Everything I learned about the pimp game I learned from rap songs and Law and Order:SVU reruns

The other night, I was on my way home with some friends when my guy friend and I decided to run into a gas station. In the hood. When we walked in, the toothless cashier glanced up at us, determined that the odds of us robbing her were significantly low, and returned to reading US Weekly.

As my friend and I walked to the cash register, a somewhat sketchy-looking guy approached Alex and said, "Yo bro, lemme holla atcha a minute."

Alex looked at me. I encouraged him to see what the guy wanted. I can only assume he wanted to discuss Alex's opinion on the sudden increase in the Market Volatility index. I waited while Alex talked to him, looked at me, shook his head, and replied, "Nah man, any other night, but not tonight."

Alex grabbed my arm and we left. When we got back to the car, Alex burst out laughing.

"Let me guess. He offered you drugs?" I asked.

"Someone offered to sell you drugs?" piped up Crystal.

"One better. He asked me how much coke and molly in exchange for Zoe." He burst into laughter.

"Who's Molly?" asked Ryan.

I ignored him. "He wanted to exchange me for drugs? He thought you were my pimp????"

Alex was in hysterics laughing, but managed to nod.

I was shocked. "Seriously? He thought you were my pimp?"

"Apparently so. And he thought I wanted to party."

"What's molly?" asked Crystal.

Ryan had already googled it. "It's a drug. Like some sort of ecstasy or bath salt thing."

At this point, I was confused. I tried to deduct what could have possibly led this individual to look at Alex and I and assume that we were a pimp and his ho looking to snort chemicals. I was wearing an Old Navy sundress. Alex, who bears a far closer resemblance to Tag Romney than Lil Wayne,  was wearing khakis and and an Abercrombie button-down. We were one strand of pearls and an American flag away from hosting our own Young Republicans meeting right there next to the Slim Jims. Recreational bath salt users is probably not in the first thing (or the tenth) that would come to most peoples' minds.

"Wait, so you said any other night? Like you thought about it?" I asked, still bewildered.

"Uh, yeah, I mean, as your pimp, it's what I was supposed to say."

"Oh, I forgot, you're from the mean streets of London, Ontario, my bad. Please tell me your gang colors were khaki and hunter green."

"Don't backtalk me. My pimp hand is strong," he said, still smiling as he composed his celebratory tweet. #pimpinainteasy

I thought about it. I was still morbidly curious about my value as a lady of the evening. I was sort of mad that Alex didn't try to place a price on me. Despite all I've learned about the pimp game from rap music and Law and Order: SVU reruns, I still had so many unanswered questions.

"Did he want to rent me by the hour or was it more of a slave trade sort of deal?"

"I don't know," Alex replied, still laughing. "Maybe just until the sun came up. Once he saw you in the light of day, he'd return you to me for sure."

I smacked him. "How much coke and molly were we talking?"

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask."

"How much does coke and molly even go for on the street?" I asked.

"Let me google it," chimed in Ryan.

"It might be dependent upon market conditions. Local supply and demand," I helpfully added.

"Shut up woman. Less talking, more working. I need a new Rolex."

I ignored him. "I need to know my economic value in street drugs. It's important in order for me to validate my self-worth." I paused. "Why can't I be a high-class hooker? Like politicians and stuff?"

"Because your idea of foreplay would be discussing Obama's foreign policy plan." He paused. "On second thought, maybe the bath salts wouldn't be such a bad deal after all."

Because I'm a Criminal...or Not

So last Thursday night, I was driving down to Myrtle Beach. The drive is only about two hours and I left right at 11 p.m, hoping to arrive by midnight. Things were going swimmingly until I got right inside the South Carolina border where I was promptly greeted by a DUI traffic stop. Now keep in mind, this was a back country state highway with no bars in a 20 mile radius, but whatever. What transpired next sums up law enforcement in the deep south.

There were about four cars and seven state troopers. I pulled up and handed the state trooper my license, which is expired.

Me: I know my license is expired, sir. I’m actively working on getting a new one, but I had to clear up a ticket in another state.

Him (in THE thickest southern accent ever): Registration?

I handed it over.

Him: Who is Tom?

Me: That’s my dad. We have the same last name.

Him: Uh-huh, well Ima have to run this here through that there system in my car over thur, so pull over into the grass.

I did as I was told, praying that if they called my dad, he’d answer. Apparently they realized that I had indeed not stolen the fine automobile which I was driving and the fat Barney Fife and his two friends ambled over.

Cop 1: So where are you headed dressed up all purty like that?

Me: Myrtle Beach, sir.

Cop 1: And what are you going to do there?

This is where it was tricky. He knew damn right well the only reason I, or anybody goes to Myrtle Beach: to drink copious amounts of alcohol and make bad life decisions. What did he think I was going to do? Bird watch?

Me: Um, go to the ocean, lay out. Maybe play a little golf…

Cop 2 (approaching the window and pulling his pants up over his ample midsection): Have you been drinking?

Me: No, sir.

Cop 2: Do you drink?

What the hell?

Me: Yes, sir.

Cop 3: Is there any alcohol in the car?

Me: Yes, there are two sealed bottles from the liquor store, sir. They are in my bag in the back. (Not a crime)

Cop 1: No need to call me sir. How old are you?

Really, jackass? You’re holding my license! Do the math!

Instead, figuring this was the easiest sobriety test in the world, I replied with my age.

Cop 1: Well I’m 34.

Cop 2: I’m 29.

Cop 3: I’m 33.

WTF? Was this an eHarmony date or a traffic stop?

I didn’t even know what to say, so I nodded.

Cop 3: You like seafood?

Me: No, I’m allergic.

Cop 2: Shame, there’s some great seafood places there.

Me: Well, my friends like it, so I’m sure we’ll go.

By this point, I noticed the other half of the cops had another car pulled over on the opposite side of the road and other cars were just flying by. I figured if they had suspected that I was drunk, they would have breathalyzed me by now. I figured I was going to get a ticket for driving with an expired license, so I asked.

Me: So what’s the penalty for driving on an expired license?

Cop 1 (handing me back my license): No penalty, just making conversation.

At this point, I wasn’t sure what to say. Can I go now? and Are we done here? came to mind, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

I knew I had to get out of this somehow, though.

Cop 1: Do you surf?

Me: No, I tried it once and too much water went up my nose.

Just then, a thought came to mind.

Me: But, my girlfriend does! She’s heading down from Raleigh and said she was about 45 minutes behind me. She has a black SUV with a surf rack on top. You’ll probably see her. She’s heading this route. She has long blonde hair. She’s an amazing surfer.

Their ears perked up at this, and one of them took his time double checking to see I was buckled up..and that the strap was fastened securely across my chest…or at least that’s what he said….

With that, they let me depart and got back to the business of enforcing law and order and looking for drunk drivers…or an imaginary hot blonde surfing goddess…


I don’t know for sure, but I’m 90% certain that this was Cop #1.