The Stories

The Nugget Story

My friend Yankel told me about this site that translates web pages into different languages. Except it doesn't translate into foreign languages, but colloquialized English. Anyway, he sent me a version of the nugget story in 'pimp' and it was funny so I posted it. You can read the nugget story in pimp if you like. Read the regular version first, though:

The year is about 1991, and we had just finished a baseball game. So its, me, Brian Guiney, and Umair Suri and my dad had just dropped us off at the McDonald's in Englewood, New Jersey. This is not the most upscale McDonald's you can ever hope to see (not that any McDonald's is upscale, but this one is particularly un-nice). So we go in the McDonald's, and the entire restaurant is empty. The only people there were the guys who worked there.

So we get our food and we sit down. In the empty McDonald's. A few mintues later in walks this ghetto girl. We could tell she was ghetto because she had on a jumpsuit and had braids in her hair and those big earrings. You know, ghetto. So the ghetto girl is loud. She seems to know everyone who works there, and has a loud conversation with all of them. She eventually gets her food.

So after she gets her food, in the empty McDonald's, she takes a seat, right next to us. I had to get up to let her in. We thought that a bit odd, but kept on eating. The ghetto girl had a lot of food. Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, all that. Everything, it seemed, except Chicken McNuggets. A few minutes go by with idle conversation between Umair, Brian, and I and then all of a sudden, the ghetto girl moved into action.

In a voice attainable only by the ghetto, the ghetto girl inquired, "I could get a nugget?," while simultaneously reaching over to my tray, grabbing my Chicken McNugget and eating it.

We all looked at her, flabbergasted at what had just transpired. She looked back and said, "What?" There was nothing I could say, as my nugget was already gone, so I just let it go.

A few minutes passed. We were a bit surprised at the ghetto girl, but we kept eating. Then, after a bit of a pause, the ghetto girl's eyes brightened, and she asked, "I could have another one?"

"No," was my reply. This surprised the ghetto girl a little bit.
"Why not?"
"Because they're mine"
"Fine."

So, that was that. Minutes later, my father walked in. If you don't know my father, this part will need some explaining. My dad is a big black guy. I am not too big, and not too dark, and if we were in a crowded room, you probably wouldn't guess that my dad is my dad. So my dad walks in and starts talking to us. He is eating my french fries (he didn't ask either, but then again, he paid for them), asking us questions, he even mentioned something about the ghetto girl. After a while he goes to buy some food.

The ghetto girl was confused.
"You know him?"
"Yeah, he's my father."
"oh."

Several moments passed without comment. It was obvious that the ghetto girl was deep in thought. One of the great minds in history was churning away. Finally, the culmination of her thought processes was reached and a brilliant conclusion breached the surface.

"Your mama's white, right."
"Ahh, yeah."
"oh, ok."

I left McDonald's that day with one less nugget, but an entirely new outlook on life. If you ask me, it was a good trade.