Thursday, January 31, 2008

Allow Me To Fuck Your Wife

Please, allow me to fuck your wife. It's O.K., trust me. I'll be gentle. Ahhh, this is beautiful. So wet, so tight. Your wife is the greatest. What a sport!

Allow me to buss all over your satin sheets. I apologize, kind sir. It could not be helped. I could not hold it any longer. Your wife is greatly skilled and caused a great unrest in my ball sac.

Allow me to wear your robe and lounge in post-coital splendor in your favorite chair. Perhaps you or your wife could provide a cold beverage for me to drink. I became quite parched fucking the love of your life.

Wow, what a nice wardrobe your have. Is this suit bespoke? I believe it might fit me, regardless. We look to be the same size. Would you look at this...fits like a glove.

Sir, would you be so kind as to allow me to piss on your kitchen floor? What do you mean I'm going too far? Sir, you have allowed me to partake in all of the pleasures within the walls of your house. How could you deny me this little indulgence? it too late, sir. I have already begun to evacuate my bladder. I hope you can forgive me, for in some cases it is better to ask forgiveness than permission.

The scenario you just read is a dramatic interpretation of the tenure of Kwame M. Kilpatrick as Mayor of Detroit. Thanks, motherfucker.


Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Fat White Women From Wisconsin Are Ruining The Movies

She's a high powered [insert profession that middle America conceives as "high powered"] who's been unlucky in love. She's dating a man in her same profession, likely at the same firm/hospital/foundation at which she works. The match is one of convenience. She's not really fulfilled, but fuck it, he's good looking as all get out.

The plot contrivance includes a situation where this polished professional woman needs the assistance of this grubby, unkempt ne'er do well. He's nothing like the man in her life. He infuriates her. She wants nothing to do with him. The sooner she's done dealing with him the better.

But they keep running into one another. Seems he's the only guy who can do what she needs done. He's like a genius in his field. The one time he runs into her guy, her guy takes an immediate dislike to him and berates his lack of education and panache in an aside to her. But that doesn't abate her growing fascination with this grubby interloper.

She's at a society function at an art gallery. Who shows up? Mr. Grubby himself. It turns out he's the hot artist that they're featuring. It also turns out that he's just doing whatever gig he's doing to support his painting. He has a degree from HARVARD (it's always an Ivy League degree) in law/finance/cunnilingus but he doesn't want to do that professionally, it would take away from his art.

Mr. Grubby has a soul and smarts. It's just what she's been missing and she starts to fall for him.

Mr. Polished, her dude finds out and starts looking for dirt on Mr. Grubby.

He finds the dirt and yells it out the secret when he finds them together in a public place, probably waving around the papers with proof of the dirt on them. Mr. Grubby punches Mr. Polished. He falls into a body of water and Mr. Grubby stalks off, leaving her behind confused and upset.

She has a crisis of conscience. Upset by the dirt that was revealed, she doesn't want to believe it's true. She finds Mr. Grubby at his artist's studio getting ready for his next showing. He confirms the dirt is true and tells her to move on and be happy with Mr. Polished. She reluctantly does so.
When she's ready to take that big step and settle for life with a handsome, rich, basically decent dude, Mr. Grubby shows up, does some sort of asshole move and steals her away from Mr. Polished. They kiss. The end.

I just wrote down the synopsis of every romantic comedy ever written. I don't ever want to see one again. Women, don't let them shove this shit down your throats again. Rebel. Stop going. Make them treat you better. The writers of these movies are the proverbial "Mr. Polished". Check out "Mr. Grubby" and see if he doesn't suit you better. This bullshit has got to cease.

Be Cool,

Monday, January 28, 2008

Quite Frankly...

I'm on some "Fuck the Clintons" shit. Fuck 'em both. Fuck 'em often. Right in the asshole. They let me go from completely neutral (All politicians are scum. Yes, even your boy.) to a rage-a-holic every time of think of this bullshit they keep trying to pull. I'm done with every dub running for any office on any level. It reminds of of that skit from Ice Cube's CD ("Here's what they think of you...")

