Pictionary

21 07 2008

Pictionary is the dumbest fucking game on the face of the planet. To prepare to host a game, you take the following steps:

  1. Be white
  2. Call up your douchiest, most stereotypically sweater-around-the-neck white friends and invite them over
  3. Procure refreshments. Depending on the type of white person you are, you can opt for wine and cheese or booze and chips
  4. Set up the board, easel, and whatever other shit you’ll need
  5. Apologize to God for being born

Once all your friends arrive, you can start playing. One asshole stands up and starts drawing a picture on the board, while the rest of the assholes yell, point, jump up and down, and throw poop in an attempt to figure out what concept the ‘artist’ is trying to illustrate. This is why I always laugh when racist white people call black people monkeys – clearly they’ve never seen a bunch of 25 – 35 year old yuppies of their own race playing Pictionary.

Figure 1: Case in point

Ordinarily I don’t give a shit about what white people like to do in their spare time. Unfortunately, every now and again a black person (like me, for example) will be forced to play this insufferable goddamn game. This usually happens during ‘ice-breaker’ events at work, conferences, and other places where a.) the game is sprung on you by surprise and b.) there’s no way to escape.

When you put together a game of interracial Pictionary in an environment that demands political correctness, you are asking for trouble. This is because you’re mixing white people who like Pictionary (and have inherently dry personalities) and black people (who have more…colorful…personalities). Trash talking, inappropriate jokes, etc. are key components of black competitive behavior, and it’s very difficult for us to turn off. Bad things happen when one or more of those black people can’t (or won’t) turn off their ‘color’, such as the incident that occurred when I played Pictionary at work once.

I forget what concept the woman was trying to draw, but being under time pressure and having people yelling and screaming at her, she wound up hastily and incorrectly drawing a stick figure that looked like this:

Figure 2: …..

It look less than 1/10th of a second for me to see the completed stick figure and scream: BLACK DUDE!

The stunned silence, followed immediately by loud-but-somewhat-nervous laughter, was the most intensely awkward moment of my professional career. I was ever after known as the craziest man in the office (even though there was already plenty of other evidence supporting that title).

Fuck Pictionary.





Vomit

7 07 2008

For a long time, I thought the sight of vomit was the nastiest thing on the planet (not including feet). There can be no redeeming qualities about a big wet pile of half-digested human kibble mixed in with hydrochloric acid and God knows what other stomach juices staring you in the face. When I was in the fourth grade, some Chinese kid was eating pizza and puked it all up. The image of his PURPLE vomit has been seared into my memory ever since.

Figure 1: Good times

I saw a lot of vomit this weekend. I saw vomit on the floor. I saw vomit on a woman’s shoe. I saw vomit on the sidewalk. I even saw a remarkably large amount of vomit on the back of a hapless bouncer – which was rendered amazing by the fact that the vomit was located on his shoulder, which was way higher than the mouth of the perpetrator. And here I was thinking that projectile vomit was just a myth.

I learned this weekend, however, that it’s actually the SMELL of vomit that is the nastiest thing next to feet.

Last Friday was, of course, the informal and sparsely attended Stuff Black People Hate get-together. During the event, one of the attendees became insanely drunk and made what’s usually a rookie mistake – she stopped moving. Even worse, she sat down. Next thing you know, she’s leaning over and vomiting all over the floor. Part of me is smiling inside because I know this will enrage the owner (who happens to be my cousin, whom I hate), and another part of me is smiling because another chick in the corner of the room starting throwing up at the exact same time.

Figure 2: This doesn’t really fit into the previous text…it’s just funny as hell

Eventually I get my shit together and try to help the bouncer help her out. He, however, shoves me away for some reason (I’ll find out why in about 2 hours). I follow them outside to the smoking area – it’s at this point see the vomit (and karma) on the bouncer’s back – and then nearly get thrown out of the club when I try to bring the girl a cup of water. Over the next few hours, the following happens:

