The Top Model Fakeout

I’m 24 years old. By now, I should know something I always told my students–nobody’s that slick. If one comes up with a great idea that involves doing something really cool really easily, then there’s surely some scheme in place to shut that down.
So really, why in the world did I think that someone would actually let my stankin’ ass in to gawk at the potential contestants on America’s Next Top Model?

Really, what was on my mind? Were they really gonna let me and my lecherous potential just hang around? In case you didn’t believe me before I said it before, I’m not very bright.
Here’s how this here went…
We’re thinking that this bad boy would start at 4. So, defying our stereotypical negritude, me, the potential contestant, and my boy piled into the Bomobile to head to this audition. In my head, many visions danced. It wasn’t just about seeing good looking women. In fact, models don’t usually do it for me. I’m a country boy. I like women that like to eat. Not to the point of gluttony, but just enough to put a lil somethin’ on the lower body. Told ya…just a country boy. Models don’t typically fit that bill. Granted, the application said “accepting all shapes and sizes,” but there’s still cause for skepticism.
Plus, models are primarily just for looking. Ever met one? Ever dated one? This here’s for the kiddies–anyone that caught up in how he or she looks is bad news. Date one if you want, but you may as well put a quarter box on your lips so that model can get compliments from you like shopping from a jukebox. Better learn the words to “You Are So Beautiful,” and you bet’ not miss a note.
So my buddy and I were just there for looking. Not just at good looking women, though. I promise you there are a handful of William Hung types, somebody rolling up with bulletholes, belly rolls, and that perfect shirt that says “sexy m.f.” on the front and has holes placed properly to display said holes and rolls. Would’ve been chucklesome, pimpin.
This is real talk, folks–ain’t everybody meant to do everything. I’m skinny. One of my exes used to say I was gaunt. Think you’ll see me walking around with a bottle of baby oil and my shirt open like Will Smith in Bad Boys? No dice. Love yourself, but know your limitations.
So, this is what I came for–the spectacular and the terrible. The in betweens…I could go to the mall to see them.
We get to the door with the model, and the security guards were on me and my boy fast.
“May I help you?”
*pointing fingers at model*
Now, we get a new guard.
“May I help you?”
*fingers still pointed at her*
“Oh, well we have a room for you to hang out in.”
Hang out? I’m trying to see some talent, man. I’m a talent scout, too.
Only talent I saw was at the pool table and on the PlayStation. This was almost as disappointing as my first date, when I found out my date had a date with someone else at the same place at roughly the same time.
Okay, not the same. I respect the game with the Top Model people. First date, you–goddam right, you–are headed straight down a flight of bleachers. Don’t hit your head–yep, your dome–on the chain link fence.
That’s right, I said it.
All dressed up in my good white T, and I was just sitting with my boy playing NBA Live.
Forgiveness, please. I expected great stories and pictures. I was hanging out in a student union, instead.
But Kirk did chime in with a great story…
So the White Homey’s at the laundromat washing his threads. It rarely gets more entertaining than a trip to the laundromat. Bus stations are the only places with more interesting collections of characters than the laundromat. The laundromat near my house is next to an establishment called “(Name) Open Air Market.” Looks like one of those places where people pay for cigarettes with C-notes and don’t get no change, if you get my drift. At the very least, they got loosies.
He’s at the laundromat, and some cat gets a wee bit too enamored with the vending machine that sells fabric softener and the likes. Buddy just starts buying box after box of fabric softener for fifty cents. Now, buddy also must not realize that they sell that stuff at stores at a much better per-unit price. No worry to this dude. He wants his bounce, baby.
Got a bit too carried away though. After his fabric softener binge, buddy was low on quarters. How low? Couldn’t afford to dry his fuckin clothes.
No, I’m not making this up.
So Kirk does what anyone that knows me would do at a time like that–he goes outside to call me so we could die laughing.
And we did.
Kirk goes back in, and buddy was trying to sell fabric softener.
It has not been verified whether this cat couldn’t afford fries to go with his McNuggets because he spent all this money on extra packets of barbecue sauce.
Thank you, Kirk, for saving my disappointing account of the models. Thank you, everyone else, for reading this random shit like it’s really something you care about. Let’s just hope it’s funny. If not, I’m breaking a promise I made about a year ago.
Speaking of which, the one-year anniversary of Virtual Bomaniland is coming soon. Gotta do something for that.