Thursday, May 31, 2007

A Funny thing happened on the way to the gun-shop..

Not for nothing, but I'm beginning to think that I was a sniper in a past life - lifelong examples of exemplary marksmanship letting me know that I could kill a wack blogger at 200 meters out if I had to. From amazing my father in the sticky Sumter South Carolina heat by me picking off tin cans one by one with his handgun as if I was conceived while my parents watched a Charles Bronson movie marathon mid-coitus, the many shooter-style arcade games that I've been drawn to and tend to excel at over the past two decades - or a few years ago when I went to this mock boot camp where they actually had us shooting real weapons at targets which resulted in the drill sergeant screaming something in my ear like "God-dammit Bob Marley, that's one hell of a shot son!! If you ever decide to cut the hair and put down the wacky tobaccy, you;d be a fine addition to Uncle Sam's Army!" Not only that but I don't particularly have a guilty conscience, sure I'd feel guilt ridden if I ever took someones life accidentally - but I would have no problem whatsoever sending a man on a red-eye flight to hell in the name of self defense, using the pictures that I took at his funeral as my PC's screen-saver. But the only thing stopping me from being a murder-for-hire professional, besides the whole incarceration thing where I might find my prostate being rhythmically pounded like a speed-bag resulting in me later holding the pocket of an ironically named inmate named "Tiny" as a sign of ownership - is the fact that I'd refuse to kill women or children, and the only men I'd kill would have to be the absolute scum of the earth. Plus, I'm extremely lazy man, jobs that are supposed to be a stealth kill where I take the target out from two buildings away would be done up close and personal. Dispatching the target as soon as he opened his hotel room door - only to feast on the gentleman's room service while watching "The View", feet up as that poor bastards blood makes a small lake around his lifeless body.

But hey, that's in a past life - this particular life that I'm leading now, one where fits of rage are the theme of my life to the point that I'm certain chapters of my autobiography would be titled things like "Bar Brawl" and "Malicious Wounding" - I've made it my business to stay as far away as possible from firearms. I always knew that an unregistered weapon and my temper would elevate bar altercations into bar executions, innocent arguments with the man at the cell phone place over a bill discrepancy would turn into me flashing a shiny pistol lodged between my belt and my gut - me saying something like "What were you saying about those roaming charges again?" Fits of road rage where I threaten to pummel a redneck to death would be replaced with me shooting out his tires, and as his car is disabled on the side of the road I'd angrily scream while exposing my handgun, "Cut me off again Jethro, and you won't hear the next one!!"

I have to say, I thought about all of those examples that I just gave you on the way to the gun-shop and as I sat in the parking lot of said establishment - me slowly realizing that I was kidding myself thinking that I was more responsible now that I'm 33, the last thing in the world that I need is a gun in my chubby palms - hands rougher that the Zapruder film from constant masturbation and a shitload of fistfights by the way. Sure I'm not as confrontational as I once was and more times than not cooler heads do prevail as of late, but that has nothing to do with maturity - its akin to that aging basketball player that suddenly depends on fade-away shots to the basket, he'd dunk it on your silly ass if he still had the ability to do so. As I pulled out of the gun-shop parking lot, looking as the sign became less visible in my rear view mirror - I thought about all the lives that were just saved - everyone from Lil Wayne fans, black republicans, cell phone wielding motorists, women who don't reciprocate oral. But most of all I saved my prostate from being beaten on like a pinata in a maximum security institution, having my rectum turned into a very roomy crawlspace isn't exactly my idea of a good time.

C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America

Cowards have the worst poker faces: "A Exclusive"

The other day I found myself on the business end of a very busy grocery-line, hot and bothered by the Virginia humidity and my fellow motorists who seem like they learned how to operate a motor vehicle at the "James Dean School of Driving" - clutching a couple of 40oz's and a few TV dinner's in both of my hands solely because a chick that I'm temporarily renting my penis to insisted that we have something resembling a romantic dinner before I make her perform the most deviant of sex acts. Exhibiting that "thousand yard stare" that keeps my impatience from snapping people's necks due to lengthy waits, in front of me I noticed a father angrily berating his sobbing child. Since I see children as simply a tool to one day fetch me beers during ball games and for me to live vicariously through if I happen to spawn an All-Star athlete, I ignored the mini fracas and told myself that the little bastard probably deserved it anyways. But as I listened closer I realized that the father was calling his child a "sissy" along with other colorfully unflattering feminine slurs based on his fear of heights, apparently the kid refused to help the father do some minor repairs on the family's roof due to his phobia. I knew right then and there that what I was about to do would be included in my highlight reel that I show to St. Peter at the pearly gates.

