Erykah Badu's vagina can save Hip Hop..(Vibe.com)

I'm fully aware that the title that I chose for this piece has self-respecting women everywhere collectively cringing at their computer screens, the moment the good people at Vibe decide to put this piece on their website I can envision a gang of feminists congregating at some undisclosed location somewhere - angrily going over diagrams of my house, debating whats the best entry point to use before snatching me from the mortal coil. Proud female bloggers that are carrying on the great traditions of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem are possibly linking to this particular entry as a shining example to their readers on how big of a pig I am on the strength of the title alone - reminiscent of the career catholics who picketed Kevin Smith's "Dogma" without ever viewing a single frame of the film. Granted, since I'm rather allergic to the knee-jerk reactionary types, people who can't relax their defenses for one solitary moment piss me off like bad bladders - my instinct is to just say "fuck em'" and take a piss on their feminist sensibilities by very casually telling them "Relax Sugar-tits!!" But I won't do that, there are so many women in my area that have outed me on a site entitled "don't date him girl(dot)com" that I suddenly want to offer an olive branch to my female readership - so judge this piece after you've read it, if you still think I'm a steaming pile of shit while reading the final sentence then so be it.(Read more here)

You know, I could never be a professional athlete

Outside of being a fluffer on a lesbian porn set or the guy who gets to unceremoniously cancel Tyler Perry's shit-stain of a sitcom - being a professional athlete has always been my dream job, until recently that is. I can't tell you how many times in the last year or so I felt like Michael Jeffrey Jordan, posting-up some douche-bag at my local YMCA - only to illegally hook him with my off hand while spinning, going baseline with a finger-roll so pretty it could have its own modelling career - afterwards angrily looking at my defeated opponent like that motherfucker just stole my last french fry. Believe it or not I'm currently on a local softball team, and even though its of the "slow pitch" variety - I've been known to hit batters who crowd the plate or look at me funny when I'm pitching. Not only that, but when I hit home runs I pose for a few moments on some Barry Bonds shit, looking at the disappearing ball the same way I look at chicks who don't reciprocate oral - and as I'm rounding the bases I make sure to tell the pitcher "I just gave some kid a souvenir, you piece of shit!!!" Many a winter afternoon I've channeled the spirit of the great Walter Payton, forcefully stiff-arming would-be tacklers and punishing them every time I lower my right shoulder mid-run - I won't even get into my defensive skills, close-lining ball carriers and whatnot - even though we do play touch football. A game that I just picked up like golf, my favorite pastime as of late is hitting a crushing Tee shot or sinking a put - and if my Public Enemy T-shirt didn't already make the onlooking golfers uncomfortable, me screaming out "Zebra Woods bitches!! - That's right, "Zebra" - I'm not scared to claim my blackness god-dammit!!" doesn't help matters either. As much as I emulate my favorite athletes during my own sporting misadventures, after some thought I've come to one final conclusion - that I would never become a professional athlete.

OK, the word "never" is kind of final - lets just say that being a pro athlete isn't exactly my dream job any more, but I'm not doubting the fact that making millions of dollars a year would fill up my "social calender" - so to speak. It's just that there is so much bullshit you have to deal with, especially being a black athlete. I stated this on another blog, but the media's overreaction to Clinton Portis' comments concerning Michale Vick's dogfighting and Allen Iverson's rap album back in the day is proof that the media will pounce on the black athlete at the drop of a hat. Shit, even though there are legitimate reasons to hate Kobe Bryant - but the media has duped usually well informed black folks into hating the guy as if he had a hobby of sodomizing nuns while wearing a Klan hat - for reasons that they don't even understand I bet.(Don't believe me, just ask them) But to be honest, there are other reasons I couldn't be a professional athlete - here are a few.

I'd use a cliche machine during interviews: I'm simply amazed that its an obligation for athletes to give post game interviews, I know they are paid handsomely - but it would just seems like one monumental waste of fucking time to me.(Akin to the time I smooth talked a lesbian for an hour before she told me that we were both on the same dietary plan.) Most of those interviews are as uneventful as a lil Wayne freestyle anyways, cliche's oozing from their collective mouths like suds from a washing machine after too much detergent was used - what a time eater, there's expensive blow-jobs to get and livers to ruin for Christs sake!! That's exactly why I'd hand every reporter within eye-shot something that I call "The Cliche Machine" - an ordinary tape recorder that emits already recorded messages like: "The Best team won today", "You win some you lose some", "I couldn't have done it without my teammates" and other silly shit that I'd probably roll my eyes while saying if I was actually there in person.

I'd be candid at the most inopportune moments: I imagine that I'd find it rather difficult to blog on a regular basis if I actually played for a professional sports team, who would have all the time between games and penetrating young starlets to be online? - so I know that I'd be itching to express myself somehow, no matter the venue or how publicl. During my acceptance speech at the "ESPY's" I'd veer off the obligatory "thank you's" by waxing poetic about how Alicia Keys gave me a venereal disease in the Bahama's, I can see myself spewing some hateful diatribe about President Bush where I call him a "miserable cocksucker" at "The Kids Choice Awards" - maybe even talk about a conversation I had with Ice-T where he convinced me to go from Nubian sisters to bleached blonds, at the NAACP Awards of all places.

