Wolf Tickets

I’ve told this story several times today. Most people think I’m making it up, but I’m not. I’m not creative enough to think up shit like this on my own. I’ll just write it, and you can decide for yourselves.

I went to the bank this afternoon. The branch I use is in a schizophrenic area that can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be bohemian or abject ghetto. It’s neither gentrified nor shithole. I’m not part of either scene, so I just do my business and get out before something irritates the living shit out of me.

There was an older black guy standing ten feet away from the front door of the bank. He wore a leather trench coat and a red Kangol hat, and he was smoking a cigarette with his thumb and forefinger. Picture Robin Harris and you’re pretty much on it.

A very pretty blonde girl walked past him on the sidewalk as I crossed the street toward the bank. She was wearing a sweatshirt and black tights with knee-high boots, and she had a very full, very round ass. You get it. I know.

The black guy watched her walk past, then said, “Hey, baby girl. Back those milky haunches up over here.”

It helps if you say this aloud in old-school black guy voice.

Milky haunches.