Archive for the 'Internet' Category


twitter sextiquette and the hermeneutics of my clitoris……or: “ain’t nothin’ to it, but to do it”–accurate?

I care little for rules or the ties that bind.

Particularly those that are the byproducts of social mores and puritanical constraints that seek to micromanage my preferred brand of sexuality and individualism, with little comment as to the efficacy of their method, or long-term sustainability of their practices.

I care little for rules.

I have oft laughed in the face of womankind’s attempt to impose a dogmatic schema to the loosely structured world of sexual politics; to the notion of sexual politics in and of themselves.

This “no kiss on the first date,” “no sex til the third” ideology that acts to strip from us our fluid sensuality, rob us of our spontaneity, and further solidify within us this frightening concept of good girl versus bad girl.

I care little for rules.

Be that as it may, I am forced to concede the existence of certain boundaries. Not rigid, stringent, asphyxiating boundaries that would have us chained and hog-tied to our seats, nickel clutched tight betwixt our throbbing knees.

But rather that ominous, invisible fence that keeps us suspended in the gray, protected from the nebulous, forgotten, distant world, shadowed in black. Mine is a world of small compromises; a tiny system of checks and balances that exists not for the sake for having limits, but rather acknowledging them because there ARE limits; the difference, perhaps, between dabbling in sexual deviance, and BEING a sexual deviant.

For while we make allowances for straying from the path, even forging your own path, the concept of there being no path is altogether too much for society to bear.

Conventional wisdom seems to indicate there needs be a finite method of distinguishing wheat from chaff; discreetly freaky librarian from open-assed slut.

And it has been a manageable feat to a degree.

At least in my own instance. I know of no examples where my own name has been bandied about the streets, tales of my mouth-sorcery heavy on the lips of young DC urbanites.

But the game has changed.

The advent of technology has increasingly blurred the lines between the Dos and the Don’ts.

And day after day, it becomes more difficult for even the most free-thinking among our female ranks to answer that all-important question: “Wait….wait…can I fuck him yet?”

Certainly, as educated women of a certain age, in a certain age, we’ve come round to the idea of a man’s awareness of our capacity to behave like whores (under the appropriate circumstances, of course)–liked it, encouraged it, even.

But to actually be perceived as a whore; to have a man legitimately THINK us whores—irrespective of how insignificant a man he may be—that is a fate to which the majority of us simply cannot yield.

Which brings me to my point:

Twitter won’t let my faux-chastity be great.

Not even a little bit.

Twitter is a setup from the getup.

Twitter introduces to our varied states of consciousness, and, by proxy, our pulsating, tumescent genitals, a chat room whose geographic locale is THE WORLD.

And here’s what happens.

You invariably come across that stranger, whose likes are your likes, whose humor is your humor, and whose avi is sexy as a motherfucker, and you’re hooked.

What begins as witty public banter moves to the discretion of your direct messages. But, texting is a far simpler platform, so you, of course, exchange numbers. And when your fingers are just too tired to type, why, calling seems like the natural conduit. And let us not forget that all-consuming desire to see his facial expressions and where, exactly he lives, so skype, necessarily, is the logical next step.

At first blush, one wants to make something like twitter comparable to online dating, but it is far, far different.

In online dating, people’s romantic interests are present from the start. It is the very reason they are in an online dating forum.  The urgency to find commonality with another person leaves little room for real build up. The goal is to see the person and get this potentially monogamous show on the road. So there’s no long-term intellectual stimulation. In online dating, because the object is to meet the person and establish a meaningful relationship, the ordinary “rules” are already in place. The traditional, time-honored chase the pussy, date the pussy, capture the pussy system of governance rules the day.

(I’ve never online-dated, btw. Not that I’m judging. I mean, I’m not. But.  Just to be clear…not my particular flagon of whiskey.)

But, on twitter, it’s all lighthearted.

Til it isn’t.

And the object of your cyber interest is, in all likelihood, some great distance away. And all you have is conversation. And build up.  Until the day you two determine to meet…….

And the annoying question springs to mind once more…..”Wait…..can I fuck him?”

I mean, do I even know this man?

Can I know a man if I’ve never seen his legs?

Does he travel from place to place slow-boning his top tweeters?

