Friday, August 31, 2007

Conversation With A Stripper

I know what you're thinking. I don't respect you. You're right, absolutely dead on. But it's not because of what you do for a living. It's really your demeanor.

You are attractive in an overdone, overexposed sort of way. I love naked women. I love when women take off their clothes for me. I just hate the transparency, ya know?

You'll take off them shits for anybody. And most of the time, you'll do anything else they ask for money. I know it's hypocritical, but don't look up at me. Concentrate on what you're doing!

It's not even the animal skin prints you favor, the outrageous hairdos, or the lack of self-awareness that you are not envied. I'd just like you to tell the truth.

You are not whoring yourself through school. This is it. You are whoring yourself through life. I told you to concentrate! Stop looking at me. You can listen to me and not look at me. Look at what you're doing.

The only thing you study is crotches and pockets. You probably learned to eat pussy. That's what the job will do to ya. I'm sure you hate what you're doing right now, but you had to do it. You're addicted to money.

Everyday you'll drag your little suitcase on wheels filled with your g-strings into that spot and make your ass clap for the masses. And you'll pick up the sweaty money they throw on stage, leaving with fistfuls of cash kept from wives and girlfriends, enduring touches that violate from rough hands. Because nothing matters but the money.

Don't move! Don't you pull away! I paid for this, so you stay right there....


Damn, you're good. You said you were worth it!

Sorry about the sermonizing, I hope you understand. I love to hear myself talk.

We agreed to $50, right?


Monday, August 27, 2007

Open Your Eyes

It wasn't an admonishment, but a softly spoken request. Once I followed the instructions, I understood why she told me to do it. It changed everything. I looked at everything before, but I only saw them after.

Open your shits, African. Look at what you got.

Cushy gig you bluffed your way into and still do it well. Good place to live. Nice car. Decent health. (Semi) supportive family. No felonies. No relationship trophies (kids). No body to worry about but myself. A woman with a double teardrop/heart and backbite (for the ass connoisseurs). What more can I ask for?

I'm flying out tomorrow for a job interview on Wednesday. The move would be an upgrade (or upgrayedd for y'all that have seen Idio.cracy) in position and pay, how much is yet to be determined. It would be a helluva change for a Northern boy to move to this part of the South as this late in the game. It might be just what I needed.

I have a lot of thoughts. I had a goal to be a director before I was 40. I'm currently a deputy director at 36, so I don't have to jump right now to meet my goal. I was hoping for a East Coast move. Though this is East, it's not as "east" as I'd like it to be. I was thinking more Northeast. Plus, I don't really wanna leave the double teardrop. We already don't live in the same city. How often are we gonna see each other if I'm in North Cacka?

Every thought I had washed away for the moment as I opened my eyes as I was asked. And I looked at what I have.

Be Good,

Thursday, August 23, 2007

The Vegetarian Post

Or "No More Meet"

I'm sitting in the room, claustrophobic. Questions were being raised that an infant would know the answer to. Yet, these grown men, seven in all, kept grinding away.

I'm there wishing I was dead. Not really dead, but at least disconnected from my body. Floating out the door.

"How long have you worked on this plan? How many people?"

Who gives a fuck you fuckin' man fucking asshole. Why are you prolonging this meeting? It was scheduled for an hour, 3:00 to 4:00. It's now 4:45. Who schedules a meeting for 3:00 when you work for a municipality anyway. I had a boss who used to tell me two things: Fifty nine-fifty nine, and 10 and 2.

Fifty nine-fifty nine was how long you had his attention. 59 minutes, 59 seconds. Everything else was bullshit, so get to your point. 10 and 2 were the timeframes to set meetings. He didn't meet outside of that window. You had him for an hour between 10 am and 2 pm. That's all you got. It worked perfectly. That's the only thing to love about big city bureaucracy. You can make arbitrary assed rules for yourself.

My current boss loves meetings. He'll call a meeting for anything. "I need to know who loves ginger snaps. Tuesday, 8:30 we'll get together and discuss it."

He'll frequently call meetings or keep standing meetings and start with "Well, I don't have anything on my agenda..." and his voice will trail off. Who the fuck does that?

The meeting I'm sitting in gets worse. All these non-sequitur assed questions. I liken this to a f*ggot's picnic, lots of mutual dicksuckin'. I can't wait to leave. It's unbearable.

When we finally broke up, it was 4:55. The last few minutes are interminable. Nobody wants to wrap it up. I'd been sitting there for almost two hours and didn't say a word except my name and title in the beginning. There was absolutely no reason for me to be there.

"It was good to meet you", I lied as I was leaving, searching for the sanity I left in my office.

Stay Bitter,

Friday, August 17, 2007

Bureaucrat Rant

Everyday I get bugged by somebody that doesn't know the rules, informal or formal guides on how things are done.

