A Fictitious Tale about a Coffee-Shop

HumanityCritic Dictionary:

Coffee-shop- Describing any person who falsely tries to promote themselves as being "earthy". They think that growing dreadlocks, reading poetry, burning incense, and eating tofu makes them better than everyone else. Nothing is wrong with the things that I have just described, I just have a problem with anyone that does those things just to front, just to personify an image. I hate fucking posers!

It's a boring Friday night and I am driving around aimlessly for something or someone to get into. 31 is such a weird age because I feel like a old man when I go to the "21 and up" clubs, and I feel like a toddler when I go to the "30 and up" clubs.(Most of the people there are my momma's age) Then I remember hearing that this club in Norfolk that I used to go to is having a poetry night. Matter of fact my notebook is sitting right there on my passenger's side seat, it might be cool to recite some prose and try something different.

After about a 15 minute drive I reach my destination. I approach the doorman and give him the five dollar cover. He clenches his hands together, bows and says, "Peace my brother". I reply, "Peace brother! But what's all the bowing for, this ain't the Karate Kid." He gives me a strange look as I enter the establishment. As I stroll down the corridor all I see is smoke, which is getting me hyper because I know that someone has that sweet bud that they might share with a brother. As I investigate further I get disappointed, "It's motherfucking incense!! Shit!", I shout out.

As I walk in the main part of the club all I see is dreadlocks, head-wraps, dashiki's, sarongs, and any type of "coffee-shop" uniform that you can name. A brother who introduced himself as "Born Supreme" comes out of nowhere and tries to sell me some incense and candles. I politely decline. I guess because of my dreadlocks and my unshaven look of the day, people in attendance consider me as one of their own. Ladies coming up telling me how much they love my hair, touching, stroking, I usually hate that shit but when beautiful women touch your hair without asking its OK.

A dreadlocked sister who went by the name "Buttafly" starts talking to me about the importance of respecting women, honoring our black women, and the objectification of women in videos. I nod in agreement as she talks while I am looking at her nipples that are protruding through her dashiki and wondering what the chances were of me taking her home that night. While dirty thoughts race through my mind, "Born Supreme" returns asking if I want some incense. Again, I politely decline.

Across the room I see a chick that I know named Paula. We catch eyes and I waive in acknowledgment. She doesn't waive back and she gives me a brief look and looks away. Why would she diss me? What did I do to her? I know what it is! She is trying to pass herself as so "earthy" and "righteous" to the group of individuals that she was talking to, but I am the only one that knows her secret. The secret which entails her spreading her legs faster than "Dominique Dawes without drawls"(lifted from a Rass Kass lyric) We actually called her "Headdy Murphy" because her last name was Murphy and she had a love for giving "mouth hugs". Because I am a prick I scream out across the room "Headdy! Long time no see!" Her look of embarrassment was priceless.

I go to the bar and order a rum and coke. The "Bartender" tells me that they are not serving alcoholic drinks that night, that they were only serving water and natural drinks. "That is Bullshit", I say as I leave the club momentarily and get two mini bottles of Jack Daniels out of my glove compartment. I go back to the bar and order some fruity ass drink and secretly poor the contents of the mini bottles into my drink. Thats more like it!

I'm watching the poets and most of them suck complete ass. I mean, I know that poetry is a individual expression that shouldn't be judged too harshly, but fuck that. Also, I hate abstract poetry. Let me clarify, I like abstract poetry when it is done well, but it gives too many untalented fucks a chance to hide behind it and fool people into thinking that they are actually saying something. In my Abstract Poetry voice: "I visit the planet mars and discuss scripture with aliens/ I make love with the color red with every word that's said/I am water, drink me, rethink me" Get out of here with that incoherent bullshit! Every poet looked like they knew the movie "Love Jones" verbatim, posers, the whole lot of them! It just seemed to me that every female poet was doing it to seem more "Worldly", and every male poet was doing it just to get ass.

As I am watching this debacle "Born Supreme" comes back around, before he says a word I firmly say "NO!" By this time I have heard poets say things like "I don't want to make love to your body, I wanna make love to your mind", "I hate clubs, they are beneath me!", "Don't put that in your body, free yourself of the swine", and other ramblings that made me roll my eyes. So I decided to get on stage and express myself. I put my notebook down and decided to freestyle it.

I approach the microphone and say, "Hello everyone. I will be blessing you with my verbal stylings. I hope you enjoy"

In a very mocking poetry voice I perform the following piece.

Coffeeshop, where fake ass Negro's dwell/
Yall ain't serving no liquor, what the hell/
I saw Paula here, chick couldn't speak/
probably because she's a ho, and I know she's a freak/
I have dreadlocks, but don't get it twisted/
I can admit that titty's and a fat ass makes me go ballistic/
Cats hate clubs? When did being a poet stop you from being a man?/
A devout Christian would agree that seeing drunk sluts is a great plan
Brother's talking about respect, we'll see how long that lasts/
At the end of the day ladies, all men just want that ass/
Trying to be Jamaican, with all the frontin' and fakin'/
I'll eat a piece of Bacon and yell As-Salaam-Alaikum/
I eat a porkchop sandwich with a chick name Becky on my arm/
Make the DJ play Willie Nelson and scream, "This songs the bomb!"
I'd do that simply because I really don't care/
I'm going to smack somebody if another person touches my hair/
This ain't the set of ""Love Jones", yall just some pretenders
Women acting all righteous, when last year they were "backseat benders"/
I'm going to a bar because its almost last call/
To all those perpetrating a fraud, Fuck all yall!

(HumanityCritic starts to throw the mic down, but notices that they put some Hippy-like scarf around it. He screams "What the fuck" and proceeds to throw it against the wall.)

As I begin to walk out of the club I see that I have many of the women there mesmerized. They all take off their afro wigs and a weave is revealed. The dashikis and flower skirts are removed, suddenly they appear to have tight skirts, daisy dukes, extra tight shirts, and hooker boots. They follow me out of the club like I am the Pied Piper, which excites me because of the sin that will take place later. Before i reach the door "Born Supreme" stops me and starts to ask me to but some incense. I slam him against the wall and yell, "Enough with the motherfucking Incense. Jesus!!"

The End


*Even though this story is fictitious, there are some true Elements of real life people and events.(i.e Paula, the incense man, and me reciting a poem just to piss people off)