tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34484073970141180592024-03-12T18:00:09.995-05:00Brown and ThinWelcome to the chronicles of a bi-racial Canadian. This blog is dedicated to the celebration of my being thin and Brown. My family is White but I turned out Taupe. I’m not sure how this happened but what I am sure of is that the stories that have come out of this predicament have a tendency to provoke tremendous laughter. I invite you to join me in laughing at myself and all the many things in this world that are ridiculous (Mariah Carey, I’m talking to you). Sit back and enjoy; Brown and Thin!JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-59273708372221829802013-08-28T22:03:00.000-05:002013-08-28T22:03:20.851-05:00Whistle While You Twerk With the ever increasing use of social media websites such as Faceplace, Instatwat, MyBook, and Twat-face, the understanding and appreciation of the English language has been on a continuous downward spiral since the commencement of the new millennium. Spelling has become atrocious bordering offensive, and punctuation is a mere fiction of the past. So it has come as no surprise that "twerk" has now been officially added to the dictionary. I suppose that even the dictionary, our reference for what is supposed to be grammatically correct English, should appropriately reflect the verbiage of our current derelict culture. Although I have many strives with several words and phrases coming directly from the common vernacular of this generation including "Bootylicious", "doohiki", and "mankini" which are all words that have been added to the lexicon of Miriam Webster, I have a particular issue with the recent addition of the aforementioned "twerk". More specifically, I am concerned about the way in which this word has gained cultural relevance. For those of you whom are not aware from where this word derives, please allow me to give you the backstory.<br />
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Megan Levy, a news reporter for the Sydney Morning Herald, says "Twerking (or twerkin) is a dance move that involves a person, usually a woman, shaking her hips in an up-and-down bouncing motion, causing the dancer to shake, wobble, and jiggle". Twerking came about in the early '90s in New Orleans in conjuction with the bounce music scene. This dance was further popularized by strippers in Atlanta and Houston during the past two decades. Glennisha Morgan of the Huffington Post and Norimitsu Orishi of the New York Post also draw striking comparisons between twerking and traditional African dances such as Mapouka from West Africa which has been banned from television on the Ivory Coast. So you can see that this idea of twerking is deeply embedded within the vast context of the African-American experience. This is important to point out because despite the prevalence of twerking in the Black community, a form of dance that is commonly recognized and understood, it wasn't until the 20-year-old anorexic Caucasian offspring of an illiterate country music star gave an abysmal rendition of this dance move at this year's Video Music Awards that now all of a sudden every news anchor in America has had the word "twerk" added to his or her teleprompter.<br />
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It all started this past Monday night when this ivory-skinned crackwhore took the stage at the VMA's much to the disappointment to those of us who are fans of music. Miss Cyrus emerged from a gigantic teddy bear symbolizing her childhood or perhaps a future dabbling into bestiality (only time will tell). As Miley leaned against the now opened mouth of the furry friend, her tongue was dangling out of her filthy mouth like a golden retriever with Down syndrome. Not to be outdone, her "hair" (if you can call it that) appeared to be the result of a love affair between a lesbian seagull and a chainsaw. Her outfit (or lack thereof) can only be described as a strapless abomination; a leotard of sorts so tight it looked like an incubator for a yeast infection complete with pink circles on the breasts (or in the case of Miley, in the place where breasts would have been), and a teddy bear on the stomach. Upon seeing this I immediately scheduled myself for a vaccination. She somehow managed to make her way down the stairs without her labia popping out, I assume by the grace of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. She pranced her way onto the stage surrounded by a slew of Black women with giant bear heads attached to their necks or as perhaps Miley would describe them, "a group of her closest friends that in no way were casted to depict a collection of pre-Civil War minstrel performers". Miley even approached one of these women with a very well endowed posterior and proceeded to bend her over and spank her like a slave in "Django". Putting these pleasant slave references aside I would like to draw attention to the twerking itself. The first instance when she attempted to shake what I understand legally to be her ass (although I would like further investigation to confirm that the sagging flapjacks drooping above her hamstrings actually constitute a derriere) she was alone, and thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph for that. She gingerly placed her hands on the floor in front of her and began maneuvering her hips back and forth. I suppose this was meant to intice, disturb or simply cause an epidemic of reactionary vomiting as a plight against childhood obesity. No quicker way to lose weight than to engage in bolemia induced by watching nauseating images such as that of a piece of white trash twerking in a unitard. Sadly the devastating events to follow became increasingly disturbing with each hip thrust. The second attempt of twerking occurred with company this time, Robin Thicke, 16 years her senior, was standing directly behind Miley's booty (or where a booty would be on a person who actually had one). This image is particularly disturbing because of the implicit suggestion of pedophilia. Here you have a man who has recently been accused of perpetuating the condoning of "no means yes" in his creepy smash single "Blurred Lines" pressing his pelvis against the backside of a retarded hillbilly. I'm not suggesting that both parties weren't complicit, I'm simply pointing out that two prominent pop stars (who at one point had the exact same haircut) should perhaps think twice before engaging in lascivious behavior at an awards show largely watched by an audience who has never seen a rotary phone, a typewriter, or Cher's original face. I failed to mention that at the point when Miley met Mr. Thicke dressed in an appropriately designed outfit (a black and white striped suit reminiscent of the color pattern of a prison inmate serving time for statutory rape), had stripped off her kiddy-porn derived costume to reveal an even more scantily clad (if that was possible) Miley Cyrus in a nude bra and pantie set. The belligerent buffoonery continued with Miley also donning a number one foam finger when she gingerly penetrated the air in front of her vagina with said finger. Obviously Miley Cyrus is taking a page from the "Kim Kardashian Guide to Tasteful Behavior", now out in paperback. The remainder of the performance included the appearance of a rapper no one had heard of and continued gyrating from an attention seeking product of Billy Ray Cyrus and a promiscuous but undeniably attractive goat. In keeping with the theme of Miley Cyrus's hit song which she performed at the VMA's entitled "We Can't Stop", I must say to Miley, perhaps you should! At least before you get chlamydia.<br />
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As much I condemn, ridicule, and make of fun the hideously distasteful behavior of a barely of-age pop star, I can't emphasize enough that she in no way is the problem facing the youth of America. It truly is up to the parents at least to establish what is deemed permissible and acceptable within the walls of their own home. Surely any child who isn't blind, deaf, and mute (in that order) will be exposed at some point to the many atrocities demonstrated by the so-called role models of our tweens and teenagers. But it can't be pointed out enough that at least the idea that unacceptable behavior being defined in the home at least provides some sense of delineation between what is appropriate and what is outright destructive behavior. I have much sympathy for parents these days but I must say if you throw a computer, an iPhone, or an iPad (or any combination of these) at your kid without restrictions, than YOU are the one who is responsible for the demise of today's generation. You can bitch all you want about the young people of today or the pitiful examples that are put out by the record producers, the media, and Ryan Seacrest. But the truth is, the people who are to blame for shameless activities of the children of this country are and always will be the parents. This gold star promotional mentality that is dumped on children is giving them a false sense of reality thinking that they are so special that the world will fall at their feet. The acceptance of trash, reached easily by technology, encourages the idea that bad behavior is perfectly acceptable and in fact rewarded with extended television series and a perfume line. So the next time you're at Best Buy looking at the latest technological device that will give your child unlimited access to pornography, videos of the homeless being assaulted, and step by step instructions on how to forge a passable driver's license to buy alcohol, perhaps you should consider that your four hundred ninety nine dollars and ninety nine cents plus warranty might be better spent on a bicycle they could ride to and from school, a pet they must take responsibility for, or even food certification so they can get a job and earn their own money. These examples would truly be beautiful investments not only in your child's future but for the prognosis of the nation. I almost included dictionary in that list of investments but with the addition of the word "twerk", I must discontinue my endorsement of the great book of Miriam Webster. Twerk on white trash. Twerk on!<br />
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JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-11873734785617694392013-02-15T20:38:00.002-06:002013-02-15T20:38:19.015-06:00Diarrhea: A Valentine's Gift That Keeps on Giving Valentine's Day is a loathsome holiday filled with incredibly irritating people basking in the insincere attention they're receiving from some venereal disease ridden companion who is probably cheating on them the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. I was going to spend this blog elaborating on this fact. Unfortunately my plans came to a screeching halt when an unforeseen event took place in my underpants. This predicament ended up being a much more pressing topic than the aforementioned one. Here's how it went down.<br />
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I have been under the weather the last few days, seemingly because of some ill-timed ordered pizza I shoved down my esophagus on Monday (or so I thought). For the last three days my diarrhea has spoken volumes while I myself have been silent (along with my blog). So it was only to be expected that my determination to maintain my regular work hours amidst my bowel's misfortune would ultimately result in a catastrophic situation. This inevitable circumstance saw fruition yesterday on Valentine's Day on my way to the train after work. While I was briskly walking across the street, it happened. I soiled myself. This wasn't on purpose. In fact, I can't even call it a mistake. The diarrhea emerged like a thief in the night; totally unexpected. One would naturally assume that I was trying to create some sort of flatulence but alas no. It was completely involuntary. So there I was, in the middle of the road with secretly soiled underpants. I stopped dead in my tracks (Thank Mary and Joseph that there were no cars on the road). I was completely astonished at what had just occurred in my Hanes. And then something extraordinary happened; even more extraordinary than the Valentine's surprise. A thought popped in my head almost as quickly as the diarrhea made its grand entrance. Without missing a beat, a voice came to me and said "This will be funny later." I recognized this to be the voice of Jesus. He has spoken to me many times before, like the time I almost considered switching cell phone providers (Jesus always knows when to chime in). I took a sigh a relief, of course being cautious not to become too relaxed lest I release additional diarrhea. <br />
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With this new found joy in my heart and unwelcome present in my pants I had a very important decision to make. I had the option of walking back to work five blocks to deal with the situation. The other option was to grin and bare a twenty minute train ride home in hopes that no respectable individual would sit next to me. I chose the latter assuming it would be a better punch line later. So the diarrhea and I boarded the train (I did not purchase an additional ticket for the diarrhea. Thank God she wasn't caught). I conspicuously took a seat at the very back of the train which was the sparsest in terms of population. My eyes widened with every stop as I gazed at boarding passengers all the while praying that no one would venture towards my diarrhea's direction. My prayers were answered (presumably by Jesus himself or perhaps Allah) as I remained solitary for the duration of the ride through all ten stops with only my settling diarrhea to comfort me. I arrived at my stop. I stood up (which is the most joyful experience for anyone who has recently diarrhea-ed themselves). I took a brisk walk of shame with my head hanging low toward my apartment building impatiently anticipating a dive into my shower. I practically sprinted past the front desk security and onto the elevator with additional prayers being answered as I rode up to the eighth floor again in solitary confinement. With no front desk security to look puzzled at me, I ran in full Ussain Bolt force down the long hallway to my unit. I burst through my front door. The next thing I knew, I was naked in the shower surrounded by the smell of a mountain breeze, the latest fragrance of the generic brand of men's body wash I purchased from Target (the "t" is silent). Frankly, I don't recall even taking my clothes off. I assume the experience was so horrifying that I blocked it from my memory. I don't even know what I did with my underwear. I probably put them in the garbage disposal. <br />
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After washing up and drying my body with my cheap hundred thread towel (also from Target), I launched at my computer perched on my bed so I could begin furiously typing a hilarious blog at the previous amusing antics I just experienced. Unfortunately the words did not materialize on the page because by the time my computer had started up, I had passed out on the bed and didn't wake up until thirteen hours later, just in time to go to work. Dehydration anyone?<br />
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What diarrhea has taught me over the years is that we are all human. We are all completely ridiculous and poop ourselves often, way into our adult years. That's just what it means to be alive. The other thing I learned is that diarrhea is very funny, even when you are carrying it around with you. This was a real revelation for me because I have been dealing with perpetual diarrhea for the last six years now and this was the first time that diarrhea seemed to force itself upon me and just happen. Every other diarrhea story I have written or can remember involves me furiously trying to fight off the urge to poop myself at an inconvenient time and ultimately ends in a happy ending where I win the fight and find a bathroom in the nick of time. The one common thread that has remained constant even though I have broken my string of success stories is that every diarrhea story I have involves public transportation. I am not sure what those two things have in common but I'm guessing Lucifer is involved (that or Jesus has a very good sense of humor). So for those of you who spent yesterday giving undeserved blowjobs or maxing out your stolen credit for someone whom you love yet cheats on you regularly and hasn't told you about their "cold sores" should bask in the fact that single people like me spent in learning life lessons from an unconditional companion who will always stay with me for the rest of my life; diarrhea. Something a box of chocolates only wishes it could be.<br />
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Happy Valentine's Day<br />
<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=ujMo9ctbSFAQzM&tbnid=2zL2kBxfXwpv9M:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.cafepress.com%2F%2Bi_poop_on_valentines_day_225_button%2C427989118&ei=x_AeUYCzFvGI2gXYs4GABg&bvm=bv.42553238,d.aWM&psig=AFQjCNEsMbvJw-NpepMZolYbUmVO3kBmSw&ust=1361068586259799" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="460" id="irc_mi" src="http://i1.cpcache.com/product/427989118/i_poop_on_valentines_day_225_button.jpg?color=NA&height=460&width=460" style="margin-top: 78px;" width="460" /></a>JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-76757378711459781912012-07-01T22:19:00.004-05:002012-07-01T22:19:55.549-05:00Flying Babies I generally feel incredibly overwhelmed when surrounded by human beings that are small. Things in this category include not just babies but also midgets, dwarfs, and people from Korea. Babies specifically are of my largest concern for the fact that they do not communicate using words. I remember the first day when I met my niece who was only a few days old. It was explained to me that the little martian came to this Earth via my Sister's vagina. I personally do not see how this is possible but I give my family the benefit of the doubt while secretly believing that she arrived by either FedEx or a stork. I went to meet my Sister in her house and was greeted by a tiny, squishy ball of Caucasian joy which suspiciously resembled a bald Powerpuff girl. I embraced the vanilla cupcake in my hands and held the little baby in my lap. I remember staring into the little alien's eyes (which were barely open) and feeling completely bewildered that it came from my Sister who at the time was violently biting her nails because of her completely validated nervous energy caused by her overly reckless and jittery Brother attempting to a balance her newborn on his thighs for the first time. It dawned on me in that moment that this marshmallow would be a part of my life for as long as I would live on this Earth and of course an even larger part of my Sister's life. This, however, did not help ease my feelings of being overwhelmed by children; it only made matters worse that I would be, albeit minimally, responsible for another human being indefinitely. Since the greeting of my Sister's space alien, my perception of the little nuggets of the Earth has continued on a downward spiral; not because of my niece, it's really just out of hysterical fear which has been a constant motiviating and dominating force in my life. I generally avoid anything that is too short to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl (this includes Mexicans and my Mother). However, it has been unfortunate that in certain situations that evil babies are completely unavoidable. My plane trip coming from New York City back to Dallas is a perfect example.<br />
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I had been in my favorite place in the world, NYC, for a few days on business this past week. I had stayed out the entire evening prior to my flight for two reasons. First of all, it was Friday which is the perfect night of the week to slide several single dollar bills down the perpetual G-strings of America's finest strippers. Second of all, these particular adult establishments I speak of are open until 4 in the morning in New York. To give you a time frame, I, along with my fellow employees, were to meet at 3:45am in the hotel lobby. Therefore, the most logical way to spend my time efficiently in my favorite city would of course be to stretch my quality time with thong-wearing African Americans until 3:30am and cab it back to the hotel just in time to board the shuttle to the airport where I would no doubt receive a quality nap on the airplane. My premonition did not come to fruition. I boarded the plane completely drunk and high off of the sight of half naked Black people. I was more than ready to pass out on the plane. Then, there it was out of nowhere, little baby Hitler just staring me in the face. I gasped in horror and urinated slightly. Thank God I remembered to put on underwear prior to the flight. The baby was tiny with a gigantic head; it reminded me of the murderer from Scream. The little nugget didn't make a single sound, it instead continually sent laser beams straight towards my eyes without blinking for what felt like an eternity. It was clear that the baby was planning my murder. I darted for my seat, passing it at first, then finding it again and having a seat. I bucked up, twiddled my fingers with utter anxiety as the plane took off. Just as the "buckle your seat belt" sign turned off and I began to recline my chair back in preparation for my slumber, between the two seats in front of me emerged the offspring of Vladimir Putin. I screamed and peed, in that order. The nugget of death did just what his counterpart had done a few minutes prior. He just stared at me, and he wouldn't stop. "Go away!" I whispered, trying not to startle the baby provoking him to stab me with the knife in his Mother's wallet. "Pleeeaase go away!" I pleaded. He wouldn't stop. I was sweating profusely. The White babies had clearly plotted to attack me. As frightened as I was, I felt afraid to look away for fear that it would give the little baby a chance to strike. Then suddenly, as if unconciously, he burst into laughter! "Are you mocking me?" I questionned. This made him laugh harder. This little fucker wanted nothing more than to taunt me. I couldn't believe it! He was making a complete fool of me. Embarassed and annoyed, I excused myself and got up to go to the bathroom so I could clean myself after all of that peeing. On my way down the aisle, I notice something very startling and disturbing. I saw a third baby on the plane in another aisle, then a fourth, then a fifth. I was counting off the numerous babies on the flight. I was absolutely appalled. Where were they all coming from? Was American Airlines engaging in some sort of midget promotion wherein a discount is provided to people who perpetually shit themselves? In that case, I needed to call for a mail-in rebate.<br />
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I took a seat in the restroom (which by the way is the most comfortable seat on the entire airplane). I began to think about what I had just witnessed. I also began to question myself as to why I was so afraid of something so helpless. After a few minutes had passed, it dawned on me. I realized that babies are absolutely ridiculous. This is why they are so popular and amusing. I think part of the adoration (and for me the anger and frustration) for babies is the fact that they are unapologetically oblivious and without filter. Many of us adults would love to behave as instantaneously and boldly as babies do on a regular basis if even for just one moment. What I wouldn't give to have one day where in sporadic unannounced moments I could scream, cry, laugh at someone else's misfortune and shit myself all within the span of five minutes (I must admit that the last two on the list I have done as an adult). So perhaps all of this fear is actually repressed anger and a manifestation of my jealousy towards these privileged midgets. Not only do these babies get the green light to express themselves at any extreme at any moment but they also get the luxury of being transported around by another human being who most likely will flash her breasts at you; this sounds like Flava Flav's dream. Analytically, I understand the fascination with babies but what I find slightly more confusing is the adoration. However, once babies are separated and categorized by race, I am able to further understand why people find them adorable. White babies are cute because they are fluffy and pink. Black babies are cute because they are like little balls of chocolate love. Mexican babies are cute because it's the only time in their lives when they are not stealing property from others. However, I must admit that there is one type of baby that I find hideously disturbing. It shouldn't be difficult to guess that the species I am referring to is of the squinty-eyed variety.<br />
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Asian babies are scary for a variety of reasons. First of all, all of them look exactly like Kim Jong-il. Any time an entire race of baby resembles an evil North Korean dictator, it is only natural for one to want to run the other direction. Second of all, these little wontons can barely open their eyes which is of course common for newborns but comes across in a very creepy manner with the Asians for the fact that as onlookers we know that is how their faces will look for the rest of their adult lives. Ultimately it is very difficult to trust something when you can't tell what it's looking at. On a side note, I am particular concerned for the Japs and Chinks whom have vision problems with the majority of my sympathy resting on the fact that should an Asian attempt to squint, his or her eyes will more than likely implode on themselves and ultimately cause the near and farsighted Jackie Chans and Lisa Lings of the world to become permanently blind. Also, it is extemely important to recognize that it is very tumultuous to figure out when you are looking at an Asian baby or just a regular adult Asian because these little driving impaired communists are essentially full grown by five months of age. How is it possible to trust these shifty little dark-haired monsters with their stealthy vertical disadvantage and their timeless skin quality?<br />
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All of these perplexities and wonderment in reference to babies of all races were racing through my head rampantly as the plane continued its venture until ultimately made its descent. It was particularly remarkable that none of these babies made a single peep through the whole flight. It was even more remarkable the fact that one of these little nuggets of the Caucasian variety who couldn't have been an older than three months was donning the exact same outfit as his Mother. They both wore black and white stripes from torso to pelvis. This of course made me wonder if the seemingly White baby was actually Hispanic. I considered asking the baby what he "considered himself" then recanted in concern that he might stab me with his gang knife. Ultimately, I am still incredibly weary of babies and decidedly skeptical of their "good and pure" intentions. Hitler, Osama bin Laden, and Kim Jong-il were all once babies who no doubt were human geysers of bodily fluids as all young people are. What scares me is that it is impossible to know when looking at any small tyrant whether or not they will grow up to create genecide or cure cancer (or perhaps kill two birds with one stone and accomplish both). I will never rule out the idea of having children but I will certainly pause for thought to truly consider all of the ramifications that having a baby will have; especially on my thin figure. An announcement will not be needed once and if ever I decide to father an evil nugget as it will not be necessary. You will know once this has happened because this blog will be renamed: Brown and With Child (all the while praying that the little bi-racial nugget will not grow up to pee on a teenager on videotape).<br />
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<img src="http://www.bolgernow.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/baby-flying.jpg" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-60658837084675517582012-06-21T22:17:00.000-05:002012-06-21T22:17:08.264-05:00Total Eclipse of the Heart The year 1986 brought about some of the most significant contributions to the world. The two most relevant of these are of course Janet Jackson's "Control" album and the birth of a bi-racial Canadian known as Brown and Thin. Shortly after I was evacuated from my Mother's vagina it was discovered that I had a very serious yet incredibly treatable heart condition referred to as a coaractation of the aorta wherein the body is not able to provide sufficient bloody supply on account of a narrowing of the aortic valve (the largest artery in the human body). In order to correct this deformity, the Canadian doctors kidnapped me, broke my ribcage open and inserted a stent (an artificial tube) to allow the blood to flow properly to the rest of my talented body. My Mother, of course dreadfully concerned and overwhelmed, was relieved by the fact that this condition is seldomly detected at birth and when found this early is easily fixed. I spent a day or two in an incubator before reuniting with my Mother. In hindsight I probably needed the break; living inside of a White person isn't easy. Princess Toadstool (my Mother) and I grew fond of each other rather quickly and returned home shortly where I found out I had an older sister named Barbie. We lived happily ever after as the rainbow coalition of crazy. I assumed at the time that I would be through with hospitals and incubators. Unfortunately later in life I would proven wrong unbeknownst to me.<br />
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The year 2000 was a very tumultuous year filled with unpredictable and life changing world events. Geri Haliwell had left the Spice Girls only a few months prior which left me very fragile. This was no time for any human being to be bogged down with any person struggles (medical or otherwise). Sadly, around this tragic time was when I was more than overdue to visit BC Children's Hospital for a checkup on my cardiac disposition. I don't remember much of my hospital visits. I was twelve years old at the time and probably drunk as a skunk. Not to mention I was still grieving for the loss of Ginger Spice. However, there are a few poignant, sporadic moments that appear vividly in my mind. I remember running on a treadmill with cords attached to my entire body. I remember getting off the treadmill and being applauded by the physician saying I was in excellent health. When she tested my heart rate she said, "You people are so hot! Your body temperatures are slightly above the rest in you Blacks." Of course I was nothing short of horrified. But as a good Canadian, I conducted myself only in polite dismissal. I was not even a teenager after all. On another occasion, I was in a small room with a male cardiologist taking some tests yet again. Barbie (my Sister), probably 16 years old at the time, was in the waiting room with Mom. "Was that your friend?", asked the Caucasian doctor with blond hair. "No, she's my Sister," I responded plainly. All Dr. Ken-Doll had to say for himself was "Nice mix!". I was appalled. </div>
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The rest of the testing is a complete blur to me. All I know is that the team of doctors had confirmed that there was a problem with my aortic valve not distributing blood to my lower extremities and that they needed to operate. They determined that they needed to perform an angioplasty. This is where they put a patient to sleep and then insert a wire into his or her crotch area that navigates all the way up to the closed valve that is opened by a tiny collapsed balloon attached to the end of the wire which is inflated upon arrival. When I was informed of this I was of course absolutely thrilled only for the fact that I did not have to attend physical education class for an entire year in which I was required to romp around with smelly degenerates of the same gender as I. </div>
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The day of the procedure I remember I wasn't aloud to consume any solid foods which of course did wonders for my waist line. The countless proposed moratoriums on solid consumptions I have been issued over the years by doctors are the reason why I can now call myself Brown and Thin. I was surprisingly calm throughout the entire preparation. I went in the morning with Princess Toadstool. The doctors attached a cooling agent to my forearm which sat for about a half an hour before they injected me with an intravenous. It had been explained to me prior that I would be put to sleep for a few hours on an operating table. What had not been explained to me was that there was a mandatory and fiercely enforced removal of any and all undergarments. What I realized is that these doctors are very sneaky. It was only at the last moment when I had already removed all other forms of clothing and was only wearing the hideous backless blue hospital gown, my underwear, and perhaps what was left of my dignity when one of the nurses instructed me to drop trou. In fact, I'm pretty sure I already had the gas mask on and the anesthesiologist was already in the room. I was completely defenseless! I imagined a date with R.Kelly would begin in the same manner. The drug dealer (ie. anesthesiologist) instructed me to count down from one hundred. I remember making to ninety nine and a half before passing out completely. The next memory was waking up next to a fry container; you know those little plastic dishes used to serve french fries in. Only after a few minutes of having some wherewithal did I discover that this tray was present for the purpose of providing a receptacle for my vomit; I learned this of course only on presumption, thank God I was right! Princess Toadstool of course was there in the room with me. "Where is my underwear!" was my first question. I did eventually find them. They most likely had Ninja turtles on them (Donitello was my favorite. I just love purple.). I'm not sure how much longer I stayed in the hospital but I can't imagine it was long because I specifically remember not pooping which was a strategic decision on my end. It was one thing to pee into the magical plastic personal bin complete with handle but it was quite another to defecate into any type of receptacle that another individual had to collect (whether they got paid for it or not). I ended up being released early, probably on good behaviour hoping to never return again.</div>
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It would be another eight years before I would be royally screwed over by Jesus (I blame him for all of my medical problems). I was in the NYU hospital for a completely unrelated issue which was not Herpes, it was in fact a toe infection which turned deadly overnight. Interestingly enough I have recently been reading a book about health care and I have come to understand that in America much of the health costs are covered by private insurers (or not at all) which really inspires the competition aspect of this industry. I found this out the hard way when after being listed as "individually responsible" on the fact of me having no health insurance. Once it was discovered that I had a pre-existing medical condition, these skanks at the hospital ran me through every cardiac evaluation and test you could ever imagine. I had an MRI, an MRA, a Doppler reading, a cardiogram and was visited by, what seemed like, every cardiologist in the state while lying on my hospital bed. After several tests and evaluations they determined that I had "no aneurysms". My logical response was "Ummmmmmm I thought I was here for my foot.". When I received the bill at a later date which was to the tune of twenty thousand dollars, I understood why the endless amount of doctors were apparently so concerned about me. All I can say is thank God for Medicaid.</div>
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Three months ago, I was walking the streets of Dallas (a pastime that is considered both elitist and unncessessary in the state of Texas) when I was startled by a very sharp pain piercing through the left side of my chest. I considered this pain to be very fluke and alarming for the fact that I had not recently undergone any type of singular breast augmentation. After the second or third time this happened on my course of walking only a few minutes on the same block, I came to the conclusion that I would need to seek medical attention. When I got to work I called up an organization that specializes in matching patients with different cardiologists around the city. The receptionist in charge of booking explained to me that I would have to wait nearly two months to see a doctor; they were completely booked up. This by the way completely debunks the theory that a country with private health insurance gives patients a more immediate access to health care and services. I hung up the phone in complete disbelief. I considered going to emergency care the next day but as I started to feel better as the day went on, I thought it would be a waste of money considering the absurd costs of visiting an emergency room. Maybe I could just sleep off my cardiac impalement. I continually had ongoing chest pain for rhe remainder of the week causing me to pick up the phone again. I explained that I really needed to see someone. It was a fluke because there was only one opening the next week because of a last minute cancellation. I was booked!<br />
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I went to the hospital, signed in at the front desk, was greeted by a nurse within minutes who brought me into the doctor's office and instructed me to wait. A few minutes later in walked Pat Sajack's twin brother. He was very short (all people on television are) and attractive middle-aged man. "Young people never come see me. What are you doing here?" was his first statement. I thought to myself, "Oh great. I have a complete tool for a doctor." I explained to him my special issue and he immediately instructed me to remove my top and get on his table. I've had a few dates that have begun in the same manner. He attached several cords to my body that had what I will refer to as "suction nipples" on the end that stick to the patient's skin. He turned some machine on and watched some numbers click. I learned later that this was called a "cardiogram". After a few minutes he turned the machine off and began to remove the suction nipples. What I had forgotten from previous cardiograms I had received was the fact that with this test you get both a cardiac evaluation and a full wax of your entire torso for the price of one. I probably dimly remembered this fact from previous endeavours for the reason that during the first few times I experienced this I was a pre-teenager with less upper body hair than a Michael Jackson fantasy. Needless to say, I was taken a back by the abrupt nature of the removal of the sticky suction nipples while simultaneously feeling delighted by my newfound prepubescent trunk. My pectorals looked like the shiny hood of a brand new car by the time Dr. Sajack had finished removing the nipples of death. The doctor took my blood pressure and sent me on my way to another doctor to perform second test.<br />
