Wednesday, November 30, 2005

"Dude, weren't you married before?"

Hey y'all, what's up? This post is solely to clear up, or rather reinforce what I wrote in the previous post and not look like a hypocrite. Brooklyn Babe (if that is indeed your REAL name!) kinda called me out on this one, so I'll take the time to explain.

Yeah, ya boy Zed was married. Really for about a 1 1/2 years, but legally about 3 years. My divorce was final December 11, 2003, one day after my 33rd birthday. But we hadn't lived together for 1 1/2 years before then. I didn't get married because I was in love, nor did I get divorced because I didn't love her.

We met when I was 24 and she was 29. I thought this would be some broad I fucked for awhile and then left, but I started to feel her. I liked her. A lot. So I stuck around. We were and tumultuous couple. We fought a lot and made up a lot. It was a real off and on relationship. She became my best friend and my worst enemy. When it was good it, it was excellent.

I wasn't under the illusion that I was in love with her when I got married. We were long past that. It was my sense of duty and my misconception of what it meant to be responsible. When I was pushing 30 I thought I'd strung her along enough. She waited for me to mature, so I should marry her. I thought my misgivings about marriage were just immature longings to stay single and chase pussy. So I pushed them aside and decided to get married. It was all practical. No love involved in the decision. In fact, I believed that I was "in love" with another woman at that time.

I got married on December 24, 2000 in Negril, Jamaica on a beach. Barefoot and high as fuck. I needed to be high, 'cuz I was going to fly back to the "D", unmarried. My boy convinced me to go through with it. When we returned, the only thing that kept me in the marriage was my father.

My father is very conservative and remains a huge influence on the way I think a man should be. I thought that my father would be practical, stay the course, and make things work. As the marriage progressed, I had to admit to myself that I wasn't my father. I left in June of 2002.

That's my sad ass wedding story. I hope you liked it. I didn't!

Be Easy,

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

When In Love

Yo, yo, yo! What’s crackin’ folks? It’s been hard to try to write since I’ve been back. As depressing as family is, cold weather is worse. I’ve been pretty down since I got back on Saturday. Even fuckin’ Thelma’s brains out when I was in Detroit didn’t help. Since Sunday I’ve molested myself around 17 times. My dick is sore from jackin’ it. I’m bored as fuck. I’ve been able to focus my feeble thoughts into one blogworthy post. I’ll probably not post again for another week or so. So here goes:

Everybody out there has some inkling of the concept of love. You love people that you don’t even wanna love or think is worthy of your love. We all do it. We got family we can’t fuckin’ stand, but we love them regardless. Shit is uncontrollable and unconditional. But being “in love” is quite another thing. It is the most selfish shit going.

That state of mind, when you’re in love, makes you fucking nuts. The possessiveness and the longing. That shit is just concentrated lust. If y’all fuckin’ or just achin’ to fuck each other, it’s not love, it’s lust. You define that person by what they mean to you instead of what they are. That’s selfish shit. That person not doing what you’d like them to do will make you fall out of love with them. “I love ya, hoe, but I’m not in love wit’ ya!”

My contention is simple. Being “in love” is the fakest shit since Tyra’s titties. Love is real and all encompassing. “In love” is fleeting and ultra-conditional. I’ve fucked more broads “in love” with another nigga than the law allows. ‘Cuz she mad at him. ‘Cuz of some shit he did.

I can’t stand the serial “in love” niggas especially. Didn’t Robert Palmer talk to y’all niggas about that? Stop all that fake shit. Fuck ‘till you sick of each other then decide if you LOVE each other enough to stay together. Banish that silly assed terminology!

I denounce every one of you muthafuckas out there now that claims to be in love. I'm proclamining a jihad on "in love" niggas.

