Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Killer Mike - "Making it Rain"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Brand Nubian "Feels so Good"

Brand Nubian - Feels so Good

Add to My Profile | More Videos

Damn, I feel old right now..

Moments that I Absolutely Dread

Usually when some famous person finally decides to do away with their trademark dreadlocks that people have always closely identify them with, they always take it upon themselves to concoct an explanation right out of some Hippie-handbook - equating a simple haircut to a spiritual "rebirth" or "cleansing", making it seem that a simple swipe of the clippers is akin to a sacred tribal ceremony or some shit. I'm starting to think that these ham-fisted explanations started with Lenny Kravitz, was he the one that said that he symbolically had his dreadlocks detached from his scalp in the ocean or was he the one who said some nonsense about hyperventilating while his daughter and ex-wife cut them off?(I'm not sure) Not for nothing, but save the escalated melodrama for Spanish language soap operas motherfucker, after 13 years of growing a mane that prompts total strangers to boldly ask me "Where's the weed at?" - I'm at a place now where if I decide to say "fuck it" and shave my head with a fluidity only seen by sheep shearers, there won't be any incense burning in the background, and no New Orleans-styled Jazz processions strolling through my living room marking the untimely demise of my flowing mane.

It's not like my hair won't be missed if I ever do decide to cut it all off, I mean, its kind of hard not to miss something that you have to routinely adjust every time you defecate - besides, its my only mark of distinction outside of my violent outbursts and my slight stutter. Its also a great conversation starter for low self-esteem having women who happen to be interested in a chubby writer with so many intimacy issues that he's openly considering building a "glory-hole" in his bedroom - I usually find myself clumsily thrusting on top of these women, translating their brain-busting eye-rolls to mean "..only if the size of your cock was a fraction of the length of your hair - by the way, why is this scumbag fucking me to "Fight The Power" anyways?" That being said, here are few reasons why I've considered cutting off all my air, hoping to one day audition for the lead role in the movie adaptation of the popular television series "A Man Called Hawk".

I am Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas": When I was a teenager, years before the thought of locking my hair ever ran through my feeble little mind, I went to a local teen club with my homeboys and saw a kid around my age get mercilessly stomped the fuck out by a group of local ruffians - the one thing that sticks out about that particular mauling is how they savagely ripped out his dreadlocks from the root as if they were desperately trying to start an old lawnmower. So when I finally decided to grow dreadlocks I'd occasionally think about that December night, thinking of it more often than not the longer my hair grew, and when the tips of my hair gently stroked my shoulders I had to confront a sobering reality - that I would have to end fights rather quickly based on most men's penchant for being bitches and pulling hair during an altercation. The days of me standing toe to toe with some asshole in a bar parking lot was over, attempting to publicly exhibit my punishing body blows and my effective 52 hand block technique was replaced with throat-chops, smashing bottles of beer over someones head - not to mention my habit of hitting grown men in the back with bar-chairs as if my job had me wearing constricting tights 89.9% of the year.

Back-handed compliments: I'm beginning to think that receiving back-handed compliments is a black person's "rite of passage" in this country - especially if you are an African American who grew up amongst a slew of socially retarded white folks, if I had a dime for every time I heard "You are pretty cool for a black guy" and "Wow, you are so articulate - were you adopted by white parents?" I'd probably have enough money to buy most third world country's with change left over by now. Being a grizzled veteran when it comes to pointing out the subtlest forms of racism, you can just imagine how upset I was with myself when I realized that I have been letting things effortlessly get past me as if I was an armless soccer goalie for the better part of a decade - people who have time and time again shamelessly approached me and gushed over how "clean" and "neat" my hair was. It took me a while to realize that this wasn't exactly a compliment, the same way someone praising my clear diction with a fascinated look on their face wasn't exactly complimentary either - it soon dawned on me that a remark of that variety was also a condemnation of dreadlocks as a whole.

Groundhog Day: Although I'm fully aware that there's no way a total stranger would know my intricate back-story like I was a well known John Grisham novel, even though my extensive reputation of unprovoked violence and sodomizing women on bathroom floors proceeds me - I still get tired answering the same fucking questions about my dreadlocks? "How man years have you been growing them?" "Don't they get hot in the summer time?" "Aren't they heavy?" A couple of years ago I had these business-size cards made up with "Frequently asked questions" about my hair, whenever someone would inquire about my locks at some watering-hole I'd just shove that card in their face - but my friends got together and it was a consensus, doing so made me look like an even bigger dick than I already am.(If that was even possible)

Overly aggressive women:Sometimes, just sometimes, a degenerate bastard like myself who has a habit of granting women signatures of ejaculate on their naked backs post-coitus - longs for a meaningful relationship. Sure, the companionship seems nice, her completing my "I'll kick your fucking ass buddy" sentence while we are at a bar is the epitome of romantic - and the thought of having receipt-less ass on a steady basis is not only good for my self-esteem but it would also do wonders for my wallet. But the main reason a girlfriend would be great, outside of all the other reasons I've already listed - is to publicly thwart other females who are in the habit of randomly tugging my hair like we were in fucking kindergarten. I mean, women who ask to touch my hair first, no problem - but I couldn't tell you how many times my head has been suddenly yanked backwards by some manner-less harlot. If a dude did it I could just punch him, kick him in the sternum, even "sweep the leg" on some "Karate Kid" shit - but whenever a female does it the best that I can conjure up is a "Have you lost your fucking mind?" look on my face. I figure having a girlfriend around would nip that shit in the bud.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: 3rd Bass "The Gas Face"

The Classic "Hey Love" Commerical

I just committed my own mother's birthday to memory five years ago, sometimes the name of the chick I lost my virginity to escapes me - but I've always been able to recite this commercial verbatim with court-stenographer-like accuracy.

"The Virginian Pilot" : HumanityCritic, the Quote Machine

Over the weekend, your friendly neighborhood HumanityCritic got a healthy helping of home-cooking when my local paper, "The Virginian Pilot", included me in a story that they ran entitled "Blogs are Growing Past Race Divide" - addressing the role that black bloggers play in terms of the blogisphere as a whole. Shit man, the last time that my government name graced the pages of the local paper it was concerning me long-jumping 24 feet 2 inches back when Ed O.G dropped his first album, I had a six-pack that morally bankrupt women could successfully wash their undergarments on - an era that I cherish like a teenage love-affair solely because it was the last time I remember ever seeing my cock in its entirety. So when the writer(Elizabeth Thiel) interviewed me via email I wanted to give her a "quotable" that she would use in her piece - believe it or not it wasn't an attempt to raise my blog profile on a local level, but an appeal to all the women in my particular zipcode, I've yet to get laid off the strength of my blog and my dream is to one day have some broad aggressively riding my "negro gearshift" while saying "I loved your November 3rd blog entry baby!!"(I guess a boy can dream huh?)

