White America: Come Collect Your People.

I imagine you're at a crossroads about whether or not Dax Shepard and Kristin Bell have crossed the event horizon into annoying or, at least, annoyingly cute.

Maybe you're consciously resentful of the accusations of plagiarism dogging Taylor Swift's music video for  "Not My Fault: A White Woman's Journey (I'm not sure of the title.) Perhaps you feel like Beyonce has enough praise and should learn how to share.

Is it almond milk?

Whatever the answer is, I have to make my peace with the fact that I'm just unequipped of the prerequisite cream cheese preferences to know what exactly is on white people's minds Though, that is not to say that I don't WANT to know. 

I'm by no means the self-anointed spokesperson for East Coast Niggadom, but we've all wondered what it's like to be white, right? To use phrases like "that nice policeman..." or respond with the nonsensical descriptor of  "mid-day" when someone asks you for the time. 

Even if it were just to have people take me seriously when I offer a fantastic recipe for a quinoa and heirloom tomato salad. I can't help but wonder at what it must feel like to walk through this country in what has to be the equivalent of 'plot armor' as far as the conceptual relics for the basis of this country is concerned. All of which leads me to another speculative chasm: what do White people think about the white people warranting the unironic usage of 'white people.'

I ask because this is the first time I can remember seeing white people employ an organized effort to collect their own. Almost as if White America has had to reconcile segments of itself and, unlike usual, POC may not be left to clean up from the fallout by themselves.

Perhaps this is a case of me treating an Instagram thirst trap as if it's Langston Hughes's lost works (i.e., reading too deeply into a situation that doesn't merit the scrutiny.). However, I don't believe that's true in this case. We watched as several white supremacists beat Deandre Harris until his blood coated the cement of that parking garage. We watched as they fired guns into a crowd with no fear of action on behalf of the officers present because that's counter to the narrative this country has reinforced their entire lives. We watched as America ate itself.

Though despite my cynicism, I've also witnessed White America not only condemn these sentient herpes diagnoses masquerading as human beings in the harshest of terms but also go as far as to make these assholes catch that work. I won't deny the subtle yet heady tingle I get whenever I see a white person educate a racist with the five fist exploding palm technique (the benefits of which recently demonstrated by the character in Street Fighter that's blacked out until you beat the game on 'expert,' Colleen Dagg.) Because of this, I can sympathize to an extent. 

Forget the White Supremacists like David Duke and the calm, measured hate of figureheads like Richard Spencer. Think about what the 'nice white' must be feeling right now.

It's a must be a viscerally upsetting epiphany whose mere mention is triggering enough to make tv anchors cry on air.  There are many public instances in which that same uncomfortable feeling has manifested into some truly peculiar, if not outright frustrating, spectacles. My hope, though, lies in the fact that more and more I see segments of White America push past their perceived comfortability and have conversations that it has previously ignored or dismissed with the utmost prejudice.

This is not to give too much credit or to make it seem as if I've thought so little of White America that the slightest bit of effort warrants the parade from the end of Return of The Jedi. One of the easiest things to do in this life is to condemn a Nazi. Right there behind politely asking Stacey Dash to sit quietly in the corner.

It's just that for the survival of not only myself, but that of my family and my unborn children, we've always needed them to do better. And, the silver lining on the undeniable semen and turd tostada, I'm getting small glimpses into their capability of doing so.

4 Common Wishes About Sex (That Could Actually Make It Worse)

Sex, as most of us know and enjoy, is a bit of a tricky subject for a lot of people. Most everyone has different standards for what constitutes as 'good' or 'bad, ' but there are some things that a lot of people tend to have in common when it comes to having sex with someone. There are entire industries built on 'penis enlargement' pills or Viagra and its instant erections. What most people don't stop to think about is how subjective these things are and how not every woman necessarily WANTS nor has the physical capacity to deal with an 8-inch penis. This piece will explore the most common wishes or critiques in regards to sex and showcase the genuine likelihood that your partner has no interest in what you would consider an 'improvement.' The piece is not gender-specific in regards to the exact desires one would want to change.

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Personally, I feel most sexual encounters don't include nearly enough Jelly Bellies. Not for anything sexual, though. Just as a nice way to treat yourself afterwards.

1 Penis Size

In what universe did you think we were in that the size of a man's penis wasn't at the top of the wish list? The only place where that wouldn't be true is Xanadu, and that's only because cocaine and roller blades don't allow for the most accurate penetration. No, penis size is definitely a mainstay on the male wish list much the same as "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" is at your cousin Stacy's wedding as well as the prominent placement of an elderly relative at that same wedding just to remind everyone that death is always near, so you should cherish life.

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"Okay, Gram Gram. I'm gonna need you to do me a solid and stop speaking Hebrew while standing next to the buffet table. People think you're putting a hex on the potato salad."

What most people don't realize is that there are a variety of penises, in a variety of sizes, because there are a variety of vaginas/anuses/grapefruit with a hole cut in it, and it is most certainly not a case of one size fits all.

While this is not necessarily a situation that can become a problem in your twenties and early thirties, studies show that as women become older, their vaginas pretty much, for lack of a more precise term, feng shui it's living quarters into a relatively smaller, cozier abode. The likelihood of hitting a woman's cervix (which, I'm told, is more painful than getting kicked in the balls and watching the entire run of Burn Notice COMBINED.) becomes exponentially more so with every inch. For this reason, most experts say the ideal metric of a big penis would be in girth instead of length.

Now, since we're already on this interstate of explicit sexual information, we can't just drive past the exit for that ass, now can we? In this regard, the anus is more at risk than the vagina considering that it doesn't produce its own natural lubricants like the vagina can. This means that tears and fissures can become more of a concern than it would otherwise be if your partner were just of average size.

This is not to say that the no pants dance has to be less enjoyable than a Mormon Sock-Hop if your man-bits are larger than average, just that more precaution needs to be taken regarding both you and your partner(s)'s safety. In light of all this, wouldn't you rather just be short, but fierce like Bruce Lee instead of the towering, but cumbersome Kareem Abdul Jabbar?

If you're gonna stand there and tell me that this isn't a ready made advertisement for a gentleman's condom then I don't want to live on this planet anymore.

2. Lasting Longer

Personally, I feel that if sexual congress (from foreplay to rolling over exhausted and picking up your phone to see what's happening on Facebook) lasts longer than an episode of Seinfeld, then someone had better gimme a Gatorade and a pep talk cause I'm breaking down, coach!

She keeps...telling me...to do a 'pooch kick'...it can't mean what I think it means...it can't.

There are more than a few men that can vividly recall experiencing the embarrassment that comes with having a challenger situation occur. (You know. A lot of planning and excitement that leads to untimely explosions and nationwide mourning. That one.) So much so that there are homebrew techniques men have perfected if they feel like they're being pushed and getting close to the edge (s/o to Grandmaster Flash). From the 'imagine your Grandmother bathing naked while eating raw tilapia' to 'Ted Cruz doing __,' there's no shortage of rumored ways to approach staying in control. But is lasting longer really such a good thing?

Well, The Journal of Sexual Medicine did a hard hitting (eh? eh? I'll see myself out.) piece about just this back in 2008 and concluded that 1-2 minutes of sex was "too short", 7-13 minutes of sex was "desirable", and 10-30 minutes was "what the hell is wrong with you? You're not going to Vietnam, and I'm not a pornstar. Get off of me." Also, in one of the rare instances of parity between the genders in the sexual arena, the study also mentions that both men and women worry about whether or not they're taking too long.

"A lot of women worry, especially when receiving oral sex, thinking, Is this taking too long? Are they enjoying themselves? How soon am I going to come?" says Kerner. "That kind of anxiety can really delay orgasm and inhibit pleasure."

Not to mention that most vaginas are only capable of being steam pistoned for so long before they run the risk of becoming dryer than David Sedaris' novels. When that happens, prolonged soreness, bleeding, tears and a whole host of other unpleasant physical reactions can occur. In the end, it would appear that sex should last exactly how long both you and your partner(s) should decide it lasts. Or, if you're like me, you put on a video of the Thundercats opening credits on youtube to play in the back ground and if neither of you orgasm by the time Lionel says "HOOOOOO!" then you call it a day. Try again tomorrow.

3. Dirty Talk

If I were to ask you to imagine the dirty talk scene from one of your more saucy movies of preference, chances are it would be something palatable for a wide audience. Something like "Oooh baby! You get me so hot!" or "Aww yeah, we're already an hour and twenty minutes into this movie, so I'm probably not going to be able to have a complex character arc as a woman. Might as well fuck." The point is that the concept of dirty talk can be many different things to many different people. A lot of these verbiage hurdles can be passed just by getting to know your partner while also paying especially close attention to what they do or do not respond to. But for the emotionally unavailable, unlovable homunculus amongst us (Hi!), you may have a partner that fully appreciates dirty talk in addition to you having all the intuition and sexual navigation skills of Google Maps in a dead zone.

If these circumstances apply to you, then I advise you to consider the potential pratfalls for dirty talk and avoid it like the 'ex-con uncles' table at the family reunion cookout. For instance, where some people like to comment on the size of their partner's penis, some like to get too specific. Hearing that your penis is smaller than her ex's but is "so comfy and cozy I just want to knit it a little hat" may sound encouraging on paper, but less so at the moment. The same goes asking someone to "fuck you like Reagan did the middle-class" or (true story) making the same noise as the Owl from the Tootsie Roll commercial whenever your partner performs oral sex. Essentially, vague, ambiguous encouragement is usually the best route if familiarity is going to be a factor during your encounter. For every instance of dirty talk that made your body arc like that scene in The Ring when the girl spider-walked into my nightmares, there are even more occasions in which the dirty talk fell flat.

TFW your dirty talk ends with "...get off like R.Kelly"

4. Control

Who doesn't like being in control? I, for one, love it so much that, to this day, I refuse to watch as a Subway sandwich artist makes my sandwich FOR me. I'll do it myself because I'm an American and I will freedom the shit out of this meatball parm, so will you PLEASE pass me the goddamn marinara sauce, Brendan!?! Saying that, every now and again, it's refreshing to cede control to a willing party. Especially when it comes to matters of the loins and the activities to be found within. Having someone else steer the coitus tortoise can be a welcome change or even a lifestyle choice for those who feel fulfilled by following the whims of another.

In a heterosexual context, men are expected to be the aggressive/dominant partner, but that can be constraining for men who identify as submissive. What if the partner is a female who has no experience being the aggressor and can only muster a tone with all the edge of a drunk puppy. What if she slaps bear all the weight of an overly-self aware and increasingly unaroused feather. But that's just an example for straight people. Consider the confusion that would occur between two gay men who haven't discussed which one of them tops and who bottoms. The puzzlement between two women, neither of whom enjoy being penetrated, who brought enough penetrative marital aids to conquer a small country with.

Much like this. Except with disturbingly graphic marital aides.

I guess the lesson here would be that a discussion of ground rules is just as important as a prophylactic. And just as likely to leave you without a cringe-worthy memory that only emerges during your morning shower.

5. Foreplay

The metaphor used to be "You can't get the motor running without starting the ignition first, " but since the invention of the Tesla with its push start engine and rabbit-whisper like electric motor, it doesn't hold up. I've been conditioned to just pushing a button and getting what I want so if I can't even find YOUR button, shouldn't you just take one for the home team and make sure that I at least get a win? That's inexcusably selfish and inherently misogynistic, you say? Yeah, okay, that's fair.

But, as I've been told numerous times, foreplay serves not only as an indicator of your attentiveness, but it 'sets the stage' so to speak. For women, this means that the vagina has more time to lubricate itself adequately and even expand in preparation for the penis/penis-like instrument. For men, this means that your penis has enough time to become erect which allows it to safely adjust to the sudden shift in blood flow thereby avoiding prematurely going softer than Drake after watching 13 Reasons Why.

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Kanye just sent me 13 packages filled with my CDs and mixed tapes and he's not picking up the phone when I call. Should I be worried?

Someone devoting significant time and effort to make all to make sure that our sexual experience is as gratifying as unwrapping a million Ferrero Rochers is a pre-requisite for most people. The only question would be: what if that went on and on and on ad nauseam? What if the entire exercise consisted of only foreplay and nothing else? Merriam-Webster's defines foreplay as “erotic stimulation preceding sexual intercourse.” which, admittedly, can have various interpretations but the operative word is still 'precedes.' My only contention is that foreplay can go too long and eclipse the organic transition from 'Fuck Town-adjacent' to 'signing the lease for a 30-year mortgage in one of Fuck Town's most prestigious neighborhoods.' There is such a concept as "too much of a good thing, " and too much foreplay can be categorized as such.

The Life of Chris Gaines > 4:44 (Fight Me)

With the release of his 13th studio album 4:44, Jay-Z has quietly but efficiently illustrated why Kanye West should shut the fuck up as well as aptly deliver all the reasons why we should leave Kanye to suffer in the Sunken Place...

