Just Say No. (The Yearender)

I didn't do a lot of shit this year.

Some of it on purpose...some of it, not so much. But the point is, whether I intended to or not, 2007 has been the year of abstinence.
Little did I know it at the time, but now...all better and wiser in the last few months of my 34th year, I realize something.

Abstaining does not bring you some Jesus/Buddha/Confucius-like wisdom. You don't automatically become Gandhi because you decide not to smoke a joint.

Wait... before I launch into this, let me give you an idea of my sacrifices this year.

Regular* Sex
Smoking
Drugs
Drinking

(*"Regular" meaning "on a (by my standards) consistent basis". Not "regular" as in "ordinary". Ahem.)


I know, right?! I mean, this doesn't even sound like me, does it? Not that I'm Keith Richards or anything, but hell...I'm a big fan of vices...and some of you indulged in these vices right along with me...so I fully understand that what you're reading may come as a shock, but let me explain. (And no...I'm not a born again Christian. I did that in the 90's. It was overrated.)

Smoking:
I quit. Plain and simple. It was killing me. It was a crutch. It made me smell. Gave me bad skin. Lowered my energy and self esteem and was just disrespectful. I got tired of waking up to a livingroom that smelled like an ashtray and lungs that felt as if they were filled with cotton. I got tired of seeing that stupid Mexican guy with the voice box and secretly hoping that doesn't happen to me one day. I got tired of the shame I felt every time I asked for a pack of "Newport Lights". I got tired of masking the taste with bottles of wine. I got tired dumping an ashtray filled with butts so I don't have to look at them as I light another.
I got tired of counting how many I had and congratulating myself on having less than the night before. (Or berating myself for having more, and justifying the reason.) And I got tired of that feeling of panic at one in the morning, when I realize that I'm pretty drunk, I have to get up for work in six hours and I'm down to my last cigarette. No more cigarettes means it's time for bed. How fucked up is that? I also got tired of listening to Amy Winehouse. Hmmmm....

Drugs:
OK, maybe not "drugs". Just weed. I loved weed. Especially the "weed" and "regular sex" combination. It was a freakin' winner. And although nothing has changed about how I feel about sex, I honestly lost the taste for weed. I just...lost it. And I'll be honest...I sorta miss it. I'm not sure how, or why, but I just didn't like the way it made me feel. During or after. So I gave it up. No fanfare. I just....lost the taste. (shrug.) It's sort of like falling out of love I think. I think watching "Half Baked" sober had a lot to do with it. That's a bad movie. A really bad one. However, when you're high... it's really fucking funny. So weed was actually crushing my movie critic street cred. Fuck that. Some things are more important.

Regular* Sex:
This was quite unintentional. Nobody in their right mind just gives up regular sex if they can help it. Unless they don't enjoy it...and with me, that's just not the case. Shit just happened. And let me tell you, it was frustrating as hell. And it sucked. However, it does give you a fantastic "ah-ha!" moment.

I've learned that when you strip away sex as part of the bonding glue between two people, you start to see whether you can really stand each other. Because nothing says, "Lets work this out" like a great dual (or multiple) orgasm. There's something about a great orgasm that says, "Hey...your ass hair isn't so gross after all!", as you stroke it lovingly. However, without that post-coital filter, guess what you see? That's right. Ass hair. And there's nothing cute about it.

Ever see old couples that can't stand each other? I mean, the couple that looks at each other with that "will you just hurry up and die already" glance? Well, backtrack a good 30 years or so, and you'll probably see two people who, outside of a great sex life, weren't friends at all. Because when you strip it away...(and one day, it will get stripped away) you're left with someone you'd better be able to laugh with. Because ass hair may not be cute, but it sure as hell is funny.


Drinking:

This is a biggie because nobody enjoys a good liquid poison more than I do. But over this Christmas holiday, after hanging out with co-workers, I found myself on my knees... vomiting all over the bathroom. Violently. I ruined some clothes, boots, the bathroom rug, and had to be cleaned up and put to bed. (Thanks...) Oh. I also fucked up a pretty damn good surprise I had no idea was coming. And had the surprise been in my way, I would have vomited on that too.

And sure, I can blame it on the following:

1. I got braces, so I can't eat as much and thus, had no food to absorb the alcohol.
2. I drank "boiler makers" on top of champagne. (Classy meets frat boy...)
3. I drank too fucking much.

Umm...I'll take #3 Alex.

And previously, I'd hung out with the same co-workers three times over the course of two weeks, and drank just as much.
(Actually was invited to go out an additional time...which is just suicide.)

Now, somewhere along the line, I'd convinced myself that I could not have a good time without drinking. Or that celebrating just ain't celebrating without downing five or six. Which can't be true, can it?

So I had something to prove. Can I celebrate without booze?

Christmas Eve, I made my way through a half bottle...ok, 3/4 bottle of Champagne and poured out the additional bottle I had in the icebox and let the experiment begin.

And you know what? Christmas was great. I even scored two bags of weed and they still remain untouched by me. ( I did, however, touch the hell out of my aunt's sweet potato pie. Touched the hell out it.)

And here we are. New Year's Eve.

(Or what I'd like to call...the day after the nastiest fight I've had this year. Yeah...it was pretty bad. Like..."where's my arm?" bad. And still...no booze. Because it's not going to help. )

And for the first time in 20 years (do the math), I'm going to bring in the New Year sober. Why? Because I don't need an aid to celebrate and be thankful for what I have. I have all I need...right now.

And THAT boys and girls...is what I've learned this year.

It's not about what you need to get you by...it's about slowing down and acknowledging how lucky you are to have what you already have.

It's about what you HAVE right now. It's about being appreciative and thankful for everything you have. And as I'm typing, a dizzying amount of things I have to be thankful for are rushing my thoughts. (Don't worry...I won't name them all.) But there's a lot. An awful fucking lot.

I'm so grateful first and foremost for the lesson of this year. I won't ever forget my 34th year. And thank you all... who shared it with me.


Like I said, abstaining does not bring you some Jesus/Buddha/Confucius-like wisdom. What it does is keep you awake and aware long enough to see everything around you. And who knows...maybe that's what those guys were preaching about in the first place.

I'm going to have a wonderful 2008. It's going to be filled with magnificent love, gratitude, friendship and prosperity.
And I wish the same for you...

I love you all! Happy New Year!

-Nyree

Six Degrees Of Friend-eration Ex

For all of you who would rather blow your brains out in front of your youngest child than watch a single half hour of "Sex And The City", this first paragraph is for you.

I've quit smoking...just like the main character "Carrie" on the show, and what she USED to do (while contemplating how fucked up her love life had become) was pull on a stog...exhale..and by the the time she'd fully rid her lungs of smoke, she'd come up with another gleaming morsel of relationship ephiphany that she'd then summarize into one perfect question...typed directly into her hopelessly outdated Mac. Now, the reason why your woman watched this show quite religiously (pay attention...I see you dozing...) is because these are the VERY QUESTIONS she asked herself time and time again, and still does. About you, and her ex. That's right. Her ex.

I hate to tell you this but she still thinks about her ex. Actually that's what the show was all about if you really want to sum it up into a poor generalization.

(To be read in S.J.P.'s whiny drone...)

"In a city of potential "the ones"...what if "the one" was someone you already had...or could there be more than one "one". I couldn't help but wonder...how many "ones" do we get?"

We think about this shit all the damn time. And usually, when we're not expecting it.

For instance...when I heard, quite by accident, "Rain" by SWV. (I'm probably going to get an eye-jammie for annoucing that ...but what's the point of being an artist if you can't be honest? And what's he point of hiding the following fact, when, if this song is ever played in presence of current "Boo-Boo", I'm probably going to smirk. Big.)

I got my back blown out to this song once upon an ex.

I mean, the kind of back-blowing where you want to know what exactly you did to deserve a back blowing this good. The kind where it makes you scared that this is the BEST you will ever get in your life and it will never...not with this person or another... EVER get this good again. Because for this enchanted moment, the planets decided to orbit backwards, Teddy Pendergrass stood up and started a slow clap, your Mother apologized about not getting you the Darth Vader Head collectible storage case when you were ten because it wasn't gender appropriate, your shit DIDN'T stink and damn it...could you use a glass of cold fucking water...scratch that. Beer. From the tap that Sam Malone just fucking poured and your sitting inbetween Frazier and Cliff ....and Norm just walked in the door. And to top it off...damn it...you're sore. In a good way. In the "I'm gonna feel this tomorrow but won't have to blot when I pee" kinda way.

SO ANYWAY....

So I'm tasting the preverbal foam of my beer and suddenly the song ends.

And I begin to wonder dumb female shit like... why aren't we friends? We were best friends when we were together...why can't be friends now?

And so, due to lack of a stog, I pour a glass of wine, and wish to GOD I didn't move to such a fucking bougie neighborhood, or I could run down to the store and cop me a loosie to go with all this typing.

But no, cuz I'd have to walk all the way down that dark fucking hill to the "real-er" section...and it's cold and late. Sure, I don't live in a neighborhood where a dude has to walk you to the train or even out the building to the cab (memba?) but upgrading means you have to deal with shit like... serial killers. Different demographic, different problems.

So anyway, the thought of the long walk to the store triggered other shit.. like that time he got Kobie'd and I realized that the store on the corner was closed so I had to walk to the 24-7 "revolving bullet-proof lazy suzan" A-Rab spot to get a pack of Fiberglass Lights so I could cope. And THEN trekked four flights of steps to the apartment, crying hysterically...wondering if I'd destroy his shit first or smoke. Hmm...what to do...what to do.

