umf: Yo, what's up, man? *daps* Been a minute...
Blaze: Ah, you know...same shit, different urinal, cuz...
umf: Wait, what? You either fucked that cute little cliché up or...
B: Nigga I said what I said...I don't repeat myself, do I look like Mike Jones?
umf: Well actually...
B: Don't get your ass beat...
umf: Yeah, AIGHT, dude...anyway, I hit you up today to ask about self-medication...
B: Self...medication? What that mean?
umf: Oh, that Philly education...it's when folk give themselves drugs...
B: Oh aight...well shit I do that, fuck you think they call me Blaze for?
umf: I couldn't imagine why...hmm...maybe its cuz you smell like ganja 30 hours a day, walking around with your eyes the same color as Satan's asscrack?
B: *laughs* Yeah somethin like that...don't hate...you just mad cuz you don't got no tree.
umf: Nope, course not. I don't smoke...don't you know umf does not endorse the use of illegal...
B: Man, fuck all that fake ass disclaimer bullshit...you can lie to the rest of these mafuckas...but I know a weed smoker when I see one...and if you ain't one, you either was one or was born to be one.
umf: How you even figure you know what you talkin about?
B: Cuz you always laughin for no fuckin reason and your lips is the same color as Barack's...that's why, mafucka. Don't insult my intelligence, nigga.
B: Anyway, like I was sayin before you started tryna downtalk green and shit...marijuana is that work. Far as that self-medication shit you was talkin, it cures hangovers, headaches, pregnancy cramps, anorexia, pain in people who got cancer...and boredom.
umf: What about depression?
B: Ion know...depend on what type of depression you talkin about. If you one of those mafuckas who sit in they room cryin all day with sad music on repeat every time you get shot down by a bitch, weed ain't gon do nothin for your sorry ass. But if you had a rough day, or you just argued with your girl or...you know, that normal everyday bullshit...ain't nothin better that fallin back and puffin on a L a few times.
umf: Is that a fact?
B: Oh, you good and gahdamn right its a fact.
umf: Does it have any other benefits?
B: How long you tryna make this interview, my dude?
umf: *laughs* You have the floor...
B: Aight, not only do it cure or at least turn way down all that shit I mentioned before, it makes annoying mafuckas easier to deal with, make music sound bangin, it make food taste way better, make a good nut a great one, and keep me from smackin my baby moms.
umf: Damn, that sounds great...
B: Matta fact I think you could get some benefit out of it.
umf: No...you know I have a job and shit...
B: Man, fuck all that. When I seent you the other day, you lookded like a Scream mask your face was so long.
umf: Oh, that? Yeah, I'm just goin through a couple things right now...I'll be fine.
B: I know you will...we finna spark up. *produces blunt from seemingly nowhere*
umf: #1, where the fuck did you get that from? #2, Who is 'we'?
B: 1, I got a blunt holster in my jacket for quick access. Gotta stay prepared. And 2, me and you, Anthony.
umf: That's sad...and what did I tell you about that government name stuff?
B: Not a damn thing ima listen to...listen nigga, if you do not smoke this shit, we have a problem.
umf: *laughs* Oh yeah, Denzel? And what problem is that?
B: I'm not your friend no more...
umf: Damn I haven't heard that one since 3rd grade...fine though...it's Saturday, I ain't got no job (that piss tests) and I ain't got shit to do...
B: *laughs* That's the spirit...come on...
umf: Uh...and we're back.. *giggles*
B: Now tell me you don't feel better...
umf: I would...but uh...that would be a lie...you know, I gotta preserve my journalistic integrity. I feel like a thousand bucks.
B: 'Journalistic integrity'? Nigga there ain't shit journalistic about nothin on here...
umf: That's factual. *laughs*
B: Now what about those life problems you was talkin about earlier?
umf: Wait, who's givin the interview here?
B: Do it matter?
umf: Good point...fuck it I guess...and to answer your question...what problems?
B: Azactly. So we're just about out of ty--
umf: Whoa, whoa, whoa...slow down there champ...still my site...that's my line *laughs*
B: Respect, respect...ain't gon step on your toes...go head and do your thing...
umf: So we're just about out of type for today, any final thoughts?
B: Hey hey, yay yay...
umf: *laughs* Gotcha. Well, its been good havin you around today, stop through sooner next time...
B: Aight, dawg...wait...I'm hungry as shit, you tryna go to IHOP or some shit? A nigga need sustenance.
umf: Spell that shit, and I'll pay for yours...
umf: *laughs* Just stop it, you just made Marcus Garvey cry..come on let's go...
You left wherever you were for a reason, you knew this reason 20 fuckin seconds ago, but now you have no idea why you're where you are now. Now you're left to stand there with a stupid look on your face like an 80-yr old Alzheimers patient as you try to figure out what the purpose of you getting up was (maybe out loud if you and me are enough alike). "Do I have to pee? No...I'm pretty sure I would know that... Am I thirsty? I just left a drink in my room to do this... What the fuck!?" You give up and go back to your room until your brain works better.
Unfortunately, the only way to nix this one is to quit being such a scatterbrained dumbfuck, to put it bluntly...you could try some negative reinforcement therapy (that entails slapping the dogshit out of yourself every time this happens to you). I prefer to work around my absentmindedness...at least as much as I forget shit it amounts to a little extra exercise (I estimate I make about 10 miles per month in half-trips...sad). Living with it is the best option I can offer...you got something better, please share....you special mafucka, you...
The thing about it is mafuckas who never had tip jars before got em now. How the fuck you got a tip jar at Burger King? What did you do? The food was shipped here, another person cooked the food, yet another one bagged it up...all you did take my money, then take my food from Bagmaster once Fry Cook made it and hand it to me. Oh wow...you can move your arms. I'm impressed. Great job on those large-motor skills, a 11 yr old Ritalin addict couldn't do your job, you clearly deserve more money. Now like I said, they only make about as much as folk who stamp license plates in jail, so I can understand why they did it...but na, dawg.
I'm all for tipping folk who deserve it like waitresses, strippers and bartenders, but just cuz you have a job don't mean you can get tips. What's next, tip jars at Foot Locker?
Foot Locker Employee: *sees me looking at Jordans* Yeah those just came out last week, man...those is fresh...
AJ: Yeah they are...you got em in a 12?
FLE: Oh, I don't know...my memory's kind of fuzzy, you know Foot Locker is a big store, man... *clears throat, gestures at nearby tip jar*
AJ: *sighs, drops dollar in jar* You got these in a 12 or not, man?
FLE: Yeah, I can check that out for you... *goes in back*
AJ: *rolls eyes, pulls fitted lower, waits*
FLE: *comes back with one shoe* Yeah, try this on, see if it fit you...
AJ: *tries on, it fits* Cool...now can I get the other one too? I think ima take these.
FLE: OH! You wanted both shoes...aight, cool...check this out tho I'm about to go on lunch, but if you want somebody else to help you...
AJ: *glares, drops dollar into jar*
FLE: You know what, I can stick around 5 minutes... *goes in back, returns with other shoe* Here you go, fam...
AJ: Give me my damn shoes, dude. *walks up to counter to pay*
Cashier: Yeah, that'll be $120...
C: Thank you for shopping at Foot Locker!
AJ: Can I get a bag tho?
C: OH! You wanted a bag... *clears throat, gestures at tip jar*
AJ: *hurdles counter, pummels cashier*
Seriously, the shit is way outta control. I'm just not sure I can do anything legal and nonviolent about it. Well, I've heard the old phrase "If you can't beat em, join em". That might be sound wisdom...so I tell you what, I'm gonna put a tip jar on my desk at work. That way when lawyers come by my desk asking for files, I can go "You want that today?" and gesture at the jar...hell, I stand to make a couple bucks.
Let's start off by asking what exactly they mean by 'act'. Do they want me to stop the crime in progress? If I see a hustla about to serve a fiend on the corner, should I just go up and smack all the rocks out of his hand? "Sir, I don't think you're allowed by law to dispense narcotics..." Yeah, that'll work out well...but I gotta do it or I could end up in jail, right?
Maybe they want me to take a less active stance...if I see a grown man in the Gallery boyfriending around with a 17-yr old girl, I should stroll over and check both their IDs before waving over mall security. Hell, maybe all I gotta do is call the cops...so if I'm walkin down the street and see somebody get shot, I should point and scream "I witnessed that!" before whippin out my phone and calling the police. As we all know, people never shoot witnesses, especially those in the act of calling po-po...I'll be fine.
