Once a year for the last couple of years MTV and the good folks at Viacom have put out a list that is referred to as the “Hottest MCs in the Game”. I have no idea what their criterion for “Hot” is, but I’m going to assume that it consists of the following: Press/Media buzz, Lyrics, Swagger, and Cultural Trends. MTV places a panel of people who supposedly know about hip-hop in a room and they debate on ten MCs and their deserving rankings. (The fact that the panel is moderated by Sway is even more disappointing. He should know better.)
Each year we have ended up with a list consisting of hip-hop mainstays who may not be considered super stars but are well known, a few wtfs, and some well deserving all time greats. Each year I have disagreed with the lists. Why? Well mainly I’m just a disagreeable person, and the second reason is simply because I can.
So last night when NCIS went to a commercial break I took a look at MTV’s list for 2009. Here it goes
1. Jay-Z
2. Lil Wayne
3. Drake
4. Kanye West
5. Rick Ross
6. Gucci Mane
7. Young Jeezy
8. Fabolous
9. 50 Cent
10. Raekwon
So that’s MTV’s list of whom they think hip-hop heads are checking for. Personally, I think this list is utter horse $@%&, but my standards may or not be too high. A few of these cats I can’t argue with. Some are questionable as hell and need to be amended.
Chime in and let me know what you think about this list and we can have a good old-fashioned debate about hip-hop. When the smoke clears we’ll come up with a list of our own.
Honestly, I think we can do better.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Who's Gonna Save My Soul Now
“If God didn't want them sheared, he would not have made them sheep.”
Eli Wallach as Calvera in the Magnificent Seven ©
I don’t like church. More specifically, I’ve got church issues. There, I said it.
When I say I have church issues I mean I have beaucoup church issues. These issues are Ike and Tina sized issues. Wolverine/Sabertooth issues. Whitney Houston/sobriety issues. Israeli/Palestinian issues. Right-wing Republicans/common sense issues.
Yep, these issues are that big
Before y’all cast me out as heretic, hear me out. I know black folks love us some Jesus, but this has nothing to do with him or his Dad. This has to do specifically with churches. Maybe this will make sense to you and I’ll come around in the way I view organized religion. Then again…
On Sunday I had the absolute worst experience within the four walls of what is supposed to be a church in my life. I found myself praying like Jenny from Forrest Gump, “Wanting to be taken far, far away”. I’ll explain that later but to understand my position here’s a brief rundown with my relationship with church.
From as far back as I could remember I have never actually enjoyed going to church. As a child I would do my best to over sleep to avoid going. There were a million other places that I would rather be than at St. Luke Baptist church in Fairfax, SC (Stand up!) on a Sunday morning. I would find myself sitting in a place I didn’t want to be, wearing clothes that I didn’t want to wear, listening to the same songs week after week; all the while I was bored to death. I did listen to most of the sermons, but I did find myself not caring about what the guest preachers had to say.
Overall, I simply didn’t care to be there!
My apathy continued, as I got older. I got baptized while in middle school. This was mostly because of parental pressure. “When are you and your brother going to join the church?” This would be the question that I would be frequently asked by my parents. So during revival my Brother and I got baptized.
“I Shouldn’t Have Done it” Slick Rick ©
Not once during this process did any one explain what taking the literal plunge meant. Granted, if I had been paying attention I would have known, but I didn’t pay attention and the story continues. So, physically, mentally, and spiritually nothing changed for me during the following years. I still prayed, believed in God, but I can honestly say that I did not fully understand what it meant to be “saved”. Sure, my church was filled with nice people but this changed nothing in my eyes. What I did know was that I had ton of questions and I couldn’t find any tangible answers.
When I did get answers they didn’t make sense with me. Phrases like “They are filled with the spirit” were tossed about but nothing that I thought was usable was given to me. I would also hear Bible verses uses as answers to these questions, but they only added to the confusion of an over analytical teenager.
So by the time I became an upperclassman in high school I’m starting to chalk my train of thought up to me just being a cynic. The hooping, hollering, and the rest of the show baffled me. No, I didn’t attend a holiness church where the church scene from the Blues Brothers was a common thing, but I watched people act as if they were perfect angels for a couple of hours on Sunday but come Monday morning they would sit poised to rain hell for the next six days. The blatantly, obvious, fakeness, or what I perceived to be fakeness of “church folk” would become my next issue with the church. At this point I began to think that the literal church was ok, but it is just the church people who were askew.
This was a possible answer that I went with for a while but upon further thought I came to this conclusion:
The church is both an organization and a building. If both an organization and a building are built with shoddy materials, or ran by shoddy people, isn’t structural failure of some sort eventually going to occur? But again, I think to myself “You’re a cynic, who is being cynical. It’s not them. It’s you.”
Questions would arise that I couldn’t answer. Are these people actually filled with the “Spirit”? Is it the music? Or are they just putting on?
As I grew into adult-hood the actual leaders of the church would become my next point of contention. Who are these people? Really, who are these people? What qualifies them to watch over the souls and spiritual well being of their flock? (Remember that word, flock kids.) Has anyone besides me ever questioned this?
“I was called to preach.” Is what I would hear. Okay, this may or may not be true but how does John Q. Public sitting in the pews know this? Because you said so is isn’t a good enough answer for me. Under idea circumstances I would love to believe that is the case but I could never just sit back and believe this without a ton questions. I know preachers and such are people too and since we hold them in such high regards shouldn’t our standard for them be higher too?
So at this point I’m a grown man. Until Sunday I had not set foot in a church for about a year. See my Girlfriend was actually was raised in the church and I just went to church. (There is a difference.) During the past few years we both have questioned the set-up and actions of the church. At the behest of one of my girlfriend’s coworker we went to church. We entered the church at 11:15 and our next moments of happiness would not occur until we exited at three something that afternoon. (Read that last sentence again, and take it all in.)
First of all, this was “holiness” church. This “church” was not in an actually church. It was in the back of a recreation center near the Amtrak station in North Charleston. When we finally found the place there were a bunch of janky looking men dressed like a cross between Steve Harvey and T.D. Jakes. Not a good sign but things stood to get worse. As we approach the church I hear someone “speaking in tongues”. As we entered we found a seat and some old bat is onstage saying, “we decree, various things over and over followed by plain old gibberish”.
I was also puzzled by the ratio of women to men in the church. All of the men in the church over the age of 35 seemed to have held some type of position within the church. The rest of the male make up of the church were boys under the age of 21. There were only two other men who fell in between these ages beside myself who were not affiliated with this “church”. This led to the question: why do so many women fall for the shady church trap?
