After another faked drunken “Urrmm, eh, wherrrre wurr I goin’ tooooo?” call to a friend of JB’s, I learned his whereabouts. He was on a metropolitan bus to – of course – an even more liberal area, a place so uppity it even dared call itself “Uptown.” Where was he headed? Take a guess. I’ll help you. Think of the gayest event that can take place in a city other than a Beatnik Smackdown. Got it? If you guessed, “an art fair,” you win the prize. I was told Mr. Bootyhole was headed to the starting place for said Uptown Art Fair, a central urban mall called Coon Square. With a name like that, I knew it would either be full or devoid of darkies. I was correct.

After finding ample wide-stall handicap parking for me and my Lil’ Rascal Obesity Scooter, I puttered past crowds of just about every color but black. White people sporting all manner of eye-burning hues of hippie and hipster and hip-hop and what-the-****-ever-word-with-“hip”-in-it colors shuffled past me with airy, purposefully-casual steps that seemed to drum out the word “omphaloskepsis” in Morse code. I neared the mall – which turned out to really be called Calhoun Square (whatever, I knew what it really meant) – and entered the heart of pastel-colored darkness.

I scooted past tables of overpriced “artistic” trinkets and other bull****esque bull**** and found a security desk, where I left my precious Lil’ Rascal with the way-too-helpful staff, in an effort to appear as “normal” and charming as possible during my fast approaching and destined confrontation with Bootyhole. For that purpose I was wearing a too-tight blue mini-striped bumon-up that only partically covered both my pubic hair and ample stomach lard. Working up a lathery sweat in only a few hundred feet, I struggled on foot to a central area of the mall that could not be avoided on the path to the Art Fair and camped, as I do for hours a day in Team Fortress 2. I was waiting for JB.

After a couple minutes of wait and rest, clarity of mind returned and revealed a problem. Oh, ****! I had no idea what JB was wearing. I knew what he looked like: greasy Guido haircut, pierced ears, bulging man-mammary glands with artificially-hardened nipples, general hippie air of hippyism. But without knowing what he was currently wearing, I realized, I’d never find him in this sea of similarly-dressed fops. Being the brilliant tactician I am, I improvised and yet again called up one of JB’s friends, this time from a payphone.

“Daaaaah, duuuuuude. Dissis JB. Eh? Uh. Question. I ah, got a littuh drunk an’ puked all over mah shirt. Gotta buy new one. DARNIT EH! …-hic- You ‘member what I’ze wearin?”

Oh, so simple – both the minds of his friends and my particular effort. Red LaCoste polo, and backpack full of gay porno mags and poetry binders. I had my target. Squeezed against a wall for both support of my mbumive girth and optimal stealth, I camped, waiting for Mr. Red Polo and Backpack.

Okay, so I admit I dozed off for a while and drooled on my shirt a bit. But I woke up without any bumistive devices, and did so just in time – it was perhaps fated – to spot a particularly fabulous person jaunt, which materialized into a shock of dark-brown pomade shaped like hair, atop a too-pretty face, which itself was atop a red polo shirt and backpack. It was Bootyhole Himself.

As JB neared the escalator, I burst forth in front of him with the sprightliness of Pillsbury dough escaping the over-compressed confines of its cardboard tube. Perfectly executing my plan, I purposefully fell to the floor like a bowl of Jell-O when I go into a temporary diabetic coma while having desert, pretending to have tripped – or been tripped – by JB, in an effort to pull at his hilariously naïve liberal sense of empathy. It worked splendidly.