My DNA and Suicidal Sirens
Same shit, different day. Better than saying, “different shit, same day.” That would mean that you shit your pants twice today.
https://arkencounter.com/
Huge life-sized ark built in Kentucky. Theme park.
One of the job listings is shuttle driver. Isn’t that what Noah does?
Another job listing is Food & Beverage Team Lead. If that were me, I’d be in close communications with the Zoo Team so that we could fry up some of those animals after work.
When an adult gets abducted, why is it still called kidnapping?
Saw a man with a box of doughnuts walk into a doughnut shop. Almost always, you see a person with doughnuts walking AWAY from a shop. I imagine he told the clerk, “Say, man. These doughnuts are defective. They do not possess the proper amount of industry-standard glaze.”
Every day, we go in and out of Starbucks, fueling our national obsession with coffee beans and caffeine, and we’ve failed to notice the cry for help just above our heads, and even on our cups. I’m talking about mermaid (also known as a siren) suicide and mermaid self-mutilation. The Starbucks logo looks like a mermaid who’s pulling at both ends of her tail and trying to split herself in half. See what I mean?
Ironic how when we go to the post office to mail boxes, it’s because they’re too big for our mailboxes.
I’ve clipped my fingernails at bus stops all over this town. My DNA is everywhere. If I happen to run into a clone of me in the future, I won’t be surprised.
If the letter W is called double-U, then shouldn’t the lowercase m be called double-n? How about the number 8? Looks like a double-3 to me.
I rather see homeless people in Beverly Hills than rich hipsters canvassing and casing out their next target of gentrification in Skid Row or any other poor neighborhood.
“Donuts” is not the correct spelling. It’s “doughnuts.” The “dough” in “doughnuts” is pronounced “doe”, as in John Doe. The “do” in “donuts” is pronounced “dew” as in Mountain Dew or doo-doo. When you write “donuts”, you’re actually saying “do nuts,” which makes you (sound) nuts. Krispy Kreme Doughnuts has it right. Dunkin’ Donuts has it wrong. Get with it, America.
Not sure why Trojan Condoms went with that name. The Trojan War is famous for a wooden horse that was cracked open to release several Greek soldiers in the middle of the night onto the unsuspecting city of Troy. That doesn’t sound like much protection to me, son.
The country has been on a downward spiral of intellectualism for a long time now. People these days take pride in being ignorant, stupid, and ill-informed. It’s reflected in our politics, entertainment, social media language, education rankings in the world, etc. And I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do about it.
Hot Gahbidge
That awkward moment when you think you have a group of pretty solid friends, talk to a bunch of people, go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and notice that you’ve had a booger in your nose the whole time.
Since this vote on whether or not Britain should leave the EU is being called Brexit, if Britain decides to rejoin the EU, will it be called Brentrance?
I had to do an underarm funk check the other day. These fools thought I dabbed on ’em. I yelled out across the way, “Nah, I wasn’t dancing. I was checking to see if I stank.” They won’t make that mistake again.
A woman got on the city bus and complained that the seats weren’t leather. Lady, you can go back from whence your dumb ass came. Ain’t no leather here. What kind of bus did you think you were riding?
…Minutes later, the same woman pulled the cord for the bus to stop. When the doors opened, she spat out the window and said, “Sorry. Had to spit, couldn’t swallow it.” Now, you really need to leave.
Toiletries is probably the most unappealing name for things that you put in your mouth and body.
There’s a video that’s gone viral of a snail eating a mushroom. Can you imagine that? Eating something that’s actually bigger than you? That would be like Kanye eating his ego.
Mobil and Chevron need to get together and do a coin flip to see who’s going to keep the blue, red, and white colors. They are almost always next to one another, and in a rush, that shit gets confusing.
Hearing healthy minded people talk about being healthy makes me want to do as many unhealthy things as humanly possible. I’ll start with a Van Gogh-style ear trim.
I saw someone wearing flesh-toned tights. Flesh-toned tights?! Who’s flesh is cardboard box tan? Because that’s the color I always see.
When the announcer on the loudspeaker at the train station says, “Thanks for going Metro,” I think some guys took it as a directive to dress like bitches.
Being that he’s an icon a long-running educational program, a futuristic TV franchise, and a historical ground-breaking mini-series, LeVar Burton could actually could go back in time and teach some slaves how to read.
Saw a man walking his dog without a leash. The leash was around the man’s neck. Nothing much else to say here. It is what it is.
I can only hear “bro” so many times in a conversation. If it gets excessive, I begin to block out all ambient sounds. I couldn’t even take it if my own brothers were saying it. Some people take it to the extreme by using “bro” as not only a noun but as a verb and preposition, too. What’s worse than that is the term “brah.” How can one be so lazy and noncommittal? Listen to yourself. You took a monosyllabic word and gave up halfway through saying it. “Brooo…aaaaaaaaaaah.”
Saw a Prius and a Maserati almost run into each other. It was a standoff. Didn’t know which asshole I wanted to lose.
A tenant in my building makes the entire floor smell like hot garbage. Smells like a mixture of wet dog fur, spoiled meatloaf, raw eggs, a plate of moldy cheese and crackers, low confidence, heartbreak, and rancid loneliness. I tried to spray some air freshener down that hall the other night. The spray refused to come out of the can.
Cul-De-Sac / Deaf Ears
Her name was Jacqueline, sat in the back of class, cackling,
heckling, never tattling, sweet and killer like saccharine,
she could hide her Jekyll-ing, spicy like Zatarains,
after school tackling dudes, pants down, hands down,
straight up behind the gym and shacks, snacking on madeleines.
Old folks called her fast, she wouldn’t last, no touch of class, so much sass,
Coined her hot ass, loins assassin, everlasting groin smashin’,
But Jacqueline had dreams, mad schemes, wanted to turn over a new leaf,
Like a gardener peeping for weeds, sowing seams in an autumn breeze.
As bad as it seems, she wasn’t pregnant yet, saw the benefit of slowing it down,
she was hesitant at first, no ho-ing around, reverse the predicate, the worst’s relevant,
Told the boys no, she was done with getting done, kept her poise, though,
Back of the bus, she lacked lust, it’s lackluster, the pack lusts her,
She forced the issue, prickly like boar thistle, tough like coarse gristle,
Leave me alone, she declared, she owned her destiny with flare, official,
They rarely cared, didn’t take her serious, they were furious, she dealt with them in a manner imperious.
Continued threats got her scared, changed her route home, carefully prepared,
Then one day the bell rang, class was dismissed, she tried to flee the BS,
Buddy’d up with Lorraine cutting around CVS, they got cornered by those idiots,
Walls closing in, Lorraine got away, ran and got a stranger, left her girl in danger,
When they got to the scene, Jacqueline couldn’t breathe, welts on her knees,
Lashes on her cheek, bloody nose, missing teeth, torn sleeves, gasps and heaves,
Where were the thieves? May not have stolen her innocence, but they damn sure stole her dreams,
Stole her life, so vibrant, just snuffed out, so violent, infinity blues, took away her ability to choose,
The rain came down, ultra violet, the worst thing is that those fools are still on the loose.
* * *
So take peek at this fixture of this corner store of liquor, this figure in the Knicks wear, the cigarette spark flickers, when it gets dark in the park quicker, this is young Mark Victor, whose crew is on the verge of being a neighborhood scourge, better check the old ticker, his people urge him to drop ’em, encourage him to stop ’em, but he says they always got ’em and their bond he’ll never purge.
Vic was a piece of shit, never going legit, scamming and scheming don’t quit, needed to cease and desist
His antics and tactics on the list, causing manic panics, pfft…you get the gist, of the kid that just couldn’t resist
Yet he took it rather heavy, the bevy of friends and kin deftly trying to inform him, of those that may harm him, he wasn’t listening, just kept on bitchin’ ’bout heavy levies that he had to pay his brethren on occasion
Part of his initiation, his own creation, hanging with boys destined for incarceration, they’re complacent, led by Jason, never backpedal, mind your business out there, if you meddle in affairs, you prove your mettle with the metal.
