Wednesday, December 7, 2011



You don’t.

But I don’t blame you for thinking that people hate on you with such ferocity you feel the need to talk about them all the time. No, it is not your fault.

Like my white predecessors before me and those who will certainly come after, I blame this on rap music. Although it's my favorite genre of music, I will not excuse what it has done to an entire generation of youth.

You see, it wasn’t until the popularity of rap music became mainstream that people began to have all these mother fucking “haters”. Let me define this term for you as best I can.

HATERS: derived from the Latin for jerk. Used popularly by people who are insecure and project the hate of themselves onto others.

So these haters people speak of, who are they? Where are they? How often do you encounter them in your life that you feel the need to constantly to talk about them. I’ll tell you how often.


Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever in the Everests of never evers do you encounter these haters.

A hater is someone who is on a mission to see your life go wrong. They want nothing more than to see you fail in all of your endeavors. In extreme cases, these haters might even enjoy seeing you dead. Yes, dead. Now, if you have these type of people in your life then (more than likely) yo' ass did something to deserve it. (Take a second and think about this before you read on. DO IT!)

This is how you look when you talk about your haters

It takes a ton of effort to go out of your way to ensure that someone is failing at life. So much effort that said hater’s only focusing on you not making it. But maybe you think highly of yourself and like to feel that you are special enough to someone that they would do this for you. But what you’re most likely encountering is this person.

Someone who disagrees with you. Someone who does not support your goals and dreams. Someone who thinks you suck at what you do and therefore offers you no support. Someone who may in fact call you names and make fun of you and crack jokes to offend you. But this certain “someone” is not a hater. No they are just someone that you don’t need in your life. But a hater they are not.

There a lot of people, places, things and ideas that I do no support. I don’t wish for their demises as much as I don’t give a fuck about what their doing.

SO for all you music artists out there, I’m not a hater because I don’t support your music. Your music sucks, and you are a complete lame... Ask yourself, who's supporting that? The answer starts with "NOT" and ends with "ME".

And for all you ladies at the club, did you ever think that girl was over there talking about you because you and your friend are talking about her? Its called reciprocity, not hating. You attract the things you project. Ergo if you are talking shit about them bitches... Then, them bitches will be talking shit about yo' ass!

And for all the people who read this entry and still have the ignorant audacity to insist that there is some "League of Evil Haters" out there absolutely bent on seeing your life spent in total misery... Well, I hope that they find a way to succeed.

Because it's clear to see that what you really want is an excuse for yourself.

Did I touch a nerve with that one?


With yo' hatin' ass!

What's wrong with you people?

Seriously. What the fuck are you being so mean about? I've learned that the longer I've been on this earth, the less I sweat the small stuff. Besides, whether you believe it or not, there are always people doing worse than you. So, try and have a little consideration for someone other than yourself. Just try it, you'll thank me later.

So there you are, at a restaurant with your dreamboat or whoever and it seems that your food is taking forever to come out. You start getting frustrated that it's been almost a half hour since you ordered, your water glass is dryer than mummy scrotum, and EVERYONE around your table is toasting refilled wine glasses and gobbling down piping hot plates of decadent flavor. Now, I know what you want, you want to choke the shit outta that waiter/manager/person you're dating? but please, before you get to choking, stop... And instead don't, get to choking. 

Breathe. Collect yourself and think about what's really going on. Ok, so maybe the food and drink is not coming out as fast as you'd prefer this evening, no need for that to be the only thing you focus on. What you so easily forgot is that you're there with another person. How about you do what you came there for? Have a good time. Tell a joke. Share a story. Reminisce on good times. Do anything else, just do not waste your time focusing on negative shit. 9 times in 10, that thing that's bothering you does not have you at the forefront of its current existence. So why should you? Anyway, all I'm saying is if you focus on things that make you happy, things that make you happy will find their way around you.  And if you spend the majority of your time drowning yourself in negativity, don't act all surprised when you find out it's killing you.

