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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The Funk Is Not Forgiven

Do you feel ashamed every time a person, animal or plant dies whenever you walk by? Do you smell as if you’re carrying a supreme pizza inside your pocket protector? If you answer “yes” to these questions then you are one of many who suffer from a bad case of Armpiteoustinkeous, otherwise known as bad armpit odor. Ironically Armpiteoustinkeous doesn’t just come from the armpit, which only supports the theory of a wise man’s proverb that says, “sh!t doesn’t just come out of one end.”

Ordinarily I’d tell you Armpiteoustinkeous is nothing to be ashamed of, but because of a little discovery called soap, if you carry a foul odor, whether in the pits of your arms or some other place that would be offensive to some audiences, you should be ashamed of yourself because there is no reason for the funkage!

I’m not going to sit here and make fun of funky people. Some people don’t think their sh!t stinks. Understand that I’ve done my research, though. I know why a body stinks. I know about chemical imbalances and that anaerobic bacteria builds and flourishes on the skin when the body doesn’t produce enough oxygen. I know the whole process of the body doing what it does to make it do what it do; and that when metabolism is at work it creates an unpleasant smell as the body releases waste in the forms of sweat and butt burps. I get it. Stinking it natural. But if you were to hold a water gun full of prune juice to anybody’s throat and dared them to say the first word that comes to mind when they hear the words “cure for stink,” nine times out of ten the average person would say “soap!” And rightfully so.

Soap is rumored to be discovered as early back as the year 1000 B.C., by a group of Roman women who washed their garments in the river of the base of a mountain, below a higher elevation where animal sacrifice had taken place. Tales say that the animal fat when combined with the wood ashes and soils of the earth created a cleansing substance. The smartest person on the planet could whip out some proof of the Babylonian tablet that holds the formula of soap (water, alkali, and cassia oil), written somewhere along the lines of 2800 years before today. So I’ve been told, 2800 years is around the time of the beginning of the beginning. I don’t think there’s anyone alive today who can prove that theory to be wrong (except my ex girlfriend’s mother. She was born at the beginning of time and probably won’t die until she’s sucked the life out of every living creature on the planet, but that’s a story for another time). That in turn tells me that soap has been around since the beginning of time. I don’t care what came first – the chicken or the egg, soap has been around long enough for everyone to know what it does and when to go somewhere and use it.

Everyone knows that soap is the kryptonite to bacteria and people that wear their Monday tee shirts all week long; and folks that don’t wear socks with their shoes. Soap is the aspirin to those people who suffer headaches from their twelve hour deodorant that only lasts for four hours. Soap is the answer to stinky people’s problems as well as the answers to the prayers of the people who have to smell that sh!t. No matter of background – age, race, species, religion or any otherwise personal belief – soap is universal. It cleans. There is no reason why anyone’s ass or underarms should stink. Soap is a natural product that can be made. It’s insignificant enough to be borrowed and small enough to be lifted on a five-finger discount, if need be.

It’s a necessity as well as a consideration. Soap is the justice to the abomination of funk. It is a right comparable to respect and demand. It is the revelation to people that are omitted from cliques, left dateless on Friday nights, and always seem to have a seat to themselves on the metro. The “pew” face means the same thing in every language – Swahili, Bulgarian, Yiddish, Maltese, German, Spanish, English – you name it. Stink stinks and that ain’t right because that’s not the way things are meant to be. Soap, ladies and gentlemen, is the simple solution to the Armpiteoustinkeous epidemic.

Some can debate and defend why you stink and some can accept it, but most can’t forgive it.  Either way, if someone else smells you then you smell you, too.  For the love of mankind, “sticks and stones may break my bones but it’s your stench that’s killing me.”  Soap is to the body what laughter is to the soul. You can’t hit home any harder than that.  If you can’t clean ya’ ass for the sake of yourself or the people around you, then do it for the universe.  Keep the balance of nature in order or forever be cursed with a sterile social life.

Quote of the week:  “My wounds stink and are corrupt because of my foolishness.” -Psalm 38:5


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THROWBACK: A Case of the Mondays on a Tuesday

MONDAYI can’t go on a “Today is Monday” tangent, because today is not Monday but rather Tuesday. However since I didn’t get to gripe and groan about all the bullshit that usually happens on a Monday, the universe saw fit for me to get my dose of the Monday blues today.