Watch ya back,


Thursday, November 24, 2005

Leon, Big Uncle Zed, and Pro-Social

Hola Overeaters, it's ya nigga, Zed. I'm sitting on my parents patio looking at Leon. Leon's a alligator (or crocodile, since I can't tell 'em apart) that's in this lake behind my parent's house. It's around 80 degrees and looking at the weather report from Satan's Anus I should be grateful.
My Uncle Zed came through today. He was looking good, better than he's looked in quite a few years. He moved to Charlotte from Tampa a few years ago. Big Zed was with his new woman and her daughter. This cat hasn't lost his touch. His woman was off the fucking meat hook. Tall, thick, and pretty. Fuck me, nigga! How can a nigga two years outta prison with so much baggage pull so top shelf? I'll never figure this shit out, but he's doing much better than me. All my nieces and nephews now have to distinguish between us. I'm "Little Uncle Zed". He's "Big Uncle Zed". That's not awkward. Anyway me, Zed, my father, and Pro-Social (my oldest sister's husband) were kicking it on the patio for awhile. My uncle is really a changed dude from what I remember. Thoughtful and curious.
We spent a lot of time out there watching Leon, drinking and talking shit. Pro-Social is my nigga. He's a big, talkative cat from Alabama. He started dating my sister when I was 12, so I've known him forever. He's like another older brother. Pro-Social is the funniest cat I know personally. Quick witted and cool. He is my polar opposite, thusly he's Pro-Social.
That cat makes it easier for me to cope with this smothering family stuff. Him and his son, my youngest nephew, Bugaloo. Bugaloo, age 3, sat on my lap when he first got here and grabbed a dreadlock. "Why did you do this to your hair?" "Cuz it's my hair, little @#$&*!" O.K. I didn't really say that but I thought it.
I guess I'll be alright. I've only seen 2 aunts and 1 uncle from my father's side (out of 9 siblings) and 1 aunt from my mother's side (out of 8 siblings) so my day will be full tomorrow.

Happy Black Friday,

The Last Stages of Sanity

That Chris Rock shit got y'all niggas gassed/I'm that smarty art nigga that'll whoop yo ass. - J-Live "The Sidewalk"

Hey peoples, I just wanted to document my madness. I don't have anything to say except celebrate Thanksgiving by doing something extremely nice for a Native American. Just like crackas are benefitting from shit their ancestors did to ours, so are we living well (some what) off the foul and evil shit done to Native Americans. Your good deed may have to be largely symbolic because crackas did their foulness so well, there are hardly any Native peoples to do good deeds for. Luckily I know a Native American so I'll try to do something to show I don't appreciate the shit that was done to their people.
Please let them know that we are not celebrating anything more than a couple of days off work. In the meantime, enjoy your family. There's nobody else like them.


Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Counting Backwards

Hey y'all, what's up? I am really having the most miserable time in my life. I can't explain all the old feelings this place dredges up. There are some really beautiful parts of this city, but I am used to being stuck at my grandmother's house in the 'hood. Too young to drive, stranded and shit. Niggas with mouths fulla gold teeth ("Great Scott, are you a thief?") and shoulder length jheri curls. "Ay, Dee-troit. What's up my niggah!"

I drive around Tampa I realize how shortchanged we were as kids. Like I said, I still fucking hate this city. Shit that passes for cool is a white suburbanite's idea of cool. When was the last time a Hard Rock Cafe or House of Blues was cool? Cats are still trying to make the blackest big city in America into "Hockeytown".
I'm not a family person. When everybody still lived in Detroit, I never saw 'em. In the same house it's hectic. It's claustrophobic. I know I'm supposed to savor these times because heaven only knows when the next time we'll see each other again. Tomorrow's not promised. I'm trying to make this work for me but it's suffocating.
Thanksgiving is that time of year. Extremely stressful. Family will make you lose your fucking mind. This is turning out to be the longest seven days of my life. And it's only the third day. It's time to meditate.


Sunday, November 20, 2005

Gush Puppy

Yo, I forgot to put y'all up on the lastest with my love life. Here's a taste:

She climbed on me as I lay prostrate, straddling my midsection. We were both naked and we looked at each one another with trepidation. The sun shone through the window, the tv muted as Judge Mablean broke down another relationship into dollars and cents. She reached beneath her and grabbed the base of the shaft as she lifted her lower half to accommodate it.

"We should stop doing this" she offered, sitting on the head, lowering herself slowly down on shaft. When it entered her she exhaled and grabbed my hair. "Why?" I asked. She was hitting me on the chest, punishing me for going in so deep even though she was on top, controlling how much she took. "Because if we don't, I'm going to fall in love with you." She started to bounce faster. I looked at the clock. We should only do this for another thirty minutes. We both had to get back to work. I looked her in the face hating her for the real world intrusion into the quickie. But she was right. We had to stop, but not because of my fear of falling in love. It was because I was truly appreciating the magnitude of what was happening. This is my only local source of pussy. That ain't good. I was getting too comfortable. The more reliant I was on her, the less control I had on the situation. I gotta go fuck some other broads, whether it be on campus or in another nearby city, I gotta do it.

