Anatomy of a Smear

(Hat-tip Bob Cesca)

Not for nothing, but this is the video you show all those convenient hand-wringers who openly wonder why President Obama has been on a media blitz as of late. Doing "60 Minutes". Answering questions for that Online Townhall yesterday. Doing Jay Leno last week. Sure, our Commander-in-Chief should be out there explaining to as many people as humanly possible what his specific plans are. But the real reason for the media tour, I believe, is that Barack Obama knows that our media is traditionally lazy as fuck and commonly susceptible to right wings meems. Outside of David Shuster, Keith Olbermann, and Rachel Maddow - you'd be hard pressed to find any news person who actually pushed back on the fictitious republican claims of what was in the Stimulus package. More times than not I witnessed respected journalists simply regurgitate that small business falsehood as if it was gospel. Because of that, I implore our President to do even more media. Momentarily revive "Rap City", so he can tell people more about his Afghanistan strategy between his favorite Run D.M.C and Public Enemy videos. I wan him to go on "Flava of Love", round up everyone on the cast and sternly say to the American people "THIS is why my budget focuses on education!" Anything to counterbalance the smears.

The Obama Roots Remix(Late Night with Jimmy Fallon)

Being that I kept hoping that Black Thought would lay down a verse to that beat, the Roots should really turn that joint into a song.

David Letterman smacks Obama's critics - Teleprompter vs. No Teleprompter

One of the silliest critiques of the President that I've witnessed so far has been the suggestion that the man can't finish complete sentences without a teleprompter near by - a intentionally hyperbolic claim I know, but the thousands of interviews and debate performances just don't bare that shit out. It's also a curious claim based on who our last president was, a man who sounded like Barney Fife on Mescaline on his best day. Talk about amateur hour, the President's detractors simply have to do better.

Apparently our President is a Bruce Lee fan

Bruce Lee: "Just keep calm. No illusion and no imagination, but to apprehend the actual situation you are in and find a way to deal with it. No excessive action is needed. Just keep your body and mind relaxed to deal with the outside emergency."

As a person who has been in his fair share of bar brawls, I feel like I'm uniquely suited to pass down some jewels of wisdom in terms of the time honored tradition of alcoholic fisticuffs. First off, whenever you encounter some angry group of men upset at you for tongue kissing one of their girlfriends, or unplugging the jukebox because they choose to play some some monosyllabic rapper that disagrees with my virgin ears - be sure to target the mouthpiece of said irate mob. Sure, the mouthiest one of the bunch is usually the one with the flimsiest jaw and weakest resolve - but I couldn't tell you how many times chin-checking the thug spokesmen virtually paralyzes everyone else. Be economical: I don't care if you fight someone in a bar that you've been going to for years, if everyone in attendance shouts your name out when you walk through the door as if you were "Norm" from "Cheers" and shit - you never know where the friend of the person you are fighting lurks. So keep fights quick, throat-chops, clotheslines, knee strikes, there is absolutely nothing wrong with getting your WWE on and hitting a motherfucker with a chair. Besides, I'm a chubby alcoholic, I get easily winded. Lastly, when taking on one or more thugs at a time, you will be best served to do so calmly.

That was Bruce Lee's philosophy. As difficult as it may sound, putting your anger aside while trying to dispatch someone intent on putting you on the business end of a beating, the inventor of Jeet Kune Do had it exactly right. You think clearly, see punches coming from a mile a way, you don't make the same strategical mistakes born out of anger - and you conserve the much needed energy usually sapped by emotion. Granted, I'm sure that Bruce Lee didn't have drunken bar brawls in mind when passing along said wisdom, but I digress.

I've been thinking a lot about Bruce Lee ever since President Obama's appearance on "60 Minutes" a couple of days ago. There have been many criticisms of our newly elected President, from writers who have dangled their credibility over a ledge by assessing Obama's first term after 60 fucking days in office to the usual partisan drivel coming from the outdated mandibles of your garden variety conservative - but Obama's "laugh heard around the world" on "60 Minutes" has apparently offended the delicate sensibilities of those on the left and on the right. Douchebaggery is clearly bi-partisan. Hackery knows no political affiliation. Jesus Christ, one day Obama's message on the economy is "too dire, not upbeat enough" - the next day he is "too happy", "needs to strike a somber tone about our country's economic situation". It seems that President Obama can't take a fundamental bowel movement without scores of people ringing their collective hands about it.

Watching the interview, especially after he said "we can't govern out of anger", it became crystal clear that President Obama has decided to use Bruce Lee's lessons for good and not evil.(Like me) With an economic crisis to deal with, the public outrage over AIG bonuses, two wars, health care and education to deal with, the clusterfuck going on in Mexico - those problems have to be dealt effectively by having the clearest mind possible. The same way a calm demeanor allowed me to duck a pool stick swung by the girlfriend of a guy that I had just body slammed, or the extremely lazy uppercut thrown by an old man upset that I had just very cavalierly broke his walking cane in half for questioning Barack Obama's citizenship - Obama's calm demeanor proves to a bar brawling asshole like myself that he has the clarity to make the right decisions. Mainstream media hackery sees his laughter as a hellworthy trespass, I see it as a President putting Master Lee's lessons to good use.

Jimmy Fallon and the Roots "Slow Jam the News"

This just in: Hip Hop is not the "pet rock"(Vibe.com)

Outside of the many occasions I've taken it upon myself to channel great thespians of yesteryear like Marlon Brando and Lawrence Olivier while trying to convince some perceptive female that she was indeed my one and only - the sole achievement on my acting resume was the theatrical tour de force that I gave when I played "Biff Loman" in the classic "Death of a Salesman" in junior high. Yes, my acting resume is actually thinner than Chris Tucker's, but that hasn't stopped daydreams of one day seeing my government name in lights one iota. Sometimes when I stare off into space I envision my screenwriting ambition finally playing out, an overweight, cigar smoking studio head taking a herculean gamble on me and making it his business to get my vision realized on the big screen - then my mind automatically skips a few steps and places me on stage giving my Oscar acceptance speech of all places. Tears flowing down my face as I nervously wave to Kate Winslet in the crowd while telling the actress that I absolutely adore her work, and after thanking the woman who almost died having me and the big guy upstairs who died for all of our sins - I then proceed to take a not too subtle shot at Tyler Perry - admitting that I chose actors who were previously in his movies just so they would have the golden opportunity of washing that subsequent stink off of them. Then I grab the Oscar, confidently walk to the middle of the stage, then begin a series of misguided poses in my toughest B-Boy stance until the commercial break fades my chubby visage to black.

Another daydream I have is being on James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio". As I confide in the Dean of the Actors Studio Drama School while sitting in front of a couple hundred impressionable students, all hanging on my every syllable, the following things are revealed: I matter-of-factly let everyone in on the fact that my writing style comes from years of being a frustrated MC.- I proceed to tell extremely interesting back-stories about all the movies I had written up until that point. - Then, what would turn out to be an accidental youtube moment, I desperately try to suppress the lump in my throat while telling every one within earshot that my father continuously told me that I'd never amount to anything. Hell, I even have the answers to James Lipton's "Bernard Pivot" inspired questionnaire committed to memory. Favorite word? "Douchebag" What turns you on? "Janeane Garofalo's sarcasm, and the thought of phenomenally sloppy oral Fantasia must give" In my head I effortlessly slice and dice through the rather pedestrian questions like a Hibachi chef on adderall, but I've always been rather uneasy about the answer that I give to the question "What profession would you not like to do?" For years "Radio Disc Jockey" has been my stock answer, but it never quite felt right - that was until I talked to my friend Mitch a few days ago.

Mitch is an old friend of mine who happens to be a popular DJ at a local radio station, and until recently we were still friends despite the fact that initially I tried to dissuade him from taking that god forsaken job in the first place. See, Mitch and I grew up together and I know firsthand that he has the same Hip Hop snob capillaries effortlessly flowing through his veins that I do - it was just my sincere belief that spinning records that you secretly loathe would cause a person to do either one of two things: Cause a normally sane individual to slowly slip into madness after a week or so, resulting in the studio walls being painted in decorative brain matter right in the middle of a mid-day Jim Jones segment - or it forces people with usually good tastes in music to do what a lot of folks find themselves doing when their livelihood depend on it, they proceed to wade through the muck and mire of sub par Hip Hop and trick themselves into actually liking the diseased bile that the play. For a while my friend seemed to defy the odds, we still cherished the same Hip Hop and his contempt for the "music" that he played and the people who requested it was at an all time high - he seemed to successfully avoid both self-euthanasia and becoming one of those old school enablers of bad Hip Hop that we historically detest as much as black republicans and women who refuse to give head. So I thought.

