let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.

Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”

So, here’s the thing.

I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.

“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”

(These techniques take time.)

Another “LOL” from Kate.

She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”

Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”

“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.

“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked

“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”

“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”

“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”

“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”

“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.

“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”

I didn’t even have to deliberate.

“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”

My mind was reeling.

I could feel sweat beading at my temples.

My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.

“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.

I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.

This can’t be…This.just.can’t.be

…. I thought to myself.

I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.

I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.

I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.

My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.

Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”

Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”

*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*

Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”

Me: “Oh. My.God.”

Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”

(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)

Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”

Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”

Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”

Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”

Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”

Me: “I’ve heard enough.”

Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”

The fuck?

Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”

I had. I had, indeed.

I returned my attentions to Kate.

“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a

thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.

There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.

“I’m not a man, hon.”

No. No, she was not.

And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.

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

Women of America—

What

In the

ENTIRE,

SPHERICAL

WORLD

Of FUCK

Is the matter with you?

Seriously.

I wanna know.

WHAT

In

THEEEEE

FUCK

Is the matter with you?

I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.

I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.

Really?

Look.

Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.

And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.

But, notwithstanding these two…

And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…

Ladies….

Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?

That’s a serious question.

I mean it.

Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?

I’m gonna say something controversial.

Wait for it.

I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.

Sooooooooooooo tired.

I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.

Somebody, somewhere

has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.

Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.

Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.

Whoooooooooo are y’all?

AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..

To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..

And cuddle.

I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.

So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.

(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)

*Ahem*

STAY

THEEEE HELLLLLLL

HOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.

Do NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT

Come in THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS house

With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……

STAY HOME.

If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….

That you’re ready to rock.

Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.

This shit right here…

NO

CUDDLE

ZONE.

DON’TYOUDARECUDDLEMEINTHISMOTHERFUCKER.

Does everyone understand that.

I pay real bills.

I want real sex.

This shit right here….

This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…

This is why we can’t have nothin’.

My super-duper, unapologetically long manifesto, or, “yes, i’m 30. whooptee fuckin doo.”

I began this blog a little over a year ago.

I was finally dealing with a breakup from a man I’d dated on and off for the better part of six years, and coming to grips with what I’d considered an indeterminate future.

I was 28, roughly a year into my second law firm job, and a little uncertain with respect to what a rational, responsible adult my age was supposed to look like.

A year prior, at 27, I’d come to the conclusion revelation that nothing in this world truly mattered. Not in the way we all seemed to think it did, rather. I wasn’t becoming cynical, or apathetic; it just occurred to me that I’d spent the majority of my life placing great emphasis on so many bullshit things, never stopping to consider the temporal nature of it all.

New me was on some “We pass this way but once” type shit.

New me was in the midst of a full on conversion to Epicureanism.

New me codified her sentiments in an idiom she proclaimed to whoever would listen. “Life is long, but youth is short,” New me would say.

The expression gave me life, and indeed, some limited sense of purpose. Every time I breathed it, aloud, into open air, it was a license to tomfuckery.

While I was taking babysteps to my freedom from institutionalized patterns of thought and behavior back then, it would be another two years before I crossed into full-fledged i-don’t-give-a-damn-ery.

Which brings us to present day.

In less than one month I will be 30.

As I couldn’t give a hearty damn about some arbitrary number the world at large has capriciously designated a milestone in my own personal life—a life, about which “the world” knows nothing—I’ve given the occasion little thought.

But all about me, everyone seems to care.

I mean care, care.

Like, 30 is big shit to a lot of people.

Everywhere I turn, there are these lists—Things to Do Before You’re 30, What You Should Know By 30, 30 Things to Do Before You’re 30­—and it all just seems like hogwash to me; a complete waste of time. If a naturally occurring, chronological determinate date, over which you have absolutely no control, is the marker by which you assess your current life state, you need to get another fucking life. Like, ASAP.

But………..from all I’ve observed, some cursory bout of self-reflection, demonstrated in list-format is appropriate.

I’ll comport with custom—kinda—one final time, for the cheap seats….

10 Things You Should Do When You Finally Wake Up and Realize It Doesn’t Fucking Matter 

 

1. Give in to your anger and tell someone who deserves it an emphatic “Fuck you,” “Fuck Off,” or “Go Fuck Yourself.”

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Seriously, there might not be a more depressing quote in existence.

It’s true, though. We expend immeasurable portions of our lives trying to perfectly fit into clearly-defined lines, telling ourselves to “grin and bear it.” In order for civilization to remain “civilized;” to prevent reversion to Rosseau’s proverbial “state of nature” where we fight it out like savage beasts at every pass, each of us must be occasionally willing to concede some ground in the face of conflict.

Fair enough.

The problem is, we’re conceding more and more, every day. This is particularly true for those of us set up in our dignified, hyper-educated, professional spaces. Our lives become this predictable pattern of acquiescence.

Here’s what you need to know. People can smell it on you. They can tell that you’ve been trained, systematized. And they will feed off of it; talk wild to you, firm in their reasoning that “You.aint.gon.do.sheeit.”

This is what I believe. You can stay in your lane every day of your life, if you so choose. It’s not going to make you successful; or a titan of industry. The real winners are the rogues, the cowboys, the desperadoes who are willing to occasionally push propriety aside and live on the margins.

Alas! Get thee to an f-bomb. If there is one message I’d like to leave this world with, upon my departure, it is, that nobody but NOBODY is above a well-timed f-bomb. NOBODY.

To date, I have told one client, and one doctor proclaiming himself to be terminally ill that they could go fuck themselves.

I have told one lawyer that he could represent to his client, on my behalf, my desire for him to go fuck himself.

I have told two men, with whom I’ve been romantically acquainted, to fuck off.

I have told the friend of one of one of those men,  that said romantic attachment could “Go fuck his mother.”

I’m still here.

And know what?

ALL of those people came back.

2.  Accept that honesty is NOT the best policy. You’re living in a fucking fantasy.

Anyone who tells you that honesty is the best policy lives one of two diametrically opposed realities: 1. He/She is *the* biggest asshole on the planet, or 2. He/She has the most bullshit ass monotonously boring life ever.

Look, I’m gonna give you some advice that is going to free you, okay?

Ready?

Lie.

Just.lie.okay?

You know the most popular thing people say when they’ve just revealed some great truth to another party? “I felt so relieved. It was as if this huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to where all of that “lifted weight” goes?

Thhhhhhaaaaat’s right. Square on the shoulders of that motherfucker you just saw fit to bulldoze with alla that truth.

You think you’re this bastion of ethical righteousness because you chose to tell the truth? No, no. Try again. You’re a selfish asshole.

Look. If you love me, you need to go ahead and lie to me. Tell me I look thin. Tell me you like my blog. Tell me you didn’t fuck that girl. Just lie. Don’t think that our love is strong enough to overcome these monumental acts of betrayal. It’s not. Stop thinking that I’m a big enough woman to see to the heart of your affection for me and give you another chance. I’m not. Lie to me, baby. I’d do it for you.

The flip side is that you’re this mouse of a person, always dutifully seeing to the needs of others, putting your wants and desires behind everyone else’s. You’re this chaste virgin of the Hearth, ever-campaigning for wholesome happiness and sprinkles and rainbows to be spread throughout the Earth. You want for nothing but quiet simplicity, and to be a living, breathing personification of Christ’s love.

You don’t lie because you have nothing to lie about. You literally spend your days doing good deeds, or no deeds at all.

Really, good for you.

Personally, I’d rather die.

3.  Get up and wordlessly walk out of a room. Hang up on someone.

Look. I don’t know about you, but, my time is precious. I don’t have a whole lot of excess seconds and minutes to be passing time with a bunch of dicks. So, when I feel like a conversation has gotten to a place where I am no longer interested, or a place that is particularly aggravating or patently offensive, I simply take my leave.

I will walk out of a client meeting. I will walk out of an argument or a would-be argument with a friend or romantic interest. And you can bet that sweet ass I will hang up on a motherfucker. With a quickness.

But here’s how you have to do it in grown up stance—wordlessly.

Don’t knock any desks over. Don’t make any violently loud protestations. Only a bitchass makes a demonstration of strength only to dip and not deal with the repercussions. No, no. Yours is a quiet exit. It’s not about the physical act of your departure or the physical reality of the now-dead phone line. It’s your mental state of no-longer-give-a-fuck-ness that is important, here. It’s not about the other person at all. You are saying to yourself, “Wait.a.minute. I just stopped giving a damn. I’m gonna go.”

And here’s why.

Because.you.fucking.can.

It’s high time we all start to acknowledge the fact that we are grown ups. And you know what—save some jarringly illegal exceptions—I can do whatever the hell I want.

So I will.

4.  Be unapologetic about the amount of television you watch.

Okay. So right. There’s this “movement” among academics and intellectuals that’s been underfoot for a while. And it’s rooted in this hoity-toity, “I’m too smart to waste my time watching television; there’s nothing but trash on it anyway” stream of thought.

FUCK.

YOU.

Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?

Really?

Really?

There’s nothing of merit, nothing worthy of your attention, in a thousand channels?

How about the news, Numbnuts? You don’t think live broadcast programming of an interview conducted with Hamid Karzai is worth your time? Oh. Okay.

My love of television doesn’t make me an idiot, or some mindless nothing. And when I get home from my relentlessly demanding job, I watch “Bad Girls Club,” the entirety of the “Real Housewives” franchise, “Maury”—the trash of the trash, people. And, you know what, “I feels jes fine” about it ( © Shug Avery).

5.  Stop worrying about how fat/ugly you are.

Seriously. Just stop. It’s tired.

Do something about it, or shut the fuck up about it.

Just stop worrying about it. Stop letting that shit run you. 

If I could go back in time and tell my 15 year old self just one thing, it would be that personality is what matters the most in the get-ass game. Personality.

It’s what matters in the friendship game. It’s what matters in the professional game. Personality is everything.

You know the reason why everyone hates your ugly girlfriend, ladies? It’s not because she’s so ugly.

Oh, no. It’s because her ugliness has metastasized into this black nebulous of hateration. She’s discontent in her ugly status, and is prepared to use the full throttle of her ugly resources to bitch, whine, ruin your good time, cockblock you, and ultimately, attempt to slowly suffocate any happiness you are able to actualize.

NOT because she’s so damned ugly.

But because she can’t get over that shit.

Look. They can’t all be bangers. Some of us are destined to be trolls; “swamp donkeys” ( © S. Bernard Shaw, front-free.com).

Write some shitty spoken word about it and get the hell over it. You are a grown ass woman. What in the fuck do you look like crying about how you look? I need to go grab a drink and figure out how to make income in the midst of a recession, and your monkey ass don’t wanna go out because you got a pimple. Grow the fuck up.

6.  Put something ridiculous on display in your office and refuse to comment on it.

In my last office, in the midst of diplomas and law stuff, I had: a plastic, bloody, severed arm, a book on my desk called Apes and Monkeys, and a stapler completely bejeweled in pink rhinestones.

The point?

Even if your job is serious, it’s not that serious.

I don’t give a damn what you do.

“You are not your job.”–Tyler Durden.

That’s right.

Fight Club.

I just went there.

You’re welcome.

The truth of the matter is, no matter what you do; no matter how good you are at it; no matter how many awards and accolades you receive—no one will ever be able to truly appreciate how much you give, or how much you contribute. Even if you devote all of your time to making other people’s lives better. When it’s all said and done, we’re all too caught up in our own shit to ever truly understand the extent of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. It’s fucked up, but true.

And, oh yeah, by the way—

You’re expendable.

Like FUCK.

So go ahead and cover the back of your laptop with SpongeBob stickers. I guarandamntee it won’t matter worth a damn.

7.  Say something inappropriate to your parents.

This shit should actually be Number One on this list.

At the most elementary level, your parents are unable to see you as an adult until you force them to see you as an adult.

Now, this is largely because the majority of us engage in childish shit.

The fact remains, however, that we are adults.

And I am a firm believer that parents have as much to learn from children as children their parents.

Now, my parents were UNCOMMONLY strict when I was growing up.

And through some very expensive, carefully orchestrated psychotherapy sessions, I am learning to come to terms with some of the perhaps irreparable damage done during the course of my childhood.

All of that aside, when I finally started to show my parents the real adult me (through a series of awkward sexual references and well-placed “Damnits”), they began to see me as the real adult me. Not some well-assembled genetic replica meant to be doted on and showcased. And I actually think they like me more, because I like me more when I’m not playacting for their benefit. They trust my adult judgment, even if they don’t understand it.

And you know what? While plenty of y’all are faking the funk, pretending to lead these virginal lives, and getting drawes and socks for Christmas—

My parents just returned from vacation bearing gifts of shotglasses and booze.

Really.

Who’s winning, here?

8.  Take an afternoon and just dedicate it to pornography.

I’m looking at you, ladies.

For the life of me, I will never understand how we all became so vehemently anti-porn.

I don’t wanna hear shit about porn objectifying women, and the hazards of porn. Don’t say it to me, ladies. I don’t wanna hear it. And let me tell you why.

I know that 89% of y’all making these protestations haven’t seen any porn.

And even if you have seen some, you haven’t seen a broad cross section of it.

I’m not telling you that you have to derive some sexual gratification from it. I’m not saying that you have to like it. I’m not even suggesting that you engage in some anti-Christine O’Donnell to it.

I’m just telling you that you need to see what’s out there.

Odds are, if you haven’t peeped any, you are the absolute worst where it counts. And you might not even know that you’re the worst. But you are.

More to the point, men watch porn.

Some less than others, sure.

But, men watch porn.

Are you telling me  you feel comfortable with a group of people who constitute half of this nation’s demographic watching some shit you’ve never seen before?

It’s like those people who brag, “I’ve never seen one episode of Seinfeld,” or “I’m happy to say I’ve never seen one episode of Friends.”

Well now. You’ve just shut yourself out of a solid 15-20 years of cultural references that everyone else around you can—at the very least—recognize.

You’ve successfully managed to stay in the dark. Congratu-fuckin-lations.

Trust me, ladies.

Take a day.

I personally like to call it, “Self-Abuse Saturday,” but, whatever your pleasure—

Open a bottle of wine.

Draw the blinds.

And watch a few flicks.

You may not know it now, but this is the exact reason you moved out of your parents’ home.

It might not change your life, but, you can probably stand a temporary disruption from our normally scheduled programming.

BTW—

Don’t download that shit.

9.  Stop being a pussy about being alone.

I’m an only child, so perhaps I have the advantage here, but, I can never get my mind behind these need-to-be-all-up-under-you types. You have to be on your phone. You have to be with your friends. You have to be with your girlfriend/boyfriend.

If you can’t stand to be around just you, why in the holy fuck do you think anyone else will want to?

That doesn’t even make sense.

It will not kill you to have a drink by yourself.

It will not kill you to just sit in your home and stare up at the ceiling for a bit.

If we, indeed, grow from our experiences, a great many of us are missing out on vital parts of our personal progression when we shuck aside the value in experiencing ourselves. Like, in our truest form. Stripped of makeup and fancy clothes. Devoid of business cards, and explanations of comings and goings. Completely protected from our friends’ prying eyes or judgment.

You know the number one complaint of my married/parent friends? They don’t have any time to just be by themselves.

And here we all are, imprisoned by this seemingly-flip expression that has been drilled into our heads for the better part of two decades: “single and ready to mingle.”

No, Boo boo.

Try, “single and ready to roll dolo because I ain’t got no muthafuckin kids, what what!!! Hootie hoo, my dude!!”

My periodic absences from civilization are LEGENDARY in my friendship circles.

I’m finding more and more inner peace by the day.

10.  Stop looking to everyone else for the answers to shit.

I know, I know.

Really?

After I’ve just dedicated 2,000 words of “to do?”

Hear me out.

It has been said that only a fool relies on his own counsel.

I totally agree.

As a matter of fact, in my estimation, the only thing better than a sound piece of advice is a sound piece of tail.

And if anyone has any sound advice as to how to effectively pursue a sound piece of tail…whoaaaa buddy.

My apologies.

We’re nearing the end, it’s been a long road, and I’ve digressed into ass-talk. Forgive me. Habit.

The point is, there is no harm in seeking advice. Or giving it when solicited (*cough* I’m pretending y’all solicited this shit *cough*).

We just need to take care about that which we’re seeking—advice. Counsel.

NOT “answers.”

I watched this episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta the other day (Fuck off, tv haters), and saw that countless Black women had piled themselves into a seminar on how to find love taught by some asshole named “Dr.” Tiy-E (see, tv haters—you’d KNOW why I put the “Dr.” in “ “s and called him an asshole if you’d WATCHED. Now you have to google it, while everyone else can just flow, knowingly with the remainder of the entry).

These bitches PAID a SINGLE man to tell them HOW to find love.

Are.you.fucking.serious?

Like, they paid good money, with the understanding that this follicle-ly challenged court jester would give them the answer to why they’re single.

People have been finding love for centuries, FOR FREE AS A MOTHERFUCKER, and they paid this monkey for an *answer.*

Well, merrymakers, here’s some advice for the “bargain price of –on the house—“ :

Stop.looking.for.the.answers.

There aren’t any.

Got it?

The answer is literally, whatever the hell you say it is.

Start making your own answers.

Better yet, find the maverick in you and have the courage to do as Rilke suggested—

“Live the questions now. Perhaps, someday, far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers.”

(Kudos to my angel, “Michael,” for putting me on to this particular quote.)

This is the only life we’ve got, people.

With odds like that, who the fuck can afford to waste time worrying about 30?

Fooler Fridays: Because y’all looove advice from people unqualified to give it……..

Fooler—

How do you do the opposite of getting beyond the friend label? As in, let’s say you fuck the guy on the first date and you don’t really know each other and you sense that he wants to be friends. How do you slow things down when you’ve crossed the proverbial finish line? And like, what happens if you do slow things down and see each other in the daylight but you decide that you don’t really like him that much?

Nipple.Etiquette.

 Nipple.

 Etiquette.

 Some men have it.

 Some men don’t.

 Now—

 What exactly is nipple etiquette?

 Idunno.

 Varies from girl to girl.

 But, in the illustrious words of Justice Potter Stewart: “[It’s] hard to define…but I know it when I see it.”

 Or–feel it, as it were.

 In the prevailing, dominant relationship model—the one that advises friendship before courtship, and courtship before fucking—it will take months to determine whether a man has nipple etiquette.

 Now, maybe this isn’t a big deal for a lot of women.

 Particularly, married-minded ones who adhere to the strict dictates of The Rules, and believe there are sure-fire tricks to catch a man, keep a man, and bind him to your side from here to eternity.

 For me and mine, I’d just as soon take a pass on being your rib if it means a pair of bruised up, raisin-y nipples for the remainder of my days.

 Look—

 In the spirit of not having my intrauterine wall lined with a topcoat of scabies, I’m all about the wait.

 It’s good to know that the man you’re sleeping with isn’t some disgusting cesspool of malignant dick cooties.

 If you have trust issues or are prone to fall for those you allow in your hotbox, or just aren’t ready to make what is an entirely momentous decision in terms of genital to genital nekkidry—

 I’m all about the wait.

 What I’m not about, is some arbitrary timeline, we adhere ourselves to, with the ultimate goal of achieving some fictitious relationship ideal.

 And, if we’re being entirely honest– in a world where presiding elders of megachurches are being accused of kid-touching; where politicians are compelled to speak out publicly against something as innocuous (and arguably, beautiful) as masturbation—I couldn’t give two damns rubbed together about some organized concept of morality; some archaic paradigm of respectability.

 I mean, think about it.

 Really think about it the friendship/courtship/fucking model.

 What the kids today call “caking”— the initial getting to know him phase; this idea of talking to someone day and night, night and day; of expending time and money; of telling your girls all the funny things he’s said, sighing wistfully into the distance, wondering, absently, what he’s doing and if he’s out there somewhere, being adorable, and absently wondering about you—

 Shit’s exhausting.

 But we do it because crushes are a natural conduit of the getting to know you phase.

 And they’re fun.

 Crushes are fun.

 And unlike so many other things in our adult world that have the harsh smear of reality—of bills, and work, and uncooperative pockets of assfat– not to mention the staid monotony of familiarity—

 A crush is the standard bearer of all things hopeful; some unpioneered emotional landscape that has all the newness of birth, fresh as the coming dawn.

 It’s a lovely thought, no?

 Hold that close for a moment.

 Close your eyes and hold the downy, warm, softness of a new, exciting, and enthralling man close to you for a moment.

 Now think about him applying the suction of a Dyson and the mangy, rabid teeth of a wolverine to your nipple.

 Think about him leaving pools of spittle behind your ears, attempting artificial resuscitation on your navel, incessantly whimpering like a woman, and finally, ejaculating into his jeans, as he’s done all of this before removing his pants.

 Think about this not being a first time mishap, but the norm. The routine.

 This beautiful man, with whom you share so much in common—

 This wonderfully artful, articulate, and pathetically flaccid man is the one in whom you’ve vested so much time, so much wardrobe coordination, so much crush.

 Now, look at you.

 Now you gotta wonder if your unwillingness to battle out his propensity for failed cockery–despite his manifold stellar accomplishments—makes you a shallow bitch.

 Now you gotta think about shit like all the other broads out there in the world hunting, thirsty for a man as good as this– and how they’d be grateful just to bask in the glow of his premature ejaculation; offering up their own pair of mahogany coconuts or russet peaches (as this is a problem that affects black women as well as white) for his soggy-mouthed, aggressively dental obliteration, nipple etiquette be damned.

 Suddenly he’s not so funny.

 He’s not that cute at all.

 Now your friends, who wanted nothing more than for you to shut the fuck up these past few months, are questioning your newfound reluctance to mention his name.

 Now, when that divine man wishes you could be with him to see some soul-stirring piece of artwork, all you can think is, “I wish that you would fuck me right. How about that? Since we’re talking about wishes and shit.”

 And even though you will have played precisely by the rules of the friendship/courtship/fucking model–ultimately, y’all will argue; you will drift apart; and some inane this or that will be to blame for the dissolution of what, once, appeared to be a great thing in the making.

 When really, it was because you hated sleeping with him.

 Bad sex is the carbon monoxide of any relationship. Everything may look like it’s on the up and up, but in due time, that shit will MURDER all that ever once lived.

 I say all of this to say—

 Think outside the box (I’ll keep the pun) this one time.

 This one time, maybe sex isn’t the “finishing” line.

 Maybe it’s the firing shot.

 If y’all are compatible in bed, and he likes you enough to want to kick it with you outside of it, and you like him enough to consider it, maybe y’all have a head start on the race.

 Maybe you need not slow anything down.

 Maybe y’all exhaust yourselves sucking and fucking and burn out like two shooting stars—

 Maybe that would have happened anyway, even if you’d waited.

 And hey—

 If he ends up being horrible at life, but is still solid otherwise (again, I’ll keep the pun)—

 Hell, Idunno—

 Insist that he always pick you up for dates, drag him in and screw him, then feign fatigue and send him on his way.

 That ought to keep you for at least a month before he gets wise.

 The point is this—

 You’ve already gone against the grain. It’s too late to backtrack.

 Maybe stop examining the speed of your pace, and start examining the state of your nipples.

