Twas the Night Before Christmas in the Hood

By Hottywood Helps

Twas the night before Christmas, all was said and done

Not a creature stirred, not a roach, rat or bum.

The stockings were hung on the radiator with fear

That St. Nicholas would knock it over like he did last year.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

High from the weed that had gone to their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our skins from a long booty clap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise,

Someone’s car was being jacked by some random masked boys.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

To make sure it wasn’t my car or I’d have to kick someone’s ass.

The moonlight bounced off the oil stained snow

Which pissed off the property manager and the neighborhood ho.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a pimped out sleigh and mutts dressed as reindeer.

With a little old driver shifting gears on the stick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his curse words came,

He whistled, and slurred, and called the bitches by name!

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the hood and over that wall!

Don’t piss on the roof or else I’ll slip and fall!

The bare naked trees that stood tall in the sky

Were blocking the vision of my already bad eyes.

To the roof of the projects the pimped ride flew,

With a bag of IOU’s and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

St. Nicholas falling into a pile of dog poop.

He was wiping his butt when I turned around.

St. Nick wasn’t as jolly as you’d expect him to sound.

He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his feet,

He gave me a head nod instead of using words to speak.

He carried with him a bundle of toys

That he’d stolen from other little girls and boys.

His eyes were red from the liquor he drank.

His breath was all stinky.  Santa was tanked!

He was mad from the poop that was smeared on his clothes,

Either that or from when he accidentally rubbed his nose.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

The same as the crackhead’s from down the street.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

I think he had the munchies because he asked for some jelly.

Stoned or drunk, he was a giant old midget

That was stealing, not giving, and couldn’t control his fidget.

A wink of his eye cloaked with Christmas care

Made me think I should probably be scared.

He spoke not a word, he made not a sound,

But as I predicted knocked the radiator to the ground.

When the children woke up, out of the window he flew,

Santa had done what he’d come to do.

He left us with nothing but a note under the tree

That read, “Next year Christmas is on me.”

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas next year ’cause tonight is my night!”

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The Booty Call Agreement

So this morning you woke up to a warm body next to you and was served breakfast in bed with the groceries you purchased with your hard earned money.  Did you miss something?  Somewhere during the night of your wild, scandalous and sadistic booty call, your FWB (friend with benefits) got the impression that your good wet-wet was an open invitation to a monogamous relationship.  News flash, moron: IT WAS JUST SEX!

More times than often one of your bed pals can get the wrong impression with just one twist of the body, one bounce of the rod or one moment too long of cuddle time and suddenly think tomorrow is the day you two set aside to go ring shopping.  This is what happens when one person gets a little too ancy about falling in love.  We’ve discussed this before in our Sex Ed 101 class.  Bumping pelvises is not the same thing as the pretentious promise, “I do.”

You should not have any regrets for wetting your whistle with someone else’s body spit.  It’s one of the many joys of life; one of the rewards for being single.  Some may argue it’s one of the rewards for being a lying, dastardly, cheating bastard (for those who are already committed).  The sex may have been great last night.  It may have been even greater this  morning, because there’s nothing like a ‘morning after’.  However you must be clear to the person you’re boning that it’s nothing more than sex – a desperate, yearning need to be filled with the pleasures of someone else’s sexual and willing desire.   After it’s all said and done, it’s more than likely that you’ll want them to dissipate into the sheets as if they were never there (once you’ve experienced the big “O” and washed their scent off your body of course).

Booty calls are good but they’re also misleading.  So the next time you invite someone over to your place to quench your horny thirst, be sure to have a visible stack of “booty call agreements” sitting on your nightstand.

A)  You want your partner to know they’re not the only one you’re screwing.  That way there’s no reason for them to get their hopes up of an oncoming relationship, no matter how good the f*ck is.

B)  They’ll know what to expect from the night, and

C)  What you expect from them.

See sample booty call agreement below:

If they are still blinded by your juicy va-jay-jay or steel power jack, feed them the same old clichés you’ve fed to all the other losers who misinterpreted your late night romper room calls:

Sometimes all a person needs is a good ol’ ego boost, a $20 bill or a scathing threat to get the message that you got what you needed from them and that’s all there is to it.  It doesn’t take much effort to give anyone the boot once they’ve signed that agreement.  It’s a binding contract.  It takes more effort to let them stay and lead them on than it does to be honest and kick them out.  They’ll be back.  They’ve already shown you how horny and delusional they are.  At this point, you have the upper hand.


