My mother is great. Not only because she is the smartest person that I know, but because she hasn’t given up on me even though I have to be the biggest asshole she has ever known. She’s been there through my father’s insults, me disrespecting members of the clergy, me calling unskilled motorists of the female persuasion “dirty dime-store whores”, using her as a prop as I told one unruly gentleman, “I’ll beat your ass in front of my mother, that’s how crazy I fucking am!!”, and a plethora of other mind numbingly violent indiscretions that would have most mothers heading for the door.(Plus, what other mother can recognize a Public Enemy tune, or Big Daddy Kane on television. Yep, my mom rocks harder than yours..) Because of our tight bond, and her being the only person on the earth who truly knows me, I was taken a back by how surprised she was when I told her about the notes from High School I forged her signature on, the cutting of class, and the mass amounts of pre-teen ass I clumsily deflowered in her house after school. She wasn’t shocked by the specific indiscretions, she’s the one who begged me to not beat up a female co-worker who was giving her problems even though I was joking recently, but I just think she realized that even though you can be the best parent you can be, shit still gets by you sometimes.
But ever since I came clean to her about my childhood mischief, I felt that our bond got even stronger, that was until this conversation last week.
Mom: HC, did you go to school with a kid named Jared?
HumanityCritic: Yeah, portly dude who is a burger away from resembling a mobile home? Dude who needs to follow the lead of his namesake in those Subway commercials? I know him.
Mom: Was all that necessary? Anyway, I work with his mother and I have learned some pretty interesting things about you!
HumanityCritic: Like what?(hoping that she didn’t know about the midget that I once threatened, or the handicapable man that I threaten to roll down a steep hill when he called me a racial slur once.)
Mom: I learned that your behavior in bars is, well, interesting.
HumanityCritic: (mumbling) I’m going to beat the Trimspa out of that motherfucker Jared!
Mom: You will do no such thing!! I’m curious, how do you act in bars anyway?
HumanityCritic: OK, here goes..
I control the jukebox: When Rakim said, “Weak ideas irritate my ears!” I know what the fuck he was talking about. Regardless of the circumstance, if I’m mid-coitus and a Mary J Blige song comes on, writing at my computer and a Ying Yang song comes on, or at a bar and participating in the causal art of getting shitfaced and a country and Western tune comes on, I have to get up and make that unpleasant sound go away by any means possible. I don’t know what it is, but as if someone told me I was scheduled to get anally raped later, I just sit there visibly uncomfortable when bad music infiltrates my earlobes. To combat this feeling I will do one of two things: 1: Even though the bar that I frequent the most is a country and western loving, Nascar showing, I only go there because “its close to my house and I don’t want to get a D.U.I” bar, their jukebox has a surprisingly diverse selection. So what I do is dump like 25 dollars and program as many songs as possible, finding it funny when Hillbilly fucks are subjected to Redman, Nas, The Roots, and Al Green for hours. I just know that my Hip Hop offends their down home sensibilities, not because white men can’t enjoy Hip Hop, but them mumbling “That guy is a fucking dick!” under their breath is a clear example. 2: This might seem a bit much, but when I hear a song that is as vomit inducing as Lil Kim in a spelling Bee, I have been known to get up, unplug the jukebox, and just hand the person who played said selection a couple of bucks for their trouble. Hey, having bad taste is a disease, just take my act of defiance as a form of chemotherapy.
I mush people who talk my ear off: When I drink I’m in one of two modes, the “life of the party” mode or the “leave me the fuck alone and let me deal with the fact that I’m the one black man that ruins the big penis myth“ mode. When I’m in the ladder mode I’m nice for a few minutes, but if you drunkenly begin to talk my head off I will be forced to mush you. What is a mush you ask?
Mush:(verb)urban dictionary definition: The act of placing ones hand on another person’s face and pushing the person backwards. Sentence “The guy tried to tell me that Tupac was better than Rakim, so I mushed that motherfucker!”
