Saturday, April 28, 2007

"Making of the Ban": Rappers will still find ways to disrespect women(

The other night, for the first time since the Clinton impeachment hearings, I had a bona fide date that didn't require a financial transaction. Granted, the sex not being a usual guaranteed occurrence kind of sucked, but having someone that actually liked me for me made a brother feel like less of a scumbag for once - there's something special about a chick hanging on your every word, instead of her having that ever so loving "I'm only listening to this chubby bastard talk about Hip Hop all night long because he's paying" look in her eyes. We did what any single 30-somethings would do, we had a great dinner even after I blurted out a turrets-like "If you order from the right side of the menu, baby we're fucking!!", we talked about the charred remains and dismembered bodies that made up our past relationships - she was so cool and old school, she didn't even throw a drink in my face when I said that preceding our first sexual experience I wanted Heavy D's "Mr Big Stuff" to play in the background while I walk in the room grabbing my cock while swaying back and forth to the beat. When we got back to my crib I didn't even think about making a move, sure I had the utmost respect for this woman, but it had more to do with the fact that saying amateurish shit like "I want to make love to your throat!" wouldn't go over so well - besides, her shirt was kind of a silky material, if any miscellaneous ejaculate landed on that I'm sure she'd have her hand out like a Maitre d'. So any act of kindness on my part that night was simply thought of as a booty investment, coming off as the gracious host with a heart of gold I knew would pay off at some point - whenever she decided to 'deposit" that ass on to me, to continue with the banking metaphor a bit further.(Read more here)

Friday, April 27, 2007

Thinking too much can turn you into Howard Hughes

About a year ago, after I had detailed my idiosyncratic obsessive compulsive routine in post form, a friendly commentor replied "You better watch that, because before you know it your ass will wind up like Howard Hughes!" At first I thought nothing of it, feeling that I was secure in the fact that my ADD wouldn't get beyond my 5 daily showers, or my restaurant hand cleansing ritual where I make sure that my bare hand never comes in contact with any door handles or levers - only repeating said painstaking process if I happen to see someone that I know and proceed to shake their hand. But as time passed, the brief warning from one of my readers started to eat at me like a cancer, and in the subsequent days I started to really examine my behavior and the hypocrisy of it all. I mean, I'm so germaphobic that I've been known to throw on two condoms before sex, and if that act didn't make those women think that their vagina's were the equivalent to that "Outbreak" monkey - I'm sure that me dashing to the sink after the sex was over and scrubbing my genitalia as if it was a guaranteed winning scratch-off ticket did. I've worn surgical masks around co-workers who felt under the weather, I've quarantined women that I've lived with while they were sick - not allowing them to touch me with their bare hands, insisting that they use plastic forks and shit - I even remember one pitiful incident where I was so horny that I made my mate beat me off while wearing a rubber glove.(That was kind of hot now that I think about it) But the hypocrisy of it all is the fact that I'm a guy who has always loved to fight, just imagining all the diseases that I could have inadvertently come in contact with via some jackasses open bruise that I caused completely spits in the face of the germaphobic life in which I lived. So when I started to really dissect my own brand of bullshit I became a more relaxed person, I stopped rushing to the hospital for every sniffle, cough, and ill colored bowel movement. Even though I get a tested for H.I V every 6 months - I stop assuming that I have it right after I penetrate a woman whose vagina feels like a two-vehicle garage to my compact car. I forgot who made that particular comment last year, but I have to thank him or her, because the time I used to spend washing my hands is now used for something more productive - downloading Asian porn, where the ladies have bodies that suggest that they spend their free time burning PETA leaflets. The time that I spent trying to put as many condoms on my cock as possible, making my phallus look like the top half of an exclamation point in balloon form - is now used coming up with a better, more subtle way of informing a chick that she has to get the fuck out.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you can't let shit consume you, because if you think about shit too long your ass will certainly be on some Howard Hughes shit. Here are a few examples of things that you can't worry too much about because if you do you'll never leave your fucking house.(Or possibly find yourself in a padded room somewhere.)

Making new friends: There are so many parallels when it comes to friendships and intimate relationships its startling - I'm sure we all have that friend who has been with the same woman for the past decade, despite the fact that her attitude suggests that she was potty trained at gun point and she sort of resembles "Grimace" on her best days. I'm also sure that many of us have that friend who has owed you 100 bucks since the last Heavy D album, acts like a horses ass whenever he's had too much to drink - and when you smoke with him he ruins your high and embarrasses you by saying silly shit like how he's collected every one of his farts in a glass jar since 97' and that Rosie O'Donnell's lesbianism is "all an act". In both cases the person isn't kept around because they are particularly great people, or they have something beneficial to offer, but simply because you know exactly what you're getting with each scenario. The scary thing about making new friends, similar to the dating world somewhat, is having to break all ties with a person when you find out something rather shitty with them. That motherfucker thinks Lil Wayne is a great lyricist - I can't hang with him any more, he has a history of fucking his friends' girlfriends - there's only room for one dude around here who has a penchant for fucking chicks while staring at pictures of the lovely couple on her headboard, plus he might try to have sex with my girl one day. You know what, I still think too much in this category - I still can't hang with anyone who I haven't known since phat laces and bomber jackets were fashionable.

