Get 2 Choppin

The battle of the sexes has waged on for eons. The almighty God replaced the cult of the goddess. The Queens of Egypt succumbed to the Caesar’s of Rome. Mother Nature rears her ugly head but Father Time continues to ignore her feeble attempts to be noticed and plods along. It seemed men had turned the corner and taken the lead on their weaker counterparts until the sixties and the flower child’s bra burning tactics rekindled the feminine fire.

I bring this up because a story has recently been relayed to me that shows that if we lose focus we can easily be outflanked by the opposite sex and get caught in an ambush (and that’s one bush you don’t want to be caught in). My close cousin, Don Juan Eccardo Bravado, a lover of the ladies, told me that he had been lulled into a common senses siesta by the one and only Senorita Shady Selena.  

This story is either a very diabolical and elaborate rouse that was planned out for months in which Don Juan was the last missing piece, or a complete misstep by Senorita Shady Selena (that somehow worked out for her), but I’ll let you be the judge.  It started one lovely day, the sun was shining and Don Juan was on his way to the cantina, when Senorita Shady Selena stopped him. It was small talk about how good-looking he was; it won him over instantly.

One thing led to another and Don Juan and his friends began to hang around Senorita Shady Selena (it is unwise to attempt an early solo visit with any crafty she-devil). They learned that her story was not unlike many others of her sex, the love of her life had cheated on her with the town psycho and after numerous times of repeating the cycle of love (he cheats, gets caught, they break-up, he begs for forgiveness and says it’ll never happen again, they get back together, rinse and repeat because it is meant to be) they were no longer together. She put up a strong front and said he was banished from her life (and who said women need make-up to cover up their blemishes).

Eventually after schmoozing the friends with free tickets to the bullfights to see their favorite fighter Jose Luis, Senorita Shady Selena started to make her solo ascent of Mt. Don Juan. She lulled him into her confidence and paraded him about like a prized rooster at the cockfights. At this point her “plan” became either a complete stroke of genius or it backfired on her like an old jalopy.

The act of parading Don Juan put the broski-network on full alert. An amigo calls the ex-lover to tell him that Senorita Shady Selena is about town with Don Juan and then the now extremely jealous ex-lover calls a close amigo who then gets a hold of his brother who happens to be the close compadre to a close amigo of the one and only original troubadour, Don Juan. It is complicated, but the circle of the broski-network is complete.

The question arises did this femme fatale use my cousin Don Juan Eccardo Bravado as a sacrificial pawn to checkmate her king or was it all a complete “accidental” misuse of Don Juan Eccardo Bravado’s good looks and trampling of his emotions to lure her ex-lover back into her womanly web?

As I told my cousin, “it is better to be the guy that girls use to make their ex-lovers jealous than the guy that girls sleep with on the rebound like Wham Dickham, oh wait, sorry it is the other way around”. Two words summed it up for Don Juan Eccardo Bravado, “Oh Vay!” 

It is an interesting thing to visit a mall and just sit and watch the flow of pedestrian traffic during a mid-afternoon, midweek MILF mission.  There is a plethora of potential when it comes to the mall. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

It started with a sweet navigator call on the part of Wham Dickham, after a quick left turn toward the upper decks of the parking structure, he called an open parking space within the first eight spots and you can mark it because he nailed it like a Roman Centurion during a crucifixion.

The main reason for the trip was to grab a smoothie from Haagen-Dazs. Wham subtly set me up for the smoothie shanghai by dropping the “I forgot my wallet in my other capris, do you mind buying please?” line right as we walked in the doors. Being the generous fellow that I am, I had no problem picking up the tab. As we walked up to the counter, I noticed that one smoothie, I repeat one smoothie, cost $5.99. I figured it was part of the experience and nuance of shopping at the ritzy mall on the rich side of town, so I just kept my mouth shut so as to not seem like a cheapskate and a newbie. Wham got me good on that smoothie shanghai.

After that we took a brief walk about and found the perfect spots next to the babbling sounds of the fountain where rich people throw away their change. I’m not quite sure why people would do this but I guess you have to be rich to understand but it did afford us a beautiful panoramic view of the elevators and escalators.