Lookit, it's prolly a good idea if you see something going on that you can do something about to do something about it...but hell, this is America...among our extensive rights is the right to do nothing at all. You can't make it punishable by law to remain neutral...that's just stupid. I might be wearing a Captain America track jacket today, but that doesn't mean every time I see a bank gettin robbed I have to swing in on a fuckin chandelier, phone in hand, ready to tackle the robber or take a bullet for any passerby under penalty of law. After all...isn't that the police's job? Instead of arresting mafuckas who didn't do anything about it, they should...y'know...be arresting the person who did the crime. But I guess that makes too much sense...
I don't think I know one person who enjoys steppin in dog piles. Even besides fuckin up a perfectly good pair of kicks (I think if somebody steps in your dog's droppings, you should owe them a new pair of shoes), it's a very unpleasant experience...anybody who's ever done it knows how the sole of your shoe don't stop you from feeling it with the bottom of your foot at all. Turns the stomach a bit, but I digress. Point is, you have a dog, you know the dog makes waste, be prepared to clean it up. I swear somebody needs to find all these people who don't clean up after their dogs and go to their houses, 1 by 1, dropping trou and dumping fresh hot loads right in they mailbox. Yeah, a letter says one thing...but that's unmistakable, and would teach a lesson once and for all. But I don't want it to come to that...so could y'all please start being responsible for your animal?
Now, admittedly, the concept is kinda weak in the auto insurance world. I mean really, who's that sentimental about their relationship with their insurance company? "Listen Geico...we need to talk. I don't think this is workin out...we've had our good times, but I think it's best if you see other clients..." Yeah I guess some people might find that mildly uncomfortable, but...overall it's not that serious. Thx anyway, Allstate.
There are better applications I can think of tho...maybe cell phone companies should start offering that...now THOSE mafuckas are clingy. I canceled my Verizon service a few years back (and have been a proud and happy member of T-Mobile nation for over 5 years) and it took damn near a hour. She did everything but offer me sexual favors to keep their service...apparently 'I don't want your overpriced and shitty service anymore' means 'If you knock 3 dollars a month off my bill, I'll consider staying' in Verizonese.
Or hell, how about in real life? Hey, there's folk that won't take a hint in the matrix too. Maybe they should have like...an official hotline that you can call, explain your situation and have them have them generate a pre-made breakup/end friendship/get the fuck outta my face script on a 3-way call while you just sit there and cosign.
Hotline: "Hello is this Sonya?"
Sonya: "Yes it is, may I ask who's calling?"
H: "Yeah, this is Giving the Final Outreach calling on behalf of David...
S: Giving the Final Outreach?
H: Yes, GTFO is a service that intervenes for parties desiring an end to a difficult relationship...
S: An end? But I thought we were happy?
David: Who the hell is 'we'?
H: It's okay, I'll handle this, sir... Who the hell is "we"? Miss, my records show you that you two broke up months ago.
S: No, no...you misunderstand...that was just a little argument...
H: My records show that the argument in question involved the words "Bitch, I never want to see you again!"
S: Yeah, he always plays like that...
H: Is that true, David?
D: Man, hell no!
H: I see...well, Sonya, David has asked me to read the following to you.
"Stay the fuck out of my life. You're weird and creepy, and quite frankly I wish I had never met you. You smothered the living shit outta me for the entire 3 weeks we were together, and I tried to let you down easy...but that's not enough for you. I blocked your number, deleted you as a friend on Facebook and even got a new job just to get away from you, but you just won't stay away. We will never be together again because I don't fuckin like you...so just stop!"
That sound about right, David?
D: Hell yeah.
H: Good. Well I assume we have an understanding, Sonya? 5 seconds of silence counts as a 'yes'.
H: All right, glad we could get that straightened out.
H: Oh, and remember, every time you try to contact David after this call, it's 30 days in jail.
H: Anything else, David?
D: I'm good...*hangs up*
H: Okay, well...I'm sorry you had to hear this way...enjoy your life, Sonya! *hangs up*
I think it would work at the right price....
I saw it on the commercial over the weekend, which is a good enough reason to try damn near anything...it looked damn good on TV (the ad boasted that the chicken was 'piled high'! Not stacked, or layered, but piled. What black person can resist chicken piled high? 40 acres, a mule, and chicken piled high... far as I'm concerned, that's the American dream...), to the point where I had to have one as soon as possible. That turned out to be lunch yesterday. Hey, it's only $5 for a limited time right?
I powerwalked to the Subway near my job, where the 'sandwich artist' (it was just a lie stitched on his apron...dude wasn't drawing caricatures on the rolls in mustard or anything, I was actually a bit disappointed...) on duty stopped looking like he wanted to off himself long enough to ask what I wanted. I told him, then turned my head out the window to look at an attractive passerby...by the time I turned it back, he was holding my sandwich. It was almost like he produced the shit from his back pocket. 'Suspicious', I thought...but the mighty roar of my unfed insides overruled any hoagie-related concerns I had. Fuck it, I just wanted something to eat.
Well that's exactly what I got. What stands out about this sandwich is how incredibly mediocre it was. Yeah, it's Subway, but they used to make a decent sub/hoagie/grinder/hero pretty recently...they've fallen off hard. Let's see, where to start...the bread, which was called 'Italian Herbs and Cheese' used to be my favorite that Subway offered. At one point, it was a flavorful blend of cheeses baked onto an oregano and garlic encrusted loaf of bread. It added a little something to most sandwiches. Now it's just sorry ass white bread with an antique finish laquered onto it....I don't know just who the hell they think they're foolin, but that's not the same at all.
Moving on to the chicken, as you can see in the pic, it was not only NOT piled high...but makes only a guest appearance...not a lot of meat there, folks. Making it worse, the 'buffalo' sauce they used on the chicken was generic and devoid of heat. Actually, it didn't really taste like much of shit...kind of like just orange food coloring they soaked the chicken in before slapping it on a roll. Even an attempt to add a little spark by throwing a few jalapenos on it was to no avail. Yes, there was plenty of lettuce and tomato, but that's not what you paid for. I couldn't really be disappointed in it...after all, it wasn't bad...it just wasn't good either. I felt like I wasted 20 minutes eating it.
I was able to get through about 65% of it before the blandness overwhelmed me and I gave up. I mean, yeah, it was lunch, it was food, it was edible...but it was nothing special like I expected. Hell...if you just want sustenance, you could eat whatever that Cream of Wheat lookin shit they ate in "The Matrix" was...but if you're looking for something you can actually say you enjoyed, these are not the subs you're looking for.
That's not to say its not way easier said than done. Honestly, it hurts like hell. There are very few more awkward realizations in life than knowing a person that you were close to no longer fits in your life. Sometimes it gradually dawns on you that you just have outgrown the company of certain folk, sometimes people change and the person you befriended/loved is gone forever, sometimes it's more sudden. It doesn't make it any less painful either way.
The thing is, people are perfectly willing to ignore this realization because they feel comfortable in the relationship or because they don't wanna look like an asshole...but if your instincts are telling you something...fuck perception, go with what makes sense. You can't let other folk stop you from living...and sometimes relationships have to die as a result. It's just part of life I guess...doesn't mean I have to like it...
I'm a sucker for products I've never seen before...especially foodstuffs and drank. Whenever a shiny new bottle or box beckons from the shelves of whatever corner store/supermarket/liquor store I'm in, I feel compelled to try it. Most times it works out well...I get an exotic treat I get to recommend to other folk (Yeah, I'm that friend you always hear 'Yo, you gotta try the ______ at ______!' from...) and sometimes, well...you swing and miss.
Sunday afternoon, I had dragged myself out of bed for the 1st time since Friday night (waking up with a bad cold and a hangover is not a good deal...my weekend was insta-fucked.) and decided that wallowing in my pit of sickness was not conducive to my health. Furthermore, the game was coming on in a couple hours and I never watch football sober. (I've seen it typed that that's bad luck.) A beer run was in order. A little exercise AND a drink! That's bulletproof logic right there... I put on the first blue and silver clothes I could reach and rolled out.
As I walked into the bar (which identifed itself only as BAR) it caught my eye. The sleek black can design. The high alcohol content. The sign that screamed 'NEW!' and pointed to it, silently persuading me to give it a try, just one time. Yes...it was Smirnoff XBT! (Yes, I know now I should have turned and ran out the door full-speed, breaking 2 tackles along the way as soon as I saw 'Smirnoff'...but that's neither here nor there...) It even proclaimed on the can to be 'cut with citrus flavor'. I rationalized that it meant it could have vitamin C in it (prolly not...but maybe...) and that's what I needed in my sick state. How could this turn out badly?
