Her Gay Pet

If the word awful needs a new jingle, this song is more than worthy of consideration.

Heven’s (God help her and the spelling of that name) “My Gay Best Friend” is the kind of song that makes some people think about glitter, fun, and frolicking. That is, if they’re drunk out of their mind and high on stupid. Or if they have a strong affinity for pop radio.

For me, this is the sort of ditty that gets me to question God and the Lord’s choice to leave us saner folks without an option to mute the less fortunate.

I think the worst part about this song is that I could see it being played on the radio in major markets that are more likely to be gay friendly – especially if it were performed by a notable artist.

Say, if Kelis weren’t sending Nas to the blood clinic and sperm bank (despite him likely netting more from Coinstar given Negro sperm doesn’t go for much) regularly this is a track she’d probably consider to reboot her fledgling career.

Her milkshake…with a penis.

People would probably champion it as some pro-gay anthem if the right name and puppeteer were behind it. I suppose in comparison to all of them “fuck you faggot” themed songs permeating rap it is indeed a step up.

It’s those sorts of realizations that make me wonder if Fred Phelps had a point about God’s heavenly shade upon thee.

This song encompasses so many clichés and stereotypes that I don’t even know where to begin.

I suppose what really vexes me about this song is the fact that I could see a lot of women identifying with the lyrics. And quite possibly some of my own friends will listen to this and look to it as the soundtrack to our lives. The horror.

In a strange and arguably sad twist of irony, I’ve always gotten along more so with women than with men. I don’t spin around all day in ballet slippers in order to do so (no judgment if that’s your thing); but growing up in an environment where hypermasculinity was the guide to life for many I just opted to be myself.

Women tend to take to it more than some of the straight men who think gayness is highly contagious or the multiple closeted men waiting in the wings for some man to hit the daddy stroke in secrecy.

Even now, I still get along with women more so than I do men. In my defense, many LA men seem to have been bred and raised in a land called Cuntville before fleeing to California. Both gay and straight alike, ya’ll.

So, yes, I love women but while I do appreciate the company I keep there have been instances where I have had to wonder if a person was looking for a friend or a caricature the way the “GBF” is depicted in this song.

Ever since I confirmed my sexuality I’ve come across women who are quick to say, “OMG! You can be the Will to my Grace.”

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Nice Guys Finish Shirtless

Can I tell ya’ll about the girl who vomited all over me the other night? If so, come closer to the screen but be sure to hold your food.

Last Friday after a festive happy hour, I was in the mood to twirk something. Or in the case of me living in a city that’s Top 40 hell, two-step every half-hour and hopefully do at least a dip or two by 1:45 a.m. when the club lights are turned on.

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So I left the restaurant that we’ll refer to as doucheland (minus the great folks I was with, naturally) and headed off to gay world to meet with a friend. While waiting for that friend to find parking, I saw two girls try and carry their drunk ass friend.

As I was on the phone conversing with “Satana,” I watched these two girls struggle like hell to carry this poor foolishly drunk woman to their car.

They seemed to be moving fine albeit very slowly until drunk person tripped in her high stiletto and hit the ground.

Hard.

I mean, it was if she got shot in the head by a sniper snuggled on the roof across the street the way she went down. The poor person almost cracked their skull on the cement block. I felt bad for her.

I got off the phone and walked over to see if she was alright.

Mistake number one.

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God Gave You Discernment, Use It

I’m sure anyone that’s read this blog at length knew I had to write about Bishop Eddie Long in light of the sexual coercion charges leveled against him. To not cover it would be against my nature — like not two-stepping on the sidewalk if someone drives by playing something worth a public jig.

Anywho, I invite you all to check it out. It’s entitled “Bishop Long and What’s Long Overdue for Christians.”

You can read my thoughts on Bishop Long Streak here.

And in a related post (homophobic zealots), you can also check out an old post here called “Penis, Punks, & Pulpits). Check that one out here.

But, go read the Aol News piece first if you’d be so kind. Leave comments there (and here, too) if you’d like.

Thank you.

Buy A Patch, Bruno

It seems the guy with the candy bar name and the Tia Mowry face seems (hi, Fresh) to want to go the way of Mary J. Blige at the peak of her madness.

Well, this certainly explains why Bruno Mars is smiling all the damn time.

Initially I assumed it was because he was Hawaiian and that’s what they do there. You know, so tourists won’t shade them for Cabo or something. But apparently, when you’re grinning that uncomfortably for such long periods of time, you’re happy comes by way of a high.

With 1 in 7 Americans in poverty, 1 in 5 not being able to afford their school loans, and Oprah Winfrey deserting us in the midst of it all, I can understand why the average walking depressant might be enticed to get lit.

Not that I condone such behavior or anything. I simply understand the rationale is all. There’s a lot to be stressed over.

But, Bruno baffles me. You can’t drink fancy liquor like other rich people? And if you have problems, can’t you afford some help?

If you’re currently a star on the rise, why would you be stupid enough to run into a bathroom stall looking like a biracial base head?

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Meet Hi Dolla Honey

Have you ever seen a hot girl like this before?

If not, fall to your knees and thank God for the Lord’s unwavering mercy. Then get right back up so we can clown this chick. Ready. Set. Go.

See this is a perfect example of a set up. Keith sent this to me knowing damn well there was no way I could ignore such ridiculousness — especially if the person behind it claims to be from Houston.

Yes, you read that right. Ms. Hi Dolla Honey (insert vomit here) says she’s from my hometown.

