Category Archives: Madness

There is only one person who brings drama and madness into my life, and that is my douche bag baby daddy from a previous relationship, whom I am tasked to deal with, courtesy of the Georgia Judicial system. I hope he DOESN’T get hit by a bus this week…

Her Dress Is Not the Problem… Your Mind Is

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Last week we saw #TeacherBae briefly captivate our online attention. #TeacherBae is the hashtag that became Patrice Brown’s – an Atlanta public school paraprofessional – digital appendage after pictures that she posted of herself at work and/or at play on Instagram went viral. She’s a beautiful woman with a full, curvy body. Black Twitter did not disappoint with the jocular commentary that we’ve come to expect during such occasions. A fair number of men jested that they might have paid attention in class if she was their instructor. Most of the comments I saw from women were positive, expressing their admiration for Ms. Brown’s fitness and confidence. Naturally, there was a fair amount of shade, but that’s to be expected. This was a (Black) woman’s body that was being dissected in public by the public. And then Ms. Brown’s images went mainstream all hell has broken loose. It would not surprise me if we were to hear in the coming weeks that Patrice Brown has vacated her post as a teacher – a position she has performed with such distinction that she been reportedly recognized and received awards for – either voluntarily or under duress. APS does not have the strongest track record for supporting its teachers, and have reportedly already coached and reprimanded her for “violating” the employee dress code.

*Sigh*

This is not the first nor will it be the last time this week that a Black woman’s features will be deemed “inappropriate”. Let’s not feign confusion about this matter. It’s not the dress that is “inappropriate”… it’s Patrice Brown’s body IN the dress that so many people have taken umbrage with. It’s is a quintessential Black woman’s body. We have the lowest waist to hip ratio of all ethnic groups. We are (in general) naturally built as close to an hourglass as you can humanly get. Just like melanin affords us the gift of slowed aging, genetics means we have big hips, small waists and a full bosom on top. If you had put an average Asian woman of the same height and weight in the same attire as Patrice Brown (or Peace Hyde or Beyoncé) had worn, the visual results would be drastically different and probably more tolerable to the general public. So it’s not the dress that her detractors are dissenting to…it’s her body. This is an argument that Preston Mitchum lays out brilliantly in an article he wrote for The Root.

There is a certain level of disdain for/fear of/envy that is specifically accorded Black women’s bodies that is frankly, really bewildering for us. We are human; and are there some of us who crave attention? As humans, absolutely. But just like the vast majority of white women do not get up in the morning eagerly anticipating having our sartorial choices dissected, ridiculed or sexualized, neither do we. We’re not looking forward to the catcalls, the “Ei guhl, you lookin’ good in dem jeans!”, or the unsolicited comments or groping that thousands of women have to endure each day. The task of dressing “modestly” is not one that easy for women who are built any way other than waiflike and elfin is not only mind-blowingly difficult – it’s expensive. Women who are top heavy have it even worse. (I got you, Tia!)

I know from personal experience the pain and disappointment of buying clothes off the rack. I am 5’5” and at my fittest, my proportions were 36-24-38. After having 4 kids and failing to snap back, I’ve gained a considerable amount of weight, but my ratios have remained the same. Only curvy women know what it’s like to have pants fit you in the hips only to have to suffer that intolerable gap in the waist. Only curvy women know what it’s like to scour racks for hours in search of jeans cut in such a way that the denim will not cut off circulation in your crotch. Materials with stretch have been (and will continue to be) our salvation. These blends are literally the only thing we can wear comfortably and still have a sense of feeling fashionable. You know why? Because the fashion industry ain’t checkin’ for US. Tim Gunn said as much in his op/ed for the Washington Post. 

The fashion industry denizen says:

“In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 percent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 percent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.”

Brotha Tim: WE know this and we thank you for making it plain. It is for these reasons among others that some of us have had to take matters into our own hands… literally. Such was my sister’s frustration with shopping off the rack that she has taken it upon herself to learn how to sew her own clothes. Between buying material, a fit mannequin, two sewing machines and the man-hours involved in making the garment, this is a costly pursuit. But if a curvy/plus sized woman wants to wear something flattering and modern, she’s going to have to:

  1. Make it herself
  2. Pay someone else to sew for her
  3. Find garments with stretch that move with and hug her hips

The latter-most option is the one the majority of us opt for – which incidentally is what a certain mulish section of society finds offensive. You can all kick rocks. You have no idea about this struggle. Your opinions are nonsense, invalid and unwelcome. Did we not all watch Leslie Jones’ struggle to find a designer to dress her full-figured body for her red carpet premier? Even the so-called elite among us is not spared this humiliation.