And then I wondered about the other ex...and the ex before that...and before that ...all the way back to the first.

I mean, the truth was... I was best friends with all of them. How could I not be? How can you spend all that time saying nothing of substance with another person and NOT be? Because, let's be real. Eventually, the conversation turns from your personal thoughts on Al Sharpton's position on global warming to "I got my pedicure for only $10 today! It's usually $21 but her other client cancelled so I got a discount!" type-uh bullshit that you actually should keep to yourself. But because you've spent so much "just-breathing" time together, you've shattered your inner dialouge.

Not only that, but you've done other dumb shit...like let him into the bathroom with you, which, at first...is cute. It says, "Hey...I'm so comfortable with you, I can pee right in front of you. Isn't that GREAT!??"

But to him says, "Oh shit. She pees from the same place I actually put my mouth?"

Yeah, he knows. But he didn't KNOW KNOW. Now, he does. And you've moved into "best friend" territory. (BTW...men don't go to the bathroom with friends. Only women so that. Just want to put that out there. Close the fucking door.)

But see? It's shit like that. Like, wiping your ass in from of him that makes you think you can be friends post break up without giving him ass on a regular basis and you know what?
You can! But without giving up ass... it's gonna get old real quick. For both of you.

And really. Was his position on Jehovah's Witness' vs. Paganism THAT profound?
And, if you were in college, weren't you high most of the time anyway? Of course he was your best friend! It was a simpler time. A time when having a kid was taboo, instead of anticipated.

So do as Badu says. "Let it go...let it go..let it go..."

Just like Denise Forbes in the third grade probably went on to bigger and better best friends...without once wondering why you're still not playing hopscotch with her...nor shall you wonder why any of your ex's are not you're friends.

It's simply because they had their time...as u have had yours. Trying to re-invent it will cheapen what you had. And do you really want to lose that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you hear "Rain"?

Uh...I think not.

So just listen to the song. Smile. And go cuddle up with your current "one".

That's what I'm gonna do right now. And hopefully, when I hear Floetry's "Say Yes" one day, I'll smile just as big.

(Cue "Sex And The City" end credit music here...)

For Swizzle: Charlie Murphy's Right...We Got To Do Better.

So, a few months back...after a restful vacation, I return to work and I walk in with my black co-worker.

Not one that I'm regularly cool with...you know. I don't know if she has kids or a man or is gay or anything, we just speak about the bare minimum. This means, with black folk, it’s usually about music or what Beyonce is doing. (Yeah. We touched on her. Wait for it... wait for it...)

So anyway, even though there are eight elevators available, thanks to her talking to one co-worker, me talking to another and elevator manners being what they are, we all (4) wind up in the same elevator up to the ninth floor.

"How was your weekend’s all around, and she mentions to one of the other co-workers, she'd just returned from the Essence Music Festival.

Now let me say this.

I've never...ever had the urge to go.

OK. That’s a lie. I did once. But that's when Prince performed and by that time, I'd caught him four times in the NYC area and thought I'd had enough of his tiny, redboned self.
( SIDEBAR: I learned something very important about myself that year. I can never have enough tiny, redboned self. Especially when it drops the lights and starts with an electric guitar "Question of U" solo. But this isn't about him. )

Anyway...I never wanted to go cuz...well, The Essence Music Festival seemed too damn...black.

There. I said it. It's too damn black for me and one thing I know about myself...when I'm surrounded by too much black, I can't fucking breathe.

This is not to say I don't love my people. I loves my people. Lord knows I do. I just don't like them. Not all of them. Some of them. But that number is growing.

Now, I'm not really sure when this happened. I mean, once upon a youthful time, I had NO problems with my people. I was fitting right in, with a THICK Bronx accent, no vocal audio level other than "LOUD", and no "think before you speak" button.

Take me to any black event, and I didn't so much as blink. I'd check my really long gold colored tips (yes, girl...), my brown transparent plastic text pager, and start looking for the first cutie that walked in the door. Name the event, I did it. Grants Tomb (does that still happen?), Amateur Night @ The Apollo, Greek Week, The Car Show...

By now, I think you get where I'm going with this. Yep. I was a Chickenhead.
Bronx variety.

Albeit, not a good one, cuz I wasn't giving any up. And you just can't be a Chickenhead if your a...well...chicken. Eventually, you'll be found out and forced to prove otherwise. Besides, Chickenheads were supposed to be stupid and settled for what was put in front of them, so you might say I was the Little Mermaid of Chickenheads. I wanted more...

And I'm not alone. I come from a long line of "Former New York Grade A Chickens". Examples:

J. Lo - Branding Genius. (She got every Puerto Rican chica under the age of 18 in the Boogie smelling like "Glow". Don't. Fucking. Hate.)

Rosario Dawson - Hollywood loves her...even without her tits.

Alicia Keys - Mediocre musician/songwriter. But they LOVE her. Still not quite sure why...

But what do they all have in common? Yep. FORMER CHICKENHEADS.

Oh no? Don't believe me do you? Check out how they USED to talk. Remember Alicia? That bitch was the reigning "Queen of Misplaced Preposition" and she took her title very seriously.

Rosario? When she gets fired up...watch Brooklyn come out. Don't believe me? Catch Quentin's last flick. ...WHERE BROOKLYN AT?

And J.Lo... well. She never really got rid of her shit. But she did get married, so that immediately dissolves the Chickenhead status.

I do have a point.

The point is... at some point, you gotta grow up.

You can't take BET at word and run out and get Kool-Aid Red tipped hair cuz Keisha Cole has it. It's NOT ok to wear a fucking sports jersey to an adult concert unless your game went overtime and you were startin at the Garden. It's not OK to tattoo your son's name on your neck*. (Yes...I put him on blast.)

And it's triple, stupid, dumb NOT OK to order a neon glow in the dark swizzle stick in your Hennessey at a Jill Scott concert at Radio City Music Hall. I don't give a shit if they're selling them. They're selling them cuz YOU'RE BUYING IT ASSHOLE.

See. If it was the Universal Soul Circus... fine. I expect it. Hell.
Those other souvenirs can get expensive and you got five kids. Do you.
But don't have me looking at a thousand points of light in the Orchestra section, about to have a fucking seizure, because you thought that irritating green light would show off the fact that you're drinking GOOD brown liquor. Fuck you.

It's also NOT OK to sing all the songs along with Chaka Khan so that I can't even hear her. NOT OK.

It's NOT OK to stand there making idle threats to staff for no reason.
Girl on line to get her glowing squizzle stick: "I know they better had notta run outta Alize or there's gonna be some shit in here."

No there's not, bitch. Will you sit down somewhere?

Don't you get it?

It's NOT ok to accept living in the PJ's. It's NOT ok to dress like a slob. It's NOT OK to get disability and brag about how much you get. It's NOT FUCKING OK if your son gets sent to the guidance counselor for ANYTHING. It's not OK to get a bad hair weave. It's not OK to wear clothes so tight you look like a busted can of biscuits. It's not OK to talk as loud as you can on the 1 train. It's not OK to be pregnant by another man when you're pushing a one year old in a stroller. It's not OK to buy your one year old little boy a gold chain with a big cross on it that extends down to his belly. It's not OK to buy a Coach bag when you haven't paid your rent. It's not OK to let "that nigga" pay your rent. It's not OK to lie for public assistance. It's not OK to vote for Obama "just because he's black". It's not OK not to use protection and wonder how you got HIV. It's not OK to think you can't have better. It's not OK to just want what's given to you. It's not OK to not LOVE yourself.

There's a lot that's not OK. So leave Charlie Murphy the fuck alone because he's right. We GOT to do better. We really do.

And until we stop spending up all our money on bullshit, I'm gonna keep putting us on blast. Including myself.

So here's what I did.

I cut up all my credit cards and leave my debit card at home.

If I need money, I go to the bank (remember that place?) and withdraw it because all that convenience was costing me way too much fucking money. Not just in ATM fees, but it created the illusion that I had a stash of unlimited 20 dollar bills that are at my beckoning. And that's just not the case.

I quit my other gym membership. (I belonged to two. I know. Wasteful.)

I stopped buying lunch and bring it to work daily.

This, along with a host of other really inconvenient habits I re-adopted.

Because you know what? My moms didn't have any of this shit.

Not an iPhone, cable, ATM, internet shopping, microwaves...and somehow, she always found a way to feed & clothe her 4 kids. She didn't see life as inconvenient, it was life.


More to us than what we spend and show.

So I guess my point is... please. STOP PUTTING SWIZZLE STICKS IN YOUR HEN-ROCK.
And do better. At least try.

-Nye

One more thing. It's not OK to torture animals. You sick fuck. Color, celeb status, your Momma aside. It's not OK to torture animals and make a profit off of them, and it's doubly wrong when you don't NEED the money and you're doing it for shits and giggles...you sick fuck. Lost your job? Bankrupt in ten years? Oh fucking well.

And You're Upset About "Nappy Headed Ho"?

Not to piss you off...just to open your eyes for a second.

Umm... did you have any idea there are THIS MANY slurs out there?

Sticks and stones people. Sticks and stones.

(Some of them are actually pretty funny.) Ready?


