Barack Obama: "What's Beef??"(Vibe.com)

One thing I've noticed about myself over the tenure of my existence, outside of the fact that I've historically sought out eyebrow-raising porn titles like "Dyslexic Asian Midgets", and my unsavory penchant for saying insensitive things like "Come on, the N*gga wasn't exactly Malcolm X!" after recently reading an article entitled "The Last Days of Pimp C" - is how I constantly keep a running tab of the disgruntled gentleman hoping to one day snatch me from the mortal coil. I'm a firm believer that life just isn't worth living if your head isn't always on a proverbial swivel, believe me - nothing makes a person feel more alive than anticipating an impromptu physical attack while very innocently going about your day. Since I'm not on the Christmas Card list of people ranging from local sub-par rappers whom I happened to be brutally honest with, husbands of the wives that I've consensually sodomized against my muscle car, and random gentlemen that I sucker-punched for disrespecting the God Rakim - lets just say that I've found the fountain of youth, without wading in the murky "Cocoon" pool water with Wilford Brimley that is.(Read more here)

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: "Ain't A Damn Thang Changed" - WC amd the Maad Circle

A couple of years ago, true story, I met a beautiful black woman who just happened to be a republican - dating wise, I'd usually put applications of right-wing vagina owners in the circular file as soon as humanly possible, but there was just something about her that just intrigued me. Simply put, she had a body made for triple penetration pornography - she naturally had a scent that made me think that perfume companies paid her big bucks for her perspiration, thighs that would make me disassociate myself from my closest family members, and breasts so mind altering that I started to see the pure genius in Karl Rove. Sexually we were in tune, so much in fact that musicians could adjust their instruments to our savage fucking - a natural body chemistry between us so intense that if you were to separately give us Rorschach tests, we'd say that every picture look like each other's genitalia. There was one problem, I despised everything that she was about.

As soon as the sex was over, and my penis has a golden glow around it as if it had just defeated "Sho-Nuff" - the conversations would begin, and the longer we talked the more I thought about slitting my wrists with a dull butter-knife. The shit that would come out of this chicks mouth, the main reason why I nicknamed her Linda Blair - everything from denouncing Affirmative Action, waxing poetic about her hero Clarence Thomas, being forced to listen to bloated hand-jobs like Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage - and her constant habit of pointing out what she thought was "reverse racism" had me sometimes thinking that I was on a hidden camera show. Even though I was conflicted, having to juggle my sexual attraction to her with my complete loathing of every syllable that escaped her beautiful mandible - I didn't break up with her immediately because I'm a scumbag, and prime ass for chubby reclusive writers is like Haley's Comet for this pre-ejaculatory motherfucker.

I thought about her when I found this video on youtube, I loved WC back in the day when he was "WC and the Maad Circle" and in "Low Profile" - but I've absolutely loathed everything he's done since then, especially that WestSide Connection drivel. Same with LL Cool J, I hold his early work near and dear to my heart but wouldn't give his most recent recordings to my worst enemies - Ice Cube dropped 2 classic albums that I've listened to every week since they were released commercially, but the Cube of recent years is a stranger to me who I desperately want to throat-punch. It's weird having so much affection for one section of a person's musical catalog and having so much hatred for the rest of it - reminds me of a buxom beauty I once knew with abysmal politics.

Run DMC - Christmas in Hollis

Have a happy and safe holiday!!



(I'm Humanity F Critic, the best blogger breathing - and I endorse this message)

A Brief Glossary of HumanityCritic's Sex Terms

Back in the day, I used to cherish the one week at the end of every summer when my cousins from Hollis Queens would venture to the land of Pat Robertson and PETA to visit their country relatives - even though as adults we have gone our separate ways, only barely keeping contact, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the childhood memories that they were willful participants in. What I loved about them is that they never took it upon themselves to rub my nose in the fact that I was figuratively a million miles away from Hip Hop's epicenter, my cousins were well aware that I would never be an old man who randomly waxed poetic, telling "..and then the DJ plugged his equipment into the light post" stories. So when they told me about LL Cool J playing Atari in their basement, the members of Run DMC walking down their block signing autographs, or seeing the god Rakim spit deadly verses on some miscellaneous street corner - they always did it rather matter-of-factly, an unassuming humility only known by prepubescent cancer patients. Outside of them giving me three tapes for my birthday that would forever ignite the "Hip Hop Snob" inside of me(EPMD's "Strictly Business", Big Daddy Kane's "Long Live the Kane", and Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions.."), they left another impression that still resonates with me today - and it all started with the very innocent sounding word: "Gilsey".

"Gilsey" was a word that they made up, basically meaning "inside joke" - and because my cousins and I already had a million of them, adding it to my already serviceable vocabulary was nothing short of effortless. In the years to come, whenever one of us would randomly belt out "Leave them Drugs alone" in our deepest and most authoritative voice - the other two would laugh like weed addicted schoolgirls because we knew that the other one was mocking MC Lyte at the end of the "Cappuccino" video. If I happened to raise my hand to the sky for an extended amount of time in the most public of places, it would definitely get some chuckles from my cousins - only because they would automatically recognize that I was mocking what Treach questionably did in the "Hip Hop Hooray" video. Sometimes we would get obscure with it, whenever one of our girlfriends left us for another man we would sarcastically yell out "Heeeeeey!!!" - a reference to a movie called "The Getaway"(1994), where a kidnapped man(tied to a chair) struggles to get a peak through a bathroom door to see his wife(Meg Tilly) having sex with the kidnapper(Michael Madsen)- and then proceeds to give that utterly comedic sound of despair.

