Two reasons why I don't want to win the lottery

Besides the first time that I had sex, an endeavor embarrassing and satisfying at the same time since I climaxed after 3 thrusts and wept like a baby in the girls' arms afterwords, I have had great success the first time I've tried things. Even though I turned out to be a pretty marginal baseball player when it was all said and done, my first little league at bat resulted in me smashing the ball over the fence, with arrogant me walking the bases with an irritated smirk on my face like hitting home-runs had become old hat to me. The first fight that I was in, against a bully named Terrence who made my life a living hell for a 5 month period, on the urging of my father I calmly walked over to the young man and smashed him in the head with a brick, causing him to go down faster than LisaRaye on a casting couch as I repeatedly kicked him in the face for two straight minutes.(By the way, the image of my father pulling me off of the kid and telling him, "Go get your old man, he'll get the same thing you little shit!!" is one of my fondest father and son moments) First Track meet, first place, first Football play, I sacked the quarterback, when all of my friends were scared shitless(pun intended) because they didn't want to get caught defecating on a televangelist's front yard, your boy HumanityCritic had no problem dropping his pants and taking a rather busy shit on Pat Robertson's property.(There is something rather rebellious about screaming, "That last turd had corn in it, you fucking hate monger", while escaping the premises.) As soon as Virginia had a state lottery and I ponied up a buck to play, I won that as well. Granted, if I had actually won the grand prize the only writing I would be doing right about now would be my name on some hooker's backside, preferably in Semen, in reality I only got enough of the numbers right to receive a few hundred dollars.

Since then I haven't been close, which is to be expected, but to completely honest I'm not even sure that I'd even want to win the lottery. It's true, I don't want to be one of those people you find yourself stuck behind because that son of a bitch can't want until he gets home to see if he won two dollars or not. I also don't want to be one of those miserable sons of bitches that you see spending 200 dollars at a time on lottery tickets, the continuous sound of the tickets being processed lets out monotonous rhythmic shrieks as if R2-D2 was cumming or some shit. The real reason I don't want to have my name in the paper, fielding loan requests from motherfuckers I never knew I was related to, is because I know that a mass amount of liquid assets would drown a self destructive prick like myself.

For a pretty imaginative guy like myself, I wish I could play along whenever someone that I know throws one of those "What would you do if you won the lottery?" scenarios out there, but I can't respond without depressing the fuck out of anyone within an earshot of my madness. People usually give the stock answers, you know, "I'd buy my mother a house", "I'd travel", "I'd buy a car", "I'd search the globe for a cure for this venereal disease that I have, one that doctors are mystified by and want to name after me", all pretty reasonable if you ask me. Listen, I'd do all of those things as well(I'd find the cure first, whats the use of being a millionaire if no hot chick will fuck you because you have a glow-in-the-dark cock), the problem would arise afterwords when I'm in "self destruct" mode. Here's two reasons why I don't want to win the lottery.

There would be rioting in the streets: The reason why I feel that having millions of dollars at my disposal would be a bigger mistake than a sequel to "Belly", comes from something that happened to me a few years ago when I won a large amount of money at a poker party. See I pride myself as a decent gambler, nothing to write a script about and cast Ed Norton and Matt Damon in the film version or anything, but I do OK. Well this one night I was doing extremely well, I could tell when people were bluffing, I'd bully other gamblers by going all in when I had a crap hand, I'd lure them in and act like I was bluffing when I had a killer hand, at the end of the night I literally turned a couple of hundred bucks into a few thousand. Most people would have just taken their happy ass home and called it a night, not me, I stayed around and partied with everyone else, with that money feeling like it was literally burning a hole in my Bugle Boy's.(It was either a desire to blow money, or the Chlamydia, who knows?) I now know why at weddings, funerals, wake's, and birthday party's you can always hear someone openly ask "Who in the fuck invited HumanityCritic??", based on what I was about to do.

For some reason, even though people were having a peaceful time ruining their livers and trying to negotiate some late night penetration, I approached this young Latina woman and said, "Hey, I'll give you 100 dollars if you walk up to that girl right there(pointing), and try to knock her clean the fuck out!!" At first she laughed as if I was joking, when she realized that I wasn't joking by the thousand yard stare that I gave her she gave me a rather bewildered look which prompted me to say "OK, how about 300 hundred??!!". She grabbed the money, looked over at her prey like she was Bruce Lee about to dispatch a couple hundred sub-par karate students, and the next thing I know this young latina chick is beating the brakes, no, the transmission and the muffler off of this unsuspecting woman. Looking back I feel bad about imitating G-Money in "New Jack City", moving both hands across my face and saying "In Broad fucking Day-light!!", also the fact that I told the woman mid ass-whippin' "Nothing but Jell-O and Applesauce for your ass the next couple of weeks!!", but I digress.

When that fight got broken up and about a half hour passed, I approached this dude who I played cards with earlier who had told me that he had just gotten out of prison. I walked up to him and said, "It has to be a bitch, you know, trying to make a living when you get out of prison, huh?" As soon as he agreed with me I hit him with an offer he couldn't refuse, "How would you like to make 200 dollars by punching that guy right there(pointing) dead in the motherfucking mouth!!!" I have to give it to him, in an age of "just add water" thugs and other vagina's posing as tough guys, this dude was thorough because he didn't even try to negotiate a better deal for himself. He just walked over to the man in question and just started whipping his natural black ass. I guess because of the hostility from the women who fought earlier, their friends, and the friends of the two men that were currently fighting, an all out brawl ensued as I smoked a joint and enjoyed the physical cluster-fuck that I had caused. You know how most of the evil villains in comic books are extremely rich men who for some reason want to obtain a nuclear missile and drop it on some peaceful town because they have nothing better to do, well, that would probably be me.

I'd only fuck porn stars: Okay, maybe I'm being a little Naive here but I never knew that women in the adult film industry, a visual medium where you can witness everything from midgets fucking in vats of chocolate and hermaphrodites appearing in films entitled "Fuck it or suck it", ever fucked civilians. I know this is going to sound weird, especially considering that most of these women have had fruits and vegetables shoved in every orifice of their bodies and covered in a football field's worth of ejaculate, but I always thought that that nastiness was reserved for their adult film brethren. As much as I have dreamed about pounding away at one of my favorite porn stars, giggling to myself after I tell her to call my cock "Christopher Columbus" primarily because I'm not discovering shit and like a million guys have been here before me, I always thought that said fantasy was a virtual impossibility.(Like trusting anybody's opinion who likes Chamillionaire)

But lo and behold, like clouds parting after a storm, finding a beautiful woman that knows how to cook, or me being able to hold my climax for any respectable amount of time after a chick sucks her own titty mid coitus, I found out that an average Joe like me can get down with some of my favorite porn stars.(for a fee of course) If I had a significant amount of money I'm sure that I'd only have sex with adult smut actresses, who needs a real girlfriend when I can pay somebody for post coital snuggling and those long romantic walks in the park, the only difference is that I'd be paying and I'm sure that the sex would feel as if I was fucking a well lubricated catchers mit. Yes I'm a germaphobe, but think about it, having sex with women in the porn industry is as safe as safe can be because those broads are tested on a regular basis, who knows what kind of crudded up vagina you're getting yourself into when you have sex with square broads.

Look at all the advantages, non-stop sex with the safest whores this side of female blow-up stunt dummy's, my addiction for strip clubs would be cured, and I could finally throw out that extensive library of porn that I dedicated a wing of my house to. Also, if I ever get all nastalgic and teary-eyed for my past relationships with regular girls, I'm sure for a fee the porn stars in question would blow up my phone, drive by my house at all hours of the night, after sex bitch and moan how she wants to be "more than a piece of ass", and leave messages on my machine telling me what kind of "dickless bastard" I am. Yeah, keep me the fuck away from the lottery.

My favorite things to hit people with..(Part 2)

Besides the fact that I'm emotionally unavailable and as romantic as a prison rape, every girlfriend that I ever had specifically hated that I went through life like there was some sort of contract on my life or something. Although it is true that I've been in enough scuffles in my lifetime that I'm sure some scorned son of a bitch somewhere probably wanted nothing more than to have my mother wearing all black, while I lay in a coffin with heavily caked on make-up that made me look like LaToya Jackson with a cock, but to tell the truth I would have been unnecessarily cautious even if I didn't have a penchant for snatching chains post beat-down and literally urinating on defeated foes. For example, if I was going out to eat with one of the many women who has experienced my miniature unimpressive phallus, while we were still in the parking I would scan the landscape very carefully for suspicious individuals and would-be dispatchers. When entering said establishment I would look for all the exit points, while we were being seated I made it a point to be facing the door-way, even before my ass touched the cushion of the chair I made sure that the table could easily flip over in case of on-coming gun-fire.(I know what you're asking, "With your date's back to the door wouldn't she get shot first??" Answer: She'd be more of a human shield. Yes, chivalry has been dead around this motherfucker for a long time!)

