Rap vs O’Reilly and Fox News…Round 4

If you can’t see the video because your job has it blocked *which is fine…you should be working ANYdamnWAY*, Mr. Illmatic and hooked up with ColorOfChange.org to deliver a petition with 620,000 signatures to Fox News and Bill “I Just Beat a Sexual Harrassment Case Because I Was Trying To Phone Bone A Coworker..and I Even Offered To Buy Her Sex Toys” O’Reilly in protest of their racist, sexist and fear mongering brand of “journalism.” 620,000 signatures is a LOT of people to sign a petition, online or not. I mean damn, that’s a helluva lot of online traffic and a HELL of a lot of Bic pens that lost their lives in the name of protest. Let’s have a moment of silence for those server racks and ink cartridges. WE MAJOR!!! *see what I just did there? HA!*

And now on to my problem with Color of Change reaching out to Nas of all the damn rappers on the face of the Earth.  Oochie Wally and You Owe Me. Yeah, I said it. Oochie frickin Wally and You Owe Me. Regardless of how much A&R and label pressure *not to mention how many times he makes a Black Girl Lost or If I Ruled The World type track* Nas had to include those songs on their respected albums…he still had them circulating on MTV and BET.  It’s not like those jawns were slow to bubble either. They spent a significant amount of time in the top 20 countdowns during their prime. I’m not even going to mention the fact that Nas has a new album out which needs promotion. From what I can tell from the youtube video, Nas only made one reference to the album.  I’m sure Billy will have his researchers and stat trackers count how many times Nas has said “nigga” and made derogatory terms towards women in his songs.

I’d really like organizations to stop using rappers/actors as spokespeople for your causes. I understand y’all may share views with said rapper/actor/athlete…they’re still an entertainer. Go find yourself an educator or author. Go find yourself a CEO or a college student to put a face to your cause. As a 28 year old black man in the United States…I can remember Belly. I can remember the Oochie Wally video. I can remember when several members of the Dallas Cowboys got popped for coke. I can also remember when Bill Cosby stopped being Cliff Huxtable and he became William Cosby…the man that cheated on Camille. I can also remember when most of the programs on TV were suitable to watch at any time of the day. There was no Maury. There was no Jerry. There was only Phil Donahue and Oprah.  Children these days don’t have those kinds of memories. All they know is 50 Cent, Heath Ledger dying of an overdose, Cita’s World on BET, and “reality” television. I’m charging people that want to make a change to bring back the school book fair. Library trips. Finding guest speakers to come to your middle/high school that have actually GONE from ashy to classy by means of an education or the drive to succeed.

Once we’re gone, the kids these days will have to deal with another Bill O’Reilly and they won’t be armed with the weapons they need to take him down if all they can remember is Ocho Cinco doing a river dance in the endzone after a score.

Oh, and I’d like to big up ColorOfChange.org for at least making the attempt.

Going Green: Human Traffic

And it has nothing to do with slavery….or does it?

Do you feel like people are playing games with you when you walk to work? The same way people used to play games when you would commute by car? I don’t know if any of you experience that at all but I do. I realized the cost of going green this morning and its human traffic (no slave)

Pretend you are driving down a residential street. Don’t automatically assume it’s a nice or grimy street. Just imagine a place where people live rather than party. You look up and you see that there is a SVU aiming down at you; of course they are riding the dotted yellow or white line in the street like it was meant to be exactly along the bottom center of their chassis. The driver is looking directly at you but pretending they are focused behind you and they happen to be white…..

You are on the freeway. It is 643 am/pm as you head/leave where you drive to earn your income. Just Over Broke. You know you need to get off two exits down. You check your right lane both by turning your head and…..you even check the mirror. You notice there is car in your blind spot so you figure you can get over eventually, plus you have got two exits of time. You turn on your signal only to realize the car is keeping pace with you. Being the good and safe person you are, you slow down to pull behind and the car slows to stay in your right blind spot. What that you say? Speed up? Guess what? They did too.

Fucking hate that right?

“Rii rii rii”

Me too. Makes me ape shit. If there was a paper trail (I never leave evidence) one might notice I had at least four road rage incidents in 2005 resulting in the annihilation of people who shop at REI and think convertible beamers make them tough. That’s another story though.