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I found myself in a new room which reminded me of the set from "To Catch a Predator". There was something about the vibe that just seemed a little predictable. Instead of feeling like I was in a doctor's office, I felt rather I was on a movie set that was created to look like a doctor's office. Amidst my daydreaming about NBC late night programming, in walked another "doctor" (I use this term loosely). He was wearing a jogging suit. I need to make it very clear that it was NOT casual Friday, nor was he an African-American celebrity. Those would have been the only two perfectly legitimate excuses for this ridiculous choice of work attire. Not to mention, this guy looked like Johnny Bravo. He was all pumped up with perfectlly straight teeth that were blindingly white, had dimples in his cheeks, and his chin looked like a Black woman's ass. You could have easily placed a teacup atop his gelled hair. Dr. Johnny Bravo introduced himself to me and again asked to remove my top and get on the table face down. In that moment I realized what Paris Hilton must have felt like in prison. What really creeped me out is when Dr. JB, without prior announcement, turned all the lights off. The illuminating screen of his computer was the only light source in the office at that point. I couldn't remember in that moment whether I had put in my diaphragm that morning or not. Dr. Johnny Bravo then pulled out what appeared to be a white dildo. He then grabbed a tube and squirted a liquid gel all over the tip. I clenched my asscheeks together more tightly than Miley Cyrus's vagina when in close proximity to her father. I still had underwear on at this point so I assumed that any rape attempt would be unsuccessful. Dr. JB took the magic dildo wand and proceeded to shove into the side of my ribcage. "Hey asshole! Can you molest my torso a little bit more gently?" was my first thought. I decided to grin and bare it. If the Flava Flav contestants could put up with it, so could I. While raping me with one had, the doctor was incessantly clicking on his laptob with the other. I tried hard not to look, as images of my insides really gross me out (I found this out in a previous romantic relationship). At one point he turned on the volume so he could hear the heartbeat. I was amazed to discover that the beat of my heart sounds exactly like Pamela Anderson performing a blowjob. Obviously I take great pride and patriotism on account of Ms. Anderson being Canadian. At one point Dr. Johnny Bravo instructed me to turn on my side. He then removed a part of the bed I was laying on; it literally slid right out from beneath me in order for him to have the ability to rape my rib cage from underneath. I was thoroughly disgusted and impressed all at the same time. After being poked and prodded for what seemed like an eternity, I found myself glancing over at the doctor's desk. On it was another computer, his half eaten lunch from Subway and a large fishtank. Inside this tank was a single goldfish. I quickly became distracted by the little fish moving this way and that. He swam upside down and at one point almost straight into the glass. I wished so desperately in that moment to switch places with the oblivious orange fish. I would have given anything to escape the never ending probing from the magic dildo wand and would have gladly instead been trapped inside a glass container filled with plastic colored rocks and a tiny castle from Ikea. After endless torture, Doctor JB finally told me I was done and that I was allowed to put my top on and stand up. As I was buttoning up my blouse, I turned around and took a glance at the screen. It was a multiple split screen with about 8 separate images from different angles of my heart and aortic valve all in different contrasts. Some were black and white, others were multi-colored. I immediately wanted to vomit but controlled myself for the fact that I had no plans that evening that would have benefited from my losing two pounds. You must carefully select your vomits so that they benefit you at moments when others see you in public the most. Vomiting before an awards show or public appearance is perfectly appropriate. Vomiting before a night of watching "Scarlett Takes a Tumble" on YouTube while drunk and naked; not appropriate; you just wasted a perfectly good vomit.</div>
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I met with Doctor Sajack after my second test. He informed me that things "looked good" but that he wanted to administer one more test before he was convinced. He scheduled me for a CT Scan for the next week and let me on my merry way. I paid my fee of $30 which is very reasonable as far as the United States are concerned. However, that's $30 more than what I would have paid in Canada, not to mention that I wouldn't be paying a large semi-monthly payment to a health insurance company in Canada either. A few days later, a woman called me and we booked an appointment for me to come back. She explained to me that I was to not consume any liquids or food before coming for my 8:30am rendez-vous with a new team of doctors. I was thrilled of course, and immediately booked several outings for that same night on account of my knowing that I would be at optimum thin-ness that evening. The day arrived. After my morning starvation, I made my way to hospital which is called "Jack and Jill Medical Center for Cardiology". Was this a children's hospital? That's the gayest name since Clay Aiken's Daycare Camp. I walked inside, filled out some paperwork I barely paid attention to and took a seat. A few moments later, my name was called and I was asked to come have a seat across from a Black lady in a cubicle. The woman was very friendly, she was a recpetionist of sorts and looked exactly like Judge Maybelline. She asked me a series of questions. Here's what I remember.<br />
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Maybelline: What's your name?<br />
Me: Brown and Thin.<br />
Maybelline: How tall are you?<br />
Me: 5'11'' (which is a total lie)<br />
Maybelline: How much do you weigh?<br />
Me: Sixty five.<br />
Maybelline: I'm sorry....<br />
Me: Sixty five!<br />
Maybelline: You weigh sixty five pounds?<br />
Me: No. I weigh sixty five kilograms.<br />
Maybelline: Well how many pounds is that?<br />
Me: (Bitch you're the one with the computer!!! - That was the thought in my head). I think it's about one hundred forty five pounds. (Which is not so much a lie but more a goal)<br />
Maybelline: What is your race?<br />
Me: What are my options?<br />
Maybelline: Asian.<br />
Me: No.<br />
Maybelline: Hispanic.<br />
Me: No.<br />
Maybelline: Black.<br />
Me: Possibly, but list the others and I'll get back to you.<br />
Maybelline: Pacific Islander.<br />
Me: No.<br />
Maybelline: Caucasian.<br />
Me: I refer you to my answer for Black.<br />
Maybelline: Other.<br />
Me: Can I check more than one box?<br />
Maybelline: No, you can only pick one.<br />
Me: Then I'll take "Other" for five hundred Alex.<br />
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I just find it so funny that we have to categorize everybody by their race, especially in a day and age when it is very difficult for many people to determine what to call themselves. It's one thing to ask me what my race is, it is quite another to ask me to check a box (and only one box at that). After the series of ridiculous questioning, I was sent up the elevator to meet some doctors. I signed additional paperwork while in another waiting area. I was quite disturbed when I came across a final sheet which was a release form for radioactive intravenus fluid. I am very familiar with the dye or "contrast" used in many of these procedures because I've had it several times, much to my disapproval, for MRIs and MRAs. What I didn't realize was that I was to receive the same intravenus contrast for a CT scan! I immediately turned white and got diarrhea. After I mustered up enough strength to pry myself from the toilet, I returned from the public restroom and signed the release form and sat down in the waiting room in complete fear. In walked a large White woman with a lab coat, holding a clipboard, and wearing more make-up and eyeliner during the day than a discounted prostitute in Las Vegas. "Did Paula Dean make a sudden career change?" was the first question I asked my imaginary friend in my head and under my breath. I just really couldn't comprehend the site of blue eyeshadow before Noon. I was dumbfounded and luckily distracted from the invasive abuse that was about to ensue. Dr. Paula Dean explained to me in the most delicate way what was going to happen to my frail and talented body. She said in her Southern drawl, "We gonna sit ya down on this here flat bed. We gonna stick ya with an intravenus (which she pronounced "interrrvenus"), then we gonna slide ya intuh this here tube see, and it's gone take pictures of yer insides right quick, then the machine gone tell you when ya gotta hold ya breath, and you gotta hold it for a real long time ya little whipper snapper!". I couldn't stop my jaw from dropping. I tried really hard, I did. I decided at that moment that the faster I got this done, the quicker the monstrosity of medical intervention would be over. I launched myself onto to the table and closed my eyes. In walked Dr. Paula Dean's hispanic sidekick. Apparently, Enrique Iglesias was the one who would be designated to actually shove the intravenus tube into my forearm. By the looks of him, I couldn't believe I would meet someone I would actually trust less than Paula Dean to do that to me. As Nurse Iglesias prepared the needle, Dr. Paula Dean was strategically trying to distract me with a myriad of questions about my personal life so that perhaps I wouldn't notice the degenerate Mexican getting ready to stab me. I was sweating profusely and shamelessly freaking out on the inside for the fact that my very wellbeing was left to the hands of a country bumpkin and an illegal alien who's last job was probably cleaning beds at the Sheraton . I took a deep breath as the Mexican stabbed me with the needle then injected the intravenus. Honestly, it never hurts as much as I think it will. I would rather feel that pain for two seconds than be gently molested by the ultrasound doctor with his magic rape wand. Enrique Iglesias then said, "Let's do some breathing exercises". I, frankly, was much more interested in him doing some English exercises. Nonetheless he instructed me to hold my breath for fifteen seconds. He applauded my efforts and congratulated my accomplishment of fulfilling the task. I, however, was quite annoyed by his lack of participation. When I hear someone say "let's do something", I assume that that means we will be doing the activity together. This little Mexican didn't even try to hold his breath! After that disastrous situation, Doctor Paula Dean gave me a pill which was referred to as nitroglycerin which supposedly helps the doctors see the pictures more clearly. She told me that it would probably give me a headache but it would be all worth it in the end. Way to see the glass half full lady! She put the pill under my tongue and to let it dissolve slowly throughout the procedure. Dumb and Dumber bid me adieu. They explained that they would be in the next room while monitoring the procedure, I'm assuming so that they can avoid getting cancer from the radiation.<br />
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The tube didn't scare me at first. I had dealt with a lot worse. With an MRI or MRA you are sent (sometimes head first) very deep into a long, dark space-tube that is just wide enough to fit the breadth of your shoulders. On certain occasions I had weights which were referred to by the doctors as "cameras" all over my chest, weighing down my torso. For forty five minutes I wouldn't be allowed to move. It was absolute torture. Having done this three times previously, I didn't think this would be so bad. In fact, I was told this would only take ten minutes at most. And to make things even better, the tube for a CT scan is not even a third of the length of my body, so I wouldn't be submerged into a clostrophobic nightmare like I had previously with an MRI. As I began moving on the conveyor belt toward the tube I chuckled when I noticed something on the end of the tube. It was two strategically placed Pac-Man looking heads. One of which was demonstrating a person holding his/her breath and the other showing someone breathing normally. I should emphasize that all the instructions for any MRI, MRA, CAT Scan, or CT Scan are given audibly by your doctor in plain English. This can only lead me to the conclusion that in terms of visual aids that the deaf and Mexicans need clear explanations too. Once half of my body was submerged into the horizontal tube I just lay there rather bored. I heard a bunch of loud noises; nothing any different from an MRI. But then all of a sudden the tube started spinning, really fast! To be clear, I was not spinning, it was just the tube. But at some moments it was moving so quickly, I began to wonder whether or not I was in fact the one spinning. Then out of nowhere, I heard Enrique Iglesias over the loud speaker announce, "We are going to inject you with the dye now.". I rolled my eyes in disapproval and waited impatiently. Out of nowhere I felt a shock go through my body as the foreign liquid forged its way inside my veins. For a split second, I literally felt my entire body jump off the conveyer belt. I was, for a split second, suspended in mid-air due to the complete and utter shock of the invasive contrast entering my body. As I landed back on planet Earth I tried to slow my breath and heartbeat to a normal rate. I knew previously that I would experience certain side effects from the intravenus, mainly a sudden increase in temperature. In fact, I did feel myself become hot immediately! This was to be expected, but what I hadn't anticipated was that this sudden heat flash would occur in two specific places; my head and my genitalia. When I tell you that my testicles were lit by the fires of Lucifier, this is no exaggeration. I felt like in that moment that my penis was going throgh menopause and its mid life crisis all at once. Suddenly, amidst the sudden temperature rise in my jewels, the nitroglycerin started kicking in causing what felt like the worst migraine in my life. Just to recap my experience in that moment: I felt dizzy from the increasingly spinning apparatus, overwhelmingly overheated from the intravenus, and in excruciating pain from the medication slowly dissolving in my mouth which by the way made me want to gag to make matters worse. And of course it was only at this moment of desperation was when Paula Dean piped in, "OK. Here we go, hold your breath for twenty seconds.". I took a deep breath, tried to concentrate on happy thoughts consisting of tulips and pregnant horses. The only thing that brought comfort in this precarious situation were the lovely hieroglyphics above me. But when I tell you, at the moment I took my last breath and started to hold, I saw that hieroglyph change from the breathing PAC-Man which was illuminated with yellow lights to the holding its breath PAC-Man which was illuminated with bright red lights. It took everything in me not to burst out laughing at this ridiculous sight of a disheveled, overhwhelmed PAC-Man desperately trying to hold its breath. I think it was funny to me in that moment because I knew exactly what he was going through. I was experiencing his exact pain at the same time. The only thing that prevented me from bursting out into a mixture of laughter and tears was the fact that if I stopped holding my breath I could possibly screw up the images and be forced to go through the procedure all over again at a later date. The thought of that experIience repeating itself was the impetus I needed for my commitment to my breath holding. Before I knew it, I was smoothly reversing out from the human sized metal condom along the conveyor belt.<br />
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I was finally free from the jaws of Paula Dean and Enrique Iglesias. The Mexican removed the intravenus and I was on my way. Dr. Paula Dean escorted me out. She handed me a copy of my release form and instructed me to help myself to some apple juice in the refrigerator. I was very excited on account of my incessant love for all things juice. I love apple juice, orange juice, and grapefruit juice the most (possibly in that order). I opened what appeared to be a bar fridge (I tried not to get too excited) to discover a thousand tiny plastic containers of apple juice. I grabbed one of the disappointingly sized plastic containers and peeled off the cover. I chugged the whole thing in one foul swoop. It was absolutely abhorred. It tasted like dish soap. I blame this slightly on the nitroglycerin I had consumed which had barely finished dissolving only a few minutes prior. But nonetheless, I was shamelessly disappointed.<br />
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I made my way back home on the train. As the train haulted from stop to stop, picking up and dropping off passengers, I reflected on what I had just experienced as the side effects from the drugs and contrast slowly wore off. It just tickled me that every doctor's visit felt like a rape exam, or perhaps just a rape itself. It's always so invasive to the point that I feel like I need to pay for yet another doctor just to deal with the trauma of from the previous doctor. It's a vicious circle of American health care with its fangs deep inside the poor and needy people who get stuck with the bill because they have either no or insufficient health care. This is a serious problem that plagues America just like its disregard for racial inequality or its love for crocks. The train arrived at my stop. As I stood up and exited the train I felt a breeze sifting through and up my derriere. I, in investigation, gently fondled the back of my leg to discover that there was a huge rip in the back of my pants the whole time! I had been so pre-occupied with being date raped by illegal aliens posing as doctors that I was completely unaware with the travesty occurring on the backside of my own body! No wonder those doctors took advantage of me. They probably took one look at that bi-racial Canadian and thought, "Well clearly he's just asking for it." I will be making every effort possible to sell my story for a future episode of Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit. If anyone is going to benefit from my doctor rape, it's going to be me.<br />
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<img src="http://www.cartoonstock.com/newscartoons/cartoonists/pwe/lowres/pwen182l.jpg" />
</div>JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-84012319601569673062012-05-29T23:57:00.000-05:002012-05-29T23:57:28.505-05:00Second Hand Rap(e) As an avid rider of public transportation, I have become increasingly concerned about the behavior of its patrons. Although, like myself, there are respectable human beings who conduct themselves in a courteous and sanitary matter, I have found myself being surrounded, more often than not, by hooligans when I occasionally take the train to work in the morning. Among the many ethical violations that I object to, the most disparaging of them has involved the use of devices that play music. My issue is that my right to embark on a relatively peaceful journey to my place of work has been brutally violated. The murder weapon includes but is not limited to iPods, iPads, mobile devices (such as the Android), and basically anything that can have speakers attached to it. My ears have been raped repeatedly by the disparaging sounds of Young Jeezy. Quite frankly, I have had enough.<br />
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Over the past few days, I have tried excruciatingly to figure out why a person with a fully formed brain would decide to blast to the universe their taste in gratuitous rap music. I fully understand the pleasure of one's personal enjoyment of whatever choice or stripe of music he or she prefers. What I do not understand is the idea that I need to be an audience to it. I can promise to you that at no moment I have felt the urge to plug in speakers to my iPod, seconds after boarding the train, so that the other civilians on their way to work can be serenaded, at a volume that would make the ears of the partially deaf canine bleed, by Celine Dion. It begs into question the correlation between the demonstration of ignorance by those who blare music at a public volume and the type music being blasted. I cannot speak for anyone else who has been a victim of ear rape but I can speak firmly to my personal experience and confidently say that every time I have been awakened from my slumber on the train it has ALWAYS been of the hip hop variety. Is there something in Black culture that demands that not only they be slaves to vulgar lyrics but that they also must broadcast these vile words and ideas to everyone within earshot? I'm not sure if these purveyors of urban music are gangsters or Jehovah's witnesses.<br />
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To make matters worse, many of these humans (I use this term loosely) have made the miraculous discovery, prior to boarding the train, that they themselves are the next 50 Cent (which by the way is pronounced "Fitty Cent" because Black people don't have time for more than one "F". Most of them are far too busy impeding on the world's privacy with their ridiculous slander they call music to be concerned with matters of grammatical correctness ). Many of these disrespectful patrons treat this wild and inappropriate display of loud offensive noise as a kind of sing-a-long or as I call it, "Karaoke for Crackheads" (which oddly is something I would probably find great joy in watching if it was in the evening in an establishment that served ninety-nine cent chicken wings. And of course I would be drunker than Charlie Sheen at his parole officer's wedding). So not only do I become victim to Ludacris rapping about "niggers choking their bitches with stacks of hundred dollar bills whilst simultaneously swiping their Platinum American Express card on their ba-donk-a-donk" but I am forced to also listen to Cracky McGee singing back-up. I didn't know it was physically possible to sing rap music, which is comprised mostly of spoken word, off-key, but I have been proven wrong by several drug dealers whom ride the train with me each morning.<br />
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It would certainly be a fair comparison to look at the application of the boombox in the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties to the current use of the latest mobile and electronic devices that come with speakers. The difference is that in the case of the boombox the only option was to play the music publicly. This still does not excuse the ignoramuses for pressing the play button and ultimately disturbing the piece with their Run DMC mix tape. Any persons twenty or thirty years ago who infringed upon other people's rights to silence are the reason why there are currently signs at every subway stop in New York City that say "No smoking. No littering. No loud music.". What is ultimately perplexing to me in today's day and age is the fact that unlike the boombox, with an iPod or any other contemporary contraption of sorts, you actually have to make a concerted effort to make your music heard by all of the world. And to those who bring speakers to attach to their iPods etc. have made even further attempt to be audibly arrogant. All of these gadgets come with free earphones for a reason! They are expected to be used for the purposes of keeping your personal music enjoyment personal. If you cannot tell, I am terribly offended by this aghast display of entitlement. I feel overwhelmingly violated by the sounds of urban vulgarity. I believe that every individual caught on public transportation playing rap music at any volume deemed "public" should be forced into solitary confinement wherein their ears are abused by the music from the latest album of Taylor Swift. And for those of you who continually insist upon disturbing me and other well behaved individuals on public transportation with hate-filled rhetoric backed by a beat disguising itself as music, just remember, your latest tool for social ineptitude is simply a modern day boombox which makes you nothing but a ghetto blaster.<br />
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<img height="248" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS0Z26Lbhit7hziv61m5jb9r19WluOphew61Ljufout0lrCqWmk3_GErgGAdg" width="400" />
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<br />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-58617287409354523562012-05-23T21:55:00.001-05:002012-05-23T22:03:30.290-05:00Syrie: The Know-It-All Cyberbitch When I was a little nugget, my Mother told me that one day cars would fly. As a young child I felt confused because I thought that flying cars had already been invented; they were called airplanes. "Scientists already have the technology, they just haven't built the roads in the sky yet" my Mother explained. This begs the question, "If there are roads, then how is it considering flying?". Sometimes I wish I were a dumb person with no imagination. Life would be much less confusing. After twenty-five years of being alive including a childhood filled with perplexity and an adult life filled with Smirnoff, vehicles are still very much on the ground. They have yet to levitate. Although this invention has not taken flight, there have been some very bizarre and disturbing inventions in the technological revolution that have been cause for great concern. I seriously believe that many of these new discoveries like Facebook, text messaging, and KeSha are symbols of a cultural and intellectual death in this world. Let me describe the latest technological advancement that is destroying minds across the universe.<br />
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This most recent pervayor of ineptitude comes in the form of a person. We all know her well. She is the bitch who lives inside of the iPhone, her name is Syrie. Clearly the inventors over at Apple had not seen the movie iRobot when first conceptualizing this space queen. Anyone who is familiar with <i>Children of the Corn</i> knows that aliens cannot be trusted, even those that are created in a warehouse in California. For those of you who do not know, Syrie is a woman who has been implanted into the latest incarnation of the iPhone. She literally knows everything. You can actually have a conversation with her. You can ask Syrie any question you can think of and she will provide you with the answer. 'What is the square root of 81?", "What was the latest bill passed by U.S. Congress?", "Which Kardashian donated the most money to the NAACP?". You may not know the answer to any of these questions but Syrie does. She can give you directions to places literally anywhere around the world one street and turn signal at a time. She has a bevvy of endless information in endless categories such as history, mathematics, and government. And I have a SERIOUS problem with all of this! First of all, I am not sure if this constitutes me as an ego-maniac, but I am of the belief that my cell phone should NOT know more than me. It is embarrassing to think that some cunt named Syrie who was sold to me at a discounted rate from Radio Shack has a Harvard degree and is constantly shoving it in my face! My theory is that the more my phone knows, the less I do! This experiment has been tested before. Just take a moment to think about your five closest friends. The top five people in your life that you talk to the most and are closest with. Can you list their phone numbers without looking it up on your phone? Of course you can't! And neither can I. What's the point of remembering people's phone number's anymore when your phone itself does it for you? And that's just a conversation about phone numbers! Now that my phone knows the names of every sitting president, the nutritional benefits of asparagus, and my social security number, why should I? Just get ready for a DUMBER America!<br />
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My larger concern is, what is Syrie going to do once she has sucked all of the information out of my brain? It may seem ridiculous to you that Syrie would have some sort of ulterior motive other than my personal convenience but the fact of the matter is that Syrie isn't just a library filled with information. She has a human personality. And she is a total cunt by the way. If you ask Syrie, "How old are you?", she will respond with "I don't see why that's important". At the very least, Syrie has taught me some very good one liners I can utilize should I ever become married. If my partner asks me, "Why didn't you take out the trash?", my response will simply be "I don't see why that's important." Or perhaps by the time I finally get married my response will be, "Why don't you ask Syrie to do it?". Although, it seems not plausible for Syrie to engage in manual labor. Bitches usually don't like lifting things. My favorite interaction with Syrie was described to me by a friend. She said to her phone, "Syrie, what time is it?" to which Syrie responded, "Gee it's awfully late, shouldn't you be in bed?". Great. Not only is Syrie a cunty know-it-all but she is judgemental as well. If I needed stones cast at me for my bad choices in life I would just live with my Mother. But instead you can pay the bargain price of a hundred dollars plus every month to be tormented and scrutinized by the electronic female version of Frankenstein.<br />
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From the previous "larger concern" I now move on to my biggest concern! What is this ho going to do next? It is popular belief that Syrie is controlled by those who made her. The idea is that Syrie has set responses to all of these questions that are interchangeable and random which would give the impression that Syrie is just a brilliant man-made creation that is beholden to less than human intelligence. And I am officially calling bullshit! Sure, at this point she seems harmless. So did cigarettes, Britney Spears, and crotchless panties at first glance. But as time goes on these things slowly came into their true evil. I imagine that Syrie will be no different. For all we know, Syrie could have within her cyber-brain a program that kicks in after so many years where she slowly begins to plant ideas in your mind. Maybe it's already started! In the evening while your iPhone is charging, Syrie could be telling you to engage in evil activiites like eating carbohydrates, joining a terrorist group, and listening to country music! This very well could be the destruction of America being taken over by a woman with electricity powered breasts. (It wouldn't be the first time. Remember Dolly Parton?)<br />
<br />
When I was ten years old, my fifth grade teacher guided my class of thirty students to a newly renovated room in my elementary school. It was explained to us that we were inside what was called "the computer lab". This room had about fifteen computers that we could go on to practice and study a new found technology that none of us had heard of. There are very vivid images in my mind of me fiercely striking away at that keyboard with one finger. Although I wasn't aware at the time what technology would evolve into, I did feel a surge of power and control that I cannot explain. I was thrust into an electronic imagination by way of the internet (which at the time I am pretty sure was solar powered). I had no idea that some fifteen years later that technology would transform from an IBM computer the size of a walrus to a skinny bitch named Syrie who I have come to the conclusion is a member of Al Qaeda. Say goodbye to Osama Bin Laden and say hello to the new leader of mass destruction and poisonous hate filled murder. Her name is Syrie - A Metal Bitch with a Dream.<br />
<br />
<img src="http://garmahis.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/image/Tutorials/robot.jpg" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-23109689698907215352012-05-09T20:31:00.000-05:002012-05-09T20:31:08.240-05:00Mommy and Me I saw Princess Toadstool (my mother) for the first time in two years a few months ago. I was on a business trip in Toronto and Princess Toadstool decided that it would be an ample opportunity for my Mother to re-connect with her Brown son. It's amazing to me that time apart truly allows yourself to view insanity with fresh eyes. When living with a crazy person (family or not) one tends to ignore all psychotic idiosyncrasies for the fact that the crazy individual begins to appear normal after a short amount of time. The long distance relationship that Princess Toadstool and I have maintained for the last few years has allowed me to truly gain some fresh perspective on my family situation. I cannot emphasize enough that I love my Mother more than anyone in the world. However, it has become clear that the woman who birthed me is a truly touched individual who is beginning to fall off the deep end of the ocean, mentally speaking. Let the madness begin.<br />
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The insanity began first in the planning of this trip. My end of the bargain had been secured for months because of the fact that my company was flying me along with my fellow employees to Toronto for the last weekend in January. Unfortunately, things for my Mother proved to be a little bit more complicated. I had been speaking with Princess Toadstool about this for quite some time, since last summer in fact. So when January rolled along and no tickets had been purchased for my Mother to travel to Toronto, I began to get slightly concerned. So I called her one evening and explained in detail a pretty amazing situation called "ORBITZ". I took my Mother step by step through the rigamorol of finding and booking a cheap flight to whatever destination at a particular given time. Apparantly, the advice that I gave birthed her the idea that I am now officially her travel agent. She requested of me that I simply find the cheapest ticket and purchase it online using her company credit card. In matters with my Mother, I choose to take the high ground at this point because there is no reason to argue with her because she will NOT listen. I booked the flight and sent her the e-mail confirmation. I was good to go. Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
As the date grew closer and closer to our rendez-vous, things became increasingly more precarious. Originally, Princess Toadstool had told me that she would be staying with some random Black man she found through Facebook. Supposedly Facebook is not (as I understood it) a social networking sight to re-connect with people whom you already know but rather a website that facilitates the contacting of random individuals whom you know absolutely NOTHING about. But again, there is no arguing with my Mother and I figured if it saved me the hastle of booking a hotel in Toronto it would do me a favor. I should explain before I delve deeper into this story that both my Mother and my Grandmother refuse to call me...EVER! They do not believe in outgoing international calls. It must be against there religion. Therefore, I am forced in every situation and/or occasion (including my own birthday) to pick up the phone and make the effort to contact them. A few days before the trip I called Princess Toadstool to confirm the details of the flight. She indicated to me at that point that the Black Facebook boyfriend had fallen through and that it was imperative that I book a hotel for her immediately. Before punching myself in the face, I jumped on the computer and looked for hotels. Now, I must explain that Princess Toadstool is the woman who took me and her other two children (Barbie and Harry Potter) on numerous camping expeditions. This is the same woman who seldomly got her haircut and spent most of her days in a housecoat and flip flops. My Mother is not what I would refer to as high maintenance. So I figured a standard hotel would do just find for her needs. Well, clearly I was wrong. She told me that it was very important that she have a room with a balcony. What purpose was this to serve? Who in their right mind wants to be on a hotel balcony in Canada in the middle of winter? "I need to smoke dear." was her response. "Mom! You know you can't smoke in a hotel, even on the balcony!", was my comeback. But she wasn't having any of that. I simply had to follow instructions. And I did! I found her a room at a Super 8 in downtown Toronto for one week. She was elated! At first I didn't understand why anyone in their right mind would be excited about a Super 8 until I remembered that my Mother actually used to work at a Super 8 in Vancouver. Princess Toadstool loves familiarty! I have truly followed in her footsteps in that I have had a plethora of jobs in a very short amount of time. So there we were finally set until 3 days before the trip. I get an e-mail from my Mother. Here is the condensed version.<br />
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<i> "Hi son. My brother finally got back to me. Looks like I can stay with him just outside of Toronto. Please cancel the hotel immediately."</i><br />
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For some reason, my Mother had convinced me earlier to pay the extra money to have the hotel at a refundable rate. Thank God I had done that otherwise we would have been screwed. Literally with minutes to spare I was able to get the full refund just before it would have expired. I breathed a sigh of relief and began preparing myself mentally for 3 full days with my Mother in Toronto. I was at least happy she was now staying with family. I called her the night before her flight (she left to Toronto a day earlier than I) to confirm everything. All was good. I woke up the next morning to prepare for my flight that day. As I was packing I received another e-mail from my Mother. Let me just express that the e-mail below is verbadum what she said to me. I literally copy and pasted it from my e-mail.<br />
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<em>"A thought,might be an idea to stay in Toronto Friday and Saturday night,would save Lynn the hassle,if there is a spa in hotel or close I could book what I need and have Jeff drop me there Friday morning . I'm wanting full facial,haircut and color,manicure,pedicure...priority being facial and hair.When searching if you see something book it.So far trip has been free so honestly I'm not worried about the cost...let me know tonight when you phone,,miss you,Mom"</em><br />
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Are you kidding me? As if I don't have more important things to do than to all over again book yet ANOTHER hotel for my Mother but this time it needed to include not just the balcony but a bloody day spa????? This is the same woman who drinks Canadian beer on the porch in her oversized t-shirt, jeans and flip flops for the entire duration of our family reunion. I don't think she had ever had a facial before not to mention a pedicure or a professional haircut. For Christ sake's, she cut my hair with sewing scissors for 17 years. I seriously became concerned. This was clearly her mid-life crisis. Unfortunately, however, there was no time to deal with the inevitable diarrhea this was going to cause me. The only thing I could do was go online and book the bloody hotel. After SEVERAL calls and clickings of the mouse I was able to not only book her a 3 night stay at the fabulous Le Meridien hotel in downtown Toronto but I also facilitated upon arrival a full day at the spa including full body massage, facial, haircut and color, manicure, and pedicure. Someone clearly needs to pay me to do this shit. Once everything was booked and finished, I had several drinks and boarded the plane which was quickly followed by my passing out due to my inhebriation.<br />
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I arrived in Toronto with a positive attitude. Considering the previous events, I had no reason to be in a good mood. However, I knew that I was going to have to re-focus my energy in order to survive three days with Princess Toadstool. I was not able to greet her at the hotel immediately (which was a block away from the hotel I stayed at) on account of her being booked up all day at the spa. So I first set out on an adventure to experience my favorite Canadian passtime. Eating poutine! For those of you have not had the opportunity to experience this delectable treat here is the low-down. Poutine is comprised of fries, salty beef gravy, and cheese curds! Just looking at it gives you cellulite but it's worth it! It's the most enjoyable thing since receiving fellatio. You would have thought I was performing fellatio if you had seen me eat the poutine. After I patted my mouth with a paper napkin I knew that the first order of business was to head to the liqor store. This is a normal event for me when travelling on business. I always make it my first goal to get my hands on alcohol that I can store in the hotel room to keep me company. However, on this particular trip to Toronto I knew that I would be in DESPERATE need of Skyy on account of having to deal with my Mother. I made my way to the LCBO and picked up a 1.75L of vodka. I hope it would be enough to last me two nights....<br />
<br />
As 8pm approached the clock and as I approached my fourth glass of vodka in my hotel room, I knew that this would probably be a good time to call Princess Toadstool. Surely she had to be out of the spa in the hotel by now. Of course it would be useless to call her from my cell phone because not only does she not believe in outgoing international calls, she only accepts international calls when she is on her own phone. When it comes to my Mother's cellular device, it's local calls ONLY, both outgoing and incoming. So I bit the bullet and picked up the phone in my hotel room. It goes without saying that the moment you even pick up the receiver you can be confident about the fact that you will be enjoying a phone bill no less than $50 when you check out. Princess Toadstool answered the phone with a cheerful voice. I immediately felt relieved. Here was our conversation.<br />
