Monday, December 24, 2007

Barack Obama: "What's Beef??"(Vibe.com)

One thing I've noticed about myself over the tenure of my existence, outside of the fact that I've historically sought out eyebrow-raising porn titles like "Dyslexic Asian Midgets", and my unsavory penchant for saying insensitive things like "Come on, the N*gga wasn't exactly Malcolm X!" after recently reading an article entitled "The Last Days of Pimp C" - is how I constantly keep a running tab of the disgruntled gentleman hoping to one day snatch me from the mortal coil. I'm a firm believer that life just isn't worth living if your head isn't always on a proverbial swivel, believe me - nothing makes a person feel more alive than anticipating an impromptu physical attack while very innocently going about your day. Since I'm not on the Christmas Card list of people ranging from local sub-par rappers whom I happened to be brutally honest with, husbands of the wives that I've consensually sodomized against my muscle car, and random gentlemen that I sucker-punched for disrespecting the God Rakim - lets just say that I've found the fountain of youth, without wading in the murky "Cocoon" pool water with Wilford Brimley that is.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: "Ain't A Damn Thang Changed" - WC amd the Maad Circle



A couple of years ago, true story, I met a beautiful black woman who just happened to be a republican - dating wise, I'd usually put applications of right-wing vagina owners in the circular file as soon as humanly possible, but there was just something about her that just intrigued me. Simply put, she had a body made for triple penetration pornography - she naturally had a scent that made me think that perfume companies paid her big bucks for her perspiration, thighs that would make me disassociate myself from my closest family members, and breasts so mind altering that I started to see the pure genius in Karl Rove. Sexually we were in tune, so much in fact that musicians could adjust their instruments to our savage fucking - a natural body chemistry between us so intense that if you were to separately give us Rorschach tests, we'd say that every picture look like each other's genitalia. There was one problem, I despised everything that she was about.

As soon as the sex was over, and my penis has a golden glow around it as if it had just defeated "Sho-Nuff" - the conversations would begin, and the longer we talked the more I thought about slitting my wrists with a dull butter-knife. The shit that would come out of this chicks mouth, the main reason why I nicknamed her Linda Blair - everything from denouncing Affirmative Action, waxing poetic about her hero Clarence Thomas, being forced to listen to bloated hand-jobs like Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage - and her constant habit of pointing out what she thought was "reverse racism" had me sometimes thinking that I was on a hidden camera show. Even though I was conflicted, having to juggle my sexual attraction to her with my complete loathing of every syllable that escaped her beautiful mandible - I didn't break up with her immediately because I'm a scumbag, and prime ass for chubby reclusive writers is like Haley's Comet for this pre-ejaculatory motherfucker.

I thought about her when I found this video on youtube, I loved WC back in the day when he was "WC and the Maad Circle" and in "Low Profile" - but I've absolutely loathed everything he's done since then, especially that WestSide Connection drivel. Same with LL Cool J, I hold his early work near and dear to my heart but wouldn't give his most recent recordings to my worst enemies - Ice Cube dropped 2 classic albums that I've listened to every week since they were released commercially, but the Cube of recent years is a stranger to me who I desperately want to throat-punch. It's weird having so much affection for one section of a person's musical catalog and having so much hatred for the rest of it - reminds me of a buxom beauty I once knew with abysmal politics.

Run DMC - Christmas in Hollis



Have a happy and safe holiday!!



(I'm Humanity F Critic, the best blogger breathing - and I endorse this message)

Thursday, December 13, 2007

A Brief Glossary of HumanityCritic's Sex Terms

Back in the day, I used to cherish the one week at the end of every summer when my cousins from Hollis Queens would venture to the land of Pat Robertson and PETA to visit their country relatives - even though as adults we have gone our separate ways, only barely keeping contact, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the childhood memories that they were willful participants in. What I loved about them is that they never took it upon themselves to rub my nose in the fact that I was figuratively a million miles away from Hip Hop's epicenter, my cousins were well aware that I would never be an old man who randomly waxed poetic, telling "..and then the DJ plugged his equipment into the light post" stories. So when they told me about LL Cool J playing Atari in their basement, the members of Run DMC walking down their block signing autographs, or seeing the god Rakim spit deadly verses on some miscellaneous street corner - they always did it rather matter-of-factly, an unassuming humility only known by prepubescent cancer patients. Outside of them giving me three tapes for my birthday that would forever ignite the "Hip Hop Snob" inside of me(EPMD's "Strictly Business", Big Daddy Kane's "Long Live the Kane", and Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions.."), they left another impression that still resonates with me today - and it all started with the very innocent sounding word: "Gilsey".

"Gilsey" was a word that they made up, basically meaning "inside joke" - and because my cousins and I already had a million of them, adding it to my already serviceable vocabulary was nothing short of effortless. In the years to come, whenever one of us would randomly belt out "Leave them Drugs alone" in our deepest and most authoritative voice - the other two would laugh like weed addicted schoolgirls because we knew that the other one was mocking MC Lyte at the end of the "Cappuccino" video. If I happened to raise my hand to the sky for an extended amount of time in the most public of places, it would definitely get some chuckles from my cousins - only because they would automatically recognize that I was mocking what Treach questionably did in the "Hip Hop Hooray" video. Sometimes we would get obscure with it, whenever one of our girlfriends left us for another man we would sarcastically yell out "Heeeeeey!!!" - a reference to a movie called "The Getaway"(1994), where a kidnapped man(tied to a chair) struggles to get a peak through a bathroom door to see his wife(Meg Tilly) having sex with the kidnapper(Michael Madsen)- and then proceeds to give that utterly comedic sound of despair.

In more recently years, because of the hermit-like existence in which I live when I'm not ruining my liver and placing my hard earned one dollar bills into the undergarments of women with daddy issues and glitter shards embedded in their respective skin - my "Gilsey's" have become a sad state of affairs, primarily because inside jokes where only one person knows the back-story is as depressing as a Mary J Blige interview. That's why I decided to share some of my gilsey's of a sexual nature with you today - in an age where people aren't sure whether or not some of the sexually deviant acts that have become popular over the past decade(see Blumpy and Dirty Sanchez) are actually practiced or just comic fodder, at least you know that I am practicing what I preach. When you see a young minstrel act like Souljah Boy talking about "Superman dat hoe", you fine people can rest assured - if I decide to degrade a woman, I won't call her out of her name and at least there will be some comedic value to it.


"The "Memento"
Getting back into the dating game after an extensive layoff is tough, especially if your last girlfriend very cavalierly ripped the beating heart out of your chest - actually listening to what someone is saying to me has been a challenge, and being chivalrous makes me feel as awkward as watching two retards fuck. But as I'm transforming into this decent guy, my memory is refusing to partake in this life changing makeover - so during the first few sexual episodes with this particular woman that I was dating, I had to write her name on my wrist so I didn't make any ill advised exclamations during sex.

"The Jacques Cousteau"
Usually I'm a stickler for personal hygiene, the few times that I've encountered a potential lover with "not-so-April-fresh" nether regions - not only did I make it my business to vacate her premises as soon as humanly possible, exiting her zipcode was next on my "to do" list. That being said, recently I met a woman at my local YMCA who I shoot hoops with occasionally - she is beautiful, intelligent, and most off all she never whines about my gender whenever I hack the shit out of her as she's driving to the hoop. I couldn't possibly imagine why she had an interest in me, maybe its the way I drive past 70 year old basketball players and make innocent remarks like "Shouldn't you be somewhere dying Gramps?" - or possibly it was the baby-arm of a boner that poked her hip as she tried to post me up. Who knows? All I know is that I found myself at her apartment, making out with the passion of spanish soap opera stars - to the point in which I felt compelled to ask her, "You want to hop in the shower right?" She didn't, apparently she wanted to consummate our basketball relationship au' naturale - as soon as hairy bushed porn stars of the 70's filled my head she asked, "Do you have a condom?" Of course I had a condom, because I'm the type of asshole who carries stray Trojans in his sweatpants - so within a few moments I said to myself, "Man, I'm actually fucking a point guard!!" But I was doing so while holding my breath, the understandable body odor of the young lady rapidly filled my nostrils - hence "The Jacques Cousteau".

