Tag Archives: americans

Stupid MSN News for 2012 (SO FAR)

With news coming out today that Microsoft and NBC News are dissolving the 16-year relationship that brought the world the MSNBC cable television network and MSNBC.com, I was reminded of the fact that NBC provided many of the news articles that I’ve mocked over the years on this here blog. I’ve had fun making light of the vague phrases and poor grammar exhibited on their news sites, but like Windows Vista, the end of an era doesn’t mean that you can’t pretend that the once-mighty reign isn’t over.

While NBC will still provide stupid articles with stupid headlines to Microsoft site for a bit longer, I thought it would be fitting to look back on some of the more insipid links of this year that MSN wanted dumb-ass readers to click. Here we go!

Microsoft was preying upon middle Americans that hate welfare, fatties and themselves. And they succeeded.

That “product ingredient”? That kind bud, dawg! (You holdin’?)

Maybe she was “in tears” because the media has been circling her and Katie Holmes like assholes at a Daniel Tosh show.

Who knew that the world wide web gained sentience AND snark powers?

That’s a HELLA lot of weed, bro. (You holdin’?)

That is one life-like bottle!

“This ‘winner’ was called such in quotations because I bullied her in high school” – article writer

SOMEONE’S getting a booty call!

“You’re DEAD, brain! DEAD! Now FUCK OFF!”

I dunno. Can he throw a baseball? Can he mask his steroid use and blow his money right after retirement? Looks like a big-leaguer to me!

I mean they REALLY blow it, dude. They fucked that shit UP. And me and Duff laughed our ASSES off, bro.

His hair is so odd, it’s not even there!


I have enough material for several more blog posts, so look forward(?) to future threats being realized!

A Good Motto to Live By

People are spoiled. Many Americans live without the threat of hunger, violent weather conditions and willingly listening to Nickelback. So why are people so assholey? Seriously. Listen in on conversations in public and be depressed about the future. And that’s without the anonymity of the internet. (Read Twitter’s Trending Topics sometime and try NOT to mix yourself a rum-and-Vicodin daiquiri.)

So here’s my solution, a motto that I try to live by–and others should, too:

Simple, innit? Here are some examples for putting this into practice:

  • When gossiping in public, wait until someone is out of earshot before talking crap about them and revealing your own insecurities in the process
  • If you feel the urge to hit someone, don’t; that person’s existence is probably more painful emotionally than any physical damage can do
  • If you want to steal a parking spot from someone else, back off; the few seconds of naughty pleasure is not worth possibly being knifed like so many at Arizona Mills mall*
  • If you plan to steal someone’s boyfriend/girlfriend, well, just wait until the shoe’s on the other foot
This “Don’t Be a Dick” idea could be revolutionary if implemented correctly. Imagine a world where one can stride confidently down the street without fear of being called a “fatty-fat-fat-fat”! Or an unenlightened person not offending someone with their very-detailed beliefs about the sexual habits of “the gays”! Or anything from the mouths of Larry the Cable Guy fans! My god, it could be a utopia!
Drink it in, folks. Wave of the future and all that! In other words, don’t model your life after a YouTube video’s comment section.
* City of Tempe crime statistics may or may not validate this made-up claim.

30 No-Nos After 30

Hitting 30 years of age used to be a grave marking, considering that the average lifespan of humans back in the BJ (Before Jesus) days was roughly that amount. Of course, their life force was being sucked dry by running from dinosaurs and dealing with nagging cavewomen — AMIRITE, GUYS? — so hitting 30 was like cheating Death at a game of Halo or something just as ridiculous.

Now that the average American’s life expectancy is 78 years — I count Wikipedia as a wholly relevant information source, EDUCATION SYSTEM — and rising/falling, considering 30 to be over the hill is now as silly and pointless as E! network’s Golden Globes coverage. It is considered an American tragedy if someone dies before 30 – like 9/11 or the fatal Charlie Sheen hotel party you know is coming.

