Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Some hippies deserve to be punched.

Two months ago I went to a friend's dinner party. For an uncultured, masturbation machine like myself it was good to mingle amongst people with such varying political opinions, while hypertension inducing delicacies and liver enlarging spirits served as the backdrop. I have to say, as much as I usually take the scorched earth, bring a motherfucking missile launcher to a knife-fight approach to debating republicans - the right leaning guests at my friend's dinner party came equipped with an arsenal of substantive arguments. No birtherism. No 14th Amendment talk. I don't even think the word "socialism" was uttered once. Usually, as a republican is making his/her arguments, I'm openly wondering whether or not slashing my wrists and bleeding out all over the place in an act of utter disgust is theatrical overkill. But that night, refreshingly, I fully embraced those fleeting moments of political civility that are few and far between these days. What really threw me for a loop that night was the heated back and forth that I got into with someone I believed to be my liberal, dope smoking brethren - my friend's older brother, a hippie named Miles. It wasn't as if some of his arguments weren't substantive mind you, the snails pace it is taking to close GITMO and end DADT are legitimate criticisms, it was the unwarranted vitriol towards Obama that they were laced with that gave me such pause. At first the rhetorical sparing we did that night felt like Déjà vu, any honest person with a computer will admit that segments of the liberal blogisphere are littered with garden variety defenses of Obama being carelessly characterized as lockstep sycophancy and accusations that the President is George W. Bush's personal surrogate(a Bruce Willis movie reference) are as plentiful as the bumps on Lawrence Fishburne's daughter's ass. So the ease in which I proverbially parried and counter-punched his firebagging nonsense made me feel like Donnie Yen in "Ip Man". When it came to legislation he felt wasn't strong enough, I smiled and quietly sat through all the incendiary rhetoric about Obama grabbing his ankles around bankers and giving the health insurance companies unprompted reach-arounds - mainly because my patience was rooted in the silence I knew I'd bask in after asking him what he would have legislatively done differently. But things took a turn for the worst as soon an Miles ended his rather arduous "Obama is just like Bush" rant with what I still believe to be a vague assassination fantasy.

Since it was around 2 AM at that point I abandoned the conversation by standing up and telling the debate rubberneckers, "Ok, that is my cue to go", then I proceeded to distribute both pounds and hugs to the extremely interesting folks I had met that night. Of course giving Miles the time honored snub. The next thing I know, while I'm digging in my pockets for my car keys outside, I see Miles running up on me in my periphery - waiving his arms wildly, eventually getting in my face, screaming rather incoherently. Right when I'm about to do a Savion Glover inspired softshoe routine on his motherfucking forehead, my friend runs out the house screaming "Please, don't beat up my brother, he's high!!" I immediately say, "Shit, I'm high too, but marijuana is what kept me from making you an only child!" He then says, "No, he's smoking a lot more than weed these days" - as my friend said that Miles was grabbing my shirt so I immediately quipped "Well, you and your brother must be smoking dust if you think I'm going to let any continued act of aggression go unanswered." And that's when he sucker punched me. *POW* So I proceeded to lace him with a 5 punch combination to the face, a throat chop, a couple of kidney punches, and a kick in the gut for good measure before throwing him head first into a gigantic shrubbery of some sort.

I've been thinking about that incident ever since Robert Gibbs gave his now infamous "Professional Left" interview. As much as I questioned the strategy of him broaching the subject at all, and I did feel the term "Professional Left" would allow too many liberal commentators to conveniently play the victim - I immediately knew what Gibbs was talking about and co-signed his sentiments immediately. Two more things that also instantly came to mind: 1)I knew I'd be one in a small handful of liberals who actually had Gibbs' back on this one. and 2)That you wouldn't be able to throw a rock without hitting some liberal commentator having a rather telegraphed hissyfit over what Gibbs had to say. Even though the unpopularity of my Robert Gibbs co-signing has only shown itself to be anecdotal via twitter, the evidence of all the liberal commentators who got their delicate little feelings hurt in a rather scripted fashion was empirical like a motherfucker. The common denominators in all those videos: The using of Robert Gibbs' interview to re-litigate liberal grievances, and a convenient morphing of the Press Secretary's words into a frontal attack on the liberal base as a whole. I don't have a problem with the former, but the latter is intellectual dishonesty bordering on journalistic malpractice. Even Rachel Maddow, who I thought felt the issue was justifiably silly by her not dedicating a breathy diatribe to it on last Tuesday night's show, a person who strikes me as more of a straight shooter than most - took it upon herself to take an Obama criticism that I feel is above reproach(ending DADT) and clumsily wrapped it in what Robert Gibbs didn't say. I guess she was just following the liberal rulebook: "When it doubt, give Glenn Greenwald masturbatory material."

Robert Gibbs made it clear that he wasn't talking about garden variety liberals, just some of the chattering cable class and other influential progressives who desperately tried to convince me last week that the Press Secretary took a healthy shit in my Cheerios. More pointedly, the incessant liberal nihilism that has been masquerading as constructive criticism for the last 17 months - those are the real folks who I wholeheartedly believe Gibbs was talking about. You know, like the guy whose health care frustration prompted him to very casually float the idea of a Primary challenge to the President. Or his petulantly scripted outrage over President Obama's oil spill speech. Or the chick who thought it was a good idea to blow up a bill that improved on our health care system simply because she didn't get her precious way - then proceeding to clumsily team up with Grover Norquist. And support Erick Erickson. Then there's the guy, when he's not waxing poetic about the President's lack of genitalia and calling him a sell-out - is telling his viewers how he plans to sit on his hands come mid-term election time. Hell, just this past weekend we had certain progressives clumsily tripping over themselves like Barney Fife on mescaline in their rush to blast the President on a supposed walk-back that he never made - thus making Robert Gibbs look like a goddamned prophet.

