Let that (Twitter) boi cook….

One year ago, Linesister suggested I join Twitter.

I was reluctant, because I thought the premise was stupid.

I didn’t know why anyone would give a damn about up-to-the-minute shit I was doing with my life.

I certainly didn’t expect to give two cusses about what anyone else was doing with theirs.

But, as is oft the case, Linesister was right, and one year later I am, of course, firmly entrenched in the Twitter beast.

I prefer it to Facebook.

As a matter of fact, it is my refuge from Facebook. It is my refuge from many things that have the taint of real life upon them.

Twitter is where I go to talk to people I don’t know. There’s a quiet solace in the company of strangers that I underestimated when first I began.

And I’ve come to love it, and treasure it.

Which is precisely why I can’t understand why so many of you fuckers are mucking it up.

6 Things I need all Twitter participants to do or know:

1. Get your titties off Twitter.

Immediately.

Look. I don’t have a problem with titties. I can certainly appreciate that titties are a crucial staple in the lives of a significant Twitter contingent.

I’m not trying to take titties away from anyone.

You wanna show your cleavage in your avi, all the while beguiling the world with excerpts from your doctoral thesis to evidence how you are both sexy and profound— more power to you.

You wanna twitpic yourself in your I-make-bitches-hate-me dress— fine, do the damn thing.

But honestly. This is getting ridiculous. Yesterday, I saw THREE broads whose backgrounds were nothing more than pictures of them posing in bikinis.

What.the.FUCK kind of latch-key, thatch-roofed, mother-less, Southeast Asian bordello were you raised in that makes you think this is okay?

Bitch, you are naked on the internet.

And like, for free.

No one’s giving you a dime to see those free titties.

It’s not sexy.

And even it if is, the desperation of it all far outweighs any aesthetic.

Have you no one in your three-dimensional world to tell you that you look alright?

You gotta arm yourself with a swath of lycra and an iphone to achieve some tiny measure of validation in your life?

PLEASE get thee to a grandmother’s loving embrace, and entirely the fuck off my timeline before I wretch in my mouth.

2. If English is your first language, speaking it well should be a priority.

Stop getting mad when people hashtag your illiteracy.

Someone correcting your abject retardation shouldn’t upset you.

Being 35 and unable to read, while utilizing a program that specializes in communication via 140 characters or less should upset you.

I bet Twitter is frustrating as FUCK for some of you.

Maybe, instead of making my soul weep each day with your fucked up grammar (which I’ll interpret as dispositive proof of the American educational system’s failures), try developing a simpleton-friendly web program—perhaps one that makes liberal use of shapes and pictures as opposed to actual words—

Or, you know….

FUCKING SPELL CHECK.

3. Tyrese is NOT your life coach. If he is, you deserve whatever bullshit life you’ve got.

I’m not gonna lie.

Once upon a time, before I knew Tyrese could neither read nor write, or properly effectuate any semblance of deductive reasoning, I was rather keen on letting him “make me feel good on the inside.” *

But that was pre-twitter lust.

Today, Tyrese tweeted, “Atl if you’re hear…I’m on the air on V103…”

He told the world REPEATEDLY about his presence at “Barnes and NobleS.”

The man is on a BOOK TOUR and he doesn’t know a homophone from a xylophone.

He has made several appearances at the nation’s premier book retailer, and doesn’t know its name.

And he cautions us all: “As you move to the next chapter in your life remember.. You will never shine Tryna sit on somebody else SUN!!”

Someone on my timeline retweeted that. Beside it, she wrote, “Preach!”

Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

Look. I’m not gonna shit on Tyrese (anymore).

He’s rich, and successful, and I am a nobody with law school debt; he bests me in any capacity that is of value to the world in which we live.

But if you have bills like me, and retweet this man as though he’s some fount of new, Black intellectualism, you’re a low-functioning, generic battery-operated dildo.

I mean it.

