Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole Moments"

As I've stated before, my unwavering support for Barack Obama has forced me to reacquaint myself with a dark side of my personality that I've eagerly tried to suppress for the past 6 months - with the help of Tai Chi, breathing exercises, prescription medication, and triple penetration pornography. (Holding a lit candle) Hello, I'm HumanityCritic, and I'm a insufferable prick.(again) I was doing so well too, letting people cut in front of me during mid-day traffic, laughing off the occasional "Ice grill" from your garden variety wanna-be tough guy. I even resisted the urge to publicly cite the bitter irony of my neighbor, who has eight children mind you, waxing poetic about America's need to "responsibly pull out" of Iraq. But nothing makes a person who sincerely attempted to embrace gentlemanly etiquette regress more than reprehensible assassination fantasies and xenaphobia targeted at your candidate of choice. Because of that, I find myself back where I started - insulting strangers, threatening to assault the handicapped, telling clergy molestation jokes to men of the cloth. My girlfriend, who has led the efforts in rehabilitating me, sees absolutely nothing wrong in my recent backsliding. She actually has come to the conclusion that sudden relapse is cathartic for me, feeling that this too shall pass. My mother on the other hand sincerely feels that this is who I truly am, my life not being complete unless I'm severely pissing people off. Moms could be on to something.

Soundtrack to a Beatdown: My friends have a chalkboard filled with the likeliest scenarios in which they feel that I'll meet my untimely demise, equipped with odds and everything. Nothing tells you that you have anger management issues like your dearest friends wagering on how you'll spend your final moments. Some bet that I'll meet my maker talking shit to the wrong drunk person at some miscellaneous bar. Others feel that I'll be cancelled out in a hail of gunfire, probably by the weed carrier of an artist who I suggested go back to distributing street pharmaceuticals. But on the very top of that list, what many feel is the safest bet, is the belief that the grim reaper will pay me a visit after I once again involve myself in a truly avoidable traffic altercation. This sounds about right, quickly my mind flashes back to the time I pulled an elderly man out of his car for giving me the finger, or when I followed an inept driver 10 miles just so I could pull beside him and ask "What are you fucking retarded?" I am the human embodiment of road rage. That being said, I almost put money in a lot of peoples pockets last week when I found myself on the wrong side of a traffic altercation - I was outnumbered, the situation had loss written all over it. See, some asshole in a hummer almost hit my car, I really didn't say anything to the driver directly but the way in which I yelled the lords name in vain probably sounded threatening to all couldn't clearly make out what I was saying. So the man hopped out of his car. Always prepared to clothesline strangers, I got out of my car. Then three of his boys proceed to get out of his car. Shit. After the driver and I exchange some rather harsh words, the reality set in that I was about to get my ass kicked "something proper-like"(to quote my West Coast brethren), but I suddenly felt compelled to do something totally random. After I heard what was playing on the radio of the man about to have one of five sneaker prints on the side of my ass, I very politely excused myself, and proceeded to reach into the vehicle and turn off the radio. The driver, shocked, asked "What in the fuck do you think you're doing homeboy?" - in which I responded, "If I'm going to get my ass kicked, it's definitely not going to be to Lil Wayne! Fuck that!" Turns out those guys didn't want to fight, and I left a potentially hairy situation unscathed. Who knew being such an asshole can get you out of fights?

Dinner with Mom: When I was younger and would say something absolutely outlandish in the most public of places, my mother would give me one of those "will you shut the fuck up and stop embarrassing me" looks, hoping that I would keep my pubescent pie hole shut. More times than not I'd respond with the utterly regrettable "Why do you care what there white folks think anyways??!!", being that I was a faux revolutionary and all. Even though my mother is the recipient of ever kind bone in my body, I still find myself apologizing to her for all the stupid shit I've said over the years. Now that I'm older I fully understand where she was coming from, I feel the exact same way every time local news programs decides to pick the most ignorant person in the history of man to interview at a crime scene. I felt like crawling into a hole after seeing a young sister literally wear a pair of panties in the supermarket, or whenever I'm in the same vicinity as a brother whose colloquialisms were born out of a failed school system - making you want to channel your entrepreneurial spirit and invent a "Dipshit to English Dictionary". It isn't about white people, its about wanting your own people to do better that's all.

