Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

My mother, a Yoda-like presence in the physical form of a black woman in her mid 60's, dropped more jewels than a cat burglar with Parkinson's the other day, some uncut truth that made me seriously evaluate my habit of going completely bat-shit at the drop of a dime. Out of nowhere she was the one who brought up my temper and where she thought it originated from, listening to her I just knew that I'd be on the business end of another one of her lame jokes, where she claims to have imbibed gallons of wine and other alcoholic beverages while pregnant with the fetus that would later be referred to as Humanity F Critic. But as she looked me in the eye with that serious gaze that all children recognize, she went into explicit detail, pinpointing the cause of my temper being my father's verbal abuse. Even though she told me something that I already knew, that I sift through peoples words in my mind with a fine tooth comb, hoping to find an ounce of disrespect so I'd later feel justified in barraging them with either expletives or punches, her words were more powerful than those hustle-man preachers you see on Sunday mornings. The funny thing is that my mother told me not to change, that she loves me for the man that I've become, even though she did admit that I was emotionally crippled, had a hair trigger temper, that I had the attention span of a crack addicted toddler, and that most of her closest friends find me to be a rather detestable individual. When I gave her a bewildered look, slowly realizing that their wasn't a compliment to be had in her lengthy diatribe, she smiled and said "Hey, embrace being a complete cock, based on all the women out there that have dangerously low self-esteem, you'll never be dateless!!" Thanks mom!

HumanityCritic, the Snitch: It seems that I am the physical embodiment of the word "stereotype", and after three decades of fielding irritating questions as if I was a press secretary or some shit, I've had enough. Not to the point that I'd start killing people, snapping the necks of uninformed douche-bags on a daily basis just because they asked me some nugget of ridiculousness, but I'm getting pretty fed up though. I'm a black guy, so you can imagine the wealth of stupidity that I have gotten showered with for years, I have dreadlocks so people think I own a prospering marijuana business and that I'm a descendant of Pablo Escobar himself, and I could stand to lose a few pounds so people automatically think that I know secret locations that store the tastiest of treats. Anyway, I was in line at Subway to get me a tuna salad, I figure if it could work for that mobile sperm receptacle Jared, then a sexy motherfucker like myself could be the cat's pajama's in no time, and this extremely skinny white dude was staring me up and down. Usually I would have kicked this young man in the back, or possibly threatened to slice his Achilles tendon if he didn't turn around, but I just stared back at this Caucasian who dressed like Jamie Kennedy in "Malibu's most Wanted". Finally I said, "What the fuck are you looking at?? I'm not a meth lab motherfucker!!" He said, whispering, "Sorry bro, I was just going to ask you if you wanted to but some smoke??", and before I tell him that I didn't fuck with the cooked cocaine variety he said, "Weed man, strictly weed!!" Right when I was mulling it over in my mind, he says this shit while looking at my dreadlocks, "Yeah man, I know you smoke!! I can tell!!" What in the fuck does that mean? There is only one thing that upsets me more than people thinking I bathe in marijuana buds because of my hair, and that is the assumption that I have some sort of affection to Reggae, I really despise that shit.(Dance-hall that is..)

So in a very irritated tone, while paying for my salad, I said "Naw man, I'm good.(motioning him away) Get the fuck on now!" In which he replied, "Come on my nigga, what's your problem!!", as soon as those words left his mandible I had every intention to impale him with the huge statute of Jared that they had in that establishment. But a cop walked in, so cooler heads prevailed, but as I passed the cop I told the officer "Sir, that gentleman there(pointing) attempted to see me marijuana a few moments ago. Check him, he's holding!!! He's holding!!" I walked to my car not even looking back to see what damage I had done, feeling like Larry Bird at the three-point contest when he put his hand up in victory before the last shot fell. Fuck it, I'm a snitch, but anyone wearing a Dipset shirt has it coming to them one way or another.

Indian dude: There's a gas station that I go to at least a couple of times a week because they have extremely cheap gas, rumor has it that they simply have cat piss and vinegar flowing throw their gas pumps, but as long my car runs on it I'll endure the weird odor and the sudden need for Chinese food. Anyway, there are some middle eastern dudes who work there who always refer to me as "Soul Brother #1" and "Shaft", not the greatest terms of endearments to be tagged with, but since they have a limited grasp of the English language I just assumed it was there way of being friendly. That was until I slowly started peeping their game, they weren't clueless foreigners who didn't know better, I quickly realized that I was the proverbial butt of their jokes by the way they would say shit like "Soul brother, we have chicken at a good price today!", offering me grape soda and shit. That's when I decided to get even, so the other day I went there to pay for my gas and there was no one at the register. When they emerged I said, "What in the fuck are you to fuckers doing, making bombs in the back?" They bother looked at each other strangely, so I piled on, "Why don't you motherfucker be patriots to this country and just tell Homeland security where your AL Qaeda buddies are!!" One of them slammed his fist against the counter-top and said, "We are not from Afghanistan, me and my brother are from Bangladesh you son-of-bitch!" So I responded, "Bangladesh-Afghanistan, Tomato-Ta-mato, same shit, lets not split hairs here fellas!!" That's when the other one looked down, shook his head, and said "You want us to stop calling you "Soul Brother" and offering you chicken huh?"

Cat-Man-Do: I always feel bad for people who's high School experience haunts their lives decades after they've received that diploma, being made to feel like social lepers amongst a seas of insecurity and acne medication must be emotionally crippling. Every time I've seen some poor sap who was victimized during High School, I always find myself going out of my way to make them feel normal, never mentioning their hellworthy wedgies and swirlies that they were on the business end of in High School. All that changed last month when I went to this dinner party a month ago with this lawyer chick who I wanted to show my habeus corpus to in the worst way. Anyway, I'm talking to the boyfriend of one of her colleagues, this dude named Paul, and for the life of me I was trying to figure out where I knew this guy from. After I learned that we went to the same High School obviously that was a big help, but I knew him for something more noteworthy than just some ass-hat who I passed by in the Hallways. After 3 hours of racking my brain, and many drinks later, the true identity of this young man hit me like Brandy not paying attention when she's driving. "Oh Shit, that's Cat-Man-Do!!!"

Let me explain: I don't know if the story is true or not, it could be a pack of lies like that fat girl Beth having to go to the emergency room to get a frozen Hot dog removed from her snatch, but apparently Paul literally fucked a cat to death. The story around school was that he drunkenly walked around a beach party that was being thrown, with someones dead domesticated animal dangling from his cock. I always thought the story was horseshit, but if my memory serves me correctly Paul had to change school based on how many dudes wanted to introduce his skull to a tire iron. Anyway, because I was drunk and I'm already an asshole, I would litter my sentences with cat references. When talking about the Iraq war I'd say, "The whole thing, is a Cat-astrophe. A fucking Cat-astrophe I say!!", "Bush should get his head checked, I think they call that a CAT-scan!!", and when I was talking to him about some of the fine women that were there I think I actually said, "Yeah man, I'd nibble on her naughty parts like a bowl of meow mix, she'd be hooked to my chubby phallus like cat-nip baby!!" I don't know where he went, but when I came back from the restroom he was nowhere to be found.

New Vibe posts....




Special Comment: Secretary Rice, Get Your Facts Straight!

I never understood those black folks who felt that we all should have a united front when it came to Condi, many of them ignoring her blistering incompetence and saying silly shit like "You have to give her props, she's a sister in a high position!" So fucking what, what good is she to us as a people if a trained seal can do the job better than she can? She's horrible, and she's responsible in spinning this illegal war just as much as anyone in that corrupt administration, I don't care if she is my complexion or that her hair is as nappy as mine when it's not permed. The following clip is Keith OIbermann ripping her a new one, rightly so, based on her attempting to cherry pick history.

Get to know your right wing nutjob: Michelle Malkin

How many times have you turned on a news show, anything from Chris Matthews' "Hardball" to one of the many sub-par shows that CNN has on their yawn-worthy roster, and listened to some right wing ass-hat verbally smear fecal matter all over your precious television screen? How many times have you said to yourself, "That motherfucker is nuttier than squirrel turds, who the fuck is this anyway?" Well friends, thats what I'm here for!! No, I'm not just here to corrupt moral men to leave money on their woman's nightstand after sex, and I also don't want to be responsible for the few women out there who don't reciprocate oral to finally embrace the cock. I'm here to inform you, give you some insight the next time you see a person who seems like they should be in a padded room somewhere, instead of masturbating to mein kampf in their spare time. First up, Michelle Malkin, a "journalist" who has a highly popular blog, she's basically a Filipino Ann Coulter who's not scared of a sandwich. But with Ann Coulter, you get the sneaking suspicion that the diarrhea that oozes out of her mouth is just an act, based on how outrageous a lot of her drivel is.(At least I hope so) But with Malkin, unfortunately, she believes wholeheartedly in the shit she's shovelling. Here is a rap sheet of sorts, various facts and things to look out for, if you ever see Ms. Malkin on your television screen:

*Despite her Asian heritage, she wrote a book entitled "In defense of Internment" in which she defended Japanese Interment during WWII and related it to the "War on Terror" that we all know too well. Of course the book was panned by the Asian community, and scholars who said the thesis was false, but that's neither here nor there.

