Condoms

6 08 2008

There is perhaps no bigger pain in the ass than getting your hands on condoms once you get out of college.

When you’re in college, condoms are free and everywhere (kinda the way white dudes view asian chicks). At UMCP, they used to have a little woven basket filled with a couple hundred of them, and the resident assistants would occasionally tape them to the message boards next to inane “safe sex” billboards*.

Once you’re out of college, however, you’ve only got two options: you can order them online, or you can get them from a pharmacy. Ordering them online is a pain in the ass because it requires foresight, shipping charges, and waiting. Ordering online also rarely happens because, unless a guy is in a relationship, he tends to ‘Forrest Gump’ his way into sex without any real warning. As a result, he’s forced to go to the pharmacy.

The embarrassment** of buying condoms at a pharmacy, in addition to the annoying lack of sensation (which is self-evident and will not be discussed here), is the reason that condoms are annoying.

There are exactly two places to buy condoms – pharmacies in the hood, and pharmacies that are not in the hood. If at all possible, you must avoid buying condoms in the hood. Condoms in the hood are typically kept under lock and key somewhere near the front of the store where there are the greatest number of people.

Figure 1: Goddammit…

In order to get the condoms, you either have to a.) ask for assistance directly, or b.) push a fucking button near the condom cage that makes a obscenely loud fucking noise, saying to everyone present:

“HEY! THIS MOTHERFUCKER THINKS [HE'S GONNA GET HIS DICK WET | SHE'S GONNA GET HER GIBLETS ROASTED]!!!! EVERYBODY STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND EYEBALL [HIM | HER] KNOWINGLY!!!!!”

Buying condoms outside the hood is a little easier. The condoms are not kept under lock and key, but they are in a location that’s just as bad as the front of the store – namely, they’re at the back of the store where the pharmacy counter is, and there are usually just as many people here as there are in the cashier’s line. The best time to go get your condoms here is in the middle of the morning, around 9am – 10am. This puts you in the store after all the old people who show up at the butt-crack of dawn to get their psoriasis and diabeetus medication, and before the nine-to-fivers who rush in at lunch time to refill their Zoloft prescriptions so they can deal with their TPS Reports and eight different bosses for another couple of weeks.

Figure 2: 9 out of 10 black men would have sex with this Aryan cartoon model

Even if you get spotted, though, it’s not that big a deal. After all, you may be picking up condoms, but a person who’s there for prescription strength topical cream for her uncontrollable warts can’t exactly talk shit. As for the pharmacists themselves, they’re happy to see you buying condoms since you’re one less person who’ll be coming in trying to find a delicate way to say “I’d like the morning after pill, please.”

Regardless of where you buy condoms, you are bound to be spotted – so there are a number of ways to deflect the attention:

1.) Buy a shitload of condoms. Get a small basket and buy 20 fucking boxes (the big ones) so it looks like you’re stocking up for a health center, dorm, hospital, or porn shop. It may cost you hundreds of dollars, but no one will believe you’re buying all those for yourself, and it’ll be years before you have to buy condoms again.

Figure 3: Tell them you’re working on a collage, or sculpture

2.) Get on the phone. Call a good friend and chatter away the whole entire time. This may draw more attention to you, but at least you’ll be mostly oblivious to it since you’re engaged in conversation. It’ll also keep you from having to look the cashier in the eye when you finally make it to the register.

3.) Buy an equal number of similar items. Balloons and latex gloves are good choices. If you buy all these items together, it’ll look like you’re planning to use the condoms for something other than sex – like a huge (but decidedly bizarre) waterballoon fight. This strategy could easily backfire, though, as highly freaky people would have no problem finding sexual applications for balloons and latex gloves.

Good luck, and good hunting.

* I refused to ever take any of these condoms out of fear that some sick bastard was running around the dorms poking invisible holes in them with beading needles.

