I’ve been TRYIN’ to get pictures of stuff here in MemphriKKKa that may amuse you, but to no avail.
I still haven’t found my way back to the Hoe Hostel that I wrote about a couple entries ago, so no pics of that.
I still haven’t been to a strip club, other than platinum that was raided by the feds a few months ago....alas, no pictures of that either.
I have seen quite a few Chinese thugs that I could joke on endlessly, but I’ve only seen them while they were driving and never had the chance to snap a pic of them lest I distract them causing them to crash their shyt all up on somebody’s rear bumper.
I luh ya’ll, but I ain’t finna pay no Geico ’round this bytch, so “uh-uh… that’s out.”
But I have seen some of the funniest bullshyt since Ive been in this black hole of a city, so I shall share these instances with you now.
And don’t bytch.
Everytime you bytch, cats die and rainbows bleed.
Is that how you want the world to remember you?
I didn’t think so.
So, without further ado, here are bustah azz commentaries and their accompanying explanations.
1. Chinese Thugs!!
I attend Christian Brothers University for a few graduate classes. It is a small catholic liberal arts college in the heart of midtown . The students here, (besides my black ass) are one of two things. Smart or Rich -- maybe both. but the funniest shit are the Chinese thugs that drive the souped up fast and furious cars that are probably here on engineering scholarships. You see thes kids in droves at Senses on fridays and Saturdays and they look like if you cross them they will bring the wrath of Jackie Chan on that ass.....
Well this is the shit that bothers me.....
I have been seeing an inordinate amount of Japs riding around with some dayum Jamaican Flags hanging from their rear view mirrors.
These muhfukkas know that they don’t eat no dayum ox tails, curry goat, or fried plaintains!
They ain’t nanbitta* dreads!
*nanbitta: country azz Negro speak for “not one bit of.” The ensuing noun may be singular or plural, which one is totally dependent on which is most grammatically incorrect.
Tabs, bytches. Add that shyt in.
The Japs — is that offensive?? — don’t have nanbitta clue about Jamaica.
So you own some Bob Marley records? Big dayum deal.
So you like to smoke the ganja? Whoopty-friggin-doo.
So you like your men blacker than the kneecaps, elbows, and azzhole of Flava Flav?
Whatcha want… a cookie?
None of that shyt makes you Jamaican.
Not even a Jamaican sympathizer.
What you are, my dear duck-sauced friends, are copycats.
Just because you try to put nygga spins on all your traditional things — like eating catfish sushi with some Texas Pete or makin red beans and shrimp fried rice — er, excuse me… “shimp flied lice” — or mixin your green tea with grape kool-aid tryin to make that purple-purple-purple-and-swallow-it-down-with-the-yurple-ya-yurple-ya-yurple.
Stay fly, Daniel-san.
Just stop perpetratin’ the fraud!
But I know you shan’t.
And so I shan’t stop pickin on that ass!
Quietly of course lest I get a fu manch chop to the larynx....
2. The Pissing Game
One of the many joys of being a man is being able to piss just about any-fukkin-where.
Friends, believe me when I tell you that I have pissed in many an inconvenient place….
places that would have been exponentially more inconvenient if I had to get my squat on.
And one of the joys of having this accomodating piss mechanism is being able to play a game with the shyt every so often.
Fun games.
Games that include writing your name in the snow… or seeing how far you can stand back from the toilet without splattering the floor…
or seeing if you can coat the entire urinal with your warm, golden liquid waste….
or seeing how big an arc you can get in your stream…
the games are endless.
Now this is not to be confused with pissing contests that may occur in and around your place of business, residence, or leisure between men of various ages and varying levels of sobriety.
Those usually have nothing to do with piss, and everything to do with machismo.
With that distincion delineated, let’s return to the topic at hand.
The glorious games of pissing.
It should be an olympic sport!
If they can give out gold medals for synchronized swimming, then they should certainly give out gold medals for golden showers.
I’m just sayin…
And ladies, whether you know it or not, your daddy, brother, cousin, uncles, and yes, even your wonderful significant other plays games with his piss.
It’s part of the package!
It comes with the instruction manual and packaging of the member.
He may never admit it, but take it from someone who’s had one his whole life — the game is inevitable.
Don’t hate the playa… hate the game.
Here in MemphriKKKa, they have added a new dimension to the game!!
