Monday, December 26, 2005

HumanityCritic's Christmas Carol (Part 1)

HumanityCritic, a 32 year old blogger hailing from Virginia beach Virginia, was once as excited as Courtney Love in a poppy field when Christmas came around. Now he is a bitter and angry young man, who spits in the face of anything that remotely reminds him of December 25th.(No really, he actually spat on a Department store Santa and his elves a few days back) On this particular day we find him continuously saying "Fuck you" to every cashier that wishes him a "Merry Christmas", him telling a woman on the phone who is interested in spending some quality time with him that "If we ain't fucking, keep your ass home!", and stealing 75 cents out of a Salvation Army Santa's basket in order to have correct change for his whiskey purchase. He then decides to head home to call it a night, this is where our story begins kiddies

(Scene starts with HumanityCritic sitting on his couch with his hands down his shorts ala Al Bundy, drinking whiskey, quickly changing channels)

HumanityCritic: Fuck man! Christmas commercials, specials, movies, I can't escape!! Fuck Christmas, another reason for countless saps to empty their wallets, evil fucks to promote gross materialism, and other social ills under the guise of Love and family. Hogwash I say!!!

(HumanityCritic drops his pants, gets his best hand lotion, and pops in a porno entitled "Santa Drawls", and says..."

HumanityCritic: Time to get the good old holiday spirit all over this towel!!

(As HC beats himself like his testicles had an expiration date on them, or like his genitalia owed him money, he fell asleep right at the part of the film where Santa and the elves start to gang-bang Mrs. Claus. He looks peaceful sleeping the way he is, kind of like a Norman Rockwell painting, that's if he wasn't gripping an erect penis.)

(Minutes later, HC is awakened to a loud rumbling sound, which at first he thinks is an earthquake, but finally he comes to the conclusion that its a burglar. HC quickly wipes the lotion off of his hands, grabs the loaded 380 off of his Mahatma Gandhi nightstand, and does some investigating. When he opens up the door to pump that unfortunate burglar full of lead, he is met with a gigantic smoke cloud and notices a crusty ass dead figure emerging from it.)

HC: Lord, help me!! Awww!(fires multiple shits into object) Take that motherfucker!!

Crusty Dead object: You are just wasting your bullets..

HumanityCritic: Who are you, and what do you want??

Mr. Mercer: It's your old boss, Elliot Mercer in the flesh..

HumanityCritic: Or not in the flesh. You're dead!!

Mr. Mercer: No shit, Really?? I thought my decayed body, my breath that smells like Lil Kim's crotch, and the insects that made a permanent home in my asshole were a dead giveaway!!

HumanityCritic: OK, what in the fuck do you want with me??

Mr. Mercer: I came here to tell you something very important.

HumanityCritic: Tell me what, the benefits of being worm food?

Mr. Mercer: Still the asshole I see, I hope that's working for you. No idiot, I really came to warn you, you don't want to end up like me do you??

HC: What are you talking about Mercer? You were the fucking man, continuous ass, people were scared shitless of you.. Didn't you die fucking???

Mr. Mercer: Hee-Hee, I sure did. Critic, that pretty young thing had an ass that you could balance a glass on man!! Uh-hem, that's not the point though. I did get more ass than a toilet seat, very true, but my biggest regret was not having anyone to truly love, no wife or kids to give my heart to.

HC: Bor-ing! Does death turn everyone into Pussies, spouting off dialogue from a goddamned Lifetime movie??

Mr. Mercer: Listen Jerk-off, when I died I angered so many people and burned bridges that there were only 5 people at my funeral and one was the preacher and two worked at the graveyard!! Why weren't you there??

HC: Well, I..

Mr. Mercer: You were in an emotional tailspin weren't you, not wanting to come to grips that your mentor passed, right?

HC: Actually, I didn't want to miss the opening of "Chasing Amy" to be totally honest.

Mr. Mercer: BASTARD!!!! Anyway, tonight you will be visited by three ghosts..

HC: Ghosts!! (reloading gun) 3 more motherfuckers like you??

Mr. Mercer: No, I'm a walking rotten ant farm. The ghosts will look as human as you, pull your skirt up.

HC: What kind of ghosts?? Like Dorothy Dandridge, that would be hot. Or Marilyn Monroe, she sure had a rack on her.(begins to pitch a tent)

Mr. Mercer: Fucking perv!! Don't worry what they'll look like, it will be relative to your interests and that god forsaken blog that you have. I'm outta here!!!

(Mr. Mercer disappears out of thin air, leaving the room smelling like 1000 ass-cracks. HC spends the next few minutes vacuuming Mr. Mercer's corpse flakes out of his carpet, and proceeds to light candles and burn incense to get that "Death ass" scent out of his crib. He then falls asleep)


(HC goes to see who is at the door)

HC:(Opens the door, wiping eyes): Wait a minute, what are you doing here??

Unidentified Man: You've seen enough renditions of this Charles Dickens tale to know who the fuck I am. I am the ghost of Christmas past!

HumanityCritic: Rakim?? (forcefully hugs Rakim) I'm your biggest fan man!!

Rakim: (pushing HumanityCritic off him) Let go of me you fucking stalker, you know we have a trip to take. Are you ready?

HC: Yeah, but like a breast reduction, let me get something off my chest first. (Grabs a soap box, stands on it, throws an arm around Rakim, and addresses the blog readers with the following Diatribe) Ladies and gentleman, this man right here is by far the greatest rapper of all time, hands down. I love Pac and Biggie, but anyone that puts those men above Rakim should be on the business end of a public caning, thrown in a Mexican prison, or some other random form of punishment that fits the idiocy spewed out by those unenlightened individuals. I don't give a flying fuck how many tribute albums Puffy or Death Row records can regurgitate, Rakim is by far, the greatest rapper of all time. You motherfucking got that??

Rakim: Are you done?

HC: Yep.

Rakim: I appreciate the love but we gotta go!

(Suddenly a 75 pinto arrives in front of HC's house)

Rakim: You all set?

HC: Hey, I thought by the shitload of Christmas movies that I have seen in my day, that we were supposed to magically arrive and witness one of my old Christmases. What's up with the hooptie?

Rakim: The company I work for is simply out of funds dude, when we did this same thing for Dick Cheney last year it put us in the hole big time. Just get in and shut up, the ride isn't that bad. Got any gas money??

HC: Jesus, yeah..

(After a severely bumpy ride, with the vehicle being flipped in various directions, the 75 pinto arrives in Virginia Beach Virginia, 1983)

Rakim:(Stepping out of the car) We're here!

HC:(stumbling out of the car, throwing up) Blaaaaaaa..

Rakim:(Shaking his right foot) Watch the Puma's you asshat!! Take a look around, this is your old hood.

(They both walk around HC's old neighborhood)

HC:(pointing) That's my friend Bobby's house, we were tight as kids. That is Ms. Davidson's house, I remember after I cut her grass one summer she made me touch her breasts.

Rakim:(squinting) OK

HC:(pointing) Right there is Ms. Thompson's old house, she gave me 20 dollars once to wash her car with my shirt off. (pointing in a different direction) Right there is Ms. Shirley's house, she one time touched my..

Rakim: Enough with the molestation stories!! You are in therapy right?

HC: Yeah

Rakim: Good, here's your house.

(They both look into HC's old house, where they see him as a happy 10 year old opening presents amongst his family)

HC: Oh shit, I remember this Christmas, there I am getting a shitload of He-Man men!!

Rakim: I always thought He-Man played for the pink team honestly.

HC: Sure he did, the leather and skimpy outfits, but you are talking to a guy who still listens to Culture Club and digs show tunes.(Looks back in the window) There is my sister, brother, my mom, where's my pop at?

(HC's father comes in the room, pissed that he just stepped on a homoerotic action figure)

Father: Goddamn you HC, I didn't buy those toys for you to leave them lying around everywhere you stupid son of a bitch! You know what, you ain't ever going to be shit, you're worthless!! Go to your fucking room before I hit you in the face with this belt!

(Rakim and HC see the 10 year old version of HumanityCritic run off to his room)

Rakim:(Turning to HC) You ain't going to cry are you??

HC:(smirking) Of course not,(pounds chest) I'm all man baby!! (turns around and wipes a tear)

Rakim: It's OK, like a prostitute who gives Santa free blow-jobs each year for gifts, Christmas left a bad taste in your mouth. Over the years you have tried to act festive, but secretly you loathed Christmas and we have to change that. We gotta get back.

(The Pinto arrives and they head back to HC's house)

Rakim: This is where I say Goodbye, there will be two more ghosts appearing tonight so be looking out for the doorbell!!

HC: OK(Throws arm around Rakim and turns to the blogging Universe) Greatest Rapper Of all Time, I don't give a fuck how many Biggie and Tupac albums come from the depths of people's ass. The best!

Rakim: Should I get a restraining order?? But thanks.(Turns to the blog world) Be looking out for my next album, I am the ghost of Christmas past but I ain't dead motherfucker!!

(After Rakim leaves, HC sits on his couch and begins to smoke a very big spliff. He figures that the whole experience will be better high. Then all of a sudden someone starts knocking on his door like they lost their motherfucking mind, screaming "Open up bitch!")

HC:(opening door) Have you lost your fucking mind,... Shit, you are the ghost of Christmas present?

End of Part 1

HumanityCritic's Christmas Carol (Part 2)

Part 2

HC:(opening door) Have you lost your fucking mind,... Shit, you are the ghost of Christmas present?

