#i cannot explain just how much i wanna suck adrian's dick

[surelypovichjr]

Surely Gets a Brazilian, Part 2: Waxing Poetic On My Big Olympics Scoop

Part 1 of my Brazilian adventure can be found here.

Part 2

A plane touches down at Galeão International Airport. Amongst its passengers a writer, a great writer, a man, naturally. But this man is not just any writer—no— this man is a sportswriter, sent south undercover of night on a mission of remarkable import—to bravely type up an Internet article about athletic events played by young people.  

Of course, the man had been an athlete in his salad days; a backup point guard at Charles W. Woodward High in Rockville, Maryland. No slouch on the hardcourt, the boy averaged nearly several points per game—he set the team record for highest three point shot percentage in a season, with a damn perfect 100% accuracy on one attempt, in the final thirty seconds of a junior year thrashing of Whitman High—a school record that stands to this day. (Editor’s Note: Charles Woodward High School closed in 1987. Today, the building operates as Tilden Middle School.)

That being said, it was clear that the boy simply wasn’t cut from the same athletic cloth as his contemporaries, like DeMatha’s Adrian Dantley or even his teammate and one-time bar mitzvah partner, Chip Rosenbaum; a slew of physical detractments inherited from the boy’s German ancestors had taken its toll on his portly frame.

Dantley’s DeMatha squad. Guess who they lost to that one time? Yers Surely!

Chip would often poke fun at his friend’s grotesquely wide Silesian ankles and thin birdlike arms, which were viewed as a sign of attractiveness amongst the aristocracy of the 19th century Holy Roman Empire. In fact, the boy was thrown out of the Adas Israel Hebrew School when he joked that no one in his family had lifted a weight since his great-great-great-great grandfather helped build the pyramids at Giza. Despite its bald-faced ludicrousness, the veracity of this statement has yet to be overturned. 

Even though Chip would ceaselessly lampoon him, the two remained good friends for a time, even if they did constantly compete, and argue, oh how they argued! Constantly! Most of the times it was about mundane shit but other times, it got heated—like the time the two debated for six hours about which joint made the best matzoh ball soup in the Washington area. Chip was a Hofberg’s guy while his friend couldn’t get enough of the Silver Diner’s delicious piping hot broth—Chip couldn’t understand how one’s mouth could take such punishment. To settle the matter, the two spent all day playing hooky from school, driving all throughout the Washington area, avoiding truancy officers and tasting soups. Their disagreement remained...the friendship was never the same after that.

A 1950s menu from Hofberg’s Kosher Delicatessen. JHSGW Collections, gift of Ann Hofberg Richards.

Still, despite his horrifying asthma, the boy possessed a certain intelligence that more than made up for his Transylvanian feet and congenital gout. The writer had always played basketball with a mental grip that sometimes escaped the Chip Rosenbaums of the world, and as the years wore on and the modicum of athletic prowess that he thinly grasped bid adieu to his flabby fat fuck body, the man found that he retained the capacity to understand the idiosyncracies of the game, to comment on that which he could no longer do, to criticize those that could still perform, to yell and bemoan the way in which Adrian Dantley couldn’t hit a free throw to save his whore mother’s life.

Knock knock?

Who’s there?

It’s me, sportswriting, and I’m here to tell you that you are a natural fit for this profession.

The man was pudgy now but actually still very attractive in a weird I wanna fuck that old guy kinda way. Oh, If only he could be twenty in his sixty-seven years old brain! Why, the great writer would show these world class Olympic athletes a thing or two, no question, Carl. He'd probably fuck their girlfriends too...like he did Chip Rosenbaum’s steady behind the Bethesda Hot Shoppes after the Danny Gatton show in ‘78...but of course he could still totally make women orgasm a lot, a no-brainer given his legendary girth. His dick works very well, I'm told. But that is a whole host of other great stories the well-endowed man, who is actually me, will one day tell, obviously some names will have to be changed— legal reasons—ongoing cold cases—but that's neither here nor there.

The Hot Shoppes where I made it with this hot redhead who went by the name of Sherri Epstein after a Danny Gatton show back in ‘78. Ask for the Mighty Mo—fantastic burger—also the nickname for my crank.

