Friday, November 30, 2007

Friday Five: 5 phrases respectable negroes need to retire

New feature time. In "Friday Five," we will post a themed list of five things relevant to respectable negroes.

This week's theme is 5 phrases respectable negroes need to retire immediately.

1.) “Dr. King didn’t die so we could…”
Enough with this shit, people.

2.) “Oh, but when white people do it, it’s OK?”
The stock response from those who break their necks defending black criminality and irresponsibility…by noting that white people are also criminal and irresponsible. What a compelling defense!

3.) This is a “(modern day) lynching.”
James Byrd was lynched. Tookie Williams did not suffer a "legal lynching." "Uncle" Clarence Thomas was not subjected to a "high-tech lynching." Moreko Griggs, the black valedictorian who had to share the honor with a couple of white kids due to his school’s sketchy rule-changes, was not the victim of an "academic lynching." Referring to some minor offense as a lynching is insulting and highly disrespectful to actual lynching victims. Speaking of being lynched…

4.) “It’s just like Willie Lynch said...”
I don’t want to go into great detail about this because we plan to write pieces on black myths and conspiracy theories in the future. But I’m sick of hearing black folks bring up this fabricated, though masterful piece of victimology.

5.)“We use ‘nigger’ as a term of endearment among ourselves to remove the power from the word.
Nonsense. First of all, it's not only used as a term of endearment; many black folks use the word in a derogatory fashion, often to distinguish themselves (supposedly respectable) from classless, ignorant, degenerate black people. Second, you’d have to be an imbecile to argue that we have become any less sensitive to white people calling us “niggers.” While we're at it, please stop with this nigga/nigger foolishness--it's the same damn word! In most black and white Southern dialects, words that end in "er" are pronounced with an "a" ending. Can you name any other "er" word with a corresponding (though somehow completely different) "a" word? Gangster/gangsta? Nope. Give it up.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

I couldn't resist...Beware the attack of the nooses!!!!

I cower as I write this. My Zombie Survival Guide, and my SAS Survival Handbook have some valuable tips for dealing with this type of calamity. But, I fear the information they impart may not help me survive the attack.

As the Southern Poverty Law Center reported in The New York Times, the nooses are on the march and they are unstoppable. Run black people, run as far, and as fast, as you can.

They are coming and they are unstoppable:

May God have mercy on our souls.

Chauncey DeVega Says: So divine and heavenly is the Joy of Sex with Bea Arthur

I have a checkered employment history. In no chronological order, I have worked as: a convenience store clerk (a quite dangerous job); as a radio personality and club dj; a janitor; a party promoter; a gigolo to the stars...just wishful thinking; and finally as a public relation's account executive for travel and tourism.

For those of you not in the know, public relations, because it is a client based enterprise, is akin to being a prostitute. You are at the beck and call of your Johns (here: the client). You are rented out to the client by your pimp (here: your employer). And ultimately, you have to pretend to enjoy servicing your John, and to enjoy it so much that your John will keep coming back for more---so much more, that your pimp/p.r. firm can continue to rent you out over, and over, and over, again. The noted public intellectual, Ice-T, eloquently summarized this relationship in the documentary, Pimps Up, Ho's Down, when with great aplomb he said, "we are all someone's ho. it is just a matter of picking the right pimp":

In public relations you aren't the high end prostitute booked out at a few grand an hour. No, you are a Hunt's Point hooker, walking the stroll, and peeing up against a garbage can type of Ho.

However, my position in public relations did have its perks. While I was never "lucky" enough to take a trip to the Caribbean, a trip during which I would be forced to whore myself at some all inclusive resort for the benefit of my client, I was however privy to pictures, videos, and salacious anecdotes about what goes on at resorts in Jamaica, Haiti, and other resort destinations. I have seen videos of little suburban princesses having random sex with both island boys, as well as frat boys, to win a pair of cheap beads. I have been scarred by pictures of drunken, bloated, fat, cellulite marked, alabaster bodies rutting on the dance floor of resorts such as Hedonism 2 and 3 in Jamaica:

I have seen video footage of little miss precious, on her trust fund financed spring break, going down on some dreaded, Bob Marley wanna be, as her friends cheer her on in the background. In short, I have witnessed all manner of human depravity--and you know what? this respectable negro kinda liked it.

Accordingly, I was not at all surprised by the recent "revelation" that older white women go to the islands to get their groove on. First, we all know how the Caribbean heat makes Americans and Canadians behave. The sun, the beach, the semi-nude black bodies, the alcohol, and the indulgence of an all inclusive resort frees people to be their true, primitive selves. As Bill O'Reilly famously said, "once people get into that hot weather they shed their inhibitions, you know they drink during the day, they lay there and lazy, they have dinner and then they come back and fool around...that's basically the modus operandi." Hell, they can't help ourselves.

And to clarify, the allure of the islands isn't limited to old white women and their horned up daughters. The appeal of Africa, of the Caribbean, and of Latin America is part of an American and European fascination with the "exotic" other. In Brazil, we have professional black men attracted to the allure of the bunda. Increasingly, black men are going to Cape Verde off the coast of Africa to live out their (literal) jungle fever. And of course, we have those poor sods who have been going to Thailand in search of poor women and easy "love".

This is a perceptual framework, deeply rooted in colonialism, which is equally seductive to our black and brown sisters. Case in point, Miss Terry McMillan got so turned out by the island heat, and presumably the shortage of marriageable black men (I call bullshit---oops that is a topic for another post), that she married an obviously gay man, wrote a book and made a movie, and then took her "I got played by my island lover routine, and now please have pity for me show" onto that mammy, Oprah Winfrey's, nationally televised, pity party.

Here, my position has always been that people, across time, and in any circumstance or situation, like to have sex. Moreover, some socio-biologists and others have suggested that we "naked apes" are hard wired to pursue sexual liasons with members of different racial groups because it encourages genetic diversity and human evolution. Perhaps, this intrinsic urge explains mandigo parties, inter-racial dating services, First Fridays (you know those Indian girls love a professional black man, but only for sport, not marriage), and half priced drink nights where "suburban" girls can get pawed at by "urban" men while grinding to minstrel-hop and taking them home (or to the backseat of an Escalade), for a little taboo love.

For me, this "new" phenomenon of old white women looking for some sycamore tree comes down to agency and willpower--attributes which both parties have, but in differing amounts. Restated, "who is playing who?" Is the "victim" the young black man who gets money, attention, perks, and access to the all inclusive resort? Is the "victim" the old woman who believes that this diggler will love her? I strongly suggest, that perhaps, they are playing each other.