Gold medal to the rebel devil who could play this game, to lay a dame, roll up, say her name, take her, make her shame, make sure that you came,
Deep down he knew it was wrong, to belong to a throng of dongs only concerned with hitting bongs, dipping schlongs, and ripping thongs, he preached the same song all day long, but in the end, he pledged lifelong camaraderie and would always tag along
So down on the ave, on the corner of Venus and Armstrong, the boys peeped two girls easing around CVS, they were a seething mess, cause them exceeding stress
Victor tried to intervene, didn’t want to be part of this sinner scene, too obscene, his inner being was guillotined when he heard the girls scream,
He pulled Jason off Lorraine, she broke out, Jason grabbed Vic, began to choke out, while the others violated, bashed her face, smashed, erased, the light in her eyes smoked out
The crew fled, left Jacqueline there dead, in a pool of red, breathless, helpless, Victor was left friendless, had to law low, stayed with some selfless cousins out in Waco, knew he was on borrowed time, part of a horrid crime, he knew the crew’s actions were fatal.
A few months go by, living on the fly, he dodged the law, got too confident, thought he could chance the see-saw
Missed his fam, still on the lam, he went back to see them, told his mom and brother he was innocent and to believe him.
Heard the boys were still in town, he went to see them in the PJs, no one was around where he stayed and parlayed
Through the hood he tried to creep, not making a peep, turned a corner and Jacqueline’s brother, Saadiq, hopped out of a jeep
Vic froze in the street, he let out a few bleeps, Saadiq’s peeps surrounded him and knocked off his feet, they were ten deep.
Vic pleaded to no avail, on deaf ears his words fell, karma had succeeded, he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer before his life was deleted.
Cunningham
How is it that vomiting can encompass one of the worst and best feelings that one can experience? The pain of the retching and gagging and then the relief at the end. Sort of like listening to a whole Taylor Swift song.
I saw a sign at a shopping center on the 405 that read, “Over 25 Eateries. Unlimited Taste.” Umm, that is limited. 25 is a limit.
How is it that people don’t want to eat fake food with no GMOs and chemicals and such but soy chicken, soy bacon, and other fake food is OK?
When someone really dumb says that she or he’s trying to recall something “to the best of their knowledge,” then that’s not really saying much.
Cunningham: Another name for a smart pig.
The high-end gym Equinox in Century City has at least 4 valet attendants at 7:00 AM. Hey, lazy rich people! Valet parking at your gym is lazy as hell. It’s too early to be that stupid. You probably have your personal trainer doing your entire workout for you too, huh? You’ll never lose weight and be in shape. You’ll be out of shape and rich for your whole life. You’ll be…wait a second. You’re rich. You don’t need to have good health. Forget everything I said. How can I be down?
Nickname for that asshole hogging up that one piece of gym equipment that you needed an hour ago: A razorback in a racerback.
Fake booties are on the rise in America. Women, and some men, are resorting to getting injections into their gluteus maximuses. I call them GMO booties. A quick Google search pulled up this info, “The average cost of buttock augmentation with fat grafting is $4,077; buttock implants is $4,580 and buttock lift is $4,509, according to 2014 statistics from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons.” That’s a whole lot of money. You could do other things with that money. How does it feel when you sit down? Maybe like sitting on a stack of cash, like this guy.
Foreigners who move here only to have their first generation kids speak with these annoying American dialects must often rethink their decision to immigrate here and whether or not if it was really worth it.
One of my favorite taco spots is Tacos Por Favor. In their window, they advertise a huarache dish with a big blue corn tortilla. A huarache is a flatbread typically with salsa, onions, cilantro, and meat on it. It also means a type of sandal. At the time of reading that window sign, I didn’t know it meant a food. So my confusion was on the magnitudinous level of an atomic bomb.
Things That Piss Me Off, #3728-E: Guys who wear fedoras or trilby hats every day. Every day! It’s fine to wear one every now and then, but every day? You should be sent to the gallows. Who told you looked cute? That person lied. Back in the day, a suit, hat, and tie were the standard uniform for a man. Everyone wore that. That was then. This is now. And you’re an ass. You make a wrong left in your time machine Prius? Your Rat Pack Halloween costume won’t come off? What? You think you’re Dick Tracy or something? You got a mystery to solve? Here, solve the mystery of why the fuck you’re wearing fedoras every gotdamn day!
My friend’s mom thinks that a booty call and butt dialing is the same thing. She routinely says excellent statements like, “I keep booty calling your sister today, ” and “Sorry for booty calling you last night.”
Signs I Want To See In My Lifetime, #128: “Welcome to the Center of Sexual Harassment. Thanks for stopping by. Sorry to see you go, but we love to see you leave.”
Firefighters in Seattle must be bored out of their minds.
Cats don’t need us. They’re perfectly fine on their own. Dogs, on the other hand, need human interaction. Well, at least for the domesticated ones. Which makes it truly ironic that cats are more like lone wolves than dogs are, while dogs are more pussy than cats are.
If you say “seriously” more than once or twice in a sentence, then I can’t take you seriously.
One of my favorites: Yo mama is so ugly, you have to shave her ass and teach her to walk backwards.
Only “first-world” people say the word “annoyed” or “annoying.” No one anywhere else in the world uses that word so frequently. People who think they have problems that, in the real world, aren’t really problems get annoyed at the smallest inconvenience. No poor, starving person has never had the gall, complete lack of empathy, or insularity to be annoyed because the barista gave him coffee with steamed milk instead of the whipped milk that he had his precious, little heart set on.
A friend has black mold in his apartment building because a repair man did a terrible job. It’s kind of sad when you have to repair what the repairman repaired.
I’m playing the lottery a lot these days just so I can do this in front of millions of people.
Random Knowledge Section:
The clitoris and the penis are the same. For a brief time, that is. When a baby is developing inside the womb, there’s a point when the baby has no physical gender-specific features. So if the baby is to be a girl, that area will form into a clitoris. If the baby is to be a boy, then the area will form into a penis. With that said, let’s talk about steroids. Side effects of anabolic steroid usage include enlargement of the clitoris in women and shrinkage of the testicles in men. It’s kind of amazing that a substance can have the such opposite effects on opposite genders’ organs that are derived from essentially the same physiological matter.
Bitch Session:
There are a group of men out in the world that need to stop being bitches. They’re called men-bitches. Or bitch-men. Or “fuck that guy.” Some traits that men-bitches tend to possess include, but not limited to, the following: passive-aggressive behavior; being self-centered; unreasonably tight pants that are basically jeggings; dyed, frosted, or highlighted hair; colored contact lenses; hipster-isms; frequent whining about things that don’t matter, like his life; a perpetual state of fleeting annoyance; strange obsessive love of cats; expensive tastes while wearing rags and/or low/common/destitute tastes while wearing $5000 in tailored clothing; hair longer than the average woman’s; no callouses on his hands; wears shades at night; has a professional full-scale setup at home for brewing coffee and craft beer; rides a single-speed, fixed gear, fixie bike but lives in a $3000/month loft apartment; constantly chastises women for not dressing up but looks like shit himself; wears an enlarged V-neck T-shirt that his whole body can fit through; does push-ups on his knees; gossips about all day long; always on social media; has hundreds of reviews on Yelp; bowls with a child-size ball; sometimes gets his eyebrows arched, etc. You get the gist of the list.
WASABI, or An Ode to the Present State of Radio-Friendly Hip Hop in the Central Part of North America
[VERSE 1]
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Loitering in the work lobby is one of my favorite hobbies
My posse be Bobby and Robby and Favi and Javi and Rodney
Javi is Salvi, he rides in Mojave, Bobby’s got a Scottie and he speaks Punjabi
So sorry, I forgot to make copies and coffee so I got fired from jobby
I’m foxy, I cook on Hibachi, the old school I embody like I was Hitachi
Or back in the days of Atari approximately when computer disks were floppy
In Abu Dhabi, my money’s too wobbly, I’ll probably stop selling my body
Spun out my Ducati while racing Bugatti and watching Jumanji
Slid like ice hockey, rode the tsunami, next time I’ll get a Harley
I’m bobbin’, I’m mobbin’, I’m sobbin’, I’m robbin’, your mama’s a goblin
Hi-yo, Kemosabe, Have some Pocky and sake with Ken Watanabe
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Burn your tongue, man; we hot like tamales
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
We get our jollies from watching your follies
[VERSE 2]
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
I karate with Pilates hotties and oddly saw Paul Giamatti
Wore huaraches in Audis, I’m outtie with gaudy knock-kneed mommies
Polly pops Mollys in Raleigh with froggies and doggies and hoggies
Met Somalis in Mali, they said I was fobby and my back was too soppy
Boss said my first draft was sloppy and that my copy was choppy
So I drowned my sorrows in toffee and Yahtzi and beer that was hoppy
Returning this burger, this bun is too poppy and these fries are too soggy
Drinking Bacardi on tardy safaris, peaceful like Bob Marley and Mahatma Gandhi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
[VERSE 3]
When I first heard “Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace…”
I went kamikaze on Kawasaki canaverseray, and moved to Karachi
That song is ungodly, part of me knew it was written by no literati
Too simple, too raunchy, too tawdry, too tacky, motley like Liberace
Medulla oblongata got foggy and groggy, So sick, I need anitbodies
These dudes wreck the art, all sloppy and shoddy, like a boxy jalopy
All cocky, sayin’ poppycock worth less than tchotchkes and botched keys
All that moxie got them off track like a volley of derailed trolleys
Godspeed.
