Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Kcuf Waldo, Where's Cosby?

When I was a kid, too small shirts & holes in your pants meant poverty. Or at least lower-middle class status. Now, I look around & can't tell the difference between the less fortunate & a some schmoe on his way to try out for "American Idol". My mom would spank me with her mini-bible if I left the house with hair untamed, & raggedy clothing was grounds to break out the Hot Wheels race car track. I guess nowadays, tattered & unkept is the new clean & taken care of. My son's friend came over the other day & I said to him, "it's hot outside kid, take off your beanie." With a look of shame, he informed me he wasn't wearing one. I'm all for culture & trend, but with kids today, they either look like they're going to rob you or ask you for a bite of your hot dog. Either way, they need to invent some sort of repellent.

I'll be first in line with green backs to squander.

Sagging was the common problem among the youth for quite a few years. Parents, teachers, & clergy men alike all protested the unnecessary showing of undergarments. & I think part of their disdain had to do with the fact that people weren't even cognizant enough to wear decent underwear before exposing skidmarks to the public eye. If your undies have peek-a-boo's, you might as well pull up the trousers & tighten your belt.

Nothing says "I'm not really that tough" like dirty draws.

Then, for the ladies (& some testosterone deficient men) came the "crack" problem. Not crack cocaine, but crack of their asses. Girls seemingly stopped wearing belts, solely relying on hips & behind to hold up their two sizes too small jeans. When seated, all those behind her were treated to half a vertical smile, like it or not, bullet wounds & body hair optional. Somewhere along the road to "sexy", a memo was circulated that "butt cleavage" was in. That memo was sadly exaggerated. This spawned the thong epidemic, in which any "young" lady, regardless of size &/or shape, decided it was a good idea to squeeze themselves into their skivvies, & hoist denim up around their haunches. Those that choose to go 'commando' (no draws a'tall) managed to bend over for various reasons as much as possible. Granted, on some occasions it was a nice, much welcomed surprise, but other times, it was the last thing I wanted to see before ordering a combo meal at Burger King.

If the straps of your thong reach the bottom of your rib cage, you might consider boy-shorts from this point forward.

When I turned 18, I got my first tattoo. It was discreet, medium-sized, in a place on my arm where, unless shirtless, no one would be the wiser. I'm 32 now, & this afternoon I saw a 15 year old girl with some guy's name sprawled across her chest in old english font like a ghetto super hero. Somebody should've told her that when new stretch marks meet that 'old english', her torso is going to resemble a map of Los Angeles backstreets. I'll admit, it looked kind of cool in contrast to the butterflies on her neck & the heart & dollar sign shaped tears under her left eye. The "100% BITCH" scribbled on her right fore arm gave a nice balance to Mickey Mouse on one calf & Betty Boop on the other. & I didn't even notice the 5 paw prints on the back of her thigh until she stood to walk away. But, what really made me notice her, was that she was on a cell phone arguing with her mom about being home before it got dark.


Am I to believe that this girl's mom doesn't mind that she looks like an art project from a third world country, but cares if she's late for brussell sprouts & tofurkey? I haven't witnessed more mixed signals since Michael Jackson's video for the song "Black or White". This tattoo craze is getting out of control, & I blame musicians (namely rappers) for this neurotic behavior. Most of these youngsters aren't going to graduate high school (not mean, just honest) in the first place, much less get a halfway decent job with "KCUF LOVE" written across their back hand.

As Bill Cosby slips further & further into euphoric dementia, our society is quickly losing hope.

Maybe I'm jaded by the reality of getting older, but I just don't get the fads & trends of today. Maybe I'm not supposed to because they're not for me. I guess if I did understand them, it would be a sign of arrested development, & a cry for help from the best therapist my health insurance could afford.

I look at my children & wonder how much worse can "cool" things get, now that it's full body ink in junior high & complete lack of dress code.

It could be worse, like self-amputation of the hand used the least. Damn, I might've just gave somebody an idea.

Stars 'N' Bars

When did "jail" become the popular go-to spot for celebrities?

About 20 years ago, celebs of all ilks were going in & out of rehabilitation centers more than package delivery guys. Usually with tighter shorts. Although cosmetically, it was a blemish on their careers, the bruise quickly healed & they were headed back to the land of the living. Until, that is, the next big job that called for "electric relaxation". We became accustomed to incoherent interviews & sunglasses at night. That hasn't changed much since, but according to any accessible media outlet, the vacation spot for the stars has been downgraded. Now, they go to jail.

The latest victim to incarceration is Charles Barkley. Apparently he likes his booze & his fellatio on the open highway. Rumors swirl about his addiction to strip clubs, but I doubt he's happy about the next phase of wet, naked backsides he'll be looking at. & God forbid he has the overwhelming urge for a lap dance. For a carton of Newports & some soups, Chuck can pick up right where he left off. He's only been sentenced to 10 days, 5 if he opts to enroll in alcohol rehab classes. In all fairness to the system, what is 5 days & "mandatory" education going to do to a man of his stature. It's no more than a slap on the Rolex & a fine. Why waste my tax dollars for him to go to what probably equates to some of the worst hotels he's ever been to. & judging by his love of the ladies, I'm positive he's been to a hole in the wall in some hick town where the hotel manager, sheriff, judge & candlestick maker were all the same guy. Unlike "real" people, he'll get out, smile pretty for the camera, go back to his nice job & continue throwing dollars at half-naked flesh piles & half-priced shots of Patron. He's a jerk, & so is the judge who sentenced him.

On a more serious note, rapper TI is scheduled to begin serving his 1 year sentence next month for attempting to buy assault rifles & silencers (both of which are illegal) to retaliate for the murder of a friend. Really? At what point does a multi-million record selling entertainer think he's so untouchable that he can tool around the 'hood & buy hot guns? How much neon green weed do you smoke to think that life is your personal video game? What friend's does he have around him that thought it would be a good idea for him to do that? Probably the same morons that drove him to meet the undercover agent. Maybe he felt he had a point to prove; A) money hasn't made him any smarter, B) he's still "keeping it real" or C) money hasn't made him any smarter. What surprised me, & others, is the amount of time he got for such a serious crime, with priors on his jacket. It's been said that he cooperated with police on several levels. If I were facing YEARS around men who probably thought I was cute, I would most likely get my "Polly wanna cracker" on as well. I don't blame him for making his situation more bearable, but I do call "jerk" on this one. For a mere $10,000 (surely he has a cigarette lighter, anklet or pinky ring worth as much), he could have had all sorts of "Goodfella" type things done to whomever he chose. Instead, he auditioned to be the biggest star on the next installment of "America's Dumbest Criminals". & he was picked, unanimously.

