Death Becomes You

The King of Pop is dead. And no, I do not mean Coke CEO Muhtar Kent. The carbonated captain is still kicking and of course, delivering high fructose corn syrup to the masses. The only thing Michael Jackson, on the other hand, is delivering to the masses is a giant spoonful of mourning with a side of nostalgia. In the wake of his death, people all over the world who were touched in a special place by MJ are memorializing him by being him--they're dressing up as the hallowed entertainer and doing their best impersonations all over the streets. In the circle of life, his death has birthed millions of dopplegangers. The missing glove look, the tip toe and pelvic thrust, the taped up nostril bat-nose look, the soul glo and whitening cream look, the crotch-grab-air-point-air-kick-HEE-HEE. It's everywhere. It's spread faster and wider than swine flu. It seems as though everyone has been making over the man in the mirror as their way to wave goodbye to the Man in the Mirror. If emulation is the greatest form of flattery, Michael, consider yourself flattened...or should I say flatlined? Too soon?

Could you imagine if imitating the recently deceased in both dress and action became standard protocol for mourning the dead? When Ronald Reagan died, Americans everywhere would've slung on their cowboy boots and then proceed to sling crack rock to inner city black folks. When Charlton Heston died, many mourners would have probably drowned trying to part bodies of water with nothing more than a shepard's staff...or a rifle. And I would just feel bad for people when I kick the bucket, buy the farm, bite the big one, drink the coffee, tickle the monster, feed the chicken, smell the cheese, etc. Mourners would just be at a loss trying to take on these dashing good looks and attempting to crack hilariously absurd one-liners. But I suppose, the copy is never as good as the original. The emulation is remembrance not replacement. And I will always be better than you. So here's to MJ, the King of Pop, and to Boogie Brown, the King of Me. May his work live on and his stupid things forgotten, and may my stupidness continue to work and never be forgotten. Peace.

The Day After

This morning I woke with my sequins-laden, gloved left hand resting calmly on my chest. I stood up quickly, spun around effortlessly and struck a pose in the mirror. I put on my fedora and an open button down, letting it expose my white v-neck undershirt. I stepped outside and each time my feet made contact with the ground, the concrete beneath would light up with every step. I was suddenly joined by little Carleton Banks, dressed identically, and who pelvic thrusted with me through the streets. We descended into the train station, and were about to hop on the boogie and ride it downtown, until we were confronted by a gruff Wesley Snipes. He demanded I dance and show him who's bad. So I kicked the air in the butt and let out an all-purpose "Hoooo!" through the subway tunnels, while the mist and wind from an open air vent blew threw my hair. Satisfied, we left, left for another time, a time when Eddie Murphy was once a pharaoh. After briefly transforming into sand, I emerged, adorned in gold and ready to King Tut the night away. Suddenly, there were thousands of Philippine prison inmates in bright orange at my back, mimicking in perfect unison my every movement. I welcomed their support. It didn't matter if they were convicted felons or not, and it didn't matter if they were black or white. To prove this latter point, I morphed my face into the face of the unique peoples of the world, both female and male, of every skin color, of every background, but all beautiful. For my last face, I morphed into a longtoothed werewolf. Michael J. Fox, eat your heart out. The inmates ironically morphed into the living dead and they rocked all night long. Before you knew it, we were all dancing while the world danced with us. That's the way I made them feel. Finally, I moonwalked off stage left, and let them all scream for more.

Mammarial Idiomic Question of the Day

Here's a baffling turn of phrase: tit-for-tat. As used in yesterday's NY Times, "...two Iranian diplomats in a tit-for-tat response..." Is this akin to something like toys-for-tots? If so, who are these alleged tats and why are they getting all the tits? Are tats really the tit-deprived population of our society, warranting the need for the donation of tits?

Or is tit-for-tat closer in meaning to something like a money-for-guns program? If so, then where can I go to exchange my tats so I can get more tits? I would like to make good on this truly beneficial program.

