Life, love, hip hop, humor AND instructions on how to cook a bangin'-ass meal... all in one place. I put the words here, make what you want of them.

Monday, June 26, 2017

1,303 Days

Sunday, June 25, 2017

1,304 Days

Thursday, June 22, 2017

1,307 Days

True Story© Midget Spinners™

      Y’all remember Pogo Balls?
What about now?

For those of you who smoke too much of the Devil’s lettuce to remember or too damn lazy to click a link and be reminded, they were a toy of the 80’s where a sturdy-ass rubbery ball was stuffed securely into a disc, which would serve as a board to stand upon and jump around on like a pogo stick.  As one might imagine, many hilarious injuries would ensue.

As the significant other of a public school teacher, I am well aware of the phenomenon of Fidget Spinners and while I have not played with them as a toy, I have sold a few of them for profit and know what a fucking annoyance they are to teachers and the like.  I also wish I could have been the one to come up with the concept of them as a TOY and not what they were in their initially-intended iteration.
Jealousy will breed either hate or action, and I don’t have the energy to hate.

     Enter: Midget Spinners™!
That’s right, Midget Spinners™!
I went on Amazon and eBay, bought up EVERY Pogo Ball (AKA LoLo Ball, Spring Ball, Disc-O and some other shit) I could acquire for as cheaply as I could acquire them to prepare to exact my plan.  I would fill all of the balls with a resin that would harden and have them prepared for their new design.
Once hardened, the whole thing is attached to a tapered roller bearing and then the midget little person, child or small-stature adult would balance themselves on the board attached to the no-longer-squishy ball and instead of jumping around and eventually breaking an ankle or falling down a nearby flight of steps or into some kind of expansive chasm (don’t judge me, I watched a lot of Roadrunner cartoons and just KNEW this would be a more prominent problem as a child), the user tries to SPIN on it for as many rotations as possible.  Have fun with it, outdo your friends!  Upload your videos to FaceBook, YouTube and whatever other social networking platforms you belong to.

     I took the time to gather supplies, securing 35 of the toys and enough resin to fill them all.  I did all the work in my own home and set out about the task of filling and getting them marketed on my FB and Twitter accounts.  People were interested in the idea in general at first and I got the first ten or so off at a per-unit profit and sat on that cash before reinvesting the money back into the business.  I would let this thing take off, people post themselves playing with THEIRS on the internet and then blast off as the proprietor as the next memetic toy sensation.

Did you know that midgets little people not only don’t like being called “midgets,” but gather in HUGE numbers to combat people they feel are marginalizing them?  My use of the word in this application was innocent, I had clearly marketed this as a children’s apparatus and many of us have lovingly referred to our kids as ‘midget’ and don’t mean so with anything less than love.  That said, I never said out loud in the marketing campaign that the boards would be used by midgets little people, I specifically used language suggesting children and the type of adults who would have small-enough feet and low-enough body weights, never using a pejorative term in the direction of the marketing.

I get to work to an email that I had ignored on my commute, it was from the Midget Little Person’s Anti-Defamation League basically threatening to throw all kinds of shit on my name and business entities if I didn’t IMMEDIATELY cook up a new name for my product AND apologize for what I had done.
I am also an asshole.
“This is but a tiny little problem, what could they POSSIBLY do to me?  I ain’t changing shit!”
They could do exactly what the fuck they SAY they would do.  I had no idea that a group representing less than 2% of the population could rally up and ruin my dealings so fast!

My name was on the news, all over Twitter and FaceBook, motherfuckers I don’t even KNOW calling my phone and hanging up or leaving me voicemails in these tiny cartoonish little, but weirdly post-pubescent, voices.  I was scared.  Worse still was the fact that NO ONE wanted to buy Midget Spinners™ anymore!  $1300 invested, with hardware and supplies compared to enough sales to have made a hair over half of that back with two-thirds of my inventory to sell.  Until I could get back to two-thirds of inventory shifted, I had taken a loss on these things.

There just wasn’t another catchy name to append to them, “Midget Spinner™” was that magic moment, the once-in-a-lifetimeseason chance to be “it,” and I was so caught up in my perceived harmlessness of the name that I screwed myself out of my moment.

Anybody wanna buy a Midget Spinner™?

Thursday, June 15, 2017

1,314 Days

True Story© Hotep Pussy

(If only I had known then what I know now)

     Sometimes I am inspired…  Sometimes I draw on memories of times that are now behind me.  Sometimes I let other people’s experiences teach me.  Sometimes I know full well what has happened to people resultant of their behaviors and still behave ignorantly just the same.
So one day I gets it in my head that I have never actually been with a hotep chick.  If you don’t know what a hotep is, I strongly suggest  Googling the term and coming back.
[Note: UrbanDictionary for all the laughs]

Welcome back.

Now, for the sake of conversation, we are being very specific in our definition of “been with,” applying it to mean “made sex with.”  I joined a couple of FB groups to do some insider research and get my foot in the door.  I did all of the “stay woke” I could muster, dropping the BEST lines I could come up with to ingratiate myself.  All the red black and green and "stay woke" bullshit I could cook up to make me more interesting to this audience and within a week of joining the group, I had one of these amazing-smelling women in my inbox chatting me up.

     I would learn that I did NOT want to hook that fish (details forthcoming), but I am also quite fucking stupid, so I totally went for it.