I found out when I cracked open the 1st can. I took a sip, and felt my face fold up. The flavor is somewhat hard to describe, but I'll give it a go. Picture taking a regular everyday beer, dropping a shot of lemon juice in it, drinkin the beer, and then having somebody piss in your mouth. That's as close as I can get. But, as it is a man law not to waste beer under any circumstances, I had to suffer through 2 16-ounce cans of the shit. By the time I was finished, I wanted to go back and punch the person who sold this shit to me in the dick, but wasn't drunk enough to actually go do it...which means this sorry attempt at a refreshing adult beverage fails on multiple levels. Please, don't buy this shit...
Yes, the way I talk on here (and in real life, most times) ain't exactly the King's english at all. The issue isn't my knowledge of proper English mechanics, I could actually write in an extremely cogent and grammatically sound manner if I so chose...I just don't give a fuck, that's all. I mean hell, it wouldn't even sound like me, I don't think. A little stylized typesmithing really shouldnt stand in the way of a valid point, yamean? Long as it's semi-relevant, I feel I can let whatever southern-fried bullshit I wish fly from my g1 keyboard...
See, when I spend my 15 minutes a day typin to y'all, I feel like I'm talkin to my friends, not giving an english symposium. It's aight to use the word 'aight'. umf is way more a locker room than a classroom, and I'm not gettin a grade for this, so making my online voice sound like my offline one shouldn't be a big problem. Even if your dialect of english ain't exactly the same as mine, context clues go a loooong way both online and off, and as long as all my jive is reasonably intelligible, goes to a point, gets a giggle, or makes you put on your thinking cap (either literal or figurative) its all good, dig?
People make automatic assumptions about the level of a mafucka intellegence just because of informal speech, and I think that's wrong. I've heard utter bullshit spoken in the most proper of terms with great sentence structure, but the technical accuracy of the speech made the words no more right...so, hell...if I wanna leave off a few "g's" or throw out a few "yall's" or more than a few "fucks" or a few run on sentences like this one...I think I have the right. When I write a resume, a application essay, or a fuckin term paper, I'll be letter-perfect from start to finish...but til then, fuck the grammar police...the regular ones too if there's time lol...
*fittedwearer's note: Retro Toybox is written towards the inner child in any folk who may read this. I think most of these were pretty universal among kids around my age at the time, and are intended to give the reader a quick flashback to childhood, a place I don't think most people visit enough. (Course, some people, like me, vacation there about half the time.)
Remember these? I do...the year was about 1995 and a new phenomenon swept playgrounds and after school programs everywhere. What wonderful new mid 90's technology or advanced toy had they invented to mesmerize children everywhere? None at all, it seems...instead most kids I knew were transfixed by a simple plaything probably favored by Amish children and invented centuries ago (right after those big metal hoops you would push with a stick as a toy...those never made a comeback tho)...the wooden spinning top. It was simple to use...just wind the string around it, give the string a good yank, and voila! So easy even a window-licker could do it.
Back in the day, they cost a dollar and came in just 3 colors (blue, green, and red). Mine was named Tornado (I felt giving it a name would benefit its performance, even though looking back, it was no different from the millions of others.) It was blue and had a Cowboys helmet sticker that I put on it...which made it look nice, but affected the rotation and airflow properties slightly....oh well, it was the best top in school to me lol... For a while, you wasn't shit at recess unless you could pick up the top while it was spinning and have it spin on the palm of your hand...that was the ultimate (and just about only) trick you could pull off with the thing.
Unfortunately, kids soon discovered how limited it was and shunned it in favor of toys from that century, and the fad, like most childhood fads, faded as quickly as it appeared. However, those 1.5 months when it was the hottest selling thing at the corner store will remain in the back of hearts and minds of late 80's and early 90's babies forever. I'll never forget you, Tornado....
This subterfuge is so insidious because of the highly effective nature of the deception. See, even though the kids were perfectly happy chirping and babbling, callin something a 'game' appeals to something very basic in most children's psyche...the will to win. Kids will compete in the most meaningless shit just for a chance to win. "Let's see who can brush they teeth 1st, who can run and touch that tree 1st, whose turkey sandwich has more meat"...any measurable quantity or attribute is grounds for comparison. They just wanna win. This instinct overrules their desire to talk random kid shit, and thus cons them into silence. So underhanded, so sneaky, so ingenious. Of course it's not really a game, but it's much less controversial than ball-gagging the little angels. That still doesn't change the fact that it's just another lie they tell the chirrens.
As a true friend, you have certain duties to any person you really feel deserves the name. One of those is Mandatory Combat Handicap Assistance. This means if you see your friend gettin jumped, you are required to assist them as far as the preservaton of your own life will allow. This is a very key test of a friendship, as it requires a decision about whether your homeboy/girl is worth potentially gettin your own ass kicked. (The rule only applies to a jumping...if he's gettin his shit handed to him 1-on-1, maybe he shouldn't have had so many Mike's Hard Lemonades before he started poppin his gums at the cage fighter over there...sorry, bruh...) This must be a mutually understood condition, as one MCHA deserves another.
If one is the jumpee, and sees a friend that he would have fought for decline to assist, not only does he have the right to end the friendship, he also has the option of beating his ass in retaliation. No true friend is gonna stand passively by and let his friend get tuned up (that's my favorite word to describe gettin worked over...it sounds like you inspecting the transmission or checkin the oil or something when what you're really doing is quite detrimental to the victim's condition...its kind of ironic...) and if he does, that means he has no concern for your health or well being...and what the fuck kind of buddy is that? Mandatory Combat Handicap Assistance: one of the more important Friendship Responsibilities.
I'm not lookin for a fight, or trying to be violent. I'm just protecting myself. The air is already thick with a mist of winter disease without you shooting your disgusting pathogens all over everywhere...that counts as a biological attack. I don't care if you on the street, or on the train, or standing near my desk at work...if you shower me with germs, you finna regret the shit out of it. How challenging is it for you to cover your plague-spewing mouth or at least turn away from people when you sneeze?
Point is, your momma shoulda taught you that...but since she obviously didn't, pain will have to...I'm sorry. It's better than my other idea, which is sprayin Lysol on Listerine Breath Strips and handin em out. (I'm pretty sure that stuff is bad for people.) I don't want whatever sickness you have, and if you spray me with your malady, that means you were trying to give it to me...I take that as you trying to rape my immune system. Fuck it, way I see it, you hit me first...fair warning.
Its 2009, I expected flying cars and real lightsabers and shit by now, but the least they could do is hurry up on this one. If you're anything like me, I know you've prolly had a mental image you wish was real...either for comic value (when you pictured that chick in the high heels fell down the steps), verification (that thing that really happened that nobody believes) or...other purposes (that one girl you always see on the train). That's why it's essential that they stop bullshittin and make my idea, the mental image projector/printer, a reality. It would be able to take those pictures in your mind and make them either a Powerpoint presentation or a set of 8x10 glossies. Now you can relive the magic of a drunken night where you can't remember how you got where you are, remember who the hell that dude who looked familar is, analyze those fragments of a dream you still remember when you wake up or...savor the results of your mental disrobings of whoever. I think it would sell billions...I just have no idea how to make it. If you do, get crackin...for the good of mankind!
Anyways, what brought me to the conclusion that more people than one would think wasn't raised right is experience at work. I know I talked about how great some of my co-workers were, but that group is mostly in my section, with a few scattered others. It's a big building, and not everyone can be cool I guess. There's a lot of randoms here too. Well...I mean, its more I don't really know them than anything, but I still just think its right if I get on a elevator or go into a room, I acknowledge the people there and don't just ignore them like some kind of antisocial dickhead. A simple 'hey', 'good morning', 'what's good, y'all'...is it seriously that much strain on your life? Am I really asking for too much here?
That's not even to get into on how I feel about people who don't return my 'what's up'/'how ya doin'/'yo's...its disrespectful and you can't tell me no different. You mean to tell me I took 3 seconds out my day to be civil to your monkey ass and you just gonna stand there and grill me like I did something to you? That's basically like spitting in my face. Whenever I hear nothing in response to me greetin somebody, I see little subtitles floating at about their chest height sayin 'fuck you.' That's what that says. So you know what? Next time I say 'good morning' to somebody on the elevator and they just look at me like I told them I was gonna paint my dick orange, I'm gonna give them until I get to my floor to fix their mistake, then bark 'FUCK YOU TOO!' and roll out. Its only fair, way I see it...
Okay, so this guy has been out here doin his thing periodically for a while now, I just thought I'd share with y'all. Now, I don't know exactly what benefit or satisfaction the guy gets from playing with his 4-foot lady puppet that looks like something out of 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' in the middle of fuckin Center City, but I wish he would stop or at least go somewhere else. Nobody likes an amateur puppeteer...let alone one with an undead puppet. I hate him, his weird girlfriend on strings, and everything they both stand for.