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Me: "Mom!"<br />
Mom: "Hi!"<br />
Me: "Did you enjoy the spa?"<br />
Mom: "I did! My hair looks great! I had to switch out the massage for a manicure instead."<br />
Me: "Why did you do that?"<br />
Mom: "I figured if any one touches me right now I am going to fart."<br />
Me: "Why do you figure that?"<br />
Mom: "I have been incredibly gassy lately and I have had really bad diarrhea for quite some time. My hair really looks amazing."<br />
Me: "Wonderful. Would you like to meet up later. I'm going to a show with some friends. You should come."<br />
Mom: "I don't know dear. I would love to go but the diarrhea is really bad. It really depends on how I am feeling. I will let you know."<br />
Me: "Sounds awesome. I will call you later."<br />
<br />
<br />
First of all, I can tell you that genetics is an amazing thing. I have certainly inherited the diarrhea gene from my Mother. I fully understand the trials and tribulations that come with irritable bowel syndrome. However, with Princess Toadstool this is clearly a "boy who cried wolf" situation. She blames EVERYTHING on diarrhea. She has found her scape goat to evade any possible commitment. You can't get Princess Toadstool to agree to anything! She is too random in her emotions to make plans and diarrhea has become her latest excuse to get what she wants. It's truly unfair and ridiculous but what the Christ am I supposed to do about it. I hung up the phone and went out with my friends.<br />
<br />
I arrived at the theatre around 8pm and I knew that I needed to call Princess Toadstool because the show was to start in an hour. My concern was that I knew I couldn't call her from an American phone number because she wouldn't answer. Somehow I had to get my hands on a Canadian cellular device to place the call. The doorman hooked me up. Here is the follow-up conversation with my Mother.<br />
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Me: "Mom!"<br />
Mom: "Hi!"<br />
Me: "Are you coming to the show? It's in an hour!"<br />
Mom: "Oh. I don't know. I went to the store across the street and just came back a few minutes ago. The diarrhea was really bad. I didn't make it back to the room in time."<br />
Me: "Are you ok?"<br />
Mom: "I'm in the bathroom now cleaning up."<br />
Me: "Well, do you want to wait tomorrow to get together then?"<br />
Mom: "Well, I know you are only here for a few days so I want to come tonight. I think I can make it but I need to take a shower from the waist down first. I'll be on my way after that."<br />
Me: "Sounds exhilerating. See you soon."<br />
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I am assuming that she was taking a shower only from the waist down so that her amazing new haircut would remain intact but I did not want to ask any follow up questions to confirm my assumption. I gave her the address to give the cab driver and hung up the phone. 9pm approached and there was still no sign of Princess Toadstool in the lobby. This was no surprise. You couldn't pay my Mother to be on time. The world could be ending and she would still insist on having her third cup of coffee before boarding the spaceship for refuge. I harassed the doorman yet again. I borrowed his cell phone and gave her a call. Here is how call number three went.<br />
<br />
Me: "Mom! Where are you?"<br />
Mom: "I'm here. But I don't know where I am."<br />
Me: "Well if you don't know where you are how can you be so sure that you are here?"<br />
Mom: "Well. I gave the taxi driver the address of the theater and he dropped me off and left. But all I see is a field."<br />
Me: "What do you mean a field?"<br />
Mom: "It's a field dear! And then there are very large poles with signs on them."<br />
Me: "What do the signs say?"<br />
Mom: "Well there's one that a sign fo IKEA, it's blue with yellow writing. Then there's another one that's orange. I think it's a sign for a furniture store or perhaps a warehouse. Then there's another..."<br />
Me: "Wait! Let me hand over the phone to someone who may help."<br />
<br />
At this point I handed the phone back to the random African doorman to sort the situation out. I hated to drop my problems onto an unsuspecting foreigner but after 3 minutes of my Mother on the phone I couldn't take it any more. After an eternal amount of time, he handed the phone back to me and explained that she was most likely next to the football field at the high school across the street. The very sweet man actually let me take his phone with him as I went in search of my long lost and confused Mother. This is the rest of our conversation as I searched for Princess Toadstool."<br />
<br />
Me: "Mom! Are you still in the same place?"<br />
Mom: "Well of course dear, I don't know where I am!"<br />
Me: "Well stay there! I am coming to get you. You are still by those signs?"<br />
Mom: "Yes dear. I can't believe that taxi driver was so inconsiderate!"<br />
Me: "Mom! I think I see you in the distance! I'm waving!'<br />
Mom: "Oh I see you too! Oh wait....that's not you!"<br />
Me: "What do you mean that's not me. We're the only two people in the street. I'm wearing a black coat walking towards you."<br />
Mom: "Oh well I don't know who you're looking at but it can't be me because I definitely don't see you. The person walking toward me is not my son!"<br />
(At this point, I turned the phone off and starting running towards my Mother)<br />
Me: MOM!!!!!!!! (I approached her and gave her a hug)<br />
Mom: Oh my gosh! I can't believe it's you. You look White from a distance.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two years had gone by since seeing my very own Mother and the first words out of her mouth were "You look White from a distance.". You can't choose your parents. You really can't. But I love her. And I love the fact that only she would say something so messed up and inappropriate. She was wearing what appeared to be black jazz pants tucked into a pair of black quarter inch boots and a brown faux-fur coat that I bought for her for Christmas in 2006. I will say her hair looked more amazing than I could have ever remembered. We went into the theater, late of course, I thanked the African and then took a seat with Princess Toadstool and enjoyed the show.<br />
<br />
During intermission, I took a much needed trip to the bar. I ordered myself a carona. After spending any amount of time in the United States you must be very weary of ordering hard liqor in other countries because their alcohol to mixer ratio is slightly heavier towards the latter. However, this discrepency would do my Mother well on the fact that she is barely 5 feet tall and unlike her son does not tolerate her alcohol well. "Order me something good", was her instruction to me. Disaronno and coke would surely be the most appropriate option for Princess Toadstool. We both chugged our alcohol and bolted it back into the theater. We were already late for the first act and I was going to be damned if we would have to embarass ourselves once more.<br />
<br />
After the show, we headed back to my hotel. I was staying at the Sheraton just a few blocks away from Le Meridien where I had booked my Mother a room. I figured she could come into the lobby for a moment and then I would her back to her hotel. It was after midnight at this point and the last thing I needed was for my directionally challenged Mother to fend for herself in the mean streets of downtown Toronto after hours on a weekend. So I decided it would be the loving thing to do to escort her back. It does tickle me that I would be guiding anybody in terms of travelling directions because I too (thanks to genetics) have no idea where I am going most of the time. But I suppose I am the lesser of the two evils in the directionally aware department. I am slightly less worse than Princess Toadstool. It was like the far-sighted leading the blind. We trotted our way down to King Street at a pace that I can only compare to that of a beached manatee after consumming the date-rape drug. My Mother walks slower than I could ever possibly even reinact. I have never seen anything like it. Not that I shouldn't have seen it coming. I mean, I know my Mother walks slow. Princess Toadstool has ALWAYS walked slow. But again, it had been two years and I had forgotten how bad it was. And with age it gets even worse! I tried not to panic. Surely, I couldn't let a glacial paced walk set me over the edge emotionally. I knew there would be a way to rectify this. I figured if I began walking ahead of my Mother that she would eventually take the hint and catch up to me. A half a block later, I look back and she is confidently one hundred paces behind me. That woman was absolutely hell bent at taking HER good time getting back to that hotel. She was the Mother that I remembered. Princess Toadstool, the woman that NOONE can rush! So I stood and waited a few minutes for to finally catch up and maintained her slauth-like tempo back to her hotel. I was amazed that I even stayed awake. We bid eachother adieu. I sprinted back to my hotel and launched myself into bed after making a very large dent into my bottle of Skyy.<br />
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I called Princess Toadstool the next day. She seemed quite elated about a trip to the mall. I decided to oblige her. We went to a place called "The Bay" which is essentially the Canadian equivalent of Macy's. I met her at Le Meridien. She was wearing the identical outfit she had sported the evening prior. I decided to turn a blind eye. To be clear, I knew that this was not a "late night situation" where she had no time to change on account of her being up all night but rather a deliberate decision to don the same clothes for days on end for the purpose of efficiency. In fact, I assumed that I would probably see her in the same black jazz pants for the entire week. My assumption would prove correct. We strolled our way to the mall with a speed synonymous to the career growth of Myley Cyrus. We mosied along through the glistening double doors and entired the department store. There were counters upon counters filled with fragrances, accessories, and jewelry. Most of these things disinterest me for the fact that most products appear to me to be clones of eachother. And even though I have no problem with swiping a credit card, I will say that like most men I have an expiration date in terms of how long I can spend inside of an establishment where strangers unsuspectingly spray cologne on you every five minutes. I took a deep breath in and reminded myself that I only had a select amount of time with my Mother and possibly wouldn't see her again in a very long time. It was important to be supportive and jovial. I wanted to approach the situation with absolute positivity. But as Tyra Banks says on America's Next Top Model, "Sometimes wanting it isn't enough."<br />
<br />
Princess Toadstool made a B Line to the Chanel counter. I must explain that my Mother always does this thing where she just wanders off any time we are anywhere in public. She is always fully confident that surely I will find her, where I on the other hand totally freak out wondering where my dwarf-sized parent went to! All it takes is one moment to lose my focus and my own Mother disappears. I tried my darndest to keep tabs the whole time. I wandered off myself looking at some wallets which is incredibly ironic considering after paying their absurd prices I would have no money left to put in the wallet. Of course, the entire time I kept one eye glued to my Mother and her brown faux-fur coat. I saw her bounce from counter to counter looking at different products and just torturing every salesman possible with never ending converstation. I just stared in bewilderment. Again, it's not as though I wasn't aware before of my Mother's bizarre personality traits. But watching her combine her verbal diarrhea and her inconsiderate social skills was like watching an Asian person get behind the wheel of a semi-truck in rush hour. However, I must give Princess Toadstool credit because it's not as though she is relentlessly social with strangers for no reason. My Mother has a very clear goal in mind. And that goal is "FREE SAMPLES"! My Mother goes absolutely nuts over anything in the name of gratuity. Certainly, Princess Toadstool has known little of anything middle class or higher but I don't know that that is a legitimate excuse to try and squeeze out every last drop from any handout possible. However, I must say that she does so with charm. After an hour or so my Mother had two gigantic shopping bags FILLED with samples, anything you could think of. There were lotions, aftershaves, perfumes for both genders, shaving creams, chapstick, eyelash glue, and a cure for cancer. It was unbelieveable what my Mother had accumulated. One of the bags was for me of course. Her greedy desire for gratuitous gifts does not go without love. We made our way upstairs to the shoe department. I assumed that I had met my embarassment quota for the day. God has an interesting sense of humor.<br />
<br />
As we arrived on the second floor I began congratulating myself. I had been such a good sport and had truly facilitated a wonderful time not just for my Mother but for the both of us to spend some quality time together after being apart for so long. Unfortunately, I had congratulated myself to soon. Because only after fifteen seconds fo daydreaming, I lost her. I could not find my Mother anywhere. I immediately panicked. I felt the diarrhea brewing. As a hot sweaty mess, I began running around the store in search of my Mother like R. Kelly in a nursery. I was searching high and low for the red-headed midget (My Mother's hair was actually brown at this point but red-headed has a much better ring). After several minutes of desparation, I finally set my eyes on the brown coat and newly renovated coif. There was no way I could be mistaken that I was clearly seeing my Mother from the back. I breathed a sigh of relief and ran up enthusiastically to my Mother and tapped her on the shoulder. "I found you!" I exclaimed. "Excuse me, who are you?:" was the response given by the total stranger I had just harassed. How embarassing! I accosted some random woman who had probably never seen a Black person in real life before. She most likely thought I was trying to steal either her purse or her virginity. Just as I was working out the details of how I could successfully avoid jail time for practically assaulting a helpless Canadian, I finally spotted my actual Mother from a distance. When I saw a sample bottle of Usher deodorant fall from her purse I knew this was undoubtedly my Mother. Princess Toadstool instructed me to pick out one item from the store and she would buy it for me. I felt like a kid at Christmas. So I picked out the most practical thing I could. I selected a blue Speedo. My Mother could do nothing but laugh in disapproval. I took one glance at her overflowing bag of free samples and it settled the score. Clearly neither of us could trump the other int he ridiculous department. We took the ginch to the counter, she paid for it and we made our way to the escalators. Just when I thought the worst was over.<br />
<br />
I stepped onto the escalator and began descending slowly. After a few seconds I looked back and saw my Mother standing atop the escalator not moving, looking very unsettled. "Princess Toadstool, what are you doing?" I yelled as I continued my descent. "I'm afraid of these things dear." she yelled back as I continued going down. "What are you talking about? Just hold onto the rail, you'll be fine.". At this point, I witnessed something that I never thought I would be witness to. I always have known that my Mother was crazy. But what I failed to realize was that she was holding the most batshit crazy antics for later in my life. And this was an opportunity for Princess Toadstool to give me a glimpse into the schrizophenic mindset that she has adopted. As I continued my descent, I witnessed my Mother at the top of the escalator take a few steps back in preparation for her launch. She lunged for a moment, and paused for only second before taking three large giraffe-length strides towards the apparatus. She then long-jumped landing on two feet on the third step of the escalator (which of course was moving at the time) and grappled onto the railing with both hands like a koala bear. I felt the escalator physically shake as she landed. I can only describe my reaction as astonished. I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. The only thing I could muster in my perplexed moment of bewilderment was "What the Hell was that?". "I'm scared of these things. I told you.", my Mother explained very matter of fact. I decided at that point that any further questioning or reasoning would be pointless. I just smiled, kept my mouth shut, pretended that I hadn't seen a thing and focused on the fact that this would be an amazing blog posthumously.<br />
<br />
The remaining days with my Mother would prove to be just a re-iteration of the love, history, and insanity that the two of us share. It was difficult to look at Princess Toadstool for sixty seconds before thinking to myself "Did you really long jump onto a moving escalator in public yesterday?". But nonetheless this was the time for a Mother and her son to connect. And frankly, what better way to do so then with diuretic reflection and Olympic sports performed on escalators. It is impossible to feel the love that I do for my Mother for anyone else (besides Shakira). The fact that Princess Toadstool tolerated child birth not just for me but for my two other crazy siblings and raised the three of us is reason enough to tolerate a few high demands for accommodations and a few tardy appearances on account of irritable bowel syndrome. And as much as I make fun of my Mother, I recognize the fact that any comment made about her is a direct reflection on me. We all are simply a byproduct of our genetics and our environment. I have Princess Toadstool to thank for my being patient, optimistic, and most importantly thin. I love you Mom! And I will never forget that the delusional bi-racial apple doesn't fall far from the absent-minded free gift-loving tree.<br />
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</div>JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-80198566442238205712012-01-21T20:13:00.000-06:002012-01-21T20:13:31.249-06:00Cookie Tossing Margaritas can be a very dangerous thing. Especially when consumed by the Black equivalent of a pre-pubescent Lindsay Lohan. During my most recent trip to New York City, I found myself enamoured by a slightly absent-minded, light weight drinker by the name of Phoebe (after the ditsy White girl from "Friends"). She happens to be the sister of Evangeline (the naked vegetable stealer). At first it seemed unimaginable that there could possibly be anyone more Barbie like than she, but it turns out that her sister is truly giving Evangeline a run for her money. <br />
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I first met Phoebe at her sister's apartment last year along with Evangeline's roommate Shoniqua. I was quite perplexed by Phoebe's incessant need to bite her nails and open her eyes wider than the Red Sea after Moses parted that shit. She clunked around aimlessly in her blue wedge heels constantly bumping into things all the while looking as though someone was asking her to find the cure for AIDS or split an atom. The simplest of questions seemed to confuse her as well as throw her into a tantrum of making squeaky noises like some sort of gerbil. It turns out however that she is smarter than she looks. She is studying film at the New School in New York City which would indicate that she has the brain capacity larger than a Powerpuff Girl. During this first meeting she recanted a story of when had stolen a friend of a friend's marijuana stash after searching through said friend's things without permission. Afterward, she apparently bragged to this friend of a friend about finding her stash. At this moment, alarms began ringing in my head. Who does that? What matters worse was the fact that at the time she wasn't even a serious drinker. This meant that she couldn't be like Jamie Foxx and blame it on the alcohol. The only reason behind Phoebe's erratic behaviour was some sort of mental disorder. <br />
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Things took a turn for the worst on my recent trip to New York last week. I was there on business with the whole gang: Shoniqua, Evangeline, Caramel Barbie, Earth Mother, Pilar, B More, Tuscaloosa, Naomi, Daddy Long Legs, Young Diva, Charlie Brown, Queen Jemima, and Banana Tree. One evening the majority of us went out to this Mexican restaurant called El Centro. Of course Pilar was in heaven on account of being amongst all of her distant relatives who long jumped across the Mexican/American border in hopes of becoming a highly successfully maid at a hotel in New York City. After several beverages, I had engaged in a conversation with Evangeline's beset friend. Her name is Reverse-Oreo because she is White on the outside and Black on the inside. She is very similar to Shoniqua in that regard. In fact, they are both from Michigan to make the coincidence even creepier. While talking to Reverse-Oreo, out of nowhere Phoebe staggered her way into the middle of the conversation. I failed to mention that she is a vertically challenged individual. She is not quite short enough to technically be a midget but I am pretty sure she could get away with parking in the handicap spot at WAL-MART. I don't like it when little nuggets move quickly. This makes me feel very uneasy because short people are difficult to keep track of on account of them being so stealthy. As she maneuvered her way in and out of the conversation barely being able to stand on two legs, I began to wonder what the Christ was wrong with this ho. I kept going back and forth as to whether or not something truly was wrong with her. My suspicion was confirmed when the following phrase came out of her mouth: "I wanna be a grown up like you guys! WHY CAN'T I BE A GROWN UP?" This is what is referred to on the show <em>Intervention</em> as "rock bottom". <br />
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I got myself out of El Centro as fast as I could! There is no way I was going to have to deal with the Black Lindsay Lohan for any amount of time. I journeyed my way back to the hotel to take a quick nap after preparing myself a beverage using the cheapest vodka available. After some time, I ventured toward Shoniqua's room after receiving a text message to come join her for some delicious Maker's Mark which certainly kicked my dollar store vodka's ASS! It turned out that of one of her good friends was there named Balls. I have known Balls for quite some time as well. We met through Shoniqua in Toronto in 2007 and after several exchanges of clothing, copious amounts of drunken nights, and several spars about Canadian visa issues, we have also become at the very least "chum-like". I was of course delighted to see him. When I walked into Shoniqua's hotel room, Balls was twisting Evangeline's hair. Balls parents are from Jamaica which explains his natural ability to braid naps and fold linens. I placed my Brown tukkus upon Shoniqua's bed, poured myself a libation, and enjoyed the company. I had assumed that Phoebe had left to her dorm a long time ago, in fact immediately after El Centro considering the state she was in. Evangeline informed me otherwise. Here is Evangeline's recount of the events that followed after I had left the Mexican restaurant.<br />
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Supposedly Phoebe had two margaritas at the restaurant in a short amount of time. Most of the party had consumed the same amount but Phoebe was the only person there too short to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl. I have nothing against short people but I have learned from my Mother (Princess Toadstool) that you really have to keep a firm hand when it comes to midget-drinking. Those little nuggets will get fucked up before you know it leaving them too impaired to chase after. Evangeline informed me that her sister Phoebe, upon leaving the restaurant, decided to escort Evangeline back to the hotel room to socialize with the group. Before anyone knew what was happening, Phoebe's face was married to Evangeline's toilet like a Kardashian after a night of boozing in Los Angeles. However similar to Kardashian marriage, Phoebe's face did not remain committed to the toilet seat for long. Apparently no vomiting occurred in the toilet, or at least by the time Evangeline had come in to check on her sister. Evangeline, after checking up on Phoebe in the bathroom left for nearly a moment (probably to investigate the best available spot in New York to steal some fresh kale). Upon return, Evangeline had made a remarkable and unfortunate discovery. Evangeline walked in the bathroom only to find her sister Phoebe nearly passed out in the bathroom with only a bathtub decorated with margarita vomit to comfort her. Apparently the stench greeted Evangeline's nose before the abhorred sight was imposed on her vision. Evangeline's feelings, I imagine, were that of bewilderment, disgust, and confusion. <br />
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In the face of adversity, one is truly tested as to their true strength and determination as a human being. Evangeline demonstrated this idea to its fullest when faced with a passed out family member and a tub full of throw up. I pat myself on the back for my imagination and creativity but I have to admit that Evangeline has far surpassed me in the story telling department. This ho called the front desk and said (in the most Mariah Carey-like voice possible I am sure), "Um....Someone had REALLY bad food poisoning in my hotel room and got sick in the bathroom. We're really going to need to have someone to come up IMMEDIATELY and clean it up.". May I just say, that I hope that I am able to one day have as much courage and chutzpah that Evangeline demonstrated in that moment. The amount of audacity that this girl has is unprecedented. I would have been shitting my pants the whole time if I had made up some bullshit like that but Evangeline stuck to her guns and did exactly what she needed to to solve her problem. I, for one, love it! So, someone from the building came up to look at the "situation" and was horribly appalled. He could not believe what he was witnessing. Supposedly, Evangeline had stashed away her sister Phoebe in the adjacent room so that the culprit would not be discovered! The man left very quickly in astonishment. He clearly needed back up. Afterward, they had sent someone in addition (I'm assuming from the municipal sanitation department of Manhattan) to properly address the situation. I am unclear as to exactly how the tub was unclogged but all I know is that the tub was cleaned with the exception of Shoniqua's loofah. Evangeline had to throw it out on account of her sister having vomited all over it. Shoniqua, after becoming abreast of the situation, said to Phoebe sarcastically "Do you want another drink?". "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" responded Phoebe, after having already lost 15 pounds of her innards into her sister's bathroom. Courtney Love has nothing on this bitch. Phoebe was sent home (in a cab which was insisted upon by Evangeline).<br />
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So now remains the question. Why the bathtub? Now, I am no one to judge. I drink more alcohol than an Irish police officer on an off-night. But what I can remember about the worst of my drunken endeavours has been throwing up into a TOILET. I must emphasize that it was an amazing experience for me as a young adult to vomit incessantly after drinking because I needed not have guilt about the entire 20" pizza I had consumed by myself from Domino's prior to the drinking. So it perplexes me so intensely as to why someone would even considering tossing their cookies into a family member's bathtub. It's not as though she was left alone to her own devices, inebriated in some unfamiliar bathroom with the lights off. In fact, she had been strategically placed over the toilet so that the vomit would end up right in the bowl. This ho made the conscious choice to remove herself from said toilet and into the tub. Did she need more space? Was the toilet so clean at the time that she didn't want to ruin it? Was the color of Shoniqua's loofah so putrid that it made her puke all over it? So many questions and yet no answers. However, I do have one interesting piece of information for you. Supposedly this was not the first time!<br />
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Evangeline informed me that Phoebe confessed over Christmas break that she had for no reason taken six shots of tequila ALONE IN HER BEDROOM only to find herself afterwards crying naked in the bathtub. Okay, now we're dealing with some serious <em>Intervention</em> bullshit. No normal human being acts this way. Coming from a professional committed drinker, I surely know when someone as inexperienced as she has crossed the line. Certainly, I enjoy the pre-cocktail at home before going out. But never would I voluntarily take shots of tequila with the intention of staying home alone watching <em>Homeward Bound</em>. Drinking should be fun (that's why I do it). If you find yourself crying immediately after consuming alcohol, maybe you need to take up a different hobby like petty theft or masturbation. I truly don't know what is going with the Evangeline family but clearly there needs to be some sort of breakthrough happening for Phoebe's sake. And may I say to you Phoebe. Reach out to me ho! If you need someone to teach you how to drink properly, I'm your bitch! So grab your glass, get on a plane, and let's do some shots in the company of other people. However, this offer is good upon one condition. If you even get near my bathtub I will punch you in the taint.<br />
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JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-42281680447528004702011-11-21T21:08:00.000-06:002011-11-21T21:08:56.261-06:00A Birthday Celebration for a Committed Drinker Birthdays are a magical time in some one's life where they have full permission to finish an entire bottle of Grey Goose in the afternoon without even the bat of an eye from his or her peers. I took full advantage of this opportunity on Thursday to celebrate my still being alive after being on this Earth for a quarter of a century. To fully pay homage to the fact that after twenty five years, I still have a moderately attractive hair line (down South), I thought it would be most appropriate to host a party at my apartment filled with a bevvy of alcoholic beverages. I like to think of it as a bachelor's party right before you attend alcoholic's anonymous. I needed this party to be the most exciting thing since the Shake Weight for Men. I put my best foot forward (the left one) and put together a delicious evening of pizza and Maker's Mark which ultimately ended up resulting in the management of my building confronting me later about the hysterical antics. No arrests were made. The court date is still pending. Here's how it all went down.<br />
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I arrived home around 6 o'clock to prepare my apartment. The place was a DISASTER! I had to clean my entire place, complete a naked wall college, arrange a floor collage, get the food and drinks ready, and blow up balloons. I was in desperate need of some black-up. So I called B-More. She came over, put on some Pandora and went straight to blowing. She is a girl after my own heart. What I didn't realize was that the balloons I had purchased were the tiny skinny ones. The first one she blew up exploded in her face; at least she got a happy ending. Once B-More finally successfully blew up one of the tiny red balloons, it ended up looking like one of those long stringy things that hangs off of a chicken's chin. This was clearly going to be a disaster. After running around like a chicken with its head cut off in my blue underpants clearing tables, putting out fires, randomly throwing plastic stars on the floor and generally acting like David Hasslehoff on a drug binge, I managed to complete the decorations and preparations for the party with the help of B-More. I quickly put on my birthday outfit (a black suit with one nipple out) and swiped some delicious Old Spice under my arms and asscrack. The invitations said to be at my place at 7:30pm and I just completed my deodorant application just in the nick of time.<br />
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I made some drinks for B-More and I. I figured we could get the party started as people would be arriving. Seated on a kitchen chair in her leather jacket, B-More looked up from her half finished rum and coke and said, "Where is everybody?". It was eight o'clock at this point. Time travels fast when you're drinking. Before either of us knew it, we were both on drink number two looking like the odd couple. Some minutes later, I heard the door swing open. It was Daddy Long Legs! Donning a purple shirt and thick rimmed glasses, he burst into my apartment with joy and exuberance. I peed a little. I began preparing more beverages of the whiskey variety and enjoyed the amniotic music blaring from B-More's Pandora. I decided that I was going to make gourmet pizzas in celebration of a quarter of a century. I did not want to cook anything too high maintenance but I still wanted it to feel somewhat classy, thus preparing the toppings myself. I also thought it was a brilliant idea on account of the amount of Black people attending. I knew that had I prepared a meal at a specific time, it would be cold by the time the majority of the African-Americans showed up. With four pizzas at my disposal, I would surely be able to serve something hot for everyone on the hour. I began with a garlic shrimp pizza. After I shoved the pizza into the oven-vagina, the door burst open again with more people.<br />
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The next guest to arrive at the party was Shoniqua. She was wearing pumps and a leopard print dress that would certainly stop any heterosexual man of the African-American variety dead in his tracks. With her curly long (new with blond highlights) hair just cascading down her back, I knew it would be only a matter of time until she would be receiving alimony from an unsuspecting basketball player. Shoniqua is a very aggressive woman (you have to be when you date the Blacks), and with no hesitation at all, she briskly grabbed the martini shaker and took over some of the brunt work to allow me to socialize with my friends. Everybody needs a Shoniqua in their life. Someone who you will let you know unapologetically when you need to calm down or step it up (in my case it's usually the former). <br />
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At this point, B-More was feeling somewhat anxious to the fact that she had yet another event to attend in the evening. I was quite amazed that even four people had shown up only a half an hour after the proposed start time of the party. I had assumed that I would probably be drinking by myself a good hour into the party before any African-American showed up. This was great for B-More because it would have been slightly awkward to have left me by myself. She informed me that she was jacket-less. It's November, and although it's Texas, her nipples never would have been able to withstand the cold treacherous wind of the South. I took her to Steve Urkel's closet (I use my roommate's closet to sift through my hefty outerwear collection). Many of my pieces are considered unisex. B-More selected a shiny pleather jacket from New York and paired it with a fabulous red scarf of mine. I do not know that she was in search of male genitalia that evening but this newly found outfit definitely gave her at least the option. If there's one thing that I've learned in twenty five years is that you have to get it while you can.<br />
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Shortly before B-More left, my roommate showed up. I refer to him as Steve Urkel because of the overwhelmingly striking resemblance. He looked pretty amazing in his little suit. It impressed me that he dressed up in his own house to pay homage to Brown and Thin. People like Steve Urkel need to be celebrated for their generosity and attention to detail. He prepared himself a beverage and went on his merry way, making his rounds to the different people at the party. The music died down because of the fact that B-More took her Pandora with her. Daddy Long Legs fixed that problem by generously donating his iPod filled with music of the Black 90s variety. A girl couldn't ask for anything more.<br />
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The dynamic duo was next to arrive. This was of course Caramel Barbie and her husband Lucky Charms. Caramel Barbie appears exactly as her nickname describes. She is tall and statuesque with the delicious addition of a bright red faux hawk. Her husband is less gifted on the vertical end of things yet makes up for it by having the most amazing hair EVER! I can't even begin to describe the deliciousness that is bestowed on top of his head! His hair curls very tightly just like Goldie Locks. As Lucky Charms walked through my apartment, I noticed that his long tendrils were bouncing up and down to the beat of the music. I was absolutely mesmerized. I could barely hold my drink straight. As the beautifully odd couple sat down, I quickly started mixing their beverages. For Lucky Charms, I prepared him the feature whiskey beverage complete with Maker's Mark bourbon, lemon juice, orange juice, agave nectar, and a plethora of muddled strawberries. For Caramel Barbie, a self professed "non drinker", I gingerly dropped just a suggestion of Disaronno into an ice filled glass, and topped the rest off with cranberry juice. You have to know your customers. <br />
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At this point, the first pizza had been served, the second pizza was in the oven (spinach and feta cheese, recommended by Caramel Barbie), I was frantically making beverages, and I was on my fourth drink. So I apologize that my recollection of the rest of the evening is somewhat of a blur. I remember Tuscaloosa, Naomi, Charlie Brown, and Earth Mother coming in all around the same time. This served as a challenge for me as a hostess because each of these people have very distinct and separate drinking styles. Tuscaloosa is an easy to please heavy weight. He's the kind of bitch that can drink pretty much anything and will be happy with it as long as his cup remains full (a girl I can relate to). Charlie Brown also loves the hooch but after drink number three (especially if I am the one making them) will probably soon be found asleep on some one's couch. Earth Mother LOVES a sweet drink but is probably limited only to one and a half beverages over a three hour period. She gets drunk really fast which often results in much hilarity and some very good advice. Naomi is a full fledged alcoholic. I have still yet to determine whether or not he can outdrink me but what I will say is that it is quite clear that he is trying to give both me and Robert Downey Jr. a run for our money. Double fisting would be more than necessary for Naomi (if I had a dollar....). I served him a whiskey beverage (which basically ended up being straight alcohol) AND a cosmo stronger than The Rock on steroids. I believe he was at least moderately satisfied.<br />
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A cluster of balloons proceeded the entrance of the next guest. I could barely see her face through the plethora of floating delightfulness that cascaded in front of her. One of the balloons was actually in the shape of Spongebob Squarepants. Only her singing voice of "The Chicken Dance" informed me on who it was. Applebum brought her Grannysmiths to the party! She carried with her, a travel mug filled with mango margarita mix. I love a girl who travels with liquor in the evening in her vehicle. Her breasts looked amazing as usual. In my state of drunkenness, I sincerely wanted to cop a feel (for just a quick second). I do recall at some point that she dry humped me for a moment or five. I took the morning after pill the next day just to be on the safe side.<br />
