Champagne Tastes, Kool-Aid Pockets

Have you seen baby strollers these days? A lot of them look like moon rovers. Like this one. Umm hmmm…

Why do dogs defecate and then turn around and kick dirt on it, when the majority of the dirt lands nowhere near it?

Many single moms look for a man who gets along really well with their kid(s). While this act definitely has sincere intentions, maybe something is being overlooked. Maybe the guy gets along with kids so well because he’s more like them than an adult…

People who come to work with wet hair…please go back home. Do us all a favor and run around the block first to air-dry that mess. You look like you just fought alongside Braveheart for 4 days straight. Or just got off a journey with the Frodo and the rest of the Fellowship.

My friend told me that her friend wanted to have her birthday party in a really trendy, swanky part of town, but she always complains about being broke. I told my friend that her girl had “champagne tastes” and “Kool-aid pockets.” My friend chuckled and said she had never heard that saying before. That surprised me, but it got me thinking about myself. I wondered whether or not I fit that description. After some considerable thought, I concluded that I’m not that type of person. I’m more of a “Kool-Aid tastes, Kool-Aid pockets” kind of guy.

Nothing worse than an old person who refuses to sit down on the bus. Elderly folks, if I offer you my seat on the bus, you should take it. The centrifugal force from the turn coming up alone is enough to send your frail body through the window and into orbit. I know you’ve been here for centuries and you feel that you can do anything, but time isn’t your friend, my friend. Neither is gravity. You should sit down. Take a load off. No one wants to see you bouncing from wall to wall and person to person, all because you feel like you can hold your own against physics and inertia. You can’t. Just sit your old ass down. When I get old and incredibly stubborn, hopefully someone will do the same for me.

The term adultery sounds like something one needs to do in order to become an adult. It almost sounds like a rite of passage…
FATHER: Son, it’s time.
SON: Is it really, Pop?
FATHER: It sure is. Time for my boy to become a man. It’s time you committed…adultery.
SON: Yay! Soon, I’ll be an adult…an adulterer! Just like you, Pop!
FATHER: Whoa! Hold your horses, son. One step at a time. Adult, first. Adultery, second. Alright?
SON: OK.

A coworker of mine just started coughing in the middle of a meeting. Said he was choking on “snack dust.”

People throw out hot coffee that has gone cold. Yet people drink iced coffee. Isn’t iced coffee colder than coffee sitting at room temperature? Hmm…

People walk over puddles so their shoes don’t get dirty. When you think about it, it sort of doesn’t make sense. The whole point of shoes is to keep your feet from getting dirty. To protect your feet from stuff on the ground that could hurt you. Right? Well, people. There’s only one solution. We need shoes that protect the shoes that protect our feet. Shoes for shoes. Sure, we’ll all look like we’re wearing Ronald McDonald-sized clown shoes, but our shoes will be safe and sound, as will our feet. Layers and layers of safety, comfort, and peace of mind for all.

I’m at my best and sharpest when I drink shitty coffee. The worse the coffee, the better my mind works. Therefore, I go around and grab cups from all types of fine establishments. Bank coffee, car shop coffee, gas station coffee, and construction site coffee are at the top of my list.

October 31, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Heatwave Frostbite

This sore throat is becoming a pain in my neck.

The new poster for the movie The November Man has it coming out in theaters August. I wonder if he knows that. Obviously, November is his month. He does all of his best stuff in that month. He’s probably just not feeling it in the other months.  Who knows what this man’s preferred method of seasonal operation is?  No one ever asked him.  August might be a little too early for him to pull off all the feats that earned him the name The November Man.

There’s a movie out now called Boyhood. It’s 3 hours long. Any boy who watches that movie will be a man by the time it’s over.

So…if your mama never gave you anything, are you still supposed to shake it?

Women who dress like baby dolls have to admit they’re displaying pedophiliac behavior. You’re 45. Why are you dressing like you’re 4 months old? Just stop it. Booties, bibs, bottles.  C’mon now.  That’s not fashion.  That’s a sickness.  Take the pacifier out of your mouth.  You wear Depends, not Huggies.

SPCA: Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I need to start a human version of that. SPCHA…Cruelty to Humans by Animals. Why not?

“You ever think that snakes see trains and get their minds blown? ‘How did he get so big?'” –My brilliant coworker

Sometimes, I get so happy that the two halves of my brain split apart and start clapping.

Is it me, or does looking at the new Gotham commercials and billboards make you hungry too? Gotham…Gotham..Got ham…Got ham? Do you smell bacon?

I know a guy who couldn’t laugh in a masculine tone if he brushed his teeth with testosterone toothpaste.

It’s ironic how jury duty is like being in prison. You can’t move around. You’re forced to stay in one place. Lawyers ask you questions. You feel pressured to lie or tell the truth.  No one wants to be there.  There are regulated lunch breaks. Hell, that sounds like work!

The other day, I hurt my upper ankle area while walking to the gym. It hurt for a while, but when I ran on the treadmill, it felt much better. Later on that night, I put an ice pack on it so that it would keep the swelling down as a precaution. I sat down and watched TV. Two hours, I took the ice pack off. I noticed that my skin in some areas felt hot. The following day, the hot areas had developed into dark blisters. I then realized that I forgot to put the ice pack in a cloth sleeve or towel. I had applied the ice pack directly onto my skin for two hours. This was all during a heat wave, and my apartment is known to get pretty hot. Therefore, I believe I’m one of the few people to have self-inflicted frostbite in a hot apartment during a summer heat wave of 110+ degrees.

There are cars called Maxima and Optima. Clearly, there should be a car called Minima, which would have the absolute minimal features and barely even street legal. Just enough to get you from point A to point…Shit! It broke down again!

The term “slacks” misrepresents its purpose. You wear slacks when you want to look nice and presentable. There’s nothing slack about slacks. A lot of slackers can’t even muster up the energy to put on pants.

—-

So a crackhead sat next to me at the bus stop and smiled. Then she said, “McDonald’s!”

The rest of the conversation went like this:

“McDonald’s?”
“Yeah! McDonald’s. You said we go McDonald’s.”
“I said what?”
“McDonald’s. McDonald’s. McDonald’s!”
“OK. Burger King has crispier fries, though.”

She fell asleep immediately.

The bus pulled up, and I got on it.

FIN

September 30, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

American Standard

Sean Bell
Oscar Grant
Yusef Hawkins
Arthur McDuffie
Timothy Stansbury
Kimani Gray
Aaron Campbell
Wendell Allen
Amadou Diallo
Patrick Dorismond
Johnny Gammage
Jonathan Ferrell
Eric Garner
Ezell Ford
John Crawford III
Michael Brown

…just to name a few.

All unarmed.

From 2006 to 2012, a cop killed a black person at least twice a week in this nation.

People talk about striving to live the American Dream all the time.  But dreams are for the hopeful.  And those who don’t have their right to live threatened daily by those who are sworn to protect the public.

Killing black people is the now the American Standard.  Desensitized to black death.  Dismissive of black life.

John Crawford III was playing with a toy gun in Walmart a few days ago when he got gunned down by Ohio cops.  I didn’t hear about one cop overreacting and unloading his clip into a crowd of those gun enthusiasts who were carrying firearms into all of those businesses a few months ago.  Not a one.

A couple of the names above were lying face down on the ground when cops shot them.  In the back.

This has gone way past ridiculous.
Folks want to rebel.
Folks want to retaliate.
Folks need to reassess.
Folks want revenge.

This is the standard here in America.  Land of the free to shoot any ol’ brother.  Home of the brave cops that fire on unarmed minorities.

This is the American Standard.  Ask Trayvon.  Ask the Central Park Five.  Ask Emmett.  Ask Medgar.  Ask the Scottsboro Boys.  Ask Louis Allen.  Ask Isaac Woodard.  Ask Ossian Sweet.  Ask the Freedom Riders.  Ask the victims of the 1920 lynchings in Duluth, MN.  You should see the postcard.

Reminds me of the Red Summer of 1919,
just spread throughout the entire year now.
The summers have been red ever since.  Really don’t care if you ain’t convinced.
There’s a plethora of evidence.

Earth, Wind, and Fire says, “That’s the way of the world.”
Singing songs to raise the spirit, as we raise spirits to our fallen’s memories.
All of this is standard.  This is what we do.

But standards are made to be broken.
And, soon, a day’s a-coming.  Like the Negro spirituals of old,

“I don’t feel no ways tired,
I’ve come too far from where I started from.
Nobody told me that the road would be easy,
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.”

But that’s undated and antiquated.
An obsolete consensus not fit for today.

Folks are gettin’ tired.
Folks are gettin’ tired.
My people have been tired.
We’re all fucking tired.

I’m getting tired of talking.

This is gonna stop.
Shit’s about to pop.

Powder keg meets Molotov.
Unity at last.

August 19, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Stop Requested

Westbound on the #5 bus.
9:04 AM, Friday.
Resting my weary haunches from standing, waiting on this same vessel of human cattle to work, corporate chattel to jerk.
A woman, 50 or so, sits to my left.
A man in his 20s flanks my right side.
She performs the sign of the cross–Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Father, Son, Holy Spirit–repeatedly.
I wonder what she did last night.
The man thinks he’s slick and tries to hide his 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve. Dude’s got some steel nerve.
I wonder what he did last night.
The gentleman gives me a look similar to the ones the Skid Row fellas give you if you creep too close to their territory or property.
I hit him back with a face that only a motherfucker could love. A head nod. He acknowledges. His shoulders gradually slope in relaxation. He’s cool now. He knows. His secret is safe with me.
She’s been at this prayer for a whole 10 minutes now. Whatever she’s hoping for, I hope she gets it. She’s put in a lot of work.
The aisle’s clear for once. No one’s standing in the pathway, blocking others’ progression or digression. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s in a seat. There’s no movement here. Everyone’s happy where they are.
The wheels on the bus go round and round, while the rest of us look down at the ground or stare at our phones or just peer off into the mild blue yonder.
No one talks. We’re all just content. With whatever this is.
The driver doesn’t even stop. No frequent stops.
There’s no movement here.
There’s plenty of movement fear.
No one here realizes.
Movements have started on vehicles like this one.
Those were the days. When things were worth fighting for.
When causes were worth writing for.
When ideas were birthed, inciting war.
Too comfortable these days, no one’s inspiring more.
Everyone’s satisfied. Everyone’s satiated.
Full as ticks. Full of it. Full of shit.
That goes for me, too.
I realize that I’ve been in this seat for some time now.
Got comfortable in this thing.
It was brand new when I first sat down.
But now I can feel the springs.
We spring forward just to fall back on the past, dear.
Take a nice rest on your laurels from last year.
I want to give you change like a cashier. There’s no movement here.
So I brush the dust off my jeans. Sweep the cobwebs from my shirt.
Tighten up my bootstraps. Get ready to hit the dirt.
Stand my ass up and tug on the cord.
Screeeeeeeech! The driver flings open the door.
I step off…into the infinite.
At first, it’s scary, but so is everything worth anything.
The bus lurches forward, on the road all alone.
Ladies and gentlemen, next stop: destination unknown.
There’s no movement there.
I can’t be a part of that anymore.
Any part of that can’t be more.
Of what I’m looking for.
I’ll make my own path. You should, too.
Join me
Or
Move.

