A heart-warming tale: Why I despise organized religion..

The other day, for the life of me I couldn't tell you why, I did something that I thought I would never do again. No, I haven't decided to start fucking midgets again, haven't purchased another Eminem album, and the only reason I wore that speedo last year was because the woman I was intimate with told me that seeing my derriere made her hotter than Lil Kim's crotch on African Safari. After a long absence, Humanity F Critic decided to take his black ass to church. Don't let the title of this post fool you, I do believe in a higher power, and that isn't based on some sort of blind faith either. I mean, who else could have saved me from myself, those 1000 fights I have been in, the suicidal path that I took when I tried to drink myself to death, that had to be an act of god.(I am the poster boy for the "god looks after fools and babies" term) Lastly, when my father was healthy, one of the only topics that we agreed on were the foolish actions of people who were heavily religious. We called them "nut-bags", "bible thumping freaks", and every other name under the sun. So, I couldn't ignore the irony in it all as we were both praying, with our hands clutched, as my father lay there dying on his death bed on that rainy Sunday afternoon in February 01. Weirder in fact was later that night, when I had a dream of a thin dread-locked man with a white light behind him, approaching me screaming "Oh, NOW you want to pray to me, huh?? People kill me, wait people did kill me, man I kill me sometimes. hahaha" Some truly freaky shit.

So after a long layoff, I decided to take my dark complected ass to church, not only because I felt like it is something that I should be doing, but also this was the first Sunday since my mid 20's where I wasn't hung the fuck over smelling like cheap perfume and some miscellaneous woman's genitalia. Listen, I was raised Catholic, so the guilt of me not going to confession for the longest time was already there before I even stepped foot into that wooden structure that I call "God's microphone booth", I sat down in confessional, looking around in awe the same way an adult does when they have the chance to visit the childhood room that they slept in 30 years prior. Then suddenly the little door slid open, and before he could say anything I said "Forgive me father for I have sinned!" He said, "My son, how long has it been since your last confession?" I nervously racked my brain, not remembering specifically how many years it had been, so I simply said "The Clinton Administration?" I have to tell you, besides the jumper I hit yesterday to bring my team to victory at my local YMCA over a team with the combined age of like a thousand, nothing makes a person feel better than to have a priest laugh at one of your jokes.

He laughed for a good 20 seconds, which made me revise the old comedian line which I thought was fitting, "Thank you. Thank you!! My next show is 2016!" Instead of going through the regular "confessional" routine, he wanted to know why I didn't go to church regularly. Usually, I would have lied my ass off, even to a priest, about why I hadn't gone to church as regularly as most people. But since I'm an attention whore and the man had laughed at my joke for christs sake, I decided to tell him the truth that I really despised organized religion. He then said, "You aren't going to go into the "little boys" and "priests' thing are you, I'm tired of hearing that!!" That's when I told him, "Hey, I look at that the same way the Bush administration looked at Abu Graibe, 'just a few bad apples'" Again he laughed(not particularly the toughest crowd) and after the confession he pulled me aside, and wanted to know what specifically drove me away from organized religion. So, the following reasons I despise organized religion is exactly what I told the only man outside of Humanity F Critic Sr. that I have ever called "father". Of course this is the dirty version, but you understand.

Falling the fuck out: Even though I was always suspicious of celebrities who decided they wanted to "find god" all of a sudden, after they had snorted up all the coke and put their mouth on every phallus this side of the equator. I was always like, "Yeah, NOW you find religion!!" But a few years ago I was less cynical, because I had a few incidents happen to me where I had hit rock bottom and needed heavenly enlightenment, so I finally understood why after years of debauchery a person might want to be "cool with Christ". What made me want to have a chat with the big fella in his "house", simply, was because I was almost shot a few times. No, I'm not a thug, never sold weight, and I never claimed that the fictional character "Scarface" was something that I was aspiring to be. But, due to a stray shot that almost hit me at a club, a jealous ex-boyfriend who wanted my mother to only have one son, and a gentleman who wanted to forever silence my "big mouth" after a party, I knew that it was time to get reacquainted with my homeboy JC.

At the time a chick I was dating, Carla, suggested that I go with her to her church. Even though I was catholic and I think she was a baptist at the time, I saw no harm going with her where she worshipped. Immediately I felt that I had stepped into the twilight-zone, I mean, at catholic churches you have speedy services, these Gregorian chant type hymns, and everyone is reserved. In this chick's church folks were convulsing in a "Pat Riley trying to dance" sort of way , and like the fictional monster "Enema Man" it was scaring the shit out of me. After a few minutes of feeling like a Frank Sinatra fan who suddenly found himself in a Wu-Tang Klan concert, I noticed that everyone formed a single file line facing the preacher. As I looked further, I noticed that the preacher was putting his hand on people, and the particular person he had his hand on would shake like Muhammad Ali break-dancing, then they would fall the fuck out. I stood in line, wondering if I would catch the holy ghost, fake it if I didn't, or be a smart ass and tell the preacher "Nothing is happening, does that mean I'm Satan??!!" But I did none of that, I got so nervous I ran out of the building and proceeded to run the 4 miles to my house. Don't ask.

Sister Act: A few years ago I used to date this chick named Belinda, by far one of the wildest chicks foolish enough to ever see me naked. I'm talking bar fights, smacking chicks in the face for the fuck of it, cursing out random individuals at the drop of a hat, truly a woman after my own heart. I thought I had met my soul mate, a chick that I could grow old with, a woman who would roll my blunts for me when I got older, one that would tell my kids that the only reason I was smoking weed was because of my cataracts. Yeah, we had a bright future, that was until I hung out with her on Sundays. For one thing, music that I played in my car that she usually enjoyed was all of a sudden, on Sunday's that is, "inappropriate". She would actually eject my CD's and put in some god awful gospel Hip Hop, where said MC's would ruin a perfectly good beat by talking about "giving praise", or some other nonsensical hogwash like that. This chick was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide, especially when it came to "bumping uglies" on what many feel is the one holy day of the week

This one time while we were in my car, I tried to get frisky with her in my mode of transportation, her and my backseat were on a first name basis by the way. But on this particular Sunday she said, "Get off me, this is the lord's day!! I'm not engaging in sexual activities in your car!" That's when I lost in and said, "Listen, it's not like the almighty doesn't see you giving out mouth-hugs like free cheese from Monday through Saturday. Oh Yeah, by the way, you didn't have problems having sex in my car when you used my gear shift as a god damned dildo! Most of the time you are "9 1/2 weeks" but on Sunday you're "Sister Act"?? Fuck you, you Fucking hypocrite!!' Yeah, that was one of the last times I saw Belinda, even though I dearly miss her making my stick shift disappear.

The Preacher Hustle: Me and preachers go together like Melissa Etheridge and a penises, not very well. I mean, I respect the true messengers of the word, people who are totally selfless, doing whatever they can do to spread that positive message that inspires anybody within an earshot of their voice. I'm down for that, but what I'm not down with are the few "men of Christ" who I feel have abused their power the same way police officers who promises the hooker he won't arrest her if she goes down on him. I have encountered preachers who promote giving back and look down on excess, putting his congregation through a 2 hour sermon on the subject, only to drive away afterwards with a Lexus Jeep with spinners. I was once lectured about the importance of tithing and how if I did so that good things might happen for me, only to learn later that this man was fucking 3 different women in back on his church that weren't his loving wife. Or the worst at all, the black preachers who either get a huge "donation" from the republican party, or foolishly feel that abortion is the only issue out there come election time, so they betray the trust of their people and urge them to vote for some right-wing ass hat.

Tyler Perry: I'm sorry, I know that a lot of you like the material that this man puts out, but I motherfucking hate this guy. No, it's not that I just flat out think that the guy is a cluster-fuck of unadulterated unfunny. No, it's not that I feel that a lot of his humor is about a notch above traditional black-face and rappers with grills, that's not it at all. Really, my reason for hating this guy shouldn't have any reason for my hatred of organized religion, only that this girl that I would randomly show my genitalia to would play his fucking plays every Sunday morning that I was there. Fellas, it was so bad that I often considered skipping a sexual experience that I nicknamed "The late-night flesh-fest", where all my desires could be fulfilled with a woman that I just new moonlighted as a porn star. The worse feeling in the world is waking up, wanting to watch sportscenter or Ebert and Roeper in someone else's bed, having to endure some ghetto ass plays on video, plays that sounded like they were written by the same wordsmiths that brought us the gem "Kingdom Come" I know, Tyler Perry shouldn't be one of the reasons that drove me away from organized religion, I just wanted another reason to shit on him.