I don’t know where she comes from, but she’s definitely not from my part of town. I bet she’s from somewhere like Lake Jackson or Texas City. People who aren’t really from the city limits like to claim Houston. Wherever she claims to be from she needs to go back there.

There are so many things wrong with this girl that I’m not even sure where to begin.

First, this woman looks like what if Anna Nicole Smith met Frankie and Neffe during her fat years.

I suppose we can shift focus to her teeth, which look to be the handy work of TV Johnny. For those who don’t know who that is, it’s the Asian community’s answer to Flavor Flav. He supplies grills, tomfoolery and an accent thicker than a Mississippi strip club two blocks east of a KFC to Houston area residents.

There’s also the issue of Hi Dolla Honey’s wardrobe. I’m no stylist but I know awful when it’s blinding me with bright colors. As for that line, “got the Baby Phat bag and designer clothes” — 1996 Brooklyn, is that you?

Oh and her hair. She looks like she got her weave from old My Little Pony dolls. I do appreciate her joining Britney Spears and Paris Hilton’s efforts to dispel the myth that white girls can’t have awful weaves, too.

There’s also those two little offbeat background dancers that likely call her mama off the set. I have a friend who works at CPS. I suppose tomorrow morning I should call in a favor. There’s no way being raised by Paula Hell Nawl can be considered reasonable by anyone smarter than the average bear. Or in this case, bird.

As for the song itself, again so many things.

Did you all catch the line about her enjoying riding in her foreign car. Notice right after that line the camera pans to a Cadillac Escalade. She does realize that while Detroit certainly no longer captures the American dream, it’s still a part of the United States, right?

She could’ve at least hit up Hertz and asked for Nissan Sentra on loan for twenty minutes.

And to be a Hi Dolla Honey this video looks all types of cheap. Maybe she spent all of her money on that tattoo of a dick that’s been permanently plastered onto her chest. Or her mouth.

Whatever the case, I hate Keith for sending me this but I’m grateful all the same. If nothing else, it’s a reminder to Houstonians everywhere that we have to watch we who let in the metropolitan area. Border control people. Embrace it.

For Colored Boys Who Wonder Why Wasn’t A Woman Enuf

I want Tyler Perry to rise to the occasion. I want him to prove to people that he can be a filmmaker of nuance and depth. I’d like for him to prove naysayers – including folks like me who haven’t always been his biggest fan – that he can step it up when called upon to.

When I found out that Tyler Perry would be directing a film adaptation of For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, I didn’t start conceiving potential alibis ahead for fear that my rage might get the best of me.

Mind you, I haven’t read the play. I recently ordered it and will read shortly, but I did have enough backhand knowledge to know that the play does deal with race, gender, sex, abortion, and domestic violence all through poetry and very much from a feminist perspective.

Those are all certainly more complex themes than you’d find in many of Tyler Perry’s plays or films – which typically deal with black women solving all of their life’s problems after marrying the garbage man Jesus sent them via Heaven’s version of eHarmony.

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Who Wants To Choke?

I’ve been looking for a new dance to do in a random parking lot, on a sidewalk, or in a crowded gym (for inspiration) for a few months now.

The flex is old and its heir apparent, the daddy stroke just didn’t serve the same level of inspiration. So while I’ve definitely been looking, I surely am not ready to settle – especially on some shit like this.

This is the kind of dance I hate because it makes me feel old. I don’t want to feel like I need to join a yoga class or stock up one Ben Gay to jig, get it big. And, I don’t want to have to think about the thought process behind a given random dance.

That’s certainly what I’m doing right now after watching this video.

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Grateful For GaGa

You know I’m all about spreading an evil gay agenda so I’m not the least bit mad at Lady GaGa using her clout as a celebrity to sway political influence – at least among her own fans. Now, there are instances where I wish people would shut the hell up. Say, Paris Hilton telling me to vote when she wasn’t even registered herself at the time. And then there’s Waka Flacka’s powerful statement “voting good.”

Still, when someone actually knows what they’re talking about and tries to do something about it, go them.

Hence, my latest Aol News piece “Gays Grateful for GaGa.” If you’d like to read it, here it goes.

What’s Really Worth Fearing

Waka Flocka Flame is the type of stupid that can convince an overworked, underpaid, patience-deficient disorder suffering teacher to scream “fuck it” and start selling drugs.

If there ever were a village idiot of hip-hop it would be Waka Flocka Flame. That’s quite an impressive feat considering the overwhelming number of rappers who treat English like their third language. What’s worse is that Waka Flocka Flame knows he’s as bright as a bulb from 1984 and doesn’t care.

He is content with his ignorance.

I was sent this video days ago and was asked to write about it. I initially shied away from it as I’ve already made my feelings about Fozzy Bear’s weirdest inspiration clear. Plus, dumb as he may be he doesn’t really seem like a bad guy.

He’s simple, but not mean spirited – which makes me feel like a snooty jackass for even calling him dumb.

But the second I hear him talk about majoring in geometry and saying “voting good,” it hits me that there’s no way I cannot use this idiot to make an argument against other instances of idiocy.

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I Wouldn’t Say Quit, But…

“I wish Kelly Rowland would give up.” That’s how my friend reminded me to check out Kelly Rowland’s new video for “Rose Colored Glasses.” If you think that sounds mean, consider other comments I’ve read about the video.

On one message board someone wrote, “She should of just played her position and married Roy Williams.” Another compared the video to a press-on nails commercial.  That person could’ve at least given her Just For Me.

I don’t think the video is bad per se, but I’m more excited about Kelly Rowland’s plastic surgeon than I am her now delayed album.

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