Wednesday, May 31, 2006

47 Deep

I often wonder what I'm doing here. Not in a metaphysical sense, but quite literally. What the fuck am I doing here? I blog more than I work. I actually get more satisfaction from coming up with witty comments to interesting blogs than I do from my life's calling. This is coupled with the fact that I not only have to do my job, but I have to manage quite a few other people as they do their jobs.

Ask anyone that is employed in their field and you'll likely find that person in the steadfast belief that they would like their boss' job. "I can do that muthafucka's job. All he does is tell us what to do." The bigger paycheck, the lighter workload. It's all gravy, right?

There will be a lot of people that resent this analogy, but check this out: Can you imagine parenting 47 children, each demanding personal attention and immediate responsiveness to their every desire? I don't exaggerate when I say this. I took out one secretary for Secretary's Day and I had 6 secretaries mad at me. Why? 'Cuz I'm Deputy Director and I should have looked out for all of them. Naw, I think the DIRECTOR should have looked out for all of them. I looked out for mine.

I absolutely hate funerals. I know it's not a good occasion for anybody, but I really can't deal with them. Unfortunately I've had to attend two of them for the loved ones of staff since I've been here. I got a blistering e-mail yesterday from a staff person saying management didn't acknowledge it when her stepfather died and we're playing favorites. I had to remind her I wasn't here when her stepfather died and that we'd be more equitable in the future.

The executive offices are on the east side of the suite. The more "blue collar" area is on the west side. We're accused of having everything on the east side from better coffee, cooler air conditioning, bigger offices, brighter sunshine. This shit is insane.

In the meantime, I gotta defend our budget to City Hall and proclaim all these muthafuckas "necessary" even when I feel quite a few of them need to go. But if I do that, the union will be on my back.

I quite honestly would work for less money and give up the responsibility to respond to the whining to someone else. I'm physically exhausted at the end of the day from all the bitching.

I hope your situation is better.


Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Held Down

I complain about a lot of shit on this blog. This entry will be different in that respect. I promise I won't complain once. This entry is about the women who work to keep me sane in Satan's Anus.

There are four women here who are doing their darndest to try to make me feel comfortable in what they know is an uncomfortable situation. It's a shame I've never written about them before in any significant fashion. They are a group of older professional women and they really try to make sure I'm cool in this city.

This Saturday they had a barbeque to get a group of Black folks (all transplants) together. I was in Detroit on Saturday some stuff and I missed it. They refused to let it lie. They did it all again Monday to make sure I didn't miss out on the get together. It was important to them that I was there.

We were at Janice's house, she's the youngest of the women, on the back deck where it was hotter than leather pussy. We didn't do anything extra special. Barbequed, played Spades (where I kept underbidding like a punk), talked shit, but it was cool that they wanted to me to be a part of it.

Everytime I talk about being lonely and isolated, I ought to check that. They tell me constantly "call if you just wanna hang" and I blow it off. I don't want to inconvenience anybody or to thrust myself in the midst of anyone's life. They tell me they got me, so I should take them at their words.

Be Easy,

P.S. Note to my blogging friend that wants to stick up for white people: If you want to make an anti-racist point, don't use racist language. The word you're looking for is "Inuit" not "Eskimo". Eskimo is offensive to the Inuit people, bitch. I don't try to make anti-racist points, I make pro-Black statements.

Friday, May 26, 2006

The Softest Things

If a man is raised the proper way is always struggling to find out if his life's journey is the path a "real man" should be taking. One constantly challenges oneself on the purity of their "walk". I've found certain things make you question your manliness quotient (M.Q. copyright, Zed Zednanreh, 1989) more than others.

It seems like everytime I need something for my house to make it more comfortable, I end up in the gayest place on Earth. It's hard to be a tough guy standing in line for throw pillows and a duvet.

Isn't "Hi" a bitch ass greeting? I mean, think about it.


Look at how soft that shit looks. Sitting there with that lowercase "i" with that fuckin' gay ass dot over it! Everytime I say it or write it at the top of an e-mail, I die a little inside. As a matter of fact, fuck all letters with dots over 'em. I'm lookin' at you, lowercase "j"!!!