That being said, when I took my mother out to dinner at a local eatery, our peaceful meal was abruptly interrupted by a nasty lover's quarrel that broke out a few tables down. A young woman had walked into the establishment while her boyfriend was treating a woman to what I believe to be a pre-coital meal. They were extremely loud, the scorned lover smacking both the boyfriend and his side chick, food flying - and by the looks of the manager who had to be all of 20, with Kool-Aid pumping through his veins, this particular fracas looked like it had staying power. My mother, who would probably tell me "You should have kept your ass at home!" even if I happened to get struck with a stray bullet during Sunday service mind you, looked at me and uncharacteristically asked "Will you please do something??!!" On cue I got up, walked right in the middle of the melee and told all the parties involved, "Y'all have to go outside with this bullshit!". The dude was pretty respectful, but the ladies were having none of it, only momentarily listening to me to restart their battle royale equipped with sloppily thrown punches and random weave pulling. So right then and there I decided to pick up one of the ladies and physically transport her outside, the boyfriend picked the other one up and followed my lead. Back inside, as the young man went to pay his bill and I went to rejoin my mother, I guess he felt that we had just shared a special moment amongst strangers. He laughed and said, "You look like a pimp, you know how it is dog?", in which I immediately replied, "Actually I don't, I've never had two butt ugly girls fight over me!" See, that was just uncalled for.

Hey Barack, give McCain's "Townhall" idea the Gasface!(Vibe.com)

One of the more undesirable traits about me that truly irritates people, outside of my penchant for throwing people's CD's out of my car as soon as it reveals itself to be utterly sub-par, the habit I have of putting on Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome" right before I make sweet love to my understanding girlfriend, or the way I constantly entertain myself by putting some sort of food product at the feet of some malnourished stripper instead of the customary tip - is my habit of obsessing over members of musical groups who don't particularly pull their weight. I swear, I'm still unable to sit through an entire Lost Boyz video without openly asking, "Okay, (pointing) What do YOU, do? What do YOU do? ..and, what in the fuck do YOU do?" No one rejoiced more than me when the group "Floetry" disbanded, it wasn't that I found anything particularly wrong with their music mind you - but besides the occasionally "fast-forwardable" verse here and there, what in the world was Natalie Stewart's purpose? Whenever I would see one of their performances on television, "The Floacist" simply speaking the exact same words that Marsha Ambrosius was singing, more times than not I would get out of my chair and scream "A monkey could do your fucking job!" But as I was going through some old pictures last night it occurred to me what kind of hypocritical idiot I was being, completely forgetting about the summer of 94' when I briefly toured with my friend's Reggae band. No, I didn't play an instrument or contribute in any way, I was just a shameless "hanger-on" with no agenda other than receiving residual booty.

Let me tell you, when it comes to being an asshole, I have undeniable street cred. If I wasn't smoking up all of the group's marijuana, going through their limited food supply, or refusing to help them set up their musical equipment before shows, more times than not I was sexually underachieving on top of the same girls that they specifically had their eyes on.(Looking back, I'm still amazed that I never found myself on the business end of a well choreographed ass beating). But the one thing that sticks out about that summer is how their untimely demise was a result of them foolishly ignoring my advice that would prove to be prophetic.(But then again, when I think about how badly I was behaving, I wouldn't have listened to my advice either.) Let me give you some background.

Locally, the group was wildly popular, they played every one of their shows to an extremely packed house. Even though they were virtual unknowns outside of the 757 area-code, extremely passionate women would stay after the shows to proposition, or at least have their picture taken with the likes of the fucking Tambourine player. I'm serious. My ignored advice came into the picture when a rival band suggested that they perform some shows together in a sign of unity throughout the musical community, a move that I was strongly opposed to. I mean, they were an average sounding band who only played to very sparse crowds, so I sincerely felt that putting them on the bill would only raise their profile to undeserved levels. Lo and Behold, the selfish "hanger-on" who randomly penetrated one of their dearest fans by telling the misguided young lady that I ghost-wrote all of their material, turned out to be right. The band's allure wore off, the crowds shrunk, and the only ladies who stayed around after shows were just drunk chicks who were trying to find their ride home.