"The Marion Barry"
When I tell people that I've never sexually been with a white woman, first they look at me the way someone would stare at a cloned sheep - then, when they realize that I'm not trying to pull the wool over their eyes(pun intended), they assume that I'm some black militant who masturbates to the teachings of Marcus Garvey while Dead Prez acts as the soundtrack to my "self love". In reality, it just simply has never happened - and anyone who has read my blog for more than a week knows, my undying love for Janeane Garofalo proves that I would cross racial lines faster than you can say "The Truth about Cat's and Dog's" if the right opportunity ever presented itself. But to be blatantly honest with you, the variety of white girl that has made me the object of their affection - well, they either look like they were in a 200 meter radius of a nuclear reactor, or they see it fit to tell me recent "gonorrhea" stories that I never asked them about.(..that happened recently) But one day it's going to happen, far away from the judgemental eyes of black women who were never going to fuck me in the first place - me doing something with naughty with a white girl at some seedy hotel room. When that happens, rest assured - I will call it "The Marion Berry"

"The Bill Belichick"
On top of my overall emotional unavailability when it comes to relationships, some of that happened to spill over into my sex life as well - so recently when I had mentioned that I was planning on building a "glory hole" inside my house to avoid mid-coital eye contact, I was only partially bullshitting. Kevin Smith talks about refusing to take his shirt off whenever he's making love to his wife, I can only hope to one day leave my inhibitions behind like he already has - not only have I been known to fuck with sweatshirts on with the hood up, but I make it my business to utter the raciest pillow talk while sounding as monotone as humanly possible: "Oh baby, that's it - punch me in the back while verbally emasculating me, I cum faster that way!!" Oh yeah, you never know when I'm taping it.

"The Howard Hughes"
Don't worry, I'm not as bad as the man Leonardo DiCaprio portrayed in "The Aviator" - even though some women feel that my tear-away sheets, the same kind you find in doctors offices, is kind of disturbing. My penchant for wearing three condoms, making my penis resemble a balloon animal - probably doesn't help my case, more times than not multiple prophylactics makes a woman feel like the fucking "Outbreak" monkey. Maybe I should wait until the woman leaves my house before nervously scrubbing my genitalia in scolding water, huh?

A few things that I Needlessly obsess over

Outside of me giving women who lack gag reflexes titles of distinction like "Head Doctor" and "Brain Surgeon" respectively, equipped with the bells and whistles that come along with having a graduation ceremony on a makeshift stage - I don't want to give any of my readers the impression that I'm some sort of mental health professional. That being said, I'm scared that habits I once chalked up as being my own quirky idiosyncrasies are starting to become full fledged OCD - the last thing I want to become is a new Millennium Negro version of Howard Hughes, I hardly get dates now, but just imagine how damaging being a recluse would be to my already incomplete social calender. I mean, sure, I have always been in the habit of washing my hands countless times a day - but I always figured that that had to do with my brother being a medical technician, the amount of garden variety germs and miscellaneous "coochie smears" that he'd tell me about would make Stephen King vomit in his own mouth. And yes, on the average I take four showers a day, but I never saw that as being obsessive compulsive - its more of an indictment of how much of a sexual deviant I am, I mean, you never know when you'll have to whip your dick out and get blown by a complete stranger.

But recently my behavior has started to seriously trouble me, outside of telling someone "you don't know shit" a million and one times every whenever I see them just because they very innocently happened to tell me a sub-par rapper that happened to adore - the few times when I'm lucky enough to see a woman naked, after we are laying in post coital bliss I feel obligated to say something purely outrageous just to momentarily perplex them. Random phrases like, "I haven't cum like that since 9/11", "Your vagina is grainier than the Zapruder film", and I unfortunately told a Jamaican woman "I love having sex with you, my cock smells like curry for about a month!"

But then again, yes I have my quirks, but I get the sneaking suspicion that most of my idiosyncrasies are just me being an asshole - but here are some real things that I routinely obsess over.

My Mother's Safety: I'm just going to come out and admit it, I'm a bona fide "Mommas Boy". No, I wouldn't be the variety of mother worshipper who would automatically take her side if I found myself in the middle of an altercation she was having with my future wife - I'm the variety of mother's boy who would gladly take a bullet for the woman who gave birth to me in the summer of 73'. Also, if someone happened to harm a solitary hair on her head - I wouldn't rest until I mercilessly hunted the bastards down, proceeding to make them worm food, and then commemorated their untimely passing each year by pissing on their unmarked grave. That being said, one of the things that I constantly obsess over is my mother's safety - Virginia Beach is hardly Beirut when it comes to the city's crime rate, I'm pretty sure that the people who read this that live in some of the rougher areas around the country would probably leave their doors unlocked if they happened to move here. But as of late, especially in the neighboring city of Norfolk - there has been an outbreak of senseless violence, the perpetrator is usually some kid in his early teens who maliciously dispatched a respected member of the community over 30 bucks. Because of this, I have been scared for my mother, and even though she's out by herself 95% of the time - whenever I see her and she happens to be going somewhere I insist on chauffeuring her to the desired destination.

But instead of being a simple driver to an elderly woman, like a melanin infused version of "Driving Ms. Daisy", I findd myself acting more like her personal secret service detail - angrily telling people to "back the fuck up" if they are walking too close to my mother in a department store. Telling a woman who exhaustively sighed behind my mother as she searched for her credit card, "Don't let an ill advised exhale get your husband fucked up!" But I think my mother reached her boiling point recently, as she stood in line at the local convenience store about to purchase her cigarettes - I could have sworn the kid behind her was reaching for his "piece", so I rushed inside the store and tackled that prepubescent motherfucker like I was Terry the Office Linebacker. He was just reaching for some change.

I might have a lovechild: Back in 2001, when my old man died and my mother was diagnosed with cancer - I lived a lifestyle that suggested that I didn't have any regard for both my penis or my liver. Imagine the Nick Cage movie "Leaving Las Vegas", only with the protagonist being a chubby black guy and with the flick being rated X - there being more alcohol involved of course. During this time I briefly dealt with a woman named Willetta, outside of the fact that we were polar opposites based on her having too many poorly written black movies in her collection - I mistreated her, not in an Ike Turner kind of way but in a "why are we having a serious conversation, I'm only here to fuck" sort of way. Anyway, the relationship was short-lived and when she stopped taking my phone calls a small part of me(not THAT part, believe me) applauded her decision - but I was told, roughly a year later(we shared the same Loctitian) that she had a child. Granted, she had a new boyfriend who was described as "the father" - but the birth of that child always seemed amazingly close to the time that her and I were practicing unprotected sex.

To be totally honest, my math could be completely wrong, and even though I constantly obsess over it - I keep envisioning myself finding the kid, claiming that I'm the father of that fucking crumb-snatcher and looking silly when the tests come back.

HumanityCritic, the God-Father: When my friend Jerry named me the godfather of his first born daughter, Quinn, I was a proud man - I mean, here is a guy bestowing a great honor upon a scumbag like myself when most people with the good sense that god gave them wouldn't trust me to momentarily watch their drink. But no sooner as the baby was baptised, the enormity of the situation crashed down on my shoulders as if I was giving the comedienne Monique a "mustache ride" - if Jerry and his lovely wife somehow met their untimely demise, would they expect me to look after their newly orphaned child? That's why every few months, I have to call and inquire about the couples health status - its not because I don't think that I could successfully raise a child, but if people saw me lugging a young white child around people would think that I kidnapped her ass. I constantly obsess about that as well.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop:Three Times Dope - "Funky Dividends"

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Barry Bonds, the perfect Hip Hop Metaphor(Vibe.com)


I sincerely can't explain it, maybe its exposing another one of my character flaws outside of my penchant for kicking women out of my residence the millisecond after I ejaculate - but if my memory serves me correctly, I have always openly rooted for the bad guy. My childhood was spent wondering why none of the residents of Sesame Street ever chin-checked Big Bird on general principle, hoping that Brutus would defeat Popeye at least one time - with a woman who makes Kate Moss look like she has a food addiction being the ultimate prize. Shit, I can't tell you how many times I desperately hoped that the Roadrunner would be too slick for his own good, accidentally blow himself up with one of Wile E. Coyote's dynamite sticks - with the closing scene consisting of the Coyote mercilessly dining on charred bird remains like it was Thanksgiving dinner at a soup kitchen.(Read more here)

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)




Find the original backstory here:

A Tribe Called Quest: "Scenario"(Remix)



Even before my chubby thumb and index fingers formed a misshapened "U" required to pull a record out of a crate, one of many crates that I had just recently become reacquainted with - I was already aware that A Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario" remix was the furthest thing from being a unique choice, I mean, chances are that 90% of the people who read my daily drivel have this tune firmly cemented in their sacred Ipods. But this song is significant in terms of my life, if I ever happen to do something newsworthy like cure a deadly disease or recklessly impregnate a pop princess - I'm sure that the ambitious writer penning my autobiography will name one of the chapters, halfway through the book that is, "Scenario". Let me explain.

