Betta Days

What up? It's a hectic day in Satan's Anus. Two members of the clerical staff in my office got into a physical altercation on Thursday at 4:55 pm. I've been trying to put out that fire since it happened. Somebody (or everybody) has got to go. Today is the day. Everyone one here has taken sides because, of course, it was a black chick and a white chick who wuz buckin'. Other than that shit, it's been good socially.

Friday afterwork I went to this Happy Hour that my frat brothers were hosting. Good decision. I got three phone numbers out of the deal, two outstanding prospects, one ok. Beautiful single women. I need to hang out with frat a little more and stop being so fuckin' anti-social. Maybe I would've been outta this drought. I made a date with one of them for Saturday night, "Carmel".

I went home to Detroit to get my taxes done (nice refund!) on Saturday during the day and got back to the Anus early in the evening to go to this event that the Vice Mayor arranged for me. He's a brother, so he's made it his special mission to make sure I don't find another job in a blacker city. He had a get together with a few single eligible black women in a little house party setting. More fine sistas I hadn't met yet. Two more numbers. I had to leave that session to hook up with Carmel for this dinner date.

She was 35 minutes late. I almost jetted, but she kept calling reminding me she was on her way. When she got there I was glad I stayed. Fuckin' stunning. High yellow chicks ain't even my steez, but that smile. Man, that smile. We talked. Divorced, three kids, grad student. Mo' titties than ass. But that smile.

The restaurant was closing. We were the last ones there. "You wanna go do something else? I don't feel like going home yet." "Let's go to my house" she said. I got quiet(er). Was I gon' fuck tonight? I pushed it outta my mind. I wasn't even going to try. It's a small fuckin' town and I better be damn sure about what I'm doing if I stab. I went with the flow.

We got to her crib, it was brand new in a new subdivision. She was the first person to ever live there. Nice. We sat on the couch watching some BET movie (Tech? Eva?) and drinking wine. I was almost comatose. She was mellow. We talked and talked shit about this bad movie. She started getting sleepy so I left. All my instincts tell me to fuck now and fuck often. They've been wrong as hell the whole time I've been here, so I ignored them. Besides, I got 4 more pools to dip my toe in.

Be safe,
KZ

Who Made This Chick?

Hey y'all! Long time, no post. I've honestly been assessing this blog's value to me and whether or not I should continue it. In some ways it's therapeutic, in others stress inducing. People read between lines in instances where I wrote what I meant. Then when I write something for people to catch my inferred meaning, I get nothing. I've basically been getting sick of offline discussions over online statements. So, I'll likely be posting less often. With that being said, let's get to the juicy stuff.

I went to lunch with Madame Batshit yesterday. Yeah, I know. I'm still not fuckin' her. We just pretty much only know each other here, so we go to lunch together sometimes. No biggie. Anyway, I dropped her off at her job when we were done and I went back to work. I got out of the car and checked my phone to see the time. I'd missed a voicemail. When I checked it, it was a message from E.T. "Hi Zed, I think I just saw you leave the Satan's Anus office complex. Anyway, call me when you get a chance."

I deleted it and forgot about it. I talked to Batshit earlier today. She asks me "Did you get a phone call from your little girlfriend yesterday." "Who?" "E.T." "Uh, yeah I did. How did you know?" It seems when I dropped Batshit off and E.T. saw me, she went to Batshit office and started to talk to her. E.T. was like "Hey Batshit, was that Zed I just saw dropping you off?" Batshit responded affirmatively. "Are y'all kickin' it?" E.T. asks her. "No, were just good friends. Why do you like him?" "No, I gotta a boyfriend. I just wanted to hook him up with some friends of mine. I thought you might like him." "No, no. I'm trying to hook him up with friends of mine, too." was Batshit's response. According to Batshit, she had no other business in her building except that she was driving by, saw me drop her off, and decided to talk to her about me.

She had already displayed psycho-like tendencies and shit showing up at the gig. This shit is off the hook. You got to Batshit's gig 'cuz you saw me drop her off? This bitch IS crazy! I didn't even fuck her (or kiss her or feel her up).

Another thing: Batshit don't know, but she know what time it is. She called me five (5) times on Valentine's Day (I only counted her once, though, in my 23 voicemails) and texted me "Happy Valentine's Day". I have not spoken to her since she decided to drop by the gig on January 31. Not one word. I called her a couple of days after that to check her, but she was dodging the call I guess.

