Saturday, August 30, 2008


Let me just start off by saying that today’s post started off in a whole other direction. I had truly intended on posting about what a suck ass work week I’ve had those far. From one of my Field Training Officers, bitching out on me because he can’t take constructive criticism, to the fact that there is the idiot that hangs out at the clubs who has a hard on for my job. He had already filed a four page complaint on me and we were suppose to be trying to schedule mediation for in IAD. Of course that shit went out the door, because I had my troops arrest his dumb ass last night. How the fuck are you fifty years old and still acting and dressing like your dumb ass is in your twenties? Can someone please help me to understand?

However, I am digressing like a muthafuck, because that is not what this post is about. This post is about black folks and their funeral. I can not…I repeat, can not do another four hour funeral! How is a four hour funeral even remotely appropriate. Hell, even the castaways of the S.S. Minnow were only subject to a three hour tour, before the weather started getting rough and they wrecked out on Gilligan’s Island.

Things start off simple enough, pre-funeral I get messages from my telling me a generic location of where the funeral is going to be…”Hey, son, this is you mom. Jess’ funeral is going to be on Web Street. Love you. Bye.” Seriously, that is the extent of the message. How the hell those that tell me anything. Web street is a long ass, major street and you haven’t giving me the name of a church, cross street or nothing. C’mon now, mom. Can I get you to work with me? But that’s okay, because my cousin, who is the daughter of the man who passed away (no, that would not make him my uncle, it would make him the sperm donor of one of the many of my aunt‘s children), lives not to far from me so I already have it in my mind to just follow them to the funeral.

Then there was yesterday, right as I was walking out the door for work. I get another phone call from my mom….”Hey, son, this is your mom…(Yes, all her message start off like this to me. Like when addresses me as son I’m wondering who the heck is calling me)…do you have a pair of dress pants that Darwin can borrow for the funeral? Love you. Bye.” Hell no I don’t have a pair of dress pants that Darwin can wear for the funeral! My cousin Darwin is thirty eight years old, with a job. How the fuck do you live to be thirty years old and not have a suit, or at least a pair of dress pants, shirt and tie? I love you to death, cuz, but grow the fuck up! Plus, and I have told my mom this before, you can not call me and ask to borrow anything for anybody but yourself. These are grown ass people we are talking about here.

Fast forward to the funeral. I take my cousin, Jon-Jon (female), as son as we drive into the parking lot of the church she starts weeping. What the fuck? What you crying about?
Then we get in line, and I get stuck in line with the immediate family, because my mom and ’nem ain’t made it yet. I sit next to my cousin Janey’s boy friend and my Aynie (Aunt). I don’t get a program, because I the general set up for a funeral, what I need a program fo’? Boy was I wrong. First up. Praise dancer. Huh? Why is there a praise dancer at the funeral. They start the tap, I know the song and my mind immediately thinks, “I know she is not going to dance to this entire, long ass song.” She does and she wasn’t even good. I kid you not when I say that I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing or smiling, since I was so close to the front.

Now the choir was off the chain. They did an A, B and C selection (I told my sister later that I want that choir to sing at my funeral). Then their was all the other stuff that went down and two hours later I found myself asking my cousin’s man friend, to let me see the program. How long is this damn thing! (Yes, it was longer than this post). There was the sermon, five peopel joined church and by the time they got to the viewing of the dearly departed, I half expected to see people tossing their tithes and offerings into the casket.

I’ll end this post by just saying that the funeral started promptly at 12:30pm. It was a little after four by the time I left the church. Can you imaging if I had stayed to go to the burial. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.
-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Side bar: Little Manny came with me mom and ‘nem. He runs to me and wants to hand out, which you know causes my heart to just over flow that he loves me so much. Anyway, I ask him, “Manny, what did you learn at school this week.”
His answer? “Nothing.” He is such a little bastard.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

I Am Such a Worry Wart

I am such a worry wart. I come by it honestly. It is one of the many traits that I got from my mommy.

So, what am I worried about? My little nephew, of course. Yesterday he started real people school; the Head Start program. Well, as you know, school is not like day care, where you have designated people that are allowed to come and pick up your kids. So, now I am worried about my nephew being kidnapped. Isn’t that crazy? I didn’t really think about it much, day one, but here it is day two and it is on my mind.

If I worked a different shift, I could be the one to pick him up and make sure that he is safe at the end of the day, but I am sleep during those hours. Right now we are depending on my little brother to do the job efficiently. Still, I sent a message to my little sister, asking her if she has started teaching my little heart about stranger-danger. Hell, she allows so many negroes up into his life, I don’t want some random person going up to him at his school, picking him up and spiriting him off. And yall know that shit happens everyday.

Yeah, I know I am being a worry wart…Hell, why do you think I titled this post as such, but still…. So, does of you with school aged children…How did you teach your child about stranger-danger? Was it hard? I mean, Manny (and that is not his real name) does have a sense of self preservation. I have been with him on two occasions where he was weary of someone and made his way closer to me. I make note of the occasions, because Manny is such a friendly child and open to just about everybody. So, of course I key on anyone that causes him to react differently than he normally does, and give them my critical eye. Trust me, these guys (hard as they may think they are) do not want to fuck with the uncle of Manny. I’m not willing to lose my job over much, but Manny is one something that I will be making CNN’s headline news over.

So, any stranger-danger tips for a three year old child.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Friday, August 22, 2008

I Love YouTube

I love YouTube and I’ll tell you why…YouTube is like a trip down memory lane. Anytime you are feeling nostalgic you can hope on YouTube and find moments from your childhood. Right now I am watching Fantasia kick ass on American Idol and smiling from ear to ear. Earlier this morning I was driving around in my squad car and I just started singing Tina Turner’s Fool in Love and so I head to the station to see if I could find it on YouTube and there it was. Then of course I had to listen to Nutbush. Other people started coming around and somehow we got to talking about the Jackson and then we had to look up Say, Say, Say by Michael Jackson and Paul McCarty. Then we went to 3T, who I had never heard of (Tito Jackson’s kids). Then we did Reva Jackson’s Centipede and on to LaToya Jackson’s Hearts Don’t Lie. So funny.
We even did Janet Jackson’s What Have You Done for Me Lately, because I wanted them to see the guy in the video who had the sex change operation.

