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TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie

“Jesus, this guy is good.”

“I know, my son,” a booming voice acknowledged from somewhere behind those tall, glittering gates…

Well shit…how the hell am I getting into Heaven if I can’t even beat the first person? A slight breeze whipped by my neck and caused my shoulders to tremble a little.

Three days ago

It had only been about 30 minutes since waking up in this place, on a cot in a cabin made of finished oak. There were rows of beds stretched endlessly in either direction. On my left, a man gyrated to whatever was playing in his earbuds. He didn’t seem old at all- I would have guessed 24 at the most- and sweat flew from his long, brown hair as he moved. Another young man on my right swatted at the air wildly. A bright red pair of Beats By Dre slid about which each gesture. After looking around, I realized everybody had some sort of headphone on. Most moved frantically, some danced, and others lay on their beds quietly. Confused, I searched around for some sort of clue as to why I was here with these people. Finally I found a small box sealed shut with masking tape. I ripped it open and found my own pair of Beats By Dre connected to a black iPod Touch. As I placed the headphones over my head, the iPod magically turned on and a deep, soothing voice began to explain everything I desperately wanted to know.

“On the evening of January 12, 2015, you were shot 3 times; twice in your chest and once in your head. You were unresponsive and left your Earthly life almost immediately. Although you were young in age- 29- you have left quite a polarizing impression on Heaven’s Acceptance Committee. This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord. Because of their conflict, you were sent here, to the Purgatory Appeals Program. As such, you and everyone you see here will be forced to win your way into Heaven via a dance-off competition against Heaven’s elite. You will face three opponents that will be chosen at random and will dance to the song of your choice. Defeating all three will result in your acceptance into God’s Kingdom. However, should you lose to the first, you will be sentenced to an eternity in Hellfire. Should you lose to the second, you will be sent back to Purgatory where you will have the opportunity to win your way into Heaven again in five years. Should you defeat both but lose to your final opponent, you will be sent back to Earth to resume your life. This iPod will allow you to play any song of your choosing. Your dance-off will be held in three days in The Golden Gates-Courtyard Marriott Center in East Cloud, Outer Heaven. Good luck, my son…”

Well shit…

Round 1: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Silas of Macedonia

“D.J. Taz! That’s riiiiiiiiiiight! That’s riiiiiiiiiiie-i-e-iiiiiiight!!!”

Silas’ shoulders bobbed up and down as he worked his pelvis into the most unimaginable positions. He was nearly through his three-minute set and didn’t seem to tire at all. There was a one-legged Butterfly, then a Sprinkler. His transitions were seamless and his brown robe flapped around his bare feet for added effect. At this point, getting into Heaven wasn’t even my goal; I wanted those five years of practice to work on serving this fool something fierce. I didn’t think my routine was going to cut it. My only hope was to surprise the judges with my song selection…

“And we began to Rock…Steady! Steeeady rockin’ all night long! Rock…Steady! Rockin’ to the break of dawn!!!”

It was over after those first horns played over the Cloud’s iCloud storage and speaker system. The committee ate it up. John’s eyebrows arched all the way to the top of his forehead. Philip jumped up from his seat and yelled “YOOOOOOO” at the top of his lungs. Even Simon, the most reserved of the 12, ran from the table, covering his mouth the whole time. I had them.

A couple aggressive two-steps and stop-and-go heartbeat pantomimes sent that bum Silas to the sidelines with his rosary beads clenched firmly in his fist. I doubled over in laughter when David ran up to him screaming ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH’ while extending a finger at Silas’ neck. If they’re all going to be this easy, then maybe I’ll get to see what these Golden Strippers working with, after all…

Round 2: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Rachel of Paddan Aram

“Drop it down on it! Made me get a couple bands drop it down on it! Make you get a couple friends drop it down on it! Turn around drop it down, drop it down on it! Do it for a real nigga, do it for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’ for a real nigga! Go and do somethin’ for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’!”

This shit was so unfair for so many reasons. First, Rachel wasn’t even dancing; she sat there and twerked for three minutes! The committee was all male, what could I possibly do to top this? Jacob ran over and started throwing gold coins at her as she took it low. Even I had a hard time not throwing these Earth dollars at her; this broad was going OFF! At that moment, I knew my Dougie wasn’t going to do ANYTHING. I had to change things up on the fly…

“MITCH CAUGHT A BODY BOUT A WEEK AGO!!!!”

