Award Tour Vol. 34: I Don't See the Humor In This

So I'm a young college kid (bear in mind this story takes place years ago) and I'm hanging out with my best friend, Shannon, and his cousin Marshall in D.C. - We're in D.C. (Shannon and I) because we're doing Summer Internships in the area. Marshall lives here.

He's our defacto tour guide, knowing the in's and out's of the city. Want to go play basketball Marshall knows where to go, want to get some food, Marshall knows the place. Want to meet some women, Marshall can introduce you. Want some weed? Marshall sells it. Want some crack? Marshall sells that too...

- no - seriously... he does.

I had actually known Marshall for several years prior to this internship, and I liked him even though he was always a bit on the wild side. Of course there is a difference between being wild and being criminal (and whatever line may have separated them, he had crossed it at this point). He wasn't merely just a wild rambunctious adolescent anymore, now he was a full-fledged Sith Lord of the streets. And as such, I had to pick and chose the times that I hung out with him - like a man picking and choosing how much longer to play Russian Roulette.

For example, there was the time he asked me and Shannon if we wanted to come out to the corner with him to watch him sell rocks to the crackheads because, in his words, "they are hilarious". I have no reason not to believe him. They probably are hilarious ... but when I weighed the brief comedic value of watching a crackhead shuffle-and-dance against the possibility of being rounded up in a drug-sting... what can I say... the cost-to-benefit ratio was not very compelling. I stayed at home.

However, one Saturday evening when Marshall mentioned that he was hooking up with some female friends, I figured this was one time that I'd go ahead and put that proverbial revolver to my head. How much trouble could I get into? (Remember who's telling the story).

Our story begins when Marshall, his neighbor Omar and Brian, and myself begin the drive over to this girl's house. Somehow I find myself, behind the wheel driving even though, of the 4 of us in the car, I have the least idea where I am or where I'm going.

This somewhat counter intuitive arrangement has been adopted because everyone else wants to smoke weed - and I, being gainfully employed, will not (I'd actually like to continue working). So while I would ordinarily insist on a brief discussion, Rock-paper-scissors, or at least someone calling "shotgun" and "back seat" to settle the debate about who's driving - this time I won't bother.

I don't mind being the chauffeur if for no other reason that I'm not worried about my depth perception and spatial judgement being compromised as theirs already are. There's little concern that I'll wrap the car around the only tree in an open field (as people under the influence seem so prone to do when they drive).

Still, it probably would have been a good idea to have paid attention to how we got from our house to this girl's house - but I didn't. I am little more than a human remote control for their car. They say turn left, I turn left. They say go straight, I go straight. They say hook a U-turn, I hook a U. There's no reason to memorize the steps. We're all leaving together... they'll know how to get home right? Right? (You know it's about to go bad right?)

We arrive at the house, and are greeted by 4 of the best looking women I had seen the entire summer in D.C. All 4 of them look good - what are the odds on that? The stars must have been in alignment or something. Usually at these types of get-togethers the notion of "birds of a feather flocking together"doesn't hold true. Anyone who has been to such an outing knows what I'm talking about.

First of all, these types of get-togethers usually evolve from one guy, The Point Man, wanting to see one of his ladies. He will call to try to get some 1-on-1 time with her, only to find out that she is already hanging out with her female friends (who probably don't like him). His only chance to meet up with her is to bring some friends of his own to run interference (a position sometimes referred to as the "stunt man" among black folks and "wing man" among white folks).

In the event that said "female friends" are not of the highest caliber (happens more often than we'd like to admit) he might be vague or sidestep altogether questions regarding their look and appearance - and in principle, the Point Man has fulfilled his obligations as a "Y" chromosome carrier.

Sounds deceptive eh? Really it isn't. He hasn't pulled one over on his boys. Secretly, we as males know instinctively that anything other than a ringing endorsement of these women is a warning. It's a big red flag that says - that they are suspect in some way; maybe they have a drug problem, maybe they have bullet wounds, maybe they have on-going trouble with the law (maybe all 3, and in that order).

What's important here is the code words. What is being said, and (perhaps more importantly) wasn't ISN'T being said. Trust me when I tell you that a man notices when a woman is almost exclusively described in terms of her personality. If you fail to mention how she looks, we are forced to assume the worst case scenario.

Accordingly, if the Point Man is unable to say, "these women are all dime pieces" (women rated as 10 on a scale from 1 to 10) then the disclaimer is implied - caveat emptor (let the buyer beware). Some of these women aren't going to be "Jet Beauties of the Week" - and so it's every man for himself; you know this going in. Anyone who is not on their game can expect to spend their evening "herding cattle" or avoiding direct eye-contact as they "take one for the team".

