June 29, 2009

Should Chris Brown have performed at the BET Awards?

That’s the tricky question. If you follow me on Twitter, you knew my take — wasn’t judging, but I wouldn’t have complained if people threw shit at him.

But then again, if you did that you’d have to throw shit at Don Cornelius, too, seeing how he’s the pot to Brown’s kettle.

Word is that Jay-Z strongarmed Brown off the bill. Must be nice to have it like that, I guess. But let’s stop and think, shall we?

Who knows…maybe Don didn’t beat his wife the way Brown beat Rihanna. Maybe his wife wasn’t as pretty as Rihanna. Or maybe no one with juice involved with the show could pull Cornelius off the bill like Jigga did with Brown.

I’ve had many problems with the public reception Brown has received, both on his side and in opposition. But the more I think about it, the more I realize what gets me…

The real reason people seem to be mad about how he beat Rihanna is that they think she’s too pretty to hit. As if, once it gets to the point that someone’s throwing punches…and biting, appearance matters. He beat her up because he’s got serious, serious problems. But had he beat…oh, I dunno, Cicely Tyson, I bet buddy would have been on stage moonwalkin’ it up.

I’m inclined to believe Don Cornelius is also troubled. But there he was last night, talking all slow, ignoring the schedule, bringing the show to a crawl.

Nobody threw a thing at him. And, unlike Brown, Cornelius hasn’t served a lick of time, as far as I can tell on Google.

So should Brown have performed? Maybe not, seeing how that would be a bigger story than Michael Jackson, the man to whom tribute was to be paid. But around 24 hours after the awards, who’s talking about Michael Jackson? We’re talking about how dreadful the production was. That isn’t much better.

I don’t think the lil fella should get a round of applause. But the law has spoken, and it has issued its sentence. We don’t get to punish him further.

If Jay-Z’s problem isn’t that Chris Brown beat a woman, but rather a woman that he’s close to, then he’s not getting any props from me. He stepped to the plate, and he hit a hypocritical home run.

Let’s not act like people are acting on principle with Brown. They’re not. They’re mad, and they’re appalled by what they saw and read, and that has a lot to do with what his victim looked like.

But, for the most part, they are not noble. Were I Brown, I’d be irate. I’d also shut up and take it, because I had little room to complain. That said, I guarantee you he saw what I saw, and it looked funny.

Hope Jay-Z and others are happy with themselves.

Actually, I don’t.

June 26, 2009

Why you like Mike more than I do

Unlike what seems to be 95% of the people I know, I’m not a huge Michael Jackson fan. Love the Jackson 5 stuff, love Off the Wall, like Thriller a lot…and them I’m pretty much good. It’s interesting because the MJ stuff that I like, I really, really like, and it has the instrumental brilliance and lyrical depth and dexterity I crave in music (the most underrated part of Mike’s game was that he was a fantastic songwriter).

On one hand, there’s no explanation for why I’m not crying in the streets like other people.

Then it hit me. Michael Jackson has never seemed human to me.

Off the Wall was released in 1979, and it established him as a star. I was born the year after. Then Thriller, which made Mike into a megastar, came out in ‘82. He’s been on megastar status ever since, more an entity than anything else. He was his own brand, and he was larger than life.

Humans are not larger than life.

I just never saw anything in Michael Jackson I could personally relate to. Maybe part of it was growing up in red, black and green schools that didn’t have much good to say about Mike and all the ridiculous incarnations of a process that he wore. But with the totally excessive videos and promotional campaigns, Mike did so much to get into my world that he kinda kept himself out.

The music is great. It’s technically perfect. Mike’s amazingly emotive as a vocalist, and the songs were usually pretty good. But it was always sounded perfectly aware of the fact that Michael Jackson was the biggest star on Earth.

And when I listen to music, I want humanity. It can be good, and it can be bad, but it must be human. Music is the most perfect medium ever created for expressing a range of emotion. Each instrument can speak to a certain part. The lyrics and melody can be linked by irony, and their combination can be an ironic juxtaposition with the music. There’s no way in the world to express so much in such a short period of time and in a way that endures like music does. It’s taught me mch about myself, given an interesting peek into the worlds of others, and brought me closer to people I’d probably have a hard time talking to otherwise.