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I felt very touched that so many of my co-workers had shown up to support me. Pilar ended up being the only one who couldn't come on account of her having diarrhea (She apparently had a mishap with an enchilada). What was beginning to turn into a pre-Christmas work extravaganza was quickly broken up by the attendance of the first non-work patron. In walked a very special friend of mine whom will be referred to as Betty Boop. I cannot stress enough that Betty Boop is a complete nut case and I can't get enough of it! Betty Boop talks like a cross between a Midwestern weather woman and a lounge singer from Las Vegas. She has a deep sexy voice that often lingers way too long in her vowels. I feel like it takes five minutes before I can even focus in on what she is saying on account of me being overtaken by her ridiculous way of speaking. I don't know where she learned how to talk like that but I need to find out so I can go to that school of thought! She also has a bob which adds to the insanity. Betty Boop has gigantic fun balloon breasts that compete comparably to Applebum's. She came bursting into the party with blue eyeshadow, bright red Cabaret lipstick, a Black dress with matching pumps, and Black laced gloves like she was about to perform a number from the musical Chicago. I need not forget to mention the fact she was also proceeded by a bevvy of gigantic balloons (which by the way were still not as big as her breasts). With her, she brought her boyfriend Rod Stewart. If you saw this man, you would immediately understand why he has this nick name. With spiked hair, high cheek bones, and the nose of a woodpecker, this man clearly needs to have a reunion tour. The dynamic duo began introducing their crazy selves to everybody at the party. Betty Boop placed her own six pack of Heineken in my refrigerator and had a gay old time just acting a fool around total strangers. That's my kind of bitch!<br />
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After pizza number two and beverage number one hundred seven had been served, this seemed like an appropriate time to start opening presents while I still was able to maintain an upright position. Perhaps you will notice a common theme amongst the birthday gifts....<br />
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<strong>Naomi</strong> brought me a 750 mL bottle of Ciroc Peach. This shit JUST came out on the market. I figure he had to go through the Chinese mafia to get his hands on the stuff. I immediately got an erection after feasting my eyes on the coral colored bottle. My cosmos will never be the same.<br />
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<strong>Charlie Brown</strong> presented me with a bottle of Red Zinfandel. I have been in a serious relationship with Zinfandel for quite some time which began in my early twenties with his evil twin sister, White Zinfandel. We have never gotten along since but I am willing to rekindle the spark I once had with the White Zinfandel and transfer it to the Red all thanks to the generous donation of Charlie Brown. <br />
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<strong>Earth Mother</strong> bought the most beautiful bottle of Pinot Grigio that I have ever seen. It's shape is quite phallic. In fact, it could probably double as a woman's sexual device. Two birds with one stone! Thank you Earth Mother! Your gift will be enjoyed by all!<br />
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<strong>Daddy Long Legs</strong> gets the award for presenting me with the Blackest gift of all. From him, I received a 375 mL bottle of Crown Royal BLACK. Now I love Crown Royal, it is delicious beyond belief (with coke in the evening or coffee in the morning). But the BLACK shit is off the chain. It is no joke! It also comes in the most adorable little purple bag with golden string. In the birthday bag, he also included a bottle of Vanilla Coke for pairing. That is some thoughtful shit bitch!<br />
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<strong>B-More </strong>reached out to the entire community with her gift. She brought a delicious snack for everyone to enjoy. It was gummy bears soaked in Malibu! In my mind, I can't see this being enjoyable. However, once you try it, you cannot deny the sensuality and addictive quality of this infectious treat. The combination of childish nature of the gummy bears and the pedophilic quality of coconut flavored rum is undeniable! Thanks B-More!<br />
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<strong>Caramel Barbie and Lucky Charms</strong> are just a gift on their own for being so cute that you wanna pinch the shit out of them. They brought me a bottle of Pinot Noir. Here's the story behind this beverage of choice. Shoniqua is a BIG fan of Pinot Noir and thus I have been sampling it for a while. More recently I have been ordering it when I am out and feeling the need for red wine in my blood stream. Now, I drink it ALL year round regardless of the temperature outside. The best part is that the bottle had a gift card for iTunes attached to it. There is nothing better than listening to the Spice Girls while intoxicated. People just know me so well. <br />
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<strong>Applebum </strong>got me a bartender's guide which is similar to dumping an unsupervised toddler off at the Neverland Ranch. In the party bag was also a pair of yellow panties with black piping around the edges. The underwear are both sexy and youthful. I feel like these briefs will stand the test of time. I am determined to wear them on my fiftieth birthday as part of the launching of my mid-life crisis. Last but not least, in her gift bag, was a ridiculous book called "PEOPLE WHO DESERVE IT: Socially Responsible Reasons to Punch Someone In the Face". This book addresses people who are belligerently ignorant and equally annoying. Clearly this topic is one close to my heart for the fact that I love making fun of people who are ridiculous all the while recognizing that sometimes it's me who is the one that is talking loud in the movie theatre. <br />
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Clearly, my friends were trying to send me two messages with their presents. One, "Clearly you're an alcoholic.". And two, "Go ahead bitch, drink up. You only live once!". I love them for that. There were also a few who gave me non-alcoholic gifts. These people I believe were trying to tell me "Clearly you're an alcoholic and you need to stop drinking, so please adopt a new hobby". Here's what these lovely people presented to me.<br />
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<strong>Steve Urkel </strong>gets the award for getting me the most homosexual gift of all. He got me a beautifully wrapped bar of chocolate flavored soap with a matching chocolate flavored body scrub! After one whiff I almost collapsed possibly resulting in my being impregnated by Kobe Bryant. That would have been one hell of a birthday!<br />
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<strong>Tuscaloosa </strong>also went very Black in the gift exchange. He bought me a delicious pair of light weight pants with a detachable belt. He didn't stop there though, he knows that I'm a ho that needs a full outfit. He completed the look with a t-shirt that read "Don't hate the PLAYA". I now feel fully prepared for Compton. (The pants fit perfectly by the way despite my skepticism. Tuscaloosa clearly understands the shape of my tiny calves.)<br />
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<strong>Betty Boop and Rod Stewart </strong>really just kept the crazy train going with their birthday presentation. Through the slew of floating balloons and streamers, I managed to rummage my way to the bottom of the blue bag. Inside was a collection of ridiculous novelty items that were right up their crazy alley. First were a pair of glasses with eyes that detached hanging on coils and bounced up and down. I, now have one party trick covered! Next was a collection of false teeth that looked quite decayed and perfect for Halloween! I love practical gifts that minimize my shopping duties for costumes! Lastly was a beautiful contraption that resembled a cheerleading baton. It was a blue stick with silver Barbershop type swirls of the glitter variety circling up towards the end which found a long iridescent streamer attached. I was immediately hooked. I began gallivanting around my apartment like a total idiot mesmerized by my own lack of talent. <br />
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As the culmination of the gift unwrapping began and pizza number three was out the oven, suddenly the lights turned off. Candles appeared in the darkness as a hush fell over the room. It was Evangeline, with a surprise birthday cake. I slowly wandered into the center of my living room, turned to face all of the attendees and collapsed on the floor in astonishment. My friends then proceeded to perform the CREEPIEST rendition of "Happy Birthday" in the history of mankind. This clearly could have doubled as an opening scene to Saw XII! During this song, I began performing movements of the stripper variety which really was a nod to the Dallas obsession with naked dancers. I, of course, performed all of these amazing moves fully clothed. I blew out the candles (barely) and turned the lights back on. I ran over to Evangeline to discover that she had prepared me a coffee cake! I LOVE coffee cake more than pornographic bloopers (hilarious when you're drunk). Pandemonium swept over the crowd as the cake was devoured. It was absolutely delicious! I decided this was the most appropriate time for the first costume change of the evening. I stripped off the suit and donned some simple jeans and a bright orange top with grey stripes from H&M. My cleavage was amazing.<br />
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Shortly afterward there was a knock at the door. Naomi informed me that the management of the building was responding to a noise complaint. I briskly walked down the hallway toward my front door. "PUT YOUR DRINK DOWN HO!" Applebum yelled at me. I placed my drink on Steve Urkel's shelf and made my way to the door and was greeted by a very LARGE Black man in a yellow shirt. "You gotta keep it down bro" said Sug Knight. I thought about offering him an alcoholic beverage to take the edge off. What the hell was this guy's problem? It was barely eleven o'clock! Does he not have anything better to do than bother a bi-racial Canadian during his celebration of a quarter century of life? I recanted on the offering of alcohol and decided to play dumb. "Oh every one's leaving so it's no problem", I said. I was lying straight through my vagina. <br />
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I returned to the party filled with festive happy faces. I poured myself libation number seven. After taking one sip I was invited over to Shoniqua and Evangeline's apartment just down the hall for an additional birthday surprise. I had to think on my feet so I immediately brought out all of my pornography (in paperback variety) and snuck out of my own party leaving the guests entertained with images of nudity. I arrived at the Shoniqua/Evangeline woman-cave and was greeted with a large table decorated from one end to the other with gifts. Bows, ribbons, and streamers were cascadeing back and forth, up and down the presents. It looked like a birthday party for Dora the Explorer. I was thrilled! Evangeline's presents were all in shiny purple bags. Shoniqua had more of an eclectic approach with an array of bright colors. With a fluttering heart I began opening the presents. Here's what the dynamic duo graciously gave to me for my birthday:<br />
<br />
<strong>Shoniqua, </strong>keeping in the theme of my being an alcoholic, gave me not one but TWO bottles of alcoholic libation. The first of which was St. Germain. St. Germain is the first liqueur in the world created in the artisanal French manner from freshly handpicked elderflower blossoms. Apparently it goes quite well with vodka and champagne! I look forward to many nights of shaking up cocktails of the French variety while eating oysters and growing a beard. The second bottle appeals to a different part of my personality; the pornographic part. This came in the form of a delicious shaped bottle filled with a mystery coral colored liquid called OR-G! I am not exactly sure what it is but I was informed that it is of the Alizé<strong> </strong>variety! I can probably drink it on the rocks or while lying on my back. No gift of the alcoholic variety is complete without a method of concealing the fact that I am an alcoholic. Shoniqua took a nod from Applebum and provided me with a green thermos complete with attached plastic straw that pops up like an Asian erection when you slide the plastic lid. It will be a little secret between she and I (and perhaps everyone reading this). Only Shoniqua will know truly what is going on when I break out the green cup! In another gift bag, I found a three piece set of bowls with tiny lids and spoons from Costa Rica! There was also a matching holder with three spaces for each bowl to sit in. Perfect for salsas, tappas, or olive tapenades! If this doesn't lead to sexual intercourse, NOTHING will! The last and by far my most favorite gift of all came from an AMAZING store called Ross. It was a large jar of honey. Shoniqua recognized the fact that I enjoy making drinks using agave and honey. What Shoniqua failed to realize was that on the label it clearly read "Honey made from organic RAPEseed"! Once I read the label out loud to her, Shoniqua collapsed in hysterics resulting in an amazing birthday moments. It turned out that the molested honey was quite delicious! Hugs and kisses to Shoniqua!<br />
<br />
<strong>Evangeline </strong>got me the sexiest cutting board I have ever seen. Also from Costa Rica, it featured several different woods from the country, all shellacked to preserve the intricate details of the tree. I will certainly use this as a presentational tool on my next date to fully seal the deal on sexual intercourse (even though the Costa Rican bowls will probably secure that already). Next, was a round wooden serving tray that spins around like a top. This was perfect! I would simply place the Costa Rican bowls on top of the Costa Rican cutting board on top of the spinning wooden serving tray and I would be the next Martha Stewart! I had visions of being a celebrity already! Evangeline also hand painted a framed picture featuring Yours Truly, Shoniqua, Evangeline, and Simba from the time we all went to the auction block...sorry I mean rodeo in Forth Worth! GOOD TIMES! Last but not least, Evangeline presented me with a gift that would surely make my Mother's head spin with joy. A real genuine WOK! I was too excited for words. To think of all the delicious noodle-based meals I could prepare in that wonderful dish! Not only would I be the next Martha Stewart but I could be the Japanese version too! The best part is that Evangeline told me you can even make crepes in the wok. It would be a nod to my French Canadian heritage. I just needed to be sure that I didn't channel Applebum and light my kitchen on fire while using the Japanese contraption.<br />
<br />
Completely overwhelmed with joy, I returned to my apartment to find the remainder of my guests deeply wrapped in the genitalia filled pages of my pornographic books while sipping on their beverages and nibbling on the last of the pizza. I am so glad that everybody was having a good time (despite having to turn the music down thanks to Sug Knight). Earth Mother at this point was slurring slightly which was a perfect indication to me that we truly had had a good time. As a final costume change, I stripped off all of my clothes and donned my new found pedophilic underwear courtesy of Applebum. I walked the final guests to the door around 12:30. I pranced around the hallway with nothing on but my panties. As Applebum turned the corner I flashed her my birthday cakes. <br />
<br />
I returned to my apartment successfully having evaded being arrested on the grounds of lewd activity and/or public nudity of the Canadian variety. I took one look at my empty apartment and all I could see were a pile of unopened bottles of liquor, a floor covered in shiny plastic stars, and a ceiling filled with balloons. To top it off, there were still some pieces of cake left! This was the best day EVER! I grabbed a piece of coffee cake, poured myself my eighteenth and last libation, wandered over to my room, collapsed on my bed and fell asleep with a smile on my face and crumbled cake glued to the side of my mouth.<br />
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Happy 25th!<br />
<img height="300" id="il_fi" src="http://www.best-family-photography-tips.com/images/birthday-cake-drunk-21312157.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /><br />
On a serious note (and you know this is rare), THANK YOU so much everybody who came and supported me last Thursday! You ALL went above, beyond, and completely over the top to make my day so special. You are amazing! You made my day, week, and month. I look forward to the next twenty five years and hope that you will be able to celebrate those days with me too! MUAH!JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-78744103955649805502011-11-16T00:05:00.001-06:002011-11-16T00:05:57.951-06:00An International Crisis of Insomnia (My Trip to Belize) As I slowly venture into my late twenties, I am noticing that the ability to stay awake is becoming increasingly more difficult. During the night, even with copious libations to assist me, I have trouble falling and/or staying asleep which leads to a disastrous next day where I am fighting my own body to remain standing on two feet without collapsing. I have come to find that I am not alone in this predicament. This epidemic of insomnia became quite apparent amongst my counterparts on my recent trip to Belize. There were many occasions when random individuals would simply pass out like Lindsay Lohan at a rave due to their lack of rest the previous night. As I kept witnessing people become taken over by the sleep demon, I became more and more aware of the fact that my generation is incapable of keeping themselves awake for long periods of time. I suppose that the urgency and accessibility of the internet has truly bread a culture that demands things immediately and in short bursts of energy. This contributes to the idea that once an intense, energy filled moment of thirty seconds is over, the only thing left to do is crash. This culture is very similar to an energy drink. During the times in Belize when I wasn't passed out myself, I thoroughly enjoyed witnessing other people bare a striking resemblance to Amy Winehouse.<br />
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The first location of passing out was on the actual airplane on our way to Central America. This came as no surprise because of the fact that it was five o'clock in the morning! Unfortunately, I was not able to experience any of the hilarity induced by company members drooling on each other. Applebum informed me afterwards that EVERYONE was dead asleep as we descended into Belize. Later that same day after we landed, our hostess named Malibu took us do a delicious restaurant. It was on an outdoor deck looking out on the Caribbean sea. We were underneath a gigantic hut made of straw, complete with wooden railings all around the deck. It was gorgeous and the food was delicious. Despite the fact that I had previously experinced an alcohol-induced nap on the plane three hours prior, I still hadn't had my full share of beauty rest. I became the first victim (after arriving in Belize) to fall under the Caribbean spell of involuntary slumber. The fried snapper I had consumed must have been mighty delicious because only a few minutes after my plate was taken away I was snoring loudly in my chair with my head practically in my own lap. Applebum and Caramel Barbie both seized the opportunity by taking full advantage of my vulnerable slumber and took pictures of me in a state of sleep in nothing but a purple titty top. When I became aware of these photographs later in the trip, I was completely horrified. I need to change the name of my blog to Brown and Fat to most accurately describe the images that came from my restful slumber. Apparently, when I fall asleep, I turn into an incarnation of Chef from South Park. I don't know how this transformation happens but what I do know is that I looked like an absolute heifer in the photographs that Applebum and Caramel Barbie took of me. It was the most unfortunate thing since Geri Haliwell left the Spice Girls. From the moment I saw those abysmal photographs, I immediately decided that it was imperative that I begin a water diet as soon as I returned to America. I refuse that people will come to my funeral, peer into the open casket and see a Brown Teletubby.<br />
<br />
The next occasion of Rufee-induced slumber was on board the Water Taxi heading back to Belize City from our day-cation on the tourist island of San Pedro, on day number two of our trip. We boarded the boat after a long day of shopping and restful antics. We quickly sped off to the destination on an hour and a half trek. Only a few minutes into the trip, Applebum's head slowly began descending towards her vagina. With every bump along the water, her head bobbled up and down like it belonged on some one's dashboard. I believe it was Evangeline who caught every moment of this fabulous event on video which features Shoniqua laughing hysterically in the background and ends with Applebum trying to smack the camera person. How easily entertained I am. Next on the docket was Naomi, who fell asleep like a true thug with his right hand at his penis and the other holding his papaya shaped head up. If 50 Cent were to ever take Percocet, this is what I imagine it would look like. Jesus has proved to me that I can only laugh at someone else's misfortune for so long until I become victim to the same unfortunate situation only left to laugh at myself to avoid crying. So of course, not too long after witnessing the hilarious antics of my peers passing out, before I knew it, I was out like a light. I do this thing when I fall asleep in public, where I slowly lean like a wilting plant to one side and then the next. At no time do I actually fall into an unsuspecting victim seated next to me. Instead, I simply hover over them, only to return back to neutral seconds later asleep the whole time. Daddy Long Legs informed me that I was had been engaging in that activity for quite some time while on the boat, unbeknownst to me. He reiterated the fact that I came within incredibly close proximity to his right shoulder during my state of slumber but never made contact with his body as he was seated next to me. He told me that he felt the urge to simply grab my watermelon sized head and place on his shoulder shelf as to eliminate the annoyance of my precariously balanced head. <br />
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Thankfully I woke up early enough in the trip to witness one of the most unfortunate and hysterical sleepers of them all. My boss, Queen Jemima had also been visited by the slumber fairy quite early in the trip. I missed the beginnings of this event on account of my sleeping. When I woke, I just saw all of my co-workers flashing pictures with their cell phone cameras. I had no idea what was going on. Was J. Lo on board? They were taking pictures of my boss that were perhaps just as unfortunate as the ones I had been victim to earlier. Queen Jemima somehow fell asleep with her hand sprawled holding her own face up with her elbow pressed into her thigh. This was a sight to behold. With each bump in the sea travel, Queen Jemima bobbed to and fro yet somehow maintained the orientation of her hand and head. She was fully commited to providing the visual requirements for an unfortunate photographic opportunity. I am so glad that so many of my comrads were able to capture a full record of this unfortunate event. Otherwise, I may have never fully seen the fruits of the excursion.<br />
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On the last night in Belize City, I was drunk (as I am every night whether on vacation or not). I was making my last indentation into the large bottle of Caribbean rum I had purchased called KUKNAT. As I took one of my several swigs of the evening, in walked a clown car of peers from my company. Earth Mother, Tuscaloosa, Applebum, and Charlie Brown came waltzing through the door. Naomi and I were just chilling, each with our own beverage of choice at the time. Before I even knew what was happening, half of my co-workers were setting up shop in my hotel room. I offered Earth Mother a drink. When she accepted the offer, I made a conscious choice to prepare her a drink that was comprised of Coconut rum rather than the extra strong potent liquor that Naomi had purchased even though he offered to let her drink it. I'm glad that I experienced my personal moment of sobriety. Otherwise, I never would have toned down Earth Mother's beverage which would have led to international pandemonium on account of her being somewhat of a light weight. After five minutes with my cocktail, I came to find that Earth Mother was feeling quite amazing! I always know when Earth Mother is truly having a good time because she begins to speak at a volume that would cause a person in a coma to wake up. I, in my moment of calculation, made the very decisive of choice on waiting at least twenty minutes before offering a second libation. This meant that I had to pace my own drink as to not be left out in a state of sobriety. Charlie Brown had one drink and immediately passed out in a seated position on the floor. I wish I could do that. Do you know how much money I would save? Tuscaloosa and Applebum went back to their rooms to get their beauty sleep. This left Earth Mother and I to chat it up at an incredibly ridiculous volume. It's amazing to me how belligerence is so infectious. A good hour into our conversation, we were rudely interrupted by a sound similar to that of a wounded bear. Naomi was snoring, LOUD! Earth Mother and I looked over to see Naomi with only his torso on the bed, legs hanging off toward the floor, arms raised over his head which was tilted to one side and completely knocked out. Passed out doesn't even begin to describe the state that Naomi had drank himself into. Earth Mother and I proceeded to move his lower body onto the bed. I figured that if his upper body had decided that he wanted to sleep, his legs should probably be in on it too. In the shifting and reconfiguring of Naomi's long body, it seemed that his papaya shaped head ended up tilting to the right. This seemed to slightly deafen the sound of his atrocious snoring. Both Earth Mother and I had Jesus to thank.<br />
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After we boarded the plane to return to America, I woke up half way through the flight as a sign from Jesus to go take care of my irritable bowel syndrome. On my way to the restroom, I witnessed my entire company passed out in their seats. As I descended on to the metal toilet bowl I laughed to myself realizing the ridiculousness of the infectious insomnia. During the trip,we all complained about not being able to properly fall asleep in our hotel rooms, yet on any form of transportation not limited to trains, buses, and airplanes we seemed to find it completely reasonable and effortless to just cop a two hour nap. Perhaps we were all just overworked and in desperate need of a good solid five hours of shut eye spanning over the cross of six days during international travel in an environment that did not smell of inticing plantain. After deep reflection, I have come to the conclusion that it matters not where a person ultimately decides to take an involuntary nap. During these times of economic stress, we all need sleep whenever and more importantly wherever we can get it. So if that means that the next time I am on a vacation and I fall asleep on an unsuspecting person's vagina on the train next to me, I will not be ashamed. I apologize in advance to your vagina.<br />
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<img height="293" id="il_fi" src="http://www.insomniacurestreatment.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/1.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /> JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-54017942030626954702011-11-13T23:23:00.000-06:002011-11-13T23:23:12.065-06:00A Near Death Experience (My Trip to Belize) "Final Destination" movies do not sit well with me emotionally or gastronomically. The idea of death seeking me out with a personal vengeance inspires a multitude of nightmares that tend to span over a period not to exceed thirty days. Since I was stood up on a movie date that led me to watch the slasher movie "Saw IV" by myself in a movie theatre at eleven o'clock on a Friday evening while wearing gladiator boots, I have made every effort since to avoid any sort of voluntary fear. I don't deal well with things that I have no control over. The fact that I don't know when the bus is going to come out of nowhere and kill the main character of the movie troubles me deeply. Thus, when it comes to real life, I make every effort possible to evade danger. As I approach my quarter of a century mark on life, I think I have done pretty well at not being killed by a moving vehicle and making it to second base with strangers. Unfortunately, on my recent trip to Belize, danger was determined to follow me, capture me, and abuse me in every way possible. Specifically, this danger came in the form of a travelling event across the beautiful country of Belize where I experienced my first "Final Destination" moment. <br />
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We were travelling from Belize City to a small urban area called Punta Gorda. Naomi, Queen Jemima, and Earth Mother received the luxury of flying in on a jet plane tinier than a barbie doll's vagina. The remaining company members were prepared to experience this joyous trip via land, on a chartered bus. So there we were: Young Diva, Applebum, Daddy Long Legs, Pilar, B-More, Charlie Brown, Caramel Barbie, Tuscaloosa, Shoniqua, Michelin Man, Evangeline, and Banana Tree along with Yours Truly waiting for this amazing Caribbean version of the Magic School Bus to arrive. Unfortunately, our horse and carriage ended up coming in the form of a white mini van similar to those used in race-based shootings. The thirteen of us just stood in astonishment as our ride approached being driven by Malibu (the sweetest hostess ever). Truly, there was nothing wrong with the van, but the idea that everybody was going to squeeze themselves into this clown car seemed beyond absurd. To make things worse, some of the people in the company had some rather bizarre ideas about packing. To be clear, this was merely an overnight stay in Punta Gorda. We were arriving in the evening and leaving early the next morning. I simply packed a small handbag. Evangeline, on the other hand, came strolling out of the hotel with her ENTIRE SUITCASE! Can you imagine? What the Christ could she possibly need in a place that we were only going to spend twelve hours in? I was beside myself. Piling on with the fact that thirteen people, plus a driver had to fit into one van, this became quite overwhelmingly ridiculous to me. Pilar and Shoniqua also had suitcases. There was an epidemic ensuing. Eventually there was some consolidation amongst the three stooges. Malibu ended up calling for back-up anyhow. A small pick-up truck was added to the quest which ended up taking some of the suitcases and heavier items including Michelin Man. Finally, everything had been settled. It all worked out in the end and we were on our merry way to Punta Gorda. I thought after that endeavour, that all would be just peachy.<br />
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I remember very little of the six hour drive to Punta Gorda, outside of the delicious plantain chips I bought at a gas station for less than one American dollar. I was passed out for the bulk of the trip thanks to the series of libations I had treated myself to at breakfast. The engine started, and we were trucking along the "highway" of Belize, and before you know it, the back of my head was bouncing rhythmically and comfortably against the seatback behind me. I was deep into my beauty rest after slipping easily into my restful slumber completely unaware of the fact that a dramatic change of events was waiting patiently around the corner. I was awoken by the sound of gun fire! I had never heard anything so frightening. It was rapid fire! After waking up immediately, my first reaction was to burrow my bi-racial Canadian face into B-More's lap (she was seated next to me in the back of the van). I never thought that in a time of crisis that I would seek refuge in co-worker's vagina, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The shots kept firing over and over again relentlessly! Tears began streaming down my face probably into B-More's unsuspecting vagina. I trembled in fear amidst the screams of terror from the other innocent people in the van. Lord knows who would be left alive after the attack. Memories of my childhood came rushing through my imagination. Images of rainbows, caramel taffy, and lesbian manatees came sweeping into my mind. These were surely the final thoughts one would have before his or her destination into heaven. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could in hopes I would not endure the pain as the bullets penetrated my organs. Finally, the blasting of bullets stopped. I remained clenched around B-More's lap, refusing to let go of her vagina until I knew she was still alive and I was safe. After several moments passed, and after the screams had died down, I allowed myself to open one eyeball, the right one. I meticulously released my upper body from B-More's lower body to very precariously resume my torso's upright position. Everyone was alive. I have Jesus, Allah, and Buddha to thank for that. After I thoroughly checked my Canadian body for bullet holes and discovered that the shooter had missed me, I breathed a sigh of relief that for some reason came out as a small fart. I ignored the inappropriateness of my flatulence and instead turned my attention to the assurance that everyone in the van was safe after successfully evading being gunned down. Once B-More's laughter made a cameo appearance, my emotinons turned to the anger-filled variety. How could she be laughing at my hysteria?! I came to find out that there we were not attacked by the Belizean mafia. One of the tires had simply blown out.<br />
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First of all, can we add to the Canadian elementary school curriculum in the "career and personal planning" section, a unit completely dedicated to the enlightening of students to the idea that a blown tire sounds srikingly similar to that of Biggie Small being assassinated? I could not believe that the gunshots I had experienced audibly were in fact those of a simple Firestone tire having a bad day on international travel. Unbelievable! In my state of total shock and embarrassment, I vacated the vehicle to avoid any further humiliation in such close proximity to the witnesses of my ridiculous behaviour. The other members of the company also followed suit. Thank God I had filled a Coca Cola bottle with some delicious Caribbean rum from my hotel room for the excursion. I knew I would need an afternoon libation at some point. Evangeline and Shoniqua (both of which have bladders smaller than a teenage Korean gymnast's) discovered that they needed to use the restroom. Remember that at this point we were completely stranded on the side of the road in a foreign country. Neither of those two have any sense of being self conscious, thus they both (one at a time) whipped out their vaginas and copped a squat in the middle of the road to mark their territory. May I just point out the fact that female public urination (regardless of your sexuality) is the most unattractive thing since SARS. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (Shoniqua and Evangeline) eventually strolled their way off from the side of the road to a random woman's house who had come to investigate what was happening on the side of the road. My impression of her thoughts came out verbally in the form of "WHAT YA DOON IN ME DRIIIIIVEWEY?". Daddy Long Legs found my interperatation of this woman's thoughts to be quite amusing. As Shoniqua and Evangeline wandered off to the home of this random woman, I prayed that they would not end up like Hansel and Gretel. After they made it back safely from their adventure, they informed us that they were welcomed with open arms and were given a full tour of this unsuspecting woman's home. This tour included a thorough introduction to a vast collection of dolls kept in the basement. Clearly Shoniqua nor Evangeline have ever seen "Bride of Chucky". I'm just glad they made it back to the stranded van with their virginities in tact. After several passers by, including a teenager on a bicycle with a machete, we finally fixed the issue with the tire and made our way successfully arriving in Punta Gorda without a single bullet hole.<br />
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I cannot emphasize enough that I really thought I was going down like Tu Pac. In those short moments of complete terror and fright, I forgot all about my diarrhea and concentrated on what was truly important to me as life was leaving me. Because of this near death experience, I have come to realize what I truly want out of life. If I were to die tomorrow, I would want all of the people whom are close to me to know how much I love them, especially my family, my friends, and most importantly, the head salesman at the liquor store down the street from my apartment building. I plan on being on this Earth for a long long time, but it is unfortunate that it is truly not up to me how long I am divinely favored to experience the fruits of this world. What I do know is that for whatever time I am alotted, I will do my best to fill it with love and joy and to also perpetuate that love and joy so that others may experience it too. The most important lesson of all is that at any moment you are concerned about losing your life, seek out the vagina that is closest to you for refuge. <br />
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<img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://www4.images.coolspotters.com/photos/341728/screaming-profile.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="396" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-83563500783486513242011-11-12T20:50:00.000-06:002011-11-12T20:50:22.455-06:00My First Adoption; a Brangelina Story (My Trip to Belize) A trip to Central America would not be complete until I fully realized the full potential of seriously taking a Black orphan back to America in my carry-on. This little piece of chocolate delight came in the form of an eight year old named Cameron. Pilar and I were perched upon a balcony at a restaurant adjacent to our hotel when we noticed a shoeless chocolate dumpling wandering the streets around seven o'clock in the evening. With a mouth full of fish, I cried out "Are you okay?". That was the best I could think of in my state of half inebriation. The little homeless wonder kept pointing at his mouth which I assumed was a clear indication that he was in need of desperate nourishment. Pilar instructed me to go downstairs and fetch the little nugget. When Mexicans see an opportunity, they seize it! Normally I would have responded defensively to this proposition, but due to the seemingly unlimited amount of rum in my hotel room, I did not bat an eyelash during my non-existent consideration of the notion of abducting a child. I jumped the steps two at a time to scoop up the Caribbean infant. I scurried into the dark streets to find the little boy (which was very difficult on account of this boy being as dark as night time, if he wasn't smiling, I never would have found him). "Are you hungry?" I asked the little nugget. He simply shook his head in response. "Come with me", I said, feeling like Michael Jackson. <br />
