Requiem For A Delusionist

Everything is cyclical. I believe in that like I believe in aloe vera on ashy knees. That shit is real, especially in my life. In a life where it always takes me a couple of times to learn the lesson I'm supposed to, this is important. I'm a little slow witted, but when something is happening to me that I'm seen before, I'm pretty good at recognizing how I can make it different the next time.

I searched this blog for every occurrance of the name "LoLo". In each and every entry in which I've mentioned her I've been pretty consistent. She's offered me the ass and I've declined. There are a bunch of conversations that I've had with her that I didn't write about because they were the same ol' shit. But, I've been consistent throughout. No leading her on, no anything.

So when she called me a couple of days ago around noon for what has now turned into her monthly offering, I turned the conversation to work related topics. I was sick of having the same discussions about me not taking it. So as soon as she went down that road again...

LoLo: Since we're on the phone, you need anything. 'Cuz if you do, I think I got that for ya.
KZ: Naw (laughing it off), I'm straight. I'm good.
LoLo: You sure?
KZ: Ay, when you get a chance call me tonight.
LoLo: Did I do something wrong?
KZ: Naw, I just need totalk to you about something and I can't talk about it now.


So we get off the phone. And I don't think any more about it. Of course, when you tell anybody you need to talk, that shit looms large in their minds. She called me back around 7:00 pm.

LoLo: OK, what do you wanna talk about.
KZ: Yeah, that conversation we had earlier, we can't have that conversation again.
LoLo: What are you talking about?
KZ: Well, I'm seeing somebody now. I'm thinking this could be serious and I think it's inappropriate for me to entertain that kind of conversation with you.
LoLo: So, you seein' some chick? Some chick you met after me? What does she have that I don't have? I can't believe you! I fuckin' can't believe you! How could you do me like that?
KZ: How am I doin' you? I haven't led you on. We never fucked or kissed or even hugged. What did I do to you?
LoLo: You hooked up with a chick you met after me. You didn't even give me a chance. First my ex-boyfriend tells me he has a woman and now you. This is some bullshit. We don't need to talk. I don't need to talk to you ever again. *silence*
KZ: Hello? Hello?
LoLo: *evenmoresilence*

Technology. You don't even hear a click when someone hangs up on your ass cellularly.

Peace,
KZ

Game Over

It always happens in my head like this:

I see the woman of my dreams across the room at a social gathering. A formal get together. Everyone’s drinking, including the two of us. I smile. She looks over at me, a little startled, then she looks away. I walk over and I start my spiel.

I’m equal parts Tricky (from the little seen, vastly underappreciated “Under The Cherry Moon”), James Bond, Detroit Red, and my older brother Zachary. I can’t lose. Except for the part of me that’s Zach. Zach always loses, but he’s funny in the process.

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, not particularly interested in the answer, but willing to listen. “I don’t know. It’s a little staid for my taste. How about you?” “I can’t say that I’m not enjoying myself, but I understand your dilemma. You don’t have the same things to look at as I do.” At that point I sip, waiting to see if this bullshit bait is taken. “Point taken,” she says, smiling, “but the view isn’t so bad from where I’m standing either.” She sips, giving me time to contemplate what comes next. “Perhaps we can find something else to do, go somewhere that’s a bit more to your liking.” “What do you have in mind?” “I have a place in mind. It’s someplace where we can ruminate on the origin of the phrase ‘fits like a glove’.” I take her hand, and we take leave of our guests.

This is the way it would happen in real life:

I’m over a friend’s house that is having an informal get together. I see the woman of my dreams who is clearly irritated that I keep looking in her direction. As soon as she dips away from the rest of the crowd, maybe to go to the kitchen or the restroom I’m there.

“Ay, how you doin’?” “I’m fine.” “You sholl is. Dang. It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass.” “Excuse me?” I start to speak louder, “I said, ‘It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass’.” The woman then walks off in a huff and rejoins the rest of the group.

I was born with an affliction called formally known as Lackus Schemia, or the Zed Zednanreh Syndrome. (What kind of irony is that to be afflicted with a condition named after you?) I gots no game. None. Nada. It doesn’t exist. My last name nor my brother’s last name is Parker. There is no Milton Bradley in my family tree. I believe that all the run I’ve ever gotten has been in spite of the shit that comes out of my mouth.

