Oh No I Didn't!

Oh No I Didn’t

I can’t believe it. Please do not let me become one of those people. Please.
Somebody explain to me why I was up at three thirty in the morning grocery shopping? I didn’t plan on it. I actually went out on a booty call and had to drive by Wally-World and thought I’d stop by to see if they had the suitcase like, briefcase I saw at the Office Depot. I was hoping it would be cheaper at Wally-World. However, once I got there I realized that I need to replenish my icebox and figured, “why the hell not.”

All the time I was shopping I was thinking, “Please don’t let me become one of those people who do the late night/early morning shopping thing.” However, the more I roamed around the ever crowded Wally-World, I was like, “This is cool. No people. No Traffic. Maybe I should start doing this more often..” Hell, I work these hours anyway. What’s the problem?

Anyway, while I was shopping I found some stuff to organize my stuff at work. I bought some extend-a-folders, so I can organize all of the papers and memos and shit that I refuse to threw away. I bought a daily planner, so I can start writing down every time shit happens and I have to “speak” with my troops. I then bought a bunch of stuff to clean my floors and bathroom fixtures. You see, every once and a while I get this overwhelming urge to clean and organize. It doesn't happen very often. Once, maybe twice a year. And when it comes it doesn's last long. Cleaning ain't fun!

I almost bought some stuff to redecorate my house altogether, but chickened out. And I bought all the fixings for some nachos, which I had for breakfast.

I bought over a hundred dollars worth of crap and none of it needed to go into the fridge. How sad is that?

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

I Am Not Happy!

I am not happy. Sometime yesterday my icebox broke down. I didn’t notice it until around two something and by then I was getting ready for bed and didn’t have time to search for my warranty or call a repair man or nothing. I go to sleep, go into work and get home to a very stank house. Yes, my house has gone from smelling like fucking fish, to a slaughter house. I am not happy!

So, since today is trash day, I grab a couple of plastic trash bags and dump everything. Sucks, to be me right. Then I take a nap, because I am exhausted and missed the phone call from the station, telling me that need me in City Court. City Court my ass! Let the bastard get away with whatever traffic violation he has committed. Sure, I can get a day off for missing court, but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like seeing if I can find my warranty on this fucking refrigerator.

I clean out every junk drawer, look through all the papers I can think of and find paper work on my washer, dryer, oven, black and white portable tv, blender, IRA, fence, and everything else, but not the fucking Maytag refrigerator. I am pissed, because I have only owned the damn thing for like five years and it has already broken down. I thought Maytag shit was suppose to be the bomb. This shit is not the bomb, but it is the shit.

So, anyway, now I have to find a repair man, because I need my refrigerator to be working. Forget about the basic necessities of food, I can’t drink warm water. I just can’t do it. I need the damn thing fixed just so I can have water to drink. So, I go find my yellow pages and start flipping through the damn thing, in search of an appliance repair person. So, I’m flipping through the pages and it dawns on me that I can’t read a damn thing in the damn book. Well, that’s not true. I can read the phone number, but that’s it. Nothing else.

Why the hell is my yellow pages in Spanish? Seriously, why is the only yellow pages in my house a Spanish one? What the fuck?

So, I go online in search of a repair person. I need my damn refrigerator fixed. I am not happy! The repair place I found, that services the area that I live in, told me that they charge forty-five dollars, just to drive out. That, of course, is deducted from the price of the repair. The repair could be anywhere from one hundred dollars to a little over four hundred bucks. If it turns out the be the latter, you can bet I’m tossing this bitch ass Maytag and going to get me a something brand new.

I am not happy! I can’t believe I can’t find the warranty on this bitch! I know I let the store talk me into a ten year extended warranted. I just know they did. Problem is, I can’t remember what store I bought the damn thing from. Doesn’t that suck. I am so mad right not…I mean, I am not happy!

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Don't Tread On Me

Okay, why am I hoarse again? I’ll tell you why, because I had to yell my ass off again, last night. That’s right, I am a yeller. That is what I do. I try not to, but when the situation gets out of hand, rather than use force, I yell. Yeah, we have already established this.

This morning was the day of one of my patented bar checks. That is where I, a group of officers of my choosing and members from community prosecution, fire marshals, health, safety, comptrollers office and TABC get together and focus on what is wrong with some of our more problematic bars. Sometimes we go with a zero tolerance state of mind and others we are just there to provide protection as the others that I mentioned do their jobs. It is all my call since I am the man running the ship. That’s right, they all answer to me. Bet you didn’t know your man, One Man, had it like that, huh?

Anyway, since we had thirteen locations we were going to focus on and a limited amount of officers, I figured this was not the time for zero tolerance. What that means is, I tell my officer we are just there for crowd control. We only make arrest if the situation demands it, but by all means, if you see ticketable offences, then have at it. Everything was started off well enough. We respect everyone and everyone respects us; that is how I like it. Especially since the reality is that we are always out number when we go to these things and all one can hope for is voluntary compliance.

We are on our tenth club when a couple of officers get in chase with a couple of guys who car jacked someone at gun point. I hear it on the radio, as the officer are requesting back up and giving their direction of travel. By this time, the officer that I rode out with has gone to take a drunken man, who can not follow simple instructions (she asks him to move around and instead of doing so, he props himself up on the hood of a car and tells her that she can’t tell him what to do. Oh, yeah. That’s going to fly. “click-click”) to jail for public intoxication. I am getting into the back of the car with a couple of my reserve officers and I tell them to take me to the chase, since I have not heard anyone answering up to go that way.

Now, I still have an obligation with this bar check so I get on my cell phone, call a couple of my troops and put them in control of the next bar until my return. I got out to the chase. By the time we make it out there the suspect have bailed out of the truck that they have stolen. The officers are about to catch one, but not before they wreck into the front in the vehicle. Minor damage, no one seriously hurt; so it’s all good.

Sgt. Alright by me, shows up, along with the Lt. So, after I make sure everything is okay. Give the dispatcher the exact location to where we are and am assured by Sgt. Alright by me that he has everything under control (yes, they are looking for the two other criminals that bailed), I tell my reserve officer that we have enough officers out and to take me back to the bar check. Well, en route one of the reserve officers tells me that Officer Quick Tempered has sent all of my City employees home and disregarded the remained of the bar checks.

What the fuck! “He did what?” I ask.

“I just got a message saying that he canceled the rest of the bar checks.”

“Why the heck would he do that?” I want to know. “That is not what I told them to do.”

“I don’t know,” the reserve office replies. “You want me to call him.”

“Yes, please do.”

He calls Officers Quick Tempered and I Made Him Cry on the phone to see if we are too late to gather the bunch back together again. He says it is because they are gone. I am pissed. What the hell is going on here! If I trust you do something. Do it! I mean, I was gone no more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. The club that I sent them too was packed and I know how long it takes for the other organizations to handle up on their business there. There was no way they had completed everything in that short amount of time.

It just so happens, as we are headed that way, the two officers in question come tearing around the corner. The reserve officers rolls down my window so I can speak with them.

“What happened,” I ask. “Why did you dismantle the bar check. That is not what I asked you to do.”