When I snapped back it was because my lower torso was awash in an orgasmic excretion that had followed her high pitched emission. She came, but I didn't have time to. "Let's go take a shower" Batshit said. I followed, sure of my next step.
I'll be back in town next Saturday, fasting and meditating. No solid foods, no fucking. 30 days. We'll see how this goes. Of course you'll be the first to know if I fuck up.

The latest and greatest,

A Little Miserable

Hey y'all, what's good? I'm on vacation in Tampa. You'd think I'd be thankful to be in warm weather after freezing my balls off in Satan's Anus, but I'm not. The truth is I'm here cuz my mama misses me. That's it. I'm sitting in a suburb of a city that's practically a suburb. This too is the boondocks. I can't get a fucking signal for my cell phone until I drive 3 miles from my parents house. This is not a colorful exaggeration.
The weather should be a bonus, but honestly I'd rather spend Thanksgiving freezing alone in Michigan. In a few days this place will be crawling with my siblings, my nieces and nephews, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and miscellaneous nigritos. My Uncle Zed is coming, too. Yep, Uncle Zed. I was named after my father's brother. A "formerly" drug addicted pimp. This cat has made it so I'm afraid to get pulled over in Tampa. "Oh my god, this is Zed Zednanreh! Call for backup!" This cat used to use my business cards to pull women, to much better effect than me I'm afraid.
The main thing is as soon as he arrives, I'm Little Zed. All my freakin' life whenever we came to Florida to make the distinction, I became Little Zed. "Little Zed, tell Big Zed to come here." I'm got him by at least 5 inches and 70 pounds but by Tuesday, I'll be Little Zed. When I got here my aunt was with my parents at baggage claim to get me. The first thing she said is "Well look at Little Zed!" Beautiful.
My mother is priceless. Showing me pictures of relatives and shit. She's extremely "fat-a-phobic". She fucks with her own kids the worse. She made my ex-wife cry on so many occasions it's ridiculous. "Oooh chile. You done blew up!" She was rainin' down on my cousins tonight. If your chunky ass walks by her, she'll grab your midsection and start jiggling. I'll have a long, jiggly week.
I'll keep y'all cats posted on my private hell.


Friday, November 18, 2005


What's up kid, the Ab is speaking from the Moon/Thanks for your support/Ay yo, I'll be home soon. -Q Tip "Keep It Rollin'"

Ay yo, what's up? What's the best romantic relationship you've ever had? O.K., stop touching yourself. What's the worst? Can you remember it? The pain it caused, the hurt and then the healing? I'll bet you wouldn't trade the memories of that best relationship for anything in the world. But what about the worst one?

I just saw (yeah, I'm late) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet. For those that may not have seen this flick Kate and Jim are dating and shit goes sour. Kate goes to a place that allows her to erase all her memories of their relationship. Jim finds out about it and goes to the same place to erase his memories as well. While in the midst of the process, Jim has a change of heart and decides to fight to keep the memories.

The movie raised a lot of questions for me. If you could erase the memories of a bad relationship, would you? Would you make the same mistake in selecting a partner again? How would you be able to see the signs of trouble if you've erased all memory of it? What about the new things you learned during the relationship? I know, it's just a movie and shit, but it made me think about these things.

I pretty much reached the conclusion that the couple came to in the movie. You should see it if you haven't. It's weird in places, hard to follow in others, but it's beautifully photographed and emotionally moving. Niggas, I hate Hollywood and the zeitgeist it claims to represent. The movie industry puts out predictable trash, but I recommend this movie wholeheartedly.

Think about those questions I raised and tell me what you think.

Head Munkee In Charge,

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Apropos Of Nothing

A.K.A. The Most Generic Post I’ve Ever Written

I woke up to 8 inches this morning. No, I wasn’t looking down in the shower, I was looking out the window. It was snow. Fucking lake effect snow. And it covered my car.

Niggas named “Andre” have stolen or will steal something in their lifetimes. And they cheat on their women. They really think they have a sweet ass name.

The cat that invented condoms had a lot a free time on his hands.