August 15, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Cocksure Coxcombs

Some woman locked her car doors as I was walking by her the other day.  This is a fairly common occurrence.  Even though I’m pretty used to it, the various looks of fear still amaze me.  Whatever.  Next time I see a white lady just sitting in her car, I’m going to start screaming, throw her my wallet, and run to the nearest cop and tell him that lady is trying to attack me.

—
ME: how about you?
FRIEND: good.. just same shit, different day
ME: hahah. exactly.
good thing it’s a different day.
ever get stuck with the same shit on the same day, it means you’re dead.
—

Saw a kid with a baseball cap over his yarmulke.  Do what you gotta do, kid.

The great actress CCH Pounder was walking near my street today.
She was walking with some guy, and they looked like they were going to Coffee Bean.
They passed me as we greeting one another.
The guy then told me I had some white stuff on both sides of my mouth.
BHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
(It was toothpaste.)

How many of you know a muthafugga so nasty, he uses his toenail clippings as toothpicks?

How many of you know a muthafugga so stupid, he thought the “Don’t Walk” and “Walk” crossing signs were telling him to give the first white person he sees a high-five?

I never see anyone reading in the local Christian Scientist Reading Room.

“Assholes drive Odysseys.” –A friend of mine

“If they wanted to kill us, we would’ve been dead already.”  = One of the most used and awful lines that a character can say in a movie or TV show.  Lazy writing at its finest/worst.

Optimus Prime Syndrome: what Caesar from Planet of the Apes has; when the leader of some group can’t help but to believe that all humans are good and worth saving.

This guy likes to tell me about how he likes to challenge cops when he gets pulled over.  He has me in stitches half the time.  Tells me his gets out of the car and gets in their faces.  Tells me that he’ll rip up tickets, and calls them names.  All kinds of stuff.  Never gets into any serious trouble.  And he’s still alive to tell his tales.  Yup, you guessed it.  He’s white.

I can’t stand it when bespectacled folks can’t see something and immediately say, “I’m not wearing my glasses” or “I don’t have my glasses with me.”  Why aren’t you wearing your glasses, Person Who Can’t See Without His Or Her Glasses??  You’re all mixed up.  Wear your damn glasses!  What’s the problem?  I bet you wipe your ass and then take a shit.

—-
OK.
I have a bus buddy from Honduras.
His accent is thick.
Very thick and sometimes it’s hard for me to understand him.
But I tried something today.
As he was talking, I translated the voice in my head, which is in my own voice, to a male Hispanic voice.
Suddenly, I could understand 99% of what my bus buddy was saying.
Incredible.

I was hearing his voice, but my brain was working overtime trying to decipher what he was saying.
So because my brain couldn’t ease up off the work, I made it easier for my brain by making the voice in my head speak with an Honduran accent.

It’s a workaround.  And probably somewhat racist.
——

There’s this guy around here who is so cocky.  Soooooo conceited that when he proposed to his wife, I’m sure he just took her to a jewelry store, pointed to a ring in the display case, and said “I will marry you.  You’re welcome.”

Orange tans. They have to be stopped.  I recently saw a man so orange he looked like he was either going through a citrus-related jaundice or he was about to turn into Chester Cheetah.

I have a real problem with people who can’t look in the face when I acknowledge them.  They will look everywhere but in my eyes.  If you find yourself in this category of people, then you should beware.  When you don’t look at my face during a conversation or in casual passing, I will go to your house in the middle of the night and wait by your bedside all night.  So when you wake up in the morning, this football helmet head will be the first thing you see in the morning.  Oh.  Hell.  Yes.

Hmm, maybe that’s why that woman locked her doors…

July 31, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Cosi fan tutte

Met a guy so dumb, it was like his father’s dumbest sperm fertilized his mom’s dumbest egg.

People bring the dumbest things on the bus. I just saw this guy bringing two 25-lb. dumbbells on the bus. I’ve seen a surfboard, a bike wrapped in tin foil, etc., all on the bus before, but dumbbells are a new one. And those people usually act like YOU’RE the one intruding on their space.

How do you tell a woman that you think she’s lactating? In public. On the street. If you tell her, you’re going to come off as a creep. I had this problem. This lady was definitely leaking down the front of her shirt. I didn’t know what to say. So I ran.

I am a sweat factory. My new gym nickname is Sweatshop. I should start wearing nothing but Nike and using only Apple products.

Girls don’t wear pants anymore. I don’t know when’s the last time I saw a woman wearing jeans or anything that ain’t yoga pants. I asked a friend of mine what’s the reason for this apparel epidemic, and she said, “Comfort.” Oh. That makes sense. For women. Men can’t do that. If all men dressed for comfort, we’d all we walking around with our favorite 5-year-old holy drawers. And that, ma’ams and sirs, is against the law…I think.

I’m not sure why they’re called burpees when the only bodily function they make me want to do is throw up.

“You can live without love but not without lovers.” –Despina from Mozart’s “Così fan tutte, ossia La scuola degli amanti (Thus Do They All, or The School for Lovers)”

Why are so many news stations called eyewitness news? Most of the stories are covered by reporters who get to the location after the fact. What exactly did they eyewitness? The aftermath. They should be renamed the almost-eyewitness news.

Saw an ad for “Fifth Third Bank.” What?!
—-

FRIEND: Prunes…Is that a bad gift?
ME: Nothing says I love you or care about your health like prunes!
ME: Yeah, no, really. That’s a terrible gift.
FRIEND: LOL
FRIEND: Really?
ME: It’s not even a gift. It’s basically a way of slapping someone in the face without touching them.

—-

I’m distrustful of people who always want to high five.

Too many people are running around here wearing tight clothes that fit baggy on them. If you’re so thin that your tight pants ain’t fitting tightly, then you may just need to invest in some body paint. And eat some sandwiches. And biscuits. And ham hocks. And chicken grease. And…

Speaking of pants, I saw an Echo Park hipster with a pair of jeans soooooo tight that I could guess how much change he had in his pocket because I could see the shape of the presidents’ heads.

June 30, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Dreamboat Body, Shipwreck Face

“There’s a war going on outside, no man is safe from
You can run but you can’t hide forever
from these, streets that we done took
You walking with ya head down; scared to look…”
—Prodigy (of Mobb Deep), “Survival Of The Fittest”

Do you have to sneak up on a glass of water to take a sip? Are people always telling you to stop making faces when you’re not making faces? When you walk into the bank, do they turn off all the surveillance cameras?

If you are, then let me be the first or latest to tell you…you ugly. Or average looking. It doesn’t matter. They’re pretty much the same in this world of selfies, egomaniacs, shallow bastards, and body alterations. There are two kinds of people in this world: the beautiful people and the rest of us. As a member of the latter group, I’ve seen firsthand the injustices that folks of my ilk have to endure. That’s the war that’s going on outside, and a lot of people are scared to look…at us.

It’s pretty well known that attractive people get a ton of breaks in life. Absolutely. You can be dumb as a sack of rocks, and still get hooked up with just about anything. And that’s just how it is. It’s a fact of life. Is it right? Naw. Is it real? Entirely. I sense denial out there. Maybe you don’t think you’re one of the millions of normal-to-ugly people out there. Don’t be fooled. You may be one of us and not even know it. We’ll see.

I once saw this really attractive girl trying to parallel park. She couldn’t do it to save her life or the life of anyone else. In fact, she almost took a few lives trying to straighten out her car. In the middle of all of this, this random guy just showed up and offered to parallel park her car for her. Total stranger. And without a second delay, she gave him her keys. And…he parked the car. This only happened because she was good-looking. Had she been ugly, she would have had to park her own damn car. In fact, people would have started throwing her their keys to park their cars. She would’ve been made the valet all of a sudden. “Here! Park my car, ya fuggin’ beast!”

Pretty people are pretty damn ridiculous. They don’t know how to do the basic things in life, because they’re used to having others falling over themselves to do things for them. Case in point: One day during my freshman year in college, I was washing clothes in the laundry room. This model-looking, Zoolander, Blue Steel faced guy rolls up to me and asks me how to work the washers and dryers. Baffled, I ask him if he’s never washed clothes before. He said that he never had to because his mom and other people always did it for him. Are you kidding me? A grown man who doesn’t know how to wash or dry his own clothes. I showed him how to operate the machines. He probably wanted me to wash them for him. Hopefully, that fool figured out how to divide lights and darks. He may still be there trying to stuff dollar bills in the coin slots.

When you’re ugly, you pay more taxes. You simply do. Every time you show your face in public, Uncle Sam keeps a tab and taxes dat ass! All Americans have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. You go out in public, and there will be those who’ll protest and claim that your face is fuckin’ up all three for them. You can get taxed for that. Did you pay more this year then you did last year? Is your tax refund less this year than it was last year? Guess what? You just paid an ugly tax, homie.

When you’re ugly, you better learn how to swim, take self-defense classes, run fast, etc. In the event of some natural disaster, accident, brawl, or Doomsday, no one is going to want to save you or help you out. In times of crisis, ugly people have to fend for themselves. Pretty people get the lifeboats and life preservers. The rest of us get bags of nachos and backpacks full of kitchenware instead of parachutes. You will be forgotten and avoided.

You can, however, drive down a one-way street with ease. Just watch the cars part like the Red Sea for you and your mug. You don’t even need a helmet. Any wreck or accident is only going to improve that face.

Pretty people get lost easily, too. They’re not accustomed to looking at maps. Or having a decent sense of direction. The only directions they know are “straight ahead” from all of that catwalking, and “straight across” from all of those cocaine lines.

Uglies and normals, never get into a hostage situation, if you can help it. If so, there will be no negotiating. You will not be traded or let go free. The best thing for you to do is to try to force the gunman in a corner and stare at him for as long as you can…or until he turns into stone.

When you’re ugly, you don’t get sick. Bacteria stays the hell away from you. People start calling you Lysol because one look from you can kill up to 99.9% of germs, viruses, and bacteria.

When you’re ugly, your clothes treat you bad. Ever been throwing on a T-shirt when the neck hole closes up? It definitely doesn’t want to pass over your face and doesn’t want anyone else to see you, either.

Being ugly enables you to commit just about any nocturnal crime you want. Hold up a gas station. Go on a high-speed chase. It doesn’t matter. You will always get away because the overhead police helicopter will never shine its light on you. You are free to roam about in the glory of your ugliness.

When you’re ugly, you will probably never see a full movie theater, especially if you happen to be on the screen.

I’m just sort of rambling here, so please don’t expect any academic analysis here. I’m just concerned that there may be some misguided, uninformed uglies/normals who think they’re batting for Team Pretty. Sheeeeeit. Some of you are probably saying to yourself, “Ain’t no way he’s talking about me and my friends.” Well, you’re wrong. Uglies can’t identify other uglies. You see, when two uglies are in close proximity, their uglinesses cancel one another out. Therefore, they only see each other as beautiful. So here’s a few scenarios that may help you better figure out if you’re uglily normal or normally ugly…or just a pretty-ass muthafucka.