With that being said, the hooping and hollering increased more and more while the band set up. The old bat that was initially warming up the crowd passed the microphone to one of the aforementioned janky individuals. He continued on asking everyone to please stand. With this the real show began. More speaking in tongues and other glittering generalities were spat toward the crowd and things really began to get interesting.
After a while I realized that we have been in this “church” for almost and hour and there has not been one single thing resembling a prayer. Although we did not know it yet, it was almost time for the first fleecing of the flock of the day. The way the preachers controlled the congregation was somewhat masterful. Using the music, the gibberish, and various glittering generalities the preacher types got the mostly ovarian crowd excited to the point where they were willingly to give as much money away as possible! Knowing this, the first of the janky preacher types called for the first of the collections and the crowd, in their sweaty state, was willing to pay for the goodness that they were warmed up for.
Things at this point calm down a tad and another preacher steps up to take his turn. Again, with the help of the music another spiritual orgy commences. This one was much more intense than the previous one. The fervor and the strength of the message increased ten fold. This preacher called for more hooping and hollering, instructing the crowd to dance at his instructions, and dance they did. With the smell of baby powder, church lady perfume, and sweat in the air the tension in the room increased even more.
At this point I realized what Ms. Moneypenny and I had gotten ourselves involved in, A prosperity ministry. From that point on all of the talk involved money. With the addition of money rhetoric the preacher began to ramp things up to a higher level. It started off again when the preacher asked a lackey to go to his car and get the $500 out of his trunk.(Sometime during this madness a small Louis V treasure chest was placed at the foot of the pulpit.) This started another frenzy although, he did not speak in tongues (I’m guessing he was the straight-man ) Minutes later, after constant talk of the Lord making you rich, preacher says “Y’all know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to dance over my STUFF.” Repeating his phrase “I said I’m going to dance over MY STUFF!!!”
This sets the crowd off to a point where everyone, and I mean everyone not named Keith Francis Young or Crystal D. Cade started dancing.(Well there was another dude in the back who looked more shook that we did.) During the dance over his stuff, the preacher makes his way to the corner of the pulpit and begins to dance in front of who I could only assume to be the mastermind. The crowd goes even crazier. The congregation then lost control of themselves, their common sense, and their pocket books. In mass, they rushed the stage where the main preacher began laying hands. This was our chance to bounce but we hesitated and we would pay dearly for this. As the congregation carried more money up to the preacher, the more hands were laid.
True to fashion the crowd calmed down again as the Main preacher approached the microphone. (Still not a single prayer.) Instead of standing and preaching two of his lackeys bring his throne preaches. He opens with asking everyone to stand. He then adds this bit of knowledge “People still call me Bishop because they don’t recognize my anointing. I am an Apostle!”
Here are the highlights of his sermon: like chair to the front and he has another lackey hold his Bible while he
God wants you to get paid.
He declared that some woman in the congregation was cured of fibroid cysts due to the laying of hands. (I learned later on that afternoon that this was another glittering generality. Crystal informed me that black women tend to have a larger percentage of fibroid cysts than white women. We were in a room filled with black women.) Just to cover his behind he adds a disclaimer, “Check with your doctor to make sure.”
He is hated because he wants to include prostitutes and faggots in his ministry.
He says a prophecy that one day he and his brother (who turned out to be the second preacher, that danced over his stuff) will start a ministry in Africa and “blow up!”
He informs the crowd that Jesus was not a poor, humble man, but in fact he was a man of wealth who owned property.
He points out the young lady who was sitting next to me and tells her to get up and shout. She does it but not to his liking so he implores her to continue. She does and she pokes me in the eye this time.
He was constantly drinking a blue beverage from a wine glass during the sermon.
I could continue, but we all know where this tirade was going to end. That’s right kids; we got to see another hallelujah orgy which then ended with yet another quasi-orgasmic offering.
With the soul stirring finally reaching a crescendo the blood and the body was brought to the front of the church. At this point I’m thinking myself “I honestly can’t take communion here.” So all of the sheep get in line after their sheering to take in the body and the blood. Crystal and I also get in line, but at the last minute we bolt with another couple for the door.
Nothing about what you just read is made up. I have a witness who will back every last aspect of this story up. I know I shouldn’t judge all churches by this one but my questions are much bigger than this church although this church, an extreme example, did bring up a lot of feeling that I need to work out. Crystal and I can’t be the only logical people who feel this way about the institution of the church and the people who run it. Do people actually want to hold on to something that bad that they would willingly follow Apostles like the one I was witnessed to yesterday? I was almost expecting to see Daddy Rich and The Pointer Sisters stroll in.
I’m not the best man walking around the Earth, but I know when something isn’t right. I take the Doc Holiday approach to life. I’m very much aware of my hypocrisies and I try to only let them go so far. Something is deadly wrong when you find yourself in church praying for forgiveness for having come to church. (Read that last line twice to take it all in.)
I need some answers. I can’t just be me. Or is it?
Eli Wallach as Calvera in the Magnificent Seven ©
I don’t like church. More specifically, I’ve got church issues. There, I said it.
When I say I have church issues I mean I have beaucoup church issues. These issues are Ike and Tina sized issues. Wolverine/Sabertooth issues. Whitney Houston/sobriety issues. Israeli/Palestinian issues. Right-wing Republicans/common sense issues.
Yep, these issues are that big
Before y’all cast me out as heretic, hear me out. I know black folks love us some Jesus, but this has nothing to do with him or his Dad. This has to do specifically with churches. Maybe this will make sense to you and I’ll come around in the way I view organized religion. Then again…
On Sunday I had the absolute worst experience within the four walls of what is supposed to be a church in my life. I found myself praying like Jenny from Forrest Gump, “Wanting to be taken far, far away”. I’ll explain that later but to understand my position here’s a brief rundown with my relationship with church.
From as far back as I could remember I have never actually enjoyed going to church. As a child I would do my best to over sleep to avoid going. There were a million other places that I would rather be than at St. Luke Baptist church in Fairfax, SC (Stand up!) on a Sunday morning. I would find myself sitting in a place I didn’t want to be, wearing clothes that I didn’t want to wear, listening to the same songs week after week; all the while I was bored to death. I did listen to most of the sermons, but I did find myself not caring about what the guest preachers had to say.
Overall, I simply didn’t care to be there!
My apathy continued, as I got older. I got baptized while in middle school. This was mostly because of parental pressure. “When are you and your brother going to join the church?” This would be the question that I would be frequently asked by my parents. So during revival my Brother and I got baptized.
