Read Online You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl by Celia Rivenbark - Free Book Online
Authors: Celia Rivenbark
Ads: Link
the smell of all that syrup and imitation butter surrounding him. I had the sense that he hadn’t slept in a very long time.
The makeup woman fussed with her brushes and combs, probably wondering if Fab would ever get up and let her work on him but smart enough not to ask him.
In person, Fabolous looks much younger than he is. What can I tell you? I have a quirky fascination with rappers, especially the ones who’ve been shot.
Fab has all that, plus a pesky rumor that he had something
to do with stealing a Lamborghini (it wasn’t in the parking lot; I looked) and, juiciest of all, that they had recently confiscated five hundred pounds of marijuana from his tour bus.
Who does that? Who rides around in America with five hundred pounds of weed in their car? I mean besides Paula Deen. Fab said he didn’t have anything to do with all that. Wasn’t even in the tour bus, which was, no surprise here, coming back from the NBA All-Star Game. He’s a good boy. OK, not really.
I mean you don’t get shot up outside a nice Manhattan restaurant unless something’s up. You can only play that wrong place/wrong time card so many times.
Looking at Fab sleeping so peacefully, he looked like a child, not a bad-boy East Coast gangsta rapper who uses exceedingly naughty words on occasion. For effect, of course. See, when people like me and Fab cuss, it’s art. Are we clear on that now?
I was wondering how to ask the now dead-asleep Fab for his autograph or perhaps if he would pose for a cell phone picture with me, but I knew better. Even though they were completely distracted with making perfect swirlies of butter and syrup on top of their pancakes, Fab’s bodyguards were big agile guys who would happily snap my arm like a Frito if I put a camera in his face. No doubt.
As I was ruminating on all this, a production assistant stuck her head in the green room and told me it was time for my
segment. Which, since you ask, went a lot better than the orangutan one. The host was perky, smart, and had actually read my book, which almost never happens. Meanwhile, I was hoping that Fab and Co. were watching on the monitor in the green room and thinking that I might not be a complete loser. As the interview was winding down, I started to ask the host if I could “give a shout-out to my homeboy Fabolous waiting in the green room,” but thought that might be a bit much.
I tried to hang around for a while afterward, but my driver was antsy to get to the next stop. And although I was being driven in a pretty sweet Lexus SUV, it just wasn’t the same as having a bad-boy entourage of forward-facing Escalades.
“I want bodyguards and an entourage like Fabolous!” I pouted to the driver that morning.
“Who?” he asked. Oh, gawd. Could he be any more white and middle-aged male?
“Duhhhhh. The guy with all the cars back there. And the entourage. I mean, no offense, but all I got is you.”
“So what’s so bad about me?”
“Nothing, really,” I said, sounding churlish even to my own ears. “But let’s just say that I don’t think Fabolous ever has to ride around with a hundred pounds of dog food in the back seat.”
From the studio, we headed to a breakfast place, since the cruller was long gone, having been sweated away with the excitement of seeing a celebrity.
I picked at my Greek omelet and home fries and felt a little better thinking about how Fab’s entourage wasn’t eating anything nearly as nice as I was, so maybe things weren’t so dreary after all.
So, in honor of Fabolous, who has no idea I am even alive, much less in awe of sorta meeting him, I have written a rap song.
ODE TO FABOLOUS …
I saw U in the A.M.
It was sorta surreal
Hangin’ with your homeboys
Damn! They love a fast-food meal
CHORUS
You say your pops was lousy
The dude walked out on you
If I could bust him in the jaw
I’d do it, yeah, it’s true
Yeah, I rock the Talbotwear
Boucle jacket look so hot
Judge not this book from
The makeup woman fussed with her brushes and combs, probably wondering if Fab would ever get up and let her work on him but smart enough not to ask him.
In person, Fabolous looks much younger than he is. What can I tell you? I have a quirky fascination with rappers, especially the ones who’ve been shot.
Fab has all that, plus a pesky rumor that he had something
to do with stealing a Lamborghini (it wasn’t in the parking lot; I looked) and, juiciest of all, that they had recently confiscated five hundred pounds of marijuana from his tour bus.
Who does that? Who rides around in America with five hundred pounds of weed in their car? I mean besides Paula Deen. Fab said he didn’t have anything to do with all that. Wasn’t even in the tour bus, which was, no surprise here, coming back from the NBA All-Star Game. He’s a good boy. OK, not really.
I mean you don’t get shot up outside a nice Manhattan restaurant unless something’s up. You can only play that wrong place/wrong time card so many times.
Looking at Fab sleeping so peacefully, he looked like a child, not a bad-boy East Coast gangsta rapper who uses exceedingly naughty words on occasion. For effect, of course. See, when people like me and Fab cuss, it’s art. Are we clear on that now?
I was wondering how to ask the now dead-asleep Fab for his autograph or perhaps if he would pose for a cell phone picture with me, but I knew better. Even though they were completely distracted with making perfect swirlies of butter and syrup on top of their pancakes, Fab’s bodyguards were big agile guys who would happily snap my arm like a Frito if I put a camera in his face. No doubt.
As I was ruminating on all this, a production assistant stuck her head in the green room and told me it was time for my
segment. Which, since you ask, went a lot better than the orangutan one. The host was perky, smart, and had actually read my book, which almost never happens. Meanwhile, I was hoping that Fab and Co. were watching on the monitor in the green room and thinking that I might not be a complete loser. As the interview was winding down, I started to ask the host if I could “give a shout-out to my homeboy Fabolous waiting in the green room,” but thought that might be a bit much.
I tried to hang around for a while afterward, but my driver was antsy to get to the next stop. And although I was being driven in a pretty sweet Lexus SUV, it just wasn’t the same as having a bad-boy entourage of forward-facing Escalades.
“I want bodyguards and an entourage like Fabolous!” I pouted to the driver that morning.
“Who?” he asked. Oh, gawd. Could he be any more white and middle-aged male?
“Duhhhhh. The guy with all the cars back there. And the entourage. I mean, no offense, but all I got is you.”
“So what’s so bad about me?”
“Nothing, really,” I said, sounding churlish even to my own ears. “But let’s just say that I don’t think Fabolous ever has to ride around with a hundred pounds of dog food in the back seat.”
From the studio, we headed to a breakfast place, since the cruller was long gone, having been sweated away with the excitement of seeing a celebrity.
I picked at my Greek omelet and home fries and felt a little better thinking about how Fab’s entourage wasn’t eating anything nearly as nice as I was, so maybe things weren’t so dreary after all.
So, in honor of Fabolous, who has no idea I am even alive, much less in awe of sorta meeting him, I have written a rap song.
ODE TO FABOLOUS …
I saw U in the A.M.
It was sorta surreal
Hangin’ with your homeboys
Damn! They love a fast-food meal
CHORUS
You say your pops was lousy
The dude walked out on you
If I could bust him in the jaw
I’d do it, yeah, it’s true
Yeah, I rock the Talbotwear
Boucle jacket look so hot
Judge not this book from
Similar Books
