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….