Petty Shit

This shit just happened around 1:00 pm today. I wanted to know what y'all think.

I was eating lunch at this Chinese restaurant and reading "The World Is Flat" by Thomas Friedman. The book is about the phenomenon of globalization and the economics associated with it.

Anyway this Asian cat walks up to my table and says "That's a good book." I'm 3/4 of the way through it, so I respond "So far you're right." He says "Who told you to read that?" "What?" My face is mad grim, supa screwface. "Who told you to read that?" he repeats. "What do you mean who told me to read this? I'm reading it 'cuz I wanna read it!" He tries to laugh it off after he sees he offended me. "You must be a CEO, that's how you know to read that." And he walks away.

Now this cat has a HEAVY accent, like he's 3 days off the fuckin' boat. And he has the nerve to question why I'm reading the fuckin' book I'm reading. I was highly pissed. That muthafucka ruined my appetite.

What I'd like to know is, am I overreacting?

KZ

Head or Gut

My prospects for a good weekend are dwindling. I'm watching them evaporate before my very eyes. It's that thing, that internal thing that gnaws at you and asks "Is having something to do really worth putting up with this?" It's a toss up. What I call the "Almond Joy/Mounds" conundrum. Sometimes you feel like a nut...

Anyway, I'm watching the prospects slip away 'cuz I'm hiding. I'm getting phone calls from Detroit one after another. Women wanna check me out for the weekend. All friggin' winter the calls were sporadic with me doing the travel. Now, when I'm doing better and know more people, they wanna come this way. Sure. Why not. Why not NOT.

When Carmel called me earlier this week, drunk dialing while hanging with friends, I listened. Not because I wanted anything from her, but I wanted to give her the opportunity for closure. I haven't seen her since I got back from Florida. I'd only talked to her about computer issues since. She cussed me out and told me I wasn't shit. Told me she slept with her baby daddy because I wouldn't answer my phone. Am I going to answer my phone now?

Her homeboy, the cop I told you about here got on the phone. "What's up cousin?" "What up man?" "Ay, are you coming to this community event on Sunday at Holy Roller Municipal Sanctified Palace and Waffle Emporium?" "What community event?" "They're having a program to promote better relations between the police and the Black community."

Right then my 3 worlds collided, my job that includes hella community outreach, my unnatural and sustained hatred of the police, and my unnatural and sustained mistrust of the church in the Black community. I told him I'd try to go. He's a cool guy, plus knowing more cops, I'll be able to get out of more tickets!

But, I might just flake out. You know, frat business.

Let's Hear It For Spring,
KZ

The Freedom To "Be"

Hey peoples, what's what? I've relaxing, reading, and giving myself the opportunity to comtemplate big picture shit. When I was on vacation, I was watching C-Span (nerd alert) and I got into an interview being conducted with author Shelby Steele. If you don't know this cat, it doesn't matter. He's a fuckin' black conservative like Armstrong Williams, Larry Elder, and a buncha other Africans I can't stand.

Anyway I'm watching it 'cuz anything writers discuss in interviews I take note. He actually said something that hit home. Steele was asked about the Dyson/Cosby feud and he had an interesting take. He said Bill Cosby was challenging Black people to be free, to pursue greatness without asking permission, to do unusual, stimlating things without fear of failure or need for affirmation. I don't think that's what Old Bill was doing but I think Steele had a point in one area.

Any Black person who has lived for more than two minutes amongst our own knows one thing: We constantly define what is or is not Black. At a young age, muthafuckas will shame you out of any activity not deemed "African acceptable". I've heard the bullshit about Black kids being shunned in school because they were doing well and cats said they were "Acting white". That hasn't been my experience. You might not have gotten respect for being a street cat, but you got respect for being book smart. Where I'm from you take respect where you can get it.

