tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31975632928259952812024-03-13T02:53:39.384-04:00Nana-isms"I'm a martian, and if you understand me, then you're Jesus Christ" --Weezy--
Well, not really, but I've been told I'm crazy, and I'm ready to share the lunacy with the world!n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-49707852864794171862008-02-07T07:07:00.000-05:002008-02-07T07:25:40.458-05:00Classy!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0TEdhizcizdIx9w34IAHcdfcI9SjkMDUZxI7WdGZ8bxmmVyc4_pL_XOreMxtkx6d9hyjptrzXRROKdO1YN2ZHB9ZVWRiCPJDRErqmkH5ANA2WPBlQwNO01P4Duxr2NpLOYqUZ0okm9WC/s1600-h/trailer+park.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0TEdhizcizdIx9w34IAHcdfcI9SjkMDUZxI7WdGZ8bxmmVyc4_pL_XOreMxtkx6d9hyjptrzXRROKdO1YN2ZHB9ZVWRiCPJDRErqmkH5ANA2WPBlQwNO01P4Duxr2NpLOYqUZ0okm9WC/s400/trailer+park.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164209367575376770" border="0" /></a><br />Ahhh, I love geniuses. Especially geniuses who commit genius crimes! Like these people:<br /><br />Enter Roger and Nicole, two lovely citizens from Ohio (Midwest: stand up! ). Roger and Nicole, just greedy young bucks, decided that they needed some money. Instead of working overtime, or even robbing someone or moonlighting as strippers, they decided to rob the armored car company that Roger worked for. Now, I've never committed serious crimes, but I have watched Law & Order quite a bit. So if I were to commit a serious crime, I feel like I'd be pretty well versed on how not to make stupid mistakes.<br /><br />Well, Roger and Nicole clearly aren't as bright as yours truly. Though they succeeded in stealing $8.4MM by using another employee's access code, then loading up a truck with the money, it all went downhill from there. They decided to drive the truck to their new digs, stopping only once on the way: to get McDonald's. I'm sorry, but you just stole $8.4MM. At least stop at Red Lobster, or something. But nope, they got some Mickey D's, threw out their cell phones, and kept it moving. No, not to Greece. Or the Cayman Islands. Or even Miami.<br /><br />They went to West Virginia, where they had a trailer all set up for them. THey had been back and forth already, stocking up on books, video games, and probably, combs for their mullets. West Virginia. If I stole that much money, I'd already have the private jet waiting for me, and thats the last anyone would hear from me. You might get a scenic postcard from "Georgina", with no return address, letting you know I'm alive, but thats about it. You would NEVER catch me in West Virginia.<br /><br />I mean, you stole millions of dollars, and they only place your small mind led you was a trailer park in West Virginia? You don't deserve the money anyway! Have fun in prison!n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-55291749792095498412008-02-05T11:55:00.000-05:002008-02-05T11:57:57.835-05:00BARACK THE VOTE!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoW3kgFyF51QE9sSEnenPkGDkmjHUZa5ZnIcA8iHoJcNN4a17lv-TcKR8UxEVv0y-z8VS8GFQCsHyVqPSrDX9g6FWfvI9oPdEaRdlM7_mKpkbI0XwfonDTwTLuMmvQQURISL6wg37oslBR/s1600-h/obamas"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163541087843988338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoW3kgFyF51QE9sSEnenPkGDkmjHUZa5ZnIcA8iHoJcNN4a17lv-TcKR8UxEVv0y-z8VS8GFQCsHyVqPSrDX9g6FWfvI9oPdEaRdlM7_mKpkbI0XwfonDTwTLuMmvQQURISL6wg37oslBR/s400/obamas" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br />I LOVE this family! If you're in a super Tuesday state, make sure you go out and vote!n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-39252977275773024242008-02-04T00:41:00.000-05:002008-02-04T01:17:18.554-05:00This Ain't Right<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzr3Au-6up6jF17wElXkVI41EU5ppU9adITcBjYbZxvlu2OKI189YOUPcBxKpNlEju2wSJcc9tYnkrrBU0jL25Ud9hyphenhyphenjNlqKT0WrD43_gRkf8OmFl3JjiIu4YYkMTrbOZVNfOJOBtWC7o/s1600-h/mikes-kids.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzr3Au-6up6jF17wElXkVI41EU5ppU9adITcBjYbZxvlu2OKI189YOUPcBxKpNlEju2wSJcc9tYnkrrBU0jL25Ud9hyphenhyphenjNlqKT0WrD43_gRkf8OmFl3JjiIu4YYkMTrbOZVNfOJOBtWC7o/s400/mikes-kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162997344984314706" border="0" /></a><br />Take a good look at the white people pictured above. They look a little bit strange, right? Just a tad? Maybe it was all those years of walking around with fabrics draped over their faces.<br /><br />Those people are Prince Michael, aka Blanket, and . . . I won't pretend to know her name. But the girl is also MJ's child. Yup folks, the two people pictured above have the unfortunate destiny of being claimed by <a href="http://nanaisms.blogspot.com/2007/12/who-killed-michael-jackson.html">Michael Jackson, if he's still alive.</a><br /><br />These two people came from God-knows-where, and are potentially mothered by that random white woman who was in the pictures years ago, and some unnamed, though clearly Caucasian sperm. So they don't really know who their parents are, I assume. And just when life couldn't get any stranger, here comes Michael Jackson, with his prosthetic nose, pale skin and hawaiian silky hair-plugged tresses, naming them Blanket, dangling them out of windows, speaking in a falsetto like the Dream's girl, and pretending his Black DNA could possibly have produced them.<br /><br />If you ever feel sorry for yourself, if you ever go home for the holidays and think "I can't wait to get away from these lunatics", if you ever mistake your parent's quirkiness for craziness, stop and thank the Lord that you don't have to call Michael Jackson 'Dad'. Because you truly would have never had a chance. Do you think these kids will ever have friends? I mean, they might have before. 'Jackson' is a fairly standard last name, and assuming Blanket's mom was smart enough to keep 'Blanket' off his birth certificate, the kids at their private school might never have known. THen the blogs had to come along and ruin it all. <br /><br />Bet you these kids have spitballs in their hair as I type. No matter how nice they may seem, no parent is going to let their kids play with Michael Jackson's children. At least, I wouldn't. There's no telling what they'd be exposed to. And life may not really ever improve from the day of their reveal on: who wants Michael, LaToya, Janet, Tito, Joe and the rest of 'em as in laws?n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-77211996966672001252008-01-30T11:09:00.001-05:002008-01-30T11:12:16.641-05:00Alcoholics Anonymous<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM43_f8-QAWj2d241J_7lveiAtQIDsCioEoVsRVh1HZG62xBFlQ0HY9Z7F318vR2jp8Y5W4eRyunxigDlQ7Iedt12ccKhtysL8RIiT0yYrL3inML5pLOO26a4j5J6ov57gEvFBUNJmtLiv/s1600-h/bush"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161302464989967170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM43_f8-QAWj2d241J_7lveiAtQIDsCioEoVsRVh1HZG62xBFlQ0HY9Z7F318vR2jp8Y5W4eRyunxigDlQ7Iedt12ccKhtysL8RIiT0yYrL3inML5pLOO26a4j5J6ov57gEvFBUNJmtLiv/s400/bush" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />This morning, CNN ran a bit on George Bush speaking about addiction, and the power of faith the help heal them. I won't comment on the fact that faith hasn't helped his ultra-conservative republican buddies curb their addiction to gay escorts, but lets move on. Though I'm pretty bummed about Georgie being president all these years, his term will lend itself to numerous quote books after all the ridiculousness is said and done. That is, if Americans are still reading by the end of this year. Let us pray.<br /><br />Anyway, George was addressing some group of addicts, and said the following: "I used to have a drinking problem. Once upon a time, I drank too much". Well, George, thanks for the clarification, but we didn't really need it. Generally drinking too much is what people mean when they say they have a drinking problem. Usually its not that they have trouble swallowing, or a hole in their throat or anything. I would like some clarification on one point though.<br /><br />Georgie says he used to have a drinking problem. Perhaps he meant when he was in college, just a wee little rich Bush frat boy who enjoyed keg stands and joints. Or maybe he meant in high school, when he was that rich kid who took it way to far, far too soon. I know that type well. We would be like 17, and here would come Jon, whose dad ran Company X and lived in an 8-bedroom house in the hills. Jon would be high on pretty much any drug available to mankind, and would wash it all down with as many beers as possible. Jon is generally the kid who ended up in a minimum-security prison after causing some sort of drunken driving accident.<br /><br />But I happen to think that Bush's problem may have began far before any of us think: in the womb. I really can't think of any other explanation for his genius. Think about it . . . mama Bush threw back a few too many glasses of wine while preggers with baby G, and thus gave America the monkey we call the President.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-90691918844659306662008-01-28T01:12:00.000-05:002008-01-28T01:19:43.879-05:00Coffee will make you Black!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipDtVWY7uD1U4gDGdAoCvh9ZTqskpWYLFnrKBIqH7wUsCikoNVZDDkrXQWx0NdiK0xImiVUqw7ORWBycrEI7v46M4-Sxj_UQD2bWQL9rvOrucrivQ847-zkfm8C8MgEohrTb8b7OPvzbE/s1600-h/coffee.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipDtVWY7uD1U4gDGdAoCvh9ZTqskpWYLFnrKBIqH7wUsCikoNVZDDkrXQWx0NdiK0xImiVUqw7ORWBycrEI7v46M4-Sxj_UQD2bWQL9rvOrucrivQ847-zkfm8C8MgEohrTb8b7OPvzbE/s400/coffee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160407831892144946" border="0" /></a><br />So I happen to live in a gentrified area of Harlem. As in, when I moved in, things were nice and brown, and there is more cream in my coffee everyday. Suffice it to say that I like my coffee black, but I'll move on.