“songs by the Little River Band” or, “how a Mexican and 12 pack of cheap beer inadvertently changed my life…”

I resigned from my job, yesterday.

When I was a child, I always thought that resignations were the distinct province of older white men who worked for fifty years at important companies, and were rewarded at day’s end with a signet pen and a bottle of aged brandy.

As an adult, I, of course, realize that a resignation is what parents have when they accept that their nearly 30 year old daughter prefers a boozy night out to a domesticated night in; or, in my case, what one says to her wonderful boss to mean, “I quit this bitch—only not today,” whilst walking out on a perfectly good job in the middle of a recession.

But more on that, later.

Though I didn’t realize it at their respective times, I bore witness to two events, this week, which ultimately proved the catalysts for my untimely bow out:

Wednesday, September 8, 2010. 7:45 pm. Alexandria, Virginia.

I decided to take some work home, and had parked my car curbside to easily transport the box of files I‘d, in all likelihood, ignore. Upon my return to the office, I heard a rustling noise from the far end of the hallway.

There he was.

The short, gold-toothed man of the cleaning crew.

Now, sadly, like most members of professions who occupy fancy office spaces, I’d never taken particular note of the cleaning crew or Gold Tooth; never offered Gold Tooth more than a smile, and a general “hello/goodnight”  in the two years time that I’d worked at my firm. I didn’t know his name, or if he had children. I didn’t know if he enjoyed his job;  if he’d drawn a correlation between my fondness for late night Thai takeout and my ever-expanding hips while dispensing with the trash.

But all of that was forgotten, as I stood there, in that new moment, immobilized, watching him with avid fascination.

He was attempting to prop open the glass door of the business at the end of the hall.

Only, he wasn’t using a doorstop.

He wasn’t even using a brick, or heavy box.

He was using……

a watermelon.

Actually—

He was using two watermelons.

Or attempting to, rather.

You see, he’d get the door open and pushed to the side, and secured with one watermelon.

Then, he’d rush to get the other watermelon.

Only-

By the time he’d gotten back to square one with the second watermelon, the door was slamming with the first watermelon.

And it was slamming with force, too.

Like, it was sending Watermelon One rolling all the way down the hallway.

Then Gold Tooth would let out a curse, put down Watermelon Two, go rush off after Watermelon One, and start the whole thing all over, again.

As God is my judge, I watched him go on in this fashion for no less than two minutes before sparing him one last look, and a confused shaking of my head.

Enter life’s lesson number one:

Contrary to popular belief, most shit doesn’t make sense.

Our thinking that there is a determined model of how things are supposed to be is not a product of empirical fact as much as it is a general rationalization of something we’ve grown accustomed to seeing.

Thursday, September 9, 2010. 9:30 am. Alexandria, Virginia.

I was getting coffee at my neighborhood 7-11. Having been up since 7, dealing with the legal problems endemic to a society that permits marriage between two idiots but not two men, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and didn’t bother to look up when the usual band of ne’er do wells attempted to woo me with their early morning bird-doggery.

I was determinedly fixated on the perfect cup of Colombian roast, waiting impatiently for a fresh pot. As I stood there, staring angrily at the stainless steel java station, this loud woman entered the store, jovially greeting everyone with her raspy time-worn voice. Her movements were all at once shuffled and fast, blurry, but noticeably clumsy. She was about 55, and wore a dirty tee shirt and mom jeans, and a wig I would have easily described as the worstwigever prior to my move to DC (whose intimate familiarity with tragic wiggery has given me a newfound appreciation for the hair Afghanistan* that sat atop this woman’s head). Today I realize that hers wasn’t the worstwigever. It was just peasely/natty/nappy as FUCK.

Her outside voice belied an ease with the “s” consonant of which I took particular offensive note. I looked up to identify the source of my audio derision. There she stood, next to me, happily pouring old coffee into a cup and flooding same with milk and sugar; loud talking all the while, in a manner of speech marrying Daffy Duck with runaway slave. She had approximately four teeth in her mouth. 

Directing her conversation to a passerby I assumed she knew, she said, “I’m just trying to run these quick errands. Git these quick thangs. You know I gotta pick Mama up from her dialysis.”

I glanced over at the “quick thang” she was toting with her. It was a 12 pack of Natural Light.

She amicably chatted with the person at the station, making certain to mention two more times that she was in a rush to “pick Mama up from her dialysis.” It took everything within me not to roll my eyes or groan as I stood there waiting for the coffee I was certain would save some unexpected person from an unmerited curse out upon my entry to the office.

I nearly did a praise dance when I’d finally secured a cup.

Recalling that my assistant had asked me to bring her a pack of gum, I debated ,briefly, about what  flavor she’d like before remembering that she was my assistant, and I truly didn’t give a fuck.  Grabbing a packet of Big Red, I approached the cash register only to find myself behind the loud talking lacefront offender.

I once more fought the urge gouge my eyes out as she requested a pack of Parliaments and deliberated with her friend about which lottery tickets to purchase.

The doors opened, again, and the loudtalker eagerly greeted the new patron.

“Cousin!!!” she shouted (or said in a decibel natural to her).

“Hey, gal!” the woman replied.

The new woman appeared to be cut of the same cloth as the loud talker, and she inquired about Loud Talker’s comings and goings and the health of her mother.

She began, “Girl, what chu doin’ in here? Girl, look at you drankin that beer this early. I ain’t gon’ say nothin’. You know I ain’t gon say nothin’. How’s yo’ kin? How’s yo’ mama?”

Quite naturally, Loud Talker obliged her with the information she had been supplying the whole store, about her need to quickly complete her errands. “Chile, go on! You know I ain’t drankin’ this water beer, chile. If I was drankin’,  you know it’d be the bull, girl. You know I only mess with the bull. This here is for Miss Dena. You know I gotta hurry up cause Miss Dena gets her dialysis on Thursday, now.”

That’s when it hit me.

Miss Dena = Mama.

Mama = Miss Dena.

Loud Talker was in a rush to pick up beer for her old ass mother who she was also picking up from her dialysis treatment. At 9:30 am.

Enter life’s lesson number two:

There comes a time-

in every adult person’s life-

when you

just

have

to

STOP

giving a fuck.

Sometimes, the only shit that matters, is that shit don’t matter.

On Friday, September 10, 2010, at 7:15 am, I walked into my beautiful, wonderful boss’s office, looked him dead in the eye, and rejected nearly thirty years of indoctrination in favor of my own personal road less travelled.

It didn’t make perfect sense.

It didn’t have to.

I’d stopped giving a fuck.

*Afghanistan—Aff.gan.i.stan. n. A country in the Middle East bordering Iran and Pakistan; a generally fucked up situation.

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.

The return of fooler fridays, part I.: the post men will hate me for…

Fooler,

I have a request. This is not about single women, this is about women in relationships. Can you address two things: 1. the imaginary man and 2. the apparent need for some women to be taken care of and in charge at the same time?

The imaginary man is the ‘idea’ a particular woman has in her head that she compares to the man she is with instead of taking stock of the reality of the men in existence and seeing where he falls into that realistic scale. There are standards, and then there are fantasies. There is a difference.

The second one, wanting to be spoiled and pampered but be in charge of everything too, is fascinating to me because while it may work out for some women by and large this appears to be an unreasonable if not damn near impossibility of personality deconfliction. Progressive cooperation; sure. Responsible leader; that sounds reasonable. Traditional roles (by choice) while exercising influence within that structure; seems to me that has worked for a lot of people. But pampered and babied princess that calls _all_ the shots, sets the tone and has to approve of everything (at the extreme end even taking issue with a man’s thoughts and feelings); not so much. Like not at all.

I am fully aware that you may agree, disagree or even laugh out loud at the thought that these things even exist, and that I may be ‘wrongheaded’ in my thinking about what the real issues are. Either way, I would really love to hear your views on these two things as I am in dire need of some insight about such things, and I appreciate your keen insight and frankness.

My views on these two things….

Hmm.

Well, frankly, I think I disagree with both of your premises.

I’ll start with “the imaginary man.”

I take issue with your suggestion that a woman “tak[e] stock of the reality of the men in existence…”

I take issue because it is an impossible thing for any woman to do. Or any person to do, for that matter.  No woman knows all of the men in existence.  You wouldn’t wife her if she did. She’d be a complete ho-bucket.

She is only capable of establishing a basis of comparison (if one takes the position that she should be acknowledging any such comparison in the first place) between you and the men she knows or has known; the men who constitute her reality.

I read the most brave and honest thing in a blog a few weeks back that said (and I’m paraphrasing, here): my reality is the only reality that is important to me (www.deathofagenius.com ).  

For instance, I happen to have three or four friendship circles that consist of unbelievably awesome men. I am enamored of my father, impressed by my employer, on good terms with all of my exes; even my preferred brand of ignorant reality television specializes in largely female villains.

So my reality is consists of “upwardly mobile” men who all have multiple degrees, are white collar in occupation,  who are quick of wit and easy of temperament, and generally speaking, of above-average height.

So, were I to “take stock of” my “reality,” which I’ve already determined is the only logical one for which I am responsible, I shouldn’t date men who are short, or who didn’t go to college, or who work on cars for a living. That would be my “reality.” Don’t expect me to congratulate a man I’m dating for not taking his socialization cues from “The Wire.” That shit’s not my reality. (Now is a good time to note that I don’t co-sign on the assignation of “realities” or any such rigid comporting to them.)

Now, if you are okay with her taking stock of her reality, and therefore, by default, going along with this idea that it is okay to compare the one you’re with to the ones you’re not, you necessarily set yourself up for the example I present. Maybe in her reality, men do all the shit you don’t.

For me, the problem isn’t some perceived incongruence between her reality and fiction.  Rather, it is what I’m picking up in your tone (correct me if I’m wrong, here), which suggests an air of, “She should be grateful for this good shit she has.”

This is bothersome because you obviously feel like you are going above and beyond, and she obviously thinks you’re a) doing what you’re supposed to be doing, or b) not doing enough. The problem isn’t with her reality’s incongruence with the world at large. The problem is her reality’s incongruence with your reality.

If this discordance manifests itself in relatively smalltime issues, this is easily rectifiable.

e.g. Where Ole Girl comes from, Dudes pay for 100% of all shared meals. Where you come from, women occasionally pick up the tab, or pick up the tab 50% of the time (As my friend “Ron,” once artfully put it: “So, I’m supposed to pay for every single meal that goes into your mouth for the rest of your life?”) This is a situation that has a solution. This is a situation that can have a reasonable middle ground.

However, if the issues are more substantial…

e.g. Ole Girl thinks it’s okay to fuck your friends as a showing of welcome, and you’d rather she didn’t—

It might be time to move on.

Okay, now to, issue #2: Being spoiled and pampered, yet desiring to run the show.

Again, I disagree with your basic premise, which, I believe, is that these two concepts are diametrically opposed.

I don’t think they are.

I think the woman who makes as large a demand as having her fully functioning adult person taken care of is entirely the type of woman who would demand that she have the final authoritative say in all matters.

I don’t find it surprising at all that a woman who expects a man to foot all of her bills and pay for all of her extravagances is unreachable when it comes to compromise; unwilling to demurrer irrespective of her faulty posture in an argument.

Here’s what I will say about the gold-digging ego-maniacal woman.  That bitch is honest.

And more of us should be like her.

Not gold-digging or ego-maniacal, but, honest about what our realities are; about what our dealbreakers and end-games are.

Because when we’re honest about these things from the gate, our separate “realities” don’t have to become a competing duality. We can both agree that I’m an ain’t-shit-bitch with a tragically over-inflated estimation of self and am deluded in my thinking that I am different from everyone else in the world who has to actually work for a living. We don’t have to fight over me being a harpy shrew intent on emasculating the very heart of you til your friends and the people who knew you when once you were great are entirely incapable of regarding you as anything more than a giant puss.

And then we can move together in cohesive unity.

As an aside—

(And please note, that I don’t subscribe to the “men ain’t shit” school of thought. I have zero complaints in the boy department. At least, no complaints that I can’t work with. Most of the men I deal with meet my standards with relative ease. This may or may not be due to the fact that I have low standards.)

Something I do concede to thinking, while addressing these remarks:

Everywhere women turn, some man is telling us to be more “realistic” in our thinking. Men are telling us to adjust our standards so that they might more easily mirror the manner of man that is truly out there.

Women are expected to modify their standards to accommodate this not-clearly-defined gray area of “what’s truly out there.”

I’ve already addressed our inability to properly assess “what’s truly out there.”

Here’s what I’m thinking, though.

Women constantly make amendments to accommodate what we believe men want. Constantly.

Women nip and tuck their bodies. Get bigger breasts, get bigger asses. We put hair in our heads, we wax it off our vags. We shut the fuck up during the game, we don’t call you a crybabyassbitch when you KNOW you deserve it. We show a willingness to step it up in some attempt to meet man-kind’s exacting  physical standards, and most of us work so we can go half on whatever we intend to build together.

If my law firm expects me to bill 2100 hrs a year, I don’t think to myself, “That’s some ole bullshit. Booboo’s firm only requires 1800 hrs a year. Shit, most firms only require 1800 hrs a year. I’ma talk to the Partners about how this shit they want isn’t realistic. Fuck this.”

I deal. This is where I choose to work. Its high hash-marks are my new reality.

If men live in a world where women have ridiculously high standards, then maybe ridiculouslyhighstandardville is your new reality.

Maybe it’s time for men to start stepping it up, no matter how unattainable the goal. Maybe men should stop focusing on how crazy our standards are, and just start focusing.

Unless she’s a total assbag. Then, treat her as you will.

*********

This is either my most boring entry ever, my most revealing entry ever, or some bastardized amalgamation of both: On self-preservation.

“I think you’re scared [of being hurt],” said my friend, “Monica,” over her plate of healthy food and my plate of fatgirlfood during our impromptu 3am breakfast at The Diner.

*Insert beleaguered sigh here*

I have had some variant of this conversation—a conversation that necessarily implies a cognitive dissonance betwixt myself and my emotions—at least 4 times within the last two weeks.

Now, this is partly my fault.

It is well-established within my framework of female friends that I am, at best, vague, and, at worst, shady as a motherfucker, with respect to the men that I “kick it” with.

The reasons for this are as many as they are varied, and perhaps we’ll discuss this further, and in greater depth, should the appropriate occasion arise. As they are irrelevant to my present line of thought, let us table the matter.

Instead, permit me to settle the dispute, once and for all, with respect to the seeming miasma that is my much-touted emotional complexity.

Prepare yourself for the unveiling of my greatest secret.

Ready?

My emotions aren’t complex at all.

Nope.

Not at all.

Simple as a motherfucker.

I like, dislike, love, and hate in fairly equal measure.

I’m not ambiguous about a damned thing when it comes to how I feel about you.

Let’s start with the fundamentals of boy-girl (or boy-boy, or girl-girl, whatever your pleasure) romantic entanglements, as I see them.

Fooler’s FuckWithYou Fundamentals:

-The Jump Off:

A timeless classic. A proper jumpoff is a man who visits during those pesky times, often after 10 pm, but, occasionally at the noon-day hour over an extended lunch break, when you’ve got that irksome itch, but require two calloused, masculine hands to scratch it. Though you need not know anything particularly significant about your j/o (that he does not have AIDS will suffice in most instances), individual tastes on this will vary with respect to what it actually takes to (and allow me to be frank, here) get you off. For instance, I personally prefer that my jumps can read and properly conjugate verbs. That is not to say that he need appear at my doorstep, voluminous, leather-bound tome of Ovid in hand. It is enough for me to know that, should my doorman inquire about his day whilst signing my building’s visitor log, his response not call to mind Pootie Tang or South Carolina’s newly-elected senator.

-The Steady Date:

There are many different takes on what actually constitutes proper “steady-dating.” Here is the version that works best for me. When I steady-date you, I probably know what your mother’s name is, and whether you have siblings. I have an idea of your ambitions, and what’s more—I probably give a damn.  Now, as the “steady” nature of “steady-date” connotes consistency and regularity, I necessarily think that some fucking should be taking place. Now, that’s just me. Personally, I don’t see the value in looking meaningfully into your eyes, and contemplating at length the extent of your hotness factor, if there isn’t ultimately some potential for you to be rubbing all over my breasts. I’m sorry. I can’t see it. We can hold hands and recite poetry to each other when you’re 80 and impotent. For now, be nice, make me laugh, engage me, and fuck me. I’ll be much obliged.

Now, here is where it gets tricky. When I steady-date you, I am not committed to you. I night date other people. I might sleep with some of those people. I might not. Unless you ask me outright, I probably won’t mention this. And I don’t have to. Here is where people get confused. In the “steady-dating” phase, there are to be no “non-compete” agreements. We do not agree not to date other people, or not to sleep with other people. Those types of understandings are the EXCLUSIVE property of the Boo-Up phase, and we haven’t gotten there yet.

The most important part of the steady-date rubric is the crisis-call center located at the heart of our understanding. Odds are, if we are steady-dating, we are friends, and I care about you (call to mind paragraph I. of this section). I am down to listen to your problems, to help you sort through them, and to be your shoulder to cry on if need be. Be that as it may, when shit gets too heavy, we either need to re-negotiate our terms (that is, upgrade to Boo-Up phase), or I need to cut and run. During our time in this space, our arguments—IF ANY—should be few and far between. Do not ask me to loan you money. Do not ask me to co-sign anything for you. And please, above all, remember the part about fucking me.

-The Boo-Up Phase, often referred to by its street name, “Some Ole Bullshit:”

* sigh * We don’t sleep with or date other people. When it’s bad, we don’t sleep with or date each other. I know everything about you, and I love and or care deeply for you—which is why I’m still here not fucking other people despite the fact that I know everything about you (and probably hate a solid 8-17% of it now that I am fully aware). I am obligated to stick by you through feast and famine. We do a whole lot of shit together. Both of us are entitled to be angry when the “doing a whole lot of shit together” portion of this phase isn’t appropriately fulfilled (here’s a hint—if you’re in a relationship with me, the angry person will probably be you, as I’m tyrannical about my personal space). I not only care about your dreams and ambitions, I help you make them a reality.

The truth of the matter is, I can’t really comment too much on this phase, as I don’t fully understand it, even at 29. It is difficult for me to wrap my mind around fully integrating another whole person into your life, and being accountable for his emotional well being. Here’s what I will say: though the idea of monogamy defies logic, to me (This is not to say that it can’t be done. It can.); while the notion of let’sbetogetherandallineachother’sshit is hard for me to embrace, the men that have inspired me to try have been incredible. So despite my rather incomplete comprehension– emotionally, I get it. But, be advised, dear readers: “Fools rush in.”

Still with me?

Well done, you. Way to give a fuck about what I have to say.

We’re halfway there.

Now, here’s how I get down.

I prefer to stick with options 1&2. My capacity to properly succeed at #3 is something we might not ever get to on this space.

Either way, romantic entanglement or not, I have a general two-hand approach to all interpersonal relations.

Ready?

Fooler’s Two-hand Approach for all Interpersonal Relations:

Let’s view the heart poetically; as the pulse of all things emotional and endearing.

I envision my heart with two out-stretched hands stemming from it. These hands are its guardians; its conservators. They enable me to pass time with you, share jokes with you, have fun with you, whatever.

As time goes on, and I become relaxed around you, and I see you as someone who won’t screw me, I’ll take a hand down. I’ll let you in, a bit. This is where most of my friends are. It’s a good place to be, I think.

If there comes a point when I can’t picture my life without you; if I want to be your friend forever; if I trust you and confide in you, and actually love you, I take both hands down. My parents are here, my linesisters are here,  a few of my prophytes, 1-2  childhood friends, my crew of “boys” are here,  my mentor is here, and a smattering of law school friends have cemented their presence in this spot. It is here, that you get all of me, for better or worse. I think most will find that, once here, they have a decided preference for one-hand up status.

If ever, while at one-hand up status, you reveal something really fucked about yourself; some previously unseen evil or malevolent characteristic—something that goes beyond the pale of a garden variety misstep; some untoward abuse of trust, I’ll put the other hand up, again. And we have to start afresh.

If ever, while at two-hands down status, you reveal something really fucked about yourself; some previously unseen evil or malevolent characteristic—something that goes beyond the pale of a garden variety misstep; some untoward abuse of trust, we’re done for good.

Still there?

Wow, excellent. Here’s the last leg.

Let’s re-visit Monica’s initial suggestion, and apply everything that we’ve seen here, today.

“I think you’re scared [of being hurt].”

The truth is, I’m not. Not at all.

Hurt is an integral part of the human experience.

I accept it.

I know that its emergence is ever near.

I don’t fear it.

I just don’t have time for it.

In my mind, the older we get, and the more we subject ourselves to life’s disappointments, the longer our recovery from these individual heartbreaks takes.

The older I get, the more my emotional state of well being is like an old man who breaks his hip. A few years ago, he could have done some physical therapy, and speedily rehabilitated his injuries. But now—time worn, with brittle bones—the break fucks him all up; puts him out of commission for the foreseeable future.

Maybe if I were 21, without a care in the world, I could handle a stint of depression that comes with the crushing hurt of a two-hands down catastrophe; a time dedicated to wallowing and excruciating self-valuation.

But I’m not.

I’m 29. I have a mortgage, and a job where the neediest motherfuckers in Creation clamor for my unwavering attention. I have bills to pay, appointments to keep, and a rather slippery clutch on the passage of Time and the wiles of my youth.

I have to eat this world, and everything within it, now, while it is spread before me at the ready; when I’ve had my full—that’s it. There are no seconds.

And the truth of the matter is, that when it comes down to the come down, most people, no matter how dear they are to you, aren’t worth your unending downspiral. Most people aren’t worth your own undoing.

It’s not emotional avoidance/denial.

It’s emotional intelligence.

Dear potential clients, please treat the following as “understood” in any contract for legal services struck betwixt us two….

POTENTIAL CLIENTS OF THE GREATER WASHINGTON DC METROPOLITAN AREA:

I want you all to gather round for a moment. I have a few things that I’d like to share, that have been weighing on my heart .

A lot of motherfuckers out there in the world have me confused with someone else.

Now, while I can’t say for certain, by my own cursory estimate, a lot of motherfuckers out there in the world have me confused with some broad who won’t shut all of this shit down.

By “this” I, of course, mean “every motherfucking thing.”

Dear, dear potential clients, only moments before I began this entry, I had to fire an existing client.

Bet you didn’t even know lawyers could fire their clients.

Know who else didn’t know?

My bitchass client.

‘Til I fired that ass.

Why did I fire her?

She refused to watch her fucking tone.

Despite my numerous protestations, she.refused.to.watch.her.tone.

And that made me want to punch her in her sassy mouth.

Which I viewed as both counterintuitive and problematic to our continued attorney-client relationship.

So that bitch had to go.

Now, I know exactly how it happened. I know the precise moment when shit started escalating beyond my control. But, unfortunately, things were so far gone, the only remedy available to me was the nasty, black bitch one.

And she never saw it coming.

No one ever does.

Let me explain.

Hyper-educated black women are compelled to contend with a number of forces on any given day.

