April 2007 Archives
MAKING THE BAN: RAPPERS WILL STILL FIND WAYS TO DISRESPECT WOMEN
The other night, for the first time since the Clinton impeachment hearings, I had a bona fide date that didn't require a financial transaction. Granted, the sex not being a usual guaranteed occurrence kind of sucked, but having someone that actually liked me for me made a brother feel like less of a scumbag for once - there's something special about a chick hanging on your every word, instead of her having that ever-so-loving "I'm only listening to this chubby bastard talk about Hip Hop all night long because he's paying" look in her eyes. We did what any single 30-somethings would do: we had a great dinner even after I blurted out a Tourettes-like, "If you order from the right side of the menu, baby, we're fucking!!" We talked about the charred remains and dismembered bodies that made up our past relationships - she was so cool and old school, she didn't even throw a drink in my face when I said that preceding our first sexual experience I wanted Heavy D's "Mr Big Stuff" to play in the background while I walked in the room grabbing my cock while swaying back and forth to the beat.
When we got back to my crib, I didn't even think about making a move. Sure, I had the utmost respect for this woman, but it had more to do with the fact that saying amateurish shit like "I want to make love to your throat!" wouldn't go over so well. Besides, her shirt was kind of a silky material - if any miscellaneous ejaculate landed on that I'm sure she'd have her hand out like a Maitre d'. So any act of kindness on my part that night was simply thought of as a booty investment, coming off as the gracious host with a heart of gold I knew would pay off at some point - whenever she decided to 'deposit" that ass on to me, to continue with the banking metaphor a bit further.
She wanted some wine - some of the finest storebought stomped grapes were in front of her before the completion of her sentence. She wanted some romantic music in the background for ambiance - I popped in a Public Enemy "Greatest Hits" CD (Nothing gets a chick in the mood like Welcome to the Terrordome.) After we chatted a bit, she wanted to watch a movie - No problem. I slide in a movie called Idiocracy that I had randomly selected from Netflix a few days before. The only thing I knew about the flick is that it was written and directed by Mike Judge, the man responsible for Beavis and Butthead and the classic Office Space, so I figured that this movie was destined to be an absolute side-splitter. The thing is, it was only partially funny in that "this is some really silly shit" sort of way - sure it was a comedy, but mostly me and my date found ourselves laughing at parts that weren't meant to be funny at all. Even though I can't say that I'd recommend that particular flick to anyone I even remotely liked, I have to admit that the storyline of said flick was the perfect analogy concerning the way I feel about Hip Hop right about now.
See, the movie Idiocracy is a flick where an average Joe (Luke Wilson) and a prostitute (Maya Rudolph) are subjected to a military experiment where they are supposed to Hibernate in these coffin-like chambers for an entire year. (Think Hans Solo in Empire.) Instead, they are virtually forgotten about due to a military scandal, and they emerge 500 years later in what looks like a massive landfill. When they get amongst the people they find out rather quickly that society has intellectually regressed - to a world that embraces anti-intellectualism to the point that humanity is uniformly stupid, with people blissfully ignorant, murdering the English language, talking as if they were recovering from some sort of massive stroke. That's when it struck me, this movie is the perfect metaphor for Hip Hop.
It seems that much of the Hip Hop has regressed. An artform that once prided itself on the written word and brilliant oratory skills - now scoffs at such high standards as if they were old hat, some notable Emcees even going so far as to say that they don't freestyle, some of them even looking down on one of the main elements of Hip Hop - B-Boying. Hip Hop fans have regressed, so thirsty for something worthwhile that a lot of the time people praised as the next saviors are only marginal at best - I won't even go into the people who I respect that have recently sang the praises of acts like Lil Wayne, Dipset, or anyone else who would have had their demo thrown in the circular file circa 1989. Like the movie Idiocracy, I feel as if I've been frozen from the year 1989 - only to return to a place where everyone around me seems to be drooling lunatics, unaware that what they think is logical debate is actually nothing but incessant incoherent rambling.