Does he have a list of brown-skinned, sassy girls whose orifices he’s connived his way into with his glibly well-timed wit?

Am I twitter easy? Like, how many tweets does it take to get to center of my mons?

And what are the mechanics of the twitter hookup? Will it be awkward? Do I wear drawes? Do I pretend I had something else in mind? Should I buy board games?

All of these (very legitimate) questions are dauntingly overwhelming in the macro.

But even when I make effort to fix my mind upon the very thing, the Universe responds with more questions.

Twitterboo shows up at the crib, at long last.

Twitterboo has a fresh haircut, clothes are decent, pants are the appropriate length beneath his ankles, no purposeful display of chest hair spilling forth from his button down.

My chemistry with Twitterboo is great. I like Twitterboo. He’s mad chill. I can easily see letting Twitterboo nestle that perfectly edged up head in my thighs’ mocha hollows.

I mean, from there, the problems can only be typical ones. The ones you encounter with men you’d meet anywhere. His dick doesn’t work. He doesn’t wash his ass. His uncircumcised member is hidden between the folds of his flesh-snuggie.

The ususal.

In which case the solution is easy: I systemically remove any hint of him from my life and behave as though he never existed.  

But, what if Twitterboo is good? What if Twitterboo, who has—from lands afar—followed the North Star across leagues of mountainous, arid desert terrain, all the way straight to my warm, quivering girlbox– is a beat master?

What if Twitterboo comes through to the crib and has the unmitigated gall to unleash Chernobyl-style devastation inside my vaginal walls? What if my shit starts to whistle a medley of Julie Andrews songs when Twitterboo withdraws his Harlequin-esque, glistening man-shaft?

Like, do we twitter-go-together now?

Is Twitterboo my real life boyfriend?

Is Twitterboo my cuff?

Is Twitterboo my interactive jumpoff?

The truth is, I don’t have answers to these questions.

Nary a one.

As is oft the case, the answer may, indeed be, that there are no answers.

At day’s end, my greatest act of folly may be posing the question of my twitter seduction to the Universe.

She can hardly regard me as a whore when she so diligently fucks us all…..

So I put it to you, Cyberspace….

Sweet-stroking the internet crush–

Twitter do or twitter dont?



because occasionally, there’s a win inside your loss…or, “Happiness Weekend 2011…”

Editor’s Note: So, I had to leave out 2-3 big details in telling this story, lest I distract y’all. I just thought I should mention that for the sake of almost-full disclosure….so…you know…


A casual observer would have described my reaction to his leaving as “indifferent.”

In truth, he had been leaving for some time, slowly taking himself out of the picture, his own defense mechanism to my unyielding emotional resistance.

I’d felt it. I’d had ample time and sufficient opportunity to right it, to say just one encouraging word to indicate that I, too, had felt the shift in what was to be our casual time passing.

But I hadn’t.

I’d let the silence between us take over because it was comfortable for me; familiar. I played it cool better than any other, and this was my go-to zone.

This time was different, however. I was literally “playing” it cool. I was acting the unaffected. But I was affected. And I hated it.

His last attempt to reason with my stubbornness came in the form of an email.

My glacial reply was the stuff of legend. Fingers knew no compassion as my relationship antipathy took hold, pouring over my keyboard in a rush of abrupt, clipped tones.

And that was that.

I had known he wouldn’t reply, and he didn’t.

And I hadn’t wanted him to.

Only part of me had.

Tucked away in the furthest recesses of my heart, that part of me had wanted some forceful showing. For him to make a mad dash to my door in the rain. For him to shove his way inside my home. For him to shout at me words of frustration until I relented; relented and just once, in my small life, surrendered the steely guard that had kept so many others out, and me too long in.

But I wasn’t relationship ready. Or relationship stable. And I’d thought the same of him.

Until I signed on to Facebook.

“_____________ is in a relationship.”

I’d known he’d been nursing a situation with someone else, biding his time, attempting to make odds and ends of my own volatile behavior.

But the cold reality of his new union on bold display for all the internet to see was jarring. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Repeatedly. By Wendy Williams’ Louboutins. With Wendy Williams’ big assed feet still in them.
My eyes returned again and again to the one sentence that would be my dignity’s undoing.

I downed the scotch that had long sat idle by my laptop.

I exed out the Facebook window, and opened my gmail account.

