This is the EDD appeal paperwork I am sending in to the state of California. Why? Because I’m an asshole, that’s why.  I know I got shit-canned at my work for being an unruly son of a bitch, but I literally had a legitimate claim. I didn’t quit, abandon my job or prison shank any of my co-workers, so helping me out with $200/week for a month until I found another job I could eventually get fired from was the difference between me being all happy go-lucky this holiday season and me slamming my boner on my computer desk in absolute frustration.

The state of California gives these ditch monkey’s subsidized housing and Welfare for not using birth control and making poor decisions and I tell this total thundercunt of a female supervisor she is reconstituted donkey vomit and suddenly I’m not liable for a little social assistance? You know what? Fuck you, California. Fuck you with a titanium alloy spiked dildo covered in wombat excrement. And if anybody thinks that’s harsh, well, fuck you, too.

I’m going to rape the state of Cali-fawn-yuh for taxes next month and then I am going to join a militia and shoot guns at foreign brown people. At the very least, I can go back to buying booze for rich high school kids in Arizona and not have to worry about working. Sure, I might have a 16 year old girl crying in my cat’s litterbox after she drank three O’Douls, but at least that’s better then filling out all this bullshit paperwork just to get money you’re going to spend on the Mexican family of 14 living next door to me. At least the girl will put out and give me something for my effort, after she gets the cat shit off her toes, of course.

Fuck rules. It’s time to live illegal again.

It’s evident from my previous posts that I’m a Lil Wayne fan. How many people support Black History Month by writing about a rapper who’s claim to fame is drinking cough syrup and talking about pussy, money, cars, clothes and kissing his boss on the lips? Needless to say, I like the guy. Last night solidified Lil Wayne in Nick Sterling’s, “Real Nigga Hall Of Fame“. And before you testy types get my vernacular twisted, I used the ‘n’ word in a different context. Trust me, there’s a few white people in the ‘RN-HOF’, too.

 

And if you hate acronyms, FML! LOL

Anyhoo, one of the life long members in the Nick Sterling fan club happens to be a very successful, very sober and incredibly amazing DJ that is currently working for LiveNation as their VIP DJ. I just so happen to be a very unsuccessful, very unsober and incredibly big pain in the ass that knows this DJ. Beyond working for Hooters (on his recommendation) and joining him on his wedding/graduation/concert gigs, I am his duct tape engineer. Yesterday, I zip-tied his banner in the VIP section and that was the extent of my involvement. Jokingly, he called that a promotion.

Yes, my friends love me, as long as I don’t write about them.

What’s more amazing about tagging along with said DJ on his adventures are the people. I’ve never been to a concert with 20,000 people and been in the VIP section. In fact, I’m not a very important person and I don’t think I ever will be. But the people who think they are, well, they are worth talking about. For the first time in the history of this self-righteous web site, I am going to talk about OTHER PEOPLE! *facepalm* *gasp* *hymen burst*.

1. V.I.P. doesn’t mean, “very important person”. For guys, it’s “VISUAL IMAGE PROGRESSION”. They think that being seen in VIP enhances their appeal and stature as a human being. I use to think the same thing when I was in seventh grade. I got picked for the all-star basketball team and I thought I was hot shit because I could toss a circular object through a cylindrical hoop. But, that didn’t stop me from pimping the freshman middle school girls into giving me a rub & tug behind the auditorium during lunch by saying, “yeah, I AM ON THE ALL-STAR TEAM!”.

 

2. The DJ is not a jukebox. I was privileged enough to handle the music while the lesser known acts were taking stage. I look like an asshole and my demeanor is more “rattlesnake” than “cuddly”, so people generally avoided me like ninth grade Algebra, but the real DJ? How are you going to assume he will play Justin Bieber at a hip-hop show? Are you really that self-absorbed that you want to HEAR what YOU WANT? Oh wait, you’re in VIP…

 

3. The staff in the V.I.P. section hate you. Not a mild disdain for your company, but they have a bottomless loathing for your presence that would be akin to Ted Bundy’s appreciation of women. They are paid hourly. They might not be good with numbers, but all of them count the nanoseconds until the shit-fested concert is over. Beyond that, they mentally prepare for -your- crowd. Toby Keith has a show? Expect a bunch of good ‘ol boys and their Daisy Duke eye candy. Lil Wayne? I was at the merch table and three dozen very unhappy security guards walked into the event and took a look at me and shook their heads. Why? Because hip-hop attracts idiot fans, that’s why. Stereotypes exist for a reason and they were there because of them.

