Excuses, Excuses

I was ready to lay into the concubine with a cat daddy’s credit card after she bashed play actress, faux fashion designer, but fitter than a weight room Sheree Whitfield for “hanging around a bunch of ugly faggots ’cause she doesn’t have a man.” Then I saw Funky Dineva’s response and felt all I could add was a “Yeah!” That and the fact that Marlo, quickly realizing that bashing gays in Atlanta is like shouting “Allah, eat this ass” at a mosque in Mecca, issued an apology. Two of them at that.

The first read like a bunch of nothing, but the second was obviously tailored to be more sympathetic towards the group who largely fuels her popularity and encourages her obvious desire to join the cast of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I appreciate her apologizing, though I do question one line from her blog post: “When I used this word, I was not mindful of the demeaning connotation that this has in the gay community.”

That is a crock. To quote my beloved Phaedra Parks, everybody knows that faggot is a gay slur. Every damn body, especially people like her who used the term in a derogatory way. It’s not like she was saying, “Oh, Sheree. You’re such a charming woman with Angela Bassett arms. No wonder those fantastic faggots adore you.” But, alright, Marlo. You apologized. Let’s move on…to the gay men who tried to excuse you.

Last nite I saw a few folks tweet something along the lines of, “I can’t believe y’all are pretending to be offended by that.” Motherfucker, she said faggot. She who sashays across the South bragging about designer clothes designed by gay men. How else would I feel?

I understand that some gay men use that word. That’s fine (for them), but even still it’s used negatively. It’s in no way on  on equal footing with “nigga.” Everyone might not agree on the use of that term either, though it’s evident that the context in which it’s typically used is different. There has been no attempt to add any sort of “positive connotation” to faggot so it’s obvious what Marlo’s intentions were she hurled that slur out there. So whereas some people are ready to “be offended by anything,” others are willing to laugh at whatever even if it’s at their own expense. I’d rather eat Sweetie’s old crotchet braids before I ever abase myself to behave similar to the latter.

Yes, I Know She Meant Well But…

…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.

Do Better, Deen

I only know a few things about Paula Deen. The first being she likes to promote foods that will surely take you out over time. The other is she’s sort of like, “What if Big Mama were white with a business sense?” Now I can add a third thing to my mental rolodex: Type II Diabetes. News of her medical condition has been escapable, though what could’ve clearly been a teachable moment for Ms. I’m ‘Bout That Butter, Bitches has since been flipped into nothing more than a corporate spin on an old Ronnie hoe quote. For the unfamiliar, that’s code for, “You got to use what you got to get what you want.” I’d say that in Paula’s case it’s the cream, dollar dollar bills, y’all.

Yes, Paula has known for three years that her’s sugar’s bad yet she’s only discussing it now to shill for pharmaceutical companies. Somewhere Rachel Ray is standing next to a mischievous talking pet saying, ”Vindication is mine.” If you’re one of those folks who painfully abuses the word brand, you don’t mind her chutzpah with respect to greed. You’re probably going to hell, too (if you believe in that sort of thing), but I digress. Anyway, she’s right to point out that Type II Diabetes isn’t a death sentence. It is kind of a warning in the form of a postcard, though. So, if you have Type II Diabetes isn’t kind of awful to tell people to fry beef and dress it up with cheddar, bacon, and stick it in between donuts?

This is exactly like the first big dinner the Joseph family had after Big Mama joined Col. Sanders’s bid whist team in heaven. They sat around the table eating the damn food that killed her without at least one person mentioning, “Yo, maybe we should have a salad with this fatback.” or “How about we try something light like Thai the week after?” As a fried fish enthusiast, I won’t feign health nutdom. But I will let you hot saucers know that one too many pieces will break your heart into them.

Who does she think she’s fooling that her condition might have more to do with age and genetics? Ma’am, I’m pretty sure your Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole had more to do with it. One could make the same case for her recipe for deep fried stuffing on a stick. The same for her deep-fried lasagna. I mean, yes she does say, “Honey, I’m not your cook, not your doctor,” but I bet she didn’t say that when she looked at the deposit the drug company dropped in her account.

Even though you seem nice with a great liquor cabinet, I have to say shame on you, White Big Mama. You know better. Next time you’re talking about making frying turkey legs in honey battered Crisco (damn, that sounds kind of good) at least make the effort to say, “Run a lap after this or lose your own leg, turkey.” Let us all try to have a heart while we still have them.