Fast Food Restaurants: Just think about it for a minute, all of the disheveled looking people you've seen working at your local fast food restaurants - I'd bet you dollars to donuts that you wouldn't trust any of those individuals to do the most menial of tasks like delivering your morning paper. Come to think of it, the people that I've seen manning "the fries", the chick flipping burgers who looks like she was raised next to Chernobyl, and the cashier chick with a face that makes me want to ask her if she has seen the Arch of the Covenant - a sentiment that I quickly forget about as she is adding on her fingers like a retarded 3rd grader in math class before handing me my change. These are the people that we trust to handle our food, a slew of our future leaders that I wouldn't trust to pop a pimple on my back for fear of me catching something from them - somehow we casually pay for our grub, knowingly chowing down on unhealthy food - not thinking about the dude who handled it who failed to wash his hands after an extremely busy bowel movement moments earlier. Thank god that I stopped thinking too much, because a brother has to find some reason to visit this fine Latina broad with breasts so massive that I want her to meet "Brumsky".(Brumsky: Putting your face between a woman's breasts, and shaking your head back and forth vigorously while making a "Brumsky" sound)

Sex: When you are quickly approaching your mid-30's like I currently am, I would have a better chance getting blown by Da Brat then finding a woman around my age who who happened to be a virgin. So knowing that the women that I'm sexually involved with have probably been around the block more than my local mailman, excessive thought concerning her sexual past could have a brother becoming a monk and dedicating my life to chastity. For a minute, think about all the scumbags that have conquered that "land" before you - a rat pack of tyrants that consist of wanna-be rappers, "just add water" thugs, that nerd at her old job that she gave a "mercy blow" to at her a Christmas party, not to mention the three girls clitoris' she was intimate with when she thought she was a lesbian during her collegiate years. That's why whenever a chick asks me how many women I've been with, I always say: "I'm not going there, because if I answer then I'll have to ask you how many men you've been with. If the answer is a bit too high for my tastes, our sexual experiences from now on will consist of me holding rosary beads in each hand as I fuck you with a noticeable frown on my face."

Simple health check-ups: I view simple health check-ups the same way I viewed my old man's auto repair shop, let me explain. See, my father was the best mechanic that I've ever seen, a true tribute to the craft that could tell you what was wrong with your car by simply listening to it run for a few moments - a sort of automotive "Horse Whisperer" if that makes any sense to you. The issue that I had, especially when I was a teenager and didn't want anything slowing me down from chasing ass, was the way I'd go to his shop for a simple oil change and I'd find myself staying 4 hours longer than I expected. It happened like clockwork, right when I was about to pull out of his shop's driveway that was made of dirt and rocks, he'd always say "Wait a minute, whats that ticking sound? Do you hear that sucking sound, I bet a hose is off or something!" The next thing I knew my old man was tinkering with my car with a sort of child-like wonderment, which was great for my car but it was seriously cutting into my ass-reaming time. I feel the same way about simple check-ups, nothing is worse than going there for a clean bill of health and having the doctor voice some sort of concern. Case in point, a few months ago I had some blood tests that worried my doctor, he said that he wanted to run some more tests because of a liver issue that he though I might have. I was scared shitless, I spent the better part of the next week or so drinking nothing but water(like it mattered at that point), having a hard time sleeping as all my drunken nights replayed in my head like slaughtered Vietcong to a war veteran - I just knew that it had to be bad.

Wouldn't you know it, apparently he had misread some test, and my liver was surprisingly as healthy as ever. After threatening to kill the good doctor in the nicest way imaginable, I celebrated by getting shitfaced drunk.

Keith Olbermann bitchslaps Rudy Giuliani

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

My Mother and I discuss a few songs on my IPOD

Usually I'm one of those conspiracy theory guys, I believe there was a second shooter on the grassy knoll, get enough drinks in my system and I'll wax poetic about how the moon landing was taped in an elaborate movie studio somewhere - but I wish that I could sit here and tell you that the emotion of love was nothing but a myth, a propaganda tool invented so hard working people could spend their proverbial phat cash on Valentines Day gifts and other meaningless sentimental trinkets. I mean, I'd like to tell you that I've been in love before, that there were a few women out there that altered my heart rate without the need of street grade stimulants - but the more I think about my sordid history of relationships it becomes crystal clear that what I thought was love was nothing more than accelerated lust in disguise. Any thoughts that I had about throwing the men they left me for in the ocean with cinder-blocks tied to their lifeless bodies had less to do with me being hurt, and more to do with them taking away my daily dose of prescribed practice vagina. Like those people who know there's a heaven because of that white light they saw when they were momentarily clinically dead on some random operating table, I know that love exists because of my mother's blind devotion to her baby boy. Through break-ups, legal trouble, a brief penchant for alcohol and destruction that would have made Nicolas Cage's character in "Leaving Las Vegas" sit me down for a heartfelt intervention - my mother treated each incident as pedestrian in nature, and let it be known that her faith in me had never wavered.

I know you can't tell by reading this potty mouthed blog sometimes, but my mother is the reason that I have such an deep love and admiration for women. She's also behind the fact that I will never marry a white woman, or perform in pornographic movies - while she's on this earth that is. For all the love she's showed me, the life tools that she instilled in me to navigate the turbulent waters of life in my dread-locked life-raft, how do I repay her? I subject her to some random songs on my IPOD, and force her to talk about them.

