where the turf is real
We newlyweds had been living in the jumbo ashen crater called LA for only a couple of months after leaving New York. Back in Brooklyn, my fists put the landlord in the hospital after he called the new wife "stupid." Assault charges were dropped when I told the judge I was leaving the state and promised not to get slapped with any new assault beefs over the coming year.
Two lonely pebbles in the World's Largest Parking Lot, we decided to go out one evening and ogle a glam show at a crumbling palace near MacArthur Park. In the crowded auditorium, some pint-sized curly-haired cocksucker with black eyeliner who resembled the man in the Greek plate to the left bumped into the wife without excusing himself. I tapped on his shoulder and told him to apologize. Instead, he spit in my face and said:
"Why don't we take this outside, WHERE THE TURF IS REAL?"
The magnificent idiocy of this phrase always stuck with me. Whether outside or inside, on grass or AstroTurf®, he would have seen how "real" the "turf" was as he was being slammed into it. But, mindful of the clanging jail doors that would accompany another assault charge, I walked away.
I don't need to take out anymore punk nobodies who try to make a name for themselves at my expense as if I were Billy the Kid. I'm forty-two and still standing, fools. Your cowardly sucker punches haven't left a scratch. I've already proven where the turf is real.
It's wherever I walk.