Sometime I get lost in Youtube, because you listen to one thing and then the related videos come up and you are like, damn, I wanna see that in a while. I can’t tell you how many classic Sesame Street and Electric Company episodes I have watched on this damn thing. And don’t even get me started on the Little Rascals or Little Audrey. The list goes on and on. Take for instance, as I type this I did not realize that Fantasia received an NAACP Image Award. Nor did I know that Barack was sitting in the front row as she song I Believe (I think he might ask her to sing this has inauguration ball. How fitting would that be?)

A friend of mind was telling me the other day that the people who bought YouTube was second guessing their purchase of the website because it was not making as much money as they had hoped. How sad that it all comes down to the all mighty dollar. Hell, you would think that just being able to make me happy would be priceless!

I’m gonna leave you with some of my favorite moments. What are yours?

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

It's fun to be silly.

The Electric Company - The Menu Song

The Electric Company - N Apostrophe T

Thursday, August 21, 2008

My friend Lou called me this afternoon to let me know that he and his wife were expecting their third child. Because of the background story behind the pregnancy I had to ask him if we were happy or sad about this news. Once he told me we were happy, but concerned I was free to express my joy for him and his wife…let call her Bush (not for the reason you nasty folks are thinking).

Bush is about the be thirty-nine years old and had went to the hospital because of things that had been happening to her body. Lou let me know that they were concerned about her health, but as it turns out she is three months pregnant. Count ‘em. Three. As I listened I wondered, to myself, how a woman who has already bore two children does not realize that she is pregnant. Then I found out that she has an IUD in place and pregnancy wasn’t suppose to be a issue for them. The IUD is one of the things that can posse a problem in this pregnancy.

It’s funny, Lou and I have know each other since I was about twenty one years olds. We worked together at one of the community colleges and would go out to eat and talk about our hopes and dreams and stuff. I thing, at the time, Lou was the only man to ever see me cry (over my first real heart break). Lou was only the second guy that I ever really considered a friend. My very first, real guy friend was murdered outside of a club, when he was twenty-one years old.
When Lou married Bush, got a house and started having babies, we kind of lost track of each other. I never forgot Lou, and would send him and his family Christmas cards every year, but that was the extent of our communication. And then he moved and the connection was lost altogether.

It was about a couple of years ago that Lou ran into my friend Rose, at the store or something, and asked about me and how I was doing. He gave her his number and asked her to have me call him. We made contact and it was like old times again. That is how you know a friendship is true, when you can not have contact for years, run into one another and it be just like you had just spoken to that person the other day.

I love that. And I love my buddy Lou and his family. So, here is the reason for this post. I know that a great majority of my friends in blog land are true believers and know the power of prayer. You know like I know that prayer changes things. When praises go up, blessings come down. I am sending out my prayer request to all you good people in blog word. Say a prayer for my friend’s wife that all things work out and she has a safe pregnancy and a healthy baby.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace

Oh, and while you are praying. I am scheduled for a spinal tap on Monday at 1pm. Could yall throw some of those prayers up for your boy as well.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

How You Doing?

As you’ve probably heard by now, the Wendy Williams Show was picked up for a season. YAH!
I know. I know. I didn’t like her either; at first. To be honest, the only reason that I even started watching her show was in the hopes that she would fail, but now I love the show. As a matter of fact I have it set to record on my DVR.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I still think she use to be a man. Seriously, look at her. 5’11, size 11 shoe, big haired wigs, penis…all those things say man to me. Okay, there are more reasons then that that makes me think that Mrs. Williams was born a man. Lets see….First there are her mannerisms. If you watch her it seems like her femininity does not come naturally. It is like she has to work on being a woman. Then there is the fact that she is constantly throwing her sex in our faces. Verbally, I mean, so we want forget she has a vagina; store bought, but her‘s nonetheless. Second, I have never meet a woman who was so obsessed with homosexuality. This woman is hell bent on calling out people’s sexual preference, like it has something to do with her. I’m just saying. So, she was either born a man or she was raised by drag queens.

With all that said, I am very happy that Mrs. Williams show has been picked up. There are still some kinks that need to be worked out of it….Like the corny way she tries to find a new way to hide her notes for the Hot Topic segment. That shit got old real fast and she rarely even looks at the damn things. Other than that, I’m good with the show. She has really toned herself down for television…I guess to make more people comfortable to come on her show, because lets face it; what man or woman is going to come on her show if she is going to be calling out their masculinity?

Anyway, her six week sneak peak ends on Friday and I can’t wait for her to come back next year. I wish her all the luck in the world. I could careless that she use to be a man. You do you, Wendy! “How you doing?”

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.
Wendy is the one on your right hand side.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Am I Wrong?

You tell me if I am wrong for this…..I have this older sister…let’s call her The Mooch. The Mooch is the oldest out of all of us, and when you consider that I am forty years old you might be able to guessimate her age (I am in the middle). Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my sister to death, but the problem is that I don’t really like her. She has been a torn in my ass since childhood. The Mooch is a users. As a matter of fact she has made a career out of using men. She even used me, taking advantage of the fact that I was a home body, who never took stock in material things, thus never really spent any of the money I got from my little jobs. I use to constantly “loan” her money and would never get paid back. After awhile, with the help of my other sister, I learned that The Mooch was only taking advantage of me and would continue to do so if I didn’t put a stop to it. Of course it help once I was out on my own and had bills and shit to pay.

Still, even on my own my family as a whole, not just The Mooch, saw me as a walking, talking ATM machine. Why is it that people just assume that because you are unmarried and single, without kids, that you have excess money to burn? Or is that just my family?

Anyway, a couple of days ago The Mooch called and left a message on my machine asking to borrow four hundred dollars. Four hundred! She needs it for my niece, who is a little bitch, who is off at Texas Commerce. I love my niece, but trust me when I say she is a little self absorbed bitch. She comes by it honestly, trust me. Remind me to tell you the story of her forgetting who I was and trying to talk back to me. What is it with black girls and them trying to tell you that “even my daddy don’t hit me.”? I had to let her ass know that I wasn’t her daddy and that I would grab her by her hair, drag her out into the street and beat her little ass. Was that wrong? This was a few years back, remind me to share the story with you someday. Anyway, every since that day my relationship with this niece as never quite been the same. I guess it didn’t help that I told this to her in front of her little ex-drug dealing boyfriend.