However, this does not mean one task is equal to the other. For me, it comes down to one question. Could I fuck Bea Arthur? Now, I don't mean just a mechanical, in and out for five minutes and your done type of intercourse. No, I mean actually ravish, enjoy, and make her believe she was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and that her old distended labia, saggy breasts, and liver spotted buttocks were as as pristine as when the world was new. A young man in this situation has to bring his "client" to space mountain in order to protect his name brand and to get repeat business, because nothing less will put food on the island boy's plate, and new kicks, on his feet:

As lascivious and hedonistic as this respectable negro is, I don't think I could do it. And it is for that reason, and that reason alone, that I have pity for our young brothers being rutted on, and ruttin with, those Bea Arthurs and Terry McMillans.

It is hard out there for a pimp. But, it is harder out there for a mangina:

Chauncey DeVega says: What those old white women are really looking for in Kenya

The theme of the week is undoubtedly going to be interracial sex. Zora, this is your fault, because you know this respectable negro can't resist being discursive on any topic dealing with that ohh so tasty melange of race and sex.

Tomorrow, I have something more substantial to post. But for now, here is what those European and American women who go to the Islands, or to Africa, are really looking for:

And remember, Mr. T don't believe in Race Mixing. Plus, he beat cancer. I pity the fool!!!

Monday, November 26, 2007

Zora on Film: "Heading South" – White Women as Consumers of Black Flesh

An article on MSNBC about older, white women traveling to Kenya for sex tourism made me recall a film I watched a little more than a year ago. I remember that I stood in a long, movie line waiting in the humid heat of summer. I was surrounded by middle-aged, white women who chatted gaily while eagerly anticipating the film. On observing them, I knew that I was not going to enjoy myself that afternoon.

You see, I suffer from a phenomenon termed by sociologist Charles Horton Cooley as “the looking glass self.” This is essentially the interaction between how we see ourselves and how others see us. Because respectable negroes so often find themselves in white dominated spaces, we all experience this phenomenon at some point or another: we may adore Jay-Z, but we groan when we see our white colleagues grab their crotches and attempt to sing Girls, Girls, Girls; we may love fried chicken, but we pass on it at the company picnic; we may love to dance, but we’ll be damned if we are the first to get out on the dance floor at the firm’s holiday party… Why? Because we know that what they see is not what we see. In reacting to others perceptions of us, we both alter our behavior and our own perceptions of ourselves.

As I stood in the line to see Heading South, and later as I watched both the audience and the film, I knew that those women would not see what I was seeing. I was there to see a film about the terrible exploitation of the developing world by the West. They were there to see what they imagined as the white woman's version of How Stella Got Her Groove Back. A New York Times report on one screening described, "Some bought tickets in groups for a kind of middle-aged girls’ night out. Interviews indicated the movie has hit home with this audience because it affirms the sexual reality of women of a certain age, that even as they pass the prime of their desirability to men, libidos smolder. More than a few said they came seeking a hot night out."

Heading South takes place in Papa Doc's Haiti -- one of many terrifying chapters in the island's history. The central male characters are all poor, Haitian men who are struggling to get by. The central female characters are all elite, middle-aged women from the U.S., Canada & Europe. The women are there to purchase the attentions of young men (in one case very young, thirteen). The story focuses on the relationship between Ellen and Legba, her favorite, young lover. Early in the film, Ellen confesses, "I always told myself that when I'm old I'd pay young men to love me. I just didn't think it would happen so fast." Like the women in the audience that night, she could care less about the vulnerability and desperation of the young man she embraces. The violence and poverty of the island she enjoys is held at bay by security guards, leaving her free to exploit her fantasy. She doesn't care to know more. When tragedy inevitably raises its head, Ellen foolishly and selfishly sees herself at the center of it all.

The fact that the male protagonist is named Legba should have been the first clue to both the audience and to Ellen that all was not as it appeared, that there was a truth to take away. Legba, aka Eshu, Elegba or Elegua, is a Yoruba deity found in the practices of Orisha-ifa, Candomble, Santeria and Vodou. He is known as a playful, "trickster" god who plays pranks on mortals in order to teach them hard lessons. Somehow this key fact was lost on the female characters, on the audience members and on movie reviewers alike. They completely missed a major part of the story line and reduced the film to a hot story about sexy mandingos and the white women they crave. Of course, I left the film angry and with an attitude. And, of course, my fellow movie-goers assumed that my anger was tied to a resentment of their desirability. My entire movie experience, my entire night, was altered by what I imagined a bunch of old, white women were thinking.

At this point, I know that you are wondering why I let myself get so worked up about a film. The problem was that I knew that this film was based in fact, that it wasn't entirely fiction, that many of those women in the audience ran to book vacations to Haiti, to Cape Verde, to the Dominican Republic, to Jamaica, to Kenya ... As a frequent traveler, I can't tell you how many times I have gone to the Caribbean and witnessed wrinkled, flaccid women from Europe waiving dollars, Euros and gifts in front of young men who, in stronger economies, would be employed or in school. I try to hide the surprise and disgust on my face, but the men see it and either react with aggression ("Who the hell do you think you are?") or turn their heads in shame. When I was traveling in upper-Egypt, I witnessed the same phenomenon: beautiful, Nubian men in traditional kufis and gallabiyyas walking along the shores of the Nile with frumpy, old women immodestly dressed. Anyone who has ever visited a man in jail or prison has witnessed similar dynamics. There, you very often see young, black men in their prime attached at the hip to older, white women, those who presumably could not afford plane tickets abroad.

In all of the popular discussions of this growing phenonemon, the narrative is always about white women rediscovering their sexuality. The women are always haughty and self-righteous about their arrangements, asserting a dynamic of equal exchange. Rarely do we hear the voices of the men and young boys, for this isn't their story. They are merely part of the supporting cast. They are black bodies for purchase. They are what white women perceive them to be. The suffering economies and violent societies are mere backdrops for a neo-colonial love fest. This is the story of Miss Ann being "served, serviced and pampered" by her over-sexed mandingo.

