Referencing rap lines is my "no homo"..

Even though I've stopped blaming my father for his bad genes 15 years ago the moment I realized that my insignificant cock wasn't going to grow any more, there are a slew of adult idiosyncrasies that I have to let him off the hook for as well. My first instinct is to blame my disastrous relationship history on him, my parents made a rather dysfunctional relationship seem as if the Huxtables used their marital bliss as masturbatory material as soon as Rudy fell asleep - every time a chick leaves me and claims that I'm "emotionally unavailable" I usually look at the sky while giving a rather sarcastic wink while saying "Thanks a lot pop!!" But the truth of the matter is that I've been an insufferable prick since Biz Markie's solo debut album, sure I dream about being in love - but that won't happen as long as I keep hearing Charlie Brown's teacher's voice whenever a woman that I'm dating isn't talking about Hip Hop, Kevin Smith, or showing me her tits - and my penchant for ushering women to my front door the precisely the moment after I ejaculate isn't helping matters either. My father doesn't have anything to do with that. For every black republican I've ever throat-chopped and every bloody bar brawl I've found myself on the business end of, I tend to lay the blame at his grave site as well. I was never physically abused mind you, but the man could make you feel pretty worthless, maybe my violent outbursts are just an answer to the years of verbal abuse that I've suffered? No, that's bullshit too - I distinctly remember my first physical altercation having to do with me trying to smother another toddler to death with my nap blanket in kindergarten class - shit, I still get frustrated whenever someone tries to diss Fat Albert in my presence. Even though I'm letting my old man off the hook and taking responsibility for the current asshole state that I find myself in, he is guilty of one thing though - his attempt to instill a healthy fear of homosexuals that would even make Pat Robertson weepy eyed.

Everything from childhood tears to my particular throwing motion during one of my little league baseball games were met with a bewildered "What are you, some kind of fag?" - most children are scared of miscellaneous Boogie-Men under their beds and possibly beatings, I was scared of being a homosexual before I even knew what the word "sodomy" meant. That's why my first erections weren't awkward at all, as soon as I knew that the tent that I was pitching in my Osh-Kosh's were inspired by prepubescent breasts I openly cheered as if Maury had just told me that I wasn't the father while holding a manila envelope. Since that point any homophobia that ever existed in my rather portly frame started to vanish, not because I came to my senses and realized that any kind of hatred is flat out wrong - but because my penchant for drooling whenever I see a phat ass pass by and my habit of saying "Boobies" like a 5 year old whenever some dalliance takes her shirt off, I've become pretty secure in my own sexuality.

I guess that's why I never quite understood people's fascination with following statements that they possibly perceive to be homosexual in nature with the "no homo" moniker - maybe I'm alone here, but if you don't have a hidden desire to get penetrated in one of the most naughty of orifices, who gives a shit?. I'm so vehemently against using the "no homo" term that I'll purposely say the most sexually questionable things imaginable, just daring the person I'm speaking with ti say something - while standing in my best B-Boy stance that is. Things like: (referencing my plumber) "He came by, pulled out his instrument, and got as deep as you can go!" - (referencing the kid who was supposed to cut my grass) "I thought he was going to really handle my back yard, but he just blew me off instead." There's no need for me ever to use the term "No homo", that hearing impaired chick that I used to have sex with simply because she never bitched about me humming the "Smurfs" theme-song while I ejaculated - that should have tipped you off that I'm not a homosexual. Me being a Fantasia fan solely for the fact that it looks like she gives the sloppiest head this side of the equator, my affection for Asian midgets, the fact that I'll spend 300 dollars getting lap-dances that I know will never lead to intercourse - my strong stance about fake titties, and my feeling that as long as I can touch them and put a nipple in my mouth then they are indeed real. All signs that I'm not a homosexual, my "hetero street cred" is well documented - that's why I refuse to be like every other lemming out there and inject the tired "no homo" to my daily vernacular.

But I can't be too hard(say something!!) on all the "no homo" sayers out there, I have verbal idiosyncrasies much more irritating than that - I tend to answer people, during the most serious conversations, in classic rap lyrics.(while citing the author of said lyric immediately afterwards) Here are some examples..

A friend of mine was inquiring about a young lady who I spent some quality time with recently, and instead on saying that her oral technique came equipped with mass amounts of saliva - I simply said, "..she thought I was a donut, and tried to glaze me!!! Rakim."

Sometimes I combine lyrics, like that time an ex came crawling back after the dude she left me for gave her a nasty STD. Not only did I claim that one of her orifices was "looser than a crack-head's hair weave..Grand Puba", I found it rather fitting to finish off my diatribe with "You shoulda put a sock on the pickle
and your pussy wouldn't be blowin smoke signals..Ice Cube". Lets just say she wasn't a big fan of Ice Cube's "Death Certificate" album.

I went to a local rap show recently where some drunk asshole threw a bottle at one of the MC's performing, even though I saw the particular dude who threw it I remained quiet amidst the rapper's rampant request that the culprit be outed. An hour later, as I was sitting at the bar negotiating a lovely Latina's "back seat prices" - the MC had very nicely asked me if I saw who threw the bottle. At first I wasn't going to say anything, but as soon as the culprit walked up right beside us to order a drink I said the following: "Calling all cars, calling all cars...Be on the lookout for a tall light-skinned brother with dimples!!!..LL Cool J." Yes, a brawl ensued.

My mother can tell if I've gained a couple pounds or lost a few, and uncanny ability that would make her quite a bit of money amidst bearded ladies and children with lobster hands. Anyway, I went on a cruise with her and my brother last year - not the "3 day cruise, with shuffle board and gambling" variety - but the "3 hour, decent food, wack entertainment" variety. Anyway, as I was dancing with a couple of college aged girls when I decided to take my shirt off, whirl it over my head - as I prompted the two chicks who looked like they should be on "Girls Gone Wild" to rub my belly as if a very effeminate genie was going to pop out. When I got back to our table my mother said, "HumanityCritic, you're getting fat!", so I responded "Yeah, I know it looks pathetic Ali Shaheed Muhammad got me doing calisthenics!!..Phife" She shook her head, looked down, and mumbled something about missed abortion opportunities circa 1973.