Flattery will get you nowhere...

so some folk should just stay right where they are. I never understood blatant self-flattery. It's a trait mostly obsevrved in females (although far too many dudes are stuck on their percieved and unjustified 'swag'...that's another post for another day tho.) I don't mean to shoot people down all the time, but seriously, nothing is more annoying than a female trying to fly above her altitude, especially if nobody gassed her up in the 1st place. Case in point:

I was on the elevator on the way out to lunch today. I work on the 11th floor, and usually many people try to go lunch at the same time, creating an elevator that stops at a rate of what seems like twice per floor. That was not the case today...some disturbance in the force made my elevator an express...or so I thought. After shooting down 5 straight floors, it stopped at 6. On stepped a lady that I'll call Shelby, wearing a unzipped hoodie and a North Carolina v-neck t-shirt. (Maybe she was a basketball player...she looked like she had taken a few charges and run through more than her share of rough screens leading with her face in her day.) I could see the anti-halo of her stank attitude permeating from her body. She pushed a button and assumed her lean in a place in the elevator that was closer to me than it really had to be. I eventually put this in the "whatever" category, and tried to move on with my day.

Just as I was beginning to ignore her properly, she all of a sudden snatched her hoodie closed and gave me a fucked up laser beam screwface type look. I put on a quzzical look....clearly she had a problem with me. I dared to ask "what!?"...interesting choice. "You've been looking down my shirt since I got on, you ain't slick!" she snapped. At this point, I took my first look at her chest area. (Before she disturbed me with her erratic behavior, not only had I NOT been looking anywhere near there, I was in fact deep in thought about where I was gonna watch the Cowboys game this Sunday.) It's important to note here that Shelby was not even appreciably gifted in the area of her issue with me. Not to be too mean here, but if I were a cross-dresser, me and her definitely could have shared a bra.

I thought about how funny it was that a woman with no assets could be so self-concscious about them. (It's like me not wanting people to look at the monkey-like tail coming out the back of my jeans...it doesn't exist either.) Hell...I thought she was joking, and waited for her to crack a smile or something. That never came...she kept the same violated look on her face. She was dead serious. "I'm really offended you would look at me that way...don't you have any respect for women? I think I deserve an apology." I tried so hard not to laugh I should be nominated for a Oscar. This 2D body girl had the nerve to insinuate I was looking at her chest! I mean, to even go out of my way to stare...how preposterous...I woulda been just as well lookin down my own shirt.

I shuffled around different jokes in my head to shut this bitch all the way up...she was clearly feeling herself like a at-home mammogram. (Which is kinda ironic, given the circumstances...) Just as I was about to deliver the line about "straight A's all through high school" (*rimshot* thx, I'll be here all week, tip your waitress...) I stopped and thought. Maybe the delusion that she was attractive and irresistably desirable was the only thing keeping her rolling out of bed every morning. Why should I be the one to piss on her parade? I can't have a suicide on my conscience, man...just can't. I ended up apologizing in the most sarcastic manner possible. It was too easy to ruin her day, and I like to challenge myself. Apparently her wit was as flat as her...(never mind...I promised not to be mean, just know the next word in that sentence rhymed). She failed to detect the insincerity in my toy apology and accepted it with a satisfied, arrogant smirk. We arrived at the ground floor, she sauntered off, and I almost missed the door close because of the fit of laughter I damn near collapsed in after she left.

My point of course is for folk that have no reason to be stuck up (and those who do too...every girl is invited down off her pedestal through these words...but especially those who dont) to pull their heads out from between they thighs and stop being so damn arrogant. Not every man wants you, not everyone in a 5-yard radius is chasing you, and not everybody who doesn't laugh doesn't think you funny as shit in a ridiculous sort of way. I prolly earned some karma points by not letting loose on ole girl, but the next dude might not be as nice. Hyperselfconfidence is a great way to get your feelings broken, and I don't recommend it to anybody. But hey...don't let me stop you...if you feel you fly, then soar on, ma...just don't be surprised when you crash and burn one day. Kthxbye...

Random Thoughts 24- Transformers

Aight...I would never do this, for the record. (After all, I love being a dude, and having myself knifed up below the belt to turn my hang low into a love compartment doesn't seem like a fun use for $5000, least in my opinion.) Having said that, if you get a sex change...how do you bust a nut? I mean, we're all adults here...we know that wonderful feeling of 10-second euphoria called an orgasm depends heavily on all types of pipes and plumbing specific to the gender you were born as. Now, if you block off and cut these pipes...not to be too vulgar here, but your flow is not gonna be too wavy, if you catch my drift.

I really don't have to sit here and type to the fellas word for word how getting an operation that involves cutting your dick in half, tying it into a balloon animal and shoving it up inside you (or...however they do that whole process of ladysmithing...) could be detrimental to your future sexual pleasure, but ladies...think about it. How would they make a girl a boy? They have to rig up a fake friend out of skin grafts and papier mache or something...what could you possibly feel in that? Its definitely not like they can make you some fake balls that detect arousal and respond during sexy times. (Yet... *shudders*)

So how do you get off? A lifetime of sex that you get no actual tickles out of seems like a high figurative price to pay just to look like something else. That's not even to draw attention to the fact that as far as I can see, you paid a literal pretty penny to have your orgasm triggers deactivated. That sounds like something I would pay large amounts of money to STOP somebody from doing to me. Maybe I'm thinking about this wrong, maybe I'm even wrong for thinking about it (Safe money's on both...) but I just can't see how that whole thing works. Hey...I'm just thinkin out loud tho, don't mind me...if any umf'ers wanna get a sex change, more power to them...(you are comin out of my fave 5 tho...)


Patently Imaginary: Prostate Screening Wand

You know, I probably won't even be concerned with this one for another 20 years if ever, but hell...it's def a bridge that a couple of readers (like your old ass, Wayne) are gonna have to cross sooner than the rest. I think its batshit crazy that we have all types of futuristic devices that have improved the quality of science and medicine, but our best idea of a prostate screening involves rubber gloves and a good deal of shame (and maybe some Barry White if you picked the wrong doc's office). What the fuck?

I mean seriously, who told them to skip over that one when they invented all these highly advanced medical procedures? You're really telling me that in 2009 the only way to examine a man's prostate is to fingerbang his bootyhole (to put it scientifically)? Something doesn't seem right about that to me. You can perform surgery on eyes with lasers and destroy cancerous cells with nuclear radiation and all other types of sci-fi type shit, but we as humans still examine prostates the same way they did in medieval times (at least they use gloves now...if there's anything more awkward than gettin fingered by your doctor, it's gettin fingered by your doctor raw. Nobody wins there.) It's just...unseemly. Us sapiens should be ashamed.

That's where my invention comes in...the prostate screening wand. It looks like one of those metal detector paddle thingies they use at airports, and uses all kinds of technology neither the writer or reader of this sentence would understand to enable doctors to screen for prostate abnormalites without the need for one to bend over. Just wave it near the prostate (on the OUTSIDE) and it gives you a full health report on it. I don't know how it would work, nor do I care...I just know there's some genius out there who can take this idea and run with it. They need to. Rightdamnnow.

Whoever does should really try to get that done by the time I'm 40 (when they recommend you get your 1st exam). I think that's enough time. I mean...if they're still shoving fingers up people's rectums in 2029, then what was the future even for? Besides...nobody's gonna manually stimulate any area like that on me without killing me 1st...I will be perfectly happy to let my prostate remain a mystery. (Yeah, I could pop up with some prostate related disease in 45 years...but those are definitely dice I'm willing to roll.) I shouldn't have to choose between my health and my insertive virginity anyway...so...yeah, somebody should definitely get that invention process on and poppin. Plznthx.


Black Friday: The High Cost of Low Prices

*fittedwearer's note: quick shoutout to newly known reader Tre! He was one of the anonymous umf'ers I discussed in the Thanksgiving special, and decided to reveal himself. Thanks a lot, bruh. More of y'all should do that so I can show you your due love for wasting 5-20 perfectly good minutes a day with me. Aight, let's get this started.

It's the Friday after Thanksgiving and you know what that means...it's Black Friday! Yes, on this one day every store is offerin 67% off everyfuckinthing and folk are comin out in droves to take advantage of the ubiquitous sales. $100 xboxes! Yay! $250 Toshiba laptops! All riiiiiiight! 2-for-1 lap dances! Whoo, sign me up! It's called Black Friday, but people of all flavors, united in savings, can prance around and save money all day (right, Jade?). It's great...let there be savings for the masses.

However, like most good things, mafuckas take it way too far. You see, people were actually camped outside of stores last night so they could be the first super saver through the door to grab all kinds of discount items. These kind of people get a smartdumb award in my opinion (thx for lettin me borrow that, Tone.) because while laying in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart in a sleeping bag all night (especially in the wind, rain, and sub-40 degree temperatures from last night) enables you to run in at 5:00 am and scoop up that half-price DVD player, it's also fuckin' stupid.

I mean, yeah you saved 60 dollars, but...look what you went through for it. Let's play a game where I prove your time is valuable. Minimum wage (you being paid for yor time) is 7 bucks an hour, give or take. You laid on the cold wet asphalt or shivered in your car for 8 hours while you waited for the store to open. The amount of your time you wasted waiting to save a few dollars is worth at least $56. Congrats, you just saved 4 dollars! (and that's assuming you don't have to pay medical bills when you catch pneumonia after camping outside a fuckin store in NOVEMBER.) I think paying a little more is worth my time...especially since I make more than minimum wage.

That's not even to get into what happens once the doors open. People see that door open and lose their thrifty fuckin minds. You've seen the footage on the news...the doors open at showtime and folk stampede into the store like they're escaping from a burning building, thrashing wildly at those around them and trampling those unfortunate enough to end up underfoot. (Seriously, how much does THAT suck as a death method? You're sitting there in the afterlife with some other dead folk discussing how y'all died, everyone else has a cool story about an explosion, a car crash or a stingray and you have to tell everybody that you got stomped to death at Toys R' Us trying to scoop a cheap Nintendo Wii.)