 

4. Your V.I.P. ticket that you paid $300 for only gets you a free drink and some catered food. No, you cannot meet Lil Wayne. His security detail makes sure that you can’t bottle his sweat and drink it after the show. You don’t get a free handjob nor do you get access to their tour buses. The perks of VIP? Image. I was the same guy who walked outside to see Lil Wayne’s set and I was the very same guy who walked back in VIP to get free beer after it was over.

 

5. Why did I get free beer? Because I know the DJ. Why was I there in the first place? Because of the DJ. What is the absolute last thing you say to get into a VIP room/lounge/space? “I know the DJ”. That’s code for, “get the fuck out of here”. I’m only “cool enough” to be “where I am” because I got lucky and befriended a Mexican with a bad jumpshot on the middle school basketball courts. He trusts me with $5,000+ worth of audio equipment, that’s why I’m there. You are there because you paid Ticketmaster a fuck-load of money to let you pretend to be above someone else. I’m more important than you and your overly priced ticket.

 

6. I wore my Raptor/Jesus t-shirt I made specifically FROM THIS WEBSITE that you are currently reading. Why? Because Nick Sterling is comfortable wearing t-shirts and jeans to hip-hop shows. This isn’t a Milan run-way. I could show up wearing a Gucci handbag, button-down Armani and walking like I just got fucked in the ass by Antoine Dodson from “Bed Intruder” internet fame, but why? You are here for the MUSIC! I’d show up in my boxers and Jesus/raptor shirt if they’d let me in the gates. Shit, what do you think I’m wearing while writing this?

 

7. Beautiful women are the world’s best currency. I can be dead broke, but walk into the hottest Gaslamp/Hollywood clubs unabated without paying a peso if I’m with some hot bitches. I was raised by women and I have had the pleasure of dating some of the hottest girls on the planet (in my glaucoma-ridden vision), so I know the benefits of having a female entourage. However, don’t try and pull a fast one on people who know better. If you walk into VIP with strippers, you’re over-selling. And, you’re telling hustlers like me that you carry cash. I walked in the employee entrance. You came through the front gate where they frisked you for weapons. The security guards like me more, so what happens when I call you out? Rookie move.

 

8. Lil Wayne is funny as fuck in person. His interludes during the show were more Comedy than Central.

 

9. Ok, you know I saved the best for last. It’s Lil Wayne/Rick Ross/Lloyd; it’s the, “I AM MUSIC TOUR”. So, are you really going to show up in the VIP lounge 9 months pregnant? If your claim to fame in life is having your first generation Welfare recipient baby at a Lil Wayne concert, then you are a horrible human being. I’m sorry, but I can’t call it any other way. I saw THREE pregnant chicks in VIP. 3!!?! I won’t even use my edumacation and methamaticall skills to figure out how many chicks were knocked up in the crowd. I’m a big Joe Budden fan, but if he texted me and said, “ayo, Nick. VIP and drinks covered for mah show“, as much as I love him, I WOULDN’T BRING A PREGNANT WOMAN TO HIS CONCERT!! Mix 20,000 potentially unruly music fans + alcohol = boiler room. It was like 75° last night. I’m sure that baby is going to come out all normal and stuff.

What this shows (hah), is that even taking me into public in a very exclusive setting, is bad news bears. I looked at these people and I thought, “this is what someone Lil Wayne attracts as a fan?”, then I realized most of his fanbase is based on image. Fair enough. It explained why I chose him for my first article about Black History Month–because he actually speaks to the people.

Imagine image? Hmm. What if I changed mine?

I joke with my friends that I never get arrested because I’m allergic to handcuffs. That isn’t always the case. I have a habit of getting nabbed by overzealous police officers once every other year. It’s a nasty habit but it’s one that keeps my street cred alive and thriving. This story isn’t about me getting arrested later this year (which will be 99.9 percent plausible. Vegas odds say “300%+ on the over/under), but this story is what transpired when I was arrested two years ago in June 2009.

Of all the crimes I’ve committed, the heists I’ve masterminded and the crazy shit I’ve done to deserve jail time, this was the only time I was roughly 75% innocent. I’m a big believer in the judicial belief that if you don’t look half way guilty, you go home. Good thing I’m not a lawyer.