Every morning I have been riding the train to work. Gas price is up, environment is fucked and parking is rape. Apparently the trend is growing. I keep hearing about this going green movement and how everyone is working toward a more environmentally conscience life. They apparently have put down the SUV and picked up a BART card. They commute with me everyday. I stand in places that make me easier to make space for others to pass. I even walk down the platform and find the empty black Lego patch that signals where the doors of the commuter rail will align for entrance once the train has stopped. I will literally come down the stairs from the street, scan for people, and head directly to the most unpopulated area of the platform. Just me…..the quiet….my ear phones….a cup of coffee….and that sound of the BART announcements that switch from the girl on the to Homie the Clown as they tell you which train is coming. I stand there alone as the train comes shooting down the tube bringing half of the wind off the Bay with it.

Where do they come from?

As magically as the fog that appears in tunnels in the morning is the hordes of fellow San Franciscans who materialize as the train slows down to open its doors.

"Mac Genius who playin' wit? You betta back dat ass up"

They become a horde where there was once nothing. They stand……………right in front of me some how. Oh yeah, I forgot, I move when people try to back into me. When its one woman with that great Monkees hair cut and a canvas tote slung on the shoulder with the supporting grip like my mother carries, its simple.

I can step back. I am still not sure where these people come from in the low hundreds but they all collectively back into me like Juvenile was performing in Beijing. I think about how in a traffic jam if every car around you goes in reverse at the same time, aren’t I supposed to?

“hahhaha….they want to pretend its a Tokyo subway”

You mind your business on the train. Everyone knows that rule. That’s why all your fellow passengers seem to wear earphones. Its a very My and itype space for people playing with Phones. Loud phones. You know….EARphones.

Why is that I you hear someone in the next car’s tinny mp3s through their Maxell earbuds? Everybody is fucking loud. Why do they stare at you when they are the ones with the loud music on like

you are supposed to turn down your commute. Its basically the guy in the morning traffic with his window rolled down staring at you but he’s music is on and you are listening to the traffic report. You could do what you do then such as removing your sunglasses and letting your eyebrows raise as if you were asking a question. You know what’s going to happen don’t you?

Yes you are correct, this person staring at you with the earphones is going to close their laptop bag a bit faster like suddenly you are the bad guy. Then they will look away. You wonder if wild life experience this sort of thing. Do lions decide to ignore other animals or documentarians? Do seagulls make other seagulls uncomfortable? How do they all know which animal to befriend and which to eat or even which NOT to eat. Oh yeah. They have markings.

I avoid the human herds and walk on the curb between parking meters and the lip of the asphalt. Sure enough, I will run into Katie. Who is Katie? I don’t know Katie. That’s the name I’ve given this spirit that comes over the woman who comes off the escalator, I start power walking past, she strides ardently to get in front of me, so that she can slow down after she zoom into walking right behind some guy but only ends up half a block behind me because I can step to the right, zoom for a block, step on the sidewalk and light a cigarette. That same woman always coughs about my smoke.

Drop to down and get your Janeway on

Different woman every morning, but at least one of them does the same Katie maneuver. So I call her Katie. I’m not mad for her getting her Captain Janeway on, I’m just starting to get annoyed by this interaction with one person a morning if I go into work. I go into work 5 days a week, perhaps 6. That’s a lot time with these people and I have to tell you………….a lot of folks are bringing their commuter games to the sidewalk. Maybe I am too by writing this and just simply tompooling™ if you will but some of you playing games on the drive home and most of you are playing games on public transit. Only difference is I can drive away in my car. I can avoid you. This whole walking thing is really provoking people to finger jab one another.

You think about a direct collision with a car. Imagine you are back on the street in front of your house. Think about the cars who want to collide with you. Most of the time the person driving on the wrong side of the road with a bee line for your front bumper has more to lose than you. The direct collision that people invoke on your ride along public transit when you are headed to or from work, are always from those who ain’t built for it. It never seems to be the weight lifting physical trainer who is leaving the gym full of creatine and wheatgrass. It always seems to be the cherubim over inflated ego stubby law clerk carrying an arm full of folders that finds it necessary to walk diiiiiiiiiiiirectly towards you not knowing the disastrous consequences of his pedestrian pisssing contest because he’s never been called on it before. Not even the truck driving lesbian with gloves on and a dolly full of boxes is trying to be in your way. You are not trying to be in hers. No. What about Ms. Cubby (cute + chubby) corporate mudshark holding a Veinte™ green tea fusion macchiato in one arm with the other balancing an accordion folder (the trapper keeper of the law profession), a hand bag and (yes you guessed it) on the fucking phone that decides she is going to compensate for Hillary’s embarrassing loss by making a Curves step class learned trajectory into your abdomen with her breasts. You always move out of the way. There will never be contact. It won’t be a clumsy move either. Graceful, like a fucking monk making tea yet the sadness occurs from certainty that you will sidestep and dodge.

