Monthly Archives: February 2011
Blaxxon
Quick thought:
Why don’t drug dealers ever expand into untapped markets?
Not everyone smokes, shoots up or pops pills. The way I see it, if you’re really about your paper then you’d make money any way possible. Considering that oil has topped $100 a barrel, I’d love to hear that a group of armed Black juveniles hijacked a BP gas truck. I don’t care if you put it in an old milk jug or some soda bottles. Gas is gas.
Oh well.
Pirates of the Africanas
Dear Somalian Pirates,
I’m very disappointed in you guys. I think you’re selling yourselves short. You guys used to hijack entire cargo ships. Last week you “captured” four old White people in a boat. Ooooh Aaaah. What the hell was that, the Associates Degree in pirating? If you’re going to achieve your goal of being like Captain Jack Sparrow, Cap’n Crunch or whoever the hell you’re trying to be like out on the open seas, then I’m going to need you to step it up a level because you failed last week’s test.
Don’t fret, there’s a makeup test. I want you to go for the gold and do the PhD of pirating…
Go capture a Carnival cruise ship full of Black people. You go do that and you’ll have my complete admiration and respect. I want to see you take your punk ass machine gun and your little rope ladder and ascend the rungs onto the fantastic voyage. Go on out there in your motorized inflatable raft and head toward the sound of Earth, Wind and Fire.
Even Al Qaeda avoided Southwest Airlines on 9/11 and Bin Laden could’ve saved a ton of money on airfare. That means that you could be the first to capture Olympic Gold! I believe in you little Somalian. Now go out there and be somebody!
The Roof, The Roof…
Here’s another random memory…
When I was five years old I remember getting up one morning and feeling very clingy to my mother for some reason. I followed her around the house all morning and eventually wore down her nerves. I remember trying to follow her into the bathroom and she kept telling me to go to my room and play, watch tv or do something. I went in the room and sat on the bed for all of two seconds before popping right back up and running to the bathroom and opening the door.
I went back to my room as commanded and again sat there for a good ten seconds before popping right back up to run tell her something funny that I saw on the Smurfs. She nor I could figure out what was up with me that day. I just felt compelled to be up under her and out of my room. Finally, she snapped and went Black mother on me and broke out the Thundercat voice–the one where your mother jacks you up by the collar and is able to yell at you even though she’s whispering and her teeth are clenched together yet she enunciates every syllable.
I put my head down, pouted out my lip and walked back to my room. Just as I got to the door frame, there was this loud pop and the entire ceiling collapsed in my room. We had a leaky roof and I guess the water damage reached critical mass in that area causing the entire thing, dry wall, wood supports, etc to come crashing down. My mother turned into the Flash as she came running down the hall to see if I was okay.
No one ever talked about that day afterward, but that was my earliest memory of feeling like something or someone was watching out for me.
Thank You For Being a Klan
Random thing of the week:
I’m walking down a poorly lit street on my way to the grocery store when I see a older White woman heading my direction about two blocks away. Now I’ve already written about how White women scare me at night, so I considered crossing the street. At that moment, a younger White lady came out of her house on the other side and I knew that crossing the street would arouse even more suspicion.
I decided to hold the course and just put on my best non-threatening face. As I neared the older lady I noticed that she had bags from Lord & Taylor and Bloomingdales…double trouble. Now I’m facing a White woman and a rich person. I wonder if White men ever have this kind of anxiety walking down the street.
So anyway, I get closer to the lady when I hear talking. She’s hitting the “modern ghetto boombox” thing where people play music through their phone’s external speakers. Instead of music, she’s playing talk radio. Just as I’m passing her and looking up to make eye contact, I hear…
“And that is why it’s more important than ever that we preserve the purity of our race. We have to remain superior to the niggers and wetbacks.”
Let the church say, WHAT THE FUCK?
This old lady, the same one that I was trying my damnedest to appear user-friendly to, is walking down a DC street listening to a Klan podcast. We make eye contact just as the word “nigger” is playing through the air and we both make a face appropriate to the moment. Mine said “what the fuck” and her’s said “oh shit.”