Rewind to June 20-something 2009. My night was going swimmingly. A beautiful girl whom is still a dear friend (to this day) broke up with her long term boyfriend/husband/concubine and I made it my duty as a platonic friend to take her out for drinks and random fun. My female best friend at the time, we’ll call her Dizzle, accompanied us to my best friend’s house to get insanely drunk. Cheap malt liquor was flowing and inhibitions were being lost every hour. Dizzle and her boyfriend were getting smoochy and I was staring at my platonic friend’s fake tits more and more. For reasons I cannot recall, and reasons unknown, Dizzle invited us (and her beautifully crafted fake mammary glands) back to Dizz’s house to continue the party. I guestimated it had something to do with Dizz having a built-in beer pong table in her kitchen.

For the sake of the story I must warn you that this was an unspeakably horrible decision. Her roommate, whom I introduced her to, turned out to be a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde beefcake Mexican. He was a good friend of mine for awhile but he showed his true colors when he porked one of my girlie friends. I was asleep on the sofa snoring (in deep slumber) because I had to care for HotWheelz the next morning while she was turning his steroid-addled balls upside down in the bedroom. Regardless, I let it go because shit happens. She’s a slut and he’s a guy that wants to fuck anything with two (or four) legs. As much as it bothered me that he besmirched our friendship for a moderately hot piece of ass, it was my duty as a man to not be a bitch about it. I’m not going to cry a river over a girl who was so drugged up she probably could have fallen into Courtney Love’s Hole. In doing so, Dizzle’s relationship with her roommate deteriorated immensely. They had the type of roommate situation where each roommate kept weapons in their room and a steel dead-bolt lock on their doors.

I guess I had a small influence in that.

So, throwing temperance to the wind, we decide to show up at 1:30am and play beer pong. Loudly. In the kitchen. Tensions escalated when he emerged from his cave and saw me with a super-hot girl and saw his roommate having the time of her life with us. I guess it bothered him that he was with the drugged-up, moderately hot piece of ass in his room and we were sexy people assassinating our sobriety on a Monday night freely in the kitchen. Oh well. You chose your fate, Beefcake.

In hindsight, we were being rude. But he fucked the girl I liked and was a dick to my best friend so the alcohol gave me the ability not to care anymore. Regardless, I still kept it neutral. I apologized to him and we all went outside for a smoke. Ten minutes later there is a knock on the door and Beefcake Mexican runs to open it. We all come inside and in comes three police officers. Apparently, Beefcake Mexican called the cops on his own roommate. Not only did he narc us out, but he told them we were threatening physical violence. Dizzle is fuming and screaming at this point and I don’t blame her. I approach the officers to explain the situation because I’m highly rational and well versed in law (I watch a lot of Matlock and my high school German teacher is a former law professor and my pro-bono lawyer), so as I am walking to the door I am shoved by Beefcake Mexican. None of the cops see this so I volleyball spike my beer at him and it bounces off his giant forehead like a ping-pong ball. I might be a pacifist and prone to diplomacy, but don’t punk me in front of an audience. Especially, when you call police officers thinking I won’t do anything because I have an out of state warrant. As my Bud Light bounces off his over-inflated big head,  the po-po turn around and ask me to step outside. At this point I’m assuming that I’m getting charged with battery for volleyballing my Bud Light off this idiot’s forehead, but the cops didn’t even fucking notice.

Seeing that I’m the soberest of the group, one officer politely asks me to step outside to “discuss this matter”. He places me in handcuffs and does his, “this is for your safety” spiel. Knowing the drill, he asks me if I have anything that will poke him, stab him, shank him, etc and I tell him I am holding weapons grade plutonium in my cell phone, which he quickly pulls out and throws on the ground. I guess roid-raging police officers don’t like smart-ass jokes. I know this might be hard to believe, but for the next 15 minutes I didn’t say a fucking word after my phone hit the pavement. I quietly sat on the driveway listening to the cops interrogate everybody smarter then me who stayed in the house. The officer who detained me came over, picked up my cracked cell phone and put me in a police car with Dizzle’s boyfriend.

Game. Set. Match.

NICK “What am I being arrested for, occifer?”
OFFICER RODELO “You, Sterling… drunk in public. He’s (pointing to Dizzle’s boyfriend) is violating his probation”
NICK “Ok, but I was not in public, sir”
OFFICER RODELO “You’ll be out within 12 hours. I’m taking you to Vista to resolve this”.
NICK “But sir, I was inside of a house. Logically, how could that be a DIP if I was in a private residence?”
OFFICER RODELO “Because you stepped outside of that residence”.