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.

They’re Shows, Not Saviors

Like anyone with working eyes, I have an appreciation for Michael Ealy. Oh and I think he can act, too. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. Be that as it may, I have to disagree with the comments he made about reality television during his interview with “The Breakfast Club.” Seemingly not a fan of glorious programs like Love & Hip Hop, The Real Housewives of Atlanta, and Mob Wives, the “Murrlyn” born actor took issue with the content found in multiple reality shows.

Light Eye Surprise said: “I think it’s disturbing and I don’t think it’s contributing to the betterment of society in any way. People like to see train wrecks and it speaks volumes about society as a whole but I’m worried abut the children coming up thinking the way to resolve a problem is to grab somebody’s head and start fighting.”

Yes, think of the children. Those poor, poor children exposed to such vile things like neck rolls, sass, profanity and slap fights via the idiot box. Heavens to murgatroyd.

Look, Smooth Voice Supreme has a legitimate point about people liking train wrecks. I’m sure several of you vehicle-operating individuals have hurled expletives at drivers who slow down traffic in order to see whose windshield has been destroyed worse than Keri Hilson’s mentions on any given day. Still, the same can be said about action movies, mob films, and varying forms of literature. That’s the whole point of escapism and while some people’s way to might be less “positive” than others, it’s not at all that different in the end.

As for the babies, no disrespect to you, Handsome Man’s Hero, but people need to raise their kids. It’s a cliché though no bigger one than blaming a television show for the fall of humanity. I’m quite aware of the effects what we see, read, and twirk down to have on the masses. That’s why I find the star of any Tyler Perry production offering this kind of commentary especially comical. Charlamagne used a horrible example to make this point, but it is still a valid one at its core.

The majority of the themes espoused in Tyler Perry’s plays, films, and television shows can be best surmised with: Stop being a stuck up bitch, you ungodly educated heifer, get right with the Lord and marry that light skinned bus driver, part-time postal worker. To be fair, For Colored Girls was somewhat different given Tyler was appropriating someone else’s material. He still managed to find a way to bastardize it, though. Say, stripping the joy out of the original choreopoem, depicting AIDS in the most trivial way imaginable (abortion, too), and whatever Whoopi Goldberg’s character was doing.

I find that more damaging than a reality show. At this point most of the audience of a given reality series knows what they’re getting, and thus, don’t take the content all that seriously when watching. Meanwhile, Mr. Madea presents his material under the false pretense that he’s giving his flock important life lessons.

Now which do you find more concerning?

Lastly, with all due respect, Pretty Boy Rock, regardless of what you feel about reality shows let me remind you of one teensy weensy detail: A television show is designed to entertain, not save the world. And that’s perfectly okay. By Friendly Face’s logic, we should send Pat Sajack to his home planet because Wheel of Fortune isn’t bettering society.

Some people get a kick going on these sanctimonious rants about reality shows. I will not be made to feel guilty about enjoying watching Yandy get at Chrissy or Baloo get called out on her bullshit by World of Wigs. No, sir. Even though we disagree on this, I still think you’re pretty great, Tempting Thespian. Skype me.

Best Book I’ll Never Buy

There’s a literary masterpiece on the way just in time for Christmas, y’all. Seemingly looking to hop on the celebrity self-help trend, Keyshia Cole’s mama is offering life advice in a new memoir.

The petite powerhouse bares her personal struggles and uses them to offer women sincere, heartfelt understanding and candid advice about sex, drugs, and overcoming adversities. “This book will inspire; it tells the story of a lady who’s been through everything from battling with drugs to resorting to prostitution and everything in between….this is her journey to turn her life around and merge into society.”

I imagine the story of how a drug addict was able to reunite with the daughter she didn’t raise and capitalize off her fame to become a reality star and stanky legg impersonator is one that will resonate with millions. And as you can tell from the cover of the book, surnames are irrelevant when you can harp the fact that you birthed Mary J. Blige’s son.

Loud as she may be, though, Frankie means well…about her hustle. Still, I wonder who actually wrote this book. Not to question Frankie’s intellect, but all she ever says is “man down,” “Code 10,” and “Holla!” That’s enough to fill a blackboard, but not so much an entire book. Then again, Evelyn Lozada’s lexicon is limited to the words “bitch” and presumably moans to honor her meal tickets yet she’s scored a lit/film deal with Cash Money Content.

