My Daily Anecdote: Fuck giving people rides

Despite my penchant for headbutting strangers for even the mildest transgressions, like failing to recognize the greatness of Rakim or simply leering at me for one moment too long, I sincerely consider myself to be a kind hearted person. Not saying that I’m a boy scout or anything(even though I’ve helped an old lady or two across the street in my day and once tied an asshole to a tree using a Carrick Bend knot) - I still have a litany of good deeds in my personal highlight reel. I give to the homeless more times than I should, I shovel all of my elderly neighbors’ driveways after every significant snowfall. Shit, most of the incidents that involved me throwing an uppercut and then proceeding to stand over their lifeless body while striking the Captain Morgan pose usually had something to do with me sticking up for someone. But there are limits to my kindness: See: Giving people rides

Outside of designated driver requests, the fact of the matter is that I don’t ever want to take your raggedy ass anywhere.  I guess my unwillingness to transport a garden variety douchebag from point A to point B has carried over from my High School years. See, I had tremendously shitty 1980 Cutlass Supreme that was always leaking transmission fluid - many times I’d find myself having to back out of parking spaces by throwing my foot out of the door on some Fred Flintstone shit and pushing my mobile eye sore backwards. Because of this I felt that when my car did meet it’s untimely demise that it would happen while doing “me" stuff, not giving some car-less peasant a ride to some chick’s house two towns away who couldn’t give two shits about him. Even though my days of driving hoopties around with leaking fluids is long over, I still feel a kind of way about giving people rides places. That was until Wednesday.

My favorite part of the morning, on my way to the gym, is passing by a bus stop only noteworthy because of the slew of attractive women who always seem to be posted up there. Being that the aforementioned location is right by a traffic light, half of the time I’m blessed with the opportunity to discretely take in the scenery without looking like a potential serial killer. Add to that, many of those same women have started waving at me and smiling - which has done wonders for my low self-esteem by the way. Like I said, this has become my favorite part of the day. Or at least it was.

See, on one of those glorious days in which the red light beside my favorite place on earth decided to grace me with its presence, I noticed my good friend’s younger sister standing at the bus stop - waving her arms at me like she was an air traffic controller. I wanted to ignore her but we had already made a significant amount of eye contact, so I rolled down my window and irritatingly said:

Me: What’s up?

Her: Dude, I’m waving to you at a bus stop, I’m not conducting a fucking orchestra! I’m starting a new job today, I’m running late and I need a ride. What do you say?

Me: *Wanting to say “No!”* *Looking at the other women at the bus stop* (sporting a forced smile) Sure, get in!!

And that’s when it happened. As soon as she got in the car my friend’s younger sister rolled down her window, stuck two middle fingers up at the same women who I lustfully gazed at every morning before my workouts, and said "Fuck you Bus Riding Bitches!!! Fuck you all to hell!!" She thought this was absolutely hilarious, I did not. Even though the best move was for me to kick her out of my car and publicly berate her for disrespecting those lovely ladies like that, for brownie point purposes of course - I just drove off in horror. Horrified that she would shit on a group of people that she’d most likely run into the following day, and horrified that my little slice of heaven has been sullied forever. Man, fuck giving people rides. 

How not to handle a break-up(A Throat-chopper’s tale)

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One of the benefits of being a lifelong stutterer is that it has forced me to abandon my usually ornery self and exhibit random acts of compassion. Growing up with people ridiculing your speech impediment, the eye rolls, rudely attempting to finish your sentences for you and giving you the “lets wrap this up" hand signal - I’d be an asshole of elephantine proportions if I was anything but a bleeding heart when it came to people and their problems. But with one notable exception: I could never quite stick the proverbial landing on showing one ounce of compassion when it came to my heartbroken friends. Even though I always attempted to do my best "concerned friend" impression whenever someone I knew was grief stricken over an assassin with breasts who just ripped his beating heart out of his chest - secretly I was utterly disgusted at my core, as if they had just told me that they were guilty of war crimes, or was a Waka Flocka fan. Even though I could wrap my head around being heartbroken, primarily because I myself had been there before, I never understood why people couldn’t just keep that shit to themselves. Instead of embarrassing yourself and having your street cred stock drop precipitously, why not just stay your miserable ass at home and suffer in silence like a real man? I guess I viewed it the say way I imagine what it’s like to kick a heroin addiction without medical assistance: Just stay your simple ass at home under the covers and ride that shit out.

