women of america—i’m trying to save your lives…and your dignity…

Ladies.

Pay attention.

I have a public service announcement that you need to afford the utmost consideration.

Now, I don’t want to frighten you, but this is serious. You need to educate yourselves and guard your personal effects accordingly.

I have every reason to believe that something once relegated to the realm of mythologized, idiosyncratic phenomenon is growing in force and number.

This body of persons, once a small, concentrated group, is now finding its way into the mainstream, and posing a very real, viable threat to life as we know it.

That’s right, ladies.

I’m talking about boy-soldiers.

Little.teensy.tiny.baby-sized.men.

Now, we’ve all seen smaller men.

I’m a mere 5’2 myself, and I’ve never had any qualms about dating or being attracted to short men. As a matter of fact, I’ve advanced several theories on what I believe to be the more-awesomeness-factor of short men versus their tall counterparts (I’ll save that for another day).

But I’m not talking about short men.

I’m talking about little, itty bitty baby sized men.

Not dwarves.

Not little people.

Fit-in-your-pocket, I-thought-you-were-sitting-down-but-awww-shit-you-were-really-standing-up, man-infants.

Boy-soldiers.

Let’s get to the core issues.

What is a “boy-soldier?”

A little baby-sized man.

Now, don’t be mistaken. Determination of his fetal-sizedness is not limited to height specifications. In fact, the strongest factor of his babymanism deals more directly with his tiny-ness in stature, as opposed to any definitive distance-from-the-ground measurement.

Simply put, boy-soldiers are generally more slight of frame than regular men (though some will work their tinkertoy-sized hearts out to add a little gristle to their Estelle Getty-ish bodies). But, don’t feel sorry for them. I’ll later explain that, as a rule, boy-soldiers are markedly accomplished in their professional lives. Notwithstanding this elemental truth, they’d still find success in a variety of vocations should white collar life not suit (think derby jockeys, hand weavers of fine silks, tiny print calligraphy artisans, and moon gymnasts).

What are the non-physical characteristics of boy-soldiers?

1. Suits
Boy-soldiers looooooooooooooove suits. On everything I cherish in this world, I swear to you that NOTHING—not even the love of our Savior, Jesus the Christ—can come between a boy-soldier and his established fancy suit collection. A boy-soldier dons a suit to go to Waffle House. A boy-soldier wears a fancy suit to the gym, where he changes into a matching jogging suit. Boy-soldiers don’t own jeans. Boy-soldiers own denim……………………………………………….suits. They own shiny, high gloss, well-tailored denim suits. If you’re out at the spot, talking to a boy-soldier (God save you if you ever willingly do this), and you compliment him on his suit, and inquire whether he’s just arriving from work, 99.999 percent of the time, he’ll look you plainly in the eye, and reply, “No.”

Which begs, what I deem to be the greater question: Where in the FUCK are these pint-sized, mini-men buying these suits?

Seriously.

Is there some hidden boy-man store that specializes in tiny-neck cravats, fancy shortpants, and 3T cummerbunds that has its headquarters in the DC Metro? I’ve got to find out, as there is no logical explanation how these grown-up dollbabies can be turned out so well day after day after damned day.

2. Huge Personalities
I am not certain whether the next characteristic is a function of circumstance, or is simply endemic to their race, but, boy-soldiers all have huge personalities. Boy-soldiers allllllllways gotta shine.
A boy-soldier doesn’t just wanna buy you a drink. He wants to buy your whole crew drinks. A boy-soldier doesn’t just want to dance with the illest honey in the room. He wants to create a free space in the middle of a crowded dance floor so the whole club knows he spent 2 years of his life zipped up inside Alvin Ailey’s fannypack. A boy-soldier doesn’t just want to be in a conversation. He wants to be in every conversation. And when he’s done talking, he wants the conversation to end so the participants can watch him do something else spectacular. Wherever he is, wherever he’s at, a boy-soldier can be spotted out and about doing THE absolute fucking most ever.

3. Good Jobs
Get caught sleeping and think a boy-soldier’s gonna fold shirts at Baby Gap for the discount if you want to. No, ma’am. Boy-soldiers have the best jobs around. A boy-soldier has been hitting the books his entire life, staying inside every weekend for 35 years, and starching the lapel of his tiny suit jacket EXTRA crisp for this one moment that he has your attention, ALL for the express purpose of withdrawing that Goldman Sachs embossed business card from his gossamer waistcoat.

The ONLY thing a boy-soldier loves more than his Carnivale-worthy attire is his fancy job. It has provided every creature comfort, from posh abode to over-stated import. But while his corner office has indeed afforded him a happy “Fuck you,” to the world that has shuttered him in darkness, the only place a boy-soldier seeks ultimate gratification…………….is pussy.

Are you out at the club?

Probably yours, then.

4. Not Afraid to Holler at Women
Nope.

Not even a little bit.

And guess what, ladies? The taller you are, the more likely Man-bit is to approach you.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s gonna dance with the shorter and intermediate-height honeys, too. As Lord High Imperial Grand Puba of All Things Ridiculous Fuckery, boy-soldier owes it to himself, and indeed, his court, to grind his tiny, underdeveloped hips on the backside of every woman that moves.

But best believe, he’s gonna open and close with the giantesses.

And when you politely decline his advances, boy-soldier’s gonna laugh it off, as you clearly don’t know who he is. Bitch, don’t you see this mutha–fuckin’ suit? Have you seen the keys to my whip? Bitch, my car is parked at valet. We on U Street. U Street don’t even have valet, Bitch. I just gave a hun’ned to a dude in a hoodie outside and told him to keep the seat warm til I get back. C’mon girl, quit trippin’ and let’s dance.

Getting a boy-soldier to leave you alone has about the same limited probability and intense pain threshold as full body tattoo removal.

So, why is a boy-soldier a threat to women?

With his lightning-fast maneuvers, determinedness of purpose, and willingness to make a complete and total ass of himself, the boy-soldier has secured his spot as the world’s tiniest, two-legged, upright predator.

That’s right.

The boy-soldier—in his elaborate peacock dress, unabashed bafoonery, and dogged, feral pursuit—is the honey badger of the human race.

He has, within his tiny frame, the wherewithal to make a total jackass of you. One moment you’re talking happily with your girls. The next moment, this diminutive bastard “got the folded fingers on [your] waist,”* his tiny head nestled in the hollow of your breastplate, and you’re slow-dancin’ with your eyes closed while the entire spot watches on in awesome wonder.

Don’t laugh.

This shit has happened to me.

Many a time.

And also, last night.

The boy-soldier is no joke.

He is to be respected as a worthy opponent—

Feared as a masterful hunter—

And lest you get irretrievably caught in the vice-grip of his tiny little baby-man hands—

Avoided at all costs.

 

 

* my second favorite line of Mos Def’s ”Miss Fat Booty”

buy groceries. when you don’t buy groceries people you don’t want to do it to you try to do it to you….

“You have a really strong aura,” the woman seated in the booth called out to me from her darkened corner of the room.

“Um,” I said, furrowing my brow, “Thank you, I guess.” I tipped my Old Fashioned in her direction and swiveled on my bar stool so that my back was, again, to her.

“Doesn’t she have a strong aura?” she asked of her seatmate in a volume loud enough for me to hear her.

Her company mumbled something in concession to her assessment, and the woman clapped her hands wildly.

I couldn’t tell you what had possessed me to eat in the bar. I never ate in the bar. In four years time I had never eaten in the bar.

This shit shack had the best fries in town, and was open later than anywhere else in town, and served food and booze until 2 am during the week.

But I’d always taken my food home.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’d ordered an Old Fashioned and the veggie sub and fries I’d had yesterday, and taken a seat at the bar.

It quickly proved a momentous decision.

“My husband and I would love it if you’d join us,” said the woman, who was, all at once, behind me. She was in her early forties with fiery red hair and sharp features, and intent on looking directly into my eyes.

I was caught entirely off guard. “Oh—um…no. No. I couldn’t.”

“Please, please, please, please!!!?!?” she continued to clap her hands emphasizing each word. “You’re all alone, and we’d love the company!  We’re here visiting and don’t know anybody.  Besides, I want to give you a reading!! Your aura is incredible. Please??!”

I looked to the corner where her husband was still seated, watching us, closely.

“Come on! We won’t bite. Let us buy you another drink. It looks like you’re out.”

DING DING DING DING DING.

“Well, all right. But just for a moment,” I said, making a show of reluctantly picking up my plate in the face of getting a free drink.

Now, I know what y’all are thinking.

You’re thinking, “These people are going to try to fuck her. This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck her.”

And you know what?

Fuck it.

I’ma spoil the shit out of my own story because it is just that unbelievable.

This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck me just now.

Now, when we return to the tale, our heroine (me) is just sitting down to dine with the two merrymakers.

“Mark” and “Caroline” were in town on business. Mark did something in marketing and Caroline had joined him for the week, employing a team of sitters and relatives to watch their three children while away.

“Are you married, Fooler?” asked Mark, looking at me in that You-wanna-do-sex-to-my-dead-body-Bob? kinda way.

“Um, no. No, I’m not.”

“Lovely woman like you? Dimple like that? You can’t tell me no one’s tried to make an honest woman out of you,” he said, slowly sipping his drink.

I’m generally unresponsive in the face of extreme awkwardness, so I simply offered a nervous shrug.

“I want to give you a reading!” exclaimed Caroline. “Sweetheart, tell her I’m a mystic.”

I looked to Mark who was eyeing me, saying nothing.

“Is that what a person who gives readings is called?” I asked her. “A mystic?”

“I love that you’re drinking bourbon,” said Mark, seemingly out of nowhere.

I looked at him plainly. “What?”

“Sweetheart!!! Tell her I’m a mystic!” Caroline exclaimed, clapping her hands, again.

Mark’s eyes didn’t waver from mine. “She’s a mystic,” he said. I knew I hadn’t imagined the sardonic tenor of his words.

“Please, Fooler?!” Caroline began, “Please, please, pl—“

I held up my hand.

“You can give me a reading, Caroline.”

“Yay!” she clapped. Everything was an exclamation with this broad.

“You’ll have to let me hold your hands. I want to prepare you because I can already sense that you have some trust issues.”

I looked at her and was confronted with the most earnest facial expression I have ever seen on a woman.  “I’ll need to finish my drink for this, I think,” I said.

“Oh, do!! Do!” she commanded.  “Mark,” she barked out at her husband, to whom she’d been paying little attention, “Go get Fooler another drink.”

Now, trust me, I think it is the height of impropriety to let strangers buy you an endless succession of drinks, but I had the distinct impression that I was working for my supper. So, when Mark looked at me for confirmation and asked, “Another Old Fashioned?” I merely nodded in agreement.

I swigged the remainder of my drink, and placed my hands in Caroline’s. Her thumbs encircled the tops of my fingers. She inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes.

In a heavy, breathy voice, she began.

“You are going through a great transition in your life, right now. There are some major changes on the horizon for you.”

I sat still, neither confirming nor denying.

“You are scared. You’re really scared, but you’re trying not to show it. Oh God, don’t be afraid, Fooler!”

I shifted in my seat, a bit, in reaction to her passionate outcry.

“You feel trapped. You’re always trapped and unsettled. You always keep one foot outside of the door. You always want to walk away. You never involve yourself in a situation you can’t walk away from.”