Video of the Day... Main Source: "Just Hanging out"

I have always loved Main Source and the song "Just Hanging out", really I have, but that isn't the main reason I'm playing this video today. The first reason I'm playing this classic tune is because I have become pretty cool with a young group of Hip Hop aficionados in my area, not "R. Kelly" young, but most of them are at least a decade younger than I am. Anyway, whenever I go to any of their functions, where "real Hip Hop" is played by the way, they spin this song as an indication that the "Hip Hop Uncle Rico" is in the house. Why do they call me that you ask? Well, the character in Napoleon Dynamite, "Uncle Rico", was a guy trapped in the past, not wanting to let go of the early 80's. Since they feel that I despise everything new in Hip Hop, and I constantly talk affectionately about the Rap music of the late 80's, they call me "The Hip Hop Uncle Rico". I should be pissed and throat-chop one of them, or kick one in the chest for having me be the butt of one of their jokes, but it's ok. Also, for the past decade and change I have called my brother a "Large Professor ass Negro" because of his striking resemblance to the man, but because he never knew who in the fuck I was talking about it was the best inside joke ever. That is, if he doesn't read this post.

"John Stewart is Poisoning Democracy".. Bullshit I say..

This excerpt is from a Washington Post article on Jon Stewart's "The Daily Show":

This is not funny: Jon Stewart and his hit Comedy Central cable show may be poisoning democracy. Two political scientists found that young people who watch Stewart's faux news program, "The Daily Show," develop cynical views about politics and politicians that could lead them to just say no to voting.

But, but, but wait it gets worse!!!

Jody Baumgartner and Jonathan S. Morris of East Carolina University said previous research found that nearly half -- 48 percent -- of this age group watched "The Daily Show" and only 23 percent of show viewers followed "hard news" programs closely. To test for a "Daily Effect," Baumgartner and Morris showed video clips of coverage of the 2004 presidential candidates to one group of college students and campaign coverage from "The CBS Evening News" to another group. Then they measured the students' attitudes toward politics, President Bush and the Democratic presidential nominee, Sen. John F. Kerry (Mass.).
The results showed that the participants rated both candidates more negatively after watching Stewart's program. Participants also expressed less trust in the electoral system and more cynical views of the news media, according to the researchers' article, in the latest issue of American Politics Research."

I don't know who these god-awful researchers are, but these must have been the same kids who got atomic wedgies during lunch period and never "got the girl" so to speak, because I haven't seen a bigger pile of shit since I poked a hole in my great Uncle's colostomy bag once. Listen, the only two news shows worth watching in this age of "information", are "Countdown with Keith Olbermann" on MSNBC, and "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart". Besides that, where are you going to get a more accurate dose of news, please tell me? Your local news, where they just regurgitate what the other news outlets spew out, with a few local murders and a "cat in the tree" story?? FOX News, an organization that was found to mislead people so much that more of their audience thought that Saddam had something to do with 9/11?? "Hardball with Chris Matthews", seems like a decent enough guy, but he spews out so many republican falsehoods if you had a drinking game based on it you would need a liver transplant before the hour was up. As for cable T.V, Jon Stewart's show is one of the best for accurate news, which is saying a lot of the landscape of news based on it being a comedy show. Sure, it's laced with cynicism concerning our politicians, but there is a good reason for that. They are all full of shit!!

And the winner of the "Catch a dirty plagiarist Award" is...... Cris2ferJ

Let me explain this for a moment. For the last year and a half, something that many of you will experience possibly, I have had a handful of people plagiarize my writings on their blog and attempt to pass them off as their own. I caught one culprit by accident by simply browsing other blogs, I caught 5 other's by using the site "Copyscape", and random emailers alerting me of said offense are responsible for 12 others that I'm aware of. So, because of a few hits I tracked back off of my stat-counter, I found myself on a message board where someone again tried to pass something off that I wrote as their original work. One of the commentators of this message board called them out, exposing the fraud, and that I am grateful for. So, Cris2ferJ, not only have you won the first "catch a plagiarist of Humanity Critic" Award(bravo), but you have already inspired a contest that will last pretty much forever.

The contest, for those willing to participate goes like this..

*Those who hip me to people plagiarizing my material will not only get*

1. A full length shout out and I will promote the shit out of your blog or any cause you want me to(on this blog that like only 4 people visit and shit),

2.You will also receive a HumanityCritic T-Shirt that I can't seem to give away.(The logo that is on the shirt is below)

So good luck, again I want to thank Cris2ferJ, and for those who don't want a t-shirt with my ugly mug on it I'll just say this: "Stop bitching you ungrateful sons-0f-bitches, it's free!!"

I had a clairvoyant vision proving that you can't trust a "Big Butt" or a "Smile"

Only recently, relatively late in life if you ask people who know me like my mother, have I began to see signs that I can suppress my impulses and act like a responsible adult. When an old lady honked her car at me like she had lost her god-damned mind, even though we were both sitting in rush hour traffic that was at least a mile long, I didn't flip out. Usually I would have waited to get my car besides hers at some point, and with colorful language explain to her what variety of "bitch" she was and go into the finer points of her lack of feminine hygiene. But I restrained myself, I just pulled beside her and let her know in sign language that she was number one.(I think I used the wrong finger though. hey, It's a start) When I was at a club recently and a group of guys began talking shit, my first instinct was to go right over there and take all three of them on, swinging with bad intentions, hoping to break the jaw of at least one of them. But since I'm older now, I told myself "Hey, there's three of them, I'm in no mood to catch an ass-whipping". Again, cooler heads prevailed, and I decided that taking on three guys at a time should be left to Jet Li and porn actresses, not Humanity F. Critic. OK, so I innocently noticed that two of them left early, and I innocently hit one over the head with a trashcan as he left said establishment.(Again, it's a start.)

I went into that long-winded introduction based on a waitress, sorry, a sexy temptress who makes penises rise like a fucking snake charmer, and me finally learning after 20 plus years to resist a "Big Butt" and a "smile". Now, let me be clear, I am all for a woman with a well manicured backyard and a dazzling set of pearly whites. Shit, if I was running for presidential office I would have a "Pro Gluteal" agenda, handing out campaign buttons with plump asses on them. No, I'm talking about those people that you find sexy as hell, but just know for the life of you that that person is nothing but trouble. That brings me to the bartender that I mentioned earlier, Vanessa, a 25 year old enchantress who moonlights as a bartender at my local watering hole.

She flirts with me constantly, and has made overtures that she indeed likes me, but as I sat at the bar watching her this past weekend I suddenly realized an undeniable truth. As the effects of malted hopps and rum damaged my liver, and I watched her handing out drinks as she danced to whatever song was playing, cleavage bulging out of her shirt, the flickering lights showcasing her Latina figure giving off the feeling that I was in a perpetual Hype Williams video, I knew things for me had changed. As she manuever down the bar, he skirt looking like it was painted on, giving me playful grins that entire night forcing me to stay in my chair for the remainder of the night because of the serious tent I was pitching, the thought that I was avoiding in my subconscious had suddenly come to the surface. I suddenly blurted out the thought which was an epiphany, one that I should have figured years earlier which would have saved me many hardships, I shouted out "I get it, you can't trust a big butt and a smile!!!"

As the men sitting near me looked at me the same way you would look at homeless people who claimed that they were the son of God, and the woman noticed the baby's arm protruding from the front of my pants, I sat down and started to realize the moment of clarity that just overcame my body. That feeling intensified when Vanessa grabbed my hand and asked me if I wanted a drink, because when she did I had visions like Anthony Michael Hall's character Johnny Smith on the show "Dead Zone", where I saw what would happened if I took the advice of my penis and decided to date Vanessa. Here are a few scenarios that ran through my head.

Putting up with her horrible music tastes: I have always maintained, like the movie "High Fidelity", that in life it's not "what you're like" but "what you like". I'm serious, it sounds shallow but I can tell if I'm going to get along with someone famously based on their tastes in music and movies. Just because you might like Nelly or Lil John doesn't make you a bad person per se, but if you like both Nelly AND Lil John then you might want to stay your silly ass at least three city blocks away from me. That being said, you would think that Vanessa's musical tastes would make me scream out the same way I do whenever I see Mary J Blige without cosmetics on. But, because of her luscious lips, her hips that would make Shakira weep with envy, and breasts that could indeed feed a third world country, my fear was that I would endure countless hours of Lil Flip and Young Joc, just to see her naked for a few minutes. Because of this, after I touched her hand and saw what a possible future with her would be like, I saw myself going crazy having to endure such musical punishment by holding an entire DMV hostage, screaming "Mother-fuck him and John Wayne!!!"

