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. 

HumanityCritic on “Being a Hip Hop Snob”

In my quest to find inner peace, I’ve relaxed certain behaviors of mine that I’m sure many garden variety sane people find unacceptable. On the violence front, I’ve taken great pains to be more flexible in my overall approach - instead of flying off the handle and crushing someone’s larynx at the drop of a hat, I now give the possible recipient of the aforementioned neck strike a couple of stern warnings before making sure that their feeble little world crumbles all around them. Instead of responding to side-eye commentary with a barrage of soul crushing insults and not so veiled threats, I’ve settled into a rhetorical sweet spot of very casually telling the person in question, “I’m the wrong nigga on the wrong day" and keep it moving. Not for nothing, but I have no problem whatsoever with the aforementioned changes in my life - I’m almost 40 years old for Christs sake, and alterations to my demeanor of that magnitude will not only keep me from an early demise but it may also give St. Peter a reason to give my application into heaven a serious look. But a change that I haven’t been so cool with, one that I’ve been wearing like an ill-fitting suit, has been my recent penchant for letting people off the hook who love monosyllabic Hip Hop.

Listen, it never fails. Every now and then I get suckered into co-signing arguments like this: “HumanityCritic, Hip Hop is a young man’s game. It’s generational and you haven’t gotten with the times. MC-Scratch-n-sniff isn’t your cup of tea, but that doesn’t make them wack!

As I look at the grey hairs that have spread across my face like a virus, and hear the sporadic clicking of my trick right knee, I tend to hesitantly agree with this line of argument. These are the times that I let my guard down and say silly shit to myself like, “Yeah, they have a point. My parents didn’t like my music so it’s natural that I’ll feel a certain way about the next generation’s music. Maybe I should ease up a bit." Then the next couple of months are feverishly spent trying to find the lyrical silver lining in a Lil Wayne of Wacka Flocka verse. Well you know what, go fuck yourselves. For all the forward progression that I’ve made in my life, one thing I won’t get in the habit of doing is participating in this bar lowering that we all find ourselves doing. Changing styles of Hip Hop are bound to happen, but wanting the man or woman who clutches a microphone for a living to complete a coherent sentence isn’t too much to ask. I’ll be more laid back on other facets of my life, but I will continue to be an unrepentant asshole when it comes to my Hip Hop standards.

But throughout my history of maintaining those aforementioned standards, there are certain acts of snobbery that I’ve learned to embrace. Here are a few:

Parting is such sweet Sorr..Oh!: A few years ago I had a girlfriend who left me for a guy who was in a local Hip Hop group. Like many lovers who just had their beating hearts forcefully ripped out of their chests, I was completely devastated. Distraught. Absolutely besides myself. That was until I just happened to wind up at a show where her new boyfriend was performing. Despite the fact that another man had stolen the love of my life, and was nightly exploring new depths of her nether region that my feeble penis didn’t even know existed - the fact that he was an inept microphone holder made everything automatically alright. I’m that much of a fucking snob. That actually goes for any new boyfriend of anyone that I’ve ever dated: Just let me find out that their Hip Hop tastes aren’t exactly up to snuff, or that they hold some silly Hip Hop opinion that drooling lunatics in padded rooms only dare utter out loud. No matter how intense the pain I was going through, clouds automatically start to part - a “new lease on life" exhilaration washes over my body - my deeply bruised heart immediately mends as if I had Wolverine’s regenerative abilities. It totally becomes a "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" where the entire relationship gets wiped from my internal hard drive. My snobbery runs so deep that I sincerely wish the best for the happy couple on the sole basis that there is now concrete evidence that all of this elite Hip Hop opinion needed to find a place where it was truly appreciated anyway. It’s sick, but then again I’m an asshole. Thank you Hip Hop.

