Thursday, December 31, 2009

Stay Classy, Zedediah!

I love complaining. I love complaining more than I love my mother's cooking, and that's saying something. I complain about everything in the midst of doing anything! "Damn, this pussy is kinda tight. And it's awfully wet. But it really could be tighter and wetter." I know, I suck. But 2009 was really something to complain about.

In general it was a fucked up year for me. Housing woes, job search woes, money problems, health scares, staff issues, boss issues, dumb ass constituents, and lousy luck overall. I've had trite, cliched moments happen to me, that I should have seen coming, but didn't. I've had one in a thousand type things happen hat would ONLY happen to me. For better or for worse here I am.

I'm not any more humbled, cuz really, fuck humility. And I'm not more determined to turn over a new leaf, cuz really, fuck leaves. I'm not going to do anything but the shit that has made me quasi-successful to this point and understand that there are, in fact, things that I can't change.

With that being said, I'd like to wish both of you readers a Happy New Year and hope that you party like a muthafucka to bury this lousy fucking year.


P.S. I didn't get that fucking Raleigh job, either.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

Sucker Time

Hey everybody! What's good? There's nothing going on with me. I got a rejection letter from Baltimore, I'm waiting on what Raleigh has to say, so in the meantime I am where I am. Satan's Anus is horrible still, but at least I don't have to LIVE and work here. One out of two ain't bad.

The interview I had in Raleigh right before Thanksgiving was interesting. Interesting in the fact that the guy I interviewed with reminds me of my current boss (bad) , and one of the people who would possibly be under me tried to compliment me by calling me "articulate". He better hope I don't get the gig. I'm watching his ass already.

Otherwise I'm just trying to cope with Sucker Time and not get suckered too badly by fake deals, mall related scams, thievery, debauchery, and/or general chicanery. We really do spend too much fucking money on worthless shit during this time of year. I genuinely can't remember what I got for Christmas last year, though I'm sure I was pleased with it at the time. That means I likely didn't need it. I'm not 6, it's ok to pass on my gift, I'll survive. I have yet to talk to another person in my family that feels that same. So I'm out here at Sucker Time trying to do my best, just like everyone else.


Monday, November 09, 2009

Village Idiot

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

Remember having sex as a virgin?

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

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

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

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


Friday, November 06, 2009


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

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

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


Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Real Shit That I Saw In Baltimore Yesterday

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

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Chaos Reigns

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

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

This post came full circle. Imagine that.


Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Notes From Pervertland

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

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


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

Monday, October 05, 2009

The American Rodeo

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

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

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

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


Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Reassessment Day

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

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

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


Wednesday, September 02, 2009

The Rest, Without Peace

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

That's all.


Monday, August 31, 2009

Write To Believe

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

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

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

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

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

-Knockout Zed.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Just wondering...

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

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

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

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


Monday, August 03, 2009


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

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


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Big Titties In A Dirty Bra

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

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


Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Man, Fuck You

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

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

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

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

Fuck him.


Thursday, July 16, 2009

The Blast I Had

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Other

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

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

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

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

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

Be Good,

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

The Gift That No Longer Gets Shot

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

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

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

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

Be cool,

Thursday, May 28, 2009

The Fuckshit Chronicles

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

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

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

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

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


Sunday, May 10, 2009

Everybody's Turned Bitch

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

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

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


Wednesday, May 06, 2009


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

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

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

That's all I got.


Tuesday, April 21, 2009


There are no words more fun to say in the English language than "haywire" and "firearm". I don't know if it's the compound word aspect or what, but damn I love saying them.

You know that line in Forrest Gump where he says "Life is like a box of chocolates..."? Well if you replace the word "chocolates" with "pussies", you can pretty much leave me alone with that box.

What does it say about me that I'd feel like a bigger pervert going into a Hooters under the cover of darkness than I would walking into the freakiest hardcore sex shop in broad daylight?

Why doesn't anyone understand that if your boss was as good as your job as you are, they would have NEVER promoted him/her? If you're too good at what you do, you're pretty much fucked. You gotta be passable.

Conservative = unapologetic bigot/white supremacist (regardless of their color), Liberal = undercover racist/condescending asshole, Libertarian = anarchist cheapskate except when it comes to roads leading to his subdivision and police protection for his family, Progressive = hippie goofball with too much fucking free time. This is why I hate labels. I think most of us are a healthy mix of all these archetypes.