The thing is we limit our own freedom by limiting what's acceptable for our people. We need to take those bullshit walls down and allow ourselves to do anything we want to do. White people limit our shit enough without us putting up barriers to what we can or can't do. If a cat rejects the barriers and becomes an iconoclast, like Shani Davis, he or she lives in virtual no-mans land. Black people don't respect what he does, white people just hate him.

We are excellent in every field of human endeavor we pursue, we just need to allow ourselves the freedom to pursue it.

Stay Ready,
KZ

The Uniform

When did it happen? When did it come to this? I'm a muthafuckin' revolutionary! I'm a muthafuckin' hip-hop head! I'm am a underground, countercultured, two-fisted contrarian! What happened?

O.K., it's like this. I'm 35. I'm not a kid anymore, but I'm not a fuckin' old man. I'm 35 and I can't find shit to wear. I look through my closet and it hits me. I've got more work clothes than casual clothes. I've got more dress shoes than gym shoes. I've got 12 suits and 3 sportscoats. And two pairs of jeans.

Where's my cool shit? I got some irony filled t-shirts, some polo shirts...but where's my cool shit? The only thing I got is compliments to "the uniform".

Everyday I would get ready for work and it would be kind of an inside joke. I'd try to be the most conservative dresser in the office. I'd wear bowties and patterned shirts, cufflinks and suspenders, wingtips and oxfords, just for kicks. My work wardrobe was a joke on everybody I worked with or worked for. The cat you're seeing is the complete polar opposite of the "real" me. The cat at underground hip-hop clubs until 4:00 am. The weed smoking, hard drinking hedonist with the uncombed afro that later became locs. There is no fucking way I'd be caught in a suit after work. If a co-worker saw me in streets, I'd likely be wearing something that would offend them or at the very least shock them to see me wearing it.

My favorite shirt was from Spencer's Gifts. It had a picture of Buddha on it and it read "I May Be Fat But My Dick Is Huge". Can't wear that bitch in the Anus. I don't even know where it is. Maybe that's for the best.

I was getting dressed this morning, I tied my tie and took one last look in the mirror. It was then I realized I got dressed without a hint of ironic detachment. I cared what the fuck I looked like, that I was coordinated and together. In a fucking suit!

My and my boys, all in "corporate" gigs, used to joke that the cats we saw out on weekends in suits must not have to wear suits to work. Now I wonder how long before I'm a weekend-suit-wearing muthafucka.

Be Easy,
KZ

The Value of Candor

Or, Honesty is the Worst Policy

Hey folks, what gives? I had a pretty good weekend. Pretty good. I had company all the way from NYC. Trying to show someone from New York all the hot spots in Satan's Anus is futile. What the fuck can I show her in this hellhole that will be of consequence to her? Nada. That's not to say this weekend wasn't a learning experience.

My first question to you, the reader, is what do you think you know about me? Do you think you can gauge an accurate picture of who I am through the blog? Or is the blog a tool for me to record some of my more unspeakable actions or unpopular opinions in a generally passive forum? Are Knockout Zed and Zed Zednanreh the same person? Is Knockout Zed fictional? Should this record of my thoughts be held against me if I were to meet you?

I'll answer the most basic questions first. Knockout Zed and Zed Zednanreh are the same person to an extent. KZ is much more blunt and loquacious than ZZ is. I (regular ol' Zed) am a pretty quiet, studious type cat. I talk the most when I'm trying to get a woman's number. I'm most blunt after we've had sex. The blog was a tool to help me "unblock" my writer's block. It has actually hindered my "real" writing.

So this weekend, I'm with this woman that I know from the blog. And I think (though she may think differently) that things I've said in the blog are being held against me. I'm not just talking about the women I'm juggling, I'm talking about the way I think. It's not the first time this has happened and I doubt that it will be the last. There are a few options available: (1) start lying on the blog, (2) don't meet women who know you from the blog, or (3) tell the women you meet from the blog that your blog is a complete work of fiction.