  • I feel like I’m being followed by a strange, persistent smell that I can’t quite place
  • I’m informed that the bouncers may be under the impression that I slipped the vomiting girl a mickey…which is interesting because she wasn’t drinking anything at the time
  • I wind up taking a cab into Arlington, where some white guy has my phone that apparently I dropped in the club. Once in the cab, the smell is getting stronger
  • The smell is getting stronger still
  • The cabbie clearly notices the smell
  • I retrieve my phone from a white dude named Greg. The cab has left me there
  • I run 3 drunken miles from Glebe Road and Lee Highway to the Key Bridge before I find a cab
  • The smell returns, and is now amplified by sweaty man funk
  • Once home, I get a text message from a ‘witness’ indicating that I was vomited on
  • I go to my closet
  • The lower left leg of my jeans has puke on it
  • The right sleeve of my jacket has puke on it
  • Recognizing the smell, finally, I run into the bathroom and throw up my damn self
  • Fuck

And as I sit here recalling the upchuckery of that night, I am reminded that one of the most painful things a man can endure besides passing a kidney stone is the empty vomit.

Ever done that shit? You feel the urge to yack, lean over the toilet/sink/cat ready to let one fly and finally feel better…only to wind up dry firing. Instead of a relieving flow of whatever the hell was making you sick coming out of your innards, you instead feel your stomach caving in on nothing, your abs clenching with a tightness well beyond your actual control and, of course, the horrifyingly empty and high-pitched “EEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” being emitted from your newly contorted lungs.

I am never drinking again.





Panda Bears

16 06 2008

I’ve pretty much had it up to here* with hearing about motherfucking Panda Bears. Being the news junkie that I am, I’m fairly attuned to shit that I hear about over and over again from different news networks – and I’m all the more aware of it when it’s something that’s goddamn retarded. This week, the culprit was Panda Bears.

A little while ago, the earth went all Numbers 16:31-33 on China and killed somewhere on the order of 50,000+ people last time I checked. In the wake of all this, my favorite news station that I love to hate (NPR) did a number of ‘deep dive’ journalism pieces about various shit that got wrecked in China. Amidst all the chaos, shattered lives, tragic deaths, and nearly incalculable damage, NP fucking R decides that one of its first exposés on the aftermath of the quake will be…

…the effect of the quake on Giant Pandas.

I don’t understand why people are so goddamn obsessed with Pandas, especially in this country. White people in particular just love the motherfuckers, and I can only assume it’s linked with their decades-long obsession with everything asian.

Panda Bears are stupid for more reasons that I can count, but I’m going to include the top three here:

1.) They are Black and White.

Pandas – like fascists, racists, and the Sith – see everything in absolutes. They are too stupid to make complex decisions or appreciate the world’s many dimensions, so they break everything down into two categories to make life easier for their dumbass selves. Panda’s are so narrow minded in this respect that their binary thinking actually permeates into their fur, which is black and white to reflect the short-sighted way they view the world. This leads us directly to the second reason that Panda Bears suck…

2.) They are White Supremacists

Take a look at this picture:

Figure 1: Look at this asshole.

This picture may seem innocent and maybe even cute on first glance. But lying under this resting Panda is a racial subtext that ain’t so cute. Notice first that the majority of the bear’s fur is white. A lot of people don’t know that a Panda gets to choose how much white and black fur it has, and every single Panda chooses to have way more white than black. Now, take a look at what else is happening in the picture. The white majority of the bear – the head, stomach, and back – is resting peacefully. But what are the black parts doing? That’s right, the black arms and legs are doing all the work keeping the bear in place. What are the black ears and eyes doing? Listening and looking for threats in the form of other Pandas. Despite the fact that the blacks are doing all the slave labor…where does all the delicious Panda fat go? Right to the white belly. Fuck you, Panda.

3.) They are Vegetarians

Nobody likes a vegetarian…or at least nobody that matters. We’ve all had the misfortune of meeting a vegetarian. You know, they’re those fucking people who practically soil themselves with pleasure when they get the opportunity to say “no lamb for me, thanks – I don’t eat meat.” Then they sit there with a smug shit-eating grin on their face as they eat their rabbit food and act like they’re better than you. Meanwhile you sit there eating your steak fried steak’em getting the amino acids that can ONLY be found in meat and are credited with the evolutionary development of the human brain which allowed us to do awesome shit like discover fire and cure Polio. If it were up to vegetarians, we’d have never made it past Cro-Magnon and people’d still be dying from the common cold – so we can safely conclude that all vegetarians harbor a latent desire to wipe out humanity. This doesn’t really have anything to do with Panda bears, but come on…

Figure 2: LOOK AT THIS ASSHOLE!!!!!