Ay, is it wrong to go through a woman's hamper, steal her underwear and sniff them while masterbating even after you've given her an engagement ring? It's just a hypothetical question.

I'm in the midst of packing my shit. I've been on a month to month basis for about 6 months now, waiting to muthafucking GO as soon as I find another gig. So my apartment complex decided to extort me. I either sign a lease or my month to month rent gets raised by $140. If I sign a lease and have to leave before it's over, I owe THE REMAINDER OF THE LEASE. These bastards are crazy. So, I'm fucking packing. I'm literally moving across the street. In the middle of winter.

That's all,

Friday, January 25, 2008

Thursday, January 24, 2008

The People

Working for the people is overrated. Being down with the people is overrated. Calling oneself "a man of the people" is declaring oneself a misinformed idiot.

The people treat shit they see on TV as a fact and won't read for shit. These muthafuckas won't even watch a subtitled movie.

The people are delusional. They are largely unwashed except for their brains which are conveniently washed and fried for them by Viacom.

Giving power to the people means that you will have a superstitious undereducated buffoon, backboneless corporate lackey, or a vacillating dick-kisser for your leader.

The people demand answers, even though the people don't understand the questions being asked.

Most people talk a good game, but can't back that shit up. Scratch that. Most people don't talk a good game.

The most pressing question on most people's minds is "Who is [insert celebutard] fucking now?"

The people fucking make me sick. Fuck the people.


Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Mr. Softie-Pants

So I got back from lunch, ready to get down to the nitty gritty of my daily grind (i.e. surf the web), when I noticed I had a voicemail message.

When I played it, it was from one of those know-it-all community group leaders. This bitch ass bastard called me to ask about something going on in his neighborhood. I know to some of these muthafucka, I'm like a catch-all, but this is specifically a stormwater issue and I don't deal in them. He also piggybacked another question about a development several miles from his neighborhood and wondered how it would affect them. It won't affect them at all, but he's a nosy little bitch, so I gotta update him on that shit.

Why do I despise this cat so much? It seems like he might have some good questions and they might be misdirected. I hate him because he is officially the worst kind of man to me. This cat has a hyphenated last name. He took his wife's last name and he's hyphenated. They both are.

He gets less, just a little less, ire than the other cat I met with last year. He had a last name that opens doors in this community, so people were anxious when he came to meet with me last year. They talked about how well regarded his father was and all this other shit I didn't care about. So when we started talking, I mentioned that I was told his father was a pillar of the community. He went on to tell me that the dude wasn't his father, but his father-in-law. He took his wife's (long assed unpronounceable German) last name so that he could immerse himself in her culture. Just like that the meeting was over. At least in my head it was. Anything he said no longer counted.

Seriously, fuck these dudes.


Why Didn't She Just Fly To Boston?

This broad pretty much sets her own schedule, so why didn't Gisele just fly to Boston and hang out with Tom Brady instead of him flying to NYC? Because it's a scam.

They need gullible motherfuckers in NY and other places to make this shit interesting. By "they" I mean the underworld, the mob, the "gambling interests" in Las Vegas. Even by giving The Giants 14 points, they're aren't enough takers on the Super Bowl. That's the kind of lock that New England is to win this thing. I believe the NFL is corrupt enough (Belichick is DEFINITELY that corrupt on his own) and so beholden to the betting that makes it America's premier sports league that they'd collude to make this "injury" public knowledge.

I'm not the type of muthafucka that's never seen a conspiracy theory he didn't like, but this shit is too fucking abnormal. A "genius" like Belichick never lets out information that gives the other side an advantage and his hold on his players is amazing. So, I call bullshit on this bullshit.


Monday, January 21, 2008

I'm Here Because Somebody's Got To Be

I miss S.E. Michigan for one reason and one reason besides TAD only, and that's EVERYBODY GETS MLK DAY OFF. That's just the way it is.

I'm at work because I got the shit-eye from our black female "second in command" in the city, Hannibalette, for taking MLK day off last year. Everybody (in management) participates in The M.LK D.ay of Se.rvice where we volunteer in the community while the city gets the credit. The one thing that bothers me about this is I already volunteer my time on a regular basis as a mentor. So being made to volunteer as a way to celebrate one of my "heroes" seems like a bullshit way to get credit for being sensitive to MLK's way of thinking without putting your money where your mouth is, i.e. paying for employees to have a day off to do our own fetes of the man.

