"Making of the Ban": Rappers will still find ways to disrespect women(Vibe.com)

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)

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

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..

HumanityCritic: 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.

HumanityCritic: 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) What..in 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 me....like 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?

HumanityCritic: 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 context..lol:)

"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."

ALEC BALDWIN CONVINCED ME THAT I SHOULDN'T HAVE CHILDREN(Vibe.com)

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"

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)

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.

What did you call me!? Songs about the dreaded "N-word"(sort of)

One of the most interesting things to come out of the firing of "The Cryptkeeper"(Imus) isn't that a crotchety old man said some extremely insensitive things about a group of defenseless young women, its how the topic somehow veered off course and became a referendum on rap music. Right wing commentators weren't the only ones who saw this as topical red meat either, even some black social commentators that I dearly respected started beating that very worn drumbeat as well - acting as if that argument wasn't already filled with more holes than Courtney Love's underwear drawer. Even if you saw only a few moments of news coverage over the past week, I bet you dollars to donuts that you saw some black person on your television screen passionately saying something like "We have to do something about rap music! The negative images, the misogyny, this is our chance to put it in check!!" That's the problem right there, many of these highly educated people should really know better based on a truth that I'm sure many parents around the world teach their ten year old's. That simple lesson being that nothing good ever comes out of broad generalizations. Sentences that begin with "All black people..", "Every gay person..", and "All women.." tend to not have the happiest of endings. Hip Hop is more than 30 years old, and it's the only genre that people tend to know nothing about but somehow feel right at home breaking down ad nauseum, the only genre where names like Bill O'Reilly and Wynton Marsalis are synonymous based on their blissful ignorance when it comes to Hip Hop.

The one thing that people of that ilk don't understand is that I fundamentally agree with their arguments, I can sit with them and watch B.E.T, MTV, or listen to the radio and echo the sentiments that what we are listening to is setting our people back 100 years or more. But that's not Hip Hop, that's "Clear Channel Hip Hop" or "Uncle Tom's Cabin" rap if you will, hardly examples that are representative of the artform. It's kind of like telling a Beatles fan, or a Jimi Hendrix fan in the 80's that the plethora of hair bands of the day represented rock music as a whole.

But what is surprising to me is how easily usually well intentioned black folks are getting pulled into an argument that all of us have been universally rebuking since our mother's passed us through their bodies: That argument being "If you can say the word N*gger, why can't I say it?" That's what this is all about, all of the white people who feverishly point to the "bitches and hoe's" in Hip Hop and openly wonder why Imus was fired for using that same kind of language, the black folks so eager to criticize the likes of Snoop Dog that they don't realize the diseased waters that they have been pulled into - the whole debate is just a glorified version of the question posed by white people across the globe: "You can say N*gger, why can't I?"

I won't go into how conflicted I've been over the "N-Word" the past few years, how trying to ban the word is akin to a child plugging his ears and screaming "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA" - I'll just provide some random Hip Hop songs that attempt to tackle the subject, sort of.(Some tackle it, others let it run past for the score. ahem.)Peace to Brother Omi.

Ice Cube: "The Nigga Ya love to Hate"



Jeru the Damaja: "The Frustrated Nigga"


Mos Def: "Mr Nigga"


Boogie Down Productions: "House Niggas"


The Coup: "I Ain't the Nigga"


A Tribe Called Quest: "Sucka Nigga"


Public Enemy: "Anti-Nigger Machine"


N.W.A: "Niggas 4 Life"

Let me take this opportunity to whole-heartedly thank Don Imus(Vibe.com)

For a chubby guy, my swagger is surprisingly phenomenal this year. I've been walking through nightclubs with the confidence of Superman getting shot at, casually looking at women as if they were side-order options on a dinner menu, nodding my head in an irritating fashion and saying "I know honey" whenever a nice women tells me how handsome I am. I've even been whispering nerd phrases in women's ears as pick-up lines, like, "Baby, my blog is the one that lesser bloggers masturbate to!!" Utterly ignoring the fact that I'm one buffet away from never seeing my unimpressive penis again.