I musta forgot they still built hoes like this. I thought that assembly line had closed down. Apparently they haven't broken the mold yet. I swear I hadn't seen shit like this (no sex involved) since fuckin' middle school. They need to issue a nationwide recall on this screwball.

SMFH,
KZ

K.Z. Money

What up? It's ya manz Big Michigan and 'nem! I don't know what the deal is lately. Is it mistaking kindness for weakness or is it that they think I got deep pockets? I have yet another broad writing me for a donation. What the fuck is the world coming to?

Y'all remember that first situation I told you about, right? The one where I asked your advice but I didn't tell you the whole story? Well I decided I wasn't gonna play the "money for pussy" game, so I declined. I got another woman asking me for money for a website project she's trying to start with erotic poetry. I'll tell y'all upfront. I didn't fuck her, she's a lesbian. As a matter of fact it's that same crazy broad I told y'all about before. The one that needed help looking for a job.

I eventually sent her some job leads and shit, but I didn't do anything beyond that. Now she's trying to get a brother to fund her pipe dreams. She might be good. She might have the world's greatest poetry skills. She might be the next Shumishana Kulusianicka (OK, so I don't know any famous poets!), I don't really give a fuck. Why does SHE feel so comfortable asking me for loot? I'm telling you, being a good listener don't amount to shit. People believe you're simpathetic when you listen to them babble about shit. I'm not really simpathetic, I just let muthafuckas talk.

The link to the letter is here if you wanna read it. It goes on and on about something or another. Just because you knew my ass "back when" and I got two nickels to rub together now don't mean I'm a fuckin' bank. Stop passin' the fuckin' hat to me.

Quit Beggin',
KZ

Begin The Beguine

"Ya fine, ya bound to see the biggest part of me/Get on ya knees, I'll harden like a fat man's artery" - Wack lyric from C.O.C (Crusty Old Curmudgeon), Flavor From The Eastside Basement 1991

Hello everybody. Welcome to the golden time of the year. That time where I'm free from gift giving from February until December. This is my prime time, my favorite time to meet women, the cheap bastard's salad days. If you're with a woman during December - February, you'll be a gift givin', New Year's Eve date havin', Kwaanza dashiki wearin', Valentine candy buyin' son of a bitch. Except for the occasional birthday, you can pretty much breathe easy right now.

My problem is not in getting women to date me, it's finding women to date. I was at lunch the other day and I ran into this woman I met my second or third week here at a club named "Coco". She was extra hood, reminding me of home. When we were dancing together at the club, we got kind of, let's say...inappropriate. We were grindin' our pelvic bones into each other. Basically fuckin' on the dance floor. When we left, we were holding hands and I was walking her to the car. "Whatchu bout ta do?" I asked, ghetto patois intact, just like home. "Nuttin. Go home", she answered. "You sure?" I was trying to find my way in the draws. "Yeah, I talk to you later, OK?" "OK." Needless to say I never called her nor did I see her again. Until Tuesday.

I walked up to her and we started talking. She was telling me she was moving to Detroit in a few weeks. Fuck! I couldn't even try to capitalize on this chance meeting. I'll be damned if I wasn't going to give a shot though. "Well, ay, yo, shit, wyoun you gimme yo' numba?" Numbers were exchanged again. I can try to give it this one shot before she jets. Her family still lives here so she's bound to make a few trips back and forth anyway. And I'll get in where I can fit in.

Stay golden,
KZ

Charlize Theron

"Him too afraid to get out, him just a little guy." - Chris Farley in "Tommy Boy"
"Insignificance, here I'll place you on the mantle" - Q-Tip, "Verses From The Abstract"

Hey y'all! That little piece of wretchness we call St. Valentine's Day is over. Now it's time to deal with the fall out. Twenty-three. Not Jordan or LeBron, but 23 voicemail messages left on my celly yesterday. Some unwanted, like E.T.s, some imaginative like "Fanta" and her "no sleep 'til I say so" speech. I successfully dodged them all. Even the one from Dreadlady, reminding me I hadn't made an "appointment" in months. Pinky reminded me that she was still coming this weekend, which reminded me that I had to go buy a new bed frame (don't ask!). The best message came from a highly slept on and forgotten source, "Charlize Theron".