Tonight however, we won't have to deal with that situation - there are no Wilde beasts among them - no hell spawn demons who are as ugly as sin (and know it) that refuse to allow anyone else to be happy (because they can never be). None of those here - just good decent looking women. When we arrive, they are already drinking and have the music and the t.v. going in the background. It doesn't take long for me to acquire my target for the night, the dark skinned honey with the long hair, and bright eyes (let's call her Ebony). That's the gazelle I'm chasing.

When she decided that at an absurdly early hour (1 a.m.) that she was ready to go home, and needed a ride, I jumped at the chance to get her one-on-one. I reasoned, that I would take the Marshall's car and drive her home and see if I could make anything "happen" (and no, I couldn't). Marshall, Omar, and Brian were already occupied and would have no reason to leave out (and had none of the eye-hand coordination and motor skills required to drive even if they wanted to).

It's allegedly a short drive from the apartment we're at now, to Ebony's house. I don't bother to take my glasses with me (which I am required to wear while I'm driving) nor do I take my wallet (where I keep my I.D.). If it's a quick drive, this should only take a second. [Insert Obvious Foreshadowing here]

I figure I will just memorize the steps I take to get there, and getting back will be a cinch. When we finally actually get out the door and on the road, it's 1:30 a.m. The first hint that I am actually in the Twilight Zone and not watching this all unfold from a safe distance occurs when I ask her, "which way" inquring as to which way I should turn to get her home. Her response, incredibly, is "I don't know".

Me: Wha - What do you mean you don't know?
Ebony: I don't know which way to go. I guess you could go left.

Confused look on my face

Me: You guess?
Ebony: Well I don't know.
Me: Well how did you get here?
Ebony: I rode with my friends.
Me: So?
Ebony: So I wasn't paying attention.

More confusion.

Me: But don't you live here?
Ebony: In Maryland?
Me: Yes.
Ebony: Yes... but I don't know how to get home from here.
Me: You've never been over here before?
Ebony: No, I have been here before.
Me: Then how do you NOT know how to get home?
Ebony: Because I've never driven. I rode with my brother, and I never paid attention to the road signs.

Sound like someone else we know? So what do I do? Do I turn the car around and head back for the apartment acknowledging that the blind cannot lead the blind? No, that would have been the reasonable thing to do. Instead, I decide we'll drive around in ever expanding circles (like a spider spinning a web) until she sees a street that she knows, and we'll get her home (I must have had a contact high - there is no other explanation for why I thought that this was a good idea).

The key to all this is that I have to remember each street name, to memorize each corresponding turn that I make, and to ignore the obvious ridiculous premise on which this plan is built (rest assured, each one of those aspects is as important as the other at this point). Once I have the streets and the corresponding turns that I made, I can reverse the order and get back to the apartment where Marshall and the rest of them are. By consciously overlooking the holes in this poorly reasoned plan, I can actually go through with it with confidence (against all objective logic) that it will turn out fine.

After 20 minutes of driving, we have gone in a circle 2 or 3 times (some clockwise, some counter-clockwise) and I can't keep up with what turn corresponded with what street as I tried to carry on conversation with Ebony. I continue to tell myself that I can keep up with the directions I just have to try harder, but in reality I am already lost, I just don't know it yet.

Ebony for her part, finally snaps out of her directionally challenged coma, and recognizes some road signs. We make a simple left, another left, and a right - and we reach her house. Whereupon, Ebony thanks me for taking the scenic route in getting her home - and merrily skips to her house without so much as giving me a hug or a kiss or anything. What a monumental waste of 30 minutes.

I wait for her to go inside and then I back out. Okay so, to get home I just reverse the steps.

Right, right, left. What place is this? I don't remember this road. I didn't come this way. Let me back up and try again.

Left, left, right. Okay where am I now? This not the street where Ebony's house is. Did I miss the turn? Let me back track.

Right, right, left. Okay wait a minute... what's going on? There wasn't a Pizza Hut on this road before. Where the hell am I?

Left, left, right. You have got to be kidding me. This road isn't even paved. What in the Sam Hill is going on?

Right, right, left. Somebody... HEEELLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPP!!! Let me out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This went on for a good 30 minutes until I just gave up altogether on doubling-back the way I came. Each time I reversed my steps, I ended up even more lost on roads that I was convinced I had never been on before.

After awhile of driving, I saw a sign for the the interstate (I-495) and decided to take that. You would think that following the signs to merge on the interstate would be an easy task, but at the time this story takes place, I am not yet a college graduate. And somehow in between going "left" when the signs pointed left, and going "right" when the signs pointed right, it all got too complicated and I lost the trail (officially, I'm going with contact high on this one too, it's easier than saying I am stupid.)