Anyway, I ignore the message from a couple of days ago, because The Mooch knows that I don’t loan her money any more. Hell, I won’t even loan her twenty dollars, so good luck with four hundred. There was a point and time when she would try the scenic route of asking me for money. Yeap, she would go through our mom. Whatever. I had to put my mom on check for that crap too. I had to tell her that she can’t call and ask to borrow money for other people. Damn, my ass ain’t stupid.

So, today, there is yet another message on my answering machine, from the Mooch. She is sounding all pathetic and saying how badly she needs to borrow this four hundred dollars and how she will pay me back by the 28th and how she has tried everywhere else. Whatever. I am not in the market of taking care of grown ass people with grown ass kids. You better go to that bastard that you have been living with for over twenty something years. Hell, he is the father of my niece, let him be your go to person. How the hell do you not have at the very least, four hundred dollars in the back to begin with? Can I get you to learn to save money instead of buying your kids hundred dollar tennis shoes and all the name brand clothes and shit. That’s why their priorities are all fucked up as it is.

This post was inspired by the second message from my sister and a post I read today by Raw Dawg. He was talking about the word “depend” and what it means to be able to “depend” on someone or have someone to depend on you. I think I got that right.

So, am I wrong for not calling the Mooch back? Because I have no intention of calling her back. Hell, she never calls me unless she wants something. Hell, I was surprised when she sent me an email wishing me a happy birthday. I didn’t even know she had an email address. Now, trust me, four hundred dollars would not break me. Hell, I probably would not even miss it. But that is four hundred dollars I could use towards my mom’s upcoming birthday. Yeah, mom’s birthday is not until October, but the Mooch is not going to pay me back.

Oh, and here is another thing about the Mooch. When you do loan her money she wants you to go out of your way to get it to her. What ever. She needs to find another resource, because my oil supply as run dry.

LOL How said is it that if my baby sister needed the money for Manny that I would be out the door right now. I’d be mad at her for asking but she’d have the money in hand.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Failure to ID

I don’t understand grown ass folks who don’t carry identification. It wasn’t until I became a police officer that I became aware that folks don’t carry some type of identification. Can somebody please explain this shit to me? Two of the many things that my mom pounded into my head was that it was important to have at least get an identification card and to open up some type of saving account. Oh, and to always wear clean underwear encase you get into an accident. I solved that by not wearing underwear at all. Take that, mom!

Anyway….Yeah, seriously, why do people not carry identification? Is it that hard. They either don’t carry it or their wallet was just stolen or lost a couple of days ago and they have not had chance to replace it. Whatever, you better show me something. At least have a tattoo on your ass, with your name and address, so I can identify your ass just encase you get murdered.
If you get murdered and don’t have identification, are not driving your own car and not in an area that anybody knows you, how the heck do you expect me to know who your dumb ass is? How? Then your dumb ass ends up lying in the morgue as a John Doe, or Leroy Brown….I don’t care! It’s very inconsiderate.

Yes, this post has a meaning behind it. We had a homicide last night and of course I was the first one on scene. I even beat the paramedics to the scene and they are normally the first one there. The guy, who for some reason they thought was Hispanic, but I know my people when I see them, was slumped over face first in the passenger side of a pickup truck. You could see the two bullet holes that had went through the driver side window. Upon first glance you see no blood, but he is unresponsive so it is obvious that at least one of the shoots hit him. I move out of the way and let the paramedics do their job. As the left him out of the car the blood begins to flow from his nose and mouth. He is DRT (Dead Right There).

Pretty sad. They try to work on him, but let me know that is just their standard procedure but for the most part he is dead. As it turns out only one shot hit him, in the upper torso; still, it was enough to kill him. As of this moment we have no idea who he is and only a vague account of what occurred.

Anyway…carry some identification, people!

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Friday, August 15, 2008

That's a Momma!

I still don’t know exactly what he did but this is how I got involved.

Sometime after three in the morning it started just pouring down rain. I don’t know where it came from, but God opened up a veil and let the rain come down. I had just left Ihop and was headed back to the station when I saw this heavy set woman walking, head down, in the rain. As I driving her way I saw her waving her hand at me, so of course I stopped.

“Can you help me?” she asked.

“I don’t know. What you got?”

“I need to get to my son. An Officer has him at such and such and such and such.”

“Oh. So you need a ride up there?”

“Yes, my car broke down.”

“Okay. Hop in the back seat.”

She hops in the backseat, once I unlock the door, and I make a uturn and take her to such and such and such and such. I see the two squad cars, parked up under the sally port of the gas station and I find myself a spot as the lady gets out and charges her seventeen year old son. I was about to ask the female officer what was going on, when I see mom positioning son, on the back of the squad car, for a beat down. I decide to watch this instead.

Mom takes son’s belt, and tells him to put his hands on the trunk of the car and then proceeds to beat that ass. Now, since he has on jeans and what looks like two pair of boxer shorts he’s not feeling it and I guess he smiled. I didn’t see it, because his back is to me but I hear mom say; “So you think it’s funny. Pull down those pants. Let them sag like you like it. Yeah, you out here embarrassing me. I’m going to embarrass you.”

Hell, I thought she was going to make him bare skinny ass checks so I turned around, until the lashing started again. No, she didn’t make him go ass out, but she tapped that ass, like my momma use to do, and gave him a lecture to boot. It was nice to see. At one point, during the beat down, he turn around on her. I guess it most have started to hurt, even though he wasn’t showing it.

Yeah, he turn around and walked up on her. Okay, here is where I need to give you a idea of how they measured up to one another. Mother was about 5’6’’, one sixty five or so. Son was about 6’, one fifty. When son turned around on mom, mom said. “Oh. What you going to do, huh? What you go wanna do? You wanna go to jail or you want this ass whooping. You seventeen now. You go to big people jail.” (Big people jail is what I call it. She actually used the name of the facility). Anyway, he chose the ass whooping and she tore him up. She even got some of the back and if you know like I know…..It’s not a true ass beating if they don’t accidentally catch the back a few times.

Once she was finished whooping his ass, she gave him back his belt to put on and then she cried.
Now, THAT’S a momma!