Alligator bait
(U.S.) also "Gator Bait." A black person, especially a black child. More commonly used in states where alligators are found — particularly Florida. First used in the early 1900s[clarify], although some hypothesize the term originated in the late 1800s[clarify].[1] (The phrase may have lost any racial connotation at all among fans of the Florida Gators, for whom it simply means "a rival team who loses or will lose to the Gators.)
Alabama porch monkey
A black Male
Ann
A white woman to a black person — or a black woman who acts too much like a white one. While Miss Ann, also just plain Ann, is a derisive reference to the white woman, by extension it is applied to any black woman who puts on airs and tries to act like Miss Ann.[2]
Ape
(U.S.) a black person.[3]
Aunt Jemima / Aunt Jane / Aunt Mary / Aunt Sally / Aunt Thomasina
(U.S. Blacks) a black woman who "kisses up" to whites, a "sellout", female counterpart of Uncle Tom.[4]
Boogie
a black person. Referring to "Boogie Woogie" form of jazz? Could come from W. African "Buuker" or "Buckra", meaning "Devil", "Boogie man" or "White Man". Turned around and used against Blacks by Whites.[5]
Buffie
a black person.[6]
b. (U.S. black) a young, brown-skinned person 1940s–1950s[7]
Bush Boogie
a black person. Derived from alleged jungle origins.[8]
Colored
(U.S.) a Black person. Now typically considered disrespectful, this word was more acceptable in the past. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, for example, continues to use its full name unapologetically. Some black Americans have reclaimed this word and softened it in the expression "a person of color".
Coloured
(South Africa) a community of mixed origin, including Khoikhoi and Asian slaves, not derogatory but the normal term for this community
(UK Commonwealth) a black person (while not usually intended to be offensive, the term is not regarded as acceptable by many black people)[9]
Coon
(AUS, U.S. & U.K) a black person. Possibly from Portuguese barracoos, a building constructed to hold slaves for sale. (1837).[10]
Crow
a black person,[11] spec. a black woman.
Gable
a black person.[6]
Golliwogg
(UK Commonwealth) a dark-skinned person, after Florence Kate Upton's children's book character [12]
Jigaboo, jiggabo, jijjiboo, zigabo, jig, jigg, jiggy, jigga
(U.S. & UK) a black person (JB) with stereotypical black features (dark skin, wide nose, etc.).[13]
J: A person of the jewish faith, also used as a verb

Jim Crow
(U.S.) a black person; also the name for the segregation laws prevalent in much of the United States until the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s.[14]
Jim Fish
(South Africa) a black person[15]
Jungle Bunny
(U.S.) a black person. Jungle is referred to their jungle origins and bunny is referred to some people saying that jack rabbits looked like 'lynched' black people. [16]
Kaffir, kaffer, kaffir, kafir, kaffre
(South Africa) a. a black person. Very offensive. Usage: Kaffir Boy was a famous autobiographical book by Mark Mathabane about his childhood in South Africa. (The South African Consul General in Lethal Weapon 2 calls Danny Glover a kaffir and Mel Gibson a 'kaffir lover'.) b. also caffer or caffre: a non-Muslim. c. a member of a people inhabiting the Hindu Kush mountains of north-east Afghanistan. Origin is from the Arab word kafir meaning 'infidel' used in the early Arab trading posts in Africa. The term passed into modern usage through the British, who used the term to refer to the mixed groupings of people displaced by Shaka when he organized the Zulu nation. These groups (consisting of Mzilikaze, Matiwani, Mantatisi, Flingoe, Hottentot, and Xhosa peoples inhabited the region from the Cape of Good Hope to the Limpopo river) fought the British in the Kaffir Wars 1846–1848, 1850–1852, and 1877–1878.)[17][18] See also Kaffir (Historical usage in southern Africa)
Leroy, LeRoy, Leeroy, LeeRoy
Given name allegedly common among black people.
Macaca
Epithet used to describe a Negro (originally) or a person of North-African origin (more recently). Came to public attention in 2006 when U.S. Senator George Allen infamously used it to describe a person of Indian descent. [19]
Mammy or Mammy Woman
(U.S.) an unflattering term for a mature black woman — usually subservient (term popularized by Al Jolson in song and film), a pop culture example is Hattie McDaniel's character in Gone with the Wind for which she won the Academy Award[20]
Monkey
(UK) a black person.[21]
Mosshead
a black person.[6]
Munt
(among whites in South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Zambia) a black person from muntu, the singular of Bantu[22]
Mustard seed
(U.S.) a light-skinned person with one white and one black parent[23]
Milada,/ half black, half white person. Oreo: Cookie:.
Nego / negão / negalháda
(Brazil)
Nig-nog or Nig Jig
(UK & U.S.) a black person.[24]
Nigger / nigra / nigga / niggah / nigguh / nigglet
(U.S., UK) a black person. From the word negro which means the color black in numerous languages. Diminutive appellations include "Nigg", "Nigz". The terms "Nigga" and "Niggaz" (plural) are frequently used between African-Americans without the negative associations of "Nigger."
Nigger baby
(U.S. Military) obsolete: a type of large cannonball [first used in the 1870s][25]
Niggerhead
1.)an isolated coral head: these are often a navigation hazard in coral reef areas. Also called a bommie. 2.) a species of tobacco plant (appears in Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn").
Nigger shooter
a slingshot[26]
Niglet
A young black kid.
Nigra / negra / niggra / nigrah / nigruh
(U.S.) offensive for a black person [first used in the early 1900s][27]
Nigre
(Caribbean)
Pint of Guinness / Mr. Guinness etc.
A black person with white or very fair hair, so called due to the drink Guinness, which has a black body and a white head.
Powder burn
a black person.[6]
Porch Monkey
A black person
Puddle Jumper
black person
Quashie
a black person.[6]
Sambo
(U.S.) a derogatory term for an African American, Black, or sometimes a South Asian person.[28][29]
Smoked Irish / smoked Irishman
(U.S.) 19th century term for Blacks (intended to insult both Blacks and Irish).[6]
Sooty
a black person [originated in the U.S. in the 1950s][30]
Spade
(U.S.) a black person
Spear Chucker
(U.S.) a black person
Tar baby
(UK; U.S.; and N.Z.) a black child.[31] See Tar baby.
Teapot
(British) a black person. [1800s][32]
Thicklips
a black person.[6]
Uncle Tom
(U.S. minorities) term for an African-American, Latino, or Asian who panders to white people; a "sellout" (from the title character of Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin.)
Zebra
(U.S.) an often self-referential or affectionate term applied those with parents of mixed race, specifically black and white. The term was further popularized by the 1992 film Zebrahead.


Funny. Nappy Headed Ho isn't even on the list. If I were Imus, I'd be PISSED!

One Week: Happy Aniversary

Wholly shit...that's in one week?!

- My reaction when I saw the "Race For The Cure" poster.

Well...here we are. It's time for "Race For the Cure" again, and because my life hs been so intersting and facinating (uh..right) I COMPLETLY FUCKING FORGOT.

The good news is, I'm not nearly out of shape as I was when I decided to run last year. The bad news is, in one week, I have to prove it.

That's right...I gotta kick out 3.5 miles in the name of Breast Cancer on Sunday September 9th. So armed with my Crunch membership, a pair of white and green Nike Shocks and my trusty video iPod (that's about to become a dinosaur after Steve Jobs announces his new glossy hotness on Thursday,)I think I can kick out another victorious run for a good cause.

Now, I realize it's the end of the month and ya'll got bills to pay, but if you are so inclined to donate to the cause that started all this delicious morsels I've been typing out for the last year...well, that's all right with me. And if you need your karma fixed...well..that's what I'm here for.


I haven't decorated the page...written anything....nada. It's not glossy...but hey..it's a good cause.

Thanks again...

Read A Book

Word.

I Changed My Mind...Nigga Tastes Great

"I calls you my nigga, cuz I got love for you."

(This is for you.)

You hypocritical fuck.

Yeah you. I'm talking to you. Cuz you know daaaaamn well that word tastes GREAT.

I don't care what side of the human race your color falls on... it just does.

The same way yelling "Oh God...fuck me harder!" goes perfectly when you've got the right bloke on the stroke...hitting the right spot at the right time and don't give a damn if you need braces and a breath mint.

You know where I'm going. Like a great red wine and a perfectly marinated seared steak...like a kiss after three too many Cosmos...like eyes looking up at you when you're getting head...some shit just belongs.

And sometimes,...sometimes... "Nigga" has it's place. And let it take it's rightful place as one of the greatest stress-relievers of all time. Because that's exactly what the fuck it is.

I agree with (insert forgotten comedic genius who said this first here). When white people use the word, "Nigger"...and mean it (let's be clear about that ...) it takes about five pounds of misplaced racist stress right out of them. NIGGER...Poof! Ahhh.... White privilege may be constantly threatened, but not as long as you can use that ace in the hole of white angst. So let's say... if, while watching the BET hip-hop countdown you're secretly pissed off you can barely pay your rent and meanwhile, "TI" is "making it rain 20's" at some stripper, you can safely say (amongst those who'll nod in agreement), "Those niggers are crazy", and POOF! ...instantly feel better about your position in life! I mean, it's gotta be blamed on something...right? It'll also stop you from doing a Pumpkin yourself and spitting on hard-working baby-momma Lequisha at Stop and Shop. (Which, for the record, would be a fucking no-no.)

As for me, I've said "nigga" only when I truly...TRULY meant it and I don't just mean for people of African decent. I've called whites, puerto ricans, asians, babies...whoever the fuck deserved it... a nigga with no pause. Sure. I know initial definition and origin of the word is...but words, as do most things in life, change. Meanings change. Intentions change. Here's what I mean.