It takes a certain amount of braggadocio and bluff to pull off the Mack thing. I lack both of those things in spades. I hate braggers and name-droppers. And I can’t bluff to save my life. If I’m standing in front of you, I’ll never be able to convince you of something that wasn’t true. My face is a living lie detector. It gives up the goods on me every time.

If I had some level of game, I’d be a master hustler, probably at least “hood rich” or something. I wonder how much shit I leave on the table by being a dork.

Be Easy,

KZ

Productivity Lag

This month, this February, has been nothing but a productivity Black Hole for me. I've delegated almost everything I do to all of my staff. I haven't written anything but blogs, I haven't read anything but e-mails and magazines. I have books I want to read, but I can't finish the book I've been reading since November (!!!), because I had only been reading about a page a week. Now I'm not even doing that.

I was at home last night watching some show on The Discovery Channel, I forget, I think it was "The World's Yeastiest Pussies" or something like that. Anyway, I'm sitting there on my laptop and I'm half-assed researching job opportunities. I say I wanna go, I act like I wanna go, but I'm not even putting forth the effort needed to get the fuck outta here. I'm more interested in the yeasty pussies. Imagine that! Anything is better than doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

I spent some time last night thinking about my old gig and my old boss, "New Money". We called her New Money because she had a huge fuckin' face. Anyway, New Money would call a meeting and harvest ideas. She'd steal your shit from you, present it as her own and get kudos for it. It was blatant. When you were alone with her, she'd call the idea "ours". With the bigwigs, she would call the idea "mine". The reason I thought of her was because New Money didn't have my (or any of my co-workers') skill set, so she had to steal. I've got 3 people on my staff who I've been delegating to, and I did all of their jobs plus mine at my old gig. I still don't have to steal, but I will give 'em my shit to do.

The bottom line is, I was feeling bad about shoveling my shit to them when in reality, I'm still a better boss than the ones I've had. My area of responsibility in Detroit was 4 times larger than theirs and that was just a portion of the city. Plus they got each other, they get to specialize, so I say "fuck it", and the guilt dissipates. I gotta work on my productivity in the other facets of my life, but on the work front, I'll be cool.

Stay Focused,
KZ

Eating Kashi

I got a bad habit and I've had it for a long time. It's eating poorly. I'm a fried food addict, a starch addict, and a green vegetable hater. If it was quick and pre-processed, I was eating it. I called myself being a choosy eater by eliminating all red meat, but that wasn't the case. It was still ill-prepared food, fried and greasy.

So I made a concerted effort to eat better. After last summer was over, I was only going eat food that was nourishing. No more food detrimental to my health, no over processed food, no more late night trips to the fast food spots. From now on, if it was open 24 hours it was off-limits.

The thing I found was that it was a hell of a lot more difficult than I thought. Every impulse in my body would draw me to those brightly shining beacons of fat and grease. I didn't go, I passed them by. I tried some home cooking. I baked a lot of the food I ate, prepared it from scratch. It took a lot more of my time. I found I had to plan meals and I had to be patient. I actually had to wait for a meal to be ready, imagine that.

The biggest surprise for me over these last few months is how much better I feel. You couldn't have told me in September that I'd feel as good as I do just by putting forth the extra effort to eat better.

And every morning when I wake up, I look forward to seeing that Kashi in my bowl.

Y'all Be Cool,
KZ

The High Price of Being Nice

I had my little Fo.urth Fr.iday adventure this weekend. Once again, it was a rousing success. The theme was "Intro to Ballroom" and we really got some heads out with that shit. I'm a born cynic. I've never been into that ballrooming/stepping thing they love so much in the "D". It was like you're a fuckin' outcast if you can't do it. I always felt like you were a sheep if you could. So I perfected my "you'z a bitch" glare.

Which, coupled with my derisive laughter and my cocksure stance, made for a pretty good deterrent for Africans I knew not to do that shit around me.

But here I was, hosting an event where people were being taught the fundamentals of this shit. I got on the floor and did my thing too. I gave the young cats in my frat the chance to stand back and laugh derisively at me. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.

People enjoyed themselves, though we had a problem with the women to men ratio. We were swimmin' in women (not literally, yo!) but brothers who were there had wives and chicks with 'em. The single cats couldn't spread around enough. Coupled with the fact that most of them were arrogant to the point of being standoffish, it made for a bad scene.

The dude teaching ballroom was a cool old dude, though he had a little problem with his plural tenses. "All y'all mens and womens git on the floor."