Now, because they are “forces,” these things are largely invisible to the naked eye (read as culturally unaware, historically ignorant, socially insensitive as a motherfucker). So if your vision isn’t that stellar (or you just happen to be culturally unaware, historically ignorant, or socially insensitive as a motherfucker) you might fail to notice the constant guerilla warfare in which we frequently engage.

For your general edification, allow me to alert you to the fact that, the moment I walk out of my door, I have to confront several basic truths:

-I am black, and an awful lot of people hate black people. Even the people who pretend they don’t hate black people sometimes hate black people. These people are the ones who generally like black people like me, and hold me up as an example of the type of black person they like. Then they either expressly say or implicitly suggest that we never talk about my being black, as we are, after all, living in a post-racial America. There’s no need for talk of blackness in post-racial America.

-I am a woman, and an awful lot of people think I’m incapable of being as smart as a man, or as tough as a man. An awful lot of people think I’m given to little more than wild flights of fancy or frivolity.

-Everyone expects me to smile. When I don’t smile, I am perceived as being mean, or sassy, or moody. Cause you know, black women are all mean, or sassy, or moody.

-I am expected to find the perfect balance between strong and bitch, between confident and uppity, between attractive and hypersexed.

-I have to take care to annunciate, and utilize proper grammatical sequences and tenses, and appropriately effectuate subject/predicate agreement, for any slip into colloquial speak or euphemisms could result in my listener concluding I know no better. Also, I generally have to articulate every word that comes out of my mouth in a treble at least 1-2 octaves higher than my regular speaking voice; you know, so as not to threaten non-blacks.

-I have to be conscious of the fact that my education and professionalism lend themselves to criticism in my own community, and make certain to appear humble at all times, lest any of my own people think me uppity.

-And after all of this is done, I still have to actually work within a highly politicized framework, pay bills, pay back student loans, get my coarse, Negro hair done, and somewhere in there find time to be sufficiently and thoroughly fucked.

And I gotta make it all look effortless.

Now, I’m not complaining.

I’m a big girl. This is my lot in life. And, given the chance, I probably wouldn’t have it any other way. The most beautiful things we are to achieve in this life are often first born of hardship.

However, on account of my delicately manufactured smoothness of exterior; because of the perceived ease of my delivery, people sometimes forget themselves.

People mistake me for being soft.

And this sad reality weighs heavily on my already-overburdened heart.

Listen, people.

All I’m asking, is that you take into consideration, the breadth of that list of “forces” with which I’m made to contend every day of my young, mahogany-colored, close-cut coiffed existence.

Remember that list. Guard it close.

And know that I am never, ever—

Ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever

EVER—

More than 1-2 minutes MAX away from cursing you THE FUCK out.

Okay?

I don’t give a damn WHO you are.

In the immortal words of my prophyte, I will knock allllllllllllllllllllllllla this shit down, okay?

I will straight destroy eeeeeeeeeevvvvvverything within your line of vision.

Further, I have to assume that, if something has brought you to my door, it is you who needs me. Not the other way around. I do just fine on my own. If you have any doubt of this, please refer, once more, to aforementioned list of shit I deal with on a daily basis……SUCCESSFULLY.

So, basically I just need you to watch who the fuck you’re talking to.

“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.

Letting color go….for alh, and damn……..that leona lewis bitch, too…

“I call this one, ‘Miss Celie’s Blues’….cuz she scratched my head when I’s was ailin’…”

Dark skinned broads of the universe; failers of paper bag tests worldwide—

We owe our redboned counterparts an apology.

For hating.

You heard me.

Fine, fine.

I can sense your reticence.

I’ll kick it off.

Good Afternoon. My name is Fooler. And I owe a gang of lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair an apology.

Alla y’all.

Now, take heart. This apology comes years upon years after the discovery of my hater-antics. But, I never issued a formal apology, and—well, now seems as good a time as any.

Lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair—you all are not the enemy. You never have been. Some of you all are dimes, some of you all are treasure trolls. The exact genetic predeterminates of your beauty or fugliness is frankly, none of my business.

I bore you all so much animus for so many years, adjusting my ire and contempt only  when the inclusion of a new lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch in my friendship circle necessitated an exception.

And, for the longest time, it entirely escaped my attention that your numbers in my friendship ranks were beginning to swell; that I had surrounded myself in a veritable sea of amazing women who defied every loosely-constructed stereotype my own ignorance wouldn’t allow me to view as false.

Similarly escaping my attention was the fact that I am, in fact, cute as a motherfucker. Seriously. I’m on some cute shit. I have some true cuteness going on all up in my face space.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back.

My mother—my amazing, can do everything in this world mother–grew up dirt poor in  a town with an unrecognizable name in Nowheresville, North Carolina. Her particular melanin composite never garnered her any popularity contests in those days, and when she married my father, a man whose hue was identical to hers, she suspected any children of theirs’ wouldn’t fare much different.

According to my mother, the people of her town, her peers, and virtually everyone with whom she had any significant contact, was “color struck.” Most Blacks, grappling with our own identities, replete with the psycho-socio far-reaching implications of second class citizenry, had turned our attentions inward, and set about creating hierarchies within our own ranks; where education and affluence wouldn’t suffice to separate us, fairness of skin would suit just fine.

The lighter (and by proxy, more White-looking) the better.

When I came around, my mother took proactive steps in making certain that I never felt the dejection that she’d experienced as a child.

Lightskinned girls were no better than me. Girls with hair that brushed their hips had to come home at night and wash their little stankin asses just like I did. If a boy preferred another girl to me, he only liked her because she was lightskinned. If the boy I liked didn’t like me back, who was he, oh, that lightskinned boy? *insert eye roll*.

My mother was trying to prepare me for the “color struck” world at large.

But, all the while, she was making me “color struck.” Stuck hating on lightskinned bitches who had a gang of hair, and absolutely nothing the fuck to do with me.

I love my mother, and all that she tried to do for me. She inspired confidence where there otherwise would have been none. And maybe sometimes a boy I liked had a preference for lightskinned girls. But you know what? Maybe sometimes a boy I liked didn’t have a particular fondness for chunky bitches with a lotta mouth and a sad, sad proclivity for Karl Kani jeans.

The truth of the matter is, whether the world at large thinks that fairer skinned women are more attractive has little bearing on my own reception.

The truth of the matter is, I should only be focusing on me. On whether my toenails are painted; whether my elbows are ashy; whether my upper lip is a replica of Tom Selleck’s.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to heartache; they’ve all known it in equal measure.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to their loyalty to me and nourishment of our friendship; they’ve all born my monkey idiosyncrasies with casually amused dismissal.

And men—the truth about them is, if they’re with you, they’re with you. If a man likes you, he likes you for you. The end.

Sure, maybe he wishes he could skim a few pounds off of your carb-indulgent, though steadfastly determined to rock a two piece ass, but– if he likes you, he likes you.

Granted, maybe he wishes you’d given a bit more forethought to that upper arm or upper titty tat you were so insistent on getting at 18, and now your ridiculous ass is 30 and relegated to a life of long sleeves and turtlenecks, but—if he likes you, he likes you.

He doesn’t wish he had a lightskinned, long-haired bitch in your stead. He likes you.

(Now, don’t be a dumb bitch. Please bear in mind that he will fuck her, too. If he isn’t shit, he probably won’t shy too far away from fucking her in addition to you. But that’s not the point. The point is, that for whatever fraction of attention space he has designated to you, your black, monkey ass is what he wants.)

And me—my own personal truth—is that I can’t think of one instance when a lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch maligned me. Not one. Remonica Jenkins—black as coal. Any collegiate issues I had with women—all my complexion or darker (except that one time, and really, she wasn’t at fault at all. Oh no, wait. There was one. Damn. I STILL hate that bitch. Okay, so that’s one. Really though. One).

But I can think of a hundred times when my 5 re-assured me;  a thousand when my girl, “Law School Logan” held my crazy ass down; a million when a particularly new trio of beauties amped up my blog and encouraged me to keep writing; and an infinite number still when the woman who inspired this post (not Leona Lewis, geniuses) listened to my troubled meanderings, withholding judgment in favor of support.

The point is that I, for one, am done. I am long done.

My matriculation to adulthood has seen Halle Berry get beat by two men and made a black fool of by one, Vanessa Williams get married twice and left with a hundred children to raise all by her lonesome, Stacey Dash take an asswhooping her damned self, Rhianna get stomped unconscious in a Lamborghini (a feat I didn’t even know possible), and Leona Lewis get slapped the shit out of in public by a complete stranger.

My mocha-colored juvenile angst put so many bad vibes into the Universe, I’m starting to feel halfway responsible for some of that shit.

So, for all of the unnecessary hating—

For the animus rooted in my own insecurities, and reinforced by societal standards of beauty that I so enthusiastically took to heart–

And damn, for Leona Lewis, who I gotta believe didn’t deserve that open fist to the mouth—

I apologize.

Come on, brown broads—

I know someone else has some “I’m sorrys” to go around, too.

p.s.

(not to mention every lightskinned broad that is dominating my universe now, but….lol…lessssssssst y’all get at me….i’ve reserved mad love for a freckled nigerian, a fashion savvy cropped coiffed beauty who Baltimore has stolen from me, and, as always…….the timeless……”natalie.” [note which name i put in quotes...cause your real name is sometimes your fake name])

to my friend, “jessie,” who thought she’d never make an appearance in my blog, or, “there should be an app for discerning stupid ass phonecalls late at night.”

I don’t sleep a great deal.

I haven’t really slept much at all, actually, for the past 11 years.

Part of this pseudo-insomnia is a result of my rigorous work schedule.

Another part, still–a function of my active social calendar.

I am forced to concede, however, the lion’s share of my sleepless nights are directly attributable to my overall sketchy character.

A peaceful night’s slumber is a luxury shady girls can little afford.

So, as you might imagine, I was more than a bit frustrated when my phone rang at 4:33 am, Friday night/Saturday morning.

What follows is the exchange I had with my girl, “Jessie,” as best I can remember it.

Me: “I just know that this is an emergency.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to be celibate.”

Me: “But, I’m confused, ‘cos, when there’s an emergency there’s usually some indicator of imminent danger.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious. I’m thinking I’m gonna be celibate.”

Me: “And I can’t hear any indicators of imminent danger. No sirens. No screams. No muffled murmurs of a would-be rapist at your anal cavity.”

“Jessie”: “Can you please be serious? I’m thinking of becoming celibate.”

Me: “You’re gonna sell-a-what?”

“Jessie”: “You heard me.”

Me: “But I’m pretending that I didn’t.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to make Eric wait six months until I sleep with him. Listen, when you think about it, so much of our lives are consumed by sex. But, when you think about it, truly think about it, what is really the most important thing in a relationship?”

Me: *silence*

“Jessie”: “Well?”

Me: “I was gonna say ‘sex,’ but something tells me that’s not the answer you were looking for. Can this shit wait, say…idunno, SIX MORE HOURS?”

“Jessie”: “I wanna talk about it now. I’m not giving it up until a man can show that he’s committed to me. That he wants something substantial and long term.”

Me: “Did you even look at your contacts when you made this phone call? Like, did you mean to call me? I think you need to hang up and try someone else.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious! I wanna know what you think.”

Me: “I think you’re dumb.”

“Jessie”: “What?”

Me: “I think you’re dumb. You can’t determine how committed to you a dude is by not fucking him. Being celibate is a personal choice. You can only make that shit for you.”

“Jessie”: “So?”

Me: “ ‘So,’ while you’re out there being celibate, working on your faux-devoted-litmus test, your seemingly ‘committed’ man is going to be creeping over to the homes of broads like me by nightfall—“

“Jessie”: “WHAT?”

Me: “Broads like me who don’t set up arbitrary determinants and dress them up as legitimate indicators of future relationship success.”

“Jessie”: “Why are you being so harsh about it?”

Me: “This is only the third conversation I’ve had like this in the last month. Apparently this celibacy shit is catching. Did a bunch of sad bitches get together and read a book about it without me?”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “I don’t ever get invited to the sad bitches conventions anymore. You ain’t never seen rejection til a group of unhappy bitches don’t want you around no more.”

“Jessie”: “So how am I supposed to tell if a guy is for real or not if the first thing I do when I meet him is jump into bed with him?”

Me: “I like to wait til he’s asleep and try to steal a little black, nappy tendril of his hair.”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “If I set fire to it, and it burns up into a little stinky afro-crisp, he’s a good man.”

“Jessie”: “I fucking hate you.”

Me: “But if it just sits there and stays nappy, in defiance of the flame—“

“Jessie”: “I hope you die.”

Me: “Then he dances with the devil under the pale moonlight.”

“Jessie”: “I want to be wined and dined. Don’t you want to be wined and dined? Don’t even pretend like you don’t. I miss just spending time with a guy. Just cuddled up next to him, under him. I just want someone to hold me, and rub my feet—“

Me: “I don’t like it when people fuck with my feet—“

“Jessie”: “and tell me how much he likes me. I just want us to be with each other; to spend all day with each other on a rainy afternoon, just—idunno. Experiencing each other. Don’t you want to do that?”

Me: “ *sigh*”

“Jessie”: “See!!! Even you think that sounds nice.”

Me: “Do you know what bloody time it is?”

“Jessie”: “Admit it. Everything I said sounds nice.”

Me: “It’s so wrong of you to subject me to this when my defenses are down. I really just want to go to sleep.”

“Jessie”: “Not before you admit that everything I said sounds good.”

Me: “IT SOUNDS GOOD, BITCH. CAN I SLEEP?”

“Jessie”: “I knew it!”

Me: “Whatever.”

“Jessie”: “You want the same thing as me. I knew it.”

Me: “Mmmhmm. Only I think that the afternoon would be rounded off quite nicely with some sex at the end.”

“Jessie”: “Sex ruins things. Sex makes things complicated.”

Me, sitting upright: “Look. I’m going to say this, and then I’m going to hang up. And we will have to either agree to disagree, or whatever. You know what my biggest problem with criminal practice is? Motherfuckers don’t have any sense of accountability. My ability to create a defense for you; my ability to create a smokescreen out of an illegal stop or an illegal search doesn’t negate the fact that you have a quarter of an ounce in your console. Sex isn’t a person. Sex isn’t a real, sentient being. You can’t blame sex for anything. If you have a problem with the way you handle shit with men after having sex with them, the issue isn’t the sex. It’s your faulty handling. If you think dudes dog you out after you’ve had sex with them, the problem isn’t the sex you had. It’s the dude you had sex with. A good man isn’t a better man because he was willing to jump through five million fiery hoops just to bone your raggedy ass. In fact, in my mind, he’s a chump—“

“Jessie”: “You think he’s a chump because he’s patient and will wait?”

Me: “I think he’s a chump because he’s agreed to let you set some ridiculous terms, based on no established rationale in particular. Y’all are two grown people. You want to have sex with each other. You’ve had sex with men before—countless men, I might add—“

“Jessie”: “Easy, there—“

Me: “and now, for no reason whatsoever, Eric, having committed no harm or foul against you, has to wait while you lock it up for God knows how long, until your designated start date. That’s dumb. And by the way, that’s NOT celibacy.”

“Jessie”: “How is it—“

Me: “Look. If you know when you’re not gonna be celibate anymore; like if you have a ‘get some’ start date that isn’t marriage, you’re not celibate. You’re just being grown and not banging anything that moves. There is no problem in waiting until you’re comfortable to have sex with someone. But that’s not celibacy. That’s what anyone who’s not a slamwhore does. But having a six month rule; holding out as leverage to assess someone’s goodness—that’s wack.”

“Jessie”: “I just want things to stay nice. I want him to take me out, and treat me like a lady. I want him to open doors for me, and call when he says he will. Send me ‘Just Because’ flowers.”

Me: “Then tell him you’re a high maintenance broad, and be done with it. This shit isn’t rocket science. I don’t know why you insist on all of this game-playing. I don’t have that kind of time. And speaking of which, yours is about up. I’m going to bed. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Jessie”: “You know what your problem is?”

Me: “Sleep deprivation and worrisome-ass friends who refuse to marry ‘shut’ and ‘the fuck up’?”

“Jessie”: “You’re not a romantic. At least you refuse to show it if you are. There’s no shame in it you, know.”

Me: “Hanging up—“

“Jessie”: “I bet you are one. You play so tough, but I bet you’ve done your share of swooning—“

**dial tone**

I noticed, with disgust, traces of pale blue creeping through my curtains, and saw that the time on my phone read 5:17. Turning it off completely, I returned my head to my pillow.

Unable to get comfortable, I shuffled the pillow a solid three times before casting it aside, entirely, and resting my head on my arms.

I sat up, suddenly, upon hearing a nearly-inaudible “thud” hit my hardwood floor with the pillow.

Reaching down, I felt around until I found the sound’s origins.

In the palm of my hand I clutched one, pale pink copy of Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.

I put the book down, and closed my eyes, to usher in sleep, but not before saying to no one in particular, “I fucking hate ‘Jessie.’”

Just another day in the life of a raunchy blog. Your balls, your relationships, my answers……..fooler fridays…

Thanks for the questions, guys…keep them coming….

Fooler, What are your thoughts on “manscaping?”

This is a GREAT question.

Let’s address the neck and up areas first.

Okay. I’m something of a purist, myself. I can appreciate a man getting haircuts on a regular basis, and even getting his beard edged up if he wants to keep a mean case of the Anthony Hamiltons at bay. But that’s about where I draw the line. I cannot abide any eyebrow arching (my apologies to the entire televised white, male population of New Jersey), or facial hair removal efforts beyond a shave and obligatory nose-hair plucking.

Now to the good shit.

I know I’m a dying breed, but, I’m a fan of male body hair. I dig it. It’s masculine and all burly and Marlboro-man-y. And, frankly, I think the idea of a man paying too much attention to how neat and orderly his chest hair is falls a mite close to the effeminate line for my tastes. I mean, obviously, if you drew the short end of the yeti stick in your gene pool, by all means, take it down a bit, but…personally, I’m for it.

Now to the really good shit.

You know the first thing I thought of when answering this question? That Chappelle’s Show sketch where Dave Chappelle mentions having “balls smooth as eggs.” I didn’t really know that men “manscaped” this particular area until like, three years ago. Sue me. I thought balls came smooth. I’m sure if you ask around you’ll find I’m not the only woman with a hard time conceptualizing twin chia pets clanging behind some dude’s nether-meat.

Look, uh…as long as he doesn’t stencil little pictures down there, and it’s not one of those “can’t see the forest for the trees” situations, I think everything will be fine.

I can’t believe I just answered that fucking question.

Hey Fooler, Great blog! Keep it up. So, you don’t want to be in a relationship? Ever? What do you have against relationships?

Wow. Did I say I had something against relationships? I don’t have a problem with relationships. I have a problem with people saying blanketly that they want to be in relationships. I don’t even have a “problem” with it per se. I just don’t get it. I can’t understand why you’d blindly assume that you want to be tethered to another person; the caretaker of his/her wants and needs.

In my view, a better statement is, “I’m really into Johnny. I want to be in a relationship with Johnny.” See the distinction? In my scenario, you’ve met someone you’re into. You can’t stand the thought of that person passing his time with someone else. And that person, that “Johnny” makes all of the hard shit that comes with relationships worthwhile. By my way of thinking, anyone who just wants to be a part of a couple, without a clear idea in mind of who the second part of that union is, or whether he’s worth the trouble, hasn’t ever been in a real relationship. Either that or she doesn’t remember it well enough.

So, do I want to be in a relationship? No. I love my freedom. I work a lot. I enjoy the company of my friends. And frankly, every day that I live and breathe in this city I meet another man for whom I’d gladly accidentally get pregnant on purpose.

But is there a man out there for whom I’d set it all aside and stand still with from now until eternity? Absofuckinglutely.

 Hey Fooler, Did you really talk to your dad about a 3-some? BTW—ever done one?

I did. I really did. Look, as far as “The Smiths” are concerned, the jig is up. I’m a bag of rotten, nasty, perverted, foul-mouthed apples. They pretty much take me at face value, and without comment, and try not to ask too many questions. They’ve had to learn the hard way that this approach is far safer than the alternative.

 But, just to be clear, my father and I weren’t discussing me having a threesome. I was telling my father about one of my clients. I will say this, though. We have discussed my strip club (mis)adventures, and during one unfortunate summer after my first year in law school, “Ben’s” impromptu cleaning out of my old college car produced a king’s ransom in flavored condoms—the discovery of same, from which he has never quite recovered. Also, there was that one fateful snow storm when we were stuck on the highway in traffic for 7 hours, when he had occasion to admonish, “If a man ever asks you to have anal sex, put your clothes on and go home.”

There are only three of us. We’re a tight-knit group.

 Nope, no threesomes for the kid, to date. I appreciate the subtlety of your query, though.

Hi!! I’m new to your blog but I LOVE it. I read almost all of it in one sitting. Me and my sister have a question but it’s more in the form of a scenario. You have one night left on this Earth. Do you spend it making sweet, passionate love to your soulmate, or do you have hot, nasty sex with a complete stranger?

I love that you’re “new” to the blog but jump right in there with the sex question. I really gotta work on my content.

Okay.

Um. Yeah, I’m gonna go with Option 2. Technically, if Dude from Option 1 is my “soulmate”, aforementioned “soul” will see his later, right?

Dear Fooler, I really love this blog. You have such a strong voice. Here’s my question. Why do you think men cheat? My man is such a dog. Why do men think that women are stupid?

I don’t think that men think women are stupid any more than women think men are. I also know for a fact that men aren’t any more inclined to cheat than women.

Look, I don’t know your situation, and I’m so sorry that your relationship is not where you think it should be. The truth of the matter is, I have no idea why people cheat. I mean, I have a pretty well-nursed theory, but, I don’t know why your man is cheating. It could be any number of things. I’ll share my theory with you, but, that’s about all I have.

So, I basically think that there are three reasons why anyone cheats.

Here goes.

Ego—The person wants to see if she still has it.

Getback—The person wants to teach her partner a lesson.

Boredom—The person doesn’t have shit else to do or her current sexual situation has grown stale.

That’s it. That’s my pontificated genius.

Now, these things are simply foundation. There are plenty of reasons why people cheat, I’m sure. It’s just that, in my mind, these three things are the building blocks from whence other explanations like, “opportunity,” and “a temporary lapse in judgment“ come. And the words are far more all-encompassing than they appear. “Ego” could be as simple as taking your ring off at a club so men will holler at you and taking it too far; or as complicated as starting to feel old and needing to do something reckless and young. “Getback” can be as simple as walking out on your woman in an argument and going home with some broad from the bar; or as complicated as feeling ignored and unappreciated, and carrying the secret of your one night tryst with your downstairs neighbor to your grave. And “boredom”—this one, by far, is the most deceptively simple of the lot. “Boredom” can be nothing more than getting tired of the same piece of ass day after day; but it is often something far more complex–being perfectly content in a relationship with your amazing girlfriend until you one day happen upon a woman the likes of whom you’ve never seen or met.

And, when the above are all too complicated for me to grasp, my standby explanation for why people cheat carries me over—

Ready?