...and. also, I guess, produce an album that's simultaneously raw, riveting, and wholly vulnerable while still managing to be a sonic masterpiece by its own merits.

The discussion amongst multiple music platforms, as well as the general listening public, is currently dominated by the cultural, emotional, and intellectual framework the album works within. While I support the dissemination of yet another entry into the Musical Hall Of Unapologetic Blackness, I must profess a profound sense of confusion. Confusion stemming from the fact that the Gods have already seen fit to bless us with the audio equivalent of your grandma's shortbread with the butter on the top. What am I referring to you (shamefully) ask?

Chris Gaines/Garth Brook's 'The Life Of Chris Gaines,' of course.

Here he is lookin' like a human Hefty bag that has sex with your wife every day before she picks up the kids from school.

Like, for real, though, this is the shit that most clubs refuse to play for fear that they're gonna be paying the child support for every baby conceived on the dance floor. Every lyric in this melodic, exclusively coconut oil-based massage is dripping with the subtext of "Why are your panties still on?" I could travel the world with the women I love, build a life together including buying our first home in addition to having our first child, and I still would find it hard to blame her if she left me for Chris Gaines after spotting him in the electronic section of Target.

If given a choice between ratifying the national holiday dedicated to Martin Luther King Jr. or instead devoting it entirely to learning how dude got his bangs so fresh...I'm just saying, I would need a few minutes to think some shit over.

I'm just going to list my three favorite tracks cause some of ya'll be on that, "but my momma says I can only stay out til the streetlights come on" shit when it comes to your attention span.

  1. That's the Way I Remember It

From jump, dude already firing off vocals cleaner than your aunt's plastic-wrapped couch. You can play this in an abandoned Hillshire Farm packaging warehouse and still somehow end up having sex with 97' era Vivica A. Foxx.

I give this one 3 out of 5 buttered, erect nipples.

  1. Lost in You

Already learned you about it earlier but, TL;DR, you better stretch before you put this on because it's gonna get inside you whether you want it to or not. (no Cosby)

I give this one 4 out of 5 "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you two to leave the movie theater. We don't take kindly to OTPHJ's (Over The Pants Hand Jobs) here.

  1. Snow in July

The title alone lets you know how deep this joint is. 'Snow In July'? That shit don't happen unless you live in an area where you can, like, reasonably expect to see polar bears and penguins and shit on your drive to the post office. This song is more emotionally available than Drake after watching 13 Reasons Why, fam.

I give this one 5 out of 5 Clearblue Plus Pregnancy Test Sticks that just say the word 'YASSS' where it designates whether you're pregnant or not.

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You know, the ones next to the tests that always play "Mask on/Fuck it, Mask Off" when you take them out of the box.

For one, bruh has the biggest pair of balls on him this side of KellyAnne Conway with her Ghost Of Democracy Past-lookin' ass. Dude, don't care what kind of rush your in, fuck whatever fam you're visiting, tell the doctor that's waiting to perform surgery that could save your life to choke on a stale dick, he's gonna sit right in the middle of Grand Central Station and eye-fuck the camera so hard that it has to pee afterwards to avoid a UTI. It's this type of brazen ' fuck everybody' attitude is the exact thing that could save the world. Or, at the very least, save you 20% at dinner because you made a scene about how your gazpacho was "chilled but not, like, chilled chilled. Ya know?"

"I'm blocking the wheelchair ramp, you say? Word? How about a handicapped-accessible ass whoopin', my dude? That's right, roll on."

But it's cool and the gang. You guys can keep bumpin that nigga whose recent effort might just be another indicator of rap's transition into a more vulnerable yet consciously accessible art form, as evidenced by other collaborators like Kung Fu Kenny's and J.Cole's latest. I'm not here to convince anyone against making dumb ass decisions all day every day like Groundhog Day, but instead featuring Ma$e. I'll continue to be the realest dude in a sea of music faker than Nicki Minaj's fourth nipple. However, if you do want to get put on game and make some Gaines (See what I did there? Genius, bitches.) then come see me. Cause right now I'm clutching this dude's whole catalog tighter than all the fleece turtlenecks he's wearing in all the promo material.

Reason.

I suppose that I could reign in the indiscriminate use of slang. It may leave those less familiar with the cultural references and contexts within the vernacular feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. Which could be a grounds for the action taken against me, I suppose.

Perhaps it would serve me better to buy clothes deemed fitting of a young man with career aspirations. In this world, apparently clothes set the tone, and I'd hate to make anyone feel the least bit of trepidation on account of what I'm wearing. Especially if we're near one another regardless of whether or not it's on public property like a busy sidewalk or even standing in line at Chik-Fil-A Because that could also be an argument for the grim events that follow.

I should always regulate the speed at which I'm driving. I understand that people not like myself are afforded the misstep of going over the speed limit or are even given a ticket for such a transgression. I just don't have the luxury to assume that every instance will result in a fine or inconvenient court date. I have to monitor the speedometer every second that I'm in my car because that could be the makings of an excuse as well.

Wait, did I forget to mention my hair? I'm sure I did. To be honest, I'm more than long overdue for a haircut anyways. It's getting to become a bit too indicative of not only my ethnicity but some perceived objection to assimilation. As if I've turned my hair into a statement piece instead of some stylized collection of fibers. Maybe others would use their hair as a mechanism of expressing both individual and cultural identity but, as stated above, I can't. I really can't. Although I wouldn't have thought it to be true, this could be another basis for justification.

Another reason.

Another reason for me to be shot dead and robbed of everything I was going to be. For myself and something (or someone) else.

I've been ripping my mind apart at the seams because it's becoming more and more apparent that I could die at any time. Not in the existentialist sense in that we all will, inevitably, leave this mortal coil.

No.

I could die at a traffic stop.

I could die in police custody.

I could obey the law to the letter and still be gunned down in front of my children and spouse by an agent of the state.

Fuck.

I could die after CALLING the police to help me.

So I'm writing down a list of reasons to avoid that happening. An assortment of scenarios that, god willing, will leave me still able to draw breath.I believe it is imperative I do this because 'reasons' imply that there is some sort of rationale. Some kind of logistical pathway that these tragic situations take, and I need that. I need to know that I can escape what seems to be a narrowing metric of probability that my next encounter with law enforcement will be the day I die.

I don't want to die.

Please let this help me not die.

How To Navigate A Mad, Mad World Vol.1: Have You Tried Cocaine?

There is no speculation in stating that adulthood is challenging. No need for peer to peer studies or the seemingly innocuous opinion surveys AT&T asks you to take at the end of each customer service call as if you'd be able to offer any assessment that didn't include the phrase 'go fuck a bag of glass and spoiled mayonnaise.' This sentiment and others like it are almost interchangeable for anyone living in the economic dystopia that is the sobering reality for modern day millennials. A situation that is due in no small part to a fractured global economy and a slowly imploding living environment handed down to us like a suspiciously bloody and semen stained baton. One only needs to look at the increasing scrutiny and conversation building around the once taboo issue of chronic and clinical depression, anxiety, and mental illness to see that the times in which we live carry a significant, albeit different in the circumstances, stress not unlike the post-WWII generations prior. With these pressing concerns at the forefront of our collective mind, I ask:

Have you ever tried cocaine?

Because, from a personal standpoint, I would say it's an almost invaluable asset when it comes to willful ignorance. (ALMOST invaluable. As we all know the dollar value on an eight ball is just ridiculous.)

Of course, there are those who disagree with my earlier statement, as there should be in the interest of civil discourse. I'm confident that they will be quick to list some damning statistic and paint a fairly compelling argument to the contrary. This is a response to me earlier premise whose inevitability is only second to my retort of "Get you Benjamin Button-dicks out of my business. #loco4coco." As things go, it is easy to disparage cocaine for its many, many 'less than reputable' effects of long term use but has anyone stopped and recognized the benefits? Has anybody taken a moment to stop what they're doing, call cocaine, and just wish it a good day after acknowledging the thankless job its forever consigned to? A job that entails but is not limited to:

  • Document and file your company's quarterly projections in a record-breaking 3 minutes and 26 seconds after Feng Shui-ing the entire office as to be in observance of the Chinese New Year.
  • To appropriately and coolly handle rejection from a romantic interest. Instead of reacting on instinct or in an unpleasant matter, you can excuse yourself from the situation and do the responsible act: vigorously masturbate and leave your remains covering the door handle of her 2014 Subaru Outback. Believe me, its a wrap on the rest of the day after unwittingly putting your hands on a still-warm smattering of semen.
  • Fight a Girl Scout Troopmaster after repeated refusals to sell you the half-drunk can of pomegranate La Croix their holding in addition to Samoa cookies.
  • Walk into a Lowes and proceed to crop dust each and every candy bar on the rack near the cashier and chuckle to yourself when you and the make eye contact.
  • Buy a candy bar from that same rack while maintaining eye contact with the same cashier.
  • Make impulsive purchases such as buying a year's worth of Cajun-style siracha or the life-rights of a random Platypus in rural Wisconsin.
  • Complete your LinkedIn profile.
  • Deduce the whereabouts of Al-Qaeda leader, Osama Bin Laden.
  • After being told Osma Bin Laden has been dead for six years. quickly formulate a plausible excuse as to why you accosted the first man of Middle Eastern descent you came across.
  • Reach the conclusion that sex with a significant other in the ball pit of a McDonald's will result in anything other than probation after time served.
  • Knit a cardigan in the middle of summer.
  • Write a thirty page op-ed on why Katy Perry is biologically unable to perform a proper dab, but still somehow felt the need to double down.

These are just examples taken from personal experience, so don't be discouraged if yours varies. I share these in order to bolster the concept of 'Benevolent Cocaine Addiction.' it warrants serious consideration seeing as it's the sole impetus behind some of the most remarkable of human achievements. Its effects can be felt in the work of our most celebrated artists while at their creative peak. Its indelible touch is evident in the very public, heavily documented episodes of mental unrest and personal decline. And yes, both are direct references to the greatest living artist of our generation, Britney Spears. (A lot of people died last year, so, process of elimination.)

At the end of the day (or, in the case of regular cocaine users, come sunrise two days from when you started.) it's up to you to decide how best to navigate life. Studied, sober perspectives are all well and good in a rational world, but this world is hardly rational is it? With the multitude of mind-numbing events conspiring to make you as mentally unstable as a BuzzFeed listicle, maybe the best bet is to beat the world to the finish line by going down in a powdered-fog of disorientation and boundless energy. It's what John Belushi did and, barring the lowly consolation prize of sigh Jim, we still praise him today.

Just a thought.

You Have Faux Feminists. I Have The Nation of Islam. Let's Compare Notes On Bullshit.

Recently, women's clothing and feminine hygiene product developer, Thinx, has had its founder, Miki Agrawal, come under fire regarding allegations of sexual harassment, punitive measures taken towards employees on maternity, and, in the eyes of the law so these aren't my words, of being a five star Yelp reviewed asshole. The piece doesn't even bother to go through the rote motions of having anything resembling a fuck as it lays out the bare-bones hypocrisy of women with very prominent public profiles who's image, and even professional occupation was cultivated in the fires of women's advocacy groups and feminist theory. Of course, I have my own opinions about feminism tenets as it relates to capitalist, profit-incentivized, female-led corporate entities but, and this may surprise you......

I have a penis.

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A penis and a Panasonic LCD Flat Screen for sale which is, I admit, of no relevance to the article but why skip an opportunity?

A fully functional, well-intentioned penis with nothing but the highest of regard for those who propagate the equal rights and opportunities of men and women. It also has firm opinions about Kerry Washington's continued presence on Scandal and how it's regrettably beneath her acting caliber, but that's beside the point. I have a dick and that one, allegedly spectacular, detail bars me from assuming I have any perspective that would outweigh the experiences and, thus, the point of view of women who actually have to live within that paradigm. However, what I can relate to about this is that it reminds me of the Nation of Islam.

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That, and the glorious comfort inherent in every pair of Jeggings. It's like Jesus slap boxing your lower body to the tune of 'Don't Worry, Be Happy.'

For those of you who hear the words 'Nation of Islam' and aren't stricken with knee-jerk xenophobic reactions due to you conflating them with Islamic terrorists or mistakenly assume Louis Farrakhan was the visual inspiration of Planters mascot Mr. Peanut, but aren't too familiar with the organization itself, I got you. Without getting too far beyond your elective on African-American Studies, The Nation of Islam is a political and religious organization with a mandate of improving the spiritual, mental, social, and economic condition of African-Americans in the United States and all of humanity. Sounds like a great directive that I could easily see myself speaking passionately and hashtagging the fuck out of. An admirable directive but so unbelievably full of pomegranate baby shit that I cna barely prevent my anus prolapsing from sudden bouts of rage.