And when we talk about tat, are we actually just abbreviating the skin mural better known as a tattoo? If that's the case, then I more readily understand a tat-for-tit, as in one made for a tit like perhaps a bullseye tattoo or maybe a one-eyed smiley, but tit-for-tat is a little more baffling. Is it that there are certain kinds of tits that are better suited for tattoos? Do the colorful employees of Miami ink look at a pair of chesticles and just declare, "Now that's a tit-for-tat!" and immediately endow the set with an ink masterpiece?

...In other news, it's been recently discovered that daytime drinking heavily degrades the quality of blog-writing...

To Make Change-Omelettes, One Must Break Change-Eggs

At around Egg-thirty this morning, I went out and purchased a 6-holster carton of eggs from the local Chicken. As breakfast preparations are usually left to my able staff (read: my mother, who sleeps in the cupboard under the kitchen sink), I was caught off guard when I unpackaged my package of oval ova and found that instead of being their usual egg-shell white (yes, I keep color squares from Home Depot), they were the color of coffee and milk (Light Sienna #3245K). It was like the first time I saw black Barbie and I uttered to myself, "Wow, MLK, you can rest in peace now 'cuz racism is over!" From black Jesus to black Santa to black Barbie to black President and now to black eggs, our society has really come of age and we are truly post-racial. Well, I suppose the eggs weren't really black; they were light skin. But so what, our President is half-white. Nothing's perfect. But back to the topic at hand, now we as breakfast consumers have the option to raise our unwhite kids on unwhite eggs so they learn to love themselves and their colored eggs. Do you know the sound of a black egg when it's cracked open? I do. It's the sound of equality...Egguality.

But just when you thought the world had nothing more to surprise you with, there of course was one more twist on all this eggcitement. With my thumbs firmly wedged in the crack of the black egg, I broke open the shell to release its slimy contents onto the skillet. The grand unveiling of Yolk and Friends was made even more eye-opening with the startling reveal that Yolk was in fact not black or light sienna but rather it's usual sunnyside yellow and the eggwhites were still, well, eggwhites. The moral of the story? Despite our differences on the outside, we're all truly the same on the inside. Eggs are eggs and ultimately all come from the Chicken (or did the the chicken come from the egg?). So deep...and delicious! Bon eggatit! (hehe, I just wrote egg a tit, kinda like egging a house but only instead of a house....You get the idea.)

Politically and Socially Relevant Nomenclature Questions of the Day

Does the KKK Grand Wizard refer to his bike as the Cycle of Oppression?

Would Funkmaster Flex ever drop a bomb for North Korean rapper Kim Jong ILL?

Does the kid of a transgendered parent call his mom "See-through" cuz she's trans-parent? (Ok, so I admit, I stole this joke from a Swedish meatball)

Would grilled non-free-range beef from the Middle East appear on a menu as Gaza Strip Steak?

Do rebellious teens of the Cherokee Nation drive off the reservation in Dodge Rams?

At the end of his speech today, did ruling cleric of Iran Ali Khamenei say to the protesters, "Ayatolldyahso! The election wasn't rigged!" and then proceed to "nyuk nyuk nyuk" his way off stage?

Does the president of France ever sit on a plush leather couch in front of a roaring fire while in sweats and bunny slippers and say to himself "Man, I'm feeling Sar-cosy right now?" Probably not. I'm sure his inner monologue is in French, unless he's got language settings like on Facebook. Maybe he's set to Pirate. "Arrgh matey, I hope I don't get Sar-scurvy!"

Transformative New York Question of the Day

Has Times Square transformed from a pedestrian nightmare into a loiterer's dream??? Strolling by on a late Thursday evening, rather than be overtaken by dread and disgust by the sight of meandering tourist throngs (not thongs, which would be equally dreadful) which is what usually happens, I was struck with immense curiosity and by extension, much cat-killing. Up and down Broadway was an iridescent array of shiny, plastic lawn chairs strewn about, hundreds of lawn chairs. 'Did I stumble upon a Florida retirement home convention?' I wondered. Judging by the lack of floral-print short-sleeve button downs, the answer was decidedly no. Instead I witnessed teenage urbanites sitting and light-gazing in their emo way, old-timer New Yorkers comfortably seated while chewing the fat (don't worry it was saturated not trans), yuppy transplants crackberrying in the glow of neon lights, and a group of 20-something year old boys seated in a circle and hovering over an imaginary bong. 'If only we were in Amsterdam,' their longing eyes said. It was a sight to behold.