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Anywhoo</span>, the Rite Aid below my building came after the cream did, since you know, black coffee doesn't need conveniences like pharmacies and UPS stores. Nope, black coffee just needs bodegas and check cashing spots. Oh yeah, and little stalls to buy phone cards, white tees and weaves. Right. Back to the point. So I grew up in the 'burbs, and I know how things are supposed to go in drugstores.<br /><br />In drugstores, everything except the stuff behind the register is self-serve. Candy, batteries, toasters, razors, apple juice. Not so in my oppressive, caught-in-the-midst of the "new Harlem Renaissance" Rite Aid. Not only do you have to step over the big blue bins of product that block just about anything you could possibly want, you also have to go ask the clerks if you want some of the simplest things. One time, I needed a charger for my cell phone. A cheap, $20 universal charger. I found it, right up front, and tried to take it off the rack, but it was stuck. Confused, I asked the cashier what was wrong. "Oh, you need the magnetic key for that". <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ummm</span>, okay. So now cell phone chargers are akin to loud leather jackets in City Blue stores in hood malls? You're really going to tie them down so I don't steal them?<br /><br />Maybe. I let that slide. I've seen crackheads selling phone chargers before, so maybe they have a point. But then today, I needed a personal trimmer to keep my sideburns under control. Quick trip to the Rite Aid downstairs, right? Not when there is still some black coffee in the cup. Nope. You know black coffee likes that five-finger discount. Once there is enough cream in the coffee, maybe everything will be self-serve. But for now, one can only purchase a $10 personal trimmer by finding a listless employee to remove it for you. And I highly doubt that there is a black market for personal trimmers .n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-45339379402444098572008-01-25T16:03:00.000-05:002008-01-25T16:40:55.685-05:00I want a famous face<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVQs4wMvToQuVG6WtMhkhhgkqE4dN7bNPiZ_2iBf8IiIDz4fWDddO6w5S7avKdsn1dlRrKW38u7wBkizuY9NuIrGMdQ5E5gXKlpr99Ls2e3lEun36kHNbDML7m35poXoV7Gu9AHxPyiBP/s1600-h/brit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVQs4wMvToQuVG6WtMhkhhgkqE4dN7bNPiZ_2iBf8IiIDz4fWDddO6w5S7avKdsn1dlRrKW38u7wBkizuY9NuIrGMdQ5E5gXKlpr99Ls2e3lEun36kHNbDML7m35poXoV7Gu9AHxPyiBP/s400/brit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159523214658056994" border="0" /></a><br />Yesterday I happened upon a rerun of one of the scariest shows ever: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">MTV's</span> I Want a Famous Face. In case you don't remember the show, random people would have excessive plastic surgery in an effort to look like whatever famous person they idolized. Frightening, right?<br /><br />So yesterday, the episode was about a girl who wanted to look like Britney Spears. Now, note that the show was produced back in Britney's heyday, before the marriages, the babies, the divorce and the meltdowns. Anyway, this chick already slightly resembled Britney, but wanted to look more like her, and to be like her as well. So here she went, ruining her credit and dignity, having several surgeries, starving herself, and even taking stripper lessons.<br /><br />Little did she know that she should have practiced meeting deadbeat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">PWT</span>, birthing and neglecting kids, going to public restrooms without her shoes and wearing visible hair weave plugs. But in all honestly, what worried me about this show was the lack of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">psychological</span> help that was offered to these people. I'm rather concerned that MTV found it appropriate to document these people's sicknesses (other subjects included a transvestite who wanted to look like Jennifer Lopez) and act like they didn't need immediate and intensive mental assistance. But then again, these are the same people who produced Fanatic, the show were a black girl once met with some random pop star--I think it was Jessica Simpson-- and happily talked about how she had dyed her hair <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">blonde</span> and was bald, but it all okay, as long as she got to meet Jessica.n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-64925962453683043902008-01-24T14:24:00.000-05:002008-01-24T14:42:01.649-05:00Here come the loons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVN6VpNFtBxHP17ehx4E2Sn2ZTjQaH3AOLJNgn533gpvo5YctDF2NXXL2lqahPki1pVzI_XkBr-WSodwDZ9jzrt9v8nt-MrHdJQ85j2p1PWhSPrOT5XgeuKmGakK5aQjmZ5OvtBUTOiwHG/s1600-h/crazy+bunny.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVN6VpNFtBxHP17ehx4E2Sn2ZTjQaH3AOLJNgn533gpvo5YctDF2NXXL2lqahPki1pVzI_XkBr-WSodwDZ9jzrt9v8nt-MrHdJQ85j2p1PWhSPrOT5XgeuKmGakK5aQjmZ5OvtBUTOiwHG/s400/crazy+bunny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159127180018660114" border="0" /></a><br />I always knew something was wrong with Kansas, and this confirms it. Now, I'll admit. When I heard Heath Ledger had died, I immediately thought of Clint Eastwood, and while I was sad, I was like "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ehh</span>, he lived a fairly long life. Not so devastating . . .". Well, after being shamed by my much more pop-culture savvy friend, I learned that Heath Ledger was in fact 28, and the father of a toddler, making the situation a lot more tragic.<br /><br />Anyway, the guy is dead, right? And here come the crazy people. And yup, they're from Kansas. And yes, they're radical Christians. Crazy, Christian, and from Kansas. A very bad combination indeed. And you thought Islamic Extremists in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Fallujah</span> were to blame for all of the world's problems! <br /><br />So these crazy people in Kansas sat around an decided that because Heath Ledger played a gay man in a movie, he doesn't deserve the respect one would afford any other dead person, or even, say, a dead laboratory rat. They '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span> decided to protest his funeral during a family-building outing with other members of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Westboro</span> Baptist Church. Because <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">thats</span> what all good Christians do, right? Launch graveside assaults against <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">mourning</span> individuals because the deceased had the nerve to play a gay actor in a movie. God Bless America!<br /><br />This is what one of the progressive church members had to say:<br /><br />"He (Ledger) got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it's OK to be gay". Did he really? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Or</span> did he get on that big screen and say his lines from the script? I don't recall Heath Ledger saying that God is a liar, or that its okay to be gay, but I do think that its NOT okay to be that crazy, and meet up with a bunch of other crazy folks in the name of religion. <br /><br />Just my thoughts though. As well, I guess they might protest my funeral too. For shame.n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-54935379418355277492008-01-22T09:32:00.000-05:002008-01-22T09:57:34.376-05:00Pump your breaks, Amy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuYqwAy2CtGDrqwnNTe497TIPKdho6-60ZKI8WKmfMP7FZxeTCcry8F4SjZcpSkbftXWjgIrfB4gwumGggjhJRTILdhStdt6_6mQp3_RXDY2dNaSuv8nBWo4jkx6sgn1ce7OxH_W1Ra0g/s1600-h/crack+kills.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuYqwAy2CtGDrqwnNTe497TIPKdho6-60ZKI8WKmfMP7FZxeTCcry8F4SjZcpSkbftXWjgIrfB4gwumGggjhJRTILdhStdt6_6mQp3_RXDY2dNaSuv8nBWo4jkx6sgn1ce7OxH_W1Ra0g/s400/crack+kills.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158309575413728290" border="0" /></a>I'm having some trouble with the fact that Amy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Winehouse</span> now allegedly smokes crack. I'm pretty liberal, and was with it when she sang about not going to rehab, and even when she was spotted roaming the streets of London looking like someone who froths at the mouth on the C train, but I can't support the crack smoking.<br /><br />I've actually met someone who smoked crack. Well, I'm sure we all have. But I was actually friends with someone who smoked crack, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unbeknownst</span> to me. I overheard her trading drug stories with a mutual friend, and listened as she said, "oh yeah, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">I've</span> smoked crack before". Now, she had a very strong <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Scottish</span> accent, so I wasn't sure that I had heard her correctly'. I was definitely not part of the conversation, perhaps because I couldn't run off a laundry list of drugs I'd tried, but I interrupted anyway. "Excuse me, did you just say you smoked crack?" "yeah, i did. it was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">awesome</span>" she said. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Errrr</span>, no thanks. I don't smoke crack, homey.