We both kept walking in our respective directions. Now more than ever, I’m afraid of White women at night.
Black…101
Welcome to post number 101. I’ll be your host today, Professor Angry Black Man. Today we’re gonna talk about niglets.
Niglets–the offspring of Niggas–are getting on my damn nerves.
Editor’s note: Niggas should not be confused with Black people
There is yet another video making its way around Youtube of niglets fighting on the subway. I’ll save you 1:41 of your time and just tell you that they actually organized a brawl on the train. They waited until the doors closed at the station right before the train goes above ground and over the bridge and stopped fighting once it went back underground. That happens to be one of the largest distances between stations so it gave them the most time to fight before someone could intervene. While the pair fought, fifteen of there friends stood around cheering and videotaping like the background people on a Streetfighter game.
Normally, I’d say something like WHY!? At this point…I don’t care why. I just want it to stop. It isn’t that I care about them. It isn’t even about them setting us back a few years. Thanks to Tyler Perry and BET…we’re already back in the 1800′s. So, I’m not asking why. I’m not going to appeal to their better nature. Instead…I’m going to do what no other Black person has the balls to do:
I’m authorizing the Klan. We need the Ku Klux to patrol the metro. I mean, hell, Metro police aren’t doing shit. I’m calling 411 and I’m asking for the number to the closest Grand Wizard and I’m going to see if they’re available. The one caveat is that they have to leave good upstanding Black people alone. Anyone else…go at it. Nine times out of ten they’ll be wearing baggy jeans, a puffy coat and have dreads. Whoop their asses!
100!!!
Happy 100th post!
Now I just need to tell people about the site. Chances are, if you’re reading this then my wife guilt tripped you into reading my site out of pity. She supports all of my crazy endeavors…like the time I was certain that I had a future being the only straight guy selling Mary Kay products. For some reason that just never took off. LOL
Well I’m just impressed that I actually stuck with this blog long enough to get to 100. I have three other blogs somewhere out in Blogspot land and they have maybe five posts between them. So, on to post number 101…
A Guide to Parenting
Here are a few things that they don’t tell you going into this whole parenthood thing (in no particular order):
You will never sleep again–Sounds like a cliche, but it’s not a joke. Contrary to popular belief, new babies actually sleep a lot. They just don’t sleep continuously–five minutes here, twenty minutes there. Don’t even buy into the false sense of hope that you’ll take cat naps along with them. Your life will become one big Disney show. Disney closes at a certain time, but it never stops. After all the water shows and fireworks, someone is there cleaning up and resetting everything for the next day. That’s you buddy. As soon as my daughter went to sleep, I was back in the kitchen washing bottles, washing clothes, cooking my own food and taking a shower. She’s seven months old and sleeps throughout the night but I don’t. As soon as she falls asleep I find myself trying to cram a day of adulthood into a few hours of the night. I’m reading, clearing my Tivo queue, cleaning up and washing clothes.
You will eventually drop (something on) the baby– You will do your damnedest to prevent any harm from befalling the little bugger. You’ll take a blood oath, pray, learn krav maga, buy a gun and do anything else that pops into your head to keep your child safe from himself and others and then you’ll turn around become the threat. I’ve dropped the camera into the bassinet barely missing my daughter’s head and I’ve also fallen asleep (see the above point) on the couch and caught her just as my kung fu grip wore off and she started rolling toward the floor. We went over 100 days without incident and then one day she decided that she would take her first stab at crawling while on the couch. I moved faster than I ever have in my life. It was like the Matrix with cars and all kinds of debris from the house following behind me as I flew with lightning in my black trenchcoat and designer shades towards my plummeting three month old except this time Neo didn’t make it. I caught her little foot just a nanosecond after her body hit the floor. I’m not the one after all.
