Matlock Bitness College!!!

I, Matlock 61, am now offering a new service to you White People!

Yaay!

 

What is it, you may ask?

 

Matlock Bitness College—Earn your Master of Bitness Administration, so you can handle your bitness!!!

 

You see, “handlin’ yo’ bitness” is an important part of Black Culture, and I would be remiss in my duties as HNIC if I didn’t teach you this essential piece.

We are offering a series of classes that will help move you swiftly towards your MBA, such as:

Basic Ebonics–What the Heck Are They Saying? (Mandatory Prerequisite)

American Subcultures Culture 101: Black Wimmen, White Wimmen, White Mens, & Brothers–Why We Do The Thangs We Do.

Finance 101: Proper Techniques in Operating Without Proper Licensure 

 

Finance 102: Identifying Various Begging Techniques/Handling a Beggar With Minimal Liability

Tuition be free.

 

Attendance be mandatory.

(see why Ebonics is a prerequisite?)

 

No tuition? You’re puzzled and confused. The classes are free, but the After Parties following each class gonna cost you somethin’, trust me. You see, “handlin’ yo’ bitness” means to know which end of the cow the milk comes from.

And, of course, knowing how to extract said milk from the aforementioned cow. As Grandpa Matlock used to say, “If ya gonna milk a cow, make sho’ yo’ hands be warm!”

 

Anyway, in local news…

Sister Brown got something on Rev. Kimble!

 

Shhh!

 

She got……..pictures.

See, not too many people know about this, but Rev used to be a tomcat, running around with his tail hanging out, if you know what I mean. There was this high-yellow gal that joined church about 2 years ago, and Rev. was kinda sweet on her from day one. You could tell by the way he took a long time to join her up, patting her hand, and praying an extra-long prayer for her soul, but everybody knew it wasn’t her soul he was concerned with, it was them size 44 DD’s she had hanging out of her sweater.

 

Huh? Where was his wife?

 

Oh, she had joined sometime in between his 3rd and 4th wife.

 

Rev move quick.

Don’t interrupt.

Anyway, I don’t know why Rev. didn’t check around, he would’a found out this gal had a thing for preachers; some daddy issues she aint never worked out, and everywhere she go, she end up with the pastor. So, anyway, this girl is Sister Brown’s nieces, and she let it slip that her and Rev. was gonna hook up at the motel. Sister Brown, she one of those that always gotta see for herself, and, she carry her cell phone with her to snap pics.

She need to take a couple’s selfies, ’cause she fool around with Deacon Whitlock’s nephew Jo-Bee, and she think Jo-Bee keep it to hisself, but the boy stay on Facebook, and he keep a webcam on his nightstand. Sister Brown  don’t know, but she gonna make her FB debut next week. Jo-Bee says he might burn a few DVDs, make him some money!

 

Back to my story. Sister Brown went with her niece to the Crispy Sheet Motel, set herself in the closet and wait for ol’ Rev. ‘Bout fifteen, twenny minutes later there was a tap at the door, and in walk in Rev. Accordin’ to Sister Brown, “…he didn’t even say hello, he just started strippin’ off his clothes! He started strippin’, an’ I started snappin’!”

 

I aint gonna say what else she said, because it just aint fittin’ in polite company, if you know what I mean. Sister Brown says she gonna have a loooong talk with Rev, after Sunday’s sermon, dependin’ on what he preach about. She better hurry, ’cause Jo-Bee gonna put her bitness on the street in a minute. Between her, Rev, and Jo-Bee, in about a week or so, Sweet Home Full Gospel Baptist Church of the Nazarene Holiness Temple of Praise and Deliverance A.M.E Methodist African Episcopalian gonna be a mess!

Huh?

 

That aint the same name I said last week?

 

Child, they change the name of that church like Rev. Kimble change his drawers. Maybe more often….

 

Ha!

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Luther’s Barber Shop

I gotta quit going to Luther’s.

 

Not Luther’s BBQ, I’m talking about Luther’s Barber Shop.

 

Luther got a bad habit of watching old wrestling re-runs while he cut hair. Lose a few customers every time Dusty Rhodes put the Sleeper Hold on somebody. Luther start digging those clippers in, whoopin’ and hollerin’  and, well, it makes a mess. I gotta ask him what channel that comes on. Wrestling re-runs?

 

Like, it’s already fake to begin with, and you gotta watch the re-runs?

 

There’s another Luther in town, y’know. Luther Caldwell owns the Rib Shack next to the pool hall…well his wife actually owns it, you know, cuz you can’t get a liquor license if you’re a convicted felon. I’m gonna quit going to that Luther’s, too.

 

Why?