Much has already been written and discussed about the policing of women’s bodies, but it seems everyone wants to be and has appointed themselves as the Black Woman’s constable; not just in America. It might both sadden and comfort Ms. Brown to know that she is not the only teacher to come under fire for “indecently” attiring her assets. These two teachers in Zimbabwe were reprimanded and publicly shamed for being too “sexy” in the classroom.

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This teacher was rebuked and sanctioned for dressing too sexy for work.

Where you gonna find a skirt to "appropriately" fit THAT??

Where you gonna find a skirt to “appropriately” fit THAT??

Critics say that their clothing is a distraction for children. I say you see what you want to see.

 

To the pure, all things are pure, but to those who are corrupted and do not believe, nothing is pure. In fact, both their minds and consciences are corrupted.

                                                                                    – Titus 1:15

There is an image – an optical illusion that made the rounds after a study was conducted exploring the links between perception and experience a few years ago. It always comes to mind in moments like these. What do you see when you look at this?

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Like those who participated in the study, most adults will see two people caught in an erotic embrace. They will struggle to find the dolphins. The children who participated in the study, however, saw dolphins first. They had no sexual memories of point of reference to immediately recognize a lovers’ embrace.

America has dubbed Patrice Brown ‘the sexiest teacher alive’. You all imputed that standard on her. You’re the problem; her dress is not.

 

*Have you ever been made to go home and change your clothes? Have you ever been denied entry into a club because you weren’t in heels? Have you ever been admonished by your boss to cover up because ‘your nipples are showing’, meanwhile, the office A/C is on full blast? (That last one was my personal experience. I wanted to kick my manager that day.)

Evidence of a Dark Heart

Friends, Diaspora, Innanets Fam:

Lend me your ears.

But first, lend me your pupils. Look at this! No… Don’t turn away. See this abomination for what it is!

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This is a demonic manifestation. A Satanic offering. The wages of Lucifer’s war against the Almighty.

What in God’s holy name is this and why would someone do this to plantain? What has plantain ever done to anybody to deserve this? Chesu!

Maya Angelou once said that “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” I believe this person to be a worker of the dark arts. This is a joyless soul. This is someone who has never known, given, nor received love. If someone can char plantain like this, plate it on such a brightly colored platter, serve it and then take a picture of it? My friend, you had better run. This person is capable of anything. This person is capable of unspeakable acts. Look at what they’ve done to plantain. What do you think they can do to YOU?

The individual responsible for this loathsome act should not be trusted with children. They should never be given control of finances. This person must be barred from participating in public events…like carnivals and spring festivals. Why? Because this minion is clearly a loose canon. They are careless and thoughtless. To leave plantain – precious, delicate, wholesome plantain – in scorching oil for this length of time, a duration long enough to produce this caliber of blackening? It means that there is an equally sooty space in their spirit.

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There isn’t a person on the planet who doesn’t love and care for plantain. Early depictions of the encounter Eve had with the serpent in the Garden of Eden show her eating fruit from the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. That fruit is depicted as an apple. In my heart of hearts, I know this to be a false illustration. There isn’t an apple in the world – not a Granny Smith, not a Golden Delicious, not a Honeycrisp – that is strong enough to tempt you to defy the word of the Lord. Now, ripe plantain on the other hand? Ahaaaaa. Now we’re talking. I believe Eve plucked a sweet, yellow plantain from the tree of knowledge, bit into it and said “Chineke God! No wonder Yaweh didn’t want us to consume this fruit. Hei! It’s sweet ooo!”

And the serpent said, “But what if you fried it?”

So Eve did. She fried it and called Adamu. “Shei! Adamu! Come and taste dis sweet ting oooo! You won’t believe it!”

And her husband did. He had never tasted anything so magical in all his life. His mind was riddled by the euphoria he was experiencing. Adamu was tripping! And that’s why when God asked him, “Chale, Adam? Where you dey?”

Adam replied, “I am naked.”

Plantain had stripped him on his senses. Plantain was – and still is – the original temptation. Even you today sitting here reading this, if they offer you plantain will you say you won’t take? You are lying! You will take!

…Unless it looks like this.What sort of witchcraft is this?

Not all black is beautiful.

Not all black is beautiful.

My friend Dara Mathis (you’ll know her from her blog www.trulytafakari.com) was introduced to plantain over the summer of 2016. So impacting was that one encounter that she was inspired to create a t-shirt to commemorate the instant affection and connection she had made with plantain.

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And then you go and do this to her beloved? To the beloved of billions of people across the globe? I’m telling you, this person can kill your child without remorse. It’s like this person used plantain as a tool to exact their revenge for some grievous, personal offense but took the retaliation too far. Say someone slaps you, and in response you burn this plantain and feed it to them. Are you not godless? Such a person is wicked, and a danger to society.