“Well, boss (yeah, he calls me boss),. We got together with the members of Community Prosecution and decided that since you were the controlling supervisor out on the chase it was better to send them on their way and have them fax you all of their activity. (Yeah, right. And my name is Willy Foo-Foo. I know full well that a chase was going on and yall gunho ass bastards wanted to get in on it, so instead of doing the job in entrusted unto you, you decided to half ass it so you could join in the fray. Well, no such look bitches.) That’s right. I told them to clear in answer calls.

Anyway, my suspicions were confirmed when I went to the station and to two ladies from the fire marshal’s office show up to get the station fax number. They let me know that they had been rushed through the club and told to get in and out by Officer Quick Tempter. This does little to dampen my own temper. She also tells me that she drove by the after hours spot, that she really wanted us to look into, on the way to the station and they were still going hard. Keep in mind that it is almost four o’clock and this is not New York City. We have a cut off time in Dallas. I tell her, okay, most off my officer are out answering calls, but I can get a couple together and we will head out that way with her and her partner. She tells me that I will need more than a couple of officers, and I tell her that I am more than I couple of officers (yeah, cocky, I know).
I call another set of my officers, who I hear on the radio and ask them where they are at. They tell me they are out at the scene of the chase looking for any evidence that might have been dropped by the suspects. I tell them to come to the station, there is enough officers out there. And do you know this bastard has the nerve to ask me why. I am not in the mood to be questions at this point. If I direct you to come to the station, come to the station. And I tell as much. I wait fifteen minutes, they have not shown up yet and so we head to the after hours spot without them. We are on the freeway when they call me on my cell asking where I am. I tell them and instruct them to meet me there RFN (right fucking now).

We arrive at our destination and this place is packed. People all on the streets, both side and the club is over flowing, both inside and out. However, no one is being disruptive, so I am good. However, my Fire Marshall ladies have went into this packed club by their lonesome. I enter with two other officers and instruct them not to let anyone leave until the fire marshals can get a head count. Well, people decide to head out the back door. I have to exit the front and make an angry stride around to the back-This is not a short walk. When I get back there there is a group of people exiting. I tell them to go back inside. They stop in look at me, you know, to see who is talking to them. Okay, I don’t have a problem with that. But this one guy keeps right on walking.
“Sir, I said to go back inside.” Still acts like he does not hear me. “Sir, I said for you to turn around and go back inside! Please, don’t make me come after you!”

“Who me?”

“Yes, you!”

“Well, hold up motherfucker! You don’t have to get all crunk!”

“Well, if you learn to follow instruction, sir! Maybe I wouldn’t have to get all crunk!” I am following them back into the club now.

“Fuck, they need to make up there mother fucking mind!’ he is say…”First they tell us not the leave out the front door, then they don’t want us to leave out the back!”

Are you kidding me? I head right to the DJ booth, because I need to nip this shit in the bud before it gets out of hand. As it stood, inside the club alone we were out number fifteen to one. I instruct the DJ to turn off the music and ask him if the mike works. He turns down the music, hands me the mike and I make my announcement.

“Lady’s and gentle, my name is Sgt. One Man. I am with the Blankity-Blank substation. Let me make something perfectly clear. The main purpose of me and my officers being here is so the ladies from the fire marshal’s officer can see if this location is up to code. We are not here for the patrons. That being said, we have not disrespected anyone inside hear and I will not tolerate anyone in here disrespecting me or any of my officers. So I am going to tell you right now, if you have a friend or if you are standing next to someone with a bad attitude, it would behoove you to keep that person in check; because I promise you that I will only take the actions of one person in her for me to take this bar check to a whole ‘nother level and I will have each and everyone of you checked for warrant and I will send for every paddy wagon we have in this district and start taking people to jail for warrants and public intoxication. This especially goes out to the man who thinks that we need to make up our motherfucking minds. Do we understand each out, up in here? (yes, I did say “up in here”)

“Yes, sir!” from the majority of the patrons.

“Thank you.”

(Okay, this is dragging on, but that is at least half of the reason why I am hoarse).

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Sex Book

Okay, so I have been thinking about doing a pocket sex book! Seriously, I have this very cool idea about this sex book, which I will illustrate myself. I have had this idea for years, but just have not put it into motion, but now I am semi-motivated to get it off the ground…seeing as I have not done anything creative since I completed the majority of the illustrations on my children’s book.

Anyway, I think that God is trying to tell me something, because today I went to Michaels Design, looking for a candle warmer and one of those large candles, because my house smells like fucking fish. Seriously, it smells like two fish fucking. Have you ever caught the aroma of two fish fucking?

No?

Well, trust me. It ain’t cute. So, this morning these female co-works of mine were talking about candles and scents and shit and how they liked how they made their houses smell and I’m like, “I want my house to smell nice, now that I finally have it clean.” Of course they make jokes about the word “finally”….moving on. Can you lady’s help me or not, because I don’t do candles. Seriously, I can’t make the damn things work. I’ve tried and I just can not get that cool, appeasing smell that others people have when you walk in their homes. Pisses me off. I can’t make potpourri work for my ass either! What’s up with that? They suggest, after taking me around the world and back, that I purchase a candle warmer and one of those large candles in the glass. Cool. I can do that.

Anyway, I go into Michaels, which is a arts and craft store, looking for the candle warmer and candle and of course I head directly to the art supple section. Well, what should my wondering eyes should appear…..Sketchbooks for sale! Hello! And not just any sketchbooks, but nice, hard cover, wire bound sketchbooks, in a variety packet that included: 5 ½ by 8 ½ , 8 ½ by 11 and 11 by 14, for 19.99. Are you kidding me? I almost got an erection, I was so excited.

Then, right next to it there was this other little value pack, with included a Strathmore sketch pad, 5.5 by 12 and two 6 by 6, for a little over seven dollars. I got this just for the wire bound 5.5 by 12 sketch pad. Now the reality is that I have sketchbooks out the ass, some that I have not even used. However, I took this as an omen that God wanted me to get to work on my sex book, or do something with my gift before He takes it away from my ass. And yall know He will.
Anyway, my sex book is a how to book and it will be done complete with commentary and cartoon illustration. My dilemma is how I want the illustrations to look. Do I want them to look more realistic or more cartoonish? I can’t decide. I was originally leaning towards the more cartoonish, stick peopleish look, and had even done some loose sketches of what I wanted the people to look, but I really wasn’t feeling it. So now I am leaning more towards a cute, yet realistic cartoonsih look, but I’m still not sure.

I am thinking that I will start doing the pictures and such, and if I don’t do the book think I can turn them into a Sex Blog. I can’t tell yall the complete idea, because anyone can steal an idea and I think this particular how to sex book will be the first of it’s kind. And if it takes off maybe I can do another one. I was thinking about doing a lesbian sex book and calling it, “Two Fish Fucking”, but I thought it might offend folks. What do you think?

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Letter of Discontent

Did I ever share with you good people the letter that Sgt. Grumpy Ole' Bastard was refering to that prompted me to call his ass a liar? No? Well, here...Take a gander:

"Just Us"


To my fellow sergeants,


I am using this email to inform you that I am suspending my duties with the bar checks, until further noticed. I made the members of Community Prosecution and the others aware of this in our wrap up meeting this morning. I informed them that I would be passing the torch on to any of you good people who would like to carry on what I started. I think it is a good thing that we are doing, but because of other matters, that in my opinion, are petty, underhanded and somewhat passive aggressive that we have going on here on deep night I’ve decided to focus my attention back to the twenties; at least until we are able to fix the problem that lies deep within our mist. That being said let it also be known that if any of you need me for anything police related, that my services are always available.