Right now, I have a womanly addiction to shoe shopping that I'm not proud of.

Best bumpersticker I've seen in my whole life: "Illegal Shit B Fun".


Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Hot Pickle

Hey peoples, what gives? I got back from NYC on Monday, which was a much needed trip for me and the wife. I hate people, and New York is full of people, but as an anonymous member of the rabble, it's not bad. People hated me as much as I hated them! That was a treat. We did some touristy shit, like go to the Guggen.heim (which was some bullshit!) and go to the top of Rockefe.ller Center (which was tall), but mainly we just hung out and ate. We tried to shop, but couldn't find the "spots". Lack of research, I suppose. We had fun anyway, even though the knish I ate tasted like rat pussy.

We hung out with Slish a little bit and drank at one of his spots. Slish is insane, yo, just in case y'all didn't know. It was TAD's first time kickin' with him, but as an avid reader of his blog, it was like old times up in the joint with those two. Good lookin' out, young man. It was certainly appreciated. What you don't know, Slish, is that night after drinking, I went back to the hotel and worked out for an hour and a half. I never sleep on my program!

The visit helped reinforce my desire to move east. Man, I fucking hate this place. I just left the store where this faux gangster ass pussy boi was behind me in line, "Africaning up" his language trying to be hard. "Yo, man, you got some hot pickles? Where the hot pickles? Dude, why you ain't tell me you moved the hot pickles?" That's some real gangsta shit right there. Suckin' on a hot pickle, you purty mouthed bitch. Get me the fuck outta here.


Wednesday, April 08, 2009

The Tournament

Staff Member: It must suck to be a Spartan fan right now, hunh?

KZ: No, it's OK. I'm still your boss.

Go Green! Forever.


Tuesday, April 07, 2009


I make plans all the time. And we all know the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. But my plan for 2009 started in July 2008. It's when I decided to make myself more physically fit. I'm not doing it for my general health or anything of real value. I just wanna look good in my clothes. I call my plan "The 40-Year Old Linebacker", though that's really a misnomer, since I won't be 40 until December 2010. My goal is simple, to be in the best shape of my life and punch muthafuckers in the mouth when irritated. I could always punch muthafuckers in their mouths, but now I won't have to run afterwards to keep from getting my ass kicked.

The results so far have been a weight reduction from 330 to 275, increased energy, clothes that don't fit, and confidence that's off the charts. It's a great feeling and I still have quite a ways to go, but it's a start.

Lately though the plans have been getting bogged down. I'm too self-satisfied, too hungry, too bored, too blah. I need motivation. What the fuck am I doing this for? For women? I'm married, and she don't give a fuck. For health? This is a miserable way to live. For vanity? I don't care enough. I'm just losing steam right now. Every thing I do seems for nothing, and I have so far to go to get to 235-240, which is my goal.

I need to come up with a new plan.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Gimme Three Feet

OK, I know y'all sick of me tilling the same soil, but I remain irritated by the same bullshit. This is my forum to spout off and I'll take full advantage of it.

I went to the gym midday yesterday so that I could go home after work and just veg out. After my workout, I had to go to the shower. When I workout after work, I usually go home and shower, but the necessity of going back to work had me in the communal shower. I entered the empty shower room, twenty six spigots available, I pick one and begin to shower. Less than one minute later, this old dude comes into the shower room, stands at the spigot RIGHT NEXT TO MINE and starts to shower. Not one space over, right next to mine. Naked and showering. In a completely empty shower room. What the fuck is people's problem? How the fuck is that OK? Who the fuck does that? Apparently people in Satan's Anus on the reg.

The day before the gym incident, I went to see the State of the City address given by the mayor. I sat in a COMPLETELY EMPTY ROW. I didn't expect the row to remain empty, because the place was pretty full. What I really didn't expect was that the next person to inhabit the row would sit in the seat RIGHT NEXT TO ME, sharing a fucking armrest. In an empty row, why the fuck would you sit right next to a stranger, especially a stranger of the same sex? Who the fuck does that?

A few weeks ago TAD and I went to the movies. It was a virtually empty movie theater, with literally two other couples in the place. We sat four seats in on an empty row. Two couples came in together, in an empty theater, and sat in the four seats we left empty next to us, sharing an armrest with us in a vacant theater. We hopped up and moved WAAAAAYYY down the row, because there were 20 open seats that remained. The group watched us move and laughed about it while wondering what our problem was. Amazing.