I assume he does it so people will make it hail on him with coins for his brilliant performances (that have to be seen for the full creep factor to be appreciated...its...strange...) one problem tho...nobody likes this guy or his creepy fuckin puppet, and thus he gets no tips. Its the saddest thing ever to watch him stand there and manipulate the puppet for hours on end while grown folk on the way to work just try not to look at him and children point, cry and run away. One time, a child that couldn't have been more than 5 walked by it with her mom and froze with a look of terror, eyes locked on the thing. Puppetmonger began to dance his horrible toy in the direction of Little Girl, Little Girl emitted a bloodcurdling shriek, ripped her hand out of her mother's and shot down the street like she had been catapulted...that's all I needed to see to know it was evil.
Meanwhile, his hat always sits in front of him, expectantly overturned but completely devoid of coins. I've never seen one person tip this dude, as many times as I've seen him...hell some folk cross the street away from him when they encounter him. He's not in a very lucrative business...plus its gettin too cold to be outside doin a puppet show nobody wants to see. It's a lose-lose-lose situation...so next time I see him outside, I'm gonna give him 10 bucks (or double his weekly earnings as a marionette engineer) to take his show on the road...permanently. Course, if that doesn't work, I can always just whip out a lighter and incinerate the little wooden bitch...I might get a medal for that!
fittedwearer's note: The "umf unpaid (for now) endorsements" section is exactly what it sounds like: me talking up different products I use myself that might help you too. While these little blurbs are strictly pro bono at the moment, any company that I mention can damn sure feel free to break a nigga off some change, should the mood strike them. Anyway, here we go...
I feel confident puttin my font firmly behind this product...this is the single best phone helmet on the market. It's made by a company called Body Glove, who makes their big money in surf equipment and shit, but knows how to make a hell of a case too. The thing ran about $25 and was worth every last Federal Reserve Note. Hell, the damn thing prolly has paid for itself many times over in avoided repair/replacement bills. The picture above is what it looks like fresh out the box...mine looks nothing like that.
Yeah, this looks more familiar...check out the scars of day-to-day battle, the lacerations and abrasions, the scuffs of countless falls off a drunken owner's lap when he stands and forgets his phone is there. I've fumbled, dribbled, bounced and kicked my phone eleventy times (just this morning I dropped the mafucka down a flight of steps) and guess what...I'm typing on it right now. The actual phone (which I cant take a camera phone pic of, for obvious reasons) looks brand new...that's the sign of a quality phone helmet. It's not the greatest lookin case in the world, but I'm pretty sure its made out of either Kevlar or whatever Nintendo 64 cartridges were made out of (you had to blast one of those bad boys with a 12-guage to break it)...there's kind of a form/function decision to be made here. So if you're sick of your phone/iPod/laptop/pretty much any small electronic device goin raw and are in the market for a little...protection...look no further than the Body Glove site. $25 now could save you $250 later...this has been a umf unpaid (for now) endorsement.
Racial jokes aside, their stupid little story was later exposed as a bullshit lie. Yup, fabricated the whole thing. The weeping, the cries for help, the lamentations of parents with a lost child, fake, fake, fake. (Big surprise: the couple met in acting school...) Why would parents lie about the safety of their child, decieving their friends, neighbors, the media, and the police and other folk who wasted tax dollars combing random fields and shit looking for little airborne Falcon? To flip the buzz they woulda gotten into a reality show. To get their 15 minutes of fame off of sympathy for a child that was never lost, and get a fuckin reality show nobody was gonna watch anyway. (Seriously, what was it gonna be about? Would you watch that shit? 'Broken Wings: the chronicles of a grieving family'...must see TV, right? The fuck outta here...)
That's bad the fuck enough (I personally think Falcon should be taken out of that nest by the gov't, and the parents thrown in the birdcage for 5-10 years...) but what's really wrong is it's a symptom of a much bigger problem that I'm noticing more and more as time goes on. You see, the fucked up part about it is TV is so bad with the reality thing, everybody and they fuckin momma got a reality show. (News flash, reality addicts: it's all scripted...ain't a damn thing real about it) On some real shit...they'll make a reality show about anygahdamnthing.
I saw one the other day called 'Pawn Stars'...it followed the exciting life of a pawn shop owner. Riveting. Or how about 'Jon and Kate plus howevermanyitisnow?' Yay, you have a lot of kids...great job reproducing...not just anybody can make 8 kids, that takes skill. What about 'Tiny and Toya' (don't you dare correct me on those womens names if I got em wrong...you know what show I'm talkin about) ...just because you have a kid by a rapper you get a show? 'Bridezillas?' (Shut up, I flipped past it once or twice...) "Oh, I'm a complete bitch who needs my teeth kicked out the back of my head and I yell at my friends who are doin me a fuckin favor, I deserve airtime, who wouldn't want to watch that?"
It's gettin outta control, and now everybody wants to be on TV...so what there's absolutely nothing interesting about your extraordinarily average life...just make some shit up and it's only a matter of time before VH1 gives you a show called '*insert your name here* of Love', at the very least. Just because you have a pulse and a need for attention does NOT mean you deserve to be on television. The shit is beyond sad. How long ago was it that you had to...y'know...have a talent to appear on TV? Now all you have to have is a fucked up story or a eager willingness to act like a fuckin dickhead to get your time in the magic box...and as long as that's true, we'll have attention-seekin fucktards pullin dumb shenanigans like this for the fame. We gotta draw the line somewhere, people...that's all I'm sayin.
Now, either I'm out of my fuckin mind (not farfetched), ghosts are callin me (and they better be in my network...just cuz you dead don't mean you can waste my anytime minutes), or its actually possible for your body to get so used to vibration it starts vibrating by itself. The 3rd one don't make much sense, otherwise lonely girls would walk around shakin all the time, so if this is really just a one-man thing...its one of the 1st 2. That scares me a lil...somebody please tell me this happened to them too...
Well, here it is, the one completely pointless Sunday in the fall...the bye week. It just seems so fuckin unfair...all the suck-ass weather of the winter with none of the football (which is the only purpose for the later months...everybody knows that). Usually I don't write here on Sundays, as that's a special day for me (I'm busy watchin the game), but since there will be no such thing this week, why the hell not. I'll ramble a little...
Ya know, it's almost like being left out of a holiday. Being a football fan on your team's bye week is kinda like being the one Jewish kid on the block Christmas Day. Everybody else is prancing happily about in their brightly colored sweaters/team gear singin Christmas carols/fight songs and sipping delicious hot cocoa/beer and you're just kind of in the corner, miserable and forgotten, sadly spinning your dreidel as you admire their gifts/games from afar. Its tragic, for one reason or another.
Will I find some shit else to get into today? Prolly. Will I wish I was watching the Cowboys instead at some point today? Definitely. Yeah, it's a little crazy but...I think I'm past 'a little' even without the whole football thing, so...um...fuck it. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually do other things with my life besides watch football (sometimes)...just not on Sundays. I feel that's part of the winter package. I don't know...its just such a left-out feeling for a weekend...I'm glad it only comes once a year. To those football folk whose teams are playing today, good luck (cept, of course, the Eagles, Redskins and Giants fans...fuck all y'all filthy bottomfeedin mafuckas) and to those who could give a damn about the games today...call me. Spinning a dreidel is way less depressing when you have somebody celebrating no holiday at all to spin it with.
When you think of Chickie's and Pete's (I don't know why both names are in possessive form...I think its stupid too, but let's skip the grammar lesson and keep it movin...) you think of one thing: funny smelling drunken Eagles fans stumbing about spelling 'Eagles'. But another thing also comes to mind.Yes...crab fries. This wonderful treat is a testament to the culinary creativity of Americans (and the obesity). It is a documented fact that crab fries contain approximately -7% crab (give or take 7%) but Apple Jacks don't taste like apple and nobody seems to have a problem with that, so get the fuck over it.
Anyway, what this dish actually is is a wonderful marriage of crinkle-cut french fries (usually cooked to perfection, crispy outer skin with mashed potato-like innards), seasoning (mostly Old Bay, but there's other shit too), and little tubs of what I can only hope is melted American cheese (Some weird folk eat them without the cheese but...don't do that). It might seem simple, but in that simplicity is the genius of its recipe. Take one and eat it. You won't have a chance to tell me what you think of it, because odds are you'll have 3 more in your mouth by then. The salty, savory mess is best enjoyed with alcohol (like most other things).
