Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Rotten Candy

What the fuck is wrong with this hoe? This bitch E.T. has just shown up at my job again, un-a-fucking-nounced. I told the secretary to tell her that I'm unavailable. Now I gotta call her and blast her. I shoulda checked her hard the first time but I let it slide. Kindness for weakness, I'm telling you, they can never tell the difference. So now I gotta clock the fuck out. That's not what I was going to write about, but I just can't believe it. This shit just happened 2 minutes ago.

Anyway, what's up peoples? I'm here today to talk about Office Broccoli. What, you may ask, the fuck is Office Broccoli. Well first off, Office Broccoli is not a "what" but a "who". She works in my department. She's a 55 year old black woman with a fantastic body. That's not an exaggeration. She is the complete package, ass and titties, small waist, errthang. O.B. looks like she might be 70 looking at her damn face. It's old and hideous. Completely fucked up.

She's always wearing tight, revealing shit and she's constantly flirting with me. "Oops I dropped something" bending down right in front of an African. Yeah, I look 'cuz I'm a triflin' African. What the fuck do you expect. But that grill...yuck! Trying to show me paperwork and reading it along with me, her titties resting on my arm, looking up at me smiling. That face is horrible. I told Thelma about her ass. She said "Maybe she's flirting with you 'cuz she was the shit back in the day. Maybe she was the 'office candy'." I was like "Shit, more like the 'office broccoli'." And there ya go.

O.B. has recently changed her strategy. She walks to work everyday. It's wintertime in the fucking snowbelt. So she'll linger and ask an African for a ride home on a bad day. I oblige. Shit, I gotta oblige, she's like my mama's age and shit. So one day I take her to the crib, she introduced me to her daughter, Home Broccoli. Same affliction as Ma. Buttahead. She introduced me to her niece, WICBroccoli, with her fuckin' kids. Buttahead skank. This shit is disheartening and quite frankly, exhausting. I'm sick of meeting these lousy broads, but in the meantime, these are the only broads I'm meeting. Catch-22.

Hasta Luego,

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Downtown Saturday Night

What's up, folks? I spent yesterday chillin', masterbating, chillin' some more, then jackin' off again, then laying down 'cuz I jerked myself into a headache. Anyway, I'm relaxing and my phone rings. It's E.T. so I don't answer. Then I said fuck it, this will be a good time to straighten out some shit, like her coming to my gig uninvited. I called her back. She asked me if I wanted to come out for drinks. No, I didn't but I was bored and I needed to get re-hydrated after all the beating off. I accepted. It would be better to get shit off my chest face-to-face anyway. I washed my hands and dick and got dressed.

I was meeting her at this bar/restaurant inside the big hotel downtown. It's actually a pretty sophisticated looking bar. I was impressed. I walked to the bar and she was sitting there with her friend. Fucking mistake on her part. Her friend was gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. Built like a brick shithouse. Side note: If you're a gump or a goon, take special care to not bring someone around that makes you look worse, especially if it's a man you're trying to get with. Back to the story. I introduced myself to the chick and she was excessively ghetto. Who gives a fuck. Goony + Pseudo Hood or Beautiful + Hood, guess who wins that battle?

She had a fake French name, bad taste in clothes (e.g. blue cowboy boots with yellow flames on them), and a slutty demeanor. Africans, I was in love! So E.T. begins to intimate that she and I have some little sexual relationship. She's irritating the fuck outta me. I start talking about going home next week so I see some women I miss, just to shut her the fuck up. Both of 'em have been drinking a lot already so it's disorienting. I really dislike drunk people when I'm sober. E.T. starts touching my chest. "You don't have man boobs do you? I hate Africans with man boobs." "I sure do. 38 DDs baby. I guess that makes me undesireable!" They're laughing and shit, just having a ball. They start talking about "literature", in specific, the "Superhead" book. Real Chickenhead shit. I listen to them talk bad about this chick, but at least she's got a marketable skill.

