May 2007 Archives
Cowards Have the Worst Pokerfaces (A VIBE.com Exclusive)
The other day I found myself on the business end of a very busy grocery line, hot and bothered by the Virginia humidity and my fellow motorists who seem like they learned how to operate a motor vehicle at the "James Dean School of Driving." I was clutching a couple of 40-ozs and a few TV dinners in both of my hands, solely because a chick that I'm temporarily renting my penis to insisted that we have something resembling a romantic dinner before I make her perform the most deviant of sex acts. Exhibiting that "thousand-yard stare" that keeps my impatience from snapping people's necks due to lengthy waits, in front of me I noticed a father angrily berating his sobbing child. Since I see children as tools to one day fetch me beers during ball games, and for me to live vicariously through if I happen to spawn an All-Star athlete, I ignored the mini-fracas and told myself that the little bastard probably deserved it anyways. But as I listened closer, I realized that the father was calling his child a "sissy" along with other colorfully unflattering feminine slurs based on his fear of heights. Apparently the kid refused to help the father do some minor repairs on the family's roof due to his phobia. I knew right then and there that what I was about to do would be included in the highlight reel I show to St. Peter at the pearly gates.
I inappropriately placed my bottles of malt liquor and inexpensive frozen plates of pasta dishes on the same rack that you get your chewing gum from, knelt down to look the young boy in the eye, and said. "There's no shame in being scared of heights. I'm scared of heights - matter of fact I'm also scared of snakes, germs, flying in airplanes, the voice of the dude who hosted 'Unsolved Mysteries,' and women who have lower back tattoos aka the 'Tramp Stamp.' See, I'm scared of a lot more things than you are, and I can beat the living shit out of your old man right there!" Despite the fact that I sort of threatened to pummel the boy's father in the most public of fashions, I guess the young kid appreciated my advice by the way he stopped crying and giggled when I very cavalierly labeled every woman who has ink on the lumbar region of her back a whore.
Walking out of the supermarket after purchasing my pre-coital goods, laughing off very pedestrian "you're lucky I'm with my son" exclamations from the man that I had just casually threatened - I suddenly realized that my lack of fear of another person is offset by me being scared of everything else. Also, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be macho when I say I've never been scared to face someone - there are more people out there who can say "I handed HumanityCritic his ass to him" than I'd like to admit to. It's sad, man, I can eloquently tell people how to slip a punch, but I can't seem to stop wearing three condoms to the point that my phallus looks like one of those balloon animals that you make for kids at birthday parties - a ritual that has drastically affected my sex life, by the way. If you want to take someone's knee out, or know about the one punch knock-out, then I'm your man - but if you want to know how to not scream like a toddler with a scraped knee whenever you see a snake, I'm definitely not the guy to go to. Chokeholds that put men to sleep, debilitating kidney and liver shots - I could write "The Idiot's Guide to Finishing Moves" if the price was right. But when it comes to the way that my legs stop functioning at extremely high altitudes, the last thing in the world that I want to do is document that embarrassing phobia.
It's become abundantly clear, in a "My Name is Earl" sort of way, that I have to exorcise my phobia demons by attempting to put my violent history to some good use. This post, entitled "Cowards have the Worst Pokerfaces," basically details the actions of people who don't really want to fight you, but desperately want you to believe that they do - exhibiting the worst pokerfaces imaginable. (A guide that lets all you Gandhi loving bastards out there know that your brand of civil disobedience won't be met with a well placed uppercut.) Shit, if the advice of a chronic pre-ejaculator with anger issues can at least help one person out there, then I've done my job - and hopefully, in a karma sense, I can finally board an airplane without a vodka I.V. flowing through my veins.
Making more scenes than Scorsese: How many times have you seen one of the participants of a heated argument making an ass out of himself - talking loudly, pacing in a circle like a dog chasing his tale, bugging out his eyes like one of those minstrel performers back in the day. Usually, if a person really wants to fight you, they won't feel the need to put on a one-man show, putting you through Brando-esque dramatics as if they were auditioning for the role of a lifetime. Those people don't want any part of you - they just want to scare you out of a fight. So since I'm trying to be responsible here then I suggest that you simply walk away knowing that your mere presence almost had them in desperate need of an adult diaper. But I must say, nothing feels better than grabbing a chair and smashing it over the person's head during their brand of "acting," only to hover over the person's lifeless body while slowly pulling your open hand over your face and calmly saying, "and... scene."
You're lucky my girl is holding me back: I can't tell you how many times I've heard the "You're lucky that my woman is holding me back" excuse, as if a chick weighing 100 pounds soaking wet could restrain a grown ass man with nothing but the worst intentions on his mind. Take my advice, if you ever see a woman physically stopping a guy from tearing you a new one and that woman isn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer - chances are they don't want any part of you, like a lifelong crackhead that donated his vital organs. Or, if you are an asshole like me, talk enough shit about the girlfriend that she loosens her grip and lets her man defend her honor - usually resulting in the guy still standing there looking as if you just asked him the square root of something.