But we’ve got music.

I adore the Jackson 5 catalog. It’s amazing how deep the emotional resonance of that music is, considering that Michael Jackson was being asked to convey adult emotions as a 13 year-old. Hell, the J5’s first album had a friggin’ Funkadelic cover on it (a kinda weird cut at that)! That Isaac Hayes and David Ruffin could cover J5 songs and STILL not nail all the emotion tells you how cold Mike was. If David Ruffin could do nothing else, he could sell emotion. That’s the reason you know his name…and Mike may have been colder than he ever was when he was a teenager.

I can relate to that music, and Mike’s voice speaks to me in a way that makes me sing with him.

The solo catalog is different. And it’s interesting because the folks that are calling out from work are doing so, largely, because of some combination of Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad. That’s what has them so enraptured.

No wonder I don’t feel it the way they do. I’d rather listen to the Jackson 5, in most cases.

What I don’t have from Michael Jackson is one of those songs that just speaks to me. There are plenty that entertain me, but none that hit me in that place that gets me to run a song on repeat for an afternoon. At every turn, I couldn’t bring the music closer to me. At every turn, I was perfectly aware — and reminded — of the fact that I was listening to Michael Jackson.

That was the biggest thing out there, so I get why so many people are so distraught today. However, I don’t need big from my artists. I need human, and I never felt that from Michael Jackson.

Now, those of you that know me could probably ask how human I think Prince is. Very, in fact. Weird as hell, but very human. That dude is off on some other shit, but so are many people I know.

I don’t know ANYONE like Michael Jackson. And that’s saying a lot, considering I hang out with you degenerates and reprobates.

But it hit me when I was on the way in to work. I heard “Wanna Be Startin Something” on the TJMS, and it just jumped out of the speakers. Mindblowing stuff, and I was rockin’ right with it. Then they went to commercial, and I flipped it up to Van Morrison’s “Saint Dominic’s Preview” on the iPod.

Which song is better? Probably Mike’s. But I’d rather listen to Van, because there’s a quality in this voice that I can relate to. Forget stardom and how big anyone was. That’s never been why music has captivated me. It keeps my heart and mind going constantly because I can relate on so many levels. Even if I don’t hear my life, I hear someone else’s and can take something from it. It’s why, in spite of my lack of any discernible musical talent (save for the occasional freestyle on the air), I love songs like I wrote them myself.

I don’t care much about star power, and I really don’t care about dancing from my singers. Impressed by it, but I can do without. I can do without pyrotechnics and jet packs, too. Just not my bag.

But those things are a dominant part of the legacy of MJ’s solo career. If you loved the music, chances are you were into the total package. And seeing how so much of the MJ discussion is about the Thriller era, I’m inclined to believe it was about the jacket, the glove, and everything else. It was about the magnitude.

And magnitude just doesn’t do it for me. Wanted a bit more of the human Michael Jackson.

Oddly enough, I bet he did, too.

June 25, 2009

The first thing we need to say about Michael Jackson

HE WAS ACQUITTED OF ALL CHARGES INVOLVING THAT BOY.

Yeah, I put that in caps.  One thing that pisses me off to no end is listening to people insist that we honor the judgments of courts…when we like what they say.

For the last 16 years or so, we’ve heard people say that Michael Jackson was a child molester.  Yanno, he just looked like one.  I always found that one interesting because, well, I don’t know any child molesters.  So I don’t know what they look like.

My sources aren’t too deep when it comes to Mike, but I know enough people to feel very comfortable saying that he did not do harm to the children that accused him of touching them.  Mike’s greatest mistake was having enough money in the ’90s that he could afford to shell out some dough to stop from dealing with an ugly lawsuit. That’s why it’s safest to fight instead of pay, for you might die one day and folks will keep poppin that same nonsense about you without giving it a second thought.

