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When the wife’s away her panties come into play.

Just in case you feel the lines have been too blurred thanks to daytime TV and or your own battles with cataracts there is in fact a tree stump lurking in those satin black undies.

Unfortunately for this naughty vixen Victor’s Secret has been revealed.

If you’re wondering who this person dressed like Madea’s sassy little sister is, say hello to East Cleveland Mayor Eric Brewer.

This tall glass of sweat tea now finds himself in political danger in lieu of these photos leaking shortly before a primary election.

Naturally, it’s everyone else’s fault these pictures leaked.

I don’t think anyone forced him to go through his wife’s side of the drawer and channel Trina’s “Look Back At It,” do you?

If Mayor Brewer likes to play peak-a-boo with his disposable digital camera that’s his business, but he and other cross-dressing politicians might want to invest in a safe…or a sketch artist.

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If you asked most heterosexual black men which man would they bed if forced to chances are you’d get as warm a response as Karrine Steffans at an NBA wives meeting.

Yet there is one man ‘brave’ enough to answer the question without interjecting the words pause and no homo into the equation: Tyson Beckford.

He probably doesn’t mind entertaining the question given that as a male model most people think he spends his half his days close to his ankles anyway.

Nevertheless Tyson could’ve easily ducked the question and denied Bravo host Andy Cohen’s request for a chocolate-flavored wet dream.

And now some are wishing he did.

Like most of you, I didn’t need the image of Tyson topping President Obama in my mind. Granted, it sounds like that idea had been floating in his head for a second, but aren’t some of you riled about this video a little pressed?

You all do realize that Barack Obama was created in the early 1960s by Ann Dunham and Barack Obama, Sr. and not God three days after Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, correct? People say crass things about presidents all the time.

When people used to speak of bumping bushes with President Bubba, I vomited in my mouth and moved on. Try it.

As nasty as Tyson’s scenario was (that is, unless you’re into that sort of thing) it could’ve been worse: He could’ve said he wanted a three way with Frankie and Dick Cheney.

There now your stomach is curving like Andy in his seat during this segment.

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That’s not exactly what the dance is called, but doesn’t that sound catchy? If not, it’s a pretty close second to its real name — the Liberian Whop.

I discovered this dance after checking out Quddus’ blog, The Q Side.

The dance itself reminds me of something I would do outside of a closed bathroom door when I had to pee as a child. There’s also elements of moves I’m sure somebody’s uncle (who prefers you call him something like “Jet” or “Sweet Uncle…”) will be doing once your auntie’s start trying to do the “Single Ladies” routine after that extra shot of Wild Turkey on Thanksgiving.

That said, I’d probably still do this dance on a public sidewalk if you took me to a good enough Happy Hour.

It looks a lot less complicated than jerking. And the Liberian Whop doesn’t require that I wear nut hugging pants that will kill any viable chance of me having children. I’d bust my ass trying to do what they’re doing in this video at the club anyway. All that bouncing around and shit. The hell I look like pretending hard wood floors are the trampoline remix?

The worst the Whop can do is maybe have me inadvertently bump my knees together. Thus, we have a winner in the Whop, folks.

I like to think that I’m going to end up international so as soon as I score that show, top-selling book, and Oprah’s touch so I’m going to need to be able to fly around the world be prepared to be regionally dance friendly.

Now I’ve looked at my Statcounter and I’ve noticed I have regular visitors from Romania and Malaysia. Also parts of the Caribbean, Asia, and countries my old geography teachers would be ashamed of me for never having heard of. How do ya’ll jig over there? Please send me videos and educate me.

Videos excluding porn, of course. I’ve noticed quite a few of my random Iranian visitors only come for the site looking for Beyonce or Britney Spears porn. That or monkey sex between Sarah Palin and Big Red (yes, Kool-Aid). Nasty, nasty.

Anyhow, I think it’s only right that I start incorporating international jigs onto the blog. I remember posting about some U.K. dance that basically encouraged migraine headaches. While it may not be my kind of jig, I don’t mind sharing it with ya’ll.