50 Cent: That's right, now let us in this motherfucker!

HC: Us??

50 Cent: Yeah, me and my crew!

HC: Those aren't your "boys", they are your security guards!!

50 Cent: No they're not!

HC: Then why do they have the word "Swat" across their backs asshole?

50 Cent: OK, you got me, its a tough world we live in. Listen I know how you feel about me, I read you blog, but that's neither here nor there. Lets cut the motherfucking small talk because we have a few stops to make, you know why I'm here!

(5 armored Hummers pull up)

50 Cent: Get your ass in!

HC:(shaking head)

50 Cent: What?

HC: Security guards, armored vehicles, you really are representing "Thug Life" to the fullest!

50 Cent: Just get in smart guy!

(This time the ride still made HC want to throw up, not because the vehicle flipped around or anything, but because 50 talked about himself the whole time and how "great" he is)

HC:(starts to feel his dinner coming up)

50 Cent:(pulls out a machine gun) You better swallow that shit back!

HC: Gulp!

50 Cent: Good. (pulling cue card out of his pocket) It says here that I am to give you an in-depth look at the lives of some people that you affect currently.

HC: You need cue cards for this shit, haven't you ever seen the 1 million renditions of this on TV each Christmas??

50 Cent: I thought this was brand new..

HC:(shaking head) Dumb fucking peasant.

(Both HC and 50 are standing in front of Samantha's house. Samantha is the "one that got away" so to speak, after having a lovely Christmas with her husband and kids she is chatting with her girlfriends in the kitchen)

HC: What are we doing here??!!

50 Cent: Just watch.

Samantha's friend: Hey girl, what ever happened to HumanityCritic??

Samantha: He's still in Virginia, writing in that god forsaken blog on a regular basis.

Samantha's friend: Do you ever think what might have been?

Samantha: Sure, I loved HumanityCritic dearly, but he is a 32 year old child. I threw myself at him, expressed my deep admiration for him, and all I got for it was hard dick and an extremely hard time. I'm married now, with a beautiful family, who knows what ridiculous predicament I would be in if I was still with him. He needs to grow up.

Samantha's friend: I heard that.

Samantha: Plus, his idea of a "Merry Christmas" is going to Vegas and putting folded dollar bills in a stripper's orifice. No thanks!

HC: Damn, that was harsh.

50 Cent: There's more my dreadlocked friend!

(The fleet of Hummers whisk HC and 50 off to Danny's house. Danny, as many who read this blog know, is HC's friend of more than 20 years.)

HC: This is more like it, I know Danny won't say any foul shit about me!

50 Cent: Lets see shall we.

(Both of them are in Danny's living room, where they watch him and his family open gifts)

Danny's wife: Why don't you invite HumanityCritic over?

Danny: Naw, fuck that!

Danny's wife: I thought you two were the closest of friends?

Danny: He is my friend, but after 20 years of friendship I realized that HC is all about himself. He doesn't keep in touch unless alcohol and strippers are involved, he is one self absorbed prick. Fuck him, Fuck him up his pansy liberal ass!

Danny's wife: Wow, sorry for asking...

HC: That's fucked up Danny!!(Getting in his face) Why couldn't you just be a man and tell that to my face??

50 Cent: He can't see you jackass, we have one more stop so unwrinkle your panties, we gotta go!

(Next thing HC knows he's in the house of a person who was once a fan of HC's writing, but over the months took HC off of their blogroll for some reason. We will call her Dee Scruntled)

HC: Why are we here? I mean, I know that this person is a mixture of all the people that took me off their blogroll, but how mad can I get since I don't even have a blogroll. I'm sorry that they found my writing boring, or something I wrote objectionable to the point that they would erase my very existence from their blog, but what can one do about that?

50 Cent: Well we're here already, lets see what's up with her?

Dee Scruntled:(Reading this particular blog post) I wonder if he's talking about me? Hmm, I wonder..But HC is right about one thing, 50 cent is wacker than a motherfucker!

50 Cent: OK we gotta go!

HC: No, lets see "what's up" with her..

Dee Scruntled: Jesus man, 50 cent is ruining rap as we know it, and if he thinks he has me fooled by his tough guy routine he has another think coming, his appearance is screaming "homo Thug"

50 Cent: (getting in Dee's face) Fuck you trick, you know who I am!!

HC: Dude, she can't see you, remember?

50 Cent: Fuck this, I have to get you back.

(They both arrive back at HC's house)

50 Cent: That's my time, I have to go to the studio to record a song about an armed robbery that I was never a part of. You will have one more visitor tonight, as you already know by all your fancy book learning, so be prepared!(50 and his swat team leave immediately)

(HC sits on his couch and relights that spliff he was smoking earlier, awaiting the arrival of the final ghost. Then suddenly, the door gets kicked open)

End of Part 2

HumanityCritic's Christmas Carol (Part 3)

Part 3

(HC sits on his couch and relights that spliff he was smoking earlier, awaiting the arrival of the final ghost. Then suddenly, the door gets kicked open)


Saigon: What's up Critic, you know who the fuck I be son! (Snatches joint) Give me that motherfucking blunt!!! (Then proceeds to smoke all of HC's shit) What are you going to do about that?

HC: Not a goddamn thing.

Saigon: That's what I'm talking about, because smart comments might work with studio gangstas like 50, but I have a bona fide criminal past and I will proceed to criminally beat your ass if you get out of pocket. Comprende?

HC: Wait a minute motherfucker, this is my blog so..

Saigon:(cocking pistol) What was that?

HC:(Throwing hands up) OK, OK!! Jesus you're touchy today!

Saigon: Sorry man, it's just that this shit is beneath me. Listen, I'm about to blow up and be the biggest rap sensation in the world, I'm working on my album "The Greatest Story Never Told", I have a lot of shit on my plate and the last thing I need to be doing is showing up in your goddamned blog post

HC: Even if I let you self promote??

Saigon: Bet! (turns to blog readers) If you want to learn about yours truly, just go to this website. Or if you want to check out an exclusive interview featuring the one and only Saigon, go here.

HC: Can we proceed now?

Saigon: Definitely.

(Automatically a limousine pulls up to take them on their journey)

HC: I thought that a flying car would come and pick me up, you being the ghost of Christmas future and all.

Saigon: And motherfuckers 30 years ago thought that we would be living in neighborhood's in the sky and shit like "The Jetsons". Get your ass in!!

(They both travel to the year 2035, sitting in a bar that the now 62 year old HumanityCritic is at, surrounded by lovely ladies)

HC: Yo, I'm going to be a good looking old man!! (looking closely) I see I have a phat knot of cash that I'm spreading around so I guess I have dough, plus I have all that fine ass around me. What's bad about this??

Saigon: For one thing you don't have a wife or any kids..

HC: So fucking what??!!

Saigon: "So what?", you are the loneliest bastard in the history of lonely bastards!

HC: How about all those fine young freaks?

Saigon: All paid for, the only person that actually likes you is the bartender who you get drinks from, but I think that you tipping her 200 dollars each time you drink has something to do with that.

HC: You mean I have no friends to speak of?? How about my family?

Saigon: You alienated them years ago, I have heard about burning bridges but your sorry black ass blew that shit to smithereens!! I have to show you one more thing.

(Both of them find themselves in HC's very big mansion, looking at him drunkenly watch TV with a Santa hat on)

HC: OK, I'm depressed, but I have a mansion though!! Wheww, I'm rich!!

Saigon: Look closer.

HC: OK, the fact that I am still masturbating to "Santa Drawls" after 30 years is kind of sad.

Saigon: No dumb-dumb, look closer!

HC: I see pictures all around me of my family and friends, wait a minute.. What am I doing with a loaded handgun??

(They both witness the 62 year old sobbingly pick up the pistol and put it to his head)

Saigon: Lets pause that image right there.(Image pauses on the elder HC about to blow his brains out) (Grabs HC) Is this where you want to end up motherfucker?

HC: Rich with a shitload of paid for ass?

Saigon: Miserable you asshole! No family, friends, you think someone taking you off their blogroll is troubling, just imagine what state you will be in if you keep up your asshole ways??

HC: Wow, I have to change my ways, I've been an insufferable prick!

Saigon: Pretty much, you have been through a lot tonight, so it's important what you do with the new found knowledge you acquired. This is where I leave you friend, Merry Motherfucking Christmas you black blogging bastard.(Turns to readers) "The Greatest Story Never Told" comes out soon, be looking out for it!! *POOF* (Disappears)

(HumanityCritic wakes up on his couch, shaft in hand, still at the part where Santa's lead elf is "giving it" to Mrs. Claus. He looks at his alarm clock and only 5 minutes have passed, realizing it was all a dream, but the message was clear nonetheless)

(Christmas morning he visits Danny and His wife)

HC:(Handing them gifts) Merry Christmas, God bless the both of you!!

Danny: What in the fuck has gotten into you??

(Later we see HumanityCritic calling Samantha)

HC: Samantha, I just wanted to wish you and your husband a very Merry Christmas

Samantha: Nice try, I'm married, you aren't getting in these panties!!

(HC even wishes all the cashiers that he was ever mean to a "Happy Holiday", even though they think that he lost his mind. He even gave the Salvation Army Santa 100 dollars for the money he took earlier)

(In a "Return of the Jedi" ending, where all the characters come back for a joyous celebration, Rakim, Danny, Dee Scruntled, 50 Cent, Danny's wife, Saigon, Samantha, Samantha's friend, and whoever the fuck I forgot are all having a big party celebrating HumanityCritic's newfound Christmas attitude.)