There's too many "it" girls to name, but they must perceive arrest as a rite of passage into stardom. As if internet videos of gratuitous sex & bad music/movies weren't enough. The moment my public relation's manager suggests I do something to get arrested, I would surely slap the cigar from his face & bid him an unfond "farewell". I guess when you're high on cocaine, everything seems like a good idea. Call me lame, but cavity checks, public showering and risk of being shanked isn't worth a few thousand more fans. Again, I guess when you're high on cocaine, everything seems like a good idea (word to DMX, Rick James & several of my close relatives).
*sidenote: General population isn't for everyone people. Wake up & smell the urine*

I'm far from rich & nowhere near famous, & even I know not to buy pistols in dark alleys, or drive with double vision. Maybe instead of spending countless amounts of cash on mink boxer shorts and solid gold toothbrushes, these imbeciles should hire nuns to follow them around with ping-pong paddles, & pop their knuckles every time they do something idiotic. Half of Hollywood would be walking around with the hands of Muhammad Ali.

Hey, why not, it worked at my catholic high school.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Oscar...he's not just a grouch anymore

I don't like to think of myself as a "hater". For starters, it's quickly becoming one of those phrases like "bling bling", "fo' sheezy", & "it's all good". Some words just lose all substance the first time an uptight 44 year old daytime talkshow host uses it to patronize their "urban" guest.

Ludacris: Thank you for having me on your show, Ms. Winfrey. I really appreciate & value the opportunity to utilize this multi-faceted platform & express my views on the degenerative state of affairs that plague America at present.

*audience applauds*

Oprah Winfrey: Oh, okay.....Fo' sheezy, neezy! It's ALL good!....

Something more than street cred (& my lunch) was lost in that transaction. Point is, I may be a douche (bag OR nozzle), jerk, elohssa, tool, nickname for guys named Richard, even the ever-elusive jacknut, but by no stretch of the human imagination am I a "hater". I hate people who call me that. I even hate the song "Hi Hater", so that should be more than enough proof.

I do, however, subscribe to the theory that some people deserve for things to happen to them.

Take for instance the rich kid who crashes into a telephone pole while showing off for some girls on the bus stop. Everyone laughed, because he deserved it. Or the girl who thinks she's the best thing since ribbed condoms who gets into an argument at the mall only to be de-weaved at the food court. Hilarious to all who saw. We were glad that it happened to her. I don't think anyone deserves to get murdered, raped, etc., but I live for the small idiosyncrasies that make my heart warm in a "The Joker" sort of way.

Now, wouldn't it have been great if something like that occurred at the Oscars? I could've done without the sappy speeches & loose-cannon thank you's. Not to mention, who the kcuf wants to see Wolverine performing showtunes about God knows what? For what it's worth, he should've released his claws & gutted himself, live on TV. That friends, would've been entertainment. As for Beyonce, let's just say that I will always remember the video for that song "Bootylicious". I refuse to move forward.

I wanted somebody to fall down those little stairs, backwards, or lose their balance on the way to the microphone & introduce forehead to sturdy craftsmanship. I think next year, the pre-show drinks should be made with stronger, cheaper liquor. Competitive drunks are more fun to watch than a horny chihuaha having it's way with a throw pillow.

All this talk of Hollywood being saturated by "drugs & alcohol", then where was it last night? Who doesn't enjoy a stammerring buffoon with an award in one hand, & a point to prove in the other? Unnecessary expletives are becoming like dinosaurs. For every two people to thank in life, there's an SUV full of them who you want to kiss your ssa. What better place to flip them the proverbial bird than the Academy Awards? All the ex's who doubted, the manager's who laughed, the dad's who deadbeated, all could be addressed in a huge general introduction into the Hall of Shame. First & last names mandatory.

I also vote for more categories that would allow for a Joachim Phoenix or a Macy Gray to stumble across the stage & mumble incoherently for two minutes. All those narcissistic sociopaths gathered under one roof, & not ONE uncomfortable moment? What a waste of time. This may be aging masculinity talking, & I know it's a recession & all, but there wasn't nearly enough boobage happening. I don't need a recreation of Janet Jackson's prime time mammogram, but since when did 30 year old women start dressing like Susan B. Anthony? Perhaps if they turn the air conditioning up a notch or two, nipple erection would have caused enough of an illusion to quench my thirst (no pun intended).

I wonder how many intoxicated has-beens were on their couches, shaking their wine drenched fists at the TV, cursing their horrible careers. They should've banded together & stormed the auditorium, kicking over chairs, snatching off toupe's & wig's by the dozen, naked. Had Mickey Rourke not been in that "Wrestler" movie, I bet he would have orchestrated the whole uprise.

I don't usually indulge in awards shows, simply because I feel like all their achievement & accolade celebrating is another way of telling me how much my life sucks, but I watched out of sheer curiosity. I was positive that one of those douchebags would've got what they deserved. & I'm not talking about an Oscar. Imagine my disappointment.

Friday, February 20, 2009

The Greatest Love Story, Ever

By now, we've all heard about "OctoMom" Nadya Suleman. With 14 children (8 in one whop), her life is easily a blockbuster mini-series in the making, complete with a delusional, misery-stricken main character & enough co-stars to invade a mid-size Vietnamese village. I'll admit, I'm mesmerized by her psychotic lust for attention. You've got to respect a woman who would willingly abuse her uterus to the point where it could be considered self mutilation, all in the name of a "sad childhood". Most disturbed people just pierce nipple, nose, tongue & genitalia all in one sitting. Yet, this nutjob opted to collect a belly full of zygotes. For the sake of scientific balance, if she were a hamster, she'd have enough food to last her for a month, maybe two. There's a pretty good chance that she's the first female of any species with stretch marks INSIDE her body.

Now, there's a new lady on the scene.

"MonkeyLady" Sandra Harold. Her pet monkey/surrogate son/love toy Travis tried to eat her neighbor's face (it was half successful) & both hands (done & done), after being drugged-up on Xanax & wine. She claims it suffered from depression, but wouldn't you be depressed too, if instead of swinging on vines & peeling bananas, you were forced to tend to the sexual desires of a 70 year old basketcase? Steven Spielberg couldn't write a better plot. The (odd) couple would snuggle & enjoy one another's company while waiting to pass out in "their" bed at night, presumably watching whatever it is that high, drunken primates enjoy watching during their buzz. If it's true that she also taught it to drive a car, then this woman should be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for stupidest human being ever. Take 8 guesses as to who the runner-up would be.