For instance, in men's restrooms, if there are 3 urinals, a man must choose the far left or far right one. If the far left and far right are taken, he goes to use the standard toilet. The middle one is not an option unless every other option is exhausted. We follow these rules because we are not barbarians.

But there is one unwritten rule that continues to be abused in my workplace. After 4:50, no citizens phone calls. Why you ask? Because a "short" question or a "short" discussion is never less than 10 minutes. And after 10 minutes, you're on my time. I've been on phone calls that started at 4:57 and ended at 5:40 with the caller saying stupid shit like "Jeez, I didn't mean to go on like that. It's after 5:00 and I didn't wanna keep you." Where I gotta respond like a good public servant and tell 'em it's no problem. It is a fuckin' problem.

The thing about unwritten rules is you can't enforce them per se. I can't get mad at my secretary for doing her job. I can't NOT answer the phone because it could be anybody, from the politicians to the administration to the press. And if they need me and it's before 5:00, I'd better be available. If they're not dialing me direct, the only number that pops up on my phone is the secretary's number, so I'm fucked.

The essence of this is a little bit of laziness. I hate doing shit anyway. Worse than that, I hate listening to people. At 4:58, this dude called me to complain about some frat house on his block. His rage and ire was so palpable the phone could barely contain it. You would have thought that a crack den had opened for business and hired his grandchildren to slang. It's a fuckin' FRATERNITY HOUSE. Talked to me for 20 minutes at the end of a long day about house they're always on their porch drinking beer. Who gives a fuck?

To call me at 4:50 to talk about some business's sprinkler system flooding the street is stupid. My department doesn't deal with drainage OR streets. Furthermore the department that does deal with drainage ALSO deals with streets. One well placed call to the WATER AND STREETS DEPARTMENT might have done the trick, don't you think?

This asshole called me yesterday at 4:55 to ask me about the chances of success of his business if he moved to our area. How the fuck would I know? Don't you have marketing people? I'm not a fuckin' financial analyst. Flush your money down the toilet for all I care.

There you have it. A man charged with dealing with people that hates dealing with people. That's life.


Thursday, August 16, 2007


I was out after work a couple of days ago with my friend Agent Zero (a.k.a. Ja.da P.inkett on Slim Fast) and her girl UHN (Unpronouncable Hood Name). She wanted to talk about politics in general and her possible strategy for running for City Com.mission in specific.

AZ has got this yen to run kinda out of the blue. I know it comes from a heartfelt effort to help Black youth. But I'm a cynic, so I kept her honest. Why the fuck would anybody believe that being a politician is the best way to help ANYBODY? I'm serious. I've always thought politicians were delusional and/or corrupt. I personally I think that it's my job to stop as many new ones as possible from evolving.

So I ask her niche. She tells me there are no Black women of color being represented, she's a single mother and their concerns aren't being met, and minority health care is a major issue. I tell her she's right on both fronts. But the thing is we live in a city that's 82% non-Black. And they truly don't give a fuck if our needs are being met or not. Our com.mission is non-partisan, so without a political party behind you, you gotta find a way to raise money. It's a small town, and your really only need around $20,000 to win a job that pays $5000 a year. So I asked her to pick another topic she's passionate about that might resonate with "other" voters, to tap additional pockets of loot.

She tells me she's Pro-War. I'm shocked, but I tell her to elaborate. AZ says that America shouldn't have to live in fear because of external threats and that she's in favor of those threats being eliminated, by any means necessary. I listen, and I say o.k. I'm not there to judge, I'm there to advise.

I told her she's gotta suppress one set of views or the other. This is politics. Anybody who's in you corner on one set of the issues she supports will almost surely drop her based on her other point of view. I told her she should play up one or the other to get the money. It's a dirty business.

After that, we pretty much drank and talked shit until the spot cleared out. I hope to goodness she takes a pass on running this race.

Stay Focused,

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Double Up

What's crackin' y'all? Something slipped by me this week. It's my bloggaversary. Two years of ridiculousness and arbitrary venom. I went back into my archives and I was literally amazed. I got a lot of good product out there.

The funny thing about a lot of the old stuff is, it's absolutely nothing like the current stuff. I haven't changed really at all, I just don't act out on the shit I used to talk about. As a matter of fact, I don't write about EVERYTHING I'm thinking anymore. I think that's the biggest thing. I still got foul thoughts and shit, but I'm not entering them shits into evidence.

I used to complain a lot about not getting ass the way I wanted to. The pursuit of ass was primary. And secondary. And tertiary. Believe me, I still love pussy. I just don't talk about it as much. The funny thing, as with most things, as soon as you stop chasin' it, people wanna give it to you. I'mma try this shit with money, yo!