I don't know why, but overzealous shoppers seem to think low, low prices mean the rules of the street are somehow temporarily suspended. Na, dawg. You shove me trying to get to a deeply discounted GPS or snatch the last portable flatscreen out of my hand in a store, and the same thing is gonna happen as if you pushed me or snatched one of my items on the street, i.e. I'm gonna serve you up a fresh, piping hot ass-whuppin...I guarantee you there's no mail in rebate for that. Don't let a sale get the dogshit beaten out of you.

Overall, Black Friday is a cool way to get all your holiday shopping (and random "I just wanna buy shit" shopping) out of the way and save some cash doing so. I really have no problem with the concept of the day...after all, I like spending less money for more shit as much as the next man. I'm just saying it's not a way of life or a contact sport, and folk seem to have it twisted.

Think about that when you're up at 3 in the morning freezing on a sidewalk, hurdling a counter to get those $3 cds as stocking stuffers or doing the Heisman to keep another hyperagressive shopper from taking whatever cheap product you have tucked under your arm as you sprint to the register. It's just not that serious people...at least from under here.

Minor Life Failures 8- All black everything?

It was Thanksgiving around 3:30 and I had neglected to be smart and get football drank the night before so I wouldn't have to go out all high on tryptophan (turkey based itis-inducer, for you non-Jeopardy watchers) for a beer run. I had to find a bar full of unfortunate folk working on a holiday. My usual bar was closed, but gouing a little farther I was able to find another bar with takeout beer. Awesome.

I walked in and went over to the takeout cooler (which was directly behind a counter behind a separate takeout register), selected my beer, and waited to be served. I stood there for 2 minutes, 3...just when I was finna walk the fuck out and go on to the next one (no Hova) an attractive young Asian lady named Jade in my mind materialized out of the back and came up to the counter with that standard-bartender-flirty smile that you always wanna believe is for real, but the woman basically flashes you (her teeth) for tips. I told her I wanted a 4-pack of OE, because I'm a classy mafucka.

Jade went into the cooler, returned with my OE and began to ring me up. I gave her the money, she gave me the beer, and just as I thought the transaction was complete and I could go home and watch my 'Boys win (yeah buddy!), she looked like she suddenly remembered something. She spoke. "Hey...we're having a party on Saturday night...I definitely think you shoud come, its an all-black party!" Just as my little mental movie (a bar full of negroes laughing and enjoying fine malt liquor beverages, eating fried chicken hors d'ovres with a bouncer outside turning away white, red, yellow and beige people) started, I noticed that she had trailed off at the word "party" and had a mortified look on her face. Jade's face turned maroon with embarrassment. She realized the way she had worded it too, and was waiting for me to put on my angry black man response hat.

I wasn't wearing it that day, but decided to have a little fun with it and not say anything right away. There she still stood, eyes wide (well...she was Asian...so they were open as wide as anybody else's were normally) and stammering to find the right words to correct herself. "Not because...you're black or anything...it's...all black clothes...not...um...all you guys. Wait! I don't mean "you guys"! I mean...uh...other kinds of people are allowed in too, but not just..." I found this hilarious, and really was gonna stand there and let her twist in the wind thinking she had really offended me...then I remembered the spirit of the holiday (and the fact that the game started in about 15 and I had to roll). I calmly let her know that I knew what she meant. She let out a sigh of relief, her face turned a little less crimson, and she expressed her hope to see me there. I left with a smile, a "maybe", my beer and a story.

Now, usually here is where I tell you how to avoid this situation, but the funny thing is there really is no way to do so short of re-segregation (and that's no good). In the English language, there's just certain words and phrases which are linked with certain groups of people, and sometimes shit like this happens. It's akin to calling a Native American who takes back a gift an indian-giver or a Mexican who works in the backroom at Starbucks a beaner. Its accurate, but the wrong mafucka could take offense. I have common sense, so I could see her reference to "black" was purely to describe the theme of the party, and not my melanin content. Hell, who knows? I might end up going to that party...but if I don't see any other color folk there, me and Jade are gonna have words haha...


A few words of thanks...

fittedwearer's note: I'm prolly gonna be hung over/watching football/eating all day tomorrow, so let's knock this out today. (Pretend it's tomorrow or something.) Oh yeah, and happy bday to my non-biological cousin D...it seem like you been 20 for like 4 summers now, good to see you finally drink-eligible. Live it up homie... /shoutout.

Today is Thanksgiving, where we take time to think about the things that we appreciate and show our gratitude for the people that we love. Somehow that got tangled up with folk gorging themselves on turkey and stuffing and eating preformed cranberry sauce from cans. Now, while I love me some food (shit, I ain't get this size by accident...Thanksgiving is like Christmas for my stomach...) I really don't think that's the true point of the holiday. You see, I don't think people show enough gratitude for the good stuff in their lives, and a lot gets taken for granted. I'm guilty of it myself...there's probably a lot of things/folk in my life that I just don't take time to be thankful for as much as I should. I think ima fix that now.

I'm thankful for my family...course you gotta start off like that...I don't always like them, but I guess I'm required to love 'em. Amber, mommy...hell why not, you too pops...I'm thankful for y'all. I'm thankful that I'm a boy...damn, that's convenient. I'm also thankful for the Dallas Cowboys, without whom I would have a lot of blank Sundays. (I'm also thankful for buffalo wings and beer for being delicious and handy during football games...'preciate that. I'm also thankful for all 7 points we scored last week...losing to the Redskins is bad business...get it together, 'Boys. I'm thankful for my G1, without which I could never write this much about random shit while at work. (Only during lunch and breaks, I assure you. *snicker*) I'm thankful for whoever designed the female body. Good work, big guy. I'm damn sure thankful for self-medication, without which I'm sure I would have ripped somebody's fuckin head off their shoulders and kicked it into the Delaware River.

I'm thankful for this opinionated message board (thx for the alternate term, bday boy) that you're reading right now...you'd be surprised how much writing is like therapy...I recommend it to everybody. Of course, I can't be thankful for this jumbled random mess of a site without being thankful for the folk who help make it go. Seriously...I couldn't do whatever the fuck this is without y'all. So, in no particular order (please miss me with that shit lol) here we go.

First of all, thanks to everybody who ever gave umf a shoutout in their aim statuses/Facebook statuses/yes, even on Twitter. Thanks to anybody who ever shared the shit they read here with other folk...hell, I guess that's the whole reason I do this.Thank you D, for your random inputs and shit. Thanks Geraldine for giving me the idea to even do this whole thing (even tho I didn't listen for like 3 years). Ci, you pretty much forced me to, so thank you too. AV...thanks for not kicking me again. Blaze (fuck it your name is Shane, dude lol) thanks for the interviews...even though you kind of a asshole. Soashii, thanks for crackin me up over gmail and givin me a couple off the wall ideas. However I'm not thankful that I still haven't got my interview, ya rat bastard.

Wanye, thanks for being my 1st perma-reader. (I really don't like the world 'follower'...please don't follow me, I will taze the shit out of you.) Darvin, thanks for sharing how to explain to a lady the difference between wants and needs. (lol) Tiana, I appreciate you reminding me what day it is every day when I don't update haha... Ashelee, thanks for making me laugh with some of your FB statuses (and for accepting me in the 1st place...*tear*...I was touched.)

Ms. Jupiter, I appreciate your opinions (and your crazy name change lol). Jesi, thanks for reading this shit at 4 in the morning...love ya for that...that goes for you too Justin. I'm thankful for Roxii for quite a few reasons...haha...I'm perversely thankful for Mr. Reddock, Patrice, Quisha, Denisha, Portia from McDonalds (hope you find a new job, bitch), Helen from the sandwich line, big ole Brenda, Superman the bum and his bike/wife Jin Fung Lee Carol for giving me material for this thing. Last but never least, I wanna thank my boy Rilla for the mixtape (Gorilla Island Vol. 3...which will definitely receive a full review once I wrap my mind around it...its that work tho.) I think that covers about all the folk I know for a fact check this shit out...however, if you got skipped, it's prolly cuz I don't even know you know this place exists. Seriously, judging by the amount of hits I get usually, more people read these words than I think...but umf is for the people, so randoms are welcome under here too. I just wish I knew who y'all was so I could appreciate y'all properly.

My personal thankfulness aside, it should really be remembered that this day is about everybody being thankful for everything that makes their lives better. If you gotta be an ungrateful bastard 364 days a year...make sure you tell somebody you're thankful for them today. Sometimes a simple "thank you" can make all the difference. Try it...tell somebody you haven't quite showed the appreciation they deserve "thank you". To folk with home training, that's almost as good as money. (Almost.) So when you're stuffing yourself with enough food to rupture your stomach lining or running from house to house making plates of other people's food like some kind of reverse Meals on Wheels...just remember to thank everybody, you greedy mafucka. It's only right. Happy Thanksgiving, ya bunch of freaks! (I mean that in the most affectionate way possible lol)


Shit I don't know how folk lived without: Deodorant

You look at it every day and just completely fail to appreciate its genius. It's an absolute godsend. I mean...we're all adults her...how did people have sex before deodorant? (Obviously they did...we're all evidence that some bum-sex smelling lovemaking definitely did go down at some point in the past...) Maybe it's just me...but perspiration body odor is a definite turnoff. You could be double Amerie 3.0 and I would not find you the least bit attractive if you smell like microwaved hoagies and the inside of a sweaty football helmet. There is nothing seductive about that. (Let's even skip the fact that pit stains make you look homeless...or like Jimmy Jones.)

But thanks to this wonderful invention, just because you sweat a little doesn't mean you have to smell bad and look like you dance for change in the streets. Anti-perspirants will not only keep you dry, but some emit a pleasant scent when you get all hot and worked up. (Which conveniently falls right within the whole sex thing...as well as many other strenuous activities which cause people not to be shower-fresh) Not having to smell boiled armpits on every sunny day might be the greatest aphrodisiac of all. So, inventor of antiperspirant deodorant...thank you for your contribution to mankind. Now we have the right to choose not to be all sweaty and stankish whenever bodies are in motion. (I just wish more people would exercise that right...)

Put 'em on hold...

The recession (which is supposed to be over...whatever, nobody spread the news to my wallet yet...) hits us all hard. Course, if you didn't have no money before the recession and are still broke now, you have no right to bitch...but there are those of us who actually have to manage the dollars we earn a little. Maybe you can't buy _______ this week because you have to pay _______. You know how it goes.