Last week, as he found himself on the business end of yet another one of my self righteous rants about the state of Hip Hop, he very casually interrupted me and said "You know, working at the station I've come to the realization that this Hip Hop shit is generational." Hoping that he wasn't going where I thought he was going, I probed further, asking "What do you mean?" He responded, "Listen, its not that the new stuff is particularly bad mind you, its simply a new era. Our grandparents didn't like our parents music, our parents didn't like our music, and we take issue with the music of today. Its just a continuous cycle, a passing trend of sorts - we just have to stop looking at Hip Hop through rose colored glasses." Suddenly the feeling I got when my father flat-lined ushered itself back inside my body, I flashed that same thousand yard stare that appeared on my face when my ex-girlfriend told me to pack my shit because she was leaving me for a monosyllabic MC with the I.Q of most lunch meats. That said, before I could unleash the fury on my good friend who obviously turned out to be lobotomized like so many others by the Clear-Channels of the world, and systematically pick him apart like starving vultures over a fresh carcass - his mother called him on the other line so our conversation was cut unfortunately short.

That's alright, because he reminded me of something I've wanted to address for some time anyway: The commonly held belief that those of us who complain about the lack of lyrical craftsmanship nowadays are just elder statesman ill equipped for the tectonic shift that happens every generation. Equating Hip Hop the same way you'd equate other musical genres, laying out extremely boring and faulty verbal schematics on how the grandparent and the parent and the child abhorred each others music - something that I personally feel has to be flatly rejected once and for all. See, the foundation of Hip Hop music has always been supreme lyrical ability, despite what a plethora of people trying to shame you into liking some top 40 drivel may tell you. That shit never changes. A legendary singer can go an entire career without ever penning one syllable that ever escapes his/her mandible, the beauty of the MC has always been that you at least had to be a serviceable writer - that was the fucking prerequisite. That's sort of why the "sign of the times" argument just doesn't pass the smell test to me. I'm fine with the fashion trends in the genre coming and going, everybody can testify to how slang is always evolving, technology will continue to get more advanced, producers wouldn't be producers if they didn't continue to push boundaries when it comes to what is possible sonically. But the MC's sole job of crafting 16 bars that exhausts the left side of his/her brain and segments of the right will be around hundreds of years after the writer penning this particular piece is dust. Enough of the shame game going on over me and those of my ilk because we choose to repudiate some knuckle-dragger who we wouldn't trust to go past the first round in an elementary school spelling bee. Enough of the lazy enablers, usually someone my age or older who should know better, but they happily fall in line because it simply takes less effort to just go with the flow and not ruffle anyone's sensitive ass feathers. You would never ask a basketball fan to accept blown lay-ups from a player on their favorite team, missed dunks under the rim by their big man, disastrous calls from the head coach. Don't ask me to accept sub par lyricism like its some sort of trend that I better get used to. Not for nothing, but Hip Hop is not the pet rock, or Bellbottom jeans for that matter.

DJ Premier is my Chuck Norris(Vibe Throwback)

This is going to sound shallow, but it won't surprise the people out there who know me that I feverishly keep my snob game tighter than convent vagina. But there are some things in life that I simply believe transcend opinion and simply become fact, and anyone in the slightest opposition of that is either acting like a wiseacre contrarian or happened to born with a mild case of retardation due to being the offspring of forbidden sibling "love". You don't necessarily have to believe that Michael Jordan was the best basketball player ever to touch a leather ball, but his "philandering, historical failure to ever take a stand on anything" ass better be in the discussion. Same thing with Walter Payton when it comes to running backs, I actually elbowed a guy in the face once just because he gave me a very indifferent sounding "Ahh, he's alright" retort when talking about the great Stevie Wonder. That explains why "High Fidelity" is one my favorite flicks, primarily because I subscribe to the philosophy in the movie that "Its not what you're like, its what you like" - this is going to sound fucked up I know, but I can tell whether or not I'm going to get along with a person solely based on their tastes in music and movies.

But therein lies the rub, what's a chubby snob like myself to do when a woman I'm seeing, one who I feel is otherwise flawless - takes it upon herself to very cavalierly sully the good name of a man who I hold so near and dear to my heart? Let me explain. About a month ago, while ruining my liver amongst a slew of career alcoholics and women who look like they grew up next to nuclear reactors at my local watering hole - a very beautiful woman waked in, sat down, and sparked off a conversation with me on the strength of my ring-tone being Big Daddy Kane's "Raw". Immediately I knew she was a Hip Hop fan, "check". I asked what her nationality was and she said she was Portuguese, she was what I imagined the woman in Rakim's "Mahogany" looked like, so "check" like a motherfucker. Granted, she was younger than I would have liked, but I quickly counted on my fingers like a retard doing long division and figured out that she's been legally drinking for 6 years, not too bad.(Besides, I haven't been lustfully touched since the first episode of "My Name is Earl" - I had to relax my usually stringent age requirements this time)

We hung out a few times, nothing special, she seemed like a very sweet girl who really knew her Hip Hop - which meant the world to me. I mean, even before she saw my man boobs or counted my ceiling tiles for three minute intervals we had already started having these inside jokes where we would readily admit to not really liking an artist that everyone loves. One day she called me and said, "I was never was a fan of the Beastie Boys, don't tell anybody!" - which I quickly retorted, "I won't, if you don't tell anyone that I'm probably the most pedestrian Wu-Tang fan this side of the equator." - in which she responded, "..and you call yourself a Hip Hip writer, hang your head in shame fat man!!!" We were doing this back and forth for a while, it was pretty cathartic to admit which legendary groups we were indifferent about, it was akin to being in confessional and admitting that you had lustful thoughts about a nun. Yes, it was fucked up, but you felt a million times better afterwords. All was well until we were making out on my couch one night, me sticking my tongue down her throat while giving her an unlicensed breast exam - when she whispered some words in my ear that has haunted me ever since: "Honestly, I never understood the hype around DJ Premier!". Now I know why I'm such a fan of "Curb Your Enthusiasm". When Larry was given permission by his wife to sleep with another woman for an Anniversary gift, he slithered off the miscellaneous dalliance with disgust when he learned that she was a republican. I slithered off the woman 7 years my junior the exact same way.

As I sat on the couch, I must have been shooting her the most horrified look imaginable because all she could say was "Oh shit" - in which I replied, "What are you, fucking nuts? DJ Premier is the best producer ever, please tell me that you are joking! (Grabbing one of her supple breasts) Please tell me that you are joking!"" With still an erect, albeit unimpressive penis still making a tent in my pants, I nervously gathered every record, tape, CD, and Ipod song featuring a DJ Premier production and played each track for her with painstaking patience. After every cut I'd desperately plead with her "Would you like to retract that statement?" Since questioning someones sanity is the furthest thing from an afrodisiac, she grabbed her things and said "I'm going home, call me tomorrow!" - seeing her leave half naked, finally understanding that I've talked myself out of some panties once again I belted out a rather insincere "Come on baby, I was just playing!!" Of course I wasn't.

The next evening, as I got drunk with my best friend Danny and complained about having to possibly abandon another relationship - I made her innocent opinion seem as if she had told me that she once had a cock, or was a republican. That's when I unloaded the following diatribe on my childhood friend:

"Listen, if she was a Lil Boosie fan that would have been easier, she'd have to play that shit on her own time and I would never address that pink elephant in the room like it was a brief stint of lesbianism she participated in while she was in college. But Premier, I mean, as far as producers go, when you go through the multitude of classic singles that the man has done for people you still have to negotiate the Mt. St. Helens of legendary material that is the Gangstarr catalog! Besides, not only have I come to the conclusion that DJ Premier can save anyone's career, it has always struck me as odd that more MC's don't make the simple choice and only use Preemo production for their albums. Instead they pick music makers of lesser skill and the product is sub-par at best. Imagine how better Nas albums would be if he simply got Premier to do the beats, shit man, there are a shitload of artists ranging from Lauryn Hill to Killer Mike who'd thrive under Premo. The man can do anything!!(Looking at my friend seriously) Anything!

Danny: So, DJ Premier is your Chuck Norris?

HumanityCritic: Yeah, I guess so..


Reasons why DJ Premier will kick Chuck Norris' ass:

1. DJ Premier doesn't produce tracks, he works miracles.

2. Cancer gets yearly mammograms for early DJ Premier detection.

3. Some say that music calms the savage beast, premier's production peacefully euthanizes ornery animals.

4. To say that Premo's beats are heaven sent is a bit of reckless hyperbole, even though God himself occasionally sends him break-beat records and sample ideas.

5. My mother has always said "If she can't use your comb, don't bring her home" in terms of me ever marrying a white girl - but her 30 year stance dramatically changed after I introduced her to a Caucasian Premier fan named Becky.

6. Our government's "War on Terror" is a joke, not because its unwinnable, but because attacks on our blessed soil would stop if we simply made "Full Clip" our National Anthem.

7. After meeting DJ Premiere, Quincy Jones could be heard saying "I'm never washing this hand again" amongst a string of prepubescent-sounding giggles.

8. Stevie Wonder claimed that DJ Premier was the sole inspiration for his 1963 hit "Fingertips" - even though Premo wouldn't be born for another 3 years.

9. When a paraplegic suddenly started to rhythmically nod his head back and forth during a rehabilitation session, doctors thought they were witnessing a minor miracle - until one of them heard "Mathematics" playing in the distance and said "Goddamn you Premier!!"

