Glanced in the cut and I seen my homie Nate…

So, in the 24 hours that occurred between on Sunday and Lunes (word to my MS-13 duns), I: Went to a casino that would make James Fenimore Cooper proud,got bad pork fried rice from Japanese people, came down with the plague Bubonica, watched Ben Roethelisberger’s beard beat Jake the Snake’s, saw the decapitation of two baby rats by Marion Jones (sans juice) AND the requisite brain removal, continued to come down with the Purple City byrd flu (brrrr) in the comforts of my Sundays at 10pm stomping ground, missed Kobe drop eight dimes and one penny on the Raptors C club basketball team, watched Aaron McGruder hate Black people for one half hour, then had a Fresca. Peace to Father Time.

Penultimate Thought: I feel bad for Jermaine Dupri. He’s having the best year of his career and Janet decides she wants to be the normal Jackson that also happens to be fat.

Final Thought: I like the Detroit Spinners better than the Temptations.

Waited on a line of greens and blues…

So, at around 2:30 this morning when I was in my bed trying to act like I wasn’t an insomniac, some Caucus Mountain types that live on the floor above me thought it would be a good idea to gather others of their ilk, talk loudly and belt out Jefferson Starship even more loudly. As much as “We Built This City” lubes my tubes (no Brokeback), I thought that I’d prefer to thrash about my comforters in relative peace and quiet. Still, I was faced with yet another dilemma: do I wanna go be uncool guy and tell some young scraps to turn down their music?

After some consideration, I decided to throw some shorts on and make the sojourn up the stairs to ask these houligans to turn their music down some. I thought this was the right thing to do. This, to me, was being cool guy. My buddies and I (read: Black people smarter than you) have been run out into a snowstorm by campus security AT MIDNIGHT ON A SATURDAY because, instead of coming down and talking to us, someone (read: scared alabaster dun) decided to phone in a noise complaint to the quasi-cops, who in turn, shut our party down because we had 300 people (read: 100 maybe. It was after all, only around 12) in a 25X8 foot room with two double doors on each end of, which, of course, constitutes a fire hazard.

Might I add that this was in the same college (one that can feel free to fellate my tower anytime it has the opportunity) that regularly allows a suite with a large common room (or the God Quad as the Natty Icers call it) to put on weekend functions in which white people, light beer in hand, stand around and talk while music is played loudly and Black people walk through this scene and wonder why white people do this. These functions never cease to create compromising situations in the stairwells, or, as St. Paul wrote in his letters to the Romans, “fucking death traps.”

Like I said, I thought I was going the cool guy way. I mean, I am the Black Fonzarelli and all. So I get to the door and open it a touch to see white people standing in the dark drinking while music was being played loudly (Sidebar 1: What’s the point of even having the music loud? I mean, if you’re going to chit chat, why not throw on a little Burt Bacharach at a reasonable volume and leave it at that?). Right next to the door was its occupant, who happens to be a sick sort of guy. And by sick, I mean pastel, collars north, Brine Edge siiiiiiiiiiick. So I asked homie to turn the music down, to which he answered, almost shocked, “Dude, it’s Friday”.

Clearly, I was a bit perturbed. I mean, I had learned the days of the week about the same time I learned to shit by myself, so his envoking the good name of Friday didn’t really work for me. I told him some people are trying to fake somnia (as opposed to insomnia) and would appreciate the respect to do so without Bon Jovi providing their artistic input. He countered with the fact that it was the weekend and went on to ask what I had to do tomorrow. Word, homie? Did you really just ask me if I had a reason to be asleep? You know how some people get beer muscles? I think some white boys get beer entitlement. Like, they already know they run shit, but you get some of the hot stuff in them and they really think that they can rationalize what they’re doing irrespective of what others might be doing. Clearly, I remained cool because, you know, I don’t wanna be the nigga that ruins our winning streak (word to OJ, Kobe, and the Gloved One) and he eventually complied.

What the fuck was that? The vexing thing was not the music; it was that he really tried the redirect on me. For the life of me, I only know one type of person that has anything that even begins to approaches a worthy redirect, and they have birth canals. This summummabastard really asked me to explain my reason for coming up to his dorm room at 2:30 in the morning. Note for all those that aren’t Elm City Byrd G’s: Closing time at Yale and in the real world is 1 on weekdays (including Friday), 2 on Saturdays. Yes, even the mighty Toad’s has to upchuck its bile of regrettable human decision-making by very early Sunday morn. So, to me, he didn’t really have a case on those grounds alone.

