Getting Laid

There’s a good an explanation for this lacefront, I swear. Before you dare even think it, no, it’s not mine, and please, I do not cross-dress. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that if you elect to make that one of your favorite pastimes. See what had happened was: I was kind of drinking a lot and doing hoodrat shit with my friends. After we gathered ’round the table to talk 2012 resolutions before a bountiful plate of some bomb ass nachos. Then while we made our way to the host, Mimi’s, bedroom to see its glorious transformation, I spotted the wig. Mimi, being the quintessential bad influence, told me, “Wanna try it on?” I was ambivalent and then she said, “Do it!” So I did.

I immediately thought of Funky Dineva and said, “My hair is layed” like Michael Jackson’s last years.” As soon as I threw that wig on I felt like I had been hit by a smooth criminal, ready to check on Annie’s little young pasty self and see if she was okay. I was named after the King of Pop, after all (my mama since claims that she named me after Saints Michael and Joseph, but my sister broke it down) so there’s nothing wrong with a delayed tribute. Well, besides dancing in the heat to “In The Closet” (for the record, Naomi snatched MJ’s thunder a whole bunch in the clip) on a public sidewalk.

Fresh says I look like Venus and Serena. I imagine if my mama saw this she’d say I looked more like a mortal sin. Or are those terms mutually exclusive? Kidding. Don’t wanna beef with Canada Dry or  Chicago’s Deepest Dish. I might as well be able to make fun of myself. The student loan corporations sure are doing it. Anyway, so feel free to point and laugh…now ’cause this shit will never happen again. Never. That is, unless someone offers me $20 million to do it. Or get me drunk enough. Then again, the economy might force me to go snatch Mimi’s wig from her place and make it do what it do.

I will never put on a bra, though. If I didn’t wear one when I actually needed it, I won’t be doing it now.

Now as I go debate whether or not I’m out of my mind for posting this, get into Funky Dineva, he who rocks that shit much, much better. My favorite clip is below the hood.

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Eric Kane

I imagine Drake spent much of today fighting off tears as he performed the “Are You That Somebody” choreography in his living room as a tribute to the late Aaliyah on her birthday. Aubrey has made his affinity for Aaliyah creepily clear with his constant shout outs, random open letters to the dead that seemed more appropriate for a séance versus a blog post, and now shots like these featuring the face of the singer on his surprisingly nice back. While I know it’s Drake’s body and he and Lil’ Wayne are free to do with it as they please (kidding, y’all), it’s still weird — even for reasons outside the obvious.

Okay, so you decided to put that somebody on your body. Fine, whatever, super stan. But, why is Mr. Owl from the Tootsie Roll pop commercials on the other side of your back, though? I’m assuming one of The Fabulous Freebirds atop Aaliyah is a joint homage to the NWA and the original motion picture soundtrack for Dr. Dolittle. Then again, I’m trying to make sense of someone who acts like he used to pass notes with Aaliyah in class. Silly, silly me. Let’s just focus on the positive: Drake’s got great arms, too. Makes me wanna go do a push up. Any minute now, folks.

Alright, enough of that. Explain those tattoos to me post haste. I need answers.

P.S. Don’t worry about the “Eric Kane” title. That was for Drakey. If he saw it, I’m sure he’d dig it.

The Year In Cynic

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.

N*ggas Is Gay

Fat Joe’s synopsis of homosexuality in our culture is as concise as it is astute: “Niggas is gay.” I don’t want to bother with a debate over whether or not Fat Joe should be able to use that word. I sort of consider him to be black, bilingual, and able to swim. Yes, that’s politically incorrect. Now can we go back to the part about niggas being gay? Okay then.

Some might be put off a bit on his emphasis on the word preference, but I don’t think it matters much given his overall point is that he’s not donating a damn about whether or not you’re gay because it should be irrelevant. Or as he so eloquently puts it: “Girls too… I’m a fan of ‘Yo, I’m gay. The fuck.’ Like, 2011 you gotta hide that you’re gay? Like, you know what I’m saying, like, be real, like ‘Yo I’m gay, what the fuck.’ If you gay you gay. Like that’s your preference, you know? Fuck it if the people don’t like it.”

Can we get this quote to a beat? Something as catchy as: “My niggas don’t dance, we just pull up our pants and do the rock-a-way. Now lean back, lean back, lean back.” Just with a gay twist — which includes slashing that unfortunate (to me) portion. Not everyone could get into “Born This Way.” Include me among that bunch.

Just last night I was talking to friends about people we know that are gayer than bathroom sex at a Rihanna concert who still lie to themselves that they’re going to magically fall into a vagina and not turn into Gumby. If Fat Joe the big heterosexual can get it, why can’t even some of these homos and the breeders who spook them? That includes some of you idiots who call me “faggie,” “fag” or pretend to be Biblical scholars on the comments section of my site. Yes, I read every comment here. Thank you for reading, but you can suck my dick and let the salt intake give you a stroke all the same.

Now on to more important matters: The gay mafia. Everybody knows (please say the way my play Auntie Phaedra Parks phrases it please) that I’m not the biggest fan of conspiracy theories, but Joe Who Doesn’t Care Where Your Privates Blow makes a good point about there being a lot of gay people behind the scenes yielding a lot of power. To that I say: Isn’t it about time that I be brought into the fold? Then again, it was only the other day that someone I greatly broke it down to me about the virtues of patience. I suppose my day of being included among the league of gay people outsiders complain about soiling their world with our good taste will come. Don’t feel like you can’t contribute to those efforts, though. So as I wait for a couple hundred of you to contribute to the tip jar over at gay Illuminati headquarters, feel free to email this post to your friends.