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Unfortunately, I wasn't tough enough to prevent that from happening after watching 12 minutes of Iron Fist. I shit in a sealed plastic bag now thanks to this.

Reasons I generally don't spare any fucks in the direction of The Nation of Islam and its teachings:

  • NOI leader Louis Farrakhan calling upon Donald Trump to "dismantle America" like some Matrix inspired Hotep prophecy

  • How they take to anything even remotely anti-semitic like Samsung took to making low-grade explosives.

  • The Honorable Elijah Muhammad and his career-long endeavor to impregnate more women than Wilt Chamberlain that one time he went to McDonald's' without a condom.
  • Allegations brought forth by Malcolm X that may have contributed to his assassination by "alleged' NOI agents,
  • Louis Farrakhan officially adopting the pseudo-science of The Church of Scientology's Dianetics within the NOI in an attempt to recreate the CoS but with more emphasis on orange marmalade-colored, lopsided bowties.

And other nonsense that neither you, I, nor the man that's waiting patiently outside your bedroom window for you to disrobe, have time for. Just know that, in my opinion, the NOI perpetuates the beleaguered African-American not in the interest of empowerment or any sustainable betterment of our community, but to prey upon the frustration and mental anguish that comes with realizing the full scope of a black man/women's status in America like some racially existential leech. Because of its parasitic relationship with the people it falsely claims to fight for, I can't bring myself to support it. I sincerely believe that the thin artifice of black advocacy they publicly tout is ripped like so much paper mache the moment you realize their brand of empowerment comes with the disassociation fo anyone and everything you hold dear which, again, is not unlike Scientology.

And CrossFit. But mainly Scientology.

Feel the burn! Feel your muscles pulsate with energy! Feel the forced conformity and emotional blackmail that destroys families and interpersonal relationships! 

Self-Proclaimed "Nice Guys" = Bitch Niggas. Ain't Nobody Here For Bitch Niggas.

Much in the same way you'd be inclined to click on a link that promises someone harming themselves, but in a hilarious way. Like mixing apple juice and drain cleaner or eating a Salmon Caesar Salad at a strip club, I encourage you to read this article on Thought Catalog by sentient Neiman Marcus Ascot Tie Leo Steven. It bought to mind a hypothetical I'd like to share with you.

Imagine that you're currently listening to your music while sitting in the backseat of your Uber. After several failed attempts at awkward conversation, your driver finally takes the not so subtle hint that "shut the fuck up" is the word of the day and goes back to listening to their potentially polarizing podcast about Planned Parenthood and how they sacrifice Care Bears for faster internet service or some shit. The car stops at a corner, and you see another passenger enter the car to sit right next to you. Being polite, you say hi, he does the same, and you two begin sitting in a mutually beneficial, comfortable silence. After about 5 minutes, the other passenger gingerly taps your arm to get your attention. You take out your headphones thinking there must be some emergency. However, all you see is him looking at you politely before he says, with all the tone and inflection of someone informing you of the current time: " So that you know, I don't just go around to various Whole Foods, pick up every pack of 365 Organic Quinoa I can, unseal each bag, take a massive shit in it, then carefully reseal each bag before I put it back on the shelf. Just so that you know."

...Hmm. You say what?

"I don't discreetly shit in quinoa bags and then put them back on the retail shelf so some unsuspecting, health-conscious individual can have their dinner, and maybe even family, irrevocably ruined."

As you nimbly tuck and roll out of the door of the moving car, dodging incoming cars and pothioles like some next-generation Sonic the Hedgehog, you ask yourself why someone would bring that up as a defense against a vague allegation that you'd never think to make? Why in the Oriental Ramen-flavored fuck would someone feel the compulsion to protect themselves so much, they thought you would be a willing audience to what is essentially self-incrimination of shitty character?

This is what self-proclaimed "nice guys" sound like to me.

Men socially hobbled by their inability to discern the shitty elements of their behavior and how it makes people (mainly women) just Nah all over the chest of the possibility of dealing with their basura-ass, whiny-ass, needy asses again. Biologically mature yet emotionally Benjamin Buttoned men that blame women not recognizing what a "sincere and genuine" guy they are and how much they're missing out on. They stir themselves into such an unnecessary tizzy when the answer to this question is more obvious than "Why is Bill Cosby buying all this NyQuil and bourbon?" They don't diss you because they don't want "Nice Guys."

They diss you because of your bitch tendencies. Or, at least, that's my guess.

And this is not a "bitch" in the sense of having a pussy, but a pussy having no goddamn sense, tryna push you.

The unceasing neediness when it comes to just a scrap of your affection. The lack of any real identity besides what they physically own or make. The fact that he speaks to you as if he just rescued you from an apartment fire, with a muscled bare chest glistening with baby oil, and put that raggedy-ass blanket around your shoulders like every movie does with trauma victims.

Who wants someone who needs more validation than a Kardashian on Dancing With The Stars? Someone with all the emotional security of Donald Trump wearing the wrong shade of bronzer? A man who carries all the hallmarks of a thirst trap with the exception being that he is just dying to show you his LinkedIn profile instead of the standard IG post of "Look at my new glasses!! (but really, this post is about my tits. Look at 'em! Now!")

Much like "Did you try that new [ethnic restaurant in gentrified neighborhood]?" translates to " [this is really just for White People's culinary sensibilities], "Nice Guy" essentially means "fuck boi without any of the few, positive traits inherent in fuck bois."

How bad does your shit have to stink to where the common fuck boi is preferable to you? Pretty awful, says common sense.

They Didn't Teach Us Shit: A Lesson Plan That's Actually Useful In Adult Life

Why hasn't some altruistic hipster-tech millennial, whose name will be Chadwell because such is the world we live in, invented what is guaranteed to be the next billion peso app which will simply be a discrete online learning module about the things that still occur long after you've reached full adulthood? And before you ask, no, I'm not referring as to why you're internet browser is still bombarded with advertisements for pay for porn websites.

In 2017.

It's not a question of why would you do that in a market completely saturated, nay facialized, with an abundance of free content, but more a question of why buy the cow when the milk is slammed into your face by every possible medium of entertainment for free. Tell you what, I'll pay for porn the day I can successfully send a dick pic via a 19th-century rotary phone.

Though, aside from anachronistic marketing strategies, an intuitive educational tool that can be used and understood by the higher-educated and lower-expectation alike that goes into precise detail about how one should correctly wipe their ass to avoid painful rashes and relationship ending skid marks on the underwear would be nigh invaluable. A program that dispenses scheduled doses of daily advice and lesson plans about how not paying your taxes at 25 can come back to fuck you like Scott Disick crashing a sorority party at 32 when you want to start your own business. Maybe a listicle that acutely diagnoses the exact number of drinks on a first date transforms you from a potential partner in Ikea furniture breaking sexual congress to the rudest impersonation of their stepdad after he had his evening PBR.

So, to that end...

A Proposed Curriculum:

  • Papa Johns and Diabetes: An Inevitable Conclusion To A Preventable Tragedy.
  • Priorities: What Should Be The Obvious Choice Between The Modern Dilemma Between Paying For Health Insurance and The Legend Of Zelda: Breath Of The Wild.
  • Dating White Women And Debunking Unsubstantiated Myths: No, It Does NOT Automatically Increase Your Credit Score.
  • Your Vintage Lava Lamp And Why She Hasn't Called You Back.
  • Anger Management In Regards To Your Boss And The Inconveniences That Come With Being Convicted Of First Degree Murder.
  • Lessons On Not Being An Unsociable Cock Vol 42: Cultivating A Personality Not Built Solely On Outdated Family Guy References.
  • Getting Shot Is Awful Vol.23: Why You Should Not Accept A Dinner Invitation To Chris Brown's House.
  • How The Male Compulsion To Publicly State Their 'Woke Feminism' Ideology Is, Quite Literally, Indicative Of Everything Wrong With Their 'Woke Feminism' Ideology.
  • Accepting Personal Responsibility: White America and President Trump
  • How To Show Up For Those That Show Out For You: Women's Right March Vs. Black Lives Matter
  • How To Avoid Making Eye Contact With The Man Masturbating On The Train: A Beginner's Guide.

Other Things To Boycott Instead Of Netflix's Dear White People.

In this modern-day, digitized province of unsolicited dick pics and Trump sponsored displays of nationally demoralizing idiocy that we call the Internet, it's easy for some things to get lost in the melee. For example, I recently just got around to watching BET's New Edition biopic and gluten-free goddamn. I had always assumed that the group was just famous for giving Black America Bobby Brown, providing me a reason to stand in the wind covered baby oiled-chest to toe in silk pajamas with the shirt unbuttoned while singing Can You Stand The Rain, and providing the soundtrack to your mother's first disappointing sexual experience. But apparently shit was more real than Atlanta housewives when the sangria and cocaine run out when (SPOILER ALERT) Bobby Brown made people want to punch him and everyone went broke.

But, I digress.

Syd The Kid, of The Internet fame, recently released her solo album that is so imbued with a studiously crafted yet well-balanced atmosphere and unabashed charisma that I've relegated listens only to instances in which I need to supplement my confidence. Like, say, the next time I eat $8 pork shoulder enchiladas at Taqueria Del Sol, blow up the toilet stall like ISIS trying to ask Al Qaeda to prom, and then exit said bathroom by coolly walking past the line of waiting people not caring that they're all within the Poop Waft Danger Zone at all. I'm talking cooler than Billy Dee Williams at an Iowa State fair the moment before he steals your girl.

Lastly, I just found out that we'll soon be able to listen to Prince on platforms other than the 'Participation Award' of streaming servoces, Tidal. Does this mean that I'll soon be able to put on all the car seat concerts I want while stuck in gridlock traffic on I-85? Gifting any passerby's that gawk at my pitch-perfect rendition of When Doves Cry with an unblinking, 'no CVS brand lube necessary' eye-fuck? I dunno. Maybe. Catch me on the interstate at around 5:30pm sometime and we'll find out.

Hmm, what else? Oh yeah!

Every motherfucker on the Internet missing a chromosome, but still able to access a 4Chan message board are wildin dafuq out over a 30-second teaser clip of Netflix's Dear White People.

Fuck it, maybe there's more to it than what the visuals, monologue, and every other aspect of the teaser leads me to believe there is. Perhaps I'm simply just not perceptive enough to discern the subtextual rallying cries of White Genocide® present in the clip who's message, I believe, can best be summed up with the statement "White People Who Wear Blackface: What The Fuck, Man!?!" Granted, I am genetically predispositioned to several cognitive impairing disabilities plus I'm the only person I know that genuinely enjoys eating Tapioca pudding so, it goes without saying, that my critical thinking skills are more fucked than the bathroom glory holes at a Young Republicans Retreat. That being said, the furor over a simple show would have you think that minorities are instituting outlandish policies by which White People should have to abide by under threat of White Genocide®. No one in their right mind would advocate legislation that stipulates that White People should have to compete in underground bare-knuckle boxing matches in order to qualify for Google Fiber. No person of color would mandate that White People should be taxed for every documented instance of them saying the words 'non-frap soy decaf' while placing a coffee order. It would be ludicrous to propose that anyone in possession of a playlist that features Father John Misty, The Chainsmokers, and Meghan Trainor be placed on a no-fly list and have their family members surveilled indefinitely. So maybe being quick to label a show that no one has seen and who's message you are clearly misinterpreting as hate speech against whites could be seen as deceitful at best and SO not Raven at worst.

Although, if it's just a matter of periodically feeding the beast with a steady diet of ultimately futile yet amusingly preoccupying outrage then I will indeed bid on that glass menagerie of hand-blown fuckery by providing some outrages of my own. Be sure to let me know know how trend-worthy these are because if none of them garner a significant amount of retweets from the alt-right community then, what, I'm just some reactionary fuckwit anonymously insulting strangers who disagree with me even though my own sensibilities can be best described as 'softer than Moroccan baby shit'?

How dare you even imply such a thing?

