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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White People’s Children!

Okay, White people, this is a Public service announcement:

Raise your kids!!!

Wait, I may have been a bit vague. Let me restate:

White people, BEAT—YOUR—KIDS!!!

 

BEAT ‘EM!!!

 

Ahhhhhhhh!

Got that off my chest!

Some of you White people ought to be ashamed. Unruly, whiny White kids are one of my pet peeves.

Black kids, too, but that’s another topic.

Hood-rat-lettes make me want to believe in retroactive abortion. Wait until they’re about eleven years old, twelve, maybe. Give ‘em a chance to see if they gonna amount to anything. If so, fine, let ‘em stay.

If not…?

 

Take ‘em to the clinic. Tell ‘em they going to their Maw-Maw’s house, and drop ‘em off…….

 

“…Ray-Ray, if you don’t keep yo’ sticky-azz fangers outta my purse I swear, yo’ azz goin’ to the clinic! You aint made twelve yet! I’ll drop yo’ azz off in a heartbeat, you think I’m playin’? Stick a needle in yo’ azz, you’ll quit that schit, I bet!”

 

I was in Dollar Tree the other day, minding my own business, looking for some masculine products, you know, rim cleaner, tire black, clear coat wax…

 

Huh?

 

Hey, if you can say “feminine products,” I can say “masculine products.”

And I can use my stuff outside, you gotta sneak in the bathroom to use your schit, so be quiet!

Unless you want to trade off?

I wash yours, you wash mine…

 

I thought so! Now hush!

 

Anyway, (before I was so rudely interrupted), I’m walking in Dollar Tree, and suddenly I hear behind me, “Mommmmm—yyyyyyyy!!! I want a tooooyyyyyeeeeee!!!”

 

I turned, and, sure enough, a 5-year old White kid was pointing at some G.I. Joe-like toy that me and his momma both knew wouldn’t last 12 hours in his little masochistic hands, but, hey, it’s Dollar Tree.

Everything’s a dollar there.

 

Even a 5-year old White kid’s satisfaction and the resulting silence that, theoretically, was supposed to follow. So, she grabs it.

“Here,” she says, relieved that this whole episode was so easily resolved.

 

But, noooooo…..

 

“Mommmmmm—yyyyyy!!! Not thaaaaaaat oooonnneeee!!! Thiiiiissssssss one!”

“Grrrrr,” I said, to nobody in general.

The mother looked up at me, with Look # 77, I’m-A-White-Girl…Interested???

I responded with Look #15, You, Madame, Do Not Exist.

 

She smiled, and I knew I had to change aisles. Besides, Little White Kid wasn’t through just yet. “MOMM-MEEEEE! I SAID I WANT THISSSSSS ONNNEEEE!” he wailed.

 

It was time to move, before she could—

 

“Mister, can you reach that one?” she asked. “You know how children are,” she said brightly.

 

I gritted my teeth, and grabbed the little G.I. Joe off of the upper shelf.

 

“Not that one, Mister, that one!” He pointed.

 

“Kid,” I growled, “If you know like I know, you’ll take this one, and like it,” I said, giving him Look # 2, Don’t Push it, Little Bastid.

 

He opened his mouth to answer, but I growled, deeper this time, and he shut it.

“Take his azz to the check-out,” I said menacingly, in my best Shaft Just Left Africa, And He’s Highly Pissed Off voice, “and take him home and train him before you bring him back. Because if I ever hear him in this store again,“ I leaned closer, “I’m gonna eat him for breakfast, y’hear? Believe dat!”

“Oh!” she said, and grabbed his hand. “Come on, Trevor, let’s go!” She sprinted off, with him in tow, yelling, “Mommieeeee! He’s gonna eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaat meeeeee?”

 

I came to the check-out line, and noted with satisfaction the wide eyes of the clerk, a good-looking sister with dookie braids. “That was you who ran ‘em off?” she asked.