People of all walks of life and cultures know what I’m saying is true. Right now there are Australians looking at this image, recoiling in horror. There is an Englishman who has just thrown his baked beans across the kitchen table in anger. Your abuelita has just dropped to her knees, reciting the rosary to pray for the forgiveness of this sin. Ghanaians, Nigerians and Jamaicans are cursing the name of this faceless coward. In this one cause, we are united: to protect the sanctity of plantain.

Please. We beg you. If you were thinking of desecrating plantain in this gruesome manner, don’t do it. Have some humanity! Why should you be numbered among the transgressors? Why should you be responsible for this level of sorrow?

Don’t.

That is all.

 

*Describe how this plantain made you feel.

What I Smelled When I Saw Pictures of Usain Bolt in Bed with that Brazilian Student

As I’ve mentioned on many a previous post, I grew up in a suburb of Accra called Labone. It’s hard to believe looking at the area now, but there was once a time when rents were reasonable and a lower middle class family such as mine could afford to live there. The house I lived in was demolished and is now home to a branch of Zenith Bank.

Any-freaking-way, there was a dude that used to live in the boy’s quarters of the house across the street from us called Dada. Dada’s exact function in service to the white man (the manager of an Accra based Swiss company) was unknown to me, but he was my dad’s jesting partner and errand boy. If one needed the other, they would simply whistle a specific tune and wait for a response, which was usually almost immediate. It was an audible Bat signal, if you will.

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Being on such congenial terms with my father naturally made Dada feel chummy with my siblings and me, and he chose to express his familiarity by playing ‘area boy’ games with my brother and making lewd comments about the development of my and my sister’s bodies. The first time I heard the words “natural bobbi stannap” (where bobbi = breast and stannap = stand up, a nod to the perkiness of unspoiled, teen mammary glands) were from Dada’s lips. On more than one occasion, he assured me that it was alright for me to come and visit him in his room one day, instead of him coming over to our house all the time.

It was an offer I politely, firmly and frequently declined. I didn’t know what shenanigans Dada had plans in his room, but even at that tender age, I knew enough to know that NOTHING good would await me in that boy’s quarters room. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but thanks to the Internet, I now understand what type of creature we were dealing with in Dada. In Twitter terms, he’s that niqqa who employs Hotep science to advance the idea that there exists a “natural attraction” between 25 year old men and 15 year old girls.

Selah.

So anyway, I’d avoided going to Dada’s room for months…maybe even years before it finally happened. My streak of luck had run out. One afternoon, my dad stood whistling on the veranda whistling for Dada in vain, getting no response.

My father grunted an irritated “Ah!” and placed his hands on his hips. He grimaced and furrowed his brow, the urgency for whatever required Dada’s unique attention becoming more apparent with every passing minute. I had only ever seen Dada return with waakye or several balls of kenkey – of which he happily partook at my father’s insistence, so I suppose Daddy was hungry that day.

Finally, he could bear it no longer.

“Malaka! Go across the street and tell Dada I’m looking for him!”

I looked up with my father with imploring eyes, but said nothing in response besides a dutiful “OK.”

The white man had ferocious dogs at his house. Dada had made several comments about my breasts, which were by this stage a solid B-cup. Somewhere in the city, a chicken was being slaughtered and in being put out of its misery, was in a better position emotionally than I was at that moment. Nevertheless, I soldiered on an ambled across the street under my father’s watchful, expectant eye from the veranda.

The dogs were sleeping, so I got by them easily enough. Boy’s quarters are always at the back of estate houses, so I found it quickly as well.

“Dada?” I called tentatively. “Dada?”

I whistled their unique tune and waited. Dada’s voice responded behind one of the two doors.

“Yes?”

I breathed a sigh of relief and pushed it open.

“Hey, Dada! My dad said…”

And then that’s when it hit me: A powerful, musty, musky scent that weakens the senses and causes the knees to buckle. I had no idea what it was, but seeing as Dada and the toffee seller were smiling sheepishly back at me from their shared position under the sheet of his bed, I could only assume they were responsible for its creation.

It smelled like fermented corn.

It smelled like anger.

It also smelled like triumph.

It smelled like wet booty and broken promises.

It smelled like something I wanted to forget.

Dada, the toffee seller and I stared at one another for what felt like the totality of human creation. I can’t recall who broke the silence first, but I informed Dada that my dad needed him and fled, the scent of the room still clinging to my nostrils, my clothing, my hair…

And THAT, dear Reader, is what I smelled when I saw the picture of Usain Bolt and the Brazilian Student when their pictures began circling around social media. Now that I have 4 kids and a long forgotten number of sexual encounters under my own belt, I know that what I smelled in that room so many years ago was the unique aroma of coitus. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the quarters that Bolt and the Brazilian shared for the night was pungent with it.

