I can make you famous.

We all wanted to be famous at some point or another. I know I sure as hell did.

I planned on being the first rapping actor. Decades ago. After I reached the heights of celebrity status, I was going to teach a class on how to be the best icon one could be. No Dice. The closest I've ever gotten to super stardom was being the father of the most smart-mouthed girl in the second grade. But, I did get to sign autographs though. All over parent-teacher conference notices.

Obviously, I took a spot on the sidelines & have been an avid spectator ever since. As we all know, from here, you can see the whole game. The best coaches do so from their recliners, with their drug(s) of choice at hand. I was watching an episode of "I Love Lucy" (best show ever, btw) this morning, & I noticed that the best ones were where Lucy was trying to help Rick's career by creating some lame ass publicity stunt. Good intentions, bad results, like getting married because of pregnancy.

Now I'm thinking about the whole "beef" in hip hop controversy deal. More often than not, the public declares "pub stunt!" when a couple of artists start throwing darts at one another. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But, I've been alive long enough to know that scientifically, some folks just don't mesh well, like wives & babymommas. But, assuming the "beef" scenarios are stunts, why not kick it up a notch, a la Lucy McGuillocutty Ricardo.

I say Balls to the Wall [||].

They want autographs, give them autographs. Walk through the mall, nude as a newborn with nothing but a bright red Sharpie. The fine you'll receive for Indecent Exposure would fail in comparison to the amount of fans that draws. You might even get some sweet action in a public restroom. This particular stunt is geared more towards the men, because we wouldn't want any ladies being gang-raped at the food court. While it would make for the most akward porno ever, it just wouldn't be a good look for whatever city she represents. Body grooming for such an excursion is optional, but if they don't recognize you for whatever talent you've been showing, there's always the off-chance that some tourists might mistake you for Bigfoot. Or the worlds most hairless man. Either or, someone will be talking about you by dinnertime.

Public intox is always a crowd pleaser also. Not drunk driving, I don't condone that, but taking the family out to Disneyland, completely hammered would be the "TMZ" moment those pesky paps search for. The guy in the Mickey Mouse costume may be used to kids kicking him about the thigh & shins, but imagine a 20-something year old man dry-humping his hind quarters. Good times. But not just there; everywhere. 7-eleven. Walmart. Chuck E. Cheese's. Church. Kind of like a One Man Show, except incoherent & throw-upy.

Hell, I'll even take a page from Jim Jones' *dusts off paper* book of fame. Have one of your baggage handlers keep a camera phone ready at all times. Be your own paparazzi. There's always one guy willing to do anything to be down with the "movement". So, slap him around, record it, send it to YouTube, Myspace, WSHH, vimeo & before you know it, you'll be the douche you aim to be known as. With the right coersion, you may even have a buddy willing to let you shoot him in the ass, granted the gun isn't more than a .22. It worked for the guy in the movie "Notorious".

Controversy sells, this we know. But all I'm saying is be the master of your destiny. If you can properly commandeer these talents, your actual talents can be meh at best & you'll still blow the eff up. Anyone who dares to challenge my theory, I ask you; what the hell did Paris Hilton do to become so popular? How does one have their own perfume without any sort of skill whatsoever? I know plenty of girls who sleep around & the last thing I would want is for my significant other to smell like those broads.

Take note, all you fame chasers. It's 5% skill, 25% luck & 70% what you do with it.

& be advised, only the most talented of performers 15 minutes extend beyond the time limit. Inevitable scrutiny & short attention spans demand that the "It" person of the moment be replaced more rapidly than a prostitute's pantyliner. You MUST give the public what they want. Stupidity, idiocy, Tom Foolery, & in some more advanced cases, nigtastic shuck & jive coupled with coontrocities beyond belief. Like thanking slave masters for one's success. Or opening schools in a African wastelands while there's a 40% drop out rate here in the USA. Trust me, the boundaries are limitless.

So, stop sitting around hoping that the world is waiting anxiously for your skill set to be unsheathed. That probably won't happen. But, with a little know-how, TMZ will be broadcasting your personal life, thus making yours a household name. & for the record, same-sex kissing & amateur porn are yesterday's news. Time to step your game up. America loves a psychopath.

