Category Archives: Random Commentary

Look Over Here! It’s Sex! And Funny Stuff!

Seattle: So Slim and I were chillin in the new crib the other day watching South Park, drinking some new age bougie concoction that Slim created and talking sh*t, as usual.

Slim: The bougie concoction is a recipe stolen from a tropical island where I was fanned by exotic women and fed fruits never before seen.

All of a sudden, Slim starts dying. Not dying like the time I was choking on some food and he remained aloof as I begged God for my life and watched the years pass by in front of my eyes, but dying laughing.

I thought you were attempting to exaggerate your laughter. I was wondering why you were slapping the table. I know the joke I made at the time was funny…but not that funny.

Still a bastard. Anyway, it’s a commercial. Probably one of the funniest commercials I’ve seen in a long time.

In usual comedic fashion, we try to one up each other (Slim says Pause). I show him something a friend of mine sent me awhile ago (Shout out to Still Dutty Entertainment). Also quite funny, plus I think it encapsulates the essence of Three Ways To Take It.

So without much more jibber jabber, we present to you “2 Girls 1 Cup”!

Just kidding. 2 (hilarious) videos 1 site. 2+1=3 Ways to Take It

This chick needs more than glasses…

Three Ways To Take It’s Side Gig:

three-ways-side-gig1

Click, download, and view. You will have ab cramps from laughter. Unfortunately, WordPress.com doesn’t let us upload mpeg’s. That’s part of the reason we takin this show elsewhere!

Have a great weekend and use protection (Unless you love each other).

Seattle and Slim

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We Be Hatin’

By Slim Jackson

A couple weeks ago I was out with the fellas at an east coast college. They were opening for a poppin and pizzlin hip hop artist that we all know, and I was there to support and hold my Flip video camera in the air to get some blog-worthy footage. Without going into too much detail, the show was great. I’ve been to a few shows they’ve rocked out at, and it’s been a lot of fun. After seeing them perform in front of primarily white institutions and crowds more heavily sprinkled with Black and Hispanic folk, I’ve come to a crucial conclusion…

White people really know how to have unrestricted fun. Black folks really know how to hate.

Let’s face it. We’re quicker to find fault with other Black folk than we are to give credit and accolade where it’s due. When I’m at these concerts, there are clear demographic differences. I can see the hundreds or thousands of white people throwing their hands in the air and having a good time. I can also see a significant chunk of the small segment of Black and Hispanic people watching first with a critical eye and looking for an excuse to say the show was wack. They’re usually the people with arms folded, staring up at the stage, and consistently whispering in the ear of whoever they came to the show with. Now this isn’t to say that all Black people are naturally haters, but sometimes it’s like something extra needs to be proved before people will just accept the fact that someone is cool, good at what they do, or whatever. This isn’t even a competitive circumstance! Competition? That’s a different story…

Don’t even get me started on how competition increases the hate exponentially. All we need to do is look at a group of women who are all interested in the same dude. Welcome to New Hate City….Welcome to New Hate Citttttayy! We can even look at the dude that’s baggin chicks without any reputable reason. “That negro just be out there munchin box or wearin Greek letters. He wouldn’t be baggin otherwise.” But yeah, we be hatin’. It’s kinda reckless. If people spent as much time looking at themselves as they spent criticizing others who are making moves in the bedroom, the world would be a much happier place. Then again, I guess there will always be crabs in the barrel…I ain’t tryna get pinched though.

Slim “The Plumber” Jackson

Facebook is Going to Ruin The World

Facebook has to be the best and biggest distraction since Internet Porn and AIM.  When it was just for college kids that was one thing, but now everyone has joined it.  Including some people’s Grandma’s.  It’s an addiction rivaling cocaine, well for Ole Grandma let’s say acid.  Shoot, look at yourself right now.  There’s a gleam in your eye as you pretend to do work at your desk as you toggle between our blog and Facebook.  I mean, keep reading the blog.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  But you might want to stop putting your life on blast homie.  At least here you can have an alias, on Facebook  it’s all out there for others to see.  Which isn’t be a bad thing for some of us, but for others – whoa.  After looking at some profiles, I’m sure some folks out there have photos saved on their desktop for a lonely night or to pull a 50 Cent and put someone on blast.

