Wednesday, September 26, 2007

An Open Letter to Adrianne Curry

Dear Ms. Curry,

Full disclosure here: When a friend of mine mentioned your name last week I had no idea who you were, when she then tried to jog my memory by saying that you were the first winner of "America's Next Top Model" I blankly looked at her as if she had just recited a Dane Cook joke to me - but as soon as she said that you were the one who had that reality show with that "Peter Brady" dude, I finally realized who the fuck she was talking about. Please, don't take that as some sort of slight - I blame thousands of bong hits and shots of Jagermeister for my deteriorating memory, just ask the last three women I've gotten to know biblicly who saw me struggling to recall their names while HumanityCritic's "special sauce"lingered on their "soup coolers". Before I go any further I want to welcome you to the wonderful world of blogging, as a 4 year veteran of the game I can tell you that it will be a cathartic experience for you - I probably would have gone a killing spree by now if my writings hadn't exercised my father issues, penchant for violence, and me coming to grips with the sobering reality of having one of the most unimpressive black penises known to man. That being said, when I was directed to a blog post you had written entitled "MY Boycott against BET and Black History Month" - initially I was as excited as Jim Jones in a room full of ghost-writers. I just knew that you were going to disprove the ugly stereotype that supermodels are nothing more than unintelligible beauties - only good for being coke addicted "before" pictures, being able to effortlessly vomit, beating people senseless with Motorola cell phones, and vapid conversations that make the other party want to publicly slit their wrists with plastic butter-knives. I mean, I hate B.E.T too - and I just hoped that your post would concur with my belief that that network singlehandedly undoes the civil rights movement with each rerun of "The Wayans Bros", each time a minstrel show rapper flashes a platinum encrusted smile, not to mention the other thousand hours of horrific programming. As for Black History Month, I just knew that you'd eloquently wax poetic about how you reject the notion of Black History just being highlighted a month out of the year - even you would admit that it doesn't take a supermodel to know that giving such an extensive history such a short period of time to shine borders on clinical insanity.

But as soon as I started reading your monstrosity of a post, I suddenly realized that I need to get my black ass a girlfriend and stop watching so much porn - only in the porn world will you get exactly what's advertised from a title, if it happens to read "Asian Midget gets Humiliated", fully expect to see an Asian woman of below-average height having the most sexually deviant things done to her on camera. Unfortunately, what I found in your posts was the same drivel I've been inundated with for the past 20 years or so - a steady diet of empty "reverse racism" rhetoric with "I once fucked a black dude so I'm not racist" acting as the qualifying dessert.(Not for nothing, but I kept expecting you to passionately ask why you weren't allowed to use the word "Nigger" - maybe you are saving that utterly intriguing topic for your next blog installment.)

In the comment section of your blog you mentioned that you have been sexually active with 5 African Americans(1 male 4 female) - I would have figured, when your weren't tongue kissing black genitalia for the sake of proving how racist you're not, that the owners of said naughty parts would have informed you at some point that a channel like B.E.T was created because black culture wasn't being broadcast anywhere else. Granted, the channel is currently a cluster-fuck of immense proportions, but being mad at B.E.T and the black history month is rather silly, even for you - when there are channels and months dedicated to Hispanics, women, and Asians for Christs sake. I have to ask, because I'm sure that you had a conversation with at least one of those five individuals you were doing the horizontal shuffle with while "Ebony and Ivory" played in the background. At some point they had to explain to you that the only black people they learned about in school happened to be Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, and possibly George Washington Carver - and that 99% of the black history that they do know is a result of them seeking it out for themselves.

Ms. Curry, I don't expect for you to understand the intricacies of racism in this country - just like you wouldn't expect for me to understand what its like to be a wanna-be supermodel who had to beg a D-List actor who peaked 30 years ago to marry me - I just chalk it up to us being different that's all. But then again, maybe your blog is a microcosm of the state of race relations in this country(based on all the inbred dopes who co-signed your brand of bullshit) For example, last night I was talking to one of my best friends and when I very innocently told him that I sincerely felt that most of the "white outrage" for O.J wouldn't exist if his wife happened to be black his head started smoking - when I openly wondered why a missing white woman is a national story when black girls go missing all the time and its hardly mentioned in the crawl at the bottom of your television screen, his head exploded. But the difference between you and Danny is that at least he is open to new information, learning something about the black perspective that he never fathomed before - and you seem to come across as an inarticulate hick who fingers herself to Mein Kampf in your free time.

Lastly, at the end of that botched abortion that you call a post, a diatribe that I'm certain David Duke uses as his personal screen-saver - I found it rather interesting that you had to use your support for Barack Obama as yet another qualifier for the previous drivel that oozed out of the side of your mouth. Not for nothing, but its people like you who make me think that Barack Obama doesn't have a snowball's chance in Lil Kim's crotch of ever being elected President - see I live in Virginia, where a known racist almost got re-elected for Senator, so I know all about people who consider themselves "progressive" who are actually one ass beating from a black guy away from handing out Aryan Nation propaganda. That being said, I have some parting advice for you - become a right wing pundit, hey, you're prettier than Ann Coulter and people will pay you millions of bucks to talk out of your ass.

Sincerely yours,

Humanity F Critic aka "Gordon Gartrell"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: EPMD - "You gots to chill"

When I first started this blog I imagined that my humor and my all around craftsmanship behind a computer's keyboard would keep my social calender filled up - even designating a dresser drawer for all the exotic panties I'd collect on some Ghostface "Damn right I fuck fans" shit. Unfortunately, after four years, I've only witnessed one person naked who reads this blog regularly - and that didn't end well too well, I vaguely remember an angry email where she claimed that I was as romantic as a "prison rape". You can't please them all I guess, but I recall the exact incident that would make her say that - the both of us sitting in the back of my muscle car, me suggesting that she briefly get off on my gear shift, me pointing to my new air freshener when she asked me why I never bought her flowers. Yes, Good times. But one thing that she said that night really stuck to me, she said "You write about Hip Hop with such passion, why can't that passion relate to your sex-life? Where is the child-like exuberance for me?" That when I retorted, "Child-like? You've seen my penis haven't you?" But all jokes aside, when each member of EPMD is playfully dancing in the background while the other is rapping - it sort of encapsulates a playful innocence that I wish Hip Hop would get back to.

Bill O'Reilly: A Career Douchebag

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Steps to having a successful bachelor party..

Over the past two years I've seen 10 of my friends get married, and the concurrent themes that I'm left with concerning those joyous occasions are: People tend to have criminally wack wedding receptions, the best man always gives the same tired ass wedding toast, single women at weddings will drain your sexual fluids like it was that "Cocoon, fountain of youth pool water" - and lastly, the bachelor party that precedes the wedding leaves so much to be desired that many times I wished that I had stayed home and masturbated. Even though I'm a grizzled veteran when it comes stacks of one dollar bills, glitter encrusted titties, and unbelievable stories about a woman "saving up for college" - at the end of the day I'm a rather simple man, just give me a beer and a couple of chicks who don't know what the word "morals" means and I'm good to go. But based on how ill prepared the bachelor parties that I went to were, and the horrible state of affairs the hired strippers happened to be - I just thought I'd come up with a cliff notes-style guide whenever you choose to have your pre-wedding smut-fest.

