Situations That Make You Want To Stab Somebody: I Gotta Job, Motherfucka ! And it Aint Sellin’ Poontang.

I was going to write about how much I enjoyed Outkasts new picture show, Idlewild. And maybe I still will . . . Idlewild is simply marvelous and you will only be cheating yourself and everyone else by trying to watch it on bootleg DVD - so please don’t do it. The cast and set is sparkling with retro glamour and hollywood diamond grit (whatever that means - *lol*). I aint mad at none of ‘em.

But right about now I could spit snake venom in the face of an overweight middle-aged white man, calling himself soliciting me for prostitution, from his broke-down maroon mini-van.

(I took this picture my damn self and I mean every bit of it. Power to the WOMEN!)

I’ve been through this before – way too many times - all my life to be exact. I hate it! It makes me angry. It makes nervous. I makes me uneasy and worried that one day I won’t be able to fight off some pathetic trick who finds me attractive in my business casual work clothes.

I’m not sure why greasy, pussy hungry, sharks persist on patrolling these concrete waters. My hood aint the most upscale, but it’s not crack alley either. I encounter more men cruising the block for hookers, than women looking for their next customer. On occasion, when I do see a hoe, she don’t look shit like me.

Don’t these dumb ass men know a regular hard working pedestrian from a street walking hoe? Mf’rs just dumb as a door-knob. No type of intuition whatsover.

It doesn’t matter what time of day - these losers do not discriminate against the sun. At least once a month (usually more) I have to brush off some pathetic mans advances. And don’t say it’s because I’m “attractive”. Looks have little to do with this arena. I swear to God, I was so angry tonite, if I would’ve had a prosthetic limb, I would’ve removed it, clubbed that mf’r over the head with it and then hobbled my ass on home. Bastard.

It’s really sad that so many men feel like they need to roam the streets in search of common pussy. How does it feel to be in your car looking for a woman with low self esteem, probably with a drug habit and a shit load std’s? How sad is it that you have to pay for strange pussy offa the street?

Street walking prostitution in the state of Minnesota is about a rock bottom as you can get. If I was going to sell my wares, it wouldn’t be on Lake Street. I’d take my fat ass to Las Vegas and hustle the strip or work for an escort service. I ‘m not upset with any hoes – I’m just pissed that I could ever be viewed as one, by the countless men who’s dicks & brains are so tiny they can’t tell I’m a hard working woman, trying to move around in my neighborhood.

Lemme tell you, you tricks aint that lucky to come up on a broad like me. The city of Minneapolis aint never encountered a street walker resembling my image or stature. Damn what you heard.

Tonite, I let that sucka slow down real good. . . and then I studied his license plate number. I proceed to get in his range of hearing and went on to tell that bitch I was reporting his sorry ass to the police. He got scurred and dipped out. He looked so nervous – I almost feel sorry for his ugly ass. But not enuf to smooth over my rage.

That’s when I shouted into the night “ I gotta job motherfucker – and it aint selling pussy”.

I know that was a bold move, but sometimes I’m a bold chic. I gotta be. Caint help it. I went in the house and dialed 911 and reported his ass. I don’t feel like I’ve won any battles, but maybe he’ll think twice next time he gwan test the next woman.

On a flip-note: There are times when I think to myself, maybe I should be selling ass. I should have been breaking these fools I dated, for their cash and stash insteada getting hard dick, bubble gum & a bunch of charming nothingness. But I digress . . . my momma didn’t raise no whore and I may not be a lady, but I’m all woman – a woman who writes, travels, sings, reads good books, tells funny jokes, shops, dines, cooks, cleans, goes to the picture show regularly and participates in a bunch of other shit that has nothing to do with a fat, lonely trick rolling down my block.

Angelique -