*I have no idea where ‘here’ is.





Stands with a Fist

2 06 2008

It was a stupid motherfucking idea for me to sit at home and watch Dances with Wolves THREE FUCKING TIMES on Sunday.

Figure 1: OH FUCK!

Here’s a quick refresher: Actress and resident hairball Mary McDonnell plays the role of ‘Stands with a Fist’, a white woman adopted as a child by a band of Lakota that, instead of killing her, apparently didn’t let her wash her hair, not once, not ever.

Stands with a Fist runs around for the whole entire movie looking like she just crawled out of Buckwheat’s asshole. If her hair were a movie, it’d be one of the battle scenes from Braveheart.

Figure 2: Mary McDonnell’s scalp – 10,000X magnification

All the Indian women have perfectly groomed hair. It is clean, washed, combed, and either left flowing or tied into long braids or dual ponytails. I imagine that the hair would typically smell like lilac, or roses, or pomegranate, Guinness, or something else awesome and sensual. But not Ms. Fist in Her Ass. Apparently being joined up with the red savages has made her tap into the roots of her inner white savage – and we all know how fucking filthy they were.

Instead of doing the Indian thing – waking up and taking a bath – Stands with a Fist’s schedule seems to be a little different:

7:00am   – Wake up
7:01am   – Play in mud
10:00am – Breakfast
11:00am – Tie leaves in hair
1:00pm   – Lunch
2:00pm   – Dirt
4:00pm   – Find tree. Attempt suicide. Fail. Rub hair in grass
5:00pm   – Sneak around village stealing and burning combs and conditioner
6:30pm   – Dinner
8:00pm   – Dirt
9:00pm   – Win David Lee Roth lookalike competition
10:00pm – Bed

Figure 3: Must be 4:00pm…

There’s a scene in the movie where this touched in the head broad gets married, and her hair pretty much looks the shittiest it will look in the entire film. I love the way they show the marriage procession. The camera starts at her feet – she’s wearing a beautiful white buckskin wedding dress with turquoise bead trim with matching moccasins. They slowly pan up past the moccs, the the lower part of the dress, the beaded belt, then the blouse…then BAM!

Figure 4: So I Married a Cave Bitch…

Stands with a fist came out of a tipi wearing a gorgeous dress, but if you only saw her from the neck up you’d think she just stepped out of a cave in Lascaux where she just spent the last seven years painting shitty pictures of ibex and really really fat horses. If my bride to be showed up at our wedding with her head looking like an unshorn Neolithic vagina, we will not be jumping the broom by any stretch of the imagination. I will instead shove the broom between her legs and demand that she fly the fucking thing to the nearest Supercuts before my family starts counting coup on what appears to be a tiny bear attacking her scalp.

‘Stands with a Fist’ got her name by knocking out some Indian chick that was talking shit to her, then standing over her with a raised fist challenging every woman in the village to a fight*. Perhaps if that fist had been clutching a bottle of Herbal Essences, she wouldn’t have spent the whole film with her head looking like an upside-down bearded testicle.

The Indians in Dances with Wolves hate Stands with a Fist because her head smells like dead people.

*Which means Russell Crowe would have been more appropriate to cast in this role.





Dog Owners

19 05 2008

I’ve had the distinct misfortune of meeting several new dog owners within the last few months. I’ll be running somewhere when I bump into somebody I know (usually a chick) walking or running on the trail with her mutt. The conversation with Dopey (Dog Owning Pompous Egotistical Yuppie) almost always goes like this:

Dopey: “Hey!”
Me: [pointing at dog] “What the hell is that?”
Dopey: “This is Mr. Miffins!” [to dog] “Say ‘hi’ to Chris, Mr. Miffins”
Me: …
Dopey: “Isn’t he ADORABLE?!?!?!?”
Me: “Cool, you brought a snack!”
Dopey: “Har har, Mr. Miffins isn’t for eating.”
Me: “Why the hell not?”
Dopey: “You know, you should get a dog! Then you’d have someone to run with you!”
Me: [hurls dog into river, runs away]

The most annoying thing about dog owners – especially newly minted dog owners – is the fact that they try to convince you that you’re an asshole for not owning a dog. They tell you how much ‘fun’ the companionship is, and how the animal completes them. They tell you that there’s a hole in your life that will not be filled unless you procure a creature whose idea of a good time is licking it’s own asshole, then licking your face. This happens, of course, either before or after it tries to have sex with your leg.

