Okay:
So have you seen this commercial yet?
I don’t have anything clever to say about it. But it’s always good to see black-owned companies graduating into video advertising. It’s an accomplishment (read sarcasm).
Once again, my daughter showed me that getting older is not a gradual process. You wake one up morning, you have gray pubic hair and a backache.
My daughter is 8 years old, and for whatever reason, she’s extremely talkative. I’m not exactly sure where she gets it from, but it’s ridiculous. Sometimes when we’re getting into the car she’s telling me some story about something she thinks is funny. She’s not even really breathing in between sentences. I let her in the back seat and she’s talking. I strap her into her booster and she’s still talking. I close the door and walk around to the front. When I get in the driver’s seat, she still talking!
The funny part is I don’t think she pauses while she’s in the car alone for 15 seconds. I think she just keeps right on talking.
And she begins every sentence with “This one time on Hannah Montana…”
The other day she was talking, talking, talking. I was nodding my head, trying to be polite. Then she goes, “Daddy, were you even listening to me?”
I say, “Sure I was, honey.”
And she says, “If you were listening, what was I saying?”
So I say, “You were saying…” Then I come to my senses.
“Wait a minute, dammit!” I say. “I told you I was listening. You ain’t my girlfriend. You’re an 8 year-old.”
Like my aunt used to say. “The little fuckers don’t come with instructions.”
In other news, I have officially become a very boring adult. Yesterday I went bulk shopping at BJs!
I know, I know.
My girlfriend kept telling me how much cheaper it is and how I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping for like three months if I dropped a couple hundred at BJs. I finally caved. It was miserable.
There are all these grown-ups running around with over sized shopping carts, toddlers in tow and diaper bags slung over their shoulders. They spill out of huge SUVs, gospel music seeping from the windows. Some of them are wearing sandals.
I want to turn around and go home. Then I start noticing the prices. Three jumbo bottles of Curel for $13. Twenty-four rolls of Charmin for $10. Six gallons of Deer Park for $5. I look at my girlfriend and say, “We may need another cart.”
The other day, she bought me some scalp treatment from the hair salon because she noticed I was flaking badly. A year ago, I was knocking back shots of Dewar’s five nights a week at happy hour, having random casual sex and sleeping the entire weekend.
Now I’ve got dandruff and enough meat in my freezer and lotion under my sink to survive a nuclear holocaust.
God, you’re hilarious.
Truthfully, I don’t know how I lived like that for as long as I did. It’s hard doing all this shit alone. Especially when you’re drunk. Being sober and committed has its advantages.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
My Near Death Experience and Some Bad Customer Service
Okay:
I almost died during my vacation.
Seriously.
My daughter and I were driving up Wisconsin Avenue on our way to dance practice. We had just come from seeing Monsters Vs. Aliens in Georgetown. (That’s a whole ‘nother story entirely). So, we’re driving along, minding our business, stopping at red lights and what have you. If I’m being perfectly honest—and why not be?—I was texting my girlfriend. That’s the part I played. Then, I felt something.
I swear to God, it was like my Spidey Sense was tingling or some shit. I literally felt something that told me to look to my left. This prick in a station wagon was getting ready to run me off the road. He was not signaling to make a gradual textbook lane change. This fucker was going to hop on over without even looking to his right.
Then, something told me to look to my right. I shit you not. Seriously, something told me to look. And low and behold, there was an old white lady standing at the bus stop.
I know, right.
So, then, with jungle cat reflexes, I was able to break, swerve and honk with the appropriate speed and degree so as to avoid hitting anything or anyone. Crisis averted!
And all because of my amazing fucking Spider Man non-mutant superhero reflexes.
I looked in my mirror and the prick kinda shrugged his shoulders and winced as if to say, “My bad, bro.”
When I stopped at the next light this lady pulled up next to me and started shaking her head in wild-eyed disapproval. Doesn’t that always happen after you narrowly avoid a car accident? When you get to the light, invariably, another driver who saw the whole thing will pull up next to you and shake their head in wild-eyed disapproval. As if to say, “They’ll let anyone get a license now.”
