man (5:40:09 PM): i think bout givin it to u evveery dayyyy
woman (5:43:51 PM): every day?
woman (5:44:03 PM): hmmm…
woman(5:44:16 PM): thats a lot of days
man (5:54:40 PM): i know
woman (5:56:36 PM): tsk tsk tsk
man (5:57:05 PM): dont u think bout it
woman (5:57:40 PM): i get wet everytime i think about the nights we used to have…
woman (5:58:43 PM): but then i remember you have a girlfriend and realize im playing myself and i dry the hell up
The more I think about Obama’s presidency, the more I believe in destiny. All the way down to the elementary age of his Black beauties, Sasha & Malia. I can’t imagine how frantic my mind would be if these girls were in their teens. Photos of them hugging up on rappers, rumors of sloppy pregnancies, high school beer binging…Black America wouldn’t be able to handle it. So to the Almighty One – thank you : )
My President is black
My Maybach too
And I’ll be goddamn if my diamonds ain’t blue
My money’s dark green and my Porsche’s light grey
And I’m headed for D.C., anybody feel me?
My President is Black in fact he’s half White
So even in a racist’s mind he’s half right
Even in these racist times we all right
My President is Black but his house is all white
Rosa Parks sat so Martin Luther could walk
Martin Luther walked so Barack Obama could run
Barack Obama ran so all the children could fly
So I’m gonna spread my wings you can meet me in the sky
I already got my own clothes I already got my own shoes
I was hot before Barack, imagine what I’m gonna do
Hello Miss America, hey pretty lady
Red white and blue flag wave for me baby
Never thought I’d say this shit, baby I’m good
You can keep your puss, I don’t want no more Bush
No more war, no more Iraq
No more white lies, my President is Black
I’m so happy this color doesn’t wash off, cause damn I’ve never been more proud to be Black. ‘Notorious’ grossed over 20mil this weekend, we’re celebrating Martin Luther King Jr. Day on this tenacious 19th of January and tomorrow there will be a Black First Family in the White House. I can’t take it. I might burst and spill years of pride, nationalism, and hope all over these bedsheets. Composure. Composure.
Good lord, Hov.
This year’s VH1 Hip Hop Honors arrives during an interesting era for a genre dawned in the mid 70s. A Black man’s leading our presidential race, vocoders have become the new mics, and hipsters, well… are hip. As Fat Joe asserted to me at the Triple H premiere this past Thursday, “If you wanna wear retro gear, gummi bear hair styles and some tight jeans, you better figure out where you got it from.” Say word.
There’s no doubt that Obama’s presidency would drop like an apocalypse on White America. Systematic ideologies would be crushed and stuck underneath one man’s freshly shined oxfords. That man being a Black man. From a social perspective the opportunity for an African-American to become the Commander in Chief is beyond inspirational in fact transformable. Pools of fragile black boys would finally be cradled with such consistent positive imagery that the bruised generational backbone that has kept the Black community paralyzed may actually be…realigned.
Nas – Black President
Obama in fact would be on heavy rotation amongst every youngn’s hip hop playlist…whether they liked it or not.
Shit sounds like a mild euphoria, but something far more interesting than what we’re expecting may foam from our tiny tims mouths and onto our adult surface. That foam is what many see as a ”distraction from the implacable institutional racism that permeates American life.” A quote from John McWhorter’s dope political joint, ObamaKids. It was in New York magazine about a month back, but finally getting a bookcase reunites me with that article. Anyways, (I hated typing that last sentence btw) back to the foam.
Let’s just say America’s poster-black-family settles into the White House for a whole eight years. Does that ultimately eradicate the racial contract that has defined and divided us since birth?
“We learn the language to which we are first exposed. It will be impossible for young people in this new reality to process race in the way we do now. The performances we indulge in over who’s “playing the race card” will seem antique. For the members of a black generation that grew up watching a black man step out of Air Force One, the idea that they live under the yoke of white supremacy would require more cognitive dissonance than most people are willing to tolerate.”
Tolerate. Hmm. The conundrum to untangle is choosing between system and culture. Both have been stained for Black folks, but truthfully, both cannot breathe on the same surface.
I feel mad scientist mode coming along. Can’t join Sylvia in the oven. At least not tonight anyway.
I wonder how the hell it feels to be a socially forgotten Native American. All these Black&White wars must severely piss them off…
Last week to register folks. I don’t want to call you stupid if you fail to vote (Obama). But I mean, well yeah, you’d be stupid (to not vote Obama). Look, I’m even giving you the link. So, if you’re not going to do it for yourself, atleast do it for trace. I need some fucking healthcare.
when I don’t blog.
Even when all that’s left is baby-bare skin, S. Odum still gets Ciara to strip. Peep the lede, it’s blushed with the warm intimacy and flare usually found in a seductive novel. Get with it or get lost.
“Ciara is blistering hot. The kind of hot that makes paint bubble up and peel off the walls.
Sprawled on her back, breath escapes her lips in short exhales. She gazes upwards with lazy lids. Reflective. Layers of hair are pasted against her cheeks – a perfect, feathery frame. She’s glistening; looks delicious and sweet, like a freshly glazed Krispy Kreme. Pearl-sized droplets of sweat bead against the smooth bronze of her rib cage, glide down the valley between her abs, and slip from sight.
Finally.
Ci Ci’s ready to let you in. Tempting with a glimpse of goodies she’s been so cautious with – the treats she’s been hiding under extra-extra large sweats. Finally, she’s willing to reveal the woman she’s kept caged behind that stoic pout and those titanium pop-locks.
“I’m in a free-flowing place,” she says, brushing damp locks from her face. “if you wanna get me to try something, this is the time to do it. I’m gonna let go. On a fantasy ride ride, anything could happen.”
Lyricalfuckingmaven.
Too many a damn time I have heard men reference women as artificial beings composed of assisted cleavage, manufactured manes and face enhancements. Okay, unarguably noted. However, long existed the days of deception amongst the XY carrier. Once upon a time the honest male physique hid underneath wretched swamps of 90s and early mille denim. Noodled frames were concealed and pipes breathed easy.
As a woman, I had no damn clue what yall were hiding inside those potatoe sack jeans. One minute I’m thinking those have got to be some olympian thighs under there, the next minute I’m silenced by a pair of hairy twigs. This is why I fux with the male skinny jean. Slouched of course.
I see what I’m getting, before I get it. And damn does honesty look good. There’s no reason why a man should be claiming the threads of a football player when he knows he’s working with stilts. Besides, stilts are hot, real hot. Especially if they’re meaty. So yes, the male skinny jean. Slouched. We promise to tell you our real bra-size as long as you keep wearing them.