Don't invite any members of her family: I don't particularly care how cool your fiancee's brother is, how many times the both of you have opened up like one of Oprah's guests about which porn star you'd have unprotected sex with. Your future father-in-law could be the coolest baby boomer on the face of the planet, telling you all the chicks half his age that he smashes when he's away on extended business trips - if either of those motherfuckers steps foot inside your bachelor party, as soon as they cross the threshold they will turn into a Christian fundamentalists. Tales of your pre-wedding shenanigans will get back to her quicker than a case of the clap, with everything you did being exaggerated severely - a dancer slightly rubbing her hands against your body turns into a rather aggressive public hand-job, a pedestrian lap-dance turns into full fledged intercourse, and you playing with a woman's nipples like they were nobs on a stereo will.. well, that would be the only part that son of a bitch gets right.

Besides just flat out not inviting them, have what I call a "Head fake Bachelor Party" - invite them to a pre-wedding dinner with you and your boys, where dirty jokes and alcohol consumption is the main agenda. They are left thinking that was your actual bachelor party celebration, and while they are going home to sleep off the undigested red meat and the malted hops in their system - you and your boys are going to what is actually the real celebration, fully equipped with chicks lacking gag reflexes and good judgment.

Enough with the childish magic tricks!: When I see two naked women in a room, I want to see some good old fashioned same gender love making where at some point they put a two-headed dildo to its proper use - the last thing I want to be is inundated with unimpressive parlor tricks that do nothing but get me pissed off. I've witnessed a woman stick a match through one of her tits and light it, smoke a cigar with her vagina, even forcefully spew water out of that same orifice like some sort of ghetto geyser - all very impressive if I was 18, but I'm 34 man, and nothing short of getting triple penetrated in a vat of melted butter will raise my eyebrow nowadays.

Hire dancers with a sense of humor: I know that the current state of Hip Hop, an endless war, and skyrocketing gas prices can be a bit of a downer - but that's no reason for people to be as touchy as they've been over the last couple of years. For Christs sake, lighten up people. One time I made a chick at the bachelor party wash her hands before giving me a rather innocent hand-job where I wore three condoms - when she wanted to know what my problem was, she got mad when I said "You're a fucking stripper for Christs sake - I usually clutch a pair of rosary beads while coming in contact with people of your ilk!!" She didn't get my brand of humor. Or that one time a friend of mine had hired some dangerously thin strippers, so instead of putting a few stray one dollar bills on the makeshift stage that they were dancing on - I decided to walk up to her, smile, and place a couple of delicious sandwiches at her feet. Just for your information, you never want to be attacked by an anorexic stripper - it feels like your being dry humped by a bag of glittery brooms.

The sluttier the better: I don't condone a future groom getting some pre-wedding nookie from a chick that I wouldn't drink after even if she had a doctors note - the few times that a friend of mine was about to sail those frequently chartered waters, I always reminded him that he didn't want to give his new bride a wedding gift in the name of a discharge on their honeymoon. Matter of fact, coming from a dude as germophobic as I am - I wouldn't condone anyone within a 2 mile radius getting to know the strippers biblically either, but there's an undeniable excitement in the air when you know that the ladies would blow everyone in attendance if the money is right.

My 12th Date: The Trailer-Park Chick

I have to admit, finally exercising the relationship demons after 6 long years feels pretty liberating - akin to how I felt when I received my very first work check, or the way I feel immediately after taking rather busy bowel movements nowadays. A proverbial weight was lifted off of my shoulders, and as soon as I started to realize that I was no longer damaged goods to the next kind woman who let me clumsily thrust inside of her - my ex happened to comment on the very blog where I had just openly admitted to the world that it had taken me a presidential term and a half to get over her. Man, its one thing to dedicate entire posts to my myth ruining unimpressive penis and my pre-ejaculatory ways to a bunch of fucking strangers - but when the subject of one of your diatribes reads your innermost thoughts, to quote Martin Lawrence in "Bad Boys 2", "Shit just got real!" I'm not embarrassed though, maybe something good will come out of her knowing that I haven't been myself since 2001 - only a shell of the man that I once was, akin to a soldier who just returned from a gruesome war or a recently released prisoner who for some reason only wants to fuck his wife in the ass - OK, maybe no good can come from it but at least she knows how I really feel.

Anyway, with a new lease on life and feeling that I just paid off my "karma debt" in terms of relationships - I threw back a shot of Jack Daniels and proceeded to go to the residence of a woman I met last week.

My 12th Date: "The Trailer-Park Chick": When I first started blogging I quickly realized that it was a rather cathartic process, I'm certain that being able to bare my soul like a foot fetish has added 10 years to my life - but I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't expect to have a vast collection of exotic looking panties from my millions of blog admirers by now. Sure, I was fully aware that being a chubby writer wasn't akin to being a rock star, my writings would never spawn a "..and then those Brazilian twins took turns blowing me while I watched the British version of "The Office" stories - but I figured that my social schedule would at least be partially filled up. You know, indiscreet "under the table" hand-jobs from an admirer at a "Blog Meet-up", making sweet love to the throat of a fellow blogger after I agreed to put her on my blogroll - sodomizing librarians on a microfiche who enjoyed my rather witty wordplay. But the funny thing about brutally honest self-deprecating humor, sure it gets you a few laughs - but women aren't exactly beating down your door hoping that you will blow their proverbial backs out, maybe calling my penis a "black myth ruiner" has something to do with that.

So you can just imagine my surprise when a friend of mine, Marie, told me that her home-girl Tamika, who she had hipped to my ramblings was intrigued by my blog and wanted to meet me. I didn't know if she was intrigued in that "wow, it's nice to meet you, you are a great writer - now beat it" sort of way, or if my online ramblings would make it possible for me to introduce her to a certain body part of mine that happens to be meatier than a midget handshake. So after a brief corresponding period, and a few of her semi-naked photo's that I beat off to like my testicles had an expiration date on them - I agreed to stop by her house to have a couple of drinks. As I pulled up to her place of residence, I tried desperately to summon my inner tree-hugging liberal - saying to myself, "Don't be a snob, a gang of people live in trailer parks nowadays - who are you to judge anyways motherfucker?"

So after I knocked on the door, I was met with a stunningly beautiful woman who stood about 5 foot 2 - wearing a top that made it seem as if her breasts were just taunting me like a school yard bully, and shorts so tiny that it made me think about Florence Griffith Joyner for some reason. She then proceeded to give me a very extended hug, with every inch of her body that is - so much in fact that it inspired my penis to speak to me for the first time ever, I looked down and he said "That's right buddy, we're fucking!!"(Should I be concerned that my penis sounds like Carrot-top?) She invited me in and we chatted it up a bit, while we discussed Hip Hop and our shared hatred of Tyler Perry and the belief that he should be stopped at all cost - I kept looking around and saying "This is a trailer? Wow - this is nice", which I'm sure is no different from a white person telling me how "articulate" I am.

A few of her friends unexpectedly stopped by so we decided to all hang out on the porch, drinking beers, having a good time - and within the course of an hour I had met over 20 of her neighbors. They all seemed to be pretty good people, but as I listened to all the stories that people had and how each person in attendance had recurring roles in said stories - that's when I felt like I was stuck in a trailer-park version of a daytime soap opera. You know how soaps go, when its all said and done all of the characters have at one point and time fucked at least 12 other characters and have tried to kill at least 8 others - that's exactly how it felt in that trailer-park coul de sac.

