Pat, you old bastard..

I love my hometown of Virginia beach unconditionally, like an alcoholic uncle who always hits on your girlfriends and ends up shitting in your pool, despite all it's fault I love where I'm from. Granted, my city was negatively immortalized in the Public Enemy song "Welcome to the Terrordome", even though I respect Missy and Pharrell, when people equate them to my residence I wish VA had more distinguished representatives, but all of those things I can live with. But when people find out where I'm from and say, "Pat Robertson, 700 club right?" I feel a disgust only parallelled by the way I felt when a beautiful woman I was dating once said that "Lil Wayne" was her "favorite rapper".

Since CBN is only a stones throw away from my house, and I have a sick sense of humor, since I was a kid I always had the idea of taking a serious dump on his front lawn in an act of protest. I have really thought about pulling this life long feat off as of late, but I heard that there are armed guards securing that place like the White House, and I would hate to die with my pants around my ankles pulling off a childish act of defiance.

Anyway, recently Robertson painted Islam with a broad brush by saying "the goal of Islam, ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not, is world domination." He then characterized the religion as "satanic". Of course later he retracted his statements, like he always does when he talks out of his ass, but hopefully this senile loon can learn to shut his fucking mouth and not need a "retraction". I don't know, each time he says something stupid I get the urge to "drop the kids off" on his well manicure lawn. Lets just hope you don't read a "Pat Robertson's peeps shot me in the ass" blog post from me soon after.

A Night out at Red Star Tavern(written like an episode of "24")

Nothing makes you aware of how you are as a person than to hang out with someone new. I mean, people who you hang with on a regular basis know important intricate details like you being an "asshole", that you tend to fall asleep like a heroin addict when heavily intoxicated, that your temper is so out of control that you once held a midget by his ankles and screamed "I'm on some Suge Knight shit motherfucker!!", your favorite past-time is giving unruly women a bath consisting of malted hops and barley, that you one time embarrassingly sobbed about how your father "never loved you", and that uber personal detail that you have a deadly fear of clowns. But a childhood friend named Luke wanted to hang with me, which was fine, but he remembered me as an optimistic 13 year old skateboarder, not the 32 year old chronic masturbating blogger with an extreme agenda of hate. So anyway, he wanted to go to this trendy bar called the "Red Star Tavern" located in my city's new "downtown" area, a bar frequented by people who think they are "so fucking cool" but in all actuality are as interesting as a tonsillectomy.(OK, I'm only hating on the place because women there treat me like I have the fucking plague, and the ones I have gotten attention from were only the snooty ass women who had a desire to tell future stories of how they once "slummed it" with a wanna-be writer once.) Anyhow, I'm going to run down how the night went like a "24" episode, thank you for reading..

HumanityCritic's "Jack Bauer" opening Narration: It's March 11th 2006 and I've been asked to go to a drinking establishment called the "Red Star Tavern", but there are a few daunting obstacles in my path. Besides the fact that a person who thinks rather highly of me will end up thinking I'm an insufferable prick, I once punched a guy in the parking lot of the bar we are going to, I once swung on a bouncer who I'm sure still works at that establishment so there's a chance of me getting stomped by a few big guys with extremely tight t-shirts, I recently gave a credit card receipt back to an unruly bartender with the words "Your tip?? Use an umbrella in the rain jackass" on it, and I have struck out with more women at Red Star that it's safe to say that I have Michale Jordan's batting average. This might turn out to be the longest night of my life.

The events in this post take place from 7:00 to 2:30 am.

6:59:58-6:59:59-7:00: I don't know about any of you but I'm a dude who likes going out pretty late, not only because going out later assures me that I won't be sleeping in an alley or with some woman of ill reputes bedroom, but loose women are so much easier to talk to when they are a few sheets to the wind. But Luke wanted to venture out early, 8:30 as he so succinctly put it, so I hopped my ass in the shower because I smelled like a bums nut-sack from playing basketball earlier. After I had lathered up, and washed my dreadlocks making them weigh about 50 pounds, I had a horrific thought. "You know, I have masturbated more times than I care to mention in this shower!!" It may not be shocking to you, but in my warped mind where I concocted the possibility of being murdered in my shower one day, I thought about forensic experts standing over my naked body laughing and pointing at my private parts saying shit like "I knew that motherfucking myth wasn't true!" But besides that, when they go in there with the black-light for further "evidence", that bathtub would light up like Yankee Stadium due to all the miscellaneous fluids embedded there. Fuck, I think too much.

7:59:58-7:59:59-8:00: *ding-dong* No, I stopped using that euphemism for my genitalia like 10, um, hours ago, Luke had arrived a half hour earlier than he said. Listen, for anyone out there who ever meets me in person, I am a chronically late bastard. It's deplorable, I know, but its not out of disrespect but just out of a feeling that I can always "make it" in time. But when people arrive earlier than they had originally said, that shit irks me. Anyway, I get in the car with Luke and his cousin Jason, who I can tell was briefed like a fucking C.I.A agent on yours truly based on the constant "Hey, were you the guy Luke talked about when.." stories. As I sat in the backseat and listened to their tales about church functions, them going out recently and sending water to various people tables as their idea of "fun", Luke holding on to the perception of me still being that same 15 year old HumanityCritic, and the fact that their language was a clean as a Pat Boone album, I knew that this would be an interesting night. I mean, not for nothing, but I felt like a pre-opt transsexual who is about to expose himself to an unknowing suitor, I'm pretty sure they are going to be hurt when they find out what kind of dick I am.

8:20:22-8:20:23-8:20:24: We get to the door and wouldn't you know it, the same bouncer who I had swung on months ago was checking ID's. He looked at my I.D for literally a minute, looking me up and down trying to figure out where he knew me from. As a chubby guy myself, even though I have lost 25 pounds outside of my "illness weight loss plan", I had no business saying this but because of his "girth" I felt compelled to say, "Come on brother, I'm not a snack so stop fucking staring!!" That was the wrong move because that jogged his memory, so for a few more minutes he hassled the fuck out of me. I really couldn't tell you why he even let my black ass in, but me calling him "Roadhouse" and asking him "are tight ass t-shirts a bouncer requirement?" probably didn't endear me to him.

9:05:13-9:05:14-9:05:15: Not only was this bar packed wall to wall, we had been there less than an hour but I was already buzzing. Maybe it was because I haven't had anything to drink in a while due to my recent flu, maybe because I didn't eat that much prior to me coming to this bar, or maybe it was all the shots I was being given by these 50 year old women who had visions of "making a man of me" later. Even though the ladies laughed at my inappropriate jokes, Luke got to know the new HumanityCritic that he didn't know before when I told the older ladies how "sexually intoxicating their Ben-gay" was. Luke finally left the table when I told the ladies that I needed an oilcan to have sex with them, if they could bake me cookies like Grandma used to after sex, and randomly asking the women "which Golden Girl are you??"

10:30:32-10:30:33-10:30:33: Right after dancing with women old enough to be my mother in what I now call a "Moms Mabley sandwich" and yelling silly shit like "shake that ass like it's 1968 baby!!", I made my way to the bar to ruin my liver some more. As I ordered my drink I see this girl named Janell, a friend of a friend who knows about this here blog. She tells me that she enjoys my blog, I thank her, and she proceeds to tell me about a "celebrity blog" that she started. I wished her well, thinking that that was the end of the conversation, and suddenly she steers the conversation to Mos Def for some reason. She says, "I did this thing on my blog about Mos Def and how he is a deadbeat daddy, what do you think HumanityCritic". Something about the way she said "HumanityCritic" in a sort of mocking tone, but I let her ass have it. I said, "For one thing, I have no love for any man that doesn't support their kids. That being said, you don't know Mos Def's situation, for all you know his ex could be unbearable, you don't know. To assume he is simply a "deadbeat" is not only journalistically lazy, it's intellectually lazy. You know what, fuck you, get the fuck out of my face you treasure troll!!" *Splash* It's been a while since I had a drink thrown in my face, my reflexes aren't what they used to be, but a free Tom Collins never hurt anybody.