The subtitle of my blog was originally "Unfiltered thoughts from the mind of a male heterosexual troglodyte". It was my intent to share insight and let women know what a cat is REALLY thinking, the shit he can't tell you for fear of backlash. The shit Tyler Perry can't fuckin' tell you, 'cuz he don't know. It was an attempt to foster some understanding between the sexes. It has kind of devolved into "Who is Zed fucking today?", but the original intent was to create dialogue between us.

I've come to the conclusion that being candid ain't worth the trouble. The blog will stay real, I'll just lie in real life.

Honestly Yours,
KZ

Selfish a.k.a. The Pineapple Juice Chronicles

"Yeah maybe I'm selfish/I want you to myself I can't help it" -Slum Village, "Selfish"

There is one character flaw that if I could eliminate, it would make me a happy man. I want it all. I want a wife. And a concubine. And a girlfriend. And a platonic female friend that introduces me to all her hot friends.

I can't leave exes alone. Except for my marriage, every breakup I've had has been on amiable terms. I can go ask any of my ex-girlfriends for anything. Almost anything. And I can have sex with most of them.

I have this way about me that makes women very comfortable. I give a lot of time and attention to them and it makes them want to be around me. Sometimes it's a good thing, other times...
The good thing is it doesn't take a woman that long to want to be sexual with me. The bad thing is they believe that it's just them, not matter how many times I tell them otherwise.

They all think it's just them and they can sense the presence of another.

So this weekend, I'm getting a visit from a Big Apple Stunna. And it's like they all know.

Phone Call #1
Thelma: What you doin' this weekend?
KZ: Nuttin'. Chillin'.
Thelma: That's not good. Idle hands...
KZ: I'm cool. Just doing what I do.
Thelma: I think you need some company.
KZ: Naw. I'll be busy.
Thelma: You just told me you wasn't.
KZ: Well, you know...frat stuff.

Phone Call #2
Charlize Theron: When can I come and suck on that fat dick?
KZ: Hunh?!?
CT: Now you can't hear? You never had that trouble before.
KZ: Naw, I mean dang, shit, that was just kinda...damn.
CT: Oh get the fuck outta here! You're the bluntest *African* I know. Now you all brand new? So answer my question.
KZ: This weekend is bad. I got all types of frat shit goin' on. (Notice a pattern?)

Phone Call #3
Puddin': Do you miss me?
KZ: No. Why would you ask me that?
Puddin': My girl saw you in Detroit a couple of weeks ago. You was walking through the mall with some girl.
KZ: (laughing) That musta been a hologram.
Puddin': A dark skinned girl with dimples.
KZ: What the fuck she do? Hire a sketch artist?
Puddin': I wanna come up there soon. When can I come?
KZ: I don't know I be busy. Work, frat shit. Lots of shit.

Phone Call #4
Batshit: Weren't you supposed to call me?
KZ: Why was I supposed to call you?
Batshit: I thought you told me you were gonna call me.
KZ: Nope, I don't recall that conversation.
Batshit: What you doin'?
KZ: Nuttin'. Driving around.
Batshit: You stickin' around here this weekend?
KZ: Yeah. I'll be here.
Batshit: Take me to the movies.
KZ: Number 1, we've never been to the movies together. Why would I start now? Number 2, I'm busy this weekend. Frat shit.

Phone Call #5
KZ: You just need to let that *African* know. I don't talk to dudes on the phone if it ain't about business. If that *African* wants to talk to me, we'll do it face to face. The phone is for lovers and bitches.
Carmel: He has no reason to talk to you. He and I don't have a relationship and you and I don't have one either.
KZ: O.K., whatever. That *African* just shouldn't ever call me. He ain't built for the shit he's startin'. Me and you don't have to see each other again.
Carmel: So all that pineapple juice I told you to buy is going to waste, hunh?
KZ: Nope I drink it. It might help some other chick out.
Carmel: Maybe this weekend we can say goodbye to each other. I can taste it to see if the pineapple juice is working.
KZ: Naw, I got frat business to handle this weekend. It probably wouldn't be a good idea anyway.

