Wednesday, March 28, 2007

A Few Childhood stories that would make my mother cringe

Because my mind wanders like a Robin Williams interview, and because a dime-store psychic once told me that it would be my fate, my precious time that isn't spent beating off to deviant forms of Asian pornography and trying to desperately coerce a chick to come over and look at my cock like its some sort of hostage negotiation, is spent imagining that I'm a highly recognizable public phenomenon. In my head I fictitiously handle the paparazzi in the best ways imaginable, knowing all the photographers by name-even asking how their children are doing, sometimes bringing them breakfast as they stake out my house, subtly dropping them hints on what night I plan on taking some young Hollywood starlet home and "fucking her fake tits off". I'd gleefully abuse my celebrity, taking the most inopportune moments at awards shows to promote my most radical political ideologies, even having death threats hurled at me for most of my career based on that one time I said "I don't care how many dead guys you try to dig up, Rakim is still the best fucking rapper ever!!" at a televised rap award show. During random conversations with childhood friends I'd shamelessly namedrop, leaving the "Clooney" and the "Pitt" off of those gentlemen's names just to add a bit of elitism like it was a cooking spice, and even though I'm from the suburbs I'd tell a childhood friend "It's always good to come back to the hood, it really grounds me!!" before leaving his residence. I'd even go out of my way to look out for the financial needs of my extended family, throwing one big "Now leave me the fuck alone!!" party, a joyous family gathering that ends by me handing some person who shares my DNA a small bag of undisclosed cash and telling them "Now leave me the fuck alone!!" before gently nudging them out of my residence with the bottom of my Shell-Toe Adidas. Man, I'm even an insufferable prick in my delusions of grandeur, the only person that I can't see abandoning me in those scenario's is my mother, despite my possible future behavior that would have gotten any other loving son incorrectly outed as a homosexual who loves getting double penetrated.

That's my mother though, she's always had my back regardless of the situation, her lifelong consistency of love and devotion makes me want to write a buddy cop script for the both of us, the tag line being "She's dealt with an asshole son and breast cancer, now she's going to deal with you!" I love my mother so much that she's the only person on the planet that I would take a bullet for, which would probably make me the worst secret service man ever, me even hopping out of the way for the most innocent of automobile backfires then uttering "I thought it was an assassin, I'm not dying for a "Cowboy" from Connecticut!!" I love my mother so much that every time I hear one of my black friends defending his interracial relationship by claiming, "A Black woman can't do anything for me!", I always feel the need to defend women of her ilk by saying "What about your mother, motherfucker?" I love my mother so much that I have kept these following incidents surrounding my childhood a closely guarded secret.

Old men used to have us fighting like male chickens: My mother was shocked when I informed her that I spent most of High School on suspension and that I had a masterful gift for recreating her signature at will, I'm sure she'd be horrified to learn that old men placed bets on me and my friends like they were attending a goddamned cock-fight. Let me explain, when I was a kid living in Naval Housing amongst the sons of degenerates and card carrying members of the Klan, fighting at an early age was like a rite of passage. The neighborhood kids would fight so much that a few of the men in the neighborhood openly bet on which kid would be the victor, an endeavor so profitable for the gentlemen that I suddenly found myself fighting kids that I didn't particular have an issue with. I didn't have to take my shirt off or anything, my visage was never embedded on some ass-hat's hard-drive somewhere, and I wasn't touched inappropriately, but I still feel exploited to some extent. I'm just glad that my mother wasn't aware of what was going on then, because I'm sure she would have kicked the colostomy bags off of all those geriactric motherfuckers

The inappropriate lessons I learned at "The Fox Trap": My father, ever the role model, used to take me along with him to this bar called "The Fox Trap" after my soccer and baseball practices. I guess he had some sort of pull there, because the staff didn't seem to find my pre-pubescent presence objectionable, they treated me like one of the regulars as I threw back fried chicken wings and soda with reckless abandon. My mother was aware that my father was taking me there, which she wasn't particularly happy about, but she has no idea the mass amount of shit that found it's way into my virgin ears. One afternoon a fight broke out between two bar patrons in which a thriwn bottle almost hit me, with one of the men picking up the broken bottle remains and stabbing the man as I watched.(He didn't die.) On more than one occasion, some lonely waitress that looked like life dealt her the roughest of hands, would inappropriately tell me what she would do to me when I reached 18 years of age. Maybe that's why I'm fucked up, grown women placing my hand on their legs and all, flashing me their tits like a rather advanced game of peek-a-boo. Jesus, I need more therapy, and I really hope my mother doesn't read this.

My Friends mom used to get high with us: My parents were funny about me staying over people's houses when I was a kid, with my mother it was a safety issue, with my old man it was a question of "being a queer" because I wanted to hang out with my friends. But the one friend that they didn't mind me hanging out with was Blake, I don't know why, but both of my parents were sold on the unproven fact that Blake's mother was a bona fide disciplinarian for some reason. Because of that I got to spend a great deal of time over Blake's house, but what my parents didn't know was that Blake's mom fucked more dudes than custody battles, and that she had a weed habit that would make Redman blush. If I wasn't smoking some street grade horticulture with Blake's mom, or laughing with her and her son afterwords as we raided her refrigerator, I was watching some random douche-bag through the crack of her bedroom door fill each hole like he was going bowling.

When I was 17 I had in-house roast beef flaps:
I mentioned this a few time before on my blog, but when I was 17 years old I had the luxury of experiencing some Grade A, Nova Scotian, 29 year old in-house ass. Long story short, a friend of my parents came to stay with us a while, and within a few weeks time she made a man out of me in ways that my father's fishing trips and "tough love" couldn't. I was in love man, she threw that ass on me so hard that I still stare off into space whenever I smell someone wearing the same perfume she used to wear. Let me tell you, you look at your last year in high school with a totally different perspective when every day you walk into your first period after receiving a Hummer that doesn't have gas mileage issues, or rudely shoving your middle finger under the noses of your friends and saying "Guess what this smell is??"-giggling in the most geekiest of fashions. But that loving was a bit much for me to handle, and when we stopped having sex and she decided to date guys her own age, I openly picked fights with them and even threatened the lives of a few of them. That's the beauty of being a career asshole though, my mother had no idea that she was hearing my heart breaking, she just chalked it up to the 20 other guys lives she'd heard me threaten before.

Joe Theisman, getting "Lawrence Taylor'd" once again..

Schadenfreude: German word meaning 'pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune.'

I usually don't take pleasure in other people's misfortune, when a chick left me for a guy who would a few months later turn out to be gayer than a tree full of parakeets, I didn't giggle obsessively as she sobbingly begged me for my forgiveness over the phone. When one of the men who took part in jumping me during my college years wound up floating in the Chesapeake Bay River, looking so bloated that his own weeping mother didn't recognize him, I felt bad about his passing like he didn't just take part in beating the brakes off of me. Despite my proclivity to smash someones nose in when provoked, or doing some highly inappropriate shit while sodomizing a woman while yelling out my prison number or whispering in her ear "Oh baby, this remind me of prison!!", when it's all said and done I'm not a complete animal. I'm not the type of guy to celebrate over someone else's misfortune, OK, maybe just this once.