I’m ashamed to say this but because of my “there’s no crying in relationships" stance, my friendships with people have taken a hit just because some poor heartbroken bastard decided that I was the one he wanted to confide in. Literally crying on my shoulder, stories about therapy sessions over some worthless broad who decided to casually disregard him, being showed ham-fisted break-up poetry: I saw behavior of the magnitude as nothing but weakness, a weakness that I had to get as far the fuck away from as possible. As a stutterer I really knew better - giving friends in dire need of support nothing more than proverbial eye rolls and "lets wrap this up" hand signals. So you can understand the bitter irony of me finding myself on the business end of a break-up and exhibiting some of the same behavior that I felt made grown men softer than baby shit.

Without going into detail about the nature of the break-up, out of respect for everyone involved, I won’t go into the “who’s, what, where’s and why’s”. But what I will say is that at 39 I had thought that I had finally found my soulmate, someone that I was going to spend the rest of my life with - and when it all came crashing down it affected me in ways that I could have never predicted. Nearly 40, single, childless, and pretty sure that I would never find someone who “gets me" like she did - the pain being even more severe because of the self inflicted nature of many of the wounds - I became a goddamn break-up cliche. It was some utterly pathetic shit man. So, because I want to be as transparent as possible and make amends for giving so many grief stricken friends over the years the emotional stiff-arm - here’s a few examples of how I handled a break-up as badly as possible. Please, learn from me by not following my example.

Impromptu public weeping: I’m not much of a crier, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve shed actual tears in the last 20 years: When my father died, when “Cochise" and "Radio Raheem" passed, that’s about it. I don’t say that with any sort of machismo mind you, there is absolutely nothing with a man crying - it’s just not in my DNA to leak from the tear ducts at every emotional bump in the road. So I thought. I mean, I missed my ex dearly, and I was conscious of the fact that I was taking the break-up rather hard - it feeling more like a death in the family than two lovers deciding that their troubles were insurmountable. But I never thought crying about it was particularly in the cards for me. I mean, I was self aware enough to know I was at least bummed out - but I just knew that the transition from disregarded malcontent to someone drowning in voluptuousness would be a seamless transition for your boy: Until I started openly weeping at the most inopportune times that is. I’d be hanging out with friends, talking about some miscellaneous topic, and I would start weeping uncontrollably out of nowhere.

Friend: So HumanityCritic, do you think the Heat will take it all the way this year?
Me: I think so. Lebron is an undeniable force of nature, and.. *gulp* *gulp* “uncontrollable weeping*
Friend: Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.. Do you want me to call somebody?

Another scenario.

Mom: I really like this restaurant, thank you for taking me here.
Me: No problem, this is one of my favorite spots.
Mom:(looking at the menu) I think I’ll order the spaghetti, how about you?
Me: This salmon looks.. *sigh* *gulp* *gulp* *uncontrollable weeping*
Mom: Oh for fucks sake! What in the fuck is that?

How embarrassing. Did you know that there are places that I can never show my face again because I’ve done this so many times? I was never a social butterfly in the first place, but at this point I think there are pedophiles who feel more comfortable showing their face in public. I’m the son that my mother calls on to confront her unruly neighbors. I’m the guy who gets 2 am phone calls from friends who need me to save them from savage beatings from drunken malcontents and other garden variety hairy situations. A female relative has an abusive boyfriend that needs to be dealt with, they have me on speed dial for circumstances of that magnitude. I was once Superman to these people - but now that they’ve seen me crying like an actress in a telenovella, I’m just some weirdo in a super tight red onesie.

