Pimptation's blog: "Random Musings and Filth!!!"

Women. Just when I think I have a pretty good handle on them, they go and pull some shyt that makes me realize I still have a whole lot to learn. But the one area where I thought I had shyt figured out in was the physical sense. No… I’m not talking about THAT kind of “physical” in this entry. I mean, I was the kid in the state-sponsored 5th grade sex education class — well, lemme stop right there….. “class” is an overstatement since it was really an hour long barrage of big words and funny looking anatomy depictions of dicks sliced in half and tunneled out coochies. And this “class” didn’t do any of the cool shyt like have practical demonstrations. There was no condom over a banana exercises — and I could have really used these because for a while I was puttin them shyts on inside out. And then I’d have to reach up inside it, while it’s steady choking my dizzle to death, and roll it down from the inside! *the fellas feel me on this one*. There was no STD film where you get to see all the surprises that sex has in store for those who are intimate with folks whose private parts make their own cornbread and buttermilk and manage to smell like the dumpster behind Red Lobster. There was no live sex scene to show what it looks like when two people are engaged in the act — an image that I could have used so that I would have been mentally prepared for the sight of myself in the mirror whilst I was gettin my first piece of ass …. for some reason, I thought I looked cool doing pelvic pumps at 50 miles per hour… I mean, I certainly FELT cool…. imagine my surprise upon looking in the mirror and realizing I looked like a dayum rhesus monkey on Ecstasy. But really… this ain’t THAT kind of “physical” entry. Yet as I sat in class, as soon as the sex ed teacher asked a question, my ten year old hand shot the fukk up: “Ooo, I know! Sperm.” “That’s easy! Egg.” “Ummmm…. the Ethiopian Tubes??” I was close! Ethiopian rhymes quite well with Fallopian, thank you. Gimme a break — I was only ten! And I still knew females… better than most of them knew their own bodies. As I grew up, I realized that what I thought was a genuine part of a woman’s appearance turned out to be a mirage. Deception. A fukkin trap. Like when I found out that hoe Belinda’s titties in the 7th grade weren’t really that big…. she stuffed a sock in her punk ass training bra…. that revelation shook me. Or when I realized that half the girls around had press-on nails. Or that ol’ girl ain’t really that tall… it’s them damn shoes. How many times had I been fooled?? I mean, how long had women been fukkin with my perceptions?? I’m walking around thinkin they got it naturally goin’ on and come to find out the heffa got more add-ons than a Mr. Potato Head accessory kit. How unfair!! It ain’t like dudes had the equivalent!! I TRIED to convince girls I had “good hair,” but the smell from a pound of thick ass pomade and little threads from the foot of my mamma’s old pantyhose on my head told everyone that the only Indian in my family was the Jeep Cherokee in the garage. And really, what can a dude stuff to look bigger??? Don’t even say his crotch, because if you saw a dude with a knot the size of his fist bursting the seams of his zipper, you would NOT be tryin to holla at him. Then there’s the eyes. I remember the day I met my first real girlfriend in 10th grade. She was a short, phat-assed sistah with long hair, a very light complexion, and blue eyes. Yes blue!! D-D-Did I st-stutter muhfugga??!?!? I was amazed! A black girl with blue eyes??? She told me she was half white and half black…. which turned out not to be true…. well….. her mom was half white/black and her dad was half white/black… so I guess technically the shyt is true… but she acted like that was the reason for her blue eyes! Ummmmm….. no. ACUVUE is the reason for your blue eyes!! Yes dude, color contacts. Here I was going around braggin to all these dudes about how I met this black girl with blue eyes — which, in those days, was like the 2006 equivalent of saying you got head from Beyonce — and they weren’t her eyes…. they was just color contacts… But I can’t fault her. Because I used to want some!! That’s right! Cock-sure Kaviar used to want some hazel contacts! That was the only gift that I asked for that Santa never brought. Back when “good hair” and “pretty eyes” were fashionable, I had my pomade and color contact magazine ads handy! Dude, if I had gotten those contacts??? I would have been walking around talking about: “Take a look at me....tell me do ya like what you see...Do you think you can...do you think you can doo-oo- me!” Fa real, you wouldn’t have been able to tell me shyt. Then there’s the hair. I actually do have a decent blend of hair that many blackfricans envy....Such as that...my shit is good enough to be done at Hi Gorgeous, Goulds, Fantastic Sams, and Dabbles....(an yall know that no black person would ever think of those places to get their hair done).....this is thanks to my Cuban father who was on some dark skinned El Debarge shit. But Anyone who knows me knows that while I prefer natural hair on a lady.....if she must fuck with it.....that I’m a proponent of good weaves and extensions. I think the shyt is great. And weave has gotten so good now that I can’t tell whose shyt is real and whose is fake. And I’m pretty much ok with that. Hey, even I almost got a weave. What?? I’m serious. What???! It’s true! Now don’t get it twisted, I wasn’t on some Al Sharpton perm shyt trying to get my weave on. That’s just gay. Back when Leaders of the New School, Fu-Schnickens, and Das EFX first came out, hip hop was becoming dreaded, and I wanted in! There was just one problem, my punk ass curly flat top was of no value to gettin me dreads the next day! So this girl told me that she would braid my head up if I went and got some hair. I told my boy, and he was down too. Dude shows up at my house with 10 pounds of weave that he got from Wal-Mart for $3.95! For about two seconds, I was excited. Then, I realized that I was gonna look like a dumbass with all that shit weaved in my head. Needless to say, I didn’t get it done…. and the fact that I even considered it still remains unbeweavable! Sadly that was my fate when faced with many "BLack" folks hair styles....Due to the fact that my hair is naturally curly.....I'm like the Black Carrot top of this myspace shit. but anyways.... And then a while back I stumbled on some shyt that rocked everything I thought I knew about a modern woman’s physical appearance. I met this girl… she was a cutie. And since it’s the topic of the day, I’ll tell you her eyes were real — a beautiful light brown — and her hair wasn’t — a very well maintained braided style. We hit it off immediately. We went out on a couple dates, and then decided to nightcap it at her crib. Things got heated and I could not wait to get into her bangin ass body…. … or so I thought…. … as I slipped my hand in her shirt, and down into her jeans, I noticed that the tight ass top she had on underneath her shirt…. …. SNAPPED…. like, it fastened at the crotch. I was thinking to myself, “Why this bytch got on a damn leotard??!?!?” Well…. when the shyt came off… I found out why: Her name shoulda been Royce with all the Rolls she had…. I’m sayin’… even Proud Mary’s river wasn’t ROLLIN like this shyt. I couldn’t believe what I’d just witnessed! I mean, a grown ass woman with a leotard to shape her whole shyt??? Hey dude, I’m a proponent of control top draws and hose and such… but wearing a damn one piece swimsuit in the middle of the winter??? Dayum…. at least warn a brutha before he cuts himself on those metal hooks round about your coochie region holdin all your shyt in place!! And then, this past Wednesday, I stood corrected. I discovered the joy of body-shaping. It’s name is UnderArmour and it bringeth me joy. Now that I’ve been working out seriously for almost two months, I’ve been paying more attention to how I look. As a result, I had to beef up my workout gear and I purchased some of the UnderArmour gear because I liked the material. Well I didnt purchase it....lets just say I came up on some.... When I slid on the shirt… dude…. my shyt just popped into place!! My chest looked bigger… my arms looked bigger… but my stomach tightened the hell up!!! I will freely admit that I am an UnderArmour groupie!! Now, you will NOT catch me at the club with one of those gay ass muscle shirts! And you will NOT catch me in a pair of biking shorts with my ass cheeks on display for the world to see! But ladies, what you will find is a cut looking brutha at the gym working shyt out…. and then you’ll think how attractive he is and how nice his body looks… and you will flirt… and he will flirt back… and you two will hit it off and you’ll invite him in for a taste of your goodies…. and when he comes out the Armour…. and his shape returns to its natural state….. I want you to close your eyes and say: “My own medicine doesn’t taste so good….” …. but as least the look appeals. True Story...

