Friday, June 29, 2007

Erykah Badu's vagina can save Hip Hop..(Vibe.com)

I'm fully aware that the title that I chose for this piece has self-respecting women everywhere collectively cringing at their computer screens, the moment the good people at Vibe decide to put this piece on their website I can envision a gang of feminists congregating at some undisclosed location somewhere - angrily going over diagrams of my house, debating whats the best entry point to use before snatching me from the mortal coil. Proud female bloggers that are carrying on the great traditions of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem are possibly linking to this particular entry as a shining example to their readers on how big of a pig I am on the strength of the title alone - reminiscent of the career catholics who picketed Kevin Smith's "Dogma" without ever viewing a single frame of the film. Granted, since I'm rather allergic to the knee-jerk reactionary types, people who can't relax their defenses for one solitary moment piss me off like bad bladders - my instinct is to just say "fuck em'" and take a piss on their feminist sensibilities by very casually telling them "Relax Sugar-tits!!" But I won't do that, there are so many women in my area that have outed me on a site entitled "don't date him girl(dot)com" that I suddenly want to offer an olive branch to my female readership - so judge this piece after you've read it, if you still think I'm a steaming pile of shit while reading the final sentence then so be it.(Read more here)

You know, I could never be a professional athlete


Outside of being a fluffer on a lesbian porn set or the guy who gets to unceremoniously cancel Tyler Perry's shit-stain of a sitcom - being a professional athlete has always been my dream job, until recently that is. I can't tell you how many times in the last year or so I felt like Michael Jeffrey Jordan, posting-up some douche-bag at my local YMCA - only to illegally hook him with my off hand while spinning, going baseline with a finger-roll so pretty it could have its own modelling career - afterwards angrily looking at my defeated opponent like that motherfucker just stole my last french fry. Believe it or not I'm currently on a local softball team, and even though its of the "slow pitch" variety - I've been known to hit batters who crowd the plate or look at me funny when I'm pitching. Not only that, but when I hit home runs I pose for a few moments on some Barry Bonds shit, looking at the disappearing ball the same way I look at chicks who don't reciprocate oral - and as I'm rounding the bases I make sure to tell the pitcher "I just gave some kid a souvenir, you piece of shit!!!" Many a winter afternoon I've channeled the spirit of the great Walter Payton, forcefully stiff-arming would-be tacklers and punishing them every time I lower my right shoulder mid-run - I won't even get into my defensive skills, close-lining ball carriers and whatnot - even though we do play touch football. A game that I just picked up like golf, my favorite pastime as of late is hitting a crushing Tee shot or sinking a put - and if my Public Enemy T-shirt didn't already make the onlooking golfers uncomfortable, me screaming out "Zebra Woods bitches!! - That's right, "Zebra" - I'm not scared to claim my blackness god-dammit!!" doesn't help matters either. As much as I emulate my favorite athletes during my own sporting misadventures, after some thought I've come to one final conclusion - that I would never become a professional athlete.

OK, the word "never" is kind of final - lets just say that being a pro athlete isn't exactly my dream job any more, but I'm not doubting the fact that making millions of dollars a year would fill up my "social calender" - so to speak. It's just that there is so much bullshit you have to deal with, especially being a black athlete. I stated this on another blog, but the media's overreaction to Clinton Portis' comments concerning Michale Vick's dogfighting and Allen Iverson's rap album back in the day is proof that the media will pounce on the black athlete at the drop of a hat. Shit, even though there are legitimate reasons to hate Kobe Bryant - but the media has duped usually well informed black folks into hating the guy as if he had a hobby of sodomizing nuns while wearing a Klan hat - for reasons that they don't even understand I bet.(Don't believe me, just ask them) But to be honest, there are other reasons I couldn't be a professional athlete - here are a few.

I'd use a cliche machine during interviews: I'm simply amazed that its an obligation for athletes to give post game interviews, I know they are paid handsomely - but it would just seems like one monumental waste of fucking time to me.(Akin to the time I smooth talked a lesbian for an hour before she told me that we were both on the same dietary plan.) Most of those interviews are as uneventful as a lil Wayne freestyle anyways, cliche's oozing from their collective mouths like suds from a washing machine after too much detergent was used - what a time eater, there's expensive blow-jobs to get and livers to ruin for Christs sake!! That's exactly why I'd hand every reporter within eye-shot something that I call "The Cliche Machine" - an ordinary tape recorder that emits already recorded messages like: "The Best team won today", "You win some you lose some", "I couldn't have done it without my teammates" and other silly shit that I'd probably roll my eyes while saying if I was actually there in person.

I'd be candid at the most inopportune moments: I imagine that I'd find it rather difficult to blog on a regular basis if I actually played for a professional sports team, who would have all the time between games and penetrating young starlets to be online? - so I know that I'd be itching to express myself somehow, no matter the venue or how publicl. During my acceptance speech at the "ESPY's" I'd veer off the obligatory "thank you's" by waxing poetic about how Alicia Keys gave me a venereal disease in the Bahama's, I can see myself spewing some hateful diatribe about President Bush where I call him a "miserable cocksucker" at "The Kids Choice Awards" - maybe even talk about a conversation I had with Ice-T where he convinced me to go from Nubian sisters to bleached blonds, at the NAACP Awards of all places.

I'd take on-court fights, off-court: I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I've been known to hold grudges longer than the ones Muslims hold against pork-chop sandwiches - so many altercations have been started, as an adult mind you, after I uttered the sentence "Why don't you try and take my lunch money now motherfucker?!!" I also physically assaulted a man who I had fought 5 years ago in a restaurant of all places, while he was with his wife by the way - the way he just sat there as I violently mushed him, and by his wife's pleas of "Why don't you just leave us alone??!", I suddenly felt like William Zabka in "The Karate Kid".(or "Just one of the Guys", or "Back to School") That's why I'm certain that if I was a professional athlete, regardless if I emerged from the on-court altercation as the victor or not - I wouldn't let it go and would spend my entire off season plotting against that motherfucker. I don't care if he is hosting a celebrity golf tournament, I'd emerge from the bushes to tackle his ass on the 9th hole - smacking him around with the flag stick and whatnot. Visiting sick kids in the hospital for publicity? I'd infiltrate the premises with doctors scrubs, just so little Jimmy can see what a real ass-whipping looks like before he passes on.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Organized Konfusion - Fudge Pudge

Organized Konfusion - Fudge Pudge

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Ann Coulter is no different than David Blaine or Criss Angel(Vibe.com)



Maybe it has something to do with me just advancing in age, I'm 33 years old now and my genital area has so many grey hairs down there that it resembles an unlit cigar in an ash tray - but its become extremely difficult for anyone to shock me any more. There was a time when I would literally run in the other direction if a woman that I was courting felt compelled enough to tell me that she had over 200 lovers, I'd probably rush home to sanitize my telephone based on all the dirty conversations we've had - but I'm different after being intimately involved with a pornographic actress, now I'm shocked when I learn that a woman hasn't been "tag-teamed", had a steamy lesbian encounter, or been on the business end of a horse phallus. The other day when a fist-fight erupted at one of the local watering holes that I frequent, I noticed that I was the only who didn't try to get a front row seat to the melee - while haymaker punches were thrown in my vicinity I just stayed at the bar face down in my Rum and Coke. Not because its beneath me because I love violence, I really do - but with a history like mine where I've hit people with bats, chairs, skillets, not to mention that one time I choked a guy out with a phone chord, I guess your garden variety bar altercation is just old hat to a veteran of violence like me. Even when your text-book racist spews his or her particular brand of hate, whether its Don Imus, Michael Richards, or that white person who thinks he's reaching out to me by saying "You're pretty cool for a black guy" - again I'm not shocked, I guess it has something to do with me having such a low opinion of my common man in general.(My own mother claims that my reaction to a cross being burned in my front yard would be, "What fucking took them so long??!!!)(Read more here)