Whether it be casual conversation, restroom stalls, standing behind you waiting to use the ATM, driving in traffic, whatever, these muthafuckers have spatial issues that are mind boggling and ridiculous. One more reason I wish throat punching was the law of the land.


Friday, March 27, 2009

Detroit Green

What up, y'all? I was biding my time trying to gather my thoughts to post again. I have a lot of shit swimming around in my head. None of it all that urgent, but it's cluttered up there.

First off, I'd like to give a special shout out to one of my favorite (if not favorite) bloggers in the world, Aunt Jackie a.k.a. Ms. Ahmad a.k.a. The Glamazon, who graced me and TAD with her presence last Friday. We had a relatively short visit (why didn't you call, man?) but we got to laugh, break bread, drink and watch people. It felt like we've known each other forever and it's been about 4 blog years. We know blog years are longer than human years due to the level of disclosure we have online, so it was like eating with an old friend. I think we got a chance to witness somebody being relieved of their auto against their will, and that's always fun. We'll be in California soon, and we'll be wearing neutral colors.

I'm back in Satan's Anus still waiting on my reimbursement check and my rejection letter. Job hunting is hard, yo. I'm not looking right now. No other resumes have been sent out. It's sort of a weird time for me. Where I'm actually concentrating on "working" at my current "job". It's something I've never tried before. Also, I'm forced to think about where we are going to invest our forthcoming stimulus loot. Everybody with half a hustle has their hands out trying to get a contract with wth city to do a project that's not helpful or stimulating to anyone but themselves. I would personally issue a blanket "fuck you" to all comers, but of course my slack ass boss has made it my job to have meetings with these jack leg entrepreneurs as often as possible. Honestly, fuck this place.

I was driving with some co-workers to this Junior Achievement thing we were doing at one of the local high schools. Of course, I drive like I have some place to go, so that's really off-putting to native Anusites. One of my passengers was gape-mouthed because I sped through a yellow light. She asked me "Why didn't you slow down?" I said "Because yellow is a Detroit Green. It's a Satan's Anus Red." That's how I feel about this community as a whole. Mentally, I'm always trying to go and they're always trying to slow me down and keep me preoccupied with "the other" shit. I'm so sick of the other shit, but I'll do it until I can leave.


Tuesday, March 17, 2009

The Process

I spent Friday on airplanes (four of 'em), in airports (four of 'em) on a several hour tour (three of 'em) of a city I may or may not want to have a hand in redeveloping, and an hour (just one of 'em) trying to explain my suitability for a job I'm probably not suitable for.

I was asked to be in Western Massachusetts for a face-to-face interview. This was after a phone interview that I completely bombed. Why did they want me to come to follow up that performance? I pretty much said "Fuck it" and went anyway. It's a free trip (they're reimbursing me for it) and I might like it.

My biggest impression was "Wow, there are a lot of Latinos here!" I didn't imagine that there would be such a big representation of Puerto Ricans out in the middle of nowhere. The second thought was "Shit they need a lot of help". I'm inherently lazy. It's the reason I write a blog instead of writing a book. Instant gratification over a long, drawn out process. That's what I like.

So after the first part of the tour, I ate lunch with my potential staff, the department heads that would be below me. I'd like to take this time to once again thank Ba.rack, without whom the thought of me being their boss would be unbearable to most of them. I won't be their boss, but at least they would not get ill at the thought of it. I was my usual charming self, which means I once again fronted like I enjoy other people, and I got through lunch OK.

I finished up the tour of the city, and I was off to meet the mayor. He was decent dude, but I think somebody forgot to give him the memo about the phone interview. He asked me what I'd do to turn shit around and I told him it wasn't up to me to turn shit around. I'm a gotdamn facilitator. You tell me what to do, and I'll get it done. That's what I've always done, figure out how to implement someone else's vision. He beat the shit out of that dead horse, while I kept giving him answers he didn't want to hear. He thanked me for my time and had his aide take me to the airport.

Now I wait for the rejection letter and the reimbursement check.


Tuesday, March 10, 2009

True Life

"That pussy's all yours right up until after the wedding." -Wallace the Bartender

Nobody ever tells you anything worth a damn until after it's too late to do anything about it. People are glib and condescending right up until the the moment they realize the consequences are actually dire and the stakes are higher than they thought. I drink because I need to drink. I smoke because I need to smoke when I drink. I go to the gym every day because it's a habit now, not because I give a fuck about my health and well-being. It's the only socially acceptable place to be where you can actually people watch in the winter without being asked if you need anything every five minutes. Plus, zumba class is going on in a room with glass walls, so you got the perv factor going on, which is always nice.