Send me more gems like this, please. It’s time that we all share the wealth. “Houston, Atlanta, Brooklyn to New Orleans” can’t do all of the work.

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I know I can’t be the only one who looked at this trailer and took it as a cry for help.

I get the sense that some of you feel as though I’ve been harsh on Ciara in recent months. The anonymous reader who called me an embittered homosexual for my last post, “Help Me: Ciara,” tipped me off. Next thing you know someone’s going to say Jesus doesn’t like me anymore and that Mohammad will be waiting for me outside the club next weekend to whoop my punk ass.

Instead of someone asking why I go so hard on Ciara shouldn’t folks start asking why she makes it so easy?

Take this trailer for Mama, I Want To Sing for example. Now I’m certain in Ciara’s mind she thought her first starring role in a feature film would place her alongside the other singers who really have no business acting. I seriously don’t want to put a damper on her triple threat ambitions, but who is advising her on her prospective film career? Taimak?

I get the fact that the original play the film is based on is highly popular, but somewhere along the way during shooting it had to have dawned on Ciara that something wasn’t right. I don’t even think Bookman from Good Times would do this movie. You can tell there’s a lot wrong with this film based on the trailer.

Like the younger version of the main character having a better voice than that of the adult. How is the movie going to start off with the little girl blowing her grown self out of the water? Where do they do that at? If the character’s vocal abilities were going to peak before puberty perhaps the movie should be renamed Mama, I Want To Go To College.

Oddly enough, I don’t fault Lynn Whitfield and Patti Labelle for signing up for this film. I write a blog called The Recession Diaries, so I stay up on economic news — even Lady Marmalade isn’t turning as many tricks as she used to. I’m not mad, Patti. I’m not mad at all. Things haven’t been right for your acting career since Out All Nite was canceled anyway. I personally still find it to be a great injustice.

Yet while Patti and Lynn get the OK for anything that pays Ciara, on the other hand, should’ve known better. The same can be said for Billy Zane. How does one go from starring alongside Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in Hollywood blockbusters to co-starring in straight-to-DVD films with Juanita Bynum and Ciara?

God be an answer to that riddle.

As it turns out the premiere of this film was supposed to be last night. Guess what? It got abruptly canceled due to technical difficulties…whatever that means. You know, if it were me I’d go ahead and put on my nicest pair of sweats, head over to the spiffiest Walmart I could find and snap a picture of myself holding the DVD near the clearance bin. Then after that I’d go home, hack my imdb page and delete any listing with my name attaching me to the project.

Ciara, please go find someone who’s going to go to bat for you. Otherwise you’ll be lucky if you can star in Bring It On 45. Or better yet go work on a follow-up album that will shut people like me up. This ain’t it.

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I’m not one to tell a person to give up on their dreams, but do ya’ll know anyone out there hiring? I have a friend in my head who might need to look into a new career path.

When I first heard this song I thought it was great. Upon additional listens I thought it was alright, but wasn’t going to make that much noise. After this video, I’m wondering why Def Jam just didn’t give this video’s budget to me. If they’re going to waste money on some random effort why not send me the cash? At least I’m going to be successful.

I really don’t like taking shots at Amerie. She’s pretty, intelligent, and seems genuinely dedicated to improving as an artist. Yet…she doesn’t’ seem to get it. The video itself is nice. As always, Amerie is visually stunning and the video itself is put together well, but this isn’t what people want from Amerie.

I’m going to keep saying it until artists start listening to me: Know your lane.

Amerie – like so many other singers before her – have fallen into the unfortunate belief that everyone has to be a superstar.

Her debut album continues to be one of the best R&B albums of the decade. She should’ve stuck with the sound that worked for and been content with the niche she carved. It’s why artists like Maxwell can take 19-year-old breaks and come back and still sell without topping the Billboard Hot 100 and why you forget about artists like Ashanti three weeks after their first unsuccessful single.