12:15:22-12:15:23-12:15:24: By this time I'm drunk, but not sloppy, but a few more drinks and later I'm drunk calling some girl I hardly know with propositions of staring in a amateur porn tape with me being the director and the star. Being that this bar is always packed with people, we were fortunate to have a booth to sit at while 90% of the other patrons were forced to stand the entire time. Anyway, because I have the bladder of a pre-schooler I had to use the men's room for the 20th time. When I got back I was kind of pissed to see some random couple sitting in the spot that my big behind previously occupied. Luke and Jason didn't know who they were, and I tried to stand there and just blow it off, but I couldn't contain myself. So with an irritated "I smell piss" look on my face I aggressively motioned to the young couple like a traffic cop and said, "Get your ass up. Get your ass up. Get the fuck up!!!" Lets just say they "got the fuck up", but a few minutes later they had one of their friends come and talk to me.

12:18:11-12:18:12-12:18:13: A few minutes later the sweet looking couple came back with some corny looking black guy, with a god-damned cowboy hat on. He steps to the table and says "My friends here said that you were rude to them, is that true??" Already drunk I said, "Yeah, what are you some sort of ghetto ass prosecutor?" He then said, "Because where I'm from, people treat other people with respect!" Laughing I said, "Well your toothless ass isn't in Mayberry anymore Aunt Bee. Listen, don't make me get up and beat your ass and steal your boots Cowboy Troy!" He literally stood there for a few minutes, like he was Ivan Drago giving me some sort of pseudo intimidating stare down, to the point that I threw a bottle at him and attempted to hop the table causing him to dart in some random direction. By this time I could tell that Luke and Jason didn't sign on for this, holding me back from hitting a black man dressed like Willie Nelson that is.

1:20:45-1:20:46-1:20:47: At this time it seemed that Luke had started to embrace Humanity F Critic. Not because of his understanding that people change with time, not because I explained to him that I am a pretty nice guy who probably needed more hugs as a child, but because I had introduced him to a morally loose woman named Lola who has been passed around more than a joint at a Reggae concert. I mean, she's beautiful, but that whole "dick falling off" thing has a brother somewhat cautious. Anyway, I go outside to get some fresh air and what did I see but some dudes that I know free-styling. Even though I'm horrible at it when I'm intoxicated, I decided to join in the rhyming session. I waited my turn, then I proceeded to spit some impromptu rhymes. After the session and realizing that I had said "I rock steady like crackhead trapeze artists" and "I was born to rock like crack babies", I figured out that I have too many references to cooked cocaine in my repertoire.

1:50:34-1:50:35-1:50:36: Even though Luke and Jason wanted to leave early because they had "church service" in the morning, I found Lola riding in the car back with us a bit strange. Maybe they wanted to convert this "sinner" based on the fact that I told them that her nickname is "gang-bang", possibly they wanted to talk openly about God and the benefits of having him in her life, but probably not.(Even though I'm sure someone was on their knees, the lords name was probably yelled out at some point, and someone most likely got "blessed") As I stumble in the house and look back at Luke, Jason, and the germ farm that is Lola, Luke said, "Tonight was interesting, we have to do this again!" Translated that means "there's no why I'm ever hanging out with you, fucking psychopath. Burn in hell!!" They couldn't have driven off fast enough.

2:29:58-2:29:59-2:30:00: I drunkenly call those older women and ask what they are wearing.

Hip Hop Special Olympics

I guess I'm like any other red blooded American male out there, I have done some rather extravagant things in order to engage in a few fleeting moments of coital bliss. Lets see, I've pretended to like dance-hall Reggae, even attending a plethora of cringe-worthy concerts in order to be ridden like an untamed bronco under an elaborate Jamaican flag. There was another time I dated a devout christian with a body like a porn star, so in order for me to get to know her "biblically" I acted like a perfect Christian Gentleman. Well, that was until we eventually engaged in a friendly game of intercourse where I used so many curse words while clumsily thrusting on top of her she probably thought she was witnessing an exorcism. Then, last but not least, I helped out one spring preparing handy capable athletes prepare for the special Olympics in order to get close to a particular girl I had my eye on.

Her named was Tina and she had been working with the handicapped for years, I simply figured that I would help out with the kids, show my compassionate side, then slowly win her over and eventually sexually disappoint her like I had done to women ritualisticly since the age of 16. But a funny thing happened on my way to achieving a supreme pervert status, I really got attached to the kids, their winning spirit, and their unflinching optimism even though being dealt a not so great hand in life. In the special Olympics, the athletes are overjoyed by simply competing, there are medals given out for simply finishing the race, awards well deserved based on how hard those athletes bust their asses.

Based on what passes for Hip Hop these days, and the apologizing for lack luster lyricism over the past few years, Hip Hop has turned into a special Olympics to be totally honest. Hip Hop, unlike any other genre of music where you could virtually get away with never actually getting involved in the writing process, is an art-form that relies on an extreme writing prowess and creativity. Also, when you are an MC you have to know that you could be called out for a rhyme battle at any possible time, its the only genre of music where you have to constantly prove that you are worthy to hold that microphone. I remember reading something about Bruce Lee years ago where people would randomly approach him on the street, individuals who thought they could beat him, and they would tap their foot on the ground signalling that they wanted to challenge him to a street fight. Of course he would dispatch his would-be dispatchers, besides the pride aspect of it, but because he knew in the position he was in that he had to constantly prove himself and that he was worthy of any success that he had achieved thus far.

That's kind of how I have always viewed being an MC, until recently. I know, I know, people get sick of my old guy, "hip Hop was better in my day" rants, but the decline in said art-form is just so fucking obvious that something has to be said. People will argue the point that some of it is simply "dance music", and shouldn't be criticized so harshly because the artist in question is just trying to "make you dance". The problem with that argument is that there have always been groups with an intent to make you move your posterior where the focus wasn't lyricism(see Doug E Fresh, Biz Markie), but the biggest difference was that at least those artists understood the foundation and would be up for a battle if someone confronted them with one.

But now you have artists that let off a pre-emptive strike of wackness if you will, like Young Jeezy, when he claims that he isn't "into battling" and doesn't see the particular point in it. Huh?? That is like a boxer not seeing the point of throwing a jab, a hitman that doesn't see the point of using a sniper rifle, a point guard refusing to use his crossover move, a carpenter who finds his hammer "irrelevant", or any other person who refuses to use a key ingredient in their professional arsenal. But it's not only the aspect of battling, it's just the incredibly low fucking bar that is being set by artists like Dipset, Nelly, those laffy-taffy bottom feeders, 50 cent, Lil Wayne, or any other microphone holder currently in the top 40.

I guess I don't have any antidote for the evil spell that has cursed the current state of Hip Hop, look at this as just another misguided rant from Humanity F. Critic, but I can't help but to think of the medals given out to those handicapable athletes just for finishing a race when someone tells me "how good" Young Jeezy is. I can't help but to think of my involvement in the special Olympics when people excuse some of the current rap groups by saying that they are simply "party groups". I think back on those times especially when try to refute my claims of "grills" being the new black face by saying that Hip Hop has always been materialistic, leaving out the fact that acts like Rakim were actually spitting flames while wearing those hefty gold ropes around his neck. Don't get me wrong though, I am in no way trying to equate the rappers of today with mentally challenged athletes that I once worked with. I'm not doing that. I'm not making that comparison because at least those special athletes had a love, respect, passion, and desire for what they were doing.

Mama used to say....

Most kids, when asked what they want to be when they grow up, I guess would say that they want to be a fireman because of the "hero" factor and being able to scare the shit out of people with those loud ass sirens. Other kids usually answer that question by claiming that they want to be policemen, possibly with visions of protecting the land mixed with getting a cat out of a tree running through ones mind. I guess there are other stock answers you would think a kid would give like an "astronaut", "nurse", "doctor", or some other profession that you make you think that an immediate cat scan wasn't needed based on a logical answer.

