Chad in Amsterdam - THWAPP!!! lyrics

Washington DC, circa 2008... After bidding farewell to the boy Sammy D and his sister Kate on their voyage to Martha's Vineyard, I went back to Harrison's crib to let the corned beef hash and corned beef omelet from the Florida Avenue Grill get broke up by enzymes and to even later, quite possibly, take a sh**. Chilling on the p**no couch, chiefing and getting my Nintendo DS on took a toll on this Econoline, so I put the head back and fell out for a few. I got woken up by Harrison's roommate and his crew, Wadeh the Devil's Advocate, Jomo the Party Facilitator, Tion the Weatherman and his girlfriend, Diana the Asian Girl So Fine That You Really Don't Wanna Look At Her Cause You Don't Wanna Disrespect The Dude She's With Who Just So Happens To Be Your Boy's Boy. They had been at Wonderland f**ing with the brunch and the bottomless Mimosas. Anyhow, bottles get to clanking, shots get to making, fools get to dranking. Fired up the grill and set up the Beer Pong table and commenced to playing some highly competitive matches. Sheena the Girl That Turns Girls Out came through while muthaf**as was on the topic of inters**ual relations. Diana thought that to have s** with someone, you should be in love with that certain someone. Me and Wadeh thought her to be completely inane. We was both on some no relationship type sh**; merely an understanding, a handshake and a swift reaming was all that was needed. Tion feigned sleep. Jomo suggested we play one last game of Beer Pong, but then he backed out and Sheena played my partner. Holding a ping-pong ball after a long unfinished Wimbledon-esque set with me and Sheena versus Tion and Diana with one cup apiece left I told the opposing team, “Listen. Nah, really. Listen. This was an incredible Beer Pong match. You guys are pros. This sh** should'a been on ESPN2. No matter who wins this sh**, I respect you two both as human beings and as Beer Pong players.” Then I sunk the shot. After that, we watched that new episode of Entourage when they made Medellín. I liked it. Not really sure what erryone else thought. Jomo, this time suggests we all head off to The House. For those that don't know, The House is a strip club on Georgia Avenue NW. They used to call it The Penthouse, but due to recolonization, they had to give the strip club a more “family-friendly” euphemism. Now the children of the neighborhood have no idea what goes on in there. Now, strip clubs really ain't my thing. I will however, go once in a very blue moon if that's the mob mentality. Sheena says she's never been to one. We says, “Sunday is the perfect night to go. It'll be empty and low-keyed. Plus it's late.” Sheena agrees and after Jomo throws up, we leave. Tion, Diana and Jomo walked there and me and Sheena drove in her car cause we got it like that. Me and Sheena get to The House and it looks like a rap video with budget constraints. There's only about 12 total people in The House. After I got frisked, they go through Sheena's purse and we get ushered over to the bar. The House's bar is below ground level; the bartender is right at fel**tio height. While there's no cover at The House, you do have to purchase a drink. I ask the bartender for two Sapphires and Tonic. Somebody's momma who was playing the bartender told me they ain't got no Bombay Sapphire. God damn it. f** it then, Tanqueray. We go and see the homies sitting by the stage up front. I ask Diana which one she likes the best and she points to the most fit girl of the lot. The House keeps some Clydesdales. I look at Sheena and she's got a look on her face as if evil is looming and has its cross hairs on her virgin eyes. Jomo leans over and tells me, “You see AI over there with the Corona?” What? A-who? I turn around towards the seating area just in front of the stage, and lo-and-f**ing-behold it's Allen Iverson, fellow Georgetown attendee. I only know of a single AI At Georgetown story that my boy told me. Evidently, my boy is in an upper level literature cla** and it's the day of the final. AI is sitting in the first seat near the wall, right by the door. All he has on his desk is a sharpened, yellow, wooden #2 pencil and a bluebook. That pencil better be pretty f**ing sharp, AI. The professor hands out the final and people get into it. My boy can't stop looking over to see what AI is doing. AI ain't doing sh**. Just chilling. My boy gets back to his final, not really being able to concentrate since he wants to know what Iverson is doing. He looks over again and