Two days in the inbox, she took my number...  A week and a half of texts and conversations, me totally staying in character and we met in person at the park downtown.  That went well and one week later we had ourselves a date.
“Date,” in that she was SUPER against giving money to corporate entities not owned by woke black people and had some specific dietary restrictions, so she invited me to her place, where she cooked us dinner and we STARTED watching 5 on the Black Hand Side.  To my surprise, she was very forward and totally “NetFlix & Chill’d” me so I never even made it to the "Groove with The Grape" line in the movie.  And I let it happen.  And it was AMAZING.

We were never an “item” because she never pushed the issue, so we just kinda let things be as they were.  I would come by a time or two a week, she would cook me some odd vegan dinner and it would taste fucking amazing and then I would get my socks blown and go home to my dog and Playstation.

(I tried to told them)

 “Fuck you been doing, Phlip?” came the cries from the people in my circle.
“You changing up man.  Dressing different, letting your hair grow back out and is that Patchouli I smell?”
I was completely unaware of what was happening to me.  Apparently you tend to not notice gradual changes while they are happening and these were not exactly that gradual.  Despite not being in a titled relationship with this woman, she had become the only one I was making time for in the midst of what HAD been my post-divorce drought.  Again, she never hit me with the “what are we?” or pressed beyond continuing to request my presence and making sure I enjoyed the food and I REALLY enjoyed the company.  The changes it caused in my appearance and behavior, though?  Totally unexpected, I didn’t even notice them myself until drawn to my attention.

But we’ve seen this shit before.

     So there I was.  Three months into a relationship that was not really a relationship.  Crazy ass afro, hadn’t groomed my beard one little bit the whole time, house smelling like Nag Champa, clothes carrying a smell of patchouli and vegan soul food that I couldn't seem to wash out with this new homemade "natural" detergent shit she had me using.
Oh, the CLOTHES!  How in the FUCK had I not noticed that was allowing myself out in public in some damn crocheted pants, a matching dashiki and kufi?  What the hell had this woman done to me?  As good as the food was, and as great as the sex was, I did not like what I was becoming and had to end it with her post-haste.
There were times where I might have considered attempting another romp with her before meeting my current lady, but thankfully talked myself out of it each time.

These days, I offer my story as a warning to my young boys now.  I understand you might see yourself as conquering a new land of sorts, but PLEASE understand that Hotep Pussy can and WILL ruin your whole entire life and the shitty part is that you won’t even notice it until it is too late.  
I know it seems like I am joking a bit savage on Badu in this post, but trust that was the furthest from my intentions.  The thing is that she is the most visible proof of the phenomenon that nearly ruined my whole life.

Shout to the dude Rippa for this one.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Hotep Movie Moment - The Rocky Theory

I have found the very reason that we are not allowed to see many movies about strong Black upliftment from Hollywood.

I call this my Rocky Theory, brothas and sistas.
Look back at the Rocky movies…

  • Rocky – Rocky matches up against a superior but supposedly cocky Apollo Creed and uses the Black man’s hubris against him and stays upright for the whole fight.  No winner was declared, but we all assumed Rocky to be because of how it all played out.
  • Rocky II – Having had his name sullied by being matched by an inferior fighter, Apollo asks for a rematch and is rebuffed.  The still-cocky black man spends a whole movie making him take the fight, then LOSES the fight due to a brash obsession with knocking the white man out.
  • Rocky III – Now having disposed of the original cocky negro, Rocky is the best thing ever invented and can move on to new targets.  This time, a NEW cocky original African Black man named Clubber Lang assaults Rocky’s precious manager causing him a heart attack for which Rocky must avenge him.  One problem though.  Clubber was prepared for and won the fight.  The moral of this story now is that with preparation, the white man will ALWAYS beat the best black man down eventually.  This also includes the since-slavery approach to doing so by using our own community against us.  Apollo Creed decided to become Rocky’s Pet Negro™ and train him to beat Clubber!  Showing us that we have always been our own worst enemies.
  • Rocky IV – With his Pet Negro™ in tow, we have our hero confronted with an existential crisis.  See, Apollo is still a good boxer, but is still cocky.  Since Rocky has to keep his “I have black friends” narrative moving, he now has to avenge Apollo getting himself killed with the same shit that lost him his title back in the original Rocky movie.
    But wait, a new nemesis!
    Not only do we have the Russians throwing the first punch in cheating their way to victory, they also KILLED Rocky’s Black Friend©!  Now Rocky has to pretend he gave a damn about that n**ga AND end the cold war.  Y’all know how this ends.
  • Rocky V – look, to avoid telling the obvious joke about Tommy Morrison eventually dying of AIDS, I am gonna skirt having to act like I DIDN'T see this piece of shit 3-5 times and just pretend Rocky V didn’t exist.
    Fuck me…  I told the joke anyway, didn’t I?

What this series of movies taught us is unimportant.  What it told young Italians (and to the larger overarching populace, ALL white people) is that they were physically, morally and mentally superior to us.

Hell, Eddie Murphy tried to warn us!

