Word, Bitches

The other night, my dear friend Biz-won-ra and I decided to take in a movie. We’re good for improvising at the last possible second, so we didn’t have any idea of what we were going to see, let alone which movie theatre. So, we decided on the Atlantic Station Regal because of its H. T. P. (High Trade Potential). We surveyed the movie selection and finally decided on Step Up, not because either of us was particularly interested in it, but because of the flock of queers rushing to see Channing Tatum. (pictured in all of his hotness as he was intended -- wearing next to nothing)

As far as the movie goes, they should have just called it Save the Last Dance Pt. 2, considering it was nearly identical in storyline comparison. Posh dancer girl meets ghetto dancer boy, ghetto boy influences posh girl’s biggest recital ever with his street cred, boy and girl get together and cue hot soundtrack.

My biggest issue with the movie is Channing’s single shirtless scene is robbed of its sexuality when his younger foster sister barges into his bedroom. WTF? I want my eight dollars back, immediately.

And, why was Channing channeling Sylvester Stallone circa Rocky?

“Does it look like I own tights?”

I was half-expecting him to yell out “Yo, Adrianne!”

But, I digress, who did we happen to luck into on our way out of the theatre? We ran into WETbar’s head honcho hottie, James and then not even two minutes later, we ran into the hottie bartender from Einstein’s who needs to consider a new job doing either a) porn or b) soap operas.

For the rest of the night, Biz-won-ra and I adopted the Channing personae (complete with Rocky monotone voice) and his crew of mischievous dawgs. We (as in he, cause y'all know I don't do that kind of ig'nant shit) hit the panic button on the escalator, nearly launching James and his friend into the parking lot, ran over several orange cones, which we felt was a public service considering they were obstructing the path to the nearest exit and laughed the entire time – like homies.

We ended up in East Atlanta for an overdue visit to Mary’s (see: H. T. P. OTP). While there, we ran into cutie owner Mike. We love Mike because he’s just so f’n cool. Is it the demeanor? Is it the smile? It’s gotta be the shoes. All we know is the man has got charisma. Word, it’s the charisma.

Unfortunately, we had to hit one of Mary’s signature karaoke nights. And, to be honest, their singers are pretty damn good as compared to other karaoke joints. But, it’s still karaoke. So, Biz-won-ra and me threw up some peace signs and yelled out “hollah” to all of our homies on the east s-i-i-de.

Cue hot soundtrack. We was hittin' it.