Facebook’s Next Top Model

Women love to take pictures.  It’s been that way since the dawn of time.  Those etchings on the walls of caves (pause), yeah those were made by women.  They feel the need to chronicle everything, especially everything going on with them.  Getting ready for the party, drinking at the pre party, dancing at the party, sweating it out at the after party and catching back shots at the after after party.  No one cares.  I don’t need to see the glam shots on my News Feed.  Especially when the glam shots really aren’t that glamorous.  You won’t end up in the tabloids no matter how much you suck your gut in, put your hands on your hips and stand next to your ugly friend.  You know which one I’m talking about.  Yeah her.  The one who looks like a walk-on for the Cowboys.  What’s worse than those weekend warriors are the pseudo models.  I’m sorry to tell you this, but dude was lying to you.  He isn’t a real photographer.  Just like that guy wasn’t a real doctor.  And I’m not really a dentist.  So taking semi-nude photos of yourself and posting them on Facebook isn’t going to get you a modeling contract.  It may keep me and my friends enterained, but it isn’t going to get you a spread in Vogue.  Though it may have you spread out in Hustler…

“Look, Mommy’s Making an Eiffel Tower With Those Two Guys”

There used to be a time where it look a lot to reveal a young lady’s, ahem, “activities”.  But with all the questionable pictures some women have in their Facebook gallery, now everyone knows about their whorishness (yes that’s an actual word).  Yeah, your peers knowing you’re a jumpoff is one thing, but like any good man, I’m more concerned about the kids.  I doubt little Johnny wants to see his mom tonguing down dude from TKE while his brothers cheer, or wait for their turn, in the background.  Shorty’s kids may know how competitive she was in college, but I don’t think they want to see exactly how she won that wet shirt contest in Cabo.  After all, if their moms keep up their ways, some of these kids will have enough to deal with.  Like coming home early and catching their moms with their legs in the air as the cabana boy checks the pool’s temperature.  C’mon, let’s not add on to their mental troubles.

I Don’t Want to be “Facebook Friends” With Our President

As long as I can I remember, presidential candidates have been admitting to using drugs.  And that’s great! admirable.  I appreciate their honesty and Lord knows I’m not perfect.  Buck stops there though.  There aren’t any pictures of me holding, inhaling or running across a border with anything.  So I don’t want to see my future President face deep in a mound of what looks like, but obviously isn’t, talcum powder.  Matter of fact, I don’t really want to see my President face deep in anything.  I don’t want to see photos of the Leader of the Free World chasing the White Dragon.  Nor do I want to see him, or her, calling Earl after a long night with Milwaukee’s Best.  It’s one thing to hear about it, it’s another thing to see it.  Yeah I know our last three presidents have smoked weed and/or done some variation of cocaine.  So have a lot of folks.  But I bet their friends didn’t have to worry about being in the background of a photo that ended up on CNN.

Signing off and hoping that one of the folks in this picture doesn’t end up being the President in 2050,

Seattle – Y’know Shorty, I Dabble in Photography – Washington

The Children Are Not The Future

The Children Are Not The Future

Everyone’s Trying To Have a Swagger Like Us

Swag. G. Style. Whatever the word, either you either have it or you don’t. But for those of you who don’t possess any mojo, don’t fret. You could be like Dr. Evil, as well as most folk in America, and just jack it. Before swagger was printed on an Old Spice body spray can, before T.I.’s comeback song and before he ripped M.I.A.’s voice when she first said it on her track “Paper Planes”, Black folks had style. Truth be told, they had more swag back then. Partly because everyone else was so damn corny. As a result, they had folks jocking and clocking their every move. Hard body. Back then it was straight highway robbery, but nowadays with color and culture lines so blurry is it swagger jackin? Or just a little swagger appreciation?

Oooh That’s My Song! No Really, That’s MY Song.

America has been stealing our music since they realized it could make them some money. Jazz. Yeah, it wasn’t all Kenny G and elevator muzak. That used to be all Black folk. Same thing for Rock and Roll. Yes. There were the greats like, Little Richard, James Brown (yes, he was considered Rock and Roll), Chuck Berry, Jimi Hendrix. I could go on and on. They got their style jacked by groups that mainstream America loves. Luckily that doesn’t happen as much now since non-mainstream music is so readily available to everyone. Technology has made it slightly tougher to just rip someone off. Plus I have to admit, some of these White Chocolate cats are just inventing their own style and holding their own. Can’t front, Robin Thicke gets a lot of airplay and has definitely gotten us dudes a lot of play.

You Sure You Don’t Have Some Black in You? Well, Would You Like Some?