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I grabbed an elevated stool for the little boy to sit on so that he would be at an even level between Pilar and myself. We asked for an extra plate for the nugget. Pilar and I consolidated all leftover food on our plates to create a meal for the orphan. "What's your name", asked Pilar. "Cameron", the little boy said with a mouth full of fish. "How old are you?", I inquired. "Me ahh aaaaaaaayeeeeeet" he responded. Pilar and I stared at each other; both perplexed. After a long discussion, we concluded that Cameron was trying to communicate to us in his Creole that he was eight years old. The rest of the conversation displayed the same pattern. One of us would ask him something, Cameron would respond unintelligibly, and Pilar and I would be stuck to play a game of 21 questions trying to decipher what the Christ the toddler was saying. After a good half an hour, we learned that Cameron enjoyed football and had two girlfriends. The nuggets grow up so fast, don't they? After we paid our bill, we escorted the shoeless wonder outside. "Where are your parents?", I asked. "Jump Street", he responded. The waitress at the restaurant informed us that Jump Street was a long way away. Cameron told us that his parents work in the fields and weren't going to be back home until later in the evening. This would leave the little boy to wander the streets with no shoes on for hours on end. However, I must point out that for some reason it is quite common for many Belizeans to not wear shoes on rural streets. I tried to trust in Jesus that it would all be fine. Pilar and I had a company engagement we had to go to so it was imperative that we bounced. Before we left, we told Cameron that we would be at the Bliss Center later if he was bored. Pilar and I waved goodbye to the little chocolate dumpling. We went back to the hotel, freshened up, and made our way to the Bliss Center.<br />
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Pilar and I walked down Albert Street in pitch black at seven thirty at night. We moved at an expedient pace as to avoid the potential of unwanted rape. Finally we made it to the Bliss Centre to meet the rest of the company. Who was standing at the door waiting for us not but four feet tall? Cameron! We were so excited to see him. We found out that apparently he had seen B-More on her way towards the Bliss Center and just followed her there. However, I would like to negate this fact and focus on the idea that Cameron had truly accepted the fact that Pilar and I were his new adoptive parents. I couldn't wait to show off our beautiful new cocoa finding to the rest of our company. How jealous they would be that Pilar and I had become the next Brangelina! We were just the most adorable family ever. Queen Jemima found him to be quite intriguing. Evangeline almost burst into tears when she realized he didn't own a pair of shoes. Shoniqua became quite distraught as to the fact that Cameron truly had nowhere to go. Pilar, Shoniqua, and B-More eventually decided to take Cameron back to the restaurant where we had met him because it seemed that the owner knew him. We found out later that she was in fact his aunt. Thank you Jesus that she wasn't a math teacher if you know what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I decided to wander through downtown Belize in the middle of the day in search of some delicious street food and a soda. I'm a simple girl with simple needs. I passed by several multi-colored establishments filled with copious amounts of products including but limited to sneakers, t-shirts that said "You better Belize it", and tamarind soda. I dismissed most of them to finally come across a sketchy concession stand with parallel bars and dust atop the counter. The location was hideously unappealing but it had the one thing that I could not turn down; Asian employees! I was over the moon. I asked Chung Lee for a "tamarind soda". She looked at me and said, "U wan cigarette?". No bitch, I want soda!!! Clearly she had not successfully completed Hooked on Phonics. After going back and forth with Chung Lee for what felt like an eternity, I finally gave in and just pointed to the damn Fanta. Disappointed, I made my way back to Hotel Mopan, unfortunately with great difficulty. My directional skills are about as good as Mariah Carey's acting ability. A three legged cockier spaniel could find his whereabouts quicker than I could. I wandered around aimlessly for a good hour looking for Albert Street. After some time, I finally could smell the sent of plantain. I knew I was close! As I traipsed down the street, closer and closer to my destination, I stumbled across an adorable chocolate midget in a red t-shirt. It was Cameron! "Oh my gosh! Hi Cameron! How are you? It's so great to see you again. What have you been up to?", I said with much enthusiasm! "Give meee ya drink!" he instructed as he stared at my orange Fanta. At that precise moment I realized that I was no longer his Father, I was his BITCH! Officially. This was awful. I gave the little nugget what he asked for and wandered my way back to the hotel (which he pointed out to me), never to see Cameron again.<br />
<br />
The biggest lesson I have learned from this experience is that adoption is best when it is temporary. Had my relationship with Cameron gone any further, I probably would have ended up turning into Tina Turner: abused, shameful, and with a great pair of stems. It just goes to show that the delightful combination of a Mexican and a bi-racial Canadian is not always fool proof. I do not regret the time that Pilar and I spent nurturing, caring, and guiding this little lost and shoeless wonder of Belize. Cameron will always be a part of our lives. I hope that the next time he swindles a soft drink from a gullable North American, he will think of me.<br />
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<img alt="photo" height="640" id="imageChecker-13211518783900" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2576/4226858128_ebcfb2c2f1_z.jpg" width="428" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-64711908116757473832011-11-11T20:29:00.000-06:002011-11-11T20:29:52.991-06:00Itsby Bitsy Teenie Weenie Leopard Print Mankini (My Trip to Belize) Prior to my trip to Belize, I had been quite concerned about being submerged underwater. Unfortunately, I have never learned to swim. In my old age, I have found it quite prudent to place emphasis on my choice of swimwear rather than my lack of aquatic technique. Thus, I took great preparation before my trip to purchase the most scandalous bathing suit possible and shaved "Australia" to fully embrace the idea of my bathing suit. I call it the mankini! On day two, we as a company finally took a trip out towards San Pedro, a tourist location in Belize full of sand and shops. This would be a perfect opportunity for the grand unveiling of my new found purchase.<br />
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The trip to San Pedro began with the gathering of our company at Hotel Mopan and being escorted by Malibu to the Water Taxi. We all boarded a speedboat of sorts. Sandwiched between Pilar and Queen Jemima, I braced myself as the boat began to speed up and slightly lean on an angle towards heaven. The wind brushed my bi-racial face with the most gentle of touch. The sun glistened past the cloudless sky as I enjoyed the delicious view of colored houses and bright green trees all around me. As we ventured further into the Caribbean sea, the view of land continued to become distant on all sides. At one point, I was not able to see any land at all. I tried to suppress the diarrhea. I noticed at one point that there were parts of the sky that were incredibly dark with streams of darkness that descended all the way to the ocean floor. "That's rain", said Pilar. Completely bewildered, I asked her how the Christ she would know that as a Mexican. Supposedly Pilar studied meteorology at Oklahoma University. Mexicans are always full of surprises. We finally made it to our destination in San Pedro. It was almost mankini time!<br />
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There was absolutely no itinerary once we docked in San Pedro. We were basically told that we had 4 hours to do whatever we wanted to before we return back to the water taxi. This was music to my ears! As I looked around the island, I concluded that this wasn't so much a beach but perhaps more of a strip that really lent itself to shopping. So I decided to take the grand tour of all the little nic nac shops on the island. However, the first priority was to prepare myself a libation. Malibu had graciously given me a half bottle of Caribbean rum the night previous. So I had packed the bottle along with some coca cola and a plastic cup. I poured myself a drink and began exploring the island. I came across a tiny little gift shop featuring a myriad of colorful trinkets and doodads. I became distracted while investigating the chocolate bars of soap by a loud squawk. The tiny hairs on my elbows stood on end. I was so excited. I LOVE BIRDS (almost as much as I love manatees). I walked back towards the exit and discoverer the most beautiful amazon parrot I had ever seen! Her name was Survivor because she was the only bird left alive after the tree which her family lived in came crashing down during a storm. She was feasting on grape nuts at the time. The one thing I do know about parrots is to not disturb them while they are eating. I couldn't help myself. I tried to feed her a grape nut. She became quite disinterested! She bit me a little. After about an hour of trying to coheirs her to appreciate my affection she finally gave in and jumped up on my finger. I was overwhelmed with delight! Survivor crawled all the way up my arm and back down again a few times before I finally returned her to the top of the cage. I love birds but I was running out of mankini time and I really needed to move on. I bought the chocolate soap and went on my merry way.<br />
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On my journey through the pathway in San Pedro, I was entertained by the beautiful sights of palm trees, smooth sand, and the blue Caribbean sea. On my third libation I strolled past a coconut tree. There was a small man of Hispanic descent collecting the fallen coconuts. I was immediately intrigued. "How much?' I asked. He paused for a moment. This indicated to me that he perhaps was not selling these coconuts and was taking a moment to jack up some ridiculously absurd price to what he thought was a clueless American. "One dollar...." he said slowly. That was my jam! I was overly excited. "I'll take it!" I said in my moderately inebriated state. Next thing you know, he pulled out this gigantic knife (called a "machete") and proceeded to chop the top off of a very large green coconut. He handed it to me and said "Enjoy!" (of course he couldn't pronounce the "j" on account of him being Hispanic). Let me tell you, the coconut water was TO THE TOP! I was so excited. This was exactly what I needed to mix with my Caribbean rum. I took a few sips of the deliciously fresh coconut water and then proceeded to pour a generous amount of rum in the space I had created in the coconut. It was perfect! No one would suspect that the beverage that I was drinking directly from the coconut was of the adult variety.<br />
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I continued skipping along the road passing by cyclists of various ethnic varieties and a plethora of abandoned coconuts. I finally came across an area which actually resembled a beach that might possibly have mankini potential. In the distance, I saw a group of chocolate people who seemed to be of the American variety. As I wandered closer towards them, I realized that they were indeed my co-workers. Specifically it was B-More, Tuscaloosa, Charlie Brown, Daddy Long Legs, and Banana Tree. They were each donning their swimsuit of choice, basking in the sun and frolicking in the water. They were performing a photo shoot of sorts. Tuscaloosa, as per usual, was sporting some type of Destiny's Child, Survivor video pose for the camera. He was wearing a blue speedo (big surprise). When it was Banana Tree's turn to have his photo taken, he took a slightly more subtle approach looking like a Caribbean thug in red short shorts and dark sunglasses; very much an 80s throwback. B More had a pink bikini with polka dots. Her swimsuit was so itty bitty that her vagina almost made a run for it. Charlie Brown had a tight little black speedo which could barely maintain Africa (and by "Africa" I mean his galaxy sized tukkus). Daddy Long Legs took the patriotic approach with a red, white, and blue pair of board shorts. I was mildly disappointed in his conservative choice, mostly because it would make me look like a real slut in the dental floss I was about to put on. I placed my bag (containing my rum) down on a little bench where my co-workers belongings were. I slowly took my layers off revealing my leopard print bikini. Now, when I bought the swimsuit in the store it was teenie tiny. But when I put it back on at that moment in public, it appeared to have shrunk to the size of Melba toast. I could barely fit my Canadian treasures inside of this swimsuit. Nonetheless, I was stuck with my mankini as my only fashion option in that moment. I sucked it up (literally) and slowly waltzed my way towards my friends. I had to move very slowly to ensure that my testicles didn't jump out of my swimsuit, so I settled on a slow strut as my walk of choice. I took my coconut filled with rum with me for moral support. So there I stood in front of my co-workers, practically naked with nothing but a leopard print bikini that was riding up my ass and a coconut. I decided that jumping into the water would probably be the best choice. I joined in the group effort of the photo shoot. At one point I felt something tugging on my bikini strings. It turned out to be Daddy Long Legs who noticed that my swimsuit had began a slow descent and was trying to prevent the possibility of my genitalia making an escape by pulling up my bathing suit for me. I always appreciate loyal friends. As we continued taking pictures, I tried to stay conscious of the fact that I was barely managing to stay inside the smallest bathing suit known to man so I decided to make sure I did a little bevel to the side to slightly conceal the inappropriateness of my fashion choice. Surely had Queen Jemima seen this monstrosity, she would have demanded that I put clothes on. Now I know how Britney Spears once felt. After endless photographs had been shot, I decided that I had had enough. Considering the fact that my bathing suit was technically underwear, I only realized once getting out of the water that clearly this outfit was not made for any type of aquatic endeavour. There I was, literally holding up my own genitalia with one hand and holding my coconut with the other, running towards my bag which contained the three things I desperately needed at that moment: a towel, a change of clothes, and hard liquor. The fact that I had made it through that ordeal without flashing a single testicle still remains a mystery to me.<br />
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Ultimately I would like to make it through life with joy in my heart. Whether that happens with or without a leopard bikini riding between my bum cheeks is for Jesus to decide. I do not regret the fact that I chose dental floss as swimwear. It's important to try everything once. What I do know is that coconuts are an amazing disguise for alcoholic beverages. The combination of the Caribbean Sea and the copious libations, I felt completely liberated in my lack of clothing. To be clear, there will not be a repeat of this on American soil (at least not until coconuts start falling from pine trees, and there's a Mexican with a machete nearby). So this memory will continue to permeate in my mind and bring to my heart. I have B-More to thank for posting the pictures of my mankini on Facebook. Now, my friends and family all across the world can enjoy the images of an innocent bi-racial Canadian looking like a Central American prostitute.<br />
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<img height="222" id="il_fi" src="http://www.foxyattire.com/members/1349115/uploaded/269_lg.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="350" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-48594435887949193852011-11-10T22:56:00.000-06:002011-11-10T22:56:20.762-06:00Attacked by Caribbean Children (My Trip to Belize) We successfully arrived in Belize City at an airport smaller than a Kinder garden classroom. I'm pretty sure that the plane was bigger than the terminal. I had been concerned for Caramel Barbie who was having some gastronomic issues whilst airborne. That's all I needed was for yet another individual to become thinner than I on account of food poisoning! Once our passports were stamped, we were immediately greeted by our hostess and guide, Malibu. She was just a wonderful ball of joy who made our experience in Belize simply magical. She escorted us to our ride which was a large charter bus. The sixteen of us in the company all catapulted ourselves onto the van with increasing excitement to explore Central America. We peered out the window anxiously as we made our journey toward the hotel. Very quickly, I spotted an iguana! He was perched atop of a cement wall. Next we passed a restaurant called "Manatee Look-Out!". I immediately grabbed Banana Tree's attention. "You have manatees in Belize?" I asked, barely being able to contain my excitement. "Yes of course", Banana Tree responded with his Sean Paul accent. I was overjoyed! I LOVE MANATEES! I obsess over how adorably fat they are with those long whiskers looking Rosie O'Donnell. At that moment I became determined that at some point during my first trip to Central America that I would find a manatee and then become long time friends with said manatee through Facebook. After several winding roads and bumpy paths, we finally made it into the central part of Belize City and arrived at Hotel Mopan. <br />
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The building of Hotel Mopan was very much a coral color, if you will. It reminded me of many of the establishments in Miami, Florida. Naomi and I made it up to our room 202, on the second floor. Naomi has many talents, but opening hotel doors is not one of them. After several minutes of him struggling to put the key in like an impotent geezer, I finally snatched that ho away from him and opened up the door myself. To be honest, I really had no idea what to expect. I was well aware of the fact that we were in a third world country and thus decided to keep an open mind. All that mattered was that it was clean and that there be some form of air ventilation. My wishes were granted. Albeit a very simple set up, the Hotel Mopan was equipped with a well tidied room and a fan overhead to keep from sweltering. Give me a liquor store and I would be good to go. Before I could make my liquor run, the first order of business was to visit Banana Tree's old high school and make a public appearance. Queen Jemima suggested Banana Tree, B-More, Shoniqua, and Yours Truly to be the ones to visit the little Caribbean nuggets. I soon would regret this decision.<br />
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Malibu drove us in a delicious pick-up truck to Wesley College, an institution that houses young teenagers of Belize for their middle school education. As we walked through the gates towards the outdoor assembly that was taking place, I noticed that all the delicious multi-shaded chocolate children donned white uniforms. To be clear, there were no off-white or eggshell colored outfits. These clothes were white like marshmallows. I felt blinded! It was truly amazing to see so many little nuggets like a little army of heaven just glistening in their perfectly washed, white attire. I, of course, was blithely unaware of the fact that I had selected a tiny purple tank top to wear that afternoon with straps thinner than Nicole Ritchie with the Bird Flu. To be frank, my titties were out! I was practically was showing nipple. I didn't become aware of this until I saw all of these matching conservatively dressed Caribbean children. I felt slightly insecure at that moment but ultimately came to the conclusion that the nuggets probably didn't notice me. I was only there to simply sit and observe while Banana Tree made his speech.<br />
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Banana Tree was introduced at the assembly and quickly came forward to deliver a very inspiring speech about persistence and being studious. He talked about the fact that he too came from that same school and through motivation and hard work ended up to be in an American company thriving, doing what he had always dreamed of. After he finished, he introduced our boss, Queen Jemima. This is where things took a turn for the worst. She started off by introducing each of the additional members of the company. Keep in mind, my titties are still on display. "Please welcome Shoniqua!" she said. The audience of Caribbean nuggets modestly applauded as she approached the podium. I took a sigh of relief at that moment. I realized that these children were quite conservative. They wore uniforms after all. Thus, I felt that they would not to much more than gasp at my on display breasts. I need not worry about being set on fire. Queen Jemima than introduced B More who was greeted with the same response. "Last but not least we have Brown and Thin" she introduced me. I, as modestly as possible, approached the podium to join my co-workers. As soon as those young girls saw my tits, it was absolute pandemonium! These Caribbean nuggets completely lost their shit. They jumped out their seats and began screaming like they had just found out that their vaginas could spit out one hundred dollar bills. I was, of course, completely appalled. With my head slightly down, I waved conservatively as I adjusted my titty top to conceal my right nipple which I had realized was making a break away. The young girls kept clapping, screaming, and jumping up and down. "Am I Michael Jackson?" I thought to myself. After several awkward moments, the insanity finally died down. <br />
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Queen Jemima clearly saw an opportunity from this foolish display of affection. "Let's have a dance contest!" she exclaimed. She invited up several audience members to the stage. Queen Jemima was having some difficulty getting people to volunteer. She is a very smart, business savvy woman, and when she sees an opportunity, she seizes it like Angelina Jolie. "If another girl comes up here to volunteer for the contest, Brown and Thin will dance for you!" she said. This is when the diarrhea began cultivating in my intestines. For the record, I was way too sober to be dancing in front of a crowd. It was eleven in the morning for Christ's sake and my buzz from the airplane was long gone. But alas, I jumped up on that stage and dropped it like it was hot (which it was by the way, it was at least 90 degrees outside). The nuggets went crazy. I think I saw a pair of panties fly past my head at one point. Quickly afterward I rushed towards the exit to avoid the mob of hormone driven Caribbean children. I safely made it inside the pick-up truck. Malibu drove us back to the hotel. <br />
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After successfully evading the Brown children of the corn, I made it my first priority (as I always do when I travel) to track down some hard liquor. Through Banana Tree, I learned about a delicious establishment called Brodie's which is supposedly the Caribbean equivalent of WAL-MART with the additional bonus of a wide selection of spirits. Naomi was game to go with me because of the fact of him being an alcoholic. The two of us paraded down Albert Street towards the establishment. The two of us bitches were completely overwhelmed with the variety of adult beverages that Brodie's had to offer. Naomi did not hesitate once he found a bottle that read "Extra Strong Rum". Upon further examination, I noticed that there was no alcoholic percentage or proof printed on the label, not to mention it was only five dollars. This was a red flag for me. Clearly this was an incredibly "urban" bottle of rum. The kind of liquor that will get you feeling tipsy rather immediately but probably tastes like gasoline. I chose a slightly different route. I figured "when in Rome....." So I purchased a bottle of genuine coconut rum which is over double the alcoholic content of Malibu with a delicious flavor of coconut. I grabbed that ho off the shelf and Naomi and I made our way back to the hotel. <br />
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I served myself my first libation in the glass that I had also purchased at Brodie's. I enjoyed my coconut rum with just a splash of coke. It was pure heaven. I could barely contain my excitement. Once I moved onto drink number three, Naomi suggested I try some of his ghetto liquor. After just a whiff of that stuff, I felt like I had been slipped a rufie. After just a small taste of his beverage I thought I might follow in the footsteps of Courtney Love. This "extra strong rum" was absolutely blasphemous. It tasted like WD40. After just one taste, I returned the plastic cup to Naomi and put that ho to rest. I finished the rest of my third libation instead. I blacked out soon afterwards.<br />
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Amidst my slumber, in my state of inebriation, I had no clue what would happen the next day as I woke up in my second day in Belize. I am glad that I was ignorant to my future for the fact that craziness was about to ensue. I thought that I had been through the worst of it by almost being mauled by the children of the corn earlier in the day. Only the Lord knew my true destiny. Apparently Jesus was about to get ready to test me. And he waited until my Caribbean arrival to do so. Stay tuned to find about the desperate antics that followed my copious drinking.<br />
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<img height="266" id="il_fi" src="http://www.caribank.org/titanweb/cdb/webcms.nsf/0/92983B2AED8BAF9B0425740300536C8D/$File/spot_children.jpg?openelement" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-47429487468738337912011-11-09T18:43:00.003-06:002011-11-09T18:57:08.672-06:00Sky Mall #2 (My Trip to Belize) Flying has always been an over dramatic ordeal. Since my first flight at 4 years old from Vancouver to Toronto when I jumped out of my seat and like a bull in a China shop I darted down the aisle and managed to knock over a flight attendant, I have never been the same. As I've become older I have resisted the temptation to wrestle strangers to the floor, yet the feeling of being overwhelmingly uncomfortable and concerned for my safety has not subsided. Thankfully, I have found a way to successfully cope with these feelings: alcohol. I discovered that drinking alone can simply resolve most of my problems. What I didn't realize is that in the case of flying, there are alternate remedies that when combined with alcohol not only make flying more tolerable but actually enjoyable. This little beacon of light is a little something called Sky Mall! This ridiculous in flight magazine takes advantage of the alcoholics on board. In their state of inebriation this magazine caters towards a flyer's every ridiculous need. The products are absolutely absurd. Once I've had a few drinks, Sky Mall becomes the most entertaining thing since Bananas in Pajamas. On my latest trip to Belize, Sky Mall absolutely delivered the goods! Here are some examples of the products sold in the latest issue of American Airlines' Sky Mall magazine!<br />
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<strong><u>The Slanket (Camouflage for Men)</u></strong><br />
<img height="192" id="il_fi" src="http://www.slanket.fr/10-91-large/slanket-camo-la-couverture-polaire-a-manches-vert-camouflage.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /><br />
"Stay cozy and keep your hands free in 13'' wide sleeves" says the advertisement. Yeah, stay cozy and SINGLE for the rest of your bloody life! What the hell is this abomination? This is the most atrocious article of clothing (if I can even call it that) that I have ever seen! The saddest part is that this also comes in a Siamese version where two people fit into one slanket! I immediately lunged for the sick bag located in the seat in front of me when I saw this monstrosity.<br />
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<u><strong>Hanukkah Tree Topper</strong></u><br />
<img height="320" id="il_fi" src="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/203578_122871012628_5036414_n.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="250" /><br />
This is "a must have for interfaith marriages". This is of course a Jewish star cleverly designed to fit a top of a Christmas tree. It is also referred to as a "Menorahment". Need I say more?<br />
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<strong><u>Video Pen</u></strong><br />
<img height="280" id="il_fi" src="http://static.traderscity.com/board/userpix26/19349-omejo-video-pen-camera-manual-1.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="280" /><br />
Ray J did just fine with a regular camera. There is clearly no need for this ridiculous "invention". The era of James bond is over and so is involuntary pornography!<br />
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<strong><u>The Original Crispy Bowl</u></strong><br />
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<img height="231" id="il_fi" src="http://www.reviewaddicts.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Obol2-222x231.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="222" /><br />
This ingenious contraption separates the milk from the cereal so that each bite is deliciously crisp. Unless it takes you 5 days to finish your breakfast, I would suggest you save your $19.99 and just eat your Cinnamon Toast Crunch at an expedient pace.<br />
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<strong><u>Personal Oxygen Bar </u></strong><br />
<img height="268" id="il_fi" src="http://www.skymall.com/images/products/ZDH/20110921/204092148d.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="268" /><br />
An epidemic of oxygen deficiency has swept the nation. With the rejuvenating oxygen bar with turbo air flow, you can enjoy breathing clean, fresh, oxygen-enriched air anytime! The device also comes with a built in tranquil sounds music player! Yours for $499.99!<br />
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<strong><u>Flair Hair Visor</u></strong><br />
<img height="322" id="il_fi" src="http://www.gearfuse.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/flair-visor.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="392" /><br />
Men of the world, PLEASE just give in and sport the Sinead O'Conner look for the second half of your life span rather than wearing some ridiculous looking porcupine attached to a visor on top of your withering head! The ad instructs those who purchase the item to machine wash; air dry. Oy vey!<br />
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<strong><u>Fashion Boot Stand</u></strong><br />
<img height="268" id="il_fi" src="http://www.skymall.com/images/products/LJF/20110830/204082791d.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="268" /><br />
At first glance, I thought this was the latest sexual device invented for women with Grand Canyon sized vaginas. I have come to find out that these phallic looking stuffed animals are made to be inserted into your boot to maintain the integrity of its shape. "Ends are angled for simple insertion" says the advertisement which lead me back to my original idea about the sexual possibilities of this product. Available in six colors.<br />
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<strong><u>Litter Robot Bubble Unit</u></strong><br />
<img height="281" id="il_fi" src="http://singularityhub.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/robotic_litter_box.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="253" /><br />
This is a self cleaning litter box that activates 7 minutes after the feline leaves the contraption (using laser sensors). The machine sucks the waste through the debris into a hidden drawer leaving the "globe" fresh and clean. Just pray that poor Ms. Fluffy doesn't re-enter the box during a false alarm and accidentally gets sucked into the litter box, never to return! May I also mention the fact that the feline in the advertisement appears to be quite bewildered by the fact that she is about to be launched into space. Yours for $359.99 (+$15 S&H)<br />
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<strong><u>Toilet Dog and Cat Waterbowl</u></strong><br />
<img height="160" id="il_fi" src="http://www.thegreenhead.com/imgs/xl/toilet-dog-cat-water-bowl-xl.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /><br />
"A hilarious conversation starter and pet pleaser". Really? I don't think it will be funny when your dumbass dog or cat becomes completely confused as to whether or not he/she is supposed to be drinking out of the toilet. You are just asking for trouble with this hideous idea of an inside joke!<br />
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<strong><u>The Upside Down Prelit Noble Fir Christmas Tree</u></strong><br />
<img height="240" id="il_fi" src="http://a248.e.akamai.net/f/248/9086/1h/s7diod-isorigin.scene7.com/is/image/Hammacher/72376?wid=240&op_sharpen=0&qlt=90,1" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="240" /><br />
The advertisement claims that a tree in its upside down orientation displays ornaments more visibly. I wasn't able to read any further into the ad on account of my crying and involuntarily shaking while laughing hysterically. Could you imagine having that in your house while people are over? My Grandmother would punch me in the face if I had that on display.<br />
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<strong><u>The Marshmallow Shooter</u></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"> <img height="223" id="il_fi" src="http://cdn.everyjoe.com/files/130/2006/06/marshmallow-shooter.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></shapetype></span></shapetype></span><br />
This device holds 25 edible marshmallows at a time. I am certain that I would need a minimum of ten shots of Goldschlager before I would ever find this contraption amusing.<br />
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<strong><u>The Bling String Hair Accessories</u></strong><br />
<img height="268" id="il_fi" src="http://thewhiskeydregs.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Bling-String.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="268" /><br />
Two words: GHE-TTO!<br />
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<strong><u>Kenzie Covers</u></strong><br />
<img height="330" id="il_fi" src="http://www.kenziecovers.com/images/Kenzie-Covers_with_mask.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /><br />
Show your patriotism and defend against potentially deadly gases at the same time! There's nothing that says "I love America!" more than sporting the nation's flag on your hazard mask while visiting a relative with a contagious disease or painting an accent wall.<br />
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<strong><u>Cast Iron Giraffe Paper Holder</u></strong><br />
<img height="275" id="il_fi" src="http://www.signals.com/graphics/products/regular/HH8992.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="110" /><br />
I must confess that I would be the fool that would buy something this ridiculous. <br />
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<strong><u>Sock Monkey Hat and Mittens</u></strong><br />
<img height="275" id="il_fi" src="http://www.thewirelesscatalog.com/graphics/products/regular/VJ6134G.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="207" /><br />
The happy expression on this woman's face brings me great concern. Unless she's getting royalties for this bullshit, she has no reason to be smiling! And may I just ask, why in the Hell would anybody where this shit? Marijuana must be involved.<br />
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<strong><u>Dress Up Squirrel Magnets</u></strong><br />
<img height="182" id="il_fi" src="http://www.thewirelesscatalog.com/graphics/products/regular/CF0372.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="275" /><br />
$9.95 gets you one small squirrel figurine with a magnet on its ass for refrigerator attachment and 5 additional outfits representing different time periods. Should I ever become senile enough to purchase something like this, please put me in a rest home and buy me an endless supply of Grey Goose and a puppy.<br />
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Ultimately I didn't end up buying any of these useless products. Yet, even without a purchase, each item brought me so much joy to my heart! I knew that Young Diva was off in another section of the plane cackling along with me. She has been enjoying Sky Mall magazine longer than I. What amazes me is that there are people who will actually buy such atrocious contraptions. I've decided that I need to invent men's undergarments with a special attachment cleans, skins, and de-bones saltwater fish. Clearly it would make a killing in the next addition of Sky Mall magazine! I landed in Belize with a smile on my face. Although I did slightly regret not buying the toilet paper holding giraffe.JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-72786159531042632332011-11-08T23:14:00.001-06:002011-11-08T23:22:40.637-06:00Drunk On A Plane (My Trip To Belize) Welcome to the first of several installments of my blog series concerning my trip to Belize! Over the next week, I will be taking you step by step along my adventure with my co-workers to a far away land in Central America. In order to best inform you and include you in the hilarity, I must give you an overview of all the characters that will be mentioned on this trip. Several of these people have been blogged about previously. Please allow me to give you a recap of the idiosyncrasies of each of my delightfully colorful co-workers who joined me on this business adventure to Belize:<br />
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<strong><u>Applebum</u></strong> is a graduate of <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>THE </strong></span><span style="font-size: small;">Ohio State University. She has a tukkus that looks like two Grannysmith apples in a wrestling match. Her short temper and quick wit are the most likely causes of your diarrhea.</span><br />
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<strong><u>Banana Tree</u> </strong>is a Belize native, so he played double roles as both company member and tour guide. He has an adorable accent and dark chocolate covered skin. Imagine a raisinet that talks like Shaggy.<br />
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<strong><u>Caramel Barbie</u> </strong>is exactly as the name denotes with the added bonus of a faux-hawk in the shade of a Strawberry starburst. Like an evergreen tree, Caramel Barbie is ageless. <br />
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<strong><u>Shoniqua</u> </strong>is my longtime Caucasian friend who's ass clearly thinks she's Black.<br />
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<strong><u>Michelin Man</u></strong> is a company veteran. He has been a part of the organization for over 35 years and has grown to be the size of a small meteor. Any time I am need of shade from the sun, I know exactly where to go.<br />
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<strong><u>Evangeline</u> </strong>has previously been referred to as the naked vegetable stealer. She is currently in a very serious relationship with my room mate whom she met on Match.com.<br />
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<strong><u>Charlie Brown</u></strong>, previously referred to as Buckwheat, has recently undergone a pretty amazing physical transformation. While slimming out his midsection, he has managed to maintain his medicine ball ass which could easily double as a coffee table. This is truly a feat I wish I could master.<br />
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<strong><u>Earth Mother</u></strong>, like most mothers, has a plethora of talents including but not limit<br />
ed to: doctor, psychiatrist, police woman, therapist, thug, minister, and a comfortable lap to place my head on when I'm feeling down.<br />
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<strong><u>Daddy Long Legs</u>, </strong>aka Green Bean, is a native of the District of Columbia. He has an adorably round tukkus that sits perched high above his giraffe like stems for legs. If Dallas became infested with Komodo dragons, I would certainly seek out his torso for refuge.<br />
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<strong><u>Naomi</u></strong> is a man for the majority of the time but occasionally will morph into his alter-ego which is reminiscent of a certain super model (and/or Ru Paul). He is my room mate when my company travels. He is an alcoholic. We get along great.<br />