Sometimes I feel like Jason Bourne("The Bourne Identity") with a massive thyroid problem, I can truly relate to the scene in the diner where he explains to the girl how he sizes up each situation, and can tell who can handle themselves in a fight and who can't just by looking at them. But also, based on my many experiences with hand to hand combat under the weirdest of circumstances, I can tell you what household items are the best for beating some overconfident douche-bag within an inch of bricking in his trousers.

Frying pan:

Ideal For: Defending yourself against knife wielders, dismantling more than one opponent if you have the skills, cranium blows that will leave your opponent talking like retarded stroke victims. Oh yeah, cheese eggs.

Shouldn't be used for the following: Horrible in grappling situations, its difficult to throw with any sort of accuracy, and unless your skillet is bulletproof and you can move it faster than wonder woman does her bracelets, it's pretty pointless.(Speaking of Wonder Woman's extremely fast wrist and hand action, just imagine all the dicks she's ripped off giving hand-jobs.)

Personal story behind item: One day, for a reason that's unknown to me still, I faced a knife wielding lover that wanted nothing more than to put my liver on the business end of a steak knife. OK, I know why she was upset, it might have had something to do with the fact that I was secretly screwing her best friend that she'd known since she was in diapers, but is that worth violence I ask you? I think not, and because I only wanted to be known as a "woman beater" in the sexual euphemism sense, I slowly backed out of her kitchen as I tried to comfort her by saying how her vagina was of a better quality than her friend's. She didn't pursue me so I thought I had avoided any sort of danger, that was until her younger brother grabbed the knife out of her hand and attacked me with all the cage rage of a 115 pound 18 year old. I grabbed a frying pan, smacked the hand he had the knife with so hard that I broke his wrist, and as he sobbed like I did when I couldn't achieve an erection when faced with porn star genitalia, I gave that son of a bitch a backhand that Andre Agassi would probably be found masturbating to in the comfort of his own home. I guess that was the wrong time to attempt to repair my relationship, huh?

Bad experience with item: During High School, when of my friend Calvin unfortunately relayed a pretty funny story to my mother in which I attempted to go after a gun waiving nutcase with a frying pan at a party months before. My mother, not caring if she embarrassed me in front of my friend or not, said "You know what, if your dumb ass was killed I would have made sure that you were buried with that fucking frying pan in your hand. It would serve as a cautionary tale to dumb motherfuckers everywhere!" Then she slapped me, my mother, the nurturer.



The wooden paper towel bar:

Ideal For: Hand to hand combat, choking someone out, knee-cap strikes, a dildo for a female Sasquatch.

Shouldn't be used for the following: Unlike the pan, an item that you can swing and still be in a great position to beat up others, this item is a lot smaller and you might find yourself getting said item rammed up your ass, no Vaseline, not even a complimentary reach-around.
Personal story behind item: I knew this dude in college named Reggie that everyone that I've ever known was scared of, based on his reputation of sending people to the hospital via gun shot or old fashion beat-downs. Because he was feared the same way Jim Jones fears a dictionary, people allowed him to get away with absolute murder. Imagine a Virginia version of Suge Knight, men could be found giving him money whenever he asked, not responding when he verbally ridiculed them, they wouldn't even give him a menacing look if Reggie happened to open hand slap them in the face surrounded by several vagina owners. Well one night at my friends party, Reggie decided to smack me in the mouth in front of my girl for Christs sake, and when I inched toward him he flashed his gun and said "Don't make the wrong choice son!" While he walked in the backyard where everyone was at, chuckling to himself, my girl at the time looked at me and said, "Come on, lets go, forget about him!" But the idea of getting smacked in front of my girl was something that I couldn't deal with, I mean, how could she achieve orgasm from that point forward after seeing me get punked like that?(Actually, she hadn't reach climax by that point, or the subsequent months after.)

Anyway, I grabbed that wooden beam that holds the paper towels roll in place, walked up to Reggie and sincerely tried to perform a home-made lobotomy on that miserable piece of shit. The funny thing is, since that party was littered with people he had at one time victimized, I was part of a ten guy team that spent the better part of an hour treating that bully like a negro pinata.



Telephone receiver and cord:

Ideal For: Close quarters combat, choking someone out, drunk dialing ex girlfriends with new boyfriends and leaving cryptic "I just found out I have herpes, you might need to get yourself checked out" messages on their voice-mail.

Shouldn't be used for the following: Smacking people with, what are you a dominatrix you sick fuck. It's also pointless to use against bats and weapons of that nature, unless you have the skills of that magnitude?? Didn't think so. I wouldn't recommend using it as a jump-rope either, unless you confused your opponents "lets go outside and handle this" as a request to join him in a gay double dutch challenge.

Personal story behind item: Besides someone pulling my hair like a bitch during a fight, nothing concerns me more than going against someone who is well versed in the fine art of grappling. I feel that I'm strong enough to get out of a few wrestling holds, but if I faced someone with bona fide wrestling skills I'm in danger, as if I was driving alongside Brandy. That's why when I found myself getting manhandled by this gentlemen who didn't appreciate the fact that I called his sister a walking sperm bank, I knew I had to act fast. As soon as he slammed me against the wall and all the air rushed out of my body I grabbed the phone receiver, yanked the chord out of the wall, and wrapped it around as many parts of his body as I could, including his neck, and tried to choke the shit out of this wrestling phenom. People were screaming, "Stop it, you're killing him!!", in which prompted me to respond, "That's the fucking point, isn't it??" I'm no murderer, but the cool thing about that particular household device that can be used for a weapon, is that when the persons air is restricted you can further humiliate them by hitting them with the receiver and saying shit like "Is any one there?"(whap), "I left a message for you!"(whap), or "Hello? Hey, it's for you!"(whap)



My favorite things to hit people with..(Part 1)

Sorry Duke Lacross team, you don't get off that easy

As much as I hope that I'm not generalizing when I say that a majority of black republicans are self-loathing house Negroes, as much as I hope to be proven wrong by some proud person with melanin, some well meaning individual appearing out of nowhere to save the day like Willis Reed in game 7 for their cause, it seems that I am continuously proven right. Black republicans will bitch and moan about how they aren't Uncle Tom's and Aunt Tomasina's, weirdly defending their choice of political ideology by explaining how Democrats take black folks for granted(I agree with that) but they still don't provide a legitimate reason why being a republican is a beneficial alternative, and they want to give you a cliff-notes version of history, how John Wiles Booth's least favorite person freed the slaves and how they are proudly a member of "The Party of Lincoln".(Sorry, you are now a party of "McCain's illegitimate black baby" and "Watch out, Harold Ford will lovingly sodomize your white daughters if elected")

The reason why I brought any of that up was because over the past several months I have seen black republican journalists and bloggers shamelessly carry water for the Duke lacrosse members who were accused of rape. I mean, I guess it wouldn't have been as vomit inducing if they seemed sincere and heartfelt about their feelings that these young men were innocent. But it was done in such a "House negro-massa" way, them screaming at the top of their lungs from the highest of mountain tops that it was nothing but "reverse racism", secretly hoping that such acts of verbal loyalty would ingratiate them to the likes of Rush Limbaugh so he will one day hire them to park cars at his Hillbilly heroin parties. Or maybe, just maybe, them being a bona fide black republican who tirelessly defends a handful of douche-bags going to college in North Carolina will land them on stage at a future Republican Convention, looking like a crow in a blizzard, too stupid enough to know that they are being used for the sake of "inclusion".

Listen, if the young men in question are truly innocent of the crime of rape I agree that they should be free from associating themselves with black men that converted to Islam and forced conjugal visits from Neo-Nazi inmates named Hans, I would never want anyone to be a resident of a state funded "pound me in the ass" prison if they didn't deserve it. But it just struck me as kind of odd that the Duke Players, their parents, and the attorney's of the players were allowed to go on every morning show known to man to state their case and how they were wrongly accused. I mean, just think about how many times you have seen some unfortunate black bastard that spent the better part of his life behind bars for a crime he didn't commit only to be exonerated by some DNA evidence 30 years too late, with you only seeing the man in one interview and the justice system giving him a silly shrug, a pat on the back, and a "my bad" for his troubles. Besides the scenario that I just laid out, think about how many times you've heard about some innocent man getting wrongly executed, and other acts of injustice, so excuse me if I don't feel sorry for those young men who actually think Lacrosse is a sport.

But you know why I really don't feel sorry for those young men, even if they are innocent of the crime, is because at the end of the day they are still steaming piles of shit in my humble opinion. First off, as a man who loves titty's with glitter on them as much as the next guy, who in the fuck only gets two strippers to dance for 40 people?(Especially if one of them had never stripped before) You're supposed to be our "best and out brightest"? Hell man, two sets of titty's isn't enough to satisfy the fantasy scenario I have in my head, how in the hell is it supposed to soothe the savage beast of 40 jackasses who probably unconsciously yelled "PUSH!!" when they saw the scantily clad women since the last time they saw a naked woman an umbilical cord was being cut.

