Who Ate the Last Chicken Wing?

Guys and gals, it’s time that we sit down and have a little interrogation chat about something that’s even more important than world peace – a little matter of who the hell ate the last chicken wing?! 

Eating a man’s last chicken wing is like asking a woman about her age or weight.  You just don’t frikkin do it unless you’re trying to get your ass kicked!  It ranks up there with carjacking, lying and retail false advertisement.  Sure, a guilty culprit may lick the grease off their finger tips or wipe them clean on the fabric of their shirt or jeans, but the evidence lies in the pores of their skin and the aroma of their breath.  And a true chicken fanatic can sniff out the guilty like dogs sniff each other’s butts.

Evidence is eminent.  There is the trail of chicken crumbs; hot sauce stains; and grease-flavored belches.  There is the tummy rub; the heavy eyelids; and the smile of cured hunger satisfaction.  But the one thing that every last-chicken-wing-eating-thief fails to remember is that the last chicken wing usually has someone else’s name written all over it.  And when chicken lovers come back to the table to find that the last wing has been polished off, all hell breaks loose and no one is safe!  Especially if that last wing belongs to ME!

Women love diamonds.  Men love football.  Children love candy.  Old people love prunes.  Young people love booze.  But what about all those folks who scrape up their last dime for a single fix of a box of wings?  Popeyes, KFC, Golden Skillet, Wings & Things, House of Wings, New York Fried Chicken, Church’s Fried Chicken, and even Bojangles makes a killing off of people who are ashamed to enter a 12-step wing anonymous program, and you mean to tell me that there is someone in the world who thinks it’s okay for a greedy mofo to come along and snatch the last wing like a scavenger?  Even pigeons have more couth.

Now if you really want to piss someone off, don’t call them out of their name; don’t insult their intelligence; don’t even miscalculate their change.  Eat their last piece of chicken.  Just be prepared to run for the border because an ass whooping is on its way like a bill collector coming to collect a debt!

Actually, let me paint a more specific picture.

If you or anyone from your entourage decide to sit down for a meal with Hottywood, you can be sure there will be some deep fried chicken wings on the menu.  You can also be sure that when it comes down to the last piece, your fingers better be bound inside your pockets, ‘cause Hotty don’t play that!  Now I may have posed the question of who ate the last wing from the previous meal I shared with a few compulsive wing eaters, but trust me, that question was asked merely to warn the guilty perpetrator.  Because if there’s one thing that never lies, it’s my nose!  I can sniff out some bullsh*t and I can sniff out some chicken wings.  And I will find you!

“Watch your back ’cause I’m coming for you, sucka!”


Quote of the week:   “A greedy father has thieves for children.”

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Watch out for Brandii

I swear . . . every Brandii I know. SMH



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After being holed up in a grungy jail cell for a crime committed by his alter ego, Gardner, a Washington DC newspaper editor, sits down for his first one-on-one interview with the very one who framed him, Hottywood Helps. What Gardner discovers is that Hottywood’s wisdom (per the nonconformist musings of his own witty advice column, ASK HOTTYWOOD!) comes with a past. The advice connoisseur embraces his calling as an unorthodox advice columnist when he finds himself amidst the drama of friends who had betrayed their love interests, in addition to witnessing a sideways cultural upheaval in his very own neighborhood; and in true artist fashion, paints pictures on his computer screen as Gardner experiences the adventures first hand.

Through Gardner’s fingertips, Hottywood’s voice sings in blog posts responding to individuals seeking solutions to their troubled day-to-day lives. Whether he’s filling the seats of church pews or spinning in office swivel chairs, Hottywood does not disappoint in guiding the misguided with over-the-top solutions to small life difficulties and easily comes into this own as a beacon of counsel behind a facade of a pair of dark shades.

Washington DC is a small city with big nerve. Ask anyone.

Better yet, ASK HOTTYWOOD!

Don’t be a Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins

Kats and kittens, it’s been a while since I’ve taken some time out of my endless 15 minute coffee break to complain about anything. And by a while, I mean yesterday. But today, as I place my leftover buffalo wings on top of the office copier machine in hopes of mass-reproducing the spicy deliciousness, I am really perturbed by the smelliest smell I’ve ever smelled.

Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins, the blond haired, blue eyed accounting specialist down the hall, just left out of the break room with his mid-day snack. To be honest, I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you that whatever it is, it’s loaded with onions, garlic, beans and an ADMIT ONE ticket to the bathroom. I want to say I’m offended by the smell, but I could very well be offended by the fact that ol’ Delquon didn’t offer my greedy ass any [insert PLAYA-HATEDNESS here].