Respectable Negroes of the Week

Condoleezza Rice (Conservative, but still Respectable)
“There was absolutely no prospect of a Middle East peace process that was going to lead to anything,” she said in an interview in May about her thinking in 2001. “I just didn’t see it.” Nearly seven tumultuous years later, Ms. Rice, as secretary of state, has led the Bush administration to a startling turnaround and is now thrusting the United States as forcefully as Mr. Clinton once did into the role of mediator between the Israelis and Palestinians. The culmination of her efforts occurs this week in Annapolis, Md., as Mr. Bush, Prime Minister Ehud Olmert of Israel and Mahmoud Abbas, the Palestinian president, meet to set the outlines of a final peace agreement before the end of Mr. Bush’s term.

Augustus Hawkins
Augustus Hawkins, who was California's first black congressman and helped form the Congressional Black Caucus, has died. He was 100. Hawkins died Saturday at Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, Md., of symptoms related to old age, his niece, Susan Jefferson, said Monday. Hawkins, a Democrat, represented south Los Angeles for more than half a century, first starting off in the state Legislature in 1935 and then getting elected to the U.S. House of Representatives in 1962. Hawkins sponsored the equal employment section of the landmark 1964 Civil Rights Act that created the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. He helped create the Congressional Black Caucus in 1971. Hawkins also co-wrote the Humphrey-Hawkins Act of 1978 that was designed to reduce unemployment and inflation.

...its been a slow week for respectable negroes.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving

We have lots in store next week from Zora, Gordon and Chauncey. But today, we are thankful for friends, family, health, and all that assorted goodness.

We respectable negroes are also thankful for Paul Mooney.

Accordingly, here is some Thanksgiving's day Paul Mooney love:




Happy Thanksgiving, May The Force be with You, Peace, and Salaam, from us respectable negroes to all of you.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Baby I'm Black (but only from the waist down)

Hip hop comedy albums are dead because the music itself is approaching self-parody (see Little Brother's comments on their Percy Miracles character). However, one has to admit this is pretty damn funny:

Plus, it is certified 100% minstrel-hop free by our board of directors (but, are two white guys performing as minstrels, but without the cork, not actually minstrels?...And yes, we confuse ourselves sometimes).

An African Poet in England Curses his English Head of Department

Below is an example of what happens when you cross a respectable negro -- we have truly special ways of venting our anger...

An African Poet in England Curses his English Head of Department

My dear HOD, i.e., Head of a Donkey,
I just want you to know, you dumb ass,
that in the culture I come from, it is okay
for a poet to curse, provided it is in verse!

As you leave Hope Place, tonight, staggering
homewards like a drunken miner rehearsing
how to beat up his wife and strangle his children,
may the bright light at the end of your tunnel
Be the headlamp of an approaching diesel train.

As you hiccup forward, hoping to find in Freshfields
some respite from the razorblades and penknives
flourishing, like cactus flowers, in your rancorous
and cantankerous heart, may you reach home only
to find out that your wife has run away to your best friend.

May your two daughters elope to Africa
with the fuzzy wuzzy who bangs bongo-bongo drums
with callused palms to stay the seasons
of his abused self and exiled soul in your corruscating
Caucasian department along Hope Street.

May they impale their pear-shaped buttocks
on his delicious penis, lowering themselves
ecstatically on his gorgeous Zulu dick, like
headless, barbarqued chicken and keep rotating
round and round frenetically until they are bronzed
by the heat and power of his copper-hot rod and brown libido.

When they return to England, as they kiss you
at the airport, may they empty what remains of his semen
and the other juices of his body they swallowed
through their pussies into your own mouth and down your throat.
May you never be able to digest those juices of their love.

May your next wife mistake you for her clitoris
And play with you as often she did with herself
before she married you and you became her clitoris.

May your students mistake you for Caligula
or Grendel or the Cyclops or Nero or Nebuchadnezzar
Or Jack the Ripper or Richard West or Jeffrey
Dahmer and deal with you accordingly.

May your colleagues see you in a new and progressive light
As the twenty-first century reincarnation
of Julius Caesar, Coriolanus, Richard III, Narcissus,
Goliath, Pentheus and deal with you accordingly.

When you bid the earth adieu, preferably
by stoning or public strangling, may you
be buried in the belly of a thousand wolves
and foxes and hyenas and other scavengers.
May vultures share your flesh shred by shred
As they sing their national anthem in German.

In your next reincarnation, may you come back
rearranged like the petals of a hibiscus flower,
or the feathers of a crippled, impotent peacock.
And when you do come again, may you never
harbour the dim and blighted illusion that you are
the only flower in the graveyard called Hope Place.

If anything I have spoken tonight is false,
If my speech is slander, if what I have uttered
here is the soot from the bottom of my mother’s pot,
meant for an innocent face, may all the curses
I have uttered on this page fall upon my own head.

--Esiaba Irobi

Monday, November 19, 2007

Chauncey Devega says: Priceless!

When the sisters speak their own language:

Plus victomology:

Equals priceless!!!

Just being provocative....any takers?

Here is some Cloverfield love for you

Respectable negroes everywhere are excited about J.J. Abrams's upcoming movie, Cloverfield. I wonder if the monster (clearly not Godzilla, but probably somehow related to the Cthulhu mythos) is getting a kickback for prepping the New York real estate market for some major urban redevelopment:

Prominent Black Athletes: Public Enemy #1

Barry Bonds' gigantic dome was indicted on federal perjury and obstruction of justice charges last week. Ignore for a second that the indictment is bullshit, and just think about the fact that, in the last few years, the biggest individual draws in professional football , basketball, track, and now baseball (all of them black), have been brought up on serious legal charges.

I guess that the daily barrage of stories about athletes’ legal problems makes it hard to see how truly remarkable this is.

According to supporters of stale organizations like the NAACP, these indictments are evidence of a racist witch hunt by white folks looking to take down influential black people. These shakedown clowns give respectable negroes a bad name.

...But I digress. Based on the events of the last couple of years, all bets are off. We may see black athletes charged with all kinds of crazy shit. If I were a black athlete, I’d retire immediately, hire a driver (but never show that driver my shotgun), refuse to set foot in a strip club, and avoid white women like the plague.

My predictions:

March 2008: Freddy Adu is charged with identity theft for trying to impersonate Don Cheadle (I know they don’t really look alike, but there are very few dark-skinned celebrities these days. It’s like an El-Debarge/Al B. Sure revival).

August 2009: Venus and Serena get pinched for bootlegging moonshine on some Uncle Jesse shit (the one from “DuKKKes of Hazzard,” not the one from “Full House”).