Despite my newfound confidence, a couple of months ago I had to be honest with myself and openly admit to anyone who would listen that I was dating a woman out of my league. Carmen was her name. She was so intelligent that my rants had to be pre-planned so she wouldn't call me on my bullshit. Her eyes were so captivating to look at that she never noticed me daydreaming whenever she waxed poetic about some horrible Tyler Perry play. Her skin was filled with so much chocolaty goodness that whenever I was around her, I got the taste for non-nutritious children's cereal. Her only flaw(Read more here)

The most hated family in america

When Hip Hop tackles serious issues

Hey, I love to laugh as much as the next guy, but I learned at an extremely early age that life in general was no laughing matter - lessons that my loved ones always found ways of teaching me through the wonderful world of sports. When I was a toddler my father refused to let me win at anything, he'd knock me down whenever I tried to tackle him while playing football, he'd aggressively block my shot like he was an All-American center playing in a fucking college championship, and every time I started to cry he'd say something like "You cry and I'll fucking beat you, please prove me wrong, don't grow up to be a fucking queer!"(I didn't know what a "queer" was back then) Even though my mother is the compassionate one, the parent whose love and kindness is the only thing that stopped me from being a contract killer who eagerly dispatched people with dull butter knives and shit, she also had her moments when it came to teaching me life lessons through athletics. I remember it vividly like it was yesterday, her pitching to me in the backyard, me anxiously awaiting to swing for the proverbial fences, only to be purposely hit with the ball with all the might a 5 foot woman could muster. Whenever I looked at her in a rather bewildered fashion she'd always say "If your narrow ass ever reaches the major leagues, just imagine all the balls whizzing by your chin with the ill est of intent?" - realizing her accidental homoerotic reference, she'd then blurt out "Jesus, I hope you don't grow up to be a fucking fruit!"(By that time I knew what a "queer" was, but "fruit" went right over my head.) Then there was that incident when my grandmother tried to teach me how to box, her holding up her fists and wreaking of "Old Milwaukee" beer, knocking the Fruity Pebbles out of my pediatric ass as if I had just downed her last beer. With tears flowing down my face, feeling a knot develop in my throat as thick as a midget's handshake, I remember her angrily wiping my face and yelling "Wipe that shit! Wipe that shit! What are you, a fag?"

Besides me feeling extremely lucky to have not grown up to be a raging homophobe despite my family's future fears of what my sexual preference might be, I defnitely learned some very important lessons. My father taught me perseverance, my mother instilled a toughness in me, and my grandmother taught me if an extremely old woman ever hits me again - knock her "Billy Holiday" listening ass clean the fuck out!

I guess that's why I'm such a fan of Hip Hop when it drops the usual bravado, leaves the verbal dexterity for the next track, and decides to tackle some of the serious issues of the day.



Boogie Down Productions: "13 and Good": This might not seem like a universally important issue to any of you out there, but eagerly trying to reach the small intestines of a woman mid-coitus - only to find out later that she is jail-bait, scares a black man like myself more than hypertension or my local police department. Granted, I'm a pretty paranoid guy anyways, but this song is the sole reason why I grill my late night conquests as if they were getting questioned in front of Congress. Everything from asking for her drivers license, baby pictures to prove that she was indeed born a female, and random pop culture inquiries where I sing he song "Let's get physical" under my breath and immediately ask the woman "Who sang that?!!"




Ice Cube: "Alive on Arrival": If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times, in terms of the vast landscape of topics that it covers, Ice Cube's "Death Certificate" is a Hip Hop album with the largest arsenal of subject matter in my personal opinion. From Blacks in the Military, Venereal Disease, Interracial Dating, the treatment of black people in Asian owned stores, the gang culture, he could have left out one of the greatest diss tracks ever(No Vaseline) and it would still have been a classic album. With this particular song, where he documents his struggle to get proper health care after being on the business end of a bullet, in this age where so many people don't have any health care insurance, I'm sure people can relate.




