Archive for the 'church' Category


because sometimes, you gotta sit shit out….

“Where’s Ex Boyfriend?” my cousin, Velvet, asked.

All at once the living room’s occupants turned their attentions toward me.

The topic of my waxing/waning, mysterious, but most assuredly nascent dating life was always a hot one in my family.

And everyone had loved Ex Boyfriend. Velvet and her siblings in particular.

I pretended not to notice the cessation of other side conversations, and fixed my focus on the rather deliberate bit of stitching at my dress’ hem.

“I can only presume that he is off somewhere with his newer, better girlfriend, V,” I said, now frustratingly attempting to align a particularly defiant stitch with my thumbnail.

Velvet was not to be deterred. She had had high hopes about the entry of Ex Boyfriend into the debacle that was our family. “So, you haven’t talked to him, at all? Ya’ll were together for so long. I knew you’d broken up, but—“

“At some point you’re going to have to let this go,” I said, furrowing my brow, and wanting, more than anything, to tuck the fabric into my mouth and free the seam with my teeth.

“Are you dating at all?” Velvet’s sister, Winter, chimed in.

“Trying my damnedest not to,” I replied, casually, still very aware of the stares drilling holes into my bowed head.

“How are you gonna get a boyfriend if you don’t date?” came her ready query.

“Fairly certain we’ve seen the last of my girlfriend days, guys. Me and relationships don’t quite seem to suit,” I offered. I’d finally righted the wayward stitch, and was rewarded with one tiny, frayed thread I had nowhere to put.

“You don’t get to be a good girlfriend by not being a girlfriend. You have to keep trying. You’ll get the swing of it,” contributed Velvet’s friend, Anna.

“I’m 30, Anna. I think I’ve got a solid grasp of my strengths and weaknesses. I can’t force it.” I tried to subtlely tuck the thread between the cushions of the ottoman.

Velvet began, again. “Look. We’re all about you being out there, doing your little DC thing. We love your little DC thing—“

“Thank you,” I interrupted. “There’s much to love about my ‘little DC thing.’”

“But you have to keep trying. You can’t just say you don’t want to be a girlfriend, anymore, because where does that leave you?”

I looked up, just then. Even well into her forties, my cousin was one of the prettiest women I’d ever seen. There was no way I could look at that face and put forth my well-thought out plan to let every clever, charming, and otherwise eligible super-sexy man in DC get a passing glance at my areolas until I was good and ugly.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t force it. Bad stuff happens when I force it. People get hurt when I force it. By myself, I suppose.”
I don’t fuck with piñatas.

Don’t bring a piñata around me. Don’t suggest we get a piñata. Don’t offer me candy that fell to the ground as a result of some other piñata enthusiast’s backswing.

I don’t fuck with piñatas.

I’m thinking you’ll want the backstory.

I was five when I learned to respect the piñata. Its dangers. Its powers. The treachery obscured in its brightly-colored hollows.

As a kindergartener at Tabernacle Baptist Church School (you read that right), I found myself one of five blacks in a student body comprised of children whose parents viewed the school as the only viable alternative to homeschooling.

Corporal punishment ruled the day, polygamist clothing covered our bodies, and the sweet Lamb of God heard our constant entreaties.

Mrs. Parsons, my teacher, had hated me. I had done any number of things that possibly offended her, but I remained her brightest pupil. Even at five, I’d reasoned this certainly had to count for something. It had not.

The only person who held me in lower regard was her daughter, Matilda. Her translucent skin was covered in an unfortunate smattering of freckles, and the top of her head blazed fire, just like her mother’s. My parents weren’t religious. They weren’t members of the affiliate church. I was an only child with a never-ending sea of new toys and clothes. Matilda made little effort to hide her resentment.

It was early spring when Mrs. Parsons had called us in from recess for our afternoon surprise. With the help of the custodian she’d managed to affix a piñata from a coarse rope and suspend it from the ceiling.