“THIS motherfucker right here, though……” I said to myself aloud through clenched teeth.



“Dear friends,
I will not waste your time re-hashing what I think we will all agree are my somewhat complicated, and indeed, well-documented relationship struggles.
The sad fact remains that I’ve continued on in my pattern of destructive interpersonal behavior, and have, once again, due to my emotional retardation and sensitivity failings, managed to make yet another romantic interest hate my guts forever.
As we all know, the person who appears the least affected by a break up wins.

I don’t need anyone to point out the juvenile tenor of my argument.
I know it’s childish.
We ALL know it’s true.
As such, my continued dignity requires that I have Facebook pictures documenting me having a great time without this motherfucker.
I would like to call this project “Happiness Weekend 2011.”
This weekend, I would like us all to commit to making sure lots of pictures are taken of me having the best time of my life. Even if they’re entirely manufactured. Actually, the more perfect
the production, the better.
Naturally, I will serve as Creative Director on this project, and as such, humbly request that my approval be sought for any and all depictions of me intended for public consumption.
I also need there to be looooooots of pictures of me smiling and laughing, preferably with my head cocked back in raucous delight, but most especially of me in the intimate company of men. Think me having shared whispers with men, me sitting on men’s laps, me with my hand affectionately placed on a man’s cheek, me receiving a delicate butterfly frontal lobe kiss from a man, and lastly, Linesister’s suggestion of me tucking my hand in a man’s back pocket.
They need not even be men with whom I’m acquainted. I welcome stranger motherfuckers into the fold.
Now, I realize that this is something of an unusual request, made even more so by the fact that it’s coming from me.
I’m generally above all of this shit, and can seldom muster up enough energy to care.
I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve actually been sad at a path-parting….
We need to make this happen, ladies.
As always, I appreciate your help in the resolution of these matters……


We hit Tabaq with fastidious determination.

If any of my friends thought my plan ridiculously stupid, they had the grace not to say so.

Except Linesister. Her oath of loyalty and pledge to hold my literal and metaphorical brick obligated her to do my bidding. But she wasn’t happy about it. Linesister is a first rate hater.

I’d known that the girls were surprised by my behavior. My airtight code of privacy allowed for little investigation into my personal life. I also was not prone to emotional attachments or displays of regret. But one by one, they appeared lock-step at my side, prepared to support me in all of my fuckery. I was grateful.

I was also grateful for the fact that the Howard-Morehouse Classic made the U Street Corridor the perfect backdrop for my photo shoot. Tabaq was wall to wall with available men, and I’d arrived in Kelly Green silk and complicated eye makeup with a crew of beautiful, smiling girls.

Emboldened by the spirits raging through all of our systems we got to work. It was almost sad how easy it was.

Asia: “Excuse me. Hi, are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Can you take a picture with my friend?”

Bewildered man: “Uh? What?”

Me: “Hi. I’m so sorry. I know it’s weird. But I’ve just had an awful breakup, and I know it seems pathetic and crazy and psycho, but I assure you that I’m not. I just need a couple of pictures with men who look like they adore me so my get-back is sufficient. Do you mind? I’m really sad.” (I had to embellish a bit. Men love to feel like they’re rescuing a bitch.)

Bewildered man: “Uh. Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Me: “I just need you to look really interested in what I’m saying.”

*Asia starts snapping pictures*

Me: “I’m also going to need to touch you a little bit. You can touch me too.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just going to rest my hand on your cheek real quick.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “That’s right. Just inch a little bit closer. A littttle bit closer. Niiiiiice.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Bewildered man: “What should I say to you?”

*I grip his face, cock my head back, kick up my heel, and roar with fake raucous laughter*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. What’s your name?”

Bewildered man: “Paul.”

Me: “You’re really cute Paul. So you don’t have a girlfriend, huh?”

Time and time again, me and my faux paparazzi accosted lingering men, my tale of woe becoming larger and more grandiose with each new male subject.

The more I complimented them on how good looking, or tall, or sexy they were, the more willing and active of a participant each man became.

I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing.

Me: “Michael, you have the most beautiful mouth. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Karen, with her camera phone ever at the ready, began a quick succession of snaps.

