The musings of a madman...

Life, love, hip hop, humor AND instructions on how to cook a bangin'-ass meal... all in one place. I put the words here, make what you want of them.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

True Story©... And your damned hashtags

True Story©…

                My level of disdain for people who fake wittiness is beyond measure.  Also, sometimes I have a hard time maintaining my temper in response to such things.  With that in mind, I fucking HATE hashtags for the sake of hashtagging.  I understand the use of them for discussions on a topic on social media, like last night’s debate or MLB playoffs games.  But cramming a sentence preceded by a pound sign under a post with no spacing because you thought it was witty is enough to send me into a rage.  Seeing them on an email, text message or even a fucking t-shirt makes it even worse still.
                One day last year, I decided that I’d had enough after a rough morning on The BookFace.  I was off work and home, and several consecutive posts contained the worthless hashtagging scheme and I was pushed into action.
First, I spent one hour on Google, Wikipedia and everywhere those sites led me to learn who specifically it was who INVENTED the hashtag, then I set about the task of locating that person with the intentions of fucking assaulting them.  1:15pm, I had my information and was ready to be on my way.  Armed with a full tank of gas, no responsibilities until the next day and (of course) these hands, I was ready to hit the road and go whoop an ass or seven.
…  then my FUCKING car wouldn’t start.
                So here I am, ready to kick ass, knowing precisely who it was to be and why and I am done in by a selectively inanimate object that chose THIS day to become inanimate.  Instead of getting on the road to collect a body count over what nonsense their creation caused, I had to deal instead with a 300k+ mile Subaru doing what 300k+ cars do. 

Oh well, I will go get em next time.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

True Story©... I think I see where everyone has gotten it wrong before

True Story©…

                Last Thursday, I told y’all I quit…

Wait, something else first.
Now don’t go telling anyone this, but “True Story©” isn’t always true.  Dead ass, only one has been 95% true thus far.  Anyway, I have spent the last 7+ days frustratedly explaining to people whose old asses should have fucking retired 6-10 years ago how to use a set of pretty simple-to-use softwares in exchange for plenty enough money to have decent credit and a mortgage that doesn’t know what a late fee looks like.

                Fuck that…  I didn’t quit my job, because Ava likes new shit as much as I do.
What I DID do, however, was plan.

                My dude Jamal – a cat owner for most of the 15+ years we’ve been friends – got a dog last week.  She is a Beagle from a rescue organization.  What he had to shield from them was that he had bigger plans, including becoming the first proprietor of a Beagle fighting ring.  They came to his house to make sure there were no signs of animal abuse or none of that (no Pitbulls or none of that shit), so I had to coach him to the right language.
Once those funny-smelling white women left his crib though, we had the plans laid out.  Every Beagle owner in Greensboro willing to put their money where their mouth is will meet us on the north side to talk about it.

                This is where my readers come in…
I need y’all to help us keep this thing moving.  Beagles for this will only go on for so long, we will need to make this shit more interesting than an annoying-ass bark.  Enter the concept of Pitbeagles.  Jamal has a female Beagle.  We can get her pregnant with a Pitbull’s puppy.  If we can get one other person to agree to let their female Pitbull get pregnant with a Beagle’s litter, then breed the respective litters’ outcomes with one another, then mix one male from each litter with the original female from the previous, THEN just let them self-populate from there then we will have a sub-breed of dog that I have already named “PitBeagles.”  No one would be the wiser about a dogfighting ring of clinically insane dogs inbred in my homeboy’s garage.

