, aiight. Cool. Hold on.” I click Juicy back on the line. “Yo, Juicy, you still there?”
“Uh-huh. I sure am.”
“Oh, aiight, cool. Aiight, we have Temeka on the line as well. So we’re—” Before I can get the rest of my sentence out, they start going at it, calling each other every dirty bitch, ratchet trick, hot-ass, disease-carrying name you can imagine.
“Bitch, am I suppose to give a fuc—bleep what your invisible ass thinks about me?” the Temeka chick snaps.
The Juicy chick snorts, “Umm, no bitch, just like I could care less what a dumb bird who sells her EBT card and calls herself Boss Bitch thinks about me.”
“And I don’t care about what some dry-pus—bleep-y-ass bitch who calls herself Juicy thinks about me. And so the hell what if I sell stamps off my EBT card, why you all up on my hustle? I’ma businesswoman, bitch.”
“Oh cry me a river, you ghetto-ass, man-stealing bitch!”