It's easy to dance like this when your nipples are out

Also, yes I know this was an escape from the usual stuff I write about but hey, this is what came out when I started writing. So please, Dopefiends, just try and avoid being a dick your whole life. Just try it, see how it feels, and if it doesn't fit you can always take it back and get back to standard dickery. Well, that's all I got for now yall.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Well... It Did Start Off Like A Regular Blog Post

This morning, as I held the door for the person leaving McDonald's behind me (Why? Because I'm not a douchebag is why. Seriously, don't be a dick, hold the door for the person behind you... It makes the world a better place), I noticed how ashy my hands were. Well, not really my whole hand, just the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger and the one between my ring and pinky finger. And it made me think of THIS SONG because this is the DEFINITION of "not pimpin". And I know what you're probably saying...

So what? You're saying you didn't know you were walking around looking like the second coming of Ashy Larry? Yea, right! I bet your ashy ass looks like that all of the days.

Well, to that I say three things. First, what the hell is "All of the days?" Who talks like that?

Second, since when did my italic interrogator become such an a-hole? Jeez... That was borderline mean. And cmon son! Ashy Larry? I was not that bad... not completely anyway.

And third, I did NOT know that! Thus the whole writing about it now in dismay thing. It was shocking. Ok, maybe shocking is a little bit of overstatement, but it was definitely a little eyebrow-raising... I'm talking half-raised eyebrows here, at the least. I mean I put lotion on those two areas in copious amounts specifically to avoid such an ashy blunder, and yet... This still happens to me ALL the time. What. The. Fuck. 

And it's not like I missed my hands. They're practically the only thing I put lotion ON. It goes something like *squirt squirt* lotion hands up to elbows then face, and then I'm done. And to any ladies that might happen across this post, the answer is yes. That is fucking it. I have no idea how (or why)you guys use more lotion than that. And yet here I am walking into work with ashy ass knuckles.

I don't know what all this surprise is about, I'm not really a person you know. You write everything I say.

See that's what I'm talking about there you go again flapping your smart ass mouth.

Whatever man, all I know is you just spent an entire post talking about your stupid ashy ring fingers... This blog is ridiculous.

You're ridiculous!


Says the man having an argument with the imaginary friend he made up a few paragraphs ago?

Wait, did you just sigh? You do not sigh. I sigh... Me. And there will be no sighing from you... Got that? And we are not friends. 

Fine by me. 

*Judgmental exhale* 


I hate you.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Things I'm Not Good At... Vol. 1

I am not a shopper.

I say that because although I've engaged in shop-ping on many, many occasions... I have never done it in a smart way. And when I say never, I mean for it to have an "ever" right after it. I have very limited use for sales or limited time offers, seeing as I hardly ever utilize them. My shopping methods are so much more than unsophisticated, in fact, they're practically prehistoric.

This is something like what a trip to the mall feels like for me:

*Starts to walk in the store cautiously*

"Hi, Mr. Et Cetera! Thank you for visiting our store today. Looking for anything in particular?"

"Uhhh... Me like... sweaters?"

And that's when it happens, the sales reps somehow sense that I'm a lonely confused shopper (I have no idea how), and swoop in for the kill. Before I know it, I'm walking around with an embarrassing pile of argyle socks, basketball shorts, and neckties... Which is crazy, because I swear I was at Best Buy.

That's why I like to go to the store with a specific item in mind. That my friends, is when the joy comes in. That is how I have successful shopping adventures. My last one went something like this...

What do I need? An extension cord? Awesome. I know what I want, and I know where to get it. As I fly down the aisles - I imagine the soundtrack to the "Sound of Music" playing while I do Allen Iverson crossovers on sales reps, shooting majestic middle fingers at them as I glide by in slow motion whispering a most triumphant, "Fuuuuuuuuuck youuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!"


Before I know it, I'm swiping my debit card, heading home, opening my front door, plugging in my new extension cord, and turning on my TV...

And turning on my TV...

Turning on my...



*Deep depressing sigh of inner sadness*

I forgot to get batteries.

Fucking Best Buy.

Friday, November 4, 2011

She Don't Drink tho

I think I have a crush. And while you read this, maybe you think so too.

Rather, I know I have a crush. I know this because Troo told me I did as he made fun of me. Yes, he laughed in my face and I couldn't do anything but come up with the most clever comeback...


Not my highest moment, but it was a high moment...but alas, I do in fact have a crush.

And a real crush too. It's so real, she doesn't even know I'm crushing on her and if I can have my way, she'll never know. That's right dopes and dopettes, I'm taking it back to high school on ya'll asses.

