Monday, November 09, 2009

Village Idiot


So, I'm moving right? Second weekend in a row. First my stuff from Satan's Anus, then her stuff from the D. This weekend was the stuff from the D. All's well. Our team, after initially flaking out, comes together and the move is swift. Even though we lost the keys for about 40 minutes in the D, the move was still a rousing success. Now to get the stuff from point A to point B. I got the personnel and I got the will. No biggie, right?

Remember having sex as a virgin?

When I tried to get this truck through that hole, it got stuck. The only road to get in and out of the village was clogged by the town's new black guy and his fucking moving truck. For an hour and a half.

The pint sized cop came up to me and said "I guess that was a dumb mistake, hunh?" "Excuse me?" "I guess that was a dumb mistake, hunh?" I turned my back to him, because saying "Fuck you Fidget!" would be impolitic. I guess it would be a dumb mistake if a) The height of the truck was written somewhere, anywhere in or on the truck so I could make a comparison, or b) I'd gotten stuck last week when I drove through this same fucking tunnel in a gotdamn moving truck!

So after paying the tow truck driver to wench me out, and getting the citation from the Fidget (fucking midget) for "ignoring a traffic control device", and filling up the gotdamn gigantic gas tank with diesel and the cost of renting the fucking truck, it would have been cheaper to hire movers and have me and TAD sipping Pina Coladas in our new digs waiting for our furniture to come.

I was a gotdamn newsstory, a one day oddity in the village. And a story to tell my kids.

Peace,
KZ

Friday, November 06, 2009

Doubt

Doubt is a powerful thing. I doubt myself all the time, usually in matters that aren't important, but they still take up a lot of my time. For instance, when I'm in a meeting, I quite often start to daydream. My mind drifts and I think of everything except the reason we've been assembled. When I'm shaken from my daze, usually by someone asking what I think about the subject matter, I give some vague answer. The thing is, because I'm disengaged I think that I'll have a wrong or misinformed answer. I doubt myself, but most of the time I enter the meeting with a pre-determined set of actions and alternatives because the meeting is not necessary. Rarely do I respond with the pre-determined actions, I always give the vague, bullshit answer. Why? Because I think that the people who have spent a lot of time discussing and hashing out things have a better handle on them than I do. 99.9% of the time, I'm wrong about that. I could have come into the meeting with the solution. I let doubt take over because really that's my comfort zone.

I'm asked to speak at a dizzying number of places in Satan's Anus and I reluctantly accept. I used to hem and haw my way through the speech, hoping to reach the end and mercifully sit down or leave. The one thing I never counted on until recently is the doubt in the majority of the audience. Give me a mike and some notes, and all of a sudden I become the expert. You might have a different opinion or a different set of facts, but I got the mike bitch! Subverting my self-doubt and replacing it with arrogance and an embrace of the inherent power of standing before a crowd and imposing your own knowledge has been a revelation.

I leave my doubt for my personal life. I've abandoned it as a profession. It took me long enough, but I'm there.

Peace,
KZ

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Real Shit That I Saw In Baltimore Yesterday

  • More heroin addicts than I've even seen in a single place in my life.
  • Open air sale of said heroin, by a gentleman that kept chanting the brand name of the dope.
  • A manchild who spent the entirety of his time on public transit telling this chick how dope he was at working his program at Potbelly's.
  • An Ethiopian cab driver using Garmin to get me to my destination.
  • A municipal park bench, emblazoned with the motto "Baltimore - The Greatest City In America".
  • A secretary in a professional office wearing a hoodie and Timbos.
  • A black quasi-lumberjack wearing leather suspenders.
Peace,
KZ

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Chaos Reigns

What up Africans? I'm finally doing it, I'm moving to a "central" location between Satan's Anus and The D so I can live with my wife. For those of y'all that didn't know, moving sucks dick, and not in that pleasant way that I enjoy so very much.