Shit man I'm in a slump, so I would just have to look past her once having sexual relations with two of the women we were having drinks with in the back of my mind - I'd have to forget about the fact that she once blew this kid named jerry who looked like he had down syndrome - god-dammit, I had some serious fucking to do. At least I thought I did, when she asked me to go inside her trailer's kitchen to get a bottle opener - I was surprised to find the shiny object swimming in a sea of unopened Magnum Condom Boxes. Its good to see that she's safe and all, but the last time I wore a magnum condom I remember wrapping it around my cock twice and putting that son of a bitch in an intricate boyscout not just so it would stay on me - I started to feel amazingly inadequate. As I stood with one hand on the bottle opener and one hand grasping the condom box, I couldn't stop thinking about me having sex with a woman who is used to baby arm phallus's being akin to a midget aimlessly wandering around a 25 room mansion.

After I handed her the bottle opener I just walked to my car looking rather expressionless, people asking me "where are you going?" in childlike unison - that's when I heard Tomika say to herself "I knew I should have put away those fucking Magnums!!" For the record, when the shock wears off - I might see her again.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Blackstar - "Definition"

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

The only thing that can save me, is a bride..

I talk a very good game, waxing poetic about my penchant for spelling my name in ejaculate on some poor woman's back, separating a line of pillows between me and my "lover of the moment" based on how much I thoroughly detest snuggling when intercourse isn't involved as if it was something to be proud of - but quiet as kept, I am the only heterosexual male on the face of god's green earth who has fantasized about his wedding day since childhood. Sure, the events of that magical day have gone through a number of alterations over the years - but the elements that have remained the same is how Stevie Wonder would jokingly sing "Part-Time Lover" at the beginning of the proceedings before correcting himself, the way the preacher would slip Hip Hop quotes throughout his sermon in a stealth-like manner, me and my lovely bride writing our own vows - not to mention the one and only DJ Jazzy Jeff spinning old school classics for all my friends and family during the reception. That glorious day, where a shitload of people that I dearly love help me celebrate the next chapter of my life - has been the only constant daydream that I've had over the last 20 years, outside of a rather deviant daydream where I happen to sodomize Spinderella on a bus station bathroom floor.(I'll address that at a later date)

But as of late, because of how miserable my married friends are and how they constantly contemplate putting a loaded shotgun in their collective mouths - that image of wedded bliss that has replayed over and over in my head like a Clearchannel song has become very Tarantino-esque as of late. My lovely bride-to-be running down the aisle busting off twin glocks with reckless abandon, my dear mother hopping two church rows to slice my future father-in-law's Achilles tendon while stuffing a dirty sweatsock into his mouth - I won't even go into Jazzy Jeff decapitating fools with vinyl as Stevie Wonder lifts up what I thought was a walking Cane and blasting people like that blind bastard was going duck hunting. See, my married friends don't make marriage seem like a lifelong commitment that they've come to fully embraced, more like a terminally ill cancer patient that has fully excepted their fate - or a horse after its been broken, or a newly "trained" prostitute who sees nothing wrong with giving a purposeless man all of her hard earned profits. If marriage means my wife talking to me like I was a little fucking boy, having to give Perry Mason-style closing arguments just to be allowed to grab a beer with a buddy, and having to act completely thrilled about my wife showing me her vagina once every four months - no thanks.

So yeah, I was on an anti-marriage stance for a little while - basically content with having emotionless sex with barely legal ass for the next 40 years, clumsily thrusting in some guys wife as I turn down photo's of the loving couple that rest right above the headboard. I had fully accepted the fact that getting checked for STD's would be a weekly routine for me from now on, that's until I started to notice some rather troubling recurring themes in my life - and some of the horrific lows that I had contemplated sinking to.(Even for a guy with no moral barometer like myself.) Not to mention an epiphany that I recently had after a 6 year time period, maybe I should really reconsider the whole marriage thing.

Disgruntled Ex-Boyfriends have me on speed-dial: I don't know if its just my dumb luck, or if its because I happen to deal with women who are criminally negligent when it comes their cell phones - but it seems that my number is the proverbial party line for the scorned lovers of said ladies. Usually getting your life threatened is serious business, but its happened to me so often over the years, where some heart-broken gentleman tells me how he's going to stick a jail-style shiv into my liver - I casually embrace the spirited back and for as if it was one of those Neilson television surveys. For example, this past weekend in fact - the ex-boyfriend of a woman named Carla that I know left a pretty threatening message on my cellphone that went something like like "Listen Pat-na, don't be calling this phone no-motherfucking-more. If I see you in the street, I'm going to beat your ass!" So I called the brother back, and the conversation went like this:

*phone ringing*
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Hello
Me: Sucka-for-love-ass-trick, did you leave a message on my phone this morning - claiming that you were going to "beat my ass"?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: That's not my name, but yeah.
Me: Are you actually doing this?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Doing what?
Me: I mean, what are you - 14 and shit? I thought this sort of thing stopped around the time you were old enough to get yur drivers licence?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Whatever man, stop calling Carla or I'll kill you!
Me: Lets cut through the limp-wristed attempts at machismo and empty rhetoric - how about I give you my address and we just handle this.(I proceeded to give him my address)
Me: Fuck it, I'll make deliveries - give me your address and you can find out if your "I'll beat your ass" talk has any weight behind it.
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Well.. Listen man... Umm
Me: That's what I thought you blubbering vagina. Listen motherfucker, stop calling my phone, and just get comfortable in the fact that the dude you are currently talking to is renovating your baby mamma's vagina like I was a negro Ty Pennington and shit.
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: *Hangs up*

The funny thing about that conversation is that Carla has been a platonic friend of mine that I've known for 15 years, one who I've never had sex with by the way - yeah, I think marriage would cut down on those types of telephone encounters.

"Old English", not the 40oz: There's this nice woman from England that I met at my neighborhood bar a few months ago, an absolute joy to talk to - a rather feisty white broad in her late 40's who is the only woman that I have ever known who is an authority on boxing. I don't know what's wrong with me, I shouldn't be attracted to her, she's not ugly by any stretch of the imagination and she's not a beauty queen either - I'm indifferent about her the same way I am about rice-cakes or the musical stylings of T.I. I'll be completely honest here, the reason why I've wanted to have sex with a woman who has a union jack tattoo on her arm has nothing to do with her looks, personality, or even her affection for the art of fisticuffs - her accent is what makes my unimpressive baby's arm stand at attention. For the past week I've been fantasizing about fucking the shit out of her while shamelessly asking her to say "Hello Love!!" in which she belts out "Ello Luhv!" between thrusts - or the fact that I'd make her saying "Good Mornin' Guvnah!" after she achieved climax. My pride won't let me initiate the "courting" process though - but like a trained sniper having the assassination target in his cross-hairs, if she gives me the go ahead I'm definitely going to take that shot. Another reason why I desperately need to get married.