Can someone pass this message to her and other decent tone yet vocally inconsistent rhythm-challenged singers:

There’s only one spot right now for a girl who fits that category so repeat after me: Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh. Now go find someone else to be. Try yourself, because looking like Lady GaGa’s late cousin isn’t it.

But gon’ head, Amerie, keep doing what you doing even though you should know it won’t do nothing for you. Said with love, of course.

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Disclaimer: If this is your first time reading this here blog, I politely ask that you skip this post and proceed to reading the entries below. I don’t need newbies thinking this blog is my fake ass diary. Thank you. — Mgt.

I could learn a thing or two from Kanye West. That is, lessons outside of the importance of accessorizing, embracing color, and “giving face.”

I’ve always chalked up his “I’m greater than thou” shtick as nothing more than the overcompensating ways of a person harboring deep seated insecurities. That could very well be true, but my overly critical ass negated one important fact: Those antics actually work.

I, however, did not last Friday.

I came to LA this year to make a full fledged effort in pursuing my screenwriting dreams. In addition to reaching out to people who may be able to provide insight and/or point me in a helpful direction I applied to nearly every writing program imaginable.

Each broadcast network offers some sort of writing program. They’re a great way for aspiring writers to get that all important in. That is, an in that doesn’t require giving your jaws any weight training.

Over the past few weeks I learned that I was a semi-finalist for one of these said programs. And more recently, I was alerted that I advanced to the final round of applicants. That required me to come in for a sit down interview and sell myself on why I deserved to be in this program.

Now, I typically do well interviews…or I at least I used to think I did.

Last Friday proved that I am not up on game the way I used to be. I went in there confident. I just knew I would seal the deal. Make my way. Kick off 2010 the way I longed to.

None of that happened and it’s my own fault.

Basically: I didn’t sell myself. More specifically: “Own the fact that you’re a good writer and belong in a writer’s room.”

As I was talking Friday I couldn’t believe the nonsense coming out of my mouth.

Had you heard me speaking you would’ve looked at me like:

As soon as I left the interview I was wondering what in the hell did I just say.

Thankfully, the program runner – who I reached out to previously before this program’s deadline – waited last to call me to explain exactly why I didn’t make the final cut.

I didn’t appear confident enough in my talent as a writer and overall comedic sensibilities. It was almost like this program was mine to lose…and I did by failing to prove that I belonged.

I have been getting on God’s nerves for weeks asking to be placed in this program knowing good and well he has more important things to do – like mopping up Atlanta.

But in hindsight, God had already given me a gift everything I needed to get in. I didn’t take ownership of the talent, abilities, and potential that I’ve been blessed with. Because of that I failed to attain something I desperately wanted.

Screenwriting is new territory for me. I’ve had no formal training and over time I’ve developed an anxiety about it. I come from an editorial background and with the exception of participating in a comedy writing program with Chris Rock and Comedy Central three years ago I essentially had to teach myself how to write in this format.

Why I allowed myself to become that pressed about it is beyond me. I’ve never placed that much emphasis into formal training. I appreciate my college experience for what it was, but I think I grew more as a writer by simply sitting down and reading good writing — and of course actually spending time writing.

Now if I thought that in college why all of a sudden did I have a hang up about not taking Screenwriting 101?!

Instead of owning the fact that my very first spec got me in the second round of national film competition (of 4,000 applicants only 10% made it that far) and as a finalist for a network writing program I sat there looking antsy as hell.

I know I don’t suck as a writer. I know that I’m funnier than the average credit score from The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I’m a non-threatening black man.

It was all there…wrapped with a pank ribbon (I wore pank to the interview…pause yourself). Yet I didn’t seal the deal.

And now, I have to go back to square negative seven. In the end, I’ll be fine. Better than fine. Yadda, yadda, bullshit.

As much as I hate losing, I can take something out of this experience. For so long I fought so hard to never appear cocky that I in turn started to seem insecure to some people.

That’s not who I am and that’s certainly not what I want to project to others. I’ve reflected on words shared to me this week and come to realize I may seem a little anxious or green to those who don’t know me.