I just got back from Puerto Rico, and for the record, the chicks are overrated (they try TOO hard), the food is underrated, and you can make a killing if you open a store that solely sells stacked heels. Incidentally, that portion of Africanness that inhabits the Puerto Rican genetic makeup seems to rule as far as timeliness and general attitude. Also, for the first time in my life, I got sunburned, so that's something. Anyway, we went for our first anniversary. It was a good trip to take and a precursor to the bigger trips we're planning, like to the Mediterranean, which I just realized as I wrote it, looks like it means "Middle Ground", which is where she and I are moving to in Michigan.

This post came full circle. Imagine that.

Peace,
KZ

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Notes From Pervertland

I don't know if this is a fleeting fascination or what, but I've just had a series of weird thoughts. I'm intrigued by juxtaposition of status as it relates to death. Like, I'm fascinated by the chairperson of the Society for Sexual Supression and Moral Indignation dying of because of faulty wiring on a vibrator her longtime lesbian lover was using on her. Or otherwise, a super strung out heroin addict and all around creep getting hit by a bus while saving a child from getting run over. I been thinking about this a lot lately, and I was thinking, if you're not suicidal or have a lingering illness, it's pretty hard to choose how you die. So you gotta be on your toes. Like being extra careful when you do the skeevy shit you do. Or if you're skeevy all the time, you might wanna do dangerous shit in service of other people every so often, and maybe that's how you're remembered.

These are the things I think about when I'm on my couch in my underwear alone, masturbating with Fleshy.

KZ

P.S. I checked out of FB for awhile. Deactivated my account, so if you're looking for me I'm here. Honestly, I now remember the reason why I stopped fuckin' with people I went to high school with.

Monday, October 05, 2009

The American Rodeo

You know there are people out there who are getting rich off of nostalgia and societal vanity? Do you know that if you used to be something or someone, or if you have the good fortune of having won the genetic aesthetic lottery, you could be rich beyond your wildest dreams? Well it's true! Welcome to the American Rodeo, where dick-riding is a sport!

You remember that last Morris Chestnut movie you went to? It wasn't very good was it? Why did you go? Do you remember? Was it because Morris is the next James Earl Jones, with a smooth speaking voice and the ability to manufacture pathos with his line readings? Or did he keep his shirt off for most of the movie? Congratulations, you just put money in an African's pocket for nothing.

Hey, remember that strip club you went to last night? Yeah, that broad had a beautiful ass. You musta blew a couple hun on that chick. Went home with a hard dick, didn't you? You know what she went home with? A couple hundred of your dollars and another African. Congratulations, you coulda got a bullshit dance like that at home for free.

I'm at my wits end. Everybody thinks it's OK in 2009 to dick ride. That shit was verboten where I'm from, when I came up. Now, we do it en masse, every chance we get. I've been called a hater for calling it out, apparently I'm jealous because I'm not getting money or I'm not fine enough to get my dick ridden. OK, if that shit makes you feel comfortable, go with it. But I'm telling you I'm not for giving unearned kudos to anybody. Fuck 'em and fuck you too, groupie.

KZ

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Reassessment Day

I'm writing today in defense of uppity n*ggers. I'm retracting my blog dissing Skip Gates. I'm toasting him, along with Kanye, Serena, and B.O. I don't even want to conflate these people, but apparently that shit is happening anyway. As they stand under attack, two of them exhibiting extremely boorish behavior, I've decided to stand with them. Fuck it. I was born here, raised here, given your name, given your code of conduct, followed it, took you values, aspired to your dreams, and every time I deviate from that path, even a little, you're there to tell me what a fuck up I am. Man, fuck you! If I stand on my own two, have an opinion that is contrary to what you call "conventional" wisdom, I'm out of line. Honestly, I no longer give a fuck. If your feelings get hurt or if your status is dinged, so be it. I don't condone physical harm coming to you, but really, I wouldn't be surprised if it came to that.