ESPN announced the other day that they would be replacing Joe Theisman for Ron Jaworski on "Monday Night Football", and no one was happier that the EX-Redskin was getting his walking papers than me. I don't hate Mr. Theisman by any means, but when he was teamed up with Tony Kornheiser and Mike Tirico, it was obvious that he was the proverbial weak link in that particular equation. Sure he is an NFL veteran who brings a lot to the table, but the guy was a fucking buzz-kill, stepping all over Kornheiser's jokes, acting as if the humor of the PTI host was beneath him and juvenile. After a while, I kept expecting Kornheiser to challenge him to a fight, or say something cryptically evil like "Man, where's Lawrence Taylor when you need him?" As a result of Mr. Theisman lacking a sense of humor that made it seem as if he was potty trained at gun point, Tony Korheiser subsequently held back and went minutes without even speaking. I don't how any of you feel but I think Tony's a pretty funny guy, hands down the only white man this side of the equator that I feel comfortable with using black slang, so lets hope this change in the line-up with improve Monday Night Football.

New posts

Three 6 Mafia: Undoing the Civil Rights Movement, One Episode at a Time.


Peyton Manning on SNL- The United Way

Fox Attacks: Black America

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Hip Hop Heroes: Part 2

(A total eclipse slowly casts its shadow across the entire globe)

(The first thing you hear is the sound of constant teenage shrieking, homemade signs that look like the handiwork of mentally challenged 3rd graders, horrible rock groups, and vomit inducing Hip Hop. Yes, its TRL.)

(The Caption reads: "Smack dab in the middle of Times Square")

(The scene starts off with Nasir Jones, sitting in the green-room until he's able to shamelessly plug a new single off of his album. He tries to be upbeat, but all of the miserable musical acts that preceded him and the disgraceful Hip Hop blaring from the monitor that he's watching has gotten him visibly upset)

Kelis:(Looking over for a few moments): Hey, why do you look so mean?

Nasir Jones:(shaking head, looking disgusted): Are you watching this shit?

Kelis:(squinting at the monitor): What, Heather Mills? I know, I never wanted to beat a bitch with her prosthetic leg so bad in my life.

Nasir: No, I'm talking about what passes as Hip Hop nowadays. For example, "Crime Mob"? What the fuck is that shit? The only criminal thing about them is the fact that blowjobs don't get you the production that it used to.

Kelis:(holding head in hands) Oh shit, here we go again.

Nasir: What a minute now, listen. I mean, it seems that Hip Hop has been reduced to a sort of special Olympics, where people get critical acclaim and praise for the most menial of tasks.

Kelis: Like?

Nasir: Lil Wayne for example, a dude who I feel is the Robert Johnson of the new millennium.

Kelis: Huh? Lil Wayne owned a basketball team and ran a network that sets black folks back 30 years? Even though "Uncut" was the shit though.

Nasir: (laughing) "Uncut" was my shit too!!(getting angered again) No, No, No!! Not that Robert Johnson, the one that supposedly sold his soul to the devil for critical acclaim. I couldn't tell you how many people that I respect think that Lil Wayne is the cats pajamas, when in reality he's so lyrically horrible that I have the sneaking suspicion that he's allergic to dictionary's.

Kelis: Besides you never seeing me naked again if you ever say the words "cats pajamas", you know that you're talking about a guy who kisses other men on the mouth.(looking off into space) "Hey Lil Wayne, Boy George Called, he wants his desire to get ass-fucked by other men back!!"

Nasir: I'm serious now.. Lil Wayne, Lil Boosie, Lil Scrappy, Yung Joc, Jibbs, T-Pain, MIMS? With all the bafoonery, shucking and jiving, and a penchant for showing their asses just to make a buck, the current landscape seems more like a traveling minstrel show than authentic Hip Hop. I'm still waiting for MC "Sleep-N-Eat and shit..

Kelis: A "Bamboozled" reference, sweet! But you did what you could, you put out "Hip Hop is Dead" to state your case. Listen, if cats still want to be on that bullshit and come off gayer than the members of "Pretty Ricky", then that's on them.

Nasir: I know, southern cats acted like my album title was a hell-worthy trespass, self appointed Hip Hop critics picked a part my album even though those same bastards would turn around and sing the praises of Chamillionaire and artists of that ilk that couldn't hold my cock with a forklift, I'm tired of this shit.

Kelis: ..and I'm tired of hearing it, you know we have this same conversation like 4 times a day don't you? Do you know how unattractive it is to be fucked while having a guy ask me, "Ohh baby, recite Kool G Rap's verse from "The Symphony" for me!! Thats it, lisp and all!"?(Looking at monitor) Ok, you're almost up!

Nasir: I can't do it honey, I'm about to transport myself to a time when Hip Hop was pure!!(tensing up his face, clenching his fists together)

Kelis: Do you know how many pairs of boxer shorts I've had to clean every time you've tried to "transport" and accidentally shit yourself in the process? Come on, stop fucking around.

Nasir: Sorry honey, I'll see you in a few hours..

(Nas disappears into thin air)

Kelis:(looking around in amazement) Oh shit, he actually did it!! I can't believe it!! Shit!! Shit!!(sniffing into the air) Shit is the right word, that motherfucker just transported a turd into his shorts!

(Nas finds himself in the middle of block party in the South Bronx, circa 1980, while fine women with Afro's stop clapping to the music to figure out what that shit smell is)

To be continued...

(Next Scene: The first thing you see is a concerned Clive Campbell having a very stern discussion with a Haitian Gentleman that works for him in an office. It's hard to make out what exactly they're talking about, maybe it has something to do with the Haitian gentleman's horrible singing and fast-forward worthy verses on "The Score")

(The Caption reads: "Let me erase all your troubles")

Clive Campbell: Don't lie to me dammit, are you still fucking my dear Hope? She's my god-damned daughter for Christs sake!!

Wyclef: Of course not boss, what ever gave you that idea? I mean, she can't have given you that idea.

Clive: She didn't say anything of the sort, but I get the sneaking suspicion that your mind erasing abilities might have had something to do with that.

Wyclef: Ridiculous! Hope is fine and all, and I do have fantasies of eating entire ice cream cones out of her tender butt-cheeks, but I've never touched her.

Clive: How do you explain her complaining about her crotch smelling like Fried Plantains, and Import CD's of the fugees being left in her room?

Wyclef: Shit!

Clive: That's what I thought.. OK, now that we've got that out of the way, lets focus on out clients' needs. Call the next person in!

(Wyclef walks a gentleman in who looks like he's in his mid 40's, with noticeably light wallets)

Clive: (looking at file) It says here that your name is Stanley Burrell, you're from Oakland, made a shitload of money and then lost it, gained popularity for your dance moves and wearing baggy pants that looked like you spent the better part of a week defecating in. What do you want Wyclef to erase for you today?