Now Charlize got that name from an ep she pulled on me about a year back. I was on the phone with her. We hadn't had sex. At the time, we were platonic. We talked shit to each other, but that was the extent of it. I told her I was horny as fuck but I didn't feel like being bothered with one of the women I was seeing ALL night. She said "Maybe I can help. I'm on my period, so we can't do it, but I'll help you out." "Really?" "Uh-huh." So I told her to come through. I really thought she was playing. She ain't really gon' do nothin' when she get here.

She came into my place stomping the snow from her boots. I'm smilin'. "What's up?" "Where's the bedroom?" I pointed towards the back and she walked in. I came into the bedroom slowly. "Stop playing" she admonished, pulling down my jogging pants in the process. Charlize sucked in air through her teeth, making a hissing sound. I think that was the last time her mouth closed that evening. Head, neck, neck, head, neck and head. Gettin' the 'tussin.

When I was about to cum, I started to grab her arm. "I'm cummin', baby. Baby, I'm cummin'." Now she's "baby", right? Anyway, she pushed my arm away and went all the way down. I came HARD. When I finished, I opened my eyes. She was in front of me with her mouth open, full of cum. She slowly closed her mouth and swallowed hard. I coulda came again just looking at that. She left about five minutes later. When I recounted this story to my boy Three, this cat said, "Damn, you might as well call her Charlize Theron." "Why?" "Cuz she's a fuckin' monster!" The name has stuck.

Anyway, she called me yesterday to tell me she might be coming down with a sore throat. "Maybe we can put your dickhead in some honey and make me all better." Heartwarming. That's all for now folks.

Keep Writin',
KZ

A Valentine For NYC

"Even n*ggas that look like n*ggas ain't n*ggas." - Robin Harris on New York City

Hey peoples, Happy Valentines Day and shit. I'm sure the Easter Bunny has left you some money for your teeth or whatever the fuck other fairy tale goes with this "holiday". Anyway, I had to double blog today. I just got back to Satan's Anus from New York City this weekend. It was all beautiful except for the end, which I'll about briefly.

First off, I got there Friday morning and I called on an old friend, "Hot Biscuits", to play tour guide. She had me meet her in Times Square, which is not New York for real. It's the place that stands in for NY tourists. Everybody's looking up at buildings and neon signs and shit. Hustlers hustling. Street musicians. I saw two transvestites, one was about 4 inches taller than me. I'm 6'3". Biscuits arrives in Times Square and we start walking around. Cats are trying to sell things. I'm responding "No thanks, bruh." She says "Why are you talking to them? Ignore them." So now I'm soft midwest guy, the tourist. Biscuits keeps walking and bumping into people. Nothing's said. Everybody's fine with that. The system works!

Now we have to get on a train, the subway. She's talking about all these letters and number and shit that apparently represent directions and destinations. Jibber-fucking-jabber. We wind up in what I think is SoHo. *Side note to NY'ers: Houston Street should be pronounced like the city not the pretentious assed way you pronounce it!* We're at this bar that has the coolest bathroom in the world. Look at my little Flickr box to see what I'm talking about. Anyway Biscuits was draggin' my ass around this crowded city and I appreciated her attention. I shoulda let her jump my bones and get some of this good stuff. Maybe next time (I know you're lurking out there! Just seeing if you're paying attention)

Later I hooked up with another girl who I'll allow to remain "nameless". Nameless had me hanging out in Greenwich Village. *Another side note to NY'ers: When the fuck is a "W" silent?* We got to see an all lesbian R&B band. The lead singer looked like my Cousin Stumblefuck (he's a boy). After leaving the spot, I tried to get Nameless back to the cut. No dice. I went home horny and fulla alcohol. I didn't even masterbate, though the abundance of lotion and imagination made it tempting.

The next day I woke up full of energy. Maybe it was going to bed without beating off. I won't make that a habit! I hit the streets early, mainly going downtown. I got the the New York Historical Society to catch up on NYC slavery, went to Ground Zero out of respect, went to busy ass Canal Street to shop, and walked through some interesting hoods like the Lower East Side. When me and Nameless hooked up again, we went up to Harlem. We checked out an art exhibit on Amadou Diallo and went to Sylvia's Restaurant. I really couldn't concentrate 'cuz I was thinking about runnin' up. Horny over powers everything, I'm tellin' you. Saturday night it started to snow, first lightly then heavier and heavier. We parted ways and I was once again left to my own devices.