So I'm at work waiting to go paint some group home in the community, which I guess has something to do with MLK because of his extensive work in group homes. What? He didn't?

Anyway, back to something I understand a little bit about. The NY Giants defeated the GB Packers in an exciting football game last evening. Which means only half my dream came true. So now I only have to listen to football commentators fellate one high profile quarterback for the next two weeks instead of two. Thanks, Mr. Favre!!! You choked splendidly.

Be Safe,

Thursday, January 17, 2008


Black and Decker. Geniuses. If I could only get the nerve up to start the drill and raise it to my skull and let nature take it's course, allowing the precious brain fluid spill out onto my shoulder.

It's 9:58. I've been here two minutes less than two hours. It's incredible. I'm so fucking bored. I can't leave. I'm tethered to my desk. The union has filed grievance after grievance about us asking employees not to threaten their supervisors, so HR, as clueless as they are, is calling every six seconds to ask stupid questions. "Now what exactly did Morris tell Tony to suck?"

This is how muthafuckas get fat. All I wanna do is eat and I'm not even hungry. I just want something to do.

My assistant called in sick today. He shoulda just called in "interview", cuz I know that's what he's doing. Shit, if I was him, I would be too. He's a beggin' ass partial skill having whiny bitch. I wish him nothing but the worst.

I can't wait until I'm married. Getting waited on hand and foot, sex anytime I want it, getting cooked the finest gourmet meals, having my feet scrubbed on demand. Marriage is grand.

The best thing in my life right now is coffee, as sad as that shit is. This Su.matra shit is the cat's meow. I'm almost out of it, but I'm savoring the last vestiges of it.

Allison, put the fucking blog back up.

There was this dude on A.merican Id.ol last night with a charm on his necklace and his father wore the matching piece of the interlocking charm. Apparently, he's going to give the woman he marries the piece that his father currently wears. He also has never kissed a girl and is waiting until he's married. His father fucks him in the ass nightly, I'm sure of it. The authorities have been alerted, sir!

It's still fucking snowing. Unbelievable.

Stay Warm,

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

You Don't Know Shit

This ungodly snow. This lake that people are so fond of is making my life unbearable. Lake effect snow? For real? There is no stopping. It's been snowing, intermittently heavy and light, since Saturday.

The sky is gray. Always. The sun only comes out when it's on its way down.

It's dark every morning as I drive to work and every evening as I drive home. And it keeps on snowing.

Every day at work a new staff person wants to re-negotiate his salary. If this was Detroit, I'd tell 'em they make what they make and if they don't like it, leave. But it's Satan's Anus. They are a softer people. You gotta Splenda-coat your "fuck you"s.

Today is still better than yesterday. And tomorrow will be even better.

Now if I could just hear from some prospective employers.

Stay Focused,

Monday, January 14, 2008

The Racket

I swear on a stack of bibles I'd never heard of "engagement pictures" in my life. Not ever. Not once. But it seems that that's part and parcel of getting married. It's like not buying an engagement ring. "What? Y'all ain't got engagement pictures? What the fuck...?" I'd never heard of 'em, but it's "necessary". I guess all these pictures are for when I have Alzheimer's and can't remember why I'm sleeping next to this strange woman. Currently I'm not at the stage that a wistful pic of my shoe as I'm waiting at the alter is worth $2,000 bucks. Maybe I'm just not a romantic.

Photographers are just the tip of the iceberg. The jewelry industry, caterers, bakers, rental halls, etc., are all in this shit up to their necks. If you wanna prove you love somebody, you fucking better be prepared to go broke. If I want a funky ass 3 tier cake for my own consumption, it'll run me about 1/8 the cost of a "wedding" cake. If I wanted to rent a hall for a retirement party, it would cost me less than half than a wedding reception. And these bastards want to include a "cake cutting" charge. I wonder if I could get a deal if I called it a "bachelor retirement party"?

