Before I dive into the meaty topic of this post, I need to school you all out there in the Rants Army® about me, Rants. Fact is, I am an inveterate people-watcher. I’m That Guy who is amused, disgusted, but always entertained by people while I sit waiting for my flight in an airport. Keep this fact firmly in mind. Start now.
So knowing that I people watch, you also will know (if you’re an aficionado) that the real joy of people watching as a sport happens inside your own head as you make up stories about those you observe. “I think that’s a Lindsay Lohan wannabe… unless she twerks, which means she’s a Cyrusite.” Alternately, “He’s walking funny from an old war wound… compounded by the intense anal pounding he received last night from his pitcher boyfriend.” Even one-word thoughts: “Stoner” (followed rapidly by: “Lucky fuck”). Shit like that, you know? Keep this concept in mind.
The third key idea is something you’ll know if you’re a long-time Rants Army® follower. That idea is simply the that Murphy loves to karma my sorry ass in royal fashion. If something can be fucked up about a situation, it’s a lock that I’m nipples deep in it. Freak-tastic shit only happens in my blast radius and stops here, splattered all over me like volcanic bowel residue blown from the anus of a bean and broccoli lover.
Now we’ll transition to the punchline of the post. I disembarked the lovely Metro bus one day to hump up the hill to my house and swill a beer or two before I went into coma mode. Comas are required if you wake up at 4AM just to get your shit into one sock for work, but I digress. As I strode up the sidewalk, I noted an elderly man hobble along on a perpendicular route with a cane. As I watched, said gentleman (wearing de rigeur tan chinos and a plaid cotton duck shirt) dropped his cane and started swinging around the next stop sign. He resembled a stripper warming up (so I’m told) to the point that I thought, “Holy fuck, he’s taking pole dancing lessons and practicing!”
I cruised by and he said, “Hi.” I summoned my most surly look and answered, “Howyadoin’?” Homeslice kept swinging around that steel pole like a boss the whole time.
I walked on, and my people watcher brain kicked in. This old dude, an elderly man of Asian heritage (no offense, but he was elderly because he had gray hair visible), barely made it to the stop sign pole but dropped his cane and whipped out a whirling, swinging routine that… well, I’m told he’d be pretty good. Of course, my people watcher brain node couldn’t let it go. We shall examine the process in detail.
Here’s the series of thoughts I had:
“He’s doing stretching for his fucked up back and hips… no, that makes no sense… so what does?”
“Oh, I know! He’s secretly wanted to strip in a huge, big-cover-charge strip joint in Vegas! Yeah, that’s it.”
“Oh wait! Even better! He emigrated here believing he could someday do this! Yes.”
“Homeboy also wants to have a sex change so he can be a Real Stripper.”
“He’s saving now from his WalMart job… implants aren’t cheap if you do them right (I’ve been told).”
“I bet this guy wants all that, and to headline under the name, ‘Chynna Doll’ and make fat stacks in tucked bills. That is his fucking dream.”
Yes, this is how I decided that an average elderly citizen could secretly want a sex change so that he could strip under the moniker ‘Chynna Doll’ and be rich. Happy Fucking Halloween and welcome to the horror of the inside of my head. By the way, this story is true.