Lets just say that I was a very unique kid, because when the assignment was to write a report on what we wanted to be when we grew up, I just knew that my answer would blow everyone's doors off. As I sat through the obligatory choices, patiently waiting while my intellectually inferior classmates rambled ad naseum, I couldn't wait until it was my turn. When it was my turn, even though I articulately broke down what I wanted to be when I grew up and why, as soon as I said I wanted to be "Yoda" when I grew up the class and the teacher erupted in laughter. Still desperate to state my case, I aggressively argued that "Yoda got to hang out on a cave all day, was a master fighter, could move things with his mind, and the wisdom that he handed down was priceless." Even though my presentation didn't go well, and it probably didn't help my case that I said "who wants to be a damn cop anyway, they kill black people!" as I sat back down in my seat in protest, at the grizzled age of 32 I still don't think being Yoda is such a bad idea to be totally honest.

Even though my reasons now for being Yoda have changed somewhat, like me embracing wearing a robe and having the ability to "free ball" it whenever I wanted to, chopping random assholes arms off at my local bar with my light saber when they get "out of pocket", and the mere fact that I would be 2'2" and would love to see a woman's face when I claim that we are all "the same size laying down!", it would incite laughs as far as the eye could see. But the coolest thing about being a 500 year old Jedi master would be the wisdom that I could pass down to whoever asked, from life lessons to what to use to get out blood stains.

Besides the fact that I nicknamed my mother "Yoda" for her stellar advice, and the fact that I was listening to Juniors "Mama used to say"(a song about the words of wisdom from his mother) I thought I would document things passed down to me that continue to have an affect on my life.

Mama used to say: "Those who sleep with dogs will rise with fleas." When my mother first said this to me she was referring to an extremely loose woman that I was dealing with in college that she had warned me about. Even though my mother had told me that she felt that the woman in question was no good, a parasite, and a complete waste of space, I ignored her warning because I was "in love". Well, moms was right, the woman in question had indeed served more men than an army chow line, and on top of that she was married, so when her husband that I wasn't aware of came home and shoved a pistol barrel in my cheek I was heartbroken to say the least. When I told my mother about it that's when she said, "Those who sleep with dogs will rise with fleas.", and that has always stuck with me.

But that phrase isn't just for lovers, it could also be a cautionary tale about no good friends who you should stay away from at all cost. Case in point, I was good friends with a dude who was knee deep in the world of street pharmaceuticals, and based on our friendship I became too acquainted with a couple of Virginia Beach's finest.

Grandma used to say: "Revenge is a dish best served cold": When I look back on my recollections of my grandmother I get kind of sad, primarily because my family treated her like a geriatric "hot-potato", hoping that they wouldn't get stuck with her. Granted, she was an absolute handful with her drinking and what not, but maybe my rose colored glasses that I'm wearing right now makes me think that she wasn't that bad. Anyway, during a time period that she was living with my family, I had came home crying because some random asshole had taken my lunch money and punched me dead in my face. As I stood in front of my grandmother hoping to get a warm embrace from her, possibly telling me that everything was going to be alright, she forcefully grabbed my wrist and brushed my face with my own hand and yelled "Wipe that shit!! Wipe that shit!! All that god-damned crying!!!"

She sat me down, told me not to tell my parents or even my teacher, but to get revenge the next day. She said that I shouldn't even put any food on my plate, walk over to the bully, and bash him over the head until someone stops me. She said, "Revenge is a dish best served cold!! Show that motherfucker that no one is going to mess with my grandson!!" The next day, armed with her words of encouragement and her promise that I wouldn't get in any "real" trouble because I wasn't 18, I walked over to the bully and beat him like a fucking bass drum. Lets just say that that bully not only stopped fucking with me, but did his best to become my new pal the rest of the year.

My father used to say: "An idle mind is a devil's workshop": Even at the age of 32, I always want to be busy because I know that me and boredom haven't exactly had the best history in the world. When I was a kid and had a significant amount of idle time on my hands, I set someones yard on fire, impaled a few kids with a friend's nail gun, urinated off a 12 story building on passers-by, stuck my penis out of a school bus window at a bunch of nuns, and a gang of other shit. Now that I'm an adult I don't do things as juvenile as the stuff I just mentioned, but my "idle time mistakes" usually have something to do with women that I later regret sleeping with.

For some reason, when I'm bored somehow I forget my paranoid and germaphobic nature, so that cashier who looks like she is a veteran penis holder all of a sudden looks like a prime conquest. Then, after said encounter of "sweating and smiling", I get all paranoid and immediately make a doctors appointment hoping that my dick doesn't start glowing in the dark.

Mama used to say: "Practice doesn't make perfect, perfect practice makes perfect": The best example of this was the time period that I played Pee-Wee baseball and kept striking out. Besides me not being able to hit the broad side of a barn, I would literally close my eyes when the ball came in my general vicinity. I practiced religiously, all day long, but on game day I would exhibit the same deplorable habits that I always did. That's when my mother took me to the ball park with about 20 baseballs, and worked with me by literally hitting me with fast pitches until I kept my eyes open every time. It was pretty brutal, getting pelted with baseballs for an hour, but it helped me keep my eyes open to avoid any further punishment. I still remember my mother putting her arm around me after that particular practice, saying "Make sure you don't tell them how you got those bruises on your arm, people will start thinking that I'm abusing you!!!"

R.I.P Gordon Parks 1912-2006

Things I can't do without.

I know I go on and on, ad naseum, about how I wish I could find a woman to spend the rest of my life with. My rants about "hating the single life" probably made many of you wish that I would hand in my testicles already, and get a job writing for the Lifetime Network. Even though I will admit that sleeping in an empty bed, watching my friends play with their kids, and having a constant internal debate with myself on whether I should pay for sex or not sucks complete ass, based on the few dates that I have been on recently maybe I should be careful what I wish for. For example the first date I went on was with a woman named Karen, a beautiful Librarian chick who I couldn't help but think nasty "..and then I bent her over the microfiche" thoughts while we were out. The date went well until she hit me with one too many "a dude I used to fuck with" stories, and the mere fact that I yelled "you don't have a vagina, you have a clown car!" when she told me she had six kids probably ruined any chance for a second date.

The next date I went on was with a chick named Julia, and as far as I knew she was the perfect woman, she liked real Hip Hop, she was a culture snob, she was right up my alley. That was until she exposed some very manly idiosyncrasies that made me nervous, like the very macho uber masculine handshakes she gave me throughout the night, the fact that while we were walking she spit out about 5 "loogies" like a seasoned vet, and the small detail of her asking me, "Are you going to let me fuck you later??" kind of weirded me out. Huh?? I feel insecure enough about my manhood, I don't need some rough ass broad pulling my hair screaming "Put that where it doesn't belong!!!"

The last date I went on was with a Spanish chick named Maritza. She was pretty, smart, she had a "tramp stamp" but I didn't hold that against her, and she was a great conversationalist. One of those "conversations" had us discussing "real people vs. Fake people". I don't know what she was trying to accomplish, I guess she wanted to prove to me that she was a genuine person or something, but she poured the contents of her purse all over the table we were sitting at like Ally Sheedy in "The Breakfast Club" and shit. I guess I wouldn't had been so shocked if she didn't have 3 pairs of spare panties, so many condoms you would have thought passed them out a high schools or some shit, feminine products, and a sharp "shank-like" object that looked like she had made it as a weapon while she was in prison. I guess the look on my face spoke volumes because she said, "You don't have a few things that you can't live without on a daily basis??" I don't really know what my answer to her was at that time, I was so transfixed on the Magnum size condoms laying on the table and my probable inability of actually "touching the sides" if her and I had sex, but I thought about her question after I dropped her ass off though. This is what I came up with.

Shell-Toe Adidas: Ever since I was a kid standing in the middle of an audience at a Run D.M.C concert and Run had everyone talk off their shell-toes to the point that all you saw was a sea of three stripped sneakers, I knew that I would be loyal to that shoe to the day I die. Of course I can clean up with the best of them when I have to and wear a suit, but to be honest not much has changed since my Catholic School days because the times I do have to wear a monkey suit, as soon as I get through the door my clothes come off faster than a Prostitutes on Payday. But I have been known to rock an expensive suit while wearing shell-toe Adidas, its the only thing that makes wearing a suit bearable to me. Of course I have other sneakers, from Jordan's to a reissue of Converse's "Weapons", but nothing feels more like a pure extension of my foot like Shell-toe Adidas.