Please Listen to my Demo: I’m totally fine with telling someone that I couldn’t give two shits about how horrible their presence on the microphone happens to be, but I have problems relaying the same stern message to someone I actually like. That’s why this local rapper has given me 10 CD’s that I have yet to listen to. Even though I’m aware that there is a 50/50 chance that he’s actually a serviceable wordsmith, the mere possibility of him being unable to stick the landing on a well crafted 16 is too much for me to bare - primarily because, well, as a snob I would be forced to tell him so in some pretty unflattering terms. So far I’ve gotten away with saying vague shit to him like, “Dude, you were more aggressive on this record" or "I really see a lot of growth in your writing this year" - all the while never hearing one solitary syllable.

Peanut Gallery: I heckle bad DJ’s, it’s what I do. Not only do I give them real-time commentary like, “Dude, you’re flailing up here - do you need me to take over?" - but I also give them a scouting report after the show of the "How could you play Pharcyde’s “Passing me by” and cut off Fatlip’s verse" variety. Let’s just say that a few men in the Hampton Roads are who claim to be skilled with both hands behind the turntables also want to exhibit the same ambidextrous ability on your favorite writer’s face.

The time I lost my virginity to “Welcome to the Terrordome”


- HumanityCritic

Listen, I say a lot of wild shit on twitter, I acknowledge this. But the problem with saying outlandish things on that particular social media platform is that people tend to think that you’re kidding when you couldn’t be more serious. For example, I relayed to my twitter followers that I told my therapist that I only have “fear of death" panic attacks when I masturbate. Sure, it got some chuckles, but it happened to be the absolute truth. (I’ve have indeed, on more than one occasion, ran out of the room with my dick in my hand while hyperventilating as Jazmine Cashmere gave the performance of a lifetime on my computer screen.) Another true story that people thought was just me trying to be funny was the time I inserted my very unimpressive penis inside of a woman in the bathroom at my father’s wake.(I was in desperate need of consoling.) Again, people thought that an incident that forced my sweet mother to momentarily interrupt her sobbing just to say “Boy, why do you smell like pussy?" was made up out of thin air. Again, that happened.

But the one story people really have a hard time believing is that I lost my virginity to the Public Enemy song “Welcome to the Terrordome”. (Read more here)

Learning to walk away..


I’ve told this story before. When I was a kid, around 10 years old, I had a bully who tormented me like it was his full time job. While most kids are staying up doing homework or wondering what they’re going to wear to school the next day, I was frantically trying to figure out what alternative routes to take for the sole purpose of avoiding a massive beat down. The fact that I kept the personal hell I was going through from my father was the only victory to be had: Despite the fact that the kid was twice my size and a teenager, that wouldn’t matter to a man who’s motto was “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, just know that if you lose don’t bother bringing your ass home." Well, that victory was short lived, as my father - who had unexpectedly come home early from work - saw me approaching the house balling my eyes out from just being on the business end of a size 8 Puma sneaker.

He very casually walked outside and asked, “Why in the fuck are you crying?" I proceeded to inform my father of my current predicament, and even pointed to the young man who just got finished stomping me like he was trying to make wine and shit. I think a small part of me hoped that he would act out of character and immediately fix the situation like any normal Dad would. But true to form he said, "I’m not letting you back into the house until you fight him, straight up. Get going now!" So being the awkward kid that I was I turned around, walked up to the Bully and very clumsily announced "I’m going to fight you now!" What proceeded was a 2 minute thrashing where I was slammed to the ground, punched in the face repeatedly, and kicked in the stomach just for good measure. I was certain that the savage beating that my old man just witnessed me take would be good enough for him. I mean, I had landed a few punches, that had to count for something, right? Wrong. In a classic case of moving the goal posts he now stated, "Forget what I said, I’m not letting you back into the house until you win the fight.” You know, I’ve cried a few times in my life. I’ve shed tears over women that I’ve truly loved leave me for what I’m sure were better suitors. The waterworks were on full display as I watched Breast Cancer try to take my mother’s life. But the cry that followed my father saying that had to be the most desperate and soul crushing cry that I’ve ever had.