But there is nothing that makes it easier being away from your woman. I love my wife, I love being in close proximity to her, even when we're on each others nerves. Quite frankly I'm not getting enough ass, which makes it even harder for me. I think she's OK with that, which is not OK with me, but that's another story. I think all my issues tied up with being in Satan's Anus tend to revolve around one central problem: my sex life sucks. It's been like this since I got here. I'd get dribs and drabs, but I've never fully enjoyed this place because since I arrived it's like I'm getting pussy rationed out to me. I will never apologize for loving sex. And I hate that this place has taken my one real pleasure in life and made it an occasional indulgence, like eating cheesecake or something. That's not the way sex is supposed to be. It's not the way life is supposed to be.

So I'm here, with an unsatisfying job, in an unsatisfying place, living like a gotdamn bachelor eating badly cooked meals, constantly reminding bitches I'm married, always alone, perpetually pissed off, and constantly horny, for reasons I've yet to figure out. I have always fucking hated this place, for what it is, but now mostly for what it represents.

I'm Out,

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Nothing Much

"Go back to your fucking desk, sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!"

That's what I'm aching to say after my secretary comes in to my office telling me she has some "positive news". "Positive" is their euphemisms for barely disguised cheap shot at one of their co-workers. "I got some good news! Jan didn't give me all the information I needed, so I called a couple of departments and I was able to track down everything you asked me for." Bitch, so what? As long as everything's there, I don't care how you got it.

I would never go into anybody's office with that load of bullshit, but they feel comfortable coming into mine. I looked at her like she was out of her mind and then told her "I don't really need to hear the story behind it, just as long as you got the information." She slinked (slunk?) out of the office looking goofy. Just sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, just like I'm doing.

I've been a supervisor for most of my career. I thought it was due to my ability to intuitively figure out the best way to get a job done and to use that ability to lead others. Nope. I'm sure it's due to me leaving the higher ups alone and finishing a job without bugging the shit out of them. I'm sure that's the person I'd promote in a heartbeat.


Monday, March 02, 2009

Rational Vs. Irrational

I have an irrational hate of real estate agents. I didn't know I did until I just looked through my large stack of business cards and saw all these real estate agents. I hate their fucking pictures looking up at me on cards, smirking and shit. I fucking hate them because they got the same look on all of their faces: I'm a gotdamn shark, a motherfucking go-getter. Man, fuck a real estate agent. Lying sacks of shit, one and all.

In a fit of self-improvement, I decided everything that comes out of my mouth today was going to be positive. I'm trying to create a bubble in which I can will my life into a more positive realm by speaking it into existence. Though I'm still writing the most foul, horrid shit, I think that I can maintain being an upbeat and affirming dude. This experiment will last one solid week, from Monday to Monday. Is this rational or irrational?

Everyday I go into a job I hate and sleepwalk my way through it. I'm bored, uninspired and exhausted most of the time. I spend my nights preparing for the next day, preparing for shit I hate to do. I also spend a fair amount of time trying to find another job doing some shit I hate to do. Rational or irrational?

Does it make sense to penalize low paid, marginally compensated people, stressed out about their future by limiting the little escape they have from their daily drudgery? Does it make sense to base one's opinion on the productivity of their staff on anything OTHER than their output? And does it make sense to spend money on a entire department that sole purpose is to monitor and snitch on every other department, if you could easily eliminate the need for the monitoring? IT Departments are as useless as tits on a bull. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.


Friday, February 27, 2009

What's Missing

You may have
the gig
the broad
the kids
the cash
the face
the gear
the body
the house
the fortune
the style
the smile
the whip
the imagination
the will
the brains
the love
the science
the goals
the drive
the wiles
the support
and the means
but all that shit is useless without the passion.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Itchy Finger

OK, we get notification from the internet gods that Facebook is basically off limits. It is the second most accessed website on our workplace servers, only behind gotdamn Google. Man, fuck this place. It's not cool to work here. I hope the next most accessed site is the gotdamn want ads.