Personally, I wouldn't lose one ounce of sleep if the words "Nigger," "Bitch," and "Ho" were deleted from the Hip Hop lexicon - as an aficionado of lyricism I feel that those particular words are used to mask the obvious shortcomings of untalented rappers the world over. But is Russell Simmons really the one to bring this to the public's attention? I mean, is he really concerned with the direction Hip Hop has taken, or is he trying to save face - attempting to make everyone who saw him on Oprah last week forget that he came across as articulate as Barney Fife on a two-day crank binge? People who, I admit, are much smarter than I'll ever be, are taking a backseat to logic in terms of this proposed "ban" - coming across like those same knuckle-draggers I saw in that bad movie - blaming Hip Hop because they universally suck as parents. Censorship is a slippery slope, and even though I wish all utterances that disrespect women to miraculously leave rappers mouths like evil spirits during exorcisms - the sad reality is that it won't stop there, and some of your favorite rappers will soon find themselves being Public Enemy #1 in the name of good old-fashioned obscenity. Also, aren't there other words that can be used to disrespect women? I'm sure that some rappers will "take it old school" so to speak and start calling women "Stunts" and "Skeezers." Or even taking it extremely old school and start referring to young ladies as "Harlots," Jezebels," "Hussies," or even "Trollops," for gods sake. So those words acceptable as long as the words "Bitch" and "Ho" aren't mentioned? How about going beyond the music itself, taking an adult look and analyzing why misogyny and the denigration of women is an epidemic in our community? Not doing that is like treating the hypertension but not taking the greasy foods out of ones' diet, or taking the Styrofoam cup out of the bum's hand to stop him from begging. What kind of diseased mind-fuck is that?
I don't exactly know how Idiocracy ended because I was too busy dancing naked to a Heavy D tune - but I'd like to think it concluded with the rest of the world catching up to Luke Wilson's character on an intellectual level. Man, I really hope that life imitates art.
ALEC BALDWIN CONVINCED ME THAT I SHOULDN'T HAVE CHILDREN
As much as my dear mother wants her baby boy to go out there, find some woman with a strong enough constitution to let me clumsily thrust on top of her with reckless abandon, and spread my demon-seed in hopes of possibly producing an offspring with dreadlocks and a writing prowess - I never quite thought that I was father material. For one thing, I have absolutely no patience - so little in fact that if I ever decided to write a children's book I'm pretty sure that my very first offering would be entitled, "If you don't sit your ass down!!" As much as women with low self-esteem and loose morals might find me beating some random asshole at a watering hole as "sexy" - its not the sort of thing that I particularly want to pass down to my children. I just know that a common motif when it comes to giving my kids advice on anything would be a version of this: "Just walk right up to him, chop that motherfucker in the throat, and when he's on the ground, kick that son on a bitch until a sudsy foam develops from his mouth." But then again, I've seen children drastically change people for the better, turn stone-cold killers into lovable sit-com dads, transform a walking debt to society into a fine upstanding citizen. At the end of the day I now realize that my 33-year idiosyncratic routine has nothing to do with my lack of procreating.
Last week, after Alec Baldwin was rightfully raked over the coals for calling his 11-year-old daughter "a rude, thoughtless little pig" in a leaked voice-mail message - I began to understand why I never had any desire to put my extremely unimpressive phallus to use and procreate. Granted, what Mr. Baldwin said was wrong; being on the business end of one too many "you ain't ever going to be shit" predictions myself makes the most famous voice-mail this year even that much more indefensible. Then again, based on said verbal abuse, I kind of wished that my old man would have referred to me as "a rude, thoughtless little pig" - it would have seemed as pleasant as a rubdown in a Shiatsu based on all the colorful pieces of exotic animal feces he referred to me as.
But I have to tell you - and maybe this is the hack writer inside of me that wants to add an intriguing backstory under the surface - but I get the sneaking suspicion that what Alec Baldwin is going through is basically what kept me from having a camcorder in the delivering room and posting said flicks on my blog. I'm not concerned that I will pass my knowledge of throat-chopping and emergency tracheotomies to my sweet children; I'm aware of the life-long effects that verbal abuse has on ones' self-esteem; and I'm not destined to repeat history. I'd even be willing to openly lie about my drug use until my kid's wedding when I'd probably say something like, "Remember all those years that I claimed I never touched weed? I was lying like a motherfucker!" Basically, because I have a sort of asshole demeanor that doesn't exactly translate well to long term relationships, I never wanted kids because I never wanted the "baby mama drama" attached to it.
Sure, there are people out there who can act civil towards each other after an extremely painful break up, ignoring all of the other persons peccadillos for the better good of the child that they both created - but I'm not talking about them. Not for nothing, but I don't particularly know how I'd respond to my ex's new husband that suggested that my child call him "dad" and me by my government name - despite my regular involvement with the child, both monetarily and timewise. As much as I might have wanted to shake the weave off of her at one time, I'd wonder if the judge believed my ex's testimony stating that I used to strike her - treating her chin like a "speed bag" as she so succinctly put it. You never want to take anything out on your child, but I'm sure it would take every fiber of my being not to express my frustration with a plethora of expletives - noticing how much more combative and distant my child becomes with each visit, no telling what kind of funnel my ex is using when she pours nothing but bile about me in my kid's adolescent ears. Even though I'm well aware that the brain-washing process has completed, I'm wondering how I'd hold it together even though my kid avoids my scheduled phone calls - sometimes not even being available to see me, even though I just came from the opposite coast to be with them for a few fleeting moments.