  • Boycott against niggas that feel comfortable commenting on the Instagram photos of women they've never met with some deeply personal shit that only serves to make people uncomfortable as fuck. (i.e. 'Glad you had fun at PCB this weekend:) BTW, your smile is just as beautiful as your mother's. Remember? You posted a pic of her 36 weeks ago. Also, I see in the background that your door is unlocked. Is that like an everyday thing or just a mulligan for today?)
  • Boycott against people who fail to recognize the superiority inherent in pizzas topped with pineapple and ham. I'm not saying we should base an entire eugenics program on this one trait, but I'm not NOT saying it either. You feel me?
  • Boycott against whoever thinks it's acceptable to use the enlarged font on their Facebook status to announce anything other than an immediate death in the family, a growing concern that you may have been shot, and a spoiler-free reaction to the newest episode of The Magicians. (It's an amazing show. Fight me.)
  • Boycott against push-up bras. Despite however narrow-minded and ignorantly misogynistic it sounds, THEY. ARE. LIES. Untruths coupled with ergonomic design. A 67% cotton-based fiction of mammories. Structurally sound falsehoods capable of making a man inattentively rear end the Toyota Camry in front of him thereby making him late for work and therefore obligated to listen to his sentient semen latte of a manager go on about the importance of timeliness. I swear to White Jesus, if I have to sit through just ONE more of those lectures, I'm not exactly sure of what I'll do, but I'm confident in saying that it will be a day annually commemorated both for its horror and the revelation that you indeed can kill someone just by pelting them with two day old cranberry scones.
  • Boycott against whatever sadist placed the volume button perilously close to the 'share' button on porn sites. I want to quiet my shame, not broadcast it like the goddamn bat signal. What person outside of Charlie Sheen's Barebacked Fuck Palace is jerking it, stops, then thinks to themselves "Wow, I sure would like to share this video of a 3-legged Bosnian GILF and the Verizon Amphitheatre full of men just waiting for their turn to penetrate her with all of my closest friends, family, and casual acquaintances." Do you want to be uninvited from future backyard BBQs and Secret Santa gift exchanges? Because that's how you get uninvited from future backyard BBQs and Secret Santa gift exchanges.
  • -Pokemon GO. The era has since passed. The window has closed and shall forever remain closed. If your family still gathers around the fireplace Sunday evening for pleasant conversation,familial warmth, and to trade Pokemon GO tips then, with all due respect, fuck you. To be specific, fuck your mother. And, while we're at it, fuck your ain't shit grandmother, fuck Lil' Jessica and her bullshit Crohn's Disease, and DEFINITELY fuck Grandpa Abraham. Who just last week channeled his inner Amos and Andy by calling his waiter at IHOP 'Colored George' even though his waiter's name was actually Jackson and, judging by the fact that Abraham's Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity Pancakes had some Rooty Tooty colored balls rubbed on it like shea butter, Jackson was none too pleased about it.
  • Boycott against trial periods for WinZip. How come I'm the only nigga in all of human existence to be stiff-armed for the premium version at the MOMENT I try to unzip the collected Ebooks of Michael Crichton? I told them, this is what will happen when Trump gets into office, but nobody listens to me.
  • Boycott extra pulp, homestyle orange juice. Because it burns like chlamydia-brand battery acid if you have cavities.

Can She Cook Good Mac n' Cheeses, Tho?

I don't know your personal standards for what you look for in a partner and, if we're being Yo Gotti Real Rap real, you might as well go ahead and just shove it ALL the way to the bottom of the recycle bin and hope that shit is biodegradable.

Get it? Cause earlier I mentioned abiding garbage that should've been dealt with a long time ago. Yeah, you get it.

All I know is that my garbage ass standards for romantic entanglements have birthed most, if not all, of the major frustrations I have in my adult life. Heartbreak, stress-induced illnesses, Hulu with commercials, decaf coffee, restless leg syndrome, bad credit, eating potato salad prepared by White people, etc. So at some point, it becomes incumbent upon you to look at your 'Dumpster Behind The Taco Bell At 3 AM' trash-ass life choices and find the fuckshit symmetry between them. For some men, it's a woman with an ass so phat you can see the next two dimensions in it. For others, it may be breasts so shapely you could base an entire 4-part made-for-tv miniseries about them that consists of nothing but Halle Berry's topless scene in Swordfish. However, I am neither of these men. My line in the sand takes the form of a question instead of a physical attribute.

Can she cook good Mac N Cheeses, tho?

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"Can she beat the last stage of Mike Tyson's Punch Out" is also acceptable.

See, I hear the simp-thinking man-thots laughing already even though their stomach are filled with nothing but disappointment and tzatziki-flavored kale chips.

"My dude, Mac n Cheese has no bearing on someone's capability or incapability in the confines of a committed relationship. And my girl says kale chips will make my bowel movement regular as fuck so stop being so ignorant."

And to that, I say no, random spokesperson for gross mid-day snacks. I'm going to say no again in 'Kanye' font so the people in the back of the club can hear me, too.

NO!!!!!!!!! #yeezinainteasy

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"There beith Commanders, as well as adherents. But I, by preference, would be a phallus as opposed to the ingestor!" "I doth declare thou a fingers in the booty ass bitch!"

Mac n Cheese is unquestionably indicative of someone's capacity for the communication, adaptivity, emotional availability, and, in this particular instance, lactose intolerance related issues that invariably arise in even the most 'How many y'all wanna ride tonight' ride or die relationships. Now, I wouldn't go as far as to say that the entire foundation of your relationship should rest upon her innate ability to know the perfect ratio between 'burnt cheese crust at the top' and 'cheese so hot it could double as napalm, but I'mma eat that shit anyways.' But the attention to details you deem to be important does cover a broad spectrum of concerns one has when they commit to another person for longer than a entire season of Law & Order: SVU.

Does this person listen to you when you describe how your mother used to make Mac n Cheese so delicious that you'd sit quietly at the dining room table for an extended period even though you're 13 and you've only recently discovered that AOL Online lets you see women's nipples? Is this person capable of empathizing with you when you expressed why you believe a lovingly prepared, home cooked meal tailored for someone you care deeply about can be sustaining which is compassion which is grace which is love?

Does she know that, in some indigenous tribes, cheese is considered a powerful aphrodisiac that is responsible for more conceptions than both Drake CDs and watching The Office on Netflix combined?

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Raise your hand if your child's conception had less to do with love than it did with the fact that you'd already seen all of How I Met You're Mother and you were bored.

Simply put, as I have committed myself to learning the language of her, to tediously parsing through the day to day minutia to find the crust at the bottom of toaster of who she is, so must she commit to learning the micro and macro in regards the things in which I hold dear. Albeit, this takes place over a significant amount of time. This isn't a 3rd-grade book report or a job application for a position within the Trump administration. It requires a concerted effort of both time and attentiveness that each person should bring to the potluck of clusterfuck that is the modern-day monogamous relationship. I'll make sure that everything I bring is as air sealed and Doug E. Fresh in the Rubbermaid Tupperware as she demands her partner should do. All I need to know is that I have a partner who gives enough of a shit to where I don't have to ask myself.

Can she cook good Mac N Cheeses, tho?

So I Accidentally Put It In Your Butt: An Explanation

Honey,

While I understand you being angry at me right now, that doesn't mean that it's welcome or even necessary. Why don't you try taking a breath and remeber that there are two people hurt here, yeah? Yes, you're the one with an anus that looks like it just had its first night at Fight Club, but you know what else is sore from an unexpected intrusion?

My feelings.

My feelings are sore, and unfortunately, there's no Preparation H for fucked up emotions, Claire!

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Ironically enough, John Mayer made a song about this exact situation.

Obviously, I owe you an apology, and I'm adult enough to admit when I'm in the wrong. With that said, maybe later we can get to how you calling me "Billy Bent Dick" is neither mature nor does anything to help the situation at all but, whatever, fine, I'll go first.

I'm sorry.

He-Hey! I'm sorry, okay. Evidently, instead of zigging, I zagged....right into your asshole.

Though in my defense, the situation we were in before I tried to input your output was downright amazing. Like, if we had filmed some of the shit we did, there's no doubt in my mind that it would be the perfect resume to join Cirque Du Soleil.

My god, at one point you performed a Capoeira floor routine that ended with me INSIDE you. Do you have any idea the multitude of ways that could've ended with me having a mutilated if not completely severed dick? Do you?

Be honest. You'd be lying if you said, with 100% certainty, that someone wasn't fucking in this picture.

In fact, I'll go on record right now by saying that I want some of the things we did here included in my obituary. I don't care; everyone needs to know that the peak of human excellence can be achieved while doing a two-person pyramid on top of an Ikea seat section ottoman.

So maybe it's not completely beyond the realm of belief that I would call an audible and take the "back roads," so to speak. In the context of where we were and what we were doing it doesn't seem entirely unfathomable, does it? The passion between us was unbelievably intense and, not for nothing, but you were reciting Alec Baldwin's speech from Glengarry Glenn Ross, and you know how much it turns me on.

"Nice guy? I don't give a shit. Good father? Fuck you! Go home and play with your kids!"

Talk about 0 to 100.

Bet you'd let him Glengarry your Ross any time, amirite? Guys? *looks around* I'll see myself out.

I became too immersed in the moment and made a disastrous decision that, apparently, you don't particularly care for and, for that, you have my sincerest apologies. I promise never to do it again unless you actually want-alright, I can guess by you threatening to shove my Amazon Fire Stick up my ass that you are not amenable to the previously proposed butt stuff.

Duly noted.

Now, can we just go back to caring and loving one another as were before all of this nastiness came about? Because, at the end of it all, I love you and I would never want to do anything that disrespects your boundaries and you as my partner. You mean too much to me to even contemplate doing something that implies such a notion and it's my fault if I gave you the opposite impression.

Believe me?

Forgive me?

Ah, thank you. That's such a weight off my shoulders. So, what do you say we get back to enjoying what this night was meant to be? Sound about good?

Okay.

Make sure to tie the ball gag around my mouth really tight this time. Last time it fell out when you stepped on my junk with your high heels and I screamed bloody murder.

Love you, baby.

And remember, my safe word is "Cash me ousside."

Alternatively, "Raindrop, Droptop" works just as well.

Are You There,911? It's Me, America.

Friday, January 20th, 2017.

11:23 am

Call was placed to 911 from an unidentified woman at an undisclosed location

Dispatch: 911,  what is your emergency?
Caller: Um, yeah, I think I need help.

Dispatch: And how may I assist you, ma'am. Are you okay?
Caller: Well, I'm fine. It's my friend Michelle. I think she saw something and-ugh, she looks a little ill. 

Dispatch: And where is Michelle right now?
Caller: Doing what she normally does.

Dispatch: *waits for a reponse*...which is?
Caller: Being as non-threatening as humanly possible, so these white people feel comfortable around her.

Dispatch: Um, okay, sure. Can you see Michelle? Is she all right?
Caller: I can see her, but she looks like she's going through all the emotions right now. My guess is if she hears the phrase "the blacks" one more time she's gonna go full Super Sayain. 

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Too bad Dragon Balls were covered under Obamacare, motherfucker. 

Dispatch: Super Sayain? What makes you say that? Does she seem feverish, pal- 
Caller: 
-she seems like the only thing keeping her from giving this Russian Pokemon-lookin ass bitch the People's Elbow is the fact that, if she loses her shit on camera, Bill O'Reily's one functioning testicle will explode from pure happiness.

Dispatch: So, you're saying there's a chance of violence? Are there children around?
Caller: Oh yeah, In fact I think one of them just took a shit on the floor of the Oval Office. Malia play too fucking much.

Dispatch: Are the kids alright?
Caller: Oh yeah, they about that life. Sasha told me that if the shots pop off, she's going for the orange nigga's shins. Fuck his whole lacrosse game up for life.

Dispatch: You-um...ma'am, what is the situation?
Caller: Tropical Mango Voldemort walked up and kicked my friend and her family out of their house, but she still gotta smile like a Xanax-poppin Paula Abdul even though Orange Julius and his hickory-dickery thot is throwing shade on her husband right the fuck in front of her.

Dispatch: So your friend...Michelle, is in a domestic dispute right now? Is she able to step outside to calm down and catch her bearings?
Caller: If she stepped outside then I'm sure Putin's bottom-bitch is gonna catch those hands.

"Hey, Barack!" "Not today, Michelle." "C'mon, just one second!" "Okay, what is it?" "Try and take away THESE guns!!! BAM!" " *sighs*...that gets old after 8 years, honey."

Dispatch: What?
Caller: What?

Dispatch: Catch hands?
Caller: Right in the clavicle, yes sir.

Dispatch: Is that some type of sickness? Is it transferable?
Caller: Yes, but only to simple bitches and fuckbois.

Dispatch: I mean, can it spread?
Caller: Yes sir, all five fingers can spread across Moscow Felicia's face pretty easily. 

Dispatch: Ma'am, that does not help me. I don't know what "catch hands" means.
Caller: This bitch and her Crash Bandicoot-lookin ass husband about to know.

Dispatch: Stop! I need you to focus and tell me if there a dispute happening at someone's residence.
Caller: No dispute about it. We all pretty much agree that these fake-ass Lannisters can sit on the SHARPEST of dicks. 

Dispatch: Ma'am, I'm asking if there's a conflict in progress that can lead to violence. Is there?
Caller: I heard someone punched a Nazi but, other than the smile that bought to my face, no. Not at the moment.

Dispatch: Is anyone present under duress or in harm's way?
Caller: Minorities, women, and people with disabilities. Basically anyone Hitler wouldn't invite to the Facebook group for his birthday party.

"You're fucking with me! It couldn't possibly be that easy?" "I know! All I did was compliment the size of his hands and next thing I know he gives me a cabinet position as Director of Minority Outreach."

