I Swear to God! Vol II Friday, September 12, 2008

I swear to God that I will trip the next chick who doesn't even acknowledge my presence when I choose to open the door for her.

Now I'm not even asking for a flirtatious smile, a small conversation, or a phone number; but dammit, if I open the door for you and I don't even know you, don't just walk through that bitch like it's an automatic door (though I do know this one crazy homeless guy who does say thank you to the automatic doors down at Walgreen's). I say thank you when people open/hold the door for me. Opening the door was instilled in me because both of my parents are from the South, and they raised me to be a gentlemen (disregard the fact that I frequently refer to women as chicks and broads). Not because I want some chick to notice me; if wanting women to notice me was my true intent, then I would go to the club, get drunk, and whip it out introduce myself and start a conversation.

I open the door because it's the nice thing to do.

Today I opened the door for this broad while I was downtown. I'm not going to lie, she was fairly attractive (but not my type; I like 'em 215 with low self-esteem), and based on her appearance and the setting we were in, I made the safe assumption that she was probably somewhat educated (not to be confused with having some goddamned sense). As I opened the door and gestured for her to pass through before me, she totally walked through and flicked her hair at me in the obnoxious white girl sort of way (even though she was Asian).

But I didn't get angry right away, I thought maybe she was in a hurry and didn't have time for politeness. You know, like how people give a little extra leeway to fat people at buffets; you know they're excited (and fat), so they get away with a little pushing and shoving the closer you get to the chicken wings. Anyway, me and Miss 'I don't have to say thank you to anyone for anything ever' were coincidentally waiting on the elevator. When the elevator came, guess what I did? I motioned for her to go in first. Did she say thank you for that? If she did, why would I be writing this; try to keep up. No. Since her destination was about five floors above mine, I thought about letting one go and leaving her on the elevator stuck with it. But I didn't have one 'prepared', and I didn't want to force it and risk a shart (it might be best if you don't know what that is).

But the elevator scene was only the sweet n' sour sauce on the large shrimp fried rice (how racist of me), I was still pissed about the whole front door incident. So on the elevator, I did what any black man would do; I stared at her. Not even the 'I'm checking you out' stare, but the 'if you look back at me, I'm going to say something outrageously foul' stare. This is the stare you get from DMV employees who know they could be doing something to help out with the long lines, but instead choose to stand there and stare at you.

If this was an isolated incident, I would let it go. But it happens a lot. I can understand why sisters don't say 'thank you', because the true 'thank you' is watching them walk past (I confess, I'm an assman; and not in the homo way in which that sounds); but even still, a verbal thank you would be nice every once in a while.

So this is my pledge to 'both elbows pointed outward at 180 degrees, two-handed, Rudy Ray Moore in his prime, somebody done called my mama out her name' pimp slap the next chick to walk through a door that I opened for her without saying thank you. And since I don't hit women, I will substitute the pimp slap for long awkward stares in secluded places.

The Hood and the Ways to Know If You're In One Thursday, September 11, 2008

My friend gave me a ride to the Red Line this morning, how awesome of her (coincidentally I had five seconds to get ready, and she changed my name to Freddie; but I digress) and as we rode through some of the nicer parts of the South Side, I couldn't help but wonder why my section of the South Side looks so shitty. Then I realized (in a 'you silly Negro' sort of way) it's because I live in the hood.

And for all practical purposes, there really isn't much difference between the hood and the nicer parts of the city; they both have buildings, stores, houses, hang out spots, etc., yet no one minds visiting Hyde Park (the nice areas anyway) and everybody dreads being caught in the 100s (the wrong side of the E-way; the other side is a little better). As I'm riding in my friend's car I made mental notes and came up with a list of 14 things that let you know that you're in the hood. Why 14, and not a nice round number like 10 or 15? Well the overachiever in me wanted to do 10, but the underachiever in me wanted to do 15 (ponder that on your next coffee break).

A dice game. This is a clear indication that you have ventured into the wonderful world of Hood. Dice games only take place among people with very little money to begin with, and usually in the presence of the stick-up kid who came to earn his rep.

Storefronts that have their signs airbrushed on. Had enough money to start your business, but not enough money to start your business did you? No business in the hood will ever reach the heights of say a Target or Walmart, if the store's logo could easily pass for gang graffiti. Airbrushing the main sign for your store is not a good look.

It's 7am, everybody's outside but ain't nobody going nowhere. [Editor's note: You've been in the hood too long if you can decipher double negatives for their true meaning.] This shit kills me. Is it ok to be awake at 7am with nothing to do? Sure, it's ok I guess; but why in the hell are you holding down the block already? And I can't even say it's just the young hogs out this early, because I've seen old people sitting on their porch asking me where am I going so early. I have a question, where are you not going this early?