I have decided that I will no longer play the game of rookie/senior sergeant. We all have a job to do and that includes being available for both troops and citizens when they call. No more will I be a part of taking a phone call, from anyone, when there are able bodied Sergeants at the front desk that can handle that call. It is unfair to the troops, the citizens and your fellow sergeants for the people staffing the front desk to have to go in search of a sergeant when there is one right in front of them. No more will I jump from supervisor call to supervisor call, when we have another sergeant, who will remain nameless, who talks a good talk, but more often than not will not play an active role and going out into the field to help out his fellow sergeants and troops. No longer will I play apart in the vicious game of he said she said, or any of the other behaviours that I consider to be childish and unprofessional.


For whatever role, if any, that I have played in the slow deterioration of what should be a positive work environment, I apologize. That being said, I reiterate the fact that I am now washing my hands of all of it. I use to think it was the “us against them” mentality that was the problem, but I see now that it is an “us against us” mentality that we are battling. I have seen the enemy and the enemy is us. Well, I don’t want to be the enemy any more.


Peace to you all until we can get back to the business of police work.

That's it, the letter that sparked the fires of hatred against your boy One Man. Yeap, I was smelling my balls, as a supervisor that day, and they smelt delicious.

And this was the nice version. I shared it with my friend, Corny, prior to sending it off; asking him to read it and tell what he thought. He tried to convince me not to send it, but I was like "fuck that", these are thing that need to be said. I did let him talk me into taking out the parts that he thought were too "confrontational". I told him that I wanted the damn thing to be confrontational. Still, I let him talk me into getting rid of some of my more favorite lines that bordered on attacking, but that might have turned this spark into a roaring fire. He actually tired to talk me out of whole second paragraph, but hell, that was the meat and potatoes of the letter.

The reactions to the letter varied. Sgt. Lupe was shocked that I sent it, but she thought it was funny, because I called people out. Sgt. Militant Negro printed out the letter and waited until he could get his thoughts together before he confronted me with it. He didn't think I should have sent it and was insulted by it's tone. I told him that I didn't think that the letter addressed anything that wasn't true and if anyone was offended by it then that said more about them then it did about me. Sgt. White Bread never said anything to me about the letter and we went on with business as usual. And Sgt. Stick Up Ass and Sgt. Grump Ole Bastard just really made a point of avoiding me, which was fine. Sure they have been Sergeant for over twenty years and have a lot of wisdom to impart, but I'm not willing to crawl up their asses to get it (Kobe, tell me how my ass taste). And of course there was the Lt. Elmer Fudd, who I cc'ed a copy of the letter to. After the letter he had a one on one meeting with each and everyone of us, saving me for last. I had to gear my self up for mine, because I was still teetering on the edge of anger black man and the wrong tone would have made me go Rev. Jesse Jackson on his ass. You know what I mean....Using the N-word and cutting off testicles. LOL

-One Man's Opinion. Peace.

Guess what, I went to church today. Can I get an Amen? Tomorrow I think I will tell you about my encounter with the crazy ass white man this morning. Oh, my gawd!

He Said the N-Word and I Don't Mean "Nutts"

I’m still trying to understand how a Nigger gonna call a Nigger a Nigger. Especially when said Nigger done went and got all up and arms about the use of the word Nigger in the first place. Then this dumb ass Nigger uses the word Nigger during the break of an already live television newscast! What the fuck? What kind of dumb as Nigger move is that? And let us not forget that this Nigger also officiated the mock burial of the “N” word to begin with. Well, he must have buried it up his ass, because it sure did resurrect itself from his mouth.

I’m trying to understand why we do dumbass, self-destructive bullshit like this! Can’t we just let one of us make that wonderfully, impressive, joyful, giant step forward, without one of us taking twelve, hip-hopping ones back? I mean, fuck. Seriously. FUCK!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with Jesse using the “N” word. He’s a Nigger (and if he wasn‘t, he is now). He owns it, so he can use it. But, damn, bruh. Did you really have to use it on broadcast television? Damn, Chicken Little, how dumb are you? I mean, it really takes a true ass Nigger to fuck up the use of the word Nigger!

And then the Nigger has the nerve to say his remarks were taken out of context and that he didn’t realize his mike was on. Motherfucker, did you know you were wearing the mike? That's what I wanna know. Was yo black ass on television? At any point did someone come up to you and say, "Hold on, Rev. Jackson. Let me get that mike off of you so you can have a private conversation?" NIGGER, DON'T NOBODY GIVE A DAMN IF YOU THOUGHT YOUR MIKE WAS ON! Did you know your lips were moving? When they turned on your mike did they turn down your common sense factor? Fuck, bruh, what the hell were you think?

Riddle me this, Batman: What do they call a Nigger that calls another Nigger a Nigger?

A Negrocrite…or is it Reverend? Damn, I forget.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Warning: This post uses the word nigger to the X-effect. If you are in anyway offended by this word, please go back and erase the pass minute or so from your memory, cause you know niggers be tripping.

What Were They Thinking?

I don’t get it. What the hell was the publisher and editors of the New Yorker Magazine thinking when they decided to make this their July 21st cover? As you can see it depicts Barack and Michelle Obama inside the Oval officer, dressed as terrorist and doing the Barack O’bump. They even complete the image by have a picture of Osama bin Laden hanging over the mantle. Oh, and please don’t miss the American flag burning in the fire place. What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?

Now, I am a artist and cartoonist and I love, love, love political cartoons and I can normally get Satire; which is what the magazine’s editor, David Remnick wants us to believe this to be. Well, if it is satire I think it has sadly missed it mark and landed somewhere in the land of tasteless and offensive propaganda. And you are talking to a man who loves the New Yorker, but I don’t get this. I don’t get the underlying hatred that the picture seems to be promoting. Nor do I understand the hints of racism. Well, maybe it is not that I don’t understand those things, it is more that I don’t understand why the New Yorker would be promoting them.

Hell, the editor of the Golfweek got handed his ass, along with his walking papers for putting a hangman’s noose on the cover of their magazine and I wasn’t offended by that shit in the least. I just thought people were being too uptight. And, hey, I am not truly offended by the cover on The New Yorker, per se, I just hate when something is done poorly and this was done poorly.
Let’s look up the word satire, shall we….Satire is defined as the use of wit to criticize behavior; the use of wit, especially irony, sarcasm, and ridicule to criticize faults. This is not what the cover on The New Yorker is doing. What it is doing is fueling an ignorant belief that people have about not only the Obama’s but also Muslim folks in general. In a way it seems to be promoting hatred.
Okay, I get it! I’m no fool, the cover was, or so it claims, to be a satire on all of the ignorant beliefs that people hold true about the Obama’s but once again….The artist missed the mark. They failed. They didn’t know what the hell they were doing…and it could have been done too. I wish I could see the sketches that the artist who submitted this discarded prior to deciding on this one.

To America’s credit, a lot of people both Democratic and Republican were offended by the cover. I like that. Normally the media likes to make it seem that only black folks get all up in arms about shit like this. The fact that so many people took offense to the mess just goes to show you how off the mark the artist was in what he was trying to do.

