Back That Azz Up

Do you want a bigger booty the caption of this video clip asks? Are you tired of your life being described as, “Boys don’t make passes at girls with flat asses?” If so, the makers of Dime Curve Buttocks enhancement have the “solution” for you.

And by solution, I mean something that just may turn your ass cheeks green and lopsided.

I saw a link for this clip in my comments section. Apparently my spam blocker has its limits. No matter, because this is just the type of foolery to start your day off right (or greet you in the afternoon – I am West Coast based now, ya’ll).

Be sure to watch the clip because I want somebody’s off brand medical expertise to enlighten me.

According to this fauxmercial, you buy their magic pill and – bam – soon you’ll be able to use the phrase “chew this ass” and not be met with obnoxious laughter.

How does that work?

Is their cornbread in that mixture?

Better yet after you stop using this “medicine” what happens to your two fuller frames? Does your ass just deflate the day at your strip club try out?

Wouldn’t that be tragic?

As you can see my questions grow almost as fast as your ass is supposed to if you use this product.

I can’t say that I completely fault anyone for wanting to boost the booty. These days it’s so necessary. Still, I have a hard time believing a magic pill is the answer.

Or essentially buying your cakes a push-up bra. I keep seeing this commercial and I’m more dumbfounded each time. I suppose this is much safer than using a turkey baster full of Crisco like the trannies and project chicks, but c’mon nah.

Ya’ll are making me nervous. Who should I blame for this? Nicki Minaj? Amber Rose? Omarion? I can’t say that I’m a breast man unless it’s on a heated wheat bun with shredded lettuce, mustard, and maybe cheese (I’m lactose intolerant, I have my limits) so I get the power of the b-o-o-t-y, but like I said this all seems “interesting.”

If any reader here has bought or plans to purchase this please share your story. I promise I’m not using you the crash test dummy of ass answers. I’m just curious is all.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the Stairmaster and think of some ways to make money off folks.

Condom Clown

In I don’t want to call you a name, but…news please check out your cousin who’s likely having the best week ever because she partied with Captain Caveman (from this day forward that is Drake’s new nickname ’round here) and got photographed performing a trick.

This girl could be somebody’s mama, somebody’s church usher, somebody’s favorite client at the beauty shop. Good for her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she looks the fool for clowning with a condom. Clearly, she’s a blowing behemoth so while I’m not going to throw shade at the  lips women with that hair color naturally pay for, I will say something about this picture doesn’t sit right by me.

Why would you blow a condom like a balloon? Why would you be photographed doing it?

No, really, why would you do any of that?

This picture was taken in Houston, so as I native I take full responsibility for this and her hair color, which some people like my friend, Whitney, swear is a Houston staple (although I might buy my mama her first weave — a jet black Malaysian ponytail for Christmas).

In all seriousness, Black folks comprise just 12 percent of the U.S. population but account for 46 percent of the country’s citizens living with HIV. And there’s new research that says Black females continue to have a higher rate of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) than any other racial or ethnic group.

And FYI:

Gonorrhea rates among blacks were higher than any other racial or ethnic group and 20 times higher than among whites. While blacks represent 12 percent of the U.S. population, they accounted for about 71 percent of reported gonorrhea cases, 48 percent of chlamydia cases, and 49 percent of syphilis cases.

Black females aged 15 to 19 had the highest rates of chlamydia and gonorrhea (10,513 per 100,000 and 2,934 per 100,000, respectively), followed by black women aged 20 to 24 (9,373 per 100,000 and 2,770 per 100,000, respectively).

I started itching just reading that.

So my point is that picture may have been made in jest, but at the very least, I wish someone would have added a caption like, “If you’re going to put a condom around your mouth…make sure a penis is attached to it. Safe sex!”

Or something pro safe-sex, you know. You see how I’m matching wit with informative prose, right? They can do it, too.

So many people are getting knocked up, setting toilet bowls on fire, and making their bodies go “bump, bump, bump.” It’s disturbing and we have to start being a bit more proactive and honest about sex ed.

OK, that’s my PSA for day. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch the video for “Video Phone” again.

She Ain’t Talking About Me!

Disclaimer: Song is not safe for work. Or brain cells. Proceed with caution and headphones if on the job.

As soon as I hear the beat of this song I instantly get the urge to get up, twirk, and shake what my mama didn’t give me but the Stairmaster helped provide.

This song, like many of the songs I like to dance to, is full of all types of wrong. It’s materialistic and if judging by the bird standard set prior, should probably come with a side of Cajun fries and a buttery biscuit. Of course, these traits tend to make me like a song even more.

