Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Not much has changed since I was 17

The other day I was talking to my therapist, yes I have a therapist, the mere fact that my first reaction is to viciously strike someone in the throat after stating the most innocent of Hip Hop preferences - and on top of that, all the in depth conversations that I have with my deceased father during my REM sleep pretty much warrant psychological analysis in my honest opinion. She's been a great help to me, no, she hasn't particularly healed a tortured soul in desperate need of saving - she has just reiterated something that my mother has been saying ever since I licked my entire birthday cake so no other kids could have a slice when I was a toddler - that I get no greater enjoyment than being a complete and utter asshole. Here I was, figuring that the culprit of some of my deplorable actions had to be some sort of mental issue - but what my therapy has taught me is that referring to my hearing impaired neighbor who happens to be a black belt kick boxer as "def-defying feats" has nothing to do with my father telling me that I'd never amount to anything. My penchant for slapping people on the ass during funeral services and saying shit like "Whew!!! Nice Eulogy" and "I really liked the grip you used when you carried that casket" as if they were an athlete who just sunk a last second jump-shot - all of that has nothing to do with me not being hugged enough as a child, and everything to do with me amusing myself with a rather dark sense of humor that would make Stephen King's stomach turn. I mean, my therapist never came out and told me that I was a smoldering piece of shit mind you - but her silence spoke volumes after I asked her, "So basically your prognosis is that I'll be a lifelong scumbag?"

So yesterday, as I sat in her office and wondered why I'm paying good money to be told what variety of asshole I am when I could have went to any ex-girlfriend for that brand of therapy(with the complimentary blow-job of course) - she proceeded to ask me what in my life has significantly changed since graduating from High School. As I seriously pondered her question, aimlessly looking around her office and acknowledging to myself that I had yet to obtain a rather juicy "I found it ironic that my therapist let me fuck her on top of her notes saying I was a sex addict" story - the only thing I could come up with was my ever expanding beer gut, me being secure in the fact that I'm a miserable lay, and a passion for writing that extends past 16 bar rap verses. As she stared at me as if she was waiting for me to stop joking around, I said "I'm serious doc, outside of a few adult responsibilities and acquiring grey pubes that make my private area resemble a cigar in an ashtray - not much has changed since 1991." Here are a few examples that I gave her.

Roadblock erections while dancing: Its one thing to be an undersexed 17 year old who wanted nothing more than to show the world his swinging African medallion while performing a rather aggressive "Running Man" - if some chick was brave enough to get past my flailing arms and decided to get intimate on the dance floor, a virtual baby arm would soon be stabbing her in the ribs.(a woman's rite of passage I feel, right below getting her period) Back then there was no need to mask my erection though, sure a rock-hard object that meant nothing but business being pressed against a woman's butt-cheeks was sort of awkward, I know that - but I never lost any sleep over it, figuring that it was a necessary teenage evil that girls had to deal with when dancing with dudes who could count their sexual conquests on one hand missing three fingers. But now it's just plain creepy, I danced with a woman this past Saturday and it was like I was back in 1991 - minus the cross-colors gear and the ill advised Sistah Souljah album purchase. I wasn't even that attracted to her and it started out with me playfully grinding on her, but apparently my penis takes fire drills as seriously as 4-alarm blazes - each time I accidentally poked her upper thigh and hamstring, I cringed the same way I do whenever a woman comes within a square mile of my asshole or whenever I see a Three-6 Mafia video. She didn't look phased, I'm not shocked by that - but no matter how many times I attempted to indiscreetly "adjust" or think about my dead grandmother, I felt exposed like I was one of those dogs in heat with a bright red cock.

I shower to "De La Soul is dead" every morning: We all know that the "powers that be" over at MTV are full of shit, and if I may continue the fecal matter theme a minute let me just say that legitimate opinions about Hip Hop coming from them is as natural as an oral bowel movement - even knowing all that going in, I was still thoroughly shocked when those deplorable ass-hats left "De La Soul" off of their "Greatest Hip Hop Groups of All time" list. How in the fuck are you going to have UGK on there but no De La? Blasphemy I tell you! But then again I'm biased, I have played "De La Soul is dead" every morning while showering for the past 16 years - so much in fact that I can recite the whole thing back to you, skits and all on some truly "Rain Man" shit. It's one of my favorite albums of all time obviously, and listening to it over 6,000 times has contributed to me calling people "Cock-snot" and "Aresenio-Hall, gum-having punks" whenever the opportunity presents itself. It's also the main reason that I will always have an eternal crush on Ms. Shortie No Mas.(I know that she wasn't on this album, but hopefully one of these random shout-outs will let her know that my marriage proposals are not bullshit)

I still believe that DJ Premiere can save anyones career:
Ever since Gangstarr first infiltrated the publics consciousness, whenever some artist had an album with some less than stellar production - my first reaction has always been "They should have gotten Premo to do the beats!!" Similar to the way that Chris Rock's parents felt that Robitussin healed everything from the common cold to bullet wounds, I just happen to believe that Premo is not only the answer to musical questions but he is also the key to unlock several life questions as well. Your last album bricked like Shaq taking three-pointers? Premo. You're a singer who wants to divorce yourself from the current climate of R&B? Premo. Shit, Lil Wayne could finally sound bearable over Premiere tracks, terrorists would give up the location of Osama Bin Laden if you simply played the Premo produced Nas song "New York State of Mind" outside their holding cells for a 48 hour period - nothing re-energizes a couples sex-life like playing Gangstarr's "BYS" right before some hardcore fucking, trust me it works.(Check out J.Pitts "DJ Premier, man of the hour" show)

Some people only respond to violence: When I was a senior year in High School this bully named Reggie would hug up on my girlfriend and tempt me to do something about it - for the longest time I ignored him, basically because I'd figure he'd eventually stop and I didn't want to get kicked off the track team for fighting. Months later, after he was telling people how much of a pussy I was for not doing anything about his unwanted advances against my girl - he finally got the picture when I slammed him up against the trophy case, proceeding to bash him in the face with a 1968 baseball trophy that knocked out a few of his teeth. Miraculously, he never so much as spoke to my girl again - sure it felt good, but it set a bad precedent for me when it came to dealing with situations over the next 16 years. The last thing that I want people who reads my drivel to think is that I walk around randomly assaulting people all day - ever since my best friend was killed in a nightclub three years ago it has made me face my own mortality. See, the night that he was shot in the head three times I was supposed to be right there beside him - so some days I wish that I was there that night to thwart any murder attempts against my friend, and some days I feel fortunate that I wasn't there to meet my untimely demise like he did. For a while it soured me on physical altercations, for a long time after that I felt that life was too short to be fighting some douche-bag over the silliest of reasons - my friend's funeral being a closed casket affair was enough to occasionally get me to turn the other cheek when involved in some ignorant verbal spat. So I'm getting better, slowly - but beating up Lil Wayne fans and black republicans don't count.

