Every five years I get that same feeling that I got as a kid on Christmas eve, anxiously awaiting Santa's arrival, hoping to god that that splotchy white fuck left me some Heman men that I didn't already have. Only this time I'm an adult, I've outgrown all the action figures, but I still anxiously wait for a white man to penetrate my residence though, only this time the cookies and milk will be replaced with a million buck-shots waiting to greet him upon his arrival. I get excited after 5 years because my friends and I have a ritual of getting together and discussing old times over a lovely dinner, drinks, and the finest street horticulture this side of New York City. Good times are had by all, and I really think that I will enjoy the company of these fine individuals until the day my soul leaves this earth and all of my detractors politely take turns taking R-Kelly size pisses on my casket. But there is one thing that always interrupts my thought process in the middle of these dinners, besides the fact that Sherry's tits are so massive that I would routinely make love to them like I was on a time clock, is the fact that my friends either feel one of two ways about their time at High School.There's my one set of friends who sees their High School tenure as the best time of their lives, you could actually smell the wet grass as they recall beautiful tales of last minute touchdown catches, many of them naming all the scholastic clubs that they were a part of, a few even channeling their thought process at the time and how they felt that the "whole world was in front of them". Then there's my other set of friends who feel that their High School years was nothing but a fiery inferno with books, a sentiment usually accompanied with their extreme hatred of both athletes and cheerleaders, listening to these bitter individuals I always get the feeling that they can still be found looking through their old yearbooks on any given night- staring at people they circled 16 years ago and saying out loud "I'm still going to get you one day, motherfucker!!"
As for me though I'm indifferent about my High School experience, the same way I'm indifferent about Ludacris or T.I. or daily bowel movements that I push out post meal. It wasn't that my time there was bad or anything, I had a lot of great experiences from 1988-91, I just remember thinking, even back then, that I didn't want to peak at 17. I don't particularly look back at High School with rose colored glasses because I don't particularly feel that much has changed, sure I look as if I've been on a steady diet of midgets, my beard is grayer, and I finally understand that foreplay is more than me unzipping my pants and saying "Come on girl, lets do this!!" But back then I was secretly a geek who was only popular because I was an athlete, so my entire existence back then was maneuvering between each of the social groups, hoping that I wasn't perceived as figuratively planting my flag in any one of them. The only difference now is that I don't care what people think, but I still maneuver between the same social groups like a chameleon with a thyroid problem. I guess I don't wax poetic about High School because I'm still living it, based on the various social groups that I still find myself being a part of.
The Geeks: Seeing the kids who were tormented with weekly beatings in High School, given horrific nicknames so popular that even certain teachers would mistakenly refer to them by it, not to mention the atomic wedgies so brutal that you could parallel park a Hummer between each of their butt-cheeks, its good to see them embrace their inner and outer geek now that they are in their 30's. Even though these particular friends cringe whenever I mention sports, and that one time I gave one of their kids a football for a gift they acted as if I handed their first born a used dildo or some shit, for the most part they are still a delight to hang with. I'm just glad that I was cool with them back in the day because these fuckers have long memories, I couldn't tell you how many times I had to talk one of my socially crippled pals out of assaulting some old classmate that made his life a living hell 16 years ago.(Me, of all people being the voice of reason. Go figure.) But this group serves purposes outside of friendship, who else can I call 3 in the morning when I want to inject some obscure Star Wars reference in my writing, openly talk about which female superhero would give the best head and which ones would melt your dick mid-coitus based on her radioactive make-up, and what sequence of buttons I have to press on my PlayStation controller in order to unlock some characters, or hidden level on a plethora of game titles I'm scared to mention because I already have failed to get any ass on this blog.
