"Uh, fine. You?"
"Super, thanks for asking. While you're getting your hair cut you can watch the episode of South Park with Big Gay Al. Anyway, you have a head pretty full of hair there, don't you?"
"Uh, I guess."
"All right then. I WILL CUT YOUR HAIR OFF! I WILL LEAVE YOU WITH A BALD HEAD!!! NOT ONLY WILL I RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN OF YOUR HAIR, I WILL CUT YOUR HEAD OFF!!! I WILL KILL YOU!" Then he lunged at me with a pair of scissors. I jumped out of the way, kicked him, and ran next door to the coffee shop. That's why I haven't gotten a haircut in twenty years. But, alas! I'm tripping over my hair, so I must go get a haircut. I'm getting it at Super, Thanks For Asking Cuts because I only speak English, and it's still the only English haircut shop in the Sahel, and I don't want to spend the money to go to America or England or somewhere like that. Of course, I'm also interested in watching some South Park episodes. Maybe I'll be able to watch the episode with Saddam Hussein and Celine Dion. That's my favorite one because it insults Celine Dion.
At exactly 12:31:22 I left to go get my haircut. I got to Super, Thanks For Asking Cuts at 1:01:17. The man at the door brought me to one of the barbers. "Hola, senorita!" The barber said.
"I'm not a senorita, I'm a senor." I said.
"Oh, puh-lease. Your hair is down to your footsies. Oh, I'm sorry. Are you a Rupaul follower?" He said.
"Uh, no. I just haven't gotten a haircut for years because last time I came here some quack tried to murder me." I said. I didn't notice that the barber was the same person that had tried to murder me.
"Oh, you're the one who kicked me. I WILL KILL YOU!!! I WILL KILL YOU!!! I WILL KILL YOU!!!" He lounged at me with the scissors. I ducked, so instead of snipping off my head he snipped off one of my hairs. Unfortunately that hair he cut was the one hair that kept my hair on my head, and was responsible for my hair's growth. Scientists know it as harius growius. I was bald the moment the hair was severed.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" I screamed. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT??? I'LL NEVER HAVE ANYMORE HAIR!!! I'M GOING TO SUE YOU!!! I'LL SUE YOU SO BAD THAT YOU'LL BE BROKE!!! I'LL SUE YOU FOR THE COST OF WIGS, I'LL SUE YOU FOR THE LOSS OF THE POSSIBLE FUTURE OF A MODEL... I'LL SUE YOU FOR..." I kept blabbering on and on about what I was going to sue him for.
"I wouldn't sue me if I were you. I have contacts." He said.
"Oh, really. With who? The creator of South Park?" I asked.
"I wish. However, I do have contacts with the Mafia. Sue me and you'll be up against the Mafia." He said.
"Oh, yeah. The Mafia is really strong in the Sahel." I said sarcastically. "I don't come from around here. I was born in Italy. To prove my contacts with the Mafia, here's my certificate." He showed me a certificate that looked like this.
Name: Big G, Al
Member since: '88
This certifies that this person is a member of the Mafia. Anyone that he wants to die shall die.
"Uh, uh, uh..." I said. Then I ran out the door. I decided that I needed to somehow get revenge on Big G. I decided to do that by emptying his bank account. In other words, suing him for every cent he had, but I knew I'd have to get by the Mafia first. I decided to hire somebody to do that.
I talked to my friends about getting revenge. My best friends, the ones who I talked to, are Wankita, who has a slightly deformed head on the left side, totally unsimetrical eyes, a deformed nose, big, black teeth, and wacky hair. Then there's Wimpawawa, who always looks scared, has a small head shaped like an onion, big eyes, a round nose, and small mouth. There's Walawoopa, who's about the size of Danny Devito and always looks angry. His eyes occupy about half of his head, his nose is barely visible, and sharp teeth inhabit his minuscule mouth. There's Crankly Shclim, who's cross eyed and has hair that, on the side, goes in four different directions: Up, straight, partly down, and down. Finally there's Gunaganola, who has glasses, a mustache, and an always-open mouth with sharp teeth. He always carries around a gun. "Well, guys, you may have noticed that I'm bald." I said.
