Thursday, December 20, 2007

Dick And Onions

As a young impressionable lad, I had my older brother help guide my path. My brother is eight years older than me, so he held quite a sway over me. The shit he was into was much, much cooler than anything I was doing. His manner of speaking, the shit he used to say, still peppers my speech, even though we haven't lived in the same house in over 20 years.

The one saying, "dick and onions", was always in the mix. Dick and Onions was "yadda, yadda" or "blaise splee". Sometimes it was "whatever". "What did that broad say to you? Tell that bitch dick and onions!" "I was hangin' out on the block. You know...dick and onions."

When I was talking to a friend of mine I hadn't talked to in a while, he asked me what I was doing for the holiday. I told him I was staying in the D with my girl. He started asking me about her when I realized he thought I was still seeing Thelma. I told him that was done and I'd moved on in major way.

Ray: She was beautiful. I mean she was incredible, dude. How did you let that one go?
KZ: She was irritating. Plus you could TELL she wasn't just raised in the 'jects, she was a part of the 'jects, now and forever.
Ray: But African, she was beautiful! How could you let that pass? Fuck everything else about her, she was a model! I know you got some regrets.
KZ: Nope. Not one. I got a better one. Beautiful, smart, dignified...the whole shot.
Ray: Alright, I'll take your word for it.
KZ: You don't have to. You'll meet her soon enough.

When I said that last line to Ray, I thought of my brother...

Be Cool,

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Things To Know

Off topic: When will muthafuckas stop shoving unsheathed fat cock up in those fertile Spears girls? Gotdamn! I guess that advanced screening of "Juno" probably won't be so funny now.

Anyway, I'm here to talk about lessons, learned and forgotten. This post is for my friends, the Africans who still wanna keep playing this game, which has diminishing returns once you pass 31.
  • The factor is 3/2. When a woman under thirty tells you how many dudes she's fucked, multiply that shit by 3/2. That's the real number. For women over thirty, the factor is 5/3.
  • How ever many dudes a chick is involved with at the time you meet her, she is fucking one additional guy. He "doesn't count". They're not serious and they get together from time to time. If she claims not seeing anyone, she's fucking one dude undercover.
  • Women are groupies by nature, not nurture. Dick riding is part and parcel of who they are. Look at the difference between strip clubs for men and for women. That tells the whole story. They go to malls and scream during a book signing by Tyson Beckford. They faint when they see Idris Elba at the club. If you don't recognize that these men are to be lionized for their good looks, you are a hater. Don't try to change it, it's hopeless. Hater!
  • No, the talking won't stop. It won't slow down, nor will the topics change.
  • In no way is actual affection to be substituted for expensive gifts. What are you, a fucking hippie?
  • That raw assed sexuality that reeled you in? Prepare to see that shit only on the most special of occasions. You better start celebrating all those "bank holidays" and shit.
  • Regular bedclothes ain't lingerie, pal.
  • That girlish giggle will one day soon be reserved for getting out of tickets and getting free drinks at the bar. You won't hear it unless you overhear it.
You enjoy the rest of your life, ok?

Be Easy,

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Why Shouldn't You Be Shot In The Head And Left In A Ditch?

So, last night I was at a city commission meeting. Representatives from various neighborhood groups came before the commission and spoke about their concerns.

The first representatives came up and talked about the trash trucks. They come really early in the morning. Then they talked about the construction of the upscale condos in their neighborhood. The noise of economic development makes them get up too early.

The next neighborhood rep came up and talked about an intersection near her home. When she's returning home from work, the sun is in her eyes when she tries to make a left turn there.

The last rep wanted to know how the city would help those people who bought too much house for their income bail out of a bad foreclosure situation. The city's obligated to help muthafuckas with poor decision making skills.

A young dude stepped up and told them that he had done some research and found out that the city's zoning decisions downtown were poorly thought out. This same dude interviewed with me 6 months ago and I told him he was unqualified. He stood up and took a shot at me in this meeting and said his research proved I sucked.

The commission decided to allow only one period of public comment instead of two at subsequent commission meetings. This caused an uproar. One lady came up to the podium to say the single comment period was an attempt to silence the homeless population, who currently dominate the meetings. If the only period to comment is at the end of the meeting, most of the homeless have to leave by then. The shelter won't keep their beds if they are late checking in.

After a day filled with meetings, I get to look forward to a night full of meetings. I know I don't like Satan's Anus, but it's not just Satan's Anus. I want no parts of this municipal bullshit anymore. I'm tired. Sick and tired. No politician can solve all your stupid assed problems. Everything you spew out of your empty assed head ain't manna from above. Sometimes you ARE too stupid to live. You just are.


Monday, December 17, 2007

I Laugh To Keep From Crying

Cuba? Really?

They'll elect this devil outta spite.

Her yeast infections last longer.

The Reason Change Is Bad

On Friday, I went home at noon. This was to wait for a DirecTV installer to come to my house and hook me up. They gave me that typical 4 hour window. So I'm waiting from 12 n - 4 pm. I was upset about it, but I took it, simply because I wanted that bullshit Comcast out of my house for good. So I took some vacation hours and I waited. And waited. And waited.

I had some shit that had to be done at work, some administrative stuff, that if it wasn't done on Friday, it wouldn't be done until the new year. It was time sensitive and couldn't be done at home due to the secure nature accounting software we use. So I needed to get back before 5 pm.

At 3:30 I hadn't heard anything, so I decided to call DirecTV. They put me on hold while they contacted my local installer. My other line clicked with a local number.

"Sir, our installer is running late. He'll be there between 4 pm and 8 pm." "What?" "Our installer is running..."
"Lady, I heard what you said, I just don't get it. If he's been running late, why the fuck didn't y'all call me? I had to call you. And on top of that bullshit, I took 4 hours off work to wait for you muthafuckas. And now you tellin' me he'll be here between 4 and 8? I asked you muthafuckas for a late time so I wouldn't have to take time off work and you told me you didn't do that. Now you tellin' me 4 to 8 is an option. Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck the installer, and fuck DirecTV. If that muthafucka shows up at my door, I'mma punch his ass in the mouth. Take my shit outta the database. I cancel."

I hang up and ask Comcast not to turn off my cable and internet. Now I'm a little bitch, asking Comcast to have mercy on me, all polite and shit.

Soon, I'll give it a shot with the DISH network. I already signed up with AT&T for internet service which will start on Tuesday, so I'm half done with Comcast. After the new year, I'll try to change my TV option again. Fuckin' bastards.


Thursday, December 13, 2007

I Could Really Bank You, Dude

Ah, the holidays. The time when I'm obligated to spend money in celebration of the origin of a religion I'm not a member of, and to do otherwise would open me to allegations of being "cheap". You know what? Fuck December.

I'm going from store to store trying to buy gifts and salespeople are relentless. When I go in a store, I generally know what I want, so I ask for it. I got salespeople who are implicitly questioning my devotion to a loved one if I don't get the "superdeluxeupgrade" edition of whatever they're selling. Muthafucka, you do realize I have to LIVE the other 364 days of the year too, right? Did rent stop being due because it's Christmastime? Do I get a reprieve from the tyranny of the cable company because it's December? These muthafuckas are out of their minds.

Then we got the Christmas Na.zis. You can't write "X-mas" cuz you leavin' the "Christ" outta "Christmas". That's some bullshit. Don't get me on one of my "symbology" rants. I'd like to leave my muthafuckin' money outta Christmas. They want you to say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays", pretty much as a test to make sure that you're a Christian and not a Jew or a Jihadist in disguise. Christians, you fuckin' won. It's your country. We get it. You outnumber everybody else. It's bad e-fuckin'-nuff that I'm going broke for this shit, now I gotta bow down and kiss y'all feet? Fuck y'all in the ass with a day old corn cob.

This time of the year is murder. If I could, I'd fuckin' hibernate through this shit every year.

Merry Xmas, y'all.


Monday, December 10, 2007

Vastly Improved

Today I am 37. It's not a milestone or a really significant birthday in any way, shape, or form. Except for one thing: I'm not anxious about aging. Anxiety about the aging process is one of those things I worry about that I can't control, shit I promised I'd stop. But truly, without effort, I'm not stressed about this. My anxiety comes from not achieving enough at my "age milestones".

I got this goal that's gotta happen before I'm 40. I just told the one municipality that could make it happen by next month, Roc.kville Ma.ryland, to fuck off. They handled their business kinda faulty, so I ended up declining the interview.

Outside of my career, everything else is going peachy keen. Just all fulla greatness. TAD was here this weekend and we got together with a bunch of my transplant friends. She got to see the "ok, but not quite cool" vibe that I get from them. She'd met them before, but never for a prolonged amount of time as the one we had on Friday. It's this one dude I used to hang with somewhat, but now I distance myself from, Curly, that causing the most trouble. It's obvious he likes TAD. I mean LIKES LIKE. And he begrudges me for being with her. He's resentful as hell. He's doing flirty shit on the sly thinking I'm not peeping him out or thinking TAD might be feelin' him. I didn't call him on it that night, but Imma call him on it soon. Africans let the suits fool 'em. I will bulldoze that cat.