I'd take on-court fights, off-court: I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I've been known to hold grudges longer than the ones Muslims hold against pork-chop sandwiches - so many altercations have been started, as an adult mind you, after I uttered the sentence "Why don't you try and take my lunch money now motherfucker?!!" I also physically assaulted a man who I had fought 5 years ago in a restaurant of all places, while he was with his wife by the way - the way he just sat there as I violently mushed him, and by his wife's pleas of "Why don't you just leave us alone??!", I suddenly felt like William Zabka in "The Karate Kid".(or "Just one of the Guys", or "Back to School") That's why I'm certain that if I was a professional athlete, regardless if I emerged from the on-court altercation as the victor or not - I wouldn't let it go and would spend my entire off season plotting against that motherfucker. I don't care if he is hosting a celebrity golf tournament, I'd emerge from the bushes to tackle his ass on the 9th hole - smacking him around with the flag stick and whatnot. Visiting sick kids in the hospital for publicity? I'd infiltrate the premises with doctors scrubs, just so little Jimmy can see what a real ass-whipping looks like before he passes on.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Organized Konfusion - Fudge Pudge

Organized Konfusion - Fudge Pudge

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Ann Coulter is no different than David Blaine or Criss Angel(Vibe.com)

Maybe it has something to do with me just advancing in age, I'm 33 years old now and my genital area has so many grey hairs down there that it resembles an unlit cigar in an ash tray - but its become extremely difficult for anyone to shock me any more. There was a time when I would literally run in the other direction if a woman that I was courting felt compelled enough to tell me that she had over 200 lovers, I'd probably rush home to sanitize my telephone based on all the dirty conversations we've had - but I'm different after being intimately involved with a pornographic actress, now I'm shocked when I learn that a woman hasn't been "tag-teamed", had a steamy lesbian encounter, or been on the business end of a horse phallus. The other day when a fist-fight erupted at one of the local watering holes that I frequent, I noticed that I was the only who didn't try to get a front row seat to the melee - while haymaker punches were thrown in my vicinity I just stayed at the bar face down in my Rum and Coke. Not because its beneath me because I love violence, I really do - but with a history like mine where I've hit people with bats, chairs, skillets, not to mention that one time I choked a guy out with a phone chord, I guess your garden variety bar altercation is just old hat to a veteran of violence like me. Even when your text-book racist spews his or her particular brand of hate, whether its Don Imus, Michael Richards, or that white person who thinks he's reaching out to me by saying "You're pretty cool for a black guy" - again I'm not shocked, I guess it has something to do with me having such a low opinion of my common man in general.(My own mother claims that my reaction to a cross being burned in my front yard would be, "What fucking took them so long??!!!)(Read more here)

Man, I Love Me A Quirky Black Girl: Janelle Monae(Vibe)

Until the day that my soul leaves this earth, a couple of criminally underpaid grave diggers throw dirt on my brand new shiny casket, and a disgruntled ex-lover finds it appropriate to sing a rendition of Aretha Franklin's "I Never Loved a Man" as my "sending off" music (with the first line being "You're a no good heart breaker, You're a liar and you're a cheat") - I will always cherish the ground that black women walk on. I know that I can come across as a woman-hater sometimes, and I completely understand the criticism. But that's just a result of women historically taking a healthy shit on my emotions. I'm sure when that brand of bitterness is exorcised and I can successfully channel my sexual perversions into something less vomit inducing, I'm confident that I'll be just fine. Not for nothing, I know I'll ruin my chance of ever getting any Internet ass off of this next line - but if my penis displayed the various hues of women that I'd ever been with, it would resemble that "Terror Alert Level" Chart, to be completely honest with you.(Read more here)

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Peter Rosenberg(Vibe.com)

In my opinion there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a "liberal", but Republicans and other people who were probably once part of the "Nazi Youth" have turned it into the ultimate insult - so much in fact that cowardly Democrats have distanced themselves from the word all together. Its sort of the way I feel about being labeled a "Hip Hop Journalist" - scores upon scores of pen wielders who claim that they also have the same love for "Two turntables and a microphone" that I do, but have blissfully gone out of their way and sullied something beautiful. (Sort of like ejaculating on a prom dress, I should know) Granted, I don't know if Hip Hop journalism has ever been any good, to be completely honest with you - but what passes for it nowadays seriously makes me consider tearfully putting a loaded firearm in my mouth as a fucking Billie Holiday record plays in the background.(Read more here)

Vanity 6: "Nasty Girl"

Nasty Girl

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You would think that an insufferable prick like myself, a person who has been known to play Russian roulette with his cock when the opportunity presents itself - wouldn't discriminate based on a woman's age, welcoming scores of various women into my bedroom on some Statue of Liberty, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses" shit. But despite how fine a younger woman might be, how supple the butt-cheeks are, and the many delusions of grandeur are in my head of sexually teaching them something - at the end of the day the age factor becomes an issue. Shit like, "How in the fuck have you never heard of the Smurfs??!", "You didn't just ask me who Africa Bambaataa was did you?", and awkward mid-coital epiphany's like "Did you know that you were born the same year that I saw "16 Candles" in the theater?" fly out of my mouth with reckless abandon. With older women it doesn't get much easier, no matter how well they've aged and look like they could possibly pass for my age - my mouth always gets in the way of me possibly getting pleasured by a woman who once got her yearbook signed by Josephine Baker. But seriously, like with the younger women, the most inappropriate shit comes out of my mouth only during intimate moments - like, "You were probably fucking when I was born!", "I'm old enough to be your son, if you were fucking before junior high that is" and "Are you sure you should on your knees so long, I know arthritis can be a motherfucker!!"