Your audience awaits.......

Wishful Thinking

Damn, I had it all planned out. So much for wishful thinking.

My plan began to take shape about a year ago.

"America is nearing a recession."

I figured, according to my knowledge of the machine that is the USA., that this meant stock market crash was imminent. Subsequently, anything based around our currency was bound to follow down the tubes. The job market, housing, value of the American dollar globally, the entire microcosm that we'd all came to know & love would be on it's back, flailing it's lifeless limbs like a cockroach on it's last ticks.

In turn, society as it were would be up for grabs. The bottom-feeders would now be on a leveled playing field with the well-to-doers & the lucky-if-they-got-it's. Organized confusion, if you will. Not being one of the wealthy would finally come in handy, like being the first guy in a soup kitchen line.

Fortunately, my tax bracket fell in somewhere between "too much" & "not enough"; mid-middle class extraordinaire.

Just as the getting appeared ready to be gotten, word spread of a new, deadlier strand of the flu heading out of Mexico with a vengeance, called the Swine Flu. After a few days of fearing for my children's lives, & the contamination rate beginning to soar, I saw my opportunity to seize the moment broaden. Alas, my plan began to gain momentum.

The way I saw it, rich people love to vacation, right? Jumping in & out of airplanes, jetting off to unknown islands where the only inhabitants were witch doctors & savages. At some point, they would have no choice but to come across some unlucky schlub who unknowingly had this sickness.

With any luck, they'd catch it one night while dining on open fire-roasted pig & machete sliced pineapple shards. Then, they'd carry it back to their sprawling golf courses & fancy jacuzzi parties, further infecting douche bag after douche bag. After that, they'd return to their plush villa's, coughing & sneezing rudely in the faces of the help. The help would then take it home to their husbands, who work at the car washes that the rich people get their million dollar chariots primped & primed for the next board room meeting. At this rate, they'd all be dead in a matter of months. From the rich, to the poor, & back to rich; so on & so forth.

This is where the middle class raises up, bearing arms like the gays when California voted no on same sex marriages. Without all the high-pitched yelling & open-toed sandals.

The jobs would be ours for the taking. The money earned from those newly available labors could be used to purchase property, creating a new rung on the ladder of hierarchy. The common man would now strike back & regain it's respect.

But wouldn't you know it.

President Obama made good on all his promises. Thus, avoiding the biggest economic downturn of all times. & just as that turmoil leveled off, the swine flu turned out to be a distant, less aggressive cousin of the traditional flu. It even killed LESS people than the regular flu did last year. Two massive bummers in less than a month.

So, regardless of wishful thinking, I'm still stuck between "too much" & "not enough". I could almost taste the success. & it tasted like everything on the McDonald's 99 cents menu.

*cough* *cough* *oink*

According to the CDC, I should've have contracted HIV a couple of decades ago. Just by the sheer magnitude of the infection rate, I would've easily been that "1 in 4" to have it. Yesterday, I hung out with 3 of my "friends" for an entire day waiting for one of us to keel over or evaporate or something. No Dice.

From what the news pumped into our brains, the majority of my generation should have died off around 1995. Although I have zero friends who engage in "the love that dare not speak it's name" (google it) or use drugs intravenously, that's what "reports" had us to believe. But alas, here I am. No AIDS. & I have medical documents to back my statement, in case any one wants verification.

I've survived through that, & the rampant Bird flu a few years. Granted, the only birds I know on a personal level are at KFC, Popeye's, or El Pollo Loco & usually don't survive past the ride home (you know Black folk & their fried chickens), but they were birds nonetheless. I'm not sure, but I can only speculate on the rigorous security process they must go through to make sure the chickens are safe enough to be deep fry. The last pet bird I owned was when I was about 12. He eventually grow tired of water gun target practice & being confined to his poop-filled cage, so the first break of daylight he saw, he escaped & never looked back. I'm sure him, my guinea pig, my rabbit & dozens of goldfish are all resting comfortably in animal heaven, ruing the day I bought them. Yet, no Bird Flu over here, either.