Back to my original point, though...  Hollywood will NOT be caught giving us this kind of empowerment in film because things like Black Lives Matter and likeminded organizations would have us ruling the world like the Black kings and queens we were all born to be.  And in Trump’s America, you know these motherfuckers ain’t HAVING that.  “They” won’t tell you this shit in a school curriculum, but I am HERE to give you the jewels.
Stay woke my brothers and sisters.
1,315 Days

Thursday, June 8, 2017

1,321 Days

True Story© My Battle With Social Awkwardness

(Or do I?  Let me stop bullshitting...  I regret nothing!)

     These days I am involving unwitting outsiders in my immature fuckeries…  It isn’t quite enough that I combat my social awkwardness and general disdain for human beings with wry and mean-spirited humor anymore.  Through all of the practice, I have apparently just gotten good at it.  Now I have to take it to a new level.

One day we’re at the Asian buffet…

     Another couple is there, both are reasonably able-bodied, yet she is not getting up from the table.  He gets up and brings her a plate of food, waits for her approval and then goes for his own.  Okay maybe he is just accommodating to his woman.  I can get that.  Maybe it is her birthday or perhaps she caught him cheating and he is trying to lick enough boot to not get kicked out the house or something.
But I had an issue.
A couple of times he came back with plates that she was clearly less than pleased with, and she made a point of making that insultingly clear and he was not allowed to resume eating his own food until he had returned a satisfactory plate of food.
[Note: I also thought it was a bit strange that they were getting SO many plates, even at an all-you-can-eat buffet]
I timed my next trip to the buffet in line with him standing up and going for his lady.  Naturally while grabbing a couple of items for myself, I positioned myself next to him and asked a question, totally not expecting an answer.  More on that shortly.

     For the remainder of about an hour to maybe ninety minutes of conversation with my own woman, he – and then his woman – would shoot me the evilest of looks seemingly at random.  It got to the point where my woman had to ask probing questions…

Her: “Lemme guess, you know them from somewhere?”
Me: “No…  Are just going to think that I know somewhere everywhere we go together?”
Her: “Well…  yeah.  But why are they staring at you?”
Me: “Because he is being abused!”
Her: “What?”
Me: “She is treating him like shit over there.”
Her: “That has nothing to do with why they’re staring at you.”
Me: “Well that may be because I kinda mentioned it to him at the chicken wing line.”
Her: “WHAT?!!?”
Me: “I couldn’t just stand in there and take that shit, I had to motivate-- or…  ‘Moe’-tivate him.”
Her: “You and this Moe Phillips character are going to get you killed one day.”
Me: “I hope it counts as an assassination by the time it happens.”
Her: “Shut up.”
Me: “Heh.”
Her: “So what did you say?”
Me: “I just asked a little question, nothing major.”
Her: “Phillip…”
Me: “Yes, honey?”

She knew I was bullshitting, because I always call her by her name, not sweety/honey/baby.

Her: “What did you say?”
Me: “I asked him about his romper.”
Her: “Romper?  He has on cargo shorts and a button up!”
Me: *looks away* “…”
Her: “No, you aren’t getting out of this that easily.”
Me: “You sure you wanna know?”
Her: “Go ahead.”
Me: “I asked him if she makes him take his romper all the way off before making him sit down to pee.”
Her: *stifling a begrudging snicker* “You didn’t!”
Me: “Well apparently he told her, because now she looking at me like she wants to assassinate me too.”
Her: “I can’t say you wouldn’t have earned it.  What did he say?”
Me: “He walked away.”
Her: “But…  Why?”
Me: “He clearly has either lost a fight or is playing MAJOR makeup right now to be taking this shit.  You think she took away his fidget spinner as punishment?”
Her: “But--…”
Me: “And it is my job as Moe Phillips to make sure that all men know their worth in publicly-presented spaces.”
Her: “You didn’t tell him your name was Moe Phillips, did you?”
Me: *quietly* “Nah, he walked away without further discussion.  I only said that out loud just now to save a little face.”
Her: “You really shouldn’t be mad at me when you don’t get none after acting like this in public.”

And this is why I am a dummy…

I wake up every day at 6am; 7 on Saturday and 7:30 on Sunday knowing that my chances are usually pretty high if I can just NOT act like a jackass, looking to eke some immature laughs out of most situations.
And I behave like a total jackass in order to eke some immature laughter out of the awkwardness of social situations.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

1,328 Days

True Story© Black Eyewitness Guy

     I think we can ALL agree that we collectively dislike 'black eyewitness guy'…

If you need a refresher on just who that is, let’s let Eddie and Huey bring us up to speed.

For those of us who grew up in or near the hood, we’re used to having the news around when some ill shit happens to pop off.  Let there be a police chase, a shooting, a stabbing, some local government corruption, a dogfighting ring gets busted up, a city councilman caught getting topped off by an MLK street walker on the corner of McGee St and Cedar in the front seat of his Suburban in 1998 (or was that 99?); the fake news media is COMING out.

     When I was little, I used to think it was exciting to be on the news and would gravitate to the camera when they were wherever we were at a given time and HOPED they would ask me a question so I could be on TV that night.
When I grew up, though, I learned this distaste for the media for the shit that they decided that our neighborhoods were, selling up that narrative in exchange for ad space purchases.  Plausibly deniable racism is apparently good for business, but that is another tale for another post.

     As an adult, I decided I would rather play up my learned disdain for the media by using it as my chance to waste their time with shit they would NOT be able to properly edit to put on TV if they wanted to.

