The Number

"She said she's only fuck bout four or five niggas, so you know you gotta multiply by three." - J.Cole

Generally speaking, men are obsessed with numbers. Horse power, salary and the size of our dicks. Maybe porn has something to do with the latter bit. I'd like to think it's out of evolutionary necessity. The most important numbers as it relates to romantic relationships are her numbers.
The topic came up recently at a guys only meeting. The kind where we discuss man business at a bar or man cave. Although with the advent of smart phones guys only meetings increasingly occur in group chats. (shout out to the Wolf Pack!) Most of the guys in the chat had a problem if her numbers were too high.
The answers varied from her being a reflection of her partner to the male ego and even out right chauvinism. A few made valid points about contracting an STD. STDs aside, though they can't be taking lightly, men need their phallus shaped egos stroked. Even the most liberal among us men need our ego rubbed and tugged by a nice soft hand ever so often.
Humans, want to believe that only one person can satisfy our emotional needs. To a greater extent we want to believe only one person for our entire adult lives can satisfy our sexual urges. So in turn if her number is too "high" men, generally speaking, may be deterred. He may even label her a hoe for seeking sexual satisfaction with multiple men.
Thing is we are all highly sexual beings! Hell, while writing this blog I've masturbated twice! To think that we were made to be with only one person our entire lives is against human nature. I'm not talking about polygamy but polyamory. Sorry, that is a blog for another day.
To be clear, men, western culture is no longer a culture in which women live in sexual conservatism but of sexual liberation. That dick may be good but others have made her toes curl as well And vice versa. Be mindful of STD's but also know that the world our parents once lived in is now a brave new world.
I hoped you picked up on the double entendre in the aforementioned sentence...yeah, just stroking my ego.

Cock Sucker as an insult

   According to Louis C.K. a majority of earth's population are cock suckers. It's a fair assessment. This may be an over generalization but lots of women suck cocks, men in prison, as well as homosexual and bisexual men. I don't know about you but if someone is threatening my life and I had to suck a cock to live then well you know...I would suck a cock. Then again he might kill me anyway because I'd be terrible at it.
   Recently, I decided to downsize my insults. Pussy had to go because pussy is awesome. It gives birth and pussy relieves stress so that men don't go postal on the world. I can see no reason to waste such a wonderful word on an idiot. Mother Fucker can stay though. Hey, no one wants to fuck their mom. Cock sucker, while I loved it -and/or them- is a word that denotes abhorrent behavior. Or should I say supposed abhorrent behavior. To a homophobic man, any insult that relates to femininity, is akin to his best friend fucking his mom before his very eyes.
   Calling a man a cock sucker is an attack on femininity. First it is an attack on ones masculinity but more importantly, the attack implies that women are weak. No one would argue that as it relates to physical strength men are the dominate of the two sexes. Even during sexual intercourse it can be argued that men dominate in that arena as well. Although, if you get to dominant - minute men - you could find yourself without a sexual partner (meet your partner's needs). The bigger question is, what constitutes feminine and masculine behavior? The last time I checked we don't live in a culture where brute strength is required but rather intellect. At any rate, from this day forward I shall not call another person a cock sucker because of it's negative connotations. Well, I take that back. I will call a young lady a cock sucker during sex as a term of endearment. What? It's cool, she can call me a carpet muncher.

I leave you with the comedian Louis C.K.

   

Smoking crack after the year 1999

  If you started smoking crack after the year 1999, you obviously didn't see what it did to people in the 80S and 90s. Honestly, you had a good ten to twenty years to see the effects of crack. Seeing someone transform into a dick sucking zombie was enough for me to say fuck crack.
  Granted crack has a bad name. If it weren't for Saturday morning cartoons and crack I wouldn't have remembered the eighties. Oh, how I loved watching Ghostbusters and loathed the crack head that pawned our tv!  Besides crack won't make you get naked and chew another man's face. You might suck a few miscellaneous dicks, though. But who hasn't sucked a dick to get ahead socially or economically?
  I grew up around crack. As we speak there is a crack head asking me if we met in Paris, France. When I walk down the street to buy some cigs, a lady, the same age as my mother, asks to blow me for a quarter. I'm thinking she should set her standards a little higher. Not too high because then it becomes unaffordable. Over night, a nice working class neighborhood can become crack head central. Once a person becomes a dick sucking zombie, crack is smoked on the curb in broad daylight, in front of an abandoned house. Hell, marijuana isn't smoked so casually! Here I am locking myself in the bathroom and stuffing a towel through every crevice to keep the ganja smell from escaping and these cock suckers are smoking crack without shame.