When I woke up Sunday morning I was in a blizzard. When it was all said and done, 27 inches had fallen. I had to check out of my hotel and get to the airport. My flight had been delayed, but the airline said they were going to fly when the snow stopped. I got to the airport and it was closed. No flights. I called hotels. The cheapest price I got quoted was $299 a night. I stayed at the airport all night, talking to a woman from San Antonio who wanted me to hook up with her daughter. My airline finally flew on Monday afternoon and I was able to get to Detroit. Still 2 1/2 hours from Satan's Anus. I got home at 7:30 am after falling asleep in Detroit. It's been a grueling few days but all in all, I had fun in the Apple. Guess what would have made it better for me?

Stay cool,
KZ

Eulogy For A Beatmaker

Jay Dee a.k.a. J-Dilla a.k.a. James Yancey was pure Detroit. He was sublime hip hop producer. It's kind of selling him short to call him that. That cat was pure music. He loved beats. Bossa nova, jazz, rock, pop, whatever. If he heard it, he could make it better. The only connection I have with Dilla is that we both came from the Eastside of Detroit and we both were "heads". He was in his early 30's, I'm in my mid 30's. It's likely that we passed in the same circles.

I was an aspiring beatmaker and hip hop artist in the late 80's/early 90's. I was in a group called "Flavor From The Eastside Basement" an obvious nod to the likewise long-named "A Tribe Called Quest". He was from the Conant Gardens, I was from Ravendale. When Slum Village started making noise locally, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Then, when Dilla was tapped to be part of the Ummah, a beat making trio with Q-Tip and Ali Shaheed Muhammad of Quest, I was proud. Detroit hip hop would be represented nationally. He went on to produce songs like "1nce Again" and "Find My Way" for Quest, "Runnin" and "Drop" for the Pharcyde, "Stakes Is High" for De La Soul and lots of other joints.

Slum Village dropped the classic "Fantastic, Vol. 2" and it was all Dilla. A beautiful album from start to finish. He went on to produce the entire "Like Water For Chocolate" cd for Common. Another masterpiece. His fingerprints are all over hip hop. I've heard Dilla called your favorite producer's favorite producer. He was an incredible beatmaker and a hip hop stalwart. Jay Dee was the best thing that ever happened to Detroit hip hop. I went from jealousy to grudging admiration and finally I became a fan.

James Yancey died Friday of complications from Lupus. He will be missed.

KZ

For The Hun

Hey y'all! To celebrate Post #100 on this highly esteemed piece of blog real estate, I'll give you something I don't do much of these days, a bona fide "Batshit" update.

As you know (or might not know) I'm sexually done with the woman I call "Batshit". I haven't been with her in two months. I told her we should be done with that part of our lives with each other. She caught major feelings so it didn't work for me. We're friends, though it's a tenuous friendship at best.

Batshit called me yesterday to help her with a computer issue she was having in her one-woman office. I came through and started screwing with the network connections. I look over and she's staring at me. "What?" I ask, dreading the next words out of her mouth. I recognized the look. "Why don't you wanna be with me?" she asks. I look down at the network router and give it that fake ass look of concentration, brows furrowed and shit. "That's not my destiny. I'm supposed to be with somebody else" I finally respond. "Thelma, right?" She's heard this before. Actually Batshit has heard this several times before. "That's right." "Does she know you wanna be with her?" "I tell her all the time" is the lie I respond with.

How do you tell a woman "It's not me, it's you!" They've heard that shit the other way around all the time, but the real thing is it's her. She's fuckin' unhinged! Between her zealotry and her disconnected logic, kickin' it with her is untenable. It shouldn't be done. But she's pretty, she's funny, and she digs me. Honestly you can't beat that combination. Especially for an egomaniacal muthafucka like me.

So Batshit, cool ass Batshit, starts slowly, quietly shedding tears. I feel like shit. I start looking at the router even harder, gettin' all concentratiousical (copyright KZ, 2006) and shit. "I can't fix this." "I know" she says, softly. I leave shortly thereafter, never looking back.

