In nineteen-eighty-motherfuckin-nine I was in the fifth grade. Straight ballin. Michael Jordan was (and will always be) the greatest player of all time. If your dumb ass is too young to understand that and is even thinking about saying the word Lebron in my online presence, then stop and punch yourself in the face. Seriously. So I had begged my parents for a year to buy me a pair of Jordans and after my slave-driving dad forced me to mow his piece-of-shit 2 acre lawn like 10 times, he finally agreed. We went to the store, strapped those shiny bitches on my feet (2 sizes too big because my parents were cheap as hell), and headed home with a smile on my face. This would be my year.
The next morning I rolled to school in them, wondering how they would be received. My expectations were annihilated when this dumb fat kid in my class ran up to me and screamed at the top of his lungs “HOLY SHIT YOU GOT THE JORDANS! YOU’RE AWESOME!” I tried to play it off like I was embarrassed by the spectacle caused by his fat face, but really, I was thrilled with his incredible instant mass marketing campaign. Within seconds, all those jealous motherfuckers knew what was up. Even with my striped socks pulled up to my knees and showing more thigh than any young boy ever should. I felt like I could fly.
The next year, I got a new pair, and the year after, in 1991, I got my last pair of Jordans. Murdered-out in black suede. It felt like a members-only jacket on my goddamn feet. I never wanted to take them off. Unfortunately, after three generations of being fucking sweet in the halls of my middle school, the novelty had worn off. I realized what a dickhead I was for forcing my parents to spend their hard-earned 401K money on a pair of shoes that didn’t increase my vertical jump by even a millimeter and certainly didn’t help me achieve my dreams of playing pro ball. So I never bought another pair again.
Until now.
“I popped a semi in my shorts.”
Yea, I said it. It’s 2014 and this year I celebrated my first father’s day. I was casually perusing (yea bitch I said perusing) the Nike website like I always do at work, and came across these. Retro Jordan 1’s in black suede. Damn. Now I really don't know why I did it, but the only thing I could think was, why the fuck not? I’ve worked my whole damn post-collegiate life, saved every dollar I had like a stingy Scrooge-McDuck-ass bastard, and I’m celebrating something special. So fuck it. I waited 6 short months until they came on sale (bitch, I don’t pay retail) and fired up my AMEX Costco card hard when they finally did.
Not gonna lie. I'm older, wiser, and don’t give a shit about material fucking goods. But when that box came in the mail, and I slid my feet into the Country Crock-spreadably-soft suede of them shitz, a smile hit my face and I popped a semi in my shorts. If only I had still some JNCO stovepipes to pair with these bitches. 25 years later and they’re still fuxable.
This will definitely be my year.