If Jody motherfuckin’ Jo opens your eyes to some shit you ain’t never seen before, close them.

Post-haste.

4. I wish I had an interactive glass of ice cold water…maybe it could quench your palpable THIRST.

Listen. I love a Twitter crush as much as the next one.

Twitter is a place where people showcase their wit in concise, delicious snippets (and show their titties), therefore making it a veritable breeding ground for crush prosperity.

So, I get it. Crush on.

That said, these outwardly expressions of wanna-fuck-you-so-bad make me uncomfortable.

And you know why they’re outwardly, don’t you?

Cause she doesn’t.wanna.fuck.you.back.

The innovators of Twitter, in their infinite wisdom, made it impossible to direct message a person not following you; a decision—I noted a few weeks ago—for which many unsuspecting people ought to be grateful (seriously, you don’t want to know how many people I’d internet woo with slam whore antics should this function become disabled).

This is my point.

She won’t follow you¸ so you can’t direct message your tom fuckery for her eyes only. Your only remaining option one of public courtship, you smear the evidence of your XY chromosomal fail across my timeline, and the tragedy of your romantic, dehydrated desperation is clear for all to see.

I’m fairly certain that if a woman won’t follow you back on Twitter, she won’t reward your Arthurian Twitter gestures of chivalry with ass.

It’s not gonna happen.

@-ing her constantly, telling her how fine she is daily, preceding your retweets of her with overly enthusiastic declarations of her awesomeness won’t make tender her heart, or otherwise incline her to do it to you.

It will, however, encourage her to make note of your IP address in the event that a bitch comes up missing.

5. ATTENTION all persons with the following words in their bios—“sexy,” “pretty,” “model,” “mogul,” “rapper”:

Nope.

6. If a stranger incites within you extreme rage, compelling a series of angry tweets——Stop everything you’re doing and Dougie.

You are obviously carefree and winning at life, and as such, have elected to lose on Twitter.

For my money, a person who allows a complete stranger to get him/her Twitter-enraged is tantamount to the man who gets in a fight at the club after someone nudges him or steps on his shoes.

The shit might be annoying—hell, it might be infuriating—but odds are, it’s something that can be let go.

What the fuck do I look like letting a complete stranger—someone who doesn’t even know my real name—who is, no doubt, sitting in some darkened corner, thousands of miles away, thumb-typing ignorance on his phone at lightning speed, get me all tight in the chest over the fucking internet?

How the hell am I gonna get fiery mad over some shit this dude typed with this thumbs?

It’s not that serious.

And if it is, it sure the fuck shouldn’t be resolved over a medium whose logo is a big, periwinkle bird.

*sigh*

I just want us all to let Twitter be great.

*Monster’s Ball shudder-inducing Halle Berry quote.

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’.

(White) brothers in arms…damnit, Barack.

It was with carefree abandon that I greeted my two law school friends, Matt and Patrick, for a night of debauchery when Matt arrived in town for business last weekend.

Let me begin by telling you how overjoyed I was to hang out with them. I had not seen Matt for years and years and years, and watching him so easily interact with Patrick took me back to our first year of law school.

It had all the makings of a perfect night. We were in the company of Matt’s best friend/brother-in-law, Derek, Derek’s girlfriend, Jill, and were ultimately joined by Jill’s friends, Mike and Marie.

And a perfect night it was.

We happily threaded in and out of various Old Town bars, drinking, eating, laughing—each of us attempting to best the others in jibes and candor.

Now, as is the custom with most blacks my age, educated in predominately white settings, there have been many occasions throughout my life when I’ve been the lone person of color in a particular environs.

Naturally, the passage of time, and a change of geography has tempered both the frequency of this occurrence, and my perspective when it arises.

At 29, confident in who I am, and frankly, accustomed to the practice, I barely give any such situation a second thought. Generally, when I’m around people I don’t know well, or people who I suspect have had limited intimate interaction with minorities, I brace myself for the eventual, “Can I touch your hair?” or “My father marched with MLK on Washington,” I’m-not-a-racist awkward conversational subtext.