Why then have I have become such a magnet. Surely it is nether my charisma nor my devilishly good looks. One could file it under a need for attention by other pedestrians and passengers but generally I feel that people just don’t know any better. They have taken the competition of their daily behind the wheel tomfoolery and brought it to their foot traffic between public transportation and their place of employment. Hence; human traffic. They are all still slaves to a position in the struggle rather than arriving at their goals with a sense of liberation for all. At times, I tempted to tell the loud strangely Riverside valley accented young Asian woman rushing to get in front of me so

Everybody needs to hear her convo

I can hear EVERY detail of her fascinating tales about her failed engagement via a Blackberry pearl sponsored phone conversation that if she spent less time taking care of the men in her family and more time developing herself, she might be self actualized enough in the Maslow sense to stop playing larger penis games behind the wheel or on her way back from lunch.

“Irony……….the universe’s sense of humor”

I walked down Market street toward Farmer Brown’s, crossing through a patch of dreaded, white t-shirt, blue jeans, Nike’d young gentleman of African descent imported from West Oakland and Richmond as part of the great promise of “big dough over in the city” due to heroin sales in the Tenderloin. Between the group, the must have been a minimum of 81 bullets available. No standing in my way, no chest beating, no threatening looks, no brandishing of weapons, no resistance and not a single comment about my suit. Just a series of hushed, back of the throat, nasal, bull frog toned, lack of eye contact multiple “my bad” as each of them stepped out of my way. Irony. I don’t miss being stuck in two hours of traffic to travel eight miles (at 40 mph that’s 5 mins) just to pass a bunch of stopped cars near the Treasure Island exit without a single dent in any of the stopped cars but three SFPD and five CHP because some one made the mistake of yelling at another driver “pull over and I’ll whoop your ass”. Not at all. I don’t miss it. I don’t miss the Italian convertible sports car with the butter milk driver who keeps turning up his G-Unit when I’m enjoying some Simon and Garfunkel with the bass turned up. Now as I sit on buses where people lean in toward me with their headphones as if you are supposed to tap them on the shoulder and say “HEY IS THAT FREEDOM ROCK??? WELL TURN IT UP DOOD!”, I realize how the cost of oil has dumped a crab barrel full of fuck faces into my commute all over again. All over the fuck again. I’m far too invested in my new life to allow my old tyrannical nature to take it back to some side walk road rage. However, I won’t be surprised if I come out of the Montgomery station to see some portly entitled New Englander career builder until she breeds laid the fuck out like Suge Knight while the BART police hold a 60 year old Chinese woman in hand cuffs against the wall as they ask her “is this your first violent offense Ms.Quon?”

Somebody gonna get ah hurt....reeel bad

Irony.

This has been a Tom Wars Editorial brought to you by Mickey Cooney

eHarmony…the US’s leading spousal abuse assistance program

Tell me Lee doesn’t look like he beats Ann Marie with DVD boxes for not having the precise amount of raisins in his bowl of cereal!! <– click for link

I’ve seen plenty of eHarmony.com commercials in the past. All of them seem so contrived and fake it’s more amusing than anything else. Did you know that Dr. Neil Clark Warren is a clinical psychologist that has spent the last 35 years as a relationship counselor? I’m willing to bet that people are paying HIM to be a part of his secret case study.

edit: due to Viacom’s bitchassery aplenty, Google has decided to disable embedding of numerous videos. I guess i’ma have to get my geek on and host these bitches somewhere else. oh well, click the link to view Lee and Ann Marie.

Tomming: Ax and the Trees

A Tom Wars Story

When the ax entered the forest, the trees said, “look, the handle is one of us!” as a burly white man walked about in the protected federal forest with a knapsack on his back, and ax in his hand. The handy ax handle smiled as he walked with his comrade, who stared out at the trees, looking for the perfect one to cut down. The handle rested in the man’s hand with a sense of pride and accomplishment on his face. He always wanted to be powerful and knew the blade could not slice through the wood without his help. Though the blade often looked down on him, he didn’t mind. What a small price to pay to be close to the man.
As the man and his ax walked through the forest, the trees looked at the handle with a feeling of betrayal. They couldn’t understand how one of their own could do this to them. Most of the trees groaned and shook their strong branches as a form of protest. Others sat back and excused the young handle for his betrayal. “He’s young. You can’t hold him accountable for his actions. The man is using him”, they argued. The handle heard nothing, as he only sought the approval of the man.