I know, I know: Why would I like a song called “Independent Bitches?” I’m a sucker for a beat and a hot hook, ya’ll. I’m not perfect.

But as I give the song a few additional listens (because of course one jig is not enough) I started paying more attention to some of the lines.

“Ricky Bobby, Stanky Legg, Jig Get It Big…”

Alright, I’m with you. That line could go in my official bio.

“My man ain’t here, got a babysitter for my kids…”

Shout out to your cousin for helping the club cause.

“The oils on my eyes, Gucci on my body, shoes is a fool I do a Roberto Cavalli…”

If you like it, I love it, though I wonder if you’re a renter or owner.

“I’m with the gutter mamis, we looking at the brothers like, ‘Why the hell is all these niggas dancing with each other?’”

At this point I’m wondering did she show up to the club on gay night. Babysitters don’t give refunds. But, Candi Red makes her opinions very clear:

“In 2009 that nigga ain’t my man if he rocking a purse and wear the same size pants.”

At this point my reaction was, “She ain’t talking ‘bout me.” I mean, it’s not like I’m walking around like this every day:

Read the rest of this entry »

Find An App For That

My e-sister from another creole, Fresh, posted this over at C+D the other day. One of the first posts I ever wrote on this blog was about Teairra Mari, mainly on how her much older handlers were tailoring her image. As fate would have it, her decent albeit overly grown, overly sexual, profanity-latent debut album failed to make an impression with audiences. Not because it wasn’t good; rather, she was a minor too young for grownups and too grown for the teens (well, making it commercially viable to them anyway).

Now that she’s grown enough to do whatever she is without blaming it on her daddy, I’m not going to tell her to get off her knees.

Nope. Not gonna do it. I’m only going to suggest to her that if she wants to go this route look into booking a field trip to Magic City and get up on game.

I feel bad for Teairra. She’s a pretty girl with a decent voice who has loads of potential. Yet, here she is failing to perform classic hoe shit tricks on stage in New York.

Teairra looks like she’s at her dude’s house playing Janet Jackson.

If someone gave me a lap dance like that I wouldn’t give them anything but a tip to go to college.

If her label won’t pay for a trip to Magic City, someone please send her some YouTube links, a Janet Jackson DVD, or even a clue if you have one to spare.

Something.

Real Love

I’m not going to even pretend to be a relationship expert, but I know one thing for sure: I’d never take advice from a chick named Diamond.

I appreciate Diamond and her 32 flavors of that bootylicious bubble gum (raspberry, grape, cherry, come and get this honey bun), but she lost me with this:

“Personally I don’t give a F*** a n*gga could talk to 20 b*tches but as long as I get my 90% and whoever he talking to get 10% that’s fine. A n*gga gonna be a n*gga and once a chick realize men gonna do what they wanna do its about how they go about doing it as long as they respect me and whoever… like if you are talking to somebody or whatever as long as they know when I step in the building then she need to put her head down, she need to know her place. That’s when people get it twisted.”

…I’m not saying that we are messing around on each other, but that’s the type of understanding we got. If I was messing with somebody please believe I’m going to tell that n*gga to be quiet if he call. You need to shut up my n*gga. We keep it real, all the way real we don’t sugar coat none no way whatsoever, but we so happy with each other that its no need to go mess with nobody else, but if we do it’s just a little fling cause its hard and this industry makes you grow up so fast.

First off, I suggest you all read this with a ghetto girl accent for the full effect. You might even want to roll your neck every other sentence just in case you want to really dive into the character. I don’t think you can read it any other way, honestly.

Now ya’ll can debate whether or not I should change my name to Toucan Sam based my musical tastes all ya’ll want to, but I would never say some bullshit like this.

So Diamond’s basically saying she doesn’t care if her man cheats on her so much that she might ultimately catch a permanent itch from him so long as he gives her the majority of his time and only uses his bathroom breaks to get up on other hoes?

And if you employ this sort of thinking into your relationships then you’re ahead of the game because you understand that men will be men, and thus will cheat on you. Meanwhile she says that her and Not-So-Lil-Anymore Scrappy are so happy that they don’t need to see other people, but if they did you know it’s all good because it’s just a little fling anyway. And those sort of flings happen because the industry makes you grow up so fast. Ya dig?

If you got a headache from reading all of that, congrats — that means I can still do a bird breakdown.

I think most people with sense realize that Diamond’s logic makes about as much sense as a Kim Zolciak wig.

But then again, there is a whole market set up for this line of thinking.