Dispatch: I mean imminent danger, ma'am.
Caller: Immigrant danger? Like you wouldn't fucking believe. Earlier today I saw Mike Pence walking with a stack of papers. The only words I could make out were "foreigners" and "hunger games."  

Dispatch: Imminent. I said imminent danger. As in are they about to be hurt?
Caller: Oh. I don't think so, no.

Dispatch: Then what was the initial emergency?
Caller: Oh right! My friend Michelle pissed in Orange Is The New Hack's Aquafina. 

Dispatch: i still don't see what the emergency is-
Caller: and he drank it.

(long pause)

Dispatch: Uh, accidental ingestion of urine is-
Caller: See, that's it, though. Michelle saw him screw open the cap, make a weird face, smell the bottle, stare off into the distance for a few seconds, then drink all of it.

Dispatch: You're saying-
Caller: Agent Orange drinks piss like its the antidote, yes. 

Dispatch: Oh.
Caller: Oh, indeed.

Dispatch: I-I can't help with that. While its not exactly...recommended, consumption of human urine is not known to cause severe health problems.
Caller: So he's gonna be okay?

Dispatch: : If that's the ONLY biological fluid he's ingested then, yes, he's going to be okay.
Caller: Really Really?

Dispatch: Almost certain.
Caller: Fuck.

Dispatch: What?
Caller: Yay.

Dispatch: Ma'am?
Caller: OMG, that's so awesome and junk. I'm, like, so relieved right now. Thank you, k bye! *yells away from the receiver* Michelle! Backup Plan. Yeah, Biden said he'll be close enough, so it'll have to be him that does it. He said the signal is when Trump stares at Ivanka's ass...for the 47th time. I know, yes, ew, but it's inevitable, so it's what works for us.

This should've been the cover for a straight-to-video Lifetime movie about upper class incest. Instead its in the presidential library. We done goofed..

Dispatch: ...I voted for Bernie, so I want nothing to do with any of this.

*click*

 

Neurotic Erotica (Neurotica) Presents: Chest Thrustington in "Dude, you probably shouldn't say that. Like, For real." Part 1.

To his mind, the image before him was of such grandeur that using mere words to describe it could only lessen its splendor if not insult it outright. Her naked legs were a silken recital of romance and fantasy with prose that would drive him mad if his eyes were to linger on them too long. The length of her barely covered torso reminded him of an endless breadth of curved yet captivatingly smooth Saharan sand dunes with the twin symmetrical arches of her breasts on the horizon, distinctly perched upon her chest as if it were the last salvation you would need before you left this mortal coil. So enthralled was he with the enchanting framework she possessed that he failed to notice he lost his erection.

She didn't fail to notice, though. No, she noticed almost immediately and had worn the expression of confused annoyance for the last two minutes as they both stared at each other in silence.

"Dude," said the sultry goddess who could solve the Greek government-debt crisis using only a series of sexually suggestive hand motions. "What happened to your dick? It looks...somber? Melancholy? Fucking depressed?" She squinted her eyes as if she were concentrating on the image in front of her.

"It looks like a sad Peyton Manning."

Chest Thrustington, broken from his trance, looked down towards his member and discovered that, undeniably, his manhood had indeed resembled the former Indianapolis Colts player, however, a deeply troubled and borderline suicidal version.

"Well," Chest Thrustington said with hollow confidence. "it's sad because this room is about to turn into a crime scene." He energetically twisted his hips from side to side with enough force to make his unenthusiastic package hit either side of his pelvis with a meaty thwack.

"Cause I'm about to murder that vagina like Jon Benet, girl." Chest said with more than a bit of desperation in his voice.

Suddenly, the ethereal beauty with eyes so piercing it can actually make the metaphysical concept of your soul blush, looked slightly offended and somewhat embarrassed.

"Pause." She remarked.

"Shit, sorry." Chest said contritely.

"Yeah." The divine feminine before him added awkwardly.

"I was saying it-like, I was speaking the words, and I was thinking to myself 'there is no scenario in which this ends with me inside of you.'" He said

"I agree. Dryer than sandpaper in the Sahara down here." concurred the woman so beauteous she once ended a civil war in Tanzania just by agreeing to let the rebel leaders watch her eat a Subway Chicken Parmesan sandwich.

"Is the mood-" He stammered "Fuck, is the mood, like, gone? Did I fuck it up? I fucked it up didn't I?" He said with a tone as deflated as his flaccid staff.

"Nah, I mean, yeah the whole dead kid thing kind of 'drained the pool' so to speak," Said the subject for Beyonce's inspiration board, using her fingers in air quotes, "but don't worry. Just stay away from mentioning unsolved child murders while making unblinking eye contact with my vagina and we're cool."

"Yeah?" Chest said hopefully.

"Why not." spoke the woman once described as "if Jesus and fresh cinnamon toast had a baby and that baby, in turn, had an orgasm."

Chest breathed a slight sigh of relief upon hearing her reassuring if somewhat cavalier statement. He closed his eyes as he straightened his posture and began thinking about one of the most cherished memories he refers to in times like these. That memory being the episode of Saved By the Bell where Kelly Kapowski had used Zack's zit cream and underwent the hilarious consequence of having her entire face turn beet red due to a chemical reaction between her skin and the dubious components within the cream.

Needless to say, he was harder than an Ikea desk assembly printout within seconds.

"Now," Chest Thrustington said with a renewed confidence. "I know I'll never forget..."

"We just talked about this..." grumbled the woman who either can, will, or has yet to be the centerpiece for every unspeakably depraved, uninhibited, and marginally sacrilegious fantasy your wife has ever had.

"...how I flew this 747 of dick into your twin towers of- and your phone is out. You calling Uber? You're calling Uber. Understood." Chest said with matter of factly.

That Time I Drank Vanilla Soy Chai Tea Lattes With Jay-Z

The sun was shining bright, and the air was warm. Meteorologists had predicted that the high was going to be close to 83 degrees that day, but somehow we escaped that harsh sentence and settled somewhere near the more tolerable temperature of 78. Somewhere in the distance, the excited yelps of a dog could be heard as if it were calling out to anyone within earshot to take notice of the world around them. Whether or not the people that shuffled through the busy city streets could understand the dog or wasn't apparent, but the slight breeze that ruffled the fabric of their clothing was enough to divert their attention from being mesmerized by their phones, if only for a little bit. However, all of these wonderful bits of daily minutia was lost upon me because I was currently drinking Vanilla Soy Chai Tea Lattes with Jay-Z.

Hova Hovito and I remained engaged in a conversation that, at times, had me as animated as it had him subdued, and vice versa. The God MC sipped his caffeinated confection as he launched into recounting the motivations and pathology he had during his more formative years selling drugs in the hardscrabble Marcy Projects of New York City. A thin line of nutmeg sprinkled foam adorned Jiggaman's upper lip as he described the harrowing details in which he himself witnessed the demise of close friends and loved ones. An almost too delicate sneeze escaped Lucky Lefty (of the Commission)'s mouth from the chai seasoning tickling his nose right as he was characterizing the young man that he once was and how that young man came to pursue the art of making music. I listened, fully enthralled in S Dot's heart-rending narrative save for the few moments my eyes wandered over to the pastry case on the banister near the baristas. It had cherry preserve and cream cheese danishes behind the glass display, and I am nothing if not gluttonous.

I'm not finished, man, but I was a famished man, so I ordered a biscuit with a side of grape jam as he waxed romantic about the first time he met Beyonce. "Beyonce?" I did say. "Your future fiancee?" He nodded sagely. "The one you wed in matrimony and mother to Blue Ivy?" I said concisely. "My respite from the tempest that manifests in my day to day." He said shrewdly. The fact that our manner of speaking was burgeoning on Seuss-sian levels was not lost on me, but I did not care. The entire exchange between Hova Hovito and myself was every second of every dream that I've ever had, and I was going to savor every goddamn second of it despite whatever tinge of comic absurdity that interaction may have had.

Surfbordt.

After a few minutes of comparing our preferred thread count of bed sheets (Mine in the lower 750s. His in the mid 800s), we got up from our small bistro table and made our way to the bustling sidewalk outside. We quickly said our goodbyes and, after him explicitly requesting that I not mention our time together to Kanye West because, as he put it, "I just can't right now.", we went our separate ways. Whatever rays of sunlight that could elude the obstruction of billboards and city buildings shone brightly upon my face as I walked towards my car. A light breeze slightly disheveled my shirt. The yelps of an excited dog became fainter and fainter in the background as I continued to move away from its source. Yet, all I could think about was how much I enjoyed drinking Vanilla Soy Chai Tea Lattes with Jay-Z.

#ThingsToLeaveIn2016

The year of our Lord 2016 is, without a doubt, the twat out of the almost seventeen years that has marked this century. A twat that surprisingly specializes in pettiness. A specific brand of pettiness not unlike what would happen if a Drake CD spent three weeks as a coaster for an empty can of key lime flavored La Croix and had, inevitably, achieved sentience. If 2016 were a developed nation, it's national anthem would just be whatever song was playing in the background of Kim Kardashian's sex tape. If 2016 made and manufactured its own brand of condoms, not only would each condom be pockmarked with enough holes to make your dick look like the 102nd Dalmation but would also give a random elder in your family untreatable Alzheimer's the moment you ejaculate. 2016 is the chronological equivalent of your father abandoning the family only to start a new one in the cul de sac down the street.

Despite the nation's pleas for its top scientists to develop a procedure that can render the concept of time into a physical entity only so it could be shot in the face with a flare gun, nothing can be done about 2016 aside from waiting the year out. While it's not entirely unlike waiting for the results of a pregnancy test that also determines whether or not your dog will get molested, 2016 will pass. Like Taco Bell and Jamaican Rum motivated diarrhea, it will pass and all that will be left to do is the pull the proverbial lever and flush this year into the drainage canals of time where it belongs.

Until such a time, we leave you with #ThingsToLeaveIn2016:

  • People over thirty using emojis in texts. Most civilized people will need you to use actual words and syntax when communicating what time you'd prefer they be ready to meet you for Pho and/or physically demanding sex that results in one of you being diagnosed with scoliosis.
  • Responding to polite rejection with hostility. it is common knowledge that the only thing more fragile than coffee table from Ikea is the male ego. Leave her be and move on to the next opportunity and try to find the silver lining. For all you know she could've voted for Trump.
  • Meghan Trainor
  • Men who wear jeans so tight that any unwitting passerby can make out the exact lines of your scrotal pattern within a second's glance.
  • Excusing shitty behavior for no other reason than your fear of being alone. If you'd rather be treated worse than the port-a-potty behind Paula Deen's house instead of being single, then I can't help you. Just know that no one is going to advocate for you as much as you can advocate for yourself.
  • Yes, Morgan Freeman's voice sounds like some heavenly combination of 900 thread count sheets and finally gaining your father's love. No, it does not mean that everything he says is intelligent. On the contrary, dude has made some questionable statements from time to time.
  • YASSSS
  • Obligations that still force you to perform tasks you assumed technology had made obsolete years ago. Walking into a Wells Fargo felt like walking through a haunted house because it had been so long since I had seen them that I had just naturally assumed that they all had died.
  • People that still manage to be surprised about what Tomi Lahren says. Her cultural relevance and continued success are as unavoidable as the Earth's orbit around the sun or the pervasive smell of death that permeates every Boost Mobile store ever. She's charismatic, attractive, and more racist than the old white woman in your apartment building that begins every sentence about the Obamas with "those people." If you know her name then you know her brand. Your surprise just showcases your naivete about the world around you.
  • Kanye West. If his erratic behavior, abrupt tour cancellations, and hours long tardiness to his own shows is indicative of an extended nervous breakdown then I fully support him seeking treatment....immediately after he provides a full refund to me and everyone else that paid good money to see him perform. He can get the help he needs when I get back the $84.50 for what was basically a Vicodin-induced rant lightly peppered with snippets from three actual songs.

"My Cousin Believes Tupac Is Alive And Has A Gluten Intolerance": And Other Reasons I Hate The Holidays

As the week progresses into its tacit excuse for Jameson sponsored mating rituals and cocaine tinted memories, otherwise known as the weekend, I take a moment to acknowledge the growing dread clawing its way from the pit of my stomach. The foreboding pangs of panic that echo through my mind and rattles what little sense I have while dominating my cognitive function like some invading foreign legion of store-brand fuckery I'd hoped never to see again. I think these things because Christmas Day is almost here and with it comes my annual foray into an elite fraternity of masochism only shared by myself, self-identified fans of Soulja Boy in the year of our Lord 2016, and glossy niggas that still insist on wearing wool-knit turtlenecks at the club. I feel this way about the holidays because I know that my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur is alive and hiding in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I do not want to expend the energy resisting the urge to slap him with a clunky, 90's era remote control for the entire weekend.

