Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Cinnamon Twists (Part 2)

My response of “yea, they’re not for you” was not appreciated. Grub Chick didn’t like my back talk. She exclaimed, “Give me those cinnamon twists.” So I said, “No." That was received by a room full of “Oooooh."

The entire waiting room started weighing in on the fight. This was much better than just waiting for the doctor. There’s about to be a fight between two bitches over nothing. What a great day! “Ooooh that white girl she just said no, just like that, just like that. Girl, did you hear what she said, mmmm?” They were like a prison gang backing up the head bitch.

I didn’t even know what that person would be called in prison or gang talk because I’m a white girl from a middle class suburban area. I didn’t even understand why this was happening to me because I love black people and black people love me. Seriously, black people love me.

First off, I have a juicy booty. So that means all black men, plus hispanics, mexicans and puerto ricans, automatically love me. Second of all, I have a filthy mouth, so that just means all men that aren’t uptight also love me.

And then females that are black also usually love me, and I love them. Black woman are strong. They say it like it is. They like to have a good time. I really just like anyone who’s cool. So maybe that was the whole problem. Grub Chic was acting very uncool and as a result, this horrible, horrible event was taking place.

All I know is the commentators were a mixed motley crew of scary and scarier and my opponent was the nuttiest one of them all.

(Like these girls-sorta)

A psycho with a loud voice who was not afraid to say what she wanted. In another world, at another time, we would’ve been “besties,” but right now there we were, in this world, and the lines were drawn. On my side of the line, there was me. Just me. Dressed in white pants, a banana republic black tee and strappy sandals. On the other side of the line, there was this tall, scary, loud woman in tight jeans and a tight t-shirt with a tatoo of an anchor on one arm and muscles on both. She was backed up by a group of individuals looking just as tough, if not tougher. The commentators were agitating the entire situation, and I needed them to go away.

I wanted them to shut up. Maybe this whole thing would just die down if they just shut up. I waited to see what would happen next as I tried to keep my breakfast down. All eyes were on Grub Chick. It was her turn. She looked at me and stuck with her basic demand.

“I want those cinnamon twists.” I said, “If you want them, then get your ass in a car, and go buy them.” I couldn’t even help myself. Displaced anger is a real bitch. We all know if I had brought Baklava this never would have happened.

The receptionist behind the bullet proof glass pulled me into the next room, and I was unable to see my targets reaction, but could hear the uproar it caused. One for whitey! The staff knew about the cinnamon twist controversy and thanked me for them, but hadn’t touched them yet, sensing that this was not the end.

Suddenly she charged back where I was behind the bullet proof glass and exclaimed, “You better give me those cinnamon twists." I said, “You don’t give up do you?” She said, “You’re supposed to feed the poor.” The commentators looked in, waiting for my response. I said, “I don’t have to do shit.” Couldn't she just let it go?



  1. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

  2. If cinnamon twists smell even half as good as airport Cinnabons, then I'd beat your ass for one too. In fact, one time I sliced a woman's (to be continued).

  3. Baklava! best line of the story so far. no one ever fights for baklava. at least not where i work. but maybe that's why you never brought baklava to us.