First question, what the hell has happened to the "mom" role in society where these two maniacs are even allowed to co-exist with normal folks without those guys in white suits chasing them around the city with butterfly nets?

Second question, wouldn't a combination of their two stories make the greatest movie of all time?
The widow of a zookeeper is desperately lonely & takes to the companionship of her late husband's favorite chimpanzee during her time of sorrow. The monkey begins to fall in love with the woman. Obsessed with the dead husband, the monkey begins to become him, wearing his clothes, drinking his liquor, smoking his cigars, driving his Cadillac, & ultimately sexing his Xanax-addicted wife. Insane with grief, she too falls for the monkey, calls him "Alejandro" & lives in lust filled seclusion. Until the day that the pizza man arrives at their love nest, & rings the doorbell.
The shopping cart slowly wobbled down the street, it's wheels squeaking in pain, as it's 9 occupants plan today's lunch. 8 of which are babies ready to greet the world, the ninth being their morbidly pregnant mother, with six children pushing the cart with all their malnutritioned might in search of a Burger King. One of the more rebellious children stops pushing, & screams "I can't take this, my back is snapping!", only to be greeted by the mother's five hot dog-like fingers slapping her mouth closed. Unable to scream again for lack of proper nutrition & severe dehydration, the child spots an unlucky pizza delivery guy, whistling & unassuming as to what he is about to experience. The child, drunk with hunger offers him as sacrifice to her mammoth mother. "L-l-look mommmy, f-fooood". The mother's eyes dart towards their target, as she snorts at the pack of kids behind her. They rush the poor man just as the door opens.
The pizza man, head full of whimsical thoughts of his bride to be, hears a cantankerous noise & snaps back to reality to see a horde of starving children running towards him like ethiopians to a bag of grain to the left, & a half-drunken, well dressed primate charging from the right. The mother snarls with excitement, as the widow hurries to find her underwear & see about her lover. Alejandro & the kids devour the pizza, half the pizza man's face & both hands, as the two women exchange looks. Intrigued, they stare into each other's eyes, as the pizza man yelps in agonizing pain. Love blossoms as blood & pepperoni cover the cobblestone porch.
As Alejandro & the kid's feast on the captured prey, the kid's look at the monkey as the dad they never knew, & the pet they've always wanted, while Alejandro fights back vomit from a night of too much whiskey & overwhelming missionary sex. Sandra, still smelling of cigar smoke & monkey fur, offers Nadya a place to rest her huge body & hands her the only untainted slice of pizza left. "Just wheel me inside," she mumbles, too embarassed to admit that she's been stuck in the shopping cart since she was 2 months pregnant, when her wheelchair exploded at a midnight buffet. As the sun sets, a union is formed, & the greatest love story, ever, begins.......
You can use your imagination to follow the story line, but I tell you this much. Mix 2 lesbians, 14 kids, & a jealous monkey with a wicked hangover, & they'll be more excitement abroad than Chris Brown's first night in general population.

For more absurdity, see Blogs "Babies 'R' Us" & "Monkey Business". Thank you, & enjoy your flight.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Child Support

My youngest son (who I speak of very often) did a speech at his school this morning. Now, without trying to sound like too much of a douche nozzle, he's been doing speeches/plays since his first year in preschool. He's now in kindergarten (& yes, that's how you spell it, the word is not "kindygarden" or "kinnygarden"). He's never seemed to ever contract a single iota of stage fright. I've never once in (just about) six years seen him nervous, not even when being threatened by a doctor's needle or his angry mom.
*Footnote: We've been inseparable his entire life. We'll come back to that.*

So, today he proudly stood in front of roughly 150 people, big & small, & young & old, & flawlessly recited his speech in honor of Black History Month. Two weeks ago, he recited MLK's "I Have A Dream" speech. At Christmas time, he was in "The Nutcracker". Sorry, I'm bragging.

After his performance, he exited the stage & took his seat. He looked over at me & grinned, as nonchalant as a glass of Kool Aid in the summertime (grape with extra ice). I smiled back & watched the duration of the presentation. On my way out, I stopped to congratulate him on another job well done & he asked me where I was going.

"To take care of some things, I'll see you in a minute."

Kiss on the forehead.

His grimace changed instantly & he started to cry, to my surprise. He doesn't cry very much. He said, tearfully, "what if you miss my other two times?". Of course my retort was proverbial, "you'll be fine kid, just do the great job you just did." But, that had no effect on the waterworks. This wasn't the first time he had multiple performances where I wouldn't be able to attend them all, but normally I come to the last one. I guess there's a first time for everything.

His teacher rounded up her tribe, & we parted, but my mind started flipping while I walked away. He never freaks when it's time to get on stage, a natural spectacle by all definitions. But, when I left, he broke down. How important was it to him that I wouldn't be there for THAT to make him cry, when he's had upwards of 300 people staring at him at a time, while trying to remember a thousand words & maintain a performers composure?

I felt bad, of course, but he'll be all right. I'm raising a man. Point is, my support (or lack of) is the basis of his 5 year old existence. As long as he knows I'm there, he can accomplish anything, even if by accident.

When I taught him to ride a bike, I pushed him & said "You can do it, go, I'll be standing right here". I never realized until now how powerful that scant sentence must have been. But, he sure rode that damn bike to the fence & came back to me.

& then, he fell.

Every major accomplishment he's ever had was done with me in eyesight proximity (remember inseparable? I came back to it). I'm not going to give myself all the credit like I constructed a Frankenstein Baby, but it must have been a lot easier on him knowing that "I" was there. That's power. In the right hands, that power could decide the future, possibly the fate of the world, because hey, you never know.

It's possible that he would do all the things he's done regardless of me around, but I am around, constantly, & in a day & age of such African American progression as President Obama, I like to feel as if my contribution to our race could be viewed as equally as important. Good or bad, all things have a beginning. Who knows where his life is headed.

I'm going to be his father, the best father God wills me to be, regardless of his travels and destination. I'll always be proud & triumphant for his cause because hey, you never know.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Monkey Business

My least favorite movie of all time is Dr. Dolittle. It could be my detachment from the animal kingdom, or my lack of enthusiasm for what has become of Eddie Murphy's golden years. Either way, I can overlook Eddie's half-assed attempts at cinema, but not the worldwide love for all things furry.

Aside from infants, I don't trust any creature that can't communicate with me. Barking, hissing, growling, & chirping don't count. Any being that can "go to the bathroom" anywhere, clearly isn't worthy of my friendship. & as far as companionship, that's what God created television for. I've never had to swat my TV for making a "poo" in the corner, or chewing up my good pair of Sunday shoes.