Chewbacca:(virtually coming out of nowhere, looking at everyone reading this) Arrrrrr, Raaaaaarrrrrr! *translation*: Have a safe and Merry Christmas to all!!!

Sports Corner: Wanting to bludgeon Kobe haters to death with a pillowcase full of sodas..

Even though I have done my best to curb my violent behavior of the past few years, I still feel that some people just flat out need their ass whipped. The disgruntled guy who came to my house to tell me to stop "fucking his girlfriend" needed to desperately get his ass beat, he soon realized that a baseball bat can be used for more than bunting and grand slam home runs. The two women who thought it was hilarious that they torment a very heartbroken friend of mine, being that their home-girl left him for another man, those harlots needed their ass beaten. Granted, I'm a man and would never physically assault a woman, but they found out quickly that there isn't a rule against a man pouring the contents of two full pitchers of beer on their heads. Or like the guy who was upset at me because he didn't appreciate the way I was fouling him, getting in my face like he was going to beat my ass. Well, 2 minutes and a debilitating throat-chop later he learned that some people don't take too kindly to being threatened.

Lately, I feel that most Kobe haters need their ass beaten too. OK, if you had a dislike for Kobe before the rape allegations then you aren't included in my wrath, but the rest of you fuckers can clearly get beaten with a pillowcase full of sodas. I feel that way because, similar to the way Bush had many Americans duped that he would be a better leader than John Kerry, many of you have fell for an all out smear campaign to make Kobe Bryant seem like the most vile individual on the planet. I just feel, and this is my opinion, that the widespread venom about Kobe wouldn't have been so fierce if he was accused of raping a black woman, that simple. This has given birth to the millions of douche-bags who claim to hate Kobe for legitimate reasons, not actually realizing that they are just lemmings in human form.

But like a mime with turrets, I'm surprised at some of the shit that comes out of the mouths of these unenlightened bottom feeding Kobe haters. Instead of debunking some of these miscreants' complaints with a long question and answer session, I will just give answers. Here goes: "He isn't the owner so he doesn't make executive decisions, hey Ray Lewis was accused of killing two motherfuckers, Jordan wasn't a ball hog?, Shaq ran Van Gundy out of Miami-thoughts?, Shaq hasn't won a title without Kobe either, are you actually using his fidelity as an argument?, Kobe was never considered to be "street-wise". OK, that was easy, but then again consider who I'm dealing with here. The countless black folks that have fallen victim to this brainwashing baffle me most of all. I mean, for a race of people who can forgive a crack smoking Mayor, a pop Icon who thinks sleep-overs with toddlers is "acceptable", an R&B star who not only fucks underage chicks but uses them as a urinal, and a NFL Hall of Famer accused of murdering two people who had turned his back on the black community years ago, you some how find Kobe Bryant the epitome of evil and unforgivable?? Fuck you!!!

Last week Kobe Bryant dropped an effortless 62 points on the Dallas Mavericks without even playing the fourth quarter. When Jerry Buss said that he would have traded Shaq 100 out of 100 times if he had the chance, the man spoke the absolute gospel. You have Bryant, who like a vintage wine seems to get better as the years go on, and then you have Shaq, who is admittedly one of the best centers to play the game(based mostly on his size), but is a couple of buffets and years from the goddamned glue factory. Not only that, Kobe Bryant has taken the high road concerning his relationship or lack thereof, with Shaquille over that past couple of years. But what has Shaq done, acted like a little girl with a skinned knee, not only exposing his skirt and the fact that he is a monosyllabic monstrous whining malcontent, he has kept the "feud" going with Kobe like the 7 foot bad free throw shooting vagina that he is.

So if you have legitimate reason to hate Mr. Bryant then I respect that, but don't come with that bullshit because I don't have a problem with beating you with a motherfucking pillowcase full of sodas.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Classic Westerns: HumanityCritic Style

Spaghetti Westerns: A Nickname given to a specific genre of Western films around the mid-60's, named because many of these films were produced by Italian studios

Granted, I am an all out movie fanatic, loving everything from foreign films to Kung Fu flicks, but I always had a certain affection for good old fashioned Westerns. I wasn't really into the John Wayne flicks, but those classic Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Westerns like "Fistful of Dollars", "The Good, Bad and the Ugly", and "For a Few Dollars More", where most of the time the underlining theme was revenge. What seeing Clint Eastwood systematically took out his enemies did for a hyperactive 12 year old, really invigorates a hot tempered 32 year old with a history of violence that I'm not too proud of. But I must admit though, not only because I am nuttier than squirrel shit, and I also have an unhealthy ability not to be scared of anyone, but whenever I would put myself in a dangerous situation I would pretend that I was one of those Westerns characters about to gracefully dispatch the evil sons of bitches that did me wrong. Sometimes it backfired, like the time I got stomped out by 5 dudes so bad that I thought that they were trying to make wine or some shit, but sometimes it worked magnificently, like when I took a page out of Clint Eastwood's book in the movie "Outlaw Josie Wales" and spat on the person who just became acquainted with the business end of my fist.

The following short stories are true to life events that happened in my violent past, but I will write it with a Hollywood, "Spaghetti Western" feel with me acting as the Narrator.. See, my therapist wanted me to document some of the violent activity that I had been a part of, so I figured that I might as well be creative while doing so.

HumanityCritic's Vengeance: It was a cold December night as HumanityCritic raced back to his old stomping grounds of Virginia Beach Virginia, but he was in no way going back to see family or reminisce about old times with friends. He was there to avenge a horrible act perpetrated on a woman he considered to be a "sister", a good friend named Tracy that he had known since grade-school. As he broke the speed limit racing to his destination, he noticed the goosebumps on his wrist, him not knowing if they were from the extreme cold and his malfunctioning car heater, or his anger at Tracy's boyfriend that treated her like a motherfucking punching bag. To be totally honest, HC was actually invited to Tracy's birthday party and not to defend her honor, but the constant horrific updates from her family and friends of the beat-downs Tracy was getting were as much as HumanityCritic could take.

As he entered the city with nothing but ice in his veins and extreme hatred in his heart, he realized how mad he was when he actually turned down the chance to embarrassingly pre-ejaculate with a hot Cuban number he had went to High School with in order to carry out his mission. He looked down at his crotch and said, "Sorry man" as he pulled his car beside a fire hydrant in front of the building Tracy's party was being held at. Usually, HumanityCritic wouldn't have been so irresponsible in his parking, but he figured he wouldn't be there that long so he said "Fuck it". He walked up to the building and it was quiet, like "calm before the storm" quiet, but he knew what he had to do regardless of the consequences. When he opened the door all of his old friends hugged him like they hadn't seen him in years, Tracy smiled from ear to ear and gave him an extremely tight embrace, but the looks that he got from Tracy's other friends and family clearly were telling him "Get that motherfucker HumanityCritic!!" For the first few minutes critic played it cool and had a few drinks, mingled with the crowd, but eventually and very gracefully small talked Tracy's punch happy boyfriend in order to gain his confidence to step outside and "grab a smoke."

Even though HumanityCritic had given up those dastardly cancer sticks, he had to find a reason to lure him outside, since beating the brakes off of that fuck in front of everybody would have backfired for more reasons than this Narrator cares to talk about. After fighting the need to just steal his nemesis in the face, the biting winter weather, and the nicotine smoke that hadn't entered his lungs in a couple years, HumanityCritic said, "So, what's up with you putting your hands on Tracy??" Usually HC wouldn't ask any questions and just commence in beating the black off of someone, but he always loved to surprise someone mid sentence with his frontal assault. Tracy's boyfriend looked at HC with a stare of a cold-blooded criminal and said, "Fuck you, that's none of you God-damned busi..." *POW* "Shut your motherfucking ass up!!", HC shouted out, sending this woman beater to his knees with a uppercut thrown with pinpoint accuracy. The next few minutes of unadulterated heinous violence now is a blur to Critic, but he still remembers thinking a few things while it was going on. 1: He hoped he didn't kill this guy. 2: That woman beaters tend to cry the easiest. 3: That he still liked seeing his breath in the extreme cold and 4:He wondered if that hot Cuban broad would give him some action on some "Cleanse my hands, Florence Nightingale" shit. The next thing he knew he was being pushed off of that gentleman by Tracy herself, screaming at HC to "leave her man alone" and "leave immediately". Hands bloody, eyes red from the adrenaline, and coughing mildly from the cigarette, HC got to his feet and slowly walked to his car feeling like he had made a mistake, a mistake of helping someone that didn't want to be helped. His hands shaking in a way that it was a difficult task even opening his car door, he got in his car and clutched his steering wheel, looking at his bloody fists, openly wondering if he had broken his hands. Right before he took off in that frigid December night in search for some young Latina passion, he looked at his passenger side seat and saw four 100 dollar bills folded up. He looked outside his window and saw Tracy's father, a man he had known as long as Tracy, and he nodded in a "you did good son" kind of way. Driving away he clutched the money, not thinking about feeling like some sort of contract ass beater paid to help Tracy our, or the fact that she probably hated him for what he did, but he looked at the 100 dollar bills and said, "Cool, more weed and whore money!!!"