Most of us also have cell phones. (smartphones, lifestyle devices, txt generators, whatever...) While fucka useful, the things ain't free. Some folk pay 80+ a month on their bill...and these cell phone companies don't play...they will shut your shit off if you a couple days late. (T-Mobile shut my phone off Christmas Eve last year...I love y'all, but that's heartless...y'all turned it back on, so its love tho...) Anyway, let's say you owe the phone company $80, but you don't get paid til next week. You're just gonna have to deal with life without a cell phone (*panic attack*) for a few days, right?

Wrong. If you're a few days short with the money, you can smooth-talk your way into a little extension. They don't love doing it, and damn sure won't advertise that they will...but they will. I've been able to charm as much as a week grace period in an average of 10 minutes per conversation. Below are a few quick steps to make sure you're never cut off from humanity just because you don't have 80 bucks rightthatsecond. (Of course, this whole plan depends on you actually paying at some point, deadbeat.)

1) Call up your phone company. (It's the one number they'll always let you dial...)

2) Tell them you want to discuss your bill. At this point, they'll prolly tell you all types of details about your plan and shit that add up to "Your bill ain't paid." (You knew that tho.)

3) Tell them you don't have the money right now, but you're going to pay soon. (A concrete date helps your cause.) Ask to set up a 'payment plan'. They might spit some shit about routing numbers and bank accounts, but odds are if you're doing this there's not much money in there either. (If you do have money in there, pay your bill, asshole...and why are you reading this anyway?)

4) If you didn't get off at step 3, tell them you're having issues with your direct deposit, and you'll be happy to pay your bill on whatever day you get some money. Bring up how you've been a loyal customer for so long and all that shit. They usually break here.

5) Damn, you got a tough representative. All right, at this point tell them you have a young child (yay, you're a parent now!) and you have to stay in touch with his school/doctor/father. Mention again that you're gonna pay your bill soon. Who's going to deny a cash-strapped single parent of communication for days at a time?

6) Well apparently if you made it here, the fucked up person you're talking to. Bastard. Now you're mad...hell, outraged at the cruel treatment of a customer with a kid during these tough times? They're going to do this over $80!? Fuck it, you want to cancel your phone service. (It's a bluff of course...why would you do some crazy shit like that?) Be sure to talk up the fact that they're about to lose business because of poor customer service and that you don't care about the early cancel fee, because it's the principle.

Nothing makes a cell phone company's tough-guy stance buckle quicker than the threat of lost business, especially with all the choice and competition these days. You have to literally threaten a sales rep's momma to let them cancel your service without a fight. See how quick they "talk to their manager and see what they can do" after that (empty) threat. 99.7% of the time this works. (The other .3% you've just got a pure company man. Just hang up, call back, and try the whole thing again with a different rep. Some are way cooler than others.) Congrats, you've just got 3-7 days of free cell service...and maybe a bill credit or something if you shook em enough with the cancel talk.

7) Pay your fuckin bill. When you said you would...I mean, these folk did you a favor by letting you ride for a few days. (Plus, you might need to do this again, and they might track whether you actually honored the payment plan.)

There. Hope that helps next time you get hit with a cell phone bill between pay periods, or just before you feel like payin those mafuckas. Hell...I know I don't always have 80 bucks to toss T-Mobile at all times. (Who does? And if you do, shit...lemme hold something lol)


Exactly what I think you're worth...

Bad service in a restaurant. We've all had it at one time or another (and if you've never had bad service in a restaurant, you're either really rich or have a great rack...sadly, I'm SOL on both counts) and its always so disappointing. You know the scenario...you're out (hopefully) with someone you like and you're planning on having a nice meal. You go to your table, sit down, and wait to be served. Then the waitress comes over about 3 minutes after you sat down and asks you what you want. (Never mind that you didn't even glance at the menu good yet.) You tell her you need a couple, and she cops a fuckin attitude, like most of her paycheck doesn't depend on how much you like her. She takes your request for a couple minutes to decide as a free license to ignore you the entire night.

Want some more breadsticks? Fuck you. (I'm looking at you, Olive Garden/Red Lobster...if you only gonna bring me 3 biscuits, then not come back with more when the delicious things are devoured, then expect a big tip, you can grab a clean fork from the back and eat ass. I mean that shit.) That drink? You're only getting one when she brings it, don't expect a refill...even though you're paying for it. Order not exactly right? Don't tell her...she'll suck her teeth and return with the same plate in 10 minutes...and prolly with some bodily fluids for extra flavor. Just a poor showing of waitsmanship overall...but polite society teaches us we should leave a tip, right?

Right. I firmly believe in tipping folk who make most of their money off tips...its just good karma. (I tip every time.) However, you will get exactly what you earn. If you provided great service, you would get a great tip. Shit....that's what you earned. But if your service was actively bad, I'm gonna leave you some random coins scattered on the table. See, if you don't leave a tip at all...they might think you just forgot...happens sometimes. But leaving change tells em 2 things...that you DID remember them, and more importantly you remembered that their service was all types of subpar. (What says "you suck" quite like a 43 cent tip?) Its just a way to give proper feedback while still fulfilling one's obligation to leave something...works for me.

Random Thoughts 23- Cousin Dad

You know, this goes underappreciated but...I'm really glad my parents are from 2 different families. I mean...how often do you wake up and completely overlook that? Some mafuckas actually have people that are 2 or 3 branches on their family tree. (Shit...let's even skip the fact that that type of recklessness usually leaves the poor offspring with 3 arms, crossed eyes, an extra knee and double Down's Syndrome.) Even if you come out perfectly healthy, I imagine that's a really weird thing to wake up and just be cool with every day. (God forbid you ever have to do a family research presentation in front of the class for school...can't see where that would be good times.)

I know of a person whose grandpop doubles as they dad. (Eww.) Does he get 2 cards on Fathers Day? If your brother is your father, do you REALLY have to call him Dad? (Can you ever have a grandbrother? *shudders*) Hell, its gotta be strange to bring one of your uncles to a father/daughter dance...and family reunions must be hella odd with only one last name on all the t-shirts. (If your leaves are that close together, it really becomes more of a family bush, don't it?) Its just a super awkward way to live one's life. The whole thing makes my skin crawl...I'm really happy I get to say my parents weren't related before they got married, and I hope all you wonderful folk can experience that simple pleasure. So to my folks...thanks for thinking of me and my sis and not making it a family affair...good looks lol


The Lighter Side: An interview

I'm not really a heavy cig smoker myself (every once in a while admittedly to boost this or that intoxicant) but it's an issue that affects a lot of folk I know. My knowledge on the subject ain't really enough to sustain an articles worth of material...so I had to ask somebody who knew more about it than myself. Reintroducing Blaze, who seems to be becoming a permanent fixture here. (Guess nobody else wants to be interviewed...the door's open, people...) Blaze, as his nickname implies, is a big nicotine fiend, and can provide insight into the mind of an actual smoker. Please welcome Blaze.

umf: *daps* Hey, thx again for takin a little time out for me...what's good with you today?

Blaze: Ay, I'm not goin over Lyanne's til like 4...I got some time...

umf: I thought your BM name was Felicia?

B: Yeah, so?

umf: *laughs* Right then, aight...I hit you up today to--

B: Hollup... *takes out Newport, lights*

umf: That's convenient...actually I wanted to talk about those...

B: What, you want one? 50 cents *laughs*

umf: 1, na I'm good for now...2, you would charge me tho? I thought we was better than that...

B: Na, I'm fuckin around cuz...

umf: Why do people do that anyway?

B: Well, I don't charge niggas I know...I mean, I ain't that hard up for bread that I gotta make money off my peoples sellin loosies on the street. I will charge people I don't know if I don't got that many left, cuz I'm tryna get that money up for a new pack...and the least you could do if you just gonna come up to me all anonymous and bum a smoke is to put in on the next pack, way I see it.

umf: Yours is a complicated code...

B: Yeah, word...but I gotta tax mafuckas sometimes. Do you know what happen when you tell smokin ass niggas that you got a pack of cigarettes?

umf: Um, not really...

B: It's like trying to get past zombies carryin a pocket full of brains. They're scavengers...one time I bought a fresh pack...20 cigs...and went to a party. I made the mistake of tellin one of my homies I did that, and he got a cig off me. That was the signal to all the smokers in the room that somebody was workin with a fresh pack. You know how many cigs I left that mafucka with?

umf: How many?

B: 3...ole butt-snatchin mafuckas *laughs* them my peoples tho, I don't care all like that. The shit do draw sometimes tho.

umf: Damn *laughs* guess you learned your lesson. Aight, next question...why exactly do you and most other black folk smoke Newports?

B: That ain't true...some niggas smoke Kools.

umf: You know what I meant...menthols.

B: Cuz everybody else does.

umf: That simple huh? But why do they?

B: Cuz.

umf: Cuz what?

B: BE-cause...

umf: Gotcha. Now, I see the appeal of cigs...not at a pack a day like you, but they help sometimes. I'm sure I don't have to tell you they don't smell like a breath of fresh air. Kinda gets up in your clothes and any exposed skin. You being a ladies man like you are, I'm pretty sure you done run across some chick or other who don't like the scent. How do you deal with that?

B: Yeah you right. Well, its easier when its cold...I just smoke outside with my coat on and my clothes stay smellin fresh.

umf: What about your hands and face and shit?

B: 2 words: Hand sanitizer. Kills damn near any smell off your skin. Tree, onions, cigs, fish, you name it.

umf: Huh. Never woulda known..makes sense tho. But what about when it's not cold?

B: Fuck it. *laughs* Ain't a whole lot I can do about it then...she be aight...

umf: That's the spirit...so how do you feel about all these smoking laws in bars and shit in Philly? I know you gotta feel a way.

B: *takes final long ass drag, puts out cig* You damn right I do. I hate those laws, and the people who passed em. Fuck em with a sick dick. I'm sick of them tryna push us smokers out farther and farther. Pretty soon you're gonna have to leave city limits to smoke and shit. Fuck you mean I can't smoke within 20 feet of a building entrance? Mafucka do I look like I carry a tape measure on me? If I get a citation for smokin 18 feet, 7 inches from a doorway, I'm gonna burn something to the ground. Book that shit.

umf: What about the nonsmokers who go to bars and the folk that work there that don't smoke? Shouldn't we think about them?

