Sleeping Dogs

Okay:

Am I the only one who feels like the older they get, the less integrity they have?

When I was younger I was really big on telling the truth. Of course, I lied to my parents constantly. No, I'm not high. That knife isn't mine. I didn't realize it was two in the morning. Etc.

I also had no qualms about lying to the police. And still don't.

And maybe in my teens, I had a tendency to exaggerate the truth to make myself seem cooler. Or sometimes if I was bored.

And I told a few girls I loved them so they would have sex with me.

But other than that, I was a boy scout.

Particularly in my late teens and early twenties. I once told a girlfriend of mine that I had met someone new. She wasn't suspicious. She called me one day thinking everything was normal and I gave an unsolicited confession. The events that followed were less than pleasant.

I talked to my mother afterwards and explained the situation. I was looking to be affirmed. "Son," she said, shaking her head. "That was so fucking stupid."

She explained to me that in certain situations the truth can do more harm than good. She told me that I should always measure out the benefits versus the potential negative consequences for everyone involved before I get all noble and start telling people shit they don't already know.

My mother has given me a lot of advice over the years. I don't remember most of it. But that particular gem has always stuck with me.

That is not say that I have always followed her advice, but lately I have been putting it to very good use. Particularly with women.

The thing about telling the truth is, more often than not, it only makes the person telling the truth feel better. And I'm not talking about "Honey, does this dress make me look fat?" Every man knows the answer to that question.

I'm talking about "Honey, where were you last night?"

If the answer is, "I was at a strip club and ended up having sex with one of the dancers in our backseat," someone please explain to me how it would benefit anyone to confess?

For the sake of being honest? Give me a break.

You tell the truth. She's furious. Heart-broken. Relationship over. And maybe she's scarred for life and can never trust another man. Who wins?

Nobody, that's who.

So, what should you do?

Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie like a fucking rug. Lie like your life depended on it. It may. Some women don't go for that kind of thing. Some of them have a strong sense of justice and may try to do something to you, or, God forbid, your car.

It's just not worth it.

Lie. You'll feel better. She'll feel better. Everybody's happy.

And isn't being happy still a good thing?


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: I also don't see anything wrong with lying to your boss. They don't really even deserve the truth.

The Second Sexual Revolution

Okay:

So, being a rapper myself, as much as I deplore the term, I often find myself defending the current state of affairs on the hip hop music scene today. I'm a bit of a snob when it comes to hip hop, but not to the extent that you might think. I actually liked the "Crank Dat Souljah Boy" song. I even got my students to teach me how to do the dance. It's just a whole lot of fun. There's no denying it. Like "The Humpty Dance" only less clever, and he's not necessarily oozing with talent, from what I can tell.

My point is, I can see the value.

I'm not always in the mood for introspective soul music. Sometimes I just need to get myself psyched up for work in the morning. In which case, Souljah Boy certainly serves a purpose.

I'm also a closet Lil' Wayne fan. He's a bit on the weird side, and usually doesn't have anything substantive to say, but he's brilliant. I thoroughly enjoyed Tha Carter 2 and kept it in heavy rotation for months. Right now it's sitting in my CD case between Nina Simone and Carlos Santana.

I don't really have anything bad to say about him. However, I am sometimes tempted to shake me head and say, "If only he would use his powers for good."

But that's mostly because he's, like, a god to the kids I teach. If he would just drop a gem or two, like Pac, here and there, it would do a lot of people a world of good.

But he's an artist. And being an artist myself, I certainly respect his right to say whatever the fuck he wants to say.

But that's not really my point. My question is to the ladies. A friend of mine and I were having a conversation the other night, (and, yes, I did get her permission to mention this) and the song "Lollipop" came up.

As a Wayne fan, I must say this is not one of my favorite songs. A little fluffy for my tastes. She asked me, "Do you feel like its misogynistic or an erotic love song?"

"But, man, I ain't never
Seen an ass like hers
That pussy in my mouth
Had me lost for words"

Shit like this, she said, really puts her in the mood. I'm editorializing to a certain extent. Her language was a bit more graphic.

She went on to explain that sometimes a woman wants to know that she can be as freaky as she wants to be with her man and he won't look at her differently. And so apparently, songs like "Lollipop", as opposed to "Between The Sheets" or "Adore" for example, have their place.

Honestly, I wasn't really surprised. But it did make me think. Has the straight forward, no sugar-coating hip hop approach to sex changed our generation's sexuality?

For example, I distinctly remember it being a lot easier to get some head after the Lil Kim album came out. Maybe it was because I was reaching the age of sexual maturity around that time. But I'm pretty sure there was some sort of correlation. I think artists like Adina Howard, Foxy Brown and the Queen Bee made women feel a lot more comfortable doing the kinds of things that would have quarantined you to your own private lunch table previously.

It's just not taboo anymore. Part of the average woman's second date sexual repertoire.

So, I guess, in a way, I have hip hop to thank for this rather quiet second sexual revolution.

Which makes artists like Hurricane Chris and DJ Unk even more tolerable. Next thing you know they'll make it cool for the woman to pay for dinner.

And that, as my man Barack would say, is what they call Progress.


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: My daughter, on the other hand, absolutely hates Souljah Boy. Apparently, he's got nothing on the Jonas Brothers.

An Ugly Scene

Okay:

So, I was out today with a friend of mine having drinks when I saw something I felt was worthy of discussion.

We were sitting there minding our own business when a couple at the end of the bar started arguing.

Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it argument. He was just screaming at this chick. They were a nice looking couple. She arrived before he did. Looked to be in her mid-thirties. He came some time later. Khakis. Rugby shirt. Clean cut.

A few drinks later all hell broke loose.

He was so loud that my friend and I stopped talking and turned in our chairs to see what was going on. And when we did, I noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. It was like a waiter had dropped a platter of dishes.

Now, those of us who have been in "troublesome" relationships probably wouldn't raise an eyebrow at this sort of thing. Not at first, at least. It happens. There was no telling what brought about the outburst. It was just loud. He might of caught her cheating and this was their "let's talk about it" dinner. So, when the outburst was over and it seemed like he had calmed down, everyone went back to minding their business.

But there he went again. "Don't tell me I ain't go no reason to be upset!"

You couldn't even hear her voice. He screamed, "And, no I'm not going to be quiet. Just don't be doing shit that I don't like!"

Behind us was a large party, twenty or so, of young black women. They looked like they might have been sorority sisters or something. They were all tuned in like it was reality television.

And they weren't the only ones.

As I listened, I learned that the argument was apparently about her taking a sip of his drink when he went to the bathroom or something. "How would you like it if I just spit in your drink?" he yelled.

I was taken back to my younger, more emotional days, when loud outbursts such as this one were common. I'd be out with a young lady who wouldn't do what I wanted her to do or kept doing what I didn't what her to do, and I would just flip. Have a tantrum. Whatever.

But never like this.

Eventually, my friend and I began wondering whether or not he was going to hit this woman. Not that I planned on doing anything about it. I learned a long time ago that in a situation such as this, there's not much that you can do. If she was interested in avoiding being hit, she would have left before it even became a question. Obviously, she was used to this sort of thing.

I felt sorry for her though. I also know what it feels like to be on the other end of this sort of spectacle. Caught in the web of an emotional lunatic who turns every little thing into a slight against them. Someone who lives in a perpetual state of victimhood. Still if he hauled off and slapped her, I think I would have stayed right on my little bar stool, shaking my head. Can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.

Eventually she went to the bathroom while he screamed, "Fuck you!" repeatedly. Some of the ladies from the large party followed her. He stayed on his stool, looking disarmingly calm. She came out a few minutes later with three other young ladies and walked out of the door.

My imagination tells me that they probably gave her a good talking to and convinced her to leave. And good for them.

Some time later a few police officers came in but they went straight to the back. They passed right by him. He took the cue a walked out casually past another wave of officers before they could find out what was going on. By the time they figured it out, he was long gone.

I wish that I could say that this poor woman had rid herself of an undeserving abusive man, but I know better. I know that as soon as he left, he called her on her cell phone and cussed her out some more. And as I type this they are probably fucking.

Hot, sweaty passionate fucking too. Not your garden variety Tuesday night hump.

Such is the way of love.

And that's why I do my best to steer clear of it.



Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: If any ladies would care to comment, why is it exactly that men like this always seem to be able to find attractive women who will put up with this kind of nonsense?

It Ain't No Fun If The Homies Can't Have None

Okay:

So, folks. Let's lighten this place up a bit, shall we?