A case went to criminal court in ‘05, and he was acquitted.  Of ALL charges.  The man didn’t do it.

Now, he’s dead, and there’s nothing he can say about it.  Damn shame, when you think about it.

I live in a city where people hold three wrongly accused lacrosse players up as martyrs.  The folks say they were picked on because they were rich, white, etc.  They are, in many ways, right. The boys, however, are NOT martyrs.

Well, Michael Jackson caught a couple of shaky allegations because he’s rich.  I’ve yet to hear anyone say he was a martyr.  I’ve never heard people treat MJ as someone that was the victim of an injustice.

The courts, in ‘05, say that he was just that — a man that got caught up in someone else’s plot.  I doubt any of you have any evidence to the contrary.

So, if you love Michael Jackson enough to cry about him — and shut down Twitter — here’s the one thing you can do.  You can remind people that the man was falsely accused of child molestation, the most damning thing anyone can say about someone in American society.

Honor the man by requiring he receive the same dignity that so many others are afforded in similar circumstances.  In the meantime, I’m gonna turn on my (right now) favorite MJ-related track. Til the other side, Mike.

June 24, 2009

Oh, Gov. Sanford…

So the governor of South Carolina told on himself today. That’s pretty interesting. He didn’t have to tell me anything. I had no clue who he was.

At first, he was gonna go on a hike…but he decided to jet out to Argentina for five days to get down with a “dear dear friend.”

I imagine a few of his constituents said…

“I didn’t know the governor went to outer space. NASA’s just wasting money!”

Now, I can’t speak for you, but there’s never been a time that I’ve been looking for something to do, started with the idea of walking around for no damn reason, then arrived at “eh, guess I’ll go get laid.”  ”Go get laid” is rarely, if ever, the secondary option.  If it’s an option, it’s WAY up on the list.  If it’s not, I ain’t even trying to think about it.

I just wanna know what the woman looks like.  In college, after an unfortunate trip to Nashville back in ‘99, I decided that I wouldn’t be crossing state lines to see a woman if I was gonna be sleeping on the couch.  Gas is too precious in these tough economic and environmental times.  Plus, I’ll be damned.  Hell no.

Then, to top it off, he says he went down to Argentina and cried for all five days.  Why go to Argentina for that?

Now think about this…while many of you ladies think I’m heartless for my legendary state lines rule, I know you know what I’m talking about.  Because if you want it and expect it but don’t get it, there’s a good chance a man may never get another chance.  EVER.  You learn young that you better be ready when she’s ready, because you’ll never need to be ready again.

So this fool flies across CONTINENTS, and he cries all day long for five days?  Lemme tell ya something…if it was like that, the trip wouldn’t have taken no five days.  She’d have put his ass out, in Spanish and English, after four hours.  She wakes up, picks his trifling ass up from the airport, and all he wants to do is cry and feel guilty?  Dude needed to work that stuff out on the plane.  He decided to go there.  She decided you could stay.  She deserved better than his bogus guilt.

What a confused man.  Check this quote out…

“I wanted to do something exotic,” Sanford explained earlier, before admitting the affair, calling Buenos Aires “a great city.”

But instead of doing that, he just cried for five days.  Riiiiiiight.

Look, his business is his business.  I haven’t lived long, but I’ve lived long enough to know that I have nothing to offer when it comes to someone’s marriage.  If they’ve got an agreement, fine.  That’s all that matters.

But if I fly all the way to South America to see a woman and don’t get ANY, I’m gonna be mad at whoever’s responsible.

And you know what?  There goes the only plausible explanation for the tears.  Well, on every level, Guv, it’s on you.

June 22, 2009

I can’t understand what these lil jokers are saying

So my boy remarked to me that he’s reached the point where he couldn’t understand what that young boys are saying on the radio these days.  Now, he’s one of those New York people, so I was afraid he was just trying to diss my people, and you know I don’t go for that.  After he told me that he couldn’t understand Pimp C, who spoke as clearly as any human ever has, I had to check up on him when he said he couldn’t understand dudes.