** I’m not really sure why I find this embarrassing, because I am not a prude in any sense of the term. In fact, until I was a teenager and received my ‘adult name’, my Algonquin name translated to ‘Naked Boy’ because of my predisposition to running around the house mostly or completely nude – a predisposition that persists to this day, much to the chagrin of those unfortunate souls that can see me through my balcony window.





Vegans

28 07 2008

It would seem that vegan organizations have recently come into an awful lot of money. Everywhere I go, I am noticing vegan ads – almost all of which feature images of dirty chickens for some damn reason – all over public transportation billboards from D.C. to Chicago.

The most recent of these fucking ads had a picture of a hen sitting in a cage with its wing over a semi-adorable chick, with a caption that read “This is what a wing is for.”

The obvious incorrectness of the caption sent me into a rage. Clearly, chicken wings are meant for one purpose and one purpose only (the point is further expounded by this song):

Figure 1: THIS is what wings are for.

I was dicking around on the internet and came across this definition of veganism:

“[T]he word “veganism” denotes a philosophy and way of living which seeks to exclude — as far as is possible and practical — all forms of exploitation of, and cruelty to, animals for food, clothing or any other purpose; and by extension, promotes the development and use of animal-free alternatives for the benefit of humans, animals and the environment. In dietary terms it denotes the practice of dispensing with all products derived wholly or partly from animals.”

Veganism – and its refusal to use the animals our Creator(s) put here for the purpose toward which they were created – is an affront to God, Allah, Jehovah, Buddha, Krishna, and Chuck Norris. There is evidence all around us that animals are indeed for eating:

1. All animals eat other animals. Even deer eat bugs and shit when they’re chowing down on grass and berries and whatever the fuck else they eat. A deer will also rape you and, if successful, eat you*.

2. All the animals that matter eat meat. Animals that matter include sharks, big cats, tyrannosaurs, killer whales, birds of prey, wolves, and bears. Nobody would watch the Discovery channel if it included programs about herbivorous animals that weren’t being eaten or about to be eaten by carnivores, and there’s a damn good reason for it.

3. Animals are delicious. If we weren’t supposed to eat them, then God would have made them taste like vagina. He also wouldn’t have invented hot sauce.

To not eat meat is to say that you’re better than all God’s creatures, humans don’t matter, and God doesn’t know how to satisfy the human palette. Basically, you’re saying you know more than the Almighty – and you know damn well he isn’t gonna stand for that shit. Stalin and any given vegan stand about an equal chance of going straight to hell.

I had a conversation with a vegan a couple of years ago. This person cited the fact that animals are ‘creatures of value’ and therefore have a set of basic rights. Though she was correct in this position, her position does not preclude me from eating animals for the following reason:

Figure 2: Animal entitlement (click to enlarge)

As proven in the work above, animals are only entitled to liberty. It doesn’t say anything about my ability to kill them, eat them, make furniture and clothing out of them, and enjoy stuff like this. It may rightfully preclude people from eating animals that are caged and confined, but I don’t have that problem. Almost all of the meat in my diet consists of field-hunted deer and free-roaming beef, so I’m not violating any principles of liberty when I go home tonight and cook my venison French rack.

Vegans will be used for fuel on SBPH Airlines.

*Probably





Red Lobster

22 05 2008

Most people probably remember Chris Rock’s skit where he proposed that Native Americans have bigger problems than Black people, and offered up this statement as proof:

“When’s the last time you ever saw TWO Indians? You ain’t never seen a bunch of Indians just chillin’ at Red Lobster”

Well, just imagine how hilarious I found it when, after doing a dance performance with a group from NMAI, 17 Indians actually piled into a Red Lobster for dinner afterwards.

Figure 1: A bunch of Indians (some more Indian than others, it would seem)

Going to Red Lobster always seems like a good idea until you actually get there. Then you see the masses of insultingly overweight people waiting in the lobby looking to compound their health problems and raise taxes on everybody. You also notice an equal or greater amount of fatness anchored at the tables in the restaurant. You see gigantic piles of fried food, butter, and other artery-clogging fatness-inducing swill…and you slowly begin to realize that all of these people are going to take at least 2 hours each to finish their meal.