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<strong><u>Tuscaloosa</u></strong>, named after the city he is from, even though he claims to be from Atlanta, is a walking dichotomy. He has a wife and child at home yet seems to have these random moments of "queening out" as the kids say. It's like he has Turret's syndrome in the style of Clay Aiken. He has a pillow that looks like a ferret. Need I say more?<br />
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<strong><u>B More</u></strong>, also named after the city she is from, truly has an amazing lower body. Her calves are like chocolate tangerines. She also possesses the talent of making her own weaves. Her work is unbeweaveable.<br />
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<strong><u>Pilar</u></strong> is the Mexican.<br />
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<strong><u>Young Diva</u></strong> is my boss. She is the chocolate version of Vanna White. With a big pearly white smile and highly presentational demeanor, you would really think that she is the sweetest person ever. And she is. However, I always get this feeling that at any moment she is going to cut me with a knife. And I'm not talking about a butter knife. I mean a really sharp one from Williams & Sanoma.<br />
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<strong><u>Queen Jemima</u></strong> is my boss's boss; the big cheese! She has the ultimate power to cut off my paycheck at any given moment which why it is imperative that she be happy at every moment. She has an incessant habit of hitting her employees; this usually comes in the form of a back handed slap across the chest or mid thoracic spine (depending on your height). She also has a deep affinity for tracksuits.<br />
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With the introductions out of the way, I can now begin my story which starts out, of course, at the airport. Now, if you have read previous blogs, you are well aware of the fact that I get what is referred to as "flyer's diarrhea" which is an epidemic sweeping across this great nation. There's something about the idea of a ten thousand pound machine floating over the Caribbean sea carrying hundreds of innocent passengers including yours truly that just makes my bowels loosen like Pamela Anderson around a football team. Needless to say, it requires well-timed and copious drinking to fully prepare myself for take off. The flight was departing at 5:30am. I was getting a ride from Young Diva, whom also lives in my building, and she suggested we meet at 3:15am. This was perfect for me. This would leave ample drinking time! I would simply begin my first libation around 7pm and keep the party going for 8 hours until I left! Perfect! I decided to begin with a chocolate martini or two or seven (which of course I prepare in my own home) and I would simply sip on that ho until all my bags were packed. Next, I moved on to three or four delicious cosmopolitans while I emptied the refrigerator of all perishable items that could not fit in the freezer and clearly would not be moldless by the time I returned to America. Lastly, I finished with a simple vodka cranberry cocktail which remained perched next to the bathroom sink while manscaping my pubic region to successfully to adapt to the needs of my newly purchased mankini (ie. a man's bikini). I had several additional mixed beverages on my way out the door with my neon pink suitcase in hand. I met Young Diva in the lobby and she kindly drove the two of us to the airport.<br />
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Although I had some difficulty walking in a straight line once we arrived at the terminal, I did my very best to hold it together in front of Young Diva considering the fact that she is my boss. As I waddled my way into the airport, I managed to pull out my itinerary and insert the encrypted code into the self check-in kiosk. Clearly the Indian attendant standing on the side thought I was retarded (perhaps on account of my incessant staggering) and led me step by step through the process. After I printed my boarding pass, I met up with Applebum and helped her check a bag. She noticed immediately that I was beyond inebriated and began laughing uncontrollably at my unfortunate behaviour which was only about to get worse. I was behind Applebum while going through security. It's always a good idea to be behind her as to get the best view possible of the Grannysmith apples in action. I was quite disappointed to be separated from Applebum when I was directed to a separate line to place all of my belongings on the conveyor belt. I removed my belt, shoes, jacket, wallet, keys, and loose change (everything but my virginity) into the plastic blue bin and proceeded to wait to be called through the metal detector. I noticed, in my state of drunkenness, a small backpack perched upon the person in front of me. On it, there was a name tag that said "Jane". That was all the information I needed to entertain myself. "JANE!" I exclaimed with the up most enthusiasm! The stranger turned around, took one look at me, and without missing a beat said "I don't know you." and turned back around. What a bitch! I couldn't believe that she wouldn't even entertain, not even for a moment at 4 o'clock in the morning, that she might possibly know me. I knew <strong>her</strong> name for Christ's sake! The only thing that I can conclude to was the obvious fact that she has no thin friends and thus ruled out the possibility of knowing me immediately. I turned to look over at Applebum in the line adjacent to the one I was standing in, only to see her shaking her head in disbelief and shame. She was still laughing, and that's all that mattered. I made my way through, after Jane, into this new strange circular device they now have at airports to determine whether or not you have an AK47 in your vagina. I walked into the contraption, separated my legs like Kim Kardashian in the men's room at the Apollo as the invisible laser beams scanned my body for drugs, guns, and any of Osama bin Laden's offspring. Once they had confirmed that I was not smuggling any salmonella infected Mexican tomatoes into the Caribbean, they let me through. As I made my way towards the gate I was greeted by the rest of the company: Banana Tree, Shoniqua, Evangeline, Michelin Man, Earth Mother, Daddy Long Legs, Pilar, Charlie Brown, B More, Tuscaloosa, and Naomi. Each person more sleepy than next (a theme that develops well into the Belize trip) during the wee hours of the morning. I, however, was in party mode just ready for my next drink! This was exactly where I needed to be, completely aloof of the fact that I was about to board the death ship (my term I use for an airplane).<br />
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As I waited patiently for the McDonald's in the airport to open, the last missing piece of the puzzle showed up. There she was in all her glory, Queen Jemima. My boss arrived to the airport in a black crushed velvet tracksuit completely covered rhinestones with a matching hat. I had to pray to keep from crying. To make matters worse, she emphasizes that as a company we must always be presentable when on business trips EVEN at the airport, and especially on international trips. So there she was, looking like the Grandmother of a Flava Flav contestant, flagged me down to say hello. On previous trips, she has stopped me in the airport to borrow cash from me in an effort to most efficiently purchase her favorite magazine of all time: Black Enterprise. She is in her seventies, so I try very hard to give her the up most respect. She gave me my job after all. But it is very difficult not to laugh at someone who looks like a Christmas present for Ru Paul. Thank God she only stopped me to stay hello. If any further conversation had followed, my cover as a raging alcoholic would have been blown.<br />
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Once the McDonald's opened, pandemonium was about to ensue. You see, Daddy Long Legs and Charlie Brown, have a very abusive relationship with food, especially Charlie Brown. His violent interactions with fast food establishments are worse than a Chris Brown and Rihanna reunion. So when the restaurant did not open at 5am as it had been advertised, Charlie Brown was ready to bust a cap in somebody's ass. When the poor little Mexican cashier at McDonald's said "We open at five" (of course she couldn't pronounce the "v" part of "five"), this sent Charlie Brown into a tailspin of emotions. "WELL IT'S FIVE O FIVE RIGHT NOW!" he said as his head was about to explode. I immediately thought about seeking refuge in a garbage can to avoid the inevitable World War III that was about to take place behind the closed gates of the McDonald's at the International Airport in Dallas, Texas. But in my state of drunkenness I decided that it would be too much work for me to go to the effort of hiding myself. Even if I could successfully conceal my whereabouts inside a trash can, I would surely be discovered by my inevitable hiccups on account of the 8 previous hours of continuous, consistent drinking. Finally the little Mexican (clearly Pilar's relative) opened the gate and served Charlie Brown, Daddy Long Legs, a few other customers, and myself. <br />
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As the time drew closer to departure, I made my way back to the gate. Not too far along did I run into Caramel Barbie who mysteriously had strings hanging from her outfit. Upon closer investigation I discovered that she was wearing a black corset. Here's how the full outfit went down. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up. She wore black shiny boots with a high heel, TIGHT (or "snatched" as the kids say) black pants, a black button dress shirt with pressed collar, black vest with a corset waist, and a black painter's hat to match. I should also mention that the face was slightly painted. I don't think I've ever seen someone look so glamorous at the airport, especially not at the 5 o'clock in the morning! Although, I must say that I have heard rumors that along with being ageless like an evergreen tree that Caramel Barbie also is an insomniac. She barely sleeps. Perhaps this explains the time that she has allotted to fully undergo a fashion transformation for any given event no matter how casual and no matter at what hour.<br />
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Once they finally began boarding the plane, I was truly feeling my 10th alcoholic beverage. It took all of the will I had inside me and also Jesus to make it to my seat. Have you ever had so much to drink that you literally had to FORCE your eyes to stay open wide enough to read something. This coupled with the ridiculously small print written on my boarding pass proved to be quite an effortful scenario with me making a struggling attempt to properly locate my seat. Thank God I had the wherewithal to tell the Indian attendant when putting in my record locater into the kiosk to place me in a seat as far away from the other members in the company as possible. This lead my drunk ass free to be as inappropriately belligerent as I felt fit. Jane was sitting a few rows ahead of me. "JANE!" I yelled one more time. No response. I sat down and awaited my favorite part of the flying experience (which ironically comes right before the worst part of the flying experience; takeoff!). My ultimate most enjoyable part of flying is of course the flight attendants. These women are like floating synchronized swimmers complete with Russian Red lipstick and make up so thick it doubles as sunblock. Naturally I was hideously disappointed by the fact that the people at American Airlines geniusly decided that an electronic version of the instructions on how to properly vacate an aircraft was more suitable. I was devastated. There was nothing left to do but to fall asleep. As the engine started I knew that I needed to be passed out by the time the airplane pointed diagonally towards heaven. I figured this wouldn't prove to be difficult considering that I drank so much alcohol that I practically slipped myself a ruffie. Just as my eyelids began to assemble, I saw, through my blurred vision, a beacon of light. There it was. SKYMALL! There is no way I could have imagined the ridiculous products that were to be advertised in the latest addition of this airborne catalogue. Stay tuned......<br />
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<img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQvRDWX8E0R34uTL0NoEb7U5j-U87LEBFJzJ2BEApohra5xscYnKrYWPd2SBQ" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="299" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-57034906719104003632011-10-30T10:33:00.000-05:002011-10-30T10:33:28.358-05:00Falling Asleep On Strangers Unintentional is the best word to describe what is happening during the event of falling asleep on someone you don't know. Unfortunate is the best word to describe what is happening when you are the unlucky bastard who discovers that someone has fallen asleep on you whom you do not know. The combination of my workaholic syndrome and incessant drinking has occasionally led to a series of unfortunate situations that involved meeting someone new in a manner not preferred with said situation usually ending in a bitch slap. This series of events was particularly apparent in New York City. The citizens of the Big Apple are already overworked, tired, and drunk to ease the pain of being overworked and tired. I, of course, was exponentially affected by this epidemic because of the fact that I am already all of those things. New York City amplified my insomnia and alcoholism to a new level. Couple this amplification with 24 hour public transportation and you have a recipe for disaster.<br />
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During those 3 years in New York, I believe I fell asleep on 4 different unfortunates. Looking back, I have noticed that I have a tendency to fall asleep on Black women; angry ones. I remember quite vividly the first time this happened. What makes this story even more tragic is that it happened during the daytime. It's slightly understandable to fall asleep on the train during the night (a regular occurrence for me usually resulting in my entire body being catapulted to the floor during a sudden screeching halt somewhere in New Jersey). But to fall asleep on another human being while on public transportation during broad daylight is about as acceptable as Pamela Anderson being awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her efforts in her 2004 book <em>"Star"</em> in which she details the necessary preparation for intercourse in the back vagina. To make matters worse, I wasn't even drunk the first time I fell asleep on a stranger (it was daytime after all). I couldn't be like Jamie Foxx and blame it on the alcohol (Side note! Why does Jamie Foxx say in the song "Take a shot of Nuvo"? What kind of straight person takes a shot of Nuvo? It's like the equivalent of Robitussin, not even the extra strength.). <br />
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Even though I fell asleep on this random Black woman, whom I will refer to as Monifah, I can put back together the pieces from my memory of how it all went down, albeit slightly in a haze. What I do remember is being very tired and on the A Train on my way back home. I was going to school in Manhattan and upon moving to NYC I had brilliantly sought out a place to live way out by JFK airport. I am truly a mastermind of decision making. This caused my commute to be well over an hour especially in rush hour and even more so if the trains were running local (making my self diagnosed IBS even more precarious to deal with, but that's another blog). I had just finished a long fulfilling day at school and was on my way home in the late afternoon. I had done a very good job of making it about two thirds of my journey on the train without collapsing. I remained poised in my seat on the crowded subway car. About 15 stops in I began fading like Courtney Love. I tried to keep it together. I concentrated with all my might to keep my torso erect. I thought the best solution would be to just simply rest my head on the window behind me (perhaps I should explain that on NYC subway cars, the seats are situated along the periphery of the train in a rectangle shape which allows you the option of resting your head on the wall/window behind you and also allows you to stare uncomfortably at the person seated across from you along the other wall). This proved to be about as brilliant as a decision as it was to live next to the airport. At some point I fell asleep of course, yet I believe to have had a slightly out of body experience. Even though I was asleep, I could somehow feel and see myself beginning to lean ever so slightly like the tower of Pisa only to return to neutral. It's like I was fighting myself to not fall over. I kept swaying to and fro (only to the left) constantly negotiating between the precarious moment of falling and in an upright position. After several minutes passed, I finally entered into a dangerous part of my R.E.M. cycle and in one motion I gingerly dipped all the way over landing my bald bi-racial head into an angry Black woman's lap.<br />
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This is the part of the story where things took an ugly turn. I am still confused as where the anger living inside of this African-American woman came from. Has Monifah always been angry or did my head landing on her drumstick cause her anger. I will never know the truth unless of course Monifah is reading this blog right now (HEY GIRL!). What I do know is by the time I woke up, Monifah was heated! Now to be clear, she woke ME up! So as I found myself in deep slumber in a cocoa butter scented lap, I woke to the sensation of my head being tossed ever so gingerly to the other side of the train. I was slightly alarmed of course. Before I could get my bearings or even feel any embarrassment I heard "You fall asleep on my one mo time and I'm gone slap you in the face!". "I'm SO sorry Monifah! I've had a really long day and I just can't seem to get my life together. I just wanna go home and grab my drink. I promise I won't do it again. Please don't cut me!" would have been my chosen response. In all of my Canadian-ness I simply chose to run away as fast as possible to the opposite side of the train. For the record, I did not get cut.<br />
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Several times over I kept falling asleep on Black women; all angry. I'm not sure what it is that comforts me. I really do think it's the intoxicating scent of the cocoa butter. What is interesting to me is that when the situation reversed itself the outcome was very different. I have no one to blame except karma because obviously I had this shit coming my way. I remember being on the train perfectly awake during the day (I must have taken a Red Bull) when suddenly a White man was lying in my lap. He had an incredibly large, egg-shaped head and he was snoring. "Isn' this magical?" I said to myself. My first instinct was to pretend that nothing was wrong (very Canadian of me). This proved to be somewhat difficult considering I was on public transportation during rush hour. However, this was NYC after all and the one thing you can always count on is the fact that people really do not give a shit about the crazy things they see as those types of things are in abundance in the Big Apple. However, I still had the predicament of the bowling ball resting on top of my femurs. How was I supposed to get this large man off of me without getting punched in the face? Obviously I was attracted to falling asleep on angry Black women. Was my non-abrasive aroma combined with Old Spice enough to make an angry White man fall asleep on me? This had never happened to me before. I was worried he would be hostile. I considered petting him but then reneged on account of him having so little hair. Then I thought about making one foul swoop by very quickly and undetectably sliding out from underneath him. I would time it exactly when the doors opened so that by the time his enormous head hit the seat and after he got his bearings together I would have been long gone. I, again, had to reconsider because I knew even if I got out alive that Jesus would pay me back three fold. I had to come up with a new plan. This is when God spoke to me. God said, "Hey jackass! Tap the bitch on the shoulder and tell him to get the fuck up off of you. Ho!". Okay, so maybe it wasn't God, but it was good advice none the less. Of course I took my own Canadian interpretation of this. I leaned into his ear very slowly. I whispered "hey......hey......white man......this is my stop so i need you to stop sleeping on me please". He didn't budge. I must have been speaking too quietly. I tried again slightly louder to no avail. The third time I spoke a little louder than normal volume. I didn't want to start yelling because the last thing I needed to do was draw attention to my unfortunate situation. I needed to be the first person to blog about this after all. Unfortunately, White man still would not wake up. Truthfully, I was several stops away from my destination so I just decided to wait it out. I remained still as to not disturb his slumber. In my effort to no longer awake the bastard, I actually almost fell asleep myself until I felt the gentle grazing of hair plugs against my thighs. I felt like a mini cactus was being pressed down on my legs with a rolling pin. The man made several grumblings, scratched his head (the bald part), and then slowly maneuvered his torso to an upright position. He glanced at me, confused, and resumed his position of facing forward without saying a word. I couldn't believe it. How can you fall asleep on someone and not be apologetic in the least bit. This was crazy! At least I had handled my unfortunate situation of disturbing angry Black women with some humility and consideration. I don't even get a hello! I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman; completely taken advantage of (without lubrication)!<br />
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Although I do not personally recommend or condone the idea of sleeping on an individual whom you do not know, I would say that it's important to try it at least once. I do believe that it can be a good way to meet someone as long as you are certain to start the conversation regardless of whether you are the sleeper or the human-sofa. It is a miracle that I am even alive after the billions of Black women I have used as ebony cushions and the countless White business men who I have witnessed horizontal on my lap on public transportation. Although it was a struggle to go through these horrific events, I am a better person for having experienced embarrassment and humiliation. I only hope that the next person who falls asleep in my lap is someone of African-American descent with a lot of hair. At least I will have something to braid to make the time go by faster. <br />
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<img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/50352_183660083564_4482618_n.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-59711671813262879722011-10-22T20:07:00.000-05:002011-10-22T20:07:21.674-05:00Me Vs. Dental Floss Dental floss and I have always had a precarious relationship. Since my recent (and long overdue) dental appointment, I have been forced to reconnect with this bitch of a string. The idea of inserting thread between my choppers sounds about as appealing as a bath with my Grandfather. However, I have always committed (albeit inconsistently) to flossing because of Ellen Degeneres's strong avocation of the activity. I trust lesbians; their haircuts are just so sincere. Up until my dental appointment, I had apparently been flossing my teeth incorrectly. I had simply pulled the string back and forth between each tooth holding one end outside of my mouth and the other inside. I thought that was sufficient. Apparently not. I have learned since that I am supposed to suspend either end of the string around both sides of one tooth and pull the string back and forth to most thoroughly remove plaque around the gum area. This is some bullshit. What did the cavemen do? How did those bastards survive? Did they use weeds in the same manner? For Christ's sake! This absolutely absurd idea of flossing is completely unrealistic. Yet, I subscribed to it anyway considering the fact that I have 4 cavities that are only getting worse by the minute. So alas, I have attempted to floss correctly. Unfortunately I have failed miserably. Here's how the shit went down last Friday.<br />
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I fully understand the idea of forking over some extra pennies for brand names when it comes to important items like multi-vitamins, microwaves, and tampons. However, I refuse to pay $3.53 for a brand name tiny box of dental floss when I can buy that ho at the 99 cents store! I mean seriously, how can there be any difference between that 50 foot white string and the one that comes with "Colgate" on the front? Apparently, much is different! Previously, when performing my toddler version of flossing, the cheap suggestion of dental floss worked sufficiently. However, with my new and improved technique, the cheap strands would not be able to survive what they were about to endure, unbeknownst to me of course. With a positive attitude in mind, I pledged forward with my new found awareness of flossing. I pulled the strand with both hands until taught and slipped it behind my front left tooth (the big one) and held each end of the string outside of my mouth. I began to simply pull on each end one at a time: right, left, right and then left. I kept working my way slowly around the periphery of my gigantic mouth. I began congratulating myself (too early as it were) on my accomplishment of thoroughly removing the plaque around my gums and thus defeating the evil bitch, gingivitis. It was not until I made it to my back molar on the left side that things began to take a turn for the worst. I slipped the floss behind the tooth and began to sway it to and fro as I had done on all of my previous choppers. I continued the motion several times before things came to a screeching halt. The little bitch was stuck! I could not move the floss. Clearly the devil was involved. At that moment, I realized that this wasn't going to be pretty. I immediately prayed that I wouldn't end up like Amy Winehouse.<br />
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The first step in solving a problem is to accept the fact that there is a problem. This took a few moments. I was in complete disbelief that this tiny piece of dental floss was stuck in my mouth like a Kylie Minogue single in my mind. Furthermore, it seemed more than slightly preposterous that my teeth were so tightly knit that a glossy piece of string could not gingerly slide through. There certainly was enough moisture in there. My glands create so much saliva, you would think I was trying to be the next Paris Hilton. But alas, I had to eventually (after several minutes of grievance and utter disbelief) accept the fact that Jesus had thrown me a curve ball. With few options at my disposal, the first method I thought of was to frantically tug on each end of the string hoping that the sheer strength of the pull would force the floss through gap between the two teeth. This, of course, ended badly. The string broke, not on one, but both ends! So there I was with two frayed ends of dental floss hanging out of my face. With each growing moment I found the pressure in my mouth to become more unbearable by the second. How I even manage to get the floss in this tiny Pamela Anderson's vagina tight space is still a mystery to me. Now, my only option left was of course to panic. I immediately turned into Linda Blair and began screaming. I started digging into the back of my mouth with my fingernails clawing away at what was left of the floss. Flashbacks of the movie "Saw" came flooding through my mind. The disturbingly low and evil voice said:<br />
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"INSIDE YOUR MOUTH IS THE KEY TO YOUR LIFE! ON THE BACK OF EACH TOOTH, A CODE IS WRITTEN THAT OPENS THE DOOR WHICH LEADS TO YOUR SAFETY! YOU MUST REMOVE EACH TOOTH WITH YOUR BARE HANDS IN ORDER TO RETRIEVE THAT CODE! IF YOU CANNOT CRACK THE CODE IN 60 SECONDS, A HIDDEN TRIGGER ATTACHED TO YOUR RETINA WILL DETONATE LEAVING YOU TO DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH! CAN YOU ENDURE THE PAIN OF SELF-SACRIFICE TO LEAD YOURSELF TO FREEDOM! OR WILL YOU CRACK UNDER THE PRESSURE? HAVE YOU BITTEN OFF MORE THAN YOU CAN CHEW?"<br />
<br />
I really should pitch this idea to the creators of Saw. This could totally be the prequel. Anyways, I was in absolute agony trying to impossibly pull out the remaining floss that was stuck, jarred between my teeth. Crying quickly ensued, followed by screaming. Diarrhea also made a cameo appearance which at least distracted me from the impending doom occurring in my own mouth. After flushing and sanitizing of the hands I resumed to my position in my attempt to pry my mouth open to properly remove the floss. Then it hit me like Chris Brown; the perfect idea! If I simply took additional floss and forced it in, I could possibly use the new floss to push out the old floss. If it worked, I could buy a patent and call it the "Angelina Jolie technique"! I was so excited I could barely hold my excitement! So I pulled out a new shiny beacon of floss and began to double penetrate my own mouth (insert the second of two Pamela Anderson references here). Just like Pamela Anderson, I took it like a man and just shoved it in. The old floss popped right out! Success! My mouth was free of pain and over-occupancy. Thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! (in reverse order)<br />
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I have learned my lesson. Never buy generic brands of dental floss! They will rape your mouth faster than Kobe Bryant (who would have been preferred over dental floss FYI). I have now upgraded to Oral B 3D White! This shit is off the chain bitches! I am telling you that this is the most amazing product since the Shake Weight (blog coming soon). I can barely hold back my erection when thinking about this amazing product. Oral B's 3D White dental floss glides into your teeth with the ease that Pamela Anderson's vagina would experience with only one penis. It's flexible, it's comfortable, and it leaves your teeth feeling only gently violated; just the perfect amount. I am so proud to endorse this new product. I hope you all take advantage. I am publicly taking responsibility for their new slogan. "Oral B's 3D White: Dental Floss, the floss that only rapes you a little bit....."<br />
<img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://www.oralb.com/en-US/assets/images/products/features/glide-3d-white-whitening-plus-scope-floss.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="275" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-49754111464118989082011-08-20T21:35:00.000-05:002011-08-20T21:35:56.138-05:00(UN)Happy Feet I'm not exactly sure what is wrong with me (I awake with that thought often). But it seems that I got the short end of the stick when it comes to foot/head coordination. I have not met a person capable of falling <strong>up </strong>the stairs on a regular basis; I have mastered this talent. I also have a tendency to, on a consistent basis, to stub my toe. Somehow I always manage to stub the same toe making this ridiculous injury more annoying each time. Just when my bruise is on the up and up toward its enlightened path to healing is when Jesus thinks it funny to send a curb flying in its direction. That moment is one of the few which I reserve for incessant cursing. I do not curse on a regular basis, I choose only times where it is only most appropriate and classy. In my life I have had quite a slue of embarrassing foot injuries including (but not limited to) jumping and landing on my big toe (the same one I always stub), my current injury which is called a stone bruise, and even developing a severe case of osteomyelitis (a serious bone infection) in my toe which I assumed developed from my love/hate relationship with open-toed sandals. But today I would like to take you a few months to a very embarassing and silly time of my life. Only now has the trauma has finally worn off enough for me to even talk about it. I will tell you about the story of when I got glass in my toe and couldn't get it out. I will try and hold back on the swearing.<br />
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Of course I don't even need to tell you which lucky toe had glass stuck in it. For Christ's sake, my right big toe is about as lucky as Kirstie Alley's nutritionist. Up until my unfortunate incident (which I am still unsure of how it happened) I had been hell bent on not wearing shoes or socks in my apartment; my personal tribute to K.D. Lang. My best guess is that on one drunken evening I must have been so inebriated from the copious amount of Polar Ice I had consumed that I must have been blithely unaware of the fact that I had stepped on the tiniest little shard of glass. I probably just kept it moving only to pass out on my twin sized piece of fluff (to refer to the mattress stuffed in the corner that I sleep on as a "bed" would be grossly inaccurate). I awoke the next morning and tiptoed my way to the commode (similarly to refer to that misfortune as my "bathroom" would be a joke...and not a funny one) when I felt a small prick in Big Lucky, the largest of toes on my right foot of course. Even though I had mostly sobered up by this point, I decided to ignore the pain because the it was so slight. I understand that Big Lucky has been through a lot in his life and probably just needed a little extra time to wake up; maybe he was just sore. I jumped in the shower, grabbed my Herbal Essences (which has most recently been upgraded to Dark 'N Lovely) and began washing the naps as usual. On occasion I felt what I could seriously only describe as mild discomfort in Big Lucky. I continued about my daily routine, brushing my teeth, flossing my gums, and covering my entire bi-racial body in Shea butter in hopes to become more African-American (Look Gepetto, I'm a real Negro!). As I made my way down the ridiculously long hallway in my apartment (which would be better described as a runway) I found my pace slowing down about 10 feet in. The slight discomfort in Big Lucky was becoming more and more annoying as I was making my naked entrance into the kitchen. Clearly, further inspection was required. I sat down on the concrete and took a quick peek at the bottom of my toe. Nothing seemed the problem. I couldn't find any cuts, scrapes, or wounds. Upon my discovery that seemingly there was nothing wrong I became further annoyed. "Listen you little SKANK!", I scolded Big Lucky, "I don't work my ass off 35 hours a week so you can screw with my daily routine you little bitch! You've given me trouble my whole life and I've just taken it like Pamela Anderson on a God damned boat! Now you listen here. If you don't start co-operating soon I'm gonna send you off to live with the Osmonds!". He seemed to respond well. I stood up and kept on strolling.<br />
<br />
I really feel that when you scold a child, pet, or random appendage that you really get the best results when you have done so in a Bill O'Reilly type tone. As I took a few steps forward I realized that my scolding had really done its job. I felt no pain. I made myself breakfast and took my multivitamin. I fell into the habit of almost taking two (like I do my Extra Strength Tylenol) and immediately spit one out. Thank God I dodged that bullet. I could have ended up like Amy Winehouse. After saving my own life, I made my way back to the bedroom to get dressed. I decided that today was not the day I would show up to work naked. I figured that I needed to wait sometime until I was a little higher up on the food chain so that my progressive act would be taken seriously by my co-workers. I also thought it would be best to wait until I have enough money to buy my own car before I go to work in the nude. I had no fear of riding public transportation with booty to the wind; people ride the New York City subway in their underwear all the time. But I hadn't heard of such an act done in Dallas and didn't want to be the guinea pig. As I made my way back to the bedroom completely pain-free, I realized that I had a very strange rhythm to my walk. After I made it about 25 feet down the runway I realized that I was limping. "Who do I think I am, Master P?" I said to myself. I realized that I was accommodating the impending injury to Big Lucky. As I tried to re-adjust my posture and weight so I could walk like a normal human being who hasn't been recently paroled, I winced at the pain I felt yet again on my big right toe. Shit! Something was clearly wrong. I woke up my roommate Urkel (he gets the name from the striking resemblance to African-American 90s television character, Steve Urkel). You see, Urkel has one of those magic phones that can do anything. It can find directions to the Mexican border, scan grocery items to do comparative shopping, and I'm pretty sure it can even change your tampon. I knew Urkel would be capable of finding me a podiatrist and quickly. After several attempts which responded quickly with no availability and/or an answering machine I finally got a response. I asked the receptionist for the address, got in a cab, and was on my way. I was so pre-occupied with my self-concern that I did not pay attention to some very obvious signs that this place was slightly illegitimate. Upon reflection, I realized that I should have picked up on some very telling clues that this establishment may have been slightly less than par. Some of these clues, I realize now, were obvious even in my dealings with their staff on the phone. When I called the doctor's office, this is how the conversation with the receptionist went (we'll call her Consuela):<br />
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Consuela: <strong>Hello</strong><br />
Me: <strong>Hi, I'm not sure what is going on with my big toe but clearly there's an issue. I need to make an appointment. Things are only going to get worse.</strong><br />
Consuela: <strong>OK</strong><br />
Me: <strong>Do you have anything available today?</strong><br />
Consuela:<strong> Yes.</strong><br />
Me: <strong>So when can I come in?</strong><br />
Consuela: <strong>You can come now.</strong><br />
Me: <strong>Well.....Don't you need my name?</strong><br />
Consuela: <strong>Sure.</strong> <strong>What is it?</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
I blocked out the rest of the conversation from my memory. I can't believe I didn't realize the ridiculousness of the situation before I got in that cab. How shady is it to not be asked any kind of information to make an appointment at a podiatrist's office that is not even part of a walk-in clinic? Once the cab pulled up to the street we had difficulty locating the address. We were on the correct block but both of us were having trouble finding the doctor's office. I checked the address again and looked up. Apparently we were right in front of it. I'll start with the outside and work my way in.<br />
<br />
I cannot make it clear enough that this was NOT a doctor's office! This could not pass for a drive-through bagel shop! This looked like the house from Hansel and Gretel (minus the candy). In fact, a few candy-canes hanging from the roof probably would have mildly distracted me from the horror I was witnessing visually. The truck that was parked outside lengthwise in front of the building was almost wider than the shack itself. I heard the cab speed away from behind me. I don't blame the little Paki. This whole situation was very Jeepers Creepers 3. As I slowly paced myself towards the "establishment" I was for a moment thankful of the fact that I was yet to nourish myself that morning making the inevitable diarrhea a less unfortunate onset. I maneuvered my way around the truck to end up in front of the entrance. Atop the roof there was a small clearly handwritten sign that said "Martin Luther King Foot Clinic" with a phone number at the bottom. "Well I sure hit the jackpot!", I thought, as I patted myself on the back. I assumed the MLK association was just a simple nod to the street it was on with the same name. This was an assumption that would be proven incorrect a few moments later. I begrudgingly knocked on the door. Normally one would let oneself into a doctor's office but being that this was merely a trailer park posing as an office of podiatry, I felt it more appropriate to knock on the door and waited for someone to answer. I waited some time for a person to answer but to no avail. I shrugged my shoulders, took a deep breath, turned the knob and entered. Before I could even get one foot in the door I was immediately greeted by a cat. "Are you a licensed podiatrist?", I asked the feline. She, the little black ball of fluff, just stared at me. "Meow!" finally came out of little Pussywinkle's mouth after an awkward silence. The little bitch tiptoed her way inside the "office" so I followed suit. I closed the door behind me immediately in fear of the Pussywinkle making an escape. I was unsure as to whether or not Pussywinkle actually lived in the doctor's office but I was not going to risk the chance of being held responsible for losing someone's pussy (I learned that lesson the hard way when I was 11). I blocked my eyes from the unsightly vision that my eyes were bestowed with and turned directly toward the glass plated window to my right. There was a small Hispanic woman sitting a desk behind the glass. I assumed this must be Consuela or possibly Shakira without make-up.<br />
