Weekend In Review

Friday night was cool. I was at Carmel's crib talking to her waiting for her sister or Punkin or somebody else to come through. Her homegirl (the one with the six stragglers) was there. I ain't touchin' that with a hundred foot pole. I was there from about 10 to 3 am, drinking and talking shit. When I left, she wanted me to stay. There is no way I would've done that. I invite enough disaster into my life.

Saturday I had a date with Endo to go see "The Inside Man". It was set for early in the day because I had to go to the Vice-Mayor's birthday party that night. We were going to meet at the theater. I waited until the movie was about to start at 1:40. No show. I was fuming. Livid. Her celly has been broken for a while and we had been working around it. She doesn't have long distance on her phone at home, and my phone still has a 313 area code. I walked in the movie solo, with the extra ticket I bought in my pocket.

I tried to enjoy the movie but I was heated the whole time. Spike did alright, but I was unsatisfied by the ending. I left the theater and went to the bookstore/coffee shop. I called her cell and left a message. "Hey Endo, this is Zed. You know it's real fucked up of you to stand a nigga up. It's FUCKED UP! That's some immature, irresponsible shit. I guess you just showin' your age. I fuckin' shoulda known better. Later."

I'm sitting drinking coffee. My cell rings. "Old man, you are pissed at me!" "Why wouldn't I be?" "Because I was there. I got there five minutes late. I thought you stood me up. I was at the movie." "Bullshit!" "I was in the front of the theater. " "Really?" "Yes, really!" "Damn." "I'm keeping this message. Everytime you try to be sweet I'ma play it to remind myself what kinda G you can be."

Saturday night I went to the Vice-Mayor's gig. I was the second youngest dude there. The youngest dude brought a white chick. The sisters were sitting around me watching me drink away my bad day, asking me questions. "What do you think about older women?" "They're alright. My ex-wife was older than me." "Really?" "Yeah, by about five years." The more I drink, they drink. And they're asking me more and more provocative questions. The women start milling around the party and one sticks close to me. "When's the last time you went all night?" I think about Batshit. "It's been a few months." "Really? You got stamina?" I'm fucked up right about now. Pissy drunk. "Look, you're trying to ask me about shit you can find out the answer to tonight. You wanna find out? I mean, if you wanna find out, we can tell these people we leavin', and you can find out." She's smiling. I keep asking, "you wanna find out?" She was like "Can you at least take me out somewhere you've never taken anyone else before?" I looked at her with as sober a look I could manage. "I thought you was serious about wanting to find out. You just talkin'." I left the set soon after.

Sunday was better.

Enjoy,
KZ

Ten Things She Must Possess

I hate your ass so much right now Nikki, you just don't know. Then I go over to your page and see your smiling face and your...attributes, and I'm ok again. So I'm about to do what I've been asked to do by the ultra-prolific one and discuss the 10 qualities I need in a PERFECT MATE.

So here goes:
1. She must honor the intimacy of our relationship
This is basically about discretion and privacy. As an extremely private person, I can't have my ol' lady putting our business out in the street. I won't keep any secrets from her, but they become OUR secrets.

2. She must be spontaneous
When we are childless and free, she gotta be ready to be up and out at a moment's notice all the time.

3. She must enjoy porn
I can't stress this enough. She doesn't have to be a connoisseur, but she's gotta be able to watch without critiquing what the chicks are wearing or how their hair is styled.

4. She's gotta be appropriately sexual
No, we can't fuck at my boss's house party. No, we can't fuck at your cousin's baby shower. No, this wake is inappropriate, too. Yes, we can fuck in the back row of a scarcely attended motion picture, but only if you wear a skirt.

5. She's gotta be good with money
I'm fucking horrible with money. She's gotta compliment me in that respect. I'll fuckin' buy guns when we're outta butter.

6. She has to sufficiently have my back
My ex-wife was a backstabbing contrarian. I didn't realize how important it is to have your woman in your corner to support you even if she disagrees with you.

7. I need her to be pretty well read
Traditionally, the woman is the primary caregiver to one's children. Children learn the most from their mothers in their earliest years. I just want my ol' lady to be able to teach the kid a little sumthin' extra. In addition, I read a lot. I'd just like to be able to share ideas with her based on information we've both ingested.

8. She should have a good sense of fashion
Shit, I don't want a fuckin' hobo or a chicken on my arm. Style is important as fuck.

9. She must be politically astute
Both major political parties are corrupt and morally bankrupt. I don't mean politics in that sense. I mean politics in the realm of black empowerment and advancement. She's gotta recognize the bullshit and be willing to work to counteract it.

10. She probably needs an ass like this (be careful before clicking!)

KZ

The Life Aquatic with Zed Zednanreh

A.K.A. The Fishbowl

I walked into my bank yesterday, like I do once a week. I approached the teller and smiled. I hand her my I.D. "I don't need that Mr. Zednanreh. I know you!" This is the same routine I followed in Detroit. The same bank downtown. The same tellers. Twelve years. They scrutinized my I.D. every single time I came in. Twelve years.

I walked across the street to this little diner for lunch. I'd been in there twice before. I sat down in a booth. The waitress approached. "Diet Coke, right?" I nod and she goes to get it.

After work I walked to this bar downtown. I've been there four times in nine months. I sit at the bar. "Bacardi and Diet Coke, right?" I nod and he begins making the drink.

I'm on TV twice a week and quoted in the paper at least once a month. I'm 6'3" with shoulder length dreadlocs. I'm the only "director level" black man working for the city government. There is no flying under the radar in this town.

There's this black millionaire in town. This cat is major paid. He used to be a sports agent for several Hall of Fame athletes. He came into my office yesterday and told me he'd heard about me. "I had to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." You had to meet ME? This is not false modesty, I was truly surprised. I'm a fucking nobody.

All my instincts are off. I'm still the same cat who used to get head at Belle Isle Park. The one who was notorious for having 3 date Saturdays (afternoon, evening, and booty call). The cat who elevated road rage into an artform when me and Three chased these dudes with baseball bats in Downtown Detroit for flipping us the bird.

I'm floating through this city not able to trust myself. Because I know it's only a matter of time before I revert to my true nature. There is only so much public face I can put on. The real dude is a lot grimier. And he's got a digital camcorder.

Yours Truly,
KZ

The Last Time I Saw Doom

Hey peoples, what's good? I'm enjoying a relatively light schedule today. In a typical day filled with four 2hr meetings, I only have one 2hr meeting today. It's been quiet at work since the scrap and I've been taking advantage of it. I'm visiting my parents in Tampa next month and I've been planning this detour to see my cousins in Miami. Online trying to plan the spots I'll hit once I get there. In the meantime, this is what's what:

• This chick the Vice-Mayor introduced to me called yesterday to invite me to a party Saturday at her house. My secretary got the call and said "There's a woman on the phone asking for Zed Sanchez. I guess she means you." If you have my business card (that's all I gave her), why not read the muthafucka? It says "Zednanreh" right on the bitch. In any event, I'll be at the gig.
  
• I finally talked to Carmel (I thought I'd sneak this one in). We came to an understanding that I'm not dating her or fucking her. It is what it is. I might, however, try to stab her homegirl "Punkin"
• E.T. is still texting me like we're cool. I haven't spoken to (or texted) her since she pulled that pop-up on me that day.
• Batshit (yes, Batshit) is calling me again after her little adventure in the ATL. She says she's moving soon and I don't blame her. Get the fuck outta here. I think she's counting on this cat she's dating in Atlanta to be "the one". Good luck with that, Loony.
• My Uncle Zed got married over the weekend. His first marriage. At 48 years old to the chick he brought to my parent's house during Thanksgiving. This cat was a fully functioning, actual PIMP. Not one of these cats that act the part once they get a music contract. Good luck to them, especially her.
  

That's all I got. I'll talk to y'all later.

Peace,
KZ

Head Games

We sat on floor in front of the coffee table, watching the Sopranos and eating Chinese food, Endo and I. Making small talk but ultimately just waiting. I could feel it.

After the Sopranos went off, we put in the DVD of "The Village". We're on the floor, trying to make do. I asked if she wanted to sit in THE CHAIR, the only place to sit in the living room. She said she did. It's a big chair and we both tried to fit. Ultimately, we found a way to make it work. She sat in between my legs.

She leaned back into my chest, alternately touching my hair and my arm. Endo rubbed the side of my left bicep. "What is that? A brand?" "Yeah" I responded. "I just kinda did it." "Did it hurt?" "Nah, not really." Macho bullshit. "I got one on my chest, too." "I guess I'll see that one later." "I guess you will."

We sit there for awhile and I start to kiss on her neck. Then I reach down under her shirt and start fondling titties through her bra. Her breathing speeds up. I unsnap the bra. Free titties! I'm feeling it, yo. I pull her shirt completely off and I lick her back. She starts to shudder. And reaches back for the dick. "Let's go upstairs" I say, calmly. She follows. Notorious and R. Kels are singing in my ear. I'm fuckin' her tonight.

One the bed, I'm sucking nipples. I go between the breasts and lick down to the navel. She's writhing. I get to the belt with my teeth, start unbuttoning and unzipping the pants. I'm pulling off skin tight jeans. And then...

"I don't wanna do it." Did she say "do it"? Really? Oh yeah, right. Twenty-four.

"I'm not saying you gotta do it. We'll stop when you wanna stop." "Well I don't really know how to..." "Know how to what?" She started slowly. "Well, if you do me, I won't know how to do you right." "Do what?" I ask. "Suck it" she says. "You don't know how to give head?" "I don't know how to do it right" she replies. "Is it cool if I talk you through it?" "You won't mind?" I'm laughing in my head, because I'm thinking about when I'm recounting this situation some time later how funny it will be. "No, I won't mind."