Alcohol is a beautiful thing. I know ya’ll drunks have probably been influenced by those damned after-school specials that say alcohol is bad….mmmkay. But take it from a nigga that knows his liquor, the shyt is good. Do you know how charming I am after a few drinks?? Don’t you realize that I’m the life of the party when I’m drunk?? When I drink beer, green-eyed white women in bikinis bring me nachos and flat screen TVs! People like me drunk! I’m way cool! And I would never say “way cool” drunk…. ever. Sure, alcohol can put you in more bad situations than two fat muhfukkas with a gallon of KY, but you don’t see no 12 step programs about that shyt do ya?? Fat muhfukkas lubin up genitals, belly rolls, and cheeseburgers at will and nobody says a damn word — but a brutha has a few beers and his liver finna go on strike?!?! Nah dude… not likely. It’s all in how you use the shyt. If you drink responsibly, then alcohol can be enjoyed by each and every one of us! Admittedly, I’ve put a hurtin on my share of Tequila bottles. Me to Tequila is like Bugs Bunny to Elmer Fudd — I gets my abuse on. Kaviar… dumb as hell, yet in an SAT fashion…. where else can you get such entertainment?? I mean, it was abuse of Tequila that led me to fryin’ bacon butt-naked at 3 in the morning. By the way, pork grease is hot. And it pops, too. And this is how the telephone and alcohol are quite similar. Now, I know you’re trying to figure out the correlation between poppin pork ‘pon da penis and the telephone and alcohol. Well, the grease has nothin’ to do with it… simply a by-product of my mind imitating a cheap weave… more than one track. But the telephone and alcohol are quite similar in certain respects, the main one being if the shyt is abused it can be bad…. very bad mmmmkay? And if the two are combined, it can lead to some very embarrasing, yet honest, moments courtesy of the drunk dial. However, that’s not what I’m here to talk about… I want to talk about abuse. Phone abuse. I’m not talking about beating up phones, though I’ve certainly thrust a phone or two up against a wall. I’m talking about abusing the purpose of the phone. There are many ways to do this: a) Leavin your cell phone ringer on at church, meetings, funerals, etc. You need to Andre 3000 that shit — Vibrate. Vibrate Hiiiiggghhhherrr! b) Callin someone 5500.334.2 times a day for no fuggin reason. “I just wanted to say ‘Hey’” *sigh* Oh bytch please! Tell that Hey shit to Mr. Ed…. stop ringin my damn phone! Plus, you are not allowed to call more than twice…. thanks. c) Callin someone and breathin on the damn phone like you’re Norman Bates havin an asthma attack. Say what the fugg you gotta say, and please hang the hell up. People need no more 1.75 minutes to say what the hell they gotta say…. do the math — the shit computes. ****disclaimer**** the above does not apply to me because I am long winded and astute vocabulary therefore i am equipped to to provide hours upon hours of intellectual oral.....errrr...aural stimulation....(aural = the ears fool!) d) Callin somebody at 2 am on a Wednesday night on some silly shit like, “Whatcha doin??” Sleepin, nigga. Sleepin. Calling at odd hours is the worst abuse of phone ever… …unless…. … there’s an emergency… but that is totally acceptable. Or perhaps time change is a factor and it’s and honest mistake… Lawd knows I’ve had my share of that shyt after my latest move. But the most excusable reason for odd hour phone calls is…. … ass. Not GETTING ass but JUST GOT some ass. I’m not talking about booty calls here folks… even those have cut-off times. If your ass wasn’t horny enough to call before midnight, then you can wait until the roosters wake the fukk up before callin. Your coochie ain’t gonna dehydrate before sunrise and my dizzle will still operate in the morning… perhaps more efficiently even. Booty calls at 3 am are just rude… and inconsiderate of my dyck’s beauty sleep — the shyt didn’t get this lovely by being awaken during its one-eyed REM sleep! No, I’m talking about the phone call that every man has probably made at one point in his life. I was completely unware as to the exsistence of this phone call until 1996. One summer morning at about 4 am, the phone in my one bedroom apartment in Metarie, LA rings. I jumped up to answer the phone because I thought it may be some sort of emergency, naturally. When I saw the caller ID, it was my fraternity brother… I wondered if his car had died on him again and needed a lift. Oh how wrong I was… Me: *yawn* Helluh? Friend: DAWG!! Wake up! Me: *sigh* yeah… what’s the matter? *yawn* Friend: I got it man…. I got it! Me: C’mon man, no guessin games… whatchu want? Friend: ‘Memba ol’ girl from New York? The one with the huge ass? Me: Yeah, yeah… the one you’ve been sweatin for a while. Friend: Dude… she is butt-nekkid in the bedroom right.now. I mauled that ass. I finally hit, yo…. finally man. It was a remarkable perfomance… you woulda been proud of your boy! Now, the sheer excitement is his voice chased my fatigue right out my room. In that moment, I completely forgot what time it was and listened intently to him recount the events of the evening. Was it still 4 am? Was I sleepy just seconds ago? That seemed like a distant memory. And all was forgiven for interrupting my slumber. “Forgiven? He broke a sacred phone rule and all is excused just because he got some ass??” NO! Not at all! Well, not really. Maybe a little. Ok Ok Ok!!...... Hellz yeah all is excused!!....... It was new ass!! NEW.ASS!! And not just random strange new ass… but new ass that he had been after for quite a while!! Don’t look at me like that!......What?!?!.......... What I do?!?!? It’s not like I did it! It’s not like I was the one ringing a phone off the hook at all times of night to inform my boy that I got some new ass!! I would never do such a thing.....It’s silly!....Stupid!.....Childish!.....Immature! “Me doth think the Brutha protest too much.” You doth right. You gahdamn right I’ve made that call!! I made it once before in my life…. 1997. I was interested in this girl who was everything I thought I wanted at that time in my life. She was fun… fine as all getout… “Get out!” Yes nigga… as if “all” got.dafukk.out. She was so fine that when I brought her home to meet my family — the only chick I ever brought home from college — even my daddy said, “Damn…. she IS fine.” After about 6 months of courting her — oh yes…. this froggy went a courtin — she asked me if she could stay the night. *singing* Turn off the lights…. and light a candle….. I said TURN’EM OFF! I went Teddy P all on that ass that night…. I worked so hard I even rolled out of bed in a wheelchair a la Teddy! And I rolled my ass right to the phone…. …. and while she slept…. …. I placed a phone call in the forbidden hours…. … and the tired voice that answered the phone suddenly perked up when he heard: “My brutha…. it is done.”

There we were. We stood alone in the laundry room about to get on some serious spin-cycle strokin'. She was sitting on the washer with her legs spread and I was standing in front of her a centimeter from her face and a nanosecond from making her coochie Bounce with some thick-dizzled Cheer that I was about to lay Down… ….. -y. Oh the joys of illicit sexcapades! Both of you are willing to get it all the way on anywhere that allows for entry into the pink snappin tunnel of love. No inhibitions! No cares! Only unbridled urges to saddle up and ride that bytch into the sunset. So as we stand there, about to do what we came to do while her whites were in the dryer, her colors in the washer, and her body in my control, I couldn't help but think about how much fun it would be to stroke in the laundromat like they do in the movies and then go brag about the shyt to my boys — 'cause you know that's what young niggas do. Then her boyfriend walks in. Ya'll remember that scene in Crash when dude and his wife are driving home and she is giving him some head, then they get pulled over by the cops? And when he is gettin unfairly harrassed by the cops, she gets her ass out the truck and ends up getting the R. Kelly special from the cop?? And then she chastises dude because he didn't do anything to prevent the sidewalk molestation that ensued?? 'Memba that?' Well, I remember sitting in the movie theater during that scene and wondering what I would have done in the same situation. I mean, you have two options: 1) You could be Mr. Bold Black Man and get that ass summarily and thoroughly thrashed on the side of the street by two white boys beating grand slams all upside your rock ass head or 2) Keep your mouth shut and then argue about the shit with ol' girl when you get home. Kassandra told me after I saw the movie when I asked her what she would have done in that situation — she said the classic quote that is the best response I've heard, "I woulda stayed my ass in the car!" Now THAT, would have been the smart way to avoid this whole shyt! Instead, the woman, who should have stayed her drunken ass in the truck and used the opportunity of her man being accosted by the police to look in the mirror and knock the pubes from the corners of her mouth and freshen her breath so that her man doesn't have to get back in the car and smell stale musty morning breath and dick fumes, got OUT the car and made matters worse… putting her man in a hell of a predicament. I hate to say it, but I think I would have chosen the latter just like ol' boy did in the movie. The only thing worse than having your woman think you're a punk because you didn't stand up for her is having your punkosity confirmed by getting your ass whooped right in front of her face. There are few things more emasculating that getting beat down in front of your woman. It isn't that chivalry is dead, it's that billy clubs have a way of speaking directly to a man's soul. But that begs the question of how far is a man supposed to go in protecting his woman and just how far does a woman expect for her man to go in protecting her? Sometimes the ass whoopin — either yours or his — is worth it. I am all for doing what it takes to get my lady out of danger, even if it means I'm gonna take a loss all about the cranial region from some thug nigga who came to the spot for the sole reason of starting some shyt. Though it may be old-fashioned, I still believe a man's duty is to protect his woman. Just like it's her fukkin duty to start beatin muhfukkas with high heels and coach bags if her man is getting his ass whooped. I ain't getting beat up, WE is getting beat up. 50-50 gahdamn….. 50.50. LOL Seriously though, I feel that a man should do everything in his power to ensure his lady is safe and sound… in the long run. Gettin shot by the cops doesn't make your lady safe. But bustin a dude's skull wide open because he put his hands on her is certainly worth every knuckle you break on his buck-ass-teeth. And also worth the assault charge that would get thrown out when the judge realizes he touched your lady. I don't think I've ever been in a situation where a dude was about to go ballistic on my lady and I had to step in to try to twist a nigga's head off so he, and everyone else, would know that my girl isn't the one to mess with. Of course, niggas have tried to holla at a girl I'm seeing on various occassions throughout my life, but that's nothing that simply ignoring or a firmly placed, "She's with me, dude" hasn't resolved. Plus, I ain't a fighter, I'm a lover….. and though Michael Jackson uttered them gay ass words in the duet with Paul McCartney back in the day, them shits ring true with me … though I'm nothing like MJ…. though I just quoted him…. Nah, kav Boogie doesn't put himself in positions where niggas gotta start wrestling on the ground like two gay monkeys all because someone tried to holla at his lady and he feels "disrespected." Gimme a fuggin break. That word is sooo played out and simply bullshyt rationale for trying to prove to the world you ain't a punk. Trust me, if you ain't a punk, the world will know… you won't have to prove it by getting all loud an' shit. Have you seen the "Keepin It Real" sketch on the Chappelle Show?? Yeah nigga, that shit happens. You got to know when to hold'em and when to fold'em, jack. Most of those situations can be averted by simply keeping your head and remaining cool. Though I will admit that yours truly has been less of the "disrespectee" and more on the side that could potentially possibly maybe be conceived as the "disrespector." Maybe. Possibly. Like that day with ol' girl doing her laundry. When dude walked in, I didn't know what the fukk to think. We couldn't lie our way out of it because we were so close that the asshole of a gnat couldn't have flown between us. The position was compromising like a muhfukka… and that's some serious ass compromising. Pun intended. Dude came to the doorway. She and I snapped our heads to the doorway and she instinctively pushed me a couple steps back as I instinctively stepped back a couple steps. Yeah, I could have played hard role and flashed him a playa ass smirk and said some gangsta shit like, "Yo' bitch chose me!" But um…. no. Not really my character… well… I would do some shit like that, but not for this broad and not in this situation…. and not if I'm sober…. nor sane. And so mentally I prepped myself for dude to start talkin' mad shit and then start swingin on me. I also prepped for the seemingly inevitable string of "Baby, it's not what you think…" bullshit from ol' girl's mouth in a vain attempt to downplay what was painfully evident. The proverbial red hand had been snared. So guess what dude did? Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. He started walkin in… I told her I'd talk to her later…. and I walked by him not even looking in his direction and bounced. The end....That is all...... DOT COM. Thiggetty-thiggety-that's all folks! Fukkin exit stage left and roll credits. I couldn't believe it!...... Dude said nothing! The next day, ol' girl called me and told me that after I left he asked her, "What was that all about??" To which she responded, "He was trying to kiss me, but I pushed him away just as you walked in." *GASP* You lyin' ass BITCH!!! LOL How you gon' play me like that?? You KNOW YOU called me to meet YOU there because you said your man wasn't "doing it for you." And then you gon' act like I was just tryin to get my push-up on??? Ugh. Bitches and flies. So now, I'm thinkin dude is gonna step to me. Whereas if he realized he walked in on something consensual, his beef should have rightfully been with her and he shouldn't have had a word for me since it ain't me that he's in a relationship with, but NOW dude thinks I made unsolicited physical advances and had pushed all up on his girl — all up 'tween the legs and whatnot — and that, at least in my book, is grounds for a "talkin' to." Do you know that dude said nothing?!? And do you know that in that same conversation ol' girl asked me to come by and see her because he was gone for the weekend?!? The way I see it, dude in the movie about to get his ass whooped by the cops was right in keeping his cool. And dude who "thought" his girl had just been accosted by me and doing nothing was a bitch move. "Maybe he knew his girl was loose and tolerated that shit." No, bitch. He didn't do shit because he was a punk. Your lady has been accosted by some dude at night in an empty laundromat and you don't say shit?? Un-fukkin-accepptable. Or maybe he simply thought of the phrase I wrote above: "It isn't that chivalry is dead, it's that billy clubs have a way of speaking directly to a man's soul." Where the billy clubs would have been my elbows gettin krunk on his esophagus…. 'cause this "lover" would have beat his ass… it woulda been a flawless victory because he WAS a punk. But in the defense of your woman, it should have been worth the risk. Plus, if I had started wailin' on him, his girl would have helped HIM… and they might have got in my ass that.day. 50-50. Instead, he didn't take the mature route, in my opinion… he made the bitch move. Maybe those were his panties that she was washing.