Sometimes, people just want to fuck someone else. It might not be a commentary on you or your relationship. And, I’ll draw some heat for my next statement, I know, but I’ll risk it. It might not even be a commentary on him. We’re all animals (I know women get tired of hearing this but it’s true). At our core, we are motivated almost entirely by self interest and instant gratification. Sometimes, no matter how happy you are, no matter how great your partner is, no matter how awesome everything in your relationship is—you just wanna fuck someone else.

I’m not giving this type of behavior any specific moral assignation.

 I’m just calling the situation as I see it. And if that simplistic truism is the “reason,” the only remaining question is why one chooses to act on it.

And then we’re right back to my three prong theory.

If you want to know what I think—which I assume you do—it doesn’t matter why a person cheats, or why he or she wants to.

What matters is whether he or she is willing to control that want. Only you can decide if your man’s inability or unwillingness to discipline and hone the impulse makes him unworthy of your time.

Good luck.

Did you and your friend find a church yet? What are you both looking for? Why is it taking so long, if not?

 Wow. I will accept this question and consider it the result of your natural curiosity. I will further try to quell the budding suspicion I have that it is predicated on your conclusion–having read my blog– that I need to get to the House with a fair degree of urgency.

No, “Michael” and I have not found a church home yet. Truth be told, between my work and his phD program, and our travel habits of late, I don’t think we’ve seen the inside of a sanctuary in two months.

But, I will have you know that we’re back on schedule for this coming Sunday.

 It is taking so long because we want it to be right. Church is like a marriage, or buying a house. You have to be all in if it’s going to work at all. And believe me, I’m accumulating sins by the minute. We want it to work.

 What are we looking for? Hmmm.

We want to go some place where the pastor isn’t going to tell Michael—who has one of the most beautiful hearts I’ve ever known—that he’s going to Hell.

We want to go some place where there is room for us to grow and to be a part of a community.

We want to go some place that has a decent choir, but that doesn’t have a “show” choir.

We want to go to a church that has an inspiring pastor. He doesn’t have to have twelve degrees. As a matter of fact, I’d personally prefer that he had no over-inflated theological background at all. By that same token, I don’t expect to have to sit in the sanctuary biting my lip to keep from laughing at the fact that he graduated from a high school accredited in Pootie Tang’s basement.

We want to go to a place that is situated in a relatively safe neighborhood. It would be nice to leave a Beautification Ministry meeting on a Wednesday night in the same un-sodomized way that I arrived Wednesday afternoon.

The list goes on and on. The truth of the matter is, I could build a dream church in my mind, only for it to still be not right for our purposes. It’s just a feeling we expect to get. We actually were both felled, not too long ago, by this amazing pastor at a church with no choir, no ancillary ministries, and frankly, no real “church” even. It met in a movie theater. When we left we were thunderstruck. That one is still in our prayer basket.

Hey Fooler, LOVE the blog, girl. You crack me up. Can you be more clear on the type of men that you like? You know, just out of curiosity.

Hmmm. The kind of man I like. Physically, I think I’ve expressed a desire for him to have functional limbs.

 Outside of that, I mean it, the aesthetics aren’t really what get it moving for me. I like a good looking man as much as the next one, don’t get me wrong, but, personality goes a long way with me. It can bring you up from a 4 to an 8 in no time.

I will say that a dimple, a nice set of white teeth, and long eyelashes coupled with a pair of strong hands will incline me to overlook the occasional lull in conversation here and there.

Generally speaking, I like men who are smarter than me. I like men who read. I like men who get so impassioned about things that they are overly excited to explain them to me blow by blow.

I like men who like to do things themselves; who like to try and fix shit themselves or build things.

I like laid back men. I like men who aren’t showy or vain or determined to display to everyone who passes by what kind of car they drive or how many degrees they have.

I like men who are funny. I like men who make me laugh. I like men who smell good. I like men with dreams. I like men with the ambition to make their dreams come true.

Finally, I like men who blow my back out.

*shrug*

A romantic notion is fine, but, I’m more the practical sort.

Oh yeah… I like men who are disinclined to express themselves using emoticons.

The entry I swore I’d never write. It is complete bullshit that i even have to say this. Regretfully yours….

I would like to begin, with an apology.

I apologize, in advance, for this post.

Given the fact that this blog is young yet, I am not foolish enough to state, plaintively, things that it will never address; things that it will never cover. I am fully aware of the potential, and indeed, likelihood, of writing dry spells.

For instance, I would love to say that I will never comment on celebrity comings and goings—those people are already famous. Fuck them. I’m a hater.

But I might.

I would love to say that I will never discuss my own personal politics. In my view, if opinions are like assholes (as the saying goes), political opinions are the dingleberryest of them all.

But I might.

But I will say this.

And mean it.

And own it.

I am going to address something, briefly, today, and it will NEVER be seen or read about on this space, again.

And I am coming from a place motivated by my disappointment in the recent postings of one of my favorite bloggers—my premiere internet crush.

So here goes—like it or lump it—

(I hardly give a damn as it will never be seen or heard from me on this space again either way.)

STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THIS BLACK WOMAN DATING CRISIS.

PLEASE.

SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP about it.

SERIOUSLY.

QUIT.

Stop it.

There is NOT a dating crisis. There is NOT a marriage crisis.

The reality of the situation is far, far worse than either of those two concepts can ever comprehend.

The true situation is way more fucked up.

There is, in fact, a PERSPECTIVE crisis. Got it?

Of like, EPIC proportions.

There is a nationwide, motherfucking pandemic surrounding the malnourishment, starvation, and disease infestation of our collective perspective.

Black women—you can get a man, okay?

You can get a man. You can get a black one. You can get a black one that is educated, and employed and good to you. You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what else you can get? A white man. You can get one that is educated, and employed, and good to you.  You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what you can also get? And I must profess, this one is nearest and dearest to my heart—

You can get passionately, thoroughly, deliberately, and wantonly fucked to Kingdom Come (literally) while you are trying to make up your mind between the two.

Anybody who tells you that you can’t—and I will definitively say this irrespective of how it comes off—ANYONE who tells you that you cannot—any statistical data, any blogger, any pastor, any radio personality, even your own mother—

ANYONE who tells you otherwise—

Is a mother-fucking-lie.

NOT a “liar.”

I took it there.

Good, southern, and black fo’ dat ass.

Anyone who tells you that you can’t have these things is a mother.fucking.lie.

Don’t believe me?

Let me tell you how I know.

On my BEST day—

Are you listening, bitches?

On my BEST day—

Like, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, all the lights on the roadways are green—

I am a strong

SEVEN.

On my BEST day.

I am short, black. No real hair to speak of. Sassy in the mouth, wide in the ass. And I have two little raggedy ass dogs that I take wherever I go.

Yet, I have miraculously convinced some of the best men I’ve ever known to fall in love with me; to want to be with me. I’ve even taken a few of them up on their offers and loved them back.

Me.

Janky ass ole me.

(I mean, I could get it. Don’t get me wrong. I’d definitely get it. But ain’t nobody gonna break through traffic trying to give it to me.)

And believe me—believe me when I tell you, as I come from a place of truth and reflection, and not modesty (as I have no talent for it), the ONLY thing special about me at all; the only thing that sets me apart from the ravenous, wedding hungry, WE-Channel watching devotees in this city is my constant state of being un-pressed.

I could give a damn about matrimony or andbabymakes3.

Listen.

There is no shame in having an ideal; of having an expectation of a life, or a dream.

But the reality is, that if you simply chill for a moment, and breathe—if you stop searching for something in nothing—

If you ignore your friends in their seemingly blissfully happy marriages and relationships and simply focus on this isolated moment in time that you have to be free; to be unencumbered by children, a man, or obligations greater than yourself—you will realize how truly lucky you are.

Love is a many splendored thing, yes. But is also a laborious thing.

That man and that relationship that you will work so hard to get, will necessitate double the effort to maintain and keep.

I worry that there is this movement afoot to convince us that we need to be married and that we need to rush and that the chances of us getting married are slim so we better buckle down and hustle. I don’t know who sparked it off, but I tell you who is not perpetuating it: married people.

Because they know the shit that everyone else isn’t saying. Marriage, and indeed, serious relationships, are a marathon, not a sprint.

They are absolutely and unequivocally a marathon.

And know what?

I.don’t.like.to.run.

Don’t you want to walk for a bit?

There’s no shame in a brisk walk.

I, personally, enjoy walking with two or three people.

Sometimes even at the same time.

(Okay that last part was probably a joke).

The point is, there are plenty of men out there.

And there’s not just one good man out there for you. There are ten or twelve within a two mile radius of where you’re standing this very second. Maybe you can’t see them (two miles is actually quite a bit of fucking space), but they’re there.

And they will be there, whether you’re 25, or 35, or 45.

You have an infinite amount of time to boo up and settle down. Trust me.

Put Steve Harvey on mute, tell the statisticians to go fuck themselves, give your mother an endearing frontal lobe kiss and then walk away.

And then come out and meet me for some DRANKS, bitches!!

We’re fittin’ to get fuuuuuuuuuuucked up and make some HORRIBLE decisions like only a bunch of hard-living 7s can.

*sigh*

Okay, okay…..

8s and up can come too.

here’s a newsflash, quickie mart disciple: her period *could* be *your* friend…

This morning at 7-11 I stood behind this especially rough-looking young man who was on the phone with who I will presume was his girlfriend. He was letting her know all of the things that he was picking up–milk, a liter of fanta (don’t even pretend like fanta isn’t some of the most delicious carbonated sugar-water on the planet), a pack of AA batteries, and some cigarettes.

Now, as best I can tell, the woman on the phone asked this dear gentleman if he would be so kind as to—in addition to the rather meaningless assortment of price-gouged trifles he had at the register—grab her a box of tampons.

A virtual LITANY of almost indecipherable “English” burst forth from his ganja-black, chappy lips. “NAH SON, NAH. Ain’tnobodyupinhe-yeretryinagitchunotamponspadsnone-adat,ma!” (Translation: “I’d rather not.”) I can only surmise that his response was met with a case of “The woman doth protest,” as he went on and on while me and the rest of the store waited. “NAW!!! NAW!! WELLYOUJUSGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! YOUJUSTGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! I’m sorry! I’ma man, son! I’ma man. Ain’t nobody fittin’ ta buy no tampons, pads, none-a dat up in here! Call one of your girls to git chu some. I’m comin’ home.”

See that? This man was soooo put off by her womanly time and its accoutrements, that he couldn’t even process rational thought. He was on his way back to the place they shared in common. He was at the quickie mart where one traditionally buys last minute this and thats for sudden needs. And he suggested that this woman, who he obviously has some regard for, at the crack ass of dawn, get up, get dressed, and she, herself, come down to where he already was, to buy some shit that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy. He then supplemented that ridiculously fucked up suggestion with another liken unto it in fuckedupedness—that she call one of her friends—a stranger to their home—and have one of them, at the crack ass of dawn, come down to the store, where he already was, and buy some shit, that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy.

Now, I don’t know what their particular understanding or situation is. I don’t know either of these two people from Adam. But, I can’t help but think that this course of events warrants a: “DUDE ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!?!?! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?! DO I NEED TO CALL THE COUNTY POLICE AND REPORT MYSELF FOR REPEATEDLY PERPETRATING A CRIME? BECAUSE YOU’RE ACTING LIKE A STRAIGHT FUCKING CHILD, DUDE. APPARENTLY THE AUTHORITIES NEED TO BE SUMMONED TO OUR HOME AS I HAVE HERETOFORE BEEN GUILTY OF CHILD FUCKING.”

Now, granted, what happens to a woman’s mound of love during her monthly ladytime isn’t exactly a fistful of awesome. We’re not entirely over the moon about it, ourselves. But this campaign against a woman’s period has got to stop. Like, it has to stop. What that man did, today, was pure-tee ignorant. No other word for it.

And frankly, I don’t get what everyone is so up in arms about. In my mind, men who writhe and moan in disgust about a woman’s period are over-looking two very important factors.

1. A woman’s period is not a time to fixate on or get disgusted by what her body is doing. Rather, it is a time to get hype about what her body isn’t doing.

Namely, carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. Let me tell you something right now. There are three things in this world that I hate the idea of going on in my belly. Number 3 is my period. Number 2 is the growth of a regenerated alien life form that has, unbeknownst to myself, used my womb to house and incubate its alien-spawn in an effort to proliferate its own kind on this Earth for the ultimate purpose of intergalactic species domination. Number 1 is carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. You just be glad that box of tampons you’re holding isn’t a box of pampers.

You know what’s really nasty, Ignorant7-11Man? The skidmarks that I bet are stained in your damned drawes. I bet you don’t have a bunch of unwashed drawes in your home because that good woman is too skeeved out to wash them. I bet she doesn’t suggest that you call your boys over to put your shitstained boxer-briefs in the gentle cycle.  I’m sure she is big enough to overlook it. Here she is, unable to control having her period, and you can’t even be bothered to wipe your own ass. Be quiet, grow the fuck up, and take that home-making, washing your dirty drawes bitch some tampons.

2. A woman’s period might shine a light on the closet freak you’re kicking it with.

(Ed. Note: I like to put the word “freak” in bold so you can comprehend just how emphatically I am saying the “fr” consonant blend.)

Generally speaking, most menstruating women are inclined to deem any advancing penis as persona non grata for the next three to seven days. EXCEPT for the wha-wha-wha-whats??? That’s right, the freaks. Freaks don’t have a problem with letting you in their little molten hot box of monthly-courses love. Those bitches will put a towel down so quickly and beckon you ever-onward with their come-hither-type stares. But you won’t be in a position to know this super-carnal knowledge-secret about your down-for-whatever girl until her period comes. Here you are thinking you’re dating some mousy, traditional, mealy-mouthed broad who barely communicates above a whisper. Little do you know, there’s a kotex-casting-aside, pop a midol and let’s roll, certified Adina Howard between those Wamsutta 600 thread counts. You could even mess around and find out that once monthly she’ll let you do that other thing in that other place……………….You know what I’m talkin’ about….

So, I’m saying, fellas…

A little perspective, if you please…

Fooler shorts: Meet the Smiths

So, I spent the weekend in the company of my parents. For the sake of the quasi-anonymity this space affords, we’ll call my parents, “The Smiths.” Let’s pretend that my mother’s name is Carole Smith, and that my father’s name is Benjamin Smith.

Here’s what you should know about the Smiths. They are the most unintentionally funny people you will ever meet. Ever. They’ve been married for about one hundred years, and it shows. It really shows.

I’ve taken the liberty of chronicling below several of our exchanges that took place over my 36 hour stint home.

Oh, one quick note that will help you navigate the convos a little better. My mother calls my father “Smith.” My father calls my mother “Carole.” I call my mother “Smith,” but to save you some confusion, I will refer to her as “Smitty,” today. I refer to my father, generally, as Ben (this has changed throughout the years—during my adolescence it was “Poppa Cash,” and “Poppa Ganoush”).

Semantics:

Me: “So, you know, I guess her maternity leave is going to start any day now. She’s managed her case load pretty well I think, considering how knocked up she is.”

Smitty: “Why do you keep saying that?”

Me: “Saying what?”

Smitty: “You keep saying she’s ‘knocked up.’ She’s a married woman with a child.”

Me: “So what do you want me to say she is?”

Smitty: “She’s pregnant! Sixteen year old girls get ‘knocked up.’ 35 year old married women get pregnant.”

Me: “Whatever, Smitty. You say ‘tomato,’ I say ‘knocked up.’”

Smitty: “You think you’re so funny.”

Me: “I do. I really, truly do.”

Vernacular:

Me: “Smitty, it’s the new millennium. They don’t call it ‘porno’ anymore. It’s just ‘porn.’”

Smitty: “What difference does it make?”

Me: “A huge difference. The extra ‘o’ makes it sound so dirty.”

Smitty: “It’s porno! It IS dirty. What’s so funny?”

Me, laughing: “I said ‘The extra ‘o’ makes it sound dirty.’ ‘The extra ‘o’!’ Get it?!? ‘extra ‘o’’ !!!”

Smitty: “I don’t know whose child you are.”

Me, still laughing: “ ‘extra ‘o’’ !!!”

Daddy’s little girl:

Ben: “So, you didn’t bring anyone home.”

Me: “Nope.”

Ben: “You’ve been out a lot. No one to bring home?”

Me: “You want me to bring out everyone I’ve been ‘out’ with?”

Ben: “Why are you blushing?”

Me: “Ain’t nobody blushing, Ben.”

Ben: “Look, I didn’t ask you about your business.”

Me: “You’re trying to edge around it. You’re not gonna outsmart me, Ben.”

Ben: “You’re the one who’s blushing. I’m just saying. Your mother and I noticed that you’ve been out a lot.”

Me: “Whatever, Ben.”

Ben: “You think anyone wants to hear about your little nasty oats sowing? You think everybody’s interested in all your little DC nastiness? No one cares about your little nasty oats.”

Me: “Oh, why my oats gotta be nasty, Ben? Why my oats gotta be nasty?”

Interior Design:

Smitty: “What do you think of leather furniture?”

Me: “I generally hate it. It’s kind of a man thing, isn’t it?”

Smitty: “Yeah, I agree.”

Me: “Though I will say, I have seen a couple of leather couches of late that have been pretty nice. I don’t know that I’d buy one, though.”

Smitty: “What about accessory pieces? What about that one I bought for your father?”

Me: “Oh, I absolutely love, love, love that wingback and ottoman. That’s classic.”

Smitty: “Yeah. He’s gotten it all haggard and nasty and dirty and worn down. I swear we can’t have anything nice in this house. It seems like every nice thing I bring into this house he just tries to wear out. Do you know how much that set cost me? It’s my own fault. We just can’t have anything nice. And that’s a shame—“

Me: “Oh damn. Wow. I didn’t even see it coming this time, and you got me. Wow.”

Smitty: “See what coming?”

Me: “That wasn’t even a real question—whether I liked leather furniture. It was a setup so you bring in how much you hate dad. DAMNIT, SMITTY! Thwarted by your conniving, A-GAIN. At 29, no less. When will I learn?”

Smitty: “I don’t hate your father. I hate his nastiness.”

Me: “HE NEVER EVEN SITS IN THE DAMNED CHAIR, SMITTY!!! It’s uncomfortable!!! HE NEVER EVEN SITS IN THE CHAIR.”

Smitty: “Shut up. We can’t ever have nice things.”

Me: “THIS WHOLE HOUSE IS FULL OF NICE THINGS!!!”

Smitty: “You always take his side.”

Affection:

Smitty: “So are you going to go out with that guy or not?”

Me: “Dunno. On paper he kinda seems like a douche-nozzle.”

Smitty: “Being young and driving a fancy car doesn’t make you a jerk straight out, Fooler.”

Me: “Well, Smitty, I live in DC, land of the douche-nozzles, so I’ma throw a flag on that play.”

Smitty: “How about that Aaron. How’d that go?”

Me: “There’s no there, there.”

*my phone buzzes*

Smitty: “Who’s that?”

Me: “Some guy. Kevin.”

Smitty: “You gonna take that?”

Me: “Nope.”

Smitty: “So you don’t like him, either?”

Me: “Jesus. What is it with you, lately?”

Smitty: “You’re not getting any younger, you know! You’re always busy, but you don’t ever talk about liking anybody. Every time I ask you about somebody all you can tell me is how you don’t like them. It’s as if you don’t like anyone anymore. I just want to know what you do with these boys.”

Me: “Wait. You want to know what I do with boys?”

Smitty: “Oh, Lord. Stop it.”

Me: “Cause, I’ll tell you if you want. If you want to know what I do with boys.”

Smitty: “You better watch it.”

Me, rummaging through my phone: “I might even have some pictures saved up here if you want—“

*Smitty gets up and leaves the room.*

Animal husbandry:

Smitty, laying on the floor between my dogs: “You guys are going to have so much fun while you’re here. It’s so much better here than at your mom’s house.”

Me: “Please don’t start.”

Smitty, talking to the dogs: “There’s so much more room here, and a yard to play in. I don’t know why your mom insists on living in that nasty city with all of those nasty people.”

Me: “Immigrants aren’t nasty, Smitty. They’re just immigrants.”

Smitty, still talking to the dogs: “And you can run around and breathe fresh air. You don’t have to constantly smell all those crazy foods they’re cooking. Your home doesn’t have to smell like curry all the time does it? Oh no it doesn’t.”

Me: “Right. Cause they much prefer the bi-monthly waft of pig’s feet that comes from your kitchen.”

Smitty, ignoring me: “And me and your granddad keep our house nice and clean all the time. Not nasty like your mom’s house. You don’t have to worry about tripping over anything here, because we’ve got allllllllll this good, clean space.”

Me: “I can hear you, you know. I’m sitting right here, Smitty. Not like there’s this huge, soundproof shield surrounding you, or anything. Can totally hear every word you’re saying.”

The birds and the bees, plus another bee:

Me: “So, she’s alleging that he made her do all kinds of stuff. Sexual stuff, too.”

Ben: “Oh yeah? Like, kinky stuff?”

Me: “Mmm. In today’s world, I don’t know if it would necessarily qualify as ‘kinky,’ but he was definitely pushing her towards some threesome action.”

Ben: “Wow. And she wasn’t into it, but her husband made her do it?”

Me: “Well. I think she was fine if he wanted to add another chick, but he wanted other guys in the mix.”

Ben: “Other men? I can see if there was another woman but, no. No. That’s just nasty.”

Me: “You’re a man of strong convictions, Benjamin. I hope I’ve inherited that from you. I really do.”

Baked confections:

*After watching the SNL Betty White “muffin” sketch online*

Smitty to Ben: “Did you know what they were talking about the whole time?”

Ben: “Of course I did. Who wouldn’t get that?”

Me: “Smitty didn’t get it until like, three full minutes in.”

Ben, shaking head: “Come on, Carole.”

Smitty: “How was I supposed to know?! Who calls it a ‘muffin?’”

Me: “Everybody, at some time or another, I think.”

Ben: “You know, and those comedians talk about munching the muffin.”

Me, horrified: “BEN!!! I’ma need you to NEVER EVER say that again. Are you trying to kill me, Ben? Make it so I can never come back in this house???”

Ben: “I know with your nasty mouth you’re not talking.”

Smitty: “You don’t call yours a muffin, do you?”

Me: “I hardly think a conversation among the three of us about how I do or do not refer to my genitals is appropriate, do you?”

lesbians, reefer, and the “n-word”, oh my! fooler fridays…..

Thanks soooooooo much for the submissions, guys!!!  This one ran long as y’all LIT ME UP on facebook and by blog-mail.  Same caveats apply. I profess to know nothing about anything.  Enjoy-

Fooler—

Love the blog, girl. Okay, here’s my question. Marijuana?

Now, is that an inquiry as to how I feel about reefer, or an offer for me to smoke reefer with you?

 I’m an officer of the court, so my position, of course, is that drugs are bad. Don’t do them. They’re illegal. Especially reefer. It makes you do terrible things like, talk out of your ass about nothing, tell a bunch of your friends crazy shit like, “I can hear my heart whispering to me,” or, smile lazily to the boy sitting right next to you and slowly mouth the words, “You trying to leave?”

 Look, I’m a lawyer (though lawyers probably make up 70% of the drug-purchasing population), so you’re never going to catch me saying anything positive about drugs (in print), whether they’re perceived to be innocuous or otherwise.

