Anyways, one day, dude comes to my office with some skanky (but fuckable) white trailer trash biker chick. We’re discussing business and this chick isn’t saying an effin word. About 25 minutes into our meeting, R.A. asks me what I think of the chick, and I tell him she’s decent. He then tells the chick to take off all her clothes, which she does completely (except for her socks) in the middle of my office in the middle of the effin day in the middle of midtown Manhattan. I’m checking her out and R.A. explains that this is one of his many jiz guzzling she whores and proceeds to ask me if I wants a piece.

Now, I love me a piece of steaming hot snatch more than a crackhead loves rocks, but somehow, the image of me getting wet with something already moist from R.A.’s bodily excretions was not appealing. I respectfully declined, she promptly put her shit back on and we resumed our meeting with no further interruptions. Looking back on that shit, that had to have been one of the most bizarre experiences I’ve experienced. R.A., being the good dude that he is, eventually went on to jerk me for monies (about 10g’s) that he owed me (still does) but after the above mentioned scenario, I can’t be mad at him.

So the year is 1999 and Trag is feeling a bit down (cause life has a way of kicking a nigga’s ass every now and then). To cheer him up, I suggest that we head to a party that Gorilla Pimp Sean Combs is throwing cross-town. We get to the joint and are ushered into the V.I.P. section which looked great (the walls were draped with some velvety red curtains and the chicks were definitely on some video ho material). Around midnight, Diddy steps in the club and decides to open up the bar in our section. Trag and I go apeshit and start throwing drinks back like we had been stranded in the Sahara desert for 15 days with no canteen in sight.

After an hour of doing some serious man-style drinking, Puff ups the ante (along with some other baller crews chilling in the cut) and decides its time to treat the crowd to bottles of Cristal. The wait staff starts bringing out mad ice buckets stocked with yellow bottles and it’s on. Almost everyone in the area has access to at least 2.5 of their own bottles of the fine bubbly. Everything is going real perfecto, chicks looking and smelling good, dancing, trees is burning, niggas is all types of happy with no types of gun talk in the air, the dj (I think it was Flex) is spinning hit after hit after blood clot hit, we’re partying like it’s, well, um, 1999 and Trag is smiling (no homo).

Anyways, after downing our respective second bottles of Cris, Trag pulls me to the side with a real serious and concerned look in his eye and asks me where the men’s room is. In my blissfully drunken state, I explain that it’s past the V.I.P. ropes, through the dance floor (jam packed with about 700 sweaty dancing patrons), up the crowded narrow ass stairs, right behind the capacity filled lounge, where finally, there’s probably a line with a wait time of about 10-15 minutes. He processes the information and says “cool.” A few minutes later, there’s like one unattended bottle of Cris left, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Trag grabbing it along with the effin ice bucket, greedy ass motherfucker!

I think nothing of it, but I soon start craving for some more of the free elixir so I make my way to said last bottle that Trag placed back in its bucket. I reach for the bottle and out of nowhere, Trag grabs my wrist (no homo) and says, “Dude, chill, you had enough.” I’m getting pissed now cause it aint right to cock block a free bottle of Cris. “Yo, why you hoggin the bottle dude?” I ask, and he pulls me to the side and explains, “I just took the ice bucket behind one’a these drapes and pissed like a gallon’s worth in it!”