Bad social media strategy: If there is one thing that I can wholeheartedly suggest to the recently heartbroken, it’s to stay your ass off all social media platforms. Trust me. Even though I never talked about my ex specifically, I’d like to think that I’m cooler than that, the incoherent rants and subtweets were aplenty. Melancholy tweets about loss. Every rhetorical concoction of “the grass is always greener" that you can imagine. Quoting sad song lyrics. Quoting Mary J Blige. Retweeting one of the many wannabe life coaches who are actually nothing but charlatans and con men/women. Early morning twitter posts consisting of frowny face emoticons. Compared to the things that I usually tweet about I’m surprised that people who follow me didn’t suggest a suicide hotline. Luckily I saw the error of my ways and took a much needed social media break for three weeks. When I returned I was back to my normal twitter routine: Posting about Hip Hop, curvaceous women, and talking about how I threatened to rip a motherfucker’s larynx out over the most pedestrian of indiscretions.

Playa Playa: Being that I was a break-up cliche and all, I had my mind set on having savage coitus sessions with any woman with a well manicured backyard and a smile that would be kind enough to let me. The couple of weeks after my break-up I must have gotten 30 phone numbers, and I had every intention of knowing each and every one of them in a biblical sense. I’m a recovering alcoholic, and I’m too much of a coward to try anything stronger than marijuana - so drowning my sorrows in miscellaneous vagina seemed like the only viable path for someone in my position. Picture caligula but with shapely brown women and I’m the only dude. One problem with that though: I’m a germaphobe, so the minute that a lot of these future dalliances were becoming possible present day dalliances - I chickened out, primarily because I’m sure than women frown upon a guy wanting to wear three condoms at once. Or me coming to fuck while wearing a hazmat suit. Or having a woman go through a series of medical tests just to give me an old fashioned handjob. Shit, I’m still breaking ties with the women I met during that period of time.

One trick pony: As I write this, I have to say that I’m still in a complete state of shock that I didn’t lose any of my friends during this time period. Every topic that you can imagine, you name it, somehow was an opportunity for me to segue back to talking about my ex. A friend invites me over his house for a chicken dinner: “You know, she liked chicken." A homegirl gleefully tells me that she’s abandoned perms and going is natural: "Yeah, my ex had natural hair." I could inundate you with a million examples of this, but it would just be an exercise in excess. But it got to the point where I was effortlessly ignoring my friends’ obvious cues of frustration, like exasperated signs and eye-rolls, and going right ahead with my melancholy rejoinders regardless. I was even aware of how lame I was being and didn’t have one solitary fuck to give. Like I said before, I was a fucking break-up cliche. I apologize to all of my friends that I did this to.

Looking back, in the same way failed political campaigns and losing Superbowl teams tend to do, I’ve done my fair share of post mortems on my aforementioned relationship failure. More than recognizing my own shortcomings, and there are many - I’ve come to the conclusion that a mixture of coming off a 5 year period of thinking I was going to die and not having a proper relationship since George W Bush’s 1st Presidential campaign, I just was ill prepared emotionally to hop into a serious relationship.(Or at least deal with it’s failure) I know that now. I guess I’m writing this to show that even a guy who throat-chops with reckless abandoned can succumb to matters of the heart. Yes, the Death Star has a weakness. But at the end of the day, if you are going through something similar, take it from me when I say that everything will be OK. Trust me, the clouds will pass and you’ll be holding hands with someone in the park as they lovingly look in your eyes and you’ll be showing each other your naughty bits on Skype in no time.

Lastly, I wish my ex nothing but the best, she’s an amazing person inside and out. I’ve learned a ton about myself because of what I went through, and I’m excited about what the future holds for your favorite throat-chopper. I’m also happy that I went through this experience, and because of it this will be the last motherfucking post of this nature that I’ll be writing. To quote Tupac, this is by far the “realest shit I ever wrote”.