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Man, I Love Me A Quirky Black Girl: Janelle Monae(Vibe)



Until the day that my soul leaves this earth, a couple of criminally underpaid grave diggers throw dirt on my brand new shiny casket, and a disgruntled ex-lover finds it appropriate to sing a rendition of Aretha Franklin's "I Never Loved a Man" as my "sending off" music (with the first line being "You're a no good heart breaker, You're a liar and you're a cheat") - I will always cherish the ground that black women walk on. I know that I can come across as a woman-hater sometimes, and I completely understand the criticism. But that's just a result of women historically taking a healthy shit on my emotions. I'm sure when that brand of bitterness is exorcised and I can successfully channel my sexual perversions into something less vomit inducing, I'm confident that I'll be just fine. Not for nothing, I know I'll ruin my chance of ever getting any Internet ass off of this next line - but if my penis displayed the various hues of women that I'd ever been with, it would resemble that "Terror Alert Level" Chart, to be completely honest with you.(Read more here)

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Peter Rosenberg(Vibe.com)


In my opinion there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a "liberal", but Republicans and other people who were probably once part of the "Nazi Youth" have turned it into the ultimate insult - so much in fact that cowardly Democrats have distanced themselves from the word all together. Its sort of the way I feel about being labeled a "Hip Hop Journalist" - scores upon scores of pen wielders who claim that they also have the same love for "Two turntables and a microphone" that I do, but have blissfully gone out of their way and sullied something beautiful. (Sort of like ejaculating on a prom dress, I should know) Granted, I don't know if Hip Hop journalism has ever been any good, to be completely honest with you - but what passes for it nowadays seriously makes me consider tearfully putting a loaded firearm in my mouth as a fucking Billie Holiday record plays in the background.(Read more here)

Vanity 6: "Nasty Girl"

Nasty Girl

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You would think that an insufferable prick like myself, a person who has been known to play Russian roulette with his cock when the opportunity presents itself - wouldn't discriminate based on a woman's age, welcoming scores of various women into my bedroom on some Statue of Liberty, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses" shit. But despite how fine a younger woman might be, how supple the butt-cheeks are, and the many delusions of grandeur are in my head of sexually teaching them something - at the end of the day the age factor becomes an issue. Shit like, "How in the fuck have you never heard of the Smurfs??!", "You didn't just ask me who Africa Bambaataa was did you?", and awkward mid-coital epiphany's like "Did you know that you were born the same year that I saw "16 Candles" in the theater?" fly out of my mouth with reckless abandon. With older women it doesn't get much easier, no matter how well they've aged and look like they could possibly pass for my age - my mouth always gets in the way of me possibly getting pleasured by a woman who once got her yearbook signed by Josephine Baker. But seriously, like with the younger women, the most inappropriate shit comes out of my mouth only during intimate moments - like, "You were probably fucking when I was born!", "I'm old enough to be your son, if you were fucking before junior high that is" and "Are you sure you should on your knees so long, I know arthritis can be a motherfucker!!"

That being said, there is a group of older ladies that I'd have no problem getting to know in the biblical sense - they are the same women that I've had a crush on growing up, Sheila E, Lisa Lisa, and Vanity. These women are still very lovely and I doubt that I'd have any type of sexual dysfunction if they were foolish enough to let me see them naked - but just in case, the mass amounts of ejaculatory material stored in my memory Rolodex over the last 20 years or so, my unimpressive penis would transform into the indestructible "baby arm". Just thinking about Sheila E in that "Glamorous Life" video, pounding those drums so aggressively, letting me know that her forearms are a force to be reckoned with - there's something sexy about a woman having the ability to rip your penis clean off if she wanted to. Lisa Lisa, the mere thought of how her breasts looked in that "I wonder if I take you home" video, puertorrican scoops of flesh that had me spending many prepubescent hours in the bathroom with the fan on - if she gave me the proper opportunity, I'd "knock those boots from here to Albuquerque" as Ice Cube once so succinctly put it.

As for Vanity, this video alone will make the Viagra people duplicate my DNA and put it in a caramel colored pill form - I still say that the first women who sings "Pretty Mess" after I climax will be Mrs. HumanityCritic as soon as humanly possible. Granted, apparently Vanity is all religious now - giving up fulfilling her every sexual desire and her cocaine habit for a life dedicated to Christ - and I sincerely respect that. But I'm saying, the real Vanity has to come out sometimes though - I can see myself screaming "That's the Vanity I was looking for" every time she did anything mildly freaky in the bedroom.

Friday, June 22, 2007

An honest talk about race, amongst friends(The Ebony and Ivory edition)



I hate to say this, but my generation is filled with a bunch of blubbering vagina's and whining malcontents, millions upon millions of weak willed motherfuckers who shy away from personal responsibility as if it were that diseased "Outbreak" monkey - or a Tyler Perry sitcom. I should know, I'm one of the aforementioned "motherfuckers". I mean, my father has been dead for more than 6 years now and I'm still blaming the man for my emotional unavailability in relationships, my distrust of anyone with a pulse, and a temper so quick that a dime-store psychic once refused to tell me my future after she touched my hand, looking down as she shook her head, simply saying "Sometimes you have to just walk away!!" Sure, I lived in a virtual state of emotional constipation based on all the times my father told me that I'd "never be shit", and the man did have the ability to go from jovial to cantankerous in a matter of moments - a mood shift so severe that it had me choosing my words as carefully as a person doing a crossword puzzle in pen, even when contemplating the most pedestrian of conversations. But at the end of the day I feel that I just have to just "nut up" as they say and be a man, I can't forget that my father had a plethora of great qualities as well - besides, having "daddy" issues at the age of 33 just isn't sexy, I already have a hard enough time getting chicks to look at my cock as it is. The last time I checked, my father had nothing with my penchant for eating macaroni and cheese off of some woman's ass-cheek, he's not responsible for me telling a handicapped man who was chatting endlessly with a bank teller, "Lets get a move on Hop-along Cassidy, talk to her about the wonderful world of prosthetic limbs on your own fucking time!!" - and my old man never said it was alright for me to call women that I'm dating "Titty's", "Gag Reflex", and "Bottomless Pit" as terms of endearment.

Besides, I have to cut the guy a little slack - my father had to be one of the most conflicted individuals that I've ever encountered in my 33 years on this earth. I've heard stories about how hard he came up, the verbal abuse disguised as tough love - I'm certain that based on the ways in which he was particularly reared, I'm sure he felt that he was taking it rather easy on me. But the guy was conflicted in other areas as well, especially when it came to white people - being raised in the deep south in the 40's and 50's tended to do that, a place where the lynching of black folks was such a regular occurrence that I actually got the feeling that he thought "Mississippi Burning" was a comedy. So he had to juggle those painful experiences with all the cool ass white guys he had known and became friends with during his 30 year military career - you could almost hear the internal conflict slowly churning inside of him, akin to hearing a washing machine struggling to operate with far too many clothes inside of it.

Thankfully, based on me being a Gen X'er and living in the suburbs for my entire life, a black man unafraid to scream from the highest mountaintops that that my crush for Janeane Garofalo is so deep that sometimes you can find me masturbating to "The Truth about Cats and Dogs" - I've never been that conflicted about race to be completely honest with you. I mean, in this day and age I'm able to be a fan of "My Name is Earl" and know a few Malcolm X speeches verbatim at the same time, argue that ones colloquialism doesn't equate to blackness and call Larry Elder a "fucking House Negro" all in the same breath - even having a card carrying member of the republican party as one of my closest friends(Danny) while believing that Ronald Reagan was a government built robot designed to destroy black people.