The Skateboard Crew: This by far is the most understanding group of the lot, when people questioned my blackness because I had a penchant for kick-flip Ollie's while I was in junior high, this rag tag bunch of lunatics was the best support system a fellow could have. Nothing erases the ignorance of a few uninformed black folks like grinding a curb, or stylish marathon length nose-wheelies. I can't be mad at the way that black folks on skateboards has been excepted over the past couple of years, but I'm as bitter as Little Richard thinking about all the musical acts who undeservedly get more credit than him, I remember a time when being a brother on a skateboard was a hell-worthy trespass akin to fucking farm animals or actually liking Common's "Electric Circus". Nowadays a few of us skate, terrorize local businesses while performing picture shattering wall rides, literally acting as if the past 16 years never happened. By the way, this is one of the only times where my political differences with someone don't get in the way of the task at hand.
The Rich Girls: These are the girls who only gave me the the time of day during High School because I tutored a few of them, romantically looking past the kid with a slight stutter for the football star who would have a rap sheet a mile long damn near two decades years later. I'm still friends with some of those same girls from High School, girls who wouldn't let me see their vagina's even if I had the cure for the disease that their father was dying of, only willing to fuck me now because they are running out of viable options.(All of the guys our age want girls who just became legally able to drink) There's a catch though, not only will these lovely ladies make it known in the most subtlest terms imaginable that by being with me that they are dating beneath their standards, those fleeting times that I am out with her friends I can just imagine that I'm the "thug" that she talks about to her girls during those late night phone conversations. I guess I should have some self respect, I'm no thug, I'm smarter than the combined I.Q of her and her cackling pack of chickens, but something about receiving sporadic gifts, spending their trust fund money, and pre-ejaculating on silk sheets just cripples my pride something fierce.
The Criminals: These are basically dudes who were either jocks or heavy metal enthusiasts in high school, who somehow wandered off the career path to professional athletics or being in a hair band, and chose a life of criminality instead. None of these dudes are rapists or murderers, just cats who have a record filled with assault charges and minor drug cases, based on my love for weed, violence, and my squeaky clean record, these dudes refer to me as the "Teflon Don". Based on said record(or lack-thereof) I shouldn't even be allowed to discuss the weather with these gentlemen, but because there is a story of me "allegedly" dragging a dude out of his house and beating him in front of his future in-laws(I was told that I interrupted a "I'd like to marry your daughter" dinner speech), I have a feeling that my membership is set in stone.
The main problem that I have when it comes to sports, besides the fact that I have lost up to one thousand dollars betting on silly shit like the fucking coin toss in an NFL game, is that my favorite teams are the same organizations that ban-wagoners across this great country enjoy as well. I've been a Bears fan since the days of Dan Hampton and Mike Singletary, so you can just imagine how painful it was to see these new Bears fans who pop out of thin air, individuals who couldn't tell you what stadium they played in if you held an assault rifle to their collective temples. As a kid I loved watching those showtime Lakers, Michael Cooper's socks up to his neck, A.C Green only vowing celibacy because no woman in her right mind would want all that jheri curl juice dripping in her eyes during sex, the assassin that was James Worthy, and Magic's effortless no look passes that seemed to hit their mark every time, nowadays when someone accuses me of hopping on some bandwagon I immediately look for a table to smash them over the head with.
Looking back on my sports career, a time between 1979-1991 when I didn't have such a predisposition for pre-ejaculation and snacks, I always regret the fact that I was never the bona fide star on a winning team. I mean, I was often a marginal piece in a championship puzzle, sometimes even being an important piece, but I was never the one getting carried on the shoulders of my teammates as I lifted the championship trophy in shit eating glee. More times than not I found myself being an absolute stud on a team full of science geeks who were only there because their father's probably thought that playing sports would be the ultimate kyrptonite to them having multiple penises finding their cheeks a safe haven as an adult. There was that one Little League year that I hit .450, sure I was a decent hitter, but because we had so many kids on the team that couldn't hit a hanging pinata, the coach would often have me skip kids in the rotation because I could hit the hanging curve. There was little league Football, our team was so bad that the coach had me playing linebacker and running back, most games I didn't get one moments break!(
When it comes to sex I wish I was "
This going to sound weird, but my feelings for the movie "
The other day, while I was debating some right wing ass-hat who probably prays to a shrine of Karl Rove in his house and masturbates to a copy of Mein Kampf, I realized that being a lifelong devotee of Hip Hop is like befriending that new kid in High School that everyone dislikes in a knee jerk fashion. Whenever someone would confront me about my friend being a horrible human being and your garden variety eye-rolling generalizations, I'd simply diffuse their whole argument by kindly pointing out that, like a weak link on a debate team who happens to be a double amputee, they didn't have a leg to stand on because they've never talked to him. I get frustrated when my friend gets labeled a blistering misogynist just because he pinched a girls ass once, I get irritated whenever people think my boy is an intolerant thug just because he got into one little fight during lunch period, the hardest thing to get through peoples heads is the fact that my friend has a plethora of wonderful qualities that just aren't being tapped into. The most insulting charge, one that has made me seriously consider going on massive killing sprees more times than not, is when people try to get my homeboy expelled because they feel that his negative attributes will spread throughout the school like the plague. I mean, if some jackass decides to walk up to a fellow student and punch him dead in the face while gripping a roll of quarters, that level of aggression was probably always in him, I'm sure the new kid had nothing to do with his actions.
