Are Country Girls Easier Than City Girls?

THE CHOKING HAZARD’S TWISTED WIT

For the past couple of nights I have been dragging my peg leg along hanging out public relating - yep, I was bar hopping with friends. Last night, we were chatting and having a good time laughing and drinking when one of the tawdry topics led to the differences between country girls and city girls. Basically how country girls are “easy like water” and city girls tend to display a little more social decorum. I couldn’t dispute because well, I was born in Brooklyn, New York. I actually can- but wouldn’t. I’m loyal to my City folk.



Now, I’ve visited “country” and I just can’t get past not having indoor plumbing facilities, so I have never spent more than one night there. Even “country” dialect is difficult for me to comprehend. I married a man that was from “Country” and I have to admit, some of those “Country” ways irked the shit out of me. One of them is walking outside barefoot in wet grass - at night. EW! My house in Virginia is somewhat in the country once you get past the Country Club, Golf Course and Community Shopping Plaza. The world outside those Security Guarded Gates can be pretty desolate and scary! I have never really befriended any of my neighbors that are long term natives (most of my neighbors are re-locaters like myself because I really hate their typical “What are you?”; “Do you smoke weed?” questions and my ultimate favorite: the references to non-Whites as “Mexicans and Nigras.“ I have, however, noticed that the young voluptuous vixens tend to be more aggressive sexually towards my son and brother (yes, I stalk their myspace pages . . .)



Whatever . . .

Well, of course, the comment was debated because there were people from “country” in our midst and they felt compelled to defend their “honor.” At first, I didn’t say a word. I have family and friends from both sides of the fence and well to be honest - none of them were vying for Saint Status and whenever any of those hussies married in the pure “white dress” there were always giggles and chuckles among wonders of maternity stretch paneling possibly embedded in the front of the White Gown. To call them “Pious” would be sheer belly busting sarcasm. The guy who instigated the debate is from one of the poorer sections of Kingston, Jamaica (a lawyer in America doing quite well for himself with his own practice) and seemed to have TONS of stories of easy sex with country women. Now the issue of this man possibly over embellishing his sexcapades stories is pretty much nil. We know him very well and he is not known for lying or tale telling - he’s actually notorious for being brutally honest. I’ve seen him in action and he has no reason to lie anyway. Well, according to him - all he and his friends had to do when hanging out in the countryside was stand outside the dance (not even go in!) and gently grasp a girl by the arm and say, “What’s up baby?” and the girl would just go. They knew the girls were down for the doing because this was evidenced by them simply not being at home!

You know this became heated, but he and the other guys stuck by their stories. City girls, a man has to work harder for but a country girl is a good way to relieve some tension. I later asked my ex-husband -the Bumpkin- if what they said was true about Country Girls and he concurred! I asked is that why Country Girls always seemed to have a bunch of kids? Now my common sense factor would just ring in that maybe they had more kids because the City Girls had more access to condoms and abortion clinics.

Well, the Country Folks (this group consisted of members from America, Canada and The Caribbean - 3) argument -to me- was pretty lame. They could only bring up that Beenie Man had a song about the wickedest slam [great sex] was from the Ghetto Girls. So of course, we responded with - it’s about good sex, not easy sex. However -the argument came to a halt when one of the Country men said that City Girls may not be as easy as the Country Girls - but a man can coax an oral performance out of a City Girl far more easier than a Country Girl who deem that particular act as nasty. I’m thinking - Country people slam their hands up in animal genitalia to retrieve young and what have you; have no qualms about being within a close proximity of dung yet they’re afraid of the Cordless Mike? Getthafugouttaheya! The City Men actually agreed on that aspect. Look let’s not be stupid - don’t tell me that a girl is going to swallow the sword and not turn around and grab a grind afterward or before. Unless it was . . .uh . . . Business. Personally - living in the City hearing some really strange sordid stories of Screw, I think City Girls just lie better. Come on - we all know about the roof of an apartment building . . . I swear I had to take a number or place a reservation for my turn because of those slappahs! However - I did not go up there with a guy I just met! The guys in my group were talking about their game and for the most part seemed to agree that a chick living out in the middle of nowhere with not too many options for recreation and were eating very good food that only strengthened their horny bodies did not waste time with little insignificant things such as the knowledge of a lover’s identity get in the way of them Riding the Bull. From what I hear - they were quite anxious about it too! Who hasn’t heard of an “Under The Shade Tree Shag” story?! [Which is something that would probably be on my personal “To Do List”, but I anticipate some serious anxiety about the combination of ants and dirt]