<br /><br />And I wonder. Who smokes crack? I had always hoped that everyone that currently smoked crack did so because they got addicted back in the 80s, before people understood how addictive it was. I had hoped that all those poor, lost crackheads I saw just couldn't withstand rehab, so here they were, in 2008, scratching invisible sores, wearing tattered rags, and talking about how they just got out of the hospital and needed money for food (while wearing their hospital band from 1998 as evidence).<br /><br />But nope, some people just don't know any better. Stacy the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Scottish</span> druggie was one. And Amy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Winehouse</span> is another. Crack clearly kills, people. But I guess that some people don't care. I guess that some people are <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">unfazed</span> by the shells of people that stick their heads in a phone booth outside the bodega, only for smoke to rise above it, thinking they're fooling us all into thinking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">tha</span>t the phone is just smoking as they talk on it.n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-5591894321638344932008-01-17T17:53:00.000-05:002008-01-17T17:55:11.184-05:00Free OJ!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLW81zWo8ZLKOP-KixGklJbwhaD-fr-BinJuPusrOHaJfwl1h2A-lRrqKCOb7UfPOY0NXx6LT_bEwnwcGHKgL0bkj7h1wgxzqplTDphO9PuuJHndBAXtqwZbHnkFsGChhooJyMqohPppEW/s1600-h/OJ.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156582706502960146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLW81zWo8ZLKOP-KixGklJbwhaD-fr-BinJuPusrOHaJfwl1h2A-lRrqKCOb7UfPOY0NXx6LT_bEwnwcGHKgL0bkj7h1wgxzqplTDphO9PuuJHndBAXtqwZbHnkFsGChhooJyMqohPppEW/s400/OJ.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>You know what? OJ should just up and move to Mars. Clearly he won’t ever get a minute of peace here on Earth. You know how I know that? Because you OJ haters can barely contain your anger right now, and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t even say anything.<br /><br />I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t even say that, yeah, OJ might have killed Nicole Brown, but get over it. A black man may have killed a white woman. A rich black man. A rich, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ig</span>’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">nant</span> black man. Say it with me, haters: A rich, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ig</span>’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nant</span> black man may have killed a white woman. But he was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">acquitted</span>. Years ago. And that’s more than we can say for several murderers of random black people. That’s more than we can say for the people who lynched Emmit Till and countless other black men. But, honestly, that’s not even relevant. Or on the same level. And as far as we know, thanks to the unequivocally fair justice system of the U.S of A., OJ is a free and innocent man.<br /><br />So tell me then, why I’m watching CNN morning news, and right smack in the midst of important stories, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Soledad</span> look-alike starts talking about OJ Simpson leaving jail last night. I think he may have been there a day or so, for something inconsequential. Then they showed a picture of OJ leaving jail. Somebody please tell me why the paparazzi follows <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Orenthal</span> James around. I guess for the same reason that the fact that OJ stole some of his own sports paraphernalia is front-page news. Because America loves to hate OJ.<br /><br />OJ is the symbol of everything that went ‘wrong’ when the slaves were freed. Look how fast he can run! And how strong he is! And he likes white women! And lives in a mansion, bringing the property tax down! And he’s handsome! A millionaire! And back to that white woman thing—he likes to kill them! Well, so what. Spare me, haters. Can OJ live?</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-15013801481334963992008-01-16T10:45:00.000-05:002008-01-16T10:46:30.402-05:00That Guido Smell<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKW-Zdq7yDbwyKO3JwzicjjXQ4PhEiw-KVx3OSSQp1SI3EtCmfQRjpaLdDOseDqnJATc0fcY46FCWzkbXUcwYjBRZjSkZe6Jh4VfH40APfBnlirbEbMsMrQvPYF2zI2RdnzH9VOfbu5pxs/s1600-h/cologne.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156101167654634498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKW-Zdq7yDbwyKO3JwzicjjXQ4PhEiw-KVx3OSSQp1SI3EtCmfQRjpaLdDOseDqnJATc0fcY46FCWzkbXUcwYjBRZjSkZe6Jh4VfH40APfBnlirbEbMsMrQvPYF2zI2RdnzH9VOfbu5pxs/s400/cologne.jpg" border="0" /></a> So I’m at the club the other night, with my drink and my two step, wondering why I had been coerced into being there, and trying to drink the edge off it all. It was a midtown, New York City club, so all of the usual annoyances were in full swing: the DJ that tried to hard to cater to the mixed crowd, alternating “Living on a Prayer” with “Push It” and “From the window to the wall” (or whatever that horrible song is called), the wanna-be video hoes whipping their weaves in my eyes, the abundance of black male WWLs (reference: Rangel post, and the point at which I digressed), a specific wigger turned Penn graduate who I avoid at all costs, the infiltration of the bridge and tunnel folk, and the general corniness that is weekend crowds.<br /><br />But I’m most thankful for is the west-village white girls, who were wildin out in the most unprofessional manner. Besides being on the verge of death by alcohol poisoning and ‘freak dancing’ with their men of choice, they were in full snob mode, as disgusted, if not more, with the crowd than I was. Whenever a wanna-be video ho, or bridge and tunnel-er, or even, the Penn wigger tried to trespass into their space, they would look completely revolted, and spill their drinks all over their Louboutins in an effort to get away. I watched one particularly amusing interaction, when a man who I would guess was from Staten Island tried to show off the moves he’d picked up from MTV’s The Grind as a child. Aggressively bobbing and jerking, and even doing a little spin, he was pretty much unconcerned with whether or not she was interested.<br /><br />Well, she wasn’t. She was completely horrified, and ran into the arms of another guy, who looked a little more monied and a lot less bridge and tunnel. “ohmigod! HELP me! Ugh! I can’t stand him!”. Her friend laughs, and hugs her, and says something I can’t hear. Here comes the highlight of my night. Safe and sound in her with her friend, the girl looks over her shoulder at the guy who had tried to dance with her. She looks back at her friend, and was like “ugh! He’s sooo disgusting! And he totally had that, like, Guido smell”.<br /><br />Dead wrong.<br /><div></div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-90149362910395084132008-01-15T09:14:00.000-05:002008-01-15T09:15:50.661-05:00Pat your weave, Charlie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-1ofhFDIZw61_UVR57M8apq7-KQtFT20aLB-cdSN713n8cA7SGKOHD4DRGQnyChdNgko-BTebOSW14JeJUfdOMYUzGs-3KrRe8A_Ms6wNAuJInFNKam7gsuKR0poN6DLJAWpU-DVsGEE/s1600-h/idiot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155706730743071730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-1ofhFDIZw61_UVR57M8apq7-KQtFT20aLB-cdSN713n8cA7SGKOHD4DRGQnyChdNgko-BTebOSW14JeJUfdOMYUzGs-3KrRe8A_Ms6wNAuJInFNKam7gsuKR0poN6DLJAWpU-DVsGEE/s400/idiot.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I have to pause this morning to do something very important. Publicly shame Congressman Charlie Rangel. I would also publicly shame Bill and Hillary, but they’re not even worth my time.<br /><br />The dealings of this political election thus far have pretty much shown people’s asses. Whether it is Hillary Clinton demonstrating not only her inability to appear human and connect with voters, but also displaying just how desperate she and her has-been husband area, or black people disappointing me. Now, I’m not saying you HAVE to support Obama as a black person. But I am saying that unless you have good reason not to, why wouldn’t you?<br /><br />Oh yeah, that’s right. The same reason why some black people don’t want to be seen by black doctors. The same reason why, when a black man was elected mayor of her all black suburb, a girl I knew said “I don’t know, I just don’t know if he can do it”. And the same reason why pathetic black men will argue for hours and list reason after reason as to why they are open to dating non-black women (I once argued with two losers for 4 hours about this, so I wont get started on the subject). But you know what? I’m used to that, and as sad as it is, its to be expected. I mean, I’ve never witnessed any other race of men sit around and list their thousand reasons for seeking women outside their race, but again, I digress. I understand there are social and political roots to black American self-hatred, so please don’t hit me with the “but you just don’t understand . . .”