My life has been consumed by busy-ness, lately. As a candidate for a position on ASB, a weekend that should have been filled with shananigans was replaced with poster-making. I met my friends/campaign recruits in front of a public library. We spread ourselves out on the lawn, surrounding ourselves with colorful pipe cleaner, leopard print tissue paper, googly eyes, and other miscellaneous crafty artifacts. We took a gander at the other library visitors and noticed that they were as colorful as the pipe cleaner. There was a homeless man eating grated cheese out of a plastic bag, an asian lady doing jazzercises by a tree (she looked like she was humping it), and (my personal favorite) a black man who played Barry White’s greatest hits on the boombox he tied to his bicycle.
The position I was running for is Class Vice President. One of the posters that I made consists of a picture of my face pasted on Sonny Crockett’s body. Crockett is standing next to “Rico” Tubbs in the picture and my slogan says: “Miami Vice (President).” Apparently the black man on the soulful bicycle noticed this poster and made a smooth gesture, signaling me to come closer to him. As “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up” boomed from his stereo, I stood adjacent to him. The cool brotha then cooed, “Dat black boy on da poster. Dat was me.”
No way! Ricardo “Rico” Tubbs just communicated with me? In awe of his legendary presence, I sighed and drooled a little on my poster. He generously wiped off my drool with a hanky that had rubber duckie designs on it. In love, I became the Crockett to his Tubbs (I always suspected they were gay for each other on the show). Apparently, he was also rhetorically skilled because he persuaded me to get on the back of his boomboxin’ bike.
Leaving my campaign behind, we rode to the liquor store down the street. He romantically bought me zest-of-lemon tortilla chips, fruit roll-ups, and vodka (which was sweet because I’m underage and it’s hard to get that shit). Once I was drunk, I was vulnerable to his loving demands. I robbed loofahs from the local car wash and bathed him in automobile suds. Then, I raided a zoot suit store in an attempt to distinguish his “Tubbs” persona. And of course, I bought him a new Barry White cassette (that’s all his stereo plays): “White Gold – The Very Best Of.”
While we were in the middle of tagging our initials in a heart on a Dunkin’ Donuts, two policemen were coincidentally satisfying their deep-fried desires. I was confused about getting arrested on account of vandalism because Tubbs was a cop himself. Arriving at the police station, Tubbs was identified as Philip Michael Thomas. In disbelief, I told them that he was “Rico” Tubbs. The policemen and Tubbs (or Philip, whatever) laughed at me. Apparently “Tubbs” didn’t exist. I had thought that Miami Vice was a reality television show. Having the feminine equivalent of a cock-block, I was completely turned off that I didn’t actually have a rendezvous with a sexy vice cop.
I got bailed out of jail by my campaign recruits. I told them about my experience with Tubbs. We had a Miami Vice marathon and used the vodka that Philip bought me to have shots everytime Crockett and Tubbs arrested a hooker. The next day was speech day. I was hung-over and during my speech, I threw up on my Religion teacher while probably rambling about Eliot Spitzer. I had to be taken home early and the next day, I lost to a cheerleader. I learned never to trust charming black men with jerry curls and boomboxes.