I also resented that he thought I was some sort of aberration. Yale is not a hot bed of social activity post-2. Shit, it can be a wrap at 9:30 around here so the chance that someone might actually be in bed is, again, not that crazy. Now, I have respect for young scrimshaws trying to revolutionize the moribund (word to the Krauts) social scene, but they either need to do that in their own apartments/houses or let the revolution be broadcast on YTV. The dorm is not your house. Your jeep and its OBX stickers are not parked in any sort of driveway adjacent to said dorm. This is a matter or respect for spaces you share with other people. Fact: Should the gents of A D Phi ever ask me to shut a party down, for whatever reason, I’m going to do it. Why? Because I don’t pay the light bill.

This situation really had me trippin’ b. This mufucka really wanted me to explain myself. I think the thing that strikes me to the quick is that I tried to do it the cool way. My boy Steve Biko ain’t get the cool guy benefit (until he got to the Auto de Fe itself and they realized he was Tim Hardaway with his appeal game). Dude disrespected my Fonzarelli. The fact that he eventually complied is meaningless when I think about the fact that he doesn’t have any understanding of why I came upstairs. I think he was more responding to his last shred of human decency for the evening (coupled with the non-confrontational, yes-man social politics that have come to dominate the lower 48), which is a shame because I can’t help but think that while he pounded the ovaries out of some drunk white girl (Lacoste polo still on), his dick got a little softer (No Jake Gyllenhaal) at the thought of someone asking him to turn the music down on a Friday in his own damn house. I mean dorm. Peace to Jimmy Pope.

Penultimate Thought: College hockey is the most underrated live sporting event around.

Final Thought: Physically, Cameron Diaz peaked in ‘The Mask’.

Two shots in the dark, now Huey’s dead…

So, while The Kahuna decided that He hated mankind (I, for one, blame the Yugoslavians) and assaulted me and the rest of the Preppy City byrd g’s ( Juelz! crrrrrreeeeeeeeeeew! don’t forget to roll the r’s fuckahs) with hail and such, there was a celebration of the day my mom made me leave her womb. In point of fact, this is the same day that Mary evicted Jesus from her insides, but since on that day, most people are with their families trying to avoid their embarrassing relatives by searching for the bottom of a sherry glass, it’s hard to get the gang together.

So I arrived to the venue, and there is a large human-sized cage there. Since I don’t condone such accouterments, I demanded that it be removed immediately. Then I called Slyvester Stallone and talked about Rocky 6. After getting off the horn with Sly (No Brokeback), I made my rounds to the various denizens that were there to drink for free while congratulating me for not dying before right then (Sidebar 1: Shouldn’t people really be calling my mom on my birthday? I mean, she did all the work. As a baby during birth, you’re kinda like the guy that brings ice to the party. Sure, it’s useful, but, in actuality, you brought just about nothing to the table). People would embrace me and say happy birthday and, at first, I’d tell them that my birthday is actually the day before Kwanzaa, but I soon realized it didn’t really matter, so I just let el 14 de enero (word to my guatemalteco duns) be the day my umbilical cord was savagely cut, forcing me to confront the cruel realities that are the world we live in while whipped cream was occasionally licked from my face.

Now, the venue was fairly cold due to the fact that the thermostat had been cross-bodied out of the wall by some young collar popper, but the first wave of white people came and warmed it up nicely, which is agreeable. Their body heat is just right (nullus). I mean it’s apparently efficient enough to keep some in flip flops year round, but not warm enough to make you hot in a group of more than three people, which can’t be said for the blast furnaces that are the Asiatics. Seriously, I think the combination of Dax, Carson’s and Palmer’s cocoa butter is the same consistency as low-grade plastic explosives. Put me within 3 square feet of more than one Black person, and my armpits are probably sweating, though that might also be due to the requisite increase in police presence.

After the screaming white girls left (much to He Hate Me’s chagrin), the heat and rhythm index skyrocketed with the arrival of the extras from ‘A Different World’, which was cool (Sidebar 2: I hope white people don’t think they have to leave when black people show up and only return when the alcohol level has drowned any possible trepidations. I mean, I know they heart Toad’s but they don’t have to pull a suburbs on us {Oh shit Pitts, you ain’t right}). The rest of the eve was spent ogling butts and responding to everything with “it’s my birthday”.