It was truly fight or flight time. So I turned around, approached the bully and through the incessant blubbering managed to get out the words “Let’s go again." He quickly tackled me into a neighbor’s yard that had these bricks that strategically outlined a bed of flowers. Desperate, as soon as I got free of his grips I picked up one of the bricks and threw it with all my might at the bully - striking him squarely in the face, knocking a tooth out. As he writhed on the ground in pain, I picked the brick back up and kept hitting him in the face with it - to the point that my father ran out and had to pull me off of the young man. I still remember my father ushering me to the house and saying, "That’s what I’m talking about James! I’ll be damned if I’m raising any fucking faggots!" As much as I wanted to bask in my father’s approval, I was aware, even at that young age, that this was a turning point in my life - and not a particularly good one.

29 years later I found a therapist who agrees with my prepubescent assessment. Since that moment I have lacked the ability to walk away from physical confrontations of any sort. I don’t say any of this to come off as a bad ass, I can and have gotten my butt kicked like anyone else - but regardless of the odds, 1 on 1 or 5 on 1, if anyone ever had any ill intent for yours truly they were getting the fight of their life that night. With absolutely no hesitation. But finally at 39 I realize how it’s not only detrimental to my health to continue with this approach, it’s also selfish - there are actually people out there who care about a guy who occasionally threatens to rip out a larynx or two. So I’m learning to walk away from dangerous situations. No more bullies. There is no father standing behind a screen door with a beer in his hand. Just a single, childless bastard who wants to live a few more years so I can change all of that.

It’s a process, but one that I know will bare fruit. The ability to walk away has translated to other areas of my life as, not as life threatening as the aforementioned situations, but the end result being just as good for me when it’s all said and done. So yeah, you may not get as many entertaining stories of unrepentant violence coming from me in the future - but this breathing thing is rather addicting. But I can’t promise you that no one will get fucked up during this transition though. I’m just saying.

Red Hot Chili Pepers - “My Friends

I’m going to be a better friend

I’m ashamed. Ashamed because I have a long and illustrious history of failing to fully reciprocate the same acts of friendship that people have always kindly showed me. There are so many things that I used to blame this on: Being naturally aloof. The fact that I’m an introverted loner who can only take people, loved ones and strangers alike, in small doses - my daily mantra always being “Just leave me the fuck alone!”. I also used to rationalize my lack of friendship follow-through on the fact I was totally ready to be there during the direst of situations - like if a friend needed me to roll with them through three states for the sole purpose of beating someone up - or if a friend called me 4 in the morning with a dead hooker in their hotel room I’d promptly show up with a tasty beverage and a shovel. Being that I’m like a light switch, I’m either on or off,  is where the rationalizations would continue. It reminds me of the reason why I could never playfully slap fight with people - either we’re fighting or we’re not.

But I’ve recently realized that friendships don’t work with that - traveling  cross country to administer a beating or being willing to dig a shallow grave are nice gestures - but true friendship is about the in-between times, the subtlest of gestures.

Recently I went through something where my friends, many of them that I have at one time or another given the proverbial stiff-arm to, dropped everything they were doing just to come to my aid. Even people that I’ve never met a day in my life, folks that I follow on twitter, wondered about my social media hiatus and did all they could do to see if I was alright. As welcoming as that was, and as much as it got me over that emotional hump, it just served as another reminder of the extremely shitty friend that I’ve been to all of them.

To the people who were kind enough to show love and support to a rather ornery bastard who likes to incapacitate drunk assholes - I sincerely thank you. And apologize for the lack of friend follow through, and promise to be better at this friendship thing. Oh, by the way, I’m only burying one hooker for you. After that, you’re on your own homey.

Anonymous asked:

Where are you?!