However, I felt no need to armor myself against such racial weirdness on this special night. These were my boys. We were well aware of the non-existence of any singular issue of socio/political/economic importance on which we could all agree. I celebrated them because they were so radically different from me. Our friendship was a clean space. A safe space. Entirely free from the bullshit that complicated my everyday life.

So I let my guard down.

Yes.

I let my guard down.

And by night’s end, I would pay for it with a piece of my soul.

Everyone’s bloodstreams were ripe with spirits by the time we entered 219, a cigar bar closer to the water.

Already euphoric from the company, the smell of cigar smoke tickling at my nose and the rich timbre of Delta Blues coming from the live band nearly sent me over the edge.

We all assembled closest to the musicians, the guys pushing together a table and a booth that we might gather more comfortably. Marie and Patrick sat across from each other, with Matt next to Marie, Mike next to Matt, Me next to Mike, and Jill wedged between me and Patrick.

I hope you paid attention to the seating chart.

It’s important.

Mike and I were taking turns attempting to talk over the music, we were all drinking various bourbon concoctions, and I was trying desperately to appreciate the merits of a cigar I was not supposed to inhale.

After thirty minutes or so had passed, I went upstairs to find the bathroom, locking myself inside a stall to check my messages.

Okay.

That’s a lie.

I went upstairs to fuck around with Twitter, okay.

I left my party, briefly, to go upstairs and tweet, okay?

Endeavor not to judge me, there’s a story to be had.

So, right—

I was leaning against the wall of the stall, tweeting my little tipsy heart out when a fearsome knock interrupted my thoughts.

Realizing that I was hogging the space, and unable to properly assess how long I’d been inside, on account of my near drunkenness, I opened the door, and quickly prepared to offer the offended knocker a stream of apologies.

Before me stood a middle aged white woman, slight of frame, with long, brunette hair. Her brow was furrowed, and a concerned look adorned her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you need to use the stall? I’m just using my phone. I’m so sorry.”

She rushed to answer. “No, I don’t have to use it. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I followed you up here.”

I paused, momentarily, not entirely certain of what she meant, or why she would have had cause to follow me anywhere, but, I disregarded. “Oh, no. I’m fine. I just wanted to check my messages.”

She began again, appearing to struggle with her words. “I mean….it’s just…I mean….are you sure? Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve been watching you all night, and I’ve been so worried. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Her choice of words struck me as odd. Had I stumbled? Was my speech coherent? I wasn’t certain, but I wanted to assure her of my okayness, and be the hell about my business. “Really, I’m fine. Truly.”

I attempted to move past her but she was unwavering, resolute in her stance, not moving at all. “My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I’ve just been so worried. I see you with those guys and it just takes me back to college and I’m just so worried about you. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Okay bitch. What.The.Fuck.

I looked at her quizzically. “Um, I promise that everything is okay. Really. I was just—“

“Because I see you with them, and I see them giving you drinks, and I just need to know that you’re okay. I keep having these flashbacks to college,” she interrupted.

This woman is crazy.

I tried to begin again, “I don’t really know what that means, but those are my friends, down there, and everything is okay. I promise. Really, I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

She waved away my assurances. “I see you with them, and I just worry, you know? I worry because I see you, and I see them, and you know…you’re…you know…and they’re…..and you’re…..and I get these flashbacks to college….and you’re….you know…”

And that’s when it hit me.

I couldn’t believe it.

I relaxed my stance (I had been considering the chest-bump-shoulder-push-hood-maneuver).

“Because I’m…….black?” I asked, gently as I could.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes. Oh my God. This is so awkward. My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I was so worried. And those guys were giving you drinks and I didn’t know if you were safe, and I kept thinking that they were going to hurt you…and I didn’t know…” she rambled.