To make a long, arduous story somewhat less lengthy, my father and I never had the greatest of relationships - actually, that's putting it rather mildly. I firmly believe that my mothers undying love and support for me is the only thing that could have offset my father's rather passionate "You ain't ever going to be shit" lectures - I sometimes jokingly suggest that my mother is the only reason why I'm not some sort of murderous sociopath, I can't tell you how times I've fought some douche-bag where the confrontation ended with me saying "If it wasn't for my mother, I'd snatch you from the mortal coil sir!!"(only a hack writer like myself could say something so absurd) That being said, when he was first diagnosed with cancer I didn't take out any ill will that I might have had on the old man - besides driving him to some of his doctors appointments, and not addressing the irony of our new-found buddy-status as he told me about all the Japanese vagina he smashed in the early 60's - I also gave him random pep talks whenever the mountain of his diseases seemed insurmountable to him.

Despite all of that, occasionally he would revert into his old self and unleash a verbal barrage upon his youngest son that would have made Antoine Fisher's foster parent come across like Mother Theresa - that probably explains why I was pretty scarce the last couple of weeks of his life. Sure, seeing the usually portly man shriveled up on an uncomfortable hospital bed dying in front of my very eyes wasn't the most pleasant of sights - but to be honest, and even admitting this now makes me feel shame, I really didn't think I could live the rest of my life being the recipient of a death bed "You ain't ever going to be shit" speech. So I stayed away, mostly, taking the cowards way out and visiting him at night simply to appease my mother - and because I knew that he would be knocked out from the heavy doses of morphine and other drugs pumped into his bloodstream throughout the course of a day.

But overcome with guilt one Sunday, realizing that my father's grip on mortality was being mercilessly loosened by the grim raper himself - I prepared myself to gracefully accept whatever he had to say to me, completely open to smiling as if he had always been the poster boy for supportive fathers while clutching the old man's hand and asking god for a miracle. As I entered his hospital room he was already fast asleep, with my mother and about 6 of his good friends laughing about happier times at his bedside as if they were at some sort of social mixer - and of course I joined in, acting the proverbial fool and talking about my love for geriatric vagina and the usage of Ben-Gay as a lubricant was the epitome of escapism from a sobering reality dying a couple of feet away. One by one his visitors made their graceful exits until it was only me and my mother left standing around the man that I was named after, her briefly giving me a welcoming smirk that spoke volumes before leaving the room to smoke a cigarette - so I proceeded to make small talk with my sleeping father that consisted of an apology, sports, and women.

Right as I was trying to figure out whether my father's squeezing of my hand was his intention, or an involuntary muscle flinch - his body temperature started to skyrocket, a fact reinforced to me by annoying buzzing sounds and nurses pushing me out of the way while pouring buckets of ice on my father's body.
Within moments I was getting condolence sentiments from women wearing powder blue scrubs, and hearing my mother yell in an irritating tone "Goddamn you Jim!" - my father was gone. As I was about to console my mother, without missing a beat she asked me "Did you eat anything today? You look hungry, we have a shitload of food at the house!" - man, the strength of that black woman, shit, the historical strength of black women. As I walked to my car I was trying to make sense of me not feeling any sort of overwhelming sadness and if that made me a bad person of not - that's when I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, rain pouring down, and put on a clearchannel radio station like many other's that tries to feel better about themselves by playing an "old school" Hip Hop segment ever so often. That's why the "Scenario" remix means so much to me, as I rapped the words alongside MC Hood and the members of A Tribe Called Quest and Leaders of the New School, I was trying to momentarily escape from a sobering reality that I would have to deal with for years to come - with the tears flowing down my face coming a close second to the immense precipitation I was vehicular-ly faced with. That sobering reality, forever mourning a man that I sincerely feel despised me - and wondering if I should ever have children in fear of cursing my offspring.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Eric B and Rakim - "In The Ghetto"

Friday, November 30, 2007

DJ Premier is my Chuck Norris(Vibe.com)

This is going to sound shallow, but it won't surprise the people out there who know that I feverishly keep my snob game tighter than convent vagina - but there are some things in life that I simply believe transcend opinion and become fact, and anyone in the slightest opposition of that is either acting like a wiseacre contrarian or happened to born with a mild case of retardation as a result of being the offspring of forbidden sibling "love". You don't necessarily have to believe that Michael Jordan was the best basketball player ever to touch a leather ball, but his "philandering, historical failure to ever take a stand on anything" ass better be in the discussion - same thing with Walter Payton when it comes to running backs, I actually elbowed a guy in the face once just because he gave me a very indifferent sounding "Ahh, he's alright" retort when talking about the great Stevie Wonder. That explains why "High Fidelity" is one my favorite flicks, primarily because I subscribe to the philosophy in the movie that "Its not what you're like, its what you like" - this is going to sound fucked up I know, but I can tell whether or not I'm going to get along with a person solely based on their tastes in music and movies.

But therein lies the rub, what's a chubby snob like myself to do when a woman I'm seeing, one who I feel is otherwise flawless - takes it upon herself to very cavalierly sully the good name of a man who I hold so near and dear to my heart? Let me explain. About a month ago, while ruining my liver amongst a slew of career alcoholics and women who look like they grew up next to nuclear reactors at my local watering hole - a very beautiful woman waked in, sat down, and sparked a conversation with me off of the strength of my primary ring-tone being Big Daddy Kane's "Raw". Immediately I knew she was a Hip Hop fan, "check", I asked what her nationality was and she said she was Portuguese - I thought for a minute and then remembered that broads of her ilk were the same women that Rakim constantly talked about in his songs, so "check" like a motherfucker. Granted, she was younger than I would have liked - but I quickly counted on my fingers like a retard doing long division and figured out that she's been legally drinking for 6 years, which was fine by me.(Besides, I haven't been lustfully touched since the first episode of "My Name is Earl" - time to relax the age requirements buddy)

We hung out a few times, nothing special, but she did seem like a very sweet girl who really knew her Hip Hop - which was a plus, besides, even before she saw my man boobs or counted my ceiling tiles for three minute intervals, we started having these inside jokes where we would admit to not really liking an artist that everyone loves. One day she called me and said, "I was never was a fan of the Beastie Boys, don't tell anybody!" - which I quickly retorted, "I won't, I wouldn't want anyone to think that I'm dating someone who smears shit on the wall!" I called her out of the blue and said, "I must really dig you, OK, I was never the biggest fan of Ultramagnetic. There, I said it!" - in which she responded, "..and you call yourself a Hip Hip writer, hang your head in shame fat man!!!" We were doing this back and forth for a while, it was pretty cathartic to admit which legendary groups we were indifferent about - until we were making out on my couch, me sticking my tongue down her throat while giving her an unlicensed breast exam - when she whispered some words in my ear that have haunted me ever since: "Honestly, I never understood the hype around DJ Premier!". That explains why I'm such a fan of "Curb Your Enthusiasm", when Larry was given permission by his wife to sleep with another woman for an Anniversary gift - he slithered off the miscellaneous dalliance with disgust when he learned that she was a republican. I slithered off the woman 7 years my junior the exact same way.

As I sat on the couch, I must have been shooting her the most horrified look imaginable because all she could say was "Oh shit" - in which I replied, "What are you, fucking nuts? DJ Premier is the best producer ever, that's not you giving an opinion, that's you being reckless!! Reckless I say!!" With still an erect, albeit unimpressive penis still making a tent in my pants, I nervously gathered every record, tape, CD, and Ipod song featuring a DJ Premier production - playing each track for her with painstaking patience, and after every cut saying "You have lost your fucking mind woman!!" Since insulting someones intelligence is the furthest thing from an afrodisiac, she grabbed her things and said "I'm going home, call me tomorrow!" - seeing her leave half naked, finally understanding that I've talked myself out of some panties once again I belted out an insincere "Um, I was just playing!!"

The next evening, as I got drunk with my best friend Danny and complained about having to possibly abandon another relationship - I made her innocent opinion seem as if she had told me that she once had a cock, or was a republican. That's when I unloaded the following diatribe on my childhood friend:

"Listen, if she was a Lil Wayne fan that would have been easier - she'd have to play that shit on her own time - and I would never address that pink elephant in the room like it was a brief stint of lesbianism she participated in while she was in college. But Premier, I mean, as far as producers go - when you go through the multitude of classic singles that the man has done for people, you still have to negotiate the Mt. St. Helens of legendary material that is the Gangstarr catalog! Besides, not only have I come to the conclusion that DJ Premier can save anyone's career - it has always struck me as odd that more MC's don't make the simple choice and only use Preemo production for their albums - instead they pick music makers of lesser skill and the product is sub-par at best. Imagine how better Nas albums would be if he simply got Premier to do the beats, shit man, there are a shitload of artists ranging from Lauryn Hill to Killer Mike who'd thrive under Premo. The man can do anything!!(Looking at my friend seriously) Anything!