 My personal stance, for a myriad of reasons running the gauntlet from political to practical is—“legalize it.”

 In saying that, I will, however, note 2 caveats. First, I didn’t adopt this viewpoint until I started practicing criminal law a few years back. Second, because I still take criminal cases, I will probably ultimately renege on this perspective. Frankly, the more people smoke, the more people will have to hire me when they get busted smoking.

 Don’t judge me too harshly. I’m generally a live and let live kinda broad, but hey—I’m a capitalist first.

 Fooler—

   I scored a 25 on your thug test! You’re killing me. You have to make a provision for “reformed” thugs, and take some points off for that. Here’s my situation. My “reformed” thug still drops the “n-word.” Even when we’re in public. It embarrasses me but he maintains that it’s just a word black people use. I don’t think I’ve seen you use it. What are your thoughts on it?

 Wow. Okay.

 A “25,” huh? Girl, if he’s dropping the n-bomb all out in the open around old people and whites,  how “reformed” could he be? I think I need to add some points for that shit.

 It’s funny that you should ask this given the week that I’ve had. I make it a practice nnnnnnnnnever to use it unless I’m in the company of my closest (blackest) friends. Frankly, I’m ashamed that I ever use it at all.

 I will say, that it takes time and practice to grow out of. That shit is so thoroughly ingrained in our collective black psyche. In my opinion, we’re all a product of two generations of black entertainers who use it for sport, and one generation of musicians who use it for endearment.

 Now, as I’ve hinted, this past week was a rough one, for me, and for the first time in my professional life, I used it TWICE at my job.

 This horrible client of mine got me so upset that I forgot myself, while on the phone with my extremely non-black, Nicaraguan secretary. Said secretary was innocently trying to relate some recent ridiculousness my retardemus client had inflicted on my office while I was away at court. I kept telling my secretary that I’d handle it when I got back, and she—agitated by him—kept countering with, “But, Mr. X said,” “But, Mr. X said.” Finally, pushed to my limits by work, and this petulant man’s incessant demands, I yelled out, “I don’t give a FUCK what that crazy nigger said.”

 It was followed by this monstrous silence.

 I must have apologized one thousand times.

 The second time happened the very next morning when I went to my office and opened up my msn.com news page and saw that Lawrence Taylor had gone on a sodomy bender. Before I realized my assistant was at my door; before I even knew what was happening, I let out a harsh, “AWWDAYUMNiggaDAYUM.”

 *sigh*

 Again, I apologized another one thousand times.

 Tell him that it makes you uncomfortable. Don’t be harsh, or condescending, or overly-critical—but let him know. Don’t say, “Shhh!!!” or “Stop!!!!” Grown people hate it when you tell them what to do, particularly in public. And if he is truly a “reformed” thug, he might give you that, “Who in the fuck do you think you’re talking to” side-eye which is equally embarrassing. So just tell him that it makes you feel awkward. Generally, when you tell a man that something he’s doing is making you ill at ease, he’ll stop.

 Now,  if he hit’s you with a shoulder shrug “I don’t give-a-fuck” or “Ain’t no thang to me,”  you know what to do—

 That’s right.

 Add +6.

 P.S. I’m sorry to anyone reading this who’s disappointed in my revelation.

 But for real—

I gotta at least get a pass on the LT one…

 Fooler—

Is it me, or do you date a lot? What’s up with that? I just asked out a girl at my job yesterday and I’m trying to take her out Saturday night. Any recommendations? What’s the best date you ever had?

 That’s a lot of questions.

1. It’s you.
2. I like boys.
3. Honestly, this really depends on the girl, so, without any real information about her I’m reluctant to give you any suggestions by way of activities or venues.

 If I were to offer any advice to a man taking out a woman for the first time, it would be to take her flowers. Men don’t do it anymore. It’s kind of a lost art. Even chicks who don’t dig flowers will appreciate the gesture. It says, “You’re not just some broad I want to bone. Those bitches don’t get flowers. You, I kinda like.”

 Hmmm. The best date I ever had.

 I asked an acquaintance to a firm dinner last year. I was having a rough time of it, and I really didn’t want to go to the dinner, and it was one of those over-the-top black tie affairs that generally make me overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

 I was so shocked when he agreed to go. He was a little bit older than me, and fairly well versed in occasions like this, so, he was perfect as far as appropriate dates were concerned. And my Lord, could this man hang a tux.

 We arrived at the restaurant, and were immediately swarmed by partners and their curious wives. I was so nervous I drank two to three glasses of champagne during the cocktail hour. Each time my glass was empty, he made sure I had another in hand (for the record, I don’t think he meant for me to down them at the rate I was going).

 When we sat down to dinner, we were seated with some members of my firm, and this random solo practitioner and his wife. My date, possessing precisely the type of aesthetic  that makes middle-aged white women tingle, struck up a conversation with the solo’s wife. Meanwhile, I fidgeted nervously and took to the wine.

 Now, while I didn’t mind him talking to her at first, the more time that went on (and the more I drank), the more aggravated I became. I mean, this bitch was totally bogarting my date. I couldn’t, for the life of me understand why she thought it was acceptable  to be on this non-stop campaign of not-shutting-the-fuck-up.  I was shooting her every manner of nasty black girl look, but she was so befuddled by my date’s eyelashes, she hardly noticed.

 When the salad course came, the waiters placed little pewter pitchers of dressing sporadically about the table. When I moved to put my own pewter down, a previously unforeseen rift in the table caused it to tumble, and deposit vinaigrette all over the white table cloth. I clumsily attempted to place my napkin over it and rub the mess out, and I could feel the heat rising about my neck. Never even missing a beat, my date placed his hand over mine and whispered, “Leave it. It’s fine.” He then diligently returned to the conversation he was having with Overly-Aggressive-Desperate-Housewife—only, before I knew what was happening, and without him so much as turning his head in my direction, he slid his own dinner napkin off of his lap, and placed it in mine.

 My heart burst into one million pieces.

 I tried desperately to subdue the Miss Celie smile that threatened to break my face in half, and contentedly picked up my fork and knife to begin on my salad.

 When I went to cut into some foreign object—that I will assert to this day had absolutely no place in a salad—be it pear or parsnip or some other such nonsense, I overestimated, and before I knew it, my weighty knife went clanging to the floor.

 My date, still seemingly firmly gripped in the bowels of this woman’s mouth space, never looking up or inclining his head, gently slid his knife next to my plate.

 What remained of my heart burst into a million stars.

 And, ultimately, the woman shut the fuck up.

 And it was a great night. Not because we had done some spectacular anything, or gone on some awe-inspiring outing.

 It was his consideration and thoughtfulness when I was at my worst, that made it amazing.

 Even sassy-mouthed bitches need to be taken care of every fair to fair.

 Even when (especially when) we don’t say so.

 Here is my fooler question..

I’ve been dating this chick off and on (and by dating I mean the white people slang version of the word) for almost two years. I’ve been with men, but there is something about THIS broad that warms me in all the right places.

This bitch is certifiably crazy, possessive, and an overall psycho. But I love it. Seriously it attracts me to her. Makes me lust for her even more. But now she wants to be in a relationship, and I would like that, but that takes the whole “dating” thing to another level I’m not sure I want. Now she has cut me off from the sex because I won’t give her an answer. What a selfish bitch!!!

What do I do???

 Wait. Before I answer. Let me get something out of the way first.

 Hahahahahahahahaahhahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha.

 Ha.

 Wait. There’s still a little left. Hold on.

 Hahahahahahaahahahahahahahhahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha.

 Okay. I’m ready.

 I’ll hit up the bigger issue first, and then we’ll move to your Fatal Attraction fetish.

 You, my friend, are in the gray zone.

Which, if you haven’t guessed it, is a no-no.

 We all do it from time to time, but it seldom ends well.

 Here’s my theory. Relationships should be black or white. No in between.

 You’re in-betweening this chick right now.

 You either wife her or fuck her.

 That’s it.

 If you select option A, you make a respectable woman out of this broad, you half-hearted lesbian, you.

 If you select option B, you screw around with her, don’t engage her on any significant level, and keep your interaction purely physical.

 The problem is, that no one ever wants to do this. When we find someone we’re attracted to mentally as well as physically, we want to kick it with them, and talk to them all the time, and blah blah blah, in addition to the 90s era boot-knock. Meanwhile, we’re reluctant to get into a full-fledged relationship because we have commitment issues, we’re not sure he/she is worth the hassle, or, you know, said party is fucking certifiable.

 Wife her or fuck her, homie. Two years is an awful long time to not be sure.

 Now, as to her being crazy….

Ummmm….I’ma give this one a firm two thumbs down. But, hey, to each his own. “Relationship” means that I’m going to have to sleep with you. Not simply sex you. Sleep with you. As in, be able to comfortably close my eyelids, with the knowledge that I won’t wake up in the middle of the night dead. Or, with you hovering over me, just watching.

 So, I personally don’t go for the mfs I have to monitor at all times. Like, if we’re going out with my friends, I have to be able to trust that you’re not going to kirk out if your dinner roll is cold. I have to be confident in our ability to agree to disagree; confident in my ability to leave my car in the lot wheels un-slit, paint job un-keyed. Can a crazy bitch give you such assurances?

 And nooooooooow she won’t even give up the drawes.

You can’t even see it, but I’m shaking my head, so slow and deliberate.

A crazy bitch-

Who you have been sleeping with-

For TWO YEARS

won’t give

up

the

drawes.

That’s just plain foolishness.

 Look, if you don’t take any of the advice I’ve offered above, please—whatEVER you do—don’t beg.

Please don’t beg.

 Just take it in stride, and see how long she can hold out.

 You know that the person who begs loses, right?

 Girl, please don’t beg.

Fooler—

The thing I like best about your blog is that you seem to say everything everyone is thinking, but is too scared to say. Are you afraid of anything?

 Hmmm. Yes.

 In no particular order, I am afraid of:

 1. caterpillars

2. the partners of my firm finding this blog

3. disappointing anyone who’s placed his trust in me

4. forced anal sodomy

5. caterpillars

 Hey Fooler—

 I promise you I sent that post you wrote about getting your back beat out to every woman I know. Here’s what I want to know. You said you wrote another post but wouldn’t publish it. Why? Now you’ve got us all curious. Will you post it, please?

 Wow, every woman you know? LOL. Thanks, I appreciate it.

 Can’t tell you why. If I could tell you why, I’d be able to post it.

 And no, I can’t publish that one. Not ever. Please see the preceding question, answer #2 for details.

Go ahead…pour a lil’ out for the homies who ain’t here…

Tupac once told us, not too long ago, that, if you mix a drink that is one part Alize, and one part Crystal, you will magically be transformed into a thug.

Prior to ‘Pac’s elucidation, I profess to having always deemed malt liquor and “Henny” to be the preferred refreshments of thug greats.

He blew my whole mind with that revelation.

But, the man was a legend.

As I sat here, tonight, working, listening to the song that compelled so many of us from the depths of our thug ignorance, I began to wonder whether I’d ever kicked it with a thug.

I concluded that I’ve certainly passed time with some rather sketchy characters.  I kept reaching a mental impasse, though,  with respect to actual application of the “thug” label.

So, I did what any intellectual worth her salt would do.

I devised a “thug test.”

That’s right.

A thug test.

I’ll walk you through it.

There are eleven categories crafted to encapsulate the complete thug experience. Within each category you will find several thug identifiers to which I’ve assigned point values, ranging from 1-10.

After having finished the test, participants can rank their potentially thuggy candidate by way of the thug scale I’ve designed. See below:

0-10 pts—Your man possesses thug attributes, but falls short of needing to be kept a secret from your parents and work colleagues.

11-21 pts—Thug. Abort.

21+ pts—Really, bitch? Are you really fucking this dude? Really?

Without further Ado, I give you…..

THE FOOLER THUG TEST

(I kept the title basic. Thugs hate complicated shit.)

 Category: Guns

-Your man has a gun at home +1

-Your man is not a cop/security guard/bodyguard and keeps a gun on his person in the event that he might have to a) jack some fools, or b) lest he, himself, become a victim of jack-timization +4

Category: Smoking

-Your man smokes Blacks, Swishers, Newports, or Parliaments +2

-Your man smokes one of the aforementioned and places one behind his ear for safekeeping +4

-Bitch, please. Cigarette smoke is nasty. That’s why your man only smokes weed. ‘Cos it’s from the Earth +4

                –Add +2 bonus points if your man pronounces “Earth” “Earph.”

Category: Children

-Your man has a child +1

                –You may deduct a point if the child is the product of a marital union

-Your man has two or more children +2

                –same deduction applies

-Your man has two or more children by two or more women +4

                –don’t deduct shit

-Add +2 bonus points if your man refers to his child/children as his “seed(s).”

 Category: Apathy

-Your man, at least once daily, can be counted on to give a vehement assertion of any of the following:

                -“I don’t give-a-fuck.” +4

                -“Ain’t no thang to me.” +4

                -“I’ma make it do what it do.” +2

-Add +3 bonus points if he precedes any of these with an, “Ay, you know me.”

-Add an additional +1 point if the “Ay, you know me” is accompanied by a shoulder shrug.

Category: Fighting

-Your man won’t shy away from a fight in public +3

-Your man starts fights in public +4

-Your man tries to fight you +6

                –in public +3

 Category: Drugs

-Your man has had any drug selling experience +3

-Your man has referred to said experience through a series of colloquialisms thereby romanticizing it and emphasizing his thuggyness (including but not limited to: “flippin’ pies,” “bakin’ cakes,” “slangin’ yay”) +4

 Category: Undershirt Savvy

-Your man expresses his creativity through his undershirt, and to this end:

                -ties it around his head in a fashion akin to Islamic Jihad +4

                -swings it around in the club when he’s hype +4

                -tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans and lets it hang down +2

                -wears a wifebeater outside of the home as a mainstay of his outfit +2

 Category: Jail/Prison

-Your man has been arrested +1

-Your man has been in jail for a period exceeding two days +4

-Your man has been to prison +6

-Your man has referred to any of the aforementioned time as having done a “lil’ bid.” +10

 Category: Tats

-Your man has a tat of praying hands anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if you’ve never seen/heard him pray

-Your man has a tat on his neck +4, knuckles +4, or face +6

-Your man has a tat of a person’s face anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if the person is his child or very much alive mother

 Category: Alcohol

-Your man drinks malt liquor +1

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag +2

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag while sitting on a stoop or front porch +4

-Your man refers to Hennessy as “Henny” +1 and/or Cognac as “Yak” +1

 Category: The life

-Your man refers to street life as “the game” +2

-Your man refers to his childhood or neighborhood friends as his “soldiers” +3

-Your man has lost two or more “soldiers” to “the game” +4

 Enjoy!

A rather lengthy dose of nostalgia or, if you see this broad in the street, tell her i’m looking for her, or, shit i’ve never gotten over volume 1….

I don’t believe in regret.

In keeping with this disbelief, I generally do whatever the hell I damn well please.

Further, I’m almost recklessly liberal with respect to my own self governance, and for the last five years I’ve oft erred on the side of adventure as opposed to caution.

As a matter of fact, whenever called to task on account of my established and frequently-articulated disbelief in aforementioned concept, I can only call to mind lamentation over that which I didn’t do, rather than that which I did.

And while there are, sadly, several events to consider (my meanderings seem to suggest that I pussied out a good bit during my formative years), my mind always goes back to one day in particular.

Third semester of my 8^th grade year in middle school.

Of all the days of my life, if I could have back but one isolated moment in time, it would have been that early spring afternoon, just outside the cafeteria, in the hallway of Brandon Middle School.

Walk with me down memory lane, for a spell…

You see, when I was a young woman of 13, I wasn’t exactly the tightest kid on the block. I was a little on the chubby side, clad in the latest baggy, androgynous fashions, and was a “brain” in the most pejorative sense of the word.

I’d recently liberated my hair from the domination of my Southern, black mother, and an excess of black beauty products leaking from my greasy scalp had made my forehead a hotbed of dermatological malfeasance.

Now, back then, the process before officially “going out with” or “going with” a boy was called “talking.” It was the infant phase of early 90’s pre-pubescent courtship. You were “talking” to someone if you carried on constant phone conversations with him, or passed him notes, and it was generally agreed that you liked him and he liked you, but he hadn’t “officially” asked you “out” yet.

While I can’t remember all of the details that orchestrated the events I’m about to set forth, it is significant to note that my two best friends and I had all began “talking” to a group of boys who didn’t go to our school at all. In fact, these boys were 16 (right, not at all winners by any stretch of the imagination), and happened to live 25 minutes away. Now, while my two friends had met the boys they were “talking” to, for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was 13 fucking years old with vigilant parents), the boy I was affiliated with (we’ll call him “Rob”) had never actually met or seen me. He simply liked my personality. Rob had asked me what I’d looked like, and I’d told him, and that was it. It was never really a big deal.

Now, there was, on the periphery, this girl, who also knew these boys. We’ll call her “Remonica Jenkins.” While my friends and I knew that Remonica and her crew of friends had contact with the guys, we never bothered ourselves with the extent. And I was so smitten with Rob and his cleverness that I couldn’t be caught up in details.

Here’s what you should know about Remonica.

That bitch was a hoodrat. Through and through. And she wasn’t tight, either. Her hair was always super thick at the root, but tightly curled at the ends. She was loud, both in volume as well as dress. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t cute at all.

Back then, the word “hater” hadn’t come into existence, but looking back, that’s exactly what the fuck that bitch was. A hater.

And, for whatever reason, my presence on this planet seemed to offend her more than anyone else.

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

One night Rob and I were discussing our upcoming plan to meet at the mall, when he said to me, “You know, I think you’re really cool. I can’t wait to finally see you.” My heart beats began to rumble together, and I responded with some sheepish, girlish, “Me too.” I was doing pirouettes on Cloud Nine when he countered with, “And I just want you to know, I don’t care what you look like. I’m not worried about it.”

Everything came suddenly to a halt. “Why would you worry about it?” I asked, the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise. Rob then let out a deep exhale. “Well, you know Remonica? She kinda said that you were busted. She said you were ugly, but, I want you to know that I don’t care.”

Now, at nearly 30, I can still remember that night so clear. I can hear the raspy tenor of Rob’s voice, and his miscalculated and boyishly feeble attempts to reassure me. But the damage was done. I could hear blood pumping in my ears. I was embarrassed and hurt and any number of emotions that the most confident of girls would have felt at that precise moment.

But more than anything, I was angry.

Now, my Southern, black mother had always warned me that, should I ever get into a fight at school, I was going to get into a whole other one when I got home.

I shoved all of her admonitions, as well as my good girl persona aside the remainder of that night, and the entire morning of the next day. I had been dishonored in the most significant court of public opinion in our fragilely strewn together world—boy court.

I could barely concentrate all day. Hour after hour passed by, my determination growing with each stroke of the minute hand. I had discussed my plan thoroughly with my two best friends and we’d all agreed that something had to be done. Remonica had to be confronted.

The only problem, of course, was that– as previously indicated—Remonica was a hoodrat.

Now, I don’t know what all everyone knows about hoodrats and their comings and goings, but, among their manifold attributes, to include: gratuitous and conspicuous consumption and spitting out of sunflower seeds, talking really loud indoors, chewing gum as if it were barbecue flavored, splitting infinitives and dangling participles, and gesticulating wildly so that their well-tended acrylic nails are on open display—

Hoodrats can fight.

Usually pretty well.

And Remonica had been in numerous fights.

And I had never been in one.

But there I stood, at 12:30, outside of the cafeteria waiting for her to come out in all of my Doc-Holiday-I’ll-be-your-huckleberry glory.

And when she casually strolled through the doors, talking to her friends, barely pausing to acknowledge me, I called out after her, “REMONICA!!!!”

Nothing.

So, I, again, called out, “REMONICA!!!”

She turned to me, then, scrawny and wiry, but nevertheless menacing, and approached me, without a care in the world.

“Wassup?” she lazily inquired.

I cautioned my voice not to quiver and said in bold intonations, “You told Rob I was ugly?” Though my speech was posed as an interrogatory, the declarative certainty was clear.

Her brow furrowed. “Nah. I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

I could feel my ears getting hot, and I took note of the crowd of peers beginning to form around us. This was it. I got louder. “Well, I talked to him last night and he told me that you told him that I was busted and ugly.”

Her campaign of denials continued, “I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

Faint “Ooooos” were starting to sound in the background.

I was relentless. Who in the fuck did this gremlin bitch think she was? This ragtag bitch had the nerve, the sheer audacity to call someone else ugly? “Yes.You.Did. YOU TOLD ROB I WAS UGLY.”

Here’s another little known fact about hoodrats. They have the remarkable ability to go from zero to “fuck it” in a split second.

I literally saw the change in Remonica’s eyes. I saw her flick that “fuck it” switch. Assuming an aggressive stance, she bucked up, and countered, “FINE THEN. WHATEVER. I DID SAY YOU WAS UGLY. ANNNNNNNNNNND WHAT?  (that was how you showed you were “’bout it” back then—a wild and elongated cry of “annnnnnnnnnd what?”). ANNNNNNNNND WHAT? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU WANNA FIGHT???”

At this point I began to panic. OH SHIT. This bitch is trying to fight me. Awww damn. I thought she was gonna back down. Now everybody’s lookin’. She looks crazy as shit in the eyes. This bitch is fittin’ to whoop my ass. She fights allllllllllllla the time. I heard she put a padlock in a sock and hit NeNe with it last week. Damn. My mama’s gonna beat my ass, too. What if I get suspended? I can’t get suspended. I’m a straight A student. This bitch ain’t got nothing to lose. I don’t even know if this bitch can read. DAMN. She’s REALLY trying to fight me. FUCK. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I felt all eyes on me as Remonica continued to stand there at the ready. I had to turn it around so that I didn’t look like a punk, but I couldn’t fight this bitch. It was too much of a gamble.

I called to mind every hip hop video I’d ever seen in my life, and doing my best rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand, said, “Man, whatever. You’re not even worth it. Whatever.”

She continued to shit talk as I walked away, and I continued to counter with “Yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever *interject rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand* whatever.”

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

I made it out alive.

No harm to my physical well being, no smear to my reputation, academic or social, and no unrest in my home life. And ultimately Rob and I connected, and were able to touch and agree on my unugliness.

But whenever I’m pressed to remember the tragedy of inaction, this story comes to mind, and I relive it, again, as if it were yesterday.

I don’t know what ultimately became of Remonica Jenkins. I don’t know if she made somebody of herself or if the sins and misgivings of her youth were redeemed in adulthood like so many of mine.

But I know what became of me. I know that I have attended some of the nation’s top schools. I know that I sat through one of the country’s hardest Bars and passed it on the first go round. I have managed to surround myself with loving family and friends. I have a career and make a better than average living when the economy hovers on the brink of a recession. Sexy men always want to see the inside of my undergarments.  Frankly, at the moment, it’s pretty fucking awesome being me.

But, in a moment’s time, all of that could be taken away. We are often felled by circumstance when we least expect it.

Which is why, I sincerely and truly wish that I had fucked that bitch up when I had the chance.

I wish I had whooped her narrow black ass and then walked around her defeated frame, taunting her with cries of “Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd what?”