February 2010: The black half of Tiger Woods is found to be behind an international Asian sex slavery ring.

November 2010: Whoever the token black NASCAR driver will be is arrested on the track and charged with DWB.

Is Another Respectable Negro About to Fall? Whispers in the Clinton Camp ...

... Agents of Sen. Hillary Clinton are spreading the word in Democratic circles that she has scandalous information about her principal opponent for the party's presidential nomination, Sen. Barack Obama, but has decided not to use it. The nature of the alleged scandal was not disclosed.This word-of-mouth among Democrats makes Obama look vulnerable and Clinton look prudent.
Robert Novak

...“everyone knows” the LA Times was sitting on a story, all wrapped up and ready to go about what is a potentially devastating sexual scandal involving a leading Presidential candidate. “Everyone knows” meaning everyone in the DC mainstream media political reporting world. “Sitting on it” because the paper couldn’t decide the complex ethics of whether and when to run it.

troubling inside scuttlebutt. There's no way to know if it's legit, bluff or just another attempt by Clinton to intimidate her way to the nomination. But if I were Hillary Clinton, I don't think I'd be eager to start a media war over the details of people's personal lives, if that's what this is about. When you are married to Bill Clinton, and when the world has decided to ignore, for now at least, the details of his personal life since he left office, best to leave the dirt alone, don't you think?
Andrew Sullivan

...Maybe the Obama response to an alleged Obama story is not a function, pace
Larison, of "flailing" and inexperience, but a calculated bid to force Clinton's biggest liability out into the open before she gets the nomination? I have no inside information on this, and no solid evidence of either an Obama "scandal" or a Clinton one, but the stakes are very high for all the reasons I've speculated on. I guess we'll find out soon enough.
The Atlantic Monthly

Politicos everywhere are placing bets on this one. Respectable Negroes are hoping that the rumors are unfounded. More later...

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Respectable Negroes of the Week

Cynthia Fitzgerald
When Cynthia Fitzgerald started out in pharmaceutical sales 20 years ago, she received ample training on the right and wrong ways to sell medical products. Right was selling on the merits. Wrong was luring customers with perks and freebies. It was O.K. to buy doctors lunch or dinner, for example, but tempting them with lavish gifts was taboo...
But she says those early lessons didn’t serve her so well when she went to work on the other side of the table in 1998, in health care purchasing. Going by the book, and expecting her colleagues and employer to do the same, cost her a job, most of her friendships and several years of her life, she says.
Eventually, Ms. Fitzgerald decided to file what could become one of the largest whistle-blower lawsuits on record...

Hugo Chavez (yes, he's a Negro)
In two weeks, Venezuela seems likely to start an extraordinary experiment in centralized, oil-fueled socialism. By law, the workday would be cut to six hours. Street vendors, homemakers and maids would have state-mandated pensions. And President Hugo Chávez would have significantly enhanced powers and be eligible for re-election for the rest of his life...
Chávez loyalists already control the National Assembly, the Supreme Court, almost every state government, the entire federal bureaucracy and newly nationalized companies in the telephone, electricity and oil industries. Soon they could control even more...
“We are witnessing a seizure and redirection of power through legitimate means,” said Alberto Barrera Tyszka, co-author of a best-selling biography of Mr. Chávez. “This is not a dictatorship but something more complex: the tyranny of popularity.”

Wads of dollar bills are usually as much a part of rap videos as fast cars, diamond-encrusted jewellery and scantily-clad models. But in an apparent nod to the low value of the dollar, rapper Jay-Z's new video Blue Magic features another currency...
The US currency has been ticking off historic lows over the past few months as falling US interest rates make other currencies more attractive. It recently passed $2.10 to the pound, reached parity with the Canadian dollar and set an all-time record of $1.4752 to the euro. Other more conventional market-watchers have also been snubbing the dollar, including the billionaire investor Warren Buffett.
There have been no suggestions that Jay-Z's fellow rapper 50 Cent could be considering a move into a different currency.

(Kidding aside, respectable negroes paying attention to money markets should know that the dollar is in a steep decline. START INVESTING IN EUROS!!)

Chauncey DeVega says: Those damn dirty apes

This is the second post of my weekend "double header". My friends and I have a running argument in which we handicap various man versus animal fights. For several years, I have asserted (and still believe), that I could beat a monkey in a street fight. Lately, this seems to be an increasingly likely scenario, one that most respectable negroes will face in their lifetimes.

It seems that apes have run amok. In India, there have been several incidents in which monkeys have killed innocent people. Apparently, these little rapscallions have overrun an entire city. As noted in this article---those dirty apes are "wreaking havoc in my constituency by taking away mobile phones, toothpastes, sipping coke after opening the refrigerators". Hmmm...sounds like my neighborhood. Plus, to make matters worse, we have turkeys running wild in one American city.

My friends say I can't beat a monkey in a street fight. They argue that the ape has too much strength, too much speed, and I wouldn't be able to score any damaging blows:

I disagree. As long as I have my trusty belt, a la Pootie Tang, I can whoop any ape, anywhere, and anytime:

Fighting an angry ape does require training. Here, I suggest that all prospective man versus ape competitors study Pootie Tang because it features one of the most impressive man versus ape fight scenes in movie history. I implore you, please rent the movie and deconstruct it, lest you suffer the same fate as Pootie Tang's father ("only the third time a man had been mauled by a gorilla at that steel mill"). Now "experts" say you should avert eye contact, avoid sudden movements, and be docile if faced with a monkey attack. To this, I say, hell nah! Simply take your belt off, use your superior intelligence, and proceed to whoop that monkey's ass.

Addendum: I have been told by several people that monkeys, apes, chimps, and gorillas are not the same. Again, regardless of the label or moniker attached to those 2 legged beasts, I believe I could whoop any of said primates with my belt. And I certainly could defeat a turkey in man versus beast combat.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Chauncey DeVega says: May you live in interesting times

Today, we are inaugurating a new feature entitled, the "we are respectable negroes news roundup". Each week, one of us respectable negroes will offer a unique interpretation of the weekly news. Since I am held up in a hotel, and have a modest surplus of time, I get to go first.

This week there is something in the air that gives me, us, real concern regarding our nation's stability, long term prosperity, and frankly, speaks volumes to our collective sanity (or lack thereof).