Here's a sticky situation that I'm sure more than one of you have experienced first hand. What should you do if your significant other's best friend makes a pass at you?

It's never happened to me actually. But a friend of mine once came to me with the dilemma.

It's tricky, isn't it? If you tell your boy/girlfriend, you run the risk of splitting up a friendship over what may just be a momentary lapse in judgement. Also, if the pass wasn't made explicitly, perhaps you doubt whether or not you're interpreting things correctly. Maybe when he said, "I sure would like to get me a piece of that!" he was actually asking for one of your chicken wings or something. Maybe you're just imagining things.

Then there's the possibility of the old switcheroo. You turn him/her down cold then they run and tell your honey that you were the one who made the pass. Sort of a preemptive measure.

Have I ever been so crass as to make advances at one of my homeboy's ladies?

Emphatically, no.

I have, however, given it some serious thought on more than one occasion. I'm only human. But I have always been able to keep those kinds of lustful desires at bay. Just doesn't seem worth it. Then there's the whole karma thing.

I've seen variants of this scenario though.

I once had a homeboy who was dating this young lady. Beautiful girl. But it didn't last long. Apparently, she had taken my number down once when he called her from my apartment. One day, after they were long since over, she gave me a call. The rest, shall we say, is history.

But that's hardly the same, I think. That is what we men folk refer to as sloppy seconds. And it's usually no big deal. Especially in college. It's a small campus. Everyone knows everyone. Yadda yadda yadda.

I suppose a more polite way to put it is "having friends in common."

It certainly wasn't the last time it happened.

Women appear to be more sensitive to the whole idea. Once they sleep with a man, even if it was casual, he's off limits to all her friends and acquaintances. But, take it from someone who knows, ladies. That little code of yours is rarely honored.

My experience has been that there's nothing a woman finds more attractive than a man who someone else wants. It's like catnip or something. If he was good enough for you, she's figuring there must be something going on there. That curiosity kicks in, and things just sort of happen.

I'm willing to wager that most of you ladies out there have taken your fair share of sloppy seconds. Trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

But in response to the original topic. I think that if you think your sweetheart's homie is sweet on you, you should address it candidly. If there's ambiguity, get some clarity.

"Are you coming on to me?"

If the answer is yes, assuming you're not interested, make it plain. "This is not cool. If you keep this up, I'm going to have to say something to _______________. I don't want to have to do that, but you're making me uncomfortable. If you're cool though, we can keep this between us."

Unless you're dealing with a crazy, that should work.

If they keep it up, then you've gotta do what you gotta do.

Let's say for the sake of argument that you are curious, however, and you're afraid that if you address it, one thing may lead to another. Well then, as my sister once said to me, "You're fucked."

Especially if you're a woman. Men keep the same best friend for life. Women go through buddies like panty liners. A man could wait that kind of thing out until his lady and her BFF have their inevitable fall out. As a woman, you're stuck having this dude around indefinitely.

I had a homeboy once who caught his best friend and his lady in the act.

Can you imagine?

If he had killed them both, he probably would've gotten off. At least in Texas.

So let that be a lesson to you if you are currently screwing your wo/man's best friend or thinking about it. It's not worth it. As my uncle used to say, "Curiosity killed the cat...and it fucked up the dog too."


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: I'm being reviewed in this month's edition of Music Connection. If you're at a Border's or Barnes & Noble, pick up a copy.

All Apologies

Okay:

So, I guess this was bound to happen.

When I started this blog, almost a year ago to the day, I did it to get back in the habit of writing. I am a writer, and as a friend reminded me recently, a writer writes. I didn't set out to become the male Karrine Stephans or anything like that. I've just got a nasty mind and a sarcastic sense of humor.

In the beginning, I felt like I was taking great measures not to violate the privacy of those close to me by obscuring identities with altered details, times, locations, circumstances, etc.

In retrospect, it seems silly. But that's what I thought.

Maybe at one point I was doing a pretty good job of it, but I guess I got lost in sauce as they say. As the popularity increased from a dozen reads a day to hundreds, I started to feel like finally, at least one of my artistic endeavors was getting the kind of attention it deserved. It felt good. Still does.

But coming up with something clever, humorous or thought-provoking to write about everyday became increasingly difficult. So, somewhere along the line, I forgot my boundaries.

Subsequently innocent people got hurt.

I am a narcissistic, arrogant prick. I've never claimed anything otherwise, but everyone has a right to their privacy. And I'm not so large of an asshole that I don't understand that.

I also understand that if you're going to make a public mistake, you must also make a public apology. And what better place to do it.

And, no, I'm not going to name names or direct you to the specific posts where lines were crossed. Most of them have been deleted, and I'll be spending at least the remainder of the week, fishing through every post to see where else I have made this mistake.

There's nothing cool or funny about hurting people's feelings.

I considered taking down the site and discontinuing my blog altogether, but I thought better of it. This is not a political blog, or a gossip blog or a trade blog. This is supposed to be about real life here. My life. And what could be realer than this?

I simply have to be more careful and considerate. And the truth is, this is all just a symptom of a larger problem. I gotta grow up.

This does not mean that things will be any less real, any less entertaining, or funny. I'll still be talking about the same kinds of shit. But a shift in focus is necessary.

I'll be 30 in a year. Time to start acting like a man.

I hope those of you who read this blog on a regular basis understand and respect where I'm coming from on this. I hope that those of you who know me personally and feel that I have violated your privacy in any way can find it in your hearts to forgive. As Jesse the Castrator said at the 1984 Democratic National Convention, charge it to my head.

My sincerest apologies.


Also, I'd like you all to join me in offering condolences to my partner Joe D, who recently lost his brother. He was a good friend and an enthusiastic supporter of our endeavors. He is missed.



Thanks for reading.

A Guilty Pleasure

Okay:

I hate reality television.

I love reality television.

I can't make up my mind.

I got hooked on The Real World when I was in high school. I remember the very first season. Heather B went off on that white boy. Then he ended up hosting The Grind. Which was also a great show. Eric was his name, I think.

Strange that it didn't seem to help Heather's career any. Kevin ended up doing some television and print journalism. Published a book or two. Then he ran for Congress. He lost though.

Then there was The Real World 2 in Los Angeles. David got kicked off for ripping the blanket off of Tammy and dragging her around on the floor in her under draws. Beth, the white virgin, called him a rapist. Then they voted to kick him off and replaced him with the very boring second Beth, right? She was a lesbian with short blond hair.

Then there was Puck, my favorite reality star. I loved that guy.

Then there was Road Rules, which I couldn't keep up with. Entirely too much shit going on. So I stopped paying attention for a while.

Then I went away to college and didn't have cable for, like, 7 years. But I heard about shows like The Osbournes, Being Bobby Brown, and Growing Up Gotti.

Apparently, while I had my back turned, all hell broke loose.

As my regular readers know, I just got cable again for the first time since 1997, this past November. All I've got to say is Holy Shit.

The sit com, the cop drama, the comedy sketch show--none of that can compete with a good juicy reality show. Six white yuppies in a coffee shop can't fuck with a five-foot-tall, bi-sexual Filipino stripper! No contest.

This shit is out of control. I've been trying to fight it since I got my shit connected, but Lord help me, it's everywhere. Every fucking channel. All day long. There is no escape. No wonder the writer's strike went on for so long. They don't need the motherfuckers anymore!

It's gotten so bad, they've got spin-offs now. The Flavor of Love was a spin-off of The Surreal Life. I Love New York. Then Charm School. Then I Love Money, my new favorite.

In the last episode they tried to make Chance kiss Mr. Boston. Of course, Chance wouldn't do it and his team lost the challenge. So Heat threw a towel at him and Chance got all upset and tried to fight him. So, Destiny jumped in it and Chance screamed on her but Heat didn't stick up for her. But The Entertainer's got a thing for Destiny, so he slid right in and picked up the pieces. Then he voted Heat off so he could have her all to himself.

And this all happened in one half-hour!!!!

David E. Kelly, eat your heart out.

I missed a lot in the middle of the evolution of the reality show. Seems like they're more pseudo-reality now. They put all these psycho attention whore chain smoking alcoholics in a house together, give them a bunch of crazy things to do, draft up some cockamamie loosely-scripted drama and turn the cameras on. How can you not watch it?

But it certainly makes David's little blanket stunt look really timid. The rules were really strict back then though, remember? Any act of violence or erratic behavior could get you sent home. And no one ever hooked up, now matter how likely it seemed. Now it's a bloody free for all. Midgets and strippers and former porn stars all in the mix together.