As I continued to look for the secret passage to the interstate, I found myself lost in yet ANOTHER suburban neighborhood that didn't show any signs of opening up to the I-495 in the next 10 or 15 miles - and at this point my need to get back to the apartment begins to take on a new sense of urgency. It's not just that I'm tired of driving and running low on gas in my ever increasing frustration to find my bearings - all of this true.

However, I am feeling even greater motivation to get back to the house because I have to use the bathroom - like few have ever needed to use the bathroom before. From the intense bellowing and gurgling of my intestines, coupled with the sharp knot like pain I felt along my abdomen, I could only conclude that tonight's offering will be -

- fluid in nature. [Insert collective recoil and cringe] Owing to the fact that it's Saturday, and somewhere near 3:00 a.m. nothing is open. Nothing. With each turn, I get a little more desperate, my discomfort becomes a little more accute, and the probability that I will "release the hounds" right there in the seat increases dramatically.

I know time is of the essence. I have squeezed back "the mud" 4 times already. I know I have maybe 5 or 6 more left before I can squeeze no more and the dam breaks. I have got to find a public rest room.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. Squeeze, man Squeeze. [Takes deep breaths]. That's 5. I've got to find where I am and find a bathroom.

10 minutes later

Gurgle, blarrrrrrrgggggg Oh no, squeeze, come on squeeze... gotta hold it back... gotta hold. [Breathes deep sigh of relief]. At this point I am literally turned on my side trying to keep from spilling the load. Okay, okay. That's 6. There's not much time left. I gotta...

Bubble, Gloooooorrrrp!!! Oh no, that's two back to back - squeeze come on... you can do it. Squeeze man squeeze!!! Oh God please don't let me lose it right here - SQUEEZE!

I don't know how, the mudslide is held at bay - but it is. And in the aftermath of this latest near miss I've come to some realizations - the first is that it was a bad idea to have left the house (that should've been obvious to everyone else, for me it's just know registering). Second, I have reached the end of my rope. My sphincter muscle has given a Herculean effort - but it is done for the evening. Holding back that last surge was the equivalent to Kerri Strug's one legged dismount on the vault in the 1996 Atlanta Games. It was valliant, it was courageous, it saved the day, but it is undeniably the end. There will not be a repeat performance. The muscles will not withstand or even resist another onslaught. And neither will I for that matter, I'm sweating profusely, breathing heavily, and my butt cheeks are quivering.

There is no way that I'm going to find public accomodations in time. I have to pull over, and I have to pull over now. I stop near a parking lot and find the darkest unlit area, and pray that no one comes out and sees me (cause once this gets flowing, there won't be a shut off valve. And I'm not really sure what one person says to another in a public place while one of the aforementioned people is in the throes of a diarhettic fit - I imagine it's probably awkward). I take off my jeans and my boxers - and uh... well you can imagine what happens next.

[Imagine what a large pot of cooked macaroni might sound like spilling onto the ground... that should be sufficient.]

It starts, and it seems like it's never going to end. I go until I am think I'm going to be dehydrated; even my eyeballs are starting to feel a little dry - maybe that's what kept me from crying. The Payload was massive and piles up in a nauseating puddle - suddenly I am worried now that I am about to start spewing from both ends (and remember - this actually happened).

Obviously, I didn't have access to any toilet paper, so when the dastdardly deed comes to an end, I used the next best thing - my boxers. I'm only going to get so many wipes out of this so I'll have to be diligent, disciplined, and deliberate (sounds more like a Quarterback in the play-offs than a man wiping his a$$ eh?)

Anyway, I take my boxers and fold them to maximize the surface area available for wiping and I clean myself up grimacing the whole time, as I try to imagine how ridiculous I look cocked over a pile, cowering in the dark with no pants on. I quickly throw the boxers away, put my pants back on, wipe the sweat from my brow (afterall, this has been hard work) and head for the car. I look out the window briefly and think, "Somewhere over there in that pile is my dignity - I can't get it back tonight - but maybe one day - if I work hard and try to change things in my community - you know, clean up a park or start a tutoring program - I'll be able to look at myself in the mirror again with pride. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to laugh about this." (Fortunately, there is no constraint for you, you can laugh right now).

I continue driving, and even though I am temporarily relieved, I am still no closer to finding my way back to the apartment. I continue my quest for access to the interstate. Finally I came across a pay phone and (against all of my DNA) I called the apartment to ask for directions.

Of course, after my Festival of Left, Left, Right's - Right, Right, Left's - even they don't know where I am. I name every street that I have passed in the last 10 minutes and they haven't heard of any of them ever before. They tell me to try to find the Interstate and head north. Once I get to a convenient exit, they say take it and give them a call back. I plan to - and when I do, I'm going to call collect.