So no, I didn't fuck. But, yes, I was able to help a young lady with skills to make her future house a happy home. And I'll be around for more practice.

Always Happy To Help,
KZ

King Of The Desert

Hey y'all! The following is an actual phone conversation between me and my good friend, Three.

KZ: What's up, man?
3: I can't call it, playa. What's hood, African?
KZ: Awww, African you know how I do.
(This is faux street talk. We've acknowledged we're old men now, so we're mocking ourselves.)
3: How's the Anus, kid?
KZ: It sucks, man. You been readin' the blog?
3: Nope. Not in awhile. What's goin' on with Batshit?
KZ: Everybody loves Batshit. That's funny. I haven't talked to her in about a week and a half. I think she's fuckin' sick of me.
3: I don't blame her ass. Good for Batshit! Other than that, how is it?
KZ: It's killin' me. I can't get laid for shit. I'm under a damn microscope so I can't even go straight hood a pull a chick.
3: Me and James (another one of our boys) was crashin' on yo' ass the other day.
KZ: Why?
3: We was laughin' at your misery. Yo' ass is makin' a lot more money, you're in a prominent position and you can't even enjoy it. You can only get gully when you come home, where you're nobody. We was callin' yo' ass "The King of the Desert". Yeah, you runnin' shit, but what? You're the king of nothing.
KZ: That's a pretty apt analogy, muthafucka.
3: You got any prospects?
KZ: A couple. I always got a couple. Conversion is a bitch. I've only converted one prospect the whole fuckin' time I've been here.
3: My girl, Batshit!
KZ: Yo' girl, Batshit!

Get Free,
KZ

Wing Man

Today's Theme Song: "Last Nite" by The Strokes

I was determined. Last night was going to be the night. I talked to Carmel in the afternoon. We needed to talk.

"I've only been with you twice since we met where it was just me and you. I don't want to talk to you on the phone. You get distracted by everything. I need to talk to you face to face, just you and me." She understood. "When you said we need to talk I thought it was something bad" she replied. I guess that would depend on your point of view. I had to tell her this wasn't working. I'm not dating her and I'm not fucking her, so I gotta sever the relationship. I was going to tell her last night.

She left church last night and called me. "Let's meet at BW3." It was Tuesday, 30 cent wing night. I was there at 9:15, just like we agreed upon. From 9:15 to 10:20 I got periodic calls from her telling me she was on her way. I'm impatient as fuck, but I stick around because I gotta talk to her. The place is filling up. This is the place to find Satan's Anus' black population, on cheap wing night at B-Dubs. I guess I shoulda known. I even saw Coco there, though I didn't realize it was her until much later.

As I waited, there was this Afrocentric woman there. All natural woman. She complimented me on my locs. I thanked her. She stared, smiling. I love Afrocentric, natural women, shit, all women really, if they are not BoogaBears. She was a BoogaBear. I looked at the front door.

Carmel came in. Beautiful. She brought another one of her homegirls with her, "Hazel". Didn't she hear what the fuck I said earlier? I wanted to bail the fuck out. She comes in and hugs me. I'm like "Ay, what's the deal? What's up? You got your girl with you." Carmel responded "She needed to get out, I didn't think you would mind."

The only fucking reason I'm out on a work night without pussy on my mind is so I can talk to this chick. And she brings an excuse not to be able to talk. I'm fuckin' livid.

Turns out the BoogaBear is another one of Carmel's girls. So I end up at a table with Carmel, the BoogaBear and Hazel. I'm beside myself. I keep looking at my phone to check the time. Thelma's calling. Good ol' Thelma.

I sit there for awhile and I get up to leave, that's when I finally recognized Coco. She was wearing big assed shades, a long assed weave and a hat, radically changing her from the way I'm used to seeing her. I igged her, like I figured she'd been doing to me.

I hugged Carmel good-bye. I whispered in her ear "You know this is really fucked up. I wanted to talk to you." And I left, making sure I turned my phone off.

Be Cool,
KZ

I've Been Friggin Tagged, Man

That hot piece of good lovin' from L.A., Supa Sister, tagged the fuck outta me. I don't know how I'm gonna answer some of these questions since they don't really apply but I'll give it a shot.

The A,B,C's of ya man Knockout Zed

Accent - Midwestern, Michigan, Detroit, Eastside, Ghetto
Bra size - Whatever fits in my mitts
Chore I hate - Washing clothes (I usually just buy new underwear. Yes, it's triflin')
Dad's name -Jedediah
Essential make-up - Dick Gloss
Favorite perfume - I used to like to smell Samsara on a broad. I really don't know anymore.
Gold or Silver? - Cowrie shell
Hometown - Detroit, Michigan
Insomnia - Only when I don't beat off.
Job Title - Biggest African in the Anus
Kids - What have you heard?
Living Arrangement - Alone with my porno collection.
Mom's Birthplace - Florida
Number of Sexual Partners - If I told ya, you'd call me a liar.
Overnight Hospital Stays - One week in 1994. It was fucked up.
Phobia(s) - Heights (falling, really, shit)
Quote - He who seizes the right moment is the right man - Goethe
Religion - Football
Siblings - 1 brother, 2 sisters
Two I'm tagging - Who knows if they'll do it but Robyn & BK Babe
Unnatural hair colors I've worn - I am a HETEROSEXUAL MALE.
Vegetable I refuse to eat - Asshrooms
Worst habit - Masterbation and cussing. And masterbation
X-rays I've had - Dental, ankle, knee.
Yummy foods I make - Liquid baby. You should taste it sometime.
Zodiac sign - Sagittarius

I hope someone found this helpful. I tried, y'all.

Love,
KZ

Junk

What up, killa? Ya man is back from a very good weekend. Not excellent, mind you, but very good. Friday night I went up to Beelzebub's Colon to have some drinks with an old co-worker of mine who left Detroit before I did. She was doing well and I was glad to see it. We went to a Tapas bar. I don't know if you've ever been to one, but it's a fucking rip-off. You pay like 8 bucks a pop for these little appetitizers and you're supposed to order several of them. You leave the place and you're not even close to full. After about $60 I was still hungry. That's fucked up!

Anyway, I left there and went over Carmel's house. Her girl "Punkin" was there with this guy that's a cop for Satan's Anus. Big dude. Actually we were about the same height and weight, but when you see it from the outside perspective you think "Damn, that's a big dude!" He spent a lot of time talking about beating down dope dealers. I don't particularly care for cops. I'm a law-abiding cat for the most part. But cops have never looked out for the interests of the poor and needy. So I'm always wary of a person's motive to be with a killa crew. Usually they are either cowards or bullies. We all drank and chilled. Carmel was getting sleepy and she wanted to go to bed. "You can come in here with me" she offered. "No, you get some sleep. I'll check you out later." I'm not wrestling with a sleepy broad for the keys to her underwear. I left at around 3 am. The cop stayed to babysit Punkin's pussy. Nighty-night, 5-0.

Saturday I went out with another girl I met on my little "5 numbers" spree, "Endo". I call her "Endo" short for "Endomorph". She's fucking ridiculously thick. Just packed together in this fun little ball of sex and juice and stuff. Junk everywhere, tits and ass. Fantastic. We went to play pool. I was behind her on every shot. She beat me twice, I got her 3 times. She's young as fuck. I got her by eleven years. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? What do we talk about? I doubt that we talk much anyway. I had to cut the date off because I was going to hook up with Carmel later. Endo and I made plans for Sunday.

Carmel and I didn't end up hooking up on Saturday night due to mixed communication, so I chilled. Sunday afternoon I hooked up with Endo again. We went out for drinks and food. I was trying to find some common ground to talk about, but it proved difficult. I felt like I was at a lecture and shit. She kept trying to get me to expound on stuff I've read or written. I just wanted to let her talk. It was ok. The next date is at my house. So I guess between now and then I gotta buy a couch.

All in all the weekend was good. A good foundation setter.

Peace,
KZ

The Inevitable, Part 2

Hey peoples! If you've been reading this blog awhile you probably guessed that I didn't just shut Carmel down after that debacle on Sunday. We've been talking on the phone a little. She asked me out to lunch yesterday. Visuals are a muthafucka. She's like 5'2", petite, with a set of D cups. I am not a breast man, but DAMN! We talked at lunch and the discussion drifted to dudes and their underlying motives when stepping to a chick. "What's my motive?" I asked. "Well, you know about my recent divorce and my kids. I got a lot of baggage. So you probably just wanna fuck." It was like she was reading a white ping-pong ball with "B-14" on it, cuz in my head I shouted "Bingo!"

"Well, I do wanna fuck" I said matter of factly, "but it's cool if we could hang out. I don't know anybody here. I'm really just meeting as many people as I can. I'm used to having a big social circle. " All of which is true. So I laid my cards on the table, trying to make myself as unattractive a long term prospect as possible. Basically trying to save me from me.

She called me last night and asked if I knew where she could buy a "little toy". I laughed 'cuz I know this drill. My M.O. is to take a chick to the sex shop, tell her to pick out the one she wants, I buy it for her, and suck the clit while I'm inserting it into her. It's just my thing.

"Yeah I know a spot that I can put you up on." I'm still trying to stop the inevitable.

Brushfires

Hey folks! I've been spending my days putting out fire after fire here in the office. When I leave work all I want to do is sleep. They are draining my energy. I'm finally reaping the fruits of my efforts from a couple of weeks ago (i.e. the 5 phone number weekend) and I can't go out because I'm exhausted. I'm here in Satan's Anus putting women on the back burner. Imagine that.