Then he pulled up some song called “Bird Walk” by that Soulja Boy cat.

I know it’s called “Bird Walk” because that’s what it said on the screen.  I sure as hell wouldn’t know what he was saying were I left with nothing to form an opinion but my ears.  I couldn’t understand a damn word he said.  Not a damn one. I mean on the hook. I couldn’t hear enough to figure out the name on the song.

Like, if I heard that on the radio, I wouldn’t be able to come and find it.  I’d have no idea where to begin on Google.  That’s just shameful.  

Just because I work on AM radio doesn’t mean I want to listen to it all the time.  But I have officially reached the point where, much like my parents said back in the day, I don’t understand what these dudes are saying.  No, it’s not that I can’t translate the slang.  I. Can. Not. Hear. The. Words.

Hi, I’m Bomani, and I’m the oldest 28 you’ve ever met.  I swear, I still loved rap music like two years ago.  Definitely did three years ago.  Now I live and die by the iPod and don’t even bother to peep what’s coming out when.  My only hope is that nobody drops this stuff in the time capsule.

Does that make me that guy?  Yeah, I thought so.

June 17, 2009

Remember when racist jokes were actually funny?

Saw this story about some cat in South Cack making a monkey joke about Michelle Obama.

A state Republican activist has admitted to and apologized for calling a gorilla that escaped from the Riverbanks Zoo Friday an “ancestor” of First Lady Michelle Obama.

A screen capture of the comment, made on the Internet site Facebook, was obtained by FITSNews, the website of South Carolina politico Will Folks.

The image shows a post by an aide to state Attorney General Henry McMaster describing Friday morning’s gorilla escape at Columbia’s Riverbanks Zoo.

Longtime SCGOP activist and former state Senate candidate Rusty DePass responded with the comment, “I’m sure it’s just one of Michelle’s ancestors - probably harmless.”

Maybe that would have been funny if it was a stallion.  But I digress.

At least he thinks she’s harmless, I guess.  I see a gorilla in my neighborhood, and I’m looking for an elephant gun.

Anyway, I must be honest — white people have started to disappoint me.

For decades — centuries even — white people were at the forefront of greating great slurs and racial jokes.  Sure, they were offensive, but I could respect how good some racial jokes are.  The problem with those jokes wasn’t that they weren’t funny.  Most times, they were.  They were just foul ball.  But whether talking about coons, wetbacks, chinks or anyone else, white folks set a standard the rest of the world is still trying to catch up with.  Check out the Racial Slur Database if you don’t believe me (133 different kinds of niggers!).

Check that thing out, man.  There’s some absolute genius in there…but the best ones are all old.  What ever happened to the good ol’ days.

But look at what’s been going on now.  There’s the fool that sent out the picture of the watermelon patch in front of the White House.  There’s the dude outside Atlanta that was selling the shirts comparing Barack to Curious George.  And now, we’ve got ol’ Rusty saying that a gorilla is really just one of Michelle Obama’s ancestors.

As someone that flips words for a living, it is my professional opinion that you guys have gotten really tired.  You’re better than that.

Is that really the best you’ve got?  Are you guys still stuck on chicken, monkey, and watermelon jokes?  With all the stuff in those damn rap videos, it’s amazing that your creativity has been so stifled that you have to keep going back to the jokes you were telling as many as 100 years ago.  I have a hard time believing that someone that’s been hearing nigger jokes his entire life couldn’t come up with anything better than something that lame.

Where’s the ingenuity that makes America so great, huh?  Where’s the progress that we strive for from generation to generation.  We hope that each generation will be more prosperous, smarter, and more creative than the generation that preceded it.

And man, if a cat from SOUTH CAROLINA can’t come up with anything better than this, we’ve got a serious problem.  No wonder our cars suck.

Maybe the problem is with the public schools, which seems not to have taught its children enough to use some critical thinking to come up with something truly compelling.  Racial humor is a perfect breeding ground for idioms, irony, and all kinds of other stuff that makes your English teacher get hot and bothered.  A few words and a little effort, and comedic gold will soon follow.  Perhaps the problem is that, since white people can’t tell these jokes in public, they don’t find it worth the time to refine the craft to the point that the jokes are actually funny.  That’s awfully disappointing.