Delquon isn’t the first violator of the shit you don’t eat in the office. I may be guilty of it, too, since I’m the first to warm my shrimp, crabs or collard greens in the microwave; but we aren’t talking about me because nothing I do is wrong as long as I don’t get caught doing it. Delquon’s dumb ass got caught red handed. With this said, let us be reminded that only cool people (and by cool people, I mean me) are allowed to warm up:

  • Seafood – There are enough people whose body stinks without appropriate showers.
  • Chitterlings – It’s bad enough something can smell as if it crawled up your butt and died. The last thing you should do is pull all that shit out of your insides and serve it on a plate.
  • Bean and onion burritos – GAS ASS ALERT!
  • Repurposed eggs – Don’t ask. Just don’t do it.
  • Fermented soy beans – Anything fermented is a call for disaster.
  • Steak & cheese sandwiches (but only if it comes from the deadliest carry out in the hood) – no ghetto sandwich is complete without extra onions – fried and/or raw.
  • Tortilla soup – Tortillas already smell like someone put their whole body in a bathtub EXCEPT their feet.
  • Anything where the special ingredients are monkey fur, frog hearts or the thumbs of a gorilla, for obvious reasons.

Delquon, ol’ boy, you are not me; therefore I cannot allow you to get away with disrespecting our office with that mess you call food. You call it food. I call it an edible boat anchor to hold the weight of your pot belly where it is until high cholesterol or an overdose of calories carries you to meet your maker. Until then, we are having an ice cream social in conference room 14A at 4:00pm and you are not invited.

Quote of the Week:  More people will get out of your way if you say “I’m gonna puke!” than if you say “Excuse me.”


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Dear Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, “Watch Your Back!”

Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.  I’ve taken your messy laziness for far too long!

On Monday you burned my toast, leaving with me with only the buttery middle of the bread, probably the size of a U.S. silver quarter.  As much as I wanted to punch you in your titty ball, I forgave you.  It was, after all, Monday.

When Tuesday rolled around, you completely said screw the toast all together.  Though your intentions were in the right place, replacing the toast with stale bagels only landed you in the number one spot on my sh!t list.  I wasn’t sure if I’d acknowledge you as a sh!t list offender or not, but after sitting in the dentist’s office for three hours waiting to have my broken tooth fixed, coming to that decision was easier than I thought.

By the time I accepted that I didn’t have anyone to hump on Wednesday, I realized my forgiving attitude would shift swiftly if you didn’t get your act together.  I’m not sure if you were pissed off with Mr. Cafeteria Lady for not putting it down the night before or if the kitchen was too hot for you to slave over a stove, but serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Tuesday’s stale ass bagels was not only ghetto, but warranted me to steal one of your hairnets to give to my neighbor’s pet pit bull to sniff so he’d have your scent when I released his viciousness on you for not satisfying my hunger.  If the problem however was Mr. Cafeteria Lady, I figured it would be okay if I whooped his ass myself and told him to handle his business so you don’t have to receive any more hate mail from me or any other employee in the building.  I haven’t gotten around to fighting him yet because the dentist told me I needed seven days of rest so the antibiotics he gave me can take effect on my tooth.  Because my mouth is still sore, even if Mr. Cafeteria Lady isn’t the problem, I might kick his butt just for the hell of it.  I need to take out my frustrations some kind of way.

When I woke up Thursday morning, I prayed for a change of heart.  I asked the Lord for patience and understanding in the event I found another strand of your wig hair in my runny scrambled eggs or another one of your IDGAF (I don’t give a f—k) mystery meats.  But when I actually bit into the furry burger [or whatever the hell it was you served on the menu that day] and in fact almost choked to death like my cat does when he has a fur ball lodged in his throat, I drew the conclusion that I either didn’t pray hard enough or should have left out the curse words in my request for understanding.  My throat is still itching and I still want to punch you in your titty ball.

Well today is Friday.  I am completely fed up from the lousy week I’ve had, the poor breakfast and lunch you’ve dished out all week, and am tired and hung over from the party I crashed last night, not to mention sick as a dog for mixing alcohol with antibiotics.  Learning there is no damn coffee in the coffee pot this morning is the last straw!  You have had ample time to get it right and you still haven’t complied.  Enough is enough!  I would like to officially warn you to email your ass home today before you get off work, because if you don’t there will be a gang of girls waiting for you in the parking lot to beat the crap out of you, unless you have a large pizza delivered to my office with extra cheese, pepperoni AND sausage…and no hair!