Anyway, in the aftermath of the fight here in the office, I've been on clean up duty. Since there were no witnesses to the scrap, we had to slap their wrists and let them continue to work. Unions are a bitch. Now these broads are doing passive aggressive shit and y'all know how I hate that. They're letting the phones ring 7 to 10 times before they answer. Each of those phone calls represent money to the city and these old crones are just letting the calls drop. I wanna choke these hoes. I can't fire them without the longest trail of paperwork known to man. I have to establish a phone log system so that I can create a paper trail. This shit is more work, more administrative bullshit.

My head hurts, I'm not getting my regularly recommended dosage of vagina, Office Broccoli is looking better and better. I'm all fucked up. My boss asked me what I wanted to do. "Fire 'em. Fire 'em all. Let's start fresh." And all this is just one half of my job duties. I gotta make this fucking city GROW.

I'm in a wilderness with no friends and no motivation. This, my good friends, really is Satan's Anus.

That's all I got.

Peace,
KZ

The Devil's Lower G-I

Hey y'all! My account of this weekend should take up at least two blogs, but I'm lazy and I'm in synopsis mode. This oughta be painless.

Friday
Thelma came and so did I.

Saturday
I left Thelma at the house so I could go to the frat meeting. On my way I check my messages. Four messages from Carmel. The third voicemail message is a plea for dick. The last message is a text at 2:45 am: "I miss U". She was obviously drunk and out with her friends on Friday night. I called her. She was disappointed that I wasn't "in town" but she'd see me when I "got back".

Frat meeting was short. I came home and took Thelma to see the Dave Chappelle flick.

Nightfall came and so did I.

Sunday
Thelma left and I texted Carmel "I'm back". She called me a few minutes later. "Come over and meet my sister." I wasn't really with it, but I did it anyway. Boredom is a bitch.

Her sister is a fucking 10+. Beautiful, crass, ass for days, foul mouthed, gorgeous mess. Talking about fuckin' miscellaneous dudes with her three year old daughter on her lap.They were trying to go out to eat. We leave. They wanted to see their girl. Pretty girl, six kids. She came and brought one of her kids. They called their mama. Mama brought their little brother. Eight deep at Red Lobster. That's what this shit turned into. They are all transplants from the Devil's Lower Gastro-Intestinal Tract to Satan's Anus.

I wish to goodness I had the energy to write about all the shit that happened, but I don't. The shit feels surreal as it is. Carmel's sister was at the table talking about getting paid to fuck in front of her mother. It's hard not to be one of those bourgeois, judgemental assed Africans, but gotdamn!

Needless to say, or shit, maybe I do need to say it, the bloom is off the rose. I think I can take this from a distance, but I can't fuck her under full disclosure. If I could feign ignorance, I'd stab. But I can't, I know too much.

Stay vigilant,
KZ

Rust And The Art of New Pussy

Hey y'all, what's good? Today I'd like to talk about springtime. The essence of springtime. Flowers, birds, sunlight, green grass, new pussy. That's what springtime means to me, the opportunity to mack.

So I'm on the phone with Carmel, right? Bullshit little conversation, kids in the background and shit. I was thinking this shit is a little hectic. I don't know if I wanna keep going down this road. Then she asks me a question. "This is a little personal. You won't mind?" "Naw, go ahead." "What do you do for sexual gratification?" I chuckled. Unbeknownst to her, I had just pulled one off before I got on the phone with her. "Nuttin', I mean, shit, nuttin'." She laughed. "Tell the truth." I exhaled. "I jack off, beat off, masterbate. That's what I do." "Really?" "Yeah, really."

This is where it gets good. She asks "Are you sexually attracted to me?" WTF? "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am." This was a funny question to me. You'd have to see her to know what I was talking about. "You didn't think I was?" I continued. "Well, you were just so blaise when you where over here Saturday night. I didn't think you were attracted to me like that." And that's where I fucked up.

Carmel is bangin' and quite frankly a little more hood than I normally deal with. I like that edge though. My strategy remains simple: Be a gentleman with a 'hood chick, be a dog with a "cultured" chick and the world beats a path to your door. Foolishly, I didn't adjust on the fly. A woman, alone, kids gone for a short period of time, invites you back to the house and is getting lit on wine? I'm a pretty stupid "African".

"What are you doing this weekend?" she asks. Fuck. "I'm going to Detroit. Frat business." It's a lie. I'm importing pussy, vintage 1970 from the fertile pussy-growing regions of Detroit. "The kids will be with their father again this weekend. I'm going to my girl's birthday party. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me." Damn. There is no way I was getting out of that weekend without Carmel on my chin. "Are you staying the whole weekend?" she asked. "Uh, yep."

There you have it. Your boy, Knockout Zed fumbling on the one yard line (that's a football analogy for Robyn!).

Be easy,
KZ

Betta Days

What up? It's a hectic day in Satan's Anus. Two members of the clerical staff in my office got into a physical altercation on Thursday at 4:55 pm. I've been trying to put out that fire since it happened. Somebody (or everybody) has got to go. Today is the day. Everyone one here has taken sides because, of course, it was a black chick and a white chick who wuz buckin'. Other than that shit, it's been good socially.

Friday afterwork I went to this Happy Hour that my frat brothers were hosting. Good decision. I got three phone numbers out of the deal, two outstanding prospects, one ok. Beautiful single women. I need to hang out with frat a little more and stop being so fuckin' anti-social. Maybe I would've been outta this drought. I made a date with one of them for Saturday night, "Carmel".

I went home to Detroit to get my taxes done (nice refund!) on Saturday during the day and got back to the Anus early in the evening to go to this event that the Vice Mayor arranged for me. He's a brother, so he's made it his special mission to make sure I don't find another job in a blacker city. He had a get together with a few single eligible black women in a little house party setting. More fine sistas I hadn't met yet. Two more numbers. I had to leave that session to hook up with Carmel for this dinner date.

She was 35 minutes late. I almost jetted, but she kept calling reminding me she was on her way. When she got there I was glad I stayed. Fuckin' stunning. High yellow chicks ain't even my steez, but that smile. Man, that smile. We talked. Divorced, three kids, grad student. Mo' titties than ass. But that smile.

The restaurant was closing. We were the last ones there. "You wanna go do something else? I don't feel like going home yet." "Let's go to my house" she said. I got quiet(er). Was I gon' fuck tonight? I pushed it outta my mind. I wasn't even going to try. It's a small fuckin' town and I better be damn sure about what I'm doing if I stab. I went with the flow.

We got to her crib, it was brand new in a new subdivision. She was the first person to ever live there. Nice. We sat on the couch watching some BET movie (Tech? Eva?) and drinking wine. I was almost comatose. She was mellow. We talked and talked shit about this bad movie. She started getting sleepy so I left. All my instincts tell me to fuck now and fuck often. They've been wrong as hell the whole time I've been here, so I ignored them. Besides, I got 4 more pools to dip my toe in.

Be safe,
KZ

Who Made This Chick?

Hey y'all! Long time, no post. I've honestly been assessing this blog's value to me and whether or not I should continue it. In some ways it's therapeutic, in others stress inducing. People read between lines in instances where I wrote what I meant. Then when I write something for people to catch my inferred meaning, I get nothing. I've basically been getting sick of offline discussions over online statements. So, I'll likely be posting less often. With that being said, let's get to the juicy stuff.

I went to lunch with Madame Batshit yesterday. Yeah, I know. I'm still not fuckin' her. We just pretty much only know each other here, so we go to lunch together sometimes. No biggie. Anyway, I dropped her off at her job when we were done and I went back to work. I got out of the car and checked my phone to see the time. I'd missed a voicemail. When I checked it, it was a message from E.T. "Hi Zed, I think I just saw you leave the Satan's Anus office complex. Anyway, call me when you get a chance."

I deleted it and forgot about it. I talked to Batshit earlier today. She asks me "Did you get a phone call from your little girlfriend yesterday." "Who?" "E.T." "Uh, yeah I did. How did you know?" It seems when I dropped Batshit off and E.T. saw me, she went to Batshit office and started to talk to her. E.T. was like "Hey Batshit, was that Zed I just saw dropping you off?" Batshit responded affirmatively. "Are y'all kickin' it?" E.T. asks her. "No, were just good friends. Why do you like him?" "No, I gotta a boyfriend. I just wanted to hook him up with some friends of mine. I thought you might like him." "No, no. I'm trying to hook him up with friends of mine, too." was Batshit's response. According to Batshit, she had no other business in her building except that she was driving by, saw me drop her off, and decided to talk to her about me.

She had already displayed psycho-like tendencies and shit showing up at the gig. This shit is off the hook. You got to Batshit's gig 'cuz you saw me drop her off? This bitch IS crazy! I didn't even fuck her (or kiss her or feel her up).

Another thing: Batshit don't know, but she know what time it is. She called me five (5) times on Valentine's Day (I only counted her once, though, in my 23 voicemails) and texted me "Happy Valentine's Day". I have not spoken to her since she decided to drop by the gig on January 31. Not one word. I called her a couple of days after that to check her, but she was dodging the call I guess.

I musta forgot they still built hoes like this. I thought that assembly line had closed down. Apparently they haven't broken the mold yet. I swear I hadn't seen shit like this (no sex involved) since fuckin' middle school. They need to issue a nationwide recall on this screwball.

SMFH,
KZ

K.Z. Money

What up? It's ya manz Big Michigan and 'nem! I don't know what the deal is lately. Is it mistaking kindness for weakness or is it that they think I got deep pockets? I have yet another broad writing me for a donation. What the fuck is the world coming to?