My only bone of the contention with the piece doesn't have to do with me being misquoted or anything, because I wasn't, its really my own doing based on my blatant honesty concerning my anger issues - when the writer stated "His writing is at times unapologetically profane, with flashes of anger and physical violence" she in no way misrepresented my blog, but actually seeing that in print sort of made me feel like a scumbag who was singlehandedly taking my people backwards. Anyway, below are some quotes that she used and one that I wished she would have used - not for nothing, I'm fully aware that I've dissed Vh1 based on their "Hip Hop Honors" debacles - but I'd let bygones be bygones if I could get a coveted spot on "The Best Week Ever", those people could benefit from a fucking quote machine like me.

Quotes they used in "The Daily Break" section of "The Virginian Pilot"

On Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and the title of Nas' upcoming album:(Pulled from this blog post)

"I seriously doubt that this is the reason Nas is doing this, but personally I see it as one of the biggest chess moves an artist can make when it comes to confronting "black leadership" in this country. When all the charlatans and used car salesmen with an agenda come out of the proverbial woodwork and raise complete hell, pace in front of the record label with unimaginative picket signs, steamroll Cd's, and get more face-time on cable news than Laci Peterson - that would be the perfect time to confront them, rattle off about 45 different life and death causes that are drastically affecting the black community, and openly and sarcastically wonder why they are wasting their time obsessing over a word."

On black blogs:

"It gives voice to those who thought they were voiceless.. but I believe that outside of a blues band, no other force brings black and white people together like the words of a black blogger. Racism, on all fronts, usually stems from one person being filled with falsehoods, stereotypes, and preconceived notions about another person based on their race." - "With my blog, and the millions of others written by people born with melanin - you can actually see what we think in detail. No, its not cool to ask me the time honored 'Why can't I use the N-Word?' question. No, its not cool to ask me if I think O.Jwas guilty or not with a crap-eating grin on your face - and its not cool to assume that I am a horticulture salesman just because I have dreadlocks.(Wait, black folks make that assumption as well,)"

One I wished they used on the state of Hip Hop:

"..one of the main problems with Hip Hop in my eyes is that people continually apologizing for sub-par artistry. You will hear some respected artist or journalist, when being asked about Hip Hop they will say something like "Hip Hop is going through a transition, I'm not mad at the state of it because its always changing" Huh? Puberty is a transition. Dealing with the loss of a spouse is a transition. Finally getting into the American Version of "The Office" after being a devoted fan of the British version is a transition. You'd never look at your cocaine addicted cousin and say, "Well, Larry is going through a 'transition' right now" - now he's not, he's an addict who needs a "tough love" intervention. I think that fans of real Hip Hop shouldn't be scared to give it some 'tough love" - and if that intervention comes in the form of a throat-chop, so be it."

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)

Find the original Back story here:

MC Ren: "Final Frontier"



When it comes to 90% of the ardent opponents of Hip Hop out there, a bottom feeding lot that routinely villainize an art-form that they virtually know nothing about - its probably the only time you'll ever be able to successfully lump people together like Bill O'Reilly, Winton Marsalis, Sean Hannity, and Stanley Crouch when discussing the rogues gallery of uninformed douchebags. Sure there are Hip Hop songs that are purely indefensible, but their broad generalizations on a music that I cherish just exhibits an intellectual recklessness only seen before in bi-polar products of inbreeding and black republicans - when I debate people of their ilk, I represent the culture to the best of my ability and never give them any ammunition. Granted, I know I'm speaking to a slew of like-minded individuals here - but I just hope that those same Hip Hop detractors don't read this blog and find out that I secretly feel that some songs influence violence.

As much as I love and respect N.W.A's "Straight Outta Compton" for its brutal honesty and social commentary, its one of my favorite albums of all time - their next release(minus Ice Cube) "100 Miles and Runnin'" was devoid of the same hood consciousness and just seemed like one big killing and fucking festival set to Dr. Dre's dope beats. Sure I loved it. But if "Straight Outta Compton" inspired me to speak out against police brutality in my own city, "100 Miles and Runnin'" inspired me to sucker punch a police officer, steal his cop car, and proceed to get a spirited "mouth hug" in the backseat by a local woman of ill repute. This particular MC Ren song, "Final Frontier" off of his first solo effort entitled "Kizz My Black Azz" - has no redeeming value whatsoever, outside of inspiring a young HumanityCritic to cause nothing but havoc in 1992. All the violent acts that I perpetrated with this song acting as the prime motivator, well, I won't get into the particulars - but I feel like Dennis Hopper in that Bruce Smith commercial back in the day, "Bad Things Man, Bad Things.."

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Stetsasonic - "Talkin' All That Jazz"

The Blog Readability of this blog

Earlier this week I was directed here, a site that measures the education that one would need to fully comprehend a particular blog. Curious, I typed in my blog address and immediately saw the following:

Get a Cash Advance

Really? Post Grad? Not for nothing, but there definitely has to be a glitch in the matrix.

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)

Find the original Back story here:

Kool G Rap: "Truly Yours"



I'm fully aware that my goals for Hip Hop are pretty fucking lofty, but for the longest time I've passionately viewed my favorite genre of music like a martial art - only imagining the true practitioners of said art-form spending inordinate amounts of time honing their craft, hoping to one day acquire a golden glow around their collective bodies that resembles Bruce Leroy(or maybe Jesus if his black hippie ass ever returns) the very moment that they've mastered one of the elements of Hip Hop that I hold near and dear to my heart. As a dedicated fan, much like some random towns-person who happens to inhabit the same fictitious village that a Kung-Fu Master does in one of those old school karate flicks - I sincerely respect the skill and dedication it takes for an MC or DJ to get where they're at, the only difference is that I'm not really into bowing with clinched fists every time I'm in the presence of their ass. Since I'm a true believer of the time honored tradition that has everything to do with two turntables and a microphone - I took a solemn oath, probably around the same time that my father bought me a certain Sugarhill Gang record circa 79', that I would tirelessly defend great artists whose good names were being sullied.

That being said, I think I owe Kool G Rap a sincere apology. See, Two months ago, when I was having some drinks with a couple of good friends at a Mexican restaurant that's probably owned by a gentleman who knows less Spanish than I do - we started talking about some of the Greatest MC's of all time. The light was being shone on the usual suspects like a jailhouse interrogation, Rakim, Tupac(not by me), Biggie(again, not by me) - but when I mentioned Kool G Rap you would have thought that I had squatted and unloaded a very busy shit right in front of everybody. Especially from my friend's home-girl that was in attendance, she seemed flustered that I even attempted to fix my lips and utter the respected member of "The Juice Crew" - then she went on a very misguided diatribe explaining the error in my ways. I could have easily torn her to shreds, recited his verse in "The Symphony" that would have melted large portions of her brain, casually mentioned the words "Men at work", severely affecting the simple womans motor skills - but unfortunately I said nothing, disarmed by large chocolate mammaries and a backside that probably inspired Sir Mixalot's greatest chart-topper. For that, Kool G Rap, I sincerely apologize.