Thursday June 18, 2015.
The Charleston Church shooting had been the day before.  As I belong to one of the larger AME churches in the district and since it so happens that our church is particularly popular with the local NAACP, the vigil was at our church was to be held that night.
My brother was working as custodian at the church at the time but was at the beach until the evening of the vigil, so he had leaned on me to straighten up the building in his absence that week.  On par with the rest of the week, I would come to the church with his keys and let myself in, clean and leave.  Normally it took no more than an hour since it was summer and very little was happening around the building.  Oh, but tonight?  I had one hour after work at my normal job to make sure the church was clean for what would be enough visitors to fill the sanctuary more than most Sundays do these days.
He called me as he got in town, having been made aware of the IMMEDIATELY cobbled together plan and came over to the church.  I had handled business and we were outside talking to the pastor before some people came and he had to hightail it inside.

…  then the news crew came.

Preston looks at me and goes “I ain’t talking to these motherfuckers,” to which I respond with “hell, I shouldn’t!”
[note: not a word about cursing in the church parking lot, you’d be surprised how many people do it if you hang around one long enough]
They approached, camera ready and my brother starts fiddling with his phone so as to not be addressed.  I had other plans…

Me: *head nod* “Hey, how’s it goin’?”
Reporter: “Pretty good, and you?”
Me: “All things considered, pretty good.”
Reporter: “You guys members here?”
Me: “Yep.”
Reporter: “Staying for the vigil?”
Me: “Nah, we’re just working tonight.”
Reporter: “Mind if I ask a couple of questions on camera?”
Preston: *shakes head*
Me: “Sure, I can talk.”
Reporter: “Thanks…  So what are your thoughts on the whole situation?”
Preston: *long slow eyeroll*
Me: “Oh, it was fucked up, dude!”
Reporter: *points to the TV van* “I understand emotions are kinda high right now.  So do you feel any kind of residual fear that someone may try this on you guys’ church?”
Me: “Oh, you mean like a copycat?”
Reporter: “Yes, basically a copycat attack.”
Me: *pulls airsoft gun from my waistband, looks at camera* “I say to ANY of you ma-fuckas watching at home… COME WITH IT! We ain’t laying down in this bitch.  We can shoot it out like Yosemite fuckin’ Sam in this bitch!”
Reporter: *steps back* “Sir…”
Preston: “dude…”
Me: “Y’all heard what I said, we ain’t just about to lay down and beg over here in East Greensboro, I will fight ‘til I die for mine!”
Reporter: “You would arm yourself in a chur--…”
Me: “You damn right I'mma arm myself!  What did those people gain NOT being strapped?  I am gonna be strapped like Wile Ethelbert Coyote”
Preston: "hehe, Ethelbert, man?!"
Reporter: *motions to the camera man* “Thanks…  I think we will get inside now.”

At least I had kept my finger off the trigger and refrained from referring to anyone as “cracka-ass-crackas” in this exchange.

Preston looks at me once we’re alone again, asks “where the fuck did THAT come from?  You don’t even take your gauge out of the house…  When you get a pistol and not tell me?” and chuckled when I came out of character and explained it was an airsoft gun.

     I didn’t hang around for the vigil, I went to my now-girlfriend’s house and we ate dinner before I made her let me watch the news that night to see just how much of my WWE Promo they would try to fix for television.
Disappointingly, the answer to “how much?” would be ‘zero.’

Thursday, May 25, 2017

1,336 Days

True Story© Supervillain vs. Supervillain

I am a supervillain.
A bearded, hefty, mean-ass supervillain whose short-term memory is terrible, but remembers EXCRUCIATING details of mundane shit that happened forever ago just to hold a grudge.  Shit, that is how I BECAME a supervillain.

     After my accident in 2003 is when I basically decided to fully embrace my bearded supervillainy and I am to understand that this about when I grew to full inner/interstellar notoriety for my escapades.
One day a couple of years in, I got a letter.

Mr. Evans, this contact is to offer our deepest appreciation for your contributions to the profession of being a supervillain.  We know the amount of stress and deep thought that goes into the making even the most mundane of plans, and as a token of our appreciation we would LOVE to have you at the Annual International Supervillain vs. Supervillain convention and competition.  We will send a courier with the official invite and registration form, containing all necessary contact and location information.  We ask that you keep this information as confidential as possible.
Thank you.

This is shit I thought only happened in silly-ass Saturday afternoon movies and bad comic books.  It reminded me a little bit of Enter The Dragon.  Now I am in the enviable position to witness a thing or twelve about a world I had previously only barely kind of imagined existed.
I also had to plan some of my best work for this one.

     In the coming weeks, the courier came with the rest of registration package and returned to get it into the proper hands without alerting any prying National/International Security eyes.  I checked my passport status and made travel arrangements and daydreamed every day about what I may come against.
When I got to the convention center in [redacted Scandinavian country], I was greeted to people that even I as a proud weirdo would call “fucking weirdoes.”  The costumes, vehicles and fake weapons reminded me of one of those bad weeaboo comic convention home in the states.  The titties and cleavage, however, reminded me of a good one.

