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.
…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.
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.
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.
Khadijah Baseer needed her fix, so much so that she allegedly offered her dip ‘n pitts in exchange for some Chicken McNuggets. It’s not been confirmed whether or not she offered any additional sexual favors for extra BBQ sauce (McDonalds is a stingy queen), but I wouldn’t put it past her. This happened in Los Angeles, or really somewhere in the Valley if you want to get technical (and for the sake of LA proper, I believe it’s best that we do). Khadijah, no James and certainly no shame, was subsequently arrested on suspicion of prostitution. Keeping the state of California’s budget in mind, she’s likely vomiting expired Spam as a means of peaceful protest as I type this entry.
You know, I’m more aware than anyone of how hard times can be, but even if I have my standards. How hungry or addicted do you have to be to offer your poon for pretend chicken? Not to get all hood snobby on y’all, but I simply can’t co-sign doing hoe shit for food that doesn’t heat up well. I’ll be damned if I ever am locked up for saying, “I’ll suck you dick for some fried swai.” I can kind of get nookie for Nobu (never been, but it sounds divine and shit) or even a hand job for a really good hand roll. Hell, if you pop-pop-pop that thing for an ample gift card to Chick-fil-A or Popeye’s (could last many a meal if you use it on Tuesday for the special), I’ll be like, “Yeah, I see it.” But sex for Chicken McDonalds? Have some pride, heifer. Or at the very least, try your coochie commerce at Burger King. They deliver in select cities now and probably have even less standards.
As many of you readers know by now, Tamar Braxton is the hot sauce to my catfish fresh out the fryer. And as previously noted, my adoration for Ms. Dotcom started before Braxton Family Values. I’ve been patiently waiting for Tamar’s talent to get the p-pop it deserves so I’m quite excited to hear any news about what’s to come. Folks need to know Tamar is as good a singer as she is a reality personality.
A couple weeks ago a few of my friends, unfamiliar to Tamar Braxton’s solo album released in 2000 (for shame), watched the video for her debut solo single, “Get None.” In short: If songs were birds the track would go great with Christian Fried Chicken’s polynesian sauce. Despite that fun quality, most of them were less than enthused with what they saw. I, naturally, sang along to the song word for word (what lyrics I could recall anyway). Based on this clip, I gather we’re going to get a somewhat more mature version (relatively speaking, surely) of that. That somewhat concerns me because I feel like some people are going to say, “Tamar is too old for that.” The right side of me says to that idea, “Shut up. I’m only a few birthdays away from entering the third decade of life.”
And hopefully once I do, I’ll still want to be sweating in the club on occasion if the spirit beat calls upon thee. If Jay-Z can be played in the club at 100-years-old (dog years), I’m into the prospect of Tamar dippin, poppin’, twirkin’ and stoppin’ in her mid-thirties. Yes, a Beyoncé reference was necessary. Tamar would totally want it that way. Anywho, while I’m glad J.Lo continues to break people off in her forties on stage, she never released the video for “Good Hit” so lately we’ve only been getting shake something pop anthems of the Cher’s “Believe” variety. We need the urban black equivalent.
So bring it, Sister Braxton. I believe in you and your abilities to get the club going while you keep your edges tight. Give me something to aspire to. Lord knows when I’m her age I want to continue being the cool uncle, not the uncle who only does the stanky legg while he waits for his cranberry juice to kick in so he might finally relinquish fluids. Boom.
Oh, as for those of you who continue to deny my girl’s abilities, or maybe just don’t know about them, park yourself under the hood and check out my favorite Tamar Braxton song, “Words.”
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.
Since she was such a favorite of mine in the first season of Love & Hip Hop, I’ve been trying to avoid drawing this conclusion about Chrissy Lampkin: She’s insufferable. It’s undeniable pretty hair, pleasant speaking voice, and understandable frustrations about her love life or not. Yes, she was the bright spot in an otherwise dull cast when the show debuted, but I’m not blind to her pattern. Week after week she is shown mad about something and/or somebody. One episode she’s upset about something that doesn’t even concern her, another she’s blowing something rather insignificant out of proportion in a raging fit. I assume she does these sort of things to avoid her pissed off meter going off kilter and sending her body into a state of shock. Yeah, maybe it’s time for a new lease on life or something.
Immediately into Amber Rose’s single, “Fame,” I wanted to tap out. You just knew it was going to be a cheesy and schmaltzy pop ditty the second you heard the voice of the “nerd” saying he was from No Hair, Don’t Care magazine. I decided to push through because I like Amber Rose. The end result of that decision is me developing a greater appreciation for the musical stylings of Paris Hilton. Now someone must pay.
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.