After spending the last five days footloose and worry free on an Easter vacation, this morning I partook in a WWE wrestling match with my alarm clock. The clocked punched and kicked and pulled and pushed me until I found myself laying on the floor, covered in bruises and pillow drool. No more are my days of sleeping until high noon. No more waking up to buttered toast and cold beers. No more watching I Love Lucy and all things 80s on the Hallmark channel. Nope. After today’s royal battle, I am back to the humdrum of hating mornings, fighting with my cat over when and how much to feed him before I leave for the day, and listening to my downstairs neighbor call her husband a lazy, fat so and so because she has to get up to go to work while he continues to lay his unemployed butt around the house scratching his balls.

I’d finally mustered up enough energy to wash the last five days off of me and shaved the fur that grew on my face, when behold, there was a shocking bang on my door reminiscent of a knock just before a police swat team storms a raid bust site. To my surprise it was my downstairs neighbor, demanding (not requesting) to use my phone because she’d locked herself out of her apartment, after having put her husband out on the streets and telling him not to return without a job. I wanted to laugh in her face in an effort to say NANANABOO, as I remembered the argument we had some months ago when she waited two weeks after one of my late night trysts to complain about all the noise I made on that particular night, which in my head warranted me a well-deserved pat on the back and a serious high five on my part! Alas, at 6:45am, after having lost a wrestling match with my alarm clock, laughing was the last thing I wanted to do.

I finally made it to work, and of course, was greeted by an empty coffee pot. Next to the pot was an ice bucket full of coffee creamers. It was a double slap in the face because there was no coffee and also I’m allergic to dairy. Could this morning get any worse? I thought to myself.  Of course I asked that question moments before booting up my computer only to find I had no access to email, the internet or any shared network drives. In addition to having no technology access, I have a major report due tomorrow. It probably would have made sense if I’d have started working on the report three weeks ago when I was first made aware of it, but like every man on the planet, procrastination got the best of me. I figured I could get the report done in less than 8 hours. …Technically 5 ½ hours now.

No Monday-like Tuesday would be complete without forgetting my wallet. Since begging is not in my vocabulary, lunch will be particularly interesting today. I did grab a few packs of soy sauce from the cafeteria. Perhaps when my blood pressure rises above the norm, the near death experience will help me to forget just how hungry I am. This wouldn’t have been a problem if one of the cleaning staff hadn’t stolen the baked chicken that I forgot to take home with me last week from out of the refrigerator.

On a good note, not many people are in the office today. That translates into not many people will see my new outfit. You know. The one I wore to church on Easter Sunday. The good news about that is I’ll know exactly what I’m going to wear two days from today, and I won’t even have to iron!

Now the only thing I need to do is drink enough soy sauce packets until my head starts to spin, much like it does when I’ve been slipped a mickey at any given party on a Friday night. That might motivate me to start on this report and at noon, stand in front of the cafeteria like a panhandler when the rest of the building staff bombards the lunch line for today’s spaghetti and meatballs. I said begging is not in my vocabulary. I didn’t say I didn’t know how to do it. Hopefully I can get about twenty people to give me $.25 each.

Until then, people. On this Tuesday, I’d like to say to you all, HAPPY MONDAY or some shit like that!

Quote of the Week:  “The golden rule of work is that the boss’ jokes are ALWAYS funny.”   

Don’t Pay Money for an Undone Do: That’s a Major DON’T

Admit it – you’re guilty of chuckling once or twice at a woman (or a man) whose wig is less than attractive.  But to you, it’s nothing more than an unkempt hair piece.  However, before you move on to the next humorous sighting of the day, what do you know about wigs, other than what you’ve been taught to believe?  If you know nothing about it, let me school you a little bit.  You’re probably asking yourself what it is I could possibly know about wigs.  The answer is simple.  Hottywood Helps for a damn reason so you’d be surprised at some of the things I know.  I’ve seen a lot in my walk of life and I’ve met a lot of people – good and bad – with good and bad hair to match!   Now sit down, shut the hell up and listen for a spell.  You just might learn something.

First of all let’s begin by learning what a wig is.  A wig is a head of hair made from a variety of sources.   Contrary to popular belief, wigs don’t just come from horses.  I know…I said the same thing.  Wigs also are made from human hair, buffalo hair, wool, feathers, and other synthetic materials.  Believe it or not though, the industry choice of a wig’s source is yak hair!   I love that word, “yak.”  Yak hair is not only inexpensive but it’s also the closest in consistency and appearance to human hair.  Tell that to Bomquisha the next time she wears her rat fur wig on her next cigarette run to the corner store.

The word wig is short for periwig and first appeared in the English language some time around 1675.  That’s a little before everyone’s time, except the mean old nun who always ducks behind the bush when she sees me coming.  I don’t know what that’s all about but we’ll save that for another story.