So I met this wonderful girl (of course, who will rename nameless for OBVIOUS reasons) about a month ago while I was hanging out with Troo somewhere in some place. I wasn't expecting much from the night, just to chill and then...there she was....the girl of my dreams.

Well, my day dreams...actually, I never dreamt of this woman before in my life. But, when I saw her, I wish I did. And I wish it would have been one of those dreams where I'm lucid enough to control the dream. Then I could do whatever I want. Like be with her beautiful caramel complected, dark and lovely, freshly relaxed hair, honey lips...damn, I'm day dreaming again.

Either way, we were all drinking and laughing and chilling until I realized something.

Shorty didn't drink.

Now this wouldn't be a big deal to most, but to me, the fact that she didn't partake in the Jesus Juice said something about her.

It says:

She likes to keep her body clean, and not destroyed by what people call a good time.
She probably drives and takes drunk driving very seriously, maybe she lost a friend.
She works out and we all know that alcohol ain't good for you.

But whatever the reason, I came to the realization that we can never be together, in real life at least.

You see, I have not been able to find the need to be with a woman who drinks. Maybe I assume that if you don't drink, you don't want someone who does. Plus, no one wants to feel like the town drunk when you're the only one at the table drinking.

I know Mr. EtCetera would probably drink at a table alone. In fact, he would drink at the table alone, in the living room alone and on that one occasion he'll drink alone in the bathroom.

I've actually seen this.
I'd like to think Mr. EtCetera looks up to this man.

But NOT me. And so, we could never be.

Am I wrong in my thought process?

HELL YEAH I'm wrong in my thought process. I knew I was wrong when I began thinking these things. But I'm OK with that and hopefully you are too.

If I ever do see this lady again, I'm going to go into full teenage Tevin Campbell at Ashley birthday party and sing a song to her.

But before that, I'm going to learn how to sing. Or pick a song that I can sing very the talking part on a Boyz II Men track....throw in some smooth Jodeci ad libs and BAM...she's mine.

And if this plan doesn't work, wouldn't be the first time I've been rejected...and it damn sure won't be the last.

But I think I'll crush from afar, because it's fun having those butterflies in your stomach, sweat in your palm and pubescent hormonal rages, ain't it.

Nope, I'ma say something.

But probably not.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Do You Wear Your Sunglasses At Night?

This weekend, as I prepared to go out I checked my bank account.

So as I prepared to stay in, I started thinking about why people wear their sunglasses at night. I usually do this because I'm high off my ass and my eyes are red like the devil.  Of course, when I asked myself this question, I was on a unholy high and I could barely keep the thought in my head before I started singing these lyrics.

"I wear my sunglasses at I can hmm hmmm hm hm hmmmm."

And that was exactly what I said. Because like you reader, I don't know the next lyric in the damn song. No one does. In fact, I bet you don't even know who sings the damn thing. But today all of that changes.

The man behind this hit record was a man named Corey Hart. I don't know much about the man and so everything written about him is based off of the video to this hit single and my Bill and Ted's excellent imagination.

According to the video, Corey Hart grew up with a slight rhythmic twitch in some kind of time in which the only way to avoid government brutality was to......

Wear one's sunglasses in the evening hours in which the sun was not shining.

The song goes onto further say that he is wearing his sunglasses to protect himself from a cheating woman, and not only will she cheat on him, but she will cut him too.

"Don't switch the blade on the guy in the shades, oh no."
What kind of woman will cheat on you AND THEN cut you. I'll tell you who, a woman in the 80's.

Don't believe me...listen to the song. I was confused as hell too. I still am confused.

WTF were they smoking in the 80's?
Crack. They smoked crack.

Either way, Corey Hart was found dead before his second single "I Wear My Pajamas to Work".

What I learned from this video and the life and times of Corey Hart is this...he wears his sunglasses at night so he can keep his visions in his head (that's the next lyric in the song people).

So as you venture out this Halloween ask yourself this,

Is your wearing of your sunglasses at night simultaneously supporting the Nazi like regime that ended the life of Corey Hart?

Yes, yes you are.

Cocaine is a hell of drug.
RIP Rick James.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Q and Nay

I’ve been told I like to question the world around me. I responded 

“what the fuck makes you think that?” 

Not my most eloquent moment but then it made me wonder “Do I really question the world around me that much?”…

which in itself was a question…

But before I facilitate falling into further diversions, let me just say this...