The cops don't sweat you over little shit. Cops only interact with hood folks if there is definitely going to be an arrest. Because apparently everybody owns a gun and hates cops in the hood, so even five-O knows not to just be lallygagging.

The cops sweat you over little shit. In direct opposition of the aforementioned (after all, we are talking about the hood which is full of contradictions), the cops will harass your ass for little more than walking right, left, right instead of left, right, left. You have to remember, hood cops are usually hood themselves (even with names like Dubowski); which means they are bitter and petty. And they hate niggaz who 'think they tough' (see: Boyz n the Hood).

The oldest child is pushing the stroller of the youngest child, while the mom talks on her cell phone five paces ahead. This happens more than I care to recall. It's no secret that most of these ill mannered future low-level street enforcers are not being raised properly; and by properly, I mean someone around to beat that ass like a drug deal gone bad (which at the way their being raised, they will find themselves involved in one day). This telltale sign of the hood is just the manifestation that no one is loving these kids.

School children don't have backpacks. Why carry a backpack if you only go to school for three reasons? Division, lunch, and gang banging. What part of that involves books?

You start sweating because something doesn't feel right. The proper scientific term for this affliction is called shook. And it's perfectly ok to have, but you must never show any sign of it while you are in the hood. Usually the person with this debilitating disorder will try to proceed through the hood as normal, wait until they get to the sanctity of their home, pick up the phone and begin a conversation with a close confidant that involves any or all of the following phrases: 'I damn near shitted myself when...', 'I can't believe that shit happened right in front of me', 'Shit was wild son', or (my favorite) 'Next time she's going to have to come see me!'

You stop at an intersection and can visibly see six churches. Why is the hood flooded with churches, yet remain unsafe? You would think that if there is indeed a God, when He looks down and sees that all of His negro children have found a way to cram eight churches side by side on one damn block, He would be so impressed that He would descend from the high Heavens to greet us. I don't know if Heaven does in fact have a ghetto, but perhaps Chicago can lend them one of ours.

Vacant lots. Nobody really knows how they got there, but no one ever questions what to do with them neither.

The sum total of the cars/car accessories (i.e. sounds, rims, etc.) in a 4 block radius is greater than or equal to the total property value in an 8 block radius. This is simple mathematics; the Niggorean Theorem, if you will. Niggas put money into all types of shit, especially the shit that no one cares about except them. 'Oh word? You got neon lights under your car? That's dope that you decided to invest in something that the city provides free of charge... some damn street lights!'

Anti-violence marches/rallies. Nothing says hood like hood niggas coming together to tell hood niggas to stop being so hood. Here's a suggestion: everyone in the hood knows who the problem makers are, so how about instead of inconveniencing my bus route home from work, you simply march to the homes of the hooligans? What's really bogus is that I went to a rally once and saw like two kids wearing 'Stop Snitching' t-shirts; you decide what's wrong with that picture.

Those damn hats with the clock on them. I did a study one day while on the bus and found that out of all the cats wearing these gaudy shits, their primary method of telling time was their cell phone. So you own a hat with a watch on it, but not an actual watch itself? Classic hood mentality.

You're on foot (which for you unfortunately means you're walking through the hood, and also means you've seen all of the above) and you hear the phrase '... anybody have a transfer they don't need?' Only in the hood will a fool purposely leave the house with no clear travel plans.

What Has No Value to a Crackhead? Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Parting from the usual lighthearted nature of my previous entries, I've decided to put forth a deep philosophical question. What won't a crackhead steal? A seemingly fair question, since crackheads by their very definition will steal nearly anything of monetary value (hence the term 'Pookie is outside looking for some crack money'); therefore, the question becomes, exactly what has no value to a crackhead?

Last night at about 9pm or so, I'm at pop and ma dukes (my mother and father) up in my room straight lounging. Outside my second floor window I hear what sounded like a big wheel rolling down the sidewalk, which seemed odd because it was a bit cold for shorties to be riding their big wheel and it was 9pm (although shorties be riding their big wheels well into the night around my crib; especially when 'the new baby daddy' comes around). At any rate, I was too high tired from a long day of work to physically get out of my seat and see what was scraping against the concrete outside. It wasn't a huge deal to begin with in the first place; and if I wasn't gone off the dro bored from sitting in my room doing nothing illegal, it probably would have never caught my attention in the first place.

Fast forward approximately one hour.

The old man is shouting something upstairs where me and my brothers were; didn't make a difference to me what he was shouting about, so I didn't get involved (as a rule of thumb, I've learned that my old man never says anything of importance when he's shouting; it's quite counterintuitive actually). But then he asked us if we heard someone stealing our garbage can. Yes, an empty garbage can that's specifically made to hold garbage.