Quote of the week:    “It is not uncommon for slight acquaintances to get married, but a couple really have to know each other to get divorced.”

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Weekend Eve: “Kiss My Ass,” Never Sounded So Good

Guys and Gals, the week is almost over and we have officially arrived to the sweet symphony of Thursday, better known as WEEKEND EVE!  Yesterday you reaped the benefits of Hump Day, now is the time to start fixing your lips to tell all your haters, bosses and bill collectors to, “Kiss my ass!”  You’ve dealt with pissy attitudes, impossible demands and the screeching cry of your alarm clock all for this one day to say, “Tomorrow is “Fuq ‘em Friday and the weekend is history in the making!”

Sure, you have one more day to slave over paperwork in an office that doesn’t appreciate you.  You have another day to practice your road rage as you sit in traffic.  You even have one more day to pull some old wrinkled garment out of the dirty clothes hamper because you were too lazy or too trifling to do laundry.  But this day – this grand ole Thursday is the one day out of the week where the butterflies in your stomach are from pure genuine excitement and not from the booze of last evening, after having dealt with the agony of Monday thru Wednesday.

This is your day to close one final project and sweep all the rest under the carpet until next Monday, where all the bullshytters, complainers and back stabbers line up to piss you off all over again.  The best part of this day however, is that you couldn’t give a shyt less because you know in your heart and soul that doing anything responsible on Fridays goes against everything you believe in and stand for.  So although you may have a disturbingly shytty job as an armpit sniffer or a soda pop taste tester who has been plagued with eternal pimples from a heavy ingestion of sugar, you know that Friday, Saturday and Sunday holds nothing but mischief, mayhem and an illegal count of alcohol consumption.  This is what you’ve worked all week for!

To the mean old cafeteria lady who works in the school with adolescent demons that point and snicker at her hair net; to the little old lady who’s forced to play bingo with a bunch of old bitties that can’t watch anything on TV except ‘The Price is Right’; and to the office geek who’s greatest talent is to get beat up in the parking lot every day at the sound of the 5 o’clock whistle; it’s time to pull yourself up by the boot straps and get a little crazy!

Dear Ms. Lunch Lady, remind those bad ass kids that Hansel and Gretel was cooked in the witch’s oven for being naughty little bastards.

Dear Old Grandma, tell your senior citizen stick-in-the-muds to stick their dentures where the sun doesn’t shine!

…and Dear Little Office Geek, your best bet is to hop on the internet and find some bored schmuck to terrorize in a chat room because your ass is getting whooped for a reason, so you’d better not take any chances going out in public.

To all others – young, old, working or not, grab your best pals [or anyone gullible enough to pay your way] and paint the town red!  For in four more days, you will remember what it’s like to live in hell on Earth in a bottomless pit called Monday.

Get off your ass and plan your celebration on this here weekend eve.  C’mon. Make Hottywood proud.


Quote of the week:    “Weekends don’t count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.”



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How To End a Bad Date Disgracefully

Are you tired of going on one bad date after another?  Has your best friend set you up with someone who’s below your standards?  Did you finally get the telephone number of the hot chick in your church who turns out to be dumber than a door knob…or worse, a hot chick with bushy underarms? Well now’s your chance to rest easy, because you’re not alone.

It’s time to stand up for your rights and fight back with a few easy quick steps to sabotage a bad date disgracefully!   This list is very short, but also very fun!  The look on your date’s face when you purposely act like a moron [to make them uninterested in you] is priceless!

Listen carefully.  These tips take careful planning and coordination, but are worth every effort.


Conveniently leave home without any money.

Just be prepared to wash an ass-load of dishes, or make a break for it!  If you really want to make a bad impression, make a scene that you’re cheap and put the blame on your date.


Speak only in rhyme like a rap star.

Be sure to use animated sound effects and boisterous hand gestures.  Offensive language and stereotypes are a must!  This routine will be most effective if you are in a family-oriented establishment.  End each verse with, “You know what I’m sayin’ Gee?” and grab your crotch obsessively.  Make your stage-left exit before the cops arrive.



