The Sports Bizzo

Bonjour, Ladies and Gents. In case you’re not familiar, “Bonjour” is French for “Sappinin?!?!” What can I say? I’m a man of many languages…an international, debonair icon of multi-culturalism and success.

Out of all the languages I speak, it goes without saying that my favorite is the language of love. I was born fluent in it, I’ve written most of the dictionary on it, and I’m pretty much a walking thesaurus of carnal sophistication. You’ll all come to find this out in time and the more you read my How-To Guides. Just wait until we get to the one on romancing the ladies.

For now, though, I don’t want to start you off with anything too complicated. I mean, after all, if we started off with romance? That’d be like crossing home plate after a game-winning, bases loaded jack in the ninth inning without the glory of rounding the bases first. You dig?

So…shopping.

First rule of thumb is that you need to look incredible while you’re shopping. If I had my say, you’d all be rocking the flat-top fade haircut that I rock. The trouble is, though, that most of you (well, all of you) just wouldn’t look as intensely outstanding as I do with it. So, just make sure you’ve gotten a haircut within the last month or two. And no Supercuts, alright? (Looking at you Rich Aurilia.) And no Flowbees. And put some product in it. Paul Mitchell products basically make the world your oyster.

Second rule of thumb is a general mantra that I want you to have in mind while shopping. Shopping is not about needing something and going out to get it. It’s not about buying articles of clothing, or furniture, or groceries that will actually better your life or sustain you. If you think that? Well, you’re an idiot. Shopping is ALL about selling yourself to the world and picking up members of the opposite gender (or the same gender, depending on your preference. I’m cool with gays. A-Rod?). You go shopping to show people you have money, to look good while doing it, and to make men and/or women desire to be your arm candy.

Case in point. I went shopping yesterday for underwear. Did I need underwear? No f-ing way. I’ve got more underwear than the Hanes factory. But, what I did need? Ladies. Lots and lots of ladies. Unlike underwear, you can never have enough ladies. So, I put on an Armani suit (sans underwear, in fact), my Armani shades, my Armani loafers, grabbed my Armani wallet filled with literally thousands of dollars in Benjamin’s because that’s how I roll, picked one of 1,056 different Rolexes I keep at my massive New York apartment, and called my chauffeur.

I have Tyson (that’s my chauffeur’s name…see? Even my chauffeur’s name exudes success) drive up and down Madison Ave. a few times, just so I can make my presence felt. I want people wondering “Who is that in the blinged-out Bentley? He must be rich and famous and incredible in the bedroom.” Which I am, mind you.

When I’ve attracted enough attention, I have him pull up in front of some incredibly posh and expensive store (I don’t even remember which one because they all blend together after a while when you’re as wealthy as I am) and I get out of the limo and stretch. Stretching is key because it makes you seem relaxed and shows how agile and buff you are, especially when you’re wearing Armani with a tight t-shirt underneath because, let’s be honest, this stuff fits like a glove. I look around casually, only making eye contact with 9.5’s and above, slip a Benjamin in Tyson’s hand (for the look), and strut into the store.

The store attendants, of course, are already holding both doors open for me. I mean, of course they are. I’m Jeets. They’d better be holding them both open. They’d better be holding a lot things open, if you catch me drift.

I eyeball some of the more attractive attendants, even though I have no intention of getting anywhere near them. But, you want them talking. You want them gabbing to their friends and to other customers about how purely perfect you are because word WILL get around. And in the event that there are some nice mamis in there, they’ll flock to you like bees to honey. Plus, let’s say I strikeout (HAHAHAHAHA, I know, ridiculous, right? I NEVER strike out…in love or in baseball, but let’s say I do for argument’s sake). If I strikeout, I have every single one of the attendants as backups. You know, kind of like relief pitchers. Relief pitchers are never the best. If they were, they’d be starters or closers. But, they still can be really good. And they can still get the job done. And so can attendants.