Henry Rollins' Letter to Ken Lay - Enron (Bigger douche than Vick)

When it comes to the coverage of Michael Vick over the past few weeks it reminds me of the Ice Cube song "True to the game" off of his "Death Certificate" album - in it he addresses rappers intentionally go commercial, saying that MTV will "have a new nigga next year". I thought about that song while I watched all the news coverage of the falcons quarterback who grew up not too far from my hometown, don't get it twisted though - I firmly believe that Michal Vick should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. That being said, the coverage was a bit much - as much as ESPN and other outlets want to bombard us with dogfighting charges, the kind of uncaged animal that Ron Artest is, informing the masses that a females asshole isn't safe as long as Kobe Bryant is in your town - at the end of the day I think that there are more pressing issues that need our undivided attention. Sure, killing dogs is fucked up and I'd openly laugh at the irony of Michael Vick getting butt-fucked in jail by a guy named Butch who happens to wear a dog-collar - but there's a war going on, the murder rates in some of our nations biggest cities are skyrocketing, The Jena Six, excuse me if I don't immediately make a sign and picket alongside Peta. Don't get me wrong, I completely understand the NFL suspending Vick for dogfighting - but just think about all the murderers and wife-beaters that they didn't suspend, this is going to anger some of you dog lovers but I'd say that a spouse being abused is at least worth 100 dead dogs.(Just imagine how many dogs a dead person is worth?) But seriously, Michael Vick is a douchebag who will get his proper punishment - but there are bigger douchebags than Vick and items that are definitely more news-worthy. Ken Lay, is one of those douche-bags. Oh Yeah, "Stay Dead Motherfucker!"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: The Roots feat. Roy Ayers: Proceed 2

Friday, August 24, 2007

The Secret Behind my Ringtones

One of the worst habits that I have, outside of me constantly injecting clergy molestation humor whenever I talk to a man of the cloth and using my own saliva as a lubricant during sex like I was on a fucking porn set - is my penchant for giving people the most offensive nicknames imaginable. My friend Nate has a habit of knocking up women who look like they grew up next to nuclear reactors, so I call him "Iraq" - because he always finds himself in the middle of a bad situation with the inability of pulling out. Ever since my childhood pal of mine named Lynn dated a Chinese guy I have never let her forget it, I'm not racist mind you - but ever since she told me about a marathon sex session that she had the gentleman where "she just couldn't get enough", I said "That's because he's Chinese, his sperm has MSG in it - that's why you went back for seconds!" She wasn't impressed with my brand of humor, so you can just imagine how delighted she is now that I constantly refer to her as "Shaolin" and proceed to recite part of U-God's verse in "Da Mystery of Chess boxing" whenever she calls. The elderly black man at my local watering hole I refer to as "Old Negro Spiritual", the puertorrican chick who almost ripped my blessed cock off with her extremely aggressive hand-jobs I refer to as "Sly Stallone in Over-the-top" - and the hobbit seized neighbor of mine who mistakenly gave me that backhanded "You speak so well!!" compliment recently, I started to openly call him "Douche-Baggins" around everyone that he cares about. The MC friend of mine who got caught masturbating in a nightclub bathroom, "The Whack Rapper", the waitress woman that I know who will blow you in the parking lot if you are rather heavy-handed on the gratuity, "Service with a smile" - you get the idea, but my lifelong habit of entertaining myself by renaming people is starting to give me quite a few enemies. Some of my closest friends have expressed their dissatisfaction recently, people who know I'll virtually wipe the floor with them have challenged me to fist fights, people have gone as far as completely halting intriguing conversations as soon as I walk into a room - I mean, I like being the asshole, but not one of that magnitude.

So slowly and surely, like that sex addict who starts limiting his sodomy of strange women to once a week, the career alcoholic who picks one day out of the month to get completely shit-faced, and the chubby dreadlocked blogger who finds himself only urinating on one Lil Wayne fan every six months - I'm gradually beginning to wane myself off of giving people insulting nicknames. Even though I've subscribed to a new form of douchebaggery though, giving people personalized ring-tones that are probably even more insulting than the nicknames that I have for them - I've refused to tell people what their particular ring-tone signifies, but I'll let you in on the secret.

O.C: "Ga Head"

I have a friend who for the longest time had the sneaking suspicion that his girlfriend was cheating on him, things like her unaccounted for time and different sexual idiosyncrasies sort of gave his premature fears a dose of steroids - he'd always ask for my opinion and I'd say, "not to be an asshole or anything, but some other guy is pelvicly adding a new wing to your lady's vagina!!". Come to find out his old lady was cheating on him with another woman, exactly what happened in O.C's song "Ga Head" - hence the ring-tone that blares every time he calls me.

DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince - "Brand new funk"

The women that my married friends tend hook me up with all seem like the escaped from the puzzle factory - a proverbial smorgasbord of broads who would love nothing more than to replace their hobby of licking glass with a healthy diet of stalking me at all hours. But recently a woman named Sara that I was supposed to be introduced to was completely breathtaking, as she approached the table we were sitting at it was like she was walking in slow motion - a beauty that almost inspired me and my erection to stand up, and run towards her like we were both in the middle of a fucking wheat field. But when she finally reached our table and sat next to me, she didn't quite smell right - and I'm not talking about that "not quite right, milk a couple of days past the expiration date" smell either. I mean, she was rank, 4-star general rank - so much in fact that I will forever stand at attention and salute whenever I find myself in a moldy locker-room somewhere. She's fine and all, but just imagine the state of affairs her vagina must be in if she can't accomplish the simplest of tasks like maintaining underarm odor. Who knows, maybe that was a bad night for her - but until she stops bathing in pig droppings, this will continue to be her ring-tone.

Amy Winehouse - "Just Friends"

I know that my asshole behavior when dealing with the opposite sex is well documented, the reason why I feel like I'm single and in this holding pattern "purgatory" is because of all the women whose backs I've spelled my name in ejaculate on and the sisters of girlfriends I've sodomized while screaming "Fuck, you had corn-on-the-cob for dinner didn't you!!" There is no excuse for my behavior, but I've found solace in the fact that most of the women who now own voodoo dolls of me never had any moral high ground to stand on - meaning that when I met them they were soldiers with shifty agenda's as well, and when the smoke cleared they were simply casualties of war. That being said, there is a stunning woman that I've met recently who thinks that I'm the unadulterated shit - she's kind, warm, and has a pure heart. Reasons that I can't fuck with her, I'm not trying to obliterate her life with my brand of foolishness - my rather unimpressive light-saber only slays female storm-troopers and your garden variety imperial soldier with a massive set of boobs, I've never been into taking civilian casualties. So when said woman calls, with her legs that look like she came out of the womb ball-room dancing and a body so devilishly tempting that Satan worshippers masturbate to it - this is the song that plays, reminding me of what level to keep her on.

Big Daddy Kane: "Warm it up Kane"

While my friend is battling his addiction in rehab I have been nothing but a supportive friend, visiting him, writing him encouraging letters - even sneaking strippers in his room to lift my pals spirits, nothing makes a guy momentarily forget about a severe drug habit than having glittery tits smashed into your face. I love my friend to death, I really do - but I will never be able to wrap my head around him smoking cooked cocaine. That being said, this song being played when he calls is rather fitting - don't you agree?

George Kranz - "Din Da Da"

Even though I've only dated black women up until this point, it never had anything to do with race - its basically because there hasn't been a white women that has yet to live up to the great standards set by Ms. Lucinda Dickey. That's right, Kelly from those "Breakin'" movies - ever since then, nothing makes a baby arm extend from my body like a Caucasian women who can "Bust a move" so to speak. Anyway, this local B-Girl wants me to write a treatment for this dance video she wants to shoot - not only does she have skills, but she is too young to understand why I constantly keep calling her "Special K". So when she calls me, this is the song that plays.(Sidebar: I think that black women who usually get upset at black man/ white woman relationships would give brothers a pass as soon as they saw the chick execute a precise flair move)

Bahamadia - "3 Tha Hard Way"

I'm a hypocrite, a smut connoisseur who on any given day pleasures himself to Asian midgets being humiliated or busty black women who love each other in a children's pool full of baby oil - but the second that a woman that I'm interested in informs me that she was once on the business end of a gangbang, all of a sudden I'm sickened like I'm a Christian fundamentalist. Sure she had more black sticks pounding her than a Rodney King recorded beating, but that was more than a decade ago - so why can't I get that shit out of my head? Until I resolve my issues, and see the beauty of her being so sexually "accepting" - this will continue to be her ring tone.