I had to have a really serious conversation with one of my staff today. I think he's got a problem, substance related. I've been a supervisor or a manager for 14 years of my 15 year professional life. I thought been through it all. But telling somebody their job is on the line because they're coming to work high is the nadir. I don't ever wanna have to do that shit again.

I had two gigs that I'd been waiting to hear back from for months. I had second interviews with both of them and was hoping to hear something one way or another. I heard back one way, from both of them. That way was me calling them multiple times and leaving messages asking about my status until finally, sick of my messages, both of them told me they'd hired other people. I figured that, but when the fuck were you gonna send out a letter telling me that? Or returning my fucking call?

I had the worst interview of my life on Friday. It was not cool at all. I didn't prepare and I was morose and lackluster. I told them I didn't know shit about their city at all. I told them I was interested in the job because I just wanted to leave Michigan. When the interview was done, I asked them when they'd do me the courtesy of sending me a rejection letter. I gotta get a better attitude, I'm working in a completely defeatist mindset right now.

Be Cool,

Friday, February 13, 2009

Trust me...

I hate your fucking baby. Stop showing me picture of your gotdamn baby. Stop talking about your gotdamn baby. Please, gotdamn it, stop.

Do you know how I know someone in Satan's Anus is going to turn right eventually? The entire time they are on the road, they will not leave the fucking right lane, no matter what. The same goes for turning left. These fucking addle-brained fuckers are gonna drive me to drink.

Who the fuck are you? And why do you wanna be my friend on Facebook? You're not even a friend of a gotdamn "real" friend. I hate you.

I love my wife. Absolutely and completely love her. I'd do anything for her, up to and including die for her. But if I don't buy her flowers and candy tomorrow, that shit goes out of the window. Isn't that how this holiday shit works?

Bitch be quiet! I don't pay you to think. Apparently, you don't think I pay you to work either. Bitch, just shut up.

Yes, I would very much enjoy that. Thank you for asking.

There is no way in fresh hell that this fucking place is habitable. It's highly uncivilized and extremely frigid.

The system is a funny thing. You have to study it to know it, then once you know it, figure out how to game it and use it's inherent weakness to your advantage. Once you exploit those weaknesses, the system has to change to prevent another breech. The thing is, the system architects are always the biggest exploiters of it. Their arrogance, believing that no one is as brilliant as they are, always leads to the system's inevitable change. If you are not an architect of the system and you game the system, you are the enemy.

I know this place is making me crazy. You don't have to tell me.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Natural Defense

How's about I post 10 or 12 photos of me urinating? Just pissin' up a storm, right here on Blogger. Wouldn't it be great to see that? It wouldn't? Why not? It's natural! Everybody pisses, right? Stop being such a fucking prude!

I'm carrying over an argument I got into on Facebook. This chick was mad because Facebook's rules won't allow her friend to post pics of breastfeeding. The argument being it is a natural thing, the baby's just eating, it's beautiful, it's a great way to share the pics with friends and family, etc. They went on to further explain that Facebook allows gratuitous tits and ass shots, why not a little wholesome titty suckin'?

I'll stand my ground. I understand that it's natural and it's a way children and mothers bond, but why is it necessary for Facebook to condone it? If you want to share photos of breastfeeding with your friends and family, send them the fucking pictures. Post 'em on Flickr, Snapfish, or buy a gotdamn domain for 12 cents a year and post whatever you want. But Facebook or any other social networking site doesn't owe you shit. It's theirs, they get paid for it, you're a gotdamn customer.

And as far as the tits and ass shots, aren't they natural too? Doesn't everybody have a chest and an ass? If your argument is the "natural" one, there are a lot of things that are natural. Like flat out fucking, bodies decomposing, or animals eating their young. You don't necessarily want to see that shit posted.

If you wanna keep arguing about your right to post pics of your baby eating dinner, I'm not gonna participate. I'd still question your motives, which you say ostensibly is to "teach mothers how to properly breastfeed". Step one, put your milk filled titty in a baby's mouth. Step two, wait until the baby stops sucking it. I think I got it. Thanks, middle class white lady!



Tuesday, January 27, 2009

The Devil's In The Details

Hey y'all, what's good? I'm trying to maintain. The stress of living apart from my wife coupled with the ever increasing aches and pains of a daily workout is giving me the blues. Along with the weather and the economy, it's shaping up to be a pretty shitty next few months. In the meantime, I always have the joys of my job to fall back on...