I also have a problem with asking the fucking President about Kanye. What the fuck do those two people have in common? Tell me, what? Chicagoans? Yeah, that must be it. I wish the President wouldn't weigh in on that shit, but like I said, fuck it. He's a man and he's earned the right to say what the fuck he wants to say. Honestly, today, I'm holding America accountable. America, and the spoils that come with being American, belong to all of us, each and every citizen. Unconditionally.

I've said what the fuck I have to say.

KZ

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

The Rest, Without Peace

Right now I resent the connections I've made with all y'all muthafuckas. Because if something happens to another one of you, I'm going to fucking lose it completely.

That's all.

KZ

Monday, August 31, 2009

Write To Believe

A testament on how lazy a writer I've become will be evidenced on the following lines. You see, we have lost an amazing writer today. Nikki Harris was truly on some other shit. If you weren't a reader, I'm sure the archives are accessible. The link is on my blogroll under DeliciousClam.

But the reason I've called myself out on the writing tip is simply this: I want to make this post about Nikki, but it's gonna come out being all about me.

I started blogging with the intention of being as raw as possible. I used to read Nikki and realize a fatal flaw in my writing. It wasn't that I was raw, it was that I was mean. Nikki had the ability to be as raw as they come, but there was an emotion, a passion, a REALNESS underneath it all. Realness is a word that gets thrown around much too often, but it's what comes to mind when I think of Nikki and her blog.

I was a part of a couple of online writing groups with Nikki once upon a time. We (she, I, in one incarnation, Will, and a couple of other bloggers) would come up with writing assignments, as difficult as we could make them and try to write to them. It was fun and breezy, but it allowed us to witness each other at the height of our imaginative powers. I appreciated the push.

I've been writing recreationally for the past couple of weeks after a lengthy layoff. I'd say it was due to being blocked, but really it was due to being scared that my talent isn't what I think it is. I read Nikki, Hassan, Slish, Nisa, Allison, et al, and I think "Why the f*ck do I even pretend to call myself a writer?" I've come to the conclusion that I write because I can. It comes easy to me. But when I read a writer like Nikki, I know there's a depth that I can tap, another level I can reach that I'm not coming close to yet. I can go deeper. And I have my muse.

-Knockout Zed.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Just wondering...

I'm waiting for everybody to leave the office so that I don't have to make that fucking weekend based small talk that people insist on making. I seriously think I might have social anxiety disorder. I fucking HATE talking to people, and that's the crux of my job. I talk to people about city wide decisions, usually in a public forum, but increasingly in a face to face situation. Muthafuckas don't stop talking, ever, unless I tell them the conversation has to end. And that's getting to be a problem, because I can't even allow the conversation to start anymore. I'm avoiding 'em like nobody's business.

I'm waiting for the fat, gassy bastard that's in the office next to mine to leave right now, simply because I don't wanna say "enjoy your weekend" to that smelly fucker. Yeah, I know it's sad, but I can't help it.

Gotdamn it! Some bastard just came into my office to say "have a nice weekend", right as I wrote that last sentence. Seriously, fuck that guy.

Well, I'm about to bite the bullet because sitting here is worse torture than talking to these fuckers.

Peace,
KZ

Monday, August 03, 2009

Cocoonville

Something's off. I can't put my finger on it, but it is. I feel like retreating from the world entirely. Disconnecting cable, ditching DSL, stomping out my celly, the whole nine. I'm overstimulated. I can't stand the outside world. At TAD's crib, she doesn't have internet or cable, and whenever I leave there and come home, I feel remarkably refreshed. On top of that I can turn off my phone and not feel like I'm missing anything. I know all this is specious reasoning. I obviously feel better because I'm spending time with my wife. But seriously, when I come back to Satan's Anus, I'm inundated with THE WORLD. News, important and unimportant, phone calls, emails, Facebook, and other bullshit overwhelm me. That urgency seeps back into my life, even though none of it is really urgent at all. I don't miss my favorite TV program until I'm reminded that I missed it. Fuck the 3,000 th forward from my Uncle Louie on the N.U.D. certain companies employ. I'm perfectly OK missing out. I didn't used to be, but now, I think I can take it.