"The Foxx Trap"

I’ve been making some pretty interesting discoveries about myself since I turned 40. For example, I realized that I have to take the same cold turkey approach to pornography that I did with drinking. Coming to grips with the fact that deviant forms of online filth are a slippery slope for me - in no time I could see myself needing to see Asian midgets with prosthetic limbs getting their unadulterated fuck on to reach any semblance of a climax. A few weeks ago I wrote about how an older women, who for decades I thought of as my sexual Sensei, was really at the end of the day someone who stunted my growth in the pelvic thrusting department for years.

A few months ago I was talking to my therapist(Yes, I have a therapist - so I won’t kill any of you.) - and out of nowhere she wanted to talk about my father. When the topic was brought up, I had my canned(but honest) response locked and loaded, ready to go: “Yes, we had a hostile relationship - and while I don’t absolve him of anything, I forgive him. Dude was old school and he loved me the best way he knew how. I’m too old to be blaming him for my bullshit. You know, if he had lived I could totally see us being cordial now being that I’m more mature and could easily sidestep his idiosyncrasies." My therapist, giving me what I would best describe as a rhetorical chop block said, "That sounded like something you practiced in a mirror?" She continued, "No, I simply want to know what activity you and your father engaged in the most when you were growing up." Haphazardly I searched my brain the same way someone frantically searches for their misplaced wallet. I mean, I could count the amount of times that me and the old man played catch on one hand. He kept me at his auto repair shop on a regular basis as a child, but that felt more like being held hostage - so I couldn’t count that. After what seemed like an eternity, the light bulb above my head illuminated and I said with a smile on my face, "The Foxx Trap!" My therapist, looking intrigued, asked, "What’s the Foxx Trap?

The Foxx Trap" was a nightclub. Wait a minute, let me back up for a moment.

Since my parents both got off work around 8pm, I was what you’d call a latchkey kid - on the average spending about 13 hours by myself in the summer time eating crummy T.V dinners while watching syndicated sitcoms from the 50’s and 60’s. When my father found himself off from work, God bless him, he didn’t really know how to interact with me. He tried to watch my kids shows with me, even play with me as my army men engaged in fierce combat - but even at that young age I could see that he was valiantly waging a bitter war with boredom and the temptation to roll his eyes. He just wasn’t built for that shit. So that’s when he got the brilliant idea to take me with him to his favorite watering hole in the middle of the day. At first, “The Foxx Trap" was an exciting place to be for an adolescent: Shit, even now the mere thought of all the chicken wings that I can eat while playing Pac-Man gets me inappropriately excited. But soon I had begun to witness things that I had no business witnessing.

For one thing, the adults at my father’s favorite watering hole didn’t have one solitary fuck to give when it came to me being a child. The adult conversations flowed as freely as the beer that was on tap: Whose wives people were screwing, what waitress gave a customer a blowjob in the bathroom for some U.S currency, what regular customer let dudes - and I quote Kool G Rap - “fill all of her holes like bowling”. Even though the latest I was ever found myself in that drinking establishment was probably 6 P.M, I also saw my fair share of fights. Fist fights. Fights with broken bottles. Fights involving pool cues. Waitresses fighting over the same man, forcefully swinging serving trays at each other as if they were at a Major League Baseball batting practice. When these fights first broke out my father would run, grab me, and carry me to safety like any other loving father would do. But after a while he’d just be amused by the impending melee and casually yell to me, “Jamie, get under the table will ya?” On top of that, even though I’m sure they thought their actions were innocent enough, some of the shit that grown ass women would say to me would make me blush now.

I remember my father taking me home drunk from these excursions, telling me at the front door, “Forget what you saw today.” After telling my therapist what I just shared with you, she asked “Do you think those experiences shaped your life in any way?” Boy, I hate stupid fucking questions.