There are three ways to entertain yourself during your excruciatingly long wait:

1.) Grab a beer or six at the bar and start getting fucked up

2.) Observe the large number of young couples at the restaurant. Try to remember that, when you were young and broke, Red Lobster was to you what Kinkead’s is to a congressman. In spite of your attempt to empathize, you choke on your beer a little bit when you hear some 18 year old sincerely tell her boyfriend “you such a baller, baby.”

3.) Mock the lobsters in the water tank in the lobby. Make strange 18th century-sounding declarations of criminal punishment like “for your crimes against oceanic aesthetics, you are hereby sentenced to boil until delicious.” For extra points, take one of the lobsters out of the tank and chase terrified children with it until you are arrested or punched in the face by an angry father.

Eventually, the hostess calls you and you sit down excited about the fact that you’re finally going to eat. Most of all, you’re excited about the delectable biscuits that you’re sure to receive within the next five minutes. You ignore your father’s comment about the tables being arranged in the shape of “a cock and balls” and take your seat.

Figure 2: Our table configuration. He coulda said it looked like an exclamation point…

The biscuits come out right on time, served to you by an 18 year old redneck girl named ‘Cindy’ who insists on calling you ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’. You respond to this by referring to her as ‘pop tart’ with your mouth full while eating your biscuits, but this does not seem to deter her familiar tone.

Figure 3: Pretty much the only reason anybody goes to Red Lobster

Since you’ve been waiting 45 minutes, you gobble down four of these biscuits and, after drinking two glasses of water, you realize that you’re pretty much full already. Not only are you full, but you feel like shit because your stomach is now filled with a year’s worth of butter and garlic. You’re at Red Lobster, though, and there is no time for weakness. You open up the menu and behold how delicious everything looks – especially the beloved Admiral’s Feast: a breaded, battered, Neptunian heart attack in waiting that could be considered the most humane way to slowly kill a person. The Admiral’s Feast consists of a big ass chunk of fried fish, fried clams, fried shrimp, and fried bay scallops with a side order of your choosing that’s supposed to delude you into thinking you’re eating healthy. There’s nothing more ridiculous than someone ordering the Admiral’s Feast with a side of vegetables, which is akin to asking for a candle and romantic musing while getting raped in prison.

If someone orders the Admiral’s Feast before you, then you have to order something else. You either go for the endless shrimp or the snow/king crab legs, which are exceedingly delicious when served with warm melted butter.

Figure 4: The awesomeness is rivaled only by that of pancakes

No matter what you order, you come to the understanding that you are going to be absolutely miserable for the next hour. The garlic biscuits and the hydrochloric acid in your stomach are having World War III in your insides to decide if your food is going to come out of your asshole in 3 hours or back out of your mouth in 3 minutes. Thankfully, God anticipated the creation of Red Lobster because it was he that made garlic and biscuits delicious, so he also made most stomachs strong enough to win the war – which is usually winding down by the time you receive your Admiral’s Feast or your crab legs.

As you eat (and you do so out of spite rather than hunger, because you are already full as a motherfucker), you watch with horror as some of the people at your table are somehow able to devour an entire Admiral’s Feast in 7 minutes. They are ordering dessert while you’re still plugging away at the fried clams. You know they’re delicious but, like a man having his 6th orgasm of the night, the pleasure isn’t really registering anymore.

If you’re lucky enough to finish your meal, you want to fucking die. You never want to see a Red Lobster, or food, or the people you’re with ever again for as long as you live. You push yourself back from the table, lean back by sliding your ass forward in the seat, hold your belly and loudly exhale “WHEEEEEEEEEW” like you just got done splitting wood for six hours. You look at the table and behold the disaster area that it has become. There are shells, napkins, half drank glasses of water, sauce, and other shit all over the fucking place. Despite the fact that you feel like shit and weigh at least a metric ton, this carnage gives you an oddly primal sense of satisfaction. That is…until the bill shows up.

Figure 5: Everybody acts like the bill is for this much.