Cunt USED to mean "to conceal or hide". It was a verb. The word became a noun when the actual hiding place became known as a cunt. Dyke? Originally, a barrier blocking passage. A faggot is a bundle of twigs intertwined. Right.

Nigger? Comes from the spanish word "Negre'." meaning "black." Now...using a white persons uncanny ability to fuck up any Spanish pronunciation, try saying that word. What does it sound like?

Get where I'm going with this?

The word Negre changed to Nigger...Nigger..changed to Nigga but for most...the buck stops there. (pun...intended.) Because the Trans-Atlantic Slavery was such a stain on humanity, the term, which distinctly separated slave from owner, was also taboo. Slaves were "niggers", owners were not.

Nigger attached itself with a pitbull grip to the self-esteem of the African descendant. A nigger was not the thing you wanted to be...or strived to be..it was what you WERE. As for the African-decendants...well...we did what we did best. As we've always done. We made lemonade out of lemons. (Or rather...chitterlins outta pig intestines, depending on how you see thangs.)

We took a word used solely by owner to property...flipped it and made it our own...but changed the pronunciation. We made it warm. We cleaned up, made curtains out of the left over scraps of pride and called it home.

Gals in the 20's giggled amongst each other when another said about the guy working on the field down the road, "Ooh. That's a big nigga right there."

A sweet young thang in Harlem in the 70's said, "Nigga please..." when some jive turkey tried to make her love come down.

Boys in the hood in the 90's proudly proclaimed, "This is my nigga!" when introducing a new jack to his peoples and them.

Later that decade, in the best argument I've ever had to date, when asked, "Why are you being such a bitch", by my fiance, I quickly turned to face him, with a neck swivel and attitude that would have made Pam Grier proud, responded with the famous black woman preface, "Nigga let me tell you something..."

"So what you want nigga...want nigga? I got a six shooter and a horse named "Trigger"," Method Man warned to his kind..or any kind that tried to test him.

And when Method said "nigga", when Biggie said "nigga", when HIP-HOP said "nigga", you knew EXACTLY what it meant. Right underneath our noses, the word... changed. It was OURS. We owned it and had won the biggest battle in the history of slavery. Then...suddenly...it changed again.

It turned into the "N-word"...and instead of the term of endearment we'd scratched and clawed for, it became an ugly and hateful again. Whites wanted to know why, if we could use the word, they couldn't... and instead of asking, "Why the fuck do you want to?" we answered like five year olds. "Because you just can't, that's why."

But Puerto Ricans can! And our answer to that is..."Cuz Puerto Ricans live in the hood and are niggas too!"

No. Stop it. Cut it out. Either explain yourself without bullshit or take the power away for the damn thing altogether. No "funerals" for a word. No substitutes. Call a spade a spade. (Pun intended.)

I'm saying it. (tap-tap...is this thing on?)

From this moment on, white people can use the word, "nigga" too. That's right I said it.

Why?

Because if you live right next door to that mutherfucker who don't do shit but smoke weed all day and live with his baby momma, no matter what his color...until he do better...he's a nigga.

If that same dude never hesitates to knock on your door to see if you want to share this blunt with him and watch Sports Center cuz he knows yours is off, no matter what his color, that's your nigga.

If he sat down and let you tell the story of your moms dying, saw you cry and never told a soul...yep. That's your nigga right there.

If he made you make noises you never knew were possible...yep. That nigga blew your back out.

And lets not forget...it's a great stress reliever. ("Excuse me" gives off a different vibe than, "Nigga MOVE...")

Bottom line...it's a cultural thing. African descendants are so damn busy trying to erase culture, we hardly take the time to embrace the reason why it exists. I fully understand the Erykah Badu set will be up my ass in a minute about this post...but fuck you. In your heart, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about...so don't front. I'm still your nigga.

-Nye

PS. Next, we'll tackle "ho" & "bitch" and how those terms pole- jumped RIGHT over the color line. Cuz those fake tittied "Rock Of Love" ho's are worse than any nappy headed "Flavor Of Love" ho I've ever seen. Like.. whoa.

Why I'm Somebody's Ex - Wildcard Love

If what they say is "Nothing is forever" then what makes...what makes..what makes...love the exception?"

- Andre 3000

Friends. How many of us have them. Friends. Ones we can depend on. Friends. How many of us have them. Friends. Before we go any further lets be friends.

- Whodini

Believe it or not, I've actually been dumped. Not recently...(ha ha) but it has happened. On the other end of the spectrum, a time or two, I've also ended dating-ships and have gotten no objections when I dropped the hammer. (Those are the best. Ego crushers, sure,...but easy nonetheless.) Sometimes, the break was due to incompatibility. You know...bad timing, different goals, want me to be your everything, you're cheap, sex sucks...etc.

If I had to make a prediction about my future, I'm pretty sure I've, up till now, doomed myself to a lifetime of serial monogamy based on my beliefs.

Not really "Beliefs". More like "Beliefs Formally Known As Shortcomings".
Cuz I'm an asshole at times. (Somebody tell the Amen Corner to quiet down over there...) And I'm so fine with it...but every now and then, those "beliefs" come and bite me in the ass. And when your "beliefs" start crossing over to your friendships and you're not Archie Bunker...it's time to re-examine.

I have a few friends who... OK. I have a lot of friends. I know a lot of people. However, like most people...I have my "Starters", "Bench" and a few "Wildcards".

Starters... I don't even have to mention ya'll. You know who you are and have info on me that might make Paris Hilton blush.

Bench....you guys get a feeling who you are but I'm not going to blow you up, cuz yu might think you're a Starter.

Then there are the Wildcards. These are people I don't talk to on a regular, but damn it...I feel kinda special to know them. And because I don't speak to them on a regular... I'm really aware of the shit I do with them...and the excuses I make to cover up when I'm not giving them love right back. So this one is for you Wildcards.


Sonya -
So she comes in...loud and smiling. Smiling hard. Cheshire cat kinda smile. She knows something you don't. She's found the secret to joy...and it's Jack Daniels. Super Jack Daniels. And after about a few umtillion of 'em, she whips out her backcrackin table...and if you let her..she's re-adjust you, tell you why you chew harder on your left side and the reason why your Momma left your Daddy when you were three, all from rubbing your left earlobe. Then, she'll secretly get your address, send you cds full of music you've never heard of...for no reason at all. Just because.
This is my friend, and she does this, without knowing you for more than a week. Just because. And I forgot to wish her a Happy Birthday. (Happy Belated!) This makes me inconsiderate.

Shellena -
The southern drawl will crack you up. The sleepy eyes combined with the southern drawl...you might think this is overkill...but it's just her. The sweetest woman you'd ever meet. Oh..did I mention she's a looker? Always looking for love, and the wrong one always seems to find her. She's come to New York to visit me in every location I've lived in (that makes four times) over the course of our ten year friendship and I've gone to Tennessee to visit her...never. This makes me selfish.

Dele -
OK..the girl is just stunning. She'll smile and light up rooms. She'll always call for a quick get together when she's in town. Never loses touch. Thinks I'm a brilliant writer and tells me so over and over again. Takes in my whole life story and listens...offers WISDOM...not advice. Always shouts me out on my birthday and initiates get togethers...always. I've imitated get togethers...never. This makes me lazy.

China -
There's a featherbed I lie on daily that she gave me. And an expensive scarf. And countless bottles of wine. And she's fed me. Like...A FUCKING LOT. And listened to me bitch and moan about dumb shit. And she left the country. This hit me like a ton of bricks. Her only request... upgrade her computer and send it to Africa...free postage. I sent the computer to my guy in IT...they took FOREVER to upgrade it and one year later...it's now in my office. It's a dinosaur, making the upgrade kinda useless. This makes me a procrastinating punk.


So to all my Wildcards (and there are more, but these are the ones I've been particularly shitty to...) here is my public apology and something to make you feel better.

In no particular order: I'm selfish, a bit lazy, inconsiderate, and asshole and a procrastinating punk...and you've only experienced one of these wonderful traits for yourself, consider yourself lucky. Roll all that up and you're in a relationship with me.

Anyway, I know I can be a better friend and I'm sorry.

I'm trying out a new belief system. Hope you like it. Besides...the bench needs to be shaken up anyway.

The Harvey Standard (AKA...the Upgrade)

Well..(sigh) it has happened y'all.

Finally.

After all those times I laughed at Halle Berry when US magazine caught her coming out of her pool from the backside...

or when People Magazine caught Beyonce at a bad angle on the beach squatting down..

or when Pamela Anderson lifted up her skirt a little...

...it's finally my turn.

Looking in my bathroom mirror...to me, I look great. Not a thing wrong.

Sure, the bottom half could use some trimming, but everything is OK as long as I can fit into my Rock and Republics.

Mos def good for initial "underwear" presentation at least.

But then, I wore this skirt.

It's A-line, seersucker, very flowy...feminine ...sexy.

AND, there just happens to be a full length mirror in the bathroom at work. So hey.
Nobody is in the bathroom with me. Why not?

I lift up.

Wholly SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS...

..is that...(gasp and clutch the pearls)CELLULITE?!!

Ladies and gentlemen... life, or rather, youth, as I know it...is over. Officially.

Men don't seem to understand this and that is yet another reason why I'm hating. (Add it on to the "no biological clock" and "no saggy breasts" list.)

Anyway, what I see ain't cute. And the thing is...I KNEW it was coming.

About six months ago, I put my digital camera on "timer", and snapped a photo of myself from the backside.
(Not for internet use, nasty.)