By night’s end, my undershirt was on a young coed who had spilled libations about her front and the other was on a known pervert; thus leaving my trunk in only a black tie looking like a tall, fattish version of a Chippendale dancer. However, any night that your nipples feel the inside of your overcoat is either very good or very bad, and this was the former. It was really great and flattering to see that kind of turn out and the well-wishes. Makes you feel like you might have gotten something right every once and again, which is pretty flattering when you’re half a prick, even if there was enough alcohol to blind the women’s track team. I might make a whole new group of friends at like the Forestry school just so I can say my birthday is some other time and have people sloppily embrace me. Peace to Bernadet.

Penultimate Thought: The old “I didn’t get an invitation” does not work at any party associated with myself under any circumstances. If it’s invite-only, I’ll do the classy thing and send evites.

Final Thought: Whenever I see commercials for ‘The Gauntlet’ on MTV, I’m glad my reality tv run ended at the finals.

If you’re looking for a trill-type figure, let me be it…

So, today after getting back to my room following my seminar professors going over the entire syllabus in detail (I swear, I don’t even know why they bothered hand it out. I mean, according to the Daily News, most of the I-20′s don’t speak good American, but it don’t mean the student population can’t read), I decided it would be a good idea to forego exercise and instead promote heart disease by frying chicken for a friend’s pot luck dinner. Well, after the chicken was properly crisped, I proceeded to dive into it and the rest of the horn of plenty (well, there wasn’t actually a horn, but the table was set nicely). Anyway, since I tend to think eating is a race I must win at all costs, I ended up getting indigestion and had to use the facilities. It was during this seeming ordeal that I really appreciated my double aut deucers who commit academic thuggee (word to my curry duns).

I mean, this was my friend’s potluck dinner and I didn’t really wanna be the one to blow up the only bathroom in a one bedroom apartment where the kitchen doubles as a closet. Clearly, this was not a dude’s apartment (what dudes do you know that have potluck dinners? And I don’t count because I’m half a fruit), so my ability to deuce defiantly and grunt victoriously afterwards was not there. If my friend played rugby maybe, but she doesn’t. In fact, the apartment was 1 part homeboys, 1 part homegirls, and 3/8ths chicken. I tried to pull some Jedi mind tricks on my tummy; however, the bubble guts took over and I headed to the bathroom hoping no one noticed the 6 and a half footer get up from the middle of the couch in the crowded living room and walk the 2.12 feet to the throne. Thankfully, the sojourn went down without incident. But fifteen minutes later, the urge struck again (The Pepto-Bismol people need to holler at me for their ad campaigns) and my tush had to have a caucus with the porcelain yet again. This time, Marion Jones (sans juice) thought it’d be hilarious to put forth her best percussive effort on the bathroom door, which was swell.

For a second, I was mortified. Knocks on the door while you go number two in an unfamiliar environ are only a little bit above being stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen with a spoon on the list of things that will ruin at least 30 seconds of your life, number one of course being watching sa movie with your parents when a sex scene comes on. Now ladies, I know you don’t go number two, but you’re just gonna have to trust me when I say the whole things sucks. I mean, there I was, in the bathroom, stomach knotted in indigestion, pants about the Timbs, going doo-doo and someone knew about it. Then I stopped and remembered that toilets are not for holding dandelions. Their purpose is to collect fertilizer and nasty dishwater that you don’t want to pour down the sink. I also took into account that the same reason Marion beat on the door was the same reason I risked the social faux pas in the first place. We were among friends. We’d all been through too much to let a little poop be a big deal. After 3 plus years, there’s no more guy/girl stunt shows. Just genuine respect, chicken and sparkling wine and coonery that would make BET shed a tear. And every day, we’re a little closer to it not being like this ever again. After May, I guess I’ll just have to hold it til I get home. Peace to 2000 Flushes.

Penultimate Thought: Black girls just don’t do ‘Girls Gone Wild’ videos.

Final Thought: ‘Munich’ is a thought-provokingly depressing movie. You should see it for yourself.

Fuck you, pay me, I’m all outta favors…

So, I was watching a soon-to-be-cancelled show on NBC and on the first of what will be about 6 episodes (Sidebar 1: What happened to Must-See TV? This fall from grace can probably only be matched by Maurice Clarrett’s recent criminal indiscretions {come on, Mo. Did you really think you could get away with armed robbery in Columbus?}. NBC used to own Thursday. OWN IT. Now, I’m pretty sure even the BET vj’s could get a sitcom deal). Anyway, the main characters were telling their buddy that if he has to choose between his girlfriend and them, he should choose them because of the age old adage “bros before hoes”.