AI's got his head down on the desk, kindergarten-nap style, with that pencil point sharp as a Tokugawa dotanuki and that bluebook with a fresh-a**, uncreased spine like the King James text in a Buddhist's crib. My boy says he has to fight laughing so he turns the opposite way in his desk so as not to get a glimpse of Iverson. After about a ten minute nap, AI, refreshed, gets up and leaves without the sharp #2 and the mint condition bluebook and he don't come back. AI is in The House with two of his homies. He looked more like a rapper than a basketball player. Oh yeah, that's right. He is a rapper. All three of them have a fresh Corona with the lime perched on top the bottleneck in front of them. AI was chatting with the lady that seemed to be running The House. She goes off to do AI's bidding as he reaches down into a mop bucket full of ones and grabs a wad of singles and flings them up on the stripper in front of him with the same face I used to have throwing salt on the driveway during the winter as a teenager. Then he does it again. The head of The House comes back with two more buckets full of what looks like straight from the mint singles. Three strippers are in front of AI's crew popping p**y to such a degree, you would have thought that they thought, “If we stop popping this p**y, we die.” All the while the crew keep throwing bales of one's at the ladies. I turn back to Sheena who really looks very disturbed. “You know that's Allen Iverson, right?” “Who's he?” “He used to go to Georgetown.” “Oh. Has he written anything I would have read?” “Write? He's a basketball player. They can't write, girl.” I look around the club and notice that back towards the mirror there are about five neat little mounds of ones all gathered up like leaves. I got up and tipped the stripper performing the farthest away from AI cause I felt bad for her. She wasn't within the ken of the flying singles. The girl was thick as hell and polite as only a stripper trying to get your money can be. She was like, “Thank you.” I'm like, “Nah. Thank you. You're the talented one.” Two dollars will buy you an F-350 getting shook in your face for 97 seconds. I'd say that's worth it. After I sat back down I decided to bully Sheena into tipping a stripper. Since she looked so uncomfortable I figured that it would do her good to fully immerse herself in the environment. After six minutes of coercion she finally apprehensively walked over and slinked a bill toward the girl that Diana thought was fit. She sat back down beside me and I ask her, “That wasn't that bad was it?” She's like, “It's weird. I don't think I'm this sort of person.” I smile at innocence destroyed and turn back to AI who is still flinging his McDuck stack to the strippers. There was one stripper bu*t-naked on her back with her thick-a** calves hoisted behind her shoulders, playing with her labia; all the while, steady popping that p**y. At that moment, AI's boy, the one closest to me who looked like Slim Thug, sprung out of his seat and with his right hand bent down and scooped up a grip of singles like a shortstop with no time to make the play with the gloved hand. Then he pulls up and whips the wad hard as f**, target dead-on, smack-dab, right at the stripper's p**y. The bills hit the coochie with a loud-a** “THWAPP!!!” and dollars go flying everywhere like the safe got blown. Singles was confetti flipping in air and then landing on the stripper and the stage. You'da thought Bush just won a third term in office. Homegirl was still popping that p**y, but she quit ma**aging her labia so she could grab the bills before they hit the stage. AI and crew thought this to be the funniest sh** since Martin and they all jump out their seats laughing loud as f**. “Now that's how you do ‘em!” yells AI's boy while triple-dapping up AI. I look over at Sheena and implement my super power, that being my keen telepathic abilities… (Now, what I had planned for this part was me implementing my "telepathic powers". While I don't actually have the benefits of telepathy (which could come in handy, especially with the ladies and gambling), I had planned to get a short 100-word response on the situation from Sheena herself and to put that in this very exact location. However, after 5 weeks of begging Sheena to write these one hundred words, it seems as if she's not going to do it. So, you guys, like me, will not know what Sheena thinks of strip clubs. Damn. The moral? Don't ask friends to do sh** for you cause they won't do so in a timely fashion.)