She’s no longer my Vince Lombardi

 

One of the realest movies that you’ll ever see is “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”. That movie is by no means the equivalent to “Citizen Kane" mind you, but it highlights a very important, and not to often discussed point - that we often glamorize past relationships without realizing that we were absolutely miserable while we were in them. In my case it wasn’t a failed relationship that I was looking at with rose colored glasses, but a sexual encounter that I always cherished. A teenage dalliance that I had built up in my mind over the years as something that would rival most skin flicks and pretty much every romance novel you’ve ever gotten your grubby paws on. Let me explain.

When I was 16, the daughter of my parents’ friend(I’ll call her “Sheila”) came to live with us. At this point in time I had sort of lost my virginity(I had technically inserted myself inside of someone but not much else), so the fact that she had model good looks and was built like a brick shithouse, to quote that horseshit rapper Rich Homie Quan, had me feeling a certain “type of way”. Being that she looked how she looked, and was 29, I was convinced that this native Nova Scotian would never let me get within a square mile of her undergarments. So feeling confident that she had the good sense to not let an awkward, stuttering asshole 13 years her junior clumsily thrust on top of her, I flirted with her relentlessly. So after a couple of weeks of extremely lame “Age ain’t nothing but a number" quips, and finding every opportunity to walk around the house shirtless like I was Matthew fucking McConaughey, she motioned me over to her one night and we started making out. There are so many details about that night that I could share, like me having a drawer full of condoms at my disposal even though I had no cuddle buddy prospects at the time. There are so many details about the next couple of months that I could share, involving the kitchen, getting woken up in one of the best ways imaginable, stuff like that. But to be honest, none of that is particularly germane to the point of this post.

For the last 24 years I’ve played those sexual encounters over and over again in my head like it was some sort of sexual highlight reel. I’ve waxed poetic about the woman who I always believed rocked my feeble little world to friends, shit, to anyone who listen really. I’ve also glowingly written about this very topic before. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had flashbacks of her. Picturing her auburn colored legs that one time I interrupted her while she cooked breakfast, the mere sight of the back of her knees would make any man postpone breakfast. Her mid-coital bantering, her Canadian accent, all things that I still thought about at the most inopportune moments. You always hear old Green Bay Packers who played under Vince Lombardi say that they still hear the Hall of Fame coach’s voice, that he visits them in their dreams, a day doesn’t go by that they don’t think about him. The man had that much of an effect on gentlemen he led to battle on the gridiron every Sunday. The next sentence will sound all kinds of wrong, but fuck it. “Sheila" was my sexual Vince Lombardi.

Or so I thought. One thing dawned on me as I turned 40, a stark reality that made me proverbially douse all of my glowing memories of that affair and every pair of rose colored glasses that I own with lighter fluid - proceeding to set them ablaze in a barbecue grill. See, after her I was extremely cocky sex-wise. I mean, I had just been with a woman more experienced in the ways of lovemaking and got her off regularly - I thought my dick should have been bronzed at that point. An inflated sense of self I held on to for far too long after her. But what I finally realized is that if I got her off at all it wasn’t due to my pelvic thrusting, it was because I was her fetish. Just thinking about all the extremely wack dick I gave women because of that makes me want to put them all on a list, only scratching their name off when I fully get their forgiveness - truly on some “My Name is Earl" shit. So now my flashbacks of her are replaced with all the faces of women I failed to give exemplary penis to because I had mistakenly thought that an older women "coached me up" in the fine art of making. No more Vince Lombardi analogies. Oh, and I’m coming to grips with the fact that she was a sexual predator. Yeah, there’s that.

Tales from the Trail: Assholes as motivation

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When I first started my weight loss journey to say that I was motivated is a massive understatement. I had just spent the previous 5 years believing that I was dying of a terminal disease - which not only aged me decades because of my mind relentlessly being consumed with the topic of my untimely demise, but it also lead me to not give a solitary fuck about counting calories or my overall physical appearance. So there I stood at Mt. Trashmore. 320 pounds. Wearing a clunky pair of high top sneakers, signifying that I hadn’t walked any notable distance since the beginning of George W. Bush’s administration. But I had a new lease of life, my proverbial death sentence had been commuted. So not only was I going to smell the flowers, I was going to do so while being able to see my dick unobstructed.

