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.”

  

Click HERE to see what others are asking

or dial

(302) 36HOTTY to leave your question for our Ask Hottywood advice column


wpid-picsart_1435935380046.jpg

Click HERE to get your copy of HottywoodHelps.com’s debut novel,

“Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist”

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.”


Click HERE to see what others are asking

or dial

(302) 36HOTTY to leave your question for our Ask Hottywood advice column


wpid-picsart_1435935380046.jpg

Click HERE to get your copy of HottywoodHelps.com’s debut novel,

“Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist”

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.”



wpid-picsart_1435935380046.jpgFind out what happens when a wacky advice columnist takes a walk along the tracks of his own mind.

Order your copy of HottywoodHelps.com’s debut novel,

Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist, today!

Available at Amazon.com

For more information CLICK HERE.

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.

RELATED ARTICLES: 

Get your copy of HottywoodHelps.com’s first book, Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist. Available at Amazon.com.

wpid-picsart_1435935380046.jpg


 

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.”

Office Work Leads to Excessive Alcohol Consumption

If we were to take a trip back in time to the era when alcohol was first invented (roughly 10,000 B.C.), we’d stumble upon the first person to blame their steamy night of unbridled passion on liquor. We’d stumble upon the first wino. We’d also stumble upon the first person to ever have a hangover at work.

 

Fast forward a few thousand years later and not much has changed. The average man or woman today can be found wobbling the streets in an off balanced attempt to walk off the beer bottles and shot glasses from their previous night (or their lunch break) that could potentially land their cold sweats in some major hot water.

As common as it is to drink in lively spirit (or even in depression or out of sheer voracity), it is equally as common for man to drag himself to the office by the collar with a hangover from hell. This act is about as common as skinny jeans for men and outlandish faux eyelashes for women and drag queens.

If you say you’ve never gone to work with a hangover you’re a liar. And if you believe your colleagues spend half the morning vomiting in the office pee-hole because they ate a bad bagel, you’re a fool. In fact, office work leads to  excessive consumption of alcohol. It’s a proven fact.

These days, employees drink to drown high levels of work-related stress. They drink to avoid punching their colleagues and supervisors in the nose. They drink to mask the tasteless flavors of the job’s cafeteria food. They drink to help them sleep through half of the eight hour work day. They drink because it’s necessary.

Even though there are ways to hide a hangover – scotch tape connecting the eyelids to the eyebrows; toothpicks in eyelids; painting pupils on closed eyes; bleach-based eye drops; – why bother going through all that effort, especially if and when the hangovers are a result of work overflow?

Instead of laying shame on the enormous intake of fermented beverages, hangovers should be something to be proud of. Excessive drinking brought on by the overwhelm of the office is validation that an employee is working harder than the human body can take. It means that employee is actually doing something between the hours of 9AM-5PM. He/She is doing his/her work, even if they are cranky from work overload and slowly bleeding to death from unfiled paper cuts and blisters on their keyboard typing fingers. Who cares if the employee’s head is ready to implode as long as the week’s progress report is up to par?

Managers in the workforce that forbid their employees to drink on the job ought to be ashamed of themselves. They want their cake and they want to eat it too, but not offer any of the damn cake to the drunk worker so he/she can soak up the liquor still lingering in their system. Isn’t that selfish?

Hard working employees shower with their clothes on to save time in the morning to go to work for a man dressed in a starched button down shirt who can’t even remember his department team members’ names. They hang themselves up in the closet at night hoping that being that much closer to their wardrobe will save them a confusing amount of effort of trying to decide what to throw on in the morning that will allow them enough time to catch the 7:10am shuttle bus.  And that amount of trouble is still not enough to convince manager(s) to implement a policy that supports the purchase of vodka and brandy from a vending maching inside the staff break room. Seriously, is that too much ask?

Employers don’t realize by now that employees that are bright-eyed and bushy tailed are really slackers? Those peppy office mates must not be underworked if they are not suffering from the medically acclaimed “Idranktoomuchlastnightis” or “Idranktoomuchonmyfifteenminutecoffeebreakoxology,” like all the rest of the American workforce. They are obviously not stressed out from full inboxes, emails and extended staff meetings. They are purposeless to the team and therefore should be fired. And any manager that doesn’t realize that ought to be fired too. Or set on fire.

Until employers, managers, supervisors, bosses, or whatever title they go by these days, hip themselves to the various stresses their subordinates go through every day, employees will continue to come to work with red eyes and fiery attitude problems. They will continue to sweat gin through their open pores. And they will continue to secretly sneak a swig from their flask under their desk just to get the job done and ensure themselves that they’ll get a paycheck at the end of the week.