Look at the basket too. That's a lot of fuckin fries. It calls itself an appetizer, but if you can eat that in its entirety and then eat other things, you might die earlier than you 'posed to. (Seriously...for me at least, it happens the same way every time...I get em, eat about 3/4 of them with both hands and then sit there with a sad look as I realize I hit the wall and can't continue...its a deeply painful feeling wasting crab fries when there are starving children in Delaware who never had any...) If you're even able to finish the whole thing, it can serve as a meal in itself. Its easy to start, but hard to stop...like heroin, but way more delicious. Its definitely one of those things you really can't make correctly at home unless you steal the secret formula (*resists Spongebob joke*) but its worth goin there just to have them. It's one of my favorite things to gain weight attempting to eat, so if you're ever in a Chickie's and Pete's, you know what you have to order (or I'll find you...)
You're in a fast food restaurant waitin for your meal. You're just sittin down, chillin, peepin out the scenery...minding your own biz until your taco or burger or...whatever vegetarians eat is ready. That's when a rather attractive female wanders over with a smile on her face. She looks directly at you and starts to speak. You, encouraged by this, begin to spit some shit of your own...but in midsentence you see her adjust her hair...and see the Bluetooth earpiece in her ear. Bitch wasn't talkin to you...she was on the phone. Everyone else in a 5-foot radius sees this too, and begins to snicker at you. You curse technology, get your grub and roll out. Maybe next time, slugger.
Now, there are a few ways to avoid this one. The one I use is to wait until somebody I'm not sure is talkin to me says whatever they're sayin in my direction twice before responding. Folk might get mad they gotta repeat theyselves...but at least I don't gotta look like a jackass any more than normal. Another way is for the person to at least keep the earpiece visible so others know you're on the phone and not their heels. On some real shit...y'all should start doin that...its confusing, fuckdammit!
The 3rd way (which I don't recommend unless you a bonafide bad mafucka...its experimental at best) is to simply give the poor girl a thunderous open-palm slap on the non-bluetooth side of her head, sendin the earpiece flying and her tumbling to the ground. Now you have a captive audience. You can then either crouch down next to her and spit your game, or if you knocked her smooth out, you can just leave your number written on a napkin and pinned to her shirt...somebody should try that and let me know how it goes.
fittedwearer's note: happy bday Wayne, ya ancient mafucka...this man really had records as a child, smh...
Yes, this is one of my favorite inventions of all time. The remote control was invented a while ago by some guy whose name isn't important right now (a. you can google it yourdamnself if it's that serious to you...but it isn't. Even if it is that crucial that you know, and do Wiki it up or something, you're gonna forget by the end of the day. We both know neither of us really care. Fuck it, let's move on.) and it has improved the quality of every TV watcher's life. So celebrated, yet so underrated (until you lose that mafucka...then it's the most important thing in the room).
Every day we all flip mindlessly through channels without recognizing its value. I know I do a lot of ranting about lazy inventions, but there's a difference between making life a little easier and lazy for lazy's sake. This falls firmly into the 1st category. Seriously, before this was invented, folk would actually have to get up (!) from wherever they were lounging and manually operate the TV. Every time! Can you imagine if we had all the channels we do now and no remote? Never mind having to manipulate the volume using the TV...that's bad enough. You know that back button you press so instinctually when you're flipping between shows? Forget that shit. Now you have to get out of your chair/bed and press the 'up' or 'down' button 127 times to navigate between your programs. I don't even want to fathom a godforsaken world like that. So thank you, remote dude (or chick...I'm not that sexist) for your contribution to society.
I think its cuz when the sky is gray you don't see the sun, and it don't register that it's daytime and that you should get your dumb ass up, thereby messin up your body clock...or...something. That's my scientific hypotheguesstimate, anyway.Especially these type of days like today where its cold as hell and about to rain. Something about it just saps my will to go out and enjoy life and do things...its like that seasonal affective disorder shit they talk about on the medicine commercials. Maybe I should go to the doctor and say I got that shit..they might give me some fun pills. (Don't you know? Its 2009, there's a pill for damn near everything...half of them will get you high as a kite, the other half will give you kill you all kinds of dead...read that fine print, ppl!) Either way, something's gotta give here.
Its not even all the way my fault, way I see it. You see, I'm black...it's a well documented fact that over 87.4% of black folk do not enjoy cold temperatures. You can google that shit. (Don't tho, just trust me and keep reading, k?) That's why you see us in big jackets, sweaters and skullys when whitefolk are still rockin bike shorts and windbreakers. (Offended? Here's some homework: its pretty cold where most of y'all who read this shit live...walk outside and look who the only folk without coats are...its not racist if it's true...) It probably has something to do with skin pigmentation and relative melanin absorption of warmth based on available sunlight or some other shit that almost sounds like I know what I'm talkin about, but all I know is most of us don't do the cold.
So forgive me friends and other folk I might not see as much during these winter months. Its just that its winter, it gets dark as shit at 3 in the afternoon and freezin my dice off has never really been fun for me. I'm not avoiding you on purpose.I'm just either holed up in my crib surrounded by space heaters, drinkin hot cocoa with Baileys with a brimmed skully on, or tryin to gather the will to even get the hell out of bed. I'll try tho...
I really wanna know what sick bastard greenlighted this shit. There is absolutely no way in hell somebody got paid to come up with this. Like, who the fuck sat down in a board meeting and was like "You know what? A Razor scooter is fun and all, but not nearly enough people are hurt on them...oh, here's an idea! Let's put a piece of flint or something on the back so the damn thing shoots sparks out the back of it! Oh, a stroke of genius!" Is that even legal?
First of all, making a childrens toy flammable is barely ever a good idea. That's why they don't have Nerf flamethrowers or GI Joes that come with tiny live grenades. Apparently you have to stomp on the back lever thingy to get the sparks to come out...what happens if a pants leg or some other piece of material somehow gets caught in the device and now flaming embers are being shot all up your child's trousers? Ill leave the math on that one up to you.
Oh, and by the way, you know where a lot of scooters are ridden? In parking lots and streets...asphalt, basically. But there's oil on streets sometimes, right? Okay...so what if your little scooterbug decides (intentionally or accidentally) to spark it up through a puddle of oil on the blacktop? Now you have some unlucky 8 year old cruisin along at 15 miles an hour engulfed in flames...that's good clean fun, right?
I don't know what child hatin pyromaniac came up with this, but I want him or her to know they're dead wrong for it. Its only a matter of time before some poor kid dies in a fiery maelstrom after riding near a gas leak or something and the Razor company gets sued into hell. Its just not a good idea, and the inventor not only needs his head checked, but prolly needs it shot too. Just sayin...
If you don't, I present a sample from (the fictional) Alicia. Alicia is that Facebook friend we all have that we don't know that well, but she added us anyway because she decided that everybody needs to read Alicia Digest. Maybe you went to high school with her, maybe you work with her, maybe she just lives around you...eitha way, it usually goes something like:
9:17am- Alicia is: in bed...just woke up thinkin about her baby...damn I love that man...
[Shante likes this!]
Kevin wrote: I love u too babe
Alicia wrote: Aww my baby pie sweetiebuns blah blah blah
10:24am: Alicia posted 53 new pictures (12 of her and her bf, 41 of pretty much the same pic of herself from different angles in the bathroom mirror)
11:43am- Alicia is: *insert some random Beyonce/Keri Hilson quote she thinks describes her*
[Alicia likes this!]
[Kevin likes this!]
Kevin wrote: *random Weezy/Drake quote as a response*
Alicia wrote: LOL!
Shante wrote: Y'all are soooo cute together...I wish I had a bf...
1:05pm- Alicia is: wondering what changed...I can't take this anymore, I'm wondering if this relationship is worth it...
Shante wrote: I told you about him...he ain't no good anyway...
1:11pm: Alicia is now tagged as 'single'.
2:23pm- Alicia is: wondering what she's gonna do now...its cool I'm 2 blessed 2 be stressed lol
[Shante likes this!]
Shante wrote: Its all good girl...boys like buses miss one next 15 another one comin LOL
Alicia wrote: Gucci! LOL
2:41 pm: Alicia is now tagged as 'In a Relationship'
3:06pm- Alicia is: thinkin about her boo...can't wait to see you tonight babe <3
[Kevin likes this!]
[Shante likes this!]
Shante wrote: I'm soooo glad to see y'all back together!
Kevin wrote: I'm sry babe...it was my fault...
Alicia wrote: Yeah I know...jk LOL I'm just glad I got u...
Kevin wrote: Me 2 *mwah*
4:15pm- Alicia is: on her way 2 bestie's to get her hair done!
[Kevin likes this!]
Kevin wrote: It's about time...LOL jk...
Alicia wrote: shut up Kevin lol
Shante wrote: You betta leave my friend alone boy! A u betta have ur hair washed, hoe!
Alicia wrote: LOL I hate y'all...
6:03pm- Alicia is: gettin her hair done...so fresh and so clean...
