Archive for June, 2013

White Neighbors!

Yesterday, my wife and I were sitting on the front porch, enjoying the cool of the evening, while observing our new White neighbors…

Yes, new White neighbors!

We get them by times in our middle-class neighborhood, and it’s actually a good thing. For one, it means your property values are about to go up, unless, of course, it’s one of those trailer-park refugees that hit it big on a scratch ticket. Then, you got problems. As the old saying goes, “You can take a White woman out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the White woman.”

But, fortunately, our new neighbor didn’t come from a double-wide, no sir. They kept the lawn clean, put up the kids’ toys at the end of the day, mowed their grass once a week, I mean good, quality White folks, the kind you proudly introduce to your kinfolks and friends.

As a matter of fact, that’s what Miz Lacy was doing, mowing her lawn…

Speaking of that, when was the last time you saw a Black woman cutting grass? You see sweaty White women all the time, wearing too-tight Farah Fawcett shorts, pasty white thighs straining, trying to push a lawn mower. But Black women? No, indeed not!

(Well, I saw a Black Lesbian cutting grass, one time, but she was trying to prove a point. As if I cared, y’know? When you finish with your grass, Butch, come do mine! Ha!)

“See?” I said to my wife, trying to give her a gentle hint, “Look at Miz Lacy, takin’ care of bitness!”

“Are you crazy?” my wife replied, “It’s too dang hot to be out here, clowning with a lawnmower!”

“Well, Baby, whaddya think? It’s June, it’s supposed to be hot! That’s when the grass grows, when it’s hot!”

“And…what does that have to do with me? That aint my job to cut the grass, it’s yours!” She was indignant, like I had asked her to dance on a pole or something.

“Look at ol’ Lacy,” I responded coolly, knowing I was right. “She’s pushing her lawn mower right now. She pushing hard, too.”

“That heifer need to push two lawn mowers,” she answered, laughing. “Take a look at the thighs on that White woman! Look like two big hams! Two big flat hams! Haaa!” She laughed, then her face changed. “Why you lookin’ at that heifer’s thighs?”

“Nice,” I said admiringly, shading my eyes for a better view.

“Say what?” She raised up in her chair, ready for battle.

“Commercial high wheel, extended deck mulching lawn mower with 5 hp Briggs & Stratton engine,” I said, ignoring her hand tightly gripping her glass of iced tea, “Nice!” I looked at her with Expression #3, Innocent Straight Face. “What did you say?”

“Never mind,” she answered, still suspicious, but unable to prove anything. Don’t ask me what annoys women more, the idea of her husband looking at another woman, or not being to catch him at it. All I know is, both of them feel good to men, trust me.

Lacy’s mower suddenly stopped. She pulled the starter cord several times, but nothing. She pulled it another time, real hard, making everything jiggle. She bent over, and I thought about saying “Nice” again, but I changed my mind. No use being greedy.

“Humph,” my wife said, trying to look like she wasn’t trying to see if I was looking, but she wasn’t fooling me any. Women just can’t help themselves.

Lacy turned, saw us, and waved. “Hey, there, neighbors!” she yelled.

“Aw, hell,” my wife muttered, smiling and waving back. “I hope she stay put—dang!”

Lacy walked across the street toward us, pulling her Briggs & Stratton along behind her. “I know she don’t think I’m gonna help her with that,” my wife mumbling under her breath again, switching to Expression 94B—Cheerful Curiosity. “Need some help?” my wife chirped.

I looked at her, but kept quiet. Sometimes it’s just best to let things play themselves out. You have to be careful when your wife gets chirpy on you. Nothing good ever comes out of chirpy, trust me.

“Oh, yes,” Lacy said. “This is my mother-in-law’s lawn mower, and it’s just as cranky and ill-tempered as she is. It can be so annoying, you know what I mean?”

“Lord, yes,” my wife answered. I turned, and shot her Expression 12—We’ll Discuss This Later. She shot me a quick Whatever, and asked Lacy,” Would you like a glass of tea while my husband takes a look at it? Go get your tools, baby.”

So, there it was, neatly played. Check, and mate. No need to argue, just get up with your dignity intact.