See Y'all Soon,
KZ

Aggressive-Aggressive

What's real, folks? It's ya man, Knockout trying to put out office fires and shit. Clerical staff is up in arms 'cuz my boss put up surveillance cameras in the office. Only at the two reception desks. Why the fuck he'd waste money in a tight budget to do something a quick walk-through could accomplish is beyond me. What the fuck are they stealing, thumb tacks? I've worked in some sheisty ass offices before. This place is squeaky fuckin' clean in comparision. Morale is low and this bastard creates a personnel issue, my area of responsibility. Thanks, cracka!

This type of sneaky shit is his M.O. He is a passive-aggressive, "I'll get ya back on the low" type cat. Passive-aggressiveness is a hoe-assed trait. Personally, I'd like a muthafucka to know: "I don't like you and if you come around, I'm bringing the heat." My favorite non-sexual phrase in the world is "Maaan, fuck you!" My favorite phrase being "I can't hold it anymore!" There is something to be said about a cat that will tell you what he's about to do and he does it.

Sorta like "I'll come to your crib (or workplace) in Southfield and grab you by the throat if you ever put my business out in the street again." And following it up with something like "You can hit me up at the dabigplanet@hotmail.com if you wanna get grimy." Now, I'm not saying I'm a tough guy, but I can't be mistaken for passive-aggressive. I'm actually aggressive.

I have a disdain for anyone who has a problem with me to back door that shit and not settle it face to face. That's the type of cat my boss is, a coward with juice. You gotta watch them cats. They're everywhere.

Stay Focused,
KZ

The Season For Giving

Hey, y'all! I got an odd request in the mail this weekend. It was a request for monetary assistance from a friend of a friend. She's buying a house and she came up around $2,000 short. So she's asking people that she knows to pitch in and help her out. I guess all in all it's not an odd request, it's just I don't know her all that well.

She called me at work on Friday. I had no idea she had my work number. I can't remember giving it to her. But I hadn't heard from her in the seven months since I left the City. Not a word beyond the occasional, dumb ass forwarded e-mail. She asked me for my address. I asked her "Aw, what's up? You gettin' hitched?" She said "Somethin' like that." So I gave her my address.

I can imagine it's sort of hard to hit someone up on the phone for a loan (or a gift), but it was strange that she could call me for the address and not tell me a little of her plight. But like I said, she's a friend of a friend.

So I got this mail from her and I thought it would be an invite to a wedding or something and it was this "gift" request. I honestly don't know how to proceed. Should I give? If I give, what wouldn't make my ass look cheap? I mean, I don't know her like that.

Here's where you (yes, you!) come in. Usually I read the comments and blow off every piece of advice I don't like, but I'll really take yours into consideration this time. I promise. I don't have a clue how to proceed. I'm looking forward to your input.

Regards,
KZ

The Great Unsaid

Hey! What the deal is? I know y'all gotta think I don't censor myself, but even in this anonymous little place in cyberspace, I still hold some things back. I don't know if I fear backlash or just negative comments but I keep a lid on a lot of my opinions. A few of those things have been bouncing around in my head. I'm prepared to be roundly dissed and generally hated. I know this is pretty much a continuation of my last post. I got a lotta time on my hands to think about this shit, so I'm ready for the heat.

Coretta Scott King - A courageous, phenomenal woman. It looks like back in the day that was some good fuckin' pussy.

Single women raising a son as an only child - I've seen it done. Rarely have I seen it done well. The saddest shit in the world is that family picture with just a mother and son. You may raise a cat like Kanye, a spoiled, hypersensitive, quasi-homosexual basket case of a mama's boy or you might get a hardened fuckin' emotionless automaton of a witless bastard bound for prison. In either case that's no good. Get that muthafucka a dad or a sibling, pronto.

The Theatre, African-American version - Ladies, I don't like to say these "playwrights" are emotionally manipulating your asses, but...these muthafuckas are emotionally manipulating your asses. Men, diss one of these modern day minstrel shows and you take your life into your own hands. Bad actors coupled with bad dialogue, goofy ass happy ending full of redemption and "I'll be good from now on" type moral lesson with gospel flourish. Y'all keepin' Tyler Perry flush with Anal-Ese for the rest of his life.