I guess I would have to say that I’m a Suburb Girl. I may have been an idiot when it came to a couple of men - but no one has ever been able to persuade sex out of me at a mere greeting - unless we were already involved in a sexually active relationship. No guy could ever be that frigging panty dropping charming with a one liner - the translation will always reach my ears as: “Let me fuck you.” Ew!

When I was on Playboy Radio the other day, a man with a THICK Country accent called in to inform that right after he had sex with his wife, that earlier in the day while he was at work - she did “a Train” with seven guys at once. Seven? And she still had time to cook vittles and service her husband too? I had to comment - that could not have been the first time for some shit like that. Most pipe fitters work their way up and start off with two maybe three before reaching seven.

Just about all girls love sex, right? Are Country Girls Easier than City Girls? Why?

TWISTED WIT: A Man's Worth His Weight in WHAT?!

Gigi James’
TWISTED WIT

Hey Baby, Hold Still, I’m Trying to Weigh Your Nuts

So yesterday, I did the stint on Playboy Radio - Afternoon Advice with Tiffany Granath (SIRIUS Radio Channel 198). SPECIAL THANKS AND LOVE AND ALL KINDS OF MUSHY STUFF - KISSES AND HUGS TO TCOOO AND EVERYONE WHO COMMENTED ON TCOOO’S BLOG POST YESTERDAY! YOU ALL MADE MY YEAR! I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH! I have to say, it was a very interesting experience and I loved bantering with her about my book and the touchy topic of philandering. Tiffany is hot and the show is the BOMB! Not that I haven’t enjoyed the other radio shows I’ve been on touting my book, but something from Playboy Radio is nagging at me. No - Hugh didn’t call and ask me to be on the television show . . .or a guest to his home . . .yet. A caller whose name I can’t remember - that happens - shared that his ex or whatever has a 100% accuracy rate of detecting her man has been cheating. She weighs his testicles. Yes, your eyes do not deceive you - she (I’m guessing) puts her honey’s balls on a scale to weigh them. Heavy sack? He’s been faithful. A little light? He’s got some ‘splainin’ to do.

Question. Are you frigging kidding me? A woman wants to find out if her man has been cheating - so she drops his balls on a scale to weigh the contents? Like a bundle of fruit in the grocery store? So asking him “Honey - have you been sliding your eel in somebody else’s tank?” wouldn’t be enough? Personally - I just don’t want to hold a guy by the rocks and put them on the scale. WTF?! Which scale should I use? The bathroom scale or the one . . Shit, is there another one? Please don’t say the kitchen. Who in the heezy does this? Okay - I was a biology major and with my extensive history of science experiments, I know that in order for this absolutely asinine theory to some sort of accurate analysis, one would have to have a very strict schedule of weighing the ball sack. Way more often than at Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig and the airport combined, okay. He would have to have a weigh-in in the morning before breakfast, at night, before and after each seminal emission (including those resulting from a solo rendezvous, nocturnal, post-coital and the “OOPS! I thought you were done . . .” ). Folks, that’s just too much damn work. Once you have gathered all your data and determined the proper and consistent weight for seeds - what do you do next? Fit Honey Bunny with special underwear alarm outlined with a shock wire so that when the nuts fall out of their set weight guidelines - he gets buzzed. *scratching head contemplating . . . * We’re also assuming that Sugar Bear doesn’t wank - at all.