Ok, he wouldn't particularly care for me saying that he's a "card carrying member of the Republican party" because that's not entirely accurate - lets just say that his political stance is often on the right of mine, but I promise you, he's never masturbated to Mein Kampf. But regardless of his political ideology he's been a friend of mine for the past 22 years, he's truly a good dude - a person that I find myself having the most frankest discussions about race I've ever had with a white dude without wanting to commit a hate crime. So, based on my feeling that we all have a little bit of good old fashioned racism flowing through our veins, my childhood friend and I decided to have a very blunt conversation - one concerning our beefs with each others race.

Danny: Dude, are you really planning to put this conversation on your blog?

HumanityCritic: Of course I am, why?

Danny: It just seems risky that's all, such a blunt discussion could turn off your readership! - think about all the future ass you'd be putting in jeopardy?

HumanityCritic: This blog will never get me ass man, it's basically an online cautionary tale for women to recognize assholes quicker - full of stories of me putting ashtrays on chicks' back while receiving oral sex and examples of my sexual inadequacies. Besides, all the women who did want to touch my penis got the fuck outta dodge as soon as I posted a piece where I let my ex-girlfriends vent about how much of an asshole I was.

Danny: *Shaking head* OK, who's going first here? Shall I start?

HumanityCritic: By all means.

Danny: Alright, let me preface what I'm about to say by expressing my love for black women..

HumanityCritic: Oh shit..

Danny: ..you know how much I adore your mother and..

HumanityCritic: ..just say it man!

Danny: Let me finish motherfucker!! Like I was saying, I'm sure the scores of black women who read your blog are delightful human beings and in no does what I'm about to say apply to them

HumanityCritic: Jesus Christ man..

Danny: OK, its been my experience, when walking into a mall, supermarket, convenience store, etc - that black women never hold the door for you.

HumanityCritic: Really? Maybe they didn't know that you were behind them - you do know that black women don't have periphery vision?

Danny: Huh?? Is that true??

HumanityCritic: Naw, I'm just fucking with you..

Danny: Bastard! Again, that's just my experience - OK, your turn.

HumanityCritic: Three words, "Whiteboy Walking Distance"

Danny: Here we go, please explain to the good people what you are referring to.

HumanityCritic: White folks, i.e you, who act so cavalierly about walking to the furthest distances imaginable - like that time we were shit-faced drunk on Gramby street and you wanted to walk to waterside.

Danny: It was right across the street for Christs sake!

HumanityCritic: Sure, in a car it's a three minute drive, but black folks can convert driving time into walking time faster than "Rain Man" and shit - that was a 15 minute walk while intoxicated, fuck that! "Whiteboy Walking Distance"!!

Danny: Ok, why is it that when you let a black person across the street they just take their sweet old time - you could basically time their speed with a fucking sun-dial.

HumanityCritic: ..but aren't all people like that?

Danny: No offense, but I get the feeling that its more prevalent in melanin owners.

HumanityCritic: Fair enough. How about all the white people I've seen over the past 30 years walk into business establishments without any fucking shoes on? What's that about?

Danny:(Looking down) I have no idea what you're talking about?

HumanityCritic: Come on now..

Danny: (throwing up his hands)I don't know why some white people do that, the same way you can't figure out why some black folks like Cam'ron or T-Pain!

HumanityCritic: You've been reading my blog haven't you?

Danny: Of course, I have no fucking idea who those people are. But really, what's up with dudes trying to be so cool that they look like their car seat is swallowing them whole? Sometime I have to do a double-take to see if a god-damned toddler is driving an automobile!!

HumanityCritic: How about how some white folks always want to hug up on you when they get drunk?

Danny: ..the cold stares that urban look give me when I drive by..

HumanityCritic: (giggles) Urban Youth? We live in Kempsville, home of Pat Robertson and Missy Elliot!!

Danny: You know what I meant!! By the way, what's up with black men's fascination with phat asses?

HumanityCritic:(in a stern voice) Danny..

Danny: What?

HumanityCritic: Come on now, what's you favorite site?

Danny:(mumbling) Onionbooty.com

HumanityCritic: That's right, you like a plump posterior as much as the next black guy.

Danny: "Even white boys got to shout!!"

HumanityCritic sweating the small stuff again: "My Front Yard"

(La casa de la HumanityCritic)


For as long as I can remember, whenever I came to someone with what I thought was a legitimate concern of mine - more times than not they shooed me away like a pesky mosquito at a barbecue, claiming that I was simply overreacting to the entire situation. Granted, as a kid I was a chronic hypochondriac - possibly the only prepubescent person in the history of the world who would routinely check his nut-sack for testicular cancer, sometimes even showing my mother my bowel movements when the color of said fecal matter seemed a bit "off" to me. There have been overreactions having to do with some physical altercations that I've started as well - most notably one where I threatened to roll a handicapped man into traffic for touching my girlfriend's boob, thank god he explained to me that he was gayer than J. Edgar Hoover and was my lady's friend - he doesn't know how close he came to being roadkill, "Special Olympics" style. Or that one time when a girlfriend came back from a summer in France and I angrily accused her of fucking everybody in that country, only because her vagina felt more "roomy" than usual - OK, that wasn't exactly an overreaction because come to find out she was fucking everybody. As I remember it, sex with her felt like I was jogging inside of a wind tunnel.

But my next door neighbors keep cutting into my front yard and its irritating the hell out of me, like a suede condom or the mid-sex chatter of Fran Drescher - again, people think that I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion. When I say "cutting into my yard" I mean that when they mow their grass, they cut a couple of lines into what's clearly my property. I guess this is the part where you say, "Hey, look at it as they are cutting some of your grass for you!!" - well fuck that, because the mere assumption that those two lines is theirs is what really bothers. But two more things bother me about it: 1)Whenever I'm outside while they happen to cut their lawn, they moe in the designated area.(Signalling that they are aware that they are in the wrong) and 2) They completely disregard where their backyard fence is(the actual property line) Let me show you a picture of the egregious offense that I'm referring to.




My grass is the rather un-kept yard on the right hand side, I kept it that way to highlight my point - you see how they disregard their backyard fence and cut into my yard? Let me show you another picture from an opposite direction.




This is the shit I'm talking about, blatantly ignoring where their backyard fence is - and why, to claim that raggedy ass tree? Listen, I know this is some pretty petty shit - but when I'm not worrying about catching some weird ass disease from one of the strippers I let handle my penis, or monitoring what I eat so my gut doesn't completely eclipse my cock- this is the type of shit that I obsess over.


HumanityCritic Commentary:


I know what all of you are thinking, I'm supposed to be the guy that has fully embraced his inner asshole - going over there and reading them the riot act should be as comforting to me as a rubdown in a Shiatsu, right? Actually the problem is that I'm rather fond of the people next door, I can't tell you how many times I've gotten shit-faced drunk with them - besides, I don't mind people wanting me dead on the other side of town but not my neighbors, I don't want people plotting my untimely demise who live within walking distance. I don't know, maybe I'm just getting soft in my old age, but it's rather comforting knowing that my neighbors think I'm a pure and wholesome human being - not knowing the debauchery that happens behind closed doors, fucking chicks in vats of blood, shoving dildo's inside women that resemble Tutankhamen, shit like that. Also, the last 2 occupants of that house have pulled the exact same shit - its as if with the deed to the house and a handshake, the old owner leans over and tells the new owner "Be sure to cut two lines into that black bastards lawn!!" But I don't know how many times I can call the surveyor out to my house to put down land markers and spray paint lines in the grass - passive aggressively letting my neighbors know what the deal is. Any suggestions?

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: The D.O.C. - Mind Blowin'

The D.O.C. - Mind Blowin'

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I'm by no means trying to sign the man's death warrant, I'm fully aware of his legendary ghostwriting credits and the albums that he put out after his accident - but I just feel that after his vocal chords were severed in that car accident that it prematurely ended what would have been a legendary rapping career. Maybe this is hyperbole on my part, especially since one man is deceased and the other is still alive and kicking - but "No One Can Do it better" is such a classic album, the sky was the limit with that guy - unfulfilled potential that's clearly on some Len Bias shit. "Mind Blowin'" is my favorite song from the Texas-bred MC, even though his first album is littered with classic material.