Which leads me to the recent scare (nay, hysteria) in regards to the Swine Flu. Now, in theory a disease called the "Swine Flu" would trigger a hundred red flags at once in the Black community. Unless you're Muslim. Seriously, it's the closest thing to a staple part of our diets since Kool-Aid began being referred to as "juice". All the news reports boast "no deaths" in California, but if it were up to Black people, they still wouldn't stop eating swine, but just make sure that their Medi-cal covers the medication. Which, it probably doesn't.

Apparently, it's very similar to the (regular) flu, with all the traditional symptoms. In some cases, it's a little more aggressive than it's counterpart, but that's about it. We all know the News has a reputation of maximizing &/or minimizing stories. In that vein, we can either ignore it, keep our hands clean & go on with our daily lives. Or, grab a handful of gas mask, scoop up the kids & head for shelter with the rest of the healthy people. I, for one, won't be fleeing my city like Gommorah anytime soon, but today when a little boy coughed near me, I threw my tray of Burger King at him, did a shoulder-roll underneath a table & called 911. Can't ever be overly cautious, especially when the chance of catching a disease named after an animal that wallows in his own feces is on the loose. Last night, I offered a woman some tissue for her snot-nosed kid, & as soon as she took it I sprayed them both head to toe with industrial strength Lysol. Then I apologized, because I didn't mean to spray the little guy in the eyes.

I'm not sure what ramification would be worse; the illness itself or the backlash from Black people once they find out that they can no longer enjoy the sweet grease of a fatback sandwich after a slab of bacon & bag of pork rinds. Breakfast may never be the same. Bacon is almost a condiment in my family, right behind salt. Often the two meet in such a way that even the threat of Heart Disease can't stop their love. It's kind of like Diabetes is the joke we never got. Maybe such a flu wouldn't be all that bad.

I guess until folks start dropping dead, I won't take this supposed pandemic seriously either, just like all the other plagues I've lived through. I've survived the crack epidemic, gang violence, various strands of disease, so it only seems fitting that I flick my nose at this newest manifestation of mass hypnosis.

If I'm going to catch it, nothing's going to stop it anyway. But, we never know about these kinds of things. I've often heard of the pig's intelligence & resilience. Why wouldn't it's disease posess those same qualities? Just in case, I got those extra strength medical face masks 2 for $5. Holler at your boy.

webcams for everyone!

So, Snoop Dogg has a website or vlog or something where we, the viewer, can sit back & watch as he smokes ounces of what I can only assume to be the finest tree this side of Guatemala. Rich people & their hobbies.

From what I could gather, he rambles incoherently (before & after said blazing), until the contact kicks in. He then, incredibly high, indulges in whatever it is that high niggas indulge in, while we sit at home & watch. I'm not sure what's more pathetic; him smoking "for" us, or us watching him smoke "for" us. Either way, it's a win-win for Calvin. Even TMZ did a story about it, & there's no such thing as bad publicity. Unless you're Domino's Pizza.

See, with porn, the payoff is simple, elementary. As soon as boredom gets in full swing, so do hormones. Thus, the feeling is easily quelled by monkey spanking. Chicken choking, if you will. A little clean up & we're off to the next activity. As for Snoop, what good does his chiefing do me? I can look at the screen & clearly see that the quality of his weed is far superior to my sweaty-sock nickel bag of sticks & stems. So now I'm pissed. & sober as a Nun. If you look carefully enough, you can see a twinkle in his eye. Plain as day it reads, "Hahaha! You WISH!". As I turn off the site, cursing the year my parents didn't buy me the karaoke machine I'd requested, I started to think what absurd phenomenon this may be giving birth tizzle.

Imagine Whitney Houston, fresh from a love fest with Ray J, at home drunk, sweatier than a crackhead in a heatwave & worn out. Add a webcam & her inebriated adventure in her bathroom becomes a knee-slapping romp for the (cyber)world to see. We could watch her stumble half-naked into an ice-cold shower, pants around her cankles; bra caught in her weave. Hilarity undoubtedly ensues. Squating over the drain like a ninth inning umpire to relieve her bladder, the steady stream of golden shower is no match for the projectile vomit passing through her thin, weather-beaten lips. Now this, America, is the entertainment that we need. The candid moments of a pop queen turned drug addicted cougar. Not some overgrown hippie gangbanger who wants to prove to millions of people that he's higher than California's unemployment rate.