 

I aint sure if those ribs of his actually was cut off of a pig, you feel me? Luther trying to compete with that new Chinese buffet, but I think Luther and Johnny Ling got the same supply truck rolling up to their place. I gotta tell Luther, sometimes cheaper aint better. Besides, Johnny Ling’s sauce got Luther’s beat by a mile. They say his wife Ding, she spit in the sauce, but…

 

Huh?

 

Hey, I aint tryin’ to make fun of Chinese people! That’s her name, Ding Ling!

 

Well, that’s what everybody calls her, and she answer the phone to it.

 

“Ling Chinee prace, Ding speakin’! Bes’ wing in town!”

 

That’s what she says, so don’t get mad with me.

Anyway, they say she spit in the sauce, to give it that real Asian flavor, but I aint seen that, myself. I’m still trying to figure out where they get them ribs from…

 

You know Johnny and his family joined the Baptist church last week, don’t ya?

Humph.

 

Johnny Ling aint foolin’ nobody. Johnny got his eye on that Sunday lunch crowd. You can tell them Lings aint really Baptist. Big fat Buddha eyeballin’ you as soon as you walk in. I wonder if somebody told Johnny he gonna get baptized next month? I’m gonna tell him to bring some soap…that oughta’ be worth the price of the offering…

 

Can you imagine, a whole family of Asians getting’ baptized by Rev, Kimball? I aint tryin’ to make fun, but that’s gonna be a mess! Rev is already kinda nervous to begin with, and he gotta put 5 Asians in some water, and dunk ‘em under? And you know, sometime Rev forget he got somebody underwater, and he go to talkin’ ‘bout how …”Jordan River be chilly and cold, chill my body, but not my soul,” and he lie like a sidewalk, that water be freezing! But freezing aint the problem, Rev, you fixin’ to drown somebody in here!

 

When Rev. Kimble hold Ding Ling underwater for 5 minutes, it’s gonna be some schit in Sweet Home Baptist Church of the Nazarene Pentecostal Holiness Church, trust me!

 

Yeah, I know. That’s a funny name for a church. Somebody need to get their doctrine straight.

 

But you know Black people. All we care about is whether or not the choir can sing, and can Reverend Wimble preach good or not. We get baptized when we six years old, get that outta the way early. Johnny and Ding in their twenties, their kids 14, 12, and 3.

I wonder if he gonna try to put ‘em all in the pool at the same time?

Ping, that’s the 3-year old, he don’t lissen to nobody. Rev might, just might, wanna hold him under for awhile, on purpose. Best way to get the devil out is to drown his azz, y’know. Rev. Kimble might end up with a lungful of water hisself, he aint careful.

 

I ought’a warn him, but he was throwin’ slams in the pulpit, talkin’ about, “Some o’ you young wimmens wear yo’ dresses too short! Couple ‘yall wear yo’ skirt one mo’ inch higher, y’all gonna need lipstick! Nasty heifers…”

 

Made my wife mad. She says, “Why Rev be looking at those young women, anyway? He need to be watching Sister Kimble, with her ashy feet! 2 inches of crust on her ankles! Look like she been dipping her legs in cornmeal! All she’s missing is some hot grease, we can have a fish fry up in here! Speaking of fish, she need to wash them old nasty stocking she done wore for the past 3 weeks! Humph! Fish net stockings, that’s exactly what they smell like, fish!”

 

I’m leaving that alone…

 

Ha!

 

Black Men & White Wimmen

Dang, Cuz, I thought inwardly. Is that the best you can do?

 

I was sitting in my pickup truck @ Wal-Mart, watching people come in and out, and I observed a Black man with a scowl on his face. Nothing unusual there, for some brothers, a scowl is the default expression, kind of a Look #8, Don’t Mess With Me. What caught my attention was the woman walking behind him, too far to be really with him, but close enough to him to let anybody interested enough in them to know that they was together.

 

Anybody–Interested–Enough–In–Them…well, that would be…..me.

 

Yes, I am an Biracial Couple Inspector, or BiCI, for short, (pronounced “Bicky”). I have the lofty task of identifying and assessing BiC’s, and filing said information in the BiCDat (“Biracial Couple Database”), an important part of Black Culture.

 

One of the tenets of BC is the instant identification of those who purport to be a part of us.

Hey, we don’t mind you joining us, but we do have standards. Besides the idea of “keepin’ it real” has always been an important part of our heritage, and we don’t suffer perpetrators and imitators gladly. So all you trailer park Suzies with your straight-hair braids, you may sit down now. You’ve been identified and appropriately filed.

 

Under “wannabe”.