I'm reminded of that story every time I hear John McCain challenging Barack Obama to 10 unmoderated Townhall events, something that Obama seems to be correctly finessing his way out of. Conventional wisdom says that the joint Townhall's would be an absolute winner for Obama, the sheer contrast of the two men standing side by side would be so stunning that Obama's path to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue would be that much smoother. Then when you consider that most of McCain's biggest gaffes, "Bomb-Bomb-Bomb-Iran" and his "100 Years" statement were both in Townhall settings, some would think that participating in these events would be a no-brainer for Barack..

But the fact that these Townhall's are supposed to be unmoderated affairs bothers me, not because I'm unsure of Obama's ability to handle himself in such environments. To the contrary. Listen, the debate moderators are usually the ones who very casually bring up some of the most unfortunate details(real or imagined) about a candidate's past. Tim Russert asking Obama about Farrakhan and George Stephanopoulos bringing up William Ayers is more memorable to me than any answer that Obama gave. Without moderators, the American people will never get to know some of the things about Sen McCain that don't exactly fit into his war hero and "Maverick" narrative - because we know that Obama won't bring that stuff up. Its rather unseemly, but how else will people find out about John McCain leaving his crippled wife for a new and improved version, his penchant for calling his wife the "C-Word", Cindy McCain's stealing drugs from her own charity..

Also, we've seen what kind of fundraising juggernaut Obama has been thus far, most people assume that he will out-raise John McCain by leaps and bounds in the general election - so there seems to be something inherently wrong about giving your cash-strapped opponent free air time.

Lastly, after witnessing the sleep inducing speech John McCain gave in front of that booger green backdrop a few weeks back, the actual substance of the prepared text being lost on everyone due to McCain's creepy delivery and sporadic laughter that made you think of that "Tales of the Crypt" character - I feel there is no way in hell Obama should rescue McCain from the "bad campaign event purgatory" he currently finds himself in by participating in the joint Townhall proposal. Keeping the narrative out there that John McCain's oratory depresses motivational speakers is a clear winner in my eyes, putting McCain on the same bill would not only raise his profile to undeserved levels, but politically it might possibly take some of the electricity out of future Obama events. Senator Obama would still pull in massive crowds, I'm just afraid that after a while we'll start seeing that same drunk chick trying to find her ride home. So to speak.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: MC Lyte - Lyte As A Rock

I always loved this video, and I still find it interesting that towards the end of the clip MC Lyte is unable to rhyme and turn a key at the same time.

R.I.P George Carlin(1937-2008)

Supporting Obama has made me a bit, well, punchy..(Vibe.com)

Until recently, the one thing that became abundantly clear to anyone who read my blog for no more than a few moments, was that I was both an insufferable prick and a person who had fits of rage that rivaled most PCP users with pre-existing anger management issues. Traits that normal people found despicable I wore like a badge of honor, not only did saying unforgivable things to complete strangers and mercilessly throat-chopping drunk assholes serve as inspirational gold journalistically - but it also started to become as cathartic as my writing had previously been. Some people meditate, I used to very cavalierly decline propositions from local prostitutes by saying something utterly regrettable like "Isn't the point of paying for sex so you could be with women otherwise above your respective pay-grade? Its almost like trading in your car for an older model - get the fuck outta my face!!" Yes, I'm an asshole, and I knew better than anybody that maintaining such a tactless existence would most definitely lead to an extremely lonely one. That's when it became clear to me that changing my behavior was a necessity, especially if I was ever going to trick some poor misguided soul into accepting my demon-seed for procreation purposes. So I went out and found myself a shrink, which was great for a while, the experience made me a more compassionate person and it was also solving my anger issues. That was until I threatened to beat my mental health specialist to death with his own Georgetown degree for telling me that I was a sexaholic with father issues, paying some asshole three thousand dollars for information that I was already privy to was rather frustrating to say the least. So I just gave up, getting used to the fact that on any given night I could lay my head on the pillow and reflect on everything from providing an unwarranted compliment to a nun on the splendid curvature of her ass, to me physically accosting a man wearing a red nose and an orange Afro simply because I still happen to have a deep seeded fears of clowns. So, you can just imagine how surprised I was to learn that the one thing that cures verbal hiccups and violent outbursts was simply having a girlfriend - I shit you not.

