Back for More
Sorry for the lack of updates the past two weeks, my shitbag computer is acting up (read: flatlining) and I have not had a good place to work on my writing. I think Mr. Mac is just about to go to the big genius bar in the sky to meet his maker, Steve Jobs. Finally, though, I decided to grow a pair and work outside the confines of my apartment. There comes a time in every dude’s life when he has to step up and be a man – and go over to his parent’s house to eat all their food and type for an asinine blog. I could see vultures circling above my page, though, so I knew it was time to get back to work, for the sake of my loyal and patient readers.
The last time I posted a blog was right before Halloween. Regrettably, I did not go out and get trashed… meaning I have no good stories for you from that night. It was snowing out, so I just whacked down a six pack of Stella Artois and watched BET all night. Green bottle beer and Steve Harvey standup was just what the doctor ordered, in my opinion. I think working in the inner city has helped me tune into black culture a little more, so now whenever I see Lean on Me or Friday on TV I can’t help myself. I saw a group of 10 year olds smoking a blunt outside my office the other day, and I thought I was cool enough to ask for a hit, or whatever the fuck you call it. Instead they just beat me up and took my wallet. It was especially embarrassing because they were girls.
When I am at work, I love hearing all the different languages spoken by the good burghers of Boston. I pass by folks speaking Vietnamese, Spanish, Portuguese and even Russian. Sometimes I pass by people and I have no idea what language they are speaking. Usually they are people are from Ireland. Hearing all the different languages sometimes makes me wonder what country we live in, but to figure that out, I’d have to know what planet I am on.
Our current president is a black fellow, which was a new and exciting thing for this country. They talk about his campaign, which was admittedly good, but beating an unfocussed, 72 year old Republican white man after the Bush administration is like beating Germany right after WWII when all that was left in their military ranks were 11 year olds and geezers. To be perfectly honest with you, I am not sure I completely understand all the hubbub about the first black president. I don’t get the excitement over a half black guy who was raised by a white woman in Hawaii- I don’t think that is the average black experience. But hey, what the hell do I know? Oh yeah, everything, I forgot. Bill Clinton was the real first black president, as best I can tell…his wife hated him, he banged great big fat white girls, loved McDonalds and played the saxophone. Think about it.
People are all the same, although humor varies from culture to culture. There are a few things that separate whities and blacks though – penny loafers, sailing and bow ties immediately come to mind. Just kidding. But not really. For example, when a black guy shaves his head, he looks badass. When a white guy does the same thing it looks like either pattern baldness or leukemia. A black guy grows a mustache, and, invariably, it will look good…particularly if coupled with that shaved head. A white guy with a mustache, excluding the one out of every six million with the right genetic code for stachery, equals pervert. Also, I”ve noticed that black folks can profusely thank God and Jesus without looking insane or dangerous, something crackers have yet to master. When some R&B singer starts spewing out praise for the big guy at the switch, it is only natural. When a white guy does it, I’m waiting for the sonic boom from the abortion clinic that he just blew up down the road.
I am sick of people ragging on Tiger Woods. Who the hell cares if he likes to bang skanks? Who doesn’t? Name one celebrity or professional athlete we have held to a standard this high. There was less of an uproar for Michael Vick, a man who has killed more dogs than any chef in the entirety of the Korean Peninsula. The guy is the best golfer ever, a national treasure, and we are upset because he likes dirty quim. He is the perfect man. He’s got the brain of an Asian, the athletic prowess of a black man and the mass appeal of finest Caucasian milquetoast. Arnold Palmer used to smoke 2 cigarettes per hole and wash it down with martinis and gin, and still we celebrate his vices appropriately enough by making a beverage with his name that lends itself to mixed drinks. We were so quick to forgive that irrelevant weirdo Michael Jackson after countless accusations of inappropriate behavior. Now that creep is in the news again. He had some awesome music, sure, but unfortunately, his final years were marked by an insatiable desire for pharmaceuticals and perversion. I have to give Ted Kennedy credit for dying when he did and knocking MJ out of the spotlight. He really jumped on the grenade, and I’ll drink to his memory. Make it an Arnold Palmer and vodka, please. As for uncle Ted, I will pour out a little bit of liquor on his grave to honor him. Just let me run it through my kidneys first.
Allow me to pull a 180 on you, though. I believe that MJ never committed any of the pedophile crimes he was accused of. He is creepy enough for me not to want children near him, and I think anybody with the slightest traces of common sense would agree that he did not provide a healthy living environment for children (or adults). The folks that let MJ run around with their kids were either impossibly stupid, or they were scheming…while I do believe human stupidity is at its zenith, I would sooner chalk their intentions up to avarice and malice – largely because I hate everybody. Sometimes I think the world would be better off if we had a nuclear war, killed everybody and started over again from pond scum in a few million years. Maybe the next wave of human beings will be nicer. But as for MJ, I think he was just some twisted millionaire who became insane, a la Howard Hughes. MJ finally allowed me to realize how people felt after Elvis (the real king) died. Except MJ was very far removed from relevance, and the king was still early in his downfall, or so it should have been. He should have lived longer, but alas, we were robbed of the continued depravity that would have born thousands of bizarre and amusing anecdotes. This man’s love of fried peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches (which, I estimate, have the nutritional value of a carton of cigarettes) and codeine was beyond the decadence of a mere king. He was more like a Pharaoh, or a Kaiser, even. Elvis was rather disgusting and bloated by the time he died in 1977. He looked like a water-logged corpse from feasting on drugs and fried food. Michael Jackson, on the other hand, kind of looked like that little Asian girl at the bottom of the well in The Ring. Was there a funeral for him? I am not sure whether he is in a grave or a jar right now.
All right, that’s enough blog for right now, I hope you are thoroughly offended. My take on race relations is bizarre at best, and my sense of humor only exacerbates it. My opinions are not supposed to be safe though, and I like to jab once in a while. Sometimes comedy needs to be like a zipper catching some skin. You may not always agree, but I can promise you this much: I shall never yield to good taste, common sense or decency. Nobody is ever going to get me to stop talking – unless they’ve got a box of donettes.
Enjoy the week, friends. Ima eat turkey until I explode on Thursday.