Danny: So, DJ Premier is your Chuck Norris?

HumanityCritic: Yeah, I guess so..



Fun DJ Premier facts:



1. DJ Premier doesn't produce tracks, he works miracles.


2. Cancer gets yearly mammograms for early DJ Premier detection.


3. Some say that music calms the savage beast, premier's production peacefully euthanizes ornery animals.


4. To say that Premo's beats are heaven sent is a bit of reckless hyperbole, even though God himself occasionally sends him break-beat records and sample ideas.


5. My mother has always said "If she can't use your comb, don't bring her home" in terms of me ever marrying a white girl - but her 30 year stance dramatically changed after I introduced her to a Caucasian Premier fan named Becky.


6. Our government's "War on Terror" is a joke, not because its unwinnable, but because attacks on our blessed soil would stop if we simply made "Full Clip" our National Anthem.


7. After meeting DJ Premiere, Quincy Jones could be heard saying "I'm never washing this hand again" amongst a string of prepubescent-sounding giggles.


8. Stevie Wonder claimed that DJ Premier was the sole inspiration for his 1963 hit "Fingertips" - even though Premo wouldn't be born for another 3 years.


9. When a paraplegic suddenly started to rhythmically nod his head back and forth during a rehabilitation session, doctors thought they were witnessing a minor miracle - until one of them heard "Mathematics" playing in the distance and said "Goddamn you Premier!!"


10. Sure, Chuck D was upset that his voice was sampled in the song "10 Crack Commandments", not only because the song talked about cooked cocaine - but because he was privately ashamed that the beat, momentarily, had him seeing the upside to dope dealing.


11. DJ Premier is so good at picking samples, sometimes he uses them before the original artist has even recorded it.


12. In an attempt to rehabilitate young delinquents and keep them out of Prison, simply playing Gangstarr's "All for the Cash" was an effective deterrent - but they went back to their less abrasive approach, having the kids being yelled at and physically intimidated by mass murderers.


13. DJ Premier doesn't have to manually scratch records anymore, all he does is stand over both turntables and the records miraculously scratch themselves - I mean, tremble with fear.


14. I recently emailed Premier the sheet music to Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto, not only did he send it back with corrections - there was a posted note attached with "Yawn" being the only word on it.


15. Sure, Jesus turned water into wine - but could his black-hippie ass turn "Group Home" into a listenable group? I didn't think so..


16. The music of Premier is so powerful that I still yell things like "Put your fucking hands in the air" and "Run Your shit" while having sex - that's the price you pay when you lose your virginity to "Just to Get a Rep".


17. DJ Premier is so beloved in Japan, that 90% of the women there want to have his baby - not to milk him of his hard earned funds mind you, just to say that they have a Premo Remix.


18. DJ Premier scored a Tyler Perry movie and it was still unwatchable - the man is a producer, not GOD!

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

For most of you, my asshole antics are probably nothing more than just some rotund degenerate perpetrating tactless acts just for the sake of humoring himself(wiping my genitals on a woman's curtains after sex, rolling a wheelchair-bound man into traffic) - and sure that's part of it, but mostly its just an average black fellow's journey, trying to figure out the meaning of life while pissing people the fuck off.(Imagine David Carradine's character in "Kung-Fu" if he was black and had a thyroid problem.) Ever since my grandmother fell down our family's steps and I desperately fought back laughter as I helped her to her feet, with my father curiously looking at his 10 year old son while saying "You really are a cocksucker, you know that?" - I knew exactly what path I'd take for the rest of my life, a hostile roadway where random passers-by welcomed me with affectionate "you motherfucking asshole!!" greetings. My mother learned that her baby boy was destined to live the life of a scumbag way before that, based on a few minor incidents in kindergarten where I tried to choke a kid to death with my nap blanket, and another time when I proceeded to urinate on another child after I hit him in the face with my lunch tray - a story that my mother has felt compelled to tell any woman that I happen to date for more than a four month period. Damn some things never change.

Hillary Clinton: Whenever I fix my lips to say anything negative about the musical group the "Clipse", I'm sure that the average reader chalks up my disdain for those brothers as nothing more than simple "hometown" envy - mistaking me for one of those "crab in the bucket" ass Negroes who verbally undermines the positive steps that anyone born with melanin takes. Believe it or not, nothing could be further from the truth, sure I'd love to be able to pelvically penetrate the vaginal reinforcements of women way above my respective pay-grade - but that's where the bitter envy ends, I sincerely wish those brothers all the best. That being said, like tongue kissing a woman after an orgy - ever since they laughably suggested that my city(Virginia beach) was the epitome of urban decay where the dope dealer reigns supreme, I always get a bad taste in my mouth whenever I hear one of their records. Respectfully, Virginia Beach is much worse but for different reasons - this is the land of Pat Robertson where people are so socially retarded that they almost elected a man with ties to the clan to the senate - sometimes I think that I'd prefer the Clipse's fictitious version of my hometown. I mean, I'm a small fish in a sea full of rabbid Bush supporters, I'm constantly bombarded with inbred Jed Clammpett's decorating their respective automobiles with confederate flag stickers and signs that say "No one is taking my gun away!" - so when I saw a couple with a sign in their jeep window saying "If Hillary's lips are moving, you know she's lying!" I absolutely lost it.

Granted, I'm a supporter of Obama who feels that Hillary's political positions heavily depend on the polling that particular week - but as I very carefully followed the couple home like a fucking stalker, I kept trying to figure out how any one of those empty suits on the republican side of the isle were any more truthful. So, as they pulled up into their driveway, I unfortunately rolled down my window and said the following: "Excuse me, I read your sign and all, it was cute in a "wow, my retarded child's motor skills are really improving" sort of way - but I have to say, the empty suits on the republican side don't exactly have the market cornered when it comes to honesty. Rudy? Lets talk about him using 3,000 dead americans to get him into the White House, and him fucking around on his wife on the taxpayers dime. Romney? Mitt "Big Love" Romney himself, the man has changed his positions so many times that you can't tell if he's giving a speech or reading a god-damned kama sutra chart!" Before I could even tear into the other republican candidates the wife very calmly walked to my car, opened her jacked and said "We are supporters of Barack Obama, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" exposing her "Barack 08" pin.

Refusing to express my condolences by quoting Easy-E: Despite all my failings as a man, a malfunctioning moral barometer when it comes to physical altercations, and my penchant for being emotionally unavailable in relationships - the one uncanny characteristic that I have is being a proverbial shoulder to lean for my friends when they lose a loved one. I know how it was when my old man died, people bombarding you with tired "he's in a better place now" rhetoric that you don't want any parts of - I've learned the sophisticated art of being completely supportive while subtly playing the background. That being said, on the flip side, I simply can't muster up the energy to offer up phony condolences when a historically bad person loses their life - I don't wish death on anyone, and you'll never hear me say "I'm glad that motherfucker is dead!", but if that person happened to be a notorious bastard while they were on this earth, I privately couldn't give two shits about their untimely passing. I even make sure to quote Eazy-E concerning the person's passing, when I'm in the privacy of my own home that is. Case in point, this guy that I knew named Lee recently lost his life when he was gunned down at some house party across town - I'm sorry the guy is taking an eternal dirt-nap and all, but not only has this guy killed people(allegedly), but he was a known rapist who physically abused his children. Last week, when I was speaking with this chick named Gloria who was friendly with the recently deceased, she hit me with the standard spiel consisting of "Lee was a good man, he ain't never hurt anybody". That's when I blurted out with pinpoint accuracy, unfortunately, the words that Eazy-E made famous in the song "We're all in the Same Gang": "..But he STILL got smoked at Bey-Bey's Party!!!" She quickly moved to the other end of the bar.

Throwing someone a helpful beating: I don't know about any of you, but I'm the sort of guy who likes being corrected - sure, getting publicly shown the error of my ways can be somewhat humiliating, but at least I know to never let those factually inaccurate morsels of information escape my hairy mandible ever again. My problem is that I assume that everyone thinks like I do, so when I correct one of my friends about some historic fact that they've botched or some inconsequential Hip Hop fact - they take it as me being a insufferable prick, and not as a friend lending a helpful hand. For example, there is fellow named Richard who frequents my neighborhood bar ever so often, nice enough brother in his mid-40's - the problem occurs when he gets drunk, he gets so belligerent that he starts talking shit to people and picking fights with total strangers. He's committed hell-worthy watering-hole trespasses like talking to someones wife in front of them, shoving people, I even saw him growl at a couple of Navy guys a few months back - fortunately people have taken the high road when it comes to him and ignored him, but I have warned him that his irrational behavior is going to put him on the business end of a shiv or a bullet. You know you're fucking up when I give you advice. Two months later, after him nodding in agreement as he pretended to heed my warning, he was up to his old antics - that's when I decided to take action.