I continue to zig-zag neighborhoods and eventually stumble upon another sign to the Interstate. Glory Halleluia, I jump on the Interstate and ride. Initially I was so excited to finally have found it, I didn't even care that I didn't know which way I was going. I was just happy to see the trees flying by on either side of me at high speeds. It feels like progress - why let reality get in the way of that euphoria?

Nearly half an hour later - I have tightened my standards. The novelty of finding the interstate has worn off. I'm tired and I want to be home now - and with that as my stated goal, it can't just feel like progress now... now it actually has to BE progress too. The road signs do little to help me determine if I'm actually making any. I don't recognize anything; road signs or land marks. I could just as easily be heading back towards the apartment as I could be headed to the Lost City of Atlantis - my bearing is ALL gone (and considering how my evening is going - I'm betting on Atlantis - but some say I'm pessimistic). To add insult to injury I'm running out of gas. The gauge has inched slowly towards the "E" for the last twenty minutes and realistically, I only have 20 or so miles of gas left.

So what do I do? Well, spotting a squad car parked on the side of the road, I decided I should ask him for directions (the officer was pulling a dead deer off the Interstate - it's anyone's guess who he pissed off to get this assignment - the point is, he was there). I should point out that I am not wearing my glasses as I am required to do because I have left them at the apartment. Of course this is a small oversight that I don't really have to be concerned with, because the only way the officer would know that I was supposed to be wearing my glasses as I drove would be if he was examining my license, which I also don't have because I left that at the apartment also.

To nudge the degree of difficulty up to a 3.9, I find that there is no registration information in the car (assuming the officer did something silly like - asking me for it) but during my search I did manage to turn up a few crack rocks in the ashtray. So what do I do? I pull over (Yeah, I know, I know... I've got two words for you in rebuttal though... Contact High).

Preoccupied with the mashed up carcass (and perhaps contemplating how he would exact revenge against the powers that had placed him here) Officer Deerborn barely looked at me as he fielded my silly question.

Me: Excuse me officer, I'm looking for Montgomery Country, am I headed in the right direction?
Deerborn: Son you're about 30 minutes in the wrong direction. You need to take the nearest exit, and head back north.

Several seconds of silence ensues (save for the sound of deer bits being dragged and scraped off of the Interstate).

Okay, I guess that's it. Deerborn's not going to be anymore specific than that. His attention is focused squarely on that mass of deer - and you know what - I don't think I want him to put it anywhere else.

I hop back in the car, take the next exit, and head north for about 20 minutes until it feels like the car is about to just quit on me. I take the nearest exit I can find and start looking for gas.

I drive, and I drive, and I drive, and dammit, I drive right back into the Twilight Zone (this is of course assuming that at some point, I had left it - and I'm not sure if that was ever true). The sign said the gas was right around the corner. Well I'm around the corner... where the hell is it? I see nothing but trees, some faint lights in the distance, and the glow of "low fuel" light on the dashboard (which has been on a for a distrubingly long time). Any minute now I expect the car to simply putter out and coast to a stop - and my nightmare will be complete. As I'm rounding one last bin - I finally see it - a Shell Station. Oh thank God.

I pull in and stop - and just when I start to breathe an unwarranted sigh of relief, I hear the question, "Okay you're here, but now what? How are you going to pay for gas? What? Are you going to pay them in Crack Rocks? Remember you didn't bring your wallet." DAMN!

I sit back in the chair admonishing myself, "Think, come one think. Get outside the box if you have to". I begin searching the car. The glove compartment, the arm rest, under neath the seats, in between the cushions, then I see it. A change tray. Is there any money in it? YES. Two dollars in Quarters (remember this was back when gas was actually affordable).

So I'm off the hook right? No. The Twilight Zone prevails. It's early in the morning and the gas station isn't open. [Insert sigh of exasperation here]. Will I ever catch a break? The stars were in alignment alright... in alignment against me. I know I deserve this somehow, but I am unable to come to grips with the fact that I do deserve this because I am tired. In frustration, I just lean back in the seat and go to sleep.

The station eventually opens up some time after 6:00 a.m. I paid my money and was on my way after a quick phone call to the apartment (and yes I called collect). They give me some more strange directions that have me zig-zagging downtown D.C. until I found Georgia Ave. Where I stop and called collect again. Finally, they recognize the landmark of Georgia Ave. and they tell me to head North (which I can do now, because the sun is rising and I can tell which way North is). Eventually (about an hour later) I find my way back to the house.

Here's the kicker; after laughing about my mishap for a good 15 minutes, they ask me how could I have possibly gotten lost. I tell them, "because Ebony didn't know where the f#$% she lived". Marshall looks at Omar, and they both double over with laughter. "Dude, she lives 2 streets up from here. It shouldn't have taken you 10 minutes to go there and back".