A Guitar is a wack MC's arch nemesis(Vibe.com)

When a solitary person expresses their disgust concerning one your unique idiosyncrasies, you can simply chalk it up to them being the one who has the "problem" - but when scores of people make it their business to tell you the exact same thing, it automatically gets upgraded from "fluke" to "inconvenient truth".(minus the melting polar icecaps and it being 80 degrees in motherfucking October!) For the past few weeks I've stopped scrolling craigslist for "delivery ass" and decided to navigate the turbulent waters of dating like most normal human beings - courting a slew of beautiful women by taking them to the movies, museums, and having in-depth conversations at fancy restaurants while openly wondering if my future disgruntled ex-girlfriend is going to order from the "in-car mouth-hug" side of the menu.(Read more here)

Allen Iverson, its safe to drop that Hip Hop album now(Vibe.com)

Like most people who openly despise Tyler Perry and clearly pronounce the "er" at the end of the word "motherfucker" - I publicly had my blackness challenged the other night, a ritual that happens so often that I feel like a grizzled veteran who has done four tours of duty in that particular war of ignorance. I happened to be out with some friends, having a few drinks, talking about everything from Hip Hop to politics - when a friend of one of the people at the table said "Man, you sure do talk white, what's up with that?" Usually, despite my reputation for historically being a sociopathic hothead, I'd calmly tell the misguided brother that he desperately needed to reevaluate what blackness is - respectfully dropping jewels to the young man like so many elder statesmen of years past had graciously done with me, letting him in on the fact that a person's colloquialisms and lack of stereotypical idiosyncrasies have nothing to do with embracing the melanin they were born with. But I must have been having a bad day because all civility and decorum were abandoned as I punched that son of a bitch squarely in the throat, dragging his ass outside by his BAPE sweatshirt as he desperately gasped for air - me screaming at the top of my lungs "You really want to see how black I am motherfucker!!" Sure, that could have been handled differently, but I've been dealing with that sort of idiocy ever since my main focus in life became landing 360 Airwalk Ollie's and pulling off backside smith grinds - when I was in junior high, the mere fact that I rode a skateboard made my black peers feel as if I was a race traitor who would snitch on my fellow brothers and sisters if the revolution ever went down.(Read more here)

Respectfully, Blender Magazine has lost its fucking mind!!(Vibe.com)

When I was first approached to write for Vibe.com more than 9 months ago I was sincerely flattered, the fact that there was a company actually in existence willing to pay me legitimate united states currency to talk my specific brand of shit under their imprint would have brought a solitary tear to my eye - if a testosterone fueled stud like myself was capable of such an emotion that is. But like Dave Chappelle once rhetorically asked, "What's a black man without his paranoia intact?" - so when I was told that I had car blanc content wise, I kept second guessing the sweet woman, asking again and again, "Are you really sure you want to do that?"(I now know what it felt like to be one of Nas' homeboys while he recorded that "You Owe Me" song with Ginuine) Even though she had informed me that they had read my blog, knew what they were getting into, and virtually gave me the green light to say that Three-6 Mafia was Undoing the Civil Rights Movement and that the people over at MTV who compile those Hip Hop "Best of" lists should be publicly beaten with old videotaped episodes of "Yo MTV Raps" - my utter disbelief led me to very cowardly dedicate my first two posts to Paris Hilton and Ray J.(*hangs head in shame*) But as time passed, me very nervously looking around like a kid about to steal a cookie every time I said something rather inflammatory or provocative - to their credit the good people at Vibe kept their word, no censorship, no notes from up above. They allowed me to be their journalistic gun for hire, verbally assassinating wack rappers who were in desperate need of dispatching - only I wasn't as smooth and stealthy as most Hit-men, hiding in adjacent buildings and calmly picking off their target then leaving the premises in a janitors uniform - my approach was more up close and personal, confronting the target while wearing a gaudy gold medallion with my government name on it, taking them out in broad daylight only to look around at everyone else and to say "See what happens to you when you spit a horrific 16?"(Read more here)

Killer Mike on "Snitching"

This video is a few months old, but I completely co-sign his sentiments on child abusers.

"..kill the guy and bury his body behind the Stop-n-Go"

A Side order of beef at PF Changs

In this glorious age of self promoting snake-oil salesmen blaming all societal ills on two turntables and a microphone, and people acting like banning a racial epithet would be a feat tantamount to Brown vs. The Board of Education - as a black man I know how important it is for me to spread nothing but positive messages to my young readers, countering all of the negative imagery that they are bombarded with on a daily basis. That being said, I've been barred from at least 60% of the local drinking establishments over the course of a decade - an otherwise troubling statistic that I happen to wear like a motherfucking badge of honor. I know, I'm a 34 year old man who has no business fighting, I should be starting a family and acting like most responsible adults equipped with a penchant for diaper changing and hanging out with Sunday afternoon golf buddies - but the sole fact that I subscribe to the rationale that anyone is eligible for an ass-whipping, embracing said philosophy has turned my government name into a curse word for a handful of local bar owners. Believe it or not, bar owners frown upon one of their patrons choking someone the fuck out with a pool stick, them putting a cue ball in their sock and mercilessly hitting his would-be dispatchers with it - they really don't care if it was provoked or not, see how fast you will get banned from a bar if you happen to have a monthly habit of smashing bottles over the heads of miscellaneous douche-bag's while weirdly proclaiming "Don't ever say anything against my mother!!"("Malcolm X" reference)

Its not like I actively go out and try to decrease my drinking opportunities, I'd rather have people thinking that I practiced civil disobedience on some Gandhi shit when I wasn't preoccupied with ruining my liver - but because of my criminally low levels of tolerance when it comes to people talking slick, I either find myself on the business end of a bouncer attack or a scathing diatribe where the words "Get The fuck out and never come back!" are strategically placed somewhere at the end of said rant. But being that most of the drinking establishments I'm banned from happen to be of the dive bar variety, watering holes where only career alcoholics and women whose methadone treatments have left them virtually toothless dwell - that very special moment where I do find myself banned, I usually clap very slowly while letting out a very sarcastic "You know you're doing me a favor, banishing me from a shitty bar and all.. Bravo!" closing salvo.

That being said, I never thought that I'd ever get banned from a place like PF Changs - a fine establishment that doesn't violate any health regulations, a respected eatery where I can pick up a woman and not worry about her possibly selling one of my kidneys on Ebay, leaving me laying unconscious in the fetal position in a bathtub full of ice. But I am banned, and here are a few reasons why.