Michael: “Um, well…I mean…I don’t—“

Me: “Honestly. Your lips are seriously sexy. I can’t even focus right now. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”

*Rests hand comfortably on Michael’s chest.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “Um, no. Not really. No.”

Me: “Where do you live, Michael?” (Note how often I’m saying his name. Dudes love bitches who say their names.)

Michael: “Manassas.”

Me: “Word? That’s quite a drive to DC.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “You know it?”

*Leans in to whisper to Michael.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Sure. I’m in Prince William County all of the time for court. I’m a lawyer.” (Men love bitches who are lawyers.)

Michael: “Really?”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Really. I wish I had a card with me to give you.”

Michael: “I could just take your number.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*


By night’s end my ego was on one hundred thousand trillion, and I had a portfolio to rival anything Wilhemina could put out.

I soberly looked to my friends, who were all smiles and laughter at our embarrassment of photographic riches.

And my heart was decidedly less heavy. They’d backed me up without question or (visible)scorn, and made all of the night’s achievements possible.

Especially considering the fact that I didn’t own a working camera.

I promised myself, then and there that, irrespective of my communicative failings in the romantic department, I’d never stop letting these women know how much I appreciate them, or how entirely awesome they are (starting with this entry. I really love you guys. Thank you so much).

Gathering our things, and preparing for our next venue, a goofy smile plastered across my face, I looked at Asia. “Yo….why the FUCK haven’t we ever done this shit before?”


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.


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….


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.


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’

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”:


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.


I just want us all to let Twitter be great.

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


see…if you’d gone to law school, you’d know that *the law* doesn’t matter…

I spend a lot of time in law libraries.

Not doing the law.

Generally, dicking around on facebook or twitter.

But, not yesterday.

Yesterday, I was in professional mode. I was doing some last minute research on an opposition to a motion docketed for 10:00 am that would most assuredly get me laughed out of court. That’s how bullshit it was.

As I’m not so much a fan of being laughed at (with, certainly; at, not at all), I was in full on meangirlmode, and was diligently trolling Westlaw looking for that eleventh hour “Aha!”

Which is why I didn’t pay any mind when the law librarian approached me with a clipboard, requesting that I sign in. Granted, I’d never signed in at a law library, before, or at any library for that matter.  This particular law library is manned by a rather peculiar woman, however, so, I tossed the newest element of her increasingly regimented system of management into the lot with the rest, and went about my research.

Fifteen minutes into my stay, a ruddy-cheeked handyman entered, and made inquires about “further security.” I was beginning to get annoyed by the constant stream of distractions, but persisted. I was certain my irritation was registering on my face.

“No sightings of your derelict guest, yet, huh?” he asked the librarian.

I exhaled deeply. Finally getting it, the two took their conversation into her office.

I let myself relax, resigning myself to the humiliation that was forthcoming. I had settled on one final search term when I caught whiff of something God-awful.

The woman’s odor preceded her entry into the library.

Like, imagine the most horrible smell in the world. Like, chitlins and sour milk and rotten eggs and day old sunbaked cod and pickle juice and tartar buildup on unbrushed teeth and like—booty. ALLA that.

Strutting in, proud as you please, the rail-thin black woman was about 27 or 28, wearing green highwater pants, an oversized tee shirt, and carried a rather large bag. Like, the size of a bag in which one might house all of one’s worldly possessions.

She sat at the carrel directly across from me, and seemed not to notice the “Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath.

I continued typing.

Not two minutes after the woman had sat down, Deputy Rodriguez, who I’ve never seen beyond his post on the first floor of the courthouse, approached her.

“Ma’am, you have to leave,” he said.

Sitting upright, her spine straighter than ever, the woman answered in a high-pitched voice, “I don’t have to leave anything.”

I kept typing. “Here we go,” I said to no one in particular.

Deputy Rodriguez, in a tone that seemingly brooked no refusal, administered his directive once more: “Ma’am, you have to leave. You’ve been banned from the library.”

“You can’t ban me from anything! You can’t ban me from anything! I’m checking my email!” She yelled.

“Really, email? She doesn’t even have a house,” I noted, aloud.

Rodriguez ignored me. “Well, ma’am, perhaps that’s why you were banned. You’re not allowed to use email, here. This is a law library. Now, you’ve been banned. Let’s go.”

She was not to be deterred. “I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT!!!!”