Things about Hip Hop that are starting to drive me crazy

The one thing that scares me about fatherhood, besides me wanting to teach my child how to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a spoon and the benefits of shooting someone with a 22. caliber pistol - is how extremely impatient I am. That's probably why I'm such an abysmal lover, anything not involving my penis being smothered by a woman's orifice is simply a complete waste of time to me. As much as a chick might think that giving me a rather seductive strip-tease or playfully kissing around my phallus is sexy, to me its just downright irritating - usually I find myself just waving my hands slowly in one direction on some police officer, "move along, there's nothing to see here" shit. Then afterwards, especially if the woman in question isn't my girlfriend, I sincerely try my hardest to stay attentive as pours her little heart out about some drama she's having at work or her baby daddy who just got "shanked in gen-pop" - but in no time flat I start shaking, grabbing my dreadlocks, then exclaiming "ARRRGH YOUHAVETOGETYOURASSOUTTAHERE!!!!!!" I've always contended that I'd cash a one-million dollar check at a later date if the line happened to be too long, I've given everyone from old lady's to racist bikers compassionate stop-light lectures about them not being shit and their lack of driving skills - recently, as I stood in line and watched the cashier chat with her chicken-head home-girl for 2 minutes straight I said, "Can't you cackling fucking hens talk about Lil Wayne and your herpes medication later, this 40oz is getting warm!!!"

But I never thought I'd get impatient with Hip Hop, if the genre was a lover of mine not only would I reciprocate oral but I'd pelvic-ally pound away, desperately hoping that she achieved her climax as well. Historically I've ignored the times that she rode her brakes, kept her turn signal on for more than five miles at a time - I just figured that she was in no particular hurry as I found myself behind her as she went 25 miles per hour in a 45 zone. But as of late I've found myself getting quite irritated over things that I've accepted over the last 25 years ago or so, I guess its akin to a man suddenly walking out on a 40 year marriage - I'm sure that the "final straw" was part of the same broom she was using 20 years earlier.

Call and Response: "Just throw your hands in the air, and wave them like you just don't care..", phrasing so important to me that I want it included in my marriage vows - as well as my wife promising to love me, cherish me, blow me before work, and openly agree to say that "Rakim is god" before we close our eyes at night. I know that talking bad about this time honored Hip Hop tradition is rather blasphemous, I know - but personally I'm getting so sick of the "call and response" to be totally honest. Let me revise that, as my boy Brother Omi told me during a recent phone conversation - "Maybe you are just sick and tired of it being done badly?" I think he has a point there, I guess I've been to so many shows where the MC who does it is as charismatic as an enema - such poor execution of said tradition has just soured me on it a bit. Especially when an artist tries to pull it out early in the show, the crowd isn't even warmed up yet - take it from a guy who historically "pulls it out" way too early, you're libel to have people saying "fuuuck yooou" as you approach them with your penis - I mean, attempt "call and response" too early.

Someone put a muzzle on that DJ!!: For as long as I can remember, I have accepted a DJ's rampant babbling over my favorite record - I subconsciously chalked it up as being a necessary evil of Hip Hop. But now its starting to irritate me like a suede condom, I don't want to hear your bastardly shout-outs during O.C's "Time's Up" - wax poetic about where you were when that record came out either before or after you play the record, fucknuts. If I fail to find your in-studio banter interesting, what makes you think I'd find you intriguing while you played one of my favorite records? I can't tell you how many lives I've threatened at weddings just because the dude behind the ones and two's thought that his microphone was there for more than congratulating the new couple.

Just leave the record alone already!!:
When I say that I love scratching as much as the next guy, I'm not talking about that rash I acquired after fucking that stripper in Atlantic City - nothing soothes the savage asshole like a skilled technician chopping up vinyl like he/she was a Ginsu salesman. My only issue is when its overdone, like when the DJ who has been cutting up Biz Markie's "Goin' Off" for a half hour and hasn't gotten past the first line of Biz's verse. Jesus Christ man!

Respected artists who downplay freestyling: If one of my favorite artists isn't a master at the art of impromptu rhyme, that's alright - I'm the type of fan who gives a shit-load of extra credit if the MC in question even attempts it. But whenever I've heard rappers try to castrate the importance of freestyle it always seemed both cowardice and disingenuous, them throwing up a proverbial smokescreen so you wouldn't notice that lack of said skill is a chink in their lyrical armor. An MC doesn't have to be master at the freestyle to be a great artist, but don't downplay it either - that's like the running back railing against the stiff arm or the spin move, or the point guard downplaying the bounce pass or the ability to split two defenders. Seriously, cut that shit out..

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: A Tribe Called Quest - "Can I Kick It"

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Conspiracy Theory Tuesdays: Certain beauty products were designed to eliminate black folks..

One of the most memorable girlfriend's that I've ever had, outside of the one that needed me to shove a string of door-knocker sized beads in her ass for her to achieve a proper climax - was a chick named Debi, a black woman so militant that at times she made Louis Farrakhan seem like Sammy Davis Jr. I mean, I have some pretty militant views myself, but when she started blaming precipitation and random football scores as government plights against the black man, it became increasingly difficult for me to contain my eye-rolls. Every white woman that I knew, even casually, was accused by her of trying to satisfy their deepest and darkest desires by having a "big black buck around" - and she took it upon herself to question the loyalty of my Caucasian friends whenever the opportunity presented itself, I appreciated the concern and all but I was losing white friends faster than O.J Simpson circa 94'. Sure she was the epitome of a buzz kill, but Debi sort of intrigued me - I mean, what other opportunity would I ever get to have passionate sex to taped Huey P Newton speeches and to tell "..and then I took off her army fatigues and proceeded to fuck the shit out of her" stories to tell my closest friends? But besides her penchant for dressing up like Pam Greer in those blaxploitation flicks and putting me on the business end of rather spirited mouth-hugs after I spouted some militant ideology that I probably didn't believe myself - I had to let her ass go because even though she's the only woman that has ever let me penetrate her while "Welcome to the Terrordome" was playing, the last thing I wanted was her fanatical beliefs to rub off on me.

Listen, I believe the standard theories that your average, garden variety black person holds - like AIDS was invented to wipe out black people, the second shooter theory, the government had Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr killed, Clearchannel and Viacom's main purpose is to destroy the black population at all costs via criminally bad Hip Hop. Pretty standard stuff really, nothing too extreme. But recently, when I started to think of all the shabby hair-care products that I've fallen victim to over the last 20+ years - it makes me want to reunite with Debi and attend meetings at undisclosed locations where the people in attendance wear nothing but black military uniforms, because its this writers humble opinion that black hair care products were designed to eliminate black folks.

Jheri Curl Activator: Yes, I had a jheri curl - even though I'm overwhelmingly candid about my sexual shortcomings on this blog and my well publicized habit of paying for women with loose orifices off of craigslist, admitting to having a particular hairstyle more than 20 years ago is more difficult than coming clean about an MC Hammer album purchase. It was my old man's idea, he paid top dollar so me and my older brother could have heads that looked as if we shampooed with motor oil - not for nothing, but with all the curlers and the mass amounts of time spent under a hair dryer, I know entirely too much about the inner workings of a beauty salon for a straight male who has a Serena Williams paparazzi crotch shot as my screen saver. Not that it matters, since the Jheri curl will never be as popular as it once was - but the key to maintaining said hairstyle is constant upkeep, but as a 10 year old boy with the sole agenda of playing outside, keeping up a hairstyle was the furthest thing from my mind. Besides, that activator that I was supposed to put in my hair was disastrous - it blinded you if it got into your eyes, it ruined pillow-cases and bedsheets if you didn't cover it up, and the shit stayed in your clothes as if the bastards who invented that hairstyle had their own fragrance company.

So after a few weeks of neglect, as my hair got so dry that my dear mother described my mane as looking like "Negro tumbleweeds" - she proceeded to wake me up early one Saturday morning and aggressively shave my hair like a new recruit in a Vietnam movie. You know what, I come from a loving two parent home, my mother wasn't on drugs when she had me, and Virginia Beach has to be the furthest thing from a ghetto - so how do you explain my affection for throat-chopping bastards until they can't breath and mercilessly going through the defeated gentleman's pockets on some "High School Bully" shit? It had to be the activator, because seriously - I haven't been right since.