“I Shouldn’t Have Done it” Slick Rick ©
Not once during this process did any one explain what taking the literal plunge meant. Granted, if I had been paying attention I would have known, but I didn’t pay attention and the story continues. So, physically, mentally, and spiritually nothing changed for me during the following years. I still prayed, believed in God, but I can honestly say that I did not fully understand what it meant to be “saved”. Sure, my church was filled with nice people but this changed nothing in my eyes. What I did know was that I had ton of questions and I couldn’t find any tangible answers.
When I did get answers they didn’t make sense with me. Phrases like “They are filled with the spirit” were tossed about but nothing that I thought was usable was given to me. I would also hear Bible verses uses as answers to these questions, but they only added to the confusion of an over analytical teenager.
So by the time I became an upperclassman in high school I’m starting to chalk my train of thought up to me just being a cynic. The hooping, hollering, and the rest of the show baffled me. No, I didn’t attend a holiness church where the church scene from the Blues Brothers was a common thing, but I watched people act as if they were perfect angels for a couple of hours on Sunday but come Monday morning they would sit poised to rain hell for the next six days. The blatantly, obvious, fakeness, or what I perceived to be fakeness of “church folk” would become my next issue with the church. At this point I began to think that the literal church was ok, but it is just the church people who were askew.
This was a possible answer that I went with for a while but upon further thought I came to this conclusion:
The church is both an organization and a building. If both an organization and a building are built with shoddy materials, or ran by shoddy people, isn’t structural failure of some sort eventually going to occur? But again, I think to myself “You’re a cynic, who is being cynical. It’s not them. It’s you.”
Questions would arise that I couldn’t answer. Are these people actually filled with the “Spirit”? Is it the music? Or are they just putting on?
As I grew into adult-hood the actual leaders of the church would become my next point of contention. Who are these people? Really, who are these people? What qualifies them to watch over the souls and spiritual well being of their flock? (Remember that word, flock kids.) Has anyone besides me ever questioned this?
“I was called to preach.” Is what I would hear. Okay, this may or may not be true but how does John Q. Public sitting in the pews know this? Because you said so is isn’t a good enough answer for me. Under idea circumstances I would love to believe that is the case but I could never just sit back and believe this without a ton questions. I know preachers and such are people too and since we hold them in such high regards shouldn’t our standard for them be higher too?
So at this point I’m a grown man. Until Sunday I had not set foot in a church for about a year. See my Girlfriend was actually was raised in the church and I just went to church. (There is a difference.) During the past few years we both have questioned the set-up and actions of the church. At the behest of one of my girlfriend’s coworker we went to church. We entered the church at 11:15 and our next moments of happiness would not occur until we exited at three something that afternoon. (Read that last sentence again, and take it all in.)
First of all, this was “holiness” church. This “church” was not in an actually church. It was in the back of a recreation center near the Amtrak station in North Charleston. When we finally found the place there were a bunch of janky looking men dressed like a cross between Steve Harvey and T.D. Jakes. Not a good sign but things stood to get worse. As we approach the church I hear someone “speaking in tongues”. As we entered we found a seat and some old bat is onstage saying, “we decree, various things over and over followed by plain old gibberish”.
I was also puzzled by the ratio of women to men in the church. All of the men in the church over the age of 35 seemed to have held some type of position within the church. The rest of the male make up of the church were boys under the age of 21. There were only two other men who fell in between these ages beside myself who were not affiliated with this “church”. This led to the question: why do so many women fall for the shady church trap?
With that being said, the hooping and hollering increased more and more while the band set up. The old bat that was initially warming up the crowd passed the microphone to one of the aforementioned janky individuals. He continued on asking everyone to please stand. With this the real show began. More speaking in tongues and other glittering generalities were spat toward the crowd and things really began to get interesting.
After a while I realized that we have been in this “church” for almost and hour and there has not been one single thing resembling a prayer. Although we did not know it yet, it was almost time for the first fleecing of the flock of the day. The way the preachers controlled the congregation was somewhat masterful. Using the music, the gibberish, and various glittering generalities the preacher types got the mostly ovarian crowd excited to the point where they were willingly to give as much money away as possible! Knowing this, the first of the janky preacher types called for the first of the collections and the crowd, in their sweaty state, was willing to pay for the goodness that they were warmed up for.
Things at this point calm down a tad and another preacher steps up to take his turn. Again, with the help of the music another spiritual orgy commences. This one was much more intense than the previous one. The fervor and the strength of the message increased ten fold. This preacher called for more hooping and hollering, instructing the crowd to dance at his instructions, and dance they did. With the smell of baby powder, church lady perfume, and sweat in the air the tension in the room increased even more.
At this point I realized what Ms. Moneypenny and I had gotten ourselves involved in, A prosperity ministry. From that point on all of the talk involved money. With the addition of money rhetoric the preacher began to ramp things up to a higher level. It started off again when the preacher asked a lackey to go to his car and get the $500 out of his trunk.(Sometime during this madness a small Louis V treasure chest was placed at the foot of the pulpit.) This started another frenzy although, he did not speak in tongues (I’m guessing he was the straight-man ) Minutes later, after constant talk of the Lord making you rich, preacher says “Y’all know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to dance over my STUFF.” Repeating his phrase “I said I’m going to dance over MY STUFF!!!”
This sets the crowd off to a point where everyone, and I mean everyone not named Keith Francis Young or Crystal D. Cade started dancing.(Well there was another dude in the back who looked more shook that we did.) During the dance over his stuff, the preacher makes his way to the corner of the pulpit and begins to dance in front of who I could only assume to be the mastermind. The crowd goes even crazier. The congregation then lost control of themselves, their common sense, and their pocket books. In mass, they rushed the stage where the main preacher began laying hands. This was our chance to bounce but we hesitated and we would pay dearly for this. As the congregation carried more money up to the preacher, the more hands were laid.
True to fashion the crowd calmed down again as the Main preacher approached the microphone. (Still not a single prayer.) Instead of standing and preaching two of his lackeys bring his throne preaches. He opens with asking everyone to stand. He then adds this bit of knowledge “People still call me Bishop because they don’t recognize my anointing. I am an Apostle!”
Here are the highlights of his sermon: like chair to the front and he has another lackey hold his Bible while he
God wants you to get paid.
He declared that some woman in the congregation was cured of fibroid cysts due to the laying of hands. (I learned later on that afternoon that this was another glittering generality. Crystal informed me that black women tend to have a larger percentage of fibroid cysts than white women. We were in a room filled with black women.) Just to cover his behind he adds a disclaimer, “Check with your doctor to make sure.”
He is hated because he wants to include prostitutes and faggots in his ministry.