So, I'm extremely fascinated with those individuals who cater to animals like they're people. Namely wild animals. Specifically primates. We'll just refer to them as monkeys.

Human & monkey genetics are only different by one gene. Apparently it's the one that counts, because no matter how much they're embraced as our social kin, they continue to behave in a fashion that demands a caged environment. We can dress them up as people, give them roles in movies (watch out Eddie!), teach them neat tricks like how to drive cars & smoke cigarettes, but as soon as the chance avails itself they'll be flinging feces & trying to eat babies in a heartbeat.

Most people don't realize the strength that even small monkey's possess. An average sized one can rip a grown man's arm from it's rotator cup with minimal effort. Their teeth are larger & sharper than that goofy looking kid that sat in the back of your geometry class. The ones we see on television have usually gone through some sort of mani/pedi, so most are unaware of the claws their huge hands have. Basically, if Death were lovable & furry, it would look like a monkey.

Bears are cute too, until they decided that they are having liver for dinner. Your liver.

I can't help but chuckle lightly when I see some poor schlub mauled by their pet orangutan, or disfigured by their spidermonkey named "Ralphie". These are beasts, by God's decree, otherwise we'd all be animals, or all be people.

In some far of galaxy, maybe people are kept in zoo's for the enjoyment of animal families, but I don't live in that one. I live in this one, where a woman's best friend has suffered "life-altering" injuries at the hands of her pet monkey. In other words, the thing probably bite off half her face, & maybe a digit or three. That is utterly amazing.

Reports say that the owner not only referred to the animal as "her son", but she also drank wine with it, & gave it Xanax for whatever ailments it suffered from. When the woman's friend attempted to visit it, it did what any drunken, drug-filled wild animal would do. Attack. Notice the repeated usage of the term "it", due to the fact that animals are "it"s. There is no gray area. Regardless of some human-given moniker, God called it "ooh ooh ahh ahh", not "Bo Bo" or "Sally".

Usually, I facilitate a degree of compassion for those harmed unintentionally, but this situation is out of my jurisdiction.

An adult human with stable motor & cognitive skill can't be given a handgun without fear of homicide, so why assume some gorilla larva is going to play nice with the children. My kid's are lobbying for cats & dogs to no avail, so I'll be damned if I allow something in my living quarters that can murder us 17 different ways AND eat all my snacks.

Wake up America. It's in the #1 best selling book of all times. We lord over animals because they are not our equals. Get with the program or we will continue to be target practice for bubbles & his less friendly relatives.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Mere Mortals

"You got knocked the kcuf out!" - Chris Tucker as Smokey in "Friday"
Being an entertainer has to be quite the auspicious lifestyle. Capitalizing on people's fantasies seems like a good idea, but where does the public's lust for the unreal end & the artist's actuality begin. Contrary to popular belief, celebrity doesn't ostracize one from the real world. Nor does it give "real" people an excuse for existing in some uncanny, alternate universe just because they're fans of their "art".

Entertainment is meant to appease the part of our brain that becomes racked with the doldrums of everyday life. We spend our hard-earned money to pretend we don't have mouths to feed & bills to pay. That doesn't mean I have to succumb to the ridiculous nature of the beast.

Or does it?

One can speculate for days on end as to exactly why 50 cent & Rick Ross hate/enamor each other so much. Their "feud" has become very open, & has transgressed far beyond the limits of simply making songs. It has spilled out into their personal lives at such a rate that some sort of physical altercation is seemingly inevitable. What was once a silly rap dude conflict has begun pulling relatives into the fray on the world's most public of forums, the Internet. For the most part, such behavior on both of their parts, in the real world, would have gotten one, if not both of them killed in the street.

Is their career the reason for the conflict, or is conflict the reason for their career? Life imitates art, indeed. & vice versa.

All rumor mill wind-blowing aside, Chris Brown beat up his girlfriend Rihanna. So what? It happens everyday, in all classes & races & ethnicities. The point of interest should be in the public's reaction, not Brown's reaction to whatever made him lose his cool in the first place. Just because he can sing & dance, & teenage girls think he's "sooooo kah-yoot" doesn't mean that he doesn't put his pants on one leg at a time. Although, judging by his flipping & spinning antics, he may just slide across the bed into the awaiting jeans, but I digress. He's apparently achieved super-human status & can do no wrong according to the consensus. As soon as he makes a mistake (as humans often do), he's knocked from his pedestal into the jaws of the vicious everyman. Why was he up there so high in the first place? He's a regular guy, with a couple of attributes that make him slightly more interesting than the garbage man.

Just because one sings a love song doesn't mean they know how to love. Just as one who knows how to love isn't necessarily qualified to make a song about it.

Suge Knight has supposedly received another beatdown over the weekend at the hands of someone who most folks know nothing about. Who won or lost is relative to nothing. Not to mention that I couldn't care any less without being dead. He spent the better part of a 15 year stint as a music mogul building a menacing reputation as the wrong aggin to kcuf with. To this day, rumors still swirl of his cigar scented tirades & backhand slapping of his artists. Now, Suge is a shell of the former "boss" he once was, reviled & revered at the same time. All that remains is ruin & myth. Was he the domestic terrorist the world perceived him to be, or did we buy into his uberbad guy image for the sake of needing one to love? The dismembering of his business venture(s) caused his facade to be broken, & in a matter of years his persona went from unapproachable to unnecessary. Maybe all the rhetoric about himself went to his head, but what normal person wouldn't thrive from such conspiracies? Most men would, & once the nectar is tasted, few things are sweeter.

Is he now getting attacked because he's been weakened, or was he always (more or less) weak with no one willing to attack?

All genres of this industry are susceptible to the same plague of superheroitis, & we, as spectators, lose focus that these are just characters who parade for us & broadcast their lives for money. Mere mortals, nothing more, nothing less. I'm not sure if I'd allow myself to be the bull's eye of such scrutiny.

But then again, for the right price, I might cut off my thumb on YouTube.

When I was a kid

The other day, my son & I were in our backhouse, climbing mountains of useless trinkets, forgotten doo-dads, & all the stuff worth keeping but not important enough to look at (i.e. every piece of junk I've accumulated during my 6 1/2 year marriage). I thought I saw my balls back there, but quickly remembered my wife keeps them next to her keys & wallet in her purse.

I happened upon a few items that peeked my boy's curiosity. Being the observant conveyer of information that I am, my keen sense of "Oh tihs, this is going to be funny" kicked in.

Him: Daaaddyyyy, what's THAT?

Me: That, my boy, is a Video Cassette Recorder. VCR for short. When I was a kid we watched movies on them. We stuck the movies in this slot right here.