I looked at her closed eyelids. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I thought.

Mark returned, and pushed the drink in front of me. “Did I miss anything good?” he asked.

“You have problems with men,” Caroline answered.

“They have problems with me,” I countered.

“Ahh, ‘The lady doth protest,’” sang Mark.

“One in particular. No, no. More than one. Maybe two or three. You have a few unresolved—“ She opened one eye and looked at me accusingly, “You’ve been busy.”

I shrugged and attempted to keep my face impassive.

“You’ve got such an adventurous spirit. You just don’t know how or what to do with it. You’re lost. You’re so, so lost.”

“Caroline?” I interrupted.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t mean to be rude. You both have been very nice, but—“ I withdrew my hands from hers as her eyes shot open, “You gotta get the fuck outta here with this shit.”

Caroline’s brow furrowed. “But, Fooler! Am I off? I’m right, aren’t I?! I’m right. I’m right and I’m too close and that frightens you. Don’t be frightened. Quick, give me your hands!”

Caroline reached out for my hands and placed them square in the middle of her chest.

“Can you feel my heart?” she asked, looking at me with pleading moss-colored eyes.

I looked around and was met by the curious gazes of the other wasted bar patrons, no doubt wondering why I had my ebony hands on this white woman’s titties.

“Steady, right?” she asked.

“Uh…what?”

“My heart,” she answered in that breathy talk. “Can you feel how steady it beats under your hands?”

This shit right here is the second gayest shit I’ve ever done in my life.

“Open yourself to it, Fooler. I’m giving you good energy.” She was looking at me expectantly. I wouldn’t even give her the benefit of a head nod. I tried to recollect how I’d gotten to this place.

“Look, it’s getting lat—“ I began.

Caroline closed her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

She was doing that whisper that I use when I’m trying to irritate my linesister; that date rape whisper.

“It’s early,” she continued.

I looked over to Mark who’d been unusually silent. A glazed expression covered his face. I suspiciously eyed the drink he’d pushed toward me. I hadn’t taken a sip.

“Fooler,” Caroline whispered sternly, taking my hands and placing them on either side of her face.

I can’t believe this shit is really happening.

“Fooler. FoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFooler. Fooler. I think you should come back to the hotel with me and Mark.”

Oh hell no.

I sat upright, maneuvering my hands from her face. “You know what? No. I have work in the morning—“

“We’ll see you home in time,” said Mark.

Oh, now you wanna chime in, motherfucker?

“My dogs need to be walked. I can’t just—You know what? No.” I stood up.

“Fooler, come onnnnnnnnn!” Caroline whined.

I rumbled through my bag, and grabbed my keys .  “It was very nice meeting you both. I hope your business goes well, Mark. Caroline—“

I searched in my bag some more, trying to think of what the fuck to say to this crazy sexually ambiguous bitch. “Caroline, thanks for the reading. Really. I wish you all the best.”

I found a twenty at the bottom of my purse, and placed it on the table.

“Y’all have a great night,” I said, turning to walk away. I took two steps forward, before turning around again and walking back.

I grabbed the twenty from the corner of the table.

“Forgot. Drinks were on you.”

there comes a time in every woman’s life when you have to take stock of yourself and your friends, and determine: “we ain’t shit.”

My weekend in four parts—my adventures with the new housekeeper, the part where I almost unceremoniously murdered six children at the movie theater, my hairdresser’s engagement, and my wildly controversial and bad language-infused dinner with an old law school friend notwithstanding.

(sat) “Clara’s” and “Jenny’s” crib: Me and Michael arrive at Clara’s house.  Clara and Jenny have never been to Lux, and Michael (who hates Lux) is reluctantly accompanying us.  Clara pours herself another glass of wine and asks if we mind her playing Lenny Kravitz to set the mood before we leave. Michael and I laugh at her for two and a half minutes. This bitch wants to set the pre-Lux mood with Lenny Kravitz. She hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve ever said.

(sat) New York Avenue: Me, Michael, Clara, and Jenny are walking to the club. Me, Clara, and Jenny are in various states of undress. A man in a “big body Benz” rolls his window down and attempts to holler at one or all of us. He inquires as to our destination. Clara (for reasons which will continue to elude me) tells him “Lux.” Our suitor then desires to know why we’re “going to that raggely[sic] ass ghetto ass hot ass ignant[sic] ass club.” He was clearly a cut above the traditional Lux-goer; as evidenced by his common ass hood-holla that called to mind Sir Lancelot, and the many romantic variants of the Chivalric Code.

(sat) Lux: My beer choices are Heineken and Miller. I opt for the Heineken. I consider that the beverage’s secret ingredient might be warm Nazi piss compote.

(sat) Lux: A man who looks like Rick Ross tries to effectuate the waist-grab-pull-close maneuver. I spurn his advances. The only man who looks like Rick Ross that is allowed to touch me is Rick Ross.

(sat) Lux:  My linesister and I venture to the 3^rd floor. My linesister motions to the VIP section which, in an unexpected twist, has a disproportionate amount of white women within. I consider first, that the women are birds; second, that there must be an NFL player hosting a party inside. I determine to refer to the women as pelicans. You know. On account of them being white birds.

(sat) Lux: My linesister and I are both dancing, one goon, a piece, when suddenly, she cries out, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I keep dancing with my goon. It’s not like I don’t hear her. I’m just, you know, dancing. She cries out, again, the same refrain, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I continue dancing with aforementioned goonificence. She then effectuates the super-secret Delta distress signal. Soror down! Soror down!!!! I immediately shove off the hobgoblin trying to impregnate me through my dress, rescue my linesister, forcefully separate her from wildanegrobeast, and push her through the crush of people to freedom. All of my love, peace, and happiness, girl. All of my love, peace and happiness.

(sat) Lux: Michael and I try to determine the thought process that inclined a fellow patron to don a large, wide, floppy brimmed white hat to the club. I suggest that the headpiece once belonged to Shug Avery. Michael disagrees, as the “suicide doors” of the hat’s brim are clearly an indicator of a more modern era.

(sat) somewhere on 6^th St:  Me, Jenny, and a very drunk Clara are looking for my car. Clara, who has a beautiful voice, keeps singing, “I’m more than just a numberrrrrr, hey hey heyyyyy.” That’s it. Like, no more of the song at all. Just, “I’m more than just a numberrrrr, hey hey heyyyy.” Jenny and I don’t ask where the remainder of Drake’s song went. Four blocks later, Clara mercifully switches up—to some Marvin Sapp song. Which she sings—in its entirety. Clara then looks at me and says, happily, “God is good!” I wordlessly continue to walk arm in arm with her. She looks at me, meaningfully. “Fooler, I said, ‘God is good!’”  “I’m not going to do this with you,” I say. She stops walking. “Come onnnn, you know the rest. God is good!” I try to inch her forward. “I refuse to do this with you,” I say. Clara is unrelenting. “Fooler—come onnnnnn. God is good!” I sigh, dejectedly. My voice drops two whole disgusted octaves. “All the time.” My participation gives her life. “And all the time?!?!” I sigh, once more, and look out into the street. “God is good.” Clara walk/jigs/church steps the next half of a block. “Hallelujah!” she exclaims. I’d be wrong if I kick this broad in her knees right now.

(sun) Northeast: I tell Michael that I think that I want to have a baby. Michael looks out of his passenger window. We continue ten of the twelve minute ride in complete silence. This silence is interrupted when I inadvertently drive my car into oncoming traffic.

(sun) church, Northeast: The church is really hot. Michael doesn’t want to take off his jacket because he is wearing a short sleeved button down that he’d accidentally purchased thinking it was a long sleeved button down. When it gets too hot for Michael to bear, he whispers to me “If I take my jacket off do you think I’ll look crazy?” I look around at our fellow congregants. The woman directly in front of me has a courtesy-of-my-auntie’s-basement tattoo covering the whole of her chubby forearm. She has brought with her a “purse” that can best be described as a white, pleather piece of carry-on luggage. Three rows in front of us, I watch as the bald head of another parishioner catches a stream of light from a stained glass window. Her entire head is bald. Save her natural, Ed Grimley-style bang… that is blonde. Directly beside Michael is the most beautiful transsexual I have ever seen. She also has the biggest, loud-clapping man hands I’ve ever seen. I wonder why Michael deems it appropriate to disrupt my salvation with his ridiculous questions.

(sun) church, Northeast: The pastor talks to us about taking Christianity into worldly places. He tries to identify with the “young people” and inform us that it is all right to go into Busboys and Poems[sic] if it is for the purposes of evangelism. He tells us that it doesn’t matter if people are in Busboys and Poems[sic] drinking alcohol and looking cute and picking up people, because we shouldn’t be afraid to go into the streets to spread The Word. I spend much of this portion of his sermon considering that I’ve apparently been away from Busboys and Poets too long. My friends go there to eat mac ‘n cheese, attend Alice Walker book signings, and hear spoken word poetry. I woulda been in there way more if I’da known it was the Devil’s hideout for drankin and ho-in’. This absence is easily remedied. Good lookin’ out, Rev.

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: On more than one occasion, I’ve forbidden our friend, “Monty,” to tell stories, as they are always ludicrous, and, as far as I’m concerned, complete fiction. As Monty’s stories tend to fold into other outrageous fables, I admonish fellow listeners not to make direct eye contact with him, so as not to encourage him, or enable his tomfuckery. Despite my warnings, my linesister disregards my instructions. Monty proceeds: “Did I tell y’all about the lady who went to go get a mammogram and then went missing? She did. My daddy called and asked me, ‘Did you hear about Ms. Mable? She went to go get a mammogram and then up and went missing.’ I think doctors should do better than that. If they can find you when they want you to pay your bills, they can find you when you got cancer. She been missing 6 weeks.” He then folds this story into: “Did I tell you about the woman who never loved her daughter? She never loved her. My mama told me once to take her a plate but to be careful of the chain when walking up the front porch cause she had a whole chain that wrapped around her house. But she never loved her daughter. She stayed in bed all day, never wearing anything but a robe and some baby powder. Yes she did. She never loved her daughter. Never loved her.  And she had cancer, too.  She died.  But not because of the cancer. Because she never left the bed. She sat there  all day eating Tostitos. That’s what killed her.”

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: My linesister and our friend “Anna” get into a heated debate about Anna’s boss, who is up for re-election. I watch as Anna and my linesister give meaningful arguments, but note that Anna obviously isn’t aware that my linesister is just baiting her. I shake my head, as at the height of their dispute, my linesister, having exhausted all of her educated responses, concludes: “I don’t care. I hate him. I hope he doesn’t win,” like the child that she is. Anna is temporarily stunned. I want to laugh, but I can’t, cause what she said is fucked up. Man, it’s funny, though.

(sun) 14^th and K: Me and Michael go to meet up with my friend, “Maya” and her visiting best friend, “Kara.” Maya and Kara are wearing the same dress. On purpose. Maya is fairer skinned and has curly baby hair. Kara is darker than Maya, but has similarly curly baby hair. Having made fast friends with the patrons, they are the toast of the all-white bar where they are seated. Maya tells me that people have asked them if they are twins all night. You know, cause they’re black with curly hair, and are dressed alike. Not that they’re two grown assed women acting like asses. Maya informs me that they’ve told all of the patrons at the bar that they are “fraternal cousins.” All of the patrons at the bar have accepted this explanation. I immediately cast-aside any previously-held reservations about home-schooling one’s children.