Big Daddy Kane: "Set it off"

(song starts)

Mom: This is Big Daddy Kane isn't it?

HumanityCritic:(shaking head in disbelief) Yes.. I swear, you have more knowledge about Hip Hop than 80% of the blistering incompetents that call themselves "journalists"

Mom: I used to give you shit about the Hip Hop that you listened to as a kid, but it doesn't take a historian on the genre to recognize that tunes like this came from a "Golden Age" of sorts. Why does Biz Markie come to mind when I think about Big Daddy Kane?

HumanityCritic: ..they were in the same crew, and I think that Kane wrote damn near all of Biz Markie's hits on his first album.

Mom: I read your post about Stanley Crouch, that man is terribly difficult to look at.

HumanityCritic: I wasn't going to say it, but I agree. I get the sinking suspicion that if you looked at Chewbacca's shaved nut-sack, you'd think that you were looking at Stanley Crouch.

Mom: Okay, that's enough - Play the next song.

Amy Winehouse: "Addicted"

(song starts)

Mom: Hey, isn't this that British chick? Um..

HumanityCritic: Amy Winehouse..

Mom: Yeah! I'm always kind of suspicious whenever a white soul singer is pushed on the public so aggressively, not because of the color of her skin - but because they always make them seem like a "great white hope". That being said, I like some of the stuff I've heard from her. (Listening to the lyrics) Is this song about someone smoking up all her drugs?

HumanityCritic: Yes..

Mom: You fucking burn-out, I wonder how many songs on your IPOD are dedicated to some form of mind-altering substances.

HumanityCritic: No comment.

Mom: Remember that time when you were in High School and smoked some bad weed, you came to me clutching your chest saying "Mama! Mama!, I'm having a heart attack!"(laughs)

HumanityCritic: That's not funny, I thought I was dying..

Mom: You just can't handle your smoke, I was going to buy you a pair of panties for that memorable occasion but your father talked me out of it. By the way, Amy Winehouse looks like a pre-op transvestite.

HumanityCritic: Jesus, you are on a roll today.. I'm going to play the next song.

O.C: "Ga Head"

(song starts)

HumanityCritic: Why did this song have to come on?

Mom: What? It's in your IPOD, you don't like it? Who is this?

HumanityCritic: This is O.C. No, I love the song, its just the subject matter..

Mom:(listening to the song) OK, so far the guy is stressed out because of a cheating girlfriend..(waits a few seconds) I don't really see the issue with.. OH!! His girl is cheating on him with another girl, now I see why you felt funny about this song.

HumanityCritic: Don't start.

Mom: I think it's a good thing that my son has charitably donated to the lesbian community for the past 10 years.

HumanityCritic:(putting my head in my hands)

Mom: How many women have you turned into lesbians now? Isn't the running count something like 4?

HumanityCritic:(mumbling) 6

Mom: Jesus Christ!! You should run a service for gay broads who have crushes on straight broads - in no time you will have the woman listening to Melissa Etheridge albums, watching "The View" with a renewed passion, and have her spending the better part of her day picking hair out of her teeth.(laughs)

HumanityCritic: You are a proverbial joke machine, is there a two drink minimum when you perform at "The Chuckle Hut"?

Robin Thicke: "Oh Shooter"

(song starts)

Mom: I know who this is, its Robin Thicke.

HumanityCritic: Yeah, how did you know that?

Mom: I saw him on Oprah last week. I'm usually not into white boys, but I would definitely let that Caucasian crooner slide his tongue down the crack of my..

HumanityCritic: HEY!!!! That's enough!!

Mom: OK, OK. This song is alright, why are you cringing?

HumanityCritic: No, I love the song as well - it's just that this glass licking retard named Lil Wayne covered this song, he pretty much desecrated it.

Mom: Well, he had to have Robin Thicke's approval, right?

HumanityCritic: He got that, he even appeared in that shitstain's video for said song!!

Mom:(Sarcastically) Blasphemy!!!

Red Hot Chili Peppers: "Higher Ground"

(song starts)

Mom:(listening intensely) Are they covering Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground"?

HumanityCritic: Right again, I feel like I should be handing you prizes or some shit.

Mom: This is pretty good, the best cover songs is when the artist's puts their own spin on the original work.

HumanityCritic: I read somewhere that this is Stevie Wonder's favorite cover of one of his songs. I love this group, one of the saddest moments I had as a fan was when Anthony Kiedes was forced to admit that he was back on heroin during an MTV interview - I almost shed a tear.

Mom: See, why did you have to go and fuck that up? We were vibing off of some music, and you had to go and mess it up by reminding me what kind of pussy my son is? Maybe its not too late to give you that pair of panties, only this time I have to shop at Lane Bryants!

De La Soul: "A Roller Skating Jam Named Saturdays"

(song starts)

Mom: This songs pretty cool, who is this?

HumanityCritic: De La Soul, "A Roller Skating Jam Named Saturdays"

Mom: It kind of takes me back to when I used to roller-skate as a young girl, those were the days..

Back when you hung with Josephine Baker, was an integral part of the Harlem Renaissance, and actually saw John Coltrane perform?