A few weeks back, as I was entering the bar and he was exiting it, he mean-mugged the shit out of me - that's when I grabbed him by his shoulders, said "I'm doing this for your own good!", and proceeded to bombard the brother with a firestorm of right and left hands as if his face was a pinata and I was trying to get sugary sweets out of it. As women rushed out of the bar and huddled around the beaten gentleman for comfort, looking at his bloody face and a visibly winded chubby writer standing over him - I looked at the ladies, shrugged and said, "Its alright, he'll thank me tomorrow!" Outside of the fact that the women yelled things at me like "You're an animal, get the fuck outta here!!", Richard stopped speaking to me and he makes sure be on the other end of the bar when I'm around(sound familiar?) - but he stopped picking fights though, I know that much.

Killer Mike - "Making it Rain"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Brand Nubian "Feels so Good"

Brand Nubian - Feels so Good

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Damn, I feel old right now..

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Moments that I Absolutely Dread

Usually when some famous person finally decides to do away with their trademark dreadlocks that people have always closely identify them with, they always take it upon themselves to concoct an explanation right out of some Hippie-handbook - equating a simple haircut to a spiritual "rebirth" or "cleansing", making it seem that a simple swipe of the clippers is akin to a sacred tribal ceremony or some shit. I'm starting to think that these ham-fisted explanations started with Lenny Kravitz, was he the one that said that he symbolically had his dreadlocks detached from his scalp in the ocean or was he the one who said some nonsense about hyperventilating while his daughter and ex-wife cut them off?(I'm not sure) Not for nothing, but save the escalated melodrama for Spanish language soap operas motherfucker, after 13 years of growing a mane that prompts total strangers to boldly ask me "Where's the weed at?" - I'm at a place now where if I decide to say "fuck it" and shave my head with a fluidity only seen by sheep shearers, there won't be any incense burning in the background, and no New Orleans-styled Jazz processions strolling through my living room marking the untimely demise of my flowing mane.

It's not like my hair won't be missed if I ever do decide to cut it all off, I mean, its kind of hard not to miss something that you have to routinely adjust every time you defecate - besides, its my only mark of distinction outside of my violent outbursts and my slight stutter. Its also a great conversation starter for low self-esteem having women who happen to be interested in a chubby writer with so many intimacy issues that he's openly considering building a "glory-hole" in his bedroom - I usually find myself clumsily thrusting on top of these women, translating their brain-busting eye-rolls to mean "..only if the size of your cock was a fraction of the length of your hair - by the way, why is this scumbag fucking me to "Fight The Power" anyways?" That being said, here are few reasons why I've considered cutting off all my air, hoping to one day audition for the lead role in the movie adaptation of the popular television series "A Man Called Hawk".

I am Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas": When I was a teenager, years before the thought of locking my hair ever ran through my feeble little mind, I went to a local teen club with my homeboys and saw a kid around my age get mercilessly stomped the fuck out by a group of local ruffians - the one thing that sticks out about that particular mauling is how they savagely ripped out his dreadlocks from the root as if they were desperately trying to start an old lawnmower. So when I finally decided to grow dreadlocks I'd occasionally think about that December night, thinking of it more often than not the longer my hair grew, and when the tips of my hair gently stroked my shoulders I had to confront a sobering reality - that I would have to end fights rather quickly based on most men's penchant for being bitches and pulling hair during an altercation. The days of me standing toe to toe with some asshole in a bar parking lot was over, attempting to publicly exhibit my punishing body blows and my effective 52 hand block technique was replaced with throat-chops, smashing bottles of beer over someones head - not to mention my habit of hitting grown men in the back with bar-chairs as if my job had me wearing constricting tights 89.9% of the year.

Back-handed compliments: I'm beginning to think that receiving back-handed compliments is a black person's "rite of passage" in this country - especially if you are an African American who grew up amongst a slew of socially retarded white folks, if I had a dime for every time I heard "You are pretty cool for a black guy" and "Wow, you are so articulate - were you adopted by white parents?" I'd probably have enough money to buy most third world country's with change left over by now. Being a grizzled veteran when it comes to pointing out the subtlest forms of racism, you can just imagine how upset I was with myself when I realized that I have been letting things effortlessly get past me as if I was an armless soccer goalie for the better part of a decade - people who have time and time again shamelessly approached me and gushed over how "clean" and "neat" my hair was. It took me a while to realize that this wasn't exactly a compliment, the same way someone praising my clear diction with a fascinated look on their face wasn't exactly complimentary either - it soon dawned on me that a remark of that variety was also a condemnation of dreadlocks as a whole.

Groundhog Day: Although I'm fully aware that there's no way a total stranger would know my intricate back-story like I was a well known John Grisham novel, even though my extensive reputation of unprovoked violence and sodomizing women on bathroom floors proceeds me - I still get tired answering the same fucking questions about my dreadlocks? "How man years have you been growing them?" "Don't they get hot in the summer time?" "Aren't they heavy?" A couple of years ago I had these business-size cards made up with "Frequently asked questions" about my hair, whenever someone would inquire about my locks at some watering-hole I'd just shove that card in their face - but my friends got together and it was a consensus, doing so made me look like an even bigger dick than I already am.(If that was even possible)

Overly aggressive women:Sometimes, just sometimes, a degenerate bastard like myself who has a habit of granting women signatures of ejaculate on their naked backs post-coitus - longs for a meaningful relationship. Sure, the companionship seems nice, her completing my "I'll kick your fucking ass buddy" sentence while we are at a bar is the epitome of romantic - and the thought of having receipt-less ass on a steady basis is not only good for my self-esteem but it would also do wonders for my wallet. But the main reason a girlfriend would be great, outside of all the other reasons I've already listed - is to publicly thwart other females who are in the habit of randomly tugging my hair like we were in fucking kindergarten. I mean, women who ask to touch my hair first, no problem - but I couldn't tell you how many times my head has been suddenly yanked backwards by some manner-less harlot. If a dude did it I could just punch him, kick him in the sternum, even "sweep the leg" on some "Karate Kid" shit - but whenever a female does it the best that I can conjure up is a "Have you lost your fucking mind?" look on my face. I figure having a girlfriend around would nip that shit in the bud.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: 3rd Bass "The Gas Face"

The Classic "Hey Love" Commerical



I just committed my own mother's birthday to memory five years ago, sometimes the name of the chick I lost my virginity to escapes me - but I've always been able to recite this commercial verbatim with court-stenographer-like accuracy.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

"The Virginian Pilot" : HumanityCritic, the Quote Machine





Over the weekend, your friendly neighborhood HumanityCritic got a healthy helping of home-cooking when my local paper, "The Virginian Pilot", included me in a story that they ran entitled "Blogs are Growing Past Race Divide" - addressing the role that black bloggers play in terms of the blogisphere as a whole. Shit man, the last time that my government name graced the pages of the local paper it was concerning me long-jumping 24 feet 2 inches back when Ed O.G dropped his first album, I had a six-pack that morally bankrupt women could successfully wash their undergarments on - an era that I cherish like a teenage love-affair solely because it was the last time I remember ever seeing my cock in its entirety. So when the writer(Elizabeth Thiel) interviewed me via email I wanted to give her a "quotable" that she would use in her piece - believe it or not it wasn't an attempt to raise my blog profile on a local level, but an appeal to all the women in my particular zipcode, I've yet to get laid off the strength of my blog and my dream is to one day have some broad aggressively riding my "negro gearshift" while saying "I loved your November 3rd blog entry baby!!"(I guess a boy can dream huh?)

My only bone of the contention with the piece doesn't have to do with me being misquoted or anything, because I wasn't, its really my own doing based on my blatant honesty concerning my anger issues - when the writer stated "His writing is at times unapologetically profane, with flashes of anger and physical violence" she in no way misrepresented my blog, but actually seeing that in print sort of made me feel like a scumbag who was singlehandedly taking my people backwards. Anyway, below are some quotes that she used and one that I wished she would have used - not for nothing, I'm fully aware that I've dissed Vh1 based on their "Hip Hop Honors" debacles - but I'd let bygones be bygones if I could get a coveted spot on "The Best Week Ever", those people could benefit from a fucking quote machine like me.

Quotes they used in "The Daily Break" section of "The Virginian Pilot"

On Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and the title of Nas' upcoming album:
(Pulled from this blog post)

"I seriously doubt that this is the reason Nas is doing this, but personally I see it as one of the biggest chess moves an artist can make when it comes to confronting "black leadership" in this country. When all the charlatans and used car salesmen with an agenda come out of the proverbial woodwork and raise complete hell, pace in front of the record label with unimaginative picket signs, steamroll Cd's, and get more face-time on cable news than Laci Peterson - that would be the perfect time to confront them, rattle off about 45 different life and death causes that are drastically affecting the black community, and openly and sarcastically wonder why they are wasting their time obsessing over a word."