In more recently years, because of the hermit-like existence in which I live when I'm not ruining my liver and placing my hard earned one dollar bills into the undergarments of women with daddy issues and glitter shards embedded in their respective skin - my "Gilsey's" have become a sad state of affairs, primarily because inside jokes where only one person knows the back-story is as depressing as a Mary J Blige interview. That's why I decided to share some of my gilsey's of a sexual nature with you today - in an age where people aren't sure whether or not some of the sexually deviant acts that have become popular over the past decade(see Blumpy and Dirty Sanchez) are actually practiced or just comic fodder, at least you know that I am practicing what I preach. When you see a young minstrel act like Souljah Boy talking about "Superman dat hoe", you fine people can rest assured - if I decide to degrade a woman, I won't call her out of her name and at least there will be some comedic value to it.


"The "Memento"
Getting back into the dating game after an extensive layoff is tough, especially if your last girlfriend very cavalierly ripped the beating heart out of your chest - actually listening to what someone is saying to me has been a challenge, and being chivalrous makes me feel as awkward as watching two retards fuck. But as I'm transforming into this decent guy, my memory is refusing to partake in this life changing makeover - so during the first few sexual episodes with this particular woman that I was dating, I had to write her name on my wrist so I didn't make any ill advised exclamations during sex.

"The Jacques Cousteau"
Usually I'm a stickler for personal hygiene, the few times that I've encountered a potential lover with "not-so-April-fresh" nether regions - not only did I make it my business to vacate her premises as soon as humanly possible, exiting her zipcode was next on my "to do" list. That being said, recently I met a woman at my local YMCA who I shoot hoops with occasionally - she is beautiful, intelligent, and most off all she never whines about my gender whenever I hack the shit out of her as she's driving to the hoop. I couldn't possibly imagine why she had an interest in me, maybe its the way I drive past 70 year old basketball players and make innocent remarks like "Shouldn't you be somewhere dying Gramps?" - or possibly it was the baby-arm of a boner that poked her hip as she tried to post me up. Who knows? All I know is that I found myself at her apartment, making out with the passion of spanish soap opera stars - to the point in which I felt compelled to ask her, "You want to hop in the shower right?" She didn't, apparently she wanted to consummate our basketball relationship au' naturale - as soon as hairy bushed porn stars of the 70's filled my head she asked, "Do you have a condom?" Of course I had a condom, because I'm the type of asshole who carries stray Trojans in his sweatpants - so within a few moments I said to myself, "Man, I'm actually fucking a point guard!!" But I was doing so while holding my breath, the understandable body odor of the young lady rapidly filled my nostrils - hence "The Jacques Cousteau".

"The Marion Barry"
When I tell people that I've never sexually been with a white woman, first they look at me the way someone would stare at a cloned sheep - then, when they realize that I'm not trying to pull the wool over their eyes(pun intended), they assume that I'm some black militant who masturbates to the teachings of Marcus Garvey while Dead Prez acts as the soundtrack to my "self love". In reality, it just simply has never happened - and anyone who has read my blog for more than a week knows, my undying love for Janeane Garofalo proves that I would cross racial lines faster than you can say "The Truth about Cat's and Dog's" if the right opportunity ever presented itself. But to be blatantly honest with you, the variety of white girl that has made me the object of their affection - well, they either look like they were in a 200 meter radius of a nuclear reactor, or they see it fit to tell me recent "gonorrhea" stories that I never asked them about.(..that happened recently) But one day it's going to happen, far away from the judgemental eyes of black women who were never going to fuck me in the first place - me doing something with naughty with a white girl at some seedy hotel room. When that happens, rest assured - I will call it "The Marion Berry"

"The Bill Belichick"
On top of my overall emotional unavailability when it comes to relationships, some of that happened to spill over into my sex life as well - so recently when I had mentioned that I was planning on building a "glory hole" inside my house to avoid mid-coital eye contact, I was only partially bullshitting. Kevin Smith talks about refusing to take his shirt off whenever he's making love to his wife, I can only hope to one day leave my inhibitions behind like he already has - not only have I been known to fuck with sweatshirts on with the hood up, but I make it my business to utter the raciest pillow talk while sounding as monotone as humanly possible: "Oh baby, that's it - punch me in the back while verbally emasculating me, I cum faster that way!!" Oh yeah, you never know when I'm taping it.

"The Howard Hughes"
Don't worry, I'm not as bad as the man Leonardo DiCaprio portrayed in "The Aviator" - even though some women feel that my tear-away sheets, the same kind you find in doctors offices, is kind of disturbing. My penchant for wearing three condoms, making my penis resemble a balloon animal - probably doesn't help my case, more times than not multiple prophylactics makes a woman feel like the fucking "Outbreak" monkey. Maybe I should wait until the woman leaves my house before nervously scrubbing my genitalia in scolding water, huh?