Beeswax: When I first decided to grow dreadlocks more than a decade ago, my cousin eagerly wanted to be the person who introduced me to a life of people asking me if I sold weed every other day - based on him being a hair stylist and owning his own hair salon in my town. For the longest time I resisted, simply because he was gay - correction, he was gayer than a tree full of parakeets who only acted like a straight man when he was around me. I didn't care what he did with his personal time, but if I had to be forced to sit in a rather uncomfortable chair for three hours, I didn't want an obviously gay guy talking about all the women he was fucking to serve as the soundtrack to my first dreadlock experience. But at the end of the day I accepted his offer, not only because I realized that he needed his own time to come out of the closet - but because my cousin aka "Mcgreevey" was offering to do it for virtually nothing. I guess you get what you pay for, sure he did a miraculous job - but he used a substance called beeswax to twist my hair, a choice that I would come to loathe in the subsequent years. Not only has it caused me to lose a few locks, but the chalky residue that it left made it look like the Stay-puff marshmallow man ejaculated on the tips of my hair. Thank god for all the "coffee shop, incense burning, watching "Love Jones" on a loop" chicks that I've slept with over the years - they've rectified that problem.

Magic Shave: Back before I rocked the "homeless disheveled" look, a beard so wild and unmanageable that I'd probably shed a tear if I ever put a comb through it - I took it upon myself to be clean shaven every day. Besides, a girlfriend that I was with at the time claimed that it felt like she was being eaten out by a big piece of Velcro whenever I had the tiniest bit of stubble on my face during those rather intimate moments. Of course this causeed a problem for me, because like many black men who shave on a regular basis will tell you - the bumps that would develop from doing so weren't exactly sexy, if those same bumps appeared on my lips you'd probably think that I spent a passionate weekend with Courtney Love. That's when I was introduced to "Magic Shave", a product that came in a medicine smelling, white powdery form - what you would do is add a pinch or two to some water, mix, then smear the substance on the part of your face that you didn't want hair to be. It worked, after waiting a few moments and scraping the dried substance off of course - but not only was the unwanted hair removed, but so was some of your fucking skin. I'm serious, that shit was toxic - I'd bet you some serious money that that was the same substance used remove paint off bumpers or to break down disposed bodies for mobsters. Its a conspiracy I tell you!!

(Vote for my blog (Daily Views, Pop Culture, Rants, and News) for Best Blog Post(“Who Killed Hip Hop? On some ‘JFK’ shit…”), Best Humor Blog, Best Personal Blog, Best Writing in a Blog, and Blog of the Year)

Maybe the Dali Lama is the only one who can criticize Hip Hop(Vibe throwback)

Maybe it's because I'm getting older, remembering a time when people thought that George Michael was straight and that Terrence Trent D'arby would have an illustrious singing career, but it seems to me that most of the people who criticize Hip Hop just regurgitate random talking points that they once heard on an episode of Geraldo circa 89'. Due to the whole hysteria surrounding a man that no one with a healthy pulse even listens to any more, my life over the past week has felt like a dreadlocked version of Groundhog Day - hearing everyone from right wing pundits to civil rights activists telling whoever would listen that Hip Hop music is bringing down western civilization as we all know it. Listen, I agree with many of the well-meaning brothers and sisters who have publicly voiced their concerns recently: I've been a fan of Hip Hop for the better part of three decades, but I can't defend the indefensible. Besides the fact that I'm a Hip Hop elitist who finds a slew of artists being played on the radio, MTV, and BET as fundamentally bad, I have no problem agreeing with the harshest of Hip Hop critics that violence, minstrelsy, and misogyny is a constant motif in much of what's played nowadays. But many of these well intentioned black folks embarrass themselves whenever they don't specifically point out that what they are vehemently ranting against is "Clear Channel" Hip Hop - anything predicated on flashing diamond encrusted smiles, throwing money in the air, and proudly exhibiting a lack of lyricism - exuding nothing but intellectual laziness, knowing that it's much easier to quote a questionable rap lyric than to tackle the faulty educational system or flat-out bad parenting.

My only fear is that this is Hip Hop's version of Janet Jackson's Superbowl nipple slip, a virtual door being opened for anyone who has ever tried to turn my favorite genre into the scapegoat for all of America's societal ills - inciting a musical witch hunt where drooling lunatics begin to lump together horrible groups like Crime Mob with Royce da 5'9. Sure, I expected this from right-wing pundits who wanted to turn the Imus issue into a referendum on Hip Hop - frigid women once again being able to moisten their collective panties and impotent men suddenly sporting more wood than Home run Derby's whenever they get the opportunity to cluelessly generalize Hip Hop - only momentarily replacing their hidden desire of one day being able to openly call black folks by their favorite racial epithet. But I figured that people who looked like me and usually thought like me would understand the nuanced nature of the argument - but last week I was proven wrong.

The funniest development that I discovered, flipping between cable porn and news stations as I often do, is that the loudest voices criticizing Hip Hop happened to be the same ones with the shadiest of pasts. Here are some of their offenses, people so belligerent about Hip Hop culture that they make a baboons ass like a casual Hip Hop critic look like Africa Bambataa. Here are some nominees for the "Sit your ass down" award.

Michelle Malkin:
Like most uninformed twits who gladly wear their ignorance about Hip Hop like a badge of honor and happen to possess a lemming-like fan-base exclusively of Bush Loyalists who would have gladly drank Jim Jones' Kool-Aid if he was around today and prayed to the alter of Reagan - her "rabbit out of the hat" trick concerning Hip Hop is to quote the most indefensible rap lyrics that she can find. (Minus exclaiming "ta-dah!!" afterwards.) Sure it's lame - I mean, are there any other obviously shocking things that Mrs. Malkin cares to point us in the direction of? Homicides? Natural Disasters? Are there any childlike quips she'd like to add under the pictures of genocides past and present? Pointing out something horrible isn't exactly an argument, it's a lazy tactic that only people posing as journalists attempt to pull off - based on this Youtube clip, where she openly admitted that her latest book is rife with errors, I might be correct in questioning her journalistic street cred. But when I think about her criticizing Hip Hop I think about her being a woman of Asian decent actually writing a book in support of Japanese American Internment (which was mercilessly debunked, by the way). I also recall her smearing John Kerry with the unfounded claim that his Vietnam wounds were self inflicted. Lastly, on her blog she posted the name and contact information for students protesting the presence of military recruitment on the campus of the University of California, Santa Cruz - and wouldn't take it down after the students that she had outed started to receive death threats. No, Michelle, there's nothing hypocritical about waxing poetic about the danger of "bitches and hoes" in rap lyrics when you yourself have put peoples' actual lives in Danger. Please, Sit your ass down!

Al Sharpton & Jesse Jackson:
I would say that anyone known for having a perm and a penchant for sweatsuits shouldn't be criticizing anything, but that's neither here nor there. It always amazes me that individuals who claim that they are men of god, who have spent more time speaking in front of crowds than I've been alive, can be so bumbling and nondescript while discussing Hip Hop. Like I've said before, I can whole-heartedly agree that much of what passes itself off as Hip Hop nowadays on the airwaves is deep rooted in negativity - but I'm not exactly sure how I feel about these particular men lecturing me about it. Whenever Al Sharpton talks about rappers degrading women for political gain, I immediately flash back to the ways in which he used Tawana Brawley for national exposure. When Jesse talks about racism I can't get him saying "Hymie-town" out of my head, when he talks about black men being responsible husbands and fathers I can't stop thinking about that kid he had outside his marriage. Not for nothing, Al and Jesse, but sit your ass down somewhere!!