Again, I don't know if Alec went through any of that, and that doesn't excuse what he called her - just understand that with each passionate act comes a very intricate backstory. That being said, Alec is a better father than I'd be. I can't exactly see myself calling her "a rude, thoughtless little pig." Actually much worse - after years of manipulation from what seems to be an evil ex wife, I can actually see myself saying, "Fuck it kid, I'll come back around when you're 18. In the meantime, I'm going to knock someone up and give this fatherhood thing a second chance."
Maybe the Dali Lama is the only one who can criticize Hip Hop
Maybe it's because I'm getting older, remembering a time when people thought that George Michael was straight and that Terrence Trent D'arby would have an illustrious singing career, but it seems to me that most of the people who criticize Hip Hop just regurgitate random talking points that they once heard on an episode of Geraldo circa 1989. Due to the whole hysteria surrounding a man that no one with a healthy pulse even listens to any more, my life over the past week has felt like a dreadlocked version of Groundhog Day - hearing everyone from right wing pundits to civil rights activists telling whoever would listen that Hip Hop music is bringing down western civilization as we know it. Listen, I agree with many of the well-meaning brothers and sisters who have publicly voiced their concerns recently: I've been a fan of Hip Hop for the better part of three decades, but I can't defend the indefensible. Besides the fact that I'm a Hip Hop elitist who finds a slew of artists being played on the radio, MTV, and BET as fundamentally bad, I have no problem agreeing with the harshest of Hip Hop critics that violence, minstrelsy, and misogyny is a constant motif in much of what's played nowadays. But many of these well intentioned black folks embarrass themselves whenever they don't specifically point out that what they are vehemently ranting against is "Clear Channel" Hip Hop - anything predicated on flashing diamond encrusted smiles, throwing money in the air, and proudly exhibiting a lack of lyricism - exuding nothing but intellectual laziness, knowing that it's much easier to quote a questionable rap lyric than to tackle the faulty educational system or flat-out bad parenting.
My only fear is that this is Hip Hop's version of Janet Jackson's Superbowl nipple slip, a virtual door being opened for anyone who has ever tried to turn my favorite genre into the scapegoat for all of America's social ills - inciting a musical witch hunt where drooling lunatics begin to lump together horrible groups like Crime Mob with Royce da 5'9. Sure, I expected this from right-wing pundits who wanted to turn the Imus issue into a referendum on Hip Hop - frigid women once again being able to moisten their collective panties and impotent men suddenly sporting more wood than Home run Derby's whenever they got the opportunity to cluelessly generalize Hip Hop - only momentarily replacing their hidden desire of one day being able to openly call black folks by their favorite racial epithet. But I figured that people who looked like me and usually thought like me would understand the nuanced nature of the argument - but last week I was proven wrong.
The funniest development that I discovered, flipping between cable porn and news stations as I do, is that the loudest voices criticizing Hip Hop happened to be the same ones with the shadiest pasts. Here are some of their offenses, people so belligerent about Hip Hop culture that they make a baboons ass like Gene Simmons look like Africa Bambataa. (See a rather embarrassing allhiphop article where Mr. Simmons would have been better served smearing himself with his own fecal matter.) Here are some nominees for the "Sit your ass down" award.
Michelle Malkin: Like most uninformed twits who gladly wear their ignorance about Hip Hop like a badge of honor and happen to possess a lemming-like fan-base exclusively of Bush Loyalists who would have gladly drank Jim Jones' Kool-Aid circa 1978 - her "rabbit out of the hat" trick concerning Hip Hop is to quote the most indefensible rap lyrics that she can find. (Minus exclaiming "ta-dah!!" afterwards.) Sure it's lame - I mean, are there any other obviously shocking things that Mrs. Malkin cares to point us in the direction of? Homicides? Natural Disasters? Are there any childlike quips she'd like to add under the pictures of genocides past and present? Pointing out something horrible isn't exactly an argument, it's a lazy tactic that only people posing as journalists attempt to pull off - based on this Youtube clip, where she openly admitted that her latest book is rife with errors, I might be correct in questioning her journalistic street cred. But when I think about her criticizing Hip Hop I think about her being a woman of Asian decent actually writing a book in support of Japanese American Internment (which was mercilessly debunked, by the way). I also recall her smearing John Kerry with the unfounded claim that his Vietnam wounds were self inflicted. Lastly, on her blog she posted the name and contact information for students protesting the presence of military recruitment on the campus of the University of California, Santa Cruz - and wouldn't take it down after the students had received death threats. No, Michelle, there's nothing hypocritical about waxing poetic about the danger of "bitches and hoes" in rap lyrics when you yourself have put peoples' actual lives in Danger. Please, Sit your ass down!