“Look” the handle shouted, “Let’s get that one” pointing in the direction of a rather intimidating oak tree, named Fred, who was planted relatively close to other daunting Oak trees.

“No.”, laughed the man. “He’s too big. His roots are too deep. It’ll take forever to bring him down. We don’t have the time to do it, and I don’t have the strength”, the man said as he schooled the young handle. “Let’s keep looking.”

As they walked away from the set of Oak trees, Fred shouted out “forgive them father for they know not what they do.” The frustrated handle looked back and replied, “Shut up old man!”

The Oak trees hissed and shook their branches at the man and his ax as they continued deeper into the forest. They walked past a set of Maple trees who argued with each other about the man’s intentions. “You can’t knock someone for trying to get money”, said a younger Maple tree named Kevin as his elders looked at him with disgrace. The handle shouted out, “Get rich, or die trying!” Kevin nodded with approval.

The man and his ax walked past a set of Elms who seemed confused. One young Elm named Joshua shouted, “Sell out!” The handle turned a deaf ear to the shout and simply responded, “Stop hating!” Since no one wanted to be called a hater, Joshua and his fellow Elms stood in silence.

The man and the ax walked past a set of Pine trees where a young Pine named Tracy, yelled out “Watch out, they’re coming!” The handle looked at the young Pine and responded, “Stop snitching bitch!” Disgusted, Tracy angrily yelled at him while her fellow Pines turned away. No one wanted to be associated with a snitch.

The man and his ax continued on until they came into a clearing. There, stood an apple tree named Angela. No other tree stood within 100 feet of Angela, which gave her a feeling of abandonment. Having such an insecure feeling about herself, she often dropped her unripe apples about just so people would notice. “How about that one?” the handle asked.

“She’s perfect”, said the man. “Let’s get her!”

The man took off his knapsack, and placed the ax on the ground at Angela’s foot. He looked up at her and said, “Wow! You are beautiful.” Angela naively looked back at the man and began to blush. His charm took her by surprise since no one ever complimented her. She turned away from the man and with a new found sense of confidence she spread her limbs. The man, with a grin on his face, picked up the ax and thrusted it into Angela’s frame. She yelled out in excruciating pain as the ax penetrated her bark. She screamed out for help as the man struck her over and over again with the ax.

Hearing the cry for help, the Pines, Elms, Maples and Oaks turned toward the scene and began to groan, yell, shout, and shake their branches causing a very strong breeze, which knocked the man down, and caused the ax to slip out of his hand. The man, fighting against the wind, crawled over to his knapsack and pulled out a wooden flute. The flute, happy to finally be used, started playing a melodic tune which caught the attention of the attacking trees. They stopped. The flute’s beat grabbed their attention, and they began to sway side to side. The strong wind ceased as the trees focused on the tune.

The man stood up and grabbed the ax. The ax looked at the man with a stunned face. “Let’s go back to work”, said the man.

“Yes sir”, replied the ax.

The man swung his ax with vigor. Angela didn’t scream this time. The music from the flute entranced her as well. She just swayed to the rhythm. The ax pierced her deeper and deeper. She felt nothing. The man swung the ax over and over cutting deep into Angela’s frame. The handle yelled out, “Sir, she’s getting weak. Do you want to push her?”

“No!”, the man replied. “If we hit her a few more times, she’ll fall on her own.”

The man swung harder and harder digging into Angela. “C’mon bitch, fall!”, said the man. He swung harder and Angela didn’t respond. She just focused on the beat. She swayed to the melody as the ax pounded her frame. Finally, she stopped moving. The man took three steps backward, and two to the left.

“What’s wrong?”, said the handle wondering why the man backed away.

“Watch this”, replied the man. Angela stopped swaying to the music and fell to the ground. Her limbs cracked and crushed each other with the impact of the fall. Her ripening fruit spread across the forest ground. The man, the ax, and the flute looked at her with a sense of accomplishment. “That bitch was strong”, said the ax.

“Glad I had your help”, replied the man. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Taking the bait

“There are no good black men in the world!” cry countless women from Anchorage to Miami as many of them throw on their Freak ‘em girl dresses and stilettos to go to the club. The phrase has become so popularized in the black community that many people use it’s appeal as a marketing strategy. There seems to be dozens of black fiction books dedicated to this topic. When you drive by the bus stop, there’s always a young sista on the corner reading the latest “Niggas Aint Shit” novel. Tyler Perry loves talking about it as well in his “movies” and “plays” (I seriously try to support the brotha but damn, his psuedo-movies and psuedo-plays suck). It’s become so embedded in people’s heads, that they no longer know what a good black man looks like when they see one. Thus, the topic of this blog.