*Similar to the way most black conservative who constantly complain about being called a "sell-out" or an "Uncle Tom" based on their self hating beliefs, Malkin expresses the same sort of outrage as well when she's charged with the exact same thing. The only problem is, screaming "See, they're calling me an "Aunt Tomasina!!" is hardly an adult retort, tell us how you aren't a self-loathing piece of Hamster crap.

*On August 20th, 2004, Michelle Malkin was on the "Chris Matthews Show" and tried to suggest that John Kerry's wounds were self inflicted, despite not having a single shred of evidence backing her up. Surprisingly Chris Matthews, a man not really known for getting to the bottom of things, took her to task for it.

*When it comes to right wing talking points, the flap about John Edwards' blogger's, the Shiavo memo blamed on the democrats, or John Kerry's "botched joke", more than likely Ms. Malkin will be all over right-wing talking points as if it was a cheap suit. She is definitely one of the Bush administrations top "House Asians".

*In April of 06' a group at the University of California, Santa Cruz, that called themselves "Students Against War" waged a protest about the military recruitment going on at their school. They sent out their names and the information to reporters covering the story, and Michelle Malkin decided to plaster this same information all over her blog criticizing SAW and UCSC. When SAW asked her to politely take it down she replied, "I am leaving it up." *Furthermore she wrote "As for SAW, my message is this: You are responsible for your individual actions. Other individuals are responsible for theirs. Grow up and take responsibility."* You can only imagine how many abusive emails, phone calls, and even death threats they received after Ms. Malkin's actions. *Subsequently, Malkin's opponents published her private home address, phone number, photos of her neighborhood and maps to her house on several websites, mainly as blog comments. Malkin has stated that this forced her to remove one of her children from school and move her family.*


My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: KRS "Sound of da Police"

Monday, February 26, 2007

Life is like one big High School

Every five years I get that same feeling that I got as a kid on Christmas eve, anxiously awaiting Santa's arrival, hoping to god that that splotchy white fuck left me some Heman men that I didn't already have. Only this time I'm an adult, I've outgrown all the action figures, but I still anxiously wait for a white man to penetrate my residence though, only this time the cookies and milk will be replaced with a million buck-shots waiting to greet him upon his arrival. I get excited after 5 years because my friends and I have a ritual of getting together and discussing old times over a lovely dinner, drinks, and the finest street horticulture this side of New York City. Good times are had by all, and I really think that I will enjoy the company of these fine individuals until the day my soul leaves this earth and all of my detractors politely take turns taking R-Kelly size pisses on my casket. But there is one thing that always interrupts my thought process in the middle of these dinners, besides the fact that Sherry's tits are so massive that I would routinely make love to them like I was on a time clock, is the fact that my friends either feel one of two ways about their time at High School.

There's my one set of friends who sees their High School tenure as the best time of their lives, you could actually smell the wet grass as they recall beautiful tales of last minute touchdown catches, many of them naming all the scholastic clubs that they were a part of, a few even channeling their thought process at the time and how they felt that the "whole world was in front of them". Then there's my other set of friends who feel that their High School years was nothing but a fiery inferno with books, a sentiment usually accompanied with their extreme hatred of both athletes and cheerleaders, listening to these bitter individuals I always get the feeling that they can still be found looking through their old yearbooks on any given night- staring at people they circled 16 years ago and saying out loud "I'm still going to get you one day, motherfucker!!"

As for me though I'm indifferent about my High School experience, the same way I'm indifferent about Ludacris or T.I. or daily bowel movements that I push out post meal. It wasn't that my time there was bad or anything, I had a lot of great experiences from 1988-91, I just remember thinking, even back then, that I didn't want to peak at 17. I don't particularly look back at High School with rose colored glasses because I don't particularly feel that much has changed, sure I look as if I've been on a steady diet of midgets, my beard is grayer, and I finally understand that foreplay is more than me unzipping my pants and saying "Come on girl, lets do this!!" But back then I was secretly a geek who was only popular because I was an athlete, so my entire existence back then was maneuvering between each of the social groups, hoping that I wasn't perceived as figuratively planting my flag in any one of them. The only difference now is that I don't care what people think, but I still maneuver between the same social groups like a chameleon with a thyroid problem. I guess I don't wax poetic about High School because I'm still living it, based on the various social groups that I still find myself being a part of.

The Geeks: Seeing the kids who were tormented with weekly beatings in High School, given horrific nicknames so popular that even certain teachers would mistakenly refer to them by it, not to mention the atomic wedgies so brutal that you could parallel park a Hummer between each of their butt-cheeks, its good to see them embrace their inner and outer geek now that they are in their 30's. Even though these particular friends cringe whenever I mention sports, and that one time I gave one of their kids a football for a gift they acted as if I handed their first born a used dildo or some shit, for the most part they are still a delight to hang with. I'm just glad that I was cool with them back in the day because these fuckers have long memories, I couldn't tell you how many times I had to talk one of my socially crippled pals out of assaulting some old classmate that made his life a living hell 16 years ago.(Me, of all people being the voice of reason. Go figure.) But this group serves purposes outside of friendship, who else can I call 3 in the morning when I want to inject some obscure Star Wars reference in my writing, openly talk about which female superhero would give the best head and which ones would melt your dick mid-coitus based on her radioactive make-up, and what sequence of buttons I have to press on my PlayStation controller in order to unlock some characters, or hidden level on a plethora of game titles I'm scared to mention because I already have failed to get any ass on this blog.

The Skateboard Crew: This by far is the most understanding group of the lot, when people questioned my blackness because I had a penchant for kick-flip Ollie's while I was in junior high, this rag tag bunch of lunatics was the best support system a fellow could have. Nothing erases the ignorance of a few uninformed black folks like grinding a curb, or stylish marathon length nose-wheelies. I can't be mad at the way that black folks on skateboards has been excepted over the past couple of years, but I'm as bitter as Little Richard thinking about all the musical acts who undeservedly get more credit than him, I remember a time when being a brother on a skateboard was a hell-worthy trespass akin to fucking farm animals or actually liking Common's "Electric Circus". Nowadays a few of us skate, terrorize local businesses while performing picture shattering wall rides, literally acting as if the past 16 years never happened. By the way, this is one of the only times where my political differences with someone don't get in the way of the task at hand.

The Rich Girls: These are the girls who only gave me the the time of day during High School because I tutored a few of them, romantically looking past the kid with a slight stutter for the football star who would have a rap sheet a mile long damn near two decades years later. I'm still friends with some of those same girls from High School, girls who wouldn't let me see their vagina's even if I had the cure for the disease that their father was dying of, only willing to fuck me now because they are running out of viable options.(All of the guys our age want girls who just became legally able to drink) There's a catch though, not only will these lovely ladies make it known in the most subtlest terms imaginable that by being with me that they are dating beneath their standards, those fleeting times that I am out with her friends I can just imagine that I'm the "thug" that she talks about to her girls during those late night phone conversations. I guess I should have some self respect, I'm no thug, I'm smarter than the combined I.Q of her and her cackling pack of chickens, but something about receiving sporadic gifts, spending their trust fund money, and pre-ejaculating on silk sheets just cripples my pride something fierce.

The Criminals: These are basically dudes who were either jocks or heavy metal enthusiasts in high school, who somehow wandered off the career path to professional athletics or being in a hair band, and chose a life of criminality instead. None of these dudes are rapists or murderers, just cats who have a record filled with assault charges and minor drug cases, based on my love for weed, violence, and my squeaky clean record, these dudes refer to me as the "Teflon Don". Based on said record(or lack-thereof) I shouldn't even be allowed to discuss the weather with these gentlemen, but because there is a story of me "allegedly" dragging a dude out of his house and beating him in front of his future in-laws(I was told that I interrupted a "I'd like to marry your daughter" dinner speech), I have a feeling that my membership is set in stone.