Source: Facebook. And why do you have your romping pictures on Facebook? Foolish girl!

Source: Facebook. And why do you have your romping pictures on Facebook? Foolish girl!

Coitus and fried plantain.

Coitus and lies.

Coitus and the pharmaceutically smell of prophylactics.

Given that this is Usain Bolt we’re talking about here, the scent of coitus was likely accompanied with the thunderous sound of flesh clapping, slapping and striking flesh.

I don’t know, of course. I’ve never slept with the man. But I imagine that the experience is…electrifying. (Get it? Get it? Because bolts of lightening? I kill me!)

The mind is a powerful thing, dear Reader. It can form associations with things that seem so basic, so elemental to one person and elicit a violent response in another. Like cotton fields to white folk versus Black people. White people can ride past a cotton field and marvel at how pretty it is…how much it resembles snow. They just want to frolic in it! Black people drive past a cotton field and hear the crack of many whips. They feel the scorching sun. They marvel for a moment and are compelled to whisper thanks for freedom. The more passionate amongst us may drive past a cotton field and throw up a middle finger at it.

Associations, you understand.

Likewise, I see Usain Bolt and this duckfaced chile in bed and I smell bodily excretions and thrice-used Frytol.

Source: WestAfrica Cooks

Source: WestAfrica Cooks

 

PS: I’m sorry if you’ll never look at plantain the same way again. Like I said, the mind is a powerful thing…

Who is Worth Protecting: Vaginal Hierarchies in the Age of Oye Lithur

When well-meaning women beholden to archaic traditions lovingly perform barbaric acts like holding their daughters down and slice off their clitorises with rusty blades or yank them out of classrooms to sell them into marriage, women like Nana Oye Lithur spring into action. It’s not that the former group of women gave birth to bring intentional and perpetual misery to their female progeny; it’s just that these traditions represent the way things have always been done. Better to disfigure and maim your girl than to allow her to face the consequences of promiscuity. Better to trade her in marriage to a responsible (older) man who can look after her better than you ever could with so many other children of your own to consider. Better to take her out of school early – before she crafts lofty dreams and hopes that she will never realize because she is, after all, an African girl.

These are just a handful of examples of the harsh realities that many women – particularly the poor – face in Ghana day in and out; scenarios that women like Nana Oye Lithur, Ghana’s current Minister for Gender, Children and Social Protection, have dedicated their lives and talent to changing. It is the type of work that wins you international recognition, kudos and accolades. Working to abolish harmful traditions and as well as the laws that give these customs fertile ground to flourish is a noble pursuit. It is also one that makes sense, given that the ideas about female ability and worth – rooted in opinion and nothing more – have morphed over time yielding more favorable results for women.

Nevertheless, in countries like Ghana, these notions about the inherent inferiority of women’s worth doggedly persist. A woman’s body and sexual past are fair play – or more accurately, a war zone – on which to lob attacks to score political points. Chauvinists like Ken Agyapong unabashedly assert that prominent women such as Charlotte Osei earned their positions by trading in sex. Misogynists like Dela Coffie say that champions for social equality like Lydia Forson are voices from a brothel. Jokes about raping women, violently taking their virginity, stripping them naked in public and/or beating them in the process abound, from the mouths of those who carry the title ‘honorable’ and the frustrated street sweeper alike. Mouths and minds who see women as enemies and not partners equally tasked with bettering the nation. And still through it all, women like Nana Oye Lithur have been on the forefront of this cultural fight, shutting down those who so casually desecrate the bodies of young girls and women with both the pen and the penitentiary.

She has advocated for harsher punishment for rapists.

She is a human rights lawyer and a child advocate.

She has just signed a petition asking the incumbent president to release three NDC propaganda mouthpieces who threatened to harm, murder and rape the Supreme Court judges with harm, rape and death over their handling of the case on the credibility of the current voters register.

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Policy analyst Dr. Charles Wereko-Brobby has called Oye Lithur’s action “incongruous”, given her background. I should say so! There are certain women who have signed this petition for whom it does not register shock. Akua Donkor is among those. Madam Donkor is the type of woman who represents the outreach field that Oye Lithur ought to be converting and bringing to the light, not following into the slimy muck. Akua Donkor is a political opportunist who uses gimmickry to give herself relevance. She is not the type of person one looks to reflect thoughtful analysis or understanding of the law. She is a tool used by the majority party to harvest votes from a large swathe of the population that has been undereducated, underserved, and underrepresented in governance. Her views about women’s rights are not nearly progressive enough. So while it is disappointing that she would sign a petition to call for the immediate release of three reprehensible, irresponsible rogues who called for the rape of Justice Georgina Wood and the murder of her colleagues, it’s not entirely surprising given the base she panders to.

