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Spinderella, cut it up one time. Select Catholic traditionalists have a very perverse view of sex — namely that any and all forms minus the missionary for baby making purposes is perverted. You know, as if that’s a bad thing anyway. Enter, Rick Santorum, who instead of dealing with his repression, has opted to make a career out of the adage “misery loves company.” Most that have ever heard him speak already knew that he was out of his rabbit ass mind, but now that he’s the frontrunner of the moment (yes, again) he’s stepping up the crazy.

So in my latest for Ebony.com, I write about Slick Rick’s comments about Pres. Obama purportedly peddling a “phony theology.”

Click here to read it.

I wish we could get a flash mob to entrap Rick Santorum into watching a dance off to “Let’s Talk About Sex.” Just to work his last nerve. This will have to do in the meantime. Read it and run a train on the link with your friends. The way Rick hates it.

P.S. The title of this post: Yes, that’s Michael Jackson homage and Santorum shade. Get into it.

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Whenever I think of Whitney Houston, I recall playing “Saving All My Love For You” over and over again as I fall deeper in love with someone I know I can’t ever have (unless you Godless scientists hurry up with human cloning). And how that typically leads me to “Just The Lonely Talking Again” when feeling a lot more somber over it. Naturally, I try to shoop, shoop my way out of my simp-heavy feelings…to no avail. Henceforth, butchered versions of “Run To You,” “I Have Nothing,” “You Give Good Love,” and “All That Man I Need” come not long after. So butchered that my throat sounds like it got in a fight with a garbage disposal. I mean, before I have a sip of water, of course.

When I’m feeling exceptionally gay and in the mood for the auntie in my head, I cue “Queen of The Night” and “My Name Is Not Susan.” Then I instantly wonder why did I ever bother trying to kid myself years ago?  I could go on — you know, “I Believe In You and Me,” “Jesus Loves Me,”  “Count On Me” and the like. Or when I wanna do a Nippy two-step, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” “How Will I Know,” and “Heartbreak Hotel.” Then there’s “In My Business,” “Salute,” and “Whatchulookinat” — which will never not crack me up.

Point is, with her voice and that catalog she’s been with me for as long as I can remember. In every situation. People who pretend they don’t understand why strangers cling to celebrities – particularly singers – are being ignorant to the power of art. God bless them, that’s an attribute I never ever want.

That said, it’s becoming increasingly harder for me to reflect on the artists I grew up listening to. One, because it makes me think of the mortality of people in my life, and in some cases, my own. Worse, I have to face the reality that another person plagued with some demons for much of their lives died way too soon before they could truly conquer them. Such outcomes terrify me.

I suppose what vexes me the most, though, is once that happens, the blame game ensues. You have the self-righteous ready to pounce on the fallen and oversimplify what it means to be an addict. Or better yet what it’s like to be a person simply living with the sort of pain that leads them towards those kind of vices. Never mind that Whitney’s official cause of death has yet to be released, folks have their talking points ready and they’re gonna use them regardless.

Then there’s the well meaning but still misguided blame on the public. “You laughed at Whitney, so thus, you’re a part of the problem.” No, we’re not. As someone who lived with an addict, suffice to say I can understand all the pain, confusion, and anger that can come of it for those around. However, I think it’s silly to suggest that anyone who watched Being Bobby Brown or laughed at “crack is wack” is culpable.

When you’re frustrated, laughter helps. When you’re trying to cope, humor can help you deal. When you don’t know what else to do about a problem, a joke can do wonders in the meantime. That doesn’t mean you don’t wish them well nor does it suggest you don’t understand the severity of a given situation. Laughter merely adds convenience to the uncomfortable.

Besides, Whitney Houston was funny as hell. Her wit, her comedic timing, and those one liners: How could I not laugh some of the time?

And then there’s Bobby Brown, the target of an overwhelming share of the blame for what happened to Whitney Houston over time. I was more than annoyed when I saw mainstream outlets use the terms “posse” and “entourage” to describe Bobby arriving to his funeral with his family. The connotation is not lost on me, but at least Bobby released a statement explaining the matter and Al Sharpton went on to confirm that he was respectful.

It’s all just a subtle rehash of past attempts to demonize Bobby Brown and make him the source of all of Whitney Houston’s troubles. I touched on why that is problematic in my latest for theGrio. You can read that here.