<br />
"Do you realize there is a cat running around aimlessly in here?" was my first sentence spoken to Consuela. "Don't worry, she's friendly" was her response as she giggled at my ignorance. I was appalled. I suppose this would have been a cue (after several others that had lead up to that moment) to cut my losses and call the Paki taxi-cab driver to come pick me up and take me to a feline-free office of podiatry. I needed to be at work in an hour and I really needed to get this shit taken care of and quickly. So I decided to grin and bare it and just get through this situation as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Why I hadn't put some vodka and 7 up in a glass jar in the house and taken it with me for moral support is beyond me. Live and learn. I quickly filled out the form and handed the 3 pages back to Consuela whom I noticed was wearing what appeared to be floral pajamas. Consuela instructed me to sit down and wait for my doctor. She left the room. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately I had no choice, as I was all alone in a chair in the waiting room, to be forced to analyze every single detail of the hideous surroundings that encompassed the entire periphery of my vision. Even before I stepped into the place I knew it was clearly an "urban" establishment (The cat gave it away). I have this problem that as long as my eyes are open I can't stop staring at things that are disturbing (intoxicated or not). My only saving grace of course was that I would be detailing this in a blog at a later date once I had seen a therapist. I will begin with the right wall and work my way left. It began with a small sign hanging to my right saying "Dallas BLACK Chamber of Commerce 2007". I suppose this really went well with the "MLK" theme. Above that was a very large picture, almost a mural, of a Black man skiing. This I found quite disturbing. Since when do Black people ski? You can barely even get them in the water. Why would someone hang this up in a doctor's office? In Texas? And most importantly, who the Hell was this random person and why was he on the wall in the first place? I started to put things together as I gazed towards the center wall. There was a picture of another Black man playing football. I wasn't sure if this was the same man or not until I looked at the photograph on the left wall with a picture of a Black man going fishing. It was clear to me that fishing Black man and skiing Black man were the same Black man making it plausible that football Black man was the same Black man as both skiing Black man and fishing Black man who were the same as each other making all three pictures the same Black man. However, I still was not sure who this Black man was. Surely, no one could be so narcissistic as to put pictures of THEMSELVES up at their own doctor's office? I mean, I've done that to my bedroom but it's my BEDroom. You wouldn't see me barricading an office cubicle with life-sized posters and statues of myself. I was more than slightly concerned that there would be the ultimate possibility that my podiatrist had spent more time creating a shrine to himself in the waiting room than he did creating his hand-made sign outside what appeared to be his own shack. I didn't want to venture inside my imagination to even think about what was to come inside the actual patients quarters. I would find out soon. I needed a drink.<br />
<br />
I heard footsteps coming down the hallway into the waiting room. I held my breath in anticipation of meeting my new found mystery self-obsessed podiatrist. It turned out to be a false alarm. It was only the cat making a return to the scene of the crime. Pussywinkle jumped up and sat beside me. I considered petting her but then remembered a story about fellow Canadian Pamela Anderson contracting a severe case of Hepatitis C. I sat patiently for several minutes to be greeted by Consuela. "The room is ready", she said as she pointed me in the direction of the office. She sat back down at her desk and I made my way to the chamber of doom. Pussywinkle just sat there frozen. The little bitch didn't even come for emotional support. Felines are such skanks. <br />
<br />
The doctor's "office" consisted of a patient's chair that was clearly broken, two other small chairs, a small basket, a desk with drawers, a window with broken blinds, and a small clip-on fan propped up sideways on a book sitting on the desk. I wanted to start crying but I stopped myself in fear of the doctor coming in soon and seeing me. I needed him to take me seriously. The second emotional feeling that I was overwhelmed with was a similar one. Diarrhea. Again, thankfully I had not eaten anything so I knew this was a false alarm. I sat down very carefully on the patient's chair, removed my socks and shoes (not in that order) and patiently awaited my fate. In he walked. It was Black Man! Just like in the pictures! For Christ's sake, this doctor actually plastered pictures of himself all over the waiting room. What a psychopath! Although, to be fair, would there have been a better alternative as to who that was in those pictures. Perhaps a secret gay lover that he lived vicariously through because of his affinity for sports but lack of ability to perform on account of his very hectic podiatry schedule? <br />
<br />
Doctor Black-Man was old, slow-moving, and hideously inarticulate. I wish he had come with subtitles. I have an easier time understanding Flava Flav when I have loud gas (This happens often for the fact that watching any television program with Flava Flav usually causes the onset of gas). "I think I may have stepped on something but if I did, I can't find it. I'm not sure. But it hurts." as I pointed to Big Lucky. Doctor Black-Man seemed disinterested. He put on sterile white gloves which I will admit is a very difficult task even for those of us who are not elderly. He was finally successful with the gloves after what felt like enough time to watch the director's cut of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. Doctor Black-Man began examining Big Lucky. He seemed quite confused (Doctor Black-Man not Big Lucky). He kept touching it so much I think my toenail got "blueballs". Doctor Black-Man then left the room unannounced. I suppose he needed a break after such a long fully committed stretch of work. He returned shortly after with a companion. I was hoping it was Pussywinkle who probably had a better idea of the scope of the situation. Unfortunately it was Consuela. I was very confused as to what business Hispanic receptionist in Doctor Black Man's lair. " Is she going to clean the sheets or possibly change the towels in the bathroom?" were my first few thoughts (Actually they were my second thoughts. My first thoughts were too inappropriately racist for publication). Doctor Black-Man mumbled something in the style of Charlie Brown's school teacher to Consuela who reached into the desk and pulled out what appeared to be a needle.<br />
<br />
At the time, it was not my first concern that Consuela apparently performed dual roles at the Martin Luther King Foot Clinic as both head receptionist and podiatric nurse. The concern at the forefront of my mind was that a Hispanic teenager with nothing more than weekend training in Microsoft Word looked like she was preparing herself to inject me with something! "Consuela! What the Christ is going on here?". She laughed as she looked away and began shaking the needle. "I'm serious! What is THAT thing for?" I demanded. "We think there's a piece of glass in your foot and we need to get it out." she stated. Great! Big Lucky has a piece of glass in him and now I have get it removed by Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Shakira. Weren't there phones that needed answering? You think I would have been slightly relieved to see Consuela hand the needle over to the doctor but given that Doctor Black-Man was older and slower than time itself it was no relief as I was concerned that he may have slight Parkinson's (or the "shakes" as my Nana refers to it). Instead, Consuela's job was to continually spray a cool mist atop of the wounded area to ease the impending pain. This was getting to be more and more absurd by the second. It was at that moment when I started to come to the realization that I was sitting inside of a non-air conditioned shack in the middle of nowhere on one of the hottest days in June in Texas. I began sweating profusely. My face looked like a Whitney Houston concert. I threw my head back on the pillow, flexed my foot, and gazed out the window. "Take a deep breath", said Consuela as she began to spray. I placed my thumb in front of my mouth, violently began biting my nail, and took it like Kim Kardashian on videotape. <br />
<br />
Doctor Black-Man, true to form, took his sweet little time with each poke of the needle. He didn't put all of the numbing medication in at once. He would slowly put the needle in, inject a little bit, pull it out, and then repeat. Was he afraid he was going to get me pregnant? I debated as to whether or not this was an appropriate time to make him aware that I had my diaphragm in. After 5 minutes of Big Lucky being raped, my face was like a salty Niagra Falls. I couldn't stop sweating. I began swishing my head back and forth on the pillow as I felt my eyes rolling back into my head (I guess I really was turning into Kim Kardashian). A feeling came over me that came as a complete surprise. I felt overwhelmingly nauseated. How could this be? I hadn't eaten anything! I tossed and turned as Doctor Black-Man continued to stab away at Big Lucky. "I need a bucket", I said to Consuela. "I think I might be sick." I should point out that Consuela had stopped spraying the cooling agent a long time ago and was just standing there watching. You would of thought I had asked her to drive to the grocery store to pick me up some fresh lemongrass! Clearly annoyed, she left the room at a pace similar to that of a tranquilized manatee. During the time she was gone, I began to feel even worse. I really thought I was going to vomit. I was partially thrilled on account of being able to go to work later looking like Nicole Richie but it was difficult to revel in that excitement when I didn't have a bucket to be sick in. After a painstakingly long amount of time, finally Consuela returned with a small woven basket. Unfortunately I did not end up being sick after all even though it was pretty touch and go for a while. I guess I would have to remain at the same body mass. A girl can dream....<br />
<br />
I looked down at Doctor Black-Man who had taken a break from raping my big toe. He had something in his hand and was examining it closely. He seemed both confused and astonished. He looked like he had just found Osama bin Laden (this was a few weeks before the bearded maniac was killed and then buried in a pile of hummus). Doctor Black-Man showed the spec to Consuela who examined it for sometime also looking like she had stumbled upon the cure for premature ejaculation. I really wanted to know what all the fuss was about but I was enjoying the break from the toe rape so I kept my mouth shut. Consuela gave the spec back to Doctor Black-Man who placed it in a napkin, walked close toward me and presented me with the gift. "Is this the glass you were talking about?" he said. I could barely hear him over the fan. "What?!" I exclaimed. He repeated the question. I couldn't believe it. What the Christ was he thinking? Was I supposed to be able to identify the piece of glass that was plaguing me. As if I had fully examined the shard before I voluntarily shoved it up my own toe! This was absurd! After rolling my eyes and taking a few deep breaths I looked at the two geniuses and said "Well I suppose so!". I figured it was better to avoid any possibility of further needle penetration. I just prayed that whatever it was I was staring at (which was so tiny it could pass as the life and career of Jamie-Lynn Spears) was in fact the little bitch that I had somehow stepped on the night previous. <br />
<br />
After a quick sterilization and gauze wrap, I was well on my way hobbling back toward the waiting room. When I approached the front desk, Consuela was already there seated ready to take my payment. "Oh my gosh, you again!" I acted surprised. Thank Jesus that I have health care and that I had to suffer through that absolutely tragic nightmare of a doctor's visit for the bargain of thirty dollars. I handed her my VISA card which she quickly handed back to me. "We only take cash" said Consuela. "Do you have an ATM?" I asked. "No." she said quickly. "Well unless you happened to find thirty single dollar bills inside my toe when you were searching in there, I'm not sure how you expect me to pay you." She said that she would make an "exception" and allow me to send them a cheque at a later date (as if that was going to happen) and let me go. I said goodbye to Pussywhistle, called a cab and was on my way home. <br />
<br />
I have no idea how a business gets away with being such a disaster. If I kept my house in the kind of shape that the doctor's did in their office, my neighbour's would call Childcare Services to take possession of my goldfish. I actually don't have a goldfish but the joke really lands well. Of course the most important thing is that Big Lucky was okay. I took him immediately to get a get a full rape exam (not the first time) and enrolled him in rape counselling. He really went through a lot! I sincerely hope that no one has to go through the kind of nightmare that Big Lucky and I had to go through all because I missed a spot while sweeping. I suppose it's a sign that K.D. Lang is not relevant in this current decade. Woolen socks are now a personal requirement of mine in my living quarters. Wearing socks while otherwise being completely naked is a new feeling for me yet completely appropriate giving its African-American roots. Black men LOVE having sex with just their socks on. Just ask Heidi Klum.<br />
<br />
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JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-63895540361468101872011-08-15T00:01:00.000-05:002011-08-15T00:01:12.047-05:00Unbe-WEAVE-able I have always been very open and honest about my childhood tragedies involving the ever growing Chia pet on top of my head. After nearly 25 years of keeping the beast at bay I am slowly acclimating myself into the world of African-American hair. There is no better place to witness the limitless possibilities for the naps than in the Southern United States. However, most recently, my focus on this subject has shifted from a personal investment to an interest that caters toward my lovely chocolate friend Evangeline, whom turns 26 tomorrow. Evangeline is emotionally committed to hair pieces in a way that puts my co-dependent relationship with Ketel One to shame. It made perfect sense that my quest for a birthday present for Evangeline should not do without a trip to an African-American wig shop. Dallas, I have experienced from several trips on public transportation, is the Mecca of detachable hair. I had really hit the jack pot. It did not take me long to discover the crème de la crème of wig suppliers. This establishment located in the heart of Dallas, Texas is better known as Gold 7 Beauty Supply!<br />
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I'll start from the beginning. First of all, Gold 7 is located in a cul-de-sac of sorts in North Dallas (one of the more "urban" sections of the city). In this small array of businesses on Forest Lane includes not one but several African-American beauty related establishments. As I google mapped my way to the location I was bombarded with two beauty shops, a wig store, a place for supplies, and right in the center of the strip mall was Gold 7 Beauty Supply, the Jesus of Black wigs. I had imagined that a store solely dedicated to hair that isn't yours couldn't possibly be any larger than a CVS. I pictured a small room filled with some hair care products. At the end of the room I imagined there would be a counter with a friendly Black woman. Behind her, I envisioned a small selection of wigs and hairpieces that could be requested to be pulled off the wall for further inspection. I really thought this place was going to be a quaint little shop with some Black ladies looking to get their wig on. Apparently, I slightly miscalculated.<br />
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Gold 7 Beauty Supply is the size of Kirstie Alley! This was no CVS, this was a WAL-MART for Black hair! When I walked through that door, I immediately collapsed. I can't remember which knee gave out first but I was too overwhelmed to care. There was just long flowing hair as far as the eye could see. Was this a horse ranch? The small counter that I had envisioned in my mind in fact went around the entire perimeter of the store. All four walls were covered with displays of different pieces with varying lengths, colors, textures, and styles. In front of me were aisles upon aisles of God knows what filling the shelves. Surely there couldn't be this many options for things to attach to your own head. This was one of the few times in my life that I couldn't fully absorb every detail of what was in front of me. There was just too much to take in! My vision was overstimulating with synthetic abundance. Yet, I had travelled all that way so I had to pull it together. I was determined to somehow make some sense out of all of this chaos to emerge triumphant in my quest to retrieve a shiny new hair piece for Evangeline's birthday. So I slowly ventured forward.<br />
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Because of my awareness of the fact that I clearly had no idea what I was doing on account of my being a weave-virgin, I discovered quickly that I needed to escort myself to the nearest person of customer service located all around the perimeter of the store behind the counters. As I made my way around the room in total astonishment of the bevvy of wigs, weaves, and phony-ponies in search of some help, I couldn't help but notice that the persons whom appeared to be working for Gold 7 Beauty Supply were 4'11''. I am not sure what would interest Asian people to sell hair to Black people other than the obvious lucrative aspect but clearly Crouching Tiger Hidden Ponytail Weave is in the making. I walked around the store staying on the periphery witnessing each and every customer service representative who had clearly just arrived off the boat from Beijing all suffering from the vertically challenged syndrome. As I continued to make my counter-clockwise surveyal of the establishment I had ultimately confirmed that everyone employed by Gold 7 Beauty Supply was Chinese and that every person whom was shopping was...well...NOT! All the customers were Black women (plus me). This was ludicrous! Black people need to boycott. How can we let the Asian community take over the one thing that is unique to our culture? The way our hair grows out of our own head is unique only to Black people and yet we're letting the Chinese profit from our nappy needs! Really? Yet, I was quickly reminded by Jesus that I had ventured from far and wide to find Gold 7 Beauty Supply not to make online political statements at a later date but to find a new ponytail weave for Evangeline. Let the journey begin.<br />
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I asked one of the Asian midgets (redundant yet funny) behind the desk that I needed some help, let's call her Beijing. "What are you looking for?", Beijing asked (Unable to pronounce the "r"s of course ). "I'm looking for hairpieces", I said flatly. She stared at me not moving a muscle. I'm not sure if this was because of the Botox or the fact that she's Chinese. I needed to provide more information. "I need the kind that attach to the back of your head with pins", I said as I gestured to the backside of my scalp. "You need ponytail?" she asked. Smiling quickly ensued. I was very glad we were finally on the same page. "Aisle 1" she stated. So I made my way over to Aisle 1 where I expected to search the shelves to find the section that housed pre-packaged ponytail weaves where I would have to make the simple choice between long or short, curly or straight, black or blond and then be on my way. I arrived at aisle one. This is when reality set in. The ENTIRE aisle was filled with nothing but ponytail weaves! Can you believe it? Shelves upon shelves just filled with different assortments of the phony-pony! There were limitless brands offering several varieties of color, shape, texture, length, buoyancy, personalities, and odors. After a deep breath I decided to just take it one weave at a time.<br />
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I started with the shelves on the left filled with weaves hanging in different packages. As I began to read the different labels investigating the styles, brands, and prices I immediately became confused on one non-important yet incredibly intriguing aspect of these products: the brand names. I was perplexed because it seemed to me that in one row of similarly packaged weaves, there would be a different brand-name at the bottom of each one. "Amy", "Star", "Candice", "Urethra".... it was very confusing. Upon further investigation I discovered that in fact these were not the company brand names at all. Please take a deep breath because what I am about to tell you is quite disturbing. The weaves have names! I am not kidding. The weaves themselves are personally named. No last name, they're like Cher or Madonna. I was beside myself! I think it's weird to name a goldfish but a synthetic piece of plastic, this was too much! However, in my state of disbelief I became distracted by an alluring little piece of heaven named Amy. I must point out that although the weaves were packaged and air sealed in like Kielbasa sausages, the store conveniently displayed one of each hairpiece out so you were able to touch and investigate every nuance and idiosyncrasy of the weave. Amy was the shit! She was about 8 inches long (completely flaccid) with very dark and extremely tight ringlets that just flowed like a bouquet of flowers spilling out of my Grandmother's vase. I was immediately hooked. Amy was the one. However, it was made clear that the lovely arrangement of synthetic fibres I was touching was merely for display purposes which meant I was required to locate its accompanying package on one of the several shelves behind it. This would prove to be quite difficult. After several minutes of trying to compare the government-plastic wrapped hairpiece with the chocolate locks of love of love I was currently holding in my hand I became somewhat frustrated that my fully committed rummaging proved to no avail. There were billions of weaves everywhere and it was nearly impossible to locate the accurate phony-pony. I came to find that there were in fact several versions of Amy which under layers of Saran wrap were nearly undetectable to see if she was the exact one as the clump of illustrious strands I was currently holding. Upon further assessment, I noticed that the version of Amy I was holding had a small tag on it with an encrypted code comprised of an intricate combination of letters and digits. I figured out I could simply match that code to the pre-packaged weaves and I would find success. Quickly I found Amy in her package with the same code as display Amy. Surely this had to be the correct one. Or so I thought. I noticed that there was just one discrepancy between the two phony-ponies. Display Amy was labelled with the color "1" which I figured out is a universal numbering systems for weaves all over the country which indicates that the weave is black. This seems ridiculous to me. Clearly one can see that a weave is black just by looking at it, right? The pre-packaged Amy appeared black to me yet was labelled 1B. I eventually found a packaged Amy labelled 1 (no "B") and compared them side by side. I could not tell the difference between the two phony-ponies for the life of me. I needed Beijing to sort out this confusion. "1 is black and 1B is natural black", she said plainly. This was a disaster. What the Hell is "natural" black? I figured that the blackest of black is like Mortisha from the Adams family but still I don't see what would be "unnatural" about that. People have black hair! This was ridiculous. I asked her to take hair pieces out to show me the difference. She begrudgingly did so and I don't blame her. The removal of the vacuum sealed phony-ponies really was a full day commitment. Not only were they air locked (for freshness I assume) but they also had magnets on them that were bolted through the packaging so people couldn't steal them (I guess it makes sense to be paranoid about people stealing things when they are willing to wear hair that doesn't even technically belong to them). I felt like I needed a magnifying glass to see the very tiny strands of almost brown pieces of the supposedly "natural black" 1B version of Amy. What's so natural about that? Nobody's hair grows with random brown streaks in it! This was absurd. Mortisha it was! I was settled. "How much is Amy?" I asked. "$7.99" plus tax. "WHAT?". I couldn't believe it. You can transform your entire head for $7.99. Was there a Canadian weave-virgin discount I was unaware of? I asked Beijing to hold Amy for me. Clearly this was a sign from Jesus that I really needed to stock up!<br />
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Truly I had only made it an eighth of my way through the fabulous land of the pony tail weave aisle of Gold 7 Beauty Supply before finding Amy. I had a lot of work to do. So I ventured back to find some new treasures for Evangeline (and who knows, maybe a few for me too). I discovered a tiny clearance box in the middle of the aisle and realized quickly that I had urges to further investigate the unknown. As I dug through the mound of unwanted, abandoned synthetic misfits I came across a rather sophisticated little bundle of joy amidst the pile of last season's naps. This was one was unnamed (because everything in the clearance box was out of package). She was a small bun with intricate little patterns of weaved strands of hair that criss-crossed along the landscape of this perfect round cinnamon bun. She was too cute and 5 dollars. I had to get her! Feeling completely elated by my new finding I continued to venture through the shelves of hanging display ponytail weaves feeling delighted by every run of my fingers through these synthetic masterpieces. Although I was completely entertained by the bevvy of options, I still did not feel the similar excitement with any of these pieces that would compare to my emotional commitment to Amy. As I made my way to the end of the aisle (about a half an hour later) I was almost ready to checkout with Beijing when I came across a little discovery on the opposite wall. There was yet another un-named piece just hanging unobtrusively on a hanger. She was pretty. She was simple. There was nothing about her that I can put into words that stood out to me yet for some reason she really grabbed my attention. As I slowly became intrigued by her I realized that she too was staring right back at me! Was this love at first weave? I paced myself slowly toward her as she swished back in forth in the wind (the Chinese just LOVE having that air conditioner on full blast at all times). As I gingerly ran my fingers through her (feeling like a pedophile) I realized that there was something shockingly different about her. SHE WAS REAL! I knew this wasn't possible but she felt absolutely, totally, 100% authentic! I had to investigate and figure out what the deal was. I matched her code and finally found the correlating brand in a small package on the shelf behind her. This product, as I found out, is made by a company called Shake 'N' Go and she is made of 100% Indian hair (Slurpee Indian...not Casino Indian). I couldn't believe it! Some poor little girl is walking around India bald right now so that I can bask in the glow of this fabulous headpiece and let me tell you IT IS SO WORTH IT! It's hot in India. Plus, bald is the new hair extension. Sinead O'Conner is hugely popular in New Delhi. She was absolutely perfect. As I continued reading the package, I discovered more great news about Shake 'N' Go. She is versatile! Because of the fact that she is 100% human hair, you can flat iron her to make her completely straight or you can use water to scrunch her up into tightly knit curls for a bouncier more adolescent look! Perfect for R.Kelly fans! This was too much to handle. I was very close to peeing but I retained my composure (insert second R.Kelly reference here....again redundant but highly enjoyable). I quickly skipped my way to the register to pay for my findings. Beijing was busy helping out another customer so she handed my Amy and told me I could go to the register in the wig area. This was something I was not emotionally prepared for.<br />
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The Wig Shop which is a branch, if you will, of Gold 7 Beauty Supply is an animal unto itself. If you are brave enough to go back there you need to fully understand that you may not make it out alive. The Wig Shop is a secretive area of the beauty shop with walls on four sides to protect the identity of the women whom enter this area. You see, the bulk of Gold 7 Beauty Supply is set up like a CVS with several aisles carrying products, pieces, accessories and wigs that are packaged so you just simply shop around, find what you're looking for, pay, and leave. The Wig Shop section is a whole other kettle of fish (African-American fish....maybe Black cod). The Wig Shop is set up like a salon. The wigs are displayed on mannequins all around. Women sit in front of a vanity with lights and office stools so they can fully investigate the possibilities of each wig in complete and utter secrecy unbeknownst to the passers by on the other side of the wall innocently buying ponytail weaves for their friends. Honestly, I couldn't take in any more visual detail than what I have just described on account of my fear of being shot. I immediately felt that I had invaded these women's personal lives by entering their wig sanctuary. I moved VERY swiftly to the register as to be undetected by the onlookers. Guns are VERY popular in Texas. I'm just saying. "Debit or credit?" Shanghai asked me. "I don't give a shit. Just run the card before I get killed!", I was desperate to get out of there. After what had felt like an eternity I finally was able to sashay at an accelerated pace to the exit. I breathed a sigh of relief once I made it through those double doors and metal detectors. Even though I had successfully made it to safety, I thought it prudent to make my way to the bus stop as quickly as possible. Bullets can go through windows last time I checked.<br />
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After over an hour spent inside a world filled with long flowing pieces of detachable pageantry, I feel that I have grown so much as a Black woman. I have a better understanding of the full commitment needed to have a full head of wind-blown hair. It is necessary to devote countless hours and hard-earned dollars coupled with fully investigated research and development if you truly want to look like Shakira from the forehead and beyond. If White people only knew the dedication that Black women and their boyfriends whom pay for this shit have just to take care of and/or disguise what grows out of their own head they would immediately double their annual donation to the United Negro College Fund. <br />
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<img height="523" id="il_fi" src="http://thirstyroots.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/hair-weave-ponytails.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="392" /><img height="523" id="il_fi" src="http://img.en.china.cn/0/0,0,62,19416,480,640,af4c0aea.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="392" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-54560219439495349272011-08-01T20:53:00.002-05:002011-08-01T20:58:30.347-05:00Homeless Swagger I've always been a big fan of homeless people because they remind that my life is comparatively so much better. I have lived in 4 major cities and in all of which I have come across a bevvy of jobless wonders. Quite frankly, it always pulls at my heart strings to see an individual with no place to go, nothing to eat, and no Facebook account to login to. I am very lucky that I have never been homeless but my family has cut it pretty close in the beginning. I definitely know what a food stamp looks like. Thus, I do feel an affinity toward people who have less than I, which causes me to always give food when I can. Over the years I have seen a spectrum of toothless people across this great nation. I have listened to loud Christian rants from a homeless Jamaican woman on the NYC Subway. I have been approached by smelly men in Vancouver questioning me where the best place to buy crack is (I am not exactly sure what about my Ora exudes the idea that I know where the good drugs are located. I was wearing plaid that day for Christ's sake!). Although, on most occasions I have resisted the temptation to give money to any of these people, I have most often donated whatever food that happened to be in my backpack at the time. I ALWAYS carry a banana on me at all times for this reason. You never know when you will meet someone whom will need that banana more than you! (I think that's in the Bible somewhere, around page 100....). It always fills my heart with joy and satisfaction to see someone whom can appreciate something so simple like food. It reminds me how lucky I am to be afforded the finances to purchase several bananas a week. Only when graced by the presence of someone whom doesn't have such a luxury does one truly realize his true fortune.<br />
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Amidst my long relationship with the people in unfortunate circumstances, I have recently had a falling out with a member of the homeless community. I must first explain that the homeless people in Dallas are like no other. They are incredibly aggressive, extraordinarily hairy, and speak at a volume that will deafen the strongest of ears! And they LOVE McDonald's. I cannot emphasize this enough. I have never met a group of people that appreciated Ronald McDonald so much in my life. Enter at your own risk in Dallas because you WILL be accosted by Black people that will demand that you buy them a Big Mac! (They will probably ask that you give them the change too). Although, the homeless people here sometimes come across as slightly bolder than the rest, I have still maintained my unwavering attempt to feed the mouths of the hungry with my banana (I feel like I've heard that sentence at the beginning of a pornographic film once. Nostalgia is weird....). <br />
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One day, I was at the Pearl Station, a train stop in downtown Dallas. It was a late night after a long day's work. I was standing at there waiting patiently with my friends Buckwheat (a native of D.C. whom is mentioned in an earlier blog) and B-More (a lovely lady, friend of Buckwheat, from Baltimore HOLLA!). We, the dynamic trio, were standing there enjoying our evening, waiting for our ghetto form of smelly transportation just like everyone else when a homeless man approached us. He was wearing a very large orange t-shirt; this was the first sign something was wrong! As he moved towards us, I noticed there was a very strange rhythm in his walk and he was leaning to the side slightly. I wasn't able to tell if this was a limp caused by some sort of war injury or if that was just his "swagger". Only Jesus knows. Homeless Swaggapants came over to the three of us and started in immediately. I am not sure what it is about the "urban" Dallas community that equips them with the ability to talk for 5 days straight just to make a simple plea for money. A simple "Gimme yo coins BITCH!" would have gotten his point across much more easily. Instead, Homeless Swaggapants decided to take the three of us hopelessly defensive victims through an INCREDIBLY long-winded explanation of why he felt that we should fork over our hard earned money to his triflin' ass. I tried to black out the memory but I do remember something about him trying to go the shelter to get food but they were closed at a certain time and they were overcapacity...blah blah blah! I nodded off half-way through his declaration of co-dependence. When I woke up he was still talking. I screamed a silent Hallelujah to myself when I finally heard him take a breath. This was my cue. "Excuse me Mr. Homeless Man. I can't offer you money at this time, however I do have some delicious food in my bag if you would like some.". Now, I thought this was Homeless Swaggapants's lucky day! You see, I didn't have a banana in my backpack, I actually had a full meal that I had not finished! I had prepared earlier in the day a wholewheat fettuccine with home-made marinara sauce with mushrooms, garlic, onion, green peppers, and eggplant. Delicious and nutritious! I was so proud of myself to provide a meal to someone whom truly needed it! He couldn't get this shit at the shelter. I couldn't wait to see the look of surprise on his face. This is when things took an ugly turn......<br />
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I must first mention that I actually handed Homeless Swaggapants this freshly home-cooked meal in my personal Tupperware container and metal fork for him to take with him with the full intention of not having it returned. Only an angel sent from baby Jesus would be so willing to make such a humble sacrifice for the good of a smelly homeless man. I handed Homeless Swaggapants the Tupperware dish and his utensils. His response: "What is it?". I responded quickly, "Whole wheat fettuccine with home-made pasta sauce". He reluctantly looked at the dish and said, "I don't eat spaghetti". At this moment, I would like to relay to you my feelings in that moment by telling you what I truly wanted to say:<br />
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SPAGHETTI! FIRST OF ALL, THIS AIN'T SPAGHETTI BITCH, I TOLD YOU IT WAS FETTUCCINE! YOU THINK YOU CAN GET THIS SHIT AT THE HOMELESS SHELTER YOU WERE DONE KICKED OUT OF 2 HOURS AGO? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU'RE STANDING THERE DYING IN FRONT OF MY OWN EYES; MALNOURISHED, DIRTY, AND PRACTICALLY TOOTHLESS! HOW DARE YOU TURN DOWN THE MEAL THAT I SLAVED OVER THE STOVE FOR ALL MORNING! WHY DON'T YOU GO OVER TO THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL AND FIND YOUR NEXT MEAL THERE YOU UNGRATEFUL FILTHY LITTLE BITCH!<br />
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Please allow me to re-iterate that the previous response was the imaginary one that I wish could have come to fruition. But because I am a man of Christ-like qualities, I decided to take the Holy road towards Jesus. So instead I simply stared for a few seconds in disbelief. I truly could not believe what I was hearing. I am standing in front of a homeless man who is refusing food because he doesn't like spaghetti. Was he on a gluten free diet? I had to choose my words carefully. I said to Homeless Swaggapants, "You don't eat spaghetti? What do you mean? You have no money and no food, you're on the street with nowhere to go and you're telling me you don't eat spaghetti? Listen! Beggars can't be choosers". This was the point when Buckwheat and B-More lost it. At the time, I didn't know what came over them. The train arrived very quickly. I left with my half-eaten fettuccine in tact but my pride officially had been stamped on and crushed. <br />