And people don't have names any more, I see. No more Brians and Susans and Tyrones. Everyone has, like, an American Gladiator name. Nibblz. Pumkin. 6 Pack.

It makes real shows look silly and contrived. Like, Look at them up there acting. That's so nineties.

Still, I long for old-fashioned shows like The Cosbies. Only now I have Run's House. And instead of Lisa Bonet, I've got Angela Simmons to drool over.

She is legal now, right?


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: I auditioned for The Real World once in college. Obviously, I didn't make the cut. But I had a friend who was invited for a call back. But she didn't make it either. And I had another friend who was on some short-lived BET reality show. And another who was a reappearing friend on Real World Hawaii. As I'm told, shit's realer than it looks. But a lot less exciting in real time.

He Works Hard For The Money...Kind Of

Okay:

So, I've been thinking. My current financial situation, as you know, is dismal. Quite depressing actually. On my coffee table is a pile of bills that I cannot pay. And if I take my sister's word for it, and I do, with my current salary, I'll be forty before I see my way through this mess. And that's if I never go to another happy hour and eat tuna fish for dinner every night.

Seeing as how the whole rap thing doesn't seem to be working out, and for whatever reason, the Internet won't pay me to write this blog everyday, I need to find me some money somewhere. My sister suggested, and suggested is a mild word, that I get a bartending gig in the evening. However, upon further consideration, and a rather thoughtful comment from one of my readers yesterday, I have decided that it might not be the best idea in the world. I've already got two jobs and I do a lot of contract writing. "Burning the candle at both ends" can indeed be dangerous. I'm almost 30. A 70-hour work week at 3 different locations may be pushing it.

Or maybe I'm just a lazy middle-class American.

Plus, as the saying goes, one should worker smarter, not harder, right?

So, today I googled "The Highest Paying Professions". Here goes:


=== Highest paid job = Mutual-Fund Manager: $500,000-$1,000,000/yr ===

1. Surgeons: $65.89/hr; $137,050/yr

2. Investment Banker: $64.42/hr; $134,000/yr (entry level)

3. Obstetricians and gynaecologists: $64.15/hr; $133,430/yr

4. Anaesthesiologists: $63.31/hr; $131,680/yr

5. Internists, general: $61.03/hr; $126,940/yr

6. Actuaries, certified: $57.52/hr; $119,680 (base salary only)

7. Pediatricians, general: $56.03/hr; $116,550/yr

8. Psychiatrists: $54.60/hr; $113,570/yr

9. Family and general practitioners: $52.89/hr; $110,020/yr

10. Dentists: $53.28/hr; $110,820/yr

11. Pharmacists: $53.00/hr; $110,240/yr

12. Chief Executives: $51.77/hr; $107,670/yr

13. Airline pilots, co-pilots and flight engineers: (N/A); $99,400/yr

14. Podiatrists: $45.43/hr; $94,500/yr

15. Lawyers: $44.19/hr; $91,920/yr

16. Optometrists: $42.35/hr; $88,100/yr

17. Computer and information systems managers: $40.33/hr; $83,890/yr

18. Physicists: $40.26/hr; $83,750/yr

19. Air traffic controllers: $40.07/hr; $83,350/yr

20. Petroleum Engineers: $39.33/hr; $81,800/yr

21. Nuclear Engineers: $38.56/hr; $80,200/yr

22. Judges, magistrate judges, and magistrates: $38.24/hr; $79,540/yr

23. Marketing Managers: $37.70/hr; $78,410/yr


Unfortunately, I don't want to do any of this shit. And I don't even know what the fuck an Actuary is. Plus, most of these professions would require anywhere between two and six years of full-time post-graduate work. Which is not really an option for me at this point.

So what of my current profession, Education? If you've got the credentials, the smarts and the savvy, an educator can do quite well. But the income potential is finite. Even with a doctorate and decades of experience, you're topping out in the very low six figures. And as you can see, they're nowhere to be found on this here list. Although, I did read somewhere that educators are the only people immune to a recession.

But, trust me. That's a big hot, heaping crock of shit.

So, what shall I do? I've got a few entrepreneurial ideas that I haven't attempted yet. But experience has shown me that I have all the business savvy of a one-armed buss boy.

So, again. What shall I do? I dreamed up some options during last night's Shiraz-induced coma.


1. Stripper: I don't really have the body for it, but I'm oozing with delusional confidence. Chicks dig that more than anything as I understand it.

2. Drug Dealer: I've met a lot of clientele in my current profession. I think I could flip a brick pretty fast on Parent-Teacher Conference Night.

3. Politician: I'm an extremely talented bullshit artist. But up until now I've just been using my gift to get laid.

4. Hitman: I've never killed anyone, but if the price was right, I think I could do it. Especially if it's a Republican or an Evangelist.

5. Pimp: I'd be the nice kind though. I wouldn't beat my bitches.

6. Pornographer: I've watched enough of the stuff to know the good shit when I see it. I'd make mine with less man-ass and/or balls in the shots though.

7. Gigolo: I've got a lot of love to give. But it's only fair, I think, that I get something back.


So, that's all I could come up with. If you have any suggestions, drop a comment.


Thanks for reading


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: I may be getting my boot taken off tomorrow. That's if they'll accept partial payment. Wish me luck.

This Boot Was Made For Walking

Okay:

Today was a dark and overcast one. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. But I pushed out of my apartment against my better judgement in the hopes of having a positive and productive day.

Part of my new job is to be the liaison between the Department of Employment and our student/employees enrolled in the city's Summer Youth Employment Program. The program was started by Mayor Marion Barry back in the eighties. I worked one summer through the program. I even lied about my age so they'd let me work longer hours. That's another blog in and of itself.

Anyways. A few years ago, they tried to get all new-age and electronic by giving all the kids debit cards. Their checks were to be electronically deposited every other Thursday at midnight. Of course, that shit never worked. Now every summer one of the leading stories is the thousands of kids in the program who receive partial or no pay. They flock to the Department of Employment in droves, demanding their money that they worked so hard for. Truth is, most of them end up playing Uno at some summer camp, which could hardly be considered work. Unless you're playing Deluxe Uno with all those new and fancy rules.

It's poorly disguised welfare at the end of the day. But part of my job is to raise sand when our kids don't get paid. So, today I went down to headquarters to see what was going down. But before I went I put $20 in my tank, which had been empty for two days.

I went in, asked some questions, got some answers, and got out of there within 20 minutes. When I rounded the corner where I had parked my car, I saw a District government van. Oh no, not another ticket, I thought. If that had only been the case.

You guessed it. I had been booted.

How much do I owe in unpaid parking tickets?

A whopping $980.

How much money do I have in my checking account?

Let's just say I've already spent some of this week's paycheck.


But let's look at the bright side. This is a pay week. And I've got some contracting money coming in some time soon. The proverbially ironic icing for my bitter bad luck cake is that I put $20 in the tank. I could've used that $20 to buy a bottle of cheap scotch in which to drown my sorrows.

In another twist of irony, I had just had a Come-To-Jesus talk with my sister, the stock broker, last night about my finances. I laid out all my debt. Student loans, car loan, personal loan, credit cards, backed up utilities, back taxes, and, of course, those unpaid parking tickets. Her professional opinion?

"You're fucked."

It was a productive conversation. We created a plan for my long road to financial recovery. 10 years, she estimates. Long story short, I'll be getting a third job soon. Bartending or something. I'll keep you posted as always.

In the meantime, I'll be catching the train to and from work. Not really a big deal. Except it's a fifteen minute walk to the train station from here.

Okay, pity party over.

I am, however, accepting donations to the Help Cool Cee Brown Get His Shit Together Fund. It's tax deductible.


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"

Catch up with me at Twitter


GOBAMA!


Postscript: Also, I was under the impression that it was Wednesday for most of the morning. I hate it when that happens!

The Sex Incentive Theory

Okay:

So, as you all know, I am a staunch opponent of Sex Rationing. A woman gets upset with you, withholds the good stuff until you listen to her intently as she explains how whatever you did hurt her, express understanding and regret, make amends, etc., etc.

I think it's silly. You're begging for trouble, ladies. Just begging for it.

Perhaps it has the appearance of working. "It's the only way he'll address the issue," you say. "I turn the cold water on, he shapes up, then everybody's happy."

Of course there's also the make-up sex to consider. Which certainly has its charms. But you should know that eventually your plan will backfire, and he will come to the conclusion that if he wants sex on a regular basis, without conditions, he's gonna have to get him a Side Piece.

The Side Piece doesn't ask for much. She enjoys the cloak and dagger aspect of being the other woman. She giggles when you call, unawares that someone else is getting your man's good stuff. It's a game. You're losing and you don't even know it.