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Artists, aim high like Lockheed. Watch out for traps set by industry Cosbys
You’re too creative to be lazy, grind in lobbies like mariachis
Keep your shit tight, in sequence like your name’s Fibonacci
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
Wasabi, wasabi, wasabi, wasabi
The Occidental Tourist / Neither Do I
The other night I played Russian Roulette with a firearm loaded with thoughts and dreams.
Pragmatic observation tells you it misfired.
The sooner I try to end the pain, the longer it stays.
But the world around me claims that it ain’t my time to die.
Wise others say otherwise.
Aquarius I am, water bearer to the world.
Why then am I thirsty?
Dehydration, I hear, ain’t the most pleasant of ways to go.
Glad I got some quarters in my pocket ’cause Lipton Brisk iced teas sell for 25 cents in Hell and I’m gonna need some.
Thank God.
God thinks. In God we trust.
But God doesn’t trust us. Just us.
I wouldn’t either.
Angels and Devils look alike to me.
Plus, the words “halo” and “horn” both begin with the letter H.
Hmmmm….
Driving.
I switch lanes accidentally between the occidental lane and the lane on the right.
I parallel park between good and evil.
But I still seem to get a ticket.
I’m always a little bit over the line.
So I traded in the ride for a pen and some paper.
But what good is that gonna do?
Is jotting down some words on a flat piece of processed wood gonna make my life better?
Writing poems to myself or others supposed to save me? Reverse the downward spiral my life’s taking?
Don’t think so. So don’t think.
2 heads are better than nothing. And I mean nothing.
2 heads only equal twice as many headaches and mental clutter.
I can do bad by my damn self.
I go off the beaten path, hoping to blaze a new trail of innovation.
Ending up only in the Neverglades with empty tanks of gas, momentum, and inspiration.
Incineration would probably be the best thing.
Might as well. I’m already burnt out.
From thinking how I could better society in my little way.
But trying to better society in little ways has the same effect as trying to raise the water level by crying in the ocean.
Or blowing into a hurricane so that it’ll change directions.
This blows. The list grows. Dismiss woes.
Society laughs last and loudest at those who don’t matter.
And since my progress regresses, this poem is really worth less than the piece of paper it’s written on.
Matter of fact, the only fact of this matter is that this whole thing doesn’t matter. Neither do I.
Trying’s like dying.
And I just don’t care anymore.
// May + Sept. 16, 2003 //
Die Young
We thought there was enough time
We were fools from the start
Moths attracted to a fickle flame
We’re gonna die young
Beautiful tragedy, sweetest poison
Killing a piece of me every day
Forever’s too short for love
We’re gonna die young
Songs of the immortal swim in air
Plush promises soften all hearts
Listen for eternity’s empty boast
We’re gonna die young
Remember when we were carefree
Shooting holes in the night sky til it bled sunshine
The new day dawns upon a setting sun
We’re gonna die young
Peering into your piercing eyes
Tracing your palm with my fingertip
Clock’s hands mold wrinkles in time
We’re gonna die young
Hope doesn’t live in this space
You can tell by the void in this soul
The bond we share has to sustain us
The more we love, the more we lose control
Speeding through past lives
Slowing down to breathe in all of you
Exhaling reflections and introspections
Scenic routes of you on lazy Sundays
Through all the good times
Through all the years, old and gray
I wish we had even more days
We’re gonna die young
A Potato Misunderstanding
When I go to post office, it seems like I’m always stuck behind someone who has never been to the post office before. They don’t know how to mail locally, domestically, or internationally. They don’t know where the tape is to seal their packages. They don’t know how to fill out any of the mailing labels or customs forms. These people are about as useless and outdated as…the post office.
Taken me a few years to figure this one out, but one of the people in my building smells like a racehorse zebra copulating with a gorilla that’s been doing jumping jacks for 5 hours straight while consuming a deadly mix of corn chips, vinegar, ass mildew, and 3-week-old egg salad.
Is it me, or do a lot of cat people have hair down to their ankles?
A few weeks ago, someone in California won the $1.6 billion Powerball drawing. There were 6 winners in Cali, Florida, and Tennessee, all receiving $528.8 million before taxes if they take the 29-year annuity, or a lump-sum payment of $327.8 million before taxes. The night of the announcement there was a ton of people cheering and going nuts at the Chino Hills 7-Eleven where the winning lottery ticket was sold. Why are all those people gathered around that 7-Eleven? They didn’t win. That’s like everyone going to Jerusalem and cheering and partying around the manger. That don’t mean you’re going to heaven, fool!
Can you have a headache when you are a headache?
I love how people bring their kids to work like we’ve never seen kids before. It’s almost like they’re saying, “Here, people, this is an example of a perfect, beautiful, obedient child. Take notes.” Sometimes there’s a smugness that accompanies these particular attention-seeking types. I don’t mind parents bringing their kids to work every now and then. Sometimes a parent has to. Baby sitters and the grandparents aren’t always available. However, if you’re going to bring your kid just to show off that measly runt in front of everyone because you’re insecure and you need a trophy to flash around to prove to us all that your sex organs and piping still works, then leave that kid at work so a real, more humble, more appropriate person can raise that kid up to be a decent human being, hopefully diverting the predestined route of his or her unfortunate gene pool.
Heard this joke from Deon Cole recently. Comedic gold:
“When I moved out to LA they told me I had to work out. I was, like, I don’t wanna do that. They gave me this trainer, and the dude was, like…The most important thing is, you can’t eat late at night or you’ll get fat. And I’m, like, forget that, you supposed to eat late at night. He was, like, No, you not. I’m, like, Well, why they put a light in the refrigerator?”
Girls don’t drink coffee with one hand. They tend to hold cups of coffee with both hands, which is weird because the cup ain’t that heavy and it’s 88 degrees outside.
Irony. Chapter 11 Books filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in 2005.
My friend’s grandfather was famous for saying, “It’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in.” Ironically, he died of a coughing fit/natural causes.
One day, I plan to meet a Filipina Girl Scout and order some Tagalongs in Tagalog.
Half-ass is always a funny term, as opposed to whole-ass. How about quarter-ass? Eighth-ass? Sixteenth-ass?
There’s an insurance agent in LA called Fred Loya. With that last name, you’d think he was born to be a lawyer.
Aspirin: It’ll heal your pain and kill your brain.
A midget giraffe is still 10-feet tall.
I need stronger pillows. My head flattens them all. There’s not a pillow in existence that can withstand the crushing, slow beat-down my head deploys on these soft, cottony clouds of sleep. I wear them all down. Down feathers, memory foam, whatever. This head of mine is a brown bowling ball, and pillows don’t stand a chance.
If you’re racist toward everyone, then you’re treating everyone fairly. Therefore, being racist toward everyone is not being racist.
My friend told me that he and his girlfriend went to a Latin dance club over the weekend. He remarked on how everyone was dancing Bachata. I’m familiar with Bachata from a trip I took to the Dominican Republic, so I asked him was it popular in Honduras, where he’s from. He gave me a puzzled look. I gave him one back. Later on, I found out that he didn’t hear me say Bachata. He heard “patata.” So we had spent about 5 to 10 minutes trying to explain and understand — in his broken English and my broken Spanish — that I was interested in the popularity of a dance in his home country, and not the popularity of Honduran potatoes.
Just where do you expect a walking, truck-driving skateboard to go?