It’s disappointing because, at some point, we’re gonna hear it.  I figure that, if you’re gonna take the chance of getting your ass kicked, you may as well make sure you’ve got a good story to tell behind it.

If you’re gonna put out something racist in public, especially if you’re a public figure, get your money’s worth.  Hit it out of the park, man.  All this drama over a lazy, tired monkey joke?  Was that really worth it?  Talk about getting a touch foul for your fourth with six minutes left in the third quarter.

Here’s my solution to this problem, and I’m going to need white people’s help with this…

You guys have got to start demanding more.

I understand that you might enjoy laughing at black folks here and there.  We all know black people get plenty of chuckles at white folks’ expense.  Shoot, we can be so good at it that white people will actually pay to hear someone tell those jokes about white people.  Damned if I’m participating in the converse.

But you know black folks…we demand cats be funny with it.  You tell a lame joke around black people, and you’re lucky if you only get booed.  You’ll feel like a monkey when you tell bad jokes, because someone’s gonna throw a banana at you, if not worse.

White folks…y’all gotta stop laughing at stuff this wack.  A picture of a watermelon patch?  Dude wouldn’t send it if you wouldn’t laugh at it.

Have some standards about yourselves.  Don’t just give your laughter away.  It’s too precious.  Demand more!  Make the folks show some creativity!  Make them work for the guffaw.  Make them find something else to laugh at.

It sounds like that white folks have run out of stuff to laugh at when it comes to black folks.  I can understand that.  That’s what happens when you don’t know anything about black people.

Here’s an idea…you can easily step your game up by, yanno, meeting some black people.  I know quite a few white people and, as a result, I know quite a few jokes.

Meet a few black folks, and you’ll have more jokes.  I know lots of black people, and lemme tell ya…there are LOTS of jokes to be told.

Lemme tell you one of the unintended things you’ll probably find when you meet those black people — that half that shit you think is soooo funny isn’t even true.  You might find out we’re a lot more like you than you think.  If your man Rusty knew some black people, he probably wouldn’t have even told that joke at all.  Woulda saved him some trouble, don’t you think?

Best case — you get better jokes to tell.  Worst case — you find out we’re not here for your amusement.

Either way it goes, you guys need to step your games up.  Now.  Stuff like this is making you guys look bad, and in more ways than one.

June 15, 2009

Take Your Time and Think It Through…

I’m doing a category on the blog about my adventures on the golf course.  I go play with my man J-Full.  We’re both sufficiently not-really-good that we can play a leisurely, fun game while working toward improvement.  Makes for a leisurely afternoon.

Together, we’re NPG.  Cuz, uhhh…I like Prince.  Yeah.

Anyway, if you ever wanna have a long conversation with the ranger or starter on a golf course, come play with us.  We always seem to have someone down to help out with whatever we need.  One time, I lost my 5-iron and went riding back a few holes to find it.  Don’t you know a ranger was kind enough to ask what we were looking for, call the clubhouse to let ‘em know to look out for it, AND follow us from hole to friggin’ hole making sure we didn’t miss a spot?  I mean, that kind of service should cost extra.

Or entitle me to a discount.

Yesterday, we met one of the more interesting characters of the golf world — Uncle Ruckus.  You know Uncle Ruckus from “The Boondocks.”  Well, he works at many golf courses.  At this course we went to, Uncle Ruckus goes by “Chief.”

We got to the tee box, and Uncle Ruckus checked our ticket.  We got on the first tee, and a middle-aged white couple came behind us.  I topped my tee shot, but recovered nicely with a 6-iron shot about 150 yards into the fairway.  J-Full mashed his drive, and we were on our way.

Til Uncle Ruckus wanted to make sure our golfing experience was optimized.  He came out to tell us that we should let the couple behind us play through.  We didn’t object.