Black people and Indians have at least one cultural trait in common: when the bill shows up, everyone looks around at everyone else like they have no idea what the fuck is going on. They look like a guy would if he just got head from his girlfriend and she sits up and demands $300. After lots of groaning, arguing over the tip, gross underpayment by some people, and an extra 30 minutes, you are finally ready to leave.

As you walk to the car, you realize that you just PAID someone to shorten your lifespan and make you feel like vomit. You are terrified that you will fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. You vow never to return to Red Lobster…even though you know damn well your black ass will be back in about 8 weeks.





Segways

7 05 2008

I was running near the south side of the White House yesterday when I was nearly run over by some fat fucking woman on a Segway. For those who don’t know what a Segway is, it’s a transportation device used by healthy people to mock the handicapped.

Figure 1: You have legs. USE EM!

Any person without a physical disability caught on one of these goddamn things should be arrested and punished by having his legs amputated, or at least be classified as legally retarded (as should anyone who feels the need to wear a helmet while traveling at walking speed).

For those who haven’t encountered them personally, there are two types of Segway douches:

1.) The Owner

This is the rare assfuck who shells out upwards of $5,000 for the privilege of pretending his legs don’t work. You’ll see a surprisingly large number of these motherfuckers careening around the streets of DC, barely or not at all avoiding running people over as they make their way from their Capitol Hill row house to whatever government building they’re going to sit in for eight hours avoiding real work and filling with acidic suck the lives of millions of Americans. The most infuriating part about the Segway owner is the fact that my tax dollars are subsidizing his laziness in a vicious conspiratorial circle of financial waste:

Figure 2: How the government uses your money

2.) The Tourist

Here’s how the typical American fatass winds up in my city on a Segway and ruins my day in ten easy steps:

  1. Asshole from Iowa finishes making love to his sister
  2. Sister/Wife (Swife) suggests “Woooo WHEE! I THANKS WE SHUUUD TAKE UH VACATION!”
  3. Husband and Swife pack up their four inbred children and hop in their 20 year old station wagon
  4. Along the way, they pick up standard white man tourist gear: neon ball cap with wide brim, extra large sunglasses, fannie pack, khaki shorts, high rise socks, and “rugged” leather hiking sandals
  5. The Clampetts arrive in DC, avoiding the SE quadrant of the city at all costs and arriving at the Mayflower Hotel
  6. The Clampetts are fat from decades of eating mayonnaise sandwiches, and are afraid their feet may explode if they walk too far. They sign up for a Segway tour.
  7. Ethiopian cab driver takes advantage of arcane zoning system to charge $12 dollars to take the Clampetts the 1/2 mile to downtown DC to join the tour
  8. The Clampetts plop down $100 per person to join 40 other lazy idiots just like themselves and roll down the sidewalk with them in unison like a platoon of overweight cyborgs, relishing in the envious looks they receive from pied-à-terre fatties and the looks of disgust from non-fatties who aren’t too lazy to walk
  9. The eldest daughter, Susie Clampett, is losing control of her Segway near the Old Executive Office Building because she is a.) a gastropod, and b.) an inbred retard. She yells to her father “Uncle Daddy! What’s wrong with this thang?!?!” as it turns violently to the right, makes a U turn, and nearly causes her to run over a nearby mulatto runner.
  10. Mulatto runner now has to increase pace significantly to stay ahead of the mobile death squad, because they are following his route. 2 miles later his body quits on him; vomits in front of confused/horrified children and their parents.

Oh well. At least I can take some comfort in this:

When it was launched in December 2001 the annual sales target was 40,000 units, and the company expected to sell 50,000 to 100,000 units in the first 13 months. Segway Inc’s investors were optimistic. Inventor Dean Kamen predicted that the Segway “will be to the car what the car was to the horse and buggy” and John Doerr, a venture capitalist who invested in the company, predicted that Segway Inc would be the fastest company to reach $1 billion in sales. In fact only about 30,000 Segways were sold from 2001 to 2007.