I’m sick of black folks naming their kids after lands they have no connection to whatsoever. Yeah, I’m talking to China’s mom and Asia’s mom.

I once denigrated an ex-girlfriend when she told me she wanted a tattoo. I thought she was trying to tell me something. This was back in 1990 when only porn stars and hookers had tattoos.

I am an utterly unrepentant “ass man”. Breast size is completely unimportant to me. I’m sure that’s surprising to anyone who’s ever read my blog. I don’t covet big titties, but I’ll take ‘em.

My ex-girlfriend’s mother was the first person I ever took a gun from. It was the first time I ever touched a gun and it was just last year. “Stop being so scary!”

I’m flying to Tampa on Saturday to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. I hate the State of Florida. It’s a vapid, cultural wasteland. I think it’s the palm trees. (Sorry, California.)

My parents are from Tampa, born and raised. All my siblings were born there, too. I'm the only born and raised Detroiter. When I tell people my parents are from the south, people ask from where. I say Florida and people laugh. “That’s not really the south.” Sheeeiiittttt! Listen to them niggas talk. Ask about Jim Crow. It’s as southern as you’ll get.

O.K. Butterfly, tell me this: How come a great deal of British speakers so liberally use adverbs? “That’s really quite interesting.” Instead of “That’s interesting.” It’s inefficient! Cut down the verbiage, man.

I absolutely hate lesbian porn scenes.

I saw this woman the other day wearing a belt buckle that read “Cretia”. Then she got in a car, and the license plate read “CRETIA”. Why so proud, Cretia?

Twins are fucking creepy. There, I said it. Sorry Twin, Ms KeKe, and Chubby Chocolate! Byron and Brittani (my nephew and niece), too

I once beat a man to death with a lead pipe.

Just seeing if you’re still reading this shit.

Before I had a college degree it had a level of mystique. I didn’t grow up around a lot of “degreed” individuals. Now it’s just a bill I pay every month.

It won’t stop snowing here.

How am I going to survive Thanksgiving this year and I don’t eat meat? This will be some hard shit.

This year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’m going to fast. All liquid. Only broths and beverages. It’s going to suck being around me.

I’m going to invent a complimentary product to use with the “Blackberry” called the “Sweetjuice”.

You know, South Carolina, Georgia, et al, y’all lost that war. Enough with the fucking flag, man.

Why are so many grown men video game addicts? I hate them shits. Get a real addiction like promiscuity or heroin.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Munkeefood, Part 4: Solitude

Hey Folks, what’s up? I’m in navel gaze again, trying to figure myself out. I often complain about the lack of social outlets here in Satan’s Anus, but really I’m kind of misrepresenting myself. You see, I’m not a social cat at all. I’m quite the opposite.

I’m the guy at the end of the bar, solo. Though I’m in a couple of fraternal organizations, I don’t particularly care for the company of that many other people. People tend to talk more than they listen, which upsets me to no end. It’s O.K. to shut the fuck up once in a while. For real.

I love my frat. My frat brothers? Some of them. Sometimes. In a fraternal situation, you’ll interact with cats you might not ever kick it with in life under normal circumstances. Sometimes that’s cool. Other times, not so much. Arrogance, abrasiveness, all around assholery abound. I’m the “Dip” King. As soon as everyone is having a good ol’ time, I’m out. I quietly slip away, everytime.

I don’t go to the movies more than twice a year. The communal experience of sitting in a theatre with a bunch of apolite jackasses doesn’t move me. Hollywood hasn’t put out a compelling enough story for me to go sit in a full movie theatre more than a couple of times a year. The only time I go is when I’m extremely bored or on a date, which brings me to my next observation.

I love going out alone. It is an awesome experience. I already, as I’ve stated before, don’t talk a lot. So I love to sit in bars and people watch. The longer I sit alone, the more likely I’ll have multiple women hit on me, especially if they arrive in a group. I don’t know what it is, but I get more phone numbers when I sit and drink than if I’m actively trying to pull. I don’t understand it, but it’s the one situation where my anti-social behavior benefits me.

Once dating begins, it’s another story. I’ll see you when I see you. Most of the time, you won’t see me or hear from me, even if I like you. Why? Because you’ll want to be around me. And talk. A lot.

It’s not that I hate people. I hate dumb people. And I’m outnumbered and shit, like Socrates Fortlow. I’m sure we could hang, fellow bloggers. We can go out for drinks. And at the height of the evening, look around. I’ll probably be gone by then.

