Shit Tested

After over a week of shit-testing (in the original sense rather than PUA-eeze) my brains have been too scrambled to write well. I expect a recovery eventually. Meanwhile, I’ve been on a tight schedule which all shit-tested facets of my personality have to perform simultaneously.

Try it. See if you do it faster and I’ll wait while you count facets.

When I ask people how they think I’ve managed my world travels? The answer is usually contextual. Do you, Dear Reader, imagine that I’m the “tour group” type? PuhLEEZ.

When one is walking through a new, rough, neighborhood such as say a ghetto or barrio, one has to quickly adopt the local lingo:

“Once I get off your block, Big Daddy, I do not mean to traffic with y’all. All yo hos are without my competition. I ain’t hookin’ on dis street. You da Big Daddy in town, Baby!”

Just kidding. I would never talk that way to a street pimp! That could be suicidal!

Just like a scene from Kill Bill or Coffy, the pimp big timers cherish a conversation with a woman who doesn’t work for either him, his compatriots, or his competition in some capacity.

I once got picked up hitch-hiking in Detroit by a right-hand-driving Rolls Royce with “pimp archetype” at the wheel. The gentleman merely wanted to converse with me and give me a ride for that conversation, because, as everyone from my era knows it’s:

Ass, Gas, or Grass. Nobody rides for free.

I am paying today in interest for all my free rides in life, because conversation is completely worthless to most people today. Living a fully developed life entirely online is way safer.

My Detroit pimp ride occurred years before the film, Doctor Detroit came out—and by the way, I’ve race-walked—and so an important man in my life with a great sense of humor went positively nuts when I told him this story. Why? It was fucking hilarious but he was afraid to laugh. Most Western Women can’t handle being laughed at, it would seem.

What are the odds that along would come a woman into his life who once was picked up hitch-hiking on the loop in Detroit by a flamboyant pimp? Mine was Black. Dan Akroyd is White. I wasn’t race-walking at the time because walking fast backwards with one’s arm into traffic with the thumb out is difficult enough without thrusting one’s hips back and forth. I’m sure that would make a great movie too except that somebody would try it.

I’m not saying that the Black, beplumed driver that picked me up hitch-hiking would have thrown me out if I started taking off my clothes, only that he was very gentlemanly. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have gotten into his car. Besides, this particular Rolls did not have a roof. I figured if I had to I could just jump out.

The place where I had been dropped off by my previous ride, a semi-tractor-trailer, was dicey, in heavy traffic, and otherwise safer to exit the loop quickly rather than hang out like a sitting duck for purse snatchers, violent psychotics, and con jobs of all sorts. Like I said, he was gentlemanly and so I got in. My heart was pounding but otherwise it was a nice conversation. This was a very long time ago.

The aforementioned audience of my telling of this Detroit Pimp Ride story started calling me ‘Doctor Detroit’ once I finished telling it. Not for very long, fortunately. Hardly anyone gets the joke, but those who do, want to guffaw in the worst say. I wonder if holding all that pressure inside hurts.

Yes, I do own some tight red shorts which are a little too short.

I stopped hitch-hiking after the various psycho killer stories started coming out in the news. Realistically, my odds of getting killed by a psycho killer were not significant, except as a self-fulfilling prophecy or juggernaut which starts out with ordinary garden-variety wackos taking the opportunity to take pot shots at me until a crowd of them gather to watch and learn how easy it is; while meanwhile, nice people are too terrified to pick up hitch-hikers, and so I was a sitting duck. A good time to stop hitch-hiking.

As this trend develops, one has sort of a “broken window syndrome,” except that it isn’t just a city scape which is affected, but rather everyone who watches television news worldwide.

Character degrades when everyone is considered “fair game” because after all psycho killers are doing it on television, and therefore there must be a psycho killer on every corner, so here’s my big chance to be the first psycho killer on this block. This could be my lucky day. Look! It’s a female tourist with a purse! Lottery! Jackpot! This purse will change my life!