The word cuisine rhymes with the word green and mean. Everyone knows this. Despite this, I think cuisine, on occasion, should adopt the long-i sound in place of the short-i sound. This should occur in special sentences, such as “I shall dine on this fine wine and sublime cuisine.”
Why I Write
I write.
I write just because.
I write for the hell of it.
I write for the smell of it.
I write for love and hate.
I write for war and peace.
I write for kale and bacon grease.
I write for grace and mercy.
I write to fight for rights.
I write freely to free everybody.
I write because corrupt cops can’t arrest words or my development.
I write because I don’t always feel like talking.
I write when blind justice peeks from behind her blindfold and plays favorites.
I write to get out of poverty while chastising the rich.
I write for my dirt-poor people living on dirt roads.
I write for those in dirty shacks with dirty intentions of getting away cleanly.
I write because I feel like saying something.
I write because I feel like saying nothing.
I write because it’s 4AM and I need to start making words.
I write and read because my ancestors were hung if they tried to read and write.
I write so my ancestors can speak through me to the unborn generations of us.
I write because I feel like hearing laughter and seeing smiles.
I write to piss off those who need to be pissed on.
I write for the brothers and sisters who ain’t make it, forever in our memories.
I write for the people.
I write for the knowledge.
I write for the ignorant.
I write for the silent.
I write for power.
I write because I’m bored of the world.
I write because I want to be godlike and create new worlds.
I write the rules only to break rules.
I write to deconstruct nonconstructive social constructs.
I write for my life because day jobs suck.
I write to meet my muse for drinks at that rooftop bar.
I write at night so my pen scribbles out an aurora borealis for all to see.
I write in traffic jams so at least the story in my mind moves forward.
I write to have an excuse to drink coffee, eat fried dough, and watch people.
I write because a lot of talkers call themselves writers.
I write for us even when they try to stop me.
I write because it’s too hot outside and nothing’s on TV.
I write to keep myself from strangling assholes.
I write when I feel nostalgic about future events.
I write because I feel like growing a beard this year.
I write in reaction to your reaction.
I write now to give my future self notes.
I write because I imagine a world where JFK, Lincoln, MLK, and Malcolm X shoot back.
I write I want to skydive so I can skywrite.
I write because I proofread graffiti.
I write outside the margins marginally to mar gens that don’t suit the agenda.
I write on the page to watch it come to life on the screen or stage.
I write because it’s 1AM and insomnia’s got me in a rear naked choke hold.
I write to focus my energies on synergies with my fellow creatives.
I write to meet the green fairy on absinthe-fueled evenings.
I write because I rather be down with the literati than the glitterati.
I write because the sky is blue and the grass is green.
I write to pay bills.
I write to display skills.
I write because there needs to be a record.
I write because I feel like it.
I write because I can’t imagine not.
I write to be.
I write.
10
Hey Reader,
Obviously, you have nothing better to do. I’m guessing you just finished binge-watching your favorite show, and now you need something to occupy your time while your muster up enough strength to rise like a fat phoenix from the couch. Or maybe you’re just surfing online, went down a wormhole, and crashed onto the shore of this here blog. Either way, or whatever your reason for visiting, welcome.
As this blog enters its tenth year of existence, I felt it was time to reflect and just type something other than my typical fare. I don’t really have a mission statement for this thing. If you were to take my first post as an indication (“Guess I’m the only writer on MySpace that hasn’t blogged a word yet. Maybe I should start soon, huh? I will. Just not today.”), simply making a statement was a mission.
Yep, that’s right. This blog started in 2006 as a MySpace blog. I eventually transferred it over to WordPress. Had to. By that time, MySpace was garnering a reputation as a mecca for pedophiles and ne’er-do-wells, so your boy had to bounce. The blog was created for two reasons: 1) to give my mind a canvas to wander and roam in order to not go completely manic worrying about my baby brother who was losing his fight with cancer, and 2) because a friend convinced me that as a writer I should, you know, write. I was hesitant about writing on this digital format. I was old school, for real. Scribbling on notepads, napkins, and on the back of receipts was more my speed. But that speed was proving to be too slow. I had to catch up and get with the times.
I didn’t want to do a typical blog. You know what I’m sayin’? The kind of blog where the author talks about what’s on her or his mind EVERY DAY. That wasn’t for me. I’m going to be real with you. I don’t have that much to say daily. Nope. Sorry. Can’t do it. What I tend to do is jot down observations and thoughts over a period of time, usually a month or so, and then I introduce them in a single post. That’s about it. Nothing fancy. No frills. There are hardly any pictures. Hardly any hyperlinks. It’s 99.99% text. So if you didn’t like words and/or reading, then you wouldn’t dig these monthly brain farts. It doesn’t matter. These days, I’m too nonchalant to raise my blood pressure about someone’s dislike of something written here. You can’t see it, but I’m shrugging.
I don’t always have the most popular, hippest, most sensitive, or aesthetically pleasing viewpoint on certain topics. I seriously joke and can be jokingly serious. Shouldn’t matter. We’re all on this planet for a short time anyway, so enjoy yourself. Learn to laugh more. It makes the road a little less bumpy. Who knows? Maybe this thing will go on another decade. However long the journey lasts, wherever it takes us, I can promise you one thing. I’ll continue to blog about stuff that’s weird, insulting, dumb, and useless as long as you 3 readers out there keep on checking it out. Thank you for your continued support and whatever else I’m supposed to say at the end of a letter like this.
Until next time…
It’s only fair…
Someone was talking a lot in a meeting at work the other day. During this time, this word randomly popped up on another attendee’s screensaver:
ECHOLALIA: In psychiatry, the uncontrollable and immediate repetition of words spoken by another person.
—
That awkward moment when you’re having a conversation with someone and they’re going on and on about their family and dropping names here and there and then midway into the conversation you realize that they’re talking about their pets.
Have you ever seen gloves in the glove compartment these days?
Overpackers are almost the worst people on planes. Only behind screaming babies, loud people, smug parents, first timers, old timers, and terrorists.
Are canine teeth on canines still called canine teeth?
It’s only fair. If you almost hit me with your car and then give me that obligatory “oops, my bad” wave, then it should be perfectly legal and socially acceptable for me to pull out a gun, fire off some rounds at you, and give you an obligatory “oops, my bad” wave.
The stereotypical SoCal/LA/OMG/Valley accent must go. It’s one of the worst things about this country. After nearly 12 years of living on the West Coast, it still is the verbal fingernails-on-the-chalkboard for me. In that period of time, I have trained myself to go temporarily deaf whenever I hear it so that I won’t hear it.
I once overheard a group of girls talking about their health issues. One of them said that her doctor suggested that she get an IED implanted in her uterus. I’m pretty sure she meant to say an IUD. An IED is an entirely different thing and would hurt more than she could imagine.
Using that logic, Fallopian tubes would be renamed Fallujah tubes.
Dick Richard
So I downloaded this law firm’s car crash app for to see if it would work. It crashed.
One-ply toilet paper is worthless. It’s like trying to jumping on a trampoline made of cotton candy. You’re gonna bust your ass. And possibly scratch it.
Why the hell do we call it goosebumps? Ever seen a goose with bumps? I think not. Pretty sure that they’ve conquered and evolved past their acne problems.
Saw a painter drinking malt liquor on the bus one morning. Wherever he’s working today ain’t gonna like look he did a very good job.
I once heard someone say, “No, don’t nobody speak no English no more,” thus accomplishing the rare, triple axel, bunny hop, Quintuple Negative.
I’ve watched all The Hunger Games movies on a full stomach.
What is it with techies and food? The names of various food items are littered throughout the tech industry. Cookies, bread crumbs, Apple, cupcake, doughnut, eclair, froyo, gingerbread, honeycomb, ice cream sandwich, jelly bean, lollipop, marshmellow, byte, chip, BlackBerry…I’m getting hungry now.
Dick is a nickname for Richard when we all know good and well that it should be a nickname for Dichard.
Ever hear someone’s sneeze that sounds like a vacuum cleaner starting up?
Things I’ve actually said to myself:
“C’mon, stupid phone. Connect to this damn WiFi.”
“Tears are salty. Too bad they aren’t sweet. We’d all be crying on purpose so that we could taste those sweet, sweet, sugary tears rolling down our cheeks.”