At last, I'm finally over my ex-girlfriend: I know that I'm going to lose my hetero-street cred addressing this issue, dudes who started using the time honored throatchop because of me will throw-up in their collective mouths after they read this - but it dawned on me this Saturday that its taken me a full 6 years to completely get over my ex-girlfriend. I mean, we broke up in 2001 for christs sake - and being that I don't think about her that much any more and have had girlfriends since then, I just assumed that I had moved on. But now that I really think about it, how I subconsciously expected her to come back to me with hat in hand admitting her mistakes(with a rainstorm providing the backdrop), how deep down I enjoyed the marital problems she was having knowing that I'd get a chance to rekindle what we once had - I now admit that I never fully recovered from that break-up. That was until this past weekend, when she asked me to write her a resume for some vh1 rap reality show that she was trying out for - after I wrote it and she thanked me, it was the first time I wished her all the best and actually meant it. It was the first time I told her that I wanted her to be happy and didn't say "..but not with the motherfucker you are with" under my breath. Ladies, it only took me 6 years to get over a relationship - I'm sitting here with a clean slate, send those wedding inquiries now that that window is open.(OK, slightly ajar)

Don't sleep on 50 cent, he's a bitch just like Kanye..

The one thing that I learned growing up under a verbally abusive father, a topic in which I could be handsomely paid to tour the country and talk about - is the plethora of ways not to "be a bitch". Childhood memories tend to be the best don't they, I still remember getting a concussion and sustaining a broken arm in a Pee-Wee Football game once - and my father pushing me back out on the field against my coaches wishes and saying to me "Nut up you little shit, get back out there play - you're OK, stop being such a bitch!!" Another classic memory is when my father wouldn't let me back into the house after a bully 5 years my senior handed me the beating of a lifetime, I still remember him saying "I didn't raise any god-damn faggots, go back there and handle your business boy. Wipe those tears or I'll give you something to cry about, stop being a bitch!" So I did what any other 9 year old would do when faced with the possibility of sleeping outside and not being fed, I picked up a brick and commenced to beat the fruity-pebbles out of the kid who had just minutes before given me an atomic wedgie. In junior high when a girl broke my heart and I mopped around the house for an entire weekend, my father didn't console me with your standard "there's other fish in the sea" words on encouragement - he proceeded to tell me that she lost interest in me because I was a sensitive and weak bitch, and then graphically broke down the new and innovative sexual positions her new boyfriend was probably showing her at that very moment. It got so bad that I had take a 2 mile walk just to cry over a friend of mine who got gunned down at a High School Football game - all for the fear of my old man seeing my tears and saying "For Christs sake, stop being a bitch!!"

As Kanye West and 50 Cent perpetrated the fraud that is their pseudo-beef I thought about my childhood, a period of time that should have turned me into a cold blooded killer or a raging homosexual - or maybe both, like Matt Damon's character in "The Talented Mr. Ripley". I mean, sure, Kanye's history of being a whining malcontent would make career whiners like John McEnroe and Rasheed Wallace both aggressively shake their heads in disapproval. I'm not here to defend Kanye, even though I could care less about his arrogance - I can concede that him constantly throwing hissy fits over awards that he didn't win makes him look like a petulant child in desperate need of a public beating.

But what's lost in all this, if you look at the verbal bile that has oozed out of 50's mouth as of late - is that its this writer's opinion that Mr.Curtis Jackson is as big of a bitch as Kanye is, instead of throwing tantrums he showers us with unmanly excuses. At least you can chalk up a tantrum as being a sporadic immature act, but failing to take any responsibility for the lukewarm response your acts in your camp have received thus far, going back on his word that he'd retire if Kanye outsold him, whining like a little girl about Kanye bringing Jay-Z out during his 106th and Park performance, blaming his record label for his impending loss against West, blaming Def Jam of "chart-rigging", making empty "I'll drop a record whenever Def Jam release a priority" threats to Def Jam, not to mentioned the cancelled international music events and the rather convenient "I've lost interest" approach he's subscribed to.

I'm just saying, in the words of N.W.A - whether you're a Louie Vuitton wearing malcontent who throws incoherent tantrums, or a survivor of multiple gunshots who can't find enough testosterone to be a man and accept responsibility for one millisecond - a "bitch is a bitch"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Black Sheep "Flavor of the Month"

Thursday, September 13, 2007

HumanityCritic: The Pick-Up Artist?

Call me a raging cynic with an agenda of hate, but I'm always extremely skeptical when some "self-help guru" attempts to unlock life's mysteries for me - coming off as some sort of Yoda-like figure on steroids, taking time out of their precious schedule to lead the masses of the uninformed on the path of eternal enlightenment. But for the longest time, whenever these people gained any sort of notoriety - in my subconscious I always thought to myself "We Don't believe you, you need more people!!!" years before Jay-Z ever uttered those words(of course I was paraphrasing). Not only because their advice always seemed pretty obvious and pedestrian in nature, but didactic preaching does nothing but set you up to be a hypocrite somewhere down the road - just look at how may "family values" guys turned out to be bona fide sperm connoisseurs, and the supposed men of god who use their wife's body as a punching bag when they aren't preaching Sunday service or mentoring young people. I can just imagine all of the pissed off couples who maintained an intimately dead marriage just because one of Tony Robbins' seminars urged them to do so - despite the fact that he divorced his wife of 15 years and "traded up" by marrying a younger woman the exact same year. How about that Greg Behrendt scumbag? Yes, I'm jealous of that guy in a "I wish I could have made a fortune by pushing out a journalistic bowel movement" sort of way, penning the virtual cash-cow that was "He's Just Not That Into You" - a book that has to tell brain-dead chicks that a guy not returning your calls, sodomizing your best friend on your pull-out couch, and referring to you as his "sister" around other women suggests that he's sort of disinterested.

But the other day while I was switching channels, trying to see if I could find some educational programming or the garden variety Janeane Garofalo flick to jerk off to - I came across a show on VH1 called "The Pick-up Artist". This is a show where a pack of men who have been historically unlucky with women, compete to be a master "pick-up artist" under the fine tutelage of a guy named "Mystery" - a man that Elle Magazine billed as "the World's Greatest Pickup Artist". As I tried to figure out what self-respecting woman would even let a dude wearing a Dr. Seuss hat and painted fingernails enter any of her precious orifices - I watched with amazement as geeks that looked as if they were handpicked from central casting ate up every line of the most obvious dating advice outside of telling men to "avoid going dutch". Besides the utterly groundbreaking notion that having confidence, stimulating conversation, and looking half-way presentable is a great way to pick up women - I did some digging and found out that "Mystery" used to be a magician(explains the creepy Criss Angel vibe). Not only that, but I watched a few of his youtube videos and he kind of comes off like a closeted homosexual - it has less to do with his effeminate nature and more to do with the cast of characters he chooses to surround himself with.(I'm saying, with friends named "Matador", J-Dog, and Lovedrop - you know that someone is getting mercilessly cornholed and having their prostate treated like a pinata whenever these dudes hang out)

I remember meeting a douche-bag like this last year, a dude who unsuccessfully tried to get me and my boys to refer to him Optimus Prime or some shit - he bet me 300 dollars that he could take home any woman that I pointed out. This guy was a cornball, and not only did he have a complexion that would make Edward James Olmos cringe but he was also a Dane Cook fan for Christ sake - so I pointed out the finest woman in the joint and giggled to myself as I imagined him retelling some lame routine from his favorite comedian to her. But to my amazement he was doing rather well, she was laughing at all of his lame jokes and looked rather engaged - that's exactly why I went over there and proceeded to give him the beating of a lifetime. You can have all the smooth talk in the world but a woman isn't going to let you see her naked after you received a home-cooked beating where you squealed like a constipated pig and cried this guy over Britney Spears - after I threw a table on his ass I said, "Give me my 300 bucks motherfucker, I mean, Optimus Prime!!" Enough of my incessant rambling, here are a few sure fire techniques that I use to pick up women - granted, my genitalia is about to atrophy based on its inaction and actual tumbleweeds roll around in my bedroom, but its still sound advice God-dammit!!