10. Sure, Chuck D was upset that his voice was sampled in the song "10 Crack Commandments", not only because the song talked about cooked cocaine - but because he was privately ashamed that the beat, momentarily, had him seeing the upside to dope dealing.

11. DJ Premier is so good at picking samples, sometimes he uses them before the original artist has even recorded it.

12. In an attempt to rehabilitate young delinquents and keep them out of Prison, simply playing Gangstarr's "All for the Cash" was an effective deterrent - but they went back to their less abrasive approach, having the kids being yelled at and physically intimidated by mass murderers.

13. DJ Premier doesn't have to manually scratch records anymore, all he does is stand over both turntables and the records miraculously scratch themselves - I mean, tremble with fear.

14. I recently emailed Premier the sheet music to Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto, not only did he send it back with corrections - there was a posted note attached with "Yawn" being the only word on it.

15. Sure, Jesus turned water into wine - but could his black-hippie ass turn "Group Home" into a listenable group? I didn't think so..

16. The music of Premier is so powerful that I still yell things like "Put your fucking hands in the air" and "Run Your shit" while having sex - that's the price you pay when you lose your virginity to "Just to Get a Rep".

17. DJ Premier is so beloved in Japan, that 90% of the women there want to have his baby - not to milk him of his hard earned funds mind you, just to say that they have a Premo Remix.

18. DJ Premier scored a Tyler Perry movie and it was still unwatchable - the man is a producer, not GOD!

Is John McCain the 50 Cent of Politics?(Vibe Throwback)

Every four years I feel as if I'm trapped in an urban version of the movie "Groundhog Day", finding myself regurgitating the same desperate pleas to friends and loved ones about not voting for a third party candidate. Admittedly, their counter-arguments are always more persuasive than my "You're throwing your fucking vote away!" histrionics. I mean, how are you supposed to argue against claims of a broken two-party system, Democrats who routinely cave in to even the slightest hint of opposition, and my personal favorite, thumbing their collective noses at election day pragmatism and not settling for the "lesser of two evils". Just like Bill Murray in the aforementioned "Groundhog Day", who slowly slipped into madness after waking up to the same song every morning, and having the same inane conversations with people on the street - for the last 8 years my argument in favor of a "lesser of two evils" approach has remained virtually identical. Basically equating voters to a prison inmate who have the options of either rooming with someone who may possibly drive them nutty from their incessant chatter, or another prisoner whose main hobby is aggressively engaging in rather intimate "Top Bunk" style romances. Not exactly the most eloquent way of stating a case, but that was my stock argument every time I endorsed electing a politician who would be less of a douchebag, historically. That's until 50 Cent came along that is.

Its true. When 50 Cent dropped "Get Rich or Die Trying" I found his his rhyme delivery to be a monosyllabic snore fest, his lyrical first person accounts of the emotional rough terrain surrounding the drug trade were both hamfistedly clumsy and unimaginative - and since only supreme lyricism can make a Hip Hop snob like myself excuse gratuitous murders on wax(see Kool G Rap), the Queens rapper was off to a rather bad start with this particular chubby wordsmith. But, in the same way the catholic Church's silence during the slave trade was equivalent to consent, I kept my criticism of 50 to myself - only because he and I shared a core belief that the much greater evil had to be wiped off of the musical landscape. Jah Rule. But like the time I got the chance to date a local porn actress and suddenly realized that my germaphobia wouldn't allow me get within a few feet of her without wearing riot gear and doctors gloves, the old saying "Be careful what you wish for" seems to rear its ugly head in this case as well. As we all know by now, the "lesser evil" turned out to be just as bad as the guy he replaced. "Second Verse, same as the first" like a motherfucker.

50 Cent came to mind this week as I talked to a group of disaffected Hillary supporters who claimed that they were voting for McCain come November. After the extremely friendly group did all they could to convince me that their vote wasn't a product of racism but of Obama's inexperience - an argument that I still find a bit suspect - their main talking point was that McCain would at least be better than Bush.(..a bar set lower than midget limbo contests mind you.) There it was, my "lesser of two evils" argument coming home to roost. My own anecdotal comparison of John McCain and 50 Cent aside, there is another striking similarity between the two men that is just downright uncanny.

At the height of 50's career, whenever I would antagonize some of his misguided fans by sarcastically questioning his street credibility, more times than not I'd find myself on the business end of an extremely strong rebuke. With that person usually arguing their case like a seasoned trial lawyer, their main argument being that 50 Cent survived multiple gun shot wounds, smirking as if they had just nailed the landing on a Perry Mason style closing argument. No matter how many times I'd question that brand of logic, the intelligence insulting suggestion that failed murder attempts that leave holes in your respective ass somehow makes a persons street credibility beyond reproach, always puzzled me whenever one of his supporters would act as if going after his main narrative was off the table.

In terms of John McCain, everyone respects his fine service to this country, and if most people are honest with themselves for even a moment they will readily admit that if faced with the same hardships that McCain faced in that POW camp - they'd spend half of their time soiling themselves, and the other half offering their captors a complimentary reach around in hopes of preferential treatment. John McCain is a bona fide war hero. That being said, I reject the media's misguided narrative that Obama cedes all ground to McCain on everything Foreign Policy solely based on the fact that the Arizona Senator spent time at the Hanoi Hilton. Even attempting to respectfully question whether or not being a prisoner of war qualifies you to be president is often met with fierce resistance, with the offended party acting as if you had just wiped your ass with the American flag in front of them. My question is, because John McCain constantly cites his service in Vietnam when on the campaign trail(..don't buy into the media's notion that he's resistant to do so, that's horseshit) - why can't we have a both respectful and substantive debate on how that does or does not relate to being a commander in chief. I'm not in any way talking about denigrating the man's service or his time as a P.O.W, I'm not even talking about citing irrefutable facts like him graduating 884 out of 889 in the Naval Academy, the fact that he crashed 5 different planes as a pilot, was known to disobey orders, and owes his military advancement largely to family connections(His father and grandfather were both admirals in the Navy) I'm just suggesting that we challenge the silly notion that John McCain's foreign policy cred is beyond reproach because of his time in captivity - its almost like someone making the "Wait a minute, his mother was white!" argument whenever some bumbling pundit discussed Obama's one time perceived problem with white voters during the Democratic Primaries. That simply doesn't work.

See, if Wesley Clark had simply said that John McCain is the 50 Cent of politics he wouldn't be taking so much shit from our incompetent, hyperventilating press - who seems to be coddling McCain ever so gently, like a wounded baby bird that some good Samaritan decided to take care of before it could fly on its own again. Jesus Christ, the media can obsess over flag pins, whether or not Obama is a fucking Muslim, his ties to a man that did something bad when Obama was 8 years old, they can even take racism off the table even though Stevie Wonder could see its prevalence in West Virginia - but somehow questioning how John McCain's service relates to being a Commander in Chief is an abomination against god? But all this has given me a great idea though. The next time Stephen King comes to my hometown for a book signing I'm going to heckle the shit out of him, call him a hack, talk about his mother, you name it. The way I figure it, antagonizing a world famous writer into administering me one hell of a public asswhipping would forever make my writing abilities beyond reproach. People couldn't call me a "hack" without being mercilessly shouted down, on top of everyone in earshot looking physically repulsed by their misguided opinion. "Go HumanityCritic, its your Birthday!" Okay, maybe not.

Barack Obama, and a lost father-and-son bonding moment..(Vibe Throwback)

Whenever one of my friends asks me, usually while clutching one of their respective children no less, when I plan to pelvically set up a franchise or two of my own - I usually go into the plethora of reasons why I should never come within a square mile of fatherhood, like me wanting to teach them the debilitating benefits of the throat-chop before they can even walk, the wonders of growing potent marijuana in a bedroom closet, even teaching them how to give an emergency tracheotomy with a bent McDonald's straw. But the real reason that fatherhood scares me more than those hamfistedly clumsy "Hottest MC" lists that MTV thoroughly embarrasses themselves with each year, its that I sincerely feel as if I'd be one hell of a push-over as a father - overcompensating for my own father and his self-esteem killing rhetoric. Since I'd prefer not to raise any career felons, I can see my first born sending me letters from some state run institution blaming his current plight on my "daddy issues", I don't see myself injecting some poor soul who momentarily finds me to be a "nice guy" with the evil that is my demon-seed any time soon. But every time I buy a new calender, maybe its my fading memory due to years of marijuana abuse or the ability to engage in mature reflection born out of some new found wisdom, but my father had a lot of great qualities as well - which in turn makes me sometimes flirt with the possibly of bringing some dreadlocked having crumsnatcher into this world with a penchant for writing.

(My mother at the cemetery)Listen, I'm not the one to jump in the 85' Delorean and view the past with rose colored glasses here, our relationship at times was a dangerous tornado filled spiral filled with hateful vitriol that often swept up innocent members of my family in the process - but looking back with a fresh pair of eyes, I realized that the old man loved me but just had an extremely hard time of showing it. Especially when I think about the three things that we always tended to bond over: Women, Religion, and politics. On women, sometimes we would trade tales of our sexual exploits as if we were old frat buddies, me discussing whatever misguided soul at the time was allowing me to clumsily thrust on top of her - and my old man, showing me old pictures of him in Japan in the early 60's surrounded by beautiful Asian women. His stories were always so elaborate and engaging, I never felt the need to correct him when he often nicknamed himself "Mao Tse Tung" based on his oral sex skills - him being in Japan and Mao being Chinese and all. Our views on religion were identical, we both believed in god, but saw right through hustle-man preachers and other charlatans elegantly dressed in "messenger-of-god" clothing - often feeling that most people who suddenly decided to give their life up to god were either career fellatio givers or criminals with bodies buried at undisclosed locations.