(sun) 14^th and K: Maya introduces me to Jamie, whose wife has left him for a woman, and Cristina, a haggard looking drunk woman who looks exactly how Sheryl Crow will look when she’s 80…and strung out on heroin. Cristina says to me, “Tell Jamie about how it’s better that his wife left him for a woman, cause it’s not like he’s competing with a man.” I look at a visibly intoxicated Jamie, and begin, “Well, actually, I read last week that it’s actually worse when your spouse leaves you for a woman. Because it’s like she’s completely emasculating you. Like, there’s nothing you can do .” Cristina signals violently to me, and starts mouthing that I’m going in the opposite direction of what she’d hoped. I hurry to fix the situation. “Actually, Jamie, what it means is, that your dick was probably too big for her. She took one look at your huge dick and just couldn’t do it anymore. You ruined her for all men. “ Jamie, happier with my newer answer, lazily smiles, and appears placated.  I briefly consider giving him a little piece on account of his troubles. I quickly reconsider, given his scruffy demeanor and overall drunkyness. I still congratulate myself for contemplating letting him bury his sorrows in my little mocha mons. I’m constantly thinking about how I can be of service to others. I’m a giver like that.

the return of Fooler Fridays part ii: my take+rob’s take+tre’s take+an experiment…

 

Fooler—

Your opinion on women approaching men?  Had a discussion about this with one of your sorors, and the idea was deemed ridiculous. A man should approach a woman and blah, blah, blah. That traditional bullshit makes no sense to me. It seems to me that a woman approaching a man would cut through a lot of bullshit on both ends…Anyway, hope you discuss.

This is such a fantastic question, I don’t even know where to begin.

Full disclosure.

I was totally going to answer this question with some quippy, snarky, retort, heavy on the progressive, modern woman sentiment, light on the substance.

But my point was going to be simple: It’s 2010. Of course women should hit on men. I was going to regale you with all of my thoughts on the matter, and then laughingly conclude with, “But I seldom hit on men.”

Fate intervened, however, and I will now commence presenting you with both my researched findings on the matter at hand, as well as—do try and contain your excitement—an experiment on the same.

First of all, let me give you my prevailing theory on why more women don’t hit on men.

Wait.

Lemme see if I can draw you a diagram. This blog has never utilized a diagram. You will see why, shortly.

                        TYPES OF WOMEN WHO DON’T HIT ON MEN

                                                                      /\

                                                                   /      \

                                                              /                \

       Women who don’t hit on men b/c                     Scared Broads

      they think it goes against the  natural                                /\           

      order of things & men should be the                               /         \

       aggressors.                                                                           /                \

                                                                                                  /                         \

                                         Women who are embarrassed                      Women who believe

                                       about the nature of the potential                  that a man would

                                       rejection.                                                                  hit on you if he were

                                                                                                                             truly interested.

 First things first.

Forget about those broads in category 1. Lost cause.

Category 2, however, and its subsequent subsections—there’s hope, there.

I happen to generally fall into category 2, both subsections.

Now, when I got your question, I was with my friend, Rob, who gave me tremendous insight with his own male perspective.

However, to understand his perspective and appropriately qualify his rationale, you must first hear mine.

And it goes like this:

Granted, while many of us can agree that women should hit on men, there are external forces to consider; namely, rejection.

And, realistically, that’s all category 2 boils down to: rejection.

Here are our dominant thoughts on the matter:

The Object of My Affection (OMA) Might not Like me Physically-

-This is absolutely more significant in the realm of women hitting on men than the inverse. Why? Because women are infinitesimally more forgiving of what we perceive to be physical flaws/defects than men.  And I stand by this shit so firmly. (I know many of you will have examples of this not being true, but keep them. You cannot dissuade me of this notion. ) A broad will date a gremlin and talk up his dickmedown abilities so strong to her friends, and dare anyone to challenge the mythicalbeastiness of his grill. A man could love the shit out of a homely broad; I guarandamntee his friends won’t see hide nor tail of that ass until he’s engaged to be married to her, his betrothal ring solidifying her entrenchment in the youbetternotmakefunofthisbitchcauseshe’sabouttobethemotherofmychildren camp. Thus, the probability of not liking how the other looks and it affecting one’s willingness to engage  is greater for you than me.

Despite Allen Iverson’s Vehement Protestations to the Contrary, Practice DOES Affect the Outcome of (the)Game, and We Ain’t Practiced.  Like, Not Neva.

-No matter where you stand on the issue, you cannot refute (as you will be bested by history) that women have not been raised in the tradition of hitting on men. Throughout the ages, the exact opposite has been the case.  So, we have no definitive mating cry; no well-honed skill-set designed to suavely come-hither the menfolk with our words. And we have thrived within the confines of the existing schematic—men,  aggressively driving it down the middle in the hopes of a layup; women, off in the wings of the foreground, prepared like fuck to rebound that shit, and pass it back. And we’re GREAT at passing the ball back. I can assist like you wouldn’t believe. Take my panties off and wrap them around the ball and eva-ree-thang. Only now, the tables have turned. Life has fouled me. And suddenly I’m at the line with Shaq hands, and the ball I’m trying to get in might as well be a screaming baby. And everything that occurs to me to say to you sounds so lame when I play it back in my mind. Lame and creepy. Lame and creepy and desperate. Like, not smooth at all. Bumpy and acne’d as a bitch. And even if I pass your physical standards, you might be disinclined to forgive my lame ass wack ass delivery. Cause no matter how open-minded you are, you don’t particularly fancy broads with muscular dystrophy of the mouth.

Women are Sometimes Immobilized by Rejection.

-Everybody simmer down. Not all women. Certainly not the types who eagerly hit on men.  And I don’t mean throughout life. I just mean in terms of male/female romantic interaction. And there’s a reason for this: we’re not used to it. And there’s a reason for that: we aren’t traditionally charged with the responsibility of hunting dudes. So when a woman puts herself out there, takes a risk, and babysteps into foreign territory, only to be told “No,” she is devastated. Know the last time I was rejected by a man when I put myself out there? 1992. Know when I recovered from it and tried again? 2009. Men, on the other hand, are rejected by women all of the time. This isn’t a matter of right or wrong, just simple statistics. Men hit on more women than women hit on men, therefore, more women will reject men than vice versa. And the likely result—men are more accustomed to rejection. Y’all have developed—through an evolution of rejection—a tougher skin when it comes to things like this; you know, romantic webbed feet, if you will. Y’all can just bounce back and move on to the next one. My friend, Justin, used to say, “If you hit on 100 of them in one night, 98 will probably say ‘No,’ but, who cares? 2 will say ‘Yes’!!!” You see that? You see the optimism that man exhibited? If 98 dudes told me “No” in one night, I’d kill myself. Tout de suite.

But, I digress.

On to Rob.

His answer to all of this? In a nutshell—Bullshit. Who cares. Get over it. Be me, ho! (He didn’t say the “ho” part, there, but I took some license as it’s my blog)

To my “What if he doesn’t like me physically?”—

-Relax. Nine times out of ten, any man that you hit on is going to be nice to you, and engage you. No matter what. This necessarily excludes jerkoffs, who will be rude and vile irrespective of how you look, and really, who gives a damn about them? The guy is going to be so impressed by the fact that you came over in the first place, and so flattered, he’s going to talk to you, and make you feel at ease. Women shouldn’t even give this any consideration. He’ll probably find your boldness, itself, attractive.

To my “I’m going to sound like a complete jackass when I approach him.”—

-The answer to this one is similar in kind to the first. The fact that you even bother to approach sets you apart from all of the women in the room. You are immediately in a better position than the legions of women occupying bar space, whose sense of entitlement inclines them to do little more than look pretty while awaiting the generous outpouring of drinks his wallet is expected to produce. He doesn’t expect you to be a comedian or a pimp (although both are appreciated); your sincerity and brazen attempt at forwardness are enough.

To my “But y’all are used to rejection. We’re not.”— Though I will paraphrase, note the quotes

-“Seriously? In your lifetime, how many men have hit on you? How many? I bet HUNDREDS. I bet HUNDREDS of men have probably hit on you. Do you know how many women have hit on me? NOT.ONE. NOT.ONE. For every man that rejects you, there are another ten, in your direct line of vision who won’t. So, let’s say you get up the nerve and hit on a guy and he’s not interested. So what? As soon as you climb down from your seat and turn around, you got ten other dicks there in the room pointed straight at you. Yeah, the first guy rejected you. So.the.fuck.what. Know what happens when a girl rejects me? I gotta start alllllll over again, from scratch, and build up the confidence again to hit on another girl, who will probably, also reject me. Why? Cause that’s just what girls do. And then they want to get mad when we build up these super arrogant alter egos to counter all of this rejection we get. Then we’re douchebags. I tell you what. Women create the traits they loathe in men.”

I was floored. Floored.  I’d never considered half of the knowledge Rob was dropping on me. I should state, for the record, that Rob is really good looking.  It was unfathomable to me that no one had ever blindly hit on him in a bar.

And while all of his wisdom was something of a roundhouse kick to the throat, I needed to be sure. He was vehement in his assertions, yes. But was he right?

I needed an experiment.

Yes.

An experiment.

I hit Tabaq with a determined sense of purpose. I was clad in my special iridescent JudyJetson-style dress that I’d had delivered from the UK, and my gorgeous, exceedingly high, dominatrix-strappy, giveittomehardandfast pumps.

Your girl was going all out.

The trick would be to find a man who wouldn’t normally be attracted to me (in my estimation—I won’t fall into the trap that would entail telling you who this type of man is; damned if I’m gonna let y’all flay me over that shit) initiating a conversation with him, and making a pass at him.

The night, overall, was a resounding failure. When I’d start to give a man that knowing look, he’d give me that knowing look, back.  Or hit on me outright. No bueno. I needed the stakes to be high in order for my venture to be legit.

I had almost given up all hope (I had no idea so many men would be responsive to my completely ridiculous dress), when—

There he was.

Christopher Williams lookin’ dude, clad in a seer-sucker jacket, posted up by the bar, cold chillin’, not saying shit to anybody, encircled by a group of his friends, looking disinterested in the array of people before him.

The moment I spotted him, I knew he was perfect.

He wasn’t my type at all, either (and that’s saying something, believe me).

And I knew this was an experiment. Not real in the slightest. In real life, I didn’t give a fuck if this man found me to be a belching, putrescent troll, and yet—

I was scared as a motherfucker.

I could hear my heart banging in my ears. My palms got a little sweaty.  Ohmygod! What if he hates me?! What if he thinks I’m lame?! What if his friends laugh at me!?

I took a deep breath, and, quite literally, manned up. Relax, Fooler. You’re clever as a bitch. And you’re naked. And you just got your hair cut. You’ve got the smoothest taper in three states right now. Don’t let this baby-haired man bitch you up.

So I sauntered over—this is the part where I like to fantasize that my mere presence parted the body-bumpin’ dancers like Moses and the Red Sea, however blasphemous that may appear on paper—and took a spot next to him at the bar. I observed him in my periphery as I requested a Chardonnay from the bartender.

This was my moment.