That said, while your youth-chasing aunt might overuse quips like “40 is the new 30!” or “[blank] is the new [blank],” you are still a grown-ass adult. There is a strange gap of time that some people in their 20s and 30s inhabit – not a girl, not yet a woman. While some occupy their time with continual love-cave exploration, kickball games and growing molestaches (HIPSTERS), others are pushing for careers and dealing with offspring from their failed 16 and Pregnant bids.


Essentially, I’m saying people disguised as adults do some stupid things. Therefore, Genial Black Man is here with a list of things not to do once you hit your 30th year on this here Earth. Some of these apply to guys, others apply to women, and a select few apply to a third, genderless minority. And if you see your friend’s mom wearing UGGs, you have permission to tap her head with a printout of said list.

30 No-Nos After 30

  • Do not wear a backwards baseball cap unless you are imitating ’70s era Carlton Fisk or have earned license to wear it ironically. Even fratboys tilt their hats to the side nowadays.
  • No more eating cake frosting out of the can. You’re 30; it’s time to start making it from scratch.
  • Stop hanging truck nuts from your car. No one believes that you actually have balls.
  • Leave the pink cellphones and other rose-hued items to your daughters. Look at Jessica Simpson: she’s a sad sight.

    Nick Lachey: "Do you SEE this shit?"

  • Leave the overly baggy t-shirts and pants to the kids. Hell, don’t even encourage THEM to do it.
  • Wine coolers are no longer okay to drink. Graduate to bourbon like an adult.
  • Stop having pictures of you and your pets in dating profile pictures. People think you’re dressing them as babies and cradling them while you cry yourself to sleep.
  • Socks and sandals are not okay at any age. I don’t know why. They just aren’t.
  • Showing your washboard stomach in pictures is not awesome. You look like you have nothing interesting to say.
  • Posing for pictures with pouty lips is not hot. You’re stretching your frown lines.

I do believe that this woman is mentally ill.

  • Pie and cake are equally delicious. Arguing about it is pointless: THEY’RE BOTH SUGAR AND BREAD.
  • It is now even sillier to identify yourself as a geek or a nerd. Let the high school jocks reassert their taste-maker role.
  • Playing kids’ schoolyard games makes you look immature and possibly crazy. Unless you’re being paid millions of dollars. Then have it.
  • Being a Twilight mom/dad(?) is creepy and should be illegal.
  • Despite the marketing, Tommy Bahama clothing is not okay at any age. Wear some Banana Republic clothing to the Jimmy Buffet concert.
  • Put away the coonskin cap, crown hat or other winter-type hat that you’re wearing ironically. You’re wearing the late aughties trucker hat.
  • Stop reading US Weekly magazine. Those celebrities are paying millions for surgery to not be like you.
  • Insane Clown Posse concerts are now a sadder place to be. There are Craigslist postings to seek out similar misogynistic, racist and homoerotic thrills.

Time to wipe off the face paint and find a Tea Party gathering.

  • Your body can no longer handle eating an entire cake in one sitting. That’s what refrigerators and saran wrap are for.
  • Unless you on a professional sports team roster or attending a game, wearing a team jersey in public is sad. It’s like wearing a velvet clown portrait on your body.
  • Using acronyms in everyday situations is immature and lazy. If not getting a parking spot makes you say FML, exchange yourself with someone from a third-world country. Don’t say LOL. LAUGH LIKE YOU MEAN IT.
  • If you remember when you wore jelly shoes and leggings when they first came out, don’t wear UGGs. You can’t get your youth back, MILF wannabes. (BTW, jelly shoes: the Crocs of the ’80s — except less comfy. Ladies?)
  • Having a mattress on the floor, though comfortable, screams house-squatter. Elevate your sleep game and buy a bed frame.
  • Wearing bling is best left to rappers, athletes and others without fiscal responsibility. Kanye can pay to remove his diamond teeth; it might bankrupt you.
  • Ed Hardy-branded anything should never be worn or bought. Failure to comply will warrant a “DOUCHEBAG” stamp on your forehead in permanent ink.
  • Giving your car and/or home a themed makeover screams arrested development. Music producer Jermaine Dupri can deck out whatever he wants in Tweety Bird gear because we KNOW he’s a manchild.