Stay Tight,

Monday, November 14, 2005

Pyramid Scheme

What's crackin' Rhesus, Capuchin, Mandrill, et. al.? I just wanted to let y'all know that I love to read. Love it, love it, love it. Mostly non-fiction, so that means I skip a lot of blogs. Just kidding(!). Nah, I'm reading y'all. A lot. And I've come to a startling conclusion. There are a great deal of people that equate "sex" with doing wrong or being wrong. In addition, the act of withholding or denying one's self sexual pleasure is akin to nobility. It should come as no surprise to you that I'm here to argue the opposing point of view.

How many of you have taken sociology classes? Show of hands, please. That many, hunh? How many of you remember Maslow? You know Maslow. The "hierarchy of needs" cat.

His pyramid outlining the path to self actualization has at it's base physiological needs. If one does not take care of one's basic needs on each level, that person will not be as successful fulfilling needs on the subsequent level. Well my good friends, sex is on the bottom level of that pyramid.

I maintain that we (and by "we" I mean "you") are driving ourselves crazy trying to suppress a basic physiological need. It's like sleep deprivation. Prior to "our" entry to the western world, into "civilization", it was recognized that we performed certain rituals at puberty and entered into adulthood. At that point, the pursuit of marriage and a sexual relationship was encouraged.

In the modern world, we reach the age of "sexual maturity" at puberty and we spent the next 5 to 6 years not having sex because we are being "good" and waiting until it is legal. Then we are still holding off until the sex until we find "the one". If we held off eating until we found "the one most nutritious food" we'd be fucking anorexics. But we're not. We're the fattest nation on the face of the fucking earth. I don't want us to be hypocrites and shit.

What I'm trying to say is that this sex deprivation is making us (and by "us" I mean "you") INSANE. You're not in your right mind. Ladies, go get some dick. Please. For humanity's sake.

Your Only Friend,

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Big Audio Dynamite

What's up? It's ya boy Big Knockout A.K.A. Captain Cunnilingus A.K.A. Major Friction A.K.A. The Bronze God A.K.A. Arthur Bronzerelli A.K.A. The Bronz A.K.A. Bronzie.

Trying something different on a slow ass weekend.

The Audio Blog

Be good,

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Blathering Idiots

Yeah, Munkees! What's up baby? What's ya know good? Did you figure out the questions to my answers? Oh, you'd be surprised how off you probably are.

Today was brutal as hell. It was a 5 meeting day, back to back, no lunch break. Sitting around, expounding on superficial details, none of which will get any assignments done. I'm pretty sick of talking once my day is done, so I make a bee-line for the gym. Now, this is not an everyday thing. As a matter of fact, this is my first time going to the gym since I arrived here in July.

In this little Shithole I call home, there is no Bally's Total Fitness or anything like that, so the gym is the YMCA. It's a quaint, old school building with a really state of the art weight room. I never expected it to look like this. I was excited when I saw it and couldn't wait to work out. So I'm warming up on the stationary bike and this cat that works there walks up to me. He introduces himself as the director of the Y and begins to talk to me, like what do I do and where am I from. I'm a pretty private nigga. People that know me know that. It was the last thing my ex-wife violated, it caused my walkout. I don't like talking to people about me. I can talk to y'all semi-anonymously. But this guy was in my face.

Another thing about it is that white folks in general believe they are entitled to information like that. "Well I'll just see who this guy is!" Nobody else has gotten stepped to by this guy, so I guess he's gonna find out who this massive dreadlocked muthafucka is in his spot. Once again, I live in a small town. I'm on local TV every two weeks. So I tell him who I am and what I do.

He proceeds to talk to me about everything under the sun, city politics, yesterday's election, my hopes and aspirations. I'm not used to being social nor am I used to a dude being interested in my life. The first thing I think when a man strikes up a conversation with me is "This nigga's gay." That's why most dudes ain't making new male friends that ain't co-workers. Otherwise, what excuse do you have to talk to another nigga?

My point with this post was to illustrate my inability to escape blathering fucking idiots. They are everywhere. At work, at the gym, at the market, at the bar. I gotta find a hobby. And it can't involve opening a broad's legs. I need to get my library card or something. Go someplace niggas can't talk.

