TEE HEE HEE
A Complete List of the Reasons Pimping Ain’t Easy
1) Not loving hoes is hard.
Sure they may be unclean and mostly insincere, but touching my junk for a nominal fee is what I’ve always looked for in a woman.
Not loving hoes is like handing me a plate of really syrupy waffles, and saying,
“Hey, after you’re finished, make sure you slap the waffles around and laugh at their father issues.” I can’t do that to waffles.
2) Pimp uniforms are expensive.
Do you know how much money is wasted on gold teeth every year? A ton! If the gold tooth industry ever goes public, we’ll figure our way out of this recession.
Looking like you’re celebrating Easter in space doesn’t just happen by accident.
Sure, underwear made out of alligator and peacock feathers sounds classy, but it is quite the investment.
3) A strong pimp hand is difficult to come by.
Admittedly, I have very gentle hands. Some would say slightly ladylike. I would say, yeah, but a really strong lady.
The issue is it’s hard to change these soft hands. There’s no elective surgery or machine at the gym for developing your calluses.
I’ve learned very quickly these are not the open palms of punishment, but more the open palms of moonlit massages and molding crab cakes.
4) Beating women isn’t nearly as gratifying as my heroes led me to believe.
When my favorite mediocre rappers told me to keep my hoes in line, they failed to mention that hoes sometimes shed human tears.
Also, some hoes call the police (snitches), and let me tell you, the police don’t find pimping nearly as charming as you would think given their history of unnecessarily smacking faces.
5) It can take years to speak pimp fluently.
Pimps usually use very complicated metaphors and colloquialisms to express how much they want their money.
Pimp language is meant to terrify, but also impress with its magical phrasing. When I want my money, I write a softly worded email.
Also, I cc HR in the email, as to protect from any future complications.
Even in this technologically advanced world, I’m not sure if “To Whom It May Concern” is the best way to get a trick in check.
Little tv sets going off inside my ears,
Spacemen floating by,
Chase the demons lightly,
News it hits your eyes,
Up and down the sidewalk,
Take a doo-doo pie,
I love you
— Tracy Morgan
But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held—so much like the jumble in the bags, could they be emptied, that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows?
— Zora Neale Hurston