The south side of Chicago is Iraq without the muslims. Sex, violence, bad weather, and a cult that believes Derrick Rose tore his ACL to save our sins. Not a good place to live or go to school.
One night we heard the doorbell ring at 3am only to find intoxicated James Harden holding a kitchen knife on our front lawn. Look, I have no issue with the free speech clause (the Obama residence is two blocks away) but I just couldn’t let him in. Couldn’t trust him. True story. When I told him I’d pray for him he was visibly upset. This was about a month ago.
So I wake up this morning to find two dozen pennies poured out all over my front porch (a similar joke had been made in the outfield of a Newton North-CM baseball game several years ago. Got quite the laugh out of Coach Sis). James Harden must’ve thought he was HILARIOUS with the subtle anti-Semitic humor because I’m white and wouldn’t contribute to his addiction to Popeye’s biscuits and cough syrup. But there’s one problem, James: I’m not Victor Moone. He doesn’t live here. All you had to do was ask politely in English, maybe offer some mid-tier tickets to the next Bulls-Rockets game, and I would’ve sprinkled you with food like Happy Gilmore did for that Mista-Mista lady.
Do Victor Moone and I really look alike? Just one of those classic mix-up’s, right?