Bruce Leroy: One of the things that I thank god for each night before I meet deaths cousin, outside of him giving me a faulty moral compass and my mother beating cancer like it had stolen something - is the fact that I was never cursed with the burden of having any younger sisters. I'm saying, I've heard so many horror stories from women concerning their ex-boyfriends, everything from having dagger-shaped words being hurled in their direction to being victims of the most heinous acts of violence imaginable - I always find myself asking these women, "Where in the fuck is your daddy/brother at?" Not for nothing, but that's why I'm glad that I don't have any younger sisters - my backyard would be filled with the skeletal remains of every detestable waste of semen who took it upon himself to physically harm or even talk sideways to my sister - I hate to reference another Denzel Washington movie, but I can see myself burying some douche-bag in my wife-beater, looking around at all the unmarked graves and screaming "Saddam ain't got shit on me!!". I brought all that up because the woman I recently went on a date with has a disgruntled ex-boyfriend whose mind-state is as flimsy as a soup sandwich, most of the phone conversations we had in the run up to the date had to deal with his physical abuse, his stalking, and him unexpectedly showing up at her job throughout the day - the "nuttier than squirrel shit" trifecta. So after a few weeks of convincing she finally agreed to go on a date with your friendly neighborhood pre-ejaculator at PF Changs, and everything was going well - that was until I returned from the bathroom to see some disheveled looking gentleman attempting to take my date away against her will. It had to be the ex-boyfriend. So, because I've been watching a shitload of videos like this lately - I took it upon myself to run to the table full speed and leap with all the might that a fat man could muster - catching the mentally disturbed gentleman flushly in the face with the phat lace part of my shell-toe Adidas. As the disoriented gentleman crashed into a lovely couples meal for that night, I noticed an elderly black woman shaking her head in disapproval, which led me to ask her "I know, I just set our people back 20 years didn't I?" In which she responded, "Sure, but I was just wondering how your "latenight snack having" ass managed to get off of the ground like that?"

Zsa Zsa Gabor-ing the wait staff: I'm not exactly sure how the local PF Changs treats their black staff members, it has to be akin to slave labor or indentured servitude based on how miserable they seem all of the fucking time - but they tend to comfortably wear looks of anguish and despair on their faces like it was a trusty pair of house slippers. Not only that, when said staffers aren't making you think that they're a bad day away from swallowing a bullet, they mean mug you to death making you feel as if you're trapped in one of those cliched Kung Fu flicks - a Karate gui-less fellow planning to exact his revenge on me for cutting his twin brother's life short, or consensually sodomizing his sister to the point that she was unable to sit down for a week. Even before the episode where I tried to knock out some douche-bags bicuspids with my shell toes, I found myself on the business end of many cantankerous stare downs - I never acted on it mind you, just slowly turned to whoever I was having dinner with at the time and openly wondered "What in the fuck is that guy staring at?"

Fast forward to last week. I was taking my mother there for a bite to eat, I love her dearly, I'd die for the woman without weighing my options - sure she is one of the only people to unconditionally have my back from day one, but I'd take a bullet for her based on the fact that she can identify everyone in "The Symphony" and she happened to use the phrase "Nappy Dugout" in a conversation recently. Anyways, as we are strolling down the sidewalk en route to some early evening eats - I notice a staff member of said eatery sitting at a table on the patio portion, staring me the fuck down like I was the grim reaper about to snatch up a loved one. His eyes never broke from me once, my mother even noticed it and asked "Do you know this young man?" - by the time we had reached him I'd had enough and decided to ask the guy what his problem was. Apparently my right palm has issues with authority, simply ignoring my brains request for a verbal altercation - and I proceeded to open hand slap the shit out of the gentleman, me exhibiting a violent arm motion that only fast ball pitchers would recognize. My poor mother, all 120 pounds of her trying to restrain me like a bouncer - me feeling like Nino Brown shooting someone in the head in broad daylight, I kept screaming "Don't ever fuck with a dude silly enough to start fights in front of his mother!!!" The dude ran inside and within a few moments a manager came outside and told me that I was banned from the restaurant - my mother just shook her head, smiled, and said "I was warned about drinking all that wine when I was pregnant with you.."

Black Thought of the day: "Al Sharpton & Jesse Jackson"

One of the things that I absolutely loathe in this world, outside of world hunger and any waste of semen that feels that Jim Jones is in the least bit talented - is fake humility, an obviously cocky person who says all the right things just so people won't see him for the insufferable prick that he really is. Well, most of you already know that I'm an insufferable prick - but I just hope that I'm not exhibiting the same sort of fake humility when I say that I'm always sincerely stunned whenever a person reaches out and tells me how much they dig my writing. I'm fully aware of my criminally low self-esteem that comes with this gut that blocks my view of an already unimpressive phallus - but I'm just pleasantly surprised that anyone would forgo triple penetration smut-sites and gossip blogs for a few fleeting moments to read one sentence of my drivel. That being said, one of the handful of people that read my random ramblings reached out and asked me how I felt about Nas titling his album "Nigger" - I proceeded to type the following: "Personally, I have no problem with it, especially if Nas takes it upon himself to create a socially aware piece of art that makes the title of his 8th studio album more than just a cheap political stunt." Then I hit "send".

After a few minutes passed, answering emails, watching sports highlights, and earnestly patrolling work-unfriendly websites where women lacked gag reflexes and smeared delicious looking chocolate all over themselves - I hit her back with the following response:

"I know that you asked me a simple question that only required a quick and rather pedestrian response, which I initially gave you - but I have another take on Nas and him naming his album "Nigger". I seriously doubt that this is the reason Nas is doing this, but personally I see it as one of the biggest chess moves an artist can make when it comes to confronting "black leadership" in this country. When all the charlatans and used car salesmen with an agenda come out of the proverbial woodwork and raise complete hell, pace in front of the record label with unimaginative picket signs, steamroll Cd's, and get more face-time on cable news than Laci Peterson - that would be the perfect time to confront them, rattle off about 45 different life and death causes that are drastically affecting the black community, and openly and sarcastically wonder why they are wasting their time obsessing over a word. Put those ambulance chasing scumbags on front-street! OK Crystal, I'm done - I promise" Then I hit "SEND".

After I had bombarded Crystal's inbox with my nonsensical ramblings, and started to think more about the proverbial clusterfuck that is Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton - the wheels in my head started to turn, lubricated with only conspiritorial thoughts that make 2nd shooter theories and the government inventing AIDS to eliminate black folks seem like something easily found in an Encyclopedia Britannica. I was wondering, since most black folks with the good sense that god gave them see those two men for what they really are - does anyone ever get the feeling that they are double agents disguised as civil rights leaders, actually doing the black race more harm than good? Just think about it, whenever you have those two "Barney Fife's with a soapbox" immediately out in front of a legitimate black issue or tragedy - their mere presence automatically makes a legitimate issue that should get the nations attention seem kind of suspect. Its almost like fighting Superman while he has a big brick of kryptonite in his pocket, sure he's a formidable opponent, but you don't have to take him as serious as usual.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Just Ice ft KRS One-Going Way Back

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

One of the main reasons why I love HBO's "Curb Your Enthusiasm" so much is because I can completely sympathize with Larry David, I too spend an inordinate amount of time apologizing to people. Whether I'm asking for forgiveness from my lesbian friend after I said that her lover looked like "Jim Brown in his playing days", or me purposely using terms like "cuts like a knife" and "lets take a stab at it" when talking to a friend of mine who was once on the business end of kitchen cutlery via an irate girlfriend - I'm pretty sure if I was a secret agent in one of those James Bond movies my codename would either be "Insufferable prick" or "consummate asshole". This is going to sound like a bit of hyperbole, a literary attempt to drive home the point on how detestable I can be - but I find myself literally turning my head in public places whenever I hear the word "asshole" like it was my government name. Maybe that has something to do with my mother, any time she is talking to one of her friends about her kids and said confidant on the other end of the line is unaware of which offspring she is talking about - she clears the matter up immediate by saying "The asshole". Or maybe its my fathers fault, a man that verbally bullied my entire family and told me on more than one occasion that I'd never amount to nothing - one day as a teenager, after I mercilessly mocked him all day he threw down the hammer he was using and screamed "You are such a fucking asshole!!", before storming away like a petulant child. I can't call it, here are some recent examples of why I turn my head whenever I hear the word "asshole"