Showdown at Karaoke: Like HumanityCritic always said, "You know a woman has a good piece of "patch" when you travel more than an hour a day to get it!!" This was the case a few years ago, when HC used to travel more than an hour on the Highway a day to be regularly and intimately acquaintanted with a beautiful caramel complected sister named Janis. With thighs like a track star, breasts that would put a homosexual in a trance, and "soup coolers" juicy enough that you would think that she had the ability to blow out like 200 birthday candles and shit. This woman was definitely out of HC's league, but like a boxer momentarily dazed by a lucky right hook, HumanityCritic planned on hitting it as much as humanly possible before she came to her senses. This woman stayed in a small town in North Carolina, where nightly she would engage in the aged old tradition of karaoke. HC despised Karaoke, but like that cereal leprechaun, there wasn't anything HC wouldn't do in order to taste those "Lucky charms" so to speak. Night after night, shot after shot, he would patiently endure horrific renditions of "It's raining men" and "Sweet Home Alabama" in order to drunkenly bump uglies later, blessing her with his beautiful pre-ejaculatory gifts.

All was going well for our beloved HC, he was getting more ass than a toilet seat in an Indian restaurant, and he loved pissing off the people there by freestyle rhyming over Chaka Khan's "Ain't nobody" or some random R&B tune like that, that was until her ex boyfriend Harold came in the picture. Harold was a shady character, been in and out of prison because of petty crimes, and wanted Janis back regardless who her new suitor was. The first altercation was when the villain in question tried to disrespect our hero by calling him a "pussy" and threatening his life. HC, not in an act of bravery but more like and act of crazy, gripped his face with his entire hand and mushed him damn near across the room. The bouncer quickly handled that situation, as HC gave Harold a menacing stare as he was ushered out of the club, all the while Harold screaming "I'm going to kill you motherfucker!!"

Critic grinned to himself, throwing back another shot, thinking about how many times people have threatened his life in the past few years. The next night, HC uncharacteristically forgot about the events of the previous night, and found himself in quite a pickle as he was cornered by not only Harold, but his heavily bearded henchmen named David. In all HC's years of bar room brawls and overall fights, it was his experience that not only is someone scared if they have to bring help to beat your ass, but that you also hit the person that they bring first. As the two men engaged in the tradition of classic shit talking, HC took it upon himself and quickly grab a Budweiser bottle and break it across David's face, knocking out a couple of teeth. *Smack" As David fell to the ground, writhing around in pain like he had just had his leg ripped off, Harold saw HC rise from his chair with an agenda of rage on his face. No throat-chops or punches in the face that are so much of a regular arsenal from HC, but he proceeded to put Harold in an intricate choke-hold, making him think that he would never "breath again" like that Tony Braxton song. But after a few moments HC lets him go, and because he was a huge fan of a maneuver Steven Segal did in his flicks, he drew his arm back and flung it forward, literally clotheslining Harold to the point that he caught air right where he stood. Usually an onslaught of thrown fists would have been procedural for HC, but Harold was out cold, plus the owner alerted him that the cops were on their way. Critic, not one scared of the boys in blue, is indeed scared of serious jail time and the shower activities that happen in said "jail". He raced out of the Karaoke bar, hoping over the bodies of Harold and David, hoping he didn't encounter the police on his way out. Everything turned out to be fine for HumanityCritic, there was no police involvement, but that was the last time he saw Janis. I guess she felt sorry for Harold, because later that particular night she was his "Florence Nightingale". "Well..", Critic thought, "..she had to come to her senses sometime.."

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Back down Mammary Lane...

Even though I talk more shit than a chatty proctologist concerning my current single status, there are some definite benefits to being by yourself though. Besides not having to pretend to like someones belligerent whorish girlfriends, male friends with a possible hidden agenda, or wondering if your current love is giving it away like after-party fliers at a concert, you learn a lot about yourself when you are single. Besides that, not having to worry about your garden variety sexual transmitted disease is ever so comforting to a neurotic hypochondriac bastard like myself.

Usually the check-up that I have every six months is a very stressful ordeal even though I am practitioner of safe sex, the mere fact that condoms aren't 100% induces me to sweat like George Bush at a spelling bee and lose weight like Nicole Richie in a bathroom stall whenever I go to the doctors office and consider the questionable pieces of ass I had over the past few months. But my check-up last week was virtually stress free, being that I haven't been a full fledged whore since the Clinton Administration, so the staff there noticed my uncharacteristically calm demeaner.(OK, Bush Administration-3rd year, give a motherfucker a break!)

When the doctor told me that I had a clean bill of health I said, "No shit doc, I've passed up more ass than Ricky Martin, only I'm not gay but I'm sure my boys think I am" She asked why, so I went into detail about the questionable pieces of ass I had in my life, and the mere fact that I'm paranoid as fuck doesn't help my stress level. I just told him, exact quote to be honest, "I'm putting my cock on a sabbatical!" She told me that even though my paranoia scared the hell out of her, she said that she was proud of what I was doing. She then asked me if I had really been celibate for as long as I said, and when I asked her "Do hand-jobs and mouth-hugs count?", and she laughingly answered "Fuck no man!!", I knew I felt comfortable telling her anything. So even though she is my doctor, somehow I opened up like one of Oprah's guests and shit, and began to tell her about the most questionable pieces of sex I ever had. I don't know what's worse, me blabbing like a schoolgirl about my sexual escapades, or the eagerness in which she was listening to it.

Industry Rule #4082: Don't F*ck fans: This is kind of misleading since my band has only a couple handfuls of loyal fans anyway, but you get the picture. There are a few reasons why I told myself that I would never get intimate with anyone who frequented our shows. For one, it's kind of like that "don't shit where you eat" mantra, I wouldn't want to lose a loyal fan because things didn't work out with us, or because I gave her sex so bad that it was probably a step down from masturbation to her. But most of all, because I'm insecure, I wouldn't want any preconceived myth she has about me shattered only to learn that I am a single bastard with a love of foreign films and dialogue driven pornography. This lead me to Tonya, a woman who had expressed her affection for me many times during our shows a some years back. I told her my rule, thinking that would end it, but she said that she wanted to date me and to abide by my rule she would stop coming to our shows. I didn't think much about it at the time, but a month later when I was at a friends birthday party I noticed that Tonya was in attendance. Many laughs, dances, and drinks later, I find myself at Tonya's house where I openly spat in the face of rule #4082.

Right before my paranoia sets in, from sleeping with a woman that I don't really know any all, her cell phone rings off the hook for about the next 10 minutes. Instead of just ignoring the calls and basking in our post coitus glow, she answers her phone, every last fucking call. I heard her call someone Tom, Bobby, Jamal, and about 5 other guys name, provoking me to nervously ask, "Do you have a lot of brothers??" Well, those guys she was talking to weren't her siblings, but guys that she was sexually active with(How did I know, because she told me. Just lie to me goddammit!) OK, here comes the paranoia, and she seemed unsympathetic to my germaphibia as she told me that she was going to another guys house in the next few minutes. Moral of that story is, Industry Rule #4082 will leave you monitoring your piss for that burning sensation and regular aids tests for the next year or so.

Drinking and Cancun: When I told a female friend that my band and I were going to Cancun, she said "Isn't that a place where college kids go??", like it was a bad thing. What she failed to understand was that like Hip Hop, I will never outgrow the sight of young ass and titties congregated in one spot.(Not R Kelly young) We were there for a few days, and during those days of drinking and causing absolute ruckus, we met a woman named Renee. She was beautiful, a woman that I wouldn't mind getting to know intimately, but any chance of that happening died when she told me that she had slept with 10 guys since she arrived there. As disgusting as that thought is, we all would hang with Renee, partying with her three nights straight. Then one night when we had a party in my room, where not only did I pass out but I woke up butt naked beside her in the morning. Not remembering if we had sex or not, I looked around the room for a condom wrapper or something, a sign to let me know that if I did have sex that I didn't enter a burning building without my fireman suit. The only protection I could see was a pocketknife that I purchased a day earlier, a sudden rush of paranoia rushed over my body as I thought about the women I "probably" just slept with.

I was going to flat out ask her if we indeed had sex, but when my friends busted into my room in a congratulatory fashion, I let my masculine pride blind my mission of paranoid question asking. Next thing I knew she was gone, but I figured I would ask her later if we had sex or not. The thing was, I didn't see her again for the rest of our trip which ruined the remainder of our time in Cancun, me wondering if I had inserted myself inside of the human version of the "Outbreak Monkey". As soon as I got home and scheduled like a million doctors appointments hoping my dick wouldn't fall off, I remembered that Renee had given me her number. When I called her I learned that we didn't have sex after-all, apparently I refused to because I didn't have a condom. It's good to know that even when blackout drunk, I'm still looking out for the only head that I think with.

Revolving Ex: When you start a relationship, you know that your
mate has had partners before you, but you try to act like they don't exist
similar to the way I feel about the existence of Lil John. When I was in my sophomore year of college a girl that I was desperately in love with broke up with me, giving me the cliched reason of "needing space".(Sounds corny, but I always wanted to yell "Then be a god-damned astronaut then!!" when being given that reason) Anyway, we were apart for a few months, but I still talked regularly to her in hopes to win back her affection. After shameless begging only rivaled by Keith Sweat lyrics, she came back to me in the form of make-up sex. Unbelievably I didn't feel paranoid because she told me that she wasn't dating anyone so I felt pretty safe. That was until she sobbingly admitted to the "gang-bang" she had been a part of, and a handful of guys she had sexed in a 3 month period. To add insult to injury she said she did it because she "missed me", and right when I started to think about my own health she started coughing uncontrollably. I don't know what came first, the hyperventilating, the vomiting, or the chills induced by hypochondria, but she left because she claimed that my behavior was making her feel "dirty". I still remember saying, "And you didn't feel "dirty" as the point guard and the power forward filled you out like an application??!!"