I don't think I need to be the host anymore. It's a lot of responsibility for the little shit, the in the moment shit. It's a small assed event with about 80 people, but I'm stressed leading up to it and I'm exhausted right afterwards. Dealing with music choice, food, money, event theme, giving direction to the bartender, and keeping folks happy. The worst thing about it is being a nice dude leaves you open for a lot of shit.

If you're too nice to a broad, especially a woman not considered "traditionally attractive" (like that euphemism?), she's offering you the pussy. Right then, right there. You can take that home that night. No questions asked. At least until the morning, when that question is "Are you taking me to breakfast?". If you turn it down, you gotta find the coolest way possible to do it or else your little event gets sabotaged. The life-blood of your event stops showing up and you're ruined.

That's all I got for now. Stay tuned.

One,
KZ

The Gorilla, The Kitten, and The Mongoose

Wow. OK, when this was happening yesterday, I had just posted. I felt like reposting immediately but I decided to wait. Besides, I still didn't know how I was gonna write this. Would it be straight dialogue exchange or in story form? I'll do my best to convey the gist of it.

A couple of days ago I got a series of texts from Carmel. I haven't talked to her since this day and hadn't talked to her for months before that. She was texting me about Fo.urth Fr.iday. Asking me the time and other details. Then she texted me and asked if I was going to ignore her if she came. I told her "no" and I thought that was that. I wasn't going to give her any real time, but I didn't want her to feel unwelcome either. I'm trying to make money and every little bit helps.

So yesterday, she calls me. I look at the phone for a second and contemplate answering. It's never a straight forward conversation. It's always complex and super-ghetto. But I pick up anyway.

She's telling me she just got out of jail. She was dropping her kids off at school in her pajamas and a robe. Afterwards she went to the police station to clear up a situation with an outstanding traffic warrant she had (still in her muthafuckin' pjs!!!)and they threw her in the lockup. Apparently she was only in for about 4 hours, but she was supposedly shook.

"I just need something. A drink or something" she told me yesterday at noon. I listened, just adding the appropriate amount of "Dang. That's fucked up." Then she asked "How's your sex life?" "Peachy. My shit's great." She didn't need to know about all the beatin' off and shit. "You want it to be better?" I laughed at that. "Naw, I'm cool just like it is." "Are you seeing somebody?" "Yeah. I got somebody back home."

This is where it gets interesting. Carmel says "Well shit, you can still have friends. We friends." "Naw, un-uhn. I told her all about you. She knows about our past." This is when Carmel snapped. She starts yelling at me, "Why would you tell her all about us? You got so mad at me for not respecting your privacy and you go and not respect mine. How the fuck are you gon' tell your woman about what we did? Do you remember? You stopped talking to me over some shit just like that! You ain't shit!"

At this point you're asking, "Zed, why entertain the phone call?" I'll tell you why, Nosy. A ghetto broad really knows no boundaries. She'll bail her little ass up to my gig wearing pajamas and buggin' out. I need her to get off the phone feeling like the matter is settled.

"Listen Carmel, you brought you ex's best friend to meet me. Your ex who was still trying to get with you, your ex who was calling me and hanging up like a bitch. You brought HIS BEST FRIEND to meet me. What part of the game is that? I told someone I'm trying to be with in the future about my past. The situations don't equate. You see the difference?"

She responds, "You didn't have to tell her about me. We can't even say more than 'hi and bye' to each other now. You fucked it all up." "I might have fucked up from your perspective, but I'm not trying to make her look like a fool if we're going to be together. Don't be all upset and shit. I gotta get off the phone, but I want you to come out to our shit regardless. We need you there."

"I'll talk to you later", was all she said. It sounded kind of ominous.

Be Easy,
KZ

Master The Possibilities

So the other night I was on the phone with TAD kinda late. When we got off the phone, I was all...let's say...ahem...feeling "up". I needed to do something about it. I went through my DVD collection, found the one that I wanted, then grabbed the lube and the tissue. I started the DVD. That was the last thing I remember.

I woke up with my dick in one hand, a tube of lube in the other. Underneath me was a box of Puffs, crushed. I fell asleep before I could pull one out. It was about 6:00 am and I was pissed. If I pull one out before I go to work, I'll be useless all day. How come there is a difference between fuckin' before work (which will leave you energized and ready to conquer the world) and beating off before work (which will make you logy and all fucked up for the next several hours)? I would have to wait.