<br /><br />Anyway, moving on. Here we are in 2008, with Barack Obama campaigning to run for president. And here with are in 2008, with people like Charlie Rangel, with the conked ridiculousness that is his hair and blind lust after the Hillary, and her husband, ‘the first black president’ (rolling my eyes) Clinton. I’ve ignored the black politicians who have gone on CNN and declared the danger of supporting a black candidate because of his race. As I said before, I am not advocating anybody support anybody else on the basis of racial identity alone. But I don’t think you need to be up on CNN talking about it. Just endorse who you believe in, and move on. Trust me, you’re not gaining any points in racist white people’s minds by saying something like that. <br /><br />Back to the permed negro Rangel. This whole conversation about Obama and Clinton sparring over race has really annoyed me, firstly because I think the racial undertones are pretty one-sided (Clinton), secondly, it’s a distraction from the real issues that need to be talked about (you know the foreclosure crisis, the credit crunch, the economy in general, healthcare, education, Iraq, blah, blah, blah), and three, and most importantly—it will create further polarization on the basis of race, making Obama the “black (read: bad) guy”. So here comes this negro (who, admittedly, has done a lot of good work), jumping in the debate, and vehemently calling Obama’s remarks “absolutely stupid” on NY1. Maybe Rangel just wanted some press. Maybe he was in a bad mood because he had burns on his scalp from his perm. Who knows. <br /><br />But I have to shame him for perpetuating the conversation on race, for jumping into the Obama/Clinton MLK/President Johnson conversation, and for sitting there with a conk and being the prototypical crab in a barrel.<br /><br />I mean, you don’t see Eddie Murphy talking sh it about Bobby Brown, do you?</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-49433593701917798262008-01-14T10:32:00.001-05:002008-01-14T10:33:30.815-05:00God Bless America<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzq_d68rKv8ZigCVLWDvW8Ngc_pU3XIacM0O7hScSJrUnN4ZBVqvSqCVD0GBk0qgH41oy_Uj7kldtI1CqQvQQH3dn-tWZbbTDn3OhOJft-ADPKw0dyvraz71bz6WwJjimxyt7aOlu9LKw/s1600-h/fashion+bug.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155355776080413666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzq_d68rKv8ZigCVLWDvW8Ngc_pU3XIacM0O7hScSJrUnN4ZBVqvSqCVD0GBk0qgH41oy_Uj7kldtI1CqQvQQH3dn-tWZbbTDn3OhOJft-ADPKw0dyvraz71bz6WwJjimxyt7aOlu9LKw/s400/fashion+bug.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9f_FDxveiMzBFsjHvhi9WHkU8qwfyPkm4C4Rxm4gVeKvVH9FBgur5gbh8BARylXKmtpokQKXtkvnVtCJvJVb7pK3jFxWiQ8m4caIkjTtkUZ5TknNWASHPFfIvxHguP6Den7RkdWsewd0a/s1600-h/fashion+bug.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div>God Bless America. Especially the middle of it. Just be thankful that you’re not there. And if you are, try to get out.<br /><br />I say this not to disparage the folks who keep this country going. Life ain’t easy out there. Not for the Wal-Mart or factory workers, and not for the people with money either. I mean, I remember all the rich kids I knew growing up having severe, grown-ass-people problems by the time they were like 12. You know, the usual: anorexia, alcoholism, body dysmorphic disorder. Teenage sluttery. No self esteem. Unfortunately, the list goes on and on. But aside from the drugs, soap opera addictions and small-town mentality, the middle of America is allegedly a wonderful place to raise children. Allegedly.<br /><br />At this point, I have to question that concept. Its what every person in middle America says in an effort to defend themselves/their parents/their friends: “but it’s a great place to raise kids”. No, actually, its not. I’ve found that people who were born in middle America stay in middle America. And that’s where the trouble begins. When I go back to my own enclave of middle American hell, I’m greeted by all the high-school era cool kids, who are now relegated to working at the local call center, and picking their kids up from day care on the way home. The people who went away to college also like to come back, to move in down the street from their parents, build their McMansions with their unfaithful spouses, and make the ‘other people’ in town feel bad. Its rather lovely.<br /><br />And the ‘other people’? Keep them in your prayers. By the time they’re like 28, their measure of excitement is so tainted that the sickest things make them euphoric. Case in point: a friend, who also hails from middle America, was on her friend from high school’s facebook page. The friend’s name is Cerenity, but that’s deserves another post altogether, so I’ll pretend that her parents didn’t name her that. Anyway. Her facebook status read: “Cerenity is happy that she was able to buy a pair of $36 capris for 99 cents at Fashion Bug. So excited!”. Umm, what?<br /><br />a) Fashion bug still exists?<br />b) You shop there?<br />c) You are so excited that you got capris (in the middle of winter, nonetheless) for 99 cents that you updated your facebook status?<br /><br /><br />Unprofessional.<br /></div></div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-69192488125736051182008-01-11T08:49:00.000-05:002008-01-11T09:13:25.399-05:00Weekend at The Check Cashing Joint<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0w79iWfRIawWwNjYbIsbSwk1Lv3KUOW5T00R8PvjD2SFW33S4GBoZZm4PuhQBi1xrycx0IUBDfaxbNSg5wSO8t29ATaisK4kN9urpGdYc_5Hz3h3FHjfsBgCuJp_2V3H6247uFQjT3uFx/s1600-h/weekend+at+bernies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154221793045119938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0w79iWfRIawWwNjYbIsbSwk1Lv3KUOW5T00R8PvjD2SFW33S4GBoZZm4PuhQBi1xrycx0IUBDfaxbNSg5wSO8t29ATaisK4kN9urpGdYc_5Hz3h3FHjfsBgCuJp_2V3H6247uFQjT3uFx/s320/weekend+at+bernies.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>When I was younger, I was pretty into the movie Weekend at Bernie’s. I’m not particularly into dead people or anything, but something about Bernie all propped up in sunglasses, having the time of his life, appealed to me.<br /><br />So I was overjoyed when I heard about the two men who wheeled their dead friend into a check-cashing place, all dressed up with nowhere to go, except, oh that’s right—around the corner to help his friends get his last $350 dollars in order to live it up a bit before his funeral. There are a few fantastic elements to this story. The first being, these guys actually tried to cash their dead friend’s social security check without bringing him in with them, but the clerk told them that the payee had to be present. So, in true celebration of those “G is for Gangsta” tshirts you can get at Urban Outfitters, they went back home, dressed up their naked friend (he died nude), put him in an office chair, and brought him back to the store. You read that right. They put him in an office chair. Nope, not a wheelchair. Who knows where they got the office chair. Maybe they borrowed it from a neighbhor or something. At any rate, these two fools pushed a dead man past hundreds of people in midtown New York City, rolled up in the check cashing place, but unfortunately, were arrested before they could make off with their riches.<br /><br />The second fantastic element is that the two friends acted really shocked when the cop who confronted them announced that their friend was dead. They said something along the lines of “oh my God! He’s gone?”. Right. At that point, it’s too late. You clearly were up to something when you tried to cash your friend’s check. You obviously were up to something when you told the clerk you’d bring him in, then wheel a lifeless body down a crowded sidewalk in an office chair. They should have taken some time to sober up and rethink their plan before proceeding.<br /><br /><br />The third fantastic element, and actually, my favorite part, is that, this actually is pretty funny, assuming the dead guy enjoyed practical jokes. Aside from it being wrong and disgusting, think about it: who else gets to die and then play that kind of practical joke? And you know, lets not judge. Maybe the dead guy would have been all for it, and maybe he’s in heaven right now, upset that his friends couldn’t cash that check, buy some gin and juice, and go to his funeral with smiles on their faces.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-53133907834548731862008-01-10T09:22:00.001-05:002008-01-10T09:23:29.464-05:00Missing Child!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuebIu11kQMZAubRuTO5DrhjiQ5Q9lxx71qET_z0whk4R3fj0a3wZsHjoR2TADYdjdyEaYtfJkFWImQBCNdYBgNyA36rMgc9OiqbAOD_-qrfAAcMTiNAY-dQdAF4-RXpOzaua-MSfxsf0a/s1600-h/missing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153853276261188530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuebIu11kQMZAubRuTO5DrhjiQ5Q9lxx71qET_z0whk4R3fj0a3wZsHjoR2TADYdjdyEaYtfJkFWImQBCNdYBgNyA36rMgc9OiqbAOD_-qrfAAcMTiNAY-dQdAF4-RXpOzaua-MSfxsf0a/s320/missing.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>She's black, so you won't see her on CNN or MSNBC. But I'll discuss that another day.<br /></div><div>Her name is<strong> Adriana Warwell</strong>, and here are her stats:<br /></div><div> </div><div>DOB: Nov 21, 1997<br />Missing: Nov 24, 2007<br />Age Now: 10<br />Sex: Female<br />Race: Black/Hisp<br />Hair: BrownEyes: Brown<br />Height: 147 cm (4'9")<br />Weight: 34 kg (75 lbs)<br />Missing From:MISSOURI CITY TX United States<br /></div><div>Here is a link to more information, including who you should contact if you have any information:<br /></div><div><a href="http://missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PubCaseSearchServlet?act=viewPoster&caseNum=A0801001&orgPrefix=TXCH&searchLang=en_US">http://missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PubCaseSearchServlet?act=viewPoster&caseNum=A0801001&orgPrefix=TXCH&searchLang=en_US</a><br /></div><div> </div><div>Spread the word!<br /></div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-12211387998425951162008-01-09T09:43:00.000-05:002008-01-09T09:44:39.619-05:00Get Your Life Together!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUSw0cFBgEXLttZssJ-RCmrnDsMG_bOP67HiUL8cd8U_ISNx-4hyphenhyphenjHGdO0mgvGYOmbAvAXvNVNgXAhWOTdwEeMJwGK6-0tJbnfq6yrcKzT9tlgDl8TgAE078K1DoASoK_BinQzQMBIAWM/s1600-h/email.