I sat in a restaurant Friday evening having a rather delicious piece of salmon. This particular restaurant becomes almost like a club setting on Friday night as young sistas and brothas flood the scene for reasonable drinks, good food, and the opportunity to impress each other among other things. The brothas come in wearing fresh polo style shirts, and jeans. Sistas wear dresses and stiletto heeled shoes. Some laugh, some shout, some genuinely have a good time. Others, not so much. There are always the sistas who watch the door desperately hoping an NBA player or celebrity will walk in and make all their trophy wife dreams come true. They are constantly disappointed (sorry ladies, Iverson is in Denver now). They wear their disgust on their face as countless brothas walk by them, none of course good enough for a conversation or smile. “Where are all the good men?” they grunt.

Meanwhile, back in reality, a brother in a suit sits next to these disgruntled sistas at the bar. He is indeed a celebrity. He’s battled Bill O’Reilly and Michelle Malkin on Fox News over countless issues, always defending the honor of black men and women. His opinion is revered on MSNBC & CNN. He was also a recent guest speaker on the BET Forum “Hip Hop vs. America” which focused on the misogyny in hip hop. In 2005, Ebony Magazine named this brotha one of America’s top 30 Black leaders under 30 years old. Yet, the young brotha sat at the bar on chill mode conversing with two bartenders while the sistas around him complained there were no good black men left in the world. How ironically pathetic.

Perhaps this young brotha didn’t want to be disturbed. It’s likely that he wasn’t there to meet women. Perhaps he just wanted a drink. That’s not the point. If Young Jeezy, Rick Ross or Freeway sat in that very same chair, most of the women in the restaurant would’ve been swooning, asking for autographs, & giving up their phone numbers in an attempt to get next to people who basically admit they hate black women in their music. As I listened to the complaints of the young sistas, I laughed out loud. “There are no good men left” was constantly repeated as young brothas wearing sunglasses (inside – when the hell did that become cool?) walked past them to order drinks at the bar.

My laugh quickly turned into feeling of disappointment as a young white woman said to her friend, “That’s the guy that was on BET.” Oh the irony of a young white woman noticing this brotha. She watched the BET special, “Hip Hop vs America,” which focused on the disturbing images of young black women in the media. This show was in honor of and dedicated to the sistas at the bar, in the restaurant, and outside in the streets. I was not disappointed that this young white woman watched the show. I was disappointed that the young sistas did not. Surely they would’ve noticed the young brotha who sat a mere two feet from them if they did.

I sat in utter disbelief. I wondered to myself if this young brotha was in Lil Wayne’s latest video pouring Ace of Spade on women, would he have been recognized by the sistas? I wondered how many autograph requests there would’ve been in the restaurant that night if he had made a fool of himself on the latest VH1 reality show. As it stands, he just happens to be a young Cornell West. A young Michael Eric Dyson. He just happens to be a soldier on the front line of change. Yet, he sat alone at the bar while sistas looked toward the door waiting for Elton Brand to walk in. Of course Elton never showed up, and the white woman who noticed this young brotha was too afraid to walk up to him. “It may be awkward for him to talk to me” she said to the woman sitting next to her. “I know how he feels about black women” she continued. Sadly, the sistas he sat next to did not know how much this young brotha loved his sistas. But the white woman was probably correct. If she would’ve walked up to the brotha, the sistas around the bar would’ve probably called him a sell out, even though they had no intention of sparking a conversation with him. Perhaps if his suit was made by Roc-a-wear or Ed Hardy, he would’ve appeared cooler. As it stands, it was probably Brooks Brothers or Armani.

It’s funny how a restaurant can turn into a Sociology experiment. The check sat in front of me for a good 15 minutes before I noticed it. As I got up to leave, the young brotha was still there. The sista that sat directly next to him answered her phone. The ringtone was Soulja Boy’s “She Got A Donk” which is yet another ode to the posterior of black women. I shook my head and left.

And oh, the young brotha? Dr. Marc Lamont Hill.

