Still in the throes of the infancy of adulthood, I find myself still struggling to get some adult-type things figured out. Some things, like paying bills, I have down pat. Other things, like grocery shopping, are still a bit of a mystery. It’s not that I don’t do it; it’s just that I don’t have much of a strategy.
Do you shop for particular meals? Should you focus on foods that don’t spoil quickly? How does the veritable cornucopia in my cart turn into pasta/rice, chicken and some vegetable multiple times a week? I just haven’t nailed this yet. On a semi-related note, the more time I spend at home in a professional and domestic capacity, the more I respect the crap out of stay-at-home spouses. Yikes. Read the rest of this entry »
Baby butts are small. Adult butts? Less small.
Why then are baby wipes gigantic, moist paper towels devoted to baby butt crack while the adult equivalent are little better than the moist napkins that come with a platter of baby back ribs?
I’m a baby wipe fan. Have been since the ’05-’06 season. They’re versatile; they’re not only are a welcome finish to seated bathroom moments but are also a far superior alternative to a beat down towel after a roll in the hay. In fact, it’s not a terrible idea to give yourself the once-over with a wipe pre-roll, just to make sure you’re squared away.
After dropping off my laundry the other day–I stunt saditty baby–I hit Walgreens for some household needs. In one of my generally worthless, quasi-green moments, I elected to buy the adult wipes, which are about a third of the size of a regulation baby wipe but are flushable.
That’s baby wipes’ one flaw: You can’t flush ‘em. I do anyway, but being on this responsible kick of late, I elected to go with the 42-count adult wipes.
Fuck kicks and fuck adult wipes. They’re tragically insufficient in both the bathroom and post-coital realm. If you want to be clean and not get filth on your hands, you’re using two, which is a waste.
I realize baby wipes are giant because there’s a lot more material to deal with. But adult butts, while better wiped post-movement, have more area to cover. If that’s not enough, our hands are bigger. And, being the guy I am, I don’t care to touch poop.
Can’t we find some butt-appropriate size in the middle?
And now, some loosely-related coonery
And get knocked down like one. The other day on THE ROOT, Jimi Izrael posted a piece on the problem of Somali pirates. Jimi’s under the impression that the United States has placed itself in more of a predicament by using force to neutralize the hostage situation.
We have effectively made a bad situation worse, where our freighters will not only be targets, but somebody is going to be trying to collect blood and a pound of flesh in the name of their fallen countrymen who, after all, weren’t hobby-pirates: those dudes were trying to survive.
I say, given the situation, the US didn’t make anything worse; they merely brought a bad situation to a foreseeable comclusion. While I appreciate the realities that individual who live inside and outside the law face, the said reality of the latter does not keep them immune from reprisal. Were there more peaceful ways to resolve the situation? Probably, but let us recall that these armed men, in an attempt to hijack goods, took a hostage and set the tone for violence. Was the United States wrong for responding in kind? I don’t think so. Will other pirates make good on their promise of vengeance? Probably, though I wouldn’t recommend it. At this point, they should be aware that such acts will only make the Navy call its jump-out boys.
In the game of piracy, I feel like the Somalis are exhibiting terrible sportsmanship. Whether you’re jacking for food or for Fendi, the practice is dangerous and doing so is an assumption of risk. Sometimes, you get the goods and sometimes a SEAL sniper puts his shoe in you. You don’t like it? Find another hustle.
I fancy myself a satirist in many regards and thus attempted to view Ryan Westen’s April Fool’s Day piece in the Georgetown University newspaper through that lens. Sometimes, Black folks get unnecessarily salty and since I try to stay low sodium when possible, decided to go to the tape:
These days, things are much more peaceful her on the Hilltop. Only One thing’s missing: We don’t have enough good old vanilla-chocolate swirl interracial f******.
On the comedic level, not the most chuckle-inducing string of words, but he’s obviously attempting to employ satire here to get a rise out of people. Real Talk Moment #1: In this day and age, the average college (white) guy doesn’t have the stones to put such a thing about black and white sexual relationships in the school newspaper in that explicit a way. He might have gone to town on another race of people in this fashion, but if I he was really trying to pop off about Black folks, he’d have: A) done it in a more back-handed and plausibly deniable way B) been explicit in private or C) punched up an even more explicit version for some blog under a nom de plume. Let’s get back to the tape:
Nothing is more beautiful than adding a few drops of Georgetown’s milk into some dark chocolate Cocoa Puffs. Think about it: Halle Berry, Naomi Campbell, Alicia Keys, Mariah Carey — all the results of some good old-fashioned biracial f****** and sexy pieces of a** to boot.