• You’re so ugly, your shadow quit.
• You find yourself on the edges of group pictures quite often.
• When you enter a room, people slowly start turning their backs toward you.
• Ever look at yourself in the mirror and your reflection frowns at you?
• No one seems to make eye contact with you when you’re talking to them.
• When you played hide ‘n’ seek, you noticed that you were the only one hiding and no one was seeking.
• You try to get someone to spot you bench pressing at the gym, and no one volunteers. They don’t want to have to look down at your ugly face making another an even uglier face as you strain to lift.
• Ever go into someone’s house, and they have no mirrors at all? That person has come to terms with his or her ugliness.
• Ever walk up to someone and try to give them five, but all they give you is a “What the fuck?!”
• Ever see a blind man turn in your direction and then inexplicably put his arm over his eyes?
• It’s a known fact that it’s not a bright move to stare into the sun. However, ugly people can stare into the sun all day long. You see, ugliness can bend light rays, which prevents UV light from damaging one’s eyes. Even the sun doesn’t want to illuminate an ugly face.
• Ever try to video chat or Skype someone, and the darn thing refuses to work?
• Ever go to buy yourself glasses, and the clerks try to sell you a welder’s mask?
• When you bake gingerbread men cookies, do the gingerbread men hop up and run away?
• Ever wink at a baby and then the baby starts crying?
• Ever look at a jack o’lantern and then all of a sudden, its mouth closes and it rolls away?
• You’re ugly when you try to get ketchup out of the bottle but it goes back further into it. Stop looking at it. You’re scaring it.
• When you look at your phone to check the time, does the phone shut itself off?
• When you look at your phone to answer a friend’s incoming call, does your friend’s picture just fade away?
• You will probably spend most of your life in solitude. Almost like you’re an exile or outcast. Your face is the leper, and your body’s just the vessel to take it around.

“All generalizations are false, including this one.”
—Mark Twain

May 31, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Other C8H10N4O2

I’ve figured out the origin story for a comic book character I’ve been thinking about writing. This character’s name is Useless Coworker. Useless Coworker is extremely lazy, doesn’t want to ever take responsibility, and do a little work as possible. So once upon a time, another hardworking coworker decided to take a dump in the restroom, but forgot to flush the commode. The crap took on a life of its own, climbed out of the toilet, and began working here immediately.

I want to create a pilot episode of a show called The Pilot.

—-

The following exchange is in reference to a man having to pay $5,001 in damages for urinating in his coworkers’ coffee:

ME: http://gawker.com/man-ordered-to-pay-5-001-for-peeing-in-co-workers-cof-1561348896
FRIEND: dude, that is so dumb… he put too much lol. gotta do it like The Help and make it all appetizing so they drink it all lol
ME: yeeeeaaaaaaaaah
haha
FRIEND: 5001 is a lot of money to pay for piss AND jail
ME: it is
He needs to save some money to buy a bodyguard in jail.
Dudes are gonna be like, “So…we heard that you like to whip your penis out…”

—-

Overheard two people talking about waiting on the Big Blue Bus. Mins later, a bus appears and comes towards us. In a semi-frantic manner, the duo yell out, “Is that it? Is that the bus?” The bus was black and white. In my mind, I pushed them both in front of it.
I wish I knew Korean so I could start arguments with these K-town teenagers on the Wilshire bus. A group of them keeping looking at me, and judging by the way they’re dressed, I think they want to challenge me to a dance battle.

Right after babies are born, all they do is sleep. What do you honestly have to be tired about, babies? You JUST started life.

—-

I was leaving the grocery store the other day when a store employee walked by me. She was exiting and probably heading home after her shift. She carried a bag full of cupcakes. A few feet away, an old lady saw her cupcakes and called out to her.

OLD LADY: Excuse me, miss. Where did you get the cupcakes?
WORKER: They’re everywhere.

The employee left, leaving the old lady looking very confused.

—-

Why do so many girls tilt their heads when they take pictures? Jump on any social media platform, and you’ll see hundreds of photos of apparently water-logged women. That head tilt is akin to the dogs do when they look confused. There is an actual condition called Wry Neck Syndrome. It develops in infants. Whereas Wry Neck Syndrome is very serious, the millions of head-tilting, selfie-addicted folks are suffering from Tryingtolookcutebylookingstupid-itis. That’s the clinical name.

Why do all butterflies look like their flying for the very first time?

It has been pointed out to me that I look like a disheveled, non-matching homeless vagrant when I go to the gym.

The other day, I ordered an old-fashioned. It was unusually sweet. I take that back. It was incredibly sweet. It was like a kiwi and a date cried over it.

I like watching people who type like the keyboard is hot.

Every spring, I get a kick out of the names of the horses in the Kentucky Derby. Humans should have Kentucky Derby names, too. A few of the names that I came up with for myself are Tarantula Spatula, Slewfoot Two-Stepper, Harpsichord Almond Butter, Trade Her Toes, Jamburger With Grease, Google It Bitch, Tadpole Stripper, Ladyfingers, and Keith.

Sometimes, I sleep on my face and it’ll feel like a rather large lady smacked me with her 50-pound breasts for about 6 hours straight.

I want to start a sexy video blog like Tyrese, dress up and act like Tyrese, and tell women to do the opposite of what he advises.

April 30, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Natives’ Tongue

They say that you’re officially an Angeleno once you’ve lived in LA for a decade. My time’s running out then. I’m getting pretty close to that milestone. So before I am required to wear Dodger blue, around-the-clock sunglasses, and Chucks, this will be the first in a short series of observational literature dedicated to the land of yoga pants, egg whites, and car chases. This also goes out to the people. The natives. The LA born, bred, and raised. Not the transplants like myself who have made it our home and have, according to one LA native, “used our resources, clogged up our freeways, and taken our parking spaces.” So here you go, LA. With much love, this one’s for you, baby.

UNIQUE THINGS ABOUT LOS ANGELES

1) In LA, signaling while you drive is not an indicator that you want to switch lanes. It’s how you tell other drivers that you want to be passed. The second you put on your turn signal, every driver behind you within a mile and a half will accelerate to pass you. They will honk at you, flip you off, and then get in front of you just to slow down. It’s a psychological move. An intimidation tactic. They don’t drive any better than you do. You gotta stay tough in these streets. You can’t let them bully you, son. Which is why I ride the train.

2) The most mundane, commonplace things that happen anywhere else are the most exciting and extreme of things in California. Time after time, I hear nothing but superlatives being used here. “Oh my god! That is the best show ever!” “Oh my god! I am starrrrving.” “Oh my god! She is the coolest person ever!” “Oh my god! That was the greatest OMG I’ve ever said!” “Driving to the Valley takes forever.” According to this logic, nothing should ever surprise anyone here. The Big One? Pffft. The Biggest One happened several times yesterday. An earthquake is just nature’s way of redecorating your house and mixing up the Feng shui a little. Mudslides? Sheeeeit. Mothers give birth to their children on mudslides out here. The best thing ever to happen has already happened here and it continues to happen every day, getting better with each time.

3) Illegal U-turns are perfectly legal here. I’ve seen a person heading south make a U-turn to get to a Subway parking lot and hold up all of the northbound traffic. All for what? A $5 footlong?! She was willing to risk thousands of dollars of damage to her car, not to mention the lives of everyone else on the street, just so she can get some sub and a drink?? She probably didn’t even get chips. The nerve.

4) In LA, you can wear anything your heart desires. Anything. I do mean anything. I’ve seen a woman wearing a plaid flannel shirt with a polka dot skirt and some pinstriped sneakers that made my eyes bleed. When I first moved here, there were people wearing sweatpants with blazers and sandals. It’s pretty easy to tell here who was stopped and frisked by the fashion police and who was just straight up beaten mercilessly and Rodney King’d by them. You can get away with wearing something in this town that would get you shot by your mama in any other U.S. town. I’ve seen a homeless guy walk up to one of these local fashionistas and drop money in their hat and say, “It’ll get better.”

5) LA people speak a language only they can understand. That language is called Traffic. There’s a SNL skit called “The Californians” that’s all about this. While the voices are somewhat exaggerated in that skit, the content of what they’re saying is absolutely true. Hearing two Angelenos talk about traffic directions probably sounds like what it would sound like if an old dial-up modem could talk with a fax machine over coffee. All you hear is numbers. “Well, Jenniferrrr, I took the 110 to the 101 and then to the 10 eastbound, which runs you into the 60, and that’ll take you to the 5, just stay to the left and hop on the 105, and if you multiply the 105 times two then you get the 210, which you’ll have to double back and drive on the 105 twice so that it becomes the 210. But by all means, avoid the 405.”

6) I’ve written about this before, but it’s worth bringing up again. Rain. What Mount Vesuvius was to the ancient Romans of Pompeii, rain is the modern-day Angeleno. If you want to do a social experiment to see how people would act in the event of the apocalypse, just wait until there’s rain in the local forecast. I’ve seen people leave work at noon because it MIGHT rain at 10 PM. I’ve seen folks take their children out of daycare so fast when it’s about to rain, you’d think that the sky was dropping down millions of watery paratrooping child molestors. One time it started drizzling at work, and everyone ran to the window in terror in hopes that the sound of raindrops they were hearing was all a grand hoax. Just say the word “raindrops” and you’ll see raindrops forming in their eyes. But ironically, everyone’s happy after the rain stops. Why? Because now they don’t have to wash their cars.

7) People hate ventilation here. I’m mainly talking about the bus. They would rather choke to death in a fog of their collective humidity and sweat than crack open a window. This I will never understand. At first, I thought it was because it was cold to them outside, but this was not the case. They don’t open the windows on hot days, either. Maybe it’s protection from the smog. Maybe there’s some unified front against wind and fresh air that I don’t know about it. Sometimes, I’ll open a window to see what kind of looks I get. They stare like I just unleashed a chemical weapon on the bus. The only time a window will get opened is when a smelly homeless person gets on the bus. CLACK, CLACK! That was the sound of 20 bus windows opening in unison.

8) Avocados are the cornerstore of Cali cuisine. Take any dish in the world. Go ahead. Pick one. What’s your favorite? Oh, really? Yeah, that’s a good one. I like it, too. Do this for me, OK? Take an avocado. You have it? Alright. Now take that avocado in your hand and place it on your meal. BOOM, SON! Your food’s just been Californiafied! That goes for anything. Sandwiches, burgers, omelettes, apples, oranges, Tandoori chicken, cotton candy, shark meat, whatever. Put an avocado on top of an avocado. What do you have? Yup. Double Californiafied! Tell a friend.

9) None of the natives like each other. There is a geographically based disdain in this city like none I’ve ever seen before. The folks in the north (the Valley) don’t like to drive to the South Bay, and vice versa. The folks on the Westside don’t like to travel east, and many of the Eastsiders don’t really see a need of going to the “uppity” Westside. I live right in the middle. If a citywide turf war ever goes down, then I’ll be going down, too. Underground. With the mole people. And the purported methane buildup in this area.

