You may well have received a drunken text from me around midnight last August exploding with glee after just having met my hero and new best friend muthafuckin Iron Mike Tyson. The details of this remarkable and historic meeting have thus far been kept secret from the public, so as to not inevitably cause the breakdown of society with mass-rioting in the streets of ecstatic droves of people chanting, marching, and making signs expressing how happy they are for me…until now.
I went to see Tyson’s one-man show in New York, but much to my chagrin I found out that I didn’t have the proper—and way the fuck more expensive—golden ticket that ensured a meet-and-greet with the champ after the show. Unfortunately, nobody told me this undeniably life-altering experience was even possible. Now had I known such tickets were available, I would have gladly sold my grandmother into slavery if that was the required price, but I found out too late and, alas, it appeared Tyson would have to suffer the crushing disappointment of never having the pleasure of meeting me.
Well I couldn’t let the champ down. I cleverly stuffed every red cent I had brought with me to New York into my pockets and marched to the theatre determined—nay, destined—to meet Iron Mike. After initially finding my seat I zoomed around to every worker in the place I could find, inquiring about the possibility of an encounter with the legend. Did I have the proper magical ticket? Why no, but you see nice middle-aged lady, I am willing to commit murder before I leave this theatre tonight without at least shaking Mike’s hand.
Such a ham-handed approach was somehow not working, and as the theatre lights dimmed I sprinted to my seat and vowed to try a different strategy during the intermission.
Meanwhile, Tyson’s show was, I gotta say in all modest honesty, the greatest fuckin thing in the history of the universe. But as I orgasmed with delight in my seat I couldn’t help feeling the gnawing anxiety that I still had a difficult and dangerous mission to perform. There hasn’t been a more determined man in a theatre since John Wilkes Booth. Then bam. Intermission. I tore down the aisle to try another go-round with these imbeciles when suddenly I spotted my everlasting savior: a black dude in a beret.
Now at first glance, the phrase “black dude in a beret” may seem confusing, even troubling, but a black dude in a beret who looks smooth, who indeed looks like a man who should don such outlandish headwear, is a dude who can get things done.
I motioned to the side slyly, indicating that I speak beret, and said in a hushed whisper, “I’m trying to see Tyson but I don’t have one of those tickets. I was wondering if my friend here Mr. Washington could help straighten things out.”
Well it went something like that. The dude looked back over his shoulder equally slyly before saying while holding out his palm, “Hundred bucks.”
I literally could not have ripped the money out of my pocket fast enough. If he had said a thousand bucks I would have forked it over instantly. If he had asked for a kidney I’d have given it to him.
“Aight, when they go to see Tyson, I’ll just sit you in the back,” The dude said. “Just chill and I’ll come get you when it’s all set.”
Word. I floated back to my chair deliriously happy and was enthralled and amazed by the rest of Tyson’s masterful performance. After the show I breathlessly informed my companions that I was going to go meet Tyson and to not bother waiting for me. Oddly, I ran into High Pitch Mike from the Howard Stern show by the bathroom and surprised myself by remembering his last name when I said hello. But who gives a shit about him, I was going to go see Tyson!
I met up with Mr. Beret and true to his word, he sat me in the back of the row of theatre seats where the Golden Ticket people were waiting. As each row was called like cattle I fidgeted and squirmed in my chair with anticipation like a three-year old with a coke habit. Unfortunately, the fact that my hero was being subjected to a never-ending carousel of dipshits made the wait seem eternal. And then it was time. The final row was called and I trotted to the back of the line: the last man on the Tyson train.
When the schmoe in front of me was finally done, I stepped forward and before I could shake Tyson’s hand he exclaimed, “Mulligan! Holy shit I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“Easy Mike settle down,” I said calmly while simultaneously signing an autograph for him. “I just rolled through to say you’re the fuckin man.”
“Wow Mulligan,” Tyson said, as his eyes welled with tears of joy. “Coming from you that really means a lot. Say, why don’t we go tear this fuckin shithole town to smithereens?”
And we partied and laughed and sang together into the wee hours of the morning.
So thank you Mr. Black Dude With A Beret, whoever you are.