But for the Minister of Social Protection to do so? It beggars belief.

Nana Oye Lithur is not an unintelligent woman, which means that there is some carrot waiting for her on the other end of this disgraceful action. Unfortunately, as does just about everything in Ghana, the general consensus is that it boils down to partisan politics, which has allowed so many women of strong repute have allowed themselves to be aligned with such a disgusting action. Among those named are Hannah Tetteh, Valerie Sawyerr and Prof. Naana Opoku Agyeman – all NDC stalwarts. The answer to your unasked question is “Yes”. Georgina Wood was appointed by the rival NPP government. Apparently, Justice Wood’s party affiliation is a scarlet letter, a stain repugnant enough to preclude her from protection under the law according to this cabal of classist women over 50.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Now we have to ask ourselves some serious questions about when, how and why we protect women’s bodies in Ghana. The village girl in remote outposts garners immediate sympathy. It’s her face, after all, that is plastered all over glossy Oxfam and Save the Children posters. Her face and her plight are a commodity that feeds and funds NGOs and line ministerial pockets. It is to the benefit of the classed gender activist to be seen supporting this caliber of victim. But how about women whose shared political values do not match your own, who draws her living from a wallet funded by the might of the elephant rather than the shadiness of an umbrella, or vice versa? Of what value and are the attacks against her? Do they illicit the same sort of horror and indignation? It would appear not. Such a woman is no ‘mere woman’ at all…she is political opponent foremost, and therefore worthy of destruction.

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This is the hierarchy to determine which sort of woman deserves sympathy, protection or support in Ghana when confronted with the threat of assault, and it’s one that gets converted and altered depending on the audience. Until we can come to the conclusion that ALL women deserve equal protection under the law, we will continue to hurtle down this dangerous and divisive path that harms every woman – the vulnerable and powerful alike in the end. It is merely a refining of the vicious notions we have lived under and striven against for so long.

For the top brass in the NDC – a political party whose early leadership has on its record a responsibility for the killings of the Supreme Court Justices Cecilia Koranteng Addo, Frederick Sarkodie, and Kwadjo Agyei Agyepong – to now call on the president to pardon three media personalities who have called for a repeat of those atrocities betrays a level of disrespect that defies all reason. It is vile, cruel and beneath the dignity – and humanity – of these once-respected leaders.

 

If Only I Could Solve All of My Problems Like A ThunderCat

Last night, I felt it prudent to lose myself in a bit of 80s nostalgia. The past 8 days or better have constituted a general failure in the spheres of civil rights, global peace and adulating in general, so an escape to a time when all of these principles were things for my parents to fret over at dinner was just what I needed. I gathered my family around me, fired up the old DVD player and popped in Season 1 of the Thundercats. Noises in the living room vacillated between stunned silence, disbelieving grunts and postulations about what each character meant when they employed certain puns during unambiguous scenarios. And if there’s anything any 80s cartoon is good for, it’s the liberal use of puns.

With the Thundercats as our guide, my family of 6 +1 house guest sprinted and leapt around Third Earth. Without warning, we found ourselves an audience to Lion-O’s Anointment Trials. Lion-O – like most African leaders – was the presumptive Lord of the Thundercats after his father’s demise. That means he inherited his position. Having never proved his worthiness or right to the title of Lord of All Cats, it was incumbent upon Lion-O to go through and successfully complete the Anointment Trials to earn this title. The Thundercats code of honor required his friends to do all they could to stop him. He would have to be as strong as Panthro, as swift as Cheetara, as cunning as Wily Kit and Wily Kat and beat Tygra in a battle of the mind.

Oh

My

God

Somewhere along the line in 1985 as a latchkey kid, I’d missed all of these episodes. Tragic! No matter. Watching them 30 years later was just as exciting, if not even better. I was rooted in my seat, transfixed by what I was witnessing. A thought came to my mind – a silly one, if I’m honest. I didn’t banish it. I entertained it. What…what if *EYE* could solve all of my problems just like a Thundercat? What would that look like? Well first, I’d begin by:

 

Shouting ‘Hoo!’ At Every Freaking Thing

Lion-O was not permitted to use the Sword of Omens or the Claw Shield during his Anointment Trials, and for good reason. The Sword of Omens makes him invincible, and on a regular day, he’s encouraged to make use of his weapons. At stasis, it’s a pretty sharp dagger that becomes the length of his body after the impassioned scream of one word: Ho!