Even when I pitch pieces, while I know that I’ll deliver good copy I’m not always certain I sell it as well as I’ll ultimately turn it in. This is not good for a writer with ambition like mine.

I’m glad the program runner (who is lovely) said to me: “I believe in your talent, you’re truly a funny guy and good writer.”

Far too many of my friends say I never give myself enough credit. It’s time to admit that it’s valid criticism. I’m disappointed that I didn’t appear to be sure of myself. I know that I’m a good writer. I need to be proud of what I’ve accomplished in 9 months.

Ugh, I sound like I wrote this post after a eating a fortune cookie. If you follow me on Twitter then you know how much I loathe schmaltzy stuff. Forgive me for sounding like a Hallmark card.

For this post, though, it seems a bit necessary to prove my overall point: Don’t be anxious about your gifts. You’ll only do yourself in.

I did and now I have to work that much harder to find another opportunity to advance.

Hopefully that day will come soon and I will embrace my inner Kanye and learn to smize in interviews. I still don’t know what happened last week. I went in there grinning then all of a sudden became possessed by the spirit of a loserbitch. Maybe someone put a root on me? (Ciara, I see you.)

As much as I hate learning a lesson like this at this stage in my career it’s something I needed to finally grasp so that it will never happen again. I’ll see to it that it won’t. I got student loans to pay off. Hangups don’t keep Sallie Mae away.

Thank you for indulging me in this rant.

Feel free to send your connections to literary agents, development executives, and showrunners below.

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You know, I’m starting to become disappointed in some of my family and friends. Oh, and ya’ll, too, readers. You all are just as guilty as the ones I know personally.

Now, let me explain again how this here thing works: We are in the circle of foolishness. That means if you know of something ign’t, you share it with me. If some of ya’ll can email me about promoting PETA, body spray, and Amerie scratching her head certainly you can keep me up with the latest dances.

I’m out here in Cali, folks. They don’t dance. They two step and body roll after two over priced drinks 15 minutes before the club lets out at 12:45. That is, unless you’re at a hood spot and quite frankly, I only go to hood spots if they’re in my hood or in a hood I’m familiar with. I haven’t reached that point with LA yet. I’m liable to get shot up by Barney and raped by Baby Bop for wearing the wrong shade of purple around here.

Besides, I jig, I’on (yes I’on) jerk. That means my people – particularly you, my southern brethren – have to keep me current. I can’t keep calling my younger brother and niece for the scoop. If I ask my niece about all the new dances when I call her though she may tell me I have to maintain the image that education comes first. Well, first I tell her she’s the most beautiful girl in the world and then I tell her to read a book. You get what I’m saying, though.

That said, this dance is “new” to me but not to Dallas, Houston and surrounding jiggable metropolitan areas. A friend from home told me about it last night on the phone. Naturally, as she was still talking I Googled “Party Boys Flex” and found the above video within seconds.

Search game proper.

Like the dances before it I see that it’s essentially the movements of a retarded homosexual. Obviously, that doesn’t bother me. I’m half way there anyway.

Upon further research (i.e. another quick Google search) I found the mp3. This song came out 8 days after my birthday….in April.

This would have been a perfect post-b-day gift. I’m about to send out a mass text message (including my mama, who informed me about the Halle Berry), but let me also remind each of you who enjoys this blog that we needn’t let this happen again.

I am now 25. That means while I can still twirk (a few months ago a friend challenged me to a twirk off, she had body aches the next day) we don’t know how long my knees are going to last. I messed them up a couple of years ago from running and haven’t checked them out due to me losing health insurance in April.

Unless Obama and Congress get it together, my dreams of dropping it well into my 80s could be dashed. I have to make sure I live up to my prime jiggable years while I still have them.

So when you discover something new, you have to send it to me. I will forgive everyone this time, but don’t let it happen again.

Now go think about what you’ve done…then go flex your guilt away.

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So Monet from the blog, Style & Substance, did an interview with yours truly. She’s a trooper because I took CP time to a new level with answering her questions. I still feel bad about it, but thankfully, she didn’t curse me out about it.