I grabbed Jacob’s halo and threw that shit seven rows deep into the crowd of angels. My only hope was to do something so shocking that everyone would forget about Rachel throwing that thang around the arena floor. Until that point, I stayed pretty calm, doing some Bankhead Bounces and soft finger snaps. I hoped that made the halo toss seem even more disrespectful. I think it worked, too. Jacob stood by Rachel furious, but didn’t move because any disqualification would result in an automatic win for me. The committee was full of wide eyes and disbelief, so I jumped on their table and did my most violent Elmo Shmoney Dance; scrolls and cloaks flew everywhere. They had no choice but to advance me. I pointed two fingers at James and told him I’d get to tweakin’ on him if he didn’t…

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Mickey Mantle and Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles flanked him as Steve Jobs held a Beats Pill over his head. “No Problem” by Lil’ Scrappy filled the air and Jobs twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want it with this guy, but I had come too far to not get in to see these strippers. Jesus threw his robe into the overzealous audience and Jobs dropped the beat…

*The results of this battle are undisclosed. However, it can be assumed The Fly Hobo lost, as he was resuscitated at 1:37AM in Grady Memorial Hospital*

I can remember everything but that last battle. I will go to my (next) death convinced I was robbed, though. Oh yeah, Jesus is 4’11” with a thick Cajun drawl. Just so, you know, you’re not surprised when you meet him…

Silas and Rachel ain’t want this work. The Fly Hobo: The 2015 New TestaMOVE runner-up. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Play Me Off

“Daddy, do you think I don’t have a soul because of my wires?”

I froze; this little girl stared at me with those big hazel eyes and clutched a beat up brown teddy bear. At this moment, I knew she deserved the truth. I swallowed, knelt down and grabbed her shoulders.

“Baby, I love your wires. You don’t have a soul because of those; you don’t have a soul because…well…baby, you’re light-skinned…”

*RIMSHOT* PLAY ME OFF, JAMES!!!

Let’s talk about social media, James. Remember when sane people were the only ones allowed online? No? Neither do I. What I do remember, though, is when people didn’t take it to such extremes. My homeboy would ‘poke’ 5 females a night on Facebook in 2005 and we all arched our eyebrows and commended his boldness (Eds. Note: Facebook was created and originally intended for college kids; I know 2005 seems early to some of you). Today, girls hold roundtables to determine maximum selfie ‘like’ time and some Central Nigga sits and creates random memes that take hold of the Twittersphere within minutes of anything newsworthy occurring. That’s all cool, I guess, but let’s talk about some people that need to just chill. Like forever.

Remember that Instagram post we saw yesterday, James? The one with the ‘model’ bent over some community pool with heels on? Yeah…that THOT. THOT is here to stay, James; don’t look at me like that. That THOT…THOT…got 128 ‘likes’. I ain’t mad at all, but the comments section made me purse my lips a bit:

“Daimt lil mamaa…”

@ric_slick_thick

“You got twwwo migetts in yo bacc pokets”

@show…SomethingTheNameIsReallyLongAndStupidAndImNotRepeatingItBecause…Stupid

“U need some street D numba 980…”

@SomeGuyThatWasAboutToHaveHisNumberAllOnThisPostForTheSakeOfMyArgument

Hahahahahaha…and this is some girl that lives in suburban Detroit.

How about these Twitter clowns though, James? The ones that…what’s that? Steak them? Oh…you HATE them…I do too, man. I do too. The charm of Twitter is that you have to write words to express your point. The sad part of Twitter is that people can’t spell (even with a Smartphone), can’t form whole sentences and sound ridiculous. The Gucci Mane rant was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen but damn…why are there periods in random. ass places, Guc’? Instagram is why women have left Twitter in the dust though. You don’t need a personality when you’re taking pictures of yourself in a dirty bathroom mirror with water spots dotting the bottom of your filtered posts. James just pointed out something really poignant about Instagram women but I won’t repeat it because…it’s not like those girls can read it, right? Bunch of THOTs.

#FelonCrushFriday. Remember when that doofy shit happened? Women need to explain why that was ever a thing. Not to me, though; I saw how ridiculous most of you all were on Father’s Day. How did you convince yourselves this was okay? The worst part about it all is that it spread SO quickly. I mean, I’m sitting back watching my Twitter timeline and I see the same felon that was on my Instagram feed. Then I open Facebook and I see the same felon that was in my homegirl’s GroupMe conversation. What makes it even worse is that I watched the BET Awards and I saw the same felon being mentioned by a famous THOT that was…play me the hell off, James.

Facebook died when old people could get accounts. I hate everything about Facebook. I hate the women so in love and insecure about their relationships that every uploaded picture is of her and her man doing…stuff. Mundane, pointless, annoying, stupid stuff that only serves as a confirmation to themselves that their boyfriend is theirs and only theirs. Crazy THOTs. I hate every teenaged picture of me floating around that terrible place. I don’t want to play Slotomania Slot Machines, yet I get invited twice daily by weird old women that probably use their two index fingers to type Facebook chat messages to people that aren’t even logged on. I hate Facebook so much. I really do; my feed is filled with God and Worldstar fights. Dear Jeebus, can you just send BOTH of these people to Hell for being douches? That actually might be my next status. Just pray for the babies and the THOTs, please. Play me off, James.