It’s a phenomenon that gives Black men one more reason to leave their chocolate covered counterparts for a lighter fare. White women with asses an extended gluteus maximus. No, I’m not the last to pick up on it. In fact, me and my crew submitted an article to National Geographic about it years ago. What is new; however, is the fact that White women are loving it. Eating more steak sandwiches and doing more lunges. Just take a walk outside. Go to your local Whole Foods and/or bar. Attitudes have changed. For the better. It’s cool to have a booty. Shoot, I could go on and on about this topic. I have tons of research documents I could provide you. And I’d love to, but I so much more to say. So I’ll just leave you with this. Jessica Biel. Yep, thank you and good night…

Can’t Be Mad When Other Folks Take Better Care Of It Than Us

When something gets big, people either steal it or try to add on (pause you dirty minded…). Our Hispanic, Asian and Indian brethren have gladly helped to do the latter with Hip Hop culture. I mean, some of them are the kids of those business owners in the neighborhood. That couple that had the grocery store, yeah, they had a kid. And he/she grew up with us. Once some of them got older, they entered the family business – entrepreneurship. Walk into a store to buy kicks and clothes. You may be surprised to see that it’s owned by Asian cats. (Shout out to Re-Up out in Boston!) Others go against tradition and just hop right in (pause) to our culture wholeheartedly. Like Big Pun and Fat Joe.  Well, more so Big Pun.  Or Miss Info and the Jabberwockys.

So I don’t know homie. In the past, folks just straight bit our style. Now the lines are blurrier than my vision after a few Jack and Cokes. What do you think? Are folks jockin us or is it just a sincere form of flattery?

Seattle – Sometimes I Wear Shades At Night Cuz I Shine So Bright – Washington

Why Do Black People Flock to Each Other?

By Sowhatiff Jenkins

This is a question that I have been asked in more than one way by the majority population.  For undergrad, I attended a majority white university.  Big surprise.  For grad school, the same thing.  For those of you in the workforce, I’m sure you too have to deal with the same thing: being one of very few black people, or minorities in general, in any given situation, be it sitting in the classroom, or heading to the break room to warm up lunch.

Thoughts about this come up without outside prompting.  I know I have stopped myself a few times as I feel myself congregating with or gravitating to people simply because they are black.  Sometimes I find myself wanting to fight this urge, mostly in an effort to expand my social circle and learn to be comfortable with others.  Forgive me, as I grew up in an all black and Latino town, and went to an all black and Latino high school.  Anyway, I am always intrigued when asked by a classmate or colleague of mine, what it is that makes black folks “stick together” so to speak.

Sometimes this question it carries with it a connotation of “Damn, black people stay segregating themselves.”  This has got to be my favorite.  When I walk into my classroom of 100 students, and about 10 of the students are black, and scattered randomly throughout the room, I don’t ask myself “Damn why are all the white people sitting together?”  When you make up the majority, it is likely that you’ll end up sitting next to someone that looks like you.

So why is there beef when I want to save 6 seats for my friends?  Its probably because we stick out like sore thumbs:  All the chocolate and caramel folks lined up in a row.  People assume that we do this because we are trying to keep them out, but why can’t we just be trying to get in where we fit in?  What’s wrong with me trying to be comfortable?

I think the issue comes up because people in any given majority don’t have to think about being a part of that majority.  When people all around you are ::insert any group distinction here:: just like you, you don’t have to think about fitting in, because you just do.

People are too sensitive sometimes.  My wanting to sit with my black friends has less to do with me not wanting to sitting next you, and more to do with me wanting to sit with my friends.  I mean, can I live?

The Not So Excellent Adventures of Seattle and Slim

Just when we thought racial profiling was limited to Black guys in White neighborhoods at obscure hours of the night and names on job applications, we realized how wrong we were. Forget trying to buy a house. How about trying to find an apartment? You’d think that would be a simple process. Show proof you got a job, have good credit, a good personality, and good references. That should make it easier right? Nope. We’re still Doo-Rag All-Stars.

Y’know Slim, Mos Def’s song Mr. Nigga pretty much rings true right now. I’m going to turn that up while we write.

For more than a week, Seattle and myself have been looking for an apartment. It’s nice to walk around in boxers and a beater in the 1 bedrooom bachelor pad, but we both realized there was a lot of money to be saved (Note: We did not walk around in boxers in the same apartment. We each had our own place. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a pause.) It’s also easier to build our blogging empire if we live in the same place. Again, we do it for the people.

Pause again for the full effect. I said it once and I’ll say it again. I don’t like this guy. I live with him for financial reasons. Period. I don’t want to hear anything about, “Aww that’s cute.” Efff all that. Sacrifices needed to be made for my bank account. Yeah I liked standing in front of my AC with just boxers on sipping on a glass of the finest bougie juice that Whole Foods offers on a hot summer day, but hey, sometimes you can’t have everything. The sexcapades will now be relegated to my room, but… my bad Slim, I digress.

