Did you just say “meow”? No Officer, I said: “Scoreboard”.

by Juice on May 9, 2011

Detroit Red Wing Bikini

Everything in the following story you are about to read is totally true. No really. Even I cannot make this kind of shit up. ok ok, all except the edible undies, because lets face it, if anyone had any of those, they would have thrown them on stage to Prince.

Well my fearless readers, I tried. No. I mean it. I TRIED. But the three fates had different plans for me this weekend than a trip to County.

First: SUNNY didn’t film Saturday. Faulk knockers, right? The crews, security and star trailers were all up and running, but no action. There we were. We had hats, we had mint juleps, we had pasties.  What we didn’t have was a workable plan to wreak our particular brand of havoc.

THEN: Sonya, my partner in haberdashery crime, my sister in the ‘hood, the Ren to my Stympie, the Lucy to my Ethel:  took her “green hat” and ditched me to hang in the Purple Pit with her man, Kyte Rockafeller, at the Great Western Forum dancing to “Erotic City” and “Darling Nikki”.

I would have ditched ol’ balloon hat Babinski for Prince and Kyte too. So no fault there.

As she donned her purple fedora and the 4 inch Charles David strappy sandals I gave her for Mother’s Day, preparing to show Golden Shower Kard-ass-ian how it really is done when Prince asks you to dance on stage, the whole circumstance punctuated the fact that MY weekend was quickly degenerating into the common and incarceration free. I had to act fast.

“Do you know the way to San Jose?” I asked.

“yea, you can take the 101 all the way if you want.”

“I’ve got lots of friends in San Jose.” I continued.

“Good for you, you faulking weirdo…” She trailed off as she glanced my way. I was hot glue gunning the Red Wing pasties to the front of my red rhinestone bedazzled bikini top. She got the message:


And then to the windows OS we flew in a dash, threw open the laptop and turned up the sass.

Sonya dialed our brother, Holden, and told him to put his red hat on and be ready at 10 AM. I bought the nosebleed seats: HP Pavilion, Section 227, Row: Pavel Datsyuk (that is “13” for the layperson) and it was on.

Road trippin’ with my two favorite allies, fully loaded, we got snacks and supplies, right there on Mother’s Day we did exactly what any good children would: We traveled 336 miles there and 336 miles back to watch a NHL Playoff Hockey Game. You know, for Mom.

Hey. I felt no shame, I wrote a touching loving tribute and made it available to the public.  I am the good kid.

I hopped into the car to pick Sonya upon that bright sunny Sunday morning expecting to find her in an alley about 3 blocks east the Great Western Forum, (her Foursquare check-in indicated she had just become the Mayor of a 40oz of Schlitz “Don’t mess with the Bull” Malt Liquor and a half eaten pair of edible undies).

As I rolled out of my hood with visions of Samuel L. Jackson and Inglewood Jack dancing in my head, it happened.

Lights flashing, black and white on the loud speaker telling me to pull off at the next exit ramp just as I found myself at the junction of the 405 and the 10 freeways. With a deft punch of the gas pedal I could have found myself not only on the way to mugshot glory but returning fame, notoriety and glory to the name “Juice” of Brentwood, California once again.

You may have guessed this by now, second only to my mugshot, the dream of disrupting all of local television programming for a 3 hour block by causing a high speed police chase on the freeways of LA is on my bucket list. (more on this at a later date)

Could the Volvo still out gun the cops? Did Nico have anything left in his ragged, worn out 185,000 miles of 1.9 liters turbo boost? Sure my car is a beater, but that is what would make it so compelling:

“Volvo Driving Soccer Mom wearing Balloon Animal Hat and Detroit Red Wing Pasties leads LAPD on 2.5 hour chase to Tijuana for Mother’s Day Surprise.”

Who among us could resist causing that headline, I ask you?

But I had a dilemma: the time it would take for the chase alone would kill our road trip plans. And how would Sonya survive on the spittle remains of a 40, if I left her stranded in the ghetto? Those edible undies don’t wash themselves down. Man, it freaks me out when they get stuck to the roof of your mouth like communion wafers. Can’t they come up with anything other than fruit roll ups for these things?

I sighed and pulled over, knowing full well that my only real chance all weekend of seeing the flash of a police camera, feeling the steel butt of a Beretta 92 to the temple was fast slip away.

“Ma’am, did you see that stop sign?” The 20 something Proactive smelling Pip squeak asked.

Meow.” I said and handed him my license registration and proof of insurance.

“Excuse me, did you say meow?” He asked as he glanced at my paperwork.

“I certainly did not.” I replied indignantly, looking at him like a disapproving school marm. He turned from the car and I said it again.

That chicken faulker wrote the damn ticket. I coulda pistol whipped him.

As I drove the streets of LA looking for Sonya, I mulled my decision over. Had I done the right thing? Should I have pushed it further? Should I have lead the newbie popo on his first high speed chase? Nothing this weekend had so far gone the way I planned.

Sonya was sitting on the curb of Inglewood and Jack holding two unsmoked cigarettes. She was only wearing one shoe and her purple hat was perched upon the mangy fro of the tranny who laid with one leg in the gutter next to her clutching a dollar bill.  As I rolled up, the tranny lifted her head smiled a brilliant toothless grin and said “Two Cigarettes for a Dollar.”

Sonya spat- “I just gave you a dollar, my hat and the strawberry undies, for two cigarettes bitch.”

The tranny looked at her with one eye open, said “You got any money for a poor strung out old hooker?”

Sonya threw the cigarettes at her in disgust and turned away. Tranny looked to me. “how about you suga tiths?” she grinned.

I said I did not, but I gave her my sparkly bikini top. WHAT? I had NO IDEA I would need it later and frankly- it WORKED with the tranny’s outfit.

Sonya got into the Volvo and we soon thereafter picked my brother up. We arrived in San Jose alive and on time to not only see our Wings warm up, but to do our best to cat call the boys.

“ZZZZZZ” I shouted loudly over the boards even though he stood less than 2 feet away. Sonya chimed in: “We know you can hear us, GOOO WIIINNNGGGGGSSSSS”. To his credit he never acknowledged our existence. Darren Helm and Patrick Eaves were not so lucky.  We were sure Zetterberg would have cracked if I had only held onto the Bikini Top.  Holden stood about three sections away from us, probably thanking gawd that I gave the bikini top to the tranny.

Even without the sparkle,  we like to think we helped our boys pull out the win.

And as we exited the HP Pavilion surrounded by throngs of dejected yet rabid San Jose Shark fans (who are the best fans in all of Hockey- Fo’ REAL), the Bay Area NBC news crew grabbed us for interview. As they cut from commercial, the reporter asked us how we felt about the win and as I launched into my particular brand of diplomatic hockey prima-donna-isms, my sister flashed a fake gang sign and said “Respect”.

Not to be out done- At that precise moment, a lanky San Jose Shark fan jumped between us two girls in Detroit Red Wings Jerseys and growled at the camera like a rabid Adam Sandler character:


Best Mother’s Day ever? Well. I am not a mom (yet), but good times, television interviews AND Scoreboard? My sister assures me it ranks right up there.


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