Far be it from me to instigate, but somebody should drop a webcam in OctoMom's Den of a Thousand Babies. Not so much that we may partake in her underwhelming abilities as America's most successful welfare scam, but to see what goes on when the day is done. What type of pajamas does she pour her Silly Putty-esque body into after tending to her litter? Does she inject the collagen into her lips herself or just suck on a hot curling iron nightly for that Angelina Jolie-on-a-budget look? The paparazzi seems to be done with the exploits of her tribe, but I'm not. I want to know exactly which kids are mentally challenged, so I can steer clear of them while lobbing insults at her test-tube family like heartless hand grenades. In all honesty, I just want a full spectrum glance at her stretch marks. However douchy it may be, I think they would be hilarious to look see.

& it doesn't have to stop there. Imagine a ginormous, hippo of a woman, completely confident & comfortable in the enormity of her girth. One of those ladies who refers to themselves as "a big girl" before you get the chance to mention that she should chew her food THEN swallow it. Now, she's fully aware that she's huge. So, why not capitalize off of her capital size? People are going to stare anyway, especially when she's alone yet orders two combo meals, so why not make a couple of bucks in the process? In steps the 'Net. If people can stare at "Faces of Death" for hours on end, surely they would wince but not turn away as 350 lbs. of femininity does naked jumping jacks or takes a tapioka pudding bath. People are weird like that. It's kind of like finding that carton of spoiled milk in the fridge by tasting it. It's so God awful that it MUST be shared with whoever walks into the kitchen.

At this rate, Peeping Tom's will be a thing of the past. Just think, instead of gasping at the sight of some odd man leering into your bedroom window, having at his tool as you lotion your celulite, beat them to the punch. Print flyers, pass them out in the neighborhood, & charge $5 per person for them to watch you cook nude or iron your clothes in crotch-less undies. In the digital sense, get yourself Paypal, get undressed & do everything that you think a stranger would want to watch.

Think about it, that's all I'm saying. Now excuse me as I remove my pants & turn on my camera.

Obama will never be a great president.......

Here's why.........

Because he's a good president.

He's very humble, articulate, well-mannered, intelligent, efficient, stern; just an all around stand-up guy. & so far, his performance as Commander-In-Chief has been pretty fair if not pretty good. That, not does a great president make.

A "great" president has a landmark. Meaning, he has some oafish, retard quality that pinpoints his idiocy within a matter of seconds, & solidifies his legacy for time indefinite. Bush (1 & 2) both had that brain-numbing ability to pause mid-sentence, like bullets in 'The Matrix' movie, then drop the hammer in a manner that leaves something to be desired. Like a purpose for your time. & any president with the ability to make up & fully utilize non-words, such as "nucular", wins hands down over a man, such as Obama, who can actually prove his point using his grasp of the English language. Sorry Barry, you lose.

Landmarks can be overridden by charisma. Especially the charisma of a pimp/child molester as we found in Big Willy Clinton. Even before he let interns sample the southern-style life juices, he still had that "don't leave him alone with you're most attractive daughter, no matter her age" air about him. But, when he made the Oval office his personal mini-gentlemen's club, along with the help of Monica Lewinsky's mouth, he proved what we all thought. Bill was a stud; a himbo of sorts. The type of guy to install a stripper pole in his bedroom. The type of guy who really did buy edible undies; most likely for himself. The type of guy who'd ditch Secret Service during an early morning jog just to scarf down a grease-slathered McRib sandwich. With or without his saxophone with him. He did great things for world relations, but greater things for playas across the globe. As for B.O. (no disrespect, sir), you have a wonderful, supportive family. So, again, score one for the other guy.

Our current president is the antithesis of most his predecessors. The closest to a joke about him is the fact that he has those lips; too close to the roach clip lips. With 3/4 of the population being admitted weedaholics, who really cares. Let's face it, there's not much to do in Hawaii but surf (he is half-white), crack cocnuts open with rocks (hey, close enough to bananas, right?), & get zooted. Something tells me basketball sort of fell in his lap, being the only black guy on an island & all.