Will I be perceived as a freak if I retreat from the world? Nobody would even know about the cable thing. The internet thing would be the hardest, but I could easily make that up at work. And if I only answered TAD and my mother's calls, I don't think I'd be missed. It might be worth a trial run.

Peace,
KZ

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Big Titties In A Dirty Bra

You're gainfully employed in a horrible economy, but it's in a job you despise, one that steals your soul and make you wish you were dead. Your in-laws will watch your kids anytime you want, for as long as you need without complaint, but they feed your kids bacon and candy non-stop. You are as physically and mentally fit as you've ever been in your life, but tomorrow you're being shipped to Afghanistan to chase boogeymen. This is where I am in my life. I picked up a girl with big titties, but she's wearing a dirty bra. Not literally, follow me for a sec.

It's the mixed blessing thing. I've got a beautiful wife, but I only see her on weekends. I've got a stable job, but I feel like jumping off a gotdamn roof every time I have to walk into my office. I'm healthy and sharp, and I'm wasting in Satan's Anus, the capitol of Backwoods/Jerkwater, Michigan. I feel like I'm incapable of being happy, but that's not the case. I'm incapable of faking it. I have been and can be happy, but I know better than to settle for it, like this shit is as good as it gets. Yeah, everybody has problems, but I know there's a possibility, even with all the other problems in the world, real, attainable happiness is within my reach. Now, if I can only get that bra to landromat...

KZ

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Man, Fuck You

I understand how I'm supposed to feel and how I've been told to feel, but Imma hafta say it. Fuck Skip Gates. That's right I said it.

Police, by and large, are dickheads and assholes. They are some of the worst fucking human beings with some of the most outsized egos going. EVERYBODY knows that shit. EV-RY-BOD-EEE. I know Harvard makes you feel like you're King Dick and shit, but truth be told, it took your dumb ass 58 years to learn what we all know, don't press your fucking luck with an obviously insecure, undereducated glorified security guard. You will lose. You won't win. You may win in the long term, but short term, he'll use all of his "power", which at that point is a gun and the ability to arrest you, to make your life miserable. Your "power" may win out in the end, but he's got your ass in the now. Every fucking African I know knows that, and I know some stupid muthafuckas.

I get it. You're SUPPOSED to be equal, and be treated better than your run of the mill African. The reality of the situation is that there is a history of Black men and police officers in this country. When the fuck have you ever been able to tell a police officer anywhere in the gotdamn world "Do you know who I am?", or any variation of that sentiment, and be let go? To arrest a "prominent" man is to get a feather in his cap, at least temporarily, from superiors. That shows that we don't play favorites in this department. Black celebrities or whatever are not exempt from this.

I know we're supposed to have made it, this being the Age of Obama and all, but I fucking know better. Most of us know better. Skip should too.

Fuck him.

KZ

Thursday, July 16, 2009

The Blast I Had

Hello all! I've been back in Satan's Anus for about 2 days now, and I'm so ready to leave again. I had a great time on vacation in Florida. I visited my parents in Tampa, which is almost never fun, went to Disney World for the first time since I was 8, and I drove to Miami with my wife, my brother and my brother in law to kick it with my cousin and my play cousin. That's right, I said it. Play cousin.

Anyway, the part of the trip I want to talk about is the Miami leg. This time I didn't get my pocket picked, but in many ways it was much worse. Going to see my cousin Juan was one of the most infuriating things I've done in awhile. Juan is my older cousin, he's about 8 years older than me. I used to look up to him. He was born and raised in Tampa, and came to live in Detroit after college, when I was about 12. He was like a second brother. I'd glossed over some irritating habits he had, like extreme frugality, because he'd always been alright with me.