I do like to question the world around me.

And not clever simple questions like, 

“Why do we drive on parkways and park in driveways?” 


“Why do we loves the ones that hurt us and hurt the ones that love us” 

Because well, those questions are stupid. 

And especially the second one. Because only hurt ass people ask stupid questions like that. Even if it is rhetorical, it is rhetorically stupid.

(And I know that didn't make any sense, I bet you'll keep reading though.)

Anyway, I like to ask myself the more pressing questions in life like…

What happened to the first horse they led to water? How long did it take before they figured out that they couldn't make it drink?

You gotta know it didn’t work out to well for that horse. Poor guy.

I like to imagine it went something like...

He already had a drink at the last stop and just wasn't bleeding thirst like his horsey brethren. They got to the meadowy brook and the other horses ran to get their drink on… But that last horse… Well, he was chilling. So, the rancher decides to lead him to the water… And horse is still not about that drinking water lifestyle. So the rancher furiously attempts shoving it's head in. Well, horse did not take too kindly to said shoves and not-so-politely kicks the fuck out of mister ranger. I'm guessing that's when the ranger learned his lesson.

I'm also guessing that's when the ranger loaded his rifle and shot horsey in the head. Which totally sucks for that horse. But I’d like to think that he’s out to stud in that big horse ranch in the sky.

Then I think about stuff like...

What sucks more, BlackBerry or T-Mobile?

If you’ve have both, you don’t have to ask your self this question, the answer is yes. But for everyone else, I’ve tussled back and forth with this for years (read: week) and I can’t really come up with an answer. You have T-Mobile who, since losing Catherine Zeta Jones and picking up a very weak, less attractive and younger look alike, is making me contemplate a daily phone company switch.

Meanwhile, BlackBerry’s are like... Well you know what they're like. (Read: Shitty, although BBM is the truth, I cannot lie.)

Or how about this…
What weekend day is better, Friday, Saturday… Sunday… ?
Another question that life has put before me. I don’t really have an answer. I like Friday nights, it never feels wasted if I stay in like on Saturday nights. But Saturdays, you’re more likely to go out and party because you were at your leisure all day. And then you have Sundays…and if you’re like me and not going to church, well then you have FOOTBALL... ANNNND you can have BRUNCH (BRUHZ Lunch)!!!

And if you aint never had brunch before, I got 2 words for ya….

Or the most pressing life question of them all….

Who thinks of this kind of shit?

Well, that all depends... I mean, you just spent an entire blog post doing it.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

A Few Words on Small Talk or Why I Wear Headphones All The Time


No, seriously. You, person who works in the office with me, did you notice these headphones smothering both sides of my face? Oh you did? Then why the fuck are you trying to converse with me you A-hole?

I. Am not. Interested.

Nigga what? No.

No, seriously. You, crazy guy/gal on the Greyhound/US Airways/Amtrak sitting next to me, it doesn't matter what I'm listening to. I'll tell you what I'm not listening to ANYTHING YOU SAY. Keep your questions over there in 16F.

And, seriously. You old lady next to me in the ridiculously long line at the grocery store. Of course I want to hear what grocery stores were like 60 years ago. I find your old-timey tales of youth and simplicity COMPLETELY ADORABLE!

She simply LOVES candy.

Ok... That last one aside, I still am not getting what makes the rest of you jerks think you can practice your small talk on me. Wrong.

You know what you need to engage in small talk with me? Talent, skill, and charisma. You know what you have? Bad breath and a bad story. So I'm sorry, guy standing in front of me at the post office, "Crazy weather we're having this week." is not cutting it. Didn't you see me over here pretending to listen to loud music? Excuse me while I turn to the left and act like I'm reading these posters on the wall...

What's this? Next month there will be Scooby Doo AND Transformers stamps on sale?


Monday, October 17, 2011

My letter to the "King of Cool"

Dear Samuel L. Jackson,

Who the hell do you think you are?

How dare you be so cool!

First of all, you're 62 and you look like you're 40! But that's just cause Black folks, we don't age. Even Morgan Freeman's old ass. I swear he's been 70 years old forever.

However, I digress...

Growing up I watched all your movies, and still do. Hell... I watched "your" movies when I originally didn't even know that you were in the damn film! (i.e. Coming To America, Goodfellas, Jurassic Park) Screw you Samuel L. and your memorable on screen appearances!