To this day, I hate that broad. I hate that broad so desperately and so truly.

And to that end—

I don’t know where…

And I don’t know how….

And I don’t know when…

But, “Remonica” I’m comin’ for that ass.

I got an asswhoopin’ in my back pocket with your name on it, bitch.

The beginning………..perhaps………of the end. Fooler Fridays…

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for submitting questions for this first installment of Fooler Fridays. Seriously, I appreciate the feedback.

I didn’t know where everyone stood on anonymity so, I’ve erred on the side of caution.

Also, I haven’t posted all of the questions because a lot of you asked about my personal life, which I found a bit surprising. I’m happy to answer them in due time, but it seemed a little bit of a dick move to spend the whole forum talking about how awesome I think I am.

Oh, also, one more thing. Just so we’re all clear, I’m not a relationship expert. Like, at all. I’m actually the worst person in the entire world from whom you should expect any Oracle at Delphi relationship wisdom. I just thought, you know…y’all outta know that. If you’re relying on my representations, you will totally F yourselves in the A every.single.time.

So, without further ado………

Dear Fooler,

I am a male reader, and I love your blog. I am always a little surprised when you talk about the male/female dynamic. I guess I always thought that women didn’t go for sex outside of relationships like men do. Have I been wrong? If I have been, how can I get more of this in my life?

–Hmm. I have it on good authority that all women aren’t the same. My own group of friends is split firmly down the middle with respect to the clandestine encounter/jumpoff vs. relationship sex debate. Some go for it, some don’t.

So I guess you haven’t been wrong, per se.

LOL. You want me to tell you how to score a jump, huh? I don’t know that I can answer this to your satisfaction. I will say this, though. I truly believe that a man’s ability to get a woman into bed depends more on the man than the woman. If a man is confident, and not a complete jerkoff; if he doesn’t talk too much (seriously, this is the death knell of passion—I don’t know when y’all will learn to just not speak); if he’s not horrifically ugly (emphasis here on the modifier…we WILL fux with a little bit of monsterface if his game is right); and if he can (sparingly)say one or two of the right things—a cocktail or 3 later should find you, at the very least, in the back of her car with your hand down her blouse.

Okay, maybe it’s not that easy, but, you get the gist of it. I think that’s the best I can do without knowing you.

Hey Fooler! Great blog! Cupcakes: good or bad?

–Omg, are you kidding me?!!? GOOD! THE BEST!! Okay, as it happens, I have been on a mission I’ve entitled the Great North American Cupcake Hunt since 2007. Seriously. I’ve been trolling this country in search of its finest cupcakes for 3 years, and have only been met with moderate success. Mine is a merit-based system predicated on 3 main categories: aesthetics, actual cake-in-a-cup-ability, and handle-ease.

Aesthetics: The cupcake has to look awesome, but not at the expense of taste. I once caved and bought these beautiful poinsettia cupcakes from Whole Foods around Christmas, and those fuckers tasted like recycled toilet paper.

Cake-in-a-cup-ability: Now, there are two schools of thought on this. Some people prefer cupcakes to have a little less substance than an actual cake; to be a little lighter; to be a less heavy alternative to an actual slice of cake. Personally, I’m a strict constructionalist with respect to my cupcakes. I’m looking for the actual cakeness of cake——-in a cup.

Handle ease: This is where people in the District fuck up. Y’all are doing too much. I have to be able to hold the cupcake and transport it. It’s supposed to be easier than a piece of cake that requires a plate and utensils. Stop putting gummi worms and loads of frosting and shit on these cupcakes, people. Bitches with sticky fingers are not welcome in my vehicle or home.

Good morning, Fooler—
Me and my co-worker have an ongoing bet based on the fact that you talk about your linesister all of the time. I’m a Delta. She’s an AKA. I say you’re my soror, she thinks you’re an AKA. Who’s right?

—You are, Soror. _______________ Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated. Spring 2002, #2. The LS to which I consistently refer is my #10 out of our line of eleven. As you can imagine, we look quite ridiculous while in public, together. Doubly so as she refuses to acquiesce to my persistent request to not wear 4 inch heels.

Dear Fooler,

I love your blog. You are hilarious. I forward it to everyone I know. Me and a couple of my girls want to know why you never talk about love. Have you ever been in love? Do you think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC?

—WOW. Okay.

Simply put, love is hard, ass is simple. As I—above and beyond all things, perhaps—appreciate simplicity, I focus on ass. There’s not enough room in the blogosphere to support the one hundred million thoughts I have on love, or my own ability to mishandle it.

Have I ever been in love? Yep.

Do I think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC? Nope.

I do question, however, women who are on the active hunt for “love.” Like, why is “love” something that anyone is “looking for?” I can guarandamntee any love that’s hiding under a rock waiting to be found is not what you want.

In my experience, people who are looking for “love” really mean that they’re looking for “romance.” The two are not one in the same. Not at all. Romance is flowers, and handholding, and hushed whispers in the dark, and knowing glances across the dinner table.

You ever travel forty-five minutes through Metro traffic with a bag full of medicine and a bottle of OJ to reach your phlegm-spewing, puffy-eyed girlfriend whose face has doubled in size overnight? Cause that’s love.

Fooler, please fill in the blanks—

My friend _________ has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend _________ has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my friend _______’s child is going to be the President of the United states one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Hint: All three blanks should be filled in with the same friend’s name.

—-FYI, I never had any doubt in my mind where this question came from. You’re an asshole.

*sigh*

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my (jackass) friend, Kelly’s child is going to be the President of the United States one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

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……

A rather mediocre, albeit vulgar, musing…..

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.

You read that right.

Someone

beat

my

back

out

this past weekend.

I haven’t been right since.

I even wrote a blog entry about it.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to post it as it revealed a bit much for this quasi-anonymous space.

But just know that it happened.

Now—
As I have a relatively engaging social life, you can certainly appreciate how this unexpected fuckmedown might disorient a worldly woman like myself.

Suddenly I was looking at life through a new fuckmedowned lens. I couldn’t allow extended periods of time to pass without getting distracted by flashbacks of the weekend.

I turned down a dinner invitation with one man and passed up an evening with another.

I was trippin’.

That’s what happens when you let unexpectedly phenomenal genitals all up in your lumbar space.

Shit just ain’t the same.

I asked myself, “Am I ill? Am I unwell? Will I ever get back to good? Am I destined to walk the earth concerning myself with nothing but the memory of my rapturous encounter with this man’s pulsating, bionic, pleasuredome?”

Then it hit me.

I was sick.

But it wasn’t cancer, or hepatitis, or shingles.
I was tormented by something far worse; infected by a virus with no known cure—

I was sprung.

Like a motherfucker.

This had never happened to me, before. I didn’t know how to counteract it. It didn’t itch, or sting. It wasn’t tender to the touch anywhere that I could discern. But something was off.

And while I didn’t know how to cure it, I knew, instantly, what had brought it about.

The unexpected fuckmedown had compelled me to break all of my clandestine encounter rules.

What rules?

*Fooler’s Guide to Clandestine Encounters*

1. He can’t sleep here. Ever.
2. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he can’t sleep with me. Ever.
3. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he must leave the space he has occupied throughout the night (someplace not with me, in accordance to Rule #2) at daybreak. He cannot linger. I REPEAT. He.CanNOT.Linger.
4. The only thing he can eat up in my house is water. I don’t have a problem getting this for him. I am not an asshole.
5. At no point, at any time, should there be any unsanctioned, inappropriate touching. That is: handholding (ESPECIALLY including, but not limited to: that intertwined, interlocked finger shit), cuddling, spooning, casually intertwined limbs, cheek caresses, delicate finger tickles across the contours of exposed flesh, and most certainly not any gentle, absent-minded, soft kisses to the shoulder, forehead, or nape of neck areas.
6. If you have somehow bypassed Rule #s 1 and 3, under no circumstances are there any next day outings planned. Y’all don’t go anywhere. Y’all don’t do anything together. This rule is damn near as important as #1.

I created these rules for the sake of efficiency and economy. They are here for my protection, as well as the protection of any guest. The rules hone everyone’s focus. They leave no room for confusion. They quickly separate any gray areas into definitive palates of black and white. They are bedrock; the Magna Carta of any worthwhile NSA sexual endeavor. (Feel free to print them out and attach them to your bedpost.)

And you know what? They work, damnit.
They bloody well work.

But when you’re hit with the unexpected fuckmedown (and please note the “unexpected” modifier, as it indicates an element of surprise that chinks the armor of any otherwise-in-place shield of emotional preparedness) you lose your ability to act rationally. Your eyes mist over with the wonderment of how such a creature could come into your life. ‘Member that song in “The Sound of Music” where Maria and the Captain are all happy that they’ve found this great thing so they’re all, “somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have done something good?” Yeah. The unexpected fuckmedown is like that.

I wasn’t able to properly implement my rules, so blinded was I by the power of the UF.

*How Fooler Completely Screwed the Pooch on the Implementation of her Clandestine Encounter Rules*

1. He slept here.
2. He slept with me.
3. It might have been close to noon before either of us got up at all.
4. I made this motherfucker breakfast. The whole sha-bang. And I don’t eat meat, but I swear on everything had that man had a taste for bacon I would have shot and dressed the hog myself.
5. I don’t even want to go into this.
6. Yep. This too. Eastern Market like a bitch.

Which brings us to my current predicament. As it happens, my guest’s company was beyond tolerable.

In fact—

It was

downright

enjoyable.

YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!

SPRUNG.

I had to consult my friends.

Now, as a general rule—on account of their individual and collective monkeyness—I rarely consult my friends for anything. But I had showed my ass, and was in dire straits.

Frankie, aged 29. College professor and generally well-informed gay.

Me: “Frankie, you ever been sprung?”

Frankie: “Ummm. I think, maybe once. Maybe for like, a summer. But, after a while you come to the realization, ‘Oh. This Negro is basic as hell.’ That’s how it usually goes away. One day you see how basic they are.”

Mark, aged 30. PhD candidate; oscillates between being tender and sweet and trifling as a motherfucker.

Me: “Is it possible that I’m sprung?”

Mark: “Nah. Not after a weekend. Sometimes, if I start to feel like I might be a little sprung, I’ll call another girl over and get with her, just to prove, you know, hey—“

Karen, aged 34. Lawyer, wife, and mother. The latter two do nothing to diminish her overarching characteristic of huge asshole.

Karen: “Bitch, I hope you ain’t sprung. You know the two types of bitches I don’t get down with. Unemployed bitches and sprung bitches. Get yourself together and call me back.”

Erin, aged 29. Big time DC political hotshot with whom I should have never discussed aforementioned.

“Girl, what if this man is the one? I’m so excited!!!”

———-

I don’t know if there is a moral to this story (outside of the affirmation of my long-held belief about discussing NOTHING with my primate friends).

In all likelihood, like everything else, I’ve overthought this to the furthest recesses of my mind.

Maybe, this once, I’ll concede defeat and keep it simple.

And the simple truth of it all is—

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.

i like my facebook the way i like my wall street: heavily regulated like a bitch

Take this down.

On Wednesday, April 14, 2010, I will eradicate I suspect upwards of 40 or so people from my life.

That’s right.

Your girl’s unfriending motherfuckers on Facebook.

Asshole move?

Maybe.

But trust me, this shit is LONG overdue.

There have been some BLATANT violations of heretofore unspoken rules of Facebook decorum.

Why unspoken?

Cause much of this falls under the general rubric of common damned sense.

But, as my father, quoting I’m sure some very important quote-worthy person, once told me: “The masses…..are asses.”

Now, I’m sure I do some annoying shit on Facebook, too. And, by all means, I encourage you to engage in a virtual “calling out” of me on my shit. Get free with it. Unfriend me. I’m sure I’ll somehow find the courage to go on (probably in a fashion similar to the past 10 years when I didn’t speak to you prior to my presence on Facebook).

7 Things that will get you unfriended on my Facebook D-Day:

1. You take multiple pictures of yourself without your shirt on.

A friend of mine brought this up the other day, and I WHOLEHEARTEDLY agreed that this is my NUMBER ONE Facebook pet peeve. Dude, where-in-the-FUCK-is-your-shirt? Put that shit on. And not a wife-beater, either. Put on a shirt with sleeves. Look. I know you were a tool in high school. I get that. I know you’ve worked hard for your new body. Well done, you. But, dawg, nobody feels bad cause they didn’t fuck you in high school. Nobody. You stuttered, dawg. And you said shit that wasn’t funny. Routinely. So this shirtless “getback” thing that you’re on—it’s doing nothing for me. Mixing creatine with your milk and bench pressing Ghanian villages will not erase the impact of your wearing Karl Kani into the late ‘90s. *whisper* You can’t get that time back, dawg.

Also, the one thousand near-naked pictures –they’re vain and effeminate. And I don’t have sex with gay boys. Not on purpose, anyway. And that’s the point, right? To show me how good you look so that I’ll want to have sex with you, right? FAIL. FailfailfailfailfailfailmotherfuckingFAIL. Now, maybe my opinion means nothing to you. Maybe you don’t want to fuck me anyway. Maybe you don’t give a damn what I think. Fine. Agreed. *delete.*

2. You’ve taken one million pictures of yourself posing, or with your camera phone in your bathroom.

Is this a fucking joke? Like, are you kidding me right now? WHOINTHEHELLDOYOUTHINKWANTSTOSEETHATMUCHOFYOURFACE,MONKEY?!?!? Like, you could be the flyest person in the world, you’re still not fly enough to have 200 photos of you in any flash-friendly venue eating up pixels on my Facebook wall. Like, when I see shit like that, I’m not even mad at you. I’m mad at me. I’m mad that I even know a you. I’m mad that you somehow made it past my fervent Facebook gatekeeping efforts, only to saturate this sacred space with 35 images of you lying on your side amidst a sea of Walmart throw pillows that you called your child in from playing outside to take. You are a ridiculous fool of a person. But, not shame on you. Shame the fuck on me.

3. You are suffocating me with your religion.

Look. I’ve reached the height of my tolerance with this. And I think I’ve been more than patient. Just to be clear, people with religious references and Bible verses are not the targets, here. I don’t mind that you choose to talk about the love of Christ in your status messages. I choose to address booze and partying. It takes all kinds.

But a few of you seem to think that this is a contest of sorts. Like, you need to prove to the world wide web how much more you love the Lord than us fallen sinners. Well here’s a word that Christ will never whisper in your ear, but that I want to make certain you hear: You.are.a.monkey. You are a vine-swinging primate, and NO ONE wants to be your type of Christian. YOUR type of religion keeps people FROM church. And I may be a whole host of unholy things, but none of those things keep people from wanting to be around me. But your fanaticism keeps people from wanting to be around you. Let me show you a prime example of this:

You added me as a friend on Facebook, ergo, you don’t mind my Wayside backsliding ways at all.

I’m deleting you from my Facebook wall, ergo, you’re a completebastardtool who supplants all of her/his life’s disappointments with religious fanaticism rather than facing the world—and even if I’m way off base, you’re still annoying the shit out of me.

4. Your poetry sucks.

I’m sorry. It just does. Your poetry sucks. Pretty much the worst shit I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. And I’m not saying this as a person who graduated from one of the nation’s foremost universities and happens to have a degree in English with a Concentration in American Poetry (okay, I made that “concentration” part up). I’m speaking purely from a lay standpoint; as a casual observer and commenter. Your shit sucks. Nobody can identify with your loneliness. Your metaphors fall flat—I can only assume because they’re stupid, but who am I to say? And the hundreds of poems that you’ve posted are one, long, endless succession of trite clichés.

More to the point, what kind of asshole posts their own poetry day after day (probably the same kind of asshole who posts links to her own blog day after day)? Like, stop trying to make us “go there” with you. Stop trying to take us “to that place” with you. If it’s anything like your poetry, it sucks. Also, this just in: IT DOESN’T ALL HAVE TO RHYME! LIKE, AT ALL. This shit is vaguely reminiscent of my first attempts at hiphop freestyle, which, if you haven’t guessed, were FUCKING HORRIBLE.

Don’t know if you’re “that guy?” Here’s a handy-dandy go-to: If you woke up in the middle of the night and your soul was crying out, your fingers aching with longing until you could finally transcribe every precious, melancholy iamb to paper—post it. Everyone else—get the fuck off my page.

5. You detail every phase of your wedding preparation.

MO-THER-FUC-KER. ARE YOU SERIOUS? REALLY? REALLY? Let me tell you something. This has got to be the most annoying shit ever. An occasional update with respect to the happenings of your forthcoming nuptials= okay. A step-by-step play by play, complete with exclamation marks and sentimental emoticons= FLAGRANT FOUL; unnecessary roughness like a bitch. I won’t be a bitch and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding. But I’ll for damn sure risk it and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding prep. No one. Not even those loser bitches that blindly encourage your tomfoolery when they *like* your statuses. Here’s something. Those bitches don’t care about you. They see you as a conduit for their own crazed obsession with getting married. Those bitches are brideophiles. When they *like* that you went to go get pictures taken for the announcements, they’re really *like*-ing the possibility that somehow, someway, some desperate man will overlook the fact that they live with their mother’s spinster aunt, and collect American Girl dolls. That shit’s not about you at all. Normal people, like myself, just think you’re a huge d-bag who’s overly-excited about some shit that, statistically speaking, probably isn’t gonna turn out the way you’d hoped.

6. You’re way too old to misspell shit as much as you do; also, why are you truncating words?

You’re= you are. Your=indicates possession. There=a place (it also equals a few other things, but we’ll stick to the basics for now). Their=indicates possession. They’re= they are. It’s= it is. Its=indicates possession. Who’s=who is. Whose=indicates possession. Than=notes a comparison. Then=a time.

Now, at this point you’re thinking I’m an asshole. Fine. I’ll be that. Kindly jot the aforementioned on the inside of your palm, and we won’t have to have this discussion again.

This shit is not a conundrum, people. It’s basic grammar. It’s like, the first shit you learn, ever.

I don’t have a problem with people who can’t spell. I have a problem with people who refuse to try; people who don’t think that how you sound is important. Well, it’s important to me. And if you think that makes me a bitch, just wait until the 14th.

Also, Facebook is not Twitter. Sooooo, why are you truncating words? And whyyyyyyyyy are you translating them into Ebonics? I’ve got to believe that it takes way more time to type “dis shit iz da bomb. R u ready 2 c me on dis shit?” than were it correctly worded. Like, it literally took me 2 whole minutes to get that down. And, you’re 30, dawg. 30. You look ridiculous. So, I’m giving all of you special eds the boot.

Why? “Cuz dat shit right they’re meanz u r 2 retarded.”

7. You use Facebook as an outlet for your Passive Aggressivism; and that’s WACK.

I wish y’all would just say what you have to say to the people you have to say these things to, and stop lighting up my homepage with all of your relationship strife. Stop changing your relationship status every other day. Stop sending all of these “hidden” messages to that dude who broke your heart but can still see your status updates so you need to let him know that he’s a complete shit and you’re gonna keep on keepin’ on so fuck him you’ll be just fine, but in case any of his friends are still watching, Marcus is a complete dick. Like, stop it. Stop talking about all of the tripped out shit that “people be doin’” when really, you’re just mad at Sarah. Sarah’s the one that did that shit. You’re mad at Sarah, K? Take that shit up with her. OFF of the Internet. Also, stop leaving these cryptic messages designed to prompt queries about your overall well being. Like, I guarandamntee your “I just don’t have anything to be happy about anymore,” post is going to get you the exact opposite response from me than what you envisioned. For instance, on the 14th, the culmination of those posts is going to get you squarely kicked the fuck off of my page.

Now, again, I realize that I am not perfect. In fact, I am deeply flawed. But I submit, that anyone offended by this post has committed one of the above-referenced slights.

In which case, let’s be honest—I probably don’t give a shit about your having taken offense.

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

Remember that singing homeless man on the skateboard from “kids”?

We have not yet broached the topic of the types of men that I like.

I’m glad you asked.

I like men who smell good.
I like men who have deep-set dimples and long eyelashes.
I like men who have pretty teeth.

And that’s about it, physically.
Yep.

Given the fact that the above is a relatively short list, I won’t fault you if you assume that I’m attracted to a lot of ugly guys.

Cause, I kinda am.

As it happens, I’m a true “personality” girl. And I’ve sung my song of physical acceptance to the masses. I’ve brought shame on the heads of my girlfriends who’ve rejected suitors on the basis of appearance. “I don’t care what a dude looks like!” I’ve shouted wildly. “Do your worst,” I’ve reflected to myself. “If he’s funny and is confident in his ugly ass shit, I’m down.”

Or so I thought.

Until this morning.

Now, for the record, the main character in today’s story wasn’t “ugly,” per se.

He just didn’t have any legs.

Wait.

That’s not wholly true.

He had about ½ of his left leg, and about ¾ of his right leg (I profess to not knowing how, exactly, this happened, as I’m an even-stevens kinda girl, myself).

But, if you added it all together by my rough, cursory once-over, Dude had like, about 1 and ¼ legs.

Now, no one get defensive.

Please, don’t leave me a host of angry comments about how your daddy left ¾ of his leg in Korea and how he’s an incredible man and I should be honored to meet him.

The purpose of this tale is not to make fun of people with a sum total of 1 and ¼ leg (if my rough, cursory once-over is, indeed, accurate). I’m simply trying to flush out why the Universe makes a point of carrying the shit out of me at every pass.

I’ll set it up for you.

I was checking the mail at the front desk of my building, and trying to keep a reign on my overly-excited dogs. When, all of a sudden, this 55ish black man, clad in a cardigan, some sweats, and no legs rolled up on me.

Literally.

My dogs about flipped out.

I can only assume that the addition of a pair of wheels in a typically pedestrian area was the bacon-flavored treat on a day that had, up until then, promised staid monotony.

They excitedly began trying to stand up on their tiny legs to get at the half man/half mechanical wonder. My youngest, Cooper, took the left (1/2) leg, and the elder, Topher, the (3/4) right, and both began an avid sniff-the-stumps fest.

Immediately, I panicked. (As it happens, Topher and I had a rather unfortunate incident when I was still in law school, and she was but a puppy. This very pushy quadriplegic woman insisted that I lay Topher across her chest and over her shoulder so she could “hold” her. Still ignorant due to the blush of my relative youth, I obliged her and did as she’d commanded. Everything was cool until Topher got really excited and started licking all over the woman’s face. But the woman started making these awful wheezing and gasping noises cause she couldn’t breathe. And I tried to pull the dog off, but Topher’s nails had gotten all caught up in the woman’s sweater. Anyway, after a random passerby saw that I was about to commit involuntary manslaughter, he helped me pry Topher off. The woman lived, but the memory still lingers.)

“Topher! Cooper!” shouted I, “Stop it! Get down!”

The man simply laughed it off. “They’re all right. They’re fine. I love dogs.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He laughed again. “I’m telling you, they’re fine.” He introduced himself as CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris.

“Hi,” said I, trying to control the monsters at his missing feet.

I returned my attention to the desk where the doorman was searching through a sea of packages.

“What’s your name, Dimples?” said CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris from behind me.