Women will love you (if you’re a guy)– I’ve written about this before. The baby serves as a sign of adequate competence. If you’re a man and you have your kid with you and her clothes match, you actually thought enough to bring a diaper bag and the baby is bundled up for the weather, you might as well be wearing a crown and carrying a scepter. Women will worship you. You’re the man who has common sense. You, big guy, are caring and responsible and a good father/provider and whatever else that particular woman hasn’t been able to find in a man yet still clings to hope and finds it in the most absurd places. They will approach you. You will feel good about yourself and your significant other will pick up on it make it her point to undo all of that because you’re her property now and she’s worked too damned hard to groom you into what she wants.
Your child will not play with anything that costs more than $20–Save your money. You can buy swings that play 5 different sounds including one that simulates the heartbeat heard in the womb. Go ahead and shell out money for that educational toy that lights up and teaches them words before they’re able to walk. Buy whatever the people in Buy Buy Baby and Babies R Us convince you will make your kid smart and I guarantee you’ll be on Ebay, Craigslist and Amazon a month later trying to see what you can get for it when you sell it. Ironically, they will play with an empty soda bottle, the box that the diapers came in, or a crumpled up piece of paper. My daughter actually knocked her $50 Activity Desk over so that she could get to the 25 cent plastic ring that we got at the dollar store.
One parent will be the sucker–My daughter plays my wife like a good hand of spades. She has two cries. One is for me and one is for my wife. She understands that crying is a limited resource with me. She better only use it for life threatening things like fire or nuclear attack. On certain occasions she can whimper to let me know that she wants something to eat. Other than that, we operate on the facial expression system. It’s silent and most importantly, it’s effective. With my wife, crying is the only language my daughter knows. The sun set? Time to cry. Happy to see mommy? Time to cry. My wife enables her by feeding into it and then looks at me like I’m a jerk when I walk out of the room.
To be continued…
For Sale: One Baby
For Sale
One baby girl. Two teeth. Shots are up to date. Able to walk when assisted by the couch, table or chair. Has recently figured out how to push the natural barriers (playpen, ottoman) out of the way and crawl into areas where she doesn’t belong (kitchen, bathroom). Also knows how to pick up valuable items (iPhone, Macbook, Internet Router) and slam them to the ground while leaving cheaper, less important items alone (toy cell phone, toy laptop, stuffed animals).
Accepting best offer. If offer is high enough owner will throw in all toys that the child seems not to want to play with like the $80 jumper, $50 activity desk, $60 swing. Owner will charge you however for all toys that the child ironically does want to play with…$2 toy keys, $1 empty baby bottle, free cardboard box.
Caution: Child bites (literally). Uncertain of what precious metal the child’s teeth are made out of, but they are able to draw blood. Buyer beware: the two teeth are the least dangerous part of her dental arsenal. The gums appear to be powered by a hydraulic press. Fractured fingers are possible.
Reserve Price: $100. While it is illegal to sell children, it is completely legal to sell Mogwais (aka gremlins). This mogwai is defective in that it does not turn green when fed after midnight and despite my best efforts…bright light does not seem to affect it or calm it down in any way. I cannot say what effect water has on it as it will not allow me to give it a bath. Holding Holy Water up in front of it only makes it laugh.
Shipping: This item is for pick up only. Placing the baby/mogwai in the car has only yielded negative results (crying, throwing things, screaming)
Please leave any additional questions in the comment field.
Happy Valentine’s Day
This is a public service announcement sponsored by the good folks at MentalStorage.com
Valentine’s Day is highly commercialized and for a few years I refused to celebrate it. Back when I was a kid, it was fun. You could use a candy-gram as a litmus test to figure out how popular you were with your junior high school female counterparts. Hell, in high school I discovered my inner Casanova by dressing up in a suit and handing out cards and single stem roses to all of the girls I didn’t like in order to make the ones I did like jealous. I used to ride the high of V-day throughout the rest of the school year.