Phone calls in the middle of the night: This goes for men and women, you know that you aren't the only person your mate is sleeping with when their cell phone goes off constantly in the middle of the night. Sure, maybe that was your "home-girl" calling you 4:00 Monday morning because her boyfriend just broke-up with her, and maybe that was your mother calling you before she went to work Tuesday morning to remind you to pick up your father's birthday cake, I'll buy it. But when I'm laying beside you and every morning around three or 4 o'clock I am awaken by the insistent buzzing of your cell phone, I get the sneaking suspicion that me and your OBGYN aren't the only people seeing your "special place". When I touched Vanessa's hand I saw a similar scenario play out in my mind, but it was disturbing because she had "Let's get it on", "Just put it in your mouth", and "Sugar walls" as the ring-tones she gave those particular men.


Constant Doctor Visits: I know how I am, I have a very addictive personality, so if I found out that I wasn't the only gentleman that Vanessa was giving her time to I know that I would swallow my pride. I would tell myself that it's only a "sex thing" just to not weep like like a school girl at a later date, and maintain my scheduled penetration of a girl that is definitely above my pay grade. But after that, after trying to not think about the extra "room" every time we had sex and the used condom wrappers in her waste basket, my paranoia would set in as if I smoked the finest weed this side of the Mason Dixon. Granted, I am a sex addict but I am also a huge Germaphobe, so after the realization of her sexual habits eventually set in I would feel nastier than Lil Kim's pap smear. So, the image that rushed into my mind when me and that bar temptress touched hands was me visiting my doctor once a week to see if my penis was in any danger of falling off. In my mind, I went so often that I became cool with my doctor's staff, asked his head nurse how her son Timmy was doing in Biology, and asking his secretary if her husband Bob finally got that big promotion that he was hoping for.

My Jealousy would rear it's ugly head: Historically I have never been the jealous type. Of course I have had my heart ripped out of my chest, but I always felt that jealousy was a useless emotion because if your mate was going to fuck someone else there isn't anything you could particularly do about it. Even when women have left me by saying that they were "seeing someone else", "tired of my bullshit", or any other garden variety last words at the end of a relationship, my response was either "Get the fuck on then!", "Good, because if I heard Keith Sweat one more time I was going to hurt somebody!", or "Thank god, you use too much teeth anyway!!". But the effects that love has had on me from all those relationship battles doesn't provide me with the same abilities to maintain a strong facade any more, so I'm scared that I will be one of those "sucker for love ass tricks" that I constant ridicule. I mean, how many ex boyfriends, dudes who attempt to hug up on her, and overall attention can one man take?? When I touched her hand, primarily because she would be the finest female specimen that I ever laid horizontally beside, I saw myself becoming one of those money loaning "where in the fuck have you been" accusers, "why do you have to wear that shirt?" question askers, ex boyfriend pummelers, I saw myself becoming something that I never wanted to become because of her "big butt and her smile".

So, after I released her hand and saw what a possible future would be like with myself and Vanessa, I suddenly felt at ease with my new found "control". Throwing back my drink, prepared to get another one, a stranger who was sitting besides me said, "Damn, that girl is fine as hell. What would you do if she gave you that number??" Despite my recent visions I turned to the gentleman and said, quoting the great poet Ice Cube, "Man, I'd knock those boots from here to Albequerke!!"

*Side-note:* For all I know, she could be a decent woman, one who doesn't offer herself up to men to be banged on like a pinata, one who likes music that I like. So, I could be wrong as hell, which is sad, because I could have given her the best 10 minutes of her natural life.

Artist that a Old Head told me to check out: Nina Simone

For the past week or so since I saw Saxophone Willy in that shopping mall, I have called him a few times but made no real attempt to contact him. Not that I'm mad or anything, but because I'm a coward when it comes to receiving any bad news I just hope his gambling debts didn't result in him taking a very lengthy dirt nap. That being said, I really didn't know what older person I would use for this particular entry. I was going to use MR. Wilson, the father of my friend Jerry, but had to kill that idea when I realized that he was going through some black "American Beauty" shit. I mean, fucking girls more than half his age, smoking the "reefer", and listening to "Dem Franchize Boys" and horseshit groups of that ilk instead of musical acts appropriate to his age like Count Basie, he suddenly wasn't an option.

I was stuck, which isn't a big deal because this is only a fucking blog, but I at least wanted to maintain some sort of regularity on this god forsaken site. Anyway, hungry as fuck, yesterday I went to the my local soul food restaurant called "Celeste's" that I frequent no more than once a month. It's not that the eatery is too expensive to go to multiple times in a 31 day period, the food is inexpensive and quite good, but because their food is greasy as fuck and my family has a history of heart attacks, hypertension, and diabetes, I make sure to see Mrs. Celeste as little as possible. That being said, I ventured into that particular eatery to get me some old fashion cholesterol, I mean soul food.

Behind the counter was Celeste, the owner of said restaurant who has to be no younger than 65, beautiful chocolate complected woman who I could just tell used to break hearts before I was born. She greeted me with a warm hello, walking around the counter to give me a tight embrace that pressed her nearly geriatric set of massive boobs against my chest, me wrestling with the guilt I felt getting a chubby from a woman in her 60's. She walked back behind the counter, and after I ordered the artery blocking fried chicken and macaroni and cheese, I said "Celeste, I'm doing something for my blog and I need you to give me one of your favorite artists of all time." She paused for a few moments, seeming happy that a person had asked her a question that wasn't the cost of the number 3 combination plate, smiled and said "Nina Simone". I don't remember what she was saying after that, yeah my hunger had me distracted, but as she glared off into space as she recalled the vivid memories of a singer that she adored, that was enough to feature her in my "old head" segment this week.

Nina Simone, born Eunice Kathleen Waymon on February 21st, 1933, was one of our great singers, songwriters and pianists. Her voice transcended many styles, blues, rhythm and blues, classical, soul, and jazz.(Even though she despised the term) Originally from North Carolina, growing up one of 8 siblings she was heavily influenced by the sounds of Marian Anderson, even performing at her local church as a kid. At her first recital at the age of 10, her parents were forced to sit at the back of the hall to make room for whites, an incident that many feel sparked her life long contribution to the civil rights movement. At 17 she moved to Philadelphia where she taught piano. She then studied piano at Julliard, but because of a lack of funds she soon had to abandoned that idea.

She soon adopted the name "Nina Simone" after she got a start in Atlantic City singing jazz.("Nina" was her boyfriend's nickname for her (from the Spanish for "little girl"), and "Simone" was after the French actress Simone Signoret) She first got noticed in 1959 with her rendition of George Gershwin's "I Loves You Porgy"(from Porgy and Bess), which was soon followed by the single "My Baby Just Cares for Me". In the 60's she was heavily involved in the civil rights movement, recording songs including "To Be Young, Gifted and Black"(later covered by Aretha Franklin and Donny Hathaway), "Backlash Blues," "Mississippi Goddam"( a response to Medgar Evan's murder and the bombing of the church killing 4 little girls), and "I Wish I knew How It Would Feel to Be Free".

So many great songs and this post is long enough, with songs like "Sinnerman", "Here comes the Sun", "Feeling Good", "Love me or Leave Me", "I ain't got no life", "Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl", "Do What You Gotta Do", "Keeper of the Flame", I can see why Celeste loves her so much. To get a sample of Nina Simone's music, check out my myspace page where I will sample a different song of hers until the next "Old head" segment.

Video of the Day: Jungle Brothers "What U Waiting 4"

This video proves that you can shake your ass and feel pretty damn good about yourself doing so. It proves that ladies don't have to be conflicted with giving that sorry ass "But they aren't talking about me, and the beat is banging!!" after shaking their plump derrieres to men calling them "bitches and hoes" to a sub par beat. Hip Hop heads in general, this classic tune proves that you can get your dance on without playing the house negro, shuffling your feet and saying "But it's dance music!!" as you do the latest dance steps. No need to believe that only imbeciles can make your body move, people that not only can hardly string two coherent sentences together but also offends your lyrical sensibilities on every level possible don't have to control your dancing area. Hip Hop can be fun, make you dance, and not have to set your race of people back a thousand fucking years. Long Live the Jungle Brothers!