Y'all remember that first situation I told you about, right? The one where I asked your advice but I didn't tell you the whole story? Well I decided I wasn't gonna play the "money for pussy" game, so I declined. I got another woman asking me for money for a website project she's trying to start with erotic poetry. I'll tell y'all upfront. I didn't fuck her, she's a lesbian. As a matter of fact it's that same crazy broad I told y'all about before. The one that needed help looking for a job.

I eventually sent her some job leads and shit, but I didn't do anything beyond that. Now she's trying to get a brother to fund her pipe dreams. She might be good. She might have the world's greatest poetry skills. She might be the next Shumishana Kulusianicka (OK, so I don't know any famous poets!), I don't really give a fuck. Why does SHE feel so comfortable asking me for loot? I'm telling you, being a good listener don't amount to shit. People believe you're simpathetic when you listen to them babble about shit. I'm not really simpathetic, I just let muthafuckas talk.

The link to the letter is here if you wanna read it. It goes on and on about something or another. Just because you knew my ass "back when" and I got two nickels to rub together now don't mean I'm a fuckin' bank. Stop passin' the fuckin' hat to me.

Quit Beggin',
KZ

Begin The Beguine

"Ya fine, ya bound to see the biggest part of me/Get on ya knees, I'll harden like a fat man's artery" - Wack lyric from C.O.C (Crusty Old Curmudgeon), Flavor From The Eastside Basement 1991

Hello everybody. Welcome to the golden time of the year. That time where I'm free from gift giving from February until December. This is my prime time, my favorite time to meet women, the cheap bastard's salad days. If you're with a woman during December - February, you'll be a gift givin', New Year's Eve date havin', Kwaanza dashiki wearin', Valentine candy buyin' son of a bitch. Except for the occasional birthday, you can pretty much breathe easy right now.

My problem is not in getting women to date me, it's finding women to date. I was at lunch the other day and I ran into this woman I met my second or third week here at a club named "Coco". She was extra hood, reminding me of home. When we were dancing together at the club, we got kind of, let's say...inappropriate. We were grindin' our pelvic bones into each other. Basically fuckin' on the dance floor. When we left, we were holding hands and I was walking her to the car. "Whatchu bout ta do?" I asked, ghetto patois intact, just like home. "Nuttin. Go home", she answered. "You sure?" I was trying to find my way in the draws. "Yeah, I talk to you later, OK?" "OK." Needless to say I never called her nor did I see her again. Until Tuesday.

I walked up to her and we started talking. She was telling me she was moving to Detroit in a few weeks. Fuck! I couldn't even try to capitalize on this chance meeting. I'll be damned if I wasn't going to give a shot though. "Well, ay, yo, shit, wyoun you gimme yo' numba?" Numbers were exchanged again. I can try to give it this one shot before she jets. Her family still lives here so she's bound to make a few trips back and forth anyway. And I'll get in where I can fit in.

Stay golden,
KZ

Charlize Theron

"Him too afraid to get out, him just a little guy." - Chris Farley in "Tommy Boy"
"Insignificance, here I'll place you on the mantle" - Q-Tip, "Verses From The Abstract"

Hey y'all! That little piece of wretchness we call St. Valentine's Day is over. Now it's time to deal with the fall out. Twenty-three. Not Jordan or LeBron, but 23 voicemail messages left on my celly yesterday. Some unwanted, like E.T.s, some imaginative like "Fanta" and her "no sleep 'til I say so" speech. I successfully dodged them all. Even the one from Dreadlady, reminding me I hadn't made an "appointment" in months. Pinky reminded me that she was still coming this weekend, which reminded me that I had to go buy a new bed frame (don't ask!). The best message came from a highly slept on and forgotten source, "Charlize Theron".

Now Charlize got that name from an ep she pulled on me about a year back. I was on the phone with her. We hadn't had sex. At the time, we were platonic. We talked shit to each other, but that was the extent of it. I told her I was horny as fuck but I didn't feel like being bothered with one of the women I was seeing ALL night. She said "Maybe I can help. I'm on my period, so we can't do it, but I'll help you out." "Really?" "Uh-huh." So I told her to come through. I really thought she was playing. She ain't really gon' do nothin' when she get here.

She came into my place stomping the snow from her boots. I'm smilin'. "What's up?" "Where's the bedroom?" I pointed towards the back and she walked in. I came into the bedroom slowly. "Stop playing" she admonished, pulling down my jogging pants in the process. Charlize sucked in air through her teeth, making a hissing sound. I think that was the last time her mouth closed that evening. Head, neck, neck, head, neck and head. Gettin' the 'tussin.

When I was about to cum, I started to grab her arm. "I'm cummin', baby. Baby, I'm cummin'." Now she's "baby", right? Anyway, she pushed my arm away and went all the way down. I came HARD. When I finished, I opened my eyes. She was in front of me with her mouth open, full of cum. She slowly closed her mouth and swallowed hard. I coulda came again just looking at that. She left about five minutes later. When I recounted this story to my boy Three, this cat said, "Damn, you might as well call her Charlize Theron." "Why?" "Cuz she's a fuckin' monster!" The name has stuck.

Anyway, she called me yesterday to tell me she might be coming down with a sore throat. "Maybe we can put your dickhead in some honey and make me all better." Heartwarming. That's all for now folks.

Keep Writin',
KZ

A Valentine For NYC

"Even n*ggas that look like n*ggas ain't n*ggas." - Robin Harris on New York City

Hey peoples, Happy Valentines Day and shit. I'm sure the Easter Bunny has left you some money for your teeth or whatever the fuck other fairy tale goes with this "holiday". Anyway, I had to double blog today. I just got back to Satan's Anus from New York City this weekend. It was all beautiful except for the end, which I'll about briefly.

First off, I got there Friday morning and I called on an old friend, "Hot Biscuits", to play tour guide. She had me meet her in Times Square, which is not New York for real. It's the place that stands in for NY tourists. Everybody's looking up at buildings and neon signs and shit. Hustlers hustling. Street musicians. I saw two transvestites, one was about 4 inches taller than me. I'm 6'3". Biscuits arrives in Times Square and we start walking around. Cats are trying to sell things. I'm responding "No thanks, bruh." She says "Why are you talking to them? Ignore them." So now I'm soft midwest guy, the tourist. Biscuits keeps walking and bumping into people. Nothing's said. Everybody's fine with that. The system works!

Now we have to get on a train, the subway. She's talking about all these letters and number and shit that apparently represent directions and destinations. Jibber-fucking-jabber. We wind up in what I think is SoHo. *Side note to NY'ers: Houston Street should be pronounced like the city not the pretentious assed way you pronounce it!* We're at this bar that has the coolest bathroom in the world. Look at my little Flickr box to see what I'm talking about. Anyway Biscuits was draggin' my ass around this crowded city and I appreciated her attention. I shoulda let her jump my bones and get some of this good stuff. Maybe next time (I know you're lurking out there! Just seeing if you're paying attention)

Later I hooked up with another girl who I'll allow to remain "nameless". Nameless had me hanging out in Greenwich Village. *Another side note to NY'ers: When the fuck is a "W" silent?* We got to see an all lesbian R&B band. The lead singer looked like my Cousin Stumblefuck (he's a boy). After leaving the spot, I tried to get Nameless back to the cut. No dice. I went home horny and fulla alcohol. I didn't even masterbate, though the abundance of lotion and imagination made it tempting.

The next day I woke up full of energy. Maybe it was going to bed without beating off. I won't make that a habit! I hit the streets early, mainly going downtown. I got the the New York Historical Society to catch up on NYC slavery, went to Ground Zero out of respect, went to busy ass Canal Street to shop, and walked through some interesting hoods like the Lower East Side. When me and Nameless hooked up again, we went up to Harlem. We checked out an art exhibit on Amadou Diallo and went to Sylvia's Restaurant. I really couldn't concentrate 'cuz I was thinking about runnin' up. Horny over powers everything, I'm tellin' you. Saturday night it started to snow, first lightly then heavier and heavier. We parted ways and I was once again left to my own devices.

When I woke up Sunday morning I was in a blizzard. When it was all said and done, 27 inches had fallen. I had to check out of my hotel and get to the airport. My flight had been delayed, but the airline said they were going to fly when the snow stopped. I got to the airport and it was closed. No flights. I called hotels. The cheapest price I got quoted was $299 a night. I stayed at the airport all night, talking to a woman from San Antonio who wanted me to hook up with her daughter. My airline finally flew on Monday afternoon and I was able to get to Detroit. Still 2 1/2 hours from Satan's Anus. I got home at 7:30 am after falling asleep in Detroit. It's been a grueling few days but all in all, I had fun in the Apple. Guess what would have made it better for me?

Stay cool,
KZ

Eulogy For A Beatmaker

Jay Dee a.k.a. J-Dilla a.k.a. James Yancey was pure Detroit. He was sublime hip hop producer. It's kind of selling him short to call him that. That cat was pure music. He loved beats. Bossa nova, jazz, rock, pop, whatever. If he heard it, he could make it better. The only connection I have with Dilla is that we both came from the Eastside of Detroit and we both were "heads". He was in his early 30's, I'm in my mid 30's. It's likely that we passed in the same circles.

I was an aspiring beatmaker and hip hop artist in the late 80's/early 90's. I was in a group called "Flavor From The Eastside Basement" an obvious nod to the likewise long-named "A Tribe Called Quest". He was from the Conant Gardens, I was from Ravendale. When Slum Village started making noise locally, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Then, when Dilla was tapped to be part of the Ummah, a beat making trio with Q-Tip and Ali Shaheed Muhammad of Quest, I was proud. Detroit hip hop would be represented nationally. He went on to produce songs like "1nce Again" and "Find My Way" for Quest, "Runnin" and "Drop" for the Pharcyde, "Stakes Is High" for De La Soul and lots of other joints.