Ho (or heaux, as I’d pronounce it) is imbued with magical powers. Yell ‘heaux’ and your whole squad shows up to help. Yell ‘heaux’ and fierce light will emit from your accessories, blinding your opponent.

Man, I could see myself now. What’s they problem? Chicken salad too dry? Sweet tea ain’t cold enough? Not burning enough calories on the treadmill? Kids won’t leave me alone to make these pancakes they asked me for?

HEAUXXXXX!!!!

Everyone scatters…tasteless salad, annoying kids, everyone! Problem solved.

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Beating My Problems to Submission

You ever seen Panthro fix the Thunder Tank or any other mechanical object lying around Cats Lair? What’s the first thing he does? I’ll tell you. He smacks the crap out of it and yells “Dang BLAST IT!”. And guess what? The machine starts working again. That’s because Panthro runs a tight ship out there at Cats Lair. You don’t really want to go toe-to-toe with Panthro. I don’t care if you’re a spreadsheet or a coffee maker. You take one look at Panthro’s biceps and that grimace and you know it’s in your best interest to comport yourself. How awesome would it be if you could just smack the pudding out of a pile of reports and yell “Dang BLAST IT!” and everything work out fine? Like, your boss and your colleagues just think you’re a wizard because you can just beat your way to success?

Heck yeah. You know you would.

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Sprinting and Back flipping Away from Undesirable Situations

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Police brutality was (and if this annual trend stays true, will continue to be) a big problem last week. The world watched two men DIE on their smartphones and televisions…in one case in real time.

But what if you had another way of escape.

A person can pretty much tell if a store clerk, the lady at the DMV or a cop is going to give them a hard time. What if instead of suffering through the entire nasty encounter, you could just backflip your way to safety and peace? Or, OR, how about this. What if you’re taking an evening stroll, minding your own business and all these fuqbois on the sidewalk just won’t let you have peace. They keep harassing you. They keep touching you. If you were a Thundercat, you could use your super speed and just get to the QT to pick up that Freezoni and get back home. Because sometimes, all a girl wants in life is peace and a slushy, syrupy drink.

Making a Joke Out of Everything…and Being Cute While You Blunder

WilyKit_WilyKat

There are some people who do this anyway; make a joke of serious issues, I mean. Everything is a bloody joke. They lost your luggage?

“Oh…it’s funny how that happens. Have a nice day, eh?”

They put a hole in your wall while moving in your furniture?

“Hahahaha!!! Oh, don’t worry! You can file a claim with my company. My boss will give you a call. I get off at 5pm.”

Braided your hair with Yaki number 613 instead of number 27 like you asked?

“Oh. Ehehehe….But this one too is a style.”

Maybe you yourself are one of these people. Maybe you are just prone to screwing everything up.

But you ever notice how SOME people manage to get away with this? It’s because they are cute! Somehow, when you’re CUTE, your blunders don’t seem so egregious. Just like who? Willy Kit and Wily Kat. Don’t be a screw up and be ugly. You’ll get kicked off the team.

Pretend None of Your Problems Even Exist. Like, Just Don’t Acknowledge Them.

This has got to be my favorite coping mechanism by FAR. During the fourth day of Lion-O’s Anointment Trial, he had to defeat Tygra in a battle of the mind. I suuuuwear, I’ve never seen anything like it. Tygra was standing at the top of the hill, right? And Lion-O had to get up to him. All of a sudden, Lion-O stops and starts fighting AIR. Actual, empty air. Because why? Because Tygra is at the summit, all mystical and Asian talmbout some, “Let him see what is not there…”

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Yo.

You can do that?

Because I SHO NUFF would be at Suntrust’s Headquarters with my mortgage in my hand hollering “Let them see what ain’t there! Let them see a zero balance!”

That’s not how it works in real life, though. In real life, if you don’t pay off your balance, you have a foreclosure.

I’m sure my kids would love to have this Tygratic ability to make ish disappear. Like that stinking room and those bad grades.

“Let Mommy see what’s not there!”

 

 

Yeah.

ThunderCatssss….Heaux.

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Is Tomi Lahren REALLY The Right Voice for White Moral Outrage?

Up until a few days ago, I had never heard of Tomi Lahren. Tomi is a conservative pundit who makes her living trolling Black pain and mining Black disenfranchisement for every cent its worth. She’s a worm who moisturizes herself in the tears of Black orphans. Just evil. Tomi uses Black culture, its heroes and its villains alike to provide herself with relevance. She and Piers Morgan – that unctuous British bigot – have that in common. Lahren currently works for the Blaze, but given the outrageous nature and asinine commentary on social events, it’s safe to bet that she’s jockeying for a position as one of the Fox News Blondes.