I took that bitch.

Me: “So, I came over here and ordered this drink just as a diversion.”

New Millennium Christopher Williams (NMCW): “Oh yeah? What’s the diversion for?”

Me: “I needed it as an excuse to come and talk to you.”

*imaginary fist pump to the sky* You-a pimp, bitch!!!

NMCW: *chuckle, smile, chuckle, laugh*

Me: “So, as a precautionary measure, as I care a great deal for my general safety, are you with any of the women here?”

NMCW: “Nope. I came with my boys, here.”

Me: “And you left your girlfriend/wife at home? (I should note, I HATE it when dudes don’t just come out and ask me if I have a boyfriend rather than dance around it like this—that shit is NOT cute at all—but, alas, I was new at this shit, and nervous.)”

NMCW: “No wife. No girlfriend.”

*imaginary double fist pump to the sky*

And on and on we went, in that fashion, for a solid 10 minutes. And after a while, he was asking me the questions. He was engaging me like hell, and I easily fell into the rhythm, that, honestly, was similar in kind to that which I’m generally accustomed.

 It ended with his boys getting ready to leave, and him saying his goodbyes.

And all I could think about was how right Rob had been. This man hadn’t been interested in me, no. But he’d engaged me—been a willing and active participant, as a matter of fact—in conversation. He wasn’t rude at all. Quite the contrary. And, true to form, when he and his friends left, 4 other men ended up hitting on me, and making sure that the man with whom I’d been talking hadn’t, in fact, been my man.

By the way, I hasten to note that I’d thought my experiment (conducted over a month ago) had yielded perfect results ——————–until 3 nights ago…

My friend, Tre, brought up—quite casually, really—that I hadn’t taken the experiment to its full finish. As a matter of fact, I’d taken it all the way to the edge, only to turn around at the last moment.

You see, I’d expected to do all of the work: the initiation, the flirting, whathaveyou; but in the back of my mind, I was still thinking that, at the end of the day, my boy counterpart would take the reins, and bring it home, with a request for my number.

Tre’s revelation almost made me crash my car.

I should have asked NMCW for his number!!!

Then, and only then, would my makeshift foray into the woes of man-kind have been complete.

I’ll have to try that next time…

And by “next time,” I mean, “in a couple months.”

Really fellas, that shit right there is HORRIFYING.

Well done, you.

I’m giving ALLA Y’ALL my number on GP, next time I’m out (now, it might be an office number, but y’all brave bastards will NOT walk away empty handed).

But, the takeaway is the same—

Outside of the initial buildup of anxiety, ladies—nothing to fear, here.  Holler at those sexy ass men.

So, I know it seems like i hate the ADA, but I don’t. The ADA hates me.

A little piece of me died on the Fourth of July.

Once again, I underestimated the power of a motherfucker with no legs to creep into my body, and steal my very soul.

You see, I’d assumed, that if your legs were all fucked and paraplegically janky, you would generally err on the side of shutting the hell up, and not letting any manner of crazy shit come out of your fully-functioning mouth.

Wrong.

Wrong.

As it turns out, a Gumbylegged bitch will roll up on you and ruin your entire evening just as quickly as a bitch with good, working knees.

There I was, clad in my fresh, white dress, shoulders out, hair all black and shiny (by “shiny” I mean, glossy-enough-to-look-fantastically-HalleBerry-in-good-lighting, but just-short-of-greasy-so-any-white-man-or-not-typically-associated-with-black-girls-devoid-of-color-man could run his fingers all through it and escape confusion or awkwardness), sitting solo (ON PURPOSE) by the bar on the first floor of the W.

I was jotting down notes from the previous evening, and my neck was still flushed from the ribald guffaw I’d just delivered to my barkeep’s face when he’d informed me that my glass of chardonnay was seventeen dollars.

All I’d wanted was to pass some time; to avoid the fray of south-bound holiday traffic.

And I was doing so, peacefully, when my thoughts were interrupted by the, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” coming from down below.

Seated in one of those half wheelchair/half walker contraptions (for the sake of today’s entry, we’ll refer to said machine as a “wheelwalker”), was a Chinese girl, seemingly my age, wearing one thousand rings on her mere ten fingers, and a tiara on her head.

Mellowed out by my first glass of wine for the evening, but, truthfully, probably my fourth for the day, I answered, simply, “Not at all,” and moved my purse from the coveted spot.

Let me use my favorite hood preamble so you can appropriately gage the gravity of the following set of circumstances.

Now,me,myself,personally—I don’t just roll up on other broads while I’m out and strike up conversation with them for no reason. That’s either some Ilovemesomebitches type shit or some I’mwarmandoverlyfriendly type shit. I profess no particular talent for either category.

Which is why I was surprised—and by “surprised” I mean “shocked” and “fucking appalled”—when this broad proceeded to do just that—strike up a random conversation with me.

WheelwalkerBroad: “I love the Fourth of July, don’t you!?”

Me: “Er—I’m not particularly big on it as far as holidays go, no.”

WWB: “I think a lot of black people feel that way.”

Me: “Uh, I didn’t mean it from a—“

WWB: “Cause like, I know a lot of black people are angry about slavery and racism and stuff, but, like, I’m like, I mean, get over it.”

Now, I want to stop the narrative, at this point, and inform everyone that, when shit like this happens to you, you never respond the way you think you’ll respond. For instance, me,myself,personally, I assume that I’d get all righteously indignant, stand up, and shout out my Angela Davis/Stokely Carmichael-style schpiel detailing 200 years of slavery, three decades of Jim Crow, and present-day continued systemic, institutionalized race-prejudice, followed by an angered pouring of my drink on her non-working, ignorant, babylegs.

But she was handicapped.

And my drink cost seventeen dollars.

So, instead, I just sat there, mouth agape, as she continued, barely ceasing for breath, about black people being angry for good reason, but, you know, beleaguering the point and “not getting over it.”

And she had lots to say. LOTS.

She talked about hating the people she’d gone to college with, because they were all spoiled, rich types; not people like her and “probably [me]” who’d come from hard-working, but poor families.

She talked about how she’d thought that sororities were so stupid, and how her roommate had pledged a sorority and she didn’t know what all they’d done, but she was certain it was stupid. And besides that, even if it wasn’t, they were mean black girls, and probably discouraged her roommate from being her friend. They were Deltas. All Deltas were mean. She hated Deltas. Only after she’d vomited this sea of unwanted information all over my person, did she inquire: “Did you pledge a sorority when you were in college?” Me: “Yes.” WWB: “Oh really? Which one?” Me: “Delta.”

Between her repeated and conspicuous flip-hair-over-shoulder-then-flip-it-forward-to-hang-on-shoulder movements, she told me about her one million careers, one of which had included doing hair and makeup for “lots of designers.” She let me know that I should probably wear a little bit more make up; that while my eyelashes had sufficient length, they could use a bit more volume.

And I wanted to scream. I did. I wanted to tell her to shut up. I truly did.

But the bitch didn’t have any legs.

What do I look like screaming “Shut the fuck up!” to a bitch with no legs in a bar? How am I gonna look, being all, “BITCH, you’re wearing a FUCKING TIARA in a BAR” to a broad with Teddy Pendergrass  quadriceps in the foyer of the W? It’s kind of a classy place. It just isn’t done.

So there I sat, considering the ramifications of simply setting myself on fire, and the likelihood of her continuing her one-woman conversation with my charred, smoky, engulfed in flames black body, when she suggested: “So, I’m on the list for the party upstairs. Wanna come? It’s free top shelf booze til 12.”

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!!!!

I called to mind the countless times throughout my childhood when my mother and grandmother had informed me, “God can do anything but fail.” And I knew that my willingness to bind my tongue, just this once, had paid off. And my reward would not have to wait til Heaven. Oh no. My reward was in a chilled glass on the rooftop of the W.

Once upstairs, a lot of people stared at us.

I had been drinking, so it was hard to say if they were staring because we looked ridiculous together, or because I looked so dope in my white dress with my glossy hair.

But, were I a betting woman, I’d guess that they were staring because my companion was in her wheelwalker JAMMING.

I mean, gettingthefuckdown.

She was doing half-sexy half body rolls in her wheelwalker (Here’s something you don’t often think about: a full body roll with full-sexy is a luxury only able-bodied bitches can afford. You don’t realize how lucky you are til you see a bitch attempt a half body roll in her wheelwalker).

And while she wasn’t doing wheelies or spins in the WW, she was definitely on the floor grooving with her machinery. Like, make-the-crowd-of-people-around-us-hype grooving.

At some point, I became really self-conscious about all of the eyes on us. And then it hit me—the depths to which I’d sink for free alcohol.

I feigned dizziness, and tried to gracefully depart, but WWB followed me to the bathroom. She chatted incessantly about nothing even as I peed.

As I washed my hands and told her I was ready to go home, she suggested we hit up another spot a few blocks up and go for a swim in a rooftop pool. Free entry, of course. More free booze, of course.

And I thought about my life, just then. I thought about the woman I’d become. I thought about how far away I was from home. I thought about the next time I’d get to go skinny dipping in some rooftop pool with a bunch of strangers and free booze, without a care in the world.

Then another scene entered my mind. This one involved me explaining to EMS workers how I’d gotten some pseudo-legless broad wasted and then dumped her little drunken naked ass in a pool, where her efforts to swim like everyone else had resulted in an irrevocable, fatal fail.

The party was over.

“Naw, dawg,” I said. “Thanks, but, I gotta get home.”

She looked crestfallen, but it couldn’t be helped. I wasn’t gonna end my future over this bitch. She hated Deltas and had called me poor.

“All right,” WWB sighed. “By the way, what was your name, again?”

“teach me how to dougie,” or, my upwardly mobile very important black person thoughts on what’s bringing down the black community….cause something’s always bringing down the black community.

An upwardly mobile black person has but few responsibilities in this world.

This declarative, of course, necessarily excludes those obligations that make possible the continued existence of afore-referenced upward mobility—i.e. fiscal accountability, willingness to stay on the right side of the law, pro-activity in educational advancement—you get the point.

Outside of these things, however, our requirements are relatively clear-cut. Simple, even.

We are implicitly duty-bound by our Community to affect the following:

-have good, wholesome, upwardly mobile black families, and produce similarly good, wholesome, potentially upwardly mobile little black babies (for the sake of efficiency, you may abbreviate “upwardly mobile little black babies” to “Barack Obamas”);

-remain gainfully employed by jobs that our mothers and grandmothers can boast about, under the guise of giving a “testimony” at 10:15 service;

-and publicly behave in such a manner that facilitates a peaceful and calm environment for Whites, that they might be assured of our comparable intellect and therefore be compelled to eradicate all traces of Flavor Flav, O.J. Simpson, and any other negative-stereotype affirming members of our population from their  collective consciousness (even though they ultimately won’t).

There is, however, one remaining tenet of black upward mobility that supercedes all of the foregoing;  among the chieftains of superblackdom, it is, indeed, the single most practiced and perfected tenet:

At least once a month, at either a casual or formal convening of similarly situated superblacks, the upwardly mobile black must espouse his/her thoughts on what factors are contributing to the demise/devastation/downfall of the black community.

THAT IS OUR SHIT, RIGHT THERE.