HumanityCritic's Guinness Book of World Records.

As long as I can remember, and being a connoisseur of hemp my recollections are a bit fuzzy, I have been obsessed with records. No, I'm not talking about the "two turntables and a mic, watch a motherfucker scratch behind his back" kind of records, but more on the unsurpassed accomplishment type of records. If I wasn't studying that Guinness Book of world records like it was my bible, I was coming home to break my own personal records on a regular basis. From trying to break my personal best in the broad jump, having vomit inducing speed eating contests with my cousins, I even think I had a string of 50 victories straight in the age old immature game of pencil fighting. When I got to high school I was arrogant, and because I just knew that I would be a bona fide track and field phenom, I just knew that all the records posted in the gymnasium would come down faster than Shaq's yearly scoring average. But as time went on though, my arrogance turned to heartbreak as I knew that I was nowhere near as good as I had to be to break those particular records. The 100m time was damn near a second faster than my personal best, my furthest long just was 3 feet short of my school record, we won't even go into the 200 meter disparity. Suffice it to say, I abandoned the idea of breaking any type of record for a long time.

That is until recently. People, aren't there certain in things in life that you feel that you do so often that you should hold some sort of record for it? Have you ever played your favorite song constantly, visit a store an ungodly amount of times, said a phrase that you have uttered a million times to the point that if Guiness was around documenting your repetitive behavior that somewhere a pimpley kid will be reading about your exploits in a yearly record book? I don't know, maybe no one else feels this way, maybe I have too much time on my hands, maybe I should masturbate less and come up with posts with much better content. Who knows, but the following list are things I have done enough times to garner me a world record, if the good people at guinness recorded such things.

Times I have listened to "De la Soul" is dead:(20,000): Yes De La Soul is one of my favorite groups of all time, yes I respect them immensely because they are on the short list of artists who always push the creative envelope and could care less about radio play, but to be honest "De la Soul is dead" is hardly my favorite album. I guess the next question you must have, being that I arrogantly feel that people who read my blog are a pack of intellectual motherfuckers, is "Why in the hell have you listened to that album so much??" Well, I don't know what it is, but every time I get in the shower and wash the stench off myself probably caused by a woman of ill repute, I have to have some sort of music playing while I lather up. The one tape that has been lodged in my "bathroom radio" for the past decade has indeed been "De La Soul is Dead". I never thought about changing it, putting a CD in the radio instead, even braving the wackness that is local radio as I vigorously clean my "hot spots". Maybe it's a good luck charm or something, but I'm the only person probably in the world that can recite that album verbatim. Song lyrics, skits, ad libs, the album is burned in my memory forever.

Times I have said that "Hip Hop is on life support":(400) Listen, I can tell by their defeated sighs that my friends are tired of me always waxing poetically about the current state of Hip Hop. Even though I don't particularly think the art form is deceased, I constantly use the "life support" analogy because even though I think there is a chance for a happy outcome, the chances of that are as bleak as a Paris Hilton pap smear. I can understand my friends wanting to put me in a choke hold as I talk about the decline of hip hop, I can be repetitive sometimes. But, what I can't stand for is when one of my friend's want to quickly dismiss my "life support" analogy, suggesting that opinion is the furthest thing from the truth. I feel like Chris Rock when in his comedy skit he was refuting a republicans claim that white males were "losing this country", where he angrily says "Have you driven around this motherfucker lately??" To those people who quickly dismiss the piss poor state of Hip Hop, have you driven around the Hip Hop landscape lately?? (Figuratively that is.) Yeah, that's the one time that I want to knock someones teeth down their fucking throat for being optimistic.

Times I have struck someone in the throat: For anyone who reads this knows, I could be a 100 pound weakling, simply embellishing about the many episodes of hand to hand combat that I have been involved in during the course of my life. That's fine, but if you believe one thing that I have ever written please believe this, hitting someone in the throat is a winning option if you are ever in trouble. For one thing, if done correctly, you get to kick, punch, or ridicule your victim for a while after delivering said blow as they desperately try to regain their breath. Also, the person in question is so shocked that you hit them in the neck that even if they recover quickly physically, most times you own them mentally to the point that they don't want any part of you.

Times I have poured beer on a woman:(50) A lot of this blog, as people who are friends of mine will tell you, is recollections of things that happened in the past. Granted, I am still a pre-ejaculator, single, and I do have anger problems, those things are current as a motherfucker. But the whole "pouring beer on women" thing is something that is a thing of the past, when I lived a faster lifestyle and when I simply didn't give a flying fuck. For all the feminists who are planning a lynch mob visit to my house rest assured, the women who I poured malted hopps on were unruly harlots, if that makes any difference at all. But yeah, any time a woman disrespected a member of my family, shot down a friend of mine in a unnecessarily mean fashion, any garden variety offense like that, in no time she was getting a pitcher of beer poured on her person while I stood above said woman laghing my ass off. If was fun seeing the utter shock on the face of the drenched victim, it was also a hoot bitch-slapping any dude who attempted to run up and be her knight and shining armor. I sure had issues, who am I bullshitting, I still do.

An Extremely late Father's Day post.

When I get married to my soul mate, besides the affection and attention that I will show her to prove my love, I will also have the date that we became life partners tattooed on my body. Ok, I'm lying, the real reason that I will have that specific date etched on my person is because I am forgetful as fuck when it comes to dates. Seriously, whenever I am in a relationship do you know what 6 words I dread the most? No, it's not "I'm pregnant motherfucker, pay up bitch!!", after sex hearing "I used to be a man", or "You have a toddler sized penis!". The six words that I cringe as soon as they enter my eardrums are "Do you know what today is?'

Yeah, there are only two anniversaries that I remember every year like clockwork. The first is the anniversary of being dropped like a bad habit by a woman that I thought I would marry one day. I can always tell that one because it was early spring when that happened, so when it starts getting warm I know that a few years ago I foolishly considered taking my own life. The second is the death of my father, because of the mass commercialism of holidays in general I am reminded of father's day, so when it comes around I have the wonderful recollection of nurses dumping ice cubes on my father's body as his temperature skyrocketed, minutes later him dying right in front of me.

Since his passing I have had to juggle so many things in my head, our turbulent relationship, his verbal abuse, my love for the man when he could at times be the coolest motherfucker in the world, knowing that at the end of the day he truly loved me, random people accusing him of a slew of shit that I don't know is even true, wishing that I wasn't such a bastard and just gave in sometimes, having a family member tell me that she was glad that he was dead, coming to grips with the fact that I inherited his anger and his sharp tongue, and last but not least, the ghetto ass "Six Feet Under" impressions that my mind puts me through because of the 200 plus dreams that I have had where me and my father have these nocturnal, in-depth conversations.

Each year gets easier, and each year I feel less and less like an emotional basket case ready to go to a concert where your garden variety wack rap artist is performing and going on a MOTHERFUCKING KILLING SPREE.(Who am I shitting, I think about doing that when I'm in the best of moods) Each year I feel a little less certain that I will curse my unborn babies with my inherited verbal venom and self loathing, each year I feel a little better about not being an old man with rooms full of porn and a house full of cats. Hey, I know that in this age of therapy I sound like one of those whining malcontented pussies who want to blame their parents for their problems, that's why this is the year I take this grief by the hair, turn it around, and whisper in it's ear "Who's your daddy motherfucker!!"(That's hoping that my grief is indeed a female, because otherwise that would just be fucking weird.) With that being said, this post isn't dedicated to those motherfucking sperm donors, this is dedicated to all the Fathers out there taking care of their kids.

Al Gore interviewed by Mos Def

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

This video has been posted on other websites, but I thought I would share it alongside my commentary because something that Mos Def said at the end of the clip struck me as the unadulterated truth. After interviewing Al Gore, Mos Def says "I'm a big fan of his second act!", a statement that I agree with 100%. I mean, where was that Al Gore 6 years ago, looking comfortable in his own skin, unafraid to talk about global warming even though it doesn't get people's dick hard like "gay marriage".(So to speak) Even though Al Gore says he wished he was president because of the horrible state of affairs that we are in the midst of, I wish he was president as well, I really believe that he is happier than a pig in shit that he isn't the current commander in chief.