That being said, there is a group of older ladies that I'd have no problem getting to know in the biblical sense - they are the same women that I've had a crush on growing up, Sheila E, Lisa Lisa, and Vanity. These women are still very lovely and I doubt that I'd have any type of sexual dysfunction if they were foolish enough to let me see them naked - but just in case, the mass amounts of ejaculatory material stored in my memory Rolodex over the last 20 years or so, my unimpressive penis would transform into the indestructible "baby arm". Just thinking about Sheila E in that "Glamorous Life" video, pounding those drums so aggressively, letting me know that her forearms are a force to be reckoned with - there's something sexy about a woman having the ability to rip your penis clean off if she wanted to. Lisa Lisa, the mere thought of how her breasts looked in that "I wonder if I take you home" video, puertorrican scoops of flesh that had me spending many prepubescent hours in the bathroom with the fan on - if she gave me the proper opportunity, I'd "knock those boots from here to Albuquerque" as Ice Cube once so succinctly put it.

As for Vanity, this video alone will make the Viagra people duplicate my DNA and put it in a caramel colored pill form - I still say that the first women who sings "Pretty Mess" after I climax will be Mrs. HumanityCritic as soon as humanly possible. Granted, apparently Vanity is all religious now - giving up fulfilling her every sexual desire and her cocaine habit for a life dedicated to Christ - and I sincerely respect that. But I'm saying, the real Vanity has to come out sometimes though - I can see myself screaming "That's the Vanity I was looking for" every time she did anything mildly freaky in the bedroom.

An honest talk about race, amongst friends(The Ebony and Ivory edition)

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HumanityCritic sweating the small stuff again: "My Front Yard"

(La casa de la HumanityCritic)


For as long as I can remember, whenever I came to someone with what I thought was a legitimate concern of mine - more times than not they shooed me away like a pesky mosquito at a barbecue, claiming that I was simply overreacting to the entire situation. Granted, as a kid I was a chronic hypochondriac - possibly the only prepubescent person in the history of the world who would routinely check his nut-sack for testicular cancer, sometimes even showing my mother my bowel movements when the color of said fecal matter seemed a bit "off" to me. There have been overreactions having to do with some physical altercations that I've started as well - most notably one where I threatened to roll a handicapped man into traffic for touching my girlfriend's boob, thank god he explained to me that he was gayer than J. Edgar Hoover and was my lady's friend - he doesn't know how close he came to being roadkill, "Special Olympics" style. Or that one time when a girlfriend came back from a summer in France and I angrily accused her of fucking everybody in that country, only because her vagina felt more "roomy" than usual - OK, that wasn't exactly an overreaction because come to find out she was fucking everybody. As I remember it, sex with her felt like I was jogging inside of a wind tunnel.

But my next door neighbors keep cutting into my front yard and its irritating the hell out of me, like a suede condom or the mid-sex chatter of Fran Drescher - again, people think that I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion. When I say "cutting into my yard" I mean that when they mow their grass, they cut a couple of lines into what's clearly my property. I guess this is the part where you say, "Hey, look at it as they are cutting some of your grass for you!!" - well fuck that, because the mere assumption that those two lines is theirs is what really bothers. But two more things bother me about it: 1)Whenever I'm outside while they happen to cut their lawn, they moe in the designated area.(Signalling that they are aware that they are in the wrong) and 2) They completely disregard where their backyard fence is(the actual property line) Let me show you a picture of the egregious offense that I'm referring to.




My grass is the rather un-kept yard on the right hand side, I kept it that way to highlight my point - you see how they disregard their backyard fence and cut into my yard? Let me show you another picture from an opposite direction.




This is the shit I'm talking about, blatantly ignoring where their backyard fence is - and why, to claim that raggedy ass tree? Listen, I know this is some pretty petty shit - but when I'm not worrying about catching some weird ass disease from one of the strippers I let handle my penis, or monitoring what I eat so my gut doesn't completely eclipse my cock- this is the type of shit that I obsess over.