Last week Office Broccoli, filing clerk, got paid too much in her check. Payroll gave her 40 hours of pay EXTRA. She brought it to my office staff's attention a couple of days after it happened, and they brought it to me. Simple solution, right? Give us back the money now or keep the money and we'll just pay 40 hours less on the next check. Case closed. Not so fast.

"I used the extra money to pay back my nephew some money I owed him. And I can't afford a short check next week." What the fuck is this? You used the money that wasn't yours AND you don't want to subsequently pay us back? Your nephews money came before our money, the place you earn a living, with no skills except alphabetizing? Really, dumbass?

So she complains to her union rep that we're trying to take money from her, money she hadn't earned yet. Now the union rep wants to talk to me. I ask him "What is there to talk about? She can pay us back or she can keep the money and be short on the next check. She doesn't get to keep the money and keep getting paid. That doesn't make sense." He asserts that it's the payroll processor's fault, that she shouldn't have to pay back the money, the payroll processor should. "I don't care who pays back the money, it's gotta be paid back with uncompensated work or cash. By the way, the payroll processor's in your union too. Are you willing to sacrifice one union member over the other?" His dumbass couldn't fight that logic.

Today she signed the agreement to receive a short check next week.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Last Night

I dearly tried to get into the inauguration swing of things last night. After I left the gym, I came home got showered and I called the "people who know things" here in Satan's Anus. Nobody knew any more than I did. I ended up calling Agent Zero so we could find out where to be. She named some places so we were determined to meet up at the place most likely to be jumping, the Satan's Anus Democratic Party gig. Ten bucks to get in. I got there first, so I paid and stood in the lobby. People were selling over expensive, wack food and Obama logo shirts.

So many dredlocs, absolutely no Black people. Bad hippie music and a of bunch people staring at the old Black dude in the sportscoat and jeans. I told Agent Zero to slow her roll. I needed to reassess where she should meet me. I drove around downtown and saw party after party break up. It was only 9:30 and people were getting the fuck gone. Satan's Anus folks love talking shit about Detroiters, but I can guarantee shit was poppin' in the D all night long.

Finally, just to go somewhere and drink, we ended up at this sports bar. One thousand TVs, zero inauguration coverage. On the bright side, I did get to see Penn State whup up on Michigan's ass. But no, I didn't get to celebrate the inauguration with more than one like minded person.


Tuesday, January 13, 2009


Alright, Africans, pipe down. I'm fucking sick of your forwards, your prayers, your messages filled with pablum and hokum, your gotdamn candy coated sycophancy, basically, your general overall dick-riding. Stop it gotdamn it! Enough is enough!

Right after the election I got inundated with every image, every iconography under the sun as it relates to Ol' Boy (I can't even write the gotdamn name anymore). I was hyped just like everybody else. Then, it came to a point where I was disturbed by the cheese level.

God, that photoshopping is the cheesiest shit in the world. That's some ghetto assed shit.

Then, it was the frequency in which I was seeing the shit. The extrapolation of this to shit everything.

I was wonder when and if this shit would ever end. I'm deleting shit from everybody, if I THINK it's gonna mention Ol' Boy in the email, in any way, shape or form, it's getting deleted.

Then, of course, my mother sends me an email, and in the subject line I know it's about Ol' Boy. My mother and I have had a talk about the type of email I will and will not open or respond to, so I think I'm pretty safe.

Uncharacteristically optimistic, I open the email and this is what I see, attached to a prayer.

What type of pseudo-messianic bullshit is this? Man, fuck y'all for sending this shit to me. I don't need this in my life. I really don't. I'll hold my breath for single-payer healthcare until I open another Ol' Boy related email. Really, y'all can save that shit.

I'm Out,

Friday, January 09, 2009

Yet Another Gym Diatribe

I know I'm repeating myself in these posts, but such is life. This whole thing is cyclical and I am a mere pawn in the big scheme of things. That being said, I'm here to spout off about my pet peeves at the local YMCA.

Man, if I see another a) bastard wearing jeans to work out, or b) bastard wearing spandex shorts to work out, I'll flip. Neither of these garments are appropriate gym wear for men, and jeans are inappropriate for either sex. Muthafucka, I do not wanna see the outline of your sweaty nuts. Put some looser shit on. And looking at these stupid hicks wearing jeans to the gym just makes me uncomfortable. It fucks up my workout. That shit can't be comfortable. Buy a $2 pair of sweatpants and keep them shits in your trunk. Damn!