Stanley: That awkward period where I regrettably tried to be a gangsta rapper, if you could erase that debacle out of my mind that would be great.

Clive: No "2 Legit 2 quit", that horrible song you composed for that "Adam's family" movie, Oaktown 357, the speedo you wore in that "Pumps in a Bump" video, that "Pumps in a Bump" song, your entire fucking catalog?!!!

Stanley:(mumbling under breath) ..dickhead!

Clive: OK, OK.. Wyclef, help this guy out.

(Wyclef slowly walks to Stanley, cups his hand around his forehead, and after asking the man how he felt about his 1997 album "The Carnival", he starts taking any memory that Stanley had concerning him ever rhyming about Criminality)

(As Stanley slowly walks out of the room, Clive and Wyclef scream something that only they find funny)

Stanley and Wyclef:(in unison) "You ain't hittin' in New York, HAMMER!!"

Stanley:(slowly turns around with a bewildered look on his face)

Clive: OK, bring in the next person!!

(Wyclef walks in a woman in her mid-30's, looking as if she didn't want to be there at all)

Clive: Oh shit, I know who this is! "Kick This one for Brooklyn, Kick This one for the 90's!!!"


Clive: "You will get nowhere, the Lyte is too blinding/Tell me why must I keep reminding/ You to step back, let the Lyte shine/ Do not say shit till you write your own rhymes!!"

MC Lyte: Yes, I'm MC Lyte, congratulations! Can you tell me why I'm here before you go through my entire music catalog?

Clive: Yes, sorry. (looking at file) It says here that you want us to erase that horrible "Roughneck" song completely from your memory.

MC Lyte: No I don't, that was a hit for me, and that's a song that women around the world can relate to!

Clive: OK, you got me, I hate that fucking song. I mean, that song birthed about a million other unnecessary "ode to thugs" tunes that I absolutely loathe, irritating tales about men who in all actuality just mean mug you all day to mask the fact that a dick can be found in their cheeks most night.(looking at Wyclef) Strap her ass down!!

(After Wyclef straps her down, he starts to cup his hand around MC Lyte's forehead when he's interrupted by Clive)

Clive: Erase that song out of my mind as well!!

(Now Wyclef has both hands on each person's forehead, only erasing that "Roughneck" song from their minds after uttering the following:)

Wyclef: Times like this, a brother wished he had three hands and shit!!

(After clearing more heads than mid-afternoon blowjobs, Wyclef sees the legendary MC out)

Clive: Is there anyone else out there?

Wyclef: No boss.

Clive Owen: How about that guy from Queensbridge who once did a song with Ginuine? I'll erase that memory from his mind for free!

Wyclef: He's transported himself to 1979 with a soiled pair of drawers.

To be continued...

New posts

Robin Thicke plays The NorVa: A "Don't Take Your Lady" Concert Review



A few songs that I feel awkward about liking

Growing up, watching James Bond flicks and other forms of espionage genre films, every time a teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I'd always say, with a straight face mind you, "I want to be a spy!!" I'd usually ignore my class's cries of laughter and my teacher's subdued chuckles, wondering how many other visionaries were laughed out of the building before proving their detractors wrong years later. What did they know anyway, filthy peasants the whole lot of them, while the rest of them are squeezing out detestable crumb-snatchers I'd be in some foreign country choking a guy to death with a telephone chord. While most of them are slaving at some job that they openly reject like a new kidney that their bodies can't take, I'd be fucking the holy shit out of some women named "Punany Supreme" on a bed littered with french currency. At the same exact moment that one of my classmates is enjoying his riding lawnmower and how "fast" it is, I'd be impressing some ultra fine model who has a four-thousand a day cocaine habit with my land-to-water Maserati that my tech guy built for me in his off time.

During my teenage years I took this fantasy a bit too far, placing a big wad of gum on the lock of the front door at my then girlfriends house, not to enter at will later that night so I could make sweet love to her, but to steal some of her old man's pornography stash. Because I've never been the inventive sort, even thinking about rigging my car to release oil so other cars can crash makes my head hurt even today, I would squeeze lotion out of my window so it would land the front window of any garden variety douche-bag who decided to chase me.(For real, that shit works. People's first reaction when anything hits their windshield is to put their wipers on, this smearing lotion all over the place making driving an impossibility)

But I also referred to many girls that I was sexually active with at the time "Covert ass", not because they had some top secret information that they stored in the creases of their butt-cheeks, but because I didn't want anyone knowing that I was fucking these behemoths. Most of them where amazing people, stellar personalities, women who I could tell back then would make amazing wives, but regardless how great they were I always felt funny about being seen in public with these unimpressive females, I sort of feel the same way about these particular songs.

Jimi Hendrix: "Hey Joe": I know that I act out and talk a tremendous amount of shit, but it's just a defense mechanism, having my beating heart ripped out of my chest by a few caramel temptresses who barely reciprocated oral will cause you to have a few walls up. A few years ago I dated a girl that I loved so much that I found myself saying silly shit like "I love you to pieces" at the end of every phone conversation, a fact that is diminishing my hetero street cred as I type this. Anyways, for the first time in history I was an innocent party when she decided to leave me for some artsy fartsy guy, a gentleman who looked like he couldn't take a punch if a UPS man delivered it to him in a cardboard box. I was floored, but instead of drowning my tears in 151, weed, and women of ill repute who actually find pre-ejaculation beneficial, I decided to exercise my relationship demons with good old fashion Karaoke. I got on that stage, picked Jimi Hendrix's version of "Hey Joe", and swayed back and forth like an angst-ridden mid 90's grunge rocker as the song came on. Well wouldn't you know it, as soon as I sang the part "..I'm going down to shoot my old lady, you know I caught her messing around with another man..", my ex-girlfriend walks into the joint with one of her chicken-head friends. I don't know why her and her friend had horrified looks on their faces, sure I sang the song with an untamed passion, I looked at her for most of it, when I sang "I shot her!!" I did kind of have a Charles Manson gleam in my eye, but those weren't legitimate reasons to be fearful of me. Oh, that's right, I did scream "I love pieces" right before dropping the microphone.

Akinyele: "I luh Huh": Since it seems that your average rapper has a shorter shelf life than most store bought apples, as a fan you have to be specific when talking about what time period of their career you're a fan of. For example, I'm a fan of Ice Cube pre-"Lethal Injection", I have to make it clear that I've pretty much ignored Q-Tip's solo career, I like Guru with Premiere and C.L Smooth with Pete Rock, just like how I like Akinyele before he dedicated 99.9 percent of his rhymes to his cock.(Look who's talking, huh.) When this song came out I remember journalists the world over, especially of the female variety, ripping Akinyele a new asshole because of his rhymes about injuring his girlfriend to end an unwanted pregnancy. At the time I thought that everyone was overreacting, that this was just some good old fashion Akinyele hyperbole, with him just expressing how much he's wasn't ready to become a father. Fourteen years later that still might be true, but I now see the other side's point because the song is kind of fucked up, and I feel weird about liking it.

