What are you wearing right now? Something lacy, I hope. Me? I’m wearing my third leg, and her name is Melissa.
What I mean by third leg, is, everyone has a person or thing in their life that while not physically necessary, provides them with irreplaceable emotional comfort and stability. You become so content with having this extra part, that it eventually becomes an extension of yourself. Not a literal extension, but I did see Jamie Foxx upside down in Django… the thing went passed his head, it was an adult-leg-sized penis. Mythbusters says: Black man junk myth= Proven.
Back to my point, like lawyers and their jobs, artists and their pretentiousness, or single women and their cats, I have my Melissa. Why, you ask? The answer is simple, I don’t have a choice. She is so deeply rooted in my life that she has become my soul. And according to almost every religion, those things stick with you for a long ass time.
In fact, I have many additional limbs and organs in my life. If Melissa is my third leg and soul (weird, cool and forever there), my Mother is my third eye (see all know all), my Father is my second liver (gonna need that one), my Sisters are my third and fourth breasts (because why wouldn’t they be), my Fiance and my Brother would be my third and fourth arms (one for increased efficiency and the other to count more money with), my Nan would be my extra lung (or I would be hers, not sure who needs it more), my dog would be my extra face (not because we look-alike, but because I wish I could be that handsome), and my friends and extended family would be my second, third, fourth…and fifteenth ego (yes, even I want a spare few of those. Only for expansion purposes when people think it’s gotten inflated too much. There is no such thing as too much).
Fuck whoever said having emotional dependencies is a bad thing! With all these extra limbs and organs, I have become cooler and more balanced than any try-hard Hindu God. Take-that, Ganesh! What’s your elephant face got to say now? That’s what I thought.
On the topic of imaginary Gods, I heard today from the same possibly-completely-unreliable-Indian-person (deep breath and an eye roll) what the whole country’s third leg is. That every Indian believes they are born with superiority over vehicles. (Idiots). That walking across an intersection is your birthright. (Completely ridiculous). And cars must stop for you no matter what. (Who do you think you are, India?!) If a car hits you, people around the street will pull the driver out of their car and beat them to death. (There’s you’re answer.) So of course cars stop for you, you crazily irrational jay-walking lunatics! Now I know I’ve been hard on you lately, but guess what, India, today I give you a solid high-five. That is some messed up shit and I like it. But don’t get me wrong, we aren’t friends just yet. Oh, one more thing, India, my third leg is better than your third leg. Ya, I said it. Mine speaks Italian and I’m not saying mob, but I’m saying Mob.
So now you’ve gotten to learn a little bit of what I look like and why. I feel us making a real connection and am almost ready to let you touch my boobs. (Except for you, the one who when you saw “third leg” and didn’t think of a penis, we won’t be friends, I only like people whose heads are in the gutter as much as mine.)
Now that those people are out-of-the-way, feel them. Four boobs are better than two, right? And they’re real. Impressive, I know. High five…line it up! Clap! Cool, see ya later.