Do check it out by clicking here:

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I converted to what some (re: my mama and ‘nem) would call heathenism years ago. It’s not that I don’t believe in God. It’s ya’ll’s asses I question. I’m gonna avoid a sermon, but I do my research so when it comes to distortions of text, hypocrisies of those that do so and other little instances that tick me off, game peeps game. Well…

Yet I’m not agnostic or atheist. Quite the contrary…I believe. For example, last night as I ran through a spiffy neighborhood listening to Crime Mob I looked at the houses and thought to myself, “One day I’ll be rocking my hips (then wave and sip) in front of these homes and the police won’t be able to arrest me because my name will be on the deed.”

And then as I ran on a main street and looked at the beautiful California sunset for one reason or another I could feel God. There has to be some force behind something so incredibly beautiful. Then I came home and discovered there was a screwed and chopped version of one of my favorite new songs, “God In Me.”

I had heard of this song months ago. I honestly couldn’t make out what they were saying initially. Forgive me if this is birdish, but I usually dance to a beat before I sit down and listen to the lyrics. Once I finally did pay attention to the lyrics, I wasn’t mad at them.

Now that someone has screwed the song I am officially in love. If ya’ll didn’t know before I am from Houston and I love screw. I don’t tolerate shade to screw ‘neefa. I like any and everything screwed. They could screw elevator music and I would probably go off before I reach the fourth floor. In a perfect world, the corny music they play when you’re placed on hold would be screwed, too.

So when you have a song like “God In Me” – which already knocks – it only goes harder when it’s given that H-Town treatment.

Is it wrong to say a gospel song is my shit?

After I did the aforementioned jig to “God In Me” I had to pause (no, not like that…stop it) and ask myself did I just secure a business class ticket to hell? People seem to really get caught in arms when the pro-Jesus jiggable tracks come out.

I have to be honest: I’ve never been a fan of the more contemporary gospel music. They’re usually like adult versions of Kid Bopz songs to me. The Frito Lay of music. That’s why I usually prefer my gospel songs sounding like they came from an era where I’d be washing massa’s dishes in the fall and winter and cutting his grass in the summer. But when gospel artists get going modern right, whew, they really get it right.

I can somewhat understand why some take issue with the song. When I told my friend, Brittany, that I love this song she told me that they played it during a Happy Hour she went to.
She told me the DJ said, “Aint no conflict! Aint no conflict!” After I tweeted about the song, someone hit me back with, “When I hear the song I always want to start singing, ‘Blame it on the goose…'”

And it just so happens Brittany told me after the DJ played “God In Me,” he played “Blame It.” OK, that’s just a bad segue. He could’ve played “Million Dollar Bill” or something then slide back into the heathen tracks. Still, I don’t find the song to be all that blasphemous.

From the sweat suit to the white tee to the Gucci
You can probably say people wanna get like me

But what they don’t know is when you go home
And get behind closed doors, man you hit the floor
And what they can’t see is you’re on you’re knees
So the next time you get it just tell ’em

It’s the God in me, it’s the God in me

What’s the problem? Folks are acting like they’re singing, “My pussy so tight, my shit so clean…it’s the God in me.” I realize they could’ve made a song pointing out that our society’s obsession with things is wrong, but would as many people listen? They took materialism and tied into something more. What’s more than God?

I am waiting on news that’s very important to me. I have been praying about it, asking others to pray for me, and trying to be as optimistic as possible. Should I get the news I’m expecting the first thing I’m gonna do is get on my knees and say thank you. I suppose that in effect is the God In Me (Goodness that’s corny, but y’know what I mean).

Now, I don’t completely understand how blessings work. In this song this person who has the Gucci, signing checks with a whole lot of zeros, and nice whip is attributing all that to God. There are some people dirt poor who are probably more faithful than us all that may likely die poor. Why the Gucci girl is blessed and the other person isn’t, I don’t quite understand. It’s not necessarily for me to understand. But, what’s the harm about Gucci girl passing off the praise for what she has to God…to a danceable track?

