I told you it was only a matter of time before the buddy cop movie starring myself and Kriss from Insanity Report surfaced. This is Part I.
INT. – NIGHT
Detectives Pitts-Wiley and Kriss pore over case files. The humidity in the room is stifling, but they continue to rifle through dossiers, newspaper clippings and photos. Both look as though they haven’t slept much in the last few days. Ties loosened, they dangle about the necks as though the gallows call. Perhaps it does. This case isn’t like that others. There’s a wrinkle they know they’re missing. But both Kriss and Pitts-Wiley are determined. They know the Tiger Woods press conference is a career bust and they can’t let it slip through their fingers. Suddenly Kriss slams down a folder. He’s fed up. Read the rest of this entry »
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. Read the rest of this entry »
INT. – NIGHT– THE BEDROOM
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.
JON: Well…it is kind of kind of in a cave now.
Twitterin’ (heeey) sing-le
Oooh, In a 1-0 kind of world
I’m glad I’ve got Twit-ter!
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. Read the rest of this entry »
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.
Because of the above picture, my buddy The Black Snob is just now regaining feeling in the left side of her face.
As I look at it, all I can think is: Kanye’s not that swoll.
That’s about it.
Far be it from me to disavow allegiance to calling out fuckery–I make a living of it frankly and will probably snap about something or other in ten to fifteen minutes–but this just doesn’t bother me. It’s not that I don’t like it or will spend time defending it; it’s that I don’t really care.
Maybe it’s just me, but I think 2009 is the Year of Submission. Not submission in that people agreed to whatever was going on–the year started with The March on Washington II, transitioned into people acting a donkey at town halls and will end with people getting lumped up in Copenhagen–but rather a year in which things topped each other to the degree that, after a certain point, you just sort of shrugged and say “OK.”
This was a year that had no ceiling and apparently isn’t winding down. Stuff will continue going down until 11:59 on the 31st. Count on it.
Michael Jackson, along with every celebrity ever died, a dude shot up a military base and a serial killer’s bodies stunk up a neighborhood. And a cop shot Oscar Grant in the back on the BART platform. And the president was compared to Hitler daily. Tiger had sex with one out of every three cocktail waitresses in the United States.
Perhaps this pic has been brought to my attention far too late. As of December 21st, I can’t muster the strength to even kind of speculate as to why Dave LaChapelle wanted to make this happen. Nor can I speculate as to why Kanye wanted to carry a naked Lady Gaga, doing her best airbrushed blonde bombshell, out of the jungle looking like a zombie Indiana Jones who spends his free time doing crunches in the antiquities wings of Egyptian museums.
I just don’t know. And I care less than I know.
So to this photo I say: OK. #KanyeShrug
I don’t have any personal investment in Tiger Woods’ personal life. Frankly, with each new trick that takes her lunch break to give US Weekly an exclusive scoop, I find myself feeling terrible for Elin Woods and their children. A wife and children deserve better than this. Still, I have to admit I find the newfound outrage regarding Tiger Woods’ jump-off choice particularly amusing. Many Black folks have wasted little time pointing out that all of Tiger’s jump-offs have been white. Read the rest of this entry »