Let me tell you, nothing makes you want to suddenly embrace the teachings of Gandhi more than the prospect of your daily booty privileges being taken away from you - metaphorically, my girlfriend was the career convict doing consecutive life sentences while screaming cautionary tales and I was the juvenile delinquent, the steady stream of urine running down my left leg signifying that I was indeed being "Scared Straight". She had me respecting people's opinions, when one of her friends expressed an unfortunate fondness for Lil Wayne, I resisted the urge to mock slit my wrists and bleed out all over the table that we were all dining at. When an old man took it upon himself to angrily critique my driving skills at a traffic light, letting out a profanity laced screed usually reserved for intoxicated longshoremen - all my girlfriend had to do was shoot me a stern look, and right then and there I decided against dragging that Baby Boomer out of his car and jacking him for his Social Security dough. When I was getting drinks for the both of us at a local club, some extremely drunk man sitting at the bar thought I was somebody else and threatened to beat my ass - so after I smiled and told the man to have a great night, my girlfriend ran up and gave me the same sort of prideful hug moms give you after a home run in little league. As I stood in the middle of a packed club, the two drinks in my hands damn near empty because of the open field "Michael Singletary"-esque tackle my girlfriend just put on me - I suddenly felt as if I was becoming a changed man at last. That was until Barack Obama became the democratic nominee for president.

Dave Chappelle uttered what I feel is the quote of the decade when he posed the rhetorical question "What is a black man without his paranoia?" - words that ran through my mind every time I saw Barack Obama greeting people in a massive crowd after giving one of his speeches, I found myself telling the secret service "Get him the fuck out of there already!!" as if they could actually hear me. You don't have to be a history professor to be well versed in this country's utterly shameful past, I'm ashamed to admit this but sometimes I switch on the news for the sole purpose of seeking reassurance on Obama's well being. My heartbeat quickens every time any sort of "Breaking News" banner flashes across my television screen, only to breath a gigantic sigh of relief when it turned out to be a town destroying tornado or some deranged psychopath going on a stabbing spree. So when you factor in my daily fears for Obama, and the fact that I live in a socially regressive town full of inbreds so unable to deal with the prospect of having a black president that they subscribe to assassination humor - you can only imagine how edgy I've become as of late. So, how does a newly reformed, overreacting pugilist deal with people who collectively go out of their way to act insensitively towards my paranoia brought on by supporting Obama? By punching them in the motherfucking face.

My girlfriend is obviously frustrated, watching her tireless efforts to civilize me unceremoniously flushed down the toilet, with me hoping that she'll stay with me after I explained to her in exhaustive fashion that I'm using my powers for good this time. Like the gentleman at my neighborhood bar, after hearing my friend and I discuss Obama and his chances come November, he said "That's if he gets that far!!" with a devilish chuckle that absolutely made my skin crawl. The old lady is none too pleased that I decided to reciprocate his sentiments by landing two well placed punches to the man's face, causing his chair to collide with the others at the bar, creating a domino affect of sorts.(Yes, I screamed "Riverside Motherfucker" as he lay on the ground writhing in pain. There's always room for Jell-O and post violence, Hood movie references) Then there was the man who saw the Obama sticker on my bumper and decided to say "So you are supporting Obama, huh?" right before making distinct shotgun sounds with his mouth from the safe confines of his truck - which in turn prompted me to drag his toothless ass out his vehicle and proceed to ram his head into said truck as if I was a wrestler and the man's car hood was a fucking turnbuckle. Usually this would be the part where I admit to being too old for administering chin-checks, expressing regret for my brand of methodology when engaging in a substantive debate was a better course of action - not a chance, especially since I don't consider what I'm doing to be violence, its more of an aggressive reeducation that will continue until election time. I really thought that it was ruin my relationship, but as I skimmed her calender and saw that she had November 4th circled, I knew that I had one hell of a understanding girlfriend.

My thoughts on Hillary Clinton's Concession speech and party unity..(Vibe.com)