Figure 1: You could at least buy me dinner first.

Personally, I think I’ll pass. Being able to stay out at late as I want, taking vacations at a moment’s notice, not having to walk a dog at the crack of dawn in the dead of winter, and not having to deal with pet hair everywhere are a real pain in the ass…but hey, it’s my choice to make. Instead, I think I’ll jam an icepick up my cock once a week. It’s about the same amount of fun with a fraction of the expense, mess, and inconvenience.

Lots of yuppies like to gobble up cultural concepts espoused by the Chinese and the Lakota. They decorate their homes with Feng Shui in mind and hang mandallas* everywhere. Every asshole on the planet has a dreamcatcher or one of these things hanging off their rear view mirror for no good fucking reason. I always wonder why, then, they fail to adopt another imporant Chinese/Lakota maxim:

Dogs are food.

Somewhere in the Bible, it says that God made animals delicious because the purpose of Man is to put hot sauce on them and eat them. I don’t recall seeing an exception being made for dogs, cats, ferrets, gerbils, or any of the other furry delicious animals that people insist on not eating like God intended.

Figure 2: Cute, sure. But if it could, it would eat you.

Dog owners are implicitly spitting on the Bible. By owning a dog and not eating it, you are basically saying “I am better than Jesus.”

I have a special place in my heart reserved for hating women that own those teeny tiny dogs. Some hot black girl jumped into my elevator a month or so ago at my condo, and right when I’d worked up the nerve to talk to her, she pulled a dog out of her purse and I nearly lost my shit. When I was living in Texas several years ago, there were at least five women at my gym who would show up in their cars driving with dogs IN THEIR LAPS (which they would then drop off in the gym’s ‘Doggie Play Land’).

Figure 3: “HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yep, that’s a nice thing to do, you asshole: cram a furry animal with no sweat glands into a purse that it’ll barely fit into on a hot day while you go shopping for three fucking hours. I’m sure you’d enjoy a similar experience of being thrown into the trunk of a Miata in Phoenix while wearing a fur coat and having the owner do donuts all day under the midday sun while you have to take a piss the entire time.

Everytime I see a teeny weeny dog, I start thinking about football because I get the urge to a.) punt the dog like Jack Black in ‘Anchorman’, b.) toss the dog like that dude in ‘Something About Mary’, or c.) spike the dog in an endzone like in my own torrid dreams. I also kinda want to do the same with the severed head of the owner, because she clearly isn’t using it anyway.

 

*Every Indian laughs inside when seeing a non-Indian buying one of these stupid things, which are about as authentically Indian as General Tso chicken is authentically Chinese.





Dreams

14 05 2008

I had the following dream last night, which was unusually long and I somehow managed to recall in vivid detail:

It started off with a recurring nightmare with my mother and I in that scene from the original Jurassic Park where a rainstorm knocks out the power to the electric fence that keeps the T. Rex fenced in. We are in the Jeep like those two kids when the dinosaur comes out and tries to attack us.

Figure 1: My dreams fucking suck

My nightmare is, however, different than the movie in three ways:

  1. I am armed with a sword for some reason
  2. I try to fight the dinosaur
  3. I kill the dinosaur by stabbing it in the brain through the eye, but then it falls on me and kills me

Usually I wake up at this point, but last night was different. Last night the dream continued past my crushing, as my soul exited my body…and went straight to Hell.

In Hell, I found out that my brother is Satan. Seriously. My soul was taken to the throne room of Hell and none other than my older brother came out from behind a curtain and sat down on the throne. My brother did not look like the devil. He had neither horns, nor pitchfork, nor hooves, nor was he even wearing red. He was, in fact, wearing the same brown Gucci suit he wore to my cousin Ramon’s wedding. Oddly enough, I don’t recall being surprised by any of this in the dream.

Figure 2: The awful truth about my brother

I don’t remember what my Satanic brother said to me; all I know is that my punishment involved me being reincarnated as 6th grade teacher at my old elementary school. Here are the highlights from my stint as an educator:

1.) Somehow, the kids already know that I’m Native American. When I walk through the doors of the school, they have built a bonfire in the lobby and are dancing around it like Kevin Costner in ‘Dances with Wolves.’ The principal is participating.