[Shante likes this!]
[Kevin likes this!]
Shante wrote: Stay still so I can braid ur shit right...
Alicia wrote: Stop pullin so hard u gon make a bitch bald LOL
Shante wrote: Ungrateful ass...lol...
8:24pm- Alicia is: on her way to spend the night with her man...I'm comin babe! <3
[Kevin likes this!]
Kevin wrote: wear the black one this time *insider*
Alicia wrote: lol u silly...see u soon I love u...
10:30am: Alicia is now tagged as 'single'
10:32am- Alicia is: done with men and is focusing on school, work and God...
[Shante likes this!]
Shante wrote: See, that's why I don't have a bf...dudes is nothin but trouble...
Alicia wrote: I know girl...I don't need that in my life...
11:17am- Alicia is: missin her dude...
[Shante likes this!]
11:56am: Alicia is now tagged as 'It's Complicated'
You get the general picture here. This ain't Twitter, mafucka...take that shit over there. Its just irritating as hell to read some people's whole personal lives against your will, especially since on average about 45-75% of your Facebook friends ain't REALLY 'friends' at all, just folk you know from...somewhere. Its really weird not to say 3 words to a person in real life and know every single hourly update on their existence. I personally suggest a 5-status-change-a-day limit (which is still a bit much, but there should be a cap somwhere) but since I know good ole Mark Zuckerberg ain't goin for that, if I see this type of shit from any of my Facebook friends, they gets deleted...hit the showers. Its a good policy, and it works for me. AJ is: deleting some folk right now.
Is it because it sounds like some kind of protective retainer mouthpiece thing? ("We have to go to the dentist right now, little Jimmy's blog fell out while he was playing soccer!") Quite possibly. Is it because it's the noise someone makes spilling their guts into a toilet after gettin trashed on Listerine and Thunderbird? Maybe... Is it because I'm forced to use it, because there aren't many synonyms for blog? That sounds right...but just for the record, I hate the word. There's gotta be a better word...just gotta be. Not that you care or anything...but I guess you do since you ain't stop readin yet...blogadelic...
is how sad this is. So I was home yesterday enjoyin my fraudulent holiday, and I happen to flip past a episode of 'Springer'...now, I ain't watched that for years, but I happened to catch a particularly intriguing episode. A woefully pitiful gentleman described his life with his 'non-biological partner'...some kind of sex doll. (She had a name he had given her, I don't remember it, its not important...) He, being deadass serious, went into detail about how he had his first 'experience' with her soon as she was delivered, how he cuddles with her at night, and how when he goes to work, she mostly looks out the window and reads...as you can imagine, she's not a big talker.
Anyway, this sad strange little man got me to thinking...where the fuck do you get something like that at, and what kind of person is so lonely that their partner is inanimate? Well, a quick lap around the net told me that his paramour is called a Real Doll. People actually can buy these things, and for the low price of around $5,000, you too can have an custom-made anatomically correct mannequin to take out all your sick little fantasies on. (I refuse to put the link on my site, google it yourself, ya horny hermit...) They even have male dolls (Complete with a vibrating plastic fantastic! Fun for the whole family!) so our socially outcast ladies can also get something they can feel to let them know they lover ain't real.
Now, while the doll would make kind of a cool toy/punching bag/conversation piece to scare the livin shit out of visitors to your home, actually havin sex with the thing seems...odd, to say the least. I imagine its kind of like humping a dead body...cold, stiff, and kind of plastic-y. Not much of a turn-on. Plus, it would be really weird to be laying there (or kneeling/sitting/standing there...I like to have fun too lol) strokin away and this thing is lookin up at me with cold, dead eyes. I don't think I could even get up for it, so to speak...it would be like shootin pool with a rope.
That's not including how detached you have to be from reality to actually take the bedroom Barbie as a serious significant other...that's pretty much equivalent to givin up on life, ain't it? I mean, the minute you stick your manparts into that doll, you're saying there isn't a single flesh and blood human being willing, for love or money (hey, you can buy love if you have enough bread...) to endure your presence for more than 15 consecutive minutes, and that you're now reduced to loving up on a piece of silicone to fill the black void of rejection in your life. Not to mention the thing can't even cook...about the only thing I can see it doing that I would want my wife to do is leave me alone during the game...and that's not worth $5,000 when I can just duct tape a human female's mouth shut for 3 hours at a cost of maybe 3 bucks a roll.
I don't know...maybe I'm closed minded, maybe I just don't believe in interanimational dating, maybe I just don't understand the special bond between a man and his party doll. All that being said, as I watched the man get a legal marriage to the thing, I couldn't help but feel bad for him (and didn't even think of how his parents must have felt to see their son wed a life size whore action figure on national TV...jeez...) not in a "he needs help" kind of way...more of a "he should have cinder blocks tied to his body and then be kicked into the Delaware River so he can be put out of his misery" type deal. Yamean...not even to be cruel, but it would be a lot quicker and way less weird. Just my opinion...
You know what that's like? That's like me waiting til you're not home, kickin in the door to your crib, puttin all your valuables in a big burlap sack, sitting on your couch butt ass nekkid, makin myself some roman noodles and running up your phone bill with 1-900 numbers then when you come home and see me chillin, I say 'Na, na...I discovered this! I claim this house for me...you can still live in the backyard tho, that's cool, right?' Would I get a day for that? Well...maybe a day in court, but other than that, hellfuckin no!
There's gotta be hundreds of historical mafuckas more deserving of a day than him...Benjamin Franklin, Malcolm X (I've always wanted a Malcolm X day)...hell, even Colonel fuckin Sanders! At least that dude can cook up tasty birds...that mafucka contributed to society. All Columbus did was Debo a whole people for they land...that ain't heroic, that's a crime. So, while I will gladly stay home and collect a paycheck today, I think we need to take a second look at exactly what we celebrating...that is all.
When you have a full-time job, you might as well be friendly with those around you. I mean, by the nature of your employment, you are forced to be around these mafuckas for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week...which is way more than the average person sees his actual family or friends. Some people choose to keep it on the strictly business 'hi' and 'bye' shit, and I can respect that...but every so often you get to work among a special set of folk who you really don't mind, and and some rare cases, actually like and care about. At my current job (that I've been at for a year and a half), I'm lucky enough to work around folk like that. I refer to these people as job kin...that's your kindafamily between 9 and 5 on weekdays (more if you choose, of course).
I never knew the real value of havin job kin until yesterday. Right about now, I'm going through some serious life issues which I won't bore you with. Its not really embarrassing or anything, Ill say its some pretty heavy shit, and leave it at that... I'm usually pretty good at keeping such things behind my hat brim, but I must have had it written all over my face as I dragged my ass to my workstation. I did legitimately feel like shit, didn't wanna be there, didn't wanna go home where 66% of the problems had their roots, so there I sat, staring out into a blank space in front of me, wondering what the fuck was gonna happen next.
The 1st person to peep my malfunction was Bella Nicole...she came over close, smellin like sexual cinnabon and asked me was I okay. (Her prescence alone made me forget my problems for a few golden seconds) but I didn't really wanna whine to her...I mean, come on fellas, you know where I'm comin from here...pity and *that* don't make good bedfellows. I told her 'nothing special'...wasn't a lie, wasn't too deep. She gave me that female look that said 'I know you're lying, but it's okay, I understand...' smiled at me and sauntered away.
Thats when the office mom (you know the type...middle aged, kindly, brings in food for the troops every so often, will tell you to zip up your coat when its cold, is good for an occasional ride home, generally pleasant) Rox, came over with Wanye, another cool guy in my section and asked me what was wrong. Both wore looks of compassion on their face. Now, if you've interatced with humans for any period of time, you know there's 2 kinds of 'what's wrong?'...the kind where they just really want you to say 'Nothing, I'm cool' so yall can keep it movin and the genuinely interested one. This was the real one.
Like I said, I usually keep my personals personal, so I answered in the coolest brush-it-off manner possible: 'Ah, I'm chillin...' Roxanne was both female and had 2 female chirrens my age, so she knew all about emotions and feelings and The Notebook and all that shit. She knew by my John Kerry-status long face that I was indeed not chillin. 'You can talk about it, its okay...' she said. She sat down in a chair near my desk and gave me her undivided. Wayne stood with his arms folded, lookin like a mini bouncer pocket Hulk mafucka. Clearly, they was concerned about me. I thought for a minute, decided 'fuck it, you asked twice' and told her my troubles.