It was quite the diverse crowd. The full-on matching sweat pants, sweatshirt (not track suit, mind you but sweat suit) guy was there creeping on the crowd. The speed walking escalator descender was risking her life and others as she sprinted down the moving staircase like a boulder on a butter hill. I’m not sure if she is aware that three kids per year die in escalator tragedies. This is a service announcement: Please tie your laces cause escalators are dangerous places.

Of course being two good-looking gentlemen, we got quite a few double-walk-bys from a wide range of Somerset’s sexy shoppers. From the Thick-skies to the Petite Pixies we got checked out more than a National Geographic magazine at an all boys middle school library.               

In twenty days, I’ll be on my way from the Midwest to the Pacific Northwest. Sterling Heights to Seattle, Built Ford Tough to Microsoft, automobile industries in pain to the grave of Kurt Cobain, Kid Rock at the Red Wings game to Eddie Vedder just chillin’ at some bar with no name, from the economy that sucks to the home of Starbucks. From the giant Belle Tire and the ghost of Bobby Layne to the Space Needle and the voice of Fraser Crane, from Henry Ford Village and the Planetarium to the Seattle Aquarium, from hookers on the 8 mile strip to the Fremont Summer Solstice parade marked by naked bicycle trips, from the Detroit Lions and their number of wins, zero to the Mariner’s centerfielder, Ichiro. 

I’ll be traveling from the Motown to Seatown, the Motor city to Jet city, from the inner-city nitty-gritty to the Pacific Pretty, from Mound to Puget Sound. From the D.I.A to hip hop’s Eminem to Grunge Music and the S.A.M. (Seattle Art Museum) from Hailey’s song to stalking the star of The King of Kong, don’t worry about me popping my clutch cause it’s just a cultural shift, Bill Gates maybe a star-ski who doesn’t let his kids have Blackberrys but I’m no Hutch cause I’m not his Huckleberry (unless he offers me a job).

Six weeks away from the gang doing that Seattle Thang, riding my bike in the mountains instead of near Campus Martius and the fountain. I’ll miss the C-town Fourth of July parade because this is one experience I cannot trade.

I’ve got nothing holding me back; I’m just not sure what to pack. Questions arise; do I leave the thong in the dresser? Do I pull out naked guy to impress her? (The last one is just a general question that transcends space and time, because naked guy comes out without reason or rhyme). I got nothing but time until I’m walking on the piers, I hope Seattle has Bud Light cause I’m not into all those micro-beers.

Even though it’s six weeks without Wham I get massive quality time with the Fam, you know the bro-ski; Scottie the Computer John Gotti, also introducing the wife-ski; Nancy “her mom’s pasta salad needs more ham to suit my fancy”, just kidding it’s actually Nancy, “I want to get in Tom Jones’ Pants-ies”. Clear the runways Sea-Tac cause John E. Bravo is gonna give the Pacific Northwest something it lacks, Saaaaay whaaaat!   

I hate to ruin an otherwise lovely experience but who ever designed the parking structure next to Joe Louis Arena must have gotten his civil engineering degree from a fucking cracker jack box. This no talent ass clown must’ve been sleeping with some fat broad in charge because the flow rate of this parking garage is lower than the cumaltive ACT test scores of the Detroit Public Schools. I don’t want to come off sounding like a complete jerk or smart-ass but there has to be some formula, like for instance, and this is just off the top of my head and I’m not claiming to be a civil engineer wizard but maybe how about you take the amount of cars parked divided by number of exits and if it is over a certain number than the viability of the parking structure becomes a safety hazard. 

Another thing that these shit-for-brains morons forgot to take into effect is the stupidity factor of people (one: that are drunk, two: that are hyped up from a Red Wings victory, three: that may be Canadian, four: that may be a dumb fucking Canadian who is about four seconds away from taking full advantage of their country’s socialized health care because I’m going to rip the hoser’s fucking eyes out) that think they are better than everyone else and can just cut in front of everyone because they see some short cut. There are no cut-zees.