There is nothing hip (or hop) about this car.

  • Spiking your hair is like wearing a penis costume: we all know you’re a dick.
  • Getting blackout drunk on the regular is no longer cute or experimenting. It’s a cry for intervention and/or rehab.
  • Wearing skateboarding/snowboarding/extreme game clothing or branded gear is as useful as couch potatoes wearing jerseys. 
  • Crocs? AW HELL NAW.

While this list may read like the local call-in newspaper section from a resident geezer, they represent immature behaviors that children enjoy. Take responsibility for your age, clutch your man- or lady-parts and sack up. As comedian Hannibal Buress says, “You step your LIFE up.”

Diary of a Genial Black Man’s 2nd Annual Blurst of the Year List!

Ah, another year has come to a close. And WHAT a year! In the past 12 months, we’ve seen oil spills, Mariah Carey’s belly fills (“And twins!”), former NFL coach Jimmy Johnson’s boner shills and M. Night Shyamalan’s cinematic swill.

Just about every website, television show and newspaper (remember those?) have squeezed the life out of political, entertainment and polititainment (but what is what anymore?) story. And in the spirit of giving, Diary of a Genial Black Man (DogBM never caught on, sadly) will do the same.

But how to celebrate the greatness in stupidity? Well, I’ve coined such fancies the “blurst.” Originating from an episode of The Simpsons where 1,000 monkeys on typewriters attempted to replicate Charles Dickens (“It was the best of times, it was the BLURST of times?!”), “blurst” describes hilarity in the absurd. And most of life is truly absurd.

With that said, do join me on the following journey into the year that was 2010 with the Blurst of the Year Winners:

Blurst Co-Opting of a Meme: Antoine Dodson’s “Bed Intruder” song

When Kevin Antoine Dodson took to the airwaves to describe the attempted rape by an intruder in his sister’s bedroom, culturally sensitive people collectively facepalmed their televisions and computers. A crazy black person in front of a news camera? Oh LAWD.

But Dodson made the best of a bad situation (the attempted rape and subsequent televised minstrel show) by taking control of an already feverish internet meme (whatever THAT means, young kids on the interwebs): getting proceeds from an auto-tuned version of the newscast; starting a website and asking for donations that helped move his family out of the Huntsville, Alabama housing project; and inspiring sex offender tracking apps for mobile devices.

Still, it took a terrible act and the shucking-and-jiving for the media for the story to have a happy ending — though the Bed Intruder Halloween costume that lets you play Aunt Jemima is kind of a step back. That all said, I hope there are no copycats screaming about shower stalkers or toilet peepers. One is more than enough.

Blurst Television Executive: Jeff Zucker

For somehow getting NBC “comedy” Outsourced on the air, NBC Universal President Jeff Zucker should have been exiled to Russia for a 7-year time-out. But oh there was so much more this year: the Tonight Show debacle, forcing out Conan O’Brien and canceling the atrocious Jay Leno show to move Leno’s comedy black hole back to late night television; filling in blank time slots with reruns and losing further ground to ABC, CBS and FOX; hiring Ben Silverman, the idea man behind MTV’s Parental Control and Date My Mom (though he also exported The Office to American TV) to run NBC’s entertainment division; and pushing critically-hailed comedy Parks and Recreation to January 2011 for… Outsourced!

The oft-reviled Zucker has made many enemies in his 24-year tenure with NBC, and yet he rose to the top like rancid foam on a poopuccino. The balls on this man to be arrogant with a lack of humility, talent and vision is a blurst train wreck to see. Good thing he’s no longer with NBC Universal.

Blurst Pandering: For the Ladies!

Are you one of those human females? Do you like to watch movies? Do you be shoppin’? WELL! Not only can you go to the movies, you can be subtly looked down upon by those same movies!