Don’t think all managers don’t know that they are employing professional alchies to type a winning memo to the boss’ boss. Congress simply has not yet passed an appropriate bill that will allow those managers to stop playing stupid.


Quote of the week:  “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.”

Embrace Your Alter Ego: Tell the Real World to Fuq Off

Alter egos.  Everyone has one.  The other side of who you portray yourself to be to the real world.  By day you are a hard working, over- or underachiever; however by night you are someone the world only knows in the darkness of shadows.  A weapons toting, ass kicking somebody who takes no bullshit and even more, takes no prisoners!

We all have our days when we want to take over the world, fight a few villains, or even destroy the good guys in hopes that no one can thwart out dastardly plans for global domination.  We may even want to use our magical powers to invade a Popeye’s franchise chicken delivery. Who knows? These are some of the thoughts we think as we sit in church and try to listen to the preacher who’s making absolutely no sense whatsoever because he can’t stick to one subject; or the supervisor who’s turning the staff meeting into a slow session of watching paint dry; or the cashier who’s overcharging all of the customers who are waiting in what seems to be the longest line ever at the grocery store.

Alter Ego

At the best times possible, and sometimes at the very worst, our alto egos take control of our bodies and tell reality to fuq off in the worst way — or the best.  It all depends on the character you play and the tricks you have up your sleeve.  So who’s your alter ego?


James Bond

Debonair; suave; cut throat. 

You will do whatever it takes to own your success and destroy your competition. You’ll always spend a pretty penny and shag the most shaggable beauties.  You are uninhibited, ruthless, clever, mysterious, and like all things that go BOOM.  You are attracted to expensive price tags (which include posh clothes, fast cars, loose women and quality chronic).  You kick ass first and ask questions later.  Everyone wants to be you and you know it.  Your shit doesn’t stink. You are the type to approach all things with style and winning is your only option.  You like your situations like you like your drinks: Shaken, not stirred.


Rorschach (Watchmen)

Mysterious; clever; inquisitive.

Everything serves a purpose and you are inquisitorial enough to search for a deeper meaning.  You remain neutral and are usually prematurely underestimated.  Although you are the type of person that follows a set of black-and-white values that take many shapes and never mix into shades of gray, you have a colorful past that shapes who you are – and you don’t give a shit who likes it or not. You see existence as random and are free to scrawl your own design on a morally blank world (you do you).  You also keep most of your business to yourself and will punch the daylights out of anyone who crosses you unnecessarily, especially if it means getting to the bottom line.  You are one to beware of.


Spiderman

Underestimated; innocently cocky; intuitive. 

You are a typical person who fights a battle for good and are aware that with great power comes great responsibility.  You’re a slight pushover – otherwise known as a bitch if you fuq with the wrong person in the right hood. Generally, you are the type that deals with your own personal struggles, just like the common man. However you put your problems to the side to carry the load of every one else, especially when it comes time to beat that bully’s ass for calling you bitch while you were cruising in the wrong neighborhood.   Though you are an aide for the world around you, you strive to figure out your own self-worth.  Sometimes you can lose yourself in your own head. You would much rather avoid a fight, but are more capable of beating the living shit out of your opponent than anyone realizes.


Wonder Woman

Noble; fine as hell; feminine.

You are a princess – the type of person who fights for a just cause.  You are honorable, fair and believe in equal justice for all.  You are true to yourself and your heritage and are certain that a woman can do anything just as well as any man.  Dressed in your finest Victoria’s Secrets, you are also undeniably sexy, feminine and can throw a mean left hook!  Be cautious of your competition because there are many women (and men) who would love to be just like you, even if it means taking you out to gain control of your crown.  That’s why you carry a golden lasso, so you can choke a bitch when he/she forgets that Princess Diana is a Queen B.


Catwoman

Cunning; conniving; untamed; fem lesbian. 

You are seemingly shy without your mask, however by night you are skank in spandex!  You walk a thin line between good and evil and use your feminine wilds to gain control over the weakness of men and female studs.  You love animals and have a soft spot for the defense of them.  You will do whatever is necessary to get what you want and take down anyone who stands in your way.  You have a smart ass mouth, a killer body, an overwhelming sense of self confidence while donning your spandex and always rock a bad ass pair of 6” stilettos.  You are more than likely to have corns on all of your toes. You do not take orders or play well with others.  You also have the ability to smell bullshit and cabbage a mile away.