Wristwatch: I don't know what it is, but if I leave the house without wearing my watch I feel somewhat naked. It's almost a superstitious thing because of an asswhipping that I once caught, that one time I got arrested, or the time a girlfriend suddenly decided to leave me at a birthday party being thrown for me, I blamed all those incident on "me not having my watch" that night. I could be somewhere and not really have a pressing engagement to speak of, but I will constantly check my watch as if I had an important date later on. It's a horrible habit to have, I know, but it gets worse when you think of me constantly checking my watch impatiently at a friends funeral, when a girlfriend expressed her undying love for me, or in the middle of being ridden like an untamed thoroughbred.

Gum/Breath Mints: Have you ever had a friend that made a life long impact on how you live your life?? Well, I had a friend named Colin like that when I was growing up. The impact he had had nothing to do with his loyal friendship, rogue-like advice, or any other attribute a friend may have, he had a lasting effect on Humanity F. Critic because his breath smelled like a thousand miles of shit. I didn't know what his deal was, rotten tonsils or food lodged between his teeth from the Carter administration, but after a conversations with him it felt like you just got finished tongue kissing a horse's asscrack. Through the years I told him about his mandible stench, I don't know if he attempted to do anything about it but until this day people always say shit to me like "Damn man, Colin's breath smells like a god-damned autopsy!!" Because of all that, I make sure that I am always equipped with an arsenal of gum, breath mints, mouth spray, or a combination of all three.

Recently, while Colin and I were hanging out and I got a whiff of his breath, I angrily yelled out "Fuck, your breath is so bad I can taste it!!" You can only imagine my embarrassment when Colin told me the lengths that he went to correct his problem, brushing his tongue, changing his diet, flossing, medication, you name it.. Now not only do I feel sorry for Colin now I feel paranoid, because what if the breath freshening agents that I'm using aren't working?? Fuck, another thing for me to think about all day..

IPOD: When my dear sister gave me an Ipod for Christmas I never knew that I would spend more time with it than my last three girlfriends combined, my trusty hand lotion, or the autographed picture of Rosario Dawson that I have in my wallet. I know that people tend to use their IPOD's when they are doing something that doesn't involve human contact, but I use my little black device for exactly those occasions. When a woman I met took offense to me saying that "Mary J. Blige is a fucking buzz kill" and proceeded to read me the riot act, saying that I "just don't understand Mary's pain"(you hear the same thing from Tupac fans.) I turned on my Ipod as I witnessed the woman in question waive her hands like she was a fucking air traffic controller. Or the time recently that I had somehow got involved in a conversation with a local pastor, so when he tried to recruit me to his "cult" I inconspicuously turned my IPOD on while he talked, to the point that he probably thought I was nodding in agreement when I was actually nodding to Big Daddy Kane.

Ring my father gave me: My father, for reasons I could never articulate because I was far from his favorite child, gave me one of his rings that he bought in Japan like 40 years ago. It really meant a lot to him, so when he handed it down to me I was shocked, shit I'm still shocked. I'm not really a jewelery guy at all, finding most things rather gaudy, but I wear this ring because it's a gold ring with a jade stone, with a diamond on each side. Let me be honest for a moment, I wish I could say that I wear the ring strictly to honor the memory of my father. That I wear it to feel like I have a part of him with me as I live the rest of my life, I really wish I could truthfully say those things. But the truth is, that ring has habitually fucked men up whenever I put some unsuspecting victim on the business end of a right handed punch. Even though I'd hope my fighting days are over, but as long as I remember to wear that ring I feel that I have a secret weapon in my arsenal if some jackass wants to start some shit.

Video of the day..

A Tribe Called Quest: "Electric Relaxation"

The past week, being sick and all, I learned a few things that I didn't realize before. Last week I learned when watching a Barbara Walters special that Matthew McConaughey hasn't used deodorant in 20 years, on Sunday I learned that "it's hard out here for a pimp", and this morning I have come to grips with "Electric Relaxation" being my favorite A Tribe Called Quest song of all time. I know, it's not particularly a popular choice, but when I first heard the song it became my official theme song for whenever I went out to paint the town red. Shit, I still play it when I venture out to some nightspot with a few bucks, a condom, and a dream..

Back from the Brink of Death(not really)

"The Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated", someone once said, but I am back after a week long battle with the flu. I must admit that the weight loss is nice as a result of throwing up and not being able to hold anything down, but that blotchy look of death on my face might have any would-be female suitors overlooking my new found slimmer physique. Thank you all for the well wishes, they were greatly appreciated. Now, on to your regularly scheduled program.

Some Inappropriate Celebrations

You got me, I have a sick sense of humor, guilty as charged. When I was being chased by a female bully because I didn't reciprocate the same feelings she had for me, and when she was suddenly hit by a car to the point that she was airborne, I laughed for a few minutes. When I was staying over my friend Gary's house as a kid and his grandmother fell down a flight of stairs, to the point that it sounded like a mixture of drum rolls and shrieks of horror, me and Gary ran to see if his grandmother was alright. As soon as we realized that she was OK, THEN we laughed our asses off. Then there was that one time in college where I laughed my ass off at a cheerleader who was flung many feet into the air, only to have her cheer-leading squad drop her like a bad habit. That story gets more interesting based on the fact that the wounded cheerleader was my girlfriend at the time, and I was sitting right next to her parents when she became intimately acquainted with the gymnasium floor.

But it seems that time has softened me a bit, my morbid sense of humor is pretty much non existent these days. Case in point, a friend of mine named Crystal told me about a young drug dealer that had moved on her block and was negatively influencing the neighborhood kids. I guess she wanted me to scare him, and since he was legally an adult I felt like it was my duty to oblige her. I didn't really hurt the guy, just threatened the shit out of him in a very "Martin Riggs, Lethal Weapon, I'm crazier than cat-shit" kind of way, Oh, and I took some of his weed. I left that day feeling that my attempt to save the neighborhood children would look good on my "when I stand at the pearly gates" resume, but those feeling were short lived when I found out a few days later that the same drug dealer was back on the block.

I didn't really think much about it until I was invited over Crystals house for a party she was having a few weeks later. It wasn't a holiday, no ones birthday, and even though I know that you don't really need a reason to throw a party, this felt like a party with a purpose. As I got my eat on, chatted up some women with loose morals and low self esteem, and downed more shots than I care to remember, I was still wondering what the fuck everyone was celebrating. Right when my curiosity was getting the best of me I grabbed Crystals arm as she nearly passed me and said, "Hey, what is this party for exactly??" She smiled, poured some champagne in a glass I was holding that already had rum in it and said, "You didn't hear?? That drug dealer got killed last week in a drug deal gone bad. That scum is taking a permanent dirt nap, I hope you are having a great time HumanityCritic!"

For a guy with a morbid sense of humor, and someone who has never lost any sleep when bad people met their untimely demise, something still felt wrong about celebrating it the way people were at this party. I felt that me staying at this party for one more moment would scar my soul for an eternity, so I attempted to find the nearest exit. When I got to the door a beautiful young lady said, "Where are you going?? Don't you want to celebrate our "Death of a Narcotics Salesmen" party with us? I wanted to tell her how wrong it was, celebrating the demise of another black man, I also wanted to add how irresponsible it was for adults to be acting in such a way, but when I looked down and saw her cleavage that was as long as a country mile all I could say way, "I ain't going anywhere, fuck that deceased, street pharmaceutical selling fuck!!!"(What can I say, tits are my kryptonite) But that wouldn't be the first or the last time I was a part of some inappropriate celebrations.

The "Thank God your not pregnant" party: For a paranoid germaphobic guy like myself, many of you would be shocked at the extent I played Russian Roulette with my cock about a decade ago. Even though I am disease free, sometimes I feel like getting retested based on the miscellaneous pieces of ass that I have flashbacks about. Anyway, in college I had a girlfriend named Tonya that I had unprotected sex with, not because we were both tested or she was on the pill, simply because I made myself believe that my constant cannabis intake had made me unable to spread my demon-seed. That was until Tonya had a few dreams about fish, had weird cravings, her period had taken a sabbatical, and she was praying to a porcelain god every day. She figured she was pregnant, so when she asked me what my opinion was I knew that I had to chose my words correctly. Sure I said the right things like, "even though I'm not ready for a kid, if you had it I would be there 100%", just in case she actually decided to have it so at my kid's High School Graduation her ass couldn't pull that "You know your daddy wanted me to abort you??" shit. So through a few trips to church to engage in marathon prayers sessions, a few home pregnancy tests, and a trip to her personal doctor, at the end of the day she wasn't pregnant.