10) Everything is awesome. It’s the one word that everyone here has said at least once in the last 3 seconds. I’m pretty sure that LA actually stands for Lotsa Awesomeness. At the local spelling bees, I’m fairly certain that the only word the kids have to spell is “awesome.” If “Dawson’s Creek” took place in LA instead of on the East Coast, it would’ve been called “Awesome’s Creek.” Depending on who says it and how it’s said, it can mean the absolutely everything and completely nothing. It’s probably the most used language in the region, surprisingly outpacing Spanish, English, and Traffic.

March 30, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Moon Your Sun / ETHIOPIAN ELDER MEN

The 4 C’s of diamonds are clarity, cut, carat, and color. I can think of one they forgot to mention. Cost.

Nothing says unity like a whole group of strangers working together to align their cars to block some asshole from trying to cut in at the front.

I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

“You know what I hate? Life.” –a coworker of mine

Can one really enjoy one’s leisure in a leisure suit? Aren’t those things itchy? Polyester? Uncomfortable? Flammable?

When you flash your ass to someone, why is it called mooning? Your ass looks nothing like a moon. It looks more like a round hot dog bun. In fact, why do they call your buns cheeks? Your butt cheeks look nothing like your real cheeks. It would look more like your cheeks if you didn’t have a face in between them.

If I’m nodding my head continuously while you’re talking to me, I haven’t heard a word you’ve said.

Next time you’re in the middle of an argument and suddenly realize that you’re wrong, just start making up stuff. Do it. Then after you’ve thoroughly confused your verbal combatant, quickly walk away.

I totally take back all those times I didn’t want to nap when I was younger.

One week, two people on two different days told me that I shouldn’t marry outside of my race. I find it interesting that these two people both had spouses of different races.  That’s like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich telling a jar of peanut butter that it shouldn’t ever mix with jelly.

I need to invent a sarcasm font. I’m not joking.

Sometimes, I’ll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the hell was going on when I first saw it.

“Do not machine wash or tumble dry” means that I will never wash any machine because I could possibly get electrocuted and to stop bustin’ somersaults while holding wet dishes.

One day in the future, someone will get a Nobel Peace Prize for figuring out how the hell to fold a fitted sheet.

Learning cursive in grade school was about as necessary as learning your ABG’s.

If LOL has gone from meaning, “laugh out loud” to “I have nothing else to say,” then LMAO has gone from meaning, “laughing my ass off” to “I still have nothing else to say.”

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they played music like those birthday cards that sing when you open them up.

The difference between being book smart and street smart is knowing how to hurl a science book at somebody’s nuts in a street fight.

What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?

Los Angeles is full of directionally challenged businesses. Wilshire Boulevard Temple is on Olympic Boulevard. Brentwood Pet Clinic isn’t in Brentwood, but West LA. Westwood Auto ain’t in Westwood, either. It’s in West LA. Beverly Hills BMW is about 4 miles from Beverly Hills. Hancock Park Apartments is in the Miracle Mile neighborhood, which is next to the actual Hancock Park.  I guess that some confusion should be expected.  Many people don’t realize that Los Angeles is short for “El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles del Río de Porciúncula.”

Jumping in the shower first and then turning on the water is like putting the toothbrush in your mouth and then squirting in some toothpaste.

The best stories always start off with the dumbest actions and decisions.

If Clifford the Big Red Dog and Big Bird ever had a love child, it would most likely be an orange birddog.

The Point of No Point: That point of the day when you realize that there’s no point of working anymore because you’re physically unable to be productive for the rest of the day, and you just don’t care anymore.

Freefalling Fear: The few moments when you’re leaning back too far in your chair and you’re about to fall onto the floor on your ass. Those few flashes of time when you’re trying to break your fall or prevent your impending crash…all in vain.

Saw a sign the other day that read, “School Zone: Speed Limit 25 When Flashing.” I don’t think they need to be encouraging pedophiles to expose themselves from slow moving vehicles.

All drivers hate pedestrians. All pedestrians hate drivers. But all drivers and pedestrians hate cyclists.

Being a cop must suck sometimes. Everyone driving behind you follows the speed limit, so you can’t pull them over. And if a cop pulls someone over, then everyone DEFINITELY obeys the speed limit. If you’re a cop and folks start following the law the second they see you, what else are you going to do? How are you going to pass the time? Who are you going to harass? Oh yeah, that’s right. You’ll harass black dudes walking in their own neighborhoods. True story.

It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

—-
—-

*This was started in a coffee shop in 2009 and remained unfinished until 2014. Still a bit raw like the sugar I ingested, this bit is the result of an inadvisable synthesis of insomnia, high amounts of caffeine, three bowls of cereal, a session of people watching, and three quarts of boredom.

ETHIOPIAN ELDER MEN

I see images of you in images of me
Pull back on the lever
Beware of the trap door hidden underneath the rug of reason,
Eroded from the guise of lies
We lie on it anyway because we like how it feels.
Feels good like a Q-tip swab hitting that spot in your ear.
Like a car with the top down, wind blows us hope, we believe in the unseen
A pair of Ethiopian elder men sit by me at the moment.
I’d like to pick their brains, but it’s not harvest season.
All you need is a reason to not invest in your enlightenment,
Opting to stay in the dark. Sow what?
Moment’s ripe with opportunity, not without impunity.
You like not knowing, not moving, not growing.
While you’re moaning and groaning, I spread my wings like Boeing.
I listen to you. Now listen to you.

My tastes have become more varied and eclectic,
Like freshly brewed coffee.
Time to get a refill. I need that caffeine.
I can sleep when I die. Don’t want to miss anything.
Sitting here watching the world go by,
Mothers pushing the future forward—one revolution at a time.
Couples hold hands with starry gazes,
Vehicles putter down the boulevard to destinations unknown.

There’s something comforting in being uncomfortable,
One can see the full picture when looking at a blank stare.
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes’ name is Destiny,
I asked her to rest with me, but she didn’t like my tie—-or britches—-
Or my new acquirements from the haberdashery and tonsorial parlor—
But she’s still gonna come over and crash.
Her eyes draw you in like an auto accident or someone else’s misfortune,
But there’s nothing we can do but take the hit—-or the hint.
Yet we scream ‘til our throats are raw, bloody, and torn
In the hopes that there is hope still out there, real out there.
Real out where?
Still out there.
It’s real out here. Feel our fear.
We’re LOUD and c l e a r.
Loud but not very clear. Still struggling to find some guidance.
Still looking for a role model; someone to tell us “no”
Or spank our hands, or point us in the right direction.
Because we act like we know it all, like we’ve got it under control.
But the reality is we’re out of control. Weak spines, out of the fold.
Too immature to make smart decisions, and too dumb to do what we’re told.
Or do what’s been suggested. It’s hard to digest it.
Especially when your foot’s in your mouth and your development’s arrested.
We’re cockalorums with bad decorum in anything from quorums to online forums.
In those moments, I remembered where I was.
I regretted what I was and wanted to be a better version of myself.
It was time to pick their brains. It’s now harvest season.
I had finally found the reason to invest in my enlightenment.
I opted not to stay in the dark.
I looked over to the Ethiopian eldermen of some wisdom.
And they were gone.

– Me
2009/5:48am PST, 2/28/14
LA, CA

February 28, 2014 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Bleeding Is Not Good

If Autumn is called Fall, shouldn’t Spring be called Rise?

One sound that irritates me is the sound of someone with long fingernails typing. Clip, clop, clip, clop. Makes me want to take a fingernail clipper to their fingernails or a buzz saw to their wrists. It sounds like a team of tiny unicorns and horses prancing up and down a keyboard. I’m going to invent typing gloves in 2014.

There is a restaurant nearby called the Twin Dragon. Why is it called this? Where’s the other dragon? There’s no point of calling one dragon a twin when you only show one dragon.

Here’s a point that find myself mentioning a lot. Angelenos tend to be panicky and alarmist. When it rains, they act like it’s snow. If it ever snowed here, they’d probably act like the snowflakes were the fireballs from Super Mario Bros.

It is an unwritten rule that you must possess abysmal penmanship if you desire to compose a ransom note. Or be a physician…

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.  —Friedrich Nietzsche

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. But if you think about it, that statement means that Nietzsche was one of those who heard the music, meaning he would probably be dancing, meaning he’d probably be classified as insane, which means this famous quote comes from a dancing insane man.  —Me

The term “end result” is pretty redundant.

“I hate your guts.” Why do we hate guts? What is it about someone’s innards that’s so revolting to us, especially those of us who have never seen someone’s guts? I mean, everybody’s got guts, so to speak. Do gastroenterologists say this to their patients they dislike? What is it about someone’s guts that you would hate? The smell? The sight? The texture? Regardless, if you’ve never been in the company of guts and innards, then your rationale and reason(s) for hating them are unsubstantiated and groundless.

I got a ticket for not paying a toll at a toll booth that didn’t work. That’s real highway robbery.

Sometimes I make up random stuff in my head and I’ll tell someone about it. They often challenge me on the authenticity of these random concepts. More times than not, after some research, that “imaginary” concept will prove to indeed be true. Even when I make up something completely fictional, I’m right. At times.

“Since the beginning of time, it’s still true that bleeding is not good.” –My friend during Thanksgiving dinner

Let’s say you’re cleaning around the house and want a little white noise in the background. If you turn on the TV to a black channel, like BET, TV One, or Centric, is it still white noise?

One morning at Coffee Bean in DTLA, the barista asked this lady how she wanted her sandwich prepared. This lady, who was wearing a khaki trench coat…first of all, let me tell you Rule #1 of Crazies 101. Anyone wearing a trench coat in a climate, geographical region, or occupation that does not call for trench coat wearing is, by all intents and purposes, nutball crazy. That’s just how it is. So this lady slowly turns around it a motion and speed that can only be described and characterized as “serial killer-esque” and wails out, “Like I said before…not toasted!” She then turns back around and continues to count the tiles on the floor. Minutes later, the now shell-shocked barista tries to get the attention of the trench coat lady. For whatever reason, she doesn’t respond. He finally says, “Miss, miss! Your order is ready.” Again, she spins around with the look that could scare off a horny moose in a moose brothel during mating season. She takes the longest and deepest inhale known to man and bellows out with more gravitas in her voice than a James Earl Jones/Morgan Freeman/Barry White R&B trio, “THAT’S MRS.! M! R! S! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!” She snatches her order from the barista’s sweaty hand and storms out of the coffee shop, mumbling something that sounded remotely like Aramaic and Klingon. Crazy and caffeinated. Last I heard, she vowed revenge on the all the pigeons in the city and was actively trying to take a shit on each one of them in retaliation.

There is a company called Gerber Moving and Storage. Its slogan is “Let Gerber Moving Baby Your Furniture.” Does anyone else see a potential lawsuit here?

Some dog trainers and “experts” are shockingly cocky to me. I watched one on TV talk about how she rescued and changed this dog’s life. Pfft. Gimme a break. That dog changed HER life. She’s the one talking about the dog. The dog ain’t talking about her!

A TSA agent looked at my passport at the security checkpoint. She took one look at my full name and said, “Mmmph. I’m not even gonna try to say that. You have a safe flight, baby.”