You ain’t SHIT in the superblack world unless you have a readily accessible, and comprehensive opinion  about what’s ruining the black community—the community you dominate on the regular on account of your awesomely awesome upward mobility.

Now, this opinion doesn’t have to be housed in a particularly relevant or accurate body of facts. Whatever one reads in “Sister 2 Sister” whilst patiently awaiting the Red Line will do.

In past, many superblacks have relied on the tried and true villains of our race. A reasonably articulated discussion on the usual suspects of absentee fathers, teenage pregnancy, spread of venereal disease, systemic racism, and persistent poverty are more than enough to merit the Tavis Smiley stamp of superblack approval at your successfulblackpeoplemeetup happy hour or emo/blipster/revolutionary/enlightenedblackpeople-post-spoken-word-performance-late-night-coffee- gathering at Busboys.

Make mention of any of those topics, and they’ll easily get you through the front door of these conversations with your superblack peers.

Now, me, myself—

I’ve never been particularly big on the tried and true.

I’m a renegade.

I’m a firestarter.

But I want to be an upwardly mobile black, too!

I wanna drive an import, wear soft beaten leather driving moccasins sans socks, and concern myself with golf and what fancy leafy green is featured in my summer salad.

So, I’ve taken the liberty of comprising a list, to be shared at my next successfulblackpeoplemeetup happy hour or emo/blipster/revolutionary/enlightenedblackpeople-post-spoken-word-performance-late-night-coffee- gathering at Busboys.

Feel free to utilize any of the following in your similar superblack pursuits.

 Fooler’s Thoughts on What Factors are Contributing to the Demise/Devastation/Downfall of the Black Community:

1. Ugly names.

Black people—what is this death-like vice grip that the propounding of ugly names has on our community? I need to know.

Note how I said “propounding of.”

As in: We just make shit up.

We.just.make.shit.up.

Like, we can’t even content ourselves with the whole HOST of already-established ugly names that abound throughout the universe (see Beulah or Melvin).

We want our shit to be unique in its ugliness.

And you know what ugly names breed, don’t you?

Criminals.

That’s right.

Criminals.

You think anyone wants to kick a soccer ball around with Ya’Majesty? You think anyone wants to eat the cupcakes Oranjello’s mama brings to school for his birthday?

Hell no.

So Ya’Majesty and Oranjello have to go hard from the start. They have to establish reputations for being nothing to fuck with early on, just so they can make it through the day without ridicule. They rough up a classmate here, steal some lunch money there, and before you know it, batta boom, batta bing—slangin’ yay with La’Creteriareisha and Lamontelldre, the ugly-name-havin’ cake bosses.

Permit me an A Time to Kill exercise, if you will.

Everyone close your eyes for a moment. Imagine a little boy at home playing with a chemistry set. Now, think about that little boy smiling brightly, raising his hand in class and participating freely. Imagine him as a star baseball player on the varsity team in high school. Picture him whizzing through his SATs, and dutifully filling out college applications. Think of him now, aged 30, as a nuclear physicist, wearing a lab coat and protective-eye spectacles, with a mechanical pencil tucked squarely behind his left ear. Look at the name plate outside of his office door that reads, “Dr. John Washington.”

Now scratch out “John” and put in “Ya’ Majesty.”

1. Menacing dogs.

Okay, black people. I’m going to say a few words, and after you read them I want you to pause, and take a moment to see if any of them register; if any of them seem even remotely familiar.

Ready? Okay.

Schnauzer. SCHNAU-ZER.

Bichon Frise. BI-CHON FRI-SE.

Sharpei. SHAR-PEI.

Labrador Retriever. LA-BRA-DOR RE-TRIEV-ER.

Beagle. BEA-GLE.

Black people, the aforementioned aren’t simply words. They’re names of dogs. Dogs. While I’ve only named five, I have it on good authority that there are a few hundred different breeds out there.

Does everyone know what that means?

YOU.DON’T.HAVE.TO.GO.GIT.CHU.A.PIT.

I repeat:  YOU.DON’T.HAVE.TO.GO.GIT.CHU.A.PIT.

I don’t give a fuck about your pit’s periwinkle blue eyes. I don’t give a damn about his fancy tiger coloring. I’m not impressed by the fact that you refer to him as a “Staffordshire Terrier.”

STOP TRYING TO PLAY MY INTELLIGENCE BY ESPOUSING THE GENTILITY OF THE FUCKING DOG. I’M NOT AN IDIOT.

If you go out and buy five feet of chain link to be secured via padlock around your dog’s neck, you’re not trying to own a family pet. You’re trying to show the world at large how big your balls are.

STOP IT.

IT’S NOT IMPRESSIVE.

IT LOOKS DUMB.

AND NO ONE CARES.

Our love affair with pit bulls has given birth to DMX and Michael Vick. Haven’t our people had enough?

Come on, y’all. Free yourselves. Say it with me: “Weimaraner.“

1. Wigs.

Oh.my.damn.

I need someone to tell me exactly when wigs stopped being the exclusive province of headlining celebrity R&B and Country Western singers, your old ass bald ass grandmothers, and chemotherapy patients.

I need someone to tell me when this changed. I demand to know when the edict on wig liberty was signed so that every black bitch in America could go cash her check on the second and fourth Friday of each month and find a new scalp carpet.

When I was a child it was humiliating if your perfectly healthy, full head of hair having mother even suggested she purchase a wig.

But now, little fifteen year old girls are waking up and wasting a solid twenty to thirty minutes each morning trying to determine whether an elevated bob or Farrah waves better compliment her skinny jeans and knockoff bag.

What.the.fuck?

And some of you bitches are forgetting that they’re wigs. Some of you bitches are living in an elaborate wig fantasy involving the Joe Dirt-style fusion of wig lacing to actual scalp. You bitches are sleeping in your wigs, running track in your wigs, fucking in your wigs, whipping your wigs around as your equally wiggy-coiffed friends teach you how to Dougie at the food court in the mall—

And you know what? It shows.

On top of looking simply ridiculous, y’all bitches now have grit in your wigs.

You’ve got wig grit.

I’m seeing q-tips and pine cones and shards of broken glass and chewing gum and every manner of evil all stuck up in your wig on account of your elaborate I’m-starting-to-feel-like-this-shit-is-my-real-hair wiggy fantasy.

STOP IT.

*************

Now, if none of these work for you, feel free to pull out one of my go-to Factors that are Contributing to the Demise/Devastation/Downfall of the Black Community honorable mention standbys:

-Skinny jeans that somehow still sag

-Purchasing lottery tickets

-Cashing your whole check on payday

-and last, but not least:

                -Saying “Nigga” outside where White people can hear you.

Shoot for the moon, my people!!!

Fooler Fridays–delayed, condensed, and….on Saturday…but, for what it’s worth….

My apologies for the delay, guys…my real life got in the way. Here you are, fresh for your consumption, two weeks worth of Fooler Friday questions…..

Fooler, great blog. Here’s my question. Hope you answer it. Should I be worried that my boyfriend won’t let me go through his phone?

No.

Know why?

It’s his phone.

I know a lot of women will disagree with me on this one, but, I am, and have always been, vehemently anti-snooping.

It makes you look crazy and irrational.

More importantly, it is a complete invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend has a right to his privacy. That’s the bottom line.

I know that’s not what you want to hear, right? In your mind, you’re probably all, “If he didn’t have anything to hide, I could look through his phone.”

You’re probably right. But here’s the thing: Most people have something to hide.

I’m sure your boyfriend has a gang of exposed titties on his iPhone. I’m sure some skank with an itty bitty waistline and a big ole booty has sent him every manner of suggestive “sext.”

And while that shit is the “proof” of wrongdoing, your preferred method of “procurement” is unnecessary, and equally violative.

Here’s how I see it.

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution grants all persons in this country an inalienable protection against unreasonable search and seizure. Bear with me for a moment.

In criminal law, if a suspect is stopped and detained unlawfully, and subsequently searched, no matter how gruesome or incriminating the find, said contraband is subject to a determination of inadmissibility. This is generally referred to as the doctrine of “The Poisonous Tree.” All of the shit illegally recovered—the “fruit” of the “Poisonous Tree.”

Invading someone’s privacy to substantiate your suspicions is a toxic practice. Scrolling through someone’s call log is the figurative epitome of Poisonous Tree branches. It undermines the trust, security, affection and respect people agree to share when first they embark on a relationship.

In essence, it’s fucked up.

Further, it’s unnecessary. In my mind, the mere fact that you want to search his phone is telling. It suggests either a problem with you, or a problem with him and how he’s behaving. If your suspicions compel you to need proof of his fidelity; if he has to literally prove that to you—that is to say, it’s not otherwise evident—you might want to give some thought to whether this is the type of space you want to be in.

Besides-

If he’s not a complete jackass, his phone is clean, anyway. All that means is that he’s A) erased her texts and photos, or B) has her number saved under “Brian” or “Mark” in his contacts.

Fooler, I love the writing on this blog. I do some freelance writing, myself, and love and admire your use of language. Do you have a favorite word? I’m obsessed with words.

I love this question!!! I ask people this question ALL of the time! I do have a favorite word, actually. Ready for it?

“decadent”

Permit me a non sequitur.

One of my favorite indie movies is this film called “Flirting” with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman. There’s this scene where the high society Nicole Kidman is describing this off beat relationship she has with some random blue collar man. She describes this practice they have which involves her sitting in a chair, perfectly still, and him simply walking around her, periodically touching her. Then she exhales deeply, and says, “Just the thought of it makes me feel shivery delicious all over.”

This is one of my all-time favorite movie lines, and it goes straight to the heart of how I feel about the word “decadent.” I’m fairly certain that anything categorically characterized as such has the capacity to make me feel “shivery delicious all over.”

Whew. It’s hot in here.

Hey, Girl. I’ve always loved DC, but I never get to spend any real time there. I’m planning a trip for a week or two towards the end of the summer. What’s your favorite thing to do in DC and why?

Wow, this is a huge question.

With lots of answers.

Generally, I like to kick it with my friends. And I make it a point to always, always set an extra place setting for my favorite “roll dawg” of choice, bourbon.

As it happens, DC is chock full of places to just chill and imbibe seven days a week. I’ll be damned if drinks on a moonlit rooftop terrace, with good company, amidst a backdrop of centuries old triumphs in architecture don’t beat all.

Now, when I want to go somewhere no one will recognize me; when I’m feeling frisky, and in the mood to dangle my participles and substitute “ph” consonant blends for “th” consonant blends (“wiph” for “with,” “earph” for “earth” and so on); when I want to don my palm-sized doorknockers that my linesister has forbidden me to wear beyond the four walls of my home–I go to Lux.

But, I’m an only child, so I’m pretty big on basic things as well. I’d equally consider, among my favorite DC to dos:

-walking my dogs downtown.

This is best affected in a quasi-revealing sundress and large sunglasses. The combination of dogs, flesh, and “stunnas” is lethal for the average DC male, and you are bound to return home with approximately a 46-68% boost in confidence.

-visiting the monuments…at night.

Guarandamnteed BEST makeout spots in the Greater DC Metropolitan Area. Careful not to get arrested.

-the zoo.

It’s hot as FUCK to do, and it goes on for years, but I love the National Zoo. And I’m a non-meat eating zoo-hater, generally, so it’s saying something that I love it so. I make everyone who visits go at least once.