My heart was about to jump out of my chest. My daughter didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact, she didn’t say a word. She just kept playing her Nintendo DS. I, on the other hand, was both scared to death and terribly impressed with myself. It’s actually not the first time I have acted swiftly to avoid a car accident. Honestly, I’m wondering whether or not I may be gifted in this respect. Am I blessed with a rare innate skill? Maybe it’s the kind of shit the government looks for when they’re screening black op prospects. Maybe I’ve got the foundational skills for becoming, like, a Jason Borne or some shit.
It could happen.
Then, of course, there was this week’s trip to the grocery store. I went to the Safeway on Connecticut Avenue. I typically shop there because of my bourgeois sensibilities. Us uppity niggas often assume we’ll get better service and products on the other side of town. Unfortunately, we’re more often than not proven right. This day was a rare exception.
So, I’ve got all my shit and I’m standing in line waiting to get rung up. The young lady doing the ringing looks “out of place”. Don’t get me wrong. All the cashiers are people of color. But this particular young lady looks sorely “out of place”. You bourgeois niggas know what I mean.
Shorty wasn’t fitting in.
She couldn’t have been a day over 19. As she’s ringing up the guy ahead of me her cell phone rings. I can’t say I was eavesdropping because she apparently didn’t give a shit whether or not anyone was listening.
“Hi daddy,” she said.
Initially I thought—Oh. Her father’s checking up on her. Of course she has to answer the phone. She’s probably retarded or something and working here with some sort of transition program and he just wants to make sure she’s not overwhelmed.
“Yes, daddy,” she went on. “I told you I was going to work, daddy… Mm hm… I’ll be off within an hour, daddy… Okay… Bye, daddy.”
Then it hit me. She wasn’t talking to her father at all. This “chick” was yapping it up with her boyfriend while she was supposed to be ringing people up. I was mortified.
When she hung up her phone she simply said, “Sorry about that. He be getting on my nerves.”
I was speechless. The Head of Household in me wanted to talk to the manager. But the Ex-Hoodlum in me told me to relax. Then she started ringing me up. But when she got to my bag of pears, she paused and looked at me dumbfounded.
“Ill,” she said. “What kind of pears is these? They hard as shit.”
I started to say something. But I was interrupted when a child’s balloon from the next lane over hit her in the head. She turned, gave the child—a small Asian girl in stockings and patent leathers sitting in the cart seat—a dirty look and said, “Excuse you.” Then she smacked the balloon.
It took every ounce of restraint I had in me to remain silent.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is why bourgeois niggas move to the other side of town and don’t invest in their own communities. They don’t want to deal with the Uniquas of the world. Plain and simple.
On a brighter note, there’s my new favorite commercial which I’m sure you all have already seen. It’s an acid reflux pill called…wait for it, wait for it…
ACIPHEX.
Isn’t that fucking hilarious? Every time it comes on, I giggle like a little bitch.
I guess I still have some growing up to do, but I think I’ll cross that proverbial bridge when I come to it. Enjoy your week.
Thanks for reading.
I almost died during my vacation.
Seriously.
My daughter and I were driving up Wisconsin Avenue on our way to dance practice. We had just come from seeing Monsters Vs. Aliens in Georgetown. (That’s a whole ‘nother story entirely). So, we’re driving along, minding our business, stopping at red lights and what have you. If I’m being perfectly honest—and why not be?—I was texting my girlfriend. That’s the part I played. Then, I felt something.
I swear to God, it was like my Spidey Sense was tingling or some shit. I literally felt something that told me to look to my left. This prick in a station wagon was getting ready to run me off the road. He was not signaling to make a gradual textbook lane change. This fucker was going to hop on over without even looking to his right.
Then, something told me to look to my right. I shit you not. Seriously, something told me to look. And low and behold, there was an old white lady standing at the bus stop.
I know, right.
So, then, with jungle cat reflexes, I was able to break, swerve and honk with the appropriate speed and degree so as to avoid hitting anything or anyone. Crisis averted!
And all because of my amazing fucking Spider Man non-mutant superhero reflexes.
I looked in my mirror and the prick kinda shrugged his shoulders and winced as if to say, “My bad, bro.”