The FOX News Smears on Barack Obama

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: WC & Maad Circle - Ain't A Damn Thing Changed

I know, the quality of this video sucks complete ass, but I felt compelled to post this video because this is the only reason why I can't completely take a watery shit on WC or Coolio. Yes Coolio was wack, and his sampling of Stevie Wonder's "Pastime Paradise" totally ruined that song for me, and WC helped put the nail in the coffin of Ice Cube's career with that "Westside Connection" debacle. But there was a time when both men were bearable, I give you exhibit A.

Hey HumanityCritic, what in the fuck are you doing with this in your ipod? Red Hot Chili Peppers: "My Friends"

Even though I feel that Dave Navarro was the equivalent to Yoko Ono when he was in the band, this song holds a special place in this usually black heart of mine. When I was taking a buddy of mine to rehab a few years back he was commenting on how low he had sunk, how he couldn't beat heroin, and that he felt that everyone would desert him. I didn't mean to pop in this particula song, I just grabbed a random mix CD and just popped it in, but when this song came on it was fitting based on the title and the demons that Anthony Keidis had to battle himself.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

A Love letter to Sade

Dear Sade,

Ms. Adu you don't know me, not many people do outside of my weed man, a slew of bartenders, and a white stripper named "Cadillac" with gluteal muscles so massive that I keep openly suggesting that there's black folks in her genealogy(or her family fed her nothing but pork products every day since she left the womb), but my name is Humanity F.Critic. If you were to do read my blog, or do a F.B.I background check so extensive that I'm sure rubber gloves massaging my prostate wouldn't be beyond the realm of imagination, it would be as clear as the glass that retards like to lick that I'm not the textbook example of marriage material. To say that I have a history of insensitivity in relationships would be a gross understatement akin to saying that Rosie O'Donnell has a casual affection for snacks and shit, I'm sure that me calling out other women's names during sex would be frowned upon by a classy broad such as yourself. My penchant for leaving money on dressers after sex, eating sandwiches while receiving oral, affectionately calling the wet spot in the mattress that a lover leaves post coitus as a "toxic waste spill", or the words "baby's arm" that I had tattooed on my otherwise unimpressive penis, I know you hear these things and want to run with the surprising speed of a mummy in "Dawn of the Dead".

I'm writing all of this is because I can change, sure there has been women from all walks of life that attempted to rehabilitate me, treating me as if I'm their pet project the same way someone spends weekends rebuilding that old Camaro in their backyard, obviously all of their valiant attempts were thwarted. Well, because I have loved you since the days when I played video games all day and had no clue what the female orgasm was(not much has changed), I feel if there is one woman that could tame me it's you. Like that nun who used to beat my ass in catholic school because she claimed to "care for me deeply", why don't you let love rule in this particular instance? Sure I'm rough around the edges, like that uber feminist that I once dated who refused to shave her fucking mustache, but after you see how deep my love goes for you, it will be like intercourse in broken watch towers- we'll be fucking in no time. Let me give you some brief examples.

I wouldn't make fun of your forehead: One of my flaws, whether I'm dealing with a friend, lover, or family member, is my inability to let a good joke go if it's presented to me. For examples, there is this old man that I've nicknamed "Old Negro Spiritual" who frequents the bar that I go, and the other day he was going on and on about how he hates to see young people wearing their "pants off the ass" as he so succinctly put it. He then said, "I'm glad no child of mine wears that baggy shit, they were raised right goddammitt!!" Immediately I remembered that he has a gay son and how bothered he was by it so I said, "But would you rather have a son that wore clothes two sized too big, or took cock two sized too big for his asshole??" I couldn't resist. I have proven not to have a governor between my mind and my mouth either when dealing with lovers, I dated this girl with a prosthetic leg and called her "Hop-along Cassidy" constantly, an ex-girlfriend who mistakenly felt that she was severely overweight, I'd attempt to coerce money or sex from her by waiving cupcakes and other baked goods in her face, I'm not a good guy. But with you Sade, I won't feel obligated to say shit like "You'll never headbutt me!!", I'll resist the urge to see how many countries I could draw on her forehead, in those heated arguments I wouldn't even suggest that you give back to the community and donate your head as a police issued battering ram. Love, it'll do it to ya..

I'm in love with your work schedule: The one thing that I've always loved about you is that there seems to be no pressure to drop albums every year or so, matter of fact I think you have a definite "I'll drop a fucking album whenever I damn well please" approach to recording. That's where we connect I feel, both of us are lazy perfectionists, and with all the free time together we can do the same shit that normal lovers do. You know, me washing your drawers in a tub by hand like I'm in "The Color Purple" and shit, you denying that I even exist, me waiting up at all hours only to find your ass sneaking in the crib smelling like smoke and effeminate french guys. Good times.

I'd do crazy shit, but out of love of course: I'm probably the only person that enjoys getting stalked, I know that someone hiding in your bushes with a Ninja outfit can be a bit troubling, but I'm a guy so insecure with my sexual abilities any act of eternal devotion is embraced. I never stalked anyone though, not because I didn't want to mind you, but the main reason was because it always seemed like work and I'm just too lazy for such an endeavor. Now with us it would be different sweetie, granted I'd be tailing you in a car that you own and all, but to protect my livelihood you bet your sweet ass I'd stalk you. Not only that, every man that you aren't related to would at least get a tough stare, at most stab with a jailhouse shiv that I made out of one of your high heels. Lastly, I'm not usually into this by the way, but when you aren't around I will sniff your undergarments like I'm trying to get high off of them.

You could talk to me any way you'd like sweetie:
One of the most commonly used words that I've used in relationships, outside of "Is it alright if I wipe my dick on your curtains" and "Why did they have to kill cohese!!" as I sobbingly watch "Coolie High", is "Who in the fuck do you think you're talking to!??" Actually, I've said that to men before, pre-fight that is, I guess I like saying those 10 words because I can deliver them with the most accurate pimp delivery this side of Morgan Freeman's performance in "Street Smart" and shit. I'm just allergic to authority, bullshit, and slick talk, so much in fact that if I had a quarter for every time I blew someones words out of proportion I could finally graduate to a higher class of hookers. Not with you dear, I'd suffer in silence as you and your friends openly laugh at the fact that you only give me shit like treadmills and bar-bells for Christmas. That's OK. While we make sweet love I can ignore the fact that you call me a "sweaty black beast" mid coitus, simply regarding your sentiment that you are "getting punched in the stomach" with my gut as the inside joke of lovers. Oh, did I mention that I'd be willing to take you last name?? What do you say sugar-tits, I mean "dear"??

Sincerely Humanity F Critic

New posts

A rant about that sperm recepticle Bill O'Reilly


a companion piece to my Venereal Disease rant from Friday, actually listing my favorite songs about drippy penises.

For Christs sakes Scottie, don't come back!!!

The main problem that I have when it comes to sports, besides the fact that I have lost up to one thousand dollars betting on silly shit like the fucking coin toss in an NFL game, is that my favorite teams are the same organizations that ban-wagoners across this great country enjoy as well. I've been a Bears fan since the days of Dan Hampton and Mike Singletary, so you can just imagine how painful it was to see these new Bears fans who pop out of thin air, individuals who couldn't tell you what stadium they played in if you held an assault rifle to their collective temples. As a kid I loved watching those showtime Lakers, Michael Cooper's socks up to his neck, A.C Green only vowing celibacy because no woman in her right mind would want all that jheri curl juice dripping in her eyes during sex, the assassin that was James Worthy, and Magic's effortless no look passes that seemed to hit their mark every time, nowadays when someone accuses me of hopping on some bandwagon I immediately look for a table to smash them over the head with.

I was also a fan of those Bulls teams, watching Michael Jordan you felt that he could bring his team no matter what the deficit, crushing the hopes and dreams of more black men than faulty record contracts. Like white people contemplating dreadlocks, don't get it twisted, I remember watching Chicago back when they had Reggie Theus if you want to question my O.G status. Of course Michael Jordan was the unadulterated shit, if you didn't stand up and applaud when he beat the Jazz during that 1996-97 season while battling the flu then your ass is a fucking hater(or you had money riding on Utah), but when people ask me who my favorite players on those teams were I always say Scottie Pippen and Craig Hodges.

Craig Hodges because, well, he was a three point specialist who was not only clutch but was also a the only player besides Larry Bird to win 3 consecutive Three Point Contests, but that isn't the main reason. In an age where there are virtually no Muhammed Ali's or Jim Brown's, men willing to speak out regardless of the consequences, Craig Hodges is the closest thing that my generation had to those great men. I mean, what other player do you know while visiting the president of the United States for one of those post Championship White House visits, hands the Commander in Chief a letter seeking activism in fighting injustices against African Americans? I instantly recall that Common line, "Pro-black like Craig Hodges with my dashikis in the cleaners!"

