Saturday, April 16, 2011

UBO


UBO

“Oh, this is so good!” said Doshin as soon as he heard the first few notes.
“I knew you’d like it!  I put this one on just for you, homey,”  I replied.
“You guys aren’t serious are you?  Come on.  This is like…eighth grade dance.”
“Exactly!” Doshin and I said in unison. 
“How do you guys consider yourselves music snobs?”
“We’re music snobs because we know everything about good music, so we get to define what part of bad music is really good,” clarified Doshin.
“Oooh,” I said, flipping through the 857 songs on my iPod.  “I’ve got a really good one for next.”
“We’re going to Newport Beach!” exclaimed Hamza.  “Aren’t you supposed to be getting us pumped up?”
“Yes…but this is doing it in a reverse psychology sort of way,” I said through my trademark smile.
“Well played, man,” said Doshin.
Doshin was quite possibly the only male at the DoD with a nose ring and that’s just a small part of what made him so cool.  Only I knew that Doshin posed over a dozen times in various outfits highlighting his sleeveless, faded Ella Fitzgerald t-shirt.  So to everyone else, he was just smooth, like pistachio gelato.  He redefined the whole headband-thing and made the white Adidas Superstar kicks he wore seem novel, even though that style was played out if worn by anyone else.  I suppose his clean, black chin goatee gave him enough disco-Buddhist vibe to pull it off.
“Oh wait, here’s the best part,” Doshin said, throwing his head back and holding the steering wheel loosely toward the bottom. 
Guilty feeling got no rhythm, though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool,” Doshin and I sing, swaying as we nurtured the lyrics.
“You know they tell you over there you’re supposed to hold the steering wheel like this,” he said, hands at five and seven. 
“Why is that?”
“Because if there’s an explosion or something ahead of you, and you’ve got to get around it, this allows you to keep turning without having to switch hands.”
“That’s wonderful.  Another piece of civilian life in Afghanistan that I didn’t need to know about,” I said.
“Hey, this is a survival skill,” man.
“This is L.A., homey.  The only explosions you gotta worry about is when you eat a chicken burrito that’s a bit too authentic, know what I’m sayin’?”
All laugh in unison
“So, did I tell you Tylanni says ‘hi’?”
“Tylie!  For real?  In DC?”
“No, in New York.  She was there for the economic summit.”
“Oh, get out!” I said, accidentally slamming my iPod into the dashboard.
“So, what, did you guys party?”
“Yeah, it was like a reunion.  Peter was there, Romit was there, Brennan came out.”
“No shit! How’s Romit’s wife?”
“Still smokin’ man.  Still scandalous with those-what did you call them-electromagnetic eyes?  Do you still have that scar on your lip?” 
“Oh, shit, man!  I’m surprised it went way. That Beirut party was insane.”
“What happened at the Beirut party?” Hamza asked, not realizing he had just embarked upon a long and circuitous path.
“Well…basically, I caught Milan under the porch holding Anika’s bra, but she was fully clothed.”
“Wait.  You hooked up with Romit’s wife under the porch, while he upstairs?”
“No, no, no.  No.  Way better.  I can’t believe I haven’t told you this story yet! O.K., so Amika was totally hammered because she kept adding that Russian grain alcohol into her sangria.  You know, ‘cuz it was that high-grade shit that Serge brought back from Croatia.”
“O.K.  We gotta catch up on Serge too, but then what?”
“So, Amika wandered down under the porch and I was looking for the fire extinguisher because Raheem’s eggplants caught fire in the oven.  So, she’s just standing there emitting that scent-like the skin under the breasts of a hot chick.”
“Yeah, you lost me there, homey, said Hamza, puzzled and slightly perturbed.
“I don’t know man.  But it was like sex chopped up and condensed, then placed on a spitfire till all the juices come out.  And I’m like, ‘Remember, the root of all human suffering is desire.’  Man, I’m thinking about our Nutrition in Crises reading, I’m going over the starting lineup for the 1997 Michigan football team, anything to not think bad, very bad things.  Then something took over and I just blurted out, ‘I bet you I can take off your bra without removing your shirt.’  And she took it as if I offered her a falafel, and took a stiletto step closer, and said, ‘Let’s see whatchu got’ in that sick Elizabeth Hurley accent.  So, I’m standing there in front of her, I’ve got the fire extinguisher in one hand, and she’s there, this ribbed raspberry sorbet-colored tank top and this turquoise skirt and just winked.
Then what!”
“So, I said ‘aren’t you gonna turn around?’  And she breathes, ‘No, no.  This one’s for big boys.  The clasp is in front.’”                    
Oh, shit!” they both exclaimed-Hamza because it was his first time hearing the story, and Doshin because he couldn’t hear this story enough.
“So, I’m like, ‘Well, looks like I’ll need to put the fire extinguisher down for a moment.’  And she puts her fingers to my bottom lip, squeezes so hard it went numb, and again in that insane accent whispers, ‘On the contrary, you may still require it,’ and she leaned forward just so that I could see between her bra and her skin into that little triangular space beneath. I drop the fire extinguisher and-without making any nippalry contact-unfastened her bra.  But there was an unanticipated issue.”
“What do you mean?” said Hamza, now at the edge of the backseat, talking into my ear with his cheek resting on my headrest.
“It was a UBO.”
“UBO?  What the fuck is that?”
“Unidentified Brazillary Object,” Doshin explained.
“See, it was this crazy French lingerie and one side had a plastic spaghetti strap, and the other side was strapless.”
“So what did you do?” asked Hamza, pounding the side of my seat.