Al Sharpton & Jesse Jackson: I would say that anyone known for having a perm and a penchant for sweatsuits shouldn't be criticizing anything, but that's neither here nor there. It always amazes me that individuals who claim that they are men of god, who spend more time speaking in front of crowds than I've been alive, can be so bumbling and nondescript while discussing Hip Hop. Like I've said before, I can whole-heartedly agree that much of what passes itself off as Hip Hop nowadays is deep rooted in negativity - but I'm not exactly sure how I feel about these particular men lecturing me about it. Whenever Al Sharpton talks about rappers degrading women for political gain, I immediately flash back to the ways in which he used Tawana Brawley for national exposure. When Jesse talks about racism I can't get him saying "Hymie-town" out of my head, when he talks about black men being responsible husbands and fathers I think about that kid he had outside his marriage. Not for nothing, Al and Jesse, but sit your ass down somewhere!!
Jason Whitlock: I was with Jason Whitlock here. I was sort of with him here (even though Sharpton owned him with that closing "It's always guys that are not in the ring that want to call the fights" salvo). But after I saw him on Oprah as well as a dozen cable news shows, I'm beginning to see that homeboy is nothing but a one-trick pony. See, being a contrarian only works if your "outside the box" suggestions are accompanied with some worthwhile solutions - saying that men who utter "bitches and hoes" to a well produced beat is the only culprit that black people need to address just ain't cutting it buddy. Matter of fact, if you listen to this guy long enough, you start to believe that he blames Snoop Dog for the incarceration rates of black men, fathers not taking responsibility for their children, and hypertension to boot. As white women on Oprah clap ferverishly to your tired diatribes about Hip Hop that I've recently used to put me to sleep at night - women who wouldn't have Ms. Winfrey over their houses if she wasn't worth billions of dollars and didn't give away free shit ad naseum, just understand that a blatant finger pointer with no solutions makes you - well, Bill Cosby. Like Dead Prez said, "It's bigger than Hip Hop," so Jason - Go sit your ass down somewhere!
LET ME TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO WHOLEHEARTEDLY THANK DON IMUS
For a chubby guy, my swagger is surprisingly phenomenal this year. I've been walking through nightclubs with the confidence of Superman getting shot at, casually looking at women as if they were side-order options on a dinner menu, nodding my head in an irritating fashion and saying "I know honey" whenever a nice women tells me how handsome I am. I've even been whispering nerd phrases in women's ears as pick-up lines, like, "Baby, my blog is the one that lesser bloggers masturbate to!!" Utterly ignoring the fact that I'm one buffet away from never seeing my unimpressive penis again.
Despite my newfound confidence, a couple of months ago I had to be honest with myself and openly admit to anyone who would listen that I was dating a woman out of my league. Carmen was her name. She was so intelligent that my rants had to be pre-planned so she wouldn't call me on my bullshit. Her eyes were so captivating to look at that she never noticed me daydreaming whenever she waxed poetic about some horrible Tyler Perry play. Her skin was filled with so much chocolaty goodness that whenever I was around her, I got the taste for non-nutritious children's cereal. Her only flaw - one that I at first thought was as adorable as babies being pictured with puppies - was her extreme issue with abandonment.
The very first conversation we had was about her father packing his shit when she was eight and him starting a new family elsewhere, and the fact that her mother was a raging alcoholic who would only spent brief periods of time in the house solely to nurse her hangovers. But I never expected her past to affect our short-lived relationship in the intense fashion in which it did. It didn't matter if I arrived at her house hours after I said I would, or just a few minutes late - whenever she'd open up her door for me she would always hug me as if I was a husband returning from an drawn-out war. She'd only let go momentarily to cup my face with her soft hands, look in my eyes and say, "Where in the fuck were you?" ever so softly. Even though there was never any sort of anger or vitriol in the way she asked that particular question, it admittedly started to freak me out like a canker sore on the lips of a new lover. Simple errands, like buying milk, became quite the stress-worthy endeavor - me running red lights, screaming "Move that sweet ass grandma!!" at old pedestrians, and speeding down residential blocks just so I could go a complete day without her asking me the question that began to gnaw at my very existence. But wouldn't you know it, no matter how prompt my arrival time became, she would always greet me warmly while asking "Where in the fuck were you?" like she had done the previous 100 times. Of course, I promptly broke up with her. I'm not clairvoyant, but I foresaw crotch-smelling "I know you are cheating on me" sessions and boiled rabbits in my near future. But I thought about that two-month affair as soon as this Imus controversy erupted.
See personally, I want to thank Mr. Imus. No, not because he proved my old man's theory that a cowboy hat is a politically correct clan hood. Not because the future of a fundamentally bad morning show is in peril. Not even because he provoked some of those wonderful Rutgers ladies to say something so chuckle-worthy as, "Our moment was taken away." (I'm on your side and all, but y'all fucking lost.) I sincerely want to thank Imus, because if he hadn't let that racist bile ooze out of the side of his mouth last week, black folks everywhere wouldn't be subject to the blatant examples of the nonexistent "Black leadership" in this country.