Though most people wear wigs to cover up the fact they are bald as hell or are just too damn lazy to get up and do something creative, or even simple for that matter, to their hair, actors wear them to better portray characters on film.  So it’s also a prop; a money maker; a way to be someone else.  An essential for people with split personalities.  Uh oh.  This has the potential to take a turn for the worst.

Side note:  Watch how many lazy people are going to use this excuse to get away with not doing their hair.   

Anyway, moving on.  Wigs are essentially a Western form of dress.  In the Far East, they are rarely worn except in the traditional theatre of China and Japan.  The ancient Egyptians wore them to shield their shaved, hairless heads from the sun.  After the fall of the Roman Empire, the fad of wigs kind of died off.  I guess being bald was more popular and acceptable then, that is until the 16th century-fashionistas revived the trend, when going bald lost its appeal once again.  I guess it’s true what they say: Fashion repeats itself just like a person with a small wardrobe does.  But get this, and hold on to your britches:  They also served a practical purpose: the unhygienic conditions of the time meant that hair attracted head lice, a problem that could be much reduced if natural hair were shaved and replaced with an artificial hair piece. Fur hoods were also used in a similar preventative fashion.

[Random Thought]  I wonder what the case was in Alaska?  Let me get Sarah Palin on the line!  She’ll probably know more about this than she knew about running for Vice President, but you didn’t hear that from me. 

With the inception of this wiggy trend, popular people embraced the style and really made it a royal sweep.  We’re talking great celebrities who’ve made a mark on this world as we know it!  NO, I’m not talking about Wendy Williams.  I’m referring to celebrities who may have been just a tad bit more influential, like Queen Elizabeth I of England, Marie Antoinette, King Louis the XIII and King Louis XIV of France, who by the way introduced wig-wearing to men in the early 1600s.  I bet you didn’t know that men found wigs to be intriguing too — even back then.  In fact in the 18th century, men’s wigs were powdered in order to give them their distinctive white or off-white color.  I guess you can say men came up with the first cheap way of dying their hair.  Na na na boo boo ladies, you are copy cats!  Women in the 18th century did not wear wigs, but wore a coiffure supplemented by artificial hair, or hair from other sources.  So that was around the time when tracks, aka hair weaves, became popular, however we’ll save those details for another class session.  Wigs even became an essential for full dress occasions and continued in use until almost the end of the 18th century.

Skipping ahead a few gazillion & 1 days and sailing our way over to the United States, only the first five Presidents since George Washington [until James Monroe] wore wigs.  Of course, by the time wigs migrated over to American soil, they weren’t as popular as before.  Key words here, “…not as popular…”

Today the shit is just out of control.  From colorful afros to floor-length Cher hair, most commonly seen on the stages of drag-queen night clubs, people have taken the historic head piece too damn far.  Now I’m not going to say that some people can’t get away with it.  If you have the confidence, the know-how and the balls to pull it off, then do!  Nothing speaks more volumes than that of individuality.  Just know your limits.  First and foremost, keep them up!  If you insist on wearing a nappy wig, you might as well your show your natural roots.  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to pay money for an undone do!  That’s just a simple DON’T.  Follow the footsteps of the more modernized celebrity royalty like, Beyonce, Lady Gaga, Donald Trump and once again Wendy Williams.  Come on, you gotta give it up to Wendy, the wench can rock some wigs….Donald Trump, not so much.

To sum up all this blah blah about wigs…it’s more than just a fashion statement.  It’s a part of history.  A part of history that’s just as important to know as the date of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which was…um…um…well that’s not important right now.  Hey, most of the dudes who signed the declaration wore wigs too.  I’m not encouraging any men to go out and buy the first wig they see on a shelf, although many don’t need my encouragement for that.  Half of them are doing it anyway.  What I will say is if you’re going to wear it, have some substance behind your reason other than your kitchen beautician didn’t pay her electric bill.  Absorbing a little knowledge – even about something you may believe isn’t all that important – isn’t very hard to do.  All it takes is a little effort and 90% of any effort is getting started.

Quote of the week:   “Always forgive your enemies, or not. Who cares?”


Summer Sizzles! Break Up to Make Out

The summer is sizzling and unfortunately, so are the tempers!  With each increasing degree of summer’s blaze, more and more clothes are peeling off, revealing to men and women alike, the glistening skin of toned upper torsos and perky ta-tas.  Tis the season to be jolly, just as long as you are single.

Smart mouths, bickering gripes, and wandering eyes are what most people have to look forward to this summer.  Short skirts and tank-tops are the season’s way of reminding bunned-up couples that it’s time to ditch their mates and flirt with every passer by who’ll look at the sweat dripping in all the right places for all the scandalously wrong reasons.

Get ready folks.  A rumblin’ is a comin’.

