Dirty Bastards

This morning started out 7:41 (my alarm goes off at 7:00; yes, I did hear it). Whenever I picked out my afro on the left, the right went flat, and vice-versa. I have also been exceedingly busy, so I haven't done laundry since the Carter administration. I still have clothes left, but everytime I would pull out an outfit, if the shirt was good, the pants that I intended to go were not, if the pants were clean, I didn't have a shirt to go, etc. So finally I pulled something together that involves one of my last clean pairs of slacks, and a shirt that is decidedly "clubby."

This SHOULD have clued me in that the workday would be a little left of center. As I get off the train and proceed toward the platform exit, I notice someone on the floor in my peripheral vision. I turn and see that it is a woman, no more than 24 years old, stretched out, and alone on the floor. I am in a crowd, no one is stopping. So I stop to see if she is okay and needs help, and she tells me that she can't breathe. I go to get the station manager, and I notice that a woman is actually returning with him. Which makes me feel better, because that means someone stopped and this woman has clearly been on the floor for a while. However, when I look at the face of the woman who brought assistance, I realize that she was on the same train car as I was. The number of people who had to have passed this woman prior to my

I know people in this day and age like to believe that the sun rises and sets shining on their asses. I find myself becoming increasingly disgusted with the way individuals treat one another (stay tuned for the upcoming weekly installment "Men are from Maine, Women are from Compton"). This, however, takes the proverbial cake. There are four station managers in the Metro Center platform (one at each exit), as well as a minimum of two sales attendants. This means, if you need assistance, and one is preoccupied with, say, a woman literally collapsing out of her chair, you have five other people to assist you. However, for the five douches that walked up to the station manager at the 12th Street exit, collapsing woman or not, they wanted immediate assistance.

I will say this: New Orleans is dirty, ignant, backwards, and you MIGHT get stabbed. Yet, with all of that, when there is a person in need of help, there will be no shortage of people ready and willing to help. I find that when people don't have much, they are a lot more giving and concerned about their fellows. When you know what it's like to be in need, it seems that you're more likely to fill a need when you see fit. Maybe that's what's wrong here - people have too much. Maybe they don't know what it's like to be in need, or to be desperate.

I have seen more people be outright inconsiderate, then justify it because they don't feel it's adequately appreciated. Human concern is FREE. If you open a door, and a person doesn't say thank you, did only do it because you were expecting a parade? If you say good morning, and it's not returned, is that person automatically a bitch or an asshole? I'm a surly mofo, but I know that even the nicest person can have a day where they aren't "on." What does it cost for me to be the person that I AM, not because it will be acknowledged, but just because? Not a damn dime, that's what.

An Amalgamation of Hodge Podgery

So today I was reading this hilarious piece of journalism. (I particularly loved the "OH SHIT! RUN!" sections.) Reading the comments, reminded me of the time this happened to me. I find it amazing how wound up one person can get by another's opinion, which combined with fifty cents can barely get you a bag of potato chips. I mean, I get heated over things, but I take it to my own forum. Then again, I guess all is fair, because sometimes, the opportunity to hand out a verbal evisceration is good for the soul.

Kwame Kilpatrick...*sigh*. I didn't really pay attention to this dude, but evidently, he is no stranger to trouble. I would love to do a synopsis, but I really don't have the time. Go to Wikipedia and do a search on this dude. Point of interest: He threw a party where a stripper named "Strawberry" was included as part of the "entertainment." Oh yeah, rumor is, she was killed in an effort to keep her quiet about said event. Strawberry. Nigga, you are the mayor. You do not get lapdances in city owned property by strippers named Strawberry. Where I'm from, that's what we call crack whores. I won't even get into him cheating on his wife and documenting the evidence on city owned communication devices. I'm going to walk away from this one.