Digable Planets: "La Femme Fetal": The worst kept secret in Hip Hop is that mediocre forms of the genre don't particularly age very well, causing cantankerous assholes like myself to slam something mercilessly that I at one time revered. Hip Hop revisionists, I include myself in that dastardly group, sometimes feel the need to take a proverbial watery shit on Digable Planets, viewing them as a mere concoction like alcoholic beverages from skilled bartenders or "The Monkees". But based on what passes as Hip Hop nowadays, people who gratefully grew up to Public Enemy and Rakim as I did - now claiming that functioning illiterates like Lil Wayne are now our millennium's great orators, and all of the unworthy microphone wielders who clearly don't have a genuine love for Hip Hop, I appreciate groups like Digable Planets right about now. Especially songs like this, yes I do hold them accountable for all the poetry posers over the last decade, but I can forgive Butterfly's spoken word delivery based on how intelligently he approaches the abortion issue. Bringing up the hypocrisy when it comes to the people against abortion who have a penchant for fire bombing clinics, how rich people would still be to get abortions if it was outlawed, and how a woman should be able to do what she wants with her body.




De La Soul: "Millie Pulled a Pistol on Santa": Every time I think about De La Soul now, and how they have always walked to the beat of their own drummer while putting out stellar material, I suddenly get the urge to walk into the MTV building and commit mass murder on all those fucking hacks - individuals so corrupted by the Clear Channels of the world and Lil Wayne's ejaculate that they had the nerve to leave De La Soul off of their "Greatest Groups of all time" list recently.(Dirty cocksuckers) My angry rant aside, I always admired how they approached the topic of sexual abuse in this song, they didn't try to get too flashy lyrically, and they left out the Hollywood ending and made it as gritty as possible.




A Tribe Called Quest: "The infamous Date Rape": As much as an insufferable pervert that I pride myself to be, the one thing that makes me hop off a girl faster than her saying "I was born a man" while making out - are the words "No!". Hey, I've seen enough prison drama's to know what they do to rapists in jail, and with my long hair and fat ass - I'm sure that whoever could beat me in a fight would proceed in treating my sweet rectum like a fucking pin cushion. If a chick even said "No" even in that "I'm really loving it" sort of way, before she knows whats going on I'm already in her restaurant - feverishly beating off, hoping that huge portrait of Jesus on her restroom wall doesn't prevent me from ejaculating. This song should be the anthem for horny guys everywhere, no matter how excited you get while making out, your genitalia could resemble smurf nuts for all I care - ignoring unwanted advances can land you in the pokey.(It can put you on the business end of the "pokey" as well)

New Vibe.com posts..

MAN, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE HIP-HOP SKIT?

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TROLLING FOR ASS ON MYSPACE

Yes, another "Bill O'Reilly is a blubbering vagina" rant..

Over the past few months I've started viewing Bill O'Reilly like that neighborhood bum who incoherently talks to himself, those few fleeting moments that you can actually make out what he's saying it always has something to do with him being the son of god or some shit - the best course of action is to leave him to his lunacy and go about your business. Sure, sometimes you have to put your foot in that Bum's ass if he tries to break into your house or inappropriately talk to your young daughter - the only times I took issue with O'Reilly is when he vents his frustration on Hip Hop when he's just mad that he can't say "Nigger" as liberally as he wants to, or on those rare occasions when Oprah Winfrey picks up the crack pipe and feels that Mr. O'Reilly is the reincarnation of Edward R. Murrow. But the bile that has oozed out of the sides of Mr. O'Reilly's mouth as of late has provoked me to say something.

See, recently two teens in my city of Virginia Beach, Alison Kunhardt, 17, and Tessa Tranchant, 16, were killed by a drunk driver who rammed in the back of them at 60 miles per hour. My heart sincerely goes out to both set of parents who lost a child way too young, I can't even imagine what a horrible a loss of that magnitude must feel like. But since the driver in question was an illegal immigrant, one that has had prior drunken driving offenses, Bill O'Reilly took it upon himself to shamelessly do what he does best - take a tragedy and use it as a political football for ratings.

So for the past week or so, starting with a weird "what the fuck are you doing on FOX while your daughters body isn't cold yet" interview with one of the grieving parents, Bill has been spewing the same right wing rhetoric about immigration - calling my town a "sanctuary city" in terms of illegals and painting my mayor and the police chief as "villains". Listen, the last thing I'd usually want to do is stick up for the local police department, my shenanigans over the years have forced many of my city's finest to start referring to me by my childhood nickname and shit. I also feel kind of creepy defending a lady who literally lives 6 houses away from mine, the mayor, especially since she was the one responsible for the national guard beating black peoples heads in like candy was going to come falling out during "Greek-fest" almost 2 years ago.(see: Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome") But the one thing that Bill, the legion of inbred plaque scrapers who make up his fan base, even the local editorial pages who couldn't embarrass themselves more if they publicly smeared themselves in their own fecal matter - is that immigration is a federal issue, the city's take their cues from the federal government.

