Same Girl?

Full disclosure: I spent a good portion of my Thanksgiving break singing what has become one of my favorite R. Kelly songs (that’s right–I enjoy several R. Kelly songs). That song is “Same Girl,” and it features Usher, so it’s obvies really good. Now, I’m sure many of you are quite familiar with the song, but for the others out there, I’m going to outline the song. As with many R. Kelly songs, it has a story line. So try to keep up.


The song begins when R. Kelly decides to give Usher a phonecall. Nothing unusual there. Kells starts telling Usher about this girl he met. She’s great! Average height, “red bone”…which is kind of offensive, shapely (as you might imagine). Usher is quite impressed, responding with words like “Damn!” and “Damn!”

But as Kells continues to divulge uninteresting information about this woman (drives a black Durango, license plate says “Angel”), Usher begins to realize that she sounds a lot like someone he knows…

Usher jumps in, rattling off details about the girl (she has a child and loves Waffle House). Kells just goes along with it, like an idiot. “Yep,” he says. “Yep.” R. Kelly don’t you see? You fellas are talking ’bout the same girl!

Now is when the video comes in handy. Don’t worry, I’ve included it HERE.
As I’m sure you know, Usher lives in ATL and R. Kelly lives in the Chi, so Kells flies to Atlanta, and Usher picks him up from the airport, so that they can discuss the matter. Because it’s that serious. Anywho, turns out they both met her at parties, in their respective cities. As Ush explains, “she came right up to me, giving me conversation.” Based on what I know, I can assume that ‘conversation’ is a street disease. They both explain how the slut (and I feel ok calling her that, with the R. Kelly, and the Usher, and all the conversation) seduced them, and then Usher shows R. Kelly a picture of her on his phone. She’s wearing boy shorts.

Obviously, the two of them must join forces to bring this girl down, as men do. They brainstorm things they might do during a casual game of basketball in Usher’s indoor basketball court.

“You call her, but I’ll be on the phone too, and she won’t know it!” I haven’t used three-way calling since junior high. “It’ll be so good!”

“Or maybe you invite her to dinner, and you show up and hug her, and then I SHOW UP! She’ll be so surprised and embarrassed!”

Really, Usher and R. Kelly? These are your vindictive ideas? I think both of these guys have done worse things to girls they weren’t mad at (if you know what I mean, wink). This seems weak.

SPOILER ALERT: They go with the second plan. Resto surprise. BUT when the second guy sneaks up, guess what happens? The girl’s twin sister shows up! It’s not the same girl!

But wait, who invited the twin sister? Because only one of them made the phonecall, right? And why do both of these adult women live exactly the same life (reside on “Peace” St, beauty mark on the left side of her mouth, work at TBS). Usher. R. Kelly. You guys. It IS the same girl. She just knew you were on to her and called her sister to come along.

And there you have it, ladies and gentleman. Usher and R. Kelly are dummies, and this is totally the same girl who is lucky enough to have a twin she can use for Sister, Sister type shenanigans.

Just call me Sherlock.



Pickle Problem

Something horrible happened to me on Sunday, and I’d like to share it with you now.

I was wandering around South Street Seaport with David (otherwise known as Simba, Norweigian Prince, Disney Prince, and Abercrombie) when we noticed signs for a pickle festival. We just had to go! In all honesty, I’m totally ambivalent towards pickles. I’m not one of those people who’s like “Mmmmm, pickles!” but if someone says, “Anyone want a pickle,” I’ll shrug my shoulders and be like, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

We had nothing better to do, so we ventured to the pickle festival, and oh, what fun! Not only were there pickle samples, but also samples of fancy dark chocolate and cheeses to which I said respectively “Hell yeah,” and “Whoop-de-woo!” There was also an adorable hipster bluegrass band. It was just darling.

So, I was obviously trying literally every single sample when I came across what I like to call “a challenge.” A spicy pickle piece with some sort of red pepper. I turned to Simba.

“Do you think this’ll be too spicy?” I asked

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. Clearly, Simba knows nothing about pickles, and I should’ve asked the pickle guy that was standing behind the table. Before Simba had finished his sentence, I had put the pickle/pepper skewer in my mouth. This was quite likely the worst mistake I’ve made in my life. Simba was, by now, on to some other, more suitable sample. I ran over to him, waving my hand in front of my mouth.

“It’s so f*$&ing hot!” I whispered, because I couldn’t talk, because my throat was being eaten by fire ants. Simba, d-bag that he is, laughed. “I have to spit it out.”

“Keepin’ it classy,” he said, as I was about to spit the remains of the death pickle into a garbage can in the middle of a crowd of people. He was right. How could I do something so disgusting? If I’m known for one thing, it’s for being classy, and I wasn’t about to ruin my reputation at the pickle festival. I swallowed the pickle/pepper.

What happened next is hard to explain. You know in movies when people are on acid, or some other drug whose name I don’t even know, and they have a weird psychadelic trip, and colors swirl and things float in front of their eyes? It was like that. I thought I was going to die. I really did. I thought to myself, Be a man, in that misogynistic tone I sometimes use toward myslef. Instead, I cried like a little baby girl.  I shouted expletives and jumped up and down. I waved my hands in the air and shout-whispered:

“Oh my god!” Tears welled in my eyes. “I’ve never had anything so spicy in my life!”

It was a bonefied scene I was making, but I didn’t give a D. It was as though I had taken a shot of moonshine and then lit a match inside my mouth. My lips and tongue were ablaze.

“I need milk,” I shout-whispered.

I had once read that milk helps with soothing a spicy mouth, but I have never needed to test this theory, because I have (not to brag or anything) a very strong palette. I’m not one to drink milk, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

We scrurried to Duane Reade where Simba bought me a $15 bottle of skim milk fortitified with vitamins and minerals, and this immediately helped. Still, I could feel the pickle/pepper burning a hole in my stomach.

My stomach didn’t feel so hot for the rest of the night. Normally I desire and consume six large meals a day, but on Sunday, I only desired and consumed three. It was very disconcerting.

I awoke yesterday morning to feelings of nausea. It had been so long since the pickle consumption that I didn’t even put the two things together. I tried to go on with my day, but it was quite difficult. I found myself almost unable to keep my head up at work. And then…I puked. The freaking pickle/pepper made me puke in the 5th floor bathroom at my job. Awk.

Never eating pickles again.