B: I didn't say there shouldn't be nonsmoking bars...there should be a few. But most people who are gonna sit there and drink smoke too, and it's bullshit to push the majority outside in the cold because of a few people bitchin. If you don't want to inhale smoke at a bar, take YOUR ass outside, and go the fuck home while you at it. Oh, and if you don't want a job where you around smokers...how bout you don't work at a bar? Nobody put a gun to your head and told you to work there. If I was Muslim, I wouldn't work at a rib shack, and if I was trying to lose weight, I'm wouldn't get a job at Baskin fuckin Robbins. Use your common sense.

umf: Why don't you tell us how you really feel? Don't hold back this time... *laughs* Aight, so I gotta ask...how do you feel about cig prices rising?

B: Fuck you think I feel? The shit sucks ash. Luckily, they still like 5.50 a pack down my end, but I've seen dudes get raped for as much as 7 bucks on a pack of smokes some spots in Philly. It's ludicrous like a mafucka. At least it ain't 8, 9 bucks a pack like in NY. If it ever get like that here, I'm quittin, fuck it...ima put nicotine patches all over my body, I'm even gon put one on my balls.

umf: That was a visual I did not need. Anyway, we're just about out of type for today, any final thoughts?

B: Smokers are people too, gahdammit.

umf: Indeed. Well thx again for stoppin through, its always appreciated.

B: Fo sho. *daps*


I didnt say any names, but...

Some folk at work can be bothersome. Some folk at work make you want to chin check em with the bottom of a Nike Air Max 180. Someone at work I'll call Mr. Reddock falls into the latter category. Now, elbow smashing his teeth down his throat will get me fired (and make me miss the Cowboys game on Sunday...that's a no-no.) but a little textual healing can keep my rage in check for now. With that in mind, here goes.

*strums single note on guitar*

Now this is the ballad of old Mr. Reddock
Nobody likes him, he just doesn't get it
You're not cool, you're a prick, I hope your heart fails
I'm wrong for that? Peep what my hatred entails
You pretend you a friend, write a nigga up quickly
I rejoice when you out, and love when you sickly
I hated your guts since the day that we met
I peeped game from jump street, I'll never forget
You spoke when I saw you, next day no such thing
You only cool sometimes? That's the drama you bring?
I don't like you no way, fuck that shit and your couch
When I see you I wish I could punch you in the mouth
Racist mafucka, you think I don't see?
You think your bullshit ain't transparent to me?
The way you regard us, apparent contempt...
Id rather you come out and say what you meant.

You know we're not brothers, why you call me that?
Oh let's see, hmm...maybe it's cuz I'm black?
You want to say 'nigga', I can tell in your eyes
You're clearly a bigot, a smile's no disguise
I'm not "your man", "homie" or no shit like that
If you think we cool, you must be on crack
You think I'm just trippin? Na dawg, not today...
You damn sure don't talk to white folk that way
I don't like your face, your aura appalls me...
do me a favor, keep your fuckin hands off me.
Those pats on the back, that gay shoulder rub?
I don't even like you, I don't want no damn hug...
Quit creepin up on me, one day I'll forget...
and stop you the way that I would on the strip
Keep that fake shit, you don't care "how it's goin"
You only care bout which assistant is blowin
your old wrinkly dick and your saggy ass balls
It had to be said, and fuck it...because
You don't like me, that's fine, but don't fake the funk
Try to smile in my face and play me for a chump...
Don't like yo ass neitha, yeah you know its reciprocal
Fake friendships? Dude, I got way better shit to do...

Oh, I got a phone call from girls in the office
They say you're a perv, they wish you would stop it
X-ray vision old man, you think they can't tell?
They're your granddaughters age, you're going to hell
Just want you to know that I know you ain't slick
Its not good for a boss to think with his dick
Lookin down shirts and walkin too close
you ain't even ashamed, in fact you just boast
About all the ladies that surround you at work
You don't want shit done, you just wanna be twerked
Some bitches will do it! A fact, its well known...
I know you've been able to take some skag home
So what you're 80? Some girls take your rap...
"Why stand and work? You can lay on your back!"
"Finest girl in the office, there is no chick hotter"
"I'll fuck you right after my Viagra-colada"
"Why work hard here? I can make things easy..."
"You'll move up fast here if you're willing to please me..."
Any real woman, that shit makes her queasy...
And as for me? Hell, I been know that you sleazy
Crisco-type greasy, dumb jokes, mad cheesy
You not funny, old man...chill out and be breezy.

I hate your life, period, no if ands or buts...
If I saw you on fire, id stomp you in the nuts
Kill yourself slowly, or least take a vacation
a permanent one, to a faraway place and
never come back...shit, nobody likes you!
Takes everything in me for me not to fight you
"I like getting paid" I think every day
"It's not worth it to trash him, won't go out that way"
I swear it's a struggle tho, damn its so hard...
to not just OD and pull your fuckin card.
I'm tryna stay cool, but your face irks my life
Your nasal voice also, your persona's not liked
I hate your cologne, I hate your cheap suits
I hate that you look like the massa from "Roots"
I hate when you speak, I hate when you breathe
I hate that you're still here, dude...please fuckin leave!
My hate for you's strong, my need for cash greater
So next time I see you on the elevator
And you speak to me, I speak back, don't get gassed...
It's only the payroll keeps me off your ass.

And I'm done.

What will the neighbors think?

In case you haven't picked up on it by now, I'm black. I love being black, I'm proud to be black, I don't think I would be any other color if I had the chance...it's just...y'know, sometimes some of my brothas and sistas make it a little harder on the rest of us. Fuck it, I'll come right out and say it...there's definitely fleeting moments where I'm embarrassed to be black. (Those times when you look at some shit that our people do and go "Oh my god, that's how they think we all act all the time...") Sometimes I see black folk do shit and...you know, it's like when people go "not in front of company!"...whatever happened prolly happens pretty often anyway around the house, but...ya don't exactly want the neighbors to see...makes a bad impression.

Maybe you're white, yellow, brown or some other exotic color (hey...at umf we serves all kinds, and love doin so) and don't quite understand what I'm talking about. Maybe you're black, never experienced this phenomenon and are still trippin off "he said he's ashamed to be black!" I'll clear things up with a story. I was on the El on the way home from work the other day. There I stood, surrounded by all types of people coming home from work..mostly white people, but there was a 20something black lady standing across from me and a black dude sitting in a seat diagonally facing me. (Let me here note that I don't regularly sit around, count and make note of ethnic groups on the train...it just became relevant eventually.) It had been a normal train ride, and it was almost over...but not quite.

One stop away from my destination, 2 young black girls (prototypical 15-17yr old West Philly birds) come into my car from the next one...I'll call them Quisha and Denisha. Quisha was the mouth of the 2, Denisha just cosigned and enabled her. "White bitch! Fuckin racist!" Quisha laughed. (Quisha had a loud, abrasive voice...remember Craig's girlfriend from "Friday"? Yahtzee...) Apparently she had gotten in some dispute over a seat in the next car, and wanted to find one here. Quisha continued to air her grievances. "I saw that fuckin seat first and that white bitch gon sit down in it...don't she know I will get real black on her cracker ass and fuck her up?" (Apparently 'gettin real black' entails giving up and talkin shit after you walk away in Quisha's world.) "White people always wanna see a nigga be a nigga! Fuck that white bitch!" she shrieked.

Quisha's racially charged tirade attracted the attention of the Anglo-heavy train car. All the whitefolk that had before been reading their papers or talking or whatever other whitefolk affairs they were tending to stopped and turned to observe Quisha's loud theatrical display (something we Philadelphians refer to as 'drawlin'...don't ask me where it came from or what it means specifically...but that's the context.). The white people were amused by her ghetto histronics. At this point, all 3 black people on the car (me, 20something, and Black Dude) exchanged a look. The look that was exchanged I don't think can be properly intimated through text...but I'm pretty sure y'all know which one I'm talking about. (I'm calling it the "I do NOT know that coon" look.) We didn't have to speak a word for all of us to know that Quisha had just made the 3 of us embarrassed to be black.

The show wasn't over though. Quisha, still incensed by her lost seat, decided that merely talking like a fuckin hoodrat bitch wasn't enough. She had to step it up for her message to get across. She stood up on the seat, stomped her feet and shouted "I'm sick of this shit! White people think they can do whatever they want. We got a black president now!" (Right then, I really considered breaking her neck...I hate when people say that shit, the president does not have time to address your personal issue so what the fuck difference it make what color half of him is?) Denisha thinks this whole affair is the funniest thing since Richard fuckin Pryor, and shows her appreciation with an obnoxious cackle filled with big, coarse "HAs". The white people are snickering and giggling at the minstrel show takin place, and rightfully so. 20something shook her head, Black Dude palmed his face, and I concentrated hard as shit on making like a Capri Sun kid and melting into the floor.

I don't even have to tell you Quisha took exception to this. She looked around at the white people and asked them what the fuck they were looking at. (Um, maybe the unruly little niggette heffa shuckin and jivin while standing on a chair on a moving train? Just a thought.) The whitefolk took no offense to Quisha's foolishness...they enjoyed it. I just prayed to any available deity that my stop would come. It did. I teleported off the train and walked away briskly as Quisha's rant faded away in the distance. That was one of the most mortifying things I didn't have anything to do with. I was embarrassed FOR the bitch. Listen y'all...don't you know that whenever you're out among other flavors of folk, you represent the rest of us? (Whether that's fair or not is debatable...whether it's true or not ain't) These white people on the train prolly had a great dinner discussion about "that crazy negro girl on the train" when they got home to the wife and kids. That shit is embarrassing in a way that's rarely understood outside the black community. Hey...if you want to be a jig in your own home, that's your biz. But please...not in front of the company.


A Lack of Bass-ic Decency

Yo...I like music as much as the next man, so I don't wanna sound like somebody's grandpop when I say some of y'all mafuckas have no home training when it comes to respecting quiet hours. (No, I don't live in a dorm, but I think it's reasonable to expect a few nighttime hours in which folk with jobs, school and other daylight hustles can get some fuckin sleep.) It's not like this is the first time something like this happened...I mean, as long as there are hood car stereo systems and folk that like em, it's gonna keep happening...and I'm willing to just deal with it most times, but there's a line to be crossed. I'm so not that dude to be calling the cops with noise complaints and shit...but you give some niggas a inch and they'll snatch a couple acres out from under you.