Okay, I can't completely walk away from it. The chick he cheated with was his chief of "staff," Christine Beatty. While in discussion with a comrade, he questioned why Kilpatrick's wife was present when he made that disingenuous apology, yet we have not even seen a whisper of Beatty's husband. And as I explained to him: women deal with foolishness all the time, particularly when they have an employed man with a functioning penis. Does it set feminism back a million years? Yep, but it's a damned fact. Her employed functioning penis happens to be attached to a mayor, and I'm sure that she has come to enjoy certain luxuries that come with that. (Luxuries that come despite the fact that the city is apparently in debt. The median price of a home in Michigan, according to a news report a few weeks ago, is in the $40k range.) Christine Beatty, does not have these things going for her. She's a woman. Women have vaginas. I know we women like to believe that Cristal and fireworks issue forth from our vaginas, but at the end of the day, pussy is a dime a dozen. I'm willing to wager that the strippers that were busting it open at Magoonian Mansion could teach her a thing or two. I'm sorry, but a woman that texts "Did you miss me sexually" sounds a bit too Jane Hathaway to hold a candle to Lexus and Shardonnay (yes, that's with an "S"). That being said, who wants to be the man with the manure munching grin standing next to the dime a dozen pussy bitch on national television? That dude is at this very moment, getting plastic surgery and changing his Social Security number.

I have a new toy. Get your mind out the gutter. It's a Palm Centro. I haven't completely mastered how to use it as of yet. I'm wack.

What part of the game is this? The only thing that baffles me more than a person having the nerve to espouse their hatred in a place that SHOULD be founded on love, is the wonder at why a gay individual would WANT to support such an establishment. I'm sorry, I have enough on my hands dealing with my own orifices. As long as your sexual preference does not involve children, and especially MY children, I could really give less than a damn what you do. And even more pathetic is the fact that I'll bet at least HALF of those "real men" that stepped up are fucking around on their wives, as "uber Christian" men are wont to do. (See where Kilpatrick offered his shitty apology.)

I think I ran out of words, so until next time.

(Actually, I'm just being lazy, it's time to go home, and I can't think of a clever way to close this. So...Smooches, love, luck and lollipops!)

Ignance!

Hey guys, it's your favorite cynic returning from a brief hiatus. It's not that I haven't had anything to say, it's not that I haven't had time, and it's definitely not that I don't love you. My computer desk at home collapsed (yes, collapsed, this is not an exaggeration) and since I have yet to replace it, I have to sit on the floor to use the computer. This makes my butt fall asleep, which hurts people. So, the blog has been lacking.

But fear not, I have some December jewels or you. It's winter, so you want something warm and fuzzy don't you? Well, fortunately for you, I'm a good mama, so I'm going to give you what you NEED: a heaping helping of my caustic mental gumbo. Please note the plethora of tags/labels here.

It would seem that prisons should make "The Shawshank Redemption" required viewing for their employees. Jose Espinoza, recently plead guilty to aggravated manslaughter, and Otis Blunt, was being held on robbery and weapons charges. Blunt dug a hole into Espinoza's cell. Espinoza dug a hole to the outside. I'm sorry; did I mention they were in the "most secure area of the facility?" The most secure area of the facility had one cinderblock separating an admitted killer from the great outdoors. Like Shawshank, they concealed their progress by covering the holes with bikini clad women. It was funny to watch the New Jersey prosecutor poo-poo the similarities. And by similarity, I mean that they did the exact same shit that was done in the movie. . .except it was more difficult for dude to get out in the movie. Two armed and dangerous criminals, who were kind enough to leave a thank you note to the prison, are now running loose in suburban New Jersey. AWESOME!

Meanwhile, in Iowa, John Edwards was involved in an exchange between an older white guy who essentially has no interest in Obama and the rest of his watermelon eating cronies leaving chicken bones on the White House Lawn. And uh, somehow, the O.J. verdict came up? Something about O.J. and Obama being payback for black mistreatment by white society. First of all, black people ain't fuck with O.J. like that since before "Naked Gun." I will have to defer (once again) to another quote from one of my favorite movies to wrap up my feelings on this.

Copperhead: You have every right to want to get even.
The Bride: No. No. To get even? Even-Steven? I would have to kill you, go up to Nikki's room, kill her, then wait for your husband to come home, and kill him. That would be even, Verntia. That'd be about square.