I stood in the bathroom staring at my penis as if it was about to change colors like a mood ring, hoping that my doctor wouldn't be too pissed as I nervously dialed her house number in the middle of the night. Obviously everything was alright, but I still remember her husband asking me, "OK, what tramp did you fuck this week??"

Monday, December 19, 2005

If I had Six months to live...

About 4 years ago, in the midst of the worst terrorist attack on this country's soil, my father's death by prostate cancer, my girlfriend of 5 years dropping me as if she was a one armed wide receiver, and my mother being diagnosed with breast cancer, my good friend Alex was told he only had 6 months to live. Despite the horrible state of my mental health and my outright suicidal alcoholism, I still wanted to be there for my friend as he dealt with his own more serious health problem. He liked my support, but because he knew what I was going through he tried to dissuade me from coming by, by cursing me out, lying about being moved to a different hospital, even inventing some sort of half assed back-story where he accused me of sleeping with his fiancee. None of that stuff worked and I was staying by his side no matter what, not only because that's what loyal friends do, but because he didn't know that I tried to sleep with his fiancee before they even met and that she cursed my very existence.(I think I drunkenly whipped my dick out, but that's neither here nor there)

When I was visiting I would always try to steer the conversations to safe subjects like sports, movies, miscellaneous ass, anything to keep his mind off of his health issues. But Alex, the morbid motherfucker that he is, would always talk about death and situations surrounding death. Even though I was uncomfortable for the most part, we had a pretty interesting conversation when he posed the question, "What would you do if YOU had six months to live?" I guess you're now figuring that I will go into what I would do if I had a year to live? Well, you'd be right. I also guess you are figuring that I am posting this to pay tribute to my friend Alex that passed? Well, not because he passed, but because I was asked the other day, "Dude, you actually pulled your dick out in front of my wife a few years back??"

Tell people how much I love them: My family, despite all of my bullshit, has been absolutely great. My mother is the most important woman in my life, a true Ray of light that I would gladly give my life for in a New York minute. My sister has also been supportive, looking out for her little brother because she says that I'll be a "millionaire" one day, but her undying love for me is clearly evident. My brother and I could be a lot closer than we are, but despite our differences he is a great man, and I would want him to know that I don't blame him for my father's preferential treatment before he died. My Uncle Chuck, the coolest bald bastard outside of shaft and Kojak, has been there also and I love him dearly. I went into that lengthy spiel, giving love to my family members, not only because they are important to me but because who knows how many bastard kids will mysteriously come out of the woodwork when I die and need taking care of, so I guess I should start buttering up their ass now.

Make a hitlist, and follow it: If you have read my blog for just a few minutes a few things become abundantly clear, I am a classic premature ejaculator, I hate black republicans, I love Hip Hop, but most importantly I hold grudges like a motherfucker. Like a plumber with a fecal fetish, I just find it hard to let shit go sometimes. There have been retaliations by yours truly on old bullies and any garden variety asshole who ever talked shit and never got punished for it. If I was told that I had six months to live I would make a list comprised of all my old Nemesis's, people who talked shit about me, and random jackasses that old girlfriends left me go for. Like the show "My Name Is Earl" I would make a list, but I wouldn't be trying to make amends like the character Jason Lee plays, I would be administering savage beatings in the comfort of their own homes. I know its silly, childish, and senseless, but I just find it hilarious to think of a person getting the brakes beat off of them and them not know why. Besides, I have 6 months to live, so give a guy a fucking break here.

Be Robin-hood: I don't know what way to start this paragraph off but to simply say that I would rob a drug-dealer that I know blind. Let me explain: I went to college with this guy named Ben who is currently a big time drug dealer, he is making serious dough right about now. Listen, I'm no Mother Theresa, so I wouldn't even think of robbing him if me and Ben were currently on good terms. We were once cool, but all that ended when I saw him at a club one night and he tried to act big and bad in front of some of his hoodlum friends, saying that he would beat my ass while flashing his gun. Being that I know Ben comes from a rich family, his parents both being lawyers, Ben never being in a fight in his life, and the fact that I have actually seen him piss himself when threatened once, I felt secure in taking the gun out of his belt and smacking the shit out of him with it. Some time has passed and I was actually willing to forgive his drunken faux paus, until I heard that he said that he would "cripple me" if he sees me. So if I had 6 months to live I would ambush him outside of his house wearing a ninja outfit(with shell-toe Adidas of course), hold him hostage for a couple of hours until he empties the contents of his safe and bank account, then knock his ass out for not only selling poison to my people but also fucking model chicks that I couldn't get to sleep with me if I had 100 dollar bills taped to my body. Then I would anonymously give 92% of it to random charities, hoping that that act of kindness would look good on my "Heaven resume". The other 8% would go to booze, weed, and whores.(Not particularly in that order)

Learn Spanish: As a black blogger who doesn't have a girlfriend to bitch about my daily blog posts, I feel confident to say that I have lost out on some premium Latina tail because of the simple fact that I don't speak Spanish. This is going to sound like some third rate UPN sitcom or something, but there have been times that I have been told that I could have experienced that delightful "Chocha"(sp?) if I indeed spoke Espanol. Granted, they could have been lying, never having the intentions of me tasting that sweet nectar anyway, but just in case I want to be prepared if it happens again. Even if I don't meet a woman over that 6 month period impressed be my newly acquired Bi-Lingual status, I do have a neighbor named Marisol who seemed thoroughly impressed when I counted to 30 in Spanish once, so imagine where I will get with her if I string one coherent sentence together?

Make a Dialogue driven Porn: I like my pornography like I like my women and Kung Fu flicks, small on the talk and quick on the action. Nothing decreases the size of a chubby fatser than a porno's attempt to have some sort of story, usually involving a pizza boy or some cliched horseshit like that. But if my dance-card was going to be punched in 6 months, I would make a feature length porn, involving intricate plot devices and spicy diologue to the point you thought Woody Allen wrote and directed it. Plus, nothing would bring a smile to my face faster than thinking about some couple watching my flick to add some spice in their relationship somewhere in the U.S, and them turning to each other and saying "This is a well written porn, who would have thought??" Besides, what better way to get the audiences mind off of my small penis, and an even smaller "performance time", than a shit load of dialogue for the actors to spew out.

Flat out tell people: My ex recently told me that I was like Paris Hilton, not because we both have an association to crappy hotels, but because we are both all out attention whores. This fact would be even more evident if I had six months to live, because I would tell anyone willing to listen. I would reiterate that fact to my close friends, so that I wouldn't have to pay for any fucking drinks, and having a shitload of parties thrown in my honor wouldn't be bad either. I would tell women that I met in bars in order to get some "pity ass", they wouldn't believe me at first, but I'm sure they would come around when I show them a doctors note and an X-Ray that I keep handy. As much as they despise me, regardless of their current romantic situation, I would sobbingly tell my ex-girlfriends of my current situation and that "I will go to my grave knowing that you are the only woman I ever loved" If that doesn't remove panties quicker than a Tom Jones performance, I don't know what will??

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Blue-eyed Soul

I always thought that the best way for me as a single individual to dispel racial stereotypes was to simply drop my trousers, nothing shatters myths faster than a chubby black blogger that's hung like a toddler. I guess there are some ounces of truth in many stereotypes, I acknowledge that, but whenever a stereotype can be thrown back in someone's face to the point that they rethink their whole ideology, it can be rather entertaining. For example, there was a guy on my High School Track team named David France, our resident pole vaulter and token white guy on our field events team. No one knew how fast he was, until I challenged him to a race one day in practice and he absolutely blew my motherfucking doors off, smirking as he passed, embarrassing the piss out of me in front of some female admirers who were there to watch me practice. The other black athletes gave me grief because I got beat by a "white boy", but they quickly turned their "disbelief" of David's speed into "acknowledgment", when he beat them even worse than he beat me.

So David not only turned into our top sprinter, but also our anchor leg on our 400 meter relay team. When we would go to predominately black schools I used to make bets with people there, betting 20 bucks a pop that Dave would come in first.(The motherfucker ran like a 10.3 100 meter time, trust me that's good.) They acted like they were making easy money, thinking that there was no way in hell a white guy could beat their top black sprinters, only to give up the loot later and exhaustively say, "That's one fast white boy!" For anyone who knows anything about a 400 meter relay race, your second fastest runner(me) would go first, third fastest runner would go second, your slowest sprinter would go third, and your fastest runner would go last(Dave). But because I wanted to see first hand the proverbial air go out of the home crowd who doubted our Caucasian brethren's speed, I wanted to go third to hand off to Dave as I taunted the crowd and cheered Dave on as he finished first place, to the point that people would ask me later if Dave was "half black".

I thought about Dave the other day as I was using my Ipod to play songs at a get together a friend of mine was having. You guys know that my musical interests span genre's like a motherfucker, so when an artist's like Teena Marie or Michael McDonald came on they were shocked that they were indeed white musicians. Before I knew it I felt like I'm stuck in a bad sitcom, scrolling my Ipod and playing them soulful white singers that crush racial stereotypes. Since I am the king of lists, so I've been told, here are a few examples of said artists.