I reached my breaking point on the subject this morning. There I was, sleeping the way only somebody who has passed out can sleep. I was throroughly enjoying my dream about...heh, maybe I won't share all that, let's just say it was a good one. Just as she was about to finish (I didn't say how much I wouldn't share) I hear percussive noises and a accent of indeterminate origin. I was jarred awake violently and got into defense mode, thrashing around in a confused manner, thinking Al-Quaida was invading the block or some shit.

What actually happened was almost as bad...some fuckin dickface was riding down the block with his speakers the same volume as a NASA shuttle launch. The song, as best I could tell through the muffled yet impossibly loud bass, was Nikki Minaj's "I Get Crazy". (While Nikki Minaj is a rather tasty piece of eye candy, I find that "female Australian rapper with a cold" voice she uses to be grating as hell even fully awake, to say nothing of the anger it inspired by jarring me out of my beautiful sleep.) It was the sonic eqivalent to being hit in the face with a bucket of ice water. Windows rattled, knickknacks danced, the whole 9. All this, of course, happened at 6:17 in the morning.

That was enough for me. I leaped out of bed and flew into a rage. I cursed dude's name loudly for fuckin up my sweet dreams (I'm never gonna get that back...) and immediately swore revenge. There's nothing I can do today, but I'll have my vengeance when I become president. You see, after I'm elected, there will be noise-sensitive spike strips installed in the streets of every residential neighborhood that will be active from 1am to 10am. If you wanna cruise around bumpin Jeezy loud enough to wake the dead at 6 in the morning, that's cool...just expect to get your tires shredded to rubber ribbons, you uncouth, inconsiderate mafucka. You wanna fuck up other people's days early in the morning, the favor will be returned. Fair's fair...

Swilla Vol. 4- Four Loko Watermelon

*fittedwearer's note: I know I been slackin on the Swilla section, sry liquor enthusiasts (specially you Ms. Jupiter...with your drankin ass lol) FTR, I have been drinking...plenty (trust me)...just usually get too drunk and forget, to keep it 100... I'll step it up, promise. Anyway, here goes...

So I was in the local beer shack looking for a 4 pack of Colt 45 (hey, I wanted to get a lill buzz on and a cold Billy Dee works every time...) when I passed this interesting can. It called itself "Four Loko". At first look, I thought it was some kind of big Arizona juice or something and wondered what it was doing tucked in with Steel Reserve and Hurricane...then I hit a double-take. Printed on the top in bold block letters was "CONTAINS 12% ALCOHOL" as well as a logo on the side reminding the buyer that "WE CARD UNDER 21". (Just because the stuff was clearly marketed to the youth doesn't mean they should be able to buy it...)

The brightly colored and vibrant can appealed to my inner child (and many actual kids too, I bet...you can't tell me a youngling would look at that can and think anything but a refreshing soft drink was in there.) and the high alcohol content appealed to my outer drinker...I mean hell, it was the strongest thing in the store by a long shot. I considered buying 2, but then remembered my horrible experience with Smirnoff Xtra Bad Tasting and decided that one was enough for a test drive. (I still got the Colts too lol) I picked the watermelon flavor, and figured if I got burnt, hey...it was only $3.

After being home for a while and polishing off a couple 45s, I took a long look at the green tallboy can I had put off drinking. There was something about it I just didn't trust...but by that time intoxication had lowered my "should I do this?" filter, so I just went for it. I was highly surprised by its cloyingly sweet flavor...it tasted just like watermelon Jolly Ranchers. We're talking chick-drink-sweet. There was virtually no taste of alcohol in the beverage...a mild aftertaste of a beer-like flavor, but the taste was overwhelmingly watermelony. (It was the absolute perfect thing to get a 17-yr old girl who didn't like the taste of alcohol hella drunk fucka fast...not that I endorse that kind of thing...) It was so good, I drunk it faster and faster...damn near forgetting it was alcoholic. In 15 minutes, all 23.5oz (who makes 23.5oz cans tho?) were gone. Mistake.

Um...after I woke up the next morning (that's another story, but its the next event I remember after I finished the damn thing.) in a haze, I regretted the decision to drink that much sugary alcohol that fast. My thoughts were confused, my head hurt, and I remember the distinct feeling that I was about to throw up my intestines. (Lovely, right?) It was nothing a quick round of morning medicine couldn't fix, but it was an unexpected price to pay for what was really a rather light drinking session. I'm not sure if the strong profile of Colt 45 had a reaction with the sweetness of the Four Loko or whether I had just been sick from too much sugar and alcohol, so I'm not sure I can give this a fair grade.

In all honesty, I'll prolly end up trying. it again someday...but not for a while. Don't let me stop you tho...if a strongish drink that'll put a 10th grader on his back pockets is your thing, pick one up...you'll get exactly what you want. However, if you prefer not to get cavities with your drank or just don't deal well with sugar and alcohol, steer far clear. (And remember kids, don't drink until you're 18...uh...21...whatever.)


Random Thoughts 22- "Sure, I swear..."

You know how before you testify in court they make you put your hand on a bible and "swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, god"? What if the guy is Muslim? Do they bring out a copy of the Qu'ran? If they don't, can he technically still lie? I mean...he didn't swear to his god...that promise doesn't mean much. What if you've got a atheist on the stand? Can you swear him in at all? Do they make him pinky swear? Cross his heart and hope to die? How does that work? I wonder...


Maybe it's just me, but the game "DJ Hero" bothers the shit outta me. I like video games as much as the next guy, it's just sometimes shit goes too far. In case you hadn't guessed, it's pretty much "Guitar Hero"/"Rock Band" with a turntable. You scratch and spin the turntable-shaped control device and get points based on your rhythm or something like that. It includes a plethorassload of mashed up songs (I actually thought the 'I.Z.Z.O./'My Name Is' collab was pretty cool) which you can uh...pretend to remix. All right...

See, my problem isn't with digitally simlulated activites as a whole...Wii Sports and all that shit is a good time. (Who doesn't like wildly swinging a blunt object near peoples heads? Its a guilty pleasure of mine...) It's just that some things don't need to be simulated. Even the "Guitar" family of games was pushin it...but at least I imagine it was easier to grasp, with only 4 buttons instead of 6 strings. With this "DJ Hero" thing, you actually have to make all the motions of scratching. If you want to have the DJ experience at home you should...uh...learn to scratch in real life. Like, actually learn a new skill? Yeah, imagine that...

The thing that separates "DJ Hero" from similarly themed motion-interactive games is...you could safely DJ in your own home. With other games you can't necessarily do that...maybe there's not a driving range or a tennis court in your hood...so you play virtual golf/tennis. That's fine. It's illegal and rude to go up to a mafucka in the streets and start wailing on his ass on GP, but with Wii Boxing you can punch and flail to your heart's content. Cool. "DJ Hero" allows you to do something you can do relatively easily in the matrix...I don't really see the point.

Are people really that averse to performing real-life tasks? Seriously, what's next? Chore Hero! (with broom/mop shaped controller) Clean your crib...in 3D...wow! Maybe McJob Hero is more your style...use the included spatula to flip burgers and serve asshole customers for points and promotions! (Best part is, you work at McDonalds...which means if you drop a patty, you can just pick it up, flip it back on the grill and keep playin...) Can you make it to the register? You know what, I'm not thinking of those who play video games the most...you know, those pale mafuckas who spend every waking hour with a controller of some kind in they hand? With them in mind, I present Sex Hero (all the fun of sex without those annoying orgasms)...use the vibrating pelvic motion sensor to track your strokes and increase your score! 1-4 players. (owwwwww!) Anyway, my point is this: there are some activites in life that have to be experienced without cords...there are no cheat codes on reality. Games are fun, but when they start replacing shit that folk can (and should) actually do, we need to reevaluate some things. Just sayin...


ETCAM 9- IHOP Big Steak Omelet

I'm not a huge fan of rules...who says you can't have a omelet at 2 in the afternoon? (Or that I have to spell 'omelet' with a extra 'te' like they do on the menu...fuck that...) Especially when there's an IHOP a couple blocks away from my job. (13th and Walnut, if you're ever in downtown Philly and your neck starts itching from stuffed French toast withdrawal...) They even offer a service called IHOP to go...that made it convenient for me because I could get my food in stride and not have to spend too much time on the edge of rainbowville. (In case you're not phamilar with Philly, that's where they keep all the Flamboyantly Alternative Gentlemen and such...not really my type of party.) I called in my order, they told me it would be ready in 10...which is about how long it takes to walk over there.

I walked into the IHOP and went up to the host podium...the restaurant is real smallish from outside, but it's bigger than it looks. I looked around at the folk in there. An older lady gummed frustratedly at a thick strip of bacon, a gentleman in a suit poured ketchup and syrup on his eggs (then proceeded to eat them with his actual mouth *gag*), and 2 fluffymen sat beside each other in one of those 4-seater booths, talking loudly and overly effeminately. It was a scene, man. "Get me the fuck outta here..." I said to nobody in particular. As if by command, at that point, Host pops up and starts to give me the whole "Welcome to IHOP" speech. I cut it off about 3 sentences deep and told him what I ordered. He instantly produced it from some unseen compartment in his podium, he started to thank me, I just threw 13 dollars on the counter and rolled out. Sweet salvation.

I got back to my desk, where I opened all the food in one motion. I actually took a little time out to admire it...that omelet really does fill up that whole plate. (I guesstimate it was a 4 egg deal.) Melted cheese, diced tomato and thick chunks of steak adorned the dish. It's way tastier than it looks in the pic. It was only after this omelet-related daydream that I noticed that I had subconsciously not only cut the pancakes into fours and syruped it, but managed to eat a piece, all without thinking about it. (Which explains the missing piece in the pic lol) IHOP does strange things to a man. I finished the pancakes...they were pretty damn good. (I do have a serious beef that they only gave me one packet of syrup for 3 pancakes...I almost choked on the shit, stop being stingy IHOP!)