One of Tomi’s most recent targets was Jesse Williams…or specifically Jesse Williams’ acceptance speech at the BET awards. She asserted that BET was giving Mr. Williams a humanitarian award for spreading ‘racism and hatred’. Anyone with half a brain listening to that speech would never come to that conclusion…but we’re not dealing with someone operating with a full deck of cards. We’re working with Tomi Lahren. Watch her videos for yourself and see if I’m exaggerating! Every time I hear her voice, it’s like hearing human bone scrape against asphalt. Just torturous!

Anyway, this week, Ol’ Missy Lahren hopped onto her embossed leather soapbox with the intent of tackling the murder (and it was a murder) of Alton Sterling, who was selling CDs in front of convenience store when two cops tackled him and put 6 bullets in his back and chest. Her voice got thinner and thinner as she launched her high pitched whine about why Black folk have this penchant for turning criminals into martyrs, Alton Sterling being the latest. To demonstrate that society was better off without Alton Sterling’s existence, she offered the following tirade as evidence of his apparent unworthiness to live:

“Here’s what know about Sterling. Sterling was a registered sex offender. He was previously arrested for aggravated battery, criminal damage to property, unauthorized entry, domestic abuse/battery. In 2009 he was sentenced to 5 years in prison for marijuana possession and for carrying an illegal weapon with a controlled dangerous substance.”

I’m listening to and looking at this woman this woman rattle off all these “stats” on Alton Sterling, looking at her lips grow tighter and tighter as she screeches her faux outrage, and all I can think to myself is ‘Wow. This sounds like the average weekend itinerary from whatever trailer park you just extracted yourself from.’

What we ALSO know about Sterling’s sex offender registry is that his was 17 at the time and the girl he was engaging in sexual contact with was 15. Similarly, you may recall in 2003 when 17 year-old Genarlow Wilson was convicted and handed a 10-year prison sentence for having consensual oral sex with another teenager. I would imagine that there are many Altons and Gernalows unfairly charged and floating through the American justice system, thus providing harpies like Tomi Lahren the ammunition to deem these men’s lives worthless.

Everyone knows that Black people are handed harsher convictions by the criminal justice system for the same offenses that white Americans commit. The long-term repercussions for Black people are far more devastating than they are for white Americans. Study after study has proven this. Again in 2003, The American Journal of Sociology published the results of a matched-pair experiment in which the participants were split equally by race, black and white.

What the study revealed is that employers were more likely to call Whites with a criminal record (17% were offered an interview) than Blacks without a criminal record (14%). And while having a criminal background hurt all applicants’ chances of getting an interview, African Americans with a non-violent offense faced particularly dismal employment prospects.*

That’s important. But what’s more important is that Tomi Lahren is proof of this phenomenon herself. While this woman sits on TV night-after-night, delighting her bigoted viewers by insinuating that the deaths of these Black men, women and children at the hands of the police are somehow justified because of their criminal pasts, Ms. Lahren forgets that she has a past of her own that isn’t so squeaky clean. In a stunning turn of events, Tomi Lahren found herself exposed…by none other than Black Twirra.

Aubrih Stan, who goes by the handle @yauniexo had finally had enough. She exposed Tomi Lahren for the prostitute and shoplifter that she is and came with receipts. Twitter, who like Facebook, is deeply invested in preserving white integrity, deleted Aubrih’s tweets and from what I gathered, shut own her account for a time. But it was too late, because the innanets never forgets and the innanets makes copies. Within hours, everyone knew that Tomi Lahren had spent 14 years of her life whoring herself out for pay and stealing items from Target in 2008. And yet here she sits, with her own show on the Blaze. If all things were equal, we could call Ms. Lahren’s good fortune “the American Dream”…a dream that allows you to trade your nightmarish past bent over the arm of a sofa, sucking oily old-man-cock for a few 20-dollar bills for a lucrative career in media. In reality, it’s nothing more than White Privilege. I can’t think of any former hoes of color in this century (besides Mama Maya, God rest her) who the establishment would even let remotely close to becoming the voice of righteous indignation.

