Posts Tagged ‘African-American 101’

Interracial Dating, Part 2


Super Soul Sister sat, beaming with Expression # 52D—I Gots Me A White Man, while Skinny White Guy scurried around the table and found his chair.

My goodness. Front-row seating at a Swirl Event, although, technically speaking, (for you purists out there), a Reverse Swirl Event. Because normally, it’s Brudder Man With a White Woman.


Reverse Swirl Events are rare, thankfully. Sisters aint quite there yet. Too many jealous girlfriends out there for a curious Black woman to feel enough courage to try them a little White meat.  But when they get tired of Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to flip them over to do some freaky jailhouse sex and giving them some alphabets they don’t need, like Hep B, or AIDS, or Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to reclaim his manhood, by beating a Black woman’s azz, well then maybe, juuuuust maybe, they’ll give Jared Whitemeat some play.

But I aint holding my breath.

Back to blog:

You know how that is. Cuz walks in, looking around to see who’s paying attention, with Blondie walking behind him, Coach purse clutched tightly under her arm. She has to have that purse, because she’s the one paying for it. He holds her chair for her, while she smiles and thanks him. You know she’s smiling because she got Homeboy trained. Make you wanna holla, don’t it?

I sipped tea, and studied the two grim faces at my table, rather happy that I wasn’t the source of the grimness. But, I had to be careful here. Super Soul Sister had them big guns pointed dead at me, and I had to make sure I responded appropriately. In other words, no ogling, admiration, or any reference to their size, shape, or symmetry, the harmonious balance between……


Where was I?


Whaddya mean, “heading toward the abyss”?

Chile, please. I am a Smoove Operator, First Class; I’ve been in battlefield situations before. One Black chick with big ‘uns wasn’t no big deal, trust me. Besides, Skinny White Guy and His Black Date had me covered.

“Now you know she know better than that,” my daughter said, sotto voce.

“She knew better before she left her house,” my wife answered, voce equally sotto. “Look at her, sitting up there like Elsie the Frickin’ Cow.”

“Got milk?” I said with a straight face.

“Why, you thirsty?” my wife asked.

Hey, I like to live dangerously. I’m too old to skydive, and bungee-jumping aint my style, so a couple of well-placed wisecracks does it for me. I just had to be careful not to exceed my quota for the night.

The secret is, Rookie Husbands, is to change the subject, and let them bring it back up again. That way, you don’t get accused of obsessing, ‘cause they’re the ones that’s talking about it.

See? That’s the kind of helpful info you get in my books…

“Look at him,” my daughter said, “He don’t know which way to look! Left, right, up, down, everywhere but what he want to look at! Haa!” My wife giggled along with her; two schoolgirls sharing an adolescent secret. Then, my daughter looked at me. “Daddy?” she asked.

“What, my dear?” I asked, slurping down a fat oyster, dripping with hot sauce.

“If that were you, what would you do?” She asked it innocently enough, but there were enough land mines scattered there to blow up a platoon, trust me.

“Yes, Dad, what would you do?” my wife purred, but she didn’t fool me, not a bit. They both looked at me; my daughter with Expression # 18B—Advice-Seeking Seriousness, my wife with Expression # 33—Go For It With Yo’ Bad Self.

Cue “High Plains Drifter” flute music…


Black Radar…..

Black Radar…

Now there’s a piece of technology you’ll never see.

Something a Black man could wear that makes him look White. Make it look like a cell phone, or, better yet, a Bluetooth earpiece. Turn it off while you’re at the pool hall or barbershop, but when you walk into the bank, press the button, and suddenly, Tyrone Johnson looks like Braham McGregor. Credit score goes up by 100 points, and the teller’ fingers don’t instinctively reach for the alarm button. Loan officer smiles, and reaches for the YES stamp on his desk, ‘cause this gentleman’s loan is approved.

What would we call it? Hmmmm……

We need a funky, hip name, something instantly cool to buy and carry.


….. of course!

Kinda like “Blacula”, without the fangs…

Of course, we’d  simply call it “Jac.”

(We always trim the extra syllables, that’s how we roll.)

Retail price, $399.95, plus the cost of the monthly plan…


Well, of course there’s a monthly plan involved! Whaddya think, pay once, and that’s it?

(White people…gotta love ’em!)

Just like every other piece of technology out there, there’s different monthly plans, depending on how many minutes per month you need.

From the “I just need 100 minutes per month, so I can go to the bank and shop in Dillard’s,” to the “I work at IBM, so you know I needs me an unlimited plan,” there’s something for everybody.

Of course, the BlacJac will come with different cool features, depending on model. The Basic BlacJac will “jac” you (hey, if you can “tweet,” we can “jac”) from Black to White. That’s it.

For $499.95, the BlacJac II will jac you from Black to White, or, to one more culture of your choice. Comes in handy, sometimes. Like when you go to Chin Lee’s for the Tuesday Wing Special, you’ll get real wings from a real chicken, not the…uh…never mind. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

The BlacJac Elite, fondly known as the BlacJac Baller, or “Baller” for short, $599.99 (that’s why it’s called the “Baller.” The most expensive model is always called the “Baller.” That’s how we roll.) will instantly transport you to any race, creed, color, gender, culture, whatever you need to be here in America to smoothly and seamlessly blend in wherever you go. From Black to Asian to gay to Jewish to Pentecostal to handicapped to…whatever.

You White guys might want to get one, too. Comes in handy if you make a wrong turn and end up in Compton. For example……

Gangbanger: “Yo, homie, what set ya claim?”

Trevor: (hits switch) “Hoover Street Crips! Whatup, fool?”

Gangbanger: “Whatup, dog!”

The appropriate handshake takes place. (This Jac is amazing, aint it?)

Trevor: “I-45?”

(White people, note the brevity of the question. You people use way too many parts of speech to make a sentence. We find that annoying, which gets you in trouble in the first place. Black language is all about context. They are not on I-45, so obviously he wants to know where it is.



Simple, and concise. The only reason these blogs are so long is, I’m writing to White people.

Ebony Magazine blogs?

2 lines each.

Gangbanger: “Three blocks down, you know whut I’m sayin’? Hang a right, you know whut I’m sayin’? Go over the underpass, you know whut I’m sayin’? Take a left, and it’s on!”

(We use the phrase, “you know whut I’m sayin’?” to ensure clarity in our attempt at dialogue, It’s also part of Black Secret Code. None of your business what it means. Only those who need to know, know.)

Trevor: “All right, dog, later!”

The appropriate handshake takes place.  Two minutes later,Trevor re-enters his BMW without bloodshed…


Two minute handshake? Yes, Trevor is in a hurry, so the Quick Dap is in order.

Whaddya mean, “Quick Dap”? Read the Black Lexicon, I don’t have time to explain “Dap” today! Geez! And y’all want to rule the world?


Autumn: “Trevor, honey, did you get the directions?”

Trevor: “What’ja think I was standin’ there, fo’, bit— wait, I forgot…”(hits switch) “Yes, dear, the African-American gentleman was very helpful. Turn up the stereo, I don’t want to miss this Beethoven selection. We’ll be on the Interstate in about five minutes!”

Autumn (squeezing Trevor’s arm, while imagining him with a deep tan and a ‘do rag) “Oh, Trevor, you’re amazing!


Okay Donald Trump, I need some venture capital!

Whatup, fool???