Tag Archives: humor

Kim Jong-il, Rest In Peac… actually, nevermind.

I don’t know much about Kim Jong-il, except that his lil hair and glasses were hilarious…and that he seemed certifiably off (not quite there; not the sharpest knife in the cutlery set; not the brightest bulb in the box).  The commentators called him “eccentric,” while we who have little allegiance to political correctness, called a spade a spade — dude was off.

Monday morning on Morning Joe, someone surmised that, in the international arena, Kim Jong-il had but “one card to play, and he played it exceptionally.”  I don’t remember if said someone ever got around to describing which card that was, but I’mma jump on out there and say it was his crazy card.

Lil Kim, as Bill Maher refers to Kim Jong-il, had absolutely no scruples.  There was no sanction, no amount of isolation, and no threat scary enough to give Lil Kim pause.  He thumbed his nose perniciously and regularly to the international community, on some “fuck your sanction!  I got plenty good fur hats; I drink plenty good wines, and I got plenty hos.  AND MIND YA BUSINESS BOUT MY PEOPLE – they fine…” type shit.

In the National Geographic documentary, “Inside North Korea,” Lisa Ling poses as a medical coordinator traveling with an Indian doctor to North Korea to treat hundreds of people with Glaucoma.  At first sight, you’d think these cats might be eternally grateful to the doctor — the actual guy — who helped them see again.  Nah son.  Not in North Korea.  The folks gave tearful and exuberant praise to their most high, their “Dear Leader” — Kim Jong-il.  Neither the doctor nor any of the medical staff involved received even scant amounts of gratitude. To North Koreans, it seemed the hierarchy of appreciation went like this:  Lil Kim/God, and then all other poor bastards, and then every other thing.

Later in the movie, Lisa Ling questions a family about how one might render a criticism against their fateful leader.  The response is awesome — blank stares, blank faces; no comprende, or the Korean version of that.  They don’t have a word for “I disagree.”  There is no word, no phrase, no platform in North Korea where one can criticize the government, and remain alive and well to see their dismal future unfold.  Indeed, if you’re living in North Korea, either life is all good, or you’re 20,000 leagues under fear, pretending that it is.  My money rides with the latter.

Lil Kim’s government was like Reuben had said Terry Benedict was in Ocean’s 11:  if you cross ’em, “you better goddamn KNOW… he better not know you’re involved, not know your names or think you’re dead because he’ll kill ya, and then he’ll go to work on ya.”  And if you are unavailable, then he’ll take out his aggression on your whole family — relatives twice-removed included, without batting an eyelash!  The difference obviously is that Terry Benedict was a smooth-haired, ascot-wearing asshole of a fictional character.  Lil Kim, however, was in real life a bouffanted, high-heeled dictator whose exploits screwed up North Korea, and kept the world on edge for 17 years.

So this cat done died, and left his son, Kim Jong-un as the heir apparent.  Stay tuned, folks.  This should be interesting.

P.S.:  If you find yourself with some free time, the tumblr blog:  Kim Jong-il Looking At Things is hilarious.  Enjoy!


10 Things I Hate About…


Inasmuch as I love stuff, I tend to hate with equal passion. I’ve noticed that folks feel compelled to dispense with gentle chiding about my utterances of the word “hate.” You don’t mean that; hate is such a strong word, they say. And to them, I offer this: You are correct. This is precisely why I used it.


Hate in it’s most innocuous form — absent violence, discrimination, and intimidation — is an extremely useful emotion. How else are we to register pure disdain for a person or thing? One who has worked diligently to get on your last nerve deserves the most ardent expression of your dissatisfaction. And in life, oftentimes “disliking” a bitch doesn’t quite cut it.

In this spirit, I mean to make-like the late, great lamenter, Mr. Andy Rooney, exploring what grinds my gears. What follows below are 10 persons, things, and coincidences that I loathe. If ever we end up on a game show together, it might be helpful in some way. Let us proceed.