The Waterpark *no sexual innuendo*

A Tom Wars Editorial

Those of you that have known me for a minute know how much I dote over my oldest nephew. Yes, the one that looks EXACTLY like I did when I was his age. I kid you not, he’s the most intelligent 5 year old I have ever met in my life…and I’m not just saying that because he’s my blood. Swear to God. We don’t get to see each other or hang out as much as I’d like, but we always have a good time when I see him. You know how it is when you’re a boy’s only nephew. Mom Dukes can tell you how much trouble we get into. She’s not amused but we are. Who cares, she’s a hater anyway.

So anyway, I took him to the waterpark on Monday. It was his first time EVER in a setting like that, so I had to lay down some ground rules before we left home. We did the water slide bit, the kid’s toy area bit, we walked around some, then we got some food, then we hit the kid’s area again. Good times. My nephew is enjoying himself immensely. He’s a social guy so he never has problems making new friends. I swear, I think he got a few phone numbers from some extreme MILF material that was there…but I digress.

He’s having a good time with his new friends while making new ones.  There were a couple i recognized from around where I live, so I would talk to their parents to let them know if they wanted to set up a day to meet somewhere, I’d be more than glad to take off work so the curtain climbers could hang out. So as the day progresses, there’s random parents coming up to the huddle to collect their kids so the family unit can depart. The whole time this is going on, I’m watching my nephew’s reaction. At first, he’s annoyed with mothers telling their bad ass kids it’s time to go. Then he realizes that my sister does the same thing to him when he’s having fun.

After a while, I notice that it’s more fathers coming to be the enforcer of the “it’s time to go” agenda. No matter HOW many families there are that are matriachal, there’s something about when pop dukes says “it’s time to go” that gets a child moving.  I don’t know if y’all notice or not, but if you keep an otherwise hyper 5 year old busy long enough, said child will be exhausted after an hour of constantly pushing his way through water and chasing other children around through afore mentioned water. It was glorious.

As we join The Great Water Park Exodus after 3 hours of fun, random people are talking to us about their day. One lady says to us “your son is so handsome, he looks JUST like you!” After me and the boy give each other a confused look, we both tell her that we’re uncle and nephew. I had to explain to her how strong our family’s genes are. As The Great Exodus continues, we see a bunch of fathers and sons huddled up at the gate hugging, high fiving, planning the next 5 weeks of activities. The boy and I start walking towards the whipper whip and I grab his hand bracing myself for the question I fear the most. As we’re waiting for the parking lot attendant to direct traffic so we can get out of our spot, I noticed my nephew wiping his eye and that his finger is wet. I ask him what’s wrong and he says nothing. I let it slide knowing that he’s just like me…that when I say nothing is wrong, it’s best to leave it alone.

He doesn’t know that I saw his shoulders slump every time one of his playmate’s dads would put them on his shoulders or bring them something to drink. He also doesn’t know that I saw him quietly crying when this group of fathers and sons walked by wearing matching clothes laughing about dad/son shit. I’ll tell you what he DOES know though…he knows that I love him with all my heart and soul. He also knows that I would tear the universe apart to find the one thing that would make him happy. He also knows that even though his poor excuse of a sperm donor doesn’t know the difference between being a father and a dad, he has a Pop Pop and an uncle that do the best they can to fill the void. It’s not the same, but at least we make the attempt.

If you’ve been paying attention, you can figure out the point of me telling that true to fucking life story that happened 3 days ago. If you can’t, I’ll spell it out for you:

1.Niggas, if you have kids and you don’t make the attempt to be a part of their life….you deserve everything bad that happens to you. There’s a little boy or girl somewhere that is missing something in their life. And it’s your fault.

2. Fellas, if you have kids and you bust your ass to do whatever you can for them…thank you. Even if you don’t see them everyday but you talk to them. Even if you only make 1 ball game or 1 recital…thank you.  Thank you for doing your job.

Now if y’all will excuse me, I have to go wipe the tears from my face and get ready for work. Y’all be easy.

Skank Juice

Apparently the world wanted to know how marinated racist rich white talentless whore smelled. That’s why Paris Hilton decided to come out with a perfume. Little girls around the world went out and grabbed the new perfume as they subconsciously thought somehow her skankiness would metaphorically rub off on them. They were wrong. Now, Trina, the Miami based rapper, has decided to come out with a perfume as well. Is there a market for the odor of talentless ex strippers who’ve whored their way into the industry and set black women back 40 years?

When I pull up to the door to pick up a sista, that’s what I want to smell. Trina! What’s that smell like? How do you even make that scent? Do you get a cauldron and mix 32 unkempt stripper poles, 16 ecstasy pills, Lil Wayne tears, the toilet from the set of Flavor of Love, a used condom from Trick Daddy and a scorching case of low self esteem?