Mapquest motherfuckers: Rakim said it best: "It ain't where you're from it's where you're at" - a sentiment that goes for mic skills or hand-to-hand combat - but people still want to tell you where they are from before a fight like it's really supposed to mean something. Sometimes people use the broad approach, "I'm from the West Coast!!" Or they might get a little more specific with the "You know who you're messing with, I'm from Michgan baby!!" But my personal favorite is when people tell you exactly where they live as if they were giving you directions to their house party" "I'm from 105th and Maine, you will get your ass kicked up in here!!" Mapquest motherfuckers, the whole lot of them - nothing informs you better that the person has no interest in fighting than when they give you their address, so just leave them to their blatant idiocy with the knowledge that their heart pumps Kool-Aid. But then again, you can do what I do and say, "So what? I'm from Virginia baby, Kempsville to be exact!! Home of Timbaland, Pharrell, Pat Robertson, not to mention that we have some of the best public schools in the country. Get your ass kicked if you want to!!"
HumanityCritic's Message to Russell Simmons: "Go Sit Your Ass Down Somewhere!!"
As a guy who has a rather extensive history when it comes to juggling three or four girlfriends at a time, I'm certain that I'll always have a gig jumping from Ivy League school to Ivy League school acting as that particular school's guest professor - sculpting impressionable minds in a popular course that I plan on naming "Bullshit Artist 101." Don't worry, I'm no longer the philandering wretch that I was a decade ago - once taking pride in bedding a different woman every night while each one desperately tried to maintain her mid-coital chuckling at my undersized toddler-penis. Or miscellaneous dalliances who inquired about my whereabouts the night before, thus provoking me to respond with my standard "I was with my other girlfriend!" line - the only time that an absolute truth happened to escape my detestable mandible and she takes it as a joke. But based on my newfound germaphobia which makes it virtually impossible to fuck a woman unless she goes through a plethora of medical tests and a government-sponsored background check, and my feeling that I need Riot Gear or a space suit to get something as innocent as a lap dance or the time-honored "back alley hand-job" - suffice it to say, my days of a handful of women calling me their "boyfriend" are over.
Besides, maintaining your bullshit starts to feel like a career - between avoiding being photographed at all costs (The person she shows your picture to at her job, or the chick who sees your silly mug on her mantle could know your other girlfriend for Christ's sake), or making sure that you take each girlfriend to different eating establishments. (Nothing is worse than some asshole waiter blowing your spot, talking about "It's good to see you again!" when that's the first time you took THAT girlfriend there.) Not only that, you have to have intricate backstories to account for your time - the girlfriend that you only see in the wee hours of the morning knows that you work two jobs during the day, the ones that you see during the day are fully aware of your "night job" and the promising "rap career" that keeps you in the studio most nights. From experience I've found that the best thing to do when dating a few people at a time is to avoid calling out anyone's name, period - stick to the old stand-bys, like "Baby," "Nasty Girl," and my personal favorite, "Sugar-tits." Most women complain ad naseum about their boyfriends and husbands not listening to them, but take it from a scumbag like myself who a decade ago saw more genitalia in a week than your local OB-GYN does - you have to listen to every word a woman says as if you were working as a "court stenographer," because there is nothing worse than going down memory lane with the wrong person. Basically what I'm saying is, there is a lot of work that goes into maintaining a facade - you almost have to buy into your own bullshit for the shit to even come across somewhat authentic.
My sordid past came to mind last week when I saw Russell Simmons on HBO's "Real Time with Bill Maher" show (clip provided above). Some things are difficult to sit through because of how embarrassing they are - like bad rapping, the illiterate black person that your local news decides to interview at the scene of a crime - even those health shows where a woman is giving birth makes me sort of uneasy, but that's only because seeing a woman pass a person through her body makes my penis feel even that much more irrelevant. I started to feel the same sort of cringe-worthy embarrassment watching Russell Simmons being interviewed by Bill Maher last Friday night.
No, my embarrassment had nothing to do with the way Russell plugged his book - calling some of his marketing tactics shameless is a gross understatement akin to saying that Amy Winehouse sometimes has one too many drinks. But then again, I'm such a publicity whore that my "go-to" pick-up line when meeting women happens to be "Hello, I'm HumanityCritic, a blogger that lesser bloggers masturbate to!" I wasn't even embarrassed when he sounded blissfully incoherent about something that he claims to have fully embraced, yoga - you can tell when someone doesn't know what in the fuck they are talking about when they refuse to let the other person speak, the way Russell acted towards Bill Maher. Mr. Simmons came across like one of those brothers who reads one book in jail and when he gets out subjects you to constant nonsensical lectures. I guess my real embarrassment came when Russell casually let the N-Word fly out of his mouth while telling Bill Maher a story surrounding the retitling of his new book.