E.T. starts putting her leg up on the table. The tall bar table we're sitting at. "Look, I'm flexible. I thought you knew?" I look for the waitress. "Could you bring the check?" "One or three separate?" "Three." E.T. looks over at me, "Why you frontin'? You ain't buyin' drinks?" "I was at home chillin'. You invited me out. You should be paying for my drinks" I answered. The checks came and E.T. grabbed mine and paid it. We left.

I walked them to the car, lingering behind to look at Fake Frenchie's ass in that tiny mini-skirt. We get to the car, E.T. hugs me and they leave.

I can't remember driving home, but when I woke up today there was a missed call from E.T. on my cell. I'm glad I missed it.


Wednesday, January 25, 2006

If Jugz Wuz Brainz

What's up, African Blogosphere? This little piece of crust on Michigan's Lower Peninsula keeps getting more and more lively. This gig is a trip. We (Africans) don't stick together worth a shit compared to white folks. These white cats keep coming at me at different angles trying to lobby me to re-hire this cracka that used to work here. Eight different muthafuckas coming to my office one at a time to discuss this bastard who is supposed to be the "end all". Fuck him and them. I'm more adamant not to hire this prick.

I'm not here to talk about that. That's not what this story is about. This is about E.T. The last of those eight fuckheads left my office at around 4:40 pm. I'm trying to get out, go home and eat before I come back downtown for a community meeting at 7:00 pm. I gotta stay until 5:00 because I can't let the fucking inmates run the asylum. At 4:45 my secretary buzzes me on the intercom, "A Ms. Mammaries here to see you." Gotdamn! It's E.T. popping up at my fucking office. The nature of her work and my department's work intersect so she's often in meetings in my building, but I still didn't want her ass dropping in on me. She'd called me on Sunday trying to get me to come over. I didn't answer the phone. So now she's imposing her will on a brotha by showing up at my job, where I can't escape. "Send her in" I tell the secretary.

E.T. comes to my office as gumpy as ever, titties everywhere. My demeanor is chilly. "What can I do for you?" It's all business. She's cheezin' and fluttering eyelashes and shit. All types of body language that might work if she wasn't so friggin "goony". She's talking about this business venture she wants to pursue. I'm half listening. That broad could be saying "blip blap bloop blah" and I wouldn't know it. I'm online, looking at blogs, checking e-mail. Finally she gets up to leave and I'm walking her out. Her phone rings. Loudly. With that old ass Beyonce song "Crazy In Love" as a ringtone. In my quiet office. Nice.

She answers the phone, talking loud as fuck in the hallway near the lobby. I'm giving her the "quiet down" sign. E.T. is in her own world. She finishes the conversation (or her conversatin') and I walk her out of the lobby to the outer hallway, outside our offices. People are leaving. She wants to stand there and talk. Staff is looking at her and looking at me as they leave, trying to put two and two together ("Oh, that's who he's fucking"). I hate that shit. Never shall my public and private lives mix.

"You wanna come see me tonight?" "I got a late meeting." "You can come whenever you're done." "I gotta work out after that." "After that?" "I'll be tired. I think I'll just go home and sleep." Anything to get out of hittin'. I'm a people pleaser by nature, so it's always hard to say "no".

In a week, I might feel different, but right now I don't see myself hittin' that in my lifetime. As bad as it is here in Satan's Anus, I'll be ok without that notch on my belt. I haven't fucked Batshit since the New Year and I won't be touching E.T. ever, so I've gotten off to a pretty good start.

Moderately yours,

Monday, January 23, 2006

Plan B

What's up, y'all? I'm draggin' this mornin'. I had one of those talks last night. Yeah, one of those. I've been in negotiations with Thelma for about a month now. Last night talks broke down.

I told y'all a little while ago that I might be ready to settle down and start a family, pretty much for my own selfish reasons. I want a kid, period. So I decided that Thelma would be the target reproductive partner. So for a month, we've been discussing really getting back together. Last night, as Chinua Achebe and the Roots might say, things fell apart.

She tells me I don't really value her. I disagree. She says she wants to see me more. I tell her I'll try. She says that's not good enough. I ask her who it's not good enough for. She cries. I suffer.