A few things that I Needlessly obsess over

Outside of me giving women who lack gag reflexes titles of distinction like "Head Doctor" and "Brain Surgeon" respectively, equipped with the bells and whistles that come along with having a graduation ceremony on a makeshift stage - I don't want to give any of my readers the impression that I'm some sort of mental health professional. That being said, I'm scared that habits I once chalked up as being my own quirky idiosyncrasies are starting to become full fledged OCD - the last thing I want to become is a new Millennium Negro version of Howard Hughes, I hardly get dates now, but just imagine how damaging being a recluse would be to my already incomplete social calender. I mean, sure, I have always been in the habit of washing my hands countless times a day - but I always figured that that had to do with my brother being a medical technician, the amount of garden variety germs and miscellaneous "coochie smears" that he'd tell me about would make Stephen King vomit in his own mouth. And yes, on the average I take four showers a day, but I never saw that as being obsessive compulsive - its more of an indictment of how much of a sexual deviant I am, I mean, you never know when you'll have to whip your dick out and get blown by a complete stranger.

But recently my behavior has started to seriously trouble me, outside of telling someone "you don't know shit" a million and one times every whenever I see them just because they very innocently happened to tell me a sub-par rapper that happened to adore - the few times when I'm lucky enough to see a woman naked, after we are laying in post coital bliss I feel obligated to say something purely outrageous just to momentarily perplex them. Random phrases like, "I haven't cum like that since 9/11", "Your vagina is grainier than the Zapruder film", and I unfortunately told a Jamaican woman "I love having sex with you, my cock smells like curry for about a month!"

But then again, yes I have my quirks, but I get the sneaking suspicion that most of my idiosyncrasies are just me being an asshole - but here are some real things that I routinely obsess over.

My Mother's Safety: I'm just going to come out and admit it, I'm a bona fide "Mommas Boy". No, I wouldn't be the variety of mother worshipper who would automatically take her side if I found myself in the middle of an altercation she was having with my future wife - I'm the variety of mother's boy who would gladly take a bullet for the woman who gave birth to me in the summer of 73'. Also, if someone happened to harm a solitary hair on her head - I wouldn't rest until I mercilessly hunted the bastards down, proceeding to make them worm food, and then commemorated their untimely passing each year by pissing on their unmarked grave. That being said, one of the things that I constantly obsess over is my mother's safety - Virginia Beach is hardly Beirut when it comes to the city's crime rate, I'm pretty sure that the people who read this that live in some of the rougher areas around the country would probably leave their doors unlocked if they happened to move here. But as of late, especially in the neighboring city of Norfolk - there has been an outbreak of senseless violence, the perpetrator is usually some kid in his early teens who maliciously dispatched a respected member of the community over 30 bucks. Because of this, I have been scared for my mother, and even though she's out by herself 95% of the time - whenever I see her and she happens to be going somewhere I insist on chauffeuring her to the desired destination.

But instead of being a simple driver to an elderly woman, like a melanin infused version of "Driving Ms. Daisy", I findd myself acting more like her personal secret service detail - angrily telling people to "back the fuck up" if they are walking too close to my mother in a department store. Telling a woman who exhaustively sighed behind my mother as she searched for her credit card, "Don't let an ill advised exhale get your husband fucked up!" But I think my mother reached her boiling point recently, as she stood in line at the local convenience store about to purchase her cigarettes - I could have sworn the kid behind her was reaching for his "piece", so I rushed inside the store and tackled that prepubescent motherfucker like I was Terry the Office Linebacker. He was just reaching for some change.

I might have a lovechild: Back in 2001, when my old man died and my mother was diagnosed with cancer - I lived a lifestyle that suggested that I didn't have any regard for both my penis or my liver. Imagine the Nick Cage movie "Leaving Las Vegas", only with the protagonist being a chubby black guy and with the flick being rated X - there being more alcohol involved of course. During this time I briefly dealt with a woman named Willetta, outside of the fact that we were polar opposites based on her having too many poorly written black movies in her collection - I mistreated her, not in an Ike Turner kind of way but in a "why are we having a serious conversation, I'm only here to fuck" sort of way. Anyway, the relationship was short-lived and when she stopped taking my phone calls a small part of me(not THAT part, believe me) applauded her decision - but I was told, roughly a year later(we shared the same Loctitian) that she had a child. Granted, she had a new boyfriend who was described as "the father" - but the birth of that child always seemed amazingly close to the time that her and I were practicing unprotected sex.

To be totally honest, my math could be completely wrong, and even though I constantly obsess over it - I keep envisioning myself finding the kid, claiming that I'm the father of that fucking crumb-snatcher and looking silly when the tests come back.