It’s no secret that most relationships die off around the holidays – specifically birthdays, Christmas and Valentine’s Day, so the cheap one in the relationship doesn’t have to buy the needy one a gift.  But when the summer months come around, it’s a horse of a different color!  Men workout more to lift those perfect pecks while women eat less to give their waistline the ideal measure to accentuate those perfect boobs and that chewable apple bottom.  The name of the game is to look your best and flaunt all your assets because now is the time more people are going to be interested in what you have to offer — sans conversation, intelligence. accomplishments and all that extra mumbo jumbo.

During the hot season of summer, women are less likely to roll their eyes at a man for greeting her with a false sense of intention. Seemingly, men are more on top of their “game” because the woman is often times, much easier than she’d be if the chill in the air was as rigid as the chip on her shoulder.   It’s easy pickings.  One trollop after another.  One trip to the clinic waiting to happen.  No repercussions.  No explanations.  No ifs, ands or buts.

But don’t be fooled by the nearly naked.  These skanks-in-waiting are merely on loan.  The break-ups people encounter for the summer for reckless sexual arousal are usually temporary.  You can’t place much expectation in a dry hump on a hot July night.  The hump is just a hump and it ordinarily leads to an open gate of more activity with more players to the field.  The summer is typically not the right time to try to get into a relationship.  That’s what the rest of the year is for – again, except for the above mentioned holidays – birthdays, Christmas and Valentine’s Day (for all you cheap readers out there). 

The next time your mate picks a fight with you, don’t take it personally.  It’s just a change of a season.  Well…maybe you can take it a little personally considering they’re only doing it for a free-for-all for those half dressed scoundrels who look better out of clothes than you do.  Let them go.  Like a boomerang, they’ll come back.  In the meantime, don’t feel guilty for wearing less material and showing off more of your own body parts.  Hey – if you got it, flaunt it.  You’ll appreciate the attention in the long run.  You’ll also have quite a little memory in the back of your mind when winter has returned and you and your lover aren’t speaking over some dumb argument that made no sense in the first place.  Just because you’re at the mall doesn’t mean you can’t shop…especially if there’s a return policy in effect.

This summer, go out.  Take a little off and see where, what and to whom it leads.  Stella got her groove back in the summer months.  So can you.

Quote of the week:   “Eagles may soar in the clouds, but weasels never get sucked into jet engines.”


Don’t Mess With a One-Legged Ostrich on the Subway

This morning I got into a fight with a one-legged ostrich on the subway. I was actually winning, too, until I lost focus from laughing at the fact that there was an ostrich on the subway with only one leg, no less.

Let me warn you to never underestimate the martial arts capabilities of a single-legged ostrich. They have incredible balance. 

Mad OstrichApparently my falling into his lap when the train almost jumped tracks to avoid hitting an alligator that escaped the confines of the sewer and made its way into the subway tunnels didn’t sit well with the physically challenged bird. I tried to apologize but as I looked into its eyes, all I could see was a giant chicken leg. It could be that my drooling from the thought of devouring a life-sized drum stick tipped the scale of his anger. With no warning at all, he went all Woody Wood Pecker on my forehead and Bruce Lee’d my ass all the way up and down the train car.

After the bleeding [finally] stopped and the other metro riders finished laughing at me, a small part of me (the only part of my body that didn’t get pecked and kicked) found a new respect for ostriches – as in don’t f*ck with one, especially on the subway, which in fact is the moral of the story.


Quote of the Week:   “Speak when you are angry – and you’ll make the best speech you’ll ever regret.”

Hair Weaves and Hell Freezes Over in Washington, DC

Washington DC is experiencing frigid temperatures this week as a result of Mother Nature’s bitter wrath, leaving some with frozen water pipes and nipples and others without heat or hair dryers. Well what more can we expect? It’s winter for Christ’s sake. Hell, it was winter back when summer was packing it’s bags for the season. We just skipped over fall all together.


Personally, I rather enjoy the winter season. Granted, this cold temperature has my balls drawing up, but that’s no comparison to the dozens of women skating the streets with frozen hair weaves and limp lashes.

Cold in the City

Ladies, this cold weather can’t be doing much for your social lives. You can’t rely on your extended faux lashes or your silicone breasts and butt implants to grab the attention of some old, decrepit, deep pocketed, 40 ounce beer guzzling, gullible guy to keep you and your yak fur warm at night.

Frozen Hair 2

Frozen Eyelashes

Fret not, chicas! Soon the weather will break and the sun will shine bright enough to melt holes in the underarms of your blouses while getting you all scantily clad so you can be the skanks you were before hell froze over. That’s something to look forward to, right?

Hell Freezes Over