Michael McDonald: This gentleman was part of a group called "The Doobie Brothers", a group that my brother was fond of when I was a kid, so I was exposed to their musical stylings early on. "What a Fool Believes", "Taking It to the Streets.", and "Minute by Minute" are probably what this gentleman is best known for, but these particular songs just shows that he can sing with the best of them. After leaving "The Doobie Brothers" he reached solo success with songs like "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)", his duet with James Ingram, "Yah Mo B There."(If you watch the "40 year old virgin", that particular song plays a part on said movie.), and also his duet with Patti LaBelle, "On My Own,". The funniest recollection I have of this particular artist was an experience I had with an uncle who loved "The Doobie Brothers" intensely. The problem was that this particular uncle was racist as shit and didn't want to accept the fact that Michael McDonald was a white guy. I remember showing him pictures, album covers, magazine articles, but he didn't want to believe it, the same way people question the moon landing or the Holocaust. But I must say, as a dude who has been with someone that wasn't exactly right for me but for some reason I kept holding on, the song "Minute by Minute" is simply poetic in my opinion. When he says, "I take it all for granted like you're the only one/Living on my own, Somehow that sounds nice/You think I'm your fool-Well, you may just be right", that pretty much sums it up.

Teena Marie: Full disclosure, there are a handful of women that I will always have a crush on and those ladies include Lisa Lisa, Sheila E, Vanity, and Teena Marie.(Not in that particular order) This sultry songstress was so damn soulful that I really didn't fully realize that she was white until my teenage years. I know I have criticized this before ad naseum, but if there was indeed something entitled a "Ghetto Pass", this Los Angeles native would be the first to obtain one. Besides her duet with Rick James called "I'm Just a Sucker for Your Love", she had hits like "I Need Your Lovin',", "Square Biz", "Fix It.", "Lovegirl.", and "Ooh La La La". I had a chance to meet Ms. Marie at a music festival a year back and express my undying love for her, which flattered her probably, but also possibly freaked her out when I mentioned something about "drinking her bathwater" and doing her dishes and cutting her grass, offering myself up as a "personal bitch" for her leisure. I guess I should have stopped at me getting her autograph, huh?

Darryl Hall: A few months ago I said that me liking "Hall and Oates" was a guilty pleasure of mine, but fuck that, I say it loud and proud that I am a fan of said group and anyone who doesn't like it can kiss my natural black ass.(Sorry for my new found aggression when sticking up for this Philadelphia duo, but they were nice when I met them a while back. Don't worry, I will probably go back to hesitantly acknowledging my admiration for them next week.) My mother particularly hates this group, not because they didn't have catchy hooks, or that Darryl Hall's voice wasn't melodious magic, but because I would play one of their tapes everyday before the bus got me for school which drove my mother absolutely batshit. She recognizes that Darryl Hall is as talented as they come, but like a Vietnam vet who wakes up in the middle of the night from having flashbacks of being in a rice field fending off Vietcong, my mother defiantly says "Fuck Them!" as she flashes back on how I played that tape continuously. But with songs like "Sara Smile.", "Kiss on My List", "Private Eyes" , "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do),", and "Did It in a Minute", you too would drive a loved one to hysteria from playing these tunes to death.

Robin Thicke: You would never think that any offspring from the guy who played the dad on "Growing Pains", or someone who once wrote songs for the likes of Christina Aguilera, Brandy, Marc Anthony, Mya and Jordan Knight would have such a soulful voice, but he does. Even though some readers of this blog promptly proved me wrong, but at the time I thought I was the only person that had his first album "A Beautiful World" in my possession. He showed a soulful melodic voice, not a voice that is constantly searching for an identity like Justin Timberlake's, but he came across as a soulful white guy that is comfortable in his own skin. It was hard to see how horribly he was being marketed at the time, watching Andre Harrell "Forrest Gump" his way into NOT making Thicke a household name, noticing how they kept changing his image as if they were a bunch of indecisive schizophrenics. With songs like "Oh Shooter", "The Stupid Things", and "A Beautiful World" off of his first album, that should be enough to recognize his undeniable skill and force you to pick up his new album when it comes out. I know earlier in this paragraph I took a subtle shot at his pops, Alan Thicke, but I just noticed that he is credited for writing the theme songs for "The Facts of Life" and "Diff'rent Strokes", Ok, his pops is alright.(*walking off singing* "You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both..)

Who would you add to this list??

Angry Thursday Rant: NBA Dress Code

I have been asked about how I feel about the NBA dress code for a couple of months now, but I really didn't go into any elaborate answer because I seriously didn't give a fuck. But as I heard more about it, and the reasoning behind it, I decided to make my point of view concerning this particular topic loud and crystal clear.

If I decide to see an old school artist perform in my city and there is a strict dress code, it pisses me off, but I understand because it is usually put in place to keep the "thugs" out, I understand it.(Even though I know plenty of stone cold killers who wear Armani suits, but I digress.) But when the NBA announced the dress code that they would be enforcing, the reasoning that was given was that they were "cleaning up the image of the NBA". OK, kind of vague, but now I hear from sports analysts along with NBA brass that the dress code was implemented because of all the corporate dollars involved and the interest of said corporations. I am by no means Malcolm X here, but to me that just seems like a PC way of saying that the dress code was put in place to make "Rich white folks comfortable". Jesus Fucking Christ man, its 2005, being scared of black men is so 1956, why should they cater to motherfuckers who probably fear young black males regardless if they wear a doo-rag or a three piece suit?? The NBA is on the low end of the totem pole when it comes to making money and popularity in the United States, and you can bet your sweet ass that it has nothing to do with the attire that they are so cowardly trying to attack. The reason that the NBA isn't as popular as other sports, is because the commissioner David Stern, and those of his ilk who run the NBA, couldn't market the NBA out of a goddamn paper bag. Don't blame it on baggy jeans, gold chains, and doo-rags, blame it on your blistering incompetence.

I also have an issue with the counter-arguments like, "But they are millionaires, they don't have a reason to be complaining at all!!" This is foolishness, when did having money forfeit the right to verbally voice your complaint about something. So, if the owners wanted African American players to play ball in blackface once a week in the NBA's new "watermelon and Basketball" campaign, they wouldn't have a right to bitch about it based on their paycheck?? I know it's an unrealistic example, but you get what I'm saying. The other idiotic argument that I heard from Charles Barkley was when he said that since other major CEO's have to wear suits, why should it be any different for NBA players. I guess, Chuck, that the mere fact that those other CEO's aren't wearing tank-tops and shorts as they perform their particular jobs would separate them from those other CEO's that you mention, you horses ass. Not to mention, if it was alright for NBA players to wear Afro's and bell-bottoms in the 70's and jheri curls and parachute pants in the 80's, what is the fucking difference now??

I don't know, I could be wrong, but take this for what it is... A Rant..

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Sunday service with Moms..

For the past few weeks my mother has been nagging me to death about going to church with her, so I obliged her this past Sunday even though I woke up feeling completely hung over with stripper glitter embedded in my skin. I'm not shitting you, after scrubbing myself like I had just drunkenly slept with Paris Hilton, that glitter shit was so hard to come out that I think that it's a top secret Stripper plot to sabotage relationships or something. So I put on my Sunday best, promised myself that I wouldn't embarrass my mother, and prepared myself for religious Tao-Bo.(See, for anyone who has attended a catholic service will tell you, it is akin to a work-out session. Sit, stand, hug, sit, stand, kneel..) On the way there my mother, who has changed churches because of my previous antics, told me that I needed the lord in my life in her own way, saying "HumanityCritic, you need the motherfucking lord in your life!! Tighten your shit up and get some religion." I agreed with her, feeling that her sudden need for me to become best friends with Christ was because of how into religion I was as a kid. I mean, I was a good catholic boy, knowing scriptures, being nice to strangers, I was an alter boy for Christs sake!! But as the years have gone by I have seen men of the cloth disrespect their particular title, the cult-like symptoms some loved ones had when they found religion, and the homophobia and racism that has been carried out on God's name, so that soured me on Religion a bit.

So as soon as my mother and I entered the church I felt like I had just walked into a Klan bar on Karaoke night, everyone turning around in a "what in the fuck are YOU doing here" kind of way. So I sat down with my mother and everything went swimmingly well for the first few minutes, but what happened afterwords is the main reason that my mother won't be asking me to church anytime soon.

My turrets: I don't know what it is, but for as long as I can remember intimate thoughts that should have stayed inside my head tend to fly out. Like the time where I said "Because you're a whore!!" when my friends girlfriend sobbingly asked why they broke up, when I told a cop "Shut the fuck up Serpico!" as he lectured me about speeding, or when I told a young woman "Are we gonna fuck or what?" after like our 3rd assless date, I have serious problems keeping my thoughts to myself. It happened again in church this past Sunday, on a few occasions to be totally honest, embarrassing the piss out of my mother to the point where she angrily said "You were adopted motherfucker!" later that afternoon. My first outburst happened when the priest called out a young woman in the audience to join him on stage so he could tell everyone about her recent humanitarian efforts in Africa. Well, the young woman in question was sitting a few rows in front of me, and because I was sitting on the end of my particular row I could see her in her entirety as she made her way to the front of the church. I don't know what got into me, I actually thought that I was keeping it to myself, but apparently I blurted out, "Daaamn, that girl has a Phat ass!! For fucks sake!!" I was so focused in on the "wagon that she was dragging" that I didn't notice people's outrage as they angrily glared at me or my mother's embarrassment. The second outburst happened when we were all asked to Hug people around us, a common request in Catholic church services as far as I know. Anyway, the woman in front of me who gave up the first hug had cleavage that made my mouth water like Pavlov's dog or Bobby Brown when crack is dangled in front of his face, it was that intense. To make matters worse she gave me a super tight embrace, made me "pitch" a serious "tent" in the worst building imaginable to do so. As she let go and chatted with me briefly I stared at her chest and shook my head saying "Umm, umm, umm. Jesus Christ lady!"