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153487701529854866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUSw0cFBgEXLttZssJ-RCmrnDsMG_bOP67HiUL8cd8U_ISNx-4hyphenhyphenjHGdO0mgvGYOmbAvAXvNVNgXAhWOTdwEeMJwGK6-0tJbnfq6yrcKzT9tlgDl8TgAE078K1DoASoK_BinQzQMBIAWM/s320/email.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The other day, I met a young man, who seemed to be a 6 out of 10 on the normal meter. I can only give him a 6 because his shirt was a bit too 90s-baggy, and his dancing was overenthusiastic and somewhat stripper-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">esque</span>. Needless to say, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wasn</span>’t impressed. I like to deal with 8s or better, so this guy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wasn</span>’t ever really an option.<br /><br />Well, this 6 made a crucial mistake that plummeted him down the ranks to a 2 or less. After observing his behavior, I concluded that if he had the audacity to ask for my contact information, he’d receive an email at best, and a fake number at the worst. You see, an email is a step above: its actually real contact information, and if I’m feeling particularly euphoric or philanthropic, I just might answer it. A fake number, on the other hand, is solely a guarantor of my personal safety. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> met many a closeted thug in my young heyday who would say something along the lines of “alright, I’m gonna call you now to make sure they number is real” with a menacing look in their eyes. I’d either run, or slap my head and be like “whoops! Just changed my number, I must have given you the old one!”. I don’t live by the gun, and I don’t expect to die by it either.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Anywhoo</span>, after yapping up a good game of having an online company with his ex-girlfriend, buying some drinks and working my nerves, he finally did it. He asked for my number. I told him I would not be able to give that to him, but I would give him my email address. He froze. “But I don’t have an email address”, he responded, arrogantly flicking his toothpick around his mouth. “I’m sorry?” I said. Because I could not have possibly heard him correctly. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">didn</span>’t just say that he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">doesn</span>’t have an email address. “I don’t have an email address, but I should probably get one, because they’re free, right?”. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didn</span>’t respond. I just shook my head, took his phone, and started entering my email address in his address book. In actuality, this was perfect! If you don’t have an email address in 2008, you’ll probably never have one, unless you’re an infant or toddler. “well, when you get one, email me!” I said. He gave me a deadpan look and was like “but wait, you’re not going to give me your number then? I don’t have an email address.”. <br /><br />That was the final straw. I was tired of trying to tap out my info on his old-school phone anyway. Get a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">smartphone</span> and an email address. I snapped the phone shut, looked at him, and was like “no, I’m not going to be able to do that. And how exactly do you run your online business if you don’t have an email address?”. His response? “Over the phone”.<br /><br />Game over.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-47039776092787159272008-01-08T08:55:00.000-05:002008-01-08T09:15:22.442-05:00PSA: Don't Eat This on a Date<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiKGcwTlJ0_0_thX3D2KwxwnMzNOvWBd8TXoE7belyXGNuTZFQrEz6tNMpuoqGWdLE6zPTA2znbSAzIkY8NeIHEBZoz9DBfdJ-8S1ubiYd8SfVu9DCHIhTAgNLB2s9SP4IAjGQhupv-BV/s1600-h/tuna+fish.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153104332749013890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiKGcwTlJ0_0_thX3D2KwxwnMzNOvWBd8TXoE7belyXGNuTZFQrEz6tNMpuoqGWdLE6zPTA2znbSAzIkY8NeIHEBZoz9DBfdJ-8S1ubiYd8SfVu9DCHIhTAgNLB2s9SP4IAjGQhupv-BV/s320/tuna+fish.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Recently, I went on a date with an unfortunate lad who made all the wrong decisions. In fact, he’ll probably be the subject of quite a few posts. And to clarify, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wouldn</span>’t necessarily call it a date, but for hesitation of divulging details about my life, and lack of a better word, I’ll call it that. <br /><br />Anyway, I opted for a delicious breakfast of corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, and Johnny Cake. My friend opted for the same. However, the two fools we were with ate some of the most “I’m not getting lucky tonight” food a man could eat. Not that they were getting lucky at all. Quietly, the fact that they were even eating with us was more a testament to the fact that we’d had a few drinks, but that was about all the liberty we were willing to take, liquored up as we may have been. So man #1 orders something strange, like stewed sheep tongue or something. I’m not knocking anyone’s cultural foods, but please don’t eat sheep tongue the first time you meet a woman. It’s inappropriate.<br /><br />However, man of the year on the other side of the table took the cake. He looked at the menu, closed it, smiled at the waiter, and ordered tuna salad. TUNA SALAD? You mean to tell me you just ordered tuna salad, and you’re sitting next to me? And you expect to have a conversation? Unprofessional. I don’t care how much you like tuna fish: eat it at home, and consume several gallons of mouthwash after you do, please. So, ignoring the look of shock on my face, this fool got his tuna and started to eat it. And that was when my stomach started to turn. Attempts to make conversation were met with my scrunched up face and look of disgust. Actually, that was only the first attempt at conversation. All subsequent ones were met by the back of my head, as I turned away from his breath to keep myself from retching. After that, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">couldn</span>’t wait to get away from him, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">couldn</span>’t sleep for fear of having nightmares of his breath. As I said, he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wasn</span>’t getting anything more than my voicemail to begin with, but now he won’t even get that.<br /><br />So fellas, if you ever want to sabotage a date, get back at someone you don’t like, or just act a fool, order Tuna Salad on a date and try to talk to the girl next to you. </div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-30228593527268582972007-12-27T11:51:00.000-05:002007-12-27T20:50:18.237-05:00The Perils of Flying Greyhound<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOBX55gR1p5GyQpkQmMAnUCKn1TYHwERwYDphiygRoJmmahqOl5flaocsstgtseXd5qHrNZzemay0CwnTfiQg2Dro1ZQgToahBjZcVWwy9ekyJqw_839AHFWM78cXnvY4vhCa6zTVyXYm/s1600-h/southwest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOBX55gR1p5GyQpkQmMAnUCKn1TYHwERwYDphiygRoJmmahqOl5flaocsstgtseXd5qHrNZzemay0CwnTfiQg2Dro1ZQgToahBjZcVWwy9ekyJqw_839AHFWM78cXnvY4vhCa6zTVyXYm/s320/southwest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148697176612275058" border="0" /></a><br />I know what you're thinking: Greyhound isn't an airline, its a bus company. However, you're wrong. If you're a big fan of Greyhound, and just can't imagine your life without it, trying flying Southwest this holiday season! I swore of the bus years ago, and was none too pleased to learn that I was back on it again, this time in the air.<br /><br />The similarities are really quite astounding. Let's start with the boarding process. You see, Southwest thinks they're on to something, and has <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">abandoned</span> the traditional boarding process of giving you an assigned seat and boarding passengers in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">relevant</span> groups. On Southwest, you get a lovely little primary letter on the corner of your boarding pass, and when the trashy flight attendant calls your letter, you get to rush to the door, shove a fat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">midwestern</span></span> guy aside, trample a girl with bad highlights and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Uggs</span></span>, and rush on the plane to try to find a seat. Lots of fun, I tell you. I actually had a connection in Baltimore on my way home for Christmas, so I got to do this twice in one day! Both times, I handed the stewardess my boarding pass, and waited for her to give it back to me before I boarded. That is, until the person in the Hell's Angels jacket behind me told me to "hurry up", and I realized that I didn't need my boarding pass, because on Greyhound, you don't have an assigned seat.<br /><br />Then there is the crowd. Honestly, it was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">embarrassing</span> to sit in the Southwest section. All the Delta, US Air and American Airlines passengers were walking by, holding their noses, and telling their kids not to stare. There I was, with Leroy from down-the-way, with his hood-clean sneakers, Philly beard and big white T-shirt. Leroy was REALLY excited to have a laptop, and kept yelling at Yolanda about how convenient his life was with it. Yolanda was too busy telling anyone that would listen that she just didn't understand how to board the plane in these little letter groups. They looked at me for a little racial solidarity, but I just went back to my book and pretended I didn't see them. Leroy and Yolanda were next to Gary and Sharon, who seemed just a step above the trailer park. Sharon kept playing with her anorexic ponytail, adjusting the dirty pink eighties <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">scrunchie</span></span> in her head, reinforcing her red Lee press-on nails, and complaining about all the security at the airport. Gary would roll his eyes, and mumble something about "those security people" who had the audacity (he clearly didn't use 'audacity' though) to ask him to take off his shoes.