Man, this dude is a f*cking trip. He's hit a lick since he moved to Miami. Juan is married to a chick now that makes money in bunches. He loves the trappings of her loot. The house, the cars, the atmosphere, everything. But he's still cheap. He made it a point to basically beg me and my other relatives to come down and see how he's living, so he could flex about how live he is. It bugged the shit out of me. I tried to be happy for him, I really did, but I don't like bragging motherfuckers. Call me a hater, but I'm not gonna listen to you ride your own dick for too long.

The thing about him is, he loves those trappings of success, but he's still a cheapskate at heart. He promised he was going to set it out for us. My hand to God, TAD is my witness, this African called his boy, a upscale chef, to come to his house and fry fish and shrimp in a gotdamn Frybaby and was like "What n*gga? My boy is a chef and he's doing it big up in here." Like we were supposed to be impressed by that shit. I understand his boy's high falutin' credentials, but shit, it's still dropping fucking fish in a fry-o-lator. Juan was gonna put us on to some shit, so he bought some Hennessy White. A single fifth. For about 8 people to share. That's a baller for you.

My play cousin showed up and was instantly more fun than my actual cousin. My play cousin, Chief, has an interesting story. He's my brother's age and grew up with him in the D. Our parents all grew up together in Tampa and moved to Detroit in the 60's. He's like family, but not family. When Chief graduated from high school back in 1980, he was determined to be a MC. Think about that. Hip hop basically hit the scene in 1979 and in 1980 Chief decided he was gonna be down. He toiled and made demos, joined a group, did local gigs, and tried. He eventually moved to the NYC in '84 or '85 and stayed up and down the east coast pursuing his dream. He met some interesting people, some of whom made it, but most of them didn't. One of his former roommates, and close friend to this day, is DJ Jazzy Jeff. Incidentally, Jazzy Jeff had a gig the next day and Chief was putting us on the VIP list. That would be the highlight of the trip.

After the fish and shrimp, he had us parking lot pimpin' a John Legend concert. He told us about the concert before we came as part of his weekend activities for us, then he PARKING LOT PIMPED IT, like we were gotdamn teenagers. With my wife. What the fuck? We would have bought our own tickets for the concert, all he had to do was get us there. But he thought it would be more fun for us if we stood outside and watched people walk out. Asshole!

He then took us to a spot where we were clearly the oldest people there. My cousin, brother, and brother-in-law are all around 8 years older than me. I, in turn, am 8 years older than my wife. She was at least 8 years older than most of the patrons at this club we went to. It was wack and awkward, but it was free, and that's all that counted to my cousin.

The next day, he took us out to sightsee. Though me and my brother in law drove separately in Ford Explorers with third row seats, my cousin insisted that the five of us big muthafuckers ride in his Lexus sedan. Why? There was no discernable reason for his insistence other than he wanted to ride around in style while the rest of us were uncomfortable smashed in the backseat.

In spite of the fact that he lives adjacent to Ft. Lauderdale and north of Miami, this ass took us driving around looking at the gated communities that famous people live in near him. Nobody was interested in that shit, but he had to show us that he was in proximity to greatness. Mind you, we couldn't actually see the houses because we couldn't get through the gates. He was pointing to shit that we could theoretically see if we were permitted through the gates. Who the fuck is that fun for? We were all aching in that car, so to give us a chance to stretch our legs, he finally drove us to Miami. Finally!

Where did he take us exactly. The racetrack. Not the gotdamn beach, not shopping, but to the horse track. Free admission is hard to pass up.

After we finally escaped back to his house, we got ready for the Jazzy Jeff gig. TAD was meeting up with her girls, who came down to Miami for their annual girls' trip, and was essentially the entire reason we scheduled the side trip to Miami. While she was kicking it with them, I was gonna be on Ocean Drive with my family. Then we'd meet back up with TAD to go see Jazzy Jeff.