I inappropriately placed my bottles of malt liquor and inexpensive frozen plates of pasta dishes on the same rack that you get your chewing gum from, knelt down to look the young boy in the eye and said: "There's no shame in being scared of heights, I'm scared of heights - matter of fact I'm also scared of snakes, germs, flying in airplanes, the voice of the dude who hosted "Unsolved Mysteries", and women who have lower back tattoo's aka the "Tramp Stamp". See, I'm scared of a lot more things than you are, and I can beat the living shit out of your old man right there!" Despite the fact that I sort of threatened to pummel the boy's father in the most public of fashions, I guess the young kid appreciated my advice by the way he stopped crying and giggled when I very cavalierly labeled every woman who has ink on the lumbar region of the back as a "whore".

Walking out of the supermarket after purchasing my pre-coital goods, laughing off very pedestrian "you're lucky I'm with my son" exclamations from the man that I had just casually threatened - I suddenly realized that my lack of fear of another person is offset by me being scared of everything else. Also, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be macho when I say I've never been scared to face someone - there are more people out there who can say "I handed HumanityCritic his ass to him" than I'd like to admit to. It's sad, man, I can eloquently tell people how to slip a punch, but I can't seem to stop wearing three condoms to the point that my phallus looks like one of those balloon animals that you make for kids at birthday parties - a ritual that has drastically affected my sex life, by the way. If you want to take someone's knee out, or know about the one punch knock-out, then I'm your man - but if you want to know how to not scream like a toddler with a scraped knee whenever you see a snake, I'm definitely not the guy to go to. Chokeholds that put men to sleep, debilitating kidney and liver shots - I could write "The Idiot's Guide to Finishing Moves" if the price was right. But when it comes to the way that my legs stop functioning at extremely high altitudes, the last thing in the world that I want to do is document that embarrassing phobia.

It's become abundantly clear, in a "My Name is Earl" sort of way, that I have to exorcise my phobia demons by attempting to put my violent history to some good use. This post, entitled "Cowards have the Worst Pokerfaces", basically details the actions of people who don't really want to fight you, but desperately want you to believe that they do - exhibiting the worst pokerfaces imaginable. (A guide that lets all you Gandhi loving bastards out there know that your brand of civil disobedience won't be met with a well placed uppercut.) Shit, if the advice of a chronic pre-ejaculator with anger issues can at least help one person out there, then I've done my job - and hopefully, in a karma sense, I can finally board an airplane without a vodka I.V. flowing through my veins.

Making more scenes than Scorsese: How many times have you seen one of the participants of a heated argument making an ass out of himself - talking loudly, pacing in a circle like a dog chasing his tale, bugging out his eyes like one of those minstrel performers back in the day. Usually, if a person really wants to fight you, they won't feel the need to put on a one-man show, putting you through Brando-esque dramatics as if they were auditioning for the role of a lifetime. Those people don't want any part of you - they just want to scare you out of a fight. So since I'm trying to be responsible here then I suggest that you simply walk away knowing that your mere presence almost had them in desperate need of an adult diaper. But I must say, nothing feels better than grabbing a chair and smashing it over the person's head during their brand of "acting", only to hover over the person's lifeless body while slowly pulling your open hand over your face and calmly saying, "and... scene."

You're lucky my girl is holding me back:
I can't tell you how many times I've heard the "You're lucky that my woman is holding me back" excuse, as if a chick weighing 100 pounds soaking wet could restrain a grown ass man with nothing but the worst intentions on his mind. Take my advice, if you ever see a woman physically stopping a guy from tearing you a new one and that woman isn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer - chances are they don't want any part of you, like a lifelong crackhead that donated his vital organs. Or, if you are an asshole like me, talk enough shit about the girlfriend that she loosens her grip and lets her man defend her honor - usually resulting in the guy still standing there looking as if you just asked him the square root of something.

Mapquest motherfuckers: Rakim said it best: "It ain't where you're from it's where you're at" - a sentiment that goes for mic skills or hand-to-hand combat - but people still want to tell you where they are from before a fight like it's really supposed to mean something. Sometimes people use the broad approach, "I'm from the West Coast!!" Or they might get a little more specific with a "You know who you're messing with, I'm from Michgan baby!!" But my personal favorite is when people tell you exactly where they live as if they were giving you directions to their house party, "I'm from 105th and Maine, you will get your ass kicked up in here!!". Mapquest motherfuckers, the whole lot of them - nothing informs you better that the person has no interest in fighting than when they give you their address, so just leave them to their blatant idiocy with the knowledge that their heart pumps Kool-Aid. But then again, you can do what I do and say, "So what? I'm from Virginia baby, Kempsville to be exact!! Home of Timbaland, Pharrell, Pat Robertson, not to mention that we have some of the best public schools in the country. Get your ass kicked if you want to!! What!! Bring it!!"

Anatomy Of A Knockout Punch!