2.) I introduce myself as ‘Mr. Johnson’ for some reason (this is not my real last name), but the kids refuse to address me by any name other than ‘Chief Runny Colon’.

3.) I have two teaching assistants. I have to go upstairs for a meeting with the vice principal, and I leave my students in the charge of the TAs for ten minutes. When I return to the classroom, my teaching assistants are holding a poker tournament with the students, and they are using real money. Most of the female students are being used as cocktail waitresses and are serving booze. EVERYONE is drunk. It’s at this point that I realize my TAs are Michael and Dwight from ‘The Office’.

4.) For whatever reason, I’m supposed to teach Calculus to 6th graders. The poker tourney inexplicably vanishes and the kids are all in their seats. I’m in the middle of explaining derivatives when some kid behind me yells “YO TEACH! MATH IS FOR NIGGERS!” The kid is Vietnamese. He is also wearing a Rayden hat. The black students jump out of their seats and beat the living shit out of him. I do nothing to stop it. I am subsequently fired.

Figure 3: Did I mention this asshole was the principal?

I woke up at 4:30am laughing my ass off.

You may be wondering why I would hate dreams if this one made me wake up laughing. I’ll tell you why. Because there’s something in my subconscious that’s telling me:

  • I’m going to Hell even if I die fighting a 7 metric-ton prehistoric apex predator to save my mother’s life
  • 11 year old girls can be cocktail waitresses (I suppose this explains the whole ‘Hell’ thing)
  • I associate Asians with Rayden

I’ve had the regular dreams, sex dreams, and superhero dreams that anyone could consider normal and aren’t too difficult to explain. I cannot, however, explain the dream where I’m in a Kay Bee Toy store beating ninjas to death with a fire extinguisher. I cannot explain the dream where my father and are are Achilles and Hector dueling like Brad Pitt and Eric Bana in ‘Troy’. I cannot explain the dream where I walk into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, shoot Willy in the head, then turn around only to be shot in my own head by none other than Katie Couric.

Just take a moment to imagine some of the sick shit you’re encountered in your dreams. Now, try to come to the understanding that it’s all coming from within your own mind, and that your dreams are only as fucked up as you are. Disturbing isn’t it?





Irresponsible White Women

5 05 2008

Sunday mornings in Spring are my favorite time of year, assuming I’m not hung over from the night before. On these mornings, I wake up before dawn and go running around the monuments on the Mall as part of my training regimen for the dance season.

Figure 1: Ah, the serenity of it all

There’s nothing more relaxing than my 9 mile Sunday morning run. The smell of dew and flowers in the air, birds chirping, squirrels and chipmunks everywhere, mature trees, the illuminated marble beauty of the monuments, the red sunrise…the terrified shriek of the inattentive white woman I just spooked.

This is the third motherfucking goddamn time this shit has happened to me, and for some reason it’s always involved a white woman being somewhere she shouldn’t be at a time she shouldn’t be there engaged in some activity that just screams “EASY FUCKING TARGET!” I’ll be running, usually in the dark just before dawn or just after dusk, and some white chick will be walking alone in a secluded and extremely dark area where she is talking VERY loudly on her cellphone and paying attention to absolutely dick.

Figure 2: A danger to herself and everyone else

Next thing you know, I’m within six feet of this fucking idiot, she finally hears my footsteps, turns around to see a large black man running up behind her, SCREAMS!!!!, throws all her shit up in the air, and sends me sprinting away from the area before some cop assumes I’m a rapist and I wind up getting shot in the back like that dude in Glory.

One such incident occurred while I was in college and I was running in the dimly lit corridor that connects a parking lot with one of the residence halls. It happened again when I was running in Rockville some damn where. And finally, it happened yesterday – and this one was by far the worst.

During the previous two incidents, I a.) was jogging and b.) saw the dumbass chick before the shit happened. This time, however, I was in a full sprint down the length of the Reflecting Pool (which is lined with mature shade trees and is, therefore, VERY dark) and I didn’t see or hear the woman. I’m about halfway down the pool when I suddenly hear “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I think I’m under attack by a whino or a homeless dude, so I respond to this reflexively by shrieking out a war whoop, drawing the small dagger I keep strapped around my forearm during my nighttime runs, and charging in her direction (thanks Dad). When I finally make out who she is, she is frozen in fear…but with the cellphone still stuck up against her empty head.