Which brings me to my first point. HOW THE HELL ARE YOU IN SO MUCH STUFF!?!

I once read that you were a stand-in for Bill Cosby on the The Cosby Show. Goddammit! You've invaded my Cosby Show experience too! I find it ironic that the clean, good humored, Jell-O pudding eating, Coogi sweater wearing Cos had Mr. Bad Mothafucka stand in as Dr. Huxtable. This only re-affirms your coolness.

Just yesterday, I was perusing your imdb page, as I do every 2 to 3 days to make sure you haven't done anything new, and I realized something that blew my mind...

Since 1987 you have consistently appeared in a film...
Since 1988 you have consistently had 2 or more films come out a year...
And in 1990 you were in 7 different films, including Goodfellas, Mo' Betta Blues and The Exorcist III...

Are you a robot? Did you sell your soul to the Devil?....  How, Samuel L.?.... How?

Fucking Marvel comics made their Ultimate version of Nick Fury to be in your likeness!!!! WTF!

You're also on Twitter now too! Is there any medium that you haven't invaded? And yeah, I follow you... Not that you noticed!

And another thing...

How dare you make things cool, that shouldn't be?

What Don Draper does for cigarettes, whiskey, and cheating on one's wife with anonymous women, YOU do for swearing, be bald, and Kangol hats. By that I mean, I can't pull it off.

Samuel L., people don't fear me when I curse. Nor are they impressed. I told my mother to "pass the mothafucking pepper" once and she backhanded me! 

I can't be bald neither. My neck too skinny!

And Kangol hats... I just can't rock 'em. I just don't have that "Samuel L. swag". (I hope Kangol pays you. They ought to.)

I also can't do that Don Draper stuff, neither. No Black man can do that stuff without suffering the consequences...

But maybe you can, Samuel L. ... Maybe you can...


Troo AlQueMist

P.S. Is it true that in all your movie contracts you are guaranteed easy access to golf courses, no matter where the location shoot happens to be.

Samuel L., from one Bad Mothafucka to another, I have to say you are truly THE Baddest Mothafucka Alive.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Rich Dad, No Dad

The other day my boss gave me a ride home from work. Very kind of him especially since I turned him down the first time. Not because I didn't want the ride but because after work hours, I cannot be held responsible for the shit I say. Off the clock means off the mothafucking wall. But alas, I took the ride.

Long story short, we ended up having an hour long conversation in front of my house. A great one at that. A "I'm going to hire you" conversation. But the meat of the conversation was not in me setting up a future job oppurtunity but when we talked about growing up.

Eventually it got to the conversation about how we both grew up poor and didn't know and while we were having this discussion, I thought about my best white friends when I was growing up.

Your're thinking "what was said in that conversation that made you think about that?" And my response is growing up poor. Allow me to make the correlation through a short story.

You see, before I was a poor black kid who ain't have shit, I was just a kid. Teasing girls, eating boogers, you know, that whole shabang. And as luck would have it, it would be my white friends who led me to the discovery of my epic poor... ness.

Two of my best white friends from elementary school Nick (an EYE-talian) and Joe (the Jew) showed me what it was like to not have shit. They did this by having more shit than I had ever seen in my life. And it wasn't on purpose. My white friends always shared with me what they had and it was awesome.

Lunchables (the Pizza ones, not just the ham and cheese), GoGurt, Chex Mix, Fluff. Yes, all of these things that my parental units didn't even know existed let alone deny me of.

Do you remember what it was like to not have a home computer, because I do. I remember because when I went to Joey's house for a playdate in 5th grade, it was the first time I had seen a computer outside of that Mac that only had Oregon trail and that Carmen San Diego game in the special ed. classroom.

**If you don't know what a play date is, you didn't grow up with white people, I can tell**
**If you never played Oregon trail, who ARE you?"

And at this particular play date, the first time I went over to his house, I learned that I was poor. This may be a familiar incident to some of you, the first time you learned you ain't have shit.

My friend Joe had all the latest video game systems (N64 was the latest at the tine) while I was still on the first Play Station, that I didn't get that until it was 2 years old. I was a back logged system kid. I got the PS2 right before the PS3 came out. When everyone was getting Game Cube, I was burning games to play on my Sega DeramCast. (Oh, y'all ain't know you could copy and burn games for that huh, I knew in 6th grade.)