As I wrote in the piece: “Whatever is ruled to be Whitney Houston’s official cause of death, it makes no sense to continue blaming Bobby Brown. We are responsible for our own actions and the consequences they yield. Instead of wagging our fingers, let her rest, let him grieve in peace, and let us just pray for those who remain in pain and who seek ways to cope.”

The same can be said about the way others are trying to scold fans. Whatever wreck people believed Whitney to be, the train stopped the day before the Grammys. As we move forward, hopefully conversations about what we can learn from her passing can move beyond, “You did this, he did that, and she did it to herself.” Until then, I’d rather just focus on what’s most important: How much her talent meant to all those who loved her.

Thank you for sharing your gift with us, Whitney. God rest your soul and God be with your daughter.

 

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Another day, another sanctimonious rant about reality television from a thespian while playing the role of a bottle of Morton Iodized Salt. Apparently, Tyler Perry’s two-dimensional depictions of Black women (or everyone, I suppose) is the fault of anyone who watches NeNe Leakes Baloo. Really? This is why God created the phrase “Negro please.”

And why I wrote more on it. So, check out my latest for Ebony.com here. Tell your mama, sister, auntie Millie Jackson, cousin — especially the one with the hook up. Yeah.

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I have a new piece up at The Grio on Roland S. Martin and other holy ghost homophobes, the Ralph Tresvant factor, why everyone needs to listen to Big Mama (but not her diet if you want to walk in the AARP stage of life), and whether or not CNN has a double standard with respect to suspicions. You can read it here.

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…in the future Charlize Theron ought to be quiet and let people finish their thoughts. If not for courtesy, at least to spare herself from annoying others. You can click here to check out my latest for Ebony.com. Gon’ head & click the link.

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I’m late on this, but Pope Benedict said gay marriage was one of several threats to the traditional family that will undermine “the future of humanity itself.” Yes, the former Hitler youth and pedophiliac priest protector who boasts about forceful-Christian conversion thinks me and Ryan Phillippe engaging in male on male miscegenation will doom you all to hell. Since I’ve given the clap back to Catholicism I know better than to pay this any mind. Unfortunately, the likes of him and other clergymen with a similar viewpoint continue to soil the thoughts of people both gay and straight alike when it comes to committed gay relationships and what they mean for the people not actually in them.

In my second piece for Ebony.com, I touch on the difficulties that come with trying to touch gay men who continue to view things through heteronormative lenses. Too much? Oh bother. Anyway, you can click here to read it. For the record, I’m still not completely interested in getting married, but not because I think it requires a vagina. I sure plan on continuing to relay this message as many times as humanly possible. I get divorced just as good as anyone else. Now here’s to planting seeds.

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…deeper than I’ve ever dreamed of. Trust me, it’s always okay to drop a Mariah Carey reference. Lamb game proper. Okay, on with the point of this post.

Ain’t it pretty? The new Ebony.com has launched and I’m happy to say something I penned is moving across their quite lovely homepage the day of its premiere. My first piece offers a point of view about reality television that isn’t disparaging or sanctimonious. Yes, that means you should still read it. C’mon nah. Anywho, it’s called “Reality TV: Male Stars Get Emotional.” You can click here to read it. Tell your mamas ’cause I’m about to email mine.

P.S. Congratulations and thank you to Jamilah, the scribe formally known as Sister Toldja.

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I’ve discussed it here previously, but I got assigned to write about it again given it’s the song that doesn’t end (for some of you anyway). So click here to read my perspective on those Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad & Diddly Dumb Theories about Beyoncé & Baby Blue.

And if you missed it the first time, here’s me on another stupid thing about my lord and gyrator’s pregnancy.

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I stumbled along this picture yesterday and I think my reactions to it perfectly encapsulate my thoughts of 2011.

“What in the fuck is this?”

“How in the hell did this happen?”

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“No, really: Am I being punked?”

“Get this shit the fuck out of my face, B.”

Need I say more? But, you know, I’ve enjoyed a lot of the writing I’ve done here and elsewhere this year so let’s accentuate the positive and allow that to be the focus of this entry. I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t update as much this year as I have in the past. Such is life when your student loans skyrocket and subsequently your hustle. Up until a setback at the end of the summer, I was writing 30-40 blogs a week for work (at other outlets), 1-2 essays a week as a columnist, and other various assignments. Plus, I was working on other things related to some long-term goals.

Busy.