I mean, Russell, what happened to you asking record companies and broadcasters to remove or edit offensive words out of songs such as "bitch," "hoe," and "n*gga"? What happened to the man that we all saw sincerely trying to clean up the music that we all love, serving as a one-man task-force to singlehandedly do away with misogyny and the worst term of endearment imaginable? I'm just fucking with you Russell, we all know that said ban was just something that you pulled out of your ass so you could attempt to wash off that Oprah appearance stench that you had festering on your Phat Farm sneakers - but from one bullshit artist to another, you have to do a better job of maintaining the facade, man. I mean, you've already made people forget about the fact that you passed on Eminem, Nas, and didn't really want to sign The Beastie Boys or Public Enemy - based on those monumental acts of deception, not uttering the same words in conversation that you wanted to be banned seems like a rather pedestrian task for you. If you can't even do that, maybe you need to go sit your ass down somewhere...
(The same way Rick Rubin is the true brains behind Def Jam, the "white Yoda" as I call him - I have to shout out my homeboy Brother OMi, who sparked this very post. My Hip Hop Yoda if you will.)
"At the Movies" with HumanityCritic
Just because I happen to alphabetize my pornography and know the government names of my favorite adult actresses, that in no way reflects on my knowledge of regular movies - I always tell people that if "Jeopardy" only had Hip Hop and movie questions to offer, I'd win so frequently that Alex Trebek would fully understand that me calling him a "Canuck fuck" was a term of endearment. It's true, I know the sexual strengths and weaknesses of many of my favorite stars of hardcore smut as if I was a deviant version of a talent scout - I can't tell you how many times I've looked at an erotic DVD cover and said things like: "That girl doesn't have a gag reflex!!," "I can't buy this one because she has a trick knee that gives out whenever she gets fucked against a wall," and "I have to buy this one, I saw her please four guys at the same time - neither orifice nor hand went unused!!" But don't let that sway you. Besides sexual gratification following the exchange of American currency and my ritual of ruining my liver most nights - the only time I venture outside of my house is to catch the latest MPAA-certified movie, usually of the Independent variety just so I can feel superior to everyone else on a topic besides Hip Hop. So yeah, I'm addicted to porn, so much in fact that I can't achieve a proper erection unless my lover takes on a suitable stage name and cheap '70s funk music plays in the background - believe it or not, my love for regular flicks is much greater than the variety where a women is getting a fist or a horse penis shoved inside her.
Ever since I was a kid sitting next to my old man as he got some well deserved sleep, one of my favorite things in the world was seeing a movie in the theater - for a chubby kid with a stutter and midget levels of low self-esteem, being engrossed at a gigantic movie screen was the best kind of escapism imaginable. But over the last 30 years, now that my self-esteem is through the roof based on me accepting my inner asshole and my stutter is only noticeable when I'm excited or during ejaculation - I still have the same love of going to the theaters that I always have. The one thing that has changed though, is how I tend to deal with the rude behavior of others at said theater. Back when I was a kid I'd simply ignore it and desperately hope that the unwanted disturbance would stop - now I take a completely different approach.
Shut up or I'll shut you up!: Call me old fashioned, but if the words coming out of your soup-coolers aren't "Pass the popcorn" or "That usher just walked by and stabbed me with a prison-style shiv!!" - shut your dumb ass up while I'm watching the movie. I'm not talking about brief verbiage either, I'm talking about that couple who always finds a seat right behind yours - and has a conversation so in-depth that you could swear that they were reciting lines from a fucking Woody Allen script. I've never been married, and I haven't had a legitimate relationship since the days when Clinton was soiling Monica's dress in the confines of the Oval Office - but I'd imagine that mundane shit like grocery lists and the children's piano lessons could be put on pause of at least for an hour and a half. Whenever some couple can't seem to control their mid-movie blabbering, I've done one of the following things: 1. Angrily turned around and said, "Could the both of you be quiet, talking while other's are trying to watch a movie - bloody fucking savages!!" or 2. Very calmly turned around and said, "Lady, if you two don't stop yapping - I'm going to kick the living shit out of your breadwinner there and make you watch. Fucking him will never be the same again!!"
Dude, there are a million other seats available: I guess I wouldn't mind it so much if the person happened to be a lovely young lady who planned to go down on me as if my penis had that Cocoon fountain-of-youth pool water inside of it - but usually, when there are plenty of seats available, it's always some dude who tends to sit right beside me. Because I'm naturally paranoid, and the fact that I have fractured as many eye sockets as I've penetrated peoples' wives - immediately, I feel as if the person sitting beside me is a hitman posing as a inconsiderate moviegoer. As time goes on and I realize that it isn't an assassination plot, just some jackass that ignored the hundreds of open seats just to sit by yours truly - I immediately go into complete asshole mode to get that schmuck away from me. You'd be surprised what works: flatulence, specifically telling the person what animal's vagina feels the closest to a woman's, lovingly placing your hand on theirs. But what always works for me is grabbing them by their clothes and physically moving them to another seat.