When I stopped at the next light this lady pulled up next to me and started shaking her head in wild-eyed disapproval. Doesn’t that always happen after you narrowly avoid a car accident? When you get to the light, invariably, another driver who saw the whole thing will pull up next to you and shake their head in wild-eyed disapproval. As if to say, “They’ll let anyone get a license now.”
My heart was about to jump out of my chest. My daughter didn’t seem to notice at all. In fact, she didn’t say a word. She just kept playing her Nintendo DS. I, on the other hand, was both scared to death and terribly impressed with myself. It’s actually not the first time I have acted swiftly to avoid a car accident. Honestly, I’m wondering whether or not I may be gifted in this respect. Am I blessed with a rare innate skill? Maybe it’s the kind of shit the government looks for when they’re screening black op prospects. Maybe I’ve got the foundational skills for becoming, like, a Jason Borne or some shit.
It could happen.
Then, of course, there was this week’s trip to the grocery store. I went to the Safeway on Connecticut Avenue. I typically shop there because of my bourgeois sensibilities. Us uppity niggas often assume we’ll get better service and products on the other side of town. Unfortunately, we’re more often than not proven right. This day was a rare exception.
So, I’ve got all my shit and I’m standing in line waiting to get rung up. The young lady doing the ringing looks “out of place”. Don’t get me wrong. All the cashiers are people of color. But this particular young lady looks sorely “out of place”. You bourgeois niggas know what I mean.
Shorty wasn’t fitting in.
She couldn’t have been a day over 19. As she’s ringing up the guy ahead of me her cell phone rings. I can’t say I was eavesdropping because she apparently didn’t give a shit whether or not anyone was listening.
“Hi daddy,” she said.
Initially I thought—Oh. Her father’s checking up on her. Of course she has to answer the phone. She’s probably retarded or something and working here with some sort of transition program and he just wants to make sure she’s not overwhelmed.
“Yes, daddy,” she went on. “I told you I was going to work, daddy… Mm hm… I’ll be off within an hour, daddy… Okay… Bye, daddy.”
Then it hit me. She wasn’t talking to her father at all. This “chick” was yapping it up with her boyfriend while she was supposed to be ringing people up. I was mortified.
When she hung up her phone she simply said, “Sorry about that. He be getting on my nerves.”
I was speechless. The Head of Household in me wanted to talk to the manager. But the Ex-Hoodlum in me told me to relax. Then she started ringing me up. But when she got to my bag of pears, she paused and looked at me dumbfounded.
“Ill,” she said. “What kind of pears is these? They hard as shit.”
I started to say something. But I was interrupted when a child’s balloon from the next lane over hit her in the head. She turned, gave the child—a small Asian girl in stockings and patent leathers sitting in the cart seat—a dirty look and said, “Excuse you.” Then she smacked the balloon.
It took every ounce of restraint I had in me to remain silent.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is why bourgeois niggas move to the other side of town and don’t invest in their own communities. They don’t want to deal with the Uniquas of the world. Plain and simple.
On a brighter note, there’s my new favorite commercial which I’m sure you all have already seen. It’s an acid reflux pill called…wait for it, wait for it…
ACIPHEX.
Isn’t that fucking hilarious? Every time it comes on, I giggle like a little bitch.
I guess I still have some growing up to do, but I think I’ll cross that proverbial bridge when I come to it. Enjoy your week.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Back From The Dead
Okay:
Well, it has certainly been a while. I am recommitting myself to writing once a week. I think I can handle that. It goes without saying, I suppose, that I have been extremely busy. As my daughter ages, my daddy duties multiply exponentially. She’s in the third grade now which means they’re learning the multiplication table. This is where I started to tap out in school. Too much numbers!
This times that and that times this. Who needs it?
Then the motherfuckers started throwing in letters with the numbers. It was like some sort of sick game. Never having been the competitive type, I said fuck it. But I don't want my baby girl to grow to be a mathematical retard like her father.
I bought her some single digit multiplication flash cards. When I was quizzing her the other morning, I found myself having to double check the answers. Sad, I know. I get really tripped up with the odd numbers. Luckily, I have somehow raised a compassionate child. “Daddy, it’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know what 7 times 12 is either.”