Maybe he'll accidentally back over his dog, or sprain his ankle going in for a lay up. Oh how the media would eat up our first Black C.I.C twisting his ankle playing the one sport we totally dominate. That would probably be just as bad as paparazzi snapping shots of Michelle Obama hording Kool Aid at the local Food For Less. Even that wouldn't be so depressingly humorous as Watergate &/or releasing tens of thousands of crazed people back into society for lack of funding. Yeah, Reagan's innate douchebagology was that of the rich man who steps over the one homeless guy who really does need twenty five cents for a cup of hot chocolate. Good luck with that winter chill, average joe.

Being the nice guy that he's unable to stop being, you've got to wonder about the presidents who actually were great, in the literal sense of the term. For example, Lincoln. An avid believer in freedom for all; brains blown out at the theatre. Kennedy Jr; an avid believer in freedom for all; brains blown out while the whole world watched. If there's any correlation, I'll let you make it. But I will say that being a Humanitarian sure isn't what it seems to be.

I guess one could assess that Obama's greatness is/will be pidgeonholed by the fact that he's [half] black; the first of his kind. Perhaps in the history books, hundreds of years down the line, he'll be known as the man who opened up the White House to Asians, women, homosexuals, midgets, hispanics, you name it. With his inaugruation, the melting pot finally spilled over onto the lily white steps of Washington D.C. That in itself has got to be a set up for some type of joke, & a great one at that.

The One Day Experiment

I love a good social experiment.

Today, out of sheer boredom, I decided to hold all of my conversations using as much hip hop/rapper lingo, slang & colloquialism as possible. As an active member of the hip hop community, I often find myself frustrated with the misuse of the English language, yet thoroughly entertained simultaneously. I understand it's somewhat Ebonics-esque existence, but what if I didn't? How idiotic would I sound to other people? My theory was that the average individual wouldn't have any idea what the hell I was talking about. Hmmmm.........


FIRST SUBJECT-My Mom
My Mom: Hello? Hi Anthony. How are you? Are you busy?

TG: Whadup Ma dukes? I'm straight, posted up, feel me? Street sign status & all that, nahmean? What's good?

MM: Excuse me?

TG: I'm sayin' though, marinatin' at the crib, makin' it do what it do, dig? Just doin' me, no homo. It's all good, what's crackin'?

*Result; she asked if I had been drinking & told me she'll call me another time.

SECOND SUBJECT-My son's teacher
Teacher: I want to discuss your son's behavior.

TG: Word up, pimpin. Cat be buggin', right? Yo, I keep it real with shorty, spit that knowledge fa sheez, boom bam. He be all about the shenanigans & whatnot, but I'm steady breakin' it down like, juice, if you out here whylin my dude, you ain't gon never touch no scratch, son. Can't be stuntin' if you stay frontin'! Word!

Teacher: Um, okay sir.

*Result: She handed me his report card & said she'll call my wife if there's anymore problems.

THIRD SUBJECT-Hispanic cashier at Burger King (interjecting a little Los Angeles-style Spanglish)

Burger King Chick: Hola. How can I help you today?

TG: Whadup doe? Yeah, yeah, feenin' for one of them Whopper joints, smell me? Feelin' a lil famished up in this piece, momma. Tryin' to touch some comida, vamonos! Ya boy need a grape soda with that, word, extra diamonds in that bitch, no doubt!

BKC: Que?

TG: Huh?

BKC: Did jew call me a bitch, sir?

TG: Ahhhhhhh, you got jokes dog! Nah, ain't no disrespectin', I'm just tryin' to eat cuz I'm eatin', ya know? Grab & bounce babygirl, grab, &, bounce! That Oww Wee got my guts bubbly, nahmean? Let me get that to go, finna shake the spot before my breezy start blowin' up my connect. She crazy ill!

BKC: Wha? Jour girl she sick?

TG: Word, you feelin' me! Yeah, loco in la cabayza, fa real fa real! Son, I almost wifey'd that chicken!

BKC: I no understand. Jew want chicken sandwich?

TG: Huh?

BKC: Que?

TG: Co-me-dah! Vittles, kid!

BKC: Sir, I think jew should talk to el heffa.

TG: Say word!