TAD also made me some cupcakes. Lemon cupcakes. I love lemon cake. And she bought me the thing I've wanted most, a single serve coffee maker for my office!!! Now I can drink the exotic shit without everybody partaking. She's the shit!

My staff has put streamers and balloons in my office. I talk shit about those secretaries, but the sistas from the bunch came through. I'm knee deep in chicken and biscuits! God bless those women!

I think I'll be ok this birthday.


Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Pasta Is Tasty

Whatever happened to the MC?/Times done changed for the MC/Every woman and man wanna MC/You know what? MCin' ain't for you. -De La Soul, SupaEmcees

I'm here to talk about random shit. Because I can. Because it's my blog and I'm bored. Because it won't stop snowing. Because I'm about to turn 37. Because Christmas is coming. Because the dude from Worth & Worth ( is not returning my calls. Because that city in Maryland is gonna make me interview in the middle of holiday season. Because every store I go to, people are trying to sell me shit they think I should have, instead of selling me the shit I'm looking for. Because I need a drink and some pussy.

What a slangy language we got goin' on here. If I tell you it's 2 o'clock, you never think about it, but that shit is slang. What I'm telling you is it's two of the clock or it's two according to the clock. We say 2 o'clock like it's proper English and shit. What's up with that? (Cliff Claven reference) Same thing with the word "panties". Panties is slang for little pants. The proper term? Underwear or underpants. The word panties is soft and gay. Thong panties excepted.

My staff is great. Couldn't be better. Thanks for asking.

Tomorrow I have to present the city budget to a bunch of citizen volunteers who feign oversight and vigilance over our finances. They don't understand 1/4 of the shit they see, so it's my job to give them a financial primer on how municipal budgets work. The problem? I don't know shit about finance. That's not my area, at all! How did I get finagled into doing this? It's STATE LAW that the person in my position, A NON FINANCIAL POSITION, present this budget. State law is an ass.

I'm still waiting for Flat Randy, N.A.

Fucking snow.

I'm Out,

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Turkey, et al

My sister is a sellout. I just wanted to get that out of the way before I begin this tale of Thanksgiving, a week late I know, but still...

My sister, Denise, told me she wasn't coming to Tampa last week. Denise, the sellout that she is, blamed it on her husband, which all married people do. I call "bullshit". She didn't want the hassle of driving from AL to FL during the holidays. But every fucking year I'm at an airport flying during the holiday season under the worst travel conditions imaginable. Do you know Spirit Airlines not only charges for checked baggage, but for WATER? A cup, not a bottle, of water costs $2. You don't get food, drink, or semi-hospitable flight attendants on these planes. It does nothing to temper my fear of flying.

Anyway, me and young TAD hit the scene on Wednesday morning. We were greeted by my parents at baggage claim and warm weather, both of which were welcome sights.

Later that night we saw of bunch of my paternal aunts and one of my uncles, with only my aunts being the welcome sight. My uncle Peter is a jackass and a drunkard. He never shuts up and he harassed me and TAD to the point where we were clearly irritated. While my father was telling stories about the bad old days, with me and TAD straining to hear him, my uncle was in our faces talking about nothing interesting and clogging up the good time. Fuckin' Peter.

The Thanksgiving meal was really the cornerstone of my visit. My parents are the biggest non-traditionalists I know when it comes to this. There is no big Thanksgiving "thing" at the table. It's like a buffet. You wanna eat? Go get some food, it's ready. I tried to warn TAD about this before we came. If she was off-put by it, she played it off well, because we ate up some shit.

I swear, the more distance I get from my mother's cooking, the more I appreciate it when I eat it. I've underrated her as a cook for a long time. I'll be damned if I don't miss everything she cooks. But she pulled some bullshit by NOT MAKING SWEET POTATO PIE. That, my friends, is the direct result of my sister not showing to help her. TAD offered to help, but I don't think it was the same as having an indentured servant who you can boss around without impunity (i.e. Denise) to help you cook. Once again, thanks Denise. Anyway to keep my mind off the awful Lions, and to avoid more goofy family, me and TAD dipped out to the IMAX theater to see "Beowulf" and Angelina Jolie's animated titties.

On Friday, my mother spared us by not getting up at 4 am to shop. I believe that was the only thing that my sister not showing up made better. She and TAD ended going to the movies to see "This Christmas". Thanks for catching that bullet for me, Mom. Your check is in the mail. When they came back, me and TAD tried to complete our modest "to do" list for this visit. Go to the beach, go to the Florida Aquarium, and get me some of these.

My love for Devil Crab is unsurpassed. Unfortunately for TAD, this is the only part of our plan that worked out. On Friday, the temperature was 75. On Clearwater Beach, the temperature had to 15 degrees colder. Still, there they were...ahem..."northerners" swimming, wearing bathing suits, and putting their kids in the water. I tried to maintain without a sweatshirt or a skully, but it was not to be. We jetted and went to the aquarium. We arrived at 4:57. It closed at 5:00. So we pretty much jacked up Friday. We didn't have an opportunity to see any of my maternal relatives because they were all out of town, so Friday evening was the requisite wind-down repack while my parents were out at the casino with some of my aunts. The perfect opportunity to play "The Counting Game". If you have to ask, you ain't old enough to play.

And that's how my shit went.

Be Cool,

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Irreplaceable You?

Once upon a time I had a job. It was a fulfilling gig, even though it didn't pay much. I loved the work. I loved being a part of something bigger than myself. I was responsible for how the city I worked in looked prior to the Super Bowl, responsible for riverfront development on an international border, responsible for neighborhood growth and aesthetics.

My co-workers became my good friends. I was active most of the time. And when I wasn't active, I at least thought about what I could be doing better. I had 2 people who directly reported to me and 18 indirect reports. As much as I did or thought I did, when I left they replaced me within the month and moved on.

Why does my assistant, who does one-eighth of the shit I did at that gig, making $10,000 more than I did, with one-twentieth of the responsibility in a city one-tenth the size of the one I worked in believe so adamantly he deserves a raise?

Every time I tell him "no", he comes at me from another angle. I hope at some point he says "fuck it" and quits. When he does, he'll be smug about it. He'll laugh to himself at what a barrel he has us over, how we'll never be able to find someone as good as he is at his job. He'll speculate that we wish we'd done him right, that we'd paid him what he was worth. He'll be pretty confident that he "got us".

And then we'll replace him and keep going.

I hope one day everybody gets that thunderbolt from the blue, that "moment of clarity", that lets them realize it's REALLY not personal. You're not as important as you think you are. It's the way business and government is set up.

So the next time you're in the office sulking about some slight or some time you were passed over and how much you contribute to your department's success, think about the entire picture. Then go sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.


Monday, November 19, 2007

Grounded For Life

This shit will sound highly elitist to anyone reading this, but fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Everyday I'm reminded that I'm not like everyone else. When I read box office reports or the top ten records, I have a sense of not belonging. People enjoy...thoroughly enjoy...the worst shit imaginable. That's entertainment. The shit they put on TV is astounding. It's ridiculous how much utter bullshit is worked on lovingly by a cast and crew of talented people who never thought that their life's work would come down to this.

I'm convinced that the police procedurals currently being aired on the "Big Four" networks are amongst the worst, most fascist propaganda ever condensed into a one hour teleplay. And we eat this shit up.

"Two and a Half Men" is a hit show. Think about that shit. "According to Jim" has been on for seven seasons. The DaVinci Code was a major bestselling book. So was Tuesdays With Morrie.

I know a bunch of people who literally choose a book by it's cover.

I feel like I'm being prodded with a gotdamn stick all the time. I'm isolated. In general, people like shitty things. I don't comment on anyone's taste unless I'm explicitly asked. Trust me, I've learned my lesson the hard way. I even go out of my way to be diplomatic. "I've heard good things about that movie." That's usually the truth. I have heard good things about it. I've also learned my lesson about taking people's advice about shit. People have genuinely bad taste and they don't know it.

I can't talk to anybody about anything in an intelligent way. "Fuck you, African! I liked it!" I really give up. I maintain that I can't be a part of the "pop culture experience" anymore. This shit has really gotten to the tipping point of complete awfulness.

Be Safe,

Friday, November 16, 2007

The Search For Actual Meaning Amongst Symbols

Everytime we want to express our feelings we grasp for the correct symbol to do so. If you love someone, you send flowers. If you hate someone, you send an article of their clothing in a tampon box to their job (it happened to my big cousin Juan). If you're a patriot, you put a flag up and gaze at it adoringly. If you are an asshole, you wear monogrammed shirts bearing the initials ZXZ. All of these things are symbols, things we do almost without thinking. The biggest part of the problem is not thinking. It's reflexive symbolism.