But lastly, how about Jason Bissey, the neighbor who lived next door to the frat house who heard someone yell "Thank your grandpa for my nice cotton shirt!"? Granted, those Duke boys might not be rapists but they sure do resemble fecal matter in my humble opinion.

How about the racial epithets that were heard by some passer-by's on that fateful night? Apparently so many "N-words" were thrown out that it would have made Strom Thurman say, "Now that's excessive!!" Sexual offenders, maybe not, but bad representatives of the human race that should be beaten violently with a pillowcase full of VHS versions of "Roots", definitely.

How about Ryan McFadyen, a member of the team sending one of the other players an email talking about "having some strippers over" and making references to "killing the bitches" and then cutting off their skin while ejaculating "in [his] Duke-issue spandex"? Again, I'm not one for wanting innocent men to go to prison, that's if they are indeed innocent, but when it comes to the charge of these men being watery bowel movements and other abysmal examples of human flesh. Verdict: Guilty.

Another thing that Killed Hip Hop: When having talent stopped being a pre-requisute for being a video girl

Let me tell you, I am very unapologetic when it comes to dismissing people's horrible tastes in Hip Hop in their face, telling that particular individual with the arrogance of Kanye West while jacked up on cocaine that I know more than them about the genre, and openly expressing my beliefs that any journalist who have ever said anything positive about the musical stylings of Lil Wayne, Jim Jones, or other artist of their ilk shouldn't be trusted, and on top of that be beaten within an inch of their lives.(Yes, I've embraced my inner asshole years ago) Don't get me wrong though, despite all the shit I talk about the current state of Hip Hop and the declining state that its in, I don't look back at the earlier years of Hip Hop with nostalgic rose colored glasses. I can't say with a straight face that misogyny, violence, or racy language is a new phenomenon that surfaced as soon as Master P hit the scene and started letting out those shit straining "Uhhhh" sounds as record ad-libs.

But I must say, even though there has always been beautiful women in Hip Hop video's, I realized that at least women back in the day had some kind of discernible talent. Look at most of the video's from the late 80's and early 90's, most of those chicks had the heavy lifting of busting out choreographed dance moves on top of being the lovely female lead. Sure not all of them danced, but most of them did, and the ones that didn't dance had to at least have the skills of a B-Movie actress and make it seem like they actually liked the protagonist behind the microphone. Nowadays it seems like the only criteria for being a video girl is having big tits, a phat ass, wearing virtually nothing, being comfortable enough in her own skin to get degraded for millions of people, and possibly fuck some lowly member of the rapper's crew during the lunch break. Man, where's Big Lez when you need her?

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Return Of The Crooklyn Dodgers: Chubb Rock, Jeru, O.C

Believe it or not, there is a case to be made for segregation

What I'm about to say might shock the fuck out of you, like trying to penetrate the Jetson's robot maid while standing in a puddle of water, but I seriously think that Barack Obama doesn't have a snowballs chance in Lil Kim's crotch to become our 44th president. Don't get me wrong now I'm not one of those ass-wipe black conservative bloggers, talking about how overrated Barack Obama is, that being their main topic of discussion when they aren't trying to show their readership what kind of loyal house negro they are by acting as if the duke rape case was a scandal akin to Auschwitz or Denzel not receiving the Oscar for Malcolm X. Even though we are a long way away from the presidential election of 08', we haven't even approached the primaries for Christs sake, but if Barack can fight his way past a dude who looks way too young to be 53, a fellow who should have talked about the environment the first time he ran for president, a war hero who I just wish would go the fuck away already, and a chick who probably gets irritated every time she sees either a beret or a cigar, I will proudly vote for Brother Obama with no hesitation. Sure, I have seen every expert known to man wax poetic about how an Obama win is possible, how America has progressed so much over the past 20 years, I've even witnessed colored charts being used to diagram how if a sizable segment of the U.S doesn't want a black man to be commander in chief that he could still win enough states to see his dream realized. That sounds nice and all, like that stripper who once consoled me by saying "Don't worry, this happens to a lot of guys..", but due to me living in area heavily populated with white people for most of my life I know the ugly truth about Mr. Obama's chances.

Don't get me wrong I'm the furthest thing from a racist, I'm a black skateboarding Kevin Smith fan for Christs sake, a dude who, if had the chance would frame a pair of Janeane Garofalo's underpants on my wall with pride like it was a fucking platinum plaque or some shit. It's not just me being exposed to racism, throw a rock in any direction around here and I'm sure you can hit a dude named Bubba who has a pick-up truck, sodomizes his sister in his free time, and thinks that Toby Keith is "our generation's John Lennon". What I'm talking about is the thousands of people I've run into who didn't know, or even were intellectually curious enough to find out about black folks, and the culprits of these acts of ignorance are usually people who consider themselves progressives and probably tell their closest friends that they don't have "a racist bone in their body." That's why I feel that Obama won't win because every poll is corrupted by the thousands of people who claim they would vote for him only because they feel that its the right thing to say, but secretly know that they would rather have Mary J Blige be their motivational speaker than vote for a black man as president.

Hopefully Virginia Beach isn't indicative of the entire United States, but ever since 1988 I have felt like I've been in a backwoods version of "Groundhog Day" based on me having the same discussions about race since African medallions and bubble goose jackets were all the rage. Considering all the mind-numbing "Why can't I say the N-word" discussions I've been on the business end of, ramblings so infantile I always feel like I'm losing I.Q points as I'm listening to it. I've heard so many forms of idiocy that I've stopped answering them seriously and simply replied with questions like "Why would you want to run with scissors motherfucker??", "Why would you fuck with that condom that has been in your pocket since Clinton's first term in office??", or something of that nature. Besides peoples peculiar need to say the one word that invokes marvelous things like dogs being sicked on us, innocent people being hung until their neck snapped, and the indistinguishable body of Emmit Till because his mother wanted people to see what they had done to her boy, I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion that people only want to talk about the dreaded N-word because they feel that's the only time they can say it in it's entirety and not have their lips intimately introduced to a tire iron.

Not to mention people's generalization of Hip Hop, lesser lifeforms actually thinking that questions like "Why is there black magazines and programming??" as being legitimate points in discussing race, and my dreadlocks having prompted so many examples of inbred discourse I constantly feel like I'm stuck on a Jim Jones message board. Hopefully I'm wrong you know, maybe my area isn't a microcosm of the entire United States, maybe where you live doesn't have the banjo plucking "Deliverance" tune as your state's theme-song like we do here, maybe Barack Obama can become our 44th president. I haven't hoped to be this wrong since I accused my high school girlfriend of fucking the entire basketball team, a JV basketball team at that..(I was right by the way, there's nothing more sobering than the woman you love smelling like sweaty nut-sacks and a parquet floor)

A Tale of Two Dudes I went to High School with

I don't mean this to sound sarcastic in the least, but it always amazed me how everyone that I've ever known from New York had a "..that guy ain't shit, I knew him back in the day!" story when talking about some garden variety famous person. I remember being in awe as a kid, sitting there with my mouth collecting flies as my cousin's told me about the time that LL Cool J played Atari in their basement, how they regularly saw MC Shan in their area, and how it was common place for any member of Run D.M.C to be spotted walking down the street signing autographs for neighborhood kids.(No shit, for the longest time my lifelong goal was simply to move to Queens) As I got older and either dated chicks from the Big Apple or befriended dudes from the city that detests naps, I'd regularly hear about how they either grew up in the same hood as, personally knew, or had a cousin who fucked an MC who I thought was the best thing since sliced macaroni and cheese.(I'm a chubby guy, fuck using a bakery analogy)

Granted, I usually feel that people are generally full of shit, and I can't tell you how many times I've knocked some New Yorker on his ass when he thought that people who resided in Virginia were all about hayrides and square-dancing(that's on the weekends), but I'm still amazed that everyone from that state still relays those type of behind the scenes stories that I'm somehow addicted to. Case in point, I was talking to my friend from New Jersey and I simply asked her which female MC's of years past had hopped aboard the "Tuna Boat".(Lesbian) I had no idea if she was accurate with her answers or not, but I felt secure that she was telling the truth the same way you wouldn't second guess Warren Beatty if he rattled off all of the Hollywood Crotch that he was on the business end of for the past 40 years.