It was a "before" photo. However, my "before" got sidetracked on the road to "after", and the next thing I knew, I'd missed a few weeks of step class, and my thighs were touching.

Anyway, I'd seen the bulge. A slight one. Nothing to be alarmed about. Just a tiny ripple in the thigh, caused by laying up, over eating and sitting on my ass all day at work. Easily fixed.

But I didn't fix it...and now, it's def con five.

The ripple has spread to my butt. Not too far down the legs, but far enough to make me haul my rippled ass to the gym.
PUN INTENDED.

So then, I began to wonder.

If I'M trying to get rid of these five-ten pounds of blubber that make me feel like bubble-wrap, what's Monique doing?
Yes. The comedienne Monique. I mean, if I've got it, I KNOW she's packin vacuumed packed peanuts in her thighs. But she could give a damn.

So what gives? Why do women (at least those of us who care) continuously bust our ass for smooth thighs, long, luxurious hair, and a six pack abs....when, most likely, the person that loves you could give a shit?

Really.

I've never heard, "Wow baby. I love you so much...and I really want to make love to you. But you need lipo. Today. Right now."

..ever.

But the point is... I CARE. I don't want to walk about looking like I'm smuggling marbles in my legs. And you know what? Men should give a damn too.

Have you ever heard a woman say, "I'm dumping my boyfriend because of his a)gut b)hairy ass c)tendency not to wash his ass (let's just assume anything having to do with a man's ass not being proper is grounds for dismissal.) d)pigeon toes e)dead skin on his thumb that he keeps biting...and that's why I think it's time to get rid of the double standard.

If we, as women want to compare ourselves to the Halle's, Beyonces and Pam Andersons of the world...then damn it. Let's give the men something to aim for.

(And gay men don't count. They keep it together for each other...and God bless you for it.)

I'm talking about straight men.

I'm talking about holding them to a higher standard.

The Harvey Standard.

If you don't know Harvey Walden...he's the fit coach featured on VH-1's "Celebrity Fit Club." An ex-Marine (ooooh....), big, black and fine as hell with a heart of gold. This dude even made Da Brat dress up in some heels, show some cleavage and strut down a runway. Blushing. Yeah...it's like that.

He's not all angry black man though. Harvey has heart. A lot of it.
Even for that really gay Ross kid from Leno, who he turned into a gay dime in 90 days. And he did it...not by yelling. But because the cast respected him. Hell...he got Warren G. over his fear of heights. Gangsta.

I mean, let's keep it real.
I'm not a fan of VH-1 Celebreality garbage, but for some reason, I stayed glued to fit club. Not because I wanted to see if Marsha Brady lost more weight...but just to hear Harvey say, "Ok. Step on the scale."

Ooooh. Okay Haaaarvey.

This season, he almost kicked Screech's ass...and I almost slid out of my chair.

The Harvey Standard.

You'll meet very few men who meet this standard, but when you do, you'll know it.

And the first thing you'll notice...is the body language. Upright. Manly. Confident.

The second thing you'll notice...they're not chasing every twat in the room. They have self control and respect.

Third thing you'll notice...manners. Real manners. Not "I just learned them today" manners. Door holding. Cab hailing. (I know. But they get one eventually.)

Finally....you'll notice, the shoes and the watch. (I'm sorry. Shoes and a watch say a LOT about a man. A LOT.)

There's more, but you get the point. If you ever find yourself in a situation where shit doesn't seem right, ask yourself WWHD?

That's right. What Would Harvey Do?

And it's not a co-winkie-dink that Harvey happens to be an ex-Marine.
I have NEVER met an ex-Marine that didn't meet the grade. Not ever.

Gotta go. Gotta hit the gym, get my toes done, eyebrows done, lip waxed...(the 30's are REAL)...and do some maintenance. Not for anyone but me.

If you do the same...do the damn thing girl.

And if you're a guy who hasn't seen a gym since High School... get scared.
I'm starting a revolution fellas. You betta get right.

(Now if I could only get my old tits back. HEAVY SIGH...)

-Nye

Damn Verizon...

That's just dirty. Still leaving you for the iPhone though.

Top Five ....

This isn't up for discussion.

This is a Dictatorship. Now turn towards my picture and praise me and my declarations, in all their fantastic glory.

I. Am. Awesome.

Movies (Action):

5. The Matrix
4. Terminator 1
3. Terminator 2
2. Aliens (..yes. With an "s")
1. Die Hard


Hip Hop Artists - Dead or Alive:

5. Jay-Z
4. De La Soul
3.
2.Notorious BIG
1.Rakim

(# 3 reserved for Esso's wise 2cents. Yeah, she get to spend em. She's earned it.)

Love Songs That Contributed To My Virginity Loss:
5. Make It Last Forever - Keith Sweat
4. Moments In Love - Art Of Noise
3. Dry Your Eyes - The Deele (...during a summer storm. It was a close one.)
2. Stay - Jodeci (...he sang it. My 17 year old boyfriend, I mean. Almost a goner.)
1. Adore - Prince (Now you know why it was stenciled on my wall Mom. Enjoy.)

Cartoons:
5. Transformers
4. South Park
3. He-Man
2. Jem (fuck off. DICTATORSHIP I SAID!)
1. Tom And Jerry

Kung Fu Movies:
5.Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
4.Drunken Master
3.Killer Bees
2.Anything containing the Sho-Lin Monks. ANYTHING.
1.Five Deadly Venoms

HONORABLE MENTION: Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2 (I see you Q. I see you.)

Sisters:
5. Keena
4. Jessica
3. Donnie
1. Shervon
1. Dana
(They're both #1. Awww...)

Childhood Games I'll Still Wax Ya Ass In:
5. Scalzies
4. Ringo-levio
3. Charades
2. Double Dutch
1. Spades (What? Everybody didn't learn this game at seven?)

...more to come.

-Nye

American

I use the word "bitch" a lot in this post. And I mean it. Every single time.

2AM

I'm still awake. Actually, I'm sitting on my travel bag, pleading with the zipper to make it to the other side. I'd already gotten rid of the "BRAZIL" bikini and the "WHOLLY SHIT...I LOOK FUCKING GREAT IN THIS.." bikini. Also left behind are two "just in case" generic looking Gap tee-shirts and one pair of flip flops.

By omitting these few items, I'd gone from "there's no fucking way this thing is going to close" to "it might just happen". And happen it did. If it's not in there, then it's not coming. Fuck it. In twelve hours, I'll be leaning over a bridge in Costa Rica, marveling at the crocodiles below. Laughing and slightly buzzed...thanks to the grocery store we'll stop at along the way. This is going to be great.

4:45AM

"Do you have any luggage?"

"Just these."

Anna, in her official faded red American Airlines blazer shakes her head.

"If you didn't have those, I would let you on."

"We can't carry this on?"

Anna shakes her head and directs the people on another line to the next ticket agent.

I notice briefly that American Airlines seems to be the only airline who has "red blazer" people, who's job is to point you to the next ticket agent. That's it. No other purpose. Oh...or to say you can't get checked in. I check my watch...our plane takes off in 45 minutes. It's sorta like waiting for a meteor to hit the Earth, and there's nothing you can do. Because the bitch in the red blazer said so.

5:30AM

Yep. We're still on line.

Anna lets everyone else bypass us and go up to the ticket counter, claiming she doesn't want to traffic jam the agents. We complain. Then get annoyed. But we still haven't journeyed to the dark side until...

Anna looks at us...and then down at our bags.

"Why didn't you carry those on?"

Blink. Blink.

"You just said we couldn't."

"No...you could."

"Can you check us in?"

Anna lazily walks over to an agent and returns with arms folded.

"No. It's too late. Sorry."

"Look. The plane takes off in fifteen minutes. We can still make it if you..."

"No. Sorry."

Anna almost got jumped.



8:05AM

Mr. Santorelli is going apeshit.

His family of four just had their seats given away since they went for a stroll in the airport. Santorelli Jr. begins to cry. Mrs. Santorelli holds the Santorelli daughter...who is too young to understand that their vacation is fucked. But back to Mr. Santorelli...

"This is completely unacceptable! Nobody told us!!"

"Sir, you should have been at the gate ten minutes prior to boarding..."

"This is insane! Nobody told us that!!"

I actually feel kinda bad. I mean, crying kids and all...geez. However, I don't feel too bad. Thanks to the Santorelli lollygaggin, four people ahead of us on stand-by made that plane, therefore, we've moved up the list. While checking our names in the computer, the ticket agent notices two people are still on the list. He tells the OTHER agent. (OTHER meaning: The agent who referred to all the stand-by passengers as "these people", and thought nobody heard her. )

The OTHER agent then goes into the computer...deletes "these people" who made the plane from the system, allowing the ticket agent I was speaking with to us up.

Next flight...11:20. Well..at least we have time to hit McDonalds. I deserve a McGriddle damn it.

11:10AM

My arms are folded and my stare hasn't broken in five minutes.

By this time, the Santorelli family should be settling into their seats, buckling their belts, sighing with relief. Their vacation, a bit delayed, but not ruined. Ours...however...

"They made the plane because they have executive status. The computer does it automatically. I have no control over that." The OTHER agent tells me.

"Yes you do. I was there when an agent moved us up, so you obviously can manipulate the order. So now, in addition to taking this very personally, I'm offended because you lied to me."

"Ma'am, I know what you're getting at, and really, it's not like that."

"Really?"

...now, let me interrupt and say this before I go on.