Smoothe Da Hustler feat. Trigga The Gambler: "Broken Language": I love violent rhetoric and macho posturing as much as the next guy, hell, outside of me referencing my small penis, that's what my writing career is based on. I guess that's why I love this song, sure the rhyme device does walk that thin line of being irritating, but each one of the brothers tosses it back and forth as effortlessly as a Stockton to Malone pick and Roll. But I'm a good catholic boy, I'm a bona fide "O.G" of St. Gregory's Catholic School(Represent!!), but every time I hear Smooth da Hustler say "The Noah killer, the expert slinging, the white girl gang-banger, the virgin Mary fucker, the Jesus hanger" I always clutch a rosary and do the sign of the cross. As soon as I put my holy beads away and try to enjoy the rest of the song I hear "...the cross breaker and bible ripper". Heavens!

Slick Rick: "The Moment I Feared": Slick Rick is called a great storyteller for a reason, his vivid tales leave the listener actually imagining the fictitious rhymes that he puts to paper, MC Ricky D is one of my personal favorites. "The Moment I feared" is a great song, detailing how a random string of events can lead to the worst of conclusions, with Rick informing people that the wrong decisions can lead to you getting fucked in the ass without your permission. Yes, you read the last part correctly, at the end of the song Rick is imprisoned and he goes on to say "Now I'm in jail doing life and I'm scared, some kid sniffed me cold and greased me where no one dared". Besides the mention of prison love, the song is hard to enjoy because of the sounds Rick makes himself while getting fictionally ass-raped. Come on man, that was a bit much.

Culture Club: "Do you really want to hurt me": Just like it's easier to fuck a married woman if you've never met the husband, I'd imagine shooting a missile into a warehouse filled with terrorists is easier for a fighter pilot when he doesn't know about the innocent people who live around said warehouse. As a fan of music, it's alright to groove to love songs sung by gay men because the person they are really writing about is faceless. I was able to shamelessly fuck women to Luther Vandross songs because Ignorance is blissful as a motherfucker, when my sports teams won championships I didn't think about Freddy Mercury's penchant for cock as we all sang "We Are The Champions", and how many Judas Priest fans knew that while they aggressively nodded their collective heads to his music that they were mimicking a neck motion that Rob Halford practiced in his private life. I guess the problem with "Do You really want to hurt me", a song that I love and have played every time a woman decided to take a proverbial shit on my emotions, is that years later we learned that the song was really about the drummer of his band. Jesus Christ man, I still love the song and all, but putting a male face to a song I've played a million times is kind of troubling.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Enter the wonderful dating world of a 33 year old.

Because my mind wanders like someone with Alzheimer's driving without a GPS system, I tend to think about certain periods of my life in terms of Hip Hop songs. In the early 80's, when the only thing that was on my pre-pubescent mind was Saturday afternoon kung-fu flicks and performing back-spins that would put rival crews to shame, for some reason Nucleus' "Jam on it" comes to mind. As I entered my early teens, lazy weekday afternoon's where I'd give some young girl an unlicensed breast exam that led to fire-starting dryhumping sessions, for some reason LL Cool J's "Bristol Hotel" plays in my memories. Back during my college years when I had a six pack, and ego the size of a city block, and when I first realized that being an asshole puts you in the express lane in terms of getting inside some poor woman's Lane Bryant's, I can't stop thinking about Gangstarr's "Dwyck" when playing that time period back in my head. Those were some great times, and I feel myself thinking back on those happier times as a form of escapism for me now, because the song that comes to mind when I think about my life currently is BDP's "The Homeless". Don't get it twisted, I have a very comfortable residence to take women with low self-esteem to, where I make sweet and tender love to them, only afterwords scrubbing my cock in the sink feverishly with an S.O.S pad.

In that BDP song KRS talks about how black folks in America, at the end of the day, don't have a place that we call "home" so to speak, based on how many of us in America can't identify with mother Africa. Being a 33 year old unmarried man looking for a woman who I can promote past the level of "Practice Vagina" and "Sperm art canvass", I find myself in the unluckiest of demographics when it comes to finding that cliched soul-mate. Granted, I know what's it's like to feel somewhat out of place and misunderstood, I'm a Hip Hop fan from Virginia for Christs sakes! Let me explain: For as long as I can remember, anyone North of the Mason Dixon line considered my state to be nothing short of Hicksville, a bunch of toothless and inbred Jed Clampetts running around making moonshine and wearing overalls all year round. Maybe not so much now, but it seemed that anyone from North Carolina downwards considered Virginia's to be nothing but fast talking city slickers, a place where sky-scrapers and big city ego's literally fought each other for elbow room. That lack of identity that my dear state has had to deal with, is the same kind of dilemma that a single 33 year old chronic masturbater has had to deal with as well.

Dating Younger Women: For the longest time I couldn't even think about dating a woman considerably younger than me, call me a pervert with standards but if I met a chick who happened to be 21, immediately my brain would go into "Rain Man" mode: "21? Really? Do you know that when you were born, I was in junior high and shit? Did you know that when you were 3 years old, I was already fucking?(Grabbing my head) Jesus Christ, when I graduated from High School you were in fucking kindergarten!!" But as time passed I've relaxed my restrictions just a bit, not so much because of all the mature 20-somethings with brilliant minds that I've met over the past year or so, it has more to do with a 33 year old pre-ejaculator who's starting to see less and less of his penis as the days go on, running out of options. So I've started dating women younger than myself, and let me just say right now, it's absolutely horrible. This isn't an indictment of all younger women, maybe I just have picked the wrong one's, but the chattiness during sex has got to go. I mean, I like a frisky woman as much as the next guy, but all of that "How you like this ass gramps!" and "After I'm done with you, you'll be giving me that social security check!!" has got to go. I can deal with the fact that she might not know who "The treacherous three" were, or that "The Fat Boys'" original name was "The Disco Three", but a steady diet of hyphy music, Dipset, and Keisha Cole will lead any self respected Hip Hop fan to have a freezer full of young chicks for the local authorities to find.

Dating Women my Age: This might sound a little fucked up, but I like to refer to the woman around my age as the "Vietnam Veteran's of the dating game", because they always tend to come to me wounded, disheartened, and feeling betrayed by the last leader that sent them off to battle for what turned out to be unnecessary reasons. Granted, I can relate to these women on a pop culture level that's unparalleled, nothing gets my unimpressive penis stiffer than late-night conversations where her and I end up rapping "Self Destruction" in unision, or talk about how excited we were when Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video first came out, no doubt about that. But these broads tend to have the most issues, after a few conversations you learned that her last boyfriend shot her, twice, she was once married to a Colombian drug-lord who's only use for her was as a drug-mule, she had a 5 year relationship with a lesbian that was nothing but a "fling", an awkward time when she dated her uncle, and a shitload of depressing tales that trick your mind into thinking that you're watching an episode of "Good Times".