We looked at roughly 15 apartments. Some were too pricey. Some were terrifically priced, but too far away from public transit. Some were bombdiggity, but located above Thai or pizza spots. Can we say roaches, rats, other bugs, and cats? Definitely ain’t tryna call the Orkin Man.

A Russian pizza spot too. Y’all know how I feel about that ish. Plus, the whole spot reeked of chicken pad thai and mystery meat calzones. Hey, don’t forget about the spot that had the “patio”. Y’know the one that was pretty much just an extended step, attached to the backdoor (über pause) that was just two feet off the ground. In other words, easy access for would be hooligans to hop up in our crib and steal what little expensive items we have. Now that I think about it, that was the same spot that had broken glass all on the street. I’m no CSI agent, but where I’m from that means someone either had their iPod on the driver’s seat or a young lady was filled with seed, of any variety, and in turn felt scorned. All it needed were a few broken vials and a condom wrapper to complete the décor.

Anyways, we saw 3 apartments that we really liked. In Boston, it’s easier to work with an apartment broker than conduct an independent campaign for tenancy. First spot we saw with the broker was ideal. Good location, manageable price, and a triple jump away from the subway. We bumped into the landlord on the way out. We made a verbal offer on the unit through the agent. The landlord needed to think about it…for a week. We knew what the deal was. Though we were clean and fresh dressed, he probably figured my beard was too scruffy and I had just lost my job. He may have even thought we were too good for the spot…Riiight. He saw 2 black dudes with 40s, hoez, gold chains, reefer and delinquent payments.

If he were Caucasian, I probably wouldn’t have been surprised. I mean hey, it’s Boston. I know the deal. But dude was Indian. There was no minority alliance here. It didn’t matter that we hit him with our brilliant eloquence and Crest Whitestrip smiles. I could’ve had my Bachelors Degree hanging from my neck and he just would’ve thought I was Flavor Flav. Dude was caught up in the melanin factor. Well the fact that we had more than him. We might as well have been rocking tims, wife beaters and baggy jeans with knots in them.

Our friends tried to be nice and make us feel better, “Well, maybe he wanted to get a better offer?”

Of course we’re angry and assholes, so Slim said…

If you’re a landlord and your apartment doesn’t rent for 2 months and you have good people ready to write a check, what the f*ck are you delaying for?

Oh…

Yeah. Thought so.

Plus we have good credit! I know, I know. I was as surprised as you are.

We eventually found another spot with everything at an even better price. We submitted applications and a deposit. Unfortunately, we met the landlord and his wife while viewing the apartment. 24 hours went by and he “needed more time to review our application” according to the broker. Come to find out he had rejected our applications because we were “fresh out of school”. Fresh out of school? Mofo, I been working for over three years and I speak better English than you do. Seattle’s equally (ahem, if not more) articulate and has worked just as long as I have. Eff you. Eff your wife (twice). Eff your little pet cat that drinks out the toilet. I will sell that sh*t to the General himself.

Wow. Ok Slim. Well, the fresh out of school reason didn’t work for me.  Besides the fact that we’ve both been out of school for a little while now, didn’t the landlord’s wife hesitate to shake your hand?  Yeah…  Also, I probably should’ve told you earlier but I saw the landlord’s face as he was walking out of the apartment. He looked highly surprised and then immediately upset once he saw us. His eyes widened and then quickly tightened up like a, well; you see where I’m going with this. Nonetheless dude, it was for the better. Carrying that monstrosity that you call a couch up those stairs would’ve killed you and I. They would’ve ended up with chalk lines in their apartment without all the accompanying bullet holes. Oh, don’t forget to tell them how the real estate company attempted to steal your money. Yeah, check fraud is not just a Nigerian scam anymore.

Right, Yeah. I almost forgot. When we put the deposit down on the apartment and the people took more than 24 hours to respond, I called the broker and told them to cancel the deal. I left a voicemail and sent an email. I get to work the next day and dude’s boss is on the phone. The conversation went a little something like this:

Slim: Hi, this is Slim.

Boss Broker: Hey Slim. I got a message from my agent that you are bailing out on the deal.

Slim: Yeah, it’s been more than 24 hours and the landlord hasn’t responded to our applications, good credit, and deposit check. We no longer want to live there.

Boss Broker: That’s not how it works buddy. You can’t just break the deal. We ran background checks and everything. Who do you think you are!?!?

