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.