Dating Older Women: Like most antiques, at first the ride is a smooth and nostalgic one, you benefiting from the richness that ride has to offer and the elegance people can recognize as you drive by. But after a while the gas mileage starts to be a bitch, so many things start becoming wrong with it that you always find yourself under the hood fixing it, after a while it becomes more trouble than its worth based on you having to go out of your way to find parts, sifting through junkyards, paying a thousand bucks for a three inch part from Indonesia. (OK, I might have gone overboard with the car reference, but you get the idea.) But seriously, everything is great for while, dinner' ready for you when you as soon as you get in the house, besides having to constantly oil her joints as if she was a cast member in the "Wizard of Oz"-the sex is great because your penis is better than no penis at all to her, and finally someone who can appreciate my habit of spending Sunday afternoons playing John Coltrane and Duke Ellington. That being said, it usually gets weird, the nagging, complaining about the trash not being taken out, bitching about not wearing a scarf while buttoning up my jacket, reminding me of!!(yuck) That's usually when its time to call it quits, besides, her long winded stories about how she used to hang out with Josephine baker gets kind of tiresome.

Conspiracy Theory Fridays: "The NBA is racist!!"

When Dave Chappelle asked, "What is a black man without his paranoia?", he couldn't have uttered a simpler truth. That's probably the main reason that my mother is desperately trying to get me off of marijuana, not because of she's worried about my lungs in my "Golden Years", not because she doesn't want me to become a recluse of "Howard Hughes" proportions, but simply because she feels that I have enough of a persecution complex without the help of horticultural aids. It's true, I'm a pretty paranoid guy, more times than not I feel that I'm being tailed, not only do I feel that my blog has prompted Dick Cheney to have an F.B.I file that right wing fundamentalists masturbate to, I feel that every unmarked van that that I see in my neighborhood has me under police surveillance.(Which is difficult for my friends, since I refer to marijuana as random He-man characters that they've never heard of) You think I'm bullshitting, before I have a chick in my house I have her ass vetted as if she was applying for a government job, before I even think about sticking my dick in a chick I'm standing in front of her holding blue cards with her personal information on it, asking her question like I'm James Lipton and shit.

Besides that, I have your standard "black guy conspiracy theories" thing going on, feeling that the government had MLK and Malcolm X killed, there was a second shooter in the grass knoll and a third shooter somewhere else, AIDS and Crack were invented to wipe black folks off the planet, and Ronald Reagan was undoubtedly the anti-Christ, pretty standard thinking amongst most of the black people that I know. But sometimes, just sometimes, I have conspiracy theories that only I'm able to see. Here's one about how the NBA is a racist league.

The Dress Code: I'm certain that black folks for as far as the eye could see agreed with the league imposed dress code, many well intentioned people of my ilk welcomed young black men going from sloppy jeans and doo-rags, to three piece suits and some polished up Stacy Adams'. But that's the smoke-screen though, the proverbial dirt that they throw in your eyes before beating you silly with some unadulterated truth, you have to looked beyond the surface and see the conspiracy. Check this out, just ask some league official or some veteran sports writer why the NBA decided to impose the dress code in the first place, sometimes they'll say it was an image issue, but more times than not their response goes into the mass amounts of money being put into the league by the "corporate sponsors" and the need to make them happy. Anytime I hear that the NBA imposed the dress code for the "corporate sponsors", I just know that that's just a code word for "making rich white guys comfortable", fuck that I say. I mean, if some rich douche-bag feels uncomfortable by a black man with body art and an extremely nappy fro, what makes you think he'd all of a sudden learn the lyrics to "Self Destruction" if that same brother put on a three-thousand dollar suit on?

The "at least one year after high school graduation" rule: Even though I'm a fan of a dude who testicle-less douche-bags the world over diss mercilessly(Kobe Bryant), I'm actually for a High School player at least experiencing some college before making that leap into the NBA. But that's beside the point, I would never stop a grown man from achieving his American right to go out there and earn, that's why the NBA's rule that you can't enter the league until a complete year has gone by since High School graduation is a complete fucking travesty. Only in a league that features young black men prohibits them from making their own decisions, acting as if they know what's better for them than they do. Look at all the other sports where youngsters jump into the pro-leagues without this sort of bullshit, baseball, golf, hockey, sports like gymnastics and diving, only when it comes to young black kids that there has to be some sort of restriction from making that proverbial phat cash. I know, I know, the counter argument is all those High School students who entered the NBA who turned out to be busts, or the ones who weren't able to handle the pressure and burnt out, that's respectable. I'm saying though, they are adults, and should be allowed to make those type of mistakes if they want to.

David Stern: People act as if David Stern should be celebrated all throughout the month of February, as if he's the best thing to happen to black folks since the civil rights bill or something. The way he's praised for being such a strict disciplinarian in what Bud Selig probably imagines as his "dream job", commentators make it seem as if being an NBA Commissioner is akin to taming wild broncos. Not only that, but I've noticed something rather peculiar over the past five years or so, the way that David Stern expresses his contempt and superiority over an NBA player with the mildest of grievances. No other commissioner of any other sports league has the same level of contempt for their players than David Stern does. That's just my opinion, or my conspiracy theory.

A late edition to " Hip Hop remixes that stand-up to the original"

A Tribe Called Quest: "Bonita Applebum"(Remix)

Outside of Bomber Jackets, door-knocker earrings, and chicks with MC Lyte-era hairstyles, nothing makes me think about High School fucking like "Bonita Applebum". For some reason girls didn't particularly like getting penetrated to Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome" or Kool G Rap's "Talk like Sex", but they would scream out "That's my jam!!" when I chose this to be the soundtrack to my embarrassing pre-ejaculation. Again, the original is a work of art, but the remix stands up to it like a nerd who refuses to get bullied one day longer.

Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back: The F*cking Short Version

Friday Afternoon Sendoff: Donny Hathaway

Donny Hathaway: "Voices Inside" (Everything Is Everything)

There's nothing like a little Donny Hathaway Jam session to guide you miserable bastards into the weekend, the right way that is. I've kept this joint in my IPOD for as long as I've had one, and outside of payment induced fellatio and titties with glitter sprinkled all over them, nothing soothes me like this jam session here. Enjoy!(Now that I've finally learned to post audio and shit..)

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Hip Hop remixes that stand-up to the original

I'm a lot better now, I tell women up front what kind of detestable scumbag that I am, and if our late-night fucking somehow progresses I inform her how badly our relationship will end - but for the longest time my actions were so indefensible I'm certain that scores of fathers and older brothers wanted nothing more than to use my genitalia as a door stop. Besides denying a woman's very existence when she caught me out on the town with another lady, and having an inappropriate electric sign above my bedroom door that flashes numbers(the kind you see at DMV), I took great pleasure in targeting a chick's younger sister whenever the coroner was called on whatever kind of relationship me and a woman were having. Whether it was in High School when I had sex with Joanne's little sister who was in a grade below us, or a couple of years ago when I drowned my relationship sorrows having sex amidst a sea of medical school books - whenever I partook in the act of penetrating an ex girlfriends younger sister I'd jokingly refer to each of them as "The Remix". Even during those intimate moments when the guilt of fucking someones sister should have infiltrated my subconscious, I'd find myself screaming "This-Is-The Remix" while ejaculating, imitating KRS-ONE on that Steady B "I'm Serious" track.