Mom: Motherfucker, I'm not that old!!(mumbling) Even though I did see John Coltrane perform though.

HumanityCritic: Anyway, these guys are one of my favorite groups. Oh, did I fail to mention that those miserable sons of bitches at MTV failed to put them in their shitty "best of" list?

Mom:(shaking her head) Here we go.

I'm saying, how are you going to have UGK on a fucking top 10 list??!!

Mom: Relax..

HumanityCritic: How are you going to put N.W.A over Run D.M.C? Dirty cocksuckers, I swear to god!

Mom: Just play the next song, before you start buying ammo on EBay to rectify your problem.

Chuck D feat. Sister Souljah: "Buck Whylin'

(song starts)

Mom:(giving me a bewildered look) the FUCK.. is this?

HumanityCritic: This is Chuck D, featuring the sporadic oratory skills of Sister Souljah in the background. You don't like it?

Mom: I guess the song could grow on a tumor!! This sounds like preparation music that serial killers play pre-slaughter.

HumanityCritic: You are crazy, quiet as kept this is one of my favorite songs by Chuck D.

Mom: That's what you need to do from now on, keep that shit "quiet as kept". I remember Sister Souljah though, didn't she have that one retarded looking pony tail on the side of her head? She always looked like she did her hair in a hurricane.(laughs)

HumanityCritic:(laughs) Seriously though, she's the main reason that I never appointed Clinton as "the first black president" - how he threw Sister Souljah under he bus just to satisfy the rednecks before his presidency.

Mom: That was fucked up. In the song she should have said, "WE ARE AT WAR....WITH HAIRSTYLISTS!!!" (laughs)

HumanityCritic: OK, last song.

Christina Aguilera: "Back in the Day"

(song plays)

Mom: Wait a minute.. Is this(gulp), Christina Aguilera?

It is, and?

Mom: I'm saying, last time it was Boy George, I'm just waiting for the day that you sit me down for a heartfelt "Mom, I'm allergic to vagina" speech.

HumanityCritic: Listen, I dug this album, mostly because the man who produced it is a dude who I consider to be the best beat-maker of all time.

Mom:(listening) OK, it's pretty good. In this age of no talents flooding the air waves, as least she's paying homage to the greats. I'm cool with that.

HumanityCritic: I'm glad you see things my way.

Mom: No, actually "seeing things your way" would be going to gay clubs called "The Cockpit", and rummaging through my jewelry box for a stunning pair of earrings to wear. That being said, I do like this song.

HumanityCritic: OK, now that you have totally emasculated me on my own blog, I'm about to get shitfaced drunk, sucker punch a couple of grown men in their respective faces, and find some woman of ill repute so I can clumsily enter her person.

Mom: That isn't anything unusual, that's a Monday for you..

HumanityCritic: Cute, until next time. I love you.

Mom: I love you too.

HumanityCritic's Plug of the Week: "The J.Pitts Show"

Like any elderly person who actually made something of their existence will tell you, life is one big learning experience - regardless how smart you think you are, life has a way of humbling you based on what you don't know. Even though Hip Hop has taught me many things: to know what I'm talking about before criticizing it(based on three decades of know-nothing detractors), if it wasn't for Chuck and KRS the only "community Outreach" that I would be a part of would be penetrating as many women in my neighborhood as humanly possible - and I'm certain that any writing talent that I may have comes from those boring history classes where I would carefully construct battle rhymes littered with metaphors and similes. But now, at the grizzled age of 33 mind you, I still find myself learning lessons - as I stare at my "Return of the Jedi" poster I have to say, Hip Hop has a great way of making a feared Jedi warrior feel like an entry level padawan learner. For example, based on how many glass licking younger adults that I've met, and all the embarrassing blogs from people who claim that they love Hip Hop - I had pretty much decided that if you were a certain age bracket that you couldn't know shit about real Hip Hop.

Keep in mind, I know that such sweeping generalizations had a great statistical chance of biting me in the ass at some later date - but I stuck to my guns, spouting my new found belief as belligerently as a Hillbilly who constantly quotes specific bible passages that he believes proves his theory that black folks are inferior. Again, Hip Hop has a way of humbling you. I started to meet young cats who were B-Boys, dudes who were hardly coherent when "Illmatic" came out were spinning shit like "Funky 4+1" at their respective DJ gigs, cats who were 15 years my junior started schooling me on aspects of Graffiti that I never knew existed. All of this brings me to J.Pitts.

My good friend Iselfra Hipped me to it(like he does so many other things), and I couldn't get enough of his show. At the age of 24, he lays down the final bitch-slap in terms of my preconceptions - creating a radio show full of dope Hip Hop from the planet of Pittsburgh Pa. A soothing stream of underground sounds to wash that Clear Channel Hip Hop off of you soul, a kind of uncut dopeness for your sensibilities - quickly making you forget about all those "Hip Hop Bloggers" who want you to respect them, despite the fact that they try to get their love of Chamillionaire, Jim Jones, and Lil Wayne by you without you noticing. Check him out here, tell him your boy HumanityCritic sent you.

(Shout out to J.pitts for shouting me out on his show. Based on his most recent show, I must feel the urge to put one of my quotes in the proper

"I was hipped to it recently and lately your site is one of my constant on-line rotations, outside of Janeane Garafolo fan-sites, and any porn site that features thick Asians and cock-eyed midgets with a penchant for being humiliated."


