Toledo Tales

Guest editorial by Perry Dawson, Toledo-area fatass and wannabe gangsta

S’up. I assume The Perry needs no introduction, so let me skip the bullshit and get to the hardcore. This joint is weak, yo. I’m here every Friday, and there ain’t a single shorty up in here. But on Monroe Street, the ghetto of Glass City, I hold this shit down regardless, dig? I’m the baddest motherfucker up in this Red Lobster, so you best recognize.

After another long-ass week at the post office, I be kickin’ here, drinking some beers and eating my fills of some good-ass shrimp. But you know what? This new waitress be spittin’ some whack game about appetizers and cocktails. She better recognize. I been chillin’ at this motherfuckin’ booth since before she knew how to give dome. So bitch: step off, before I trick your ass behind a barrel of tartar sauce.

And another thing, yo. I’m sick of this bus boy makin’ noise n’ shit. Clankin’ those dishes, as if my ass ain’t tryin’ to unwind with this third order of hush puppies. Busboy: you best recognize. The last time I saw some punk break a coffee cup, I popped him in the balls with my .45. If you doubt me, nigga, go ahead and step.

Representin' da Crustacea, y'all

But I’m not trippin’, even though this cook is playin’ mind games with my ass. These crab legs? Colder than the projects of Detroit. Eighth-a-mile. Holla. But you hear me, right? This punk can’t even use the microwave for The Perry — get his meal good n’ warm after a hard day of registerin’ packing receipts for The Man. Line cook: you best recognize or I’ll stab your ass. Seriously. I’ll stab you in your motherfucking ass with this butter knife. Don’t be trifflin’ with me.

So like I said, I’m the baddest motherfucker up in here. Rec-og-nize. By the way, any you niggas got two or three Washingtons? The Perry is short on his tip. After all, I gots a reputation to uphold.