But when it came to politics, our belief system was masterfully in lockstep like two Synchronized swimmers, with my "Public Enemy" inspired militant views mixed with his real life experiences of bona fide racism that would make the writer of "Mississippi Burning" soil his respective undergarments - we would spend hours discussing the politics of the day, with his words "I hope to live long enough to see the day when we have a black nominee for the presidency.." haunting my thoughts today.

On memorial day, when I went to Arlington National Cemetery to visit my father's grave with my mother - I thought about a story that made my old man tear up every time he told it. The man didn't shed a tear when he was going through pain wrenching cancer treatments, or while lying on his death bed wondering which breath would be his very last - but every time he told me the story of how his Navy shipmates cheered when John F Kennedy was assasinated because they felt that he was sympathetic to the plight of black folks, I could tell that that experience ravaged his body far worse than cancer ever could have. So as I stood above his grave, pouring a miniature bottle of his favorite whiskey over his plot, I told my father that we were on the verge of having a black Democratic Nominee.(I know there were more fitting topics of discussion, but in life I was so eager to bond with him that I went to the reliable forms of agreement - old habits die hard I guess)

Its times like last night, watching Obama give his lovely wife Michelle a very subtle "fist bump" and then going on to declare himself as the presumptive democratic nominee, is when I miss my father and daydream about the both of us repairing our fractured relationship and bonding over this historic moment if he were still alive. You know, that fatherhood thing seems more doable every day.

Sexual Positions inspired by the McCain Campaign(Vibe Throwback)

When I was single for all those years, I never burdened myself with all the pressures that come with pleasing my respective sexual partners. Recollections of my coital dalliances during that time period are nothing but blurry drug induced episodes to me, both truly entertaining and cringe-worthy affairs where I found myself only moments later aggressively brushing my tongue with my toothbrush and then proceeding to openly contemplate the possible dangers of scrubbing ones genitalia with an S.O.S pad. Just imagine if "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was about a germaphobic writer who liked to fuck. I mean, I've always been somewhat of a selfish lover. When I first lost my virginity not only did I tell the young lady to "climb aboard" as if my pelvic area was some sort of pleasure craft, but I also sternly grabbed her face with the intensity of a losing football coach and unfortunately uttered the words "You're about to make history baby!!!" But because my sexual encounters either involved women who I couldn't give two impromptu bowel movements about, or women who I'd respectfully categorize as "sexual entrepreneurs" - the furthest thing from my mind was reciprocity, so creating new and exciting sexual positions for the women I clumsily thrusted on top of wasn't even on my radar. So lets just say that my world was turned upside down when I finally got a girlfriend after a 6 year relationship hiatus.

Creating intricate schematics in my mind on how to get a woman out of my house as soon as I ejaculated turned into post coital conversations about the amazingly boring day that she had. Haggling over prices like I was dealing with a Pawn shop owner turned into me confiding in my new girlfriend about my shameful history of sex that required receipts.(With her openly wondering if making me get one AIDS test was enough) I used to avoid the post coital wet spots with the same elusiveness that Sarah Palin displays after she's been asked specific questions about foreign policy - I suddenly found myself at times laying in those same wet spots, even though I eagerly tried to suppress the rising vomit in the process. But more importantly, I finally had a sexual partner worth inventing some rather creative sexual positions for.

Like "The Bill Belichick", the act of making love while wearing a really frumpy hoody and uttering eyebrow-raising pillow-talk in a dull monotone voice - "Punch me in the nuts while reading me my Miranda rights!". "The Smurf Grip" is when the woman, after listening to hours of begging and pleading, very calmly reaches over and gives the man a complimentary tug to quiet that whining malcontent. "The Outbreak Monkey" is when a woman is kind enough to fulfill a man's sexual urge, despite the fact that he has a 103 fever and happens to be leaking out of every orifice. "The Jarobi", named after the forgotten member of "A Tribe Called Quest", was what I called it when my old lady wanted to be left alone while she handled her "business" - I was still part of the team, but I had no specific role to speak of. Lastly, "The Anne Heche" is what I characterized my habit of asking my girlfriend to talk about the lesbian affair that she had in college during sex - it annoyed the shit out of her but it got me more excited than the opening night of a Kevin Smith Movie. Unfortunately we've broken up and moved on to greener pastures(the split was as amicable as could get by the way), and I'm faced with the prospect of either reverting to my old lecherous self when I was without a girlfriend or transforming into a half way decent and considerate single person. I was thinking, maybe the key to me being a more reciprocal lover when I'm single hinges on whether or not I continue my habit of creating sexual positions. Here are a few that I've created inspired by John McCain's presidential campaign.

"The Hanoi Hilton": I'm not sure if these girls were brought into this country legally, but there is a lapdance joint across town where damn near every single woman there is Vietnamese. I mean, they're all cute enough, and I don't discriminate - my lap is like the Statue of Liberty, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses" and shit. But I keep going there because I'm intrigued. The same way that Darryl Hannah's character in "Splash" learned English by watching television commercials - by the slang and absurd references to modern day sub-par Hip Hop, I get the feeling that these silly chicks unfortunately learned how to speak English by watching B.E.T. Its comedy gold let me tell you. Nothing is funnier than having a Vietnamese girl ask you in broken English if your prescription glasses are "Stunna Shades". That being said, I can see myself reverting to my old ways of receiving receipts after sex, especially on those cold winter nights - lets just hope that my residence doesn't become the "Hanoi Hilton"

"The bridge to nowhere": Ladies, I'm a prick, and I'm pretty sure that this post isn't going to particularly endear me to the feminist community. That being said, I can't tell you how many times I've been sitting on my most comfortable couch while being serviced by some low self-esteem having young lady and tried to rest something on their backs to see if I could get away with it. Plates, ashtrays while I smoke, etc. More times than not the young lady in question rightfully got up and punched me dead in the face, letting me know that that particular maneuver was pointless. Hence "The Bridge to Nowhere"


"The 'Drill Baby Drill'": Being that my nickname for my genitalia has always been "the black myth ruiner", I've always given my sexual partners a rather bewildered look as they passionately urge me to go deeper - its like asking a homeless man to pay your fucking mortgage. That being said, women have been begging me to employ this technique years before John McCain even thought about running for president.

"The Levi Johnston": I can sympathize with Bristol Palin's boyfriend, I too have unsuccessfully tried to convey a public image that completely contradicts what my myspace page says. After a date, when I asked a woman if she wanted to go back to my house or hers, she snidely replied "Aren't you going to fuck me in the backseat of your muscle car?" When I was trying to convince this hippy peacenik who abhorred violence that I followed the teaching of Gandhi, she looked at me and sarcastically asked "When do you ever find time to administer your paralyzing throatchops when you aren't practicing civil disobedience?" Before I could even lie to this one woman and wax poetic about how much I absolutely adore kids, she reminded me of the blog where I said: "If I ever write a children's book, its going to be titled "Will just sit your fucking ass down somewhere!"

"The Townhall": You know that you've gotten the asshole seal of approval when a catholic priest once called you a "piece of shit" in front of other children and your own mother affectionately refers to you as "an insufferable prick". They're both right, and a lot of my ex lovers would co-sign their sentiments. I mean, I can't tell you how many times a woman has stopped me in the middle of sex just so we could have an in depth discussion about what I had just done. "Why would you think that "Welcome to the Terrordome" is appropriate mood music?" "Why would you keep checking your condom and then proceed to say "I've seen some of your ex-boyfriends, life's too short!" "When I told you that you were only the fourth man I've been with, why did you say "Bullshit! You need Chewbacca's ammo belt to hold all your notches on that motherfucker!!""

The Internet: Ruining the art of the diss record(Vibe Throwback)

Back in the days when I had an unobstructed view of my penis and could run a mile without weird green fluids flying out of my mouth ala Linda Blair in "The Exorcist", I participated in the often overlooked sport of Track & Field in High School. Even though I did the 100, 200, triple jump, and 4x100 relay respectively, my main event was the long jump - I quickly learned that better than average speed mixed with
gigantic calf muscles lead to Letterman jackets and sex with impressionable 10th graders. Those were the days, when I wasn't embarrassed to take my shirt off during sex, abdominal muscles so tight that I'd frequently imagine some female character from "The Color Purple" appearing out of thin air just to aggressively wash her clothes on them. Despite the fact that women would see my chiseled frame and start
openly praising god for his master craftsmanship, I have to admit that it had nothing to do with either heredity or a tunnel vision commitment to being the best track athlete that I could possibly be. I owe it all to my parents, and their desire to get me out of the house so they could proceed to mercilessly fuck in every room in the house during the summer months.