Jason Whitlock: I was with Jason Whitlock here. I was sort of with him here (even though Sharpton owned him with that closing "It's always guys that are not in the ring that want to call the fights" salvo). But after I saw him on Oprah as well as a dozen cable news shows, I'm beginning to see that homeboy is nothing but a one-trick pony. See, being a contrarian only works if your "outside the box" suggestions are accompanied with some worthwhile solutions - saying that men who utter "bitches and hoes" to a well produced beat is the only culprit that black people need to address just ain't cutting it buddy. Matter of fact, if you listen to this guy long enough, you start to believe that he blames Snoop Dog for the incarceration rates of black men, fathers not taking responsibility for their children, and hypertension to boot. As white women on Oprah clapped ferverishly to his tired diatribes about Hip Hop that I've recently used to put me to sleep at night - women who wouldn't have Ms. Winfrey over their houses if she wasn't worth billions of dollars and didn't give away free shit ad naseum, just understand that a blatant finger pointer with no solutions makes you - well, Bill Cosby. Shit, Jason Whitlock, the same guy who incoherently rambles about black people being "coons" and such - was once on "Pardon the Interupption" eating ribs live on the air .(What the fuck?) Like Dead Prez said, "It's bigger than Hip Hop", so Jason - Go sit your ass down somewhere!

Bill O'Reilly: When I saw Bill O'Reilly last week discussing Nas and his outrage at the fact that he was going to be performing at Virginia Tech at a benefit concert for the students who lost their lives to that psycho 4 months ago - I suddenly got the urge to violently punch something, someone, or at least express myself in post form since I've become the biggest nerd this side of Urkel over the past few years. I mean, I'm sick-and-tired of that douche-bag misrepresenting Hip Hop and trying to mask his obvious racism with empty rhetoric trying to make us believe that he actually cared about America's youth. I was going to dedicate an entire post to it, but when I saw Jay Smooth's rebuttal I decided against it - he eloquently hit all the right points and any subsequent post can't compare.(Hat tip to you brother) But Bill criticizing anyone is a bit rich, I mean - Come on Bill.

Bill the Beloved Husband:
* In October of 2004, Andrea Mackris filed a sexual harassment lawsuit against O'Reilly, claiming that he had not only made inappropriate references to threesomes, vibrators, and masturbation, he also had a weird fantasy of sticking a loofah inside her.

Bill the Historian:
* He claimed that the U.S Troops committed the Malmedy Massacre. It was actually the German Waffen-SS troops that massacred eighty-four surrendering American soldiers. So supporting the troops only includes those presently in battle? I get it.

Bill the Hitman:
*In a recorded conversion with Andrea Mackris, O'Reilly made a telling reference to having Al Franken killed. Hey Bill, show Nas what that gangsta shit is all about!

Bill the Child Advocate:
* Here is Bill talking about Shawn Hornbeck's kidnapping: "The situation here for this kid looks to me to be a lot more fun than what he had under his old parents. He didn't have to go to school. He could run around and do whatever he wanted." Nas talks about a gun and you Bill endorses pedophilia, interesting...

Bill's Knowledge of Black folks:
* When discussing Barack Obama: "Instead of black and white Americans coming together, white Americans are terrified. They're terrified. Now we can't even say you're articulate?" Does anyone else get the feeling that Bill is a walking dictionary of Black history facts?

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Black Moon-I Got U Opin

Friday, August 17, 2007

HumanityCritic, converting women to Lesbianism since 1993:

When I wrote a post entitled "Erykah Badu's Vagina Can Save Hip Hop."(more than a month and a half ago) for, I was quickly reminded that no matter how many caveats you add to ease someones uptight sensibilities - regardless what type of journalistic tap-dance routine you put on, at the end of the day there will always be somebody thoroughly offended with whatever you write. Here I am thinking that the masses would completely get my brand of humor, suggesting that Ms. Badu's genital region could save Hip Hop based on the men who changed their style up even after a smidgen of coitus with the Texas born songstress - but there were a few women out there who saw that singular post as a frontal assault on the feminist movement as a whole. Heartfelt and personal emails were sent to me from long time readers expressing their disappointment, negative comments were hurled at my directions, this one woman who I know in my day to day life actually shook her head in disapproval when I saw her - I mean, I'm the same guy who once got head in a confessional and sodomized a chick in the bathroom at my father's wake for Christs sake, you're really offended that I pointed out the power of Ms. Badu's vagina? Really?

I shouldn't be surprised though, the battlefield that is my relationship history is littered with the charred remains of women who were utterly repulsed by my behavior - everything from baby boomer-style hand-jobs from a girlfriend's mother, to getting to know her closest and dearest childhood friends biblically while she was away on business. Yes I was a bastard, a career philanderer who feels that Karma buys new boots on a weekly basis just to treat my prostate like a fucking soccer ball - but this post isn't about me lobbying to be the king off all assholes, my douche-bag exploits are so well documented that my dreadlocks have naturally started to form a crown. What I'm wondering is, why have more than 6 women came out the closet after they have dated me? I know, conventional wisdom would suggest that those women were probably on the fast track to strap-ons and K.D Lang concerts way before they ever met me - but six women is six women, how many times does something have to happen before is ceases being a coincidence? Here are three examples, and their actual take on the situation.

Name: Crystal:
Dated: 9/92-6/93
HumanityCritic's Account: "I was 17 years old man, you think I'm a sex addicted miscreant now - that HumanityCritic was a "coked up, Steroids" version.(minus the illegal substances that is) But to be completely honest, I don't remember doing anything particularly bad to Crystal - outside of me standing her up a few times, ejaculating on her mother's sheets - and abruptly changing the topic whenever she talked about our future past the next two months or so."
Crystal's take: "I knew that I was attracted to women before I dated HumanityCritic, I just suppressed it - I should be thanking him, because his child-like indifference towards me actually made the transition to women a rather smooth one to be completely honest. I somewhat converted during our relationship, I just kept him around for appearance sake - around my folks and family who I wasn't ready to come out to yet. As long as I gave him a few "mercy pumps" he was just fine, besides, I always found it a good opportunity to catch up on some well deserved rest.(haha)"
HumanityCritic's rebuttal: "That's just fucked up, I mean, its cool for me to do the "self deprecating shtick" but when you do it I feel rather exposed.(folding arms like a cold breeze just blew over me)"

Name: Teresa
Dated: 7/94 - 8/95
HumanityCritic's Account: "Probably the first chick I ever thought I could be completely faithful to, I loved her and she actually loved me back - this is going to sound corny, but if I ever happen to experience a feeling like that again I will burn all my porno's in a celebratory barn fire.(Except the Bobbi Bliss one where it looks like she's digesting a.. Sorry) From what I remember I was good to Teresa, but looking back I probably bored her into being a Lesbian - I was so into fucking her like an upstanding citizen she probably needed to be man-handled by an insuferable prick!"
Teresa's take: "Why do you guys think that a lesbian is a lesbian because she hasn't had the right penis go up inside her? I always knew, at least at a subconscious level - yes you did bore the piss out of me but you were sweet. Actually, I read your blog more times than not - and I get the sneaking suspicion that I was the one who converted you into being the asshole that your readers know so well. You're off the hook here kiddo, it wasn't you - even though I've experienced longer tongues than.. I'm playing! I'm playing!"