My baller cousin once again amazed me. Juan had to show us how he was setting it out for us, so he was gonna treat us to dinner. If you've ever been on South Beach, you know the amazing restaurants they have. If you haven't been, you probably could imagine how it is. I'm not a vagrant. I'm not rich by any means, but I'm not a pauper. I like nice things sometimes and would like to enjoy myself on vacation. That being said, of all the restaurants on South Beach, of all the various cuisines we had to choose from, ballerific Juan insisted that he take us to the corner of 5th and Ocean to fucking T.G.I. Friday's, his treat. I'm trying not to rock the boat, because at this point I'm the only one of my relatives that's pissed, so I settle down and order the salmon pasta, because lord knows that on Ocean Drive, Friday's has the freshest seafood.

I couldn't get to the Jazzy Jeff show fast enough. We reconnected with my wife, who incidentally had a great meal with her girls at Lario's Cuban Cuisine, slipped through the backdoor at Club Mansion and sat on the stage with Jazzy Jeff on couches with free liquor while he spun the room into a frenzy.

I got to meet a hip hop luminary that night, that's the only story that matters. Everything else was exposition.

Peace,
KZ

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Other

Facebook is the font of non-stop hilarity. I really am addicted, even though I can't really be MYSELF on it. Too many rubbernecking assed Satan's Anusians tracking my movement. As much as I neglect it, I love the blog for all the reasons I hate Facebook: a certain level of anonymity and an opportunity for unbridled misanthropy. Ready? Here goes....

Muthafuckers I hated in high school are my "friends" now. Man, fuck 'em, fuck 'em all. 20 years of bad choices has manifested itself in their mugs. People who I'd actually look forward to finding after all these years, I can't find. The ones I have are the same misspelling, quasi-literate, all caps typing ape-people I remember.

Hey, Loudy! I remember you! You got caught sucking 2 football players' dicks in the boys' locker room after football practice. Didn't think I'd remember that, hunh? If unattractive, loud, hyper-religious, and fashion challenged were signs of positive karma, you'd be a $500 million winning Powerball ticket. I'm unfriending your ass tonight.

People from college aren't much better, but they are better. This one lame ass dude, who's incidentally quite successful now, married this beauty queen from college. They have 3 kids together, 2 girls and a boy. It's really unfortunate that those girls are the spitting image of his ugly ass and not his pretty wife, but I can't hold him accountable for that. Hell, that shit might happen to me! I actually like the guy quite a bit. But his status updates are always inevitably about how live he is. Not how happy he is, or how much he loves his family, but how he's the shit and we should all bow down. Good luck with that, Fido. Your ass is hist.

I'm not saying this shit to kiss up, but I appreciate the bloggers on FB more than anything. Maybe it's because I kinda "know" y'all in the here and now. I hate reminiscing and remembrances and shit. With most of my FB friends, that's all I got.

Be Good,
KZ

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

The Gift That No Longer Gets Shot

I was just thinking about how much my life has changed in a fairly short period of time and it occurred to me: I would much rather eat great food than have great sex.

When the fuck did that happen? When did my fat ass take over from my fat dick? And how can I reverse the change?

Actually, I'm not sure I want to reverse the change. I find myself not seeking out porno when I get home (at least not ALL the time), but I read about hot restaurants, recipes, and cooking techniques that enhance the flavor. I bemoan the fact that my cooking skills suck and that I don't have ready access to Michelin starred greatness. More than anything, I regret that I don't get to eat more good stuff more often. Fuck more often, more like never.

It's the kind of complaint I used to lodge in regards to my sex life. But right now, I don't really give a fuck. I just wanna eat well.

Be cool,
KZ

Thursday, May 28, 2009

The Fuckshit Chronicles

Hey peoples, what's good? I'm still at my muddafuckin' job, doing muddafuckin' everything I can do to leave, to no avail. In the process, I've fucked around and stayed up until I have to do a massive project, a project that involves a great deal of public involvement. And I have to coordinate the level of public involvement.