Laying on my couch, anxiously awaiting Hillary Clinton's well publicized "Concession Speech", there were two pieces of bitter Irony that I found myself wrestling with early that afternoon. Sure, I've spent the better part of a year criticizing both Hillary Clinton and her campaign, some of the tactics that the former first lady resorted to often made a career deviant like myself want to take a scolding hot shower. The mere fact that I anticipated anything she had to say outside of a campaign ending gaffe automatically made me feel as if I was in some sort of alternate universe. The other irony, that I was resting on a couch that I've had many a pre-ejaculating sexual experience on top of, a black light over one solitary cushion would make the most seasoned forensic expert literally dry heave for days - the funny thing is that I'm a huge germaphobe, go figure. That being said, as I patiently waited for Senator Clinton to address the packed house at the National Building Museum while listening to nonsensical punditry of the "I wonder what she'll say" variety, I had to laugh - because anything short of a full throated endorsement of Barack Obama would have been political suicide for her, period. But then again, if she refused to endorse Obama it wouldn't be the first time that Hillary Clinton shocked me during this extremely long primary season - I suddenly had the jaw dropping vision in my head of her reaching the podium, telling her supporters that she had no plans of dropping out of the race, and very defiantly raising one fist in the air while uttering two words that would be on millions of T-shirts and bumper stickers for the next two months: "Denver Bitches!!"

But as I watched the speech, my fears of Democratic implosion were dashed as Mrs. Clinton proceeded to give Barack Obama that aforementioned full throated endorsement, along with a message of female empowerment and calls for party unity that eventually beat back the boos heard whenever she mentioned the name of the Junior Senator from Illinois. To me, simply the words "Supreme Court" being uttered in her speech was a way of telling her angry female supporters to resist the urge to cut off their collective noses to spite the face of the democratic party. Depending on how hard she campaigns for Obama in the next five months will signal whether her speech was sincere or not, but she took the first baby-step in trying to get all of her extremely pissed off supporters inside her political U-Haul truck en route to camp Obama.

That said, with all the constant cable news jabbering about Obama's need to woo working class white women, and all the painstaking work ahead of him in terms of convincing bitter Hillary supporters that he is the right man for the job - I pose the following question, has anyone ever asked Obama supporters how we feel about this politically expedient arranged marriage? Do we need a large percentage of the people who voted for her in the primaries to beat the epitome of George Bush's third term that is John McCain? You bet your sweet ass. But there's something downright unseemly about welcoming a group of people with open arms who not only dismissively characterized our support for our candidate as "Jim Jones" cult-like, but it also leaves a bad taste in my mouth when I think about all those online Hillary supporters who tried to undermine Obama's candidacy by shamelessly participating in actions uncharacteristic to most sane Democrats. Everything from people gleefully linking to Republic Pollster Frank Luntz to prove their case against Obama, the constant quoting of Joe Scarborough, people clumsily linking to Sean Hannity episodes, waxing poetic about the "Lou Dobbs Show", the constant Keith Olbermann bashing, embracing the hateful words of Pat Buchanan for Christs sake, even the sheer audacity of pushing the Tony Rezko storyline despite some of Mrs. Clinton's own associations with shady characters. It makes me want find every one of these irate "Democratic" women who say that they will vote for McCain come November and scream "If anyone should be mad here, it should be me god dammit!" in their misguided direction.

For the sheer sake of Barack Obama residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I realize that I'm going to eventually have to let bygones be bygones and stand unified with the same extremely dizzy bunch who now claim that the nomination was somehow stolen from their respective candidate - I'm well aware that holding grudges will get John McCain elected come November. But for some reason, this whole episode seems strangely familiar to me. Not for nothing, but the extreme cautiousness I'm exhibiting while being forced to now embrace Hillary Clinton feels as if I'm taking back an ex-girlfriend who once ripped the beating heart out of my chest. The same way I took back every ex-girlfriend who broke my heart despite serious reservations, I find myself asking Hillary Clinton the exact same questions I asked the women who I decided to give a second chance to:

"Before I take you back, can you tell me what was up with you flirting with the dude across town who you know I have beef with?
Were you referencing my bedroom shortcomings when you were telling anyone who would listen that I was all talk? When that viscous rumor was going around about me, you could have strongly shut that shit down because you knew the truth - why didn't you? Did you really need to smear me by telling people that I was associated with known criminals? Come on, I barely fucking know homeboy. Not only that, what in the world was up with every single one of your friends talking shit about me? What in the world were you telling them anyways?

Wes Clark.. Hip Hop's choice for VP?

Now that Barack Obama is the Democratic Nominee for president, we are getting bombarded with nothing but inquiries on who his "# 2" might be - unfortunately, Clinton's name is the one uttered the most(not gonna happen), even though I have a soft spot in my heart for Jim Webb or possibly republican Chuck Hagel. But after watching this old campaign video of Wesley Clark, maybe Team Obama should give the man a serious look.