I tried to remove as much condescension from my voice as possible. “I’m fine. I went to law school with those men. They’re old friends. They’re not going to hurt me. Everything is fine. I promise you.”

Her face scrunched up. “Law school?” she asked.

“Law school,” I repeated.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty,” I answered.

She began to sniffle. “Oh, God! I’m so embarrassed. You all look so young.”

“Those guys are older than me, actually,” I said. “They’re both married, and are actually amazing people. So, everything is okay. I promise.”

I could see her face flush as she came to realize  how much of her ass she’d shown. “I just….oh! I just saw you, and I saw them, and I thought….oh! My boyfriend said not to! Ohmygodpleasedon’ttellthemwhatIsaid! Please, please!!!”

I just looked at her, not knowing whether to pity her or to laugh. “I won’t tell them. But I should go. They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“Okay,” she said, finally moving aside, and relenting. “You’re sure you’re okay, though?”

Un-fucking-believable.

Nevermind the fact that there were two other women in our party.

Nevermind the fact that I was jovially laughing, having a grand ole time.

Nevermind the fact that I was a grown ass woman who assured her, repeatedly, that I was okay.

I was just a black girl in the company of white men.

And everyone knows that can only be a formula for one thing—

AWWWWW cheea….

Raping and pillaging like a mu-fuckkka!!!!

Listen up, Caucasians.

I’m from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Home of the Stonewall Jackson Shrine.

Home of the why-don’t-we-have-Confederate-History-Month?-stream of logic.

I don’t need your help on the I’m-not-sure-if-we-can-entirely-trust-Whitey bandwagon.

I’ve got this.

“Post-racial America” has y’all turning on each other, and I’m not ready for it.

Please have a meeting, and address this as soon as possible.

And to my mystery would-be-good-Samaritan:

I don’t know what in the holy fuck Klan-sponsored college you went to, but DEMAND financial reimbursement.

IMMEDIATELY.

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 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.

*********

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “Uh, I didn’t mean it from a—“

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

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

But she was handicapped.

And my drink cost seventeen dollars.

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

And she had lots to say. LOTS.

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

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

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

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

But the bitch didn’t have any legs.

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

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

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!!!!

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

Once upstairs, a lot of people stared at us.

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

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

I mean, gettingthefuckdown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The party was over.

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

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

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

because i’m the kinda girl who takes a straight white man to meet a bunch of black gays…

I took my very heterosexual, very white friend, Rob, to an all-black, all gay barbecue last weekend.

Now, before you conclude that I hung Rob out to dry, please be advised that I did consult one of the two hosts about the okay-ness of him accompanying me. It went like this:

Me: “Mark, will it be okay if I bring my friend, Rob?”

Mark: “Sure. Is he gay?”

Me: “Nope. And he’s white.”

Mark: “Mmm. I think he’ll be okay. I mean, we’ve got a keg. Straight white boys like kegs, don’t they?”

Me: “Every one I’ve ever known.”

So, it was with an excited heart, and a nervous Rob that I trotted out to Loudoun County for the barbecue.  

Now, while I, of course, described the party’s potential happenings in painstaking detail, and absolutely alerted Rob to the overall uber-gayness of the event, I may have neglected to mention that the party would be all black.

Bygones.

****

“Don’t act funny.”

When we arrived I introduced Rob to everyone that I recognized, and mapped out the lay of the land. Just as I suspected, nothing but immaculately attired, fresh tapered good looking man-loving men everywhere I turned.

Upon entry, Rob’s face definitely bore that look one gets when he’s unaccustomed to being the only minority in a space (Remember that feeling, black people? Remember ages ago when we used to feel self-conscious about being the only black person in a room—you know, before we realized that it was going to happen on and on ad infinitum for the rest of our natural black lives?).

Now, Rob is something of a beer aficionado, and given the generally high alcohol volume of the fancy beer he traditionally drinks, he’s kind of a two beer per night kinda guy.  But, recognizing the expression he wore, I asked, mockingly, “So—what are you thinking? Two-beer kinda night?”