But my folks just couldn't come out and say that they wanted their snot nosed kid out of their zipcode while they humped like two negro bunnies to 70's era R&B, so each summer I was sent packing to my great uncle's farm in Sumter, South Carolina. I was told that I'd make a shitload of money, I never did. I was told that I'd make a shitload of friends. I've always been too anti-social to pull an amazing feat
like that off. My father often waxed poetic about the beauty of southern living, how I'd spend every free moment imaginable taking in the scenery - but the oppressive heat and pesky mosquitoes had me regularly questioning my reason for living. But the farm was always good for two things though - getting me in the best shape imaginable
and getting country, corn-fed ass girls to wildly gyrate on top of my toddler-sized penis.(There's something inherently wrong about a cat from Virginia calling anyone "Country") Even though I actively avoided witnessing the killing of anything that
would eventually wind up on my breakfast or dinner plate, because I was the type of sensitive ass kid to give cute names to slaughter ready animals - I spent each summer doing a plethora of backbreaking chores that now has me losing weight just thinking about. Chopping down tress. Manually plowing fields like it was 1925. Getting up each and every morning so I could feed chickens, cows, and horses. Things of that nature. Not for nothing, but if I ever write an autobiography, the chapter detailing that particular period in my life will be entitled: "Mosquitoes, Country titties, and Hard labor". No shit. But everything changed the summer right before my senior year in High School.

For some reason, despite the fact that I had always made my opposition known, my great uncle had his mind set on making a man out of me those summer months - which meant giving me the option of killing whatever I planned to eat or starve. Let me tell you, you view bacon a whole lot differently when you become the prime suspect in the fatal stabbing of an adorable pig that you affectionately named "Grunt D.M.C".
Hamburgers lose their all-American appeal when you find yourself in a slaughterhouse, fried chicken begins to taste differently after you wring a yardbird's neck with reckless abandon. Even though I did what I had to do that summer, proving my manhood to my uncle and not starving to death at the same time - foods that I never thought twice about now had a delightful back-story of murder even before they reached my mandible. Simply put, the perception you have of something can drastically change once you know everything that goes into it.

That fateful summer came to mind recently as I watched the Joe Budden/Saigon beef unfold, and the ongoing Rick Ross/50 Cent exchanges - causing me to slowly realize that the Internet has caused irrevocable damage to the art of the diss record. Back in the day, whether it was the BDP vs Juice Crew battles, LL Cool J vs. Kool Moe Dee, any verbal confrontation that pre-dates the Internet - it was a golden age for the fan because not only did we have the luxury of solely judging each party on their lyricism, we also had to figure out the back-story to the respective diss. Ones imagination ran wild, waiting for your favorite MC to retaliate with every rhetorical gift god chose to bless him/her with - picturing them hunkered down at some undisclosed location somewhere, like a mad scientist, concocting a potent verbal
mixture to dispatch their would-be dispatcher. Sometimes, the atmosphere surrounding the beef that you created in your own mind was often more interesting than the actual beef itself.

But now, with artists dropping youtube video's every day discussing their beef, radio show having, professional instigators pretending to uphold a journalistic standard when all they are doing is just carelessly pouring lighter fluid on a manageable flame, and dime-store videographers going out of their way to promote more ignorance than Tyler Perry's press agent - it becomes extremely easy to reminisce about days of Hip Hop past, when we didn't have access to so much
fucking information. Not surprisingly, with so much mid-battle bantering going on it leaves both parties susceptible to blatant contradictions to the point that you quickly lose interest - suddenly feeling as if you wasted precious time watching one of those cheaply made Spanish language soaps on Telemundo. I mean, interviewing a
rival's baby mother and making veiled threats against another guy's moms - not only is that shit mad corny, its not Hip Hop. Some people respect rappers who put out 30 diss tracks and a slew of snarky animation, I personally see it as a person trying to hide the fact that they can't rhyme with Hip Hop propaganda. Lets be honest, the Rick Ross/50 Cent beef was kind of silly to begin with. If a person really wanted to see two dickheads battling they'd buy gay porn or watch "Hannity & Combs" reruns. Even though I respect Joe Budden and Saigon as artists, the last diss track was over a month ago for Christs sake - why in the fuck am I still hearing it being referenced? Even though I'm the guy who shamelessly fucked a woman in a church, recently asked a local writer if her all woman play was a "period piece", and is in the habit of handing out cigars after emerging from the bathroom and saying "I just gave birth!!" - "Too much information" is all I think whenever I witness this new era of Hip Hop fuckery.

As much as I'd like to get on my Hip Hop snob shit, rail against modern day rappers like I do in every other post - I won't, because I believe that they are simply a victim of their times. Who knows, maybe the BDP/Juice Crew battles would have been ruined for me if KRS-One was always on VladTV talking about it. The Kool Moe Dee vs. LL Cool J verbal sparring probably would have lost its luster if I happened to peruse his youtube page. Maybe Roxanne Shante wouldn't be a legend in my eyes if twitter was around back then, exposing me to her answering instigating ass fans who wanted more venom from the Queensbridge MC. Maybe MC's will one day see things my way and keep mum on their rap battles so they won't ruin it for folks like me. Hey, anything is possible, just this morning I ate breakfast that included three of the
animals that I killed during that fateful summer in South Carolina. It
was good eating too.

Chronicling heartbreak through Hip Hop albums(Vibe Throwback)

Originally I had planned to start this post off with a pretty definitive statement: "I was not born an asshole". But that plan was quickly abandoned as soon as I remembered that I'm the guy who once licked an entire Birthday cake when I was 5 years old so the other kids in attendance couldn't have any. As a baby I would deliberately embarrass my mother by making hideously loud grunting sounds while soiling my diaper in the most public of places. When I was a child I had a penchant for going up to special needs children, pointing, then loudly asking my mother "Mama, what is wrong with that baby's head?" Alright, so being an asshole is ingrained into my DNA. So let me revise the original statement: "I was not always the asshole in the relationship"

Listen, as cathartic an experience it has been sharing my exploits with the rest of you: Inexplicable bathroom boning at my father's wake, stripper "love" in the backseat of my muscle car that leaves traces of tiny colored metal shards everywhere, acts of sodomy in garden variety places of worship, a custom made gloryhole in the middle of my living room, rather intimate craigslist inspired encounters where more times than not the words "Why are you laying on me, does post coital affection cost extra?" are uttered. It would be truly funny if my habit of screwing low self esteem having women with daddy issues at strange locales had no place of origin, if it was just a very simple desire to notch my Chewbacca Sized conquest belt. Unfortunately the back-story of the "disillusioned dater" is not only a sordid one, its an incredibly old one as well - I'm sure hieroglyphics exist of men sport-fucking strangers to mask their wounded hearts.

Glory holes, serenading women after three minutes of love-making with "Didn't I blow your mind this time..", and an unfortunate episode of mid-cunnilingus vomiting aside(It was due to alcohol, look where your mind is at!) - I've decided to stop using my failed relationships as an excuse to act reprehensibly. You can't complain about the game if you haven't set foot on the playing field for damn near a decade, if it doesn't work out then it doesn't work out - Hip Hop will see me through like it has before. Here are a few examples.

The Fat Boys: "The Fat Boys" - The fact that I've never had a white women counting ceiling tiles, or immediately running back and telling her closest friends that the myth about black was complete and utter horseshit is amazing when you break down my life story. For one thing, my parents put me in a private school called "Virginia Beach Country Day School". I played soccer for many years. I've ridden a skateboard for the better part of 30 years. My Ipod is a incoherent mixture of classic Hip Hop tunes and 80's New Wave. I have long dreadlocks for Christs sake. You'd think I was genetically engineered in some mad scientist's lab for the sole purpose of bedding white women. I've never been with a white woman, but I can't say that I've never tried - enter "Kirsten". Kirsten was an overdeveloped 5th grader whose liberal use of make up and prepubescent sweater puppets harmoniously summoned my nether region like a snake charmer. Even though I've never had game, the silly jokes and note passing started to win her over - so much in fact that she decided to take a monumental step for a grade schooler and give me her phone number. We talked for weeks, I'm sure if I had transcripts of those conversations I'd be really embarrassed, but I specifically remember my heart going all aflutter every time we spoke. That was until her old man got wind that I was black, so not only did the phone calls stop but she gave me the cold shoulder at school - I never blamed her, she got her marching orders. I was absolutely crushed, and the only thing that got me through those early heart palpitations was The Fat Boys first album. I really can't explain why, the only song on the record that came close to dealing with mistreatment is a track that I absolutely hated - "Don't You Dog Me" - but the escapism of of that record seemed to make my reality at the time a lot more livable. A few years later we caught up, she apologized, and told me that she still liked me but could never date me as long as her father was alive. I recently ran into Kirsten at a local supermarket, she was doing well, very casually told me that he father had died months earlier. I was tempted to ask, "Will you date me now?", but even an asshole like me found that to be disgusting.