I mean, imagine if Al Gore did a 10th of the horrible shit that Bush has done in his term and a half in office. Due to an inept media, weak democrats, a clueless public, and a republican smear machine that once called a man who lost limbs in Vietnam "unpatriotic", Al Gore would be put through the ringer in ways that would make Bush's current treatment seem like a Swedish fucking massage. That being said, I really do hope he decides to run for President, even though he claims he has no intentions of doing so. But I figure, if the dude can be as passionate about running for president as he is about the environment, I expect him to challenge Karl Rove to a fist fight, and refer to republican candidates like Giuliani and McCain as his "bitches". Gore in 08' I say.

The Technical Virgin

Not for nothing, but where were girls like this when I was in high school? If it wasn't me and some female classmate of mine dryhumping to the point that the friction of our jeans almost starting a fire, the long ass makeout sessions due to the young woman's unwillingness to take it a few steps further, or her simply telling me "You aren't deserving enough to be my first!", I would have loved an open minded chick like the one in the video. Granted, I've never been a fan of the old fashion "back door" entry, and I find something oddly unromantic about yelling "Yo what is that, corn??" during the sex act, it sure as hell beats the shit out of teenage blueballs.

HumanityCritic tells his grankids a very scary story.

The year is 2048, and the man who was once known on the Internet as "The HumanityCritic" is currently a 75 year old man who lives in a secluded house up in the mountains. A frail man with a frosty beard, and long dreadlocks that are so grey it looks like he was caught in the worst snow storm imaginable, still walks around his house with a dingy old Public Enemy concert T-shirts and shell-toe Adidas even though that attire was out of style thirty years before that point. HumanityCritic wasn't always single, he was married 7 times but all of the women had the same 3 problems with him that led to divorce, his obsession with Hip Hop, writing in that god forsaken blog, and his minor problem he had fucking other women.(He keeps pictures of all of his ex's hanging in his hallway to remind him that he will die an asshole)

Besides his beautiful children and the daycare center full of grand-kids that he has, HumanityCritic has a few reasons to be happy. For one thing Hip Hop has changed drastically, for the better that is. "Paid In Full" is the new national anthem, MF Doom is the President of the United States, there are actually institutions of Higher learning dedicated to grooming and molding only the top MC's, and so the new generation of wax spinners and rhymesayers wouldn't be subjected to sub par examples of the beautiful art form that is Hip Hop, many years of inferior Hip Hop has been erased from people's minds and public record. Matter of fact, due to HumanityCritic seeing a day that he thought would never get here, when pure Hip Hop was finally the norm, the last words he utters at night before he closes his eyes is usually "Wow, I can die now!"(It's either that or, "I should have worm a condom with that prostitute!!")

But this particular day HC has another reason to be happy, today he is getting a visit from 2 of his grand kids, which is particularly delightful because their parents had forbade them from seeing their grandfather for the past 6 months because he taught them how to kill a man with a forceful blow to the throat, and also how to give an emergency tracheotomy with a pair of chop sticks.

(Suddenly the doorbell song comes on, 'James Brown's "Pig Payback". HumanityCritic walks gingerly to the door)

Grand kids:(screaming) Grandaddy!!(they both run into his arms)

HumanityCritic: Ok, Ok, you little shit-stains. I missed you too. Go in the back room, I got some snacks for you two little crumb-snatchers. Also, I'm going to tell you that scary story that I promised you last year.

Grand kids: Sweet!! (both kids run to the back room)

(HumanityCritic looks up at his daughter and gives her a huge smile)

Quinn: Yeah, Yeah, the missed their grandfather, what could I do?? How have you been father?

HumanityCritic: I've been great lately, if you have seen the quality of ass I've been getting lately... Black chicks, Chinese broads, women from Brazil, I've been getting so many flavors of ass I've nicknamed my cock "The U.N"!!

Quinn: Eww, gross!!! Ok, That's my cue, for god's sake don't show them the throat-chop!! Oh, and if they ask what that thing is on your mantle tell them it's a vase or something, don't tell them it's a bong!

HumanityCritic: It's not a bong either, it's the Jimbrowski 3000.

Quinn: What's a "Jimbrowski 3000"??

HumanityCritic: A penis pump!!

Quinn:(makes a vomiting sound) Ok, have fun!! (slams door)

(HumanityCritic makes his way to the back room where his grand-kids are)

HumanityCritic: Rakim, Lauryn, ready to be scared shit-less???

Lauryn: Silly old man, when will you ever learn?? You told us the story about people who wore "Cross colors", that wasn't "scary". You told us a supposedly scary tale about black folks who put something in their hair called "activator", that was a real yawner. You even tried to scare us by telling a story of a guy who was once black, turned himself white, and changed noses more times then that game you used to play? What was that again?

HumanityCritic: "Mr. Potato Head", nice reference. No, seriously, this time your old grandfather is going to make you little bastards shit yoursleves, that's a promise.

Rakim: Ok, let us have it.

HumanityCritic: There once a land, a long long time ago, when Hip Hop wasn't what you know it to be right now. There were people in it who didn't even love it, they were in it just to make a buck and could care less about their lyrical content.

Lauryn: There were any school's of MC'ing?

HumanityCritic: Nope, and because of this not only did the overall skill level of the art go down, but listeners lowed the bar when it came to their personal tastes. People who once liked real Hip Hop all of a sudden found themselves grooving to artists that they would once find inferior to the musical sensibilities, but they would excuse it by saying "But it's a club joint though!!"

Rakim: They didn't have the Kool Herc Commission to make sure the best possible Hip Hop reached the ears of the public.

HumanityCritic: That didn't exist then. In this land there were people who were dissatisfied with how things were going, but they felt powerless when Minstrel Show rappers received Oscar Awards, they were bombarded with the proverbial wackness of Rappers with "Young" and "Lil" in their names, and when the music channels played their music videos ad nauseum the purists of the art-form felt that they were fighting a losing battle against the forces of evil.

Lauryn: How about that "radio" thing?? Didn't they help Hip Hop??

HumanityCritic: Fuck no!(shakes head) Sorry for cursing kids, but in this land Radio was the biggest offender of the sensibilities of the real Hip Hop fan. Programmers were satisfied with playing the same 12 songs all day, and when they did play what THEY considered "Hip Hop", it was what I would consider the equivalent to a bowel movement accompanied with a kick drum.

Rakim: (grasping a pillow) Grandad, you're scaring me.

Lauryn: Wait a minute!! How about the journalists?? There had to be responsible media people to put the truth out!!

HumanityCritic: Sadly sweetie, in this fictional tale they were guilty as well. Because when you have an art-form that becomes money dominated, it filters down to other facets of said culture. Meaning, because Hip Hop journalists craved to be on shows like "I love the 90's" or to advance their careers in any way they could, they amazingly would give glowing album reviews to fucks like Lil Wayne with a straight face.

Lauryn: Who was Lil Wayne?

HumanityCritic: Think of a ghetto ass Mickey Mouse who has the ability to rhyme on beat.

Lauryn:(looking around) Ok, I'm getting scared as well.

HumanityCritic: (Standing up pointing) Well you should!! In this land where the Hip Hop landscape was a treacherous one, you had people flashing these grills encrusted with jewelry on their teeth and everyone was loving it! They were loving it!!

Rakim: Pop-pop, please stop!!

HumanityCritic: You had journalist who actually had the nerve to dis rap fans who take the artform seriously, when those incompetent fucks passed over the millions of wack rap fans and rappers that would have been better suited for their wrath!!!!!

Lauryn: (Crying)

HumanityCritic:(yelling)You had A&R's who knew what real Hip Hop was because of them once witnessing it first hand, but figured that money was more important and proceeded to sign bullshit. These same people, to "peddle" their product, would even applaud the current state of Hip Hop. Bastards!! BOOOO!! Ha, Ha.. I really scared y'all huh?

Lauryn: Yeah you did!! Grandad, what was the name of your scary story again?

HumanityCritic: "2006"

Artist of the week that a old head told me to check out: Otis Redding

I can't front, after performing with Saxophone Willy's band last week, I thought that the days of receiving insincere input from him was over. I thought, based on his childlike exuberance concerning my blog last week, that he would be more pro-active when it comes to the only weekly blog post that features him. At first, after I tried for the past few days to reach him and didn't get a response from him, my new found hope waned a bit. But then I remembered how elusive I can be when it comes to getting back with people, so at the end of the day I wasn't that worried about it. That's when I got a cryptic voice mail from Willy to meet him at one of our local malls, at a specific bench, at a specific wing of the "monument of consumerism", as the Brodie's character in "Mall Rats" would say. It did seem weird, but maybe he was going to introduce me to a jazz legend, my mind was racing with the possibilities.