Look, holding the President accountable is a must, no one is arguing that. But what I haven't seen from influential circles of the left if what Bob Cesca likes to call "smart accountability" - it just seems to be nothing but whining malcontents taking every opportunity imaginable to poo-poo the President's impressive string of accomplishments. They like to lecture all of us on how much of what he's gotten done lacks teeth, but then proceed to tightly cup their ears and scream like petulant 5 year olds whenever you point out what exactly the legislative realities are.(See Cenk Uygur) The funny thing is, these same people will wax poetic about the President's depressed base as if they themselves didn't have something to do with that. The same way the President shouldn't be above reproach, neither should any of his liberal critics. Sorry Keith Olbermann. Sorry Adam Green. People have regrettably noted that what Robert Gibbs participated in last week was something that folks call "Punching Hippies", the art of a Democratic administration attacking its liberal critics. Well, as I found out at the dinner party I attended a couple months back, some hippies deserved to be punched. And just like that night, many need to be drug tested.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

"Another Pete Rock Remix"

Moments into reading this blog a few things become abundantly clear: 1)I have an insatiable appetite for unprovoked violence that would lead therapists the world over to openly wonder if I tortured puppies as a child. 2) I have more daddy issues than your local stripper turned escort 3) I can't go three paragraphs without referencing my penis in some sort of unseemly manner and 4)I have no problem whatsoever expressing my firm belief that DJ Premier is indeed a deity. As troubling to you as the first three examples may be, let me briefly address my penchant for proverbially building a shrine to the surviving member of Gangstarr. For the past couple of years I've come to the conclusion that the Texas born producer's music can cure any possible ill that one could ever imagine. The same way Chris Rock famously waxed poetic about his father's belief that Robitussin could magically reverse the affects of everything from asthma to broken tibias - "DJ Premier" is commonly my answer to every music question posed to me. Regardless of the genre, I believe that he could save any artist's career from sliding into the doldrums. I think he could score any motion picture, ranging from Victorian period pieces to German Shiza porn. Preemo could produce toe-tapping jingles that would make companies billions, create theme-songs to sitcoms that would leave an actor's pockets bulging with phat syndication dough. Catch me on the right day and I will tell you with a straight face that the man's music can save marriages and possibly broker peace deals. But what gets lost on this blog with all my incessant DJ Premier hero worship is another beat maker that I have tremendous respect for, Mr. Pete Rock.

The man's catalog speaks for itself, I've exhibited the same mangled snarl while simultaneously bobbing my head to his production ever since puberty first introduced itself to me. Hell, Pete Rock is the main reason why I know that I'd be a piss poor producer - because of his influential sound I'd be tempted to put horns in just about everything. But instead of citing his legendary catalog chapter and verse here, which would surely take up valuable space, I wanted to go into what I think is his particular field of expertise: The Remix. As much as DJ Premier is my favorite producer, a man who absolutely lays waste to any assignment where production re-imagining is needed - I've always admired the way Pete Rock seems to view the remix as an entirely separate entity. Its as if he purposely wipes his mental hardrive clean of any trace of the original production, completely overhauling the song to the point that it would be unrecognizable if it weren't for the lyrical content. Just the way a remix should be. Here are 4 of my favorite Pete Rock remixes.

Daf Efx: "Jussumen"(Pete Rock Remix)

Unlike the last example, the remix far outweighs the album version of this song by miles. Pete Rock turned a pretty milquetoast, shrug-worthy track into something that forces my body to do severely outdated Hip Hop dances wherever I hear it, regardless of the location. (Shoutout to my cousin Brendan. My nonstop playing of this song left him with a nervous twitch that never went away. Sorry cuz.)

Jeru tha Damaja: "You Cant Stop the Prophet"(Pete Rock Remix)

Ok, this is equivalent to Marty McFly challenging the space/time continuum. Something feels inherently wrong about anyone, Pete Rock or otherwise, remixing a DJ Premier produced song. That said, Pete Rock somehow managed to masterfully improve on a song that I already thought was pretty damn great already.

House of Pain: "Jump Around"(Pete Rock remix)

Not so much now, but when I was younger I had a habit of hating songs because I felt people solely flocked to them because of their novelty, not because the song was actually a good one. I wish I could say with confidence that my hate for this song was due to that rather faulty rationale, but it wasn't. I really hated this song, and at the time openly questioned people's intelligence and manhood if they even slightly suggested that they liked it. But Pete Rock's interpretation of "Jump Around" briefly gave religion to this cantankerous nonbeliever. Let me testify, the man works miracles.

Public Enemy: "Shut em down"(Pete Rock Remix)

By far my favorite Pete Rock remix of all time. I'm well aware that Public Enemy has a catalog filled with classics, but outside of Chuck D railing against John Wayne and Elvis Presley in "Fight the Power" - my second favorite PE moment is every time I hear the blaring horns on the "Shut em down" remix. The original track still stands up, perfectly highlighting the point they were trying to get across. But the Pete Rock remix not only makes me want to boycott companies who don't give back to the neighborhood, it makes me want to rally the troops and infiltrate their corporate headquarters while wearing Chewbacca's ammunition belt.

Friday, May 07, 2010

Helping America become post racial, one brutal beating at a time: Episode Four

The one unintended consequence of my sobriety, I'm finding out, is an obnoxiously sunny disposition. Usually when I'm paying for my gas or buying some miscellaneous item, my main goal is to avoid small talk at all costs and get my black ass out of dodge as fast as humanly possible. But now that there are no more daily assassination attempts on my liver, more often than not I find myself actually engaging people - even smiling while doing so. Yes, my new found niceness utterly sickens me. If I saw an acquaintance at a store that I wanted to avoid having small talk with, the extraordinary stealth that I exhibited just to stay clear of their harmless minutiae would impress most ninjas. Now not only will I seek them out, I'll engage them with the same small talk that I once loathed and even inquire about their family. Ugh. Sobriety has made being an unrepentant douchebag less of a priority, and that starts to scare me. Not looking for every opportunity to say the most reprehensible things imaginable to people without even flinching is definitely a cause for concern. Did you know that I have new found habit of sexual reciprocity? I used to take so much pride in my pre-ejaculation and the love I have for penetrating women to Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome". What is happening to me? I mean, even mercilessly assaulting people for minor offenses is starting to lose its luster. For the past few months I seriously thought my asshole world was crashing down around me, that was until I met a self loathing black man with an Obama assassination fetish that is.

I had to give the drummer some: An old friend of mine is the guitarist in a jazz band. For the longest time I had promised him that I would go to one of his performances, but I was really dragging my feet for the fear that his band would sound like a constipated turkey - a judgment that a seasoned asshole like myself would only feel compelled to share with him. But despite the possibility of ruining a friendship with my blunt honesty, I finally made it to one of his performances - and suffice it to say his band was absolutely amazing. So amazing in fact that I found myself making it to three of their performances a week, they were that good. I mean, sure there was a lot of eye candy in attendance that I wanted to be proverbial notches in my Chewbacca sized sexual exploit belt - but my friend's music was a great backdrop as I whispered sweet "You haven't lived until you've been fucked in a confessional" sentiments in some young lady's ear.

Seeing a band as much as I did you get acquainted with the other band members, and I must say that they were all pretty stand up guys. Well, all of them except the drummer, Derrick. I knew going in that Derrick was a black conservative, but that didn't bother me, our post set conversations about politics actually started out rather civil. He had legitimate beefs with Obama that I couldn't argue with, principled stances that forced a insufferable prick like myself to show the gentleman nothing but respect. But then, as if someone flipped a switch, he went from civil discourse to questioning Obama's birthplace and making Michelle Obama jokes that you'd expect a militia member to make. At this point I was actively avoiding him, doing things like striking up conversations with strangers or simply leaving the room whenever I saw him approaching. Unfortunately he would occasionally find me and unload some wing nut craziness about Obama being in bed with al qaeda, straight lunacy that Glenn Beck would distance himself from. When he would go on these rants laughter seemed to be my only option, because I quickly saw an attempt at methodical debunking his nonsense devolving into me snapping his fucking neck in front of 50 jazz aficionados. Besides, beating my homey's bandmate wouldn't be the best thing for our friendship - so I told myself that if it got too bad that I simply wouldn't come back any more.