I'm a little frugal (ok, I'm cheap). So when I go see her, we're going out and I'm paying. When she comes to see me, we're going out and I'm paying. If she doesn't come to me and I don't come to her, I save money. My logic says I need to see her a little less. Especially since I know I'm gonna owe taxes, I need to save right now. Her view is simple: she wants to see me more. That's noble I guess. It's not practical, but it's noble.

So, as I've said, negotiations have broken down. I don't know that I'd like to start them again. I'm tired of the same old fucking discussions. I just wanna keep moving. With that said, I'm on to Plan B, whatever the fuck that is.


Friday, January 20, 2006

Cover Your Face

Hey Africans! What it is? I officially have too much time on my hands (and not enough ass on them). I've been pondering the Golden Age of Facial Hair. What happened when all of our Black heroes had big assed cookie dusters?

Some old cats still sport 'em, like my old man, but for the most part, a brotha won't really embrace a big fucking 'stache anymore.

I'm telling you it's a form of assimilation. It's apparent the chicks dug 'em. Brothas like Thalamus Rasalala always had work in the Golden Age. Now look. You never see brothas like this on the screen anymore.

These men came from diverse backgrounds. Some worked in the salvage industry , others worked on the high seas ,
some were policemen , why some were even athletes .

We need to reassert ourselves and take back our upper lips! Bring back the big, unwieldy 'stache!!! Men, let's do this. Women, talk to your men. Take back our masculine upper lips!

Usually a movement like this I'd be the first to volunteer, but I can't for two reasons. The first is my damn facial hair is extremely gray. Don't wanna advertise that shit. The second is I CAN'T GROW A 'STACHE THAT BIG!!! My damn mustache stops growing at a certain point.

Brothas, I may not get there with you, but I'm there in spirit. Don't let Steve Harvey carry the whole load. Grow ya shit out!

Power to the People,

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Weirdly Oriented

Hey peoples, I'm back. I neglected to blog about a situation that happened here this weekend I'll call "Thelma vs. Jayne Kennedy". It was kind of a non-event, but if I get some negative after effects from the situation I'll blog about the whole think and y'all can laugh at me.

This blog is about "LocHard", the woman who lived beneath me in my old place in Detroit. LocHard is a strange duck. She's about 44 -46, attractive, long-winded, socially progressive, dreadlocked woman. I dreaded going to get my mail because LocHard would catch an African, and I'd be hemmed up in a conversation about the state of the world for at least an hour. She was very passionate woman, about a lot of things. And she held a lot of strange opinions, at least shit I thought was strange. For the record, I didn't fuck her. She's a lesbian.

Anyway, when I left for Satan's Anus I gave her my info and told her to call sometimes. She e-mailed and called semi-regularly. I never returned her calls but I always e-mailed her back. On the phone I knew I'd be on for at least an hour a pop. A few weeks ago she lost her job. She knew it was coming but didn't start looking before it actually happened. So she sent me a resume and asked if I would shop it around in Satan's Anus.

Now, I know this broad is basically a weirdo. I don't have a solid reputation here yet. I didn't want to pass her resume to someone on the strength of my personality and have them interview her weird ass. I'd get a negative mark for bad judgement within the community I'm trying to build a relationship with.

She asked me if I shopped her resume and I said I hadn't yet. LocHard got irate. "I'll bet if I was one of those broads you were bringing back to the apartment, you'd have helped me out. I see the way you are, brother. That's alright. I'll remember that." Whoa, bitch! You got me fucked up! She basically implied that I dissed her because she's a lesbian. I'm not the one to claim I'm the most anti-homophobic cat in the world, but she got it twisted. A broad that I was fucking would have LESS chance of me trying to get her a gig here. I also didn't dig the threatening assed tone of the note she dropped me. "I'll remember that"? Really? OK.

I called her. I fucking hate calling her. LocHard was really concilliatory. "I just said that to light a fire under you. I know you better than that. I figured you'd just put me on the back burner, but I really need a job." So I tell her I'd see what I can do.

I'll tell y'all what I can do. Nothing. Nothing at all for this incredibly irrational, weird hoe. I wouldn't use her resume to wipe my ass. She confirmed everything I thought about her ass through that little interaction. Good luck finding that gig, LocHard. I hope it's not in Satan's Anus.