Only FOUR steps? And it's forever? Well, in that case I'll take TWO!

**Back to the ignorance**

So now I know I'm poor, and I know I'm black. So basically what I'm trying to say is I'm poor AND black.

Is that Good?





Now, I bet you thought I was going to say NO.

NOPE. Not doing it.

You see, it's great to know your poor because one of those things you can change. And being black is the business. Yall know that. Sheeeeit, EVERYBODY wants to be black (but don't nobody wanna BE black ya' know?). The point is, when I saw that I was poor and later black (but that dope fiends is another story), I knew I wanted more than being poor. And the black thing was cool. I mean, even back then, I knew that the white women wanted us.

And as long as white women wanted ME, I was cool.

But seriously, learning what I did not have was just as much fun as learning what I did. So we couldn't have pets in our apartment, that's cool. The roaches and mice probably wouldn't like it anyway. And So what if I couldn't get the newest systems, that just gave me the opportunity to wax nostalgic at an early age. Besides, I ain't know. And so what I didn't have a backyard...well, actually, there was no benefit to not having a backyard that I can think about.

I'm just happy through all of that, I was able to grow up into the incredible human being I am today.


But then I graduated from college...

And I was right back to being poor again.

And I ain't got shit... Mannnn...

 Fuck being poor.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Yard Sales and Our FAILS...

I did not grow up in New York City. But, does that make me better than those of you who did? Yes, of course it does. It also means I've seen things a few of you haven't.For instance, have any of you ever been to a yard sale where you could buy a young pig AND a Sega Dreamcast? 

Trust me, it's a beautiful thing.

How does that saying go? "One man's trash is another man's treasure." Well, yard sales are kind of like that. Only, it would probably more like it if the saying went, "One man's trash is another man's thing he'll gladly buy if it's less than 5 bucks."

Now that's just yard SALES, there is actually something else out there even better than a yard sales. That thing, is what I like to call the "yall better grab this shit now because I'm getting rid of it" yard GIVEAWAYS. And what kind of things do you find here? Well, it can be any kind of thing. But more than likely it's things like:

Wheels and tires (who could have known spinning rims would go out of style)

Furniture (what's wrong with it? Who knows! Why should you pick it up? Possibly because you have some kind of secret bedbug fetish. Or maybe you've really been trying to upgrade your living room space. What better way to do that then introducing your place to an exciting new mystery smell!)

Puppies/Kittens (Yes, you can get a young dog or cat for free. Or, you can spend an exorbitant amount of money on a "pure bred" animal that will never be in any kind of dog/cat show - but will still habitually disrespect you and your property while you provide it with free food and shelter.)

This is just a side note, it's about to be a cold world for some of these dudes trying to grow long hair now that it's back in style. Especially when they find out it aint that easy. I mean it's plenty long-haired ladies out here that haven't quite figured this one out. Like this lady walking next to me with the, what I can only assume is, bangs glued directly unto her forehead. Definitely bout to see these "long hair don't hair" guys flipping through cosmo at your local beauty shop.

Welp... To each his own I say.

And then there's another thing thing you sometimes see left out for the scavenging masses. Books... Yea books.

*sad long exhaling sigh*

No one cares about them. A few good friends and I were out one fine autumn's eve and we happened upon a few books. Not just a few though but multiple bookcases worth of them. Standing demurely in some kind of sexy brothel line up across someone's front yard. Mind you, the time is just a little ways north or south of 8 o clock in the Post Meridian. These books have been outside ALL DAY. And nobody cared to give them a home. ALL DAY.

Why? Because people do not value knowledge. I mean, it wasn't always that way. Most of us grew up wanting to excel. Good grades? They were worthy of celebration. Spelling Bee champion? Salute! And what did we question? Everything.

So what happened?

Puberty happened. And with it also came our early tinkerings in social interaction, taboos, and mores. Our entire understanding of the world was  then turned on it's head. What do we want to do now? Fit in.  What do we celebrate? Beauty. What do we decry? Math. What do we question? Nothing.

We grew up in a world where most people were forged along the path of least resistance, and so we too began to yield at the unflinching hammer of mediocrity. Even if you didn't like it, you looked like you did and you certainly didn't do anything about it. 