That got me to thinking, who is exactly famous from my area?? Lets see, Allen Iverson is from Hampton which is like 25 minutes from me, Missy Elliot is from Portsmouth which is only a stones throw away, Alonzo Mourning is from Chesapeake which is literally down the street, but I've only met those people in passing, I don't actually know any of them personally. Closer to home we have Timbaland who's from my city, a group that I would like to think as the second coming of A Tribe Called Quest, the Clipse(sarcasm intended), as well as Pharrell, again I only know those guys in passing as well. Then I tried to rack my brain for dudes who went to my High School, Kempsville High School that is. I immediately thought about D.J Dozier, an underachieving running back who played for both the Vikings and the Lions, but since he is 8 years my senior I'm sure the only time we crossed paths is if I was unknowingly served french fries by him. There was the journeyman N.B.A player J.R Reid, I didn't know him but I knew his cock-eyed sister, and of course I can't forget about the less vocal member of the Neptunes, Chad Hugo, who apparently went to Kempsville while I was there but for the life of me I don't remember him. Then I realized that I knew two guys in High School that went on to fame and fortune, well, they both aren't the most famous or richest people in the world, but I guess they are more famous than your average American citizen. The following is a tale of two dudes that I went to High School with.

Jason George: Even though my father knew his mother for years through his auto repair business, I didn't know Jason personally until his senior year of High School. Since he was a grade above me I had always known of him, you can't help but notice a dude who is adored by the ladies, but I guess he stood out because he was the first brother that I witnessed up close and personal that dated white women with reckless abandon. Granted, for a brother to date a white chick nowadays is sort of old hat, some black women that I know feel that a brother becoming biblical with a woman without melanin is a rite of passage akin to wives tales, bar mitzvah's, or your father handing down his 1960's era porn where the women are so hairy that you couldn't tell whether a couple was making out or in the 69 position.(OK, maybe my father only did that.) But back in 1990, with sentiments like "Fight the Power" in the air and black medallions swinging from every black person's neck in the school(all 7 of us..), Jason didn't give a fuck about any of that and treated his cock like the Statue of Liberty on some "..bring us your poor, your tired, your hungry, a couple of white chicks named Buffy" shit.

I didn't really get to know him on a personal level until he decided to join the school's track team his last year of High School. I must say, I know that when I've talked about this guy before I've gotten comments like "Fuck that guy!", but to be honest with you I've never met a nicer, more genuine guy in all of my 33 years on this earth. When these guys tried to jump me after track practice one day he came to my defense even though there was a good chance that he'd receive the same beat-down that I was about to receive, he'd push me in track practice, and I have never met another dude outside this pimp that I know who was so dedicated to getting me laid. God bless him. But the true act of kindness came during our last track meet of the season, we were both a couple of points shy of lettering and we were both running in an event where 3rd place was guaranteed to either him or me. Just so I could letter, he dropped out of the race so I could at least place 3rd and walk around school with a gaudy letter on an even uglier jacket. Suffice it to say, I'd be hard pressed to point to any other examples in my life where I was the beneficiary of someones character like that.

Out of all the acting roles that he's done, I'm sure that most of you know him as Eve's no good boyfriend who gets knocked the fuck out in "Barbershop", or some of you might even know him as Eve's love interest on her self titled sitcom that ran for a few seasons. I've only seen him a handful of times over the past few years, he's always nice by the way, but coming from a hater who usually wishes everyone that I know the worst of times, I really want nothing but the best for this dude. Yes, it sounds like I'm a couple of "The Sound of Music" viewings away from tucking my cock and singing cabaret somewhere, I'm just being honest.

Kenna: I have no idea if he changed his name, or if he's always been Kenna and I've just been butchering his name for 18 years, but I always thought he went by the name of Kenneth. I guess I could have been wrong for damn near two decades, but I'm sure that I would have recalled him correcting me at least once when I called him "Kenneth" the millions times I did, I guess that is just a mystery that will stay unsolved I guess. As I remember it, Kenna was a tall awkward kid with thick glasses and in desperate need of a haircut. Trust me, I'm not passing judgment, I was a short chunky kid who was also in need of a haircut, with a bad speech impediment to boot, so the last thing I'm trying to do is diss a fellow nerd. We shared a class here and there, conversed sporadically, I can't say that we were the best of friends but all in all he seemed like a decent enough guy. Well, there was that one time that he tried out for the basketball team wearing extremely thick goggles, tube socks up to his knees, and basketball shorts that were a little bit too small provoking me to call him "James Worthless". I don't think he liked that too much.

Being that I'm not particularly a fan of his music it's hard for me to accurately say if he is extremely popular or not. But then again, he has dropped two albums and his music is featured heavily in this PSP commercial that I saw lately, so I guess the brother is doing something right. Every so often I'll see him in this snooty bar that I go to named "Crackers"(Don't worry, no cross-burnings there folks..) in Downtown Norfolk, sure he'll always speak, but during our chats I feel like I should be wearing protective footwear based on all the name dropping that he does. I'm proud of the guy, there's no hate here, but I don't need verbal reminders as to how many fine chicks he's fucking that a miserable bastard would have to pay top dollar to get close to. Also, weirdly enough, whenever I talk about High School he gets visible irritated, looks around suspiciously, and quickly changes the subject as soon as humanly possible. Anyway, here is his myspace page.

My Goal: To Throat-Chop every Bandwagon Bears fan

For those who aren't already in the know, I'm one of the biggest Chicago Bears fans imaginable. I know, I talk about everything ranging from my clumsy pre-ejaculatory habits to being worried why I didn't completely loath my prostate exam, I guess the only reason I didn't talk about my favorite team ad naseum was because I didn't want to curse them like I've done to so many of Lakers teams in the past. Me and my love for the Bears go back like ass-cracks and spinal chords to be completely honest, back when Jim McMahon was the "punky QB" and Refrigerator Perry looked like a dancing side of beef in that cheesy "Superbowl Shuffle" video, even at that point I had been a Bears fan for as long as I could remember. There was something particularly cool about being in school and publicly supporting a team the first day your Adidas sneaker squeaked in the hallway, then finally wearing your team's jersey when they reach the ultimate goal of the Superbowl like your fecal matter didn't have any sort of recognizable scent to it. Those, my friends, were the best of times.

My Chicago bears hadn't been to that coveted game since their 85' run, sure they had a handful of nice seasons, but if the Superbowl was a very pretty girl lets just say that they haven't been able to get within a square mile of sniffing her panties in more than 20 years. Regardless of how bad it got I was a loyal fan, watching in horror as if I was being shown a snuff film, part of me wishing they would turn things around and part of me wanting the torture to be over as soon as humanly possible. No matter what sort of football conversation I was a part of over the past decade or so, the Superbowl run that the Patriots went on, certain breakout games of a garden variety wide receiver or a running back, or some team that seemed to be a Superbowl dark-horse some particular season, I would always end up giving the person I was talking to a shit eating grin of defeat and say, "I hear you, but I'm a Bears fan dude.", usually 9 words that would invoke cringe-worthy frowns like the person had just inhaled one of Biz Markie's farts. I feel that being loyal to a sports team is akin to having an extremely sick wife with a life threatening ailment, no matter how many chicks throw their asses in your face and offer you the opportunity to make love to their bosoms when you aren't caring for your sick spouse, you stick by your beloved soul-mate no matter what and hope that she gets better soon so you won't resort to fucking the creases in your couch.

I guess that's what got me so worked up about seeing my beloved Bears play in the comfort of a local sports-bar this past weekend. As I sat there and watched the game, when I wasn't watching a couple of the hot bartenders and wondering if a 33 year old fucking a 19 year old seemed creepy or not, I saw nothing but Bears Jerseys as far as the eye could see. I'm sure a couple of people were bona fide Bears fans, but I had the sneaking suspicion that these miserable motherfuckers were nothing but perpetrators, charlatans in sports Jersey's trying to con the true Bears fans who have always been down with them like midget blow-jobs. Even though I had planned to suffer in silence as I watched people cheer a team that they probably didn't give two healthy shits about this time last year, I reached my boiling point and decided to call some people out.

Where were you people when they were losing?: Even though my behavior was nothing to write home about, like that time I had to tell my mother in letter form that I got caught trying to sodomize a camp counselor, I have no regrets about how I handled myself in that particular sports bar. I knew that many of those weak willed individuals who called themselves men weren't real Bears fans, so occasionally I would stump them by asking what college the player that they were wearing on their back went to. It didn't stop there, I would ask them about Bears greats that came before them that wore that same number, if the player wasn't drafted by the Bears I would ask what team said player was on before, how long they have been a starter, and if they felt that the player in question was among the upper echelon around the league based on their position. 90% of them failed miserably, it was particularly hard not to punch the men in the face who didn't even know who's jersey they were wearing. Blasphemous, pure blasphemy!!(But then again, this is coming from the guy who once got a blow-job in a confessional..)