Finally, I have this elaborate fantasy about getting on the train and riding it to no where in particular, but simply watching people along the way. People in this area are out of their minds crazy, which makes for good blogging. When I finally get the time to do it, I know it will quickly overpower any previously enumerated thing on this list.

Fooler, I have a crazy situation. Me and my best friend have been cool since we were kids. We’re both 31 now. She has been dating her boyfriend for 4 years and he is a great guy. They’ve been through some stuff along the way, but he’s great. We’ve been cool for a bit and have always gotten along, but I recently moved to a new apartment and we live closer to each other so we’ve been spending more time together. I know I’m attracted to him and I know he’s attracted to me and we’ve talked about it but haven’t acted out of loyalty to my girl. But she’s cheating on him! And he suspects but doesn’t know. People can’t help who they fall in love with. Should I tell him she’s cheating?

This is a great time for me to restate my general Fooler Fridays caveat: I am NOT a relationship expert. I am not a people expert. I am not qualified to advise any person on any thing outside of the shit I hold degrees in (and even that is occasionally suspect).

That said—

Girl, HELL NO.

What.in.the.fuck.are.you.playing.at?

That dude is NOT your man.

He is your friend’s man. Period. The end.

This isn’t some ridiculous surrender to the arbitrary dictates of Girl Law shit, either. What you are contemplating is pretty broad strokes fucked up.

I literally, two days ago, came across this great E.M. Forster quote: “…[I]f I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I should hope I have the guts to betray my country.”

Maybe your girl is a shady character. Maybe she’s not worth a damn. But, you’ve thrown your lot in with hers and, by your own admission, have cleaved to her since you were children. Why would you betray her trust?

I obviously don’t know you.

I don’t know this man.

Maybe he is the answer to your soul’s siren song.

Maybe you are two tragic, star-crossed lovers, thrown into the chaos of this crazy, unpredictable world, and as the foundations of everything else you knew, and were indeed, certain of, crumble about you, all you’ve left is a desperate, love-wrought, adhesion to one another.

But my money’s on your being two horny, selfish, sonsofbitches.

Look. Who among us hasn’t been attracted to a friend’s boyfriend or girlfriend at one time or another? It makes perfect sense. Friends are drawn to each other often out of some commonality of purpose or perspective, so it’s in keeping with shared ideologies and tastes that they’d occasionally overlap in their affections for the companions of the other. No harm, no foul. It’s logical even.

But, girl, when you start creeping around that man’s house under cover of night, not telling your girl—or worse, telling her, because she has every reason to trust that the two of you will comport yourselves appropriately, you’re treading dangerous waters.

I hate it when people say “You can’t help who you fall in love with.” That’s bullshit. The heart may indeed want what it wants, but the heart is trapped inside of your body; your body has an ass attached to it; you and that ass ought to be at home, in your own house, with your own man.

But you didn’t ask me all of that.

You asked me if you should dime out your best friend.

No.

Here’s why:

1. You’re not acting out of his best interest. You’re acting out of your own. Telling him is only going to unleash hurt and anger. Maybe it will make you feel better because you’re not guarding a secret, but it will make him feel worse. Further, your loyalties to her outweigh any loyalty you feel you have toward him. Not to mention the fact that this is kind of a hater thing to do, no? Snitching out your friend so that he can fall for you.

1. He’s gonna be mad. Know why? Cause his girl is cheating on him. How’s that going to make you feel watching him freak out over her indiscretion? And let’s say he gives himself permission to fuck you silly after finding out. How will you know that his actions aren’t in whole or in part motivated by some vendetta he has against his whoremongering girl (who I’ll remind you is your best friend)?

1. What if he tells her you told him? Men are notorious for getting angry and telling shit they don’t have any business telling. NOTORIOUS. How are you going to explain your telling to your friend? She’s done him dirty for sure, but, damn, she thought she could confide in you.

Look, I’m all about freedom, and doing your own thing, and moral relativity, and situational flexibility and all that and all that. And in defense of my EXCEEDINGLY judgmental depiction of your situation (and I apologize for it), I am simply a stranger responding to a stranger’s anonymous question. I don’t know you. I don’t know your love, and therefore I lack the capability to see any “special” in your particular set of circumstances. In fact, all I see is typical. I see, in typical, girl fashion, one broad going for another broad’s man.

I’ve done my fair share of dirt, but I punish myself severely when I’ve fucked over a friend.

Just once, for the sake of the historical analysis; for the analogs of Womankind; for the edification of our gender, whose time-worn chronology has seen more than its just portion of boys destroying the unions of girls—

Be atypical.

Choose her.

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

For my linesister, who has suffered as i’ve suffered…..

“ A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where will they build their nest?”

So, when you get to be my age—a whopping not even 30, all of your friends start getting engaged and married and having kids.

Which is fantastic—– if that’s your particular brand of awesome.

As it happens, my particular brand of awesome involves a little Woodford Reserve, a bit of sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters (if you’re being fancy), two Maraschino cherries and a couple cubes of ice thrown in; not to mention an especially witty young man, clad in his fresh-off-the-job-attire, top button undone, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his sinewy forearms–who is quick with the jokes, easy on the eyes, and fairly comfortable noticeably, yet inoffensively resting his gently calloused hand three fourths of an inch above my knee.

It takes all kinds.

Here’s the thing. Unless you’re one of those single people who desperately wants to be a non-single person, there comes a point when you are forced to evaluate your relationships with these soon-to-be-indefinitely-booed-up types. Because people change.

The soon-to-bes, that is.

Y’all change.

We don’t change for shit. It’s completely you guys.

And that’s fine. You’re supposed to change. You’re adding a whole other entity to your dimension. And that’s amazing and wonderful and beautiful.

And I love your happiness, and respect it.

But there is a very real probability that you will not be able to affect this transition to domesticity without metamorphosing into a complete bag of feminine hygiene products. And I recognize this.

And I don’t love it. Or respect it.

So, around the time that you’re picking out your China pattern, and monogramming towels, and going on and on ad infinitum about the joys of little Mikey finally taking a shit in the potty (something, I personally, think he should come out of the womb understanding) I’m trying to determine the most diplomatic way to tell you that you are no longer welcome here.

And by “here,” I mean, “in this friendship.” You know…with me.

I love you, but I swear, some of y’all are on some whole other shit.

And I’m not jealous, Boo boo. I’m not a hater. I happen to know full well what marriage is. I’ve seen my parents do it for over 30 years. I can already see, 5 years down the road, that monogrammed towel being flossed between your monkey husband’s ricotta cheesy ass cheeks.

To me, engaged/married/parenting people have been perpetrating what can only best be described as “party fouls” against single people for years, and it’s time for it to stop. I’ma put the kybosh on this shit right now. Y’all better ship up, or ship the fuck out.

Now, I’m not waging war on all domestic types. Some are patently aware of their people’s proclivity for becoming the veritable pap smear on an otherwise perfectly good evening. These single-friend sensitive types are always welcome at a gathering. Not douchey at all.

But y’all are a fucking rarity.

Crouching Married Person, Hidden Tool: 5 Mentalities that Make Engaged/Married/Parenting Persons Intolerable to their Awesome Single Friends

1. “My married shit is private.”

Ooh ooh ooh. Look at me. I’m married. All of my shit is top secret. I can’t tell you my shit cause it violates the super secret trust that me and my soulmate have established. Okay, look , bitch. I don’t give a damn about your top secret marriage shit, okay? But since I’ve detailed all of my date’s bodily orifices to you and called them by name—at your request– I do think some small measure of reciprocity is in order. And news flash, SirMcSketchALot. I don’t really give a damn about your married life. I’m just trying to be polite. I could give a shit about Jimmy’s Roth IRA and the discoloration of his ruddy ballskin. But don’t prod me about my relationship difficulties, and reward me with a shrug and whispered, “You know, married people stuff—kinda private,” when I ask about yours. Why not float me the benefit of the doubt and assume that I’m not trying to get in your business. Just like I’ll float you the benefit of the doubt and assume that your repeated efforts to know the minutiae of all the goings on in my life is not a last ditch, pathetic, and desperate attempt to live vicariously through me.

2. “Be me, ho!”

Okay, this is the part where you do something deceptively innocuous like, ask me about my day or whatever, and I tell you that I had a rough day, and then you’re all, “Well if you think that’s rough, try having a husband away on business and a child that needs to be picked up from daycare.” Bitch!!! I didn’t ask you what in the whole expanse of the Universe could possibly be more difficult or long-suffering than my shit! This isn’t Show and damned Tell whose life is the most horrible-estshitever. Please stop thinking that no matter what I say, your shit is going to be harder because you decided to go the whole andbabymakes3 route. Number one, that shit does NOT presumptively equal “checkmate,” okay? You don’t instantly win. There is plenty of insurmountably hard shit going on in my life. Only you don’t know about it cause I don’t feel the need to cry about it cause this is the life I chose and I’m not a whinycrybabybitchass. Grab a pad and pencil and note how that’s done. Two, stop acting like being married and having kids is like, some hard shit that you decided to do, and no one ever told you that it was some hard shit to do; like, that marriage is hard is the world’s best kept secret. Um, look around, bitch. We all know it’s hard. That’s why we’re still out in these streets ho-ing and drankin’. Cause this shit is easy. It’s easy as a bitch. And I’ll demonstrate such by doing so just as soon as I finish this entry.

3. “I’m too old for that now.”

Umm. Don’t think I didn’t recognize that backhanded slight about your perception of my behavior as immature. And don’t ask me what the fuck I did last night if you’re only gonna be all judgey about what I tell you. This just in. I’m going to live to be about 85 (presuming my liver keeps). I’m not even 30. I’m spry as a motherfucker. And young. And you’re not too old for it. You’re too wack for it. Chronologically, is there a time to come out of the club? Yes. Is there a point where your presence there is more death-knell-of-pathos as opposed to SnoopDogg-life-of-the-party? Yes. Do you get to say when enough is enough? No. And here’s why. You’re the bitch who couldn’t stay all night the slumber party because you didn’t want to be too far away from your mom. You’re the bitch who didn’t want to play Tag anymore cause Matt hit you too hard, so now you’re just going home. You’re the bitch who lost the senior class treasurer election, so you don’t want to participate period, cause if they don’t want some of your help then they can’t have any of it at all. Bitch, you’re the bow-out bitch. You’re the forfeit bitch. You’re the early night bitch. And it just so happens that me and mine—we’re the ride it til the wheels fall off it, then coast on those motherfucking wheels bitches; we’re close out the party then hunt for the afterparty, oh, there’s no afterparty, let’s go get breakfast bitches. We go hard. So, all that “I’m too old for that” shit—is loosely translated to our awesome ears as, “I’m a weak, go easy type bitch.” And really, shame on you.

4. “Wait til you get married.”

Well now, that statement presupposes two very large assumptions, doesn’t it? The first being, that I’ll ever be married like you. More importantly, the second being, that I’ll ever be wack like you. I’ll acquiesce to the possibility of the former, and justifiably beat the hell out of you at the mere suggestion of the latter.

5. “You can’t have my life in the span of a weekend”/ “Stop tryin’ to get it back you look ridiculous.”

