The other day I was talking to my therapist, yes I have a therapist, the mere fact that my first reaction is to viciously strike someone in the throat after stating the most innocent of Hip Hop preferences - and on top of that, all the in depth conversations that I have with my deceased father during my REM sleep pretty much warrant psychological analysis in my honest opinion. She's been a great help to me, no, she hasn't particularly healed a tortured soul in desperate need of saving - she has just reiterated something that my mother has been saying ever since I licked my entire birthday cake so no other kids could have a slice when I was a toddler - that I get no greater enjoyment than being a complete and utter asshole. Here I was, figuring that the culprit of some of my deplorable actions had to be some sort of mental issue - but what my therapy has taught me is that referring to my hearing impaired neighbor who happens to be a black belt kick boxer as "def-defying feats" has nothing to do with my father telling me that I'd never amount to anything. My penchant for slapping people on the ass during funeral services and saying shit like "Whew!!! Nice Eulogy" and "I really liked the grip you used when you carried that casket" as if they were an athlete who just sunk a last second jump-shot - all of that has nothing to do with me not being hugged enough as a child, and everything to do with me amusing myself with a rather dark sense of humor that would make Stephen King's stomach turn. I mean, my therapist never came out and told me that I was a smoldering piece of shit mind you - but her silence spoke volumes after I asked her, "So basically your prognosis is that I'll be a lifelong scumbag?"
So yesterday, as I sat in her office and wondered why I'm paying good money to be told what variety of asshole I am when I could have went to any ex-girlfriend for that brand of therapy(with the complimentary blow-job of course) - she proceeded to ask me what in my life has significantly changed since graduating from High School. As I seriously pondered her question, aimlessly looking around her office and acknowledging to myself that I had yet to obtain a rather juicy "I found it ironic that my therapist let me fuck her on top of her notes saying I was a sex addict" story - the only thing I could come up with was my ever expanding beer gut, me being secure in the fact that I'm a miserable lay, and a passion for writing that extends past 16 bar rap verses. As she stared at me as if she was waiting for me to stop joking around, I said "I'm serious doc, outside of a few adult responsibilities and acquiring grey pubes that make my private area resemble a cigar in an ashtray - not much has changed since 1991." Here are a few examples that I gave her.
Roadblock erections while dancing: Its one thing to be an undersexed 17 year old who wanted nothing more than to show the world his swinging African medallion while performing a rather aggressive "Running Man" - if some chick was brave enough to get past my flailing arms and decided to get intimate on the dance floor, a virtual baby arm would soon be stabbing her in the ribs.(a woman's rite of passage I feel, right below getting her period) Back then there was no need to mask my erection though, sure a rock-hard object that meant nothing but business being pressed against a woman's butt-cheeks was sort of awkward, I know that - but I never lost any sleep over it, figuring that it was a necessary teenage evil that girls had to deal with when dancing with dudes who could count their sexual conquests on one hand missing three fingers. But now it's just plain creepy, I danced with a woman this past Saturday and it was like I was back in 1991 - minus the cross-colors gear and the ill advised Sistah Souljah album purchase. I wasn't even that attracted to her and it started out with me playfully grinding on her, but apparently my penis takes fire drills as seriously as 4-alarm blazes - each time I accidentally poked her upper thigh and hamstring, I cringed the same way I do whenever a woman comes within a square mile of my asshole or whenever I see a Three-6 Mafia video. She didn't look phased, I'm not shocked by that - but no matter how many times I attempted to indiscreetly "adjust" or think about my dead grandmother, I felt exposed like I was one of those dogs in heat with a bright red cock.
I shower to "De La Soul is dead" every morning: We all know that the "powers that be" over at MTV are full of shit, and if I may continue the fecal matter theme a minute let me just say that legitimate opinions about Hip Hop coming from them is as natural as an oral bowel movement - even knowing all that going in, I was still thoroughly shocked when those deplorable ass-hats left "De La Soul" off of their "Greatest Hip Hop Groups of All time" list. How in the fuck are you going to have UGK on there but no De La? Blasphemy I tell you! But then again I'm biased, I have played "De La Soul is dead" every morning while showering for the past 16 years - so much in fact that I can recite the whole thing back to you, skits and all on some truly "Rain Man" shit. It's one of my favorite albums of all time obviously, and listening to it over 6,000 times has contributed to me calling people "Cock-snot" and "Aresenio-Hall, gum-having punks" whenever the opportunity presents itself. It's also the main reason that I will always have an eternal crush on Ms. Shortie No Mas.(I know that she wasn't on this album, but hopefully one of these random shout-outs will let her know that my marriage proposals are not bullshit)
I still believe that DJ Premiere can save anyones career: Ever since Gangstarr first infiltrated the publics consciousness, whenever some artist had an album with some less than stellar production - my first reaction has always been "They should have gotten Premo to do the beats!!" Similar to the way that Chris Rock's parents felt that Robitussin healed everything from the common cold to bullet wounds, I just happen to believe that Premo is not only the answer to musical questions but he is also the key to unlock several life questions as well. Your last album bricked like Shaq taking three-pointers? Premo. You're a singer who wants to divorce yourself from the current climate of R&B? Premo. Shit, Lil Wayne could finally sound bearable over Premiere tracks, terrorists would give up the location of Osama Bin Laden if you simply played the Premo produced Nas song "New York State of Mind" outside their holding cells for a 48 hour period - nothing re-energizes a couples sex-life like playing Gangstarr's "BYS" right before some hardcore fucking, trust me it works.(Check out J.Pitts "DJ Premier, man of the hour" show)
Some people only respond to violence: When I was a senior year in High School this bully named Reggie would hug up on my girlfriend and tempt me to do something about it - for the longest time I ignored him, basically because I'd figure he'd eventually stop and I didn't want to get kicked off the track team for fighting. Months later, after he was telling people how much of a pussy I was for not doing anything about his unwanted advances against my girl - he finally got the picture when I slammed him up against the trophy case, proceeding to bash him in the face with a 1968 baseball trophy that knocked out a few of his teeth. Miraculously, he never so much as spoke to my girl again - sure it felt good, but it set a bad precedent for me when it came to dealing with situations over the next 16 years. The last thing that I want people who reads my drivel to think is that I walk around randomly assaulting people all day - ever since my best friend was killed in a nightclub three years ago it has made me face my own mortality. See, the night that he was shot in the head three times I was supposed to be right there beside him - so some days I wish that I was there that night to thwart any murder attempts against my friend, and some days I feel fortunate that I wasn't there to meet my untimely demise like he did. For a while it soured me on physical altercations, for a long time after that I felt that life was too short to be fighting some douche-bag over the silliest of reasons - my friend's funeral being a closed casket affair was enough to occasionally get me to turn the other cheek when involved in some ignorant verbal spat. So I'm getting better, slowly - but beating up Lil Wayne fans and black republicans don't count.