HumanityCritic Commentary:

I know what all of you are thinking, I'm supposed to be the guy that has fully embraced his inner asshole - going over there and reading them the riot act should be as comforting to me as a rubdown in a Shiatsu, right? Actually the problem is that I'm rather fond of the people next door, I can't tell you how many times I've gotten shit-faced drunk with them - besides, I don't mind people wanting me dead on the other side of town but not my neighbors, I don't want people plotting my untimely demise who live within walking distance. I don't know, maybe I'm just getting soft in my old age, but it's rather comforting knowing that my neighbors think I'm a pure and wholesome human being - not knowing the debauchery that happens behind closed doors, fucking chicks in vats of blood, shoving dildo's inside women that resemble Tutankhamen, shit like that. Also, the last 2 occupants of that house have pulled the exact same shit - its as if with the deed to the house and a handshake, the old owner leans over and tells the new owner "Be sure to cut two lines into that black bastards lawn!!" But I don't know how many times I can call the surveyor out to my house to put down land markers and spray paint lines in the grass - passive aggressively letting my neighbors know what the deal is. Any suggestions?

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: The D.O.C. - Mind Blowin'

The D.O.C. - Mind Blowin'

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I'm by no means trying to sign the man's death warrant, I'm fully aware of his legendary ghostwriting credits and the albums that he put out after his accident - but I just feel that after his vocal chords were severed in that car accident that it prematurely ended what would have been a legendary rapping career. Maybe this is hyperbole on my part, especially since one man is deceased and the other is still alive and kicking - but "No One Can Do it better" is such a classic album, the sky was the limit with that guy - unfulfilled potential that's clearly on some Len Bias shit. "Mind Blowin'" is my favorite song from the Texas-bred MC, even though his first album is littered with classic material.

Common feat. Dwele: "The People"

A Few reasons I want to date a spoken word poet

For as long as I can remember, I guess it was as soon as Nucleus' "Jam On It" massaged my eardrum if my recollection serves me correctly - I made a solemn oath(with one hand in the air and the other on an Africa Bambaataa poster) that I would proudly live the remainder of my existence as an MC. Before I knew it my nonsensical paragraphs merged into a solid 16 lines, rhymes that once made my friends cringe with embarrassment all of a sudden made them listen with a new found curiosity - similes soon became my imaginary friend, telling kids that I battled during recess period that they would "face defeat like a foot fetish" and "meat their demise like Hypertension". Throughout Junior High and High School, I intensely studied MC'ing between track practices and my penchant for sporadically penetrating some poor bastard's daughter - I honed my skill set the same way a Ninja hones his, religiously practicing my craft as if doing so would one day give me that piss yellow glow around my body like Taimak's from "The Last Dragon" and shit.

Even though I eventually gave up the pipe dream of professionally slaying any verbal wordsmith that crossed my path, I never gave up rhyming all together - akin to a one time college prospect who never quite made the NBA, exercising his demons by mercilessly dunking on old men and any other garden variety motherfucker that gets between him and the basket at his local YMCA. But in 1997, with my rapping career a distant blur in my rear view mirror, something happened that re-ignited my love for words and performing in front of people - to simply put it, I saw "Love Jones". Even though I currently see that flick as being as detrimental to black folks as Ronald Reagan(more on that later), at the time it was the first black movie I had seen in a while that treated its audience like adults - giving us characters we could relate to who weren't packing automatic weapons or preaching to us like a bunch of sinful congregation members. Besides, it made poetry sexy for the first time that I could remember - before that point whenever I thought about poetry, images of girls laughing in my face as I publicly expressed love for them in iambic pentameter flooded my subconscious like Vietnam flashbacks.

Yes, for a very fleeting moment I was a spoken word poet, primarily for the ass though - pandering to the sensibilities of all the juicy ass owners in attendance, during my poems I'd actually wonder which woman's sarong or head-wrap I'd ejaculate on that particular night. But as soon as I could experience the wealth of ass coming to yours truly from my witty wordplay and well placed metaphors, the market got flooded with male poets who had the same idea that I did. In no time flat everyone who grew dreadlocks and could recite "Love Jones" verbatim thought that they were world renown poets, better looking men with lesser writing skills than I stole all of my "ass opportunities" right from under me - a shallowness exhibited by my sisters that I've never forgotten by the way. I distinctly remember performing a poem that I poured my heart and soul into, receiving applause mind you, but getting nowhere near the love from the ladies that I should have - my poetry experience ended with me on my knees outside, in the pouring rain, looking up at the heavens while shaking my first screaming "GODDAMN YOU LOVE JONES!!!!!"

But despite my contempt for the movie "Love Jones" and all the posers in poets clothing that it spawned, I've always wanted to get with a spoken word artist - albeit briefly. I just think the process of courting her would be the stuff that documentaries are made for, let me explain.

Pick-up lines: Not for nothing, but I think the process of trying to coax her into my bed would be as enjoyable as actually having sex with her as I stare at a statue of Buddha in the background. Maybe my sense of humor would win her over in the end, she might possibly attempt to choke me the fuck out with her head-wrap - but at least I would find saying the following pick-up lines funny: "Baby, I want to mercilessly fuck you on a bed full of Patchouli.!" or "Come on Phenomenal woman, strip for me while I recite "Still I Rise" - at least I wouldn't be lying!!"