Common feat. Dwele: "The People"

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

A Few reasons I want to date a spoken word poet

For as long as I can remember, I guess it was as soon as Nucleus' "Jam On It" massaged my eardrum if my recollection serves me correctly - I made a solemn oath(with one hand in the air and the other on an Africa Bambaataa poster) that I would proudly live the remainder of my existence as an MC. Before I knew it my nonsensical paragraphs merged into a solid 16 lines, rhymes that once made my friends cringe with embarrassment all of a sudden made them listen with a new found curiosity - similes soon became my imaginary friend, telling kids that I battled during recess period that they would "face defeat like a foot fetish" and "meat their demise like Hypertension". Throughout Junior High and High School, I intensely studied MC'ing between track practices and my penchant for sporadically penetrating some poor bastard's daughter - I honed my skill set the same way a Ninja hones his, religiously practicing my craft as if doing so would one day give me that piss yellow glow around my body like Taimak's from "The Last Dragon" and shit.

Even though I eventually gave up the pipe dream of professionally slaying any verbal wordsmith that crossed my path, I never gave up rhyming all together - akin to a one time college prospect who never quite made the NBA, exercising his demons by mercilessly dunking on old men and any other garden variety motherfucker that gets between him and the basket at his local YMCA. But in 1997, with my rapping career a distant blur in my rear view mirror, something happened that re-ignited my love for words and performing in front of people - to simply put it, I saw "Love Jones". Even though I currently see that flick as being as detrimental to black folks as Ronald Reagan(more on that later), at the time it was the first black movie I had seen in a while that treated its audience like adults - giving us characters we could relate to who weren't packing automatic weapons or preaching to us like a bunch of sinful congregation members. Besides, it made poetry sexy for the first time that I could remember - before that point whenever I thought about poetry, images of girls laughing in my face as I publicly expressed love for them in iambic pentameter flooded my subconscious like Vietnam flashbacks.

Yes, for a very fleeting moment I was a spoken word poet, primarily for the ass though - pandering to the sensibilities of all the juicy ass owners in attendance, during my poems I'd actually wonder which woman's sarong or head-wrap I'd ejaculate on that particular night. But as soon as I could experience the wealth of ass coming to yours truly from my witty wordplay and well placed metaphors, the market got flooded with male poets who had the same idea that I did. In no time flat everyone who grew dreadlocks and could recite "Love Jones" verbatim thought that they were world renown poets, better looking men with lesser writing skills than I stole all of my "ass opportunities" right from under me - a shallowness exhibited by my sisters that I've never forgotten by the way. I distinctly remember performing a poem that I poured my heart and soul into, receiving applause mind you, but getting nowhere near the love from the ladies that I should have - my poetry experience ended with me on my knees outside, in the pouring rain, looking up at the heavens while shaking my first screaming "GODDAMN YOU LOVE JONES!!!!!"

But despite my contempt for the movie "Love Jones" and all the posers in poets clothing that it spawned, I've always wanted to get with a spoken word artist - albeit briefly. I just think the process of courting her would be the stuff that documentaries are made for, let me explain.

Pick-up lines: Not for nothing, but I think the process of trying to coax her into my bed would be as enjoyable as actually having sex with her as I stare at a statue of Buddha in the background. Maybe my sense of humor would win her over in the end, she might possibly attempt to choke me the fuck out with her head-wrap - but at least I would find saying the following pick-up lines funny: "Baby, I want to mercilessly fuck you on a bed full of Patchouli.!" or "Come on Phenomenal woman, strip for me while I recite "Still I Rise" - at least I wouldn't be lying!!"


I'd call out her poetry sistren: There is a specific period in a relationship that I cherish, a point when the relationship stops being in jeopardy if you voice an unpopular opinion - this is when I'm at my most comfortable, aggressively addressing my girlfriend's mother's crack problem or how her best friend has had so many children that her vagina could double as a clown-car. I'm sure I'd ask her friend who just waxed poetic about "Respecting herself" on stage about the time she went down on a 65 year old man for studio time, I'd openly wonder how her college room-mate could recite a poem about the "Hoochies in Music videos" when she's fucked every member of the house band on some truly "Fleetwood Mac" shit. I know that there are sisters out there with positive poems who walk the walk in real life, no doubt, I just think that I was put on this beautiful earth of ours to call the others out.



She'd reference me in her work: If I ever dated a coffee-shop chick, I'm certain that she would use me as a point of reference in her poems - but they would be of such a negative nature, that all her friends would assume that she was talking about a past lover. I mean, she wouldn't recite poems with titles like "I hate you!", "You weren't lying about the Pre-ejaculation", and "Die Black Bastard Die!" about me while I was in attendance - her friends hearing my lady pour her little heart about what they think are horrible ex-boyfriends, them then momentarily looking at me with very sweet "I'm glad she's with you now" looks on their faces. But little do they know that all those poems were indeed about me, I did make her dress up like a catholic school girl while screaming "Here comes communion!!" preceding me receiving oral sex - and that part about us having rough sex to "The Muppets Movie" Soundtrack, thats me as well. Now, when she gave her own very teary eyed rendition of a Jill Scott song entitled "This is the way he Shoves me!!", that's not about me.

Isaiah Washington Taught Me if You Say Something Fucked up, Just Own It.

Don't let the title of this post throw you. I'm in no way condoning Mr.Washington's use of a homophobic slur - I know how hurtful being on the business end of said slur can be, based on me having a picture of the doctor who gave me a prostate exam in my wallet and my affection for those Ethan Hawke "Before Sunset"-dialogue driven movies that make an asshole like me believe in love again. It's just that I believe if you say something utterly regrettable then simply go and apologize to the offended party, possibly make a solitary statement to the press for public relations purposes - but that's it, if people want any more apologies out of you just inform them that they are shit out of luck like constipated degenerate gamblers. Unfortunately that's not the approach that Mr. Washington took, after embarrassingly denying that he had even used the slur at the Golden Globes he proceeded to so a stint in rehab like all embattled stars do - not to mention working with the Gay and Lesbian community in an add that I felt seemed heartfelt, concerning the circumstances. That being said, after jumping through more hoops than a trained circus seal, his contract wasn't renewed - read any article on the situation and you'll read where ABC studios claimed it was done "quick and neat," even though I think stringing a guy along for the better part of 8 fucking months is neither "quick" or "neat."(Read more here)

Amy Winehouse feat Mos Def - "Love Is A Losing Game"



It seems that every alcoholic has that "moment of clarity" epiphany, grown men dedicating themselves to a life of sobriety when their wife threatens to break north with the kids, some people's health issues scare them straight - I can't tell you how many friends I've introduced to a healthier lifestyle by pouring fake blood all over their car after they were binge drinking the night before, proceeding to drive themselves home. Even though I still imbibe in alcohol from time to time, what did it for me was when a career alcoholic with jaundiced eyes and a penchant for shaking when he went without booze for too long - actually put his arm around me a few years back and suggested that I cut back on my alcohol consumption. I get the same sort of feeling watching every Amy Winehouse performance, even though I'm the last person in the world suggesting sobriety - if I knew her personally I'd shake the shit out of her, tell her to stop drinking, and suggest that she possibly scrape the ship barnacle from her crotch.

That being said, why do her performances always seem as spirited as a hungover Mic Check?

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Songs that make people think I'm certifiable.