"Oh, how could we not notice? You're as bald as my mamma!" Walawoopa said. His mother comes from New York, and has been bald ever since the Yankees lost the '97 World Series when she ripped her hair out.
"How did you get bald?" Asked Wimpawawa.
"I finally got a haircut, and the guy tried to kill me."
"Why would he do that?" Wankita asked.
"Well, he was the guy that tried to murder me when I was seven, and he tried to kill me with his scissors once again. I ducked, and he cut my harius growius."
"What does he look like?" Gunaganola asked.
"Well, for his hair he has 'c' shaped things on the right side of his head, and backwards 'c's on the left side of his head, and in the middle he has this furball with pieces of hair going out of it in all directions. He has one oval eye and one round eye. Uh, his nostrils are in the upper part of his nose, which is round, and the lower part is long, and has a sharp point at the end. He has teeth a lot like Wankita's, but wider. He has a very wide neck, and he gets a crazed look on his face whenever he pulls out his scissors." I said.
"Is he fat? Cuz if he is, he's an easy target." Gunaganola asked.
"A little bit."
"What's his name?" Crankly Shclim asked.
"Al Big. His middle name starts with a 'G'."
"Well, do you know that guy that I told you about last night? The guy I met on the Internet?" Wankita asked.
"Uh, yeah. You said his name was Jamal Bunghole?" I said. Wankita's life is basically based on going into weird chatrooms, and telling lies to weird people.
"Yeah. He was telling me some wacko story about how he keeps on being chased by this secret agent guy. Maybe that guy can help you get revenge." Wankita explained.
"Wankita, you go around telling lies to everybody, so what makes you think Jamal Bunghole isn't lying?" Walawoopa asked. "You're just a gullible little fool."
"Well, why don't you try it. His screen name is BUNGHOLE. I'll look him up on the finder." Wankita offered. We went on line, and looked up BUNGHOLE. Jamal was signed on, and we sent him a message.
"u were telling me about that guy who keeps on chasin u around where is he?" Wankita typed. It only took him 10.2 seconds, meaning he typed it just under 160 WPM. That's what happens when your life is based on something that involves typing.
"dont know. the bunghole moves around a lot." He responded.
"do u know his screen name?" We asked.
"do u think he could help me defeat the Mafia?" We asked.
"definitely. the guys amazing." He answered. We checked the guy's screen name, and he was on.
"i need help." We said.
"YO SURE ARE RIGHT, YO NEED HELP!!! YOU JUST INSTANT MESSAGE SOME GUY YA DONT KNOW, AND SAY YA NEED HELP? YO GOT PROBLEMS!" Was the reply.
"no, no. u dont get it, i know who u are. i need your business."
"OK. WHAT'S THE PASSWORD???" he asked.
"i dont know any password, i just know this guy named jamal bunghole."
"WHOA! HO, HO HO. YOU KNOW JAMAL? ALL RIGHT. WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He asked.
"i need you to help this guy i know get by the Mafia."
"SURE. THAT'S PRACTICALLY MY DREAM, TO KILL THE MAFIA. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?" He asked.
"in the sahel." We said.
"WHERE IN THE SAHEL?" He asked.
"sorry, my mom got my modem when I was 14, and only because i promised not to tell anybody where i lived."
"FINE. I'LL FLY OVER AND LOOK YOU UP IN THE PHONE BOOK. WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" He asked.
"my names wankita, but my friends name is crazaboowa crackhead."
"I'LL BE THERE BY TOMORROW." He assured. He was, and we began to discuss plans. "Yo, check me out right he'a. I got a plan. Ya see, yo should tell me yo situation first, and then I'll tell you what I gonna do 'bout it." Joe Mamma said.
"Okay. Um, you see, just a day or two ago, I was in the Guinness Book of World Records for longest hair." I said.
"You? You had the longest hair? Yo be kiddin'! Yo be as bald as Darryl Strawberry!" He said.