My sister organizes a group text of all of our immediate family members to coordinate travel plans in much the same way a mother would chart which children would sit next to the other during a long car ride to avoid arguments and the inevitable run of liquid shits that follows childish hissy fits. We all acquiesce to her demands due to a combination of our own spectacular laziness, and her uncanny ability to make you feel more shame than the one father at the PTA meeting everyone knows is behind on his child support payments. I suspect my family agrees to these terms quickly because they know that only I will be singled out to hear a theory conceived in an intellect thoroughly ravaged by habitual neglect and an underfunded public school system. I say these things because my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur participates in semi-annual fun runs for osteoporosis in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I will rage punch a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch if I have to listen to it for one more fucking second.

I book my flight with all the enthusiasm one would have in securing an appointment to walk blindly through a room whose floor is covered with baby oil and strewn legos. I briefly entertain the idea of sending a doppelganger to attend the family function in my place, but I quickly dismiss the thought because it's not inconceivable that my family would prefer an uninformed stranger over my own actual, physical presence. With the ensuing resignation that such a thought brings, I pack my bags while internally repeating a mantra I had either learned during intense research of meditation techniques or overheard as I feel asleep while watching an episode of Bones. "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is a choice." This is what I tell myself as I walk outside of my door and momentarily fantasize about what it would be like if a 2004 Hyundai Sonata were to perform a gang style drive by on me and me alone outside of my West Midtown apartment. Nothing fatal, of course. Just enough to ensure a lengthy stay at the hospital and enough sympathy sex to where my dick would need to hire its own chiropractor. I reflect on these things because my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur attends neighborhood watch meetings and regularly orders avocado toast at his favorite brunch spot in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I am forever in a state of being only four words away from tying an empty QuikTrip taquito bag over his head and watching him asphyxiate with an immeasurable, nay, borderline orgasmic level of glee.

Potato Salad and The Modern Relationship: Both Will Inevitably Turn To Shit

Relationships can be harder to decipher than the results of Charlie Sheen's blood tests. When is it appropriate to start spending the night at the other person's place? At what time do you decide to start integrating the other into your personal life by introducing them to your friends and family? Why was her cousin's Quinceanera a bad time to broach the subject of anal? It's these and many other mysteries that have perplexed humanity since the dawn of eggplant emojis, but Fukette has come to tell you that there is no need to panic. We've taken the time to apply our mentally defective intelligentsia-lauded illegal assemblage of state prisoners with intent to use them for slave labor investigative team of state mandated chemically castrated mission-focused yeah, one of them's an unreprentant pedophile. So, there's that. intrepid journalists to give you the answers you deserve. So disregard anything mentioned above that even slightly implies human rights abuses, and read on!

Remember Kids! Friends Don't Let Friends Call The FBI To Report Documented Evidence Of Illegal Slave Labor!

Considering the amount of resources poured into the research for this article, gathering the data was no small feat. The primary concern was how we could properly articulate the results of our studies in a manner the typical Fukette reader would be able to understand. Quite a few cycles of exhaustive data collection have shown that our average reader has, at a minimum, 2.5 learning disabilities and a child's level understanding of core concepts like "not shitting on the floors of public places whenever the urge arises" and "why the gaunt man sitting rigidly in the windowless white van parked across the street from your son's school is probably not the best chaperone for the class field trip." With this not at all damning evidence in mind, we've decided to make the information as palatable and accessible as possible, which is why we've chosen to frame our findings in the context of eating a bowl of potato salad.

But, like really good potato salad. The kind that's exclusively bought to black bbq cookouts and family get-togethers that featured two family members a squashing decades-long beef that, inexplicably, got started in the parking lot of a Howard Johnson's back in 1984.

Potato Salad: opular Dinner Staple & The First Choice Amongst Women Who Want Their Husbands As Full As Humanly Possible Before Announcing That They've Already Begun Divorce Procedures.

The decision to use this as the physical representation of the modern relationship was also made due to the graphic state of decay that overtakes even the most Natty Light Drunk Uncle-lauded potato salads. They tend to be perfect models in regards to serving as a visual portrayal of the dynamic between two people in a romantic relationship. More importantly, we were fuck out of ideas and staring down the barrel of a quickly approaching deadline, so we had to Keyser Söze the whole thing after spotting Jimmy's lunch he brought from the leftovers at his father's funeral. Apparently, even while grieving over the drunk driving accident that prematurely took the life of her husband, Jimmy's mother still managed to throw together a spread worthy of a Governor's funeral. Maybe even Senator's memorial if they had thought to include ribs and cole slaw. Just saying.

1. Fresh and Recently Prepared/ The Honeymoon Phase

Potato Salad

Newly made potato salad carries with it the responsibility of the utmost importance, with that responsibility being: may your taste live up to the impossibly high standards I have set for you. If it can accomplish this one, simple request, then it will validate my views on how the world operates in relation to me and serve as another layer on the rising Sierra that is my egocentrism.

Or, it could be a bitch and disappoint me like everything else.

I mean, this appeal is by no means outside the capacity of what it's capable of. No one is expecting anything TOO crazy. No one's expecting a bowl of potato salad to perform in an extra capacity like satiate someone's hunger as well as bring together an estranged son with his father in the hopes of mending a relationship once thought irreparable due to rampant infidelity and near-constant alcohol abuse.

Yeah, like, just to be clear, we're not suggesting that right? That it could really do that?

No?

Heh, yeah cause that would be stupid, and I bet he wouldn't even answer the phone, anyways so........

What?

Oh Yeah.

It is in this singular instance in which potato salad could be mentioned in the same realm as the science of quantum mechanics. That comparison being much like Schrödinger's cat in that: until you taste the potato salad, it is both good and esophagus-constrictingly awful.

It is both Tha Carter III and Tha Carter IV.

It is simultaneously everything Tyler Perry has done for Black America and everything Tyler Perry has done TO Black America.

It is at this moment in which anything is possible. You can engage in this mental fabrication because the actual dish has yet to demonstrate any negative traits that would give you a reason for tossing out of the window of a moving car. Therefore, you can project any texture, flavor, or sexual proclivity your debased and fevered mind can conceive of.

The Relationship

"Seriously, how did this happen? What series of events did I/several generations passed relatives set in motion to put me in this exact place at this exact time?

How did I get so fucking lucky?

I'm talking an extra month of service before T-Mobile shuts off your phone due to non-payment type lucky.

Like, there's an extra Plan B pill in the change holder of her car so now you don't have to spend that $50 type lucky. (Why she got extra Plan B pills lying around, though? Nevermind.)

Like, her dad grew up as a "good ole' boy" in the deep south and talked about nothing else but Ford F-150s and hating niggers, but watched Glory on WGN one night and teared up as Denzel was literally getting the black beaten off of him but still giving that OG, "Nigga, you gonna do me like this!?!" look at bitch ass Matthew Broderick, so he decided that night that he'd change his ways so now he loves black people, is completely ecstatic that his daughter is dating one, and exclusively uses cocoa butter for all his moisturizing needs type lucky.

"There it is. That one right there. Thats when I thought this whole racism thing was as played out as the hat that nigger in the background's wearing. No offense."

Granted, it's only been the better part of a month since we've started...talking? Is that the right phrasing? 'Hanging out' sounds too non-commital. Calling her my 'Tinderella' veers too close to overt sexuality and children's stories which, historically, has kind of always been a gray area as far as not being a fucking creep. Hmm...

Girlfriend? Could I call her that already? Does that mean I'll be moving too fast? She does make me unbelievably happy and, even though she challenges me, it's through a demeanor that indicates that she sees me as an equal as opposed to someone she needs to talk down to. Likewise, after watching her volunteer at the Humane Society the past few weekends, I know she has the largest capacity for empathy and compassion that I've ever see in another person. It not only puts me in awe but inspires me to follow her lead and give more of myself to the world in which I live.

Plus, she likes it when I say that I want to eat her ass like a Syrian refugee locked in an Old Country Buffet overnight.

Yeah. I think I like the sound of that.

Girlfriend."

2. Potato Salad That's Been Sitting Out, Uncovered, For Over Two Hours In The Summer Heat/ 4 Months Into The Relationship.

The Potato Salad

It's right around this time when things start to get more than a little complex than what they initially were. After spending a fair amount of time with the potato salad, you've concluded that while it's certainly one of the better-tasting dishes your aunt has ever brought to a family gathering, however, you can't help but feel that something's missing. Try as you might, you can't quite shake the feeling that the dish would've have been better with the addition of something you can't quite name. You feel this, yet you tell yourself that you're more positively content with the way things are. And that contentment sustains you as you continue to power through your, admittedly greedy, helping of food.

Unfortunately, you fail to realize that contentment can be easily confused with genuine fulfillment.

For instance, even though the dish has been sitting out in the baking sun long enough to give an unwitting consumer painful stomach cramps not dissimilar from a terribly vindictive, menstruating uterus regardless of gender, at least you know what to expect. Or, more accurately, you have a glimpse of what the salad is capable of yet are unaware of the long reaching consequences. It may give you stomach pains now and, in a weeks time, be the culprit and premise behind a frantic call to your physician about the frightening fluids leaking out of your anus, but these are ramifications you can neither see nor bother to be concerned with.

Simply put, you remain unable to grasp the full breadth of it's influence on your future.

I don't care how many bottles of Gatorade and sacks of tangerines you've placed in the cart to make it seem like you're just casually picking up items for the week. You'll be judged and internally mocked the moment this shit comes to a stop on the conveyor belt in front of the cashier, other people in line, and God.

The Relationship

"Holy shit did he just clean his ass with the same washcloth he's going to wipe his face with? Why would-

Wait

He saw me.

He saw me see him do what he did and yet he's still scrubbing like I didn't just see him do lukewarm Hot Pocket type foul shit.

I mean, I can't kiss a man whose face smells like sloppily wiped ass, I simply refuse. Ugh!

It obviously doesn't affect him, the dirty fuck, but that's how people get Alzheimer's, and I'm too popular amongst my friends to forget how to use Snapchat. I need my Snaps! What I don't need is Senator Dookie Lips thinking he's gonna make out with me and leave us both smelling like we slept in a Chipotle bathroom stall!

At least, I don't THINK I need him....

Fuck, maybe it's not the biggest thing to worry about. At least he's actually taking the time to wash his ass instead of forgetting about proper hygiene and letting his whole anus turn into downtown Detroit: apparently neglected and left with a pervasive odor that can make your teeth itch.

Yeah, okay.I'll just make sure to drink ALL of the vodkas and hopefully, when I come to, I won't remember this."

3. The Mayonnaise Has Turned Purple/ One Year Into The Relationship

The Foul Remnants of Giraffe Shit The Potato Salad

As you look down at the desolate landscape that was once perfectly delicious goodness, you can't help but think about how you can't go back to the way things were. You gaze ahead as you fondly remember the first time you laid eyes on the potato salad and the indescribable feeling it gave you. Your aunt had just gotten out the sedan while holding the seram-wrapped baking dish containing the salad. You knew it was going to be a delectable experience because, even though your aunt frequently mutters to herself about the hatred she carries for her children and her apparent confusion about where she went wrong in life (loudly commiserating about how she "should've swallowed" in the middle of Chuck E. Cheese while giving a birthday speech for her son is generally considered a red flag.), she still knows how to cook for the family.

Another red flag? A Pinterest Board dedicated solely to Casey Anthony.

After two or three bites of this starch-filled, culinary ambrosia, you'd barely be capable of noticing anything much less the fact that your aunt has once again sequestered herself at a picnic bench far removed from the rest fo the family. As your aunt sat alone, halfway through a bottle of gin and flicking the switch of a lighter whose fluid has long since been spent, you reminded yourself that there was goodness in this world and it's called proper seasoning. Now, it just serves as a visual metaphor for how anything that is beautiful in this world inevitably decays into stale globs of petrified mayonnaise that bear an uncanny resemblance to what Betty White would shit after a night of whiskey and cocaine.

Hint: Her real last name is Ludden. She earned the surname "White" in 1968 after spending 3 weeks doing cocaine on a Creedence Clearwater Revival tour bus alongside the band members, the entire cast of Petticoat Junction, and Sidney Portier(?)

Still, even though the sight of the potato salad is enough to bring back images of this Ken Burns documentary about the Vietnam War you saw on Netflix that one time, you remain steadfast in not throwing it away. In fact, despite your better senses, you find yourself looking around for some seram wrap or aluminum foil to cover it. As if protecting it from the elements at this stage of the game is going to bring it back from looking like the soul of someone at the end of a Faustian Pact. Against common sense on the soft murmurs of protest eminating from bowels, you spy some aluminum foil and use it to cover up the entropic dish with the intent to eat a bit more as you get home.