Shock and Awe: I know I haven't been to church in a while, and I know that I have a history in this area of being a raving lunatic at times, but the last place I want to be reminded of said history is at church. Before and after church service people would come up and say shit like, "Wow, YOU'RE in church??", or "Hell has officially frozen over!", or my personal favorite, "What bet did you lose??" Usually I would have been entertained by those statements because there is definitely some truth there, the problem that I had was that those individuals didn't have the decency not to say those things in front of my mother. It's kind of like someone approaching you while you are with your current boyfriend/girlfriend, and they go on and on about how many people you fucked and the wild shit you once did, you don't want to expose them to that bullshit. Well, my mother already knows what kind of psychopath that I am, so she didn't need to be reminded of it on that particular holy day. I got kind of pissed, so when this dude named Mitch had made his 3rd wise comment I took him to the side and said, "If you say one more smart comment I'm going to bury you in this motherfucking church parking lot, if you think I'm above beating you in front of a priest you have another thing coming!!" He got the message, but then again so did my mother, since she is friends with his mother.

Church Speed Dating: Have I mentioned how much being single sucks? I have, OK good. I know that church is the last place a single fellow like myself should be looking for love, or at least lust where I let out ejaculatory Willy Wonka tunes where afterwords I tell her that a cab is on its way. What kind of man would I be who preyed on women, most of whom gathered in a building for the lord our savior to forgive them for their whorish ways of the previous week. Scratch that, church is better than any singles bar I ever went to. Anyway, I didn't go to church with my mother to get women, but with each conversation I had with catholics of the opposite sex that day, it kind of turned into me getting their number. I had a conversation with a Cuban woman that started off innocent enough but ended with me getting her number so we could "get drunk" later in the week. Another conversation I had with a woman started off about certain bible scriptures, but ended up with me finding out how she loved "giving head" and that she would love to see my band play because she finds dudes with bands "sexy".(Even I felt dirty when she opined about her felatial habits, which is saying a lot) Then there was a lady I was talking to who wanted to know if I had any experience hooking up stereo equipment because she needed help with hers, so when I told her that the only time I could come by would be 2 in the morning, bringing condoms, and drunk off my ass, she stormed off in disgust only to slip me her number later. As I got in the car with my mother and a few numbers fell out of my pocket she yelled, "What the fuck is this!! Could you not think with your dick one day a week??!!" I guess not.

Blatant honesty: Like people who know me will tell you, all you have to do is ask me a question enough times and all the nicety's and decorum that comes from not stirring up shit will automatically fly out of the window. Like when my mother and I was talking to this young couple and they were saying some pretty homophobic shit like "All gays are going to hell", and "I'm sure glad there aren't any fags here!!" Usually my mother would dissuade me from objectionable behavior, but this particular instance she gave me a quick head nod, telling me it was OK to rip them a new one. So I said to the couple, "I'm gay, have been "out" for 15 years actually. I'm offended, and have every right to beat you where you stand!" The look of horror on their faces was priceless, my mother got a kick out of that but she wasn't so pleased with what I would say later. Like when asked continuously by a older gentleman why I don't come to church regularly, I blurted out, "Because church cuts into my hangover rehab time, plus nothing is better than begging for a early Sunday morning "freebie" from a woman who is still on the clock." Or when the priest was nagging me about the issues I had with Catholicism and I said, "Priests touching kids and the lenient punishment of them when caught, the homophobia, and the bullshit stance that priests took against John Kerry because of his pro-choice stance. I could go on all day!" The priest in question gave me a very uncomfortable smile, a smile one would give trying to maintain a smirk while getting anally raped, and gave me a very PC answer that didn't solve any of my concerns. My mother was pissed as we drove home, but she grabbed my shoulder and said, "You know, if his ass didn't like scary answers then he shouldn't ask scary questions. Lets get something to eat."

Monday, December 12, 2005

Sex and Richard Pryor

Being that I am an all out attention whore, I was kind of excited to be interviewed by a journalist concerning this little old blog. As I got ready to meet this 20 something journalist I brushed my teeth, put every dreadlock in proper order, and looked at myself in a full body mirror and said something feminine to myself like "all my weight goes to my hips and my thighs!! Fuck!!". I raced to the coffee-shop where we were meeting and I was pretty much relaxed, until I openly wondered if she expected me to do some of the things that I talk about in my blog. I mean, I have broken someones jaw, cursed out a preacher, poured a full pitcher of beer on more ignorant females than I care to recall, and try to put a beating on David Spade, but if nothing of note happened during our conversation would she consider me a fraudulent disappointment?? I arrived on time for our scheduled noon interview, looking in the crowded coffee shop for a woman who gave a self description of herself as a "thick looking Lauryn Hill". Whenever someone says that they resemble someone famous they never end up looking anything remotely close to the celebrity in question, so I was looking for a female version of Biz Markie or Mr.T, possibly with dreadlocks.

For a few moments I thought she had stood me up, until I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and say, "HumanityCritic, I'm Darla. How are you doing??" I turned around and she did indeed look like a beef eating version of Lauryn Hill, and goddammit that's a good thing. For the next few minutes we had what I thought was a marvelous conversion, and she laughed at all my jokes, not in a "you are a funny guy that I am interviewing" way but a "I might give your chubby black blogging jackass a piece of this journalistic ass for good measure" way.(Putting a new spin on the term "crossing the T's and dotting the "I's") We talked about the state of Hip Hop, blogging, I took the high road and didn't diss bloggers that she asked me about and who I thought sucked complete ass, the amazing intelligence of my readers despite my immaturity, I was having a great time. The conversation took a pretty weird turn when she said, "I read your blog all the time and obviously you have father issues. I understand where your coming from, but don't you think your complaints are silly compared to someone like me who barely knows her father? You are lucky in my opinion." I paused for a few moments, not only because of the immediate U-Turn our conversation caravan took, but because of the blatant venom in which she delivered said diatribe.

I tried to emotionally gather myself because my mind said "Attack", but I knew that I was being interviewed, even though I did openly wonder if pouring hot coffee on her would hurt my career or help it. So in the most relaxed tone I could muster I said, "Why should people compare their pain? But if I never had a father at least I could romanticize about a fictitious meeting where he apologizes for his sins, I forgive him and we live happily ever after. While I, the miserable fuck in front of you, has to go to his grave actually thinking that his father despised his very existence. Enjoy your motherfucking coffee!" You know that dastardly lump that appears in your throat when the act of crying is actually around the corner, well that motherfucker decided to come by for an unexpected visit. The conversation lasted a few more minutes, it got back on course, but obviously I had talked myself out of panties once again.(She actually wasn't wearing panties, I know, I'm a pervert for looking. But if you guys think that I am anti-Bush, you were wrong that day.) I don't what it is, I have had guns pulled on me, my heart ripped out of my chest by women I would have died for, and put myself in situations that would make someone put you in a straight-jacket in a padded room, but nothing breaks me up like my relationship , or lack thereof, with my old man.

The passing of Richard Pryor this past Saturday evoked memories of my father that have been the strongest since his passing three years ago. Let me explain. My father would show kind of an eye rolling interest in the good grades that I would get or certain sports accomplishments, but the two things that we related to was discussing "sex" or "Richard Pryor". I couldn't tell you how many of his female clientele at his auto repair shop that he would pimp me off on, not making sure his baby boy had another notch on his belt, but to hear about said encounter and live vicariously through me later on. I know that telling your father the blow by blow details of how you thrusted like a man possessed on some random chick while you stared at her wedding photo is a bit creepy, but detailing said events were the only times that I felt in any way relevant to my father.

Talking about about Richard Pryor brought me similar feelings of validation, going over his routine ver batim with my father and laughing the whole time. Richard was a genius, to be funny and exposing the audience to bitter truths that they didn't want to think about is an amazing talent to have. If you listen to a lot of his recordings you can tell that in certain parts of his show he is just riffing, not necessarily doing a planned bit but just having an impromptu discussion with the audience. Fashioning myself a wannabe writer, Richard was influential to me because he showed that you can be expose yourself, insecurities and all, and do it with reckless abandon because 9 times out of ten other people can relate totally. He also taught me another lesson when it comes to life or writing specifically, and that lesson is "Fuck em' if they don't like it!!"

Richard will always be an inspiration and he will be missed, but I know he would understand it when I say that I hope that him and sex aren't the only topics that my future child and I relate to. Rest in Peace Brother...

Thursday, December 08, 2005

What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas Motherfucker!!!

What some people don't understand about my anger issues, and my penchant for physically trying to detach someones jaw from their goddamned body, is that said anger is only directed at people of the asshole persuasion. I said all of that to say that the biggest lesson that I have learned while on earth for the past 32 years is that it pays to be nice to people. Let me explain. I have said this before, but in High School I was popular by default, meaning that I was actually a nerd who was propelled into the stratosphere of popularity because I ran track, that simple. Even though I was accepted by the cool kids as one of their own, I always felt like a ghetto ass Cinderella, waiting for the clock to strike 12, exposing my pocket protector and my love for foreign films. But I figured that while in High School(Or the "ball" to keep up with the Cinderella analogy) I would use my new found popularity for good and not evil. I made it my personal mission to cause physical pain to any "bully" that decided to harass someone that they considered a nerd, and one of the people that I helped was a dude named Bill.

