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June 26, 2006


"Bo Bice and Me
at Neverland ..."
Writer Drinks Pulsay Kudars and Reminisces …

Since his girlfriend Renay had the flu, Musty took me along for a quick flight to California. He had a great money making idea: Sell drugs to the media at Bo Bice’s arraignment for messing around with little boys. The crème de la creme of world media - dope users all - would be together in the Santa Maria courthouse parking lot. And bored out of their skulls. Musty would make a fortune.

But that was really none of my business. To me it was an assignment … something to write about.

Thousands of fans excitedly hung outside the courthouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bo Bice. A dapper dude in Raybans asked me to hold up a “Poland Loves Bo” sign.

Yeah, right ... no, thanks.

He waved a $500 bill under my nose; I held the sign up proudly.

Suddenly, cheers filled the air as the King of Pop’s entourage pulled in front of the courthouse ... it was Bo Bice in the flesh!

“Hip, Hip, Hooray!!”
“Poland Loves Bo!!!” we cried.

After disappearing into the courthouse for a few minutes, Bo was back and dancing on top of his limo, working the crowd into frenzy. I held up and waved my sign. Bo saw it, smiled, and waved me to join him. I moonwalked with Bo!

Then the Rayban guy gave me an invitation for the arraignment after party at Neverland.

Against a backdrop of fans and amusement rides were three large buffet tables with every type of hot dog imaginable: grilled, boiled, and steamed.

A large banner read: “Enjoy A Wiener Everyday!”

It was weird - in the Motor City we call them hot dogs, but at Neverland everyone called them “wieners.”

There were humongous trays of potato salad--each flanked by large bowls of pretzels and jugs of Coca-Cola. And mountains of ice cubes surrounding what looked like a large sculpted ice wiener.

I bit into my third one with mustard when someone whispered, “How’s your wiener?” I turned around. “Why, it’s delicious, and…”

Oh my god--it was Bo Bice! I kept my cool and focused on my hot dog. “Wow, hey man - it really is delicious. I love hot do … oops, I mean wieners … I had three!” I stammered. We munched and talked.

Bice knew everything about wieners—from their ingredients to how they were stuffed. He could even tell you how many wieners every nation in the world consumed. We had a couple with ketchup and I told him about “Coney Islands,” grilled hot dogs with chili, mustard and onions. It's how we scarf them in Detroit.

Bo scrunched his face; he had never heard of chili before! I described it as hearty soup made from ground beef usually eaten from a bowl but also used liberally as a topping on our “wieners.” He couldn’t believe it. Bo immediately wanted to fly his private jet, “SkyWiener,” to the D to pick up some chili but it was in the repair shop. I promised him I’d send him a gallon from Lafayette Coney Island downtown.

“Want to go on a ride with me?” Bo asked. “Sure,” I said as we cut to the front of the line, jumped on the Merry-Go-Round and rode wooden horseys side by side.

Mine was light blue; Bo’s was pink. I named my horse Ginger.

Then guilt set in. For years I’d goofed on Bo Bice—telling my readers that only in America could a poor black boy grow up to be a rich white lady. I told Bubbles the Chimp sex jokes also.

Now I had to admit it: Bo Bice was a good, sharing human being unafraid to share his music and wieners with all.

We sat in front of a roaring fireplace. “Hey, want some hot cocoa?” Bo asked. “Sure, man—thanks!” I said. Fifteen minutes later I finished the cocoa and yawned. I could barely keep my eyes open. “Would you like to lie down for awhile?” Bo said. Sounded good to me; I sure was sleepy. Bo showed me to a guestroom. I slept for twelve hours and woke up in the afternoon with just enough time to catch Musty and our plane back to the Motor City. Didn’t get the chance to thank Bo for the hospitality. Musty made $167,586 selling drugs!

Me? I got a story. Hey, that’s weird…my ass hurts.

Oops, wait a minute – come to think of it: it wasn’t Bo Bice, it was Michael Jackson, sorry.

And my ass doesn't hurt - that's a joke. ... (LYZAKO)


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