If you haven't figured it out, Satan's Anus is full of bastards and bitches who know everything. Deez muddafuckas always have something to say. So you give them a forum and the time to say everything they want to say, and then when it's time to vote on the approval/disapproval of a proposal, they'll claim they weren't given enough time to say what they wanted to say. That's even if THEIR POINT OF VIEW WINS!!! That's that ol' fuckshit right there.

So I have to spend my summer doing public input sessions for 72,000 people (much less than that really because as a college town, 25,000 of those people are students). Now that doesn't seem like a lot, and in most instances it's not. I worked for the City of Detroit, and we did public input for 1,000,000 people.

Let me tell you it was much less hassle than doing it for THESE 72,000 fuckers. Reason being, Detroit is overwhelmingly Black. Black people have different jobs. They are fucking exhausted from working to make other people's lives easier than to talk all fucking night at a meeting. Unless I'm out there proposing to build a fucking freeway on top of their house, they ain't comin' out. They are resting up for the next day. Another thing is culturally, we're really not trying to prove to anybody how fucking brainy we are. These meetings become a source of intellectual one-upsmanship in the community. Each bastard trying to bring up a heretofore overlooked fact, much more salient that any other fact presented. Africans come out to tell you fuck what you think and they sit back down. No explanation of why you suck, just that you suck. I'm all for that brevity.

My first public input meeting as a staff member in the City of Detroit consisted of telling a room of 450 people that we were planning to build new houses in their neighborhood. I got threatened, berated, dissed, called out, and basically told to sit the fuck down. That one meeting was more fulfilling and meaningful than the hundreds of meetings I've attended as a Satan's Anus employee, because they cut to the fucking chase and didn't waste my time with all that fuckshit. That's all I'm saying.

Peace,
KZ

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Everybody's Turned Bitch

It's a sad day in Black America. Today I just about had it and was about to flat out quit Facebook. It seems like everytime I get a status update from one of my male friends, they are doing the most bitch assed shit in the world. I'm talking about cats that come from some of the roughest circumstances in the roughest hoods going, talking about "Off to get my poodle a trim" or "Picking daisies with my oldest son". This shit is disheartening. I'm not much better. "I'm headed to yoga class" or "I miss my sweetie". That's some old bullshit. My father's got skin made of steel. My mother is notorious for being hardcore. And I'm out here shitting on the family reputation.

We're all victims of our relative success. When you see and experience nice shit, you tend to gravitate to it. So when my boy sends a status update like "I just finished baking popovers", I guess that African just wanted some fucking popovers, as bitch like as that may be. Who am I to judge?

I just can't keep reading this shit. Cats with a real rooting interest in "Sunday's Best", muthafuckers grabbing their snacks gearing up for a new episode of "Grey's Anatomy" or about to settle down with the latest issue of "Cat Fancy". I think I'm legitimately going to opt out and stick to this blog.

Peace,
KZ

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Demitasse

I'm sitting at work, waiting for the secretaries to leave. It's a daily ritual. I wait so that I don't have to see them or talk to them as I walk out of the lobby. They are, for lack or desire to find a more polite term, stupid. I don't like making small talk about them having a nice evening. I hope they have a fucking horrible evening, because once again, they've made my day hellish.

"Sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up" is the silent mantra I have on repeat in my head as they darken my doorstep with another stupid inquiry, missive, or joke they'd like to share. "Fuck y'all" I quietly whisper as I walk past to go to the restroom or another endless meeting.

As stupid and useless as I think they are, I save the most venom for HR, who are clueless and feeble-minded. The "experts" in all things in regards to hiring, benefits, and "the rules", still inevitably call me six to seven times a day to ask me what to do next about any situation involving one of my staff. How the fuck am I supposed to know what to do next? That's why I sent them to you! Everyday is an episode of "Life Goes On" and I'm getting called by "Corky" every two fucking minutes.

That's all I got.

Peace,
KZ