I stood, taking a deep breath. Where in the hell was her husband, and why didn’t he get first crack at it? What the heck, I was already drafted for mechanic duty, so asking the question wouldn’t hurt. “Where’s Robert?” I ignored my wife’s # 63 Mind Your Business, and smiled expectantly at Lacy.

“Oh, he’s in the house, somewhere,” she answered with a dismissive wave of the hand, “You know how he is…”

Yes, I did. Robert was strange.

Real strange.

For example…..


How to Act @ A Black BBQ

To all my White people out there who have been reading this blog, thirsting for knowledge about your new Black neighbors, whose strange and mysterious ways leave you befuddled, I apologize. We got a little sidetracked, talking about Black Church. If you missed it, click this:

Once again, I, your instructor, and Official HNIC of this class, do humbly apologize……..well, not humbly. Screw that.

Y’all should’a got your fill of “humble” back in the day.

Anyway, let me apologize for not fulfilling the premise of this blog, which is, to help you understand the ways of Black people, and bridge the gap of ignorance that exists, so that you will know exactly why it aint cool to bring quiche to the BBQ your new neighbor Leroy invited you to.

(Don’t get mad, Black people, @ my using the moniker “Leroy.” I have to start this class slow and simple, and besides, let’s keep it real. When you hear the name Leroy, the first thing you imagine is a sweaty nigga with a Jheri. And a gold tooth. You know I’m right, so quit that.)


You didn’t know quiche was verboten @ a Black BBQ?

(Black folk: “verboten” means “forbidden” in German. FYI.)

You do NOT bring quiche to a Black BBQ. If you do, three things will happen:

1–Your dish will be prominently displayed on the sides table, next to the mac & cheese and the potato salad.

2–You will hear the question asked over and over, “What is that schit?”

3–You will hear the host(ess) repeat, over and over, in response to the above question, “I don’t know what that schit is! Ask him!” Then,

3a–The host’s finger will point @ you. Making you, of course…

3b–Extremely self-conscious, even more so than just being The Only White Person There.

Black people, please, please try to avoid the above situation. I’m not talking about the quiche, that’s something White people just do. And, yes, I know, there are one or maybe two Black people who actually eat quiche, but you do have the good sense to do that schit behind closed doors. And, you don’t be bringing that schit to people’s house, unless they ask you to. I’m talking about inviting just one White guy or White couple to your party.

You know that’s just wrong.

I know, it’s a source of amusement, watching the Only White Person (OWP) clumsily walking around with a Schlitz Malt Liquor in his hand, trying to fit in. Then, after a few, he starts giving everybody high fives, and then, then, OWP turns into OMG!

Why? You know why!

He starts to dance! Jerkin’ and twitchin’ all over the floor, Kinda like this:

and then, your Cousin Junebug starts egging him on, and they form a circle around him with your niece Trudy With The Big Ol’ Booty……

Just writing about it makes me want to invite a few people over…

But, we must resist the impulse to invite just one.

No, it aint right!

Remember when you got invited to an White event, and you realized you were the Official Invited-Nigga-So-I-Can-Feel Good-About-My-Whiteness? And you had to slog your way through warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and unseasoned food? And the music…

I refuse to go into the music.

But, you get my point. Invite more than one.

But, you may ask, how many?

The proper ratio, according to the Official HNIC Handbook, is, and I quote, “…one White person for every 12 Black people.”

Can’t go wrong there. That’s enough to keep an eye on ‘em and still have a good time….


You White people didn’t know we had an Official Handbook?

We talked about this! You’ve forgotten already???

Click here:


A Black man’s work is never done….

Black Church, Conclusion

Oh, wait, we can’t leave just yet. Rev’s gettin’ ready to “come to a close.”

For the 3rd time.

Remember, class, Black Rule # 15-B:

When a preacher look at his watch, it don’t mean a thing.

Let me give you a clue: he aint really coming to a close, until he:

1–close his Bible.

2–lean his head to the side, and take his glasses off. This mean he aint reading his notes no more, he’s “leanin’ an’ dependin’ on the Sperrit” now to finish his sermon. This is when it’s gonna get good!