Then it happened. Right after one of their sets Derrick sat beside me, angrily reading a newspaper and said: "This motherfucker won't survive his first term, and thank god for that!" Yeah, that was enough for me. So minutes later, as he smoked a cigarette behind the club, I snuck behind him and put him in one hell of a sleeper hold. After a few moments, right before he fell asleep, I released the hold and delivered two rather disgruntled punches to his kidney right before throwing him head first into the side of a dumpster. Yes, I gave him a couple kicks for good measure as well. Then I promptly went home. The next day I got a call from my friend informing me of the ass whipping Derrick was on the business end of. Damn, no one knew it was me. I guess being an asshole is sort of like riding a bike, you never forget.

(P.S Yes, beating a black conservative counts. Don't judge me.)

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

My Very First Tea Party Rally..

Ever since I witnessed disgruntled octogenarians everywhere protesting the "socialist" heath care bill while their pockets swelled with social security cash, whiny bigots literally breaking down in tears while saying the words "I want my country back", and scores of people who would fail a High School Civics class holding misspelled signs with pride - I just knew that one day I would attend a Tea Party Rally. Some people hope to one day pilgrimage to Mecca, I had dreams of being surrounded by thousands of minor league Klansmen who want people to think that taxes are the real reason they have such a distaste for our 44th President. I mean, we can finally drop the "its just a bunch of concerned citizens" pretense, can't we? A couple of weeks ago shitloads of people around the country gathered to scream bloody murder about taxes despite the fact that federal income taxes on middle class families are at historic lows and Obama gave 95% of those ungrateful sons of bitches tax cuts. Not for nothing, but if it walks like a racist and talks like a racist, chances are they are holding a sign calling the President a "communist".

I know, broad generalizing is wrong, and I'm sure there are folks in the Tea Party who do indeed have legitimate concerns. I just contend that that number is relatively small, about the same minuscule percentage of strippers who are thrusting their glitter encrusted pelvises to actually pay for college courses. But hey, I've been wrong before. So after a year of fearing that attending a Tea Party rally would result in me going all Nat Turner on a motherfucker, I finally trusted myself enough to mingle with what I believe to be the most disgruntled people in America. Here is what happened when yours truly decided to enter the lions den.(Town Point Park, Norfolk Virginia)

I arrived on the premises around 5:30 or so, about an hour and a half late. Sure, I know that my penchant for tardiness has "subpar journalist" written all over it - but after I learned that I had just missed a speech delivered by Bishop E.W. Jackson Sr, I couldn't have been happier. See, nothing is wrong with black opposition of Obama, but the good Bishop is one of those self loathing black folks who incessantly shields republicans from the racism charge by claiming the ones making said charge are playing the "race card". Because him and black folks of his ilk are too stupid to know that Tea Party folks are just using them in a "I have a black friend, I can't be racist" sort way, I'm glad I missed him - the mere sight of him giving a rhetorical softshoe routine would have forced me to become rather indignant and break whatever cover I attempted to maintain.

The first thing I saw as soon as I entered the premises were these kids holding signs. Because I didn't want to bring any undue attention on to myself(I have a thick beard and long dreadlocks mind you) I refrained from yelling "Your parents really need their asses kicked you little shits!"(It was extremely difficult to hold that back) Using kids to peddle your flimsy political philosophy is rather unseemly. Then again, I'm the same guy who has every intention of using my niece this summer to meet rather flexible, low self esteem having women. Anyway, remember that scene in "Malcolm X" when Malcolm went to Mecca and he was being shadowed by those CIA agents with video cameras? As much as I tried to blend in, I always felt like the CIA agent in the aforementioned scenario.

This is Karen Hurd, the founder of the Hampton Roads Tea Party who was the person speaking as I walked up. The rampant misinformation that came out of this woman's mouth would have been laughable if the people in attendance weren't willfully eating it up like hungry pigs at a trough. As I stood there listening to an unrepentant liar whose main agenda was to scare the living shit out of every unenlightened bigot within the sound of her voice, you could tell that she was doing her best Michelle Bachmann impression. That said, this woman's rhetoric was so exceedingly clumsy that she made Michelle Bachmann look like Maya Angelou.

Um, Yeah. Whatever gets you through the night lady.

Here are a few crowd shots. I'd say there were roughly 300 people there, nowhere near Town Point Park's capacity.

Of course there were an abundance of signs referencing the Constitution and how the President is apparently wiping his ass with it. But Obama was a Constitutional Professor for Christs sake, lecturing him on that document is like holding a sign in front of Karinne Steffans' house that reads "Remember the Blowjob!". Or holding a sign in front of R Kelly's house that reads "Remember the Pre-teen". I asked one of these folks about the Constitution and it turns out that I know more about the mating habits of the Fossa than any of them know about the Constitution. If people like Andrew Breitbart are so concerned with people smearing the Tea Party, he should be more concerned with them making it so easy for assholes like me.

This is purely anecdotal, but the staff there seemed to hand out Tea Party materials to everyone except me. I smiled, said "hello!", I even distributed nods of approval. Nothing. To be quite honest, they seemed like they were actively avoiding me. Maybe my agenda was obvious, I dunno - its not like I was wearing a Public Enemy shirt with Che Guevara wristbands. Either way, what better way to silence the folks who think that you are movement motivated by racism than to embrace everything within a square mile radius with a pulse. It was just rather telling to me.

Yes, there was black people. Two things on that. 1.) I saw that there was a nationally coordinated effort to have more and more black people at Tea Party rallies that day. Which is nice optics, I'm sure, but it doesn't mean a goddamn thing. Like I always say, there are self loathing black people who would join the Klu Klux Klan if they were allowed to. 2.)The black people pictured above were brought in by a local candidate running for office, I found this out when I saw someone come by and relieve them of their sign holding duties. Not only is their whole movement astroturfed, so is their black support. To my brother and sisters, with the economy in the shape that it is, there is money in part-time conservatism. Get that paper homey, I won't judge you.

What's a Tea Party Rally without the "Obama as the Joker" sign? It's sort of like going to a Stevie Wonder concert, you know you're going to hear "Superstition" before the night is done.