I stop, stare at her in disbelief, sheathe the dagger, grunt angrily, and jog off.

Figure 3: Police composite sketch of me fleeing the scene

I will never understand why white women (and asian and black women, to a lesser extent) feel they have both the need and the right to walk around alone in the dark while chatting away on their cellphones. The three spooky negro incidents I’ve mentioned above renders the argument that women are master multitaskers completely fucking false – when a woman is on her phone, she completely loses all peripheral focus even if she’s in danger and has ample warning*.

I can hear the counterarguments already: “BUT CHRIS! WE’RE ON THE PHONE SO THAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO US, SOMEONE WILL KNOW!”

1.) You shouldn’t be in that situation in the first place. There is no reason to be walking around at night in unlit areas by yourself in a major fucking city**

2.) Your friend on the other end of the line can’t help you. If that friend didn’t immediately say “GET THE FUCK OFF THE PHONE SO YOU CAN PAY ATTENTION” and hang up, then your friend is as dumb as you are. As she hears your cries for help while you’re being mugged in an alley somewhere, she’ll run around her dorm for ten minutes hysterically yelling “OMIGOD DOES ANYBODY KNOW THE NUMBER TO 911?!?!?!”

Ladies, especially you white ladies, put down the phone and pick up your ears and your pepper spray. Better yet, stop walking around in the dark at night by yourself for no fucking reason. Stop going to frat parties and accepting drinks handed to you by a guy that’s hiding a bottle of pills behind his toga. Stop needlessly putting yourselves in dangerous situations and acting surprised when bad shit happens to you. And most importantly…

STOP RUINING MY SUNDAY MORNING RUN.

*The Reflecting Pool is about 200 yards shy of being 1/2 mile long. The woman was spooked right at mid-length, meaning she had 1/4 mile of my hard breathing and heavy stomping to hear me…if she hadn’t been on the fucking phone.

**I know I’m guilty of this too – after all, I was also running around by the Reflecting Pool in the dark. I am also not a frail, inattentive, and easily spooked white woman. I am 6’3″ tall, I weigh 190lbs, I am already running, and I am armed with knives. I’m not the type of person anyone wants to rape or mug. I can run anywhere I want.





Ethiopians

30 04 2008

Figure 1: Ethiopia

It’s no secret to those who know me that I fucking love Ethiopian women. I would happily run over my best friends with a choo-choo train just to get a good look at an attractive Ethiopian woman. Kinda ironic that I’m about to rake them over the coals…

Fuck it.

I’ve been somewhat embittered against Ethiopians, the women in particular, ever since a particular Ethiopian bartender did the following:

  • Kept smiling at and eyefucking me for a good five minutes
  • Sent another bartender to tell me I should talk to her (I was drunk and didn’t recognize the flirtation)
  • Proceeded to chat me up for 30 fucking minutes; laughing, smiling, punching me in the arm
  • Told me, after all this time, that she would not give me her number because “you’re too much of a pretty boy, you’re a player.”

As an entrepreneur, nothing enrages me more than when strangers waste my time – especially my free time. This heifer from the east cost me 30 minutes of company with my good friends the Admiral Furious, Chicken Jon, Shabooty, and other colorful characters. I became even more enraged about three weeks later when I returned to the bar and found her hugged up on a white dude who, for lack of a better description, looked like the upper half of my dick. I don’t claim to be a great looking guy, but I’ll be damned if I don’t know ugly when I see it…and this motherfucker was, on his best day, a billy goat.

Figure 2: Ethiopian girl and her white boyfriend…or at least how I remember them

Ethiopians freak black Americans (BAs) out more than any other type of continental African (CA). Like BAs and CAs, Ethiopians came from Africa at some point, but that’s where the similarities end. They are an enigmatic people – seen in public far more frequently than CAs, but left bizarrely out of social reach. While BAs and CAs are often seen in the company of one another, it is a rare thing to see Ethiopians in mixed company. In fact, it is rare to see an Ethiopian outside of a parking garage or a taxi cab – two industries upon which they retain an eternal east African kung fu grip that, amazingly, has never EVER been broken – not even by the Mob.

