Betta Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be safe,
KZ

Who Made This Chick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMFH,
KZ

K.Z. Money

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

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

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

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

Quit Beggin',
KZ

Begin The Beguine

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

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

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

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

Stay golden,
KZ

Charlize Theron

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep Writin',
KZ

A Valentine For NYC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay cool,
KZ

Eulogy For A Beatmaker

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

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

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

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

KZ

For The Hun

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

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

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

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

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

See Y'all Soon,
KZ

Aggressive-Aggressive

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

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

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

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

Stay Focused,
KZ

The Season For Giving

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

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

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

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

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

Regards,
KZ

The Great Unsaid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's it for now.

See ya,
KZ

Additional Pet Urine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relax,
KZ

Rotten Candy

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

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

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

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

Hasta Luego,
KZ

Downtown Saturday Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy,
KZ

If Jugz Wuz Brainz

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moderately yours,
KZ

Plan B

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

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

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

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

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

Regards,
KZ

Cover Your Face

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

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

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

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

some were policemen , why some were even athletes .

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

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

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

Power to the People,
KZ

Weirdly Oriented

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay Chisel,
KZ

Apology Necessary

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday,
KZ

Ms. Pac-Man

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

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

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

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

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

Stay stable,
KZ