“E.coli sounds like the name of a rapper.”
“Legend…Leg End…shoes?”
“This potato salad is uppercutting my stomach.”
“Whew! That one was stanky. Lay off the asparagus, D.”
Jinx the Copycat
Why do we say that pregnant women are expecting? Do we think that the baby has different plans? You expect dinner guests to come over dinner. We expect it to rain tomorrow. We expect the evening news to come on at 5 or 6pm. It’s pretty much a done deal that the baby will be coming out of you, ma’am. It’s not like your baby’s going to come out of someone else. “Those poor Johnsons were expecting a bouncing baby boy this weekend. Too bad he decided to come out of Mrs. Whittenberger down the street instead.”
The term copycat is strange. When’s the last time you saw a cat copying another cat? Speaking of cats, this is so desultory.
What happens when you say “jinx” after two people have said “jinx” at the same time? Does the world explode? Do planets’ orbits reverse? Or do two loudmouths just have to STFU, according to playground rules?
BEKDAW, BAKDAW, BIKDAW: when a non-English speaking person yells to the bus driver to open up the back door
VICEA VERSA: the wrong yet very common way of saying “vice versa”
What’s the point of toll roads? Are we paying for this road to be built? It’s already built. Heard it can be as much as $20 to get into NYC these days. Is NYC a nightclub now? Am I paying cover to get in this bitch? Is there a two-drink minimum? The toll booth guy’s gonna hand me some Scotch? Then I’d be drinking and driving. He better not expect me to tip him. My tip is in that toll fare.
Unmentionable firsts and world records: The first woman to have sex with a male member of the Chevrolet family in a Chevy probably didn’t realize that she was the first to have a Chevy inside her inside a Chevy. Also known as Inception Conception.
No topless strippers in NOLA. Yup. It’s true. Well, at least not in the French Quarter. New Orleans is universally known for being a mecca of topless visitors and flashers who make the exodus there for Mardi Gras. So this policy makes zero sense. I can imagine the mayor or club managers saying, “Now all you perverts keep that evil booby-flashing stuff out in the street, not here in this a-here fine respectable establishment.”
Promiscuous sounds like what you would call someone who makes way too many promises.
Was thinking about starting a blog or site called DeLane in LA. After a quick bit of research, I scrapped the name. Looks like there’s an escort service with the name DeLaine in LA.
Submarines With Screen Doors
One of my favorite sayings for utter nonsense is stating that something makes about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve never seen a submarine with a screen door, but I have attempted to hurl a half-eaten sub through a hole in a screen door, like a quarterback throwing a football through a hoop at the NFL Combine. What? I was bored.
After discussing an article about the number of commonly used words that are actually trademarked by some company or corporation, a friend of mine, fed up with corporate silliness, replied, “I’m going to trademark “trademark”. And the ™ symbol…which means from now on: trademark™™”
The only difference between humans and animals is that humans don’t think they’re animals.
It was so hot I just looked in the mirror and wept. I was sad, but I also needed the tears as moisture to cool down my face.
People think I’m crying in this heat wave. Nope. That’s eye sweat.
After a sweltering night of humidity and heat, I decided to get a swamp cooler for the bedroom. I was definitely getting a swamp cooler. Or something. Something that blows cool air. Anything. I don’t care if it’s a small chubby Swiss boy trying his best to whistle with an ice cube in his mouth.
I understand that driving long distances can be exhausting. You’re staring out into what seems like a never-ending strip of tar and asphalt for hours on end. But you’re not doing that most of the time. When I hear people complaining about driving short distances like they’re cross-country trips, I just lower my head. Hearing gripes like, “I’m sooo tired. It’s sooo far away. Why do I have to drive downtown?” or “OMG! I’ve been in this traffic for 20 whole minutes. Whhhyyyyy?!” First of all, how can you be tired? You sit down when you drive, which means that you’re pretty much resting while you’re doing the activity that’s causing you so much grief. Once you get home after your “long” drive, what are you going to do? Sit down on the couch. To rest…again! So now resting is making your restless?! I rest my case.
Just saw a business called Freedom Insurance. If there were ever an oxymoron…
How do you sit in the wrong seat on a plane? This guy had seat 9A, but he sat in 22E. Saw a guy sitting in 3A when he should’ve been in 3F. What the hell is the matter, man? Your inability to read your seat designation is an indicator of 3 things, 1) you don’t know the alphabet, 2) you don’t know numbers, and 3) you have to be an absolutely horrendous bingo player.
A petticoat is an underskirt that women can wear under a dress. Soooooooooo…why isn’t a petticoat a coat?
Does it seem sometimes that your butt is too big for the toilet seat? Maybe it’s just me, but there are times I encounter what seems to be a toilet built for miniature humans with bantam bottoms. You have to sit on it at an angle, usually between 45 and 55 degrees. Anything less could result in disastrous consequences.
Worst drivers in the USA? If you ask me, it’s Florida drivers, hands down. Well, mainly because they drive with their hands down.
Bandwidth and the Transitive Property of Equality
This is a pic of the Grand Central Market in Downtown LA in the 1920s. Look at second guy from the left. Doesn’t he look like he just got caught stealing something?
Everyone has a dandruff friend, someone who constantly flakes out on them. Next time that happens, give them a bottle of Head and Shoulders and see if they get it.
Where did the term “sworn enemy” come from? Is there somewhere in the world where they’re swearing-in enemies? Hand up, and hand on the Bible? Like a presidential hater inauguration?
Whenever I hear the word bandwidth, I think about a marching band full of fat tuba players.
Saw a lady making a protein shake. So this prom queen or whatever has her food ingredients in the pitcher on the blender, and yet, asks her friend next to her, “Is this thing on?” If it were on, Miss South Carolina, that shake would be all in your face and the walls. Use your head for something more than a tiara rack.
How come wheelchair/medical supplies stores don’t have a parking lot of full handicap spots with 1 or 2 regular parking spots near the door?
Pet peeve #234: When someone comes on the bus all decked out in expensive clothes carrying designer bags and such yet holds up the bus for 15 minutes because he or she is paying their bus fare in nickels.
The CC function in work email can be one of the most cowardly, throwing-someone-under-the-bus, passive-aggressive ways of communication. Although it is useful when trying to spread information or looping in a relevant party, it’s usually the electronic equivalent of sucker-punching someone in the ear and then hiding behind their grandmother when they try to hit you back.
According to Kanye, we should all be listening to the kids, bro. This happened at the VMAs last weekend. I can actually get behind his now-infamous request. Because if Wu-Tang is for the children, and we’re supposed to listen to the kids, bro, then based on the transitive property of equality that I learned in algebra class, we should all listen to Wu-Tang.
I am a firm believer in the theory that food tastes better when someone else cooks it.
Has any astronaut moon-walked on the moon yet?
Have you ever seen your roommate mate in the room? If so, what happened? If not, why not?
WC TP ADD B12 WTF?
Went to a Japanese fusion restaurant. Looked at the menu. It was all Japanese food. How is this fusion? What is it being fused with? Air?
Feet are nasty. I don’t touch anyone’s feet. If I have to scratch my foot, I rub it up against some tree bark.
Got hit on by a lesbian on the bus the other day. She said that I could make her switch teams. When she left the bus later, she yelled out to me, “Bye, cutie patootie!” Still got it!
A possum that’s awesome should be called pawesome. Ugh. Sorry. That was just pawful.
Some smokers are funny to me, especially when they’re smoking early in the morning. WTF? Didn’t you just brush your teeth?
http://gadgets.ndtv.com/mobiles/news/microsoft-study-finds-human-attention-span-has-dropped-to-just-8-seconds-693468
The researchers collected data from surveys of more than 2,000 Canadians over the age of 18.
Said that Canadians have an 8-second attention span.
Hell, the American data would come back as 3 seconds.
Ever seen someone who just always looks wet? Not sweaty, like myself. I’m talking about wet. Like fresh-out-of-the-pool wet. I have. Don’t touch them. Looking like a permanently honey-glazed human.
What does “under my belt” mean? This phrase is used when someone suggests that they have achieved or acquired a certain level of experience. But what’s really under your belt? Your gut, fool! So if you’re getting experience at eating any particular food, then that phrase has both a literal and figurative meaning. “I’m glad I’ve got some Moon Pie and deep-fried Oreos under my belt. That experience is really going to come in handy when I destroy the dessert table at my sister’s wedding reception.”