For those who have read this blog, or my Vibe blog, most of you are already well versed on my particularly fragile mental state. Don't worry, I'm not the type of "crazy" that predisposes me to torture puppies and smear my own fecal matter on my bedroom walls in my spare time - lord knows its hard enough getting a chick to enter my "stabbin' cabin" as it is. But I'm in therapy though, pouring my heart out to a mental health professional as they give me their best poker-face - watching them fight back grimaces and looks of utter disgust as I recall lovely childhood memories of me bashing in a bullies' knees with a hammer or the time I dealt with a dude who sexually assaulted a longtime friend of mine by pouring gasoline on him as I chased him around with a lit lighter. We won't even go into my current psychological issues, the way in which I require each of my lovers to wear bifocals to bed so I don't feel sexually inadequate - not to mention how she has to let me call her "Vanity" during sex while she screams "You ARE the Last Dragon, Bruce Leroy!" in order for me to achieve climax. I'm trying to deal with my verbal turrets as well, this is what concerns me the most because shouting shit in public is what makes people think that I'm crazier than cat-shit. Everything from telling everyone who would listen that a Pat Robertson minion who was handing out pamphlets at my local grocery store happened to also star in bestiality videos, telling women on first dates "lets skip the whole 'courting' thing and go straight to you saying "that's it?", and a little habit of mine that I have of threatening the lives of DJ's who happen to play one too many Dipset songs. But through therapy, my shrink looking less like Dr. Melfi and more like Martina Navratilova -I've learned to control my sudden outbursts. Even though I wanted to make a guys nose bone stab his brain when he told me that Lil Wayne was one of the best rappers of all time, I controlled my anger, simply walking away mumbling to myself as if I was a dreadlocked version of "Yosemite Sam". The other day when a bum put his arm around me as I entered a 7-11 asking for change, sure my first reaction was to hit him with a 10 punch combination before asking him to get his hands off of me - but cooler heads prevailed and I just told the homeless gentleman that I'd burn down his cardboard fortress if he ever touched me again. That's what I call progress ladies and gentlemen, resisting the urge to spontaneous go ballistic at the drop of a hat - except when I hear these following songs that is.




Redman: "Tonight's da Night"(Remix): If I ever happen to be the plaintiff in some sort of heinous crime in the future, hopefully my defense team will be smart enough to point to this song as the source of my insanity. Every time I hear this song I can't seem to control myself, I usually end up wildly nodding my head as if was having an epileptic seizure to a beat - violently palming peoples faces and mushing them with the most reckless of abandon.





Otis Redding: "Try a Little Tenderness": Because of how popular this song is, I've been known to react to it in the most public of places - banks, supermarkets, you name it and chances are people witnessed me acting a complete fool to this song and possibly feared for their lives. I'm pretty subdued during most of the song, promising myself that I won't make a complete ass of myself this time. But towards the end when brother Otis starts feeling it, riffing if you will - some strange force makes me stomp my feet and raise my hand to the sky as if the holy ghost infiltrated my heathen body as I loudly scream "Got-ta-ta- Na-na-na -Tr-Try a little tenderness!!"





Prince: "Darling Nikki": I'm aware that saying "Darling Nikki" is your favorite Prince song is as lame and predictable as saying that the Bible is your favorite book - but based on it being the absolute truth, I don't mind being cliche on this blog. Based on how many women became intimately acquainted with my body to this song, whenever it comes on I get these flashbacks akin to the kind war veterans must have - the big difference is that their recollections are of the Vietcong and firefights, mine are of pre-ejaculation and eye-rolls - but I digress. Nevertheless, I was at a gathering recently and found myself jumping around like a lunatic when this song came on - Screaming "Come back Nikki, Come back!!" while clumsily thrusting my hips while flickering my tongue for some reason.






Rage Against the Machine:
"Bulls on Parade": In this current political climate where our president is trying to do away with Habeas Corpus and the Democratic party are a bunch of pussies, we need some Rage Against the Machine in our lives right about now. I realized this the other day as I sat in rush hour traffic, me damn near banging my head against my steering wheel to this song - so much in fact that an elderly black women felt compelled to get out her car to knock on my window and ask "Is everything alright baby?"





Kool G Rap: "Ill Street Blues": I'd never admit this if I ever happened to be on a panel that addressed Hip Hop lyrics - but since we are all family here I'll admit this to you and you only, "Ill Street Blues" makes me want to do very bad things. Ever since this song came out, you don't know how bad I wanted to throw some asshole out of a window while putting a healthy amount of lead in their diet - only to say, "Up, Up, Up, and away clown. Buck, Buck, Buck, take that with you on the way down!!!" But since I love my freedom and enjoy not having my prostate treated like a pinata, I keep my lunacy to nodding my head and exhibiting the meanest Ice-grill whenever this song comes on.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

A Positive aspect of modern day Hip Hop: No more "Just add water" rappers!

I can't front, I'm a music snob - an insufferable prick of a person who completely judges someones pitiful existence on this round earth of ours based on what precisely they happen to blast in their respective automobiles. The chance of a chick taking a peek at my cock nowadays happens as frequently as people being struck by lightening or Mary J Blige not bumming you the fuck out by her perpetual sadness - but I can't tell you how many opportunities for premarital sex I've walked away from just because a woman casually mentioned that she was a Lil Wayne fan, or that she enjoyed the musical stylings of MIMS. My snobbery has even severely affected my daily ritual of perusing local myspace ass that I hope to possible ejaculate on in the future, no matter how voluptuously slutty the woman's pictures are I usually find myself vacating the page immediately - usually having to do with a 30-something year old woman having Omarion as her fucking profile music, or the likes of Young Jeezy or some other proverbial shit-stain of the culture that when asked to recite "Paid in Full" look as if you just asked them to perform an emergency tracheotomy. I'm also known for dissing the fuck out of artists that I don't respect in their faces and daring them to do something about it, the sheer horror on my friends' faces when some rapper extended his hand to me while I turned my back on them in protest is priceless - shaking my head slowly with folded arms in my best B-Boy stance that is. As you can tell I long for the days of Hip Hop past, if my violent vomiting whenever I turn on the radio wasn't already a dead giveaway.

But like the midget I once fucked who made my sub par penis feel like a bona fide baby's arm, or the hearing impaired lady that I made love to who didn't seem to mind my "Krush Groove" references during climax - I've learned to make the best out of any situation. That being said, I know that my attitude towards much of today's music makes me seem like a negro version of those old men in the balcony on "The Muppet Show" - but every so often I will try to find the good in a music that over the past few years has been rather blissful in dumbing itself down and taking an extremely healthy shit on its audience. That being said, I'll will occasionally point about something that I appreciate about modern day Hip Hop. This is the first installment.


There's no "Just add water" rappers:
Sure, there are a plethora of "Just add water thugs" as far as the eye can see - gentleman who are lyrically preoccupied with glorifying violence and drug deals on ghetto street corners, only to mask the fact that they've never really been able to take a punch and secretly crave cock 23 hours out of every day. I'm not talking about them though, I'm talking about the journeymen wordsmiths that you never heard of during the 90's - strange faces to you and I who assumed the most meanial of MC duties on R&B records of that particular decade. I know that he was a member of the group and all, but the first person that comes to mind when I think of "Just Add Water" rappers is C&C Music Factory's own Freedom Williams. Man, every time I heard that man rhyme I immediately knew that I'd rather hear loved ones getting tortured. Hearing him rap on songs such as "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now) and "Things "That Make You Go Hmmmm...", it was clear that the only prerequisite a rapper needed to have for that group was a fucking pulse and a functioning voice box.

I know you all remember that Ving Rhames looking dude who went by the name of "Turbo B" - that human Proactiv commercial "before image" in the flesh - rapping that "I got the power" song in what looks to be inside a warehouse somewhere. Where in the fuck did he come from anyways? How about that rapper who lent his verbal stylings to Salt N Pepa's "Shoop"? Who was that motherfucker? 90's era R&B is littered with rappers you never heard before or since, getting a rather Warhol-esque 15 minutes of rapping fame. The one thing I respect about the game nowadays, as much as I may loathe the rappers that singers have on their respective songs - is that at least they get someone that I've at least heard before.