Him: DVD's were fat a long time ago, huh Daddy? Like hamburgers.

Me: No, we had videotapes. Big rectangular cassettes with film inside. When we finished, we had to rewind them.

Him: You had to rewind them?

Me: Yep.

Him: What's rewind mean?

Me: Umm, it's what the 'previous' button does, accept a lot noisier & much longer.

Him: What about THAT?

Me: This is called a telephone cord.

Him: A charger? You & Mommy already have lots of those, Daddy.

Me: Well, at one point people's phones were actually connected in their houses. This cord connected the phone to a plug in the wall.

Him: It musta been hard to walk around with these cords all over the sidewalks, huh Daddy?

Me: No, no, it wasn't like-

Him: Is that why you're so good at jump rope, Daddy?

Me: The phone's stayed in the houses, & if you needed to talk outside, we had pay phones. A person would drop coins into a slot & then make their call.

Him: Whoa. I saw those one time on a cartoon, with cans & strings, huh Daddy?

Me: Yeah, something like that. But now, we all have cell phones, so most people don't have home phones anymore.

Him: I know what this thing is Daddy!

Me: What is it?

Him: It's a tool box!

Me: No, that's called a Walkman. When I was a kid, that's the way we listened to music. You can stick a tape in here, or you can tune into radio stations. Why are you looking at it like that?

Him: I want to see how you download the songs.

Me: This was long before MP3 players. Back then, there wasn't even the Internet. We bought tapes at stores called "The Wherehouse" & "Music+".

Him: There's music on tape? I never heard it when we wrap presents.

Me: It's a different kind of tape. Nevermind.

Him: No Internet? That's sad Daddy. You guys had a hard time, huh Daddy?

Me: I wouldn't say hard for us, just easier for your generation. Oh look, a box of my old comic books.

Him: What's a comic book, Daddy?

Needless to say, my son now perceives me as some sort of relic, as opposed to being young, hip & relevant. By the end of our adventure, I had explained to him that I didn't go to school with any cavemen, that the first airplane flew long before my time & that record players were not cd players for rich people.

Here I am thinking I'm still cool & with it, but with the help of a curious 6 year old, I now know otherwise. It was the equivalent of my father grooving to the latest 8 track of The Commodores, then me ridiculing it in comparison to a record player.

It also put my own identity crisis in proper perspective. I'm not some snazzy 21 year old hipster. I'm no hip hop aficionado. I'm an adult, with responsibilities & commitments. Granted, I'm no one's grandpapa yet, but those day's will arrive in a clock's tick & a sun's set. I've earned my right to spew such irritating phrases as "You'll understand when you get older", "It's grown folk's business" & the ever popular "I'll tell you one day".

Police don't harass me anymore, gang bangers don't throw up their hoods at me, & I'm often referred to as "sir" or "mister".

When I was a kid, I dreaded these days. Now, it's actually pretty cool.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I'm not that smart

Until recently, I was under the impression that I was somewhat intelligent. Not a genius by any stretch, but most definitely eons away from average imbicility. Apparently, I was way off course.

My entire life, I've used general math/science properties to solve basic life situations, thusly I use the same tools when "judging" people. But, due to an overwhelming backlash of information, my entire theory of myself has been completely destroyed. Total grade curve annihilation.

Here I am, attempting to teach my children right from wrong, honoring myself & my family, respecting &/or treating other humans (& most animals) the same way I'd like to be dealt with, & for what? Not to mention, I (more or less) use the Bible as a manual for correct living, so under the rules & regulations it supplies, I should be considered a "good person". "Should" being the operative word. "Operative" being a term most should understand. Yeah, right.

We all know (well, not all of us) that applied math/science doesn't necessarily equal fact-based reality. In theory, if one travels fast enough, one could traverse time & space at their leisure. If that were so easily achievable, "I" should have showed up 10 years ago & warned "me" not to invite my future babymomma to spend the night.

*Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, but.........*

In other words, just because a formula makes sense, doesn't mean that it's entirely applicable to all situations.

For example, I can teach my children to practice safety when crossing a street, but all it takes is one drunk driver to obliterate any ideals created. Or I can inform my daughter about all the terrible outcomes of unprotected sex, yet a rapist can render all knowledge null & void.
So, for all my tries at actions to place me in the "stand up guy" category, they're hordes of people who have no idea what that ideology means. Or how their behavior affects society. & since "stupid is as stupid does", I have an overwhelming sense of sorrow for the "average" person, as well as my kids when they leave my side.

In a general population of people where idiotic thoughts govern ridiculous antics, the evidence states clearly that I'm not that smart, assuming that "smart" people are now the minority. & using any type of grade curve system, majority rules.

"Dumbing down" for me is not an option, & it seems on a broader level, to the masses, neither is "wising up".

So, the unanswerable question becomes "What do I do?". Nothing. Live to the best of my God-given ability, & become accustomed to my role as an outcast.

At least God & I know I gave it the old college try.

**Babies 'R' Us: UPDATE**

Earlier this week, I made the following statement in blog post "Babies 'R' Us" regarding the mother who gave birth to the 8 babies, Nadya Suleman:

"She should expect petitions, rallies, boycotts, & possibly her very own personalized wave of hate crime. By no means am I wishing that upon her family, but..........."

This morning, it was reported that her & the six children she already had have gone into hiding, due to numerous threats of violence & death.

It may have something to do with the intricate, professionally designed website that has been launched, complete with Pay Pal for "donations", as we, the American public, continue to foot her tribe's bill(s).

I don't even have a credit card scanner program on here, & the recession is definitely taking a toll on my sunflower seeds & Cactus Cooler stipend. Her quest for fame won't be as easy as she hoped.

I hate (pun intended) to congratulate my inner psychic, or pat my self on the back, but I think I just dislocated my shoulder. & I knew it was about to happen, so I had a tube of Ben Gay (no pun intended) on standby.

For any further insight, see "Babies 'R' Us" blog post, or just watch the news. Whatever idiotic twists this bizarre tale can take, I've probably covered it ahead of time, & since I'm not the modest type, I'll save us all some time by saying "Ha Ha! I knew it! I told you so!" now instead of later.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Hi-Tech Headache

I bought a Bluetooth a few years back, right before they were the "next big thing". It quickly became the most annoying accessory I've ever had the pleasure of wasting my currency on.

Maybe my ears are oddly proportioned (too much lob, not enough canal), but it never clung to my head with that "Star Trek" nuance the commercials promised. It was more like a "fly guy's" hearing aid. & we all can agree that there's nothing "cool" about pretending to be handicapped (unless the other parking spots are too far away & I'm positive I'll only be a quick minute).