As much as my dear mother wants her baby boy to go out there, find some woman with a strong enough constitution to let me clumsily thrust on top of her with reckless abandon, and spread my demon-seed in hopes of possibly producing an offspring with dreadlocks and a writing prowess - I never quite thought that I was father material. For one thing, I have absolutely no patience - so little in fact that if I ever decided to write a children's book I'm pretty sure that my very first offering would be entitled, "If you don't sit your ass down!!" As much as women with low self-esteem and loose morals might find me beating some random asshole at a watering hole as "sexy" - its not the sort of thing that I particularly want to pass down to my children. I just know that a common motif when it comes to giving my kids advice on anything would be a version of this: "Just walk right up to him, chop that motherfucker in the throat, and when he's on the ground, kick that son on a bitch until a sudsy foam develops from his mouth." But then again, I've seen children drastically change people for the better, turn stone-cold killers into lovable sit-com dads, transform a walking debt to society into a fine upstanding citizen. At the end of the day I now realize that my 33-year idiosyncratic routine has nothing to do with my lack of procreating.(Read more here)

My Top 25 Hip Hop Albums

Peace to straightbangin for sparking this post, here is my Top 25 Hip Hop albums of all time. Tell me what you think, good list, am I full of shit, should I collect social security as soon as Humanly possible? Express yourselves, you fucking sinners.

1.Public Enemy: "It takes a Nation of Millions"

2.Ice Cube: "Death Certificate"

3.Nas: "Illmatic"

4.A Tribe Called Quest: "Midnight Maurauders"

5.Eric B and Rakim: "Paid in Full"

6.O.C: "Word..Life"

7.Boogie Down Productions: "Criminal Minded"

8.De la Soul: "De La Soul is Dead"

9.Big Daddy Kane: "Long Live the Kane"

10.Biggie: "Ready to Die"

11.A Tribe Called Quest: "The Low End Theory"

12.Ice Cube: "Amerikkas Most Wanted"

13.Gangstarr: "Daily Operation"

14.Slick Rick: "The Great Adventures of Slick Rick"

15.The Roots: "Illadelph Halflife"

16.Biz Markie: "Goin' Off"

17.Run D.M.C: "Raising Hell"

18.Epmd: "Strictly Business"

19.Redman: "Whut? Thee Album"

20.Pete Rock & Cl Smooth: "Mecca and the Soul Brother"

21.A Tribe Called Quest: "People's Instinctive Travels"

22.MC Lyte: "Lyte as a Rock"

23.The D.O.C: "No one Can do it better"

24.Mos Def: "Black on Both Sides"

25.DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince: "He's the DJ, I'm the Rapper"

Thursday, April 19, 2007

What in the fuck happened to my dance arsenal?

I've got to be honest with you, I'm finally starting to embrace this whole "getting older" thing. When my heart feels like its going to jump out of my chest every time I put some low self esteem having damsel in distress on the business end of a mean spirited deep dicking - I no longer check my pulse like I know what I'm looking for, I just tell the woman to ride me faster and occasionally point her in the direction of the CPR diagram on the wall mid thrust whenever I feel light headed. As each Grey hair found its way into my beard I used to freak the fuck out something serious, hoping that women wouldn't start giving me pity sex because of my "old timer" status - you know, them saying shit like "I'd bet you'd get hard if I covered myself in Ben-gay motherfucker!" and "If you are good, for your birthday I'll come to bed dressed like Betsy Ross and shit! How would you like that?!!" But who am I kidding, I don't care in what form consensual vagina comes my way - I can't tell you how many of my girlfriends depressingly offered me a complimentary "Break up" fuck as if I wasn't going to take it, as soon as they finished the sentence I was thrusting on top of her like a coked up dog in heat - only rhetorically asking her if she "likes it" while she lay there motionless, with her eyes rolled no less. As my brown skin wrinkles and my attitude grows more and more cantankerous with every passing birthday, I really want to reject people's inclination to ask me for advice just because I happened to be practicing intercourse the year that they were born. But the truth is I enjoy hearing someones problems, it makes my life fell somewhat normal - people confiding in me feels great, but please don't make the mistake of yelling out "I knew it!!! I knew you were abused!!" to some stripper as she pours her heart out to you.

But the one talent that father time has erased, a ninja-like gracefulness that I couldn't get back if I sold Lucifer the rights to my calorie filled soul, is my ability to - as Young MC so succinctly put it - "Bust a Move". When I was a child I could move like the Godfather of soul himself, shuffling and doing sporadic splits like some sort of trained monkey for all those racist ass teachers that wanted to see the only black kid in the school perform for them. As I got older I was the furthest thing from the best B-Boy, but I did enough for some of the young ladies to randomly throw a pre-teen titty in my mouth - and I was just good enough where the other more experienced B-Boys didn't find the need to treat my skull like a negro pinata. In high school I had the full arsenal of choreography, whenever I entered a school dance I walked in with the swagger of Rambo, canvassing the war-zone for my best plan of attack - my artillery including "The Running Man", a handful of Dance-hall moves that I refused to learn the names of, "The Bus stop", "The Prep", and the proverbial Chewbacca belt wrapped around my body were the slew of dance moves that I happened to invent myself. Even in college I still had it, do you know how many women will hand you the keys to that sweet ass based on that foolish "If he's a good dancer he must be a good lay" myth? My college career was littered with disgruntled lovers who said, "He can't fuck worth a damn, but he can sure dance his ass off!!"