3–He starts to hum in between sentences, looking for his proper musical pitch. We call this “tuning up,” consisting of spaced out pauses, hums, “well, well”, and other various mnemonics designed to slide him into his “whoop.”

White preachers don’t whoop. Just so you know. Every blue moon, I mean eeeeevery blue moon, a White boy come along with a sense of rhythm, and “pulls him one.” I know this is all a bit confusing, but it’ll make more sense, when you hear it first hand.

The “Whoop”, or the musical ending to the Black Sermon, has it’s roots  in the West African call-and-response story telling oral tradition. In the old days, before churches had organs, the congregation would “talk back” to the preacher, repeating the last few words of his sentences in a rhythmic beat, punctuating his sermon and turning it into a song-like chant. Once we got organs and pianos in, though, we got buck-wild with it.

YouTube got some good whoopers on it. Personally, I find C.L. Franklin, Leo Daniels, and Jasper Williams are the best of their representative styles. Oh, and among modern preachers, Bishop G.E. Patterson has no peer.


(feel free to argue that, if you like)

“What In Hell Do You Want?” By Rev. Leo Daniels is one of the best stand-up, non-music whooping sermons ever preached.

But hold on, we’ll talk about that later. Listen to Rev come to a close…

“Yes, my brothers and sisters…I used to be on the street…can I get a witness?”

“Yes, Rev! We remembers ya! Talk, Doc!”

“I used to…um-hmmm…stand on the corner…hangin’ by the Greyhound Bus station…”

“Well, well!”

Waitin’ on them pretty young thangs to step off…lookin’ for a strong Black man…to give ‘em….a helpin’ hand…”

“Lawd help Lawd help!”

“I was pimpin’ like there was no tomorrow…pimpin’ an’ tippin’….slippin’ an’ slidin’…”


But I’m so glad…I said I’m glaaaa-aaad….that Jeeesus…”


“Mary’s Baby Boy! Jee-sus…”

“Yes! Yes!”

“The Rose of Sharon….Jeeeeee-sus!”


“The Fairest above ten thousand….Jeeeesus!”

“Come on, suh!”

The Lily…..of the valley! The Bright…..and Mornin’ Star! Shout Yes!”


“Shout Yes!”





(Right about now, one of the front-row sisters gets to shoutin’ and carrying on. It’s quite unnerving, especially if you’re used to Quiet Church. But, sorry to say, Black folk don’t play that. We like our Church noisy, the noiser the better. Here’s an example:


See, we all like it funky, and the funkier the better!

This one’s a funeral….


A funeral. Why not?

See, no matter where you go, we Black folk like to let it all hang out in church.

That’s who we are.

That’s what we do….


Black Church, Part 6

Reverend Kimble must be back on crack, poor thing…..



You didn’t know Rev used to be on the pipe?


Oh, that’s right, I forgot, y’all White. Y’all got them educated preachers, y’all make sure of that. Send ‘em to seminary, make ‘em take theology classes, learn the Greek and the Hebrew all that good stuff…


Not us!


As far as Black folk is concerned, the only book a preacher need to know is the Book.


That’s right, the Bible, and plenty of it.


It aint to say that a preacher can’t be educated, but it aint necessary. What we look for in a preacher is what’s called “The Call.”


What did you say?


Uh-huh, that’s what I figured. You don’t know, do you?


If you gotta ask, you’ll never know.


But, since I’m the H.N.I.C., I must make an attempt to explain it, or at least try…




“The Call” is when God looks down and picks somebody to preach for Him, theoretically the most lo-down Negro He can find. God washes him up, and puts His Word in his mouth, and generally spruces the boy up so he won’t make God shame.

(The proper word is “ashamed,” I know, but BlackSpeak is succinct by default.)


We accept the preacher’s word for it, God’s calling and all, but we keep an eye on him for a year or so, until the proof kick in. Like, how he act when he walk down the street, and he catch a whiff of Jimmy Bivens’ fresh-rolled blunt. What do he do?




If he keep on steppin’, he’s okay. Preach on, Brother, preach on!




If he stop….and lift one finger in the air…and tiptoe into the alley…?


Uh…Bro-Man better get another dip.




Oh, you’re not about to make me explain that, are you?


Here! Look @ this clip, and you’ll get it:


I hope.