Fat Joe is showing folks the way to the truth…with their gay asses.

I’m Here For Bre

Edit: This was intended to be published yesterday, but more pressing matters caused me to forget all about it. I did manage to watch the show last night, though, so hell, might as well not let this post go to waste. Insert shade dots here if the spirit moves you. But if it does: shut up.

—

I feel like I should know better than to still be watching America’s Next Top Model. For a good while, I wasn’t. I was reminded of this when I tuned into last week’s premiere of the All-Star edition and failed to recognize half the cast. About a year ago, a friend of mine encouraged me to give this show (that feels like it’s been on forever now) another go. “It’s good this time, I promise.”  I listened and kept watching. Naturally, he stopped not long after. When I tried to ask him about the season that premiered about six hours after the one he recommended concluded he was all, “Oh, I stopped watching.”

Jinkies.

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Whoa!

During my regular routine of scouring the Web to hear new music, I stumbled across a new song from Joey Lawrence. I don’t remember what he was talking about and I think it’s best that way. All I heard was Joey singing in Autotune. That was enough to completely disregard anything that was going on. How old is Joey Lawrence? Like 60 or something? That is, in celebrity on the decline years which is like dog years squared. I haven’t a clue as to what Joey Lawrence has been doing since Blossom went off the air. For all I know he could be a big singer in South Korea or Chile, hence the new material. Based on that song, though, I’m assuming not so much and that makes me kind of sad for him. I’m also a little sad for myself, too.

I used to have the biggest crush on Joey Lawrence. I told y’all I was clocking boys younger and even in the midst of the back and forth of trying to force myself to like girls, I never fought Joey. I mean, remember him in jeans? Shut up, some of y’all do. Let me have it.

Anyway, I just want to take this time to remember Joey in a much better light. This song wasn’t technically that great either, but it beats a 100-year-old ex-sitcom star from 20 years ago singing in Autotune, right? I thought so. Plus, he had really cool hair for the time. I’m pretty sure his hair always looked better than Blossom and Six’s. Their bad.

Now that I’ve appropriately (or not) explained my previous adoration for all things Joey (oh and his brother, Matt, too, in Brotherly Love) y’all do me a favor and let out a little, “Whoa!” in memoriam. For love. Or like, for the inappropriate lust you might have held as a sexually curious child, too. Whatever touches your heart more.

So I Finally Met The Queen…

If you’ve read this blog for a while then you know Beyoncé is my beloved Lord and gyrator.

You also know that I’ve long felt like I was the only one I knew who hadn’t met the Queen. I would run into the other members of Destiny’s Child through work or just being out, but every time I was supposed to meet Beyoncé it fell through. My unlucky streak ended on Saturday after I finally – finally, finally, finally, finally – met her.

I have been smiling ever since.

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Mama Flocka, I Love You

I think I’ve fallen in love with Waka Flocka Flame’s mama. Seriously, watch this video and pay very close attention. Where has Debra Antney been all of our lives?

Now, I am no stranger to hood parents. In fact, given my dad used to steal my sister’s No Limit CDs to entertain the unemployed and newly released outside of our house, has trimmers of gold in certain areas of his mouth, and offered me a gun for college I’d say I was pretty much an expert in that department.

Growing up, it would sometimes irritate the shit out of me. Well, that amongst other things. Longtime readers know what I mean. Despite all that, I’m fascinated by Mama Flocka.

Just listen to the way she starts off this interview with All Hip Hop.

“So, you think I’m gonna start some shit again, but I’m not even though I really want to.”

She is not your typical gangsta mama. This is a star, people. Recognize.

She speaks with such confidence. And yeah, aggression. Goodness, I love a woman who could probably bitch slap a man so hard he’ll take a piss sitting down for two weeks. I can only imagine what a business meeting like her is like.

As a matter of fact, I wish President Obama employed her to lobby for health care reform. I bet if you had her visiting various holdouts in the Senate that bill would’ve gotten signed a lot sooner than it did — and with a public option.

So, I don’t really care about the actual dispute with VIBE magazine she’s addressing (if you do care, VIBE posted audio of Wacka Flocka Flame), I just wanted you all to join me in basking in her greatness.

She is her own publicist. She is a businesswoman. She is a personality. A renaissance woman, for sure.

Better yet, as she put it: ”I ain’t no damn manager. I do a lil’ bit of everythang. I am the crea-tah.”

Yes you are, ma’am. All that and then some. A triller Mathew Knowles, if you will.

I love the fact that despite losing Nicki Minaj and Gucci Mane, she’s still looking for talent to provide me thoughtless music that I can shake my ass to on the dance floor (and your local sidewalk should a car drive-by blasting some dope shit).

I love it even more that she recognizes that Texas is chock full of undiscovered talent (that people from other regions bite extra hard from without giving proper credit, but I digress) and now realizes she needs to change her business acumen as she moves forward with new clients.

In other words: ”No more hand shakes, but for the most part leave my people the hell alone. Stay out of their got damn ears. Stay out of it. Got damn haters.”

Please put her on the “Hard In The Paint” remix, Waka. She would kill it. And world, give this woman a reality show. Now.