"That's real f#$%ing useful to me now... thanks, no really, thanks". They continue to laugh.

I do not share their amusement with the situation. I have been up all night, driving in 5 hours what should have taken me 5 minutes, dumping on somebody's lawn, flouting the law, and scraping together pocket change for gas. No, I don't see the humor in this at all.

Award Tour Vol. 33: Things II

More things I could do without...

*******When I'm driving home for the Christmas Holidays, and I pass by an officer with his squad car parked along the highway, with sun glasses and dark gloves, holding a black pump action shotgun in the air like a S.W.A.T. officer preparing to "breach". He's not clocking anyone, he's just standing on the shoulder with a scowl on his face like a character out of Grand Theft Auto.

ANALYSIS: Is there any other image that conjours up the joys and emotions of Christmas, than a man standing menacingly in front of his vehicle with a shotgun the size of a crutch? Can't you see Tiny Tim exclaiming, "Merry Christmas, God bless us everyone"!!?

*******When people call and leave messages on my phone that make it sound as though it's imperative that I call them back, and yet when I do, they have nothing to talk about.

ANALYSIS: Let me help you out with something (because you are obviously confused). When you make a phone call like this, you need to understand that it's because YOU have nothing better to do with your time. YOU. Not me.

*******A distant cousin to people making unwarranted phone calls is, people making unwarranted visits by my desk when I'm working.

ANALYSIS: Again. YOU have nothing better to do with your time. YOU. Not me.

*******Dirty Sanchez, the Cleveland steamer, the Cincinatti Bowtie, the Pasadena mudslide, the Hot lunch, the Pittsburgh platter, and other dubious sex acts.

ANALYSIS: If you should hear anyone interested in any of the above... RUN. I just found out what some of them were (you can learn about them too, here ) and here are my thoughts: What is wrong with you people? Are you high on crystal meth? There are lots of things that go well with sexual activity. Topping my list are (in no particular order) : Music, videos (yes porn), video cameras, stripper poles, g-strings, oils, various food products, depo, and (if you should be so fortunate) numerous women. Conspicuously absent on my list is the word "$h!t". It should come as no surprise, as $h!t is a word that shows up on another list; things that go well inside a toilet bowl. Draw whatever conclusion you feel appropriate. (Hint: Smearing fecal matter on you for sexual gratification is NOT appropriate - I'm sure there's some prescription drug for that)

*******People who sit at green lights

ANALYSIS: This is a real simple one. Green means go. It doesn't mean sip your latte and extend the antenna on your cell phone, as you prepare to call your stock broker. We shouldn't have to wait for you to finish your day dream, or to figure out that you had the map upside down (so the road you're looking for is behind you) - you had 30 seconds of Red light to straighten this all out. Now the light's green. Green means go. Drive!!!

*******People who talk unnecessarily loud in their offices or workspace

ANALYSIS: Believe it or not, I actually don't want to be a part of your conversation - however you have given me (and everyone else within a 50 foot radius) little choice. We are participants in your mad man's game by proximity. Unable to avoid the painstakingly detailed account of your work duties (as you shout them at that unfortunate someone on the other end of the line) - we follow along . It is almost a certainty that the person on the phone hasn't asked for this treatise, but you'll give it anyway. You always do - so often in fact, that many of us are mouthing the words to your tirade along with you - we know it by heart too. That all aside, we are left to wonder out loud how it is you are able to maintain employment when you regularly curse out contractors, bad mouth co-workers, and make repeated suspect remarks to women employees of the company - that everyone in the surrounding area can hear.

*******People who covene meetings simply because they can

ANALYSIS: Other than your need to hold court with a "Live Studio Audience", there is absolutely no point to this meeting - and no reason for me to be here. It has not gone un-noticed that you haven't given an agenda... it's because you don't have one. Like a ship with no rudder, this meeting will meander along aimlessly until it runs aground or the crew simply jumps ship preferring to drown rather than to suffer any more of the "3 hour tour".

You should be aware that you are on the verge of initiating a very dangerous precedent. If you should call more meetings in the future, and have nothing to talk about, you will be marked with the Scarlet I - signifying Irrelevance. Pretty soon, folks will start blowing off your meetings (in the spirit of disclosure, I should tell you, I have already given you the "I". As far as blowing off meetings, I plan to start with the next one you schedule. This pattern will continue on for the forseeable future because I have concluded that you are obviously full of $h!t and that I can waste time at my desk much more efficiently on my own than with your assistance).