Bill, for all intents and purposes was a bona fide nerd, but he was my friend. Anyway, he was going through the rough transition of losing his parents to a car accident and the everyday tragic monotony of being a High School student. One day this dude who was on my football team named Todd started bullying Bill, smacking him in the face and giving him a severe wedgie. I ran over, kicked Todd in the face(knocking a couple of teeth out), and gave him an even more severe wedgie in front of all his peers, telling him that if he resisted that I'd "break his fucking arm". After my week suspension from school was over and I returned to class, Bill gave me a heartfelt letter telling me that I was the only person that ever stuck up for him in his life and that he once contemplated suicide, but not now. My act of random violence assured him that there were cool people out there. I knew right there I had a friend for life, not only because of the way that I touched a classmate of mine, but because the entire year I acted as Bill's body guard protecting him from Todd's boys who wanted revenge.

I went into that lenghty introduction worthy of a "Lifetime Movie of the Week" simply to say that Bill, the nerd that I once protected, now runs a casino and hotel in Las Vegas. So, suffice it to say, he hasn't forgot about High School and has been "looking out" for me the past decade or so. Despite my shoddy history there, Bill has invited me to the place they nickname "City of Lost Wages" for a Christmas and New Years celebration that he says will be "one to remember". I want to go, I really do, but I feel like Joe Pesci's character in "Casino" because of the trouble I have caused my childhood friend whenever I have been in Sin City. So after reading about some of my actions in Las Vegas, I need your opinion whether I should go or stay my black ass in Virginia Beach Virginia.

Joe Dirt: A couple of years ago I had one of the best times in Vegas ever, my band had just played a fantastic gig where a few ladies had pumped my ego up tremendously, I was up 4 grand from just playing blackjack, like a masturbating massage therapist I was feeling myself. One of our last nights there we were drinking, a lot, and betting like there was no tomorrow. After the croupier had dealt me my cards and I was trying to figure out whether to play them or not, I look up and who do I see siting across from me but David Spade. OK, not exactly Brad Pitt on the "celebrities you should give a shit about" list, but recognizable nonetheless. Plus, this isn't a very popular opinion, but I think the movie that he did entitled "Joe Dirt" is funny as shit. So I said, "Man, I loved Joe Dirt. That shit was funny as fuck!" Even though I said it in the most sincere way that I could while drunk, trying not to come off as sarcastic, he said "Shut the fuck up asshole!" I sat there for about 20 seconds bewildered because usually I would be pounding someone for saying that by now, but I decided to let him make amends so I said, "No I'm being serious, that was a good movie" Then he looked at me, smirked, and said "Like I care what the fuck you think, ass-bag!" OK, it was official, this motherfucker was talking shit. So I calmly said, "How would you like it if all these people in the hotel witnessed Joe Dirt getting his ass handed to him motherfucker??" Immediately, I guess playing it incognito, two of his very big bodyguards come out of nowhere, prompting this SNL reject to boldly say, "I'll kick you ass, you want some of me???", while 2 very large black men about 6'5 280 pounds stood behind him.

So I put my cards down and started to make my way around the table, planning to take 2 of his bodyguards out, then making my way to Spade where I intended to break one of his puny limbs.(That was my plan, not saying that it could have happened.) Before I get to them Bill comes out of nowhere, along with a couple of his security guys, and tackle me in a fashion that would make Lawrence Taylor proud. As I look up and David Spade, along with his bodyguards are walking away, all the while Spade saying something like "He's Lucky, He's lucky!!" Even though by the time Bill and his crew let me up off the ground, Spade and company were still visible down a long hallway, prompting me to grab a glass off of the table and hurl it at them like I was a center fielder trying to make a play at home base. To my delight I actually ended up hitting him with it so I felt that I had accomplished something that night. After the situation ended me and Bill went back to his office, where we laughed for minutes after he said, "Dude, you almost beat Joe Dirt's ass!!!"

Mobb Deep: Even though gambling is obviously legal in Las Vegas, there are a lot of what people call "underground games", games that are pretty shady and usually you need a personal connection even to sit down at one of them. Well, Bill was my personal connect, so I attended one in a back room of a local business one hot Tuesday night. I sat at a table that I quickly named "the little U.N", because everyone who played there was of a different nationality and a different walk of life. The first few hands went horribly, me losing about 300 dollars within minutes, but my luck changed for the better for the rest of the night. I was definitely on a winning streak, bluffing the shit out of people while holding the crappiest hands possible, all the while talking more shit than a chatty proctologist. During one of the last hands of the night, a gentleman from New York had went "all in" on me, betting his entire stack trying to bluff me. I pushed all my chips in to match him, not because I was playing recklessly, but because I felt confident because I was holding a full house. When we revealed the cards I had won that hand, worth 2 thousand dollars, so obviously I was expecting to collect my money. But this motherfucker quickly grabbed his chips and said, "I'm not giving your black ass anything!!" Outraged, I grabbed him, prompting him to flash me his gun tucked ever so tightly in his belt, so I sat the fuck down still defiantly calling him a "bitch-made peasant"(I don't know why those particular words came out of my mouth)

Anyway, a day later I see this jackass in Bill's casino, so I decided to make a complete scene and irritate the fuck out of this wannabe mafioso. In a crowded casino, I ran up and put my arm around him and said, "Whoever can hear this, do not bet with this man, he is a piece of shit that won't pay his debt! Ain't that right you miserable motherfucker??" He pushed me off of him, but the whole night all I did was talk shit, even sitting at the tables that he bet at saying shit like, "I bet you'll pay your debt here, you dick-less inbred piece of shit" My alcohol level along with the outrage that I felt because of the 2 grand he owed me just made the immature ridicule I spewed in this man's direction unbearable. So unbearable that Bill had to take me outside and give me a stern warning, a warning that went exactly like this: "HumanityCritic, the guy you are bickering with is a Mob guy. I am surprised that he hasn't killed you by now, so chill the fuck out. If my previous two sentences somehow get lost in translation in that dreadlocked head of yours then maybe this will make my point crystal clear, there are bodies in the desert that that guy is responsible for." I looked at him, smiled, and said "What's 2 grand anyways??"

Screaming like a bitch: Bill was kind enough to invite me and my friends to some celebrity shin-dig a while back, so because the fact that he mentioned the possibility of Rosario Dawson being there I quickly accepted. We get to Vegas and attend said party and it was off the hook, no Rosario though, but enough celebrities and high class prostitutes to make a prick like me extremely happy. Emilio Estevez isn't the celebrity he once was, but I got absolute joy when some random drunk asshole was giving him shit and I stepped in, put my fists up, and told the asshole "I'll make you famous motherfucker!!"(like Estevez' character says in "Young Guns", minus the "motherfucker" part) Anyway, I meet some extremely beautiful women who say that they want to "party" with me and my crew. I told them that the term "party" is a codeword for "vaginal entrance for currency" and that we weren't into paying for any prostitutes. They assured us that they weren't hookers, so we went back to my hotel suite and played cards with these beautiful women, with images of me putting on three condoms and spraying her with disinfectant later. We were all pretty liquored up, so for some reason one of the women asked me what name I had given my penis, saying in a very stripper-like voice "What do you call the little guy?" Smirking at her for calling it little when she hadn't had any proof of that, even though she was correct, I thought for a minute for my answer. The answer I gave has to be the corniest thing I have ever said to a person of the opposite sex, so corny that I wouldn't blame any man, woman, or child who decided to stop reading this blog because of said idiocy. OK, I said: "I nicknamed my penis "Dictionary". She asked "Why?", prompting me to say, "Because nothing I would like more than to put words in your mouth!!"(see, corny)

She giggled and said, "Well, that will be extra if you want that!" "Extra?", I said, "You girls said that you weren't prostitutes!!" She said, "You guys knew we were working girls, don't front. Plus, why other would four beautiful women be hanging out with you jackasses anyway?"(The woman had a point) I told them that we weren't paying a fucking thing and that they should leave immediately, which prompted her to call up two extremely huge gentleman in black suits. I guess these guys were their corporate looking pimps, but these dudes looked like they meant business. I figured they had guns as well, not because I saw a gun or anything, but because they said "We've got guns" Like going down on my college girlfriend who was a feminist and didn't believe in shaving, it was a pretty hairy situation to say the least. Before I could even figure out if I should just pay the money or even fight these guys, my boys opened up the window and started to scream for help like the hotel was on fire. All you could hear were these masculine shrieks of horror coming from 3 grown men, "Help! Help! They're going to kill us!!!" I looked at the two men and they were uncomfortable, uncomfortable to the point that they started inching for the door, so I decided to scream with my friends since it seemed to be working, "Help!! Help!! Somebody Please, for the love of god and everything that's holy, somebody save me!!".(Not one of my finest moments) The guys left and it was only us and a few of the girls remaining, inducing one of them to say, "You guys are a bunch of bitches!" So I said, "We ARE bitches, but we are bitches that aren't going to pay you 500 dollars for a game of cards and a whore-level conversation", as I gently mushed her out of the door with the bottom of my shell-toe Adidas.