Unlike the bars in NYC, which have a mechanized, self-sanitizing, rotating toilet seat to add hours of fun to pissing games, This one restaraunt in East Memphis puts ice in the urinal.
Ice.
Ice?
Yes, ice.
Nothing like warming up some ice before dinner.
WARM IT UP KRISS!
I’m about to.
And tell me, what do you think happens when piss at approximately 98.6 degrees Farenheit hits ice at about 25 degrees Farenheit??
That’s right you Physics genius you!
It melts!
Oh the hours of fun to be had pissing on ice trying to carve shapes, numbers, and letters into a pound of frozen water!
I’m happy to report that I didn’t just make a circle, I made a sphere!
I gets my 3-D on.
I’m now available to do ice carvings for weddings and cruiseliners.
Unfortunately, I have nothing but before pics of this so you only get to see what I was up against......and I know you’re just itchin to see the after-piss picture, but maybe next time.
Please believe it was a flawless victory.
Kav 1, Ice 0.
And not only do they supply you with ice to piss on, but in case you are feeling a little frisky in the middle of your meal, they also provide fodder for your skeet-skeetin.
Right above the urinal, there was a picture of an exotic buck-boongy-nekkid chick with a dayum lei on her head and a grass skirt. So after you finishing warming up that ice…. you can get your skeet on to some pineapple azz broad.
And what do you think happens when you skeet onto ice??
*Looks at all the ladies raising an eyebrow in anticipation of the answer*
Hell if I know. LOL
But I suppose that the skeet takes on a gel-like quality.
Only in Memphis can you go to the bathroom and get your coagulated skeet on.
Dr Scholl ain’t got shyt on this.
Are YOU gellin??
She may not have been BET-video-hoe material, but she did have a pretty set of two big breassesses.
3. Thugged Out
“So Kav, you always tellin us about these Japanese thugs!
We STILL haven’t seen pics, so that shyt is suspect.
But if there really ARE Japanese thugs, then where do they their gear???
I mean, you can’t be thugged out in a dayum kimono!”
What an insightful question!
I’m so glad you asked!
Because I took pictures of the places that sell such clothes.
While out having lunch one day, I decided to snap a couple pics of the hip hop gear places.
This was in the area called Orange Mound which sits smack dab between the affluent White section called midtown and the mostly college student and senior citizen area of town called Highland heights near the University of Memphis...
you may hear about this area of town in any 8 Ball and MJG record.
There are hip hop clothing stores, pawn shops, check cashing stores, hole in the wall clubs, and several corner stores.
The only thing missing was some drug dealers, beer cans and cigarette butts littered about, and some livin-with-their-grandma nyggas standing on the corner givin you that “who da fukk is you?” look.
Im sure they existed, but it was daylight hours so Im sure they were sleeping after a long night of Trapping....word to young jeezy.
Well, I was on the corner. And I am a nygga.
But I was drinking a sunny delight and eating a Teriyaki chicken sandwich.
That hardly qualifies me as the block bully.
Especially since I was on the bougie side of the street with boutiques, delis, and bakeries.
And do you know that not only did the places sell hip hop clothing, but they also played hip hop music.
On some house speakers.
That sat OUTSIDE the store.
So — and this is no bullshyt — as I sat and ate my food, I could hear DMX, Ludacris, and Amerie blasting from various stores all vying for the attention of Japanese thugs that for some reason live in the area andall of the young Negros from the nearby Melrose high School.
Let me just tell you that it’s quite a weird feeling to be sitting in the Mound in the middle of a dayum work day and hear “What These Bytches Want From a Nygga” on volume 10 from a store entitled PLAYAZ across the street....not ot mention I was raised in the Projects by who else....Project Pat of Academy Award Winning 3-6 Mafia fame....
These folks are makin a chunk of change off of clothing that folks in US and mexican sweat shops made popular, and we ain’t gettin nanbitta cut of the profit!
I say we boycott and ban these shyts until they start a dayum trust fund for the American Negro.
And the boycott can begin in March.... meaning today.
I still have some shopping I need to do there.
I picked up a bangin azz Sean John sweatsuit from there, and I wanna go back and get some more shyt before Sharpton an’ nem show up.
I luh me some Nike-san.
LOL! Doesn’t that sound sooo nasty??!!
And that’ll do it for this first installation of camera phone pics.
I promise to step my game up in the coming weeks.
After all, I’m going to Collierville for two hours next week, and that should provide ample opportunity for some more shyt to joke on!
This mofo shall document.