Thursday, May 24, 2007

HumanityCritic's message to Russell Simmons: "Sit your ass down somewhere!!"(

As a guy who has a rather extensive history when it comes to juggling three or four girlfriends at a time, I'm certain that I'll always have a gig jumping from Ivy League school to Ivy League school acting as that particular school's guest professor - sculpting impressionable minds in a popular course that I plan on naming "Bullshit Artist: 101". Don't worry, I'm no longer the philandering wretch that I was a decade ago - once taking pride in bedding a different woman a night while each one desperately tried to maintain her mid-coital chuckling due to my undersized toddler-penis. Or miscellaneous dalliances who inquired about my whereabouts the night before, thus provoking me to respond with my standard "I was with my other girlfriend!" line - the only time that an absolute truth happened to escape my detestable mandible and she takes it as a joke. But based on my new found germaphobia making it virtually impossible to fuck a woman unless she goes through a plethora of medical tests and a government sponsored background check, and me feeling as if Riot Gear or a space suit is needed for me to get something as innocent as a lap dance or the time honored "back alley hand-job" - suffice it to say, my days of a handful of women calling me their "boyfriend" are over.

Besides, maintaining your bullshit starts to feel like a career - from avoiding being photographed at all costs(The person she shows your picture to at her job, or the chick who sees your silly mug on her mantle could know your other girlfriend for Christs sakes), or making sure that you take each girlfriend to different eating establishments.(Nothing is worse than some asshole waiter blowing your spot, talking about "Its good to see you again!" when that's the first time you took THAT girlfriend there.) Not only that, you have to have intricate back-stories to account for your time - the girlfriend that you only see in the wee hours of the morning knows that you work two jobs during the day, the ones that you see during the day are fully aware of your "night job" and the promising "rap career" that keeps you in the studio most nights. From experience I've found that the best thing to do when dating a few people at a time is to avoid calling out anyone's name, period - stick to the old stand-by's like "Baby", "Nasty Girl", and my personal favorite "Sugar-tits". Most women complain ad naseum about their boyfriends and husbands not listening to them, but take it from a scumbag like myself who a decade ago saw more genitalia in a week than your local GYN does - you have to listen to every word a woman says as if you were working as a "court stenographer", because there is nothing worse than going down memory lane with the wrong person. Basically what I'm saying is, there is a lot of work that goes into maintaining a facade - you almost have to buy into your own bullshit for the shit to even come across somewhat authentic.(Read more here)

Monday, May 21, 2007

The only thing that has kept me from interracial dating, white women..

I love my mother, she's the only person in the world that I would sacrifice my life for - a woman that I love with every inch of my heart to the point that if she was every harmed, I'd make sure that I wiped any evidence that the culprit ever existed as if I somehow altered the space-time continuum.(for my "Back to the Future" peeps) I guess it has something to do with her universal kindness, generosity - we all know a person so pure of heart, that you automatically know that the people who don't like them are the mentally unstable ones of the "smearing their own feces against the wall" variety. She has a love and respect for all people, judging people on the content of their character and not the color of their skin, a woman that doesn't have a hateful bone in her body - even though I get the sneaking suspicion that she would rather me do porn than marry a white girl. It's weird, my sister married a white man, a dude that my mother effortlessly embraced because he is flat out a good man(Despite his hero being Dick Cheney) - his lack of melanin, good credit, and his nauseating love for right wing radio was never a factor when it came to her welcoming him into the family with open arms. But when it comes to me walking down the isle with a woman who has never had the luxury of being asked "Why can't I say the N-Word?", I get the feeling that my mother's "Electric Slide" during the reception wouldn't be as spirited as usual. I mean, she has never flat out told me not to marry a white women - she has never said she'd disown me if I chose to be with someone that made black chicks collectively suck their teeth whenever we walked by. She doesn't have some sort of stone "Black Woman's Ten Commandments" tablet in her living room with #1 being "Thou shalt not marry a pale face!" - with possibly #5 being "Its OK if Thou marries a Latin broad - they're black anyways"

I'm just working on my mother's subtle reactions over the years, like that time in High School when I had this white girl named Kelly come over so we could complete a Spanish project - my mother was very nice to the girl, but after Kelly left she playfully raised one eyebrow and proceeded to call me O.J Simpson for the next two weeks. Then it was that time that we were out having dinner recently, she gave me that "Well, alrighty-then" look when I told the white waitress that she was so fine that I'd gladly take her to Nation of Islam meetings, clutching two pork chop sandwiches, while singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" at the top of my lungs.(Maybe that wasn't about her being white but me being an asshole, I'm sure that me telling the waitress that I'd grant her permission to call me "Mandingo" during sex didn't bode well with my mother either) But I understand where she is coming from, I remember her telling me stories about how prominent black men in the city she grew up in would show off their new white girlfriends - a sign of status supposedly, which is why I'm sure that many women like my mother who are in their 60's feel uneasy when they see a black man with a white woman.

That being said, I love my mother and all, but based on the limited access that I have to free vagina nowadays - my new mantra is the utterly romantic "A hole is a hole!!" I love my black sisters and they are who I've always gravitated to, but I never ruled out anyone based on their race - for all I know my soul-mate is whiter than fresh snow, a woman worth decades of crooked stares and claims that I'm turning my back on my people. But the truth is, unlike 95% of the black dudes in the NBA - I've never been with a white girl despite my cock always being an equal opportunity employer. Sure, I've had my chances, but the white women in question always said or did something to fuck it up for everybody.