Obviously this sort of thing can't continue indefinitely. Feelings develop and good things must end lest they turn into bad things. And then everyone loses.

Bottom line: if you're in a loving relationship, don't make submission to your will a condition for regular sex. It gets old. Men are weak. Don't tempt them.

"I'm not that kind of girl," you say. "Even when I'm mad the playground stays open."

Bullshit, I say. You will all resort to Sex Rationing eventually.

You can't help yourselves. When you're mad it interferes with your desires and whatnot. We, on the other hand, are animals.

But Sex Rationing is actually not the topic of the blog. No, ma'am. Today I want to talk about a far more effective way to get your man to do what you want him to.

I call it, The Sex Incentive. I've been in the education field for my entire adult life, and I've read my fair share of theories concerning behavior modification. Best practices say that incentives are far more effective than punishments.

That is, if your man comes home late without calling, don't get mad and deny him sex. Instead, every time he comes home on time or calls when he's going to be late, reward him with a sloppy blowjob.

This is the way they train dogs.

Instead of spanking your puppy every time he shits on the rug or rubbing his nose in it, give him a doggie biscuit every time he goes poo-poo outside.

It's science, ladies. Science.

Smart women are already implementing this new theory and enjoying the results. A co-worker of mine was talking to me today about her man. They've been talking marriage, but she's hesitant because he's not a college graduate. She told him that if he goes back to school, she'll give him three blowjobs for every B he earns and anal for each A. This is not say that he won't get sex whether he goes back to school or not. But you've got to admit, she's far more likely to get the desired results with this course of action.

Give it a shot ladies. Let me know how it goes.


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Postscript: You're welcome, fellas ;-)

The Day I Met America

Okay:

So, it's Sunday night and I'm on my way to a gig. I would've told you, but the guy just emailed me Friday morning and I had already posted that day's blog. I'm a little nervous because I've only performed with this band [Motel] once, and I'm a little afraid I might forget the lyrics. We'll be running through the entire set for our performance at The Capital Hip Hop Soul Fest next Saturday, July 26 in Marvin Gaye Park, Washington, DC. (shameless plug!)

Getting prepared for this gig, nervous as I am, reminds me of how much I dislike getting prepared for work every morning. It's like rolling over for a prostate exam. You don't want to do it, you know it's going to be uncomfortable and possibly painful, but it's necessary.

This nervous feeling I have right now is exciting, however. I love it. Always have.

When I'm finished writing this, I'll go figure out what to wear.

That is not say that I have some aversion to work. I'm actually quite the workaholic. If I could match up a little frugality with my work ethic, I'd probably be pretty well-off by now. But one feeds the other, you know.

This guy I know who was recently let go of his job realized after sitting at home for a week or so that his former employer was withholding his last check for some reason. He made some phone calls, sent some emails. And when all else failed he went up to the building, stormed into the CEO's office while he was meeting with his directors and demanded his check.

The CEO replied, "Can you wait outside? I'm in the middle of a meeting."

He replied, "Fuck your meeting. Give me my check."

Some words were exchanged, the f-word in particular got thrown around quite a bit. In the end, he got his check and no one was harmed.

It seemed a shame that he had to go through all that to get what was rightfully his.

I've cussed-out/threatened a supervisor or two in my day. When I was working in the loading docks at the Wal-Mart in Durham my boss was a real bitch. All she did was scream and holler at us all night until the trucks were clear. Apparently she had been given the job because of her uncanny ability to control the unruly loading dock worker-types. Who were usually ex-cons and crackheads. Me being one of the few exceptions.

Anyways, one night she caught me at the wrong time and started laying into me. So I laid right back into her. I may have called her a bitch amongst other things. I'm not really sure. Then I took off my back brace, quit and stormed out of the docks.

She smiled and screamed, "Well, go the fuck home then, you bitch ass nigga!"

So, before leaving the store I stopped at the general managers office and demanded a meeting. When we were all sitting in there he started asking the basic questions. "What happened?" etc. He seemed truly concerned.

"He got mad, called me a bitch, took of his back brace and quit," said my boss.

"He quit?" asked the general manager.

"Yes sir," she said,

"Did you quit?" he asked me.

"Yes," I answered.

All of a sudden his face changed. His accommodating smile was replaced by a confused frown.

"Then what the fuck are we doing here? You, get the fuck outta my store, and you get back to work."

And just like that, the meeting was over. That was the day I met America.



Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: When was the day you 'met America'?

Holler If Ya Hear Me

Okay:

So, I'm sick of pretending. This single shit is getting old. I'm going to marry the next pretty woman I meet who is not an absolute nut job.

This came to me while I was brushing my teeth this morning.

I guess the seed was planted the other day while I was out running. I was running along, jamming to my iPod (Q-Tip's new mixtape is off the fucking chain!!!!), when I saw my homeboy's wife and kids. I stopped and talked for a while.

I was awe-struck by how beautiful his family is. Jealous, in fact. His children are intelligent, well-spoken and delightful. His wife is just as sweet as can be. I wondered for a moment whether or not I have been missing the big picture here. Maybe this is what it's all about. Maybe the thing I have been running from all these years is exactly what I need in my life. Commitment. Responsibility. Companionship. Love.

That sounded gay while I was typing it.

I am a loner. There's no denying that. I'd prefer to spend roughly 80% of my day alone. But maybe that's just because I haven't met someone who I'd like to share that time with.

More gayness.

So, I'm driving home from the track contemplating all these big questions. Trying to fight the feeling. I went to the crib, knocked back a few cold ones, wrote a misogynistic blog and went to sleep. But when I woke up I was still thinking about it. Then it occurred to me.

I grew up in a single parent household. My first prolonged exposure to a married couple was with my mother and my stepfather, whom she married my sophomore year in college. I don't even know what love looks like. All I have to go on is the movies. And rap music, to a certain extent. Neither of which are good points of reference.

Things started clicking. My stepfather is well-to-do. That explains why I think I can't get married until I'm financially stable. My mother never brought any boyfriends around when I was young. That explains my aversion to introducing women to my daughter.

Independently, neither is a bad idea. But I have gone one step further and developed a general antipathy towards relationships, using pragmatism as window dressing for what is essentially a love phobia.

So gay.

If we go deeper, maybe one might infer that I intentionally overspend and ignore debt to postpone financial stability, which, based on my current salary, is quite attainable.

Deeper still. Perhaps I use my daughter as an excuse to not invest in potential partners.

Super gay.

To be sure, I have not been with a woman who I felt like I could be serious about in years. Maybe I never have been. And maybe that's not an accident. Maybe I seek out women I know I could never commit to, and then complain about them in a tongue-and-cheek blog to hide my tracks from myself, but in reality it's all just a thinly veiled cry for help.

Clay-motherfucking-Aiken!

Or maybe this is all bullshit too. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it is all you crazy women out there with your storybook romance bullshit that make me wanna be a bachelor for life.

Who knows?

Who cares?

I'll tell you knows and who cares. I do. That's who.

And I have figured out how I'm gonna land me a woman who won't drive me crazy.

It's a step program. Here goes:

1) Get back in shape.

2) Get my toenails fixed.

3) Get my credit in order.

4) Buy a home.

5) Learn sign language.

6) Find me a gorgeous, childless, barren, deaf-mute woman and marry her.


Problem solved.



Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!



Postscript: I am more serious than you think I am.

So I'm A Hypocrit...And?

Okay:

Yes, we're all hypocrites. I am perhaps the biggest of them all. And, for whatever reason, it doesn't really bother me. I'm just funny that way.

But today my glaring hypocrisy was brought home in the most unusual of ways.

And before you ask, yes, I was watching porn.

I've been very honest and upfront about my fascination with porn in this blog. I personally don't see anything wrong with it. It's legal. And I don't go for none of that super duper freaky shit. I like my porn straight up. No chaser.

I am peculiar in the sense that I really don't like interracial porn.

This is an extension of my black nationalist idealism. I think black folks should date and marry black folks and make black families and raise their children to do the same.

I don't have anything against white people.

Well, that's not entirely true. But I wouldn't consider myself prejudiced.

I've got white friends and I have them over for dinner all the time. Well, actually I have one white friend. But she does come over for dinner sometimes.

See? I'm progressive.

But the interracial porn thing really bothers me. I just don't like it, man. It's creepy. Something about watching some white boy pound away on one of my sisters, whore that she might be, makes me uncomfortable.

Same thing with watching brothers humping on white girls. I'm always thinking, You shouldn't be doing that, man.