Well, that's what you get, and it's more than certainly what you deserve.

Once upon a time Mike Tyson once said (yes, I'm quoting Mike Tyson, chill - I'm trying to create a sweeping motivational finale to finish this post with... Anyway... back to what I was saying.)

This Guy.

Mike Tyson once said, "Most revolutions are started by someone who read a book on revolution." Come on yall, if Mike can understand that knowledge is power, I'm more than inclined to believe the rest of us can too. 

So pick up a book you guys.

Then, read it.

P.S. If by some mythical chance Mike Tyson does read this blog I want to say that I'm a huge fan and that I meant no offense to you man. It's basically common knowledge that you're not that smart, walk it off you big baby.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Marriage... LEASE?

What’s good Dope Fiends?

So I see that my colleagues, Mr. Et Cetra and Mr. Grab It had a discussion about marriage and I was not included because I’m a “dick”.

Here’s what really happened…

You know how on a lot of workplace TV shows there’s always an episode where Person A will go to an event/meeting that the Boss put together. The Boss will approach Person A and say, “Hey Person A. Nice tie. Have you seen Person B?”

Person A: “No, Boss. I haven’t. I guess Person B didn’t care enough about your event to come.” Or some smartass comment like that.

Person B will then rush in at the last minute and reveal to the Boss that Person A lied about the details or never told them about the event. Person A is, in the end, exposed as a selfish jerk who only wanted to make Person B look bad in order to get ahead…

Hi, I’m Person B.

And Ric and Reg are Person A. They suck so bad that it takes two of them to make one Person.

And although they suck, I do admit that the topic of marriage is a good one to talk about. Here are my thoughts…

DISCLAIMER: I did not read Ric and Reg’s entry. Why? Because that shit was long as fuck. So forgive me if I repeat some ideas/thoughts.

I hate when I hear women talk about they wanna get married by a certain age.

Wait a second, Troo! There are some men who wanna get married by a certain age too!

Yes. Once again Person-who-shouts-in-italics, you are correct. However, as a heterosexual male, I’m only giving a damn about how women think/feel about marriage. As I plan on marrying a woman.

Yes, yes. Despite what you’re about to read, I do plan on getting married SOMEDAY.

“SOMEDAY”. Is that a terrible word, ladies, when we’re talking about marriage? Why is it that you HAVE TO be married before you turn 30 or 35? And you HAVE TO have your first child with your husband by age 28, 32, or whatever…


As much as you want to get married and have 2 little kids with good hair by the time you’re 33. You might not be ready until you’re 35. And that’s not a bad thing.

My fear is that women aren’t taking marriage as seriously as it should be taken. When you’re married, you’re with that person forever.

Forever? Forever, ever? Forever, ever?

That’s a long ass time to be with someone. And think about all the times you did something for YOURSELF just because YOU wanted to. When you’re married, there is no YOU. It’s Y’ALL. And remember, it’s gonna be Y’ALL…


Or does it?

In this country, where more than half or marriages end in divorce, I think we should take a new/different approach to marriage. Marriage should not be contract!

It should be a lease!

Uh… Troo…

Yeah, I said it! It had to be said!

Think about it. You and your fiancĂ©e sign a marriage lease for, let’s say, 10 years. For those 10 years, you’re married. Then once you hit that 10 year point, Y’ALL can decide to renew that lease for another 10 years or more, or Y’ALL can be like, “You know what… I don’t think YOU, ME, this US thing is working out. I, uh, think Imma not renew this thing. Deuces.”

Hey… It wouldn’t be a divorce. And it’s not like I’m saying we should get rid of traditional marriage. I’m just saying that this should be an option. Hell, you could get a marriage lease and then decide midway through…

“Hey forget this lease thing! Let’s get married and… MAKE IT LAST FOREVER. FOREVER!”

That’s what we, in the real estate world, like to call Rent-to-Own.


Friday, October 7, 2011

You Can Find Me in The Club...

....or standing right outside about to get in. But I will get in. I don't club a lot, but when I do, it's gotsta be DOPE. And of course, anything I do is DOPE.

Except tonight.

You see, I pulled up in a million trucks. I was looking, smelling feeling like a million bucks.