People were outraged - rightfully so - four years ago, when Rush Limbaugh made those very disparaging comments about Donovan McNabb during ESPN's Sunday NFL Countdown. But where was the outrage in the preceding years when he told a black caller, "Take that bone out of your nose and call me back"? Where were the picket signs when he said, "Have you ever noticed how all composite pictures of wanted criminals resemble Jesse Jackson?" Or how he played "Movin' On Up" whenever he mentioned Carol Moseley Brown's name - why weren't the Al Sharptons of the world saying anything then, about a dude who is currently on cable more than hotel porn? Imus has a similar history of racism as well - him walking up to a black receptionist and calling her a "nigger" directly in her face, calling sports columnist Bill Rhoden a "New York Times quota hire," and referring to PBS's Gwen Ifill as the "cleaning lady." I agree that his "nappy-headed hoes" comment was deplorable. but I have to repeat the words of Carmen and ask, "Where in the fuck were you??" to our "by-default" black leadership that currently look like disingenuous opportunists. I've never felt more abandoned.
I love seeing some racist schmuck doing that all-too familiar public relations tap dance, telling anyone who'll listen that they are sorry for their actions, possibly blaming their rampant racism on alcoholism or lack of sleep. But nothing makes me vomit inside my own mouth more than said celebrity acting like talking to Al Sharpton or Jesse Jackson is akin to cleansing their hateful souls in the confines of a church confessional. These two men are nothing but corrupt charlatans - men who profit from swarming around racism so much that ambulance-chasing lawyers collectively shake their heads in disapproval. Glorified Jesus Pimps, I call them - unfairly respected individuals who would be draining the pockets of hardworking people dry with some sort of "God hustle" in a church somewhere if they weren't picketing causes as universally lame as this one. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson address serious issues sometimes, but they never exhibit the same fervor and intensity that they display whenever a white guy gives us documented evidence that he's a racist - each one of their appearances on cable news channels always seems like the epitome of self promotion. At least Paris Hilton's intentions are pure when she flashes her freshly shaved crotch at the paparazzi while exiting a car.
I suddenly empathize with Carmen's abandonment issues. I never had a parent leave me, mind you, but I definitely feel left behind and forgotten in terms of the men who claimed that they were carrying on the heroic traditions of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. When it comes to making your voice the loudest on the issues that matter the most, the education system, the rate of AIDS in the black community, this illegal war, I have to ask, "Where in the fuck were you?" Sure Imus should be fired, but we gotta fire Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson for not addressing his racism that has been public record for the past 20 fucking years - you know, back when Jesse was calling New York City "Hymie-town" and when Al looked like a pimp in an ill-fitting sweatsuit, inciting riots and shit.
MSNBC can do better: get rid of that career racist as soon as possible. We all can do better: we have to take it upon ourselves to be leaders and not depend on these incompetent used car salesmen. I personally can do better: I abandoned Carmen before I found out that her, "Where in the fuck were you?" shtick was just her way of romantically asking me "Where have you been all my life?"
Shit.
TROLLING FOR ASS ON MYSPACE
Being socially awkward as to go to a singles bar with a colostomy bag and an unpleasant attitude, an emotionally crippled bastard like myself longs for the days when the only thing standing between my unimpressive phallus and a corn-fed booty was a couple of random Blackplanet messages. That was my site right there, a safe haven for a degenerate like myself, an interactive website that was my own virtual pimp - hooking up random sexual encounters so convenient that it made my paranoid trips to the clinic over the following months that much more bearable. That type of impromptu backseat fucking, weird "my husband will know if I've been with someone else, so stick it in my butt" requests, awkward hand-jobs, and quickie blow-jobs in the confines of their grandmother's apartment - dalliances that you don't mention to your wife while answering the obligatory "How many people have you been with?" questions. But as the site became less popular, I got older, and I grew tired of always scrubbing my cock raw with an S.O.S pad after the most casual of sex, I stopped using that particular site as my own personal catalog for picking out women with big booties and the lowest self-esteem this side of suicidal dwarfs.
But wouldn't you know it. As soon as I started writing in my blog and felt that I could forgo my germaphobia and begin penetrating a myriad of womens' holes sort-of guilt free - that's when I realized that chicks tend not to go for dudes who openly admit they are assholes with a habit of pre-ejaculation. That's why I was happy when myspace came along - kind of like Blackplanet on steroids. And with my written word improving leaps and bounds since my BlackPlanet days, I figured chicks would be lining up to bang me, sending me breast pictures, them fellating bananas and shit, even sending me the most intimate of ovary shots that they could find on their precious hard-drives. Man, was I wrong. Here are some of the roadblocks I've encountered every time I've sent a chick a "Hey baby, how would you like to get mercilessly fucked by a chubby black writer who will talk about it on his blog?!!" messages. (Before I start, here is my myspace address, ladies.