Laughing  softly, he looked around and said, “Um…. I’m pretty much going to drink as much beer as I can handle.”

So, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the keg, and Mark directed us to the patio where Rob’s salvation awaited him.

As he was filling his cup, I noticed a quartet of cute boys assembled around a table, smoking, and talking amongst themselves. I introduced myself and Rob (I should point out, that while I’m generally quite social when I have a mind to be, I was especially social on this particular occasion. Standing around and skulking in a corner is a luxury the bringer-of-the-white-man can ill afford) and we relaxed for a bit, taking in the gay scenery.

“I thought you were hungry,” said I. “You should eat. Looks like there’s plenty of food.”

“Yeah,  I am pretty hungry. I’ll get something,” he responded.

“Well, let’s go in and get a plate.”

Rob tensed a bit. “Maybe I’ll hold off for a sec. I don’t really have to eat.”

From the corner of the patio, the tall man with fantastic eyebrows, who’d introduced himself as Matt, called out, “I thought you said you were hungry.”

Rob, confused and surprised, stuttered a bit, “Well, I mean, I’m not really…I mean, I am, but—“

Matt was not in a state of mind to brook any refusal. “You just said you were hungry. And she said you were hungry. You think there’s something wrong with that food?”

Rob tried to put his words right, “No, I just—“

“Then go get you some food then. What are you trying to say? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that food. You better go get you some food. Don’t act funny, now. Don’t act funny.”

I looked at Rob, and tried my best not to laugh. He just exhaled, dejectedly.  “Yeah. I can go get a plate. I’ll go get a plate. Let me just get another beer, first.”

It wasn’t until a few hours later that we learned that Matt had catered the event.

*****

“Fooler, I think….I think these might be—greens?”

Back inside, Rob and I talked to fellow party goers. I could see that the beer was loosening him a bit, and I felt less compelled to glue myself to his every movement.  Rob surveyed the generous spread of food lining the countertops, and began to compile a plate. I made the rounds and also relaxed. Bringing him had been a good move. He was an easy, go-with-the-flow kinda guy; even when said flow was black and overwhelmingly gay.

A few minutes later, I found him, full plate in hand,  biting into what looked to be an eggroll.

“How is everything?” I asked.

“Really, really good,” said he. “Hey, I think I found something you can eat. These eggrolls are really good, and they don’t have any meat in them.”

“Oh, yeah?”  I said, inching closer. “What’s in them?”

Rob extended a half eaten eggroll, when my heart stopped dead in my chest. A confused furrow adorned his brow. “I’m not really sure. It’s either spinach or…I mean…”

I could hear my heart, again, only now it was thumping loudly between my ears.  I deliberated about whether it was best to tell the truth or remain mum.  Fuck it. The motherfucker’s here. Welcome to my world, White man.

“Rob, I think, that they are definitely not filled with spin—“

“Fooler, I think….wait…I think these might be….greens?” Rob stood there, examining the half-eaten article, slowly coming to the realization that Matt had masterminded perhaps the most unbelievable—and apparently delicious—fusion of Southern (black) cuisine and Asian cuisine mankind has ever known.

“Yeah, homie. Those are definitely greens,” I said, shaking my head.

“These are really, really good,” he repeated, before downing what remained of the eggroll, and helping himself to another.

Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. Everything anyone has ever said about black people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

I watched Rob slowly and almost systematically eat and love every single thing on his Dixie plate.

Everything anyone has ever said about white people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

****

“ ‘I try hard to fight it/no way can I deny it…’ “

Everyone who attends parties or frequents bars or clubs knows that, as the night begins to wind down, the motivation behind music selection shifts. While the beginning of the night is spent trying to get people hyped up, and the middle, focused on maintaining the momentum, the end is generally something of a free for all. The end of the night is where shit gets really good. The dj is under less pressure, and he can be a little more experimental with his choices. He can whip out the classics, the oldies but goodies, and be confident in his belief that the audience will appreciate his moxie, his defiance of the mainstream.