Today I'm wearing loafers. What muthafucka first decided to make shoes with no strings? What kinda punk ass shit is that?

I was at the bank last week signing a check and handing it over to a teller. I waited for her to give me money back. I felt like a real hoe, standing there all passive and shit. Waitin' like bitch. I shoulda jumped over the counter and took my shit!

And what's up with reading and shit? One word following the next and shit. A homo musta invented reading. That's some ol' soft shit if I've ever seen it.

And while we're at it, lets look at typing. What type of heterosexual male sits around typing and shit? I'm cutting that shit out right after this blog entry is written. I'm a man, gotdamn it!

And eatin' pussy....nevermind.

Anyway, I think men as a whole owe it to ourselves to call anything we can't do or understand UNMANLY. Then we should over-use cuss words to show people we're tough. That way we all feel better about our place in society.

That's just my two cents. Muthafuckas.


Wednesday, May 24, 2006

The Bootstrap Factory

How come white people lie so much? They lie so fuckin' much they believe the shit they keep repeating. Lies get passed down from generation to generation until the truth gets lost forever. Then the next generation manufactures new lies.

I had this muthafucka here in Satan's Anus talk to me about how his granddad built his business from the ground up. Using it as fuel for his argument AGAINST working towards DIVERSITY. He's sitting across from an African (bootleg, right Nsane?) railing against diversity because life is full of hard knocks and that's the way groups of people grow. Mind you, he's sitting across from me wearing a company polo. The company is Quincy Garage Doors. His name: Jason Quincy. His age: 34. His title: Vice President. His Dad: President. His Granddad: CEO and Founder.

This what happens when white people lie to their children. You see, his granddad started this company using a Small Business Administration loan, the kind of loan that was FEDERALLY PROHIBITED TO BE GIVEN TO BLACKS DURING THE TIME HIS GRANDDAD GOT IT. In addition, he was loaned additional money by his dad (Jason's great-granddad) who owned a gas station. THE ONLY GAS STATION IN TOWN. That gas station was funded in part by the loan his great-grandfather received from HIS father in law, the bank president.

These are convenient parts of the "bootstrap myth" that get omitted. That muthafuckas great-grandfather owned a fuckin' bootstrap factory! The fuckin' bootstraps were even passed down! "His own bootstraps"! This cracker believes he's Vice President of his father's company because he was the best man for the job. Disgusting.

Work hard, keep your nose to the grindstone and you too can leave no discernable wealth for your offspring. That's the legacy Black people deal with daily.

Fuck these people,

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

When My Homies Call

I realized that I don't talk that much about my boys on this blog. It's not that I have a lack of cats I roll with, it's that my tolerance for them cats is so low. Irritate me once and I won't see your ass for months. The only dude I hang with on a consistent basis is my boy Three. And that's pretty much because it's like we share a brain. Same thoughts at the same time. Parallel opinions and tastes.

Other cats tend to be harbingers of bad news. So this weekend when my phone rang from 3 of my boys (other than Three) I was reluctant to answer. The reason being the calls I get from these brothers for the most part are regarding Hoe Sightings.

"Hey Zed, guess who I saw your girl Pinky with?" "Hey Zed, your ex-wife Katherine is at the club with some African." "Zed, you won't believe who I saw Somi with!"

I'm all the way in Satan's Anus. I understand misery loves company, but why would somebody irritate me like this? These ain't my women. They are women I've dated/fucked in the past. I don't need to track them. I don't care. Everytime I get a message from these cats and I return it, it's the same thing. It starts off with small talk. "How you doin'? How's Satan's Anus? How are the hoes?" And then the other shoe drops. "Yeah, I saw Marisol the other day. She was with some African." I doesn't matter that I haven't seen Marisol since I was a sophomore in college, they feel I have a right to know.

The reason I get so upset when they do this is that I already feel so detached from my old life that it makes me inconsolably homesick. I don't care what these women do, I just miss being home, and being able to do the shit I want to do.

They don't understand no matter how much I try to tell them. They just keep calling.