Perhaps, it is because I am in D.C. Maybe I am experiencing a "Tyler Durden" moment because I am off my meds? Quite possibly, it could be that I am picking up on our body politic's collective exhaustion at the thought of 1.6 trillion dollars being flushed down the shitter on a wasted, unnecessary military adventure which has left us weaker rather than stronger. Who knows? maybe it is just hanging out in D.C. and seeing all these homeless brothers and sisters, many of whom got to play G.I. Joe and G.I. Jane and were conveniently forgotten and abandoned when they came home--damaged and broken people who are an unpleasant reminder that these military escapades have a very real, and very human, cost.

In other news, this week's news events included:

1. Chaos in a nuclear armed Pakistan. This is a nightmare scenario. In the worst case scenario, Musharraf's clique is deposed and we could lose a crucial ally against Al-Queda and The Taliban. Or in the worst, worst, Freddy Krueger is coming to get you scenario, we would see Pakistan's nuclear weapons come under the control of folks who would like nothing more than to Fedex a warhead to NYC. By the way, there is no reasonable or viable scenario for securing those nukes. Where is Chuck Norris and Delta Force when we need them?;

2. Indian Women are "renting" their wombs to rich Europeans and Americans. I don't need to describe how many levels of twisted this is;

3. I won't go for the obvious and mention how delightfully cute the 8 limbed Indian child is, or speculate about what these increasingly common birth defects reveal about the state of the environment and how polluted it is. Nor, will I mention this story about the disturbingly high levels of industrial toxins in the average American's body;

4. In Nigeria, researchers released findings about a region of that country which I affectionately refer to as, "The Land of Magical Yams". Here, everyone is a twin, it must be those magical yams. Hmmmm...that sounds like the beginnings of a folk melody, any takers?;

5. Researchers have announced that they have successfully cloned monkeys. In other news, researchers have experimented with fusing animal and human DNA, as well as cloning organs for human transplant. Oh yeah, with the mapping of the human genome there has been serious discussion regarding the viability/inevitability of biological weapons which can target specific ethnic and racial subgroups. I am not a fan of too much unnecessary rising action in my fiction. Nor, am I a fan of too much teasing in my erotic life (which explains why I don't generally like lap dances, let me rephrase, I like lap dances at Spearmint Rhino, but I don't like paying for lap dances anywhere else). So, can we please just get around to the big reveal that scientists have been cloning humans for decades.

6. The dollar has sunk to such lows that Jay-Z is flashing Euros in his videos. Likewise, the supermodel Giselle, an exemplar of financial wisdom and acumen, is divesting herself of American dollars. By the way, America now rank's 15th in average worker income.

These events, and many others I didn't list, hint at a future that resembles Soylent Green or Omega Man (excluding his politics and his present state of decrepitude, Charlton Heston was the man back in the day). Prudently, I am going to dust off my Aldous Huxley, Ayn Rand, and George Orwell just to get a refresher on what may be coming.

In lieu of that heavy reading, I will wait for "Mr. Happy Rapper's" take on Richard Matheson's prescient apocalyptic vision:

And yes, I will checking out Southland Tales as well:

And no, I won't have be writing any movie reviews because my girl Zora would stick me with that rusty shiv she carries if I squatted on her turf....

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Zora Says: Another Respectable Negro ‘Bites the Dust’ – the tale of Dr. Jan Adams

I was already saddened when I heard that the mother of rap-star Kanye West died tragically this past weekend. I am at the age where the loss of my parents is becoming more and more tangible. I get nervous whenever they are sick and any mention of their having to undergo major surgery scares me to death. My heart really goes out to Brother Kanye. Unfortunately, I realized days later that the death of Donda West was accompanied by another tragic loss -- that of her doctor, Jan Adams.

On the scale of “respectable negroes,” Dr. Adams was uber respectable. As a graduate from Harvard College, a medical resident at the University of Michigan, a television personality and a renowned plastic surgeon, he was a model for little black girls and boys across America. Dr. Adams was committed to making sure that women of color be able to alter their bodies at the same rate as white women. For him, plastic surgery was about providing us with “a new path to self-discovery and self-esteem." With our civil rights affirmed and economic security in place, Dr Adams was taking us to a new frontier. He was part of the vanguard of individuals who were breaking new ground for us black folks. His fame and influence had even led me to consider plastic surgery. (Could he have been the one to deliver me from the tag of having a "white girl's bootie?")

All of this is in the past tense, of course, for Dr. Adams has now lost all respectability. Whether or not he is found responsible for the death of Kanye’s mother, he will never again be seen as a good, non-threatening negro. He has fallen from our ranks. With allegations of driving under the influence, medical malpractice, spousal abuse and rape, he will now evoke and confirm every known stereotype attached to negro men in America.

Why? How did Dr. Adams allow himself to fall so far? I don't know him, of course, but I will conjecture: with all of his fame and achievements, Dr. Adams allowed himself to forget his very basic status of being a negro in America. He forgot the words of our elders cautioning us that "you have to be twice as good." He saw his white colleagues getting sloppy in the operating room and thought, "If they can get away with it, so can I." He saw other high-profile figures in Hollywood getting slaps on the wrist for drunk-driving, for assault, for rape, even for murder and thought, "If there are no consequences for them, why should there be for me?" The more Dr. Adams got away with, the more emboldened he became with his carelessness. I imagine that Dr. Adams got caught up in a lifestyle and lost his head. With bills mounting and over a half million dollars in malpractice settlements, he said yes to a surgery that he should have declined. The conclusion of this cautionary tale has yet to be written, but I think that we all know the ending already.

I write this not to suggest that the burden of having to be twice as good, of always having to be squeaky clean is fair. It is not. The level of scrutiny and judgement that goes along with being a respectable negro is almost impossible to bear. But the moment when we delude ourselves into thinking that we have "arrived," that we are somehow not like "the other negroes" is when we begin to stumble on that steep incline toward success and equality.

Chauncey Devega says: So a monkey, a dog and the Jena Six walk into a bar

I am held up in a hotel room at a conference and my mind is wandering. I like short posts, those parsimonious little epiphanies that say alot, but don't require much typing.

Here is an experiment. This week researchers released the finding that monkeys, yes those damn dirty apes!!, also experience cognitive dissonance. For the less informed, or for folks with other things to do, cognitive dissonance is a mental state of being in which we are forced to reconcile the irreconcilable, to make sense of the absurd, or alternatively to convince ourselves that what we are seeing makes sense regardless of all the impulses that tell us what we are witnessing is total bullshit.