Boogie Down Productions: "Edutainment" - Its ironic that the much slept on "Edutainment" helped me through a pretty trying time - being that the whole sordid affair came to an ultra violent conclusion. I happened to be dating a girl from another High School, something that I will warn my kids against whenever someone sees me fit for procreation purposes - and what I didn't know was that she had maintained a relationship with a drug dealer during the tenure of our relationship. The only reason I knew about that troubling fact is because homeboy decided to pay me a visit one day at my High School, make some rather veiled threats, and proceed to quickly flash a shiny object tucked in his belt that I assumed was a gun. The violent conclusion came when me and and a friend decided to show up uninvited to his house party armed with baseball bats and bad intentions, proceeding to beat the street pharmacist senseless and sucker punching anyone who looked like they had an issue with it. If that wasn't enough, the adrenaline getting the better of me, after smashing his car for 5 minutes I just decided to push his vehicle into the lake besides his house. Alright, you got me, there wasn't really any heartbreak involved with this story - I didn't give two extremely busy bowel movements about the girl in question. I just wanted to write about a random act of violence that I'm pretty fond of, and "EDutainment" was the album I was bumping at the time. Sue me.

Diamond D and the Psychotic Neurotics: "Stunts, Blunts and Hip Hop" - The good thing about a blog is that its extremely cathartic, being able to work on my issues and pour my heart out at the same time has indeed added years to my life. The bad thing about a blog is that really good people can get hurt on your self serving journey to feel better about yourself. I recently reconnected with one of my first real girlfriends on Facebook, she has grown to be quite the woman who has a lovely family to boot. We had a lovely conversation online that lasted for the better part of an hour, I no longer held any ill will towards her - I mean, for Christs sake it was 16 years ago. For the longest time I blamed her for starting a vicious cycle of soul crushing women spawned from the devil destined to ruin me. Sure, I don't believe that now, but blog archives are a motherfucker.(She read some not too kind things) I don't regret anything, its the risk you pay when you decide to emotionally unload in any journalistic form - but two things are abundantly clear. 1) I have nothing but love for her and wish her the absolute best. 2)Our break-up was extremely painful to me. So painful in fact that I'd drive around for days on end, sobbing, playing Diamond D's "Stunts, Blunts and Hip Hop" until the fucking tape popped. What a fun album that was. Even though Kanye West is a "producer on a mic", I'll put this album against any of Mr. West's records any day of the week.

Mos Def - "Black on Both Sides" - The funny thing about this CD is that it came out two years before the end of my last relationship, coincidentally around the same time I realized that it was destined for failure. The worst feeling in the world is being madly in love with someone who you aren't compatible with, and being so emotionally needy that you allow it to run its course instead of growing a pair and doing something about it. But regardless of our countless efforts to make it work, the both of us constantly cited the time that we'd been together as a reason to stay together. Not for nothing, I'm not in the habit of quoting cross-dressing 80's pop stars with drug problems, but Boy George had it right: "Time won't give me time/And time makes lovers feel like they've got something real" Amen. So as my father was dying of cancer, and I stayed in a relationship where my only option at the time was waiting for the other shoe to drop - Mos Def's CD "Black on Both Sides" saw me through a pretty agonizing time in my life. I've always contended that that album, along with Ice Cube's "Death Certificate", is the most well rounded Hip Hop album content wise. That brilliance of it made her friends less annoying, my father's withering state a little more bearable, and the prospect of me soon becoming a single man something that I could deal with. My old man died 2 months before the end of our relationship, which was sort of interesting because like my father - I knew that our unhappy union was terminal two years prior as well.

The obligatory post election "F*#k You" rant(Vibe Throwback)

Ever since my mother pushed what would grow up to be a degenerate bastard out of her person while briefly staying at an Oahu area hospital 35 years ago, the entire tenure of my existence has been that of a sore winner. Besides the unfortunately selfish episode where I proceeded to lick an entire cake at my 4th Birthday party so none of the other kids in attendance could have any, my mom likes to tell people about the time I took it upon myself to kick every opposing player in the ass while my little league team was receiving our championship trophy. In 10th grade, after soundly conquering the school bully with some well placed chops to the throat and some punishing body work - instead of basking in the glow of victory and possibly befriending the would-be tormentor like some after-school special, I immediately became his bully.(Often administering impromptu "you actually thought you could bully me motherfucker" beatings the rest of that year to what by that time was a 6'6 ball of cookie dough.) One of the first things that I did upon entering college was to break up a pair of High School sweethearts who unfortunately decided to attend the same institute of Higher learning that I did, primarily because the female in that equation saw the same genius in the Fat Boys that I did and had a backside most men would build a fucking shrine to. After successfully wooing her, thus devastating the poor soul who had called her his girlfriend ever since he slipped her a "Do you like me, yes or no?" note in the middle of 9th grade gym class - I unfortunately proceeded to do a rather elaborate end-zone dance on the poor man's heart. From exhibiting the universal sign for cunnilingus every time we crossed paths to very crudely putting my middle finger under his nose as we sat in Western Civilization class while saying "That's the smell of victory my friend!" - its was just another belligerent example of me being an extremely sore winner.

Now, with Barack Obama's historic presidential win only now a month old - lets just say that if celebratory douchebaggery had some sort of master level that people aspired to reach like a martial art, I'd have a golden glow around my chubby visage like the protagonist in "The Last Dragon" and shit. Physically forcing local rednecks to say the words "President Obama" over and over again, telling this old racist bartender that I loathe that Obama's security team will be made up of nothing but Black Panthers, telling another knuckle-dragger that the President-Elect plans on taking over Graceland and throwing rap concerts there. Outside of the brief period of time when I was a teenager and a 29 year old women with breasts bigger than Tootie's very kindly decided to show me the facts of life, on top of my Superfriends bedsheets no less, the incessant gloating that has escaped my mandible from the time John McCain gave his concession speech until now has been the best month of my entire life.

But even being an insufferable prick to some of John McCain's less educated supporters, the ones who worship at the illiterate alter of Sarah Palin while actively thinking that Barack Obama is some sort of crypto-Muslim, simply isn't enough. There are bigger fish to fry, more recognizable names to put on blast - and thanks to Edward Norton's memorable "Fuck you!" scene in "25th Hour", I now have the proper blueprint to fully exercise my post election demons.

"Fuck Joe The Plumber. The memo saying that you were a smoldering piece of shit arrived the nanosecond you compared Barack Obama to Sammy Davis Jr. - you are the human embodiment of all those miserable low income fucks who voted for Bush twice solely because of his carefully manufactured Texas accent and the belief that he'd actually sit down and have a beer with their peasant asses. Fuck Jon Voight. You know, I've historically been pretty good about ignoring an actor's political views and just enjoying their movies, but the conspiratorial bile that you spewed about Barack Obama has me rethinking my bi-partisan viewing habits. You really have to be an inept parent when your kids are both fucked up and hate you. Fuck Larry Johnson. The ex-CIA man with the Moe Howard haircut was so petrified of an Obama presidency that besides running a piss poor mono-syllabic blog that smeared the president elect with racism dog-whistles and xenophobia - this is the same inbred smear merchant that concocted the sloppy Michelle Obama "Whitey" tape rumor. Three months ago you challenged Andrew Sullivan to a fight, next time bring that tough talk to someone who would gladly oblige you motherfucker. *Hint* = Me. Fuck Roseanne Barr. As if infecting us all with Tom Arnold wasn't enough, with your factual inaccuracies and cringe-worthy lack of political knowledge - you became the poster-girl for all those wingnuts out there who hold firm to the misguided belief that celebrities should never express their political beliefs outside of the comfort of their own homes. Even though you went back and correctly erased it, I still remember you angrily referring to Michelle Obama as "Shrek" - stay classy Roseanne. Fuck Geraldine Ferraro. Despite all the goodwill you had collected from being the first female Vice Presidential candidate, you immediately pissed it away by alluding to the idea that Barack Obama was an affirmative action candidate - and instead of apologizing for it, you fully embraced your ignorance and played the victim ad nauseum - even though the Obama campaign rightly ignored your bigoted ass the whole time. Fuck Elizabeth Hasselbeck. For a show that is supposed to celebrate women and their independence, you sure felt comfortable having Sean Hannity's hand firmly up your ass. Thank God, for America's sake, you were too fucking stupid to understand that people see through the desperate smears - especially if they're routinely bombarded with them in the form of histrionic hand-wringing. Fuck Sean Hannity. You unrepentant smear merchant, for 2 years straight you threw so much unsubstantiated smears against the wall in hopes that they stuck that often I found myself sincerely asking "Why don't you just call the guy a nigger already?" Psst.. Sean.. Our new president likes Hip Hop. - take that you dickhead! Fuck Joe Scarborough. Actually as nasty and vile as any right winger out there but tries to mask it with a shit-eating Eddie Haskell facade - he was so excited during the Reverend Wright controversy I thought the guy was going to start spanking it on live television.(I'm pretty sure Pat Buchanan would have joined in) Fuck John McCain. People talk about an Obama media bias, but the press constantly treated John McCain like a special needs toddler - somehow his handlers had more control over the campaign than the man whose name it bared.(Hence the dog-whistles, xenophobia, charges of treason) Fuck Sarah Palin, the political version on Sanjaya, whose rhetoric was so dangerous that the death threats against Barack Obama spiked during her string of Hitler youth hate rallies. I think about all the shit you talked during the Republican National Convention, and how community organizing kicked your ass on election day."