When it comes to Scottie Pippen, it is this writers honest opinion that number 33 is possibly the best all around player that ever exhaled. I laugh when people judge the tail of his career and suggest that he doesn't belong on the coveted Top 50 of all time, I always wish there was a yapping baby around so I could smack said critic in the face with a soiled pamper. Look at the guy's skill set, he could go the the rim at will, score with either hand, he was a legitimate three point threat, excellent passer, a serious shot blocking threat, could not only play any position on the court but could guard just about anyone regardless of the position, and to add insult to injury he could lock down your favorite player that once hung on your childhood room bedroom and get him as frustrated as Fantasia playing a competitive game of scrabble. That's why the news of him possibly returning makes me a bit uneasy, akin to seeing Mary J Blige without her make-up on.

I understand him coming back because he wants to erase the image of him refusing to enter a game at Phil Jackson's request out of the publics consciousness, I'm sure the sight of Toni Kukoc sinking that game winning shot for his team still haunts his dreams. I'm sure that he isn't particularly fond of the way he left the game either, spending a great deal of time on the bench during games, having in-depth conversations with journeymen because he was injured all the time. But for Christs sake Scottie, don't come back, because I get the same feeling about your return as I do when I see black men in horror flicks, this is going to end very badly.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Pete Rock & Cl Smooth - The Creator

Hey HumanityCritic, what in the fuck are you doing with this in your ipod? Yes: - Owner of a Lonely Heart

For the past 20 years, whether I was getting ushered out of some club by two bouncers for starting a fight, or being walked to a cop car by two of Virginia Beach's finest, I've amused myself by convulsing wildly and sporadically dropping to my knees like the protagonist in this very video. Granted, bouncers tend to think you are higher than a kite when you do this, and police tend to draw guns on you like they were in the old west and shit. "Resisting Arrest"? Motherfucker, you've never seen that "Owner of a lonely Heart" video?

Friday, February 16, 2007

Outstanding performances in relatively shitty movies

Looking back on my sports career, a time between 1979-1991 when I didn't have such a predisposition for pre-ejaculation and snacks, I always regret the fact that I was never the bona fide star on a winning team. I mean, I was often a marginal piece in a championship puzzle, sometimes even being an important piece, but I was never the one getting carried on the shoulders of my teammates as I lifted the championship trophy in shit eating glee. More times than not I found myself being an absolute stud on a team full of science geeks who were only there because their father's probably thought that playing sports would be the ultimate kyrptonite to them having multiple penises finding their cheeks a safe haven as an adult. There was that one Little League year that I hit .450, sure I was a decent hitter, but because we had so many kids on the team that couldn't hit a hanging pinata, the coach would often have me skip kids in the rotation because I could hit the hanging curve. There was little league Football, our team was so bad that the coach had me playing linebacker and running back, most games I didn't get one moments break!(I thought that my father would intervene, a coach overusing his precious son and all, the only thing my father said as I exhaustively wept to him post game was "Now you know how it was to grow up in the deep south during segregation, you little son of a bitch!!".)

Whenever I see an amazing performance in a bad movie, I immediately think back to those days when I was the only little league football player in the world to average 3 touchdowns and 8 tackles.

Actor: James Gandolfini
Movie: "The Mexican"(2001)
The same way I feel that Black Thought is a premiere MC who gets taken for granted, I feel the exact way about Brad Pitt, an amazing actor who gets taken for granted simply because people think that his looks provide him the unique opportunity to fuck your girlfriend, in front of you that is. I mean, "12 Monkeys", "Snatch", "Se7en", "Sleepers", "Fight Club", Brad Pitt is one of the few actors that I would pay for one of his movies sight unseen. That being said, that particular ideology is what landed my miserable black ass in a theater watching a flick as horrible as "The Mexican". Its not that it offended my sensibilities or anything, I don't have the urge to find the writer or director and ask for my money back at gunpoint, I'm just indifferent about it the same way I am about one of my bowel movements. The one sun wray in this overcast of a movie was James Gandolfini, Tony Soprano himself, playing a homosexual hit-man. Any other actor would have made that role a mockery, but Gandolfini plays this ruthless dispatcher of lives with a bit of heart, randomly reminding you that his sexual orientation doesn't mean that he lacks the ability to rip your fucking heart out!!

Actor: Edward Norton
Movie: "Death to Smoochy"(2002)
Another guy who I'd see in almost anything is Ed Norton, but "Death to Smoochy" turned out to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions, a flick that I rank up there with "Citizen Kane" only after I've imbibed alcohol and had my lips intimately acquainted with a bong. I know this is supposed to be a dark comedy about the seedy world of children's programming, but it seemed like one big inside joke that I wasn't aware of. I must say, Edward Norton plays "Smoochy" with a child like innocence, but his cookie cutter image and brief flashes of rage make you feel that he was once an entirely different person, a dude who mercilessly throat-chopped motherfuckers and left loose change on nightstands after sex. My bad, that's me.

Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman
Movie: "Along Came Polly"
I have a love-hate relationship when it comes to Ben Stiller movies, I love "There's something about Mary" and pretty much hate everything else. OK the guy isn't that bad, I do like a few of flicks, but what makes a great comic actor is their ability to have the audience feel that his penchant for tickling your funny bone comes rather easy to him. I always get the feeling that Stiller tries so hard to make us laugh that you can almost see him straining, and sometimes when you strain too hard you shit yourself and make a stinker like "Along Came Polly". It seems so slap-sticky to me that I feel that the "The Three Stooges" are somewhere saying, "Now that's some Hacky bullshit!!!" The bright spot was Phillip Seymore Hoffman playing Stiller's friend, a washed up ex-child actor who can't let go of a time where people thought his chubby cheeks were adorable. From him embarrassingly admitting to Stiller that he shit himself, the way in which he ate pizza, the way he tried to play the lead in a local play that he was only a minor cast member in, and I can't forget the horrible display of basketball skills in which he put up so many bricks that he could have built a miles worth of project housing.

Actor: Jim Brown
Movie: "She Hate Me"(2004)
One of my best friends is a huge Quentin Tarantino fan, and every time a fast pace movie thats predominately violent comes out, like "Lock Stock and two smoking barrels", "Crank", or "Smokin' Aces", he bores the piss out of me with these long diatribes about how the directors of each of those films was desperately trying to rip off Tarantino. This gets him mad, but I explain to him since Quentin borrows from so many people when making his films, that "Quentin isn't even Quentin!!!" Of course he gets angered and tries to attack Spike Lee, a guy who I consider a genius, but after a few minutes of me breaking down the angles he uses, that moving dolly shot that is dominant in all of his films, the fact that the guy is an exceptional writer, and the pure brilliance of "Bamboozled", he pretty much does everything but waive the white flag in defeat. Yes, I'm one of his biggest fan's, I just wasn't a huge fan of the movie "She hate me". Listen, I'm a pig, so the thought of scores of hot lesbians wanting to come to me so I can unload my demon seed inside them is a comforting thought akin to going to heaven in the afterlife, I just felt this movie was a mess when it comes to the high standards that Lee has set.

I even get the parallel to the slave trade, the women checking out the protagonist's body the same way slave masters would seek out the strongest slave for labor purposes, I still didn't give a fuck. I did enjoy the pretty subdued performance of possible the most famous man who to ever throw a woman over a balcony, Jim Brown himself. He played the main character's father, a dependent diabetic who drops jewels of wisdom whenever his son seeks his advice. I never cared too much about Jim Brown's roles back in the day, the gun slinging characters who would anger the white masses when he would sodomize white women on camera with a cheese eating grin on his face, I tend to think this is the best acting performance of his career.

Another thing that killed Hip Hop: No more songs about Venereal Disease

When it comes to sex I wish I was "similar to the thriller in manilla" as Biggie so succinctly put it, but in all actuality I'm as sexually adventurous as teenage dry-humping, or playing with your lovers genitals while wearing a surgeons gloves. Maybe I should be more sympathetic to peoples problems, but when I hear that some poor soul is dependent on a controlled substance my first reaction is for them to just "Stop doing it!!", when I hear some mid-western wife complaining that her husband is a sex addict immediately my first thought is "Dumb-ass, I don't see it as a problem if he only wants to fuck your mangy ass!!", rather pedestrian issues that pale in comparison to the gigantic problem that I've been dealing with since the early 90's. No it isn't my anger issues, smacking people in the mouth relaxes me, its not even my sexual shortcomings(pun intended), I'm at peace with the fact that I'm possibly the exception to the rule when it comes to African American genitalia.