*******The "Show Off"

ANALYSIS: It doesn't matter if I'm at a meeting or in a training course, there is always at least 1. At least one person who must attach his own personal anecdote to every point brought up and every statement being made, beginning each with something like this, "you know... back when I worked at Spacely Sprockets...". There's always at least one person who must ask a question or discuss a topic that's completely outside the scope of the conversation, trying desperately to show the rest of us just how much he knows (it's almost as if you think we actually care).

Dude, I'm sorry things didn't work out on your Junior Varsity basketball team... tough break getting cut after the first day - but here - in this training session... is NOT the place for you to try to recapture your squandered youth. Shut up.

*******People who blow their car horns at others for frivolous and/or petty reasons

ANALYSIS: Blowing your horn is like giving someone the finger. It should be done sparingly and only when appropriate - like when someone endangers your life. Not merely when you are annoyed. Example, if I am making a left onto a street (where the speed limit is 15 mph) and you are coming in the opposite direction - if you have time enough to lay on your horn for two seconds before our cars even pass one another - ask yourself why are you blowing your horn? It wasn't a near miss, and you weren't in danger of being in an accident. Why all the histrionics? See accompanying Figures.



In Figure 1, you are blowing your horn because you have narrowly avoided what could have been an expensive (and even more importantly) a life threatening accident. This is, of course, not what happened. Figure 2 more accurately depicts my left- hand turn. And in this figure, you are blowing your horn for no good reason. I am forced to conclude that you are projecting. You're not blowing at me because I made a turn, you are blowing because the Toner Cartridge at work was low and you didn't get a chance to print that "15% off" coupon for an authentic Klingon Bat'leth before you left - and this is the last day of the Star Trek Convention. You gotta take it out on somebody right? I guess I'd be mad too.

Award Tour Vol. 32: So Maybe I Just Wonder

These are photos from a website called: hotghettomess.com (that's hot ghetto mess)

It is a webpage dedicated to highlighting the very worst of the fashion no-no's and no-you-didn't's coming from around the globe, and captured on the web. Before they give you a shove down this grease-slicked on-ramp into visual hell, they offer the following foreword:

NOTE: Everyone on this site may be brilliant, talented, great parents, good people or otherwise have a lot to offer society.

I offer no such disclaimer.

In fact, if there was a disclaimer "un-do" button, I would be clicking it furiously right now. My argument being simply: allowing oneself to be documented on such a page dramatically (if not altogether mathematically eliminates) the possibility that you are:

brilliant
talented
a good parent person

or otherwise in possession of anything remotely redeeming that you might offer society (other than the laughter that ensues as a result of your poor judgment). But I digress... let's take a look at a few offerings in order to make the case.

How do I begin? How about this: Imagine if modern day pimps were like Cicadas (no, no seriously, stay with me on this one). If pimps were like Cicadas, and they could shed their skin, leaving behind a fragile, hollowed-out, husk of their former selves clinging to the nearest vertical object for dear life...

...this is what those empty shells would look like.

First we have Pimpus-Broke-Assus. At first glance he just looks like a pimp in recovery. If he got his hair pressed out and maybe put on a loud florescent Zoot suit, you'd think he'd be back in business. But don't be deceived. The Cicada has indeed molted - this is just what's left. This isn't a still photo of a playa just waking up. This is a picture of a dude who couldn't quite decide if he wanted to bring back the "Jerry Curl" or the "Shag" Haircut, and in a moment that will live in Barbering infamy, decided to do both (as I understand it was called the Sh-url). It is a wonder that we are even allowed to still have "Black History" month after stuff like this.
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Next we have Pimpus-Fairy-Dustus (should be self-explanatory). When preparing to take the photo, this man chose to lay on a hard wood floor wearing his momma's fur coat, in a pose strategically designed to expose one nipple (just one), all the while sporting braids and pink lip gloss - and apparently at no point did he think this was a bad idea. I'm assuming the open container of Vaseline and this month's issue of "Out" magazine have been cropped out of the photo but they must be there somewhere in the room. You see why the Cicada had to leave? You see?

Last but not least we have School-Principalis-Professionalus-Pimposterous. Much like his predecessor, Pimposterous has shown the very worst of judgment - and he can't claim to have been unaware that this image was being taken - he was a willing participant in this debacle. Rather than run for cover, rather than obscuring his face to protect what could have been a promising future - he stares boldly into internet oblivion. And the oblivion stares back...
... mocking him. For the record, the bird's nest that you see thatched and parted down the middle of his head is actually his hair. A real pimp would have let his Soul Glo - and feel it all so silky smooth - but not him. Instead he tries a look that didn't even work for Whoopi Goldberg when she played Celie in The Color Purple. It should come as no surprise, when I say in this particular instance, the Cicada died in it's skin before shedding it, and rotted from the inside out.
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Not to be outdone, the women of hotghettomess.com have joined the men in their effort to lower the bar of good fashion sense even further. Concern for things like their future aspirations and reputations are of little consequence - the club is no place for people with good judgment. Take for example Betty Ookla from the Wooly Mammoth clan. She is sporting evening wear designed by Captain Caveman consisting of a barbarian-chic furry ensemble that just screams Cenozoic era. While I think she drops the ball a little bit by not carrying the trademark cave man club, I did think that the Sasquatch shin-guards were a nice touch. You throw someone in the picture discovering "fire" and maybe another person chiseling a stone slab into a crude rudimentary wheel, and you have fashion anti-matter. Just add reality and watch it explode. If that's not feasible you could always go with a Thundercats theme.
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The next stick of fashion dynamite comes to us by way of Shaka Shortcake. Maybe simple math is the best way to go on this one.