On black blogs:

"It gives voice to those who thought they were voiceless.. but I believe that outside of a blues band, no other force brings black and white people together like the words of a black blogger. Racism, on all fronts, usually stems from one person being filled with falsehoods, stereotypes, and preconceived notions about another person based on their race." - "With my blog, and the millions of others written by people born with melanin - you can actually see what we think in detail. No, its not cool to ask me the time honored 'Why can't I use the N-Word?' question. No, its not cool to ask me if I think O.Jwas guilty or not with a crap-eating grin on your face - and its not cool to assume that I am a horticulture salesman just because I have dreadlocks.(Wait, black folks make that assumption as well,)"


One I wished they used on the state of Hip Hop:

"..one of the main problems with Hip Hop in my eyes is that people continually apologizing for sub-par artistry. You will hear some respected artist or journalist, when being asked about Hip Hop they will say something like "Hip Hop is going through a transition, I'm not mad at the state of it because its always changing" Huh? Puberty is a transition. Dealing with the loss of a spouse is a transition. Finally getting into the American Version of "The Office" after being a devoted fan of the British version is a transition. You'd never look at your cocaine addicted cousin and say, "Well, Larry is going through a 'transition' right now" - now he's not, he's an addict who needs a "tough love" intervention. I think that fans of real Hip Hop shouldn't be scared to give it some 'tough love" - and if that intervention comes in the form of a throat-chop, so be it."

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)






Find the original Back story here:

MC Ren: "Final Frontier"



When it comes to 90% of the ardent opponents of Hip Hop out there, a bottom feeding lot that routinely villainize an art-form that they virtually know nothing about - its probably the only time you'll ever be able to successfully lump people together like Bill O'Reilly, Winton Marsalis, Sean Hannity, and Stanley Crouch when discussing the rogues gallery of uninformed douchebags. Sure there are Hip Hop songs that are purely indefensible, but their broad generalizations on a music that I cherish just exhibits an intellectual recklessness only seen before in bi-polar products of inbreeding and black republicans - when I debate people of their ilk, I represent the culture to the best of my ability and never give them any ammunition. Granted, I know I'm speaking to a slew of like-minded individuals here - but I just hope that those same Hip Hop detractors don't read this blog and find out that I secretly feel that some songs influence violence.

As much as I love and respect N.W.A's "Straight Outta Compton" for its brutal honesty and social commentary, its one of my favorite albums of all time - their next release(minus Ice Cube) "100 Miles and Runnin'" was devoid of the same hood consciousness and just seemed like one big killing and fucking festival set to Dr. Dre's dope beats. Sure I loved it. But if "Straight Outta Compton" inspired me to speak out against police brutality in my own city, "100 Miles and Runnin'" inspired me to sucker punch a police officer, steal his cop car, and proceed to get a spirited "mouth hug" in the backseat by a local woman of ill repute. This particular MC Ren song, "Final Frontier" off of his first solo effort entitled "Kizz My Black Azz" - has no redeeming value whatsoever, outside of inspiring a young HumanityCritic to cause nothing but havoc in 1992. All the violent acts that I perpetrated with this song acting as the prime motivator, well, I won't get into the particulars - but I feel like Dennis Hopper in that Bruce Smith commercial back in the day, "Bad Things Man, Bad Things.."

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Stetsasonic - "Talkin' All That Jazz"

The Blog Readability of this blog

Earlier this week I was directed here, a site that measures the education that one would need to fully comprehend a particular blog. Curious, I typed in my blog address and immediately saw the following:



cash advance

Get a Cash Advance



Really? Post Grad? Not for nothing, but there definitely has to be a glitch in the matrix.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)








Find the original Back story here:

Kool G Rap: "Truly Yours"



I'm fully aware that my goals for Hip Hop are pretty fucking lofty, but for the longest time I've passionately viewed my favorite genre of music like a martial art - only imagining the true practitioners of said art-form spending inordinate amounts of time honing their craft, hoping to one day acquire a golden glow around their collective bodies that resembles Bruce Leroy(or maybe Jesus if his black hippie ass ever returns) the very moment that they've mastered one of the elements of Hip Hop that I hold near and dear to my heart. As a dedicated fan, much like some random towns-person who happens to inhabit the same fictitious village that a Kung-Fu Master does in one of those old school karate flicks - I sincerely respect the skill and dedication it takes for an MC or DJ to get where they're at, the only difference is that I'm not really into bowing with clinched fists every time I'm in the presence of their ass. Since I'm a true believer of the time honored tradition that has everything to do with two turntables and a microphone - I took a solemn oath, probably around the same time that my father bought me a certain Sugarhill Gang record circa 79', that I would tirelessly defend great artists whose good names were being sullied.

That being said, I think I owe Kool G Rap a sincere apology. See, Two months ago, when I was having some drinks with a couple of good friends at a Mexican restaurant that's probably owned by a gentleman who knows less Spanish than I do - we started talking about some of the Greatest MC's of all time. The light was being shone on the usual suspects like a jailhouse interrogation, Rakim, Tupac(not by me), Biggie(again, not by me) - but when I mentioned Kool G Rap you would have thought that I had squatted and unloaded a very busy shit right in front of everybody. Especially from my friend's home-girl that was in attendance, she seemed flustered that I even attempted to fix my lips and utter the respected member of "The Juice Crew" - then she went on a very misguided diatribe explaining the error in my ways. I could have easily torn her to shreds, recited his verse in "The Symphony" that would have melted large portions of her brain, casually mentioned the words "Men at work", severely affecting the simple womans motor skills - but unfortunately I said nothing, disarmed by large chocolate mammaries and a backside that probably inspired Sir Mixalot's greatest chart-topper. For that, Kool G Rap, I sincerely apologize.

A Guitar is a wack MC's arch nemesis(Vibe.com)



When a solitary person expresses their disgust concerning one your unique idiosyncrasies, you can simply chalk it up to them being the one who has the "problem" - but when scores of people make it their business to tell you the exact same thing, it automatically gets upgraded from "fluke" to "inconvenient truth".(minus the melting polar icecaps and it being 80 degrees in motherfucking October!) For the past few weeks I've stopped scrolling craigslist for "delivery ass" and decided to navigate the turbulent waters of dating like most normal human beings - courting a slew of beautiful women by taking them to the movies, museums, and having in-depth conversations at fancy restaurants while openly wondering if my future disgruntled ex-girlfriend is going to order from the "in-car mouth-hug" side of the menu.(Read more here)

Allen Iverson, its safe to drop that Hip Hop album now(Vibe.com)

Like most people who openly despise Tyler Perry and clearly pronounce the "er" at the end of the word "motherfucker" - I publicly had my blackness challenged the other night, a ritual that happens so often that I feel like a grizzled veteran who has done four tours of duty in that particular war of ignorance. I happened to be out with some friends, having a few drinks, talking about everything from Hip Hop to politics - when a friend of one of the people at the table said "Man, you sure do talk white, what's up with that?" Usually, despite my reputation for historically being a sociopathic hothead, I'd calmly tell the misguided brother that he desperately needed to reevaluate what blackness is - respectfully dropping jewels to the young man like so many elder statesmen of years past had graciously done with me, letting him in on the fact that a person's colloquialisms and lack of stereotypical idiosyncrasies have nothing to do with embracing the melanin they were born with. But I must have been having a bad day because all civility and decorum were abandoned as I punched that son of a bitch squarely in the throat, dragging his ass outside by his BAPE sweatshirt as he desperately gasped for air - me screaming at the top of my lungs "You really want to see how black I am motherfucker!!" Sure, that could have been handled differently, but I've been dealing with that sort of idiocy ever since my main focus in life became landing 360 Airwalk Ollie's and pulling off backside smith grinds - when I was in junior high, the mere fact that I rode a skateboard made my black peers feel as if I was a race traitor who would snitch on my fellow brothers and sisters if the revolution ever went down.(Read more here)

Respectfully, Blender Magazine has lost its fucking mind!!(Vibe.com)