If you get up the nerve to speak to a group of Ethiopians, they silently select a ring leader. The ring leader will talk to you in a weird but hot accent while the rest of them pretend to have no idea what the fuck is going on. Every few sentences, the ring leader will turn around and say something to the rest of the pack in Ethiopian as if she is translating. What she is really saying is “I’ll bet his family owns only three taxi cabs, yes?” This explains why the Ethiopians always laugh/giggle at all these ‘translations’, even when the last thing you said to the ring leader was “Yea, the cancer’s terminal.”

Their mysterious nature coupled with their odd financial prowess has led some BAs* to refer to Ethiopians as the Jews of Niggerdom.

Physically, Ethiopians tend to have a bizarre olive/caramel complexion, sunken eyes, wavy hair, massive foreheads (like mine) and, for whatever sick reason in my mind, they bear a vague semblance to ancient Egyptian mummies. Each has a look as if he/she is the product of two people, one from the Ivory Coast and one from Italy, who slammed into each other while running at full speed and formed a single person. It didn’t work out so well for the men, but most of the women are absolutely fucking goddamn drop dead gorgeous.

Figure 3: Beyonce could look like this, but instead she decided to be a sellout cock-whore

Maybe I’m bitter. So fucking what. You’d be bitter too if you had to put up with this shit:

Figure 3: I hope Dan Snyder’s sons are born with chocolate cocks on a hot day

* Me





Straight Hair

3 04 2008

God created rain to tell black women they shouldn’t straighten their hair.

straightening-hair.jpg

Figure 1: “Hi! I’m a moron!”

You’ll notice that black women who wear their hair naturally don’t seem to worry all that much about what water (the most abundant…thing…on the planet) will do to their hair, and this is what makes these girls fucking awesome. Many women who straighten their hair, however, are an intolerable burlap sack of boring because they can’t do shit since it might fuck their hair up. The following is an abbreviated list of fun shit that black women with straightened hair can’t/won’t do because of water:

  • Run around in a rain storm
  • Go snorkeling, swimming, or scuba diving
  • Participate in a wet t-shirt contest
  • Go outside on a humid day
  • Save your life if you fall off a boat
  • Exercise (is there a correlation between this and straight-haired women buying empire waist tops? Decidedly yes.)
  • Join the Navy

Our women will go to extraordinary lengths to keep their newly straightened doo in place. They will actually sleep for eight entire hours with their heads propped up on their hands to keep the hair from getting matted on the pillow. Working out at the gym, they will take 5 minute rest periods between sets to keep from sweating. They will bathe instead of showering. They will stay inside the house for days at a time during streaks of humid weather. They become more and more isolated from society, eventually developing cabin fever and mild to severe psychosis. This causes them to club innocent and defenseless baby seals for no goddamn reason.

tyra_banks.jpg baby_seal_1024.jpg

Figure 2: Hope it’s worth it, you fucking asshole

A woman that’s just come home from the salon is in a very delicate mood. She’s ecstatic that her hair is done and she looks beautiful, but at the same time she’s on the razor’s edge of entering a homicidal rage. If you don’t notice the fact that her straightened hair is now parted on the left side rather than the right, or that she just paid $70 to have it shortened by one damn inch, you are a fucking asshole to her. You play spades with Hitler. You are an inconsiderate keg of certifiable fuck juice and deserve to be drop kicked down a flight of metal stairs.

Men are particularly prone to accidentally setting off the straight-haired woman because, unless you don’t have any hair, we’re perfectly happy no matter what the hair looks like – so we don’t really pay attention. We don’t give a shit if you wear it up or down, or feather your bangs (whatever the hell that means), or put it in a french twist (whatever the hell that means). All we care about is that a.) the hair is there, b.) it’s not a wig, and c.) it’s free of dirt, insects, food, and stank. Save your $150 and buy some friggin’ crotchless thong panties for us to rip off instead. Dammit.

132 innocent and defenseless baby seals we bludgeoned at the hands of crazed salon escapees while you read this article.





Fighter Pilots

26 02 2008

Three years ago, I received a reckless driving ticket in King George County, VA for doing 97 in a 55. It was very late at night, and pretty much the only person on the road besides me was the police officer that pulled me over. The fact that I got pulled over was indeed my fault and quite deserved, but the events of the next six months I blame entirely on my older brother who was in the car with me at the time.

