As I am sure you have realized after reading our blog, uber drivers are primarily named Mohammad. Therefore, I was incredibly shocked to have a tall, white male as my chauffeur after a night of too much tequila and extreme inebriation.
During our pleasant rendezvous back to my house, I struck conversation with Mr. White Uber Driver (who could still hypothetically be named Muhammad, which is the most popular first name in the world) as I always do. “Why are you white?” I asked. The Regina George in my head was on vacation and instead I was channeling Karen Smith with my dumb and unfiltered thoughts. He chuckled uncomfortably, as I imagine any other white uber driver would do. “Are you asking why I drive for Uber if I’m white,” he asked, the amusement in his voice encouraging our frivolous conversation.
So, like all the Uber drivers who fall under my spell, he opened his heart to me. Mr. White Uber Driver had made some bad judgements in the past. Despite being an excellent salesperson (of Cannabis), he was arrested and spent time in jail. I asked him if he got any tattoos while in jail, I honestly can’t remember his answer. I like to think he had an affair with a prison guard and got his name tattoed on his ass but that probably didn’t happen.
“There aren’t a lot of jobs for ex-cons,” Not-Muhammad told my sadly and my heart ached thinking about all the documentaries about the prison system, specifically Clinton’s 3rd Strike ruling of the 90s. Thank you Netflix for educating the masses.
“How much do you make?” I asked. Money always occupies my thoughts, sober or not, and the excessive tequila in my belly didn’t help to control my speech. Not-Muhammad didn’t mind my question at all (probably because I’m pretty) and told me he got that question quite frequently. Apparently, driving for Uber can be a very lucrative career. I took a mental note of this for my next downward spiral.
Toward the end of our expedition, his voice progressively got lower (an unconscious sign that he wanted to bone me). I profusely apologized for my brazen behavior explaining it was due to too much tequila and possibly an excessive amount of recently legalize marijuana. This brought a cheery smile to his White Uber Driver face, he had an idea.
“You know if you ever need some weed, I am your guy,” he told me with a goofy grin. To which I replied, “Honey I don’t buy weed, it’s called The Boob Rule.” This was my mistake. While true that attractive women should not (and do not) need to purchase Marijuana (unless they smoke in excess), this rule does not come without obstacles. For one, incessant flirting can only go so far. Eventually said girl becomes a tease or a whore, it’s a tedious line to walk on and as of recently I have conceded to purchasing the majority of my Cannabis (though the boob rule does get me excellent wholesale prices). Not-Muhammad had not heard of the boob rule and I explained it to him, “When you have tits like these you don’t buy weed.” This was perhaps going too far, but just like Karen Smith I have discovered that my boobs have magical powers.
“If you ever want some good weed, here’s my number.” Jackpot. Except I never take numbers, I only give them. When I told me this, he immediately asked for my digits. It wasn’t until I entered my bedroom that I considered the scenarios of smoking weed with my uber driver. It could only lead to one thing: sex. Did I really want to fuck my uber driver?