I don’t know one guy and seriously doubt that I ever WILL know a man on this planet that could lay pipe so sweet and divine to make me lose my mind and every shred of dignity in my soul to warrant me - to weigh his testicles. For any reason - be it for an infidelity test or because I was paid a large sum of money to do so - NOT HAPPENING.

I HATE HALLOWEEN!

Yep, it’s that horrible time of year when those disgusting black and orange candies clutter up the store shelves in wholesale bulk-sized packages crudely flashing in your dieting face “BUY ME BUY ME!” for those damn kids and retarded adults in plastic overpriced hideously cheesy costumes doing the evil old tradition of glorified panhandling. Door-to-door panhandling at that too. How annoying. Halloween just pisses me off. Not just because it represents death and dedication to the devil, was originated for paganism, and anything else of a sadistic nature, but because it’s just GROSS!

My kids have never partaken of Halloween festivities or gone trick-or-treating. I’ve been called a “cruel” mom by some friends and family for not letting them do Halloween. To tell you the truth- they don’t even care for it. On Rick’s first Halloween in school - I was called to pick him up. His presumptuous teacher decided to paint the faces on the children who did not show up decked out in doof wear to mimic a costume. Rick - not quite being aware of Halloween etiquette stood in line for the face painting joining the excitement of his classmates. Those geeks. When it came time for his turn - the teacher mistakenly tried to put the paint crayon (whatever ) on his face. She neglected to use a brand new one (which the 5-year-old observed) and he was totally repulsed by that thing touching his face after it just been scraping the face of some other kid - the one with cooties- and well . . . he had a fit. Anxiety attack was the actual diagnosis, but we don’t want those words appearing anywhere in his school or medical records -he may want to run for office one day. That only reminded me of the time my next door neighbor (Deanna on my tops) had a Halloween party (I was 8) complete with Haunted House (their laundry room) and there was a “bobbing for apples.” I wasn’t first in line. I immediately vacated the line with Flash Gordon speed when I saw David from down the block (a kid we once witnessed sniff dog doo in the grass at a VERY close range) shove his head face down into the bucket of water and apples, OPEN his MOUTH, let the water from inside the bucket wash all throughout the interior of his cavity creeped MOUTH and the ends of his hair as he blindly grasped around the water with his MOUTH at various apples (leaving his teeth prints in each one)- taking two to three tries (his head was lifted out of the bucket by Deanna’s dad when it kinda looked like the kid was drowning) before hitting pay dirt. Did I mention that he wasn’t first in line either? It would have been easier to convince me to bob for corn in SHIT after seeing THAT than to bob for any stinking apple in any bucket! [For the record - I liked David. He was a nice kid - just peculiar - and not welcomed to our pool parties due to his revolting infatuation with dog doo]

I don’t know about some of you, but if you grew up in the 80s or before, it was a rather bizarre customary thing to publicize to greedy candy mooching children that it was an absolute must to have their treasured sweets checked for razor blades and poison. Hospitals even advertised that they would open the ER or something and allow candy to be x-rayed for harmful items in the CANDY! And I‘m cruel . . . .?

The grand finale of Halloweens for me was the year in seventh grade, after a night of properly egging Centennial Middle School and a few neighboring homes of jerk snots that made my Shit List using sacred eggs that my cohorts and I saved in an airtight box secured by a sack left in my back shed for almost a month prior. It was all strategically emphasized with the flimsiest toilet paper a Cuban kid with a football shaped head could swipe from his mother’s cabinet. Two days later, my cousin a/k/a 1010 WINS (all news, all day . . .) SNITCHED like an indicted rapper’s “assistant” and I was not allowed to see civilization (school ain’t civilized) for two months. Halloween sucks day old Kitty Litter.