Those early days of me trying to loss weight are memorable, not only because of the tunnel vision I possessed at the time, or the torture I was putting my Achilles through by doing too much too fast - but because of this young couple whose douchebaggery served as motivation. Let me explain:

One day I was taking my daily walk around Mt. Trashmore when I noticed a young couple speeding up, sometimes even jogging every time I got within spitting distance of them. I didn’t think much about it until I noticed them constantly turning around to see where I was at, many times while exhibiting a shit eating grin on their faces. A bigger person(not in stature but maturity) would have just ignored them and kept it moving, literally - but even though I was over 300 pounds and had to put an APB out on my dick, that competitive spirit still burned bright inside of me. So, against my better judgment, I advanced my slow, deliberate walk into a fast paced jog for the mere purpose of passing those evil motherfuckers. Sweating profusely, pumping my arms with everything I had, even ignoring some pretty real chest pains, they still wouldn’t let me pass them. When they finished they went to their car giggling and mockingly waving to me, pretty pleased with themselves that they got the best of the morbidly obese guy who just wanted to get healthy. Like Michael Jordan who used every little slight as motivation, I had recognized the cruelty in this and knew that I would one day get my revenge.

Fast forward 7 months and about 100 pounds later, I finally see that same couple at Mt. Trashmore again. By this time I had dropped about 100 pounds and had started jogging by then, so suffice it to say I had an insatiable blood lust for revenge. At first I made sure that they were a significant distance in front of me, I even remember feigning exhaustion as I walked up on them. And like clockwork they both laughed at me as they sped up, jogging as if I had the inability to put it in another gear. And THAT’s when I dropped the hammer on them. I not only sprinted by them like they were standing still, but while I did it I stuck up both middle fingers at them while saying screaming “Fuuuuuuuuck Yooooooou!" To punctuate my point even further, I took it upon myself to jog literal circles around the two individuals I’d been obsessing about since that early October morning. To quote Biz Markie, "Damn it feels good to see people up on it.

But at the end of the day I’m thankful for them, they were a huge part of my weight loss journey. Besides, maybe they are somewhere training like maniacs for the sole purpose of exacting their revenge on me. Hey, motivation, I’m willing to pay that shit forward.

My Israeli trainer. The only lifecoach I fuck with.

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Outside of my potty mouth ramblings, hoping that people who embrace sub par Hip Hop die in a fire, and talking about my unimpressive penis - I’ve noticed that a large percentage of my twitter posts are about my Israeli Trainer. Well, since many of you have inquired about this perfect human specimen - I figured that I’d talk about her a bit.

Well, let me just start off by saying that I first met Adira while working out at Planet Fitness. I kept noticing this statuesque, beautifully tanned, chiseled woman constantly walking in front of me and wincing every time I got on a new machine. The ab machine: She walked by and winced. The Leg machines: She walked by and winced. The Bench Press: She walked by, winced, and shook her head! I absolutely had enough of that shit, so since we seemed to be leaving at the same time I politely confronted her outside:

Me: Excuse me miss, If you don’t mind me asking - do I know you from somewhere?
Adira: I don’t think so, why you ask?
Me: Well, all the wincing and head shaking you were doing as I worked out. You acted like I had put out a diss record about you.
Adira: Oh, I’m sorry. I have a bad poker face. Not to be rude but you work-out like a dickhead - and you could have an amazing body.
Me: *trying to figure out how to respond you that*
Adira: Look, here is my card. I’m a trainer and I teach Krav Maga. Call me when you want to work out like you actually have a penis.

My world was rocked. I was trying to figure out what exactly to be offended at for so long, the garden variety disrespect or taunting emasculation, I stood there with her card in my hand minutes after she had already left the parking lot. But what I did know is that I was intrigued. So after a week of staring at her card, I called. Our first conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Yes, Adira. This is..
Adira: ..black guy from gym who lifts weights like little girl in beauty pageant? It took you a whole week to muster up the courage to call? Fucking men.
Me: Listen smart ass, I’m calling now. Where do we start?