Satirical fail, Ryan. The vanilla-chocolate swirl imagery grabs the attention well enough, but continuing with it is overkill. I might have gone with a Barack Obama reference because you can always rally with “Miscegenation: It does a country good” and cover your bases. But milk and cereal? Black folks see that less-than-veiled imagery for what it is: White men sweating over possibly non-consenting Black women, pumping them full of ejaculant, which is the only scenario supported in this “satire” since Westen didn’t bother to explicitly mention one in which chocolate milk gets added to a quivering bowl of Kix.
This bring us to the bigger issue: It’s dicey for a white guy to joke about a historically sensitive subject between the races. This isn’t pickaninny stuff; this is talking about the creation of human life and the extreme difficult and often tragic circumstances under which that creation has existed. Can it be joked about? Sure, but delighting in it in such a crude way isn’t satire; it’s little more than rapist wit. Which is an F minus.
In the future Ryan, leave the touchy Black-White subjects to Robert Downey Jr.
I can still enjoy an evening of drinking without eating. APRIL FOOL’S! Having a little extra guap in my pocket the other last night, I felt good about going to a buddy’s birthday happy hour. And a happy hour it was, as were the subsequent hours spent imbibing, conversing and setting up a couples’ dinner date with this interesting cat who’d just lost his job that day. It was after giving a far more torn down friend a piggy back ride home and briefly passing out on the floor of my apartment (at approximately 10:20 PM) that I awoke groggily and intoned the immortal words of Danny Glover’s Detective Murtaugh from Lethal Weapon:
“I’m too old for this s**t.”
Interestingly, this week’s episode of How I Met Your Mother revolved around just that same topic (and thus I’ll give credit lest I come off as what Michael Arceneaux would call a ‘swagger jacker’). It even went so far as to employ a Murtaugh List or, Things You’re Just Too Old to Do. After having watched the episode, a pal and I got to writing out our own Murtaugh List. Given our age and place in life, we only got to sixteen, many revolving around collegiate indiscretions.
On the happy hour night in question, after having transitioned from the floor to the futon, the misses, Dancing Feather, handed me the list and a pen. “Number seventeen,” she said while heading to the kitchen to fix me a breakfast burrito.
My personal Murtaugh List goes a little something like this:
- Go to Spring Fling at school without looking like a creeper
- Crash on a dorm room floor the weekend of The Game
- Eat a mixing bowl worth of cereal without consequence
- Have sleepovers on purpose
- Spend hours at a time (illegally) downloading music
- Do keg stands
- Drink Dubra or other assorted horrible discount liquor
- Play Edward 40 Hands
- Have corn rows
- Go to a public pool by myself
- Ask my parents for money for an unnecessary purchase
- Drink without eating
Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I won’t do any of the above again—besides the corn rows. Those are OUT—but that I should probably be a little better than that. Le sigh.
Now it your turn. RT, share, forward, fax, smoke signal this around because this list could get interesting. The only rule is you need to specify your age bracket. I want to know:
What’s on your Murtaugh List?
Now they call me The Buzz. I would attempt to get self-righteous, but that doesn’t pay nearly as well as twittering and writing clever headlines. Speaking of which, here’s all the updated info you’ll need to get right with the work I’m doing.
Facebook nom de guerre: Root Buzzworthy
I hope to have a longer form piece posted soon. The motivation comes and goes. Such is life I guess.
Kids and Cadets:
As some of you know, I am now working over at http://www.theroot.com as The Buzz. Being Le Buzz has taken time away from being able to display some of my signature long-windedness. Add to that a recent case of the dropsy–it’s not actually the dropsy, but it sounded good right there for some reason–and I am doing a poor job of juggling. Posting here every day is currently just not feasible, mainly because by day’s end I don’t feel terribly inclined to listen to myself type out my long-windedness. While I certainly don’t think this circumstance will bring about the death of the site, a change must be brought about and I need to think about how I can manage both interweb responsibilities, one which pays me something and the other not quite as much. Spending that much time in front of a computer is just…crappy and while I’m no cowboy, there’s a point at which being plugged in is just depressing.