Xena the Warrior Princess

Sexual; butch; manipulative.

You are on a quest to seek redemption for your past sins as a ruthless scallywag in thigh-high Timberland boots.  You stand for all things good, but you will rip a mutha-effer to shreds who opposes you.  You are sexual, controlling, defensive, smug and never underestimated!  Some people run from you, others are intrigued by you, yet you are phased by nothing or anyone.  You are bisexual versatile, multi-talented, open minded and very dark.  Your past shapes who you are and condemns you at the same time.  Either way, you are definitely not to be fuqed with.  You are one baaaad bitch!   And it hurts all so good.


It doesn’t take much imagination to embrace your alter ego.  All it takes is a little effort and imagination. 


Quote of the week:   “We’ve always been ready for female superheroes. Because women want to be them and men want to do them.”

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.

A MOMENT IN HISTORY

  • 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

Needed or Not?

Pee PeeUndergarments (or underwear) have been worn for over 7000 years (according to the research I found on the internet. I was surprised because the bible conditioned me to go back in time only 2000 years, but hey I’ve been known to fall off the little yellow bus every now and then).

The history of undergarments has gone from the very simple loincloth to some rather elaborate lingerie. Although we primarily wear underwear to protect our outerwear, it is also worn to provide support, to keep us warm, and even to be fashionable (thanks Madonna; George Clinton!). Today we are going to gripe over the opening in the crotch of men’s boxer shorts. I know it’s a rather strange topic to discuss but so what? It’s a free country, right?

It’s easy to assume that the crotch opening is merely for easy access when a man needs to whip out his family jewels to go number one behind a bush. It could also provide easy access in other situations that I’d only be at liberty to say out loud on paper if this were an erotica article. So for all you readers out there that have your mind in a gutter, join the club! My mind is in the gutter, too. And yes, we’re thinking about the same thing(s), but that’s not the point of this post.

Though those reasons are a good enough raison d’être to have a hole in your underwear, it can not go unnoticed when that hole is a mere inconvenience to the man wearing the draws. For example, when your Johnson decides to play peek-a-boo outside of that crotch opening while you’re zipping up your jeans (OUCH!); or when you’re walking and it decides to play peek-a-boo outside of the open crotch window while inside your trousers, leaving you to walk funny or bring a great amount of attention to your groin area as you stroll down the street, office hallway, or the center aisle of a Baptist church sanctuary.

To the lazy man that thought it a good idea to put a crotch opening in a pair of boxer shorts, let me be the first to say your idea was ingenious. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thrown up a fist bump or a symbolic high five for not having to completely unbutton my pants when standing at a McDonald’s urinal while waiting for my fries to cook. In contrast though, I have to say you didn’t think this plan out all the way. You didn’t consider the possibility of a man’s private parts sticking its head out of the window when having inappropriate thoughts during a staff meeting or some other ambiguous situation.

While I won’t be too critical for the money you drew in off of one lazy idea (okay, I could be hating just a little bit), I will say that the crotch opening in a man’s underwear is further proof that even the most perfect things are and/or can be flawed.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go take a potty break, and lucky for me I only have to do number one!

___________________________________________________________

Quote of the Week: “In department stores, so much kitchen equipment is bought indiscriminately by people who just come in for men’s underwear.” – Julia Childs

Cheers to the Weekend: The Grand-daddy of Regret

Once upon a time an innocent boy, low on the popularity totem pole, decided to ignore his good-boy conscious and opted for once to live life to the fullest.

His adventures began with one little glass of alcohol…

As a result, the boy who otherwise would not have been taken seriously by any woman in a romantic arena got laid for the first time by a woman who would be considered by some to be as large as the arena itself.

He closed his eyes as he experienced his first romantic encounter – or so he thought – until he realized his eyes weren’t closed at all. Instead he was buried and suffocated by the weight of the woman’s massive house-like body.

It took all of 15 minutes before the large woman determined the noises coming from the frail boy wasn’t moans of pleasure, but rather yelps for mercy. Soon after, she freed him from her relentless grip. He ran in terror with a shred of dignity and even more shredded underwear. Sadly his equilibrium was about as note worthy as his judgment in alcohol and women.

As he sped away from the quiet street of the unfamiliar neighborhood of his plump love bucket, his car swerving from one side of the street to the other, he was tailed and pulled over by the cops for suspicion of drinking while under the influence.

Just when he thought things could get no worse…

_____________________________________________________

Quote of the Week:  “I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”