I will not accept any apologies, sob stories, or any forms of bribery that does not involve mozzarella cheese or vegetable oil.

I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you just had a bad week, however that is not my problem and giving you the benefit of the doubt will not protect you from getting drop-kicked in the parking lot.  I am a firm believer that you must learn from your mistakes so that you won’t make them again.  And after those girls run your wig up a flag pole, perhaps then you will take your job a little more seriously and realize that employees that deal with a whole bunch of mess eight hours a day, five days a week, will not tolerate any excuses from you or anyone from the kitchen staff.  Food is our salvation and cooking is your job.  Get with the program or get lost!


Have a blessed day!

Thank you,


 Quote of the week:  “Avoid fruits and nuts. You are what you eat.”

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Happy Thanksgiving from Hottywood Helps!

Twas the night of Thanksgiving,
I could not sleep.
I tried counting backwards,
I tried counting sheep.

The leftovers beckoned –
the dark meat and white
I fought the temptation
with all of my might.

Tossing and turning with anticipation,
the thought of a snack became infatuation.
I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door,
and gazed at the fridge, full of goodies galore!
Gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes,
pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.

I felt myself swelling so plump and so round,
’til all of a sudden, I rose off the ground.
I crashed through the ceiling, floating into the sky,
with a mouthful of pudding and a handful of pie.
I managed to yell as I soared pass the trees….
Happy eating to all – pass the cranberries, please.

May your stuffing be tasty.
May your turkey be plump.
May your potatoes ‘n gravy have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious.
May your pies take the prize.
May your Thanksgiving dinner stay off of your thighs!!


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“Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist”

The Rules of Bacon

Guys and Gals, this week will be a crazy week for me as work has once again interfered with my ‘actual’ life – the [perfect] life of my inhuman consumption of potato chips and grape soda while blatantly and selfishly slacking off and vegging out in front of the boob tube.

Since it’s imperative that I go rub elbows with Uncle Sam (to stand over his shoulder as he puts his John Hancock on my paycheck), I’m going to leave with you food for thought for my second favorite thing on this planet (my first favorite thing should only be discussed late at night with someone special after a few drinks in private; PS, my first favorite thing is none of your business if you haven’t figured it out by now, so stop trying to be nosy).

Meanwhile, enjoy! And if I haven’t said this to you in the last 24-48 hours, EAT MORE BACON.

Go now. And prosper.

Rules of Bacon

I’ll be out of the building for the rest of the week so I’ll catch you on the rebound. Meanwhile if you need to reach me or have any questions, click on the box below.


Duck Sauce Bandits

Guys and gals, it’s been a short while since the last time we’ve griped about anything, so today we will join forces to take a stand against carryout associates who are stingy with their duck sauce.

What is it with these carryout places that prohibit them from giving up more than one packet of duck sauce for all those blasted noodles and rice?  Mingh Lee, Hwong Sai, Zhang Lo, and Kwei Lau Woo all have the same attitude problem when you ask them for extra duck sauce.  First, they look at you as if you’re asking for too much, and then they form their thin lips to tell you that you’re going to have to cough up an extra $.25 for an additional packet.

“Please pause with me for a moment has I clench my heart and gasp at the preposterousness of a quarter of a dollar for something you’re only going to taste once with a mouthful of spit!”

Are you friggin’ kidding me?  Are these packets of sweet heavenly goodness coming out of their paychecks?  Why the hell should the general public have to pay for extra duck sauce?  That’s like paying for the white on rice.

There can only be one of two reasons why carryout associates are ready to pull out their nunchucks at the request of any additional condiments: either (1) they are cheap as hell or (2) the price of duck sauce over in China is as steep as the price of gas is here in the states.

Well, just like Americans and illegal aliens alike have come up with innovative ways to paste pigeon feathers onto their walking shoes to avoid ridiculously scathing gas prices, greedy people who share the same carryout-consumer gripe have become more creative in getting their extra duck sauce, soy sauce and even hot mustard.  Those innovations all ironically include the use of collected fire wood, aerosol spray paint and a book of matches.  That’s right; the greedy and hungry have finally revolted against the cheap and stingy.  “Enough is enough.”