When I was first approached to write for Vibe.com more than 9 months ago I was sincerely flattered, the fact that there was a company actually in existence willing to pay me legitimate united states currency to talk my specific brand of shit under their imprint would have brought a solitary tear to my eye - if a testosterone fueled stud like myself was capable of such an emotion that is. But like Dave Chappelle once rhetorically asked, "What's a black man without his paranoia intact?" - so when I was told that I had car blanc content wise, I kept second guessing the sweet woman, asking again and again, "Are you really sure you want to do that?"(I now know what it felt like to be one of Nas' homeboys while he recorded that "You Owe Me" song with Ginuine) Even though she had informed me that they had read my blog, knew what they were getting into, and virtually gave me the green light to say that Three-6 Mafia was Undoing the Civil Rights Movement and that the people over at MTV who compile those Hip Hop "Best of" lists should be publicly beaten with old videotaped episodes of "Yo MTV Raps" - my utter disbelief led me to very cowardly dedicate my first two posts to Paris Hilton and Ray J.(*hangs head in shame*) But as time passed, me very nervously looking around like a kid about to steal a cookie every time I said something rather inflammatory or provocative - to their credit the good people at Vibe kept their word, no censorship, no notes from up above. They allowed me to be their journalistic gun for hire, verbally assassinating wack rappers who were in desperate need of dispatching - only I wasn't as smooth and stealthy as most Hit-men, hiding in adjacent buildings and calmly picking off their target then leaving the premises in a janitors uniform - my approach was more up close and personal, confronting the target while wearing a gaudy gold medallion with my government name on it, taking them out in broad daylight only to look around at everyone else and to say "See what happens to you when you spit a horrific 16?"(Read more here)

Killer Mike on "Snitching"



This video is a few months old, but I completely co-sign his sentiments on child abusers.

"..kill the guy and bury his body behind the Stop-n-Go"

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

A Side order of beef at PF Changs

In this glorious age of self promoting snake-oil salesmen blaming all societal ills on two turntables and a microphone, and people acting like banning a racial epithet would be a feat tantamount to Brown vs. The Board of Education - as a black man I know how important it is for me to spread nothing but positive messages to my young readers, countering all of the negative imagery that they are bombarded with on a daily basis. That being said, I've been barred from at least 60% of the local drinking establishments over the course of a decade - an otherwise troubling statistic that I happen to wear like a motherfucking badge of honor. I know, I'm a 34 year old man who has no business fighting, I should be starting a family and acting like most responsible adults equipped with a penchant for diaper changing and hanging out with Sunday afternoon golf buddies - but the sole fact that I subscribe to the rationale that anyone is eligible for an ass-whipping, embracing said philosophy has turned my government name into a curse word for a handful of local bar owners. Believe it or not, bar owners frown upon one of their patrons choking someone the fuck out with a pool stick, them putting a cue ball in their sock and mercilessly hitting his would-be dispatchers with it - they really don't care if it was provoked or not, see how fast you will get banned from a bar if you happen to have a monthly habit of smashing bottles over the heads of miscellaneous douche-bag's while weirdly proclaiming "Don't ever say anything against my mother!!"("Malcolm X" reference)

Its not like I actively go out and try to decrease my drinking opportunities, I'd rather have people thinking that I practiced civil disobedience on some Gandhi shit when I wasn't preoccupied with ruining my liver - but because of my criminally low levels of tolerance when it comes to people talking slick, I either find myself on the business end of a bouncer attack or a scathing diatribe where the words "Get The fuck out and never come back!" are strategically placed somewhere at the end of said rant. But being that most of the drinking establishments I'm banned from happen to be of the dive bar variety, watering holes where only career alcoholics and women whose methadone treatments have left them virtually toothless dwell - that very special moment where I do find myself banned, I usually clap very slowly while letting out a very sarcastic "You know you're doing me a favor, banishing me from a shitty bar and all.. Bravo!" closing salvo.

That being said, I never thought that I'd ever get banned from a place like PF Changs - a fine establishment that doesn't violate any health regulations, a respected eatery where I can pick up a woman and not worry about her possibly selling one of my kidneys on Ebay, leaving me laying unconscious in the fetal position in a bathtub full of ice. But I am banned, and here are a few reasons why.

Bruce Leroy: One of the things that I thank god for each night before I meet deaths cousin, outside of him giving me a faulty moral compass and my mother beating cancer like it had stolen something - is the fact that I was never cursed with the burden of having any younger sisters. I'm saying, I've heard so many horror stories from women concerning their ex-boyfriends, everything from having dagger-shaped words being hurled in their direction to being victims of the most heinous acts of violence imaginable - I always find myself asking these women, "Where in the fuck is your daddy/brother at?" Not for nothing, but that's why I'm glad that I don't have any younger sisters - my backyard would be filled with the skeletal remains of every detestable waste of semen who took it upon himself to physically harm or even talk sideways to my sister - I hate to reference another Denzel Washington movie, but I can see myself burying some douche-bag in my wife-beater, looking around at all the unmarked graves and screaming "Saddam ain't got shit on me!!". I brought all that up because the woman I recently went on a date with has a disgruntled ex-boyfriend whose mind-state is as flimsy as a soup sandwich, most of the phone conversations we had in the run up to the date had to deal with his physical abuse, his stalking, and him unexpectedly showing up at her job throughout the day - the "nuttier than squirrel shit" trifecta. So after a few weeks of convincing she finally agreed to go on a date with your friendly neighborhood pre-ejaculator at PF Changs, and everything was going well - that was until I returned from the bathroom to see some disheveled looking gentleman attempting to take my date away against her will. It had to be the ex-boyfriend. So, because I've been watching a shitload of videos like this lately - I took it upon myself to run to the table full speed and leap with all the might that a fat man could muster - catching the mentally disturbed gentleman flushly in the face with the phat lace part of my shell-toe Adidas. As the disoriented gentleman crashed into a lovely couples meal for that night, I noticed an elderly black woman shaking her head in disapproval, which led me to ask her "I know, I just set our people back 20 years didn't I?" In which she responded, "Sure, but I was just wondering how your "latenight snack having" ass managed to get off of the ground like that?"

Zsa Zsa Gabor-ing the wait staff: I'm not exactly sure how the local PF Changs treats their black staff members, it has to be akin to slave labor or indentured servitude based on how miserable they seem all of the fucking time - but they tend to comfortably wear looks of anguish and despair on their faces like it was a trusty pair of house slippers. Not only that, when said staffers aren't making you think that they're a bad day away from swallowing a bullet, they mean mug you to death making you feel as if you're trapped in one of those cliched Kung Fu flicks - a Karate gui-less fellow planning to exact his revenge on me for cutting his twin brother's life short, or consensually sodomizing his sister to the point that she was unable to sit down for a week. Even before the episode where I tried to knock out some douche-bags bicuspids with my shell toes, I found myself on the business end of many cantankerous stare downs - I never acted on it mind you, just slowly turned to whoever I was having dinner with at the time and openly wondered "What in the fuck is that guy staring at?"

Fast forward to last week. I was taking my mother there for a bite to eat, I love her dearly, I'd die for the woman without weighing my options - sure she is one of the only people to unconditionally have my back from day one, but I'd take a bullet for her based on the fact that she can identify everyone in "The Symphony" and she happened to use the phrase "Nappy Dugout" in a conversation recently. Anyways, as we are strolling down the sidewalk en route to some early evening eats - I notice a staff member of said eatery sitting at a table on the patio portion, staring me the fuck down like I was the grim reaper about to snatch up a loved one. His eyes never broke from me once, my mother even noticed it and asked "Do you know this young man?" - by the time we had reached him I'd had enough and decided to ask the guy what his problem was. Apparently my right palm has issues with authority, simply ignoring my brains request for a verbal altercation - and I proceeded to open hand slap the shit out of the gentleman, me exhibiting a violent arm motion that only fast ball pitchers would recognize. My poor mother, all 120 pounds of her trying to restrain me like a bouncer - me feeling like Nino Brown shooting someone in the head in broad daylight, I kept screaming "Don't ever fuck with a dude silly enough to start fights in front of his mother!!!" The dude ran inside and within a few moments a manager came outside and told me that I was banned from the restaurant - my mother just shook her head, smiled, and said "I was warned about drinking all that wine when I was pregnant with you.."

Black Thought of the day: "Al Sharpton & Jesse Jackson"

One of the things that I absolutely loathe in this world, outside of world hunger and any waste of semen that feels that Jim Jones is in the least bit talented - is fake humility, an obviously cocky person who says all the right things just so people won't see him for the insufferable prick that he really is. Well, most of you already know that I'm an insufferable prick - but I just hope that I'm not exhibiting the same sort of fake humility when I say that I'm always sincerely stunned whenever a person reaches out and tells me how much they dig my writing. I'm fully aware of my criminally low self-esteem that comes with this gut that blocks my view of an already unimpressive phallus - but I'm just pleasantly surprised that anyone would forgo triple penetration smut-sites and gossip blogs for a few fleeting moments to read one sentence of my drivel. That being said, one of the handful of people that read my random ramblings reached out and asked me how I felt about Nas titling his album "Nigger" - I proceeded to type the following: "Personally, I have no problem with it, especially if Nas takes it upon himself to create a socially aware piece of art that makes the title of his 8th studio album more than just a cheap political stunt." Then I hit "send".