I’m not going to waste any time telling her to know her worth and proceed to encourage her to sing an Alicia Keys medley. I think most people understand how these sort of women operate. It’s all good as long they’re being fed, driving a nice car and wearing garments from designers with names they can barely pronounce.

Yet I still read that rant of hers and had to fight off a wonk eye. It would be easy to point out that Diamond probably scored an F-A-I-L on her GED, but that would negate that fact that there are plenty of women out there from a different class and education level that are just as willing to give into the “men are men” notion as she is.

I notice I have a lot of female readers (which I am perfectly fine with — ya’ll buy books), so I wanted to ask most of you: What the hell is wrong with some of ya’ll?

Should I Come With Wings?

This daunting question hit me harder than a backhand from an R&B pop locker over the holiday weekend.

On Sunday I spent the day with friends and eventually we made our way to some party at a hotel in Hollywood.

Now, I tend not to say where I’m living or anything else too private because I don’t need one of ya’ll sending my whereabouts to some celebrity who might use their last royalty check to off me.

Then again, Twitter has shown most celebrities only deal with “beef” in 140 characters or less so these days the worst one could do is start a trending topic on my ass.

Back on point, I’m at a party and for a good hour or so I was bored out of my mind.

The thing about LA is the nightlife typically sucks. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Here’s a break down of the typical night in an LA club.

First hour: Everyone is looking down at their phones texting and tweeting people standing two feet away from them.

Second hour: Everyone stands around trying to look important.

Third hour: After a few drinks, a couple of folks will get up and two-step and body roll.

At 1:45 a.m. the lights turn on and everyone is shown the exit door.

Yes, LA shuts down at 2:00 a.m.

I know, I know: “How dreadful.”

On top of that pretentious nonsense, DJs usually have the nerve to play some bullshit you can’t even sweat to.

I believe people will say I don’t know what I’m talking about then try to insert various club names and the choice celebrities who frequent them. Yeah, I’ve been to most of those spots already and surveyed the D-Listers who frequent them. My statement stands.

I don’t care who you’re with, how much money you have, and the like. If the music sucks, the night sucks. The end. That’s pretty much why I tend look at going out here as a social networking (the old fashion way, of course).

But damn, the jig is in me and if I’m going to live here for a while I need a release every now and then.

I am a southern boy so I tend to like my party music ign’t and jiggable.

Since folks in La La land tend to think that sort of sound comes with a virus you’re more liable to hear this:

…than you would Gucci Mane.

That means for a good hour or so on Sunday (like most nights), I was pretty much like this:

To make up for the non-dancing time I did what any person with a cell phone would do: I tweeted about my disappointment.

Y’know I loves Michael Jackson, but we can stop playing the same five songs in the club now.

I don’t want to sway and two step, dammit. I want to break it, pop it, twirk it.

Why won’t the DJ let me be great?! We don’t play “In Da Club” in ‘09 you loser!!!!!!!

Feel the frustration?

Finally, this DJ claiming to be from the South (not until I see a birth certificate will I believe it) remembered where she was from and played some music I could lose my self-respect to.

So I got to drop it to the ground and throw up the Clarke for two seconds. Sad part is the DJ claims to be from the H. I bet she is lying.

That’s my happy tweet.

I tell my brother what happened (for the umpteenth time) and he goes, “Your bird ass.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve been called a bird.

Actually, I get called it at least twice a week. But after that night and the way I danced after I finally heard something I liked, I had to wonder whether or not it’s true.

Am I Toucan Sam? The NBC Peacock? Big Bird the Black Remix?

Tweety with a penis (I know he’s supposed to be a boy, but at the very least, shim takes hormones or something)?

As I wrote this blog, I turned to AIM to ask a smartass for their thoughts. They responded in true smartass fashion.

Smartass: U can’t help it

Smartass: U know where u grew up

Smartass: U aware of the bird ways but u aren’t one

Smartass: But at times it comes out.

It is concluded that I was not a bird, but birdish.

Others still say I’m Snuffaluffagus’ BFF.

If that is indeed the case, is it simply because I enjoy songs that have hard beats, simple yet catchy hooks, and the occasional instructional dance?

That’s not fair. I could be far worse.

Exhibit A. Her cakes should come with feathers, a biscuit, and a package of Cajun sparkle.

Alright folk, chime in. What makes a pigeon a pigeon and should people start throwing little pieces of bread at me or what?

I actually prefer cash, but you know. I mean it’s not like I’m dating a person with 77 kids or singing along to “LOL ” — blah.