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

I got to say, last week one of my fathers of the criminal teens in my area…you know the ones I
do bed checks on? He called me to let me know that it was almost eleven o’clock and his fifteen year old was not at home. I was very happy that I was getting cooperation from these parents.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Birthday Boy

Happy Birthday to me.
Happy Birthday to me.
Happy Birthday dear One Man.
Happy Birthday to me.
Many well wishes of happiness from me to you, my family in blogville.
I have listened to your advise and decided not to get drunk on this special day. I think I will work on my sex book. I've been completing sketches of various positions. I just have to find the right style of cartooning now.
-One Man's Opinion. Peace.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Two Down

I was at the Universoul Circus with my family today. We were enjoying the festivities and such when my brother, who was sitting right next to me sent me a text that read; "Issac Hayes, dead at 65." I couldn't believe it. Not that people do not die, but just because when I got the text it dawned on me that they always say that celebrities die in threes. First Mr. Mac. Now, Mr. Hayes. I wonder who will be the next.
Somewhere, someplace, some black celebrity is huddled in a corner praying it is not them.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Hayes. You will be missed, but your music shall live on.
-One Man's Opinion. Peace.

Just An Small Taste

Chapter Six

Edward knew he must have heard D’Alene wrong, as the words shot from the phone and into his ear. He’d already been having a restless day and he didn‘t need outside drama to go with it. His body was still acting up and he had just come back in from a short jog around the block to prove to himself that thing were getting back to normal. He had stop by one of the local fast food places that specialized in home cooked meals and gotten himself a bowl of tortilla soup, a piece of rotisserie chicken and a small Caesar salad, to-go. Not the kind of homecooking he was accustomed to but then again, these folks came from a different home. When he got back to his apartment he plopped down on the couch and clicked on his big screen, high definition, television in the living room. He’d made it just in time to catch the People's Court, one of his favorite shows. He had a mad crush on the judge.
The Judge was on her game today, not only catching the plaintiff in a lie, but calling her on it and throwing in a little Latin proverb to boot. Edward loved the woman. She was beautiful, sex and full of fire. Strong willed women turned him on and her bailiff wasn’t bad to look at either. A tall, strapping brother, dark skinned and muscled all up and stuff.
He managed to time it so that his last bite of food ended with the rolling of the credits for the show. He clicked off the television, and took the fast food containers into kitchen where he rinsed them out before tying them up in the plastic sack they came in and tossing it into the stainless steal trash container, sitting up against the floor cabinets.
Once he had finished his little meal his bed began to call to him. He fought the urge to go to it, for all it was worth. He would not go to sleep; not yet. Although, it wouldn’t be that bad of a thing if he did go to bed, after all he did have to be at work by ten. However, it was only a little after noon. He normally didn’t shut it down until after three on work days. The doctor had told him, days prior, that he was in peak physical condition, so he was determined to make his body live up to that. He’d decided to take out the trash, and then take a quick run around the block. So, he had thrown on some shorts, a tank top and a pair of old running shoes.
When he’d returned home from his jog, and could hear the phone ringing as he put the key into the lock. He pushed open the door and ran over to the phone, which was station on the counter between the living area and kitchen, not bothering to look at the caller id. It was D’Alene, a young lady he had been seeing for a couple of week. D’Alene was a tall sister, standing about five foot nine, in flats. She sported some very stylish dreads that came down to her shoulders. It was the dreads that had initially attracted him to her. Edward had a fascination with dreads, and would have sported the look himself if it had not been frowned upon by his department.
Her skin tone was just a tinge darker than his, and she had the most mesmerizing hazel-green eyes, and some stellar tits, all of which were homemade, not store bought. He had meet her while wandering the mall in search of the exact same leather coat he had worn when he’d taken the Corporal’s exam. She had been in the same store and he had asked her advise on how it looked on him. They’d made an immediate connection and had been dating every since. Last night was the first time he had actually prepared her a home cook meal, all the other times she had invited him over for one of her tantalizing culinary treats, or they‘d go out to a nice restaurant.
Although he was not the best of cooks, Edward could put his foot into some sour cream enchiladas. So, he had prepared a dinner of sour cream enchiladas, brown rice, a tossed salad and a fruit cup, complete with fresh fruit that he had hand picked and cut himself. He even had a pitcher of red Kool-aid chilling in the freezer, so it would have that nice frosty flare to it. Not the most romantic of meals, but his presentation was on point. He served it on the decorative plates that his mom had given him way back when he moved into his first apartment. He dimmed the lights and set candles strategically around the apartment. He even placed an arrangement of fresh cut flowers in the center of the table to set it off, and had a CD of soft, soothing jazz playing in the back ground. He, himself, hated Jazz. Someone had actually given him the CD as a birthday gift. However, he thought that the music fit the occasion better than his old TLC CD.
He just knew he had hit the romantic mood on the head and if anyone had said different, he would have slapped them upside the head and told their mother he had done it.
The dinner had gone pretty well and D'Alene seemed to enjoy it. After they’d finished their meal, he told her to have a seat in the living room, while he quickly rinsed off the plates, stacking them neatly into some warm dish washer, before joining her on the couch. They sat on the couch and watch a very bad comedy, starring one of the Waynan brothers, before getting a little frisky. She had initiated it, when she started nibbling on his neck and ear, while placing her hand directly down the front of his pants. The next thing he knew they were unzipped and she had set his member free. Then, before he could stop her, she had her face down in his lap. His poor dick, found itself escaping one dark place just to end up in another.
Edward thought that the most demeaning thing a woman could do was to give a guy head. He knew this placed him into a huge minority among heterosexual men, in truth he could not think of a single one who shared this sentiment, but he could not help the way he felt. He had both a younger and two older sisters and the thought of any of them providing this service to a guy repulsed him.
Although mentally he claimed to be repulsed by the act, somehow he managed to maintain his erection. Apparently his repulsion did not manage to make the long trip down from his brain to his dick, which seemed to have its on opinion on the matter. No wonder they referred to the thing as the second head. It had been a while since he’d had any type of sexual stimulation, and the last time was self inflicted. His dick seem to enjoyed the warmth D’Alene mouth provided. Who was he to deny his little guy such a simple pleasure.