I gotta work on my selfishness. Constantly.

Stay Focused,
KZ

Tagged By A Diva

Dammit SanginDiva! How U gon' tag an African? How am I gon' tell these people all my quirks and whatnot? Just for that, I'm gonna masterbate to your pics. (Like I wasn't gonna do that anyway!)

I gotta think of 6 things about myself I haven't told everybody already. Here goes:

1. I listen to some pretty soft shit.
Outside the hip hop and Coltrane, I got some pretty soft taste. Electric Light Orchestra, Billy Joel, Elton John, Peter Frampton. Yes, I am a Black man. Why do you ask?

2. I've only hired women I wanted to fuck.
Yeah, this is pretty horrible to admit. Everytime I've interviewed a woman, if she wasn't hot, I didn't hire her. Qualified or not. It's pretty illegal, too. Don't tell nobody.

3. I graduated from high school with a 4.0 and college with a 2.0
That's exactly half! African, what?

4. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to be a man just like my father.
That cat is a hard working, loyal, strong, and smart dude. It's hard to get there from here.

5. Everytime I play "Electric Relaxation" in my car I become the most ignorant muthafucka you ever wanna meet.
Bouncin', bobbin', swervin', gesturin'. In a suit or jeans and a t-shirt. On the way to work, a charity function, or to the grocery store. I become hood, personified.

6. I like eating pussy more than receiving head.
But you knew that, didn't you

I don't even know who reads my shit anymore. My blogroll don't reflect it, but I'll try taggin'
Chele, Coco, Honest, Nic, and ZiaMunkee

Florida and Other Freaks of Nature

Let's see, where should I start. Lemme start off by ending the suspense: I didn't get laid. That was mostly my fault. I was committed to having an actual vacation. No planned activity, no computers, no chasing women, nothing. Just the act of unwinding. My cousins use me as the "Get out of married jail card" whenever I come to town. "Baby, he's here from Detroit. I gotta show him around." So they're pissed that I don't wanna hang. I'm not a "Club" cat anyway. That's not how I get down.

I did do doofus, nerdy shit in Tampa like going to Busch Gardens, the Aquarium, Ybor City and Channelside. And of course, I went to Miami. I was supposed to hook up with my cousin in Miami, but his wife's brother-in-law died, so he had family responsibilities. I was left to my own devices and we see how well that went.

The trip gave me some perspective though.

Some Observations

Beige Girls: Florida is full of beige women, carbon copies of each other. I got so excited whenever I ran into dark-skinned women. Y'all cats can keep those Latina broads, for real. Some of that shit y'all calling crack ain't crack. Y'all givin' out too much credit. Over-fuckin'-rated.

Pastels: A little much, hunh? Miami, I'm talking to you!

Our older citizens, aka "the greatest generation": Driving is played out! Leave that bullshit to us peons under 70.

My Parents: The two greatest people I know. They kept cats (relatives and anybody else) away from me for 9 full days and looked out in every way imaginable when my wallet was gone.

Crab Shala: Another reason my mother is the greatest. Friggin delicious!

My Job: This shit is a proverbial cakewalk. Except there's no cake. I need to stick to my 2 year plan and stop looking for satisfaction from this thing.

The Sandwich Impaired: Just because it's "shorts weather" don't mean errbody can wear shorts.

Carmel: OK, so I fucked her. You knew that was coming right? It happened a few days before I left. Then she called me constantly when I was on vacation. Then her baby daddy called me from her crib. Then I called her and told her to tighten that shit up. Then I realized I shouldn't be fucking her, but of course it was too late by then. Then I realized I write like shit.

Satan's Anus: Damn, it's good to be home.


Be cool,
KZ

My Lost Love

She was perfect. Dark brown, thick in all the right places. She always had just what I needed. We'd been together for 3 short years and now she was gone, just like that.