You know what I’m getting really good at? Opening a restroom door just as some dude’s trying to enter. I catch him at that exact moment when he shifts his body weight forward to lean against the door to push it open. But instead, I swing the door open, taking that momentum that he’s built up and using it against him as he comes flying into the bathroom. I don’t do it on purpose, but I’ve done that muvvafuvva about 4 times in a row in the last 3 days! I’m a bathroom door psychic. Lavatory Laboratory Nostradamus. The Palmist of the Potty. Toilet Paper Prophet. Sink Seer. Toilet Roll Tarot Reader. Washroom Wizard. Urinal Cake Clarivoyant. Bowel Movement Medium.
—
FRIEND: So what’s going on on your end?
ME: Well…what’s going on on my end is basically the stuff that comes out of one’s end…sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit.
—
It was so hot that when I tried to take my clothes out of the washer, they fought me back. Didn’t want to get into the dryer.
Upon dying, the human body can release gases and waste that remain within. So in essence, the last thing you may do is shit on the world.
My first vehicle: http://originalbigwheel.us/images/ChipsBW.jpg
Way better than my current vehicle: http://i.imgur.com/gkOWK76.jpg
Someone broke into my friend’s house and stole some stuff. He called the police to investigate. He told the cops that the carpenters that worked on his house recently may be the culprits. He pointed them over to a section of the house where their fingerprints were, and suggested that they may match prints from the burglary. The cops didn’t want to check the prints because they didn’t want to falsely accuse the carpenters. So essentially, the cops didn’t want to incriminate the criminals. Que?
Mascara brushes look like little toilet brushes.
—
People need to stop making personal and business calls at work, especially at their desks. They need to take their phones outside. The ones I know talk really loud and practically yell every word into the phone, like they’ve been raised in the woods or in a barn. They talk like it’s the first time anyone’s ever used a phone. Like they’re talking with Alexander Graham Bell on the very first phone call. “HEY, ALEX! THIS TELEPHONE THING REALLY WORKS! CAN YOU HEAR ME? THIS IS LEEK LEEK!”
—
A lot of white women can’t stand dark poultry meat. I’m telling you. I’ve been in line at different delis where someone will order a salad and will freak out when it’s time to select the meat. “Oh, no! Oh, my god! No legs or thighs. White chicken breast, please.” Calm down, ladies. The U.S. Department of Agriculture states that an ounce of boneless, skinless turkey breast has 46 calories and 1 gram of fat, while an ounce of boneless, skinless thigh contains about 50 calories and 2 grams of fat. The difference is miniscule. Miniscule like your waistline. Plus, dark meat has more iron, zinc, riboflavin, thiamine, and vitamins B6 and B12, yo. So relax and stop acting like eating dark poultry meat is the same as eating a whole birthday cake.
Yesterday, I was on a bus so slow that a pregnant woman had a baby on the bus…and then her baby grew up…and had her own baby.
Got on a Greyhound bus. 3-hour trip. 8 hours later, we finally got to our destination. Got off the bus, and the greyhound on the side was a turtle.
While grocery shopping recently, I saw some tissue with chamomile in it. Why is this a thing? Who needs chamomile for their ass? Is your ass that stressed out? You need your butt to fall sleep? If you drink chamomile tea and wipe your ass with chamomile tea-ssue, then you could fall asleep at both ends.
Catdaddy Panther’s Breath
dollars to doughnuts
NORTH AMERICAN, informal
– used to emphasize one’s certainty.
Example: “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts he’s a medical student.”
Real-life example: “In the not-too distant future, I bet dollars to doughnuts that, in America, doughnuts will become like dollars and be used as currency in exchange of goods and services rendered.”
—–
From a Wikipedia entry:
“Asafoetida /æsəˈfɛtɨdə/ is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m (3–5 ft) tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavour reminiscent of leeks.
It is also known as asant, food of the gods, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil’s dung, hing, ingu, kayam and ting.”
Umm….how can it be named “food of the gods” and “Devil’s dung” at the same time?
——
Moonshine is one of America’s great creations. It’s legendary and timely all at the same time. It goes by many names. A few are:
corn liquor
white lightning
sugar whiskey
skull cracker
popskull
bush whiskey
stump
stumphole
‘splo
ruckus juice
rotgut
catdaddy
nip joint
bathtub gin
mule kick
hillbilly pop
panther’s breath
tiger’s sweat
sweet spirits of cats a-fighting
alley bourbon
city gin
cool water
happy Sally
blue John
jump steady
see seven stars
old horsey
block and tackle
wild cat
And my favorite: Fuqurschitupliquor hellfire piss of Beezelbub
—–
Someone asked me if I’d be down to try to some baked tofu doughnuts. I told him that tofu is to doughnuts as peanut butter is to the Pledge of Allegiance.
A friend of mine told me she went to an “underwater river.” Yup.
Having a fever during a heat wave sucks. No joke here. I just wanted to say that.
July 4th is coming up, which means my excitement for life is going down.
I’ve been hearing fireworks in the area since mid-June. People have even been setting them off in the daytime. Angelenos are arsonists at heart. They just want to see things burn. Two weeks before Independence Day? Blasting off fireworks in broad daylight when no one can see them? That’s about as senseless as driving at night in a car with dark-tinted windows while wearing shades with your eyes closed.
I just passed a room full of important-looking people sitting at a round table, all looking at their laptops. It may look like some crucially serious meeting is going on, but I’m pretty sure they’re all really just playing Battleship.
I was starting the 7th grade at a new school. I was 12 years old. One of the first people to speak to me was this tall, wild-eyed girl who sat a few seats ahead of me. Five minutes after I sat down, she strolled over to me and looked down at me and launched these words out of her mouth, “How many kids you got?”
Chicken In A Bowl
When I was young, I used to think that tartar sauce was made from the same tartar that can get on one’s teeth. Out of all the wrong stuff that I’ve thought about, this is clearly among the most misguided and counterfactual of clusterfucked ideas of mine.
Lately, I’ve seen runners with miners’ head lights on their heads. Why, joggers? You’re just running down the street at night. That’s all. There are street lamps above. Just look up and you’ll notice them. Actually, you don’t even have to look up because they’re shining light DOWN on you. Where are you going with that light on your head? Jogging in some caves and caverns? Are you going to rescue real miners? You’re jogging down Easy Street, not charging into the Bat Cave.
Speaking of running, running with your dog is pointless. You’re trying to go forward while your dog keeps sniffing the nearest piece of shit on the ground. You’ll never get your heart rate up if you keep on starting and stopping. Meanwhile, your dog’s heart rate’s beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings because it’s happy as shit to be smelling shit.
Chivalry may be dead, but it’s got company. Masculinity is dead, too. Don’t believe me? Holla at me the next time you see a grown man walking a dog the size of a tomato can. Or the next time you see a grown man caressing a cat in his arms like it’s his newborn, first-born son. Or any guy who still wears Crocs.
Why does the arrow in the In-N-Out Burger logo look like it’s going up and away? Up-N-Away Burger may be more appropriate.
Guaranteed way to look like you fell on your head as a child: Power-walking downhill.
Ordered a tall blonde once in a Hollywood Starbucks. Felt like such a sellout.
When I’m walking down the street and a woman comes out of nowhere and walks in front of me, and then she turns back to look at me as if I am following or stalking her…Lady, please! I was walking on this street first. Get over yourself. You ain’t that special. In fact, you’re the one stalking me from the front.
Typos. I once typed a text that read, “I’m eating chicken out of a bowl.” That was after a quick revision, though. I had originally typed, “I’m eating chicken out of a bowel.”
While eating lunch, the wind blew and knocked over my chocolate shake. The shake fell over my lap. “Great! Now it looks like I shit myself from the front.”
The fortune cookies I get aren’t usually fortunes. They’re more like suggestions. Sometimes, not even that. For instance, things like “Have a great day,” “Your shoes are untied,” “Today is Tuesday,” and “Give a brotha a chance, son!” are not fortunes.
Blanche, Ethel, Myrtle, Barbara, Mildred, Doris, Louise, Frances, Shirley, Ruby, Betty, Helen, Agatha, Phyllis, Beatrice, Marge, Ruth, Leola, Gretchen, Gertrude, Martha, Opal, Rose, Eleanor, Marlene, Gladys, Josephine, Ilene. All old-fashioned (some would say antiquated) names that sound a lot better than North.