Anyone who knows me...KNOWS how reluctant I am to play this card. I just don't do it. For starters, however easy it is to call someone out on their prejudice shit, and although I know white privilege exists, it's a bitch to prove. So when you do this, you'd better have your game tight. Besides, I usually take the fun route. Become a total pain the ass. You know. Push things to an unbelievably annoying peak, whereas, the wrong doer retrospectively wishes they would have just treated me fairly than jerk me around.

Anyway, yeah...I took it there.

"Ma'am, you tell me what I should think. I was there, when the Santorelli family missed their flight. And it was their fault. They should have been placed on the back of the stand-by list, instead, we were bumped to accommodate them. Now, call me crazy, but there's only one difference I see between the Santorelli family and mine."

"Ma'am, anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a racist. I have black friends, I know plenty..."

"I didn't call you a racist. I asked you to tell me what I should think."

"I know how it looks, and I assure you..."

"So, please tell me why the Santorelli family are on the way to Miami, and I'm still sitting in this airport...since 4:45AM."

"Ma'am, would you please tell me the story from the beginning."

I do.

As I tell the story, an American Airline manager and a Port Authority Police Officer show up...in response to the "411" that was called. They asked her what was going on. She turned red. Really red...and never answers.

Yep. The bitch called the cops on me.

Funny. I don't remember Mr. Santorelli getting a "411".

I stare daggers at the OTHER agent, and cock my head to the side.
Oh no you fucking didn't.

"Now let me ask you a question. How, are you going to make this right?"

The officer shakes his head, and leaves.



Midnight

The room smells like old sex. Lots of old sex. Prostitute sex. Cheat on my husband sex. I'm gay and don't want anyone to know sex.

"Don't touch anything." I giggle.

We look like shit. We smell..well...close to it. Feeling? Broken.

Miami International Airport Hotel seems like a good idea when you've been awake for over 24 hours and traveling for 21. But it's not. Don't do it. Ever. Not even if the "OTHER" agent gives you a free voucher and meal credit.

I'm not even going to go into it, but all I'm going to say is I didn't brush my teeth because the water was yellow. And smelled like urine. No lie.

(I purposely skipped over the six hour layover in Boston because, to be honest, I slept through most of it in an uncomfortable rocking chair. Personally, I can't stand Boston. The "what are YOU doing here" stare is definitely in effect. However, they have the highest concentration of hot men that will never...ever bring you home to Mama on the planet. Oh...and a lot of baseball caps. A fucking lot.)


10AM (Costa Rican Time)

I laugh. Pia says she almost wrote "black" down as her nationality on her immigration card. I chuckle, not because she's stupid (far from) because I remember making the same mistake when I first traveled internationally.
There was something in my soul that made me want to AT LEAST jot down "African" before that "American", but to a Costa Rican, that would make no sense. None at all.

Why?

Because the minute we de-plane'd American Airlines flight 988 from Miami to Costa Rica, we left the "African" part on the plane. I know you may not know what I mean, but let me try to explain.

The first thing you notice when you encounter any Costa Rican is, no longer present is the "pause". That tiny, eighth of a second pause when, in America, people shift their normal social personality into their "I'm dealing with a black person" persona. Anyhoo...unknowingly, all Americans do this. All of them. Black, white...we all do it when dealing with a black person because of your own prejudices and belief in stereotypes. (Yes, blacks too. Bougie vs. Ghetto...you know what I mean.)

This shit simply does not exist in Costa Rica.

...and it's pretty fucking nice.

Because coming home...

5:45 AM

Of course the flight is cancelled. Of course it is.
No "red jacket" told us this. The actual agent did. And sorry, there's nothing we can do.

It's cool.

We're on the next flight out...nothing to worry about. Pura vida. I'll just go shopping.

"Hola!"

"Hola papi...coma estas?"

"Bien! Habla espanol?"

"Un poco..."

"Americana?"

"Si..."

"Que linda..."

"Mucha gracias..."

"I will leave you to your shopping. Adios Linda.."

"Gracias. Adios.."

And he did.

And that's when it hits me. I look around.

People could care less that I was there. Nobody even blinked. I could TOTALLY shove ten shirts in my bag..and nobody would notice. Not that I'd want to, but if I did, I COULD. Why? Because I'm not being followed. Or watched. In a STORE.

Nor was I followed, watched, stared at, "paused" on, ignored or paid too much attention to... at all. EXCEPT...when we walked into places where other "Americans" were.

Americans stared.

Americans removed themselves from the hot tub when we entered.

Americans left the pool the minute we arrived.

Americans greeted other Americans with "hi" and "where are you from?"s...but ignored our greetings.

Americans "paused".

...Americans managed to bring that stupid shit with them.

Just hope it doesn't contaminate the Costa Ricans.

To be fair, not all Americans. Anyone I've ever met from Arkansas have always been mad cool. (Shout out to Katie and the crew!)



2:15pm Costa Rican Time

Eyes everywhere.

When you haven't been black for 48 hours, it fucking hurts coming back to life.

The flight to Miami was located at Gate 4A3, which was downstairs.
The minute we walked into the waiting area containing mostly Americans...we were welcomed home.

I sat quietly, opened my book and tried to ignore the woman next to me shifting uncomfortably after she peeked at the title.

"Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl"

"Oh for the LORD!! What is with all the damn shifting? Did you NOT know this happened? Don't I seem sorta...over it? I mean, I'm sitting next to you, aren't I? JESUS...can we PLEASE just get over this already?"

...OK. I didn't say that. I wanted to though. Badly.

...just as badly as I'm sure she wanted to ask me, "What are you doing here?"


"I go back to... I go back to...black." - Amy Winehouse

Black People Don't....(My new baby)

SO... I started a new blog.

(Don't worry...I'm still keeping this one.)

It's more of a "review of the world through the eyes of a black woman with disposible income" kinda thing.

...if that makes any sense.

Anyway, if you're a fan of this blog (all three of you) check out the new one and let me know what you think.

The easy way to get there, click on my profile and you'll see a link.

The hard way... cut and paste. (Amazing. THAT is considered HARD. Damn I'm lazy.)

http://www.blackpeopledont.blogger.com

-Nye

I Am Not My Hair

This is what my hair looks like today. No lie.

Now, everyone says they like it. (Everyone at work, that is...but to say I'm a nappy headed ho is an HR offense apparently...)

But I have a feeling, had I been rocking a white ruffle shirt and a long purple overcoat, the laughter would begin.

It's fine. I didn't have time to style the INSANELY tight curls this morning without calling in sick.

I pulled them though.

And pulled. AND PULLED...and at first...I looked a bit like her...

...but without the fragile church body.

So I pulled some more. And suddenly...I saw the clock.

I had two minutes to make my train, and I looked like I was about to whup Charlie Murphy's ass in basketball and then serve him pancakes. (If you don't get that reference, shame on you. I already gave you one of the funniest comedy clips in history. Hath you no cable?)

Suddenly...I remembered the number one rule of fashion...

Fake it.

And with faking it means walking a certain way...you know. The "I'm the shit" way.

And suddenly, heads turned.

Now, it could have been the attitude...

Or the crazy amount of cleavage I had bouncing, which I didn't notice till I sat down on the subway and happened to look down.

I'm talking, Victoria's Secret..Very Sexy Demi Push Up type cleavage.

And it was bouncin all over the place.

And above hair...men like tits. Actually, everyone likes tits.

So back when I was 21, and I dyed my hair platinum blond, I thought people were staring at me because I was...well...black with platinum blond hair.

Nope.

It was because I had my tits hanging out.

And when I cut it all off, and got a blunt bob...I thought it was that.

Nah-uh. Nor when I put cold "Missy Misdemeanor Elliot" waves in it, (though I was going for Josephine Baker...)

...nor when I rocked fake blond dreads.

Or braids down to my ass.

Or an afro like Florida Evans.

Or a relaxed layered look.

Or a big natural curly...thing...a la...Scary Spice.

All that matters to people who don't know you upon first meeting...are tits and a smile.

That's it.

And if I were Reverend Run, I'd type that shit in my Sidekick while I sank into my bubble bath at the end of the day...cuz it's the truth.

Example...

Dolly Parton's hair looks like shit. Always has. However...

I'm sure I could come up with more examples, but I'm pressed for time.

The point is, my best friend has big tits. Big ones. And long hair.

And though her hair gets complimented on constantly, her tits don't...but she gets to cross the street AGAINST the light, regardless of whether her hair is out and flowing up pinned up.

Don't wonder why. Don't play games with me.

So ladies, I'm not saying this because I was initially insecure about my hair...OK. That's a lie, I am saying it because I was initially insecure about my hair.
However, my insecurities benefit YOU.

Why? Because you have tits*. And your hair really doesn't mean jack squat.
It really doesn't. And once and for all...say it with me...

WEAVES ARE BAD. Just watch "Charm School". That'll set you straight.

If you're going to fake anything ladies, let it be the tits.

You're welcome.

-Nye

*If you don't have tits and look like you have two backs, I'm sure you have ass.
If you don't have that either...wow. You just might be screwed.

Habitual Line Stepper

So I threw a Cinco De Mayo/Fight Party.

I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing...In Perfect Harmony...

<em>I recently posed this thought to you guys ....

On Will Farrell’s website “Funny Or Die”, I came across this.

http://sjl.funnyordie.com/v1/view_video.php?viewkey=96369ab93e4f3bb068c2

Now, I’m not going to lie… I thought it was funny.

I even forwarded it. But hours later, I started to feel a bit conflicted as to why I thought this was funny.