But why let a little thing like facts get in the way of political red meat as far as the right wingers are concerned, lets just hope they choke to death on it - or get Salmonella, but even that wouldn't be the proper punishment for turning the deaths of these 2 young women into a right wing talking point.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Ice Cube "Check Yo Self"

The negative aspects of dating a stripper..

It never fails, every time my friends and I take a journey to that special place where titty's and unfulfilled potential come aplenty, there's always one person who forgets the very first rule in that monumental piece of literature that is the strip-club handbook. That rule being, regardless how many times her smile illuminates your deviant soul like a spotlight, no matter how impressed you are with the fact that she performed the most menial of tasks and learned your name, no matter how interested she seems as you embarrassingly tell her about that time you were once somebody's bitch in one of those "club fed" minimum security prisons, do not by any means fall in love with what I like to call a pole gymnast. Strippers are as synonymous as your local "stick up kid", forcing you to deposit your hard earned cash in her soiled undergarment that at best smells like a sweaty toddler or a cucumber gone bad, with her mammary's and her oiled up body that you'll certainly use later for masturbatory material - being her particular weapon of choice. The gentleman who do choose to throw caution to the wind, forget about the fact that even if that lady somehow became a triple amputee who acquired a pretty unsavory habit of smearing her own fecal matter over her face with the good limb - she still wouldn't be in your league. You can't forget about that small piece of useful information pertaining to an old conversation where she claimed to hate everyone in your particular race but you, those who ignore tell-tale signs like that and go for the brass ring(ring around the tube more like it) are destined for nothing but blue balls and disappointment.

Every time I've ever seen one of these rule ignorers try and date a stripper it always goes one of two ways. 1. Either she strings the hapless sap along with her inviting smile and the flexing of her ass-cheeks, that the guy literally forgets that he even asked her out in the first place 2. She flatly rebukes your advances, which is honorable because at least she was honest with you, but all that good will erodes like the faces that looked at the arch of the covenant too long, after you realize that a chick who dances to Lil John records while having dollar bills thrown at her just rejected you.

But there is a chance, a slight chance, that you can indeed be like Eddie Murphy in "The Golden Child" when he fulfilled all the tasks required of him and held up that sacred Ajanti Dagger with pride.(Remember, "I-I-I-I--Got--da--kniiiife!!") You too, with a bit of skill and lady luck riding shotgun, can jump through the proverbial hoops, withstand the vomit inducing crunk music, and endure the most asinine conversations this side of Anna Nicole Smith on a methadone binge, and proudly hold up an erotic dancer's titty outside the smokey confines of a strip-club like it was the Stanley fuckingf Cup. But just let me warn you, there is a downside.


Stop it! You aren't saving for college!!: If you ever find yourself with a stripper romantically, outside of performing some lude act in the backseat of your car with your wallet being 50 bucks lighter, the one conversation you will hear from her more than the standard "someone should really sanitize that pole" rant - is how many times she tells you that classic lie that she's saving up for college. I never understood how some chicks have to rationalize what they do for people, if you like shaking that ass for loot be proud of that fact, the fact that her silly ass never got out of the 9th grade makes said rationalization laughable.

She has her own Paparazzi: For all those A-List movie stars who spend a considerable amount of their time bitching about the paparazzi 24-7, men in trees wearing Ninja outfits trying to capture the most intimate of moments, struggling photographers tailing them to their kid's soccer practice, an opportunist with a camera phone taking your world famous visage as you exit the house of a young woman who isn't your wife, none of that compares to the unwanted attention you receive when you date a stripper. Regardless where you're at, you could be in the holy confines of Sunday mass for Christs sake, there will always be some jackass who will yell out "Cadillac!!", soon after attempting to give your girlfriend a hug like he was her long lost brother and shit. As menacing as you may look, and how anorexic and pimply as the particular gentleman might look, your presence is always ignored like a Hurrican Katrina victim. Those few times where you find yourself acting like a man and halting the objectionable behavior with a well placed chop to their Adam's apple, your woman will always reprimand you with a stern "you're fucking my money up!!"