Until I remembered I took the bus and never even owned a car. On top of that, I was no where near a million bucks richer than I had been previous to stepping in line. But it was pay day, and I intended to use all the $50 allotted on big spending wisely. And my smell was also not of the million dollar variety but of the Granddaddy OG Purple Kush. DOPE.

So as told, being the baller that I be, you know I got up in the club for free.

It didn't hurt that there wasn't a cover but I know if there was, a nigga still wouldn't have been paying...because a nigga would have went somewhere else.

First step in the club, I throw the shades on because I am some kind of stoned. Stoned like In the Stone from firing up that earth and blowing smoke into the wind on the walk to the club (did I mention I took the bus to the club).


I began to survey my environment, you know checking out the fellas, the highs and lows. But I kept my good eye open for clocking the hoes.

And this is where the night began.

So now I'm at the bar, shake, shaking, taking them off (whatever that means). Tonight I thought I would play the wall and wait for a girl to come talk to me. You know, like girls do. And you'd be surprised that more times than none, it actually works.

Except tonight.

The ladies in the club on this particular evening were something, different if you will.
And by "different", I mean fucking wrecked.

No hate from over here though. We are all God's children (if you believe in that sort of thing) when the lights are off. But the lights weren't off. They were dim. And when the lights are dim, the Devil's slightly slower step child, DECEPTION is slowly afoot.

I go to buy my first of two $15 Long Island Iced Teas of the night and as I prepare to savor every last drop (cent), for the next 20, maybe 25 minutes (including the mostly watery drink it will become when the ice melts) I look over and see a group of females enjoying the hell out of this club.

They were having fun, looking all types of good, like video good. Porn Star good. Janet Jackson circa Poetic Justice good. Until I realized OPERATION COMPLETELY DISTORT VISION was going down. And that was because I was high. **REMOVES SUNGLASSES**


These girls were confident. I must say that.

The first thing I noticed was the hair. One had a weave, the other was natural, another one even had the Rihanna red dye job going on. Upon closer inspection (and about $7.50 into my drink), it was revealed to me that these women were even dressed nicely.

Nice shoes, accessories, all that (because a man notices when a woman takes her time on what she's wearing, or at least we pretend to).

But then, I saw...
In the worst way possible.
I don't know if it was the terrible smiles, the clown make up or how this one girl's lazy eye was working harder than the busy eye. Either way, my high was getting low and it became clear it was time to move on.

Deceived. As Troo would put it, "that whole crew over there a little messed up and they know it. That's why they have the most personality."


So I finish another $3 of my drink and about 40% of my sustained high and turn left and what do we that Nicki Minaj? Fat ass, big boobs, crazy hair, light skinned nigga looking sad next to her. The last $4.50 of my drink was telling me this must be Nicki, or at least a close cousin, maybe an impersonator.

Nope. Just some chick with purple, pink and green hair. One thing was for sure, this lady was not her hair.

Nor was she the dress, shoes, earrings, perfume or anything else she might have been wearing that night. I'll never understand why women who are a size 12 would attempt to squeeze that ass (ass ass ass ass ass ass 'ass' does not suffice for the amount of ass she fit in that dress) into a size 6.

It appeared her little black dress was trying to grow up into the big black dress it was always meant to be.

C'MON WIT YOUR BIG ASS, LEMME SEE know, something that doesn't give you 4 back titties.

As I went to buy my second $15 drink, I hear noise break out in the club. A fight, a small skirmish perhaps?

Wrong again, Ricochet. 
It's just that lame nigga having more fun than the amount of fun that is actually in the club. He's having so much fun that no one else can have fun because he is using it all up. This nigga also happened to be that other nigga.

You know, that other nigga at the club who hasn't learned how to properly ask a lady for a dance so he just goes up behind them and tries to start dancing.

Yeah that guy.

And on this particular night as it would happen, his plan was not working.

I didn't care. I finished my second drink, all $15 plus ice, my high was wearing off and I was about ready to leave this club alone. So I made my way for the exit.

The end of a decent night.

...on my way out though, I couldn't help but notice this lame nigga getting rejected by an entire group of girls. One by one, they shot him down. I chuckled to myself
and by "to myself" I mean out loud.

I guess he heard me laugh and he laughed to. Then he tried to hit me with the

"You know what I mean?"


"Theeeseeee bitches beeeee tripping doooooooogggg" shrug.

No, nigga. No.

I'm out.