Critics point to Segway Inc’s silence over its financial performance as an indication that the company is still not profitable, as about $100 million was spent developing the Segway.

-from Wikipedia

Figure 3: Think about it…





Fat People

29 04 2008

I arrived at work today unusually pissed off. I spent about 20 minutes on the Metro trying to work on a Flash website while some idiot 3 seats behind me was listening to stupid fucking Lil’ Wayne so loud I could actually feel myself getting dumber.

Upon escaping the train, I hop on the goddamn bus. Some fat fuck forklifts herself onto the bus too, nearly flipping the goddamn thing over. The next part of this story I am not exaggerating in the least: the INSTANT the bus pulls off, this gravitron yanks the stop-request cord. The bus comes to a halt at the next stop less than 200 yards from her point of entry, and she lumbers off the bus as the vehicle’s suspension heaves a sigh of relief. As the bus pulls off, I watch in utter disbelief as she appears to be walking into a convenience store. This chick is so fat she actually defies the laws of optics and appears to get BIGGER as I get farther away from her. I turn to see the expressions on the faces of everyone else. I see a combination of rage and amusement.

Figure 1: Fat chick asking the driver to stop the bus

Fat people piss me off because of a.) the sheer number of them in this country and b.) how little they do to keep from getting fat. Fat people clog up the doors on buses and subways. Fat people sit in restaurants for hours at a time, forcing other people to wait forever to get a seat. Fat people sweat all over EVERYTHING! The sweat makes them smell absolutely atrocious. Fat people jack up the cost of health care like it’s their fucking job. It takes 100 acres of cotton to make just ONE T-SHIRT for a 350lb man. They breathe too hard. They eat too much. They refuse to walk anywhere. They get elected to congress. It’s fucking disgusting, and it has to be stopped.

I went completely fucking apeshit on Europe a few posts back, but there’s one thing they definitely have (at least in Spain and Portugal) that I’d be willing to go back for over and over again: a nearly total absence of fat people.

Figure 2: Goddammit

In Spain, you had to fucking walk EVERYWHERE, lest you wind up blowing half your salary on gasoline (which is INSANELY EXPENSIVE in Europe), cab rides, or expensive public transit. You have to WALK to work. You have to WALK to wherever you get lunch, and then WALK back to work. Then you WALK back home for the ‘siesta’ or whatever the fuck it is over there. Then you WALK back to work again. Then you WALK from work to the market to get your food. Then you WALK the fuck home and cook your food. Then you WALK to wherever the hell it is you hang out with your buddies in your fruity horizontally-striped shirt, superskinny jeans and faux-hawk hairdo to talk in your fruity Euro-speak about how much you hate America despite the fact that your economy rides the waves we produce, and how cool it is that you feign a 150 fucking Euro club cover charge to anyone that even remotely resembles an American.

Figure 3: Average European male. Note the lack of fatness.

But no matter how much Europeans suck, they have this over us: they walk more, eat less, and do less sitting around, leading to a blissful absence of fatassitude. No fat people stinking up the elevators. No fat people taking up an extra 60 seconds on your bus commute. No fat people sweating on your home inspection checklist (can you tell this happened to me? CAN YA?). No fat people eating philly cheesesteaks with a DIET FUCKING GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING COKE BECAUSE THEY’RE “WATCHING THEIR CALORIES!!!” Drop the soda and pick of a big ol’ can of lipolysis, you ginormous fucking gastropod!

Figure 4: You can have a Fanta, or the Fantanas. You cannot have both. Choose wisely, you fat bastard.

Raise gas prices, goddammit. $9 a gallon for all I give a shit. Make these fat motherfuckers walk, or at least roll end over end wherever the fuck it is they have to go. Too fat to walk? MELT ‘EM. FUCKING MELT THEM! Melt them before the very eyes of the living fatties that they might behold the awful price of diet soda and a sedentary lifestyle. Melt them down, mix their remains with ethanol, and let everyone see me drive off in the first fatty/ethanol hybrid monster truck, which I will happily use to bulldoze every fast food restaurant in the country*

Figure 5: Stay Puft Fleshmallow Boy

*Except Popeyes. But you have to take a BMI test before being allowed in. Fail the BMI test, and you will be melted.