The greatest symbols in the world are words. Words stand in for feelings. We all agree that a word "means" something, and that's that. But do we ever stand back and think about that shared feeling. If someone says to you "I'm angry", you get an ideal of what that means and what it feels like, but does it really convey the rawness and the immediacy of that emotion?

When someone sees a cross on a building, do they instantly think of the suffering of Jesus at his crucifixion or do they think "That must be a church"? When you see a church these days, you don't think much of sacrifice, at least not at the mega ones. Overused symbols lose all meaning.

The basis of me writing this is to describe a struggle I've been having for awhile. I've wanted to expunge all bullshit symbolism from my life. I'm searching for the ultimate "me".

I eschew all clothing that identifies me as a "part" of some organization or legacy. I minimize what I say. And I try to be efficient in what I write. It's part of my backlash against movies and a gang of books. "That dark alley way symbolizes the journey that he takes on the way to salvation." You know what? Fuck that dark alley way. Just show me the journey, well lit and shit.

In America, we tend to put too much weight into what certain words or actions symbolize in a person. The over-reliance on symbols to tell us what we seek to understand lead us to ignore the real, the palpable, the ACTUAL. I want us to participate in the world around us, it's telling us so much, instead of relying on symbols to do the grunt work for us.

Feel me?

Be Cool,

Thursday, November 15, 2007

The Gold Standard

It's a mix. I can't strictly call it snow, 'cuz it's too heavy. It's falling in sheets and it's making the road icy. Fuck that. I walk out and see the ground covered and I immediately wanna go back in and head for the bed.

Next Thursday I'll be in Tampa eating turkey and watching the Lions lose. High 70s, low 80s. Likely dodging Black Friday sales that my mother will be trying to drag TAD to. And I'll be trying to smuggle as many deviled crabs as I can back north when I return.

I think it's the high water mark of my current incarnation when the only thing I have to complain about is the weather.

And my staff. Oh yeah. I forgot them.

At 4:58 yesterday, a mere two minutes before I was leaving to go tend to a splitting headache, my secretary dashes in. "You have a minute?"

I looked at her with what must have been an incredulous expression. "What?!? What is it?"

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to let you know that I think Wispy would do a great job in the secretarial spot we're about to have vacant. We work well together and..."

"Wispy works well where she is. We make personnel decisions based on our needs. We need her where she is."

They come in one after another day after day, taking turns propping each other up and tearing each other down. If you're either too stupid to realize the core reason for my headache or too selfish to give a fuck, I'm not paying for it with my mental health either way.

The next day, today, before my coat was off, before I'd tasted coffee or turned on my computer, a broad came in to complain about a co-worker. Talking about how she's incompetent and she's lazy, then making sure I didn't think she was a bigot because the lady she was tearing down was Black. All in all, it wasn't worth it to bring my headache back first thing in the morning.

This'll probably be the last time I blog about work for awhile. I need to maintain my sanity.


Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Gossipy Whores

Speculative queries, abject conjecture, and outright dissembling all play a major part in my daily life. In my job, either you know something or you make up some shit that's an approximation of the truth as you might see it just to appease muthafuckas at large, i.e. the public.

But there is a private face to this whole venture. One which makes people here spend too much time guessing what makes people click. I'm not so conceited that I think it's just me they do this with, but I'm the one they know the least about. It's by design. They tell each other all of their business and I decline to share. Then they outright ask me a question and depending on my mood, I give 'em whatever answer I want to. It doesn't have to be true.

The reason, which is not just because I hate them all, which I do, is that once you tell one of 'em anything you've told all of 'em. In a 47 person operation, every single one of 'em will know whatever scrap of information that you've let slip out. It's amazing in it's efficiency. I wonder why it doesn't translate into shit I need communicated on a professional level.

Him: So, what did you do this weekend?
KZ: Went to Detroit.
Him: Visit family?
KZ: Nope. My girlfriend.

Three minutes later in another part of the office:

Her: Did you and your girlfriend do anything special?
KZ: Hunh?
Her: You went to see your girlfriend in Detroit this weekend, right? Did you do anything special?

It's like the time when I mentioned doing Sudoku one day in passing to one person with no one else around and I literally got stuck in no less than 6 conversations about the types of puzzles they like to do. I guess if you're desperate for small talk material, any port in a storm will do.


Tuesday, November 13, 2007


I wrote this memo to my boss assailing his weak-kneed stance on policy issues. I asked that he establish a policy that we can use every time in this very specific circumstance. I'm sure he won't use it or even acknowledge. But it makes me not feel like a complete house African by not sitting by and letting him fuck up.

I had this meeting today with my boss and other staff to discuss another very specific circumstance. I spent a lot of time shooting down his arguments and supplying plenty of my own shit. I'm generally pretty quiet in these meetings. I try to stay under the radar as much as my big ass can. Because I spend a lot of time dodging shit, today felt much different.

I think it's because I had a good assed weekend. It's always good to come back after a suitable break. I can finally focus. It's a different workplace when you pay attention.


Friday, November 09, 2007

The Worst For You

I know you can't tell but I hate you as much as you hate me. You hate me because I represent authority, because I have "power" over you and your livelihood. I'm controlling your career advancement and your money. I get it, I fully understand why you hate me.

Do you know why I hate you? Because you believe you're irreplaceable. You are 12 for ten cents, yet you believe your contribution to success supersedes mine. "I do all the work, why should he get all the credit." I hate you because you always ask the wrong questions, which in turn lets me know that you lack vision. The shit you think about is so low level, I haven't thought about it in 12 years. That's how long I've been somebody's boss. I hate you because everything is personal. No, I'm not going to the "5:01" with y'all. No, I'm not coming to your party or cookout. No, I'm not going to lunch with you. No, I think I'll pass on the wedding. Where's the fucking TPS report?

I hate your intricate bundles of neuroses that spill out at inappropriate times. I hate your amazing attention to detail when it comes to what I'm wearing or who I'm speaking to but doesn't come into play when you're trying to distinguish between "their" and "there" in written documents. I hate your speculation into what my future looks like. I've never, not once, thought about yours.

You'd never guess that beneath this calm exterior lies a hate-filled seething cauldron of white hot lava ready to be tipped over and scorch everything in it's path. You represent everything I hate about this city and it's people.

And I wish nothing but the very worst for you.


Thursday, November 08, 2007

Musings From The Grinch That Stole Pussy

What you have is a case of is cognitive dissonance. You do not threaten or beat the shit out of the person fucking your mate. They don't know you (most of the time), so their intent to cause you harm is negligible. They just wanted to get theirs. Your mate is the liar and cheater. That's where your anger goes, silly. You see how that works?

Opinions are like assholes. They get fucked in jail.

My favorite "dub" pejorative internet expressions (in no particular order) : asshat, hipster, motherfuckery, "I call 'bullshit'", Wentz (meaning an asshole or a jerk, so named after the lead singer of "Fall-Out Boy"), rockist, celebutard, and fuckwad

If I blocked all the "news" channels from my cable, I'd never have to hear another word about a fucking celebrity again.

In ancient times, the men would gather around an open fire and roast the animals that they killed earlier in the day. It was a way for them to bond after the hunt without partaking in any of the extremely necessary work that women did. These "meatings", later modified to "meetings", have continued to this day as a both gender inclusive phenomenon in the workplace.

I just made that shit up on the spot.

Hip hop began in 1978 on the corner of Jane Street and Park Drive on the Eastside of Detroit, Michigan. At least that's how I remember it.

I believe deep in my heart that my cleaners is running a scam. I have no real proof that they have cleaned anything, except for the fucking tags they put on my shit after the fact. I'm in the middle of a beef with my cleaners right now for shrinking the sleeves on a new shirt. Just the fucking sleeves. When an African was ass out back in the day, we'd call him "short sleeve Steve". I never got it before. Now I get it. The dry cleaner just told me there's nothing he can do about it. There's something I can do, though. See ya, asshole.

I joined a new gym and it's just as strange as my old one. In the locker room, dudes are standing around butt-assed nekkid combing their hair and clipping their toenails and shit, like it's the most natural shit in the world. I gives a fuck what you say, that shit is at the precipice of ass-banditry. If you stand in a crowd locker room with no drawers on slowly combing your hair in front of a mirror, you deserve every fuckin' name I call you. There are a group of cats there that work out together and I swear it looks like a continuation of a prison friendship. Weightlifting, bad tattoos and excessive grunting and "congratulating" and shit.

So ends the lesson.


Wednesday, November 07, 2007

It Just Gets Better

Snow again this morning. What they call a "light dusting". I call it "fucking hell".

It was Election night in the ol' town last night and boy was it a doozy. To make a long story as short as feasibly possible, the dick-touching hugging Vice-Mayor is now the dick-touching hugging Mayor. Joy. Give more juice to this dude so he can wield it from the dais and make me do more hoop-jumping. That's just the thing I need as I become more demoralized by this gig and this town.

