The Crackhead Chronicles, Volume I

There are moments when one is forced to stop and ask, "Where the fuck did it all go wrong?" I made the honor roll, attended an accredited university, have never employed the services of a wire hanger and a bucket of soapy water in the same afternoon. Hell, in 5th grade I was elected President of my elementary school in a landslide victory. I'm sure it helped that my mother, the David Axelrod of elementary school politics, recognized early that the path to victory was paved by the sure-fire combination of name recognition, Lisa Frank stickers and Thin Mints, but the point is that I had an auspicious start.

Had you asked the ten-year-old me if, 15 years later, she would be standing outside an establishment called "Mattress Barn" while a crackshit crazy, Family Dollar version of Dave Chapelle danced around her car rubbing his nipples and chanting, "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" she would have turned on her Limited Too jelly heel and walked away insulted. And, yet, here we are.

Now, I make it a point not to frequent places with "barn" in the name--Dress Barn, Shoe Barn, Liquor Barn (OK, I love that one. It's like Charlie's Chocolate Factory to me)--but these are lean times, my friends, and Mattress Barn is what we're working with. Anyway, "Herp Peen," as my friend, Sarah, affectionately dubbed Dave Chapelle's short bus cousin, was supposed to be strapping my bargain basement, fell off the truck, used to have a dead body stuffed in it mattress to the roof of my car, thus saving me the $100 delivery fee. In all fairness, he did a fantastic job because it stayed put, and I drive worse than my token Asian friend, Bui, who, at 24, got her license and tore the bumper off her car within hours. But as Sarah pointed out, "I bet he knows how to hog-tie a bitch, too."

Quick question: Bui, is it difficult living the stereotype, or is it something for which your years of geisha-like sexual activities have prepared you?

Moving on. Everything was going as well as could be expected given our location, until he insisted Sarah get out of the car and asked if we had been on Jerry Springer. I, unable to resist, told him that while I hadn't had the pleasure, Sarah had, in fact, recently been on the show in an effort to establish the paternity of one of her many children. I couldn't help it. We had just come from the gym and bitch looked the part. Obviously encouraged, Herp Peen gave her the once over, put middle finger to nipple, and commenced bouncing up and down while singing "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" This went on for a solid 10 minutes.

There's a part of me that wants to believe I'm better than this and was truly offended by Herp Peen's untoward behavior. However, there is a much bigger part, the part that can quote the skank hookers from Rock of Love with the ease and reverence some people quote Shakespeare, that wants to go back and buy another mattress just to see what he'll bust out with next. The lesson I took away was this: You never know when the sweet baby Jesus is going to place one of the world's true gifts in front of you, and all you can do is thank Him, tip Herp Peen $5, and hose yourself down with bleach, because homeboy insisted on taking your hand and elegantly placing you back in the car before patting the windshield and resuming the "Jerry!" chorus as you drove off.