When I got there I saw Willy nervously looking around, giving off the impression that he hadn't shaved, slept, or bathed in days. I said, "Are you alright Willy? Why didn't we meet in the jazz club??" Still looking as nervous as Dick Cheney in a confessional, he said "Look kid, we couldn't meet in the club because I owe a few cats an extremely large amount of money." Before I could ask him what artist he had for me this week he quickly said, "That's why I asked you here kid, do you think you can help me out??" "Sure!" I said, "How much do you owe exactly??" I won't go into how much he said, but the amount that did come out of his lips was not only a 5 digit number, but a number equalling the salary of someone doing alright for themselves. Not only did I not have that amount, he refused to even accept a minuscule fraction of said amount, so I just stood up and said "Sorry old man, I can't fuck with you!" and started to walk off. Then, just for shits and giggles, I turned around and said, "Give me an artist, any artist. Humor me." He looked up and said, "Otis Redding!" I shook my head based on his constant habit of giving me artists that I was already familiar with and said, "Thanks. Stay out of trouble, try not to wind up in some fucking desert somewhere, or in someone's goddamned trunk!!"

That being said, Otis Redding, Jr was born on September 9th, 1941 in Dawson, Georgia. Growing up singing in the church choir, he become something of a local celebrity based on the countless talent shows he was able to win. One of the most recognizable voices in soul, he got his start in the music business by touring with Johnny Jenkins and The Pinetoppers. On Stax records, he dropped such gems as "Mr. Pitiful", I Can't Turn You Loose", "Try a Little Tenderness", "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction", "Respect", and so many other classics it would take me all day to list them.

Otis Redding, along with 6 others, were killed when their plane that they were travelling in crashed into Lake Monona in Madison Wisconsin on December 10, 1967. The only person to survive was a member on Redding's back-up band, Ben Cauley of "The Bar-Kays" For a great Otis Redding song, and one of my personal favorites, go to my myspace page and check out "Try a little Tenderness"

My Drug Experiences by HumanityCritic

Recently I have been bombarded by a slew of emails from fellow African Americans who think that I am doing a disservice to my race by the content on my blog, like a hysterectomy I kid you not. My first reaction, because of the insufferable prick that I am, was to email them a picture of my asshole to clearly indicate how I felt about their criticism. But I didn't do that, I didn't even email them back with Gandhi-esque gestures, telling detractors of my blog the standard "I guess I can't please all the people all the time" drivel. I decided to sit down and read my blog to see if these people actually had a point, was I really the proverbial skid mark on the trousers of African Americans as a whole?

You know, before I even started this blog I knew that the path for African American artists was a treacherous one, but because I felt that I was mentally equipped with a months worth of water, some hiking boots, and a highly powered handgun on my hip, that I could conquer the rough terrain that is the plight of the black artist. I even knew beforehand that while some black folks might like what I did, that there would always be a section of black folks who thought that I was shucking and jiving just because the main focus of my blog wasn't to uplift the race. I mean, I love my people, I try to be as responsible as a 32 year old sex addict with anger issues can be, and I don't promote ignorance or a black republican agenda, but for some folks that isn't enough.

After reading a plethora of my posts I realized that I was satisfied with what I had done, I didn't feel that I had "sold out", so I got out my digital camera ready to take a captivating picture of my rectal area, one that I planned on emailing to a few of my detractors. Then I thought to myself, what would be a perfect way to show them that I uplift my race with every post, that HumanityCritic oozes positivity out of his pores, that I was indeed a beacon of light on the wonderful landscape that is the black blogosphere. I got it, talk about my experiences with various drugs!

Marijuana: Even though I have enough marijuana experiences to fill up about 2 years worth of blog posts, one specific time sticks out on a big way, like whenever I see Rosario Dawson nude.(Ok, not that big) More than a decade ago I was in a rap group called "See no evil", comprised of me, my best friend Ron, and his two cousins C.J and Moe. Looking back I'm proud of what we accomplished in such a short time, but I still cringe when I hear some of our "evil" and "devilish" lyrical content, forcing me to realize that we were "Horror-core" before that genre became famous.(albeit briefly) Anyway, you know how people always bore you to tears with the belief that marijuana makes you creative, allows your mind to be free to the point that new and innovative ideas just rush into your cerebral? Well, what those people fail to point out is that even though you might have like a million ideas, there is a good chance that 999,999 of them are total dog-shit.

Case in point, hours before "See No Evil" was scheduled to go to the studio to record some material for our demo, we decided to get completely baked off of this orange looking weed that we were given by a girl we affectionately nicknamed "Weedy Wendy". We called her that not only because she looked like she was transported to the nineties from the Woodstock festival and sold marijuana, but she would lecture you for hours on the importance of hemp, her hemp clothing, and some sort of marijuana cookbook that her silly ass was pettling at the time. Anyway, we got completely wrecked, but through our purple haze we all had a sudden jolt of inspiration, each one of us writing lyrics that we thought were going to revolutionize the rap game. Later on we went to the studio with beat ideas, an arsenal of lyrics, and a weed inspired bravado that would even make Cheech and Chong proud. I remember us laying our vocals thinking that we had captured magic in a recording studio, and each time we played it back it seemed that we had struck Hip Hop gold. Unfortunately the next day, with our heads clear and no longer under the influence of the finest greenery this side of the Mason Dixon, we were shocked to hear that we had recorded 4 songs of off beat rhyming, arguing, slurring, and girl-like giggling to what can be described as "Casio" beats. That was a waste of time and money, but at least I got a chance to laugh at myself, me saying "Damn, I am high as a motherfucker" after every rap verse was funny as fuck.

Cocaine: I have never been a fan of anything that makes your heart rate increase, hell, I wouldn't be a fan of jogging if it didn't allow me to see my own dick. So I guess you are asking yourself, "Ok jackass, why would you try cocaine?" Good question, I wouldn't, well.. Intentionally. In my early twenties I was at a party of this coffee-shop chick that I wanted to see naked in the worst way, despite the fact that she always smelled like incense and constantly lectured me on how bad meat was for me, I really wanted to be able to tell a "..and then I saw those titties after I removed her dashiki" story. Anyway, because of her ultra healthy friends I didn't enforce my "look at a motherfucker while he is rolling a blunt" rule and continued to smoke any blunt that was passed in my direction.

High as hell, I found myself laying horizontal beside the bohemian chick in question on some sort of fruity ass futon, about to clumsily thrust on top of her while her party was going on in the adjacent room. Right when I was about to introduce her to a meat product that she was indeed ok with, I said to myself, "Self, your heart is beating out of your goddamned chest!!" I tried to play it off and continue the age of act of pre-ejaculation with this woman, but I couldn't stand it no more, jumped up, and in a very womanly tone screamed "I think I'm having a heart attack!!" She got fully dressed and told me to follow her in the room where the party was, but I was so scared out of my skull that I failed to get fully dressed and walked out in front of everyone with my boxers on, sporting excessive wood. For the next half hour, even though I claimed that I was having a heart attack, people attempted to calm me down, saying that "It was all in my mind." Then it seemed that each person at the party proceeded to feel my pulse, it got to the point that I had to knock peoples hands away, I even told one dude "Your dumb ass didn't finish High School, now you think you are Doogie Houser?? Get the fuck off me!!"

Finally, in an act that I find pretty curious for someone who had a rapid heart beat, I proceeded to jog around this chick's block about 40 times, at 3 in the morning, in the rain, only wearing my boxers. I finally came back in her house and passed out due to exhaustion, waking up many hours later to a regular heat beat once again. But my heart rate increased later that day though, when I kicked the guy's ass who laced the blunt that I smoked with cocaine. Remember kiddies, always watch someone while they roll a fatty.