Some Off Topic Shit

My condolences go out to Joy Bryant for hitting the egomaniacal trifecta. First, she stars in Antwone Fisher. About a nigga named Antwone Fisher. Written by a nigga named Antwone Fisher. Produced by a nigga named Antwone Fisher. In the movie a nigga named Antwone Fisher is the hero.

Next, my sweet sugah was in a flick called Baaaadaaaassss! It was a movie directed by and starring Mario Van Peebles. It was the first on-screen blow job by a son to his father.

And last but certainly not least, Joy is in Get Rich or Die Tryin'. In this movie a charmless thug named Marcus, played by a charmless thug named Curtis, makes a lot of bad choices. One of those choices was to make a autobiographical movie which could very likely get played in a court of law one day very soon. Fuckin' idiot.

Happy Birthday MsKeKe,

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The Answers To Un-Asked Questions

"I don't hate religion just organized religion. If your shit's all helter-skelter, then good for you."

"If a bitch say 'conversate' to me, she's asking for it. Stop gettin' English tips from semi-literate MCs."

"I stopped in 1989 or '90. When did Treach and 'nem make that one song?"

"I think the number is close to 100. I counted just before I got married. That sounds high as fuck, but that's about right."

"About 8 x 7. Really. To the left."

"It's the cadence, man. If you didn't steal that shit from the Last Poets, maybe I could feel it. How come all they cadences gotta be the same, man? If you ain't stealin' make up a new flow."

"The worst? 'Rapping Is Fundamental'. Or 'Bullet From A Gun'. It's a tie."

"Once. I don't like 'em. My boy Rodney was accidentally killed while he was cleaning his. In the summer between 10th and 11th grade. I hate them muthafuckas."

"My first week in college. Lynnette from Arlington, Texas. She was 19, I was 16. It was over quick."

"I usually put KY on it. Yep, if it's that state next to TN, it's KY."

"The one with the real sweet crest."

"Three, right now."

"Chubby Chocolate, Dee-Dee, and BKBabe, in that order. If it's close to the weekend then it's definitely MeCrazyMe."

"Nope. I came close though. Believe or not, I got scared when it came right down to it."

"I don't know. It's just fun to watch it grow."

"Between Detroit and Chicago."

"Kameron, Eva, and Brown. Yep, Brown."

"It's gotta smell right. It's gotta BE right. I'm a little more discriminating than I come across, I guess."

"Just bored I guess. Shit, why do you think?"

Contemplatively Yours,

Sunday, November 06, 2005

The Pseudo-Arts

Yo, what's up? It's ya boy with another entry full of misadventures and shit. I was in my office on Friday and who should walk in but E.T. She was at the spot visiting with Poppins and decided to stop by. I had forgotten that I made a date with her that night to go to this poetry reading.

Let me let y'all in on a little secret: I hate fuckin' spoken word, light an incense, head wrap, beat the bongos type shit. People see a nigga with 'locs and automatically they think "What an enlightened muthafucka!" Nope. Not even a little bit. "Spoken word artists" are some of the most facile, non-imaginative niggas that ever stumbled across a copy of "Love Jones" in the previously viewed pile at Blockbuster. That being said, I made the date a week prior because I was horny then and forgot I made it.

Anyway she popped into my office with those fuckin' titties showing, reminded me of the date and I said "Sure. I'll be there." We hooked up later that evening at a bar with a jungle theme before we went to the spot. Monkeys were everywhere. I took that as a good sign. I drank a couple of L.I.I.T.s and waited. She showed up with even more of those titties showing and I was happy. She drank some and we left.

The poetry spot was an old firehouse. The shit had a nice ambience. We were the only black people there except for the owners. I hardly noticed anything else until it was too late. The poets came up one by one on the open mic. All women, all white. All professing their love for pussy. I looked at E.T. "Take me back to my car. I'm not listening to this shit." I never identify with these spoken word muthafuckas. I especially didn't identify with this shit. She didn't want to part company.

"Let's go drink at Picasso's" she said. I obliged. It was packed when we got there, fulla crackas. I grabbed a Guinness, she got a martini. Pretentious bitch. "You wanna go to my place and let me eat your pussy?" I said, really trying to cut through the bullshit. "What?" "I wanna know if you gon' let me suck your clit." She laughed. "It'll get awkward between us." "How so?" "I'll want to let you do more than that. I'm still looking for a new job. If we start something and it doesn't work out, you won't want to help me." So that's where it was. That's where I was. I am a resource, a means to something better for so many people around here. I guess I never really thought about it.