The work-outs started out simple enough. Some days we’d meet up at the park, jog a few miles, do a handful of exercises involving some weights that she had brought a long. Standard stuff really. But I couldn’t help wondering where that mouthy Israeli woman had went? I mean, outside of greeting me and telling me what she wanted me to do for the day - we rarely spoke to each other. I was confused, until one day as we’re running she turns to me and says, “Aren’t you bored with this? Listen, I see you improving and that you like it - cool, and if that’s how you want to spend your money, fine. I can do this all day. But don’t you want more?" Thinking that what she had in mind was just going to be some marginally more difficult version of what we were already doing, I said "Fuck yeah, hit me with everything you got!" Be careful what you wish for.

Intense Hill running. Pounding gigantic tires with sledge hammers. Flipping over those gigantic tires. Pulling her around on a sled as she curses at me in Hebrew. Running for miles with her on my back. A crash course in Krav Maga. Pretty intense Krav Maga sparring. Rope conditioning exercises. Kettle bells. Boxing. Sparing in the boxing ring with local professionals. Swimming. Shitloads of exercises in pools. Every weight lifting exercise and combination imaginable. Some mornings this deadly person follows behind me in her truck, drinking a cup of coffee, as I jog like I’m training for a a pay-per-view boxing match.

I have to say, many times I wanted to quit - or at least quietly phase her ass out the same way I did with many girlfriends when I was in my 20’s. I mean, I just wanted to get in shape, maybe take my shirt off at the beach. I just wanted the possibility of my six-pack making a curvaceous woman overlook my social shortcomings and grant me access to her inner sanctum. That’s all a motherfucker wanted, but this felt like I was training for an Olympic event or some shit. But I stuck around, something inside telling me that I would get something out of it besides a six pack and becoming an international fuck machine. Then a couple of months ago it dawned on me, engaging in these work outs that push me past my limits on a regular basis really puts every thing else in it’s proper perspective. Every problem that I had, personal squabbles with people/betrayals/garden variety issues - shit just became completely unimportant with a flip of a switch. This bad-ass ex-Israeli soldier, Krav Maga specialist, a woman who likes to say shit to me like “I bet you fuck like animal now" while I’m working out, has not only put me in the best shape of my life - she has also inadvertently taught me the best life lesson imaginable. It all comes back to that winter jog at Mt. Trashmore when she asked me, "Don’t you want more?" - yeah Adira, my favorite Psycho, I really do. And fortunately I’ve been getting it.

It turns out that I was training for something after all. Go figure.

Anonymous asked:

Do you have a job? It sounds like all you do is exercise.

Yes I do, I’m not exactly paying for a gym membership, a trainer, yoga classes, and Krav Maga in blow job money.(I’m in no way disparaging anyone who settles their bills with payment they’ve received by giving fellatio.) But listen, I was over three hundred pounds at one point and thought that I was going to die - I workout like a triathlete because I like to stay in shape, and because, well, I can.(I didn’t think I’d be here this long.) Also, personal training is a side hustle quickly becoming a primary one. Besides, I’m single, and I figure that having a semi decent body and giving a woman an extra few minutes of fucking wouldn’t exactly hurt my case. Thank you for your question, Stay Gold Ponyboy.

Anonymous asked:

Do You date black women?

I do, that’s all I’ve dated really. I absolutely love and adore black women. Not throwing shade at the many melanin deprived ladies who read my potty mouthed ramblings - I’m totally open to being with a woman of any hue who not only loves Rakim but also loves my silly blogging ass. That said, while we’re on the topic of white women - Christina Hendricks. Man, I would definitely show her off at the black mall. Take her to a Tyler Perry play and shit, that’s my word.

Anonymous asked:

Tell us more about your mother, please; she sounds great!

