Monthly Archives: April 2008

do some hoe shit.

this made me smile.

miss Badu tells all you ambitious, musically-inclined skalliwags how to succeed in the music game. skeezers, take heed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92GM851j20k

 

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Old shit: “Dear OJ….”

and hello.

i was browsing old postings on my myspace blog and came across this piece from last year. twas in the midst of OJ Simpson’s armed robbery/hostage-situation/sports memorabilia drama last fall. this is one of my favorite blogs ever. got great response and….it actually made ME laugh. ole!

enjoy.

________________________

 

Dear Orenthal J. Simpson,

I write humbly today in hopes of sharing some obviously lacking wisdom with you. I want to get to the bottom of this situation you’ve been presented with. You have been the topic of every talk show, newscast, and gossip blog today. So, there isn’t much to be said that you haven’t heard already. But I will state my piece.

I don’t need to make this too long. All that matters is….

THEY GOT YOUR BLACK ASS NOW!!!

Either by the grace of God or collective stupidity, you were acquitted 11 years ago. Black America exhaled. KKK membership tripled. But you can rest assured that they (“they” being white America) will do their BEST to either deep fry your serial killing, fat-faced ass or bury your bragging black ass as close to the center of the earth beneath the prison as possible. I feel like my first reaction (as a negro) should be stating that your actions have disgraced the race. Let me be the first to tell you: that is NOT the case. You, sir, have proven that YOU are one of the dumbest negroids to drag your ape ass across this earth. You bear no reflection on the rest of us. I assumed that the small portion of your brain not fried by coke and ‘roids during your former days as a baller would inform you that all they needed was a reason to go after your black ass. You, sir, have given them the reason, the videotape, the audio recording, the eyewitness accounts, the fingerprints, and a confession from your own ape ass mouth…all BEFORE your day in court. Fucking genius!

The average person who overcame such unfavorable odds to dupe the chain of fools (otherwise known as “the jury”) would learn their lesson, enjoy their undeserved freedom and avoid the tabloids. But not Mr. Cool Daddy Orenthal, The White Girl Slayer. How greedy can you be?!? Was your tarnished legacy not enough? Was the fact that you pissed off the majority of the population and instantly became the most hated Black man in America all in a day’s work for you? Did Johnny Cockring secretly orchestrate that circus just to propel his career since yours had disappeared with your hairline? The world will never know.

Then, you published If I Did It, a “confession,” which you pass of as a fictional account of how you would have butchered those poor, white folks if you were the murderer. Black America hung its collective head in shame. Somewhere in America, How to Kill a Moronic, Washed-Up, Shit-Brained Former Football Star for Dummies was submitted for publication. The joke is over. We’re all adults here, right? Question, brother: Are you suicidal? Does the idea of being lynched by a mob of white people get your dick hard? Do death threats turn you on? Help me help you, you damn grinning fool...

I guess none of us (who are alive today) can know what in the fuck went through that coked out brain of yours as you sliced and diced Nicole and Ron. Everybody who could have seen it is buried six feet under. I also don’t pretend to know what motivated you to arrange a gang of fucking merry men, barge into a hotel room, and attempt to “steal back your shit.” Let’s not forget that the “shit” you attempted to steal back was your own, devalued, rusty, dusty, memorabilia from your extinct career. Decades in jail as some dude’s dickwarmer for some tired ass OJ Simpson cleats and posters? Really? All I know is: they finally got your black ass. Johnny Cockring aka Captain Save-a-Ho is dead. He’s not rotting in the living room like James Brown; he’s in the damn ground. Johnny is dead as hell. Like, forreal. And he can’t fly into the courtroom and whisk your guilty ass away to freedom like before. Based solely on what you’ve said from your own guilty mouth, I’d put your guilty ass away for being a threat to your own damn guilty self. You’ll be lucky if you only get two life sentences. What you can bet, my judgementally-challenged friend, is that once the trial is over YOU will never taste that sweet, mind-impairing nectar you just can’t seem to resist: white woman vagina. And that is probably for the best.