Sunday, May 21, 2006

The Revenge of Frat Business

Hey y'all, what's happenin'? A little karma has caught up with me. A few days ago I got a call from one of my older frat brothers telling me I was voted Vice President of my chapter. This happened in absentia, I'd only been to one meeting in ten months in Satan's Anus. Now, I'm the defacto chairman of a bunch of committees and subcommittees, making sure the frat works smoothly. Which means real frat business. A lot of real frat business. I guess I deserved this.

I was on my way to the barbershop yesterday. Just for an edge-up and some tapering on the side. My visits are usually pretty short. So your girl, Carmel, calls me and asks where I'm going. I tell her and she's like "I'm right near there. Can I come see you?" Now, I don't know what's so major that she HAS to see a brotha at the barbershop, so I'm hesistant. Really, I'm irritated.

I've been dodging her for awhile because of her neediness. She wants to talk on the phone 8 to 9 times a day. She's stuck with her shorties most of the time and she's latching on to my (nonexistent) life to see how the other half lives. I can't do that. When I see her number, I ig it for the most part until I feel like talking.

Today, I'm like "what the hell" so I answered the phone and she wanted to see me, so I said OK. I'm waiting for my turn in the chair and I see her riding shotgun in a silver Lexus with rims. I look at the driver and it's some cat with a ball cap on, straight bill, and an oversized polo shirt on. You know, a jackass.

So they come in and Carmel introduces me to her "friend" Anthony. So I'm like "What's goin' on, man?" and she's leaning over to hug me. He walks out the shop. She tells me that cat is visiting from Chicago and he's originally from Satan's Anus. They went to college together. I'm pretty bored with this line of conversation. Really I'm like they need to go off someplace and fuck each other. I'd really like her to go.

Carmel says "Did you see his car? It's beautiful ain't it?" I'm like "Hell yes! Magnificent!" all uber-excited and fake so she can see I really don't give a fuck. So she asks if she could see me later. I tell her I have a lot of errands to run and I'd call her afterwards.

Do you know the type of person who is never together? Always scatterbrained and disorganized? Whenever you set a time to do something it's always at least 40 minutes off because they're lollygaggin' and generally fucking up? Well, that's Carmel. Those types of people bug me because I'm very time conscious. It strikes me as a form of disrespect. So I decide to disrespect her right back on this day.

I call her back around seven hours later. Carmel doesn't even know she's being disrespected, so I don't even get the joy out of it that I want to. She starts talking to me about the conversation she and Anthony had after they left the shop. I'm like "unhunh", iggin' her once again. Then she tells me Anthony and her baby daddy are "boys". They grew up together. Then I flip.

"So you tellin' this African* my business and he's cool with a cat I got problems with?" She's trying to downplay it, but I won't let it go. Actually it's a minor thing, but I see my opening. I will get rid of her ass once and for all. "You don't know shit about discretion. Didn't they teach you that shit when you pledged? You are fuckin' up!" She's getting emotional, I'm getting madder. "You gotta learn how to keep your mouth shut!" "Well you tell your boy Three all types of stuff about us." "Three is MY FRIEND. Three don't discuss you with a broad I used to fuck. Shit, you still fuckin' your baby daddy! That shit is foul!"

She keeps trying to justify it, but this is too good to pass up. I'm cuttin' her needy ass loose. We got off the phone, she texted me. I didn't respond. Let's see how long this holds up. It depends on my sex drive or how much frat business I have.


Friday, May 19, 2006

What Was I Thinking?!?

Damn! I forgot! I had been planning to take this day off for weeks and I'm here anyway.

Happy 81st Birthday, Malcolm X.

You are missed.


Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Tom Breihan's mama

To 99.9% of the bloggers, this post won't mean a damn thing.

Fuck Tom Breihan. This cracker has a gig reviewing hip-hop at the Village Voice and he writes like a bitch. This cracker believes that the world revolves around DipSet and Young Jeezy. He is a semi-literate jock sniffin' wanna be down ofay muthafucker. And if I ever see him, I'd kick him in the throat.

This bastard is what I call a contra-contrarian. If a contrarian takes the opposite side of an argument for the fuck of it, he takes the opposite of the opposite side of an argument. Which means he takes the populist side of an argument just because it pisses off the anti-establishment. The more ignorant and detrimental something is to the Black community, the more this cracker embraces it.