Really.. You're wearing that?: I'm paranoid by nature, I tend to think that there are actually people out there plotting on my downfall - from some asshole that I beat senseless in front of his girlfriend once, to a disgruntled blogger upset at the fact that envy has forced him to beat off to my blog on those lonely nights. So you can just imagine my sheer terror when a white woman that I met for lunch, Sandy, walked in the establishment wearing an extremely tight T-shirt with the confederate flag plastered all over it. I just knew it was a hit, a government sent assassin paid to dispatch me from the human coil - there was no other conclusion, what other white women would dare wear a confederate flag T-Shirt while courting a black man? Anyway, after a few awkward moments of ear shattering silence I just blurted out: "What's up with that fucking T-Shirt? I mean, this has to be in the "White girls who fuck black guys" handbook under "What not to do"? Man, I had visions of fucking the shit out of you back at my place and with every thrust saying sexy shit like "This is for Jim Crow!" - "This is for Medgar Evers" - "This is for the last season of "24".. You've really gone and fucked that up!!" She proceeded to tell me that she was just embracing her southern heritage, with every syllable that came out of her mouth the more she sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. That dinner couldn't have ended fast enough, even though a month later I drunk dialed her and said that she could atone for her sins if she gave me an hand-job while reciting the lyrics to Public Enemy's "Fight the Power"

Fuck the Police!: A few years ago I was invited over the house of a woman who was a police dispatcher, which was rather interesting to me because I always wanted to hear some perverse "Help me, I have a cat stuck to my penis!" story. Dinner was great, and based on her showing me a picture of her ex-boyfriend and him looking like Jimmy "JJ" Walker(currently) I felt like an absolute stud. But as we sat and watched one of those reality based police shows, where a particular police officer was tazzering the shit out of an elderly black women - I said, "Jesus Christ, talk about excessive force!" That's when she took exception and said, "You don't know how it is HumanityCritic, as a dispatcher I hear about these type of animals every day. You have to show those people that you mean business!" - as she uttered that sentiment she continued watching that elderly black woman get deep-fried, sensually biting her lip as if she was getting off on it. I was out of there faster than you could dial 911.

Save the lectures, Cosby: When it came to Caucasian women, I've always had crushes on the ones who were secure in their whiteness - I love Janeane Garofalo, Drew Barrymore, women who have never been accused on trying take on a black persona. I've always despised the white girls who try to act black, you know the type - chicks who actually expose how little respect they have for black folks, by them choosing to use improper English and exhibit the sporadic neck-roll. Anyway, against my better judgement I acquired the phone number of a cashier at my local grocery store - a woman that went by the name Ree-Ree.(real name, Rebbecca) She was everything that I usually loathed, a white girl with a horrible "black-scent" as I call it - but her being stacked like a porn star, and the fact that she said I was cute erased all doubts from my mind. The problem arose when we went out a couple of nights later that I was right - immediately she had me considering perpetrating a hate crime. For one thing, having a white woman tell you that you "talk white" makes a brother want to masturbate to "Roots" and shit - not to mention her attempting to give me a brief overview on "The History of Dreadlocks". Jesus Christ.

"At the Movies" with HumanityCritic(

Just because I happen to alphabetize my pornography and know the government names of my favorite adult actresses, that in no way reflects on my knowledge of regular movies - I always tell people that if "Jeopardy" only had Hip Hop and movie questions to offer, I'd win so frequently that Alex Trebek would fully understand that me calling him a "Canuck fuck" was a term of endearment. It's true, I know the sexual strengths and weaknesses of many of my favorite stars of hardcore smut as if I was a deviant version of a talent scout - I can't tell you how many times I've looked at an erotic DVD cover and said things like: "That girl doesn't have a gag reflex!!," "I can't buy this one because she has a trick knee that gives out whenever she gets fucked against a wall," and "I have to buy this one, I saw her please four guys at the same time - neither orifice nor hand went unused!!" But don't let that sway you. Besides sexual gratification following the exchange of American currency and my ritual of ruining my liver most nights - the only time I venture outside of my house is to catch the latest MPAA-certified movie, usually of the Independent variety just so I can feel superior to everyone else on a topic besides Hip Hop. So yeah, I'm addicted to porn, so much in fact that I can't achieve a proper erection unless my lover takes on a suitable stage name and cheap '70s funk music plays in the background - believe it or not, my love for regular flicks is much greater than the variety where a women is getting a fist or a horse penis shoved inside her.