So don't think for one second payback, if such a thing were desired, would come so easily.

Pamela Anderson Lee Rock Salomon. She was married to Tommy Lee once. Then they separated, and reconciled and divorced. Wash, rinse, repeat with Kid Rock. So she married Rick Salomon in October, filed for divorce this past week, and they are now trying to work it out. Five dollars says what happens next. This proves only one thing: douchebags are unafraid of exposing themselves to sexually transmitted hepatitis. Then again, Kid Rock kind of reminds me of a cross between Pigpen and a petri dish. Who knows what he's had!

This past weekend, I watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Show of hands: who can watch these movies and escape the desire to smite someone's ruins upon a mountainside? Anyone? Anyone at all? That's what the hell I thought. Them shits are the BOMB!!!

As a pre-Christmas gift, I'm saving the best for last. I was caught in, what can best be defined as a nigga moment. I unapologetically offended someone. I firmly believe that every action has a reaction. I also believe that when a person feels you have wronged them, you can't control how they feel and/or respond. Unfortunately, that's not my fucking problem. Maybe I should elaborate.

I was involved in a conversation with two other coworkers, when the topic of hustlin' and slangin' somehow came up. I made the statement that such behavior is ignorant. I did know that one of those parties used to hustle. I did know that he would get a gleam in his eye at the mere mention of the name Rayful Edmond. I did not know that he was going to spontaneously menstruate at my desk. My firm conviction led me to be called "naive," "a slave to the man," "judgmental," "think you're better than people," and ultimately, my problem was diagnosed as "thinking I know every fucking thing." I'm hating on the hustlers for "grabbing the bull by the horns." In addition, since I work in the litigation department, what I do is no better than hustling, because "crime is crime, just because it's white collar crime doesn't make it any different."

Good argument. Crime is crime. And I'll be the first to say that ain't no thug like a corporate thug. I'll second that with saying that this justice system is deplorable. You know and I know that the right people lobbied for THEIR drugs, and they lobbied harder (i.e. paid off more people) to get their shit pushed and make their competitors shit illegal. I'll concede every bit of that.

Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not illegal. Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not the reason people look over their shoulders at the ATM. Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not the crutch that the middle and upper middle class "haves" use to justify why low income "have-nots" in New Orleans should be denied their homes. My job doesn't create chain snatchers, and orphans. My job does not lead people to the legal institutionalized slavery that is the United States Justice system.

Naive? No sir. I learned the rules to this game a LONG time ago. I think son was just pissed that this sheltered East Shore kid schooled his hustling ass to the game. But as Money Mike said, "You can lead a ho to water, but you can't make [him] think."

File this along with "Speaks So Well"

Hi . . . clueless white people? Hey. It's Mamba. Oh. I'm fine. What's that? No, I'm not calling to finally tell you how I get my hair to "do that." I was reading the pa . . . yes, I read. So, I was reading the paper, and I noticed an item that I was virtually certain we discussed a while back. To be more specific, this item in particular. Now, it was determined, quite some time ago, that black face is racist and offensive.

Wait guys, Kelly Nantel of Homeland Security's Immigration and Customs Enforcement is speaking. What was that, Kelly? "He was not wearing blackface but makeup that was a darker color than his skin?" So, he was just portraying a racially nonspecific dark skinned male with locks - characteristics typically associated with black people. . .on his face? Kelly - sit your stupid ass down.

So, here's an idea, and this is going to be fun. Since people of your ilk seem to enjoy emulating your idea of the black prisoner, people of my ilk will have no choice but to play white policeman and beat you like you stole something. Because, you know, since you're a black prisoner, you probably have. Equitable? No. Well, what about this? After whatever function you are attending ends (because people of your sort seem to think a party ain't a party without blackface), and you are sufficiently liquored up, I drop you off in the hood so you can be effectively, uh, embraced by your element. Still not working?

Well let's try this: every time you think of engaging in your shenanigans, think to yourself, "In another setting, would this get my ass whipped?" If the answer is yes, make another selection. Pleading ignorance is old, and frankly, we are tired.