The singles get ridiculous: There has been many jokes over the years about strippers and one dollar bills, but the lunacy intensifies when you see it up close and personal. The one thing that her landlord, the waiter who serves her a few times, and the supermarket cashier have in common: They all knew what my lady did by the way she paid them exclusively in ones, each person receiving the money with the same sort of patience of pity that one would have for an old lady who breaks out her penny jar as soon as she's told how much her groceries are going to cost her. As the boyfriend of an erotic dancer it's hard not to be a prick, so I started carrying around nothing but ones myself, dying inside with laughter, trying to figure out if my lovely girlfriend figured out what I was doing as I paid off my bookie with 400 dollars worth of one dollar bills.

You become a stripper by default: Besides the fact that you can't walk down a fucking city block without your woman treating the world as her jungle gym, grabbing random light-poles and flipping herself upside down showing the world her dexterity and her Brazilian wax, you actually have bigger issues to deal with. That issue being glitter, I don't care how hygienic your lady is, she could scrub herself -using an S.O.S pad - with the same sort of aggressiveness that I did after I learned that an ex-girlfriend had once fucked Micheal Bevin's, those tiny shards of metallic fibers are embedded into your skin like a fresh tattoo. Suffice it to say, being the one guy who presses his erection on her when 30 bucks and a dry-hump isn't involved, I spent the rest of my days plucking glitter off of my skin and fielding questions from co-workers about my late-night exploits. My co-workers at the time thought that I was a male dancer, which I felt good about since that would mean that someone would be willing to see me naked, but when I realized that 90% of those dudes craved cock - I started strategically fucking my girlfriend though pieces of well placed plastic sheeting.

Never see her perform again: This is probably the most important factor, as soon as it becomes apparent that this chick will let you see her roast beef curtains outside of her workplace, take it upon yourself to stop going there as soon as humanly possible. As progressive a thinker as you'd like to think you are, as much as you try to be an asshole about it and say shit like "I'm only fucking her, she's not my girlfriend!", random guys approaching her in attempts to take away your early morning blow-jobs and cheese-egg privileges in your presence will start getting to you. The first few visits you are cooler than a fan, laughingly shrugging it off while saying "Hey, it's her job..", but after the 5th time you find yourself fighting every guy outside like its an impromptu "Tough-Man" competition. Its not worth it, so when I hear that T-Pain song "I'm in love with a Stripper", I feel that that gremlin looking bastard is leading America's youth astray.

Remembering Mitch Hedberg

Ever since bar-room brawls spawning from "Who's the best rapper ever" arguments stopped being fulfilling to me, and I started this blog, the outpouring of love from the people kind enough to read my chubby diatribes has been extremely flattering to say the least. Sometimes, just sometimes, the praise gets to my head so much that I forget about the fact that I had bigger titty's than my prom date, or that 5 of my ex-girlfriends happily became card carrying lesbians after we dated, or that I see myself in 30 years still being single, wearing a tight polyester suit, desperately trying to woo women old enough to be my grand-daughter by asking them if they wanted to listen to some vintage late 80's vinyl. Whenever someone sends me a personal email, being nice enough to include me in a long list of bloggers that they enjoy, I always try to respond with as much humility as humanly possible.(Granted, I always systematically break down why I am so much better than the other bloggers that they named, and how those poor excuses for wordsmiths masturbate to my blog whenever they get writer's block)

But whenever someone asks for my advice concerning blogging I always suggest that they try to have a unique writing voice, bringing something to the table that their writing contemporaries simply can't fuck with. Whenever I give people that same piece of regurgitated advice like I was a dreadlocked Yoda, or a negro fortune cookie, I always think about Mitch Hedberg. Hedberg is one of my favorite comedians who died about 2 years ago, a dude who had an uncanny gift for wordplay, one-line non-sequiters, and life observations that made you wish that you had thought of them first. Here are a few classics lines from Mr. Hedberg that I thought I'd share with you, rest in peace Mitch..

I would imagine if you could understand Morse Code, a tap dancer would drive you crazy.

I played golf... I did not get a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. That's way more satisfying...

