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Whipped!
Do Not Move in with Your Baby's Mamma until You Read This
Last night was an unseasonably cold spring night, a bad time to be suddenly homeless. I ran into three of these guys last night: one suffering from tremors and catatonic, sliding ever more silently into insanity, another heaving up his guts on the sidewalk and begging me to cash his check for him using my identification, for which consideration he was willing to part with $200. The third fellow was freshly roofless, employed, and about 30 years old, an HVC tech. I usually see him in the morning. His name is Tyrice.
Tyrice was shivering, riding a long low alcohol buzz, and sitting long-faced and surly as he waited for the cab he had called. He was going to sleep on his boss’s porch. That would save him a two-bus commute to meet him in the morning, and, well…Tyrice was still angry, smoldering, and saw in me a kind shoulder to use as a sounding board. The decades of interviews, it seems, have forged my demeanor into that of the People’s Psychologist.
Tyrice gives me a lilting shrug, “Say, brother, it’s a bitch out here—specially when yo Baby’s Mamma put ya here!”
“I’ve been there, my man—was fired by my wife in Oh-three.”
Tyrice warms up to me and scoots a little closer, “Led me ask you then, juz sayin’. Juz say dat you a workin’ man—which you iz—en you got the morning commute, en you in a hurry to meet up with the boss, en you in a hurry for breakfass too, so ya make a sausage en mustard sandwich. That’s reasonable right? You don’t make no mess, don’t wake no body…”
The People’s Psychologist is now nodding his head sagely as the victim of Estrogen Oppression forges on into a hand-gesture supported dialogue, “En juz sayin’ you come home, after a hardddd day crawlin' up dem ducts, en the Baby’s Mamma be waitin’ hands on hips, chin out hea’, mo sass den ass, ‘What you doin’ makin’ but one sandwich in the mornin' when dey two mouths ta feed!’”
“En juz sayin’ you tryin’ ta make omenz—but naaaaah, shit got to get raw up in dere, ‘Don’t ‘Baby’ me! Bring me a B-L-T!’"
“En you like, ‘Okay, Baby, a BLT, comin’ right up.’”
The People’s Psychologist gives a sympathetic nod and Tyrice picks his next words carefully, in order to elicit maximum empathy and male outrage, “En juz sayin’ you know, you got the playbook, workin’ da Baby Mamma Playbook, but you in a hurry and mistake the Miracle Whip fo mayonnaise, en she like, ‘Oh hell no! This shit is nasty—some purposeful nasty shit!’ like you tryin’ to poison her en shit.”
Tyrice makes sure to gloss over the sentence or two of ill-conceived and poorly chosen objections to his live-in food critic’s critique of his gourmet refrigerator door dinner, and cuts directly to the results, “En here I iz, freezin’ my behind off out in this cold joint, waitin’ on a cab dat’s late.”
The People’s Psychologist agrees, “Yeah, it’s a cold night to be on the street.”
Tyrice, sure now that he has a sympathetic ear, spreads his hands and shrugs his shoulders, “Now I ask you, Sir, was I wrong?”
The People’s Psychologist, prepared as if for a daytime TV appearance before an 86.5% female audience, levels the accusatory finger at the younger victim of Estrogen Oppression and scolds, “Of course you were wrong!”
Tyrice flashes the old traitor a hurt look, “Say what!”
His counselor amplifies the ages’ old point, “You are the dude, so you have to be wrong. If you were right, that would make her wrong, and she can’t be wrong because she is the chick!”
Tyrice then drops his shoulders and looks down at the cold hard floor, “So that’s the way it is, huh?”
The third man on the scene walks by with a snort, “Shoot, he hasn’t figured that out by now! Hell I learned that the first year! The woman is always right.”
Having my verdict confirmed by another veteran of the gender wars helped me feel better about giving the young man a hard way to go. Later, into the early morning, I could not help but think of poor Tyrice every time I walked by the mayo section. There’s always a bright side though. I bet those forced air ducts are feeling cozy today compared to yesterday, in that time before Miracle Whip, when Tyrice actually had a bed to sleep in.
Men, let us not forget Tyrice, the Miracle Whip Martyr, another fallen soldier, on the street again.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
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Ellen KushnerApr 5, 2013

Very humorous way of explaining a couples sleeping issues and who wears the pants in the relationship!LOL!Very Good!
responds:Apr 5, 2013

Ellen, thank you for not harshly judging Tyrice. All of the women at work that I told this story to judged him, with comments like, "Oh, you just know he was cheating on her, en got what he deserved!" and my favorite, "Miracle Whip? That stuff is not even allowed in my house! Is that fool retarded?"

Again Ellen, for Tyrice, thank you for not unsheathing your claws at his expense.
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