Listen you dumb motherfuckers, we all see the shortcut but the reason traffic flow comes to a screeching halt is because you are violating the social contract that states “If you follow the flow, look how smoothly things will go. If you try to cut, I’ll fucking stick your hot muffler up your butt”. Seriously this isn’t kindergarten and you ain’t the cute kid with the extra cupcake trying to movie up in the lunch line in front of the fat kid and this isn’t the keg stand line at the fraternity party and you aren’t Miss “Popularity”. So get the fuck back in line before I really get mad and slash all your fucking tires and leave you to suffer the wrath of 1000’s of cars honking their horns inside a swirling concrete echo chamber of chaos. 

It is a simple process when two lines are merging, this line, then that line; one for me, one for you; It’s my turn, it’s your turn. Get it! Pretty fucking simple you rag tag bunch of stumbling bumbling biscuit heads. This simple every other pattern keeps everyone happy and it keeps my anger genie in the bottle and if you have one wish it is that he doesn’t come out. You may think I am throwing a tantrum or going on a tirade but trust me this is nothing. In the heat of the moment my response of retribution will be of epic proportion. Mark It.

It was a very interesting and exciting weekend in Choppinville. Like a pastry chef, let me fill you in on the going ons of the lovable legends and their charismatic cohorts. It started with an early morning road trip to Columbus, Ohio which maybe the most boring state to drive through by the way; it is flatter than a steam rolled pancake breakfast served on the chest of Kiera Knightly. I, John E. Bravo, made this excursion because it was the Midwest Regional Qualifier for the Crossfit Games. As a staff volunteer, I was an integral part in maintaining the smooth flow of the competition. I could easily be heard yelling, “Medics on the right, Port-a-Potties on the Left, one’s got the EMS and the other’s for Poop and PMS, cause you guys are bitches”.

At this juncture, I must profess my love for the ladies of Crossfit (if you don’t know what Crossfit is you don’t know what living is; if Crossfit was a band it would be Blood, Sweat, and Tears, If Crossfit was a wrestler it would be the Ultimate Warrior, If Crossfit was a mental disorder it would be clinically insane marked by fits of aggression, if Crossfit was a drug it would be PCP laced cigarette because it is highly addictive, makes you strong as f@#k and bitches be smokin’). The two photos (one above and one below) are two examples of some certified badass bitches that ain’t got no glitches in their hardware if you know what I mean. I would pull a Hans Solo and R2D2 all over their rock hard bodies.

After the Crossfit Regional Qualifier it was back to the Great Lakes state for the Sears is Changing Gears Retirement Extravangza. It was an awesome party except for the fucking bonfire smoke that followed John E. Bravo around like a stalker ex-girl whose smell you just can’t get out of your clothes coincidentally just like a bonfire. The only casuality of the night was Sgt. Shanie B who after getting in my face pretending to be an offensive lineman got knocked out when I used the only weapon I had at my disposal, K.C. the Sunshine Man, to diffuse his hostile intentions. The result was an inadvertent headbutt and a slighly unconscious Shanie B. for about five minutes. No Harm, No Foul though.

Sorry there was one other casuality, Chef Sears got bit up like a fat hooker at a vampire convention. As a Chef he should have known better, I mean you don’t want your girlfirend to bite the noodle you want her to slurp the noodle if you really want her to savor the experience. I guess he will have to chew on that one.

The next day got even better. The Big Lupski pulled off the coup of the century and scored us six tickets to the first game of the Western Conference Finals between the Detroit Red Wings and The Chicago BlackenedHawks or the Chi Town Ice Clowns or the Windy City Wannabees whatever you want to call those pansy ass puck fucks.

After weaving our way out of the parking structure and the ensuing traffic congestion and burning some rubber in my pimped out tinted up Saturn Ion, The fellows and I rocked out to You Were Meant For Me, Jewel herself would have been impressed and we followed that up with some Gangsta Rap to get our masculinity back in check as we sped down I-75 waving our red and white pompons out the window as a nod to the Hockey gods. A great all around weekend. Enough said.

It was definitely was one of those weekends that you could really sink your teeth into cause it was thick like a half pound burger.