But I have learned that I am a pimp of African lineage with a tendency toward bisexuality, and that is something I had never suspected. Others have flown a bit farther and scored a bit higher.
In the end, I doubt I deserve to call myself a hero. And he’s only interested in doing the same thing the girls are. What concerns me far more is my third groupie’s haircut. Which is cool, and very much in fashion these days, but I don’t seem to be interested in black groupies.
Seeing us all together for the first time, the realization hits me: I am a black man.
Now I have acquired a Full Harem, and yet another race of groupie to travel with. But they never tire of bobbing and stroking something near their faces, and that is something I suppose. They contribute nothing noticeable to the physics of my shopping cart: no mass, no momentum, no applause. My second groupie is even paler than the first, perhaps of a different race. I should have guessed this when I paid $800 for her. I suspect she is not interested in emotional intimacy at all. She bobs her bowed head up and down, stroking something near her face. Lighter in complexion than myself, she stays in the cart and does one thing continuously. I simply bought mine, but a groupie is a groupie. It’s good to have fans, but a groupie is someone who seeks the sexual or emotional intimacy of someone famous as myself. The first groupie that I – well, purchased – was rather young looking for what I consider appropriate. But I learn most about myself through others. Still, nothing impresses me more than my inherent immortality. Of course I acquire engines, and tricks, and sometimes hit a jump that borders on heroic. “Metal Wheels” will follow, because this is also necessary for a shopping cart. Non-round wheels have a lot of nerve calling themselves wheels, if you ask me. I think my first purchase should be “Round Wheels”. Someone has given me $12.70 for my heroism so far, which buys nothing. Soon I see the booty I will take over the course of my career: wheels, engines, tricks and, of course, women. The flight ends with my cart beyond me, my broken body draining into the desert sand, my thoughts now food for the palms. Not with the omnipotence of Superman nor even the agility of Mighty Mouse, but more the fated desperation of Wiley Coyote – launched only to collide again with the earth, a hero in one’s mind alone. And curled within like a young Bam Margera… Is it arrogant for me to aspire to be a hero? Will I save lives or inspire greatness in others? Providence has not provided me the time to indulge such fancy rather it has forced me into my chariot as I have failed to hop in myself. Pushing my cart and gaining speed, I think of heroes such as Beowulf, The Greatest American Hero, and that television show that I sometimes see promoted while I watch sporting events. Reflecting on the heroism of those who came before me, I stood atop the escarpment gazing at the endless desert below with one proverb to strengthen me: “Not the glittering weapon fights the fight, but rather the hero’s heart.” This is a good thing, because my shopping cart has junk wheels.įor the life of me I cannot recall from where I stole it, nor how I managed to push it so deeply into the desert that neither road nor Wal-Mart is anymore visible.