We will make a damned KILLING!  Money made in a fucked up puppy mill will be made, plus gambling revenue from what the puppy mill creates.  We can NOT lose!
Oh, and the first rule of fight club…

Thursday, October 6, 2016

True Story© - "I Quit"

True Story©…
I quit.
Yes, you read that right, I quit. 
No more IT Specialist, no more Forum Administrator, no more Outreach Program, I am shitting on all three jobs to chase my dreams.
With a child, automobile maintenance, bills and a $74,000 mortgage balance in front of me, I quit. Starting Monday morning, I am going to be a rapper. I am going to be totally independent and sell to people outside of Wal Mart and various gas stations throughout the region, never mind the SIGNED artists I know who could put me right where I need to be. I want to do this shit organically.
Look, there is no need to tell me “… but Phlip, you can’t rap!” because that is a fact that has not bothered to stop basically any member of the XXL Magazine freshman class since that has been a thing. Just know that when I approach you outside of that Wal Mart, be prepared for me to tell you ANYTHING it will take to get that $4 out of you…
“yo, you like Nas, Jay-Z? Well I ‘m better than both of them, COMBINED even!”
“look, I am just out here trying to stay off these streets. I mean, I could be selling your son drugs or pimping your daughter. Shit, 2016 I could be pimping your SON!”
“Real hip hop, real hip hop fam. None of that corny commercial shit on the radio.”
“You look like you into something positive, well you would love my raps. All positivity, no cursing or violence or nothing.”
“I got that new trap shit, you know these beats is banging!”
Nothing will be sacred or mutually exclusive. If you ask to have a listen before making a purchase, I will SURELY get belligerent and attempt to fight you after calling you a “hater.” If you tell me you don’t carry cash, I will pull out the Square and tell you that I accept cards as well as PayPal. It will be as if I am a Jehova’s Witness out there not letting you escape me.
Now that I rap for a living, I can stop worrying about the possibility of random drug testing and the issue of untenable coworkers. I will be able to live a life of luxury, surrounded by expensive things and other dudes' women to my heart’s content. I will get more tattoos and diamonds and never have to do real work for the rest of my life.
Yeah, I can live with this quite well. I quit!

Thursday, September 29, 2016

True Story© - In the Strip Club

True story©…
For all of my age-37 obsession with all things titties, some might be shocked to learn that I was 19 or 20 before I EVER set foot in a strip club. I tend to forget which it was due to early 1998 through late 2001 being a 3.5-year blur. To be totally honest, the first one wasn’t even an actual real strip club, it was an after-hours kickback that a then-coworker took me to one night after work in a pool hall in High Point that had either just closed for the night or was recently driven out of business. Total fucking disaster now that I look back on it. I ain’t naming who I went with because he is on my friends list and married now.
Anyway, we stopped to cash out for some singles on the way there and when we arrive I’m like “dude, this isn’t a strip club” and being older than me, he assures me we were where we intended to be. We get in and a couple of his homies are already there, already drinking, I am like “where the fuck did liquor come from?” and next thing I know there is a FULL glass of gin in my hand. This was a couple of months before I quit drinking gin for another reason. Yes, I know I said I was 19 or 20, but we're in the bootleg spot, not at The Rack Room.
(yeah, I know, but how the fuck was I supposed to know that a place called “Rack Room” had nothing to do with titties?)
I was getting a little money for where I was in life, so I brought a reasonable amount out of the house with me just in case. After a few minutes shooting the shit with the homies, a dancer comes up to me. Slim, little titties - TOTALLY not my type - and offers me a dance. I should mention that consistent to how I am now 18 years later, despite having a pocket full of money, I was a bit of a spendthrift and never having been to a strip club before it became avant garde to throw money in the air to make other patrons look weak and broker than one’s self, so I paid the stripper to my level of satisfaction with the lap dance. I mean, she looked pretty good, she grinded in the right spots and undressed slowly but the fact of the matter remained that my Richard was still in my pants (not that I ever have or will pay for sex, but put a pin in that for later in the story), my hand was brushed away when I tried to touch and all she was doing was dancing anyway, so I pulled out a single at a time. Song ends, and she is like “this is $3, can I at LEAST get a $5 for the song?” Totally unfamiliar with strip club life, I just gave her the two bucks and walked off.
Back with the big homie, his roommates and one of their homeboys, who was actually married at the time, I walk up on the conversation at the “yeah, I think I am about to go and f*ck this bish, you got change for a hunnit?” as he wrestles with his wedding band. Without question, someone makes his change and he disappears upstairs and comes back a few minutes later, concerned about how he will explain to his wife why he “smell like hoe” when he gets home. Two hours, three gins and two lapdances (but only $20, I told you I’m cheap as fuck), I chuckled and continued to take in the atmosphere.
Another dancer, this one more my taste, approaches and notices that I hadn’t “done” much that night and asked if I wanted to go upstairs. To be honest, I looked at prodigious titties, considered what I had in my pocket at that moment and what was in my dresser at my house and my mind LITERALLY thought “dude, Kim is holding the new flightposites at Foot Action in the morning!” and politely (or at least as politely as ‘nah, I’m good’ can be) declined.
(Phlip note: my foot hasn't grown since I was 14, so I still own those shoes)
Okay, it is like 3am now, I was beholden to however long the cat I rode with intended to stay and now he was finally ready. Felt like we had been in this place for days, not 3 or 4 hours. Good thing I was riding, because I was FITSHACED on all that gin we bought. The homie drops me off at the house on his way to the country and I could not set foot in another strip club – this time an ACTUAL strip club – until I was 22.
Hell, now that I think about it, I don't think I have been inside of one since, what, 2006-2007ish?