When I got home from work, I had a million errands to run. I'm trying to apply for gigs, and I was out of ink and didn't have bonded paper. Plus I had to go to the cleaners and get groceries and try to find ballroom songs for the Fo.urth Frid.ay event. But I'd be useless the rest of the night if I didn't pull one off. So I had to do it quick, lest shit close up on me.

I walked in the living room and took off my slacks. I raced upstairs to the Masterbatorium (a.k.a. my office) and opened up Windows Media Player and looked for my newest porn download, Big Booty Lite-Skinned Girls Part IV. Now it's on!

I threw my tie over my shoulder, unbuttoned my shirt from the bottom up to about midway, grabbed the lube and began my quest. This, my friends, was gonna get messy.

About midway through the flick, in Scene 2, it when I reached the inevitable conclusion. When all hell was breaking loose, I realized I didn't have tissue. At this point, there was no stopping. Hell, I didn't even try to stop. I gotta do something. What can I use to catch it? I can't irrevocably fuck up my keyboard, sullying it with liquid baby. There was only one choice.

I grabbed the hem of my shirt and covered the top. "The inevitable" gushed forth with amazing force, but I managed to catch all of it. Using my shirt. Disgusting.

I was cool. I was relaxed and ready for the rest of my day. Shit, I had to go to the cleaners anyway.

Peace,
KZ

The Connoisseur

I was elated as I ran my 8,000 after work errands yesterday. It was around 6:00 pm, and I was on my way to take a passport photo. It was 45 degrees and still light outside. I got a warm feeling inside, like the kind you get when you piss on yourself while wearing a scuba suit. Too much information? Anyway, the warm feeling occurred because I was seeing the light at the end of winter's dark, cold tunnel. Spring will be here in a few weeks, at least nominally.

The bigger picture thing is that spring brings the time of year me and my boy Three wait for: waistcoat weather. It's when professional asswatchers, such as ourselves, are in our element. We, are the connoisseurs.

We used to play a game in college where we'd look through someone's high school yearbook, look at the girl's faces, and tell you whether or not she had a fatty. By just looking at her face. We recognized tell tale signs in a woman's face to the kind of wagon she was draggin'. Our success rate was phenomenal.

Great asses usually come in a few internationally recognized forms:

• The Backbite - otherwise known as "the hook". It's when the ass cuffs under. If you lift up an asscheek and underneath it's untanned, you my friend are in the presence of greatness. The hip to waist ratio is off the chain in most of these instances. Sometimes referred to by Three and I as the Brett Favre or the Reggie White, because the chick sporting one of these is a "Packer".
  
• The Bubble - possessed prominently by female athletes like volleyballers or track and field chicks. This ass is firm and muscular, much better to look at than to feel, because personally I need some jiggle. Sometimes the possessor lacks the hips to make this REALLY sexy.
  
• The Cameleon - also known the Groundhog. Couched in anonymity most of the time, this ass sneaks up on you. Usually on a chick with a cute little shape, it's a round ass with hips and some heft to it, but little else to distinguish it. Catch it at the gym or butt assed naked, and you're amazed that you missed it. Chicks with backbite or bubble can't hide the ass the way Cameleon owners can. I know a big ass hiding in big clothes. A Cameleon is truly a horse of a different color.
  
• The Glenn Close - big and attention grabbing. This ass WILL NOT BE IGNORED!!! If you measure downward from a woman's waist to her ankles, this ass will take up nearly half the length. Hip to waist is ridiculous, too. It takes a real man to handle Glenn Close, and it's not Michael Douglas, baby!

All I'm sayin' is I'm waiting for the waistcoats!

One Love,
KZ

Pretty Petty

I'm sitting in my second evening meeting. The first went from 6 - 7 pm. This one, the city commission meeting, started at 7 pm. People are in rare form tonight. The 6 pm meeting was a finger pointing extravaganza, with students from Satan's Anus University accusing the po-lice of following "safe ride home" vans and then ticketing the exiting occupants for public intoxication. It's fucked up, but probably true. Joe Nab is pretty bored here, so they spend a lot of time fucking with people on minor shit. In rebuttal the Chief of Po-lice, African hater extraordinare, Chief Bitchmade, goes on a rant about the quality of his po-lice force. That was exciting shit. This second meeting was just like the first, only more so.

I'm sitting in this second meeting upset because I'm in my second meeting. These residents get up and start bitching during this public hearing about one of my proposals. Three different residents that I'd talked to privately, who privately agreed with the proposal, got up and savaged my shit. Now you'd think I'd be used to this, but I don't think I ever will. As I said in yesterday's post, I had a meeting with the commissioners on Friday to prepared for this meeting. But at the actual meeting, they acted shocked and dismayed at the allegations the citizens were making. I almost forgot this was an election year and the cameras were running.