When I was slim, trim, and you could wash your Lane Bryant's on my stomach, I'd walk into a crowded club as confident as Wayne Newton after one of his shows, feeling that I could land any chick within a 1 block radius as if she was a rather pedestrian skateboard trick. The last thing on my mind then was getting married, shit, settling down for me was allowing a nightly conquest the ability to watch a post coital movie, that's if she wasn't already disgusted at the vomit sounds that I made while I ejaculated or the delusions of grandeur that I had for my penis as soon as I entered her by quoting "
One of the few words of wisdom that my father relayed to me, something that actually stuck to me as if I was accidentally hit with a pair of Paris Hilton's panties, was his belief that a man shouldn't have a repeated routine. I guess his belief was that if someone knew your schedule like the back of their hand, they could plot some dastardly deed that would result in your imminent demise. For most of my life I have lived by that specific piece of advice, I'm a pretty paranoid guy anyway, I change up my routine so much and keep my mere existence cloaked in a mystique of secrecy that many of my closest friends think that I'm a C.I.A operative, or a closeted homosexual. Butt plugs and a complimentary reach around aside, I feel kind of vulnerable because I have started to frequent one establishment like clockwork, that being my local smut store that carries the latest girl-on-girl and moose-on-girl titles. I'm aware that I recently said that Internet porn cured me of the awkward experiences one feels in those places, but this particular store has this fine chick named Candice who I think would let me give her an unlicensed breast exam, that's if she wasn't loyal to her boyfriend that is currently on death row. (
My mother, for all intents and purposes, has to be the most honest and trustwortrhy person that I have ever known. When she told me that my mere existence was based on a lie, the only reason why I'm on this earth at all, ritualistically failing to bring women to climax and pissing off members of the clergy whenever possible, was because my father mislead her by saying that he had a vasectomy and even paid a navy doctor to back-up his bullshit. I get the sneaking suspicion that she's telling the truth there. Whenever I have conned my way into some unsuspecting woman's heart, believe it or not there are ladies out there that find pre-ejaculation and me leaving money on dressers after sex funny, as soon as my mother meets these doomed souls she goes out of her way to tell these young lady's that I was not only a "
The other day, when I was looking through some old boxes that I hadn't touched in years, I came across some pretty interesting discoveries. The first thing that I pulled out of that dusty ass box that smelled as if I was on a geriatric porn set, were a slew of black medallions, an Afro-pick in the shape of a fist, and a few "
George Grant, one of the first African Americans to graduate from Harvard Dental School where he later taught, was first internationally recognized for a device he designed for people with cleft palates. But just like when I'm dead and gone I know I will never be recognized for my writing prowess, the word "
The other day I posted about how I didn't think Barack Obama could be president mainly because this country is nowhere near as progressive as most people think it is, based on my personal experiences proving as such. Well, like a chick that I once dated who had a deviant sex habit that I wasn't aware of until it was too late, I have gotten my fair share of shit from establishments where more small white objects are blasted than crack-houses. Whenever I have been denied entry to some golf course for some racist reason,(