     Look, none of us has the collective attention spans to get into the teeth of what all I saw or did as a part of the competition.
For the sake of time constraints, we will move you forward into the competition…
First and second rounds were simple enough, but I had not come quite well-enough equipped and realized that I do this shit for hobby and some of these cats are doing it to live.  With that said, I knew that all I had to do was not die and hope to be invited back the following year.  I had not performed well enough to make the 3-way finals, but placed in another three-way for runner up.

I had a plan, though…
The invitation process was like Enter The Dragon, but the competition itself was like the Schwarzenegger movie The Running Man.  For my competition in the runner up I tricked my rivals into stopping at, and then robbing, a large bank with me.  JUST before the fecal matter hit the rotating oscillator, I rolled on them and got them both arrested.  In corrupt-as-fuck eastern Europe, I cut the remaining cops in on a cut of the take when WE robbed that same bank while most of the other cops were busy arresting and containing two fucking supervillains.
With my take of the robbery, I found the nearest crematorium and lined the owner’s palms with enough money to show me how to use the incinerator and then take the rest of the day off.  Back at the station house, I had my bound-and-shackled competitors mounted up still alive and waterboarded them for an hour until they BEGGED me to shoot them to put them out of their misery.
Did I say “out of their misery”?  Why the hell ELSE would I rent a crematorium for a day?  Recording for FB live shared only with the secret hidden group and broadcast back at the convention center, I slid the boards into the oven with my rivals still attached and turned em on.
I walked back to the convention center and took the runner up space on the podium.

     But I wasn’t done…
The finals were just about to start.

     Only two of the three finalists had shown up.  Strangely, the one everyone THOUGHT would have been the eventual winner was missing in action.
I snickered.
They asked if I wanted in on the finals.  I politely declined, explaining it off to mental and physical exhaustion for what I had just pulled off.  They understood.
I snickered again.
We all watched as PROFESSIONAL supervillains battled it out with the eventual winner having arranged to have the loser buried/drowned in well beneath an oil derrick.  I thought the shit was pretty mundane considering what I had just thought my way out of but they say the winner is usually the one who runs out of money last and anyone who can make use of oil production equipment is apparently the one with the longer paper.  I ain’t mad.  He had won the competition this year and I won first runner up.  We were both invited back the following year with first-round byes in the competition due to the outcome of this time around.

     But I wasn’t done…

Next year comes, we arrive to the convention and this year they have it in an Asian island country.
Make no mistakes, this shit was no paradise.
As a formality of having placed so highly in the previous year’s competition, we were introduced as a part of a special ceremony in which we would be able to do a little something to show off our sepervillainous prowess.

     My rival puts on a pyrotechnic display while he did all kinds of crazy wily tactical martial arts maneuvers.


No, wait!

Remember that one finalist that hadn’t shown up for the finals?
Well with my take on the bank robbery, I hit him with a tranq dart and took him to a doctor keep him sedated and safe in a medically-induced coma for several months.
“Safe,” lmao.
While in that medically-induced coma, he was also introduced and maintained on the hormones that would transition him from male to female.  Yes, kept comfortable and basically asleep.  Well nourished and generally in wonderful shape.
As “safe” as one can be considered to be if they go to sleep as a man and wake up eleven-and-a-half months later as a woman.  So imagine, waking up with no concept of WHEN the fuck it is, how long you have been wherever you have been and being the opposite sex of what you were when you went under.  You’d IMMEDIATELY go insane, right?
Well I snapped my fingers and (s)he was allowed into the arena at that cue.  Screaming and writhing around completely out of his fucking gourd.
I stepped down off the platform and smiled maniacally at last year’s winner, then looking across this year’s competition…

“Gentlemen…  Ladies…  Shall we proceed?”


Every single person in the competition immediately backed out and refused to take me on.  I was given the champion’s take and trophy, and I guess one could say I had earned it, but they probably should have played along since that was the only thing I had pre-planned for the competition.

The committee, when they sent the mailer in subsequent years, sent it as a “legacy” thing, where I would sit in a VIP booth, give expert commentary and could even be a consultant for contestants, but they wanted me nowhere NEAR the competition as a participant.

Monday, May 22, 2017

1,339 Days

Writing About Writing

I can’t draw very well.
Likewise for painting.
I ain’t much of a photographer or videographer.
I suck with PhotoShop.
I am pretty decent with a Digital Audio Workstation, but I am shy about my music.

I write…
I write a LOT (well, more than I had in the last five years).
And to be totally honest with you, my handwriting is pretty shitty too!

When I write, I like to think can I close my eyes and see the people and places that I am telling of in the stories.  I try to order my words in a manner that the two of you can see the people places and things I am talking about as well.
I swear this gives everyone a different perspective of each story, everyone taking something different from it altogether.  Sometime that “something different” is far from what I even saw while writing.

More than anything, though, these last 8ish months has shown me I can have fun with this again.  Sure, I am down to once a week with a little something here and there in between, but the time spent planning and working on the pieces is the real ride.
I guess I say all that to say that when I found my new muse and motivation, I have also found my voice and regained a stride that my dwindling post frequency clearly shows I had lost.

I see who has stuck with me, and I see who has joined anew, be they through FaceBook, word-of-mouth, or (God forbid…  what the hell were y’all LOOKING for?) a Google search that landed them here.
Anyway…  Enough writing about writing, I have a True Story© or 5 to write.

See y’all Thursday!