That entire summer, not only did I look like a pathetic cyborg from the future, but the device made my conversations even less private than before. Before, I would hold a cell to my ear, glancing over the heads of people with extreme douche nozzle prowess, babbling incessantly to whatever poor sap I sequestered my Anytime minutes to. Now, whenever I spoke, the entire world was looking at me like some delusional schizophrenic, arguing with myself about groceries. My image meter went from "Hip" to "Holy Cow!" in a matter of 49 dollars & 95 cents. I decided against the "telemarketer" look for obvious reasons, & searched for alternative lines for communication.

After the earpiece debacle, I decided to really dedicate myself to the craft of texting.

I figured what could be more private than letting my fingers do the talking. First, I immersed myself into the fascinating universe of txt tlk. I learned more abbreviated words than an orthodox Jew at day one of an Ebonics Seminar. Now, in my desire to hold entire conversations through type, I neglected one major factor. Pay close attention to who/where the messages are being sent to. Random LoL's, GTFOH's, SMH's, LMMFAO's were sent to people who had no idea what I was trying to say, some of which dialed my number to ask me "Who is this?". Once I sent my mother a text accidentally, & she immediately called me to tell me my phone was broken. Things took a turn for the worse when in I started writing like I was texting.

"U kno wht I meen? R u feeln wht m sayn?"

I began noticing more & more people so consumed by the phenomena that I would watch who was texting, who long they would be "sucked" into their minuscule computer screens, & often think to myself how easy it would be to rob them. "Them", with me included.

There's even a medical condition called "Blackberry thumb" that is significantly similar to carpel tunnel syndrome on a smaller scale. In general, that can not be a good thing.

That's when I realized; A) this shouldn't be the sole interaction between people on a regular basis & B) I'm not a 14 year old girl.

With that, texting was relegated to brief messages & pointless comments.

I find the best way to communicate now is the good old fashioned way. Dirty looks & obscene gestures. Anything outside of those limitations is clearly not important enough to convey.

& at this rate, when the 2 way videophones are affordably available to the mass consumer, I'll be a few steps ahead of the pack.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

IQ tests for all!!!

Dumb people shouldn't be allowed to reproduce. Allow me to expand on that theory.

I've noticed that the most ignorant, aloof individuals on Earth usually have a cacophony of dust bunnies in tow. Pick any location & watch my point prove itself. I observe their kid's attempting to eat smaller, less capable children, bravely running "up" the "down" escalator or just casually walking the opposite direction from the rest of the herd, while they talk on a cell phone to "Nu Nu" about what day Shartruese is getting out of County. From what I could gather, Shartruese stabbed her baby daddy for getting her little sister pregnant, again.

"Guull, dat aggin ain't tihs no way! Huh ass shoulda shot him in his kcid the first gnikcufahtum time anyways, hoe! So when the kcuf she gettin up owdah dat hctib?"

Now, any self-respecting human would have appreciated my babysitter-at-large tenacity & been grateful I didn't allow their child to become some pervert's afternoon delight. But, not these people. Any right-minded parent would have thanked me for informing them that their little angel was hiding under that lady's shopping cart.

"Yes, THAT lady, the one headed towards the end of the aisle."

But, not these people. These people let five year olds pick out their own outfits. These people think babies cry without reason, disregarding any possible lack of food or need for soil removal. These people see no harm in having a child with every "boyfriend" they've had since age 15. These people think "Kool-Aid" is juice. These people think an E.B.T. card is a valid second form of Identification, & would threaten to cut you "six ways to Sunday" if you disagree. These people wouldn't know a positive parental tip if it was escorted by DPSS to their front porch & rang the doorbell with a hand grenade. Yet & still, these people continue to have children.

No offense, but theoretically & historically, Asians are some of the smartest people our species has to offer. & even THEIR culture has guidelines to regulate unnecessary child production. That speaks volumes. How is it that America hasn't joined that movement?

Let's take the following into consideration. I suggest manual IQ testing for everyone, starting at age 13. It's that simple.

Either pass with a specific
score, or by law, be required to take some sort of birth control.

This action may set the CDC into over drive, what with all the willy-nilly, free loving that may follow, but that's a small price to pay. Many detractors will surface also, but more than half of them won't have any idea what a detractor is to begin with, so their gripes can easily be overlooked.

*Disclaimer-I'm not referring to the mentally inept &/or challenged. This is in direct reference to the brainlessly unfunctional.*

"These people" run rampant through our communities, disguised as average common folk, but in reality are child services cases waiting to happen. One can only do so much without help, so join me as I begin boycotting, starting right this moment.

If you're an idiot, stop reading this immediately, & don't ever speak to me. Hopefully the trend will catch on, but hopefully before then President Obama will return my phone calls regarding said nationwide IQ exams.

In no more than a couple of generations, we could have this fiasco nipped in the bud.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Chris VS Rihanna

Apparently, R&B singer Rihanna was assaulted by current beau pop sensation Chris Brown.

At press time, details were limited, but allegedly early Sunday morning Brown attacked the songstress leaving visible injuries. A passer by phoned 911, but when the authorities arrived, Brown was not on the scene. He later turned himself in to the LAPD's Wilshire station, was booked then released on $50,000 bail.

The supposed assault took place in Hancock Park, CA, after an argument between the couple became physical.
The two performers were slated to perform respectively at the evening's Grammy awards, but both failed to show up.

Upon hearing this news, after I stopped gaffawing hysterically, a couple of thoughts entered my mind. The first, most important one was "Isn't that dude gay?". I've rarely seen him exude any more masculinity than my 8 year old daughter. I'm even willing to bet my weather-beaten liver that my daughter can probably beat him at arm wrestling as well. Granted, he's only 19, but there should still be a hint of machismo in his infrastructure. & that tattoo behind his ear isn't helping his case at all.

Maybe I'm hating because I can't sing or dance, but I think its more a case of him not triggering my hetero-dar (if "they" can have 'gay-dar', then "we" can have 'hetero-dar'). Or it could just be the stereotypical attitude black men have passed down for generations, "never trust a black man without a mustache". Can a hairless upper lip even qualify one to be a part of the prestigious "black men" brotherhood? If the answer is no, then surely beating his mate in public does. So, by that token, Chris Brown has taken one step further from me second guessing his sexual preference.

