I lack an entourage.
In a city as hip and happening as St. Louis, the lack of an entourage is comparable to the lack of one or more appendages in the jungle. Without an entourage, one will quickly be eaten alive in the wild (i.e Club Buca) and unable to spread his genes through mating.
I have not mated for many moons.
Therefore, I seek an entourage. More specifically, I seek persons to fill the following roles:
Hype Man
The Hype Man is responsible for hyping me. For example, when I enter a room, my Hype Man's job will be to state, loudly, that "Kyle S is inside the house, you all".
My Hype Man is also responsible for giving me mad props for anything I do that is remotely admirable.
In addition, whenever I verbally punk a gentleman, my Hype Man must place his left hand over his mouth and make a gang signal with his right hand. While performing these actions, my Hype Man must make a noise that sounds like "ohhhh, damn son".
Furthermore, whenever I defeat a foe at hand-to-hand combat, my Hype Man must inform my fallen victim that he has, in fact, been whupped yo.
Lastly, if Lou Dobbs attacks my position on NAFTA, my Hype Man must clearly and succinctly state my current views on the issue.
Muscle
The Muscle is responsible for dispatching punks and foes that I randomly encounter. The Muscle has several requirements: they must wear sunglasses at all times, they must be able to deadlift over 700 lbs, and they must have criminal records. Most importantly, they must at all times sport stoic expressions while folding their arms across their chests.
The Muscle is required to create situations such as the one pictured at a minimum of 3 times per night.
If I am verbally assaulted by a player-hater, the Muscle is responsible for breaking the offender's fibula into many pieces. Depending on the severity of the insult, the Muscle may also be required to assault the said offender's metatarsals.
Cut Man
My Cut Man is responsible for the prevention and treatment of any cuts that I may sustain.
The Cut Man must be over 60 years. He must have a trashy tattoo on his forearm. He is also required to smell like onions and wear sleazy silk shirts.
That's about it, as far as that goes.
Sound Man
My Sound Man is responsible for providing the proper beats (i.e. phat beats) for specific occasions. If, for example, I am engaged in a rap battle with a young upstart, my Sound Man must spin the correct beats. If I am embroiled in coitus with a mad fly honey, my Sound Man must provide the proper beats to complement the rhythm of my monkey-thrusting.
Should I frequent an establishment that already provides the necessary phat beats, my Sound Man must wait outside.
Please send your resume/references to ksauerwein@charter.net.