He says a prophecy that one day he and his brother (who turned out to be the second preacher, that danced over his stuff) will start a ministry in Africa and “blow up!”
He informs the crowd that Jesus was not a poor, humble man, but in fact he was a man of wealth who owned property.
He points out the young lady who was sitting next to me and tells her to get up and shout. She does it but not to his liking so he implores her to continue. She does and she pokes me in the eye this time.
He was constantly drinking a blue beverage from a wine glass during the sermon.
I could continue, but we all know where this tirade was going to end. That’s right kids; we got to see another hallelujah orgy which then ended with yet another quasi-orgasmic offering.
With the soul stirring finally reaching a crescendo the blood and the body was brought to the front of the church. At this point I’m thinking myself “I honestly can’t take communion here.” So all of the sheep get in line after their sheering to take in the body and the blood. Crystal and I also get in line, but at the last minute we bolt with another couple for the door.
Nothing about what you just read is made up. I have a witness who will back every last aspect of this story up. I know I shouldn’t judge all churches by this one but my questions are much bigger than this church although this church, an extreme example, did bring up a lot of feeling that I need to work out. Crystal and I can’t be the only logical people who feel this way about the institution of the church and the people who run it. Do people actually want to hold on to something that bad that they would willingly follow Apostles like the one I was witnessed to yesterday? I was almost expecting to see Daddy Rich and The Pointer Sisters stroll in.
I’m not the best man walking around the Earth, but I know when something isn’t right. I take the Doc Holiday approach to life. I’m very much aware of my hypocrisies and I try to only let them go so far. Something is deadly wrong when you find yourself in church praying for forgiveness for having come to church. (Read that last line twice to take it all in.)
I need some answers. I can’t just be me. Or is it?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Random Thoughts: A Mid-Summer Morning’s Blog
Nothing in the world inspires me to talk about my random thoughts than a bunch of random *!&&*$ doing some random $!*$. This past weekend Crystal and I went to Charlotte to the Dub Magazine Car Show with another couple. I must admit I’m far from a car enthusiast (I’d rather watch things be blown up but I have issues.) but sometimes looking at shiny examples of conspicuous consumption can provide a nice day of escapism.
The trip up was as expected: I-26 was the usual gigantic cluster $%@* (that’s the status quo) but 77 was kind of quiet for the most part. So we made our way over to the other lovely couple’s house and we were on our way to Queen City. So we headed to the train station and hitched a ride to the Convention Center where the above mentioned car show was being held.(I do love the fact that you can park your car all day and use a train to get around downtown.)
Ah yes, the train. There is a theory called the “Butterfly Effect” which simply states that when a butterfly flaps its wings a specific set of events are set into motion. It would make more sense if it were called the “Ripple Effect” but butterflies are pretty.
Little did I know that when the four of us sat down on the train (For those of you at home who aren’t keeping up this would be the flapping of the pretty, pretty butterfly's wings.) a chain of the most niggerish events in recent history (Okay not in the recent history of the world but in my recent history. Meaning that day.) would be set in place.
So we begin our journey at the I-485 South stop on the train line and we settle in for the 15 ride down town. We chuckle at the conductor who boards the train walking with a pimp’s swagger and gives us a look that said “Yeah, you damn right I drive a train.” So two minutes later we pull into the next stop at Sharon Rd. and this is where fun starts. A brother gets on and takes a seat behind Crystal and me while the train starts moving again. Soon after we arrive at the next stop and the brother that sat behind us (who from this point on will be referred to as Random Cat # 1) approaches Crystal and I if we can give him four whole dollars for two dollars in quarters and two more dollars which were those stupid gold, one dollar coins that have that sellout Sacajawea on them. I answer for the both of us saying “No, I don’t have any dollars on me.” (People ask Crystal and me for change more often than you think. I’m not sure why because I’m really not that nice of a person. I’m not Joe Stalin or Hitler but I’m not exactly Fred Rogers either.)
Random Cat # 1 replies “You don’t need any change? Monday is coming.”
I’m still not exactly sure what he meant by “Monday is coming.” Or why I would need four dollars in change today either. (Maybe that’s another event set off by that pretty, pretty butterfly doing what it does.)
He then returned to his seat and says “Thank you.” This is also when the fun begins.
During our brief encounter about the change and dollar bills another random cat (Who will now be referred to as Random Cat # 2 or simply # 2) who got on the train that was looking kind of crackish started engaging Random Cat # 1 who asked for the change about “life.”
Random Cat # 2 begins pontificating, “Man you gotta make a clean living out here man. You just can’t go on day to day trying to get over on people.” Mind you at this point the first random cat, yes, the one who wanted the dollars is trying to no avail to ignore this guy. # 2 continued, “I just came from Atlanta and they sick down there! Every woman in Atlanta is a prostitute.” *If I may interject we all know that every woman in Atlanta is not a prostitute. Many of the fine young women in Atlanta are strippers. Y’all know that was funny.* As he moves this currently one-sided conversation along further he goes on to say “They all prostitutes… even the educated ones. Every time you approach a woman in Atlanta she wants to know what you bringing to the table. She just trying to get over.” (I thought this was particularly funny since this cat has obviously come to the conclusion that particular = prostitute.)
During this portion of the rant four women of an uncertain Central American origin boarded and sit directly in front of us. Then the super genius once again turns his attention the women of Atlanta, who as we all now know from his previous rants, are of ill-repute, to Mexican women. “I talked to one woman in Atlanta and she telling me not to mess with any Mexican women (as if they’d have him) because they dirty. Man I told her Mexican women are some good women—they work hard, take care of they kids, and they marry one man and stay with him.”
I’m not sure if the women of an uncertain Central American origin were Mexican or not but I do know that if they habla’d any English at all they had to have been mad uncomfortable at this point. Lucky for them and the guy who only wanted four whole dollars there stop came up.
At this point we are all trying not to die laughing or laugh out loud for that matter but things only get worse. As we all know there are a few steadfast rules in life and the fact that every male crack head has a female equal. After all Gator had Vivian didn’t he?
Some how during all of this madness a female who looked VERY crackish (who will no be referred to Random Crackish female) got onto the train looking like Moms Mably’s grand niece and low and behold she takes a seat right across from mister big-mouth.
Naturally they start chatting it up. You’d think two crackish individuals would talk about the things they have in common and the conversation would go like this.
“Do you like Wild Irish Roses out of the bottle or the cup?”
“Do they have the better rocks on Tryon or Betties Ford?” (Seriously if you know anything about Charlotte you know the answer to that one.)
“Who gives the best prices for stolen copper pipes?”