The omelet was even more standout. I was delighted to find that not only had they put steak on top, they stuffed it with more steak...and hashbrowns. I'm not sure how they did it, but ask me how many fucks I gave. IHOP pushes their pancakes...and they're good...but they sell their omelets way short. I've said before I was gonna marry the first woman who could make a omelet better than them...and you can laugh if you wish, but I meant that shit with every fiber of my being. It's a dead serious open invitation for anybody with 2 X-chromosomes who reads this. Anyway, we all know IHOP is great for breakfast (whether that breakfast is at 3am after the club or at normal human times) but an omelet can be great in the middle of the day too. The food haze I was in for the rest of the workday helped.

Text Limbo

I don't know if y'all know about the concept of text limbo. It happens to me sometimes, and it's the cause of a lot of crossed signals and misunderstandings. Text limbo is when you get a text and start to text them back...but then something distracts you (could be the boss coming around and you have to pretend to work, or something in class, or 3-D folk talkin to you, maybe you go to sleep...whatever). You handle whatever business diverted you from your phone...but for some reason the text just slips your mind.

Then you look back in your inbox 8 hours later and wonder why you have a draft/unsent message. That message spent that time in text limbo. Of course, whatever you were in the middle of typing before you were so rudely interrupted all those hours ago is now irrelevant...sometimes the person you were texting even gets the idea you're ignoring them, and that's not (always) true. I have 3 aborted halftexts in my inbox right now...prime evidence of how much text limbo affects my life. So to anybody important and likeable that I know that I might not have gotten back to after they texted me...sorry y'all, it's just text limbo at work. (To anybody else, just plain ole "shit happens"...and how did you get my number anyway?)


Camera Phone Ninja Vol. 21- Star Power

My belovd-ed Cowboys lost yesterday, so I was a bit bummed out when I came in today...then this happened. What you see here is both the single jankiest attempt at a star ever, and the result of a loudmouth Eagle fan I work with losing a bet on last week's game. (Silly Eagle fans...thinking they we're going to win, how preposterous) I had to wait a week to see the results, but oh, was it worth it. My stomach hurts from laughing...and the rest of the office enjoys it too. (At this point, I'll mention that the bet was Iggle Stan's idea...) All the sting of my team losing yesterday was immediately healed...every time he catches a glance of himself in the mirror for the next few days will be a reminder to shut the fuck up.

Now, whatever basehead he got to do this for him fucked up severely...it looks like a star that got in a car accident. (I'm not sure he ain't do it himself...the image of Iggle Stan in his bathroom mirror weeping like a woman while holding clippers in one hand and a ruler in the other tickles me). This, of course, only adds to the comedy value. Because of his midnight green hubris, he is now forced to look like he rides the short bus to work for a week and a half. That's sweeter than sugar coated Pixy Stix. So let this be a cautionary tale, sports fans...if your team sucks, don't bet anything you ain't prepared to lose. (Like...y'know...your dignity.)

For the love of the game

"Whore" (and its cousins "ho", "slut", "tramp", etc.) can be a confusing word. When the word is leveled at a person who is not actually paid for sexual favors, it's insulting, degrading, and unfair...to actual sex workers. I mean, why should someone that just gives these services out for free to anybody be just lumped in with folk who have made getting fucked a lucrative career choice?

At least the professional anatomical sales associate is using their talents to make money...your average pass-around girl is usually uncompensated. (It's like the difference between some guy who shoots buckets in his driveway on weekends and Kobe Bryant.) Every time you call some promiscuous party chick who only gets a wet ass and a "So, I'll call you?" for her trouble a 'smut' or 'trick', you disrespect all those brave Americans with the entrepreneurial acumen to actually exchange their services for currency. (Which is, as I know it, the basis of capitalism.)

The people who actually profit from their craft have been grouped with those who pleasure entire high school football teams free of charge for long enough...the distinction must be made. So I've come up with some replacement terms: "busy girl" (self-explanatory), "semi-pro" (to indicate her amateur status),"ho-stess" (givin out party favors), and "practice chick" (practice? I'm talkin bout practice? Yeah...a practice chick is the sexual equivalent of a speed bag or a Stairmaster...good for training and excercise, but not much else). Please pick one that works for you, and let's stop giving these volunteer easy riders too much credit for not gettin any cash. Kthxbye...


Happy Birthday, Sis!

November 14th is a special day in my world...it's my sister Amber's birthday. Yup...you're 18 today, which makes me feel old as shit. I can still remember this day in 1991, my life changed forever...she came, wrapped in her little pink blanket. As 3-year-old me had never been told whether mommy was having a boy or a girl, I reacted with immediate disappointment on not getting the little brother I wanted. "Awwman! I don't want a girl! Why didn't you go to the boy baby hospital!?" I howled angrily. (That's how I thought it worked back then...boys came out of one hospital, girls came out another. I was a stupid kid, fuckin' sue me lol) That was a bad first impression...no one should start out a siblinghood by wanting to punt little sis out of a window.

I'm kinda ashamed to admit it, but I zealously resisted her presence at first. See, when a new baby arrives, the old baby often gets overlooked by adoring folk wanting to "seethebabyholdthebabykissthebabyawwlookatthewittlebaby!" I had that, and my parents all to myself before Amber came along, and I resented her ruining my only-child-status. I showed this distaste with such stunts as drinking all the milk out her bottles (maybe if she didn't eat, she would shrink away to nothing), hiding her pacifier (if she won't shut up, maybe they'll get sick of her and put her out) and smacking her in the back of the head when nobody was looking (just to show the kid who ran shit). Over time, I was beaten enough for doing things of this nature to where I gave up and simply accepted that I had a sister and had to be a big brother...whether I liked it or not.

I eventually learned to love her. Amber turned out to be a pretty cool kid after all...we grew up together, got in trouble together (I appreciated her never snitching on me...even from the early days, a "Who did this?!" from our parents in response to a broken/colored on/ruined item was met with 2 blank stares and a bunch of "uh..." Since neither of us would tell, we both usually got a belt workout.) and pretty much became good friends. Few things made me happier than making her laugh and seeing that pretty gap toothed smile of hers. (Seriously, it was Michael Strahan status when she was young.) We fought and argued like any brother and sister, got mad, didn't speak for a while, all that shit...but we always ended up cool again...even after I accipurposely ran her over with my bike when I was 8 during a game of "Monster Truck". (Sorry again, sis...)

I learned to take pride in my bigbro role. We had our childhood together, both of us became teenagers, and we still kept close. I watched her blossom into a very special young woman with that same slightly-less-gapped glowing smile. I protected her, bossed her around a little, beat her up every once in a while...all the duties of an older brother. Then it happened. Amber got sick. I won't depress you with the details, but it affected her life drastically. After a while, she couldn't go to school or even outside any more. She's been sick for about 3 or 4 years now...teenage years, which means she's missed out on a lot of important experiences like prom, graduation, and seeing her big brother firing frozen footballs at the back of some horny little Axe-bodyspray-smelling 16 year old boy as he chases him out of the house for trying to love up on his sis. I think every day about how unfair that is, to (hopefully) snap back to reality one day and have no memory of what are supposed to be some of the best years of her life. It fuckin sucks, for lack of even wanting a better word.

So today's her birthday...she's supposed to be out somewhere celebrating with her friends...but her friends don't call much any more (mostly due to the fact that she's rarely in a condition to talk) and she'll just have to stay in the house like every other day for the past couple years. It's ineffably fucked up. Not to get too emo here, but I saw her this morning, realizing for the first time that my sister was a legal adult...and had to keep myself from crying. Some things I just don't understand...maybe none of us do. Amber, I know you probably won't read this, at least for a while...I just hope one day you'll be better and I can have my wonderful little sis back. Even more, I hope that one day you can experience all the happiness you were supposed to have in the priceless years you lost. I love you Amber. (Even though you're not a boy...)


Minor Life Failures 7- Slippin'

This one is one of the worst...you're diddyboppin along somewhere, let's say you're on the way to class/work. You're walking along, minding your own business...you're having a pretty good day, and you're confident that nothing can change that. Then it happens...maybe you didn't pick your foot up far enough, maybe you're not paying attention to where you're walking, maybe the time-space continuum flexed underneath your feet to create an invisible stumbling block right in your path...whatever happened, you trip.

Not one of those where you completely bust your ass down a flight of steps or something...that's a major life failure...my advice is just to scrap whatever you were doing, return to your home and try living again tomorrow. but just enough where you do that triple-stutterstep thing to play it off. (Which, of course, you can't...if it would count as traveling in the NBA, you just had a clumsy moment...take it on the chin and move on.) Of course, you managed to do this where folk can see you, and now smiles is cracked and giggles is stifled all around you. (And even that depends on the requisite hype mafucka goin "Daaaaaaayum" and laughin obnoxiously...resist the urge to attack that guy, its your fault you can't walk right, don't take it out on him.)

Anyway, there ain't a whole lot I can tell you to avoid this...you see, though it happens to everybody, (and anybody who say they don't is a damn lie) certain folk are more prone to that than others. I'm convinced there's a clumsy gene that some folk have. (Ever notice how you have that one friend that's always droppin shit and fallin and carryin on? They have it.) I mean, you could try just stepping your bipedal locomotion game up so you don't fall all over your own feet all the damn time...but if your DNA is uncoordinated, there ain't a whole lot I can tell you besides maybe wear a helmet so you don't fuck around and crack your inept head open on the ground next time you decide you wanna lose your footing on flat land.

Na, that's not weird at all...

You know what I always thought was really awkward? When grown folk have those Fathead wall stickers on their bedroom wall. You know, those giant vinyl cutout thingies with sports logos and shit. Well, it's not so much the stickers as a whole I have a problem with...its the ones with the images of like, actual players. (I admit, I do have one...but its a helmet. Just a helmet.) Yes, now you can have a life size image of LeBron James or somebody on your wall 24/7! Uh...yeah, that's normal.

First of all...why do you, as a male (prolly...most sports fans who have these are either teenagers or grown men) have a 6 foot shrine to Alex Rodriguez in your room to look at day and night? Seems a bit...extra, no? You don't ever get the feeling those things are staring at you? (I mean, I like my Cowboys and all...but having Marion Barber watching me get dressed is not really my idea of a fun morning.) I wonder how the actual athletes involved feel...does Tiger Woods sometimes sit down and go "Hmm..somewhere there's a 43 year old guy with my blown up picture on his wall, and I don't know if I'm comfortable with that..." Seems a bit stalky to me. I'm not sure anybody over the age of 12 should have one...but somewhere you know somebody's husband is gazing lovingly at a realistic Donovan McNabb action pose...and that's just wrong.