This pair of tits is Bob Marshall. Not for nothing, but thank god for Wikipedia pages because otherwise I'd be spending an inordinate amount of time detailing the many varieties of shit that makes up this rather lackluster human being. He kept bragging about being the architect of Ken Cuccinelli's Health Care Lawsuit against the Federal Government, which is obviously frivolous, but that didn't stop him from lathering up the dopes with the pipe dream of Health Care repeal. The contempt that a lot of elected republican officials have for their constituents is amazing. The one thing that I noticed as I listened to Mr. Marshall attempt to stick the proverbial landing on what has become standard Teabagger boilerplate, is that these events are nothing more than third rate comedy roasts of President Obama by bigots - with each speaker desperately trying to outdo the other with their insults of the President. Coming from a guy who feels the need to get an STD test every time I even think about some of my past dalliances, the mere fact that I felt like taking a shower after Bob Marshall spoke is really saying something.

As I prepared to leave, I noticed a guy holding this utterly despicable sign. When he was saw me taking a picture of it he quickly dropped the sign to his side and folded it up. When he past me I just smirked, shook my head slowly and told him "Too late motherfucker!". At that point I could care less about maintaining any sort of cover.

But as I left the Tea Party Rally that day, I realized that the man holding the "Barry Soetoro Is our Terrorist" sign is a microcosm of the entire Tea Party Movement. When their tax arguments are proven to be fraudulent, when they don't seem to have the same critiques of "Big Government" when Arizona does it, their silence in the populism department when it comes to Wall Street - why don't they just admit that its all about racism already. Like the guy with the sign, own your racism for Christs sake - I'd at least applaud you for being honest for once.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Ahh, I love the smell of racism in the morning..

Chase Whiteside is absolutely killing it. For the last year he has been routinely exposing these Tea Party folks with a surgical precision that's quite unparalleled, his patient and non-combative nature allows his interview subjects to reveal their ignorance with reckless abandon. It's quite a thing of beauty. To me, especially considering how the folks in the video above flatly rejected factual information, its pretty obvious that they have more of a problem with the color of our President's skin than anything else. Its just a shame that no matter how painfully transparent their dogwhistle rhetoric is, how many clearly racist signs that many of them carry, or how utterly fraudulent a lot of their claims turn out to be - the media will still continue to say that these folks have "legitimate concerns". Liberal media my ass.

Chase Whiteside's website and facebook page

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Jon Stewart's beautiful Bernard Goldberg Takedown

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Daily Show Full EpisodesPolitical HumorTea Party

Not for nothing, but this is how you take a motherfucker out. Sure, Bernard Goldberg is nothing more than a pimple on the bulbous ass of cable news hackery, at first blush I'm sure Stewart simply planned on ignoring him. But as soon Golberg's clumsy, albeit passionately drawn out smearing of Stewart revealed itself - it was apparent that the Comedy Central host was left with one option: Go completely nuclear on that ass. That said, despite the dismantling of Bill O'Reilly's favorite handjob giver, Jon Stewart was much kinder than I would have been. I mean, a person whose reckless rhetoric lead to a body count of all things has no room to criticize anyone on anything. I would have definitely brought that point up, continuously.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Goodbye Guru (July 17, 1966 – April 19, 2010)

Growing up a latchkey kid with two siblings more than a decade older than myself and parents with time consuming careers, I spent a considerable amount of my childhood alone. My folks were absolutely great parents, don't get the wrong idea, but I'd be intellectually dishonest if didn't admit that television had a legitimate hand in raising me. The mere thought of television raising kids nowadays makes me throw up in my mouth a little, especially when you think about petri dishes like Tila Tequila offering young girls Cliff Notes lessons on being a whore, or any other 30 minutes of moral decay posing as television programming. But back then it was just reruns of "Hazel", "Gilligan's Island", "The Courtship of Eddie's father", "Good Times", My Three Sons", etc - rather milquetoast by today's standards. But never the less, every hour that my parents weren't around for some in-your-face guidance I was getting life lessons from syndicated sitcoms. But then Hip Hop hit me like a ton of bricks, so my penchant for watching 60's era television was quickly replaced with watching myself in the mirror passionately mouthing rap lyrics. I know Hip Hop metaphors are both sleep inducing and overused, but Hip Hop as the surrogate parent merged into the good friend - and there was no better friend than Guru.

Sure, I didn't know Keith Elam personally - but he always seemed to be there for me despite that particularly inconvenient fact. When I first met him he was dropping knowledge, a positive influence that a knucklehead like me needed when I was 15. He'd hang with me at parties, schooled me on the streets so some disgruntled thugs wouldn't stomped me into wine, and he was even there to console me when some evil seductress decided to rip my beating heart out of my chest. We got high together. He introduced me to new people. The guy could talk shit with the best of them, so of course some of that rubbed off on me as well. Lastly, like all good friends he didn't care what I wanted to hear, he always told me what I needed to hear.

Despite his health issues as of late, the death of Guru still felt like a punch in the gut this morning. Outside of being a big fan of his music for more than 20 years, feeling like he helped usher me through manhood probably had something to do with how I felt. Guru, rest in peace brother, you will be missed.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Upon further review: LL Cool J's "I'm bad"

In honor of LL Cool J's classic stiff arm of Sarah Palin and that monstrosity of a television show FOX News clumsily tried to peddle, I thought that I'd dedicate the inaugural episode of "Upon Further Review" to the Queens MC by waxing poetic about the "I'm Bad" video. "Upon Further Review" will simply be posts documenting the different perspective I have on various aspects of Pop Culture now that I'm adult. I know, I should have put the word "adult" in quotes. Here are a few things about "I'm Bad" that I wasn't thinking about in 1987.

Thought #1: Police Dispatcher: "Calling all cars. Calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a tall, lightskinned brother with dimples." Not for nothing, but any description that involves dimples has me questioning your hetero street cred. Why didn't he alert his fellow police officers of the way LL's ass looks in his jeans, or the sweat glistening on his chest? I'm no homophobe, but did LL have so many yes men in the studio that they were afraid to point out a dispatcher who obviously wanted to treat his prostate like a pinata?

Thought #2: Not undercover cops infiltrating their drug operation. Not a rival drug kingpin trying to take over their territory. The biggest threat to an organized narcotics ring is a tiny black woman handing out poorly crafted anti-drug fliers? Really?

Thought #3: OK. Now that the mob guys kidnapped LL's girl for handing out anti-drug fliers, what in the world do they plan on doing with her? Slowly torture her until she tells them what Kinko's she had them made at? "Tell me what machine you used!! You will tell me what font you went with!" What the fuck?

Thought #4: That reminds me, what was up with stereotypical mob guys anyway? By this time "Miami Vice" had been out for three years, showing America's unenlightened that drug trafficking scumbags come in all shapes and sizes. If I was an Italian American I'd be pissed that the director lazily went the mob approach. Second thought, Italian Americans are too busy being embarrassed by "Jersey Shore" to worry about a 23 year old video.