When speaking to your date, never use any direct eye contact.

In fact, just cover your eyes completely while screaming, “Medusa!”  If you really want to stir things up, toss your drink in her face.  Oh what the heck, toss everyone’s drink in her face! Then run like the wind because there’s no doubt that she’s going to fuq you up!


Each time your date attempts to speak, interrupt them with useless facts about cheese.

Be as annoying and rude as possible.  But beware, your date may just like cheese.  If so, fart loudly and fan the smell with your restaurant menu.  Do not smile when doing so.


Have your wife call during dessert. 

This will raise more questions than a little bit.  To be a top-notch jack ass, invite her along and compare your wife to your date.  Don’t compliment either your wife or your date and refer to yourself only in third person.  Once your date finishes pinching herself in disbelief, insist that she owes you money for her half of the meal and a partial payment for your wife’s meal.



Pick your nose a lot.

To ensure that no one misses what you are doing, be sure to announce each time you’ve felt a booger and show it to the disgusted audience.


Stuff all of your food into your mouth at once and whistle the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show.  

 


Compliment your date’s legs – from underneath the table.  

Be sure to pack a hockey mask as this usually ends with a swift kick to the nose.


Remove the top half of your clothes until your nipples are completely exposed.

It won’t matter if your date walks out on you because nine times out of ten you’re going to leave with someone else anyway.


Sneeze on your date’s food and then ask, “Are you gonna eat that?”

The more moist the sneeze, the better.  Oh, and don’t forget to leave your manners and Kleenex at home!


Getting someone to lose interest in you is not that difficult actually, especially if you’re still on 1st date status; that is unless your date is a psychopath, a total Grade F, or someone so desperate for attention that no matter what you do bad, it’s all good.  Even if you’ve fallen into a trap of dating one of the types listed above, it’s not impossible to come up with a quick crash and burn.  All it takes is a little more effort to be even more annoying.  And 90% of any effort is getting started.



Quote of the week:
   “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then give up.  There’s no sense being a damn fool about it.”

Some BS Smells Fishy, but that’s to be Expected

When we last met, I remember showing the world my backside as I ran away frantically from a job that scared the bajeezies out of me (granted, this could have been a dream I had last night with me quitting theatrically by mooning the president of the company while eating a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and chugging a beer; but for the sake of argument we’ll just pretend this dream really happened). It wasn’t necessarily the job itself, though I wasn’t particularly a huge fan of working, but rather it was the people. People with issues bigger than my weekend ego after I’ve downed a few thousand Jello shooters and gotten the green light from the baddest bitch in the club to make a move that would seriously add credibility to my manhood; people that pay for extravagant lunches using money they should have reserved for public transportation; people who tell you they care as long as your workload puts them in better lighting; people who sleep with people that sign off on paychecks; people that eat lunches behind trash dumpsters in the back parking lot of the office building, only no actual food is consumed, but rather protein from another fellow human, or a human who’s no less labeled a canine; people who don’t know your name unless you’re wearing a name tag and a hairnet. You get my point.

This post is about people and the shit they bring to the office. People in the workplace that want you to believe you’re family – at least until 5PM anyway. And with that said, it’s those very people that tend to make the day’s potential for productivity and get-alongedness a completely unfunny joke.

Not annoyed

I don’t laugh when someone comes into my office and asks if I’m busy. What the hell did you think I was doing before you blatantly interrupted me? Do you know how long it took me to get this score on this Bejeweled game?

I don’t laugh when someone asks me if I want to have a meeting to discuss anything other than the lunch menu for the next day. Who the hell wants to meet about anything, ever? Do you want to punch yourself in the face for me? Fuq you and your meeting.

I don’t laugh when someone gives me a 30 minute deadline. That’s not totally true. I laugh because whoever has given me the deadline is under the impression that I’m going to finish doing anything in 30 minutes or less. If we aren’t talking about food, forget about it. Thirty minutes to me means “before you leave work for the day” …or “before you quit.” Whichever comes first.

I don’t laugh when my supervisor transfers her phone to mine. Seriously? As if I already don’t have enough people to blatantly send to voicemail.