Actually...I can illustrate my point on a more personal level. How would you feel if somebody you knew had a life size vinyl replica of you stuck to their wall? Maybe they have a picture of you from that Christmas party, or even worse, printed up one of your MyFace pics and decided to have it oversized and made into a decoration for their home. Are you gonna feel flattered or have a restraining order placed against them as of yesterfuckinday? If I was a bettin man today (I don't make wagers on Friday the 13th...I'm just a little superstitious...) I would bet my bottom dollar on option B. It's just not normal, people...cut that shit out.


ETCAM 8- El Fuego

*fittedwearer's note: Yeah, I've been doing the Mexican thing here a lot lately, I know. I'll write about something other than tacos and shit in this space eventually, I promise lol...ees jus so goooood, mang...

I walked out of my job, about to take my daily hour (and a half) for lunch. I wandered aimlessly up Sansom St. wondering what the hell I was gon eat for lunch...I passed by Subway, (oh, how you disappointed me) juked around some guy giving out free packets of instant coffee (thanks for that at 1:00pm) and kept it moving...about 3 blocks later, I came upon the cool looking storefront of El Fuego, which featured a flame motif and sleek, modern lettering (sometimes the packaging is everything)...sure, why not?

I walked in and saw that the serving area was laid out pretty much like Qdoba/Chipotle...as I like those places, this appealed to me. I made my way to the register, where a bubbly white girl in a Steelers tee effervesced (if it ain't a word, I just made it one...) over and happily greeted me. "HI! Welcome to El Fuego, what can I get for you today?" I had already decided on a chicken quesadilla...but then something behind the register caught my eye...it was like a Slurpee machine, but instead of frozen essence of red#6, this wonderous device was churning up...margaritas! Not only that, there was a standard drink cooler (which I hadn't even looked at before, thinking it was full of Mystics and Nantucket Whatevers) filled with Coronas and other cervézas.

I was intrigued...such an obvious compliment to a southwestern meal, but it's never been done by a quickserve restaurant. This instantly put it at the top of all taco assembly line restaurants in my mind. I considered a beer, but then remembered one of my life quotes: "There's never a bad time for a stiff margarita". But did it actually have any alcohol in it? There's always a bad time for a weak drink of any kind. I decided to ask (even tho askin a bar are their drinks strong is like asking a weedman if his tree is any good...you're prolly gonna get a yes whether its true or not.) "Ooh, yeah...those are good!" she cooed. The way her eyes lit up when she said that is hard to describe...but picture waving a hot, fresh Five Guys bacon double cheeseburger in front of a starving refugee who has eaten nothing but sand for the past week...something like that. Those were the words of a party girl who knew her way around an adult beverage. No polygraph needed to know that was the truth. Sign me up, babe.

I sat down at the big bay window in the front...it faced the street...good for people watching. (You do it too, stfu.) I took my first bite of the quesadilla. It was good...pretty much a clone of anything Qpotle makes, which is in no way an insult. The salsa was even comparably fresh...but what really stuck with me was that margarita. It was like alcoholic lemon water ice. Bubbly Steeler Girl wasn't lyin...it did have more than a little tequila in it...way more than I expected for something premade. Then I saw why...I saw a guy make his way out the back, open the margarita maker, calmly pour an entire bottle of liquor into it, and go back where he came from. These folk do not skimp out on the joy juice. By the time I was done, I was full and had a nice little haze on...enough to go back to work and chill, not so much I was noticeably intoxicated. (I call that a workbuzz) Shit...if I could get one of those at every lunch, I honestly think my life would be a little better. (And at $12 for the quesadilla and drink, it actually wasn't that bad on the pocket.) I think I found a new favorite lunch place...sry, Qdoba. I'm gonna go back a lot...y'all are welcome to join me.

Camera Phone Ninja Vol. 20- Pipe Game

Yeah, I'm immature, I found this funny. They could have picked any cute little slogan...a dumb little rhyme about clear pipes ("we'll take the pain out your drain") or some stupid little pun ("our drain service is flow-nominal") but no...these cheeky mafuckas go with the clearly suggestive "we'll get you open"...well damn. Just gonna come service my pipe real good, huh? Sounds like something out of a PG-25 rated movie... (Yes, PG-25...which mean I can't even see that shit yet...) Maybe I have a filthy mind, but outside of a quarterback/reciever conversation, there's really no nonsexual context to talk about gettin open all crazy. Despite that, I just wanna thank the folk at Just Drains for givin me a cheap giggle this morning...


Heels: a letter to the otherside

Dear womenfolk,

You know something ladies? I give y'all a lot of shit about things, and you deserve most of it...but one thing I will give you guys (uh...girls) on behalf of hetero males as a whole is that y'all wear heels. I figured I'd tell you on Veterans Day cuz y'all are some soldiers for that. I mean, let's be real, we know why you do it...makes your legs and butt look good, of course. (Unless, of course, you ain't got no butt...if you don't have any buttcheeks and your spine ends somewhere in the back of your knees, idgaf if you have on 8-inch stripper spikes, you still ain't got no ass...you're just a taller longback type female, you ain't slick). We think it's great, we do...we just don't know how y'all do it.

I mean seriously, what black magic enables y'all to move around all day in those torturous looking things? How do y'all climb stairs, run, dance, all that shit? It don't even look like y'all should be able to stand. I know damn well I'm not walking around on my tiptoes all day under any circumstances. (Not even with those retarded looking Jumpsole sneakers with the platform in the front that they've been trying to sell in Eastbay since, like, forever. Have you ever actually seen those in real life? Lemme get back on topic before I start rambling tho.) The shit looks fucka uncomfortable, but I be damned if y'all don't keep putting those things on...gahdammit, that's dedication.

I just couldn't see myself in heels even if I was a female. I mean, yeah, it would be kinda cool to be 6'7"...but at the cost of agonized feet and mangled toes, nothx. It will always be a mystery to us Y-chromosomers how exactly y'all manage that...but fortunately, that ain't our department (speaking for most of us...there are some dudes that do rock heels, but they should be kneecapped with a extendobaton Tonya Harding-style). We don't have to know, that ain't our department...we just get to reap the benefits with our eyes...yet another reason why being male is so awesome, its damn near unfair. Not the point though...my point is the female body is a work of art...even fat girls can be considered abstract art, and nonpretty girls can be said to have Cubist faces. Its inspiring to us to see that some of y'all are willing to suffer for that art...or...something. Anyway, just wanted to let y'all know we love it...keep rockin them heels, girl.

AJ (and a lot of other dudes too)

Good work, soldier!

It's Veteran's Day. This is a day that most folk know as a free day away from school and a day city workers get off (*pumps fist*) but it is also a day where we honor the veterans of America's wars. It's nice to see folk who actually deserve it get a holiday (fuck you once again, Christopher Columbus) and this is one I can really get behind. I mean, these people gave they lives (not even to mention folk walking around with half a body because they survived some horrific attack) defending our country. That's very honorable, and even more so because I know you won't catch my black ass doing that. (Sorry, my mommy says I can't get shot...)

I don't understand people who don't support the troops...dumbass, don't you know who would be the troops if the troops weren't the troops? Uh, you. Do you want to be barked at by some mafucka in a modified cowboy hat with bad breath telling you to drop and give him 50 at 5 in the fuckin morning? Do you wanna go on a 50 mile hike carrying a 40lb backpack? Hell..do you want to be standing there behind a pile of fuckin sandbags as a whole Al-Quaida cell chops at you with AKs or driving across the desert in the hot sun where every stretch of road could have a landmine that'll make you lose your legs or life? I'll give you some time to think about that...*hums Jeopardy theme*...oh, that's what I thought. But these dudes do it every day. So I support the shit out of them mafuckas. Hoo-ah! You damn right I support the troops. Ima hug me a troop today.

I mean, it's not their fault they're wasting time overseas pointlessly shooting the wrong mafuckas (where's Bin Laden, again?) if you got a beef with that, you should take it up with Bush. Burn down his house or something, but don't dis the troops. It was the same way in Vietnam...of course I know that because I was alive to see it (on the History Channel). The people didn't agree with the war, so they take it out on the warriors. That ain't right, they're just following orders. (Its an admitted oversimplification, but the message functions.) I firmly believe all our soldiers, past and present, deserve the utmost respect for everything they do and have done, and that's real. So today, while you're getting over that hangover or rollin up that blunt or signing on the Xbox live or whatever you finna waste today doing...take a moment and think of the real reason you're off today. America's troops...you're my heroes. (Well, you, Malcolm X, Deion Sanders, the Green Lantern and Bernie Mac...but definitely you too.)


Inventions Nobody Fuckin Asked For: the Dreamie

I'd like to introduce y'all to the 'Dreamie'...it says it's a pillow, mattress topper (!) and a sheet, and is "perfect for travel." (See, it's folk spending time inventing dumb shit like this that cause them not to have time to focus on important shit like automatic bedmakers...it's a crime.) They say it's the last blanket you'll ever buy. I say they're absolutely right...if I buy this shit, it'll be the thing after the last thing I ever do. (What kind of man sleeps in something called a 'Dreamie'? Sounds like some kind of fairy princess toy for little girls.)

First of all, they're trying to pass it off as some portable luxury sleeping device. It's not. It's some unwieldy fusion of a cocoon and a deluxe sleeping bag. (Why someone would want a sleeping bag in bed is an entirely different question...this thing is gonna cause relationship problems...we all grown here, think about it...) It looks more like a restraint than something intended to comfort you...sort of a first class straitjacket. I don't understand why someone would use this in their own home, because whether the manufacturers know it or not, it's definitely a item geared toward the homeless...seriously, who else would benefit more from having low quality makeshift bedding on the go? (Fits most standard size boxes...) Too bad bums don't have credit cards or watch infomercials, there's a big market for this bullshit. I can picture streetfolk layin on the sidewalk in dirty Dreamies with a homemade pocket for change. What kind of world is this?