So to celebrate, we went to our local college bar and bought drinks for everyone in honor of our "motherfucker we're not pregnant" celebration, looking back it was very stupid. It was weird though, hearing people congratulate us on a kid we weren't having, but we had the time of our lives. Of course we came home that night totally shitfaced, engaged in unprotected sex, and had to go through that same ordeal over again. But I must say, when I went to mass early one morning it was quite Humorous to hear the priest say, "What, scared your girlfriend is pregnant again???"

A "Stop Being a Bitch" party: At the end of a 5 year relationship where my ex-girlfriend dropped me like a bad habit, lets just say that that was my main topic of discussion around that time. My friends were patient, telling me that there "are other fish in the sea" and shit like that, but I could tell that my brand of bullshit was wearing thin on them. But I really felt their angst when I walked in on a surprise "Stop being a bitch" party they were throwing me. These motherfuckers had stuck to the theme and everything, the women were in suits and the men were wearing clothes usually worn by females.(or drag queens) Not only did random people walk over to me and utter the words "stop being a bitch" the entire night, they actually had me hit a pinata that was filled with "feminine products". This party was the brainchild of a uberfemanist friend that I have named Melanie who just wanted another reason to call a man a bitch, and to somehow get me out of the funk I was in. At the end of the party when Melanie was talking on the microphone about her attempts to cheer me up. When she asked me to speak, and talk about the party and what I had gotten out of it, I wanted to shock her pro woman sensibilities just a bit. So I said, "This party is just an indicator to all the ladies out there that my dick is back on the market!! This party also showed me that I'm not being anyone's boyfriend any more, I'm going to be like Biggie on some "..when I see the Semen I'm Leaving'" shit!!" I turned to Melanie and said, "I'm just fucking with you.."

A 'Hey, You turned me into a Lesbian" Party: I was invited to a party my ex girlfriend named Paula was having a few years back. Even though our relationship was turbulent at best, I felt that possibly this party was a stepping stone for us rekindling our relationship, or at least rekindling late night booty requests. I get to the party, everything seemed cool, even though Paula was spending a lot of time with one of her home-girls, I was having a good time. Things began to spiral downwards when I finally got a chance to speak to Paula and inappropriately said, "Why do all the chicks here look like they should be playing in a WNBA all-star game??" She looked pissed and said, "I never knew you to be homophobic???!!", then stormed off. The whole night, between being turned down by women like I had horseshit on my shoes, I wondered why Paula reacted like that. About an hour later I understood why, I was at an engagement party for Paula and her Girlfriend Maxine. Even though I was sad that that meant that my chances of fucking Paula decreased greatly(that's an understatement), I was happy for her.

That was until the happy couple talked to me at the end of the night, saying that I was "responsible" for them getting together. When I asked them to explain further they basically said the the horrible relationship Paula had with me just made her new path even clearer. "Clearer??", I said, "I don't want that shit on my resume!!!" "Why", they asked, so I replied, "Why should I feel comfortable with being the one guy, whether it be my lack of sexual prowess or my asshole nature, to actually turn you to lesbianism??" They tried to say that that wasn't the case but I didn't want to hear anything else they had to say. I blacked out that night, but the last thing I remember was having a drink with a girl who looked like Phillip Michael Thomas..

Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

As I sit here typing on a computer mainly used for illegal music and porn downloads, juggling dry heaves, the chills, and trying to find something witty to say, I realized how much I absolutely hate being sick. I guess we all hate being sick, but it happens so infrequently to me that whenever I do feel under the weather it always seems like a brand new experience for me. For a chubby bastard like myself, you would think that I would embrace being sick since I have lost 15 pounds in the matter of hours. I thought that people would comment positively on the slimmer and trimmer physique of HumanityCritic, but when you lose weight suddenly and have a pasty look of death on your face people just wonder if your favorite past time has become inhaling cooked cocaine.

People say that you learn a lot about yourself when you are in a fight, something that I have to disagree with being that I have been in a thousand fights and the only thing I've learned is that I'm addicted to violence. People say that you learn a lot about yourself when you are in love, a notion I disagree with since the last woman I was in love with left me for a panhandler(literally) , and I would to hate to think that my only lesson was to "not" fall in love. But being sick over the past couple of days I would say that I have learned a lot about myself, and what I have found out about myself is that when I'm sick I'm not an extremely weird motherfucker(weirder than usual) and a 32 year old baby. I know some of the stuff I have written on my blog has many of you thinking that I'm as nutty as squirrel turds, but after reading about some of the rituals I partake in while being sick, be kind enough to not report me to the puzzle factory.

Believe it or not, I have even less patience: This is going to sound funny coming from a dude who once proclaimed that if I had a check for a million dollars and the cashier's line was particularly long that I would come back later, when I am sick my patience is non existent. Last night when I was in the checkout line about to by a toxic mix of drugs that I thought would stop me from praying to a porcelain god, an old lady was in front of me with 20 items and holding nothing but coupons. I was cool for the first 30 seconds, but erupting out of my mouth like my mandible was a ghetto volcano, I loudly yelled, "Come the fuck on lady!!! You have a knot of money but want to keep a dying man in limbo as you pinch pennies??" She quickly looked back at me in a "you sure are an asshole" kind of way, and went on with her business. When she went to get something else while keeping me there in a puddle of illness, so I told the cashier that I would pay for her stuff as long as I could get my black ass out of there. When the lady ran up to the register upset that I had paid for her items, for some reason I did something that I have done a million times when faced with awkward situations. I ran.

I am tactless: This one chick who is a critic of my blog claims that she is sick and tired of the way that I beat the whole "asshole" motif in the ground. She also apparently doesn't care for the way I talk about my sub par sexual prowess, and my ability to sporadically throat-chop a black republican in a single bound. I guess she would have an argument if she didn't have such a horseshit blog herself, but I am insecure about my penis size, I have throat-chopped more men that I care to mention, and I have been known to be an insufferable asshole throughout my life. Granted, I'm an asshole to people who deserve it, priding myself on the fact that friends and family have never been on the business end of a brutal tongue lashing. But when my symptoms include a high fever, chills, and constant vomiting, I tend to abandon any type of governor I had on my mouth previously.

Case in point, I have a good friend named Grant who I have known since college. He is a good guy, but every conversation we have had over the past 5 years involves how horrible his ex is, her horrible mothering skills, and the hell that she has made his life. I don't know why I erupted with the following diatribe, because usually I have held these feelings back, but I said: "If I hear one more "my ex ain't shit" stories I think I'm going to go on a killing spree. I told you not to mess with her, her fucking our entire college basketball team should have at least been a warning sign to you. Shit man, you still married that tramp even though I told you she tried to get me to have sex with her, you deserve everything you get motherfucker!!" When those words barrelled out of my mouth I knew I fucked up, and I'm pretty sure the insincere "I'm sorry" didn't help things. I'm going to apologize in a proper fashion in a few days, but at least the conversation ended on a hopeful note when he said, "I forgot who much of an insufferable prick you are when you are sick."

Gotta have the right movie on: I don't know what it is, but whenever I'm throwing up breakfast more than gang members throw up gang signs, it is important that I have the right movie playing in the background. Maybe its all in my mind, but if something is on the boob tube that particularly disagrees with me, it is my belief that I will throw up even more. If Fox News is on by some chance, I am vomiting more than Kate Moss in a bathroom stall. If SportsCenter is on I still might throw up, but it is definitely a soothing sound to the flu like symptoms that I have. Some soothing flicks that I enjoy when I'm sick include "Wild Style", "Clerks", "Snatch", and "Bamboozled".