HumanityCritic, the God-Father: When my friend Jerry named me the godfather of his first born daughter, Quinn, I was a proud man - I mean, here is a guy bestowing a great honor upon a scumbag like myself when most people with the good sense that god gave them wouldn't trust me to momentarily watch their drink. But no sooner as the baby was baptised, the enormity of the situation crashed down on my shoulders as if I was giving the comedienne Monique a "mustache ride" - if Jerry and his lovely wife somehow met their untimely demise, would they expect me to look after their newly orphaned child? That's why every few months, I have to call and inquire about the couples health status - its not because I don't think that I could successfully raise a child, but if people saw me lugging a young white child around people would think that I kidnapped her ass. I constantly obsess about that as well.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop:Three Times Dope - "Funky Dividends"

Barry Bonds, the perfect Hip Hop Metaphor(Vibe.com)

I sincerely can't explain it, maybe its exposing another one of my character flaws outside of my penchant for kicking women out of my residence the millisecond after I ejaculate - but if my memory serves me correctly, I have always openly rooted for the bad guy. My childhood was spent wondering why none of the residents of Sesame Street ever chin-checked Big Bird on general principle, hoping that Brutus would defeat Popeye at least one time - with a woman who makes Kate Moss look like she has a food addiction being the ultimate prize. Shit, I can't tell you how many times I desperately hoped that the Roadrunner would be too slick for his own good, accidentally blow himself up with one of Wile E. Coyote's dynamite sticks - with the closing scene consisting of the Coyote mercilessly dining on charred bird remains like it was Thanksgiving dinner at a soup kitchen.(Read more here)

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

Find the original backstory here:

A Tribe Called Quest: "Scenario"(Remix)



Even before my chubby thumb and index fingers formed a misshapened "U" required to pull a record out of a crate, one of many crates that I had just recently become reacquainted with - I was already aware that A Tribe Called Quest's "Scenario" remix was the furthest thing from being a unique choice, I mean, chances are that 90% of the people who read my daily drivel have this tune firmly cemented in their sacred Ipods. But this song is significant in terms of my life, if I ever happen to do something newsworthy like cure a deadly disease or recklessly impregnate a pop princess - I'm sure that the ambitious writer penning my autobiography will name one of the chapters, halfway through the book that is, "Scenario". Let me explain.

To make a long, arduous story somewhat less lengthy, my father and I never had the greatest of relationships - actually, that's putting it rather mildly. I firmly believe that my mothers undying love and support for me is the only thing that could have offset my father's rather passionate "You ain't ever going to be shit" lectures - I sometimes jokingly suggest that my mother is the only reason why I'm not some sort of murderous sociopath, I can't tell you how times I've fought some douche-bag where the confrontation ended with me saying "If it wasn't for my mother, I'd snatch you from the mortal coil sir!!"(only a hack writer like myself could say something so absurd) That being said, when he was first diagnosed with cancer I didn't take out any ill will that I might have had on the old man - besides driving him to some of his doctors appointments, and not addressing the irony of our new-found buddy-status as he told me about all the Japanese vagina he smashed in the early 60's - I also gave him random pep talks whenever the mountain of his diseases seemed insurmountable to him.

Despite all of that, occasionally he would revert into his old self and unleash a verbal barrage upon his youngest son that would have made Antoine Fisher's foster parent come across like Mother Theresa - that probably explains why I was pretty scarce the last couple of weeks of his life. Sure, seeing the usually portly man shriveled up on an uncomfortable hospital bed dying in front of my very eyes wasn't the most pleasant of sights - but to be honest, and even admitting this now makes me feel shame, I really didn't think I could live the rest of my life being the recipient of a death bed "You ain't ever going to be shit" speech. So I stayed away, mostly, taking the cowards way out and visiting him at night simply to appease my mother - and because I knew that he would be knocked out from the heavy doses of morphine and other drugs pumped into his bloodstream throughout the course of a day.

But overcome with guilt one Sunday, realizing that my father's grip on mortality was being mercilessly loosened by the grim raper himself - I prepared myself to gracefully accept whatever he had to say to me, completely open to smiling as if he had always been the poster boy for supportive fathers while clutching the old man's hand and asking god for a miracle. As I entered his hospital room he was already fast asleep, with my mother and about 6 of his good friends laughing about happier times at his bedside as if they were at some sort of social mixer - and of course I joined in, acting the proverbial fool and talking about my love for geriatric vagina and the usage of Ben-Gay as a lubricant was the epitome of escapism from a sobering reality dying a couple of feet away. One by one his visitors made their graceful exits until it was only me and my mother left standing around the man that I was named after, her briefly giving me a welcoming smirk that spoke volumes before leaving the room to smoke a cigarette - so I proceeded to make small talk with my sleeping father that consisted of an apology, sports, and women.