<br /><br />Fast-forward to the plane. Southwest employees really don't take the whole safety business of flying very seriously. They're laughing and joking during the presentation about how to buckle your <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">safety</span> belt and what to do in the event of an emergency. Not so funny, Southwest. Please keep in mind that the majority of your passengers haven't flown before, so maybe you should spell out the rules a little more seriously.<br /><br />But alas, I made it home, and for that I'm thankful. Special shout out to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">rowmates</span></span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ticia</span></span> and Mark, who argued over who got to watch 45 minutes of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Antwone</span></span> Fisher on their portable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">dvd</span></span> player, and had me smelling like hot sauce and fried chicken by the end of the flight. At the end of a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">particularly</span> disturbing landing, during which I said my final prayers, the flight attendants recommended that we "give the pilots a hand." <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Umm</span>, for what? For almost killing us? Do better, Greyhound.n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-5346227848864221272007-12-21T09:13:00.001-05:002007-12-21T09:14:55.495-05:00She's got a hustler's spirit, period.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTfnq3eUZ_UbZwtgSHkAUCRtPZuFnw_FEb6frf9FZmHRsaKb3aIWo7Pz87wgIeWjTZHBC-4h6jSD-vr30ytPOtrXS5Zbip2m459TfU4pdwydh-UdfMlIoe6tBgRwKTIHujqyK7ilkjb60/s1600-h/trac+eddie.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146429313620902754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTfnq3eUZ_UbZwtgSHkAUCRtPZuFnw_FEb6frf9FZmHRsaKb3aIWo7Pz87wgIeWjTZHBC-4h6jSD-vr30ytPOtrXS5Zbip2m459TfU4pdwydh-UdfMlIoe6tBgRwKTIHujqyK7ilkjb60/s320/trac+eddie.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Edmonds</span> is the hustler of the year. She and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Babyface</span> divorced earlier this year, and Tracy was on her game like a true hustler is. Sure, she has plenty of her own money as a result of various entertainment companies she’s started, but like a true workaholic and overachiever, Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wasn</span>’t going to take the loss of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Babyface</span>’s assets sitting down. After seemingly no time after the announcement of her divorce, Tracy started up showing to events with Eddie Murphy.<br /><br />I know they’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ve</span> been together for almost a year now, and the shock has worn off, but think about it: Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Edmonds</span> is dating Eddie Murphy. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Babyface</span>’s ex-wife started dating Eddie Murphy as soon as she signed those divorce papers. Now, Eddie is a talented actor whose heyday was in the 80s, but he too is a hustler—never to be out of work, Eddie does <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">voiceovers</span> for animation (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Shrek</span>), classic black films (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Dreamgirls</span> and Boomerang), and even more questionable films like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Norbit</span>. Keep in mind though, that Eddie has about a thousand kids to feed. So he’s gonna do movies until the day he dies, no matter how tragic or embarrassing they may be.<br /><br />But Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">isn</span>’t worried about all the kids. Or that pesky little transvestite rumour. Or the fact that Charlie Murphy says God-knows-what at family dinners. But what she does need to worry about is the one thing that Eddie’s done that I just can’t get over. <br /><br />My sister and I are fond of breaking out in song, and one of our favorite songs to sing is the 80s classic, “Party all the time”, which can be seen here: <a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=m5LX16zia2k">http://youtube.com/watch?v=m5LX16zia2k</a>. Could you ever look your husband in the eyes if he had written and sung this song? And was so serious? At any rate, Tracy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">doesn</span>’t care. The two are allegedly getting married sometime early in the new year, and I respect Tracy’s gangsta. Not to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">outhustled</span>, within a year, she’s gotten a divorce, decided to be Eddie Murphy’s beard, and shook all the haters off. Congrats Tracy.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-3383728752486194652007-12-20T09:30:00.000-05:002007-12-20T09:31:42.569-05:00What's wrong with Pepa?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcCre-xS9ITs0jBbFMy4yFrMhSn7qWRBdXuIiF__taZwkS38mrV3uRKAMca6Mat0ekYPLelSPQWB6-O2uMJQgcr0zb1tQSonQOoBvL5Z6GTh1J0h7OkbtkYmiqpxSABp5SRtuNvJZ7iVc/s1600-h/pep.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146062476169184082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcCre-xS9ITs0jBbFMy4yFrMhSn7qWRBdXuIiF__taZwkS38mrV3uRKAMca6Mat0ekYPLelSPQWB6-O2uMJQgcr0zb1tQSonQOoBvL5Z6GTh1J0h7OkbtkYmiqpxSABp5SRtuNvJZ7iVc/s320/pep.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It saddens me to once again have to question the current state of a fallen legend. Oh Pepa, why dost thou act a fool?<br /><br />Salt and Pepa have a reality show on VH1. Not quite sure why, but hey, its not blaxploitation like Flavor of Love, I Love New York, Nelly’s search for Miss Apple Bottoms or The Life and times of a Video Vixen, so I’ll take it. Salt seems well adjusted to life post prior-millennium stardom. She has a house, a husband, some kids, a nice, grown-up hairstyle, appropriate décor, and seemingly no interest in pretending like she’s still 25. Most importantly, she has no visible plastic surgery, no twisted face, and no denial.<br /><br />Pepa, on the other hand, has all of the above. I can’t watch their reality show, not only because it doesn’t hold my attention, but because I can’t handle when Pepa faces the camera full-on. Though she admits nothing, either Pepa had some work done on her face or I’m going to burn in hell, because she has some sort of disease. In the event that the latter is true, I’ll focus on the more obvious choices that Pepa makes that make her problematic. Pepa dresses like a 19 year-old with an unlimited Rave credit card. Sure, she may be proud of her body, but its time to grow up. I don’t wear the things I used to when I was 17, and I sincerely hope I don’t revert in 20 years and start hitting up Forever 21 and showing my midriff.<br /><br />Her attire isn’t the only thing that worries me about good ole Pep’. In general, she seems to have trouble dealing with the fact that shes 42. While Salt has a nice suburban abode, Pepa clearly Coach-bagged her way to the middle class, and doesn’t seem to have much to show for the money she’s made. Additionally, she’s always trying to stay in the club ‘till like 5 am, long after Salt has gone home (to her grown up life), claiming that she’ll be in the studio on time, but in true unprofessional fashion, doesn’t make it. She argues with Spinderella, talking down to her, and telling her that she’s not a true part of the group. I won’t talk about the fact that there is no longer a group, but you know, when you hold on like that, you fail to realize these things.<br /><br /><br />Get it together, Pepa. You’re 42! FORTY TWO! You’ve been alive 4 decades and change! People, if I ever act/look/dress/live like Pepa at 42, just kill me. I’ll forgive you.<br /><div></div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-7039729258350262582007-12-19T08:52:00.000-05:002007-12-19T08:54:58.802-05:00Baby Spears<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GLnHVRpT_Lpvs9NhHw5fxvCSiFiNefs7_HSUHS2_vH_Hpx9n8O3hFNji_Cjw7xyc_IANeqtYPiNRG3iCKS65QYJJixwQu_bzgPXVcUnQpxv0MZOQfZybLq7lf3DUx6RfX1AGAjwDidzM/s1600-h/jlynn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145681598469374786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GLnHVRpT_Lpvs9NhHw5fxvCSiFiNefs7_HSUHS2_vH_Hpx9n8O3hFNji_Cjw7xyc_IANeqtYPiNRG3iCKS65QYJJixwQu_bzgPXVcUnQpxv0MZOQfZybLq7lf3DUx6RfX1AGAjwDidzM/s400/jlynn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>As cynical as I may be, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn'</span>t see this one coming. By now, everyone knows that Britney Spears’ little sister is pregnant. And while I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t necessarily expect this, I’m confused as to why people are so shocked. I mean, Britney’s shenanigans <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t come from nowhere. Lets think about it:<br /><br />Brit started off in a trailer park. Okay, I don’t know that for sure, but I think she came from something similar, if not an actual park full of trailers. She fooled us all for a little bit, assuming the role of a wholesome little down-home girl, and even was even on the Mickey Mouse club. I don’t think I ever saw her in action on the Mickey Mouse club, since I only got to watch the Disney Channel during those free preview weeks they used to have, which would basically cause brats like myself and my sister to beg our parents to purchase a subscription to the channel. That never worked out well for us, as my Dad would ask us why we were watching TV in the first place, and threaten to cancel the cable. I'm still a little bitter that the DC comes as part of a regular cable package, but I'm trying to get over it.