I hate women who desecrate Jersey's, its like wiping your ass with the flag: My fantasy, besides basically finding a women who thinks a chubby black guy with a "black myth ruiner" of a penis is appealing, is hooking up with some goddess of a woman who likes sports as much as I do. Sometimes, when I'm alone with my thoughts, I envision nakedly laying mid coitus with the love of my laugh, between kisses, pelvic thrusts, and some healthy hair tugging, I lovingly rattle off sports statistics in her ear to make her achieve the ultimate climax.(A boy can dream can't he??) But seriously though, I find nothing wrong with a woman sporting a sports jersey, hell, if a the woman was hot enough and was into wearing a Klan outfit I'm sure that I'd want nothing more than to tell a rather steamy "..and then I lifted up her robe of hate and fucked the shit out of her." story to as many people that would listen. I just get irritated when I see women who aren't sports fans in the first place wearing Jersey's, making it even worse when they go that extra mile and turn said Jersey into some sort of skirt, or half shirt to immediately make you think that that you've found Daisy Duke's long lost city cousin. When this fine young thing started talking to me I should have been nicer to her, I mean, I haven't had a decent piece of ass since the last episode of "Parker Lewis Can't Lose" for Christs sake. But all I saw was a perpetrator wearing a desecrated jersey, so right in the middle of one of her sentences I asked her "What year were the Bears founded?? What position did Mike Ditka play?? Can you tell me who in the fuck Dan Hampton and Mike Singletary are??" When she looked at me like I has just asked her to donate a liver, I looked her up and down, pointed in the opposite direction, and said "Remove yourself from my eyesight, you sicken me harlot!!!"

You can't be a fan, why would you wear THAT guys number?: Some of the "fans" there were so clueless they had no idea that they were wearing the number of an athlete that hadn't played the whole year. I can't tell you how many times I walked up to people saying, "Excuse me, that guy got cut in week 3", "Ma'am, that gentleman has been hurt all year, and even when he's healthy I'm indifferent about him. I'm indifferent about craps that I take!!", and "The punter, really??" I guess the Hip Hop equivalent would be seeing someone wear a "Freaky Tah" shirt during the height of "The Lost Boyz", seeing some dude sport a Jersey that said "S1W #2" at a Public Enemy show, or sporting a "Tupac" T-Shirt back when he was dancing for Digital Underground. What in the fuck is that about??

Another thing that killed Hip Hop: The DJ no longer being an integral part of a show.

Did I ever tell you that I've always wanted to be a DJ? Back when I lived in Naval Housing with my parents from 1979-83, me, my friends Kenny and Andre, and their little sister Nikki had a rap group and we called ourselves "Top of the line", or some such shit. Nikki had this Diana Ross thing going on since she wore one of her mother's nappy ass wigs, Kenny and Andre had a low budget Africa Bambattaa style to them looking like black village people members, and I was called "The camouflage Kid".(It was less about my love for camouflage, and more about that outfit being the only one in my wardrobe that didn't make me look like a complete fucking square.) I never had any aspirations to be an MC, all I wanted to do was be a part of a cool group that would result in me landing some pre-teen temptress on the business end of a dry humping session, and just act like the group's DJ.(Since all I was really doing was ruining records.) It was a short lived gig let me tell you, not that I wasn't fabulous at doing absolutely nothing(my lovers feel that I have perfected that art in bed.), but I was such a snob, even then, that I found myself taking over many of the rhyming duties because I felt that Kenny and Andre were seriously underachieving behind the microphone.(Only an arrogant asshole thinks that they are verbally leaps and bounds above other 7 year olds) Even though I was now the lead and garnered much of the attention(in our neighborhood), I would constantly find myself looking back at the turntables longingly like I was some schmo in a romantic movie with his eyes fixed on a lover's departing plane.

As time passed I realized the importance of the DJ, and even though I was trying to be the best wordsmith that I could be, sometimes I would find myself behind a friends turntables feeling guilty like a man getting ready to marry a woman when he has secretly been in love with her sister for as long as he could remember. As a person who is truly in love with the art-form, it gets me a little more upset than your average Hip Hop fan when some shit-stain conservative quickly dismisses the genre that I adore, knowing that if he/she was privy to hearing a good DJ, beat-juggling, transforming, what have you, it would make that miserable son of a bitch convert faster than Sammy Davis Junior after losing an eye.

Remember, in a time not too many years ago, where the DJ was an integral part of a Hip Hop performance. Sure, rappers have performed off of DAT's for years, but the groups who knew what was up always worked off of a DJ, having someone behind the ones and two's always made a performance just seem that much better. Do you remember when certain artists would give the DJ a song all to themselves on an album, immediately Public Enemy, 3rd Bass, and EPMD come to mind. It was like Hip Hop had grabbed the baton from James Brown and instead of giving the "Drummer some", the men behind the microphone gave the DJ his/her time to shine. Forget about a song where the DJ is aloud to flex his skills nowadays, you'd be hard pressed to see a DJ either be an important part of a stage show or an invaluable part of a Hip Hop group.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Erule - listen up

Hey HumanityCritic, what in the fuck are you doing with this in your ipod? Journey - Separate Ways

For the record this isn't the gayest video that has ever been made, this is. That being said, this is what I play whenever I get a bit too big for my britches, like Aretha Franklin trying to get one of the dresses she wore in the seventies over her big toe. Seriously, all that ever comes out of my mouth lately has been "Hip Hop is declining", "That journalist couldn't carry my jockstrap if he had a forklift", "Honey, after I cum that is your cue to leave!", dude just shut the fuck up already. There is nothing like my favorite Journey tune to bring me back to earth and remind me what variety of tool that I am.

My 9th Date: The Wanna-Be Hollywood Starlet..

For the past couple of months or so I have been corresponding with a recent film school graduate, Dave, who is by all accounts a fan of my blog. I was flattered, I really was, but whenever we would talk I would remind him that my writings are just cautionary tales, and that he doesn't want to wind up being a 33 year old childless pre-ejaculator who is a couple of sandwiches away from never seeing his penis again. Anyway, through our correspondence he expressed that he wanted to either turn my posts into video shorts, have me write original material for said films, or both. I immediately told him that I was hip to the idea as long as I had input on the final directorial vision, if I could play a black Silent Bob if we ever decided to do my "Hip Hop Clerks" bit(A role where the only requirements are to be chubby and not say anything, mission accomplished..), and I had to be an integral part of the casting process so I could help pick actors who I felt could pull off the mass amounts of dialog they'd have to learn.(In other words, meet chicks who could wind up being on the business end of a rather unimpressive black penis) He was cool with that, so the past month or so has been spent bouncing ideas off of each other, talking about the type of camera's we would use, and me asking him which camera lense would best accentuate my stubby phallus if I ever wanted to film the shortest porn flick in the history of erotica.

Since I'm always thinking ahead like a chick who only gives oral(sorry about that), I didn't want to have your standard audition process, you know, where me and the director sit and watch future Thespians recite my beautiful poetic dialog like: "Sorry man, your mother can't get enough of me! I'll tell you what though, no matter how many times I stick my dick in that geriatric temptress that is your mother, I'll never get used to looking at your baby pictures on her dresser while I cum." I can't front, sure I find that standard audition process kind of corny, but I knew deep in the recesses of my brain that I would have wound up fucking one of the auditioning actresses anyway, and I'd feel so guilty about it later that I would have felt pressured to cast her in something even if she wasn't qualified. So Dave had a brilliant idea, he suggested that we go to this trendy ass coffee shop that's frequented by actors, so much in fact that he told me there would be a good chance that we would see people actually practicing their lines over overpriced cups of Java. I thought he was exaggerating, but any excuse to openly ridicule snobs and your garden variety douche-bag is right up my alley, so I went.

Wouldn't you know it, it was exactly how he described, there was a sea of frustrated actors, writers, and bohemians as far as the eye could see. It seemed like a place that would stand up and loudly applaud if I started quoting lines from "The Great Gatsby", or if I simply walked around screaming "Stella!! Stella!!" ala Marlon Brando in "Streetcar Named Desire" or some shit. But then again I love snobby chicks though, nothing is more pleasing than relaying a humorous "..and while I was fucking her she kept saying, "I can't believe I'm doing this, you are so beneath me!" story to my friends and loved ones. Right when I was about to go on a proverbial joke fest and exercise the fact that the women in attendance were the same types of women that disregarded me in High school, an amazingly beautiful woman came to my table and asked, "Are you an actor?? You look like an actor, you're an actor right??"

Within minutes, not because I asked but because she easily offered up this information like I was interrogating her, I learned that her name was Yvonne, was originally from Detroit, is only in Virginia because she's looking after a sick friend, has aspirations of being the new millennium "black Bette Davis" as she put it, and a slew of other shit ranging from her favorite color, her political positions, and how she has regular bowel movements because of all the grain that she eats. She talked a lot, a lot, and she was continuously talking over me and interrupting like I was a babbling child or some shit, but she kind of intrigued me to be totally honest. Sure she had bosoms that I could make love to and a backside that I'd love to make a mold out of and penetrate in the comfort of my own home on those cold lonely nights, but the truly intriguing part was every time she talked she acted as if a camera was on her. No shit, as we left the trendy coffee shop and walked down the block hoping from bar to bar, while she would ramble on she'd have these overly expressive arm movements, project her voice like she was on a Broadway stage, and she'd stare at me and say shit like, "You have very peaceful eyes, I could get completely lost in them." The only thing that kept me from chuckling was the throbbing bulge in my jeans, her bullshit was actually giving this chubby guy, well, a "chubby".

