Players Court Verdict
Seems like everyone, as 2007 comes to a close, thinks that they are a “player”. Everyone thinks they have Game. That is, until, they run into a True G and they get sent back down to the minor leagues. Let me breakdown a little story…
I rolled with my droog Hugo, AKA The Viper, to an Art Gallery Opening and we were slicing the spot up like imported Prosciutto di San Daniele, at a little Italian Market. We got pretty hungry so we decided to head over to Nobu (of course, I like the slabs more at Masa, but that’s neither Ankimo nor Otoro).
We walked into Nobu, silky and flamboyant, like a modern day Earl the Pearl and Clyde Frazier, only in Custom Italian Suits. Choking the joint like Sprewell. I was in a 2 button ETRO with side vents, inverted interior and ticket pocket, Gucci shirt, Prada tie, Brioni pocket square, Chrome Desert Eagle and Gucci loafers. Hugo was busting a chalk stripped Dolce and Gabbana suit, Cornealli shirt, I think, Zegna tie, Versace pocket square, Glock 17 and Prada shoes. Both of us had Bankrolls thicker than fog and green like a baby Praying Mantis. We both had more bullets than Elvin Hayes or Wes Unseld. And we were coming in Peace but we both brought a piece.
Public Enemy-he got game
As we cruised in, I said “hello” to some older cat who knew my dad from my dad’s Studio 54 days, left this one pro baseball player “hanging” on a high five that I have issues with, said “Hey Carnal” to this East Los ex-gangbanger-now playboy I am friends with, and gave a hug and a pound to my droog “Ian” who was at the bar with some Model Bird (I mentioned Ian before in How to Swoop girls and Influence People). Ian was freshly in town from Australia and seemed to be doing well.
Hugo and I gave two kisses greetings to the Asian hostess girls and took a seat at the sushi bar. We said “what up and konichiwa” to all the chefs and finally settled in.
I then noticed first, two super fly wealthy Mexican girls eyeing us. You know the type; dark hair, rich, beautiful; the kind of girls that date cartel guys or politicos. Or the kind of girls that have hermanos in the cartels or in politica. Or the kind of girls that at some point dated guys killed in cartel wars or politico rivalries. Or…you get the point. One was in a Nina Ricci dress, the other in a Chloe silk dress. Both dripping with jewelry, holding, I think, Bamford Ombre Crocodile Totes, and wearing, Valentino evening sandals.
I noticed second, that las chicas were in between two young pseudo “hot shot” plastic surgeons. You know the type; the kind of plastic surgeons that advertise in “party mags”. Which, turns out, is where Hugo recognized the plastic surgeons from. The plastic surgeons were dressed in suburban mall-bought sport coats, t-shirts, jeans and square toed shoes, probably Kenneth Coles, I am guessing. The height of fashion for the plastic surgeon set.
These guys probably thought they were on a major heist with these two fly Mexicana girls.
And they were, that is, at least until Hugo and I stepped into Nobu. These Plastic Surgeons might have been Board Certified by American Board of Plastic Surgery, but they were not Board Certified by The International Board of Game like your humble author and his loyal droog.
I then came up with a plan to get one of the girls outside, since they were sweating us like a sparring session at Gleason’s Gym. I put a cancer stick in my mouth and motioned to the exit so she could follow me outside. She smiled a pretty girl’s smile. And I haven’t seen a smile that pretty in a while.
I went outside and smoked my jack, shot a rack of “insurance policy” texts, but she never came.
When I re-entered Nobu, both girls were sitting down next to Hugo talking with him. My “come smoke outside move” didn’t work, but at least Hugo peeled the girls from the plastic surgeons. Peeled like a potato in Belfast. I sat in between las Chicas and the Plastico Surgeons, effectively “boxing” the Surgeons out. The top-shelf Spanish Game we were spitting didn’t hurt either.
The plastic surgeon guys paid their tab in defeat (which, I am sure was pretty hefty…run along and do some more breast augmentations, skippy). My friend Ian, at the bar, saw the whole swoop go down and was laughing hysterically.
The plastic surgeon guys then met up with a couple of buddies at the bar and were mad dogging Hugo and I for twisting their wigs back. I was praying they were not going to confront us, not because we couldn’t handle them (do me a favor), but because Ian has grown increasingly violent and is hyper-sensitive about disrespect.
Ian has even taken to shooting people inside nightclubs in Sydney and Melbourne (which, I reckon is the reason he is in America now, to let things cool out). I am God’s child, but sometimes I think Ian is employed by Satan. The last thing I needed was Ian to open up and spit abalone shells in Nobu, I have enough problems already. And swooping fly rich Latina girls isn’t one.
Thankfully, the plastic surgeons didn’t have the bottle to approach us and just left to lick their wounds. Smart move on their part (I guess they did learn something in medical school besides how to carve up women) as the night was still young. They don’t know how close they came.
Fat Joe ft. J Holiday – I Won’t Tell
Word of warning to plastic surgeon guy:
Don’t ever step to real G’s. Think about it, plastic surgeon guy, you have been spending your life studying, getting picked last on the basketball court as a kid, not in The Game, and not spitting Chess Pieces. Just because you now have a couple of C-notes to rub together, and an office staff of decent looking women idolizing you, doesn’t mean jack in the real world (this goes for “hot shot” lawyers too).
We (meaning G’s), on the other hand, have been out on the streets all our life, partying, dealing, heisting and come from long blood lines of cold hearted killers (Ian’s dad was friends with The Twins back in the day in Bethnal Green, Hugo comes from a long line of Latin politican/diplomat/killers, and your humble author, as I have mentioned before, is a child of an Irish and Spanish Revolutionaries.)
Those plastic surgeons need to take their Game around the corner to the Game Rehab.
Players Court Verdict: The plastic surgeons are Guilty on all counts of Faking the Funk.
I have said it before and I will say it again, that apart from Spanish wine, cigarettes, flash custom suits, and heisting drug dealers, what I love most is chopping apart plastic players (no pun intended) and heisting their girls.
Oh yeah, everything worked as planned with the rich Mexican girls…
The Rest is Up To You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA Your Doctor when in Need
The Guide to Getting More Out of Life
(Want to see something in The G Manifesto? Send suggestions to firstname.lastname@example.org)
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