Kick my chair again, see what happens: What people don't understand, because of the way that all the chairs in the row are connected, that kicking any seat within a three seat radius of mine is still kicking my fucking seat. I know that accidents happen, so the first few times I let it slide - even though its one of the most irritating occurrences outside of someone tapping you on the shoulder continuously or a fuck-buddy who suddenly feels compelled to cuddle. I guess most sane people would calmly turn around and politely ask the person to stop kicking their chair. Not me - I've made it my business to discipline them in a way where they will never kick another persons chair as long as they live. I've thrown full buckets of popcorn on people, drinks, nachos - even moving directly behind them, rhythmically kicking their chair to the point that they think Savion Glover is sitting behind them.
Jackass, you're watching the same movie I am: I hate to be rude to dates. I get my penis looked at so infrequently nowadays that I can't afford to talk my way out of some woman's colorful Lane Bryant's - but I can't stand when a person asks you questions about a flick that the both of you are watching. Jesus man, whenever some chick asks me repeatedly throughout the movie "What did he just say? What did she say?" I sternly discipline them with a, "What's wrong with your hearing, Children of a Lesser God?" But worse than that is when a date asks you what just happened, on a screen that she was watching just like you were - such overt acts of irritation provoke me to talk my way out of post-movie sex by saying: "Listen, I could have saved money on a movie ticket and simply called you when it was over - if you wanted me to dictate the fucking movie to you!!!"
I know that we're home. Still, shut the fuck up (DVD edition): Just because you are in the confines of your living arrangement, sitting on the same couch where you introduced a string of beads into the miscellaneous orifice of your lover the night before - that doesn't make it all right for her to talk your ear off while you are watching a DVD. I mean, if there's an intruder, then talking is alright. Same thing with fires, a neighbor getting his ass beaten, and offers of spontaneous sex that result in her rolling her eyes and weighing the pros and cons of lesbianism in her head. But for Christ's sake, while I'm watching a DVD I don't want to hear about her co-workers, her cackling-ass mother, or her disease-ridden sister who makes men's genitalia feel as if they had just masturbated with Icy-hot. But it never fails, I always seem to date women who don't care about me needing silence while I watch a movie - so what I do is I'll kick in the door one morning while they are defecating, or I'll stop reciprocating oral before she climaxes and start talking about sports scores. Each time, when she angrily asks "What gives?" I simply say, "See, it sucks doesn't it? Stop talking while I'm watching movies, goddammit!!"
HumanityCritic's Message to Hip Hop: "For the Love of God, Stop Going on FOX News!"
"A wise man told me don't argue with fools
Cause people from a distance can't tell who is who"
- Jay-Z, "Takeover"
Ever so often, whether it's from a friend who doesn't know me at all and mistakenly thinks I'd be in the least bit interested, or some Hip Hop blog that I happen to peruse when I'm not beating my dick like it had an expiration date on it to some deviant form of online pornography - I always learn about some rapper or Hip Hop journalist that decided to express themselves in the house that Rupert Murdock built. Usually these clips are prefaced with sentiments like "MC so-and so really owned Neil Cavuto" or "That Hip-Hop-Journalist-Guy really gave it to O'Reilly!" - and even though I know that the chances that I'll be satisfied with the outcome is usually slim, like getting a blow-job from an epileptic chick with braces, I still play the video clips in hopes that an intelligent representative of my culture gets in that ass like an overeager doctor during a prostate exam. Unfortunately, like that one black person with only three words in their vocabulary that your local news decides to interview at the scene of a crime, the person in said clip usually embarrasses themselves - not because the interviewer dazzled them with their hard-hitting questions, but because they were drooling idiots before they even walked into the FOX News Studios. (See: Dame Dash and Cam'ron) Or recently, when everyone that I know passionately pointed me in the direction of M1's(Dead Prez) interview with Neil Cavuto as if that motherfucker had cured a disease during the discussion - what I found was a person doing the bare minimum while the interviewer generalized his Bush loving ass off, an endeavor as non productive as masturbation or telling a chick with a severe overbite to "use less teeth next time!" Even as articulate a speaker as KRS-One, a person who I'm not always in lockstep with, opinion wise, but who more times than not is a stellar spokesman for Hip Hop culture as a whole - ended up defending himself and his career via Fox's smear tactics and blatant inaccuracies, with Hannity somehow veering off course from the utterly intriguing (sarcasm) subject of naughty language in Hip Hop spawning from the Imus situation. My message to Hip Hop from this point forward is, "Keep your silly asses off of FOX News!!"