Slum Village dropped the classic "Fantastic, Vol. 2" and it was all Dilla. A beautiful album from start to finish. He went on to produce the entire "Like Water For Chocolate" cd for Common. Another masterpiece. His fingerprints are all over hip hop. I've heard Dilla called your favorite producer's favorite producer. He was an incredible beatmaker and a hip hop stalwart. Jay Dee was the best thing that ever happened to Detroit hip hop. I went from jealousy to grudging admiration and finally I became a fan.

James Yancey died Friday of complications from Lupus. He will be missed.

KZ

For The Hun

Hey y'all! To celebrate Post #100 on this highly esteemed piece of blog real estate, I'll give you something I don't do much of these days, a bona fide "Batshit" update.

As you know (or might not know) I'm sexually done with the woman I call "Batshit". I haven't been with her in two months. I told her we should be done with that part of our lives with each other. She caught major feelings so it didn't work for me. We're friends, though it's a tenuous friendship at best.

Batshit called me yesterday to help her with a computer issue she was having in her one-woman office. I came through and started screwing with the network connections. I look over and she's staring at me. "What?" I ask, dreading the next words out of her mouth. I recognized the look. "Why don't you wanna be with me?" she asks. I look down at the network router and give it that fake ass look of concentration, brows furrowed and shit. "That's not my destiny. I'm supposed to be with somebody else" I finally respond. "Thelma, right?" She's heard this before. Actually Batshit has heard this several times before. "That's right." "Does she know you wanna be with her?" "I tell her all the time" is the lie I respond with.

How do you tell a woman "It's not me, it's you!" They've heard that shit the other way around all the time, but the real thing is it's her. She's fuckin' unhinged! Between her zealotry and her disconnected logic, kickin' it with her is untenable. It shouldn't be done. But she's pretty, she's funny, and she digs me. Honestly you can't beat that combination. Especially for an egomaniacal muthafucka like me.

So Batshit, cool ass Batshit, starts slowly, quietly shedding tears. I feel like shit. I start looking at the router even harder, gettin' all concentratiousical (copyright KZ, 2006) and shit. "I can't fix this." "I know" she says, softly. I leave shortly thereafter, never looking back.

See Y'all Soon,
KZ

Aggressive-Aggressive

What's real, folks? It's ya man, Knockout trying to put out office fires and shit. Clerical staff is up in arms 'cuz my boss put up surveillance cameras in the office. Only at the two reception desks. Why the fuck he'd waste money in a tight budget to do something a quick walk-through could accomplish is beyond me. What the fuck are they stealing, thumb tacks? I've worked in some sheisty ass offices before. This place is squeaky fuckin' clean in comparision. Morale is low and this bastard creates a personnel issue, my area of responsibility. Thanks, cracka!

This type of sneaky shit is his M.O. He is a passive-aggressive, "I'll get ya back on the low" type cat. Passive-aggressiveness is a hoe-assed trait. Personally, I'd like a muthafucka to know: "I don't like you and if you come around, I'm bringing the heat." My favorite non-sexual phrase in the world is "Maaan, fuck you!" My favorite phrase being "I can't hold it anymore!" There is something to be said about a cat that will tell you what he's about to do and he does it.

Sorta like "I'll come to your crib (or workplace) in Southfield and grab you by the throat if you ever put my business out in the street again." And following it up with something like "You can hit me up at the dabigplanet@hotmail.com if you wanna get grimy." Now, I'm not saying I'm a tough guy, but I can't be mistaken for passive-aggressive. I'm actually aggressive.

I have a disdain for anyone who has a problem with me to back door that shit and not settle it face to face. That's the type of cat my boss is, a coward with juice. You gotta watch them cats. They're everywhere.

Stay Focused,
KZ

The Season For Giving

Hey, y'all! I got an odd request in the mail this weekend. It was a request for monetary assistance from a friend of a friend. She's buying a house and she came up around $2,000 short. So she's asking people that she knows to pitch in and help her out. I guess all in all it's not an odd request, it's just I don't know her all that well.

She called me at work on Friday. I had no idea she had my work number. I can't remember giving it to her. But I hadn't heard from her in the seven months since I left the City. Not a word beyond the occasional, dumb ass forwarded e-mail. She asked me for my address. I asked her "Aw, what's up? You gettin' hitched?" She said "Somethin' like that." So I gave her my address.

I can imagine it's sort of hard to hit someone up on the phone for a loan (or a gift), but it was strange that she could call me for the address and not tell me a little of her plight. But like I said, she's a friend of a friend.

So I got this mail from her and I thought it would be an invite to a wedding or something and it was this "gift" request. I honestly don't know how to proceed. Should I give? If I give, what wouldn't make my ass look cheap? I mean, I don't know her like that.

Here's where you (yes, you!) come in. Usually I read the comments and blow off every piece of advice I don't like, but I'll really take yours into consideration this time. I promise. I don't have a clue how to proceed. I'm looking forward to your input.

Regards,
KZ

The Great Unsaid

Hey! What the deal is? I know y'all gotta think I don't censor myself, but even in this anonymous little place in cyberspace, I still hold some things back. I don't know if I fear backlash or just negative comments but I keep a lid on a lot of my opinions. A few of those things have been bouncing around in my head. I'm prepared to be roundly dissed and generally hated. I know this is pretty much a continuation of my last post. I got a lotta time on my hands to think about this shit, so I'm ready for the heat.

Coretta Scott King - A courageous, phenomenal woman. It looks like back in the day that was some good fuckin' pussy.

Single women raising a son as an only child - I've seen it done. Rarely have I seen it done well. The saddest shit in the world is that family picture with just a mother and son. You may raise a cat like Kanye, a spoiled, hypersensitive, quasi-homosexual basket case of a mama's boy or you might get a hardened fuckin' emotionless automaton of a witless bastard bound for prison. In either case that's no good. Get that muthafucka a dad or a sibling, pronto.

The Theatre, African-American version - Ladies, I don't like to say these "playwrights" are emotionally manipulating your asses, but...these muthafuckas are emotionally manipulating your asses. Men, diss one of these modern day minstrel shows and you take your life into your own hands. Bad actors coupled with bad dialogue, goofy ass happy ending full of redemption and "I'll be good from now on" type moral lesson with gospel flourish. Y'all keepin' Tyler Perry flush with Anal-Ese for the rest of his life.

Carmel Corn - Ummm, delicious! (not all of these are gonna be that controversial!!!)

Blog Artists - Hey you! Poet! Yeah, I'm talking to you. I appreciate your attempt to be deep and shit. It's really quite noble. Your friends won't tell you, so I have to...you fuckin' suck! From the top of your empty head to the bottom of your talentless ass feet! You are not a natural, you are not insightful, you need to learn poetic meters, you need to turn off the fucking t.v., and you need to get to know your limitations. You aren't Maya Angelou, you're Monique Renee Jenkins. Find out what she can do well and leave the poetry to the talented.

Blog Macks - There are a lot of lackluster pumpkinheaded fucklipped assholes who are on the blog to meet hoes. They'll try anything to get down: flirt, stalk, make vapid assed comments, exaggerate, and outright lie about everything under the sun. Blog roll fulla pretty bitches. Pump up their "Importance Quotient" about a thousand every chance they get. They get pressed to meet Bloggettes offline once they make a little connection. My blog bible refers to Blog Macks as follows: "You shall know them by their wack ass analogies and incongruous, improbable timelines. If you come across these Africans, shun them, for they are the spawn of Satan."

That's it for now.

See ya,
KZ

Additional Pet Urine

What up, Young Swollie? How are you? Good I hope. This friggin' day is draggin' on, but I can tell you one good thing. I tried to call E.T. about 10 times to cuss her the fuck out. Left messages and everythang. No return call. I think she was offended when I had the secretary tell her to go the other day. That works for me.

Once again it's that time when I bitch about stuff I hate. I know, you think that's all the time, right? Not so, I only complain about 1/4 of the shit that bugs me. Here we go:

The Men's Restroom: I already don't like pullin' my dick out with men in close proximity to me. I don't like opening my asshole with men in close proximity to me. Why in fuck do you wanna talk to me when I'm using the restroom, Fuck-o?

The First Church of Christ, Scientist: In short hand they are known as Christian Scientists, the muthafuckas who won't let their members use medicine. Not to be confused with the fuckin' Scientologists, these assholes have been known to let their children DIE instead of taking them to the hospital for something that's easily curable. Prayer is wonderful, but take that medicine, muthafucka! It's good for you!

Wispy: The fat white bitch who comes in my office everyday to complain about the black chicks in the office. Known as Wispy because of her thinning hair, the bitch is not to be trusted by anyone. Once upon a time I was polite to this hoe, now...no so much. When she comes into my office it's like "What now?" *loud exasperated sigh*

Hip Hop Memorial Retrospectives: Hey assholes! The two best MCs I ever heard are still alive. They are named Rakim and Kane. Cut out all this Biggie and Pac shit.

Activist E-mailers: Me watching Jamie Foxx is not gonna save the world you, shallow, ignorant dick jockey. Remember that one hurricane in New Orleans? Dey sit-che-ashun still ain't right. Stop e-mailing me that silly shit, you bastard.

Rev. Al: Everytime you make a good point, I look at your fucking head and say to myself "This African gotta perm!" Then I tune your ass out. Leave the Boondocks alone, fucker.

Black Porn: I love a big ass as much as the next cat (shit, more), but please raise the fuckin' bar. Implement a "hip to waist" ratio minimum or something. Every big ol' ass ain't gotta come with a big ol' gut. Gotdamn!