"Uh, yeah. I hadn't gotten a haircut since age seven, because the barber tried to murder me, but then I started tripping over my hair, so I went back to the haircutter, unfortunately the same barber was there, and he tried to murder me again, this time, however, he tried to snip my head off with his scissors, but instead he snipped off my harius growius, and then I said that I was going to sue him, but he showed me that he was connected with the Mafia, so I can't sue him or I'll die." I explained, very fast.
"Whoa! Slow down, man, you be talkin' like da Bone Thugs 'n Harmony! You be rattlin' on and on and on and on on, jus' like Erykah Badu! I can't undastand a thing you be sayin', jus' like when Ma$e be rappin'!" He said.
"Okay. I'll say it a little slower." I repeated it, but slower.
"All right. I'll help you. But let's get something thing straight. These are the six commandments of Joe Mamma:
1. No music shall be heard other than Puff Daddy
2. You shall always refer to me as Joe Mamma
3. No good things shall be said about West Coast rap
4. MC Hammer will be the butt of every joke
5. Celine Dion pure evil
6. When I'm about to do something outrageous, don't stop me"
"Why should I refer to you as Joe Mamma?" I asked.
"That is my name. Joe Fat Mamma. That's what it says on my birth certificate."
"Aight. What are we going to do?" I asked.
"First, do you know the name of yo attempted murdera'?" He asked.
"Al G. Big." I said.
"We'll call him Big G."
"Well? What'll we do about him?" I asked.
"Oh, jus' follow my lead. Take me to where 'e is, and doncha stop me when I start actin' weird." He said. I took him to Super, Thanks For Asking Cuts. "Yo, yo, yo, mista do'man, is the'a Big G in da shop?" Joe Mamma said.
"Oh, yes sir. He's right over there." The doorman said.
"Yo, Big G, I wanna talk to yo private." Joe Mamma said.
"Okay. I'll be right with you." He said.
"Okay, yo. Look, dis guy, ya see, de guy wants yo shteeze." Said Joe Mamma.
"What is shteeze, and who are you?" He asked.
"Shteeze is a made up word. It means death, I guess. Look, yo, I am one of y'all. I'm a Mafia man." He said.
"What? The Mafia is Italian." He said.
"Oh, yeah, ya see, I'm from Harlem. Theya was dis guy, right, big guy. I had crossed ova' to Italian Harlem, and he was chasin' me, magnum in hand. He wanted my Shteeze. Finally, he said he'd spare my pathetic ol' life if I agreed to join da Mafia, so heya I am." I said.
"Yeah right. You're just a kook like the rest of them." He said.
"OH, YOU GONNA PLAY ME DAT WAY? WELL, 'DEN, I'LL JUS' CALL UP DA LEADA' OF DA MAFF, AND TELL HIM THAT WE GOTTA GET YO SHTEEZE!" Joe Mamma said so that everybody could hear.
"Oh no! You've revealed your cover! Go away! Please!" Big G said.
"Fine. But you come ova' to my crib, okay? Heyas da address. Come ova', o' I'll come tomorrow and get yo shteeze." Said Joe Mamma. Then Joe Mamma walked over to us. "Okay, let's split." He said. We went over to my house. Once we got there Joe Mamma started discussing the plans to get him. "Okay, yo. Ya see, what we gotta do is pounce on da guy once he enters da room."
"All right. I'll have my gun ready." Said Gunaganola.
"You always have your gun ready." Commented Walawoopa.
"Okay. He'll ring de bell. Yo, shrimpo, you'll answer it." Joe Mamma said. "I'm not a shrimp!" Said Walawoopa.
"Oh, yeah, and MC Hammer's gonna go platinum again. Yo be a shrimp. Face da fact. Well, you open da door, right? The rest of y'all will be hiding in the living room. I'll take Big G, and throw 'em on da ground. Then y'all'll come runnin' in. Oh, and Wimpawawa, judgin' by yo name, you shouldn't be heeya when Big G walks in." Joe Mamma said.
"Oh, good." Wimpawawa said.
"Wait a minute, Big G isn't called big for no reason. How'll you throw 'em on the ground?" Walawoopa asked.