I tried to block out the increasingly heated exchange, as time was drawing nigh. “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I wondered aloud.

But, Rodriguez was already assuming his cop-stance, and the woman was at the height of her emotive tantrum,  so no one was paying me any mind.

“I am a resident of the City of _________—“

“Bet that bitch don’t pay taxessss,” I sang under my breath.

“And I have a constitutionally protected right to come into this library!!”

“That right don’t exist at all—“ I rejoined in a whisper.


Rodriguez exhaled. He was reaching breaking point. “Ma’am, I’m not banning you from anything. The librarian banned you. So you need to either get up and leave, peacefully, or I’m going to remove you.”

The woman was undaunted. Her volume grew. Her voice sounded like nails screeching across a chalkboard. Only they weren’t nails. They were talons. And the talons belonged to canaries. Canaries who were screaming as their talons were being raked across the chalkboard. And then someone threw the canaries into a cage with a cat. And the canaries screamed until the cat ate them. And then the cat raked his claws across the chalkboard.

“According the City Code, Section 8, Part 1, ‘Any citizen or resident may make use of the city’s public venues, and in so doing has the right to peacefully enjoy the premises.’ I am peacefully enjoying the premises!!!”

“This shit isn’t peaceful at all,” I mumbled.

“Ma’am am I going to have to have you removed or not?” Rodriguez’s volume was now matching hers.

“Dude, why are you even asking at this point?” I asked my keyboard.


I looked around. The librarian was in her office. The remaining space was occupied by only us three.

I highlighted a section of my printed out argument. Cap in mouth, I continued to mark through the paperwork. “I didn’t see anything.”

Rodriguez clicked on his shoulder unit and reached the security main frame. “This is Rodriguez. I’m at Station 4. We’re gonna have to remove one.”

“About damned time,” I answered, still highlighting.

“Ms. Fooler—“ Rodriguez began.

“Just sayin’,” I shrugged before resuming my work.


“Mmm. That’d be great I bet, if this weren’t Virginia,” I offered, again, to my keyboard.

I felt Rodriguez’s eyes on me. “Keep it up.”

“Just sayin’,” I answered.

It took another minute or so before two female deputies descended.

Now, let me tell you this.

I am not a woman easily impressed by anything.

And very little surprises me.

But man, if you coulda seen the scissor kicks on that bitch when those deputies lifted her up out of that chair. Like, she had such precision. Her toes were pointed and she had full leg extension as she fitfully jerked within their collective grasp.

Like, when she gets done being homeless, or out of whatever holding cell they currently have her all locked in right now, she ought to look into being a gymnast or a ballerina or something. I gotta believe that the ability to affect such litheness in movement, particularly when one is struggling against a chokehold, is a rare quality indeed.

Either that, or a career in law.

Cause she was convicted as bitch when she was saying all of that wrong and completely inapplicable and entirely without precedent caselaw.

I thought of that stankyassed woman, whose chitlin and old foot-infused clothes had pathetically strained against her body as she valiantly fought off those deputies—

I thought about the strength of her convictions, the timbre of her voice, the deftness of her scissorkick—

All of these things, I considered, when I approached the court to argue my own outlandish Answer.

I straightened my posture. I referenced persuasive authority. And I debated my points as vehemently as my determined, homeless predecessor.

And you know what—

I lost.

And I looked ridiculous.

Just like that other bitch.

I like to think that we both learned a valuable lesson, yesterday.

Granted, she learned hers in the clink, but that doesn’t mitigate the merit of the teaching.

Simply put, it doesn’t pay to be righteously indignant about some stupid shit.


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.


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……


i like my facebook the way i like my wall street: heavily regulated like a bitch

Take this down.

On Wednesday, April 14, 2010, I will eradicate I suspect upwards of 40 or so people from my life.

That’s right.

Your girl’s unfriending motherfuckers on Facebook.

Asshole move?


But trust me, this shit is LONG overdue.

There have been some BLATANT violations of heretofore unspoken rules of Facebook decorum.

Why unspoken?

Cause much of this falls under the general rubric of common damned sense.

But, as my father, quoting I’m sure some very important quote-worthy person, once told me: “The masses…..are asses.”