Shipping and Handling: I get the "shipping" part, but why in the fuck should I pay you for "handling". I don't want you "handling" shit I order. Just put that shit in a box and ship it. As a matter of fact, if I catch a muthafucka "handling" my shit, I'm punchin' his ass in the throat.

Squabbin': a.k.a. "Beef". Squabbin on wax is my issue. I want these MCs to just strap up and blast at each other. Just so we can open the vaults and release dey shit for a decade after dey dead. Beef on Wax is quite feminine, especially if the cats cross paths all the time. Somebody at least sock another cat! Bitches.

The Dry Cleaners: Hey you bastard! I brought in 16 fuckin' dress shirts to be cleaned and I couldn't even get a bulk deal. I'm not even sure you cleaned anything. The shit looks ironed and it smells cool, but damn, it's not like I fuckin' hoop in the shirts. Gotdamn thief.

And that's the shit that's presently on my fucking nerves.

Relax,
KZ

Rotten Candy

What the fuck is wrong with this hoe? This bitch E.T. has just shown up at my job again, un-a-fucking-nounced. I told the secretary to tell her that I'm unavailable. Now I gotta call her and blast her. I shoulda checked her hard the first time but I let it slide. Kindness for weakness, I'm telling you, they can never tell the difference. So now I gotta clock the fuck out. That's not what I was going to write about, but I just can't believe it. This shit just happened 2 minutes ago.

Anyway, what's up peoples? I'm here today to talk about Office Broccoli. What, you may ask, the fuck is Office Broccoli. Well first off, Office Broccoli is not a "what" but a "who". She works in my department. She's a 55 year old black woman with a fantastic body. That's not an exaggeration. She is the complete package, ass and titties, small waist, errthang. O.B. looks like she might be 70 looking at her damn face. It's old and hideous. Completely fucked up.

She's always wearing tight, revealing shit and she's constantly flirting with me. "Oops I dropped something" bending down right in front of an African. Yeah, I look 'cuz I'm a triflin' African. What the fuck do you expect. But that grill...yuck! Trying to show me paperwork and reading it along with me, her titties resting on my arm, looking up at me smiling. That face is horrible. I told Thelma about her ass. She said "Maybe she's flirting with you 'cuz she was the shit back in the day. Maybe she was the 'office candy'." I was like "Shit, more like the 'office broccoli'." And there ya go.

O.B. has recently changed her strategy. She walks to work everyday. It's wintertime in the fucking snowbelt. So she'll linger and ask an African for a ride home on a bad day. I oblige. Shit, I gotta oblige, she's like my mama's age and shit. So one day I take her to the crib, she introduced me to her daughter, Home Broccoli. Same affliction as Ma. Buttahead. She introduced me to her niece, WICBroccoli, with her fuckin' kids. Buttahead skank. This shit is disheartening and quite frankly, exhausting. I'm sick of meeting these lousy broads, but in the meantime, these are the only broads I'm meeting. Catch-22.

Hasta Luego,
KZ

Downtown Saturday Night

What's up, folks? I spent yesterday chillin', masterbating, chillin' some more, then jackin' off again, then laying down 'cuz I jerked myself into a headache. Anyway, I'm relaxing and my phone rings. It's E.T. so I don't answer. Then I said fuck it, this will be a good time to straighten out some shit, like her coming to my gig uninvited. I called her back. She asked me if I wanted to come out for drinks. No, I didn't but I was bored and I needed to get re-hydrated after all the beating off. I accepted. It would be better to get shit off my chest face-to-face anyway. I washed my hands and dick and got dressed.

I was meeting her at this bar/restaurant inside the big hotel downtown. It's actually a pretty sophisticated looking bar. I was impressed. I walked to the bar and she was sitting there with her friend. Fucking mistake on her part. Her friend was gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. Built like a brick shithouse. Side note: If you're a gump or a goon, take special care to not bring someone around that makes you look worse, especially if it's a man you're trying to get with. Back to the story. I introduced myself to the chick and she was excessively ghetto. Who gives a fuck. Goony + Pseudo Hood or Beautiful + Hood, guess who wins that battle?

She had a fake French name, bad taste in clothes (e.g. blue cowboy boots with yellow flames on them), and a slutty demeanor. Africans, I was in love! So E.T. begins to intimate that she and I have some little sexual relationship. She's irritating the fuck outta me. I start talking about going home next week so I see some women I miss, just to shut her the fuck up. Both of 'em have been drinking a lot already so it's disorienting. I really dislike drunk people when I'm sober. E.T. starts touching my chest. "You don't have man boobs do you? I hate Africans with man boobs." "I sure do. 38 DDs baby. I guess that makes me undesireable!" They're laughing and shit, just having a ball. They start talking about "literature", in specific, the "Superhead" book. Real Chickenhead shit. I listen to them talk bad about this chick, but at least she's got a marketable skill.

E.T. starts putting her leg up on the table. The tall bar table we're sitting at. "Look, I'm flexible. I thought you knew?" I look for the waitress. "Could you bring the check?" "One or three separate?" "Three." E.T. looks over at me, "Why you frontin'? You ain't buyin' drinks?" "I was at home chillin'. You invited me out. You should be paying for my drinks" I answered. The checks came and E.T. grabbed mine and paid it. We left.

I walked them to the car, lingering behind to look at Fake Frenchie's ass in that tiny mini-skirt. We get to the car, E.T. hugs me and they leave.

I can't remember driving home, but when I woke up today there was a missed call from E.T. on my cell. I'm glad I missed it.

Enjoy,
KZ

If Jugz Wuz Brainz

What's up, African Blogosphere? This little piece of crust on Michigan's Lower Peninsula keeps getting more and more lively. This gig is a trip. We (Africans) don't stick together worth a shit compared to white folks. These white cats keep coming at me at different angles trying to lobby me to re-hire this cracka that used to work here. Eight different muthafuckas coming to my office one at a time to discuss this bastard who is supposed to be the "end all". Fuck him and them. I'm more adamant not to hire this prick.

I'm not here to talk about that. That's not what this story is about. This is about E.T. The last of those eight fuckheads left my office at around 4:40 pm. I'm trying to get out, go home and eat before I come back downtown for a community meeting at 7:00 pm. I gotta stay until 5:00 because I can't let the fucking inmates run the asylum. At 4:45 my secretary buzzes me on the intercom, "A Ms. Mammaries here to see you." Gotdamn! It's E.T. popping up at my fucking office. The nature of her work and my department's work intersect so she's often in meetings in my building, but I still didn't want her ass dropping in on me. She'd called me on Sunday trying to get me to come over. I didn't answer the phone. So now she's imposing her will on a brotha by showing up at my job, where I can't escape. "Send her in" I tell the secretary.

E.T. comes to my office as gumpy as ever, titties everywhere. My demeanor is chilly. "What can I do for you?" It's all business. She's cheezin' and fluttering eyelashes and shit. All types of body language that might work if she wasn't so friggin "goony". She's talking about this business venture she wants to pursue. I'm half listening. That broad could be saying "blip blap bloop blah" and I wouldn't know it. I'm online, looking at blogs, checking e-mail. Finally she gets up to leave and I'm walking her out. Her phone rings. Loudly. With that old ass Beyonce song "Crazy In Love" as a ringtone. In my quiet office. Nice.

She answers the phone, talking loud as fuck in the hallway near the lobby. I'm giving her the "quiet down" sign. E.T. is in her own world. She finishes the conversation (or her conversatin') and I walk her out of the lobby to the outer hallway, outside our offices. People are leaving. She wants to stand there and talk. Staff is looking at her and looking at me as they leave, trying to put two and two together ("Oh, that's who he's fucking"). I hate that shit. Never shall my public and private lives mix.

"You wanna come see me tonight?" "I got a late meeting." "You can come whenever you're done." "I gotta work out after that." "After that?" "I'll be tired. I think I'll just go home and sleep." Anything to get out of hittin'. I'm a people pleaser by nature, so it's always hard to say "no".

In a week, I might feel different, but right now I don't see myself hittin' that in my lifetime. As bad as it is here in Satan's Anus, I'll be ok without that notch on my belt. I haven't fucked Batshit since the New Year and I won't be touching E.T. ever, so I've gotten off to a pretty good start.

Moderately yours,
KZ

Plan B

What's up, y'all? I'm draggin' this mornin'. I had one of those talks last night. Yeah, one of those. I've been in negotiations with Thelma for about a month now. Last night talks broke down.

I told y'all a little while ago that I might be ready to settle down and start a family, pretty much for my own selfish reasons. I want a kid, period. So I decided that Thelma would be the target reproductive partner. So for a month, we've been discussing really getting back together. Last night, as Chinua Achebe and the Roots might say, things fell apart.

She tells me I don't really value her. I disagree. She says she wants to see me more. I tell her I'll try. She says that's not good enough. I ask her who it's not good enough for. She cries. I suffer.

I'm a little frugal (ok, I'm cheap). So when I go see her, we're going out and I'm paying. When she comes to see me, we're going out and I'm paying. If she doesn't come to me and I don't come to her, I save money. My logic says I need to see her a little less. Especially since I know I'm gonna owe taxes, I need to save right now. Her view is simple: she wants to see me more. That's noble I guess. It's not practical, but it's noble.

So, as I've said, negotiations have broken down. I don't know that I'd like to start them again. I'm tired of the same old fucking discussions. I just wanna keep moving. With that said, I'm on to Plan B, whatever the fuck that is.

Regards,
KZ

Cover Your Face

Hey Africans! What it is? I officially have too much time on my hands (and not enough ass on them). I've been pondering the Golden Age of Facial Hair. What happened when all of our Black heroes had big assed cookie dusters?