Just like the jewelers who made my life a living hell from September to December of 2007, I'm being not so subtly accused by everybody in the wedding business of being less committed if I want to live like a human being and actually possess currency after my nuptials. The thing is these same muthafuckas got a lot of women brainwashed.

If a cat goes into a lot of debt to make this one day perfect, he's doing your FAMILY an injustice. By family I mean, you and him AFTER the wedding. That debt he incurs in y'all debt, regardless of how you look at it. Even if he pays for it himself, that's less income the family as a whole has to save or spend. But people who don't know you, don't necessarily like you, or look out for your best interests get into your ear and spit shit about the necessity of platinum weaved tablecloths to demonstrate your undying love for one another.

You can call me cheap if you want to, I really don't give a fuck. I think it's about two people committing to each other for life. If y'all think all that other shit really matters in the big scheme of things, maybe you need to look at your values.

Be Easy,

Thursday, January 10, 2008

The Proof That Size Matters

I came into work today thoroughly irritated. I finally fell asleep around 2 am, and my alarm clock going off at 6:30 am just set me off. I could barely stay awake. I felt like calling in sick, but I had a gang of meetings, including one at 8:30 am. If I had my druthers (that's right, druthers, muthafucka!!!), there would never be meetings before noon or after 2 pm. Or during lunch. So what's that? An hour window? That sounds about right.

When I parked my car, the stanky flatulent man who doesn't wash his hands was getting dropped off by his wife. I quickened my step. I didn't wanna get stopped by her and invited to their house for dinner again. Plus, she's one of those people with a fat tongue. You know, they always look like they're half smiling because their mouths are always kinda hanging over. And it makes her enunciate like Biz Markie. I abhor talking to that chick. I always wait for her to break out into a beat-box.

I went to a meeting today on regional transportation. There were about 25 people sitting around a big table. One of the engineers, from M.DOT, starting digging up his nose. Not a little discreet pick, mind you, but his whole digit shoved up his nostril and moving around. Ol' school digging for gold. Disgusting, right? You ain't heard the half. This nasty bastard pulled his finger out of his nose, looked at what he wrought, and ATE IT. I know what you're thinking. I'm not lying nor am I exaggerating. After he ate it, he put his finger up his nose again and REPEATED SAID ACTION. Right hand up to G-d.

After that meeting, I got a call from this Executive search firm, vetting me for this position in Miami. I don't necessarily want the position, but I'm pretty much applying for everything that's halfway decent. Anyway, we go step by step through my extensive resume and she's impressed. She loves it. But, she tells me, she's concerned because Miami-Dade is so large and Satan's Anus is so small. I agreed, but I told her that Detroit is much bigger than Miami-Dade and I played a major role there. Who knows how it turns out, I just kinda want to bounce from this scene. I'm not sold or hurricane alley though. We'll see.

Be cool,

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Can They Smell It?

When I was 19 years old, my girlfriend hit me in the head with a golf club. I don't play golf, but unfortunately, my roommate Hutty did. So when I, as an arrogant undergrad without any apparent reason to be arrogant, decided to tell my girlfriend that hanging out with her girls all the time made her "look like a hoe like (her) mama", she decided to hit me with a club and run.

I grabbed the back of my head and got a sick feeling at how wet my hand got. I ran after her. I was going to beat the fuck out of this woman. There was no doubt in my mind, I was about to put my foot in her ass without remorse.

Just as I caught her, right outside of my dormitory, the campus police were driving by. They slowed down and turned on their sirens just as I reached her, clutching her arm and leaving a bloody handprint.

"Ma'am are you o.k.?" She looked over at me smirking. I looked at her terrified. She had me where she wanted me. I was going to jail.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The police drove away slowly, looking in their rearview.

A year later I proposed to her. My first time. We thought better of it after a while and eventually went our separate ways.

Today I got a call from my secretary. "There's a Tigress Woods on the phone for you." Tigress? Really? That's insane.

"Hello?" "Hey Boot, are you busy?" Boot. I hadn't heard that shit in almost 15 years.

"Tigress? What's up? What's going on with you? How'd you find me?" Google. That damn Google. You can't outrun Google.

