I’ve been a member of a specific online forums board for about six or seven years, and on the boards was a gal who went under the name “WhoringForJesus” or some other spelling of it – the point is, she was Whoring For Jesus.

Oddly enough back in 1999 or 2000 I wrote a sketch about a nun whoring herself out to help the needy in the name of Jesus – what are the coincidences!

Anyway, back in the middle of 2004 I had never really met WhoringForJesus in person and wasn’t sure who it was in real life.

Then one day I found myself with a couple of tall boys in me standing out on the sidewalk on Ludlow Street, and I spotted a couple of friendly faces coming toward me.  I greeted the ones that I knew a hello, and then one familiar face whom I didn’t actually know came up to me but whose face I knew and said, “Hi, I’m WhoringForJesus!”

This confused the heck out of me.  Not because I thought that WhoringForJesus would have been someone else, but more so because I wasn’t able to connect the dots right away, and just stood there confused.

“I’m WhoringForJesus!!”  She repeated.

I finally spoke – “Whaaa…?”

“I said I’m WhoringForJesus!!!”  She repeated again.

I then just stood there trying to understand the fact that someone whose face I only new but whom I had never actually spoken to decided to come up and tell that they were Whoring For Jesus – I took it as if she was telling me that she was a Jehovah’s Witness and just sort of froze there in front of her.

“FROM THE MESSAGE BOARDS!  I’M WHORINGFORJESUS ON THE BOARDS!!!”

“ooooohhhhhhhh!”

Yeah, I’m not the brightest. 

After coming out of the Whitney on Saturday my friend and I decided that dirty water hot dogs from the guy on the street – cooked in the same water all day long – was what we should grab to eat. 

What happened during the next three minutes was one of those New York moments that could only happen in New York.

“Four hot dogs please.”  (Yes, I said please – I try and be polite always)

“Yeah, four hot dogs.”  My friend said. 

“Eight hot dogs!  Oh boy!  You two are going to each eat four hot dogs!?!”  The hot dog vendor said shockingly.  As if he wasn’t going to dare allow us to each eat four hot dogs for safety concerns.

“Yes”

“Yes?”

“Okay eight dogs coming up.”

“Actually just two each for four total.”

“Sure thing.  No problem.  You want anything on them?”

“Ketchup on two, and radish on the other two.”

“Sure thing.”

“Oh my God, you need to look to your right immediately!!!”  I said to my friend. 

“Oh my…” 

The hot dog guy looked too, as out of the blue a guy was walking with his wife/girlfriend/whatever.  They were both well dressed and sane looking, and yet the guy had his head wrapped up, like, seriously, completely wrapped around with two different types of bandages as if he was walking around a VA Hospital on the set of a Vietnam epic war movie.  It was awesome, and he totally didn’t appreciate my pointing his “look / style” out to anyone.

“Oh my God, that was awesome!”

 ”Hey, I want a drink too.”

“What are you thinking?”

“A can of Nestea.”

“You two want something to drink?”

“Yeah, a Nestea and a Sprite, please.”

The hot dog guy reached in and pulled out a can of Nestea from his ice box.  On it the three of us could all visibly see something that shouldn’t be there.  None of us were sure what it was, and the hot dog guy was going to do his darn best to get that strange thing unstuck from the mouth area of the can.

The hot dog guy got in real close to the mouth of the can and blew as hard as he could.  He then repeated this twice more without succeeding as we watched his spiddle fly out of his mouth hoping that he wasn’t going to actually give us the nasty spiddle can of Nestea.

“Hey, can I have a straw too?”  My friend asked before hot dog guy was able to finish his public arts project titled, “Skeeving Out The Customer”. 

“Straw?  Yes.”

The hot dog guy seemed genuinely offended by someone not wanting to put their mouth on his spiddle to drink some tea.  He finally blew the thingy off, and then realized that he really shouldn’t have done that, and that he wasn’t in his backyard in the middle of New Jersey able to be going “HAAAAAAA” on all of the hot dogs or cans of beverage and getting away with it.

“Oh…ummm…here you go.  You get a different can.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Let’s see.  Four hot dogs, a can of Nestea, and a bottle of Sprite.  Uhhhh, 8 bucks.”

I handed the guy a  $20 bill and as the guy handed me back $12 he said, “It’s actually uhhh $8.50, but whatever.”

So, in closing, I’ve learned that either flirting with a street vendor or having him do gross things to products in front of you is the way to the better deal.  Which one did the trick…? 

It’s no secret that out of all the Banana Republic’s the the TriState New York area that I can shop at, by far my favorite store is the Banana Republic in the old Port Authority (aka Google NYC HQ) over in Chelsea. 

The main reason for my love of this particular Banana Republic is the high concentration of gay and or bisexual male employees there - one part due to this fact scaring off the homophobic hooligans leaving more selection of my size, and three parts being that I tend to receive what I feel to be special treatment in shopping there.

I’m not sure what about my boyish looks or charm it is, but this Banana just gives me that extra friendly attitude.  I’ve never had or seen a problem with any of the staff.  They are always friendly to me and everyone else – although I must say that think I get an extra helping of friendly. 

I enjoy receiving the special treatment, and when I was there last week I came to a sad realization – my days are numbered and I’ve only got so much more of this extra special treatment left before it’s all gone!

I’m fast approaching the big 2-8.  My waist is inching bigger, my bones have a little more meat on them, and my hair is, well, there, but suffering from an internal conflict of a civil war ravaging certain areas due to the front lines of war – leaving what sure as heck appears to be a receding hairline to the naked eye – although I know that it’s from an internal hair on hair follicle civil war.

Anyway, the point that I’m trying to get across here is that my days of receiving the extra friendly attitude based on how I look at this Banana Republic as opposed to just the regular run of the mill friendly attitude is coming to an end. 

What will I do when I can’t seem to find my size slacks?  Who will be there to rush over to assist me before I could even ask for help?  Who? 

This whole future thing can be a scary thing at times…

Have you seen this Dr. Pepper commercial that Flava Flav is currently whoring himself out for? 

Each and every time I see or hear it it makes my whole body cringe with annoyance. 

“You know I’m Flava Flavalicious” 

He must not be doing as good as I guessed with his whole finding love on VH1 to have to resort to making a rap so bad for cash.

Part of me wants to help him out by turning the Tony Bennett Room into a spare bedroom for him, but that would require that I would end up being subjected to “FLAVA FLAV!” calls throughout my entire life – I don’t think enough sound proofing could be done to contain his voice. 

Is anyone available to get to writing Bill Gates to give Flava Flav enough money so that he’ll no longer have to resort to finding love, or rapping such bad lyrics in commercials?  Please?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and question whether or not Obama’s pastor Reverend Jeremiah Wright is on some sort of performance enhancing drugs.

According to his wiki page, Reverend Wright was born in September 1941 – he’s 66 years old!  Now take a look at him in this suit during this recent interview…

He looks ripped!  His torso and thick neck look mighty impressive for someone who is 66 years old.  I can only hope to look as ripped in a suit when I’m anyway near 66 years old – if he’s not juicing it in any way, I’d sure as heck love to know what his fitness routine consists of.