Name: Shay
Dated: 10/02-2/03
HumanityCritic's Account: "This was only a few years back, many moons after I've already fully embraced my inner asshole - by the turbulent nature of the relationship, I'm shocked that we lasted four months. Sure I was insufferable, criticizing her choices in music like she was mentally handicapped, punching her brother in the face for accusing me of cheating at cards(I was), and a proverbial laundry list of offenses that would even sicken my female fan-base accustomed to my horse-shit. But she was the one that ruined it, as soon as we started dating the first thing she told me was "If it doesn't work out with you, I'm switching to chicks?" What kind of shit is to tell a new boyfriend anyways? That's like telling someone, "You have to find the nuclear weapon or we all die, you have 24 hours?" - what am I, Jack Bauer? That's too much pressure to put on someones shoulders, so I did what any other red blooded male would do - I just fucked like crazy and acted like an asshole until she fully converted to lesbianism.(I mean, the world comes to an end)
Shay's take: "First off, you're a smoldering piece of shit! Second, you are an asshole! I've dated chicks before I even met you, that's how bad your memory is - don't you remember you telling me during sex "Damn girl, you have a sand-papery cat tongue - I feel bad for all your ex girlfriends, because your coarse tongue probably buffed away all their good vagina's!" - does that ring any bells. So no, you didn't push me into being a lesbian - but the way you always ended up fucking my friends with reckless abandon, that helped me remain on one side of the sexual preference lane. Oh yeah, my girlfriend says she's going to kick your ass when she sees you!"
HumanityCritic rebuttal: "She didn't do anything the last time I saw her, me picking her up while she screamed "I'm a girl goddammit!! I'm a girl!!" after she threatened to kil me. Yeah, its funny how she plays the feminine angle right before she's about to get thrown into some very sticky bushes.(For the record, I would never hit a woman - but if you threaten to stab me, your ass might get thrown into some bushed as well)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Brand Nubian - Punks Jump Up To Get Beat Down

Brand Nubian - Punks Jump Up To Get Beat Down

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As a man about to turn 34 in exactly 2 weeks, I'm well aware of the fact that I should abandon all forms of machismo that results in me introducing the rough side of my hand to someones Adam's Apple. I'm sorry, its just my firm belief that no one is exempt from an ass-whipping - let me explain. I can have disagreements with people and have them all be civil in nature, all in all I'm a pretty even tempered guy - but if a person attempts to cross a line, trespass on some sacred land that is a man's limits, there's no better expression of dissatisfaction than throwing that person a very passionate ass-whipping. Matter of fact, every time I find myself in the middle of some bar-room argument, traffic altercation, etc - this is the song that I hear in the background, Diamond D's horn infested track just provoking me to crack someone in the cranium.

You know, I was invited to be a part of a "Blogger Roundtable" that NPR's "News and Notes" has - its a show hosted by Farai Chideya, a great program that I've been a fan of for some time now. I would love to be a part of that fine program for its "Blogger Round table" - but what if the round table that I'm a part of has another blogger who happened to talk shit about me before on his blog? I can envision the lovely Farai Chideya getting her notes ready before the segment, while I mumble under my breath to said blogger who once dissed me "I'm going to kick you in the chest for that March 3rd, 2005 entry where you vaguely referenced me motherfucker!(pounding my fists) You are actually about to catch a beating on NPR, what do you think about that?" I just don't want to sully that fine show with any random acts of violence against any other bloggers while screaming "Punks Jump Up to get Beat down!" - think they will tell me who will be there before hand?

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chances are, I'm a bigger snob than you..

One of my favorite movies over the last decade or so is "High Fidelity", not so much for the main character's penchant for listing things obsessively like I do - but because his motto "Its not what you're like, its what you like" is one that I religiously subscribe to, like priests and their predilection for male prepubescent butt-cheeks. I hate to seem so shallow, but women have automatically been reduced from "wifey material" to "casual fuck toy" status during a date just by them mentioning some minstrel show rapper that they adore, while one of my friends is getting his ass kicked in a club I'll let him take a few punches before saving him based on that one time he waxed poetic about the brilliance of Tyler Perry - its my way of kicking karma in her fat ass, there's a price to be paid for criminally wack tastes of that magnitude. My snobbery knows no bounds, sometimes I feel that there's no way in hell a person could be so fucking useless and that their bad choices in music has to be part of some grand conspiracy - feeling that white people who sing the praises of Three-6 Mafia secretly despise black people, and black folks who listen to the same sort of drivel are self loathing Negros who probably pray for the destruction of melanin owners everywhere and masturbate to pictures of Clarence Thomas in their free time. Bad decisions concerning a persons CD purchases happens to be a character flaw in my book, I bet you money that I'm a bigger snob than you - my snobbery once caused me to walk out on a naked woman who wanted to fuck to Jagged Edge's "Lets Get Married"(she rejected my choice, Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome), my snobbery caused me to punch a DJ who played "The Electric Slide" even though it was requested by the new bride. I miss my father, his death has severely affected me because we never got a chance to reconcile - but even though he requested that I go out and buy him "Who Let the Dog's out" while he was on his death bed, I don't regret for one minute looking over his frail body and saying "Sorry pop(shaking head, folding arms), I can't do that! I love you, would literally give you my right arm if it would save your life - but what you're asking me is too much!!"

I hadn't thought about that refused deathbed request for a few years now, that was until my mother recently introduced me as her "dickhead son" - so after her friends shook their heads in disapproval at me as if I had just taken a rather busy shit right in front of them, if forced me to really examine the many ways in which I'm an insufferable snob.

Throwing CD's for distance: I can't tell you how many bridges I've obliterated and friendships that I've assassinated, but whenever someone decides to brave the treacherous terrain that is my passenger side seat and put a disc into my CD player - if I don't like what I hear in approximately 30 seconds I throw it for distance out of my window like it was an Olympic fucking event. I wish I could tell you that I did it to intentionally be a dickhead, but its just the way my body naturally reacts to bullshit - like muscle memory enabling a boxer to block specific punches, or how how I try to spell my name with my own ejaculate on a woman's back while climaxing. Of course I pay the person for their discarded merchandise, but the look on their faces is absolutely priceless - so much in fact that I've captured at least 6 images of said reaction on my camera phone, one day I plan on blow them all up and featuring them in an art exhibit.

I literally turn my back on artists: A girl that I used to "date" works for the popular "Hip Hop" station in my city - I put quotes around the word "date" because what we were actually doing was emotionless fucking, and I put quotes around the word "Hip Hop" because what they actually play is Jim Jones and that horrible "Ay Bay Bay" minstrelsy. Anyway, since she is one of the only women who let me rent seconds of space inside of her private area without burning self-made chubby dreadlocked representations of me in effigy - she always offers me free tickets to a plethora of shows and miscellaneous events. At first I'd always decline, I mean, most of the tickets she offered me where to shows where the performer flashed diamond encrusted smiles while setting my race back 100 years. But after a while I accepted, not because I wanted to be more open minded about music that I otherwise loathed - but because I wanted to seize on an opportunity to express my displeasure of someones music in their face. That being said, I have been to at least 5 shows where I've been introduced to the artist performing - and when he extends his hand I smirk, turn my back, and passionately cross my arms while in my best B-Boy stance. Sure they are dumbfounded and insulted, that's sort of the point.

Handicapped, Schmandi-capped!!: I was chatting with a friend of mine about Hip Hop at a bar recently, and while I was talking I noticed that the man at the table beside ours was bothered with our conversation - so I very politely asked the young gentleman, "Whats your fucking problem douchebag?!" He then proceeded to basically tell us that we didn't know shit about Hip Hop, named a few vomit-worthy artists that were his personal favorites - and even topped off his verbal bowel movement by telling me the inexcusable, that Rakim was overrated. The air left my body, I barely pushed out the words "What did you say??", he replied "You heard me!!! Fuck Rakim, Tupac is hands down the best rapper of all time!!" My friend looked at me and said, "HumanityCritic, chill out!", then I looked at the Tupac fan and said, "Take that back, now!!!" When he rolled to our table showing us that he was wheelchair bound, he smiled and said "I'm not taking anything back, pussy - I'm in a wheel-chair, what can you do anyways??" That's when I grabbed his chair and started aggressively wheeling his ass outside, even when he engaged some sort of brake I continued to drag it anyways - reaching the edge of traffic about to push him and his dead legs into harms way. As he let out high shrieks that apparently only asshole snobs and canines hear - I said, "Say Rakim is the best, say it motherfucker! - don't and I'll push your ass into traffic Stephen Hawking!!!" Not for nothing, but I think I've enlightened another person to Rakim's greatness.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Nas - Halftime

Friday, August 10, 2007

Bruce Lee is definitely Hip Hop..