  • I hate passive-aggressive behavior. A co-worker gets agitated with you because you asked her politely not to warm her cabbage and mullet fish in the main office microwave. Does she express her distaste for your directness with you? Of course not. She goes OFF — to everyone but you. She makes certain, however, that she’s loud enough to make sure that everyone including you gets the earful. You know the type – loud as a motorbike, but wouldn’t buss a grape in a fruit fight. Cause if she was really a g, she’d warm that booboo casserole in the main kitchen and eat it in the lobby. And then dare a bitch to look at her sideways. But that’s only if she was really a g — which, given her passive aggressive behavior, convincingly suggests otherwise;
  • I hate bad breath that’s been allowed to fester and ferment. Nobody’s perfect. Morning breath, meal breath (you might love red onion sandwiches), quiet breath (not speaking for considerable time leaves one stale up about mouth), coffee and cigarette breath — these are understandable, if not permissible, within reasonable time frames. Time may in fact heal wounds and thangs. But when it comes to oral hygiene, time exists for the sole purpose of incubating the funk swimming around your pie hole. Carry mints and gums like you carry your I.D. If you’re ever caught slipping and a good Samaritan offers you gum, err on the side of caution and just take it. No need to be modest. Take it;
  • I hate dudes who think that because it’s easy for them to just whip it out and pee, then peeing any-old-where is all good. You know how many garage corners, and trees I’ve passed that smell like urinals?! Animals pee in parks and up against trees, dude. They also don’t use tissue or wash their hands, or have opposable thumbs. The point is that you’re higher up the evolution and intelligence chain; you should at least consider acting accordingly. Besides, they say the dogs are growing increasingly frustrated with having to compete with your lazy-human-can-go-to-a-restroom-facility-ass for territory. That’s a damn shame…you and the dog actively choosing to pee on the same tree;
  • I hate cats who can’t watch a movie without needing to know, forecast, or tell what happens next. They gon get him, aint they? I know they gon get him. He gon die, aint he? You know he lives in the end. I betcha he hidin in the attic… My father is such an offender. One Christmas, I made the mistake of watching American Gangster for the first time with him. He spoiled all the surprises — who lived and died, who got caught and who got off. And he lived with absolutely no remorse. He is the world’s worst movie date. We’ve since broken up in that regard. He needs to get himself together movie-wise;
  • I hate the “yeah, but what are you going to do about it” debate guy. Are we not allowed to discuss ideas? Can we not quibble for a short time over details? Perhaps many so-called solutions to problems are inadequate precisely because the problems themselves are not fully understood. I appreciate the time to deliberate, let concepts marinate, to draw the poison all the way out of a wound, instead of treating symptoms over and over in the interest of expediency;
  • I hate the presumption that marijuana, in terms of criminality and social perception, is in any way similar to life-ruiner drugs like crack, heroin, or meth. In fact, one can effectively argue that marijuana — absent the drug game — is even less dangerous than cigarettes, alcohol, and prescription drugs. Do you ever really consider the hypocrisy of arguments against the legalization of pot? Folks don’t mind if their sons binge drink all the way through college, but if they find out he smoked a j with a few of his homies, then all bets are off. Moreover, folks feel safe when some cat in a stethoscope whose bread is buttered on the good side by the pharmaceutical industry decides your son has ADHD and anxiety. Now little Timmy’s got a prescription pill-box that rival’s my 83 year-old Granny’s, and a 21st century drug habit where Dr. Pushington, not RayRay from ’round the street, is the dealer. It’s cool though — at least he’s not “on” weed (not that your 12 year old smoking a j or sipping an herbal tea is preferable to him being addicted to prescription drugs, but maybe.);
  • I hate old people who refuse to age gracefully. It’s cooler to just be hip…for your age. After 50, cursory knowledge of hip-hop’s “greatest” of the moment is sufficient, Sir. You needn’t prove your street cred over dinner, with the seductive sounds of Young Jeezy providing the soundtrack. Moreover, after 50, shave off the braids and retire the jersey. These grooming and clothing decisions don’t inspire much confidence in your decision-making. And isn’t that your role, Man, in hetero-normative universe? Lastly, excessive botox and collagen injections still make you look like you’re 70. You just look like you’ve failed at trying not to look 70 — which is worse;
  • I hate the 6 people in a bar that’s not a sport’s bar who’ve managed to coerce someone into changing the channel to “da game!” They get all riled up, cheering and high-fiving and carrying on like everyone’s signed on for this ridiculous display of testosterone. I don’t give a shit whose team wins. SHUT UP! …can’t even enjoy my wings;
  • I hate cats that sag. For the life of me, I don’t get the allure. So you get dressed, and spend the rest of the day resolved to not give a shit about whether your pants actually stay up? Why is the entire ass out of the jeans though? What’s the belt for? Why are you playin’?
  • (this one’s extry) You know who I hate more than them though? The girls that love ’em. Everything about these little boys screams I WILL CAUSE YOU TROUBLE. But the girls, upon popping their gum and patting their weave, ride right along, either impervious to obviously bad decisions or complicit in making them. Raggedy dudes + hoodrats = stupid, crazy love at its finest and most disillusioned;
  • And finally, I hate over-sensitivity. Minorities — mostly Blacks, gays, and women — get tagged with being oversensitive about the absurdly dumb shit that folks fix their mouths to say. In many cases, the sensitivity has merit, but not always. Sometimes, you gotta chalk it up to a cat really just not “getting it,” or being so much of an asshole that your attempts at reformation are fruitless anyway. For example, in discussing President Obama’s proposed outreach to Black voters, Bill O’Reilly recently queried, “what does that entail? Are they gonna be on Soul Train?” Hilarious. Click the link and watch the video. Marc Lamont Hill’s response at :32 is everything.