Little kids sneezing and coughing at airports are basically little “Outbreak” monkeys.

Another thing about little ones in airports. Parents should not give their small children little roller bags. See, I understand. I get it. Little Matt and Jenny want to be like Mommy and Daddy and have big boy luggage. So the adults give them mini roller bags that their kids commence to drop, drag, throw around, kick, punch, swing around, misplace, cry over, cry about, jump on, latch onto, fall down on, zip up themselves inside, scream at, slobber on, sit on, spill drinks on, spill food on, spit food on, head butt, and other obnoxious acts. All of this means that the rest of us are going to be waiting another half hour in line while Little Matt cusses out Mommy because he doesn’t want to put his bag through the conveyor belt to get x-rayed, but rather escort his bag through the metal detector/x-ray that humans go through. Thanks, kid. You’re really putting a damper on my travel plans. You’re the hemmorhoids of the human race. You may be small and delicate, but you’re still a pain in our collective ass. Hey, parents!  Your kids don’t have much luggage anyway.  Why don’t you just dump their crap into your big ass bag?  Thanks again, kid. I just missed boarding my flight. Now I have to wait to catch the next flight, the one that has 5 stops, no food, and a 72-hour layover in XNA, or Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport for those who don’t know. Thanks thrice, kid. I will end you.

Happy New Year!

December 31, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

HEAVEN HELP THE FOOL / lonely’stheonlycompany

Out of touch. Out of sight.
Out of mind. Out of thoughts.

Heaven help the fool that attempts to mold mountains from molehills.

Here, life on the dark side of the moon is one where One’s only companion is solitude.
Light is the most anticipated visitor and the most reliable no-show.
Celestial bodies are just that…celestial, meaning far away.
Times like these One chooses to withdraw the Self into a vacuum of time and space.
It is here where forgotten thoughts are remembered, repressed notions are resurfaced, and
ideas not yet idealized patiently wait their turn in line.
Times like these One realizes the debt that has crept up stealthily like the wind.

I owe you.

I owe you a night of stargazing and constellation counting as we peep in on Orion
tightening his Belt while comets skim the uncurdled surface of the Milky Way. I’m Sirius.
I owe you a dance on the lightest of air molecules, salsa or tango, fueled completely by the rhythms of heartbeats.
I owe you an open mouth kiss in an open area in an open mall just after it’s opened.

I owe you.
Oh, you have no inkling what One would do to be with you.
There’s a thin line between Self-love and Self-hate that I walk, trying to assure mySelf loving you is what I should be doing and hating mySelf for not doing it sooner.
So I circumvent that circle of confusion and I bisect the angle of six degrees of separation in order to get closer to you in mind, body, and spirit.
One tosses rocks in the ocean of timelessness, hoping that one of those ripples or an echo of a ripple finds and whets your skin at the beach or while you bathe.
One quietly whispers soft messages to passing dandelion seeds, floating through the atmosphere, knowing that one day you will see and understand my message in the form of a flower.

But hoping and wishing are futile exercises of expression if action does not follow in the workout.
“I hope it works out. I wish it works out.”
And words speak softer than actions and it just so happens that I usually find my surroundings…(say softly) quiet.
So someone deeply special to me introduced me to the dark side of the moon, this cold habitat of mySelf and contemplations.
This sanctuary of inactivity is fully active in the minds of many. They just don’t know it yet. But not mySelf.
I know where I stand & I know where I must journey to.

Because I owe you…

The common courtesy that you deserve to be made aware of what has occurred in my head, what emotions reside in my heart.
These inner feelings of Self will be exposed one day, someday.
There is no doubt that you have the right to know.
But I am in a place that you shall never know like mySelf.
Here in the dark lies my soul, resting, wanting to be where yours is. Living is not living at all without the connection to your own life.

And I will live.

But for now, the dark side of the moon is my home. Yet no one knows my address.
No one but my One visitor.
The journey to yourSelf does not start in the visitor’s absence.

Therefore, I must wait for the light.

April 19, 2003, 1:34 am
Miami, FL

November 22, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Wounded Transformer

LAX’s Delta terminals 56 and 58 are mighty close together. At the moment, 56 is for Salt Lake City and departing flight to Detroit is 58. They announce that “there will be confusion because of the proximity of the lines so please take note of the line you’re in.” Yup, you might wanna do that. There’s a big difference between Salt Lake City and Detroit.

An elderly man came into the gym the other day and asked if the weights were heavy today.

“Every 15 minutes I take a break for 15 minutes.” –A coworker’s imagined quote of a fellow coworker known to take multiple breaks throughout the workday

I don’t get these new fangled DJs. They don’t scratch or mix or anything. They just spin the whole song. They stand back and pump their fists while the record’s playing. Fool, you’re a DJ! You ain’t supposed to have a free hand, homie. Mix, blend, scratch, crossfade, dig in the crates, scratch your ass, do something. They stand back there and clap and jump up and down. Dancing more than the crowd. Ridiculous. It’s wack. Same bassline. Same drop. Same electronica shit. Wup-wup-wup-waaaah-wup-woop-wup-wahh-waaah-wup-woop-wup-woop.  Sounding like a wounded Transformer.

Once a upon a time, I was in a work meeting. Then in the middle of it, I had to leave to attend a meeting with the bosses who said they were going to cut down on our excessive meetings. After that, I had to go back to the original meeting, which was still in progress, which birthed about 6 side “follow-up” meetings.

Sometimes, in weddings, the bride and the groom will say something like, “All of this is for you guys. We wanted to share our special day with all of you.” Well, this is cute and very nice to say, but if this is the case, I think we should hold them to it. After all, it’s not really all for us. Hey, newlyweds, guess what? After this is all over, you’re going to Hawaii or some faraway land where they speak a different language and the drinks come with little umbrellas so that the rain won’t dilute them. The rest of us are going home. If this is really all for us, then we should be boarding that plane to Hawaii and staying in that hotel room too. I’ve got the top bunk!

Lawd! My friend just told me that some yoga pants cost $160! How are you going to pay that much for pants that don’t have pockets?! Your pants cost more than the class. I couldn’t be a woman. Their fashion is too expensive to maintain. I’d be the worst dressed woman in existence. I’d rock shit like an Quaker Oats oatmeal container hat, a garbage bag blouse, a newspaper wrap-around skirt, and two shoeboxes stuffed with burger wrapper paper as my kicks.

How do some people not know their phone number? It’s one of the most basic of basics. Forgetting your phone number is like forgetting how to chew with your mouth and shoving food up your nostrils. People are just plain lazy. Yes, digital phones make it easier to call someone. That’s no excuse. One defense of this practice that I hear all the time is, “Well, I don’t call myself, do I? So why should I remember my number?” Lookahere, Sparky. You don’t call out to yourself, but you remember your name, don’t you? Huh? You do? Oh, forget it.

If I’m polite enough to hold the door open for you and you’re impolite enough to not acknowledge that and walk through the other closed door, you just walked into a world of hurt, little buddy. I will find your children and suspend them over a vat of molten spoiled milk and ear wax. After I drop them in there, I’ll hunt down your grandparents and drop the hottest hot sauce into their glaucoma’d eyes. After that, I will locate your parents. I will submit them to weeks of sleep deprivation by locking them in a room with a 4-hour audio file of me snoring on a continuous loop. You don’t want to know what I’ll do to your spouse. You will pay for your not walking through my opened door. You will pay dearly! Dearly!

Gina Gershon is playing Donatella Versace in a new Lifetime movie. She looks better than Donatella. That’s when you know you’re ugly. When someone looks better than you as you.

I can never fully trust someone who doesn’t fully trust me.

Saw this dude wearing a really tight red hoodie. I think he was wearing Little Red Riding Hood’s little red riding hood.

I’m not sure who this man was I saw earlier, but I’m guessing all he wants for Christmas is his 30 back teeth.

Finally saw the Miley Cyrus VMA performance that everyone’s talking about. Pretty sure my phone has a virus now. Never touching this touchscreen again.

This weekend marks the sixth (or seventh) anniversary of my completion of the Quadruple Crown: 1) almost losing my wallet in El Segundo, 2) hearing my echo in Echo Park, 3) witnessing no prostitutes in NoHo, and 4) managing to eat taquitos, Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos, and burritos while in Cerritos.

The other day, I heard someone grunting and groaning in the back of the bus. I turned around and saw some guy with his hands in his pants just going at it. My first thought: “Um…either he’s doing what I think he’s doing, or this dude is the world’s most excited DJ and he’s scratching on the world’s most hidden pocket-sided turntable.”

Can a person with only 3 fingers and a thumb give someone else a high-five?

September 20, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Every Clichéd Sports Interview You’ve Ever Seen

BOB: If you’re just joining us, the Toledo Skyhooks have just defeated the Florida City Peacocks in a best-of-7 series for the NBAA Finals championship. Game 6’s final score was 127-125 in what was a barn burner for the ages. During the commercial break, we were able to catch up to the finals’ MVP, Zeppelin Hightower. Let’s go to Jim, who’s in the locker room with this year’s NBAA champs. Jim…

JIM: Thanks, Bob. Congratulations, Zep! How tough was it tonight?

ZEP: Thank you, Bob. First of all, I just want to thank God. Without him, none of this would be possible. We couldn’t be denied tonight, Bob. We overcame a ton of adversity. It was a pivotal game for us. They had us on the ropes at first, but then Waldo came in and was really that spark off the bench for us. We started getting some good, open looks. Then we just started knocking down shots. We brought our “A” game today. You know, this game is all mental. We have all the right pieces now. We really sent a message. Everybody knows defense wins championships. After that big turnover early in the fourth quarter, I started getting the hot hand. Zeppelin Hightower was unconscious, man. For real, shooting the lights out. On fire. We were clicking on all cylinders. Waldo’s three-pointer really electrified the crowd. The fans were on their feet. He does all the little things.

JIM: Indeed. That was the dagger. The final nail in the coffin.

ZEP: Absolutely. We finally got over the hump. We gave it 110 percent. We’re just glad to bring this trophy back to the city of Toledo. We did it for the fans. Thanks for all your love and support, Toledo. We did it for you, Toledo!

JIM: Thanks and congratulations again, Zep. The Toledo Skyhooks, the world champs! Now let’s go to Skip, who’s with the Florida City Peacocks, who came up a little short tonight of a national championship. Skip…

SKIP: Thanks, Jim. I’m here with Marquis Carter, the starting point guard for the Peacocks. Valiant effort, Kent. You guys were showing some real grit out there. What do you think went wrong?

MARQUIS: Well, first, I want to tip my hat to Toledo. I give them all the credit. They just came out and played hard. We didn’t have our heads in the game. They out-hustled us. They wanted it more than we did. They outplayed us in every facet of the game. Turnovers killed us. We came out flat. Couldn’t get our shots to fall. There was a lid on the basket, Skip, you know? We beat ourselves tonight. You’ve got to hand it to them. They were perfect from the charity stripe. They hustled for loose balls. They were monsters on the boards. They beat us in fast-break points and beat us in transition. Their defense was stifling, too. Our defense was a non-factor. We didn’t have an answer for Zeppelin.