Slim: I’m Slim Jackson b*tch. Gimme my money.

Aight, so I didn’t say that. I figured it would be funny though.

Slim: I looked up the laws and spoke to a lawyer about this. The deal isn’t valid until the landlord signs, which he hasn’t.

Boss Broker: You don’t know what the &%% you’re talking about. You are not breaking out of this deal. We’re keeping your deposit as our fee. I’ll see you in small claims court a$$hole.

Slim: Why are you yelling?

Boss Broker: &%% You! *click*

Needless to say, the jr. broker called me apologizing when I threatened legal action via a facsimile. I told him I’d be in that afternoon to pick up my check and that the boss better not be there or he’ll get strangled with my tie.  But yeah, I got the money back and the boss wasn’t there when Angry Black Slim showed up during his lunch break.

After this whole story, some of you might still be thinking that we’ve blown this out of proportion. That we’re just crying racism. That the real reason these landlords were apprehensive to house us is that we’re just two young guys. Well, after all the bull—- that we went through with all those other spots, we found an apartment. In the burbs.  A place where trees grow freely, there aren’t trash cans on every corner and folks ride bikes with their children in tow. Where we say hello to our neighbors in the morning from the porch, while we sip on some bougie brand OJ. Funny thing was, it went amazingly smooth. Y’know why? We never met the landlord face to face. Everything was done over the phone. And with the names, jobs and business phone voices that we have, there was no reason for him to think anything out of the norm. But boy will he be surprised when he comes up to check on the place!

Happily Depreciating the Property Value With Every Breath We Take,

Seattle – I Probably Won’t Let Any Black Folk Move Into My Neighborhood Either – Washington

&

Slim “I’ll Slip Your Wife More Than Mail” Jackson

 

 

Oh yeah, please contact us for an address to send all those lovely housewarming gifts.  L’Chaim! 

So You Like to Put People in Boxes, Huh?

No matter what city you’re in, public transportation brings with it a set of interesting experiences. Playing the where should I sit game; keeping the mean mug on so people will think twice about bringing their crazy in your direction; positioning your electronic devices and monthly passes in ways that keep you from getting got (being robbed). Riding the rails also gives you plenty of time to observe others, and if you’re cool, observe yourself as you do it.

American society has taught us to put people in boxes. For example, have you ever seen a person who looked “racially ambiguous,”? Don’t act like its just me. You have seen this person on the subway or on the street. You look and try to fit him/her into a racial group. And if you sit across from him/her, chances are, you glance at them repeatedly in an effort to figure out “what he/she is”.

Or take the man dressed in slacks carrying a briefcase or man-bag of sorts. You assume you know about him, especially if he is headed downtown (pause). Yep, he probably works in an office to do office stuff. Then you try to figure out that ordinary looking black guy, or you assume you already know about him too.

I’m not saying that this is right or wrong. It kinda is what it is. We see people with certain physical characteristics or external features (skin tone, hair texture, assumed age, shirt with a certain label, a bar through the lip, tattered jeans, tatted up neck and forearms, pregnant belly, gym bag) and we size them up. This sizing up process happens so fast, and so often, we often don’t know its happening.

Sometimes this sizing up influences our posture towards people. Some are “safer” to sit next to than others. Its okay to share glances with some. Others, we shy away from. We hug our purses or man-bags a little tighter. We speed up our pace. Either way, we work to reconcile something within ourselves.

Why has this process became an issue for me now? Because I feel myself doing it. I find myself feeling unsafe around groups of teenagers. I get concerned by the goth-looking boy. I assume that the older man in tattered clothes is out to do me some harm, or sometimes, I feel sorry for him. I look at the young woman with an attitude because it looks like she’s giving me one. I try to figure out what’s going in the head of that solemn looking person staring out the window.

What’s amazing, is that this process takes no real time or concentration. My mind works crazy fast, yo.

And I know people try to box me too. Have you ever locked eyes with someone as he/she was giving you the once over? A bit of an awkward moment, I know. Depending on what the person looks like, and what kind of vibes his/her superficial appearance gives, you tailor your reaction accordingly. If the person is big and scary, I tend to squirm a little, and look away quickly. If he/she looks creepish, I may do the same, or if I’m feeling gangsta, I’ll give them that “don’t you be looking at me” look. If he is a handsome, well dressed black man, I may bat my lashes a little. Hehehe.

The next time you get on the train or bus, or even walking down the street, try paying attention to yourself as you pay attention those around you. Then come back and tell me about it, mmk?  Thanks.