My infamous "friend", the Vice-Mayor, called me up to the podium to explain how I could commit such an egregious injustice on the public. Fifteen minutes later, after being accused of everything under the sun, they passed my proposal. Politics.

The rest of the evening was filled with fanciful presentations on bullshit only a mother could love. I thought the night would never end. I'm sitting there next to my boss, texting out cries for help and wishing for a quick merciful death. I used to be in Detroit complaining about the shit residents would hold grudges about, but in retrospect, it was real shit. Small, but real. This shit, everything, from the petty staff stuff to the residents, to the politicians, is finally hitting that tipping point, to where I've had enough. I talked about staying until I learn what I need to learn, but I think I've learned it. I have the patience to wait for things that are worth waiting for, but I have no tolerance for unimportant shit. I believed all along that I was just an impatient, irritable person. I know better now. I don't have to stay here another minute to learn the difference between a small issue and an unimportant issue.

Be Safe,
KZ

Ass Usual

Hey peoples, what's crackin'? Last week in general was a monster. Whenever my boss is out, it's a bad week. I know I hardly do shit, but when my boss is out, I'm in a helluva lot more meetings than usual. On Friday morning I was a meeting to prep for a meeting that's being held tonight. The pre-meeting is to ask questions about questions that will be asked tonight. So we answer the questions asked by the city commission on Friday at 7:30 am , then we answer them again at tonight at 7:00 pm. That's why they pay me the marginal bucks.

So Friday afterwork, I takes my ass to the "D" again. Because I needs that, to recharge an African's batteries and shit. Me and TAD had plans to go to my frat's belated Valentines event on Saturday, so we got a chance to exchange V-Day gifts. I bought her a ball peen hammer and a can of Pillsbury Grands. She got me a map of Belgium and some talcum powder. She also got me the card you see above, which pretty much sums up my disposition in a nutshell.

Later we went out to eat with her crazy friend, the Intelligent Hoodlum, who is equal parts She-Gangsta, Brainiac, and Comedienne. I'm still laughing at shit I.H. said on Friday. I just bust out laughing spontaneously. I think you had to be there. After we went back to the crib, we checked out Half Nelson on DVD.

On Saturday I got my taxes done early in the day. I think my tax lady has transitioned her business over to her 21 year old daughter, which is not a good thing. My tax refund fell significantly, by about half. She gotta teach the young dog some old tricks.

Me and TAD lolligagged around the rest of the day, watching DVDs and her trying to pretty up my ultra-manly, unsexy hands so she can be seen out with me.

When we finally got to the Valentine's Dance later that evening, all late and shit, trying to make an entrance, I gotta say I was feeling pretty good. There have been very few times in my long miserable life when I feel fortunate. Though I know I am, I never FEEL it. Walking into that ballroom with that woman made me feel like the luckiest African on Earth.

That's all I got.

Peace,
KZ

Bad Analogy, Number 1,673

I've been adrift at sea for nearly two years. The ship is rickety, there's no land in sight, and I'm surrounded by salt water. I've been living off rainwater runoff and urine to survive. It doesn't look good.

Every few weeks or so, a little man in a boat, a speed boat to be more specific, approaches my ship. He won't let me board his boat, no matter how much I plead. What he does offer me is fresh water, a gallon at a time. He hands me the gallon jug and speeds off into the distance, to some unseen place on the horizon.

The first few times he appeared, I guzzled the water. I was so thirsty, I didn't know how to conserve it. Once I got used to the pattern of his visits, expecting them, I learned to ration the water out so that I would always have a little left when he came back to replenish the gallon.

I had to learn suppress the urges I had, the urges overtake the man, to knock him out of the boat. I learned to appreciate the gift of the water, that the man owed me nothing.

The weeks pass and I remain adrift, dreaming of the day that I reach land that I will call home and partake of the sustenance in the freshwater lake.

Be Cool, o.k.?

KZ

How'd Ya Spend It?

Hey y'all, what's good? I hope you all had a fun, non-suicidal Valentine's Day this year. I hope everyone got themselves worked up into a frothy, viscosity friendly frenzy. This is actually my second Valentines Day in a row with no "official" sweetheart, so I pretty much chilled. I got a chance to get reacquainted with my favorite DVD, "Sex Friends" starring Courteney Cuntz and Jennifer Analston. Other than that it was pretty unevenful.

