Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Signs a Mo Wants You to Babysit...Her Nugs

You hold the door for a Mo who’s grappling with her tiny moppets and a bag of supplies. She rushes in, parks the gear and the kids, then mouths the words ‘thank you’ while cupping your balls. ‘Opps, wrong sack’ she says, gathers up her nippers and bag, and flounces away, never looking back.

You’re at the gym, banging some plates. You spot a Mo, 10 o’clock. You’ve seen her drop her kids in childcare before, so you know that bitch is a Mo. She motions you to come over. ‘Do you know if I’m doing this right' she asks as she pivots, bends over, and reaches for her toes. Confused you say ‘are you doing a forward bend correctly?’ She straightens herself and turns to you. ‘You call it a forward bend, I call it getting you to take a good look at this keister.’

You’re getting gas. Leaning against your tricked out Honda Accord, a mammoth mini-van pulls up behind you. A hot as balls Mo steps out, clearly overwhelmed and in a hurry. Your eyes meet ‘hey – would you mind pumping my gas?’ she inquires, as she swipes her card, her eyes never leaving yours. ‘Sure,’ you shoot back ‘what kind?’ You insert the gas pump into the van, she puts her hand over yours and whispers ‘Supreme. Fill me up with only the best.’

Best Ways of Letting People Know You're Not Wearing Underwear

Request a game of exclusively pants-based Truth or Dare.

Spill X-ray glasses onto your crotch.

Say what a influential impact Mark Lester's 1985 film Commando had on you.

Insist on being on top of the human pyramid and then take a lot of leg-straddled breaks.

Open your diary at the coffee shop and ask the people around you, "What makes more sense, boxerless or sans underwear?"

Demand to play strip poker, get everyone to agree and then complain how it's not fair because everyone else has one extra layer.

Ask if your non-underwear lining is showing.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Bro Baiting

Yo. Dig it live. Chicks need to stop Bro Baiting me all the f-ing time. That shit ain't kosher no more. I have to put my Kenneth Cole down before this issue gets Brittany-style toxic.

What's Bro Baiting? Let me spread it out for you like a deli meat platter. Bro Baiting is the female art of verbally dropping drawers for a guy and then, at the last second, pulling out of the hookup like K-Bacon in a game of tractor chicken. It's marinating a guy overnight, slather him up with butter and then refusing to put him on the grill. It's a look, a message or a call that says in giant Las Vegas lights "I'm down for Bonetown" with everything advertised except the address.

Straight up seems to be an epidemic of that shit going around. Chicks Bro Baiting me or my boys like it's Sucker Sunday. But guess what? Ain't happening no more on my watch.

Listen, everyone that peeped my self-titled R & B EP knows I got mad love for women's rights. Like I get hard just thinking about them. Their rights. But if you're texting me past 10pm and then not following through, you best believe I ain't going to Southern gentleman you no more. This is how I see them late-night texts. Unless you just pissed a First Response plus, any comunicacíon you give me at those hours gives me the supreme right to come over, rip off your skivvies and flip you around like a scrapbook. That's guy code. That shit's ancient. What do you think's written on Stonehenge?

So, in summary time, give up not giving it up when you're asking to give it up.

Examples of Bro Baiting:

It's midnight on a Saturday, you text me "What are you doing?" and eight minutes later I show up with nothing but two jugs of edible Crisco oil, 12 feet of industrial rope and the answer: "YOU" written on my naked chest. You scream and lock the door before I can even chicken oil up your drumsticks.
Ruling: That's Bro Baiting.
You signed the coitus contract and the text was the down payment. Honor your end of the bargain. Let me in so I can shake you like a Caesar salad. Our nipples will be the croutons. Leave the teasing for prom.

You sit down next to me on the subway. There's another seat on the subway. Maybe not in this car but somewhere on the train. But you sat next to me, nearly touching distance… And then THEN you looked at me. At least once. So I took your cue and I put my hands of each of your knees and played "race to the prize, up your thighs". But you wigged out like I was some kind of New Delhi snake charmer and yelling "Creep!"
Ruling: That's Bro Baiting.
Don't be cuddling up to me on a subway, throwing me dryhump eyes if you don't want to ride the pelvic local. The second you sat down I know you felt a non-train generated rumble. Guess what? That was my junk… getting ready to report for duty. But you still wanted to play uninterested, straight giving me the eunuch-stare. That's wack-a-billy. If you don't want to get clothes-boned then don't wear such a hikeable skirt and don't plant yourself down next to a a brimming sexual volcano. Case closed.