Sometimes the ladies in question weren't as good as their older siblings, different in the same way an omelet might be to you if you have always been a stringent scrambled egg eater, but definitely not better. But sometimes, just sometimes, you find the remixed version being just as good or better than the original - like dating a new broad who serves you nothing but Sirloin steaks when your ex-wife's opinion of what quality meat was just happened to be Steak-em sandwiches. That long-winded introduction reminds me of some Hip Hop remixes that I know of..

Public Enemy: "Shut Em Down" (Pete Rock Remix): The reason that I always put Public Enemy above N.W.A on any of those "Greatest Hip Hop Groups" lists that I come across, besides them being a better group by leaps and fucking bounds, is the political seed they planted in me and a million other impressionable minds. When you have the ability to make a kid nod his head aggressively while actually learning something, that's more impressive than any slight of hand trick David Blane could pull off - an unexplained phenomenon like Stonehenge, or the success of CBS' "Two and a Half men". As for "Shut Em down" the original version, I liked it enough, but compared to the booming Pete Rock remix where the blaring horns rape your sensibilities without lube or the complimentary "reach around", it doesn't compare in my opinion. Even thought its a great message about boycotting companies who don't support the black community, in the years since its release I've recite one of the main lines in the song when someone that I usually like says some utter bullshit.(See "I like Bill Cosby, but wait a minute..")

Organized Konfusion: "Stress" (Large Professor Remix): The original is great, as any fans of O.K knows, I can't tell you how many people I've disgusted over the years during ski trips when I rap in the snow without a shirt on - only wearing a backpack like Prince Po in that original "Stress" video. But this is the sort of remix that I love, when a group throws complete caution to the wind and avoids having the remix sound anything like the original, to the point that it even seems funny calling a remix.

Nas: "The World is Yours" (Q-Tip Remix): Around the time I was blasting this particular tune I was a wanna-be MC, with hopes of wielding a microphone in front of packed houses, and having fans all over the globe recite my verses as if they were god-damned bible scriptures. I guess that's why this song reminds me of New York so much, because around this time I stayed getting lost throughout the 5 boroughs trying to work with some douche-bag producer, trying my best not to look like an out-of-towner even though I kept asking people for directions while wearing a "Virginia is for Lovers" t-shirt. The original is a classic, but the remix holds up to say the least.

A Tribe Called Quest: "Scenario" (Remix)(Featuring Leaders of the New School, Hood): This was back when Busta was respected lyrically, when he wasn't punching homosexual fans as if he didn't have a secret desire for cock and "anal ease" - when he wasn't defecating on the memories of dead friends in the name of "not Snitching". Where's an 85' Delorean when you really need one? I personally like this remix a little bit better than the original, makes you nod your head with more intensity, plus you can't beat the deceased MC Hood's verse in the beginning.

House of Pain: "Jump Around" (Pete Rock Remix): I wasn't the biggest fan of House of Pain imaginable, even though I did like the original version to "Jump Around", I just remember that my cousin always played the tape in my car and we would laugh hysterically when Everlast would say "I'm at my sexual peak young lady!!" during one of their songs. But besides that singular inside joke shared between first cousins, the only reason that I let my younger cousin play that tape in my hootpie was because of the Pete Rock remix to "Jump Around", which I believe was the last song on the album. Just like the pretty women that I've dated who I desperately tried to keep my "cock roster", when I like something I tend to run it into the ground - and after I would play that song 30 times I would drive my cousin absolutely bat-shit like mental health professionals taking someone to the puzzle factory. The remix is definitely better than the original, those Pete Rock bass-lines and horns overcome once again, I wonder if Kanye bit Pete Rock's "I'm going to rhyme over all the remixes that I do for people" motto?

New posts.



Friday, March 09, 2007

Ask HumanityCritic

I don't know what's wrong with you people, I put this cautionary tale that is a blog out there for the world to see, horror stories of sodomy in churches, members of the clergy calling me a "motherfucker", the vomit sounds that I make while ejaculating, and you silly sons of bitches still want to ask me for my advice? I mean, I always take the questions that you pose very seriously, crafting each one of my responses with the same concentration of a fat man running down the condiments he wants on a sandwich, but asking me for advice just seems wrong on every rational level. But fuck it, here goes..

HumanityCritic, I love my girl to death but I'm not really feeling loved back, is there a way I could test her love? Malik, NY

I could get all Dr. Phil on your ass, say that "communication is the key", suggesting that you have a heart to heart with your loved one as you air out your concerns like an adult. But I've found that the best way to test someones love for you is to simply do vile shit mid-coitus, because if a chick stays with you despite your hideous sexual idiosyncrasies, I'd say she's a keeper my friend. Give her weird compliments that rocks her world, like during sex say something like "Oh baby, you feel so good, it's so spacious down here!!" One of my personal favorites, something that really tests a woman's love and dedication, is when I refer to my penis as "The UPS Man", and I go on to explain that "It has a brown uniform, and dropping things off is its goddamned job, LADY!!" Disgusting I know, but it's the price a chick must pay for not being able to say those lovely three works, "!"

HumanityCritic, I've read your blog for sometime and I feel compelled to ask, is anyone exempt from an ass-whipping? Chris, Va

Chris, my friend, no one is exempt from having the brakes beaten off of them. I once rolled a handicapped man into traffic for letting some slick shit ooze out the side of his mouth, during a fight I "swept the leg" ala Johnny in "The Karate Kid" of a man with a prosthetic leg for calling me the N-word. Its sounds barbaric I know, but its my feeling that if a person feels liberated enough to disrespect you, you in turn must feel the same liberation while pounding them with a plethora of punches persistently.(Holy alliteration batman!!!) Like the time I dated a girl and her blind uncle expressed his disdain for me in the most obscenity laced tirades imaginable, the day she broke up with me I took it upon myself to strike him a few times with his walking cane. Hey, eight to eighty, blind cripple or crazy, no one is exempt from a beat-down.

HumanityCritic, what are your thoughts on Hillary Clinton?
Paige, TX

She's like that ex-girlfriend that you don't totally hate, sure you had some good times and you feel that she's a decent enough human being, but you also remember how frigid she was in bed, her having the personality of cold cuts, and how she constantly nagged you about the time you suggested fucking her and her friend at the same time. That's why people want to rally behind Barack Obama, he's the new girlfriend so to speak, both of you are having fun, experiencing new things together, you haven't witnessed any of their more detestable idiosyncrasies as of yet. Based on all the republican candidates being watery sacks of crap, if Hillary gets the nomination over Obama I guess I'll vote for her, but her attempt to be more of a centrist candidate bothers the piss out of me. I mean, being concerned with flag burning and violent video games? Talk about lame.