She was my wallet.

Some muthafucka picked my pocket on Ocean Drive in Miami Beach and stole my fucking wallet!!!

No picture ID, no credit card, $80 in my pocket in South Florida. It was a bitch to get back home, but I'm here.

Later,
KZ

Erick Sermon

Hey peoples, I'm back in the office after one of the worst conferences I've ever attended. Imagine out of towners coming up to you constantly in your hometown, asking you where all the hotspots are. Now, imagine if you were black! (A little John Grisham humor there.)

This lady at the conference, was around 45, 46. Pretty and built like a brick shithouse. At the end of the conference she gives me her card and I give her mine. We exchange pleasantries and she walks away. I look at the card and her home number is written above her work number with the note: "I'd like to get to know you better." I'm becoming an older woman magnet. Where is that shit coming from?

Anyway, the only thing that sucks about being back is being here with my boss, Allen Qaeda, Al for short. You see I'm come to a conclusion about Al and his passive aggressiveness. He's jealous of my personal liberty and an enemy to my great way of life.

This muthafucka signs off on my vacation (which starts today at 4:59 pm) a month and a half ago and has been talking about it ever since. I told him where I was going. I didn't want to because I'M A PRIVATE PERSON, but I did anyway in the spirit of glasnost. This is the way conversations have proceeded since:

AQ: So, where are you going on your vacation?
KZ: Florida, to visit my parents.
AQ: That ought to be fun. What are you doing when you get there?
KZ: Nothing much. Family stuff.
AQ: It must be nice to take off like that.
KZ: (silence)
AQ: It must really be nice.

This is followed by discussion of trips he's taken in the past with his homely, mammy-made gear havin' sweetie and his two point five tax exemptions. Then he gives me a big, fat assed time consuming assignment that, for all intents and purposes, is busy work. Mind you, this happens every other day. Al Qaeda hates my freedom!

Now, I'm a old school cat. I don't get caught up in all these new fangled, high falutin' ideas about being "playa hated" or just plain "hated". I believe in the good, old fashioned, Klan endorsed concept of envy, the green eyed monster.

You, too, can have a failed marriage, bad credit, an over active sex drive, stress headaches, a ridiculous car payment, intimacy issues, a hair trigger temper and a phobia about reproducing because you don't want to pass on your flaws to an innocent. No, please, envy me. Step into my shoes, they are COMFORTABLE AS FUCK!!!

I'm off to enjoy my time off. I'll be gone until April 18th and I won't touch a fuckin' computer, believe me. I'll talk to you guys when I return.

Peace,
KZ

Bussin' Nuts

So, I'm at this conference, right? And we're on a break, so I go get some coffee in the lobby of the host hotel. White people are looking at me strange as they are prone to do when I come around, but even more so now. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the bow-tie. They always assume a Black man with a bow-tie is Malcolm Farrakhan. A bow-tie automatically labels a person as one of three things: NOI member (Black men only), the smartest guy in the room, or the biggest asshole in the room. Anyway I'm standing in line for coffee and who walks by? Any guesses? Anyone?

"Zed!" I know that inappropriately loud voice. I fucking hate when people yell my name. As a private person, it pisses me off. There are only like four Black women in the city that know me. I turn around slowly. I smile, dryly, showing no teeth. "Hi." "Oooh, you been dodgin' me!" "Nah, E.T., it ain't like that. I've been busy."

Coming face to face with her, I didn't have the heart to just trash her. "You don't even return my calls. Did I do something to you?" She knows what led to me not returning her calls. I say nothing. She continues, "I ran into Batshit and we were talking about you." Delusional. You just "ran into" Batshit, hunh? O.K.

"Really? Well, I've been busy as hell. Fuckin' alot. The whole nine." I say this shit deadpan. She's flustered. "Dang, you just outcold like that?" I stand firm. "I'm just telling you. I've been working hard and playing hard. I haven't been calling anybody." I stay nonchalant, trying to get her to hate my ass.