Once a violence spree reaches the public’s consciousness, the idea that not everyone would be terrified of such a prospect doesn’t occur to the average Joe. Those who are not terrified must be beyond fear in some way. Most people who are beyond fear are desperate; ergo, a female hitch-hiker must be desperate to even risk the slightest inconvenience never mind being stored live in a coffin under a bed upon which a couple sleeps for about a decade, floating with limbs and head hacked off in a body of water trussed up like a turkey, Shanghaied into a cult that smears blood on rival drug-dealer’s walls while pretending that it’s a race war, killed and then stuck in a wooden chest until the fluids start to ooze through the floorboards by a “Go” fanatic, made into a chained sex-slave, or worse, squeezed into the backseat of a car holding four men in dark suits while being forced to pick out horses on a racing form or risk groans of displeasure (true!).

Don’t try this with me. I warn you guys. I have an unbroken streak of picking out losers. Don’t be fooled by the golden hair. I lay eggs rather than say hop about on craps tables, but if you cut me open, there won’t be a clutch of golden eggs. I’m old! Cooking also doesn’t help. The only thing that helps is Grey Goose martinis, with olives, as that loosens my lips with actual useful information rather than say a kaleidoscope of alter egos moving seamlessly in and out of metaphor.

I’ve had loads of contacts with pimps in my life, but only three “pure” archetypes of pimp, that is the Black Dude with The Hat, with a big old feather in it, matching coat, and otherwise standing out like a sore thumb. It is dangerous to stand out like a sore thumb.

Standing out like a sore thumb is not a good plan for the type who has an inability to manage self-risk, such as passive sick persons, or anyone who takes a handful of prescriptions daily in order to keep their nice insurance companies, the bureaucracy, or both in business.

Soft and fluffy infants ought not to try living my life even if it looks like great fun to wear a funny hat and then strut down the street of a neighborhood you don’t hardly know while wearing hardly anything. Yay! It’s Halloween every day! Lots of treats!

Uh. No.

When I do it, that is, walk through some new marginal neighborhood where I’m uncertain whether I’ll be able to understand the accent, I adjust my approach intuitively, whether to look as if I have nothing to lose or whether an assailant might assume that it is foolhardy to mess with me. Most criminals go for the easy target, but, there’s also such a thing as too easy.

Just like a scene from the movie, Men in Black, what’s that little blonde doing with the heavy books walking through this neighborhood at night? This is too easy. Or as Blanche Dubois says:

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Nobody expects a mere tourist to be carrying a gun or hand-grenade. Few tourists expect to understand what a gang of small children can do, with the most trifling of “weapons”. I do.

Each television into a poor person’s home represents a window to opportunity, to grab the brass or gold ring as one just happens to deliver itself to The Hood, express service. Better yet, send the kids to go get it.

Even the laugh track builds tension, then releases it, tension, then release. The television is its own Shit Test, with the eventual outcomes being either stupor, cynicism, or rage, given enough exposure such as would occur when one is locked in a room with it while under the influence of strong anti-psychotics delivered at the maximum prescribed dose by a doctor with a sadistic streak.

I’m just talking here about ordinary television. As for extraordinary television with built-in infrared lasers, why that’s ridiculous. It’s preposterous. Who would have heard of such a fantastic thing? Impossible. Improbable. No such thing. Almost like saying that hypnosis can ever be used non-therapeutically or against the patient’s will or that mosquito drones exist. All human beings have free will. There are no mosquito drones! Fairy tales!

Some people avoid street cameras and others look for them. Some people are capable of clouding men’s minds so that they cannot be seen by them even on camera. ‘Where? Where is she? Oh there! How did you get by me?’

Yawn.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the company of magicians. One time, I was supposed to be in one place in Chicago but was actually in another watching musicians do car tricks,  I mean card tricks, along with a colleague who had lent me her dress which fit like a glove. That’s when I realized that my body best fit into Black womens’ dresses and the real bargains in that regard were in the worst sorts of neighborhoods. That was a long time ago. Another time, it was impossible that I should be in Chicago, but I was.

I was supposed to be in San Mateo! At the No-Tell Mitel, I mean motel. Don’t be ridiculous, preposterous. What kind of a girl do you think I am?

As far as I can remember, I’ve only been in Chicago three times. A certain “pimp-like” Chicago Seven veteran thought I was pretty hot one of those times. He tried a line on me that I’m sure worked on thin young Blonde girls at least some of the time.

It’s all a matter of the numbers. If one approach works, say, one out of ten times, it’s at least as good a risk as wearing a lucky hat, buying a few of them, and then giving some of them away to random strangers who bear a slight resemblance.

 

 

 

 

One thought on “Shit Tested

  1. Pingback: Shit Tested – Manosphere.org

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