As I rolled up to the curb around 7:30 in my solid platinum BMW 745 (to match my solid platinum grille), I noticed a lineup of mid-90s Honda Civics and riced out Acuras parked along the street.  Must be an Asian party, I thought to myself, so this had to be the right place.  It was going to be a peaceful, fun, wholesome night - much different than what I'm normally used to - so I told my entourage to leave their glocks in the car and to detach the rocket launchers that were bolted on top of my 745.  We'll need them tomorrow for all those annoying school kids that keep trampling on my lawn - but not tonight.  Tonight was 'her' night.  My nigz and I limped towards the front door and made our way upstairs...

 

The company consisted of a couple dozen of the Xanga elite - ballas and ballettes who brushed eprops off their shoulders like it was going out of fashion.  For the sake of their privacy, I won't mention any names, but Xanga whores - past and present - arrived for the special occasion.  Lifestyles of the rich and famous?  More like lifestyles of those who spend way too much damn time on their computers.  Murmurs of conversation topics ranging from the number of subscribers to comment whoring resonated throughout the dimly lit room.  I eavesdropped a little on two gals talking besides me: 

 

"OMG is that HIM?  That's Dan Chang, he's sooo cute, and check out that BULGE! lolz!"

"I slept with him a while back and that fucker gave me the clap: stay AWAY, girlfriend."

"Awww, that's a shame!  Anyways, I finally made it to featured content on Xanga's front page!"

"Big deal... it's just because you spam comments..."

"Well at least I have some actual content instead of posting half-nekkid pics of myself up."

"Makeup tutorials?!  You call that horseshit 'content?!' "
"Oh no you didn't, bitch!"

 

Before the ensuing cat fight could escalate, 'she' stepped into the room, and for a brief second, it seemed as if the world stopped.  With all due respect to the late Tupac Amaru Shakur, all eyes were on her.  Her magnetic radiance was undeniable, and it seemed to cause people to gravitate towards her against their will.  A beacon of luminence that when shined on me, caused me to forget about the irritating rash that had developed in my pelvic region, if only for a moment.  She was the center of attention, the life of the party.  And why not?  We were all gathered in her chic, metropolitan apartment for 'her' birthday after all. 

 

I stood in the back, watching the whole situation - all the birthday wishes, all the presents, hugs, laughter...  It all made me realize what a dumbass I was: I had forgotten her gift at home.  Aww shit, playa, you done fucked up now.  What to do...what to do...  Ah hah!  Clever is as clever does: I had the perfect gift for her.  It was so ingenius, and the inspiration so spontaneous, that I felt like Isaac Newton when that famous apple fell on top of his head.  But instead of spawning the origins of classical Physics, it spawned some nasty-ass gas that I was holding in.  That shit wreaked, but anyways, I knew what I had to do.

 

She was in mid-conversation, surrounded by a circle jerk of some B-level Xanga celebs, when I gently grabbed her arm and whispered into her ear, "Elle, I need to show you something.  Come outside with me."  She abruptly ended the chit-chat and followed me to the balcony.

 

I put my arm around her as we looked up into the breathtaking night sky, which was as clear as one of my fake urine samples right before a drug test.  "Look, Elle."  I pointed to the various stars speckled across the deep, rich, blackness.  I think I impressed her with my vast knowledge of constellations: "See, there's the big nigga, and right across from it is the little nigga."

 

"Uh, don't you mean the big dipper and little dipper?"  Yep, she was DEFINTELY impressed.

 

"Elle, I didn't want to give you just any old birthday gift that you'd just forget about the following week.  I wanted my gift to be memorable...and that's why I contacted the International Star Registry ( http://www.starregistry.com/) and named a star after you."

At first she was speechless, "Dan...I'm so touched.  You shouldn't have... which star is it?"

 

I think she sensed it a little when a sly grin began to show on my face.  I quickly turned around, unbuckled my belt, and pulled down my oversized FUBU jeans (and along with it, my matching oversized boxer-briefs), bent over, and spread my butt cheeks.  "I named my brown star after you.  Say allo to my stinky brown friend."

 

"You FUCKING jerk!!! Get your ass out of my apartment and take your low-life highschool buddies that you call your 'niggas' with you, you fucking ASSHOLE!!!"

 

I pulled up my drawers and ran out of there like I was being chased by the cops.  I looked back at her one last time.  "Happy Birthday, Elle."  I think deep inside, a part of her appreciated it.  It truly was a gift that wouldn't be forgotten the next week.

 

As my entourage and I stormed out of the apartment, the rest of the guests started throwing beer bottles and half-filled wine glasses at me.  We got our asses out of there quickly, but still made time to bolt the Rocket Launchers back on the 745 before we peeled out.  Damn, it ain't easy being a gangsta.