Though I can’t recall the exact reason for such a surprise, I can only assume it was a last ditch effort of our administration to insensitively include the slightest bit of culture into our otherwise homogenous routine.

Mrs. Parsons, of course, utilized Matilda as the example, blindfolding the girl and spinning her around five times with an old wooden pole in her tiny hands, before excitedly yelling, “Hit it!”

I knew, at once, I wanted no part of this. None.

I cared little if candy was inside. Frankly, I’d doubted it, given Mrs. Parson’s staunch anti-junk food stance.

This could only end badly.

Besides, I hated being spun around; hated being dizzy. I’d just wait until everyone else was finished, and take a piece of candy. Surely they wouldn’t begrudge me one piece of candy even though I hadn’t participated.

When Mrs. Parsons looked to me and said that it was my turn, I quietly conveyed to her my desire to sit this one out.

She’d exhaled in frustration, seeing this as yet another in a long series of nonconformities. She’d tried to forcefully put the pole in my grasp, but I’d been adamant, keeping my spine rigid, and my fists clenched.

Exasperated, Mrs. Parsons pulled me aside and said that I was ruining everyone’s afternoon. She indicated that she had taken the time out with Mr. Williams to hang the piñata as a special surprise, and I wasn’t being very appreciative. At five, I had not the precise words to convey my decided failings in the area of hand-eye coordination (not that it would have mattered given the blindfold, and purposeful vertigo), but somehow managed to utter the terminology my father had assigned to the subject—“clumsy.“

She’d laughed then, and called me a “silly little girl.” She even gave me what she fancied a pep talk in the vein of “standing up to our fears,” and “confronting things head on, even when we’re apprehensive;” that the “only way to do it was to do it.”

Her pudgy hand firmly rooted to the small of my back, she pushed me forward, once more. Loosening my still tightly wound fists, she placed the wooden pole in my hand. It was taller than me. I could feel my insides melding as she blindfolded me and began to spin me around.


It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.


It’s okay. It’ll be over in a second. Everyone else did it.


It’s okay, we’re almost done. It’s not so bad.


Get ready. It’s coming. It’s okay.

I propelled that heavy stick forward with all of my might, never-minding that I’d skipped one integral step—the part where Mrs. Parsons stopped me and placed me rightly before the suspended piñata.

But I’d survived the spins so I struck. And I hit something!

I heard Mrs. Parsons cry out in excitement, and I considered myself successful. I was good at this! She was right! I had done it! I was gonna be the one—ME—to break open the piñata when everyone else couldn’t! Mrs. Parsons had been right! I could do it! I struck again—another scream of excitement! And really hard, one final time before I heard Matilda’s frantic, “Stoopppppppppppppppppppp!!!!!”

I stopped.

Making an attempt at standing still, but still wobbling, I gently removed my blindfold.

I was grinning my toothy smile of success at all of my classmates, but their attentions were fixed in one direction, looks of horror covering their faces.

Matilda was crying and screaming incoherently.

I pivoted around to see Mrs. Parsons, who was making gurgling sounds and whimpers. Her entire face was a bloody, broken mass of lumpy flesh and open crevices.

Those hadn’t been screams of excitement at all.

She’d been crying out in agony with every blow, apparently unable to control my determined, fevered strikes.

As the fountains of blood were streaming from her face, I could tell that she was crying. And Matilda was crying. And soon everyone else started crying.

I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, so I just stood there. Even as help came and the ambulance took Mrs. Parsons away, I never said anything.

My mother later informed me that Mrs. Parsons had to have thirty-seven stitches in her face, but that I was not to worry. It wasn’t my fault. If I wanted to talk or cry it would be okay.

But I never cried.

I hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.


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 3rd 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 6th 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) 14th 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) 14th 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.


“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.


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.


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?


That’s right.


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?



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.”


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.





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.

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.


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.



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!!!


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.


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—


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.


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.


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.
–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.

July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….