<br /><br />Anyway, Britney started exhibiting some symptoms of a problematic upbringing right around the “I’m a slave for you” days. What type of wholesome girl writhes on stage with a python slithering over her body? And, sadly enough, we all know what happened next. The break up with Justin, marriage #1, marriage #2, the two kids, the divorce, the drugs, and complete loss of sense. In just a few years, Britney has become a weave-plug visible, drugged-up has-been. Don’t get me wrong, I actually feel really bad for her. Lord knows that if the world knew all the crazy things I do, I’d never get a job/home/restaurant reservation again. But, such is life as a public figure. I always advocate going with the “I’m just a robot, I never talk, just smile” tactic a la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Beyonce</span>.<br /><br />So anyway, Jamie Lynn is 16 years old, and pregnant. Unfortunately, not that rare of an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">occurrence</span> these days. Her poor mom. She was quoted as saying that her daughter is pregnant with her ‘long-term boyfriend’. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Uhhh</span>, 16 year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">olds</span> don’t have ‘long-term boyfriends’, but if that makes you feel better, then fine. Things should get pretty interesting in about 6 months, when there is yet another Spears’ offspring. Let’s pray that Jamie Lynn can discontinue the dysfunction and raise the next great American superstar. Or at least, not do things like her sister, that will make her kids suicidal once they learn how to use <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">google</span>.<br /><br />When I told a friend of mine that Jamie Lynn was pregnant, she was like “WHAT?! Her little sister? The one who is supposed to be the next Britney?”. To which I said, “but don’t you see? She already is!”</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-50772642330269678252007-12-18T08:37:00.001-05:002007-12-18T10:44:49.964-05:00So somebody explain this to me . . .<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-2zQ11vJqd2ciAxYMhJSQMrSg4J-Ep24Imk1ySzTxdhhyvtGznSAiNHIoDpJF3aXQsUsWjm84U8lSnFNzW0iuI1Weg1o_eVYvLIO8BSo7Rx6biiTpnMn-cB_x-vTYiCWcd5zwNaL6GdF/s1600-h/tt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145306703659008818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-2zQ11vJqd2ciAxYMhJSQMrSg4J-Ep24Imk1ySzTxdhhyvtGznSAiNHIoDpJF3aXQsUsWjm84U8lSnFNzW0iuI1Weg1o_eVYvLIO8BSo7Rx6biiTpnMn-cB_x-vTYiCWcd5zwNaL6GdF/s400/tt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>This chick sluts it up on myspace like every other common whore, and ends up getting a reality show on MTV. And they could actually find people to date her?<br /><br />I cannot and will not do Tila Tequila. And not because she is talentless, vapid, has a preemie forehead, or even because her show is stupid. But because she’s encouraging myspace coonery in the masses. I have a myspace account for the sole purpose of looking at the tomfoolery that is some desperate folks’ pages. Yes, if you have a promiscuous profile picture, a profile survey that reveals any of your sluttery, or even too many glittery-looking appliqués, then I’m talking about you. Yes, if you take pictures with your friends in your trampwear, posing like a porn star and mentioning that this will be a great myspace picture (which i've hear far too many times), then I'm talking to you. Actually, if you actively use a myspace account period, I’m talking about you. Get with the times and get on facebook.<br /><br />But I digress. Tila’s inability to properly enunciate a word, let alone a sentence, it evidence that instead of building her page and amassing millions of friends, she should have been studying for her GED. Now look at where she is: on a reality TV show on MTV, “dating” a bunch of losers/stalkers, and (I think) seriously hoping that she finds “true love”. I mean, that has to be all shes doing, because if she gets a second show, then I’ll know that MTV is in more trouble that I originally though. The real issue is that America is in trouble. Tila Tequila, Flavor of Love, Soul Plane, Fox News . . . where is this country headed?<br /><br />If you have any sense, boycott Tila Tequila and Myspace. You also may want to boycott Tila Tequila because there is one scene when she gets out of the pool and all her make up has rubbed off. All I can say is that someone in production has it out for her, because that shot right there might have ruined what little “career” she had left. I guess its back to Sonic for Tila. See ya in the trailer park, love.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-45390541264176926602007-12-17T08:34:00.000-05:002007-12-17T08:36:25.587-05:00The Scott Storch Sunglasses Fund<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kHycKgnI5bj4Uzw2YGe9prO628jnhmYFeUa7qGICfW_EhfFDkNnQ4-U-RzxA94jWZznvxRvBnAORnzyyshZxu2NXtfQloeE8a2OXzG1zFgzlfqts3RbtzBiXBpamejUV0XqZ_Qap9e5t/s1600-h/sstorch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144935021484180258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kHycKgnI5bj4Uzw2YGe9prO628jnhmYFeUa7qGICfW_EhfFDkNnQ4-U-RzxA94jWZznvxRvBnAORnzyyshZxu2NXtfQloeE8a2OXzG1zFgzlfqts3RbtzBiXBpamejUV0XqZ_Qap9e5t/s400/sstorch.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Storch</span> is having some financial problems. Although reportedly worth $70 million in 2006, by August of this year, he only had $17 million. Quite the loss, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Scotty</span>.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But I don't really care about his money. What I do care about is making sure that he never takes those sunglasses off. Now, I'm not sure why Scott started wearing those glasses, but I'm eternally thankful that he does. Can you imagine that face without them? While I usually find sunglasses in the club, on the street at night, or anywhere else inappropriate like say, dinner, highly offensive, Scott gets a lifetime pass.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But let's move on the the money. Something about Scott just screams "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">cokehead</span>" to me, and being that he hangs around people like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Linsday</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lohan</span> and Lil' Wayne, I don't doubt that most of the money he lost went up his nose. Probably that and some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">negrodian</span> spending characteristics, not to mentioning paying for all the women he dates (because I'm pretty sure he has to pay them-- again, look at that face). I know how to spend money, but even I would have trouble going through $53 million that fast.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Which leads me to my main point. We've got to keep an eye on Scott's cash. Don't worry, I'll take the lead. If his assets dwindle to less than $5 million, I'm starting the Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Storch</span> Sunglasses Fund, and will do my best to make it tax deductible. Because Michael Jackson already gives me enough nightmares. I don't need to lose any sleep after seeing Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Storch's</span> full frontal facial nudity.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-2885520365816874042007-12-14T08:49:00.000-05:002007-12-14T09:09:19.280-05:00And the winner is . . .<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-IrHcQIhvGKzmfLxHYj87GmjGBC8OioYOWmOiA94WFv4NXjPeOjixUrk6iVAQJ9kd_Nllzr8pCN2E8thSCcZU_JR8PLzl80mlXz_QRogkBBit-HmIURUZsctnfUdRMTSvt5o7FJHeOJH/s1600-h/earrings.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143830347305714450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-IrHcQIhvGKzmfLxHYj87GmjGBC8OioYOWmOiA94WFv4NXjPeOjixUrk6iVAQJ9kd_Nllzr8pCN2E8thSCcZU_JR8PLzl80mlXz_QRogkBBit-HmIURUZsctnfUdRMTSvt5o7FJHeOJH/s400/earrings.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>As 2007 comes to a close, I’m reflecting on a lot of the things I’ve seen and done, as well as some of the decisions I’ve made. With only about two more weeks left in the year, I plan on being out and about, doing some partying and socializing, but I doubt that I’ll ever see anything like this again. For that reason, I feel comfortable awarding the coon of the year award to the unnamed gentleman above.<br /><br />I happened upon this poor bloke at a party last weekend in lower Manhattan. He was gracious enough to invite one of my friends up to his table, and didn’t kick us out when about 10 people proceeded to join her and down a bottle of Grey Goose without so much as asking his name. For that reason, I feel slightly guilty outing him like this, but his accessories were so unacceptable that I have no other choice. Please look closely at the picture above. Do you see something wrong?