HumanityCritic, how do you feel about banning the N-Word in New York City? Jesse, NM

If people's belief that saying it excessively takes power away from the word, the banning of the ugliest word in the English lexicon gives it power in my honest opinion. It's akin to a five year old cupping their ears, screaming "La-La-La-La-La" when they don't want to hear something that they know will be rather disagreeable. The sad truth about the word is that some people will use it as a term of endearment, some people like myself are trying to stop saying it even though it slips out ever so often, and as much as white people openly wonder "Why can't I say it??" they have to understand they might get kidnapped for doing so.

HumanityCritic.. Regardless how nice I am to my mother-in-law, she has a deep seeded hatred of me for no reason at all. What should I do? Lindsay, Ca

The dreaded mother-in-law, even though I've never been married, I've had to deal with unruly women who were upset at the fact that I filled up all their daughter's three holes like a bowling tournament. Here's the thing, if you did something to make her eternally mad at you then you should deal with the consequences, but if you are an innocent party who's just getting hated on, then I'd suggest doing something about it. Do something really awful so they have a legitimate reason to really hate you, like the time I smashed the car window of a chicks mother who cursed the ground that I walked on. Sure, its a bit much, but at least she now had a rational reason for hating me. Or the time I was so fed up with a woman's contempt and snide remarks, I stared telling her about her daughters sexual habits, a diatribe that ended with me saying that I used her child as a sex toy to the point that she had the ability to impregnate other women with her saliva.

HumanityCritic, should I ask my current girlfriend about her sexual past or just leave it alone? Mark, Va

Leave it alone, hearing tales of all the men who smashed it before you changes your image of her vagina for being a safe haven, a place of serenity and comfort, to a crack-head's mattress that you're forced to sleep on every night. Ignorance is bliss like a motherfucker, because every time I heard about a chicks deviant past I couldn't get that shit out of my head, I would have given my right arm to have my memory erased ala "Men in Black" and shit. Not only that but you start to use that information against her, if she ever feels hesitant about going down on you, or licking your bean-bag, you might yell out "OK, you can fuck a donkey but you can't do the simple tasks that I ask?" Lastly, there was a chick that I dated who informed me that she was on the business end of a three way, of the guy-guy-girl variety, and as much as I tried I couldn't get that image out of my cerebellum. But I'm such a bastard, I couldn't tell if that disgusted me or turned me on..

HumanityCritic, What do you think about people criticizing Oprah about building a school in Africa? Jenn, Mass

My problem with Oprah is the fact that she keeps having Bill O'Reilly on her show, quoting him like he's Edward R. Murrow, even having him on a show discussing child abuse even though he suggested that Shawn Hornbeck liked getting molested because he never attempted to escape. Bill O'Reilly must have damning pictures of Oprah or something, her judgment when it comes to that ass-hat seems so beneath her in my honest opinion. As for people giving her shit about her statement about American teens, she's right on the money, kids in this country are spoiled. Listen, for everyone who bitched and moaned about Oprah's actions, they have to understand that there are plenty of good things that she does here in the good ole U.S of A. Plus, the notion that people can regulate what she does with her hard earned money is as absurd as saying that Lil Wayne is a legitimate lyricist. Oprah is in a lose-lose situation in my opinion, however she decides to dig into her pocketbook and spread humanitarian love, there will always be some motherfucker to take issue with it.

New posts..

The Roots Play the Norva: A Very Sober Concert Review

Thanks a lot, you've ruined that song forever!

A Few Awkward White Chicks that I'm Crushing On

"Conversations with a Conservative Friend": Ann Coulter

Episode #2 of "HumanityCritic: The Relationship Saboteur"

When I first dreamed up these series of posts, breaking down the various ways I passive aggressively got women to break up with me, I thought that it would be both entertaining to me and the reader. I mean, the reader could get more of an insight on yours truly and see why my mother's term of endearment for me the last 10 years has been "asshole", and I could reflect on a time when I wasn't the most upfront person in the world, a time when the old me would have made the new me seem as non threatening and pleasant as Clay Aiken.(without an affinity for cock that is..) But as I began to jot down some random examples on a simple notepad, I started to notice that I was flipping more pages than Mark Foley, before I knew it I had 40 examples of how I had manipulated women in giving me the proverbial boot. I started to feel guilty, which isn't a natural reaction for a guy who tries to penetrate a woman's "back door" during the first sexual encounter, I felt like I should do a John Cusack in "High Fidelity" and reach out to all the countless souls that I've scorned. Naw fuck that, especially since a few of them have kids that look like me, chubby bastards with writing prowess's and shit.

I Implied that I was a homosexual: For a romantic sap like me, who dreams about having spirited pillow talk while tightly embracing your lover the same way any other blue-blooded American male talks about cross-over dribbles and a baseball team pulling off the "double steal", nothing is more distressing than not loving a woman who thinks the world of you. I dated this chick named Sharon who was great on paper, beautiful, caring, she didn't irritate me when she talked, she actually liked having sex with me, I trusted her, and I could totally see her sitting beside me in a rocket rocking chair in 40 years, asking me why I always wanted her to keep her shell-toes Adidas with the phat laces on during sex. But just because something is good on paper, like a basketball team flooded with talented three-point threats, talented centers, and slashing guards who effortless pass balls like two chicks giving a guy a blow job, that doesn't always equate to the team having a winning record. So Sharon, even though she had all the intangibles to make the perfect female, my feelings for her were nowhere near her feelings for me.

As time passed I felt more and more guilty, sure I enjoyed being with her, but something seemed morally wrong about having a woman put so much stock in a douche-bag that will probably die alone amongst a shitload of cats. Refusing to be honest with her and not breaking up with her wasn't taking the moral high ground either, but I was a pussy, and seeing the crushed look on her face as I broke up with her for the silliest of reasons wasn't particularly in my itinerary. So slowly, like an example of bad sitcom writing, I had the brilliant idea to come across as gay, forcing her to reassess her options in future husbands. Of course I couldn't flat out tell her that I was gay, not because it would have exposed my master-plan or anything, but because as a heterosexual man trying to get over any residual homophobia that I might of had, I couldn't particular fix my mouth to flat out say that I was gay.(Even if it was a lie..)

So I did silly shit like I'd make sure she caught me Vogue dancing when she came in from work, I'd buy a shitload of men's fitness magazine and when questioned about it I'd nervously respond "Um.. I want some workout tips, what's gay about that??" even though she never said the word "gay". It got worse, I'd pass up sex and ask why we couldn't just "hold each other all night", I took up knitting for Christs sake, I suddenly became a proponent for gay rights, and every so often I'd cryptically throw "There are deep rooted issues inside me that would rock your feeble mind Sharon!" into random conversations. After "mistakenly" trying on her perfume one too many times, and asking her what size woman's shoe did she think I wore, she told me in what would be the nicest breakup ever, that we should go "our separate ways".