Thought #5: I know that the misogyny in current day Hip Hop videos can be somewhat unseemly, I'll give you that - but at least the women being objectified nowadays are attractive. The 80's era rap video landscape is littered with questionable choices in eye candy, and this video is no exception. The woman who plays LL's girlfriend is attractive, but what is up with the random chicks in the warehouse? Its as if the director pulled a couple of homeless crackheads off the street, promptly bathed them, and the proceeded to throw them in front of the camera.

This has Karl Rove's doughy fingerprints all over it.

Note to Jason Levin: Infiltrating anything requires a great deal of stealthiness, having a website and a twitter account announcing that you're going to pose as a Tea Party person kind of defeats the purpose numbnuts. I'm pretty sure Mr. Levin has a sincere distaste for the organized bigotry that is the Tea Party rallies just like I do, but as soon as I read the piece on him at Talking Points Memo I immediately knew what the Republican playbook would be: From now on, every time some Teabagging knuckle-dragger is photographed with a sign highlighting their racism and functioning illiteracy, the right will just say its some liberal trying to make their honorable movement look bad. Shit, its already happening. This tactic comes right on the heels of Andrew Breitbart's incessantly desperate attempts to have you believe his word over a civil rights icon like John Lewis. But this tactic isn't Breitbart's. Even though the tactic is both hamfisted and clumsy, Breitbart doesn't have the intellectual capacity to come up with it. I wouldn't trust that parasite to pen his own autobiography. This has Karl Rove written all over it. Whether its Max Cleland or John Kerry's military service, Rove is a firm believer in attacking people's strengths. The rampant racism exhibited at these Tea Parties strengthens the argument of many on the left who feel that the disgruntled people gathering en masse are more pissed off at the shade of our President than taxes and the expansion of government combined. This is Karl's attempt to legitimize militia malcontents and garden variety bigots. You've been warned motherfuckers.

Monday, April 12, 2010

My letter to MSNBC's Phil Griffin: "David Shuster"

Dear Mr. Griffin,

I've been predominantly watching your network for the better part of decade now. I wish I could report to you that my viewership was more than just a byproduct of me lazily retreating to a default position based on the paltry cable news landscape, but I can't in clear conscience. I know that the previous sentence comes off as a slight, but some rather good things have come from "settling": I was my prom date's 5th choice but I still ended up having a good time with premature ejaculate on her rented prom dress as proof. Phil, there is nothing wrong with being the Khloe Kardashian in my cable news watching scenario - with FOX making me projectile vomit and CNN having more mixed nuts than a Tiger Woods mistress.

But despite my petty complaints I'm still a viewer, and as a viewer I've got to say that your treatment of David Shuster as of late has been pretty eyebrow raising. I mean, I'll never be the president of any David Shuster fanclubs mind you - but compared to your other daytime talent who routinely subscribe to right wing frames and let republican politicians get away with murder - he clearly was someone who took the lost art of news journalism seriously. So yes, his indefinite suspension was a loss to all of us weirdos who like people occasionally held accountable - but I truly can't take issue with you letting him go for filming a pilot for CNN. I can see why that would be a firing offense. It was just your post-Shuster suspension rhetoric that I personally found rather rich:

"[Shuster] was not moral, ethical or professional and that is not fair to the 500 people who work at [MSNBC]."

I said all along that this was about loyalty and looking out for this network and not our competition

With all do respect Mr. Griffin, concerning the first quote - how can the word "moral" even dare escape your mandible when you have someone in your employ who thinks that blacks benefited from slavery? There are tons of racist Pat Buchanan quotes on youtube that make "Birth of a Nation" look like "Soul Train" for Christs sake. How can you talk about David Shuster's professionalism when the host of your morning program routinely takes thinly veiled shots at one of his colleagues, some not so thinly veiled. Did you happen to see the DNA sharing that was Dylan Ratigan's interview of Andrew Breitbart? There is nothing professional about a complimentary reach around posing as news journalism. Here is some more Dylan Ratigan "professionalism" to tide you over.

Concerning the last quote about "loyalty", what is so loyal about grabbing every stray derelict off the street and giving them a show over David Shuster?(And no, "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" doesn't count. 1) He replaced David Gregory and 2)That show was all about the run-up to the election, not a true Shuster vehicle) So, why did David Shuster get in trouble for that tweet to Jame O'keefe again? O'keefe is a criminal who doctored those ACORN tapes that FOX News loved so much, when did MSNBC get in the business of siding with unrepentant pieces of shit? No disrespect Mr. Griffin, but it takes some set of balls to talk about "ethics" and "professionalism" based on what you've let go on at your network. On one hand I really hope that you see the logical pretzel you've bended yourself into and keep David Shuster on, but on the other hand I can totally see why he would want to get the fuck out of dodge.

P.S Keith Olbermann and Rachel Maddow rock!


Thursday, April 08, 2010

Drunk History

Duncan Trussell drunkenly breaks down Nikola Tesla and the alternating current. I love this series.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Janelle Monáe feat Big Boi: “Tight Rope”

I can't front, when I first heard that Janelle Monae went to Bad Boy I was convinced that the Kansas City native was signing her career death warrant. Bad Boy has been a proverbial Bermuda Triangle for artists over the past few years. Sean Combs has been the human embodiment of the "Rogue" character in "X-Men", only his touch effortlessly sucks the creative life and career aspirations out of people. I feared that Janelle Monae would just be another notch in Combs' Chewbacca sized "artists I clumsily mishandled" belt. Well, with a May 18th release date in stone, and what I've heard thus far - maybe I'm wrong. Jesus, I hope so.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

My Top 5: Hip Hop Heartbreak

The other day I stumbled upon this complex.com post chronicling what they believe to be the 25 Greatest Hip Hop Love songs of all time and immediately thought two things: 1. I liked that post better the first time I read it, on this blog almost four years ago.(Don't worry, I'm not accusing anyone of idea jacking - no one reads this fucking blog.) and 2: I no longer see shamelessly pining for a woman with an overproduced track serving as the backdrop particularly a badge of courage any more. I mean, in a music that historically seemed like it was one testosterone injection away from overdose, with bravado being a damn near prerequisite to ever gripping a microphone - and add to that the rampant homophobia - it would seem to me that artists would arbitrarily do a love song just to put the Nike symbol next to the "I'm not gay" on their checklist. Not exactly worthy of a Purple Heart in my book. But what I have always thought was an exhibition of bravery was when an MC was willing to bare his soul and talk about the woman who had cavalierly decided to rip his beating heart out of his chest cavity. Maybe its because I'm a writer, an unrepentant introvert who finds hand holding and windy walks romantic when I'm not sodomizing strippers and finding fuck buddies off of craigslist, but these five odes to soul crushing harlots has always stuck with me.