He threw his head back over the back of the couch and forced his mind to put out the image of what she was doing to him. He just wanted to enjoy the feeling between his legs. He felt the ecstasy rising , and knew he was about to let loose of his special juices. He pressed the palm of his hand firmly against her forehead in an attempt to push her off, but she held fast. He wanted to stop, so as not to skeet in her mouth, but his hips had other plans. They continued to gyrate and thrust, faster and he found that his had went from trying to push her face away to actually pushing it deeper down onto his nine inches of manhood. He felt the fluid as it pumped from his loins like glue being aggressively pressed out a caulking gun, right into her mouth.
Then Edward watched as D’Alene did the unthinkable. He was disgusted and repulsed all at once, but he watched anyway, just to make sure that he had not imaged it. Instead of spitting out his semen, she swallowed it. She actually swallowed his seed. Damn, girl, if you were still hungry there are still some enchiladasleft in the oven, he thought. YUCK!
That was only the day before. So, how could he had possibly given the girl gonorrhea? He didn’t know much about the disease but he was pretty sure it attacked the genitals. Could gonorrhea even be transmitted oral? He knew that Herpes could, but he wasn’t sure about gonorrhea. He had never heard of anyone having gonorrhea of the mouth. Diarrhea of the mouth, yeah, but never gonorrhea. He supposed anything was possible.
Wait a minute. Hadn’t he just gotten a clean bill of health from his doctor. Surely he would have been told if he’d had any type of venereal disease, right? Or didn’t they test you for S.T.Ds when you got a physical? He wasn’t sure.
Where would he even have picked up the disease? He wasn’t even sexually active. At least not to in anyway that mattered. Plus, he didn’t have any symptoms of the virus. Wasn’t there suppose to be a burning sensation when you peed or something? Then it hit him. He had been very lethargic, lately. Wasn’t that the very thing that prompted him to go to the doctor in the first place? Was sluggishness a symptom of the disease. WAS IT? He suddenly found himself wishing that he had paid closer attention in Health Ed.
Then the bigger question came to his mind. How did she know that she had contracted the disease so fast? Wasn’t there an incubation period for all diseases? Their sexual escapade had just happen the day before. At least the one that ended with her pleasuring him had, but he had preformed oral sex on her on more than one occasion. Was it possible that she had given the disease to him? Yeah, that had to be it. She had found out that she’d somehow contracted the disease and needed a scapegoat, so she came over an forced herself on him. Flip the script, as some might say. After all, she knew he didn’t believe in female on male oral copulation, because she had tried it several times before only to be rebuked. But she had caught him slipping the other night. No wonder she had been so overly aggressive in taking his seed.
That bitch as hoe! What kind of promiscuous skank had he allowed himself to get involved with this time? Any woman who would swallow his seed was capable of any other number of sexual depravities. Shit. Now he was going to have to call Dr. Sterling’s office first thing in the morning and make yet another appointment. Until then, he needed to hang up with this hoe and get online and look up gonorrhea Thank you God for Google.
He could feel the anger inside of him begin to surface like boiling milk right before it over flowed.
“I gave you what?”
“Diarrhea,” she reiterated. “You heard me! What the hell was in that mess you feed me?”
Diarrhea? Quick inner sigh of release. Whew! He almost smiled, would have too, if not for the fact that she had just called his food ‘mess’. His temper had already reach chemical mass, so he was grateful that she was still giving him an outlet where as to unleash it. He’d spent the entire day preparing that meal.
“MESS!” he shouted back into the phone.
“You heard me! I damn sho didn’t stutter! I’ve been on the fucking toilet shitting all day!?
“Well, what did you have to eat today, maybe that what got you sick?”
“I didn’t have a damn thing to eat today, mother fucker! The last thing I had was that rancid shit you feed me the night before.”
Who the fuck did this heifer think she was, calling his house with all this drama? Didn’t she know that this was his castle, and he would defend the sanctity of it with all the verbal prowess he could muster? “Okay, the first thing you need to do is stop yelling at the me! And I got your motherfucker in my back pocket!”
“This is my mother fucking mouth and I’ll use it any way I mother fucking please!”
“Well, I don‘t give a care whose mother fucking mouth it is, D'Alene! Don’t be calling my house with all this mother fucking bullshit, okay?”
“Bitch, are you fucking kidding me! I had to call in sick today, because you don’t know how to clean a fucking chicken? Probably infected my ass with all kinds of salmonella and shit ! Don’t tell me what to do!”
Did she just call him a bitch?
“It took me all day to figure it out, but once I finally was able to get my black ass safely off the toilet, without shitting myself, It came to me! Yeah, it damn sho‘ did!”
“Figured what out? I ate the same chicken you ate and I’m perfectly fine. As a matter of fact I..."
“I don’t wanna hear that shit!” she said, cutting him off.
“Look, you are not gonna call my house and just talk to me any kinda way. How the hell do you know you didn’t get sick from something you ate before you came over here anyway?”
“BECAUSE I DO!” She screamed it into the phone so loud that Edward had to remove it from his ear to prevent her from blowing out a drum. She was being irrational and you can’t argue nor have a reasonable conversation with a irrational person, let alone a woman. Damn, you’d have thought he given her AIDS or something. Was it really that serious?
He was actually kind of sorry she had been sick and hoped it hadn’t been from his cooking. He wanted to be chivalrous and offer to come over and take care of her. Bring he some soup and crackers, a bottle of Sprite or Ginger Ale.. The thought even occurred to him that he could call in to work and tell them he was not going to be able to come in tonight, but she had put him on the defensive. Made him feel the need to protect himself. But in all honesty, it was hard to stay angry during a phone conversation, especially one as foolish as this, so he could feel his anger beginning to dissipate. If he had made her sick, which he doubted, she had every right to be mad. Maybe not as mad as she was , but mad nonetheless. Hell, he’d gotten angry for less.
“Look, Dee, if you’d just calm down. I’m sorry if I made you sick. I really don’t think it was my cooking that did this too you, but if you want, I can come over tonight…”
“Are you fucking kidding me! You almost killed me with that shit you feed me last night and you wanna come over? You must be smoking!
And just like that, it was back. His anger, rising like a phoenix from the grave. He had not only just apologized for something he still wasn’t sure was his fault, but was offering to come over and take care of her and she just spits it back into his face. Oh, HELL NO!
“Look here, D’Alene, “ he started to say but was cut off by her now shrilled voice. You think the woman had never been sick before, let alone had a case of diarrhea.
“No, you look,” she screamed into the other end of the phone. “I made myself a doctor’s appointment for first thing in the morning. If it turns out I have food poisoning, I am going to sue the fuck out of your ass!”
“You hear me, you punk as bitch. Expect a copy of my medical bills in the mail!”
No this bitch did not just hang up on him! He hated that shit. He could feel his body shake with rage, he was so pissed. He resisted the urge to call her back. Resisted even harder the to urge to drive over to her house for a face to face confrontation. He could see the time displayed on the digital clock on his oven and realized it was almost five o’clock. Almost five, well past the time he would have normally shut it down and now he was going to be entirely too anger to fall asleep. His anger had overwhelm the drowsiness he had experience earlier.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Bernie Mac Canceled