My mom? Well, let me hit you with a Michael Jordan analogy:

I’m probably bucking conventional wisdom here, but I always had the feeling that Michael Jordan’s kids probably had very little pressure to be great at basketball because their dad was the best to ever do it. I mean, if Michael Jordan was some journeyman schmo, I can see how sheer hunger could relentlessly push them to basketball greatness - being that their pops’ accomplishments would be within arm’s reach. But already knowing that you’ll never come within a square mile of your father’s talent has to be somewhat comforting. Sure, they can be great in their own right, but that “needing to be better than my father" pressure is gone.

That’s why I never subscribed to the philosophy of finding someone as good as your mother. Not saying that I will never meet an amazing woman whose intellect, grace, beauty, and millions of other positive attributes would rock my feeble little world till death do us part. It’s just, well, my mother is the most interesting person that I’ve ever known. She devours books of all kinds so she can gracefully maneuver herself into any conversation. She’s unflinchingly had my back and believed in me when no one else did. When she had cancer and things were looking grim, she had to console me - not the other way around. She curses like a longshoreman, and she’s unrepentantly blunt - but she’s funny about it so you immediately know she’s not trying to be an asshole. She’s the best friend an ornery bastard like myself who crafts paragraphs and smashes larynges could have. So yeah, the woman that I marry can be great in her own right - without having that pesky “needing to be as good as my mother" pressure hanging over her head.

How someone backs into a beating..

When I told my mother that I would try to live a more peaceful existence, the usually more optimistic half of my parental unit said: “It’s hard to turn the other cheek when you have a cement neck." Not the best of her mom-isms that’s for sure, but I got the point - that taking a pass on beating someone in front of their peers and garden variety on-lookers would be a steep climb for someone like myself who lacks the walk away gene. Nevertheless, these past months I’ve had a moderate amount of success in terms of "getting my Gandhi on" so to speak. Despite the fact that I keep a mental list of people that I’ve let get away with murder as of late, the mere existence of said list would be characterized as progress in anyone’s book. Even though I miss saying quotables after conquering some drunken asshole like "Tell your friends about me!”, and standing over someone’s body like I was Captain Morgan - I recognize the benefits: No longer wondering whether or not I broke my hand is nice - avoiding jail time and the possibly of getting filled out like an application is a plus - and the fact that I’m not adding to the list of people who already want me to catch a bad one has to be nothing but a good thing. But like anyone battling a addiction of some sort, sometimes there are near relapses. Let me explain:

Last week I was hanging with my friend at a local bar, he was there getting intimately acquainted with Jose Cuervo and I was ordering some chicken wings that I had absolutely no business eating. Anyway, I didn’t have a light for a clove cigarette that I wanted to smoke, so I stopped a young man who had just walked into the bar. I said, “Hey man, you don’t happen to have a light do you?" - he immediately answered in the affirmative and handed me his lighter. To express my gratitude, right before lighting the cigarette I said, "Thank you man, you’re a Prince." He looked at me funny, stepped back and said "If I knew you were going to call me “A Prince”, I would have never given you a fucking light. I don’t fucking play that shit!" Totally bewildered to the point of giggling, I asked "Ok, what about the word “Prince” is so offensive? Talk to me brother." He then proceeded to hell me that he was from Honolulu, and calling someone "Prince" is the same as calling someone "a sissy" or "a faggot”. I took a long drag off of my cigarette, squinted at the young man and said, “Ok, can I ask you a question? Where are you now though?" He responded, "Virginia Beach”. In which prompted me to say the following:

"Right, you are in Virginia Beach. What made you think that a dude sitting in a Virginia Beach bar would know about a slang term specific to a region nearly 5000 miles away? Are you shitting me? Not for nothing, but your veiled threat is ringing in my ear right now - and my quest to lesson my violent output is the only saving your ass right now. In short, and I want you to remember these words for a very long time young man - you almost got your ass kicked over some bullshit. Choose your next words very wisely."

Well, he did indeed choose his next words wisely and we ended up peacing it out. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s precisely how someone backs into an ass whipping. It happens that fast. Well, it almost did.