Extacy: I don't know how girls get over a really tough break-up, I guess they do positive things like having their friends console them, telling themselves how much better they are to be rid of that jerk, even going on shopping sprees to momentarily forget their pain. Do you want to know what groundbreaking thing men do to get over heartache?? Fuck. That's right, after the end of my 5 year relationship I treated my penis like Luke Skywalker's light saber, and the women in my path were simply stormtroopers about to get slayed one by one. One of these stormtroopers, I mean women, was a chick named CC who told me the first time that I met her that she liked extacy, and any guy that she messed with had to like it as well. At first I felt that that was a deal breaker, I wasn't trying to lose any brain cells for what would probably be just a marginal piece of patch when it was all said and done. But we hung out a few times, she was cool, and I managed to escape the digestion of extacy by simply saying the classic "I have to get up early in the morning" line. But I knew that I had to put up or shut up because she invited me to a rave that she was throwing, and suggested that the only way I would see her "Lane Bryant's" was to be under the influence of "X"

So I'm chilling with her and a couple of her friends at this rave, a place where people don't dance but they convulse, and the moment of truth comes and she hands me a couple of extacy pills. You know what, I should have been a Narc because I suddenly found out that I could "fake" take drugs with the best of them. Palming the pills, throwing them behind me, I had an arsenal of slight of hand tricks that would make that pussy David Blaine shit himself. Besides, because Extacy apparently makes you "touchy-feely", I got a chance to act all fucked up while feeling up CC and her friends in a sea of glow sticks. Later, CC and I consummated our "relationship", but after every 10th thrust I had to keep reminding myself to say "I see all types of weird colors!!" out loud, mid coitus.

Acid: Looking back at high school I can't say that I was the most popular guy around, but one thing that I am proud of was my ability to maneuver effortlessly through each High School clique. The melanin that I possess, my love for Hip Hop and girls with phat asses, I was cool with all of the 8 black people in my school. I was cool with the jocks because I ran track, which wasn't a big deal, but hearing the morning announcer say "At this past weekend's track meet, Humanity F. Critic got first place in the long jump." definitely upped my high school street cred. Because I rode a skateboard I was cool with the skaters, and because I used to sometimes enjoy the sweet aroma of Cannabis before school I was cool with all of the stoner kids. This particular wasteoid, a dude named Kevin, I was cool with to the point that I would always be at his house getting weed from him as I was subjected to "Guns and Roses" tunes ad nauseum. One day he offered me some acid, usually I would have said "hell no" and kept it moving, but he sold me on it by saying that it was "safer than weed". I shouldn't have believed him, but I put one of the tablets on my tongue and waited for the effects to hit me.

Ten minutes later I'm in my house and I don't feel anything, but as soon as I got to my room it hit me like a ton of bricks. The walls were talking to me, I saw Hitler riding a skateboard, I was having an in-depth conversation with the fictional character Gomer Pile, I suddenly found myself telling Appolonia how bad I wanted to purify her body in Lake Minatonka, I was officially high. Seeing sporadic hallucinations were cool, but it became uncool when I woke up the next morning damn near as fucked up as I was the night before. Looking back I don't know how I went through that entire day without going crazy, not being able to clearly hear anything the teacher said, slurring my speech to friends who attempted to talk to me that day. Shit, how in the hell did I get past my father, a dude so aware of any detail he could tell you if you gained a few pounds, just finished crying, or just had sex based on the "blue glow" around your genitalia. I did though, but like Chris Tucker's character in Friday I feel that I haven't quite been the same since that fateful day. Hey, my mother claims that I don't have any sense, maybe it was that acid.

Video of the Day: Jeru the Damaja "Come Clean"

There is nothing like a rap tune detailing the psyche of a fronting ass, gangsta wannabe, that ends with that "Just add water thug" being stuffed inside someones trunk. "Come Clean" is one of those classic beats that makes even the most casual Hip Hop fan nod their head like they were having an epileptic fit to a Premo beat. Not only that, this beat is one of reasons people think that I have a serious mental disorder. Let me explain. Whether I'm in someones car, party, elevator, whatever, whenever I hear that beat I am forced to freestyle regardless of the location like I'm auditioning for the sequel to 8 mile.

Henry Rollins' love letter to Ann Coulter

Last week I saw that blond javelin aka "Treasure Troll" Ann Coulter on "The Tonight Show with Jay Leno". I don't know if Ann ponied up all her dick sucking money and decided to pay off the entire audience, but the crowd that night was pretty supportive of her incoherent ramblings. That just shows you that Ann's "Pole smoking" prowess surely buys her a lot of support, or that Jay Leno's audience is wacker than a motherfuker and I'm justified in preferring the comedic stylings of David Letterman. Anyway, here is a short video by Henry Rollins that I found pretty amusing. I fucking love this guy!!

A few of my pet peeves..

A female friend, not the "I never got around to putting my phallus inside you" variety, but the "Wow, men and women can have platonic friendships" kind, hit me with something that came completely out of left field. No, she didn't sobbingly admit to me that she had loved me for the longest time, despite the various deviant sex stories that ended with me wiping bodily fluids on the drapes of a woman I was having sex with. She surprisingly said, "HumanityCritic, you should be a male model!!" I laughed at first, waiting her to laugh with me because of the obvious joke I just knew she was hurling in my direction, but after a few moments of her looking at me quite stoically I knew she was serious. I said, "You have got to me shitting me right??", in which she answered, "I'm dead serious, you are a very attractive man." Listen, I'm not going to hit any of you with that fake self-loathing, where it is simply a device to get sympathy from all the women out there who pity my blubbery existence, but I am confident in saying that I am an amazingly average dude. Average like Keanu Reeve's acting, Mike Epps' comedy, or the raping of Ice Cube post 1993, just fucking average.

I was happy that she thought I was something worth looking at, but I said "What would I model exactly, "before" pictures?? Would I be a part of the "Guy's who are a sandwich away from never seeing their dick again" calendar?? No thanks!" She shook her head, then proceeded to take a digital camera out of her purse and shoot me as if she was paparazzi on crack. I flashed a few poses for her and entertained her sporadic nonsense, but was surprised when she said, "You think I'm bullshitting, I'm going to turn these pictures along with some of your band pictured that I took into a calender and send a copy to as many people that read your blog that I can!" I laughed because of the ridiculousness of it, but was jolted with a warm feeling of fear when I realized that this was the same woman who walked into a crowded restaurant and punched a girl who had just broken up with me in the face, so I realized that she might mean business.

So, since I have read enough X-rated filth in my day to know what usually accompanies a photo spread(even though I usually ignore any words on the page and loudly say, "I'm not trying to read an in-depth article on your ass, your name is "Wanda Fuckalot" and I just want to see your ovaries!!") I thought I would cover my bases in case any of you get a copy of of a calendar that I have titled, "America's top Cheeseburger Model". So, because I have to do anything to keep people from vomiting because of my unclean shaved "Black Grizzly Adams" look, my long dread-locked "Black Jesus" imitation, and a frame that would even have Fat Joe sarcastically saying "Damn HumanityCritic, have another doughnut why don't you??", I felt that I really had to jazz up the "Pet Peeves" section. Here you go.

Flip Flops and Sandals: I don't know what it is, but I have a weird mental block when it comes to seeing someones feet. I mean, I don't cringe when a lovers feet touches my body, and I don't insist that a woman put sneakers on if she showers with me, my neuroses isn't that intense. It's not even that I would discourage a woman that I am dating from wearing sandals on a warn spring day, yet. I guess my mental block has to do with me showing my feet to the public, for the whole world to see. I by know means have "Tales of the Crypt, Cryptkeeper" feet, it is just that I have run a lifelong "no open shoe" footwear agenda, as if I was a presidential candidate and that was my only platform. My mother, a woman that I love and would die for, a woman who can openly call me an asshole and question her reasons for giving birth to me and I won't flinch in the least, but let her suggest that I start wearing sandals and I look at her like she had just mounted a confederate flag in the middle of her living room. Also, men wearing sandals irks me as well, especially my close friends. I can't tell you how irritating it is to me when me and the guys are hanging out on a night on the town and one of those motherfuckers are wearing open-toed shoes, exposing ten toes that can only be compared to ten little pieces of hamster shit. For a guy who fancies himself pretty quick with the quips, and ready with the retorts, the only thing that I can muster out of my mouth when a friend of mine wears open-toed shoes is, "Dirty fucking hippie!!"