After applying a bit more thought about the endeavor, you grab the corner of the aluminum foil wrapped container and peel the edge back a bit. Just wide enough for a spoon or, let's be honest, three fingers to fit. Disregarding the many layers of disgust present in the idea, you decide to eat some of it on the ride home anyways.

Guantanamo Bay With Work Release Privileges The Relationship.

"The dishes still haven't been cleaned. It's sitting unmoved from when I last saw it this morning as it grows what I can only assume will be the biological weapon that ushers humanity into its twilight hour. All because someone couldn't be bothered to show even a fraction of the effort that enabled them to pull ahead in front of the rest of the sperm and reach the egg all those years ago.

I have a full grown beard now. I had only stubble when I had first asked her to clean the kitchen in the hopes of showing her that I wasn't the only one picking up after the both of us. A full fucking 3 inches of a grizzly mess of a beard and this bitch has done fuck all with the mess in our sink that looks like the premise for a fucking Star Trek episode.

She's still sitting on the couch live-tweeting episodes of Kourtney and Khloe take whatever the fuck their mother is willing to give them because they both have the marketability of an antibiotic- resistant yeast infection. She can find the time to interact with strangers about bitches who look like the talking stone head from Legends Of The Hidden Temple, but can't find the time to make sure we don't get Zika in our own fucking house. This is the person I'm building a life with...

...shit.

Things have just been getting worse as time went on. I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. Living with someone with all the housekeeping skills of a still-smoldering coffee mug full of elephant shit has gotten intolerable. I can't look at her without imagining what life would be like if I were single again.

Shit.

I should've broken up with her last November when I had the chance. She found that Thundercats porn on my computer, and instead of telling her that I think about Cheetara every time I force myself to have sex with her, she thought it was my idea for kinky role play. Now I have to say "Thunder, Thunder, ThunderCats! Hooooo!!" every time I climax, or she'll get pissy.

"Hello and welcome to Spank Bank & Sons. I see your here to make a deposit?"

While I'm pretty sure I'm in the incipient stages of a lifelong pattern in which I slowly add layer upon layer to the house of cards that is my slow simmering resentment for this woman, which can only culminate in an explosive argument in the middle of an Ikea as she threateningly waves a piece of furniture that takes two fucking days to pronounce....

...I still love her.

At least, I think I do. Maybe I'm just afraid of change?

Either way, I'll still be going to sleep and waking up next to this person until either we,or the pleas of several state troopers telling us to put the pieces of Swedish furniture down or they will be forced to open fire, decide we should part ways."

5 DIY Tasks To Brighten Your Home (And Distract You From Increasingly Worrisome Symptoms)

The average person's life is often dictated by a daily routine that is as rote as it is predictable. Perhaps due to an itinerary that is regularly bursting at the seams with unfulfilling obligations and razor thin deadlines. With the burden of responsibility firmly set on your shoulders, when do you find time to indulge the occasional hobby? Or, say, craft furniture that speaks to the gradients of your character in a manner that no retail store can claim.

Who says you can't invoke the expert eye of an interior decorator in the style of Tv's Tim Gunn in order to utilize whatever negative space or lack of character may be present in your home? Just make it work, honey! Such projects might not be too much of a pressing concern for most, but tasks like these are meant to enliven the space in which you call your home.

How fulfilling would it be to repurpose unwanted furniture into something sleek and coveted?

To add elements of charm and personality to what may otherwise be a staid and drab decor motif?

How about diverting your mental energies away from the increasingly alarming implications from the unexplained (and severe) maladies you've been experiencing recently?

Whatever the (potentially life-threatening) reason is for your sudden interest in completing projects that will outlast the frail confines of your mortality may be, we here at Fukette would like to offer some suggestions on projects you could do at home by yourself.

(Obviously, while you're simultaneously engaging in the futile practice of ignoring all the probable signs of your body slowly turning against you in a manner more befitting the dread-inducing visions of your worst nightmares.)

1. Bird Feeder Wreath

Just festive enough for the holidays and fear-inducing enough to remind you that a timely  colonoscopy appointment could've prevented this

A circular mold, an expressive yet subtle ribbon choice, some regular store bought birdseed, and a bit of arts and crafts know-how are all that is necessary to adequately house our fine feathered friends throughout the cold winter months. Not to mention the fact that it does not require you to sit and contemplate exactly what the implications are concerning the blood that stained the tissue you had used to wipe yourself this morning.

You don't remember ingesting anything particularly spicy or in any way volatile. Then again, you do recall a bit of intestinal discomfort from the night before, but you had just chalked it up to the stress you've been experiencing at work as a result of working long hours to earn that Managing Partner promotion.

The timming alone could be called tragic in it's own right! I mean, you're only one or two fiscal quarters, at the most, from getting the position and now you have to deal with this?!? Your unceasing ambition and inability to separate your work from your personal life have already claimed your relationship with your ex-fiancee, Jennifer, this past January. What was the point of having gone through such emotional havoc and psyche ravaging despair if not to have it all pay off in the end?

Just don't worry about it. It's nothing so you should STOP. WORRYING. ABOUT. IT.

Put it out of your head, and focus on the task at hand: Feeding these Bluebirds that're so cute, adorable, and more than likely not brimming with what you fear are precancerous cells.

Perhaps use the bloody tissue as a fake carnation or decorative bow?

Think more "decorative flair with a personal touch" and less "collapsed anus as a result of indeterminable internal illness."

2. Secure Your Cabinets with Fasteners

If this world were perfect, we would all have cabinets that didn't require some harried, dilapidated fix to keep it from rebounding open after every initial attempt to close it. After all, there's a limit to the efficacy of the tried and true combination of scotch tape, and the ardent denial that you are at a perilous crossroads between your health and acknowledging that immediate, professional help may be the determining factor in you having any future not spent six feet below ground.

Lifehack For the Lifeless: Just because your body is no longer able to function, process cognitive stimuli, verbalize thoughts, etc. doesn't mean that you can't place some fun decals on the inside as an expression of your personality. Will your family and friends be crying at the funeral or laughing at your brand of humor...nope, they'll probably just be crying.

That's why we're here to recommend the efficient and cheap option in cabinet catchers. You can find them with ease at your local Home Depot or Lowe's. They're relatively straightforward to install, and the instructions are easy enough to understand.

Or, at least, the would be if you didn't constantly have to deal with all the sudden bouts of confusion that defy explanation. You experienced one yesterday as you were paying for your groceries in the checkout line at Kroger, remember? A sudden wave of nausea followed by blurry vision immediately took hold of your senses and, as you struggled to assess the situation and regain your equilibrium, you awoke to find yourself bent over the cash register while in the middle of a dry heave as a thin trickle of blood was running from your nose. So shaken were you by the experience that you brusquely waved away the Kroger employees attempting to help you as you stumbled as quickly as possible towards your car. Your brow remained drenched in a cold sweat while you spent the next hour repeating "I'm fine, I'm fine" as some ersatz mantra in some futile effort to regulate your body. As your vehicle sat stationary in the parking lot, the memories of past failures and prematurely ended relationships competed for attention in your mind's eye. The regret you felt because of them overwhelmed you as you wept silently, alone, in your 2011 Toyota.

Maybe use the unpredictable bouts of dizziness and the ensuing episodes of unconsciousness to think about what cabinets around your house could benefit the most from the door catchers?

3. Refinish An Old Park Bench

See what you can create after applying a bit of elbow grease and cheap refinishing supplies? Nice touch with the decorative pillows, as well. Especially considering how inexplicably tired you've been getting as of late.

We've all borne witness to this sight often enough that it almost becomes cliche: You're driving down the street, trying to ignore the persistent hand tremors that threaten to steer you and your vehicle into someone's front yard and maybe even a wall of their house, and you see an old, discarded bench just sitting on the curb. Items like these can be used to--hey..um....

yells to get the attention of the crew

Hey! That guy doesn't look too good. Can someone go over and check on him, please?

inaudible response from off mic

Yeah, no we can go on in a minute. It's just, like, his head is lying face down on the steering wheel, and I'm not seeing any rise or fall from his chest--shit-- yo, I don't think he's breathing!

It's okay! We'll just call it "How To Stay Mobile: Don't Let Slipping Into A Coma Steal Your Independence!"

Goes over to the car and leans towards the unconscious man

NO!

NO! FUCK! Hey, man he's not breathing at all! We've got to fucking do something!

inaudible response from off mic

What the fuck do you mean "finish the script" !?! There is no fucking script without this dude, and, from the looks of it, we're gonna have to Weekend At Bernie's the rest of the damn thing if we don't get him to a fucking hospital immediately so stop dicking around!

inaudible response from off mic

Fuck You! I don't care if it goes against the premise. A man is dying in a 2011 Toyota Corolla, and I cannot think of a more depressing sentence in the English language. You can finish this Pinterest pandering horseshit yourself if you want to!

pulls out a cell phone and frantically dials 911

I'm gonna make sure a man doesn't die in a sedan.

inaudible response from off mic

And you mention a contract? Now? Honestly, bro?

Alright, fine, but don't expect some Geico-level shit. I'm talking drunk baby lawyer commercial quality at best. Now hurry the fuck up before we all catch a body today!

4. Suitcase Dog Bed

Cute,right? Forget about the (probably) dead body we just showed you up there, yet? No? That's cool we've got more puppy pictures.

Put a fucking dog in a suitcase, I don't give two shits-yes, hi, I need an ambulance right away!

places cellphone to ear

Yes, a man is passed out on the steering wheel and has what looks to be Quaker Oats coming out from the side of his mouth....

Uh huh.

...that's not Quaker Oats?

Oh, good God.

This message was brought to you by the good people at Quaker Oats: Looks the same coming out as it did going in!

5. Clothes Hanger Jewellery Storage

Protip: Take the clothes hanger and insert it, hook first, into the widest part of your asshole-

turns back towards cellphone

Yes, we're on the corner of North and Piedmont. I'm not sure....I nudged him with a nearby tree branch, and he still hasn't moved.

No.

Yes.

Yes, I was aware of his failing health before the call.

No. No. No, no I didn't call because...reasons that I now realize will not hold up in a court of law.

Yeah.

Yes.

Yes, I have every inclination to hang up the phone and leave the scene of the, in your words,crime.

Yes, ma'am.

Yes, your use of the word "crime" did factor into my decision to flee.

Police: Whoops! If you didn't wanna get shot then why'd you look suspicious?©

Uh huh.

nods thoughtfully

Uh huh

Thank you, I'm going to start running now.

drops phone and turns towards Fukette crew

It's the 12! 12 is on the block? Donny! Get the tupperware and take whatever you can from craft services! Alex! If the van isn't started and ready to go in 10 seconds then so help me god I will personally shit in both of your daughters' lunchboxes! Move people MOVE! I repeat! This is not a drill! Niggas roll out!

Fukette crew scatters away from the unconscious man as the sound of an ambulance and police sirens get closer

Food That Proved To Me My Parents Loved Me (Also, Food That Proves Your Parents May Not Have Loved You)

Disclaimer: This is not meant as an indictment or as an unfairly judgemental opinion piece about those for whom constant work is essential. Working however many jobs for god forsakenly long hours just to provide your family with a roof over their heads is love beyond measure. This piece is just in reference to those whose parental skills is comparable to putting a dick in an active blender. It's a mess for everyone involved and you had better believe those present to witnes such an act will carry the memory with them until the day they die.

I feel sorry for you people. I really do. And, yes, as someone who writes using the continuously oppressed lens of the African-American experience, I recognize how historically charged the phrase "you people" can be, but I have negative minus an additional 37 fucks to give. You people seriously missed out and, in some regards, that makes you less as a person. You see, I had the undeserved fortune to grow up within a family with food as good as our emotional availability with and around each other was horrible. Yeah,I'll admit that every family gathering was graced with the presence of uncles that did their very best to consolidate every depiction of a crackhead Samuel L. Jackson has ever played into one, unceasing, 50+ year method acted performance, but we still knew how to get down with the get down. Especially when the cooking of the women in my family was involved. And in those sometimes days-long gatherings, there was never a moment in which I doubted the infinite reservoir of love each family member had for us children. It was through motherland dishes like Jollof Rice, Cassava Leaf, and spicier than Satan's dick Fufu that I a got further affirmation that my family deeply cared about to nourishment of my siblings and me. If only because these dishes were laborious and, as is often the case when feeding ungrateful ass kids, thankless. So, to gather the necessary ingredients, block off the mandatory 38 hours and 46 minutes ( I assume. Depending on whether or not you plan to make enough food for your ENTIRE African family. We tend to crowd a room is what I'm saying.) to prepare the meal, and serve it surely has you contemplating abandoning them on the footsteps of an ACE Hardware store, has to be love or at least something like it.