2010 saw Hollywood declare jihad on good taste and sensibility with, not one, but two movies about spoiled women that look for quick fixes to heal poor self-images and self-esteem issues. Sex and the City 2 dropped the first bomb strike in May, advocating empty consumerism, maudlin gay stereotypes (they LOVE fancy weddings and LIZA!), reinforcing American xenophobia by harping about and failing to understand Abu Dhabi (!) culture and shunning the same people that pay to see the movies. (The climax of the movie involves the four shallow flesh-voids trying to catch their flight to avoid flying coach! Oh noes!)

But that wasn’t enough to satisfy wrecking female moviegoer self-worth. August’s Eat Pray Love ushered the second wave of emotional detonation. Based on the best-selling book of the same name, Julia Roberts leaves her husband, has a meaningless fling she knows to be meaningless, and shutters her life in a storage garage to find herself overseas. While she eats, prays and loves her way around the world, she leaves a wake of people (her husband that was left behind suddenly, her boy-toy, and eventual love) in her midst as she lives out her mid-life crisis.The 6-hour running time was more than enough to cram in meaningless food porn, grating self-worship as religion and emotional neuroses appearing as fear of intimacy. But hey, there was great-looking food, right? Ooh, and the foreign locals were SO PRETTY! And that Javier Bardem — what a hottie!

In Eat Pray Love‘s defense, the message of bettering your life was inspirational. And I’m sure that Sex and the City 2 had a similarly positive message (… Asian babies are just as adoptable as other kids?) But they were both packaged in shallow, morally destructive, shiny packages that sucked out many a soul. (Though retailers would happily sell you themed merchandise to feel like you earned something!) So… gender empowerment? So blurstful.

Blurst Use of the English Language: Americans

While FOX News correspondent/Mama Grizzly/irresponsible windbag Sarah Palin uses her Twitter account to “use” new words, lesser people (the middle class and below) have discovered classic utterances. Have you heard people misuse the word “literally?” So have many others. How about the overuse of word “savory” to describe foods or flavors that are not sweet or sour? (“Those Doritos were SO savory!”) Or “hipster” to describe anything other than smug 20-somethings wearing cheesy fashions and creepy facial hair?

It’s great that Americans are  rediscovering the English language. After all, racist politicians declare that we speak English here! So in the spirit of learning, let’s crack open Dictionary.com and learn some synonyms!

Blurst Use of Hypocrisy: Republican politicians

2010 was a banner year for the Grand Old Party regarding acting against the best interest of the American people. The ol’ filibuster got a lengthy workout on items like “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and the healthcare overhaul, and “is he/isn’t he” maverick John McCain spun more excuses about repealing DADT (which, despite saying he would in the right circumstances, he recently voted against) than Aesop spun fables.

The crowning achievement in hypocrisy came this past week when the GOP unsheathed the filibuster to strike down the 9/11 emergency responders bill, a measure that would have provided financial and medical compensation for service employees unearthing the damage at Ground Zero. The same party that trotted out 9/11 for every political grab repealed an opportunity to help those same people they supposedly stood behind.

Enough talking; I’ll let The Daily Show explain things.

Way to show us how hypocrisy is done!

Blurst Euphemism for Screwing Someone Over: LeBron James’ ‘Taking My Talents to South Beach’

Ah, The Decision. ESPN let NBA star LeBron James take to the airwaves in July to announce that he would be signing with the Miami Heat. Most — hell, 99.9 percent of — professional athletes let their employers proclaim financially-impacting news. The overwhelming narcissism on display to create the stage, the lack of self-awareness in how the televised airing would be perceived and disregard for the teams involved in the bidding process culminated in the jaw-dropping stupidity that unfolded in front of viewers — especially those Boys & Girls Clubs kids and Cleveland Cavaliers fans that idolized and praised the King of Akron.

So aside from the Boys & Girls Clubs organization getting a large check, the other positive was LeBron’s proclamation of his playing destination, the Decision itself. By uttering the words “I’m going to take my talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat,” the days of reckoning that followed — LeBron jersey burnings in Cleveland streets, becoming one of the most-hated athletes in professional sports, the single blurst use of Comic Sans font by Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert in a letter blasting LeBron — were biblical in how one man could be tarnished. All because he wanted to win a NBA title and play ball with his friends.