She gave me the rundown. Two kids, newly single, living in Northern California, teaching school. I gave her my little 15 year synopsis. Yeah, I was married. No I'm not anymore, but I will be again soon.

She reminded me of a promise we made to each other when we broke up back then. That we'd call each other if we'd ever gotten married and were newly single to see what was up with the other person, to see if there was still that spark there.

Of course I'd forgotten about that shit up until she reminded me. I sincerely meant that at the time, but fuck, we all say and REALLY mean stupid shit when we're young. Like telling her she was a hoe like her mama.

She was sorry she'd "just missed me" in her estimation. And we continued to catch up on small talk.

This isn't the first time in the past few months that I've gotten these "out of the blue" phone calls. They seem to be increasing in frequency. That's a helluva way to start a morning.


Monday, January 07, 2008

Pretty Gun Talk

Best pic of the ring yet. Finally!

Hey y'all! I know I been slackin' on the blog, but I really ain't got shit to write about for the "real" world. Still working the combinations to the wedding lock. TAD's still doing her damnedest to plan something beautiful and fly without putting us in the poor house. I'm still trying to help, even though it's a long distance situation and all I can really do is offer support. I can't do much of the legwork. Aside from the wedding shit, which will be taking up my conscience (both sub and super) for the next several months, I don't have much shit on my mind.

I'm still job hunting like a beast. I'm dying on this tip. This one city in North Caro.lina just this past Friday offered me a much lesser gig for less than I'm making now. The gig I interviewed for is back up for consideration. They didn't hire anyone for it, but now they wanna hire me for that position's back up. Muthafucka right! My resume is floating around like the murder tape in Menace II Society. I have no idea who might have it.

After my beef with DirecTV, I decided to sign up with Dish Network. It was all set to go, when my apartment complex refused to sign a waiver to allow them to install. They said they changed their policy, and the people who already had dishes could keep them, but their would be no more installed. So if I want digital TV, I gotta stick with sorry ass, piss poor Comcast. I wrote another one of my famous, scalding letters to the owners of the apartment complex. Usually something positive comes out of that shit. At least I dumped their asses for internet service and moved to AT&T DSL.

Why the fuck did I buy the world's biggest egg nog shake the day before yesterday? Trying to catch my favorite shake ever at McD before they stopped selling 'em, I stopped by and bought one on Saturday around 12n. My lactose-intolerant ass has been doubled over with bubbleguts ever since. I get stupid with dairy products all the time, but this time it's been a doozy. It's a good thing I live alone.

Be Steady,

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

What A Crazy Year It's Been

This post is a little late because of my lack of internet access at TAD's crib. Oh TAD, am I gonna ever get you to the 21st century? Crazy kid!

Anyway, I've been in Detroit since yesterday and driving back to Satan's Anus was no small task. The roads were extra slippery and I witnessed THIRTEEN accidents. I was shook. This is my first winter with Gretchen, and since I'm used to having the massive SUV, I was slightly intimidated.

Overall, Christmas was good. I got a new briefcase filled with the greatest stuff in the world from TAD. I was pleasantly surprised that she took advantage of that Amazon wishlist, because she got me some obscure beats and books that I'd been wanting forever. Plus a buncha coffee which I'm partaking of as I write.

And TAD? She got engaged...

I engaged the fuck outta her. Trust me when I say I tried, tried like hell to get a decent, unblurry pic of that ring. It refuses to be photographed properly.

That shit happened on Christmas eve.

The next day we went visiting and shit. Family stuff, where TAD and I had to tell everybody "the story", even when we disagreed on what "the story" was. We got two different versions of it, so that'll confuse the kids one day.

We did a lot of fun shit which mainly consisted of visiting friends and family and going to the bookstore a lot.

On New Year's Eve we were going to go to my boy Hutty's crib for his annual soirée, but the weather didn't cooperate, so we stayed home and smooched. And TAD got all domestic and cooked gumbo.
Which I enjoyed (and am still enjoying) immensely.

This year I went from a SUV driving, dreadlocked, bad credit having cynic to a sedan driving, afroed, decent credit who believes the future just might not be so bad. Who'd a thunk it?

Be Cool,