Now, how do I know for certain Rev is back on crack?


Well, for one thing, crack is a powerfully addicting drug, more addicting than sex, or even chocolate.


Okay, I did go a bit far.


Chocolate beats crack 2–1, in a blind taste test.


Now, chocolate crack?


Forget it! You can lay hands, anoint with baby oil, do whatever you wanna do, if a  nigga get hooked on chocolate crack?


He do a drive-by on the whole church, for a hit of chocolate crack!


Chocolate crack, chocolate crack….make you break yo momma’s back!


Okay, I quit….


Heck, just the idea of chocolate crack makes my mouth water….


See how hard it is to quit?




Any-WAY, Rev is drooling, right in the middle of his sermon. That’s what he used to do, when he was pimpin’ on Elmore street, right by the Greyhound Bus station.




Yes, Autumn, Rev used to exploit young African-American females adjacent to the urban transportation modality center, ask your mother, if you don’t believe me.


Now, quit interrupting!


Rev used to wear this long fur coat, rabbit or possum, I don’t know which, but it was long and stank.

Not “stunk,” not “stinking”……. stank!



See, Rev used to be in love with Ma’am Shuckey, she run the ho-house on the south side, and she have Rev covering her bases on the north side.


Rev…well, he wasn’t Rev yet, he was Sweet Henry then…


Just keep up.


BlackSpeak take a lot of twists and turns, you just gotta keep up.


Sweet Henry, he hang around the bus station, wait on the New Orleans express to drop off White girls that be running away from home. Well, they headed for the French Quarter, but they chicken out and jump off. Sweet Henry, he sees ‘em going over to the pay phone, trying to call home, but he don’t do nothing just yet. He’s slick like that.

He let ‘em try, two, three times, but they can’t get through, ’cause Henry done gummed up the phone with a plug of super glue.

Yeah, I told you he was slick!

So, he wait till he see ‘em crying and carrying on, then he come in all smooth and smiling, offer to make the call for them, “…just give me yo’ daddy’s number, I’ll talk to him for ya, cher, don’t you worry, Sweet Henry make it all right…” and, well, before it’s over with, little Becky going ’round the world for a Benjy.

Like I said, God looking for a low-down nigga to turn around…




That means she’s going to provide extensive sexual favors for $100.


Got it?


Henry steer ‘em over to Ma’am Shuckey’s, trying to buy Ma’am Shuckey’s love, ’cause he in love with Ma’am Shuckey.


Think about it for a minute, you’ll figure it out. Ask the Psychology majors, they can explain it better than I can.

You white people make everything complicated. Geez!


Ma’am Shuckey, she got Henry wearing that nutria rat coat, she told him he look cute in it, he keep it on 24-7. What he don’t know is, she got powder shook all on the inside, powder made Henry fall in love, and that powder keep him in love.


It’s just some Dr. Scholls’ with a little baking soda mixed in, but she don’t know that.


Don’t say nothing to her about it, y’hear?


Mr. Piroq, he sell that schit for a love powder, but he buys it from the drug store, mostly for his wife’s feet.

Her feet stank, too.


She sit on the third pew, and I think her feet is why they call it a pew.


Her feet be funky, and she be having the nerve to shout in that pew. Damn!


Anyway, Rev is drooling, like he used to do at the bus station, keep a rag near his mouth to catch the spit. When he straight, it aint too bad, but when he backslide? His lips be juicy as a watermelon…





Relapse, Autumn, Winter, whatever the hell yo’ name is, relapse!!!


Git yo’ azz outta my class!


Got me talkin’ Eubonics an’ schit! Get out!!!


Class dismissed…er…the doors of the church are open……..



Black Church, Part 5–It’s Preaching Time!!!

“A-maaaaaaa….zeen graaaaaazzzze….

How sweeeeet, the-uh sowww-unddd 


Tha-at saaaave…uh-huuuh wreeeech

Li-iiiike meeeee-eeee! 


I-iii wuuuunce wuz loss….

But now eye-mm foun’ 


Wuz blin’, but now…

Eye-eye ceeee….”


Oh, don’t try to sing it from the hymnal, Brittney. Nobody use them hymnals anyway, ‘cept for you White visitors. Black people just sing, even if we don’t know the words.