Run On
Run on, Bantu
Go up North, follow the star
Run on, Ashanti and Igbo
Run for lives, yours and ours
Run on, Maasai and Zulu
Freedomland will always seem far
Run on, Free Man
Still much ground to cover t’marr
Run on, Owens and Coachman
You carry the hopes of the people
Run on, Ali and Ashe
Overcoming hurdles away from the track
Run on, Smith and Carlos
Show the world that we are equal
Run on, Johnson and Louis
Keep on forward, never look back
Run on, Wheatley and Equiano
Your words turned horror into eloquence
Run on, Sojourner and Tubman
Showing us how to strive for excellence
Run on, Zora and Langston
Voices in a renaissance with no precedent
Run on, Baldwin and Walker
Telling the truth with no hesitance
Run on, Garrett and Granville
Innovators shifting life to sophisticate from agrestic
Run on, Joplin and Bologne
Le Chevalier de Saint George and Ragtime’s Majestic
Run on, Henry and Benjamin
Fierce, fighting wars abroad and domestic
Run on, Yasuke and Reeves
Unheralded giants of honor, warriors angelic
Run on, Robert and Bessie
Ambassadors of the birth of America’s sound
Run on, Coltrane and Bird
Blowing life into brass, heard Miles around
Run on, Kool Herc and Bambaataa
Creators of a culture that knows no bounds
Run on, Nubia and Kemet
The foundation, the roots, the fertile ground
Run on, Chisholm and Douglass
Unbought and unbossed, trails you blazed
Run on, Medgar and St. Maurice
Martyrs whose souls we raise
Run on, Barack and Michelle
You proved that it could be done
Run on, Martin and Malcolm
Unify, love, and respect everyone
Run on, Cinqué and Turner
Run on, Yanga and Vesey
Run on, Toussaint and Deslondes
Fought for freedom even when it got messy
Run on, black boy in the street
Run on, black girl, quick on your feet
To that officer, your life is of little concern
This is reality, lessons you all must learn
He can’t serve and protect your person
When his burner’s turned toward your sternum
You could be a scholar, a harlot, or a Hollywood starlet
In Charlotte, drinking Sparkletts in front of the market
Eyewitness news might witness you in a pool of crimson and scarlet
Sometimes, holding your hands up only gives them a larger target
Trigger-happy. Hair-trigger. Trigger man.
Trigger finger. Trigger word. Zimmerman.
Run on, black diaspora
Know the past, run toward the future
Ignorance reigns supreme in some
That’s why they aim to shoot ya
Your dark skin isn’t a marked sin
Yet all these marksmen act like we’re marked men
Harken this call for you to embark on
A mission to light a spark in your dark kin
Now let the heart darken
Run on
R – U – N. Are you in?
Run on
R – U – N. Are you in?
Yes, you’ve run far already
Yes, the journey isn’t steady
No, this race ain’t for the weak
No, this race ain’t for the meek
Yes, our race ain’t for the weak
Yes, our race ain’t for the meek
Yes, apathy can be heady
But, people, you better get ready
So we run on and on like a Badu Song of the South isn’t the direction in which we should be Moving on up like George and Louise Jefferson and don’t forget Florence who was really in charge like Charleston South Carolina another brother got shot in the back there Where? In the back I got your back you got my back Breaking hard work to break out of this cycle of savagery and psychotic behavior Behave yourself when you conduct your business in the street Smarts don’t matter like brown and black lives, says the magisters of brown and black strife so should we splatter blood of those not down with jack knives, then go kneel down and stack tithes, drown our frowns in Jack and pack dives, or defend our towns, begats, and wives, or attack the system that lacks the wisdom to act against such a cataclysm and embarrassment of harassment and justice but it’s just us, Jesus, Lady Liberty is supposed to have a chat with Lady Justice about our liberty and justice but they’re too busy taking selfies in front of chalk outlines on Sable Streets, Ebony Expressways, Onyx Avenues, and Obsidian Boulevards so that talk won’t happen so don’t make me laugh and you don’t want to miss a thing so don’t close your eyes and you’re not suicidal so don’t hold your breath ’cause that bitch is taking too long, taking her sweet-loving time, toying with the scales of Justice just to fuck us, she’s like, fuck us, fuck us, fuck us, focus…the onus is on us to own us…one us.
Run on.
Jumping Jehoshaphat!
What’s the point of makeup? The fact that you’re wearing makeup implies that you don’t truly look like that, so wearing makeup fools no one. So if no one’s fooled, then there’s no point of wearing it.
All State, State Farm, and Farmers could all merge and become All State Farmers.
KFC has a “Win a 12pc for a year” contest going on. I saw a banner for it in the window. What does that mean? Will they give you a piece every month?
So I’m standing on the side of the road when I see this truck pass by. Is it me or does this logo look like a jock strap? Take a look.
When the delivery person is late with your food and you call the restaurant and they say that he’ll be there any minute…which means any minute from now until the end of time…I don’t want my stuff any minute. I want it this minute.
Salted caramel is the ear wax of Jesus.
Sometimes, I’m as confused as a cross-eyed girl double-dutching in a hall of mirrors.
The Oscars are nearly 4 hours long. That’s roughly as long as two movies in a cinema. Some of these award shows are so long that the entire award show should be shown as a movie. The audience will just sit there and watch a movie for 4 hours. It’ll be a movie of them receiving and presenting awards. Then they broadcast a movie of them watching the movie to the rest of America.
Ever been so tired that the only thing that would give you energy is a bump of cocaine?
——–
Interesting signs in my neighborhood:
1) Yard
2) Car
——
Went to the post office the other day. They were out of forever stamps. The post office being out of forever stamps is like Staples running out of staples.
——
While hanging out with a slightly husky friend at a bar…
FRIEND: You gonna eat those fries, yo?
ME: Of course, man. Get off my fries.
FRIEND: I’m just sayin’, you ain’t touch them in a few minutes.
ME: That’s because we talkin’, man. You want me to be rude and have fries hanging out my mouth when we talkin’.
FRIEND: Ha ha! You right. You right.
ME: Plus, I thought you didn’t like sweet potato fries.
FRIEND: Well, don’t get me wrong, I like sweet potatoes just as much as the next man–
ME: From the looks of you, it looks like you like them more than the next man.
EX-FRIEND: Kiss my ass.
These tricycles with push handles…c’mon, parents! Really? You’re teaching your kids that they don’t even have to push the pedals. Wack. Already spoiled. Going through life expecting someone to always do the work for them.
I keep hearing Americans pronounce “literally” as li-tra-lee. Stop it, America! You’re America, not Britain. The next American accent I hear saying “literally” incorrectly is going to be stuffed into a car boot with about an anvil that weighs about 200 stones that will be…literally…pushed into the English Channel.
—–
I was walking with a friend long ago on some fairgrounds. We were talking about the stuff that teenage boys talk about: video games, sports, girls…
ROSCOE: So whatcha think?
ME: ‘Bout what?
ROSCOE: Lana, man. I think she likes me.
ME: She does?
ROSCOE: Yeah! Check it. She’s all, like, “Hey Roscoe, I like your shoes.” Then she be doin’ shit like, “Roscoe, when we gonna get together and hang out?” See what I’m sayin’? Lana is all up on me. Tryin’ to see where I’m going, tryin’ to see where I be at. She’s droppin’ hints.
ME: Watch out. That’s bullshit.
ROSCOE: Huh? What do you mean? Were you even listenin’? Lana loves this. This right here. Me, fool. Everybody tells me she does. Her girls, Tracy and Marla and ’em, told me the other day after school. Said Lana talks about me all the time at lunch.
ME: Bruh, that’s bullshit.
ROSCOE: Aiight, D! I’m ’bout to steal on yo’ ass right now. Everything I say, you tellin’ me that’s bullshit. What the fuck? I thought you we were boys?!
ME: Look down, man! You’re getting close to steppin’ in bull shit. I’ve been tellin’ you this whole time. There’s a cow pasture right over there. Smell it?
ROSCOE: Oh.
String Theory
Stop right there. Don’t look at me that way.
You know that I’ve done all that I can do.
You want to go but I want you to stay.