If you don’t know, you let someone play through when they’re going faster than you.  Or, put differently, better than you.  We assumed that Uncle Ruckus knew the people behind us, and he knew they were good.

Negative.  They were worse than us.  We sat at the 2nd tee and watched them hack it up, looking like they’d be embarrassed to play with me and my man.  And, to be honest, we’re easily embarrassed.

OK, I’m easily embarrassed.

Anyway, after they passed us, a single player passed us again (BTW, you know your a radio show is catching on when you tell a guy he can play through, and he asks for a shoutout without even verifying that you have a radio show).  We let him go, we kept it moving, and we made it through the front nine.

We sucked, BTW.  Didn’t play fast at all, due to my epically bad first five holes.  Picked it up on the next four, and guess who we see on the 9th green as we tee off?

The jokers we were told to let pass through by Uncle Ruckus.  Played so fast that they got passed up by the cat behind us.  Right.

Guess they just looked like they’re good at golf.  And I look like I can teach you to dance.

Moving on, went to the clubhouse at the turn to re-up on balls (yeah, it was like that).  Guess who wanted to know what we were doing?

Ruckus, of course.  Never mind that people stop at the turn to buy food and stuff.  I ain’t even out of the cart, and dude’s coming with the hassles.

Ruckus: “What are you doing?”

Bo: “Getting more golf balls.”

Ruckus:  ”Oh yeah, just go in there.”

In where, that building near where I parked my cart?  I mean, what I was gonna do without your help?  But what did I tell you?  Everyone just wants to make sure I have a good time.

Got deep into the rest of our round, and life was good.  ’Til we got to the 15th, of course.  Guess who just decided to make a spin around the course?

Uncle Ruckus, of course.

“You guys need to speed up a little bit.  There are people behind you.”

Now, here’s the thing…according to some, I’m now a “local celebrity.”  That means that if there’s anyway I can avoid minimal drama, I will.  Unless there’s some serious extenuating circumstance, I’d like people that meet me in real life to walk away with a pleasant experience.  More than anything, you can’t win getting into a beef when someone knows you and you don’t know him.  The small cussouts I used to intermittently issue are no longer in my repertoire.  It’s handshakes and smiles and “good to meet you.”

So, if the ranger asks me to do something, I just do it.  I can’t let anything get ugly.  If I’m playing slow, I’ll pick it up.  I don’t have time to deal with “he thinks the rules don’t apply to him” and all that nonsense.  On this day, I even went so far as to drop instead of looking for a ball, and picking up a ball instead of putting out.  Making life easier for everyone.

So remember Uncle Ruckus telling us to speed it up?  That took us riiiiiiight into….a twosome on the next tee!  Even if we went faster, we’d get held up.  Wonder if Ruckus told them to speed up?  They sure didn’t act like it.

That’s so much, Ruckus.  I really needed that.

And yanno, this stuff never happens when I go play with white people.  I get left alone.  Nary problem.  But the NPG?  I just wanna know these things…

How am I gonna play fast getting hassled every three or four holes by the ranger or starter?

Who puts on slacks to cause trouble?

Hell, what trouble can I even start on a golf course?  Think I’m gonna climb a tree?

What’s there for me to steal?

Who am I gonna rob?

Why are you right behind me?

So do me a favor and send this post around to everyone that you know that runs a golf course.  Make sure they understand that the wrong person to come at on that nonsense is someone with a radio show and the leeway to say whatever he wants.

Long of the short — next course that tries me like this will get free advertising.  They’ll wish they hadn’t.

Cuz the NPG won’t be putting up with this stuff for long.

…cuz the next lines I write might be about you.  And involve the name of your business.  Dig?

June 2, 2009

The pizza man is maaaaaad!

Ain’t no punchline.  That fool is just mad.

Some of you may recall a post I did a while ago about my issues with tipping over a delivery charge, and how suckeriffic I think begging pizza men are.  Sorry, but I don’t think tipping is mandatory.  I can break out equations for you to show how a tax negatively affects the delivery man, but I’ll spare you.