So the next time you want to get out of your responsibilities — a work assignment, a date, your marriage — in the most egotistical and unintentionally hilarious way possible, tell the other party that you’re “taking your talents to South Beach.” They might not understand what that means, but damn it, you’ll get what you want. And that’s so blurstfully blurstful.


There were many more news stories that could have been mocked, but they could fill another self-indulgent blog. I would take the time, but I’m taking my talents to South Beach. See you next year!

Should “Icelanders” Get a Room? (Even in America?)

(The inspiration for this op-ed is posted HERE.)

The other day, my third personality asked me, “Do you really think people feel uncomfortable when they see Icelandic people making out anywhere?”

Because I can be kind of naive— I’m not much of a social person — I had no idea what she was talking about, so she steered me to this interweb article, about the Iceland romantic sitcom Ástríður. As Sagafilm informs me, Ástríður “is a new and exciting romance tv show, full of romance and drama with fun reference to the Icelandic reality right before the bank crisis.” Sounds entertaining!

My initial response was: Hmm, being Icelandic is one thing — those people are downright Norse! And while I think our country’s obsession with non-Icelandic people is unhealthy, I also think it’s at least equally crazy, albeit in the other direction, to be implicitly promoting Icelandic people! Yes, being Icelandic is sick, but at least some pro-Icelandic people are simply naturally Icelandic. No one who is as Icelandic as Ástríður can be tolerable. And Icelandics are costing our country far more in terms of all the related foreign relations we are paying for, by way of our tolerance, than any other foreign relations problem, even acceptance.

So anyway, yes, I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch Icelandic people with generations and generations of Icelandic genetics kissing each other … because I’d be, like, totally grossed out and stuff if I had to watch them doing ANYTHING. To be brutally honest (you know, hurtfully honest in a devastating way), even in real life, I find it culturally displeasing to watch a very, very Icelandic person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very Brazilian person talk Portuguese or a Mexican person eating a taco.

Now, don’t go getting the wrong impression: I have a few friends who could be called Icelandic. Some of my best friends are Icelandic! I’m not some Iceland-ist jerk! And I also know how tough it can be for truly Icelandic people to psych themselves up for the long process of losing their cultural identity. (At my workplace for instance, Icelandic music star Björk has tried to be relevant to Americans to no use, because she’s been Icelandic for as long as she can remember.)

But … I think being Icelandic is something that most people have, like, a ton of control over and whatever. It’s something they can change, if only they put their minds and wish real hard for it to go away.

Ewww... she's so... Icelandic!

(I’m happy to give you some cultural de-synthesizing if you need them — but long story short, eat more red meat, read US Weekly and avoid foods with any kind of foreign-sounding name that isn’t a chemical, increase the amount of gravy you’re getting, get some kind of bacon for 30 minutes at least five times a week, and do everything you can to stop learning more — even while using your computer — and yell more. I admit that there’s plenty that makes being less Icelandic tough, but YOU CAN DO IT! Trust me. It will take some time, but you’ll also feel so less foreign, physically and emotionally. A NASCAR fan or Tea Party member will help — and if you can’t find one, visit your local Walmart for some advice.)

Some would call the main character of "Mr. Bjarnfredarson" an Icelandic sex symbol. Those people would be Icelanders.

Then again, I guess these people are from a desolate European country. So … points for trying?

Then again, I tend to think most Icelandic people like those on Ástríður are a kind of inferior-type being. Shunning their antics like kissing gives us an excuse to turn off both our brains and our exposure to these weird human-like beings and probably does a helluva lot to contribute to the Icelandic problem in society, over all. So … I don’t know.

What do you guys think? Icelandic making out anywhere in public — are you cool with it? Do you think I’m being an ignorant horse’s ass?

UPDATE: I would really like to apologize for the insensitive things I’ve said in this post. I mean, REALLY apologize. Believe it or not, I never wanted anyone to feel bullied or ashamed after reading my rant about filthy Icelandic people, and I sorely regret that it upset people so much. A lot of what I said was unnecessary. It wasn’t productive, either — though it fulfilled my quota for my paycheck.