Besides the benefit of killing half a hour of my Friday, she seemed genuinely concerned. She said some of the standard kind words (which actually made me feel a lil betta) and recommended that I talk to my supervisor (affectionately known as Banks) about going home, since I was in no emotional state to be there. Me being a manly man as I am, I equated that to going home for cramps. No thx, I'll tough it out. She said she understood, and went about her day...or so I thought. I continued to do my catatonic thing until my boy G came over. He's cool peoples...kind of a big brother type, took me in from day 1 at the gig and showed me all the best ways to not get fired and have fun doing it.
Anyway, dude came over and instantly saw my shit wasn't straight. 'You aight, dawg?' I wasn't fooling nobody with my poker face, clearly. He continued with the concerned-male-friend version of Rox's psychoanalysis. I spent another 20 minutes talkin AJ current events while he listened with real interest. He's goin through some shit of his own, so it was more of a symbiotic therapy session. (Uh...no homo? I'm not entirely sure that's needed there, but sometimes things sound a little funny...better safe than sissy...) Either way, it really helped. I no longer felt like beating somebody into submission or then weeping like a woman.
As I went to the file room at about 10:30 to start work, Banks came in the back and cornered me. I guess she noticed my lack of rapid-fire jokes and hyperactivity I'm known and tolerated around the office for. I assumed Rox had talked to her, because she asked if I wanted to go home. I said no, I'll make it. She insisted, I declined. She said 'Alright...but take it easy today...do the shit that gotta be done today, but other than that you can fall back.' She then went back to her desk. I mindlessly rearranged files and did other random tasks for a while, until I was called to Banks' desk.
'What now?' I thought. When I arrived, G was in front of her desk collecting money from her. I ignored that and waited to be told to go find this file or make this report or tote that barge oor lift that bale...but instead got a different set of instructions: 'Go with G'. Aight...with G I went. We walked down the hall to where Bella's desk was...he collected a few dollars from her too. She gave me one of those killer smiles and I was stuck for a nanosecond until G jabbed me in the ribs and said 'Come on nigga, let's go!' We got on the elevator, went down and out, and hit the streets. I asked where we was goin. He said the liquor store...which is fine with me at any time...but I asked 'Why?' He cleared it all up "Niggas got eyes...its sumthin wrong with you, you been moping your goofy ass around all morning. You need a drink."
That was one of the most touching gestures I ever got in my life. Not only were my job kin concerned about my well-being...but they were concerned enough to buy me a little liquid smiles before quittin time. That's love, man. As we came back with the happy juice and put it on Banks' (who masterminded the whole thing) desk, she asked if I had done all my work for today. As it turned out, I had...she then told me to go for it. And go for it we did. By day's end, I was my old animated self...its amazing how a drink or 3 can elevate one's mood. I left that day with even further proof for my theory that 87.3% of lifes problems can be at least mitigated with intoxication...and a newfound respect for the benefits of job kin. I recommend both.
I saw this in the store the other day, and the shit made me sick...like, there's so many things wrong with this. Number 1, I never liked Lunchables, even as a child...mostly cuz there was never a damn thing lunch-able about it. *old folk voice* In my day, all we got with Lunchables were 3 silver dollar meat circles, 3 squares of cheese, 4 crackers, and a Capri Sun...or those horrible mini pizzas with the ketchup for sauce. */old folk voice*
Now, if you're into feeding your children hors d'ouvres (that's pronounced ore-dervz, for you semi-literate mafuckas out there) that's fine, but I don't know a single child that's old enough to eat solid food who's gonna be cool with that as a meal. That's why they eat all those Lemonheads and Star Crunches and Pecan Spinwheels all day...they still hungry cuz all they've had to eat for lunch is 3 fuckin open face cracker sammiches. That's not even 1/5 a Happy Meal.
Now its good that they're trying to step they game up a tad with tacos and burgers and shit...but those concepts don't translate very well to Lunchables if you ask me. First off...that's fully cooked beef that's been sitting in a wrapper in a supermarket for weeks...yum yum, appetizing. Who knows what type of embalming fluid and other crazy 2012 chemicals they had to put in that shit to keep it preserved? Your kid is gonna end up sproutin a second neck or some shit. Second, I like how they painted it with char stripes to look like its fresh off the grill...you, I, and the Lunchables corpration all know good and gahdamn well those those processed meat nuggets never went anywhere near a grill. To top it off...even ignoring all that Whole Foods-type shit I just spit, who eats a cold cheeseburger? There ain't no damn microwaves in schools...they just got books from the new millenium in some.
Not even to get on the fact that the damn thing cost about 4 dollars...you know what else you can get for 4 dollars? A box of fuckin hamburgers! Half a pound of lunchmeat! A loaf of bread, both peanut butter AND jelly! Real, actual food intended for human consumption! You that lazy that you can't spend 3 minutes makin a sandwich and throwing a juice and a bag of Doritos in a box for your child to eat? To me, there's no reason in the world for this product to exist. It doesn't make any sense to me. Whoever decided that it was a good idea for a cold meat patty to be shrinkwrapped and fed to kids should be slapped diagonally from forehead to chin...hey, that's just me tho.
I've actually seen some young assclown punk jump up and down on one until it went down a little further than it was supposed to. All you heard was a rickety creak, and dude instantly saw the error of his ways in midair. He got off that sombitch faster than a greased crackhead. Like, he didn't even step off it, he just came down off a jump, hit the grate to bounce again, heard the groan of overworked metal, stopped a foot off the ground, and appeared 2 feet away from the place he was floating like a glitch in a video game with a look of utter terror in his eyes. My fear was legitimized that day.
Add into the equation that I'm not the smallest dude in the world (6'4" 230ish) and its just not good math. I just know there's gonna be that one time where I step on one of them mafuckas and that shit collapse and send me plummeting to my untimely demise...ain't nothing cool about that. So if I like you, I beg you...don't walk on those things. The life you save may be your own. Of course, if I don't like your bitch ass, feel free...
Now I think its great that you can get locked up and still have a online social life (Even tho some kids in schools don't have computers. but hey, whateva) and I guess its cool that you can tweet to your cellmate about how lunch was a cheese sandwich and a tiny orange juice...but uh, one thing...don't be pokin me bruh...keep all that inside them walls.
How long until we got folk selling sharpened toothbrushes on craigslist? It is kind of a good thing for freedom-challenged people to be able to communicate, but I know if I was ever locked up, I would feel disrespected if I found out somebody set me up to be shanked on Twitter. Another thing I wonder is if there's like a in-jail matchup service for singles who wanna find a special somebody to share a cot with... (heharmony? rapebook? guyspace? soapfumbler.com?) mattafact, no I don't. I think it'd be better if I never found out...
The thing about the alpha condition is it don't happen a lot, and is so hard to maintain. You could have A-status all day, then bang your knee on something and be limpin for hours. How many times this week have you had to deal with one of those conditions I mentioned up there? They're annoying as shit when you have em, but when whatever it is goes away it's like "whatever..." I think that's wrong...you see...random dumb shit happens to us so much I feel it should be appreciated when something ain't wrong! Feels great to be 100%.
For example, I woke up this morning, it was a rainy, depressing day, I had to go to work, I'm out of pre-work medicine...but my mansuit was A-status. Not a thing on me hurt. That alone gave me the energy to drag my 'like new conditon' ass out of bed and start charging through my day...I considered it a small victory, took a drink, and headed off for work. Celebrate your health while you happy, and if you lucky, your whole life will be a party.
Now while we all know the dudepunch in the arm between 2 males is a harmless show of brotherhood (think hug) and the slapbox is just 2 friends bullshittin around, I more wrote this toward the females. Ladies, just because I softly shoved you or smacked you in the collarbone or gave you a light open-hand-face-push (aka mug/mush depending on your geographical dialect), don't be upset...it means I likes ya! Youre invited to return the favor, since you really cant hurt me...and I like it ;) If I put my hands on you with no intent to hurt you, it means I'm voluntarily touchin you....which is good. Any of y'all wanna wrestle?
Oh, and just so this don't get confused and/or fucked up...no, a straight power hook to the jaw don't mean I love you...it means I want you neutralized. We can all tell the difference between a blazing left cross to the face and a giggleslap. I'm a just a big playfighter...I think its fun. Thought id clear that up...
The most telling signal is the clothes. (Yeah, its superficial, but its also visible...) 4 years ago, everyone was wearing jeans 8 sizes too big and hoodies that doubled as tents in a emergency...because everybody on tv was doing it. Look around today...all the new videos show 15 year olds prancing around in electric pastel multicolor skinny jumpsuits and prescription glasses with no lenses...and it's the hot thing in the streets now. Most of the same people know damn well they was clownin folk who wore tight ass clothes into submission a couple years ago...now they're proudly rockin that shit because the media and their peers say it's okay now. I've actually had people say they wear the things they do because other folk are. Nobody sees anything wrong with that?