 

Anyway, the problem was, the heifer looked wider than the car she just stepped out of; I could hear the  little Kia Soul heave a sigh of relief.

 

Dang! How much this heifer weigh?

 

A fat joke is in order here.

 

Oh, don’t frown up @ me, I’m a fat man, and if I’m not offended, then neither are you!

 

This heifer was so fat…

 

(only got room for one, so it’s got to be funny)

 

…when she joined church, she had to go to Sea World to get baptized!

 

Aw, that’s mean! Let me pick another.

 

This heifer was so fat, her nickname was “Damn!”

 

Oh, okay, one more…This heifer so fat, she sat down in Wal-Mart and lowered the prices!

 

Haaa!

 

Anyway, as they walked towards the door, he turned around with Expression # 64, Hurry Your Azz Up, but she just shook her head; her ankles were under enough strain as it was without adding speed to the mix.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, chill out,” she muttered.

 

I kept my face straight, but I always marvel at how White gals pick up the Hood Rat Accent.

 

“C’mon, mane, I’m walkin’ fast as I kin,” she said, evicting Expression #16, Eye Roll With Sigh.

 

“This week, I sweah, yo’ azz goin’ on the track,” he replied.

 

A brief explanation is in order here, lest you misunderstand. He has absolutely no intention of making her go on the track, changing her diet, or doing anything that will promote weight loss.

 

None at all.

 

His purpose in saying that at this point is multifold.

 

Black wimmen, stop crooking your neck and pay attention! You might learn something!

 

One, he is establishing/maintaining control over this heifer.

Heifers must be controlled, otherwise you, well, lose control over them.

 

(Duh!)

 

Reminding White girls about their weight has been proven to be an effective means of control, better than chains, whips, or barbed-wire fences, as well as being obviously cheaper.

 

(To the Brother, “cheaper” is always better, unless of course he is attempting to show off his “Baller” status, but we won’t go into that here.)

 

Two, he is demonstrating to the Sisters the reason why he has chosen this particular White heifer, not for her looks, (unless she has some, which is always a good thing), or money (unless she has some, which is always a good thing), or family connections (unless she has some, which is always a good thing)…

 

See the pattern here?

 

Anyway, he is demonstrating to you the fact that this White gal will acquiesce to this kind of treatment, thereby demonstrating:

A–I don’t need you, and,

B–If you wanna hook up, holla @ ya boy, Blondie gonna look the other way! Sweet!

 

Three, he is holding out to this White girl that there is a chance, however small and minute, that there is a way to satisfy and please him, a hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, a place where somehow, someway, she can please this Black man and keep him happy and faithful….

 

I know, Blondie’s been hitting the pipe too often, poor thing. Crystal meth is not your friend.

 

What she has yet to realize, but you already know, Black Woman, is that any nigga who is so mentally/emotionally shallow as to need/want/desire a White woman to validate his Black manhood, no matter which of the several repositories for White girls (a.k.a. “trailer parks”) he has collected this particular specimen from, is no nigga you want to be involved with in the first place. Besides, some of them trailer parks got some strains of STD’s that’ll knock penicillin on its azz. You don’t want that schit in your bloodstream, trust me!

 

I feel you.

 

Let his momma, or his White heifer (a.k.a. “The Fellatio Fairy”) fool with his trifling azz.

0You got better things to do.

The last thing you need is some half-raised Negro eating all the food in the refrigerator, drinking up all the soda water, and then looking at you, talking about, “When we gonna get some grocery in this mo’ fo’? I’m hongry!”

 

No, you don’t need that.

 

Sisters, Matlock wants to encourage you.

 

Finish school.

 

Get your certification.

 

Tack on some alphabets behind your name.

 

Go to a museum. Learn a new skill.

 

Take a night course.

 

Buy a Rosetta Stone CD, and learn a new language.

 

Date a White man. There’s a whole world out there…..

 

Huh?!?

 

Yes, I said, “Date a White Man!”

 

It’s okay, they passed a law!

 

Revised Statutes # 72947-A says, and I quote:

 

“African-American women, formerly known as Black women, formerly known as Afro-American women, formerly known as Negro women, formerly known as Colored women, formerly known as Nigra women, formerly known as nigger wimmen, girl, gal, etc, etc, can now have interpersonal relationships that lead to intimacy with Caucasian, Anglo-Saxon, a.k.a. White men, up to and including marriage and/or long-term commitment.”

 

See?

 

From what I hear, they’ve been craving you for centuries.

 

Just make sure you get one that has the right motive in mind. Some of them want to date you because you in style right now. Enjoy it if you must, but don’t let it go to your head.

 

Triflin’ White boy is worse than a  triflin’ nigga….

 

Ha!