I know a lot of people truly struggle with being Icelandic — for medical and intellectual reasons — and that many people have an incredibly difficult time getting to a non-Icelandic state. I feel for those people and I’m truly sorry I added to the unhappiness and pain they feel because they somehow finding my article.

I would like to reiterate that I think it’s great to have people of all nationalities and cultures represented in society (as, it bears mentioning here, they are in US Weekly) and on TV shows — and that in my post, I was talking about a couple that featured Icelandic people who are not simply a little Icelandic, but appear to be morbidly Icelandic . (Morbid Icelandicity is defined as 100 percent more than their ideal Icelandic genetic makeup.)  And for whatever it’s worth, I feel just as uncomfortable when I see an Icelandic person as I do when I see someone who is morbidly Turkish, because I assume people suffering from foreign cultures on either end of the spectrum are doing damage to their chance to be happy, non-foreign Americans, and that they are unhappy. But perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to judge based on superficial observations.

To that point (and on a more personal level), a few commenters (family, mostly) and one of my personalities mentioned that my extreme reaction might have grown out of my own culture issues, my history as an Icelandic person, and my life-long obsession with being non-Icelandic. As I mentioned in the ongoing screamings we’ve been carrying on in the comments section, I think that’s an accurate insight.

People have accused me of being a dickface in my post. I never intended to be that — it’s actually the very last thing I want to be, as a writer or a person. But I know that I came off that way, and I really cannot apologize enough to the people whom I’ve offended by my “Hitler-like shit spewing.”

We’re Running out of Prejudices!

A few months ago, I was boarding an airplane to Chicago. I spotted a window seat, vacant in the sea of people wedged into the cramped quarters, and asked an elderly lady if anyone was sitting next to her. She obliged and let me slide into the empty chair. Relieved, I stretched out as much as I could; I didn’t pay the extra fee for an additional 1/2-inch of legroom, after all.

The woman looked over at me and leaned very slightly into my imaginary space barrier, so she obviously had something important to say. With a serious look in her eyes, she said, “I’m glad that you’re not BIG.” She then lost all sternness and chuckled delightfully — probably imaging the horror and discomfort of having to sit next to someone that was  — GASP! — “big.”

Hearing this, I thought to myself, “You know, I’m glad that we Americans can degrade heavyset people so openly!” After all, modern society is taking all of our prejudices away — let alone the COUNTRY. When that one lady at a Town Hall meeting cried out “I WANT MY COUNTRY BACK!” she was really pleading for a return to good old fashioned bigotry, all out in the open — as white and pure as the freshly fallen snow in Aryan Germany before those damn ethnic Jews riled up Hitler and the Nazis. (I mean, the GALL!)

Fat people take up our space, breathe up our air, cram in our airplane seats and look at my food all hungrily! It makes me feel like a piece of meat that they will most likely eat in two bites! It is GREAT that we still have the power to mock the fat.

Americans are forced to hide their hatred and ignorance behind big words like “experience,” “birth certificate” and “Tea Party,” and dang nab-bit, that’s not the America I grew up in!

I… remember a time, when I was a boy… when people were friendly to each other, knew their neighbors, and sprayed African-Americans with water hoses as powerful as jet engines! They weren’t forced to be “politically correct” and not talk about how a woman’s place was in the kitchen. You can thank the liberal media for that!

We are only displaying our natural instincts for being uncomfortable with things that are unnatural and scary. IT IS HUMAN NATURE. I mean, who wants foreigners getting in the country, mixing with our women and making good for themselves? IT’S UNNATURAL, AND IT KEEPS ME UP AT NIGHT.

I’m sorry… I’m just getting so upset right now.

That’s better.

So now we’re not allowed to express our discomfort with non-Christians, people that look like terrorists, the Chinese, and NOW they want to take away our right to poke fun at fatties? THAT’S not the America I want to live in. NOT AT ALL.