Concerning my dance prowess now, I feel exactly the same way I did while sobbingly clutching the breasts of a woman after her reduction surgery, screaming to the high heavens "Where did it all go?!!" On the dance floor I've become Clark Kent with a Kryptonite rock in his trousers, Austin Powers without his mojo, Barry Bonds without his steroid syringe, I've suddenly went from a bona fide dance machine to those white girls I danced with in High School who moved like they were listening to an entirely different song. I'm serious man, even the most pedestrian of dance maneuvers take some very intense thought and planning - as if my left and right brain were plotting while looking at some well detailed schematics. Granted, I have a few moves in my repertoire, but they are sadder than shit. Here a a few:

The same old two step: I feel like an absolute fraud, akin to those Hip Hop bloggers that want to make you think they are authentic despite their love for Lil Wayne or Chamillionaire - or that Sunday preacher who goes on and on about the sanctity of marriage even though his favorite pastime is sharing ejaculate with women who aren't his wife, the mere fact I'm doing the "two step" is contradictory to everything that I've ever believed in. I used to clown people who did that dance move, one that seemed like it only required an ounce of motor skills - me openly mocking them by screaming "Are you counting the beat? 1-2-3 -1-2-3!!! Hahaha!!" Karma is a bitch because now I'm that guy, afraid to let loose on unsuspecting motherfuckers for fear of permanent injury or death - not for nothing, but dying in a dive bar called "Sneaky Pete's" is hardly something that I want to be included in my obituary. So that simple two step is my favorite move, a maneuver that I dress up with random shaking, impressive head movements, even gyrating my hips so skillfully that it would resurrect the withering remains of Mr. Elvis Presley himself(you fucking black culture stealer you) - but then again, "dressing up" those particular moves is akin to putting a bow-tie on a turd, or pressing a woman to thank you after pre-ejaculating on her prom dress.

Dry-humping to a beat:
Bumping and grinding on a dance floor is an aged old tradition, like Sunday dinners and oppression, there's nothing particularly shocking about me rubbing my well-crafted piece of "Virginia Oak" against some loose woman's overpriced jeans. I'm actually a grizzled veteran of this particular ritual, if I had a million dollars for every time sex was the end result of me saying to a woman "Girl, you feel that?!! THAT can be inside you if you want it to be?!!" - well, my bank account would be in the same sorry state of affairs that its in currently. But now I just creep women out, no longer masking my urge to fuck with fluid dance moves - now I just lead the woman around by my erection, acting as if my unimpressive phallus is a light-saber and her backside is a pesky storm trooper. Sometimes it goes to a whole other sad level, getting so worked up that when she turns around and says "Wow, you really are excited aren't you?" I just quickly put my finger over her mouth, manually turn her head back around and say "Shh, you know you ruin it by talking!!" Man, I have to get married.

The "treat her like a stripper" move: I used to be able to keep up with chicks who thought that they were auditioning for an episode of "Solid Gold", I had enough hyperactive moves in my repertoire that we both came off looking like a Melanin enriched version of Fred and Ginger. But now I'm too old for such foolishness, the only thing that I get excited about any more is Hip Hop that I don't lose I.Q points listening to and the thought of eating mac and cheese off of some chubby woman's backside. Besides, I'm not trying to get all sweaty, what if one of these broads in desperate need of 10 bucks wants to orally pleasure me in the romantic confines of my front seat? So whenever some chick comes to me with the same aggressiveness of a "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo" battle, I just let her do her thing while I watch as if I'm in a music video. Occasionally I'll say shit like, "Work it baby!!!" and "Damn girl, you make a chubby bastard like me wanna have enough energy to fuck you after meals and shit!!!" It's funny though, as mad as they get when you throw ones at her well manicured feet, she sure does pick that shit up before she leaves the dance-floor though.

You know, I wonder if Stanley Crouch can take a motherfucking punch?

Months ago when I watched Oprah Winfrey's town-hall meeting concerning Hip Hop, there was a small part of me that thought that an intelligent discussion was to be had. Granted, I know that Harpo's history of tackling important issues is as shitty as leaky colostomy bags - her letting the likes of Bill O'Reilly lie directly in her face as if it was an Olympic sport, and allowing Terry McMillan to say "He could have killed me!!" about her down-low gay husband even though she could have caught "the fever" from a cheating straight man just as easily - but I figured that her show concerning Hip Hop could possibly be good in that "A Clock is right two times a day" and "It even shines on a dog's ass once in a while" sort of way. But as soon as the show started I knew it was going to be horrible, I'm no prophet mind you , but I accurately predicted what every person would have to say when it was all said and done. I knew that Common, a brother that I'm a fan of, would go out of his way to satisfy his tremendous female fan-base - making sure he littered his sentences with words like "sister" and "love" as many times as humanly possible, coming off so non-confrontational that you would have thought that he masturbated to pictures of Gandhi in his free time. Kevin Lyles and Russel Simmons did what was expected, people for some reason wanted them to shed some sort of special heavenly light on Hip Hop but you have to understand that these guys are businessmen first - sure they'll wax poetic about the artistry of it, and how there are other social ills in America that need to be addressed first(a sentiment in which I agree with) but they really don't give a shit as long as their professions allow them to fuck models between 200 thread count sheets.