Even on the phone call front. Last year I was inundated with all these messages. This year, nunna dat. I swear I only got two voicemails and two text messages this year. One of the voicemails was from my dentist. The other one from somebody asking if they had to RSVP for our Afterwork thing. The two texts were generic and clean. Both only said "Happy Valentine's Day". One was from SS, who I don't think I've ever blogged about. SS was a chick I saw for a minute who unbeknownst to me had gastric bypass surgery. We got to that intimate point and saggy skin abounded. Thusly, she's SS. Needless to say (or maybe I do need to say it) I didn't hit. The other text was from Jayne Kennedy, who is quite frankly one of the oddest ducks I've ever met in life. I had no idea I was still on her radar. But that was it as far as my usually crazy V-Day.

I spent years juggling and trying to keep this one away from that one on Valentine's Day. I'm finally able to relax. It was eerily calm. Quite frankly, I was nervous about it being so calm, if that makes any sense. I ended up at another Satan's Anus University women's basketball game. I figured that would be the least romantic place on earth and I was right. SAU won and all was good in the universe.

I dodged a little bullet, too. That article that was supposed to come out about my lonely ass didn't get published. According to the paper they wanted to take another angle on the story, so they are re-working the concept. Basically it means that I'll get my quotes used out of context and they'll choose the goofiest picture of me they have. Beautiful.

I'll be celebrating the right way this weekend, but in lieu of waiting a couple of days, my February 14th was cool.

Be Easy,
KZ

Short Interlude

Happy Anniversary to my brothers on the Valentine line
15 T.I.E.D.

We are getting OLD!!!

The Cabaret

How badly I would like to write about my weekend, which was fantastic, but I need to get some shit out there. You, yes you, muthafuckas, who admonished me for being mean to my neighbor, Luther, can suck my tiny, pathetic little dick. Because this is where kindness gets you.

Luther always tries to stop me as I walk across my parking lot to the bank of mailboxes afterwork. He does it so much so, that I now drive to my mailbox. Extreme? Not in the least. Conversation with this muthafucka is unbearable.

His big idea is to buy a banquet hall and use it for a form of party known in the Detroit ghettoes as "cabaret". I'm not talking French Riviera shit, I'm talking about Africans renting a hall, hiring a DJ, and having a B.Y.O.B. event. That's what a cabaret is in Detroit. But it's pretty much a SE Michig.an thing. They don't do it in SW Mic.higan. Luther wants to bring it to SW Mi.chig.an. With my help.

I told him he should pursue it. He wanted me to be a partner. I declined, I told him my profile in this town wouldn't allow it. Luther asked me if the City would be willing to give him HUD money to start his venture. "What if I had tutoring during the day afterschool and then had cabarets at night?" "Luther, write a proposal, submit it to my department, but I'm not helping you write it and I don't make the call. The citizen's advisory council decided who ultimately gets funded."

So Luther was going to pursue this option. HUD was going to pay for his dream.

He found a building and came up to my gig to talk to my staff about his dream. Then he name dropped me and told them he was my friend. Then he asked for me. And proceeded to keep spouting this bullshit about his plans in my lobby.

I took him into our conference room. "I thought we talked about keeping me out of this?" "I just wanted to let them know I knew people. They didn't seem like they was that happy dealing with me." "Luther, do what you gotta do, but you gotta keep my name out of this, OK?" "I understand, man."

This goonie muthafucka needs a broad. He needs to leave me the fuck alone. I'm about to work on a solution for both of us. I took him out of the office.

"Luther, my frat is having this Fou.rth Friday thing on the 23rd. You need to come check it out..."

Be Cool,
KZ

Agenda

I pride myself on knowing a lot about word origins and roots. I've spent a lot of time expanding my vocabulary that way. I don't know what the origin of the word "agenda" is, but I'm sure it's from a Norse origin, with the original meaning "list of the forgotten and ignored". How many more meetings can I go to where the central topic is glossed over while bastards have "remembering contests". "Remember Ralph Finecrantz? He operated the drawbridge on 8th Street? He used to have a similar issue with his staff. Ol' Ralph and his trademark suspenders. They were bright red as I recall. He died in a gruesome dogwalking accident in '78. He loved that dog. It was named Eisenhower. Tragic accident. Gool ol' Ralph."

Meetings are officially number four on my things I hate to do most.

