So boom there I was. No fit at all. I got finessed on my original fit and I’m sweating like a southern preacher in a brown John Witherspoon suit except ain’t shit coordinating.

How the fuck can I not have a fit for Art Mimosas and Pancakes? That’s like going to big momma house and ain’t no baked macaroni. Nigga that shit is god-less. If the fat on her arm hanging comfortably like a T.I fitted hat in 2004 then you expect macaroni. I could’ve pulled up in an icy white tee but it’s not the same. I had to move swifter than a nigga who owe niggas money and get a fit fast.

I ordered a shirt but the delivery time was a game time decision. I’m praying harder than a nigga who unsure if he got his side bitch pregnant. I checked my order status more than a nigga who check their refrigerator knowing they ain’t got shit to eat and praying some chicken appear. It was critical. I can’t have the sauce just sitting in a mail room. I needed the sauce delivered ASAP.

I tried to go on about my day so I had to start thinking bout a backup fit which meant I had to go to the place normal niggas go. The malls. I look at malls like McDonalds. It’s too regular and I’m a remarkable nigga. Niggas ain’t got mouf in a Macy’s fit since Trey Songz had them Boondocks braids. I’m walking around these malls like a shorty just sent me a 11:47pm “You’re gonna hate me” text. Sad as fuck. Face longer than 68 year old titties.

Of course I aint find shit in none of the malls mainly because I was paranoid someone would buy the same shit. God ain’t put me here to look like other niggas. I can’t have that. So I’m in my car driving and I do what a real nigga would’ve done. I got me a 6pc and just put my faith in the cajun wings that everything is gone be alright. Ate it in my car while listening to Jeezy Thug Motivation 101 Intro. Hearing “You gotta believe” over and over again while eating chicken was bringing peace to my spirit. Optimism takes over and I figured I gotta few shirts I ain’t wore in my closet so let me make something shake like a real one.

I pull up to the crib and what do I see? A package. I didn’t immediately celebrate. I still gotta try it on. I gotta see how it feel. Can I see myself drinking multiple mimosas in it? Does it feel right? Is the color as I expected? How will my cologne hit it? Will my “Ooh boy you smell good”second hug ratio streak still carry on? The pressure was definitely on but it was outta my hands. It was up to God now.

When I tried the whole fit on. I looked in the mirror and simply said “Numbers.” I felt resurrected like Ginuwine’s 106 & Park stretcher performance. I made a celebratory drink for being gorgeous as fuck, applied a face mask and turned on some D’Angelo. Let me relax until it’s time to slide and show St.Louis my skin glowing like Keisha thighs in the movie Belly.

I pull up already on that level. For some reason I felt like drinking Remy. I felt like drinking like a bougie hoodrat. So I was already saucy off the Remy and papaya juice. I smelled so good that I didn’t wanna get out my car. It was like hotbox with cocoa butter, jasmine tea, and Lori Harvey side titty. All pleasant aromas.

I walk in The Mad Art Gallery. First nigga I see is my nigga Vell. I knew it was gonna be a beautiful night. If you see an authentic nigga from jump you can’t lose the night. That’s how the universe works. I run into Seals right after. You see? Real ones back to back. I congratulate my dawg on another great art experience and walk in and do what I do. Get a few “I’m tryna get like you” compliments. I get caught in the ambiance of the art. I can’t believe my peers created these things. So many different visions and concepts. My nigga Rell had a Nico Robin mirror that was going crazy. Seals had a whole furniture set that look like some shit you’d see in that old Nickelodeon cartoon Kablam. Beautiful Photography. Paintings so fly that I’m guaranteed to bite a booty cheek on the first night if a shorty seen it hanging up in the crib. I seen a clock with St.louis staples on it. I thought that was too fye. All the artists showed out.

All the art I saw started out as thoughts and that’s crazy to me because we only see what’s finished. The amount of work that went into all the art I couldn’t fathom.

I needed a mimosa immediately. So I’m in line and this older woman talking to me. Just some friendly conversation and I find out she’s Seals older cousin. She buys me a mimosa because I mean look at me. Who wouldn’t buy me a mimosa with the fit I had on and I’m smelling like Chaka Khan and freedom? You think I would’ve got that free mimosa wearing a white tee? Maybe because I’m cute as fuck regardless but the fit was Steph Curry with an open 3, a higher percentage.

I didn’t get a pancake which continues the streak of never eating a pancake at AMP. They need to change the name to Art, Mimosas, More Mimosas cause that’s my experience. I buy some art and keep 2 mimosas in my hands at all times. The pancake line is like a portal. The pancake line is like Snake Way in Dragonball Z. That line longer than a white woman back.

I’m at the bar and I’m feeling good so I start spreading the love. I probably bought 12 people drinks. I was feeling like Ace Boogie. It’s love day. A plethora of beautiful women who look so good I’d pay off their debt. Timeless art surrounding us. Interacting with friends and new friends. AMP is an art show family reunion mixer. Whatever positivity you come there for you will get. It just felt right to buy the mimosa bar for friends and strangers. I ran my mouth for a couple hours, showed the artists love and then I dipped back to the spot.

Another AMP in the books. A lot of art was sold. Congrats to every artist involved regardless if you sold art or didn’t sell art you gained experience by being in one of the greatest art shows on the planet. That’s priceless right there. You got something for your portfolio. Do niggas even make portfolios anymore? Sound like some ultra professional uppity shit. Anyway, yall special. Keep doing what brings you joy.

As I’m on the highway with a Ayanna Heaven Soundcloud mix playing I think to myself “Another successful fit bussed.” I looked like I had 3 prom dates. I looked like a man surrounded by 20 shorties dancing to Daddy Yankee in a Puerto Rico Nightclub. My skin looked like I just left the “Remember The Time” music video. I smelled like cinnamon pie crust. My skin was softer than a Hawaiian sweet roll.

If I wear a fit at your event it means I respect the event. Art, Mimosas, and Pancakes knew what time it was with me. I’m a stepper. I don’t take the elevator. I’m coming with that shit on and I’m not wearing socks. My elegant ankles must be shown and by the grace of God, Chicken, and Fat Jeezy. I did just that.

Thanks Brock. Love you dawg.

Here are some icy pictures of The Art, Mimosas, & Pancakes Show from Marty follow him on Instagram @idunnomarty & @politevisualclub

Peace

Benny

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