At 8:43 this morning a receive a text message saying that Actor/Comedian, Bernie Mac passed away. What the hell? I just read yesterday that he was recovering nicely from his bout with pneumonia and was being released. Maybe it is one of those sick jokes that people send out? That is what runs through my mind (after all, it did come via a number with no name attached).

So, I immediately check google and sure enough, it is true. Bernie Mack passed away early this morning, at Northwestern Memorial hospital. So, some time while I was downloading pictures and sharing the great time I had at my pre-forty birthday bash, Mr. Mac passed away at the age of 50. Fifty, yall! That is not old.

This news ,and reading the article confirming it to be true, made me so sad. I don’t really know why either. It’s is not like that I am so star struck that I was devastated by the news. It isn’t even that I was the humongous fan, who thought he was the best comedian to ever grace God’s green earth. So, why is it that the news of the man’s death hit me kind of hard?
Is it because it happened so close to be getting ready to celibrate another year of my life and the news of a man, who seemed to be so filled with joy and goodwill, only served to remind me of just how mortal we are?

I really don’t know. And I don’t want to go on a pity, party parade. I’ll just mourn his passing and say a silent prayer for his family and friends.

In memory of Mr. Mac, who was born Bernard McCullough, I have posted a picture of him, as well as a picture of the most spectacular rainbow I have ever seen. It made a complete arch in the sky, but I was not able to capture it in all it’s glory. God is a miracle maker, regardless of you believe system. All thing happen for the good of Him. May you rest in Peace Mr. Mac. I didn’t know you, but I would think you would want us to celebrate your life, rather than be depressed over your passing.

Remember, no matter how young or old you maybe, life is short and death comes like a theft n the nightt. No one knows the day or hour when it may pay us a visit. So, live your life to the fullest and treat your love one as well as your enemies like today is the last day of the rest of their lives. Get all that love in while you can and if they pass away, no regrets. And if they live another day? Cool. You get the shower them with just as much love that day too.
Hell, love is free. Pass it around, you cheap bastards!

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Family + Friends= Longevity

I am so blessed. I have good friends. Good Family, and great and supportive people from the blog world. Yesterday, my friends gave me the best birthday party in the world. I had such a wonderful time. My friend, Big C, held it at his house and funded all of the food and drinks. Can you believe that. He even took off from work to go shopping and prepare all of the food and stuff.

Big C is the bomb. I feel kind of guilty, because I know he spent money out the butt on all of the grub. Big C is the only friend I keep from college. You know me…little to know social skills. I should tell you something about him, as a person, that we have managed to stay in touch for ten years now. I rarely allow new people into my social life. It’s just not in my character. (Yet another reason why I am living single.)

Big C, who is younger than me, graduated and became a Lawyer. I became a police officer. He is a potter and I am a painter. He is the coolest person in the world and I both proud and honored to count him among my friends.

I had the best time and got some of the best gifts. All I asked for was draws, tshirts and socks, but received none of the above. My friends thought my gift ideas were too boring. Whatever!
Above is my cake. How funny are they! Peep the donuts they used to boarder it. How funny! This idea came from my friend, Funny Guy. Yeah, he also got me some Just for Men, hair dye and a bag of Sunfresh Prunes. HAHA.

My family came too. They are so funny. True to CP time, the party started at seven…I think my mom, little brother and Manny showed up at eight and my little sister than make an appearance until almost ten (when we were shutting down and cleaning up).

That’s right. We are not the late night, party hardy group. I never have been! I like to go home and get into bed.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

What is wrong with this picture? It is suppose to be a picture of Eva Pigford and the R&B singer, Maxwell. After a little research, very little research, I found out that the guy is only a Maxwell look a-like, but Eva is the real deal (from America's Next Top Model). Since I wouldn’t know Maxwell if he sat beside me on the city bus I have no idea if the bruh is him or not. Nor do I care. Nor do I care about the picture.

I see nothing wrong with the photo. I see it as just another peice of art. I think it is done in good taste. As a matter of fact, the people in it don’t even look real. Where the heck is Eva’s breast? I never knew she was so very flat chested.
The buzz around the picture is what is it's purpose? Why are they nude? Why are they on bales of hay? Why? Why? Why? Well, if this same image was of unknowns would the questions still be out there? Why can't it just be art? Real art speaks for itself or at least it allows to viewer to make their own judgments. Why is it that when you put people of any kind of celebrity in a picture there most always be a higher message?

Anyway, what do you think? Have you seen the picture? Do you think it is too graphic, because the Maxwell guy has his hand over Eva’s cootie-coo and his own crotch?

I personally find absolutely nothing erotic about the photo. Heck, even Eva’s breast or lack there of, are less than sensual. I mean, anyone who could get their rocks off to this picture had to have been getting boners when they undressed their sister’s Barbie doll to see if it was anatomically correct; because this is the photographic equivalent to nude Barbie and G.I. Joe.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Of course, it could be an aid for women's shoes. What do you think, VV?

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

The Simple Things

As yall may well know, this is my birthday month. Yes, your boy One Man turns the big 4-0 on the thirteenth of this month. The month of the Leo baby. This coming Friday, one of my College Friends, a practicing Lawyer, is giving me a birthday party at his house. Isn’t that cool? I love my friends.