A part of me wants to look on the bright side and realize that of the 30 people who purchase The Best Years I Never Had, at least 8 of them might find it life changing. The other ingredients in me can’t stop fixating on how once again another quasi-celebrity has managed to symbolically spit on the craft of writing. Can you smell my bitterness seeping through your computer monitors? Don’t worry: I’ll get over it and shake my arm over some meat before tossing it in the oven for dinner later. However, if anyone buys me this book I’ll be personally submitting their names to the terrorist watch list. Try me.

Rappers and Rioting

Far be it from me to question the wisdom of political scientist and former pharmaceutical entrepreneur, Young Jeezy, but for those of you currently occupying areas of your local city in response to the gross and growing economic inequality I have a bit of advice: Don’t listen to this dude, you will get your ass killed.

To be fair to Jeezy, I’ve heard far more dangerous political opinions than his. I imagine anyone that has seen any of the zillion Republican presidential debates that have taken thus far shares a similar sentiment. Be that as it may, if college students are being pepper sprayed while using non-violent forms of protest, what do you think the military-like police officers of the nation will do to them if they decide to get buck? I mean, go ‘head and try to shut the city down if you want to. I did read one comment on 2 Dope Boyz that was somewhat true: “Actually, that would probably get the 1%’s attention. Extremism. Because now, they really don’t care about some people stopping MTA … as if they ride MTA.”

Middle classers gone wild surely would get a lot of attention, but it would also result in Phaedra Parks having a booming start to her soon to be launched funeral parlor. Moreover, while one could make a case for how selling drugs and stealing is somewhat of a display of political defiance in response to inequality, let’s not get carried away and equate tree smoking and selling with tree hugging, okay? There’s Jeezy the Snowman and Barack Obama the community organizer from 20 years ago. I’m pretty sure the only thing the two had in common was a shared interest in MC Hammer.

The rest of what Jeezy said wasn’t so bad and if I had to choose between voting for him and the court jesters from the party of Dumbo, I’d roll to the voting booth (okay, mailing in absentee ballot) blasting “Bang.” I think that pretty much confirms my political persuasion. Speaking of voting, vote in mid term elections and let’s get rid of all couple hundred politicians kissing Grover Norquist’s feet. Now if that doesn’t work, permission to revisit the clip is granted.

Fall Through A Trap Door Already

I get it: Disqualified spelling bee contestant or not, Tyrese means well. Couple that with his celebrity and it’s clear why people clamor to him and his newfound career as an irregular version of a life coach. Personally, I’d rather buy a chastity belt from Karrine Steffans or take grammar lessons from Evelyn Lozada before accepting any sort of guidance from Tyrese Gibson. Yes, I’m aware that puts me in the minority. Such a reality is the reason why I’m forever grateful for ibuprofen.

What will always trip me out most his success, though, is the idea that women are the ones actually fueling the ego of this sexist man. I’m pretty sure Tyrese doesn’t think he’s a sexist, but that’s a pretty common theme among many people harboring select prejudices. Like when he sat on Wendy Williams’ couch and perpetuated that silly double standard about cheating between men and women. Still, so many women repeat his stale lines that in my opinion sounded much better when read after consuming an order of sesame chicken. Again, I’m aware that I’m in the minority but dammit, y’all have emboldened him to say even stupider shit.

This time it’s all about the big, bad independent woman. Despite the term being a part of pop culture for a little more than a decade Tyrese feels compelled to explain the term to the gender that coined it. And surprise, surprise his definition seems to vilify women who dare boast of being self-sufficient and finding fulfillment on their own terms.

Try not to let Tyrese’s usage of the ‘Pop-Pop’ voice fool you: He said a whole bunch of nothing. Jesus could’ve had his hand over my eyes and I don’t doubt for a millisecond that I would manage to see through Tyrese’s bullshit all the same. In fact, I’ve belched better sentiments. While it’s cute to make little quips about women buying their little poodles to curtail their assumed loneliness, one quickly recalls that he’s a divorcee who almost a year ago was live-tweeting himself being holed up in his car outside of his ex-wife’s house hoping the po-po didn’t hull his ass to the jailhouse, or worse, shoot his ass. But you know, ladies, you’re the problem.

Oh yes, so am I.

