Night Of The Living Dead


I was totally content with letting this blog die a slow, crusty, gangrene-ish death. I'd been hired at a new company, which at first completely kicked my ass and killed any possibility of free time, much less the mental capacity to blog about anything. The funny thing is that even while I didn't update, the blog kept a quiet little buzz, and even received some anonymous comments from time to time, including prayers that I'd one day be castrated by my own scythe.

And while the buzz died down considerably (which happens after 2 years of nothing), the praise for this whole experiment remained somewhat steady, the only buzz I was trying to build was the kind that came from quality vodka, Hoegaarden, or $14 South African wine to settle my nerves after a day on the job, and from writing whatever prose I could conjure up from my cold, janky heart, especially if there was a freelance check involved.

I have to admit that it was the anonymous comments that made me want to start again. Sure, many of them are in Chinese characters, and seem to be the kind of stuff that nobody should click on, that is if they prefer not to have their laptop explode or emit Agent Orange through the speakers. But some of the comments were actually encouraging, and some of my friends still ask if I'm doing the blog anymore.

So here's what I'm gonna try to do, since we're all dying anyway I've become better at time management. I'll make better attempts at keeping this thing current. That might mean one or two posts per week for a minute, but I'll try to keep them worth every effort put forth by your ever-yellowing eyes.

And if you didn't miss me, kill yourself.




EDITOR'S NOTE: Look, I don't need no Secret Service problems. That title isn't to be taken literally, so don't get all tight about it and start goon monitoring me from Langley at the secret underworld headquarters of the National Obituary Desk. The concept here is political death, not physical. So leave me the hell alone. I shouldn't even have to say that, but there that go.

Man, I called it. And I'm still calling it now, even though it probably won't be announced until Sunday or Monday. Senator Roland Burris will vacate his Illinois senate seat, and unless he's a complete boob, he'll do it sooner rather than later. That's money.

See, this guy should have known that this was a bad idea all along. You already saw WHAT HAPPENED TO JESSE JR., when he tried his political hand at Obama's former spot, and found out that not every black politician is Barack Obama. Hell, not many white ones (or Jindals) are either, for that matter, so don't get too gassed about your chances. Those are some big shoes to fill, oh my brothers and sisters.

Now that he SOMEHOW GOT IN, he's the loneliest black guy in the Senate chamber, even without the ethical cloud that is raining poop water on his head. Taking the offer (or should I say "deal"?) from former IL governor Blago was stupid in itself - can we say instant self-ether? The smart move would have been to stay out of the line of fire, until the man with the target on his dome was exterminated by the political media's firing squad. Blago was already alluding to his complete coolness with taking others down with him. Some of those statements he made on his TV award tour, prior to his impeachment, had some slick undertones; it sounded to me as if he was quietly saying, "Look, this is how politics is. You pay to play. Now, don't make me have to get Nino in the courtroom on y'all. You know you got money in the freezer too, fool!"

The Democrats have been trying to keep a clean house recently, especially now that they're too busy running the government to expose gay Repubs anymore. But all that means is that the G.O.P(enis) is looking for some retribution rape, now that they're all the way uncovered as racist homosexual morons. You see they got rid of THIS GUY, and THAT GUY, so they're obviously not trying to wait on anybody to slip up, now that they're 1 seat away (Franken's gonna win) from a filibuster-proof Senate vote. That makes Burris the new problem.

I've got to admit that I was disappointed in Congressman Bobby Rush's "lynch" language, at that early press conference when Burris was just named by Blago as Obama's scab. Was it really necessary to bring race into the whole affair? If a black guy was the last person to hold the job, with outstanding performance, how can you assume that the next black guy won't get a fair chance at it -- unless you think that there's some secret issue that could ruin the whole orgy, like 1 person in the group had crabs and didn't bother to inform everyone else. But if you already know how everybody in the clusterfuck of Illinois politics gets down, then you should already know what's up, and you shouldn't show up anyway, now should you? Don't tarnish your gallant reputation by getting in bed with freaks.

Now, Rush, our proud former Black Panther, is sitting his ass down, and Burris having the marble toilet he had mounted blown up from underneath his balls, on some Lethal Weapon 2 ish. And Blago was doing a good Sgt. Riggs imitation, except he didn't stay around long enough to pull Burris's ass away from the explosion, or just to give some spirit-boosting encouragement, like "Guy's like you don't die on toilets."