Deplaning onto the tarmac, the veteran reporter finds himself smack dab in the middle of Brazil, sent to Rio over two years before any other sportswriter. Six hundred days. Six hundred days for one lone wolf to mush out ahead of the pack, to befriend the slighted, to lift up the downtrodden, and maybe, lend a helping hand. Sledding through the airport, the man stops to buy a sandwich, an exotic one he's never tasted before. The talented writer takes a long slow bite of the sandwich, which has some kind of sauce whose flavor he cannot place, unfamiliar and unArbys-like on his undiscerning sportswriter palate. Discarding the unsatisfying meal, he goes outside, where a dog, a husky mix of some sort, saunters up to greet him. The man looks with some curiosity at the puppy, who is slow and confused in returning his gaze. With a gentle shrug the dog takes a whiz all over the man’s polyester slacks...six hundred days left to go...so much for a leg up, I guess.

In line at the taxi stand, the writer suck into my nostrils some of Brazil’s finest air. Immediately I find myself wholly reviled by the fetid stench that has taken root in my deepest olfactory senses.

“Smells like corruption,” says the man, wretching on a second lungful.

Sherri Epstein. 

Waiting for me outside is a prepubescent punker holding a can of my favorite ginger ale.

“We meet again,” says a tall boy with strawberry hair.

“Yeah, uh, who are you?” 

“I’m Trevor, your photographer...I bailed you out after the thing with your child support and your altercation with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. You have to understand, I get bailed out of jail quite a bit for altercations with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Really?”

“Obviously not, what the hell is wrong with you? I’m a model fuckin’ citizen,” I say, swigging the ginger ale.

“Soo, you do remember me then?”

“Honestly. No.”

“Okay, well, if you wanna just follow me,” he says opening the passenger door to his rental car. “Bill sent me your flight itinerary and told me to scoop you up so we can get started. Only got a couple years til this whole Olympics thing starts, hehe.”

The writer has been married enough times to know that this will be a terrible match. Best for us to just go our separate ways now. Call the service, explain yer still under the warranty, and they'll send the gal back to one of the countries with a -stan suffix, no questions asked. That's the ticket.

“I don't need you or your fancy camera,” he tells his lame photographer.

“This is an iPhone,” he says.

“And this middle finger is an I-hate-you. Make like an omelette and flip, ‘fore I get mad.”

“No one’s gonna tie me down,” says the writer, as Trevor gets back into his car and drives away. Bill’s heard the stories. The man thinks he can babysit a Povich. The penis wheels on that guy, muses the man, shaking my head.

With the chaperone gone, Surely Povich Jr. is ready to plunge taint deep into my Rio adventure.

My first stop is the library, natch, where Yers Surely spends upwards of an hour doin hardcore research on everything blue, yellow, and green the colors that are on the Brazilian flag, I soon find out. There's also a River whose naming rights have been purchased by one of the world's largest online book stores—might this be the connection I need to root out the corporate corruptions? Time will tell. 599 more days to get to the bottom of it.

The librarian’s name is Isabel, a meek and pretty girl in that traditional sort of way. Isabel seems like a very simple girl, shy, but helpful, unconfidently pursing her lips even though she says that she’s been working here for a few years now. I nod and look into Isabel’s hazel eyes, which are obscured by a pair of bifocals, reading glasses, necessary for perusing the many books that are held in this library. Isabel laughs in a way that I like but cannot put my finger on, lilting with a femininity that I myself do not possess. Her hair is the color of a box of blonde hair coloring, blond and yellow, cropped into a nest at the top of her head with a pencil. She also had great cans.

“Call me Izzy,” she says, pointing me towards several key books on South American corruption.

“Most of these are in Portuguese,” I say, drawing a frowny face on one of the covers.

“You will have to compensate the library for the damage to the book jacket,” says Izzy.

Content with my progress, I decide that it’s time to knock on back to my Airbnb to smoke a ferocious doob.

“Hasta la an hour or so,” I tell my librarian friend.