So I proposed to your sis. Whatev. Had to. She's rocking three months worth of twins and her stomach's puffed out like a P.E. ball bag. Like trying to bang a hot air balloon. But the bigger news is we pushed the wedding straight on up and now you, Ms. Curves-of-Honor, are up on this altar and you've been staring my shit DOWN the whole ceremony. Eye-humping the back of my head like a goddamn sexual heat ray. Straight up fix-ATED. But then an hour late when I push you into the dressing room and play "on what else can the wedding ring fit?", you tweak your shit and threaten to have me arrested. Como se whaaaat?
Ruling: That's some All-Pro level Bro Baiting and it ain't to be stood for.
Rattle off all the excuses you want about just watching the ceremony, but I know what an overheated engine looks like when I see it. You wanted to sample the new in-law's flavor and I don't blame you. Your sister's carrying proof of my batter's potency in her stomach like a badge of pride. Of course you'd want a taster spoonful of me. My shit's rarer than kryptonite and hardly ever turns that green. All I ask is that you be upfront about that shit. Then we can bareback in the dressing room and I can pump your full of vows. Maybe I could be your family's Johnny Appleseed and spread my fertile goodness around. Everyone digs trees, right?

So, in Sumo Mary, if you're fiending for a bro, just get after it. Don't go teasing the dragon. Cause let's be honest, ain't nothing more dangerous than playing tricks on the mythological. Just ask Prometheus' chomped up liver. Shit was straight up daily eagle sashimi.

I'm gonzo.
— S-dub

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Playette's Paradise (title penned by Simon St. Prendercast)

Paradise Market is a green Mecca of freshly picked organic vegetables, grass fed cow meats, and a deli fit for a chubby emperor . Speaking of freshly organic legumes, let’s talk about the handsome young stripling on checkstand number three. I see you. Yes I do. And I know you see me. Always throwing a couple chocolates in my sack for the offspring. Sometimes, there’s a sign up that reads ‘closed’ on your register. Don’t think I don’t see you strip that shit off lightning fast, as I prance my mo fineness through those double doors. Did I find everything alright? Yes I did nameless young man. Do you need help out with this? Oh, you can help me. You’ve bagged my groceries, now let’s drop the food and the kids off, and really start unwrapping some goods.

I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking. It’s all in your eyes and the ever so light brushing of my hand as we exchange currency. Listen kid, there’s a whole lot of exchanging I’d like to do with you, and I’m not talking about returning that spoiled milk.

No one would have to know. We could leave the kids with the sitter, skip on off to some romantic place (preferably with a waterfall and shit to jump off of), and let’s just let these feral, silent cats out of their bags. Yes junior, I’m talking about sexual congress, but I see your supervisor giving us the fifty yard falcon stare, so let’s just keep it at, ‘need some help with your bags?’

See you tomorrow on aisle six. Or should I say, aisle sex.

Mo - outs

Monday, July 5, 2010


Everyone's heard the phrase "bros before hos" and every educated human regards this as one of the great insights of our species. Besides being short and rhyming, the logic of the phrase is eloquent and unbreakably sound.

Your bro is your boy, your best bud, your soul mate, your life force. And a ho is just a jabbery chickenhead with blond hair and no wings. Anyone who would risk the loss of a Brobond for such a creature is damaged and possibly beyond mental repair.

But what about Moms or "Mos"? Where do they factor in to this Brothology? Mos can't throw down a keg stand or get your back in a beach brawl, but on the other hand they did birth you, which, is admittedly a pretty chill-ass gesture. Kind of like getting free breadsticks with your 'za.

So who comes first between your Bro — your current best bud and all around soldier — and the OB (the original Bro), the woman that gave you life, fed you and touched your junk before anyone else would, your Mo.