And you know what happens when the dj plays that magic song? Thaaaat’s right. Everyone closes their eyes, extends their arms above their heads, and sings at the top of their drunken lungs. And that’s the sweet spot at a party. The drunken group belt-out.

Now, in my humble experience, a good shut-it-down song at a predominately white venue is some 80s rock gem, like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Don’t Stop Believin’” a la Journey.

And for the traditional predominately black venue—I think we can all agree that a solid dose of Maze featuring Frankie Beverly  “Before I Let Go” gets the job done.

Right.

Hearken back to the part where you recall that I was at an all black, all gay barbecue.

Now, shame on me for letting my guard down.  Prior to this point in the night, I’d drunkenly reflected–as I often do when at all-gay events—what a shame it was that people were so bigoted; that if everyone would stop prosthelytizing or agendizing, or fucking hating for one second in time and just open their eyes, they’d see that who you choose to fuck has nothing to do with who you are as a human being; that this barbecue was like every barbecue I’d ever attended in life (only in a fancier space, with no girls, and men whose freshness-of-edge-up defied all heretofore known bounds of logic). People are people, I’d naively concluded. Gay, straight, in between—it makes little difference in the end. We all do the same shit.

But eight melodic words pouring in over the speakers brought me back from my ideological reverie. Eight little words put black gay smear all over my beautifully sentimental rose-colored lenses.

“Can’t explain why your lovin’ makes me weak…”

“Oh.fuck.no.”

Before I knew what was happening, Coco, Taj, and Lee Lee, the most regular-looking trio of broads to ever top the R&B charts, who’d tauntingly provided the soundtrack to my romantically-tortured adolescence, washed over me.

I began to panic. This isn’t party music! This isn’t shut it down music! This is a ballad! This is an early 90s ballad! We’re at a party! This won’t stand!

I looked accusingly at my friend, Michael, who’d been drunkenly manning the ipod-of-steel all night, and who I’d earlier narrowly saved from pushing “play” on a particularly gospel-ly Kim Burrell selection.

But his hands were remote control free. Everyone’s hands were remote control free. I saw this clearly because everyone’s hands were extended—-above their heads.

Everyone’s eyes were closed.

The keyboard lulled into a delicate pianissimo and gave way to Coco’s exasperated, emotionally-tormented alto.

But I only had to endure her arguably not-so-hot voice momentarily.

Because just then,  the clouds parted, the heavens opened, and a lo, a chorus of gays sang along right with her, rhythmically swaying as if their black gay lives depended on it.

I can’t.

Surely someone will turn this off, thought I.

Nope.

Didn’t happen.

No one even made a move to change that shit.

And then it hit me. Oh, fuck! Rob!

I’d left him on the patio.

I hurriedly opened the glass door, and there he stood, tall, straight, white, unmoving—

Amidst a backdrop of arms raised, eyes closed, gently swaying, sangin’ ass, gay ass blacks.

I approached. “Hey. Ummmmm. Errr. Uh. Yeah, I don’t really have an explanation for this.”

“Is there an explanation for this?”

“Right,” said I. “Um. No. I mean, this usually happens, yes. But, uh. The SWV is new to me.”

“They’re singing all of the words,” said he.

“Yeah. Yeah they are.”

“And there are a lot of words.”

“Yes. Yes there are.”

I looked around us, then. I looked at our patio counterparts. I listened to the whole party stop everything everyone was doing just to slow bop and sing to this one monkey-ass song, that had, at some point, endeared itself to all of us during our youth.

Smiling, I looked at Rob before downing the remainder of what proved to be a bottomless cup of red wine, and said, “God, I love black people.”

Fin

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!!!

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])

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.

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……

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”