Another thing I hate is these Africans that are in the free weight room every time I go. There are about 5 of them and they lift together. They give the whole place a real prison yard feel. They all huddle over the same bench and shout out encouragement to each other. They are constantly in the way of other people trying to grab weights for their own work outs. Plus, when you have to wait for 5 dudes to each do their reps, then go through their cycle, they have basically monopolized a station. They are the loudest, most obnoxious muthafuckas known to man. The only upside is that they intimidate enough non-black people, that the rest of the room is virtually empty for my work out. I just found out one of the dudes is married to one of my secretaries, the one that looks like Kym Whit.ley. I'm all for cooperation in the spirit of that one funny word they use in Kwanzaa, but break the fuck up into smaller groups and stop looking like rec time at Folsom and shit.

I carry around this book with me at the gym. It's this regimen that I've been using to lose weight. I used to feel funny carrying it around and following the instructions on exercises, because it made me look like a novice, but as the results started showing I stopped giving a fuck. Muthafuckas used to snicker about that book, I've heard 'em. I'm a regular now and I'm at the gym six days a week, but not a day goes by when somebody doesn't ask me about that fucking book. I've watched them stagnate while I'm getting in better shape. So one of the original snickerers asked me about the book. "So is that how you lost so much weight?" I wanna be like Go somewhere and keep laughing, asshole.

And what would a gym post be without me talking about the locker room. Bastards better learn to use their peripherals. If your fucking head is turning when a naked man walks by, you need to fucking check yourself or get checked. I don't care what your orientation is, I'm just talking about the rudeness aspect of it. Locker room etiquette is, shall, and will always be do not look at a muthafucka you don't know and never look below that muthafuckas chest, period.

I'm sure I'll have more as this agonizing winter season at the gym marches on.

Be Easy,

Monday, January 05, 2009

My Attempt At Writing Modern Black Fiction

Keisha Monique Thundercoochie was the hottest thing in Atlanta. She was rich beyond her wildest dreams. She had 3 PhDs from Harvard, yet she kept it real. Plus she had long hair like she was an indian, plus a big booty, plus a real dope purse. Every dude in town really wanted to sleep with her, but she was like "Nunh unh". One day she met this dude, Boris Shemar DeBarge. He was tall, plus he had good hair like an indian, plus he was built and had a eleventeen inch dick. Plus he was a businessman and also a thug.

Boris and Keisha were inseparable, except when she had to go to work and give lectures on being a phenomenal woman and he had to go out of town on thug missions. Then, she saw a text on his phone and was shocked to see the shocking secret he shockingly kept hidden. It shocked her.

When Keisha asked Boris about his secret, he didn't respond, because he was the silent type. Also he was handsome. Plus built. So the relationship ended.

Keisha tried like hell to move past him. She met this other dude while she was out lecturing about being a PhD. He was all good looking and suave. His name was Percy Bitchazz Fontleroy Unmanly. There was something about him she couldn't put her finger on...maybe he too had a dark secret. But she still gave him some play, even though he couldn't hold a candle to Boris in the manhood department.

Boris moved on too. He found a girl who had a big booty, plus she was beautiful. She had a haircut like Halle Berry, but she still had good hair, you could tell. I think her name was Kim. She was kinda seditty, plus she was all dark-skinned and shit. And she only had one PhD, and that shit was from fucking Yale. Nothing like Keisha. I think she was a psychologist and shit, because she was always messing with Boris's head.

One day Keisha was out. And Boris was too. They ran into each other and they had their new boos with them. It was sorta awkward. Percy was being his soft ass self, and Kim was being all seditty. It was crazy. That shit was all messed up. But Keisha and Boris was looking at each other and stuff. Ooooooh weeee!

So Boris was like "Fuck it". And he pops the question to seditty ass Kim. So right there, bam, they gettin' married. So the dude that does Kim's hair be doin' Keisha's hair too and told Keisha the story. Keisha was all sad, but Boris kept that shocking secret from her, so good riddance, right?

Boris was torn and then he was like "Fuck it" and like the true thug that he is, he stepped to Keisha in her lecture hall while she was giving a lecture to her students on being a phenomenal woman. "Woman, I love the fuck outta you, and I don't wanna be with that seditty ass Kim! I want you!"

Then Keisha said "OK" and they got married and he got her a new purse, that he got from thuggin'.

The End