Unfortunately they did no such thing. The two idiots started arguing. Some how good ole # 2 started speaking on the state of black male manhood. This was his opening volley, “Everyone else in Atlanta is a faggot or a bull dagger. All the black men being brought up today are punks. They just soft!”
This is when Random Crackish Female starts to interject. “You right a lot of these boys are punks and I’ll tell you why. It’s there daddy’s fault a black woman don’t know how to raise a black man by herself. She can’t teach him how to be a man!”
# 2 strongly disagrees and to make a long story short a yelling match ensues. Harsh things were said and tempers flared.
“You ain’t nothing but a crack head prostitute.” Spouts # 2.
His female foil then returned fire with this gem “I may be a crack head but every body got a role in life. At least I know what I am and you ain’t $!%^! I’m too intelligent to talk to you. You making me look bad.” (Notice she did not deny either her crack head status or her prostitute status.)
With that last foray she manages to shut him down completely. After that massive embarrassment to the entire black race the conversation ends with a whimper and luckily we get off of the train.
I learned a lot in that 15 minute time span on the train. Number one don’t do crack and Number two don’t date chicks from Atlanta.
More Random Thoughts
A rapper named 2 Pistols was one of the opening acts and he may be the most horrible person on the face of the Earth. First he threw money into the crowd and got pissed when he was told to stop. He then asked the females in the audience if their “p@$$^$ were clean?” Initially I ignored that comment but I was informed later that some women in the audience actually answered. He was then asked to stop cursing so Mr. Pistols became irate and then decided to do what every quasi-thug rapper does while performing; he took off his shirt and continues to curse. 2 Pistols you sir are a coon and it’s no ones’ fault but your own. I would have rather seen Plies or Gucci Mane.
2 Pistols not only are you a horrible rapper but you are a horrible person. There is nothing good about who you are or what you do!
The trip up was as expected: I-26 was the usual gigantic cluster $%@* (that’s the status quo) but 77 was kind of quiet for the most part. So we made our way over to the other lovely couple’s house and we were on our way to Queen City. So we headed to the train station and hitched a ride to the Convention Center where the above mentioned car show was being held.(I do love the fact that you can park your car all day and use a train to get around downtown.)
Ah yes, the train. There is a theory called the “Butterfly Effect” which simply states that when a butterfly flaps its wings a specific set of events are set into motion. It would make more sense if it were called the “Ripple Effect” but butterflies are pretty.
Little did I know that when the four of us sat down on the train (For those of you at home who aren’t keeping up this would be the flapping of the pretty, pretty butterfly's wings.) a chain of the most niggerish events in recent history (Okay not in the recent history of the world but in my recent history. Meaning that day.) would be set in place.
So we begin our journey at the I-485 South stop on the train line and we settle in for the 15 ride down town. We chuckle at the conductor who boards the train walking with a pimp’s swagger and gives us a look that said “Yeah, you damn right I drive a train.” So two minutes later we pull into the next stop at Sharon Rd. and this is where fun starts. A brother gets on and takes a seat behind Crystal and me while the train starts moving again. Soon after we arrive at the next stop and the brother that sat behind us (who from this point on will be referred to as Random Cat # 1) approaches Crystal and I if we can give him four whole dollars for two dollars in quarters and two more dollars which were those stupid gold, one dollar coins that have that sellout Sacajawea on them. I answer for the both of us saying “No, I don’t have any dollars on me.” (People ask Crystal and me for change more often than you think. I’m not sure why because I’m really not that nice of a person. I’m not Joe Stalin or Hitler but I’m not exactly Fred Rogers either.)
Random Cat # 1 replies “You don’t need any change? Monday is coming.”
I’m still not exactly sure what he meant by “Monday is coming.” Or why I would need four dollars in change today either. (Maybe that’s another event set off by that pretty, pretty butterfly doing what it does.)
He then returned to his seat and says “Thank you.” This is also when the fun begins.
During our brief encounter about the change and dollar bills another random cat (Who will now be referred to as Random Cat # 2 or simply # 2) who got on the train that was looking kind of crackish started engaging Random Cat # 1 who asked for the change about “life.”
Random Cat # 2 begins pontificating, “Man you gotta make a clean living out here man. You just can’t go on day to day trying to get over on people.” Mind you at this point the first random cat, yes, the one who wanted the dollars is trying to no avail to ignore this guy. # 2 continued, “I just came from Atlanta and they sick down there! Every woman in Atlanta is a prostitute.” *If I may interject we all know that every woman in Atlanta is not a prostitute. Many of the fine young women in Atlanta are strippers. Y’all know that was funny.* As he moves this currently one-sided conversation along further he goes on to say “They all prostitutes… even the educated ones. Every time you approach a woman in Atlanta she wants to know what you bringing to the table. She just trying to get over.” (I thought this was particularly funny since this cat has obviously come to the conclusion that particular = prostitute.)
During this portion of the rant four women of an uncertain Central American origin boarded and sit directly in front of us. Then the super genius once again turns his attention the women of Atlanta, who as we all now know from his previous rants, are of ill-repute, to Mexican women. “I talked to one woman in Atlanta and she telling me not to mess with any Mexican women (as if they’d have him) because they dirty. Man I told her Mexican women are some good women—they work hard, take care of they kids, and they marry one man and stay with him.”
I’m not sure if the women of an uncertain Central American origin were Mexican or not but I do know that if they habla’d any English at all they had to have been mad uncomfortable at this point. Lucky for them and the guy who only wanted four whole dollars there stop came up.
At this point we are all trying not to die laughing or laugh out loud for that matter but things only get worse. As we all know there are a few steadfast rules in life and the fact that every male crack head has a female equal. After all Gator had Vivian didn’t he?
Some how during all of this madness a female who looked VERY crackish (who will no be referred to Random Crackish female) got onto the train looking like Moms Mably’s grand niece and low and behold she takes a seat right across from mister big-mouth.
Naturally they start chatting it up. You’d think two crackish individuals would talk about the things they have in common and the conversation would go like this.
“Do you like Wild Irish Roses out of the bottle or the cup?”
“Do they have the better rocks on Tryon or Betties Ford?” (Seriously if you know anything about Charlotte you know the answer to that one.)
“Who gives the best prices for stolen copper pipes?”
Unfortunately they did no such thing. The two idiots started arguing. Some how good ole # 2 started speaking on the state of black male manhood. This was his opening volley, “Everyone else in Atlanta is a faggot or a bull dagger. All the black men being brought up today are punks. They just soft!”
