Archive for the 'politics' 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?



(White) brothers in arms…damnit, Barack.

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

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

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

And a perfect night it was.

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

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

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

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

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

So I let my guard down.


I let my guard down.

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

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

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

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

I hope you paid attention to the seating chart.

It’s important.

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

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


That’s a lie.

I went upstairs to fuck around with Twitter, okay.

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

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

So, right—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay bitch. What.The.Fuck.

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

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

This woman is crazy.

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

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

And that’s when it hit me.

I couldn’t believe it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Law school,” I repeated.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty,” I answered.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

AWWWWW cheea….

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

Listen up, Caucasians.

I’m from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Home of the Stonewall Jackson Shrine.

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

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

I’ve got this.

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Know who else didn’t know?

My bitchass client.

‘Til I fired that ass.

Why did I fire her?

She refused to watch her fucking tone.

Despite my numerous protestations,

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

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

So that bitch had to go.

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

And she never saw it coming.

No one ever does.

Let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I gotta make it all look effortless.

Now, I’m not complaining.

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

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

People mistake me for being soft.

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

Listen, people.

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

Remember that list. Guard it close.

And know that I am never, ever—

Ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever


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


I don’t give a damn WHO you are.

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

I will straight destroy eeeeeeeeeevvvvvverything within your line of vision.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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!!!


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……


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.

July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….