Must be my trick ear but I thought you said “blog”.

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Don’t tell me what to feel. All my fucking life, people have been telling me I do things wrong. I’m always the fucking asshole. I look around and I see everybody else is infinitely more fucked up than I am.

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What is a marriage, if not an opportunity to mock someone through thick and thin while simultaneously exploring your deepest darkest sexual desires?

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The simple fact remains, you fucked me and you didn’t want to have anything to do with me. That doesn’t sit well with the ladies.

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Father? Can I ask you something? Why is there a naked lady in your bedroom? There’s no hair on her vagina. Do you think she’s okay?

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What was that? What’d you just say just now? L.O.L.? Laugh out loud? That’s a part of your lexicon? Really? L.O.L.?

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There are some images you don’t want floating around your pretty little head. Trust me, it’s like a Mapplethorpe shoot in there, except with less cock.

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I find interesting to hear these people ranting and raving about saving the environment when they’ll probably blow like 10 000 pounds of fuel on their private jet planes getting down to Cabo this weekend. That’s right, babs. You heard me. Tell Oprah I said so. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, ladies.

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Not to contradict your dear old mom, who’s both wicked smart and wonderful, but, no, we don’t have to be realistic. Not when it comes to love.

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Make me an offer, I’ll counter the shit out of it. We will handle this like the proud, beautiful black men we are.

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