I'd call out her poetry sistren: There is a specific period in a relationship that I cherish, a point when the relationship stops being in jeopardy if you voice an unpopular opinion - this is when I'm at my most comfortable, aggressively addressing my girlfriend's mother's crack problem or how her best friend has had so many children that her vagina could double as a clown-car. I'm sure I'd ask her friend who just waxed poetic about "Respecting herself" on stage about the time she went down on a 65 year old man for studio time, I'd openly wonder how her college room-mate could recite a poem about the "Hoochies in Music videos" when she's fucked every member of the house band on some truly "Fleetwood Mac" shit. I know that there are sisters out there with positive poems who walk the walk in real life, no doubt, I just think that I was put on this beautiful earth of ours to call the others out.



She'd reference me in her work: If I ever dated a coffee-shop chick, I'm certain that she would use me as a point of reference in her poems - but they would be of such a negative nature, that all her friends would assume that she was talking about a past lover. I mean, she wouldn't recite poems with titles like "I hate you!", "You weren't lying about the Pre-ejaculation", and "Die Black Bastard Die!" about me while I was in attendance - her friends hearing my lady pour her little heart about what they think are horrible ex-boyfriends, them then momentarily looking at me with very sweet "I'm glad she's with you now" looks on their faces. But little do they know that all those poems were indeed about me, I did make her dress up like a catholic school girl while screaming "Here comes communion!!" preceding me receiving oral sex - and that part about us having rough sex to "The Muppets Movie" Soundtrack, thats me as well. Now, when she gave her own very teary eyed rendition of a Jill Scott song entitled "This is the way he Shoves me!!", that's not about me.

Isaiah Washington Taught Me if You Say Something Fucked up, Just Own It.

Don't let the title of this post throw you. I'm in no way condoning Mr.Washington's use of a homophobic slur - I know how hurtful being on the business end of said slur can be, based on me having a picture of the doctor who gave me a prostate exam in my wallet and my affection for those Ethan Hawke "Before Sunset"-dialogue driven movies that make an asshole like me believe in love again. It's just that I believe if you say something utterly regrettable then simply go and apologize to the offended party, possibly make a solitary statement to the press for public relations purposes - but that's it, if people want any more apologies out of you just inform them that they are shit out of luck like constipated degenerate gamblers. Unfortunately that's not the approach that Mr. Washington took, after embarrassingly denying that he had even used the slur at the Golden Globes he proceeded to so a stint in rehab like all embattled stars do - not to mention working with the Gay and Lesbian community in an add that I felt seemed heartfelt, concerning the circumstances. That being said, after jumping through more hoops than a trained circus seal, his contract wasn't renewed - read any article on the situation and you'll read where ABC studios claimed it was done "quick and neat," even though I think stringing a guy along for the better part of 8 fucking months is neither "quick" or "neat."(Read more here)

Amy Winehouse feat Mos Def - "Love Is A Losing Game"

Amy & Most Def - Love Is A Losing Game
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It seems that every alcoholic has that "moment of clarity" epiphany, grown men dedicating themselves to a life of sobriety when their wife threatens to break north with the kids, some people's health issues scare them straight - I can't tell you how many friends I've introduced to a healthier lifestyle by pouring fake blood all over their car after they were binge drinking the night before, proceeding to drive themselves home. Even though I still imbibe in alcohol from time to time, what did it for me was when a career alcoholic with jaundiced eyes and a penchant for shaking when he went without booze for too long - actually put his arm around me a few years back and suggested that I cut back on my alcohol consumption. I get the same sort of feeling watching every Amy Winehouse performance, even though I'm the last person in the world suggesting sobriety - if I knew her personally I'd shake the shit out of her, tell her to stop drinking, and suggest that she possibly scrape the ship barnacle from her crotch.

That being said, why do her performances always seem as spirited as a hungover Mic Check?

Songs that make people think I'm certifiable.

For those who have read this blog, or my Vibe blog, most of you are already well versed on my particularly fragile mental state. Don't worry, I'm not the type of "crazy" that predisposes me to torture puppies and smear my own fecal matter on my bedroom walls in my spare time - lord knows its hard enough getting a chick to enter my "stabbin' cabin" as it is. But I'm in therapy though, pouring my heart out to a mental health professional as they give me their best poker-face - watching them fight back grimaces and looks of utter disgust as I recall lovely childhood memories of me bashing in a bullies' knees with a hammer or the time I dealt with a dude who sexually assaulted a longtime friend of mine by pouring gasoline on him as I chased him around with a lit lighter. We won't even go into my current psychological issues, the way in which I require each of my lovers to wear bifocals to bed so I don't feel sexually inadequate - not to mention how she has to let me call her "Vanity" during sex while she screams "You ARE the Last Dragon, Bruce Leroy!" in order for me to achieve climax. I'm trying to deal with my verbal turrets as well, this is what concerns me the most because shouting shit in public is what makes people think that I'm crazier than cat-shit. Everything from telling everyone who would listen that a Pat Robertson minion who was handing out pamphlets at my local grocery store happened to also star in bestiality videos, telling women on first dates "lets skip the whole 'courting' thing and go straight to you saying "that's it?", and a little habit of mine that I have of threatening the lives of DJ's who happen to play one too many Dipset songs. But through therapy, my shrink looking less like Dr. Melfi and more like Martina Navratilova -I've learned to control my sudden outbursts. Even though I wanted to make a guys nose bone stab his brain when he told me that Lil Wayne was one of the best rappers of all time, I controlled my anger, simply walking away mumbling to myself as if I was a dreadlocked version of "Yosemite Sam". The other day when a bum put his arm around me as I entered a 7-11 asking for change, sure my first reaction was to hit him with a 10 punch combination before asking him to get his hands off of me - but cooler heads prevailed and I just told the homeless gentleman that I'd burn down his cardboard fortress if he ever touched me again. That's what I call progress ladies and gentlemen, resisting the urge to spontaneous go ballistic at the drop of a hat - except when I hear these following songs that is.




