A Very long post about a poem I don't want to recite..

Do you know what is more offensive than Lil Kim being on someones "Top 10 MC" list, a Tyler Perry play, or a girl who doesn't reciprocate after you visit that war zone she calls a vagina?? Nothing is more offensive then when a friend does something to tip you off that they don't really know you at all. For example, my friend Kenny had the nerve to pop a "Diplomats" mix-tape CD(Cam'rom, Jim Jones) into my car stereo and say with childlike exuberance, "HumanityCritic, you are going to love this!!" Even though every day I curse the very men, who impregnated the women, who gave birth to those sub par pedestrian wordsmiths that are the "Dipset", but I sat there regardless for a few moments and tried to be objective. But as soon as I heard Cam'ron say that his crew was the "06' Public Enemy", I stopped my car in the middle of traffic, yanked the CD out of my car stereo, hopped out of my car and threw it for distance like it was an Olympic fucking event. Granted, my friend was mad, and I didn't make matters any better when I said, "How much do I owe you?? Fuck it, here is 75 cents, keep the change and don't spend it all in the same place scooter!!"(Hey, he knew me better than that!!)

Then we have my friend Richard, a business executive who always has to bullshit stuffy rich fucks so he could get their particular account. Anyway, ever since I went with him to one of his dinners and made his dinner guest laugh so much that Richard eventually got that account, he has taken me along with him to "close the deal" so to speak. Since we are friends I really don't want anything in return, ok that's a lie, Richard has the undoubious task of paying for my drinks until I die and sliding me about 4 bills per acount. Anyway, a couple of months ago I went with him to this fancy-smancy restaurant in hopes of possibly charming the pants off of some geriactric fucks so they will line my boy's pockets, and in turn mine, with some good old fashioned greenbacks. For the first hour and change things were going well, the men that were hopefully going to be my friend's clients were laughing at all my potty mouth jokes, once again I had hit a proverbial home run once again. That as until the topic of "Janeane Garofalo" came up, and how she should "shut her filthy mouth and stop bad mouthing our president". Usually a sentence that I would have "open hand smacked" somebody in the mouth for, but after a few moments the conversation changed and we were on to sports. Then, in a move that shocked me like a clean pap smear from LIl Kim, my boy proved that he didn't know me at all and decided to revisit the smear-fest on Ms. Garofalo.

Some background on HumanityCritic's feeling on Janeane: I don't know what it is, but something about white ultra liberal acting chicks who piss republicans off that just gets me all warm inside. Listen, I've never dated a white chick, not because of the color of skin but because the opportunity never presented itself to me. But lets make one thing certain, my love for Ms. Garofalo is unparalleled, I don't care how many people get pissed off, if my black sisters get annoyed that I chose a woman with a lack of melanin, if I get more strange looks than Star Jones in a string bikini. I don't give a fuck. If sweet Janeane was mine I would chill with her at the B.E.T awards, take her to meet Minister Farrakhan while eating some greasy pork chops, urge black leaders that Ms. Garofalo would be an excellent choice to head up the N.A.A.C.P, even make her wear a headwrap and a dashiki at a "Roots" show. Yes, its' deep like that..


So, you can only imagine the venom I spewed while defending my favorite Indie actress, so much venom in fact that my boy never got that account and we haven't spoken much since.(Hey, he knew me better than that!!) I went through that lengthy entry because a woman that I went to college with, based on the fact that she sometimes reads my blog, wants me to do a piece at her spoken word poetry club in the upcoming weeks. The problem with that is that I have told her my feelings on spoken word poetry, I respect the real poets, but I hate the fake atmosphere consisting of a million posers and fakers.(Kind of like I believe in God, but hate church.) Not only that but I have repeated my feelings toward poetry about a million fucking times on this blog, a blog that she claims that she reads "regularly", so it is just another case of a good friend who really doesn't know me. That being said, the following is a poem that I plan to perform at my friends poetry shin-dig. Of course it's foul, rude, HumanityCritic-esque, but she should have known better than to ask me to perform a damn poem. Granted, if she reads this entry (which she should if she REALLY reads my blog) I won't perform this particular piece if she doesn't want me to. Here goes.


(I imagine me walking up to the microphone cautiously, looking nervous as hell. I'll grab the mic with my hand shaking slightly and begin my poem..)

HumanityCritic: "My name is HumanityCritic, and I fucking hate poets..."

It's always the same thing, incense, dreadlocks, and the possible dashiki/
The girl that gave that "female empowerment" poem used to get freaky with me weekly/
They used to call her "Little Oral Annie" for the tricks she used to do/
She's a "phenomenal woman" alright, but not exactly Maya Angelou/
The other guys here will lie, say things that they want you to believe/
I'm humanitycritic baby, I'll tell you up front that I want you to fuck and then to leave/
While dudes have poems about cuddling, snuggling, and positive child rearing/
I have poems about fighting and ejaculating while beating my chest like Bobby Mcferrin/
While the other dudes promote positivity, hope, and your garden variety fables/
Don't you want a guy to not satisfy you sexually, afterwards saying "Sugar-tits, your money's on the table!!"/
I'll hit on your best friend, possibly beat up your little brother/
I want you to really mean it when you call me a "motherfucker"/
I might even beat the shit out of your dad for giving me bad stock tips/
I'll even go through his elderly pockets to make sure he ain't got shit/
At least you know what you're getting, a drunk bastard who really likes boobies/
Not your stereotypical male poet, looking like an extra from that "Love Jones" movie/

If she doesn't read this poem in time, I will indeed recite it a week from tonight..