I don’t laugh when I’m referred to as MR. UM rather than MR. THENAMEMYMOTHERGAVEME. No one generally remembers my name unless they need something. Now that I think about, I guess coworkers are more like family than I thought. I have a few cousins that wholeheartedly believe my first name is CAN I BORROW.

I don’t laugh when I see my laughable paycheck. Really, I don’t laugh. I cry.

I don’t laugh when there’s a disgruntled employee plotting to flatten the Human Resource Director’s tires. Well, maybe I laugh a little bit. That monster deserves to get his tires flattened.

The point is no matter who ignores you at work while wearing a plastic smile and a pinstriped suit, all of those laughable moments that I find so terribly unfunny fall under the category of SHIT HAPPENS. Between the hours of 8AM and 5PM (or whatever your working hours are) shit happens. Any and all working class citizens ought to be prepared for the unexpected bullshit that inevitably happens every day. And you know what? We can blame those “people” for that.

ALL members of the workforce should expect water cooler rumors; expect to have unseasoned green beans with their flavorless cafeteria-cooked macaroni and cheese; expect documents to be lost or unsigned or peed on.  Okay, maybe no one would expect to receive a document with pee stains on it, but like I said earlier – SHIT HAPPENS. Expect to have a petty office beef (especially with that one chick that thinks she’s fly as hell with her 2 ¾” stilettos that matches nothing she wears and encouragingly builds up the bunions on her feet); expect to have to work through lunch (which is the sole reason for always having a pair of boxing gloves in your briefcase). No lunch/Late lunch/Working lunch = FIGHT!

The moral of the story is SHIT HAPPENS, especially at work. And that shit is caused by those people who can so easily fuq up a good day. But instead of getting mad at the shit that happens in the office and pointing a finger at those responsible for it, the real question is why get upset when you expected all this shit to go down even before you left your house this morning? It’s not rocket science to assume someone in the office is going to unexpectedly piss you off. Truth be told, if no shit happens during any point of the day, well…I don’t think I’d expect that.


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Dear Hottywood,

My girlfriend and I got into a huge argument last night over my attitude. Well apparently to her I had an attitude. To me, I was stressed out, horny and haven’t smoked any Mary Jane in about a week. Now she thinks there’s more to my last night’s mood than I told her. I want to get back in her good graces but I’m fearful that another argument will ensue because of her doubt in my truth. Help!

I Didn’t Mean To

Dear I Didn’t Mean To,

I most certainly can understand your reasons for bitching out on your girl. But I’m a man. Understanding my fellow brutha’s disgust over no ass or weed is in my DNA. It’s in every man’s DNA. Whatever you did, my brutha, I know you didn’t do it.  Continue reading

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Dear Hottywood,

Since a leopard can’t change its spots, can I draw some new ones on it?

Ray

Dear Ray,

leopardSince you haven’t given me much to go on here, the answer to this question is simple. If you want to get mauled by a leopard, you can draw spots on it. The adventure wouldn’t be actually drawing the spots or seeing how the leopard will look with new spots, but rather [the adventure would be] staying alive, because there’s no doubt that mofo will rip you to shreds!

I don’t know too many leopards that would let you get that close. Well, let me be honest. And you might find this hard to believe. I don’t know any leopards.  However if I were to die from an attempt to draw on a wild animal – in this case, a leopard – you’d be the first to know, only I wouldn’t be the one to tell you because my ass would be dead somewhere with my remains being picked over by a rogue gang of hungry buzzards.  HA!

If by chance you are referring to an actual person and are using this “leopard” as a metaphor, then the answer to this question is a little different – kind of and kind of not.  If this leopard person has been living with the same spots for all its his/her days, a little ink isn’t going to change anything but the outward appearance. The appearance will remain the same provided the leopard doesn’t get wet. If it does, then those spots will be washed away, leaving you with what you started with.

Make peace with that leopard. Pet it often but be careful. A wild animal will eventually attack you because that’s the environment in which it was raised. Survival of the fittest is all it knows. Sadly, the same can be said about people. Think about it:  Some women call all men dogs and some men call all women bitches. DOGS + BITCHES = WILD ANIMALS.

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