Diced Pineapples

“And I ain’t no connoisseur but I’m kinda sure you will admire my taste, But before the sun graze ya, I’m tryin’ to see how deep you are, And believe me shorty I ain’t talking about no intimate conversation, I wanna see if I can make you reach things unobtainable, When I peek into your nature”—Wale(verse)

I don’t know where to start… After-hours work functions are always interesting. I’ve been with my company five years. One thing about D.C., we’re a transient city. In my tenure I’ve moved building four times, I’ve changed departments twice, I’ve lost co-workers, I’ve gained co-workers. Through it all I’m contactly surprised at what people reveal when they get a few drinks in them.

Granted at after-hours functions there’s a level of acceptable inappropriateness. There’s a thin line between he just looked at my ass to he just mentioned oral sex loudly, and publicly.

So we’re at the Nats game and a new member to the team, and the company, remarks to me and my girl D about the player’s hype song as they come up to bat. Players like Harper and Desmond walk on the field to some pretty hood music—considering the venue. This is understandable considering they’re young, rich, and famous. They’re whole aura revolves around making a statement.

Toward the bottom of the 7th inning, Newbie proceeds to ask us what our theme songs would be—making suggestions such as Spent It or Cashin’ Out. I’m quick to answer with the song, I Like by Young Swift. While D is still thinking, Newbie blurts out—I’d walk in to Diced Pineapples.


Lemme tell sumthin’ to you… when I say I wasn’t ready, that’s an understatement. D continues to look puzzled because she hasn’t heard the song. So I’m sitter there with the “you eat ass” face looking like a major ho and he looks like the “Here’s Johnny” pervert. His wedding ring shinning as he gestured emphatically. I turn my face around muttering to myself aloud: you aint ready, I aint ready, diced pineapples *rapid head shakes*.

Not wanting to be out of the loop, D begins to look up the lyrics on her phone. Soft puff of “oh, Oh, OH!” as the words get more—specific.

He on the other hand is trying to convince us of the poetry in Wale’s verse. “Yo, yo, but Wale he said I wanna do foreplay so long you call it five”. Oh yes folks, WA-LE, the modern day Marlowe.  “There were some great lines in that song—the whole first verse for example”.

Lines maybe, appropriateness definitely not.

Adamant of his accuracy, he pulls up the song on his phone, from his iMusic favorites probably, and shoves his iPhone right into D’s face—thrusting motions like a sparring dildo. “Listen you gotta hear it to know what I’m talking about, the lyrics alone don’t do the song justice”.

Justice was served Newbie, served on a flaming platter of “you’re a freak”. These are one of those times when you should just quit while you’re ahead. By the time he finished assaulting us with fresh produce it was the bottom of the 8th inning and we had, had enough. Quick exit stage left followed by a thorough recap of the previous innings antics. No baseball discussed on that walk of shame back to the metro, the game long forgotten as we swapped notes of the uncomfortable, awkwardness of too close proximity with a known stranger.

Just for future reference, know your limits at company events, lest you want to be crowned with an unfortunate nickname.

Diced pineapples indeed and I didn’t even get dinner first. The nerve! Humph!


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