 

“Yep,” I answered proudly.

 

“I got three kids need man trainin’,” she said. “Interested?”

 

“Better call their pa,” I answered. “I done raised mine.”

 

She tore my receipt off, and scribbled her number on it. “Call me,” she said with a wink. I walked back to my truck, and handed my wife the receipt. “Your cousin said to call her when you get home,” I said.

 

Like I said, I raised mine….

 

Ha!

Proper Behavior Around White Folks

Guess what? 

White people didn’t know we had an Official Handbook. 

I aint lyin’!

 I think I’ve found the source of our problem between the races.

 

 White people don’t know that we have Standard Operating Procedure.

 

How they missed it, I have no idea. But, you know White people, unless we’re singing, dancing or otherwise acting the fool, they don’t pay any attention to us.

 

Why do you think they were so shocked when Obama won? Both times?

Remember, back in ’07, when Hillary was prancing around like she was Queen For A Day, smiling and grinning for the cameras like a chimp on crack? She just knew she had the nomination sewed up. Then here comes this big-eared junior Senator from Chicago, just one state away from Dan Quayle…

 

By the way, where is that sumbit, anyway? Probably in a library somewhere, looking up just who in the hell was John Kennedy!

 

Ha! 

 

But, as is the case so often in these pages, I digress. What was I talking about, anyway, Autumn?

 

Huh?

 

That’s right, Standard Operating Procedure. Just checking to see if you’re paying attention. White girls have trouble focusing, y’know. And, BTW, why is it that all the romance novels have pictures of White guys on the cover? Y’all know doggone good and well when you’re sitting at home, looking all misty-eyed, you got a brother on your mind.

 

Love’s Tender Fury, yeah right.

 

Brother’s Outta Kool-Aid, Get to Steppin’ is more like it…

 

 

Standard Operating Procedure.

We call it “sop” for short.

 

One of the beautiful things about BlackSpeak is that we shorten everything.

I don’t understand how in the world White people didn’t know about sop. We are always asking for and aware of any updates and changes to Standing Operating Procedure.

 

Let me explain: When two White people greet each other, they say, “How do you do?”

 

Not us.

 

When two Black people greet each other, the first thing we want to know is “Has there been any major changes in Standing Operating Procedure?’ But, that’s way too many syllables, so we just say, “Whassop?”

And, the usual response is, “Nothin’”, or any of the (at last count) 1,345 derivatives, such as, “Aint nothin’, man”, or, “You got it, Bro.,” or, one of the Old School responses, “Everythang is everythang,” all of which simply means, “Standard Operating Procedure is unchanged as of this moment, but be alert.”

 

You see, White people, Standard Operating Procedures are taught to Black children at an early age. While you were teaching your kids which fork to use, and how to separate the paper from the plastic, we were teaching them what was “sop”. For example, after church @ Sunday dinner, we’d say: “That Reverend Kimble, he think he slick! Nigga done raised the main offering, now he trying to raise one ‘for the po’ chirren in Haiti.’ Humph! Po’ chirren in Haiti, my foot! He done started foolin’ around wit’ Sister Brown’s gal, you know, the one with the watermelon azz! She be swishin’ ’round chu’ch in that too-tight usher uniform with the print of her drawers showin’, azz so big, she be swattin’ flies with it! Then, then, she always got to hand him some note, or a fan, or somethin’, bendin’ that big ass over right in the deacons’ face! Deacon Bellard, po’ thing, his wife died last year, he be watchin’ her, head be bobbin’ like a bulldog on a dashboard, then he caint stand up straight to pray! Well, anyway, Rev. just bought hisself a new car, and somebody gotta pay the note, but I be damn if it’s us! Chirren, when they pass that basket the second time, keep yo’ money in yo’ pocket, y’ hear? Haiti chirren that hungry, they can come over here to eat!”

 

Like I said, we teach our children “whassop.”

 

Ha!