Some old cats still sport 'em, like my old man, but for the most part, a brotha won't really embrace a big fucking 'stache anymore.

I'm telling you it's a form of assimilation. It's apparent the chicks dug 'em. Brothas like Thalamus Rasalala always had work in the Golden Age. Now look. You never see brothas like this on the screen anymore.

These men came from diverse backgrounds. Some worked in the salvage industry , others worked on the high seas ,

some were policemen , why some were even athletes .

We need to reassert ourselves and take back our upper lips! Bring back the big, unwieldy 'stache!!! Men, let's do this. Women, talk to your men. Take back our masculine upper lips!

Usually a movement like this I'd be the first to volunteer, but I can't for two reasons. The first is my damn facial hair is extremely gray. Don't wanna advertise that shit. The second is I CAN'T GROW A 'STACHE THAT BIG!!! My damn mustache stops growing at a certain point.

Brothas, I may not get there with you, but I'm there in spirit. Don't let Steve Harvey carry the whole load. Grow ya shit out!

Power to the People,
KZ

Weirdly Oriented

Hey peoples, I'm back. I neglected to blog about a situation that happened here this weekend I'll call "Thelma vs. Jayne Kennedy". It was kind of a non-event, but if I get some negative after effects from the situation I'll blog about the whole think and y'all can laugh at me.

This blog is about "LocHard", the woman who lived beneath me in my old place in Detroit. LocHard is a strange duck. She's about 44 -46, attractive, long-winded, socially progressive, dreadlocked woman. I dreaded going to get my mail because LocHard would catch an African, and I'd be hemmed up in a conversation about the state of the world for at least an hour. She was very passionate woman, about a lot of things. And she held a lot of strange opinions, at least shit I thought was strange. For the record, I didn't fuck her. She's a lesbian.

Anyway, when I left for Satan's Anus I gave her my info and told her to call sometimes. She e-mailed and called semi-regularly. I never returned her calls but I always e-mailed her back. On the phone I knew I'd be on for at least an hour a pop. A few weeks ago she lost her job. She knew it was coming but didn't start looking before it actually happened. So she sent me a resume and asked if I would shop it around in Satan's Anus.

Now, I know this broad is basically a weirdo. I don't have a solid reputation here yet. I didn't want to pass her resume to someone on the strength of my personality and have them interview her weird ass. I'd get a negative mark for bad judgement within the community I'm trying to build a relationship with.

She asked me if I shopped her resume and I said I hadn't yet. LocHard got irate. "I'll bet if I was one of those broads you were bringing back to the apartment, you'd have helped me out. I see the way you are, brother. That's alright. I'll remember that." Whoa, bitch! You got me fucked up! She basically implied that I dissed her because she's a lesbian. I'm not the one to claim I'm the most anti-homophobic cat in the world, but she got it twisted. A broad that I was fucking would have LESS chance of me trying to get her a gig here. I also didn't dig the threatening assed tone of the note she dropped me. "I'll remember that"? Really? OK.

I called her. I fucking hate calling her. LocHard was really concilliatory. "I just said that to light a fire under you. I know you better than that. I figured you'd just put me on the back burner, but I really need a job." So I tell her I'd see what I can do.

I'll tell y'all what I can do. Nothing. Nothing at all for this incredibly irrational, weird hoe. I wouldn't use her resume to wipe my ass. She confirmed everything I thought about her ass through that little interaction. Good luck finding that gig, LocHard. I hope it's not in Satan's Anus.

Stay Chisel,
KZ

Apology Necessary

There once was a man that believed in us so much that he sacrificed a good job, a nice family life, and general peace. He was a man that believed that given the opportunity we would rise to a level we never thought we could reach, and far beyond that of our oppressors. He was a man that appealed to both the intellectual and the emotional arguments to make a case for the equal treatment of Black and others in this country.

A man who marched until his feet were sore. Stood until his legs were tired. Beaten. Attacked. Denigrated. For something of which he knew he'd never reap the benefits. And he didn't.

I spent a lot of my youth downplaying his impact. I "sat-in" in college to make sure his birthday was celebrated even though I didn't respect him. I just wanted an "official" day off. Whenever someone mentioned his name, the first thing out of my mouth was "Fuck him! I'm a Malcolm Man!" It took some age and wisdom to realize that despite what I believe to be a movement to get White people to embrace and accept good, college educated, "middle-class" Blacks, that it was done with conviction and a dignity that's almost non-existent today.

Martin Luther King, Jr. believed in us. So much so that we can write our little feelings on a little bullshit blog in an air conditioned (or heated) office and slack off. Because of him, I'm able to work in a town where they don't give a day off for this National Holiday but instead we can take time off to volunteer and get paid. I laugh at this, because only when it benefits White America can MLK be held to a higher standard than Jesus Christ (no volunteering necessary to get HIS day off!).

My attitude towards Martin Luther King has slowly evolved in the 12 years (damn, 12 years!) since I've graduated from college. His doctrine and style weren't perfect, but it was a lot closer to perfect than I'll ever see in my lifetime.

Happy Birthday,
KZ

Ms. Pac-Man

Hey peoples! I got so much on my mind, I don't know where to start. Everything on my mind comes under one general heading: neediness (sp? needyness?). We're all needy in one way or another. I need pussy. All the time. Errday. Like right now. Any offers? Anyway, I've been asked to fill so many emotional voids lately I think women musta forgot who I am. I'm the selfish African! The one who's motto is "I got mines..." I can't handle it.

I got a friend, Fiona, who's mother is in the final throes of cancer. It is heartwrenching. I've been talking to her on the phone and it hurts not to be able to be there for someone. There is a bigger problem, though. I consider her a friend, but the emotional burden she'd like me to bear is more like that of her man. It sounds pretty callous to say, but I can only be "there" for her so much. I can't take days off to go to Detroit and be with her. I can't hold her and tell her I'll be there for her day and night. All I can do is listen and try to understand her pain.

I have another friend, Puddin', who needs to have this connection to a man. Any man. As long as he shows her attention. She calls me on the premise that she's asking me advice about some dude. I give her what I believe to be sound advice. Then she asks, "When can I come get the dick?" WTF? I say "Where did that come from?" "It's always there, it never goes away." I'm the same African that boned her the last time and dumped her off in front of her friends house, dodging her phone calls for 4 months. But she can't break that attention addiction. I listen to her stupid assed problems, so in her mind I deserve the ass.

Last but not least is Lisette, fuck-buddy extraordinare. We have remained cool through 8 years of fucking and friendship. Until recently. Everytime we fuck now, there is about 4 days worth of questions and conversations about what's next. Extra cuddling, extra non-sexual foreplay, extra afterplay, jealousy. It's all different now. And it's creepy.

My basic advice to women is this: nothing in excess is good. Everything in moderation. Yes, this is Zed giving this advice. Take notes from one of my favorite women, Ms. Pac-Man. When she's eating the little pills, all the dudes are chasing her. When she eats the big power pill, they start jettin'. I think that's an apt microcosm of y'all emotional asses.

Stay stable,
KZ

My Screenwriting Career

Hey folks, what gives? I'm back, spouting more bullshit than ever. All of my friends know about the massive writers block I've been carrying around for more than 5 years now. A book I was halfway finished with in 2000 is still that way in 2006. In 2004, I started feeling it a little bit, writing again, then my car got broken into the first time. My briefcase with the new chapters, gone. I have 4 other books in my head that I'd like to write, but I won't start them until I finish the first one. In addition to those ideas I had some scripts that I wanted to write for movies. Here are some of the ideas for movies Hollywood will never make:

House African*: Millenium Cop - Following the life of a Black, 15 year police force veteran. Quincy is a devoted family man who never misses a Sunday at church. He's highly regarded on the job and has loads of commendations. One day while checking out a robbery he's shot and killed. In the afterlife, Quincy is shown snippets of the important moments in his life. He's informed that he won't be allowed into heaven nor will he be sent to hell, but he'll spend the rest of his afterlife to ponder why he wasted his time on earth protecting rich peoples shit.

Don't Mention It - A ritual performed by wiccans at an colonial burial ground in Richmond, Virginia has some unexpected results. A slaveowner, Thomas Goode, is brought back to life and wanders into the projects in Richmond. He sees the "free" ancestors of people he held in bondage and/or procreated with. They are rampantly using drugs and spending money in an extravangant manner, pursuing life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. He's sure they'd like to thank him and his kind for rescuing them from the jungles of Africa to enjoy the American Dream. His response would be simple, "Don't mention it!"

Billy Boy - William Chesowith, Jr. an outstanding White high school athlete with a promising future is recruited by The University of Alabama to play quarterback. He's a can't miss prospect for the NFL. His father, William Sr., a textile executive, thinks at the very least his son could follow him into his business. Billy Boy encounters competition at Alabama in the form of Taveandre Jackson-Jenkins, the runningest, throwingest African ever born. Needless to say, Taveandre becomes the starting quarterback, leading Alabama to an undefeated season and a National Championship. Billy Boy becomes a disillisioned benchwarmer, turning to drugs and alcohol, until he confronts his father at work. He blames his father for setting unrealistic expectations of greatness upon him, runs into the textile factory, and throws himself into the cotton thresher, killing himself instantly.

Standard Hollywood Bullshit - A short story anthology featuring vignettes such as "This Magic Moment" where a young White boy is mentored by a wise-cracking Black ( fill-in-blank) and becomes the best (fill-in-blank) in the world; "African Buddy Movie #67" featuring a wise old by the book White cop who can't rein in his unorthodox young wise-cracking Black cop partner. Comedy ensues!; "WTF?", a M. Night Shyamalan thriller where a newly married man finds his wife's ever growing ass quite disturbing. Each day it seems her ass grows fatter and fatter. He grows suspicious of his wife's lineage, believing she's hiding the fact that she's really a light skinned Black woman. In one of his standard Hollywood bullshit twists, it turns out that broad's just been eating grits on the sly.

