IRS Fugitive

Hey Peoples. You know Ms G. a.k.a. Sister Big Bone – THANK YOU ANTHONY HAMILTON!! – was home celebrating her 35th birthday last night when I got a call from Bigmama.

“Did you get that packet I sent you?”

“Nope”

“Well keep looking, it’s ‘spose to been there by now!” Bigmama angrily exclaims.

I just tell her ok and that sometimes UPS comes late so I can calm her down. She says she sent me something & packed some chicken in there with it. At this point I shake my head, smile and in a patronizing voice thank her again. Older people are so funny. As she’s hanging up the phone – mind you without saying goodbye – I can hear her mumbling about how my mama didn’t raise us with a lick of sense.

A few hours later the doorbell rings & it is indeed UPS with a rather large box. I drag it in, and cut the tape off the middle. Well, out rolls 3 chicken bones cleaned to the marrow, some biscuit crumbs and two knee caps so ashy look like they been stuck in a salt pit for five days!!!

Honey Bigmama has smuggled Wesley Snipes out of Florida in a corrugated cardboard box!!!! Lawd Good God Almighty!!!!

“Hey Girl!” cries Wesley. He’s dressed in his Noxeema Jackson outfit with a busted up twisted Erykah Badu (after she stopped being celibate) type wig straight from the crypt!!! You talk about a complete burned to a crisp mess! I have never!

“What in the world are you doing here? What is going on” I ask with dumbfounded facial expressions.

“Well you know the IRS is after me so Bigmama suggested I hide out here. I only need to stay a little while till I get to China where my wife’s peoples at.”

Poor Wesley, he just doesn’t have a clue. Now see if he had taken his ass down the street and talked to O.J. before he rolled out he would know better. There are some things YT just won’t let slide - killing white women & skipping taxes are two of them. Just ask Jermaine Dupree, Red Fox (God Rest His Soul) and Ronald Isley. Wesley gone end up being his cell mate.

I sit Miss Noxeema rusty long foots ass down and offer the following points of advice:

You are not Kenneth Lay. You are not friends with The Busch presidents – past & present. Which means you cannot fake your death, have guilty verdict deemed null and void and escape to the Caymans with your $43 million estate intact
You can’t ask Black Hollywood to help you out. Knee Grows do not give anything but “I told you so”
Run up to BMore on the set of The Wire and get some moisture advice from Omar (that’s a shiny true blue black negro)
You are not Kenneth Lay
Call Patrick Swayzie
You cannot go unnoticed in China. I suggest you try Zimbabwe, Congo or Sierra Leone.
Ask Madonna or Angelina to adopt you.
You are not Kenneth Lay

I tell Wesley he can sleep in the back yard – he is not going to shred my sheets with those hard dry riverbank crusted over heels topped with Blade fang fungus infected toenails – until I can get Peanut ‘nem to take him down to DuPont Circle for the Drag Races. Then he can just run down the street with the other hard, ashy manly girlie girls in heels and simply disappear in the crowd.

I give Wesley an old blanket – stolen from a previous hospital stay- a pillow & show him the back door. I make me way upstairs where Mr. King is waiting with nothing but a hard hat, tool belt & some Timbs (good looking out BK Miller). But before I could get situated the damn phone rings.

“It’s my prerogative! What’s up Girl? I hear you got company. Ask that lotion deficient fool if he got any of the IRS twelve million with him? I need some gas money.”

“Bobby ‘Cracked Lips’ Brown didn’t I tell you stop calling my damn house!!! You don’t even have a car!” I yell!!! I slam the phone down and return to my pole.

Crack heads know every damn thang!!!!