She goes on this rambling dialogue about the business she's working one and how well it's going. You see, this is why E.T. wants to call me and be around me. She doesn't like me at all. I'm cursed with being perceived as a good listener. I don't talk alot, so women get their jollies by talking to me and not getting interrupted. They do the female equivalent of a booty call. They talk to your ass, get out all the silly shit that's bottled up in their head out to a "sympathetic" male ear, then they leave you high and dry. Basically, bussin' a nut on ya back and jettin'.

So I stand there looking disinterested, checking my watch, and scoping broads walking by. I'm disinvested and it's killing her. "Look, I gotta get back to this session." I start walking away. "We gotta go out for a drink soon!" is what this loony bitch yells across the lobby to me. I go down the escalator and I smile at her, dryly.

KZ

The Dropped Ball

So I'm at this conference, right? Right here in Satan's Anus. People from around the state are here, so I'm hoping for some Detroit representation. I'm talking euphemistically here. I'm using the word "Detroit" like white people from Michigan use it, to denote "Black". "We do things different that they do in Detroit" is the thing they say to mean "Stop actin' so fuckin' Black!"

Anyway, I get no such luck. 150 people, less than 10 Africans. That includes these two sistas who I think are trying to "pass". I knew she would be here, I just didn't know how I would react when I saw her. Shondra. One of those that got away.

I met her at a conference just like this three years ago. She worked with a state agency with my friend Jay. He introduced us. She was smart, beautiful and exceedingly sexy. I started just like a jackass. "I don't know if Jay told you this, but I'm a very important person to know." "Dude, you trippin'!" I tell ya, it was luv.

She lived in Lansing about 100 miles from Detroit. There was a lot of "out of sight, out of mind" type shit. I was living the bachelor life, calling her occasionally. She asked me to come see her. This was during homecoming at MSU in East Lansing, making it extra convenient for me. When I got to East Lansing, I got caught up in hanging with old friends and chasing ol' broads. I blew her off and that was that.

She walked in the conference today. Still smart, beautiful, exceedingly sexy, and married.

KZ

Randomness

This thing is outta control. My blog is turning into a sex journal!!! Not what I was looking to do, not cool. This shit came all of a sudden, out of the blue. I'm leaving the subject alone for a spell.

How was my weekend, you ask? Was it full of sex? I found out two very important things this weekend: 1) That blowjob was not a fluke. Not at all. 2) One chick I'm fuckin' with still has her hymen. I felt it. It's real. How's that for inexperience, you fuckin' doubters!

Now that that's out of the way, let's get to some other shit.

E.T. still calls me and texts me on the reg. "Let's get together and have drinks." Bitch, that ship has sank. I have not spoken to her since this day. I guess some people just gotta be told.

This shit makes me laugh to no end. I have a stupid sense of humor.

So does this. People have too much time on their hands, me included.

The women that have "Insane" in their moniker on the blog (e.g. Insanity, InsanelySane) are some of the realest chicks in this piece. Overtly sane.

When I first laid eyes on my homegirl Robyn, I knew that would be my woman. I was absolutely sure. Of course, she never was. Tells you how good my prognostication skills are.

The blog is a funny thing. I have had crazy ass blog crushes, sight unseen. I actually ached to meet broads I didn't know for shit. Shit came and went. The women never even knew it.

My boss is a real square. I always thought cats like him were faking it, hiding some perverted assed persona underneath their exterior. But this guy really is a milquetoast, bland, tight ass. This cat blushes when I say something like "We're getting screwed!". He rushed his wife out of a piano bar because the songs were getting "kinda racy". What the fuck were they playing in a piano bar? 2 Live Crew?

That older chick from the Vice-Mayor's party sent me an e-mail trying to hook up. What do you think I'm gonna do with her?