The Clinton Campaign reminds me of "Police Academy"(Vibe Throwback)

As any self-respecting black person who happens to have scores of white friends will tell you, sometimes maintaining said relationships requires you to walk a line thinner than Amy Winehouse's silhouette - an ongoing battle consisting of trying not to come across like a malcontented militant every time someone makes an ethnic misstatement and doing your damnedest to never be the human embodiment of a black character in a John Hughes movie, an inconsequential mascot of sorts. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of white folks out there who happen to be cooler than Eskimo vagina, individuals who have the good sense that god gave them - people who, upon their last dying day, will never have a Romney-esque moment of racial awkwardness anywhere on their resume. But sometimes, after giving a person the black friend "stamp of approval" so to speak, they broadside you with the obligatory "What's up my nigga?" in a crowded bar or sarcastically ask you if you think O.J was guilty or not. Suddenly you find yourself standing on the corner of "Schooling them" street and "abandoning the entire fucking friendship" avenue. Because of that, similar to the way a historically abused animal may flinch or growl aggressively if a random person simply goes to pet them - you overreact and tend to see examples of blatant racism when there is none. *Enter a very innocent game of "Trivial Pursuit"*.

Around Christmas time, my friend Jodi and her husband Sam invited me over their house for a duel celebration of sorts - of both the day that epitomizes consumerism and the announcement that my dear friend was expecting her very first child. After a delicious dinner, and digesting so many spirits that the liver of this underachieving writer summoned the ghost of Ernest Hemingway - the ten or so people who were left split up into pairs and decided to take part in a friendly game of "Trivial Pursuit". Everyone was laughing, good times were had by all - and even though I pride myself on knowing an inordinate amount of useless information necessary to crush the will of lesser mortals in these types of trivia games, I had decided just to have a good time. That was until, after having a few softball questions about Hip Hop thrown my direction - I heard someone say, "Shit man, he would know that!!" It didn't even matter to me who had said it, my brain automatically went into overdrive - that night, I was intent on proving that I was no throwaway character in a John Hughes flick. When asked a simple question about Ronald Reagan, I answered it, then proceeded to unnecessarily name the four men who acted as Chief of Staff under his administration - when a pedestrian question was posed to me about a Dr. Suess book title, not only did a answer it before the person even finished asking it, I went on a rather breathy and ill-advised rant about Iambic Pentameter. No one was impressed with my "vast grasp" of the issues, which was the first sign that I might have overreacted. Then when I realized that Jodi was the person who made the comment that set me off, a woman who I've had a million and one conversations about Hip Hop with - I automatically felt like that abused canine who bites people with the purest of intentions.

From that point the rest of the night went swimmingly well, but I did take something from that Christmas party that keeps me up most nights - when it comes to those abysmal "Police Academy" movies, I'm like a dread-locked walking Encyclopedia on the subject. A simple question about Steve Gutenberg segued into me breaking down every character and their specific quirks, what happened in each respective movie, even stating the government names of the actors who played roles in those respective flicks. I think it was in the middle of me breaking down the utter complexities of the character Takleberry, when I realized that there are some striking similarities between the "Police Academy" movies and Hillary Clinton's campaign.

Hillary Clinton as "Cadet Laverne Hooks": I'm well aware that the "Laverne Hooks" role was a seldom used supporting character, and the comparison to Hillary Clinton might seem a bit strange - Mrs. Clinton being a formidable opponent to Barack Obama and a political powerhouse who has been in the publics consciousness for more than two decades. But the one thing that I noticed about the Laverne Hooks character, because of her soft spoken nature and extreme shyness - was an almost desperate need for the outside world to shower her with nothing but pity. Hillary is a very strong woman, she couldn't have gotten to where she is without boatloads of toughness - but whenever she's in a bind she plays the gender card like a master poker player. For example, "tear heard round the world" right before New Hampshire, her claiming that her opponents were "piling on" her during one of the debates - and what I feel was an open invitation to a pity party when she supposedly loaned her campaign 5 million dollars. A continuous theme with the Laverne Hooks is that when she is pushed to the limit, her soft-spoken nature is abandoned for that of a commanding drill Sargent - and we all witnessed Ms. Clinton "find her voice" after New Hampshire.

Bill Clinton as "Cadet Carey Mahoney": Just like the character that Steve Guttenberg portrays, Bill Clinton is also a silver-tongued ladies man with a penchant for mischief and Shenanigans. From his constant squabbling with reporters, shamelessly distorting Obama's Iraq war position, to his ill-advised "Jesse Jackson" comment - this political season has really brought out Bill's zaniness. I'm still waiting for Bubba to put shoe polish around the end of Barack Obama's megaphone.

Mark Penn - "Cadet Eugene Tackleberry": Who doesn't love Tackleberry? When I think about the walking arsenal with a heart of gold, the guy whose over-zealousness might put an extremely large hole in your grandmother's back, but only for the greater good of course - I automatically think of Hillary Clinton's top campaign strategist, Mark Penn. Like Tackleberry, dismissing low calibre service revolvers given to him by the department for his own brand of lethal machinery, not only will Mr. Penn instruct campaign surrogates to damage their good names(and not so good names) by leveling baseless smears at Obama - when all else fails, he emerges from the shadows to do the dirty work himself. But then again, in a head to head match-up - Mark Penn is much more of an unsavory person than Tackleberry ever could be. Tackleberry busts heads, Mark Penn busts unions, Takleberry represents the people he's protecting - Mark Penn's company represents Blackwater.Game. Set. Match. Like. A . Motherfucker.

Howard Wolfson - "Cadet Larvelle Jones": We can all agree, now looking back at those "Police Academy" movies, that they were both fundamentally bad and predictably formulaic - but the one thing that never gets old is the character of "Cadet Larvelle Jones" played by actor Michael Winslow. His art of distracting people by verbally imitating gun shots, foot steps, and horses sounds is absolutely a force to be reckoned with - which is why I'm equally impressed by Hillary Clinton's press secretary Howard Wolfson, based how his sole intention of distracting the American voter with whats really important. Whether its Tony Rezko, Obama apparently snubbing Hillary, and this recent nonsense about Barack being afraid to debate Hillary in Wisconsin after 18 debates - it immediately becomes apparent that Michael Winslow doesn't have shit on Howard Wolfson.

Clinton Campaign Staffers - "The Kirklands": You remember the Kirklands? A fun-loving bunch introduced to us in the second Police Academy installment, a family that expressed their love for each other with stiff right jabs and your garden variety body blow - its pretty stunning how much Hillary Clinton's campaign staffers mirror this fictitious family. With Mark Penn and Mandy Grunwald engaging in shouting matches, campaign shake-ups, resignations/demotions - not for nothing, but a well placed fist to the chin would be a better alternative to the absolute disarray the Clinton Campaign seems to be in right now.

For Christs sake, Barack Obama is not Bagger Vance(Vibe Throwback)

Despite the fact that I'm spending this holiday season alone, perusing Craigslist with the sole purpose of finding some low self esteem having young lady with Daddy issues to share the ole Christmas "yule log" with - I'm constantly amazed at how many pieces of serviceable ass I've squandered just because I found their tastes to be utterly reprehensible. Like the Hawaiian woman that I went out with a couple of months back - she was absolutely stunning, had a well manicured backyard that made you want to go run out and show your loved ones like it was a newborn child and shit, a chick definitely above my respective pay-grade. I mean, she was the type of woman who's visage you'd masturbate to even if you happened to be her boyfriend at the time. But for some reason she seemed to really like my chubby blogging ass by the way she giggled at all my jokes and manufactured reasons to touch my hand even during the most pedestrian of conversations. So you can just imagine how much it pained me to hear her wax poetic about some wack music-making motherfucker named Plies over dinner, because right then and there I knew that transgressions of that magnitude would prevent me from exhibiting my trademark creepiness - like beating off to the sight of her naked body while she sleeps - smelling her underwear when she wasn't around - telling her to "lay me" right before we had sex, no matter how corny and culturally insensitive it was. Things of that nature. But nothing bewilders the mind like the way I mercilessly cut off all communication to a cuddle buddy that has been at my every beck and call for the better part of two decades.

What I would characterize to be the gold standard when it comes to booty calls, an extremely kind woman who kept her doors open to a degenerate bastard like myself whenever I happened to be between girlfriends - from the early days of the Clinton administration to the 2006 midterm elections - I find myself missing her readily available companionship during these cold winter nights.(Sometimes, when I happen to drive by her area, I sob uncontrollably. But that's neither here nor there) But unfortunately I had to let her go, its simple as that - even though she would go beyond the call of duty and accept my early morning phone calls that would lead to drunken groping and pre-ejaculatory sex, she suddenly started to commit a sin that I found to be a rather hell-worthy trespass. She would play those god-awful Tyler Perry church plays every Sunday morning like clockwork. Nothing erases a dirty post-coital glow like bad dialogue filled with cliched story-lines and knuckle-dragging stereotypes. Even though I was well aware of the fact that I'd be abandoning the only woman on the face of the earth that would put up with my alcoholism and penchant for late penetration, it was a better alternative than slitting my wrists and bleeding out all over her new carpet.(Hearing one too many "Lord, who in the hell ate the last piece of chicken?" diatribes really makes any self respecting writer question his reason for living.)