After a few drinks she became even more animated, turning every hair flip into an international incident, making every private conversation seem like a presidential address, even when we started to make out in front of a slew of strangers I felt like I was on a daytime soap opera or some shit. I guess the best way I can describe it is, well, think about Faye Dunaway's performance in "Mommy Dearest" because that pretty much nails her behavior. I felt bad about leaving Dave back at that coffee shop, but when she grabbed my hand with the passion of a B-movie actress and said, "Take me back to my apartment and have your way with me!", the last thing on my mind was an aspiring director as I drove to her residence.(I distinctly remember driving the car with my penis, I could be wrong.)

Her apartment was clean which is a good thing because I always worry about the state of affairs of a woman's vagina who keeps a nasty house, but now reflecting back on that night, should I be worried that she had drawers filled with condoms separated by brands?? Anyway, as we commenced to what she called "Christen" her bed(She claimed that I was her first conquest in the new pad but the springs in her mattress let out whines of wear and tear, like bringing one of "The Golden Girls" to climax) she started moaning loudly, shaking her head back and forth, looking back at an imaginary camera, and saying ridiculous shit like "You're going to make me fall in love with you, huh??" I'd like to think she was being authentic, but based on the fact that one of my lovers once finished her college homework as I pounded away at her privates, lets just say it was hard to believe her moans of glee. I'll tell you what though, I was so entertained by her antics that I lasted longer than usual, I was so proud that after it was finished I stood on her balcony naked and raised my arms in victory feeling that someone had to bronze my cock ASAP.

In the morning, no lie, I woke up to the smell of eggs, bacon, and her actually saying "I'm making you some breakfast, lover." "Lover", who says that shit nowadays? I giggled to myself, ignored the urge to scrub my penis in the sink which is usually my ritual after sex, and ate breakfast with some woman that I hardly knew. What do you think, should I ask her to be in the video shorts or just keep that shit to myself??

Another thing that killed Hip Hop: Where are the backup dancers??

Listen, I'm as macho as the next guy, I'm into my sports the same way a heroin addict is into his spoons, I love fast cars, faster women who lack the ability to say the word "no" and don't have a gag reflex to speak of, and nothing soothes this savage beast like beating some asshole bloody, preferably in a public place where people can witness me snatch his chain and go through his pockets on some High School Bully shit. Granted, even in my limited wisdom I know that these things don't exactly make you a man though, taking care of your family, manning up to your responsibilities, and immediately wiping your ejaculate on your lovers new curtains makes you a man.(OK, maybe not that last part..) Even though my father instilled in me at an early age that crying was, and I'm quoting him here, was for "women, pussies, and queers", I don't think shedding a tear every now and then makes you less of a man at all. Let me say this before I go on, if you are a man who cries at weddings, when your team gets beat in the Superbowl, or when the weather changes, I will openly suggest that you tuck your penis until you have enough money for that sex change operation. That being said I cried like a baby as I left the hospital where I had just witnessed the life leaving my fathers body, in my car navigating hazardous weather conditions, leaky tear ducts, and rapping along word for word to A Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario". When my friend "Buddy" died I wept as well, not at a normal time like when I found out or at the funeral for Christs sake, but as I was in a check-out line buying food emotion overcame me and I starting balling in the fucking express line of all places.(Nothing like having strangers console you by saying "I'm sorry for your loss and all, but you gotta hurry the fuck up!!!) I can't forget the time I went to a porn convention a few years back and had a chance to get biblical with one of my porn actresses, an endeavor that stressed me out so much that I couldn't achieve an erection, which left me weeping with a beautiful black porn star holding me in her arms like a new born baby.(You know a chick knows she's hot when she inquisitively asks you, "Maybe you're gay??")

I went into all that and relate it to Hip Hop because I get the sneaking suspicion that modern day rappers see having back-up dancers as being "soft". Somewhere along the line, I can't pinpoint the exact date for you, but the modern day wordsmith couldn't see a happy marriage between their tales of violence, drug dealing, and misogyny mixed with a couple of dancers performing the most acrbatic of moves in the background. But if you look at the hardest rappers of years past like EPMD, they had dancers, one of our craftiest of wordsmiths Big Daddy Kane, had dancers(Scoob and Scrap), Kool Moe Dee, Gangstarr had dancers in their "Manifest" video, all of the acts that I just named are harder than any current group that you can name. Latifah had the "Safari Sisters", De La Soul had dancers in their early videos, Digital Underground(Tupac anyone?), the list is as long as Ciara's and Sade's forhead combined. Matter of fact, to get technical on your ass, Public Enemy's "S1W's" were basically dancers, performing their black panther drills while Chuck and Flav assaulted the audience with classic material. Not for nothing, but I think that the disappearance of dancers accompanying prominent Hip Hop acts is one of the things that caused Hip Hop's death. Not only is Hip Hop wack and too serious nowadays, but the modern day rapper doesn't seem comfortable in his/her own skin. Let me tell you, nothing makes you seem more comfortable in your own skin like having two dancers behind you doing chorerographed steps as you belt out lyrics.

A Message to a friend of mine: "Sorry, guys can't be bi-sexual.."

I don't know if I will offend members of the gay community by this post or not, but I would be doing a great disservice to the few of you kind people who actually read this daily drivel if I wasn't completely forthright with my feelings. Let me clearly state that I wasn't always as progressive a thinker as I am now, once upon a time I was a classic homophobe who knew as many gay jokes as I knew Rakim lyrics. I'd love to say that my accepting people of all sexual orientations came from me getting older, gaining wisdom, gaining something of value that I could proudly credit my shifting of positions on. But to be completely honest, I feel that my progressive "we are all brothers under god" stance only happened when I became secure in my own sexuality and realized that vagina was the only after-hours spot that I wanted to hang my head at. That's what most homophobia is isn't it, a bunch of dudes calling everything gay and acting repulsed over gay men not because its a "sin" or any other garden variety excuse they may give you, but because in the back of their mind they secretly crave cock and want nothing more than to give a guy a complimentary "reach around". I'm not saying that I'm trying to be some sort of spokesperson for straight people who are down with gay people, or co-star on an episode of "Queer as Folk" or some shit, but I thought that I had beliefs that wouldn't offend the gay community in any way imaginable. Until a few days ago that is.

See, I have a friend named Yolanda, not a "I've known her for 20 years and she's like a sister" friend but a "I've been trying for 4 years to penetrate any orifice she would let me, but she's well aware that I'm a scumbag and isn't having it" kind of friend. Anyway, the other day we were chatting on the phone, I'm not sure what we were even talking about but she said, "You know, for the longest time I thought guys couldn't be bi-sexual. But I met a dude the other day and he convinced me to the contrary." I was appalled, and as soon as she finished her sentence I blurted out "Fuck that, if he goes within a square block of another penis he's gay, fuck that!!" The following three examples, probably very bad ones, are what I conveyed to her during our 20 minute conversation as to why men can't be bisexual.

Pitching, catching, it's still baseball motherfucker: During our conversation, my home-girl tried to defend her friend by saying that he "pitches" and doesn't "catch" which doesn't make him gay. I know this argument well because a friend of mine who returned from prison used it after we found out his nickname behind bars was "Louima" for his habit of "plunging" himself in the rectums of other inmates. "Pitching" refers to a guy on the giving end of anal intercourse while someone who "catches" is on the business end of said sexual act. I'm sorry but it's all baseball to me, which means that both parties are gayer than a tree full of parakeets.

The Nightclub test: Lets say a I meet a beautiful woman in a bar, and somewhere between glasses of Gran marnier and me telling her that I have post coital snuggling issues, she tells me that she either has had sex with women before or currently shows off her skill for the cunnilingual arts. Most guys, based on the perverse nature of yours truly, wouldn't see that as a problem to be completely honest. I'm not trying to marry the broad, and who knows, I could find myself being a naked interloper in a very steamy lesbian sandwich. On the other hand, if a woman meets a man in a bar and somewhere between Jack & cokes and him telling her that he's rich enough to benefit from a George Bush tax cuts, that he sometimes finds comfort in the arms of another man. Not for nothing, and I could be wrong here, but I'm sure the woman wouldn't have the same child-like exuberance that I would if I met a part-time lesbian.


The Tiger Woods Theory: Maybe black folks are the only ones that feel this way, or maybe its just me, but when some black looking person goes out of their way to break down every single nationality that's flowing through their blood stream, and specifically stating percentages and whatnot, I always scream out "You're black motherfucker, let that shit go!!" I mean, let my grandmother tell it I have Irish, Choctaw Indian, and a slew of other shit that would make my mere existence seem like one of those Benetton commercials where kids from all over the globe are holding hands and shit. At the end of the day I can see why Tiger Woods would break down his Tai heritage because of his mother, but when he starts rattling off other nationalities its painfully embarrassing. I guess I view gay dudes the same way, I don't care how many chicks you fuck, if another man comes within an arms length of yours and you aren't in a prison shower or getting checked for a hernia, you're gay man.