This one is nearest and dearest to my heart. This one is my gift to you engaged/married/parents. Look, I’m as down for a wifey’s/mommy’s night out as the next one. But, invariably, your otherwise repressed existence that is offered this brief reprieve and freedom takes it a little too far. You’re so intent on letting your caged bird sing that you end up doing some off the wall shit that is entirely unacceptable, even to the downest bitch. Cause, while I’m a go hard, type bitch, I can’t be mistaken for a go to jail type bitch, K? Ya’ll spend all of your time washing dishes and baking soufflés, so I’m honored to be your guide through the pathways of the Underworld. I’m happy to get you out on some so-there’s-a-party-goin’-on-in-there-well-let-me-shake-my-stankin-ass-in-there type shit. It’s an invitation to do some shots, dance seductively with strange men, and, idunno, I suppose if you want, I’ll turn a blind eye should you suddenly decide that you want to make out with some drunk, blonde, female co-ed. But that’s it. I don’t expect to have to pull you out of the car of aforementioned strange man intent on taking you home and doing things to your anus your rational, sober mind would never even conceive of. I don’t want to “fight” any “smack-talkin’ bitches” outside in the street. I don’t want to tear the bar apart trying to find the wedding ring you saw fit to take off somewhere between Jaeger bombs and flashing your little married titties. And I for damn sure don’t think that the only thing that could possibly make the night “more awesome” would be if we could someway, somehow “score some coke.” Bitch, you are off of the fucking reservation, and you need to find your way back. Stop trying to copy my life, ho. You can’t do this shit in a weekend. Or, at all. Cause you’re married. Put those titties away. Please.

And, just to be clear—

The aforementioned message isn’t going out to all of my engaged/married/parent friends—just the wack ones (who seem to comprise a significant majority of all of my engaged/married/parent friends).

xoxoxo

Preachers and Hoodhollas and Gold Fronts, Oh My! Or, 17 Things that Annoyed me this Weekend

-(fri) Paying $20 bucks to park across the street from the gay bar in Northeast. And while I was annoyed at the outrageousness of the sum, I was doubly so by the courage of the parking attendant to look me dead in my eyes and actually say, with a fair degree of confidence, “Twenty dollars.” In my mind, asking someone for twenty bucks to temporarily house a vehicle is some shit that should be mumbled in hushed whispers, and negotiated in back alleys under extreme cover of night. Reaching into my bag to grab the crisp bill, I returned his bold stare and said, “You know this is complete bullshit, right?”

-(fri) Standing in line, period. Standing in line in the cold. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us and not being able to confront them because I wasn’t trying to get into a fist fight with two baby homothug queens.

-(fri) Getting to the front of the line, only to have the bouncer tell me that I had to throw away my brand new pack of gum, and spit out the piece in my mouth. Later on that evening, a grown man in a leather cowboy hat got on stage and performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation. But I couldn’t chew gum inside. Cause the joint was too classy for that.

-(fri) Ordering a gin and tonic at the bar, and having the bartender scoff when I requested Tanqueray. Know what, bitch? I just paid twenty bucks to park my car, 15 bucks to get inside, and $1.25 on a brand new pack of chewing gum that is now resting in a trash receptacle, outside. You can shove that Bombay Sapphire straight up your own ass.

-(fri) Resigning myself to biting my bottom lip when my mouth went dry while a grown man in a leather cowboy hat performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation, as my brand new $1.25 pack of chewing gum was resting in a trash receptacle outside.

-(sat) Dancing with a man (and, graciously doing so, as he was apparently part-Wookie), only to have him get overly excited and outright palm and cup my ass, mid-dance. Well guess what, Johnny Two-Thumbs? No more pity dances for you. I tell you what, no good deed….

-(sat) Dancing with another man who treated me like a simpleton. “You’re pretty,” said he (I’m not). “Add me to your facebook page” (I don’t even know your monkey ass). “I’ve been watching you and I can tell you’re a nice girl ( You “watched” me down 3 screwdrivers and a Chardonnay, and booty thrust to “Da Butt.” Not sure if I entirely trust your data compilation methodology).

-(sat) My linesister giving me the “thumbs up” on aforementioned idiot. #1. I’ma need her to NEVER give me the “thumbs up” on anything, ever again. The “thumbs up” met its demise as a respected means of communicating approval roughly twenty years ago. #2. While Jackass-part-deux wasn’t exactly unattractive, I would not have been entirely surprised if he counted among his active likes vigorously fist-pounding his chest, branch-swinging, and eagerly searching the scalps of his companions for tics and insects.

-(sat) The sexiest man in the club opening his mouth to reveal, among his pearly whites, a single, shiny gold tooth. Whoa!! Flashback, who’s that, dancin’ to the latest, Randy Watson! Really, dawg? Really? You don’t even have the decency to have a grill. Like, you’re rockin’ the granddaddy to the grill. And you lured me in all seductive like with that fedora and fitted vest. How you gonna have young ass clothes, and old ass fronts? It’s like your mouth is embroiled in a civil war with the rest of your body. I’ll pass, kind sir. You’re shit is all conflicted with itself.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that my forehead is huge. Like, unforgivably so. Seriously, I’m officially on the lookout for a second Census questionnaire in my mailbox as this shit is absolutely worthy of its own zipcode.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that all of those bitches have their own foreheads covered up. Like, that I was the only one that didn’t get the “Hey-we’re-all-going-out-tonight-ten-bucks-at-the-door-don’t-forget-to-cover-up-your-big-assed-forehead” text.

-(sun) Witnessing the christening of two children at the socially progressive church Michael and I were attending, and having the pastor begin, in measured, rhythmic steps; without musical accompaniment, and in complete and utter seriousness: “I believe—the children are our future. Teach them well—and—let them—lead the way. Show them—all—the beauty—they possess—inside. Give them—a sense—of pride. Let————the children’s——laughter….remind us how—-we—-used to be.”

-(sun) Witnessing aforementioned debacle, and having to look straight forward and not laugh (as Michael and our friend, Reggie, kept shooting me pointed looks that I saw in my periphery) when fellow parishioners urged the pastor on with outcries of “YES!” and “AMEN!” and “MMHMMM!!” and “SPEAK IT!”

-(sun) Witnessing, a mere 37 minutes later, the same pastor, take each child, hold him/her in the air above his head, and say, very solemnly, “Behold, (insert child’s name here) the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sound’s beautiful, right? Well, take some time out and check your betterknowablackperson archives, cause it should sound familiar, too. Who said it, first? John motherfucking Amos, during his portrayal of KUNTA KINTE in “Roots.” “Behold, KIZZY, the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

That I did not stand up and walk out is a phenomenal testament to the existence of my oft-questioned maturity.

-(sun) Leaving church, huge palm leaf in hand, walking past a row of low-income buildings, where two men promptly shouted, “Damn, you sexy as a motherfucker. Sweetheart, come over here and sit down with us for a minute.” Word? Well let me just put my bible and HUGE PALM LEAF down right here, malt-liquor drinkers! Don’t mind if I do! (Editor’s note: I didn’t really have my bible with me, but the hoodholla was still wildly inappropriate.)

-(sun) Going to Panera and ordering a green tea with “little” ice, only to have my attendant reach behind herself, grab an already-prepared green tea that was obviously 75% ice, and hand it to me.

-(sun) Having to resist the overwhelming urge to say, “BITCH, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE FUCK I JUST SAID???” because it would have been bad form, not to mention the fact that I was still carrying a rather large palm leaf in my hand. Upon greater reflection, the fact that I’m still having these urges post-Sunday Message is a troubling commentary on the depths of my depravity. Either that, or the Sunday Message completely lost its credibility amidst a barrage of Whitney Houston and John Amos quotes.

Because I’m the kinda girl who likes to look out for her boys….or, “you, too, can get laid.”

I have heard it said, time and time again, that a woman knows whether she will sleep with a man within five minutes of her meeting him.

This is a bunch of bullshit.

More incredulous still, is the context where this faulty (I will call it “logic” but please note my reticence to do so) “logic” is most famously applied. As I’ve heard it, men gift other men with this gem as a consolatory “chin up” when a fellow penis-haver has failed to seal the deal with his lady love. Invariably, this theory is met with a chorus of “Yeah, man, women stay bullshittin,’” followed by the obligatory anecdotes detailing how each individual tenor has similarly experienced said “bullshittin’.” Ultimately, the cerulean-testicled friend’s confidence is reassured, his belief in the female libido eviscerated, and once more, all is right with the world.

Only-

This is a bunch of bullshit.

Now, I’m not speaking, personally, mind you, but I happen to have it on good authority that a woman can wake up in the middle of the night with a man, and wonder aloud, to no one in particular, “How in the fuck did he get here?” I can also attest to, again, not personally speaking, mind you, this feeling being immediately followed by an intense compulsion to call your local police, as surely some egregious wrong has been perpetrated on your person.

No, bitch, you went with that mongrel free and clear. You all but begged him back to the crib.

But the question still remains: How did he get there?

And if the late night troll-in-bed scenario is entirely possible, how can one account for the gaping chasm between the hobgoblin under your duvet and the smurf-nuts idiot-philosopher above?

I have the answer.

Men—
y’all are fucking up.

Simple, isn’t it?

I’ve found that most things in life generally are.

Now, before I continue, I’ll break to disclose the purpose of my no-doubt startling revelation, as many of my fellow vagtastics will assume that I’m betraying the sisterhood.

I’m not. I’m trying to save us all a little bit of time and heartache, and you know what else—a little dignity.

There is nothing worse than a man who has taken some fatal misstep, unbeknownst to himself, who continues to nip at a woman’s heels, salivating at the jowls for the ass he will never see.

And I would imagine that–for a man paying a sky high rent or mortgage, in the midst of a recession, in an area boasting one of the highest costs of living in this country–15 dollars per drink for a chick planning on riding shotgun in her girlfriend’s camry at the end of the night, ain’t exactly what’s hot in these streets.

So my motives are pure.
I’m fighting the good fight, people.

Now, as is the case with all things beautiful and magical in this world—such as the prospect of unexpected monkey sex with the whiskey-handsome man before you—there is a delicate balance to be observed. Any slightest thing can potentially burst your monkey sex bubble.

Fellas, please understand that a woman at the ready is something like a unicorn one happens upon in a mythical, enchanted forest. One must take care to tread softly and with the greatest degree of caution, and, if at all possible, with the most conservative use of communication feasible, limiting any talking at all to the sparsest, most hushed whispers.

So many times I’ve listened to men vent about that unicorn that’s escaped into the wood, leaving nothing but fairy dust in her midst. Each one has stood before me, gesticulating wildly, righteously indignant in his stance, shouting out protestations of, “She was bullshittin’!!!”

Never does it occur to them that maybe even some small, seemingly innocuous, undetected thing that they’ve done (and more often than not said), has lit a fire to that unicorn’s ass.

As a woman, personally maligned by these rants of rejected suitors, I’ve taken it upon myself to divert from the beaten, trodden path, and offer some advice by way of example.

That’s right, fellas.

I’ma help you fuck your unicorn.

Now, before I give you the rules, a few disclaimers, if you will.