My problem ladies and gentlemen is that while I'm a raging sex-a-holic, I'm also a germaphobe who is a couple of loose women away from never leaving my god-damned house again. Sure, I can silence the side of me that is all squeamish about Germs for a while, recklessly thrusting inside some woman who is so worn down that her vagina resembles a broken in catcher's mit, but as soon as it's over I'm scrubbing my penis in the sink with an S.O.S pad and scheduling a doctor's appointment as soon as humanly possible. That's why I want to get married, not because a loving and healthy relationship is something that I need in my life, but because I fear that a few more run-ins with loose women and I'm going to file my cock down to the size of a #2 pencil.

That's another reason why I'm upset at the current state of Hip Hop, beside it being wack and people actually thinking that Jim Jones is a serviceable rapper, I'm mad because Hip Hop used to keep you on your toes concerning venereal diseases. It not like now, people who like to consider themselves rappers and singers ignoring the rapidly rising AIDS rate within the black community, expressing in song form how they desperately tried to reach a one night stand's small intestines as if doing so had no lethal consequences whatsoever. But back in the day, you could throw a rock and hit a Hip Hop song where the microphone wielder warned of the dangers of unprotected sex, giving the listener some well deserved chin music as he/she broke down specifically the various shades of purple your cock would change if you decided to go bareback. Man, I miss being scared to ever fuck again. Those were the days!

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: "Definition": Blackstar

Beat-Boxing flutist

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

"Beat Street" will live forever, through my inside jokes that is..

This going to sound weird, but my feelings for the movie "Beat Street" pretty much mirrors the feelings that I have for my deceased father. Let me explain. When I first saw "Beat Street" in 1984 I was in love with it, as a kid from Virginia who wanted nothing more than to absorb Hip Hop culture as if I was a sponge, at period of time that movie was my holy grail and shit. It was similar to my relationship with my father when I was a little boy, my old man was my hero, a dude so wonderfully magical in my eyes that if he one day told me in confidence that he had the ability to levitate and fight crime, I would have unflinchingly believed him. As time passed and I matured as a person and as an MC, "Beat Street" slowly began to lose its luster, the bad acting was absolutely abysmal and a few of the Hip Hop scenes began to invoke eye-rolls so intense that I'd get migraine headaches. I started to see the flaws in my father as well, the "hero" title quickly replaced with "asshole", a dude with such a viscous tongue that on more than one occasion I would have preferred it if he had just skipped the verbal tirades and just beat my ass instead. Now that I'm 33 years old, an age where I find my sexual stamina quickly diminishing and Grey hairs below my waist that make me look like a Dalmatian down there, I can finally appreciate "Beat Street" for what it meant to me overall, a pretty good flick. Looking back my old man wasn't a evil dude, he did some things that I hope to not pass down to my kids, but he was a constant provider who taught me more than most father's teach their sons. It seems that besides finally embracing that classic Hip Hop film of the mid 80's, I' now at peace when it comes to the relationship, or lack-thereof, that me and my father had.

Even from the grave I faithfully follow my father's instructions like how "Asian vagina is to die for!!", "Never fuck a fat chick unless she has massive boobs!", and "If a man starts talking shit to you, punch him in the throat mid-sentence!", I keep the memory of "Beat Street" alive the same way through my inside jokes that I use throughout my day. Here are a few.

"Ramo!! Ramo!!!": This might surprise some people, my penchant for violence being my most recognizable staple outside of my sexual insecurities, but I'm considerably fair when it comes to my friends and the altercations that they've been a part of. "Fair" meaning that I will definitely help you attempt to beat the melanin off of some motherfucker if need be, that's what friends are for Dionne Warwick once said, but the few times that my homeboys were clearly in the wrong I didn't interrupt their destiny of getting their ass handed to them. Sure, I won't let anyone that I consider a pal get mercilessly beaten to a pulp, but if they are clearly the guilty party that resulted in the age old science of fisticuffs, I feel that I would mess with my Karma if I defended a clearly indefensible act. So, there have been a handful occasions where I have seen a friend of mine get chased and then ceremoniously taken down a few notches by their would-be dispatcher, and as they are paying the ultimate price I passionately yell out "Ramo!!!! Ramo!!!" as if they had just become barbecue meat and the third rail was the grill.

"Tu Cariño": I can't front, for the longest time I've had a serious Jones for Latina chicks that's made me feeling all anxious inside like "last call" for an alcoholic, or a porn star running out of lube. Whether it was Lisa Lisa and her massive mammary's that looked like weapons in that "Wonder if I Take You Home" video, Sheila E in her "Love Bizzare" video, Turbo's non English speaking love interest in "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo", and the only fucking reason I watch "Scrubs" is for that fine as Latina sister who's married to the black guy on that show. That being said, if I didn't think that women who were nice enough to fuck me wouldn't find it strange, I'd proudly have a shrine to Saundra Santiago in the middle of my living room.(Ramo's girlfriend in said flick, also of "Miami Vice" fame") Anyway, in "Beat Street", when Ramo is getting his shit together so he could support his growing family, the song "Tu Cariño" is lovingly played in the background. That being said, whenever I'm dating someone and I start to realize that I'm falling in love with the unfortunate vagina owner, to the point that I know I'll fight feelings of stalking her when it comes to an abrupt end, I start to serenade her with that particular song. Granted, my Spanish is horrible, and my rendition goes "Tu Cariño, blah-blah-nonsensical Spanish gibberish-blah-blah- "Tu Cariño!!", but you get the picture. Seriously, the woman who gets that reference is being proposed to on the spot, I'm not shitting you!!(Interesting Sidenote: The song Tu Cariño was sung by actor Ruben Blades.)

"Fuck Graffiti, your ass needs a real fucking fireplace!!": Even though he's a fictional character, I know if feels as if I'm giving the most famous graffiti artist ever to be portrayed in a fictional film a hard time, but I have to be honest. I know that Ramo was "on the come up" as some might say, trying to make some hard earned dough so his fine ass girl wouldn't leave him for some artist of lesser ability who actually had a bankroll to speak of, but what was up with the apartment that his friends fixed up for him. They were just trying to help, that's commendable, but it seems that moving your family in a condemned building, regardless of how well you clean it, is a literal step down man! So much a step down in fact that bums on the street would say "I like the comfortable confines of this cardboard box, thank you!!" when offered the opportunity to move into Ramo's new apartment. Look at the movie again, as Ramo's girl is seeing the place for the first time, there is literally a graffiti drawn fireplace!! Even as a kid I thought, "forget that, those bastards need actual heat up in there, not another example of Ramo's artistry!!"

That being said, whenever I enter a shabby apartment that for months a friend has tried to describe as nice as "Trump Tower", I'll say "Fuck Graffiti, your ass needs a real fireplace!!"

B-Boy Fighting: There was always something very "West Side Story" about gangs who would be otherwise be ripping each others throats out and getting their adversary's liver intimately acquainted with a switch blade, forgoing violence and working out their aggressions in the name of dance. That's beautiful man, and ever since I saw the B-Boys in "Beat Street" battle with choreography and not fists, that always stuck to me like Sunday dinner at Grandma's house. Nowadays, especially if I have a verbal altercation with someone that I consider my friend, as soon as we both realize that our friendship isn't worth jeopardizing we break out in the same B-Boy fight battle that was depicted in the movie. Granted, I ruin the warm feeling of Hip Hop nostalgia by uttering a new millennium phrase like "You got served sucka!!" afterwords, that doesn't take away from the inside joke

New posts..

HumanityCritic's message to Ray J: "This is how you make a sex tape!!"
Paris Hilton: The Next David Duke

NYOIL: "You're a Queen!!!!"

Happy "An invention to boost the economy and promote consumerism for the sake of love" Day Ladies!!!!!


My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: The D.O.C. - The Formula

Monday, February 12, 2007

I like Cornel, but wait a minute..

As a person who is only but a mild aficionado of the Star Wars science fiction saga, I sure do use a lot of terms from those movies as if I was the biggest geek this side of having Han solo pillowcases and describing extremely chilly weather as "Hoth cold". The few scandalous women of ill repute more than 10 years my junior, who I had the pleasure of pre-ejaculating on while inappropriately singing my rendition of Nora Jones' song "I don't know why you didn't cum!!", I like to call those ladies "Padawan burners". This woman that I once dated kept a very messy genital region, so hairy in fact that I felt like she was preparing to audition for another sequel to "Teen Wolf" and failed to inform me, I got in the habit of lovingly calling her "My little wookie" as a term of endearment. We won't even get into all the physical altercations I've been a part of, where I uppercutted some asshole and as he was on the ground I'd proudly state "The force isn't strong with this one!!!" The last of my Star Wars references are three individuals that I have given the title of "Yoda", based on their expertise on subjects that I'm interested in, I feel that I'd do myself a service if I learned from these particular gentlemen. First we have Manny, my fight Yoda, an ex-Navy Seal with extensive training in all forms of combat and survival training. I go to him whenever I want to learn how to cripple some bastard in three moves, shoot and kill a motherfucker from 200 yards out during a torrential downpour, or how to perform an emergency tracheotomy on someone with a McDonald's issued butter knife. Then we have selfra, my friend and Hip Hop Yoda, whenever I get too big for my britches and feel that I know more than anyone else on the planet about Hip Hop, I give dude a call and get humbled in record time.