Johnnie Taylor was right, it is Cheaper to Keep her!!!

I was reading my local newspaper the other day and it broke down what Michael Strahan's(NY Giants) wife, Jean Strahan, will get out of their divorce settlement. Jesus Christ, I'm not rich by any means, but based on the tons of shit she received it makes me want to continue having emotionless sex that ends with her rolling her eyes and me slipping her a 50 dollar bill. Here is the breakdown:

From the Virginian-Pilot

Prenup Payment: $7.5 million plus $1.2 million in interest.

Half of all assets: $6.6 million

House: She can buy the family's $3.6 million "dream house" in Montclair, N.J.,from her husband for $1.4 million

Luxury car: A leased Cadillac Escalade.

Property: She gets half of the money from the sale of 256 pieces of furniture and other property.

Child Support: $214,745 a year, Michael Strahan also must pay 91 percent of the cost of their children's private schooling, camp and higher education fees. She will cover the rest.(What rest?)

Jean Strahan's words as she left the courthouse:(seriously) "I'm going to Disney World.."

That shit alone would make me deposit all of my money, give it to my momma to hide in an attic somewhere, and just do the fucking jail time like a soldier. I can guess the reaction women had as they heard the settlement was...

Women everywhere: "That's right girl, get him for all you can!!"

Black women: "Uh-huh, that's what you get for messing with that white woman!!"

White women: "HumanityCritic, whens that book coming out anyways??"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Lord Finesse - Strictly For The Ladies

Come to think of it, that WAS fucking racist!!!!

Like Stonehenge, the Parthenon in Greece, or this old whore named Ruth who's toothless blow-jobs invoke ejaculatory eye-rolls, some things truly stand the test of time. Whether its the back and forth delivery of Run D.M.C on "Peter Piper", Denzel Washington's performance in Malcolm X, Bill Withers' beautiful heartfelt ode to his grandmother in the song "Grandma's Hands", or one of Pele's acrobatic bicycle kicks where he propelled a soccer ball by some hapless goal keeper, some things you just know will be discussed way after we are dead and gone. Some things on the other hand, like Vivica Fox's nose, Martin Lawrence's career, my hairline, and hopefully the miserable existence of wannabe Hip Hop wordsmiths who whined like little girls about "Hip Hop is Dead" but had the audacity to masturbate all over the Clipse album and act like it was the lost Ark of the fucking Covenant or some shit, definitely don't stand the test of time. For example, maybe because I was raised in Virginia and didn't have any "..and then the DJ plugged his turntables into the light pole" stories like a lot of New Yorkers did, but growing up I liked both "Breakin" and "Beat-street" to be totally honest, with a passion I had only felt a few times before when I would intimately fondle myself to images of Smurfette. With "Beat-Street", even though they had many legendary people sprinkled throughout that movie, I thought that that flick was almost a documentary based on how real it seemed to me. As for "Breakin", lets just say that I was so awestruck with that movie that for months afterwords you could see me actively recruiting awkward looking Caucasian girls to join my dance team. That's why I feel so weird about hating those movies now, seeing how corny they were and how they weren't really a legitimate representation of Hip Hop culture, its akin to trashing one of your first girlfriends even though you thought the world of them at the time.

So yeah, I'm conflicted about movies where dudes with jheri-curls dance alongside floating brooms, where white girls save the day, and flicks where the beautiful love interest would later embarrassingly appear in the black face tour de force that was "Soul Man". One thing I'm not conflicted about is being honest when it comes to spotting overt racism in film and television that I once loved, even if I did think at a time that they could do no wrong like new born babies, a Premo beat, or Filipino hookers with amazingly low prices. Here are some examples of things that I once a fan of, but now when I see them I simply say "Come to think of it, that WAS fucking racist!!"

The Little Rascals Series: I know that Hollywood is pretty rough terrain for black folks in 2007, so I can only imagine how difficult is was for brothers and sisters trying to get acting work in the late 20's and 30's. Its been documented that many African American performers at the time were highly intelligent individuals who felt that the only way they could get work was to take demeaning roles that propelled stereotypes, and a part of me forgives them because it was probably the only work they could get and I can understand that many of them had to feed their family's. As a kid I never understood why my old man would cringe every time he saw me glued to the television, watching what predicament Stimey, Buckwheat, Alfalfa, and Spanky got themselves into. I wondered why my father couldn't grasp the pure genus that the "Our Gang" series was, my entire childhood consisted of me constantly thinking "What in the fuck is his problem???"(Yes, I was a foul mouthed toddler as well)

About tweleve years ago when I was in college I sat and watched one of those "Little Rascals" shorts that I had loved so much as a child. Within moments, especially since he was raised in the segregated south, I fully understood why my father would cringe whenever I watched those black and white movies. As I sat there watching the mangled English of the black characters, the way the black kids would always be seen chowing down on Watermelons, the Bug-eyed look they'd flash accompanied with their hair standing on end whenever they were frightened, and how in the story-line those characters' fathers were conveniently incarcerated, I quickly adopted the same facial contortion that my father would make whenever he noticed that I was watching an episode of "The Little Rascals". God Bless them, but some of the black actors who were a part of that series defended "The Little Rascals" in their adult years, noting the integrated cast and explaining that everyone was stereotyped, but I respectfully feel that you can't spin the portrayal of a pickanini.

Long Duck Dong: If I'm ever rich and famous and feel the need to exclusively date women who look like they belong on a Nazi recruitment poster(Blond hair and blue eyes), black women should point their collective blame directly at Mr. John Hughes himself. "16 candles", "Breakfast Club", and "Pretty in Pink" were the cinematic gateway drug that lead me to the wonderful world of crushing on white chicks that started with the goddess that is Molly Ringwald. The other day, as I daydreamed about taking Ms. Ringwald from behind and tugging her beautiful red mane while screaming in her ear "Call me Long Duck Dong Dammit!!", it brought to mind that very character in the movie "16 Candles". Listen, I know that it's a 23 year old comedy and shouldn't be taken as serious as a prostate exam, but when I thought how amazingly stereotypical Long Duck Dong was, I'm certain that that particular movie is used as a recruitment tool for Asian gangs based on all the silly stereotypes. I guess one could overlook the botched English, the squinting of the eyes, and a slew of other shit that the "Donger" does in the film, especially if you aren't Asian yourself, but I have to think this character is akin to black-face for black folks. Fuck it, I still love "16 Candles" and will continue to pleasure myself to the lovely visage that is Molly Ringwald, I just had to chin check John Hughes on a piece of racism I caught 20 years too late.(Speaking of stereotypes John, whats up with that scene in "Weird Science" where Anthony Michael Hall attempts to sound like an old black man??)

Tom & Jerry: It would be remiss of me not to call out "Tom & Jerry" when it comes to racism as well, but you had to be a frequent viewer of said cartoon to "peep the science" so to speak. I used to love this cartoon, how could you not love a cat and a mouse declaring war on each other to the point that they either wind up getting electrocuted, being flattened by cinder-blocks, or blown the fuck up by dynamite, that's what I call entertainment!! But as an adult watching those cartoons and noticing a character named "Mammy Two Shoes"..What a minute??!! "Mammy 'fucking' Two Shoes"!!?? Yes, that was her name, the middle aged black woman who's face was never shown and who used to scream out "Thom-ahs!!!!" at the top of her lungs whenever mayhem ensued between the most famous cat and mouse rivalry ever.(I suddenly remembered that they had her wearing a raggedy ass dress, fucked up slippers, and patched up socks..) Like a woman you are in love with fucking your arch rival, Common dropping "Electric Circus", or a chick that inappropriately sticks her finger in your ass during sex because she thinks you'll "like it", I can never look at "Tom & Jerry" the same way ever again.

Mush Mouth: There are so many reasons I respect Bill Cosby that I'm afraid I'd cut into my sacred masturbating time listing them all, but the main reason I have a lot of love for the man is because my dream of eating Jello-O pudding off of Lisa Bonet's tight butt-cheeks wouldn't have been possible without Dr. Cosby's vision. Even though I totally co-sign the concept of holding a mirror up to our race, I just get kind of weirded out at Cosby's crotchety old man approach, coming off as sort of a house Negro black republican-type who hasn't taken a healthy shit in over a decade. Also, whenever he would go on these marathon length missives about the improper English used by many black people today, I'd always giggle and say to myself "Mush-mouth, what about mush-mouth motherfucker!!!" Listen, I love "Fat Albert" as much as the next guy(Obviously a cartoon about a fat, closeted homosexual teen and his daily struggle to keep his cravings of cock secret from his friends. Come on, he never was with a girl and he had world class advice, sounds like a gay guy to me!!), but the character of Mush-Mouth is kind of ironic based on the later-day rants we would be subjected to via Mr. Cosby. Besides the broken English of "Oh-bee-kay-bee ba-fat-ba-al-ba-bert" proportions, the mere fact that Mushmouth would walk around with his bottom lip poked out reminded me of those "Little Rascals" shorts that I talked about earlier. I shouldn't be telling you this, but over the last couple of years I have attended a handful of Dr. Cosby's speeches and when he went onto some tired ass generalization about the modern day colloquial habits of black youth, I'd heckle him and say "What about Mush-mouth motherfucker!!??" Sure it's disrespectful, but its affective.

JunkYard Dog: The reason I could never be president, besides me purchasing solicited booty, me taking a rather busy shit on Pat Robertson's front lawn once, and on more than one occasion taking marijuana shotgun hits out of a woman's vagina, is the fact that somewhere there are pictures floating around of me dressed as "Junk Yard Dog" as a kid. As many people can tell today by the way I clothesline black republicans, put innocent women who frown upon fellatio in figure-four leg locks, and put sleeper holds on Jim Jones fans until they tap out like pussy's, I was once a huge fan of wrestling and my favorite wrestler was a dude named "JunkYard Dog". His character was great, he would bark like a dog, come to the ring in a dog collar , and.. OK wait, reflecting now on it the whole shtick was kind of offensive, barking, dog collars, being chained the fuck up like a disobedient slave, not really a glowing moment in the history of black Americans. You have to give it to Vince McMahon, the man has been exploiting people for as long as I can remember, bravo shit-stain. Funny thing about the man who played "Junkyard Dog", Sylvester Ritter, he was an ex Green Bay Packer with a political science degree.

Another thing that killed Hip Hop: The lack of randomly getting challenged to battle.

Once upon a time in what seems like an alternate universe, people were actually impressed when you told them that you were an MC. I admit, its not exactly curing cancer or having the ability to put an entire string of beads up your ass or anything, but people respected you if you were a rapper, famous or not, because they knew that it took a skillful mastery of wordplay and a quick mind to endure all of the freestyle battles you had been and were going to be a part of. Try walking up to some woman in a bar nowadays and in the midst of the conversation mention that you're an MC, what once provoked child-like wonderment in the eyes of whoever you told that to, now provokes glares of pity like you had just told her that you were a stunt hole in gay porn or Chamillionaire's ghostwriter. I think that's because being an MC doesn't seem like an incredibly difficult task any more, as a kid growing up listening to Kane and Rakim I seriously felt that I would never be able to create that level of lyricism if I lived 3 lifetimes. Now if I was a kid growing up today, listening to the products of inbreeding that try to pass themselves off as true lyricists, what once seemed like an unattainable endeavor would immediately seem rather do-able.

It's my humble opinion that famous rappers not getting randomly challenged to battle anymore is an accomplice in the murder of Hip Hop. See, what was so great about Hip Hop and what set it apart from any genre you can name, was that no matter how big the star was there was always a chance that he/she would get publicly called out and forced to battle. I'd bet you dollars to donuts that there aren't fans of Mariah Carey willing to challenge her to see who has the better vocal range, Mary J Blige doesn't have to deal with people wanting to battle her, see who gives the more depressing interview, and see who looks the worst without their makeup on, no one is showing up to Eric Clapton concerts with a guitar in hand, actively trying to take a piss on the Englishman's legacy and take him down in a rein of guitar licks. Hip Hop was always that art-form where you had to be on guard, akin to stories that Bruce Lee used to tell about going out in public and people constantly challenging him to fist fights, no matter where you were there was a good chance someone wanted a piece of you lyrically. Whether it be the market, inside a club, on the train, at a wake, during a fucking colonoscopy for Christs sake, the magic of Hip Hop was the chance of someone trying to dethrone you regardless of the circumstance.

Unfortunately, based on the landscape of sub par artists and what passes for lyrics nowadays, I get the sneaking suspicion that people don't take the same pride in their job like those who came before them.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Common- I Used to Love H.E.R.

A Clip from "Extras"

Thank god for internet porn, because adult video stores are the devil..

Even though I have thought about my wedding day for as long as I can remember, I'm not sure I'm willing to sacrifice my lifestyle just for a lifetime of silly wedded bliss and happiness. No, I'm not concerned that I'd have to give up getting shitfaced drunk with my friends, nights which usually end up with me either fighting someone, throwing up in the middle of a "Denny's" somewhere, or taking a shit on a ex girlfriends lawn. Even though having sex with women that normal men wouldn't have their cocks within a 10 mile radius of is one of my favorite endeavors, I don't see marriage as being a total negative because being married in that instance could in fact save my life. What I don't want to give up, I'm ashamed to say, is my massive porn collection. A few of you thought I was bullshitting when I said that I keep them in a huge cabinet, rows and rows of the filthiest smut as far as the human eye can see, to the point that you become completely overwhelmed by the sounds of angels when the doors finally swing completely open. Some sections I have alphabetized, I have sections that are broken up based on the races of the starlets, there is a section that I've dedicated to midgets for christs sake, also I have sections broken up based on what orifice was the one primarily being penetrated. Shit, that's not even counting the spindles amongst spindles of Internet porn that I've burned to DVD form.

Looking at all the spank material that I've gotten from the variety of Internet smut sites over the past couple of years, everything from chicks needing to oil themselves up like actresses in the movie "Belly" before they are triple penetrated to porn that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable like actresses posing as Muslims getting fucked under their hijab, it reminded me how I should be fortunate and thank the heavenly creator that I don't have to peruse any more adult video stores. Here are a few reasons why..

My germaphobia was a problem: People can't fully grasp the inner conflict that I feel being a pervert who happens to be the biggest germaphobe known to man. I'm the type of guy who has no problem having sexual relations with a woman with loose morals and low self esteem, but afterwords I feel that I've placed my penis inside what is the human equivalent to that "Outbreak" monkey and find myself angrily scrubbing my cock in the shower with an S.O.S pad. Being a germaphobe of that magnitude caused problems when renting porn as well, handling the videos in the store with rubber gloves, taking them back to my house where I removed said gloves and washed my hands in scolding hot water, pick up the video in which I planned to watch with a pair of charcoal tongs and try to maneuver the DVD inside my DVD player, and after I've masturbated like my testicles had an expiration date on them I put a new pair of rubber gloves on and placed the videos outside on the porch like some muddy fucking sneakers.

Customers who didn't adhere to the 45 foot rule: I can't tell you how many friendships I've ended when someone, even if innocently, either put in a porn tape in my presence or suggested the watching of a porn tape. Listen I have love for gay people, not in that "you had all the fun but aren't going to give me a complimentary reach around" sort of way, and I'm not going to go around saying everything is "gay", but watching pornography with another dude is a cardinal sin right up there with murder, coveting your neighbors wife, and tongue kissing a chick after she blows you. That being said, when you are in an adult video store most men respect the 45 foot rule, they don't get within that distance of you out of respect, possible homophobia, and maybe guilt that being with an actual woman wasn't an option that particular day. Whenever some miserable bastard abused that rule, infiltrated my personal space, and either looked at another video right beside me or asked me a question about a movie, I'd yell to the top of my lungs "Get the fuck away from me!! Get...the...fuck...away...from...me!!! The irony isn't lost in the fact that you are about to get your ass handed to you in the "anal section" of all places!!


Embarrassing late bills: For christs sake don't have late fees, especially if you live with someone who might frown on your tastes in erotica. No lie, when I had a live-in girlfriend I came home to her looking at some of the titles on a late fee notice. Initially she seemed cool about it and chalked it up to me being a typical man, but whenever we would have intimacy issues she would throw it back in my face by saying "I guess I don't do it like those "Butt-fucking Brazilians" huh?? I'm just just a mere mortal with a gag reflex, maybe you should find you one of those who starred in "Attack of the throat Yogurt!!"


Lady, wait until I'm gone to re-stock movies: It is my belief that the women who work at these adult stores revel in the fact that so many men have to rely on video penetration for sexual release. I'm sure they go home yapping to each other about the sexual deviants that frequent the store, the nerds of Urkel-like proportion that they see every day, and how extremely sticky the videos that they get back are. When a woman used to go back in the adult section to restock returned movies, I could tell that she got a kick out of it based on every man within eye-shot who acted like they were checking their watches, fumbling with keys, or any other action that deflected from the fact that they felt like a steaming pile of shit.

Judgmental cashiers: Right after you place that mound of filth in front of the cashier and she begins to scan your choices, you tend to attempt to read her face the same way you would do an opponent in a Texas Hold-em game. The best cashiers, to continue the gambling analogy, have the ultimate poker face and ring up your choices without incident, god bless those fine ladies. But most of them are completely out of line, like that black cashier who gently shook her head when she saw that one of my choices was "Little White Vegans who Crave Black Meat", or the one cashier who went beyond the call of duty to remind me that I had checked a certain title out 4 times already which prompted me to yell, "Maybe I like it, you ever thought about that!!! Ring my shit up, serve your fucking purpose, and stop reminding me how much I love thick Asians!"