This had the markings of yet another Chicago Crackhead Caper. That's how they get down; crackheads steal shit that you never thought you had to protect. A city issued trash collection bin (as I've come to find out is the official name for a garbage can); word, crackhead? Word?

And see this is where the hood really gets gully. Because instead of sitting our trash on the alley, my dad decided a long time ago to sit the cans in the backyard when they're empty because apparently one of these poster children for the pullout method had previously went around setting garbages on fire in the alley. Which kind of makes me question my dad's infinite wisdom, because if the ruffians decide to set our garbage on fire again, then the fire will be a hell of a lot closer to the house. But see, crackheads be knowing Jeet Kune Do; to counteract the fact that our garbage is in the backyard, the crackhead apparently entered and exited through the front.

And so the old man is in an uproar, trying to figure out why nobody heard anything. Then I make the mistake of informing him that I thought heard something. Next thing I know, he's all upset at me. I just let him vent because I was still buzzed sleepy; but who in the hell watches out for their garbage to not be stolen? Like seriously? What, am I supposed to stand by the window like Malcolm X from now on, waiting on one of these nigs to act a fool re: my garbage can (who's more hood; the man who steals the garbage or the man who shoots him over it)?

So as I twisted another one got ready for bed, I thought to myself why steal the garbage can that was the least convenient to steal? I mean really, there's an alley full of garbages, why ours? Is there some type of scavenger hunt that crackheads play to make being addicted to crack that much more fun? Or is there something more sinister going on?

Crackheads rarely do things without good reason (minus the whole doing crack thing); they're normally ten steps ahead of what the rest of the street enterprises are into. I remember when gas first hit $4 per gallon, I saw crackheads carrying gasoline cans like they worked for AAA. Most crackheads don't even own their soul, then all of a sudden they all own gasoline cans. It didn't make a whole lot of sense at the time, until people would wake up for work and realize their gas was low. While we're busy making crackheads do dances for spare change and the whole laughing at them as they do the crackhead walk (that really fast double time step as if the crackman told them to walk as fast as they can, but all out running will result in disqualification), the crackheads are quietly building their empire one five dollar bill at a time. And if they didn't immediately give said five dollar bill to the dopeman, we might would have a problem on our hands.

Not Cool Tyra, Not Cool At All Monday, September 8, 2008

I occasionally glance at America's Next Top Model. There I said it. Do I watch for the competition? No. How about the various issues that can arouse from a bunch of egocentric model-type chicks sharing a living space? Nope, not that either. I watch because the broads on that show have a tendency to stroll around scantily clad as if nobody's watching. But I'm watching. I'm watching.

So not being a huge fanatic of the series, I'm usually clueless about the different subplots and power plays that take place during the show (thanks to a tip from a friend, the show is best enjoyed with t.v. on mute). However, I was channel surfing during a break from the Bears game and what was the first thing I hear come flying out of one of these broads' mouth? 'I was born a male...' WTF?!

Really, Tyra? Really? First of all I don't think that shit was cool. Not even a little bit. Did I mention I watch the show to see chicks in their draws, and not to see chicks with balls (and since that rhymes, it will become my protest slogan against the show). I felt visually raped. Now given that I grew up during the Springer Era, I've become quite good at spotting a dude that's pretending to be a woman; but this chick on the show blurred that line a little too close to my comfort zone.

Now fortunately for me, I arrived on the channel just in time to hear him/her 'manly proclamation' before I had the chance to actually get a good look at him/her (which could have caused all sorts of problems for my sanity had it been the other way around). I mean sure I know it's a dude now, but what about all the other men in America watching the show (with the mute button on obviously; if we wanted to listen to women talking, we would go meet some). This move was as inconsiderate as a prostitute asking if she can spend the night because it's raining outside (I know you can afford an umbrella; I just paid you).

I have nothing against the 'transgendered' (except none of my kids will be allowed to date any nor become one, less they want to be publicly drowned), but when I turn on the t.v. to see dumb chicks with huge racks, I expect for that promise to be delivered in full. This was an all-time low for television; and since I know the inner workings of how the universe keeps its perfect balance, I can't help but foresee an incurable yeast infection in Tyra's immediate future.

And yes, I turned back to the game and tried to forget all that I had just saw. Go Bears.

White Dudes Make Excellent Victims of Violence Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Am I suggesting that white guys deserve to be assaulted? Of course not (unless they still refer to black people as coloreds; somebody needs to change the name of the NAACP by the way). However I was standing on the bus stop in an area where cops have yet to come through and arrest niggaz, when I started to feel unsafe. Not scared, but unsafe; kinda like 'I ain't no punk, but I'm having a hard time watching everybody' sort of way. I was on the stop with two other individuals; a typical hood chick who looked exactly like what the term 'hood chick' implies, and the Loose Cigarette Guy (if you don't know about the loose square dude, you ain't deep enough in these streets son).

