I like bagels.

Do you like bagels?

You know who loves bagels?

White women with miscegenated babies.

Actually, that may not be true at all. I cant say with certitude (no Wiener) that all white women with miscegenated babies really loves bagels…I was just at a loss for a casual and sagacious introduction to this post.


(yeah, I like doing that now.)

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Y’all n*ggas hatin’ on what, now?

Fried Kool-aid balls?


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Okay, before we hop into the thicket of the post, I think it’s important to know that…I’m a gangsta.

And gangstas dont dance…we boogie.

We also tend to respond erratically to what may appear to be some incredibly infinitesimal sh*t that we ignorantly misconstrued for some incredibly monolithic, disrespectful-a**, non-gangsta sh*t.

For example, accusing Spiderman of imparting Jim Crowisms.

It happens.

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Apparently, with great power comes great responsibigotry.

Spiderman, you a**hole.

I’ve never been so let down in my life. This must be what it feels like when snitches get stitches. I say that because I imagine getting stitches hurts. As a child who treated major lacerations with a pound of Vaseline, band-aid, and subsequent a**whoopin’ for doing whatever dumb sh*t it was that got me injured in the first place, I wouldnt really know what getting stitches felt like. But if it’s something that snitches get, I don’t see it being a pleasurable experience at all. I also aint no snitch. Cause as I previously mentioned…snitches get stitches. And stitches hurt.

Anyway. Point is. You really hurt me, Spiderman.

You a**hole.

I cant believe I still used to wear you on my underwear. My booty-balls are disgusted right now.

You guys are probly wondering what happened, huh?

Oh, you’re not?

Well, this what happent.

I retire from an arduous days work, in hopes of easing the tension with a good read, and come across an old issue of Marvel Tales: Featuring Spiderman, where I found this ol’ Clint Eastwood-in-Gran Torino- Super spade hatin’- a** bulljive…

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Last night I saw love, and within the breath of an exhausted slave, she disappeared…


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category: BOK!

Damn, Ricky! Them Japanese gangstas got  you!?

*Pours out some juice purple*

Bone, bone, bone, bone…I’ll see you at the cross roads.

When they reminisce over you.

My Gawd.

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So, in my last post, I briefly mentioned a story involving me, a little African man-doctor, and a forced boner-rub. Welp, here’s the story in its entirety. Originally written in November 2008. It’s kinda lengthy. Enjoy.

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This is protected…by the red, the black, and the green….with a blog, SISSSSIIIIIEEEESS!

Being black in the 90’s was dope. Not just because we could make up words like “vanglorious” and pass it off as a righteous exclamatory, but because it finally felt like we had established a more relaxed positive sense of community, and had really begun celebrating being black without fret of persecution. Well, maybe not for everybody. Im sure the views expressed by that last statement don’t necessarily represent those of Rodney King. That n*gga got his a** whooped for being coon-skinned (and speeding, while tipsy…but mostly cause the cooned skin thing). Anyway, n*ggas was happy to be n*ggas! And maybe it only seemed that way to me because thats when I grew up, and most of what I knew was shaped by music and pop culture…but, between HBCU shortsets, Shanice’s smile, and Calvin getting a job, being African American was like a never ending Electric Slide. Boogie woogie woogie.

At any rate, being black was dope. The only thing doper than being black was looking like you liked being black. Usually this meant wearing a lot of orange and purple (Kinte colors. Kunte Kinte colors).  But, more than anything, it meant owning The Medallion. A medallion I once copped for $5, off the street,  from an African traffickin’ mad goods….but recently, re-purchased for $50 from the innanets. Clearly, the value of being born with big lips skyrocketted.

However, despite my ethnic pride, and wearing a necklace that would suggest I’m either indigenous or putting together an outfit for  Amistad Coffee’s Neo-soul Slam Poetry Awards…I am not from Africa. A fact pointed out by one of my fifth graders, after seeing me wear the necklace to work.

She was right. For as much as I love being black…I am not African, I’m not from Africa, and I don’t plan to ever go back to Africa (at least not for permanent stay). Here’s why…

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You know how whitefolk can be so  inquisitive about the nuances of black culture…to the point where it’s like watching a baby lamb trying to do the stanky leg? If thats even a thing. Is that a thing? Probably not. I just needed a simile to express the combination of adorability and painful ignorance that are both displayed when whitefolk ask questions like “How do you wash your hair?” or  “If you don’t like the team, why do you wear the hat?”

Actually, the sentiment posed in the first paragraph may be a bit misdirected, as I’m positive most of my readers are white. Which is a paradox. Which is not a Parrot-Ox. Which is either some funky Dr. Moreau experiment, or undoubtedly the coolest character ever on The Wuzzles. Anyway, what I’m saying is…even in the whole wide world of  world wide webs…I’m still the only black guy in the room.

I’m sorry. This intro is really spiraling out of control.  What Im trying to say is…


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Some people might look back at his life and think, “Dang, Gary. You shoulda did better. You fell off, son.”

I think back and say, “Way to go champ!” You claimed the hearts of wealthy white people and orphaned ghetto youth alike as Arnold Jackson…and later, as a dignified African American man-boy , you managed to do the same while serving as the spokesmidget for mall security…and Canadas New York Fries company.

Were you ever forced to chokeabitch? Sure. But…who hasn’t been met with times that required a need for such reciprocity.  She had no right to critique your career as an acclaimed superstar, with her “I want you to say something a little mo’ special on my autograph”-wantin’ a**. B*tch, please!

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