Just deny me as a friend and get the fuck on already!: The funniest thing about myspace is how people seem to think that a friend request without a note accompanying it is a crime punishable by god. Like most men who frequently exhaust their respective porn stashes, some late nights I find myself scanning myspace profiles saying silly shit to myself like "Damn girl, those perky titties sure make a nerd like me want to double-click that icon!!" But besides the most deviant of reasons for sending her a friend request, it's possible her band's songs might have been particularly catchy to me at the time, or her blog post where she eloquently waxed poetic about her bra preference were what made a brother possibly one day put her in my Top 8. But more times than not, you will get a rather irritated response from a woman that might sound like this: "Um, do I know you? I don't grant friend requests from people I don't know, so you will have to tell me something about yourself first!!" Huh? Tell you about myself? Ok, I like to sodomize women while screaming out my prison number, and in my spare time I play with voodoo dolls that I've made from the hair of several ex-girlfriends - "Will you accept me now???" I'm saying, am I asking you to be a myspace friend or trying to coerce you in giving me the god-dammed kidney that you don't use? Am I asking you to do the most menial of tasks, or asking you to consummate an arranged marriage? Just deny my friend request and move the fuck on, sugar. Being lectured by a chick who I only found cute in the wee hours of the morning when I ran out of lotion and my carpal tunnel acted up is not my idea of a good time.
You know, there is a thing called contraception: God bless the very ground they walk on, there are actually women out there who seek me out, open to the very idea of possibly signing a binding contract under a law that I call "S.A.D.A.B" (Suck A Dick And Bounce). But besides bed-ridden white girls, and women so old that I'm sure their vaginas could be used to scrape off unwanted car paint, I seem to attract nothing but women with kids. Don't get me wrong, I love kids and wouldn't mind "stuffin' my lovin' in the sweet muffin of a chick who already had a couple of loaves already come out of her oven" (sorry). A couple of kids are fine - I'm great with children as long as I don't have to be a lifelong father figure - but the women on myspace who seem to contact me have enough crumb-snatchers on their pages to make it seem as if they were trying to start a fucking baseball team. Talk about Little Old Lady in the shoe and shit, I'm usually nice to these women but I can't actually see our spirited online back and forth going much further, primarily because I just know that I'd eventually make "clown-car" jokes when referencing her vagina.
Tom is an evil bastard!: One of the worst myspace features, something that I'm certain Tom included just to torment chubby dudes with low self-esteem issues everywhere, is how you are told if the person read your message or not. Man, nothing questions your self-worth more than a few days passing before the recipient responds to your message - diatribes where you very graciously offered to eat "mac and cheese" off of her supple buttocks.
Treat em' like a Prostitute: For some reason unbeknownst to me, strippers don't like it when you offer them cold hard cash for their sexual services in your very first message. I'm a pretty progressive guy - I know that not everyone who takes their clothes off for money is trying to wade the muddy prostitution waters - but I just see myself as offering them a decent business opportunity. I mean, as degrading as dancing to Lil Wayne records are, shaking those gluteal muscles for men who couldn't tell you who the secretary of State was if you held a loaded cannon to their collective temples, having a chronic pre-ejaculator who would only spend the better part of five minutes thrusting on top of you seems like an obvious upgrade.
That's who you chose, really?: I can't front though, I've encountered a handful of smart and beautiful females who weren't the worst relationship prospects in the world - even having many spirited back and fourths with these lovely ladies. But because I'm lazy, or possibly because she lives entirely too far, the lines of communication sputtered like farts in Jacuzzis after a while. It's just funny to me when I see the dudes that they eventually pick as boyfriends, a nerdy lot that gives you the impression that their mothers lived next to a nuclear reactor when they were pregnant with them. I can't tell you how many times I've commented under their new boyfriend's picture with the cryptic message of "Really? Are you shitting me?" If I knew they were that fucking desperate I would have stuck it out a few more weeks. Jesus Christ.
MAN, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE HIP-HOP SKIT?