McDonald's Drive-in: I don't know about all the other males out there who have the utmost hetero street cred, but whenever a woman crosses my path with an ass that guarantees that she's not a PETA member - it completely paralyzes me. I don't care if I was giving a dying man CPR, giving a choking child the Heimlich, explaining to a cop with an itchy trigger finger that the gun in my glove compartment is completely legal - if some fine specimen with a backyard so juicy that companies use her butt-cheeks for swimming pool molds, I'm stopping whatever I'm doing and recording the clip in my head for future masturbatory material. That being said, while I was waiting for my artery clogging burger and fries, a chick with an backside that ass-worshipers the world over would at least travel to once in their lives like Mecca passed in front of my car. I didn't scream anything out of my car, I'm not a complete savage - but I did turn to the guy handing me my food and said: "Jesus Christ man, the things that I would eat out of her ass - I'm sure that sweet ass would smother you while in the 69 position, but I bet dying never felt so good. You're a guy so you'll clearly understand me when I say that I would make her ass look like a negro glazed doughnut." Most men wouldn't get offended by my remarks, outside of christian fundamentalists and flaming gay men posing as christian fundamentalists like Ted Haggard - but since the woman I verbally desecrated happened to be the cashiers girlfriend, I had my food basically thrown at me. I should have just apologized and left, but before I pulled off I said: "Shit man, since you're flipping burgers I should go in there and steal here from you - granted, I'm a degenerate pre-ejaculator but at least she'd be upgrading"

The Oxygen tank: Last week, after me and my homeboy hit up one those horrific after-hours clubs where coked out whores dwell and they play nothing but murder inducing house music - we decided to hit up Denny's to soak up all the malted hops and grain alcohol in our system, despite the restaurant's shameful history when it comes to overt racism. As we sat there and had a drunk conversation about who would be a better lay, Wonder Woman or Bat Girl - a beautiful woman that knows my homeboy came and sat with us, so obviously the conversation switched to something more suitable like "What kind of incurable diseases are running through Superhead's blood stream". A few minutes later I noticed an older black man with an oxygen tank talking greasy about me and my boy in muted tones, claiming the both of us were both "Uneducated" and "Hoodlums" - it made me feel that we had inadvertently pissed off Bill Cosby or something. That's when the woman we were sitting with informed me that the gentleman was probably upset because before we walked in he was laying his strongest geriatric game on her. A few minutes passed, and for a hyperactive overreactor like myself I was proud that I was able to ignore a multitude of random slanders and cryptic threats of violence from a man old enough to be my father - but before long I was forced to confront the gentleman who probably rolled with Muddy Waters when he was younger. I tried to be nice to the old fella, very politely telling him that he didn't know my friend and I, and that I didn't want any problems - but the gentleman was having none of my new found civility, and proceeded to shower me with Uncle Ruckus-like, self-hating insults that would make any republican proud. That's when I pulled out my pocket knife, held it to one of his oxygen tubes - and told him that if he didn't dial down his rhetoric that he'd have to find an alternative way to get more oxygen. He begged me not cut his lifeline and said that he planned to leave immediately anyway, so I got up and for some reason passionately proclaimed "Crazy wins every time motherfucker!!" - before walking back to my table amongst horrified onlookers.

Horrible reasons for not dating interracially: Most of my political stances have less to do with morality and more to do with people overall minding their fucking business - what do I care if two people of the same sex want to get married, why should I obsess over what a woman wants to do with her own body? I never tripped over interracial dating either, not because I pray to the alter of white women like NBA athletes - but because people should be with whomever they please without getting publicly fucked with. Granted, I've always found it quite ironic whenever I'd receive a handful of hateful looks from black women if I even happen to innocently chat a white women up briefly - but those same black women probably wouldn't piss on my black ass people were lighting their cigarettes to my charred remains. That being said, as of this date I'm currently a virgin to Caucasian genitalia - but that has nothing to do with race, it just hasn't happened. Besides, I still contend that if I ever get the chance to date Janeane Garofalo - I will proudly show her off at Afrocentric poetry slams, Essence Magazine music festivals, even at a Nation of Islam meeting with my arm arrogantly draped around her. But the other day something escaped my hairy mandible that shocked even me, this is what I said to a white woman at a bar who pressed the issue as to why I wouldn't date her:

Woman: Seriously, no bullshit, why can't you date me?
Me: Simply put, because you are the human embodiment of an argument killer - let me explain.
Woman: Yes please, Explain
Me: See, I'd have no problem dating you because of your skin color - I'm the type of person that feels that love knows no bounds, I'd could see a life of wedded bliss consisting of me wondering why you don't use a wash cloth and you feeling that I crush any type of black man "myth"
Woman: That's touching, now explain that "argument killer" thing
Me: Well, if I ever find myself being a respected member of society, one whose opinions are cherished when it comes to issues concerning the black community...
Woman: Yeah, Yeah - get to it!!
Me: Ok, I'd find it difficult to talk about any issues issues dealing with black people - varying from bettering the community to the empowerment of young black women because..
Woman: Because what?
Me: ..because someone could always cut my argument off at the knees and counter with a razor sharp "Yeah, but you're married to a white girl!" -(blowing cigarette smoke out while shaking my head) there just isn't any comimg back from that!
Woman:(Grabbing her coat) You're such a fucking asshole!!

A Vibe.com editorial you'll probably loathe: "Andre3000 is overrated"

Like I told a white friend of mine who wants to get dreadlocks, don't get it twisted, I'm a dedicated Outkast fan who thinks that Andre3000 is doper that a George W. Bush urine sample circa 1970 - and if I had a dollar for every time I told someone that Big Boi is criminally underrated I could buy a third world country, with change left over to go on a "hooker and coke" binge for an entire month with Las Vegas serving as the backdrop. That being said, respectfully, I feel that Andre3000 is a bit overrated(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Poor Righteous Teachers - Rock Dis Funky Joint

Lil Wayne: "The Zombie Movie"(Vibe.com)

One thing that hasn't changed over the last 20 years, outside of the length of my penis and the lofty goal that I have of one day clumsily using it on Sheila E, is my ability to use movies as reference points depending on the situation I'm in. I know that I'm too old to be fighting people, but every now and then I find myself being on the business end of a physical threat by two or more participants at a time - usually a sane person whose pet peeves are multiple feet in their rectum and dental work would do their damnedest to avoid a situation that has "loss" written all over it. Not me. The ten or so times that I've been confronted with what can be considered as an angry mob, I always flash back to Bruce Lee in "Chinese Connection" - adjusting my imaginary Karate Gui, slowly spinning with my hands out in that "calm before the storm" sort of way, before catching my would-be dispatchers with hellacious hay-makers and liver shots that provoke them to dedicate their lives to sobriety and nonviolence from that day forward.(Granted, my current record is 5-5 in those altercations)(Read more here)

A Song from the "Ransom Crates" (see: disgruntled ex-girlfriend)

As much as I'd like to be in a committed and loving relationship, one where we finish each other sentences during conversations and she excitedly gets a few punches in while I pummel some asshole at a bar - the sad truth of the matter is that I'm probably going to die an old and lonely old man, my only companions being an overfed lap dog and women a quarter of my age that I pay top dollar to nervously thrust on top of while they do other things like their nails or talk on their cell phone. Don't pity me though, the outcome of my life is entirely my own doing - I'm emotionally unavailable and as romantic as a prison rape, not to mention my sporadic unexplained bouts of wanting to be left the fuck alone. Said behavior has prompted one woman to send her male relatives over to my residence for the sole purpose of snatching me from the mortal coil, another young lady once tried to poison me like we were in a fucking spy movie - but usually they try to sully my good name by spreading felonious abuse and disease claims, never fully understanding that you can't tarnish the name of a guy who once punched a priest and got laid at someones wake.