Well played, sir.

He got me.

Dizzle’s boyfriend was fucked from the get-go, so I hatched a little plan to get even. What most of you don’t know and what I don’t always convey to people is that I always think of ways to outsmart people. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s my way of saying, “hey, I’m smarter then you”. In this case, I was legitimately being fucked over. I lived three blocks away from Dizzle’s house. I was under the influence but I was in no way, shape or form, drunk. If the cop wanted to solve the “situation”, he could have asked me and my friends to leave and dealt with the roommates separately. Instead, he arrested me in front of the perky breasted “platonic friend”. He was being a total cop block.

During the 20 minute drive to Vista I ask him, “is it a viable decision to use state resources to take a guy who posed no harm, threat and has no pressing legal issues to jail for 12 hours; a guy that has been honest, candid and cooperative with you to a county jail 16 miles away from his place of residence, sir?“.

He told me verbatim, “you’ll be out in less then 12 hours, SIR”.

I told him, “I could be out in 2 minutes, if I wanted, SIR”.

He laughed. He shouldn’t have mocked my respect for his authority. I might be a skinny white kid who got suckered into a fool’s trap, but I am always thinking.

Match. Point.

I can break my wrists with enough pressure and I’m double jointed. This makes it damn near impossible to handcuff me. Don’t cuff me in a seated position where you can’t see my hands.  Within 2 minutes I broke my left wrist, slid my thumb over the handcuff and pulled it down, slicing a piece of skin. Dizzle’s boyfriend is looking at me shaking his head knowing this results in catastrophe. He is trying to tell me this is “bad news bears”, but I smiled and nodded; I knew what I was doing. This was his first foray into dealing with Nick Sterling and him “being right”.

Rodelo pulls up to the jail complex and I lift my hands and say, “I hope you don’t mind, they were cutting my wrists”. He bolts out of the car and suddenly there’s four cops hog-tying me and CARRYING ME into the station. If I had a cigar I would have lit it and said, “I love it when a plan comes together“.  No cigar, just cold pavement and a very disheveled desk clerk wondering why four cops were treating me like a terrorist.

They start barking like bloated seals about “felony escape”, “violating the Patriot Act”, etc. After ten minutes of confusion and false threats they sit me against a wall in booking and five cops are standing there staring at me.

“Hi gentlemen“, I say.

COP 1: Why did you try to escape?

“I didn’t try to escape.”

COP 2: The handcuffs were off when you were in the patrol car. How did that happen?

“I think Officer Rodelo didn’t tighten them enough. And I do have skinny wrists…take a look”

The cuffs fall off again. Don’t hustle a hustler.

OFFICER RODELO You said you could escape in 2 minutes if you wanted!

“No, I said I could be out in 2 minutes, if I wanted. I’m a Drunk In Public that you arrested in a house because you asked me to step outside. I have no criminal record and no reason not to cooperate with you, so why are you making this more difficult for me? Why would I try to escape when you told me, “you’ll be out in 12 hours”? At this point, sir, I just want to go home. Why did you bring me here when it’s clear I’m obviously not drunk, not escaping and not intending to cause you or any of your co-workers any inconvienence”.

POINT. MADE. #WINNING.

The reason I did that was to prove a point. If you arrest me for bullshit charges and ruin my fun, I’ll find a way to embarrass you. To this day, Officer Rodelo not only remembers my name, but he calls me “Disappearing Handcuffs Guy“.

I wanted him to think twice next time about hauling people to jail and wasting their time over stupid shit. Mission accomplished. Granted, Dizzle’s Beefcake Mexican roommate shouldn’t have called the police but they shouldn’t have placed me under arrest, either. I’m not a behavior psychologist (even though I studied to be one), but I witnessed how much Officer Rodelo enjoyed being in control. All I had to do was break his illusion of control–and the quickest way to break someone’s control? Put them in front of a jury of their peers when they aren’t in control. I simply had to make his mistake reflect on his actions. Most people think that being in a cop car in handcuffs is an uncontrollable scenario–no, it’s a subjective one. I see it as another way to think outside of the box (or in my case, outside of the cop car).

Moral of the story? Next time, arrest someone who’s actually worth processing. Otherwise, use proper discretion; not ego. You never know who you’ll have in handcuffs. Or not have in handcuffs.