After a few minutes passed, answering emails, watching sports highlights, and earnestly patrolling work-unfriendly websites where women lacked gag reflexes and smeared delicious looking chocolate all over themselves - I hit her back with the following response:

"I know that you asked me a simple question that only required a quick and rather pedestrian response, which I initially gave you - but I have another take on Nas and him naming his album "Nigger". I seriously doubt that this is the reason Nas is doing this, but personally I see it as one of the biggest chess moves an artist can make when it comes to confronting "black leadership" in this country. When all the charlatans and used car salesmen with an agenda come out of the proverbial woodwork and raise complete hell, pace in front of the record label with unimaginative picket signs, steamroll Cd's, and get more face-time on cable news than Laci Peterson - that would be the perfect time to confront them, rattle off about 45 different life and death causes that are drastically affecting the black community, and openly and sarcastically wonder why they are wasting their time obsessing over a word. Put those ambulance chasing scumbags on front-street! OK Crystal, I'm done - I promise" Then I hit "SEND".

After I had bombarded Crystal's inbox with my nonsensical ramblings, and started to think more about the proverbial clusterfuck that is Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton - the wheels in my head started to turn, lubricated with only conspiritorial thoughts that make 2nd shooter theories and the government inventing AIDS to eliminate black folks seem like something easily found in an Encyclopedia Britannica. I was wondering, since most black folks with the good sense that god gave them see those two men for what they really are - does anyone ever get the feeling that they are double agents disguised as civil rights leaders, actually doing the black race more harm than good? Just think about it, whenever you have those two "Barney Fife's with a soapbox" immediately out in front of a legitimate black issue or tragedy - their mere presence automatically makes a legitimate issue that should get the nations attention seem kind of suspect. Its almost like fighting Superman while he has a big brick of kryptonite in his pocket, sure he's a formidable opponent, but you don't have to take him as serious as usual.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Just Ice ft KRS One-Going Way Back

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"


One of the main reasons why I love HBO's "Curb Your Enthusiasm" so much is because I can completely sympathize with Larry David, I too spend an inordinate amount of time apologizing to people. Whether I'm asking for forgiveness from my lesbian friend after I said that her lover looked like "Jim Brown in his playing days", or me purposely using terms like "cuts like a knife" and "lets take a stab at it" when talking to a friend of mine who was once on the business end of kitchen cutlery via an irate girlfriend - I'm pretty sure if I was a secret agent in one of those James Bond movies my codename would either be "Insufferable prick" or "consummate asshole". This is going to sound like a bit of hyperbole, a literary attempt to drive home the point on how detestable I can be - but I find myself literally turning my head in public places whenever I hear the word "asshole" like it was my government name. Maybe that has something to do with my mother, any time she is talking to one of her friends about her kids and said confidant on the other end of the line is unaware of which offspring she is talking about - she clears the matter up immediate by saying "The asshole". Or maybe its my fathers fault, a man that verbally bullied my entire family and told me on more than one occasion that I'd never amount to nothing - one day as a teenager, after I mercilessly mocked him all day he threw down the hammer he was using and screamed "You are such a fucking asshole!!", before storming away like a petulant child. I can't call it, here are some recent examples of why I turn my head whenever I hear the word "asshole"

McDonald's Drive-in: I don't know about all the other males out there who have the utmost hetero street cred, but whenever a woman crosses my path with an ass that guarantees that she's not a PETA member - it completely paralyzes me. I don't care if I was giving a dying man CPR, giving a choking child the Heimlich, explaining to a cop with an itchy trigger finger that the gun in my glove compartment is completely legal - if some fine specimen with a backyard so juicy that companies use her butt-cheeks for swimming pool molds, I'm stopping whatever I'm doing and recording the clip in my head for future masturbatory material. That being said, while I was waiting for my artery clogging burger and fries, a chick with an backside that ass-worshipers the world over would at least travel to once in their lives like Mecca passed in front of my car. I didn't scream anything out of my car, I'm not a complete savage - but I did turn to the guy handing me my food and said: "Jesus Christ man, the things that I would eat out of her ass - I'm sure that sweet ass would smother you while in the 69 position, but I bet dying never felt so good. You're a guy so you'll clearly understand me when I say that I would make her ass look like a negro glazed doughnut." Most men wouldn't get offended by my remarks, outside of christian fundamentalists and flaming gay men posing as christian fundamentalists like Ted Haggard - but since the woman I verbally desecrated happened to be the cashiers girlfriend, I had my food basically thrown at me. I should have just apologized and left, but before I pulled off I said: "Shit man, since you're flipping burgers I should go in there and steal here from you - granted, I'm a degenerate pre-ejaculator but at least she'd be upgrading"

The Oxygen tank: Last week, after me and my homeboy hit up one those horrific after-hours clubs where coked out whores dwell and they play nothing but murder inducing house music - we decided to hit up Denny's to soak up all the malted hops and grain alcohol in our system, despite the restaurant's shameful history when it comes to overt racism. As we sat there and had a drunk conversation about who would be a better lay, Wonder Woman or Bat Girl - a beautiful woman that knows my homeboy came and sat with us, so obviously the conversation switched to something more suitable like "What kind of incurable diseases are running through Superhead's blood stream". A few minutes later I noticed an older black man with an oxygen tank talking greasy about me and my boy in muted tones, claiming the both of us were both "Uneducated" and "Hoodlums" - it made me feel that we had inadvertently pissed off Bill Cosby or something. That's when the woman we were sitting with informed me that the gentleman was probably upset because before we walked in he was laying his strongest geriatric game on her. A few minutes passed, and for a hyperactive overreactor like myself I was proud that I was able to ignore a multitude of random slanders and cryptic threats of violence from a man old enough to be my father - but before long I was forced to confront the gentleman who probably rolled with Muddy Waters when he was younger. I tried to be nice to the old fella, very politely telling him that he didn't know my friend and I, and that I didn't want any problems - but the gentleman was having none of my new found civility, and proceeded to shower me with Uncle Ruckus-like, self-hating insults that would make any republican proud. That's when I pulled out my pocket knife, held it to one of his oxygen tubes - and told him that if he didn't dial down his rhetoric that he'd have to find an alternative way to get more oxygen. He begged me not cut his lifeline and said that he planned to leave immediately anyway, so I got up and for some reason passionately proclaimed "Crazy wins every time motherfucker!!" - before walking back to my table amongst horrified onlookers.

Horrible reasons for not dating interracially: Most of my political stances have less to do with morality and more to do with people overall minding their fucking business - what do I care if two people of the same sex want to get married, why should I obsess over what a woman wants to do with her own body? I never tripped over interracial dating either, not because I pray to the alter of white women like NBA athletes - but because people should be with whomever they please without getting publicly fucked with. Granted, I've always found it quite ironic whenever I'd receive a handful of hateful looks from black women if I even happen to innocently chat a white women up briefly - but those same black women probably wouldn't piss on my black ass people were lighting their cigarettes to my charred remains. That being said, as of this date I'm currently a virgin to Caucasian genitalia - but that has nothing to do with race, it just hasn't happened. Besides, I still contend that if I ever get the chance to date Janeane Garofalo - I will proudly show her off at Afrocentric poetry slams, Essence Magazine music festivals, even at a Nation of Islam meeting with my arm arrogantly draped around her. But the other day something escaped my hairy mandible that shocked even me, this is what I said to a white woman at a bar who pressed the issue as to why I wouldn't date her:

Woman: Seriously, no bullshit, why can't you date me?
Me: Simply put, because you are the human embodiment of an argument killer - let me explain.
Woman: Yes please, Explain
Me: See, I'd have no problem dating you because of your skin color - I'm the type of person that feels that love knows no bounds, I'd could see a life of wedded bliss consisting of me wondering why you don't use a wash cloth and you feeling that I crush any type of black man "myth"
Woman: That's touching, now explain that "argument killer" thing
Me: Well, if I ever find myself being a respected member of society, one whose opinions are cherished when it comes to issues concerning the black community...
Woman: Yeah, Yeah - get to it!!
Me: Ok, I'd find it difficult to talk about any issues issues dealing with black people - varying from bettering the community to the empowerment of young black women because..
Woman: Because what?
Me: ..because someone could always cut my argument off at the knees and counter with a razor sharp "Yeah, but you're married to a white girl!" -(blowing cigarette smoke out while shaking my head) there just isn't any comimg back from that!
Woman:(Grabbing her coat) You're such a fucking asshole!!