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!

 

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Black Church, Part One

Black Church, Part One

 

Okay, White people, listen up! This is one of those lessons where you have to realize that you don’t understand nothing about what is going on here, and you need a Black person to interpret it for you… 

Got it?

What you’re about to see is as dark and mysterious as any jungle you could ever imagine….

 

Without the heat, of course.

(Black folks can’t stand it when the a.c. is out, trust me. If you ever get in a situation where there are too many niggas around, find a way to cut off the a.c. Niggas leave, problem solved.)

I’m talking about Church.

 

Black Church.

 

Oh, don’t worry. You’re safe here. To be honest, we kinda like it when you show up.

 

Well, 2 or 3 of you, anyway.

 

5 or 6 of y’all, and we get kinda nervous, and we start mumbling schit, like “Did Reverend Kimble forget to pay the note again?”

 

 But a couple of y’all is good, adds a bit of flavor to the mix, not to mention it gives us a new source of entertainment, other than Sister Krystelle getting’ happy with that too-short dress.

 

She really ought’a quit that.

 

Mother Brown’s blood pressure rises up every time Kryst gets to shakin’ in her pew.

 

“She know she know better than that! She just tryin’ to catch po’ Rev’s eye with that short dress! Humph! One mo’ inch higher, and she be needin’ lipstick!”

 

Mother’s right about that, though. I know that heifer’s cat got to be freezing! Maybe that’s why she be jumping, trying to warm her azz up.

 

Anyway, we be watching when y’all come in. We know y’all gonna sit together, like there’s safety in numbers.

 

Forget that.

 

Plenty enough of us to beat y’alls collective azzes, plus any cops that show up. And besides, we got our alibis all straight, trust me. We’d be sitting in the courthouse like The Color Purple: 

“Yo Honor, suh, we wuz just sittin’ in chu’ch, just praisin’ de Lawd, bless His Holy Name (Hallylooooyah! Thank ya, Jesus!), we don’t know where them Whi’ folks came from!”

 

Yes, we saw you come in and sit down, with that possum-caught-in-the-headlights look on your face. We sas you, and we kinda sympathized with you, until….

 

Yes, there is an “until.”

 

Until you started to clap.

 

 

This brings me to Rule #1—Thou Shalt Not Clap.

 

You hear?

 

You may nod your head to the beat, and softly drum your index finger on the pew—but that’s it! You may even gently wave your prerequisite MLK funeral home cardboard fan (soon to be replaced by the Barack Obama model) if you want to, but that’s it!

 

(A little-known fact: Most Anglo-Saxons have a defective genome, patboone301, that renders them incapable of maintaining more than 3 seconds of syncopated rhythm.  All that time shivering in the caves of Europe will do that to a people.)

 

We’re not saying don’t enjoy the music—jam all you want.

 

Just keep the jam to yourself.

 

Trust me, you’re already in the awkward position of being “The White Boy Who Came To Church,” you don’t want to add “And Clapped Off Beat, You Know How They Do” to your title.

Hey, you don’t have to listen if you don’t want to. I’ll be the first one pointing and laughing.

Hush, now, The Choir’s getting ready to sing. More later…

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.

BlacJac!!!

….. 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…

What?

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.

“I-45?”

See?

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…

Huh?

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???

Ha!