I know, I know, Hip Hop should attempt to have its voice heard regardless the venue - and usually I would agree with that sentiment. Bu, what if the venue really doesn't give a fuck what you have to say anyways - using Hip Hop not as a tool to gain any sort of insight, but simply as a prop to use at their discretion - like a fucking tackling dummy or some shit. I mean, that audience already have their minds made up, most of the people who still thought that Saddam was linked to 9/11 just happens to be Fox News viewers - if you think you are going to sway that crowd with anything that comes out of your mouth, you are nuttier than squirell turds. Going on Fox News to talk about Hip Hop is like me walking into a lesbian bar, exposing a completely erect penis and screaming, "OK Ladies, who's going first?" Or better yet, breaking down Hip Hop to the Bill O'Reilly crowd is like trying to convey the lyrical mastery of Rakim - at a fucking Klan Rally.
Hip Hop, for Christs sake, stop going of Fox News - its as painful an experience as Lou Diamond Phillips hearing a Melissa Etheridge song. People who have my email address, stop sending me these youtube clips like its akin to an Edward R Murrow rant - unless a rapper is beating the living propaganda out of one of the Fox News hosts.
The "Stop Snitching Movement" is a diversionary tactic for closeted homosexuals
Growing up in the '80s, years before I knew that Barbara Streisand was a gay icon and to stay out of drinking establishments with multi-colored flags posted in the front window - I knew back then that the adult HumanityCritic would always be accepting of other peoples' lifestyles. No, it wasn't because I had a penchant for wearing my mother's high heels while gazing at a poster of Jermaine Stewart on my bedroom wall. I never sang "It's Raining Men" in subdued tones while taking my nightly shower. I never had any inappropriate erections during one of those "turn your head and cough for me" sports physicals back in the day. I guess I always knew that I'd grow up to be a tolerant adult based on the virus of intolerance around me that my body openly rejected like an immune system. It's weird - I feel as if I've intellectually regressed since adolescence, because I clearly remember feeling that my father's constant "Stop crying! What, are you a queer?" sentiments and my football coach's "Stop hitting like a damned faggot!" commands were simply microcosms of male insecurity. Not only that, but I had a Nostradamus-like gift for pointing out who I thought were homosexuals - the severely closeted variety, giving themselves away by their horrible re-enactments of how they thought a real man should act.
My best friend's father suddenly comes to mind - a dude whose only mission in life was to inject a healthy hatred of homosexuals in the minds of me and his son. He'd go on and on about how much he wished a gay guy would approach him so he could bash his skull in. He'd threaten to kill any two men he saw walking together from the confines of his car while taking us to our little league baseball games - not to mention how many times he called us gay epithets whenever we dropped a pass, agonized over a bruised knee too long, or took a sip of water in a matter he found feminine. During the tenure of my adolescence, it was damn near impossible to have a single conversation with him that didn't ridicule homosexuals in some form or fashion - innocent talks about football, school, even how my parents were doing, somehow took the drastic turn into some uncharted "fruits taking it up the caboose" territory. Well, I found out why my best friend's father had such an intense hatred for gays all of those years - at his 60th birthday party he came out of the closet, apologizing to everyone for his behavior over the past two decades. When he personally apologized to me, I informed him that I knew he was gay the whole time. And when he asked me how I knew, I just said, "Any man spewing that much hatred for homosexuals probably craves cock himself. Plus, dude - you had an impeccable fashion sense!"
I can't forget about my college pal Derek, a dude who talked about the female genitalia so much that I sometimes felt as if I was getting lectured by a gynecologist. Sure, men can blab about their sexual exploits like a couple of school girls, but there was something very suspicious about Derek - every single conversation that exited his mandible had something to do with the quality, durability, texture, taste, smell, and the storage ability of the common vagina. It wasn't until recently that I talked to Derek since our college days - who is now currently as gay as a treefull of parakeets by the way. He told me that he felt as if I would have abandoned our friendship if he was honest about his sexuality back then, so he simply changed the gender of his exploits while retelling his dalliances - a factoid that honestly made me throw up in my mouth just a bit.
I get the sneaking suspicion that the "Stop Snitching Movement" is based on a slew of insecure males not willing to accept the fact that they secretly want their prostates pounded into submission. I mean, my friend's father disguising his homosexuality with homophobia was pretty pointless - he could have come out 20 years ago and still would have been a great father and mentor. It would have been nice to have another male figure in my life that knows "The Sound of Music" by heart, as well. My friend Derek could have saved years of heartache and trusted me as a friend by being honest about his sexuality - plus, if he would have come out, I would have stopped putting my finger under his nose and saying "Dude, guess who this is??!!" We can all agree that the whole "Stop Snitching Movement" is pretty pointless as well. Sure, law enforcement and black folks have had a turbulent relationship, to say the least. But until your silly ass has a rich background in forensics, good old fashioned detective work, and an ability to know where the shooter was standing based on the trajectory of the bullet wound - inform the police if a loved one finds themselves on the business end of a murder, you fucking jackass.