*Interesting Side note*: Did you know that Freedom Williams has a myspace page?(I shit you not) If that shit wasn't funny enough, it seemed that one of the founding members of C&C Music Factory(Robert Clivilles) didn't particularly appreciate that Mr. Williams claimed that he helped start said group on his page.(He went on to express his displeasure in message form, multiple times on his page that is) Fellas, Fellas, there's no need to fight! Arguing over who founded C&C Music factory is like arguing over who created the Edsel, or who wrote the first draft of "Soul Plane" - no one really gives a shit.

Silver Spoons Ricky Schroder and Alfonso Ribeiro Breakdance



I'd imagine it's been extremely hard over the years for Ricky Schroder to take any sort of moral high ground when it comes to his friends' behavior. I can only imagine how many times he wanted to berate one of his buddies for excessive drinking but couldn't, wanted to have a rather stern discussion with one of his boys about his penchant for fighting in night-clubs but held back from doing so - everyone has a guy in his crew that loves to penetrate barely legal ass or recreation-ally does a little bit too much nose candy, only I'm sure Rick felt limited in dealing with said friends. See, Rick has had to bite his tongue, not because he's a negligent friend mind you - but because he feared that his verbal display of "tough love" would be met with an utterly sarcastic: "Rick, I know you aren't trying to judge anyone? At least there aren't youtube videos out there of me rhythmically paying homage to a future pedophile, alongside Alphonso Ribeiro of all fucking people!!"

Monday, June 11, 2007

Believe it or not, Hillary Clinton and female MC's have a lot in common(vibe.com)




Looking back on it now its sort of silly, but back when I was in High School nothing put the fear of god in me more than becoming a teenage parent - a phobia that only surpasses my current fear of heights, clowns, or Tyler Perry sitcoms. Sure my parents added to said fear, my usually calm and collected mother made it seem like having a kid in High School was akin to a death sentence - and my old man wasn't any better, he had me thinking that I'd have to quit school and work in a God-damned coal-mine if I ever procreated around the same time that I received my drivers license. Not only that, but the exact same way an overweight woman might feel a little funny about receiving things like low fat milk-shakes and stair-masters as Christmas Gifts - getting a lifetime supply of condoms from your parents is all kinds of wrong man, especially when my mother would point to the box and say "See honey, it's ribbed for her pleasure, with a spermicidal tip no less!!" But the main reason that I didn't want to have a child while I simultaneously struggled with Trigonometry had to do with John Hughes.

Yes, "Sixteen Candles", "The Breakfast Club", "Weird Science", "Pretty in Pink", "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" - that John Hughes. See, before I became an adult and couldn't get through any of the aforementioned movies without screaming "Don't black people go to High School John!!" at my television screen, I worshiped these movies as if they were the holy fucking grail. I just knew that his flicks were the template of High School life to come, teenage angst, mischief, and bitter sweet moments where I know I'm falling in love when "The Thompson Twins" or Paul Young play in the background while I passionately kiss the "diamond in the ruff" band nerd. A bratty fucking crumb-snatcher wasn't going to jeopardize that, or me skipping a day of school that I'd remember for a lifetime, a life altering Saturday detention where I bond with 4 complete strangers - and I'd be damned if fatherhood would interfere with me making a woman out of magazine cut-outs and Lil Kim lyric sheets via my computer. A robotic sex slave of sorts, someone to give such ignorantly sloppy oral sex that with my eyes closed I'd be damned if I didn't accidentally clone Fantasia.(Read more here)

Friday, June 08, 2007

Coming to grips with my own mortality..

From 1973 through the year of 2001, I lived life as if there was an expiration date on my ass beside the tattoo that reads in calligraphy "Exit only". I come from a loving two parent home in the suburbs, grew up on a healthy diet of everything from Run D.M.C to John Cougar Mellencamp, I even rode a skateboard for Christs sake! - but some of my violent tendencies have mistakenly led people to believe that my childhood residence happened to be "666 Hardship Boulevard" with no male figure in my life, where I spent my spare time getting beaten with tire iron's from my mother's alcoholic boyfriends. My sister sometimes jokes around with my mother and claims that I'm crazier than cat-shit because of her drinking too much wine while she was pregnant with me, or my behavior is a result of a very scary tumble that I took down a flight of cement stairs when I was a small child - but quiet as kept, I think there is some truth beneath her playful jabs at her baby brother. I mean, I come from a city that makes your average ghetto seem like Beirut - how do you explain me attempting to fight a man that I knew before-hand had a gun on his person, back-handing him into oblivion while saying "Pull out your gun you Charles Bronson, come on!!!" As far as I know my family doesn't have a history of mental illness, I'm not counting that one time that my old man requested that I buy him that fucking "Who let the dogs loose?" record either - but to this day I couldn't tell you what compelled me to drive one of my friend's old cars into the lake to see whether I could escape a submerged car or not. From fighting three bikers at a bar as if they were the ones who were over-matched, beating this asshole named A.J senseless in his own residence for disrespecting my girl in front of a few of his roommates.. My life is littered with tales of retarded machismo like that, episodes that should have prompted my mother to wear her best black dress as some Jesus pimp that never fucking met me hurls complimentary sentiments towards my corpse.

Around 2000 I was beginning to think that I was indeed nuttier than squirrel turds, even I knew that continuously risking my life unnecessarily wasn't in the least bit normal - besides, outside of Mike Tyson, who else walks around thinking that they can whup everybody? But there were a couple of incidents, starting in 2001 with the death of my father, that made me face my own mortality and stop taking life for granted.

The Death of My Father: It was January of 2001 and I found myself in my father's hospital room, looking at what seemed as only a skeletal resemblance of my old man - the cancer ravaging his body to the point that I could lift him over my if I wanted to, I couldn't say the same thing three years prior when he was somewhere north of 270 pounds. Even though our relationship was horrible, I feel comfortable saying that 75% of the words exchanged between us were argumentative in nature - there I was clutching my father's trembling hand, smiling to comfort the old man on what I thought might have been his final moments on this earth. I'm ashamed to admit this but even at that very moment I found the irony of him acting as if I was the prodigal son finally returning home, despite how often he told me that I'd never be shit - a thought that made me feel shame and immediately attempt to think of something else. What made me become aware of my own mortality had nothing to do with a man I thought could catch bullets when I was a kid rapidly wither away, it wasn't even the instance that I realized that he had submitted to cancer when he chuckled and said "I won't be here that long!" after I talked to him about an upcoming Super-Bowl - it had everything to do with those God-Damned prayer cards.

See, the one thing that my father and I shared was a healthy disdain for religion - we believed in god so to speak, but anything church-related we were vocally skeptical about the same way you might be about a local magician or some shit. I'll tell you, when he knew that the Grim Reaper was knocking with all his might, and he had me reading those fucking prayer card to him as if doing so would guarantee his jhoureny to th great beyond - that absolutely broke my heart man, and it abruptly put my own mortality into perspective.

The Passing of Buddy: My best friend Buddy was gunned down in a nightclub 3 years ago and I've been conflicted about his passing ever since - see, I was supposed to be there with him, so a part of me thinks that I could have stopped it and then there's the reality of me being there and being snatched out of my mortal coil right alongside Buddy. I don't have many friends, truthfully I'm not particularly a big fan of people - but Buddy was not only a guy who consistently had my back regardless of the situation, but I could talk to him about some girl breaking my heart and not feeling the need to embarrassingly preface it with "I know this is going to sound gay, but.." Besides Buddy was a lot crazier than I am, throwing make-shift Molotov cocktails inside of a drug dealers house once, dragging motherfuckers out of their houses as if it was an Olympic sport - I can't tell you how many times I had already resolved an argument at a club only for Buddy to come along and break a chair over the dude's head while quoting Ice Cube: "Some people are heaven-sent, but 'Self-Destruction' don't pay the fucking rent!!"