BKC: Uh, word? I no underst-

TG: Ahh nah, you droppin' dimes?! You must ain't be up on the G code! It's official on the concrete, real talk! Po's told me it's at least a bullet if they catch a nig slip-slidin' again outchere! Later for that. It's all about square biz, gettin' my scrilla sky high baby, no limits on mine! Can't do that if I'm stretched in the bing! Matta fact, I'm Audi 5. Holla back!

*Result: I never received my food, thoroughly confused my order taker & realized that this is more fun than a barrel of monkeys (no pun intended).

My conclusion was just as I suspected it would be; people had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Hopefully, this will serve as a small list of how not to speak if one yearns to be understood. Of course, I religiously pratice correct speaking, but I seem to be of a now dying breed.

Judging by the generations behind mine, between horrible grammar & body art, they'll be plenty of jobs available for my future grandchildren.

Role Reversal

I mean this in all seriousness........

I posted a blog on XXLmag.com (http://www.xxlmag.com/online/?p=40391) entitled "Where the ladies at?" some time ago. One comment that caught my attention was something to the effect of "the men in hip hop are so feminine that the women are no longer needed". Upon further investigation, that response made quite a bit of sense.

Take a look at what hip hop is versus what it was. If it's broken down by categories, it's a very telling scenario of the culture we love leaning towards a more unisex idiosyncrasy.

The trend began with hair. At one point, you're favorite rapper had braids that hung mid-back length, presumably longer than your baby momma's. For a very brief time I sported the style, but quickly realized that the maintenance wasn't worth the outcome; frizzy cornrows are as far from gangsta as one can get (no Jim Jones). Though the "trend" fizzled somewhat, it's still evident in the hip hop community that niggas want long, luxurious locks. Be it good or bad, a flowing mane is what's up. To this day, you can catch a high-as-hell Snoop Dogg permed out & G'd up simultaneously. I don't think there's anything wrong with long hair on dudes, but if at some point your dome is making your girl's look bad, something's got to give.

The next phase evolved essentially in unison with the hair growth; jewelry. In the 70's, there were actually such things as "man-rings". Society felt the obligatory need to classify jewelry by gender-based specifications. Now, some 30 years later, metro's & hetero's shop shoulder to shoulder in search for the prettiest piece of shine. Diamonds are everybody's best friend, contrary to popular belief. The more, the better. The first time I bought a bracelet, my father asked me if he'd forgotten my mother's birthday. When I told him it was mine, he looked at my hoop earrings & shook his head in testosterone-filled shame. I ditched the hoops & gave the bracelet to my mom, as he suggested & it was a wrap. Now, a rap dude cops a diamond encrusted medallion, huge shiny earrings (the bigger the better), a Wonder Woman bracelet & as many finger trinkets as his hands can hold, subsequently getting his Elton John on. The watch is a given; watches are MAN jewelry. Anything else is should be slid off to wifey. Shiny distractions keep them quiet.

Which brings us to the day's current craze. Tight pants. Nut-huggers for the lame ducks. Granted, baggy pants are best left to shotgun-concealing gangbangers & the remaining breakdancers of the world, but there's nothing the matter with a little loose fit in your trousers (no homo). The problem is when, as with the long hair, your pants hug your thighs more snugly than your girl's. I know you carry a wallet, but I shouldn't be able to see it. If I can tell the difference between a quarter & a dime through your denim, maybe a size upgrade should be considered. Not to mention the risk of a yeast infection, which I assume would be more embarrassing than buying a box of Nix to self-medicate a case of Crabs. Men's pants shouldn't fit into their Air Force One's like Ugg boots. At some point, we can only assume niggas'll be rocking spandex because the jeans don't hug their curves like they want. How far off are we from wife-beaters (no C. Brown) being replaced by sports bras? If dudes start arching their eyebrows, I'm Audi 5.

& with the bickering, fussing, fighting, feuding, tattle-telling, break-ups-to-make-ups, I don't know if I'm witnessing hip hop or an episode of my life where my wife & baby mom's happen to be at the same family function.

Where the ladies at, indeed.

Ugly Baby Etiquette

Question.

Is there such a thing as "ugly baby etiquette"?

Everybody thinks their infants are adorable, as they should. But what happens when they subject you to their child excitedly, with that look of anticipation, waiting on your response? What's the appropriate reaction?

"Wow, that's aaaaa, very interesting little guy you got there..."