Thursday, May 18, 2017

1,343 Days

True Story© Psycho Therapy

Indecision is my problem…

I am often at a job and TOTALLY detesting what I am doing while being completely unsure of what it is I would RATHER be doing.
[Note: writing…  I would rather be writing and if you have been around since September 1st you know that]

     Anyway, fuck these intro bars, let’s get right to work.
One day last spring, I hit a fit of boredom and perused the craigslist want ads to see if there was the magic bullet of an employment opportunity there for me.  There was not.  What there WAS, however, was an abundance of people offering services for which they should PROBABLY be licensed and at the same time probably were not appropriately so.

I had a plan.

     I know a lot of people in need of professional help, and by “professional help,” I mean they need to see a fucking therapist.  What stands between this most times is most people are afraid to face their fears of their own reality, and the reality they fear most is that 99.98% of human beings are fucked the fuck up.  Not only are we all fucked up, we are so fucked up that we do not see the benefit in paying someone to assess how fucked up we are to help us deal with our fuckedupedness.  Shit, enough of the world is judging us as it is, why the hell should it cost me money to face that?
That’s right, I put up an ad as a psychotherapist and basically worded it such that I would listen to and help you to a common-sense teamwork solution to underlying issues in the least judgmental manner possible and I'd do it for a fraction of what those other quacks charge.  Naturally, I included some small print about no promises and that I am absolutely NOT a board-certified or licensed professional and all that shit that gets me off the hook when someone takes it all the wrong way.
I hate that I don’t register my ads with craigslist because doing so would have presented a perfect time now to log in and screencap the ad in its entirety and not paraphrase.

     Two days after placing the ad, I gets an email from this young lady who’d been having some long-term issues with her family and internalized it all the wrong way and it led to some stress eating and she didn’t want to go too far down that road and end up on My 600-lb Life.
We exchanged numbers and I brought her into my church (I can always get a key from the sexton without questions asked and I know the alarm code).  I seated her on the chaise and sat back in a recliner in the lounge and she talked out her issue.

“Basically, it started when my parents split.  Dad was a philanderer but mom was too, worse probably.  He got caught but she didn’t, and she blamed him.  We, the kids, knew the truth and loved our daddy but mom had created such a barrier between us with a bitter split and taking him to the cleaners such that he was not much in our lives beyond court-mandated child support.  Mom remarried and continued her bullshit on new guy who was basically just the doting husband-slash-overzealous-proud-stepfather.  Basically, he wanted ALL the respect we would give our natural father, as if we didn’t know full well who he was or the rest of the situation.  To him, he was stepping up and couldn't be bothered with the fact that no one respected him.
Mom – and I don’t know if this was some pseudo-respect for him or to snow him and keep him dumb – was insistent that we cave to this.  He never put hands on us, but he was emotionally destructive in how he spoke at us.  We couldn’t tell our daddy or do anything about it because mom kept us sealed from him.  Meanwhile, I would later learn, he bittered to the whole situation not KNOWING the nature of her shit and he stopped even trying to be in our lives.
Now that I am grown, I have a mother I can’t STAND to talk to, a father who doesn’t know what to trust and a stepfather too busy trying to force children to respect him to notice that his own wife never has or will”

Okay, y’all ready?  Say it with me now…


     Now in my mind, this girl and her two sisters are the victims.  I mean, dude never touched them, but talking down on someone is as shitty as anything you could do with your hands or anything physical in your formative years.  Lacking the support of THE one tasked with such support is worse, and worse still is watching helpless as your blood is shut out of their chance to even PLAY in the game.
I also hated her mother and stepfather.
I woofed some old bullshit about as an adult now trying to get with her blood father through his own blood family, especially his own mama if possible.  Try to build something, make up for lost time and give him all the love she felt she could give in her adulthood.  Let him feel the love of his baby girl and all that goodness.  I bid her adieu and beckoned her to make another appointment with me as soon as she felt she was ready, and we could work up to a regular schedule.
This was on a Tuesday.

     10 days later, I get a FRANTIC phonecall.

“Mr. Phlip, someone stabbed out my mama’s husband’s tires at his job and when she came to bring his tools from the house to fix it, a man and woman knocked them both out cold and then beat BOTH of them with belts and ran away.  I need to talk as soon as possible!”

[Note: it is right now immediately regrettable that I had not come up with Moe Phillips for this undertaking]
I set up an emergency meeting in which I could BARELY keep a straight face.  She went on and on about how much she appreciated seeing her mother and her stepfather get their comeuppance for their shit.  About how sometimes street justice is about all some people deserve.  She thanked me for talking her down off of the ledge previously before paying me for the last session and leaving me with the “I will call you if I EVER need you again.”

     …  I promptly went to my craigslist ad and pulled that motherfucker from the internet before I did some stupid shit to get myself killed or arrested.
Looking back on it now, I wish I had thought to use the Moe Phillips name for this endeavor.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

1,350 Days

True Story© Contrapment

Look, I know it isn’t an actual word.

     In The Wire season three/episode 12, after two and two-thirds seasons of Herc and Carver picking him up and whooping his ass in the course of questionable arrests that never stuck, we find Preston “Bodie” Broadus in the clutches of Jimmy McNulty and Rhonda Pearlman after am arrest for selling drugs while in the protected area, dubbed "Hamsterdam."
Those of you who know the show know that Hamsterdam was supposedly a free zone where no one was to be arrested for peddling their wares, as promised by law enforcement.  Based on that knowledge, to then turn and arrest someone for a situation you specifically set them up in is entrapment, but Bodie was a middle school dropout and that word became “contrapment” instead.