Despite the fact that I've voted Democrat for as long as I could vote, I suddenly get the same knee jerk inclination to cavalierly abandon the party I've been loyal to for all these years. Maybe I'll create my own political outfit where a love for Asian midget pornography and random acts of violence would be my platform, solely in response to the members of my own party who have been acting like whining malcontents ever since Barack Obama went from being a Senator to President-Elect. The constant sniping and faux outraged exhibited over Obama's cabinet appointments of all things immediately made me think of the "Magical Negro" theory(Not the latest example of racism from that elephantine, drug addicted piece of shit Rush Limbaugh) - the supporting black character commonly used in movies who gets the white protagonist out of trouble via some sort of magical power or great insight.(See "The Green Mile" - "The Legend of Bagger Vance" - Guy Torry's character in "American History X") Listen, we shouldn't give Barack Obama any sort of blank check, its our duty as American citizens to make our elected official accountable. But the mere fact that the man hasn't even been sworn in yet and we're already getting bombarded with a cacophony of sad sighs from his supporters makes this writer think that a certain group of Americans thought that Barack Obama could extract illnesses out of people just by touching them.

Unfortunately the same "Caveat Journalism" that plagued Barack Obama during the Primaries - "There's no question that Barack Obama doesn't share his views, but Jeremiah Wright was his pastor for all those years.." - "We all know that Obama abhors the actions of William Ayers, but they did serve on a board together and were neighbors!" - said exhibit of flimsy journalism continues to follow him with this Blagojevich scandal. Patrick Fitzgerald articulated in that first press conference that Team Obama wasn't a target of his investigation, and every piece of information that we've received since then proves as much. But somehow the Blagojevich scandal is really "plaguing" Barack Obama according to the media on the strength that he shares a state with the corrupt Governor and a possible conversation that his soon to be Chief of Staff may have had with him. The press unfortunately was under the misconception that Barack Obama had the ability to convert hate-filled skinheads into compassionate members of our society.

But what has both angered me and reminded me of the "Magical Negro" theory as of late has been the recent faux flap over Barack Obama tapping Reverend Rick Warren to give the invocation at his inauguration ceremony. Its not like the gay community doesn't have a legitimate gripe concerning Warren, they do, comparing gay marriage to incest is both reprehensible and indefensible. That's a pretty easy call to make. Its just the level of outrage that I can't seem to get my dreadlocked head around. If it wasn't Hillary Rosen's display of histrionic hand-wringing on CNN two weeks ago, that unintentionally hysterical article written by Ann Coulter fan John Cloud that proceeds to call Obama a "bigot" because he doesn't support gay marriage(The only candidates that supported gay marriage in the Dem Primaries were Mike Gravel and Dennis Kucinich you fucking mouth breathing douchebag) - it was a eye-rolling, mellow dramatic attempts at journalism by actor Alan Cumming. Looking at the three examples that I provided and what they have in common, I have a respectful request for the gay community - "Will you please stop equating your legitimate struggle for marriage equality with the Civil Rights Movement?" Seriously, cut that shit out - you already had me at equality, you lose me when you force me to think about Jim Crow, "colored" water fountains, Brown v. Board of Education, and "The Scottsboro Boys". Now that we have a black president it seems that employing said tactic has become unfortunately predictable, like the "dick and fart" jokes a comedian tells at a frat or the career moves of Mo'Nique.

Again, I'm not saying that the Rick Warren complaints are unwarranted, I'm just amazed at the piercing decibel level of outrage coming from the offended parties, mixed with yawn inducing sentimentality disguised as journalism. Like this Richard Cohen article where proceeds to tell his readers that his openly gay sister cancelled her inauguration party solely because Warren would be giving in invocation. Fair enough. But where is the consistency? Why wasn't his sister pissed when Obama, along with 7 other Democratic candidates for President, refused to support gay marriage as well? When Obama spoke at Saddleback, or when he appeared at that religious forum with John McCain? I'm just saying, it makes me think that a group of voters thought that Barack Obama was going to miraculously improve their fucking golf game or something..

Mrs. Robinson, revisited.(Vibe Throwback)

Not for nothing, but if my penchant for documenting sordid tales ranging from throat-chopping Jim Jones fans to penetrating low self esteem having women in the hallowed halls of church buildings suddenly falls on deaf ears - I think I'm going to take up my real calling, and that's exclusively being a gigolo to older women.("Cougars" to be exact). Granted, my germaphobia may be a problem, something about weekly AIDS tests and a guy wearing three condoms and a doctors mask while very cautiously thrusting on top of you sort of takes the romance out of it, but I guess I'll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. That being said, the first time I actually considered receiving payment for my sexual services from women 10+ years my senior came last month when I ran into a woman who 18 years ago unknowingly turned me into the deviant scribe that you all know today. Her name is Sherry. See, Sherry was a friend of my parents who lived with us during my senior year of High School, and despite the fact that she was 28 and I was 17 years old at the time - she took it upon herself to rock my world like cooked cocaine abusing globe salesmen.(Sidebar: To this day my mother has no idea of what transpired between Sherry and I, solely for Sherry's safety. This may be the only time I'm thankful that mother finds reading my blog to be beneath her.)

Even though Sherry violated me in the best ways imaginable(Most of the daydreams that I've had since 1991 have been about some deviant "moment" that we shared), I always wanted to tell her how much she ruined me for every woman that would come after her. Even though being a selfish lover is ingrained into my DNA, I just had a glory-hole installed in my bedroom for Christs sake - having my every sexual desire granted by a grown woman while under the watchful eye of my Michael Jordan posters didn't help matters either. Little did I know that I'd actually have a chance to air said grievance directly to the source, recently we both met up for drinks after not seeing each other for nearly two decades.(She was in town to visit her son, she lives in Nova Scotia) As we drank and nervously chatted as if we were complete strangers, I noticed that she hadn't changed very much. Sure she was older, scattered grey reminders of that fact represented themselves throughout her flowing mane, but in a sexy "Mrs. Robinson" sort of way though. Her attire had gone from skirts that only gynecologists would approve of to very hip business outfits, something you'd imagine Diane Keaton wearing in one of her latter day movies that I've desperately tried to avoid. I also remember a time when everything that escaped her mandible was nothing but rhetorical flourishes involving profanity and sexual innuendo, but that particular night she only waxed poetic about her grandchild and some overpriced wine that I'd never heard of.

Even though I'm the type of asshole who carries condoms around with me on a daily basis "just in case", I was damn near positive that nothing of interest was going to go down after I dropped her off at the hotel she was staying at. I mean, the mere fact that we never discussed our time together signaled she was uncomfortable with it, and even though she was as beautiful as ever I discovered a prejudice against older women that I never knew existed.(Later I figured out that it had something to do with her uttering the word "grandchild", definitely a penis shrinker.) But because I'm single and ship barnacle had started growing on my genitalia, I immediately accepted her offer to go back to her room for a "nightcap". As much as I'd like to go into explicit detail about the events following an impromptu kiss that she sprung on me at her hotel door, I'll respect her wishes and file it into my mental rolodex for strictly masturbatory use at a later date. But I will say this, despite the fact that I've told every white woman ever interested in me that I affectionately refer to my favorite appendage as a "Black myth ruiner" - that particular night, unbelievably, I was rather pleased with my bedroom performance. So much so that when she said something to the effect of "You really know how to treat an old lady right!!", I quickly responded, - "Just be lucky that you don't have any false teeth readily available, because I'd proceed to spike them shits and do an 80's era endzone dance in front of the bed right about now!"

In the morning, after having breakfast and finally talking about how she turned me out like a reversible jacket, we began to wrap things up. After she hugged me and said "Lets not wait until 17 years to do this again", I unfortunately responded with "Don't worry, I don't plan to have my penis in the same zip-code as a 62 year old, sex with you at that point would be like fucking the skin creases on a Bulldog!" She gave me comically bewildered look, as if she was thinking, "Jesus, you really are a fucking dickhead!" - then we proceeded to part ways. But as I drove home, barely being able to piece together the sex in any coherent fashion - I came to the conclusion that I didn't really have sex with her, as beautiful as she was, but I just had sex with the image of her that had haunted me all these years. The woman who was under me, being subjected to me uttering Hip Hop quotables mid-coitus, was merely an afterthought - not for nothing, but I'd imagine that a lot of older ladies out there wouldn't mind their younger suitors getting off to younger versions of themselves. That's where the gigolo idea comes in. I mean, if the women in my employ would give me some old pictures of themselves beforehand for me to study, I'm sure that I could look past the liver spots, Great Depression stories, and ritualistic "Matlock" watching and proceed to do Business. Pelvically that is. Sounds like a lucrative business plan to me.