Tryna Buy OJ (Comedy Open Mic Round #9)

Okay, so the other day, I decided I was going to buy OJ. Orange Juice. Ya know. That stuff.

Sure, I don't actually like orange juice like that, and okay, I don't have money, but let's forget all that fictional stuff and go straight into what really happened.

_{You know you want this as a poster. Go ahead. buy it from some Israelis at this link}

So, that morning, Kendrick Lamar sent me his new LP that he'd planned to release on April 14th. I spun it a few times, and ultimately decided that, nah, the public doesn't need to hear this, so I let him know, as politely as I could, that the people weren't ready for new material and he should keep it to himself. Sure, he spent $14 million on studio time, but if it ain't fresh, it ain't fresh.

He respected my opinion and burned all copies.

Anyways, I rolled out of bed, threw on some clothes. Nah jk, I go to college, so I changed shirts, kept on the rest of my pajamas, and proceeded towards my bathroom door. My cat was balled up in the sink because my grandparents have been staying with us on, um, vacation? I guess you call it that? Anyways, their rat dogs scare the be-jeebus out of Maddie, but I also couldn't brush my teeth with her laying there, so I turned the faucet on and that dispatched her nicely.

I squeezed some toothpaste on my brush when I realized I hadn't had my OJ yet. And, you know, you can't have OJ after you brush your teeth. That's just straight nasty.

So, sure, I had thirty minutes to get ready and go to school, but time's irrelevant, so I got in my busted up red Honda and drove down to the Crossroads gas station. Surely they'd have orange juice.

Of course, I was speeding because time is irrelevant, but it also likes to nag a lot. I made it about halfway down 18 before the dreaded blues-and-reds blared. Luckily, I'm white, so I assumed I wasn't in any real danger, but I have to wonder why we feel intimidated by the folks we pay tax money to protect us. Or why I pay taxes and yet this yahoo with a gun wants to cite me $400 for going 5 over a speed limit. I mean, who makes speed limits? That's right, straight white men. If we don't have a voice in speed limits, why should we adhere to them?

Anyways, I said all this to him, and he shot me three times through the chest. He mistook my political rant for a gun, I guess.

I stomped the gas pedal and sped away, just as he was printing out the ticket from his dashboard.

I was bleeding through my fingers, swerving down 18, when I finally arrived at Crossroads. I stumbled into the cold drinks section and picked up a half-gallon of orange juice with extra pulp because I was feeling particularly nasty. The air inside was cool, which would've been okay if it wasn't 27 degrees outside.

I made my way to the front and the lady behind the counter called the police, because I was bleeding all over her floor, so, in five minutes tops, as I was laying my blood-spattered US dollars on the counter for the orange juice that, mind you, was overpriced, the same cop came in, with his gun raised. I put my hands over my head.

"Woah, there's no need to..."

"Sir, you should know it's illegal to bleed on floors. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me," the cop said, polishing his bald head with his free hand. That, or feeling for any stubble.

I looked at the orange juice, then at the officer. Then at the orange juice again. I flung it at his head, and the gun went off, hitting the woman behind the counter. Her Belk-bought flowery shirt burst in red, and then I sprinted out the door. I wanted to help, but I also wanted to get home, get ready and go to school.

I drove the appropriate speed limit, feeling the eyes of a racist South on the back of my head and the bumper of my car, and I pulled up at my house. The interior of my car was ruined and I couldn't breathe because of the multiple punctures in my sternum. I sat for a moment, watching the trees wave to me outside the window. I wanted to call a woodpecker. That'd wipe the smirk off their tree-faces.

My tooth brush still sat on the sink, and I feebly scrubbed my teeth clean, then snuck out before my mom could yell at me for leaking all over her tile floors.

I got to school, later, not listening to music in the car. I stared out the window, at the police station, and then at the school I paid copious amounts of money to attend. My vision was getting blacker and blacker. I didn't even bother with my phone. Didn't want to see the headlines.

I got into class, a few minutes late, and everyone asked me why I wasn't smiling. I tried to smile, I really tried, but I had three holes in my chest and I suddenly felt very unsafe in the country I'm supposed to be proud of. So, no, I won't wave your flag, Amerika, until someone pays my doctor bills and gets me some OJ.

This got pretty dark and political, but whatever! It was fun.

I nominate @negativer and @cizzo for Comedy Open Mic because it's fun, and everyone's funny. (At least when they're not trying.)