The last of the Yoda's is Cornel West, similar to the way that you lose I.Q points whenever you hear Cam'ron utter a single sentence, it is my humble opinion that you actually gain I.Q points if you simply happen to be in the same state in which Mr. West is speaking. Many people claim that West does nothing but babble incoherently, but those detractors only say that because their tiny brains can't fully grasp what brother West is saying, its a akin to someone claiming a rapper is "too lyrical" when in reality they are just too intellectually lazy to look things up that they don't understand. Yes, if couldn't tell by now I'm a fan, one who believes that if Mr. West wasn't a god fearing man he'd melt the minds of mere mortals on a regular basis, just because he could.

The clip above is from the "Annual Forum of the State of Black America" conference held in near-by Hampton Virginia, where many of the nations most gifted black minds came together to discuss a plethora of issues plaguing the black community. It was good hearing some of these brothers and sisters speak, but in the back of my cerebral cortex I thought to myself momentarily "That's all black folks do, is talk!" Anyway, in the clip Dr. West says some things that I agree with, like him wondering why Barack chose that particular day to announce his candidacy when he's been asked for an entire year to be on that very panel, that's a fair question. But what I don't agree with is the premature questioning of his integrity, how deep "his love for the people" is, the possibility that he'll take black folks for granted, his sacrifice, for Christs sake Cornel can we give brother Barack a chance to prove himself to us first? I mean, really, you backed John Kerry a couple of years ago, and I don't think I'd be the only one who thinks that Barack has shown us more of himself in the little time that he's been in the public's consciousness than John Kerry has the past fucking decade or so. If Barack takes black folks for granted, or sells his soul to some special interests group, if it even comes out that he's a fan of B.E.T, rest assured that black folks will let him know at the ballot box if he ever becomes the democratic nominee. Until then, relax Yoda.

But I completely disagree with West chiding Barack about "walking a tightrope" and taking subtle shots at him for courting the white vote. I mean, he is a black man running for the highest office in the country, not only is the rope he's walking on the width of dental floss, but he has to carry a black population on his back while pulling off the nimblest of feats. By the way, of course he has to court the white vote, how else is he going to win? For Christs sake man, he's trying to win the god damned presidency of the United States, not Freestyle Fridays!! Unlike Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, men who's jealousy comes out as they both claim that we shouldn't get all excited about Barack, I feel that West speaks from his heart. Unlike Jackson and Sharpton, individuals who are the equivalent to back-up quarterbacks when it comes to black leadership in this country, I feel that Cornel would actually put his ass on the line and take a hit for the team. I just disagree with him, that's all, and his ass shouldn't be surprised if I ask him to move something with his mind whenever I meet him.

New post

Title: Cam'ron vs 50 cent? Hmm.. Who gives a fuck!!??

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Eric B.& Rakim - Know The Ledge

Friday, February 09, 2007

Action movies have gotten a lot of poor bastards killed

The other day, while I was debating some right wing ass-hat who probably prays to a shrine of Karl Rove in his house and masturbates to a copy of Mein Kampf, I realized that being a lifelong devotee of Hip Hop is like befriending that new kid in High School that everyone dislikes in a knee jerk fashion. Whenever someone would confront me about my friend being a horrible human being and your garden variety eye-rolling generalizations, I'd simply diffuse their whole argument by kindly pointing out that, like a weak link on a debate team who happens to be a double amputee, they didn't have a leg to stand on because they've never talked to him. I get frustrated when my friend gets labeled a blistering misogynist just because he pinched a girls ass once, I get irritated whenever people think my boy is an intolerant thug just because he got into one little fight during lunch period, the hardest thing to get through peoples heads is the fact that my friend has a plethora of wonderful qualities that just aren't being tapped into. The most insulting charge, one that has made me seriously consider going on massive killing sprees more times than not, is when people try to get my homeboy expelled because they feel that his negative attributes will spread throughout the school like the plague. I mean, if some jackass decides to walk up to a fellow student and punch him dead in the face while gripping a roll of quarters, that level of aggression was probably always in him, I'm sure the new kid had nothing to do with his actions.

Dropping the High School analogy for just a minute, for years I wanted to believe that pop culture had no influence over the actions of otherwise rational individuals. If a light-bulb illuminated over some jackass' head and he decided to kill his entire family, chop them up into millions of pieces with some cutlery that he ordered on-line, and happened to served them up to his Co-workers under the guise that it was actually pork barbecue that they were chowing down on, I'm sure that Marilyn Manson CD had nothing to do with him being nuttier than squirrel turds ever since he escaped the birth canal. But looking back though, please don't tell any conservative scumbags that I said this, I have been influenced just a tiny bit by music and film. OK, so I get the sudden urge to break some poor bastards jaw whenever I hear M.O.P's "Ante Up" or "Ground Zero", sue me. I'll admit it, after me and my friends saw "The Last Dragon" in the theater many years ago, we did come back to our block and started physically pummeling any kid within eye shot for no legitimate reason. Lastly, yes another admission, when Digable Planets dropped their first album, for 2 years straight I fucked nothing but chicks who wore hear-wraps, had dreadlocks, and recited bad poetry where they 'Spooooooke--Liiiiiiiiike--thiiiiiiiis". Happy? I came clean, like beating off in the shower with a bath sponge and shit.

That got me thinking about the millions of young men everywhere, over the past 50 years or so, who are taking an extremely long dirt-nap because they believed everything they saw on the big screen. Think about all the poor souls that had to lay in an ill fitting tuxedo while some preacher waxed poetic about how the doctor wasn't able to retrieve all the bullets out of the deceased gentleman's asshole, finding elaborate ways in which to describe the dearly departed as a dumb-ass based on him thinking he was "Dirty Harry" in real life. Here are a few action movie devices, that if believed, can get inappropriate things shoved inside of you by some deviant employee at your local morgue.

Mexican standoff: How many times have you seen this in movies? Two men having their extremely high powered handguns pointed at each other, neither man daring to blink, each man's barrel aimed at a forehead, as both of them sternly urge each other to "drop their weapon". Even as a kid I knew this scenario was a watery bag of crap, primarily because as soon as the other man raised his weapon you don't have any idea that he wants to partake in any sort of witty banter, a person's natural reaction is to unload with reckless abandon. In real life someone is getting filled out like triple penetration porn, if not both of them, with all men involved leaking on the ground like a leaky transmission. I'm sure there has been somebody, possibly a person who saw one too many "Death Wish" movies, who decided to talk to their would-be dispatcher like he'd seen a million times before. Unfortunately this is real life, so as he utters "Listen, you drop your gun and..." *Blam* *Blam* *Blam* Nothing like being gunned down mid sentence, with your killer capping off the occasion with "Did that motherfucker think we were in a Martin Scorsese movie??"

The Bruce Lee theory: When I was a kid I did nothing but play with my He-man men, dream about making sweet love to the massive boobs that Lisa-Lisa had, and watching Bruce Lee movies as frequently as humanly possible. Nothing got me more amped than seeing Bruce enter some Karate school to avenge the death of his homeboy Chin-Whah, taking on a thousand students like he was stomping on an ant hill, I personally felt that I could do the same thing one day. That was until junior high when I attempted to fight these three dudes after school, me circling them like Bruce with that wide-eyed scowl that he had, I couldn't wait to make easy work out of the pubescent fucks. Immediately I realized that real life isn't to be fucked with, these dudes weren't waiting for me to get finished with one dude as I prepared for the other like the movies, they all rushed me at once which resulted in a very public ass-whipping that will be handed down generation to generation like folklore. Man, movies are bullshit.

Putting your trust in adversaries: I'm certain that more men have had hot lead pumped into them, like being ass-raped by the tin-man, based on how accommodating and trusting on screen adversaries are. I can't tell you how many times I've seen some hapless sap be outgunned, stuck behind some sedan that looks like a piece of Swiss cheese, only to slide his gun on the ground as a sign of defeat, his would-be dispatcher allowing him to walk out safely into their custody. I'm not a street cat, I'm a black guy from the suburbs who likes System of a Down, pulling triple flip Ollie's, thrusting inside of black women so thick that Gap doesn't make clothes for, but I bet you dollars to donuts that a few men found themselves on the business end of a full clip based on that theatrical foolishness.