This is when Random Crackish Female starts to interject. “You right a lot of these boys are punks and I’ll tell you why. It’s there daddy’s fault a black woman don’t know how to raise a black man by herself. She can’t teach him how to be a man!”
# 2 strongly disagrees and to make a long story short a yelling match ensues. Harsh things were said and tempers flared.
“You ain’t nothing but a crack head prostitute.” Spouts # 2.
His female foil then returned fire with this gem “I may be a crack head but every body got a role in life. At least I know what I am and you ain’t $!%^! I’m too intelligent to talk to you. You making me look bad.” (Notice she did not deny either her crack head status or her prostitute status.)
With that last foray she manages to shut him down completely. After that massive embarrassment to the entire black race the conversation ends with a whimper and luckily we get off of the train.
I learned a lot in that 15 minute time span on the train. Number one don’t do crack and Number two don’t date chicks from Atlanta.
More Random Thoughts
A rapper named 2 Pistols was one of the opening acts and he may be the most horrible person on the face of the Earth. First he threw money into the crowd and got pissed when he was told to stop. He then asked the females in the audience if their “p@$$^$ were clean?” Initially I ignored that comment but I was informed later that some women in the audience actually answered. He was then asked to stop cursing so Mr. Pistols became irate and then decided to do what every quasi-thug rapper does while performing; he took off his shirt and continues to curse. 2 Pistols you sir are a coon and it’s no ones’ fault but your own. I would have rather seen Plies or Gucci Mane.
2 Pistols not only are you a horrible rapper but you are a horrible person. There is nothing good about who you are or what you do!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Lighten Up
Disclaimer: If the above image offends you as a black man, woman, or child please don’t read the rest of this blog. Instead of scrolling down and having your jaw tighten up because of something I wrote then I have some suggestions of what you can do lieu of reading any further. For example you could go play some checkers. There are a few Terri McMillan novels that you could go pick-up. Might I suggest a Tyler Perry film? (I’m pretty sure three new ones are being released this weekend.) Maybe watch the replay of Nancy Grace’s show from last night. Or perhaps you could just take some time, lighten-up, have some prune juice, and remove that stick from your butt.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way let’s get down to it. Lebron James is the first black man to ever grace the cover of Vogue magazine. He shared the cover with tom Brady’s walking MVP trophy, supermodel Gisele Bundchen. (I just objectified her didn’t I?) King James is only the third male to appear on the cover ever. Under most circumstances black folk would say “Way to go Lebron.”
In fact many did. That was until this article was posted on ESPN.com http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=hill/080320&sportCat=nba The article was written by Jemele Hill who is a black woman that I think should get more face time on ESPN because she is obviously a lot more talented than some of the men who work of the network. (Skip Bayless and Jim Rome comes to mind.) The premise of Hill’s article was set up with these three paragraphs:
“LeBron's image clearly means a lot to him, maybe even as much as pursuing a championship. And that's why I can't understand why he would allow Vogue to feature him with supermodel Gisele Bundchen in such a distasteful manner.
In case you haven't seen the cover, LeBron has Gisele in one hand and a basketball in the other. LeBron is dressed in basketball gear, with his muscles flexing, tattoos showing and bared teeth. Gisele, on the other hand, is wearing a gorgeous slim-fitting dress, and smiling.
She looks like she's on her way to something fashionable and exciting. He looks like he's on his way to a pickup game for serial killers.”
Serial Killers? Tattoos make you a serial killer? Hill missed the point of the cover by a damn mile with this article. She all but stated that the picture conjures images that have plagued men of my ilk every sense we arrived in the Diaspora (I love that word.) Think of it as Birth of a Nation Version 8.0. The thuggery, the tattoos, the muscles, and the white women are or are not what Middle America thinks of when they see a black athlete.
During the course of the day I have my pro-black and afro-centric moments, but this is just reaching. Of all of the images I’ve seen of black athletes in the past 10 years this may be one of the more benign. Hill on the other hand saw this image of the hyper-sexual black male that stalks urban jungle, and rural areas around the planet. Spreading his seed as irresponsibly as possible to any woman he sees, especially white ones!
Just like my afro-centric moments I have just as many “BWTF?” (Translation Bo, what in the fuck?) moments too. Reading this article and then listening to the various discussions caused by said article causes one of those aforementioned “BWTF?” moments. I read the article twice for posterity then I thought to myself, “Has Jemele Hill been possessed by Uncle Ruckus or Stanley Crouch?
In the past I’ve read a lot more into things than they actually may be (Hell, I still think the Wolverine and Spiderman are analogies for the average man trudging the face of the Earth but then again I think too much from time to time.) So I’m not going to knock Jemele Hill for her opinion on this cover. My main problem is that I think Hill missed the very conspicuous point of the cover article.
The magazine specifically says on the cover:
“Shape Issue:
Secrets of the Best Bodies. Gisele & Lebron + The
World’s Top Models and Athletes.”
Hmm… me thinks Ms. Hill overlooked a few things. First of all, this is the “Shape Issue” meaning that it is a tribute two specific groups of people’s bodies: Models and Athletes.
Last time I check models like Gisele got big bucks for showing off their bodies. This is often done in one of those “gorgeous, slim-fitting dresses” that Hill mentioned. Lebron on the other hand is an athlete. A basketball player to be exact. So what do basketball players usually wear? Sleeve-less shirts and shorts that just like Gisele’s dress just happens to show off Lebron’s body.
So my question is a simple one: Is this cover projecting Lebron as a muscle-bound, big-lipped, sex machine who is out to vanquish the pretty white girl or is he just flexing to show off his shape in “The Shape” issue? Please let me know what you think.
I’ll leave you with a two final questions: If this were a picture of David Beckham or Tom Brady doing the same thing to Beyonce or Gabrielle Union would that same picture be seen as just another example of white-male hegemony and imperialism? (I.e. the world is mine and I shall have every thing in it.) Or is it just two beautiful people posing for a picture that is relevant to the article that it accompanies?
Please let me know. I want a real discussion with this one.
Y’all have a good weekend. Now talk amongst yourselves © Barbara Richardson.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way let’s get down to it. Lebron James is the first black man to ever grace the cover of Vogue magazine. He shared the cover with tom Brady’s walking MVP trophy, supermodel Gisele Bundchen. (I just objectified her didn’t I?) King James is only the third male to appear on the cover ever. Under most circumstances black folk would say “Way to go Lebron.”