I miss that dude, and now I find most of the good times that we had together edged out by the memory of his funeral - me trying to indiscreetly scratch my crotch in a monkey suit, his inconsolable parents, pews amongst pews of black folks reciting bible verses that I didn't know and was too distraught to utter anyways. But the one thing that hit me most of all was the closed casket via the execution style murder that he was in the business end of - I knew that I had enough enemies for me to go out the exactly same way.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince: "Brand New Funk"(Live)

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

If getting into heaven is based on following commandments, I'm fucked..

This might sound a bit blasphemous to some people, more so than usual coming from a natural born heathen like myself - but I just knew that I would devote my life to Catholicism the first time I achieved a prepubescent erection from the way an ill fitting plaid skirt hung off of Cathy Morgan's supple ass as she sauntered down the hallway of my catholic school more than twenty years ago. Since I was probably a decade past the days where the favorite pastime of sexually frustrated nuns happened to be breaking rulers over children's knuckles, I have to say that my catholic school memories are pretty pleasant ones to be completely honest. I can't tell you how many inappropriate grinding sessions I had in the holy confines of a confessional, my class literally spent entire recess sessions fighting other homerooms on some truly "West Side Story" shit, the curriculum seemed easy enough - and around this time is when I gained the invaluable knowledge of a person having a clean slate by simply going to confessional, regardless of how heinous the act might have been. That's it, I was hooked - plus the fact that the services were only 45 minutes long at the most, and you got a good work-out while begging for god's forgiveness with all the other fucking sinners - with all the kneeling, standing, and hugging that is. I know that the Catholic Church gets a bad rap, having a plethora of priests out there enjoying more prepubescent balls coming their way than umpires at a little league game tends to get negative press - and I've always said that anyone who harms children should be castrated with a dull butter-knife. But pedophile priests aren't as prevalent as you'd think, besides, if I had to deal with a fucking Jesus pimp every Sunday I'm sure every church service would end with me holding a loaded handgun to the so called "Messenger of God" himself while saying something utterly profound like "Run your shit Rev! Listen Preacher G.D Moneybags, I want the collection plate money, the herringbone, and that fucking money-clip Al Sharpton gave you last Christmas! Everything!" Those guys are nothing but Sweaty fucking baptists of the T.D Jakes variety anyway, preaching salvation while lining their pockets and getting you to vote for some god-damned republican - milking your own people and getting them to vote against their own best interests should put you on the business end of the same butter-knife used on that pedophile priest.

That being said, I happen to be the worst catholic ever. Besides the multitude of sins that I commit on a daily basis - everything from massaging my unimpressive phallus to easily download-able specialty porn like "Asian midget's" and "Spoken word poetry Nymphs" and my habit of occasionally checking the durability of some assholes chin, the serious offenses that I've committed against actual clergy members is what will make St. Peter grimace while reviewing my file at the pearly gates. In a case of verbal diarrhea I once blurted out "Damn, Sister Margaret has quite the onion-booty!" behind a nun in a grocery-store line once, I threatened the life of one of those aforementioned hustle-man preachers who tried to get his congregation to vote for George W. Bush - not to mention the young priest that I played one-on-one basketball with, clergy molestation taunts prompting the man of god to call me a "dirty cocksucker" in front some very impressionable teenagers. Not to mention my behavior in the church building itself, indiscreet hand-jobs during Sunday service, fights on church grounds, going there for the sole purpose of meeting future sexually frustrated late-night dalliances - did I ever tell you about the time I got a piece of memorable sex at a wake that I attended?

Shit, who am I kidding - if I ever want to one day find myself playing poker with Scott La Rock and Langston Hughes, I better figure out that 10 Commandment thing first.

The Ten Commandments

1. You shall have no other Gods but me.

So far so bad, especially since I pray to the alter of Rakim Allah. No offense to the big guy, but have you actually heard "My Melody"? As soon as you hear..:

"I take 7 MC's put em in a line
And add 7 more brothas who think they can rhyme
Well, it'll take 7 more before I go for mine
And that's 21 MC's ate up at the same time


..it will make you switch the cross on your chain for a visage of Rakim. What can I say, bitter downtrodden broads with an agenda of killing your buzz pray to Mary J. Blige, I happen to pray to Rakim.

2. You shall not make for yourself any idol, nor bow down to it or worship it.

I'm OK here, I've never really been a follower - so the chances of me following some shit stain like David Koresh, Jim Jones, or that Heavens Gate freak who had people die with fucking Nike's on their feet is slim to none. Besides, I'm an Adidas guy anyways.

3. You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God.

What else am I supposed to say while fucking, or during my profanity latent tirades?

4. You shall remember and keep the Sabbath day holy.

Sure Sunday starts out holy, with me putting on my best suit and arriving to church with nothing but the purest of thoughts. But it ends pretty differently, with me in bed with a morally devoid woman as we mercilessly fuck while watching "Roadhouse"(I get off when she call's me 'Dalton', don't ask.) - her allowing me to use any of her orifices at my disposal. Come to think of it, it ends pretty holey as well, I mean holy. Shit.

5. Respect your father and mother.


My father died 6 years ago but my mother is still around, and I absolutely love that woman to death. So I'm good here too.

6. You must not kill.

Man, I'm on a fucking roll. I've never taken anyones life, I'm thankful for that - but if one more person tells me how lyrically genius Lil Wayne is I don't know how long I can go without a homicide on my record.

7. You must not commit adultery.

I've never been married, so I pass with flying colors with this one as well. But wait a minute, what if you've been involved in an adulterous act? I can't tell you how many times I've clumsily thrusted on top of some woman as I looked at her wedding photo's and other family snapshots. This isn't looking good.

8. You must not steal.

OK, I'm not a thief per se. I mean, I've never stolen anything out of necessity, and I can say with confidence that I'm not a kleptomaniac. But every fight that I've been in, specifically the ones in which I come out the victor - I rummaged through the victims pockets, taking their worldly belongings on some "High School Bully" shit. I don't particularly need their hard earned dough, it just sort of puts an exclamation point on a humiliating beating.

9. You must not give false evidence against your neighbor.

This one poses a problem as well, especially since I once informed the authorities that one of my neighbors was running a meth lab in his garage. Granted, he was a drug dealer but he was only dealing marijuana - but as the cops took him away I screamed "You bloody fucking savage, that's for all the times you went three lines into my property when cutting your grass you motherfucker!!"

10. You must not be envious of your neighbor's goods. You shall not be envious of his house nor his wife, nor anything that belongs to your neighbor.

If the rule means actually not penetrating the wives of men that live on my actual block, then I'm fine - but if by "neighbor" means my fellow man in general, then I'm fucked. Besides, imagine if Rosario Dawson got married and happened to move right beside me - and after a few months she starts coming over my crib when her husband is gone, complaining about her marriage, adding that nothing turns her on more than a chubby black myth ruiner with a writing prowess?(its could happen!) There has to be some leeway with these rules.

Hip Hop Drinking games(Vibe.com)




"Alcoholism is a disease, but it's the only one you can get yelled at for having. Goddamn it Otto, you are an alcoholic. Goddamn it Otto, you have Lupis... one of those two doesn't sound right." -Mitch Hedberg


A few years ago when my father died, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and when a woman whom I thought would one day be Mrs. HumanityCritic left me for what turned out to be a literal bum all at the same time - I dove face first into an abyss of alcoholism that would have made Nick Cage's character in "Leaving Las Vegas" sit me down for a heartfelt intervention. That whole time period is one gigantic blur of bar-fights, publicly puking then sleeping on park benches even though I had a residence, and throwing back enough shots of Jagermeister to put down an entire stable of horses. Nowadays I'd say that I'm the proverbial poster-boy for germaphobia, I can't tell you how much of a mood killer it is every time I ask a woman 30 health questions prior to foreplay - but back then the multitude of occasions that I woke up not knowing where I was or how I got there, besides some strange piece of ass that I'd usually have to slip on some latex gloves before giving the time of day to was an every day occurrence. The used condoms that littered the ground around the miscellaneous woman's bed might as well been spent bullet cartridges, letting my hungover brain know that some very bad things happened the night before - even now, recalling that time that I played Russian roulette with my cock on this blog makes a brother want to jump under a scolding hot shower while aggressively scrubbing my penis with an S.O.S pad. Going through that very dark period of my life is what has strengthened my belief in a higher power to be totally honest with you, because the fact that I came out of that period of self-destruction with a healthy liver and without some strange disease as if I had sodomized that "Outbreak" monkey - it kind of makes that whole "water to wine" routine seem like amateur hour.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Gang Starr "Dwyck"

Hip Hop breaks that I can't get out of my head: Take Six "Spread Love"



I don't know what it is, like that innocent glance you exchanged with a miscellaneous woman 15 years ago that still seems to be tattooed to your brain - this song is similar solely because of how many Hip Hop DJ's use the same part of said song during their respective mixes. Sure, the song is cool, but nothing makes my head bob more aggressively than an epileptic giving a blow-job - than hearing the chorus of this song played over a booming kick drum and snare.