Thursday, September 22, 2016

True Story© - D.A.R.E. Made Me This Way

True story®…
Backstory: I was born in 1979, which lined up my attendance of elementary school directly with the second half of the 80s.
For those of us who attended gradeschool in the 80s, we were faced with a program called D.A.R.E. from 4th-8th grades, aimed at preventing kids from placing themselves in compromising situations as it related to narcotics. Dead ass in the middle of the War On Drugs at the time, they spent more time where I lived on street drugs that people who looked like us might develop an appetite for: heroin and crack.
One fatal flaw of the program – at least where I lived – is that the cops they sent to our schools were somewhere between being poorly trained and being insultingly dishonest.
One of my favorite lies they told us is that drug dealers were terrible people and that they actually SOUGHT kids out to give – yes, GIVE – drugs to in order to get them to try them and get them hooked on drugs.
Before I continue my story, let me explain how deeply flawed this lie was… Kids. Don’t. Have. Money. Yes, I know that the fib they tried to feed us indicated that they GAVE kids the drugs to get them hooked and make a customer of them. Shit, I had a single mother who had to sacrifice a lot, I didn’t even get an ALLOWANCE, how the fuck was I gonna afford drugs?
Anyway… 4th grade passes, then 5th. At ages 9 and 10, you’re still a little bit dumb to the world, but as puberty hits in middle school you begin to rationalize things. I might not have rationalized that little tidbit above in elementary school but in middle school it was ON, and I had me a damned plan to help line my pockets a little bit.
One summer day, I left the house with the lawn mower as a “reason” to be out of the house for an extended period of time. I stashed that shit at a neighbor’s house around the corner, came back and got my bike and rode to the projects, and I waited… “waited for what?” you ask. I waited for a drug dealer.
“Aye little man!” the call finally came after a about 30-35 minutes.
“Yeah, you. Come here for a minute”
Just as I had planned, I was offered drugs. I explained that I didn’t have any money, to which I was assured that it would be okay, “first one is on me” he told me. Cool, I now had my first score. He snidely told me he would see me around and I hopped back on my bike and I was on my way to the next. Another housing project, more waiting, new dope man, same results. I rode to 5 different neighborhoods that day and got scores from 6 different pushers.
On the way back home, I cut that neighbor’s yard so as to not spend all that time outside with no money to show for it and to be sufficiently dirty to avoid being asked any questions.
The next day, I reversed the order of spots I went to and waited in a different spot at each. This time not to get any more free drugs, I had plenty at this point. I also had a plan. I watched. I watched the drug dealers make legitimate sales and who they were selling to. I did this at each spot before cutting a yard and heading back home with a new plan. Now it is Wednesday of the same week… I go back to the same spots with the free dope I got still on me and waited. This time not for the dope dealers, but for their customers. I asked what they had paid the previous day and sold them the drugs I had been GIVEN at a discount.
Now I got money to not have to use my bike to get around, I get on the bus and go to different neighborhoods and get MORE free drugs, come back to the old hoods and sell it. Now I have enough to BUY drugs at a large enough quantity to be able to talk price down, then turn and sell it at full price. At the end of the summer of 1992, I had made $1700 and couldn’t tell my mama where I got it from, so I sandbagged most of it and acted like the money I made “cutting grass” was more than it actually was on one side and did little unnoticeable things around the house with the rest.
With school back in, I came to find out that one of my classmates’ fathers was the drug dealer I was BUYING from and he inadvertently suggested to his daughter that one of her classmates was a BIG crackhead, I guess to make sure she was sure to steer clear of me and keep her eyes on her stuff so I don’t steal and sell it. Little girls talk too damn much, so the rumor spread around Lincoln like wildfire. Bam, I am called to my counselor’s office one day. My mom, both grandmothers and sister are all in there, sobbing their eyes out.
I had a choice…
1) come clean about how D.A.R.E. had taught me how to score free drugs and that I had parlayed that into good money over the summer then have my money confiscated.
2) continue the ruse, let them send me to rehab for a month and come home to that money I still had stashed away in a pair of dress shoes, stored in a box that no one would open except for me.
So if anyone asks y’all how I wound up in rehab back in October of 1992, now you know how it happened. What I DID do, though, was tell them how I learned from D.A.R.E. that drug dealers would give me free drugs to get me started and how I used different dealers to get myself going without any money.
After a couple of hours of badgering, they asked me who the dealers were and I was not ABOUT to get in trouble over this shit, so I snitched on that girl’s daddy and he is still in prison to this day due to Reagan’s mandatory minimums and she will LITERALLY not accept my FB friend request now almost 25 years later after having to be raised by her mama in their grandmother’s house.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