Fear Stupiditiy!

From an early age, I developed passion words. I read fluently at age four, and upon entering kindergarten, I was reading at a second grade level. Shortly after learning to read, my parents, through our church, introduced me to public speaking. That gave me a desire to read more, because if people were going to listen to me, I wanted to make sure I had something interesting to say. I read the encyclopedia ("Funky Wagnalls"), cereal boxes (which irritated me because no one could explain the use of riboflavin, or agree on which vowels had short or long sounds), the newspaper, and every book that came through the house. I read Great Expectations at eight, began devouring Shakespeare at eleven, and had a full fledged seven-book-a-week habit at twelve.

At ten, I began composing my own works - poems, songs, short stories - for my own private entertainment. I shared my work for the first time in sixth grade. When my teacher pulled me on the side and asked who helped me to write my assignment, I knew I was on to something. I can converse with the urbane, the uncultured, and everyone in-between. I am life's student. I am a writer. I am a mother who passes these same values on to her children. I am the parent of a future Johns Hopkins alum. I am a black woman. I am a product of the public school system. I am not an island. There are many like me.

Therefore, white people who just don't get it, THIS is why "speaks so well" pisses us off. (Thanks ACT.) This is why "he's so articulate" makes us liken you to the worst of bigots. Because we KNOW what you mean. We KNOW what you are expecting. Hell, YOU, most often, have had a hand in creating the system that was meant to crank out this ignorant subculture. And yet, it still didn't work. So, your back-handed slights WILL be checked. YES, every time.

So this has you "afraid" to speak your mind? Good. Be afraid. Be mortified. Let it make you think, "Exactly how long has unchecked stupidity been pouring from my piehole?" Don't let the La Shawn Barbers *cough symbolic house negroes* gas you into believing your actions are acceptable ("Massa ain't mean dat de way you sed"). Did he not know he would be speaking to a national audience? It wasn't "awkward," it was ignorant. (Thanks Mr. Clemens.) Racism is ignorance at it's finest.

So you're damn right, we're sensitive. And we will remain so as long as overt racism is seen as nothing more than a big misunderstanding.

The Douche Bag Zone

So, I went to my first meeting of the Pink People (think Purple People sans veils and lots more lipstick), and the shorties were so well behaved, I promised them I'd take them out to dinner last Friday. Mr. Finge, never one to forget a promise, reminded me, so we made the sojourn to Red Lobster. After I got my electronic cattle prod (a/k/a pager), I stood outside with the kiddies. I figured, that was a safe spot, in the event they wanted to run around or be loud, outside is as good a place as any. There I stood, minding my own business, when I heard what I thought was a compliment toward my hair. I turned to confirm that I was the subject of the compliment, and prepared to offer thanks if I was. Unfortunately, I was stopped in my tracks by her goat-mouthed companion ("The Douche Bag") who said, smirking, "That's a wig." My mouth lay frozen. She then gave me a look that said, "Yeah, bitch, I said it."

I was taken aback, not so much by the fact that she said my hair was a wig; I could care less, I know I grew it. The vehemence is what threw me. She said it like I went in her douche bag palace, blew her man, and left my wig on her night stand. Now, I know with virtual certainty that her issue had absolutely nothing to do with my hair, and everything to do with the fact that her over-relaxed hair was thinning at the top of her Oompah Loompah mushroom. I'm just not sure how that became my fault.

Despite the fact that I wanted to thank the woman who complimented me, I didn't trust my lips to stop there. Douchie was old enough to be my mother, however, that only takes one so far. She passed me two more times with that same look on her face, without any idea of how close she came to this story ending, ". . . then I hit that cow in the mouth."

There is something in the DNA of women that almost forces us to detract from any compliment sent to anyONE who is not us. "She probably got booty implants." "She got acne though." "Her right titty is bigger than her left titty." Fortunately, I had a mother who instilled in me that blocking the shine of others, only makes you look that much more dull. It can also bring you dangerously close to being on the business end of one of the illest rabbit punches in the Mid-Atlantic.