Now obviously no one would dare step to the hood chick sideways, because as we all know, the hood chick may look like she's standing there alone until she does the magic gang whistle and a carload of hood niggas (not to be confused with black guys or African-American men) jump out to her defense (kinda like genies, except their magic lamp is an Impala with temporary license plates and no city stickers). And who would try and rough up the Loose Squares Dude, after all his job is the South Side equivalent of community service.

And then there's me; standing there as an average looking black dude who looks like he knows the difference between the Tribune and Sun-Times (one is racist, the other is racist as hell). Now don't get it twisted, I stalk these streets, but I'm no match for the weapons kids nowadays be packing; which is why I practice the oldest form of martial arts known to man (The Ancient Drunken Kangaroo Kick and Run Like Hell Technique).

Then out of nowhere, like piss droplets on a toilet seat, this white dude comes strolling up to the bus stop. The hell you say?! Are we not on the South Side (commonly referred to as God's Blind Spot)? Are there not at least three gang sets actively competing for this area? And the white dude comes and stands on the corner? Without a badge? I calmly glanced at him, and swiftly let my guard down; I took comfort in knowing that if the stick-up kids were watching this spot, they would surely come for white bread first. I think I may have even put my headphones on and proceeded listening to the White Stripes.

Then I had a discussion with a small gathering of black dudes later that evening, and most of them had been in similar situations and reacted the same way that I did. And it's not a racist thing where we hoped something would have kicked off with the white dude, it's just that we knew the white dude would be the prime target, thereby giving all potential witnesses time to vacate and no longer be witnesses.

Why you may ask?

Well there are several reasons. One being that white dudes ask too many damn questions/give too many statements when shit gets greazy out here on the streets. For example, if you ask a black dude for a cigarette, he will disrespectfully tell you that he ain't got no more and refuse to answer any follow-up questions. However, the white dude will reach in his pocket, take out his wallet and assorted trinkets to reach in his pocket to give the stranger a smoke. Or if he doesn't have any smokes, he will politely point you in the direction of some. See right there, white boy cares too damn much. And he has just become victim of the old 'Let me get a smoke/Sike, this is a stick-up!' routine.

Now the exception to the White Dude Theory, is the Crazy White Dude Theory. Truthfully speaking, the Crazy White Dude is the most feared dude in the black community. You know, the white dude who beats his wife while eating a bowl cereal and dares any of you jigs to speak to the cops when they arrive. That dude is a threat to society. If that guy comes and stands on a bus stop with you, it's time to choose an alternate route to work that morning. Especially when he starts talking that anti-government shit. See black people are genetically predetermined to not roll with the government; when white boy starts talking that shit, you better believe he's probably a damn bomb specialist, just waiting on somebody to ask him for a smoke.

Sarah Palin Gets Off Easy

I can't help but feel that treatment of Sarah Palin's teenage daughter's pregnancy is somehow getting swept under the rug. In an age where we prosecute R and B singers for pissing on teenage girls (on a voluntary basis mind you), I knew for certain that a bigger stink would have been made of the fact that Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol, is about to become a 'baby mama'. I had visions of John McCain either A. distancing himself and trying to renege on his VP pick or B. publicly offering to remedy the whole situation with his trusty wire-hanger that he affectionately refers to as 'Mama Nomoe'.

But alas, after the story came out the media immediately glossed over it. I'm sick of hearing '... she plans to marry the father of her baby'. NEWSFLASH: Every 'baby mama' thinks they're going to marry the father of their children, but having it actually happen is usually a different thing. Don't they have teenage broads on the talk show circuit all the time talking about how they are going to marry their 'baby daddy'?

People of America, you are now witnessing the first clue that this Sarah Palin may actually be white trash. The second clue is that she lives in Alaska.

I can't help but wonder would the story be handled the same if the Obamas' had a teenage daughter that was all preggers and whatnot. I am sure this would have cost him an election, and probably would have been the punchline of enough racial slurs to last us well into the next century. You must understand, that there exists masses of white people that are looking for a reason to not vote for Obama, even though they said they would. There's no poll to suggest this obviously, but I've overheard plenty of water cooler discussions to totally validate what I'm saying.

See when McCain chose a woman as his VP, then white people around the nation had a moment of relief because they had been offered an out. Now they can claim they are voting for McCain because he 'thought outside the box' (why is that such an 'inside the box' phrase?) by picking a woman; and they can still make history by electing the first woman VP.

Truthfully, I know more about monkey strains of human diseases than this chick knows about being the second in command of a damn country. Vote OBAMA 2008.