Artist: Da King and I
Song: "Tears"
Album: Contemporary Jeep Music

5. Its one thing to play the sleuthy Hercule Poirot role when trying to figure out if your significant other is cheating through their unexplained absences, new sexual habits, and their sudden indifference to your fuck-ups - but its another thing to be blindsided when a friend informs you that he saw your lady with another man. I always appreciated how Izzy openly wondered how he would question her, and the careful analysis of her bullshit answer afterward. I've been there my friend.

Artist: Main Source:
Song: "Looking at the Front Door"
Album: Breaking Atoms

4. Ok, this isn't technically a song about about Heartbreak. But you have to admit, a guy screaming "You are mistreating me!" from the rafters in song form is a hell of a lot more ballsier than talking about a girlfriend who has a penchant for servicing other penises. Kudos Extra P.

Artist: O.C:
Song: "Ga Head"
Album: Word...Life

3. Nothing says you are secure in your manhood like openly admitting that your woman's sexual misadventures caused the emptying of tear ducts. This song pretty much explains the mindset of a lot of suspicious boyfriends, that if your significant other is indeed cheating, said behavior is undoubtedly encouraged by her good for nothing friend. But with one catch. Here the good for nothing friend is the person she's cheating with. Two girls fucking each other is sexy at bachelor parties or in porn, but it severely loses it luster when it invades your home. Sidebar: Five of my girlfriends went on to become card carrying lesbians. I took no creative license with that last statement.

Artist: Slick Rick:
Song: "Mistakes of a Woman in Love With Other Men"
Album: The Ruler's Back

2. Slick Rick is a Master Storyteller, everyone knows that, but the real brilliance of the English MC was always the relentlessly unflinching way he went about it. I mean, in "The Moment I Feared" he told a fictitious story of him getting forcibly sodomized in a correctional facility - who else does that kind of shit? This is far from my favorite Slick Rick song, but the melancholy dripping from the vocals has always haunted me - as if he actually recorded this song while being emotionally tortured by a lover's betrayal.

Artist: Onyx:
Song: "Da Nex Niguz"
Album: Bacdafucup

1. Vulgar. Crass. Crude. Misogynistic. Ladies I know, its all of that. I'm sure this wasn't the intent of Onyx, but I always loved this song because of how it mirrors the extent men will go to shield their true feelings from their friends. Acting as if a woman's cheating was old hat while dropping invective filled talking points about her is a staple of male friendships. Sorry ladies, its an ugly reality. This song also tackles another way men deal with cheating. When women get cheated on its about the betrayal, when men get cheated on its about the sexual act more than anything. Sure the betrayal part stings too but nowhere near the mental images of her gaining stretch marks around her mouth while servicing that new guy. Painful visual recreations of all the extra room she has acquired in her vagina by all the incessant pounding with a guy with surely a wrecking ball of a cock. Yes, men are excessively visual.

Random thoughts twitter can't contain: Johnny Weir and the Euphemism game

You don't have to be the fiercest advocate for Barack Obama to recognize how many codewords, euphemism if you will, have been used over the past year by some of the harshest critics of the 44th President of the United States. Since calling the man a "nigger" isn't particularly the most politically correct thing one could say, more times than not you'll hear some uneducated maggot sloppily stringing together a litany of "ists" into one sentence without knowing what any of those words actually mean: Socialist. Marxist. Communist. Outside of a certain congressman from Georgia, its become pretty impolitic to refer to Obama as "uppity" - but you can't throw a rock without hitting a clumsy Politico reporter implying as much - or a former Vice Presidential candidate implying as much with her "not a professor of law standing at the lectern" dogwhistles.

Last night, as I watched Johnny Weir skate, I once again saw the euphemism game being played with reckless abandon. Maybe words like "Flamboyant", "Eccentric", "Different", and "Sassy" are accurate descriptions of Weir for all I know - but its Men's figure skating for Christs sake, not Bare knuckle boxing. I'm sure the same way I'm always screaming "Just call the guy a nigger already" at some mouth breathing Teabagger on television, similar sentiments adjusted for sexual preference are being screamed by my gay brothers and sisters to people trying to be polite about their bigotry.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Some Sobering Truths

Its been a few months since alcohol and I have been on speaking terms, hell, the cold turkey approach feels more like I went to have that evil seductress wiped from my memory on some "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" shit. The benefits have turned out to be everything that I expected. I've lost more pounds than a Nate Newton drug bust. I no longer perspire while eating, or get winded while riding on the elevators. The money I've saved from no longer buying booze, criminally overtipping bartenders, and taking cab rides could fully keep a garden variety baby mama content and away from Johnny Law if I indeed had one. Its also unfortunately done a number on my temperament, turning me into a rather reasonable individual - now I give someone an extra warning or two before kicking their bicuspids down their respective throats. I embrace all of it, even the unexpected civility that no longer getting shitfaced has brought on. But there is an evil side to sobriety that no one tells you about. Let me explain:

No more excuses for forgetting names: I'm not a Kanye West hater, I'm actually a fan, but one thing that friend and foe alike can agree with is that homeboy is a dick. It's just who he is. So I'm sure the people who love him the most, his family and friends, know this fact better than anyone and love him despite of it. Once your alcoholic street cred has been established people tend to let you get away with things that are usually hell-worthy trespasses, like forgetting someone's name. I cant tell you how many times this conversation has occurred at a bar:

Man: HumanityCritic!!! What's up man?
Me:(handshake) Hey man! Nothing much, same shit different toilet bowl.
Man: You forgot my name didn't you?
Me: That's ridiculous, of course I remember your name.
Man: What's my name then?
Me: (looking in the air for answers) Um, give me a second, its right on the tip of my tongue.. Yeah I forgot it.

But all is always forgiven because of my liver ruining tendencies. I mean, I've even had brief dalliances, that's an artful way of calling them "cuddle buddies", who have easily accepted the fact that I forgot their name only a couple of days after my loving cunnilingus made their nether regions smell like a brewery. But now that I'm sober, alcohol can no longer be the fall guy for what I'm sure is my repentant insensitivity.

"Moments of asshole" flashbacks: I have never served my country. When I went into my senior year of High School I had fully intended to graduate and then immediately enlist into the service. Then the 1st Iraq war broke out, so guess what I wasn't doing after graduation. I say all of that because I sincerely respect the brave men and women who fought and continue to fight for this country, and I don't want to offend them by equating a product of my sobriety to post traumatic war flashbacks - I know that doing so is a proverbial minefield.(See, I even felt uneasy about typing "minefield") But seriously, its the only thing I can relate it to that will make sense for anyone reading this. Now that I'm sober there some rather unseemly things, despicable acts that alcohol buried deep in my subconscious, that randomly come back to me with HD levels of clarity. Headbutting a guy because his girlfriend called Obama a "Muslim". What did he do? His only crime was having a bitch as a girlfriend. Beating up an old bully for general principle purposes when I saw him at a bar last year. Really? His bullying of me happened more than 20 years ago, and said bullying stopped because of me putting him on the business end of beating back then. We were all squared up Karma-wise. Getting a blowjob from an ex-girlfriend's sister just because my delicate feeling were hurt. Trust me, there isn't a format big enough to contain all the uncalled for things that I've seen in flashback form these past months.