Allergies

24 04 2008

Sometime within the last 24 hours, my allergies decided to flare up for the first time in several years. I am now sitting here with a fucking sinus infection that’s making me want to flip out and kill people.

The following are the events of my life taking place between 7am yesterday, and 6:59am today.

7:00am - I arrive at work with a nose that feels unusually itchy. I ignore this for the most part as I split my time between railing on Hillary Clinton and trying not to fall asleep.

8:30am – Someone turns the lights on in the office. The bright, harsh, evil flourescent fucking lights.

When they flip on, I realize I have a headache. Then I notice the itchiness of my nose again. I am pissed.

11:30am – I go downstairs to the Korean deli where they only accept cash so they can evade taxes. Most of the women behind the counter also pretend not to be able to speak English, and you know they’re lying because in spite of their supposed lack of English skills, they somehow manage to laugh at Tyra Banks’ corny fucking jokes on her show that is ALWAYS on the TV in the deli.

By now I have ‘the sniffles’, but I don’t recognize it yet as allergies. I grab my food and run up the stairs five stories back to my office.

11:31am – I am inexplicably winded from running up five stories of stairs, considering that I did a 3-mile run in 23 minutes just a week ago. I sit at my desk and unwrap my nasty-ass korean gyro, take a bite and swallow. My throat is sore, and now I realize that my life is about to become miserable.

The sore throat is the first sign that minor but very annoying health problems in the form of a stuffy head, easy fatigue, headaches, and stuffy nose that is strangely runny at the same time are right around the corner.

2:00pm – I am MISERABLE. For the last two hours I’ve been working at my desk with my head tilted back and to the right while breathing out of my mouth. I look like Stephen Hawking. My nostrils are raw from blowing my nose. Some chick walks by and asks me about god-knows-what, and I respond in the tinny, nasal voice I have no choice but to use when I’m sick. She says “aw, you sound so cute when you’re sick!” I chuckle quietly, masking my urge to punch her in the vag.

3:00pm – Time to go home. I walk out the front door of the building and am greeted by the sun, which feels like it’s six inches from my fucking face and has now turned my minor sinus pressure into a full-blown headache. Some fuckstick walks by and says “gorgeous day isn’t it?!”. I want to flay this bastard and wear his skin as a war shirt while I murder everyone dear to him.

6:30pm – I’m at home working on a shitty oil painting that requires me to look down the whole time. It feels like there’s five pounds of fluid in my face, and it’s weighing down on the backs of my eyeballs trying to pop them out of my eye sockets. My head is pounding like there’s a fucking step show in my skull and every frat in the country showed up. I also have no idea where the fuck my phone is. I fucking hate everything.

7:30pm – The fumes from oil paint and paint thinner are slowly killing me, so I finally stop. I have swallowed nearly three gallons of water today, and I cannot stop going to the bathroom. I’ve also taken so many vitamin C tablets I’m starting to shit navel oranges.

1:00am – I want to go to bed, but I can’t breathe. Using dad’s old remedy, I boil crushed garlic cloves in water and breathe in the steam – and nearly burn my damn face off sticking it too close to the pot. After swearing loudly for 60 seconds, I try again with more caution.

4:45am – I’m jolted awake by my cellphone alarm. I am angrier than John McCain on MLK Day. For reasons that I cannot explain, my phone is in one of my moccasins near the bed. I start punching the moccasin mercilessly, but this does not silence the alarm. I pick the moccasin up by the toe and jiggle it. This is a stupid fucking idea. The phone drops out of the moccasin, hits the hardwood floor with a satisfying crunch, and sends the battery skidding across the floor. The alarm is off. I am happy.

4:46am – I put my phone back together and realize that I still can’t breathe. My throat still hurts. A lot. I jump in the shower.

5:35am – I remain in the shower, amazed that I still have hot water. I’m pretty sure I’m going to stay in the shower for the rest of my life. I am exhausted, and it hurts to move my eyeballs.

