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!

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

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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