HumanityCritic, you sell-out motherfucker!!

When I first started blogging, what seems like a million years ago, I just saw this as a beneficial vehicle for me to express myself, only slowing down momentarily to take a watery shit on bloggers of lesser skill that I have issues with and your garden variety wack MC. Sure I always felt like it would be cool to get paid to write, there's no denying that. But based on all the hapless saps that I've seen over the past couple of years get paid for what either seems to be rather subpar scribblings from wanna-be wordsmith's who I wouldn't trust to complete a coherent sentence, or people who sold their already worthless souls just so they could say how great an MC Lil Wayne is, I was content to die without ever earning a cent for my point of view.(O.C's words ring in my head, "I'd rather be broke and have a whole lot of respect!")

So you could understand my hesitation when I was approached with a few writing opportunities, most notably by Vibe magazine to blog on their website. I wanted to be the asshole, you know, talk about how my blog was the Internet equivalent to a "grass roots organization" that wouldn't be tainted by "big business", but all my machismo was tamed by a very nice woman named Julianne. I wanted to wax poetic about how they couldn't afford me, how my writings will stand the test of time on some "archaeologists will dig up my writings 500 years from now and proceed to worship and masturbate to them with glee" kind of shit, but they offered me enough weed and whore money to soothe this savage pre-ejaculator. Lastly, I was prepared to turn them down flat because I felt like they would handcuff a brother creatively and language-wise, but unbelievably my preconceived notions were once again thwarted since the good people at Vibe are giving me carte blanc to do whatever the fuck I want.

So, if you haven't gotten your fill of me over here(My ex's complained that I didn't "fill" them at all), check me out here because that's where I will also be spreading my message of Hip Hop and pre-ejaculation.(Even though I'm not fully integrated into the system yet. I.T, get on your fucking job yo!!)

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

Condi Raps

Thursday, February 08, 2007

My 10th Date: The High School Flame

When I was slim, trim, and you could wash your Lane Bryant's on my stomach, I'd walk into a crowded club as confident as Wayne Newton after one of his shows, feeling that I could land any chick within a 1 block radius as if she was a rather pedestrian skateboard trick. The last thing on my mind then was getting married, shit, settling down for me was allowing a nightly conquest the ability to watch a post coital movie, that's if she wasn't already disgusted at the vomit sounds that I made while I ejaculated or the delusions of grandeur that I had for my penis as soon as I entered her by quoting "Jaws": "You're gonna need a bigger boat!" I just knew that I would end up dying alone which isn't as bad as you'd think, the last thing I wanted to find myself doing was sitting on my porch, in my rocking chair, staring at some broad so wrinkly that thinking about the state of affairs her vagina was in would make me throw up in my mouth. Not for nothing, but it was rather comforting to think of myself in my mid 70's, popping Viagra like its Tic-Tac's just so I could penetrate a young lady old enough to be my grand-daughter, mid-stroke me giving her a brief overview on the legacy of Rakim.

A funny thing happened though, as my gut expanded and my appearance gave off the impression that my hobbies were "cooking, eating, hanging out at buffet's, and drinking Crisco straight from the bottle", I found myself waxing poetic on this blog about how I want to settle down and infect some poor soul with my demon seed. I wish I could say that I've matured, wanting to find that soulmate because I'm tired of carrying rosary beads to the free clinic based on all the miscellaneous ass I was on the business end of, but to be honest I only felt that way because the sea of options that I once had vagina-wise, well, dried up. In more recent years when I walked into a crowded nightclub I didn't feel as confident, the swagger had abandoned me, the sexy-ness being replaced with a sexually non threatening, funny chubby guy persona as if my life was an urban version of a fucking Chris Farley movie.

Now that I'm losing a few pounds, and every day is as cool as a summer's breeze since I can see more of my penis now, I've come to the realization that I'm a whore. I was only thinking about marriage because I knew that finding a chick who'd let me eat mac and cheese off of her, and wouldn't mind me damn near having a heart attack after a good half hour of hardcore fucking would be few and far between. That's why I decided to still keep my options open, even though you can still find me letting a certain aspiring actress borrow my cock, that is when I'm not helping her rehearse lines for a play that she's in, with me constantly interrupting every so often with "You said you'd blow me, I help you practice that!"

The High School Flame: To make a tremendously long story just a tad bit shorter, a girl that I used to date in High School found me on myspace. After I read her email I immediately had visions of the both of us hand in hand around 1990, passionately making out on her mother's bed, me humoring myself with the thought of climaxing on her moms pillows only to be interrupted by the skin being rubbed off of my penis from all the dry humping. That's the epitome of teenage love isn't it? Blue balls, Ramen noodles, and Yo MTV Raps.

When looking back through the Rolodex of females that I've let see me naked over the past two decades, this particular ex girlfriend is one of a handful that doesn't daydream about having me decapitated, so I agreed to meet her at a local bar.

As I walked through the door of my local watering hole, an establishment that people only go to if they have a weird affection for Karaoke and ruining their livers, it was easy to find her at the bar because she was the only sister in the whole joint. When I walked up to her from behind, my memory of that young girl was immediately being erased from my hard-drive, mainly because I saw nothing but legs and an ass that was basically pouring out both sides of the bar stool that she was sitting on. I wanted to say something smooth, some syrupy words that the motherfucker who played Lando Calrissian would have said in "Lady sings the Blues", but when I sat next to her all I could muster was "You know that you are the reason that I can be found, on those lonely nights that is, masturbating to old tapes of Yo MTV Raps?" She laughed then we embraced, I don't know what perfume she was wearing but it smelled like unadulterated sex to me.

I wish that I could tell you that we had a delightful conversation, you know, consisting of her telling me about her career, what she has been up to over the last 18 years, things like that. But it was painfully obvious within the first few moments of conversation that this broad was drunk, check that, shit faced. Hey I like an alcoholic woman as much as the next guy, they seem to put up less of an argument if you call them another woman's name mid stroke, but being that I'm usually the alcoholic in the equation I felt sort of out of place. So I sat there, and even though her words were slurring in such a way that she sounded like a retarded stroke victim, I just sat there and listened.

I listened when she told me that she was a Vegan, which was obviously a lie or an endeavor that she had just started, primarily because of all that ass that she was hauling. Not for nothing, but she had an ass that provoked me to scream out what wrestler announcers say when they are introducing a tag team, when she walked by I yelled "With a Com-Bined Weight!!" She wouldn't know who in the fuck Lane Bryant was if she ate nothing but celery, tofu eggs, and spent a majority of her time reading ingredients obsessively. I listened when she told me that she loved the lord, and was a good christian, which completely contradicted the story she told me a few minutes earlier when she admitted that she mercilessly blew a married man during a New Years Eve party. I even listened when she claimed that I was the love of her life and that me leaving her affected her severely, even though she left me, for my friend Robbie, a fact that I was reminded of 200 times over by the way the two of them made out in the back of the schoolbus that I took home every day.

Because she had no business driving I became, I can't believe I'm actually going to type these words, her, *gulp*, "Designated Driver". I saw her to her door, an apartment in a very fancy schmacy building by the way, and uttered whatever pleasantries I had to so I could smoothly segue my ass out of the as soon as humanly possible. As I made my way down the hall, desperately trying to beat "last call" so I could finally get my drink on I heard her scream "I thought we were going to fuck!!??" Like a DJ Premiere track, the beautifully smoky contralto of Sade, or some garden variety practice vagina telling me "The baby isn't yours", what I heard in that hallway was music to my ears. I should have been turned on, a thick woman standing in a hallway in her bra and panty's with a "come hither and that that penis where it doesn't belong" look in her eye, but she was also stumbling and saying "I hope I don't throw up" under her breath.(not exactly the sexiest thing in the world)

Usually, because I'm such a pervert, I would have made love to that inebriated woman, even being so kind to hold the vomit bucket in front of her while I passionately make love to her from behind. But I didn't, not because I suddenly have standards, but because I suddenly have options.