That being said, there was an ex-girlfriend who exacted the type of revenge on me that forced me to do nothing but tip my proverbial hat to her - she had been holding a few of my record crates for ransom over the last 6 year period. First I politely asked for them, when that didn't work I planned an elaborate plot to infiltrate her evil fortress and retrieve my belongings whike weaing a ninja outfit(but her living in a gated community and her trusty pit-bull was sort of problematic) - I even resorted to telling all of her out of work family members that I'd pay them handsomely if they retrieved my property for me. But as time passed I just figured that she had destroyed my vinyl on some Lily Allen shit and kept it moving - until I came home last week with my crates on the porch with the following note attached:

"Dear Asshole, there were so many times that I wanted to send you these records in a million fucking pieces, payback for you punching my brother in the throat and sleeping with my cousin. But I'm getting married now and my therapist told me that I should return these as a symbol of me starting over - besides, there are some classics in here, I couldn't destroy these because simply put the punishment doesn't fit the crime. Bye fucker!!"

So every so often I will post one of the tracks from what I'm calling the "ransom crates" - the first selection being Organized Konfusion's "Bring it on"(Buckwild Remix) Jesus Christ, Prince Po does his thing but Pharoahe absolutely kills it.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Leaders Of The New School - Case Of The P.T.A.

Busta, before he was smacking the shit out of gay fans and letting friends die in vain.

Just a friendly game of Culture shock

Historically I've lived my life as a pretty paranoid person, wearing three condoms if a women who's three orifices I'm about to savagely enter even belts out the subtlest of coughs, assaulting that woman with medical history inquiries if she so much as develops an innocent cold sore months after our sole sexual encounter - and even if I know that she wasn't a virgin when I met her, if she happens to be with someone else while we are "seeing" each other I will openly tell her how "tainted" she is while receiving blow-jobs wearing the thickest prophylactic known to man. So you can imagine how obsessed I've been recently, looking around at all my friends who decided to actual procreate with their sperm instead of using it to write their names in cursive on a woman's back or wipe in on foreign curtains ala me - the fact that I've never had a hand in producing another chubby degenerate with anger issues has started to worry me as of late. Granted, I've never purposely tried to inject my demon-seed inside of some low expectation having woman who finds my brand of bullshit sexy - but how many births are actually planned nowadays, so the fact that I don't have any "..my first child was conceived when I raw-dogged this Guatemalan maid named Marisol" stories had me thinking that my caramel colored .22 was shooting nothing but blanks. So a trip to my doctor, an inappropriate "if you can't give me a hand-job, can you at least whisper 'You're the greatest writer ever!" in my ear while I beat off" comment to a nurse, and a lengthy wait later - I was pleasantly informed that my disgruntled tadpoles were all swimming vigorously upstream. When I got home that night, thinking about the childless universe in which I live in and openly saying to myself "Man, I really gotta stop fucking chicks in the ass!" - thats when I was surprised by a phone call from Shawn, a kid that I've always regarded as a surrogate son.

Shawn is the son of my friend Derek, and ever since that 11th grade year where I saw my boy juggle being a teenage father with trigonometry with ease - I can proudly say that I've had a hand in Shawn's development. Granted, its been a rather small role since Derek didn't want his only child being negatively influenced by the likes of a guy who once punched a priest in the throat and once considered having the Spanish word "negocio" tattooed on my cock just so when a woman looks at it and asks for a definition during foreplay I can arrogantly nod and say "Baby, it means "Business". But over the years I have schooled Shawn on what real Hip Hop is, the proper way to snap someones neck, and 34 ways to kill a man with a pair of chopsticks if his life ever happens to be threatened while eating raw fish and downing Sapporo - rather useful tools that every young man needs as he navigates the turbulent waters of life. But I never handed down any fatherly advice though, he already had a great father - I'm damaged goods man, I'm not sure if I'd even be able to get through passing along some Yoda-like life lesson to him without giggling like a school girl based on the source of said "wisdom".

So you can imagine my utter surprise when Shawn, feeling overwhelmed by being thousands of miles away from home and going through his first semester of college, took it upon himself to reach out to your favorite pre-ejaculating writer for some advice - specifically to ask me about the times that I've experienced Culture Shock. At the time my mind was blank, I mean, I consoled the young brother the best way I knew how - telling him that he should embrace new experiences, that he will get settled in before he knows it, and since the area in which he lives is heavily populated with a certain ethnic group I reiterated one of the last things my father ever said to me as he lay on his death bed: "Asian Pussy is to die for" But at the time I couldn't come up with any examples of times that I felt out of my element, until now - so since Shawn reads this online drivel that I call a blog, this is for you kid.

Attending Public School: There are certain professions that I shouldn't even attempt, like being a pornographic actor - an unimpressive penis, giggling co-stars, and 53 second sex scenes don't really add up to noteworthy masturbatory material. I could never be a cop, I'm too impatient and paranoid - the mass amounts of people that I'd shoot in the ass for simply reaching for their wallets or coming out of their mouth wrong would keep me in litigation for a decade. Also, I could never be a gangster rapper - sure, there are people who have witnessed me administering senseless acts of violence, and my vivid imagination could make a fictitious mass murder by the hands of yours truly sound like the absolute gospel over a DJ Premier track. But the main reason that I could never be a gangster rapper is because your boy, Humanity F Critic, attended private schools from Kindergarten to 6th grade - St. Gregory's Catholic School for a short time before moving on to the very urban sounding "Virginia Beach Country Day School". Not for nothing but I personally enjoyed the smaller class sizes, the one on one attention that your educators gave you - and ever since my days at St Gregory's, I can't tell you how many chicks I've made wear plaid dresses before giving them "communion". That being said, when 7th grade came around and my parents forced me to attend the public junior high school with all the other peasants - it felt as if I had literally walked out of a day spa and into a violent firefight in the streets of Fallujah. Multiple classrooms? School Bells? A Cafeteria? Latchkey kids of the female persuasion offering me head after school? This is embarrassing to admit, but the abrupt change of scenery stressed me out something terrible - so much in fact that whenever I'm out with my friend Gary and pull some tough guy "We can go outside and discuss it if you want motherfucker" spiel, he always cools me out by putting his hand on my shoulder while calmly saying "7th grade man, 7th grade".