I'm a baby: Regardless of the macho bravado I try to portrait on this blog, just know that when I am sick I am the biggest baby in the world. I not only moan like a constipated turkey when I'm feeling under the weather, I become an all out attention whore for any female who is kind enough to bring over chicken soup, or any "sick dish" for that manner. It gets even worse when that person, whether it be my mother, ex girl friend, or stripper I briefly dated on a dare once, comes by at the height of my illness. This is embarrassing to admit, but I find myself speaking like a 5 year old boy, reaching out to them, and in my best sick voice saying "Please hold my hand!" You would have thought that I was on my motherfucking death bed, making my mother call me a "pussy", forcing my ex girlfriend to say "Now I know why I broke up with you", and that stripper to say "I can't believe I let you fuck me!"

I tend to do the weirdest shit: Even though I have more issues than a 6 oclock news broadcast, I feel that my wife will have the toughest time dealing with my idiosyncrasies while I'm sick. For one thing, for a reason I can't explain, I tend to smear Vick's vapor rub all over my body. If that isn't weird enough for you, I tend to put both my hands down my pants as if I was a dreadlocked version of Al Bundy.(What can I say, its soothing) Even though this is probably adding to the problem, I tend to constantly soak my hands in extremely hot water to fight off the feeling of the chills.(I guess that wouldn't be so bad, if I didn't yell out "Yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about!!!") I'm not even going to go into my TheraFlu addiction, and my penchant for running full speed on my treadmill during the early morning hours.

Fun with Racism

Even though I feel that I am in a perpetuate state of trying to prove my mother wrong when she says that I am a "32 year old child", sometimes I feel that I prove her right by the way I keep doing things that I know I shouldn't. Like last year when I was at a friend of mines bachelor party and was offered some high powered marijuana that I knew I had no business smoking. I went against my better judgement and smoked it, and the next thing I knew I was at the house of one of the strippers afterwords, performing a striptease for her and her stripper pals to a chorus of "shake that ass" and "work it chubby".(I did get a few bucks though, but the mere fact that a few of them put nickles in my undergarments crippled my self esteem) Or recently when I went to a gathering that a ex co-worker was having, where I got absolutely shitfaced in the matter of a couple of hours. When a chick that I had just met asked me if I wanted to "chill in the hot tube" I knew it was a bad idea. But since my life revolves around "C.R.E.A.M"(my Cock Rules Everything Around Me) I went against my better judgement and decided to chill with this chesty beauty, with hopes of getting lucky later. Unfortunately, my hopes of having her count ceiling tiles were cancelled when she damn near had to resuscitate me because of me falling asleep and almost drowning.

I also know better than to not fall asleep in front of the television, simply because of the strange fucking dreams that I tend to have because of it. I guess I had fallen asleep to a television special about slavery or something, because in my dream I led a slave insurrection where I tried to help 20 of my brothers and sisters to "freedom". Of course the dream had some improbable aspects of it like me killing 2 slave-masters with a couple of well thrown Rambo knives I kept in my backpack(see, backpack), me telling one of the slaves to "stop being a bitch" when he resisted escaping, the twin glocks that I shot members of the lynch-mob with as we made our way through a heavily wooded area, and I'm sure historians would cringe at the fact that I was wearing shell-toe Adidas while I was doing all of this. I'm not sure if I died in my dream or not, but right before I woke up I had told the others to go on. Sacrificing myself, held up in a barn armed with only a machete, surrounded by men in hooded outfits with matching white caps who didn't want to discuss the current state of Hip Hop with me.

When I woke up all I could think about how my father recounted stories of what he had to go through in South Carolina in the 40's and 50's. I never had to encounter a tenth of what he went through, but him vividly telling some of the things he witnessed, people being hung until their necked snapped, and the specific things they couldn't do because of Jim Crow, I never took anything for granted. I have issues with my old man even though he died 5 years ago, things that I have a hard time forgiving him for, but he was a tortured guy because of the overt racism he saw first hand opposed to the great white shipmates he had during his 30 years in the Navy.

I know that I should write a Black History post, probably where I quote Maya Angelou, and possibly give you some random black history fact. The hell with that I say, I reject the fact that black history has to be relegated to the shortest fucking month of the year. Sadly, I'm lying, I wish I could say that that's the reason, the real reason is because I'm an asshole and reject the idea of being told "when" to celebrate anything.(Just imagine how many pissed girlfriends I had because of the fact that they received their Christmas gifts in July) This is just a friendly post about the types of racism that I have experienced, nothing to the extent of anything my father could have articulated, but just my own experiences.

Overt Racism: When I first started thinking about writing this post last night, I openly wondered how many times someone called me the "N word". I had a really hard time, difficult in a way that I actually wondered if anyone had ever called me that word outside of the term of endearment way I've heard it from other black people, something I'm trying to get away from. I guess we put bad experiences in the back of our subconscious somewhere, because right when I was going to say that I was never called that, my brain sort of had a mental bowel movement where all these examples came over me like some sort of "racist instant replay". I guess I could tell you about a kid in my 5 grade class named Terry that called me that word, but there isn't much to tell since I hit him in the face with my cafeteria tray. I guess I could tell you about a dude named John Peters who called me that word on the bus home from junior high, but I chased him to his house where his "ultra liberal" parents let me smack him in the face for it.

One case that sticks out is being called the "N Word" simply because I accidentally bumped into a guy at a "Rage Against the Machine" Concert.(What racist goes to a fucking Rage concert anyways??) All I can recall is smashing his head against his car door post concert as his black friend, that's right, just looked on as if he was studying my racist bashing techniques. The other one, a much scarier instance, is when me and Danny were playing pool and discussing the ridiculousness of people who have confederate flags. Apparently the two gentlemen besides us didn't like the flow of our conversation, and decided to explain why it was their right as Americans to have said flags, one of them taking off their jackets and proudly showing off a shirt with that image on it. A few words were exchanged, me having the smart mouth that I have, then all of a sudden a few "go back to Africa's" and "dirty n*ggers" came out of their mouths. I was in a dilemma because Danny can't fight to save his life, and because he has kids and a wife I would never forgive myself if something happened to him.

So we calmly left, I dropped Danny off and told him that I was going to bed. He said, "You're going back up there aren't you??" I didn't answer and just drove off. When I got back there only one of the men remained, and as I cornered him about to put him on the business end of a beating my brain and hands had a very civil conversation. Brain: Is this how you want to go out, perpetuating the angry black guy stereotype?? He's a racist, fuck it, you don't want to get in trouble!! Fist: Fuck you!! Lets just say that my brain didn't have much of a say that night.

"Maybe I'm overacting" racism: I have a Chinese food restaurant that I'm loyal to, a guy that I have been going to for a few years now. Despite a better restaurant across the street, I have stayed loyal to my Asian brethren from day one. I don't know what was wrong with me, I guess I was having a bad day or something, but when I walked in and he said, "Ahhh, I bet you want the chicken don't you??!!" I snapped. "What??", I said, "Why do you think all black folks want chicken huh?? You have a side of watermelon that you can serve me, huh?? I thought we were cool Lee, how the fuck are you going to hit me with that stereotype shit??" He smiled, looked up and said, "Because you have been getting chicken and Rice for the past couple of years, you ass-rag!!" All I could say was "Oh" and "sorry", as I walked out his establishment with the same dejected feeling you had when your parents grounded you for some childhood indiscretion.

Stereotypical racism: I have heard comics from the likes of Richard Pryor to Dave Chappelle, both express how they hated it when a person of another race suddenly felt the need to "talk jive" when they address them. Case in point, I was watching a band that I love perform in a bar that I randomly frequent. I guess this dude wanted to make friends, innocent enough, but he approached me with a "Yo, yo, yo.. What's up Dawg!", accompanying it with a crazy as fuck handshake. To throw him off a bit, I started speaking with an exaggerated British accent and said, "What is this "dawg" rubbish that you speak of mate?? Is that elaborate handshake a white American tradition or something?? I just came to this country so I am naive about some of your customs." That's when he cut the bullshit and said, "No, I'm Justin.", and gave me a proper handshake. So immediately I dropped the accent and said, "I'm humanityCritic, how fucking hard was that. I might suggest you not get your image of what black people are actually like from B.E.T, you inbred jackass!!!"