Moving along.

Last but not but not least (in any shape, form, or fashion) is the The Club Vixen. I'm sure she was something to look at back in '63 (that's 63 B.C.) when she first won the title. But now I think the winds of change have blown - they were hurricane winds and they have not been kind. Oddly enough, when I look at her I don't envision a woman aging in dog years, showing off a mid-drift that conjures up images of an exploding canister of Pillsbury Dough - NO - I look and wonder to myself, "What the hell happened to Scottie Pippen? When did he start cross-dressing?"

I only say these things because I wonder...

and I care...

...(Okay, so maybe I just wonder).

Award Tour Vol. 31: And Really You Are

The above are photos from a press conference in May 2005, given by Foxy Brown (born Inga Marchand) who fell victim to a sudden case of sensorineural hearing loss, which took 100% of her hearing (as you can imagine that can really put a damper on a music career). After viewing the photos, a friend of mine noticed that former supermodel Tyson Beckford was front and center in many, prompting her to ask the question, "is she {Foxy Brown} with Tyson?"

To answer that you have to examine what is meant by the word 'with'. In what context do you mean? Geospatially, yes - she is with him. They are in the photo together - longitude and latitude virtually identical. As far as the handheld GPS device is concerned they are the same point on the map. Now if the question was are they a couple, I would have to say most likely not.

By definition she could not be with Tyson as 'she' is a feminie pronoun. I could go further and explain that most rumors concerning Tyson and who he is with can be easily dismissed, as often these rumors will allege that that other person is a woman - a statistical impossibility.

You see, Tyson is gay. (send all hate mail to tysonisgay@hatemail.com)

Note: The above is not my e-mail address, that's just where I plan to redirect your angry rebuttals so that I don't have to spend 30 seconds out of my e-mail day deleting your heart felt diatribes. I don't have the time or inclination to read them. He's gay. Get over it.

Yes Tyson is gay. He has not said as much himself, nor does he have to (I refer you to the Furry, Red, Bomber jacket he is wearing in the photos). We know it, he knows it... even women (some of whom at this very moment are sending angry responses to the dead-end e-mail address above) know it. He doesn't have to dress like a washed out pimp from Sesame Street to make you a believer.

Nor does he have to engage in remarkably unconvinging attempts at holding, caressing, and comforting Foxy Brown like a "real" Hetero would - in an effort to prove he isn't gay. Hey Tyson, this isn't a court of law, it's public opinion. And here you are presumed guilty and never quite proven innocent (highly unfair, but the truth). Fortunately, even if you are gay, it's not a crime.

So if you are gay (and you are), keep on rocking those Ruby Red Otter Fur Jackets with pride, hell go all out and add an orange, yellow, green, and blue swatch of fur to get that rainbow effect. Maybe they'll shoot a Brokeback Mountain 2 and they'll have a spot for you (and the jacket too). If you aren't gay, start using the fact that none of us believe you to your advantage.

Pretending to be gay, will cause many women to naturally gravitate towards you and treat you like another girl friend - invariably some will try to change you (because they tend to think they can do that sort of thing) and when you get tired of the relationship you can just say - I'm gay - and they'll have to agree because as far as they know... you are (and really, you are).

Award Tour Vol. 30: Having Sat Through It

So I rented a movie called High Tension from Blockbuster - and by God - I demand retribution. I can think of few movies that have been so poorly thrown together as this one. NOTE: If you haven't seen High Tension, I implore you not to. If you will not heed this warning, but instead insist on killing an hour and 35 minutes of your life (because it's just not worth living), then you should perhaps stop reading from here on - because I'm about to reveal details about the movie (though I would argue that in doing so, I'm doing you a favor).

Let's start with this:

Alexandre Aja
Cécile De France
Maïwenn Le Besco
Philippe Nahon

This is the list of people who star prominently in this cinematic monstrosity that should be ashamed of themselves and condemned mercilessly for their participation (particularly Alexandre who was responsible for bringing this disconntected screenplay to life).