I know that we respectable negroes will be returning to this topic in force in the next few weeks, but since I am in premier Bush's hometown, the chocolate city, good old Washington, D.C., and frankly am suffering from "protest fatigue"--you know, should I boycott Should I march on Washington to fight nooses? Should I not have spent money last week on Black boycott day?--I just had to post this little experiment.

1. Read the following article about monkeys and cognitive dissonance. In short, monkeys, like humans, and those of us who are suffering from "victomology" and have subquently had the voodoo put on them by "poverty pimps", (i.e. like the Earl of Tawana Brawley a.k.a. Al Sharpton et al.--a man who should be on the tv show Heroes because of his power to convince the public of any truth, however absurd) have the capacity to negotiate any number of variables, as well as contradictory bits of data, in order to produce a result which we find agreeable.

2. Watch this video about those young victims and role-models for struggle and resistance, i.e. "The Jena Six."

3. Watch this video about the puppy accused of biting off the child's genitals.

4. Reconcile by substituting the public's impassioned advocacy for the little innocent puppy (you damn well know this litttle innocent pup didn't bit off any kid's equipment) with the impassioned defense made by brother Al, and folks of that stripe, on the part of The Jena Six.

5. Write up your lab report and submit it.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Gordon Gartrelle says: A hip hop mixtape for Zora (no Slow Jams on this one)

It’s not that kinda party.

Long ago I vowed that I would not to try to “legitimate” hip hop for those who don't understand it. I cringe whenever I hear Dyson or Russell Simmons begging people like Bill O’Reilly and Oprah to accept hip hop.

I place these hip hop defenders in the same category as those who plead with classical music snobs to recognize the complexity of jazz or prog rock, comic book fans who offer non-superhero graphic novels to as evidence of the medium’s “serious” or “adult” sensibilities, or black people who use black military service as proof of our historical loyalty and patriotism.

All of these groups seek acceptance by adopting the terms and frameworks of ignorant, but more powerful or influential people. Their efforts are Sisyphean, and their insecurity and need for external validation are pathetic.

I’m breaking my vow for you. I’m giving you this mixtape not because I seek your approval, but because I know that you’ll appreciate it because you are a critical thinker. Your inaccurate beliefs about hip hop stem from a lack of exposure and an ideological bias, not an inherent antagonism toward the people who produce it.

When you “school” me on those genres you defended, you’ll likely tell me to look beyond the clichés of sci fi lit (as a well-read negro, I am quite familiar with Ms. Butler) and zombie movies to appreciate the underlying social and political commentary on such topics as consumerism, conformity, memory, otherness.

Please take your own advice when listening to this mixtape*: go beyond the surface; pay attention to how the following songs use the language of rap to deal with transcendent questions concerning life, death, suffering, human nature, mind, matter, free will, God, and time.


Organized Konfusion—In Vetro

Eric B and Rakim—In the Ghetto

Pep Love—Trinity Lost

MF Grimm—Words

GZA—I Gotcha Back

Aceyalone—Thief in the Night

Cannibal Ox—Scream Phoenix

Madvillain—Shadows of Tomorrow**

*Don’t think that this kind of content is limited to “underground” hip hop; this just happens to be some of the stuff I have handy. The same approach is evident in the works of more popular artists like Outkast, Scarface, Nas, and even Jay Z, the epitome of mainstream corporate rap.

**Some rappers even draw inspiration from Sun Ra. How's that for insularity?

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

You got to love the Japanese, but how would this work in the 'hood?

The Japanese are an innovative people. But, how useful is this idea to the good negro people of these United States? If we respectable negroes were to hide inside our portable "vending machine" for protection when the ign'ts dragooned us we would be beat down pretty quick--if anything the promise of free soda would encourage the monsters to stomp us even harder.

So, in the interest of cross cultural exchange, we propose a more 'hood friendly series of disguises. The criteria are simple, what common and ubiquitous items or locales can we turn into costumes, and thus (hopefully, if only for a minute) be rendered ninja stealthy? We propose:

1. a bodega, fully equipped with sugar water, chico sticks, and other tasty ghetto treats;
2. a pay day loan or check cashing spot;
3. a store front church, cause you know you all need to be saved;
4. an empty 40oz bottle of beer or other malt liquor;
5. a bootleg dvd with the pixeleted homemade cover and audience "commentary";
6. personal responsibility and common sense cause folks are blind to both.

What else can we add to our list?

Monday, November 12, 2007

Zora Says: Who Be We in the Galaxy?

I agree with Gordon. Sun Ra and his Arkestra should be an obvious choice for our galactic calling card. His music has been reaching other worlds for quite a while now ... Space__Is___The___Place. Close seconds, for me, would be Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Fela Kuti. Dim lights, deep merlot (some need reefer) and any of these guys on the CD player has the potential of elevating even the most mundane of us to another world.

Sun Ra

Rahsaan Roland Kirk

Fela Kuti

There is absolutely no place for anything Hip Hop on our mix tape. This isn’t a slam against the genre, but more a comment on the nature of the music. Overall, it addresses the business of the street, the here-and-now. Where once it provided an alternative voice, a “bite back,” it increasingly just promotes a faux vision of gangster life, of urban life, of negro life … What’s more, it is ahistorical – for most hip hop artists, our life began in the 1980s (maybe the 70s, but only as a source of samples). Transcendence Hip Hop does not offer.

Communing with alternative life forms requires something existential, a deep probing of who we be – as negro Americans, as decedents of Africans, as Black people, as men and women, as human beings, as earthlings … Who be we? I still don’t know, but Sun Ra, Kirk and Kuti are examples of black artists who require serious introspection.

Post note:
Anyone who appreciates the music of Sun Ra, should not be so quick to dismiss science fiction, speculative fiction, zombie flicks, etc. These art forms require the same level of thought -- an ability to imagine alternative ways of being, to reason outside of what has been given to us as rational. Octavia Butler, for example, was one who understood well the potential for science/speculative fiction to explore and explain the madness and irrationality of race. Chauncey and I will have to school you on this later …

Gordon Gartrelle says: Speak For Yourself!

"As renaissance negroes we are also black geeks"

You know damn well that I'm not into comic books, videogames, "Star Wars," sci fi books, zombie flicks, slasher flicks, "Lord of The Rings," Monty Python, computer programming, or any other element of geek culture. I was a huge "Simpsons" fan before it started sucking, though.

And "There be life" is not a valid construction in AAVE . Stop disrespecting our heritage, Brother.