If that's not bad enough, we still have the "perfect for travel" claim to cover. Is it really, now? (Let's just skip the part where I tell you what a nuckin fut you look like in public with this thing on...that goes without typin.) As you can see, the thing is padded through its whole length...I assume pretty much all its appeal is in the fact that you can lay down and be comfortable. But what travel conveyance can accommodate such a position? There are very few transports that allow a completely reclined position. A plane? Maybe if you buy a whole row of seats. The train? Doubt it. (Besides, I wouldn't even try that shit on a Philly train. I don't want my arms and legs to be wrapped up and useless when some puzzle factory escapee decides he wants to beat folk about the face and neck with a fuckin claw hammer.) The only place I can even see the thing being a factor is at the airport/terminal/train station. You can lay on the floor and wait if your departure gets delayed. (Of course, you do look like a vagabond, supporting my bum equipment theory.)

I don't know...maybe I'm not a sleep gadget type dude, but all this shit gets on my nerves...Snuggies, Dreamies and whatever next device they come up with to allow people to lounge about in completely inappropriate places. It's like they're takin all those items intended for babies and makin them adult size. (You tell me a Snuggie doesn't look like what you take a newborn home in or that this Dreamie thing wouldn't be one of those baby carrying backpack pouches with the addition of a couple straps.) I'm a grown ass man, I don't need swaddling clothes...and neither do you. It seems like some companies are intent on profiting on folks laziness and stupidity...and that's both the saddest and the smartest thing ever...there seems to be plenty of both to go around. Idk, maybe it's just me, maybe I'm cranky and need a nap...but I can guarangahdamntee it won't be on (in?) a Dreamie...after all, it is an invention that nobody fuckin asked for...

Patently Imaginary: the Automatic Bedmaker

Another thing that some dude needs to hurry up and invent is an automatic bedmaker. (I'm a mild to moderate sleep gymnast, my covers always get messed up...) I don't know about you, but making my bed never seemed like an efficient use of my time...I mean, damn, I'm gonna be right back in it in 12-18 hours and fuck it right on back up. It's even borderline cruel as a childhood chore...like being asked to wash bars of soap or put Skittles in alphabetical order. When I get up and start pinballing around my crib trying to make that transformation from morning zombie to presentable human being, the last thing I think about is makin my bed.

I don't see the asthetic appeal (*sigh*...it mean whether the shit look nice or not...sorry about those of y'all whose intelligence I just insulted, I just wanna avoid a few "ay, what that word mean?" emails/IMs this time around...let's move on) either. I'm not even lookin at the shit when it's made...you know why? Because I'm not fuckin in it! Hell, I'm prolly not even home...you think I be stressin at work about my bed not bein made? "Damn, I left my covers fucked up, what will the Esther Baxter poster above my bed think of me when it finds out I don't make my bed?" Not really. Its completely pointless, way I see it.

That's why I think it should be a task left to machines, like all the other ones we humans don't be feeling like doing. It's amazing to me that with all the important advances in technology and science that we still make our beds the same way the cavemen did. (No offense, Geico spokesneanderthals...) It wouldn't even have to be all that futuristically complicated...something like a motorized paper towel roll on robotic arms that pop out of a trap door in the ceiling...in the morning, it would roll up the sheets and tuck them safely away in the ceiling and at night it would roll em back on...or something. I don't fuckin know...what I do know is some supergenius pocket protector mafucka can stop what he's doing long enough to get on this. So he should. Plznthx.


Random Thoughts 21- Thug Life

Serious question: When you get right down to it, strip away all the perceptional differences, semantics, window-dressing and all that shit and really look at it...is there a difference between a gang, a political party, and a union? On the surface, the group portray themselves as different as day and night, but lookit...they all look out for their own, they all have an agenda, and are all willing to use...less than moral methods to further that agenda.

What really brought this together was the actions of the SEPTA union over this past week. They weren't getting what they wanted, so they said to the city of Philly "fuck you, pay me"...and walked off the job. It sucked, but on some real shit, but it's pretty gangsta...I mean, that was pretty much the equivalent of putting a loaded gun to somebody's head and saying "You know what time it is, give up the bread." (They did end up getting just about everything they demanded tho...) Not only did they walk off their own jobs, but the few SEPTA vehicles that were running (controlled by a different union and uninvolved in the dispute) were blocked off at various points by a human chain of disgruntled union workers. That shit should be illegal, but damn if they didn't do it.

Politicial parties have similar modes of operation (you know what a filibuster is? It's when a politician doesn't want an issue addressed, so he'll literally take the floor and start reading out the phone book over the mic or something just so they can run out of time in the session. It's a verbal strongarm...) and their ability to take care of their members through onlysortafair methods is well-documented. Seriously, if you don't study politics, take my word that the amount of shady shit that goes on is staggering.

Of course, my general point is the functional differences are minimal if there are any. Some use a gun, some use a pen, all use force...a diplomatic jack move is still a jack move. It may be kinda wild to think that a corner boy with a red bandana, a SEPTA union head in a blue work shirt and a old white Republican in a black suit could all be on the same spectrum...but if you give it a little thought, it kinda makes sense. Or maybe that's just me...whatever...

Victory Lap

*fittedwearer's note: Y'all really thought I wasn't finna bring this up?

One of the most beautiful things about being a sports fan is experiencing a humbled rival fanbase. If you're a watcher of sports and know me, you pretty much know where I'm going with this. (If you're not, and don't...I don't even know why you're reading this one...wait for the next post or enjoy umf classic...) I rose up out of bed this morning feelin poppinfreshazimizadelic, (its a word, google it...later...) for I knew the day ahead held delights only being a supporter of a team could bring. See, the day after your team beats a team you hate, the sun shines brighter, the air is fresher, food tastes better...its kinda like being tickled all day, except you don't run out of breath.

I danced out the door for the train to work (SEPTA decided that $20 a hour was enough to drive a damn train all day, so they went back to work...whoop de fuckin way to go...) looking forward to a day of retribution. My Cowboys jacket attracted venomous stares and the gnashing of teeth...but alas, they had nothing to say. Where were the scores of Eagle faithful who had scorned me over the past week, called me all types of names, told me over and over again how my team sucked and was gonna lose, taunted me with unimaginative jokes involving the word 'Cowgirls' (Ha ha ha...you replaced 'boys' with 'girls'...gee, that's original...Young Jeezy H. Christ, youre fucking clever...) while I suffered in stoic, anticipatory silence? They seemed to all contract a serious case of tongue lock and were unable to talk shit or even burp farts (the average Eagle fan's favorite activity...I don't know what it is about an empty trophy case that makes Eagles fans think it's cool to downtalk superior franchises...) The stfu-itis that swept the city was beautiful. It's so good I'm tempted to lick my fingers.

*A quick sidenote about the whole 'Cowgirls' thing is female Iggle fans like to throw it out too...how can a female use 'girls' as an insult? Bitch, you a girl! How you gonna imply that your whole kind is inferior to boys by using the name for folk like you in a insultative (fuck no that's not a word!) manner? Never made sense to me...but I digress.*

Needless to say, I'm having a fuckin great day over here...but I'm gonna make it a little better now...I held off on talking shit all week, its time to rectify that. Yo...Ci...*points, laughs* That goes double for you, AV. Guy on R3 last week who made a simplistic rhyming joke with the Cowboys quarterback's last name? (Another innovative comedy gem...) Eat a light bulb, fuckboy. Random folk on street with football slick talk? Hey, how about a tall, frosty mug of suck the bottom of my ass...can I make yours a double? Mafuckas at work who went on and on about how much better the Eagles were all week? I don't wanna hear shit about flags, referees or anything...save it. Fuck you, pay me. (Cash only...you can keep your coupons, food stamps and gift cards to Bed Bath and Beyond...) Everybody who wanted to befoul my Facebook wall with the Eagle fight jingle, reminders of 44-6 and other random birdshit for the past 7 days (and strangely, haven't posted shit since the game ended...hmm...)? Ctrl+alt+delete yourself. Yes, I may sound a bit bitter but fuck it...I been waiting for this for 10 months, I fuckin deserve it. Go Cowboys! *sigh*...I'm done lol


When you dont pull your weight, youre pushing your luck...

One thing that's always bothered me is a lazy mafucka. We all know folk like this...they sit around and complain about how they never have any money and how their life sucks as a result, but never actually...like, do anything about it. (I'm convinced if certain people got paid to bitch, there'd be no such thing as a recession...) Now, let's be clear, I have my slacker-chic moments like any other human being, but my thing is if you're an able bodied man, you can do SOMETHING with your life to make your ends meet. Your legs ain't broke, your hands work, there's gotta be some service you can render to be something other than a drain on other folks resources. Matta fact, maybe this has something to do with the way I was raised, but if you are gonna pretend to be a grown man, you should be contributing to something some type of way. (That could be having a job, takin care of a kid, going to school, or anything else that makes you a useful person.)

Fuck all those excuses like 'the system has it out for me', 'I can't find a job right now' or my favorite, 'I don't wanna work for the man' (start your own business then, prick)...if you don't wanna put an empty fork in your mouth/the mouths of your family at night, you better go out and get that money. Shit gets real, I know...everybody can't always collect a traditional paycheck, I dig that...but I don't give a damn what you have to do, sell coke, shovel snow, donate sperm, rake leaves, stand outside Lowe's with the illegals, get your hack man game up...hell, set up a 3 card monte booth in Center City (yes, folk still fall for that...) point is, if you're not supporting yourself or at least trying to get on your feet, you can't call yourself a man with a straight face.

The reason this has always been a pet peeve of mine is I see the same mafuckas every day, sittin on their porch from dawn to dusk, blowin tree and playin spades and collecting welfare or livin off they momma...not even attempting to make they own dollars and being perfectly fine with that. (I swear, whenever I see that type shit, I feel like a fuckin sucka for goin to work all week in an attempt to make some honest Federal Reserve Notes when you can just lay around and let welfare make it rain on you...what part of the game is that?) When did that become cool, to sit on your back pockets and breastfeed off the gov't? Have you no shame? Far be it from me to knock the next man's hustle, but that's just it...there's no hustle involved there, that's just useless mafuckas wasting my tax dollars. I'm sick of the shit, so I'm comin right out and sayin it: If you're a man, and not willing to work, you shouldn't be able to eat either. Let the ne'er-do-wells starve, fuck em and everybody who looks like em. Men, we gotta start actin like we deserve to be called that...get off your ass and do something! That be all...