PolkOut.com is watching its back!

Crazy dealer man may still be on our trail.

Story Time:

So I was hanging around with my roommate, eating dinner and discussing our plans for the evening: gathering up some friends and getting smashed out of our f!cking minds.  But then my phone rang--it was my high school friends, in the city and visiting.  So I quickly ditched my roommate (or rather he asked me to leave after killing his game one too many times) and I met up with my buddies in a crepe shop around the corner.

Nothing interesting went down, we exchanged stories of college hilarity (nothing you loyal readers haven't already read on this site) until the shop had to close, which was about half an hour after we got there.  As I left the building I was approached by a gentleman of the African American persuasion who asked me to do him some sort of a favor--his heavy lisp combined with the glazed look in his eyes and his Madonna   t-shirt made me feel he was not a man worth trusting, so I walked away. 

But alas, one member of my party was not so wise and agreed to hear the man out.  After a healthy ramble the fellow handed us a warped coat hanger and a plastic knife and politely asked to break into his car, which he was locked out of.  Was it is his car?  I doubted it.  Did I want to get the f!ck out of there?  You bet. 

However my friends could relate to his plight: he feared calling the cops because he had a healthy batch of weed in his front seat, and he couldn't break into the car himself because, as a massage therapist, his hands were much too soft for that sort of work--well maybe they couldn't relate to that latter part.  But he promised them some of his bud and that's all they needed to hear.

It's funny how nobody looks at you funny as you're breaking into a car in the middle of downtown Manhattan as long as if you have a small group of people around you to make you seem legit.

--End Transmission--