“Whatever happened to the saying, “The customer is always right.”?  Where’s the love?”

For the sake of all things fried and dipped in sesame seeds, loosen up the grip on the duck sauce, carryout associate-son!  How do you expect to come to ‘the hood,’ open up a chicken wing joint that conveniently serves all the lo mein a brutha can eat and then put a cap on the amount of condiments to be given away with each order?  Haven’t your business plans taught you that hood rats overdo everything?  We buy clothes, cars and people that are too far out of our budgets, so it’s only obvious that we’re going to want to overdo it on the fried rice and chow mein.  For you to be smart enough to fry chicken wings the way you do to the point where everyone in the neighborhood is willing to pack on a few extra summer-time pounds, you sure are stupid!  Charging us for the extra “must haves” will only lead to the undoing of your fine grease-filled establishment.

After asking, pleading, and complaining, these warnings have now turned into threats.  Give us some more damn duck sauce or else we’ll have to pull out our stun guns and candle lighters and show you that we mean business.  When it comes to food, drinks and booty calls, we don’t play!  If you think seeing a pissed off Bruce Lee is something, wait until you see a pissed off hungry hood rat!

For your sake, you should be glad we’re talking about duck sauce and not chicken wings.  Otherwise there would be all kinds of hell to pay and guess who would be the leader of that pack.  I won’t call any names, but let’s just say it rhymes with Pottywood.  And I know you wouldn’t want to piss him off.  He’d get you if it was the last thing he’d do.  If but for no other reason and declaration that 90% of any effort is getting started.


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Quote of the Week:  “It’s not holding on that makes you strong; it’s letting go.”  

Shake and Bake…I Mean Wake and Bake

Have you ever sat at your desk and wondered what you were going to eat for lunch? Of course you have. Who hasn’t? But have you ever awaken from your morning slumber (I mean at home, roughly between 5:30a and 6:30a – BEFORE WORK – not “sleep-at-your-desk” slumber) and wondered what you were going to eat for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner? I can’t say everyone has done it. I mean it’s possible, but more likely if you wake up with the munchies, you stoner!

Only greedy human hoovers who’ve spent their entire night sucking up one end of a ganja stick wake up with cracker crumbs on their brains. Don’t think you’re fooling anyone. When you’re announcing to a room full of colleagues at the morning all-hands staff meeting that you’re hungry and you’ve already mapped out your dinner menu, everyone knows upfront that you are going to fail next week’s surprise drug test. Oh, and SURPRISE…it’s no surprise! So don’t be surprised when someone (or everyone) says “I told you so,” during your termination you just got canned last day of work party.

Just say NO; only never say NO to your cafeteria lady…or your weed supplier.


Quote of the Week:  “There is a chemical in weed called “Fuck it.” If you can just get that into your system it will change your life.”


What if Suburbanites Took Over DC’s Green Line Metro

DC METROIf you’re a native of Washington DC, then chances are you are familiar with the shenanigans of metro’s GREEN line. For those of you that are unfamiliar with Washington’s metro system, specifically the GREEN line, it isn’t a fun place to visit and you sure as hell wouldn’t want to live there. You wouldn’t survive the wretchedness.

On a given day, you’re likely to see little urban school kids passing a blunt, while not offering any puff-puff passes to potheads they know not; women fighting and ripping weave out of each other’s eyebrows while their children throw dice from their strollers, placing bets on which one of their mothers will win the brawl (aw crap[s]); or panhandlers begging for enough pennies to buy a sandwich laced with coke. I could go on. No really. I could go on AND ON AND ON.

Metro’s GREEN line is a ratchet1 staple for the urban community – metro riders with no wings, horses, bikes, cars, or nerve to highjack anyone else for their wings, horses, bikes or cars. But what would happen if the tables were turned and the urban community metro riders felt unsafe if their suburbanite counterparts wore their asses on their sleeves?

METRO FIGHTHow would urban commuters respond if their opposites boarded a train blasting heavy metal through the speakers of a flip phone? Or drink their Starbucks coffees from an Old English beer bottle…better yet, from a 40oz Steele Reserve 211 bottle? Or cursed boisterously out loud in complete sentences, enunciating every profane word? Or sing the theme song of the Facts of Life while using intrusively dangerous hand gestures? Or board the train with their baby strollers tricked out with hydraulics? Or fling their non-weaves, or as it’s referred to in the suburbanite community – extensions – only to release dandruff flakes or other unidentified hair particles? Or throw their jogging shoes over their shoulders after running a hundred miles in the same muddy puddles puppies pee in, boarding the train with no shoes, socks or crossbows to pass out to other riders so they can bulls eye a couple of smelly toes?