To top it off, you know the loud mouth chick in your office that you hate to see coming? The one who makes every molehill into a mountain? The drama queen? If you don't know her, it's probably you. Anyway, these savants just elected THAT chick to the city commission. That'll lengthen my meeting times by about 2 hours.

I got resumes everywhere. I know the process will slow down as the holidays approach. Most cities work slowly anyway, but during the holidays, that shit pretty much stops. People are like "Fuck this, we can't get him hired before January anyway, let's not interview until then". And there lies my fate.

In the meantime I have two positions I have to fill BEFORE January and it doesn't look good. HR is running on autopilot right now and I'm not motivated.

Two days until the weekend.

Stay Focused,

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Bitch Go Away!!!

I walked outside this morning and was greeted with snow. Hello West Mi.chigan. Another beautiful day in paradise.

It's gloomy as shit. Miserable outside. I think I gotta fire my dry cleaner. And I have yet another "reporting out" meeting this morning.

My boss loves meetings where we give verbal status reports. This will be my 3rd one this week. Yes, it is only Tuesday.

Staff keeps coming in, my boss keeps coming in. And all I can think is "Bitch, go away". To everybody. To everything.

The snow, the work, the work week, the blueprints, the proposals, the grants, the reports, the bills, the bullshit. Bitch, go away.

Three days away from a three day weekend. And it can't come soon enough.

Be Easy,

Monday, November 05, 2007

Lesbians With Dildos

So, I went to see A.merican Gan.gster on Friday, trying to help ensure box office success, and I wasn't alone. I was in a full house, cross culturally represented. Even in Satan's Anus the movie was on two screens, so I'm sure in a Black city like Detroit, it was likely on four.

My critique? Utter bullshit. I've been waiting for this movie since August, when the trailer played before The Bourne Supremacy, and I was sadly disappointed. I was telling my boy Three this when I called him after I left the theater. If there is a bloodthirsty, gun-waving, evil genius running around the streets of Ha.rlem, why the fuck spend half the movie showing me the boring muthafucka who's trying to catch him? Two hours and 30 minutes, split between Mr. Charisma and some asshole who's going through a rough patch in his life? The filmmakers made a bad choice on this one.

I get it. It's Hollywood. You gotta sell tickets. And how else do you sell tickets to the masses if you don't include white starpower. So making Ru.ssell Cro.we an equal partner to Den.zel is a smart business move. But story-wise, it fucked everything up. It ruined what had the potential to be great. Chiw.etel Eji.ofor is an excellent actor. Don't you think his role could've been enhanced as Fr.ank Lu.cas' right hand? He was WASTED in that part. Completely wasted. They even wasted a RARE good performance by Jr. Who would have thunk it?

Ru.ssell Cro.we's a good man with a bad home life. Den.zel is a bad man with a good home life. Big fuckin' deal. The dichotomy is not interesting. Move on. Nothing to see here.

The whole endeavor is as useless as...well, you read the title.


Friday, November 02, 2007

No Liquor, Just TV

Why are there three days between Monday and Friday? Those days are pure torture. Last night I had a meeting. From 7 pm to 10 pm. Outraged citizens. Their point was made within 30 minutes. Yet, they continued to speak. Each one arrogantly saying shit the person in front of them said, believing that THEY would be the ones to articulate the exactly same shit in a much better way. Public discourse is over-fucking-rated. I hate people, and outraged citizens are mean people who lie to garner sympathy for their cause.

I'm saying all this to say those muthafuckas made me miss my favorite shows on Thursday night. That ain't cool!!!

Now I have to wait for the shits to get posted online.

I love this show. I love The Office, too, but I couldn't find a good visual representation of it.

I've always thought Tracy Morgan was underrated. Always been a fan. Still no word on what's up with Tina Fey's face. On Thursdays, NBC is runnin' shit again. Except for fuckin' ER. Seriously, what's up with that?

I got to see one of the most unloved shows on TV last night, a show I'm absolutely addicted to.

You really have to have a pretty goofy sense of humor to appreciate it. They just don't give a fuck.

I really didn't have shit to say today. Just that I'm about to watch The Boondocks on line and veg out on somebody's dime. They owe me 3 hours.


Thursday, November 01, 2007

The Blue

I was sitting at my desk, fuming about answer citizens phone calls about shit they don't understand when the phone rang. I saw it was my secretary, so I picked up.

"Let me see if I get this right. There's a Najma on the phone for you."

Najma. Fuckin' Najma. I hadn't talked to Najma in 4 good years. Her husband called me at work once. Threatened to kill me. I believed him too. He was a sheriff's deputy for Ke.nt Cou.nty. Complete asshole. Huge Pe.nn S.tate fan, even though he was just there for the ride when she was getting her PhD. I asked that cat "Is it worth going to jail for life for an unfaithful wife?"

And here she was on the phone. Fuckin' Najma.

"OK. Put her through."

" are you?" "I'm great. Never been better. What's up?" "Nothing...."

I'm waiting for her to tell me why she's called. I don't wanna be rude. I really don't. Even though she was messing around with me and left hints so that her "neglectful" husband would find out and show some emotion where she was involved.

I was giving her the courtesy only because I've known her since we were in 10th grade. I didn't know if she was calling me to tell me if her mother died or one of her 14 siblings. I didn't wanna bite her head off right away. So I waited.

"Najma, why are you calling me?" "Intuition. Women's intuition. Something told me to call you. To see if you were OK."

"You got the answer. I'm fine. Everything's good with me."


"Well, I guess I'll talk to you later." I had no intention of talking to her later, but I've never ended a phone conversation properly any other way.

Be Up,

Friday, October 26, 2007

Scarabanga Muffiglio

My job is ok. Some aspects at least. The long stretches of doing nothing and dodging meetings are the best. The worst part is budget time and staff shit. I got a employee that has this high level of puppy dog enthusiasm. She always needs a bone (please folks, follow the metaphor). I toss her the bone and she runs back to me with it and drops it at my feet. And I throw it again. She never gets tired.

But I do. I'm constantly passing off my shit to her because she THRIVES on it. She always needs and asks for more. I give her shit that I think will keep her occupied for days, she's done in hours. You'd think I'd love that right? You'd be wrong.

I actually wrote about this shit a little over 2 years ago, but I was filled with vitriol. Now I'm more philosophical about it.

It MAKES so much more work for me to make sure she's occupied. My other employees don't want me to bother them, and I don't want them to bother me. It's the perfect relationship.

I also have to deal with ass-kissers. The latest thing is one of the secretaries, Office Broccoli, is in my office trying to clean it up for me. Site plans, blueprints and maps are everywhere and she's rolling them and arranging them alphabetically. She's lingering, making general observations, and basically just hanging around. Of her own accord. I didn't ask her nor do I want her to do it, but she's here. I can't complain really because my office is getting clean, but shit, I'd rather be left alone in my filth.

As you can tell, I really don't have that much to complain about. I'd just rather be at home.


Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Black America = Hypocrites

We love to reminiscence about the good ol' days, when the "village" raised a child, except when the "village" shows up at your door with belts and switches for YOUR seed.

We love to dis people's lack of education, but we can't pronounce "Chicago" or "Usher" without adding an extra "r". Where the fuck is Chi-CAR-go? Who the fuck is Ursh-er?

We hate gay people, except for our minister of music and T.yler Pe.rry.

We yell for justice, except when our relative is the one standing in front of the judge.

We love independent women, until she don't think like you think.

We love strong men, until his strength is infringing on your independence.

We hate infidelity, unless we can't help ourselves. It was just something about him/her. You understand, right?

We love our people, until it's too many of 'em in one place. Then it's time to leave.

What's my point with all this? I reserve the right to laugh at your misfortune and shrug my shoulders when something tragic happens to you and yours. Because I generally ignore your dumb ass except when you tell me that the California wildfires are God's punishment for wickedness. That's when I can do is wish the worse for you. And when it happens, tell you it's God's will and walk away.

Go back to your dumb ass church and pray on that.


Uncle Phil, et al.

Yo, I got a pet peeve. Yes, yet another one. People really need to shut the fuck up when they don't have anything constructive to say.

Case in point, people are constantly telling me I look like somebody else. The shit is never flattering. Not even a little. Any African with a fat or round face is my fuckin' twin to hear other people tell it. Ic.e Cub.e, Antho.ny An.derson, Mr. T, Bar.ry Wh.ite, Ha.mmond, and Muham.mad are the short list. Do I look like any of these cats? No, and if I did, I wouldn't wanna be reminded of it.

Now ever since I've kinda been on the "fuck it" tip by not dyeing my beard, the other comparison comes through.

"You know who you look like? Uncle Phil from the Fresh Prince!"

Oh joy! That's the look I've been going for.

That's your wish. African, I'll be your Uncle Phil. And when you ain't lookin', I'll be Uncle Fillin'-up-your-woman's-guts-with-cock-sauce.

OK, I'm not that cat right now, but you get the point. No cat has ever had to do more with less than I have. Gigantic headed, fat faced bookworm without flashy shit, and I still do OK. More than OK.