"Believe me, I have my ways. Ya wanna see?" Joe Mamma picked Walawoopa up, and said, "Now, if I want, I can smack yo tiny little head 'gainst the floor. I'll do dat to Big G." I doubted that Big G would come, but he did.
"Knock knock knock. Please open up." He said. Walawoopa opened the door. Big G walked in. Joe Mamma picked him up, and smacked him down on the ground.
"Yo, ya see dis bald headed guy ova' heeya?" Joe Mamma asked.
"Yeah. He's pretty tough not to notice." Big G answered.
"Well, Big G, you are da one dat made him bald." Joe Mamma said.
"Well, he kicked me! It kind of hurt, you know? Oh, and you said you were a Mafia man! You liar!" Big G accused.
"Yeah, dat would be me. Now, Crazaboowa, how 'bout this? I tell the head of da Mafia dat Big G is a traitor, and then we can sue him." Joe Mamma asked.
"Sure." I said. I called up my lawyer, John Stockling, on the telephone. "Hello, Mr. Stockling." I said.
"Why hello, hello, hello. What is your problem? Wait, let me guess, you want to sue somebody for every single cent they have, right?" He asked. Mr. Stockling is a real pain, but he's a great lawyer. He looks amazingly like William Weld, a former Massachussets senator and his voice sounds like the lead singer of the Talking Heads.
"That's right. I'll come over to your place, and give you the facts. You can prepare the case." I offered.
"Oh, sure, come on over. Just in case you forget, I live right next door." He said. I walked over with Big G.
"Okay, this is the story." I said.
"Wait, wait a minute, Mr. Crazy," That's what he calls me, "You're bald. What's up with that? New style?" He asked.
"No. It's because of this guy. Do you remember the story I told you of why my hair was so long?" I asked.
"How could I forget? Ever since you told me that story, I knew you had a great imagination." He said.
"It wasn't my imagination. It was true. Anyway, the reason I'm bald is that this guy, the same guy that almost murdered me, tried to murder me again just a couple of days ago. He missed my head and cut my harius growius." I said.
"Wait, I'm confused. This story of yours is true? Hm. I guess it is. I never believed you. Well, look here, I don't have to prepare this case, he tried to murder you, I'm the lawyer, case over. We're going to sue him for every single penny he has." Mr. Stockling said.
"No, no, you don't get it. He has contacts with the Mafia."
"Oh, so you think that the Mafia will kill you for suing him. Believe me, they won't. Do you know why? I am the leader of the Mafia, and I wouldn't dispose of a client of mine." He said.
"What? Oh, so then we don't have to worry. Let's go to court." I said.
"Sure. But first we must agree on my rate. 25." He said.
"What? The rate is 10!" I exclaimed.
"Well, I have to charge extra because of the loss of a Mafia man." He said.
"Oh, fine." I said. The next day we were in court.
"Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and all the other junk not worth mentioning?" Asked the judge.
"Sure." Murmured everybody.
"All right. Will the lawyer for the plaintiff please rise?" The judge asked.
"Sure. I'll rise. You see, what happened here is that this Big G person attempted to murder my client." He said. "We are suing him for every penny he owns."
"Why so much?"
"Because he was the one that got rid of my clients hair, and my client's hair was very important to him." He said.
"Oh. I think you can make up a better story than that." Said the judge.
"Oh, maybe I can. We are suing for the cost of wigs and the loss of the possible career of a super model. We are also asking for $1 for every hair that he shaved off, which was approximately 27,672,879 hairs."
"Future of a super model? A dollar per hair? Are you crazy?" The judge asked. I felt insulted. He basically said that I had no chance of becoming a super model, and that my hair wasn't worth nil.
"Well, we'll be happy with every penny the defendant owns." My lawyer said.
"Does the defendant plead guilty?" Asked the judge.
"Yes." Answered Big G.
"Then I award the plaintiff every single penny the defendant owns. How many pennies is that?" The judge asked.
"Exactly 10,822,001. 10,822,001 pennies equal $108,220." Said mr. Stockling, "And that is what I'm awarding the plaintiff." I decided to go buy a big fish tank, put all of the dollar bills inside, and swim in it.