"Sobriety goggles": If John Meyer's dick is like David Duke, then my unimpressive chubby penis was like the Statue of Liberty on some "give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses" shit during the tenure of my alcoholism. Yes, I'm a germaphobe who usually wears three condoms and hazmat gear to have sex, but occasionally alcohol would make me lower my defenses and have sex with a woman I had no earthly business fucking. But I always laughed off penetrating goblins and treasure trolls and blamed it on the booze, but at the same time clumsily trying to find some redeemable trait about said beastly conquest: "Sure, she wasn't cute, but did you see the knees on that one!" Even though its really done a number on my social calender, sobriety no longer allows me to be so pedestrian about choosing my sex partners - now it takes more than low self esteem and amusement park height requirements to count my ceiling tiles. Women who looked as if they stared at the arc of the covenant too long would usually be embraced when I was drinking, not now, now I tightly close my mouth and furiously shake my head back and forth like a toddler who doesn't want to eat something.

Finding out how horrible people are: Lastly, and most unfortunately, sobriety has opened my eyes to the steaming piles of monkey shit some people happen to be. I mean, I used to think I was a pretty good judge of character but apparently I was wrong. There have been 5 situations so far where I was talking to somebody that I previously held in pretty high regard and the realization of how horrible they actually were covered me like a torrential downpour. It was that same feeling you get as soon as you figure out that the person you're in love with is breaking up with you, its exactly like that. Its okay though, I'm sure friends and family alike will think the exact same thing about me as soon as they stop drinking.

Inside the "Birth of a Nation" Convention

Bigots, the whole lot of them. Every time I hear some political analyst that I respect say that these folks legitimately have concerns or that they "don't belong to either political party", I want to go on a fucking killing spree. Sure, I'm certain that there is a sliver who really care about taxes and spending - about the same minuscule sliver of folks who read Playboy for the articles, about as measly as the percentage of men who actually care about their woman achieving climax. Remember what Janeane Garofalo said about the Tea Party folks: "It's about hating a black man in the White House. That is racism straight up. This is nothing but a bunch of tea bagging rednecks." Now I know why the reaction to her saying that was so visceral, because the ones feigning outrage knew that she was speaking the absolute truth. I mean, how many more videos of people gleefully sharing their racism and lack of knowledge do we need at this point? The Tea Party Movement, and by a larger extent the popularity of Sarah Palin in said fringe, is the direct result of having an intelligent Black man as Commander in Chief. Smart black guys threaten bigots in general, but a smart black President? Enter the Tea Party people and the popularity of a functioning illiterate half term Governor who runs her entire political operation from a facebook page.

Kudos to Chase Whiteside for doing such a bang up job.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Bipartisan Health Care Summit: Checkmate

I still stand by my position that having "Question Time" happen on a regular basis would be an extremely bad idea - it would quickly snowball into a coordinated talking point fest where republicans would treat the entire exercise like one giant cross examination of the President. That said, the Bipartisan Health Care Summit proposed by the President is one hell of an unanswerable chess move. If the Republicans accepted, Frank Luntz authored talking points and garden variety lies that the mainstream media ushered into the public's consciousness like a horny prom date would be mercilessly dispatched in real time. If they declined, you'd have a televised Health Care discussion on C-SPAN with only the President and Democrats in attendance, with the President possibly uttering “I invited the Republicans to work in a bi-partisan effort to reform our Health Care system for the American people, but they refused.” every few minutes. Its a win-win situation that reminds me of the 2008 Presidential Race when Barack Obama refused to blink when John McCain floated the clumsy idea of suspending his campaign and rescheduling the debate. Obama basically told the war hero to go fuck himself and that he was attending the debate with or without him. John McCain's only option was to attend, just like the only option for the GOP is to attend the Health Care Summit the President proposed. GOP insiders have conceded as much. Checkmate Motherfucker.

Sunday, February 07, 2010

No, my Dreadlocks literally drive women crazy..

It seems like a year doesn't go by without me chronicling people's unrepentant ignorance about my dreadlocks, either in the form of hamfistedly clumsy questions or extremely rude actions that would get most people flattened like Dixie Chicks CD's circa 2003. You'd think that after having my hair loc'd for 14 years that I'd be used to all the inartful statements and overall belligerence, but you'd be wrong about that my friend. Instead of my naive belief that the world would one day evolve and finally rid itself of the misconceptions surrounding dreadlocks, things have gotten progressively worse, like that undisciplined kid whose desperate need of a foot in the ass has turned him into an uncontrollable little shit. Not only do the offensive questions about my hair run rampant, women more times than not take it upon themselves to invade my personal space with reckless abandon in the name of curiosity. I mean, I like a woman to run her fingers though my hair like any other red blooded American male with a functioning penis and certifiable hetero street cred - but is it asking too much to seek my consent? "No means no" ladies! Also, before you think the blatant disrespect is coming from one particular ethic group, again you'd be wrong. It has been my experience that dumb shit either said or done to me because of my hair spans the racial spectrum like one of those Benetton commercials. Or people who unfortunately like Nicki Minaj. Or skinny jeans. You get the point.

Because I don't have a girlfriend who would take pleasure in easily dispatching the aforementioned offenders, I'm left to do what most artsy-fartsy writer types find themselves doing - venting a litany of frustrations through my potty-mouthed prose. Enjoy.

Tug of War: I laugh when I hear other folks who have dreadlocks complain about people asking to touch their hair as if that's some sort of hellworthy trespass - those complaints usually prompt me to inquire, "They actually ask you?" Ladies, I can never imagine what its like to have your personal space invaded just because some man lacked the necessary vocabulary to respectively compliment your breathtaking curvature. But after having my hair pulled as many times as I have, I can't say that I know what it feels like to be groped but I can at least emphasize with you. Whether its women who weren't accustomed to seeing hair of my texture, so their curiosity took over and they pulled my hair on some "look, shiny object!" toddler shit. Or the women I like to call "Dreadlock Birthers", a gang of ladies who explain their penchant for rude hair pulling as them failing to believe that all of my hair originated at my scalp - I always make sure to tell both sets of ladies that they would be on a strict jello and apple sauce diet if they were born a different gender.