Subtle Racism: I couldn't tell you how many times as I kid I saw something that I thought was my father's own conspiracy theory, actually come into fruition. He always said, "HC, if the teachers seem happy that you received a C or lower, its only their way to hold you down!!" God dammit if that man wasn't right, more times that I care to admit I noticed that I was being praised for average work but my white classmates were being encouraged to "do better" even when they got grades as high as "B's".

Nothing is more degrading than being told by someone mid-conversation, "Wow, you are a bright guy", "You are so articulate", or "You are so well spoken". Even though idiocy like that should never get a pass, but I think most of the people who actually spew that drivel out of their pie-holes don't actually realize that they are saying anything wrong.

"I hate my own people" racism: I am a big critic of some forms of Hip Hop that degrade women and depict ultra violent images. I'm not an apologist for all Hip Hip, but I know enough of the culture to understand that there are other alternatives when it comes to the music itself. I'm not even saying that if you are a rap critic or critical of a few black Americans that you are a self loathing black person per se. But when you hear black folks lump other black people using words like "them", "they", or "those people", you know that there is a deep seeded self hate there. Sure, they will act like they are trying to help the race by coming out against "filth" and the criminal element of society, but I have a sneaking suspicion that many of these individuals would have been "House Negro's" back in the day. Like Chuck D said, "Every brother ain't a brother cause of color".

Maybe not racist, but incredibly fucking stupid: It has always been my feeling that if you have to say, "I have plenty of black friends!!" to show you aren't a racist then something is seriously wrong. Listen, I can't say you are a racist if you have ever said the following things, but at least feel secure in you being a bona fide, steaming pile of shit: Anyone that aggressively argues the "reverse racism" argument, any person who wants to pull the "Hey, my family came here from Ireland!! What's the big deal?" discussion, people who want to compare the Holocaust to the slave trade, if you have ever asked a black person why there is a B.E.T and not a W.E.T, or ever openly wondered why you weren't allowed to use the "N-Word".

Video of the day..

Eric B. and Rakim: "Microphone Fiend"

One it comes to some of the images that are burned in my memory for an eternity, the image of Rakim in this video comes to mind. A man who I think is undoubtedly the best MC ever to hold a microphone, when I saw this video as a kid it's what made me want to be a life long devotee to Hip Hop. This is going to sound silly, but then again it might not since I have admitted to having a 2 minute sexual prowess, but every time I am in a crowded club I recite the words to this song in my head as I make my way through the crowd like he did in this video. I'm not a big Kanye West hater, or a fan, but his "arrogance" to me seems like it is a reaction to being a very weak and insecure person inside. Rakim on the other hand, his swagger has everything to do with him knowing that no one has the ability to fuck with him, or even contend with the title. That Ladies in Gentlemen, is Hip Hop..

HumanityCritic's Sports Hall of Fame

Besides the 253 dreams that I have had where I relive witnessing my fathers passing, one specific thing sticks out about that fateful February day in 2001. That was a very strange conversation that me and my mother had as I embraced her in the waiting room after my fathers final moments on this earth. So many thoughts were racing through my mind as I clinched my mother tightly, sadness, regret over me and my fathers lack of relationship, selfish feelings like anger because of him "waiting for me to get there" to die, I actually got lightheaded because of how many thoughts had infiltrated my dreadlocked skull. But one thing that sticks out was my mother's stoic nature, her strength, and the brief "get the fuck off of me" look that she gave me. Right when I was about to leave the hospital thinking that my mother was absolutely the toughest woman to ever live, she grabbed my arm and said, "HumanityCritic, sit down for a minute!!" I obliged her, looked in her eyes and said, "What is it Ma??" Expressing a nervous look that I had only previously seen when I joked about "marrying a black republican", she quickly uttered, "Talk to me about something, anything, I just don't want to be alone with my own thoughts!"

"OK", I said, "Do you want to hear about some girl I plan on getting to know 'biblicaly?" I guessed by her shoving her finger down her throat was a sign that that was out of the question. Then, for a reason that I couldn't even imagine, me and my mother talked about our favorite athletes of all time. As my father lay cold no more that 100 feet from us, my mother knowing that after 30 years of marriage that her husband was gone and me knowing that the possibility to repair the relationship with my father was indeed over, we waxed poetically about the greatness of Michael Jordan. I always have thought that our diversionary conversation is probably the same tactic that a death row inmate spouts out during his last hour, trying anything to get his mind off of his fate.

I bring this up because since that day my mother and I hadn't spoke about that conversation, that is until recently. As we chatted about sports and who our favorite athletes were the other day, my mother gave a huge belly laugh when I said, "This sure is a lot easier without a dead guy in the next room!!" This post is dedicated to my lovely mother..

Michael Jordan: OK, let me address 2 things immediately. 1) I know that most of you are surprised that my favorite basketball player isn't Kobe Bryant by the way I blog about him like I have a schoolgirl crush. and 2) I know this is an obvious choice, it's as predictable as saying "My favorite book is the bible!"(See High Fidelity) but it's just how I feel. Looking back on all the Bulls games I witnessed, the guy was an absolute assassin. You hear every player who say that they "play every game like their last", but Michael Jordan was the only player who I feel followed that line of thinking 100%. Me and Mike have a few things in common, a winning smile, a gambling problem, and the fact that I beat up a teammate once.(Granted, it was at the YMCA. I bet he won't call me a ball hog again!) The image of Jordan that is burned in my memory is that 1997 game against the Jazz where he was ravaged by the flu and still scored 38 points. Remember how Scottie Pippen had to physically prop him up as they both headed for the sidelines?? The "warrior" tag is always loosely thrown around these days, but if you were to call him one I would be the first to agree with you.

Michael Jordan moment: It happened last year matter of fact, I was playing in a YMCA pick up game where I was shooting the lights out. Granted, the guy who was guarding me was 65 with an extremely bad knee but that isn't my fault. This one play, as I intercepted a pass and streaked down the court uncontested I hear someone say "Dunk it!" Never mind the fact that I am under 6 feet, have never dunked a basketball in my life, and have only been able to simply touch the rim, I stuck my tongue out like Jordan with my eyes on the prize. As I approached the basket, I elevated like I had never before, grabbing the ball with two hands preparing to jam it in front of a couple scantily clad girls watching from the sidelines. As I rose I thought a few things like, "I'm really going to dunk it", "damn I hate black republicans", and "I hope one day I have a 'i humped a girl simply because I dunked a basketball' story." Suffice it to say that my world came crashing down when the ball collided with the rim, forcing my body backwards, and the result was me landing on my back in the midst of a thousand giggles. Damn, I was just trying to "Be like Mike"

Barry Bonds: I know that this guy is brash, cocky, arrogant, and an absolute prick. But to be totally honest those are the reasons why I like him, I find those good qualities for a ball player. Maybe its because I like the villain, I do openly hope the villains in crime shows get away with it(outside of pedophiles), which must also explain why I am a Kobe Bryant fan. But his physical dominance at the plate is undeniable, putting the fear of god in opposing pitchers, only a few moments later giving some lucky bastard in McCovey Cove a souvenir to keep. I know the steroid rumors, I know that a black cloud follows him around like the dirt that follows the "Pigpen" character, I even know that he admitted to using a form of steroids before. But my ideology is this, if you don't have a positive steroid test you really don't have a valid argument against him not going into the Baseball Hall of Fame asterisk free. He could have friends who are known Steroid dealers, you could give me a diagram on how his body mass expanded "so quickly" over the years, you could even give me a picture of Barry Bonds juggling steroids in front of the Balco laboratories, but without a positive test there is nothing much to be said. Some of the arguments against Bonds is valid, I know, but I think that sports writers loathe him because the last thing they want to see him do is surpass Babe Ruth's mark.

Barry Bonds Moment: It was a few months ago when I was at bat, playing in a local league. I walked up to the plate, gave the pitcher an intense look, and adjusted my forearm pads before stepping into the batting box. As I crowded the plate and got into my home run stance, the catcher looked up at me and said, "What is up with all the pads and crowding the plate, this is slow pitch softball you asshole!!"