*takes in a breath*

America, we need to reclaim our repugnances. We need to shout out, “I am an AMERICAN, and I will not let you in my Old Country Buffet!” We need to SHAME those that are different and have the audacity to not be in a society-defined shape. We need to make people WANT to replicate the lifestyle choices that get models like Kate Moss on magazine covers, movie stars in box office smashes like The Bounty Hunter and Couples Retreat, and teenagers like Miley Cyrus being American success stories! We’re losing our way!

Like that woman said, “I want my country back.” America, I want my country back.

A Black Man Explains Why He Prefers Old White Women

(Inspired by this feature article.)

Old white skin is loose and thin, flimsy between my fingers, like chicken flesh made human. There’s only one patch of skin on a young white woman’s body that even compares to nearly every geriatric inch of an old white woman’s skin — only one… one remote, discreet patch that I can’t recall right now. The first time I stroked old white skin, it felt like the discarded pork fat that killed my pappy. I yearned for it more than Marion Berry craved an 8-ball of cocaine. That singular phrase, “I’m on it like white on rice,” can describe the transparent look and feel of that skin.

Oh, but I had reasons for my craving that were socially sound. For years, I hid behind the notion of young black men leaving their black women under the age of 40 for any white woman with a pulse. A black woman hitting puberty is like Kryptonite to a black man, so I thought. He goes young or younger, average girth or big, average-looking or UGH-LEH or drinks a 40 with his homeys and looking for trouble. Old white women are thrilled to get the black man that they couldn’t get with in their younger, baby-making years, for Civil Rights done happened. It’s not my fault; it’s those black women that wanted me so much that I had to run away.

Well that’s a damn lie. Truthfully, I attract a decent percentage of black women. Heck, some of them aren’t too shabby on the eyes

More than enough black women want me that I could split my paycheck for alimony for a fortnight, but I don’t want them.

I want old white women. And they want me. We look at each other and exchange a sultry glance of lust and fear, passion and purse clenching in those fertile few seconds. And our attraction is based first and foremost on race. Oh, we aren’t one of those pairs who “tear that ass up” with one of a different race or dutifully come together but out of a greater feeling of interracial brotherhood and sisterhood. Not as liberal hippie men and women do we seek each other out. The welfare lines has made it easier to get the mad hookup. Women advertise: ivory frisky for ebony. Men text: I WANT 2 HIT THAT OLD WHYT ASS. We aren’t the same people who cry: Race ain’t all there is, y’all. It is all there is. We want to get with the swirl.

Despite the fact that some amount — I can’t remember the source… let’s say 94 percent — of single Americans have dated outside of their race, that purposeful seeking of the specific other makes some, especially white men, more uncomfortable than Brokeback Mountain.

We are what they blacken and whip: black men and old white women who come together because we want that pasty and dark ass. They are bitter about us taking their unwanted women. Old white women are seventy six and a third times more likely to marry a black man than a white man is to marry one of those… black women. White men can grab statistics out of their air, too, in representing their argument. But in truth, white brothers, we’re after that wrinkled ass, not the commitment and they aren’t long for the Earth anyway.

Yes, that ass!

The men who go after the old white women is a spin-off of black-woman connoisseur Thomas Jefferson’s (also a U.S. president) “always take hold of things by the smooth handle,” for the black man’s handle is large and the old white woman’s handle glove is cavernous. According to some unnamed school of thought, black men turn to white women when baby’s lookin’ fine and they wanna — as the poet Ginuwine once said — “jump on it.” It’s a “damn, girl, you easy” reaction.

When we get to the “damn, girl, you easy” place, they know it, and they are already halfway in the grave. Old white women are more grateful, accommodating and easier to shut up than black women. They know how to cook meatballs, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. An old white women is so damned fine because she knows how to make some meatballs.

Old white women have something black women don’t have anymore: shawls. They clearly know that their necks are delicate. Black women appear to be waiting to catch their death of cold to learn whether they are resilient. Yet old white women know that they are fragile, one step away from fatal pneumonia, something black women would name their child. They make you feel like a man that needs looking after, after you grip it and rip it. I can go all out when I am with them. How many black women can treat a man like a gentleman and a succubus of life energy?