Damn dude, you just put in work. As you lay there between the darkness of her bedroom and the aroma of insatiable sex — cradling a bottle of ice cold beer — your mind races. You marvel at how just how well you performed and from where that performance came. There, in the darkness, with your outstretched arm between a cool pillow and her freshly shampooed hair tinged with sweat, a french manicured hand on your chest encasing a rapidly beating heart, two perky breasts adjacent to your torso, and one freshly shaven leg draped across yours, you listen to her breathe as she sleeps … … and she sleeps soundly because…. well…. damn dude, you just put in work. Just before she fell into her deep sleep, she uttered those words which make her annoying habit of popping gum bearable; those words that make the fact that she has had more sexual partners than she has fingers or toes insiginificant; those words that make that ex-boyfriend that always seems to pop up inconveniently not so troublesome; that magical phrase that every man wants to hear from every woman he has ever slept with whether the sex was a result of love and passion or a consequence of two horny ass mammals… "Damn baby… that was incredible… no one has ever made me cum like that." And there, in this poetic and satisfying moment in the darkness of her abode…. ….. you twist up your muthafuggin lips and think "Oh heffa puhleeze!!" Every dude that has put in work and heard these words has had this moment. I mean, yeah, you put in work, but be for real…. you?? the best ever?? Gimme.amuhfuggin.break. Surely, you didn't rock the casbah like she says you did! Not you!...... I mean, sure you got that swivel hip shit down and you are working with a stick that produces magic that even Copperfield would be proud of, but nigga…. she is just trying to boost your ego! Not you!.... You??..... The best ever??..... BALDERDASH!! BOLSHEVIK!! Some may say the dude in the above scenario is simply a pessimist. Some would say that when you have givin a woman the best sweet lovin she's ever had that you won't have to ask or need a verbal confirmation, you'll just know. I say that the truth lies somewhere in between. In should be no surprise to anyone that has engaged in the bumping of the uglinesses that folks lie about sex. In fact, many a movie and sitcom has garnered laughs, box office sales, and Nielsen ratings on the faking that people engage in during sex. So it naturally follows that folks will be suspicious when you claim their stroke is more heavenly than St. Peter eating Haagen-Dazs on a pearly gate singing that O'Jays song about the stairway there. Hey man, I wish I could tell you that women owned the corner on faking orgasms, but I simply can't. Yes…. I… Kaviar D'edrick Del Juan Lewis…. has faked an orgasm…. many o' time. "Damn Kav…. why fake?" Because muhfugga!! I'm compassionate!! I care about people's feelings!! Ya see, I have a theory. And it's a well thought-out theory too, so don't even try to shoot holes in my shit. And by well thought-out, I mean that I'm coming up with the shit as I type, but please don't let that deter from the genious of the following posit: Men that fake orgasms do so out of compassion. Women do the shit so the nigga will just get.da.fuck.up. that is all.....and Im jus sayin..... The times when I faked it, I did so because I knew the woman was trying her damndest to make the snake spit… and it just wasn't happenin. If a woman rides the dizzle like she's on a damn airplane experiencing turbulence and shit… all shallow-bumpy-and-arhythmic… ummmm…. yeahh…. we gon' have to fake this shit. Yeah, I'm gonna need her to get on one of them kiddy rides outside Walmart so she can get a damn clue…. otherwise, prices won't be the only thing fallin' 'round this bitch. But see, men don't fake it so that she'll stop, we fake it so that she feels likes she can take us there. The last thing you wanna do is kill a woman's confidence who enjoys partaking of the mushroomed tube steak. To destroy a woman's confidence in sex is to put the pussy on injured reserve…. that shit won't be available for the next game. We want her to continue to believe that she has that bomb shit… because that leaves the door open for other shit that may help her take us there and gives her sexual freedom. Freedom is not just a buck-o-five. That bullshit ass shit going around that says "men can come whenever they want to" is utter hogwash! Not just hogwash… but hogwash of the utter variety. I WISH I could nut on command! Do you know how that would have saved me from bullshit facial contortions and lip-biting?!?! Then again… if I could nut on command, I would be the most commanding muhfugga the earth has ever known…. so I take that back… for posterity's sake if nothing else. But it's not just women who can't fuck that require the fake fuck face… it's those that kill the mood too. For example, I was with this girl a few years back........ We never had a relationship....... it was pretty much just sex.......... At one point, she wanted it to be more, but umm… as far as I was concerned… the groundwork had already been laid… along with the pipe......... And the pipe and groundwork said, "No." So the last time I was ever with her, she turned into a chocolate ass Cathy Bates on my ass! She started staring at me with a scowl on her face — while I'm pumpin my ass off, mind you — and saying shit like, "You never liked me. You just wanted this ass. Ain't that right?? Yeah nigga.. that's it right there… right there… You just using me, huh? You never liked me." Timeout Ref. Flag on the damn play. Unsportsmanlike conduct, defense, #53, 15 yard penalty, automatic first down, and break da fuck out. I faked that shit, and got the hell outta dodge. But before I left, she was talking me to death talkin' 'bout, "I'm glad you really enjoyed that one…. it'll probably be our last. It's a shame, ain't it? 'Cause now you know just how good my shit can be when I don't hold back on you." Bitch, please. Psycho much? But women??!?!...... Oh oh oh! Women fake because they are thinking, "I wish this nigga would just get OFF me!" After hearing a dude talk shit about all the shit he really AIN'T doin', they just want him to get up. I'll admit that women can be kind and give dude an extra few minutes to try and finish, but enough is enough dammit. So they fake it to get dude to get up so he can go watch the game or kill a spider or some shit. Could it be?? Could it be that Kaviar has found one of the few instances in life where men are more compassionate than women?? Yes. It be. See, it makes sense for men to fake it, because making the woman feel like she is the bomb-shit reaps rewards in the future. Your compassion now turns into her doin' hoe shit later. And friends, that investment is better than a high-interest yield mutual fund…. in fact, it's better than buying real estate in Maryland or California in 2000 and selling in 2007! But for women, I just don't get it. Now, while my ego is massive, I'm not dumb enough to think that every woman that said I made her orgasm actually meant that shit. I'm sure some heffa was on the False Nut Express fukkin with me at some point … rather, points… in life. And I'm ok with that. Do what you do gotta do…. 'cause I damn sho' did. But women need to understand that men are creatures of habit. Therefore, if you fake shit with him, then what do you think he's gonna do the next time??? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? If dude is pounding on you like he's John Henry vs that damn machine, and it's horrible to you so you fake it to get him off…. everytime you two do the do, he's gonna get on that same John Henry shit singin' Negro spirituals. It's in your best interest, ladies, NOT to fake it. Trust me on this one…. unless, of course, you want to boycott orgasms like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People boycotting some corporate organization for calling a Black person 'colored.' The irony is blinding. So as a result of all the above, I am a skeptic. I've heard that magical phrase from a woman more than once, and I'm sure that more than one of the utterings was a bald-faced lie… as opposed to a lie with mustache and goatie. Naturally. But, you know what I surmised in the end?? It doesn't fuckin matter. As far as I'm concerned, she is telling that lie for herself. Because any grown ass woman with some sense knows that if she wants me to change what I'm doing, the best way is to tell a brutha and leave the fibs to that fake ass Dr. Pepper drink. Oh, wait. That's Mr. Pibb…. Pibb not fib… But you get the point! And for those other times when that magical phrase is uttered and she means it?? Well, that ice cold beer sure does taste good there, in the darkness, with your outstretched arm between a cool pillow and her freshly shampooed hair tinged with sweat, a french manicured hand on your chest encasing a rapidly beating heart, two perky breasts adjacent to your torso, and one freshly shaven leg draped across yours, you listen to her breathe as she sleeps … laying there between the darkness of her bedroom and the aroma of insatiable sex…. … thinking to yourself, "damn dude, I just put in work." This is the entry that results from a drunk dude — me — overhearing two white dudes in a bar talkin about how they can tell if a woman is faking. They didn't have a clue…. their final conclusion was it was a real orgasm was "the nipples swell up an' shit… I saw that on the Discover Channel… ain't no fakin that." And this, my friends, is the future of America.

