Players Court Verdict
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
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
(Want to see something in The G Manifesto? Send suggestions to thegmanifesto@yahoo.com)
CAM’RON-I REALLY MEAN IT
Win Or Lose Remix (DJ Genius91)
Jaguar vs Coyote
20/12/2007 at 6:25 am Permalink
Psycko Funk! As always G. In the Shy now. Drop a line, and I dont mean blow either G!
20/12/2007 at 3:38 pm Permalink
What about those suedo dentist wannabe players, thier teeth aren’t the only thing that is a vaneer right?
20/12/2007 at 10:09 pm Permalink
reading this funny little story got me thinking.
when the dust settles on anything nasty-now I don’t care who you pick, hitler, gandhi, einstein or your baby brother-the two people I want by my side will always be a lawyer an a surgeon.
we know the saying that guns don’t kill people do, but when that metal meets flesh you are going to need both of the above more then any gangster droog hit man. and when everyone is done trading insults, well then the other is going to be keeping your well suited ass out of the joint.
careful who you cross swords with.
keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer
but I am sure your already knew that.
keep the tales coming…
21/12/2007 at 5:15 am Permalink
the people’s champ, i mean, what more needs to be said? this is certified G material right here, absolute classic stuff. the hits keep coming.
loved the earl the pearl and clyde line…”clyde is the name for me between 12am and 4am” — walt frazier
keep up the straight G certified work, like a fine wine the G manifesto keeps getting better and better
15/04/2009 at 4:14 pm Permalink
Lawyers and surgeons are necessary evils, we just tolerate them because we need to use them every once in a while. So they are kind of like tools that we just keep in the shed for when we need them. Otherwise they have no purpose except to bloodsuck and cut. You remember the lawyer in Carlito’s Way—I fucking hated that guy and thats how all the lawyers always are.
15/04/2009 at 4:28 pm Permalink
Michael,
Well said.
– MPM
18/04/2009 at 7:28 am Permalink
All I have to say is the people who read your blog watch WAAYY too many movies. Carlito’s way? You gotta be kidding me.
Tools we keep in the shed? I’d love to see you call a cardiac surgeon that before he operates on your chain-smoking father. You’d be typical Joe Jerk-Off just nodding in agreement acting like you know what the fuck a right ventricle is.
18/04/2009 at 5:34 pm Permalink
Your “life” reads like Ja Rule hosting Bret Easton Ellis, meanwhile being less G than “Holla Holla” and more dubious and disonant than “The Informers”. Thanks for the laughs.
Enjoy mediocrity/pathology..
18/04/2009 at 8:41 pm Permalink
Jealous Much? = Joe Jerk-Off
You would be impressed, I know what a right ventricle is.
And a left one.
Now go hit the books.
I am going to go swoop some fly girls.
– MPM
18/04/2009 at 8:41 pm Permalink
Will,
Close, but no E-Tab.
– MPM
19/04/2009 at 7:15 am Permalink
MPM-
I guess “chain-smoking father” got under your skin?
19/04/2009 at 11:48 am Permalink
Jealous Much?,
Not even heroin needles get under my skin.
Men in my family live to 90+.
– MPM
19/04/2009 at 1:57 pm Permalink
Thanks for confirming my suspicions.
You are quite the G; you had nothing better to do than defend yourself to your e-detractors on a Saturday night.
Please let me guess your most uninspired and face-saving retort: “My nights don’t start until 1 in the morning.” (No, too trite and obvious.)
How about: “I stayed in on a Saturday night due to illness.” (No, a G wouldn’t let a little hayfever keep him down.)
I’ve got it! “I was writing from my BlackBerry.” (Perfect! Logical and irrefutable. No chance this excuse might expose your fantasy life for what it is; one lived out through anecdotal accounts posted on a website.)
The laughs keep on coming. Thanks.
“Close, but no E-tab”… indeed.
PS. I’m especially impressed that you and “Hugo” have the presence of mind to have your suits tailored to fit your handguns (but then again, you’ve been Gs for as long as I can remember); I’d love to see the slack required to accomodate a Desert Eagle (instead of an insipid and obligatory “lol” here, instead I will ask: in what second-rate, John Woo action-film fantasy world, does a G brandish a “Chrome Desert Eagle”?!).
On average, how much suspension of disbelief is required for a reader to believe this dross?
19/04/2009 at 6:12 pm Permalink
Will,
Saturday night is not exactly the most G night to go out. That’s a 9-5 guy night.
Regardless, I did go out last night.
There is a place called “California” on the West Coast time zone.
You should look into it.
– MPM
19/04/2009 at 6:36 pm Permalink
Oh “MPM”, as fun as this has all been, I am legally limited to conversing with only 3 retards at a time, and as all those positions have been filled, this will be my last communiqué.
“There is a place called “California” on the West Coast time zone.”
Thanks; I’ve heard of it. In fact, I was referring to California, because when you initially responded to my first post it was around 9PM on said “West Coast”.
“Saturday night is not exactly the most G night to go out. That’s a 9-5 guy night.”
9-5 Guys, as well as the majority of quality females. I’d expect a G to know that.
“Regardless, I did go out last night.”
Thus making your comment about Saturdays being ‘9-5 guy night’ completely irrevelant and pointless.
There is a thing called intelligent conversation on Earth, where one statement is relevant to another.
You should look into it.
PS. Thanks for completely ignoring my remarks about tailoring your suit to accommodate your Desert Eagle. It’s probably in your best interests to ignore the most glaring errors in your stories.
Regardless, take care and enjoy your fantasy life, you G, you.
20/04/2009 at 9:34 am Permalink
Will,
“I am legally limited to conversing with only 3 retards at a time, and as all those positions have been filled”
I suggest you stop talking to yourself in a three way mirror.
“I was referring to California, because when you initially responded to my first post it was around 9PM on said “West Coast”.”
Actually, 8:41 pm. And your point is?
“as well as the majority of quality females”
Only in crappy places like Oklahoma.
“Regardless, I did go out last night.”
“Thus making your comment about Saturdays being ‘9-5 guy night’ completely irrevelant and pointless.”
Wrong. It was actually making your comment about my Saturday night irrelevant and pointless.
‘Thanks for completely ignoring my remarks”
Your welcome. I ignored them because you already responded to them: “I’m especially impressed that you and “Hugo” have the presence of mind to have your suits tailored”
“this will be my last communiqué.”
Now go skip along.
– MPM
22/04/2009 at 11:15 am Permalink
MPM-
You gotta admit, this Will guy is pretty funny. He got you beat!
Now go learn what a CABG is. And I’m not talking about what you eat on St Patty’s Day.
You should look into it.
-JM
20/08/2009 at 6:58 am Permalink
I much prefer some Dolce to gucci anyday. Gucci is for old farts.
21/08/2009 at 2:32 pm Permalink
Dolce is for queers and people who think LA has a ”good nightlife”
26/11/2011 at 6:51 pm Permalink
Nothing in life is more satisfying than watching a “G” get taken down by a bunch of guys who make $40k a year, and forget him as soon as they get home to their fat wives.