There are those out there who think that people are afraid to make fun of Obama just because of his race. I hope that is not the case, because if he gets the Presidency I look forward to the Political cartoons. I believe that the problem that a lot of comics are having is that they can’t look past his color and just focus on him as a person. Hell, I can think of a lot of things to poke fun at, about the man, and I like the bastard. Don’t let his race stop you from being funny. Just don’t make his race an issue in the joke. It’s not that hard.

Next time get it right!

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

No Megaphone Required

(Please be for warned that this post is so damn long that I didn't even want to go back and proof it for errors, not that I do that anyway. Also, it's kind of boring. LOL. I guess you had to be there. Oh, and Curious can bite me. LOL)
Okay, I am a yeller. I admit it. As a matter of fact, when I was still a troop one of my fellow officers started to call me ole yeller, after the Disney classic. I was not offended, because it was said good naturedly, plus the shoe fit. Now, admittedly it is not a cool as the nickname I was given at my old station, which was Batman, but I was okay with it, because, like I said, it fits. I yell.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t just yell for the hell of it, which I know is what went through some of your minds. Yeah, I know what some of you cop haters were thinking, “Cocky ass cop, yelling at people just because he can.” WRONG!

I am just the opposite. I am actually one of the nicest Police Officers out there. That being said, I don’t necessary have a carriage or persona about me that is intimidating. Nor is my normal speaking voice. As a matter of fact, besides the uniform I wear, there is nothing about me that says, “Hey, that guy is a cop.” Still, since I am a hard worker I would often be the first person to come to a call. As that first person, sometimes you had someone who wanted to buck-up on you. So, it was just normal for me to use my voice as a way of gaining control of a situation, if need me.

Case in point, we have this street that houses two small clubs and when I say small I mean small. Just by way of example; remember the Joot Joint that Harpo opened in the Color Purple? Well, these clubs makes Harpo’s place look like the Taj Mahal. I ain’t lying. But places are small and cramp, with bad ventilation and I can’t for the life of me figure out how come so many people folk to this location every freaking weekend; but they do. And every freaking weekend there is some type of problem.

The year before last, before I was promoted to Sergeant status, this place went off the chain nightly, especially during the summer months. There were shoots, cuttings, all kinds of black on black, stupid crimes. Why? Because all of these individuals come to this particular street in droves, but only some of them actually hang out inside of the businesses themselves. For the most part they would park, bumper to bumper and just hang out, by the hundreds, in the street. It is because of this reason I initiated my bar checks, when I was promoted to Sergeant (fat lot of good they did). LOL.

Anyway, I am en route back to the station, because one of my troop has brought me a fajita plate back from the extra job he worked, when another troop request cover, on this troubled street, in helping clear out some of the congestion. Well, of course I head that way. I was right down the street.

The place is packed and I hit bumper to bumper traffic trying to get to the actual street that houses the clubs. And I know you are now thinking that I am just going to use my lights and siren horn to get the traffic to move. No, that shit ain’t going to happen, because there is not place for the traffic to move. Instead, I turn on my back lights, get out of the car and walk the block up to the heart of the problem. (Keep in mind that I don’t have my flashlight, which is another story altogether, and I feel naked without the thing at night time).

I approached the troop and ask him what he has. He tells me he is just trying to divert some of the traffic away and provide officer presence before anything came pop off. I’m cool with that, so I will just stand by and observe.

While standing by, I see this big ass, burly guy looking over at me and then come sauntering my way. “Awww, shit”, I think. “What does this bastard want to complain about.” (Yes, bastard. If I can call my nephew one, I can call anyone one, damn it.)

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” I ask, as he draws near.

“You want to write an easy ticket?” He asks.

Uh, no. I think to myself. Do you see the gold stripes on my arm? I don’t write tickets? What I said was, “Why? What do you got?”

“There is a car of here parked facing the wrong direction, engine on, blocking cars and stopping traffic from moving.”

He takes me to the car. I ask the club owner to see if it belongs to anyone inside. He comes back and says that he made an announcement and no one came forth,. I get on the radio and ask the dispatcher to send a wrecker for street blockage. No big deal.

Skip ahead to waiting on wrecker, talking to Officer Jessie, who keeps me company while her rookie helps out with traffic control. This guy comes walking by, with out a shit on and Officer Jessie ponders out loud, “I wonder who he’s been trying to fight?” I look around to see the guy as he walks pass on the side walk. Sure enough, he is without a shirt, but he doesn’t look like he has been in a fight, to me, nor does he look like he was about to start trouble (and trust me, I can spot the trouble makers. I have a knack.

Anyway, I follow him until he disappears into the crowd and then resume my conversation with Jessie. All of a sudden I see a crowd develop within the crowd and if you remember you days of elementary school, the development of a crowd is always a sure sign that a fight has begun or is about to begin. This one had begun, and me and Jessie are the only ones paying attention to it.
I break out running and yelling, because I know I have to nip this shit in the bud before it explodes into another fight, because that’s just how they do out on this strip; police be damned. But I don’t play that shit. Damn it, you see me here in full police uniform, you best break off and stop the bullshit. I ain’t play.

The fight turns out to be between this heavy set women, in tight ass silver spandex tights. Her friend is trying to pull her away, after myself and Officer Jessie on view her strike some guy in the crowd. I just want her to go away and the problem to be over. But uh, no. She is so hot that she is pulling away from her friend, ignoring me, and still trying to provoke a fight with the man who is hyped up now that the police are here.

“Yeah, Yeah, I want to press charges!” He is yelling. “She slapped me in the face!”

“Yeah, well that motherfucker is out here cheating on me,” she is yelling back. And they are doing this back and forth and the crowd is yelling and some tall ass, full back look bastard is just hyping her up all the more. So, since I have no megaphone, I have to use the tool that God gave me. I am yelling for the crowd to disperse and for big ass man to shut his trap or I was going to put his big butt in jail my damn self.

The other officers, who are still a block up the street hear me yelling and come to running. They know if I am yelling at folks, there is a problem, plus it’s just fun to see me break character and put large group of people in check using only my voice. I have them separate the couple and move them away from the crowd, but not before the woman is placed in cuffs for domestic violence.

Now, as we are escorting the tow people involved to the side, I am not approached by some guy.
“Officer, can I speak to you for a moment.” (What the hell does this guy want? More drama?)
For the second time that night I allow myself to be pulled over to the side for a little private convo. The guy proceeds to tell me how he knows the woman and how she shouldn’t have to go to jail because she has young children at home and is there any way possible I could cut her a break…blah, blah, blah.

Now, let me just say that there is zero tolerance on family violence, just because of the possibility of the violence escalating if someone isn’t removed from the equation. That being sad, I love kids and I was almost about to buy into the guys story when I hear the woman cussing out some other guys in the crowd and fighting against the officers. This makes the decision for me. I tell the guy if the woman was so worried about her children she would be at home with them instead of being out on at the clubs, at two o’clock in the morning getting into fights.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Fake Cop

The day before Lil’ Wayne came to town, myself and Sgt. Lupe went to check out the spot for the after party. The after party was being held at some place downtown, but off our channel. However, since it was a rap artist and black folks were attending, of course the powers that be believed that there would be some type of riot or some shit, so they set up task force all and Sgt. Lupe and myself each had one. Anyway, just incase, myself and Lupe had to go take a look see in order to know where we were headed if things popped off.