No longer was there the hustle and bustle of NY's fabled image, but instead, hundreds of idling people--much to the chagrin of our Puritan forefathers and foremothers (eat that, prudes!)--who were so chillaxed I thought they might bust out the hustle. All they needed were some red plastic cups and Uncle Roger's county famous bbq sauce. New York, she's a changing. From foot traffic to butt traffic, sitting is the new black, and lawn chair is the new 20. We're bringing lazy back.

And with this transformation of Times Square: The Traffic Melee to Times Square: The Sloth Center, I can only look forward (since my eyes are on the front of my face, not the back) to what other opposite-day changes the city has in store. Will they transform Central Park into a demolition derby and monster truck rally arena? Will Park Ave apartments get gentrified and be replaced with methadone clinics and Korean groceries? Will white people drive their own cabs? Will I ask a homeless guy for money and then refuse when he offers me bread? Who knows what the future holds?

Crap Super Powers!

(compiled from twitter entries. you're not following me on twitter yet? what kind of lame internet stalker are you?)

the ability to armpit fart without using your hands

the ability to leap over tall couches

the ability to ambi-turn

the ability to appear on the jimmy fallon show

the ability to teleport only to the state of Delaware

the ability to break an ankle in order to become a supreme court justice

the ability to shit a squirrel

the ability to look into a crystal ball only to watch your girlfriend cheat on you

the ability to gain 50 pounds immediately when seeing your ex lover

the ability to hear what it sounds like when doves cry

the ability to chew broken glass in situations when u say "i'd rather chew broken glass than be doing this"

the ability to not be Gary Coleman

the ability to communicate with jungle monkeys while your friends do cool things like control fire, earth, wind, water...

the ability to live in your mom's basement while all your friends get super successful

the ability to turn anything you touch into BLOOD!

the ability to see the future of only Vanilla Ice

the ability to ruin Watchmen by making it into a movie

the ability to commit ventriloquist flatulence and throw your farts across the room

the ability to make people seem not racist by being their token non-white friend. I'm looking at you Clarence Thomas!

the ability to twitter while at work

the ability to communicate with guidos

kinda like cyclops: the ability to shoot party streamers from your eyes. "it's always a party when you blink"

the ability to always have entrance music playing when u walk out of an elevator

the ability to lift objects a tenth of your weight

the ability to only access your super powers through a free beta iphone app

the ability to have that nerdy guy with the glasses and the entire verizon network follow you wherever you go

the ability to laugh at your own jokes when no one else does

the ability to express emotion by projecting emoticons on your face

the ability to finish second in everything

the ability to be smoking hot but only be able to attract douchebags

the ability to get ice cream headaches while eating hot foods!

the ability to READ!

the ability to give birth to sextuplets and make your husband hate you

the ability to be fooled twice, with no shame befalling you

the ability to expend all your creative energy on twitter while getting fired for neglecting your work

A Penny For Your Thoughts

I just came back from the bathroom, and apparently someone dropped a penny at the bottom of the urinal. How does that even happen? Pennies are small but pee holes are smaller. I could see releasing liquid copper, but a whole, unscathed penny? Really?

Then again, perhaps the penny pisser was a European Union citizen and thought he had to pay to soil the urinal (which can cost 50 cents at certain train stations). Either that or he's mocking the value of American coin currency given its status relative to that of the Euro...

Or maybe all the accumulated urine at the base of the urinal is actually transforming into flat Abe Lincolns!! Is that how the US Mint produces these monetary nuisances? Is that why everyone finds them annoying, cuz they're made of pee??? Someone blow the whistle and stop the presses! We got piss pennies in our pockets!!