"Make it Rain" in that motherfucker: Did you really expect to get some sane and rational advice from someone who gets his girlfriends off of Craigslist? I'm just saying, the few times that I've walked up to a bar while holding handfuls of cash and angrily said, "I'm holding 2 thousand dollars, what low-esteem having woman in this shit-hole wants to fuck like we're two drugged-up test bunnies?" - at the end of the night I found myself at least getting a rather indiscreet hand-job in the comfortable confines of my monster car. Sure the tactic is barbaric in nature, and you will hear women within earshot gasp and call you all sorts of nasty names - but come 2 AM when you find yourself bartering with a woman who wants breakfast in exchange for sex in a wooden area like we were a couple of bears an shit, lets just say its worth it. Remember that line from Sir Mixalot's "Posse on Broadway" when he says: "Kid Sensation dropped a 20 and didn't even miss it/
this skeezer from another crew she picked it up and kissed it
" - well, carelessness with money of that magnitude attracts women to you as well. Sure, the wrong women who's medicine cabinets stays stocked with Valtrex - but women all the same.

Be Kanye West inside your own head: I know that I'm in the minority here, but I'm a Kobe Bryant fan - and one of the criticisms that I absolutely loathe is when I hear people say that he's "arrogant" as if such an argument is akin to a Perry Mason closing argument. I mean, take Kobe Bryant out of the equation for a minute - don't you want the star of your favorite team to be arrogant, a player thinking that he can sink every shot and drive past any defender seems like nothing but a plus to me. Having arrogance is a great tool to have when meeting women, sure, you don't want to let it spill out in your conversational vernacular - but feeling that you are the unadulterated shit not only helps the words flow out of your mouth effortlessly, but its also an outstanding defense mechanism when getting rejected. If some woman rejects your advances, you can walk away thinking comforting thoughts like: "I can't get with anyone who doesn't know who Large Professor is anyways!", "Thank god she dissed me, she couldn't find China on a map for Christs sake - the tenure of our relationship would feel like one perpetual tutoring session", and "Who told her that those shoes went with that skirt anyways? Bloody fucking savage!"

Make her the only game in town: Since I'm fully aware that men have the habit of thinking a woman is obligated to them whenever they buy her a drink - the few times that I have bought a woman a drink, it usually comes with a "I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, I promise I won't stalk you - matter of fact, if you were on fire and I had to go to the bathroom something fierce I probably wouldn't piss on you" speech attached to it. I don't mind being the chubby guy, the hot head, the guy that gleefully times his pre-ejaculations with a stopwatch while saying "I just beat my own record!" - but the last thing I want to be is the "creepy guy", following some broad around a club while hearing her girlfriend say "Girl, here he comes again!" That being said, I do believe that your chances of picking up a woman increases if you happen to only pursue her that night - take it from me because I know, a guy who has gone on to publicly finger women after getting the number of someone I really wanted to get to know. Its not a good look.

Man, compliments really do work!: One of the biggest arguments that me and my ex-girlfriend had, besides the way we would bicker about me putting an ashtray on her back while she blew me - was her feeling, being a bartender and all, that black folks never tipped. At the time I saw her blatant honesty as being nothing but self-loathing of the Black Republican variety - I kept waiting for her to show up at some Lilly white political convention where they shamelessly used her one brown face as an example of the party's inclusion of African Americans. It got so bad that I did things like call her "Aunt Tomasina" during sex, and I would perform a minstrel-esque soft-shoe routine whenever she came into the house - but despite my taunts, and me calling her a "fucking race traitor" in front of her parents - she stuck to her beliefs that black folks didn't tip. Since a few years have passed I can't say that I've come around to her way of thinking, but every time I'm at a bar and lay down a serious tip - the bartender tends to be over ecstatic, belting out an exuberant "Thanks Mister!" like they were a kid in a 1930's era movie who was just given some money. I said all that because its my belief that women hardly get compliments, ones that don't make her want to go home and scrub her body raw with an S.O.S pad - I've noticed that the few times I've handed out even the fainest of praise recently, it has led to a few situations that will probably have my hypochondriac ass in the clinic pretty soon for some cautionary check-ups.

My mother is definitely Hip Hop

This morning, after I woke up and trolled the world wide web for some Internet filth that I could use to initiate my ritualistic "morning yank" - I found this clip from "Breakin'" that thoroughly depressed me to the point that I wanted to leap off my back deck(Granted, its only 6 feet down). It had nothing to do with the bad acting, the laughable dance moves, or the fact that I'm realizing my dreams of ever making love to a break-dancing white girl is diminishing as my gut expands and blocks more of my cock by the day - watching this video reminded me that I'm not ready to be a father. I'm serious, do you know how many criminally bad Hip Hop themed Hip Hop flicks my mother took me to out of her love for her baby boy? - "Breakin'", "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo", "Beat Street", the Fat Boys movie "The Disorderlies" - even that theatrical shit-stain starring Mario Van Peebles called "Rappin'". That's love for your ass, an affection that I can't see myself exhibiting to any of my offspring. I mean, if I had a kid and they wanted to see "You Got Served", "Rize"(The 2005 film about krumping), shit even "Drumline" - I'd answer them with a swift "Fuck No!!", not because I wouldn't want to spend time with my blessed demon-seed but because I'm a snob who thinks their time would be better served watching documentaries on Kool Herc and Africa Bambaataa. I see know that I'm not ready to be a father, hell, I may never be ready.

That's why I will always have such a deep respect and love for my mother, outside all the extremely piss poor movies that she took me to and sat through - but what other 68 year old woman that you know can recite a large part of Kane's verse in "Set it Off", knows that Queen Latifah was a part of The Native Tongues, and understands the integral part Flavor Flav played in serving as Chuck D's counterbalance? I love my mother, not only because she knows her son is an asshole and loves him despite that - but because she is Hip Hop like a motherfucker.

P.S: Here is a clip of my baby "Special K" yanking three people from the mortal coil in a jacuzzi - that shit makes me love Lucinda Dickey even more..

Topic: Kanye West

I guess the reason why I never joined the legion of faceless voices on the Internet and hated on Kanye is because I always felt that my bitter hatred could be directed at more deserving targets - its sort of like the Michael Vick situation, sure what he did was wrong and he should be punished to the fullest extend of the law(blah, blah) - but as long as there is a Jena Six out there, a war going on, and deaths rates around the country are skyrocketing, I just can't get myself all riled up over some dead dogs.(Maybe the fact that I'm not an animal person contributes to that, well - I am down for a good old fashioned Tijuana Donkey-show though!)

But honestly, since Kanye seems to truly love the art-form of Hip Hop - I always gave his incessant babbling and him being a whining malcontent a pass, I see diamond encrusted smiles and "phone-it-in" rap verses to be more of a hell-worthy trespass considering the current Hip Hop landscape. Besides, I sort of dig his album - him being on some Frank Sinatra "I'm doing it my way" shit, the way you can tell by listening that he won't allow any of his guests outshine him, even the way that the only time Mos Def is used is on a song called "Drunk and Hot Girls"(Brilliant I say, letting all those women who feel that cats like Mos and Common walk on water - at the end of the day, they wanna fuck too ladies!)