Now, I’m sure I do some annoying shit on Facebook, too. And, by all means, I encourage you to engage in a virtual “calling out” of me on my shit. Get free with it. Unfriend me. I’m sure I’ll somehow find the courage to go on (probably in a fashion similar to the past 10 years when I didn’t speak to you prior to my presence on Facebook).

7 Things that will get you unfriended on my Facebook D-Day:

1. You take multiple pictures of yourself without your shirt on.

A friend of mine brought this up the other day, and I WHOLEHEARTEDLY agreed that this is my NUMBER ONE Facebook pet peeve. Dude, where-in-the-FUCK-is-your-shirt? Put that shit on. And not a wife-beater, either. Put on a shirt with sleeves. Look. I know you were a tool in high school. I get that. I know you’ve worked hard for your new body. Well done, you. But, dawg, nobody feels bad cause they didn’t fuck you in high school. Nobody. You stuttered, dawg. And you said shit that wasn’t funny. Routinely. So this shirtless “getback” thing that you’re on—it’s doing nothing for me. Mixing creatine with your milk and bench pressing Ghanian villages will not erase the impact of your wearing Karl Kani into the late ‘90s. *whisper* You can’t get that time back, dawg.

Also, the one thousand near-naked pictures –they’re vain and effeminate. And I don’t have sex with gay boys. Not on purpose, anyway. And that’s the point, right? To show me how good you look so that I’ll want to have sex with you, right? FAIL. FailfailfailfailfailfailmotherfuckingFAIL. Now, maybe my opinion means nothing to you. Maybe you don’t want to fuck me anyway. Maybe you don’t give a damn what I think. Fine. Agreed. *delete.*

2. You’ve taken one million pictures of yourself posing, or with your camera phone in your bathroom.

Is this a fucking joke? Like, are you kidding me right now? WHOINTHEHELLDOYOUTHINKWANTSTOSEETHATMUCHOFYOURFACE,MONKEY?!?!? Like, you could be the flyest person in the world, you’re still not fly enough to have 200 photos of you in any flash-friendly venue eating up pixels on my Facebook wall. Like, when I see shit like that, I’m not even mad at you. I’m mad at me. I’m mad that I even know a you. I’m mad that you somehow made it past my fervent Facebook gatekeeping efforts, only to saturate this sacred space with 35 images of you lying on your side amidst a sea of Walmart throw pillows that you called your child in from playing outside to take. You are a ridiculous fool of a person. But, not shame on you. Shame the fuck on me.

3. You are suffocating me with your religion.

Look. I’ve reached the height of my tolerance with this. And I think I’ve been more than patient. Just to be clear, people with religious references and Bible verses are not the targets, here. I don’t mind that you choose to talk about the love of Christ in your status messages. I choose to address booze and partying. It takes all kinds.

But a few of you seem to think that this is a contest of sorts. Like, you need to prove to the world wide web how much more you love the Lord than us fallen sinners. Well here’s a word that Christ will never whisper in your ear, but that I want to make certain you hear: You.are.a.monkey. You are a vine-swinging primate, and NO ONE wants to be your type of Christian. YOUR type of religion keeps people FROM church. And I may be a whole host of unholy things, but none of those things keep people from wanting to be around me. But your fanaticism keeps people from wanting to be around you. Let me show you a prime example of this:

You added me as a friend on Facebook, ergo, you don’t mind my Wayside backsliding ways at all.

I’m deleting you from my Facebook wall, ergo, you’re a completebastardtool who supplants all of her/his life’s disappointments with religious fanaticism rather than facing the world—and even if I’m way off base, you’re still annoying the shit out of me.

4. Your poetry sucks.

I’m sorry. It just does. Your poetry sucks. Pretty much the worst shit I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. And I’m not saying this as a person who graduated from one of the nation’s foremost universities and happens to have a degree in English with a Concentration in American Poetry (okay, I made that “concentration” part up). I’m speaking purely from a lay standpoint; as a casual observer and commenter. Your shit sucks. Nobody can identify with your loneliness. Your metaphors fall flat—I can only assume because they’re stupid, but who am I to say? And the hundreds of poems that you’ve posted are one, long, endless succession of trite clichés.