In the real world, of course, I don't have these same qualms. Although I am very serious about finding myself a good black woman, I have dated/slept with white women and I don't really hold any judgement against others who have done the same. We're all people, man.

Is my hypocrisy making you dizzy?

So, I'm coming to the point.

Today I was surfing the net for porn and found something that looked like it was worth watching. White girl/black guy. Not really my thing, but I figured I'd give it a chance.

So the name of this video was "Monster Cock" and the theme was white girls going to town on well-endowed black men. It sounded entertaining. Vaguely racist, but entertaining.

So they found some freak of nature with a twelve-inch schlong and some giddy blond and put them in a room together. Pretty normal at first, and disappointingly boring. Then she started talking and things got...well...interesting.

I'm used to the usual fare, but this was different. Close to the end of the scene, with some encouragement from the director, she started screaming out, "Fuck me with your big nigger cock!"

Then he smacked her.

And she kept saying it. "Big black nigger cock. Fuck me, nigger!"

And so he started choking her.

Then she said, "Give me some of that good nigger cum."

And that's when I turned it off.


I'm not sure why I'm so indignant about this. But something inside of me, for a moment, entertained the thought of writing a letter. Something along the lines of, "I was deeply offended by the racially offensive language in your pornographic film."

But then I caught myself. It's a pornographer's job to meet the needs of any niche market with a ready credit card. And apparently, there are people out there who go for this kind of thing. Not my cup of tea really, but who am I to judge?

I'm fairly certain Al Sharpton or Jesse the Castrator wouldn't want anything to do with this, but still, it just doesn't seem right.

Your thoughts?


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: I'm considering bringing an end to my porn-watching days. Any suggestions as to how to make a clean break? (I'd prefer to hear from people who have done it already).

Now What?

Okay:

Well, today is Hump Day. And, so, appropriately, I have composed a blog about humping.

Today I'd like to talk about what to do after sex.

Out here in The Casual Sex World, it's always kind of awkward, I think. Those of you in committed relationships probably have it down to a science, or at least a routine.

Women typically want some closeness after the deed is done. A little cuddling, some petting, light banter, etc.

Most men, I think, would prefer a nap.

Back when I had a girlfriend, I never had to address this problem. I was blessed to have met someone who would usually fall asleep before I did. Sometimes I would try to hurry up and fall asleep so I wouldn't have to listen to her snore. But you can't really hurry up and fall asleep, now can you?

But like I said, things are different in The Casual Sex World.

The obvious difference is that there is the condom to dispose of. And like they told you in Health, it is imperative that a condom be disposed of immediately. You gotta jump up out that thang and run like hell to the bathroom.

Now here's the thing. 'Jumping up out that thang and running like hell to the bathroom' right after you bust a good one is easier said than done.

Ladies, imagine for a moment, if every time you had an orgasm, right afterwards you had to jump up and go change your socks, lest you get pregnant or contract a venereal disease.

Doesn't sound like fun, now does it?

No. You wanna lie there and enjoy the moment for a while. Sophia from The Golden Girls called it "after-glow".

So, more than once, whilst in the bathroom disposing of the condom, I have taken the extra measure of running water through the rubber to make sure it maintained its integrity. Particularly if I was experiencing Post-Ejaculation Regret.

Post-Ejaculation Regret is a very real phenomenon in The Casual Sex World. You meet a woman, you have a few drinks, you take her home, get her in the bed, and as soon as you finish you are overcome with dread.

Oh My God! It would be a complete disaster if she were to get pregnant. I don't even like her. She was getting on my nerves all night. She looks like the type that would want to keep it. She'd probably take me to court for child support. Get me for everything I got. Oh my God. She's pregnant. I know she is. I am so stupid. What was I thinking. She doesn't even have a real job. Let me run some water through this rubber just to be sure.

Once you get over that, it's back to the bedroom, or kitchen or whatever. She's lying there looking...well...not quite as good as she looked before you had sex. Her hair's all over the place, her fake eyebrows have sweated off, etc. What am I thinking?

Do I want another or is it time for her to go home?

My favorite is when she makes the decision for me. Nothing's better than returning from the bathroom to find her already getting dressed, mumbling something about needing to get home.

I say, "Awww, so soon?" Then I hug her from behind and kiss her neck.

I think, YES!!!!!!!!

The worst is when she's lying there wide awake. This essentially means, Ready for round two whenever you are. Which is presumptuous to say the least. Most men, myself included, are far too polite to tell a lady caller when it's time for her to leave. So, we have our cues.

Little hints we drop. Like...

"Wooo. It's late."

"Man o man. I'm about to pass out."

"Jesus, I've got to wake up early tomorrow morning."


Or my personal favorite.


"Which side of the parking lot did you park on? They start towing around this time of night."

That last one is one hundred percent guaranteed to work every single time. You can use it if you like.

On occasion, I meet someone I actually like. Then she can stay as long as she likes. She can get a round two, three, four sometimes. She can get cuddling, petting and light banter.

But if all that is cool, the question is, How casual is this?


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: Ladies, do you experience the same difficulty with your casual gentleman callers?

It's All Relative

Okay:

So I'm on a roll with this embarrassing childhood memory bit. I've got a million of 'em.

And here goes another.

My cousins and I (there are five of us, all boys) were raised like brothers. All of our mothers were single, and there was only eight years difference between the oldest and the youngest. I fell right in the middle.

Our mothers are from a fairly large family in South Carolina. Throughout our childhood there was the occasional family reunion, several of which we attended. One of my aunts, a closet stage mother, decided it would be a great idea for us to choreograph a dance routine to perform for our relatives.

The first time we performed I believe was the summer of 1990. I don't have any cognizant memory of life before believing Michael Jackson was the coolest motherfucker on the planet. Then my father took me to see Purple Rain and old MJ all of a sudden had some competition. After all, Prince was getting pussy.

Then I discovered Kool Moe Dee, Run DMC, NWA and Slick Rick.

And then there was Bell Biv DeVoe. Me and my cousins were fairly certain that they were the best thing that ever happened to anybody.

We choreographed our routine to "Poison". The only song worth dancing to.

Choreographing might be a strong word. We did The Running Man, The Roger Rabbit, The Reebok, The Robocop, The MCM, etc. You get the picture now.

The grande finale? A simultaneous half-split.

And the crowd went wild!

The second year, I wrote raps for us all to perform. (Yes, I've been at this for a while!)

Then there were cookouts and wedding receptions. And although no one ever seemed to be requesting it, if there was room and time, my aunt made us dance. One time there was no music and we had to do the routine to hand claps.

There is a video floating around here somewhere.

But the dance is not the embarrassing part because I could never put into words exactly how embarrassing it was. You would have to see the video to feel my pain.

No, this is about something else.

The fourth or fifth family reunion came around when I was a freshman in high school. Before we left for Charleston, me and my cousins all agreed that under no circumstances whatsoever were we going to be doing "The Dance" as it had come to be known.

I had instead prepared a few raps to perform over an instrumental of Dr. Dre's "Smokin' On Blunts And Drankin' Tangueray". I would have been the highlight of the talent show had it not been for my blind Aunt's "Blind Granny Rap", complete with a call-and-response chorus from her four grandchildren.

The grande finale? She took out her dentures!

The crowd went wild!

Cheap! I thought. Bunch of bozos. Well fuck 'em if they go for that sort of thing.

Back at the hotel we all piled into one room, over a dozen of us. Cousins. Someone ordered some porn. There was food. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. But I, for one, could not take my eyes off of my sixteen-year-old cousin from Chicago with the flawless asymmetric. Let's call her Heather.

Heather was a serious cutie. And to be fair, we were very distant cousins. I don't even think we were blood relatives. But, dammit, it was a family reunion.

Through some strange course of events, we ended up in the bathroom alone.


Pause.


Now, like I said yesterday, I really did take Papa Smurf's advice to heart. I am a very impulsive man, and always have been. I generally don't wait for anyone to tell me its okay. I just do it.

Fuck it. I just do it.


And so, the next thing I knew, my tongue was halfway down her throat and we were doing some pretty serious making out in that bathroom while the rest of our cousins were watching porn in the next room, shockingly unawares. There were no words. We never spoke, and I never told anyone. Until today.

Say what you want.

Ewww.

Nasty.

Freak.

Pervert.


That shit was one of the hottest make-out sessions I have had to date! Period.

We maintained contact through letters (remember those?) but it didn't last long. Chicago seemed like it was a whole world away.