I was out eating with my boys and this lady rushed over to me and said "Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Fre.d Ham.mond?" And I said "Yes, ma'am they have. And not once have I been flattered by it." She looked at me all crestfallen and shit, but at least I didn't tell her she looked like LaW.anda, which she did.

All I'm saying is, I see people that look like famous people all the time. I just wouldn't rush up and tell 'em that shit. You never know how they'll take it, ESPECIALLY if you don't know 'em. That shit to me is just nuts.

Be Prudent,

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


I had the weirdest thing happen to me today. I applied for this gig in Maryland via email. Within the span of 30 minutes, I was on the phone being interviewed! Needless to say I was impressed with their interest.

The cost of living is off the chain, but the title and gig are quite similar to what I do. It would just be a promotion from Deputy Director to Director. I know I can do it, but the prospect of moving is giving me bubbleguts.

Speaking of which, I should be mindful of how thin these walls are. I've had so many interviews on my celly in my office, I oughta be ashamed of myself. I know these muthafuckas can hear me. Just like I can hear Shitty McNotwashhands, aka Gene , aka Mr. Asparagus BREAKING WIND FOUR TIMES EVERY HOUR in the office next door.

At this point I know I've checked out, it's just a matter of where I land, so I really don't give a fuck. I'm just focused on getting out.


Monday, October 22, 2007


Hey y'all, what's new?

I just got back from Detroit this morning. It's always an adventure to get off the road and right into work. When I drive in 2 hours, I get to work on time. When I'm 15 minutes away, I'm late. What the fuck is that?

Needless to say I had a good weekend. I was there from Thursday to Monday, so you can tell I didn't wanna leave. I had a opportunity to eat lunch with TAD on Friday, which is a treat. If I still worked in Downtown Detroit, that would be a common activity, now it's extra special. I spent some time walking around looking at shit I helped to build. I always have a sense of pride about that when I'm in Detroit. I was telling TAD I feel no attachment to anything I helped build in Satan's Anus.

While looking at the city, I was actually able to walk into Henry The Hatter (where pimps, players and prophets have bought hats since 1893) and buy a hat off the shelf. I'd been trying to buy a hat in Satan's Anus for 2 years and they kept talking about special ordering shit because I have an ENORMOUS head. I walk into this store, and I told the lady behind the counter, "I have a problem, more like a situation...." She said, "I know your problem. I'm looking at it. Your head is big." God bless her.

I picked the color I wanted and jetted. It took about 10 minutes. Fuckin' Satan's Anus.

We exchanged gifts. We gave each other a price limit, which means I had to use my imagination. TAD knocked it out the park. My gift sucked. I really thought I had some shit too!

Saturday we tried to recreate the first date somewhat. Muthafuckas ruined it. The restaurant rented out their space to a private party, complete with wack DJ. It was similar to the first date, except I got lucky. REAL lucky. LOL.

On Sunday we almost got into a horrible accident. I was driving in the left lane going about 40. The other car was in the right lane next to me, a little ahead of me, and decided to make a u-turn without looking to see if anyone was driving in the left lane. I skidded on the brakes and came within a hair of killing that idiot. He had the nerve to look at me as if I initiated that shit. He drove off without even making the turn. Fuckhead.

We kept driving as I tried to calm my nerves and I got a chance to show TAD where I grew up and saw where her mother grew up. Me and Momma TAD both came up from the streets. We on that hard knock shit!

No rabbits were harmed in the making of this weekend.


Thursday, October 18, 2007

The Sweetest Day

Hola, muthafuckas! This is the end of my work week. I'm taking Friday off and I'll be hangin' in the D. In the midwest, Saturday is Sweetest Day, which quite frankly didn't mean shit to me until last year. I'll be celebrating the one year anniversary of my first date with the anointed one, Young T.A.D. up in this piece.

Time kinda flew, but then again it didn't. Shit, I'm IN the relationship, so I know how hard it is to keep one afloat, especially a long distance one. But it's working, working like a muthafucka.

I'mma try to recreate the first date completely, including the hot sex. (Just kidding, sweetie!!!) If her ex calls like he called on the first date, I'mma hafta ride on an African.

One year in, I have to look at the future. It looks bright but I still don't know where we are going to land, here in Michigan or elsewhere.

The one thing you can take from this is that I love her more than The Low End Theory, and that's saying something.

Be Sweet,

P.S. Next Tuesday will be like Christmas for me. Don't sleep!!!

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Ain't Nuthin' To Talk About, Really

Ah, Satan's Anus. Bastion of erudition. It cost taxpayers $3000 to fix this fuck up.

My short children's story about a little girl losing her cat, Whiskers, has now been rejected by every major publishing house in America. I know it's good and I'm not changing the title for anybody. If you have a clean soul, "Where's My Pussy?" is not an inappropriate title.

I'd really like Ma.rion Jones, B.eyonce, and Kir.sten to form a coalition against the proliferation of baby teeth in adult women.

Cliff, if you can afford to hire bodyguards, you can afford to not own personal guns. I'm just saying...

Too bad Tameka couldn't Xscape.

N.A. is living the Hollywood Dream. God bless that woman.

I was at Homecoming this weekend. What part of "Naw, that's ok." don't you understand?

I think I'm about to buy a single serving coffee maker for my office. So I can drink the good shit without sharing. Yeah, I said it, I'm selfish. No Ethiopian for you!

Now if I can only clean up my freakin' office so I have a place to put the coffee maker. Sheesh.

Sometimes I wonder if my dry cleaner ain't just using Dryel on my shit.

I get paid for 40 hours every week. There's not enough actual work in this town for me to REALLY work 3 hours every week. And you'd have to create and elongate shit just to make it to 3 full hours.

I'm bored. Bored and disgusted. I'm looking for gigs like crazy. The interview process for municipalities is so long, as soon as you forget you applied for a job, they call you.

I've been late to work 5 times in 8 days. I've mentally checked out.


Monday, October 15, 2007


Back in the early 2000s, there were a spate of TV shows and movies about government agents or operatives. One phrase they seemed to say again and again was "That's above your pay grade" to someone asking a provocative question about a classified situation. I remember thinking if I said or suggested something that was a decision that my boss should be making and somebody mentioned my "pay grade" I'd kick 'em in the fucking nuts, assuming only a man would be arrogant enough to say shit like that to me. But don't believe for one second that I don't get it.

Every muthafucka here tries to work above their pay grade EXCEPT me. Probably because I'm trying to duck both work and responsibility. I'm constantly slapping my staff down. "Stop promising anything to anybody without checking with me. I'll set your parameters." But the worst offenders aren't even the professional staff. It's the support staff.

I've had secretaries coming in the office asking me about the projects we're working on and suggesting ways we should approach them. I usually listen and nod, mainly to keep myself from screaming "Bitch, go to your desk and type a memo to somebody!!!" My fuckin' opinions don't matter, why should yours?

Or I got engineers and inspectors going out to sites and wondering if we're giving too many tax breaks to developers and shit. Muthafucka, go engineer and inspect. Who the fuck are you anyway? MIND YOUR PAY GRADE!!!

I'm just saying, this nearly ubiquitous phrase from the early part of the decade has almost completely disappeared. I might have to bring that shit back.


Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Prince Paul Is Still A Genius

"I remember you! You was that De La Soul, Jungle Brothers, Native Tongue n*gga." - an acquaintance at the MSU Black Alumni picnic, 2007

When the group that defined your era, your passion and your pathos is being honored in a "Legends" setting, you're fucking old. At least that's how I felt at watching VH1 Hip Hop Honors show. I didn't even watch the whole thing, just the part with A Tribe Called Quest. That's all I needed to see. To watch Common (who I thought was a Tribe contemporary, really) and Lupe ("ATCQ never influenced me, even a tiny bit") Fiasco do their best to make me miss the genuine article, was miserable.

Make no bones about it, my favorite group was/is De La Soul with ATCQ a close second. Mind you, I believe that the Tribe made better music, but I believed that De La Soul set the table. Tribe just improved on the template.

When everybody and they mama thought gun-totin' was sexy, the Tribe was there, being who they were, the jazziest, dopest cats on the set. It was OK to be different, to be smart, to be aware.

I'm living in a world where people are trying to "out ignorant" each other. Every week there's a new winner.

There are remnants of the Native Tongue era everywhere, but nothing in a unified way. The neo-soul segment of R & B, The Roots, Slum Village, Lupe (though he refuses to acknowledge it), MF Doom, and of course Common who just dropped an amazing CD. Kanye? Not so much, though he tries to force a connection every chance he gets.

It's a bitch getting old.


Tuesday, October 09, 2007


I think in general that most people don't know what other people care about, the things that are important to them, even when they are told. Most people show or tell you what's important to them. If you get to know a person, you get to know the shit they hold dear. However, if you don't pay attention, that shit can pass you by.