Right as I was trying to figure out whether my father's squeezing of my hand was his intention, or an involuntary muscle flinch - his body temperature started to skyrocket, a fact reinforced to me by annoying buzzing sounds and nurses pushing me out of the way while pouring buckets of ice on my father's body.
Within moments I was getting condolence sentiments from women wearing powder blue scrubs, and hearing my mother yell in an irritating tone "Goddamn you Jim!" - my father was gone. As I was about to console my mother, without missing a beat she asked me "Did you eat anything today? You look hungry, we have a shitload of food at the house!" - man, the strength of that black woman, shit, the historical strength of black women. As I walked to my car I was trying to make sense of me not feeling any sort of overwhelming sadness and if that made me a bad person of not - that's when I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, rain pouring down, and put on a clearchannel radio station like many other's that tries to feel better about themselves by playing an "old school" Hip Hop segment ever so often. That's why the "Scenario" remix means so much to me, as I rapped the words alongside MC Hood and the members of A Tribe Called Quest and Leaders of the New School, I was trying to momentarily escape from a sobering reality that I would have to deal with for years to come - with the tears flowing down my face coming a close second to the immense precipitation I was vehicular-ly faced with. That sobering reality, forever mourning a man that I sincerely feel despised me - and wondering if I should ever have children in fear of cursing my offspring.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Eric B and Rakim - "In The Ghetto"

DJ Premier is my Chuck Norris(Vibe.com)

This is going to sound shallow, but it won't surprise the people out there who know that I feverishly keep my snob game tighter than convent vagina - but there are some things in life that I simply believe transcend opinion and become fact, and anyone in the slightest opposition of that is either acting like a wiseacre contrarian or happened to born with a mild case of retardation as a result of being the offspring of forbidden sibling "love". You don't necessarily have to believe that Michael Jordan was the best basketball player ever to touch a leather ball, but his "philandering, historical failure to ever take a stand on anything" ass better be in the discussion - same thing with Walter Payton when it comes to running backs, I actually elbowed a guy in the face once just because he gave me a very indifferent sounding "Ahh, he's alright" retort when talking about the great Stevie Wonder. That explains why "High Fidelity" is one my favorite flicks, primarily because I subscribe to the philosophy in the movie that "Its not what you're like, its what you like" - this is going to sound fucked up I know, but I can tell whether or not I'm going to get along with a person solely based on their tastes in music and movies.

But therein lies the rub, what's a chubby snob like myself to do when a woman I'm seeing, one who I feel is otherwise flawless - takes it upon herself to very cavalierly sully the good name of a man who I hold so near and dear to my heart? Let me explain. About a month ago, while ruining my liver amongst a slew of career alcoholics and women who look like they grew up next to nuclear reactors at my local watering hole - a very beautiful woman waked in, sat down, and sparked a conversation with me off of the strength of my primary ring-tone being Big Daddy Kane's "Raw". Immediately I knew she was a Hip Hop fan, "check", I asked what her nationality was and she said she was Portuguese - I thought for a minute and then remembered that broads of her ilk were the same women that Rakim constantly talked about in his songs, so "check" like a motherfucker. Granted, she was younger than I would have liked - but I quickly counted on my fingers like a retard doing long division and figured out that she's been legally drinking for 6 years, which was fine by me.(Besides, I haven't been lustfully touched since the first episode of "My Name is Earl" - time to relax the age requirements buddy)

We hung out a few times, nothing special, but she did seem like a very sweet girl who really knew her Hip Hop - which was a plus, besides, even before she saw my man boobs or counted my ceiling tiles for three minute intervals, we started having these inside jokes where we would admit to not really liking an artist that everyone loves. One day she called me and said, "I was never was a fan of the Beastie Boys, don't tell anybody!" - which I quickly retorted, "I won't, I wouldn't want anyone to think that I'm dating someone who smears shit on the wall!" I called her out of the blue and said, "I must really dig you, OK, I was never the biggest fan of Ultramagnetic. There, I said it!" - in which she responded, "..and you call yourself a Hip Hip writer, hang your head in shame fat man!!!" We were doing this back and forth for a while, it was pretty cathartic to admit which legendary groups we were indifferent about - until we were making out on my couch, me sticking my tongue down her throat while giving her an unlicensed breast exam - when she whispered some words in my ear that have haunted me ever since: "Honestly, I never understood the hype around DJ Premier!". That explains why I'm such a fan of "Curb Your Enthusiasm", when Larry was given permission by his wife to sleep with another woman for an Anniversary gift - he slithered off the miscellaneous dalliance with disgust when he learned that she was a republican. I slithered off the woman 7 years my junior the exact same way.

As I sat on the couch, I must have been shooting her the most horrified look imaginable because all she could say was "Oh shit" - in which I replied, "What are you, fucking nuts? DJ Premier is the best producer ever, that's not you giving an opinion, that's you being reckless!! Reckless I say!!" With still an erect, albeit unimpressive penis still making a tent in my pants, I nervously gathered every record, tape, CD, and Ipod song featuring a DJ Premier production - playing each track for her with painstaking patience, and after every cut saying "You have lost your fucking mind woman!!" Since insulting someones intelligence is the furthest thing from an afrodisiac, she grabbed her things and said "I'm going home, call me tomorrow!" - seeing her leave half naked, finally understanding that I've talked myself out of some panties once again I belted out an insincere "Um, I was just playing!!"