They had given us very little information about the event and a bad address to boot, so me and Sgt. Lupe were standing outside complaining about how the department was over reacting to the idea about a rapper coming to town and assuming that just because a bunch of black people were getting together something bad was going to happen. I told her that I didn’t think anything was going to go down, and if something did it wouldn’t go down at the after hours club, Lil’ Wayne was performing at. She agreed and we decided to have a bitch session about all of the bullshit still going on with one of our fellow sergeants. That’s when the tone went off.

Whenever anything major happens that requires a supervisor the dispatcher sets of a loud tone before she dispatches the call. This tone tells everyone listening that they need to stop what they are doing and listen up. The items that are considered tone worthy are; 1)Officer Assist, 2) Shootings, 3) Stabbings, 4) Sexual Assaults in Progress, 5) Persons in Danger, and 6) Felonies and Progress.

It has been a virtually slow night so we both answer up, even though today we are in separate cars. I am and my car and on my way faster than Sgt. Lupe because she doesn’t like to make it to location first, where as I like being the first one there in order to handle up.

The comments on the call read that the complaint was an off duty police officer, from Frisco. It went on to say that he was being car jacked and chased, on foot, by his assailants. What immediately runs through my mine, as I continue towards the area, is why is a Frisco officer over in that particular area of town working off duty. Seriously, there is nothing over in the area, but the Fair Park, and they have security keeping that secure.

Right before we make it to the scene some of the other officers arrive on the scene, one group of officers have found the Complaint the other have found his car. Once everything proves to be safe they get on the air and slow any other officers down. I am one of those officers slowing down, but still en route to see what exactly is going on and check to see if the Frisco officer is okay.

Once I arrive one scene I see my officer gathered around a silver Honda, that has been fucked up, and talking to this tall, big bellied, older brother. I pull up on the street and get out of the car wondering if the big bellied brother is the Frisco officer. If he is, he is in horrible shape. No wonder he got jacked. I walk over and take one of the officers to the side and ask him to fill me in on what is going on. When he tells me I think he is joking around.

This is how the story goes:
Our complainant was out in the area, it is like three something in the morning, and he picks up this young female who looks like she is in need. Wait, he is not just in the area; he is out in the area doing evangelistic work. So, he picks up this strange woman, in need, takes her over to the ATM and withdrawals twenty dollars, which he gives to the lady and is driving her some place when a bunch of guys bomb rush his car. He says that the guys have guns and bricks and shit.
When asked if he is a police officer he explains how he is working on his degree, in criminal justice. What the fuck?

“Are you kidding me,” I ask.

“Nope,” the officers says. “That’s what he said.”

“So, it’s pretty much a hoe deal, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I give it a few minute and decide that I am not going to be able let this crap slide, so I go over to where he is standing, near his car; ‘07 Honda, is fucked. The back seat door is pulled backwards, at front and rear windshields are smashed out and there are breaks in the seat and floor board.

“Sir, can you explain to me why it is that you identified yourself as a police officer?”

“Well, like I told the other officer I am in the last phases of studying for my Masters in Criminal Justice and I was told that once I finished I would be in the system.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, sir.”
“Have your received you TCLEIOUS training?”

“No.”

“Have you been to a police academy?”

“No.”

“Okay, well unless you have went through the same things that me and these other officers have been through, then you have no right to identify yourself as a police officer.”

“Well, like I said, my instructor told me that once I was finished with my classes I could pretty much consider myself a police officer.”

“Well, your instructor lied to you. Where in your studies of Criminal Justice did you learn anything like that. The only thing you are able to do with a degree in Criminal Justice is teach it. What you have done is committed a crime. It is against the law to portray yourself as a police officer, when you’re not. As a matter of fact, you might ought to know that, if you are Criminal Justice major. As a mater of fact the next time you put the life of me and my officers in jeopardy, running code out here on a lie I promise you will go to jail. The only reason you are not going to jail right now is because you have been victimized, but don’t think that it is beyond us to put a complainant in jail.”

That’s it. Not really all that interesting, but it goes to show you the stupidity of the people we come in contact with on the streets. And he is not the worst case scenario either.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

All On You

Okay, I have had a heck of a busy work week and I have just not been in the mood to make a decision on what item to post on, so I am putting the decision in the hands of my faithful readers.

1) Would you prefer to hear about the16 year old girl who allowed the 17 year old boy in her parents house at four o'clock in the morning, without their knowledge?

2) Would you like the hear about the sex assault to turned into the biggest, convoluted mess of crap?

3) Would you like to hear about why I am hoarse from having to yell at a crowd of about a hundred, ig'nant ass people, who still want to cause trouble when I'm standing right fucking there in full police gear?

4) Would you like to hear about the idiot, from the day before, who thought that he could tell 9-11 he was a police officer, since he was taken classes in Criminal Justice, and why he had my officers running code to his location?

5) Would you like to hear how I am on a one man mission to go to the parents of my teen-age car thieves houses, see if they are at home and if they are not, find out why the fuck their parents don't know where their child is at three and four o'clock in the morning?

or, 6) Would you just like to hear about the photos I took of my friend Princesses' parents 50th wedding anniversary?

I've been making decisions all week and could use a break so I am putting it all on you. What do you think? They all could be equally interesting or boring, depending on my ability to tell a story.

-One Man's Opinion. Peace.

The Balls to Say It

The honorable, Rev. Jesse Jackson; a man of vision (you have to have vision to see black as one of the colors of the rainbow). I believe he was also the first black man to make a honest to goodness go after the position of President of these United States, back when I was still in High School, as I recall. That was a big step back then, and you had to give him credit for having the balls (no, One Man, this is not the time for a pun) to do so.

He is also a man known for his great quotes. Here, I wrote down a few for you:

“A man must be willing to die for justice. Death is an inescapable reality and men die daily, but good deeds live forever.” Wow. Powerful!

“America is not a blanket woven from one threat, one color, one cloth.” How true. How true.

“Your children need your presence more that your presents.” Right on. Right on.

“When we’re unemployed, we’re called lazy; when the whites are unemployed it’s called a depression.” Say that again, I don’t think they heard you.

“Today’s students can put dope in their veins or hope in their brains. If they can conceive it and believe it, they can achieve it. They must know it is not their aptitude but their attitude that will determine their altitude.” Okay, I’m down with that.

“It is time for us to turn to each other, not on each other.” Amen, brother Jackson. Amen.

"See, Barack's been talking down to black people ... I want to cut his nuts off." Urp? What the fuck?

That’s right, you heard it here first. This dumb bastard….Wait. Can I call a pastor a dumb bastard? What the hell…I’m already buying time in the racist section of Heaven, might as well spend a little more in the closet of intolerance. This dumb bastard, knowing full well he was miked, seeing that he was waiting to go on a live broadcast of Fox and Friends, makes this comment to the black newscaster sitting across from him.

Now I am not all up and arms because he said this shit about Barack Obama (if getting his balls snipped is the worst thing that happens to Barack during his bid for Presidency, I think the brother should count himself lucky). I’m mad because this supposed man of God is talking about cutting off anybody’s testicles. That shit ain’t cut. I don’t know about the rest of you men out there, but I love my nutsack and I don’t want nobody joking about cutting them off. Especially not a man of good. Hell, you can’t even lay hands on them (get it? That’s a religious pun.)