Well, a few days ago, I noticed a lot of referrals to Virtual Bomaniland from a site dedicated to increasing awareness about how badly pizza men need tips.  Seriously…stop begging!  If you’ve gotta beg me to give you something so you can live, you need to get another job.  There are other ways to make a living, most of which aren’t as hard on your cars.  

I feel where you’re coming from, but that should just serve as motivation for you to do your job better.  The solution to your need for tips is not to expect me to bankroll your operation out of the goodness of my heart.  My friends don’t even ask me for money.  I only know you because you’re on my doorstep.  

When you think about it like that, to be a begging pizza man is actually impolite.  Your mama raised you better than that.

I didn’t bother to go to the pizza man charity site, but lemme tell ya…the comments they left on my site are pretty entertaining.

Deb is, technically speaking, a snitch.

“I am way late answering but I just found this through another link.  I don’t think people understand that pizza drivers are paid sub-minimum wages JUST LIKE waitresses now.  I was a driver, now I am a part time manager because it pissed me off to put miles on my car to be stiffed 50% of the time.  I will tel you this, if you are going to stiff your driver then you had better make sure your house doesn’t reek of reefer and you have no drugs visible.  I had my share of customers busted when all would have been fine had they thrown a couple of bucks at me.  Don’t give a shit about me?  Why should I give a shit about you?  The PoPo ain’t nuthin’ but a call and I made that call MANY times.”

If I were you, Deb, I’d make sure never to deliver to those neighborhoods again.  Anyway, it’s not that we don’t understand your conditions.  I just can’t understand why you don’t get ours.  Or, you could always impress me with your work ethic.  That’s supposed to be how you earn a tip, right?  Not with your hand out.

Shane wasn’t too pleased, either.

I’m a delivery guy. I have a ton of ghetto pricks like you who stiff on a regular basis. I remember non-tippers very well. Plus, it’s pretty easy to identify “ghetto” over the phone. I mess with your pizza and deliver it as late as possible. If I ever got caught and lost my job, it’s no big deal. The very next week I’d be working for a competitor. Start tipping or get a car so you can pick it up yourself.

That ambition’s gonna carry you far, pimpin.  Going from driving for the Chinese joint to becoming the pizza man is like taking a trip across the globe, right?  There’s irony in a man that works in a car calling someone that works in a chair “ghetto.”  If you’d like me to put this the context of general equilibrium and transfers, I could.  But that would be too hood for Shane, I’m sure.  All that slang and stuff.

And, of course, someone named “nope.”

this is why i always spit in niggers pizza

Yanno, I’m noticing that a lot of these white dudes don’t seem to appreciate having to bring food to black people.  Might wanna get a better job or just chalk this up to the game.

Can someone tell me where the pizza men of the world get off being so entitled?  Seriously.  Your beef is with your boss, not me.  The delivery charge steals from you, not the customers.  But of course, you get mad at me instead of the man signing your check.  Typical.

June 2, 2009

Another Adventure in Irony

Went out to Louisburg to play golf with my man Ken in Youngsville on Sunday.  A friend and I joined he and his buddy at the Bull Creek Golf Club (where I’ll be playing this Sunday to help raise money for the Franklin County SPCA).

So there we are, so far out that we can’t get cell reception.  It was a great time.  Somehow, Atlanta came up.  I’m kinda from there, and my boy is all-the-way from the A.  One of the guys we played with, a middle-aged white gentleman with a sizable gut, started talking to us about a team from Atlanta he used to play against in a softball league.  He told us team was sponsored by a drug dealer from Detroit.

So I say, “yeah, he’s in jail now.”

He looked at me funny.  My man co-signed my point.

“You’re talkin’ about Meech, right?”

The man with the belly says, “how do you know Meech?”

That’s right, ladies and gentleman.  The regular ol’ every day white man was asking ME how I know who Big Meech was.

Count the instances of irony.  I’m really counting at least four or five.  Yup, welcome to 2009.

May 28, 2009

What is wrong with this fool?

Is this what’s hot in these streets right now? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m gonna stop now, because I can’t think of anything else to say that doesn’t involve lots of cursing.