In retrospect, I was probably acting out some hostility toward my family. Like, This is how I feel about all this blood crap everyone's raving about. A little tender from having lost the talent show to a blind geriatric.

Perhaps I was a victim of over exposure. Or maybe it was like how sit com actors are rarely able to make the successful transition into film.

Michael J. Fox. Tom Hanks. Robin Williams. Everyone else tanked.

Maybe all they wanted to see me do was "The Dance".



So that's the story of how I came dangerously close to fucking my cousin.



Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen"


GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: Ever had a crush on/fantasized about/kissed/made out with/fucked a blood relative?

Stand Up Or Lay Down

Okay

So, Cee Brown, have you ever considered stand-up?

If course I have. I tried it once. Big disaster. Very interesting story.

I was away at camp for a week the summer after sixth grade. It was a wilderness/technology camp. We slept in a log cabin, went for hikes, then had "computer time."

This was before the Internet. All of the computers were the size of wall-unit air conditioners with black screens and green letters. They were loud too. The instructor had to raise his voice to be heard above the electronic hum.

That was the technology part.

There was actually a lot of down time though. And during this time, I took it upon myself to entertain my classmates. By Wednesday, I had developed quite the reputation for being the camp's funnyman.

Our group's counselor was a short, chubby, flamboyantly gay man who insisted we called him Papa Smurf. In retrospect, I'm fairly certain that he may have taken a liberty or two, here and there. Call me a homophobe, but I don't know what kind of man works at a sleep-away camp and tells all the kids to call him Papa Smurf. I mean, come on.

Clearly a homo.

He'd walk into our cabin first thing in the morning, holding his arms at ninety degree angles, limp-wristed with hands dangling, "Good morning, boys. Rise and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Anyways. Papa Smurf came to me one day and asked if I wanted to do a stand-up comedy routine at the Camp Finale. Every group had fifteen minutes to perform. He wanted me to open up for our group with a few jokes. With some strong encouragement from the rest of the group, I finally agreed.

I was beyond nervous. Especially when plans changed, making me the headlining act. We were now to open with a skit/practical joke. The assistant counselor was a young guy who didn't talk much. I don't remember his name. But I do remember it seeming like he and Papa Smurf did not get along. Let's call him Jim.

In this skit, Jim was a wise man who could answer any question, but all of his answers were wise cracks. Kid after kid would come to him seeking advice, only to leave the butt of his wicked sense of humor. I was supposed to be the last kid to ask a question, but before he could answer, I was to smack him in the back of the head.

That was the punchline.

Sounded funny at the time, so I agreed. I was more concerned with my routine though. What exactly was I going to talk about? Where was the best place to stand? Was there going to be a microphone? What should I wear?

I was taking it very seriously.

But mind you, I was only eleven.

"Papa Smurf?"

"Yes, honey."

"Am I allowed to curse?"

"Like the 'f' word? I don't think so."

"What about 'nigga'? Can I say 'nigga'?"

"I'm gonna give you some advice that I hope you always remember. If you don't ask for permission, no one will have the chance to tell you no."

Understanding what I understand now, that was some pretty scary shit. I probably should have slept on my back that night. But back then, it was like someone turned the light on for me. It was a real a-ha moment. I've lived by that advice ever since.

The night of The Camp Finale came. I wore my lucky white wool Mickey Mouse boxers. I was as nervous as I have ever been. I had decided that most of my routine was going to be about how gay Papa Smurf was. I thought that would be really funny.

It was time for the Wise Man routine. Things were going well and the other kids were laughing. I thought, Great! They're not a tough crowd. My routine is way funnier than this stupid skit. I'm gonna kill 'em.

It was my turn to talk to the Wise Man. I was brimming with confidence, and I could tell Jim was none the wiser. This was actually going to be pretty funny. I asked him some silly question. He looked up to the sky and stroked his goatee. I cocked my little arm back as far as it could go and socked him. SMACK!!!

Well.

He lept up and pounced on me. Wrapped his big man hands around my neck and started shaking me so hard my brain rattled. I was beginning to lose consciousness when I saw the other group leaders rushing to my aid and pulling Jim off of me.

As it turns out, Jim wasn't too keen on this kind of thing. I overheard him scream, "I don't give a fuck how old he is!!!!"

This little fiasco ended The Camp Finale prematurely, and I was not allowed to do my routine.

So that it is why I do my comedy from the safety of my own home, via the Internet. I get the occasional angry email or the slightly more frequent anonymous judgemental comment, but I have yet to be bitch-choked.


Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen".


GOBAMA!


Postscript: After it was all over and I regained consciousness, Papa Smurf asked me in a whisper, "Why'd you hit him so hard, honey?"

A Fine Product

Okay:

So, when I was a teenager my mother sent me away to reform school. My regular readers already know about this. All 12 of you. But for the newcomers, I suppose some exposition is in order.

So, I was a bit of a bad ass and ended up getting shipped off to Front Royal, Virginia the summer of my ninth grade year.

Exposition over.

Away from home for the first time, I discovered I had a rather peculiar neurosis concerning toilets. That is, I cannot take a shit just anywhere. If something ain't right, I just cannot do it. Push come to shove I can make some compromises, but I absolutely cannot, will not, shit with someone else in the room. No fucking way.

But seeing as how this was a reform school, there were no luxuries like private bathrooms. The dormitory was almost one hundred years old (a fact that they bragged about for some reason) and the cement floors were glossy red and ice cold. The paint was peeling all over, exposing the even uglier institution gray from the previous paint job. There were three toilets, separated by iron stall partitions, painted glossy green, and rusting at the bottom from all the splattered piss.

Now I consider myself to be a down-to-earth brother. Not as bourgeois as people might think. But there was no way in hell I was ever going to take a shit in that bathroom. No fucking way.

So I didn't.

For six weeks.

I know.

You don't believe me.

And I don't care.

It's the truth.

Six fucking weeks.

And you know what? I rarely thought about it. I think my mind had basically told my body that there was no way we were going to be discarding any solid waste any time soon, so things adjusted themselves accordingly. I wasn't in any pain or discomfort. It helped that the food was awful.

Then I made my first visit home, and all I could think of was having a good, hot meal from my mamma's kitchen. And she obliged.

Well.

Before I went to bed that night, I made a rather large deposit in our very clean, very private bathroom.

I hadn't realized how backed up I was. It's difficult to describe. It wasn't like diarrhea. It was the normal consistency. But there was oh so much of it. So, so, so much.

And now for the bad part.

While cleaning myself up, I noticed that I was experiencing some sharp pains in my you-know-where. So, curious, I checked the paper to see what was going on.

I almost fainted.

Certain colors you expect. And other colors might be considered unusual, but not worthy of alarm. There is one color, however, that you never want to see whilst wiping yourself.

But there it was. Bright as day.

For days I dealt with the uncomfortable burn. I could barely sit. It was almost a week before I made the shocking discovery.

I had a fucking hemorrhoid.

Being more than a little embarrassed and not knowing where to turn, I called the only person I knew who I felt comfortable telling.

My father.

"How was reform school, son?"

"It sucked."

"Well. What did you expect?"

"I think I got a problem, dad."

"What's up, son?"

"I got a hemorrhoid."

"A hemorrhoid?" [long pause] "You wasn't playing around with the boys, was you?"

"No dad."

"Don't get defensive. It's a legitimate question. Well, you're gonna wanna get you some Preparation H and try to avoid moving around too much."

So I went to Peoples and found the stuff. There are few moments in my life where I can recall being more embarrassed. The lady cashier, mercifully, ran the yellow box over the scanner without looking at me. But I knew what she was thinking.

Fag.



Thanks for reading.


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GOBAMA!


Confession: Preparation H was an absolute God-send. There is not one over-the-counter product on the market today that is better at doing exactly what it says it's going to do. Of course, I kept the tube. Still have it today. In case it happens again, I won't have to go through the embarrassment of buying another one.

A Shameful Confession

Okay:

So did ever tell y'all I used to have an S-Curl?

I do plan on being famous one day, and I'd hate for the pictures to surface somehow, so it's better to be forthright, I think. Like the blind black governor of New York who cheated on his wife. Just admit the shit before the bastards have a chance to expose you.

For those of you who don't know, an S-Curl is like the nineties version of the Jheri Curl, but for men. For the record, I never had a Jheri Curl. A certain member of my immediate family, who shall remain nameless, had one, and a little bit longer than she should have.

To be fair, I did want one desperately. I wanted to be like my hero, Michael Jackson. I begged and begged but my pleas were summarily disregarded. And, in retrospect, I must thank my mother for her wisdom.