The next evening, as I got drunk with my best friend Danny and complained about having to possibly abandon another relationship - I made her innocent opinion seem as if she had told me that she once had a cock, or was a republican. That's when I unloaded the following diatribe on my childhood friend:

"Listen, if she was a Lil Wayne fan that would have been easier - she'd have to play that shit on her own time - and I would never address that pink elephant in the room like it was a brief stint of lesbianism she participated in while she was in college. But Premier, I mean, as far as producers go - when you go through the multitude of classic singles that the man has done for people, you still have to negotiate the Mt. St. Helens of legendary material that is the Gangstarr catalog! Besides, not only have I come to the conclusion that DJ Premier can save anyone's career - it has always struck me as odd that more MC's don't make the simple choice and only use Preemo production for their albums - instead they pick music makers of lesser skill and the product is sub-par at best. Imagine how better Nas albums would be if he simply got Premier to do the beats, shit man, there are a shitload of artists ranging from Lauryn Hill to Killer Mike who'd thrive under Premo. The man can do anything!!(Looking at my friend seriously) Anything!

Danny: So, DJ Premier is your Chuck Norris?

HumanityCritic: Yeah, I guess so..



Fun DJ Premier facts:


1. DJ Premier doesn't produce tracks, he works miracles.


2. Cancer gets yearly mammograms for early DJ Premier detection.


3. Some say that music calms the savage beast, premier's production peacefully euthanizes ornery animals.


4. To say that Premo's beats are heaven sent is a bit of reckless hyperbole, even though God himself occasionally sends him break-beat records and sample ideas.


5. My mother has always said "If she can't use your comb, don't bring her home" in terms of me ever marrying a white girl - but her 30 year stance dramatically changed after I introduced her to a Caucasian Premier fan named Becky.


6. Our government's "War on Terror" is a joke, not because its unwinnable, but because attacks on our blessed soil would stop if we simply made "Full Clip" our National Anthem.


7. After meeting DJ Premiere, Quincy Jones could be heard saying "I'm never washing this hand again" amongst a string of prepubescent-sounding giggles.


8. Stevie Wonder claimed that DJ Premier was the sole inspiration for his 1963 hit "Fingertips" - even though Premo wouldn't be born for another 3 years.


9. When a paraplegic suddenly started to rhythmically nod his head back and forth during a rehabilitation session, doctors thought they were witnessing a minor miracle - until one of them heard "Mathematics" playing in the distance and said "Goddamn you Premier!!"


10. Sure, Chuck D was upset that his voice was sampled in the song "10 Crack Commandments", not only because the song talked about cooked cocaine - but because he was privately ashamed that the beat, momentarily, had him seeing the upside to dope dealing.


11. DJ Premier is so good at picking samples, sometimes he uses them before the original artist has even recorded it.


12. In an attempt to rehabilitate young delinquents and keep them out of Prison, simply playing Gangstarr's "All for the Cash" was an effective deterrent - but they went back to their less abrasive approach, having the kids being yelled at and physically intimidated by mass murderers.


13. DJ Premier doesn't have to manually scratch records anymore, all he does is stand over both turntables and the records miraculously scratch themselves - I mean, tremble with fear.


14. I recently emailed Premier the sheet music to Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto, not only did he send it back with corrections - there was a posted note attached with "Yawn" being the only word on it.


15. Sure, Jesus turned water into wine - but could his black-hippie ass turn "Group Home" into a listenable group? I didn't think so..


16. The music of Premier is so powerful that I still yell things like "Put your fucking hands in the air" and "Run Your shit" while having sex - that's the price you pay when you lose your virginity to "Just to Get a Rep".


17. DJ Premier is so beloved in Japan, that 90% of the women there want to have his baby - not to milk him of his hard earned funds mind you, just to say that they have a Premo Remix.


18. DJ Premier scored a Tyler Perry movie and it was still unwatchable - the man is a producer, not GOD!

Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

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Killer Mike - "Making it Rain"

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Brand Nubian "Feels so Good"

Brand Nubian - Feels so Good

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Damn, I feel old right now..

Moments that I Absolutely Dread

Usually when some famous person finally decides to do away with their trademark dreadlocks that people have always closely identify them with, they always take it upon themselves to concoct an explanation right out of some Hippie-handbook - equating a simple haircut to a spiritual "rebirth" or "cleansing", making it seem that a simple swipe of the clippers is akin to a sacred tribal ceremony or some shit. I'm starting to think that these ham-fisted explanations started with Lenny Kravitz, was he the one that said that he symbolically had his dreadlocks detached from his scalp in the ocean or was he the one who said some nonsense about hyperventilating while his daughter and ex-wife cut them off?(I'm not sure) Not for nothing, but save the escalated melodrama for Spanish language soap operas motherfucker, after 13 years of growing a mane that prompts total strangers to boldly ask me "Where's the weed at?" - I'm at a place now where if I decide to say "fuck it" and shave my head with a fluidity only seen by sheep shearers, there won't be any incense burning in the background, and no New Orleans-styled Jazz processions strolling through my living room marking the untimely demise of my flowing mane.

It's not like my hair won't be missed if I ever do decide to cut it all off, I mean, its kind of hard not to miss something that you have to routinely adjust every time you defecate - besides, its my only mark of distinction outside of my violent outbursts and my slight stutter. Its also a great conversation starter for low self-esteem having women who happen to be interested in a chubby writer with so many intimacy issues that he's openly considering building a "glory-hole" in his bedroom - I usually find myself clumsily thrusting on top of these women, translating their brain-busting eye-rolls to mean "..only if the size of your cock was a fraction of the length of your hair - by the way, why is this scumbag fucking me to "Fight The Power" anyways?" That being said, here are few reasons why I've considered cutting off all my air, hoping to one day audition for the lead role in the movie adaptation of the popular television series "A Man Called Hawk".