Sugar, Water, Artificial Flavors - Hood drink

  It seems like I would give crack some praised though. When my dad sold crack, it did help put food on the table. For a short time we did get to live in a nice neighborhood. Oh, I can't forget how it got my dad new Air Jordans, school clothes for me and my brothers, and us him a nintendo. How easily I forget my love affair with crack when I'm not being whined and dined with now and later candy and jungle juice! I remember being six years old when I had my first and only unintentional drug related infraction.
  I was standing in front of an apartment complex and I yelled 5-0. I'm sure the police were somewhere in the vicinity but none were in eyesight. Can you blame a six year old who is only mimicking what he is exposed to? Watching people scramble to hide the stash was such a delightful event! They were like cockroaches scurrying along as if somebody had turned on the lights. Lights being the po-pos. My dad worked for a ruthless Jamaican that had stabbed my uncle in the neck for smoking up the product. It's ok though because it was apart of the code (check Biggie's Ten Crack Commandments below for references). I can only imagine what he would do to my dad. When my dad asked if I had seen the police I simply reply no. He went silent and that was the last time I ever went to the trap. There went bring your child to work day.
  The Council will make a declaration. The next time you can't fully appreciate how someone can justify killing  their own community by means of crack. You can do 4 of the following things.
1. Get a costume like Batman and become a vigilante. This might get you killed but you have the what the fuck factor on your side which might give you time to escape.
2. Confront your neighborhood d-boy. This act will certainly get you killed almost immediately
3. Call the cops. HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!
4. Have a young child run down the street screaming "The po-pos are coming" as if it were the American Revolution.

The (official) Website of Alex Clermont

The (official) Website of Alex Clermont
Check my man out! Met a while back and he is a really cool guy!

Don't eat my dog!

   In my hood everyone has a burglary system. No, not the kind that puts some sort of magnetic force field around your house. Our home invasion security might be an AK-47 highly dependent upon the laws of said state. The other is always a fucking dog. Peta is giving me shit right now for using such a demeaning tone towards dogs. My sister made a mistake in owning a Yorkie named Haley. Not because she owns a small bitch ass dog, but because she blatantly ignored the cardinal rule to ghetto dwelling. She knows damn well she should have gotten a pit bull. Every ghetto the world over has a pit bull or hyena as a mainstay for home defense.
  There is nothing endearing about Haley. NOTHING. All she does is prance around all day with her head held high and her anus in the air. She knows her shit stinks and she doesn't give a single fuck because she's cute. After having being reprimanded a few times for shitting in a restricted area, most dogs feel remorseful. Not Haley. She will hunch her back, stare you in the eyes and take a shit in the living room.
   One would think that I would revel in the thought of Haley and her purple dog shirt being "accidentally" ran over  by the world largest construction vehicle. Contrarily, I don't wish death upon Haley because she costed a lot a money. Wait, the last statement made me sound like a slave owner from biblical times or from just over 100 years ago, but that is beside the point. If a human being decided to take an unblinking shit in the middle of my living room he deserves to be beat to the front porch of death but he doesn't deserve to die! And neither do dogs.
   I watched a documentary on Netflix about dogs. I was watching a documentary about dogs because Netflix never has movies that normal people watch. Anyway,  National Geography explored how humans have genetically engineered dogs throughout history to be their current docile selves. I kept wondering if scientist could engineer a dog that instinctively knows to use the toilet like a regular fucking human being! So, after feeling a false sense of optimism and a new found love for dogs I decided to bond with Haley by taking her for a walk.
   The obvious advantage of walking a mouse, I mean dog is chicks dig cute dogs. There's something about a six foot, two hundred pound man juxtaposed with a small ass dog that says caring. To a ghetto denizen it might say bitch nigga or  bourgeois. I normally say what the fuck.  As Haley walked me around the hood, I noticed that she began to walk more like a dog afraid of being beaten by her owner/master. Then it dawned on me that every house on the street has a pit bull!" It was as if Haley was fresh meat in the penal system. They were going to kill her. She is a dog that scoffs at male dogs with the mange. She didn't have a choice though she was probably going to be fucked.
   If you ever find yourself lost in the ghetto and the street has no outlet turn around at the third house before the last. This is undoubtedly the house where your sister's dog is almost eaten. I was fooled by the house because it had a Chihuahua in the front yard, no Mexican brethren and no Taco Bell. As I made my way towards the house I noticed the fence had a hole in it. More importantly, I noticed a pit bull coming through the hole after Haley. I yanked Haley by the leash like only a master can and then she escaped it in midair. FUCK!!! Haley was too fast for the pit bull but I wasn't so the dog came back for me. I looked at him and said you don't want these problems with all the sternness I had left in my being. Luckily he didn't attack because those words were all I had against a pit bull that came to my shoulder when standing on its hinds leg.  Anyway, I now threaten Haley with being eaten by a pack of pit bulls every time she takes a pebble like shit.
  P.S. Screw you if you thought this was going to be about East Asians eating dog meat!