He don't know beats for shit and his simplistic fuckin' analysis is like a battle cry for anti-intellectualism. So I'm writing this blog to mirror his thought pattern, belligerent and ignorant. Fuckin' bleach bunny. And this bitch is a hip-hop reviewer in a widely read weekly mag.



The Short Man's Wife

It was Tuesday night in Detroit, which meant "open mike poetry night" at every bar, diner, catfish hut, and nail salon in the City. But you see, I'm above all that. To me that shit had played out when I was 24. So when The Short Man's Wife called me and asked me to come watch her read at the Camillian Cafe, I balked. She was persistent and she drove all the way from Grand Rapids just to read, so I went.

When she finished, she wanted to leave, just like all self-centered poets do. We walked hand in hand, like I didn't have a girlfriend and she wasn't The Short Man's wife. We found a place to sit across the street from Flood's Bar, where business cards are passed out like a drunken debutante.

"I wrote a poem for you" she said, instantly sending a chill up my spine. "That shit's like the Boogeyman. You know I don't believe in that shit." My response was equal parts fear and anger. I was scared of her feelings and mad at her for feeling them. "So you don't want to hear it?" she asked sweetly. "It's not that I don't want to hear it. It's that I don't believe in writing for anyone. Shit, write for you!" Even though I was upset, I didn't mean to sound so pissed. "Why don't you write for him?"
"For who?"
"Najma, who else? The Short Man!"

"He's not interested in this" is what slipped through her mostly closed mouth. I looked over at Flood's and saw my line brother getting his car valeted. "I'm not either."

"Yes you are. You're just actin' funny. At least we can talk about books and the art of writing. He's not even a thinker." She sounded desperate.

"And yet here we are, you, married to The Short Man with a house and two seeds, and me..."

She exhaled, interrupting me. "Can I just read it to you?"

Sure, I thought. Buss your nut. "Go ahead."

I listened for the next 2 and half minutes to the most abstract, saccharine sweet treacle ever spoken. I couldn't let her see my facial expressions. My face gives everything away. I looked at my shoes, at her hips, then her mouth. When her mouth stopped moving, I guessed she was finished.

"Let me walk you back to your car" I offered.
"Can I stay with you?" She was looking in my eyes.
"Don't you hafta get back to G.R.?" I knew she could see the weakness.
"I only teach in the afternoon on Wednesday." She moved closer.
"What about The Short Man?" I asked.
"What about Najma?" she countered.

What about Najma, indeed.


Sunday, May 14, 2006


"I miss u! I want u 2 eat my pussy!"

It's Saturday night and I'm trying to get work done. I'm behind like nobody's business and honestly I'm in a zone. I'm writing reports, closing out tasks, ensuring that Monday will be better than it's been in a while. My phone vibrates. I look at it and there's a text message.

"I miss u! I want u 2 eat my pussy!"

So now I'm out of the zone. I can't concentrate on what I'm doing. My pants get tight. I gotta focus. I see who it's from and it's that chick from Texas. Why fuck with me long distance? Everytime I hear from her, I think about burying my face in that in that big black ass like a g-string. It's after sex when I start hating her. Before I buss, it's all good.

But I don't reply to a dirty text. Never. That's evidence. A real brotha knows anything you put in writing to a chick will be later used as evidence. So I ignore it.

So I look at my phone and start looking at local options. Who can I dig out? My Satan' s Anus options are so limited anyway, but I'm dodging Carmel and Endo is out of town. Then I remember one of the chicks I met in February, the same day I met Carmel. She emailed me a couple of days ago telling me she's still looking forward to hooking up with me. She'd moved and she gave me her new number. I'm glad I put it in my phone. After all this time she's still down?!?

I call her. She's not home and I only have the home number. My only chance to try to convert is over.

I'm frustrated and I can't concentrate on work now. She got me.


Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Mid Week Malaise

Hey Africans (Bootleg, that is), I'm still here. My weekend sucked and my week is not going any better.

I'm swamped at the gig and I need to write. Really write, not blog.

I was in Detroit this past weekend and me and my boy Three went to this bookstore. This local chick was selling her book. I bought it to support her hustle. Atrocious. Really, really bad. But she's published, which means I'm slacking. I gotta write.