So I haven't told ya'll about my neighborhood yet, huh? "Oh Lawd Kaviar! You gonna talk about Midtown AGAIN?!?!? How many gay jokes do you think we can stand???" I know. I know, ya'll. But I just can't help myself! There is just so much blog-worthy material here! I promise though… no gay jokes! I won't even say…errr, type… the world gay! Ummm.. I just did, huh? For the THIRD TIME already! Ok, ok…. except those previous three times, no more gay shit!! Oops. So I moved into this house that's 1200 square feet of the pure bomb shit. It sounds small for a house, but to my budget and in Cooper Young, 1200 sq ft is on the bigger end. But the true beauty of this crib is its architecture and the view. No lie… my pad looks like some gangsta-ass-Al-Pacino-Scarface-in-Miami-type shit! (minus the "gangsta"… ain't no guns or gators in this muhfukka… and the only coke up in here is that of the Diet variety…*well these days anyway* silver cans for me please! Thank you.) But on the strenf — which has to be the best saying hip hop popularized in the late 80's, though I still don't know how "on the strength" basically translates to the millenium version of "fa real fa real" …. must be some NY shyt… all my Hip Hop Heads, step in any moment here — my shyt is kinda gangsta. It looks like a summer home for some rich muhfukkas that stay draped in Bulgari — which I just learned is some designer and not just an eastern European country! Oh wait… that's Bulgaria… somewhere over by Carjackistan… no wait, Carjackistan is a suburb of Newark…. or is it Compton. All I know is a nygga is the mayor…. or is it governor? This schyt is confroosing. Anyway, my crib… it's hardwood floors throughout with a big ass series of ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the lively residential diaspora. Dude, the shyt is bangin. "Ummm so like…. so. There's gotta be some slightly homophobic story that follows all this braggin!" Oh how right you are. And I ain't braggin. Bytches. First of all, when I came to see the house, it wasn't the one that I'd seen pictures of and previously posted on this site. The agent brought me to this one first thinking I'd like it better. Oh how right she was. And Oh how gay it is for a grown ass man to keep saying, "Oh how…." — so I shall cease… starting now. So real estate agent chick — older Japanese lady who I'm willing to bet three of those white boxes with metal handles and red Chinese pictures on'em could smell what the Kav Boogie is cookin — drives me out to this place which is rather removed from the hustle and bustle of the rest of MemphriKKKa. The first thing I noticed when I got out the car, besides the house and the view, was the damn smell. It smelled like a bunch of Asian muhfukkas with that special brand of halitosis they have …. like they just had a Talking Contest to see who could exert the most breath in the pronounciation of the letters s, t, and p. Dude! Their halitosis — a word whose origin stems from the Ebonic phrase "Hella toe shit" — decided to have a meeting all up in my atmospherics. It smelled like the airplane coming here from Cali — where the air consisted of 6 hours worth of the recycled breath. The agent, sensing my sudden urge to vomit all over her kimono, showed me the large garden/crops that were growing across the street. Apparently the owners use manure to fertilize their field and that caused the smell....what in the hell is a family doing growing a gtarden in the middle of the neighborhood....not like a little back yard garden either.....Im talking some shit where you need to hook bessie up to a plow and break out your kunta kinte whip! No, she didn't really have on a kimono. And yes, Asian halitosis smells like cow-shittized-fertilizer…. which is better than the Negro version halitosis of the Olde English and fried chicken variety. We roll up in house, and she shows me around. I'm sold on the spot right on the… umm…. spot. So we head back to her office, do the paper work, and a few days later I moved in. I remember recalling on the first drive to my new home how quiet and serene it was, even with the odoriferousness in the air. I couldn't wait to settle in and sleep in the new crib with nothing but the sound of the railroad down the street, the cars traveling down parkway, the recording studio on the other side of my house and Midtown's cool breeze blowing across my taco-meated chest hair. Oh how wrong I was. *I've got to stop that* Just as I was settling in the bed, with a big ass smile on my face in the pitch blackness of my room — looking like a cartoon character locked in the closet… nothing visible but a row of teeth and some blinking eyes– what do I hear??? At 11 pm… as in 11 o'clock AT NIGHT…. I hear…. A.fuggin.ROOSTER! A ROOSTER?!? At 11?!?! PM???!! What the fugg kind of backwards shit is that???? A gahdamn rooster on Eastern Daylight Savings Time!!!??? This rooster apparently lives a few houses behind mine… all up 'round the midnight hour talkin' 'bout ERRR-EH-ERRR-EH-ERRROOOOOO!!! *smh* A few days after I moved in, my neighbors stopped by and brought me some lettuce from their cow-shyt garden as a "welcome to the neighborhood gift." First of all, it wasn't cleaned thoroughly, so I think some of Bessie's grassy bowels was still on it. Second, is this a damn gift??? Where I'm from, bringin a muhfukka vegetables with shyt on it isn't perceived as a kind gesture. Now if they'd brought the cow…. I'd be sounding like that dude on the Temptations Christmas song … "I want my babyback-babyback-babyback ribs." But for your information and cocktail knowledge, lettuce grown in cow-shyt tastes hella good. Damn right I washed and ate it! It was a gift!! Anyway, while the neighbor was here, I asked her about that damned rooster. Know what she told me??? She told me…. that that damned rooster….. CROWS…. every time it sees….. HEADLIGHTS! What?!? WHAT?!?!? So wait a minute… you mean to tell me that this dumb ass rooster thinks every pair of headlights is the SUN RISING?!?!? Dude, this shyt is ridiculous. The rooster's name MUST be Corky. LOL I guess Life DOES Go On…. when you come back reincarnated as a damn rooster. I've heard of jerk chicken, but dammit, this is taking shyt too far. And I wish I could say that was it, but oh no! They have a ton of barking ass dogs around here too! And of course they don't start making all that damn noise until the middle of the night. I have just one question. One simple ass question. There are a lot of Asians moving to Memphis right? Can I get a few more into the neighborhood please? I mean, don't they eat dogs 'round these parts?? Can't they dice them bitches up — pun intended — so a Brutha can get some sleep?? I mean, damn… don't the Gravy Train make some stops up in here??? Shyt man…. ain't Beni Hana low on Fido Fried Rice? Maybe Rover Ramen Noodles??? I mean why are so many gay dudes dawg owners? Shyt. Ya'll made me say gay. Oh how a nygga was set on not jokin on gay shit. Dammit. I said "oh how" again. Double shyt. AND I said the n-word again too!! Triple Shyt!!! … which, by the way, grows the bomb ass lettuce. that is all....

This may be a surprise to some of you, but I have an oral fixation. Before I even get started....... let me pull your mind out the gutter. Yes, this is a Kaviar D. Lewis blog, which basically means things are bound to turn sexual and/or racist at some point. But please, let me take you to the gutter… don't get ahead of me or it'll ruin all the corny jokes and allusions that I have in store. Trust me on this one… I'll get nasty when I've run out of shit to say. Ok? Thanks. Now… what was I saying before I was so rudely interrupted by your gutter ass thoughts?? Oh yes! Oral fixation. I have one…. it probably stems from licking twat and shovin my dizzle down heffa's esophaguses… or is it esophagusi(??) Hell, I don't know…. but either way, I have one. And that paragraph was nasty just for YOUR nasty ass. I knew I had to appease your penchant for smut in order for me to continue on. Are we ready?....... Bien!....... Let's proceed… Seriously though, I do have a fixation of the oral variety. I tell people all the time that this is the main reason that I chew so much big read after finally kicking the smoking habit. Fugga nicotine… it was the act of smoking that had me hooked, not the ammonia, rat urine, and panda nuts that Truth.com would have you believe is in every ounce of cigarette smoke… making smokers responsible for rodent-incited plagues as well as the cause of the panda's placement on the endangered species list… yet we got no credit for utilizing ammonia on our lungs. Hey, if it can help Mr. Clean to get up that soap scum from your tub, think of how spotless your lungs should have been after a few applications!! Trust me, I get sick less than most folks because bacteria and viruses…. or is it virusi(??)…. simply can't survive in my lungs! Ammonia, son. Just what the doctor ordered. You know where I think my oral fixation originated?? Most psychoanalysizing folks would try to trace it to breast-feeding, but that ain't it. I didn't start breast-feeding until I was 14… and my 17 year old girlfriend wasn't lactating so that shit don't count. In fact, titties were all the same to me for many years…. shyt, it didn't matter if they were A cup or A glass!! Whether they were ZZ cups or ZZ Top!! I didn't really care. And even now in my old age, nice breassessess… or is it breassessi(??)…. aren't required reading… simply extra credit for in-depth study. "So if not there, then where?" Wood. *snicker* Ok…. timeout. Remember our little talk at the beginning of the entry about not getting nasty ahead of me?? Remember how I was saying that when it's time for your mind to get gutterfied, I would take you there?? You do? Ok… well, then, I'm gonna need for you to adhere to that. May I continue?....... Merci. Fa real though, it was wood that caused my oral fixation. When I was younger, I would spend the summers with my Grandmother in the country ass country of Hernando, MS. It was so country that even the roaches had slaves! It was so country that even the pigs ate pork! It was so country that even the trees picked cotton! And me, being the NYC claimin though Jersey bred suburbanite that I was, would go down there and learn lessons about country life. I learned how to fish down there. I learned how to go a solid week without bathing. I learned how to open beer bottles with my teeth. I learned how to blow up cans of bug spray when you burn your trash. I learned not to fuck with baby chicks or the mother hen would get in your ass. I learned that electric fences will.fugg.you.up. I learned that a live goat in the day is dead dinner at night. And I learned that wood tastes good when chewed. (and I mean that in the most hetero way possible). Now, I'm not talking about just any wood…. I don't mean going and chewing the bark off a pecan tree is the bomb shit. I'm talking about that sweet, sweet wood… one like none other. "The wood… what's its name?" Sugarcane! Ask me again and I'll tell you the same!! Have ya'll heard that before!!?? My moms used to say that ALL.THE.TIME. Oh wait….. it's Puddin' Tang… not sugarcane. LOL What the hell is puddin tang anyway??? I know what pudding is…. and I know what tang is…. but what the hell is puddin' tang? Well, it's my name… of course. Dude…. sugarcane is guh-huh-huh-hoood!! For those of you Western and Northern muhfukkas, lemme hip you to what the shit is. The way you drunks know sugarcane is in the form or Rum… sugarcane (aka Sorghum) is used to produce it. But the way we Cubanos and Carib folks know it is in its raw form. Southern folks should know it by the name used to make that sticky assed molasses that they sopped up with their hot water cornbread. but anyhoo.... Sugarcane is a tall ass bamboo ass looking plant. When you strip the reed from a ripe stalk, the wood inside is juicydennamuhfukka. And so down south, my uncles would go cut a few stalks and bring'em back. And the kids would sit there and chew the juice out the damn wood with a fervor seldom seen. It was soooo good. And then, when you had chewed all the juice out the wood, you spit the wood out. Man, I chewed up so much wood nyggas would thought I was a damn beaver. We had my grandma's yard looking like a damn sawmill! But the feel of the cane in my mouth was so refreshing, so satisfying. I was a fiend ya'll…. And that love of wood in my mouth turned to toothpicks which then turned to candy which then turned to Big League Chew (ya'll remember that??? Man, I would have a big ass basketball sized wad of that shyt in my mouth! Nygga perpetually looked like Ihad the mumps fuggin with Big League Chew -- which then turned to straws (I know I ain't the only high schooler that thought it was cool to chew on your straw from lunch all day long) and then turned to the plastic tips of Black'N'Milds. And the rest, as they say, is history. So now, I'm orally fixated. And that fixation has stemmed my love for carbonated drinks to feel the bubbles in the back of my throat and liquor that burns on the way down. But it 'twas sugarcane that began my love affair. On my way through Desoto County last week, I noticed that there are thick fields of some kind of plant with flowery white tops atop a 7,8, 10 foot high plant. One of those fields was harvested the other day and revealed the familiar reed that began in all. Yes folks, there is sugarcane in my vicinity. And I shall soon be the most splinter-mouthed termite ass Negro the world has ever seen. I'm gonna chew so much wood that I'll be spittin out notebooks. What'll it be? College-ruled or Legal pad. Ya'll pray for me…. I think I'm about to be addicted to cane. I'm on the verge of my fixation turning into fetishes…. …or is it fetishi(??) True story.....