It was stupid, for all I know I could have learned to love her and she could be Mrs. Humanity F Critic right now, instead of a bitter blogger who masturbates like his testicles have an expiration date on them. But most of all I regret doing that because a few of our mutual friends still think that I'm gayer than a tree full of parakeets, which I don't understand , because what gay guy do you is a "Culture Club" fan and likes daytime soap opera's? That's what I thought motherfucker!

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

The Greatest Rapper of All Time.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Hip Hop Heroes

Episode 1:

(A total eclipse slowly casts its shadow across the entire globe)

(The first thing you see are bodega's, people carrying on with their daily activities, rush hour traffic, etc. Even to the untrained eye it's obvious that its New York, or maybe it's just obvious to me since I've fucked more New Yorkers than the Rockefeller laws.)

(The Caption reads: "Somewhere on the planet of Brooklyn")

(The scene starts with a young man rummaging through an office desk)

Mrs. Martin: Christopher, what in god's name are you doing boy?

Christopher Martin:(emerging from the desk) I have to find out what dad was working on before he died.(continuing to rummage) Whatever it was it was important enough to have him killed.

Mrs. Martin: That's exactly why I don't want you getting involved. I already lost a husband, I don't want to lose you too!!

Christoper Martin: Don't worry about me mom, I can take care of myself. Besides, I once produced a "Group Home" album AND a Christina Aguilera record, I'm prepared for anything that comes my way.

Mrs. Martin:(looking nervous, still scared for her son) What if I told you that that wasn't your real father?

Christoper Martin: What?

Mrs. Martin: That's right!! I'm sorry that I never told you this son, but Harvey the milkman is you father. There, I said it!!

Christoper Martin: This is sad, even for you mother.

Mrs. Martin: Think about it for a minute, who taught you how to play catch, who always stopped by when your bike needed to be fixed?

Christoper Martin: Come to think about it, he did give me that sex speech, showed up to all of my school plays, and he always carried a picture of me in his wallet.(standing up, looking his mother dead in her eyes) Mom, is Harvey my father)

Mrs. Martin:(taking a long, exhausted exhale) No son, he wasn't, at the end of the day he was a pedophile who was just "priming your pump" so to speak.

Christopher Martin:(shaking his head) That's pretty shitty mom!

Mrs. Martin: No, it would have been literally "shitty" if I had let him do what he wanted to do to you. Thanks to me, you aren't able to store luggage in your asshole or play the National Anthem out of your asscrack.

Christopher Martin:
Enough! (back to rummaging again) I have to find out the shit that he was working on..

Mrs. Martin: Maybe you want to try that book right there.(pointing)

Christopher Martin:(looking rather bewildered) What book?

Mrs. Martin: Hmm, I don't you, the one that says "Shit I'm working on" on the cover. Jesus Christ man!

Christopher Martin: Oh.(reading through the materials for a great while) It says here that he was looking for "special people", does this have anything to do with his weird affection for mentally challenged porn?

Mrs. Martin: No.

Christopher Martin: Good, because nothing is sexy about a crossed eyed chick getting fucked and screaming, "I love pancakes!! I love pancakes!!" (still reading for a few minutes)

Mrs Martin: Let me just tell you what he was working on, because if I have to sit hear and watch you sound out words as if English was a second language, I think I'd put a shotgun barrel inside my mouth. Listen, your father was working on finding people with exceptional abilities concerning Hip Hop.

Christopher Martin: Really?

Mrs. Martin: Yes "really"! He's been tracking them for a while, there's a graf writer who can paint the future, a female MC with a super strong alter ego that comes out whenever she's asked to sell sex instead of lyricism, a Hip Hop Icon so disillusioned with the art form that he can transport himself to earlier times, there are more examples in that book you're holding. If you read his best-selling book, "Activating the Elements", you'd know all of this by now.

Christoper Martin: (looking down) I know, I was too busy doing beats for Whitney Houston.(looking up at his mother) I know what I must do, finish the job that father started, find all these gifted people so I can help save Hip Hop.

Mrs. Martin: That's what I'm talking about, it's about time you said something wise, I was about to regret that I never let the milkman cum in me.

Christopher: What??

Mrs. Martin: Nothing...

(Next Scene: The first thing you see is pick-up trucks, George Bush bumper stickers, tumble weeds, and not another black person in sight. I don't claim to be an expert, but this seems to be Texas..)

(The Caption reads: "Odessa Texas, where this family sticks out like a crow in a blizzard")

(We see a suburban couple in a heated argument)

Clive Campbell: Susan please, why do we have to go through the same routine every morning?

Susan Campbell: We wouldn't be going through with anything if you just came clean and admitted what you actually do for a living!! I feel like I'm married to Tommy on that "Martin" show, goddammit!!

Clive: If I've told you once I've told you a million times, I give financial advice, you've been to my shop before!

Susan: You are always away "on business", and when you are in town and I visit you at your job you never have any customers, but somehow we live in this nice house(looking around). By the way, who in the fuck takes financial advice from a black man anyways, in Texas of all places, when the credit of black men is usually as bad as a Young Jeezy album?

Clive: That's a stereotype, and you know it!! I'm very good at what I do, thank you.

Susan: Fuck balancing a checkbook, you have a hard time balancing long division, what is it that you do there really? It looks like a front for drug dealers, are you dealing Clive?

Clive: Don't be ridiculous Susan!

Susan: A prostitution ring? Are you a mobster? Are you a serial killer who chops off the bottoms of your female victims, and you take it there so you can have sex with the bottom half without interruption?

Clive: You're being ridiculous!

Susan: OK, I've got it!! For the past 16 years you have traveled the world, investigating superhuman Hip Hop phenomena, showing those gifted individuals how to use their special gifts, destroying the ones who use their powers for evil.

(Clive slowly creeps behind his wife, who is sitting on the couch, while tightly grasping a piece of wire to strangle her with)

Susan: Who knows what you do, you are so secretive it's not that hard to pull crazy scenarios like that out of my ass.

Clive:(quickly stuffing the wire back into his pocket) That's some imagination you have there honey!

(Meanwhile, Hope, Clive's daughter and High school cheerleader, is upstairs talking to her friend Zack on the telephone)

Hope:(talking on the phone while laying between a shitload of Teddy-Bears) Zack, now that you saw it with your own eyes on that videotape you recorded, you can't front on my regenerative powers.

Zack: At first I thought you were a glass licking retard, or that my habit of sniffing glue out of a paper bag was getting the best of me, but when I saw you come back from Horror Core, kids wearing their pants backwards, and the Flintstones rapping, I'm now a true believer.

Hope: You can't forget about Crunk, platinum teeth, Hyphy, or the plethora of southern rappers who would come across better if they flatulated in the studio. I can come back from anything, what do you think this means?

Zack: Who knows, but it explains why you were the only girl who didn't have a temporary limp after I tapped those small intestines during sex.

Hope: Zack, honey, I don't need regenerative powers to know that those other girls were lying, and that you have a toddler sized penis.

(Close Scene)

Until the Next episode...