Oftentimes people will ask me what it’s like to live in the city of New Orleans… Well, I know I’m living in the heart of New Orleans when I walk outside my front door to find a black guy face down in the middle of the street, long dreads pulled back into a ponytail, his bare, naked ass pointed straight to the sky, and my best friend standing over him, arms outstretched as if to say, “I don’t know how it happened, but look what I found.”

At this point in the story, I’d probably say something like, “Let me start from the beginning…” But, for me, that sight WAS the beginning. Let’s start from my best friend’s beginning.

Apparently, just before I walked out of my apartment, Victor Dooley had an altercation with this man who’s now lying face down, ass up in the middle of the street in front of my house, with his urban accessories (a royal blue, straight-billed baseball cap, a brown paper bag, and a washcloth) scattered about.

According to Dooley, he was crossing the street, headed to my place, when this guy on a bicycle rode past and spat in his face.

Those of you who read my column regularly know Vic Dooley, but for those of you who don’t know… Dooley can best be described as “The Situation” from MTV’s Jersey Shore, a narcissist with a take-no-sh—t attitude and an overconfident approach to life. However, unlike “The Situation,” Dooley is skilled in the art of Brazilian jujitsu and backs up what he says. That being said…

This guy spat in Dooley’s face; Dooley pulled the guy from the bike by his dreads and proceeded to smash his face into the concrete before sinking in a jujitsu choke, rendering the Spitter unconscious.

Immediately after putting the Spitter out, Dooley called me up to tell me to come outside and witness this situation happening in front of my house. I walked out to this unbelievable scene.

I wasn’t even shocked. Dooley was in his work attire (shirt and tie), standing over this passed-out man. At first, I thought Dooley had just found some random vagrant passed-out drunk in the middle of the street, but as I got closer, he started to explain: “This motherf—ker spat in my face. I ripped him off his bike, beat his head against the concrete, and choked him out.”

By this time, the Spitter was coming to. Dooley picked the guy up off the ground, handed the man his bike, put his straight-billed cap on his head, and politely told him to go the f—k home.

The Spitter was beginning to get his wits back and accused us of “jumping” him. All the while, his pecker and naked ass were still hanging in the breeze. He fell back against a parked car and down to the ground again.

Dooley started to charge at him again before I pulled him back. “Look, Vic. He’s had enough; he can barely stand, and he doesn’t even realize his pants are still down. Just let him go; he’s had enough.”

Dooley looked at me in reluctant agreement. We sat the guy back up on his bike, still “lookin’ like a fool with his pants on the ground,” and sent him on his way.

As he rode off, he was saying, “Y’all don’t know me! I know everybody in this neighborhood! I’m a real n—gga! I’m a real n—gga!”

Dooley shouted back down the street at him: “Yeah, you proved that fo’ real, n—gga!”

We walked inside, chilled out, smoked a couple bowls, drank a few beers, and talked about the events that had just occurred.

That’s a good story in and of itself, but it gets better…

After two or three hours of drinking and smoking, Dooley asked me to walk him down to his car. We were both a little concerned that the Spitter might be waiting outside my apartment. So we walked down together.

As I was packing a fresh pack of cigs against my wrist, a figure emerged from around the corner. “Say, man. You got a cigarette?”

I looked at the guy for a second, “Nah. I don’t smoke,” I said to him, still packing my cigs. Then it hit me … this was the Spitter! I almost didn’t recognize him with his pants pulled up.

The guy approached Dooley. “Hey, I know you!” Then all hell broke loose.

He took a swing at Dooley. Dooley dodged the punch, tackled the prick to the ground, and started wringing his neck (similar to the way Homer Simpson chokes Bart) and banging his head against the sidewalk.

I looked on in awe. I couldn’t believe this dude came back. This time, he was dressed in all black and was ready to brawl.

Dooley rolled the guy into a side choke, and I called 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Yes, ma’am. My friend and I are being attacked outside of my house. We need help now!”

Meanwhile, Dooley finally wrestled his way on top of the Spitter’s back and applied a strong rear-naked choke. For some strange reason (probably crack cocaine), this guy wouldn’t pass out. Dooley had this man in a deadly hold, and he was not giving up.

I started kicking his legs and checking his pockets for weapons, money, drugs, anything — I didn’t want him pulling out a knife or gun — but he was clean. He didn’t even have an ID.

After about 15 minutes of Dooley dominating this guy, the police finally showed up. A big, 6-foot, 205-pound officer pulled Dooley off and pinned the Spitter down with a knee to his lower back and a boot to the back of his neck.

“Yeah, you’re a tough guy with a 135-pound guy on your back, huh?” the cop said. “Let’s see how tough you are with me.”

The cop pulled the crackhead’s arm back and cuffed him, threw him in the car, and came back to check on us. “Nice half-guard,” he congratulated Dooley.

“Just living in the city is a serious task. That bitch didn’t know what hit him, didn’t have time to ask.”