And don’t get me wrong. I do love my prostitutes. They have changed the course of history and affected social events from the days of the Rahab in Bible to Cardi B in 2016. And I applaud Tomi for having the strength to pursue that….career. It takes a great deal of inner fortitude to participant in the sort of anal play for pay that I’m certain her clients demanded of her. But is THIS REALLY the woman that hateful white America (and all you coons who cape for their cause) has chosen to be the voice of American morality? Because that’s what it comes down to in our society. If you’re Black and have any blemish in your past, you deserve to die at the hands of police. It doesn’t matter if you’re just walking home, or going for an afternoon drive, or selling CDs, or listening to loud music when you’re killed. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t engaging in criminal activity in the moment when you were killed. As long as you have a record, an infraction even as mundane as a trip to the principles office, you deserve death in this moment or the future.

Heaven forbid, we apply the same standards equally. Heaven forbid Tomi Lahren finds herself a victim of sexual assault. How callous and asinine would it be to say “Well, you know she’s be a whore for half her life. She deserved it.” No one deserves to be raped, just like no unarmed person deserves to be murdered by the police.

People like Tomi Lahren, who live high in their towers, made of ivory and glass shouldn’t let the altitude make them delusional. You can’t be a ho in a pencil heels lobbing grenades while you’re sitting on a drum of liquid nitrogen with your name on it. That’s just unwise. The last time I checked, prostitution and theft by taking were both criminal offenses in Amurrrca, Tomi.

Have you heard of Tomi Lahren? Do you find her as despicable as I do? Discuss!

 

*Source: thesocietypages.org

The Upside to Brexit: Britons Disprove Their Presumed Superiority

None of my English friends are actually “English”. They are English men and women of Nigerian/Ghanaian/Jamaican decent. Their ties to England (and to their precious, burgundy UK passports) usually begins with some 419-marriage-for-papers; or with their parents lucking out by getting pregnant and delivering them in the UK whilst in university during the 70s; or by overstaying their student visas and slotting themselves firmly into the cog work of English society. They are English in the same way that I am American: African by birth, Western by chance. And yet despite this cumbersome, shaky relationship with our adopted countries, each of us has taken on the mantle of continuing the old rivalries from the original inhabitants (or invaders). African-English folk refer to us African-Americans as “you Americans”, an appellation that is usually followed by the phrase “are so dumb”.

Among our many crimes as Americans are:

  • Voting George Bush into office twice. (I want to add that that wasn’t the fault of the people. That was the Electoral College.)
  • Failing to enact gun control legislation.
  • Refusing to add an extra vowel in the spelling of words such as ‘color’ and ‘neighborhood’, or reordering the placement of the letter e in words like ‘center’ and ‘meter’.
  • Our insane insistence on driving on the other side of the road.
  • Our inability to control our portions, leading to an epidemic of obesity and heart disease.

You get the picture.

There is a tenuous relationship between Britain and America, one built on admiration won and disgust earned in equal measure. Yet through it all, the English have always maintained their position of racial, cognitive and social superiority. America’s latest offense? Allowing Donald Trump to get this close to the presidency. How stupid can you Americans be?

Well, now thanks to Brexit – a contraction and joining of the words Britain and exit – you Brits can answer that question simply by looking in the mirror. Muahahahahaaa!!!

Can I tell you how delighted I am? This is just fantastic!

As I watched the Pound slide to 30 year lows after the results of the vote were announced, I was met with a sense of awe. This quickly gave way to a perverse sense of pleasure. Yes! All your too-known. All your fear mongering and xenophobia. Here are the fruits of the bitter seeds you’ve planted. Who’s the dummy now?

The English STAY dogging the American education system. But how do you send out legions of people to vote who don’t even know what they are voting for? Eh? Did you see this? Did you see what the British were Googling after they realized what they’d done to themselves?

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And then there was THIS chick, whose regrets apparently represent a fair majority of the voting populace. Look at her face.

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Like the guy who found the perfect relationship, couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull out or not, makes a hasty decision, and now he can’t live happily squandering the fruits of Oprah’s hard earned labor. This coulda been YOU, England:

Now, top EU leaders want England to pack its stuff and get out as “quickly as possible”. Hei! Talk about a bitter divorce!

Now, of course these setbacks – the pounds sharp decline, their economy shrinking by 100 billion in ONE DAY, the hysteria and morning after regret – are only temporary. I mean, this is Britain, conqueror of the entire world. They will rebound, because allowing this once great superpower to collapse completely would signal a devastating end to Western superiority as we’ve always known it; And though they may want to punish Britain in the short term, those who believe in the cause of white supremacy will never allow this to happen. Britain can’t become a failed state. It’s not like it’s Ghana where corruption is the norm and patriotism is a myth. This is Britain. The Queen lives there.

Nevertheless, this is a great day for America and Americans. We get to look at England and thumb our noses back, for once. We are finally on equal footing. You Brits, with your cricket and your afternoon tea and your NHIS are no different from us. Our paths our now firmly entwined. Welcome to the future.

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