Hip Hop Thought of the Day: Black Thought is so underrated its criminal

One of the few words of wisdom that my father relayed to me, something that actually stuck to me as if I was accidentally hit with a pair of Paris Hilton's panties, was his belief that a man shouldn't have a repeated routine. I guess his belief was that if someone knew your schedule like the back of their hand, they could plot some dastardly deed that would result in your imminent demise. For most of my life I have lived by that specific piece of advice, I'm a pretty paranoid guy anyway, I change up my routine so much and keep my mere existence cloaked in a mystique of secrecy that many of my closest friends think that I'm a C.I.A operative, or a closeted homosexual. Butt plugs and a complimentary reach around aside, I feel kind of vulnerable because I have started to frequent one establishment like clockwork, that being my local smut store that carries the latest girl-on-girl and moose-on-girl titles. I'm aware that I recently said that Internet porn cured me of the awkward experiences one feels in those places, but this particular store has this fine chick named Candice who I think would let me give her an unlicensed breast exam, that's if she wasn't loyal to her boyfriend that is currently on death row. (I've never wanted a black man executed so badly before)

Anyway, as I'm driving to a place where I hoped to get the latest in midget porn, I popped in a mix-tape featuring the many verses of Black Thought, either with "The Roots", freestyles, or his many guest appearances on other artists' albums. To say that Black Thought is dope is a universally accepted theme akin to Michael Jordan being one of the best athletes ever to touch a leather ball, Stevie Wonder being a musical genius that would melt the minds of mere mortals, me not only loathing any sort of post coital affection but also having the ability to write virtual circles around the dead carcass's of your favorite bloggers at will. As I sat there bopping my head in front of an X-Rated establishment that I refer to as "my mecca", listening to many verses that I'd heard before but now found myself listening with an increased intensity, my face made that identifiable Hip Hop frown like I'd just caught a whiff of one of Biz Markie's farts.

That's when it hit me, Black Thought is Hip Hop's version of Joe Dumars!! You remember Joe Dumars, Hall of Famer who played either shooting guard or point guard on those Piston teams of the 80's and 90's. Well I'm pretty sure that Black Thought, like Joe Dumars, isn't on many peoples top ten list but he has become a quiet assassin that can take out your favorite wordsmith without a trace of perspiration. People hated facing Dumars, as cocky a motherfucker that Michael Jordan is, he even said that he loathed facing #4 and that he was the best defender that he ever faced. I mean, I've seen people go at Rakim, Jay-Z, Nas, KRS-One, do you ever remember anyone going at Black Thought? The reason why other microphone wielders dare not go after the Philadelphia MC is the same reason why he is grossly underrated, because the way he bends words, his arsenal of styles and his mastery of them, the way in which his rhyme cadence is wonderfully calibrated as if it was set to a fucking metronome. Rappers don't want it and your average listener unfortunately can't recognize greatness if it wore #4 and was the only player to virtually handcuff Michael Jordan.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Nas feat Chrisette Michele - Can't Forget About You

Thursday, February 01, 2007

My Mother's reasons why I shouldn't procreate

My mother, for all intents and purposes, has to be the most honest and trustwortrhy person that I have ever known. When she told me that my mere existence was based on a lie, the only reason why I'm on this earth at all, ritualistically failing to bring women to climax and pissing off members of the clergy whenever possible, was because my father mislead her by saying that he had a vasectomy and even paid a navy doctor to back-up his bullshit. I get the sneaking suspicion that she's telling the truth there. Whenever I have conned my way into some unsuspecting woman's heart, believe it or not there are ladies out there that find pre-ejaculation and me leaving money on dressers after sex funny, as soon as my mother meets these doomed souls she goes out of her way to tell these young lady's that I was not only a "titty baby" but that I had a penchant for sleep walking and taking R Kelly-esque pisses in closets. I can't find any smoking gun evidence proving those claims, but based on the fact that I throw punches in my sleep and have told a few women directly in their faces that making love to their sweet bosom's was a clear upgrade from thrusting inside their vagina's, I don't think my mother is bullshitting there either. Even though she claims she's joking, every time that she says that I'm her one child most likely to go on a killing spree, plot to assassinate an elected official, perish in a hail of gunfire while clutching a bazooka, infiltrate and bring down a drug ring simply because I had nothing better to do, and the one most likely to have a nasty Jim Brown habit of tossing women off of balcony's in my later years, I can clearly see the seriousness behind her comedic rant.

But there is one claim that she's been making for the longest time, similar to every time that "heart attack waiting to happen" Dick Cheney opens his mouth, that just seems like a blatant lie whenever those particular syllables pass through her mandible. Those words are "I don't want any fucking grand-kids!!" For the longest time I believed her, telling me that she had no plans to watch my crumb-snatchers as I nervously penetrated women of ill repute while I nervously clutched a rosary so I wouldn't catch a disease that I'd carry around with me like a palm pilot, I had no reason to think that she was lying. That was until I saw how she was with strangers' babies, her face lighting up like she was raised around a fucking nuclear power plant or some shit, with more child-like baby talk coming out of her pie hoe than a punch-drunk boxer a decade after his prime, I don't think that she really rejected the idea of having grand-kids at all. Actually, I think that she rejects the fact of ME having kids specifically, and after a couple of days mulling it over in my head I think I have figured out a few reasons why.

I had no idea drugging a kid was wrong: A few months ago I was hanging with my old college friend, his wife, and his wife's sister that I wanted to unflinchingly invade without any rhyme or reason like Iraq, over their particular place of residence as we played cards and drank. The one downfall about being known as the "funny friend" is that people keep expecting you to perform a prat fall, spew out a stand-up routine, or throw a pie in a referee's face like I'm a fucking member of the Harlem Globetrotters or some shit, so anything less makes you feel like you just took a healthy bowel movement in someones frosted flakes. As we played cards, drank, and as the young woman that I was talking to laughed hysterically as if me saying "I want to fuck your throat!" was meant to be some sort of joke, my home-boy's child kept popping up out of nowhere, claiming that he couldn't sleep. I love kids, for the most part, but after 5 visits with him rubbing his eyes, playing the innocent bastard shtick for all its worth, and claiming that he "couldn't sleep", I immediately thought that that little son of a bitch needed some new material, or at least a ghostwriter. I'll give it to my friends though, they are great parents, because with each new appearance of the little fellow they acted the same way each time, stern but lovingly telling their young one to get back to sleep.

I guess because I suffer from a form of turrets that only assholes suffer from, my mother calls it verbal diarrhea, I said "Have you tried getting some chloroform, putting it in a handkerchief, and putting it over his face until he falls asleep. That's what I'd do!" At least 20 seconds passed as my friend, his wife, and his wife's sister who I had offered to become intimately acquainted with her larynx looked at me as if I had just masturbated on their domesticated animal or something. Then, out of nowhere they all started laughing hysterically because they thought I was joking, so I obviously started laughing as well to mask the fact that I'm apparently a monster.

My answer for everything is a beating: Coming from someone who had to endure years of verbal abuse, so much in fact that I think its specifically attributed to my overall anger issues and my emotionally unavailability during relationships, I would never abuse my child in any way. That being said, I am a strong believer in spankings, so much in fact that if I ever ran for public office I would run on a "Be sure to beat your child's ass if they fuck up" platform and shit. Sure, there are many experts out there who abhor my firm belief in making a hand-print on a child's backside, they will tell you that there are less violent tactics such as "talking it out" and the classic "time-out". Not for nothing, especially coming from a guy that has seen violence work in a plethora of situations, the only "talking" I'd be doing would be the berating of the "didn't I tell you to not to go outside" variety I'd be doing mid-spank, and the only "time-out" that would be involved would be me taking a brief break because I'm sure that disciplining a child can be quite the taxing endeavor. But seriously, I don't know how I'd react to my disobedient child, but based on the fact that I can be found saying "Oh yeah, he needs his ass beaten!" whenever I see a child acting up in public, or one of my friends unruly crumb-snatchers, I kind of get an idea what kind of father I will be.

I'm not wasting my day watching sponge-bob: Maybe this is a bad thing to admit, but when it comes to infecting some woman with my demon seed and producing a kid in my spitting image that has a penchant for writing and violence, I honestly think that I'm too selfish at this point. I mean, when I go over my married friends' house and they have given up their television to the likes of Sponge-bog and Dora the explorer, I always secretly applaud their unflinching love for their child. Granted, letting your kid watch whatever he/she wanted isn't the equivalent of donating a kidney or anything, but I for one couldn't sit through 30 minutes of children programming without putting a loaded shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger with my motherfucking toes. I might have a spoiled kid, having a state of the art movie theater in his room accustomed with surround sound and DVD player, but I'd do anything so that little bastard could watch that shit in his own room.

My kid would think his name was "Go sit the fuck down somewhere!":
Listen, I'm not saying that I'd say those particular words to my future seed, but based on that being my favorite response whenever I'm confronted with a drunk at a bar, a hyperactive child of a friend that wants me to play with them, or some disgruntled lover who doesn't feel like a couple of twists to her nipples and a peck on her cheek is significant foreplay, I feel that my child will more than likely hear the same thing.