Monday, June 04, 2007

I'm hands down, the worst ex-boyfriend ever!

Dear friends, through my extensive research I've finally come to the conclusion that in life there are two types of assholes: The type of asshole that is completely oblivious to the reasons around them being universally loathed, and the type of asshole who has a working knowledge that at least a handful of people in his own hometown want him removed from the mortal coil, stat. Suffice it to say I'm of the latter. That's why I've always secretly rooted for any girl that I was dating to drop me like a bad habit, not because it was a passive aggressive way of getting her off my fucking back - but because it showed that she had enough self-esteem to get rid of a no-good man, I can't tell you how many times I sincerely clapped and said "Good for you girlfriend" as soon as a woman gave me the proverbial pink-slip. Matter of fact, those particular brand of ex-girlfriends that I'm still cool with and I laugh about our failed relationships to this day - usually conversations follow concerning how I happen to be king of all assholes, and how they see being with me as "on the job training" for all the assholes they had to deal with after me. Granted, my main goal was to penetrate miscellaneous orifices as many times as humanly possible without any of the boyfriend duties, and possibly eat some mac and cheese off of a random butt-cheek or two - but if a chick feels like she learned a lesson from my douchebaggery, then so be it.

But since karma is real and I've finally figured out that one of god's favorite pastime's over the past decade and a half is fucking with yours truly - the few women that I have dedicated myself to then proceeded to take an extremely busy shit on my emotions. It's true, the few times that I've found myself mortally wounded on that relationship battlefield, just staring at my own beating heart after it was ripped out of my chest so carelessly - I knew that I was paying for every heart that I had broken, every chick whose sister I deflowered, every woman who refused sex because of an impending GYN appointment and me saying "Well, you don't have an rectal appointment tomorrow, lets do this!!"

It's weird though, those are the same ex-girlfriends that I still see out and about on a regular basis - and my actions towards them are so indefensible that one woman recently crowned me as "The Worst Ex-Boyfriend Ever!!" For the life of me I don't know what in the world she's talking about.. OK, I'm lying, I know exactly what she's talking about.


Belittling her new man can be fun!!:
Listen, I know that I can be nuttier than squirrel shit sometimes - but if I see an ex-girlfriend out on the town with her new beau the last thing in the world I'm going to do is make a scene, what am I a bloody fucking savage? Regardless if me and the woman ended our relationship amicably or if she abruptly ended it by sending me pictures of her blowing that gremlin looking T-Pain via her camera phone - I've never gone into stalker mode, on average women that I've sporadically gave penis to under the guise of a relationship have gone virtually un-harassed. Except for this one time when I was still reeling from a very messy breakup, drowning my chubby little sorrows on expensive glasses of wine at a friend's art exhibit - when the women who had just rocked my world like a crackhead globe salesman gleefully introduced me to her new man. I immediately knew what she was doing, slowly turning the already deeply plunged knife that was already in my heart - I didn't have the energy to fight back so I just winced and hope that it would all be over soon, like how I imagine the person on the business end of a prison rape must feel. But I guess she said one sentence too many for my liking because before I knew it I was criticizing her man's sense of fashion as "Homeless chic" as if I was that Blackwell dude who makes those "Worst Dressed" lists. I couldn't tell you how many times I lunged at him, making him flinch, then proceeding to call him a "pussy" in the most casually of fashions - on top of me correcting his English whenever I got the chance, resulting in me telling my ex "Sheeps?'" What is he, retarded or something?"


I pretend that they don't exist:
This is going to sound rather childish, but then again if you are an average reader of this blog then you are used to my particular brand of bullshit - but nothing satisfies me more than ignoring ex-girlfriends as if they had never existed. You've been in a club somewhere and saw one of your ex's, you haven't caught eyes yet but you can tell that they've seen you by the way they keep strategically trying to get within your eye-shot. Most of the time I submit and go over there and chat them up, or at least I nod my head in a "yes I see you, and I'm being cool even though you blew my boy" gesture - but this last time I was just focused on being an insufferable prick. Every time she tried to get into my sight path I'd turn my head, when she would send one of her girlfriends to talk to me I wouldn't acknowledge that they were standing there as if I had headphones on - not to mention me literally turning my back on her after she attempted to sit next to me at a bar.


Tell her that she gave you an incurable disease, in public!:
Fellas, if you don't listen to anything else I say please heed these very words - if you have anything heartfelt to say, whether its expressions of love or heartbreak, for Christs sake don't leave it on her answering machine. Yes, I made this mistake as my heart was breaking over a woman who now looking back wasn't at all worth the grief - I think some of the message went: "I fucking love you, why can't you see that? Do you know how many miscellaneous pieces of ass I've passed up because of my love for you, and how do you repay such acts of love? You go and fuck everything with an erection and a pulse! Why are you doing this to me(sobs)??!!" Pretty sad shit I have to say, so you can just imagine how said despair turned to utter embarrassment when I learned that she had played it for all of her friends. Fast forward a month from said phone call when I saw my ex out with some of her cackling ass girlfriends, laughing it up - just having a good old time at my expense. That's when I walked over, faked some tears in a "I'd like to thank the academy" kind of way, and proceeded to tell her in front her friends in a subdued tone "Hey, you might need to get checked out because the doctor said that you gave me something!" The laughs turned to deafening silence, the look of victory on my ex's face turned to humiliation - so to finally put two bullets in the head, execution style, on my own embarrassment I continued - I coughed, scratched sporadically, even pulled down my pants exposing some of my penis while asking the ladies at the table "Do any of you know what this blue spot is?"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: "Jailhouse Rap": The Fat Boys



Yes, I was a fan of "The Fat Boys" growing up. A few years ago I might have been too much of a pussy to express such an admission in this very public fashion - especially since Hip Hop fans coherent during the tenure of the Fat Boys career can't seem to get that fucking "Disorderlies" movie out of their collective heads along with that dreadful Beach Boys inspired "Wipe-out" song and their rendition of Chubby Checker's "The Twist". But everything preceding said examples of artistry were dope in my opinion, I was so much of a fan that I distinctly remember a few of my cassette tapes snapping due to the overuse - besides, in this day and age of sub par journalism where "Hip Hop writers" surprisingly feel comfortable breaking down "Hip Hop is Dead" with a fine-tooth while giving artists like Lil Wayne and Camillionaire praise on some "there is no last place, we are all winners here - special Olympics" shit, it makes a brother want to loudly declare my love for "The Disco Three" from the highest of mountaintops. Not for nothing, and this could be because I'm a couple of cheeseburgers away from my gut holding a clear view of my penis for ransom - but didn't Prince Markie D seem a bit too thin to be in "The Fat Boys"? The same way I envision a young Hollywood starlet getting pressure, everyone from her agent to her accountant constantly suggesting that she lose weight to become more marketable - I always felt that they were pressuring Prince Markie D to gain weight, giving him food as Christmas gifts and shit.