I'm aware that I'd be pretty hard-pressed to find anyone who wasn't at least a casual fan of the man who invented Jeet Kune Do, Bruce Lee is in the same category as Jimi Hendrix and Wilt Chamberlain in terms of iconic figures hard to argue against - but as long as I can remember I've used some of Bruce Lee's philosophies as if they were "Cliffs Notes", effortlessly guiding me through this clusterfuck that I call a life. Forget about the sobering irony of Jeet Kune Do meaning "Way of the Intercepting Fist" and my penchant for getting rather aggressive hand-jobs from disgruntled strippers for one moment - even though Bruce lee died 42 days before I was delivered in a Honolulu Hospital, he has served as a template in which I lived my life and how I approached Hip Hop. Bruce Lee believed that a person could fight more effectively if they were completely relaxed, being that excess tension could cause you to not only quickly tire but also make mistakes that could prompt you getting your ass handed to you in the most public of fashions. He was right, every fight in which I was completely relaxed I was able to see the opponents punches a mile away - thus being economical with my counter-attacks, even though I'm sure that Bruce would thoroughly disapprove of me continuously kicking the defeated man while he's down and proceeding to go through his pockets on some "High School Bully" shit. I employed the same technique to freestyle battling as well, no matter how viscous someones rhyme was about yours truly - a clearer head on my part would usually cause the metaphors, similes, alliteration, and rhymes about a person's transvestite father to come spewing out like a broken water mane.

When a woman once asked Bruce Lee what technique she should use if she was ever attacked, he quickly informed the woman to kick the man squarely in his hairy bean bag - explaining to her to use anything at her disposal that worked. I've subscribed to the same tactic during the tenure of my life, choking out people with telephone chords, throwing hammers at people, beating a motherfucker with the wood in a paper towel dispenser, frying pans, steak knives - shit, you'd be surprised the havoc you can cause with your simplest household items. From using a big piece of cardboard as my portable dance-floor when my mother refused to pay for tap lessons, someone beating on a lunchroom table in High School so I could bust some rhymes for all 4 of the black girls who attended my predominately white high school - even now at the grizzled age of 33, angrily free-styling in bumper to bumper traffic as if a bearded black guy with flowing dreadlocks wasn't scary enough to your garden variety soccer mom.

Lastly, after Bruce Lee was already an internationally known martial arts sensation loved the world over - it didn't matter where he happened to be at the time, he would find himself on the business end of a public challenge to fight. Usually the challenger would make his intentions to fight known by tapping his foot three times then crossing his arms, legend had it that Bruce never refused a challenge - he didn't give a fuck whether it was on a movie set or at a bar mitzvah, proving that he was the best while handing someone their ass was always a top priority to Lee. That's Hip Hop, what Hip Hop means to me that is - not this alternate universe we live in now where swagger and someones fashion sense has trumped actual lyrical ability. That's what always set the genre I love apart from any other, no matter how well Mariah Carey can sing - I highly doubt that one day she will get ambushed at an "in store" somewhere in middle America, some eager unsigned artist exhibiting her 8 octave range to embarrass Carey's 5 octave range. You never see rival Heavy Metal Singers going at each other, battling to see who's scream reigns supreme - even in a sport like boxing, where the two participants are supposed to savagely brutalize each other, for the most part they keep it to their scheduled event.

With Hip Hop, I'm talking about real MC's here - its the only art form where you constantly have to keep your game face on, movie set or Bar Mitzvah - because you never know some bastardly opportunist is going to tap three times, cross his arms, and hit you with a rather deadly 16 lines. Not for nothing, but Bruce Lee is definitely Hip Hop.

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My 11th Date: "The Craigslist Jumpoff"

Under the "General Interests" section of my myspace page, after I tell you that I'm a chronic masturbator and before I express my undying love for Janeane Garofalo - you can clearly see where I express my penchant for "practicing accidental celibacy". At the time I personally thought that it was funny, besides - even though I do have a toddler sized cock and invoke rather expressive eye-rolls from women mid coitus, the self-deprecating shtick tends to go over pretty well. I never knew, a couple of years later - that one fucking throw-away line on a myspace page would turn into a self fulfilling prophecy. Even though my area being bombarded with simpletons and Lil Wayne fans has kept me without a girlfriend since the Clinton Impeachment hearings - I always had women on the side that possessed the ability to relieve "tension" whenever called upon. But as of late, it seems that every woman that I ever drunk dialed while saying "Hey baby, how would you like to swing by, give me head, and then leave immediately??!!" with the same vocal inflection of a business proposal all got together and had a meeting at some undisclosed location - because like a FOX News employee, all of them have proceeded to totally stay on message.(That message being "no") From them wanting a 5 date investment before revealing even a peek at a titty, rejecting my back-seat sex requests, the way in which they ignore my passive aggressive 4 A.M text messages saying "What are you doing right now?" - I have to find out who got to these women, because my testicles are starting to form what resembles ship barnacle.

Even though I knew that nothing would ever come of it, especially since I'm so germaphobic that I once wore two condoms after I made a chick get an AIDS test once - I started to religiously stroll craigslist as if purchasing ass online was actually an option. I don't know how it is in your city, and I'll by no means never be eligible to become a male underwear model - but the booty saleswomen in my area look as if they grew up next to a nuclear reactor. I mean, I thought that the allure of an ass transaction was getting a girl that you normally couldn't come within a square mile of on your own - paying for chicks that you could normally fuck for free is akin to making car payments on a Pinto when you at least make "New Honda" money.

So a couple of weeks ago, sorting through all the ass advertisements, trying to figure out which woman I could penetrate without contracting some new disease that baffled doctors would end up naming after me - who do I see peddling her "wares" but one of my ex-girlfriends. Even though I stared at her picture for at least 5 minutes straight, it was obviously her - same height, same juicy lips, and the fact that this silly chick used her real first and last name might have been a dead fucking giveaway. That's when I decided to call her for an "appointment", not to rekindle anything we might have had - but because I distinctly remember our last conversation ending with her saying "You're worthless, You're never going to amount to shit!!" more than a decade ago. I'm usually not one that subscribes to Schadenfreude(taking pleasure from someone else's misfortune), and I'm not exactly rolling in the dough here - but based on how mean her ass was, I'm a little thrilled that her current career as a "cocksucker for hire" wasn't exactly the path that her High School guidance counsellor mapped out.

So I called her, disguised my voice, told her that my name was "Stevland Judkins"(Stevie Wonder's government name) - gave her my address, then I very confidently stated "I'm going to fill all three of your holes like bowling" before hanging up the phone and giggling at the fact that I had just quoted a Kool G Rap lyric. The next 20 minutes were absolute torture, because I'm paranoid in nature you see - so I kept expecting a very innocent "ass order" to result in about 10 cop cars parked in front of my house to take me to a place where I'd be holding some inmates pocket in ownership if he happened to beat me in a fist-fight. That being said, before the thoughts of maximum correctional facilities flooded my subconscious - that's when I saw a pretty old Accord pull up my driveway.

I have to admit, she looked good as she shimmied up to the door - the years have been kind to her, and with all that "wagon" that she was "draggin'" it was pretty evident that she had let her PETA membership lapse. So after she rang the bell, I abruptly opened the door and said "Yeah, who ain't shit now!!! Selling ass on Craigslist for Christ sake!! What do you have to say for yourself!!!" - doing a rather impromptu "you won the scumbag lottery" dance. That's when my ex-girlfriend dropped her head, sat down on the bench on my porch - and proceeded to weep the same way I did when I couldn't get an erection when a couple of local porn stars wanted to blow me. I felt horrible, this didn't quite go as I had planned it - so I ushered her into my house and we proceeded to talk about the proverbial down-spiral her life has been as of late.