In fact many did. That was until this article was posted on ESPN.com http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=hill/080320&sportCat=nba The article was written by Jemele Hill who is a black woman that I think should get more face time on ESPN because she is obviously a lot more talented than some of the men who work of the network. (Skip Bayless and Jim Rome comes to mind.) The premise of Hill’s article was set up with these three paragraphs:
“LeBron's image clearly means a lot to him, maybe even as much as pursuing a championship. And that's why I can't understand why he would allow Vogue to feature him with supermodel Gisele Bundchen in such a distasteful manner.
In case you haven't seen the cover, LeBron has Gisele in one hand and a basketball in the other. LeBron is dressed in basketball gear, with his muscles flexing, tattoos showing and bared teeth. Gisele, on the other hand, is wearing a gorgeous slim-fitting dress, and smiling.
She looks like she's on her way to something fashionable and exciting. He looks like he's on his way to a pickup game for serial killers.”
Serial Killers? Tattoos make you a serial killer? Hill missed the point of the cover by a damn mile with this article. She all but stated that the picture conjures images that have plagued men of my ilk every sense we arrived in the Diaspora (I love that word.) Think of it as Birth of a Nation Version 8.0. The thuggery, the tattoos, the muscles, and the white women are or are not what Middle America thinks of when they see a black athlete.
During the course of the day I have my pro-black and afro-centric moments, but this is just reaching. Of all of the images I’ve seen of black athletes in the past 10 years this may be one of the more benign. Hill on the other hand saw this image of the hyper-sexual black male that stalks urban jungle, and rural areas around the planet. Spreading his seed as irresponsibly as possible to any woman he sees, especially white ones!
Just like my afro-centric moments I have just as many “BWTF?” (Translation Bo, what in the fuck?) moments too. Reading this article and then listening to the various discussions caused by said article causes one of those aforementioned “BWTF?” moments. I read the article twice for posterity then I thought to myself, “Has Jemele Hill been possessed by Uncle Ruckus or Stanley Crouch?
In the past I’ve read a lot more into things than they actually may be (Hell, I still think the Wolverine and Spiderman are analogies for the average man trudging the face of the Earth but then again I think too much from time to time.) So I’m not going to knock Jemele Hill for her opinion on this cover. My main problem is that I think Hill missed the very conspicuous point of the cover article.
The magazine specifically says on the cover:
“Shape Issue:
Secrets of the Best Bodies. Gisele & Lebron + The
World’s Top Models and Athletes.”
Hmm… me thinks Ms. Hill overlooked a few things. First of all, this is the “Shape Issue” meaning that it is a tribute two specific groups of people’s bodies: Models and Athletes.
Last time I check models like Gisele got big bucks for showing off their bodies. This is often done in one of those “gorgeous, slim-fitting dresses” that Hill mentioned. Lebron on the other hand is an athlete. A basketball player to be exact. So what do basketball players usually wear? Sleeve-less shirts and shorts that just like Gisele’s dress just happens to show off Lebron’s body.
So my question is a simple one: Is this cover projecting Lebron as a muscle-bound, big-lipped, sex machine who is out to vanquish the pretty white girl or is he just flexing to show off his shape in “The Shape” issue? Please let me know what you think.
I’ll leave you with a two final questions: If this were a picture of David Beckham or Tom Brady doing the same thing to Beyonce or Gabrielle Union would that same picture be seen as just another example of white-male hegemony and imperialism? (I.e. the world is mine and I shall have every thing in it.) Or is it just two beautiful people posing for a picture that is relevant to the article that it accompanies?
Please let me know. I want a real discussion with this one.
Y’all have a good weekend. Now talk amongst yourselves © Barbara Richardson.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Sleep....
I haven't blogged in a while and I'm awake so why not reveal some of my inner demons to those that care. I've suffered from insomnia since I was 12 years old. It has never mattered how long I've been awake or how tired I am, I've always had the most difficult time falling asleep. Even when I do fall asleep, I'm very restless. I don't remember the last time I had a good, refreshing night of sleep. I have no idea what it's like to wake up feeling refreshed and energized as an adult. It really has me wondering what actually causes this behavior.
I don't know the exact moment, but I do remember the events surrounding my life during the time this condition was developed. But it is difficult to pinpoint the exact event that caused me to be cursed with the inability to fall asleep like a normal human being when the sun falls and the sky transforms to blackness. I'm not sure if it is fear, creativity, anxiety, or something that I don't have the words to describe yet. I'm not sure if its a strong fear within myself to not live up to the expectations I've set for myself, or if its the fear of the alcohol and drugs that influenced the person that I felt was supposed to protect me the most. Or maybe its all of the thoughts that enter my mind that helps to make me good at what I do when the sun is visible.
Maybe its the thoughts that enter my mind when my eyes finally close for the evening and the activity that my brain generates in a series of pictures that seem all too real.
Whatever it is that keeps me awake at night, I'm grateful for it instead of being angry about my lack of sleep. It has helped me gain wisdom beyond my years on earth. It gives me the time to decipher all the hectic things that take place throughout the day. It gives me an opportunity to make sense of what has become my life and to improve on who I am. It gives me the chance to look within to become a better person to all the people that count on me. Maybe my lack of sleep is God's way of telling me that there is more for me to learn about myself and the rest of the world. I guess I can sleep once I figure out the answers to those questions that have puzzled me since the dawn of my existence: "Who am I?" "Why am I here?" "Why have I been chosen to walk in this flesh that people know as Mario Washington?" I suppose that once those questions are answered, there won't be much of a reason to stay awake...
I don't know the exact moment, but I do remember the events surrounding my life during the time this condition was developed. But it is difficult to pinpoint the exact event that caused me to be cursed with the inability to fall asleep like a normal human being when the sun falls and the sky transforms to blackness. I'm not sure if it is fear, creativity, anxiety, or something that I don't have the words to describe yet. I'm not sure if its a strong fear within myself to not live up to the expectations I've set for myself, or if its the fear of the alcohol and drugs that influenced the person that I felt was supposed to protect me the most. Or maybe its all of the thoughts that enter my mind that helps to make me good at what I do when the sun is visible.
Maybe its the thoughts that enter my mind when my eyes finally close for the evening and the activity that my brain generates in a series of pictures that seem all too real.
Whatever it is that keeps me awake at night, I'm grateful for it instead of being angry about my lack of sleep. It has helped me gain wisdom beyond my years on earth. It gives me the time to decipher all the hectic things that take place throughout the day. It gives me an opportunity to make sense of what has become my life and to improve on who I am. It gives me the chance to look within to become a better person to all the people that count on me. Maybe my lack of sleep is God's way of telling me that there is more for me to learn about myself and the rest of the world. I guess I can sleep once I figure out the answers to those questions that have puzzled me since the dawn of my existence: "Who am I?" "Why am I here?" "Why have I been chosen to walk in this flesh that people know as Mario Washington?" I suppose that once those questions are answered, there won't be much of a reason to stay awake...