I use this as the premise for my theory that states as follows: The better your family's food is, the more they love you. Conversely, if the food in your house while growing up could be mentioned in the same breath as Apartied or any other event throughout human history that illustrated a bankruptcy of the soul, maybe your fam didn't/doesn't care for you as much as those unsigned Hallmark cards you get in the mail every year-two months after your birthday-would like you to believe. Here, we can review some dishes that serve as a barometer of sorts as to whether or not your parents considered you and your kin alike regrettable ass births that they'd rather avoid at all costs. (In the interest of saving time: If your family meals consisted mainly of bland meatloaf and/or casserole, you should probably forgo buying the airplane ticket home for the holiday season. Chances are your parents won't even notice your not there.)

Jollof Rice:

  • 1 pound parboiled rice
  • 1 can tomato puree-400
  • grams
  • 1 onion, sliced
  • 3 cloves garlic
  • 6 small or 3 large red bell peppers, seeded and sliced
  • 1 bunch thyme, leaves picked
  • 8 chicken bouillon cubes
  • 1 loving parent
  • ≥ 1 fuck within a parental figure or guardian as to whether or not you find happiness in this life

Traditionally spicy and, as those of you who benefitted from the cooking of parents/guardians who thought your life was worth preserving, is often credited as the basis for much of what makes up southern cooking;Jollof Rice is a delectably versatile dish. Often served with a protein such as chicken, fish, or beef as well as the caring yet scrutinizing gaze of your mother as she painstakingly prepares this dish for you to consume, it is a staple of most West African countries (and happy childhoods.). Make sure to add blended vegetables along with salt, curry powder, and brown chile pepper all with the practiced skill that was taught to you by an elder in your family whom, like every other adult in your relation,cherished you enough to make sure you could responsibly prepare a meal for yourself and, God willing, someday your very own family.

Chicken Fingers and Turkey Sandwiches:

  • 1 bag of Tyson's Crispy Chicken Strips
  • 1 container of Kroger Brand Selects Deli-Style Turkey
  • 1 or 2 origins of parental neglect as to whether or not you are properly nourished
  • ≥ 1 instances of your parents not even bothering to warm the still frozen chicken strips so you could eat them. So now you, tearfully trying to reach the microwave but child's arms are still too short to grasp the dial, have to find a way to warm it up to feed yourself because no one could be bothered.
  • < 1 chance of finding anyone that you can trust in this life. I mean, if you couldn't even trust the people that brought you into this world to care for you, who can you trust?

Your father remains passed out on the couch midday while a rerun of Mama's Family plays on the TV in front of his (alarmingly) unmoving frame. As the character of Mama continues to crack wise to a fake tv family you would give anything to be apart of, you realize with grim resignation that the laughter of the show's studio audience is the only sound of joy you've heard in this home for far too many years to count. Mainly because you're still a child and counting, much like an attentive caregiver, is beyond your grasp. Once your able to, micorwave the chicken strips for 3 minutes. Once heated, give it 1 minute to rest so as to be safe for consumption. When the minute passes, find a quiet corner and eat in silence.

Shortbread:

  • 180 grams (6.3 oz) unsalted butter, at room temperature
  • 90 grams (½ cup) granulated sugar, plus more for dusting
  • 2 tsp. vanilla extract
  • 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
  • 270 grams (1¾ cups + 3 tbsp.) all-purpose flour
  • ≥ 1 child providing the laughter that often fills a joyous home
  • ≥ 1 prcocious youth adorably handing the preparer the necessary appliances so they can say they helped prepare such a lovingly crafted meal.
  • 1 God or other established deity who has not forsaken this home and those within it.

A simple confection with a long history behind it's perfectly calibrated sweeter notes; Shortbread is often the first item amateur bakers learn how to prepare by themselves. Often, under the tutelage of a parent or guardian who wouldn't rather find their reflection at the bottom of a bottle than perpetuate the bleak combination of being sober and acutely aware of the hell that they, and by extension, your very presence, has sentenced them to. Shortbread can be paired with many traditional dinner items as well as a standalone after dinner treat. That is if the meal wasn't made keenly uncomfortable by the unrelenting tenseness eminating from your increasingly resentful parents. Their seemingly unblinking gazes stay affixed to each other as if they could not reliably trust that someone had not poisoned the meal (and again, by extension, your meal as well.) in some vain attempt to regain a hollow facsimile of their lost freedom. A freedom both of your parents consider squandered the moment the pregnancy test came back positive. This knowledge, and the arguments you hear through the walls that your parents have long since stopped trying to have in hushed, pointed whispers, pyrrhically succeeds in keeping you awake every night.

Chopped-Up Hotdogs in Improperly Cooked Mac 'n Cheese:

  • 1 box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese
  • 1 package of Oscar Meyer Ballpark Franks
  • ≥ 1 bruises on your torso from the impact of the frozen hotdogs that served as your father's response to you when you had asked him if he'd fix it for you because you're hungry
  • 1 long uncomfortable silence as you remain standing there in the kitchen, staring down at the hotdogs that now litter the floor, and slowly comprehending the fact that this is the moment you have to become an adult.

Dude...that's dark as fuck. Holy shit, I'm sorry. Nonetheless, the bright side is that all the hotdogs require for consumption are a few minutes in the pot. Now just bend down and pick them up off the floor with your arm that's hopefully not fractured in several places because your father decided to turn those hotdogs into ballistic missiles. Best of luck!

That ends our first entry into "Fukette Presents: Things My Parents Did For Me To Show That They Loved Me Unconditionally But, Unfortunately, Your Parents Couldn't Be Bothered To Do For You Because They Don't. Love You Unconditionally, That Is." (Ed Note- May want to shorten that title to something catchier and more sensitive. Maybe "Ha Ha My Father Never Drunkenly Called Me A Mistake At My Sister's Wedding Unlike Yours Did In 2012!". We'll See.) Be sure to catch up with us next time or really whenever your expletive-laden confrontation with your parents as a result of the suppressed memories reading this article evokes within you ends in irrepairable consequences. Don't worry. We'll wait.

Black America Eats It's Own.

Recent events have, once again, served to highlight the inescapable fact that despite protestations from those who'd like to think they know better, we are not on equal footing. We, in this instance, being black and brown people as opposed to whites or those of a fairer complexion. Granted, for anyone with a functional set of eyes and more than 2 1/2 neurons, my saying that white supremacy inhabits every facet of our lives is akin to saying Kanye West tends to ramble without making a point decipherable by the English language. It's so widely known that it's considered common knowledge and almost to the point where it can be stated ironically on t-shirts sold at Urban Outfitters. What I also won't do here is begin to list and describe the ways in which black and brown oppression is available to see in all its macabre glory because of three reasons:

1. I'm sure you're more than well aware 

2. I'm personally tired of hearing how white people basically got the Konami cheat code to this whole United States thing, and... 

3. Who has the fucking time?

The space I seek to inhabit is why we, as African Americans, are not more inclusive of those that exist within the narrow margins of what we've arbitrarily decided what, exactly, 'Black" means. Where do those who feel that they do not have a home within the well-worn space that we've carved for ourselves go? Even more worrisome, what happens when they fall victim to the outmoded dogma that permeates our culture? Historically we, as a people, are targeted and victimized in the extreme. However, none of that makes us innocent when it comes to the victimization of others. Especially those within our own communities.

“They hate because they fear, and they fear because they feel that the deepest feelings of their lives are being assaulted and outraged. And they do not know why; they are powerless pawns in a blind play of social forces.” ― Richard Wright, Native Son

Stigmas are almost as necessary as milk cut with water so that your ungrateful ass could have cheerios when it comes to growing up black. Things that are never spoken of except with those who are intimately familiar with the details and/or Jesus Christ himself. (But only if he was there from the beginning. Otherwise, you just give him all the good news come each Sunday.) For example, mental illness runs in my family like Usain Bolt during a track meet at a Connecticut boarding school, but you would be hard pressed to find someone that dares to mention that in mixed company. The mixed company being anyone except for 3 1/2 members of my immediate family. The rest of my family is just under the assumption that Uncle Pandit can communicate with plant life on some Giving Tree shit, disregarding the fact that he's the stingiest son of a bitch I've ever met in my life.

Historical injustices, which includes but is not limited to sharecropping, slavery race-based exclusion from health, educational, social and economic resources, Wendy Williams, and other grim legacies begets a systemic and regular practice of maintaining socioeconomic disparities between African Americans and Whites today. US HHS Office of Minority Health studies show that socioeconomic status, in turn, is linked to mental health: People who are straddling the poverty line if not below it, homeless, are currently incarcerated, or have substance abuse problems are at higher risk for poor mental health. However, adverse attitudes concerning mental health conditions, that may well be entirely treatable, continue to be ignored or obfuscated due to prevailing beliefs within the black community. Here, we have it in clear print from established professionals in the field that say that "Adult Black/African Americans are more likely to have feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and worthlessness than adult whites." You can't really come up with a more perilous diagnosis unless you've just gotten the results of a blood test after sitting in a bus seat recently vacated by Tara Reid. Not to mention the fact that our entire lives have guaranteed most of us post-traumatic stress disorders on par with Iraq veterans due to the higher rate of physical violence we are likely to experience in our lifetimes. That, and the constant barrage of documented death of which we are almost obligated to witness on an almost weekly basis. All at the hands of our venerated law enforcement officers. We have to see these atrocities one after the other in a sickening cycle of intimidation that leaves us unable to compose ourselves on a physiological and even existential level before we have to do it again.

These factors conspire against our mental well-being, but for whatever reason, most of Black America view mental health professionals and the counsel they seek as an admission of weakness. There is a very broad need to exhibit strength. Especially to any and all detractors because it is that strength upon which you rely on to show the world that you will not be bowed. However, this ethos is proving to be a double-edged sword of sorts. If only because it forces us into the limited realm of thinking that most of life's answers come from within. That most of the burdens we must endure as human beings must be suffered alone and in silence.

“In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything in his power to promote forgetting. If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure no one listens.” ― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence - From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror

I would like to think that, in my relatively short time on this earth, I've learned to become at least a little comfortable with myself. This has taken no small amount of time and extensive sifting through various pornography sites to determine where my actual tastes lie. I only mention this because I believe someone's tastes in porn is a great indicator of who they are as a person. Look me in the eye and tell me Eric Trump doesn't prefer Patrick Bateman style bondage every Tuesday afternoon, but I digress. Because of this small effort towards substantive self-actualization, I have been afforded the privilege that only a cisgendered heterosexual male can receive. And yes, Black Men, we are the long-standing recipients of a privilege that is afforded to no one else on the other side of the sexuality spectrum. My privilege includes higher pay than that of a woman, little to no public scorn or derision in regards to my sexual promiscuity, and, lest we forget, not being raped. Or at least being considerably less likely to be raped than a woman. I cannot stress enough how important that last particular fact is to me.

Rape is amongst one of the most underreported crimes, according to the Department of Justice, and remains so unmindful of the victim's sex, age, race, ethnicity, religion or class. Though when it comes to categorizing a demographic, or at least an approximate, black women are ardent in maintaining the silence. That mentality is especially harrowing considering that African-American women are more likely to be raped than white women, but are more than twice as likely not to report it. Whatever preconceived notions one may have when it comes to such a heinous act, and it rates amongst a particular demographic would be deafening if not for the fact that it's so unpublicized. It is, one would guess, for a myriad of legitimate reasons that I can only speculate on or perhaps glean information form through a third-party. which is to say that I have no correlation to any female sexual abuse survivor on which I can base an informed opinion. Which is why CeCe Norwood, a sexual survivor counselor from Toledo, Ohio, gets right to the point:

"With white audiences," she says, "there are usually very basic questions they want to know: How is it different -- why are we black people less likely to report when these things happen? Why don't more black people seek help? Why do we keep it to ourselves? ...

That is a damn fine indictment wondernig why we don't, as a community, lift the taboo and stigma from reporting sexual assault if for nothing else than the safety of the women who've upheld black men since forever and a day. Also, let this not be misconstrued as being an admonishment in regards to black women, women, or any sexual abuse victim. The blame does not lie with them, and God forbid the notion that it does. The criticism is leveled at the fact that Black Culture often raises daughters and love sons. We raise our daughters to be stalwart supporters of the overburdened black man without paying mind to their needs beyond that of mere survival. What's even more galling is the fact that that cycle is thought to be of the utmost importance and, as of now, shows no sign of abating.

For reference, please swipe left on any claim that this is an argument along the lines of modern day fuckery by saying I'm advocating respectability politics. I am neither soliciting nor explicitly asking for validation from white people. I only wonder why it is that we sometimes seem willing to aid outside forces in the deterioration of our people? The living bodies that make our culture strong and appealing to people of all colors and walks of life. Whether they don't fit some predetermined mold is a level of foolishness I have trouble comprehending. Being black in America automatically relegates you to the status of "other." Why on Beyonce's name you would you be willing to inflict such alienation onto another human being defies reason.

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