As far back as I can remember - for all I know it has something to do with my mother's recent admission that she drank cheap wine while pregnant with me - I've always found joy in inserting my own brand of humor at the most inopportune moments imaginable. At my fourth birthday party, after the kids my mother had invited sang a spirited rendition of "Happy Birthday" to me, I was so focused on having all that beautiful cake to myself that I started vigorously licking the delicious pastry as if I was being timed - obviously my mother was horrified. My father's favorite pastime, outside of auto repair and discussing vagina as if he was at a gynecologist convention, was vocally telling anyone who would listen that his baby boy would would never amount to anything. Sure I protested, stuck up for myself, but nothing was more offensive to me than that time one of his friends verbally echoed his sentiments while standing alongside him - my father was one thing, but a stranger predicting my bleak future was another. So a few weeks later, when I saw that same gentleman in a local Italian restaurant with his lovely wife, I proceeded to savagely beat his ass - only taking brief breaks in my psychotic laughter to occasionally scream at his wife, "Keep screaming and he'll get it worse goddammit!!!" Then we have a funeral that my mother forced me to attend, this lifelong asshole who happened to be the son of one of her old co-workers, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was stand in 100 degree heat at the gravesite of a dude who hated my guts anyways. Delay after delay, as my suit got heavier from the sweat, and as I kept trying to inconspicuously detach my testicles from the side of my leg, I finally lost it and said: "Will someone hurry up and bury this bastard already, how hard is it to say a few words and throw some dirt on this motherfucker? Jesus!!"
What's missing in Hip Hop nowadays, besides an integrity when it comes to lyricism and a pure love for the genre by many of its participants, is how frequently skits are an integral part of an artists' albums. Sure, they are still used, but they are nowhere near as creative as they once were. Outside of stellar production that gives you self inflicted whiplash, and lyrics that make you want to enter your local freestyle competition, I long for the days where the skits were as memorable as the songs were. I also wouldn't mind being able to laugh at Hip Hop when I'm supposed to, unlike a Lil Wayne CD where I tend to laugh at all the parts I'm not supposed to. (wack ass motherfucker)
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A Tribe Called Quest - "Midnight Marauders Tour Guide" (Midnight Marauders):
Of course I didn't pick this particular clip for its humor, but the automated voice that basically narrated A Tribe Called Quest's third album will stick in the subconscious of Hip Hop fans forever. From the average beat per minutes the album is, a fact about AIDS in the black community, even a breakdown of the album title, take her voice out of the equation and it would seem like a completely different album. If scientists ever get on the ball and construct a robot-like replica of human women, equipped with massive boobs and a penchant for servitude and baking, I'm going to get me one and make sure that she has this same voice.
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Ice Cube - "Robin Lench" (Death Certificate):
Despite the debacle that is The West Side Connection and Cube's recent love for recreating Disney movies, O'Shea Jackson will still be one of my favorite rappers based on his work from N.W.A and his first two solo releases alone. Just the idea of a Robin Leach-type of character strolling through the hood, giving a glowing commentary of his surroundings as if he was in Beverly Hills makes me chuckle every time. Only on an Ice Cube record does losing your lady in a dice game seem like a good thing. 40oz dreams and watermelon wishes!!
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De La Soul - "Intro Skit" (De La Soul is Dead):
De La Soul is Dead isn't my favorite album of all time, but it's the one that I know by heart, primarily because of the fact that the CD is stuck in a CD player in my shower that I play whenever I scrape the ship barnacle off of my ass. I've always felt that these men from Long Island are the kings of the "skit" so to speak, letting their listeners know how comically quirky they were as soon as 3 Feet High and Rising penetrated their feeble eardrums. From the character of Jeff being called an "Arsenio Hall gum-having punk" and his friends screaming "Ewww, you gonna let him call you that?" in unison, to Hemorrhoid's henchmen being named "Dick-snot" and "Butt-crust", I'm still laughing 16 years later.
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Biggie - "!*@ Me (Interlude)" (Ready to Die):
Maybe this one strikes me as hilarious because I'm a chubby guy, and whenever I've had the opportunity to penetrate a skinny girl's vaginal defenses, I always felt that I would break her in half - even telling her beforehand "Why don't you call your mother and inform her that a dude who doesn't miss meals is about to fuck you, this way if you perish under the intense pressure I won't have the cops following me around from Burger stand to Burger stand." But this clip is funny because of all the times a chick has tried to inject some of her own humor mid-coitus, saying shit like "Oh baby, pretend that this ass is an all you can eat buffet - and you have nothing but time!!" and "Just pretend that this is a pie eating contest, you fat fuck!!"
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N.W.A - "1-900-2-Compton" (efilzagguN):
For the longest time I criticized efilzagguN, not because it was a bad album or anything, but by this point Cube was gone and I had felt that they had become a caricature of themselves in record time. But after hearing the album again, it's pretty good, I must admit, and Dre's production had improved leaps and bounds since their previous release. This clip is indicative of a million and one jail conversations that I've heard secondhand - some fool calling a girl who wouldn't piss on him if he was set ablaze, him acting as if she's still on the line after she hangs up on his dumb ass - for the other inmates' benefit, no less.