I'll talk to y'all soon.


Thursday, May 04, 2006

Love Me Or Leave Me Alone

So I'm driving in Satan's Anus, right? Just driving aimlessly, as I'm liable to do when I'm bored, and I get stopped at a traffic light. I'm listening to hip hop at an excessively loud level and so is this cat next to me. I hear strains of his music and I turn my radio down. It's "Love Me or Leave Me Alone" by Brand Nubian (sans Grand Puba). I look at this cat and he had to be in his early twenties. I wanna yell "Dude, what you know about Brand Nubian in their heyday?" That's me and hip hop, though. As standoffish and anti-social as I am, I'll talk to anybody about hip hop.

So I keep driving through the "Black" parts of this little town 'cuz it's hot and chicks in Michigan will undress at the drop of a hat for a little warm weather. I wanna see some goods out from under winter garments. My phone keeps ringing. I look at it and put it down. One after another, the Detroit brigade keeps blowin' my shit up. Pretty soon, Satan's Anus gets into the act. Batshit, E.T., Carmel. The Endomorph doesn't call, which doesn't surprise me. She's bound to be getting the attention she wants from somewhere else.

Well because I didn't take my own best advice from my last post, I called Carmel back. I needed a pick me up, something quick. She's horny. "I miss you. You never come see me." This is the same broad that called me to cuss me out and tell me she was bonin' baby daddy again. But I didn't let that information cloud my judgement. I was trying to get some of that patented Head (U.S. patent #34894, Carmel).

"I can only come through for a minute. I got a ton of work to do. My boss will be out for the next four weeks and I gotta pick up the slack." She was silent for a minute, then the words came quickly. "Zed, you need to treat me right or just don't talk to me. I don't like this." "Hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. This is the life I've chosen." Ganked straight from Hyman Roth. "Well I don't wanna see you in a bunch of short visits. I want you to spend time with me." "Carmel, I can give you a lot of shit, but time is not one of 'em. I don't have time." I say as I casually drive through the hood. Her response is terse. "Well, you do what you have to do and so will I." "Alright. See ya around."

So I continue drivin' through the hood on some ol' Ichabod Crane shit. Headless.

Stay Cool,

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Unpack Your Bag

This has already been a pretty shitty week for me. My boss broke his fuckin' leg in two places this weekend while refereeing his kids' soccer game. That shit leaves me going for delf. I gotta do my shit (which is basically nothing) plus his shit (nothing plus 9 more meetings a week) for the next two weeks. Fuckin' calcium deficient bastard!

Anyway, the weekend had me contemplating some real shit. The prospect of how much happiness, or my interpretation thereof, is important to me. Would I stay and stick with my two year plan, or jet and move somewhere civilized? It was time for reflection and serious evaluation. There was only one thing to do: Grab my favorite porno and beat my meat.

Now I know you're asking yourselves "Why is this muthafucka staving off serious thought by jerking off? Shouldn't he be meditating/praying on this decision he's trying to make?" Ah, mere mortals. You do not understand the proper thought process. Only a foolish man makes a decision without first emptying his ball sac.

A dude will always make the wrong decision about anything if he's got any semen in his body whatsoever. That's the truth. Every decision he makes will be influenced by women. A cat goes to Subway to get a sandwich and a pretty broad is behind the counter with a low cut shirt. The sandwich he picks will have the most ingredients JUST so he can watch her keep bending over. A man with an empty sac just wants to fuckin' eat. If a dude is shopping for a car, the one that will give him the most broads will be the one he picks, regardless of fucked up gas mileage. If that same man has just blasted an outstanding one off, he'll be more sensible in his decision. A man with an empty sac never proposes marriage. Trust me.

The thing is women always find their way into every decision we make, no matter how much we try to keep it rational. We'll always go back to subconsciously thinking about what will get us closer to broads.

So I blasted off on Saturday. And when I did, I decided to follow through on my two year plan. I also decided not to fuck Carmel again and to finish reading this book I just bought. Good rational decisions, all of which would last for the next 20 minutes. I guess it's not the perfect way to go through life, but if you're a dude, I suggest it the next time you go house hunting.

Be Easy,