Remember that singing homeless man on the skateboard from “kids”?

We have not yet broached the topic of the types of men that I like.

I’m glad you asked.

I like men who smell good.
I like men who have deep-set dimples and long eyelashes.
I like men who have pretty teeth.

And that’s about it, physically.

Given the fact that the above is a relatively short list, I won’t fault you if you assume that I’m attracted to a lot of ugly guys.

Cause, I kinda am.

As it happens, I’m a true “personality” girl. And I’ve sung my song of physical acceptance to the masses. I’ve brought shame on the heads of my girlfriends who’ve rejected suitors on the basis of appearance. “I don’t care what a dude looks like!” I’ve shouted wildly. “Do your worst,” I’ve reflected to myself. “If he’s funny and is confident in his ugly ass shit, I’m down.”

Or so I thought.

Until this morning.

Now, for the record, the main character in today’s story wasn’t “ugly,” per se.

He just didn’t have any legs.


That’s not wholly true.

He had about ½ of his left leg, and about ¾ of his right leg (I profess to not knowing how, exactly, this happened, as I’m an even-stevens kinda girl, myself).

But, if you added it all together by my rough, cursory once-over, Dude had like, about 1 and ¼ legs.

Now, no one get defensive.

Please, don’t leave me a host of angry comments about how your daddy left ¾ of his leg in Korea and how he’s an incredible man and I should be honored to meet him.

The purpose of this tale is not to make fun of people with a sum total of 1 and ¼ leg (if my rough, cursory once-over is, indeed, accurate). I’m simply trying to flush out why the Universe makes a point of carrying the shit out of me at every pass.

I’ll set it up for you.

I was checking the mail at the front desk of my building, and trying to keep a reign on my overly-excited dogs. When, all of a sudden, this 55ish black man, clad in a cardigan, some sweats, and no legs rolled up on me.


My dogs about flipped out.

I can only assume that the addition of a pair of wheels in a typically pedestrian area was the bacon-flavored treat on a day that had, up until then, promised staid monotony.

They excitedly began trying to stand up on their tiny legs to get at the half man/half mechanical wonder. My youngest, Cooper, took the left (1/2) leg, and the elder, Topher, the (3/4) right, and both began an avid sniff-the-stumps fest.

Immediately, I panicked. (As it happens, Topher and I had a rather unfortunate incident when I was still in law school, and she was but a puppy. This very pushy quadriplegic woman insisted that I lay Topher across her chest and over her shoulder so she could “hold” her. Still ignorant due to the blush of my relative youth, I obliged her and did as she’d commanded. Everything was cool until Topher got really excited and started licking all over the woman’s face. But the woman started making these awful wheezing and gasping noises cause she couldn’t breathe. And I tried to pull the dog off, but Topher’s nails had gotten all caught up in the woman’s sweater. Anyway, after a random passerby saw that I was about to commit involuntary manslaughter, he helped me pry Topher off. The woman lived, but the memory still lingers.)

“Topher! Cooper!” shouted I, “Stop it! Get down!”

The man simply laughed it off. “They’re all right. They’re fine. I love dogs.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He laughed again. “I’m telling you, they’re fine.” He introduced himself as CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris.

“Hi,” said I, trying to control the monsters at his missing feet.

I returned my attention to the desk where the doorman was searching through a sea of packages.

“What’s your name, Dimples?” said CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris from behind me.

(Not because he didn’t have any legs, mind you. I’m just saying. It was gross because he was old and pervy in addition to being no-leggy.)

I sighed. “Fooler.”

“You lookin’ mighty fine in that suit, Fooler.”

Insert extended sigh here. “Thank you.”

He didn’t seem to notice. “Where your man at?”

Okay, at this point, I was simultaneously incredulous and angry.

1. I couldn’t believe that NoToes was hitting on me. At like, 8 am no less.

2. I couldn’t believe that he was hitting on me with like, regular game—tired game, mind you, but, for all intents and purposes, regular game—like, saying shit to me that motherfuckers with feet would say.

3. He was doing so with a LEGITIMATE expectation of reciprocated interest. (I mean, I’m not saying I’m entirely against dating people without limbs—I’d just prefer to like, meet you when you have limbs, fall in love with you, and then stoically stand by you when some tragedy befalls you and leaves you a shell of a man with nothing but 1 and ¼ leg [if my rough, cursory once-over is to be believed].)

“Fooler, where’s your man at?” he repeated.

Like, I couldn’t even formulate an answer. “Ummm—“

He continued, “Cause if you were my woman, you wouldn’t ever walk these dogs alone, girl. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Okay. Two things here.

1. CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris, if you were my man, you’d have some prosthetic limbs on those absentee, phantom feet. And…


At this point, I could literally feel the eyes of this differentlyabledpervbot looking me up and down—like he was trying to do a rough, cursory estimate of how many legs I had (2, you piece of shit).

“You must not have no man. Why you ain’t sayin nothin? You shy?”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. “I just have a busy day ahead. I’m just thinking about all the stuff I have to do,” I answered.

“And you don’t have no boyfriend to help you?”

Dawg—the Americans with Disabilities Act must be self-empowering as a bitch.

“I have a boyfriend,” I finally answered.

CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris was undaunted. “Where he at?”

And you’ll have to forgive me for this, but I said, rather harshly, “He’s at work.” The implied, “where yo’ ass would be—if you had ¾ more legs” was barely disguised at all.

“Aight den,” he simply said, as he pridefully rolled away. I mused that there must be plenty more bitches where I came from.

*Moral of the story*

My righteously indignant protestation of “I don’t care what a man looks like” is patently false.

And I apologize for my superficiality in advance, non-walkers.

My bad, America.

Motherfuckers need legs to date me.


7 Responses to “Remember that singing homeless man on the skateboard from “kids”?”

  1. 1 Rick James
    April 7, 2010 at 12:56 am

    You’re a very talented writer of narrative… in a style that reminds me very much of Tom Wolfe. Keep up the great work.

  2. April 7, 2010 at 12:58 am

    ok. this is my first time reading your blog and this story was hilarious. i can picture it now. lolol. good read.

  3. 3 Big Daddy
    April 7, 2010 at 2:21 am

    Very nice read. Thanks for the laugh……….

  4. April 7, 2010 at 11:39 am

    Had to come back & re-read. Awesomeness.

  5. 5 Ana
    April 7, 2010 at 3:34 pm

    I don’t know if I should be laughing this hard!!! Great writing.

  6. 6 @NyceBryce
    April 8, 2010 at 1:25 am

    So about three weeks ago I started a debate on twitter- how much would you have to receive in damages after taxes to lose both your legs from the knee’s down. I said $20 M after taxes, lawyer fees and Dr. fees you can have my legs.I will have some fire ass leg/feet prostetics and I’m good to go.

    So if he had fake legs as opposed to no legs and roughly $14 M in the bank- after tricking off and ish- would you date him?

  7. 7 T
    July 3, 2013 at 6:12 pm

    i shouldn’t laugh as hard as i am laughing at work right now…this is absolutely amazing! from beginning to end…
    Glad to know that being a lawyer doesn’t rob you of your soul…one more year to go!

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a history of my meanderings….


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