Death's in her family, arrests, bankruptcy, abusive boyfriends - the way she injected her humor amidst all of the turmoil, I felt like I was watching an episode of "Good Times" and shit. Call me feeling guilty for my original reason for calling her there, but I must say that I happened to be pretty comforting for a guy his own mother labeled "an insufferable prick" - so much so that I found my consoling arm around her leading to her passionately undressing me like my clothes were on fire. Let me tell you, sex is a lot less pleasurable when you check the condom every third stroke - not to mention how offensive it is to the woman when you scrub your genitalia in the sink before the woman leaves. Since I didn't know that our "spur of the moment" love-making was "on the house" so to speak, I doubt that I'll see her again - I think me handing her cash and her kicking me in the nuts guaranteed that.

(You can read about my other 10 "interesting" dates here)

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My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Main Source - "Just Hanging Out"

Main Source - Just Hanging Out

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Thursday, August 09, 2007

A HumanityCritic Hat Tip to Barry Bonds

To say that I'm a huge Barry Bonds fan or even an intense aficionado of the sport of baseball would be completely dishonest - even though there have been two things over the past three years that has connected me with the newly crowned Home Run King. Right before sex, the exact point when a woman has lowered her standards and decided to let a chubby pre-ejaculator clumsily enter her in any given orifice - while she's disrobing and my eyes are fixed on her chocolate breasts and backside that I plan on eating mac and cheese off of at some later date, I find myself mumbling "Barry Bonds, Barry Bonds like a motherfucker!!" When the woman inquires about me invoking the name of another man before exchanging bodily fluids I say, "Because I'm about to hit that shit outta the park baby!!" - even though that shit backfired when I had sex with a legitimate baseball fan once, me pumping away as she very cavalierly whispered in my ear "Actually what you're doing is laying down a bunt, stumpy!!!" I also connect with Mr. Bonds because with every home run I hit I arrogantly pose for at least 3 seconds after swinging for the fences - granted it's a slow pitch softball league, and I'm on a team where my own teammates hate me because I scream "You've just served up a souvenir for some kid, motherfucker!!" to the opposing pitcher as the ball goes sailing through the air - while checking my text messages as I slowly round the bases. But I never felt compelled to write about the brother until the last couple of days , based on the 24-hour anti-Bonds propaganda machine that ESPN has turned itself into since Barry hit number 756.

Listen, if you are a legitimate baseball purist who sincerely feels that Bonds cheated the game, fine, I have no quarrel with you - the cloud of steroid speculation that follows Barry Bonds around makes him look like the character "Pigpen" in those Charlie Brown cartoons. But as much as Bob Costas attempts to sound authoritative while he waxes poetic about this being a "Tainted Record", Keith Olbermann dedicates entire segments of his show tearing down the future Hall of Famer, or the shitload of ex-players who never had a tenth of Bond's talent that ESPN drags out to trash the man - it is my honest opinion that you're average fan really doesn't give a watery shit about steroids, no matter how much sports writers want us to. Not for nothing, but if you put an asterisk next to Bonds' record then you have to put one next to any pitcher of note who ever threw a spitball, alongside any record of a player who happened to play before the league was integrated, beside Bud Selig's name for the "Steroid Era" happening under his watch. Matter of fact, put an asterisk next to Baseball in general for not even having a rule against steroids when Bonds was supposedly taking them - also, put an asterisk next to the ever so hypocritical fans out there, who in New York mercilessly hit Bonds with steroid taunts the night before they warmly welcomed back pitcher Guillermo Mota from a 50 game suspension of said substance.

Besides, I'm a black man with a persecution complex for Christs sake - the multitude of ways that the government has tried to get Barry Bonds, I'm thinking about having his number tattooed on my body beside my Huey Newton and Bobby Seale ink. Everything from getting his closest friends to turn on him, asking other players to wear wires around him, even hoping to get him convicted of Tax Evasion on some "we have to get the black bastard on something, Al Capone" shit. I'm personally all for a person taking illegal substances to enhance your performance, think of all the dope music(pun intended) we'd be without if Bob Marley or Jimi Hendrix didn't feel the same way.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Formula Radio Show..

(After breaking down the drooling incompetents over at MTV the other day, specifically the round-table of proverbial clown-shoes who shat out that god awful "10 Hottest MC's List" - I suddenly want to post something that will wash that toxic whore-stink off of me. Hence this post.)

One of the things that I wholeheartedly cherish about Hip Hop is that its an art-form that I feel, deep down, I chose on my own volition - my older siblings had nothing to do with it since most of their time was spent playing The Bee-Gees and those early Prince records. Of Course my parents weren't the ones who introduced me to Hip Hop, even though Earth, Wind, & Fire and Donny Hathaway had to be the best wake up call a kid could have on a early Saturday morning. Hip Hop was something that I felt I discovered solely on my own, a team of media savvy marketers didn't place it in in front of me to lap up like a fucking German Shepherd - its as if my musical sensibilities one day set sail to negotiate some rather turbulent waters to discover a land where the natives only communicated if a microphone or vinyl were involved. For the first 10 years or so I was totally accepted by the inhabitants of this new land that I had stumbled upon - they treated me as one of their own as I eagerly learned their customs when it came to their native dances and their rhythmic language that originally drew me in. Then in 1988, even though I embraced the people as much as they embraced me - I did what any garden variety explorer has done over the last 600 years or so, I planted a flag on a land people already inhabited and then proceeded to claim it as my own.

To be more precise, dropping the metaphors for a moment - I was transformed from just an average fan of the genre to having a level of devotion to Hip Hop that would rival most branch davidian members. When my cousins from Queens brought down three tapes for my birthday - EPMD's "Strictly Business", Big Daddy Kane's "Long Live the Kane", and Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back" - I immediately knew that this was music that would monumentally change my life forever. Some heroin addicts talk about the first time they got high as "feeling like home", as if they were back in the womb - Hip Hop was already the addicting force that travelled through my blood stream, without one day telling confidiong in a group of strangers on my road to recovery. Hanging with my cousins those few days in August of 88, listening to those tapes so frequently that my own mother began to know the words of "Wrath of Kane" - free-styling, watching the Hip Hop video's I had taped off of TV, even talking about which member of Salt & Pepa each of us would love to "get to know biblicly"(my choice has always been Spinderella).

Want to know why I'm such a insufferable snob when it comes to Hip Hop? Want to know why I feel that a person liking some bastard ass rapper isn't just an unfortunate musical choice but a serious character flaw? As fucked up as this might sound, if a person happened to die at a Lil Wayne show - after I pray for the person's soul and his family that is, want to know why I can probably be heard later uttering "That's the punishment for being a Lil Wayne fan motherfucker!"? It has everything to do with those three tapes, and the time spent with my New York cousins serving as my unshakable Hip Hop foundation.

That being said, almost 20 years later a lot has changed - I still love my cousin's dearly, and even though they sometimes they look at me with that "Dude, you're 34 years old and still collect comic books" look whenever I give off a passionate diatribe about the current state of Hip Hop.(For the record, I still collect comics) That's why when I stumbled on "The Formula Radio Show" it felt like a show that me and my cousins would have made back in the day - that in no way is a commentary about the hosts sounding like 14 year old boys or the quality of the program, but the show bottles that same sort of raw enthusiasm for the culture that we all need a healthy does of nowadays. The Formula Radio Show airing every Sunday from 1-3PM Eastern on, hosted by DJ Primetime, Hollywood Cole, and Vanderslice - this show has not only hipped to me to a plethora of dope Hip Hip artists that I never knew existed but they have that "inside baseball"-like dialog about the genre that keep the heads interested. Broadcasting out of Philadelphia, they've had people on their program like DJ Mark The 45 King, Pharoahe Monch, Masta Ace, El Da Sensei, Mr. Lif, and Jedi Mind Tricks to name a few - so they don't need little old me to promote their ever widening agenda. The show is doper than a George W. Bush urine sample circa 75', so check it out - oh yeah, the only times you hear about Jim Jones or artists of that ilk on their show is when those bastards are the object of ridicule. Check these dude out..

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