Redman: "Tonight's da Night"(Remix): If I ever happen to be the plaintiff in some sort of heinous crime in the future, hopefully my defense team will be smart enough to point to this song as the source of my insanity. Every time I hear this song I can't seem to control myself, I usually end up wildly nodding my head as if was having an epileptic seizure to a beat - violently palming peoples faces and mushing them with the most reckless of abandon.





Otis Redding: "Try a Little Tenderness": Because of how popular this song is, I've been known to react to it in the most public of places - banks, supermarkets, you name it and chances are people witnessed me acting a complete fool to this song and possibly feared for their lives. I'm pretty subdued during most of the song, promising myself that I won't make a complete ass of myself this time. But towards the end when brother Otis starts feeling it, riffing if you will - some strange force makes me stomp my feet and raise my hand to the sky as if the holy ghost infiltrated my heathen body as I loudly scream "Got-ta-ta- Na-na-na -Tr-Try a little tenderness!!"





Prince: "Darling Nikki": I'm aware that saying "Darling Nikki" is your favorite Prince song is as lame and predictable as saying that the Bible is your favorite book - but based on it being the absolute truth, I don't mind being cliche on this blog. Based on how many women became intimately acquainted with my body to this song, whenever it comes on I get these flashbacks akin to the kind war veterans must have - the big difference is that their recollections are of the Vietcong and firefights, mine are of pre-ejaculation and eye-rolls - but I digress. Nevertheless, I was at a gathering recently and found myself jumping around like a lunatic when this song came on - Screaming "Come back Nikki, Come back!!" while clumsily thrusting my hips while flickering my tongue for some reason.






Rage Against the Machine: "Bulls on Parade": In this current political climate where our president is trying to do away with Habeas Corpus and the Democratic party are a bunch of pussies, we need some Rage Against the Machine in our lives right about now. I realized this the other day as I sat in rush hour traffic, me damn near banging my head against my steering wheel to this song - so much in fact that an elderly black women felt compelled to get out her car to knock on my window and ask "Is everything alright baby?"





Kool G Rap: "Ill Street Blues": I'd never admit this if I ever happened to be on a panel that addressed Hip Hop lyrics - but since we are all family here I'll admit this to you and you only, "Ill Street Blues" makes me want to do very bad things. Ever since this song came out, you don't know how bad I wanted to throw some asshole out of a window while putting a healthy amount of lead in their diet - only to say, "Up, Up, Up, and away clown. Buck, Buck, Buck, take that with you on the way down!!!" But since I love my freedom and enjoy not having my prostate treated like a pinata, I keep my lunacy to nodding my head and exhibiting the meanest Ice-grill whenever this song comes on.

A Positive aspect of modern day Hip Hop: No more "Just add water" rappers!

I can't front, I'm a music snob - an insufferable prick of a person who completely judges someones pitiful existence on this round earth of ours based on what precisely they happen to blast in their respective automobiles. The chance of a chick taking a peek at my cock nowadays happens as frequently as people being struck by lightening or Mary J Blige not bumming you the fuck out by her perpetual sadness - but I can't tell you how many opportunities for premarital sex I've walked away from just because a woman casually mentioned that she was a Lil Wayne fan, or that she enjoyed the musical stylings of MIMS. My snobbery has even severely affected my daily ritual of perusing local myspace ass that I hope to possible ejaculate on in the future, no matter how voluptuously slutty the woman's pictures are I usually find myself vacating the page immediately - usually having to do with a 30-something year old woman having Omarion as her fucking profile music, or the likes of Young Jeezy or some other proverbial shit-stain of the culture that when asked to recite "Paid in Full" look as if you just asked them to perform an emergency tracheotomy. I'm also known for dissing the fuck out of artists that I don't respect in their faces and daring them to do something about it, the sheer horror on my friends' faces when some rapper extended his hand to me while I turned my back on them in protest is priceless - shaking my head slowly with folded arms in my best B-Boy stance that is. As you can tell I long for the days of Hip Hop past, if my violent vomiting whenever I turn on the radio wasn't already a dead giveaway.