Sir I pray that nowhere during your short trial does that ugly, overused, tired ass race card make an appearance. Not for your sake. I say this because I want to believe that us colored folk aren’t dumb enough to rally behind a guilty fuck simply because his great great great grandparents got their asses beat on a plantation centuries ago. Daddy Slickback Sharpton and Pieface Jackson have no reason to involve themselves in the events of your court proceedings. There are starving children to ignore and dirty rap lyrics from other famous retards to monitor and it’s hard to do that while supporting guilty people in court. In a perfect world you’d have the decency to leave those hardworking Black Race Representatives to their other, more important work. Hell, in a perfect world, you wouldn’t exist, but that’s another letter altogether…

 

 

What would America be without the occasional public misstep? We Americans find pleasure in the publicized misfortune of others. Or maybe that’s just me. Busted condoms like you keep tabloids and gossip mongers in business. Your children must be proud. I suppose that everything beyond your book’s title is irrelevant. Whether you did it or not, you’re finished. They just scored the winning point: a field goal right in that guilty black ass. 

 

 

Game over nigga.

 

Signed,

 

Your concerned friend,

 

 

Alex H.

 

P.S. If you bump into R. Kelly, tell him he’s next. 

 

(original post)

 

choreography.

 

today, while riding the A train into manhattan, before transferring at columbus circle to the 1 train, i was bombarded with choreography…in my head. soundtrack: “this one!” by j’davey. this song honestly gives me night terrors. and that’s a good thing. showed the basic idea and “feeling” of this piece to jeanette, irwin, dre, and erin over the weekend…and twas received well. i’m excited. everytime i press play, the visuals keep coming. i’m in love with jack davey and brook d’leau. they make my dick drip. THAT is a good thing too.

god bless j’davey.

and i filed my taxes. uncle same: i don’t owe you SHIT.

chris.alexander + wretched ass tax return = new laptop. hip hop hooray.

….i just wanna go outside and listen TO the music that these pretty little people make…people make…

time to beautificate this hair. laterz.

things i hate.

i JUST got into my apt from visiting erin and dre in harlem. happy birthday dre, by the way.

i’m using my roommate’s laptop to check email.

i have to be physically ON the train en route to work in 5 hours and 8 minutes…approximately.

all of this is irrelevant.

the door downstairs at the entrance to my building is usually controlled by a magnet…that…releases… once the correct key is inserted and turned. simple.

it was broken for about three weeks. not due to mechanical failure, but i witnessed a guy (let’s assume he was some species of junkius-bobbybrownius) kick and kick and kick and kick the door until it flew open, allowing him entry. so…i, too, got away with not having a key.

they fixed it this weekend. and i just got my feelings hurt; i had to wait 12 minutes for some exiting junkie woman to let me in. fuckshit.

so…i just heard the unmistakeable sound of a THICK metal door being kicked open downstairs. kick. kick. kick. kick. kick. kick. tyrone must need a hit BAD.

again, i can get away without having a key to the front door.

things i hate #328: knowing any random brooklyn junkie or scorned akon fan can saunter into my building at any hour of the night.

fuckshit.

(this is why i miss living with/near/surrounded by white people. they do NOT tolerate such fuckery.)

ugh.

goodnight.

….another herpes outbreak. shit.

so my herpes came back. i thought that Buckley’s has killed it off, but no. and now, it has a face.

 love in this club

 he wants to make love in this club. in this club. in this club. in this club. and i want to drag him out back behind the club. and rape him in his vagina. with a chainsaw.

no me gusta. he makes me feel like suicide isn’t all that bad. does jack kevorkian have a facebook page you can link me to?

union square.

it cant be more than fifty degrees where im standing, here on the north side of union square. directly facing Barnes and nobles. (yes, plural, with an S on the end, like Erin insists on saying.) im waiting on him. he just left his apartment and should arrive in “fifteen minutes. times two.” to my left, an interracial couple fights bitterly: a slim but muscled, grossly unattractive black man and a wide-hipped dominican/mexican/puerto rican broad. fighting. intensely.

between puffs on what i assume is a newport, she questions: “now WHO is spiteful? I wish you would kick us the fuck out on the street so i could hand those motherfuckers over to child protective services. JUST so you couldnt see them. MOTHERFUCKER! ”

he threatens to “bash [her] fat face.” i make up a million scenarios that could have led to this. less than 25 feet away, a toddler guards his infant sister as she screams for god knows what in her stroller…sans hat, socks, shoes. conversely, her blanket rests peacefully in a puddle at the toddlers feet. i tell myself that the screaming infant kicked it off of herself. thats what happened. the toddler appears confused. they both look cold. a passerby stops and asks me if i “own those kids.” i point at the interracial couple. the unnattractive black man fesses up: “miss. those is my kids! lemme tell u bout their fat, horrible mother.” the passerby is involed now. …good…? madonna and i walk away as she tells someone to take a bow. And i continue to wait for him…

one word. ten fingers. around the neck.

fool.

i’m going to buy a noose. goodnight.