To answer the question, I say we send samples of our greatest alien musical representatives:

Sun Ra, Funkadelic, and Outkast.

I think we should also send the complete works of James Baldwin. Not only was his intelligence otherworldly, just look at his face and tell me the aliens wouldn't recognize him as their brother.

For anybody doubting this project, I leave you with visual evidence of the potential fruitfulness of the 1st contact between human and alien species:


Friday, November 9, 2007

Chauncey DeVega says: There be life!

Danger Will Robinson! Danger! This post is an official black geek alert.

Respectable negroes are innovators both by nature, (because we have melanin, a magical substance which allows us to metabolize the sun's light and to generate heat and energy) and as a function of necessity (because our material limitations have forced us to be innovative, e.g. digging for cast off records in the 25 cent bin and then transforming said records into the basis for a whole genre of music).

Respectable negroes are natural multi-taskers. For example, while ruminating on the plight of the ignt's we may simultaneously:

  1. find ourselves admiring the prose of Langston Hughes

  2. computing the correct number of credit cards necessary to play an infinite game of credit card roulette in which we transfer balances from one card to another and never ever pay our actual credit card bills;

  3. wondering if the comic book series The Walking Dead will turn a corner and return to form;

  4. finding a way out of the time travel paradox presented by the Terminator movies;

  5. speculating if the creators of the heretofore, and now officially "craptastic" television series Heroes, will admit they are basically lifting the X-Men and its Legacy virus storyline;

  6. writing screenplays for movies that will never be made;

  7. hoping that Rosario Dawson is as cool and sexy in person as she appears to be in either Clerks 2 or in Alexander--speaking of which, how did a Puerto Rican mami get to the hinterlands of asia in the 3rd century B.C.?;

  8. or comparing the relative merits of that San Francisco treat, aka Rice-A-Roni, to Near East brand's rice pilaf, a rice favored for its subtlety, but one that in my opinion, lacks Rice-A-Roni's complex flavor.
In short, respectable negroes are by habit, affect, and trade, "renaissance negroes." As renaissance negroes we are also black geeks--those same geeks who gave the world afro-futurism and speculative fiction, who advanced the study of time travel and temporal mechanics, and who inaugurated the negro space program:

Today, I am having a black geek moment, a geekasm, a geek priapism, a moment of geek ecstasy and nervous release because we have additional confirmation that there are multiple Earth type planets in the galaxy, and that by inference, we are probably not alone in the universe.

Undoubtedy, there are some members of the flat earth society who don't understand the importance of this discovery (see state's evidence number one: that cabal of harpies on The View), or alternatively would reject the notion of life on other planets because it is not "biblically" correct (dumb asses). This discovery is not exciting simply because it confirms what any person with a minimum of common sense has long known, i.e. that life is probably more common than uncommon in the universe. Here, I must introduce one qualifier: as a black geek who has astrophysics journals among his pile of "droppin a deuce" reading materials in the bathroom, I do not take this discovery of earth type planets as necessarily making a strong case for alien visitation to our fair planet. Why? Because frankly, as my ace boon coon theoretical physicist Michio Kaku, and also the smartest human being I have ever met, once said, "why would aliens want to expend time, energy, and resources to visit an out of the way planet in an uninteresting solar system, a solar system that is in fact the equivalent of galactic trailer park?"

Nah, this is exciting because it is a chance to hypothesize about how given the working assumption that there is intelligent life somewhere in the universe, and that we humans have been broadcasting some 130 plus years of putrid radio and television signals out into the void of space, what perceptions and understandings would our alien brothers have about black people here on Earth? As my mom would say, if "Black" "Entertainment" Television, or mainstream media is a reference point, aliens must think all black folks do is bounce basketballs, fight a never ending battle against a plague of nooses, perform minstrel-hop, and that our women have 10 kids by 5 different men:

I would also add that extra-terrestrials would probably think we are a really happy people because all negroes do is dance and laugh when we aren't out committing crimes.

When the United States had a forward thinking space program in the 1960s and 1970s, we launched the Voyager series of deep space exploration probes--yes, the same type of probe that came back to Earth in Star Trek: The Motion Picture because it wanted to have freaky sex with the hot bald alien chick and commander Decker. These probes each contained a golden record which was encoded with all of the best that humankind had to offer. Basically, this "mixed tape for the gods" was our way of telling the universe we are here, we are intelligent, and please don't come here and lay the smackdown on on us like those those aliens from "Mr. Non-threating Happy Rapper" Will Smith's movie, Independence Day.

Zora, Gartrelle, what do you think on this one? Fellow readers, what are your thoughts? If we were to make a golden record today and send it out into space as our galactic calling card, what should it contain?

I have three suggestions. First, our probe should contain a clip of one of the greatest comedians of all time, performing one of the greatest routines of all time (we should show the aliens we are smart, funny, and appreciate irony):

Second, our probe should contain my boy Jay-Z performing Roc Boys from the American Gangster "soundtrack" because even when he is at 60%, Hova is better than 90% of those minstrel hoppers in the game, and we need to provide an antidote to some of that poison our alien brothers have been exposed to:

And just to show our alien brothers that we are tolerant of "difference":

Gordon Gartrelle says: Why we (dis)like it: Lightskinnededgirl

The likes and dislikes links to the right aren’t consensus picks. In fact, each of us can add to the likes and dislikes independently of the others. Last week, I proposed an idea for a regular feature: Why we (dis)like it. This feature will consist of one of the respectable negroes objecting to the like or dislike selection of another, and this second negro then defending the selection. The third might chime in as well. Why we (dis)like it will serve not only to highlight more of our disagreements, but also to spark broader argument about the value of the people, things, and sites on our lists.

I was going to wait until next week to write the first Why we (dis)like it entry, and lightskinnededgirl was one of the two subjects I was considering. But when I saw that she made a blog post yesterday bemoaning her addition to our dislikes list, she made the choice for me.


It might seem strange that I’m defending lightskinnededgirl, given that:

1.) I’m an admitted hater.

2.) I share my colleagues’ distaste for tragic mulatta narratives--they’re tired, they are often based on the desire to be distinguished from “regular blacks,” and they perpetuate essentialist racial and cultural binaries.

and 3.) I wouldn’t say that I’m a fan of her blog.

I do, however, respect her right to define herself without being castigated. The type of “mixed up” identity that can come as a result of having a black and a white parent seems more justified than, for instance, the pathetic “I got Indian in my family” bullshit that internalized hatred has kept alive among black folks.