Not bad thinking in the moment from the boy.

     After my recent binge rewatch of The Wire, I noticed things I had not seen/remembered in my initial viewings, and one thing was how damn near everyone whose name we knew involved in that little Hamsterdam experiment wound up either in custody or dead.  Sometimes both, and usually in that very order.

More importantly (and not really having much to do with the above), I considered how I could use these items to my own in-person advantage and entertainment.  If you know nothing about me, I despise rapists and racists (only fitting those words rhyme, no?) and will stop at nothing to expose either in the most embarrassing manner possible.  Only gonna deal with one of those today.

As one might know, there is a seedy underbelly for basically anything one can imagine in FB groups, see my discussion of such over on
So one day I am cruising the book and someone linked a meme about victims of sexual assault and some jackass basically took it upon himself to assert that victims in general were not so much worth the effort for bringing the shit on themselves.  I checked the profile and he was local, but not connected to anyone I know (odd given how small this, the third largest city in my state is).  I asked to join a group he was in and it was a total Bro-Fest, just more of the same shit he was previously espousing.  Anyway, I mostly lurked and made nice with the folks playing the "one of us" game and he friend requests me.  Naturally as soon as I accept, he is in my inbox about parties and where I hang out and such, basically touting the parties that he attends and the loose women who make bad decisions and yaddayaddayadda.

     I hashed out a quick plan though.  I would get a few of my homies and a few girls together for a hotel party at an extended stay.  Couches, extra bedrooms, no need to clean the shit up ourselves when we were done...  Had one of the girls set it up with her ID for the sake of what might happen later.  Add some cheap liquor, maybe some weed and make sure SOMEONE in the building vapes, right?  Yeah, this douche missile would not THINK of missing the opportunity to take advantage of one of the women in my party.
Except for the fact that it was a total sham…
Once the party was on, we get him liquored up.  Me and the my friends only drank to our known tolerances and the one girl tasked with flirting with him was FAKING being drunk.  He would pour her a drink and we’d swap it out as soon as his head was turned, but she would play the role of the lightweight drinker, appearing to become more pliable in his clutches.  Naturally, he thinks he has enough liquor in her to make his move and me and mine have ONLY had enough to be aggressive in response to a situation.  Quite apparently, she is cognizant enough to not be taken advantage of and me and the homies aren't letting that happen to anyone on our watch.  After a while, we're being loud and shit so she agrees to go to the room with him “just to talk in a more quiet setting” and he thinks this is his moment.

Once in the room alone with her, he talks about enough to get close.  He gets close enough to try to kiss, which she does not bat away until he gets more aggressive.  Once he does, getting all handsy and trying to go down her pants, she asks him to stop once.  No worries, we're all listening since everyone in the "party" is aware.  He responds that she was JUST with it a couple minutes before (which she totally wasn’t) and continues and she gets louder in her yelling of “stop, no!” and that would naturally be the queue for my friends and I to bust in the room and beat the entire shit out of him.And BOY did we ever, dragged him out of the room, beat him in the living room and dragged him out back to stomp on him some more.  Unconscious now, we left him in the bed of his truck and gathered our shit from the room and went on about our lives.  We all blocked him on FB and from our phones.  Naturally, no way an attempted rapist will report an assault borne from his attempted rape to the police.

I guess this was more of a simple setup than “contrapment,” but I could give a fuck so long as a pussy crook learned his lesson the hard way.  Hell, it was more than worth the money the room and party favors cost too!

Thursday, May 4, 2017

1,357 Days

True Story© Lottery Ruined MY Life

I think I have created a monster…

I personally invited those who are reading from FB some came at suggestion of those who did.  I can see that people are reading but never know who is actually reading until I get a comment or an email.  Yes, I have gotten a few emails from people who want to come at me about something they have read.

     We spoke previously of the advertising opportunity that I blew, if not there's a link located on the left.
This one was new and more promising though.

     If you will notice on the right, I have a PayPal “donate” link.  Funds from that would be properly used for establishing and maintaining a private website and publishing a novel I have written.
Tied to that link is a PayPal account, which most adults who know would infer to be attached to a valid email address.
One day I get an email.

I hope this message finds you in good health.  I have sent the $1200 you need to self-publish your novel.  In response, I want to solicit your very obvious talent in a situation I am up against.  Please respond to this and we can work out the details.”