I spent a lot of time complaining about my gig, which I still hate. But it could be worse. Much worse. Even as I fly down south for this interview in a couple of weeks, I get this wistful feeling about Satan's Anus and how it "de-toxed" me from being all "Mot.or City Arrogant". I think the proximity to the city without being IN the city helped me on the social end of things.

Has this shit evolved? It depends. Am I a better or a different person? Nope. I'm just reacting differently to the same stimuli. I still like to complain about shit I can't change and Quixote dem windmills. I'm still in love with porn. I still don't write like I should. I still get anxiety dealing with my parents. I'm still mad at and about hip-hop.

And I'm still writing this damn blog.

Be Easy,

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Beautiful Zed And The Numbers

I get the weirdest, out of the blue assed phone calls. From women. Women I haven't seen in forever. I mean pre-TAD, pre-Thelma, pre-marriage women. They don't register on my radar and their phone numbers on my caller ID are unfamiliar. I let it go to voicemail and I listen. I wonder how they got to me.

I've had the same phone number since July 2002, the day after I left my wife. We had a family phone plan so I left my phone with her, and I got a new one when I left. That means for a chick that I haven't seen since before I got married in December 2000 has THIS number, she worked to get it.

I wonder what presses them to call. Dick is 12 for 10 cents, so I know that's not what it's about. I had a chick that dissed me, hard, call me to ask how come I never call her. I was like "You told me never to call you again." She said "Really, I wonder why?" I didn't wonder, I just didn't call.

Once a week, I get an odd text message or voicemail. Yesterday this chick left me this message:

"Zed. Sweet, beautiful Zed. Where have you been? I heard you moved. I wish you had told me..I could have given you a going away present. Please call me. We got so
much to catch up on."

This chick is married. I guess it's the 7 year itch. I'm not scratching it.

If somebody is genuinely curious as to how I've been or what I'm doing, I have no problem with that. We can talk. But of the ones that I've talked to, they don't wanna hear shit about me not fuckin' 'em. Yeah, I had/have a rep with the high sex drive and the "anytime, anyplace" mentality. But if it's been that long, don't you think something might have changed?

When I was at my alumni picnic this chick I used to see kept hanging around me and my friends. My boys were asking me for an "in" so I introduced some of them to her. She wasn't having it. When I was about to leave, she hugged me and said "You feel like comin' over later and hookin' 'mama' up?" I was like "I'm going to my girlfriend's house later." She said "What about before you go home?" I just laughed and walked away.

I thought about women and their "numbers" thing. If they fuck me again, it doesn't count against their "number", the number of dudes they've fucked. I don't know if it's true or I'm making shit up to justify behavior I don't understand.

I'm Out,
Beautiful Zed

Monday, August 13, 2007

Ball Droppin'

Happy Left Handers Day!!!
Representing that sinister shit

I know I'm not perfect. Hell, most times I really suck. But I spend a lot of time and effort not trying to let people down. I've talked about how much I hate flakes, and I try not to be one. I spend a lot of time trying not to disappoint. If someone I care about is counting on me, I'll do everything I can to be there.

I hold everybody in my life to that same standard. It's a recipe for disaster.

I spend most of the time disappointed in muthafuckas who don't live up to the standards I set for myself. As a matter of fact, there is almost no way one can recover from my disappointment. I just put your ass in a box, a box for people that don't measure up. I'll never ask you for anything again. You're a fuck up. Rejoice!

I've let that shit poison my relationships with everybody. I hold you in high esteem, you disappoint me on a major issue, we're done. We can be friends, but you can't ask me for shit.

My brother is in that box, my best friend from age 5 to age 30 is in that box, the first step to my divorce was my wife being put in that box, most of the cats I grew up with are in that box.

You get one good chance to shit on me, after that, you have a superficial friend. I'm not in your corner, not really.

I've been trying really hard not to be so hard on other folks. It's rough, but I think I'll meditate and try to come up with a solution. I have to come to grips with the fact that most people suck.


Wednesday, August 08, 2007

The Cuban Missile Crisis

They straddled one another, head to foot. He, on his back, She, on top of him.

He dined, tasting the centrally located honeypot, lost in it's splendor, reacting to each twinge. He held her rear, caressing it as she flexed trying to drown him in juice.

She stroked, trying to pleasure him. She coated her hand in saliva and rubbed his joint, moving in rhythm to his darting tongue.

He delved deeper, grabbing her ass more firmly. Just do it, he thought. Just fuckin' do it already.

She kissed his stomach and stroked with her left hand and cupped his sac with her right, increasing the speed as her heartbeat got faster.

He flattened his tongue and slapped it against her button like a beaver's tail securing a dam. Go ahead baby, put your mouth on it he implored silently.