My Bloody Stump - This delightful children's tale finds Hans, a man who lost most of his right arm in a farming accident, as a new arrival in the Big City. Hans believes in being a genuine person and doesn't wear a prosthetic arm nor any wrapping or gauze on his highly infectable wound. He plays in the park with his dog, Carny, often causing dismay to parents as the dog leaps up and chomps down on to his bloody stump. This disgusting and unsanitary practice sickens the grown ups in the town while amusing the youngsters. One day while Hans and Carny are out for a walk, they come across a child stuck in an abandoned wishing well. Hans is the only man narrow enough to fit down the well. The adults are forced to work with Hans, lowering him into the well, while he rescues the child with his bloody stump. The moral of the story: Don't judge a muthafucka with a bloody stump.

Well, that's my screenwriting career in a nutshell. This shit won't sell and can't be watched.

Keep Writing,
KZ

*Of course, this is not the original title.

Football

I beat you, Robyn!

Your IQ Is 120

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Exceptional Your General Knowledge is Above Average

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Hey y'all. Don't be afraid women readers. I know the title has you spooked, but trust me on this one. I have an unnatural love for football. I don't write about it much, but there is no leisure time activity I love as much as watching pro football on a Sunday Afternoon. It is my Achilles heel, my one true weakness. I cannot resist a television set when a game is on. Period.

It's hard to explain how much I love a game that I was personally so bad at. I sucked at football. I'd much rather be a spectator. I loved to hit muthafuckas, but as an offensive lineman, I rarely got the opportunity. I was a lowly blocker.

Fast forward to yesterday. E.T. called me. She'd called me 3 times this weekend, too. I didn't pick up then. It was Monday, what the fuck else could be worse? She was boring me to death about something or other then she asked if I'd been to this new Black owned restaurant. I hadn't, so she suggested we go there for lunch. "Shit, cool." My standard response.

We met there and walked in together. It was a cool, eclectic little atmosphere. These hicks had been outta the Anus at least once. We took our coats off and then I saw them. Magnificient. I love football(s). I'm not a breast man, but gotdamn! Low cut shirt, heavy ass titties. I couldn't even concentrate on her dumb assed conversation. I did a lot of nodding and gawking and shit. She asked me about Batshit. I was like "Batshit who?" I was in a mammary induced daze.

The food was good. I had to put this place on my list for whenever I take another broad out. When we left I walked her to her car. "When you coming over?" I asked. "To your office?" her dumb ass responded. "No, to my place" I smiled. "Why don't you come over to my place? I bought myself a Christmas present." "What is it?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "A 61" flat screen TV. It would be perfect to watch football on." I had a huge smile on my face. "Well, hell yeah! We gotta do that, this weekend." "OK. You gotta pick up the phone and stop messin' with all those other women." "Bet, I'll call you."

She just ensured herself a phone call this weekend. Sometimes you just gotta outthink a simple-minded African. As dumb as I think she is, she's got me right where she wants me. Football. You gotta love it.

Stay Vigilant,
KZ

Next

Hey Africanites, what up? It's ya man in the Midwest, Big Zed, holding it down so you don't have to. I had an absolutely uneventful weekend, which was cool with me. I had a lot of time to think about the general direction of my career and shit. I read where you can figure out if you're in the wrong job if you just ask your friends "Do I like my job?" and listen to the responses. The shit I got was a resounding "No!"

Now I'm not a spring chicken and shit. I can't go around just switchin' up and shit for the fuck of it. I gotta have a plan. I don't have many things I like to do that I could get paid for. The short list is:

• pornographic actor
• mattress tester
• "Before" model for Just For Men

The thing I know for certain is that I have to get out of this town. I had a two-year plan. Move for the title (which accurately describes my capacity at my old job, but my title was far less descriptive) then move again to a better locale with a better title. Just climbing the ladder.

I'm giving this career path the flux. I'm not really feeling this shit. The Poppins incident notwithstanding, this place is for the birds, African. What I do next has to come from within. I'll meditate like I always do (though I've been told I've been doing it wrong by a friend of mine) and I'll get some clarity.

Be cool,
KZ

Shit Sandwiches

Hey Africans! What it do, baby? I'm in a weird position today. Naw, this is not pussy related, it's work related. My boss fired Poppins yesterday. I knew this was coming down the pike for awhile, mainly because of the type of shit I talked about here. She wasn't kosher on a lot of fronts, but the truth is I wouldn't have met a single woman in this town if it wasn't for her.

My big issue is that being Deputy Director of my department, I had to normalize relations with her knowing that she was about to be fired. That shit is not cool. In fact, it's the most uncool shit in the world. This broad is coming by my office asking me advice on how she should proceed with this project. I'm giving her advice, knowing full well that she'll be chillin' at the crib when that project is being finished. She's talking to me about going to lunch next week and I'm discussing these plans like the shit is going to happen.

That's some fake shit and I hate it. I liked it better when I was just one of the muthafuckas who got surprised by some news instead of being in the room when the shit is decided. I felt like telling her to just go home yesterday. "Run hoe, before they can your ass!" Acting normal, smiling and joking with someone, while the whole time knowing they're about to be fired is fucked up. It's like eating a shit sandwich.

But that's the way I'm beginning to see this whole gig. A series of shit sandwiches. It's a shit sandwich buffet. (Aren't you sick of me saying "shit sandwiches"?) I have a great distaste for what I see being done here, which is I'm a shiny new token African. Poppins was a shiny new token African, too. They hired us around the same time, boosted their numbers in African American managers (with Poppins gone, I am now one half of all AA managers in the city), and patted themselves on the back. They were able to prove one of us "incompetent" and push her the fuck out. Truth is, I don't know if collectively all the shit she did is fireable. I've seen people do much worse and survive at every job I've ever worked. But that's life under the microscope.

Shit Happens,
KZ

Bats And Extra

Yo, peoples! What's up? I was out yesterday, backslidin' like a muthafucka. I was at the mall with Batshit. I hadn't seen her since before Christmas. I called her when I was on my way to the mall and she was already there, so we hooked up. After failing once again to buy a new briefcase (mine was stolen when they broke into Big Blue), we left to go to the bookstore/coffeehouse.

Me and Batshit walk in and who did I see? E.T. that's the fuck who! It had to happen sooner or later. This is a small fuckin' city. I tell Batshit to go order and I walked over to E.T. "Hey!" "Hey! Happy New Year!"

Now E.T. had been calling me when I was in Detroit. Texting me and all that shit. "Hey Papi!" and all types of irrelavant shit. Really irrelavant when you consider she hasn't given up the ass. I never responded to any of her messages. But here we were, face to muthafuckin' face.

"Was that Batshit?" she asks. I'm taken aback. E.T. knows Batshit. I should have known. "Yeah, that's Batshit. Y'all know each other?" I ask. "Well she's from Beelzebub's Colon, too." That's right, these broads are from the same hometown. I was introduced to them by the same broad. I shoulda known better. "I see y'all on a little coffee date." Whenever a bitch calls anything "little", that means that shit is ultra significant to her. Except your dick. That's really "little".

"Naw, not really a date. That's my girl. She's cool. What you been up to?" She's walking slowly as I'm talking to her. "Nothing much. Working out and stuff. I got an exercise facility at my complex. Maybe you can come by and we can swim." She stops walking and waves. I look behind me and Batshit is waving back. "I can't swim" I reply, distracted, obviously not getting the fucking hint. She smiles at me "What are you doing later?" "I don't know. Batshit gotta go to a meeting." "Oh. I'll let you finish your little coffee date. Call me later." She walks out. "Yeah, okay." I walk over to Batshit.

"Who was that?" I notice that she's not wearing her glasses. "That was E.T." "E.T.? How do you know E.T.?" "Through ya girl Poppins." "Oh. Oooh. She like you?" "Probably. Who doesn't? Even with this pie face." "It's more like a cake!" she laughs. And we drink coffee.

Peace,
KZ

10,000 Guns

Hey Folks! Happy New Year and all that. I'm here in Satan's Anus after another quick trip back to Detroit. I sold out a lot of people on this visit. No calls, just a happy new year text message. I spent my time here with Thelma, really taking time to assess the chances of us being together for real. I know y'all didn't even know I was contemplating such a thing. But the reality is I want kids, man. "In wedlock" kids. I'm getting old and shit, and I definitely want to procreate. So I gotta look at my options. Thelma is at the top of that list. Sanity, intelligence (relative), looks, morals, and the intangibles. She's not the end all, but she's the top choice. I blocked out every other broad in the City.

Of course, it being new years, every African in the city with a gun had to lick a shot. Unfortunately, some cats gotta aim at somebody. More 'gators died for new years celebrations in Detroit than anything else. We do value what we wear at least. I've had a chance to honestly evaluate myself just looking back at my blog and shit. I've blasted a lot of shots this year, but I do resolve that I will do better on some fronts:

• Reserve blanket judgements on the less fortunate
• Better overall health care
• Read less, interact with actual people more
• Embrace patience
• Be less profane

If I can come close to doing any of these things, my year ought to be a little better. This blog will become a lot more boring, though. In 2005 I've had some interesting shit happen. I've had a pregnancy scare, a "heterosexual" friend come out of the closet, a new job in a new city, pussy offered to me under some of the oddest circumstances I can recall. And I've only blogged about the new job and the new city! Hopefully 2006 will bring me the opportunity to bust more shots and keep you and me entertained. I love this site and I love the black blog community.

Be Easy,
KZ