For instance, if you wear a lot of makeup because you want to look good for your significant other and he tells you he likes you better without makeup, if you continue to wear makeup, you have to realize it's for you. He has told you plainly what he likes. So at that point, if you complain about the cost of makeup or the time you spend putting on makeup to make yourself look beautiful for him, you are at that point delusional or at the very least projecting your shit onto him.

Making an argument that you're doing X and Y for him isn't cutting it. You can stop doing it because it doesn't matter. At that point, you're going to have to admit that you're really doing whatever it is you're doing for yourself, to make YOU feel good.

It's a part of embracing one's true nature. It's OK to do shit to make your feel good or better than someone else if that's what your psyche needs. But to keep perpetuating you're doing this shit for some known (or unknown) entity is bullshit.

That's really all I got.


Monday, October 08, 2007

Pieces And Bits

Racial Profiling In the Digital Age
I got a request for an interview from this city in VA on Friday. They sent me a webcam via FedEx and asked that I do a video interview with them through this company called HireVue. I went to with the webcam attached, logged in using the special code they sent me, and I answered the questions they laid out for me. This way their cheap asses don't have to bring me to VA to interview and they can reject my Black ass, ensuring I'm Black by the video footage, and act like I had a fair shot just like everyone else. My stars and garters, this technology is more than a notion. At least I get to keep the webcam. Stay tuned for video blogs!!! (Or not).

Runnin' Trains
Fuck Amtrak. I was supposed to pick up TAD from the train station at 8:50 pm on Friday. The train came at 11:00 pm. Amtrak owes me 2 hours of sex and debauchery. I don't know how this quasi-governmental agency expects to pay me, but I want my shit, Africans. They held up her train for no good reason. This is the second time they've shortened my weekend and had her too tired to give up the goods on Friday. That's foul, Amtrak. Fuck y'all!

The Best Laid Plans
Me and TAD kinda tooled around West Michigan doing Dub shit, over in this artsy, uber gay community, window shopping and shit cuz we broke. We were going to this comedy show in Satan's Anus to see Tony Woods, who's kinda funny. But we got home, got lazy, started drinking and then we were no good to anyone.

Timbo Suit
I forgot about the site visit, and I'm wearing a suit. I gotta look at the specs laid out for a new road to be built in Satan's Anus and I forgot about it. I spent the morning trudging through a heavily forested area because the nearby residents are afraid that a new road will encroach on their ability to enjoy SOMEBODY ELSE'S FUCKING PRIVATE PROPERTY, PROPERTY THEY BOUGHT SPECIFICALLY TO BUILD UPON. But my boss asked me to go, and like a good indentured servant, I went. In my navy blue suit and Cole Haans. Priceless.

I'm out,

Friday, October 05, 2007

Everybody Has One

Sometimes assholes are easy to recognize. Sometimes they're speeding past you in a lane that's going to close soon and they'll try to get to the front of the pack instead of waiting. Other times they take four slices of an eight slice pizza you're sharing with friends and tell you they'll chip in later. Other times they're wearing a uniform and people call them "officer".

Sometimes they are harder to recognize, like when they inhabit your skin.

You can't recognize when you're being the asshole in a lot of cases. When you do recognize it, it's because you're purposefully doing it, it's out of spite and you wanna be the asshole. But there are a million other times that you, yes you, are an asshole of major proportions.

I know a woman that loves me. She's smart, she's beautiful, she's fun to be around, everything I ever wanted. But it's not enough. I can't let myself be happy. So I take it out on her.

My inability to be "OK" is making her miserable. My inability to accept love is causing her pain. And my only response is "Well, try harder. I'll know 'good enough' when I see it."

If I had a female friend that had a dude treating her like this, I'd tell her she should be moving on. But here I am, doing the same shit.

I'm making a promise to her and to myself that I will not be that dude. I refuse to not recognize assholish behavior. I will be better or leave her alone.


Thursday, October 04, 2007

Ad.ho M.ukha

About 4 weeks ago, I started this yoga class. Now I know what you're thinking, so fuck you. I took the class because I'd started this intense workout regimen and I wanted to not be sore after every workout. It was an opportunity to learn how to properly stretch and to meditate properly.

Anyway, I was apprehensive enough about it, knowing I'd be the only Black dude in the class and likely in Satan's Anus the only Black person. I was right. One thing I can tell you though: white women with small waists and big sista-like asses are drawn to yoga. At least in my beginner level class that seems to be the case.

A few of my associates know I'm going to this class, Bloopty being one of them. She says to me yesterday before class, "Do they make you do downward facing dog? It'd be funny to see your big ass doing downward facing dog." I told her they hadn't as of yet. Maybe they didn't cover it in beginning yoga. Boy was I wrong.

On the white board at the beginning of class, the yogi wrote "A.dho M.ukha S.vanasana", sat down in a comfortable, cross-legged seat, and proceeded to explain the meaning of each word. When she was done, I hung my head. Downward-facing dog position. Curse you, Bloopty!

How something that looks so simple, can end up so painful is beyond me. My pelvis aches, my lower abs hurt, and my wrists are sore. And it's undignified looking. Shit! Still I soldier on until I no longer feel like a painscicle.


Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Ten Things My Balls Can Do

10. Keep my lap warm in winter.

9. Distract attention from my minuscule pecker.

8. Imitate a peach pit.

7. Prevent me from being completely invincible.

6. Quietly hum inspirational songs.

5. Introduce the phrase "spherical miracles" into everyday use.

4. Act as a Remote Cozy.

3. Act as a Spoon Cleaner

2. Act as an Ass Stop.

1. Produce patented "pregnancy sauce".

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Kin.g of

Things I know that I know:
When people stop asking you for shit, they are getting it from another source. Pay fucking attention!!!!
Everybody gets more complacent and unwilling to change the older they get.
If you don't believe you're worth it, you won't be treated as such.

Things I didn't know I knew:
People tell you everything you need to know about them, within a few weeks, even when they don't say a word. Pay fucking attention!!!
People are brave in the stupidest ways.
Superstition still outpaces good sense and consideration.

Things I wish I knew:
How do I get what I want from what I got?
How much is enough?
How close am I to getting what I want?
What else do I have to do?
Is this the best I can do?
Why am I waiting for the shit I want when I can get it if I really want it?

Things I used to know:
You can't trust THEM, no matter how cool you think they are.
Don't trust anybody, actually.
Marriage ain't magic.
I always deserve better than I'm getting.
Mediation reveals.
There's always another store open.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Ergo, You Suck

A.K.A. The Hater Post

I've written about this before, and I'm sure to write about it again, but jealousy is overrated. People, especially that 18-34 demographic, are vastly overestimating their importance to everybody else. Get over yourself, y'all. The reason so many people hate you isn't because they wanna be you. They hate you because you're not a likable person.

You are a horrible, horrible person to be around. You brag about shit that's not brag-worthy. You don't read, you don't have a greater understanding of any subject, yet you're a fucking expert on everything. You're not that interesting, yet you talk non-stop. You're pretty fuckin' obnoxious. You make fun of the less fortunate. You are not a giving person. You complain non-stop.

All in all, you need to stop talking about "all these haters, hatin' on me and shit". The hate Africans have for you is not unfounded. I'm sick of the word "hater" the concept of "haterism" and the overall overuse of the words used to make yourself feel better about any critical assessment of your behavior.

In other words, get over yourself. Go have a drink and sit the fuck down somewhere. Asshole.


Thursday, September 27, 2007

Bad Poetry Day

Second Sun

Oh how I love the warm glow of that giant yellow orb.
I bask in it and I breathlessly await
the for the next time my planet rotates
and I see it again.

Everything's peachy when I can
look above my head
and it beams down on me
so that I may taste
the liquid rays of sunshine.

It is never too hot to touch
or very far from my thoughts.
I will always be close to it
if I can help it.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Gerund and Associated Name Show

I'm trying to submit some ideas for a new hit show for next fall's TV season. I've noticed a winning pattern that might just get me over conceptually. Let me know what you think.

Sucking Cox
Leonard Cox is a supervisor at a vacuum factory. One day in a freak machine accident, the vacuum parts get embedded in to Leonard's DNA. He becomes a living breathing dustbuster, helping police clean up crime scenes as well as gathering evidence.

Scratching Balz
It's party time in Miami and no one knows that better than Jacob Balz, the mixmaster extraordinare. He's the hottest DJ in the hottest club on South Beach. DJ Balz weaves his magic and affects the lives of the partygoers. Watch as a different all star cast drops by the club every week and watch the love, laughter and drama unfold.

Eating Coochie
He doesn't wait until the Fourth of July at Coney Island. Alphonse "Coochie" Curtis is in an eating contest every day of his life. He has a rare genetic disorder that makes him have to consume 5000 calories a day just to sustain his 130 lb body. How does Coochie find love and happiness in between bites? Tune in to find out.

Wondering Aloud
Wouldn't it be great to ponder life's big mysteries and get paid for it? That how Ahmir Aloud spends his time. This philosopher is responsible for keeping his clients grounded in realities of everyday life. His clients? The rich and famous beautiful people of Beverly Hills. Aloud and his sidekick Patience Virtue go from one zany situation to the next, leaving happier, deeper people in their wake.