Must See DVDs!!! They should be on sale now.... Current mood: cheerful Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities I normally don't pay any attention to folks when they tell me that there a movies that I simply MUST see. Too many times in life I have watched a movie that was supposed to be all of that simply because somebody said, "Dude, you gotta see such-and-such." I mean is EVERY movie: "Amazing!" — Julie Fakeson of the Dayton Daily Express "Funniest movie ever!" — Somebody Jones of the Fasle Street Journal Gimme a fuggin break! Well, I saw such-and-such and such-and-such sucked-and-sucked nuts-and-nuts. I used to have a list of the worst movies of all time, and then the list got so fuggin long that I just couldn't maintain the shyt anymore. And you know, I'm an easy movie guy to please! I can get into just about anything! I mean, you're talking to a dude who went out and purchased the Master P cinematic classic I'm 'Bout It and watched it so much that the VCR would say, "Gahdayum nygga!! AGAIN?!?!?" everytime I hit rewind. Yes, bytch. Again......and dont get me started on my PORN collection! But that movie was funny as hell!! The non-acting, which normally frustrates the shyt outta me, was actually quite entertaining. I give this movie two snaps up in gold teeth formation!! And it gets worse…. I love…. LOVE LOVE LOVE…. me some Little Shop of Horrors!! That movie is.the.shyt!!!! And you know what? You are tallking to a dude who fuggin DESPISES musicals! Like, with a passion. Fugga Sound of Music… Fugga Moulin Rouge…. Fugga a Fantasia!!! And no, I'm not talking about the bytch who can sing but can't even compete in a 1st grade Spellin' Ay — rumor is that's what she calls a Spelling Bee…. LOL… whatchu expect?? The bytch can't read!! Don't hate the messenger — I'm talking about Mickey Mouse! Yes!! I hate that dayumed movie!! It's a musical and musicals suck. EXCEPT Little Shop of Horrors!! "Feed me Seeey-Mour!!! Feed me aaaalllll night loooong!!!" "C'mooon…. C'mooooon…. it's suppertiiiimmmmeee!" "Suddenly Seymour!!! Is standing beside me!!! DUDE!!! Those songs ROCKED!! I can sing the whole soundtrack up in this muhg! And you know, I am NO fan of Tisha Campbell — like, at all…. not even a little bit. To me, that big-lipped, Brandy-eyed, no-hipped, circle-headed can't-actress was the reason that Martin went off the air…. and for that cardinal sin, she shall never be forgiven. Even her bubble azz doesn't make up for such a transgression! But you know what, Tisha sang the HELL out of that soundtrack dude. Her, and some other no-name fat bytch, and that fine azz Pam sang their azzes off throughout that whole movie. And yes, I said Pam was fine. Yes, Pam from Martin. What son, what?!?!? Man, Pam could have gotten it six ways from Sunday all up on the set of Martin! Sometimes she would come on screen and I'd be like, "Now see… Martin should stop crackin on Pam and start waxin that azz on the DL." "Ewwww Kav, you thought Pam was fine!!! EWWWW!!!" Ask ya man would he hit…… I rest my case Counselor… no further questions…. get this witness outta here. So, where was I?? Ah yes….I'm easy to please but I hate recommended movies. But, there are exceptions. For example, Crash. I will admit that one of my fraternity brothers convinced me to see this movie, so I did and I'm oh so glad that I did. And also, my ex told me that I just had to see Team America. So I did… and dude, she told me that once I saw this movie, it would change me. It did. You simply have not lived until you have seen the best sex scene ever captured on film. Like, for real….. the sex scene in Team America is a classic. And it's LONG… and…. it's all done with marionette puppets. I ain't lyin. And you know what else…. if you watch it… I swear to you… .I promise you…. You.will.learn.something.new. Trust me on this one. So I'm oohhhh so glad I took that recommendation to see that movie. And you wanna talk about a bangin ' soundtrack…. you ain't ready for it. So the latest movie that was recommended to me was The 40 Year Old Virgin. Thank the Lawd I listened! This movie was sooooo good that I bought it! And Kav-Boogie does not BUY DVDs often. Word to muthafuggin Limewire. But it was a special moment. The movie is HI-LAR-I-OUS!! AND long as fukk! Nothing pisses me off more than a movie that is funny as hell and like 82 minutes long — well, except musicals. 82 minutes??? That ain't a movie!........That's an afterschool special! That's one of them weird azz shyts that should only be show on TBS back when they used to start all their shows at 5 minutes after the hour! *how you gonna start a 30 minute show at 8:05? That's just dumb* No sir…. 40 y/o Virgin is like 2 and a half hours long. And the laughs just don't stop. Even its corny azz Hollywood-everybody-wins ending is funny. And the premise??? A 40 y/o Virgin?? Wow. Now, I will be the first to admit that if you made it to 25 and you are still a virgin, not only do I commend you, but I stand up and applaud you. That shyt is not an easy thing to do! Hell, I only made it 4 months into 14 before I was getting my swivel hips on!! So when I think about adding another 11 years???? Whew!! I would have the strongest right arm and the most Aloe-vera-vitamin-E-babysoft right hand known to man....LOL Fa real fa real… I couldn't do it. And what's more, I wouldn't WANT to. But for those that can make it to that age and a lil beyond and do so because of a conviction of only being with one person your whole life….. I really, really admire that. But 40?? FORTY????? Ummm…. if you are a virgin at 40… I will laugh at you, just like I laughed at this movie. If you are a virgin at 40, and your shyt actually works and isn't defective, then umm…. yeah, that shyt is funny… and weird. Which is why this movie is great!! Because it proves what I just said to be true!! And that's always a great thing. So, I didn't have shit else to talk about, and since Stacey was no help in supplying a topic (LOL), I wrote this post in like 17 minutes with 4 fingers — no, a nygga can't type…. typing class was like Home Ec… only heffas and gay nyggas took that shit in high school — and this is what came out. But even amongst this entry of free-flowing-just-start-typing-and-see-what-comes-out…. three things remain true: 1. Musicals suck more azz than Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather. And if you don't know who they are, please buy an In Living Color DVD and catch-da-fukk-up. 2. Pam from Martin could get it… in them little azz skirts and knee high boots. and 3. Watch/rent/buy 40 year old Virgin… it is worth it! And if you like my blog, then the language and humor won't offend you. LOL Plus 40 year virgins are great comedy. and that......my filthy little pidgeons....is.all.

Hmmmmmm....damn! I think…. hmm, then again maybe it wasn’t…. Weeelllll…. I don’t know. It coulda been…. hmmm…. I wanna say his name was George though…. yeah, I think it was. Yes! It was! It was George! That’s that muhfukkas name! George! Good ol’ George…. *sigh* Man… that dude provided many a laugh for the Black population at my suburban middle school with bussed-in lil nigglettes. It still amazes me that a bunch of 13 year olds could religiously crack on a peer who was bigger than all our lil azzes and get away with it daily. Oh but we did! But a lot of the shyt was either warranted or just playin’ the dozens with dude. Like dude used to just ASK to get cracked on… …. for example…. Ya’ll remember back in the 80’s when nyggas were cutting their hair all kinds of dayum ways?? Flat tops, Ronald Reagans, Pee-Wee Hermans, slants, 45 parts, and steps in the shyt??? Well, there was a period of time in my middle school when every dude wanted to get a Gumby. *if you don’t know what a Gumby haircut is or looks like…. please turn in your ghetto pass at the nearest post office or 7-11. And if you’ve already turned that in, then please contact Michael Jackson for instructions on turning in your melanin as well.* Well good ol’ George got a gumby. But like a lotta poor muhfukkas that age, he cut his hair himself.....And if you’ve ever cut your own hair, then you know that sometimes the shyt looks tight to you and looks tore-da-fukk-back to everyone else. *George proceeds to center stage* Example-fuggin-A. George rolled up to school one day bald-headed…. except for a block of hair…. yes, a block….. of hair…. approximately two inches in length by two inches in width centered on the SIDE of his head right around temple area. LOL This was his attempt at a Gumby. Now, if you know like I know, then a gumby haircut is supposed to look like … well…. like Gumby. With an y=x(squared) progression to it…. *ahem* and for you liberal arts muhfukkas, that basicallly means a sort of slope. But there are three basic elements to a Gumby…. low hair on one side… high hair on the other side…. and a gradual progression between the two. Dammit… it looks like Gumby. I can’t explain the shyt. Google a gumby image, or a Bobby Brown picture circa 1988, and help your brain out. Ok, so, George’s shyt?? His gumby was just gum-bad. Ya’ll remember Bert from Sesame Street? Well, take that little patch of hair shyt on Bert’s head, and stick it one the side of his head. That, dear readers, is what George had. A fukkin oasis of nappy patchiness on the side of a bald head. Pokey, maybe. Gumby, never. So we cracked on George all.day.long. It wasn’t mean… it was factual. And sometimes the truth hurts…. oh the life lessons we taught him that day! That was George… everyone’s friend yet the butt of everyone’s joke yet everyone still like him yet.... *is there a limit to how many yets one can say successively?* Yet … there was one rumor going around about George that I never believed. And, in fact, to this day, I don’t know if George ever knew that this particular rumor was being said about him behind his back. I’ll never forget the first time I heard it… it was something I couldn’t possibly even conceive. It was a rumor so vile to my virgin ears that I think my life changed upon being on the receiving end of the rumor’s utterance. After leaving a group of folks in the cafeteria, me and my boy left to go chill outside. As we were walking, this conversation took place: Me: Man, when you said George’s mamma had three arms and stirs Kool-Aid like this — *doing the Cabbage Patch* — I thought I was gonna pass out! Him: LOL! Yeah man…. but you heard about him, right? Me: Nah, whatchu mean? Him: You ain’t heard man??? Everybody knows… Me: Knows what??? Tell me!! Him: Man…. *sigh*…. George, man…. that nygga…. Me: What?? WHAT?!? Him: That nygga be fukkin COWS man…. fa real. At that moment, my life changed. I think I stopped in my tracks! My brain simply wasn’t fast enough to process everything I just heard AND continue to walk! Syntax error gahdammit…. you can’t run Windows XP on a Commodore 64! It took me a few moments to fully comprehend what I heard. I mean, at 13, I knew about sex. But the most I was trying to do was kiss with a little tongue in it and maybe get a hicky or two. So though I knew there was a extremely small portion of people at my middle school that actually went beyond the stinky finger, I never imagined that any of them were doing more than that, though somebody probably was. Additionally, I never even knew sex with anything other than your hand or another person was POSSIBLE. So to hear about THIS! SHOOK! SHAKEN, even!! Like a James Bond Martini! No… wait… he liked it stirred, right??? Well, fukk it… I was all of them shits…. STIRRED, SHAKEN, and SHOOK!! OMG! Sex with cows?? in fukkin New Jersey??? UGH!! Say it ain’t so Lawd! Say.it.ain’t.so! Of course, this is a running joke about West Virginia, Mississippi, Kentucky, Iowa hillbillies and those kinds of…. Uhhhh….. ok, this hasn’t happened before but ummm… I see one of the blog lurkers raising her hand…. Ummm…… yes? You in the back…. “Uhhh… so like, dayum Kavi… why you decide to write about this? What the hell they doing to you at CBU???” Well, I’ll tell ya. I was reading the news — online