The following thought, which prompted more hysterical, bordering on maniacal laughter was, "Why didn't she just kick his ass?". I've seen her videos, & far be it from me to assume that I'm the only person who suspects her Adam's Apple gets photoshopped out of her pictures. She actually looks fully capable of being a body double for Chris Brown, if he were to ever star in an adrenaline-fueled motion picture. For some reason though, unless it involves dancing knife fights, I doubt that will ever happen. For what it's worth, if either of the two were to get "domesticated", I'd automatically assume her to be the aggressor. & all those songs about cars isn't helping her case at all.

I don't condone domestic violence, but sometimes, I understand. Maybe he's mad that he's flipping & spinning around in commercials hawking chewing gum, & accepting less than memorable roles in less than stellar movies to make ends meet, while she's literally blowing all the musical competition off of the Billboard's 200 from the sheer strength of her vocals. That, & the fact that she looks like she can beat up every female in her league (except for maybe Keyshia Cole & Fantasia).

Maybe he had too many Cosmopolitans that night. Or the apple Martini's were extra strong. Either way, now he faces felony charges, & doesn't appear to be the jailhouse type. I'd pay money to see him dance his way out of cell block 4.

When the smoke clears, he'll walk away with the proverbial slap on the wrist, she'll forgive him, & it will disappear from the memories of fans & participants alike. But until then, let us all have a good chuckle, & thank our lucky stars that at least he didn't get all OJ-y on her.

Babies 'R' Us

What's the deal with this 'octuplets' lady?

All racially-charged jokes aside, she already had six children, & knowingly had a medically-enhanced pregnancy, well aware of the possible ramifications of such a procedure. Now, carrying eight babies-to-be is in & of itself quite the task, but to have six crumbsnatchers prior? Did she run out of chores for the kids she already reared? Did some childhood trauma take such a toll on her that she's decided to punish her uterus indefinitely? Is loneliness still a problem with the internet so easily accessible?

I have a million & one questions, with no answers in sight.

She recently began speaking publicly about the ordeal, & not to discredit her or whatever public school system she's alumni of, but, she just doesn't seem like the brightest crayon in the box. Not because of the predicament she's gotten herself into, but just because. I don't even know of any rappers/basketball players/"actual" sperm donors that have fourteen offsprings (I'm not too sure about Shawn Kemp, though).

Now, would some sort of psychic evaluation, after child number 6, have prevented the multiple additions to her family?


Is it at all possible that, somewhere during the whole process, a clinically certified therapist could have helped her deviate from such a plan?

Probably not.

The law of the land states "stupid is as stupid does", so any "stupidity" obviously predicated her sex life, however lascivious. She would have just kept at the unprotected intercourse method until she meet her baby quota, or her vagina decided it had had enough & closed it's door for good.

For all intents & purposes, a big family is a beautiful thing. A blessing, in the truest sense of the word. Realistically speaking, living with your parents with six kids & a failed marriage under your belt seems like enough deterrent for further pro creation. At least until that magical lotto number drops into your lap.

If her parents ever wondered what kind of a job they did raising their daughter, they now have an obvious answer, in the form of the biggest "kcuf you" since the Menedez brothers.

The famous old adage says "it takes a village to raise a child". This woman may have singlehandedly added a line to that. "But it takes a nation to raise a village." There's no excuse or reason for one single (single, as in manless) woman to want that many children. The loneliest spinster I know has 9 CATS, & the entire neighborhood labeled her a mental case, so imagine the chatter amongst the people who live on Octogirl's street. She should expect petitions, rallies, boycotts, & possibly her very own personalized wave of hate crime. By no means am I wishing that upon her family, but I'm a tenant of the real world & statistically, her children possess the propensity to be their own street gang.

*Disclaimer: I am not a racist, but I'm required by unwritten law to release the following statement*

I'm glad it wasn't a black woman.

We must also take into consideration how the children are going to feel growing up having to share their one & only parent with thirteen other human beings, not counting the inevitable (but ill advised) booty calls & hovering relatives. There have been reports of strangers donating breast milk to the family in attempts to contribute to her cause. Call me old-fashioned, but their lives are off to a very creepy start.

If this was a ploy to become rich & famous, I think it would have been much easier to plow an SUV into a day care, & then eat a .45 slug. That way, all previous responsibilities would have been passed along to the remaining family members. Not to mention, no dirty diapers to change.

This is, in the most awkward of ways, an uphill battle for this courageous woman. At the very least, her kids will one day totally run JDH, eventually graduating to an entire pod at the local jail being named after them. At the most, she owns a future sports franchise. Soccer or baseball would be my guess.

Good luck, stay strong & God bless whatever babysitter is desperate enough to answer that Craig's List ad.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Happy February

Its that time again, folks!

February. The shortest calendar month of the year & we all know what that means......Black History Month.

Aside from elementary school programs & Rosa Parks connect-the-dots homework, not much else is done to celebrate. A few commercials about Martin Luther King Jr. & Benjamin Banniker strewn about, & America tells us we should be satisfied for an entire year. How's that for acknowledgment? In fact, is it still P.C. to call anything/anyone "Black"? I'm an African American, damn it!

This year, I propose we do things a little differently. Black History is informative & interesting, but the entire world is well versed on the travels of the African American. Let's celebrate the present, the now. All of the struggle and conflict so far has gotten us here, so let's take a look at what Dr. King died for.

Let us begin with the obvious. The word "nigga/nigger". To most Earthlings, it's the same word. Not to African Americans. MLK's assassination taught us that no matter our accomplishments, the world will always view us as "niggers", & treat us accordingly. But, what he did was make it so that we can decide if you choose to be niggas (Niggers free to do whatever we want, granted it doesn't interfere with what America has going on, or is in some way beneficial to it's "machine"), or niggers (animals without the God given senses a dog has, 3/4 of a human, creatures that deserve to be owned, controlled or destroyed accordingly). Due to popular demand, most of us proudly adopted the "nigga" title, & egotistically flaunt the label, all the while showing the world that the only difference between the two terms is a scant couple letters.

The misdirected pride of being a nigga is overly apparent through music, behavior & cultural differences. The main difference is the backfire mechanism that was born from such pride. Niggas love to be heard, seen & hate to be ignored. The more boisterous, the better, or so it would seem. Many have tried to trace our actions as a people back through the ages, holding our past accountable for our present, but that excuse holds as much weight as the promise of 40 acres & a mule. It is what it is, word to K. Coleman Brown. With the changing of the presidential guard, being a nigga is now classy, with African American's praising the new leadership role we have towards our nation. Niggas fail to realize that a) this isn't, nor ever will it be "our nation" & b) President Obama is not the second coming of Malcolm Luther King X, Jr. He's not here to fight for equal rights & our privilege to vote. That ship sailed long ago. He just happened to be the right man, in the right place at the right time for the job. & he is by no means a nigga. Not even by association.