Whenever I hear some misguided young man say, "I don't talk to the police no matter what," I feel like the dude in "The Dead Zone" who can see peoples' futures simply by touching them. Visions of them marching in gay pride parades in 10 years flood my cerebellum. Whenever a person can bring the killer of a loved one to justice but decides against cooperating with the police based on some flimsy street code - thoughts of them frequenting drinking establishments called "The Cockpit" and buying anal lubricants in the future overtake my subconscious. If you want to find sexual cries for help disguised in incoherent machismo, look no further than Hip Hop. Cam'ron, a man who once said that he wouldn't inform the authorities if a serial killer lived next door to him - once had an odd penchant for wearing pink, and talks a mass amount of shit as if he's desperately trying to compensate for something. Then there's Busta, an individual who upholds a code of ethics that allows the murder of his friend to go unsolved - who once angrily berated a gay fan in Miami. Fellas, come out the closet already - the sooner you do, the sooner some of these crimes get solved.
HumanityCritic: Resuscitating Hip Hop, one old school slang term at a time.
My closest friends - the ones who witness my elitist Hip Hop rants up close and personal where I talk about the year 1989 as if it was the year Christ was born and have watched me burn papier-mache versions of Lil Wayne and Cam'ron in effigy while dancing around the flames with a copy of Paid in Full sandwiched in my tight embrace - openly refer to me as "The Hip Hop Uncle Rico," based on the famous Napoleon Dynamite character. For the two or so people out there without indoor plumbing who haven't seen the movie, Uncle Rico is Napoleon Dynamite's uncle who seems to be literally stuck in the early '80s - exhibiting a flare for style that screams "video killed the radio star" and constant ramblings about his High School football career that he can't stop referring to every fourth conversation. As unsympathetic as that character is, I'm the Hip Hop version - I constantly find myself looking off into space as I recall my emcee-ing days when telling people that what you rhymed actually meant something, occasionally questioning peoples' intelligence quotient by asking if their parents were siblings whenever they tell me that they are a fan of someone I find vomit-inducing. The icing on the cake was last year, when I went with a friend to one of those radio-sponsored concerts where a million-and-one acts play (it was free) - when we were backstage (she's a reporter) and an act that I loathe extended his hand to me, I crossed my arms, shook my head in disapproval, and turned my back on that miserable bastard on some truly Miles Davis shit.
Yes, I'm a dickhead - but embrace your inner asshole, I always say. Hip Hop needs a dose of tough love from people who adore the art form so we can bring it back to the level of prominence and artistry that it was once at. If you are at a wedding, bar mitzvah, whatever - if the DJ's choice of songs leave you nauseous and feeling as if that particular gentleman had stolen an MTV executive's CD collection, just walk over to him, punch him in the throat, snatch his driver's license from his wallet and say, "I know where you live motherfucker, keep playing wack shit if you want to!!" - it's worked for me so far. If you just feel that your lover's genitalia just isn't worth the countless hours you've been subjected to "Uncle Tom's Cabin" Hip Hop as I call it, just casually throw their CDs out of your automobile as if you were being measured for distance in an Olympic event - don't worry, it's my experience that after a few weeks they'll be fucking you again, I promise. Since these tough times require extreme measures, if your loved one decides to attend a concert of a Rapper that you feel is singlehandedly setting the black race back with each deplorable song - mercilessly break up with them for a week out of protest, only agreeing to take her back if she positively responds to you pointing at the shower and screaming, "Go wash that Yung Joc stink off of you first!!" Lastly, to bring the art form back out of its stooper, making people long for the days of phat laces and coherent lyrics - do what I do: inject a healthy dose of old school terminology into your everyday conversation.
Here is a little guide of old Hip Hop terminology to get you started. With your help, we can turn this clusterfuck that is the state of Hip Hop around in no time. Come on, if you can give a quarter a day to Sally Struthers to pad her fucking meal allowance - you can surely help me with this.
Lamping (verb): see Chilling. 1.Relaxing 2. A person thoroughly enjoying their free time. Sentence: "Come on girl, I have two 40-ozs and those broccoli-flavored condoms your vegan ass loves so much - we'll be stone cold lamping, I promise!"
Eye-Jammy (verb) see Chin-check. 1.The act of punching someone in the eye, hard. 2. The aftermath of a physical altercation in swollen eye form. Sentence: "I don't give a shit if you are 65 or not, you will get a severe eye-Jammy if you don't come up with my 20 bucks!!"
Skeezer (adjective) see Chicken-head. 1. A woman of loose morals 2. A lady whose vaginal region is nicknamed "the hen-house" based on all the cocks that have been inside. Sentence: "The whole ban on derogatory words is just stupid - rappers will just start calling women Skeezers again!!"