It should be interesting, since I have invited my family to participate in this bootleg, gala event. My friends are a eclectic bunch. They are black, white, Asian, Mexican, male, female, gay and straight. I might play a bigot on blog world, but I love and hate everyone the same. That’s just how I roll. LOL.

I think I am the simplest person in the world the shop for, because I don’t want or expect anything. If you ask me what I want for my birthday I will tell you, underwear, t-shirts (black or white-because it always comes back to race with me), and socks (strictly black). Everything I didn’t want for Christmas, growing up.

I want these things because I hate buying these things for myself. Especially underwear, mainly because I don’t wear underwear in my everyday life. I only wear it for work, which is what I need all that crap for. I wouldn’t even wear underwear to work, but the material is so damn thin, I’d share all my business with the world at large (if you know what I mean).

On my actual day of birth, I would like to get drunk. Blind, stinking drunk. Don’t you think it is sad that I have never been drunk, in my entire life? I’m proud of the fact that I have never done drugs, but I think I would enjoy being drunk; in a safe environment of course. I need to get drunk and I think I would like to be arrested for public intoxication, but that’s just foolishness. I’d lose my job, or at least get some time off for that shit and my ass is too old and senile to be starting over. Lol.

Not only would I like to get drunk, I would like someone to video tape my drunkenness. I wonder what kind of drunk I would be. I don’t see myself being an angry drunk. I think I would be more of the mellow kind of drunk, since that is who I am. I don’t see the drunk bringing me out of my shell, and the truth is, when around my friends, I am off the chain with out the assistance of alcohol.

I have two friends that are willing to take me out and help me achieve this goal on next Wednesday. One is my friend Lou, but I know he will not allow me to get drunk. I doubt if he will even allow me to get buzzed. Lou is Hispanic. Then there is Wilma. Wilma’s ass will get me good and drunk, but she will also allow me to drive home, like an idiot and I need someone to prevent me from making such bad, job losing, choices. Wilma is black. Of course there is always Ray. Ray is also Hispanic. The problem with Ray is that not only will he get me drunk, but he will also invite a bunch of his questionable friends, who get violent when they drink and I am not trying to die on the day of my birth, nor on the day after.

Hum, maybe I should just give up getting drunk on my birthday.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Yes Godfather

I am a horrible godparent. My cousin gave me the honor of being the Godfather to his baby boy and invited me to the Christening on Sunday. I felt so bad, because I didn’t know the kids name, nor did I know how old the kid was. I didn’t even go to the hospital when the child was born. Isn’t that terrible? So, I made it up in my mind that I would go to the Christening, regardless. Come hell or high water, I was going to be there. Lucky for me, I remembered where the church was, because it was right across the street from the Methodist Church I grow up in.

My cousin left a message on my answering machine telling me that the pastor, his father-in-law, wanted the Godparents to be at church at least by one o’clock. This was great, because it gave me ample time to get some sleep before heading out. I got there ten minute prior , just encase they started early (I don’t know who I was fooling). LOL. The pastor of the church is one of those pastors who love to hear themselves talk and don’t know when to shut the hell up.

The church is huge, but the congregation is small. After I take my seat towards the front, back, waiting for the pastor to shut the hell up, I do a head count of the people in the huge church. Yeah, there were that few a number that I felt I could do a head count, although I don‘t know what possessed me to perform a tactical head count. I’d say there was no more than a hundred folks in the church, which would have held about a thousand comfortably, and that was including the children.

When they are about to perform the Christening ceremony, my cousin looks back and sees me (I know his ass didn’t expect me to come), but I don’t let down family or friends. I throw up the peace sign at him and he motions for me to come sit up front with him and his ugly wife. I shake my head ’no’ so he comes back and gets me. He informs me that the Pastor wants all the Godparents to sit up front, so I concede and go up front. Wifey hands me over my little Godchild, childhood obesity lives folks, and I learn his name and how old he is (6 months). I play with him and tell my cousin that I needed him to hold me accountable as this child’s Godfather; meaning that if he ever needed for anything, they needed to call my ass up.

After the ceremony, comes the offering and this is also where I start the payment account on my one way ticket to Hell.

****This has nothing to do with me being a bad Godparent so feel free not to read. Note: If you choose to read then know you run the risk of taking that nonstop flight to Hell with me.*****

It has literally been ages since I have been held captive at a church, while the pastor begs for money. I hate that shit too. It drive me nuts.

The Pastor, who I don’t like because my cousin tells me how he is the father in-law from hell, plus he talks to damn much…The pastor tells us, the congregation, how every first Sunday they have this little contest where they have tribes. At the offering table there is one gold tray and one silver tray. The silver tray is the tribe of Isaac and the gold tray is the tribe of Jacob. Then he precedes to ramble on and one about the damn trays, having one of the two men up there for offering hold up the tray he is speaking on. These trays are lifted no less than three times a piece.

I’m like, “Alright, already! I get it! Can we get on with the damn offering. Fuck!” Then he goes on to say how he is with the tribe of Jacob, so any visitors in the house could feel free to put their offering in the gold tray. I make up in my mine that my offering was going straight into the silver one. Then he says how their goal is to collect three hundred dollars, per tray. I am like, “What the fuck?” Mind you, I have already done a head count and I know God is good, but there was no way he was going to get six hundred dollars from that lot. I had only brought in a ten my damn self.

When he finally starts the offering and a tally is done, it turns out there is only 65 dollars in the gold tray (they never give a total for the silver tray, but from where I sat I could tell that more people had placed money in that tray than the gold one. Anyway, do the pastor proceeds to beg for more money in the gold tray. He even calls out the member of the tribe of Jacob, asking them to raise their hands to show were they were. Then he proceeds to say that he gave twenty of the sixty-five dollars, so he knew they were hold out.