<br /><br />Well, you might be able to see a few things wrong. But most of them are rather subjective. I don’t particularly like his shirt, and I’m not necessarily feeling his chain, but keep looking. Look at his earlobes. What does this man have on? WHAT DOES THIS MAN HAVE IN HIS EARS?<br /><br />Sadly enough, I don’t know either. Stunned upon looking up at his leering face and seeing those heavy, gaudy, gold-plated earrings assaulting my vision, I never ended up talking to him. I think he may have asked if I wanted a drink, and with wide eyes focused on his ears, and a mouth hanging open in shock, I reached down, and without looking, got a glass, and handed it to him. He smiled, handed me the drink, and all the while I never closed my mouth. As more of my friends came over and I pointed out his earrings, I watched their reactions, from shock to disgust, and even in some cases, fear. I believe that one of my friends actually threw herself on the couch when she saw them.<br /><br />As I said, even in person, after many, many minutes of staring from all different angles, I still was unable to decipher what, exactly, his earrings were supposed to be. My best guess was strawberries. Yes, I think this man had two gigantic, gold-plated strawberries hanging off his earlobes. And he KNEW he was doing it big, with his busy shirt, chain, crowded teeth and bottles of Goose. He was dancing all up on one of my friends, smiling like he had just won the lotto, and shaking those earrings for the whole club to see. And just for having the audacity to not only buy, but actually wear some foolishness like that, I’ve awarded him the Coon of the Year award.<br /><br />Strawberry Shortcake, congratulations.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-81124142559321059352007-12-13T08:51:00.000-05:002007-12-13T08:53:55.798-05:00Please Arrest<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbZaRyv0z8RCmxfmtJLG9rRsV0vgi6CMXm7lH2xA3mPHe-6EmTUWJFzVTNMdJLHUoYNyzGXKOmJZwDXyJP1eVICM4tRA3hQwvpHooNBXIvlrV4zg3514j0MWp_sSKqIq9uLSXuJUPjEFV/s1600-h/montell+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143455123102769538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbZaRyv0z8RCmxfmtJLG9rRsV0vgi6CMXm7lH2xA3mPHe-6EmTUWJFzVTNMdJLHUoYNyzGXKOmJZwDXyJP1eVICM4tRA3hQwvpHooNBXIvlrV4zg3514j0MWp_sSKqIq9uLSXuJUPjEFV/s400/montell+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Montell’s delivery man. Nope, I’m not talking about his paperboy, florist, or any restaurants that may deliver to him. I’m talking about whoever it is that supplies Montell with his ‘medicinal’ marijuana. You see, Montell’s been toking on that oooh-wee a bit too much, and starting to act rather irrationally.<br /><br />It can be argued that Montell has acted irrationally for a very long time. I know, because I used to watch his show when I was in middle school (don’t ask why, there really is no explanation). I really felt like he was about helping people, except of course, when he brought that eccentric psychic, Sylvia Browne on, and she used to bite her thumb, look at people really sadly, and say things like “oh, honey, I’m sorry. You’re going to have some really traumatic deaths in the family next year”. Thanks Sylvia, but I’d rather not know, you know? Like, can I just come to New York, go see the tree in Roc center, go to Montell’s show, and then return to Iowa without you telling me that my son is going to die?<br /><br />Anyway, Montell recently traveled to Savannah, Georgia, to promote a pharmaceutical company, or something. Probably to promote his dealer as the leading source of ‘medicinal’ marijuana. But I digress. Some high school journalist had the nerve to question Montell about the ethical lines that are consistently blurred by pharmaceutical companies when it comes to profiting off of medicine taken by very sick people. Montell, probably sober at the time, brushed the question off and kept it moving. Later on, in the lobby of the hotel, and clearly after taking a few hits of that good stuff, and feeling like he was on top of the world, he let the poor little girl know how he really felt. This is what he said: “<em><strong>Don't look at me like that. Do you know who I am? I'm a big star, and I can look you up, find where you live and blow you up</strong></em>.”<br /><br />Oh really, Montell. Really? I have a few questions:<br /><br />(1) You’re a big star? I’m not sure about that Montell. If you’re a ‘big star’, you wouldn’t have to say it. Its kind of like the women who wear the “I’m sexy” t-shirts. 99% of the time, they’re not. Monty, do you think that Beyonce walks around saying “I’m a big star”? Not so much.<br /></div><br /><div>(2) Montell, all of us can look people up. All it takes is fingers, half a brain, and either the internet or a phone book. Are you alluding to having special powers? Try harder.<br /></div><br /><div>(3) Are you really going to blow her up, Montell? How, pray tell, would you do that? Would you go out like a champ and just throw some dynamite in her window? Or would you hire someone? You know, being that you’re a ‘big star’ and all. Maybe one of your fans will just do it for you, being that you’re such a ‘big star’. And your fans aren’t lonely housewives in middle America, right? They’re people with expertise in bomb-building and assassinations, right?<br /><br />But you know, Montell’s PR people got their minds right, and forced him to publically apologize. He claims he thought the girl was at the hotel to harass him, and he just lost his temper.<br /><br />Montell, we don’t believe you, you need more people. You know you were snacking passing a bowl around up in your room, and came downstairs trying to stunt.<br /><br />Do better.</div>n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3197563292825995281.post-27300234868262669842007-12-12T07:30:00.000-05:002007-12-12T15:39:12.124-05:00Who Killed Michael Jackson?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ZTPFkmHiS9qgVIHcUGGNCa5VjiX3Me0YKrbytXSAEHr9KSZ_VN3H3YxNMmXQc1lRZkolInd2izCZL7gVBy6ja9eqanw_vSv9V6GrrxPtL1L6ANlueHxnW9EM6hFbaHffjdn36z3e21Sl/s1600-h/lil+mike.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142940182293782882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ZTPFkmHiS9qgVIHcUGGNCa5VjiX3Me0YKrbytXSAEHr9KSZ_VN3H3YxNMmXQc1lRZkolInd2izCZL7gVBy6ja9eqanw_vSv9V6GrrxPtL1L6ANlueHxnW9EM6hFbaHffjdn36z3e21Sl/s320/lil+mike.gif" border="0" /></a><br />Yesterday, when I was checking my email, I looked up and saw this ad. and then I realized: I couldn't answer the question. Who IS that little brown cherub? It sure isn't this dude, who I'm pretty sure would scare my 4 year-old-niece if she ever saw him in person.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF_1eGPzFLLqzCZWr5Dp6acLLNK4BLn89kDxGMs4K_tWlDfF06Gmnvuj9URNjlyMTy0LNwRkGJFl_vpIa23SyxzvhJq1Kc1VkpfuMUU6yVsXM9wF4gJLc-RIjZnfXQMVupf-aaUemITo2/s1600-h/big+mike.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF_1eGPzFLLqzCZWr5Dp6acLLNK4BLn89kDxGMs4K_tWlDfF06Gmnvuj9URNjlyMTy0LNwRkGJFl_vpIa23SyxzvhJq1Kc1VkpfuMUU6yVsXM9wF4gJLc-RIjZnfXQMVupf-aaUemITo2/s1600-h/big+mike.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142940865193582962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF_1eGPzFLLqzCZWr5Dp6acLLNK4BLn89kDxGMs4K_tWlDfF06Gmnvuj9URNjlyMTy0LNwRkGJFl_vpIa23SyxzvhJq1Kc1VkpfuMUU6yVsXM9wF4gJLc-RIjZnfXQMVupf-aaUemITo2/s320/big+mike.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To be honest, he'd scare me too. One night, after enjoying a few spiked beverages and other goodies, I turned to my friend on the couch, and posed a very serious question. "What would you do if Michael Jackson burst in the room right now?"<br /><br />He looked at me, then the door, then me again. Suddenly, he seemed really nervous. "I'd probably jump out the window".<br /><br />I happen to live on the fifth floor, so what my friend was essentially saying, was that he would commit suicide if Michael Jackson came in. And the more I thought about it, the more nervous I got. In fact, I actually got up, and dead bolted my front door, just in case The King of Pop was pressing his ear against the door, listening to our conversation, and ready to make his entrance.<br /><br />So I want to ask: what the hell happened to Michael Jackson? I mean, I know Joe was crazy, he was forced to be a child star, Mr. Rat got killed, etc. But none of this would explain his skin lightening a thousand shades, his hair implants/wig/whatever is on his head, the extensive plastic surgery, or the unforgivable loss of bass in his voice.<br /><br />I have a theory. Someone either killed the real Michael Jackson, or they entered into an agreement: the real Mike went into hiding, and this lunatic has his riches at his disposal to do whatever he desires. I'm gonna have to go with the latter, and as I say that, I realize that this dude is really living it up: Adopting nordic babies, naming them Blanket and Prince Michael while claiming, against all genetic possibilities, that they're his. Talking in a falsetto 24/7. Living on Never Never Land and having sleepovers will random little boys. Touching fans in Croatia and acting all humble as they pass out.<br /><br />I think the real Michael Jackson is chillin' in Detroit. He's probably a mechanic with really heavy sideburns and perpetual toothpick in his mouth. He probably smashes the radio with a bat every time a Jackson 5 oldie comes on, and does the moonwalk in the shower. I don't care what you say, that monster above is not the original King of Pop.<br /><br />Somebody needs to lock this man up. And find the real Michael Jackson.n.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03328484621724427002noreply@blogger.com2