White House Press Secretary and Obama weed mule Robert Gibbs said with nuanced subtlety on Friday that Burris ought to STEP THE FUCK OFF. The new Governor of Illinois, Pat Quinn, made his position clear by saying that Burris is a WACK MC that should be tossed off stage by the draws. Plus, one of Burris's senate aides told him HE PLAYED HIMSELF, and went back to his former position as the Tony Yayo of Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid's G-Unit.

So now, "Senator" Roland Burris is looking like Rick Ross. If I were him, I'd pack my bags, steal as much Senate stationery as I could get my hands on, and run back to the lab to record a new political mixtape about his experiences. I might even download it for free.




Dag, my brothers and sisters. Just when it was becoming media overkill, and people were starting to ask axe that awful question, "Well, what did Rihanna do to deserve it?"... it seems that the guy who has been called "Usher's Replacement" (everyone), "The Young Mike Jack" (Nas), and "hot" (my niece G), is pretty much going to become one of the most reviled men in entertainment since O.J. Simpson, Ike Turner and Kobe 2004. You even have the whole "leave Chris Brown alone" campaign going on, where cats like this guy below share their intuitive thoughts on the situation they know so much about, because they know about shit like this. Plus, "how can guilt look so cute?"

Chris Brown had a great thing going for him, and I don't mean the love of the guy above. He was handsome [ll], talented, young, rich, famous, charming [ll] and even seemed humble. Not at all the type of guy you'd see in one of those animated cartoons, where "the bad guy" is terrorizing some pearly young damsel, as she cries for a superhero to save her from the terror. CB was winning awards, had almost completely wiped clean the spectrum of modern male R&B singers, and was well on his way to at least 5-10 years of upward mobility in his career. Then, his goon hand came crashing down, repeatedly, on a woman. A woman like any other woman, except that she happens to be one of the finest and most famous women walking the planet right now.


I say that the storm was settling, because the major news pundits were starting to weigh in on the subject of the violent beating of Rihanna. Once the major news networks start letting their hacks get at a person, it's only a matter of time before some cash-poor publicist/"crisis manager" would come calling, offering to vigorously defend CB and bring him back to comfortable levels of public relations. Sure, it wouldn't be easy, but people are forgiving when it seems that the media isn't being fair or letting you have the chance to either defend yourself on television or raise even more questions about your effery, like A-Rod's recent roid press conference. It was even looking like Rihanna might show mercy (read: weakness/love), and publicly forgive CB, to take the edge off the incredible shit stain he placed on his own career. T.I., Will and Jada, Terrence Howard and all other types of celebs who probably have their own private or public dirt, were coming out of the woodworks to try to help the rest of us understand that these things probably happen a lot more than we think, and that there are ways to fix them without demonizing the guilty party.


I had my questions as to whether or not there was some incredibly strange situation that led to this beating, even though it was never in question as to whether or not he deserved to be publicly denounced for his actions. You just can't hit women, under any circumstances, is what most people believe. I tend to think that if a woman raises a gun at me, she has earned the right to get her ass whooped, just like a man. Barring that, the only option is to walk away, if your temper reaches the level that you are seriously considering letting your fists fly into her face.

So you can imagine that I was waiting to hear what CB would have to say about the whole ordeal before passing any personal judgment against him. I was also not completely sure of what happened, and there had been no available pictures to document how severe the assault had been. But alas, oh my brothers and sisters, the picture of Rihanna is worth a thousand words, and all of them are the same: "Damn."


When you wake up tomorrow, Chris Brown will be just a figment of your imagination. You won't be able to remember the lyrics to any of his numerous hit songs. You won't think of him as you chew your gum. You won't be able to name three things he did last year in the public eye. All you'll remember is the busted lip, scrapes, scars and swelling on Rihanna's face. And you'll look at her eyes. Closed, but tight, revealing pain that seems deeper than anything physical. She looks helpless, confused, and emotionally hurt to the point that tears won't even fall. And though she is completely beautiful, she is, in the TMZ picture, the new, ugly face of domestic abuse.

