NBA All Star Weekend - B.K.A. Baffoon Central

If you’re familiar with the Mel Gibson - Julia Roberts movie, Conspiracy Theory, then you may recall that during the film, Mel’s character has the incessant urge to buy copies of the famed novel, Catcher In The Rye. Gibson’s character, Jerry Fletcher, tells Robert’s character, Alice, that the book makes him feel normal. Oh what I would have given for a copy of Catcher In The Rye, or at least the latest Boyz II Men CD (The Remedy) during the 2007 NBA All Star Weekend in Las Vegas.

To use the word “ghetto” really just minimizes the spectacle that I ponder had to put Negroes and Black folks alike back about 100 years. I truly felt for all of the Tibetan Yak’s and Shetland ponies that had to give up their tails and manes (probably at gunpoint), so that the homegirls who ditched their probation appearances could rock their cheap and moisture starved weaves on the strip. If all the lights had gone out in Vegas, it probably would have been an improvement. Even God didn’t want to see the vast abundance of weaves, thieves and other assorted flavors of red hot fools that made their way to Sin City for the All Star festivities.

Maybe I’m just old? Okay, I’ll even give you that one; I’m old! But, be that as it may, I don’t think my age has anything to do with why I was embarrassed for about 86% of the Negroes who brought their broke-asses to Nevada. I knew it was going to bad, I just didn’t know how much gross negligence I would find myself surrounded by. I mean, I didn’t know fishnets and leg warmers were back in style? I honestly had not heard that it’s okay to wear shorts that allow loose flesh to ooze out from betwixt ashy crotches like Colgate toothpaste that’s been sitting on a hot stove. Damned if I didn’t see more tattooed titterlings and rusty ass cracks than I care to continue to discuss. From the time I arrived, I mistook All Star Weekend for the All Hoes Convene conference.

Fact: We are born with eyebrows for a reason. There is no reason to shave them off and then paint them back on. No reason at all!

So I guess it’s official - Negroes love basketball. I would say that niggas love basketball, but for some reason that I don’t yet understand, niggas act like they don’t hear me when I call them by their real name, so I usually trick them by calling them Negro so they will turn around and say “Hunh?”

Sure, there were some self-respecting ladies and gentlemen who came to All Star Weekend looking for fun in the wintry desert sun; only to find themselves constantly looking over their shoulders for purse snatchers, pickpockets and drive-by shooters. I felt for those folks. Hell, I felt for me. Las Vegas Boulevard was the main drag, and from all appearances, it looked like various rocks and boulders had been moved aside from unspecified locations and out crawled a sea full of niggas from the earth’s core – all headed for the crap tables at the Imperial Palace and the MGM Grand. It was a sad sight.

Regular, non-assuming women such as myself were completely outnumbered and out paroled by what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of females who looked like crack rocks and penicillin were in their recent past or close future. I guess it really does take a nation of hoes to hold classy women back. But hold us back from what you may wonder…? Absolutely N-O-T-H-I-N-G! Women in the market for crips, or bloods, pimps and vicelords were definitely in the right place. Yet women who just came for the parties, cheap drinks and atmosphere were severely disappointed. Yep, it was a gangster nation. And who the hell wrote the memo that said those long white t-shirts were appealing and/or appropriate for use outside of the house or cell block? That’s why they call them undershirts right?

I thought I had found my way to safety inside the NBA official venue at the Mandalay Bay hotel, only to find out when I got home that my friend who bought souvenirs from the NBA store had been ripped off for over $1000 dollars on her ATM debit card. I knew I didn’t want no damn All Star t-shirt and I’m glad I followed my first mind and kept my wallet shut. Good thing Washington Mutual Bank has fraud protection. (Excuse me while I retreat to check my Discover card for unauthorized purchases.)

I probably should have known I was in for some sh*t because before I could leave Los Angeles to fly to Vegas, I was virtually strip-searched by some lady named Towanda. She eventually said that the sensors were blaring because my DKNY pants had studs around the pockets, but I think that b*tch is on Bush and Condoleezza’s payroll. She didn’t have to feel me up like that. That sh*t wadden right. Yeah, I said “wadden.” When I get some free time I’m thinking I should just sue the government on behalf of everyone that has to go through that stupid sh*t at the airport every time they need to fly. When I saw those “homeland security representatives” make an 80-year-old man take his prosthetic leg off, I knew we had all entered the chronicles of Bush-arnia. No privacy, no dignity. Just 200 Southwest Airlines passengers looking at me spread-eagled with my boots off - forced to let Towanda waive her magic wand around my private parts if I wanted to fly to Vegas for some bullsh*t.

I say to all my old chaps and lasses that you know you have entered the chamber of niggerdome when cab drivers won’t pick you up off the Vegas strip or enter the driveway of your hotel. Word about niggas travels faster than word about anybody else in the world. Shootings at liquor stores, strip clubs and the MGM Grand parking lot fueled the flames of foolishness; and there I was, smack dab in the middle of what felt like Chicago’s infamous Robert Taylor Homes.

Now I’ve been to Vegas on myriad occasions, but never once during my past visits was I disturbed by the shouts of “hooty hooooooooooo” and “where my sluts at” from various hotel balconies. One man (I’m being nice by calling him that) even went so far as to shout from his balcony the first 22 bars of Too Short’s Don’t Fight The Feeling rap song at about 2 am on Saturday night. I can still hear his weed and cheap booze soaked voice wailing, “Say hoe, yeah you. Can I ask you a question…?” Hell, my question is, why didn't he just call a real hoe? Vegas is full of them and then the rest of us could have gotten some sleep.

Could it get any worse I asked myself? Well, the MGM Grand ran out of Hennessy if that answers that question. Niggas were beside themselves over the Hen disaster. I mean, even I know that if you expect a whole bunch of Negroes at your place that you stock up on the Hen dog. Now before you start writing in that I’m being harsh, I will admit that I did not personally witness any of the shootings and fights, but I did witness a whole bunch of buffoons who didn’t want to tip and didn’t want to wash the weed smell out of their clothing before they joined the rest of us humans on the casino floors. Thank goodness Anthony Anderson had pity on me when I got to Vegas and showed me his nipples in the middle of the Las Vegas airport’s baggage claim area. I thank him for that, because his exhibition prepared me for what was to come. I’m convinced that the sight of his dusky brown erogenous zones prevented me from eventually asking to be sold back into slavery early, you know, to beat the rush.

You think I’m playing? That’s where we’re headed folks, SLAVERY, and Barack Obama can’t save us from ourselves.