of course, it’s 2007, newspapers are only good for airplanes, crosswords, and sudoku puzzles, and the last two you can get online! — and I come across this story in the Yahoo Odd News section, which is non-stop good reading: Man Pleads No Contest to Cattle Relations NEILLSVILLE, Wis. Dec 23, 2006 — A 64-year-old man has pleaded no contest to charges in Clark County Circuit Court after telling police he regularly had been using calves for sexual gratification. Harold G. Hart was placed on two years probation Thursday and ordered to have psychological counseling and an alcohol and drug abuse assessment after pleading to charges of sexual gratification with an animal and disorderly conduct. According to the criminal complaint, the family living on the farm Hart visited, installed a motion sensor because they had seen suspicious footprints and vehicle tracks. When the sensor sounded, Hart was caught leaving the barn. He later told police the farm was a routine stop, usually after bar closing or on trips to strip clubs near Marshfield or Neillsville. Hart told police he had gone to the farm at least 50 times in the last year, sometimes two to four times in a week. I know, dude. I know. I mean, does not this shyt just make you wanna pray!!?? LOL About something… anything!! But I just feel like I need to walk with the Lawd after reading something so apalling as that! Hey man… I like beef. I’m all about getting my filet mignon on! I love me some burgers!! I can fuck wit a rib tip or two!!! Hell, I even eat raw beef in the form of Gored Gored from that Ethiopian spot on 18th St back in DC!! But umm… this dude…. who you just KNOW was white — do the math: Wisconsin, 64, stroking cows. Thank you. — takes fulla BULL to a whole new level!! I mean, I like ass too… (And Im talking in the most Hetero way possible....Nullus Elton John) but I’m talking about the human female body part! Not ass, the farm animal!! I even like doggy-style…. but not with no dayum doggies!!! Ewwww!!! BOVINE BOOTY!!! *faints* *somebody bring me one of those church fans with Martin Luther King, Jr. on the front and an ad for Ford Funeral Home on the back!!* *I can’t take it!* “C’mere Bessie, you big assed heffa you!! I see you lookin at me with those big ol’ eyes. Ol’ Hank is about to tenderize your sirloins! Oh yeah… that’s it… I know you like a little foreplay… why don’t you give me a little New York Strip tease….I know you like it when I pinch that udder…. yeah baby, that’s it… give Papa that non-pasteurized, non-homogenized calcium for my strong bone….. mmmm….. now this is what I call Grade A beef, and that’s no bull….. heh heh… get it?…. Ol’ Hank made a funny…. but enough of this jokin… Lemme give you some cud you can chew…. I got a cattle prod for that azz…. C’mere!” LOL… disgustingly sick AND hilariously funny all rolled in one!! I bet when he rolled up on the farm, after going to a “bar or a strip club” which is just an invaluable quote after reading that, the cows were all stampeding like hell to get away from ol’ Hank. Cows running all over the pasture like Ludacris: “Mmmmooooooooo Bytch… get out the way!!” Whew! Ok…. no more cow jokes. LOL On a serious note, I hope dude at least wore condoms and shit. Fukk around and catch that mad cow shyt! Hey man, they blamed AIDS on Africans fukkin monkeys (racial), I gotta believe herpes began from white folks fukkin farm animals! And really, dude should pray that ol’ Bessie doesn’t have any babies! Dayum baby come out lookin like Brandy!! Full Moooooooooon indeed! Or worse, coming out looking like an Iota…. a fukked up centaur an’ what not…. *let all the NPHC Greeks say, “Oooooo…. .that ain’t right!”* So thanks to good ol’ Harold G. Hart — the G stand for Guts Bovinus — I thought about George. I wonder where he is now…. what he’s doing… and if he ever found out that people called him the Pasture Pimp behind his back….. … or if he knew and just didn’t give a shyt. Life lessons indeed. *wasn’t that ending so mmooooooooving??? heh heh heh* I'm just sayin....

Konichiwah Muhfukkas! It's been a long time/ I shouldn't have left you/ Without a dope blog to step to!/ Damn!! That was kind of dope!! My freestyle is off the heezy-fa-sheezy!! As evidenced by my dope ass rhymes in the blogger freestyles across the 'net!! Ok, so that rhyme above wasn't a freestyle…. I bit like a bucktoothed billy goat, or a certain toupee wearing sportscaster for the NY Knicks with a penchant for roungh sex and womens underwear....or better yet.....a certain deceased funk musician who rocked the chrochet braids, kidnapped white chicks and called himself a super freak as you surely know, but the intro was so appropriate nonetheless. I gets my Rakim on Sooooo….. What the fuck has been up 'round this bitch??? DUDE!! I been waiting on Spring for soooo long!! memphis had a miserable two weeks of winter...LOL But the one thing i cant stand about Spring is when my allergies arrive. Even as I type this my eyes are puffy and red...and itchy and watery. I have awaken every morning for the past three days looking like a swarm of bees got medieval on my ass and my eylids stuck together. then as i sit in the CBU lab getting my blog on....I am constantly bombarded by good samaritans....If I get one more CBU sororstitute coming in my face asking me whats wrong....Im gonna start moving some furniture....do I look like an abused housewife bitch??? Im crying cuz Im happy to see your perky ass....begone!!! *poof* Anyways...because ive felt like shit lately....I haven't been able to get my regular bloggin and commentin on just yet..... And quite honestly, it'll probably be at least another week before I'm back to my regular antics. BUT Since I'm here now…. you KNOW I got some shit to talk about. There's just so many things!! Where do I begin?? Well, when all else fails, ya just do a damn list. Therefore, Niggas and Niggettes, Hot Hoe's and Not-so's… I present to you: The Kaviar D'edrick Del Juan Lewis List of Ten Things I've Opined On in the Last Week….. an' shit. 1. Country Apple Foam Soap. Ummm….. wow. My little 19 year old jump offs mom had this shit in the bathroom when I was smashing her daughter in her parents home around Thanksgiving. Dude. Like… dude. This shit is such the bomb shit. I am NOT the one for frilly-willy-nilly smell-goods, but this shit is on some next-level shit. And despite how much I used the word "shit" in the previous two sentences an' shit stuff, it doesn't smell like shit at all… unless of course roses really do smell like boo-boo, in which case "shit" may actually be the proper descriptive of the country apple foam soap since the opposite of what it really is denotes what it is perceived to be. Ya know… kinda like "not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good." I gets my Run-DMC peter piper on. Anyway, dude…the soap is the shit. It comes from Bed, Bath, and Beyond, a store in which no man should go into unless he is with a woman, buying an anniversary/birthday gift, or trying to impress some hoe coming over for the first time. Or gay, but that goes without saying…. though I just said it. The soap is a liquid, but when you pump the shit out, it's all foamy an' shit. And the smell?? Dear Lawd Lawd Lawd!! The smell!! Truly, "heaven is a place on earth." I gets my Belinda Carlisle on too. Man, after washing my hands, I would just…. linger…. in the bathroom and let the smell come over me. "Just like the Calgon commercial, I gotta get up outta here and go somewhere." I gets my Mariah Carey on too. So, dear friends, if you have never had the pleasure of experiencing the joy that is country apple foam soap from Bed, Bath, and Beyond, then I implore you to do so immediately. It will be a trip worth taking, trust me. 2. Am I old? Old people have the greatest wisdom, and proverbs to match. My great aunt, who will be 91 in March, was at my mom's folks' house for the holiday and she has turned into a proverbial trip — get it? old people. proverbs. proverbial. play on words. I rock. — in her old age. And though I am the nearing the end of my twenties and feeling old as hell, my auntie gave me the one indication on whether you're old or not. You're gonna want to read this… it's just…. brilliant. First, let me say that she precedes her nuggets of wisdom with the words, "As the old man say…" Nevermind that it ain't grammatically correct… please believe that what follows those words are the most insightful words you will hear…. either that or the nuttiest. But you get my drift With that said, prepare yourselves for the most profound shit you'll ever hear: Me: I'm getting old auntie… I'll be 30 soon! Auntie: Well, as the old man say, you ain't old if you can put on your draws without holdin' on. So, tell me old man, what you hold onto when you pull up your britches? *blank stare* Did this chick just ask me about my method of putting on underwear?? Ugh. Uncomfortable much? Of course, I sit down when I put my draws on…. ever since the great hop-hop-hop-bang incident of '95. You know when you're putting on your draws standing up without holding on to anything and your foot gets caught in the draws as you try to slide it through and you end up hop-hop-hoppin around until you bang up against some shit and fall with your ass out and draws around one thigh?? Yeah. You know alright. But after hearing grandma say this, I am happy to report that I tried it once again and I CAN put on my draws without holding on… thus, I'm not old just yet. But 30 is comin…. and doom surely approaches. 3. Sex Toy Parties I was asked last week, "why don't men have sex toy parties?" I mean, women sit around with boxes and boxes of toys and trade orgasmic stories of the utility or futility of various sex gadgets. "Girl, that butterfly ain't shit! Get yo' ass a rabbit!! Girl, you'll come in the door from work with presents for that damn rabbit!! Talkin' 'bout "What's up Doc??!!" It stay rabbit season 'round my crib!" But for a bunch of men to sit around and talk about rubber coochies or dick-numbing-spray is just….. say it with me now… GAY! I could not imagine saying some shit like, "Dog, lemme tell you…. you need to get you one of them plastic Debbie Dick Suck dolls!! And upgrade that shit to get the battery-powered UltraSuction Mouth Grip!! The lips be movin!! I said, the.lips.be.movin!!!" No thanks. I don't want to be at that party. Plus, men don't need toys….we can bust just as strong with our trusty hoe Rightina Handy. She hasn't failed my ass … ever. And the bitch is free, too. Why I need a party for that shit?? 4. Perfect Flushes Is there anything like it?? Maybe your team pulling out the upset win. Maybe a fresh pair of draws (drawers). A close second would be the perfect pump at the gas station when you pump gas like hell and stop on a dime right at $20.00…well, this is 2007…. more like $40.00…. or $600.00 if you drive a big ass Mandingo truck. But the perfect flush?? Nothing like it. Ladies, I'm not sure you can relate to this since you don't flush until you get up off the toilet. Unless of course, you like a little sprinkle on your undercarriage before getting up off the pot. But for dudes? The perfect flush is the epitome of toilet usage. You know, like when you tinkling — yeah I said it… tinkling — and then you flush the toilet before you finish…. YET…. just as the last bit of water flushes down the toilet, you get your last stream of piss in. Perfect timing… the most efficient pissing can get. Nothing like it. 5. Love Letters I am NOT a pack rat. In fact, I shake my head at those rats that, in fact, do pack… in fact. I gets Dr. Seuss on that ass too. But while preparing a bunch of shit to donate to charity that I'll never be caught dead wearing, or using (that was donatied to me after Hurricane Katrina), I had to clear out my trunk. Let me just say, I don't use my trunk for what trunk usage is supposed to be used for… I got used to not using it for its intended usage. I used it for purposes of long term usage as opposed to using it for regular shit its usage is normally used for… if, in