Will I Buy The New Chris Brown x Tyga Album?


Image courtesy of Spotify

They may as well given the album an alternate title:


White History Month Food!


Image courtesy of theroot.com/Twitter

Whenever a racist complains that there’s no White History Month, usually around February for some unexplained reason (Black History Month coincidentally happens in February), several things come to mind: the fact that white history is literally every day in America; that the same person uses the same faulty questioning as to why there’s no White Entertainment Television (not true; have you watched Fox News?); and that misguided logic leads to stuff pictured above.

True, it probably wasn’t a hillbilly racist that concocts Black History Month menus or “doesn’t know” the meaning the word “jigaboo,” but the lack of knowledge, combined with the brazen ignorance of an asshole, leads to such examples of racial embarrassment.

And I’m here to join in.

Hey, if we’re POST-RACIAL, that means that a black person can make off-kilter assumptions about what white people eat. Hell, people mistake me for a gun-toting, violent thug, so why can’t I dare dream up scenarios where gullets are pumped full of stuff that I can only believe is food? In fact, here’s my theoretical menu for White History Month, which takes place January 1 – December 31:

  • Green bean casserole
  • Kale with nothing to disguise how terrible kale tastes
  • A tall glass of milk
  • Mayonnaise
  • Dog slobber
  • Bottomless mimosas
  • Brussell sprouts
  • Lavender
  • Something ethnic that was popular 10 years ago
  • A mug of sriracha (see above)
  • Anything worth standing in line for
  • Stuffing made with white bread
  • White bread — the least nutritious, fragile of breads
  • Water (to dip white bread in)

Am I missing anything? Add to the list in the comments below! We’ll get White History Month right, dang nabbit!

16 Titles for Alvin and the Chipmunks Sequels

chipmunks tony hale

Image courtesy of The AV Club

With the baffling news recently that a new “Alvin and the Chipmunks” movie, “Alvin and the Chipmunks: Road Chip”, the pun-tastic film series managed to outdo itself in the most baffling, lazy way possible. (“Road Chip”? C’mon.)  It’s hard to top subtitles like “The Squeakquel” and “Chipwrecked” in sheer carelessness, but I expected more. I EXPECTED MORE!

So because everyone on the internet has an opinion and voice, I thought I would do pro bono work for 20th Century Fox and give them more subtitle options for the inevitable (direct-to-video?) squeakquels:

  • Chippentales
  • Straight Outta Chipton
  • Squeaknik in Hot-lanta
  • Pirates of the Chippibean
  • Men’s Rights Act-chip-vists
  • Squeak It Off
  • Brick Chiphouse
  • Chipfaced
  • Fifty Chips of Grey
  • Chipped in the A
  • Chiplash
  • Chippy Crush Saga
  • Chippa Please!
  • American Snipmunk
  • The Munk, the Munk, the Whole Munk, Nothin’ but the Munk
  • Dave Seville’s Adult-Time Touch Dungeon


An Ode to Shitcan, My Car

Jan. 23 was the 12th birthday of my car, a 2003 Volkswagen Golf affectionately nicknamed Shitcan.


Life was very different when Shitcan came into my life. She was the third car I had owned in five years — the first being a 1986 Ford Tempo purchased from a family friend — and the first new car I purchased.

I bought Shitcan — with my mom as my co-signer — on Jan. 23, 2003. I was fresh out of college (well, eight months out), working a part-time job at the local library and living at home. I settled on who would come to be known as Shitcan after an exhaustive search — which included sporty wagons (Mazda Protege 5), mediocre sedans (Hyundai Elantra) and a car that had a smoking engine during the test drive (Mercury Cougar) — that was a comprehensive mixture of sporty-like handling, a tight turning radius, hauling versatility, and a relatively cheap price.

Going in, I knew that fuel economy and overall reliability were not in the car’s favor, but dammit, I could afford it. Also, I let my brother have my previous car, a 12-year-old Chevrolet Cavalier (that replaced my Tempo in 1998) that had a smoking engine two years prior. (There are some trends here.)

My resolve was almost immediately tested when I got my first full-time job a little over a month later: scraping the bottom of my car over a curb on the way to work to a blood-curdling sound, I panicked when I heard the cost of the repair bill — something that I relayed to my mom by payphone. The nickname Shitcan was born that day.