Should I hear a remix that says, “Lucifer think he so cool, he think so slick, but I’m call St. Michael and Satan gon’ get clipped” I might throw Mary Mary a little side-eye action (and I still do for them likening homosexuality to murder and prostitution, but I digress).

Until then, I’m gonna jig this and be grateful someone is thanking God for their success and not Jay-Z’s dick (hello, Karrine).

P.S. I jig but don’t drop to this. To do the latter is begging for a meet and greet with a lightening bolt.

And can someone make an mp3 of this? Someone tried to send it to me, but it wouldn’t download. Evil.

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When I tweeted about Whitney Houston’s performance on Good Morning America, I seemed to annoy Nippy Newport fans who thought I was being too harsh on her. I can’t recall what I said exactly, but it was to the effect of “Wow, she really needs to laugh off those cigarettes.”

Then I was met with the, “Oh you’re being too critical. That’s what you critics, writers, overly opinionated relentless types do.” You would have thought I said Whitney needs to be locked up for assaulting my ear drums. I said nothing of the sort, but c’mon nah, ya’ll, did she sound good to that day? Most people would say that she didn’t, though I wasn’t willing to completely write her off as a vocalist.

She will never be able to sing the way she used to. Aging made that a guarantee; the wear and tear to her voice stemming from drug use only sped up the inevitable. It doesn’t take away from her overcoming her struggles. It doesn’t taint her largely well received return to music. It doesn’t even knock her always consistent wig game. All it suggests is that the bulk of us probably don’t want to hear her try to sing “I Will Always Love You” anytime soon.

And that’s fine, so long as she can continue to deliver performances like those above. Though she doesn’t do her trademark belting anymore this performance proves Whitney still has some grit to her voice. Her tone is intact although her range is obliviously shot. Much of that has to do with the fact that she smokes. Even when speaking to Oprah, while I was happy to see her be so forthright about her battle with drugs I couldn’t stop thinking about how much she sounded like an ashtray.

Her charm and energy is what made her performance so enjoyable. She’s able to emote and sometimes that provides a far more entertaining performance than vocal ability alone could provide. That’s why I wish she had made an album more honest that dug a bit deeper. I’m not a fan of those banal ballads from the early 90s. What made those work was her vocal prowess…one that she doesn’t have. Someone made a good point on Twitter yesterday (I talk about Twitter too much…I think I have a problem): Billie Holiday’s voice was completely gone by the time she died, but her music worked because it allowed her to show emotion. I Look To You is a decent offering, but not as powerful as it could have been.

But as long as someone buys her a patch and forces her to go to vocal training to hone her new voice, there is hope. I love the fact that she doesn’t try to guise her diminished voice with a terrible dance routine. Yes, this means you, Mimi. I loves my Mariah, but why does she insist on trying to dance? Whitney knows better, but I will say she’s been lowkey getting it on stage. Kind of like your old auntie who thinks she’s young and tries to learn the dances at every family get together. That’s Nippy.

And of course things could be worse:

Whitney could actually look as bad as she sounded on Good Morning America (but not on Oprah). Tevin Campbell may still have his voice, but dammit if he doesn’t look like Tyrone Biggum. Well, post-crack Tyrone Biggum in pre-pipe Tyrone’s clothes from the ’70s.

Whitney may look like a carbon copy of Auntie Dionne these days, but I’d rather look like I could predict the future for $2.99 a minute than collecting that same amount in spare change in a cup.

So I didn’t mean to throw shade at Whitney for sounding the fool at GMA. I was simply being honest. She’s since proven she still’s better than 90% of the talk-singing tone deaf women who’ve come after her.

I’ll just continue to miss the days where she could kill it. I hope she continues to do interviews, too. I love how she says “you know what I’m saying” so regally. She’s like the classy girl in the hood. The one who sips her Kool-Aid with a straw and only eats ribs in private. I’m not mad at that at all, Nippy. Love you…even though you know damn well “rock cocaine” is crack. But hey, as long as you stop cracking during performances, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

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