I haven't been interested in what Ben Chavis has had to say ever since I saw him in a Jim Jones video once, I figured that the two former editors of "Essence", Diane Weather and Asha Bandele would be rather centrist while taking the necessary shots at Hip Hop to garner enough cheap applause from the white women in the audience who hate every black person BUT Oprah. I can't forget the sister's from Spelman College famous for banning Nelly from performing there a few years back, well meaning young women all of them - but as they cackled incoherently about Hip Hop taking responsibility throughout the show, and how they immediately stop dancing in a club whenever a DJ plays a negative song(horseshit) - how can they explain the artists like R-Kelly, T-Pain, and acts of that ilk on their respective myspace pages?(I can find anyone online baby) What, it's not degrading to women if the artist just happens to sing it? Get the fuck outta here!! But lastly, I knew that Jason Whitlock and Stanley Crouch would attack Hip Hop like it was the pork-chop causing black America's hypertension. As Mr. Crouch dressed down Hip Hop like a disobedient concubine, ranting and raving about how the genre that he obviously loathes effects millions of children negatively - lecturing us about personal responsibility, that's when I thought about challenging Stanley Crouch to a fight. That's right, mano y mano, I haven't throatchopped a bastard in a very long time. Stanley, if your reading this, this is to you motherfucker:

"Come on Stan, you want a piece of me? Take off those panties and prove to me that your heart doesn't pump Kool-Aid, you fucking fruit cup!!! I know, I know, I'm 28 years your junior, but you look like you can handle yourself just fine. Granted, I'm strong, have a chin shattering uppercut, and I'm not completely conflicted about putting a bloated and hypocritical senior citizen on his ass - only to go through your pockets afterwords on some shameless High School Bully shit mind you . I don't particularly think that you should be the one criticizing Hip Hop, you know, acting as if you are an authority on the subject when it's painfully obvious that you know more about where Jimmy Hoffa's remains are. This outta be good pussy, I'm in Virgina and not that hard to find, bring it bitch!! When I'm done beating you senseless, you'll have Hip Hop deep inside your soul.. actually, you'll find shell-toe Adidas remains in your stool for a while!!"

Obviously I would never pummel an old man(unless he wants it), if there is one thing that Hip Hop has taught me over the years - based on all the ill-informed detractors I've encountered, is that people are entitled to their opinions. Even though it doesn't surprise me that Mr Crouch is good friends with Wynton Marsalis(another man who has tended to bend over and speak out of a hidden orifice whenever addressing Hip Hop), I respect his opinion even though its contradictory to mine. Maybe Mr. Crouch would have been better served listening to Hip Hop himself, it would have taught him respect for other people's viewpoints, because over the years it has been documented that he has quite the penchant for violence. Slugging a Jazz Award show organizer after he confronted him about Crouch's negative on stage remarks, slapped a critic(Dale Peck) in a restaurant after he gave his book an unfavorable review then saying "Don’t you ever do that again. If you do you’ll get much worse!" - not to mention giving the proverbial knuckle sandwich to the likes of a jazz writer(Russ Musto), an editor(Ron Plotkin), and putting Harry Allen in a choke-hold.

That's gangster Stanley!! You know, N.W.A never made me want to kill people, Too Short never tempted to me to have a girl "in my stable" so to speak, and I love my mother despite the lyrical content of Eminem - but sir, reading your extensive history of violence, the level of gangsterism and all out disregard for your fellow man, it really makes me want to pummel the shit out of any rap critic that I come across. Take a bow kind sir, you are an influence, and I'd like to exercise said influence on that baboons ass you call a face.(Even though this is satire, I'm really here all day. What!!?)

(Since the holier-than-thou Jason Whitlock, the guy who incoherently rambles about black people being "coons" and such was once on "PTI" eating ribs live on the air - I was going to challenge him to a watermelon eating contest since that seems right up his alley. You think he'd be down?)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: De La Soul "Buddy"

Maybe the Dali Lama is the only one who can criticize Hip Hop(Vibe)

Maybe its because I'm getting older, remembering a time when people thought that George Michael was straight and that Terrance Trent Darby would have an illustrious singing career, but it seems to me that most of the people who criticize Hip Hop just regurgitate random talking points that they once heard on an episode of Geraldo circa 1989. Due to the whole hysteria surrounding a man that no one with a healthy pulse even listens to any more, my life over the past week has felt like a dreadlocked version of "Groundhog Day" - hearing everyone from right wing pundits to civil rights activists telling whoever would listen that Hip Hop music is bringing down western civilization as we know it. Listen, I agree with many of the well meaning brother's and sisters who have publicly voiced their concerns recently - I've been a fan of Hip Hop for the better part of three decades, but I can't defend the indefensible. Besides the fact that I'm a Hip Hop elitist who finds a slew of artists being played on the radio, MTV, and B.E.T as fundamentally bad, I have no problem agreeing with the harshest of Hip Hop critic that violence, minstrelsy, and misogyny is a constant motif in many of what's played nowadays. But many of these well intentioned black folks embarrass themselves whenever they don't specifically point out that what they are vehemently ranting against is "Clear Channel" Hip Hop - anything predicated on flashing diamond encrusted smiles, throwing money in the air, and proudly exhibiting a lack of lyricism - exuding nothing but intellectual laziness, knowing that it's much easier to quote a questionable rap lyric than to tackle the faulty educational system or flat out bad parenting.(Read more here)