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As I sat down next to my two partners in crime, Buckwheat and B-More, they were still shaking with laughter. "What's so funny!!!???". B-More had to break it down for me. She explained to me that I was completely in the right. She agreed that it was absolutely absurd for a homeless person to be so rude to someone whom was offering to help them especially when asking for nothing in return. However, she summed up the reason for the great hilarity felt between she and Buckwheat. She explained, "I completely understand why you believe that beggars can't be choosers. It's just I've never actually heard someone say that to a beggar!". Laughter ensued between the three of us.<br />
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I only have Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to thank that I have yet to be homeless. I have been blessed with the fruits of the Lord with food, a bed, and an IPhone. I actually don't have an IPhone, it just seemed so right to say that. Even after my falling out with Homeless Swaggapants I am still a giving, nurturing, and devoted Christ-like being. Swaggapants was sent to me from Lucifer to test my patience. He failed miserably. Although, I may have been detoured for a moment, I still have kept my heart on the path towards salvation. The lesson I have learned on my journey to righteousness is <strong>even in the face of homeless adversity to always keep an open and generous heart for all of God' children.....even the unemployed ones.</strong> Just don't give them fettuccine....<br />
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<img height="301" id="il_fi" src="http://blog.nj.com/njsports_impact/2009/06/large_rockystreet.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="453" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-43257729766460789872011-05-29T21:23:00.001-05:002011-05-29T21:32:37.648-05:00The BrownBerry - My New Cell Phone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> I'm really on the fence when it comes to two main issues: technology and laser hair removal in my nether regions. In both cases, I feel that the ideas are far too new and under-researched, therefore it is impossible to understand the long term effects of either. In the case of technology, I have been generally resistant in all areas possible. I am yet to buy a computer amidst my constant blogging. I, for some reason, take joy in writing my lovely rants in the business center in my apartment building available to all residents. It gives me separation between my relaxation and my time to get down to business. In the case of cell phones, I have unfortunately made an exception. Up until the age of 21, I completely resisted the idea of even being caught dead with one of those awful things. Truly, there's nothing wrong with cell phones but the way in which people use (or abuse) them is absolutely unsightly. It disgusts me to no end to see someone in the middle of a shopping mall yelling at the top of their lungs into their mobile device whilst unintentionally giving anyone in ear shot the full breadth of the conversation he or she is having. How ignorant! What's even worse is being on a date with someone who appears to be on a date with their cell phone instead of you. OY! Can you not wait until you go to the bathroom to check your text messages? Is that not the polite thing to do? I refused to turn into one of those people but alas I was finally sucked in. I had moved to Toronto, I was 21, and I was looking for a job. With no place to call my true home it only made sense to invest in a cell phone in order to be reached by potential employers. I, of course, opted for the free phone when signing up for the service. I stuck with the standard edition flip phone for nearly 3 years until last week when I unfortunately dropped the little bitch on the floor and it broke into a thousand pieces. <br />
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Up until last week, I had enjoyed the simplicity of the flip phone. You know, that's the one where you have to press a number 7 times to get the correct letter for a text message. I know it's a hassel, but I was so proud of myself for being economically sound. In fact, I only paid $25 per month (pay as you go) for 200 minutes per month and unlimited texting. Considering how briefly I ever speak on the phone, this idea seemed perfect 3 years ago and quite suiting still today. However, with the misfortune of watching my phone shatter into seventy thousand pieces last week told me that I ultimately would have to leave that reality in the past and move on to the future. It was time to purchase a new phone (one that was perhaps of a model created AFTER President Obama's inauguration).<br />
<br />
I went to this very strange place called Verizon. It's a place that tries to sell you pieces of plastic and metal that light up for the bargain price of $500. I wanted to kill myself within 5 minutes of being in that wretched place. I, like a complete idiot, walked into the store with my phone in pieces and said to the consultant, "Can I get my contacts back?". You see, I really didn't (and still don't) care about the gevity of my phone, I just wanted to get all of the phone numbers I had saved back so I wouldn't have to awkwardly Facebook everybody in the entire universe in order to send them a text message. I figured that because the battery of my phone was left in tact (despite the exterior of the phone shattering) that it would be of no or little problem to retrieve my previously saved phone numbers. The gentlemen, whom worked for Verizon, very gingerly explained to me that all phone information is not saved in the battery. In fact, he said that the information "is saved into the phone itself.". I felt very confused by this statement. What do you mean it's IN the phone? How is it IN the phone? This tiny little piece of plastic? All my information is in there? My God! What has happened to the world? The clerk began showing me several versions of different models they offered but it was all too much for me to handle emotionally. The IPhone 4. What is that sack of bullshit? The IPad 2? When did this come out. How does anybody keep up with this nonsense? I couldn't deal with it! I ran as quickly as I could to the nearest Best Buy to purchase the most trusted product that I had used previously and tirelessly, a Virgin Mobile cell phone!<br />
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The reason why I have always been with Virgin Mobile is two fold. First of all, they offer fabulous Pay as You Go plans which for a person of few spoken words like myself is perfect. Secondly, Virgin Mobile is only offered in large department stores who do not specialize in selling their own brand (such as Verizon or AT&T) which basically means that I can enter the store hassel free and browse without feeling like I'm being gangbanged by customer service representatives. I arrived at Best Buy and immediately found the very tiny Virgin Mobile section and began to look for, of course, the cheapest phone possible. I figured that it would be practical to simply replace the one that I had previously which only cost me $10 when I first purchased it. As I scanned down the shelves, I was unable to find my phone. Where are you my cheap ass phone? Are you hiding with Osama Bin Laden? (Oh Wait! He's been found)! My God, where are you? After several minutes pacing back and forth I was completely in failure in retrieving and/or replacing my mobile device. What is a girl to do?<br />
<br />
At this point I realized that this was simply a message from Jesus explaining to me that it was high time that I replace my cellular piece of shit with an upgraded variety mobile device. I had to accept the fact that I was both emotionally and physically prepared to take on the responsibility of a phone that didn't require a 30 minute time span set aside to send a simple text message. I accepted my challenge with vigor, curiosity, and courage. As I scanned the possibilities, I found myself coming back to a particular beacon of glittery technology in the form of the LG Rumor Touch! The name itself was just so enticing and deliciously scandalous! The Rumor Touch! Sounds like the title of a pornographic film of the lesbian variety! How fantastic! This phone was truly amazing as I analyzed the tester on display. Apparently with this phone you don't even need a keypad you just simply touch (or lick) the screen and it responds accordingly. This was absolutely insane! You can even talk to the little bitch and it listens to you! It's this very bizarre invention called "Voice Dialing". Who knew? You can even connect to MySpace, YourSpace, MyBook, and YourFace, all within the click of a button (actually not a button just a press of your own finger on the screen). After all of this information I could barely hold in my excitement. I had to buy this delicious piece of cyberspace. There was no choice!<br />
<br />
One hundred dollars! Are you kidding me? Are you telling me that previously with my bullshit do-for-nothing phone that costs a mere $10 that you are now requiring me to upgrade with ten times the price in order to appreciate a little Facebook? What a ripoff! I was so pissed. I was ready to punch myself in the taint until I realized that there truly was no other option. Lest I forget that the $10 phone for some reason is completely unavailable and thus I would have to upgrade no matter what. Sure I could've purchased something a little less expensive but the fact is I wouldn't have enjoyed it. No matter what, I was going to have to fork out more money than I wanted to if I was going to have a working phone again, period! So it made sense to might as well go with a device that actually gave me a little excitement in my tuckus. You know what I'm saying? So ultimately I bought the little LG Rumor Touch the L Word Sequel 2 3G Videphone bullshit drama for one hundred dollars. I truly cringed as I swiped my card. (I cried a little...)<br />
<br />
Ultimately, what is a bi-racial Canadian to do when he or she unintentionally breaks his perfectly good 3 year old phone on the sidewalk after a night of drunken behaviour. Supposedly, all that is left to his or her decision making is whether to splurge a little or a lot. I chose the latter. And I am as happy as shit about it. Although it took me what felt like decades to actually fully understand the concept of touching my screen to get results, what I ultimately have ended up with is an incredibly convenient, deliciously efficient, and undeniably sleek piece of electronic plastic that services my every need (except for my need to have several Asian babies around me at one time, screw you Angelina!). Since getting my new phone I have become obsessed, confused, and completely drunk with power. Every minute of my day is taken up with fidgeting with my new phone trying to discover every idiosyncrasy possible! I have come to find that I have turned into the technological whore that I have always despised. I have turned to the dark side. I must say it is totally worth it only for the fact that I have just figured out how to change the coloring on my phone so that pictures I take of my naked body will appear more golden. Thank Jesus for technology!<br />
<img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://gadgetmedia.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/iphone5.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="369" /></div>JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-10276770864377329682011-05-28T10:42:00.000-05:002011-05-28T10:42:37.696-05:00A Rude Awakening! Apparently there are no more need for alarm clocks. Just simply have a Black roommate move out of your apartment and you will be sure to be up at all hours unnecessarily. So here's the deal. I (at 9:30am) SHOULD be asleep on this Saturday morning. However, clearly I am not. I have left my apartment to go down to the community computer room to angrily strike away at these keys ad nauseum. Here's why! I was rudely awoken this morning to a sound so startling that I nearly had to throw my sheets in the laundry machine immediately afterward. Before I go into detail, I will personally admit that I am an INCREDIBLY light sleeper. If I am asleep and my roommate comes home, I will wake up at the sound of the door being unlocked. To make matters worse, we live in a loft together where the sound travels faster than news of a Britney Spears pregnancy. On this disasterly morning, my roommate whom we will refer to as Banana Pudding, was moving out the last of his things out of our loft. We have lived together wonderfully since we first met in November but he is moving on with his life to bigger and better things in Las Vegas. This is all lovely and dandy. But the matter of which he decided to retrieve his belongings in the wee hours of this morning was some of the most disturbing, annoying, and confusing variety I could possibly ever imagine.<br />
<br />
The sound I was awoken with was similar to that of being inside of a movie theatre in Compton during a Tyler Perry movie. Banana Pudding, and a sidekick of his whom I do not really know, decided to burst through the door like a herd of ghetto elephants and proceeded to, at a volume that I am still perplexed by, strut their ignorant selves into his room, grab the suitcases and roll them out the front door. This all happened in about 30 seconds so it couldn't have been that bad right? WRONG! In 30 seconds these two belligerent hoodlums created more of a ruckus than the police breaking up an R.Kelly underage sex party. And all for only one simple reason that could have been so easily avoided. Banana Pudding when he barged through the door said "Oh Brown and Thin......." I'm assuming to see if I was at home. Here's the thing. My bed is in the corner NEXT TO THE FRONT DOOR! Why are you asking if I'm home when first of all, you can clearly see that I'm lying in my bed next to you and second of all (and more importantly) I'M FUCKING ASLEEP! If you're concerned that you're interrupting my slumber then simply look to see if I'm there and then accommodate that by being respectful and tell your ghetto friend to keep quiet. This friend, might I add, was not talking but SCREAMING on his cell phone. I have seriously never heard anybody in my entire life scream so loud in my life. At first I thought he was yelling at Banana Pudding but by the time they had both grabbed the suitcases and back to the door I saw that he was actually on his phone (which seriously needs to be confiscated). At this point as the friend was leaving I was sitting up on my bed. "Excuse me...." I said in a respectful tone. Looking back, clearly I needed to speak at his volume in order for him to hear me over his catastrophically loud conversation he was heaving on his phone. However, I would not have changed my tone. I refuse to let someone get my blood pressure so high that it turns into a screaming match. Unlike him, I am NOT ghetto and refuse to let his foolish actions turn me into a disrespectful ignorant person like he so clearly displayed.<br />
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I am especially glad that I did not go off on this mystery friend because truly the person I need to be mad at is Banana Pudding! You see, when I'm up, I'm up! There was no going back to sleep after I woke up to the sound of terrorists invading my apartment. As mystery friend left I walked toward the kitchen at an incredibly slow yet angry pace to get some cranberry juice to bring some joy back to my life. On my way, I passed by Banana Pudding. "Oh. I didn't even know you were home" he said to me. I was LITERALLY beside myself. I could not believe his ignorance. What do you mean you didn't know I was home. I SLEEP NEXT TO THE FRONT DOOR! You didn't think to look to your left to see if your bi-racial Canadian roommate was home before parading in with the cast of Boyz in the Hood? Yes you called my name but I was SLEEPING! My gosh! What is wrong with people? Instead of explaining all of this to Banana Pudding, I simply kept on walking to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of delicious cranberry cocktail. I sat down and sipped on my red beverage. Banana Pudding was gone at this point. I simply sat by myself in complete disbelief of what had happened. It was truly unbelievable to me. Then something extraordinary happened. I unexpectedly started to laugh uncontrollably. They say that laughter can often be a byproduct of confusion and utter disbelief. No kidding!<br />
<br />
There truly was no point in getting cross with either Banana Pudding or his comrade. Mr. Pudding moves out officially tomorrow. I will no longer have to deal with that kind of foolishness, or at least from him. If I ever pulled a stunt like that my Grandmother would punch me in the face with a waffle iron if she ever got wind of my being so ignorant and disrespectful. But that really is the thing. The fact is, I was taught to be respectful of other people and their time and their space and their privacy. The ghetto dynamic duo clearly did not learn any of these lessons from their family which actually makes me sad. They obviously didn't purposely awake me from my beauty rest but they for some inexplicable reason had no thought or awareness to be considerate of the fact that they were entering a dwelling where TWO people inhabit the space at an hour that most likely one of which would be asleep. So in these moments of frustration I have to give thanks to Jesus and Moses that I have been so blessed to experience and upbringing that taught me to never act like a hot ghetto mess. This rationalization helps me deal with my anger and frustration and therefore I must also be thankful for the world of blogging. Without which I may have busted a cap in some one's ass this beautiful Saturday morning.<br />
<img height="451" id="il_fi" src="http://www.tokyomango.com/tokyo_mango/images/2008/10/04/ju01.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="550" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-24126937032795856182011-05-26T11:26:00.001-05:002011-05-26T11:36:38.742-05:00Gone With The Wind! When I first found out I was moving to Texas, my mind was flooded with stereotypical of images of toothless cowboy hat wearing rednecks basking in the blazing sun 12 months of the year. The first half of that stereotype turned out to be only partially true and apparently so has the second half of my statement. Not only was I slightly disappointed that the city of Dallas wasn't completely filled with rednecks but in fact the state of Texas is not bestowed upon a year round sun glow. I assumed that there would be a slightly mild winter so I was slightly surprised to find myself sporting, on a few occasions, my full length wool trench coat with matching hat and baby seal gloves (I do not own gloves made from baby seals but it just worked rhythmically with the sentence). I came to Texas in September when the weather Gods were feeling quite generous with their giving of heat in a very consistent way. After only a few days on my roof sporting a red speedo, I found myself looking quite golden instantaneously. However, as the months have gone by I have become increasingly disappointed with Texas and its undecided weather. Since October, one day it's raining, the next it's unbearably hot, and the next there's ice on the ground all within the span of one week. I keep telling myself that summer is coming but as we move closer to the month of June I have been growing rather impatient. The culmination of my frustration was established Tuesday evening. During that day it had been lovely and warm, I was finally ready for the first time in 2011 to sport my flip flops and shorts which signaled (for me at least) the starting of this overdue summer season. I had to be at work in the evening so around 4 o'clock I sported myself in my delicious summer outfit and pranced on over for work for a 5 o'clock start. And then came the wind......<br />
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I noticed as I got off the train and was walking to work that I seemed to be moving at a speed equivalent to the bionic man. I felt like I was on one of those bizarre walking escalators that act as a hyper speed runway in the middle of the airport for no reason. I began to wonder what gave my muscles the impetus to move so quickly, only to find out that there were ENORMOUS gusts of wind propelling me forward in the direction of the building I was heading to. "I'm not THAT late for work!" I said to Jesus. I figured the Lord was just trying to help a brother get to work on time by summoning the weather Gods. I appreciated the help but it was more important to me in that moment that I arrived at my job alive. I had seriously never seen or felt wind like this in my life. I was just waiting for entire trees to start bouncing down the road. But alas, I made it inside the building safely and on time by the way. Praise the Lord. Now all the madness was over, or so I thought.<br />
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I, and all the rest of my fellow employees, were set to finish work at 10pm. Around 9pm we got word that there was a violent storm occurring outside. In fact, the entire city was on tornado watch (which I understand is worse than tornado warning)! I had foolishly consumed a large cup of coffee some hours previous. This, in combination with the news I had just heard, caused me to run quickly to the nearest toilet. This was NOT going to be pretty (I mean the weather of course)! Once I returned from the loo, we were informed that should the conditions get worse that we would have to commune in the basement until the storm passed. Really? Is that seriously a good idea? Do I really want to be stuck under a million pound building made of brick and mortar that could potentially be collapsed by the big bad wolf outside? I quickly dismissed these thoughts and realized I was panicking too soon! This was not good for my large intestine. I calmed myself down and just focused on the fact that we had not yet been sent down to the dungeon of doom just yet. However, a few minutes later, we were in fact told that the storm was headed in our very direction and we would have to head down to the precipice of death (the basement) for an indeterminable amount of time. Does anybody have a clean pair of underpants I could borrow?<br />
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I have never smoked marijuana in my life, nor have I ever had any interest in doing so. However, I for the first time, felt like I was in some serious need of ganja at that very moment. As we all huddled in the basement on some couches and chairs in front of the television all I kept thinking was "I have absolutely no alcohol at my disposal". Over Christmas time, I had considered buying myself a flask to commemorate the holiday season but then realized that doing so may be slightly inappropriate considering Jesus's birthday was right around the corner. Now it's May and I have had PLENTY of time to invest in a flask but I have so stupidly not taken the opportunity to do so. And now I TRULY was in need. As the newscast came on, I was reminded yet again of how AWFUL the newscasters are when reporting detrimental weather. It was a repeat of the exact kind of language I had heard during the reports this past December when I was stuck in front of a television at the Greyhound Station during an awful storm that prevented our bus going to New York City. These newscasters are SO DRAMATIC; it's totally unnecessary. Whenever these news bitches start using words like "catastrophic", "abominable", "the worst weather conditions since the beginning of time", all while showing footage of dogs being blown away by Hurricane Betsy, I am always in such disbelief as to why they are putting we poor innocent civilians under even more stress! This is why the sale of Pepto Bismol has sky rocketed since this economic disaster. The newscasters have been putting all of us through so much stress that we are forced to purchase copious amounts of Pepto Bismol to cope with our diarrhea. Clearly there's an underhanded deal going on between Fox News and Pepto Bismol. Once the gigantic blood red block sized letters began flashing violently on the screen reading <span style="color: red;"><strong>SEVERE WEATHER WARNING </strong></span><span style="color: black;">paired with loud alarm sounds blaring in conjunction with each flash, I thought that things were at their worst. I was right! I began sweating profusely and running back and forth from the bathroom uncontrollably. I was an absolute wreck all the while trying to stay calm amongst the 20 other people stuck in the small room glued to the television. This bi-racial Canadian was about to crack (like a Brown egg).</span><br />
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There was only one thing that would save my sanity in that moment (and it wasn't Jesus because that little bitch had bailed on me hours ago when he pulled that wind push stunt!). In fact, my only saving grace that evening during "the worst storm the city had seen in years" was a dirty little gem named Kirstie Alley! That's right, the severe weather warning bullshit was brutally interrupted by the season finale of Dancing With The Stars! My "woe is me" attitude became completely wayward when I found out I was going to watch a beached humpback whale perform in heels! My excitement over such ridiculous antics is amplified by the fact that I do not own a television or computer (I write my blogs in a public business center which has no access to YouTube or anything of the sort) and therefore I seldomly get wind of such deliciously embarrassing performances! I was more than thrilled. My eyes grew double the size (somewhat to accommodate Kirstie Alley's image on the screen) in complete anticipation of what I was about to see. It was the top three finalists! Kirstie was competing against a football player named Hines Ward and some skinny bitch whom I didn't care about for the fact that there was nothing particularly awkward or ridiculous about her (What's the fun in that?). The channel cut into the program just in time for me to see the "Look Who's Talking" star deliver the most bizarre performance of her lifetime. I can't explain to you how much I love that show. It's just so delightful to me to watch people look awkward. It brings me joy to no end. I have to say, Kirstie Alley actually looked pretty good. She had clearly lost a lot of weight (again), her face work looked like it had settled in nicely, and her weave stayed in! Listen, that's what I call a winner in Hollywood! I paid little attention to the gargantuan-sized football player and even less to the skinny Atkins bitch with a dream. I was completely mesmerized by watching Kirstie Alley! Her weave had a mind of its own! Seeing her blond hair swish this way and that was enough to make my want to eat a corn dog (and that takes a lot for me to say that)! After several re-caps and video montages later it was finally time to reveal the winner. Of course they cut to commercial break to allow for the tension to build. This was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves! The show in fact did give me stress but it was the good kind of stress! You know, the kind that does not include volleyball sized hail wrecking your Toyota Prius (I do not own any kind of vehicle but the name Toyota Prius just rolls of your tongue and just jumps off the page of my blog, doesn't it?). After what felt like an eternity, Tom Burgeron (an over-sized Ryan Seacrest with talent) held his microphone to his thin Caucasian lips and said "And the winner is". I understand that you want to build up the anticipation of the audience by having a slight pause before you actually say the name of who wins, I really do! I get it. This all started with Regis Philbin after the contestant locked in the final answer, remember? Although I think in his case, Mr. Philbin just naturally has that 10 second delay built into his brain, I think it just takes him a little extra time for his elderly mind to process the information. But at this point, they seem to take inordinate amount of time panning to the face of every contestant, their dancing partner, each member of the audience, back to Tom Burgeron, cutting back to every clip they've ever danced, back to Kirstie Alley, back to Tom Burgeron, and this all between the time he says "And the winner is" and the actual announcement. It's enough to make me want to through a tampon at the screen! Finally Mr. Burgeron took an inhalation and said "Hines Ward!". As the confetti slowly swayed two and fro towards the floor and as the lights were flashing on the Hercules football player's little bald shiny head I was truly ready to throw in the towel (and my tampon) on reality television. How could this asshole win this damn show? I mean, his dancing was fine, but he's no Kirstie Alley?!?! I couldn't understand this. The audience actually voted for him! Dreadful. I was completely in shock. My boss whom was seated next to me amongst the huddled group hiding from the storm turned to me and explained something to me. She gave me a little piece of information that I had not previously known. This would truly explain why the football player won. Listen closely, it's amazing! THE BITCH IS HALF KOREAN!<br />
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Now it all made sense! Hines Ward, American football star, is half Black, half Korean or as I call it, the best of both worlds! If you have ever seen a half Black, half Asian baby you will completely understand why the world is absolutely fascinated with these half bred creatures. These babies are not just regular little nuggets, they are SUPERBABIES! Just think about it! They have the muscularity, golden hue, and swagger of the African American and the slanted eyes, hairlessness, and adorable inability to drive like the Asians! It is the perfect combination for adorabilty! You can't help but dote and obsess over a Blasian! Immediately, my despair was lifted off my shoulders in light of this new Asian persuasion. Shortly thereafter we were cleared to leave the building around 11pm. With a smile on my bi-racial face I left with a half Black half Asian flutter in my heart over Hines Ward. I was truly at peace. The storm had calmed both outside and inside my soul.<br />
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Because of the rain I asked Evangeline if she would give me a lift home. She and I walked up the stairs to the main level and opened the door. Screams insued. We both were blown away like Tiger Wood's wife when she saw the first picture of her husband with trailer trash on her IPhone4. The wind had grown from a violent push to work previously to now a full blown huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down and take your weave off too! Thank God Evangeline had already taken her detachable hairpiece out otherwise it too would have been gone with he wind. We immediately shut the door and calmed our screams. We were both wet from the rain literally being blown into the building during the all of 5 seconds the door was opened. We gathered ourselves and took deep breath. Without either of us having an umbrella, weave protection, or appropriate footwear we both courageously adventured out into the storm. Thank God for Patriva whom had driven by to pick us up in her car to take us to the parking lot. However, in those very brief moments being only 10 feet to the car, by the time Evangeline made it to her car we were soaking wet and howling like wolves. As we started slowly making our way back home, the thunder and lightning had made quite a resurgence like a Cher Farwell Tour. The windshield wipers couldn't even swipe fast enough to be able to see properly out the front window. In complete stress and fear for our lives, all we had in that moment was eachother. Screaming for an indeterminable amount of time we somehow managed to make it home alive and sopping wet.<br />
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It was 11:30pm by the time I finally walked into my front door. I needed a drink! I poured myself a deilcious glass of Shiraz (one of my favorite red wines) and plopped myself into bed. Before I quickly dozed off into my slumber I took, as I often do, just a few moments of reflection. It's during these times that I am able to realize what I have learned in that day. They say you always learn something new. As I replayed the images and memories throughout that unbelieveable evening I had realized that I had been through a lot emotionally in the past few hours. Throughout all of the turmoil, craziness, and fear for my life I came to the conclusion that I had learned a very important lesson. I had true appreciation, from those moments of fear, for what it is most important in my lifie. No matter what storms may come our way, no matter what trials and tribulations I must face, I must remember......God will always make Asian and partially Black babies. Amen!<br />
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<img height="319" id="il_fi" src="http://dummidumbwit.files.wordpress.com/2010/02/tornado-4.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3448407397014118059.post-6913834944699896542011-05-22T17:35:00.000-05:002011-05-22T17:35:06.644-05:00The Faux Hawk Hair is one of the most prominent aspects of African-American culture. On the one hand, Black hair is incredibly distinct and often considered "difficult to manage". On the other hand, it truly is one of the most unique and versatile textures of hair that a person can possibly have. I, in my bi-racial Canadian life, have experienced aspects of both. I have seen processed hair, braids, waves, curls, weaves, sew-ins, and the occasional Black-girl bun. However, I personally have not experienced the kind of variety in the Chia pet that has been growing on the top of my head like many of my Black or partially Black counterparts. For the past 24 years I have simply watched my hair grow for a period of a few months and then I would simply go get the head bush trimmed to a more manageable size; rinse and repeat for decades on end.<br />
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Recently, I have been doing my own hair. I've realized that it's more than slightly ridiculous to pay someone to simply run an electric razor a few times over my scalp for a period of 15 minutes and then charge me 20 dollars plus tip for their time. I find it more economically productive to invest in some Bic disposable razors and do it myself every 10 days. Today just happened to be day 10. So this morning I planned to grab my electric razor to trim the head bush then I attack the leftover debree with the Bic razor to leave a flawless Mr. Clean look as always. As I began my first stroke with my electric razor, it dawned on me that I have been cutting my hair the exact same way for over 5 years. In fact, I have had the exact same hairstyle for my entire life! Who does that? That's no fun! I have been blessed with a kind of hair which yes in the beginning freaked me out but I live in America now, a land where I can actually learn how to deal with my hair. No more excuses! It was time for a change!<br />
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I always start shaving the sides of my head first and work my way to the crown of my head. I had made it approximately three strokes up before the epiphany had dawned on me that I was in desperate need of a change. I paused for a moment, stared in the mirror, and saw the possibility. It was clearly time for me to take my hair choice into my own hands and embrace a very popular Black hairstyle that has come and gone throughout the decades; THE FAUX HAWK! Yes, you know it well. This is when, for no particular reason, a person of color (or otherwise) has his head shaven with a random strip of hair that starts from the top of the forehead that goes all the way to the back of the neck. Naturally, most of us are familiar with the Caucasian version of this style entitled the mowhawk. But that would be far too much work for me to pull out the White half of my genetics, so I decided to stick with the faux-hawk. I had never tried or even considered doing this to my own head but I figured it couldn't be particularly complicated. I did one side of my head at a time just shaving toward what seemed like the center of my head until it was even on both sides. It's amazing how if you stare at something long enough, your perception of balance and symmetry can completely shift. I would shave off a little of the left to balance it out and then realize that there was now too much bush left on the right. I went back and forth for several minutes and then finally forcing myself to stop fussing and just settle with the imperfection lest I end up with only a dental floss width of hair left in the center of my egg shaped head. As I finally was feeling accepting of my hair cutting performance I realized that I was perhaps celebrating too soon. There was a challenge that I had completely forgotten about: the back of my head! <br />
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Even when I am doing my regular bald coif it is always a bit of a production to make sure that I get every last strand on the back of my head. In the beginning, I mastered the two-mirror technique using a hand held mirror in addition to a large mirror on my vanity to double check that I got every nook and cranny around both ears and at the bottom of my neck. This is where the White half comes in! You see, even though my hair is of the Black variety, the copious amount of it that is beginning to run down my neck into my back is definitely the French Canadian heritage kicking in! In any event, most recently I have mastered the touch technique of just simply feeling my scalp in the back to make sure it is even without the help of even one mirror. However, with trying to create a symmetrical singular railroad track of hair running down the back of my head I figured it would be best to use a mirror this time. Unfortunately I had broken my hand held mirror years ago in a freak vodka cranberry incident in my bathroom. I learned then that drinking alcoholic beverages while doing one's hair is not the best idea. In any case, I had the task of finding a mirror to use. My neighbours were of no help but I quickly remembered that my roommate has several in his room. I grabbed one which was about as tall as I. I gingerly propped it up in my bathtub. I'm not sure what kind of depth perception problem I inherited but for some reason I could not figure out the angle of which to situate the mirror so that I could actually see the reflection of the back of my head in the vanity mirror. After several minutes of playing around I finally gave up. There was going to have to be another way.<br />
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I decided that I needed to go for a new look. It seemed impossible to estimate the exact path of my faux-hawk down the back of my neck. I decided to consider a different option. What if I simply shaved all of the hair of the back of my head and just left a little garden patch on the top; like a golf course! It would be my way of paying homage to fellow bi-racial Tiger Woods! It would bring me such honor and grace to be able to provide a place on my own head for which Tiger could T off from! I had made up my mind! The only thing then was to figure out an appropriate place in which to end the faux-hawk. My head is an oval shape so it was somewhat difficult to determine the exact spot where the the top of my head ended and the back of my head began. After going back and forth in my mind for an inordinate period of time I decided to simply stick my index finger horizontally in a place that felt somewhat logical and simply shave off everything underneath. After several strokes and several minutes of watching my dry Canadian naps gracefully dance towards the floor I was finally done. I had created a lovely Canadian faux-hawk!<br />
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It's very interesting to me how much pride we take in our hair; both men and women. Regardless of your race, religion, color, or gender, hair plays a huge role in one's self confidence. Unfortunately, I have the "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone" syndrome in the fact that I am only appreciative of my naps now that my hair line is receding. But alas, it is never too late to appreciate your head bush. And the time is now for me! I am so excited to have ventured into a new realm of headdress in my twenties. If not for my epiphany this morning I may have been stuck looking like Samuel L. Jackson for another 24 years! I am so thankful and proud of the miniature Canadian golf course that I have sculptured onto my own bi-racial head!<br />
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<img height="267" id="il_fi" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSmYSBta5AzzXJlPDZX5EJoNErRl17ECXoJ_t9q-w1q9e78RNh44g&t=1" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="189" />JustBlackEnoughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16151068512341862597noreply@blogger.com0