She truly is a remarkable little girl. She has graduated from Disney Channel to Nickelodeon. I’m not certain that I approve. There was a titty joke on iCarly the other day. “Daddy, what’s a boob?” she asked me.
Progressive parent that I am, I offered a comprehensive and honest explanation. “A boob is a slang term for breast. A breast is a mass of fat that grows on a woman’s chest. If she chooses, she can use them to breast feed.”
“What else can she use them for daddy?”
“Other than that they’re totally useless,” I said.
Then there’s grad school. I re-enrolled this semester after having dropped out a year ago. I’m studying to become a principal, believe it or not. I’d be lying if I told you that I’m certain I’m in the right field, but I’ll be thirty this year and it’s time to shit or get off the proverbial pot.
I think of Morgan Freeman in Lean On Me. I think of Chi McBride on Boston Public. I think of my old junior high school principal, Mr. Moss.
What do all of these people have in common? A job that needs to be taken more seriously than I believe myself to be capable. I mean, what is the big fucking deal? Would it be possible for me to run a school building without becoming a tight ass in a cheap suit who thinks too much of himself? What is it about being in charge of a few hundred teenagers that turns you into complete asshole?
In the hierarchy of individuals with power, the high school principal ranks just above the ticket taker at the movie theater. I don’t want to spend $40,000 to become a self-important prick with a clip board and a to-do list.
I used to work for this one asshole a few years back. In the dead of winter, we lost our heat. People were sitting in their classrooms with their outdoor coats on, shivering. The teachers refused to teach and suggested, with all the passion marginally educated semi-professionals can muster, that we close the school and send everyone home early. He refused. Then here comes this asshole, standing in the hallway, in a fucking sweater vest and bow tie, remarking out loud to no one in particular, “It’s not that cold.”
You could see his fucking breath.
Then there was Mr. Moss who had pulled me out of class for fighting when I was in the seventh grade. Six foot five. Dark as night. Walrus mustache. This was the tight ass of all tight asses. He looked like he might shit naked so he wouldn’t wrinkle his pants. As we were walking down the hallway to his office, he stooped down to pick up a candy wrapper off of the floor.
I have always remembered that moment for some reason. Even at twelve years old I recall thinking—How pathetic! He picks up trash and intimidates children for a living. This is the opposite of what I want to do for a living.
Yet, here I am. This week, while I’m home on spring break, I’ll be working on a fictional public relations plan for a fictional school. Doesn’t that sound delicious?
I’d rather pluck the dingleberries out of my ass hair.
As my regular readers know, I am also no longer single. It’s been about five months now. The honeymoon is over and we are officially starting to get on one another’s nerves. It’s great though. I’ve been tracking her periods, so I know when to pack my patience.
It’s ridiculous really. She was just getting on my nerves earlier tonight. Then I checked my calendar and thought—Oh, that explains it.
I never imagined planning my comings and goings around a woman’s menstruation cycle, but honestly, I think it’s the key to keeping a relationship going. I suppose I’d be pissed off if I knew I was going to be bleeding out of my crotch for the next five days and there wasn’t much to be done about it. It’s pretty gross, actually.
Other than the occasional predictable personality clashes, we’re doing just fine. I’m as happy as a faggot with front row seats at a Janet Jackson concert. No major complaints so far. I’ll keep you posted though.
Oh, and as far as politics go, I think Barack's doing a great job considering the circumstances. I heard about his little Special Olympics comment on Leno. First of all, I think it's fantastic that he went on Leno. It shows he hasn't forgotten how he got in office in the first place. Also, any man who makes fun of retards on public television is someone you can trust.
It's the prudes who give me pause.
I suppose that’s about it for now. See you next week.
Thanks for reading.
Well, it has certainly been a while. I am recommitting myself to writing once a week. I think I can handle that. It goes without saying, I suppose, that I have been extremely busy. As my daughter ages, my daddy duties multiply exponentially. She’s in the third grade now which means they’re learning the multiplication table. This is where I started to tap out in school. Too much numbers!
This times that and that times this. Who needs it?