"Hey can you get these drinks. I'm tapped." I said. And she bought those drinks and the next ones I ordered. We left Picasso's and went to another spot, a blues spot. I drank and she paid. It was a cool spot but by then I'd disconnected with her and my surroundings. I was happy to let someone else be a resource for a change.

When we were done at that spot she dropped me off at my car. "I have a bottle of wine chilling at my house." she smiled as she looked at me. "Naw, I'm an old man. I wanna go home and sleep." I got out and went home. I miss my home, my real home, my real friends. I just need to lay low until I'm able to reassess my life here.

I am Zedediah X. Zednanreh, the favored son of Africa, nephew of the Drum and the Spear, first cousin of Cuba, the lion of the Zednanreh bloodline. These niggas won't soon forget that when I'm done.


Friday, November 04, 2005

Thalidomide Babies

Hey y'all, what's happenin'? I'm trying to drag my ass around the office and accomplish stuff. Too much time up late at night has got me waking up sluggish. Though I'm having fun (and trust me I'm having fun), I'm on the verge of sleeping through meetings and shit. Full blown snoring in effect.

The worst of this shit is that I have to stay attentive to these helpless muthafuckas "they" call employees. Yeah, I said it. I'm downright dismissive of these bastards. One after another they come whining about one thing or another. "Mr. Zednanreh, she won't talk to me." or "Mr. Zednanreh, there are too many things on my schedule." or "Mr. Zednanreh, does this look infected to you?" and "Mr. Zednanreh, there's blood in my stool!" Blah, blah, blah.

I hate this victim shit. Go get another job. Oh, what did you say? The job market is horrible? Then you probably need to reassess all that fuckin' bellyachin' you're doing. There are muthafuckas chomping at the bit to have the same problems you got now! Trust me. This brotha (one of the few I've met here) asked me to look out for him yesterday. "Keep me in mind if a job opens in one of your sections. I'll do anything." This nigga has a master's degree in information technology. He's unemployed and starving. Don't you think this muthafucka would do a little light typing for a few months?

I used to hate when my old bosses would tell me shit like "You think you got it bad? There are worse places to be." My standard response would be "Why would you compare yourself to the worse places and not to the better places?" That shit used to make sense to my under-24 self. I realize how naive I was. I came from the City of Detroit, man. There's nothing worse than working for a broke, corrupt city. Constant threat of being laid off, political cronies getting promoted over you without a day of experience, the mayor's contributors getting their families first dibs on good, inexpensive housing [side note: if y'all Detroit muthafuckas re-elect that earring wearing, bitch killing, club hopping, miniature gorilla, you get what you deserve], all run by lethargic management that just wants to go home early. That shit is horrible.

I'll listen to these niggas bitch a little longer. After that, I'm going to convene a meeting, section by section, and list my expectations. I expect them to shut the fuck up, work hard and help one another. The next muthafucka that snitches on one of their co-workers is going to get kicked in the nuts (women too!). They are exhausting me.

Bring back the fucking She-Rockers!

P.S. Remember that class I was telling y'all about a little while ago? The last session was last night and guess what they served? Nacho chips, carrots, and brownies.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Taco Meat

Hey peoples! How y'all doin'? Before we go on I'd just like to make a clarification: I was in no way dissin' lighter skinned black people in my last post. Some of my best friends...never mind. Some of my favorite ex-girlfriends and current "batty" partners are yella. We all got our little preferences. I love black people across the board. Except if you're a popular MC. If so, I fucking hate your black ass.

Anyway, I've been thinking about aging. I'll be 35 next month and quite frankly, my youthful good looks are fading. They actually started fading on my 18th birthday! It's been a long, rapid decline. I became prematurely gray. I used to sport a full beard, then it got laced with gray hair when I was 25. So I dyed it. I was too lazy to maintain it, so I kept the gray after a while. Then it proliferated. Crept into my temples. And now, bam! If I grew out my full beard and sat down at a mall, small children would leap into my lap and ask me for presents. Damn genetics. I got more gray hair than my father, but my mother...gray as a mule since she was 21. I've had gray friggin' chest hair since I was 27! When I take my shirt off I look like the black stunt double for Wilfred Brimley.