The movie centers around two women, best friends Marie and Alex (Marie being the main character - the story is told exclusively from her perspective). In the movie, they go to the countryside to visit Alex's parents. However, during the night (for no discernible reason) they are attacked by a Homicidal Drifter/Delivery Man whose mission it would seem, is to summarily execute everything moving.

As the story lurches forward, we see that it is the father who ignites this killing spree by inexplicably answering the door when the Delivery Man shows up in front of his house in the dead of night. How he allows the Delivery Man to get the jump on him is almost as absurd as how quickly he is dispatched by the homicidal visitor. He is pummeled effortlessly, has his head shoved between the slats of the stair case, and then has it removed, courtesy of a slow moving desk shoved by the Homicidal Delivery Man (seem unbelievable? It gets worse).

Though he cries aloud for several minutes while fighting against the Delivery Man (and I use the term fighting loosely here as the father was primarily on the receiving end of the exchange), his wife only makes her way down to aid the father after his extreme "hair cut". In addition to her unusually slow reaction time, she further compounds the situation by failing to call the police for help. Apparently, the odds are not sufficiently stacked against her at this point. Going head to head against a Homicidal killer, who has just guillotened her husband - is not challenging enough. No, the degree of difficulty must be higher; she must keep the authorities out of it.

Predictably, she is killed with even less effort than the the father was - and while you are spared the images of her being flayed alive, you are not exempted from the orchestra of death (that's composed primarily of two movements: her screams for help and mercy, and then the macabre gurgling of blood when neither help nor mercy is granted).

In the mean time the two best friends scramble through out the house trying to figure out what's going on (much like you do during most of the movie). In the end, Homicidal Delivery Man slaughters all the family, kidnaps Alex in his van, and goes on an extended killing spree. Marie stows away in the back of the van in hopes to save her friend Alex and to end this mad man's murderous romp - all of which culminates at the Delivery Man's hide out.

It is here that we find out that there is no Delivery Man at all, but in fact it was Marie doing the killing all along.

{insert the sound of a needle being ripped off a record here}

That's right... there is no Delivery Man... Marie is the killer.

This is the plot twist. This is the part where the viewer goes, "wow, I never would have guessed that" - but for ALL the wrong reasons. This is the point where I sit up on my sofa in disbelief saying outloud, "you can-not be serious!!!" a la John McEnroe. This is the point where, around the globe, people who were watching this video stopped their collective discs and hurled them across the room in disgust.

Editors Note: I thought it was interesting that, at the point of the plot twist, even Marie - (the lady in the lead role) - had a hard time believing she was the killer. Ironically, this would represent the one and only time I felt I could identify with the main character.

The gaping hole that has just been ripped in the logic of this story (via the plot twist) is large enough to swallow the Taipei Financial Center length-wise... twice. You mean to tell me that: it is Marie that actually beats the father silly and knocks the top off of his Pez dispenser, that guts the mother like a sand shark, that shot-guns the little brother like a clay pigeon (pull!!!), and slashes the gas station attendant to death? Am I supposed to ignore the fact that while all this was happening she was hiding in a closet? It is an amazing conflict in logic which the movie makes no attempt to resolve.

Further:
Wasn't it Marie who hid in the back of the van with her terrified friend when the Homicidal Delivery Man first kidnapped her and drove off with her from the house? Now I am to understand that while Marie was hiding in the back, she was simultaneously driving the van? Are you kidding me?

Let's dig further (if for no other reason than to reach the 6 foot depth threshold required to bury this film):
Let's reflect on the details surrounding the gas station scene. Marie leaves Alex in the van and attempts to get help when the Homicidal Delivery Man stops to get gas (remember they were in the back together as he drove). However, the gas attendant from whom she sought help is slain by the Delivery Man just before he returns to his van to leave. Marie doesn't have a chance to sneak back in the van, so instead she follows after him in a car commandeered from the gas station.

How it is that she can drive both the van and the car simultaneously is something, that the director decides doesn't need to be addressed. It is left to the viewer to construct a rationale in which, Marie's psychotic break with reality, also allows her to defy generally accepted laws of physics that preclude a person from appearing in two places at one time.

The incredibly laxed attention to detail coupled with the general disregard for a cohesive storyline, overwhelmingly convinces me that Alexandre Aja should be the latest shameful recipient of my recently resurrected "Bammy Award"for inferior work in cinema. Her dereliction of duty at the helm of this project is colossal. She should be ostracized for creating it, the cast should be burned in effigy for starring in it, Lions Gate Films should be boycotted for distributing it, and I should be compensated for having sat through it.

http://www.blockbuster.com/ratings/displayViewReview.action?movieID=152043&channel=Movies&subChannel=sub