Friday, December 28, 2007
A man can dream can’t he? Or things I’d like to see happen in 2008. Pt 3
Just for a year I’d like to see the media not speak to us [the public] as if we are imbeciles. I know I’d be better of asking for world peace or a cure for cancer but there are good people who go to work each day and actually make an effort to stop both strife and cancer. Sensationalism, unbalanced coverage, sheer fluff is distracting good people from the real problems in the world.
Sensationalism
It seems that every year there is a boogie man that is lurking in the shadows that will be the rue of our existence. Muslims, hordes of Mexicans roaming outside of our boarder as if they were zombies, homosexuals, hip-hop, black men, and various life-threatening disease du jour. It’s always seems to be something.
Were you a victim of a Jihad? Did a Mexican take your job? Was your neighbor turned gay by shaking hands the choir director at church? Did Nelly swipe an AMEX card down your daughters butt? Seriously, have you ever met anyone with SARS?
I’m going to step out on a limb and say not to all of these questions. Except that thing about Nelly. That probably did happen. The point is that we always fall for these “talking points” that are spewed out on a weekly basis that only serve to keep us scared and thoughtless so please don’t fall for it in 2008.
Unbalanced Coverage
Ever notice how good the media is at creating villains and victims? Sometimes two men who are common criminals are treated in very a different manner. One was nefarious. The other weak and misguided.
Let’s say that you’re an All-Pro quarterback who embraces a let’s call it an “urban” lifestyle. You aren’t wise enough to strategically pick your friends so one arrest for weed ends up tearing your world asunder. So one small fuck-up alerts the rest of the world to a gigantic fuck-up. Long story short: you find out that there is not honor among thieves and the world learns that you are the head of criminal enterprise that includes gambling and severe cruelty to animals. Bye-bye endorsement deals.
Next, the media that once adored you begins to paint you an insidious villain that lurks in our back yards at night to snatch unsuspecting dogs and force them to battle each other for your delight. Your life is ruined. Your playing days are done.
So you are an elected official in the State of South Carolina. The Treasurer to be exact. You come from a well connected family. Attended the right schools. Your daddy has big-ole, brand spanking new bridge named after him too. Then you are indicted on cocaine distribution charges.
At first it’s a big deal. You are forced to step down. You go to rehab. Your daddy goes on TV and admits to the world that you have a problem with drugs. Then you plead guilty to drug distribution charges.
So you admit to essentially being a drug dealer but your attorneys walk in to a hearing with and straight face and ask for probation. Why? Because the dope wasn’t going to be sold but meted out between you and your friends.
Defendant number one that hurt animals gets 23 months in Federal Prison and now is viewed somewhere between Pol Pot and Joe Stalin on the people I’d want to marry my daughter list.
Defendant number two probably won’t see one solid hour behind bars because we all know that he is truly sorry for what he did. “No your honor, it won’t happen again.
My question is why does the media not raise as large a fuss about dope as it does for dead dogs?
So finally, I’d just like everything to be called down the middle in 2008. . . like it’s supposed to be!
Fluff
This one is simple. Rich people have always done drugs, smoked, and screwed everything with a pulse. See Jerry Garcia, Rick James, Ray Charles, Elvis, Cher, Billie Holiday, Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Cash, any Kennedy, Howard Hughes, and Charlie Parker. It’s no big shock so please don’t talk about it any more. We get it.
So please just tell us what’s going on. We only need the who, the what, the when, and the why. Please ma’am just the facts.
Sensationalism
It seems that every year there is a boogie man that is lurking in the shadows that will be the rue of our existence. Muslims, hordes of Mexicans roaming outside of our boarder as if they were zombies, homosexuals, hip-hop, black men, and various life-threatening disease du jour. It’s always seems to be something.
Were you a victim of a Jihad? Did a Mexican take your job? Was your neighbor turned gay by shaking hands the choir director at church? Did Nelly swipe an AMEX card down your daughters butt? Seriously, have you ever met anyone with SARS?
I’m going to step out on a limb and say not to all of these questions. Except that thing about Nelly. That probably did happen. The point is that we always fall for these “talking points” that are spewed out on a weekly basis that only serve to keep us scared and thoughtless so please don’t fall for it in 2008.
Unbalanced Coverage
Ever notice how good the media is at creating villains and victims? Sometimes two men who are common criminals are treated in very a different manner. One was nefarious. The other weak and misguided.
Let’s say that you’re an All-Pro quarterback who embraces a let’s call it an “urban” lifestyle. You aren’t wise enough to strategically pick your friends so one arrest for weed ends up tearing your world asunder. So one small fuck-up alerts the rest of the world to a gigantic fuck-up. Long story short: you find out that there is not honor among thieves and the world learns that you are the head of criminal enterprise that includes gambling and severe cruelty to animals. Bye-bye endorsement deals.
Next, the media that once adored you begins to paint you an insidious villain that lurks in our back yards at night to snatch unsuspecting dogs and force them to battle each other for your delight. Your life is ruined. Your playing days are done.
So you are an elected official in the State of South Carolina. The Treasurer to be exact. You come from a well connected family. Attended the right schools. Your daddy has big-ole, brand spanking new bridge named after him too. Then you are indicted on cocaine distribution charges.
At first it’s a big deal. You are forced to step down. You go to rehab. Your daddy goes on TV and admits to the world that you have a problem with drugs. Then you plead guilty to drug distribution charges.
So you admit to essentially being a drug dealer but your attorneys walk in to a hearing with and straight face and ask for probation. Why? Because the dope wasn’t going to be sold but meted out between you and your friends.
Defendant number one that hurt animals gets 23 months in Federal Prison and now is viewed somewhere between Pol Pot and Joe Stalin on the people I’d want to marry my daughter list.
Defendant number two probably won’t see one solid hour behind bars because we all know that he is truly sorry for what he did. “No your honor, it won’t happen again.
My question is why does the media not raise as large a fuss about dope as it does for dead dogs?
So finally, I’d just like everything to be called down the middle in 2008. . . like it’s supposed to be!
Fluff
This one is simple. Rich people have always done drugs, smoked, and screwed everything with a pulse. See Jerry Garcia, Rick James, Ray Charles, Elvis, Cher, Billie Holiday, Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Cash, any Kennedy, Howard Hughes, and Charlie Parker. It’s no big shock so please don’t talk about it any more. We get it.
So please just tell us what’s going on. We only need the who, the what, the when, and the why. Please ma’am just the facts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