Well, I was sort of going through something where I just had to get off the grid for a little bit. So I went to Sumter South Carolina to see about starting an herb farm on some land that I own there. The air, the change of scenery, the southern hospitality, the beautiful women who thought I was the best thing since uncut cocaine, the home cooked meals, watching my great uncle make moonshine, fist fighting his friends for sport, taking money off of some dangerous men in a card came and not giving a shit, shooting high caliber weapons - it all was something that I sorely needed. In the 3 weeks that I was away I purchased a car, bought some fancy/smancy furniture, straightened out my massage therapy certification, tested for my personal training certification - and wrote a few episodes for an online series called “Asshole” that will star yours truly.(I found a director, and actors who want to be in it. We start shooting in a month or two.) It has been the most productive 3 weeks I’ve ever had in my entire life.

So where was I? I was healing, and trying to kick motherfucking ass in the process. I didn’t know that I had it in me, this winning thing feels pretty good. Who knew? Stay Gold Ponyboy.

Anonymous asked:

Sugartitties says she thinks you may be a little too hard on yourself sometimes. Do you give yourself the benefit of the doubt sometimes and chalk it up as experience, instead of feeling like shit all of the time? You know Dirty Jers loves you no matter what, man.

First off, let me say that you had me at “sugartitties”. :) I’ve tried to give myself a break lately and chalk it up to experience. I’m learning that every trial and tribulation is a lesson. One day at a time my friend.

Why I Throatchop


The one thing that I get asked the most, either on twitter or on the “ask me anything" function on tumblr, is why my go-to move in a great deal of my altercations has been the throat-chop. I always envisioned that at this point at my life, as I stand clutching a battering ram at 40’s door, that I’d be asked about things concerning life lessons due to my sage-like wisdom. Or foreign policy. Or maybe be asked to wax poetic about organized religion. Nope, the thing I’m asked the most about has to do with violent neck strikes that leave some garden variety asshole incapacitated. I guess I deserve that level on inquiry.

Well, to answer the question as honestly as possible, not being the tallest guy in the world and weighing over 300 pounds doesn’t exactly lend itself to a rigorous display of the sweet science. I mean, when I was overweight I viewed cutting the grass the same way normal folks view running a 5k. I used to run out of breath simply taking the garbage cans to the curb. And as for fucking, let’s just say that any woman kind enough to let an ornery asshole like myself enter her promised land better be quite skilled at riding a pretty unimpressive penis. Knowing all of this, and having a penchant for beating disagreeable gentlemen into amnesia, I needed to find a pretty economical fighting style. The thought of me dying of a heart attack just because some jackass said that Biggie was the greatest rapper of all time was even a ridiculous prospect for me. Enter the throat-chop: One quick strike, the person desperately tries to catch his breath, and then you proceed to lace his ass up like a fresh pair of shell toe Adidas. So yeah, my go to move became the throat-chop mainly because my cardio at one point of my life was absolute shit.

Actually, it’s STILL my go-to move. I always thought that the very moment that I could see my stomach muscles and stopped perspiring when I ate that my fighting style would undergo a wholesale change - I envisioned myself being like a black Jason Statham: Clotheslining motherfuckers off of tables, jump kicking two men at the same time, chasing down a dude for a few blocks just to headbutt the shit out of him. As I found out recently, old habits die hard. The other night some dude called a woman I was talking to the C-word - so I hopped up, hit him with a throat-chop, then proceeded to kick him over a table and into that bar’s karaoke machine. Damn you muscle memory.

Anonymous asked:

Do you have any regrets?

Of course, don’t we all? But my biggest regret happened recently: I did something extremely foolish, reprehensible to someone, and now the chances of us being friends is lost forever. Then, in a way to beg for their forgiveness, I sent one too many emails and made too many calls that I now see as lightweight harassment. Making things EVEN worse, something I sent days before that I thought was a sweet gesture landed on their doorstep right in the midst of all this - making things even creepier. That person is a good friend, a good person, who I wish nothing but the best for. I’m just a foolish nigga who made a costly mistake. So to quote Frank Sinatra in “My Way”, “Regrets, I’ve had a few.”