Eurotrippin: the morning after

After the two-week baguette binge that was my European vacation, I found myself abruptly awoken by the noonday sun, alone on the floor of my New York apartment, half-naked, dehydrated, and confuddlizzledingly asking myself "What the hell happened?" I had a migraine of memories jammed into my head, and they needed sorting out. After days of nursing myself back to health during this withdrawal period--during which time, I visited ZARA almost everyday whenever I desperately needed a fix of Euro-crack--I've been able to put the pieces back together and make sense of it all...kind of like a Real World reunion episode. Here are my lasting observations from Europa:

Hot women work regular jobs just like in the movies!
Don't you despise Hollywood and it's bastard child the porn industry for deluding us with fantasy worlds where uber-attractive people work everyday jobs? Halle Berry as a poor single mother? C'mon, why doesn't she just go be a supermodel?? (I admit, I stole this last joke from a comedian I don't remember. Joke piracy!) But the truth is that they were really just presenting us the reality in Europe and re-dubbing it for us monolingual idiots into English. I came across so many 7s, 8s, and even 9s on the hot-o-meter sitting behind kiosk counters, clicking tickets on trains, and even intimidating city denizens as tough cops on the street.

In Paris, we tried to take our picture with a couple of female police officers. When the foxxy police officer unfurled her throaty, accented voice and told us photographs with them were "forbidden," I not only jizzed my pants but the pants of every 2-legged homo-erectus in a 30 foot radius. Europe gives hope to super-hot people everywhere, essentially telling them, "You shall not be pigeon-holed. You too can be just as mediocre as everyone else if you want to."

Go to Europe, get tongue-bathed!
Where were Americans when brains were handed out? Probably busy quibbling over which Yale alum they'd rather have a beer with or coming up with ways to imprison people for pant-sagging. In the meantime, Europeans got their learn on! The average person over there speaks a minimum of 10 languages including English, American slang, and the universal language of looooove (Virginia, you got nothing on Europe). Even 7 year old German kids stopped to ask us in perfect English if we needed help navigating the Munich subway system. (This was after they tried asking us in perfect Chinese, Vietnamese, and the Micronesian language of Kiribati.) Train conductors repeated everything in at least 3 languages. Could you imagine if conductors in the U.S. were required to have such linguistic abilities? Amtrak would have more success employing parakeets than Americans.

And biggups and respect to all the immigrants over there. They are truly the most cunning linguists. In the U.S. they'd usually only have to learn English. In Europe, they have to be fluent in like 20 other languages on top of English. They're practically the Rosetta Stones of the continent and were able to learn it all without the help of MUZZY.

Chillin' is the most successful franchise
Forget Big Macs, Quarterpounders with cheese, 20 piece nuggets, Whoppers, Croissanwhiches, Frosty's, Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, Gordita Burritos, Taco Supremes, Orange Mocha Frappaccinos, Stuffed Crust Pan Pizzas, Chicken and Mashed Potato Bowls, 10 Patties 10 Buns Animal Style, or any other glorified hot pocket that's cooked in a dirty microwave and gushing with cheese, cholesterol, and more hormones than me as a teenager (or me as a 25 year old for that matter). Mass produced for the masses and massively consumed to make us massive, fast food is the fascist franchise in America. Find one on every block in your neighborhood and follow the trail to your every artery.

And yet, in Europe, the only thing that comes fast are their trains (none of this languishing on a musty platform waiting for 30 minutes for a train that they forgot to tell you isn't even operating). Sure, the golden arches may have a presence (I'm talking McDonald's, not McDougal's), but the real franchise king is a refrigerator 'cuz everyone over there is straight chillin! (WORDPLAY!) They have as many chill spots (which ironically are wi-fi hotspots) as we have fast food chains. Whether it's sipping a cafe at a corner bistro for 8 hours, or guzzling a litre of bier in a garden for 10, or just breathing at an Amsterdam coffeeshop for what felt like 10 minutes but was really the entire day, Europeans know how to relax and just kick it.

We live in a society where America runs on Dunkin Donuts coffee (note that neither Dunkin nor Donut is spelled correctly, d'oh!), while they live in a society where governments mandate vacation time and direct deposit you holiday funds for holiday funnnn. Why wasn't that in the stimulus package? "Dear POTUS B-HO, I've been a good boy all year. Please send me Caribbean cruise cash, or Bahamas beach bucks. I wanna be chillin like a villain god-willin. Sasha and Malia got a puppy, I want a vacation. Peace, BB"