The answers to these questions are simple. They wouldn’t do that dumb shit! And neither should anyone else, no matter what ethnicity you hail from. The metro rail system, even the ghetto GREEN line, should be a cost effective commuter rail (if you could see my face you’d see I can barely say this without bursting into laughter. There’s nothing cost effective about the Washington DC’s metro rail system) where riders can be late to work in peace and where husbands and wives can secretly meet up with their f*ck buddies for lunch time quickies or whatever you want to call it so their spouse(s) wouldn’t know any better. It’s not (or shouldn’t be) a system for inconsiderate Earthlings to impose their vices on others, yet that is exactly what it is.

Instead of closing out this post with some profound conclusion, I’m just going to say if you’re in the DC area for any reason and you need to catch the GREEN line to say, a baseball game – walk. You may get some serious blisters on your feet; they may even fall off; but it would be safer than risking your life on the GREEN line. Trust me. I know. I died a few times on that line. I’m only around to tell the story because the world isn’t ready to lose me just yet. Either that or I’m too stubborn to die.


1 Ratchet (According to UrbanDictionary.com) – A diva, mostly from urban cities and ghettos, that has reason to believe she is every man’s eye candy. Unfortunately, she’s wrong.

Typical signs to beware of include, but are not limited to:

___BLARES anything by Drake, 2Chainz, Nicki Minaj, Gucci Mane, Waka Flocka, Lil Wayne, T-Pain, Cali Swag District, or any other garbage entertainment rapper ___rowdily quotes “lyrics” from aforementioned artists ___has a weave reminiscent of a bird’s nest after a tempest hit the tree it was in, and is dyed at least thrice ___wears torn leggings/stalkings (mostly of the fishnet variety), unpolished 8″ heels (or higher, depending on how God-awful they look), fitted jean jackets (to accent the blubber ’round their arms and stomach), and 4 layers of caked on make-up to go clubbing ___repeatedly use ludicrous terms such as “YOLO”, “swag”, “boost”, “beaking”, “doe”, “really”, “naw”, “actually”, “twerk”, “coaster”, “dagga”, etc., to make a valid statement when they speak ___have side bangs, despite having incredibly small-ass foreheads to support them ___are commonly overweight and ___are mind-numbingly stupid; a safe assumption to make would be saying they’re uneducated (as if they could pass the 4th grade)




Get Over Yourself

Every now and then it’s necessary for someone to knock you off your high horse and tell you to get over yourself.

Admit it. You’ve at one time or another busted out of your seams because your ass was too big for your britches. Your outfit was right. Your shoes were blindingly white. Your hair was tight. And everyone was on your jock, right? WRONG! There are only two people up your ass the way you are; you and the person you’re f*cking that week. Other than that, outside of an occasional “you look nice TODAY,” no one gives a shit about the pedestal you stand on.

___If you think any and every situation and/or conversation (to include social media posts) are about you; if you are able to turn any and every situation and/or conversation into something about you, GET OVER YOURSELF. I”ll bet you any amount of money that you are the only person as interested in you as you are. Really. No one cares. Shut up.

___If you want to brag about a new promotion you’ve just received to someone that can’t get out of the mailroom, GET OVER YOURSELF. Your bragging is merely falling on deaf ears and will almost always get your shoes stolen in a CVS parking lot (everyone knows there’s a CVS next to every person’s place of employment, even if they work in a jungle. CVS’ are like churches and liquor stores. You can find one on every corner).

___If you think your sex is the best and everyone wants to f*ck you, GET OVER YOURSELF. You are doing nothing but making yourself out to be a horny little jack rag, and the only thing that will get you is a sexually transmitted disease. #SHIELDS!

___If you think you have the answer to everybody’s problems, GET OVER YOURSELF. Nobody likes a know-it-all and you’d be surprised at the number of people who couldn’t care less about what you think.

___If you think your personality is so much of a winner that everyone flocks to you, GET OVER YOURSELF. People like you are usually the ones other people call upon as a last resort. In actuality, your personality could almost be compared to a glass of unsweetened tea.

___If you think you’re too good to return phone calls, GET OVER YOURSELF. Someone probably drunk-dialed or butt-dialed your number anyway.