But like the midget I once fucked who made my sub par penis feel like a bona fide baby's arm, or the hearing impaired lady that I made love to who didn't seem to mind my "Krush Groove" references during climax - I've learned to make the best out of any situation. That being said, I know that my attitude towards much of today's music makes me seem like a negro version of those old men in the balcony on "The Muppet Show" - but every so often I will try to find the good in a music that over the past few years has been rather blissful in dumbing itself down and taking an extremely healthy shit on its audience. That being said, I'll will occasionally point about something that I appreciate about modern day Hip Hop. This is the first installment.


There's no "Just add water" rappers: Sure, there are a plethora of "Just add water thugs" as far as the eye can see - gentleman who are lyrically preoccupied with glorifying violence and drug deals on ghetto street corners, only to mask the fact that they've never really been able to take a punch and secretly crave cock 23 hours out of every day. I'm not talking about them though, I'm talking about the journeymen wordsmiths that you never heard of during the 90's - strange faces to you and I who assumed the most meanial of MC duties on R&B records of that particular decade. I know that he was a member of the group and all, but the first person that comes to mind when I think of "Just Add Water" rappers is C&C Music Factory's own Freedom Williams. Man, every time I heard that man rhyme I immediately knew that I'd rather hear loved ones getting tortured. Hearing him rap on songs such as "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now) and "Things "That Make You Go Hmmmm...", it was clear that the only prerequisite a rapper needed to have for that group was a fucking pulse and a functioning voice box.

I know you all remember that Ving Rhames looking dude who went by the name of "Turbo B" - that human Proactiv commercial "before image" in the flesh - rapping that "I got the power" song in what looks to be inside a warehouse somewhere. Where in the fuck did he come from anyways? How about that rapper who lent his verbal stylings to Salt N Pepa's "Shoop"? Who was that motherfucker? 90's era R&B is littered with rappers you never heard before or since, getting a rather Warhol-esque 15 minutes of rapping fame. The one thing I respect about the game nowadays, as much as I may loathe the rappers that singers have on their respective songs - is that at least they get someone that I've at least heard before.


*Interesting Side note*: Did you know that Freedom Williams has a myspace page?(I shit you not) If that shit wasn't funny enough, it seemed that one of the founding members of C&C Music Factory(Robert Clivilles) didn't particularly appreciate that Mr. Williams claimed that he helped start said group on his page.(He went on to express his displeasure in message form, multiple times on his page that is) Fellas, Fellas, there's no need to fight! Arguing over who founded C&C Music factory is like arguing over who created the Edsel, or who wrote the first draft of "Soul Plane" - no one really gives a shit.

Silver Spoons Ricky Schroder and Alfonso Ribeiro Breakdance

I'd imagine it's been extremely hard over the years for Ricky Schroder to take any sort of moral high ground when it comes to his friends' behavior. I can only imagine how many times he wanted to berate one of his buddies for excessive drinking but couldn't, wanted to have a rather stern discussion with one of his boys about his penchant for fighting in night-clubs but held back from doing so - everyone has a guy in his crew that loves to penetrate barely legal ass or recreation-ally does a little bit too much nose candy, only I'm sure Rick felt limited in dealing with said friends. See, Rick has had to bite his tongue, not because he's a negligent friend mind you - but because he feared that his verbal display of "tough love" would be met with an utterly sarcastic: "Rick, I know you aren't trying to judge anyone? At least there aren't youtube videos out there of me rhythmically paying homage to a future pedophile, alongside Alphonso Ribeiro of all fucking people!!"

Believe it or not, Hillary Clinton and female MC's have a lot in common(vibe.com)

Looking back on it now its sort of silly, but back when I was in High School nothing put the fear of god in me more than becoming a teenage parent - a phobia that only surpasses my current fear of heights, clowns, or Tyler Perry sitcoms. Sure my parents added to said fear, my usually calm and collected mother made it seem like having a kid in High School was akin to a death sentence - and my old man wasn't any better, he had me thinking that I'd have to quit school and work in a God-damned coal-mine if I ever procreated around the same time that I received my drivers license. Not only that, but the exact same way an overweight woman might feel a little funny about receiving things like low fat milk-shakes and stair-masters as Christmas Gifts - getting a lifetime supply of condoms from your parents is all kinds of wrong man, especially when my mother would point to the box and say "See honey, it's ribbed for her pleasure, with a spermicidal tip no less!!" But the main reason that I didn't want to have a child while I simultaneously struggled with Trigonometry had to do with John Hughes.

Yes, "Sixteen Candles", "The Breakfast Club", "Weird Science", "Pretty in Pink", "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" - that John Hughes. See, before I became an adult and couldn't get through any of the aforementioned movies without screaming "Don't black people go to High School John!!" at my television screen, I worshiped these movies as if they were the holy fucking grail. I just knew that his flicks were the template of High School life to come, teenage angst, mischief, and bitter sweet moments where I know I'm falling in love when "The Thompson Twins" or Paul Young play in the background while I passionately kiss the "diamond in the ruff" band nerd. A bratty fucking crumb-snatcher wasn't going to jeopardize that, or me skipping a day of school that I'd remember for a lifetime, a life altering Saturday detention where I bond with 4 complete strangers - and I'd be damned if fatherhood would interfere with me making a woman out of magazine cut-outs and Lil Kim lyric sheets via my computer. A robotic sex slave of sorts, someone to give such ignorantly sloppy oral sex that with my eyes closed I'd be damned if I didn't accidentally clone Fantasia.(Read more here)

Coming to grips with my own mortality..