She spit in her hand again and grunted. Her hips bucked as he tasted the oncoming torrent of her female ejaculate. She started to stroke him again, slowly.

He needed to feel it. He raised his hips slightly. She had to know what he needed. Here it is baby, what are you waiting for?

It was soft at first. Just a kiss, a peck really. On the right side. He mistook it for her thumb until he looked. It was actually a kiss.

She was slightly intimidated. This would be a first. She was a perfectionist and didn't like people to see her unsure of herself. Reading about it is one thing, doing it quite another.

She exhaled and parted her lips, lowering her torso. She allowed him to enter.

He felt the warm rush of saliva straight from the source enveloping his organ. The sensation made him close his eyes to concentrate on the feeling. He wanted to savor the moment. As she came up and lowered her mouth again, he re-immersed his tongue into her womanly folds.

And the crisis was averted.


Tuesday, August 07, 2007

A Mouth Full Of Titties

"See, that's how you fuck up. You can't give 'em respect they don't earn. They'll never fuckin' respect you. You'll get what the fuck you deserve if they shit on you." -Three, June 2007

So let me flash back for a minute. I was at the MS.U/E.MU/U.M Alumni Picnic a week or so ago and my boy Hutty's phone kept vibrating. "Damn woman!"

"What's up?" "My wife. She keeps calling me. I never call her when she goes out with her friends, but she blows me up every five minutes when I'm gone. And she doesn't want a damn thing."

The shit I told him came from experience. It was simple. He probably doesn't call her over petty bullshit when she's out because he'd like her to treat him the same way. But it's not working. She has created her own rules of etiquette. She'll call him and ask "Honey, what's the name of that actor who plays on that show?" or "What brand of salt is that little girl on the label of?" just to irritate him. I just said "You gotta respect your wife. You can't stop what's been started. She'll do it 'til the day you die. You need to start calling her when she's out, getting some of your trivia answered, too." It sounds petty and childish, but maybe that's the way we have to communicate to each other. Nobody understands "Please don't do that to me." They know what they don't like, even if they do it to you.

What's my point in talking about this? It's that we get caught in this cycle of irritate and pacify when we get in relationships. Ill behavior to get somebody out of their comfort zone and sacrificing of ourselves to make someone else's life easier. Gamesmanship. I'm seeking the equivalent of an ultra-pacified home life. Two people seeking to make the other person's life easier.

It's hard to find, that holy grail of Two Muthafuckas Getting Along. We all stay mired in the minor shit. I just wanna find the most minor minor shit.


Monday, August 06, 2007

Rose Colored Contacts

Hey peoples, what's good? I'm typin' like a muthafucka on this bad hand, trying my best to go forward and live life like I give a fuck.

I'm exhausted. I'm really tired of working. I'm not working hard or anything like that. I'm just tired of the construct. Getting dressed, driving in, sitting in meetings, following up on bullshit and leaving with a briefcase full of fairy dust and dreams.

I don't wanna hear about muthafuckas loving their jobs. If you work for somebody else and you love your job, here's a nice, fat cock for you to suck on. For real.

My support system is garbage too. It consists of my mother calling me and asking me how I'm coping. I got so many self-centered assed people around me, it's pathetic.

Muthafuckas calling me to talk about what they need from me, or to talk about their needs. I'm like "Fuck you. I'm doped up and sitting at home. What about my needs?"

I think everybody's support system has to be better than mine. Or they just think it is. I think most people are just one kingsized crisis away from separating the wheat from the chaff, from finding out who's real and who's along for the ride.

Yeah, I'm irritated as fuck.


Friday, August 03, 2007

Churning Butter

I woke up this morning and reached for my hairbrush. It fell in the toilet.

I went to a 7:30 am meeting and listened to City Commissioners showboat because election season has started. I'm just glad I didn't have to go to work the rest of the day.

I went to the barber. I started daydreaming. I was thinking about all the gray in my beard. Then I thought "Ronal.d Rea.gan wasn't gray". Then I remembered when he got shot in the dome and his hair started growing back gray in the spot they shaved for surgery. Then I thought about John Hi.nckley and how he was trying to impress J.odie Fos.ter by shooting Rea.gan. I thought he'd need a vagina for that. Then I thought about how the two things Jo.die F.oster refuses to answer in interviews is who her babydaddy is and what she thinks about Hinck.ley. When my haircut was finished, it was the worst haircut I'd ever had in my life.

I left and went to the movies. I saw the Bou.rne Ul.timatum. That, my friends, was a rock solid flick. It made me forget about my haircut, the meeting and my brush.

I don't really have shit to blog about except that my semen level is probably at an all time high.

That's really all I got.

Be Cool,