___If you think you can sing or rap better than any or all other fellow artists, GET OVER YOURSELF. Everyone is their own best audience when the shower curtain is closed.

___If you think you are the world’s greatest cook, GET OVER YOURSELF. I bet there are some babies over in Africa with kwashiorkor that wouldn’t eat that mess you serve on a plate.

I’m not telling you not to be proud of yourself. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be confident and think highly of yourself. What I’m telling you is that you shouldn’t expect everyone to push you to the front of the line simply because you think that’s where you belong. Really. No disrespect. It’s just natural that not everyone cares about you as much as you do.

In a word…or three…GET OVER YOURSELF.


Quote of the Week:  “You think I’m being a bitch? Let me check my notes to see if I care. Nope. Not at all. Have a nice day.”  

Why Sunglasses are as Important as Underwear

Over a period of history, dating back even to the 12th century (so I’ve been told. The 12th century is just a wee bit before my time), sunglasses have undergone quite a few changes in terms of functionality and appearance.


  • In the beginning, China witnessed the first occurrence of sunglasses, which were most commonly worn by the wealthy.
  • Later in the 18th century, sunglasses with vision correction were conceived by James Ayscough.
  • Sunglasses really took off in the 1920s, which was contributed by the prevalence of the film industry.
  • During the decades after the 1930s, sunglasses were widely accepted and has since maintained its popularity.

Traditional sunglasses were only expected to offer proper protection against UV rays and HEV radiation. Then came the innovation in sunwear style ( various shapes, sizes and colors).  Today, sunglasses have become more than just a popular accessory. They are in fact quite as important as underwear. You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. It’s simple actually. We all wear underwear to cover our asses. That’s about the only reason I can come up with right now for wearing underwear, but when you think about it, the only reason we wear sunglasses is to cover our eyes, right? WRONG. There are actually a few more functionalities of sunglasses. They not only come in handy to protect eyes from UV rays, but they also come in handy when:

sleepy dog glassesYou’re sleepy.
Far be it from me to judge anyone that wears sunglasses indoors. Well actually not far be it from me. I’ll judge. People look crazy wearing sunglasses indoors but I never stopped to consider that maybe those crazy folks are wearing their sunglasses indoors because they were up all night doing sinful things and woke up the next morning looking like a zombie from an episode of the Walking Dead. Hell, if I looked like that I’d hide behind a pair of dark specs too. Shit. Maybe I need to put my sunglasses on because I feel like my forehead will formally and intimately introduce itself to this keyboard any minute now.

You’re hungover. You can’t tell me that you’ve never gone to work with a hangover. The lights are too loud. The fax machine is too loud. Your head is pounding too loudly. The color of your blood shot eyes are too loud. What better way to hide your disheveled face than behind a pair of your darkest lenses? Sure, everyone may still be able to smell the alcohol seeping out of your pores, but smelly pores never looked so good behind an obscure pair of specs.

You’re having a bad hair day. You have to admit that sometimes even your best outfit can’t hide those straggly strands. Your clothes are too far away from your head. It’s not enough of a distraction. And if you think your outfit won’t distract from your head, then you can forget about your shoes. Don’t waste your time on sky high heels or the whitest pair of kicks money can buy. Instead throw on the coolest shades you can find. They’re right on your face and everyone looking into your dome will be fascinated that you owned your messy look. No matter what you wear; no matter how bushy, nappy, curly or bald your hair is…whether your braids are too tight or half of your baby hair has fallen out on the bus, a nice pair of sunglasses ALWAYS looks good and pulls a look together. They make whatever style you’re rocking, good or bad, look as if you meant to do it. Your bad hair day, coupled with a nice pair of sunglasses instantly transforms your style into BAMA CHIC. Problem solved!

You’re covertly checking out someone’s boobs. Men do it. Women even do it. Everyone checks out boobs. In an attempt not to single out any one group [boob lovers], sunglasses are also used to check out someone’s pecs, butt, and pants prints. Checking out these body parts is usually inappropriate, no matter what situation you’re in. Sunglasses are necessary to hide your roaming eyes so someone doesn’t accidentally roam their fist into your face.

In the end, the aesthetical progression in the sunwear industry does not conflict with sunglasses’ functional dimensions. They marry quite well, actually. In today’s world you can get a great pair of sunglasses in all shapes, sizes, and colors. And no matter how ugly the glasses are, how bad your hair is, how wrinkled your clothes are, or how disheveled your face appears, if you throw on a pair of sunglasses you instantly look cool. Sunglasses aren’t just a fashion thing. They are a necessity and should be a staple in everyone’s wardrobe.