True Story© - Bringing the Curl Kit Back

True story©
She has a bathroom full of natural hair care products. All kinds of olive oil and shea butter and other things that look like she pays a lot for them to be shipped to the house and aren’t available in stores.
Well one night my stomach was misbehaving and my phone was dead, so the only thing I could do to pass the time was to look at and smell the various things on the little shelf in front of the throne (yes, boredom is THAT bad in the mind of a supervillain). Moisturizers, double moisturizers, super triple moisturizers, coil activators, curl activators, shampoos, conditioners, comb-through conditioners, leave in conditioners, EVERY damn thing you could imagine.
My mind immediately went back to the ‘curl activator’ thing. Without tipping anyone to what I was up to, I decided to see if it would be ANYTHING like I imagined it would be so I waited until I got to work to test the theory that it would give me the LOOK of a late 80s/early 90s Los Angeles rapper with none of the worry for the furniture or the collars of my shirts.
So as I allow my hair to grow for a little while here, and with the cooperation of my barber, I will FINALLY be able to achieve my dream haircut of a Caesar with waves in the front and shag in the back, with the added benefit of having what APPEARS to be a jheri curl in the shag part. It will be the most luxurious and healthiest curl kit ever invented.

Thursday, September 8, 2016

True Story© - At Gunpoint

True story...
I'm walking to my car from Wal Mart and a dude jumps out of a maroon GMC Safari and puts a 12gauge to my head...
"Where the f*ck you think you going, n**ga?!!?"
"c'mon, man, I am just trying to get home to my little girl"
"Daughter? So I guess you got a woman somewhere around too, huh?"
"BITCH n***ga, I axed [sic] you a question!"
"you love her?"
"of course!"
"call her on the phone right now and say 'I love you bae' right now!"
*cocks shotgun* "d-d-did I stutter, motherf*cker?!"
"but 'bae' seriously my dude?"
"you heard me, unless you wanna die out here in front of all of these people!"
... forced with the prospect of my funeral and using the word "bae," I am here to inform you all that my funeral will be on Monday. My mom has been left with instructions to pay off the house and put the remainder away for Ava to go to college. I'll miss you all