Early morning babble: Ladies, there is nothing like looking at you fast asleep, appearing almost angelic laying there after a night of pre-ejaculatory love making. Even after we are awake at the same time, clutched in an embrace that the jaws of life would have trouble getting between us, us both knowing that naked hugs of that sort will lead to "early morning insertion", I'm cool with all of that to be totally honest. But what I'm not cool with is as soon as I wake up, to be bombarded with and arsenal of questions as if Alex Trebek had hosted "Jeopardy" after an all night coke and speed binge. Jesus Christ lady, can't a brother gather himself before he hears how your co-worker is a bitch, Beyonce's horse-like weave, and the Chinese lady who does your fucking nails, the one that you think is calling you racist names in her native tongue?? I not only dated a girl who would literally talk to me before I woke up in the morning, but after I gained full consciousness and started to fall back asleep she would physically wake me back up just to finish her asinine tale about an ex who "keeps calling her." Note to all the men out there, women don't like being told to "shut the fuck up", suggesting sexual fellatial acts to keep them quit, or using their scarves as a mouth gag.

People who say that they don't watch televison: I guess this goes for movies as well, let me explain: If you don't watch a considerable amount of movies and television because unlike me you have a life, I respect that immensely. I know that not everyone is the calibre of loser that I am where they can talk openly about "My Name is Earl" episodes, what happened to Jack Bauer at the end of "24", and wax poetic about the latest Indie Flick to come out in theaters. But what I hate, with a passion, when people tell you "Ohh, I don't watch television" or "I don't see movies", with sort of a constipated elitism that it seems that they hadn't taken a healthy shit since the Clinton administration. Seriously, fuck you, if you aren't familiar with the specific movie or television show that I'm talking about then just say that you aren't familiar with it and move the fuck on. Not only that, the main people that act so condescending when it comes to "not watching T.V" are the same people who like the worst bands and Hip Hop imaginable.

People who say that I take things too seriously: I'm not going to lie to you, if your lady is fine and you and me aren't great friends, her ass might end up back at the "Chateau" wondering why she is getting clumsily humped to Public Enemy's "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos". I'm not going to lie to you, I might not be the best role model to your kids, because of my blistering honesty you might hear me answer one of their questions "Just walk into your 5th grade class, and hit that motherfucker with your lunchbox!!" As you can tell I lack in certain areas, but what I do have is the ability to see the true meaning behind the words that your garden variety idiot spews out. If you were to show someone your art, whether it was a drawing or a piece of music, and they said it was "interesting" it means that they hate it. When a woman says, "It's not you, it's me!" after a break-up, it means that she is fucking someone else and his penis is a lot bigger than yours. When someone claims that you are taking something "too seriously", it is their way to avoid an argument that they obviously can't contribute to, and pretty much have no knowledge about. When people say that you take Hip Hop, politics, religion, sports, etc, too seriously just dismiss them as dumbasses who can't admit their blistering idiocy, then proceed to get yourself a new batch of friends with I.Q's above lunch meat.

People who spout FOX News information with confidence: If you believe that FOX News is a credible news source then I have some swamp land to sell you, along with a couple of tales I want to throw your way concerning a man who can hardly get his glutenous ass down your chimney and a silly bitch with wings who puts loose change under your pillow in exchange of a couple of bicuspids. That being said, my Danny is the poster boy for FOX News' misinformation. I love the guy and have been his friend for the past 20 years, but when he tried to tell me that "Global Warming is a myth", I felt an assault charge coming on. Then we also have the time he tried to somehow tell me that Bush's non service in Vietnam was more honorable than John Kerry going to Vietnam, being a war hero, and later on protesting it. Then we have the time that my head almost exploded when he confidently told me that "Kerry was a Flip-flopper", but couldn't point to any specific points where he "flip flopped'. It is frustrating having a republican best friend, but I have to give it to the right wing because they figured out a simple truth when it comes to getting your message across. That message is, repeat something enough, regardless how absurd it is, and people will start believing it.(At least republicans will)

Women who listen to their no men having friends: In my long and illustrious dating history, the best friends of women that I have dated hated me in the worst way. Maybe they were jealous that they themselves didn't have a man that could fart "Brickhouse" with buttcheek accuracy, maybe they were green with envy that the guy that they are interested in doesn't have 200 sperm related jokes like yours truly does, or maybe they are just looking out for their friends because of the time that I drunkenly hit at them at a party. Regardless, pretty soon it is evident that the "best friend" is no fan of mine, and within a month or so I get that "My friend Janet thinks that you are a piece of shit" speech. Looking back they were probably right, but being that they didn't have any clairvoyant skills there was no way of her knowing that for sure. But one thing I have noticed is that the best friend that is usually putting salt in your game is the same chick that hasn't had a man since the first "Blade" movie, or she has a man but he treats her like a punching bag. Even though the following speech resulted in this particular relationship being over, I expressed something that all men want to tell your woman's nosey ass friend. The following diatribe was uttered by yours truly after the woman in question laced me with a drunken "you ain't shit and my friend can do better" rant. HumanityCritic: "Advice coming from the likes of you is rich, I'm wondering why you aren't a lesbian by now, any women who has had that many dicks in her would be desensitized by it. Let's talk about your boyfriends that you constantly talk about leaving, each time we see you its either "I fell down the stairs", "I fell while rollerskating!!", or "I ran into the wall!!. I'm sorry, but no one is THAT fucking clumsy.

Artist of the week that a old head told me to check out: Donny Hathaway

Since it has been a month already and Saxophone Willy has only given me one artist that I hadn't hear of, I went to his dingy Jazz hang out with pretty low expectations in terms of being introduced to new music. When I get to the door I am greeted warmly by Dennis the Doorman, which is weird because usually he gives me the ice grill while frisking me, with that "What in the fuck are YOU doing here?" look on his face. When I get two steps into the door he says, "Hey dude, I love your blog!!" I thanked him, wondering how in the fuck he even knew about my daily online ramblings. As I walk down the hall, even before I walk in the club fully, I can tell that Saxophone Wily is playing a jamming set with his band. I grab a rum and coke and begin to actually enjoy myself, I guess my new found relaxed attitude had to do with me finally coming to grips that I was going to write about whoever Willy suggested and stop being so fucking anal, unlike Star Jones' husband. This particular night I was pretty cleaned up, I shaved, and I wore a suit for an occasion that didn't include me watching two people be each others ball and chain, or watching some miserable bastard be put in the ground six feet deep. After Willy finished his set he called me on stage, which wasn't a problem because I just thought that he was going to give an impromptu speech about what a "nice young man" I was, or some shit like that.

But when I got up there he informed me that he hipped his band-mates to my blog, and it got even more embarrassing when his backup singer Sarah said that I was her favorite "Chubby Ejaculator". I guess I deserved that in a "I made my bed so I have to lay in it" sort of way, so I just played to the crowd and said "That's right ladies, I'll dazzle your insides in 4 minutes flat. That's what I do!!" They chuckled, but right when I was about to leave the stage Saxophone Willy said, "Where in the fuck do you think you are going?? We have to do the artist of the week." He then said something that would horrify me, he said "The artist of the Week is Donny Hathaway, and the first song you are going to sing is "Jealous Guy.(Turning to the bad) One, two, one-tow-three-four!" I stood there for a few moments hoping that it was a joke but it wasn't, so I grabbed the microphone and did my best rendition of the song that I could muster.(Thank god I knew the words) As I was singing I really saw the difference between being in a rock band and singing that song, I mean, I could get away with my vocal shortcomings in a rock band but singing soul exposes a non singer faster than the Ying Yang Twins in a rap battle. I got through it and it was fun, but I'm not even going to go into the rendition of "The Closer I get to you" that I was forced to do with his backup singer Sarah. That being said I had a blast, I looked good for once, I became a soul singer for one night, and this time it didn't cost me a bottle of booze.

Donny Hathaway was born on October 1st, 1945 in Chicago but raised in St. Louis, a legendary soul man that you should already know about. If you don't know about this melodic tour de force, ask you parents about him and learn something, that is if you can sit through them openly questioning their parenting skills because of your lack of knowledge. Playing the piano since he was a child, he earned a fine arts scholarship to Howard University, a school he attended for three years until he decided to pursue jobs in the music industry. Best known for his duets with Roberta Flack, he was a songwriter and a producer for the likes of Aretha Franklin, The Staple Singers, Jerry Butler, and Curtis Mayfield. But the man shined brightly on his own, I still feel that his record "Everything is Everything" should not only be in steady rotation for anyone who considers themselves a music fan, but it should be part of the musical syllabus for anyone who wants to consider themselves a soul singer. Donny Hathaway died on January 13th, 1979 in what was an apparent suicide, he was discovered on the ground below his 15th floor hotel room. For a taste of Donny Hathaway's music, and to hear the original song that I butchered a few nights back, take your silly ass to my myspace page and check it out.