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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Springtime Blues: The Same Lame Game as Last Year

Guys and gals, welcome to Spring; a change of season and a transition of a host of things that transcend from bad to worse.  Don’t get me wrong, we say goodbye to a lot of things we can do without however not without sacrifices.  After all, life is about sacrifices, right?

Strap your seat belts tight, kids ’cause this bound to be a bumpy ride.

It’s so amazing how a simple thing like warm weather can inspire foot trends. Not too long ago boots were the only thing that kept us grounded when skating on thin ice.  They were the must-have of the time!  In fact, if you weren’t wearing boots then your feet deserved to freeze.

Boots were necessary, safe and warm.  And since it looked like the snow wasn’t going to melt overnight, people were forced to adapt their own personal style to the trend and the weather.

The snow brought on, I must admit, quite a few interesting choices of onion peels for foot hidery (yeah, I made up a word).  But as chemistry, biology, or one of those “ologies” proves, fire always melts ice which all boils down to this one thing…Spring; the middle ground of fashion, where everyone is too damned confused to know what the hell to wear on their feet.  And just like that we’re stuck with socks & sandals, stupid gladiator boots and poorly maintained pedicures.

Regretfully, the buck doesn’t stop there.

If you think you were befuddled by people who put their underwear on public display now… Good gawd a’reckon!  To put it as professionally as I possibly can: “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Jeans, sweatpants, booty shorts, mini skirts…I don’t care how the package is wrapped, everyone is guaranteed to see the goods.  Now I won’t go into all the specifics of the number of sanitation issues, privacy act violations, suggestive and just plain ol’ T.M.I. stuff this raises.

Whatever the case, political or not, when you’re talking about people’s underwear, it’s always a big fat case of, “Oh Crap!”

…No pun intended.

What would Spring be without the hippest trend of the season, motorcycles?  It’s true you can’t wear a motorcycle, but these days it seems everyone and their grandmother has one of those artistically designed, loud and obnoxious accessories that anyone without envies. 

Let’s face it; bikes are going to be everywhere.  For guys, they are babe magnets.  And most ordinary dudes usually can’t resist a hot biker chick.  Something about her straddling the back of the bike with her arms wrapped tightly around the driver’s waist, only a slight notch away from a pornographic scene seems to get everyone all riled up.

Beware though.  Where there are bikes, bikers, and biker babes, there’s always an accident or two just waiting for its spot of 15 minutes of fame to be aired on the local news at 11 channel.

If the bike accident isn’t enough for you, if you see one too many ass cracks parlaying in the wind, you’d just might want to gouge your eyeballs out.  Either accident can be considered terrifyingly amusing to watch, not to mention news worthy.

Love it or leave…that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

I heard someone say once, “…if you fall off a horse, you have to get back on it.” 

I wonder if the same rule applies if one survives a bike crash?

We could probably go on about the lameness of Spring that would include April showers, allergies, flip flops, shorts & jackets, skull caps & tank tops and booty shorts with stockings.  But if we keep going now, we’ll spoil all the surprises Summer has in store for us.   And if there’s one thing I hate to do, it’s a spoil a surprise.

So as I pack my bags and prepare to bid you a fond farewell until the next time we meet, I’d like to leave you with this thought:  Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every few months.   

Lucky for us all 90% of any effort is getting started.   

At least we know there’s one thing that’s guaranteed not to be any different from the Spring prior to this, and that’s the same lame game as last year. 


Quote of the Week:  “Fashion is something that goes in one year and out the other.”


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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.”   

THROWBACK: Be Careful What You Wish For

Once upon a time there was a little old man who wished for a whole bunch of shit beginning at an age when he could officially define the word “wish.”

As a young boy his wishes never turned out right. He once wished he could fly like Superman. His wish partially came true. He turned into a bird and used the flight as an opportunity to shit on the heads of all his enemies. It wasn’t long after that he was chased by a ferocious alley cat, warranting him to wish to be turned back into his old young self.

A few years later he wished he had a car so he could pick up the ladies. His wish came true. Unfortunately he never learned how to drive. So while picking up a woman on the ho stroll of 43rd and Heifer Lane, he wound up being chased by a gang of cops for reckless driving and operating a vehicle without a valid driver’s license.

He spent the next 100 hours in a jail cell with a boyfriend named Ice Pic, who incidentally was not a woman. This ended his wishing cycle for the next few turns of a pad lock.

A couple years passed with no wish from the then young boy who quickly turned into a young man/bitch/jail bait. Greed got the best of him over time. He figured with age would come better wishing decisions so he wished for more birthdays so he could have more wishes. What he got was more candles on his birthday cake and a few liver spots.

Once again his wish didn’t turn out exactly the way he’d hoped. By this point he was over it. Just as he came close to losing oxygen from blowing out the million plus candles, he spewed what he thought would be a fail-safe wish.

His wish was, “I wish I weren’t an old man.”

He was quickly running out of time and patience. In a last ditch effort for help, he turned to yours truly for a word of advice.

“Hottywood,” he said. “How can I at least turn myself back into a man without screwing up another wish?”

The question had me stumped for a minute. Then suddenly it came to me!

 

The moral of the story is to be careful what you wish for.

 ___________________________________________________________

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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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.”  

When the Weave that Would Suddenly Won’t

Let’s face it, when the weather is too hot even for the sun, not even the coolest rides can stand up to the scorching heat.

This week in Washington,  temperatures are sky-rocketing to ‘hell’ degrees. By ‘hell degrees’ I mean a high temperature of about 94-1,000,000 with a heat index somewhere around 209 gazillion. With a code red heat advisory  in effect for the residents of the Metropolitan area, or at least the residents of my apartment, it is with great regret that I say the warning has nothing to do with the heat itself but rather the mane on the crowns of those that suffer from the sun’s stinging rays.  This is usually the point in the text where I make some witty comment about the subject at hand however my brain sizzled to a point of evaporation somewhere during the journey between the walk from the parking lot to my office door.

Instead, a lot of DC females will watch their  weave money burst into flames because 9 out 10 of them failed to buy a pack of weave that carries a heat resistant label on the package.

Because my fingertips are beginning to melt as they stroke the letters on my keyboard, I’m going to cut to the chase and let the below images speak for themselves. Keep your fingers crossed that if the heat doesn’t kill me first, the women of DC, Maryland and/or Virginia whose weaves are standing on its last leg don’t come charging after me for making fun of their tragic tresses.

“If I were you I’d wear a hat, too.”


“Her hat must’ve evaporated while waiting at the bus stop. I wish it were my eyes that melted instead of her hat.”


“If I didn’t know any better I’d think her whole head exploded.”


“This ass lost its tail for nothing.”


The only way a bad weave could get any worse [due to the devil himself rising from the pits of hell] is if the weave started out looking bad to begin with.

I rest my case.


Quote of the Week:  “Whether the weather be fine, Whether the weather be not, Whether the weather be cold, Whether the weather be hot, We’ll weather the weather, Whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not.”