More to the point, what kind of asshole posts their own poetry day after day (probably the same kind of asshole who posts links to her own blog day after day)? Like, stop trying to make us “go there” with you. Stop trying to take us “to that place” with you. If it’s anything like your poetry, it sucks. Also, this just in: IT DOESN’T ALL HAVE TO RHYME! LIKE, AT ALL. This shit is vaguely reminiscent of my first attempts at hiphop freestyle, which, if you haven’t guessed, were FUCKING HORRIBLE.

Don’t know if you’re “that guy?” Here’s a handy-dandy go-to: If you woke up in the middle of the night and your soul was crying out, your fingers aching with longing until you could finally transcribe every precious, melancholy iamb to paper—post it. Everyone else—get the fuck off my page.

5. You detail every phase of your wedding preparation.

MO-THER-FUC-KER. ARE YOU SERIOUS? REALLY? REALLY? Let me tell you something. This has got to be the most annoying shit ever. An occasional update with respect to the happenings of your forthcoming nuptials= okay. A step-by-step play by play, complete with exclamation marks and sentimental emoticons= FLAGRANT FOUL; unnecessary roughness like a bitch. I won’t be a bitch and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding. But I’ll for damn sure risk it and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding prep. No one. Not even those loser bitches that blindly encourage your tomfoolery when they *like* your statuses. Here’s something. Those bitches don’t care about you. They see you as a conduit for their own crazed obsession with getting married. Those bitches are brideophiles. When they *like* that you went to go get pictures taken for the announcements, they’re really *like*-ing the possibility that somehow, someway, some desperate man will overlook the fact that they live with their mother’s spinster aunt, and collect American Girl dolls. That shit’s not about you at all. Normal people, like myself, just think you’re a huge d-bag who’s overly-excited about some shit that, statistically speaking, probably isn’t gonna turn out the way you’d hoped.

6. You’re way too old to misspell shit as much as you do; also, why are you truncating words?

You’re= you are. Your=indicates possession. There=a place (it also equals a few other things, but we’ll stick to the basics for now). Their=indicates possession. They’re= they are. It’s= it is. Its=indicates possession. Who’s=who is. Whose=indicates possession. Than=notes a comparison. Then=a time.

Now, at this point you’re thinking I’m an asshole. Fine. I’ll be that. Kindly jot the aforementioned on the inside of your palm, and we won’t have to have this discussion again.

This shit is not a conundrum, people. It’s basic grammar. It’s like, the first shit you learn, ever.

I don’t have a problem with people who can’t spell. I have a problem with people who refuse to try; people who don’t think that how you sound is important. Well, it’s important to me. And if you think that makes me a bitch, just wait until the 14th.

Also, Facebook is not Twitter. Sooooo, why are you truncating words? And whyyyyyyyyy are you translating them into Ebonics? I’ve got to believe that it takes way more time to type “dis shit iz da bomb. R u ready 2 c me on dis shit?” than were it correctly worded. Like, it literally took me 2 whole minutes to get that down. And, you’re 30, dawg. 30. You look ridiculous. So, I’m giving all of you special eds the boot.

Why? “Cuz dat shit right they’re meanz u r 2 retarded.”

7. You use Facebook as an outlet for your Passive Aggressivism; and that’s WACK.

I wish y’all would just say what you have to say to the people you have to say these things to, and stop lighting up my homepage with all of your relationship strife. Stop changing your relationship status every other day. Stop sending all of these “hidden” messages to that dude who broke your heart but can still see your status updates so you need to let him know that he’s a complete shit and you’re gonna keep on keepin’ on so fuck him you’ll be just fine, but in case any of his friends are still watching, Marcus is a complete dick. Like, stop it. Stop talking about all of the tripped out shit that “people be doin’” when really, you’re just mad at Sarah. Sarah’s the one that did that shit. You’re mad at Sarah, K? Take that shit up with her. OFF of the Internet. Also, stop leaving these cryptic messages designed to prompt queries about your overall well being. Like, I guarandamntee your “I just don’t have anything to be happy about anymore,” post is going to get you the exact opposite response from me than what you envisioned. For instance, on the 14th, the culmination of those posts is going to get you squarely kicked the fuck off of my page.

Now, again, I realize that I am not perfect. In fact, I am deeply flawed. But I submit, that anyone offended by this post has committed one of the above-referenced slights.

In which case, let’s be honest—I probably don’t give a shit about your having taken offense.

April 2019
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a history of my meanderings….