Stunt ( adjective) see Booty-Call. 1.Practice Vagina. 2. A woman whose services are needed at 3 AM, when Asian midget porn just doesn't cut it. Sentence: "I knew I should have never messed with that stunt. Not only is my disease incurable - but the doctors are talking about naming it after me!"
Toolie (noun) see Gat. 1. handgun 2. firearm Sentence: "You would have soiled your undergarments as well if some hoodlum had a toolie at your head - at least I'm honest about it!"
Young (adjective) 1. An extremely tight article of clothing that seems unintentional 2. A person who shops at the children's department because of the prices. Sentence: "Yeah that shirt you have on is young, am I really supposed to see the imprint of you liver?"
Clocking (verb) 1. Staring at someone for an extremely long period of time. 2. Being a street pharmaceutical entrepreneur. 3. Holding mass amounts of cash. Sentence: "Stop clocking that kid on the corner clocking, look at all the money he's clocking!!"
"Stupid" (adv.) 1. Extremely 2. To a higher degree. Sentence: "I made love to my girl after being away for 2 months, and that shit is stupid loose - I'm certain she can now rent it out as low income housing!!"
Bozack (noun) see Jimmy 1. Penis 2. Male Genitalia. Sentence: "I get the sneaking suspicion that a woman pointing at my Bozack and giggling like a school girl isn't exactly complimentary."
Break North (verb) 1.To promptly leave the premises. 2.Physically getting yourself out of a bad situation. Sentence: "I'm about to break north because Sheila's husband is coming by. Yeah I'm fucking his wife - but me sticking my fingers in his face and asking "Does this sound familiar" sent him over the edge!!"
WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS IS A GOOD OLD FASHIONED PROTEST SONG
Circa 1989, when Chuck D's and KRS-One's words awakened a sleeping revolutionary inside of me that I didn't even know had existed until then, I envisioned the future HumanityCritic would be fighting the good fight - against injustice, black republicans, and especially "The Man." At the time, my demeanor was that of a new school version of Michael from Good Times, minus the penchant for cock and the complimentary "reacharound," mind you. I was involved in as many socially conscious endeavors as humanly possible then. Every T-shirt I owned had something to do with Black Pride. I had a vast array of African pendants and medallions that I'd sporadically wear on my daily travels. And even though I've been what you'd call a "white girl magnet" for the tenure of my lifetime - my newfound pride in my race had me resisting any vagina owner who could easily get a comb through her pre-permed hair. People currently see me as a hothead, a dude who's not afraid to tell someone off, force a clergy member to call him a "dirty cocksucker" during a friendly pick-up basketball game, a man that will knock out an elderly gentleman - heart condition or not. But those are just actions of the lunatic that I've become based on my father issues and not being able to find a woman who would let me eat hot mac and cheese off her gelatin backside. What I did in my mid-teens was the epitome of bravery in my eyes - not letting my history teacher get away with calling Muhammad Ali a "coward," expressing how I thought what he did took bravery, then breaking down all of the possible future leaders who got out of Vietnam based on who their parents were. (How prophetic was that?) Even though the first Gulf War was nowhere near the clusterfuck that our current war is, me and some of my hippie white friends held protest signs on one of our busiest streets, while being pelted with soda cans, threats, and epithets that made me feel as if I was at a script reading of Mississippi Burning.
Unfortunately, that sort of passion for change has been replaced with a passion to bitch and moan about the current state of Hip Hop, and also a deep-rooted love for low-self-esteem-having women who are talented enough to pick up one dollar bills with their glittery buttocks. The Black Power T-Shirts that I once wore with pride still fit me, in that "I think I can see your heartbeat" sort of way. The African Medallions are still around for nostalgia purposes like one of my old sports trophies or that used condom from that time I fucked one of MC Hammer's back-up dancers - and even though I have yet to bed a white woman, my lack of sexual activity over the past year has broadened my scope to the point that my new mantra is the utterly romantic "a hole is a hole." Don't get me wrong, I'm trying to be humorous but at the same time I'm disappointed with my inactivity, both sexually and civically.
I mean, when you think about the gross incompetence of this administration - you'd think that me and people of my ilk would have gotten off of our collective asses by now and done something. From this illegal war, to the willingness of our president to gamble with more American lives even though he knows we're in a no-win situation - not to mention the thousands of Bush administration scandals, Katrina, our elected officials virtually wiping their ass with the Bill of Rights and relieving themselves all over Habeus Corpus. I had to do something. Too many people - whether it's the congress, the press, or the American public - give the most unpopular president since Herbert Hoover a blank check based on our inaction. That's when I compiled some of my favorite protest songs of all time to inspire me, and you know what? It worked. Not too long afterwards, I found myself smack dab in the middle of an anti-war rally, really feeling that I was making a bona fide difference. Granted, I was partially there because I wanted to tell an "As I was hitting it from the back, I smacked her on the ass with her Birkenstock" story at a future date. But hey. It's a start.