Now, of all things I gotta worry about taco meat. You ever see Rocky I? Did you see Apollo Creed's chest hair? That shit looked like little balls of taco meat glued to his chest. More and more I'm finding my formerly silky smooth chest in little balls on my chest. You've seen niggas with nappy beards that look like that too. Think Whitman Mayo or Cody Chesnutt. That shit ain't gangsta! That's some unsexy shit.

So there you have it. I'm not a kid anymore and I'm wasting the last vestiges of youth I have in Satan's Anus. With taco meat on my chest.

Te quiero my old chest hair!

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

That Gray Area

Yeah, yeah. What up folks? Smooth sailing for me. For once. I keep getting asked a lot of questions from people back home about what it's like here. "What do you do when you get home?" "Do you have anyone to hang out with yet?" "What's the deal with Batshit?"

The one thing that I don't get asked about, in fact I get warned about, is Ofay. A.K.A. Beth, Becky, Peggy Sue, Pinky Toes, Blondie, Knock-kneed Cock Devil, Gray Girl, Miss Ann. You know, white chicks. "Don't bring no white girls home" the Detroit Female Space Cadet Chorus chants.

There are a few problems with that concept. First, I can't meet broads, period, let alone go through special methods to devise a rap that is understood by the she-cracka. Second, my home is Satan's Anus, for better or for worse. Every semi-successful nigga here is married to a white woman. For that reason alone, I'll pass. Never be one of the crowd. Third, I love dark women. "Wesley Snipes and Sheryl Underwood fucking in an abandoned coal mine" dark. "Alek Wek's left asscheck in a basement bomb shelter during a blackout" dark. Really, really dark. I'll sign over my fuckin' check to a dark skinned woman with dimples. Fuggetaboutdit! Carmen Electra classifies as a dark white woman. 'Nuff said. Lastly, the concept of a white woman is often more appealing than the actuality. Blandly seasoned meals, mildly oblivious to blatantly racist activities due lifetime of unearned privilege, hair flipping, know-it-all-itis, pushiness, and a weird socialization/disposition that I'm both unwilling to learn and unable to stand.

On these long, dark nights, don't think I haven't thought about jumping the fence. It's not like I haven't done it before back in my undergraduate days. One shot experiments are one thing. Signing on for a lifetime in the Skinner Box is quite another.

But I'll never say never.

All Black, Never Gray

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Buttahead Stew

S'up y'all? Chillin' dude. Enjoying this beautiful fall day in the "Anus". The sun's shining, broads are out jogging and shit. Where do they work? Don't come back to my office after a midday run all sweaty and shit. Take thine ass to a shower!

I'm getting antsy. The winter will be upon my ass with a quickness. I crave, nay, need variety. I gotta get some keepers before the snow falls. And here in the snow belt, it'll be soon. My gaze has been fixed upon the creme de la creme, but now it's time to look elsewhere. It's time to look to the "Buttaheads".

I'm no stranger to Buttaheads, especially during particularly dry periods in my youth. But as I've grown older, using buttaheads as a crutch has been frowned upon by players far and wide. I've been with women with incredible bodies with a fucking lazy eye or fucked up teeth. Bad weaves and huge noses. Or acne'd out. It all works out for a short period of time. Usually from when I meet them right up until spring has sprung.

Don't get it twisted. It's not just me using them, they get a lot out of it too. They get to go out (really, really late) with an attentive, handsome man to all the best places in town (on off nights). They get to see the back seat of a 2000 Chevy Tahoe. They also get to eat breakfast at the finest Denny's in town (at 6:00 am or earlier).

It all works out for the best. If we continue our relationship through the spring they get to experience the drive-in, too and sex leaning up against a tree. Quid pro quo, baby.

So now I'm adjusting my gaze and setting my sights a little lower. 'Cuz winter in Satan's Anus is no joke.

A First Time For Everything
I was driving earlier today. Speeding. Doing 50 in a 30 m.p.h. zone. I got pulled over by the police, a black cop and a white cop. They asked for my license, registration and proof of insurance. Then I told them who I was.

They let me go and apologized for pulling me over. WTF? I took a swing for the fences and hit a home run. That shit was beautiful. I never would have imagined that I could tell some police who the fuck I am and be let go. Maybe the "Anus" ain't so bad after all.

Slow Down,