Don’t believe me? Just look around. Half the niggas in here don’t know the words, we just holler what we hear the next person sing.

Oh, and by the way, “sing” in present tense, past tense, and/or future tense, is pronounced, “sang.” As in, “She sho’ kin sang, caint she?” That can mean today, tomorrow, last week, or next year, it all depends on context.

Remember Rule # 48? BlackSpeak is totally dependent on context.

This is Second Sunday, so we’re singing “Amazing Grace.” Next Sunday is Lord’s Supper Sunday, so the song is different. It’ll be the old Negro Spiritual, “Dark Is De Night, Cold Is De Ground”.


You never heard it?

What do you White people do in church anyway, eat quiche?

“Dark Is The Night” is an old, I mean old number, first played by Blind Willie Johnson, back in ’27. It’s on YouTube, if you’re interested, but don’t expect much singing, I mean sanging.

Take a listen…

Willie don’t sang, he just play and moan the song. Blind Willie was really blind, he wasn’t playing blind to sell records, like some of them other Blind Boys do.

How many “Blind Boys” they got, anyway? The 5 Blind Boys, The Blind Boys From Mississippi, The Blind Boys of Alabama….Schit, there aint that many blind singers in America. I think some of ‘em be perpetratin’…

Now, Blind Willie is really blind. What happened was, his stepmomma was doing the double-butt shuffle with another man, and Willie’s daddy caught ‘em. She got mad, and grabbed some lye, and threw it in Willie’s face, and it got in his eyes and blinded him. Willie was just 7 years old, poor thing. If I was Willie’s daddy, I’d be in jail now.

No, I forgot, I live in Louisiana, we got temporary insanity defense over here. I’d be on her grave, on my knees, still beating her azz….

Anyway, this is how that song goes:

 “Dark was the night and cold was the ground…. On which the Lord was laid;

The sweat like drops of blood run down…..In agony he prayed…”

Yeah. Real spooky. We like schit like that. The deacon call out the line, then everybody joins in, real slow. We call it, “The Hymn of Preparation,” which means, “All right, Rev, time to preach! And after a song like that, you better do something!”

Oh, I almost forgot, class….you did bring a Bible, didn’t you?

Yes, a Bible. That’s what Rev is gonna preach from.

I know, you’re used to sermons that come out of Reader’s Digest or Charisma, but we don’t play that here. Rev gotta come out of the Book! If he don’t, old Mother Jones will give him the stank-eye, fold her arms, and don’t say nothing!

Every Black Church got an old Church Mother whose job it is to let folks know if Rev is preaching right or not, ’cause some people need help. If she waving her hands and saying “Amen!” real loud, Rev’s preaching! If not, oh well…..unless, of course, Rev is on a sticky topic that hits her in the mug.

Like, last week, Rev talked about gay marriage………

“This week on the news, they was talkin’ about gay marriage…’scuse me, chirren, but I want to know somethin’…what the HELL is gay……marriage?”

Everybody holler, “Talk, Reverend, talk!”

“What in HELL…’scuse me, y’all just gotta pray for me, I get upset when I hears foolishness like this…..”

“Go ‘head, Pastor, go ‘head! Talk, Doctor!”

“What do they meeeen…two mens…two hard-leg mens….two sweaty mens…”

Percy on the organ raise his hand, and say, “Yes, Lawd, Yesss, Lawd!!!” but everybody else says, “Help us, Lawd, help us!”

(Mom Jones try to give Percy a look, but she can forget that. Percy havin’ a flashback from last night with Randy; Rev is hitting Percy’s sweet spot…)

“Two mens…. standin’ up in chu’ch? Wantin’ to get married? What kind o’ church is that?”

“Jee-sus! JEE-sus!” The crowd’s all in it, now…

“When Gawd.. stood in the Garden of Eden, with Eve in one hand, and Adam in the other, Gawd wasn’t blind!

Gawd wasn’t crazy!

And Adam wasn’t crazy, neither! He say, ‘for this cause…..shall a man leeeeeeeeve his father and mother…..and cleeeeeeeeee to his wife! Adam wasn’t lookin’ for Steeeeeeve, Adam had Eeeeeeeeeve!”