Was it just funny, and I was thinking too deep?

I laughed it off as having my having a warped sense of humor, (because I thought the clip a friend of mine sent me about some dude in a mask running up to women and pulling their tube-tops down was hysterical…but that’s the 14 year old in me.)


Anyway…I started to think about this because hey…let’s face it….



If this was about black people, I might be pissed off….UNLESS it was on Chappelle Show. Why? Cuz Dave has a “black pass”. (BTW…“Mind of Mencia’s “Stereotype Olympics” crushes Chappell’s “Racial Draft” like you wouldn’t BELIEVE…)

Double standard? Hell yeah. But does this doubled standard confine me to only laughing at racially offensive jokes when it’s about my own, or does the double standard give me liberty to laugh at everyone? Do I get an “honorary Latino pass” because most of my siblings are half Latino?

Slippery slope, huh? A little thing I like to call the Imus Conundrum. (Where are the Archie Bunkers and George Jeffersons when you need them?)


Anyway, I’ve blind copied as diverse of a group as I could to get your take on this one. Black, White, Latino, Asian, Jewish, gay and straight…(yeah, I know a lot of people. LOL…)

But since it’s not about blacks…I thought the shit was funny…but for the same reason I think the following joke from Whoopi Goldberg is funny…

A black baby dies and is suddenly finds himself with wings. So as soon as he learns how …he starts flying around Heaven.

He’s just having a ball…doing loops, dives, speeding up, slowing down… just loving his new wings.

He asks to see God, and when he does…he flies before God and asks…

“God…I have WINGS! Am I an angel?”

God rolls his eyes and says, “No Nigga, yous a bat.”


Anyway…watch if you get a minute and comment if you get a minute.


Watch and if you have a moment, give me your thoughts…. AND, if this was on “Mind Of Mencia” would it be funny?



PS. For me, you can put any stereotype in here and it would work.

Stereotype + Making Someone’s Life Easier =’s Comedy

A Nigerian Scandal Think-tank that helps corrupt companies like Enron… “Running out of money-grubbing shady ideas? Tired of pesky employees wondering where their 401k money is going? Introducing the “Nigerian Hustle-o-matic”…from the makers of the “White-Privilege Badge”. Here’s how it works….

Or…

A Travel Middle-Eastern buddy that helps you get undivided attention from flight attendants…

(Tired of being ignored by your flight attendant? Introducing “Travel-Arab”, from the makers of the “Oh No He Didn’t – Sista-Girl Conflict Resolver”. Travel-Arab will insure you NEVER get ignored by a flight attendant again…here’s how it works….”

I could do this for DAYS…

What does that make me?

Here's what I got back....

A Black Woman:

The thing with comedy, is that there's some truth to it and that's the part that stings.

Lower class Mexicans might not find the Humor in that video clip, Upwardly mobile Mexicans may find it funny and then there's the Al Sharpton Mexicans who think its racist and might want to March in front of the station but only if they have their Green cards and what kind of March is it with only 3 people marching...You feel me (was that a racist comment or truth)? If you are in a group of oppressed people, who are afraid to speak out. Then this will, I'm sorry to say...Continue to happen. We saw the same in justices 4 Centuries ago, Hell we were the Mexicans...

I think Imus's comes in all shades and many are still in front of the Microphone, he was just a scapegoat. Star & Buck Wild had a White girl on there show, that they referred to as white girl. Now what kind of nonsense is that?

This is a country that boast about having "Freedom Of Speech" but these days the speeches need to be proof read and approved. What kind of foolishness is that, can someone tell me?

All that is to say, I thought the Video clip was funny but when will a joke go to far...Just ask your buddy Imus!

A Black Man:

I think the clip is funny, but again it goes back to who is telling the joke and if they really feel in their heart of hearts that Mexican people are inferior.

I feel the problem with racial jokes is what they reinforce to people in decision making positions, and the impact they can and do have on children.

Ok-

That shit was funny…

Wrong and inappropriate like Imus?- yes

Racially insensitive- yes, probably

Will the Immigration society (or [Mexican Friend]) find it humorous? NO.

BUT- you have to look for it to see and hear it… not visible to the naked eye, and too ambiguous of a group of people to blame.

It’s interesting.. walking the very fine line of entertainment and offensiveness is never anyone’s finest hour, but in the end humor presides most situations. Whether folks like to admit it or not.

Any nappy headed ho that don’t like can take a drive with a drunken Indian..

(see my point)

A Puerto Rican Man:

That makes u a funny muthafcuker

A White Man:

I think my main issue here is that the sketch just isn't that funny. It's totally obvious. There is some humor there, but it's humor anyone could get out of the same source material. No edge, no nothing. It actually plays like a slightly more subtle version of what is on Mind of Mencia - which I find absolutely humor-free 99% of the time.

How all of this reflects on you is a far more interesting conversation. I think it's important to remember that stereotypes exist for a reason - and usually that reason is to make us laugh. The problem is that most people looking to exploit stereotypes for laughs go the cheap and easy route rather than telling us something new or turning a stereotype on it's head. For every great joke born from a stereotype (Q: Why did the Puerto Rican Starve to death? A: His food stamps were under his his work boots.) there are roughly 1000 "white people can't dance" or "you might be a redneck" stinkers out there. That's a double edged sword because while the easily digestible material makes it safer for really good comics to stretch the boundaries, the glut of bullshit makes really good stereotypical jokes tougher to find.

The bigger picture to me (and this may be telling about my personal racial insensitivities) is that anything CAN be funny. Which is not to say that everything is funny, but in the right hands, I can be made to laugh at anything. Just the other day I was laughing at a picture of the twin towers collapsing because someone had photoshopped Hulk Hogan kicking them down. That was funny to me.

So maybe I'm not really qualified to comment.

Black Man:
"I Egggh... I didn't think it was that funny.. wasnt that offensive either."


...and then there's me. And you already know what I think.

"A man's wife runs up to him and says, "Honey, my watch broke. I need a new one."
The man looks at his wife and says, "What's wrong with the clock on the stove?" "

Thank you and good night.

Random Thoughts

Ready? It's time for another edition of "Random Thoughts".

Instructions: Read each thought. Some you may not agree with. Some you may or may not get, depending on how in tune with my life you are. (And really, if you get everything, you're a little scary and I think we need some time apart.) You all tucked in? Heeeeere we go...


I just want to learn spanish so I can sing salsa songs and get it. When Latinos sing salsa songs (especially the slow ones) don't they look like they are saying something really DEEP? Hell..even when they are reciting reaggaeton. I know the beat is hot, but the lyrics? I know it has something to do with being proud to be Puerto Rican (because all the songs have that in them...) but how proud are you? I wann know. Or at least sound convincing when I say that part in "Hips Don't Lie". You know...towards the end.... when Shakira says "Mira en Barranquilla se baila así!". Cuz that shit just sounds hot. Yeah. That's why I want to learn it. But let's be clear. This does not mean I want to understand J.Lo's new album. Whining is whining in any language. Her husband...now THAT mutherfucker BLOWS. (In the black way...not the white way. Not "bad" meaning "bad" but "bad" meaning "good". You hip?) Anyway...yeah Mark blows...and I want to know what he's saying. And when he's banging out Jenny, does he whisper in her ear in spanish? (It happened to me once. I HIGHLY recommend this.) And when she says "Ay"...(because you have to when a Puerto Rican is banging you out...trust me.) ...does she now try to sound like Beyonce' and Shakira on "Beautiful Liar."? I would.

AND I want to be in on the joke when George Lopez does stand up. Listen to it. You'll see what I mean.

I just want to learn guitar because when I'm sad, I want to strum that shit and sing a song that matches my mood. I also want to learn as many kid songs as possible because Jayla and Vanessa are three, and to them...when I finish playing "Wheels On The Bus"...I'll be a fucking ROCK STAR. My next door neighbor is my teacher, but on ice right now and his wife avoids me...which is awkward, because I'm avoiding her at the same time. And we both know it.

Shakira sounds like shit in English.

I think the prescription in my new glasses is too strong, but I refuse to take them off becuase they look fucking great. And I realize that I only did this shit(got glasses) because I need a drastic change...which is why I get my braces next week. (Don't ask why I'm getting braces. You know why. Let's not play this game.) So it's either braces and glasses, or a tattoo on my arm and I shave my head. But the latter is so Britney Spears.

Twenty-Six songs come on the Motown 1's cd. Now, the funny thing about Motown is you never want to hear it when you conciously make a decision to play it. You only want to hear it when you stumble on that shit. OK...except "The Temptations" and "Four Tops". That shit is good no matter what. Especially "Ain't Too Proud To Beg". ("I KNOW you wanna leave me...but I refuse to let you go..." SING THAT SHIT DAMN IT! Will somebody go find "The Funk Brothers" STAT!

Amy Winehouse is the closest we've come. Sad.

Yo Momma's so fat when the Lord said, "Let there be light..." ...and there wasn't any, He sucked his teeth, looked at yo Momma and said, "Move Bitch!"

The next time I do karaoke...I'm doing "Shout". And I dare you not to join in. Triple Dog Dare you. (Name that movie.)

Love is not an act of will. So doing stupid shit in the name of it is quite beyond your control. You can't start love, or end it whenever you want it. Trust me. Had I been able to fall in love when I wanted to, with who I wanted to... I wouldn't be working right now. Church.

Who came up with "Church"? My bet is Snoop.