Dating a woman 12 years my senior: I've talked about this before and I don't know if this is exactly culture shock, but during my senior year of High School the daughter of one of my parents friends came to stay with us for a little while - a nova scotian beauty named Sherry who was 29 years old at the time. You know what, I'm not going to journalistically dress this up since you already know that before long my 17 year old ass was trying to pevically see what her small intestines felt like - to say that she turned me out would be a gross understatement akin to saying that Amy Winehouse is a social drinker. I mean, I went from fire starting grind sessions and the occasional hand-job from under-developed 17 year old girls to waking up with my private parts being moisturized - its kind of like going in to get your breaks changed and the mechanic puts in a new engine for the same price, Thanks Buddy! Even though my mother would still find and decapitate her if she ever found out, and I can't say that it was molestation since I was 17 and a willing participant - but at the time, her "putting it on me" caused a brother to almost have a nervous breakdown. I fist-fought, attempted to stab, and slashed the tires of any suitor of hers who even attempted to enter my residence - looking back, the mere fact that my family was oblivious to our affair still blows my mind. So when she moved out of our house I was crushed, yes I was whipped, but more importantly I had to resort back to fucking girls with standards and gag reflexes - it was as if I was an All-Star Baseball star who just got shipped back to the minor leagues.

Sidebar: To this day, whenever I'm around a woman who wears her brand of perfume - my left hand starts to shake and I begin to stare off into space.

You know what, Hip Hop needs a PR person(Vibe.com)

This may sound strange to some of you, but I've always believed that having your fair share of enemies creates balance in a persons life - there's something zen-like to me about hanging out with dear friends at a bar while keeping your head on a proverbial swivel for the ass-hat you happened to chin-check a week earlier at that same watering hole. Subtly being on the lookout for disgruntled husbands whose wives I've angrily sodomized, friends of the wheelchair-bound man that I rolled into traffic for disrespecting the god Rakim, not to mention the Lil Wayne fan that I choked out with a pool stick while reciting the words to O.C's "Times Up" to cure him of his sickness - having enemies keeps a brother sharp, and also reminds me that I'm a dick-head when everyone else is singing my praises as if we were in the middle of Sunday service.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth "The Creator"

A Recent concert confirmed that I'm the worst kind of Hip Hop fan(Vibe.com)

Last week I came to the conclusion that Kobe Bryant and I are kindred spirits of sorts, no, I don't have a deviant penchant for sodomizing sub-par white girls in hotel rooms - but I'm starting to believe that my support for the brother, outside of his physical abilities, has to do with me literally feeling his pain when it comes to how he is perceived by the general public. I'm sure they exist, but I have yet to meet a person who has lukewarm feelings about number 24 - either people are die hard supporters of the guy bordering on compulsive apologists or they absolutely loathe him with the same kind of vitriol you hear when people talk about Hitler or being forced to reciprocate oral. It seems that my existence on this earth is hardly met with indifference either, there are people out there who love me to death and swear by this chronic pre-ejaculator like I was a stack of bibles or they pray on my downfall every Sunday while angrily clutching rosary beads when they aren't hoping that Keith Olbermann will profile me for his "Worst Person in the World" segment.(Read more here)

KRS, Get the Fuck outta here!!(Vibe.com)

There are some things in life that simply transcend opinion, like Michael Jordan being one of the best basketball players ever to touch a piece of inflated leather, me being a crafty wordsmith that incite lesser bloggers the world over to angrily masturbate to my diatribes - and KRS-One being one of the greatest men to ever grip a microphone apparatus and proceed to make cerebellums within a 2 mile radius explode in unison. I'm certain that if it wasn't for KRS and Chuck, two men who could brilliantly mix the medicine in with the delectable Hip Hop feast they were serving you - there's no way that I'd be the politically aware adult that I am today if it wasn't for them. Because KRS was so instrumental in my political development, feeling the debt I owe to that brother is the epitome of insurmountable - I had taken it upon myself to serve as "the Teacha's" #1 devoted apologist over the years. Sorta.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Common Sense - Take It Ez

Common Sense - Take It Ez (1992)
Uploaded by bboyspdy

Roc Raida

VH1's Hip Hop Honors: A Networks way of apologizing for Minstrelsy(Vibe.com)

If some down-on-his-luck writer one day decides that helping a deviant bastard like myself pen an autobiography as their last stab at a writing career before getting a regular 9 to 5 like "normal people", no matter how much they may object to the title - the chapter detailing the sordid events of my childhood has to be named "Break-dancing, masturbating to Lisa Lisa videos, and my Homeboy Chris". Recklessly spinning on cardboard and rubbing one out to a sweet pair of puerto-rican mammaries aside, Chris was the best buddy a guy could have while negotiating the turbulent waters of my formidable years - a decade plagued with verbal abuse, a crippling stutter, and an addiction to late-night snacking that still causes a brother to sporadically check my pulse during those fleeting moments when I'm engaged in some serious hardcore fucking.(Ok, masturbation) (Read more here)

Digging in the Crates with Premo

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Saafir - "Light sleeper"

A Few things I learned at a recent Roots show..(Vibe.com)

When Vibe.com first gave me the opportunity to write for them I was extremely grateful, having the opportunity to reach audiences outside of disgruntled Hip Hop fans and chicks that find my pre-ejaculatory tales concerning my unimpressive black phallus "sexy" was a phenomenal honor - it filled me with child-like exuberance like those rare moments when a chick tells me that I don't have to reciprocate oral. So to show my appreciation I made a concerted effort to be the human embodiment of professionalism, the first two concerts that I covered for my Vibe blog(The Roots and Robin Thicke) I was dryer than a Dane Cook performance in the Sahara Desert on those occasions. Without a drop of liquor inside of my portly frame, sporting my seldom used spectacles and a notepad that made me look like my nickname should be "Scoop" or some shit - I diligently dictated the events of the night like a court stenographer on steroids. I never knew sober concert-going could be so beneficial, the events of the night that I later recalled ever so clearly, the mandibles of men that I didn't feel the need to forcefully adjust with my fists - and sure my writing was better because of me not digesting any malted hops or grain alcohol, but not getting slapped for telling a woman that I'd like to sodomize her on the floor of a public restroom was kind of nice.(Read more here)

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

I'm in no way trying to make light of anyone with mental disabilities, the only times that the words "glass licking retard" even escape my heavily bearded mandible is when I'm referring to some inbred monosyllabic rapper - yes, I'm the type of asshole to laugh when old people fall down staircases or when some dime-store harlot gets her weave pulled out by some disgruntled female at a miscellaneous club, but I've never found myself laughing at the mentally handicapped. Maybe it has something to do with me growing up with a kid who had a mentally challenged brother, it seems that people are more accepting of others when they are in their formidable years - even though there were distinct differences between my friend's younger brother and the rest of our crew, we gave him atomic wedgies and hit him with piss flavored urine balloons like everybody else. Even though its been 15 years since I've seen my old friend and his brother, I ran into them in the mall the other day - and as I approached them the young man that I had credited my acceptance to mentally challenged people the world over started clapping his hands and screaming "Asshole!! Asshole!..Motherfucking Asshole!!!"