From 1973 through the year of 2001, I lived life as if there was an expiration date on my ass beside the tattoo that reads in calligraphy "Exit only". I come from a loving two parent home in the suburbs, grew up on a healthy diet of everything from Run D.M.C to John Cougar Mellencamp, I even rode a skateboard for Christs sake! - but some of my violent tendencies have mistakenly led people to believe that my childhood residence happened to be "666 Hardship Boulevard" with no male figure in my life, where I spent my spare time getting beaten with tire iron's from my mother's alcoholic boyfriends. My sister sometimes jokes around with my mother and claims that I'm crazier than cat-shit because of her drinking too much wine while she was pregnant with me, or my behavior is a result of a very scary tumble that I took down a flight of cement stairs when I was a small child - but quiet as kept, I think there is some truth beneath her playful jabs at her baby brother. I mean, I come from a city that makes your average ghetto seem like Beirut - how do you explain me attempting to fight a man that I knew before-hand had a gun on his person, back-handing him into oblivion while saying "Pull out your gun you Charles Bronson, come on!!!" As far as I know my family doesn't have a history of mental illness, I'm not counting that one time that my old man requested that I buy him that fucking "Who let the dogs loose?" record either - but to this day I couldn't tell you what compelled me to drive one of my friend's old cars into the lake to see whether I could escape a submerged car or not. From fighting three bikers at a bar as if they were the ones who were over-matched, beating this asshole named A.J senseless in his own residence for disrespecting my girl in front of a few of his roommates.. My life is littered with tales of retarded machismo like that, episodes that should have prompted my mother to wear her best black dress as some Jesus pimp that never fucking met me hurls complimentary sentiments towards my corpse.

Around 2000 I was beginning to think that I was indeed nuttier than squirrel turds, even I knew that continuously risking my life unnecessarily wasn't in the least bit normal - besides, outside of Mike Tyson, who else walks around thinking that they can whup everybody? But there were a couple of incidents, starting in 2001 with the death of my father, that made me face my own mortality and stop taking life for granted.

The Death of My Father: It was January of 2001 and I found myself in my father's hospital room, looking at what seemed as only a skeletal resemblance of my old man - the cancer ravaging his body to the point that I could lift him over my if I wanted to, I couldn't say the same thing three years prior when he was somewhere north of 270 pounds. Even though our relationship was horrible, I feel comfortable saying that 75% of the words exchanged between us were argumentative in nature - there I was clutching my father's trembling hand, smiling to comfort the old man on what I thought might have been his final moments on this earth. I'm ashamed to admit this but even at that very moment I found the irony of him acting as if I was the prodigal son finally returning home, despite how often he told me that I'd never be shit - a thought that made me feel shame and immediately attempt to think of something else. What made me become aware of my own mortality had nothing to do with a man I thought could catch bullets when I was a kid rapidly wither away, it wasn't even the instance that I realized that he had submitted to cancer when he chuckled and said "I won't be here that long!" after I talked to him about an upcoming Super-Bowl - it had everything to do with those God-Damned prayer cards.

See, the one thing that my father and I shared was a healthy disdain for religion - we believed in god so to speak, but anything church-related we were vocally skeptical about the same way you might be about a local magician or some shit. I'll tell you, when he knew that the Grim Reaper was knocking with all his might, and he had me reading those fucking prayer card to him as if doing so would guarantee his jhoureny to th great beyond - that absolutely broke my heart man, and it abruptly put my own mortality into perspective.

The Passing of Buddy: My best friend Buddy was gunned down in a nightclub 3 years ago and I've been conflicted about his passing ever since - see, I was supposed to be there with him, so a part of me thinks that I could have stopped it and then there's the reality of me being there and being snatched out of my mortal coil right alongside Buddy. I don't have many friends, truthfully I'm not particularly a big fan of people - but Buddy was not only a guy who consistently had my back regardless of the situation, but I could talk to him about some girl breaking my heart and not feeling the need to embarrassingly preface it with "I know this is going to sound gay, but.." Besides Buddy was a lot crazier than I am, throwing make-shift Molotov cocktails inside of a drug dealers house once, dragging motherfuckers out of their houses as if it was an Olympic sport - I can't tell you how many times I had already resolved an argument at a club only for Buddy to come along and break a chair over the dude's head while quoting Ice Cube: "Some people are heaven-sent, but 'Self-Destruction' don't pay the fucking rent!!"

I miss that dude, and now I find most of the good times that we had together edged out by the memory of his funeral - me trying to indiscreetly scratch my crotch in a monkey suit, his inconsolable parents, pews amongst pews of black folks reciting bible verses that I didn't know and was too distraught to utter anyways. But the one thing that hit me most of all was the closed casket via the execution style murder that he was in the business end of - I knew that I had enough enemies for me to go out the exactly same way.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince: "Brand New Funk"(Live)