Let’s go ahead and file that right behind “stop snitching” in the “ridiculously ideal sayings that hold up -11 out of 10 times in real life” box. I mean honestly friends, if people picked bros before hoes, not only would most of us who had the opportunity to swim our way to our mother’s egg (Sidebar 2: Whenever I get a little down, I remember that out of 6 million sperm, I flicked my little tail the hardest), but Cher would be the number one selling artist in the world.

Now, you could argue that the saying means a guy should not pick a wack bitch over his buddies, but if you think about it, guys only pull that one out when they know a girl can muscle them outta priority seating. It’s pretty much understood that any stand-up guy will rank a wack bitch behind his homies (unless her sex has your boy in a spell. We all know how that goes). When people say “bros before hoes”, they’re talking about loyalty to the guy race, which supersedes the loyalty to girls because girls are girls and aren’t as good as boys because they are naturally hysterical and in need of guidance from rational beings. Thus the institution of marriage.

However, unless you’re like the Boy Wonder and plan to marry and impregnate a submissive woman for strictly financial purposes, bros will invariably place second to hoes. And you wanna know why? Because if you love Barry White, red meat or contact sports, you know you can’t have sex with your bros. But guess who you can have sex with? Hoes. In fact, when you find a good girl, she’s like a bro with a vagina and mammaries who you can hang out with and sex viciously. Come on fellas, would we really rather hang out with our bros for extended periods of time (I’m talking days, weeks, months)? Not unless we’re 13 years old or in Zeta Psi.

For real, I’m not saying that guys should just gift wrap their nuts to the weaker sex, but there definitely has to be some balance. And “bros before hoes” ranks up there with ‘we are seeking absolute victory in Iraq, WMDs be damned’ as things that seem a hair unrealistic. If guys really liked shacking up together, after college (and the requisite five years where you don’t actually have money), we would live in large apartment complexes together. Come to think of it, they have places like that. They’re called YMCA’s and the only tenant requirement is a nicely trimmed mustache. And why don’t we do that? Because a bro-like person with a vagina put a hex on you (and because it’s kinda gae to live with a bunch of guys, with or sans mustache). Peace to perpetuating the species.

Penultimate Thought: Girl cheerleaders at womens’ sporting events confuse me.

Final Thought: The original ‘The Office’ puts the American version to shame.

I had to take the brotha out for being rude…

So, while I watched Vince Young shit on everyone that did not vote for him to win the Heisman Trophy last night, that Dr. Pepper commercial with the guy who would do just about anything for and with his girl, except give up the fizzy goodness that is a DP. In one of the parts, there is the cliche ‘guy buying tampons in a convenience store’. There is nothing embarrassing about that. Let me tell you something, unless the Carver from Nip/Tuck jacked one in homeboy’s trapdoor, I’m fairly certain those tampons are not for him. Ergo, it really is not that embarrassing to buy bumbaclots (boyeeeeee). Now, if the Dr. Pepper people wanted to show dedication, they’d have had young scrap buying hemorrhoid cream. THAT’S devotion because you can’t really explain that away as Hakmeem does a price check. And before you try to tell me hemorrhoids are gross, uteral discharge is not that tight.

 While we’re on the topic of things that chap asses, I’d just like to say the NCAA is getting ridiculous with these excessive celebration flags. Frankly, I find it biased against both age and culture. I mean, I am in no way in support of taunting your opponent, but, if you feel like swan diving into the end zone, you should do that. If you want to celebrate six after doing three a days, 6am run, and pressin’ the weights, I think it’s reasonable. And yes, I can call it cultural biased because most people scoring touchdowns now are Negroid. I can also say it’s biased against age because I saw my buddy Shocker do an 80s metal triple fist pump and get the hanky. Come on old guys, just because you guys played without facemasks and Black people does not mean a little shake ever hurt. Especially when you should consider the gross amount of money you make because people wanna see these guys shake their laffy taffy (nullus). Peace to the U.

Penultimate Thought: I do not like Coors Light.

Final Thought: Though America is soft, at least we’re not a synonym for candy-ass. See: Euro.