I know this is just a figure of speech, sort of speak, but it is in extremely bad taste, especially for a minister who is a renowned as the Rev. Jackson. Let’s face it, it’s right up there with Shaq saying; “Kobe, tell me how my ass taste.” And as you can see, I’m still not over that one.

Barack, tell my how the cross taste.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to pass judgment on the man, because that would be less than Christ-like. And it’s not like I’ve lost or gained any respect for the man, because although I believe in giving credit where credit is due, I hold no man in higher esteem than One Man. I’m just wonder about the mind frame of a man who had to have know he was miked (I mean, c’mon now. They have a person come right up to you and clip that shit to your lapel).

So, what’s up, Rev. You been smoking on the wacky weed? Is that it? You been doing a little puff, puff, pass? I mean, your eyes did look a little bloodshot in that broadcast feed. A brotha just wants to know.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

A Good Book?

Guess what I got in the mail yesterday? You’ll never believe it. ABC, channel 8 sent me a copy of Barbara Walters’ book, Audition. Can you believer that? Yeah, they made that shit up! What the hell am I gonna do with a book on Barbara Walters’, Aunt Clara from Bewitched sounding ass, Memoirs. Not a damn thing, that’s what!

The letter that was folded inside of the hard cover read as follows:
Congratulations! You have been selected as one for the lucky winners in the Barbara Walters Sweepstakes 2008 to receive a copy of Barbara Walters’ new book, “Audition, A Memoir.” Thank you for participating, and please continue to look for more contest on WFAA.com.

Once again, THEY MADE THAT SHIT UP! I ain’t entered no damn Barbara Walters sweepstakes and although I admit to watching the View, because what else is on in the morning at ten, I hate when that heifer is on there. She talks too much, she’s always interrupting, she has the shakes, she stutters and I believe her ass to be racist. I could give a damn if she got fucked by some black senator (or whatever the fuck the guy was)! Just because you got some black dick does not make you racially tolerant. I DON’T CARE!

I don’t want this damn book and I wish Whoopie would stop shoving the damn thing down my throat every time I turn on the fucking show. You got the job bitch, with a contract; you can remove you head from up the woman’s ass. Besides, that no eyebrow having negrette knows full well that she ain’t read not damn novel by Barbara Walters. Better yet, she knows damn well ain’t no real brotha or sistah worth their salt is running out to purchase that hard back copy of six hundred and twelve pages of crap. Okay, that’s not fair. I haven’t even read the book.
Six hundred and twelve pages of what I assume to be crap! Yeah, that’s sound better.

And it ain’t even a first edition! Yeah, I took a look at the cover page, just the make sure. So once again I ask you…what the hell am I gonna do with this damn book? I’ll tell you what. One of my white friends is getting this shit for their birthday or Christmas, I haven’t decided yet. And even my white friends won’t want it, but I don’t care. LOL. (I am so racist. Even with my friends. I’m going straight to the racist corner of Heaven).

Ah, yall thought I was going to say hell, but fuck that. I ain’t damning myself to hell. I’m just going to do my time in the racist corner of Heaven. I bet yall didn’t even know that Heaven had a racist corner, huh? Yeah, it’s a little know fact. It’s not for the true racist. You know the Skin Heads, hardcore Black Panthers n’nem. No, it’s for us mildly racist folks, who say inappropriate stuff, just to be funny, and always has to know the racial heritage of the other person, although it doesn’t really make a different and holds no malice in their heart.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Hey, anyone want a Novel?

Good Dog, Bad Owner

You know, I am beginning to think that I am a bad pet owner. You be the judge.

I have a Rottweiler named Roscoe. His is five years old now; I got him right after I moved into my house. Funny thing about Roscoe, he was not my first choice from the litter of puppies I was allowed to look at. However he was my only choice. Let me explain. When I went to the house of the family who had advertised they had Rottweiler puppies for sale, they lead me into the kitchen to see the four pups they had left. As I was walking into the kitchen this cute little puppy picked up a little nylon leash, which was on the floor, and brought it over to me like we were going for a walk. Like it had picked me!

Of course I was immediately impressed and fell in love with the little thing. As I reached down to take the leash and pat the dog on the head, I inform the young master of the house that this is the one that I wanted. He immediately dashed my hopes by telling me that it was a girl. Sorry, I can’t do girl dogs. I have been told stories about girl dogs and their feminine issues, and I just can’t deal with that kind of crap. After all, I was considering keeping the damn thing inside. He goes on to let me know that he has only one male dog left and that is how I came to own Roscoe.

The naming of Roscoe:

Now, I am the master of naming animals. I can come up with a suitable name for a dog in a moment. I have renamed everyone of the mutts that have come and gone in my mom’s house and have even renamed my nieces cats. It’s funny though…I am the only one who calls these animals by their new names. I DON’T CARE.

For some reason, when it came to naming my new puppy I couldn’t come up with name that stuck. He was almost called Hero, because that is what I wanted him to be. However, it just so happened that I was at the Petsmart and this young white couple (and yes, I have to say the race, because it is all about race with me), and they were enamored with my new puppy. They asked me what his name was and I told them that he didn’t have a name yet, because Hero was not working for me. I asked them what they thought his name should be. The guy thought about it for a second and came up with Roscoe. I thought it fit and so Roscoe it was.

House breaking Roscoe:

I literally house broke Roscoe within five days, seriously. I had no choice, but if I had to do it again I know that I wouldn’t be able to. Roscoe’s ability to be house broken so fast had nothing to do with me and everything to do with how smart my dog was. I tried that crap about taking his ass out every time I feed him and stuff, but that ended day one. I’m lazy. Shit, I don’t even like to get up to take myself to the bathroom. That being said, I hate cleaning up poop, so something had to give. You see, I couldn’t just leave him in the backyard, because my fence was dilapidated at the time and he would have gotten free (and people steal Rottweiler puppies).

What I did was leave the back door open, giving Roscoe the ability to go outside and come back in at will. I love how fast he caught on to that. Seriously. By week five, he was no longer doing his business in the house.

The other part of house breaking Roscoe was teaching him not to fuck with my stuff. That little bastard was chewing on shoes, watches and even my little Kermit the Frog. Let me explain. Although I have managed to keep my house clean for almost a month (Applause, please), this was not the case back then. So, since I figured it was easier to train Roscoe than the retrain myself, Roscoe caught a beat down. After a few of those, we were all good. Till this date, I can leave food right within his reach and he will not touch it. He knows better.
I even took him to the vet, every two weeks…and yall know black folks don’t take their mutts to the vet. (Stereotype alert, but it’s true).

Okay, here comes the bad owner part. I feed my dog, water my dog, even bought him a dog house. However, what I don’t do is take him for walks. I use to, but then I got lazy and damn it, if I’m lazy he needs to be just as lazy. Also, sometimes I forget go buy him a new bag of dog food, which leaves me thawing out whatever meets I have in my freezer, toss it into the microwave and give it to him. A couple of weeks ago it was too late to thaw anything out so I had to give him a whole box of Life cereal, with a little milk. As I was fixing my poor dog a big ass bowl of cereal it dawned on me that I was probably a bad pet owner.

So, what do you think? Am I?

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Okay, I know that I need to take better care of my dog. I really do love the mutt (purebreed, thank you very much). He has, after all, proven that he will attack on my command, which was surprising as hell to me.