SKIP: You guys looked out of synch. You struggled offensively. You couldn’t get back into your offensive rhythm. It was clearly a tale of two halves. I mean, there were a few questionable calls here and there. There was one when Rico Harrison should’ve gotten an Academy Award for the acting job he put on, but that’s why we play the game, right?

MARQUIS: Yeah, Skip. You’re absolutely right. You know, nothing comes easy in this league. Games like these go down to the wire. Two teams like us fight tooth and nail. It was a David and Goliath battle out there tonight. In gut-check time…in crunch time, you can’t make any excuses. We don’t care about moral victories. The final score is the only statistic that matters. I mean, we didn’t get the big breaks today. We just let it slip away. They stepped up and made the big plays. We didn’t execute our game plan like Coach diagrammed. The best team won tonight.

SKIP: You guys had a brilliant season. Looking past this game, what does the future hold for your team?

MARQUIS: Our guys need to get healthy. We’re a little banged up, a little dinged up. We just need to heal in the off-season. We’re definitely going to have to make some adjustments. We need to do some soul-searching. We have to maintain our composure; we have to put this loss behind us. We had a great season. We came together as a team and rose to the occasion. This is a wake-up call. It’s going to be long plane ride home. But we can still hold our heads high, Skip. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We had a great season. I’m really proud of our guys.

JIM: Thanks for spending a few moments with us, Kent. And congratulations on a terrific season. Marquis Carter of the Eastern Conference champs, the Florida City Peacocks, in a valiant yet losing effort to the Toledo Skyhooks. Back to you, Bob.

August 27, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Interview with a Quagmire

Los Angeles, Calif. – “This is not an ashtray.  Please silverware here.”  I’ve been staring at this demand, especially, the last portion, for the last 45 minutes.  Taped on a small stainless steel bin attached to a distinctive emerald green marble column outside on the Black Dog Cafe’s patio, it’s a solemn forecast of the sentiment that would engulf me by day’s end.  It had a typo.  An error.  A mistake.  Today would be a mistake.  This interview would be a gross mistake.

Sitting in LA’s art deco’d neighborhood of Miracle Mile on a Sunday afternoon isn’t all bad.  It’s unseasonably warm, even by SoCal standards.  The incessant traffic of busy Wilshire Boulevard plays as a white noise backdrop to the visual spectacle of the pedestrians and cyclists, who are entrenched in the Monday-morning-like hustle and bustle.  The people are beautiful, some naturally, some surgically.  The breeze is steady and calming.  An urban paradisal oasis of sorts.  Almost, that is.  Until I remember why I’m sitting here.

The individual who I’m impatiently waiting for is the famed musician/rapper/producer/actor/designer/drugstore clerk Extraneous Butterfield (real name, folks).  Better known the world over as Extra Butter, the workaholic has risen from an unknown from the farming community of Lochapoakadoaka, Alabama, to damn near intergalactic notoriety with his multiplatinum-selling debut double album, “IAMJESUSCHRISTSBFF.”  The first part “To’e Up From The Flo’ Up” was released during the summer solstice two years, while the second offering “Stovetop Lovin'” was released exactly 21 hours later.  The marketing plan baffled critics, but it managed to work wonders in SoundScan stats.

His story is one of determination, misfortune, and just being goddamn lucky.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  His mother, 9 months pregnant, was driving a big rig truck for the Land O’Lakes butter company down an old country highway when a cow strolled into her lane.  She swerved, missed the cow, and flipped the truck over into the nearby collard greens field.  The butter flew out of the tractor-trailer and all into the field, only taking a few minutes to melt in the blazing Southern sun.  She went out into the field to salvage what she could and suddenly went into labor.  A passerby stopped to help.  Sometime later, the world welcomed Extra Butter.  Butterfield, unbelievably, was born in a field of butter.

When he finally arrives, he’s donning an urban camouflage flak jacket and a matching camouflage T-shirt and cargo pants.  He delays the interview for another 15 minutes by accepting a call from someone I can only surmise, judging by comments like “Where my shit at?” and “Turble wurble lurble,” is either his drug dealer or an extraterrestrial.  Eventually, he sits down and reclines back in the patio chair.  Honestly, it’s weird to see him without his entourage of childhood friends, hanger-ons, yesmen, groupies, and personal stylists and chefs.  He takes a drag from his Chesterfield cigarette.  (How old is this guy?  89?)  He asks the barista for a café Cubano.  Well, it’s good to know the man has some taste. Or did I speak too soon?

You have said that you are the most loved and feared person in the music industry.  Explain.

Gladly.  People love me because I give them what they want.  They just don’t know it until they hear it.  N’ah mean?  I’m, like, like, like, the Nostradamus of this music, fashion, movie shits.  I don’t have my ear to the ground to hear what’s gonna be the new hot shit.  The ground has its ear to me.  And people fear me because they don’t want to get on my bad side.  Little do they know all my sides are bad.  Because I’M A KILLER!

Look who doesn’t need any more coffee!  Critics have described your music and lyrics as being “the most innovative and creative pile of garbage ever arranged” to being “a cacophonous katzenjammer of jism spewed forth from the loins of Satan himself.”  How do you respond to such harsh critical—

I don’t.  The music speaks for itself.  The people buy my shit.  They know what I represent.  They know what I’m about.  They know.

Fellow rappers, even ones you’ve recorded with, have called your ability as a lyricist and songwriter as “a slight step just above a retarded stillborn baboon.”  Rock Billy from the veteran rap/punk group Peach Detox said on MTV last week that when he hears your lyrics, his ears bleed.  He also said—

Yo, fuck Billy!  He act like rapping is about words or something.

It actually is, Extra.

Actually is what?

About words.  You write lyrics.  Lyrics are words.  It’s essentially poetry set to music.

Hell naw!  What I do ain’t poetry.  It’s what I do.  Can’t no mufucka do what I do.  Don’t nobody want to hear that dictionary rap!  Show me one example of where my lyrics are words.

Um, what?

When are my lyrics words?

This is weird…OK, how about the song “Chandelier,” the one that you said will be over everyone’s heads.  You say, “Why do you crunch crunch crunch / When you munch munch munch / That sound I hate it / Here at brunch brunch brunch / Your face I punch punch punch / Hash browns I ate it.”

Man, them ain’t words.  They emotions.  I write feelings and emotions on the pad or computer screen.  Dig?  I’m the only human who can do that.  Never wrote a word in my life.  Too much for you to comprehendo.

It sure is.  But let’s move on.  Let’s talk about your controversies.

Yeah, let’s do that.

You managed to offend just about every civic, religious, political, social, academic, and animal rights group with one song.  An unprecedented feat even in this age of sensationalism, reality TV, and social media.  You know which song I’m referring to, don’t you?

Sure do.  My song “Penis.”

That would be the one.  Tell us about the conceptual evolution behind this song.

Well, I was chillin’ with my manager Tae Black over at his crib one afternoon.  We was talking and he said that I was a lightning rod for controversy and whatever whatever.  So, I was, like, yo!  I says, “What you call me, Tae?”  And he, like, “I said you a lightning rod for controversy, Butt.”  See, Extra Butter don’t take kindly to nizzas calling him all out his name.  My name is Butter, not Butt.  Never call me Butt.  But then I went like, “XB, chill.  That’s a compliment.”  Then I thought about a lightning rod.  Then a rod.  Then I could flip that word and use one of them double ensemble thangs and—

You mean double entendres, not ensembles.

What you just said.  Anyway, basically, I could use it to talk about dicks…literally.  Get it?  Rods.  Dicks.  Penis.  BOOM!

What does that mean? That’s it? 

No doubt.  Simplecy equals genius.  Extra Butter equals genius.  Therefore, simplecy equals Extra Butter.  Word.  “Penis” is about the different types of johnsons out there in the world.  You ever thought about all the different kinds of penisuses there must be?

No, can’t say that I have.

Be honest.  You have, right?

Nope.

Whatever, yo.  A curious genius would wonder about that.  Must be a few main categories.  Long, short, skinny, fat, crooked, hooked, lefties, rights, brown, black, white, yellow, red, healthy, inflamed, slick, dry, et cetera, et cetera, yo.  Just like there must be different categories of cooch.  Feel me?

You worked with legendary producer Drew Brock on your upcoming album “Booty Emporium: Emporium of Bootang.”  What was it like working with a hip hop pioneer?

Me and Drew both geniuses.  I hate when people overuse that word, but I really think we’re both geniuses.  We clashed from time to time, but that’s cool.  That’s what geniuses do.  We make each other better.  I make him more better.  He make me more better.  If that’s possible.  (Chuckles.)  But straight up, though, working with Drew was a humbling experience.  Even for a genius like myself.  For real, I mean dude got so many ideas.  His genius mind is on some other, next-level, ET, Avatar shit.  Now I know why I didn’t get Album of the Year last year.

Um, you weren’t even eligible last year.

Mufucka, shet yo ass up.  Extra Butter is always eligible!

You didn’t release an album last year.

I don’t care.  I should be rewarded that award posthumously.

Posthumously?

Posthumously.

So you’re dead right now?

I am not a human being.  I am from outer space.  I am from the galaxies beyond your solar system.  I can’t die.  I’m just wearing this human costume so that you won’t be intimidated by my real form.  I reminisce about future events.  I defy time and logic—

Definitely logic…

Of course, you would say that, hater.  You trying to hate on me in my own interview?!

Answer this for me, please.  It seems that you and a lot of your peers have an unhealthy habit of thinking that anyone who isn’t you hates you.  No disrespect, but is there some club where wealthy insecure people meet to talk about how much their “haters” hate them?  Where did that come from?  Why do you think so many people hate you?

Because they do.  They want to be me and whatnot.  They see what I got and they want it too.  They see me flossing in Beverly Hills and they want to do that.  They see me hopping out the Lear jet and they want to do that too.  They haters.  They see me rollin’.  They hatin’.  Patrollin’.  They tryin’ to catch me ridin’ dirty!  As for your comment about my insecurity, no disrespect to you, partna, but Extra Butter got plenty of security.  My security people at least 6’5″ and 270 pounds.  I got a Fort Knox of people ’round me, playa, protecting the gold.  Guess who the gold is?

Hmmm, do I really want to answer this?

Me!  I’m the gold.  Me!

Wow.  Moving along, you realize that you’re sort of insulting your fans too, right?

How?

Because you’re telling them that their lives are meaningless because they’re not out throwing buckets of money in the club like you do.  You don’t see that they’re why you have this money and luxurious lifestyle in the first place.  They buy your product.  They make you rich.  Then you turn around and shit on their way of life, as if it’s not up to par with your own.  As if they don’t matter. 

I’m just living the American Dream, baby.  I set trends.  I don’t insult my fans.  Respect my trendsetting abilities.  Once that happens, we all win.  The world wins; fresh kids win; creatives win; the company wins.  Jamaica wins; Iceland wins; Europe wins; Africa wins; Asia wins; the Americas win; my homies in Antarctica win.

You know, a few, if any at all, people live in Antarctica.  Maybe a few scientists, but I doubt you seriously have any friends down there.

Why not?  I’m international, baby!