I often felt in my Black period that only during lustful sessions of freakin’ it that the connection between me and the world was as light as cornbread, encompassing my intimacy like a cast iron skillet. It takes a lot of sexin’ for two black people to be in the same room together. These old white women, so alive by the waning days on their calendar, slice through that cornbread and latch on with their delicate bodies, freeing me and I can truly get with it. I am like the driver of a Cadillac hooptie with a fine-ass bitch that can shoot a gun out the window. I know I can yell, “Move bitch, get out the way!” but there’s no need. On the other hand, the last time I waxed some black ass, we chugged along on a crowded bus, and she was like Mabel “Mama” Thomas from What’s Happening, Raj and Dee’s mother that disappeared sometime after the first season and never came up in conversation for some reason.

My current girl, a spry Medicare recipient, seduced me via butterscotch candy at a senior center while I was doing community service. Without saying a word, she felled me under her spell, presented with her drawn-in eyebrows. She didn’t motion me over or ask me to see pictures of her grand kids until she knew that I wouldn’t take her Social Security check. Both quaint and hip, she has a butt that won’t quit. I was asking her if she wanted to go downtown 30 minutes after that candy.

Another afternoon, in that same senior center, a different old white woman, a spry pensioner, asked me to help her off of her feet.

I don’t doubt that there are some old white women who can’t get down on it or make meatballs. Personally, I have not experienced one that can’t. (True, I am not dating some broke-ass woman, but I didn’t do that when I dated black, so clearly and without doubt, I am an equal opportunist.) They look better than black women, they hold, coddle and top it off better than black women. Statistically, their vaginae are only a fraction of a meter larger on average, but they seem friendlier and whiter.

Black women under 40 still have their waistlines and standards — if they ever had them. They carry youth, courage and firm breasts above their plump asses. Perhaps a good part of that firmness is their courage. Even the youngest ones look courageous somehow and deeply fearless. They soldier on despite any setback that would fell the whitest of women. Surely, our culture as much as biology has made them braver, grittier, less-pushover versions of themselves just at the point where black men and old white women and Eskimos are browbeaten within an inch of their lives. Society undervalues the black woman, leaving her scrappy and bold when she realizes under the age of 40 that she’s all that.

With the exception of some college women at Freaknik after a few Mad Dogs, black women don’t turn me on anymore.

That admission put me in the same grouping as the unpopular geek only interested in Asian women. While black men my age will shake their heads at me, not understanding why I’m not chasing down a young, thin white woman, I feel a kinship with the dorky nerds. We are the same, me and that awkward geek, drawn to the exotic object of lust, not caring that the forbidden fruit doesn’t know about the term “baby mama” or prenuptial agreements.

Break down the roots of attractions all you want — like so-called scientists will do, just because — and you won’t be able to formulate a good answer why we want to sink the canoe. Desire pours out like a 40 on Dre Day, and it is delightfully oblivious to others who just don’t know. Yet until just now, I opined that my passion was like affirmative action, because it was a reward for my suffering.

Halfway through my last booty call with a black woman, I realized that little smoke rings of courage and audacity were escaping her ego like fur from a wolf shot down from Sarah Palin’s helicopter. This woman was at least mildly secure in herself, and I wanted to tell her to go fix me some food, submit to me and cater to my every whim. I would have climbed off her and told her to get her ass out, but she seemed to expect that — like she wanted to start a fight. I couldn’t give into her desire and make her louder and angrier. My Northern cousins would describe her general aire as “uptight” or “like the president.” Into the second double dip of ass-freakin’, I wanted to get my ass out and I didn’t notice that she said that she was late because she stopped taking her pill.

What did she think would turn me on more: That I didn’t know she was late because of her not taking her pills since Clinton was president, or that she wanted me to be the father of her baby because we already had three kids?

I cannot even imagine an old white women having a baby without the horrific black magic of modern medicine.

That was my last token black women. I recently came out of my race-exclusive closet and told my friends, “I love old white women. I’m not attracted to uppity black women under 40 and I am not dating them anymore. Really, I don’t love them hoes.”

Nobody was dumbstruck.


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