This shit went on for a good fifteen minutes and the only reason I didn’t leave was because I wanted to takes some pictures of my Godson. Still, that shit was ridiculous. And all the time I was sitting there I was thinking, besides the dirty words, “this is why people have started robbing churches.” Ain’t that wrong? I know God will forgive me though. We cool like that.
But seriously, whatever happen to that saying about God loving a cheerful giver? It ain’t cheerful if your ass has to beg for it. The people gave what they planned on giving, move on with it. I was so mad by the time I left that church I know I lost any blessing that I might have received just by being there. As a matter of fact, just because of the thoughts I was thinking I just knew that if Jesus had come back in that moment my ass would have went straight to hell.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Monday, August 4, 2008

The Path to Senility

1. Saturday I was making a phone call on my cell, at work. And as the phone rang in my ear I searching for my cell phone. It wasn’t until I hung up my cell phone, after not receiving an answer, that I realized that I was on my cell phone.
2. I am in the middle of talking to one of my troops and totally forget his name.
3. Calling detail and go to pass it over to the sergeant next to me and have to ask him his name.
4. Talking to one of my nieces, to tell her that I saw a car for her sister and had to ask my niece what her sister’s name was.
5. Not being able to remember if you ate that day.
6. Losing my keys on a regular, at work.
7. Have to leave your back window unlocked, because you are constantly locking yourself out the damn house.
8. Going to a Cotillion ball on Saturday and then directly to work. Getting home from work and looking for you house keys, that separate from your car keys and normally leave in the car, because your key chain has too many keys on it. Having to climb through the window, in order to get into the house. Realizing, the next day, that the keys to your house was in the exact same pair of pants you were wearing when you climbed through the window the day before.
9. Finding twenty and some sometimes more, dollar bills in the pocket of clothes you have not worn in a while.
10. Finding sunglasses, that you have been looking for for over a year, and just know someone had came over and stolen the bitches in the pocket of a suit coat that you had not worn in a while.
11. Getting up to go get something at home and forgetting what it was when you get into the next room.
12. Getting up to do something at work and forgetting what it was.
13. Signs that you are beginning to hoard things. (I need to do a post on hoarding).
14. Laying in bed, changing the tv with your remote control, and then forgetting where you laid the remote, even though you have not left the damn bed. Seriously, how wrong is that.
As my birthday grows nearer, just a little over a week away, I get more and more concerned with the onset of senility. Now, as far as I know, there has never been a history of senility in my family; but keep in mind I only know one side of my family. I know absolutely nothing about my father or his people. Senility is real and though I joke about it, tongue and cheek, it concerns me that I might be a risk frightens me.

How the fuck is it that I have not a single gray hair and yet am going senile? I prefer the grey hair, damn it!
Senility. I ain't a good look on a brother.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.

Saturday, August 2, 2008


What Would Jesus Do? You rarely hear that saying any more? I never really understood it anyway. What would Jesus do? Heck, sometimes Jesus lost his temper and beat people down. Y’ll all know what he did when he caught those people disrespecting the Temple. He beat that ass! Heck, Jesus use to put people in check on the regular. You better recognize! My God don’t play!

Anyway, yesterday/today, however you want to slice it considering the hours I work, was a busy day. People were shooting and cutting people all night. Plain craziness. Hell, it happens so much it’s hard not to get a little callous.

Between the shooting and the cutting, I was driving from my side of town, into the Southside, were I actual grew up; just to break the monotony. As I was going west bound on the freeway, I see this guy walking along the median, with no shirt on--Not to strange--So I get on the radio, tell the dispatcher what I saw and let her know I am going to check it out. I have to exit the freeway and try to get back around to him.

Once I make it back around I see him up ahead so I drive up on the median, so I won’t get rear ended by any of the drunken idiots who might be leaving the clubs. It is around three or so in the morning, just so you know. As my squad car pulls up the guys eyes widen, not unlike the proverbial deer in the headlights and I can tell, even before I get out of my car, that he ain’t right.

I get out of my car and ask him what he is doing walking along the freeway, in the middle of the night. He tells me he is coming from the projects, which are quite a distance from where we are at (No, he doesn‘t say the Projects). I ask him where he is headed? He tells me he headed home. I ask him where home is and he tell me. Home is miles away still from where we are at. I know the street where he says he lives and decide to give him a ride, but before I do so I have to pat him down for weapons. Officer safety first.

Me: You got any weapons on you?

Him: No.

Me: Okay, well put your hands on your head, so I can pat you down to make sure?

Him: Why?

Me: Because I need to make sure.

He puts his hands on his head and I commence with a quick little terry frisk, which is the pat down of other clothing for weapons. This seems to irk him and he says: “I told you I don’t got no weapons.”

Me: Okay, sir, but I got to make sure. Okay? (His attitude automatically invokes my attitude.)
At this point, he grumbles like a five year old, like I am putting him out because I have to pat his pockets for weapons.

Me: (Standing up straight and looking him dead in the eyes). Look, do I know you?

Him: I told you my name. (He didn’t, because I didn’t ask him what his name is, but like I said, you can tell he is a little slow, special, not quite right. It actually would have been funny, if we hadn‘t been on the freeway, in the middle of the night, with our asses to traffic).

Me: No ( I say this in a stern voice, trying not to be too mean, but being mean nonetheless). No, I mean to I know you? Have we met before? (He doesn’t get it so I move on). No, I don’t know you and since I don’t know you I have to make sure you don’t have any weapons before I put you in my car. Now, I am trying to be nice and give you a ride home, but if you give me attitude I’ll just take you to jail (totally talking out of my ass here). So, what’s it gonna be? Do you want to go to jail or do you want me to take you home?

Him: Home. (I wish y’ll could have seen the puppy dog look in the man’s eyes. I mean, he had to be in his late twenties, but his expression was that of my little nephew’s. Why do you have to be slow to maintain the innocence of youth?)

So, I put him in the back of my squad car and inform the dispatcher that I will be taking one home. As I am putting him in the back of the squad car he lets me know that police officers make him nervous. I let him know that big men, walking on the freeway with out their shirts on, in the middle of the night makes me nervous too. While we drive, I can hear him humming in the back seat. Then he ask me if I like football? I tell him yeah, which is a totally lie, and then ask him which is his favorite team. He says, “America’s team. The Dallas Cowboys!” and is quite again.

When we turn on his street he informs me that I am not like other police officers. When I ask him what he means by that he tells me that any other police officer would have let him keep walking on the freeway. I tell him that I couldn’t have him getting hit by some drunk driver and our conversation is over. I drop him off at his house and wait for him to go inside. His mom must have been up waiting up for him, because she opens the door immediately. I wave at her. She waves back and I leave.

I’m not sure if this is what Jesus would do, but it was the only title I could come up with. Right after that, two more people cut two more people, on two different occurrences.

-One Man’s Opinion. Peace.