A.J. Armstrong really doesn’t get you people. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He also understands the irony of sharing this with his Facebook friends so…shut up

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part IV: THOT-ful: A Jump-Off Story

Now, I’m sure most of you have a general idea of what a jump-off is; for those not as educated, Urbandictionary.com defines them as ‘a woman of dubious sexual practices’. They go by many names (rollers, crankers, tip drills, shones, etc.), as do their…”talents”. I refrain from using more derogatory words because they have different meanings for me; if that’s how you choose to identify them, I can’t really do much about that, now can I?

Where was the avenue for these types of women birthed from? Nobody knows the true origin story of jump-offs, nor do we know the primary characters. We just know some dude found some woman to do what he “needed” her to do one day. While I don’t know the exact date, the creation of the modern jump most likely happened something like this:

OCTOBER 1991

Two dudes- we’ll call them Los and William- were lounging in a Washington, D.C.-area strip club in October 1991. Los, dressed in a black Champion hoodie, Karl Kani jeans, and Nike Air Max 180s, was in stark contrast to the well-groomed William who was clad in a grey three-piece suit and blue tie. These were very different men of two different generations, castes, and classes. However, what they did have in common built the foundation of what I speak on today.

“Lemme get a quarter to call my girl,” Los asks over his shoulder, eyes still fixated on the voluptuous Carmel-colored woman on his lap. Two songs and $10 later, he grabs the quarter and saunters to the pay phone. Placing the quarter in, the only thought he could muster in his hazy mind is broad better be woke. After misdialing twice, a ringtone finally becomes audible in the receiver.

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

As he hangs up the phone, he subconsciously scans the dimly lit building for an answer to his sexual tension. Three hours in a strip club tends to do that to people. Unable to find anything of value that wasn’t on the stage or the pole, Los, in an act of desperation and excitement, pulls aside a waitress. “I got a hundred if you trynna do something.”

The indignant look on the high school senior’s face probably would have been an indicator to a more sober and rational Los to stop, but the Crown Royal only urges him on.

“One-fifty, slim…no wait…two hundred. Only cuz I ain’t seen ‘em,” he adds with a sly grin as he points to the frilly lace bra she wore.

Something about money- the prospect of receiving it in particular- really piques a true jumps interest. The waitress, who had been disgusted and offended at Los’ crude courting, was not seriously considering his offer…at first. All of a sudden, she senses an opportunity to bargain with the young man; he doesn’t even look that bad, she rationalizes.

“$300.”

She knew Los was not going to accept; she just wanted a place to begin negotiations. Los’ arched eyebrows of disbelief were a bonus.

“Hell na…$250. That’s all I got. If you would have hit me up sooner, I might’ve thought about three. Your bad, slim.”

“$250?”

“$250.”

“…Mmm…I’m with it. Lemme finish giving these drinks out and I’ll come get you.”

William, noticing the whole exchange take place, shared Los’ dilemma. Not only was his wife sleep, she was in Arkansas. His problem was further compounded by the fact that he was a high-profile public official. Hell, even being at this club at two in the morning was questionable. Being high and tipsy made this situation downright scandalous. There was too much risk for him despite his urges to do exactly what Los had so fearlessly done minutes prior.

FEBRUARY 1996

While on a conference call, William motioned to a young intern to enter his office. As this was the fourth or fifth time, the slightly overweight 22 year-old was well aware of what he desired. Taking her position under his desk and away from view, she began her spectacular and sudden ascent into pop culture infamy. The scene in the club had stuck with him all these years and he reveled in finally being able to wildly live out those whimsical fantasies. The intern’s careful positioning under the desk proved heady, because shortly afterward, the office door slowly creaked open to reveal an aged man with a stack of papers in his arms. “These are urgent and pressing documents you need to address immediately, Mr. President.”

Now you know how jump-offs became popular knowledge, by a man in a strip club and the 42nd President of the United States (sure, some of those facts are debatable but that’s how I remember it). That totally true scene also…er…okay, this is absurd. This was also probably not the best story to share with my little cousin’s third grade class. I’m going to go re-evaluate my life; I’ll see you guys next Thursday for the My Last Post…finale. In the meantime, you can read Part I, Part II, and Part III to occupy your time.

A.J. Armstrong will be finishing his five-part exploration next Thursday. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities…? Right?