NOW WAAAAAAAAAAIT A MINUTE! I FEEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLL RIIGHT.... (wait for it...)





YOU KNOW YOU MAKE ME WANNA.....

KICK MY HEELS UP AND ...

THROW MY HEAD BACK AND ....

THROW MY HANDS UP AND ...

HEYYY-EH-AAAYYYYY....

...want me to keep going...don't you?



White people don't know they are white. OK...some of them do. But most of them don't. Crazy, right? Because everyone who isn't white is fully fucking aware they are not. ALL DAY.

I officically have a headache thanks to my glasses. But they are Vera Wang. I'm ruining my eyes for fashion. I'm turning into a gay man.

...a little bit softer now...


a little bit softer now...
a little bit softer now...
a little bit softer now...


..A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...
A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...
A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW...



..and I love Jude. Go to Paris baby. America doesn't appreciate you.

-Nye

How To Be Black This Week

My given name is Nyree Taratibu-Daima Emory. My mother gave me this name and I like it. Actually, I like it alot. (The chick who fitted me for eye-glasses...her name was Millicent.

(beat)

Like I said, I like my name...a lot.

You know what I really like about it? Whenever I hear "Wow. That's pretty. Where is that from?" and I hit them with "New Zealand". HA!! Take THAT!(Insert the "Wow. That's not African?" look here.) I tend to follow it up with the story of "Nyree Dawn Porter", whom which every Nyree born within the last 35 years is familiar.
She's an actress...and long story short...my Moms bit her name. I'm not mad at it.

Now, the Taratibu-Daima part, well, we can blame that on a pot-smoking, post-'Nam vet loveable cat I like to call my father. My paternal aunt Maurica was seeing an African, and since black people were fresh off of the Civil Rights movement, my father wanted me to have an African name. And he was high. So mystery African pulled "Taratibu-Daima" out his ass, and had my father not been out banging some chick that lived in Parkchester while my mother was pushing me out (true story..I met her. But that's another post...) there's a chance that my first name would be "Taratibu-Damia". And I'm pretty sure he would have held me up in the air butt-ass naked as an infant and said, "Taratibu-Daima. Behold...the only thing greater than yourself." (Like I said, he smoked a lot of pot back in the day, I'm sure it would have happened.)

Now "Taratibu-Daima" actually does mean something. "Everlasting Peace", or so I was told. Every African I've asked has never heard of these words...stating "must be a dialect I'm not familiar with." So it could very well mean, "Neice of American Bootie Call", but I prefer to be optimistic.

Why all the set-up Nye? This is why.

Sunday night, I started watching "Roots" on TV One. Now, I'm pretty sure you've seen it...and so did I...however, I was four years old. The only images I could remember were the following:

1)Kunta in a net.
2)Kunta eating some white stuff out of his hands.
3)Kunta dancing on a ship.
4)Kunta being whipped till he said his name was "Toby".
5)Louis Gosset Jr.'s bad teeth.
6)James Evans getting his foot chopped off.

So I get through night one and the whole thing is pretty familiar, right? Kunta gets caught and strapped on to a ship, preparing for the Middle Passage. I know all this. It's fine. I'm used to it. However, I'm now at an age where I can understand complex English. So the images are familiar, however, the dialouge? Brand fucking new.
For instance, the heartwarming Middle Passage phrase, "we use the nigger wenches for crew relief". ("Nigger wench" translated for modern times is "Nappy Headed Ho", just so you're aware. Ahem.)

So anyway, I watch the whole episode, and I'm bothered, but it's the usual "bothered". Nothing I'm unaccustomed to. Then I come to work and have to deal with this Don Imus shit.

I'm not going to get into it, but the asshole lost his MSNBC gig behind it. Good. Great. However, I had a day long email discussion that spilled over into an evening discussion at home that lead right into the second night of "Roots"...which I refused to watch. I wanted something light. That's right. "Dancing With The Stars."

Now, Laila Ali goes first, and she's good. Not as great as she's been before, but good. She gets shitty marks. I'm subconciously screaming "racism", but keeping it cool. I just dealt with slave raping and Imus in the last 24hrs. Don't take it personally Nye.

BUT THEN... Clyde Drexler gets shitty marks. I mean, he gets a "4"...which is un-fucking-heard of!!! So now, I'm just WAITING on Billy Ray Cyrus right, because this man moves as if he's autistic. And during the pasa doble... he does exactly what I thought he was going to do. He silently counts...he fucks up his foot work...flailing arms like a dying chicken od'ing on a gram of coke. So I think...OK. He's going to get shitty marks to...and that motherfucker gets "7"'s across the board!! So I turn to TV One. Fuck this...I'm watching "Roots".

And so I did. And the replay to catch everything I miss. And I get some more goodies...like "Breeding Wenches", "Nigger Gossip" and a few great groveling scenes that sorta went like "No boss! Toby be a good nigger for massa! You see! Toby be a good nigga boss!" with big wide grins on James Evans. JAMES EVANS kid! That's like seeing your father on the ground begging and shit...ooh, I'm mad.

So the next day, I grab my copy of "Voices From Slavery" and start reading some narratives on my way to work. And I can't lie, though I did come across some where the former slaves were treated well...I skimmed them. Who wants to hear about how "Massa sho was good. Us had plenty to eat, and new shoes every winter."? Not me. That just pissed me off, more so than the narratives about those who got whipped and had salt rubbed in the wounds...then left in the sun. (No lie.)
I was probably pissed because these slaves had no idea they weren't being treated well no matter how many shoes they got..because, um...hello... they were SLAVES.

So I'm on the Metro North and I'm hot and everytime I see someone trying to peek at my book title, I close it so my fellow passenger gets a good look at the title. That's fucking right.

I'm walking through Grand Central Station, and no longer do I see the random faces in the crowd that I ignore every morning. Suddenly, I'm fully fucking aware that I'm a decendant of slaves (who couldn't do shit about it), walking amongst decendants of slave owners. And I get angrier. Because NOW, I'm thinking, this sense of entitlement whites have is begat from their former status as slave owners and on a very elementary level, most still believe that shit. So now... I'm a lip curl and moan away from growling.

I get to work...and my next door neighbor says, "What's up Yo?" and he's not black.
Nothing new. It happens every day, but today, I HEAR it...and dig my nails into my flesh to prevent myself from going in his office and saying in my best Bobby DeNiro, "OHHH!...Paisan. You mouilan now? Then stop talking like us already! Fuggetabout it!!".

But I don't. Nor do I leave my office much. Especially so I don't have to talk to th co-worker who shared her family had "so much more" until the slaves on the plantation revolted. To which I replied, "Well, maybe if ya'll treated them better, they wouldn't have revolted." She laughed. I wasn't trying to be funny.

Back home...at 8pm. The next installment of "Roots".

Now in this one, Kunta has all the "run" beat out of him. He's old. He's broken. His daughter "Kizzy" (which means "stay put" in Mandika) is taught to read by Sandy Dunkin, and helps her man escape. Dude gets caught, confesses Kizzy forged a slave pass and Kizzy gets sold off. That bitch didn't even unpack and Massa rapes her while Helen Willis cleans her wounds. Kizzy then becomes...guess what? An "angry black woman", while her coon-ass son Chicken George dances and smiles.

At this point, I'm just sick. Yeah, men had it hard, but the women. DAMN. We were getting raped left and right and had no choice.

So I thought about it ya'll.

Like I said, I like my name. What if...at some point, some dude from, I don't know,
Kazakstan snatched me up on my way to work, strapped my ass to the bottom of a boat for three months, in which I was raped on a regular, forbade me to speak English, called me "Binti" and kept on raping me till I got knocked up. Then put me to work...
everyday...all day. Or just made me a "breeder". Or my owner's "Nigger wench"?

I used to hear about all of the mess going on in Africa and say, "Thank God for slavery" as a joke. I now realize that saying that, is a slap in the face to every woman in my maternal linage, from my mother...all the way up to that one young girl who survived being snatched away from her family in Africa, being raped repeatedly on a boat for well over three months, and then raped some more. She was so...unbelievable strong ...because she fucking SURVIVED it. Wow.

So from this day forth, you will not hear the word "Nigger" escape my lips. Nor will I tolorate mockery of my people from anyone else. ESPECIALLY my own. I hold my own more accountable than any other race. Oh...and if I hear "the N word", I will politely ask the person to say "Nigger" or nothing at all. If you are just using it to reference with no harm intended, there should be no shame in saying it. Should there?

And no, I'm not all of a sudden hating white people guys. They have nothing to do with the bullshit their ancestors put my ancestors through, so we can call it even and move on from this point. And I'm not an "angry black woman" either. It happened. I'm sure the Japanese, Irish and the Jews can meditate on what happened with their people as well and be quite pissed off too. Quite. Sure, the recovery time varies, but injustice has been done. So let's just say I'm a little more...aware now. And it feels fucking great.

So like I said, I love my name. It think it fits me. My parents gave me my name, and I'm very proud of it....(even if it does mean "New Zealand African American Bootie Call". Ha. Ha.) I'm also fully aware that I'm a hybrid of two or more cultures...be it by rape or consent. No need to be angry about it... because, hell, I'm here. And that's not because of Massa being in the slave quarter...that's because Charles and Loretta got hot in the pants, got busy and decided to ignore the "Roe Vs. Wade" verdict. (THANKS AGAIN!!)

Part Four is tonight. Check it out if you get a chance.

...Or at LEAST vote for Clyde Drexler....cuz that Billy Ray Cirus pasa doble was bullshit.

-Nye