Dan Marino: When I was a kid watching Dan Marino, I sure wanted to be a quarterback in the worst way. Seeing him perform last minute comebacks, throwing absolute missiles down the field so hard that it looked like he was purposely trying to throw his arm out of the socket, he was the greatest thing since internet porn in my opinion. I know, he didn't win a Superbowl so that tarnishes his career to many people, not to me, because if you know anything about those dolphin's teams you'd know that those defenses sucked worse a hooker with bad teeth. But sadly, as I watched Dan perform open heart surgey on defensive backs, I knew that I could never be like Mr. Marino. One, the whole him being white thing, and two, me throwing like a teenage girl in a blizzard.

Dan Marino moment: The one thing that has gotten better with time concerning yours truly is my arm strength. Not only that, at the ripe age of 32 I have finally mastered the art of throwing a perfect spiral. So last year, when I was playing a light game of pick up football with my ex-girlfriend, her friends and their boyfriends, I was designated all time quarterback. I must have completed my first 20 passes, I was on fire, to the point that I had a undeniable swagger about me. I don't know what came over me, but when Melissa(a girl on my team) was wide open, it was if I was locked in. As she giggled at the fun she was having, waiting for my pass on the side of the field, I planted my feet and let one go. The next thing I know I hear a *thud* as the ball ricocheted off of Melissa's chest, causing her arms to flail everywhere, and her ending up on the ground writhing in pain calling me "an asshole" repeatedly. I guess she wasn't invited to the "gun show"..

Walter Payton: I'm sorry, no disrespect to Emmit Smith, but Water Payton is still the greatest rusher of all time regardless of who holds the all time yards record. If Water had some of the same offensive lines that Emmit had, the record would be as unapproachable as Joe DiMaggio's 56 game hitting streak. As a kid, watching Walter steam roll defenders like nobodies business, the mere force of his running attack was pure poetry. I remember seeing a television segment on Payton's off season regiment of running steep hills to increase his conditioning. So, because I was an impressionable kid, I did the same during the summer months to get me in shape for the plethora of school sports that I played.(It didn't help my sports career, but I found it easier chasing down future throat-chop victims in a school hallways) I never admitted this to anyone, but I actually cried during the 85 Superbowl when Payton failed to get a touchdown.

Walter Payton moment: A Decade ago, at the height of my cannabis influenced years, I played football with some college friends of mine. I was the running back, and after a few yards I was hit so hard that it spun me around, but I shook it off and kept running. As I ran I stiff armed defenders, stepped on people, and made sure my legs kept driving as I punished anyone who dared tackle me.(I think I actually punched a few folks) The problem was, after I was hit it spun me in the wrong direction, and the people that I was "punishing" were my own teammates. Just proof that weed and playing a little pigskin don't mix.

G.I Joe had the "Kung Fu Grip", Biz Markie comes with the "Booger pickin' finger".

I really don't know what I think about this.

HumanityCritic breaks down, well, Critics..

You know the old saying, "Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one"? Well, I want to revise it somewhat, how about "Negative Opinions are like liquor and gun stores, you tend to find them in the worst places possible." I was reminded of this when someone who possibly has the worst blog ever to grace the world wide web decided to give me writing advice. As I mulled over the idea of throwing that jackass under the proverbial bus, pointing out that the one person that does have his blog linked only did so a while ago, and many of the comments on his page seemed like he wrote them himself, my better judgement came into play and I remembered a phrase that my dear grandmother used to say. I remember it like it was yesterday, coming home crying because my painting didn't win any awards at my grade school art contest, my dear grandmother sat beside me and said something that would be my motto for the rest of my life. She sat beside me, squinted her wrinkled eyes and said, "HumanityCritic, Tell them to eat your ass if they don't like it!!"(She was such a gentle soul)

Even though its going to sound odd coming from a dude that calls himself "The HumanityCritic", I have always been suspicious of critics of any kind. If many of you are suspicious of me then good, you should be, I would hope that many of you have a free mind and would object to anything that you find on this very blog to be "bullshit" in your opinion. Lets look at a few critics shall we??

Movie Critics: Based on the many reasons that a person might like a movie, these guys are the most worthless of the bunch. I say that because there have been a smorgasbord of comedies in the past few years that movie critics find deplorable, but at the end of the day made me laugh, so it did it's job. Also, a movie can be a form of escapism from every day life, a rough day, a break up, what have you, certain flicks are enjoyed for its ability to "take you to another place". For example, I think that "Joe Dirt" is funny when the majority of movie critics blasted it. I thought that "Bamboozled" was one of Spike Lee's best flicks, even though critics world wide claimed it was a waste of 2 hours. It has gotten to the point that when a friend, or any human being that I respect, tells me "not to see" a movie ,I do the opposite. I think the best example was when a friend of mine told me how great John Travolta's "Be Cool" was, so I decided to take a date to it one night last year. Suffice it to say it was horrible, to the point that we walked out of said flick and I didn't get any "latenightwhatnot" that night. The next day I went to my friends house, and when he opened the door I went into his pockets like a High School Bully and got my fucking money back. He laughed hysterically, that was until he realized that it wasn't a joke when I drove off.

Music Critic: Just as worse as the movie critic, probably worse because there is a lot of payola and glad-handing going on so you really can't trust these guys. You guys can relate to this, reading some advertisement filled music magazine, constantly seeing good albums get sub par ratings, and horrible albums being heralded as the best album of the year. It seems in this line of work, the more good reviews you do, the more business opportunities will be opened up for you. Which is sad, because I would hate to think that a writer was giving some good reviews just for the hopes of being on an episode of "I love the 90's".

Hip Hop Critic: I understand why right wing guys like Bill O'Reilly criticize Hip Hop, because they have to find a subtle way of "sticking it to them coloreds" without seeming racist. But besides that, I have noticed that 90% of the people who criticize Hip Hop as a whole know nothing about the genre. Criticizing Hip Hop is the only time you could know jack shit about a subject, but be allowed to speak ad nauseum about it as if you had made the research on the genre your life's work. Hey, I can't defend a lot of the horrific images coming from certain artists, but I know the genre to be much broader than that to make ignorant, blanket generalizations. I guess the worst examples of criticism you get are from these self loathing black folks who want to perpetrate the concept that they are "looking out for black folks" by making it seem that all hip Hop is the downfall of civilization as we know it. Of course they can't name a rap song if you pointed a loaded handgun to their head, and they couldn't name a rap artist not featured on MTV or B.E.T if you threatened to take their black-face away, but their opinion is relevant. Right?? Right??

Blog Critic: A few months ago I had a small guide for up and coming bloggers, looking back I should have had a segment on "blog Critics" as well. I can take constructive criticism on my blog, I really can, but some people take certain pleasure in their bitter attempts to be mean. In my case, there are three types of individuals who come to my blog to talk shit. 1) Ex Girlfriends who have claimed they have "moved on", but leave nasty "your blog fucking sucks pal" comments anonymously. I just wish she would be smoother about it and stop doing so from her government job where I can trace it back, dumb ass. 2) People who have blogs, but tend to talk shit under "anonymous" because they are cowards who have some sort of gripe with me. and 3)People who talk shit because they think I undeservedly received the awards placed on top of my blog. I would understand it if the specific critic at hand had a decent blog, but it is always that motherfucker with the blog as delightful as a tonsillectomy that wants to cry sour grapes. I thought that me telling this specific individual that "taking writing advice from the likes of you seems as natural as an oral bowel movement" was a bit much, but I'm glad I said it.(People act as if one of the prizes was a date with Selma Hayek or some shit.) I recently got slammed because I always talk about my chubby statute, my throat-chop abilities, and my sexual shortcomings. Well guess what sugar tits, I'm a chubby, ultra violent pre-ejaculator, what do you expect you diseased trollop??

Fellow bloggers, moral of this story is always write for yourself, and call someone out if they step to you and are truly unworthy of challenging you for "The Belt".(Blog peasants if you will) Like my Grandmother used to say, "Tell them to eat your ass if they don't like it!!". I miss that sweet old lady dearly.