But if you want to really see how low Hip Hop journalism has actually sunk(as if it was ever stellar to begin with), just read a few of the reviews for "Graduation" - sure most of them are glowing, but it seems that all of the reviewers feel comfortable in saying that Kanye's lyrics are his greatest weakness which I find interesting. Sure, he isn't Rakim - but the source of that criticism is rather interesting when you do some research on the writer in particular and find out that they once sang the lyrical praises of cats like Young Jeezy, Lil Wayne, and Chamillionaire. Writers can't treat Hip Hop like its the fucking special Olympics, giving the glass licking microphone wielders a medal just for completing a coherent sentence to a beat but penalize the able-bodied MC for not living up to your lofty lyrical standards? What part of the game is that exactly? Get the fuck outta here!

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: E-Rule - "Listen Up"

Thank you for your vote!

This year I am the proud winner of "Best Blog Post" for my "Who Killed Hip Hop? On some "JFK" shit.." entry - I'd like to personally thank everyone who voted for me. One step closer to blog domination, a couple of steps closer to lesser bloggers everywhere finally coming clean about masturbating to my words - unfortunately nowhere near getting meaningless sex that doesn't require a cash transaction.

Thank you again..

Humanity F Critic aka "Gordon Gartrell"

Friday, September 07, 2007

I am, whoever you say I am

This week, as I prepared to make my acting debut for a comedy troupe that I've been writing for since March - it made me think about some utterly random career advice that has haunted me for the last 6 years. As my father was dying of cancer in a hospital room in Virginia Beach Virginia, me feeling funny about the both of us bonding over tales of me ass-fucking his nurse in a broom closet despite our historically turbulent relationship - I distinctly remember the Denzel Washington movie "The Siege" playing in the background. After tales of hardcore hospital sodomy wore off, and when the laughing at the irony of her name being "Ms. Brown" subsided - my father watched the movie for a few moments, looked at me and said "You know, you're funny and charismatic. You could do that!!" Being that the scene that was on when he said that featured Denzel's co star I said, "You think I could fuck Annette Bening? Really? I guess if the opportunity presented itself I could...." - my father interrupted me with "No fuck-nuts, I think you could be one hell of an actor!" I was speechless because on one hand the last compliment that my father gave me had to do with me bashing a bully in the face with a brick like he suggested when I was seven, and on the other hand it was strange coming from my father since he historically viewed any occupation where you didn't fix something as an illegitimate profession - so I know that my face exhibited a sort of bewildered smile, a facial expression you'd probably make if you were about to fuck Jennifer Lopez and she all of a sudden took a rather busy shit in the middle of the floor. Besides the randomness of it all, I guess that display of fatherly advice has always haunted me because it was the last conversation that we ever had.

But after a few sporadic encounters that I first chalked up to garden variety coincidence turned into an actual sign from some miscellaneous deity - I started to think that being a thespian was an actual possibility, and not just what I thought you called a lesbian with a lisp. See, for the past few months, friends of mine from all walks of life mind you - didn't take it upon themselves to go the easy route by describing my behavior with some flashy adjective, they went out of their way to equate my idiosyncrasies to characters in theatrical releases. The first time it happened I was kind of honored, but the fourth time it happened it was both creepy and a hint that most of my friends view me as an ultra violent prick - let me break it down for you.

I am Robert DeNiro in "Mean Streets": The mere fact that I'm both a Kobe Bryant and a Mike Tyson fan is kind of telling, no, I get a woman's consent before I make sweet and tender love to her voice box - its telling because like both of those men, either you think that I'm the unadulterated shit or you want me having passionate discussions about Hip Hop with Tupac and Jam Master Jay. My friend Brian pointed this out the other day while we were at a local club, the first few people that I encountered sang my praises to Brian - retelling some good deed that I had done and how I made them laugh when they were going through some seriously troubling times. But the next encounters were with dudes I had knocked out, friends of dudes I had throat-chopped, women who I ejaculated on and never called again, men whose chains I snatched off their necks post pummeling - 99% of the words that escaped their bitter mandible were either veiled threats or them calling me some variety of douche-bag. That's when Brian said, "Jesus HumanityCritic, you are the human embodiment of the Robert DeNiro character in "Mean Streets" and shit!!"

I am Don Chedle in "Devil in a Blue dress": Most of the friends that have disassociated themselves from me has less to do with my violent outbursts but more to do with the extremely casual nature in which I perform said viciousness. Not only that, especially when someone is deserving of the time honored beat-down, I find knocking someone on their proverbial ass as funny as slapstick pies in the face and pratfalls - a habit that usually leaves the victim more horrified than anything. I know that I have serious issues to wrestle with, beating up the husband of my ex-girlfriends co-worker who was making her life unbearable to "send a message" was unnecessary - laughing while I choke-slammed an older gentleman who was mad at the fact that I had commented on his wife's breast augmentation surgery by saying "Your wife getting a boob job is like putting expensive rims on a jalopy, whats the point since its going to the junkyard soon anyway!" was inexcusable. But recently when a fight broke out between four gentleman and my bouncer friend subdued one of the offenders he said, "HumanityCritic, hold this guy while I get the others - don't hit him!!!" Lets just say when he got back the poor kid was on the floor nursing a black eye and sobbing like a school girl with a bruised knee, to retort the disgusted look on my friend's face I said "Hey, he was trying to get away!!" When the young man tried to reject my claim I cut him off mid sentence by kicking him in the ribs, that's when my friend cryptically said "Damn, Don Chedle in "Devil in a Blue Dress!"

I am Leonardo DiCaprio in "Aviator": OK, so I may have a few quirks that some people find alarming - like how I carry around bottles of sanitizers in my pockets, and before having a meal in a restaurant I perform circus-like maneuvers where I open doors and pull out my chairs with my feet when returning from the restroom. I have fucked women with questionable backgrounds while wearing three condoms making my cock resemble a balloon animal, I routinely clean my house-phone that only I use - and when I'm on that phone and a person yaps continuously with no sign of ever stopping, I angrily shake the receiver and let out subtle groans like I've lost my natural mind. But the most egregious of all offenses is my inability to get certain phrases out of my head, like the other day when I was talking to a "Hip Hop writer" who said that Rakim was "overrated" - I said "You don't know shit about Hip Hop, die you fucking infidel!!", but I kept uttering that same phrase for the next half hour. Hence the Leonardo DiCaprio comparison that followed.

I am Peter Ustinov in "Death on the Nile":
Ever since I was a kid I fashioned myself as a pedestrian sleuth, solving neighborhood mysteries like finding the culprit who stole Johnny's bike or the identity of the new man Chris's mom is letting treat her tonsils like a bona fide pinata. Even now that I'm a grizzled 34 year old with grey pubes and a distinct distaste for post coital snuggling - I can be found figuring out who the real father of a chick's baby is, the only woman with the motive and the opportunity to put a brick through my car window, and who had the most to gain by telling a girl that I'm crushing on that I frequent a gay bar called "The Cockpit" - I'm like a dreadlocked version of Magnum P.I, minus the Ferrari and the queer flavor-saver mustache. Recently a friend of mine said that I reminded them of Peter Ustinov's character in "Death on the Nile", Hercule Poirot, because of how I explained to him why I felt that he was the one who had stolen my Kool G Rap Greatest Hits mix-tape: (Me pacing in front of him) "You were the one that swiped my CD, fucking sticky fingers - the way you acted all nervous as I searched my car for it was the first clue. Then I remember how many times you've expressed your admiration for the queens born MC, waxing poetic about how underrated he is - even going so far as to tell me, on July 3rd to be exact, that listening to his verse in "The Symphony" gets you physically "aroused" as you described it. Not to mention the fact that your son's first and middle name miraculously happens to be Nathaniel Wilson and the thousands of threatening emails you've sent to Superhead for slandering Kool G Rap's good name - just admit, you took my motherfucking tape!!" That's when he did what all the culprits do in murder mysteries when confronted with the truth, he clapped very slowly and then the bastard said "Jackass, you let me borrow it - remember?" Oh..