5:45am – I’m making pancakes, but I can’t smell them. Nor can I taste the excess batter. My blood is boiling.

6:30am – I unleash a loud snort to clear my nasal passages as I walk out my front door. Just then, my neighbor walks out her door and, having heard the snort, gives me this holier-than-thou stink eye. I make a mental note to urinate in her gas tank over the weekend.

6:59am – Arriving at my office building, a walk again up the stairs to my suite. At the top of the stairs, I feel like I just ran a fucking marathon. I am out of breath, and I am actually fucking goddamn sweating. At my desk, I drink half a bottle of DayQuil. It tastes like a rusty vagina. I wish I was dead.

* It’s a well known fact among my friends that I hate artificial light, so in the evenings my place is lit with dim recessed lighting and candles. I also don’t watch much television, so you’ll usually hear a Diana Krall or Miles Davis album playing softly in the background. Put these two together, and on any given night my home looks like it’s set up for me to seduce some unsuspecting woman, even though 99% of the time I’m home alone. Chicken Jon, who is the biggest homophobe on the planet, once arrived at my home in this condition – and asked me nervously: “uh….you aren’t…expecting anything….are you?” I, being a.) not homophobic at all and b.) a jerk, sank my teeth into his homophobia like a fucking pit bull and spent the rest of the night out with our friends threatening to bang him in the ass.

Figure 1: Chicken Jon, King of Drank





Sunburn

22 04 2008

Black people have always had a tortured relationship with non-blacks who tan themselves. There’s a certain level of mockery infused in blond bombshells sitting in the sun trying to get darker while innately harboring a sense of superiority over the naturally mocha, and that pisses us the fuck off*. It all goes back to Paul Mooney’s elegant quote: “Everybody wanna be a nigga don’t nobody wanna be a nigga.”

I could go on all day long about white people, tanning, and the evils thereof – but instead I’m going to address something completely confined within the black community. There is a minority within the minority that suffers in silence due to a combination of the awesome power of the sun and the pride we dark people take in our naturally occurring melanin. Their plight has gone on without mention for far too long…

I’m talking about black people who sunburn.

Figure 1: Hiding my shame in Puerto Rico**

The Melanin-Challenged (henceforth called “MCs” for brevity) suffer everyday with their condition. We put up with the darker among us referring to us as ‘yellow’. We laugh along on the outside but cry on the inside when the darkers mock sunburned white people. We lie…LIE PASSIONATELY…when we claim “yea I’m light, but I never get sunburn.” Ever had an MC tell you this? LIES! ALL LIES!

If an MC is on vacation with a bunch of darkers in a place where sunburn can happen, he lives his life in fear. If he is caught putting on sunblock, he will face days of merciless mockery as his blackness is slowly siphoned away like the world’s oil supply. If he fails to get his sunblock on undetected and is caught with the reddish shame of sunburn, the darkers will literally kill, cook and eat him to restore balance to the Force.***

Figure 2: Burns easily

The clever MC will steal away into the bathroom, or decide to ‘take a walk’ alone, or say “hey, I’m gonna go hit on the hot hotel clerk.” This is the best way to get alone time to apply sunblock without getting caught. The best time to do it is first thing in the morning. The darkers, who have spent the entire day freely basking in the sun and are supercharged by mid-day from the sun’s energy stored in their skin, are at their weakest and most docile at dawn when the sun’s power is at a minimum. They are must less likely to question you or ask to come along.

Make sure that you have the sunblock in a clear jar or cup labeled ‘Sperm’. That’ll keep your friends from looking at it too closely and finding out what it really is if they stumble across it by accident. Also if you get caught applying sunblock in the bathroom, you can say that it’s your sperm in the jar and not sunblock. When they ask why you’re rubbing your sperm all over your body, tell them you’re half Mayan. Do not offer any further explanation. If this doesn’t work, pick up the jar and make like you’re gonna throw it at them.