Gross.
(Not because he didn’t have any legs, mind you. I’m just saying. It was gross because he was old and pervy in addition to being no-leggy.)

I sighed. “Fooler.”

“You lookin’ mighty fine in that suit, Fooler.”

Insert extended sigh here. “Thank you.”

He didn’t seem to notice. “Where your man at?”

Okay, at this point, I was simultaneously incredulous and angry.

1. I couldn’t believe that NoToes was hitting on me. At like, 8 am no less.

2. I couldn’t believe that he was hitting on me with like, regular game—tired game, mind you, but, for all intents and purposes, regular game—like, saying shit to me that motherfuckers with feet would say.

3. He was doing so with a LEGITIMATE expectation of reciprocated interest. (I mean, I’m not saying I’m entirely against dating people without limbs—I’d just prefer to like, meet you when you have limbs, fall in love with you, and then stoically stand by you when some tragedy befalls you and leaves you a shell of a man with nothing but 1 and ¼ leg [if my rough, cursory once-over is to be believed].)

“Fooler, where’s your man at?” he repeated.

Like, I couldn’t even formulate an answer. “Ummm—“

He continued, “Cause if you were my woman, you wouldn’t ever walk these dogs alone, girl. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Okay. Two things here.

1. CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris, if you were my man, you’d have some prosthetic limbs on those absentee, phantom feet. And…

2. YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ LEGS, DAWG!!! YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ LEGS! YOU’RE NOT “WALKING” ANYWHERE!!! AND NOT JUST WITH ME, EITHER. YOU’RE NOT WALKING ANYWHERE———NOT WITH ANYONE——————————————-NASTYASSBASTARD.

At this point, I could literally feel the eyes of this differentlyabledpervbot looking me up and down—like he was trying to do a rough, cursory estimate of how many legs I had (2, you piece of shit).

“You must not have no man. Why you ain’t sayin nothin? You shy?”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. “I just have a busy day ahead. I’m just thinking about all the stuff I have to do,” I answered.

“And you don’t have no boyfriend to help you?”

Dawg—the Americans with Disabilities Act must be self-empowering as a bitch.

“I have a boyfriend,” I finally answered.

CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris was undaunted. “Where he at?”

And you’ll have to forgive me for this, but I said, rather harshly, “He’s at work.” The implied, “where yo’ ass would be—if you had ¾ more legs” was barely disguised at all.

“Aight den,” he simply said, as he pridefully rolled away. I mused that there must be plenty more bitches where I came from.

*Moral of the story*

My righteously indignant protestation of “I don’t care what a man looks like” is patently false.

And I apologize for my superficiality in advance, non-walkers.

My bad, America.

Motherfuckers need legs to date me.

8 Things that I say to you that I really don’t mean. Like, at all.

1. “Have some.”

Okay, do not ever, ever think that I’m sincerely offering you any of the food off of my plate. Ever. As a matter of fact, one of my greatest pet peeves is when someone gets food while we’re at dinner, and then offers me some. Immediately I am thinking, “Shit. Now I’ve got to offer yo’ ass some of my food.” Hence, the seemingly hospitable, “Have some.” Look. I don’t want to taste your food, okay? That’s why I ordered this shit right here. Cause this is precisely what I wanted in my mouth. If I want any of what is on your plate, I will order it for myself. And between you and me, I’d prefer that you not help yourself to any of that shit when it comes, either.

2. “If you need anything else, call me.”

Note the “else.” Odds are, if I’m saying this to you, we’re already at a place where I’ve performed for you some tremendous boon; done you some colossal solid. I’m just saying it to be nice. I’m fairly certain that whatever I’ve already done for you has more than met the requisites of any bullshit friendship be-there quota I’m obligated to fulfill. Do us both a favor and don’t take me up on my courtesy lend-a-hand/lend-a-hand. Cause you’re gonna ask. And I’m gonna make up some transparent excuse as to why I can’t really help. And you’re gonna get defensive cause I’m the one who made the offer. And I’m gonna get defensive cause you know I just got done doing some out of hand shit for your silly ass, and really, you should just take that and run with it you ungrateful, greedy sonofabitch. And then there’s gonna be all this awkwardness between us. When you could have just taken my statement for what it really meant: “Since I just got done doing shit for your ass, if you need anything else, call someone else.”

3. “If I don’t pick up, leave me a voicemail.”

Here’s a little freebie from me to you: I never check my voicemails—personal or professional. Period. Ever. Know why? They’re full of angry messages from people I never call back. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

4. “I’m actually looking at your file right now.”

HA! Only if your “file” has a picture of Sandra Bullock on the cover and an update as to how Kate Gosselin is doing on DWTS, suckaaaaa!!!

5. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone.”

I say this so that people will think, “You know what, that girl’s got all of that education, but she’s still so down to earth.” Total horseshit. I’m as bourgie as they come. As a matter of fact, I generally regard myself as being better than:

-bitches who wear white leather boots

-bitches who have neck tats

-bitches who pronounce “Maryland” “Murr-lan’”

-bitches who pronounce “available” “uh-vellable”

-bitches who say, “it’s the principality of the situation”

-bitches who justify things on the basis of “the simple fact reason”

-bitches who wear “suits” to work made of material that stretches

-Sarah Palin

6. “My dogs don’t bite.”

Now, I say this to my neighbors because my dogs are little hellraisers, and when sufficiently revved up, can be a mite rambunctious. I find that the above refrain creates a sense of calm, subsequently disinclining people to call animal control. The truth of the matter is, I really have no idea whether these fuckers will bite. And, frankly, were I a betting woman, my money would be on two terrier mandible prints being firmly embedded in your backside. I mean, they haven’t bit anyone yet, but, Dude—they’re animals. They shit outside and are amused by squeaky things. Mike Tyson has similar credentials, and he bit the shit out of Evander Holyfield—and he’s (arguably) human. My advice to you would be to tell your little monkey ass granddaughter to get out of their faces, and stop taunting them with sticks. I have one hell of a homeowner’s insurance policy. I guarandamntee it’s gonna cover any shit that might pop off surrounding me and mine.

7. “Nothing happened between us.”

Right. Be forewarned. I’m pretty much the shadiest broad I know. So, if I give you this answer, you should probably ask some legitimately thorough follow up questions. If at all possible, you should endeavor to look me in the eye and hold my steely gaze while doing so, for, in past, I’ve interpreted this to mean:

- (anywhere from) nothing good or noteworthy happened

-(to) just a little manly-calloused-palm-to-breast-action happened

-(to) he’s-just-a-little-bit-ugly-so-anything-that-did-transpire-doesn’t-count, and therefore, never happened

8. Any prayer that requires that I repeat something about the Lord’s Will being done versus my own.

Yeah, look. I know I’m not supposed to say this, or think this, but, we talk a lot in church about the Lord’s Will being done. Which, I might add, I’m all for. Here’s where I start to take issue. Obviously, what God wants for me is the right path to take. In my mind, that’s understood. So, all these long-winded prayers about throwing out what I want and only wanting what God wants, are, to me, a little excessive.

Frankly, I don’t know why a more appropriate hope isn’t simply that God’s wants and my wants coincide. I actually think that would be quite nice. Like if it just so happened that both God and myself wanted to pay off all of my law school debt. It would be as though God and I were simpatico. And I’ll be a John Brown if that doesn’t look just like a blessing to my little chesnut, sinning eyes.

All I’m saying is, I don’t know why these preachers want me get rid of all of my wants, and replace them only with God’s. I’m no theologian, but I don’t think that’s in “The Word.” I don’t think that “Thy Will be done” necessarily means, “bet not nobody else have no will.” See…it doesn’t even sound right when I try to conceptualize it in print. I had to revert to slave dialect just to even convey that point. So right, if Elder Reverend Doctor Bishop Pastor Williams wants me to repeat something to that effect, I’ll mouth the words so as not to be the Judas fly in the ointment, but I’m pretty much gonna have my fingers crossed the whole time on that one.

midnight freebie: my own take on something you’ve no doubt seen before, or, “more southern black people secrets…”

1. We will completely bastardize your ethnic food. Always.

This weekend I had to explain to a room full of people what “yok” was. Haven’t heard of it? Let me blow your mind, right quick, with the recipe.

–Take one old Chinese food restaurant carton. Rinse.
–In a separate bowl, mix copious amounts of ketchup, hot sauce, soy sauce and vinegar. Stir.
–Boil noodles. If you’re feeling particularly cultural, get lo mein noodles. But note, any noodle
will do. Only have spaghetti noodles? Spaghetti noodles it is.
–Dice one onion.
–Mix noodles, “sauce” and onion together and pour into rinsed out carton. Add one fried or
baked chicken wing, and one whole boiled egg.
–Serve.
–Feeds 1-2 palette-challenged persons of color.
Impromptu Q&A:
Q: “But, Fooler, do southern black people really eat that?”
A: “Yes. But recent studies have localized the popularity of this dish to my 757 roots.”
Q: “Why is it called ‘yok.’”
A: “Cause “yok” sounds Chinese to our southern black ears. Our ears are pretty fucking racist.”

2. As a people, we’re only recently coming round to the idea of having animals as companions.

And by “companion” I mean, mutt of no known origins that someone gave us who eats table scraps, and maintains an active residence outside, tethered to a tree. When we are so advanced to actually permit the animal into our home, he is not allowed on the furniture, or on the bed, or in the kitchen, or near the front door (cause we know he’s plottin’ his escape), or really anywhere outside of a 2 by 5 foot space out of the way, where he is allowed to lay quietly. And he doesn’t have toys. He has a roof over his head. And for that, he should be thankful.

3. We call the Bible “The Word.”

4. We reserve the right to quote, misquote, or attribute any notion that should strike us, but need
validation of some kind, to “The Word.”

For example, my grandmother once got into an extremely heated argument with one of my older cousins. Retelling the story to me, my grandmother advised, “The Word says, ‘If a man comes into your home and disrespects your home, take your hand and strike the other cheek. That’s what The Word says.’”

That was the first time I ever had to give my grandmother what would become my signature *blank stare*.

5. We do not understand your position of authority. Period.

A lot of people mistakenly confuse this for black people being “disrespectful” or “having an attitude.” No, no. We sincerely don’t understand why you—irrespective of who the particular “you” is: teacher, judge, cop, meter maid, etc—get to tell us what to do. So, don’t take offense if one of us angrily shouts, “Who in the fuck are you?” That, right there, is a genuine query. We really have no idea who you are, and by what vested authority you are now seeking to impose your rules or constraints. So, if it seems like we’re “talking back” in court, or, at the police station, don’t be upset. We’re just doing a cursory background check; authenticating the source, if you will. As a people, we have found, that it pays to be thorough; to ask the proper questions. We hardly want another Middle Passage on our hands, do we? That shit was a complete fiasco.

6. Our hands become an impenetrable/soundproof shield the moment we use them to cover our
mouths while telling a secret.

This is true no matter how loud we are. If you see that cupped hand go up to a black woman’s mouth, that means, it’s secret time, and even if you hear what is said, you’d better not hear what is said. And if you should slip, and question or repeat what you heard while you weren’t supposed to be hearing, you will immediately be called out for the nosey-ass eavesdropper that you are. Even if I do it right next to you. Even if I loud-speak your name. Whatever I said is none of your business. I’m not talking to you. Hence the impenetrable/soundproof shield hand-cup.

7. Last night’s dinner + grits = breakfast.

This rule is absolute and unwavering. If we had Papa John’s for dinner last night, we’re having Papa John’s and grits for breakfast this morning. Also, any person who doesn’t eat grits, is, by default, an asshole. And for good reason. Why in the fuck wouldn’t you eat grits? You have the ability to make them taste like whatever you want them to taste like. They’re pretty much the most inoffensive food ever. If you don’t like grits, I can only conclude that it is through no fault of the grits, but rather is directly attributable to your own saditty-ness. And I can’t have any saditty bitches eating in my house.

8. Nobody likes a saditty bitch.

Saditty—adj. Black in origin. Suh-did-dee. Sometimes, “ha’saditty” or “high’saditty.” : Any woman (read as “bitch”) who is stuck up or thinks she’s too good (feel free to remove the “s” from “thinks” and “she’s” to use them colloquially in the singular for more effect. e.g. “She think she too good”). Now, men, too, can be saditty. But, odds are, if a man has gotten to that point of description, he is acting like a bitch, anyway, and is therefore more accurately characterized by one of the black people “bitch” derivatives (e.g. “bitchassmotherfucker,” “bitchassbitch,” “bitchmademotherfucker”).

9. At age 65, all black women, without warning, will become holy-rolling church women.

They will attend church 2-3 times per week, and busy themselves with the beautification ministry, the usher board, the deaconess board, and choir. They will promptly forget any and all references to any time prior when they were dirty ass tramp ass hoes like the rest of us. Any attempt to remind them will get you a speedy and inaccurate reference to “The Word,” that will, in all likelihood, make no sense at all. Black people do that, you see. We throw bible verses at you to throw you off our scent. For instance, Q: “Sister Maybelle, did you make sure to give your five dollars to the youth fund?” A: “The Word says, ‘If you give a man a fish, he’ll only eat for a day. So we all gotta start teaching these children how to fish.’ That’s what The Word says.”

10. We pretty much hate Mexicans. For no reason in particular.

Look. While this sounds racist (cause it is), it’s best to just take this one and go with it. Cause if you ask a southern black person why he hates Mexicans, it’s gonna get really ugly, really quickly. Trust me. David Duke would be beside himself with all the generalizations we’re gonna give to you as justification for why we do. So, please, for everyone’s sake, take my word on this, and simply charge it to the game. We pretty much hate Mexicans.

But we reserve the right to make quesadillas. And put hot sausage in them.

11. The more crazy-sounding our vernacular is, the more “current” or “now” it is, and by proxy, cool.

Seriously. Your inability to understand it is less a result of its stupidity and more a function of your own ignorance to all things cool. I mean, sure, you could inquire as to the actual definition of the word used; you could try to discern its etymological origins, but that wouldn’t be cool, now would it? I’ve known a guy for 10 years who continues to use the same word in multiple capacities one thousand times a day. To date, I have no fuckin’ clue what this word means. I don’t know if it’s a noun or a verb or an adjective. I just know that he uses it all of the time. And he’s pretty cool. So my not knowing the word quite naturally means that I’m not as cool as him. But one of these years I’m gonna finally get it. And then, whooooaaa buddy.

Seriously. Not knowing a word or a phrase, and then bringing attention to your not knowing can cost you in southernblackpeopleland. I once learned this lesson the hard way. When I was 15, and of questionable aesthetic worth, a boy who I really liked took an interest in me, and one day, while sitting on the church bus (I don’t have time to explain the “church bus” phenomenon at this juncture), said to me: “Aye. Come ‘ere shawty and lemme put a bug in ya ear right quick.” Before I even knew what was happening, the saditty bitch inside of me rose up, made my face perform horrific contortions, and compelled my mouth to speak, “What?!! Huh? What are you even saying?” My then-soulmate just shook his head, woefully, and uttered a dismissive, “Nevermind,” before he returned to the back of the bus with the other boys. I heard he’s on drugs now.

12. We think everybody is “on drugs.”

Sudden weight loss? She’s on drugs. Acting kind of skittish? All hopped up on drugs. Inexplicable and perpetual state of brokeness? Using them drugs. Also, the older we get, the less inclined we are to quibble over details like what kind of drugs are being used. Heroin, Marijuana, Cocaine—all “drugs” or “dope” to us. Sometimes we’ll switch it up and say, “On that stuff.”

Oh, and something else. All these people on A&E who are always all, “I just want Joey to stop smoking crack. I don’t want Joey to die,” don’t speak for my people. Lookit. I don’t know about anybody else, but black people don’t die from smoking crack. Crackheads have proven themselves to be virtually indestructible members of our community. I have an uncle who has had every internal problem known to man, in addition to colon cancer. Do you think they do courses of chemo in the backwoods of the country? Hell no. They smoke crack. And you know what? That man has a clean bill of health to this day. My grandma says it’s a miracle. And I agree. It’s the miracle of crack.

13. “The Color Purple” isn’t a movie. It’s a rite of passage.

All black women and black gay men aged 24 and above should be able to quote 4-5 scenes from “The Color Purple” verbatim, and perform them with emphasis if so required. They should be able to do this on the spot. It’s our Invictus. Personally, I don’t trust any black woman that doesn’t know at least 3 direct quotes from the movie. And let me be clear. While I can certainly appreciate your having read the book, I think we can all agree that even Alice Walker couldn’t have envisioned the magnitude of Oprah saying in terse, brusque tones, “All my life, I had ta’ fight.”

See what I did there, just now? I just gave you a quote from a scene. See how I did that? I got at least 25 more where that came from.

Diplomacy begins at home…with your jumpoff…

By all accounts, my friend, Dominic, is the stuff clitoral tumescence is made of.

He’s tall, good looking, well built, clever, talented.

In short: he could get it.

And he does.

He “gets it” in droves.

Mass quantities of “it” has been “got” by my boy.

So, as you might imagine, I was more than shocked—and truthfully, tickled—when my friend, the life-sized
panty magnet, called in a state of alarm, yesterday.

It seems that Dominic, while caught up in the primal throes of passion with his relatively new NSA ladyfriend, had—howshallwesay—“finished” before his company had really “started.”

But that wasn’t the funny part.

Wait.

Fuck it.

That was definitely a big part of the “funny.”

It wasn’t, however, the funniest part.

Rather unexpectedly, his little buxom dish had quite a mouth on her. And, not in the good way that made him hot for her in the first place.

More in the, “Dude, are you serious?” way.

And that’s a direct quote.

“Dude, are you serious?”

What followed was a veritable lambasting of Dominic’s ego.

Like, this bitch spared no expense.

She went all out on how “below average” Dominic was (btw, Dom and I had to settle on “below average,” as he regarded my colorful—and I thought, helpful—barrage of adjectival language a mite insensitive).

Now, while I laughed throughout the entirety of Dominic’s tortured retelling—and if I’m to be completely honest, for a good while after he’d hung up—his story did give me pause.

You see, I’ve long been an advocate of the truth with respect to these things. Sex is not theater, therefore its participants need not fancy themselves actors. Just because sex necessitates that one perform with someone (most times), it doesn’t necessarily follow that one be compelled to perform for someone. Besides, most of us spend so much of our waking lives sheathed in one form of falsehood or another. People should be truthful when they’re naked. It’s only right.

So right. The proverbial Meg Ryan “fake it” of lore should be cast aside.

But hottdamn, does it have to be at the expense of diplomacy?

At one point, this bitch told Dominic, “I mean, if it’s bad, it’s bad.”

Where I come from, that’s a punchinthemouth-worthy offense.

The problem, however, is, that Dominic, and indeed, the Dominics of this world, has too-long crested on a wave of dickyoudownability. His self-propelled swag factor has skyrocketed to unquantifiable proportions. And, in all fairness, this humbling was long overdue.

Not to mention the fact that the flip side of a Dominic—let’s call him a “Larry”—has far too long skated on a sea of female faked orgasm benevolence. The Larrys of this world swear on the souls of their dead mothers that they are putting a hurtin’ of the first water on that ass. When, really, they’re just revving up ample fodder for girlfriend brunches—and, might I add, this blog.

Now, as I’ve suggested, both of these men have ego issues. Most men any of us want to sleep with do. The difference between them is simple, however. Dominic had an off day. Larry’s life is an endless succession of off days. Dominic you want to invite back for a second go. Conversely, Larry can go out to the desert alone and die.

But bad behavior cannot be rewarded or tolerated. And if you give Dominic a gold star for his pisspoor performance, he’s only a few more “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!! Damn, girl. My bad”s from being a Larry.

Please know, that an incapable jumpoff soon ceases to be a jumpoff at all.

That shit’s called a “husband.”

So, we are confronted with the competing quandaries: “How do you deal with your Dominic when he performs like a Larry?” vs. “How to keep a Larry from leaving your house feeling like a Dominic?” Bear in mind, we want to do all of this without getting hit.

Here’s how it’s done.

1. What you want to say: “That was WACK.” “Are you SERIOUS?” “What. The. Fuck.”
What you should say: “Huh.”

Now, note that the “Huh” wasn’t followed by a question mark, but rather, a period. It is said with a degree of levity. It conveys to your listener a sense of bewilderment and surprise, as opposed to confusion and dismay. Its efficacy lies in its brief communication that something, indeed, is off. That there is, in fact, a problem. And that since ya’ll have both undressed, started and finished in the span of 6 minutes (sorry Dom), that problem is, in all likelihood, his bullshit performance.

2. What he’s going to say: “I’m so sorry.” “This has never happened to me before.” “Damn.”
What you should say: “ Mmmhmm.”

Now, be careful with this one. You are going to want to go with that snarky black girl, old, Aunt Jemima, southern Baptist, “Mmmmmhmmmm.” That is NOT the right one. Yours is a light, matter of fact, two second staccato. Though brief, it speaks volumes. It says to your listener, “I, too, acknowledge your shortcomings (that was almost too easy), and agree that the situation in which we find ourselves—the one characterized by your patent inability to perform the most basic of tasks on this ass I am so freely giving you—is complete bullshit.”

3. What you want to say: “I wasn’t even close.” “What are you, thirteen?” “Didn’t you know what you were coming over for?”
What you should say: Nothing. Wordlessly put on your clothes.

Now, it is imperative that you start to get dressed first. Feel free to take your time in your ministrations, however. Sitting on the bed buck nekkid and ashamed is going to make him feel like a little bitch. And that’s exactly what he is for wasting your time with his prepubescent bullshit.

Ladies-

Do not do not do not do NOT engage him in a dialogue about this shit. Because:
1. He already knows what the fuck he did. There is no victory in flogging a dead horse. Or a worthless penis, for that matter.

2. He’s going to want reassurance. He actually wants you to tell him that it’s okay. Now, maybe if this is a man who you love, or your husband, maybe it really is okay. Maybe it’s a hapless fluke. But if this man is a jumpoff, you should be incensed. And you know what? It is NOT okay. If you go to a restaurant and order food, and what is brought to you is a heaping pile of prematurely ejaculating penis, what are you gonna do? That’s right. Send that raggedy, unacceptable shit back.

3. You know what? Maybe it’s you. Maybe he got bored and wanted to end it. Maybe he got sidetracked by the third nipple he never saw rising up from your sternum, and in a flash, his disgust rendered him incapable of progressing.

4. You could get upset and talk crazy. This will, in all likelihood, make him upset and talk crazy. Consider his already-vulnerable state of mind—brought on by his triflingness. Listen, if #3 is the case, when you talk wild, this dude WILL tell you about the role you played in his penile fail. And believe you me, the last person you want talking about your birth defect and cottage cheese ass is the cantfuckSOB who just ruined your whole night. Plus, you know….he could hit you (which is entirely counterintuitive to this course of action).

So there you have it.

Easy enough, right?

And he’ll get the point, and simultaneously avoid catching a charge.

Cause really, that’s what life is all about. Balance.

Balance and not having your upper lip all swollen.

protecting our white women, or “don’t let the well-spoken black man in the big, white house fool you…”

Listen up, white women. This one’s for you.

White women of America, I’m worried about you.

Truly.