Santa Claus is a pimp with a .38 special

If my dad’s dad dropped dead I would feel a generic kind of sorrow. Fuck you, don't judge me. Hell, I’m willing to bet my dad shares my sentiment.  The opening four words of this blog should be an indicator of how insignificant he is in my life.  If I were to feel any sorrow it would be for my dad, who would have no living parent. So when my dad asked me to visit his dad with him I replied “is he still alive?” 

Of course, my response was a mental one. But really was he? I had been under the impression that my dad’s dad was dead to him and that my dad had giving him a proper burial deep within the crevices of his mind. Over the years, somehow my dad developed a heart and I found myself traveling through Texas heat that rivaled hell's lobby, to see ole grand dad!

From the onset, I figured my “grandfather” (ok I know it’s bad) is a creature of habit. His current wife is named Dorothy like my dad’s mom. Apparently he has a fetish for women named Dorothy. I gave her a half hearted hug which probably communicated “you're the impostor grandma Dorothy. You’re not my granny!” Then it was on to acknowledge the reason I was here. I mean the reason why I’m here is apparent. Grandpa had sex with the real grandma Dorothy and then had dad. Then dad had sex with...ew! The reason I was standing in my grandpa’s living room embracing him with a hug you would give to a peripheral friend was unclear. 

Dr. Spencer Wells does work on tracking the movement of the human population through DNA samples from around the world. Wells (or scientist) has found that the Y chromosome goes unchanged from father to son. Looking at my grandfather I realized that.

1. He looks exactly like my father.
2. He looks exactly like my brothers and me.
3. He looks like my nephews.
4. I’m gonna look like a black Santa Claus when I become an old man.

The way he walks and talks is similar as well. I mean jeez, out of my 30 years on this fucked up planet (what? it's not fucked up?) I’ve seen this guy maybe three times that I can remember. I find it fascinating and I wonder, can personality traits be passed along genetically as well?

 
Anyway, my grandfather disappeared and reappeared in the living room. Wasn’t magic he just walked from the living room to some other room then back. When he came back he was holding a Crown Royal bag.The only bag a black Saint Nick would have. In a not so perfect world there would be Crown Royal, condoms or a frat boy’s dick inside the bag. The frat boy would be attached of course. Depending on one’s frame of reference we weren’t lucky enough to have any of those. It was a family heirloom of sorts. He was passing down a 38 special he had received from his brother before he died and now grandpa was giving it to my dad. 

 
The look on my dad's and my face was a unanimous “what the fuck kinda heirloom is this?”  I don’t know but I have this strange suspicion that this isn’t the kind thing that gets  passed through the generations. I’m just saying. I mean damn grandpa, people give rings, charms and trinkets. Hell, some people even passed down an entire fortune. You passed down a gun that has probably shot a rival pimp because somebody’s hoe chose. Even though I just imagined a scenario that is wholly untrue, it is possible. Thanks grandpa, you reappear into my life and you give me a gun. You’re swell! Love you! Yeah the sarcasm is thick. On a lighter note, if this Y chromosome shit is true he probably has a decent size dick. Thanks grandpa! 

Singpore is under a dictator?

A Better Dictator - By Joshua E. Keating | Foreign Policy
I wasn't privy to this idea that Singapore is a dictatorship. I have a strange feeling that I somehow misread the article. It reminds me of a "documentary" that I saw about Cuba. Documentary is in quotes because it seemed more like porn. Instead of showing the audience what it's like being a prostitute in Cuba, he ended up fucking Cubans (seriously check it out). Not really sure what the previous link had to do with anything but in keeping with dictators and Cuba, Current TV had cool documentary about Cuba and revolution. Yeah, um I not sure if I should refer to a documentary about Cuba as cool.