What the hell are you talking about now?  You’re making my head hurt.  (To a passing pedestrian.)  Hey, excuse me, ma’am, do you have some Tylenol?

I think what Extra Butter is going to mean is something similar to what Steve Jobs means.  I am undoubtedly, you know, Steve of Internet, downtown, fashion, culture.  Period.

(Pulling out a flask.)  OK, I’m wrapping this up.  You haven’t said anything that makes any sense or substantial today. 

You can’t do that.  You still have more to do.

Ugh.  You’re right.  We still have to do the performance part of the interview.  (Sighs.)

You want to do that now?  Cool.  Let’s go.  The studio’s down the street.  When you hear this new joint, it’s going to blow your mind.  I’m basically letting everyone know that this is the level that things could be at if they would follow my lead.  I will be the leader.  The leader of a company or a movement that ends up being worth billions of dollars.  Why?  Because I got the answers.  I understand culture.  I am the nucleus.

Are you finished?

**  ** ** ** **

About a half an hour later, we were in Extra Butter’s LA studio, surrounded by sangria and mamacitas.  I felt a little uneasy because everyone was wearing camouflage.  I didn’t know if we were about to go to war or if we were gearing up to hunt down Bambi.  After conversing with his producer and sound engineer for a few minutes, the man of the hour strutted over toward me.  He was holding a baseball bat.  I thought I was going to die.

Are you going to kill me?

Naw.  Just going to kill your mind.

What’s the bat for?

Nothing.

Why are you walking around with it then?

To look hard.

Oh.

So I’m going to do the lead-off song from the new album, aiight?  It’s called “Fed-DHL-UP,” pronounced Fed-The-Hell-Up.  It’s going to be a monster, I’m telling ya.  The streets are asking for this right here, ya hear me?  They asking for the real.  And I’ma give it to ’em.  In order to score hits in this industry, you have to have two things.  You have to have a dope beat, and you have to have subject material that everyone can relate to.  Folks ain’t buying your shit if they can’t feel it.  For real.

So that’s the formula?

Absolutely.

And you’re sure you have a hit on your hands?

Ab-so-fuc-kin-lute-ly.

Well, let’s hear it. 

Aiight.  (Turns to the sound engineer.)  Rodney, you ready?  World premiere, y’all!  Pump that beat!

….…

FED-DHL-UP

(Fed The Hell Up)

(to the tune of Kanye West’s New Slaves)

Hear the original here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SoKFycTmVU

And here: https://soundcloud.com/detailsofmylife-net2/kanye-west-new-slaves-live-on

My mama was raised in an era when
Mail service was superb and excellent
Nowadays you would’ve thought they needed help
Parcels are damaged like they keep falling off of a shelf
You see they broke a nizza’s china
That was 30% cheaper than in the store
And those bitches lost my curtains
And wouldn’t refund or replace them with more
What I lose?  My mint tea.  Fur coat.  A CZ chain.
All these hacks lose all the same things
‘Bout to make me go postal; FedEx is who I blame
Why am I getting mail for the Astors and the Wangs?
You’ll pay!

You see I needa kind of monitor
Who’s the dick who sent my shit to Ottawa?

You see I needa kind of monitor
Who’s the dick who sent my shit to Ottawa?

I throw these Maybach keys
I mean these My-bock keys
I know I pronounce it wrong
It’s German, like brats and Nazis
I see the blood on the leaves
I see the blood on the leaves
I use a Billie Holliday verse
So that you’ll think that I’m deep
They throwing hate at me
Why is my package overseas?
Fuck you and your delivery service
Y’all mailmen can’t control me
I want my package today!
I want my package today!
I’m ’bout to wild the fuck out
Just bought a king-size duvet
I know that pussy ain’t free
Just bought a tiger last week
Post ladies throwing compacts at me
Flying glass makes me bleed
Got stitched up by EMTs
Fuck it, c’est la vie
I want my package today!
Y’all postmen can’t fuck with me
Y’all couriers can’t play with mé
Y’all tenors cant sang with mé
I’ll move my family out the country
So you can’t see where I stay
Unless you download Google Earth
But if they cross that border
See they’ll confuse my addresses
And mess up my Amazon orders
What DHL UPS!
Ordered a cookbook for soufflés
Supposed to get my package on the 5th,
But that was last Tuesday!
See they gonna make me go to prison
I need my mail today!
They prolly all in the Hamptons
Braggin’ ’bout my delivery delay
Fuck you and your Hampton house
Wait! I like your Hampton house.
So nice is your Hampton spouse.
Can I nap on your Hampton couch?
Y’all ’bout to turn the air up?
I ask to please turn it down
I’m ’bout to take a little snooze
Now what the fuck was I mad at now?

July 31, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Between Rancho Cucamonga and Fontana

I was stuck on a commuter train for four hours two weekends ago.  The train had to stop because it hit a pedestrian.  A “trespasser strike” is what the train folks were calling it.  For a long time, we didn’t know why we had stopped.  Here are some of the things that raced through my mind as I waited for the train to move:

Can one’s lack of a libido be called a libidon’t?

Can I ever go over to the dark side when all my sides are already dark?

Can two cities with masculine names be sister cities?

You know those pics that people always take of themselves and post online?  I just found out that they’re called selfies.  So should group pics be called groupies?

It ain’t uncommon to find a highway named after a cop who was killed in the line of duty.  But you’ll never see a highway named after a person who was unjustly killed by a cop.

I get that a band-aid is a bandage that aids the healing of a wound.  I understand that Medicaid helps to cover health care costs.  So would someone please explain what Kool-Aid helps you do?  Be cool?  How about Rite-Aid?  Don’t get me started on Gatorade.

Why does this person look like an Ewok in the face?

Shouldn’t fortune cookies be called fortune bakies?

I should move around some.  Been sitting down for hours.  This seat’s hard as hell.  Right now would be a prime time to enjoy the benefits of possessing a fat ass.

Would Superman shop at a supermarket or Walmart Supercenter?

My eyes are burning like I used Tapatio eyedrops.

How is the word “plaid” pronounced “plad,” even though there’s an “i” in it, yet “plad” isn’t even a word in the English language?

In-laws.  In-law titles have always bothered me.  If your spouse has siblings, then they’re your sister-in-law or brother-in-law.  Doesn’t that technically make your spouse your sibling too?  Does your spouse call your parents mom and dad too?

Taco Bell sounds like it should be the name of a Mexican phone company.

June 30, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

I RUN HOT

I run hot.  I am the most warm-blooded mammal I know.  When I ran track in high school, my shirt would be drenched during the group warm-up.  I’d look around and everyone else was bone dry.  We were just stretching!  The running came later.  Everyone tells me I feel hot, and they all feel frigid to me.  A friend of mine is my direct opposite.  Runs cold, loves summer and hates winter.  I run hot, love winter and hate summer.  Running hot causes me to do a couple of things: 1) sweat like a pig, even in the cold; and 2) have some seriously oily and greasy skin.  There are advantages and disadvantages.  For instance, I don’t need to buy any oils to cook with, but I do smell like bacon occasionally on hot days.  Here are a few others:

Unleaded is just a misspelling of Undelaned.  Yep, I can power your car.

The Gulf Coast oil spill was actually caused by me trying to wading in the water near New Orleans for about 20 minutes.

When lighthouses need repairs, I’m routinely asked to step in.  A beam of light is usually then bounced off my shiny forehead.

Able to slide in and out of a variety of spaces, I make an excellent cat burglar.

Sometimes on the weekends, I perform on Hollywood Boulevard or at Griffith Observatory.  You may know me as the Mirror Man.

A fairly common expression is to say “no sweat” when one means that a task was easy to get done.  It’s not something that I can say, though.  It’s something that I could never say.  I replace “no sweat” with the amount of perspiration said task caused me, such as “2.2 liters” or “4.91 gallons.”

I broke the sound barrier when my mom was in labor with me.  They say it was like the perfect hike from a center to a quarterback—only much, much faster.  The doctor had to catch me with a baseball catcher’s mitt soaked in Palmolive for 3 days, in order to cut the grease.  It’s a record that still stands to this day.

There are times when I fall asleep in the bedroom, and wake up in the next room.  I suspect that I’m sleep sliding again.

The phrase “Make it rain (in the club)” originated from me sweating profusely in several Atlanta nightclubs in the 1990s.  Sometimes even activating the overhead sprinklers because of the heat that I generate from just standing and doing the Bankhead Bounce.  It had nothing to do with throwing around money then.

It takes me 3 hours to shower, chiefly because I sweat when I shower.  It’s like a shower in a shower.  By the time I’m clean, I’m dirty again.  I need help.

I provide Slip ‘n’ Slide services for kids’ parties and what not.  I do have one warning.  My slides are extra slippery.  This experience could either be the best time of your kid’s life, or it could suck.  Really suck.

I am required by federal law to always live within 2,000 feet of a fire station.  In the case of a fire, the firefighters can just scoop me up in the fire truck; suspend me over the burning house or building; and just have me sweat all over the fire.  Since I’m doing my civic duty tenfold, I have been excluded from jury duty for eternity.

I have blinded over 300,000 people in my lifetime thus far.  I can get to such an incomprehensibly extreme level of shininess, so you shouldn’t look at me in direct sunlight.

Air traffic controllers constantly tell me to lower my forehead so that pilots aren’t disturbed by my forehead gleam, which can be seen from space.

Although I have been called a danger to all wildlife, I have also been hailed as a natural source of energy and petroleum.

Grease, the musical, was released in theaters almost exactly 4 months after my birth.  It was originally supposed to be about the layer of residue I leave on anything I touch, but the producers thought that a musical about a 1950s high school would be a better sell to audiences.

This summer, I will be debuting my own all-purpose lubricant called “Lubrican.”  In stores everywhere.

May 31, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Quarterly Hate List – Q1 2013

This is a month late, but no one cares anyway.  Here’s the Q1 Hate List.  As of 1:50 PM PST on April 30, 2013, I hate the following things the most:

1. Kobe (not the beef)
2. Ray J aka Brandy’s little brother
3. Dogs (the ones who try to bite, aka most of them)
4. nepotism/undeserved accolades
5. the word “awesome”
6. Nick Cannon
7. arrogance
8. loud people
9. discriminatory -isms (racism, sexism, etc.)
10. LAPD
11. All things of, relating to, about, or characterized by Taylor Swift
12. people who only talk about one thing and then get mad when you don’t want to talk about it
13. blind followers/sheep
14. simpleton hip hop/rap
15. oppressive heat and sunshine
16. reality TV
17. cabbies
18. those cymbals you hear in any trailer of a movie that John Williams scored
19. watermelon
20. walking through fart clouds
21. walking through spider webs
22. walking
23. those who post every second of their lives on Facebook
24. those who enable the people from #23
25. pistachio nuts

April 30, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Five Awkward Restroom Situations

SITUATION 1:

Once standing in line in a men’s restroom, I heard a guy tell his friend that he was standing at the urinal once, and the dude standing next to him at the adjacent urinal looked over and said to him, “You have nice forearms.”

The awkwardness of that encounter is magical. You don’t know if he’s honestly complimenting your forearms, or if he just happened to peek over your guns to see your pistol.