The worst part about all that fickle fashion is it makes it harder for people like me who want to look like...myself...to find clothes. What happens when some new outlandish trend comes down off the airwaves? They put it in all the stores, replacing the regular clothes. I actually went into a store I used to shop in and couldn't find ONE pair of jeans that wouldn't subject me to intense testicle compression...not to mention a shirt over a L. I left there vowing to never return. Of course, in 3 months when the videos show people wearing some other crazy shit, that'll be in the stores instead...but I'm still shit outta luck. Online shopping has become my last refuge. I shouldn't have to pay shipping charges to avoid looking like some 13 year old Twitterholic.
I swear, if a new video has Lil Wayne and Drake wearing puffy pirate shirts, denim rhinestone skirts and a cape with Timbs, I bet my whole next paycheck it'll be a week tops until you see folk rockin that getup in the streets. Remember Von Dutch? Ed Hardy? The LED scrolling belt buckles that would show a name/message? (In the interest of full disclosure, I'm ashamed to say I'm guilty of that one. It was years ago...in my defense, I legitimately liked it and only actually wore it once before the batteries died...we all make mistakes lol...I learned a valuable lesson...) Those stupid Kanye shades that defeated the entire purpose of having eyes because you CAN'T FUCKIN SEE? All worn by some celebrity, spread like wildfire in the hood, and faded out as fast as they came. It's only a matter of time before this too, shall pass.
The conclusion to be drawn here is obvious...nobody actually liked those things, but bought them because everybody else was wearin it, so they had to. It's like a whole subculture of 'Me Too!' Ever see those packs of teenagers wearing 5 different colors of the same outfit, lookin like the Aeropostale Power Rangers or some shit? How much you wanna bet they're gonna look back at pics of themselves in 10 years and cry? It's like every day is Halloween, and they're going as 'anybody but myself'. At some point, you have to do you. Not him, or him, or him over there either. You. Fitting in is overrated if you don't fit in with yourself, too.
1) When stopped on foot by an officer, you have the right to leave if he's not placing you under arrest. Once you determine you're good, you should ask the following question: "Am I free to go now, officer/sir/pig?" He'll either say yes or no...if the answer ain't yes, ask what his 'required reasonable suspicion' is for keeping you. If he has an answer, ask is what you're doing a crime. (If he doesn't, ask if you're free to go again) If it is a crime, there are probably bracelets in your near future. Game over. If it isn't a crime, ask one mo'ginn are you free to go. Lather, rinse, repeat...don't chat with Johnny Law any longer than you must (unless you're into that type of thing...)
2) You're only required to identify yourself when stopped. (If you're dirty, I recommend a alias and a denial of having any ID...use your fuckin head) You don't have to say shit about where you're coming from or going. You could be coming from a bank job and going to kill a stripper, and you don't have to tell him either. It's none of their business, fuck em. As a matter of fact, besides your name and showing your ID, you don't have to say a damn thing. It's very satisfying to more or less tell a cop "I'm not telling you shit, and there aint a fuckdamn thing you can do about it". (Quote that exact phrase at your own risk tho...)
3) You don't have to consent to any search of your person or vehicle without probable cause (which, if they had, they would be searching you instead of asking). If you have anything you don't want them to find...um...don't let them search, you criminal mastermind, you! Worst case scenario, they call in a drug dog or something to sniff your shit out...but most times they won't even feel like the wait or the paperwork, say fuck it, and let you be on your way. You wanna go to jail or you wanna go home? (Don't go for that 'if you weren't guilty, you would have nothing to hide' line either...that's just what they tell you to try to guilt-trip you into waiving your rights)
That's really all (besides the obvious one folk always forget...you have a right to a copy of anything the bacon boy writes down that has your name on it) but if you think about it those 3 tools are really powerful. How many people get busted because they don't know they can do these things? Volunteering info and carryin on... (For example, watch any of those 'police video' shows...they ALWAYS consent to the search, even if they have shit on em...you think if they knew they could have said 'hell no', they wouldn't have?) Hey, the easiest way to stay out of trouble is to abide the law (just like the easiest way to avoid syphills is to cut your dick off) but if you tread that fine line between legal and illegal like so many of us do...at least know where you're walking. Hope that helps...
umf: Yo man what's goin on?
B: Ain't shit...another day...your bum ass squad managed to lose again...
umf: See, now why you gotta start in with that shit? I'm sick of you mafuckas--
B: *laughs* I'm fuckin with you...its just funny to see your dumb ass get all hype...
umf: Yeah, whatever nigga...anyway, I hit you up to ask about jumpoffs...I don't really have enough data to fill a decent post...school me.
B: Aww man...I keeps me a smutty buddy. Nothin better than just rollin through a jawn crib, smokin a blunt, gettin my gets, and bouncin. Some will even feed you. Its lovely...
umf: Damn, that's kinda fucked up *laughs* how do I sign up for that?
B: Man, you'd be surprised...some bitches is for that shit. Maybe they need attention, or wanna pretend they got a boyfriend for a few hours...shit, could be they just want a nut, like me. Whatever. That aint my department to worry about. If she down with it, I'm up for it.
umf: But wait...don't you have a girl?
B: Yeah I do got a baby mom at home...but do she gotta know? How she gon find out? I'm not bout to tell her, my JO knows I got a girl...what she gon read about it in the fuckin paper? You gon tell her?
umf: Yeah...I snitch for fun and profit...*laughs* I don't know tho, she might catch y'all out somewhere...
B: Outside?! Nonono, you got shit fucked up fam...you don't go outside with a bustdown...that's one of the rules.
umf: Here we go with this shit...I'll encourage you even though I prolly shouldnt: what rules?
B: Aight, besides the obvious one, which is strap up, number one is don't appear outside with her where folk can see you. Maybe hangin on the porch smokin with her at night is cool, but make sure the block is clear when you do it. Number 2 is only go to her house after the sun sets. Go there during the day and she might get it confused and fucked up...start thinkin you're there for shit besides sex.
umf: Breaking the zone?
B: Good enough. You and your football shit...but anyway, yeah...you don't want her breakin the zone. Anyway, number 3 is you should never go places with her. She asks to go to the movies or the mall or any public place...say no. Make up any reason you gotta. If she has that big a problem with it, cut her ass from the roster. Once you take her out, you just took your first step toward an actual relationship with her...and who wants that?
umf: I can see where that would become problematic.
B: Yeah, you could def end up drawin on yourself like a tattoo artist. What was I sayin tho? Oh yeah, 4 is if you're in a relationship, don't fuck around and catch feelings for the bitch. Feelings is what separates havin a jumpoff from havin a affair. 5 is...don't fuck around and catch feelings for her even if you ain't in a relationship. Lovin a ho just aint cool...strengthen ya pimp hand, homie.
umf: They have exercises for that?
B: Nigga shut up...movin on with 5, trim that pillow talk too. We all get a little warm and fuzzy after some release therapy...just don't get careless and say some shit you don't mean. Great men have gotten caught up that way. 6 is think before you kiss her on the mouth. If she's your smutty buddy, odds are she's somebody else's piece of ass too. Unless you enjoy the taste of random balls, you should really reconsider when you think about a goodbye kiss.
umf: Ooookay...um...I'll write that down. I'm almost afraid to ask...but any more?
B: Just one more main one...jumpoffs typically have a expiration date ending about 30-90 days after the 1st time y'all get down. Most girls ain't gonna go for this arrangement for too long before they start talkin that commitment shit...that's when you hand her the walkin papers and find another one. There's some special ones who are willing to give it up for free for years on end...but they're few and far between. Don't count on that...if you feel things getting serious, shut it down asap.
umf: Hmm...that sounds like a real one-sided deal. What does she get out of it?
B: Pipe...prolly a drink or a couple Ls...and course, my wonderful companionship for a few hours.
umf: Don't seem like a whole lot...
B: It doesn't have to be. She's a slide, she know what it's good for. Like I said, some bitches is cool with that.
umf: I can only imagine...
B: It's more bitches. than you think too. Some pretend not to know what they are...but its pretty obvious. If a dude follows 4 or more of those rules I mentioned up there with you and you're still lettin him smash...congrats, you're a jumpoff.
umf: *laughs* I see...makes some kind of fucked up sense...
B: Long as she knows what she signin up for, I don't see a problem.
umf: Hey, me neitha...do your thing there, doggie...
B: Was gonna anyway, but thanks for the endorsement...
umf: You're a character...aight, we're just about out of type for today, any final thoughts?
B: I'm comin through tonight, Christina...
umf: I'm sure she's overjoyed you even shouted her out...aight cuz ima let you go...thanks again for takin some time out...
B: Yup...lata my dude...*daps*