Shocked (and contacting my auntie to work on this novel thing), I respond and within a day, we had exchanged numbers and contact time and I am home on my couch waiting for a call…

*phone rings*

Me: “Hello?”
Him: “Hi, I expect you’ve been waiting on my call?”
Me: “Yessir…  What’s up?”
Him: “Well, I got a situation and what I've read, your ‘stories’ show your unique skillset to spring me from it.”
Me: “Wow…  I am all ears, let’s hear it.”
Him: “Well…  I am married for 17 years.  My daughter will be 17 soon, right?”
Me: “Yeah, you married a pregnant lady.  Your baby I hope?”
Him: “That’s my quandary…  At the time, she was mine.”
Me: “Fuck. My. Life.  Keep going.”
Him: “Fuck yours?  No, fuck mine.  I worked and got us a home.  I come home one day and she is on the phone talking she isn’t sure my daughter is mine, and--…”
Me: “…  man…”
Him: “Tell me about it.  So anyway, she says to her best friend how she WANTS it to be my kid, but she isn’t sure.”
Me: “So what did YOU do?”
Him: “Shit, I was making all the money in the house.  I turned a ‘daddy & me’ trip into a quick DNA test!”
Me: “Results?”
Him: “She’s mine.”
Me: “Then what is the problem?”
Him: “This bitch, man…”
Me: More?!
Him: “She continues, how she is not sure it is my baby and knows it ain't right, but I am such a great dad and doing so well that she will milk this 18.”
Me: “Fuuuuuuck…  Continue.”
Him: “So Thursday, I grabs a Mega Millions on the way home from work, right?”
Me: “Shit!”
Him: “…  yep, I am now worth 28 million, less taxes.”
Me: “And because she's willing to let YOU be the sucker raisin another dude’s baby because she KNEW she was a bum when she let him ooze in her, you want her the fuck out of your windfall?”
Him: “You do this well.”
Me: “Budget?”
Him: “Huh?”
Me: “Outside of my of my fee – which is you paying off my mortgage plus another 75k – what am I allowed spend on this?”
Him: “Damn…  Uh… 250k?”
Me: “Easy”

Now I am on the job.  I am given a week to come up with a plan and one year to finish.
Initial contact was on a Thursday, I had one slow day at work and two off days to think it through.  Monday morning at 9am, I have a plan for him and email it to confirm, confident that we can set this in motion by the NEXT following Monday.

The plan...

     9 days later, he strolls into a specialist with fatigue and stomach pain.  Alone with the doc, he slides him a band and insists that I be allowed into the room…
I explain that we play along with whatever comes up with to keep my dude ensconced in a serious illness up to a previously-crafted but unbending will written in secret, leaving his millions to his daughter in trust until she is of age.
We'd all be beholden to the fudged paperwork that is already in motion and whatever the doctor can cook up.  As he "declines" in health, the fact that she loves him so little exposed and she splits with him and he gets to miraculously recover once she is out of his life.

Brilliant, right?



The reality...

     So check it…  The plan's to get her out was right?  The application of said plan was just right, but no one could prepare for what would happen.
Approaching a specialist with an “issue,” then lining his palms with the first money to do it was cool.  He was with it and wouldn’t ask questions, instead he'd cook up an illness that x-rays and nosy auditors would have a hard time exposing before anything major happpened and my client was done with his conniving woman.
With that kind of immediate cash, he was on our team willing to lend his advice and credibility.  Coached us on what untraceable pains to whine about and why they couldn’t be located to fix or abate.

     She ate it and played the game as best as one could expect someone to when they appear to be losing a dude worth $45k a year and about $300k in life insurance policies.  Pretending to be all hurt, manufacturing tears and all of the expected.  What was missing was the daughter.  Not at the hospital, no doctor visits and none of the other things.  Every time it was “with my mother,” or “I don’t want her to see this.”  It was almost as if she was seeing the escape from her treachery in this man's illness.  I didn't even feel bad for her.

     In and out of the specialist’s office, sticking to a special diet and losing a TON of weight to keep this thing going, no one other than me and the doctor were the wiser.  I must admit, this man was one hell of an actor to carry this shit out too, not terribly different than 50 Cent in that shitty direct-to-BET movie that no one I ever met has actually seen.
Meanwhile she played her role as the aggrieved wife, watching her husband fade away.  Hell, they should both get Oscars!

     As time wore down, the “confessions” part of the process came.  You know, when the end is near and people start copping to things they might not have otherwise?
Unfortunately, this would be the beginning of my end.  I had already received the first $36k on my mortgage as a deposit and would get the rest when he was rid of her.
This one fateful day, I am at work and he has arranged with the doctor a trip through the hospital where he would need to spend a couple of days and be in pretty rough shape.  She naturally comes and they talk about the past and future.  He tells her that before he got sick he had previously lessened his life insurance policy to an amount just enough to cover the remaining cost of their home and to put their daughter through college.  She, expecting that there would be enough to do both of these things – plus a “Stella's groove” vacation or three – was PISSED.  Out comes the name calling, the admission of serial infidelity and all one can expect when their windfall is cut to a third of expectations.
And then she said it…
“Well I thank you for putting MY daughter through college, though.”

The emphasis on ‘my’ was no accident.  What she didn’t know was that he already knew.

     What I didn’t expect is that this would be where he broke character, jumping out of that hospital bed and grabbing her in a manner that would make Ike cheer.
This would also be the moment that everyone involved realized that he wasn’t that sick after all.
Magic Johnson has to know what that is like.
The doctor got most of his cash already, I had gotten half of one of my remittances and as they stood yelling in this hospital room, I watched the rest of it blowing out the damned window.

     He wound up coming clean about his win and the doctor wound up in some DEEP shit over his part in it and I still have a house to pay for and unpublished novel.
They wound up in divorce court and I will admit that he had one HELL of a lawyer to have not gotten beat for his money in court.
Luckily, no charges were pressed as long as fair pricing for the medical care was footed.  I never had to set foot in anyone's court room.

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