So there. Now you know where I stand. Feel free to comment and add your own. Unite with me in shared hatred of trivial things.

“Seriously, Take the Metro”…but know what you’re in for.

Public transportation definitely has its advantages.  In a city where morning rush hour lasts from about 6:30 to 10 a.m., and the afternoon/evening rush kicks off around 2 and lasts until somewhere near 8ish, public transport is your best bet for not losing your mind and your morals.  Day in and day out, you’re stuck behind an endless trail of red lights, you’re among a cacophony of bad brakes, and shitty ambient radio.  It can be pretty hellish.

My first job here was located in Tyson’s Corner – way the fuck out in McLean,Virginia.  Not so far when you’re traveling down I-66 on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, with an ice cold sweet tea and your elbows out the windows.  The work commute though, was some bullshit.  You see, because Virginia is a little different from DC and Maryland; life moves slower out there.  And folks get traffic-confused more easily, and succeed in navigating traffic more stupidly.  I promise I’m not shittin on the state of Virginia, just its drivers.

I’m convinced that the only way to avoid the powder keg that is DC traffic is to avoid it altogether.  After the Washington Nationals stadium was built, people complained tirelessly about how bad traffic and parking were.  In response, some fella wrote a column titled, “Seriously, Take the Metro.”  I completely agree.

…except that there’s some shit you gotta be ready for if you plan to metro.  As a matter of full disclosure, I don’t really mess with the Blue, Yellow, or Orange lines.  My points of reference are Red and Green Lines — Northwest DC/Maryland down to Southeast DC/Prince George’s County.  I get the entire gamut of crazy.  Here are a few of my recent observations and few suggestions.  You know, because I care.