Ever since I was a kid sitting next to my old man as he got some well deserved sleep, one of my favorite things in the world was seeing a movie in the theater - for a chubby kid with a stutter and midget levels of low self-esteem, being engrossed at a gigantic movie screen was the best kind of escapism imaginable. But over the last 30 years, now that my self-esteem is through the roof based on me accepting my inner asshole and my stutter is only noticeable when I'm excited or during ejaculation - I still have the same love of going to the theaters that I always have. The one thing that has changed though, is how I tend to deal with the rude behavior of others at said theater. Back when I was a kid I'd simply ignore it and desperately hope that the unwanted disturbance would stop - now I take a completely different approach.(Read more here)

Stanley Jordan, the most slept on guitarist of all time

Stanley Jordan's version of "Eleanor Rigby"

I've come to believe that the reason I enjoy the game "Guitar Hero" so much, most nights I can be found spinning around and looking at an imaginary camera with a "Glam-rock" influenced pouty-face while playing - its amazingly obvious that I'm just exercising my unfulfilled guitar potential. See, as a kid I idolized Stanley Jordan - an amazing guitarist known for his "tapping" style of play, I was so enamored by the man that I begged my parents to buy me a guitar and pay for some guitar lessons. I proved to be quite the quick study, impressing the flavor-saver of a mustache off of my then guitar teacher - I still have the image of him looking on like a proud parent, as I arrogantly folded my song book to put an exclamation point on the fact that I had already committed half of that pedestrian book to memory. But for some reason, I'm not sure if it was the waning interest in things that kids tend to have, but before long my guitar and amplifier began to collect as much dust as my penis currently has. More than 20 years later, I still have a soft spot in my heart for Mr. Stanley Jordan.

That's probably why I was so outraged when Rolling Stone failed to list him on their 100 Greatest Guitarists of all time list - I know that lists like these are usually compiled by individuals that you wouldn't trust to wash your car, but for some reason I had a higher standard for the good folks over at Rolling Stone. I mean, look at the list for Christs sake - its not beyond comprehension to say that Jordan can obliterate the likes of Joni Mitchell(#72), and say Dave Davies of the Kinks (#88)(Respectively) Come on Rolling Stone, wack ass reality shows on MTV featuring horrible writers aside, give Stanly Jordan his due.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: KRS-One & Marley Marl - "Hip-Hop Lives"

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

HumanityCritic's Message to Hip Hop: "For the Love of God, Stop Going on FOX News!"(

"A wise man told me don't argue with fools
Cause people from a distance can't tell who is who
- Jay-Z, "Takeover"

Ever so often, whether it's from a friend who doesn't know me at all and mistakenly thinks I'd be in the least bit interested, or some Hip Hop blog that I happen to peruse when I'm not beating my dick like it had an expiration date on it to some deviant form of online pornography - I always learn about some rapper or Hip Hop journalist that decided to express themselves in the house that Rupert Murdock built. Usually these clips are prefaced with sentiments like "MC so-and so really owned Neil Cavuto" or "That Hip-Hop-Journalist-Guy really gave it to O'Reilly!" - and even though I know that the chances that I'll be satisfied with the outcome is usually slim, like getting a blow-job from an epileptic chick with braces, I still play the video clips in hopes that an intelligent representative of my culture gets in that ass like an overeager doctor during a prostate exam. Unfortunately, like that one black person with only three words in their vocabulary that your local news decides to interview at the scene of a crime, the person in said clip usually embarrasses themselves - not because the interviewer dazzled them with their hard-hitting questions, but because they were drooling idiots before they even walked into the FOX News Studios. (See: Dame Dash and Cam'ron)(Read more here)

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

If any of you have weak constitutions, what I'm about to express to you might indeed make you sick to your stomach and curse this very blog more than many sub par wordsmiths do - but any sort of release that I feel, activities that I deem to be cathartic, I usually equate to taking a very healthy bowel movement. When some journalist emailed me a few weeks ago and asked me about my writing process, I thought about how good it felt to release the cluster-fuck happening in my brain to post form and simply told the nice young lady that "My blog is the on-line incarnation of me taking a very busy shit!". Recently, when a chick that I had blessed with my rather unimpressive penis asked me how the sex was as she gazed at me in her post coital glow - I lovingly looked her in the eyes, gently caressed her face and said, "It was good baby, like one of those post "All you can eat buffet" shits!!" I guess that's why I enjoy being an asshole as frequently as possible, it's a release of sorts - don't look at it as me being a detestable bastard, look at it more as me saving people's lives. I mean, just imagine all the carnage that would have been left in my wake if I had kept all that rage suppressed inside of me - calling a black republican a "dirty cocksucker" would be elevated to a well placed punch in the throat, passive aggressively looking at my watch while ejaculating would be replaced with me turning my bed into a god damned ejector seat for women who didn't get the "get your ass out" hint. I'm the usually the last person on the face of the earth who should be giving anyone advice -but take my advice, be an asshole - you might save a person's life.