Home is a five story walk up near the Copacabana. My grand nephew, Mike Kemp had found the place on the World Wide Web. the proprietor Jorge couldn't be a nicer guy. The minute I checked in he was offering me all the good stuff, killer Amazonian Broccoli, Yayo de Janeiro, and also some kinda hallucinogen made from a poison dart frog--I could already tell that Jorge was really a top landlord, even if he was a talking dolphin now, which I thought was a very strange choice to make on his part.

Stoned on frog dust, I check email to find a missive from long-time ladyfriend Sun Xi, or rather, her lawyer, one Warren M. Wagglestein:

Dear Surely,

As you are well aware, you have been deficient in your payment of child care and support for Ms. Xi and her child, Ping Povich. You are in arrears for back payments in the amounts of $4,674.89, pretty much all payments since you received the results of your blood test.

Mr. Povich, I understand that you are a sportswriter in an ever-dwindling media landscape of diminishing returns for your quality reporting on great men of sport. Nonetheless, it is our legal obligation to inform you that all wages earned within the United States or for U.S. based employers will result in the immediate garnishment of your wages for purposes of covering these back payments.

In essence, I strongly advise you not to return to the North Bethesda area. Sun Xi and I are very happy together-- we are engaged to be married at the Pooks Hill Marriott this spring. Moreover, your son, Ping, has begun studies at Brandeis University. He no longer wishes to be a sportswriter like his father. You can imagine that his mother and I are merrily elated at his wise decision to become an athlete.Young Ping is quite the swimmer these days. Very impressive.

Stay in Brazil, Surely!

Warren

What a mockery Ping has made of the Povich name! A fucking athlete. Truly a disgrace.

The Grosvenor Market, which I am no longer banned from frequenting. Stone’s throw from both my duplex and the Pooks Hill Marriott. I threw a stone at it one time after my Milano’s were all melted. I got banned cuz of that.

Putting down Warren’s letter, I can't help but think to myself what Dad would do in a situation such as this one. I remember the time he recounted the occasion of his big story on Ty Cobb. Of course, Dad hated that racist Cobb but not as much as he loved the way that openly proud member of the Ku Klux Klan ran those bases.

“It’s always important to remain objective,” Dad said. “The story is bigger than how much I hate Ty Cobb for being racially insensitive and beating minorities within inches of their lives. It’s about the baseball and how he ran those bases dammit. That's the story that needs to be told. Not the assaults on minorities. Leave that fluff for the tabloids. You're a sportswriter, son. That's a sacred thing.”

Dad was right about this responsibility...Which is why I decided to stick it out around Brazil to see what happened with the Olympic Games. Besides, My prospects for earning pay stateside were pretty much scuttled. As such, I did what I knew dad would to pay for Ping’s tuition. Not pay for it at all and Wait for the little fucker to age out of being a dependent...textbook Povich move. It was just like Dad’s many different families and my 10 half-brothers who came to contest his will back in 1998. Now that's what I call a family reunion!

“Surely, yer a chip off the old block,” Dad would say, if he were still alive and not floating above me in an ethereal amphibian induced hallucination.

“Thanks, Dad,” I'd reply.

I just remembered that one of my half-brothers is named Caleb...wonder how he's doing.

Still tripping my crank off, I get a yellow taxi cab back to the library, as there’s a hardcore skin joint next door, whose books boobs I wanna check out.

The City of Goddess is a gold medal strip club nary a stone’s throw away from the Biblioteca Nacional; it’s also very close to one of the modern world's most horrifying slums, which in Portuguese-speak are exotically referred to as horrifying favelas.

Indeed, many of the sex workers employed by the City of Goddess hail from these highly impoverished locales, where the money they earn stripping for members of the Brazilian Parliament and International Olympics Committee, are passed down to their families and those neighbors in need.

“Mr. Povich, is that you?” asks a stripper, in nuthin’ but a 100 years of solitude themed g-string.

“Hey Isabel!” I exclaim, recognizing my helpful librarian.