Then the motherfuckers started throwing in letters with the numbers. It was like some sort of sick game. Never having been the competitive type, I said fuck it. But I don't want my baby girl to grow to be a mathematical retard like her father.
I bought her some single digit multiplication flash cards. When I was quizzing her the other morning, I found myself having to double check the answers. Sad, I know. I get really tripped up with the odd numbers. Luckily, I have somehow raised a compassionate child. “Daddy, it’s okay,” she says. “I don’t know what 7 times 12 is either.”
She truly is a remarkable little girl. She has graduated from Disney Channel to Nickelodeon. I’m not certain that I approve. There was a titty joke on iCarly the other day. “Daddy, what’s a boob?” she asked me.
Progressive parent that I am, I offered a comprehensive and honest explanation. “A boob is a slang term for breast. A breast is a mass of fat that grows on a woman’s chest. If she chooses, she can use them to breast feed.”
“What else can she use them for daddy?”
“Other than that they’re totally useless,” I said.
Then there’s grad school. I re-enrolled this semester after having dropped out a year ago. I’m studying to become a principal, believe it or not. I’d be lying if I told you that I’m certain I’m in the right field, but I’ll be thirty this year and it’s time to shit or get off the proverbial pot.
I think of Morgan Freeman in Lean On Me. I think of Chi McBride on Boston Public. I think of my old junior high school principal, Mr. Moss.
What do all of these people have in common? A job that needs to be taken more seriously than I believe myself to be capable. I mean, what is the big fucking deal? Would it be possible for me to run a school building without becoming a tight ass in a cheap suit who thinks too much of himself? What is it about being in charge of a few hundred teenagers that turns you into complete asshole?
In the hierarchy of individuals with power, the high school principal ranks just above the ticket taker at the movie theater. I don’t want to spend $40,000 to become a self-important prick with a clip board and a to-do list.
I used to work for this one asshole a few years back. In the dead of winter, we lost our heat. People were sitting in their classrooms with their outdoor coats on, shivering. The teachers refused to teach and suggested, with all the passion marginally educated semi-professionals can muster, that we close the school and send everyone home early. He refused. Then here comes this asshole, standing in the hallway, in a fucking sweater vest and bow tie, remarking out loud to no one in particular, “It’s not that cold.”
You could see his fucking breath.
Then there was Mr. Moss who had pulled me out of class for fighting when I was in the seventh grade. Six foot five. Dark as night. Walrus mustache. This was the tight ass of all tight asses. He looked like he might shit naked so he wouldn’t wrinkle his pants. As we were walking down the hallway to his office, he stooped down to pick up a candy wrapper off of the floor.
I have always remembered that moment for some reason. Even at twelve years old I recall thinking—How pathetic! He picks up trash and intimidates children for a living. This is the opposite of what I want to do for a living.
Yet, here I am. This week, while I’m home on spring break, I’ll be working on a fictional public relations plan for a fictional school. Doesn’t that sound delicious?
I’d rather pluck the dingleberries out of my ass hair.
As my regular readers know, I am also no longer single. It’s been about five months now. The honeymoon is over and we are officially starting to get on one another’s nerves. It’s great though. I’ve been tracking her periods, so I know when to pack my patience.
It’s ridiculous really. She was just getting on my nerves earlier tonight. Then I checked my calendar and thought—Oh, that explains it.
I never imagined planning my comings and goings around a woman’s menstruation cycle, but honestly, I think it’s the key to keeping a relationship going. I suppose I’d be pissed off if I knew I was going to be bleeding out of my crotch for the next five days and there wasn’t much to be done about it. It’s pretty gross, actually.
Other than the occasional predictable personality clashes, we’re doing just fine. I’m as happy as a faggot with front row seats at a Janet Jackson concert. No major complaints so far. I’ll keep you posted though.
Oh, and as far as politics go, I think Barack's doing a great job considering the circumstances. I heard about his little Special Olympics comment on Leno. First of all, I think it's fantastic that he went on Leno. It shows he hasn't forgotten how he got in office in the first place. Also, any man who makes fun of retards on public television is someone you can trust.
It's the prudes who give me pause.
I suppose that’s about it for now. See you next week.
Thanks for reading.
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