"Look at that. She looks just like her father."

Case in point; I have a friend who recently gave birth to a baby girl (who shall remain nameless, the baby I mean, on the grounds that I might incriminate myself). First of all, a baby's not a new television set or fresh pair of limited edition Air Jordans. Frankly put, if you've seen one, you've seen them all. That is unless said baby has a horn or three nostrils. For the most part, they're all flesh colored noise makers.

Now, she posed the question (obviously not a rhetorical one), "Do you want to see the baby?".

If you know me, then you know what my initial thought was.

No, not really.

But, in an attempt to be a more civilized person, I nodded & reluctantly said "sure".

Before I could gander at (sigh...) yet another child, she told me it's name. At the risk of sounding like a jerk, why is it that black women make up these names as if there's a race to see who's can be the most ridiculous? I get the whole "unique" name thing, but let's come back to Earth. If it sounds like a disease, a make-believe foreign country or a precious stone, stay away from it. If you've never heard any name remotely close to it, ever, there's probably good reason for that.

So, I looked at the baby, forcing a grin all the while, & she looked back at me. I couldn't tell if I reminded her of a chew toy, or if she was crapping herself. Whatever the case, she reached for an ear, & I immediately got the hell out of dodge.

Not because it wasn't cute.......but because I don't like people touching my ears. Especially germ conduits &/or saliva fountains. & I'm afraid of Space Monkeys.

I'll be the first to admit that all three of my kids came into this world as goons. A cone dome, a pie face & an apple head; not necessarily in that order. Of course, they eventually grew to resemble normal people, but the wait bordered on excruciating. People would say to me, "aww, they're are sooo ca-yoot!". Imagine their horror when I shot back at them, "yeah, right." Or the ever-popular "God doesn't like liars".

I think that there's no better way to be humbled than to have an ugmo kid. It's the "moment of clarity" from hell.

So, as I made small talk with my friend, & she repeatedly try to swing the convo back toward her baby, I couldn't help but wonder; "Should I tell her?"

Nah, I'll let her baby daddy do it.

"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.

FuN iN a bOTtLe: part one

Two things that constitute a good blogger are; intellect & experience. The best blogs satellite around based opinions, sprinkled with sparse narration, & usually give the reader a thought or three that had not existed previously. Hence, I try & steer clear of that of which I know not, for the sake of looking like a pathetic pseudo-know it all. If you think I'm doing a good job, slap the person next to you. Hard.

With that said, I'm going to throw myself under the bus here. I'm a recovering alcoholic. The story that lead me to such a catergory, while very interesting, isn't the point, but the segue. The point is actually, I know drunk. Fall down, piss in the trash can, "Damn, I did that?" drunk. I started drinkin at the age of 18, & didn't look back until God stepped in & basically said, "Aight pal, if you don't like it here, you can leave! & I'll help you pack."

I'm sure it's obvious I chose to stick around.

But, knowing full fledge alcoholism has its benefits, however absurd. A lot of things in life are somewhat enjoyable, but bein drunk makes everything a party!

1. Sex-The most experienced sex machine will admit that the Dance of Nakedness can be very awkward. I'm sure it's just animal instinct, but there's something about exposed body parts flopping around all willy-nilly that gets people going, yet at the same time makes us blush in places you wouldn't see if we were clothed. Sort of like Adam & Eve, when they bit the apple, then scurried in opposite directions for coverage.

From the first move, to the ceremonious undressing, to the nitty-gritty of bumpin uglies, it can be uncomfortable. Especially afterwards ("So, uh, how much do I owe you?"). But, booze makes it joyous, anonymous, & easy to forget, good or bad.

Sobriety makes you want to be considerate, focusing on sensuality & pleasure. Blah. Inebriation removes those governors, & all energy is aimed toward the goal at hand, explosion. Hopefully for the ladies as well. All the weird position finding becomes irrelevant, because where there's a will, there's a way. Elbows & hair aren't a major factor when one doesn't know up from down. The target is in the same location as it was each & every time you've engaged in the act prior to this one.