fact, usage can be used for something. So… In my trunk I had a ton of shit and one of the shits was a bag of old letters and notes from as far back as 1989. YES!! 89! I never parted with these letters because I just love to go back and read them years after the fact to see what I was thinking during Jr. High, and what others were thinking of me. My ego is extensive, son. But I finally decided to get rid of them and not take them across state lines with me anymore. There is no longer any need for me to remember what Tomeka said to me in October of 1989 after lunch. There is no need to rehash the latest gossip that turned out not to be true in Tiffany's 1992 note to me in homeroom. There is no need to re-read the letter from that chick Monica who wrote me a letter giving me her phone #… and also gave me guidelines for its use to include, and I quote, "Don't call me everyday"; "When you call, you better have something to talk about"; and "Don't give my number to nobody." LOL In all, I must have shredded about 500 letters and notes. And believe it or not, I felt a little sense of closure from past relationships and friendships that simply died out. Of course, I kept a couple…. but that is another topic for another day. *Intermission* I know this shit is long, but it's probably the only entry you're getting for the rest of this week, (unless my eyeball stop itching so much) so I'm trying to make it worth your while…. or perhaps give you enough to read so you can break the shit up in parts and read two a day to keep your jones at bay. Yes, I'm all that and then some Skinny Black and Handsome Bust a nut inside your eye Just to show you where I cum from I gets my A Tribe Called Quest on too Shall we resume? Let's. Fucka 6 7. Oooowwoooowoooohhh Yes, ladies…. oooowwoooowoooohhh. In case you did not know, that is the sound you make when you make love. Ginuwine said so, and really, has he ever lied to us? Well, except for claiming that the mulatto heffa in his "In Those Jeans" video had a phat ass. Please. That hoe's ass was on the Pancake Express. But aside from that trangression, Ginuwine never steereth us wrong. So, as his new song says, ladies say oooowwoooowoooohhhh when they're making love. And dudes says mmm–oooo… but not as cow-like as the spelling may indicate. Surely my sarcasm has hit it's mark. And let me show you just why Ginuwine is, in fact, again wrong. He says girls say oooowwooowooohh when they make love. Now, this sounds eerily similar to Trey Songz hook on that Twista song. Because when Twista cuts her, she be like "ooohooowwwoowhoa" as sung by Mr. Songz. Hmmm…. so a woman and a sixteen year old male soprano sound the same when making love?? Or perhaps both Ginuwine and Trey just sound alike when imitating a woman making love…. perhaps the same woman since they sound so much alike…. and we know Ginuwine was stroking that Sole chick So, by extension, not only do we know how Sole sounds in bed… but we know Twista hit it too… and Trey Songz was in the closet listening. Basic logic… I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. The only possible error is if it wasn't Sole. Ya know, it might be Missy Elliot You know Ginuwine hit that........ Don't trip. "She's A Bitch" when she don't get her "Pony." I gets my Timbaland-produced-artists on too 8. Wifey-san Dude..... I have been back in MermphriKKKa for only a year and a few months now and everywhere I turn, some American has his arm around a slant-eyed woman or pushing a little Chow Mein Jr. in a stroller. I was in Cordova at this bar with the mother of this chick I tried to holla at once....turns out her mom wanted to holla at me instead...she was 41.....and much finer than he 25 year daughter who got kinda pissed when she found out I was kicking it with mom dukes. *it's not like it sounds....I met them both at separate instances....and had no idea that they knew one another let alone was mom and daughter....I had this occur with a set of sisters also (meeting one in Memphis and one in Nashville) but all of this is another story for a nother time...* Anyhoo.... The 41 year old chick is an athletic trainer.....meaning that she doesnt look 41.....hell I knew she was no older than 30....but anyway....there was this little viet-cong chinese chick (I call all Asians no matter what their form "Chinese") at the bar that tried to get at my date even though we were clearly together. *blank stare* Can you believe this shit!!!?? Clearly Im not threatened by some chick trying to holla at my girl...so I sat back in the cut trying to see what happened....well the chick I was with doesnt get down like that...and wasnt feeling the situation....so when she excused herself to go to the ladies room.....I called little Chung Lee over to the table....i was all smooth and shit saying....she (being 41) missed the generation that made it cool for girls to be bisexual....but I date a few other girls that would love to get their asian carpet munch on....**Note** Ive never dated a purely hetero chick in my life.....(I dont know if thats a good thing or a bad thing)... Well the Asian chick obviously wasnt feeling me....and tried to play me short.....so I was like okay you liitle rice planting muhfukka.....Ima show dat ass.... anyway....so i started coming to the bar twice a week for like a month with a different chick every time.....granted most of them were just platonic friends....but they were all dime pieces (meaning fine as hell for those of you that are tragically unhip)....anyway....so Im parading all of these beautiful chix in her face....and I would never acknowledge even knowing who she was.....and the few that I was actually dating....Id make sure she saw a little PDA here and there....and when i took a few of the chicks that I knew liked chicks Id point Chung Lee out and hip them to the background info.... anyway....this bar is a wild place....complete with DJ and drunk girls dancing suggestively....so the occasional girl on girl displays were not uncommon.... well the last time I went....I brought my baddest bisexual booty with me....I already had hipped her to the game I was playing....and like I said Chung Lee was a bad bitch....word to Trina in this muhfukka..... anyway....she played her part right and teased, flirted, and seduced the chick all night long....then we both left right when she was about to get off work.... just left her ass hanging without nary a word.... Well...and I know this story is long....but bear with me..... Chick did a myspace search or found me on someone elses page...I throw a lot of parties and I play in a band....so Im not hard to find....I know everyone in the party scene pretty much....and started E stalking my myspace....LOL now she is all....how are you?....I havent seen you in a while.....how is your girl...blah blah blah.....LOL......im like that wasnt my girl...just a friend.....like I tried to make you....but you played me....she was all apologetic and we need to hang out...all of us...blah blah blah....LOL *funny how the tables turn*....so now its my turn to play hard to get....did I mention....Im pretty popular in the bars and night clubs here? So when ever she saw me at her bar....everyone would stop by the table to speak....or give me kisses on the cheek or hugs or whatever....the DJ would always shout me out over the mic and what not..... long story short....Asian chick and I start talking....emailing...conversing by telephone....or whatever....and she asks me to come out with her for lunch one day....so we could talk...hang out and get to know one another..... soI meet her at the food court in Wolfchase Mall out in Bartlett....and Im amazed at all of the mixed couples...a lot of them black and white dudes with asian counterparts... Apparently Chinese ass is pervasive. Either that or the ass is overstocked and niggas are buying pussy by the pound 'round here. All I know is if you can't pull women at home, please don't think you have finally arrived because some fine ass Asian chick is suddenly givin your ugly ass some ass. I'm not saying you shouldn't enjoy it… just be real. Because, yo' ass gotta go home. Home meaning back to your city, town, hood, burb, block or whatever you claim.... And everyone is gonna know that the free medical, discounted shopping, and tax breaks are what brought Lucy Lu to your family reunion, and not your personality.... *I told yall all that story......to basically say nothing at all* and yall read all of that shit....hahahahah.....I love being me sometimes...... 9. Blog Thieves If shit can be bitten, niggas will bite it. My boy Panama already did a superb job of roasting the lastest Negro in the find-a-blog-steal-a-blog sweepstakes, so I won't touch that. But let me just ask, why steal MY shit?? I mean, steal Panama's shit…. dude is funny as hell to muhfuckas who read and beyond. Steal Kajuana's shit…. it's not only insightful, but has entertaining one-liners here and there. Steal Leon's shit…. Steal X's shit, girl gots mad skillz (that's for the NY in you)…. but damn dude… leave my shit alone. It's just not worth the Ctrl+C...... Why?....... I'll tell you why. If Sean Connery told a Bernie Mac joke, would you laugh? Fuck no. .....It just don't sound right. And you know what? I'm no Bernie Mac! All the bloggers above are worth the steal and ensuing headaches and lawsuits and statcounter hits. But Kaviar??…. you're wasting your time taking my shit. Do you know how long it took for me to be able to say hoe, heffa, dizzle, and pussyage and have people actually tolerate it day in and out??? I am the crazy cousin in the attic who you keep your friends with phat asses away from!! Don't bite me! Dude, it just doesn't go over well.......You hurt yourself. All I'm sayin is Kav-Boogie is not the blogger you should aspire to be like. So take your right-clickin elsewhere. Ok? Thanks. Nah, lemme stop… I'm the shit! I'm a fuckin Gemini…. whatchu expect?? "Prince Oochie… it's all about mmmeeeeeeeee!!" I gets my Martin Payne on too 10. Customer Service I have traveled the world.... Arabs know customer service. Japanese know customer service. Singapore. Hong Kongians, or whatever the fuck they're called. Koreans. Even housekeeping Hispanics. They all have good ass customer service. But niggas?.......sUCK.......With a capital -UCK Dude, I called United Airlines to see if I could bump up the longest leg of my flight home to Jersey to business class. I was willing to pay out of pocket… I wasn't looking for a favor or a hook up or none of that shit. Just tell me the cost, and let's be done with it. And who do I get on the damn line?? Fuckin Fablalexuseesha. Bitch answered the phone with an attitude!! I'm trying to give your company some money, and you making me jump through hoops like an African rhesus monkey or a I-bite-gay-crackas white tiger 'cause your baby daddy didn't bring no diapers over last week?!?!? So, with this latest experience, I am convinced that niggas do not need to be in customer service jobs. Black folks? Sure. Niggas? Fuck no. I know companies have quotas. I know affirmative action is in effect to some extent. But why they gotta hire niggas??? I mean, there are enough unemployed Black folks to benefit from the accomplishments of our people in the past… why you gotta reward niggas with the spoils of war that Black folks attained?? Now don't get me wrong… niggas do serve a purpose. I mean, it was niggas who started slave rebellions and the riots of LA and Detroit amongst other places. We needed them shits… sometimes white folks don't understand civilized approaches, so you have to let the nigga out. But damn…. don't give them customer service jobs!! Don't let them interact with the general populace when your aim is to make a buck! Let them muhfuckas do construction or play football or rap or some shit. Don't put them on the phone with me when I'm tryin to get my customer-servee on!! Please… Corporate America… hire Black folks… leave the niggas to the evening news. I'm just sayin… I gets my Kaviar on too. Domi Arragato Mr. Roboto an shyt!