THE SONGS THAT CONTINUOUSLY PLAY IN MY HEAD
Songs in the key of my life
The fact that I've spent the better part of this millennium in therapy probably shocks no one. I've only written on this VIBE blog a little over a month and my penchant for violence and the christening of big bootys in church buildings has possibly become old hat to many of you. I've seen a mental health professional about my temper, interesting sessions where the therapist claimed that my violent outbursts stemmed from my father's mistreatment of me. Our last meeting ended very weirdly with the guy proving to me that he watched entirely too much Good Will Hunting - he hugged me like a madman while whispering, "It's not your fault, HumanityCritic!!" in my ear. (Hitting him in the chest and screaming "No touching!! No touching!!" still cracks me up now.) After that, it was suggested to me that I see someone about my father issues, which I did, and that crazy head-shrinking broad wanted me to go to Arlington National Cemetery and have daily conversations with my father's gravesite over the course of a week. Even though I wound up going to the D.C area, I spent that entire week getting shitfaced at local watering holes and ordering hookers from the comfort of my hotel room like they were Chinese take-out.
But one aspect of my mental health has always troubled me, especially over the past decade or so: the soundtrack music accompanying the rather chubby existence that is my life. Some people hear voices. Many men equipped with Styrofoam cups and ghastly smells claimed that they indeed died for our sins, I'm just a guy who hears songs inside his head that seem to fit certain situations. I'm telling all of you this because I'm sure you'll just chalk it as me attempting to make my VIBE post quota, but I'm scared to tell my family because I'm worried that I'll end up in a padded room somewhere, with Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" playing in my head on a constant loop.
M.O.P, "Downtown Swinga": There's nothing like introductory music that makes a statement, sort of like how wrestling fans go completely apeshit after just hearing the first few notes of their favorite spandex-wearer theme music before he reaches the stage. I always wanted that sort of excitement. So much, in fact, that any time I'm introduced - whether for was the spoken word poem I delivered last year where I jokingly declared my love for white women in front of a sea of dashikis and sarongs, or at the local community college that asked me to read some of my writings in front of twenty 40-50 year olds who wore lifelong regret on their faces like spectacles - M.O.P's "Downtown Swinga" is what I hear in my head before I make my presence felt like Santa and shit. Matter of fact, if the world can overlook my pro-whore stance and my intense marijuana habit, and somehow I can be president of this fine land, this is the music that I will broadcast before giving presidential addresses.
M.O.P feat Guru, "Half and Half": While we are on the subject of M.O.P, I have to tell you about this particular tune that plays in my head during physical altercations. I know, I'm a 33-year-old man who doesn't need to be fighting anyone, and I'm aware that the last thing on my mind should be me strategically placing a throat-chop to some random asshole's voicebox at such an advanced age. But it is my humble opinion that there are just too many Lil Wayne fans out there to let such indiscretions go with a simple warning slap on the wrist, and this is the song that plays in my head as I beat someone senseless with my copy of Wild Style.
Fat Boys, "Jailhouse Rap": I don't claim to be a hardened criminal or anything - I've never been shot or seen time inside the walls of one of those "drop the soap at your own peril" institutions, so being a gangsta rapper is completely out of the question. But I have been in enough drunken brawls in my lifetime to have seen far too many city jail cells. How depressing - being in a cell with a handful of other drunken degenerates who share the same lack of decision-making skills. It's enough to break a straight man out in song (literally). So every time I've been locked up - from everything from punching out an old man to public drunkenness - I break the monotony and simply share the song that's already in my head with my cellmates. Sure, they hate it and threaten my life sometimes, but they always admire my commitment as I perform every beatbox part.
Eric B and Rakim, "Mahogany": Physically I'm not repulsive, but I've turned off women with the shit that I've said so much that on most weekends I spend my late nights drunk dialing all my happily married ex-girlfriends and screaming, "You could have had it all!!!" ad naseum into the phone. That said, when some woman I'm chatting with seems to be buying my brand of bullshit, legitimately laughing at my jokes, and flashing a "come hither" look usually reserved for the woman whose drinks I spike, Eric B and Rakim's song "Mahogany" is what's played in the back of my head.
Marvin Gaye, "Trouble Man": Even though Virginia Beach is a fairly big city, it becomes increasingly smaller when you take into account all the people who know each other. That's why whenever I have met the parents of a woman that I planned to marry at the time, I always felt obligated to run down my dark and sordid past with them piece by piece. I'm not a bad guy - I have a soft spot in my heart for puppies and the movie Cooley High for Christ's sake - but hearing about my past (a thing of legend around these parts) from me might be a lot easier to take. As I break down the fighting, the arrests, the inappropriate speeches I've given at weddings, women that wanted me dead in the worst ways imaginable, Marvin Gaye's "Trouble Man" is what I hear while watching a father's face turn to nothing short of disgust.