Did y'all see Treach get shot in the ass on the Sopranos last night? What about Lord Jamar (Brand Nubian) as the shot-up hip hop star? What happpened the rap stars of the early 90's? They're getting shot the fuck up on TV, that's what.

I'm still on the hunt for a new couch. Wish me luck.

Peace,
KZ

The End Of Head

OK, so I wasn't going to talk about this on the blog. I didn't mention this, but on Monday I ate the coochie. Carmel's that is. I went over to her crib to help fix a computer problem. One thing led to another and I talked her into letting me taste it. I didn't ask for any reciprocity, I didn't need it. I just ate it. Of course, me being kinda slow witted, I thought that was it.

We saw each other on Tuesday. She came over to my house. We talked about some shit, we didn't do anything because she came on her period.

She wanted to see me on Wednesday. We had some miscommunication issues, so it didn't happen.

Thursday she called me around 10:00 am and asked me what I was doing that evening. "I got a date." "With who, that young chick?" "Yep." "Oh....OK." She called me back a few minutes later. "Can I see you before you go see her?" "I don't know. We're hooking up right after work." "What about your lunch hour?" "I have a lunch meeting. I don't have a big enough gap in my day to come see you. Why don't you come to my office around 2:00?" "Alright."

She came through around 2:30 (C.P.T., man). My secretary is funny. She comes to my office looking at me like "You muthafucka." She says "There's a 'Carmel' out front for you." I got a poker face on. "Send her back, please."

Carmel comes in all color combinated and shit. It's 70 outside, so I shoulda expected it. Toes out, painted pink. Tight lime green shirt, pink shades, tight blue jeans. She comes in my office, closes the door and locks it.

"What's up, Carm?" "I want you to think about me when you're on your little date tonight." I'm looking at her as she takes the gum from her mouth and tosses it in the trash can. "Pull your pants down." "What?" "You scared?" I look at the door. I go test the lock, then I return to my chair and pull down my pants.

You'll think I was just given to exaggeration or overcome by adrenaline when I say this, but yesterday I received THE VERY BEST BLOWJOB I'VE EVER RECEIVED IN MY ENTIRE 35 YEARS. PERIOD. BAR FUCKING NONE.

It was the wettest, sloppiest, most technically proficient sexual act I've ever been a party to. And I've been a party to a few in my day. Fuck Charlize Theron, fuck everybody else. Carmel is all skill. I came so hard I was ashamed afterwards. Mag-fucking-nificient.

When she was finished, I walked her to the restroom. When she came out she just said one sentence, "Enjoy your date."

On the date I was flashing back the whole time.

KZ

I Need Answers, Dammit! Part II

O.K., the first part was a setup. I was working on an analogy that would help me to defend my position on something to a fellow blogger.

You see, the blogger in mind believes that I'm being hoodwinked by the young chick, Endo. This blogger is getting a kick out of my dealings with her. "She's playing you, son! She's not that innocent. She's playing a role with you. "

I asked her to stand in my shoes and she wasn't feeling me. The way y'all answered the question didn't help my argument at all. My argument was "How the fuck is she getting over on me when all I care about is the ass?" Endo's exhausting valuable energy if she's trying to play a role.

If she's giving me the ass, I win. Period. She could be feeling like she's getting over by acting inexperienced or even giving me the okey doke at the movies. But I'm fucking, and that's all I want.

My thing is if I want the pussy and she's giving me the pussy, why get upset about particulars? My fellow blogger didn't get it, y'all probably won't either. But I gave it a shot.

Thanks,
KZ

I Need Answers, Dammit! Part I

Hypothetically speaking:

I’m posing this question blindly. Whoever wants to answer it should feel free to do so.

Say you were dating a big time dope dealer, or any person with deep pockets from doing illegal things. Let’s say you’re not morally opposed to those illegal activities. Would it matter to you if they lied to you about how that money was earned (i.e. claiming they worked a legal job)? Or would it just matter that they were giving you money whenever you asked for it?

KZ

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