Sister to Sister

I am so mad right now.

I love tennis. I play tennis. Tennis is the only sport that I am any good at. It is also the only sport that I will watch on television (this is mainly because it is the only sport that I understand all of the rules). Anyway, because of my love of tennis, you can imagine my disappointment in not being able to see the Williams sisters play over the weekend. Truth be told, I only watch tennis when the black folks play anyway. Is that racist? I don’t care, it’s the truth.

When they first came onto the professional tennis circuit in 1994, with their hair strung up in braids and beads, they were hated up on. Venus and Serena Williams, two girls from the hood, taught to play tennis by their father, stormed the tennis arena with grace and charm; while their father danced, photographed and held up signs to show the world how proud he was of the two miracles he had wrought. Not able to find fault in the two young ladies, who never said a negative word about any of the people that they played, the media or the fans; the complaints were lobbied against the boisterous grunts the women made when they fired off their powerful serves, the fact that sometimes the beads they wore in their hair would come loose and scatter onto the court grounds, and of course against their father’s antics has he jumped around in the stands to show how proud he was of his two daughter. (I never really understood why they acted like the Williams sisters father’s antics were such an anomaly when years prior, Tennis Pro, John McEnroe was known for his profanity and temper tantrums on the court.)

Like Tiger Woods did with golf (although he doesn’t embrace his black-itude), the Williams sister’s brought the world of Tennis back to black people (and yes, I am aware that they were not the first black folks, male or female, to play tennis professionally). And oh to see them play. It is a wonderful sight to behold, especially since you never know what big booty Serena is going to wear onto the court.

Anyhow, this pass weekend Venus and Serena went head to head in the battle for the Wimbledon Grand Slam title; and I missed it; did not even know it had been on television. In the end Venus ended up besting her baby sister and taking home her fifth title and then the duo came back onto the court and took the Doubles title as well, and I can’t believe that I missed it all.

To date Venus Williams has won a total of 17 Grand Slam titles, 7 in singles, 7 in women’s doubles, and 2 in mix doubles, She was the first African American (I prefer black) to be ranked World No.1. It is also worth noting that Ms. Venus Williams accomplished a feat that no other female tennis professional, black or white, had ever accomplished. In February of 2007 she was able to get those misogynistic bastard in the world of Professional tennis to award women equal price money as men. Damn, it makes it hard to hate on her for dating a ‘white’ boy (I am a racist, huh).

Anyway, you gotta love these two women. If you have not seen them play you are missing magic on the courts. They have such grand majesty on the court that you can't help but be in awe. And although there is a bit of sibling rivalry on the courts, it is all in good fun because you can tell that these young ladies love each other unconditionally. And that is a great thing to see among our people.

-One Man's Opinion. Peace.

Oh, and did I mention that Venus also just recently served a whooping 127 mph, the fastest women’s serve ever recorded at Wimbledon? No? Well, now you know.

Dreaming With A Broken Heart

This is my new favorite song. Dreaming with a Broken Heart, by John Mayer. I am not big on musical artist and stuff, I just know what I like; I could careless who sings it.

As you guys know, I have not been in a serious, long term relationship in years, but this song brought back all of that old emotional heartache. I heard it, for the first time on the reality talent show; “So You Think You Can Dance” and have not been able to get it out of my head. Which is a good thing when you consider the song that I had stuck in there before was “Kobe, tell me how my ass taste.” Yeah, I know it is a sad state of affairs when it takes a sad song to get the thought of Kobe, with a teaspoon, telling Shaq that his ass needs salt.

A true broken heart takes a while to heal and even longer when the person that you thought you were so desperately in love with appears to get over it the next day. That fact just leaves you wondering if anything the two you had was ever real, or if it was all just a lie. But, no, it coundn't have all have been a lie, because your feeling and emotions were still valid. Why else would the shit hurt so bad?

This songs says that when you “Dreaming with a Broken Heart, waking up is the hardest part.” and I both agree and disagree with the sentiment. Of course, the falling a sleep in the first place can be a bitch. The longing is a monster. And don’t even get me started on the thoughts, that constantly play in your mind, on what the fuck you did wrong in the relationship. Oh, and the pain, let's not forget the agonizing pain. How is it that something as intangible as love can cause so much real pain?

Each time I had my heart broken I lost all my joy (and I am a very happy person) and either wept or wanted to weep (and I was the breaker upper in each case).

Quick story:

The very first time I was involved in a serious relationship that feel apart and left me an emotional wreck, I was in my early twenties and working in an office setting that required me to work with a high volume of people. I remember a young lady, she was actually much older than me, walking up to the counter for assistance. Everyone else was busy and I really can’t stand for people to be keep waiting for no reason. So, I get up and help her. I take her paper work, answer all of her question like I am suppose to do. I am not rude to her, just matter of fact, no personality, no sense that I gave a damn. The truth is I gave her exactly the kind of service that people expect from the customer service industry now aday. I didn’t even greet her with a smile. I was totally disconnected, but of course she was disconnected to. As long as I provided her with a service, I don’t think she could have cared one way or another about the quality of said service.

Still, I felt bad because I wasn’t given her all that One Man had to offer, so right in the middle of finishing her application I stopped and apologized to her. It was the weirdest thing. I just stop, looked her in the eyes and said; “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I am usually much friendly then this.” and I could feel the tears beginning to well up in my eyes. She just smiled and said, “that’s okay. We’ve all been there.” and she touched my hand. (Never a good thing to do-Just for the record, it is a very bad idea to touch my any part of my body, when I am mad or sad. The reaction you will cause will not be a good one).

Anyway, my heart is all healed up and I just allowed myself to get drawn back into another such heartache once more, before I decided that I could not take it. Couldn’t take the pain, the loss, the feeling of hatred and suicide. The need to want something back that wasn’t working in the first place. The loss of my smile. The absents of joy in my life. Love should not steal away your joy. There is just something wrong with that.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

(Just a quick shout out to Misrepresent (Dimples) of WildFlowerII. That girl can write some deep poety for your ass.)

Friends, Family and Potato Salad

I hope everyone had as great a Fourth of July as I. There is just nothing like good food, family, cussing, spades, movies and a nap. The fire works was a bust. One of my sister’s friends went and bought some, but since it is illegal to pop them in city limits I decided that I would not be apart of it. (That’s a $2,000.00 citation). Anyway, Manny was afraid of the loud noise. He told me to take him and the house and then told me I was scared too and was to stay in the house with him.

As you can possibly guess, I made the potato salad. Over eight pounds out the gold, delious delight. I had never made my world famous potato salad for my family before and they were all impressed. I don’t know why they were in such shock. Trust me when I say that I don’t volunteer for anything that I ain’t good at. Sure last Christmas my eggs came out green (really, they did). Can I help it if I like to experiment. Why would you let the man who doesn’t like eggs cook them in the first place?

Anyway, this is my short, belated, Fourth of July wish of goodwill.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Don't Hate on the Pimp Nail

What you know about the pimp nail?

You don’t know jack about the pimp nail, that’s what! Let me tell yall a little story. When I was younger, much younger, my mom would cut my nails; toes and fingers. I use to fight against it all the time. Not because the initial cutting hurt, but because she always cut them too short…To the quick; and if you’ve ever had your nails cut to the quick you know what an irritating sensation that can be. It is because of my mom that I began to bite my finger nails and she is also the reason that I don’t like cutting my finger nails, period.