  • Gentrification isn’t pushing through Anacostia and Congress Heights fast enough.  Say what you want about the people and the unfairness and the blah blah blah.  Many of the cats that get on the train and off the train at Anacostia and Congress  Heights aint shit.  They may have jobs, and they may have children, and seem, for all intents and purposes, “normal.”  They aint though.  They will shank you if you cross them.  Don’t fuck around with this stop;
  • There’s always a guy who’s determined not to hold on to anything to keep himself from shifting and almost falling.  He’s unwisely adopted the “I’mma just stand real wide and plant myself” method of metrorailing.  Eventually, he and his humongous backpack will bump you.  And you will hate him.  Because all his simple ass had to do was hold the fuck on to something.  Something more reliable than his ill-conceived center of gravity;
  •  Were I to judge DC’s young Black male population by its metro riders, I’d assume…nevermind.  I love my people.  But I’ll say this:  Young brothas, these raggedy dred locs, skinny jeans, and extra big sneakers need to be reconsidered.  And post-haste, please;
  • I don’t care how badly you need to get to wherever you goin, you must acknowledge that sometimes the train is too fucking full.  There is no room for you!  And your bag, and your golf umbrella.  Another train comes  in 3 minutes.  Wait for it!
  • On average, the rail cars on the metro are about 98% Black once they pass through L’Enfant Plaza.  On Nats game days, white people heed the columnist’s warning and smash themselves into the mix.  It makes for a very uncomfortable ride, as most of the Black people seem prepared for a quiet ride home after long day at a job they hate.  The game goers on the other hand, are typically rambunctious, a little tipsy offa life and light beer, and completely unaware of the sanctity of personal space.  The young white fella don’t know it, but he is always about 30 seconds away from a “sick and tiiiiied” Black woman going the fuck off if he bumps her one.  mo.  time.
  • And finally, with regard to the most egregious offense:  contrary to what y’all mighta been thinking, that device you got from Boost Mobile or Cricket Wireless is NOT a radio.  If you don’t plug some earphones into that shit…  There hasn’t been a song created that sounds good enough to be blasted on centimeter-sized mobile phone speakers.  And if there was  one, WE DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT FROM YOUR CENTIMETER-SIZED MOBILE PHONE SPEAKERS anyway.  Plug some headphones into that shit.
Many thanks for your indulgence.  I want y’all to take the Metro.  I also need y’all to be prepared.  You know, because I care.

The Hangover Part II: A Sobering #Fail


I saw The Hangover Part II a couple weeks ago, and left the theater with one lesson:  know when to leave well-enough alone.

The forthcoming rant isn’t an assault on sequels in theory.  Nope.  This is the indictment of an idea — the idea that because something works once, then we must milk it til it’s dry.  If you haven’t seen The Hangover Part II yet, but you’ve seen the first one, then you’ve seen enough already.  Save your coins for Bridesmaids instead.  In the battle of girl funny vs. boy funny, the ladies win this one hands down.

I generally like the concept of the sequel.  It’s like an addendum to the original.  And in that capacity, I look forward to the ways in which the sequel advances the core story;  I expect that it’ll provide depth and background and context.  I don’t even understand the utility of making the same movie twice.  But maybe it’s me.  I’ve been no stranger to expecting too much of muhfukas.

However, is it really too much to expect that a movie as outrageously hyped as The Hangover Part II  and released on the first weekend of Summer should be worth your time away from the sun?  Worth you being crammed next to the over-laughers who missed The Hangover the first time around?  These are the cats who mean to make-up the social points they lost having nothing to add to the “you remember that part when…” conversation from ’09.  In case you’re still on the fence about whether the movie is worth it, let me be clear about it:  Your time would be better spent plucking chin hairs than watching The Hangover Part II.

I can admit to being a “serious” person at times, desiring more wit than slapstick, favoring substance over sheen.  But I’ve learned that everybody aint bout that life.  Indeed, folk still laugh at a naked ass — just because it’s naked, and at monkeys who smoke cigarettes.  I’m not saying those things can’t be funny.  But I mean, do you laugh as hard the third time you hear the same knock-knock joke?  Oh you do?  Ugh, fuck you then.  Good for you.

I suppose a movie and it successors should be similar in a sense — they should share common threads to keep us invested.  But shouldn’t they also have to ante up on creativity?  Adding a corner boy monkey and more camera time for the Asian dude wasn’t a good enough stretch.  Neither  was reworking the “Alan’s a little off” shtick, extending the grace period on Zach Galifianakis’s fifteen minutes of fame.  I adore Galifianakis and the offbeat thing he’s made hilarious elsewhere.  But in Hangover Part II, it’s only moderately funny followed closely by moderately annoying.

Sure enough, soon enough you start to feel a bit played because these cats done definitely suckered you for your $9 — the cost of the fucking matinee.  Yep, Galifianakis, the small Asian, and the monkey are all part of an elaborate ruse designed to distract you from recognizing that this movie should never have been made.  Or better yet, that it was already made.  And you’ve already seen it, and they just got you for $9 all over again.  Mmhmm, I’m still bitter about it.