Sal's Pizzeria: For the past few months, whether or not I'm going to the supermarket or this "massage therapist" named Rose with one hell of "grip" - I made it my business to always look towards the new restaurant in my area named "Sal's Pizzeria" and simply chuckle to myself. I mean, I'm sure that the owner of that fine establishment is probably named Sal - but they had to be movie buff's, knowing that their pizza place bares the same name as the one in the classic Spike Lee movie "Do the Right Thing". So last week, just knowing that the staff there would get a kick out of my sense of humor - I started reciting the same lines that "Buggin Out"(Giancarlo Esposito's character) did in "Do the Right Thing" immediately after I ordered my pizza. As soon as I paid for my pie that they started making by hand, I looked around like I couldn't believe my eyes and angrily asked the nice woman behind the register, "Hey, Sal, how come they ain't no brothas on the wall?!!" The lady looked at me like I had just relieved myself in the middle of her recently mopped floor and said, "Excuse me?", so I repeated my early question: "Hey, Sal, how come they ain't no brothas on the wall?" Besides the fact the walls were bare, not only didn't they have any African Americans on the wall but they were also devoid of any Italian Americans as well - she politely smiled and slowly put her hand on the phone in case she had to call the authorities. Then I said, "Relax, you've never seen "Do the Right Thing"? - This is "Sal's Pizzeria" for Christs sake!" She then informed me that her name was "Sally", that she had never seen the movie, and that she was seconds away from pulling her 22. caliber handgun out on me if I continued to be this generation's Brando. Granted, I was glad that I didn't get shot - but after I got my pizza and headed for the door I turned around, slammed my hand on her counter-top and screamed: "Yo, Sal, we're gonna boycott your fat pasta ass!!!"

An Ex with a memory lapse: The other night, as I was imbibing alcohol like a madman while text messaging women that I know with romantic "Is it alright if I make love to your tonsils" request - I noticed a woman at the bar that I once had "relations" with. I'm an asshole, but she was sitting with her boyfriend and I had no plans on speaking to her - that was until she gave me a rather long look and said, "I think I know you from somewhere!!" She knew who the fuck I was, I have trouble remembering women's names during sex and I at least knew that she was one of the many women that I scrubbed my penis because of in the sink after sex - she was just trying to play me for a sucker, possibly a retaliatory measure based on something that I had done to her. So, because she was sitting with a gentleman who could have possibly been her boyfriend - I politely said, "I think we dated once." Like a devout Christian being told that the bible is horseshit, she shook her head vigorously and stated, "No. No way, we never dated!", and turned her back to me like I had just insulted her. That's when I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "You're right, we never dated, we fucked! Matter of fact, remember how you would let me place an ashtray on your back while you went down on me?" She's looked at her male companion, shook her head and said "That never happened!" That's when I continued, "How about after I climaxed, and you would rub the substance all over your body and start singing a very spirited version of Vanity's "Pretty Mess". Remember that?" She then yelled, "I don't even know you!!", so when I said "Remember how you used to always have a straw handy, so when I came you'd always..." - that's when she said, "OK, God-dammit, we dated!!!"

Showing my computer guy that I can be racist too: If I ever started my version of the "A-Team", soldiers of fortune who clean up Hip Hop whether it be dispatching men with sub par lyrics or publicly beating the brakes off of a rapper who deserves it - not only couldn't I be B.A because he had the I.Q of a bowel movement, but I also couldn't be the Tech guy in that equation either. I can write you one snazzy paragraph, and download deviant amounts of porn that will surely keep me out of politics forever - but when it comes to computer knowledge, I sometimes feel as clueless as Lil Wayne at a Rock Steady celebration. So the past couple of weeks, because of my machine being broken like vagina's after donkey shows - I've spent so much time with my computer guy recently that I'm about to lobby my local representatives about allowing "civil unions" and shit. I guess the problem with getting to know a person better, is that they think that they can get away with shit when they can't. For example, for the sake of my computer - I let him slide when he suggested that black folks have inferior computer knowledge, when he sarcastically called me "homey" ad nauseum, but as he suggested that me paying him would put a damper on my "Cadillac payments" - I unleashed a barrage on him that virtually rendered him speechless. From that point on I kept referring to him as "Sukiyaki hot"(A Last Dragon reference), I actually made my check out to "Long Duck Dong" - and his wife and her friends that were hanging out in his living room, I referred to them as "The Joy Luck Club"

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

The "Stop Snitching Movement" is a diversionary tactic for closeted homosexuals(

Growing up in the '80s, years before I knew that Barbara Streisand was a gay icon and to stay out of drinking establishments with multi-colored flags posted in the front window - I knew back then that the adult HumanityCritic would always be accepting of other peoples' lifestyles. No, it wasn't because I had a penchant for wearing my mother's high heels while gazing at a poster of Jermaine Stewart on my bedroom wall. I never sang "It's Raining Men" in subdued tones while taking my nightly shower. I never had any inappropriate erections during one of those "turn your head and cough for me" sports physicals back in the day. I guess I always knew that I'd grow up to be a tolerant adult based on the virus of intolerance around me that my body openly rejected like an immune system. It's weird - I feel as if I've intellectually regressed since adolescence, because I clearly remember feeling that my father's constant "Stop crying! What, are you a queer?" sentiments and my football coach's "Stop hitting like a damned faggot!" commands were simply microcosms of male insecurity. Not only that, but I had a Nostradamus-like gift for pointing out who I thought were homosexuals - the severely closeted variety, giving themselves away by their horrible re-enactments of how they thought a real man should act.(Read more here)

Monday, May 07, 2007

HumanityCritic: Resuscitating Hip Hop, one old school slang term at a time.