Anyway, to stop my mom from doing the deed for me, I developed the bad habit of biting my nails (both my fingers and toes). As I grew less flexible I neglected my toe nails all together and just concentrated on biting my finger nails. After all, the toe nails could be hidden by shoes and socks. Of course, since I was not biting or cutting my toe nails they grew extra long. I am talking about to the point that my big toe would cut a hole through both my socks and my shoes. I had the holiest foot wear in town. It was actually very embarrassing, and if I’d cared anything about being popular I probably would have done something about it. But I had a fuck the popular people mentality back then. Still do, actually. LOL

When I was in my early twenties, right at twenty actually, I decided to stop biting my nails. I just wanted to see if I could do it. Well, it is hard as hell to break a bad habit so I thought I’d start off slow by no longer biting my pinky nails. Thus grew the pimp nail, which most people (including myself) associate with drug dealers. But trust me when I say that I was never into trends and plus I think I had mine long before the pimps, thugs and crack heads got theirs. I was well ahead of my time.

Anyway, eventually I stopped biting my nails altogether, except for my thumb nails. I never stopped biting those. Mainly because, as you all know by now, I still suck my thumb (and am not ashamed). Funny thing about allowing my finger nails to grew…Once I did, my toe nails didn’t grew as fast. Nobody believes me when I tell them this, but it is true. And when they do get too long, to the point that they are cutting hoes into my socks, now I use my pocket knife to cut into a corner and cut those babies back. (Am I a hillbilly ass negro or what?)

Anyway, I never knew how obsessed people were with the length of a brother’s nails until I stopped biting mine and just let nature take it’s course with them. I mean, other than motherly figures who would always look at my fingers and tell me that I needed to stop biting my nails, no one ever paid any attention, whatsoever, to the length of my nails. However, once they started growing I would always get comments, if I was in a position where people could my hands.

“Why you let your nails grow so long?” was the common question.

“So my toe nails will stop growing so long,” was my quick and honest response. “That and because I stopped biting my nails.”

“Why don’t you cut them.”

“If I was going to cut them I might as well bite them. I don’t do nail clippers.”

“Why don’t you have them manicured?”

“Because I don’t want to have them manicured. Look at my nails, do these look like the nails of a person who cares what his finger tips look like. They eventually break on their own anyway.”

The truth is, if you see my nails when they are all of a significant length you can tell that I don’t care one way or another about them. There is dirty underneath the tips, because it is hard as hell to keep them clean. And they are all of various lengths, because they are not grown for fashion or show. They grew because that is what nails do. Just like they break because that is what nails do. Leave me the fuck alone.

Anyway, every now and again I get so sick of people asking me about the length of my nails, I gnaw them down to a more sociably acceptable length (the length you see in the picture), all but the pimp nail.

I love the pimp nail. First, because it signifies my individuality on the police department (That and my on again off again soul patch). The truth is, the police department has very strict guideline on facial hair and the length of one’s nails. I am in violation in both regards, but screw them. I got to be me, and since they won’t let me get the dreads I crave…..

Besides, the pimp nail has many uses. It can be used to clean the dirt from under your other nails. It can be used to pry that annoying bit of food loose from your back teeth (uncouth, I know, but it can be done nonetheless). It can be used to loosen a screw. I can be used to get deep into that itching ear cavity. It can be used to scratch or reach that ever elusive booger. I mean, the list goes on and on.

So, you can see why I can’t do without the pimp nail. I just can‘t.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Boy, I bet yall are sick of learning thing about me, huh? LOL

This Is Not a Movie Review

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I Love My Friends

As I have probably said in the past, I have a small, close net group of friends, two of which I have known since I was eighteen (they are the two that I trust the most). These are a group of people that have been there for every major event I have ever experienced in my life; birthdays, holidays, graduation and art shows. Through sickness and health till death do us part…It is like a freaking marriage, I tell you.

Sunday, we went out to celebrate the births of two of my friends. I am happy and looking forward to this event, because I enjoy it when we all get together and plus I know that I have given each of them the gift that they want and can use. Finally I got someone to listen to my request and tell me exactly what it is they would like for their birthday.

Let me explain. I hate to shop! Hate it with a passion. I have a get in/get out mentality, much like the way I approach sex (just kidding). I don’t even like to shop for my damn self, so you can image how I feel shopping for others. I know my friends, but I hating trying to guess what they would like and can actually use. To me the whole purpose of a gift is for it to be practical, and when I say practical I mean something that the person wants. Now, each and every one of my friends know I hate to shop and yet they normally refuse to give me the heads up on what they would like as a gift and I am left to my imagination. I can normally get a great gift but I have to venture through the whole damn store looking for something that I think fits the personality of that friend. That shit sucks. That’s why I never give their happy asses birthday cards. It is their punishment for making me spend undue time at the Mall, Targets or Wally World.

Any, the planning of the actual day we could all sit down and break bread together was not easy. Luck for me I am not a part of the planning of any birthdays. I won’t do it, don’t ask. Just tell me when and where and I will be there. Do I have to work that night? Probably, don’t worry about it. I’ll be there. See? I’m easy. But one of the friends works weird hours and the other one, well she has hated birthdays since we turned twenty-six. They depress her, but we manage to talk her ass into being a part of this little thing we like to do for one another.

We went to a Mexican food restaurant and had a grand ole time. Nobody can make me laugh like my friends, except for me. I make myself laugh like crazy, but that’s just because I am the funniest person I know. However, they do what they can. They had me in tears. We talked about events. What new is going on in each other’s lives. Get updates on what is going on in the lives of the people who could not make it. It was great. I left there with a smile in my heart and on my face and with the knowledge that I have some of the best friends on the face of the earth.

After dinner with friends, I went over my mom’s to see mom and nephew, before I change into my uniform and head off to work. I love my nephew, but yall know that, huh? He is such a ball of energy. He is all boy, as the old folks say. He is strange little bugger though. I was sitting in my mom’s room, talking to my aunt on the phone when he come over to me, grabs my hand, licks it and runs off laughing. NASTY LITTLE BASTARD! (Don’t be offended by the term, I honestly use it as a term of affection. Just ask the people who I work with.) Anyhow, he thinks this is the funniest thing in the world, mainly because he likes the grossed out reaction he gets. I’m telling you, this boy has the weirdest since of humor. I keep asking my little sister what the hell they are teaching him.

On a less gross point, he and I were in the dean area and he was jumping about and stuff. I am trying to look at television, Richie Rich, but watching him be hyper all over the place. Then I notice him as he does a tumble. I DIDN’T KNOW HE COULD TUMBLE. I was impressed. I get to thinking that I have not tumbled in a long, long while so I want to show him that uncle can do it too. So, I get down on all fours. Tuck my head under and push myself over with my legs. Up and over I went! My nephew was over joyed. “AGAIN”, he shouts, in pure joy.

Like hell I will, again. When I tell you that every joint and muscle was cussing me out once my body came to rest, you had better believe it. I never knew how much muscle control and shyt you had to use to do a simple tumble.

“Uncle too old to do it again, Manny. I’m sorry.” LOL. And people want me to have a kid of my own. Just spending time with this boy is going to land my happy ass in the hospital.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.