I don't trust anyone farther than I can throw them, & that sentiment isn't mitigated by color, religion, gender, etc. I despise people on a freelance basis, some for personal reasons, but detest them all the same. My madness knows no method, so it can't be considered an act of racism. Anarchistic, possibly, but rules have no hue.

The days of the freedom fighter are over. It's a virtual free for all. Every man, woman & child for themselves. Truth be told, I don't really mind the separatism. That would just be less cargo bogging down my escape pod.

Whether you think I'm a nigger, nigga, or just a fun-loving African American, I could genuinely care less. Eventually, I'll be dead & all my troubles will pertain to worms, earthquakes, floods & the occasional sadistic grave robber.

Enjoy the couple weeks left, & the next time you watch the latest installment of "Under One Roof" or that "Flavor of Love" rerun, recite the "I Have A Dream" speech. Hopefull it'll rebuke the nightmare.

Monday, February 2, 2009

"It's not you, it's me...."

This is not a joke. I can tell you who your man is cheating on you with. I can also assure one that he has no plans to dissolve this relationship in pursuit of the other, so don't go calling Joey Greco just yet.

There's absolutely, positively nothing you can do to eliminate your competition. No edible panties, no naughty church janitor costume, no gratuitous amount of fellatio can bring him back to you. Hold on to your wigs girls.

How many times have you heard the phrase "It's not you, its me"? One, maybe two dozen times I suspect. Well fret not, because he was telling you God's truth, so to speak. He's not chasing esteemless fat girls, or middle aged sugar mommas. No, this isn't about BBW's or MILF's. He's not in search of some goddess who does what you won't (but for the record, you SHOULD be doing what you won't). Its far more dramatic, & even the most limber contortionist can't change his mind. So save your botox bucks, & throw out that "30% off" coupon for breast augmentation.

There's no skank hooch to assault, no chickenhead to beat down, no home wrecker to back slap. Its simple.

He likes to masturbate.

Before hysteria erupts, put down the meat cleaver & think. You talk & talk & talk before, during & after sex don't you? & its never about cool stuff like car crashes or Bigfoot sightings. Out of all the disgusting things your man wants you to do to him, you're completely satisfied with "missionary", so you can look into his eyes as your souls intertwine. What's lingerie to you is a nightgown to him. Sound familiar?

Well, find comfort in knowing that he hasn't turned to another woman (unless porn counts). In fact, he hasn't even left his own body. Technically, its not cheating, because I've seen baboon's do it, & I'm sure they have no clue how impossible women can be. Its natural, handed down through generations of men who, from time to time, have a monkey to spank.

It's not that we don't love you, but from a man's p.o.v., its hassle free satisfaction. Studies show that men don't fall asleep as quickly after "self-sex", so maybe its the relationship that tires him out, as opposed to the actual bumping of the grinding.

Okay, I made that part up, but it sounds good, huh?

So ladies, if you catch Joe in the bathroom, pants gathered around the ankles with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face, just smile graciously, pretend you don't see that issue of O magazine tucked behind his naked ass, & walk away.

Allow him his dignity as he becomes one with nature. & unless you notice heavy shaft chaffing, or small amounts of hair growing from his beet-red palms, then there's no need to worry. In fact, you can use that time wisely by keeping a simple "shower massager" & fresh pack of double A batteries handy. However, I don't suggest engaging in front of one another, as watching each other go to town on yourselves may prove to be more disturbing than arousing.

If done correctly, who knows? Maybe then you guys won't argue over the remote control so much anymore.


I keep hearing that December 2012 is the supposed Dooms Day we've all been obsessing over for our entire lives. The dreaded end of all things. This is only the beginning of 2009 & mini-Bedlam is already upon us. Watch the news & convince me otherwise.

It's times like these that I admire society's cast aways.

Take the homeless, for example. Do you think they're worried about pale horses & swarms of locusts? Ask them about pestilence, & they'll ask if the free clinic has a vaccine for it. If they get 72 cents tossed at them & luck up on partially eaten curly fries, life is good. How grand is it when your only worry is being clubbed about the nose & throat by some destitute teenagers? Or being out-hoboed at your usual loitering nest by the new vagrant in town? Ever seen bums fight? It's the saddest hilarity since the Hidenburg crash narration. Worst case scenario for them if Armeggedon were to happen, at least then EVERYONE would be homeless, so the playing field will be leveled.

Next, consider the alcoholic. If the end of time is as chaotic as the bible leads us to believe, I want to be drunk that day. All that liquid courage & blind rage would surely come in handy when demons come to devour my soul & have their way with my insides. Think about the last time you drove drunk, all alone, in the middle of the night on an empty highway. Remember when you finally looked down at the speedometer & noticed it read 127 mph? Yet, you kept soaring down the road, bat outta hell style. Why? Moronic bravado. That's just the blatant lack of self preservation & reckless endangerment needed to stay alive during the Apocalypse. Pride & prejudice would bear no weight in a world where humaniod refugees would eat your butt cheeks to survive. As a bonus (!?), I've heard people taste like chicken. El Pollo Loco be damned. Sobriety is boring as it is, but add horrific, mind altering terror & there's a tremendous chance that pants-pooping is the only thing certain.

Imagine the sun melting into the sea, rivers running with blood, total darkness & despair. To the average crackhead, that was Monday. The inversion of reality predicted during the sunset of mankind would equate the time lapse between last hit & next hit to a crackhead. The primal search, the anxious desperation are no different than that of when said addict looks for, then finds large lint balls & tries to smoke them from a hollowed out ink pen. In a land constrained by extreme selfishness & unavoidable conformity, you'll find crackheads & cockroaches hand-in-hand outliving even the most decorated commando. Picture Rambo, going through major, unmedicated withdrawal.

Lastly, the mentally ill. They've been gearing up for this scenario from the first time their socks tried to bite them, & every time their reflection laughs & tells them to put bleach in the orange juice. "The meek shall inherit the Earth", & what's more meek than a grown person who NEEDS protective head gear at all times? What threat would Gabriel's horn-blowing pose if I can't stop slapping my own face long enough to use a fork properly? If anyone's equipped to contend in the mouth of madness, it's the tongue. Funny thing is, I've always wondered what if all the "crazy people" were in actuality sane, & their biligerent ramblings were the warning signs we're waiting for. All these years, & we thought Jacob was arguing with his shadow.

So what did we learn?

We've only got less than three years left to becoming alcoholic, crack addicted, transient lunatics if we wish to make it through "hell on Earth". After that, this whole "being alive" deal is going to be way overrated.