My closest friends, the ones who witness my elitist Hip Hop rants up close and personal where I talk about the year 1989 as if it was the year Christ was born and have watched me burn paper mache versions of Lil Wayne and Cam'ron in effigy while dancing around the flames with a copy of "Paid in Full" sandwiched in my tight embrace - openly refer to me as "The Hip Hop Uncle Rico" based on the famous "Napoleon Dynamite" character. For the two or so people out there without indoor plumbing who haven't seen the movie, Uncle Rico is Napoleon Dynamite's uncle who seems to be literally stuck in the early 80's - exhibiting a flare for style that screams "video killed the radio star" and constant ramblings about his High School football career that he can't stop referring to every fourth conversation. As unsympathetic as that character is, I'm the Hip Hop version - I constantly find myself looking off into space as I recall my Emcee-ing days when telling people that you rhymed actually meant something, occasionally questioning people's intelligent quotient by asking if their parents were siblings whenever they tell me that they are a fan of someone I find vomit inducing. The icing of the cake was last year when I went with a friend to one of those radio sponsored concerts where a million and one acts play(it was free)- when we were backstage(she's a reporter) and an act that I loathe extended his hand to me, I crossed my arms, shook my head in disapproval, and turned my back on that miserable bastard on some truly Miles Davis shit.

Yes, I'm a dickhead, but embrace your inner asshole I always say. Hip Hop needs a dose of tough love from people who adore the artform so we can bring it back to the level of prominence and artistry that it was once at.(Read more here)

Saturday, May 05, 2007

R&B has killed more black men than Hip Hop

Growing up as the youngest child really has turned me into a rather defensive adult - I always make it my business to get my voice heard regardless of the situation or decorum required, probably a reaction to all those years I was drowned out by my older siblings and my parents. Also, I've found myself to have the guiltiest of complexes whenever some sort of mayhem ensues - because as many adults who were once younger children know, if something wound up broken, missing, or on fire - people immediately assumed that you were the probable culprit. I've never been a thief but if a friend of mine happened to lose his wallet, I automatically throw up my hands and say "Hey man, I Ain't got it" - a reflexive response like the muscle memory a boxer displays, automatically knowing to throw that left jab or overhand right whenever his opponent misses with a wild right hook. Whenever a woman that I dated uttered the dreaded words, "HumanityCritic, we really have to talk!!" I immediately felt as if that statement was definitely a precursor to her ripping the beating heart out of my chest - usually I was wrong though, afterwords you could usually find me inappropriately thanking the man who died for our sins that my girlfriend didn't find out about that time I sodomized her sister on New Years Eve.

I think that Hip Hop is a victim of the "Youngest Child Syndrome" as well, inappropriately blamed for everything from increased crime rates, natural disasters, and the reason why this season of "Lost" sucks complete ass. No, its too difficult to look at our shabby educational system where the teachers are underpaid and our kids are graduating High School being functional illiterates - its much easier to point the blame at a few shucking and jiving ass platinum teeth having rappers, who butcher the English language and wouldn't know good poetry if a resurrected Langston Hughes mercilessly butt-fucked them in the middle of library that only carried books filled with iambic pentameter. No, it's too difficult to look at the centuries that our black women have been degraded historically, throughout the existence of television and film, and have been treated as sexual objects from music genre's ranging from blues to polka(OK, maybe not polka) - its much easier to point the blame at Hip Hop, men with the I.Q's of a busy bowel movements calling women "bitches" and "hoes" simply because they are fully aware of one haunting reality - that any vagina owner with an ounce of sense wouldn't come within a square mile of their cock if they didn't have a cliched video playing on MTV and a popular sub-par single on the radio airwaves.

Remember the good old days when some bottom feeder would murder a cop somewhere, or decapitate an arch rival and talk to the head for weeks on end as if he was Tom Hanks in "Castaway" and shit - whenever these ass-hats found themselves in front of a judge, their incompetent public defender would brilliantly blame their behavior on some random Hip Hop album that they had recently purchased? At least there was some comedic value in that nonsense, but nowadays its not so funny - it seems that every kid that gets sucker punched, jumped, or riddled with bullets until they resemble negro Swiss cheese, is blamed on the art-form that was birthed in the Bronx. The students and teachers who lost their lives at Virginia Tech at the hands of that fucking bad writing psycho is a truly sad story, and my prayers go out to the families and loved ones of the victims - but the only thing I could think of, before the identify of the shooter was released that is, was "Please, for Christs sake, don't be a brother!!" It wasn't only because I didn't want to see "one of my own" be responsible for such carnage, it also had to do with me not wanting to be subjected to another silly Oprah-esque town-hall forum, one in which clowns like Stanley Crouch blame two turntables and a microphone for 30 dead bodies.