And, there you go. Rev was just-a gettin‘ it, preaching a mile-a-minute on gay marriage, and po’ Mother had to sit with her lips tight, because everybody know her grandson Percy shackin’ up with Randy Fremont over there on Cutler Street. She try and play it off, callin’ them “roommates,” but everybody know what the deal is. Randy wears a size 16 shoe, if you get my drift, and Percy?

He walk in church every Sunday with a limp, and he wasn’t born with it, neither.

Hey, I’m just sayin’….


Okay, hush, here come Rev!

Black Church, Part 4

Black Church, Part 4


Here’s a Little Known Fact: Not all Black people can sing.


Yes, you heard me!


Oh, I know that goes against everything you’ve been taught all your lives, but not all Black folks can sing. Let me explain…


Way back in slavery times, when we gathered around the front porch in the evening to sing to Massa, there was always one mo’fo’ in the bunch who couldn’t carry a tune, but he wanna stand in front and sing real loud, so Massa can hear him. Rest of the slaves know that if Massa hear his azz, everybody gotta go back in the cotton field and chop, and take a couple’a licks to take with ‘em, so they try to shush him up.


Things aint changed much, in every choir there’s a nigga that can’t sing. Nowhere in the Bible do it say that the Lord closes His eyes, but there’s plenty of spots where He closes His ears. When Sister Brown step up to the mike, the Lord sticks both His finger in His ears, real deep, and says, “Gabriel, please tell Me when Bernice finish that song!”


Don’t believe me?


Okay, here’s a sample:


I know, I know, it’s kinda disconcerting, hearing her wail like that, sounds like a cat getting’ electrocuted, all you’re missing is the sparks and the smoke. One day I’ll tell you why Rev. let her sing, but that’s another story. Anyway, just nod your head like it sound good, but don’t clap too much, she’ll get happy and want to sing another verse…..huh?


Get happy?


I forgot, White people don’t get happy. Well, some of your way-out Pentecostals, you know, those snake-handling mo’fo’s, be dancing with them rattlesnakes in their hands, because Jesus said Christians could take up snakes and no harm would come from it….


I don’t think Jesus meant to pick ‘em up. Just if you happened to run across one, it wouldn’t harm you, but Jesus did not mean, “Go pick one up and take it to church with you and dance and sing with the mo’fo,”….no, He did NOT say that.


Some of you White people always want to take something too far.


Like bungee jumping. You don’t see niggas bungee jumping. As if a nigga gonna hook a rubber band on his azz and jump off a cliff. That’s White boy action, pure and simple.


“Dude, I’m gonna hook a rubber band on my hiney, and jump off this cliff!”


“Go for it, man!”


Any time you hear, “Go for it, man!” it’s a White boy, telling another White boy to do something stupid, trust me.


Back to what I was saying. You people don’t get happy in church. You weep silently, maybe, twist your handkerchief if it get really good to you, but you don’t get funky with your emotions in church.


We do.


Why, you ask?


It’s just a fundamental difference in our respective cultures. White people use church as a place to get it all together, and we use it as a place to let it all hang out. Y’all like quiet, dignified church, but us?


The noisier, the better. Church aint church, unless we cuttin’ up. We jump and holler, because that’s what good church is. So don’t act shocked if somebody get happy and fall out, and they throw a sheet over ‘em. That’s to keep it decent. Some deacons sitting on the front row like to look. White people don’t need sheets, ‘cause aint nobody falling out, and even if they do, y’all fall so dignified

and proper—why y’all do that? Just lean back with your arms folded and fall back, with an “Ahhhhhh!”


With catchers, no less. Somebody standing there ready to catch you and eeasssse yo’ butt to the floor, so you don’t bump nothing on the way down.


Black people?


We fall out, and the rule is, if you hurt yourself, you was faking the Spirit anyway.

So if you get hurt playing with the Spirit, that’s good for your azz. Next time, don’t fake it. We throw a sheet over you, if we can catch you, so nobody can see the rip in your drawers.


I aint making fun, I’m just sayin’….


Good, she’s finished. Stand up, it’s the Hymn of Preparation. Rev.’s getting ready to preach….