It was never love at first sight with Shitcan. Before the test drive, the dealer had to jump-start the battery, as the Midwestern winter had culled the long-idled car. (The dealer took delivery of Shitcan on Oct. 8, 2012.) Even after the test drive, the salesman tried to tempt us with a slightly pricier, used four-door Golf with a moonroof (zounds!) before I cut through the bull and signed the dotted line. That higher-optioned Golf wasn’t the only temptress for my car heart; if I had the means (money), I would have bought a Mazda6 sedan, the mix of athletic looks, handling, and enthusiast cache that I longed for — the spiritual successor to my first real car love, the 1993 Ford Probe (also Mazda-based).

And the Mazda6 called me back time after time, most memorably on a rain-soaked night within the first few months of owning Shitcan. Pacing back and forth in my mom’s den, I thought out loud about trading the Golf — and taking the depreciation hit, which I didn’t think about at the time — for what I REALLY wanted. But I’m lucky that common sense got through to me, as my emotional state would have led to a decision in the vein of my father, who had traded in a two-year-old SUV for the newest model despite not having any issues. I didn’t want to be my father, and the panic subsided.

Shitcan would become a valuable ally from that point on, carrying the load for when I moved out of my mom’s house and into my first condo, hauling furniture and a counter-top (with my brother tightly holding on each time), and carrying my life when I moved onto the next stage of my life in Arizona. Shitcan was there when I needed her most.

But I lamented the expensive upkeep and repairs, which came on stronger and with more tenacity. I hated having my car go into limp mode on a major highway, cursed when the car would jerk into another gear, and sighed when the car would suddenly and briefly lose power above 60 miles-per-hour. Constant fuel leaks, a broken airbag, and belts and hoses and fuel pumps and filters and all the parts that added up to sums of money I hated forking over. Oh, and I can’t forget the black sludge from the door sills that oozed out every hot summer, coating the bottom of the car and my pants in an oily mess.

There was a brief period when the nickname Shitcan was sidelined. When I dated my now-ex, she suggested a new name for the car: “Black Beauty.” It was sweet, adorable and good-natured — all things I attributed to the woman who stole my heart. But I couldn’t commit to the new name; I knew Shitcan better than my lady did. And when the relationship ended, so did the lip service to Black Beauty. Like the relationship, I had my regrets of how things occurred with Shitcan and the flirtation with the Mazda6; I finally got extended time with the 6 as a rental, and it was out of my league — big turning radius, slightly too large for city parking. It wouldn’t have worked, but I could love it from afar.

Despite the whining and the troubles with the car, the dings and missing hubcaps, Shitcan took on more than 125,000 miles before she would take her last big road trip: assisting with the uprooting of my life once more, this time to San Francisco. But her life was on borrowed time; a month before the move, a dealer tuneup revealed a whopping $2,100 in needed repairs. Knowing that my car’s value was less than that, I had vowed months before to not exceed the car’s value in upkeep for a calendar year. And so, car loaded to the gills, I tested fate with a 12-hour, 800-mile journey. And once more, Shitcan shined.

When I arrived in the city, I gave Shitcan the semi-retirement she needed, as public transit and working primarily from home relieved her of daily commuting duties. Driving Shitcan on weekends and occasional trips is a more joyful experience, knowing that her presence alone is a luxury (keeping a car in the city, with parking permits and high insurance costs, is a challenge in itself). And when Jan. 23 approached, I knew I had to treat her right; a few days later, I got her washed — the first time since the previous dealer visit — in what would be a half-assed attempt by the nearby gas station. Seeing the remaining dirt amused me; even when I wanted to do right by her, Shitcan managed to get dinged in some sort of way.

But it was the thought that counted, and my 12 years with Shitcan have been a testament to taking care of something that would be pivotal in my life. Lots of thoughts guided her travels as well as her place in my trajectory. And knowing that her time with me is coming to a close, I am treasuring every day with her. When she is inevitably towed away to car heaven (the scrapyard), probably this year, as my cars last about 12 years, I will mourn the loss but be grateful for the years I had with her. And that is something you can only get with something you love — terrible nickname and all.

My Inspirational Picture of False Platitudes

Go to any store that sells art prints — framed or otherwise — and you’re likely to see one with broad phrases that may seem to apply to your daily life. These empty, soulless platitudes are as bland as the oatmeal likely sold a few aisles down.

art print target

Seen at Target and never forgotten

And that shit sells for money — $33.24 at Target!

My friend Jessica challenged me to make one of these vague things that assholes buy. So I thought to myself, “Can I make one of these shitty pictures and get that sweet, sweet dumb people cash?” And I realized, “Oh, I CAN MAKE THESE SHITTY PICTURES AND GET THAT SWEET, SWEET DUMB PEOPLE CASH!”