Once I became an adult, it became my most hated holiday. I work my ass off all year long to be the single greatest boyfriend/husband in the world only to be looked at with contempt by the women of America when my flowers don’t bloom as wide as Leroy-the-misogynist or my cleverly thought-out gift isn’t as shiny as Rob-the-man-ho’s jewelry (He went to Jared’s). Trust me, no one hated Valentine’s Day as much as I used to.
One day I realized something: If you can find someone who loves you enough and is smart enough to realize that no holiday should serve as a gauge for how much love you have in your heart for them and if that person cares enough for you to say “screw it, just love me everyday” then she deserves the biggest and best Valentine’s Day that you can give her. You know why? Because lesser women are getting gifts that they don’t deserve and you have to make sure that not ONE day goes by where they feel that they have the upper hand on your woman.
The way I see it, I have a damn good woman at home and I try to show it every single day, but she often comes into contact with some skanks whose boyfriends/husbands probably don’t do jack the majority of the year. They probably feel a little bad when they hear her good stories about me and if Valentine’s Day should come and they get a million roses and a card they might take that time to point out that my wife didn’t get anything. They may start to think, “well maybe he isn’t so great after all.” I am CEO of my marriage and as CEO it is my fiduciary duty to make sure that the value of our stock NEVER drops…not even one damn cent.
So that means that she gets a dozen roses, candy, a spa treatment and a photo of me and our daughter in a bulky over sized frame. She takes that frame and puts it on her desk at work and an hour after the joy of getting the gift wears off and she’s hard at work, she’ll hear her picture frame start to ring. Sitting there perplexed at a ringing picture, she’ll take off the back of the frame and discover the iPhone that she wanted with a note that says, “I love you.”
I don’t have to do it. Valentine’s Day is commercial…but my love isn’t so I gotta do what I gotta do to protect the brand.
Happy Valentine's Day
This is a public service announcement sponsored by the good folks at MentalStorage.com
Valentine’s Day is highly commercialized and for a few years I refused to celebrate it. Back when I was a kid, it was fun. You could use a candy-gram as a litmus test to figure out how popular you were with your junior high school female counterparts. Hell, in high school I discovered my inner Casanova by dressing up in a suit and handing out cards and single stem roses to all of the girls I didn’t like in order to make the ones I did like jealous. I used to ride the high of V-day throughout the rest of the school year.
Once I became an adult, it became my most hated holiday. I work my ass off all year long to be the single greatest boyfriend/husband in the world only to be looked at with contempt by the women of America when my flowers don’t bloom as wide as Leroy-the-misogynist or my cleverly thought-out gift isn’t as shiny as Rob-the-man-ho’s jewelry (He went to Jared’s). Trust me, no one hated Valentine’s Day as much as I used to.
One day I realized something: If you can find someone who loves you enough and is smart enough to realize that no holiday should serve as a gauge for how much love you have in your heart for them and if that person cares enough for you to say “screw it, just love me everyday” then she deserves the biggest and best Valentine’s Day that you can give her. You know why? Because lesser women are getting gifts that they don’t deserve and you have to make sure that not ONE day goes by where they feel that they have the upper hand on your woman.
The way I see it, I have a damn good woman at home and I try to show it every single day, but she often comes into contact with some skanks whose boyfriends/husbands probably don’t do jack the majority of the year. They probably feel a little bad when they hear her good stories about me and if Valentine’s Day should come and they get a million roses and a card they might take that time to point out that my wife didn’t get anything. They may start to think, “well maybe he isn’t so great after all.” I am CEO of my marriage and as CEO it is my fiduciary duty to make sure that the value of our stock NEVER drops…not even one damn cent.
So that means that she gets a dozen roses, candy, a spa treatment and a photo of me and our daughter in a bulky over sized frame. She takes that frame and puts it on her desk at work and an hour after the joy of getting the gift wears off and she’s hard at work, she’ll hear her picture frame start to ring. Sitting there perplexed at a ringing picture, she’ll take off the back of the frame and discover the iPhone that she wanted with a note that says, “I love you.”
I don’t have to do it. Valentine’s Day is commercial…but my love isn’t so I gotta do what I gotta do to protect the brand.