The answer is obviously your Mo. Mos always come before Bros. This fact should be Cristal ™ clear, but if your brain is still tripping I've included some situations where this phrase would apply. You know, to illustrate that shit...

Applicable situations:

Your buddy wants you to videotape his Strongest Man workout audition tape but your Mom just got fired from her pilates volunteer teaching job and is Kleenex balling it up at home. What do you do?
Verdict: Mos before Bros.
Comfort Moms ASAP. You can film your Brosiff dead-squatting a Mini tomorrow when your Mom's not double-fisting shame shots.

You and your Maverick are hard vibbing with some tasty Sarah Lawrencers. Betting odds say you're getting hot tub handies at worst. But your mom calls up cause her peanut allergy is swilling up her face like a Van Damme Bloodsport-era tricep. The hot honeys are only in town for the night but your original squeeze — Momser — is marshmallowing to death. What's the solution, y'all?
Verdict: Mos before Bros.
Fly floozies come and go. And who knows, maybe your Bromate will score double duty, they are Chilean after all. Get your sculpted ass back home and hook your Mo up with anti-freakout skin meds. When she starts feeling better she'll give you some huge life-saving daps.

Crap. You screwed up the coordinates and accidentally got transported to the Ice Age with Moms and your best bud Jake. It's nipple-popping cold outside and, guess what? The only food for 30 miles is one freshly killed Mastodon and your BFL (Bro for life) Jake is desperate for grubification. Think fast. That furry-ass elephant can only feeds two people, MAX. What the shit do you do?
Verdict: Mos before Bros. Peek a trend, much?
Distract your protein-craving wing-Bro Jake with a dirty joke about lezzie Canadians. While he laughs, rip an icicle off the nearby cave ledge and sink it deep into your best bud's aorta. Sure you had to kill the top general in your Broarmy. But your Mo takes food priority. After all, she did the same for you in back in the day, just ask your placenta. So get your extinct animal chow down on and then get the f out of the Ice Age while you still can. That ain't no place to get your camp out on. Remember, even if you did find other peeps you'd still be screwed cause... Neanderthal girls don't wax.


Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Here's Your Red White and Blue

Dayum Bro - I've been getting harangued all week about my plans for this upcoming holiday weekend. The Fourth O July. Which is fine. Means I'm cool and sought after and all that. I understand what I'm doing is of great importance. No one wants to seal their RSVP envelope until checking in with ole Mo's plans. I don't blame. I don't hate. I was just getting anxious because, between you and me, I have no plans. No great firework slash barbecue type deals. No white parties. No red or blue or star striped themed anything has passed through my inbox. So I started getting a little worried. Like, are my evites going straight to spam? You know how it goes. I just started straight spinning out and thinking I had to find something awesome to do on Sunday. Then BAM. You know when something comes into your life, and you just forget about everything for a while and stare? In absolute awe?

I got an email this afternoon: subject line 'Ready For This?' - mysteriously followed up with a link in the note and a suggestion I not hit pause once the clips starts, but to 'give it time. it gets really good about a minute in.' Said sender isn't of the porn peddling type, so I had no hesitation and clicked away. What my eyes were gifted is indescribable. Truly. In every sense of the word. Here we have R&B Legend/Superstar R Kelly talking into a camera for a YouTube segment called Real Talk Behind The Scenes. Seems RK is telling us he's about to rap/sing his latest ballad. But his creepy sunglasses and busted cornrows throw up all sorts of 'just hit stop' signs. I held true to my friends warning 'give it time' and kept watching. RK then tells us "profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl n shit." I mean, right there - how true?! I was in. I am in. He gives his fans a shout out, then he starts singing (I guess) into a phone to his girlfriend (I think). Apparently, his girlfriends girlfriends saw him in a club with some other ladies, and his woman is concerned and decided to call him up and discuss it. RK is clearly perturbed, asking why she's hanging out with those "no man having assholes" anyway.

Wow. I watched this video four times. It has over 2 million hits!! When he yells into the phone "did she say there was other guys there? where there other guys there?" I lose my shit every time. Not only do I now know what I'm doing for the Fourth of July, but I also know what I'm wearing. Blinged out hoodie mother f'er!!!! Out.