You get the idea. I couldn’t tell you how many drunk motherfuckers, literally talking my head off about engrossing topics ranging from Van Halen being better with David Lee Roth to them expressing that my hair “must be extensions”, that I have surprised the fuck out of by mushing them the fuck out of their chair. The look they give you as you palm their face and violently push them away from you is a priceless one that you will replay in your memory for years to come. Ladies can get mushed too, as a young woman found out recently as I gently palmed her face in a backwards position, interrupting her while she was giving me the standard “I really like your dreadlocks” spiel.(note: The mush given to ladies is gentle, not violent, with the right amount of "english" on it to be deemed a diss)
I talk about Religion and Politics: People say that you should never talk about religion and politics in a bar, but I feel that people think that way because they don’t want their lack of knowledge of both topics exposed. OK, even though I went to Catholic school, had pre-teen erections to girls in plaid skirts, and was on the business end of a nun's ruler more times than not, but a master of theology I’m not. But, since I feel that I know more than you garden variety Bush supporter, I tend to make my opinion known in watering holes throughout my city. To be honest, I’m not a person to engage in a gentlemanly debate about politics, my technique involves facts, sprinkled with condescension, sarcasm, and an adult ridicule that is unparalleled. I’ve been known to say wonderful things like “You are broke, unemployed, and live in a fucking trailer. Why in the fuck are you voting for Bush?”, after a black woman openly praised Condi Rice I said, shaking my head “House Negro trash, the both of you. Give me that back!!(taking back a drink I had purchased for her), and, in a move I regret, telling a guy who recently lost his job due to the piss poor economy, who was a big Bush supporter pre election, “How’s that whole voting for Bush thing working out for you now motherfucker??” I know, that was a bit much.
I honestly critique local bands: When people have emailed me with sincere criticisms of my blog, I respect their honesty and I might even take a minute to think about what they wrote. Granted, when this pedophile of a house negro trashed my blog and tried to mask it as him giving me “constructive criticism”, I saw past his jealously and did everything in my power not to bombard him with “Colombian Necktie” threats. But, possibly mistaken, I assume that people are like me and embrace real constructive criticism. That’s why, from rappers to cover band, if I think you suck the same way Lil Kim did to get 5 Mics in The Source, I’m the first black bastard to let you know it. I’m not malicious with it, like last week after this band played at my local watering hole and the singer asked me what I thought of their performance, I’m sure she just wanted to hear something simple but she heard the following: “Y’all are alright, as cover-bands go. Besides the fact that your drummer is horrible, your guitarist is unsuccessfully trying to channel the ghost of Jimi Hendrix, and your singing sounds like you want to be Janis Joplin, which you are not, but you have that “dirty white chick” thing nailed down though.” She wasn’t impressed.
Or this one time that a rapper asked me about his performance and I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Ahh, you were OK.” When I noticed that he was taking my response as an endorsement, I followed it up by saying, “You are cool with indifference? I’m indifferent about craps I take, or a fucking pair of socks. You are satisfied with that?”
I’ll talk to your lady: Listen, I’m not that much of an asshole, if I see that you are with your lady of course I won’t approach her with an offer to count ceiling tiles and experience pre-ejaculation later on. I won’t even approach your lady while you go to the bathroom, or when you are out of eye-shot, what kind of dude do you take me for? But, if your lady talks to me about my hair, the weather, or any garden variety conversation, I have no problems being the reason you both break up. It’s like I’m a home run hitter, I won’t go out of my way to hit your broad, but if she finds her way in my strike-zone I might have to swing for the fucking fences. Granted, if she throws me the right pitch and I do manage to get on base, she will be disappointed that she settled for a pre-ejaculator who can’t bring any runs home.(My bad, I get carried away with baseball analogies) Obviously if you are my friend I will never target your lady, but I can't tell you how many dudes approached me on some, “Why did you sleep with my girlfriend?” shit, in which I reply, “We’re not friends, scram!”
Mom, does this explain my bar behavior?