Here goes!

inspirational picture

Is that the sound of dump trucks backing up to my apartment with enough money to make Scrooge McDuck jealous? Yes. Yes it is.

Who’s Going to Win the Super Bowling Game?


Other Words Used in the 2015 State of the Union Speech For the First Time


Image courtesy of ibtimes.com

  • Turnt
  • Fax machines
  • SMH
  • Snapchat
  • Self-tanning lotion
  • “John Boehner loves self-tanning lotion”
  • The LEGO Movie
  • Wrassle
  • Bae
  • “Close your eyes (and count to fuck)”
  • Thirsty
  • Black card
  • Azaelia Banks
  • Dick cheese
  • “Cliff Huxtable was the ideal of black fatherhood for millions of Americans. But Bill Cosby, the man, if his actions are indeed proven true, is a despicable, disgusting human being. Runteldat.”
  • The struggle

Spring Trend: All Whites

all white

Isn’t that the trend EVERY season?

BOOM! Commentary!


nelson ha ha

Image courtesy of Returnofkings.com

Facebook is a good way of learning the activities (probably mundane) of high school and college classmates. It’s also an effective delivery method of bad news.

While perusing the social media site recently, I learned that a classmate passed away. This was no mere classmate, though: he was someone that tormented me during my freshman year of high school. Here’s what I wrote about my experience:

Freshman year of high school, when two seniors befriended me in a year-long prank–including one of them stabbing my hand with an X-Acto knife in art class?

What I didn’t mention was how the same guy involved a girl he and his cohort were friends with to flirt with me, or that the pair peeled away in their car while laughing after offering me a ride home. So I was not a fan of theirs upon their graduation.

When I read the Facebook post and learned who it was, I was conflicted. On one hand, it is terrible when someone dies at a young age; so much life that could have been lived wasted away. Loved ones that suffered a loss and now had a sizable void in their life, as their friend and family member is no longer alive.

On the other, more bitter hand, I thought, “Good. FUCK him.”

If you couldn’t tell, I didn’t enjoy my freshman year of high school very much. He and his friend not only took away my trust in people, they cemented my suspicion of peers of my own race — which started late in grade school as kids moving from Chicago encountered a lifelong suburban black kid — and how they would ostracize me. That was this dead classmate’s legacy.

It wasn’t until my senior year where I felt some sort of happiness in my classes, as I had found a trustworthy group of friends (two of which are good friends to this day) and a creative outlet as an editor for the school newspaper. But there were lingering senses of anger, paranoia and fear due to bullying from a former friend — also mentioned in the link above:

A former high school friend, after my obsessive efforts to rekindle our friendship, sending his goons to my door to emotionally frighten me? (Mission accomplished!)

One of those goons was on the high school newspaper, and his presence made me uncomfortable to the point of sabotaging my position and being kicked out of my post. Again, another person that I do not miss and would feel similar conflict if I were to learn of his passing.

Ruminating on my bully’s death made me think of the lasting effects of harassment. Long after those supposed “greatest days of your life” (according to 4 out of 5 former popular kids), I still think about those experiences that, for better or worse, contributed to my distrust of people. For the antagonist, it was another work day at being a dick; for the tormented, it was a grab bag of terrible outcomes to attending another day of school.

Pondering the classmate’s passing also helped me to evaluate my current position in life. Despite that loss in confidence, the increase in anxiety, and a wariness of befriending people, I

  • Found my passions
  • Made friends that I could confide in
  • Graduated from high school, college and grad school (the latter with a 4,0 GPA)
  • Found jobs in my career path
  • Moved to two great cities
  • Found love in a hopeless place (sorry, Rihanna)
  • Traveled overseas
  • Am living better than I could have imagined

And perhaps that can be the dead classmate’s new legacy. In spite of his (and his crony’s) efforts to belittle and degrade me, I picked myself up, stared them in the face, and walked away to greater things. And sure, I can mentally offer condolences for the taking of one’s life, as that would be the mature, bigger-man act. But as I look forward to what comes next in life, having lived a fulfilling existence, I don’t have to nor need to.

That’s my legacy.

Why is “Pitbull” Following Me?

pitbull fake twitter

   Image courtesy of Twitter

Especially since I expressed my love for this GIF:

pitbull tripping

Image courtesy of Gawker

The “Pitbull” bots need better sarcasm tracking.

(This is also a not-so-subtle way of promoting my Twitter page, located at https://twitter.com/trecoolx.)


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