Is Rudy Giuliani the Lil Wayne of Politics?

Rudy's penchant for cross-dressing has been well documented, I've never seen a man look more comfortable wearing make up and flowing blouses(outside of Boy George that is) and we all know how Lil Wayne likes to tongue kiss grown men that he refers to as "daddy" - but the similarities don't stop with both of them having lifetime subscriptions to "Men's Health" for all the wrong reasons and purchasing "anal ease" in bulk. I always felt that Rudy's "hero" tag was completely bogus, there is evidence to the contrary for Christs sake - but as we all know the media has propped that motherfucker up like he was personally carrying people out of The World Trade Center on 9/11. Whenever I encountered some right-wing ass-hat who sheepishly bought the media's bill of goods on Mr. Giuliani and attempted to knock down their hero a few pegs with some bona fide truths - they always attempt to shout me down with irrelevant counter-arguments, the adult version of covering your ears while screaming "Naa-Naaa-Naaa-Naaa". Its the same thing with Lil Wayne, people have tried to tell me how great of an artist he is and that I should give him a chance - but everything that I've ever heard from him has been remarkably wack(See: Verse on Kanye's "Barry Bonds"), I just don't see what people's admiration for the guy is. Claims of Lil Wayne's "great lyricism" is like that friend in High School who wanted you to believe that he had a girlfriend and that she lived in Canada - despite how lovely he claimed she was and all the salacious sex stories, there was never any evidence that that broad ever existed.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: K-Solo "Your moms in my business"

K-Solo - Your Moms In My Business

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Bro Rape: A Newsline Investigative Report

I don't know, I thought this was funny..

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

The Cluster-fuck that was my 34th birthday..

One of the reasons why I have historically rejected self-congratulatory birthday celebrations is because I'm one morbid motherfucker, I always thought my penchant for bar brawls and back talking officers of the law would prompt my mother to wear her finest black dress while sobbingly clutching my casket like Bruce Lee in "Fists of Fury" - I was clearly on some Tupac, "I don't see myself living very long" shit. Another reason I saw birthday celebrations as utterly pointless had to do with my father, a man who thought that any room where 2 or more men occupied space and weren't replacing a car motor was akin to a homosexual orgy - usually before I could question his twisted logic as to why I couldn't have a party, he'd literally throw money at me to silence my party request.(I guess that's why I tend to throw money at problems as well, I can't tell you how many girlfriends I've had that weren't in the mood to give me oral and I said "Would a crisp 20 dollar bill change your mind?" No wonder why I'm still single)

So I guess the only way I can explain my eagerness to celebrate my 34th birthday this year is based on a deep-rooted feeling of missing out, like that college freshman who has more cocks in her than a hen-house due to the fact that she lived under the roof of a Christian fundamentalist for 17 years - like Michael Jackson's need to relive his childhood and peruse prepubescent ass-cracks based on all those brutal whippings he found himself on the business end of when he wasn't giving magazine interviews and recording song ad-libs. This year was going to be memorable dammit, I saw my germophobic self partying with a couple of hot twins who occasionally prompted baby-arm sized erections by showing me their clean bill of health from my personal doctor - envisioning them drunkenly going down on me like my penis had that "Cocoon" - 'fountain of youth pool water" in it as I watched "Lets Do it Again" while snacking on some hot wings. Or maybe in a swanky club where the flowing champagne almost outnumbered the fine women who were well above my pay grade - but because its my special day, back room sodomy requests would be granted by me simply shrugging and saying "Come on, its my birthday - I promise not to make any "what is this, corn?" jokes mid thrust!!"

But none of that happened, it being a holiday weekend and Virginia having some of the toughest D.U.I laws in the country - me and my boy Danny were reduced to celebrating my birthday in a neighborhood bar that we've frequented at least 300 times before. Shit, I wasn't disappointed, I was celebrating my 34th birthday with one of my best friends - but what transpired will have me shaking my head in bewilderment for many years to come. Here is a quick rundown of what happened.

The whole bar bought me shots: The only good thing about my neighborhood bar is that its in walking distance, the benefits stop there - the women who peruse that sub par drinking establishment look as if they were spawned from siblings or grew up next to a row of nuclear reactors. But then again, I am the black "Norm" from "Cheers" in that bitch - everyone from the homeless guy who lives in a bottle when he's not calling a cardboard box home to this chick who is almost finished withmed school give me unadulterated love as soon as I walk through the door. Based on me usually being the only brown face in the entire joint, I'm beginning to understand how Franklin felt - you know, the only black character in the "Peanuts" comics. Well, Friday night everyone who I'd ever spoken to took it upon themselves to buy me a shot - somewhere around midnight, on my 8th shot, I said to myself "This is going to end rather badly!!"

I offered someone my hit-man services: For some reason, for the life of I don't know why - but people always feel completely comfortable confiding their most intimate secrets to me. Friday night was no exception, as I started to see double and do my best Nick Cage impression in "Leaving Las Vegas" - a lady in her late 40's started to tell me the sordid tale of her pregnant daughter and the estranged husband who recently threatened to kick her in the belly. Apparently, excessive alcohol makes me champion the causes of complete strangers - because I vaguely remember offering to "take out" said offender, and for the last couple of days I've been getting these cryptic "Are you going to do what we talked about" messages on my voicemail.

Lip Locking strangers: The next day, when I was coming off of my drunken stooper enough to at least communicate monosyllabically - I called my boy Danny to see what specific carnage that I left in my wake. Come to find out, according to him - I was involved in a pretty serious lip-lock in the parking lot before we left. He said, "Man, I just stood by and let you two go at it - I just thought that all the black chicks who read your blog would be interested to know that you were swapping saliva with a chick whiter the the main character in "Powder" and shit." I had no idea who I could have been kissing, for all I knew he was joking - but a phone call from another source backed Danny's story up, and I unfortunately found out who I was kissing. The girl, *gulp*, is a chick who has been passed around that bar like a blunt at a Wailers concert - after I violently threw up(for a second time) and went over my tongue a few times with a SOS pad - I proceeded down a bottle of Listerine like it was a 40oz.

I woke up on my back deck: Kevin Smith, the director of "Clerks" and "Dogma" to name a few - puts out a podcast that I listen to as frequently as I can. Well, a couple of weeks ago I wish I would have skipped that episode - because in it he was talking about a spider bite video that he was forwarded, a nasty clip where the person squeezes puss and worm-like objects out of the face.(the place of the bite) Well, ever since then - I've made it my business to vigorously shake out my clothes and shoes before wearing them - like I needed something else to be paranoid about. That being said, the next morning I woke up on my back deck - covered in morning dew and creepy crawlers that forced me to rip off my clothes and nakedly bath under my water hose. Did I mention that while I was doing this I was yelling at the top of my lungs and screaming shit like "Fight the Power" ala Martin Lawrence? Not for nothing, but some of my neighbors got a show - I envision one of them pointing to their husband and saying "See honey, that myth isn't true!!!"