1. Drowning puppies
2. Listening to "Spoken Word" performances given by the bastard children of The Last Poets.
3. Watching montages of any reality show contestant's time on his/her show, set to the tune of Daniel Powter's "Bad Day".
   
4. Meetings

So I've been involved in at least 13 meetings involving Clocktower and his falsified work time. Thirt-muthafuckin'-teen. You wanna know what my boss concluded? Verbal warning. The time spent investigating his work habits, documenting his discretions, confirming that he made up meetings and appointments he didn't have, and 13 meetings later, we're gonna give him a good talking to? Why did Mi.chig.an have to outlaw throat-chops?

Today I have one meeting. One SCHEDULED meeting, that is, because muthafuckas will drop in off the cuff to talk about their itchy ballsacs or their kid's violin recital. It might be a function of being the "manager they like". I don't know how I got that designation, but it proves one thing. People don't ever really know what lurks in someone's heart, 'cuz I hate they asses.

Yo, yesterday the photographer came to my crib and took my flick for the newspaper article I told y'all about. He took about a gazillion pictures. There's only one in which I smiled. I know I looked like a fuckin' goofball. How much you wanna make a bet that's the one they choose for the article. I asked him when it was gonna be in the paper. How's about that shit is gonna run on VALENTINE'S DAY? I think I might be set up to look like a damn loser, fa real. "This man is lonely on Valentine's Day, please donate pussy or an undented canned good at this address..." *sigh*

Y'all Africans stay out of trouble.

Peace,
KZ

The Oddest Thing

What up, young people? I hope you're enjoying your lives. I'm here in Satan's Anus getting an appreciation for the concept of "irony". Please sit back, sip your lattes, and indulge me for a moment, won't you?

I'm MS Outlook a lot of the day, kickin' "conversation" with a few of my friends, foremost of those is TAD. As most of you out there already know, I like TAD. A lot. She's cool, nahmean? So really I'm just kickin' it via email with her mostly, talking about whatever's going on. Yesterday, she sent me her last email of the day, because she was headed home. I still had an hour to be in the office, 45 minutes of which was a meeting with HR. Gotta follow up on those smells, right?

Anyway, after TAD bids me adieu, I get a phone call. It's a reporter from the Satan's Anus Chronicle. This is sort of a regular occurrance, so it's not a shock. I'm thinking they want to talk about what happened at the last City Commission meeting. But that's not the case.

"Mr. Zednanreh, we got your information from someone who attended an event given by your fraternity a couple of weeks ago. We are doing an article on what it means to be single in Satan's Anus."

Really? "What have your dating experiences been like?" "Do you find it difficult to find a setting suitable for you dating needs?" "What type of women are you looking for?" "Are you dating someone now?"

So, she's gather all this information and I'm about to be featured in this article on being single in Satan's Anus. Today I'm supposed to go to the newspaper and get my picture taken for the article. I know what you're saying. "Zed, how is any of this ironic?" Well keep sipping your latte whilst I explain.

You see, this article would have been perfect a year ago. Hell, this article would have been perfect six months ago. But right now, right now, where I'm on the ground floor of what I think will be a magnificent relationship, I get put out there as a super-eligible bachelor. I don't want to meet any other chicks and the paper is setting me up to meet goo-gobs of women. Arrrggghhhh!

And that's why crack should be legal.

KZ

Plus One

Hey peoples, what's real? I've been writing evaluations on and off all day today. I'm puttin' coal in so many stockings this year... Delusional bastards!

Socially, I've been spending a little time hanging out with one of my frat brothers, Sam. He's an alright dude. He's originally from Gh.ana, about 30 years old, a pretty cool cat. The funny thing is, I probably would have gotten cool with him even if we weren't in the same frat. We know a bunch of the same people, especially women. It was his birthday party I went to a few weeks ago where I saw all the chicks I knew.

He's been in this little purgatory for 5 years, so he's good and sick of it. We're both just here trying to bide our time until we leave. He'll be going to get his MBA soon. Me, I'll just be headed to greener pastures. But we been kickin' a little, raisin' some hell for a couple of weeks. We set if off for his party, for the Fourth Friday event, and for the Super Bowl gig we went to on Sunday. Right now, he's got a lot of family shit going on, so I think in some instances I'm like a sounding board. It's good to have a person that's physically in front of you to talk about real shit.

But really, I get to live out my lifelong dream of having a sidekick. I can imagine I'm Walker, Texas Ranger, and I get to act like he's this guy:

Cleaning up my fuck-ups, doing all the menial shit, and getting absolutely, positively no pussy. Come to think of it, maybe I'm HIS sidekick!