Race screws up everybody; lightskinnededgirl is just screwed up in a different way than are those who identify as white or black.

There are bigger fish to fry, negroes. I say we toss this one back.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Light-Skinned Negroes Who Understand the Value of Being Black ...

...and not Bi-Racial, Mixed, Mocha, Mulatto, Mestizo, Octaroon, Quadroon, Bi-Cultural, Multi-Cultural, Almost White, Etc.

Bob Marley, Malcolm X, Sonia Sanchez, Duke Ellington, Anna Deveare Smith, Booker T. Washington, Katherine Dunham, Lena Horne, Toussaint L'Ouverture, Colin Powell, Jerry Rawlings, Thurgood Marshall, Huey Newton, Pearl Cleage, Adam Clayton Powell, Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., Natasha Trethewey, Suzanne de Passe, Langston Hughes, Dorothy Dandridge, Angela Davis, Michael Manley, Dextor Gordon, Jackie McClean, Nikki Giovanni, W.E.B. DuBois, Haki Madhubuti, Stokely Charmichael, Frederick Douglas, Arna Bontemps, Barack Obama...

Zora on Film: Gone Baby Gone and White American Pathologies

I had very high expectations for Ben Affleck’s new film, Gone Baby Gone. In my opinion, he is an artist who has yet to realize his full potential. With his most recent effort, he is behind the camera and thus better able to exercise his intelligence and creativity. My expectations were also supported by the fact that the film’s script was based on a novel written by Dennis Lehane (also the source of Eastwood’s Mystic River). Lehane is a master at describing the intricacies of “poor, white trash” in urban America.

For me, Gone Baby Gone joins other great films like The Grapes of Wrath, Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby, Fargo, Raising Arizona, and A Patch of Blue in addressing and exploring white American pathologies. While not acknowledged as such, these films serve an important role in highlighting the types of white behavior that our media and mainstream society tends purposefully to ignore.

Poverty, drug use, criminality, welfare abuse/fraud and broken families are phenomena that are inevitably given black faces. These associations are so ingrained in the American psyche that black people themselves often believe them to be true. During Ronald Reagan’s last presidential campaign, I was struck by how effectively he was able to wield the image of the African-American welfare queen to gain support for his conservative politics. I recall watching a television interview with a poor, white woman sitting on a broken-down porch discussing the failures of African-Americans and their dependency on welfare. The reporter later commented that the woman herself was a third-generation welfare recipient.

Gone Baby Gone tells the story of a little girl who is stolen from her home in a working-class, largely white Boston neighborhood. Because she is white, beautiful and vulnerable, the media pounces on the story to add yet another chapter to the old American narrative of white women in peril. The girl’s mother revels in the attention and takes every opportunity to share both her tears and her story. It turns out, however, that “her story” isn’t entirely accurate – it rarely is in these cases. The mother is a cold, pathetic woman who is more interested in finding a man and getting a fix than in taking proper care of her daughter – she knows it, her family knows it and even police investigators know it. The reporters outside of her house, however, are completely uninterested in knowing or reporting on anything that the public may not be able or willing to easily digest.

Ben Affleck plays on our sensibilities as American viewers and presents us with a likely villain in the form of a dark-skinned, Haitian drug dealer. With him surrounded by his Asian and white prostitutes, I am sure that most viewers will have no problem envisioning him as someone capable of coveting a vulnerable, blond baby. But just when I was about to throw my popcorn at the screen, Affleck gives us a twist. “America, don’t be so quick to consume stereotypes,” he urges. “Use your head. Scratch the social surface to reveal the true ills beneath.”

The resolution of Gone Baby Gone is a bit far-fetched. It is difficult to imagine that Morgan Freeman’s character would take the risks that he does. It is even more difficult to imagine that working-class whites in south Boston would allow him, indeed beg him, to take those risks. I can only explain the ending by attributing it to Affleck’s personal vision of a better world. We are not there yet Ben, but I applaud you for at least giving us a snippet of our racial world as it currently is.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Chuancey Devega says: Wes Welker and I agree--go f@ck yourselves

I feel good. Gordon, you hated on me because I am a righteous, respectable negro with good taste. I guess you was wrong. I got my tv on credit and I enjoyed watching the game on it. I only have 60 more payments.

Gordon, you are a homophobic hater. What is wrong with liking professional wrestling? Did you have any idea that I was posing up like Arnold in this video before the game? Plus, make sure to check -4:16 in this video. Please, this beat needs to be looped and chopped. My boys are just like Arnold, and maybe a little Lou Ferrigno, posing and flexing in your faces.

I had a post of me shopping for chitlins, but alas, that is delegated to the archives. And I had prepared an elaborate post about "tricknology", chaos theory and how Gordon Gartrelle was responsible for the New England Patriots losing on Sunday. But then the fourth quarter happened. So, it seems that my ruminations about the white man's technology and his corrupt officiating squad conspiring against my "hood" team the 'Pats will have to wait for another, and perhaps more appropriate, time. I will wait till tomorrow to review the "experts" comments on the games. However, for now I say--and my girl Zora told me I need semicolons after a list that:

1. As the commentators said during the game: a great pitcher beats a great hitter. This game was ugly. And, if you take Addai out, and the questionable penalties, penalties that were facilitated in my opinion by the refereeing crew being told to ride the 'Pats hard (which would jive with the stories a few years back about pass interference calls during the championship and Indy boo-hooing), this is a much greater victory for the 'Pats. In fact, Addai was responsible for the majority--I will find this stat Monday afternoon--of the Colts offense. This is a clear message to the league, as we know, pressure Brady, test their offensive line and mug those receivers-especially if you have a sympathetic group of refs. FYI, did you see that banner in the Indy inzone? hatin' on my folks callin' them cheaters;

2. Again ugly game, but we won. This was like a monkey in a tug of war with a sumo wrestler;

3. Again ugly game, but we won. This was like Chyna from the WWE fighting Joey Buttafuoco;

In keeping with the theme of Arnold Schwarzenegger as a teller of truth, and as a man that speaks truth to power, I feel the same happiness that Arnold conveyed while talking about the Brazilian triple threat: the bunda, the mulata, and the samba...yup, that is what I am feeling as I gloat about the Pats.

As brother Arnold said, to brazilians, especially to men, the mulata is the symbol of everything sexual and erotic, and I can't help but agree:

See in you in week sixteen when we really start to celebrate...