I am Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas": When I was a teenager, years before the thought of locking my hair ever ran through my feeble little mind, I went to a local teen club with my homeboys and saw a kid around my age get mercilessly stomped the fuck out by a group of local ruffians - the one thing that sticks out about that particular mauling is how they savagely ripped out his dreadlocks from the root as if they were desperately trying to start an old lawnmower. So when I finally decided to grow dreadlocks I'd occasionally think about that December night, thinking of it more often than not the longer my hair grew, and when the tips of my hair gently stroked my shoulders I had to confront a sobering reality - that I would have to end fights rather quickly based on most men's penchant for being bitches and pulling hair during an altercation. The days of me standing toe to toe with some asshole in a bar parking lot was over, attempting to publicly exhibit my punishing body blows and my effective 52 hand block technique was replaced with throat-chops, smashing bottles of beer over someones head - not to mention my habit of hitting grown men in the back with bar-chairs as if my job had me wearing constricting tights 89.9% of the year.

Back-handed compliments: I'm beginning to think that receiving back-handed compliments is a black person's "rite of passage" in this country - especially if you are an African American who grew up amongst a slew of socially retarded white folks, if I had a dime for every time I heard "You are pretty cool for a black guy" and "Wow, you are so articulate - were you adopted by white parents?" I'd probably have enough money to buy most third world country's with change left over by now. Being a grizzled veteran when it comes to pointing out the subtlest forms of racism, you can just imagine how upset I was with myself when I realized that I have been letting things effortlessly get past me as if I was an armless soccer goalie for the better part of a decade - people who have time and time again shamelessly approached me and gushed over how "clean" and "neat" my hair was. It took me a while to realize that this wasn't exactly a compliment, the same way someone praising my clear diction with a fascinated look on their face wasn't exactly complimentary either - it soon dawned on me that a remark of that variety was also a condemnation of dreadlocks as a whole.

Groundhog Day: Although I'm fully aware that there's no way a total stranger would know my intricate back-story like I was a well known John Grisham novel, even though my extensive reputation of unprovoked violence and sodomizing women on bathroom floors proceeds me - I still get tired answering the same fucking questions about my dreadlocks? "How man years have you been growing them?" "Don't they get hot in the summer time?" "Aren't they heavy?" A couple of years ago I had these business-size cards made up with "Frequently asked questions" about my hair, whenever someone would inquire about my locks at some watering-hole I'd just shove that card in their face - but my friends got together and it was a consensus, doing so made me look like an even bigger dick than I already am.(If that was even possible)

Overly aggressive women:Sometimes, just sometimes, a degenerate bastard like myself who has a habit of granting women signatures of ejaculate on their naked backs post-coitus - longs for a meaningful relationship. Sure, the companionship seems nice, her completing my "I'll kick your fucking ass buddy" sentence while we are at a bar is the epitome of romantic - and the thought of having receipt-less ass on a steady basis is not only good for my self-esteem but it would also do wonders for my wallet. But the main reason a girlfriend would be great, outside of all the other reasons I've already listed - is to publicly thwart other females who are in the habit of randomly tugging my hair like we were in fucking kindergarten. I mean, women who ask to touch my hair first, no problem - but I couldn't tell you how many times my head has been suddenly yanked backwards by some manner-less harlot. If a dude did it I could just punch him, kick him in the sternum, even "sweep the leg" on some "Karate Kid" shit - but whenever a female does it the best that I can conjure up is a "Have you lost your fucking mind?" look on my face. I figure having a girlfriend around would nip that shit in the bud.

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: 3rd Bass "The Gas Face"

The Classic "Hey Love" Commerical

I just committed my own mother's birthday to memory five years ago, sometimes the name of the chick I lost my virginity to escapes me - but I've always been able to recite this commercial verbatim with court-stenographer-like accuracy.

"The Virginian Pilot" : HumanityCritic, the Quote Machine

Over the weekend, your friendly neighborhood HumanityCritic got a healthy helping of home-cooking when my local paper, "The Virginian Pilot", included me in a story that they ran entitled "Blogs are Growing Past Race Divide" - addressing the role that black bloggers play in terms of the blogisphere as a whole. Shit man, the last time that my government name graced the pages of the local paper it was concerning me long-jumping 24 feet 2 inches back when Ed O.G dropped his first album, I had a six-pack that morally bankrupt women could successfully wash their undergarments on - an era that I cherish like a teenage love-affair solely because it was the last time I remember ever seeing my cock in its entirety. So when the writer(Elizabeth Thiel) interviewed me via email I wanted to give her a "quotable" that she would use in her piece - believe it or not it wasn't an attempt to raise my blog profile on a local level, but an appeal to all the women in my particular zipcode, I've yet to get laid off the strength of my blog and my dream is to one day have some broad aggressively riding my "negro gearshift" while saying "I loved your November 3rd blog entry baby!!"(I guess a boy can dream huh?)