“Well, going for the strapless side would have certainly offered more breastillary contact.  However, going for that route might be sloppy: The bra might not come off smoothly and that would have damaged my reputation, ruined the whole sleight-of-hand.”
“So…”
“So, I went for the strap, thereby allowing me to feel less guilt when I encountered her husband, who was presently a guest in my home, while also enabling optimal exitary fluidity.  I put my left hand under her shirt to nudge the one side along and pulled the strap with my right hand.  And as I produced two crop circles of lacy-plastic silkiness from her shoulder-” 
“I walked in.”
“Yes.  So, there I am with Romin’s ugly wife and her bra.”
“Wait, ugly, what happened?”
“Nothing.  She was just so hot that she can only be described as it’s opposite: ugly.”
“Hideous,” said Doshin.  “And-”
“No! No, you’re gonna try to tell it to make yourself sound like less of a dumbass!”
“No! I’m telling Hamza the-”
“You, no!” I said playfully holding an extended index finger in front of Doshin’s face. 
“Fine, go ahead, but, Hamza, this is not how the rest happened.”
“So, Doshin’s like, "Uhhh.  Romin said the kafta kabobs are really good.” 
“What!?!” exclaimed Hamza with eyebrows raised and his open jaw resting on the top of my seat, just behind my ear.
“Yes.  Drunk Doshin, who had been pounding drinks since 4pm, offers, ‘Romin says the kafta kabobs are really good.”
“So, Anika and I just looked at each other, then looked at Doshin, and we both said at the same time, ‘Thanks.’  And after that, due to the bizarre juxtaposition of Anika’s brazier and grilled lamb-not to mention her husband-the moment had come to a tire-torching halt.
“So, what the fuck did you do with the bra?”
“Oh, God.  This part is the best,” said Doshin.
“So the fucking fire extinguisher cap is all loose and coming off-”
“We broke it playing Misguided Warfare late one night,” explained Doshin.
“Wait, what the fuck is Misguided Warfare?  Like Battleship?”
I explained, “It’s when-”
“No!  It was my idea! I get to explain it!” insisted Doshin. “So, one night we were drunk as fuck after Milan dropped off the girls, and we were out on the porch smoking.  It was winter, so Raheem figured that throwing lit BBQ matches wouldn’t start a fire.”
“You guys started a fire on the porch?”
“No…not exactly,” I said.
“So, there was something about the varnish-or whatever-that they used on the wood.  It started these tiny fires-like the size of a silver dollar.  Hence, I invented the game of Misguided Warfare.  Raheem’s territory was Vietnam and Milan’s territory was Iraq.  So I made stealth bomber runs and dropped the matches and each person had to try and protect their territory.”
“One match at a time?” asked Hamza incredulously.
“Well, that’s what we started off with.  But then I discovered I could light about five matches at a time and drop them in different parts of enemy territory.”
“You guys are fucking insane.  Where the hell was I during all this?”
“Well, this game was invented on a Thursday, so you were probably doing work, like we should have been.  Anyway, we played for like an hour.  But then Milan’s territory started to have flames adjoin because he kept running back into the kitchen to get more beer.”
“And then I had to pee really bad.”
“That’s right, Milan had to take a piss, and it lasted like a decade-”
“So, when I came back, all of Anbar was in flames and Baghdad was lit up too.  And while I was running back up the stairs, Doshin was running down with a cigarette in his mouth, yelling, “Oh, shit! I think I dropped one missile too many.”
I tried to continue, but I was laughing so hard I was hyperventilating. “So, so, I’m thinking he said, ‘I dropped a fissile too many!’”
“And Milan yells, ‘What? You went nuclear!?!’”
“Yeah! I come up and I’m like ‘Oh fuuuuuuuck!’ And Raheem is there trying-brilliantly-to put out the fire with his loose tobacco.   And Doshin came running up with the fire extinguisher yelling ‘Everybody down!’ and he just fired that thing all over the porch, all over me, Raheem, everything.
“That fire was no fucking joke man!  I used the whole canister and even then we needed some dirt to put it all out.”
“And I think Doshin tossed the fire extinguisher off the porch and I imagine that’s how the canister got loose.”
“So, what then?”
“Then Raheem had tied a wife beater around his head and was yelling, Ho Chi Minh!”
No, I mean, what happened with Anika?”
“Oh, right.  So, since the cap of the fire extinguisher was already practically off I just rolled her bra up really tight and-”
“You put it in the fire extinguisher? Oh my God!”
“And then I said, ‘I’m keeping this because I will never believe this story otherwise.’  Then she held my face in her hands like she was going to say something really deep.’”
“But instead she…”
“Bit off a piece of my lip!”
What!
“A whole fucking chunk!” Doshin added. “He was bleeding like he got stabbed with a bayonet.”
“I was like ‘Ow! Fuck! Ow! You bit me!’ but I didn’t realize I was bleeding until I saw droplets on my shoes. 
“What!?!  So what did you do?”
“I was in total shock!  I ran past her up to the porch and Doshin’s like, ‘Wait.  You just had her bra in your hand and now you’re bleeding like a ruptured fallopian tube.'  So he ran and got me a towel-the towel Raheem used to discard of the extra cayenne pepper and I’m like ‘What the fuck is going on?  I’m bleeding, my tongue is on fire? What the fuck is happening?’”
“So, I took ice cubes from all the empty cups in the kitchen and made Milan an ice pack.”
“Cayenne ice pack.”
“Right.  And we iced Milan’s lip.  Meanwhile, Romit comes in for a refill and he’s like, ‘That’s a hell of a tear in your lip man.  What, did some vampire get you?’”
“Wow, said Ahsen with an expression and tone I'd never before seen. "That’s all I gotta say.  That is…wow, man.”
“So, what happened with her in New York?” I asked, criminally, turning to Doshin.

























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