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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a friendly game of Culture shock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roc Raida

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

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

Digging in the Crates with Premo

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

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

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

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Open Letter to Adrianne Curry

Dear Ms. Curry,

Full disclosure here: When a friend of mine mentioned your name last week I had no idea who you were, when she then tried to jog my memory by saying that you were the first winner of "America's Next Top Model" I blankly looked at her as if she had just recited a Dane Cook joke to me - but as soon as she said that you were the one who had that reality show with that "Peter Brady" dude, I finally realized who the fuck she was talking about. Please, don't take that as some sort of slight - I blame thousands of bong hits and shots of Jagermeister for my deteriorating memory, just ask the last three women I've gotten to know biblicly who saw me struggling to recall their names while HumanityCritic's "special sauce"lingered on their "soup coolers". Before I go any further I want to welcome you to the wonderful world of blogging, as a 4 year veteran of the game I can tell you that it will be a cathartic experience for you - I probably would have gone a killing spree by now if my writings hadn't exercised my father issues, penchant for violence, and me coming to grips with the sobering reality of having one of the most unimpressive black penises known to man. That being said, when I was directed to a blog post you had written entitled "MY Boycott against BET and Black History Month" - initially I was as excited as Jim Jones in a room full of ghost-writers. I just knew that you were going to disprove the ugly stereotype that supermodels are nothing more than unintelligible beauties - only good for being coke addicted "before" pictures, being able to effortlessly vomit, beating people senseless with Motorola cell phones, and vapid conversations that make the other party want to publicly slit their wrists with plastic butter-knives. I mean, I hate B.E.T too - and I just hoped that your post would concur with my belief that that network singlehandedly undoes the civil rights movement with each rerun of "The Wayans Bros", each time a minstrel show rapper flashes a platinum encrusted smile, not to mention the other thousand hours of horrific programming. As for Black History Month, I just knew that you'd eloquently wax poetic about how you reject the notion of Black History just being highlighted a month out of the year - even you would admit that it doesn't take a supermodel to know that giving such an extensive history such a short period of time to shine borders on clinical insanity.

But as soon as I started reading your monstrosity of a post, I suddenly realized that I need to get my black ass a girlfriend and stop watching so much porn - only in the porn world will you get exactly what's advertised from a title, if it happens to read "Asian Midget gets Humiliated", fully expect to see an Asian woman of below-average height having the most sexually deviant things done to her on camera. Unfortunately, what I found in your posts was the same drivel I've been inundated with for the past 20 years or so - a steady diet of empty "reverse racism" rhetoric with "I once fucked a black dude so I'm not racist" acting as the qualifying dessert.(Not for nothing, but I kept expecting you to passionately ask why you weren't allowed to use the word "Nigger" - maybe you are saving that utterly intriguing topic for your next blog installment.)

In the comment section of your blog you mentioned that you have been sexually active with 5 African Americans(1 male 4 female) - I would have figured, when your weren't tongue kissing black genitalia for the sake of proving how racist you're not, that the owners of said naughty parts would have informed you at some point that a channel like B.E.T was created because black culture wasn't being broadcast anywhere else. Granted, the channel is currently a cluster-fuck of immense proportions, but being mad at B.E.T and the black history month is rather silly, even for you - when there are channels and months dedicated to Hispanics, women, and Asians for Christs sake. I have to ask, because I'm sure that you had a conversation with at least one of those five individuals you were doing the horizontal shuffle with while "Ebony and Ivory" played in the background. At some point they had to explain to you that the only black people they learned about in school happened to be Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, and possibly George Washington Carver - and that 99% of the black history that they do know is a result of them seeking it out for themselves.

Ms. Curry, I don't expect for you to understand the intricacies of racism in this country - just like you wouldn't expect for me to understand what its like to be a wanna-be supermodel who had to beg a D-List actor who peaked 30 years ago to marry me - I just chalk it up to us being different that's all. But then again, maybe your blog is a microcosm of the state of race relations in this country(based on all the inbred dopes who co-signed your brand of bullshit) For example, last night I was talking to one of my best friends and when I very innocently told him that I sincerely felt that most of the "white outrage" for O.J wouldn't exist if his wife happened to be black his head started smoking - when I openly wondered why a missing white woman is a national story when black girls go missing all the time and its hardly mentioned in the crawl at the bottom of your television screen, his head exploded. But the difference between you and Danny is that at least he is open to new information, learning something about the black perspective that he never fathomed before - and you seem to come across as an inarticulate hick who fingers herself to Mein Kampf in your free time.

Lastly, at the end of that botched abortion that you call a post, a diatribe that I'm certain David Duke uses as his personal screen-saver - I found it rather interesting that you had to use your support for Barack Obama as yet another qualifier for the previous drivel that oozed out of the side of your mouth. Not for nothing, but its people like you who make me think that Barack Obama doesn't have a snowball's chance in Lil Kim's crotch of ever being elected President - see I live in Virginia, where a known racist almost got re-elected for Senator, so I know all about people who consider themselves "progressive" who are actually one ass beating from a black guy away from handing out Aryan Nation propaganda. That being said, I have some parting advice for you - become a right wing pundit, hey, you're prettier than Ann Coulter and people will pay you millions of bucks to talk out of your ass.

Sincerely yours,

Humanity F Critic aka "Gordon Gartrell"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: EPMD - "You gots to chill"

When I first started this blog I imagined that my humor and my all around craftsmanship behind a computer's keyboard would keep my social calender filled up - even designating a dresser drawer for all the exotic panties I'd collect on some Ghostface "Damn right I fuck fans" shit. Unfortunately, after four years, I've only witnessed one person naked who reads this blog regularly - and that didn't end well too well, I vaguely remember an angry email where she claimed that I was as romantic as a "prison rape". You can't please them all I guess, but I recall the exact incident that would make her say that - the both of us sitting in the back of my muscle car, me suggesting that she briefly get off on my gear shift, me pointing to my new air freshener when she asked me why I never bought her flowers. Yes, Good times. But one thing that she said that night really stuck to me, she said "You write about Hip Hop with such passion, why can't that passion relate to your sex-life? Where is the child-like exuberance for me?" That when I retorted, "Child-like? You've seen my penis haven't you?" But all jokes aside, when each member of EPMD is playfully dancing in the background while the other is rapping - it sort of encapsulates a playful innocence that I wish Hip Hop would get back to.