Peace,
KZ

Ride The Maverick

So you sit there, and the jeans are pretty tight. I don't believe I've ever seen ass in a seat that didn't look good sittin' down. But I know it's more than an illusion with you. I've seen that ass in all its glory, while you're walking in front of me. I'm mesmerized by the hip to waist ratio. I mean, what is that? Like 2:1? That's crazy!

But I'm watching you sitting there in those jeans and I'm plotting. How can I, even by slight of hand, touch that ass? Maybe you'll stand and I can find myself brushing against you, offering a low-spoken apology. "Sorry, I ended up with a palmful of pulchritude. Oops." I gotta touch that ass somehow.

I'm respectful, but damn, how can you come up in my place with that ass attached to your body thinkin' I'm not going to want to touch it?

When you stand and look out the window, I take my chance, wrapping my arms around your waist. Dick nuzzled between ass cheeks, mouth on neck, holding on for dear life.

I've never been, but I think this is Heaven.

KZ

Stinkbox

I had a fucked up meeting last night in which my proposal got defeated resoundingly. I was called everything in the book, I believe. I deserved it. I really did. I was trying to fuck up their lives. No bullshit. The meeting lasted until 10 pm.

Anyway, I had a 7:30 am meeting this morning with the City Manager and Mayor. Nice. After that bullshit meeting I had to meet with my boss. While we were meeting, something special happened.

Wispy walked in and told us that the new hire, Squintisha, is wearing too much perfume. Yesterday she came in to me on that same bullshit. I told her, per our scent policy, to ask her if she could tone down the perfume. If it persisted, I would get involved.

This silly bitch didn't say anything to her yesterday. Today she brought it up to Squintisha. Squintisha said, "I'm not wearing perfume, it's just my body wash. It's what I wash my ass with." WTF?

So now I gotta kick it to Squintisha, let her know how highly inappropriate her response was and reiterate the scent policy details. For the record, if you want a visual of how she looks, look no further:Pretty much identical, but a lot more of a hot mess.

So she comes in my office, struttin', smirkin', attitude on full blast.

"Squintisha, you are aware of our scent policy, correct?" "Yeah", she sighed. Her funky ass bodywash was wafting over to my side of the desk. It was quite horrible. "When you were informed that your personal hygiene products might be adversely affecting your co-worker, how did you respond?" She smirks, "I told her it's the bodywash I wash my ass with." "That's an inappropriate response, Squintisha. Highly inappropriate." First, she apologized to me for the response, noting Wispy isn't an angel in her own right. Then she went for the gusto.

"Shoot, I don't smell. She smell! She be wearin' the same funky clothes every other day. I wanna make a complaint against her. Her booty stank." Right then and there, at that moment, I knew that I wouldn't be able to end this week on a good note. These fuckin' people.

Stay Cool,
KZ

Eye Know

...there's something betta than this. Your former (and present!) massas love to fuckin' hear themselves talk. I'm fielding phone call after phone call about this city commission meeting tonight. One after another. Fake ass, wannabe erudite muthafuckas trying to shoot holes in my proposals, talking about how it's gonna affect their neighborhood in a bad way. One muthafucka had the nerve to tell me my proposal was a de facto "taking" of his property. You see, some shit I wanna do will make it illegal for him to be a fuckin' slumlord, so he's mad he can't maximize his profits by having 30 people crammed into a one bedroom coldwater flat. So tonight I'll be at a meeting getting demonized by landlords and the like. While the cowards on city commission sit back and let me get maligned. "Fuck it, he ain't gotta run for re-election!"

...I should stand back and watch the big picture. Learn what I'm supposed ta learn and take it with me in my satchel. Droppin' science like seeds from a burlap bag during my travels, double-back and seek shade under the trees I helped plant. Mainly I know if I do not properly learn what I'm supposed ta I will be learning the exact same lesson in less than two years. So really, it ain't about fear, but about being too fearless, about believing I'm too peerless, to learn what I'm supposed ta be taught. It's not about the failure to acknowledge me, it's more like being a half assed Diogenes and valuing more shit than titles.

...I think too much. I think about that soft touch and those warm eyes. I tend to want to protect her from my perception of her vulnerability, though everything I've seen tells me she's stronger than I give her credit for. I understand more than she thinks I do. That's why I'm willing to wait.

Peace,
KZ