I watch as Izzy sashays her way down the catwalk, admiring her provocative bikini bottom that features the tired hand of an aged farmhand white knuckling a banana. Is it suggestive of a boner, perhaps, but also, the plight of unfair labor practices in the Americas.

Frog I tripped balls on.

“So Surely, did you find someone to translate the book on Rio’s corrupt political class that I placed on your workstation, earlier today?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance. Unless...”

“Meet me in the champagne room,” she replies.

“Sounds good Izzy. Are we gonna talk sex stuff. Maybe negotiate a price for services?”

“We can talk about that...or we can talk about...other stuff,” she says, grinding on my slacks, finally dry from all the dog urine that had accumulated earlier in the day. “For instance, in Rio, the poor and marginalized are never too far away from those places where millions of dollars in public money are being spent to build a volleyball stadium.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You're a reporter aren't you?

“One of the best!”

“Doing an exposé on corruption before the Olympic Games?

“I believe so!”

“So write that down.”

“That’s a good idea, Izzy. Say do you know where the guy with all the skirt steak went? He was just here a minute ago and, well, I guess maybe he’ll be in the VIP area.”

Sure enough, he is in the VIP area, where I bear witness to a schmorgasbord of greased palms. All around me are good looking men, the bourgeois upper-class of Rio mixed with the seedy underbelly of the city’s criminal classes, blended together in pursuit of big tits and the best all you can eat buffet this side of the equator.

“Be careful who you talk to, Surely. These are some heavy hitters,” says Izzy, cozying up to a table of men to pour them a bottle of expensive vodka. One of the men in the party seems to know my librarian friend better than the rest, and after a moment of whispering in her ear, he seems receptive to an introduction.

“Mr. Povich, Isabel has told me so much about you,” says a man, dressed dapper in pants that aren’t soaked in urine.

“Do I know you?”

“It’s been years Surely, but indeed we do.

My mind is clouded from jet lag and the psychotropic poison of brazil’s most endangered frog, but still somewhere in my deepest recesses I slowly look past the man’s impeccable tan. That smile. The chai necklace...

“I knew it was you...I recognized those East German ankles from across the club. It’s me, Chip Rosenbaum!”

“Holy shit!” I say, recognizing my old friend. “Chip, what the hell are ya doin’ here?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Well...you look great,” I tell him, “and I just gotta say, I'm truly sorry about that thing years back.”

“With Sherri Epstein?”

“Nah, with the soup. Though, I gotta be honest...I still maintain that Silver Diner had the best matzoh ball soup in the entire area at the time.”

“Surely, they never made matzoh ball soup at the Silver Diner...only chicken noodle.”

“Nah, I think you’re mistaken there. They made a wonderful broth. Way better than that shit they served Hofberg’s...not sure why you liked it but hey, that’s your journey, I guess.”

“Surely, that was never what I was mad abou...I...anyway, it’s water under the bridge...or rather, premature ejaculation with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, right?”

“Oh, I don't think that's what happened. I think I made it with her in the family Volvo and that we orgasmed together to completion a whole bunch, no? Anyway, let's let bygones be bygones, eh Chip?”

“Whatever you say, Surely,” says Chip, giving me a clap on the back. “Rest assured, as sure as you jizzed your slacks with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, I forgive you...and I also have your story. But first, a business proposition.”

Imagine this but in bikini form. You get the picture.

I wet my beak with a conga line of coke Chip had procured seemingly out of nowhere. Chip went on to ask me to go into business with him instead of penning a potentially inflammatory story about Rio’s underbelly of vice and crime. I had to admit, like the patented scoop shot that beat Springbrook High at the buzzer back in December ‘76, Chip Rosenbaum had just made one of his classic great points.“It’s a boring story,” I admitted. 

At this, Chip seemed very happy. He showed his joy by handing me several 50 real bank notes with an endangered jaguar printed on the back. I gladly took the money and spent it four and a half seconds later, foisting it affectionately into the garmented string of a nearby sex worker. I don’t think it was a bribe.

“So, Chippy-boy. What’s this big business proposition you got in mind?” “Tell me Surely, what do you know about...American Respectable Burger Yeasayers?”

“You mean...Arbyyyyy’s?...?”

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