My thing is, if you want to blame a musical genre for random acts of violence where the end result ranges from swollen eye sockets to autopsy's - you don't have to look any further than Rhythm and Blues. Granted, I feel that most people in this world are blistering idiots - but a part of me feels that the average Hip Hop listener knows that the violent tales oozing out of the mandibles of their favorite rappers is utter horseshit. Gun battles from the likes of Jim Jones is nothing short of laughable based him being soft as a wet pamper, I love M.O.P but I'm certain that the only way that they've ever caught a body was if they happened to be a male cheerleader back in high school - anyone with the ability to breath on their own and finish complete sentences pretty much knows this.

But when it comes to R&B, tales of men attempting to romance women that they know are in committed relationships - that's the type of shit that have sent men the world over to their early demise. Imagine all the premature eternal dirt-naps grown men have taken based on the advice of some jackass R&B singer, taking his words to heart as he spits game to a women while she is with her loving husband - a move possibly leaving the impressionable young man on the business end of a beating, where the married man does that Bruce Lee-style finishing move where he grinds his foot on his defeated opponent. In R Kelly's song "Flirt" he says, "And when shes wit her man lookin at me damn right Ima flirt/ So homie don't bring your girl to me to meet cause Ima flirt" I wish that motherfucker would flirt with my girl with me in attendance, I'd beat him so bad lookers-on would think that he was a negro pinata - anxiously waiting to see if objects like Barbie Dolls and "My first Oven" come flying out of his pedophile ass. Tales of an ex-boyfriend rekindling his long lost love sounds nice on your IPOD, but in real life that long lost love currently has a boyfriend - romantic intentions being met with a barrage of body blows, and the current boyfriend sporadically changing gears from "Drive" to "Reverse" while flattening that motherfucker like a pancake with his automobile. Hip Hop won't get you killed, R&B will.

Come to think about it, some Hip Hop will get your ass killed as well - I just remembered that Positive K "I Got a Man" bullshit.

Friday, May 04, 2007

What the world needs is a good old fashioned Protest Song(

Circa 1989, when Chuck D's and KRS-One's words awakened a sleeping revolutionary inside of me that I didn't even know had existed until then - I just envisioned that the future HumanityCritic would be fighting the good fight, against injustice, black republicans, and especially "The Man". At the time my demeanor was that of a new school version of Michael from "Good Times", minus the penchant for cock and the complimentary "reach around" mind you. I was involved in as many socially conscious endeavors as humanly possible then, every T-shirt that I owned had something to do with Black Pride, I had a vast array of African pendants and medallions that I'd sporadically wear on my daily travels, and even though I've been what you'd call a "white girl magnet" for the tenure of my lifetime - my new found pride in my race had me resisting any vagina owner who could easily get a comb through her pre-permed hair. Even though people currently see me as a hothead, a dude whose not afraid to tell someone off, force a clergy member to call him a "dirty cocksucker" during a friendly pick-up basketball game, a man that will knock out an elderly gentleman - heart condition or not. But those are just actions of the lunatic that I've become based on my father issues and not being able to find a woman who would let me eat hot mac and cheese of her gelatin backside, what I did in my mid-teens was the epitome of bravery in my eyes - not letting my history teacher get away with calling Muhammad Ali a "coward", expressing how I thought what he did took bravery, then breaking down all of the possible future leaders who got out of Vietnam based on who their parents were.(How prophetic was that?) Even though the first Gulf War was nowhere near the cluster-fuck that our current war is, me and some of my Hippy white friends held protest signs on one of our busiest streets - while we were pelted with soda cans, threats, and epithets that made me feel as if I was at a script reading of "Mississippi Burning".

Unfortunately, that sort of passion for change has been replaced with a passion to bitch and moan about the current state of Hip Hop, and also a deep rooted love for low self-esteem having women who are talented enough to pick up one dollar bills with their glittery buttocks. The Black Power T-Shirts that I once wore with pride still fit me in that "I think I can see your heartbeat" sort of way, the African Medallions are still around for nostalgia purposes like one of my old sports trophies or that used condom from that time I fucked one of MC Hammer's back-up dancers - and even though I have yet to bed a white woman, my lack of sexual activity over the past year has broadened my scope to the point that my new mantra is the utterly romantic "a hole is a hole". But don't get me wrong, I'm trying to be humorous but at the same time I'm disappointed with my inactivity, both sexually and civically.(Read more here)

Classic Michael Moore