Figure 3: Is probably willing to cover himself in sperm

If, however, you’re unable to apply your sunblock before going out into the sun…you’re pretty much fucked. The best option is to insist on wearing a shirt and baseball cap because “I got eczema n’ shit“. This is usually excuse enough to apply huge amounts of cocoa butter (an effective sunblock in large doses) to your face – the only remaining vulnerable area on your body – without drawing too much suspicion. You’ll be miserably hot for the rest of your vacation, but at least your friends won’t eat you.

There will come a time, though, when you get sunburn no matter what precautions you take. As your darker friends sharpen their knives and forks, try throwing these excuses at them:

  • “The sun is way more powerful at the equator”
  • “I made love to an unclean woman/man”
  • “Man, will you look at these rashes? I forgot I’m allergic to sand and water”
  • “Shit, my leprosy’s flaring up again”
  • “Dude check out my red body paint! You didn’t hear? You gotta be painted red to get into the clubs here”
  • “I am gay”

Figure 4: Have a happy summer, you beige motherfucker

*And yes, this includes the inordinate numbers of fat white chicks from the midwest who are, for reasons I will NEVER be able to explain, incredibly alluring to so many dark black males. I swear there’s some kind of pathological forbidden slave/master mentality that, somehow, both parties manage to get off on.

**If you can peel your eyes away from the trainwreck of gross that is my upper body and look closely at the chicks in the background, you’ll notice their boobies are hanging out. This is the one good thing about white girls tanning.

*** This claim is unsubstantiated





Diabetes

19 03 2008

Every black person in America lives with the horrifying truth that everything we love will eventually give us diabetes.

That’s right, buddy. Consider the following…

Fried chicken, fried scallops, fried shrimp, catfish, candied yams, collards, hog maws, chitterlings (ugh), scrapple, biscuits and gravy, peach cobbler, fried apples, sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce, green beans, stuffing, fried turkey, fried potatoes, pig feet, chicken feet (why?), hamburgers, pulled pork sammiches, hot dogs, pork ribs, butter beans, BBQ chicken, chicken and dumplings, corn pudding, rice pudding, red beans and rice, grits, black-eyed peas, devilled eggs, extra cheesy mac and cheese, corn bread, kool aid, southern sweet tea (which peach, if you’re a rich asshole) and above all…the HOT SAUCE.

You’re hungry as fuck now. You know you are. You’re so hungry right now that you wanna run outta the office and make love to someone for the next six hours. And I’m not talking about tender, emotional lovemaking. I’m talking about angry fucking – the kind that leaves you, your significant other, and even the family dog ten pounds lighter and covered in sweat. The kinda sex that, to a passerby, looks more like Capoeira than coitus. Sex that’s so damn good you start swearing at each other. That’s the kind of irresistible fucking hunger I’m talking about.* Yep. Well guess what?

It’s going to kill us all.

soulfood.jpg

Figure 1: Vile Temptress

My grandmother is 96 years old. In her 96 years, I don’t think she’s ever eaten a meal that wasn’t made with at least 6 heaping tablespoons of butter and lard. She eats soul food EVERY MOTHERFUCKING DAY. Yet, she’s about the healthiest 96 year old you will ever meet. Her hearing is spotty and she tends to forget things, but she can walk anywhere, climb stairs without a problem, and had the presence of mind about a month ago to tell me “oh child, siddown and shove it” when I made the rather ludicrous (but empirically true) claim that cats hate black people.

The rest of us are doomed. Soul food is going to go from being a delectable treat to forcing us to take Wilford Brimley seriously instead of laughing at his pronunciation of the word ‘diabetes’ (see Figure 2).

wilfordbrimley.jpg
Figure 2: Will not tolerate Diabeetus

Diabetes is particularly frightening to me, because being both black and native american means that I’m burning both ends of the diabetes candle. Chicken to the right of me, Bannock to the left of me. For all the legions of black people running around out there thinking you have Cherokee ancestry…you better hope you’re wrong.

*I should write trashy romance novels. Or more accurately, I shouldn’t.








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