Lastly, as the sauce saturates your innards, it lulls you into slumber to prepare for the hasty retreat the following morning. Unless you unconciously choke on your vomit & die in your sleep.
*bloggers note: don't drive drunk & always use protection*

2. Conversation-Any loudmouth can blab endlessly about just about anything. Proven fact, just look at most politicians, & what the hell is a philosopher anyway? The average person knows at least one iota about some random subject, & if they're good liars as well, there's no end to the exchange of moronic ideas. But, incorporate a little happy juice, and what would've been a night of boring jibberjabber becomes an evening at the intellectual's roundtable. Sports seem to be the most common topic. Boozehounds may forget where they left their keys, may not know how to get back home, might not even be able to decipher pretty from ugly. But I bet they know the stats from every NBA game on last night, with or without cable. I had a buddy who got so drunk, he told me stories about his childhood that, well, let's just say I got extremely uncomfortable & asked him to leave my house. Watching two drunk dudes get into a serious debate is like watching monkeys trying to start a fire with bananas. It begins with the economy, & somewhere around the Big Bang theory, veers off towards why people have pinky toes. & if it doesn't end with one of the guys yelling, "I'll cut yo' ear off" then they weren't drunk enough.
*bloggers note: Be careful, dude WILL cut yo' ear off*

3. Babysitting other peoples children-Just joking. I wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Stay tuned for part two..........

"The Last Piece Of Chicken"

Last night, I killed three spiders, bare-handed none the less, opened a greasy jar of mayo, & a warped relish container. This morning's jelly jar resisted, but the countertop & I showed it who was boss! My arthritis is wrestling with my carpel tunnel syndrome now something terrible & I'm afraid to leave the house today because I can't stop throwin' up gang signs. I'm beginning to understand why old men have those nubs instead of fingers & hands. It's like a grenade exploded in their palms. A "wife & kids" grenade.

Walkin' down the street with my daughter this afternoon, we saw a huge chihuaua, the fiercest ankle biter this side of a midget wrestler. I snatched off my belt, Indiana Jones-style & did fearless battle with the ravenous beast, while my little girl yelped like a damsel in distress! If President Obama hadn't been sworn in today, I'd be making all sorts off "whipping it like Toby" jokes, but I have a little more class than that. But I will say, the next time that dog gets insubordinate with me, he'll be minus a foot. My socks took the brunt of the attack, but I protected my princess, & defended my territory, so all's well in the kingdom so far.

As per request by the Queen, I hauled box after box of meaningless mementos from the 8' high closet shelf to the garage. I'm 5' 11.5". My back feels like I've been gang raped by a band of lascivious amazonian women who've never smelled man flesh. No gatorade, no ice packs, no love.

Hunched & limpin', I came across my son who decided today is the day he tests his 5 year old machismo. I sat down with a grunt, & almost instantaneously, he slaps me across my face, hard like a pimp on a mission. Now as time slowed down around me, I could;
A) ignore it, & just shake my fist at the little bastard or
B) charge him like a rhino, with all intentions of crane kicking him to the carpet.

......................Crane kick it is.

Now, if you have a five year old at home, then you're aware of the lighting quick reflexes they possess. Before I stood fully erect, he jetted past me, laughs & giggles met my moans of back pain, thus pissin' me off even more. I turned to give chase, but all that remained of him was his dust, which I was forced to eat.

Imagine a polar bear trying to catch a mongoose, if the polar bear had a dislocated hip, & the mongoose was hopped up on PCP. After what must've looked like an episode of "Itchy & Scratchy", I gave up. Back to my chair.

I awoke from a brief nap to the smell of chicken frying the sound alone made my mouth water. All the kids were seated at the table with my wife, eyes bigger than Chris Tucker's, waiting on the bird to make it's way onto their plates. With a growl, I got up, hobbled into the bathroom to wash my pretzel-like hands, rubbed my spastic back & headed towards much needed nourishment.

I sat, & of course everyone was eating already. I poured what was left of the Kool-Aid, the syrupy under belly of the pitcher, into my plastic cup & reached for the pile of greasy grub that my palette desperately needed. Upon further inspection, I noticed something odd.

The big piece of chicken was gone.

Furious, I chewed my Kool-Aid syrup, threw my napkin down, & headed back to my chair.

Oh well, they'll all want presents for their birthday's. & my revenge shall be sweet.