I’ve been TRYIN’ to get pictures of stuff here in MemphriKKKa that may amuse you, but to no avail. I still haven’t found my way back to the Hoe Hostel that I wrote about a couple entries ago, so no pics of that. I still haven’t been to a strip club, other than platinum that was raided by the feds a few months ago....alas, no pictures of that either. I have seen quite a few Chinese thugs that I could joke on endlessly, but I’ve only seen them while they were driving and never had the chance to snap a pic of them lest I distract them causing them to crash their shyt all up on somebody’s rear bumper. I luh ya’ll, but I ain’t finna pay no Geico ’round this bytch, so “uh-uh… that’s out.” But I have seen some of the funniest bullshyt since Ive been in this black hole of a city, so I shall share these instances with you now. And don’t bytch. Everytime you bytch, cats die and rainbows bleed. Is that how you want the world to remember you? I didn’t think so. So, without further ado, here are bustah azz commentaries and their accompanying explanations. 1. Chinese Thugs!! I attend Christian Brothers University for a few graduate classes. It is a small catholic liberal arts college in the heart of midtown . The students here, (besides my black ass) are one of two things. Smart or Rich -- maybe both. but the funniest shit are the Chinese thugs that drive the souped up fast and furious cars that are probably here on engineering scholarships. You see thes kids in droves at Senses on fridays and Saturdays and they look like if you cross them they will bring the wrath of Jackie Chan on that ass..... Well this is the shit that bothers me..... I have been seeing an inordinate amount of Japs riding around with some dayum Jamaican Flags hanging from their rear view mirrors. These muhfukkas know that they don’t eat no dayum ox tails, curry goat, or fried plaintains! They ain’t nanbitta* dreads! *nanbitta: country azz Negro speak for “not one bit of.” The ensuing noun may be singular or plural, which one is totally dependent on which is most grammatically incorrect. Tabs, bytches. Add that shyt in. The Japs — is that offensive?? — don’t have nanbitta clue about Jamaica. So you own some Bob Marley records? Big dayum deal. So you like to smoke the ganja? Whoopty-friggin-doo. So you like your men blacker than the kneecaps, elbows, and azzhole of Flava Flav? Whatcha want… a cookie? None of that shyt makes you Jamaican. Not even a Jamaican sympathizer. What you are, my dear duck-sauced friends, are copycats. Just because you try to put nygga spins on all your traditional things — like eating catfish sushi with some Texas Pete or makin red beans and shrimp fried rice — er, excuse me… “shimp flied lice” — or mixin your green tea with grape kool-aid tryin to make that purple-purple-purple-and-swallow-it-down-with-the-yurple-ya-yurple-ya-yurple. Stay fly, Daniel-san. Just stop perpetratin’ the fraud! But I know you shan’t. And so I shan’t stop pickin on that ass! Quietly of course lest I get a fu manch chop to the larynx.... 2. The Pissing Game One of the many joys of being a man is being able to piss just about any-fukkin-where. Friends, believe me when I tell you that I have pissed in many an inconvenient place…. places that would have been exponentially more inconvenient if I had to get my squat on. And one of the joys of having this accomodating piss mechanism is being able to play a game with the shyt every so often. Fun games. Games that include writing your name in the snow… or seeing how far you can stand back from the toilet without splattering the floor… or seeing if you can coat the entire urinal with your warm, golden liquid waste…. or seeing how big an arc you can get in your stream… the games are endless. Now this is not to be confused with pissing contests that may occur in and around your place of business, residence, or leisure between men of various ages and varying levels of sobriety. Those usually have nothing to do with piss, and everything to do with machismo. With that distincion delineated, let’s return to the topic at hand. The glorious games of pissing. It should be an olympic sport! If they can give out gold medals for synchronized swimming, then they should certainly give out gold medals for golden showers. I’m just sayin… And ladies, whether you know it or not, your daddy, brother, cousin, uncles, and yes, even your wonderful significant other plays games with his piss. It’s part of the package! It comes with the instruction manual and packaging of the member. He may never admit it, but take it from someone who’s had one his whole life — the game is inevitable. Don’t hate the playa… hate the game. Here in MemphriKKKa, they have added a new dimension to the game!! Unlike the bars in NYC, which have a mechanized, self-sanitizing, rotating toilet seat to add hours of fun to pissing games, This one restaraunt in East Memphis puts ice in the urinal. Ice. Ice? Yes, ice. Nothing like warming up some ice before dinner. WARM IT UP KRISS! I’m about to. And tell me, what do you think happens when piss at approximately 98.6 degrees Farenheit hits ice at about 25 degrees Farenheit?? That’s right you Physics genius you! It melts! Oh the hours of fun to be had pissing on ice trying to carve shapes, numbers, and letters into a pound of frozen water! I’m happy to report that I didn’t just make a circle, I made a sphere! I gets my 3-D on. I’m now available to do ice carvings for weddings and cruiseliners. Unfortunately, I have nothing but before pics of this so you only get to see what I was up against......and I know you’re just itchin to see the after-piss picture, but maybe next time. Please believe it was a flawless victory. Kav 1, Ice 0. And not only do they supply you with ice to piss on, but in case you are feeling a little frisky in the middle of your meal, they also provide fodder for your skeet-skeetin. Right above the urinal, there was a picture of an exotic buck-boongy-nekkid chick with a dayum lei on her head and a grass skirt. So after you finishing warming up that ice…. you can get your skeet on to some pineapple azz broad. And what do you think happens when you skeet onto ice?? *Looks at all the ladies raising an eyebrow in anticipation of the answer* Hell if I know. LOL But I suppose that the skeet takes on a gel-like quality. Only in Memphis can you go to the bathroom and get your coagulated skeet on. Dr Scholl ain’t got shyt on this. Are YOU gellin?? She may not have been BET-video-hoe material, but she did have a pretty set of two big breassesses. 3. Thugged Out “So Kav, you always tellin us about these Japanese thugs! We STILL haven’t seen pics, so that shyt is suspect. But if there really ARE Japanese thugs, then where do they their gear??? I mean, you can’t be thugged out in a dayum kimono!” What an insightful question! I’m so glad you asked! Because I took pictures of the places that sell such clothes. While out having lunch one day, I decided to snap a couple pics of the hip hop gear places. This was in the area called Orange Mound which sits smack dab between the affluent White section called midtown and the mostly college student and senior citizen area of town called Highland heights near the University of Memphis... you may hear about this area of town in any 8 Ball and MJG record. There are hip hop clothing stores, pawn shops, check cashing stores, hole in the wall clubs, and several corner stores. The only thing missing was some drug dealers, beer cans and cigarette butts littered about, and some livin-with-their-grandma nyggas standing on the corner givin you that “who da fukk is you?” look. Im sure they existed, but it was daylight hours so Im sure they were sleeping after a long night of Trapping....word to young jeezy. Well, I was on the corner. And I am a nygga. But I was drinking a sunny delight and eating a Teriyaki chicken sandwich. That hardly qualifies me as the block bully. Especially since I was on the bougie side of the street with boutiques, delis, and bakeries. And do you know that not only did the places sell hip hop clothing, but they also played hip hop music. On some house speakers. That sat OUTSIDE the store. So — and this is no bullshyt — as I sat and ate my food, I could hear DMX, Ludacris, and Amerie blasting from various stores all vying for the attention of Japanese thugs that for some reason live in the area andall of the young Negros from the nearby Melrose high School. Let me just tell you that it’s quite a weird feeling to be sitting in the Mound in the middle of a dayum work day and hear “What These Bytches Want From a Nygga” on volume 10 from a store entitled PLAYAZ across the street....not ot mention I was raised in the Projects by who else....Project Pat of Academy Award Winning 3-6 Mafia fame.... These folks are makin a chunk of change off of clothing that folks in US and mexican sweat shops made popular, and we ain’t gettin nanbitta cut of the profit! I say we boycott and ban these shyts until they start a dayum trust fund for the American Negro. And the boycott can begin in March.... meaning today. I still have some shopping I need to do there. I picked up a bangin azz Sean John sweatsuit from there, and I wanna go back and get some more shyt before Sharpton an’ nem show up. I luh me some Nike-san. LOL! Doesn’t that sound sooo nasty??!! And that’ll do it for this first installation of camera phone pics. I promise to step my game up in the coming weeks. After all, I’m going to Collierville for two hours next week, and that should provide ample opportunity for some more shyt to joke on! This mofo shall document.