Wasting Thyme
Eric Thyme runs New York City's sanitation division on Staten Island. He keeps the men and women who pilot his garbage scows in ship-shape, all the while wisecracking his way through the days of mind-numbing boredom.

I forgot the original one I wanted to use.

Frying Bologna
Life throws all of us curveballs, and Constantine Bologna is no different. After 30 years of manning the switch on the electric chair at San Quentin, Connie is downsized. He pursues his lifelong dream of owning a diner and the oddballs come out of the woodwork. Watch as Connie cooks up the laughs while serving up the fun on Frying Bologna.

Be Easy,

Monday, September 24, 2007


When I was a kid, I was inexplicably a huge fan of the HBO "comedy" show, Not Necessarily The News. NNTN was not very funny. In fact, it was pretty corny. But there was this one segment that always stuck with me, "Sniglets". Sniglets were made up words, according to the orginator, Rich Hall, that were used for things not in the dictionary but that we all had a common experience with. They were cute little words. Nothing "LOL" about them, but cute nonetheless.

I've been thinking about things that are commonplace in the African American community, but we don't give it a name per se, words that I call Niglets. I've tried to create a few.

Sibfrog - The child in-between two siblings with the same father that has a different daddy.

Merchmash - An asswhuppin' given to a child by a parent in a store or market, presumably after the child has continued to ask to be bought something.

Polemaid - The stripper cousin your wife had stand up with her at your wedding.

Founditure - Interior decorating done via booster.

Tithette - Your pastor's mistress/fuck buddy.

Evangicrush - Your favorite celebrity pastor.

Fratality/Sororloser - That dude/chick that dropped out or got kicked out of school right after they pledged.

Storker - Your girlfriend's baby daddy that won't stop trying to get back with her.

Flambroyant - Your gay brother.

I'm still thinking of shit. Please comment with your niglet if you got one.

Be Cool,

Thursday, September 20, 2007

If The Papes Come...

No real reason for the title of this post. Just a reference to one of my all time favorite B-sides (for y'all that remember 45s and "cassingles") from A Trib.e Ca.lled Q.uest. I fuckin' love that song.

Anyway, this post is a retraction. I fucked up. I didn't listen well. I let subtlety overwhelm me and I did not listen well.

I stand by my assertion that the lyrics are the worst ever. The abuse of poetic license, and shit like rhyming a word WITH ITSELF SEVERAL TIMES OVER is unforgivable. But that fucking Kanye CD is a BEAST.

It snuck up on me but I was listening and it hit me. Just like the third time I listened to "Fantastic, Volume 2" by Slu.m Vil.lage. I couldn't see what the fuckin' big deal was and then I hit the track that was the epitome of the whole CD and I saw. I fuckin' see!!!

"Flashing Lights" reminded me of a Dilla track. It's really some electronica shit disguised as hip hop. It's really a Detroit thing, evidenced by the guest vocalist on the track, Dwele. On my third listen, I heard genius. It allowed me to listen to the whole thing again, carefully, with fresh ears.

"Can't Tell Me Nothin'" is another masterwork. It's all good (except "Big Brother" which is so pathetic it's not to be listened to) good music.

Now if he would just shut the fuck up, learn to rhyme or say something that's not so fuckin' whiny. I refuse to listen to underdog talk from a highly sought after millionaire. Go swallow a half gallon of semen.

Be Cool,

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

What The Fuck Ever

I'm frustrated as hell. I can't sleep. I'm highly irritated.

I'm irritated about work. I'm irritated about my life. I'm irritated that I can't see getting my dick sucked in the near future. I'm irritated that bitches keep calling me asking if I want them to suck my dick.

The shit that used to give me pleasure doesn't anymore. I'm sick of music or at least I'm bored with it. Sex is not doing it for me, and I used to love sex. I can't smoke Djarums. If I drink alone, I'll become an alcoholic.

I can't sleep. I'm managing money poorly. I'm eating shit that's good for me, but it tastes like shit. I'd like to pick a fistfight with my boss.

I'm bored with the internet. Reading in general, really. I'm sick of these corny hicks, of all stripes, in this corny ass burg.

Just a few short weeks ago, I felt like I was on top of the world. Now? I just wanna be done. Done with something. Finished with this job. Finished with mediocrity. Finished with arbitrary parameters that have nothing to do with nothing.

I'm just basically fucking EXTRAORDINARILY irritated.


Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Got Me

There used to be a standard that I could count on. In my late teens, early twenties, I had an insatiable appetite for hip-hop. I couldn't wait to buy a jeep/truck and bang out instead of driving around in the latest piece of shit my parents bought for me. I wanted to rock the block with my good taste in music.

I bought most music UNHEARD. I bought on recommendations by The Source. If they gave a release 3.5 to 5 mics, it was a wrap. I copped the CD. Without the internet as a guide, I just worked on the positive buzz and word of mouth.

I bought 2 CDs I vividly remember because of clever marketing campaigns, A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing and Cypress Hill. I hadn't even read reviews, I just liked their ads. I bought 'em because of bullshit hype, but the hype paid off. I loved both of those CDs dearly.

This weekend I bought Kanye West's latest CD. I hadn't heard a single, but he has a track record that can't be beat. His lyrics were mediocre but his beats were amazing. I knew what I was getting. Then, I got the unexpected.

His lyrics are quite possibly the worst shit ever magnetized to tape. I know he thought of some of those lines and thought "Aren't I clever?" I can tell he saved 'em up for his CD and didn't use 'em on guest appearances. Not only that, the beat quality has diminished. The beats are half-azzed, the hooks are wack. It's pretty poor product.

But at least the CD makes me feel young again. I got reeled in by a clever marketing campaign. It's almost like I'm 20 again.

Be Cool,

Monday, September 17, 2007

I Don't Watch Awards Shows....

...but I caught wind of something this morning that got my goat. **sidenote: Somebody betta bring back my motherfuckin' goat. I'm from the Eastside of Detroit, bitch!** It seems that during her Emmy acceptance speech, Sally Field took to making some anti war remarks, saying something to the effect of "If women ran the world there would be no wars..."

I've read in several places where people are mad about Sally on her soapbox. Actually, I think there are too few places for real discourse to take place. Conservatives run the media, so we have the creative community trying to fill the void where true thinkers, competent spokespeople, that are anti-war don't get their chance to shine. In short, actors are idiots and rarely make their points well, unless written by somebody else. So I agree that Sally probably shouldn't have been on her soapbox, but her heart was in the right place.

That being said, she still perpetuated the myth that if women ran the world there would be no wars. It's utter bullshit. Women are fucking mean. They will fight in a second. Men, as they age, lose that urge. The most belligerent man in his youth will calm down to some degree. Women ain't having it. Most women I know will argue and beef at a moment's notice. I think the war would come QUICKER with a woman in charge. I think that a perceived slight might make it rain nuclear bombs. I think a bitch wearing the same dress at a State event will cause an international incident. I do not ever, ever wanna hear that insane bullshit about if women ran the world there would be no war shit. Let a man try to talk a woman hell bent on revenge out of taking revenge. She'll question his manhood, the size of his dick and his lineage.

That's really all I got.


Friday, September 14, 2007

When Keepin' It Wrong Goes Real

Hey y'all, I've been slacking. I have a story I've been meaning to tell y'all for a few weeks, but somehow I kept pushing it to the back burner.

I got an email from one of Batshit's girls, one that I met a couple of years ago, telling me she was getting married soon. She lives in ATL where Batshit lives now too. So, when I got the email, I figured she was finally about to marry the dude she was bitchin' about when I met her. She was complaining about him not "shitting or getting off the pot".

I was happy for her when I got the email. A couple of weeks later, Batshit called and I asked if she was going to be in the wedding. She told me "You late. She got married a week ago." I was like "Damn, that was swift. I just got the email. I guess ol' dude finally got his act together." She said "Ol' dude? What ol' dude? This is a new dude." I was surprised but not a lot, I guess. She had been complaining about the other dude and it had been almost two years since she'd been bitching about him.

"How long has she been with this new dude?" "About a month an a half."

So my mind is reeling. "She's only been with this dude a month and a half and they've been MARRIED for two weeks now?" Batshit affirmed my question.

"How the fuck did this happen?"

"Well, it's sorta my fault..." she started. "Shauna picked me up from the airport one day and she was depressed. We went to Red Lobster for lunch afterwards and she was just down in the dumps. This couple walked in and sat near us. I walked up to the table, introduced myself, told them my friend was depressed and if they knew any single guys. The man immediately pulled out his phone and called his boy. His boy and Shauna talked on the phone right then and there. They made plans to meet and the rest is history."

And it started to make sense, in an illogical Batshit sort of way. This story is a typical Batshit scenario. She'll take a perfectly private situation, and make that shit public to your chagrin. But this time it backfired. Because now her best friend is married to a dude she not only doesn't like much, but doesn't trust.