I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughtnut... I don't need a receipt for the doughnut. I give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don't need to bring ink and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario that I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut. To some skeptical friend, Don't even act like I didn't buy a doughnut, I've got the documentation right here... It's in my file at home. ...Under "D".

When I was a boy, I laid in my twin-size bed, wondering where my brother was.

My friend was walking down the street and he said, "I hear music." As if there is any other way of taking it in. I tried to taste it, but it did not work.

I snake bite emergency kit is a body bag.

I got a business card, 'cause I want to win some lunches. That's what my business card says: "Mitch Hedberg, potential lunch winner." Call me some time, maybe we'll have lunch... If I'm lucky!"

A minibar is a machine that makes everything expensive. When I take something out of the minibar, I always fathom that I'll go and replace it before they check it off, but they make that stuff impossible to replace. I go to the store and ask, "Do you have coke in a glass harmonica? ...Do you have individually wrapped cashews?"

I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it.

It's very dangerous to wave to people you don't know because what if they don't have hands? They'll think you're cocky.

Someone handed me a picture and said, "This is a picture of me when I was younger." Every picture of you is when you were younger. "...Here's a picture of me when I'm older." Where'd you get that camera man?

Alcoholism is a disease, but it's the only one you can get yelled at for having. Goddamn it Otto, you are an alcoholic. Goddamn it Otto, you have Lupis... one of those two doesn't sound right.

I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammible and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

I like cinnimon rolls, but I don't always have time to make a pan. That's why I wish they would sell cinnimon roll incense. After all I'd rather light a stick and have my roommate wake up with false hopes.

My friend said to me, "You know what I like? Mashed potatoes." I was like, "Dude, you have to give me time to guess. If you're going to quiz me you have to insert a pause."

I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.

An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You would never see an "Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience."

I used to be a hot-tar roofer. Yeah, I remember that day...

A severed foot is the ultimate stocking stuffer.

I think foosball is a combination of soccer and shishkabobs.

That would be cool if you could eat a good food with a bad food and the good food would cover for the bad food when it got to your stomach. Like you could eat a carrot with an onion ring and they would travel down to your stomach, then they would get there, and the carrot would say, "It's cool, he's with me."

I bought a seven dollar pen because I always lose pens and I got sick of not caring.

My sister wanted to be an actress, but she never made it. She does live in a trailer. She got half way. She's an actress, she just never gets called to the set.

I had a velco wallet in a casino. That sound annoyed the hell out of me. Whenever I lost money, and I opened the wallet, it was like the sound of my addiction.

Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets.

My apartment is infested with koala bears. It's the cutest infestation ever. Way better than cockroaches. When I turn on the light, a bunch of koala bears scatter, but I don't want them too. I'm like, "Hey... Hold on fellows... Let me hold one of you, and feed you a leaf." Koala bears are so cute, why do they have to be so far away from me. We need to ship a few over, so I can hold one, and pat it on its head.

I wish I could play little league now. I'd be way better than before.

I never joined the army because at ease was never that easy to me. Seemed rather uptight still. I don't relax by parting my legs slightly and putting my hands behind my back. That does not equal ease. At ease was not being in the military. I am at ease, bro, because I am not in the military.

I opened-up a yogurt, underneath the lid it said, "Please try again." because they were having a contest that I was unaware of. I thought maybe I opened the yogurt wrong. ...Or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me... "Come on Mitchell, don't give up!" An inspirational message from your friends at Yoplait, fruit on the bottom, hope on top.

A waffle is like a pancake with a syrup trap.

You know they call corn-on-the-cob, "corn-on-the-cob", but that's how it comes out of the ground. They should just call it corn, and every other type of corn, corn-off-the-cob. It's not like if someone cut off my arm they would call it "Mitch", and then re-attached it, and call it "Mitch-all-together".

On a traffic light yellow means yield, and green means go. On a banana, it's just the opposite, yellow means go ahead, green means stop, and red means, where'd you get that banana?

My roommate says, "I'm going to take a shower and shave, does anyone need to use the bathroom?" It's like some weird quiz where he reveals the answer first.

I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. There's a large out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside.

I think pickles are cucumbers that sold out. They sold their soul to the devil, and the devil is dill...

I got my hair highlighted, because I felt some strands were more important than others.

I don't have a girlfriend. But I do know a woman who'd be mad at me for saying that.

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