I believe our culture suffers from an inability to let a good thing stand on its own, for its own time.  If it works, then we will duplicate it and market it into oblivion.  If it’s a song, it will eventually show up in a movie, on a t.v. show, in a commercial, and potentially in a singing fucking Hallmark card.  And sometimes all at the same time.  It’s disgusting.  Contemporary wisdom seems to suggest that a thing doesn’t have to be both new and improved because somebody with questionable taste will buy it anyway.  In its every form .  Even if the product turns out to be little more than a shitty, second-rate knock-off of the original.  Sort of like what Ashanti and Plies did to The Deele’s “Two  Occasions” — shit is unsavory, man.  Downright disrespectful.

So join me, friends and patriots, in standing for standards.  Demand that the producers of our entertainment create something, I don’t know, creative.  Or, at the very least, genuinely funny.  Or, at the even more very least, cheaper during matinee hours.

That smoking monkey mighta been a little funnier at $5 a ticket.

“F*ck yo couch, n*gga!”

Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s uncomfortable seeing it in the public square. Deal with it though. Let me get there.

I’ve thought a lot about language lately — its evolution and fluidity, given the context of time and space. In 2010, in an interconnected universe where cats don’t speak English, but have mastered American pop culture swag, the term could become too mainstream, too commonplace, too “popular” to remain offensive. You have to grapple with the possibility that white folks might get the gumption to test out “post-racial America” theory, and take the term out for a spin. Now, I’m not saying such a decision might cause trouble for an adventurous, thrill-seeking lad. I’m merely acknowledging the risk — as should said adventurous, thrill-seeking lad.

Nevertheless, we say it don’t we? And not only in the streets either, but at home, in our elite, educated gatherings we let it slip. Or we don’t let it slip. We sometimes consciously, purposely, and with much emphasis prefer nigga(s) to friend, young man/woman, group of people. Around the spades table, cats don’t decry cats who renege. They decry niggas that renege! I’m not saying it’s right; I’m merely saying it is . I’m not even saying that “we” is all of us. Or even all us . Just that I hear it. Everywhere I go.

In recent years I’ve noticed that the folks I kick it with on a regular basis cuss like a pack-o-sailors. And God love em! You see, I appreciate and encourage colorfully conjugated “fucks” and strategically placed “hoes” in conversation. I bristle instantly at one’s usage of darn over damn, shoot instead of shit. Judgmental finger wagging and head shaking instead of a stern, “Muthafucka, what!?” No seriously, you gotta cuss a nigga out sometimes; Folk need to know they have to respect your anger.

Lame tongues have argued for years that a profanity-full vocabulary is a sure sign of some conversation/self-expression deficiency. I would counter that it’s quite the contrary; the successful cusser is intelligent enough to do so colorfully, allowing a carefully and cleverly constructed stream of expletives to bask in their own glory. In that regard, a profanophile* like myself seeks merely to add a certain flavor to the sitcheeation. I believe it’s embedded in my Blackness. Really, me and my “muhfukkas” don’t mean no harm.

Brother Bernie explains it better than me, tho.

I suspect that those of us who toss “nigga” around leisurely do so in earnest — without malice or disregard for its historical significance. Instead, they we recognize that language isn’t a national historic artifact, to be preserved as is for all time. It evolves just like we do. That other previously maligned ethnic groups haven’t re-defined their negative monikers should be of no concern to us. However, I recognize that that’s Black folks though…always tryna keep up with the Levy’s.

Finally, our linguistic freedoms notwithstanding, there are rules to this shit. No cussing around old folks and babies. And be sure to tell your white friends that: no. “nigga” liberties do. not. apply to them…And tell em not to get fucked up making the arguments that I have here. Some niggas ain’t get that post-racial memo. And some shit will just never be ok. And so it’s really best to leave that one be.

You ever watch a Quentin Tarantino film? This is what language looks and feels like sans the Puritan filter. I much, much prefer it.

The end, bitches.
Profanophile: So I made it up. I’m a fuckin PhD-to-be. I’m entitled to this shit.