Stay Chisel,

Monday, January 16, 2006

Apology Necessary

There once was a man that believed in us so much that he sacrificed a good job, a nice family life, and general peace. He was a man that believed that given the opportunity we would rise to a level we never thought we could reach, and far beyond that of our oppressors. He was a man that appealed to both the intellectual and the emotional arguments to make a case for the equal treatment of Black and others in this country.

A man who marched until his feet were sore. Stood until his legs were tired. Beaten. Attacked. Denigrated. For something of which he knew he'd never reap the benefits. And he didn't.

I spent a lot of my youth downplaying his impact. I "sat-in" in college to make sure his birthday was celebrated even though I didn't respect him. I just wanted an "official" day off. Whenever someone mentioned his name, the first thing out of my mouth was "Fuck him! I'm a Malcolm Man!" It took some age and wisdom to realize that despite what I believe to be a movement to get White people to embrace and accept good, college educated, "middle-class" Blacks, that it was done with conviction and a dignity that's almost non-existent today.

Martin Luther King, Jr. believed in us. So much so that we can write our little feelings on a little bullshit blog in an air conditioned (or heated) office and slack off. Because of him, I'm able to work in a town where they don't give a day off for this National Holiday but instead we can take time off to volunteer and get paid. I laugh at this, because only when it benefits White America can MLK be held to a higher standard than Jesus Christ (no volunteering necessary to get HIS day off!).

My attitude towards Martin Luther King has slowly evolved in the 12 years (damn, 12 years!) since I've graduated from college. His doctrine and style weren't perfect, but it was a lot closer to perfect than I'll ever see in my lifetime.

Happy Birthday,

Friday, January 13, 2006

Ms. Pac-Man

Hey peoples! I got so much on my mind, I don't know where to start. Everything on my mind comes under one general heading: neediness (sp? needyness?). We're all needy in one way or another. I need pussy. All the time. Errday. Like right now. Any offers? Anyway, I've been asked to fill so many emotional voids lately I think women musta forgot who I am. I'm the selfish African! The one who's motto is "I got mines..." I can't handle it.

I got a friend, Fiona, who's mother is in the final throes of cancer. It is heartwrenching. I've been talking to her on the phone and it hurts not to be able to be there for someone. There is a bigger problem, though. I consider her a friend, but the emotional burden she'd like me to bear is more like that of her man. It sounds pretty callous to say, but I can only be "there" for her so much. I can't take days off to go to Detroit and be with her. I can't hold her and tell her I'll be there for her day and night. All I can do is listen and try to understand her pain.

I have another friend, Puddin', who needs to have this connection to a man. Any man. As long as he shows her attention. She calls me on the premise that she's asking me advice about some dude. I give her what I believe to be sound advice. Then she asks, "When can I come get the dick?" WTF? I say "Where did that come from?" "It's always there, it never goes away." I'm the same African that boned her the last time and dumped her off in front of her friends house, dodging her phone calls for 4 months. But she can't break that attention addiction. I listen to her stupid assed problems, so in her mind I deserve the ass.

Last but not least is Lisette, fuck-buddy extraordinare. We have remained cool through 8 years of fucking and friendship. Until recently. Everytime we fuck now, there is about 4 days worth of questions and conversations about what's next. Extra cuddling, extra non-sexual foreplay, extra afterplay, jealousy. It's all different now. And it's creepy.

My basic advice to women is this: nothing in excess is good. Everything in moderation. Yes, this is Zed giving this advice. Take notes from one of my favorite women, Ms. Pac-Man. When she's eating the little pills, all the dudes are chasing her. When she eats the big power pill, they start jettin'. I think that's an apt microcosm of y'all emotional asses.

Stay stable,

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

My Screenwriting Career

Hey folks, what gives? I'm back, spouting more bullshit than ever. All of my friends know about the massive writers block I've been carrying around for more than 5 years now. A book I was halfway finished with in 2000 is still that way in 2006. In 2004, I started feeling it a little bit, writing again, then my car got broken into the first time. My briefcase with the new chapters, gone. I have 4 other books in my head that I'd like to write, but I won't start them until I finish the first one. In addition to those ideas I had some scripts that I wanted to write for movies. Here are some of the ideas for movies Hollywood will never make:

House African*: Millenium Cop - Following the life of a Black, 15 year police force veteran. Quincy is a devoted family man who never misses a Sunday at church. He's highly regarded on the job and has loads of commendations. One day while checking out a robbery he's shot and killed. In the afterlife, Quincy is shown snippets of the important moments in his life. He's informed that he won't be allowed into heaven nor will he be sent to hell, but he'll spend the rest of his afterlife to ponder why he wasted his time on earth protecting rich peoples shit.

Don't Mention It - A ritual performed by wiccans at an colonial burial ground in Richmond, Virginia has some unexpected results. A slaveowner, Thomas Goode, is brought back to life and wanders into the projects in Richmond. He sees the "free" ancestors of people he held in bondage and/or procreated with. They are rampantly using drugs and spending money in an extravangant manner, pursuing life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. He's sure they'd like to thank him and his kind for rescuing them from the jungles of Africa to enjoy the American Dream. His response would be simple, "Don't mention it!"

Billy Boy - William Chesowith, Jr. an outstanding White high school athlete with a promising future is recruited by The University of Alabama to play quarterback. He's a can't miss prospect for the NFL. His father, William Sr., a textile executive, thinks at the very least his son could follow him into his business. Billy Boy encounters competition at Alabama in the form of Taveandre Jackson-Jenkins, the runningest, throwingest African ever born. Needless to say, Taveandre becomes the starting quarterback, leading Alabama to an undefeated season and a National Championship. Billy Boy becomes a disillisioned benchwarmer, turning to drugs and alcohol, until he confronts his father at work. He blames his father for setting unrealistic expectations of greatness upon him, runs into the textile factory, and throws himself into the cotton thresher, killing himself instantly.

Standard Hollywood Bullshit - A short story anthology featuring vignettes such as "This Magic Moment" where a young White boy is mentored by a wise-cracking Black ( fill-in-blank) and becomes the best (fill-in-blank) in the world; "African Buddy Movie #67" featuring a wise old by the book White cop who can't rein in his unorthodox young wise-cracking Black cop partner. Comedy ensues!; "WTF?", a M. Night Shyamalan thriller where a newly married man finds his wife's ever growing ass quite disturbing. Each day it seems her ass grows fatter and fatter. He grows suspicious of his wife's lineage, believing she's hiding the fact that she's really a light skinned Black woman. In one of his standard Hollywood bullshit twists, it turns out that broad's just been eating grits on the sly.

My Bloody Stump - This delightful children's tale finds Hans, a man who lost most of his right arm in a farming accident, as a new arrival in the Big City. Hans believes in being a genuine person and doesn't wear a prosthetic arm nor any wrapping or gauze on his highly infectable wound. He plays in the park with his dog, Carny, often causing dismay to parents as the dog leaps up and chomps down on to his bloody stump. This disgusting and unsanitary practice sickens the grown ups in the town while amusing the youngsters. One day while Hans and Carny are out for a walk, they come across a child stuck in an abandoned wishing well. Hans is the only man narrow enough to fit down the well. The adults are forced to work with Hans, lowering him into the well, while he rescues the child with his bloody stump. The moral of the story: Don't judge a muthafucka with a bloody stump.

Well, that's my screenwriting career in a nutshell. This shit won't sell and can't be watched.

Keep Writing,

*Of course, this is not the original title.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006


I beat you, Robyn!

Your IQ Is 120

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average

Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius

Your Mathematical Intelligence is Exceptional

Your General Knowledge is Above Average

Hey y'all. Don't be afraid women readers. I know the title has you spooked, but trust me on this one. I have an unnatural love for football. I don't write about it much, but there is no leisure time activity I love as much as watching pro football on a Sunday Afternoon. It is my Achilles heel, my one true weakness. I cannot resist a television set when a game is on. Period.

It's hard to explain how much I love a game that I was personally so bad at. I sucked at football. I'd much rather be a spectator. I loved to hit muthafuckas, but as an offensive lineman, I rarely got the opportunity. I was a lowly blocker.

Fast forward to yesterday. E.T. called me. She'd called me 3 times this weekend, too. I didn't pick up then. It was Monday, what the fuck else could be worse? She was boring me to death about something or other then she asked if I'd been to this new Black owned restaurant. I hadn't, so she suggested we go there for lunch. "Shit, cool." My standard response.

We met there and walked in together. It was a cool, eclectic little atmosphere. These hicks had been outta the Anus at least once. We took our coats off and then I saw them. Magnificient. I love football(s). I'm not a breast man, but gotdamn! Low cut shirt, heavy ass titties. I couldn't even concentrate on her dumb assed conversation. I did a lot of nodding and gawking and shit. She asked me about Batshit. I was like "Batshit who?" I was in a mammary induced daze.

The food was good. I had to put this place on my list for whenever I take another broad out. When we left I walked her to her car. "When you coming over?" I asked. "To your office?" her dumb ass responded. "No, to my place" I smiled. "Why don't you come over to my place? I bought myself a Christmas present." "What is it?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "A 61" flat screen TV. It would be perfect to watch football on." I had a huge smile on my face. "Well, hell yeah! We gotta do that, this weekend." "OK. You gotta pick up the phone and stop messin' with all those other women." "Bet, I'll call you."

She just ensured herself a phone call this weekend. Sometimes you just gotta outthink a simple-minded African. As dumb as I think she is, she's got me right where she wants me. Football. You gotta love it.

Stay Vigilant,

Monday, January 09, 2006


Hey Africanites, what up? It's ya man in the Midwest, Big Zed, holding it down so you don't have to. I had an absolutely uneventful weekend, which was cool with me. I had a lot of time to think about the general direction of my career and shit. I read where you can figure out if you're in the wrong job if you just ask your friends "Do I like my job?" and listen to the responses. The shit I got was a resounding "No!"

Now I'm not a spring chicken and shit. I can't go around just switchin' up and shit for the fuck of it. I gotta have a plan. I don't have many things I like to do that I could get paid for. The short list is:
  • pornographic actor
  • mattress tester
  • "Before" model for Just For Men
The thing I know for certain is that I have to get out of this town. I had a two-year plan. Move for the title (which accurately describes my capacity at my old job, but my title was far less descriptive) then move again to a better locale with a better title. Just climbing the ladder.

I'm giving this career path the flux. I'm not really feeling this shit. The Poppins incident notwithstanding, this place is for the birds, African. What I do next has to come from within. I'll meditate like I always do (though I've been told I've been doing it wrong by a friend of mine) and I'll get some clarity.

Be cool,

Friday, January 06, 2006

Shit Sandwiches

Hey Africans! What it do, baby? I'm in a weird position today. Naw, this is not pussy related, it's work related. My boss fired Poppins yesterday. I knew this was coming down the pike for awhile, mainly because of the type of shit I talked about here. She wasn't kosher on a lot of fronts, but the truth is I wouldn't have met a single woman in this town if it wasn't for her.

My big issue is that being Deputy Director of my department, I had to normalize relations with her knowing that she was about to be fired. That shit is not cool. In fact, it's the most uncool shit in the world. This broad is coming by my office asking me advice on how she should proceed with this project. I'm giving her advice, knowing full well that she'll be chillin' at the crib when that project is being finished. She's talking to me about going to lunch next week and I'm discussing these plans like the shit is going to happen.

That's some fake shit and I hate it. I liked it better when I was just one of the muthafuckas who got surprised by some news instead of being in the room when the shit is decided. I felt like telling her to just go home yesterday. "Run hoe, before they can your ass!" Acting normal, smiling and joking with someone, while the whole time knowing they're about to be fired is fucked up. It's like eating a shit sandwich.

But that's the way I'm beginning to see this whole gig. A series of shit sandwiches. It's a shit sandwich buffet. (Aren't you sick of me saying "shit sandwiches"?) I have a great distaste for what I see being done here, which is I'm a shiny new token African. Poppins was a shiny new token African, too. They hired us around the same time, boosted their numbers in African American managers (with Poppins gone, I am now one half of all AA managers in the city), and patted themselves on the back. They were able to prove one of us "incompetent" and push her the fuck out. Truth is, I don't know if collectively all the shit she did is fireable. I've seen people do much worse and survive at every job I've ever worked. But that's life under the microscope.

Shit Happens,

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Bats And Extra

Yo, peoples! What's up? I was out yesterday, backslidin' like a muthafucka. I was at the mall with Batshit. I hadn't seen her since before Christmas. I called her when I was on my way to the mall and she was already there, so we hooked up. After failing once again to buy a new briefcase (mine was stolen when they broke into Big Blue), we left to go to the bookstore/coffeehouse.

Me and Batshit walk in and who did I see? E.T. that's the fuck who! It had to happen sooner or later. This is a small fuckin' city. I tell Batshit to go order and I walked over to E.T. "Hey!" "Hey! Happy New Year!"

Now E.T. had been calling me when I was in Detroit. Texting me and all that shit. "Hey Papi!" and all types of irrelavant shit. Really irrelavant when you consider she hasn't given up the ass. I never responded to any of her messages. But here we were, face to muthafuckin' face.

"Was that Batshit?" she asks. I'm taken aback. E.T. knows Batshit. I should have known. "Yeah, that's Batshit. Y'all know each other?" I ask. "Well she's from Beelzebub's Colon, too." That's right, these broads are from the same hometown. I was introduced to them by the same broad. I shoulda known better. "I see y'all on a little coffee date." Whenever a bitch calls anything "little", that means that shit is ultra significant to her. Except your dick. That's really "little".

"Naw, not really a date. That's my girl. She's cool. What you been up to?" She's walking slowly as I'm talking to her. "Nothing much. Working out and stuff. I got an exercise facility at my complex. Maybe you can come by and we can swim." She stops walking and waves. I look behind me and Batshit is waving back. "I can't swim" I reply, distracted, obviously not getting the fucking hint. She smiles at me "What are you doing later?" "I don't know. Batshit gotta go to a meeting." "Oh. I'll let you finish your little coffee date. Call me later." She walks out. "Yeah, okay." I walk over to Batshit.

"Who was that?" I notice that she's not wearing her glasses. "That was E.T." "E.T.? How do you know E.T.?" "Through ya girl Poppins." "Oh. Oooh. She like you?" "Probably. Who doesn't? Even with this pie face." "It's more like a cake!" she laughs. And we drink coffee.


Monday, January 02, 2006

10,000 Guns

Hey Folks! Happy New Year and all that. I'm here in Satan's Anus after another quick trip back to Detroit. I sold out a lot of people on this visit. No calls, just a happy new year text message. I spent my time here with Thelma, really taking time to assess the chances of us being together for real. I know y'all didn't even know I was contemplating such a thing. But the reality is I want kids, man. "In wedlock" kids. I'm getting old and shit, and I definitely want to procreate. So I gotta look at my options. Thelma is at the top of that list. Sanity, intelligence (relative), looks, morals, and the intangibles. She's not the end all, but she's the top choice. I blocked out every other broad in the City.

Of course, it being new years, every African in the city with a gun had to lick a shot. Unfortunately, some cats gotta aim at somebody. More 'gators died for new years celebrations in Detroit than anything else. We do value what we wear at least. I've had a chance to honestly evaluate myself just looking back at my blog and shit. I've blasted a lot of shots this year, but I do resolve that I will do better on some fronts:
  • Reserve blanket judgements on the less fortunate
  • Better overall health care
  • Read less, interact with actual people more
  • Embrace patience
  • Be less profane
If I can come close to doing any of these things, my year ought to be a little better. This blog will become a lot more boring, though. In 2005 I've had some interesting shit happen. I've had a pregnancy scare, a "heterosexual" friend come out of the closet, a new job in a new city, pussy offered to me under some of the oddest circumstances I can recall. And I've only blogged about the new job and the new city! Hopefully 2006 will bring me the opportunity to bust more shots and keep you and me entertained. I love this site and I love the black blog community.

Be Easy,