Above we see The Franchise, aka The First of the Mohicans, poppin’ off at the mouth, proving the child is indeed mine.
In recent weeks, The Feath and I have taken to calling the kid Juice or Juicy Fruit, not merely because I’m like Diddy with these monikers, but also because home skillet starts gettin’ buck every time The Feath drinks juice.
But what kind of skillet is Juice? A he or a she?
Let’s allow Prince Rogers Nelson to croon a bit
Could you be
The most beautiful girl in the world?
Plain to see
You’re the reason that God made a girl
So, there you have it.
And, in honor of my unborn child, a song which she will be convinced is a nursery rhyme until she becomes the wiser and feels mildly ashamed of her father.
In light of the possibility of a John Edwards sex tape, this post from June ‘07 seemed appropriate.
So, one of the more odd things about yours truly is my peculiar interest in and ability to retain information pertaining to pop culture. Perhaps it’s a sad commentary on society in the post-modern era (whatever the fuck that means), but I would feel infinitely more confident entering a pop culture show than I would a history one. It’s not to say I can’t fucks with some Jeopardy!, but it is to say I remember a lot of worthless information.
What’s particularly weird is, though I semi-actively seek to stay hip to the game, unless a pop topic is brought up, I don’t really discuss it with other people. More often than not, it is unlikely I’ll open up a conversation with, “Did you see what so and so was wearing at the Emmy Awards?”, but I’ll absolutely know what so and so was wearing. I just generally keep the information to myself. Is it out of shame? I don’t think so. I suppose it’s just one of those quirks about your boy.
Anyway, I was perusing one of my favorite website, thesuperficial.com, and the most recent post on the site was devoted to pictures of Kim Kardashian living her life. To bring up to speed those of you who have better things to do with your lives than know who she is, Kardashian is the daughter of Robert–one of the lawyers who proved O.J. was innocent, friend to Paris Hilton (though I’m not sure they’re peoples anymore) and the vagina of Ray J’s sex tape. In these pictures on the website, Kardashian’s booty looks other-worldly. Literally, it just looks so good that it’s not to be believed. Now I don’t know how half-Armenians get down, but this was just absurd. I needed a consultation.
Talking to my home girl Ms. Thomas-Littleton, I sent the link to her for her perusal. I tend to believe girls have a better eye for certain things than dudes, mainly because the straight ones don’t want to have sex with what they’re looking at. Upon inspection, MTL thought her ass was a cosmetic fakery, noting that the thigh to butt ratio just didn’t add up.
I’m no one’s doctor, so I can’t really tell you if you can fake a donkey butt. What I do know is happening across these photos piqued my curiosity about her sex tape with Raymond Norwood (which is something of a porny name when you think about it), brother of Brandy. After searching the world wide web for a bit (Sidebar 1: Sometimes, the internet is utterly unhelpful) I discovered the tape in full. Eager to see what the sex tape gods had wrought, I clicked on the link. My date with destiny had begun. Keep reading →
Jon is seated on the bed, plugging in his cellular phone. The Feath enters the room, freshly showered. She has a look of mild astonishment on her face as she feels her belly, a belly that contains the ever-growing Franchise.
THE FEATH: Dude, I can’t see my vagina anymore.
Jon ponders this a moment. He beckons The Feath over, smiles and rubs her belly thoughtfully.
Confession: My Twitter feed is fairly one-note. There’s a spectrum certainly, but even that spectrum falls under the category of “Stuff I’ll tolerate reading 140-characters at a time.” Thus, I don’t have too many people who are, in my opinion, batshit crazy and perpetually insufferable. I once referred to Twitter as the college dining hall for grown-ups and that still applies. The people whom I follow are people who I would sit at a table and shoot the shit with. Keep reading →
The above is a bit of timeless parody. This is not. I’m gonna have to be the bad guy and say it’s…mildly uncouth to nominate a man’s funeral service for an NAACP Image Award, even if it’s Michael Jackson.
Question No. 9 on this year’s census form asks about race, with one of the answers listed as “black, African-Am. or Negro.”
Census Bureau spokesman Jack Martin said the use of “Negro” was intended as a term of inclusion.
“Many older African-Americans identified themselves that way, and many still do,” he said. “Those who identify themselves as Negroes need to be included.”
The form was also approved by Congress more than a year ago, and the word has appeared on past forms.
The use of Negro began disappearing elsewhere with the civil rights movement of the 1960s, as black or African-American became the preferred terms.
All things considered, I can’t say this one worked me into a lather. If anything, it just made me furrow my eyebrows and think: Why?
I get that the Census Board wants to make everyone feel included, but it stands to reason that if people are taking the time to fill out the Census, they’ll probably check the most appropriate box, even if they have to do so grumbling. I would like to meet the person beating down the Census Bureau’s door wondering why they as Negroes were left off the form.
As I consider it, the Negro usage seems akin to grouping “Retarded” along with “Special Needs” or “Handicapped” on a form. Yes; both are previously acceptable terms, but now that’s not really the case and more importantly, the use seems unnecessary considering neither denote anything specific or particular.
Let’s try to ignore for a moment the Kidz Bop tone of this commercial that would make the people responsible for the Snuggie ads cringe. This product’s existence seems to accept as fact that all women love, appreciate and want a big behind and that said behind will be loved, appreciated and wanted by all those that behold it. As Amanda Hess of The Washington CityPaper points out, having a bump to match her pumps have yet to reap the benefits Booty Pop extols.
As you may or may not be aware, a new decade will begin on Friday. Since lists are what people do at the end of things because paragraphs with common threads are just entirely too difficult to cobble together, I’ve followed suit with a random hodge-podge of observations, thoughts and things learned over the course of ten years.
2000: We were league champions after going on an improbably post-season run. Knocked off Wheeler, 53-51. In my career, we only beat Wheeler once. Lesson: Only one game counts.
2001: 9/11. Vagina. Lesson: You can learn all things from war and genitals.
2002: High school graduation.Robert Horry hit that shot against the Kings. on my graduation day. Lesson: Robert Horry is the Butterfly Effect.
2003: Yale. The Michelle. Being an idiot regarding several things, mostly The Michelle-related. Lesson: Flattery is the key to infidelity.
2004: The College Dropout (album and real life). Lesson: Being a nightclub bouncer is infinitely more interesting than folding pants at the Gap.
2005: Yale, again. The Justice League. Argentina with The Intercontinental Champ. Lesson: You can always go home again, but it might not be how you left it.
2006: The best and worst day of college happened on the same day. Iberia. Lesson: Sometimes, you have to make trades, especially when you don’t have a choice. Also, sometimes friendship is no friend at all.
2007: Yale graduation. Lesson: Getting in is easier than finishing.
2008:The Spirit Warrior’s Dream. The Feath. The Election. Lesson: It’s usually the one you never saw coming.
2009: Freezing at the Inauguration. Brougham gets married. The Feath begins work on The Franchise. Lesson: It’s about grown man time…