To me, sunglasses are like potato chips – I can’t have just one!  In fact, I have a pair for each voice in my head.



Quote of the Week:  “With my sunglasses on, I’m Jack Nicholson. Without them, I’m fat and 60.” –Jack Nicholson

The Lack of Luck from Bird Poop

If you were to ask almost anyone if a bird pooping on your head was considered  good luck, they’d probably tell you “yes.” Most likely because of some myth or superstition they heard while growing up or while chug-a-lugging at a beer keg party in college or some after-hours church function. But you didn’t ask just anyone; you asked me. …well you didn’t ask, I volunteered – same thing in my book. Anyway my answer would be “no!”

If I were to swing from a vine with my pants down to my ankles and shitted on your head, would you consider that to be good luck? I don’t think so. The luck you would incur from me actually pooping on your head is if you were to catch me and beat the crap (some pun intended) out of me. With this example in mind, if a bird does decide to do his business on your head, your luck will only change for the better if you’re lucky enough not to get crapped on again.

Think about it. If you have droppings of any kind to fall on your head you’d most likely have stinky hair, and no matter how much you wash your hair, you’ll forever be dubbed with the nickname “Shithead.”

If it’ll make you feel any better, birds don’t just fly through the air searching to find a culprit to drop a load on. Well not all birds. I’m sure there’s a renegade or two up there. But since most birds (most of us are used to ghetto pigeons) are scavengers, they are full of shit from the garbage they eat. And while they must carry their own weight, logically it must be difficult to sail through the hair with a heavy load of excrement in their tummy, so they blow it out in order to travel light. When you look at it that way, it’s clear that they aren’t pooping on you purposely. It’s not you. It’s the shit they eat.

Still you can’t beat inevitability. It’s a proven fact that shit happens.


Quote of the Week:  “Depend on the rabbit’s foot if you will, but remember it didn’t work for the rabbit.”

Random Annoyance – A Mouthful of Talk

Am I the only one that wants to explode from the inside when listening to or watching someone show me their skill of speaking and chewing at the same time? I can’t be. This has to bother someone – and by someone I mean everyone – as much as it bothers me.

The last time I checked, speaking with a mouth full of food doesn’t win you any dates behind door number three. It isn’t worthy of recording this skill on a resume. It isn’t impressive at parties.


What it IS is rude and borderline nasty. It’s probably more rude than nasty, unless of course crumbs are spewing from the human cow’s mouth as they moo speak to you.

The problem with speaking and chewing simultaneously is that it’s slightly more annoying than listening to a lush slur his words; it’s a hare more frustrating than communicating with a bill collector who is stationed in a third world country; and in my personal opinion, it’s just about as suicidal as listening to an Aaron Neville Christmas album.

First there were flip-flops, then skinny jeans, then baggy jeans, then overly dramatic faux eyelashes, and now this.

Calgon, take me away!

Cow Fact


Quote of the Week:  “A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, but a wise man tells her that her mouth is extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.”

Food Poisoning The Latest Weight Loss Craze in Hollywood

Hollywood, CA – Some of the hottest celebrities in Tinseltown have been spotted with shopping carts full of expired foods from their local grocery stores in a strange effort to get on board the latest weight loss epidemic – food poisoning.

According to one popular highly publicized blond divorced “Friends” star who wishes to remain anonymous, the noroviruses in unhygienic products are just the right amount of contamination, resulting in nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, to lose a noticeably photogenic amount of weight. Though the star has once been very open in the past about using the Atkins diet to maintain a Hollywood-approved slender frame, she admits Atkins is the most unhealthy diet of all, “unlike food poisoning,” she says, “which also serves as a full body cleanser. It’s the best of two worlds.”

The new unhealthy diet plan leaves hundreds of overly paid celebrity nutritionists, personal trainers and plastic surgeons out of work. U.S. Bankruptcy Court documents in California reportedly show multiple jumping jack specialists and counterfeit medical companies filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy and estimated loss liabilities at $100 million to $600 million, about the cost a celebrity pays per week to get snapped with the body they want for a picture they pray will never show up on a “What Were They Thinking” list in a tabloid on a grocery store shelf.


Quote of the Week:  “It is after you have lost your teeth that you can afford to buy steaks.”