What is in my pocket? I don't know what I got myself into, but the contents of my pocket were the following: A Couple of shell-necklaces, 100 dollars more than I began the night with, a bottle opener, and a ping pong ball. What in the fuck?

Projectile Vomiting: After I had taken an impromptu shower under my garden hose and drank some Listerine, a younger woman who likes me decided to stop over to bring me breakfast - a chick named Carla whose dirty pillows and naturally thick lips made me momentarily forget that she was in first grade when I was a senior in High School. As we sat on my porch, her smelling like heaven and me smelling like a medicine cabinet - I felt my stomach slowly starting to churn, my intestines felt like a washer machine with too many clothes inside of it. My mouth started to get very watery as well and I had already owned the fact that I was indeed going to throw up - but I was just trying to time it right, like a porn star times his money shot - knowing that throwing up in her presence while she waxed poetic about Lil Wayne would be one hell of a statement. Well, lets just say that I mistimed it - because the next thing I knew I had projectile vomited on her while apologizing profusely. She was obviously outraged and I'm sure that I'll never see her again, despite my offer to run her through my garden hose before letting her wear the clothes that one of my recent conquests left at the crib.


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 Tourettes-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 walked 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.

She wanted some wine - some of the finest storebought stomped grapes were in front of her before the completion of her sentence. She wanted some romantic music in the background for ambiance - I popped in a Public Enemy "Greatest Hits" CD (Nothing gets a chick in the mood like Welcome to the Terrordome.) After we chatted a bit, she wanted to watch a movie - No problem. I slide in a movie called "Idiocracy" that I had randomly selected from Netflix a few days before. The only thing I knew about the flick is that it was written and directed by Mike Judge, the man responsible for "Beavis and Butthead" and the classic "Office Space", so I figured that this movie was destined to be an absolute side-splitter. The thing is, it was only partially funny in that "this is some really silly shit" sort of way - sure it was a comedy, but mostly me and my date found ourselves laughing at parts that weren't meant to be funny at all. Even though I can't say that I'd recommend that particular flick to anyone I even remotely liked, I have to admit that the storyline of said flick was the perfect analogy concerning the way I feel about Hip Hop right about now.

See, the movie Idiocracy is a flick where an average Joe (Luke Wilson) and a prostitute (Maya Rudolph) are subjected to a military experiment where they are supposed to Hibernate in these coffin-like chambers for an entire year. (Think Hans Solo in Empire.) Instead, they are virtually forgotten about due to a military scandal, and they emerge 500 years later in what looks like a massive landfill. When they get amongst the people they find out rather quickly that society has intellectually regressed - to a world that embraces anti-intellectualism to the point that humanity is uniformly stupid, with people blissfully ignorant, murdering the English language, talking as if they were recovering from some sort of massive stroke. That's when it struck me, this movie is the perfect metaphor for Hip Hop.

It seems that much of the Hip Hop has regressed. An artform that once prided itself on the written word and brilliant oratory skills - now scoffs at such high standards as if they were old hat, some notable Emcees even going so far as to say that they don't freestyle, some of them even looking down on one of the main elements of Hip Hop - B-Boying. Hip Hop fans have regressed, so thirsty for something worthwhile that a lot of the time people praised as the next saviors are only marginal at best - I won't even go into the people who I respect that have recently sang the praises of acts like Lil Wayne, Dipset, or anyone else who would have had their demo thrown in the circular file circa 1989. Like the movie Idiocracy, I feel as if I've been frozen from the year 1989 - only to return to a place where everyone around me seems to be drooling lunatics, unaware that what they think is logical debate is actually nothing but incessant incoherent rambling.

Personally, I wouldn't lose one ounce of sleep if the words "Nigger," "Bitch," and "Ho" were deleted from the Hip Hop lexicon - as an aficionado of lyricism I feel that those particular words are used to mask the obvious shortcomings of untalented rappers the world over. But is Russell Simmons really the one to bring this to the public's attention? I mean, is he really concerned with the direction Hip Hop has taken, or is he trying to save face - attempting to make everyone who saw him on Oprah last week forget that he came across as articulate as Barney Fife on a two-day crank binge? People who, I admit, are much smarter than I'll ever be, are taking a backseat to logic in terms of this proposed "ban" - coming across like those same knuckle-draggers I saw in that bad movie - blaming Hip Hop because they universally suck as parents. Censorship is a slippery slope, and even though I wish all utterances that disrespect women to miraculously leave rappers mouths like evil spirits during exorcisms - the sad reality is that it won't stop there, and some of your favorite rappers will soon find themselves being Public Enemy #1 in the name of good old-fashioned obscenity. Also, aren't there other words that can be used to disrespect women? I'm sure that some rappers will "take it old school" so to speak and start calling women "Stunts" and "Skeezers." Or even taking it extremely old school and start referring to young ladies as "Harlots," Jezebels," "Hussies," or even "Trollops," for gods sake. So those words acceptable as long as the words "Bitch" and "Ho" aren't mentioned? How about going beyond the music itself, taking an adult look and analyzing why misogyny and the denigration of women is an epidemic in our community? Not doing that is like treating the hypertension but not taking the greasy foods out of ones' diet, or taking the Styrofoam cup out of the bum's hand to stop him from begging. What kind of diseased mind-fuck is that?

I don't exactly know how Idiocracy ended because I was too busy dancing naked to a Heavy D tune - but I'd like to think it concluded with the rest of the world catching up to Luke Wilson's character on an intellectual level. Man, I really hope that life imitates art.

MC Serch Feat.Chubb Rock,Nas---Back To The Grill

MC Serch Feat.Chubb Rock,Nas---Back To The Grill

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On top of having a weekend that my liver will never forgive me for, I've acquired a rather nasty summer-time cold - that's what I get for tongue-kissing strangers who I haven't let a multitude of doctors and specialists administer thorough diagnostic checks yet. As I was buzzing off of "Theraflu" - hoping that one of the chicks I contacted through craigslist would bring some chicken soap in route to give me a mouth-hug, I saw something on television entitled the "Ozone Music Awards". As I watched in amazement, not the "I can't believe all the great music being celebrated" type but the "I can't believe that hooker is actually taking that pounding from that donkey" variety - I was just intrigued that so many of the acts that I sincerely loathe happened to be under one roof. That's when I thought about MC Serch's line in "Back to the Grill": "So here's a true and false, tell me if it's factual/ You wanna kill the Klan, shoot the fans a tractor pull". I mean, I would never condone the merciless killing of thousands of my brothers and sisters - but it makes you think, would the musical landscape be vastly improved if the location of the said award show happened to be the next al Qaeda target?

Ok, suggesting murder for the sake of improving Hip Hop doesn't make me any better than crazies like Ann Coulter - so let me take a step back from my previous statements because they are indeed rather extreme. But I'm just saying, if you ever are going through a serious bout of depression, just go to youtube and find clips of the Ozone Awards show - find solace in the fact that there are thousands of people that you are better than.

Dick Cheney is a bigger douchebag than Michael Vick.

Dick Cheney in 1994 discussing Iraq.