Anyway, where was I? That’s right…strutting into the store. So, I walk in and eyeball all the hotties. I walk by a few racks of clothing and only stop touch stuff I know is the most expensive stuff in the store. I’m not interested in t-shirts or cuff links or anything unless they’re made of platinum and covered with diamonds and lying on the floor next to my bed while I making it happen with eight women at once. No. I’m only interested in Persian Cashmere and the most outrageously priced leather goods…so those are the only things I’m going to stop and look at. Honestly, if I’m looking at socks? That’s just not going to get the job done and people are going to be like “Jeets? Looking at socks? Doesn’t he have better things to do?” And they’re right. I do have better things to do. And better ladies to do, as well.

I look at a few price tags and casually remark “That’s it?!?! Man, this place is going downhill,” to which all the ladies giggle and the store manager replies “Oh, Mr. Jeets, we can special order some things if you need.” I decline, don’t say thank you (saying thank you makes you look weak and makes you look like you’ve never been down that road before…and we all know I’ve been down every road and back again…twice), and keep walking to the back of the store.

I finally arrive at the underwear section and pick up a package of silk boxer briefs, the most expensive ones there. I scoff and toss the package on the floor (because the more you scoff, the richer you look). The manager runs over and picks up the package and apologizes again, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jeets. Are these not to your liking? I can see if we have something else in the back?”

I ask for the package back. She obliges. I throw it on the floor again. Then, I say “Listen, sweetie. I already know what you have in the back. And it’s not enough for what I’m dealing with here.” At this point, I grab my dong and give it a little jostling and then wink at her. I think she pretty much fainted and had an instant ‘gasam.

At this point, the whole store is basically falling all over me. I’m looking through the underwear section, throwing stuff on the floor left and right. Finally, I find a pair of jet black, silk boxer briefs (boxers are for teenagers and briefs are for hot girls only, by the way, but boxer briefs are the best of both worlds…kinda like Jeets is the best of both worlds…heaven and hell). So, I turn to all the ladies just drooling at me and ask “You ladies mind if I try these on?” Everybody knows, obviously, that you can’t try underwear on. You shouldn’t have to. But when you’re built like I am, you don’t mind trying…and you never know if they’ll be too small.

I can see the manager hesitate but she finally concedes when all the other ladies in the store beg her. So, what do I do? I just drop ‘em. Right in the middle of the underwear section. And remember what I told you earlier? That’s right. I’m not wearing any underwear under the Armani.

Needless to say half the girls passed out immediately. The other half haven’t been able to close their eyes since. And all of them probably broke up with their lame boyfriends shortly afterwards. For them, it’d be like looking at a newborn’s body in comparison to mine. I’m pretty much like the statue of David, only mulatto, and buffer, and more hung.

After trying on the boxers and modeling them for the girls for a while, I decide I don’t need them after all. So, I toss those casually on the floor, too, and start walking out. The manger doesn’t care because she’s still in a state of shock from how great I looked bottomless.

And guess what happens as I’m about to leave? Mariah Carey and Alyssa Milano, who just so happened to be watching everything from afar, run over and grab one arm each and escort me back to the Bentley. I ask Mariah if she’s still with Nick Cannon just to be polite, and she responds “That clown’s got nothing on you.” And I say “Cool, baby.” The rest of that night is reserved for the How-To guide on romance I was talking about earlier. Stay tuned.

So, my friends and fans, the moral of the story is this: shopping is about being beautiful. It doesn’t come as naturally to anyone as it does to me, but then neither does anything else. Just watch me on the baseball diamond. No one looks half as good or makes it look half as easy. I’m like A-Rod and Beckham and Tiger all rolled into one, except without Tiger’s nerdiness, without A-Rod’s post-season habit of choking, and with double the “talent” that Beckham has hiding under those soccer shorts.

Shopping for all you ladies and gents won’t be this easy. But, it doesn’t have to be hard either.

Look good, stay casual, and wear some of my cologne while you’re at it. Jeets cologne has the same effect on ladies and gentleman, alike, as a mixture of grain alcohol and ambrosia would. Actually, those are the exact ingredients. Ambrosia and grain alcohol. Plus, you can find it at Avon. Yeah, I know.

Stay beautiful, people.
I know I will.

Jeets, OUT.