Anyone can see that your feelings are true.
Why is our timing never the same?
We can never get in sync with our hearts.
We both know that there’s no one to blame.
I guess we should’ve known that from the start.
In another life
We’d be together at last.
In another life
The future is our past.
You cause me so many headaches.
I can’t think; you’re always on my mind.
I’m willing to do whatever it takes
To keep you here; I want you all the time.
Now you express to me that you want me too
And that you’ve done what you think’s best.
Yet the pain in your heart is brand new.
From your lips, you lean forward and confess.
In another life
We’d be together at last.
In another life
Time wouldn’t move so fast.
What should we do about the two of us?
The answer’s simple; it’s as plain as day.
You’re with someone, but you refuse to discuss.
So again, don’t look at me that way.
In a world, a world far away from here
Versions of us are living oh-so free
And our minds and magenta skies are clear
Don’t know when, but I’ll know that we’ll be
In another life
At last, we’ll be together.
In another life
Meet you at the end of forever.
HALCYON
“Leave me alone!”
She screamed at him as she shut the front door against the blistering gelid winds that February afternoon. The meteorologist mentioned that it would be cold, but this was beyond the occasional forecast inaccuracy. This was grounds for dismissal from the profession. Nearby Coley and Alamance Streets were suffering from a severe case of black ice. Too bad few people could make the diagnosis, for they were slipping and sliding like it was a summer pool party. No matter what the temperature was, it was colder inside.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere far away from you.”
“Let’s talk about it, please.”
“I’m done talking.”
She powered through the hallway, circled around the banister, and charged up the stairs. Following her, he grabbed her arm and spun her around midway up the stairwell.
“Listen, I know you’re mad, but you’re not hearing me.”
“What? What could you possibly have to say that you haven’t said already?”
“I didn’t do it. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because you’re a bad liar. You can’t even do that well.”
“Perhaps you’re a bad listener.”
“Let go of me!”
He reluctantly released his grip. She stormed up the rest of the stairs. The sound of a baby crying resonated from above. She turned around once she reached the zenith of the climb.
“And you know what else?”
“Go ahead. Tell me how else I don’t meet your standards.”
“The baby.”
“What about the baby?”
“For the rest of my life, whenever I see the baby’s face, I’ll see you. That is something I do not want to experience.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. I wish you were completely gone from my life. You make me sick to my goddamn stomach. Can’t stand the sight of you. Can you understand that?”
“You don’t mean that. Do you? We can–”
“Leave me alone.”
She entered the bedroom and hurled a mound of clothes from the bed into a suitcase. She zipped it up, and threw a tote bag full of the baby’s things over her shoulder.
“I’ll be back later for the rest of my stuff.”
The woman walked to the baby’s room, and peered into the crib.
“Where’s the baby?”
There’s no answer.
When she stepped out into the corridor, she saw the man standing at the other end, next to an open window. The wintry tempest blew mercilessly through the window, down the hall, chilling them to the bone. Shivering. The man held the cherubic baby in his arms.
The woman’s eyes widened. The man took one tearful gaze at her.
“Your wish is granted.”
Clutching the baby to his sternum, the man defenestrated himself into the blizzard beyond.
He left her alone.
Eh, Bilogo Ginkoba?
“BUT I’M ME!”
–an actual quote I overheard from someone who is still playing catch-up in the mental game
Garages should be renamed Carages. I mean, when’s the last time you drove a gar?
My friend was having a hard time opening a bottle of Advil. You know how you have to align the arrows together to pop the cap? Well, this particular bottle proved to be pretty formidable. After she tried for several minutes, she nearly flipped her lid. Hurting her hands in the process, I told her to be careful and to not break her hand. I could see the headline now: WOMAN BREAKS HER HAND TRYING TO OPEN PAIN KILLERS; WILL NEED EVEN MORE PAIN KILLERS NOW.
I’m seeing a lot of cyclists dressed like they’re professional cyclists. Stop it! Stop racing down Highland Boulevard like you’re in the Tour de France. Fool, you ain’t Greg LeMond! You’re Boyd Lloyd from Accounting. Get out of those spandex! You look you were rejected from an audition for MC Hammer backup dancers rejects.
—-
Saw a Fairfax High Seniors shirt that read:
Behind us are our memories
Beside us are our friends
Before us are our dreams
Nice sentiment, but they should revisit that slogan about 10 years after high school and revise it to:
Behind us are our saggy asses
Beside us are spare tires
Before us are our beer guts
—-
So many Amazon reviewers aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, like this guy below. This is the review verbatim (some parts I’ve set in bold for emphasis):
0 of 5 people found the following review helpful
2.0 out of 5 stars
This mailing DID NOT have the short story I asked for!! Bummer
September 17, 2012
By C. H. Mason “Reader” (New York City)
This review is from: Eight Men: Short Stories (Paperback)
I needed a particular story by the great Richard Wright but unfortunately, although I specifically said this was the work I needed, the selection sent did not have it within! That was not a happy discovery!
*** *** *** ****
OK, here’s my beef. This guy is going to give a book of short stories 2 stars because he thinks that he can request a particular short story to be included in a book of short stories that’s already been published.
—-
Earlier this week, I was waiting to cross the street with two other people. We were all strangers. Two of us carried umbrellas, while the other wore a raincoat. The sky was cloudy, and puddles were everywhere. Then, some guy joins us at the cross walk. He opens his mouth and the following comes out, “Oh, wow! Did it rain?”
Sometime later, I realized that we had missed the last 7 light changes, because we were all taking turns slapping that guy.
—-
Recently, my memory hasn’t been the best. So, the other day, I decided that I needed to try some ginkgo biloba to improve my memory. I couldn’t remember that ginkgo biloba was called ginkgo biloba. Damn shame.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
SEE YOU IN 2015!
The Bronze State
Cali is nicknamed the Golden State. The state next to it is Nevada, which is the Silver State. The state next to Nevada is Utah, which could be called the Bronze State…only if it wasn’t for it enormous scarcity of brown and black people.
Women should come up with alternative names for their menstrual cycles. The name Flo is overused. Cousin Flo, Aunt Flo, etc. Everyone knows what Flo means, so using Flo to be discreet doesn’t work anymore. If that’s the case, might as well use direct names, like Mama Menses, Mother Monthlies, or Sister Cycle.
It may be impossible to actually turn fat into muscle, but some female weightlifters definitely have the ability to change their breasts to pecs.
In Bruno Mars’ song “Locked Out of Heaven,” he states, “‘Cause your sex takes me to paradise.” Doesn’t that mean he’s dead?
Some Caucasians have a particular yell or scream when they’re having fun. I call it the Call of the Wild. It’s very similar to legendary wrestler Rick Flair’s “Wooooo!” Very distinct. You can’t miss it. When this happens, just know that someone is having a really good time. Alcohol may be involved. Flying alcohol bottles definitely will be involved.
The traffic and navigation app Waze warns you if police are up ahead. There needs to be an app like this made especially for black men. A heads-up would be nice.
“Well, at least were moving.” = the most positive phrase you will hear anyone say regarding LA traffic
Best logo for a meat company goes to Metropolitan Meat, Seafood, and Poultry in Landover, MD. Everyone’s so happy to be slaughtered.
Why does Dr. Oz wear hospital scrubs on his show? Does he think that having “Doctor” in his name isn’t enough? Does he need a stethoscope and a clipboard too? Obviously, he doesn’t think that his audience needs visual aids in addition to medical titles.
Thanksgiving: It’s weird to think we get stuffed on something that’s been stuffed with stuffing.
One of the funniest things to watch in during the holiday season is SoCal kids going nuts at the fake snow falling at the Grove here in LA. I understand that snowfall isn’t common in SoCal, so I don’t fault the kids for being excited. It’s just hard for me to imagine an East Coast equivalent. What would kids back East get excited over during the holidays that’s pretty commonplace in LA but rare near the Atlantic? Smog? LAPD helicopters chasing Santa’s sleigh and reindeer? Santa saying, “Ho, ho, ho, dude”? Wait, these aren’t exciting at all.
I recently said that someone was verbose and grandiloquent. I then realized that using the words “verbose” and “grandiloquent” made me sound verbose and grandiloquent.
When I hear someone say they like being pampered, I always imagine that person getting a pamper put on them like a baby. I need to stop having these mental images.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 