Carmel Corn - Ummm, delicious! (not all of these are gonna be that controversial!!!)

Blog Artists - Hey you! Poet! Yeah, I'm talking to you. I appreciate your attempt to be deep and shit. It's really quite noble. Your friends won't tell you, so I have to...you fuckin' suck! From the top of your empty head to the bottom of your talentless ass feet! You are not a natural, you are not insightful, you need to learn poetic meters, you need to turn off the fucking t.v., and you need to get to know your limitations. You aren't Maya Angelou, you're Monique Renee Jenkins. Find out what she can do well and leave the poetry to the talented.

Blog Macks - There are a lot of lackluster pumpkinheaded fucklipped assholes who are on the blog to meet hoes. They'll try anything to get down: flirt, stalk, make vapid assed comments, exaggerate, and outright lie about everything under the sun. Blog roll fulla pretty bitches. Pump up their "Importance Quotient" about a thousand every chance they get. They get pressed to meet Bloggettes offline once they make a little connection. My blog bible refers to Blog Macks as follows: "You shall know them by their wack ass analogies and incongruous, improbable timelines. If you come across these Africans, shun them, for they are the spawn of Satan."

That's it for now.

See ya,
KZ

Additional Pet Urine

What up, Young Swollie? How are you? Good I hope. This friggin' day is draggin' on, but I can tell you one good thing. I tried to call E.T. about 10 times to cuss her the fuck out. Left messages and everythang. No return call. I think she was offended when I had the secretary tell her to go the other day. That works for me.

Once again it's that time when I bitch about stuff I hate. I know, you think that's all the time, right? Not so, I only complain about 1/4 of the shit that bugs me. Here we go:

The Men's Restroom: I already don't like pullin' my dick out with men in close proximity to me. I don't like opening my asshole with men in close proximity to me. Why in fuck do you wanna talk to me when I'm using the restroom, Fuck-o?

The First Church of Christ, Scientist: In short hand they are known as Christian Scientists, the muthafuckas who won't let their members use medicine. Not to be confused with the fuckin' Scientologists, these assholes have been known to let their children DIE instead of taking them to the hospital for something that's easily curable. Prayer is wonderful, but take that medicine, muthafucka! It's good for you!

Wispy: The fat white bitch who comes in my office everyday to complain about the black chicks in the office. Known as Wispy because of her thinning hair, the bitch is not to be trusted by anyone. Once upon a time I was polite to this hoe, now...no so much. When she comes into my office it's like "What now?" *loud exasperated sigh*

Hip Hop Memorial Retrospectives: Hey assholes! The two best MCs I ever heard are still alive. They are named Rakim and Kane. Cut out all this Biggie and Pac shit.

Activist E-mailers: Me watching Jamie Foxx is not gonna save the world you, shallow, ignorant dick jockey. Remember that one hurricane in New Orleans? Dey sit-che-ashun still ain't right. Stop e-mailing me that silly shit, you bastard.

Rev. Al: Everytime you make a good point, I look at your fucking head and say to myself "This African gotta perm!" Then I tune your ass out. Leave the Boondocks alone, fucker.

Black Porn: I love a big ass as much as the next cat (shit, more), but please raise the fuckin' bar. Implement a "hip to waist" ratio minimum or something. Every big ol' ass ain't gotta come with a big ol' gut. Gotdamn!

Shipping and Handling: I get the "shipping" part, but why in the fuck should I pay you for "handling". I don't want you "handling" shit I order. Just put that shit in a box and ship it. As a matter of fact, if I catch a muthafucka "handling" my shit, I'm punchin' his ass in the throat.

Squabbin': a.k.a. "Beef". Squabbin on wax is my issue. I want these MCs to just strap up and blast at each other. Just so we can open the vaults and release dey shit for a decade after dey dead. Beef on Wax is quite feminine, especially if the cats cross paths all the time. Somebody at least sock another cat! Bitches.

The Dry Cleaners: Hey you bastard! I brought in 16 fuckin' dress shirts to be cleaned and I couldn't even get a bulk deal. I'm not even sure you cleaned anything. The shit looks ironed and it smells cool, but damn, it's not like I fuckin' hoop in the shirts. Gotdamn thief.

And that's the shit that's presently on my fucking nerves.

Relax,
KZ