Marvin Gaye, "What's Goin' On": This is by far one of my favorite Marvin Gaye songs. Cliche, I know, but one of my fondest childhood memories is waking up to this beautifully melodic tune on various Saturday mornings during the '80s. I tend to relate to this song even more as an adult because, despite our young men and women losing their lives in Iraq, many of us have serious issues within our own communities - not to mention any type of family issues that might be taking its toll on our psyches. Sometimes, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders is like giving Mo'nique a brief piggyback ride - it makes you want to curse the heavens and scream "What in the fuck is going on?" Sure this song addresses the Vietnam war, but I'm sure he was also saddened by the death of his writing partner Tammi Terrell - and of course the racial climate of the time.
Credence Clearwater Revival, "Fortunate Son": The one thing that almost caused my head to basically explode during the 2004 election, was how Bush supporters found ways to criticize John Kerry and his so-called "treasonous" actions. People bitched about his anti-war stance after the Vietnam, him throwing his medals on the White House lawn, lied about him wounding himself for medals - and at the Republican Convention, they desecrated the memory of every soldier that ever served this country by mocking Sen Kerry by sporting adhesive bandages with small purple hearts on them. (I guess that "Support the Troops" motto only applies to the ones currently in combat.) I was always baffled that people could attack Kerry, but at the same time support Bush, a man that obviously got out of service by who his father was - and the walking heart attack that is Dick Cheney, who had something like seven deferments. If John Kerry was smart, he would have had this song playing whenever Bush was pictured in one of his commercials - motherfucking chicken-hawk.
Stevie Wonder, "You Haven't Done Nothin": I'd say that even a casual observer of politics can see the similarities between the Nixon administration and the Bush administration. Both tried to scare the proverbial crap out of the electorate, attempted to silence dissenters and claim that they were anti-American - not to mention the stubbornness of going ahead with a wildly unpopular war. Even though Stevie Wonder wrote this song in response to the blistering incompetence of Nixon - it plays today as if Stevie himself penned it with a picture of George W. Bush in front of him. (I know he's blind, you knew what I meant!)
Nena, "99 Luft (Red) Balloons": One of the best things about being raised in the '80s, besides using mental images of Sheila E and Lisa Lisa as nightly masturbatory material - was my exposure to music that other generations weren't exposed to. The only benefit that came from MTV not playing black videos was me being introduced to groups like Flock of Seagulls, A-HA, Berlin, Culture Club, and groups of that ilk. I distinctly remember checking out Nena and her song "99 Luft(Red) Balloons" at the time. Sure this was a protest song, about the "escalating rhetoric and strategic maneuvering between the United States and the Soviet Union" (so says Wikipedia), but I just remember sporting more wood than a batting cage over Nena. I don't know, something about German chicks really does it for me - me imagining a scenario where my sexual exploits force my lover to nickname my phallus a "Bratwurst" or a "Kielbasa."
Sam Cooke, "A Change is Gonna Come": This song has always given me the eeriest of feelings. Forget about the fact that this is the track Spike Lee used in the movie Malcolm X as El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz walked to impending doom at the Audubon Ballroom. Listening to this track, you hear the inner turmoil of Cooke escaping your speakers, from the racist episodes he had experienced - to his 18-month-old son's death from accidental drowning. Initially the song was inspired by Bob Dylan's "Blowing in the Wind." Cooke was amazed that such a song addressing racism came from a white man.
Billie Holiday, "Strange Fruit": If my family finds out that I'm talking about a Billie Holiday song they are going to shit rabbits - based on how many times my grandmother subjected my family to her drunken episodes, downing "Old Milwaukee" like it was Gatorade, while playing classic Billie Holiday songs, loud. But I can't front. The haunting imagery of ugly racism in the form of lynching in "Strange Fruit" will stick to the listener for an eternity. If a white person ever asks you, "You say the N-Word, why can't I say it?" just play their silly ass this song. Originally a poem by Abel Meeropol, Billy Holiday recorded this classic despite the fact that her label was against it, and despite her own fears of retaliation. Some of her bandmates recalled that Billie Holiday would always break down after she performed that song.
Public Enemy, "Fight the Power": Some people would argue that this isn't a protest song at all - but I'd have to disagree with them while beating that person to death with my coveted PE discography. This song reminded black people that challenging authority was OK, that fighting to the death for what you believed in was the only course of action - and that dissing dead fucking racists like John Wayne and Elvis Presley can bring together an entire people. (Albeit momentarily.) I know that Rosie Perez is married and all, but I would give her all of my worldly possessions if she danced naked for me while this song played - and if she thought that I was pitiful enough to throw some "mercy ass" my way. I wonder if she'd call me "Mookie" mid-stroke?