That said, while the quantity of posts on the site subsided a bit I’d like to think the quality was still on point. So here are my favorite posts from The Cynical Ones this year. If you didn’t read them before, gon’ head and do so now. And if you know of someone who has the unfortunate character flaw that is never having read me, email this post to them. Or Tweet. Facebook it. Yell the address to them over the phone. Wait. No one talks on the phone anymore. Instagram, text, or whatever it is you 1% folk do to spread the word nowadays.

Alright, here goes:

So I Finally Met The Queen

No matter how up and down this year has been, I will always remember 2011 as the year I met my lord and gyrator, Beyoncé, and instantly became a better man because of it. Sometimes when I’m really down, I just think about her acknowledging that I’m alive and proceed to close my eyes and hug myself like Ray Charles as a pick me up. Yes, it works. No, I’m not ashamed.

Analog Thoughts For A Digital Girl

If you turn on radio and don’t here Rihanna at least a dozen times, you either live for country music or live in the year 1995. But unfortunately, some people still downplay her success because she hasn’t managed to boast of having a number one album. You know, despite albums going the way of TalkBoys.

The Inmate Wives of Baltimore

If you can bear through a Baltimore accent, this post is for yew.

Not The Marrying Kind

As happy as I am for this country inching closer and closer to marriage equality, I personally, am not that keen on the idea of being legally bound to someone. Yes, even if Trey Songz is proposing in my ear while we’re in bed. Oh, childhood.

Will You Marry Me, Rob Kardashian?

Then again, if I did get married I think it would be in my best interest to marry a Kardashian. Please get into my grand idea for having the writing career I’m destined for, only in this instance I opt for the cheap route of netting it. I dare you to tell me my idea isn’t plausible.

Good Luck With That, Cadillac Kimberly

A YouTube comedian whose popularity is largely centered on bashing reality stars decides to play the role of matron of morality on the Twitter. Hilarity does not ensue.

Well, It’s Official

My private student loan payments soared to mortgage level payments this year, and I, trying to curtail my anxiety over it, wrote about longing for the day when I’m successful enough to pay off my debt in one big swoop – and piss on the desk of Citibank’s CEO. It was all in good fun, but according to one commenter on my site, the post made me a creative person who lacks integrity. Fuck him then and now.

Simpletons & Stilettos

I kick this post off with:

I swear, if you made me a sandwich comprised of tuna fish left outside for three days topped with rabbit toe nails smashed in between two muddied pieces of bread I would still have the urge to vomit less than I do after watching this video.

Just go.

Fall Through A Trap Door Already

Why do people – especially women – get into Tyrese, especially when he likes insulting you so?

Uh, I Thought We Discuss This Already

My mother has heard me say, “I like dudes, ma’am,” but she still believes Jesus is on the mainline ready to place me on a cruise ship setting sail to some woman’s cervix.

Niggas Is Gay

Word to Fat Joe.

Elsewhere

Look, y’all! I made it onto national TV! Let us pray that it happens again and again in the future, and when it does, it’s geared more towards my own projects and passions. Also, let us bow our heads and ask the almighty that I come to realize that while it’s okay to adore Mary J. Blige, one doesn’t have to blink like her on TV. In my defense, I was a live TV virgin.

Alright, I’m spent. Go forth and read and spread around like HPV. Then go get a check up: I read about fellatio causing oral cancer and I’m afraid now. Scary, right? Be careful. See: I helped.

Edit: I can’t believe I left off what I wrote about Amy Winehouse.

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This video doesn’t really have much to do with the point of this post, but who doesn’t love this song? Let me get on with it, though. A few months ago I wrote against the homophobia that was a part of Tracy Morgan’s controversial act widely criticized earlier this year. I still find the idea of “joking” about your murdering your son if he was gay to be deplorable. I’m also personally irritated with cheap jokes about gay men. However, I have revisited my position to a degree after reading G.I. T.I.’s interview with VIBE.

Mind you, I think T.I. trying to defend the right to be a bigot to be stupid though I do think there’s something to be said about his additional thoughts on political correctness. Poor way of putting it notwithstanding, there’s something to be said about us growing so hypersensitive and what that means for comedy in the future. Like, did you know there’s a term called “transmisogynist”  and that transgendered is considered offensive because it’s a verb?

I sure as hell didn’t. Anyway, here’s my latest for The Root entitled “T.I., Tracy Morgan and the PC Police.” Click the bold, hit like on the actual article, etc.

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