Sugar Mama: The one thing that I absolutely loathe about the watering-holes in my area, besides the constant karaoke that makes sane people want to drop a live grenade down their shorts and all the sub-par women who I wouldn't fuck if they happened to own the last vagina on earth - is an old lady named Gladys that I see entirely too much of. She's nice enough, always greets me with a warm smile, and even though the amount of money it would take for me to fuck her would bankrupt most prospering countries - she does throw compliments my way, which I enjoy since my self-esteem is lower than midget manic depressives. That being said, she's always hanging around men young enough to be her grandchildren - and even though I have no quarrel with a baby boomer getting their unadulterated fuck on with people 40 plus years their junior, its just her air of confidence that kind of bothers me. I mean, to act like your looks and not your swollen purse is what landed you such young company is arrogance that borders on criminal insanity - so when she made her way to the bathroom this is what I leaned over and told her young beau of the night. (leaning over) "Dude, how old are you? 21?(pointing at some onlooking women) What are you doing fucking one of "The Golden Girls" anyway? There are women in this building with asses so tight that you could bounce a quarter off of it. Ever tried bouncing a quarter off of a 65 year old ass, you'd be lucky to ever see that fucking quarter again!! Really, are you that hard up for cash? I bet you dollars to donuts that making love to that old broad is like fucking the skin rolls on an Irish Bulldog. Leave while you have the chance!!!" He didn't leave, but he just stared off into space and occasionally flashed me dirty looks when I starting singing the first few words of "The Golden Girls" theme song: "Thank you for being a friend..."

A Brutal Game of Dodge-ball: I have to tell you, ever since my local YMCA Incorporated a Dodge-ball program a couple of months ago my life has changed dramatically - sure I've lost weight, but nothing makes a self-involved prick like me happier than being able to completely see my cock. Basketball was alright, hacking the shit out of old men who dared to score on me was fun - and I can't forget about the way I used to block their shots and say shit like "Get that shit outta here!! Don't you have a diaper you should be soiling in, or a bingo game to be at motherfucker!!" Good times, Good times. But nothing beats dodge-ball, reliving 4th grade when I used to abuse the weaker kids and humiliate the self titled "bullies" - exercising my daily frustrations by making sure that the print of the ball is on the side of some poor bastards face. I was having the absolute time of my life, that was until a gentleman named Dexter showed up - a single amputee who we've had to cater to like he was a sick child or some shit. I mean, what better way to feel like you're being treated like everyone else than to get your ass crushed with a 70mph rubber ball - but somehow the consensus was that we were to take it easy on Dexter, and that's exactly what I did. For a while. But after I found myself being mercilessly hit by Dexter, when I was already called out and sometimes for shits and giggles when I was sitting on the bench - that's when I decided that I needed an understudy to take over my critically acclaimed role of Mr. Nice Guy. From that point forward, the only target that I aimed for was Dexter's prosthetic leg - sometimes throwing 2 balls at a time at it, sometimes screaming "You're going down Hop-a-long Cassidy!!" in the process. So now everyone there at the YMCA thinks I'm a dickhead just because of how one of the balls I threw happened to cause his leg to fall off - and as he sat on the floor trying to re-attach it, I proceeded to hit him in the face with 3 more dodge-balls. Take that motherfucker!

Drive-thru Incident: One of the results of me being such a phenomenally impatient lunatic is that I try my best to not keep people waiting myself - only uttering a few words to cashiers, avoiding lengthy conversations with bank tellers, I even avoid talking on my cell phone while I'm driving since I detest that so much when I'm behind such chatty fucking Cathy's. That being said, I was completely taken aback when I noticed in my rear view mirror a lady very casually shooing me with her hands as soon as I grabbed my Chickfila breakfast sandwich the other day - as if I was taking a calender year to gather my grub and proceed. As I crept up I noticed her mouthing something that I'm sure were obscenities, this time more aggressively motioning with her hands her eagerness for me to "get the fuck on" as one of my southern friends would say - that's when I parked my car right where it was, raised the emergency break, locked my door and proceeded to casually walk inside the establishment with my newspaper. After a few minutes, while I was peacefully reading the sports page - the visibly irritated woman who was previously upset with me entered the establishment and asked me what the problem was. That's when I very causally looked up at her and asked, "Who in the fuck where you waiving your hands at anyway??" That's when the woman, 5 staff members of the eatery, and a handful of customers proceeded to call me a "fucking asshole" in unison like they were practicing at a church choir rehearsal.

I only amuse myself: I pretty much view humor the same way I view the handful of sexual encounters I've had, as long as I get myself off that's all that really matters - I'm the human embodiment of a Tyler Perry play, you go there with the highest of hopes and leave dissatisfied. That being said, for the last 20 years or so I've always gotten a kick out of meeting famous people and telling them how much I loved them in some obscure role that they played. Like the time I met Kim Cattrall of "Sex in the City" fame and passionately told her how much I loved her in "Police Academy", the time I told Morgan Freeman that his best work was as Vincent the Vegetable Vampire on "The Electric Company" - I'm a big John Cusack fan, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to tell him that his role as Bryce in "Sixteen Candles" was an Oscar-worthy performance.

Also, when I'm out on a date an find myself being on the business end of an extremely long wait inside of a restaurant, or if I see a very long line at a club that I'm trying to enter - I approach the Maître d' or bouncer and say "If you let me go ahead I'll make it worth your while!", handing them a folded one-dollar bill with the a straight face. I know, I'm a douchebag.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: The Jaz Feat Jay-Z - Hawaiian Sophie

The Jaz Feat Jay-Z - Hawaiian Sophie
Uploaded by PeteRock

I know, I know - there are millions of throwback videos more worthy than this one - I'm fully aware of that fact. But I wanted to share this video with all of you to clearly show the extreme differences between men and women, let me explain. Of course men and women are very complex creatures and I'm not trying to generalize entire genders here, but its my personal experience that in terms of relationships women look back at those missed opportunities where they foolishly rejected some dude who really loved them - things of that nature. Men, specifically me - look back on the last 20 years on a daily basis with regret and calculate on old school abacus' all the women I could have fucked but for some reason didn't. That's the reason why the last thing in the world my black ass needs is a time machine(if that sort of thing existed that is), because instead of warning my father of the future cancer he'd die of and telling my boy Buddy to avoid going to that club the night he was shot dead on a crummy dancefloor - I sincerely think I'd spend my time in an alternate universe fucking. In turn, who knows how many crumb-snatchers I'd father with chicks like the one in my 9th grade Spanish class who admitted years later that she wanted to fuck my cerebral cortex out - I'd probably have some new venereal disease that baffled scientists would name after me.

Anyways, in terms of music videos - I haven't been able to get the chick in the Hawaiian Sofie video out of my head, just like the woman in this obscure Raw Fusion video and the woman in this Alkaholiks video. Jesus, can I come across any creepier?