I adore cancer kids, I swear: I can't tell you how many times some person looked at my flowing dreadlocked mane and asked, "Why don't you donate your hair to cancer kids?" Sure, if I ever decided to chop off all of my hair for a more aerodynamic look, "Locks of Love" would be the first place I decided to stop as soon as I left the barber shop. But the aforementioned question always tends to be seasoned with irritation, as if I'm a selfish bastard who is unaware that the sole reason for existence is to routinely be sheared like sheep for hair donation. Even though I always have utter contempt for the person who asks that question, I still give every dollar I can to cancer charities in case I turn out to be wrong on this issue.

Hey lady, I got something you can play with: This is a pretty new phenomenon, one that started about a year ago, but I've had women randomly come up to me and play with my hair. Check the wording. Not "play in my hair", a phrase that suggests an intimacy that leads to the exchange of bodily fluids and early morning snacking. I'm talking about "playing with my hair", like draping it over their head, making it an impromptu wig - or cavalierly whirling it around, the same way you'd do handle a jumprope. As amazing as someone doing that to a complete stranger may sound to you, the truly amazing part is how these women never seem to understand how incredibly fucked up they are being. I remember this one women seeing the grimace on my face after she twirled my hair around and asked, "Am I out of bounds here?" In which I responded, "Put it this way, I'm about to beat six shades of shit off of your boyfriend as punishment."

The Human Scratch and Sniff: A couple of days ago, as me and my homeboy watched a local band play, a woman decided to grab two great big handfuls of my hair and take one gigantic whiff. It was weird man. I didn't know if she was doing so because she had a thing for smelling dreadlocks, or if she wanted to reaffirm some misguided belief she had that all dreadlocks were dirty. I quickly got my answer when her head emerged from my dreadlocks with a look of astonishment, saying "Wow, your hair really, really smells good!!!" Its times like those where I'd usually have some crass but timely quip, some rhetorical take-down that I'd deliver with assassin like accuracy. But before the wheels in my head started turning, a woman that I know damn near gave her an atomic wedgie, pretended to smell her panties and then proceeded to say "Wow, your drawls really, really, smell like roadkill." My hero.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Thank you, Internet Porn. Sincerely.

A few weeks ago I watched a CurrentTV segment about the porn industry, and how those particular purveyors of triple penetration love making and romantic sentiments like a chick fellating a stranger through a wall were losing their proverbial shirts because of all the online outlets that provide their hard work free of charge. I wanted to feel their pain, I really did, the combination of a piss poor economy and ever improving technology must be a poisonous cocktail for your garden variety porn distributor. It truly is hard out here for a smut peddler. That said, I'd be lying if I claimed that I wasn't a proud participant in their untimely demise. Its not so much because I'm a cheapskate, even though I'm sure I've saved shitloads of dough lovingly stroking my unimpressive penis in front of a computer screen screaming "Oh baby, give the drummer some!" - its really because cavalierly stealing filmed penetration online has saved me awkward situations of the soul crushing variety. Let me explain:

The Ninja Exit: When you go to a store that strictly sells videos with the same exact ending, a young woman's face resembling a glazed donut, there's no particular need for "The Ninja Exit". See, there is absolutely no confusion why you're there - sure, its shameful not to have an actual real live woman to provide the only respectable outlet for a sexual release, but at least you're amongst friends. But whenever you go to a video store, a proper one that sells regular films where only the viewer gets fucked, self respecting gentlemen who routinely masturbate have to exhibit the elusiveness of your garden variety Ninja. Most times the aforementioned video store will have a back room where they store all of their X-rated titles - usually the only thing that momentarily impedes your path into that masturbatory promise-land are a set of rather unseemly looking doorway beads. Anyways, even though the sole purpose of me getting out of bed that day was to rent films of women being consensually degraded and folded up like origami - I always felt the need to show a disingenuous interest in the regular movies before making my entry into the porn room as stealthy as humanly possible. Looking back I suspect that the employees knew what I was up to, with me sporadically looking up while clutching a copy of "Gigli", with that "I'm going to masturbate in every room in my house" look in my eyes - before disappearing out of sight as soon as said employees looked away or answered the phone. Thank god that emotionally taxing exercise is over.

Don't stand so close!: Personal space has always been important to me. Call it rude if you want to, but I've been known from time to time to even give my closest friends rather pedestrian, space clearing forearms to the chest whenever their conversation finds itself inside of my coveted personal space. So if your personal space is valuable in normal situations, just imagine how precious it is when you are trying to figure out which delectable seductress you're going to spill your homemade man-sauce to. Most dudes know to follow this unwritten rule to a tee, sometimes you find yourself having an entire row of filth all to yourself because of how much that protocol is respected. But sometimes there is someone, usually a miserable sad sack of a human being who mistakenly thinks supermarket decorum is the same as porn decorum, who takes it upon himself to stand right beside you as if he was your fucking hypeman. Even though I was always tempted to threaten brutal violence for such a hellworthy trespass, more times than not I just screamed "Will you get the fuck away from me!" at the top of my lungs like a mentally disturbed person taking up residence in a padded room. Something about another dude in close proximity while making masturbation plans that completely ruins the pornographic renting experience.

Intrusive cashier: As if renting pornography wasn't embarrassing enough. Nothing batters your self esteem like traveling through three cities to peruse smut in a video store so seedy that it would light up like Yankee's Stadium under a black light, the last thing I needed was awkward encounters from the fucking cashiers of all people. Whenever I walked up to pay for my rentals, and I knew damn well that there were some rather questionable choices in there, my shame had me transfixed on her face for the slightest sign of emotion. I obsessively tried to read into the manner in which she grabbed my card, how she grabbed the designated DVD's out of the drawer, the tiniest of vocal inflection to let me know that she was trying to either hide her disgust or pity. But even if all went well on those neurotic fronts, the cashier always felt the need to inform me that I had already rented one of those movies: "Sir, do you know that you've already checked out "There is no such thing as a wrong hole" two times already?". I always gave her a quick nod and a dismissive "I know, hurry the fuck up!" waive of the hand - but I always wanted to run out of the store screaming. I mean, I'm sure people re-rent things all the time - don't shame me just because what I'm re-renting what happens to be a woman getting all of her orifices filled up like a bowling throw.

No more hazmat suits: But the real benefit of getting your pornography online is that you no longer have to wear a fucking hazmat suit to handle your DVD rentals. Ok, maybe I wasn't wearing a hazmat suit. But I'm a germaphobe, so when I thought about all the other grubby masturbators who handled said DVD's before me I made sure to use industrial strength gloves when getting the DVD out of the case and into designated DVD player. I accidentally touched a case with my bare hand one time and spent the better part of an hour fighting back vomit as I scrubbed my body with Laundry Detergent using S.O.S pads. Yeah, I'm sorry that the porn industry is losing money, but its much better this way. For me anyways.