My only bone of the contention with the piece doesn't have to do with me being misquoted or anything, because I wasn't, its really my own doing based on my blatant honesty concerning my anger issues - when the writer stated "His writing is at times unapologetically profane, with flashes of anger and physical violence" she in no way misrepresented my blog, but actually seeing that in print sort of made me feel like a scumbag who was singlehandedly taking my people backwards. Anyway, below are some quotes that she used and one that I wished she would have used - not for nothing, I'm fully aware that I've dissed Vh1 based on their "Hip Hop Honors" debacles - but I'd let bygones be bygones if I could get a coveted spot on "The Best Week Ever", those people could benefit from a fucking quote machine like me.

Quotes they used in "The Daily Break" section of "The Virginian Pilot"

On Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and the title of Nas' upcoming album:(Pulled from this blog post)

"I seriously doubt that this is the reason Nas is doing this, but personally I see it as one of the biggest chess moves an artist can make when it comes to confronting "black leadership" in this country. When all the charlatans and used car salesmen with an agenda come out of the proverbial woodwork and raise complete hell, pace in front of the record label with unimaginative picket signs, steamroll Cd's, and get more face-time on cable news than Laci Peterson - that would be the perfect time to confront them, rattle off about 45 different life and death causes that are drastically affecting the black community, and openly and sarcastically wonder why they are wasting their time obsessing over a word."

On black blogs:

"It gives voice to those who thought they were voiceless.. but I believe that outside of a blues band, no other force brings black and white people together like the words of a black blogger. Racism, on all fronts, usually stems from one person being filled with falsehoods, stereotypes, and preconceived notions about another person based on their race." - "With my blog, and the millions of others written by people born with melanin - you can actually see what we think in detail. No, its not cool to ask me the time honored 'Why can't I use the N-Word?' question. No, its not cool to ask me if I think O.Jwas guilty or not with a crap-eating grin on your face - and its not cool to assume that I am a horticulture salesman just because I have dreadlocks.(Wait, black folks make that assumption as well,)"

One I wished they used on the state of Hip Hop:

"..one of the main problems with Hip Hop in my eyes is that people continually apologizing for sub-par artistry. You will hear some respected artist or journalist, when being asked about Hip Hop they will say something like "Hip Hop is going through a transition, I'm not mad at the state of it because its always changing" Huh? Puberty is a transition. Dealing with the loss of a spouse is a transition. Finally getting into the American Version of "The Office" after being a devoted fan of the British version is a transition. You'd never look at your cocaine addicted cousin and say, "Well, Larry is going through a 'transition' right now" - now he's not, he's an addict who needs a "tough love" intervention. I think that fans of real Hip Hop shouldn't be scared to give it some 'tough love" - and if that intervention comes in the form of a throat-chop, so be it."

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

Find the original Back story here:

MC Ren: "Final Frontier"



When it comes to 90% of the ardent opponents of Hip Hop out there, a bottom feeding lot that routinely villainize an art-form that they virtually know nothing about - its probably the only time you'll ever be able to successfully lump people together like Bill O'Reilly, Winton Marsalis, Sean Hannity, and Stanley Crouch when discussing the rogues gallery of uninformed douchebags. Sure there are Hip Hop songs that are purely indefensible, but their broad generalizations on a music that I cherish just exhibits an intellectual recklessness only seen before in bi-polar products of inbreeding and black republicans - when I debate people of their ilk, I represent the culture to the best of my ability and never give them any ammunition. Granted, I know I'm speaking to a slew of like-minded individuals here - but I just hope that those same Hip Hop detractors don't read this blog and find out that I secretly feel that some songs influence violence.

As much as I love and respect N.W.A's "Straight Outta Compton" for its brutal honesty and social commentary, its one of my favorite albums of all time - their next release(minus Ice Cube) "100 Miles and Runnin'" was devoid of the same hood consciousness and just seemed like one big killing and fucking festival set to Dr. Dre's dope beats. Sure I loved it. But if "Straight Outta Compton" inspired me to speak out against police brutality in my own city, "100 Miles and Runnin'" inspired me to sucker punch a police officer, steal his cop car, and proceed to get a spirited "mouth hug" in the backseat by a local woman of ill repute. This particular MC Ren song, "Final Frontier" off of his first solo effort entitled "Kizz My Black Azz" - has no redeeming value whatsoever, outside of inspiring a young HumanityCritic to cause nothing but havoc in 1992. All the violent acts that I perpetrated with this song acting as the prime motivator, well, I won't get into the particulars - but I feel like Dennis Hopper in that Bruce Smith commercial back in the day, "Bad Things Man, Bad Things.."

My daily attempt to resurrect Hip Hop: Stetsasonic - "Talkin' All That Jazz"

The Blog Readability of this blog

Earlier this week I was directed here, a site that measures the education that one would need to fully comprehend a particular blog. Curious, I typed in my blog address and immediately saw the following:

Get a Cash Advance

Really? Post Grad? Not for nothing, but there definitely has to be a glitch in the matrix.