“I know it’s a lot of men out here that are playing on both sides of the fence, it’s confusing, and it’s a lot of homosexuality going on out here. I get it, it’s a lot of frustration that women have. [But] there’s a lot of man’s man still left; We’re out here, we’re waiting, we’re wanting, we desire you just like you desire us. Just don’t give up on us…’Stay.’ That’s my ‘Open Invitation’. Give [us] a shot at your heart.”

Kudos to you, Black Ty, on you tying your pseudo motivational speaker bit with the job you’re actually skilled in (to other people anyway), but motherfuck you all the same. For pulling the angry black woman bit and for further perpetuating both the down low myth and the effeminate gay male stereotype. Guys like Tyrese always trip me out when they go there given the fact that you can always manage to connect that stereotype to the accuser’s own behavior. Say, Tyrese’s knack for constantly whining on Twitter as if he’s still bedwetting age.

On this clip, one commenter on YouTube wrote, “Empty barrels make the most noise.” If that isn’t the best sentiment about all of these celebrities jocking Oprah, Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, your grandma with the good wig I don’t know what is. May they all fall into a trap door — starting with this sexist and homophobic sum’bitch.

You Sent It (Ugh): He Likes Boys

Look everyone: The recording industry dipped Katy Perry in Hershey’s kisses and created yet another banal pop song knee deep in stereotypes guised as some sort of cutesy anthem. Can you feel my excitement seeping through this post? I can barely prevent myself from spinning around and flying into the sky and dry humping a fucking rainbow in a state of euphoria.

I don’t know Simone Battles because I don’t watch The X-Factor, but I know enough to complain. I can’t tell whether or not she can even sing since her voice has been computerized enough to make even Britney Spears wonder, “Damn, girl. Where you even there when the recorded this song?” I’ll let you actual viewers fill me in about her vocal ability later.

I do imagine Simone is probably a wonderful person. I mean, she has to be because super attractive men want to recreate scenes from Clueless with her while watching Desperate Housewives. I don’t even have that yet (although I’d prefer staring at Victor Rasuk on HBO and marveling at Julianna Margulies on CBS every Sunday). This guy even wants to do fun seemingly romantic (to her) things to like go shopping, get manicures, and talk about Lady Gaga’s Born This Way. You know, that album with the title track aggressively and transparently telling ab-happy homosexuals “don’t be a drag, just be a queen.”

But alas, as you can unfortunately see and hear love wasn’t meant to be. Fret not, though, because now Simone has a new gay best friend. What a special, special song. Almost like a sequel to My Gay Pet “Gay Best Friend.”

My official verdict on this song is if bulimics need target practice, direct them to a physical copy of this single. Okay, that was a little mean. Let me make amends. I promise to put five dollars towards her Match account or buying a clue if she drops this song into the abyss.

You Sent It Now Call Your Local CPS Office

I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t considered launching a new career as a deep fried idiot with asinine yet undeniably ass shaking spurring songs. Seriously, where do you think the name “Young Sinick” comes from? But as increasingly cynical as the radio makes me even I know that you can’t just throw out some bullshit and expect to pop off (at least not without a catchier hook). Or better yet, before you download your illegal copy of Garage Band to start your music career you should have a plan. In some people’s cases, that plan should involve a babysitter and nursery.

Then again, this girl seems more interested in shaming the other safe sex failure who impregnated her versus becoming the next, “Remember her? No? Oh. Damn.” That’s more concerning because it makes the video a glorified PSA for condoms and tragic irony instead of just so stupid song to make fun of. God Bless her and all that, but why is she looking into the camera as if she’s either trying to seduce the viewer with her come hither eyes and heavy belly or let King Triton know that it won’t be long before she controls the ocean? I suppose I’m behaving like a masochist if I ask why doesn’t she know that Uncle Sam handles taxes, not rejected Maury guests?

Naturally, after her remix she goes into a tangent about fucking with her ex’s phone, putting a knife to his throat, and threatening to key his car. She said that as if she was delivering the keynote address to a flock of geese. Imagine if her baby daddy cared enough to forward this to her future probation officer. I find her body roll for twins especially unfortunate given that check is probably going to look like the sum of the cheaper side of the Taco Bell menu. In other words, there will be two babies wondering what in the hell their trife parents got them into. But you know, good luck to her and shit.

As for that other song at the end: I was hoping it wasn’t real. Of course it is.

See. I wonder if it’s on iTunes. No, I don’t want you to check for me. Let’s just keep that a mystery while I revel in the genius of songs like, “Damn, Bitch My Feet Hurt” and inventions such as the morning after pill.