This blog is in the memory of Chris Brown's career. It is dead and gone. Hope you ladies enjoyed the show while it lasted.



Here's a little reassurance for you skeptics out there. I know, I know; you're still struck with those dag-blasted heebie-jeebies about tomorrow, even though you keep hearing about all that security and the precautions taken to ensure a safe and happy inauguration.

Fear not; it appears that the last thing anybody wants is a problem with the super-official Obama entourage. In case you were unaware, this is how President #44 is rolling out in these skreets. Now ask axe yourself; do you want beef? This dude has the pimp game on clack-clack!!! See for yourself below:

But nah... go right ahead. See what your foolishness and unprepared mind will get you in 2009. My advice? Chiiiiiilllllll.....




Before you go all Obama/Dr. King/Biggie Smalls crazy with the rest of your holiday weekend, I just thought I'd come back to say hello and burst your bubble with regards to race relations in America, and specifically in the south.

Absolutely 100% true story:

Last night, after doing research for the job, I went to my old bar hangout in Marietta, GA. It's called Churchill's Pub. You don't normally see a lot of black folks in and out of there, but they do come through. I get treated like some sort of celebrity by the staff and owners, simply because I've weathered 2 years of coming in consistently. Working across the street at another bar made it accessible, and the fact that they have really good food, free wi-fi and would let you order a pitcher of beer for yourself were enough to keep me coming, even though I would sometimes sense race hate from the other side of the bar. Which I never pay much attention to anyway, but sometimes I would actually engage the people directly with a sarcastic smile and a knowing look.

It wasn't that way last night, but there was this dude that I know pretty well from seeing him there a lot, sometimes with his mom and dad. He was hanging out with this guy that looked like he was born in a hunting jacket; like he literally fell out of a deer's coochie one morning, reached for a rifle and shot his own mother dead. This guy was short, pudgy and had extremely wild eyes -- probably from meth of coke or... who knows -- and did all he could to get my attention when he played "99 Problems" by Jay-Z on the Rhapsody jukebox. I gave him a salute and even played along with him when he shouted out the lyrics to the part of the song where the officer is talking to Jay. You know: "Cuz I'm young, and I'm black/and my hat's real low/do I look like a mind reader, sir?/I'ont know..."

This is ironic, because 20 minutes later, as I walk over to say what's up to the other homie, he meets me in front of the jukebox, like, "Are you gonna play some shit!!@?? (drunk as hell). I was like, "Um... yeah!?" And he was then like, "YEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!" So I guess that meant we were cool. It had to mean he had established some type of relationship with me, at least in his mind, because not 5 minutes later, as I'm looking through the web, he does the irritating thing which people always do when I take my computer into a public place -- ask if I'll go to some stupid website or YouTube video. This time, I said "Sure," and actually found this really cool site that showcases a local artist who lost his arm or something and draws completely with his mouth. So I say to him, "That's actually cooler than I expected it to be, my man." And he says, "OH!!! YOU WANNA SEE SOMETHING COOL?!??!@@#%?! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT, MAN!!*#!"

That's when he pulls out his phone and shows me how he won last year's Halloween costume at a neighborhood party.


I actually got the guy to send that picture to my email address. That's really him. Now, if you're white and reading this, you might be thinking, "Aww, come on, Mike. That's not really racist! It's just a harmless joke! Stop being so damn sensitive and taking all the fun out of something that's not even that big a deal..."

True, true. Sounds great, but what was I supposed to say about the picture of his black dog, who he called his "down-ass nigger" and bragged about how well-trained he is, and why I'd love him, and why I should come over to their house to get really drunk(er) with the whole backwoods family.


I politely declined, shook my head a little and laughed. Finished my drink, turned back to him and asked a very simple question:

"So, did you vote for Obama?"

He said no.

I paid out my tab, walked over to the bartender and gave her a hug, tipped my waitress, threw the deuces to our shared homie, and after putting on my long, black winter coat and throwing my Macbook back into my leather shoulder bag -- looking like a future black senator, I might add -- I extended my hand to shake that of my new, ignorant-to-his-own-racism friend and said:

"You're actually a cool cat, besides your bullshit. Hope you think twice about your picture and the N-bomb in the future. Oh, and happy MLK day."