I’ve taken some time, and given this matter some real thought, and what I am left with, is a feeling of absolute terror about your collective future and overall well being.

As it happens, having observed several of your lifestyle choices these last few years, I’m beginning to have legitimate concerns about your safety, and the long-term sustainability of your particular race-gender strata.

And I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you at all.

I blame Barack Obama.

That’s right.

The President of the United States.

But he’s not alone.

He has a co-conspirator.

The Conservative, Evangelical Right.

Yep. You read that right.

Barack Obama and the Conservative, Evangelical Right are acting in concert with each other for the singular purpose of bringing your particular race-gender subset to absolute, irreparable ruination.

It seems as though President Obama’s mere presence in the White House has fueled radical talk, spurned on, and perpetuated by, the Right.

The substance of this radical talk?

That we are living in a post-racial America.

Time and time again, our friends on the Right have assured us that we need only look to Pennsylvania Avenue’s newest resident to evidence the fact that the topic of race is no longer a viable issue of debate in this country.

Listen to me, white women. Listen good.

It’s a new day.

It is.

But it’s not the newest motherfucking day ever. K?

Like, we’ve put on a fresh coat of paint, installed hardwood floors, and upgraded to stainless steel appliances, but the plumbing is still old as a bitch. Like, 400 years old.

Here’s where you all come in.

Now, it seems as though—and, forgive me, maybe this has been building for a long time and I simply haven’t noticed—you all are getting more and more, howshallisaythis?hmmm—BUCK in your interactions with black women like myself.

And let me be the FIRST to say that this is FINE. FINE.

Irrespective of our don’tfuckwithmepersona, black women do NOT have the franchise on being the baddest bitches around. You do not have to take shit off of anyone. Ever.

No matter what more left-leaning, politically sensitive pundits will tell you, you are under no obligation to lay down rose petals in the paths of all blacks that you encounter (though, i must admit, this would be lovely). It is high time we all acknowledge that white people are not their collective past, and are not accountable for the ills perpetrated on the black race for the preceding generations (Editor’s note: I reserve the right to be legitimately angry as to the derivative, sub-surface, Establishment, systematic shit that goes on today).

So, let’s be clear. You don’t owe anybody anything, white women. You don’t have to cower in fear of the Laqueeshas, and the Rafiheenas, or the L’ShellaMichalas. Those black bitches don’t run you. You don’t have to be afraid of shit.

But……….. and i’m just saying this as a practical mattter—
Maybe you should be.

Laqueesha, will still straight STOMP your ass, in this “postracial America.” And I guarandamntee, that if, and when she does, this “new day” is suddenly gonna seem old as a motherfucker.

Now, be it resolved, that no race of people is more capable of rendering a sound asswhooping than another.

I do not think that white women are soft, or punks, or unable to deliver as many thrashings as a black woman. I watch “Bad Girls Club.” I know what’s up.

My concern, rather, is that, some of you all, perhaps caught up in the euphoria of President Obama—and idunnoforcertainwhoamitosay?—have lost sight of, or, are maybe not really even aware of all of the anger that black women continue to have—not towards you personally, mind you, but in general—about our place in society. And, even if this anger is not about you, when you rise up and get, you know, BUCK, it brings it allllllllllll back to us.

And, suddenly, we want to fight you.

Sad, I know.

But true.

And, let me tell you. The heart of my concern for your well being doesn’t stem from the potential interactions you will have with the Laqueeshas, or the Rafiheenas. Oh no. I’m worried about your interactions with the Debras, the Rachels, the Foolers.

Because, even I, an educated, well-bred, woman, has, from time to time, wanted to step out into the street and fight a white woman like a man.

And therein lies the problem.

You all are under the impression that I’m post-racial, too.

No, no, Boo.

No.

I’m racial as a bitch.

Racial-racial.

All caught up in it.

Racialracialracialracialracial.

Racial.

And, now that you are aware of this, white women, let me reiterate that I do not expect you to cower in fear of me. That is ridiculous. I don’t hold any ill will towards any person that I do not know. White people have given me beautiful things. String cheese, Vampire Weekend, Gerard Butler. Both of my dogs are white!

And when I am wrong, say I’m wrong. When you take issue with me, say that you do. Call me out on all of my shit. Confront me.

But I beseech you.

Watch your motherfucking tone.

That’s allllllllllllllll I’m saying.

Watch

your

motherfucking

tone.

I won’t talk wild to you. And i’m gonna need your solemn oath that you won’t talk wild to me.

Because, while our exchange may get heated, and while both of us are aware of our ability to say whatever the hell we want to say, I’d bet my hands that a whole one of us isn’t expecting to get punched in her motherfucking mouth should the convo take a turn in the wrong direction.

And that’s yet another problem, white women.

Yet another problem.

You’re getting black girl buck, and expecting white girl results.

If two black women, no matter how professional or old they are, get into a verbal sparring—irrespective of the venue—both of those women know full well that a potential outcome of the conflict is some ultimate physical confrontation. We are all well aware that, at any point, some shit could pop off, and an unusually mouthy bitch might have to take an elbow to the face.

I don’t know if you all are all cognizant of the fact that black women—and I’m not saying that we encourage violence, or want it; most of us abhor it and all of the stereotypes that exist with respect to our relationship with it—go into an argument knowing that, at some point, they might have to “put [their] hands on this bitch” should she happen to get out of pocket.

So you, too, should comport yourselves with a working awareness of this potential outcome.

And that’s all I wanted to share.

I just want you all to be safe.

And loved.

I want us to have an open dialogue with each other on things both trivial and substantive. Our respective peoples need that dialogue so desperately, and I welcome the opportunity to have it with you at every pass.

But, might you get your ass whooped should that dialogue get unexpectedly contentious, and you happen to talk down to me or invade my personal space?

Yes.

“Yes, you can.”

Church, we go hard, we go hard.

My friend, Michael, and I are sinners.

Like, we do it big.

Now, I’m not saying this with any measure of pride.

In fact, I am shaken to the core at the prospect of being as woefully tethered to the pursuits of the flesh at nearly 30 as I was at 23.

Well. Maybe not shaken to the core.

But I am admittedly ill at ease with what is beginning to seem like my permanent residency on the Wayside.

Now, much like myself, my friend, Michael, at times, can hear the faint whimpers of his soul crying out—sometimes on his way to class, other times while a dashing, sinewy man whispers hushed verbal caresses into his boy/boy-inclined ears.

One day it occurred to us that our love for high risk behaviors might bring an abrupt, and premature end to our lives on this Earth. We were desperate to negotiate amends with our Maker.

So, together, Michael and I took to the streets.

The church streets.

And for a period of close to 8 months now, we’ve been on the hunt to find the “right one.”

Now, our quest has gained us some haters.

My linesister has long protested, in no uncertain terms, the mess that is our “church gypsy,” “congregationally promiscuous” existence.

But Michael and I are steadfast. We know our church home is out there. And we’re not resting til we find it.

And we haven’t made any pre-set determinations with respect to denomination, either. In fact, our only rule concerning the matter at all is that, no matter how late we stay out the night before, we go to church the next day. No matter what. This is the law.

Now, generally, we hear of a church, and go visit. But, the majority of the time, Michael has come up with the selected choices. Be it resolved that black gay boys have the franchise on all things church-related.

This is not to say that I haven’t chosen a church myself. Cause, up until the point of today’s story, I had chosen a church. One, to be exact.

You see, I’d selected a Pentecostal number in Northeast. And, Michael was hesitant, but relented against his better judgment.

What followed was a full fledged concert, interrupted once for an awards and recognition ceremony, and then succeeded by a sermon whose message carried us well into the 3.5 hour mark before a wild-eyed Michael abruptly turned to me and whispered harshly, “Can we leave?”

I was precluded from making any further church selections for several months after that, until two weeks ago, when Michael informed me that my probation was over. I was, once again, free to choose a church.
I hadn’t had much time to really give the matter much thought. And I’d long fielded an invite from my fairly religious cousin to check out her church.

When I’d called to inquire about the time service started, she’d indicated eleven. I even thought to myself how perfectly such a late time slot would accommodate our night-before activities.

When I saw the address, I was further delighted still by the fact that it was only minutes away from Michael’s home. I gave him the details and forewarned him that the church might be a megachurch (we aren’t really interested in those).

And then we partied.

We partied hard.

I sported my new slinky, tight LBD, and just knew I could get the biznass with the sweetheart neckline and my lone, exposed mocha truffle-colored shoulder.

It was a night rampant with seductive dances, buckets of liquor with our equally debauched group of friends, not to mention the occasional random outburst of song in the traffic packed streets of the Corridor.

It was a colorful night. A night characterized by bouncers—bouncers we (meaning I) let touch and feel all up on us (me), and bouncers at the Diner who my friends, led by my belligerent, righteously indignant linesister, harassed and assailed with verbal lambasting.

It was a solid night.

And when I walked into my home at 5:30 in the morning, I was certain that death was sure to follow should I dare open my eyes before ten solid hours had passed. But, recalling Michael’s and my rule, I begrudgingly set my clock for 9:30.

Later that morning, as I drove to pick up Michael, I was deeply contemplative about my physical state. My red-rimmed eyes freely gave away the secrets my waning liver seemed to keep. Michael was unresponsive to my calls and texts, but I drudged onward. When I arrived at his home, he finally picked up the phone, sounding like a pre-revolutionary Marcus Garvey. He indicated that he was naked, and in bed, but would rush to get ready and be down momentarily. When Michael got to the car, 15 minutes later, I quickly dismissed his apologies. My gps indicated that the church was only 2 minutes away. We’d actually be on time.

A few short turns later, my gps (programmed to be a British man named, Tim), kept repeating his familiar refrain, “You have reached your destination.” But I saw no signs of a megachurch. I saw no signs of a church, period.

“I think we’ve passed it,” said I.

A disgruntled sigh answered my assertion.

“No———we haven’t,” said Michael.

I turned my eyes to the same direction as my passenger, and saw the reason for his ire.

The church was, in fact, a row house.

A dilapidated row house.

A dilapidated row house with two equally dilapidated row houses on either side of it.

Every single space that would have housed a window was boarded up by wooden panels.

Every single space——–but one.

Cause in the space reserved for a living room bay window was one, sole, colorful stained glass window.

I parked my car a block away, behind a tricked out teal blue Mitsubishi Eclipse and braced myself for the onslaught.

Michael erupted.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!!! WHAT IS THIS?!?!? WHAT IS THIS?!!?!?! EXPLAIN YOURSELF?!?!? DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?!?!?!?”

Laughter-prompted tears began streaming down my face.

“Michael, I swear I didn’t—“

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!!! YOU ARE 0 FOR 2!!!! YOU ARE 0 FOR 2!!!! YOU HAVE, ONCE AGAIN, PROVED YOURSELF TO BE THE WEAKEST LINK IN THIS CHURCH HUNT!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS A-GAIN!!!”

“Michael, my cousin really loves this church. I’m saying. We gotta try.”

Michael just looked out the window, refusing to meet my pleading eyes. “I need some coffee right now,” he tersely replied. “If I’m going to do this, I need some coffee.”

We proceeded to the world’s worst McDonalds, located squarely in the hood, where Michael picked up “coffee” and “chicken” McNuggets.

I knew I had to make a play for it.

“It’s gonna be fine, Michael. You’ll see.”

I drove us back to the same spot as before, and urged Michael out of the car.

“My cousin loves this church. Promise me you’ll behave. Promise.”

My friend looked at me resolutely. “I can’t promise that.”

“Michael—“ I protested.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me you won’t look at me while we’re inside. Not ever. No matter what,” I suggested.

“I’ll try. I promise you I will try.”

Ours were sluggish steps, each one sounding heavier on the trash strewn broken pavement than the last. When we reached our destination, I gave Michael one last, lingering look as I held the splintered rail and climbed the rickety wooden steps. I noted paint chips falling from the columns and determined that I had to contain myself. I had to.

I placed my hand on the cool door knob. At that exact moment, an older woman’s voice carried over us from a sound system inside. She was singing soulfully into a microphone that I imagined looked like a Don Cornelius throwback. Because there was no musical accompaniment, her time-worn voice was all we could hear. I firmly gripped the handle, and looked back at my friend.

“You ready?” I asked.

And then it happened.

Michael had a meltdown.

“I CAN’T DO IT!!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!!! OHJESUSLORDHELPMEI’MSORRYICAIN’TDOTHIS!!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!!! I CAN’T DO IT I CAN’T DO IT I CAN’T DO IT DON’T MAKE ME DO IT I CAN’T!!!! I JUST CAN’T DO IT!!! OHJESUSICAN’TDOIT!!!”

I almost peed on myself.

On and on he went until I was convinced that we could in no way affect this particular church journey without me being forever-scorned by my family.

Dejectedly, we turned and slowly headed down the steps, Michael faintly whispering, “I just cain’t do it,” all the while.

When we reached the car, Michael again apologized, and we agreed to return to a nearby church we’d attended before. I put the keys in the ignition and a thought occurred to me.

“I think I have to throw up, Michael.”

Thinking i meant metaphorically, Michael replied, “Girl, you might as well. We’re sittin’ here parked behind this spaceship.”

I opened my car door, and before I could even be particular about a choice spot to gift with my stomach rumblings, vomit surged from my mouth. A full minute passed before I was done hurling the last bourbon-soaked vestiges of the prior night from my insides.”

I climbed back into my car, mascara running down my face, and looked to Michael to apologize. “Michael, I’m—“

“THE WEAKEST LINK. THE WEAK-EST DAMNED LINK. Oooooooo, I am so done with you, right now! I am so damned done with you.”

Needless to say, the ride back to Michael’s place was a somber one. I exhaled deeply and noted, “My cousin is going to hate me forever. I can’t believe we didn’t go inside.”

Michael turned to me, and with all the earnest he could muster, said, “Listen. Today was a fail. But there’s a lesson in this. You have to know your limitations. And it just so happens that we are two severely limited people. Now, maybe we’ll go back to that church another time. But, after last night, today was not the day. Today was not the day.”

“But my cousin—“

“Trust me. You did her a favor. She woulda hated you ten times more if we’d actually gone inside. Especially after that number you just pulled behind the spaceship.”

“I’m an awful, awful person,” I said, mournfully.

Michael simply returned to looking out of his window. “Mmmhmm.”

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.

Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho, Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances, or Valentines Day pt. I.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

That is not how much it costs to keep a starving child alive in the Sudan.

No.

One dollar a day is the amount Redbox charges my friend, Michael, every day he does not return the movie that he rented from them.

Well over a month ago.

Is Michael a billionaire? Is Michael free from worry and a devil-may-care persona?

No.

Michael is a gay.

He is a funny, over-educated, good looking, well dressed, gay, who has single-handedly hip-hop ab’d his way to a waistline smaller than mine.

But it’s overwhelmingly tough out there on the mean streets of the DC gay market (which we affectionately refer to as the “garket”). His last encounter with a seemingly well to do lawyer type resulted in him leaving said lawyer’s posh, upscale pad in such a state of disarray that he forgot his rented Redbox movie.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

Because, to add insult to injury, psychogaylawyer won’t return the movie.

I’d like to know, Valentine’s Day, oh maker of all things both lovey and dovey—does Hallmark make a “Thought our shit had promise, then you acted a fool, so give me back my movies you sad, thieving, motherfucker” card? Does Harris Teeter carry a double sided balloon with “Redbox” on the front and “$1 a day, bitch!” on the back?

I didn’t think so.

Sixty dollars a month.

Sixty dollars a month.

That is not how much it costs to keep two starving children alive in the Sudan.

No.

That is how much it costs me to get a mani/pedi every two weeks.

Do I have a problem with how my feet feel? Do I hate my feet in their natural state?

No.

They’re my fucking feet.

But I pay a delightful Vietnamese woman named, Sunny, sixty dollars a month of my hard-earned cash so that the edges of my heels don’t feel like dried out biscuits when they rub up against the calves of the man I love.

Riddle me this, Valentine’s Day—does 1-800-Flowers make a “Baby I love your ashy, chappy, rock-kicking, sandy biscuit hobbit feet” arrangement?

Does it?

I didn’t think so.

What about my girl, Michelle, Valentine’s Day? Is there a “Yeah, whatever, call the cops. Yeah, I keyed that bitch’s car. What the hell is she doing in your house with the lights turned off?” box of specialty chocolates that Godiva makes?

Are there Sweethearts candies available that spell out, “I-swear-to-God-this-baby-is-yours” or “False-alarm-it’s-not-vd?”

Let me guess. No.

Here’s the thing.

I hate you, Valentine’s Day.

And this isn’t one of my misanthropic, self-indulgent wallow sessions, either. I’m not decrying the legions of people forced to affect sentiment through a meticulously-calculated, mass-marketed, grossly-commercialized completely made up faux holiday, whose origins have absofuckinglutely nothing to do with love.

I hate you because your existence is the epitome of taxation without representation.

Me and my friends—we spend good money on love/lust’s pursuits. We invest time and expend effort. I let some random chatty bitch touch all on my feet two times EVA-REE month, and none of your day’s lilac-scented, sugary prose ever even hints at our struggles.

And I’m not asking for the moon, Big V.

I don’t need a Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho; or a Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances.

I just want the tiniest smidge of reality. A dose. An e-card that says, “Every time I think of you I fist pump the sky.”

Somethin’.

i bastardized the categorical imperative because i can…-AND- i used the “f” word.

Like many southern black people, I do not put much stock in any one thing accepted as a universal moral tenet.

 Conventional wisdom tells us that what direction a man deems east, depends on the particular direction he is facing on that particular day. The passage of time has revealed any notion of set rights and wrongs, of fixed rules and regulations, to be a complete fallacy, as they are wont to change when he-who-decides-these-things makes it so.

 As such, I have found that it is of little use to subscribe to any pre-determined set of principles.

When my clients come into my office, brimming over with righteous indignation, they are often deflated by my inability to replicate their passions. “But Ms. _____, “ they exclaim, “it’s the principle of the matter!”

They are met with an indifferent stare, and dismissive shrug of shoulder, as I have not the capacity to appreciate matters argued for argument’s sake; or for the purpose of affirming some invisible credo.

While I wouldn’t deign to attribute this measure of relativist cynicism to all black people, I can safely assert that principle-based rhetoric will not endear any orator to the hearts of my people.

 As a matter of fact, I’m going to step out on a limb here, and say, with more than a small measure of enthusiasm, “FUCK YOUR PRINCIPLES, SOCIETY.” Fuck them all………..

except one.

 That’s right. There is one, lingering principle that black people know and respect—and to that end, call upon–all too well: The General Principle.

 Colloquially abbreviated, “gp.”

What is gp?

I’ll start off by saying that gp is best explored in a more situational context than through some dry verbal definition.

But, for the purpose of offering some general frame of reference, know that one asserts gp when a situation is slightly to moderately fucked up, but still demands a reaction of some kind. Typically, the fuckedupness of the reaction warranted is greater than or equal to the initial fuckedupness of the situation.

No matter what, you can’t beat yourself up because of your chosen reaction predicated on gp. It is understood that you had no other recourse (or,  as is oft the case, no other satisfying recourse).

What I find particularly awesome about gp is its conveniently insular nature.

That is to say, you don’t have to explain gp.

Gp is an explanation wholly unto itself.

Citing “gp” as a justification for one’s reaction is like shouting “Freeze!” in a game of Tag. That shit stops everything. All questions come to a halt. An answer has been given, and that answer is gp. Nothing need be said further. Anyone who pursues information beyond a declaration of gp is a douchebag.

And should subsequently have his ass whipped.

 On gp.

Say a riot breaks out in Friendship Heights. There’s chaos all about you. Madness fills the tense air. The streets are ablaze, and angry mobs teem the sidewalks, intent on imminent destruction. And you—you’re a law-abiding citizen, just happening by. You are stricken by the urban wasteland that now lies before you. Do you, caught up in a swell of the impassioned emotion of a downtrodden, disenfranchised people, grab a chair and slam it through the storefront of Burberry?

No.

Cause that would be burglary and looting.

And that’s wrong.

But, if on your way to find shelter and notify the nearest law enforcement agency, you happen to see a lonely cashmere and wool trench coat caught in the fray, and tuck it neatly into your bag—

You’ve done so on gp.

A month or so ago I told a story about how a pedestrian had slammed her hands down on the hood of my car in fury because I’d inadvertently stopped for a traffic signal with my front wheels in the crosswalk. Bear in mind that I had been sitting at the light for a full minute before this woman even began to broach the roadway, and only had to round my car ever-so-slightly while crossing the street. Rather than simply doing so, she’d turned to face me, made eye contact with me, extended the fingers on both her right and left hands, and slammed them down on my car, shouting something in anger, before storming away. For the purposes of today’s exercise, forget, if only for a moment, what I said or did. Instead, let’s focus on what I could have done.

According to the Rules and Regulations of GP, Roman numeral four, letter A, subsection one, little Roman numeral six, I would have been well within my rights, had I opted to get out of my car, and shake the living shit out of that woman. Real talk. The dictates and precepts of gp authorized me to raise up out of my vehicle and beat the living hell out of that woman were I so inclined.

And I guarandamntee, that in the crowd of onlookers, should a random passerby ask why everyone was allowing me to stomp a proverbial mudhole into that bitch’s temple, there would be, at the very minimum, ONE black person there to explain, “Old girl slammed her hands down on the hood of her car, so she got out and just started beating the stew outta her…that’s gp right there.”

I once dated a body builder for an entire month.

 On gp.

This man was a 6 foot 2 inch Adonis with bulging muscles at every pass, and the laziest, sexiest smile I’ve seen in all of my days.

But he was dumb.

I mean it.

Stu-pid.

Seriously.

Not just like, dumb as a box of rocks, dumb.

I’m talking, dumb as a box of retarded rocks, dumb.

And he wasn’t like, one of those quiet dumb boys who felt insecure about his sub-human intellect, and therefore elected to never expound on anything in excess of a one to two word answer.

Oh no.

This motherfucker talked, all right.

He talked LOTS.

His big, brawny body was just overflowing with ridiculously stupid things to say.

And I sat and listened to every damn near incoherent word he uttered, and carefully manipulated my way through the veritable Morse Code labyrinth that was the grammatical composite of his emails and text messages.

Why?

G-damned-P.

We pass this way but once, people. I don’t live the kind of life where more than one sublimely sexy 6 foot 2 inch sinewy, chiseled bodybuilder is going to take an active interest in me. I had to strike while the iron was hot, irrespective of how many extra chromosomal pairs this particular iron had.

Now, at this point, some of you are, no doubt, having trouble understanding gp. Some of you are having a problem reconciling one messed up situation with another equally messed up situation.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve yet to apply its much touted sister euphemism: “[that] shit’s fucked up, [right there].”

I can 100% promise you that, any place you’d assign a designation of “gp” also warrants a preceding or following declaration of “shit’s fucked up.”

Nota Bene—

“I told Sarah it was time to leave the bar and that she was too drunk, but she smudged me in my face in front of everybody and called me a hater. I had to leave that drunk bitch there on gp, after that. I heard she did it with the whole bar after I left and that there’s a sex tape on the internet. Her husband filed for divorce and she’s getting disbarred. Shit’s fucked up.”

pencils down, people.