In my driving career, I have been pulled over exactly nine times and each time with damn good reason:

  1. 1999: 51 in a 25, Alexandria VA – approx 11:45pm (ticket)
  2. 1999: 72 in a 55, King George VA – approx 11:00pm (ticket)
  3. 1999: Driving without headlights on, Alexandria VA – approx 10:00pm (no ticket, no warning)
  4. 2000: 40 in a 20, Anacostia Park, Washington DC – approx 3:15pm (warning)
  5. 2002: 50 in a 25, ran 3 stop signs, College Park, MD – approx 1:00am (warning)
  6. 2003: 55 in a 30, weaving through traffic, Downtown Washington DC – approx 4:00pm (no ticket, no warning)
  7. 2004: 97 in a 55, King George VA – approx 12:00am ($1250 fine, 90 day suspended jail sentence, 3 years probation)
  8. 2006: 42 in a 20, Reagan National Airport, approx 5:30pm (ticket)
  9. 2007: 70 in a 40, cutting off unmarked police car, Washington DC – approx 9:30am (warning)

There is a clear behavioral pattern to all of these. The cases where I didn’t get tickets were the cases where I admitted to the officer that a.) I’m an idiot (incidents 5, 9), b.) I was indeed going that fast and was unaware of the speed limit (incident 4), c.) I didn’t know you were the police and I thought you were going to kill me (incident 9), d.) yes, I’m driving without headlights because I forgot, the street is well-lit, and my girlfriend is pissing me off (incident 3), and e.) I’m sorry I’m speeding, I’m just late for an appointment and this is my first day on the job (incident 6).

cops.jpg

Figure 1: Not Fighter Pilots

Basically, all the times I got away with it were the times I treated the cops with respect, admitted that they were right and I was wrong, and didn’t give them the runaround. If there were any justice in the world, I’d have been thrown in federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison for incident 5.

But the incidents where I did receive tickets [1, 2, 7, and 8] were the ones where I insulted the cops’ intelligence by claiming I couldn’t have been doing more than 35, 60, 60, and 25 mph for incidents 1, 2, 7, and 8 respectively. My reaction to incidents 1 and 2 I can attribute to being young and stupid, and the reaction to incident 8 I attribute to being VERY tired.

Incident 7, however, is completely my brother’s fault. As the officer approached my car, I was fully prepared to tell him the God-honest truth: “I just graduated, I bought a fast car, I saw an open striaghtaway and I just lit it up. I honestly don’t even know how fast I was going. I’ve got no excuse, I’m sorry man…it was stupid. I’m really really sorry.” To this day, I’m sure this would have gotten me out of any trouble.

Instead, my brother – ever defiant against authority figures, even in spite of himself – instructs me as follows: “No matter what happened, you were NOT doing more than 60.” I, being panic stricken, was dumb enough to listen to my big brother – and when the officer inevitably asked me how fast he caught me going, I responded with a timid “Ummmm…..60?”, and immediately upon saying these words I knew I was in some deep shit.

The next six months of my life included the following:

  • a formal arraignment
  • a $700 retainer fee for an attorney
  • a plea bargain that a.) kept me out of jail and b.) the judge nearly rejected
  • a $1250 fine, 90 day suspended jail sentence, three years probation
  • an official criminal record
  • 6 months of taking the Metro to my job in Tyson’s Corner since I wasn’t allowed to drive in Virgnia
  • the sale of my beloved Lancer Evolution

At this point (and probably at some point way before this) you’re probably asking yourself “what the fuck does this have to do with fighter pilots?” I answer:

f14flyby.jpg

Figure 2: Reckless Driving

Apparently, this sporting chap flew his $38 million F-14 Tomcat 10 feet from the deck of the U.S.S. Stennis because, as Bam Margera said to explain the penis branded on his ass to his mother, “it was funny.” For doing this, the pilot was grounded for 30 days. So let’s compare and contrast shall we?

Indicent 7:

  • Lives endangered: 2
  • Damage Potential: approx. $35K, + $1K for road cleanup
  • Results: criminal record, fines, probation, suspended jail sentence

USS Stennis Flyby

  • Lives endangered: >= 9 (there are at least 7 people visible on the deck, plus the pilot and his RIO
  • Damage Potential: approx. $4.538 billion (the Stennis cost $4.5 billion to build, plus $38 million for the F-14
  • Results: 30 day grounding

I fucking goddamn hate fighter pilots.








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