1. Sometimes a woman’s a bitch. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t want to fuck you. These are not interrelated concepts. That is to say, part 2 doesn’t mean part 1. Got it?
2. I’m no doctor, but I bet there’s research to support the contention that one finds higher incidences of herpes among the type of bitches that routinely walk out of that door with strange man in tow, Friday after Friday. That being said, a woman’s sexual prerogative is motivated by any number of things: maybe she had a fight with her boyfriend and is on getback; maybe she’s pushing 30 and needs some cheap validation of her youth; shit, maybe she just got her hair done and is feelin’ extra fly. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to sniff out the non-dirty whore in the bunch. Then again, maybe you’ll wake up and pee fire.

And…………. The Rules.

I. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

This shit is in all caps for a reason. It is the number one most violated rule in all social interaction in the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan Area. The more you talk, the more likely you are to say some out of hand shit that will no-doubt render you the most unfuckable man ever. Nobody likes a talky man. UNLESS he’s funny. And even that’s a delicate card to play as it can sometimes be confused with “young acting.” Trust me on this one. Just shut the fuck up. We’ll think you’re mysterious. And that makes us want to get to know you. Biblically.

II. Stop bragging. Please.

Contrary to popular male thought, a woman couldn’t care less about what you have. This is especially true for the typically high-achieving, educated group of women who flock to this city in droves. If the chick is in the same spot as you, she probably has everything you have. Yes. Everything you have. Including that one thing that you know you have that she doesn’t have. And she has it in hot-pink, lavender, and chocolate thunder. We’re not exactly husband hunting at the spot blasting Roscoe Dash that has chewing gum under the counter, so stop telling me about what all you’ve got. Nothing makes hot run cold like a man obsessed with how awesome he is. While most women will tolerate, and indeed be mildly attracted to, some measure of arrogance, we cannot abide vanity. It’s gross and effeminate. If we were in the habit of fucking bitches, we’d be in a different kind of bar.

III. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I’m sorry. I just got off the phone with a talky ass dude. I just needed to say it again in case the message isn’t getting through.

IV. Don’t dog my steps.

Look. I want to dance with you, cause I think you’re kinda cute, and you smell like heaven. And maybe you’re confused because I just did a handstand while gyrating my crotch in your face. But, I don’t need you to be all up under me all night. It’s annoying, and frankly, a bit scary. We’re not engaged, random-man-at- the-club. You haven’t exactly approached my father with a tureen of basmati rice and a goat. So let me be for a minute. I’ll be back, promise. You saw me do like a hundred shots, already. *whisper* Relax. You got this.

V. Compliment with care.

Now, personally, I am made uneasy by excessive compliments, as they have an air of disingenuousness about them. However, feel free to compliment my dress, my hair, whatever if it gets the ball rolling. Now, I apologize to anyone for whom this is old hat, but based upon past experience, I am compelled to note that, “Man you gotta fat ass,” and “Damn that fat ass is lookin good,” or even last week’s curbside cry of “I got two hun’ned dollas on that ass raaaiiiy—tt nay-ow!!!” are not compliments. I curse, and I drink, and there may be some question as to whether I’m a proper young lady, but make no mistake about it, I’m a woman. And I deserve respect. Also, I will make a scene and get us both thrown the fuck out. As an editor’s note, the best compliment a man ever gave me that made me want to go home with him was, “I think you’re so talented.” Granted, it’s inapplicable in the instance of a random encounter, but– food for thought.

VI. DUDE!!! Is that your breath?

We’re in a crowded space that demands intimate communication (Lord, PLEASE don’t forget the cardinal rules of numbers I and III). We’re drinking. BRING GUM. It’s not that hard. Your harsh, salty breath is a DEAL BREAKER. NO MATTER WHAT. And I know it’s just the alcohol’s aftertaste, but I swear it cultivates all kinds of unpleasant thoughts surrounding the probable petri dish of disease that is your inner mouth space. A woman can’t hold her breath the whole time she’s doing you. She’ll pass out mid-stroke. And you know what you got now? That’s right. Aggravated –sexual—assault.

VII. Full disclosure of shit that will freak me out once we step out of this darkened venue.

If you have a speech impediment, I need to know it. If you have a gimp leg, tell me now. If you have a vestigial tail, you better make mention of it. I need to be apprised of everything that could categorically be described as a deformity prior to exit. I don’t care how you do it. “I got punched in the mouth while I was in ‘Nam and now all my t’s sound like s’s.” Make a joke about it. “Girl, don’t make me take this prosthetic arm off and beat your tail with it.” Whatever. I don’t care. I better know about that shit before we hit the street lights, or else someone’s face is getting busted. Nobody likes surprises. ESPECIALLY when she’s naked. If I’m to be subjected to your uncontrollable mouth spittle for the remainder of the evening, I better damn well be informed several moments prior.

All right, kids. Good luck. Just remember, once upon a time, a Bobby married a Whitney. But you know what? He nailed her first.

why i fux with lux

—I fuck with that; I fucks with that; I fux wit’ dat—euphem. Eng. Derivative of 1970s, “I can dig it.” I like that very much. That’s awesome beyond all recognition. I can certainly appreciate that.—-

Educated black people, in large quantities, enlightened by their life’s experience and matriculation through the upper echelons of The Man’s world—— fucking suck.

That’s right. I said it. Y’all suck.

I don’t want to see your fucking business card. I don’t give a damn about your Ivy education. Your fancy foreign car can suck meat. Y’all suck.

Unduly harsh? I’ll take a step back, for a moment.

I’ve always wanted to live in DC.

Ever since I was a child.

For me, DC represented this sleek city life, teeming forth with urbane sophistication. A Tidewater native, DC was the polar opposite of my staid, suburban upbringing. And while some of the outlier contingents of Tidewater’s “seven cities” provided a slight deviation from the quiet, nuclear family mold my parents and neighbors tirelessly worked to cultivate for myself and my peers, the mean streets of South Norfolk (pronounced naw-fuk) and Newport News (affectionately nicknamed, “Bad News”) wasn’t exactly what I was shooting for. Mind you, I wasn’t naïve. I knew that DC had its less than desirable elements (I cannot even tell you what my mother calls it, and my father outright refuses to visit). But, if there was a place where blacks could thrive, DC was it.

When I went to college, this DC fantasy flourished. I met a group of people who I knew would be my lifelong friends, and they all had similar aspirations of DC living. By the time I reached law school, this fantasy, now epic in stature, was the only thing that kept me from shooting myself in the face. But, by this point, the dream had matured. My college friends had already preceded me and set up shop in the District. And I just knew that someday, soon, we’d sit around drinking glasses of red wine, engaging in deep discussions that were both esoteric and “down,” laughing in that self-congratulatory way that one does when she’s “made it,” our backs to the White House, and our eyes to the heavens.

And it all happened. With some minor tweaks, of course. We’ve grown and fused our networks, met new people and friends, but, the original concept is still there. And when we go out, we go to lounges or bars. Because, apparently, that’s what urban sophisticates do. They lounge. Even when I hang out with my newer friends, a decidedly more blipster (black hipster) set, we go to artsy lounges. Or rooftops set up like lounges. I imagine, like myself, everyone had grown long tired of the “club thing” in our late teens, early twenties.

Here’s the thing I didn’t bank on-

Educated black people, in large quantities, fucking suck. (I know I said it before, but trust me, it bears repeating.)

Everywhere I go, there’s some new mixer for “young, black professionals.” And everyone does the same thing. Everyone is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And everyone is so excited that he/she is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And it’s gotten to the point where those are the only people we seem to want to be around. Like your drink doesn’t even taste right if the girl next to you does hair for a living.

And then, one day, it was there…like a mirage in the desert. Lux Lounge.

Now, don’t be fooled by the “Lounge” part.

That shit is a club.

Through and through.

And it doesn’t seem like one at first. And by “at first,” I mean, from the outside.

Situated on New York Avenue (mmmhmm), Lux is a beautiful four storey building with elaborate molding, and a velvet rope. But once you get through security and step beyond those wood paneled doors– thug motherfucking life.

And this is the thing about growing up. Sometimes, you never know what you’ll miss until you happen upon it again.

And what I didn’t know that I missed, was that shady, hood element to be found in South Nawfuk and Bad News.

I didn’t know that what I really need, once in a while, is to put on the shortest, tightest, nakedest bitch dress I can find, with my doorknocker earrings, and get gully with DC’s finest.

At Lux, dudes come up to you, grab you by your waist, and hold you close. They whisper in your ear and call you “ma.”

At Lux, the wifebeater is an actual part of the outfit. The shirt is technically a jacket, meant to ultimately come off.

At Lux, bitches wear wigs. And not like, day-to-day, my hair is a mess wigs, either. Like, they’re on some, “Girl-it’s-about-to-be-on-tonight-and-I’m-wearing-my-good-wig-too” shit. You didn’t even know there was such a thing as a “good” wig, did you? Like, a wig that’s gonna help you get ass quicker than the wig you wear to work.

Know how many times I’ve been to Lux? A lot.

Know how many times a man has asked me for my card? Not a damned once.

And while there are plenty of good looking people at Lux, there is always a strong ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld element.

And they re-pre-sent.

Do you think that they care that their face game isn’t the tightest?

Hell no.

Why?

Cause even the ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld gets ass at Lux.

Let me tell you something. The other night, my linesister (who had treated me to Lux because she knows I love it so) was near the bar, and this troll-looking dude, this Chem lab project, rolled up on her (cause that’s how they do—they roll up on you), did the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver, and started grinding on her. Even though she’d thrown a few back, she had the presence of mind to incline her head to see the manner of man thoroughly assailing her hip bones with thrust after pelvic thrust. When she again, turned her head forward, I saw the panic gripping her face. Calling to mind the oath I’d taken, so many years ago, I immediately interjected myself between soror and orangutan, and started dancing with her, myself.

Now, at a typical DC lounge, said facemonster would have mentally relegated me to haterassbitch status, and moved on, perhaps even defeatedly walking away, tail dragging between his cloven, hoofed feet.

Not at Lux, baby.

What did horriblestgrillintheworld do?

That’s right.

Effectuate the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver on me, and start grinding on me.

Cause he didn’t give a fuck.

Cause dudes don’t give a fuck at Lux.

Know what I did?

That’s right.

I thrusted back.

Cause I don’t give a fuck when I’m at Lux either.

At Lux, I once saw this little, bite-sized man dancing with this extremely large woman.

Not such a big deal, right?

Wrong.

He was eye level with her gargantuan breasts (at Lux, we call these “titties”), and with his left hand, took her left breast and swung it into the right breast, and watched them swing at each other, knocking each other back and forth like measured balls, all the while keeping his head rhythmically in time with the music.

He did this several times.

Why?

Cause he was at Lux, and he didn’t give a fuck.

And the girl let him. She didn’t feel violated, or objectified, or maligned, or aggrieved, or any of those fancy words we like to toss around at our young, black professional mixers.

Why?

Cause she was at Lux. And she didn’t give a fuck, either.

Now, trust me. I’m sure there are people who do big things, and go to Lux. I’m sure there are mortgage brokers, and nuclear physicists, and philosophy professors who all, from fair to fair, enjoy passing time there.

The point is, you’d never know. Because it’s not about who you are or what you do. It’s about having a good time; about stripping yourself of your titles and modifiers and losing yourself in the anonymity of a booty clap.

At Lux, the vice president of a bank can be found in the middle of the dance floor next to a nail tech, each of them bending over and touching their toes in perfect, cohesive harmony.

And THAT is why, I fucks with Lux.