As a young man, I had a complex about my hair. To me it was boring. Nappy and dry, like a Brillo pad. I wanted my hair to be exciting, like Ralph Macchio. Now, that kid had some hair.

As I aged, I realized that there was nothing that could really be done about my boring nappy hair, short of a chemical process. It wasn't going to do anything but sit there unless I did something about it. So, sometime in the very early nineties I went to Peoples and bought myself a Duke Texturizer Kit.

It's not that I wanted to look like the guy on the box. He was obviously gay. I just wanted something I could comb. A little curl. Some shine.

I went to my father's house for the weekend, and his girlfriend agreed to apply the chemical for me. I had done my research. I knew it was going to be a bit uncomfortable, but I was prepared to pay the price for beauty. It wasn't so bad though. Nothing dramatic like the scene from Malcolm X. But in the end, I was disappointed.

My hair is about as nappy as it gets. I can't imagine anyone having nappier hair than mine. It is unruly and unmanageable and unrelenting its sheer willfulness to remind me of who I am. Of course, I have come to accept and love my hair with age and I insist that whatever woman with whom I keep company feels the same. But back then, I thought that it was a shame that I was so handsome with such ugly hair. I thought I was correcting some oversight on God's part.

So, like I said, I was disappointed. The top of my head lay limp and shiny, close to what I expected, but the sides...good Lord, the sides. Around the temple area. Things just refused to cooperate. My father's girlfriend sighed, "Oh dear. The sides didn't take. I probably should've left it in longer."

I could've smacked her. But I kept my cool.

They left to go run some errand while I mourned over my half-processed head. "You should probably cut if off and start over," she had said. Out of the question. The thing about thick hair is it takes forever to grow. It had taken me months to grow my little bush in preparation for this experiment.

So, I'm sure you can already guess what happened next. After they left, I reapplied the chemical to the sides and left it in as long as I could stand it.

The ladies already know what kind of huge no-no this was. To clarify for the fellas, a relaxer is diluted lye. A destructive chemical that kills anything with which in comes in contact. In it's pure form it would burn the skin off your bones. Even diluted, it's nothing to be played with.

After one chemical treatment, you should wait at least two weeks before applying another one. I waited about thirty minutes.

The pain was indescribable.

And what's worse, it still didn't take.

Feeling extremely foolish afterwards, I kept the fiasco a secret and suffered in silence. But it was Fourth of July weekend and later on that day we were to attend a pool party at my uncle's house.

And so, as not to arouse suspicion, I got in the pool.

Lord help me.

I thought I was going to die. Apparently, chemical burns and chlorine don't mix.

But soldier that I was, no one was the wiser.

In the end, I kept my S-Curl for a few months, but eventually abandoned the experiment when I realized that my hair would never accept such an affront to its integrity. My naps were there to stay and there was nothing I could do about it.

Since then I have become a staunch opponent of chemical treatments and/or weaves for either sex. And I won't have a woman who feels differently. But I had to see for myself, you see. And experience is most certainly the best teacher.


Thanks for reading.


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GOBAMA!


Confession: Of course you know I made the same mistake twice and burned the skin off the side of my head once more for good measure. It's a habit of mine I haven't been able to shake. I don't believe shit stinks until I smell it at least twice.

Top 5 Things You Do Not Want To Hear During Sex

Okay:

I've been on a bit of a tangent for the past few days. I'm surprised none of you mentioned it. Too much heavy shit, and too much shit about me. I mean, this is my blog, but my personal life isn't that interesting. I'm just a schoolteacher. I assume most of you come here for explicit sexual humor. I've got a Google Analytics page (every Blogger should have one) that shows I get the most reads when my titles suggest something sexual. Introspection and politics not so much. So here goes.

Today's blog topic came to me today whilst taking my afternoon siesta. I have written similar blogs before, but I don't think I have ever addressed the issue of bad sex talk.

That is, things you absolutely do not want to hear while you're having sex.

See, I'm the kind of person who likes to put on a good show even when I'm not really enjoying myself. You speak things into existence, right? Especially during sex. Women are auditory. You can enhance the experience with your words if they're chosen carefully and catered to your partner's desires.

For example. If you've been courting a woman for several weeks, months, whatever, and you finally get her into bed after a romantic candlelit dinner with Reverend Al playing softly in the background, you probably shouldn't yell out, "Take it, whore!!!"

Although "Take it, whore!!!" certainly has it's place (you'd be surprised), in this particular situation, some sensual moaning may be just what the doctor ordered.

In contrast, if you've got something extremely hot and casual going on, with no explicit commitment, you probably don't want to say something corny like, "Your skin is so soft."

I wouldn't call it contrived. Just considerate.

If I'm not really into it, for whatever reason (it happens), I'm not just going to hump on her silently until I finish. That's whack, right? I'm gonna fake it til I make it, as they say.

So, for shits and giggles, I have compiled a countdown list of the top 5 things you don't want to hear while having sex. Of course, this was written from the masculine perspective. If any one of my lady readers want to chime in with lists of their own, please feel free. If the brothers want to make additions, this is also welcome.

5. The Wrong Name: In general, I think it's a bad practice to say someone's name during sex. Baby, honey, sweetheart, freak, bitch, whore. These are all acceptable depending on the nature of the relationship. But screaming out someone's name, you're just asking for trouble. Because I'm a fool I'd probably laugh if a woman called me by the wrong name. I'd probably say something like, "Open your eyes, baby. This is Claude's dick." Of course, it'd be a different story if we'd been dating exclusively for a while. But I think most women would end the sex promptly, get dressed, leave and never call again.

4. "Is It In?": Of course, I've never heard this one before. *wink*. But I imagine it could be fairly soul-crushing for the soft-hearted man.

3. "I Want You To Cum!": This one I have heard. I used to date a woman who said it all the time. At first, it was a turn-on. But then I realized that it translated roughly to "I am no longer enjoying myself and I need you to hurry up and finish." Which is not sexy at all. The thing was, I wanted to finish just as badly as she wanted me to finish, but just telling me to wasn't really helping the situation. If you're ready for it be over, ladies, there are a few things you can do to end things quickly if you're skilled and not the squeamish type. But ordering me to hurry up is not going to cut it. I'm tempted to respond, "I want to cum too, but what are you gonna do about it?"

2. "What's Wrong?": There's a time and place for candor, ladies. The bedroom isn't always one of them. If I seem like I'm struggling to get things started and you want to help me out, actions certainly speak louder than words. Of course, I could be candid too. "Actually, you're a pretty bad lay so I was thinking of Serena Williams to maintain my erection. Please be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate."

And number one on The Top 5 Things You Do Not Want To Hear During Sex...

Drum roll, please...

*drum roll...rim shot*

1. "Uh Oh": I've heard this more times than I care to remember. And it's always bad. I won't gross you out with the details, but there are only about three reasons why a woman would say this during sex. There's usually Clorox involved afterwards.


Enjoy the rest of your Hump Day.


Thanks for reading.


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GOBAMA!


Honorable Mentions: "I want to have your baby!" and "What's the matter? Afraid of a little blood?"

Good Better Best

Okay:

So I might have a small problem at my new job.

Maybe not so much a problem. More of an issue.

One of my new co-workers, who is technically an old co-worker (we worked together two years ago) confessed to me yesterday. "You know, everyone hates you here."

"Hates me?"

"Maybe hate is a strong word. But they really don't like you very much."

"Did I say something rude to someone?"

"No. You haven't said much of anything to anyone. That's part of the problem, actually. They think you're a bit standoffish."

"Standoffish?"

"And stuck up."

"Stuck up?"

For a moment there I was concerned. I have always prided myself on my down-to-earthy approachability. A kind of everyman who's comfortable in almost any social situation. And I think that's how people who know me well would describe me. But the older I get, the more I hear this "standoffish/stuck-up" business. Or even more often, "He thinks he's better than everyone else."

Jesus.

Now there's one thing I don't understand. Actually, let me rephrase that. There's lots of things I don't understand, and that's one of them.

Maybe I do. Sometimes I get the feeling that Africans and West-Indians think they're better than Black Americans. But not me specifically. Know what I mean?

Like, I'm never in a situation with someone, having a conversation or whatever, or simply observing them, and come to the conclusion that they think they're better than me. It just never occurs to me.

Now I can be judgemental. Which I guess is pretty obvious by now.

But there are very few things that I person can do that would make me turn up my nose.

I don't have a lot respect for drug dealers, gold diggers, braggarts, politicians or television evangelists. But everyone else is cool as far as I'm concerned.

Oh, and color-struck people and people who say things like, "she got that good hair."

That will make me not want to talk to you at all.

I was with a friend this weekend and she suggested that I might make a good match with a friend of hers. "She's really nice," she said. "And she's light-skinned."

I almost threw up in my mouth a little bit.

And she's light-skinned? Like, And she's a dancer. Or, And she graduated from Yale.

Like it's an accomplishment.

But I'm reasonable. Since I hear it so often, I'm inclined to believe that there must be some truth to it. Or at the very least, I inadvertently give off that vibe. But I also believe that in order for you to think that someone else thinks they're better than you, you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself.

See, my experience has been that the same people who say things like "he thinks he's better than everyone else" are also the kind of people who are constantly juxtaposing what you do against what they do. It's a kind of soft-snootiness, with a built in disclaimer because they position themselves as the victim. In the end, they end up thinking they're better than you.

So you can't win for losing.

But after talking to my co-worker for a while, I realized that I really didn't give a shit. It's too hard making friends these days.

Maybe they'll come around and maybe they won't. Either way, I still have you guys.



Thanks for reading.


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GOBAMA!


Postscript: My daughter, however, is better than all of them.

She Hate Me

Okay:

So my holiday weekend was a little dramatic. Of course, I can’t give you all the details seeing as how it’s technically family business and slightly inappropriate to blast all over the Internet but I’ll give you the gist.

As you might already know, I get cussed out for one reason or another fairly frequently. I’m just one of those kinds of people who draw heat. I can’t help it really. I’m not malicious. I don’t set out to hurt people’s feelings, but somehow or another I end up pissing people off. And for whatever reason, they’re rarely shy about telling me so.

The past few months have been particularly eventful. I guess I’m in the zone or something.

The most interesting thing I heard this spring was, “You are the reason black women have such a hard time finding a good black man.”

An honorable mention goes to, “The only feelings you have are in your dick.”

It’s a popular misconception, however, that I don’t have feelings. I may not give a fuck about most things, but I’m not completely heartless. I care about the breast cancer and Darfur and the goddamn polar bears and that cute little one-eyed dog in the ASPCA commercial.

I have a heart.

Up until recently, I never really got The Big Fuck You from family though. My sister and I get into it occasionally, but we know each other very well so it usually doesn’t escalate to anything serious.

This Fourth of July though, I got The Big Fuck You in a major way.

Technically I got The Big “Fuck you, you fraudulent motherfucker. Stay the fuck away from me.”

Then “someone” hopped over the bar, in three-inch heels no less, and tried to attack me.

Well.

You know, someone asked me a short while ago if I ever gave any thought to why so many people seem to dislike me so intensely, women in particular.

And, honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Until this weekend. And now I believe I have the answer.

I am, ladies and gentleman, a “Masculist.”

And, yes, I am coining a new term, yet again. You can also thank me for “sexting” (sending sexually explicit messages via text) and “rollover minutes” (sex first thing in the morning). If you’ve heard them any place else, remember you heard them here first.

As you know, I love women. They’ve got soft skin and they’re great conversationalists and they’ll squeeze your blackheads for you. But most importantly, they have vaginas. And vaginas are incredibly lovely and useful.

What I have discovered will burn my butter more than anything else, however, is being subjected to the will of a domineering woman. If she thinks that by sheer virtue of the fact that she’s a woman, I’m going to suffer in silence while she corrects, scolds, redirects or “sets me straight”, she’s got another thing coming.

If she’s never changed my diaper, I think she’s overstepping her boundaries a bit.

The thing is there are so many suckers out there who pull the whole “yes dear” crap and got women thinking that they’re supposed to be constantly asserting themselves on us over bullshit. I, for one, am not having it. I may let you get away with it once or twice, if I like you like that, but eventually we’re going to bump heads. And then you’re not going to like me anymore, and eventually you will give me The Big Fuck You.

And I think it’s because they expect you to sit there and take it.

And, I don’t think they expect you to be smart enough to defend yourself verbally. When you start pointing out the holes in their logic and showing them how silly they sound, they start cussing you out.

Fellas, try it out if you think I’m wrong. The next time your lady or friend with a vagina starts laying into you about something stupid, instead of being sensitive and listening and apologizing, just laugh and say “Honey, that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

Then no matter what she says after that, just keep laughing and telling her that she sounds like a teenager. The angrier she gets, the harder you laugh.

I guarantee you’ll get The Big Fuck You.

I’m not saying men should dominate over women. I’m also a feminist in that regard. We should be equals, chivalry aside.

But I’m not going to sit there on some Cliff Huxtable shit. Like, “I’m just happy she still lets me hang around.”

Fuck that.

So I’m a Masculist.

If I can get some of you brothers on the same page with me, we can take our balls back and stop dealing with this madness. Post a comment if you’re with me.



Thanks for reading.



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GOBAMA!


Innocent Question: Am I the only one who is amazed that this word doesn’t already exist?

Here Comes The Bride

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Ladies, We Can Rebuild Him. We Have The Technology.

Okay:

Today we shall talk about the duality of men.

It's a frequent complaint. One of the ones that goes in one ear and right out the other.

"Why don't you trim your pubes?"

"Why are there always dishes in the sink?"

"Do you have to go to sleep right afterwards every time?"

"Why are you so different around your friends?"


Blah. Blah. Blah.

Of course, all of these questions have very simple answers.


Trimming your pubes is gay. Period.

Because I'm lazy. But I will wash them right before you start doing this cooking thing that I keep hearing about it.

You should try it. It's actually quite gratifying. We could do it together. Like a couple's hobby.

And, finally...Because they don't want me to be anyone but me. If I say or do something they don't like, which is seldom, they call me an asshole and we keep things moving. We don't have to drop anchor and discuss why I did what I did and how it made them feel. There's no crying and there's no silent treatment. And they don't go commiserate with their other friends about me so that they can prepare what amounts to a prosecutor's opening statement before addressing an issue. I can just be me. No conditions. The posturing, my dear, is actually for you.

And so the women say, A real man is the same around his boys and his woman.

I say, How in the fuck would a woman know what a real man is? And how come when women talk about 'real men', it's always within the context of how they feel they should be treated.

It's never, A real man would try to find the cure for cancer.

Or, A real man watches his sodium intake.

It's always about them.

I say fuck all that. If you want authenticity, ladies, embark on your search with the understanding that it is, by definition, the antithesis of perfection.

And so you say, I'm not looking for perfection, I just want a man who's willing to work on himself.

And I say fuck all that as well.

I want a partner, not a life coach. If there are so many things that need fixing around here, maybe you made a poor choice.

I've got a theory on this.

It's like buying a car.

When a man buys a car, he goes to the lot, picks out the car he wants, writes a check and drives it home. He keeps it clean, makes repairs when he needs to, and he's proud of his purchase. He wouldn't have bought it if he didn't like it.

Women on the other hand, in keeping with this metaphor, will go to a lot and buy the first hunk of junk that catches their eye. Not because it's a particularly good car, but because they like something about it. They don't check under the hood or kick the tires, they just go with the feeling. Thinking to themselves the whole while, Whatever's wrong with it can be fixed.

So they spend years pouring money into a piece of shit that, no matter what repairs they make, will never run properly.

It's this way with relationships.

You can't go into it thinking you're making repairs on this motherfucker. That's how you end up with the whole duality thing. You've got the silhouette of the perfect man in your brain and you're trying to hammer this motherfucker into the mold. And because he wants to be with you, he's trying to fit the mold. But it ain't natural. It's all for you.

His friends could give two shits. They'd rather he stayed the same as the day he met them.

And you know what? When you're long and gone, off trying to groom and train some other poor sap, his friends will still be there.

"Where's that girl you were dating?"

"Oh, she broke up with me months ago. Said she couldn't take it anymore."

"Couldn't take what?"

"All kinds of shit."

"Like what? Did you cheat on her? Giver her something? Hit her?"

"No."

"So, what?"

"Just a bunch of shit. I don't even remember most of it."

"Well, good riddance. Sounds like the bitch was crazy."

"She asked me to trim my pubes once."

"That's so gay. You didn't do it, did you?"

"Fucks no."

"Jesus. A bitch'll turn you into a completely different person if you're not careful."

"Like Steven Austin."

"Exactly. A motherfucker wouldn't even recognize you."

"Amen."

*clinking of beer bottles*



Thanks for reading.


Download the new single "In The Kitchen" and the new Freestyle of the Week FOR FREE.


GOBAMA!


An Inspired Suggestion: Men, we should start beginning our gripes with "A real woman would..." Let's see how that works.