07.17.2002 - Canadian Pimp

Some of you may have been over to 12% Beer, seen a link to my diary and thought, "why is that hack Jeffy included with all of these fine writers (and fine pieces of ass)?" It's time I came clean.

I have a pimp and his name is Joe.

Not so long ago my life was less school and parties and more sleeping in the gutter and chugging pole for rock cocaine. Although much of that period of my life is hazy, I do recall the day a burly guy with three day stubble and breath strong enough to deflesh a cow forcefully ejected me from the Motley Crue tour bus in Toronto after someone (I won't say who, but his name starts with a "V" and rhymes with Vince Neil) grew weary of my "technique."

Penniless and alone, I found myself hunched on the curb in front of a Tim Horton's pondering my next move. It wasn't long before I resorted to my old tricks, badgering people for some cash or some smack in exchange for temporary ownership of my body when all they wanted was a cup of hot coffee or maybe a cruller.

Everything appeared bleak. I prepared to go lay down in the middle of the road to meet my fate at the hands of an absent minded businessman haphazardly guiding his Buick to the sleaze pit motel where he would meet his mistress for a romp before work but would be to rattled with guilt from the hit and run to maintain an erection. Just as I began to push myself up off the ground, however, I was stopped by a kind soul who said, "you sure look like you could use a TimBit. Why don't you come inside with me?"

I replied, "Listen, dude, I've done some kinky business in my time, but I don't have the foggiest notion what a TimBit is and I don't think I want to find out the specifics, especially inside a donut shop."

The Man gently placed his hand on my shoulder and told me all he wanted to do was buy me something to eat and have a little conversation. Seeing as how I hadn't had anything in my mouth that wasn't attached to a washed up hair rocker in weeks, I decided to take him up on his offer.

Once inside, he explained that his name is Joe and he likes to take care of people who may be temporarily down on their luck in the hopes that one day those people will give something back to Joe. The promise of a nice bed and warm shower were enough to get me to do anything.

And believe me, I did anything.

After a blissful week of cleaning up my act, Joe introduced me to his "program." Apparently, he took wayward young people, gave them a fresh set of clothes and then forced them to join his elite army of nubile prostitutes. Seeing as how I was used to giving of myself for a dollar and I was happy to never have to, um, serve anyone who sang a song called "God Bless The Children Of The Beast" ever again, I quickly rose through the ranks and became Joey's Numba One Bitch.

After a few years of this, I grew tired and my body lost its elasticity. I pleaded with Joe to let me go. I knew this was a dangerous move, as I had seen many a bitch before me try the same thing only to be answered with a quick rap across the face and sent back out onto the streets as cold and alone as the day they came. I hedged my bets that because I was his favorite, when I asked, Joey would treat me differently. Thankfully, I was right.

Almost.

When I asked Joey to allow me to retire from the sex game, he granted my wish. Of course, there was a catch.

Joey, being a rennaisance man, had his donut dipped in many different blends of coffee. He had a collective of writers assembled to entertain him. Joey liked to laugh more than anything.

Anything except watching monkeys do it on Animal Planet that is.

Joey found himself set to release this group of writers to the world at large and he wanted me to be a part of it. I asked, "Why, Joey, why? You know I only maded it to the third grade. Why come you want me to write for the people." A knowing smirk spread across Joey's face before he cold cocked me across the jaw and told me not to ask questions and not to get uppity ever again or I'd be forced by some old fart yodel "Shout At The Devil" with a mouthful of balls in no time.

It was that day I hung up my Daisy Dukes and plugged in my keyboard. Joey has championed what I feably attempt to pass off as writing ever since.

And I love my pimp because of it.

-- Jeffy