"The thing that gets me is Shauna has three daughters, and she just moved this stranger in. Just like that!"

"Have you learned your damn lesson about doing shit like that all the time?"

"I just hope that whatever happens happens quickly. Whether or not it's gonna work, I hope the sign comes sooner rather than later."


Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Be A Groupie...'s only natural.

I've spent a great deal of my life deriding groupies and groupie like behavior, like sweatin' some dude/chick that wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. I've always been on a "fuck-a-bitch" thing, so it's hard to watch somebody sublimate their own inate greatness swinging on somebody's jock/bra strap. But I'm getting over it.

I think it might be healthy to be under the impression that a famous person might fuck you out of pity or desperation. It's a boost to the self esteem to completely make an ass of yourself and volunteer for "cum-bucket" duty. I think I've gotten this groupie thing all wrong.

You know what else? I think it's a positive thing to let the person you're with no you have no self respect if the object of your affection is really, really attractive. And famous. I mean, your mate is alright, but they're not REALLY, REALLY attractive, nor do they make a lot of money, nor does anybody wanna take their picture. They are thusly undeserving of things like your full attention or common courtesy. Don't give they lame asses shit!

Fuck what anybody else says. Just take solace in the fact that you have good taste. You (and millions of others) have bestowed the "hot" label on your crush, meaning that they have their narcissism validated and you have someone you can look at well into your old age, when your mate is wiping your ass and feeding you pudding.

Be a fucking groupie. It's what makes this country great.


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Mind Games

Anybody that knows me knows that I hate almost everything. There is very little that brings actual joy to my life. It makes for a pretty miserable existence, but it's all I have.

I wanna try self-delusion. I want to immerse myself in it, to BE deluded. I'm not just saying this shit, I mean it.

I abhor small talk. Yet everytime I walk into the restroom, or a conference room, or just down the hall, I'm inundated with mundane, uninteresting conversation. If I could adapt my mind to want it, covet it, and absorb small talk, I'd be happier.

Then again, like everything else that I love, it would probably elude me if I really wanted it. If I craved small talk, I'd never get it. It would another one of those things (like more money, blowjobs, a career I like, etc.) that I just can't seem to get. But that could be a strategy, too.

If I actually desired getting hit on by trailer park chicks, being underpaid and overqualified, being asked overfamiliar favors by people I barely know, being told too much information by strangers and taking horses to water and trying to make them drink (a.k.a. supervising staff), then I could avoid them altogether. They'd pass me the fuck by.

It would be one huge mind game with the universe.

Be Easy,

Monday, September 10, 2007

Advice From A Drunk Uncle

If you are in a relationship that's not quite right, a stronger commitment will make it SO MUCH WORSE.

If you are dissatisfied and a person tells you "After we're married, things will change", you might as well leave right now. Go get the shit you want from somewhere else. People don't act fuckin' better when they're married.

Marriage is the absolute worse institution in which to try to make things right after the fact. People let themselves go, become more obstinate, and generally don't give a fuck. There's no incentive. What's the punishment for fucking up? Being ALLOWED to be single again? HUR-muthafuckin'-RAY!!!

Communication is the key. Talk to people so that they can specifically identify why they hate you so much. Don't be vague. Speak your mind. Don't let people hate you for the wrong reasons.

If you are going to be in a committed relationship, please don't delude yourself. You settled. The chick/dude you really liked is with someone else. "The one that got away" got away from your mate too. Stop frontin', cozy up with your eighth choice, and make some stupid, marginal babies.

Borrowed pussy is better than bought pussy. Bought pussy is better than stolen pussy. I guess this goes for dick, too, though I have no idea why you'd have to buy dick.

Sanity is a special thing. Those that don't have it, don't know it.

Be Safe,

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Things The Clipse Taught Me

You have no idea the about the work ethic of our youth. You think you do, but you have no idea.

I'm late to the party. I bought both these CDs by the Clipse earlier this year. I'd heard a single here and there, but I didn't realize what I'd gotten myself into when I got 'em free (kinda) from the BMG music club.

First off, fuck all y'all readin', because y'all skeptics. I'm sure you don't believe that these two young men from Virginia don't sell crack every day of their lives and have been since the age of 10. If you don't believe that, kiss my ass.

These guys live and breathe the crack game. Yeah, they rap a little. Spend hours in the studio and shit, and have beautifully clever lyrics that paint vivid pictures of street hustlin'. But that's just a footnote on what really makes 'em money. They cook game is tight! Them boys run corners! A lot of cats talk about selling crack, but most of 'em are lyin'. These cats love the crack game so much, they get offended when other dudes ain't slangin ' right. They are disgusted with dudes that don't work hard at selling crack, like it's some kinda game or something.

Personally, I'm with them. If you not gon' be serious about sellin' dope, get out the way, so a real cat can put in work.

This rap game is about laundering your money. Yeah, touring is nice, visiting other countries and shit, but that's only good to expand your client base. As they say "Keys (Kilos) Open Doors" You have the perfect cover to sell crack. I'm a rapper that talks about selling crack. But we all know I can't be selling crack, because I'm out here rappin'. **WINK** These guys are geniuses!!!

They are truly invested in the lifestyle. I certainly hope no one takes them at their words and investigates their business dealings to see the legitimacy of it. It would be embarrassing if it were found that all this illegality that they maintain is TRUE!!!!

Or if it weren't.


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

As I Drift Off To Sleep...

I hope I don't die in my sleep. My porn collection is brutal. I think my mother would have to disown me once she saw it. Can I will that shit to somebody? I'll let Three be the executor of my will and just leave him the good porn. I'll send the amateur porn to the Smithsonian.

Who's pussy smells the worst? I'll bet it's Amy Winehouse's shit. Or Courteney Love. Nah, fuck that! Britney's gotta have a pussy like an Roman catacomb. It's probably New York from Flavor of Love. It looks like her breath AND pussy stank.

I could really use a Whopper. I haven't eaten beef in 13 years, but a Whopper would hit the spot. Why not? I mean, hell, it's not like it's against my religion or something. It's just a choice I made. BK is right up the street. I bet I could just go in pajamas, right up to the drive thru window. My pajamas ain't got no pockets. Where would I put the money? Plus, I'm pretty tired. Man, fuck it.

I hope this is just a general itch and not something catchy. Wow, scratching is the best thing ever invented. I think I'll just rest my hand down here.

I really should change these sheets. What the fuck have I been thinking?

I gotta meet with this bastard first thing in the morning. I gotta make up a progress report. I haven't done shit in weeks. I'm pretty quick on my feet. I hate this asshole. Fuckin' milkfaced coward.

Harry Dean Stanton! That's his fuckin' name. Harry muthafuckin' Dean muthafuckin' Stanton!

Who the fuck is calling me? My dick don't reach to Texas. Why are you calling me at 1:30?

"Now there she goes again the dopest Ethiopian and now the world around me begins movin' in slow motion..."

I could still make a demo. I'm not that old. I still got it. Maybe. Shit.



Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Who Knows?

I guess I should post about this since I mentioned it. I went to Western North Carolina last week for a job interview. It was interesting.

First off, the city I was in is beautiful. Breathtaking views and all that. It's a growing city, which can't really be said for anyplace in old, industrial Michigan. It's a blue oasis in a desert of red. The people are friendly and the city government is high functioning.

In a nutshell, it's still Satan's Anus with money. The citizens are still pebbles in a muthafucka's shoe, staff is still self important and lacking introspection, and the other directors are still well meaning and condescending liberal jackasses.

They flew me in the day before the interview and got me a rental car. It surprised me because municipalities are notoriously cheap. They do the bare minimum to interview you, in a lot of instances asking you to share costs as a goodwill gesture, which is really bullshit. I had an opportunity to drive around and see the city. It's beautiful in a ridiculous, "God-chose-me" kind of way. Mountainous and heavily forested. I'm not really a nature dude, but I was impressed.

The day of the interview was full. From 8 am to 2 pm, there was a tour of the city given by my would be deputy director (who does NOT want the director gig), a formal interview, then a presentation to the other department directors acting as residents. That was the dicey part. I had to prepare and present a Powerpoint on development in mountainous regions. I've been working in urban Michigan since '94. What the fuck do I know about mountains? They loved the Powerpoint regardless. My background in number crunching helped me in mind-numbing presenting stats in a user-friendly way. They actually asked if they could use my graphs in the ordinance. Nothing's free, y'all!!!

Afterwards, I went to lunch with 3 of the city's department directors. They were trying to sell me on the city. It wouldn't take much, except for the right amount of money. Money and finding my chick a job near me. LOL.

Be Cool,

Friday, August 31, 2007

Conversation With A Stripper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

We agreed to $50, right?


Monday, August 27, 2007

Open Your Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Good,

Thursday, August 23, 2007

The Vegetarian Post

Or "No More Meet"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay Bitter,