Friday, April 13, 2007

HumanityCritic's brief take on Friendships

One of the things that my dear father handed down to me, besides his expansive waist-line, a chrome plated 22, a penchant for violence, and a rather detestable habit of somehow making my cock the subject line of every story that escapes my lips, is the way in which he always seemed to keep his closest friends at arms length. No matter how long he knew someone, whether they roamed the mean streets of Sumter, South Carolina with him in the 1950's, if they served alongside him during his two tours in Vietnam, or if it was one of the many degenerates that frequented my father's auto repair shop just to "shoot the shit" so to speak, there always seemed like there was some sort of impenetrable wall that prevented my old man from completely embracing true friendships. Sure, he would laugh with many of these gentlemen over some Chivas Regal while discussing everything from cars, war stories, to the authenticity of Japanese pussy, but the checklist of these men's indiscretions that my father kept in his head was a thing of legend. Things like someone failing to return an automotive tool, someone trying to negotiate a repair bill that was already agreed upon, or a person drinking up all of his liquor without offering to buy any of their own - were all hell-worthy trespasses as far as my father was concerned, reprehensible acts that served as the scarlet letter on these men's chest that prevented my father from promoting them from acquaintance to true friend.

Now that I'm older I see that I'm the same way, sorta. Even though I've been known to keep people at arms length it wasn't because I didn't particularly embrace them as friends - despite my penchant for public drunkenness, love for reciting public enemy lyrics while having fellatio performed on me, and my habit of spewing all of my personal business on this blog like it was the proverbial handkerchief in this virtual porn theater that I call a life - believe it or not I'm an extremely private person. Maybe I'm an asshole, snobbishly selecting my friends like I was a doorman at "Studio 64" circa 1978, but I'd say that only 20% of the people who claim that they are my friends are actually correct about their status. I'm sorry, my standards when it comes having your back in a fight and taking one for the team - shamelessly distracting the fat friend of the girl you really want to get with by mistakenly fucking one of her fat creases during sex, are higher than crack feins on trampolines to be completely honest. Here are some of the traits that I feel a true friend should have..

The "Dead Hooker" Scenario: I don't particularly know where I heard it exactly, but I distinctly remember some actor once saying that his idea of a friend was a person whom you can call 4 in the morning with a dead hooker in your hotel room - with your friend immediately coming over with a six pack of beer and a shovel. That's what I'm talking about, a blind devotion where one person drops whatever the fuck they are doing to aid one of their fallen comrades. For example, a few years ago when I needed my friend's assistance in helping me dispose of a body as soon as humanly possible, my boy Buddy seemed to come to my aid before I even hung up the phone receiver. Granted, the body was the neighbor's dog that I had mistakenly ran over while returning home from my local watering hole, but the K-9's insides were splattered all over the street as if someone had just stomped on an extremely large jelly donut. Even though I could have just found a local Dumpster to dump the remains in, Buddy and I drove around with that dead dog in my backseat for miles looking for a place to bury it - like we were the new millennium version Joe Pesci and Ray Liotta in "Goodfellas" and shit. As the sun started to come up, the both of us still unable to find a burial spot - our clothes bloody and smelling like digested Alpo, we finally pulled over to the side of the highway and laid the deceased K-P on the side of the road - making the cause of death seem traffic related and not driveway related.(It felt like I had just shot somebody then proceeded to put the gun in their hand.) As I stood there feeling ashamed of what I had just done, staring off into space, Buddy interrupted my thought process by yelling "Hold it together man, its a fucking dog not an ex -girlfriend!! Join PETA tomorrow, Lets go!" Man, I miss Buddy.

The Silent Treatment: Maybe its because I'm monumentally lazy and only care about my own shit, but I always valued pure male friendships because of how long you can go without speaking to someone and still being their friend. When it comes to two women, if they somehow don't get the opportunity to talk for a few days it spells a rift of monumental proportions - a reprehensible act short of declaring nuclear war on someone or Oprah being cancelled. With guys it's different, I have gone a year without talking to somebody, and when we do finally chat it up - its as if no time has passed at all.

If you have beef, I've got beef: The great thing about your blog's archives is that you can go back in time, see where you have matured as a writer and as a person, and on those rare occasions be objective enough to openly admit the times in which you were a lying sack of cat crap. For example, in one post I stated that if one of my friends started a senseless altercation that I would shamelessly allow him to get his ass kicked. Maybe thats happened once or twice but all in all that's complete bullshit, there have been numerous occasions when I helped a friend pummel some poor bastard whose only goals for that night was getting shitfaced and being on the business end of some miscellaneous ass. Granted, when it's all over and the other man is badly beaten, his pockets empty from me aggressively taking his lunch money on some High School Bully shit - at the end of the night I'll tell my friend how wrong he was, if nothing but for future reference.