The only thing worse than saying that would be if he said, “Nice pythons.”

SITUATION 2:

You walk into a public restroom and head straight for the handicap stall. Why? Because it’s the luxury suite of any restroom. More legroom. A hook to hang your hat and jacket. You could throw a block party in there. Suddenly, someone starts beating on the door, yelling for you to hurry up and get out. You shout back at him, cussing him out and telling him to go to hell. When you come out of the handicap stall, you see a guy in a wheelchair’s been waiting there the whole time. You ain’t handicapped. He’s probably wet himself by now. You’re an ass.

SITUATION 3:

When you see someone fall in the restroom. Should you help him? Should you leave him there? Either way, that poor guy is a goner. He won’t die from the fall, but from the impending complication of illnesses he contracted from touching the floor in a men’s room. Touching the floor in the men’s room is like having the “Outbreak” monkey wipe his ass with its hand and then letting it put his hands in your mouth to massage your sore throat. Nice knowing ya.

SITUATION 4:

When I’m at the bathroom urinal, what makes you think that I want to hold a conversation with you? The close proximity of our genitalia doesn’t automatically warrant any small talk, chit chat, etc. I ain’t thinking about the weather, the game last night, the new girl in Finance, or anything. In fact, when I’m pissing, I’m just listening to the sound of my own high-pressurized pee slam up against finely handcrafted porcelain. Everlasting calm. The sound of serenity. Why do you have to mess that up?

SITUATION 5:

While inconveniently working at a convenience store, I became an intense people-watcher. Whether spotting some kids who were about to rob the store or just observing the latest old lady trying to get over on a fellow cashier with expired coupons, I had a sharp attention to detail. So I start noticing this big guy (6’3″, 280+ lbs.) coming into the store every other day at about 5:40 PM. Always with a shifty look in his eyes, he’d walk around the perimeter of the store 2 to 3 times, head over to the hair products aisle, stay in that area (out of my sight) for a few minutes, and then go to the restroom in the back. About 10 minutes later, he’d walk back up to the front of the store and leave, usually without buying nothing more than a pack of gum or a candy bar…and panty hose. Because I would work the floor too, I’d have to leave the register and help restock the aisles when store traffic was slow. I’d also have to clean the restrooms at closing. One day, I had to restock some panty hose, which was near the hair products section. I stocked 9 panty hose packages before I was called back up to the register. I didn’t return to the panty hose section until closing when I noticed that one was missing. When I cleaned the men’s restroom, I found some opened panty hose packaging in the trash. This happened for the next few weeks, only when this guy came in around 5:40 PM. Sometimes, I would find the panty hose packaging alongside a candy bar or gum wrapper. You put 2 and 2 together. Nice guy too. Very polite. Well-mannered. Just liked to wear panty hose.

March 31, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Kingdom Come

First thing I hear when I get on the bus one Saturday: “I already been in prison. I don’t wanna die.” Me neither, guy. Me neither.

The word face is too small to call my face that. My face needs a bigger word. Like
countenance.

When I was younger, I used to think that there was some sort of nerve connection from my
sides to my rectum. Yup. Seriously. Someone would poke me in the side, and then
the next thing you know, I’d become a human space shuttle launch. Still not sure what that odd, twisted anatomical confusion was about. I wonder where Kingdom Come is because I’ve sent a few folks there. And where is Smithereens?

——-

Based on an actual conversation on public transportation:

SHE: Hey, excuse me, do you mind if I open the window?

HE: I do mind.

SHE: Oh, ok.

HE: Why do you want it open?

SHE: Um, because it’s hot in here.

HE: You can’t open the window. You can’t just come here in interfere with the environment
that everyone else is sharing. You’ll introduce germs into the bus air.

SHE: Huh? Bus air? Are you serious?

HE: (brief pause) I am.

SHE: The only thing I’d introduce into this bus is fresh air.

HE: You know, the surgeon general says that an introduction of germs from one environment
into another makes a bad environment.

SHE: Are you for real?

HE: Plus, there’s a government conspiracy to infect–

SHE: Doesn’t the surgeon general work for the government? What are you talking abo—Stop
talking to me!

HE: I’m just saying. You wanted to roll down the window. You’re the one who wants to make
us all sick.

SHE: By getting some fresh air in here?! If anything, the germs in here would escape and go
outside. It’s fifty million degrees in here, dude! Everybody’s sweating. Hell, even
you’re sweating! Open the damn window!

HE: I can’t do that.

SHE: Fine.

She slides over to another seat and cracks open another window.

Immediately, the stuffy air is replaced with crisp, fresh air sent from God.

He puts on a surgical mask.

February 28, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Really Good Racist Theme Music

Don’t you hate it when someone says “I told you so,” when they never told you shit?

Dogs in strollers. What? Your dog can’t walk? What is it, the first dog opposed to being and acting like a dog? Dogs love walks. They can’t wait to walk. All the dogs in the world are thinking about walking right now. Even the ones walking are thinking about walking some more. You walk a dog in the morning before you go to work. For the next eight hours, your dog is just sitting around waiting for you to come back…just so you can walk it again! It’s got to be the most boring existence in the world. Almost as boring as a baby who hasn’t learned to roll over yet. Can you imagine? Just being on your back all day long, slobbering on yourself, picking at your toes, looking up at a fuggin’ mobile? The mobile’s moving. But you’re not, you immobile sonofabitch. I’m sure that although babies and dogs have similar extremely short attention spans, there’s at least five seconds during each waking hour when they want to shoot themselves in the face. “Oh my God, I’m so bored. I can’t roll over. Can’t crawl out of this goddamn crib. Fido over there just wants to walk around outside to piss and sniff strangers’ asses. FML.”

So I’m on the bus, minding my own business, hating my life, cussing out everyone on the bus in my mind, when this dumbass gets on the bus blasting music from his cell phone. President Obama, can you please send a solitary drone to this guy’s place of residence? No other casualties, please. Just snuff out this asshole. What an ego you have to have to roll up in a public arena and think that everyone’s going to be cool with listening to your horrid musical tastes! First of all, your cell phone speaker sounds like crap. Sounds like you
shrunk your favorite band and sealed them in a tin can that you forgot to poke holes into.  They sound like they’re dying. Secondly, a venue does exist where people of like musical affinities congregate to listen to their favorite musicians. It’s called a concert.  Normally, people pay for admission into concerts. You, sir, now have to pay everyone here on this bus. You’re disturbing the peace, so you either you break us all off with a piece of the dough that we’re well aware that you most likely don’t have since you’re riding the
bus like the rest of us broke fucks, or we throw you out the bus window…in pieces.

Women can go into any men’s restroom. Men can’t go into any women’s restroom. We just can’t. It’s a law of nature. The eleventh commandment. God scribbled it down on a tablet. It just upset Moses so much (“That’s not fair, God!”) that he just left it out when he
stood on that mountain and told all his homies about the cool-ass stone tablets that old guy upstairs hit him off with. If men do step into a women’s restroom, then they are perverts.  Women can take over a men’s john because this behavior is societally acceptable. So the next time you see a man peeing in the street, pat him on the back. Tell him you know feel his pain, his stress, his struggle, his plight. Then move out the way before he tinkles on you. After all, he still is a man, and the vast majority of us still can’t pee straight.

At the end of the day, I wish someone would retire the phrase “at the end of the day.”.

Whenever I watch these true crime shows and they show a young black guy, all of a sudden some random hip hop beat is played as if that’s his theme music. These are the only people who have music like this. Even the villain doesn’t have music. This is so racist. This is
so stupid. This is so inappropriate. This is so unfair…because I never got any of this racially specific theme music. I want some too. Some really good racially offensive theme music.  Something with a lot of bass and an ill hi-hat. Sheeeeit. Slide in a stanky guitar riff and some harmonica, and I’ll be your best friend.  I want to bop down the street after just robbing a liquor store, dribbing a basketball, munching on a watermelon slice, dropping my food stamps all over the place, all while wearing a KFC bucket on my head.

Q: There are 10 incompetent asses in a room. How many incompetent asses are there?
A: 30. The 10, their 10 behinds, and the additional assistant asses on their phones or laptops.

A tortoise-porpoise hybrid. Something that just popped into my mind. Doesn’t make any sense, I know. The words have similar spellings. That’s all. It was only natural for me to merge the two animals into one slow, old, squeaky beast.

Dosed off on the bus. Woke up to a woman with a thick accent saying, “‘scuse me,” but it sounded like “kiss me.” Awkward moment. She was trying to get up from her seat and go by me. Still in a sleepy fog, I thought she wanted to sit in my lap.

Give your dog a break. There’s no need to dress your dog in a sweater, vest, coat, jacket, pants, overalls, skirt, jumpsuit, scarf, lederhosen, or any other item of clothing. Dogs already come with stylish coats, designed by Nature. You think your dog looks cute. It
looks ridiculous. And it knows it. And this is why other dogs are picking on it, beating it up, and snatching its lunch money. Wonder why Spot always looks sad and keeps climbing to the top of the couch? Spot’s contemplating suicide.

If man’s best friend is an animal (dog) and rocks (diamonds) are a girl’s best friend, then the nation’s 50% divorce rate makes a lot more sense now. We’re all crazy.

January 31, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Full-Finger Ring

Why do we call people who have passed away “late?” Aren’t they, in essence, early?

WHEN YOU KNOW THE NEXT FEW MINUTES PROBABLY WON’T BE GOOD, Reason #281: When the first thing you hear someone say as you’re getting on the bus is, “I already been in prison. I don’t wanna die.”

The word face is too small a word to call my face that. My face needs a bigger word. Like countenance.

I wanted to inexplicably roundhouse kick these triplets who were walking toward me.

There’s a debate on whether or not to use the dollar coin solely and kill dollar bill production, or to keep the status quo. Some people really do hate change.

So the lady at the grocery counter this morning asks the guy in line in front of me if he prefers paper or plastic. This cat says, “Well, I prefer to pay with my bank card.” Unable to take it, I just went to another line.

Say this on Thanksgiving: Felicitous Meleagris gallopavo diurnal course, populace! No one will acknowledge your dumb ass.

Just heard a woman say, “I have a man crush on Channing Tatum.” What?

A gift card is really a gift from an indecisive person to you so that you can use it to buy that person something nice.

There’s a dating website called BlackPeopleMeet.com. One day, I got an email from BlackPeopleMeat.net. Let me just tell you now. They are not the same site.

Full-finger rings are cool…sometimes. You have to have a certain panache to pull it off. And if you don’t, then pull it off. The ring, that is. I saw one the other day. Looked sort of like Art Deco meets Art Nouveau. Pretty eclectic. However, I quickly realized that I can’t wear one without looking like one of three things: 1) a broke-ass dragonslayer who somehow ended up in the wrong time period…who happens to be black, 2) some depressed goth kid who scratches people’s backs for money…and happens to be black, or 3) or some modern-day knight who can’t afford a whole shield and uses his ring instead…and happens to be a reject from a Prince cover band.

Every time Taylor Swift sings or a song of hers is played somewhere in the world, an angel baby dies.

December 27, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment