Barack Obama: "What's Beef??"(Vibe.com)

One thing I've noticed about myself over the tenure of my existence, outside of the fact that I've historically sought out eyebrow-raising porn titles like "Dyslexic Asian Midgets", and my unsavory penchant for saying insensitive things like "Come on, the N*gga wasn't exactly Malcolm X!" after recently reading an article entitled "The Last Days of Pimp C" - is how I constantly keep a running tab of the disgruntled gentleman hoping to one day snatch me from the mortal coil. I'm a firm believer that life just isn't worth living if your head isn't always on a proverbial swivel, believe me - nothing makes a person feel more alive than anticipating an impromptu physical attack while very innocently going about your day. Since I'm not on the Christmas Card list of people ranging from local sub-par rappers whom I happened to be brutally honest with, husbands of the wives that I've consensually sodomized against my muscle car, and random gentlemen that I sucker-punched for disrespecting the God Rakim - lets just say that I've found the fountain of youth, without wading in the murky "Cocoon" pool water with Wilford Brimley that is.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: "Ain't A Damn Thang Changed" - WC amd the Maad Circle

A couple of years ago, true story, I met a beautiful black woman who just happened to be a republican - dating wise, I'd usually put applications of right-wing vagina owners in the circular file as soon as humanly possible, but there was just something about her that just intrigued me. Simply put, she had a body made for triple penetration pornography - she naturally had a scent that made me think that perfume companies paid her big bucks for her perspiration, thighs that would make me disassociate myself from my closest family members, and breasts so mind altering that I started to see the pure genius in Karl Rove. Sexually we were in tune, so much in fact that musicians could adjust their instruments to our savage fucking - a natural body chemistry between us so intense that if you were to separately give us Rorschach tests, we'd say that every picture look like each other's genitalia. There was one problem, I despised everything that she was about.

As soon as the sex was over, and my penis has a golden glow around it as if it had just defeated "Sho-Nuff" - the conversations would begin, and the longer we talked the more I thought about slitting my wrists with a dull butter-knife. The shit that would come out of this chicks mouth, the main reason why I nicknamed her Linda Blair - everything from denouncing Affirmative Action, waxing poetic about her hero Clarence Thomas, being forced to listen to bloated hand-jobs like Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage - and her constant habit of pointing out what she thought was "reverse racism" had me sometimes thinking that I was on a hidden camera show. Even though I was conflicted, having to juggle my sexual attraction to her with my complete loathing of every syllable that escaped her beautiful mandible - I didn't break up with her immediately because I'm a scumbag, and prime ass for chubby reclusive writers is like Haley's Comet for this pre-ejaculatory motherfucker.

I thought about her when I found this video on youtube, I loved WC back in the day when he was "WC and the Maad Circle" and in "Low Profile" - but I've absolutely loathed everything he's done since then, especially that WestSide Connection drivel. Same with LL Cool J, I hold his early work near and dear to my heart but wouldn't give his most recent recordings to my worst enemies - Ice Cube dropped 2 classic albums that I've listened to every week since they were released commercially, but the Cube of recent years is a stranger to me who I desperately want to throat-punch. It's weird having so much affection for one section of a person's musical catalog and having so much hatred for the rest of it - reminds me of a buxom beauty I once knew with abysmal politics.

Run DMC - Christmas in Hollis

Have a happy and safe holiday!!



(I'm Humanity F Critic, the best blogger breathing - and I endorse this message)

A Brief Glossary of HumanityCritic's Sex Terms

Back in the day, I used to cherish the one week at the end of every summer when my cousins from Hollis Queens would venture to the land of Pat Robertson and PETA to visit their country relatives - even though as adults we have gone our separate ways, only barely keeping contact, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the childhood memories that they were willful participants in. What I loved about them is that they never took it upon themselves to rub my nose in the fact that I was figuratively a million miles away from Hip Hop's epicenter, my cousins were well aware that I would never be an old man who randomly waxed poetic, telling "..and then the DJ plugged his equipment into the light post" stories. So when they told me about LL Cool J playing Atari in their basement, the members of Run DMC walking down their block signing autographs, or seeing the god Rakim spit deadly verses on some miscellaneous street corner - they always did it rather matter-of-factly, an unassuming humility only known by prepubescent cancer patients. Outside of them giving me three tapes for my birthday that would forever ignite the "Hip Hop Snob" inside of me(EPMD's "Strictly Business", Big Daddy Kane's "Long Live the Kane", and Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions.."), they left another impression that still resonates with me today - and it all started with the very innocent sounding word: "Gilsey".

"Gilsey" was a word that they made up, basically meaning "inside joke" - and because my cousins and I already had a million of them, adding it to my already serviceable vocabulary was nothing short of effortless. In the years to come, whenever one of us would randomly belt out "Leave them Drugs alone" in our deepest and most authoritative voice - the other two would laugh like weed addicted schoolgirls because we knew that the other one was mocking MC Lyte at the end of the "Cappuccino" video. If I happened to raise my hand to the sky for an extended amount of time in the most public of places, it would definitely get some chuckles from my cousins - only because they would automatically recognize that I was mocking what Treach questionably did in the "Hip Hop Hooray" video. Sometimes we would get obscure with it, whenever one of our girlfriends left us for another man we would sarcastically yell out "Heeeeeey!!!" - a reference to a movie called "The Getaway"(1994), where a kidnapped man(tied to a chair) struggles to get a peak through a bathroom door to see his wife(Meg Tilly) having sex with the kidnapper(Michael Madsen)- and then proceeds to give that utterly comedic sound of despair.

In more recently years, because of the hermit-like existence in which I live when I'm not ruining my liver and placing my hard earned one dollar bills into the undergarments of women with daddy issues and glitter shards embedded in their respective skin - my "Gilsey's" have become a sad state of affairs, primarily because inside jokes where only one person knows the back-story is as depressing as a Mary J Blige interview. That's why I decided to share some of my gilsey's of a sexual nature with you today - in an age where people aren't sure whether or not some of the sexually deviant acts that have become popular over the past decade(see Blumpy and Dirty Sanchez) are actually practiced or just comic fodder, at least you know that I am practicing what I preach. When you see a young minstrel act like Souljah Boy talking about "Superman dat hoe", you fine people can rest assured - if I decide to degrade a woman, I won't call her out of her name and at least there will be some comedic value to it.


"The "Memento"
Getting back into the dating game after an extensive layoff is tough, especially if your last girlfriend very cavalierly ripped the beating heart out of your chest - actually listening to what someone is saying to me has been a challenge, and being chivalrous makes me feel as awkward as watching two retards fuck. But as I'm transforming into this decent guy, my memory is refusing to partake in this life changing makeover - so during the first few sexual episodes with this particular woman that I was dating, I had to write her name on my wrist so I didn't make any ill advised exclamations during sex.

"The Jacques Cousteau"
Usually I'm a stickler for personal hygiene, the few times that I've encountered a potential lover with "not-so-April-fresh" nether regions - not only did I make it my business to vacate her premises as soon as humanly possible, exiting her zipcode was next on my "to do" list. That being said, recently I met a woman at my local YMCA who I shoot hoops with occasionally - she is beautiful, intelligent, and most off all she never whines about my gender whenever I hack the shit out of her as she's driving to the hoop. I couldn't possibly imagine why she had an interest in me, maybe its the way I drive past 70 year old basketball players and make innocent remarks like "Shouldn't you be somewhere dying Gramps?" - or possibly it was the baby-arm of a boner that poked her hip as she tried to post me up. Who knows? All I know is that I found myself at her apartment, making out with the passion of spanish soap opera stars - to the point in which I felt compelled to ask her, "You want to hop in the shower right?" She didn't, apparently she wanted to consummate our basketball relationship au' naturale - as soon as hairy bushed porn stars of the 70's filled my head she asked, "Do you have a condom?" Of course I had a condom, because I'm the type of asshole who carries stray Trojans in his sweatpants - so within a few moments I said to myself, "Man, I'm actually fucking a point guard!!" But I was doing so while holding my breath, the understandable body odor of the young lady rapidly filled my nostrils - hence "The Jacques Cousteau".

"The Marion Barry"
When I tell people that I've never sexually been with a white woman, first they look at me the way someone would stare at a cloned sheep - then, when they realize that I'm not trying to pull the wool over their eyes(pun intended), they assume that I'm some black militant who masturbates to the teachings of Marcus Garvey while Dead Prez acts as the soundtrack to my "self love". In reality, it just simply has never happened - and anyone who has read my blog for more than a week knows, my undying love for Janeane Garofalo proves that I would cross racial lines faster than you can say "The Truth about Cat's and Dog's" if the right opportunity ever presented itself. But to be blatantly honest with you, the variety of white girl that has made me the object of their affection - well, they either look like they were in a 200 meter radius of a nuclear reactor, or they see it fit to tell me recent "gonorrhea" stories that I never asked them about.(..that happened recently) But one day it's going to happen, far away from the judgemental eyes of black women who were never going to fuck me in the first place - me doing something with naughty with a white girl at some seedy hotel room. When that happens, rest assured - I will call it "The Marion Berry"

"The Bill Belichick"
On top of my overall emotional unavailability when it comes to relationships, some of that happened to spill over into my sex life as well - so recently when I had mentioned that I was planning on building a "glory hole" inside my house to avoid mid-coital eye contact, I was only partially bullshitting. Kevin Smith talks about refusing to take his shirt off whenever he's making love to his wife, I can only hope to one day leave my inhibitions behind like he already has - not only have I been known to fuck with sweatshirts on with the hood up, but I make it my business to utter the raciest pillow talk while sounding as monotone as humanly possible: "Oh baby, that's it - punch me in the back while verbally emasculating me, I cum faster that way!!" Oh yeah, you never know when I'm taping it.

"The Howard Hughes"
Don't worry, I'm not as bad as the man Leonardo DiCaprio portrayed in "The Aviator" - even though some women feel that my tear-away sheets, the same kind you find in doctors offices, is kind of disturbing. My penchant for wearing three condoms, making my penis resemble a balloon animal - probably doesn't help my case, more times than not multiple prophylactics makes a woman feel like the fucking "Outbreak" monkey. Maybe I should wait until the woman leaves my house before nervously scrubbing my genitalia in scolding water, huh?

A few things that I Needlessly obsess over

Outside of me giving women who lack gag reflexes titles of distinction like "Head Doctor" and "Brain Surgeon" respectively, equipped with the bells and whistles that come along with having a graduation ceremony on a makeshift stage - I don't want to give any of my readers the impression that I'm some sort of mental health professional. That being said, I'm scared that habits I once chalked up as being my own quirky idiosyncrasies are starting to become full fledged OCD - the last thing I want to become is a new Millennium Negro version of Howard Hughes, I hardly get dates now, but just imagine how damaging being a recluse would be to my already incomplete social calender. I mean, sure, I have always been in the habit of washing my hands countless times a day - but I always figured that that had to do with my brother being a medical technician, the amount of garden variety germs and miscellaneous "coochie smears" that he'd tell me about would make Stephen King vomit in his own mouth. And yes, on the average I take four showers a day, but I never saw that as being obsessive compulsive - its more of an indictment of how much of a sexual deviant I am, I mean, you never know when you'll have to whip your dick out and get blown by a complete stranger.

But recently my behavior has started to seriously trouble me, outside of telling someone "you don't know shit" a million and one times every whenever I see them just because they very innocently happened to tell me a sub-par rapper that happened to adore - the few times when I'm lucky enough to see a woman naked, after we are laying in post coital bliss I feel obligated to say something purely outrageous just to momentarily perplex them. Random phrases like, "I haven't cum like that since 9/11", "Your vagina is grainier than the Zapruder film", and I unfortunately told a Jamaican woman "I love having sex with you, my cock smells like curry for about a month!"

But then again, yes I have my quirks, but I get the sneaking suspicion that most of my idiosyncrasies are just me being an asshole - but here are some real things that I routinely obsess over.

My Mother's Safety: I'm just going to come out and admit it, I'm a bona fide "Mommas Boy". No, I wouldn't be the variety of mother worshipper who would automatically take her side if I found myself in the middle of an altercation she was having with my future wife - I'm the variety of mother's boy who would gladly take a bullet for the woman who gave birth to me in the summer of 73'. Also, if someone happened to harm a solitary hair on her head - I wouldn't rest until I mercilessly hunted the bastards down, proceeding to make them worm food, and then commemorated their untimely passing each year by pissing on their unmarked grave. That being said, one of the things that I constantly obsess over is my mother's safety - Virginia Beach is hardly Beirut when it comes to the city's crime rate, I'm pretty sure that the people who read this that live in some of the rougher areas around the country would probably leave their doors unlocked if they happened to move here. But as of late, especially in the neighboring city of Norfolk - there has been an outbreak of senseless violence, the perpetrator is usually some kid in his early teens who maliciously dispatched a respected member of the community over 30 bucks. Because of this, I have been scared for my mother, and even though she's out by herself 95% of the time - whenever I see her and she happens to be going somewhere I insist on chauffeuring her to the desired destination.

But instead of being a simple driver to an elderly woman, like a melanin infused version of "Driving Ms. Daisy", I findd myself acting more like her personal secret service detail - angrily telling people to "back the fuck up" if they are walking too close to my mother in a department store. Telling a woman who exhaustively sighed behind my mother as she searched for her credit card, "Don't let an ill advised exhale get your husband fucked up!" But I think my mother reached her boiling point recently, as she stood in line at the local convenience store about to purchase her cigarettes - I could have sworn the kid behind her was reaching for his "piece", so I rushed inside the store and tackled that prepubescent motherfucker like I was Terry the Office Linebacker. He was just reaching for some change.

I might have a lovechild: Back in 2001, when my old man died and my mother was diagnosed with cancer - I lived a lifestyle that suggested that I didn't have any regard for both my penis or my liver. Imagine the Nick Cage movie "Leaving Las Vegas", only with the protagonist being a chubby black guy and with the flick being rated X - there being more alcohol involved of course. During this time I briefly dealt with a woman named Willetta, outside of the fact that we were polar opposites based on her having too many poorly written black movies in her collection - I mistreated her, not in an Ike Turner kind of way but in a "why are we having a serious conversation, I'm only here to fuck" sort of way. Anyway, the relationship was short-lived and when she stopped taking my phone calls a small part of me(not THAT part, believe me) applauded her decision - but I was told, roughly a year later(we shared the same Loctitian) that she had a child. Granted, she had a new boyfriend who was described as "the father" - but the birth of that child always seemed amazingly close to the time that her and I were practicing unprotected sex.

To be totally honest, my math could be completely wrong, and even though I constantly obsess over it - I keep envisioning myself finding the kid, claiming that I'm the father of that fucking crumb-snatcher and looking silly when the tests come back.

HumanityCritic, the God-Father: When my friend Jerry named me the godfather of his first born daughter, Quinn, I was a proud man - I mean, here is a guy bestowing a great honor upon a scumbag like myself when most people with the good sense that god gave them wouldn't trust me to momentarily watch their drink. But no sooner as the baby was baptised, the enormity of the situation crashed down on my shoulders as if I was giving the comedienne Monique a "mustache ride" - if Jerry and his lovely wife somehow met their untimely demise, would they expect me to look after their newly orphaned child? That's why every few months, I have to call and inquire about the couples health status - its not because I don't think that I could successfully raise a child, but if people saw me lugging a young white child around people would think that I kidnapped her ass. I constantly obsess about that as well.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop:Three Times Dope - "Funky Dividends"

Barry Bonds, the perfect Hip Hop Metaphor(Vibe.com)

I sincerely can't explain it, maybe its exposing another one of my character flaws outside of my penchant for kicking women out of my residence the millisecond after I ejaculate - but if my memory serves me correctly, I have always openly rooted for the bad guy. My childhood was spent wondering why none of the residents of Sesame Street ever chin-checked Big Bird on general principle, hoping that Brutus would defeat Popeye at least one time - with a woman who makes Kate Moss look like she has a food addiction being the ultimate prize. Shit, I can't tell you how many times I desperately hoped that the Roadrunner would be too slick for his own good, accidentally blow himself up with one of Wile E. Coyote's dynamite sticks - with the closing scene consisting of the Coyote mercilessly dining on charred bird remains like it was Thanksgiving dinner at a soup kitchen.(Read more here)

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)

Find the original backstory here:

A Tribe Called Quest: "Scenario"(Remix)



Even before my chubby thumb and index fingers formed a misshapened "U" required to pull a record out of a crate, one of many crates that I had just recently become reacquainted with - I was already aware that A Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario" remix was the furthest thing from being a unique choice, I mean, chances are that 90% of the people who read my daily drivel have this tune firmly cemented in their sacred Ipods. But this song is significant in terms of my life, if I ever happen to do something newsworthy like cure a deadly disease or recklessly impregnate a pop princess - I'm sure that the ambitious writer penning my autobiography will name one of the chapters, halfway through the book that is, "Scenario". Let me explain.

To make a long, arduous story somewhat less lengthy, my father and I never had the greatest of relationships - actually, that's putting it rather mildly. I firmly believe that my mothers undying love and support for me is the only thing that could have offset my father's rather passionate "You ain't ever going to be shit" lectures - I sometimes jokingly suggest that my mother is the only reason why I'm not some sort of murderous sociopath, I can't tell you how times I've fought some douche-bag where the confrontation ended with me saying "If it wasn't for my mother, I'd snatch you from the mortal coil sir!!"(only a hack writer like myself could say something so absurd) That being said, when he was first diagnosed with cancer I didn't take out any ill will that I might have had on the old man - besides driving him to some of his doctors appointments, and not addressing the irony of our new-found buddy-status as he told me about all the Japanese vagina he smashed in the early 60's - I also gave him random pep talks whenever the mountain of his diseases seemed insurmountable to him.

Despite all of that, occasionally he would revert into his old self and unleash a verbal barrage upon his youngest son that would have made Antoine Fisher's foster parent come across like Mother Theresa - that probably explains why I was pretty scarce the last couple of weeks of his life. Sure, seeing the usually portly man shriveled up on an uncomfortable hospital bed dying in front of my very eyes wasn't the most pleasant of sights - but to be honest, and even admitting this now makes me feel shame, I really didn't think I could live the rest of my life being the recipient of a death bed "You ain't ever going to be shit" speech. So I stayed away, mostly, taking the cowards way out and visiting him at night simply to appease my mother - and because I knew that he would be knocked out from the heavy doses of morphine and other drugs pumped into his bloodstream throughout the course of a day.

But overcome with guilt one Sunday, realizing that my father's grip on mortality was being mercilessly loosened by the grim raper himself - I prepared myself to gracefully accept whatever he had to say to me, completely open to smiling as if he had always been the poster boy for supportive fathers while clutching the old man's hand and asking god for a miracle. As I entered his hospital room he was already fast asleep, with my mother and about 6 of his good friends laughing about happier times at his bedside as if they were at some sort of social mixer - and of course I joined in, acting the proverbial fool and talking about my love for geriatric vagina and the usage of Ben-Gay as a lubricant was the epitome of escapism from a sobering reality dying a couple of feet away. One by one his visitors made their graceful exits until it was only me and my mother left standing around the man that I was named after, her briefly giving me a welcoming smirk that spoke volumes before leaving the room to smoke a cigarette - so I proceeded to make small talk with my sleeping father that consisted of an apology, sports, and women.

Right as I was trying to figure out whether my father's squeezing of my hand was his intention, or an involuntary muscle flinch - his body temperature started to skyrocket, a fact reinforced to me by annoying buzzing sounds and nurses pushing me out of the way while pouring buckets of ice on my father's body.
Within moments I was getting condolence sentiments from women wearing powder blue scrubs, and hearing my mother yell in an irritating tone "Goddamn you Jim!" - my father was gone. As I was about to console my mother, without missing a beat she asked me "Did you eat anything today? You look hungry, we have a shitload of food at the house!" - man, the strength of that black woman, shit, the historical strength of black women. As I walked to my car I was trying to make sense of me not feeling any sort of overwhelming sadness and if that made me a bad person of not - that's when I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, rain pouring down, and put on a clearchannel radio station like many other's that tries to feel better about themselves by playing an "old school" Hip Hop segment ever so often. That's why the "Scenario" remix means so much to me, as I rapped the words alongside MC Hood and the members of A Tribe Called Quest and Leaders of the New School, I was trying to momentarily escape from a sobering reality that I would have to deal with for years to come - with the tears flowing down my face coming a close second to the immense precipitation I was vehicular-ly faced with. That sobering reality, forever mourning a man that I sincerely feel despised me - and wondering if I should ever have children in fear of cursing my offspring.

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