We will be doing the same thing we do every year - sit in the house with all the outside lights out - hiding and eating all of the candy corn getting sugar rushes watching reality TV. That’s scary enough - I hear this year VH-1 might run an Adrianne Curry special followed by an “I Love New York2” Marathon. AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

If you happen to be in the New York area - I will be signing copies of “I Didn’t Sign Up For This! At Barnes & Noble at 267 Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, New York (Park Slope) at 5:00 P.M. Please come. Even if you have to jump on a plane and pay astronomical fees in airfare- please show up. Don’t just do it for me, do it for my cheeky Jon Jon who at the last signing handed out cards greeting patrons while informing them “Please buy my mom’s book - she won’t feed me until she sells them.”

Not Lion Meat Tonight - Motivational Monday!

THE CHOKING HAZARD BLOG™:
MOTIVATIONAL MONDAY
Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter 5:8 (NKJV)

Last week for me was a week totally out of left field. I mean, I had some bad days in life, but last week’s bad days were overwhelming to the point where I wanted to throw in the towel and call it quits because I really couldn’t take anymore of the drama. See, I’m not into drama. I have always been one to handle stressful situations pretty well and an unlikely candidate to be some shrink’s goldmine. I don’t do the Self-help Book Scene -because many of those people who even write those books are nuts themselves. That’s a piece of inside information, okay . . .

When I was attacked last week by haters pitifully trying to impede my success - I realized I had two choices: sink or swim. I chose to swim. I have worked too hard to get this far and I’ll be damned to let those Shape Shifters (meaning they’re not human, they only look human) to get the best of me. Looking on the bright side, I lost ten pounds from [Warning: TMI Moment] from gastrointestinal distress. However, I’d really rather not have weight loss writhing in excruciating pain on the bathroom floor. See, it wasn’t that I was afraid of not winning the battle, I was fed up of fighting the battle. I was later inspired by the little Bible verse posted above that I heard in a sermon by Pastor Jim Cymbala.

Have you ever watched on PBS or Animal Planet programs on the subject of lions and lionesses? I watch them too, but never found a story as interesting as the observation of a missionary in Africa, who sat and observed lions and lionesses and their hunting habits in the Pride during his stay there. Whenever a herd of impalas ran through the area -in large numbers- the lionesses would just lie in wait the grass on the sidelines.




They watch with great intent every single intricate move of the impalas to determine the very one that was weak or tired for them to devour. Those lionesses study the way a lip quivered to a leg slightly stumbling, to a slight decrease in speed just to ascertain which one was weak enough for them to literally pounce on to snap the life out of them.




Now when they jumped up to attack - no matter which way the band of impalas run including if an impala hit a lioness dead smack in the face - those bitches would stay focused on going after that one weakling simply because that one is the best one for them to conquer.

How do we stay strong? By replenishing our strength - getting rest, nourishment (for our bodies and minds), exercising and leaning on true friends for support. I also did something I hadn’t been doing regularly over the course of the last couple of weeks - sleep. I actually took naps! I was weakened and the lion was trying to devour me because the opportunity was there. I received some very encouraging words from friends (including Myspacers) during my time of weakness and I remembered that I’m not the only one out there being pulled through the fire: . .if somebody overpowers one person, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not easily broken. (Ecclesiastes 4:12). Yes, I quote a lot from the Bible because that is my Self Help book. One of these days, some big publishing company is going to make a mistake and publish my version of a self help book entitled: Common Sense Is Not As Common As You Think - So Get Some! I wonder if that will get me a seat on Oprah. Something tells me that because I was never a dope addict, heavy boozer, Casting Couch Groupie or ever engaged in dangerous sexual behavior with a variety of men then justified such behavior with a pity party and instead chose to fight to maintain my dignity by working several jobs at once, getting educated, put my kids first before men, and worked my arse off etc. - I will not be Oprah material. *sighs*

Have a Blessed Week and Thanks for the love everybody! *hugs and kisses* How do YOU stay strong to weather the storm?
Psalm 18:1-3
I will love You, O LORD, my strength.
2 The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer;
My God, my strength, in whom I will trust;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
3 I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised;
So shall I be saved from my enemies.

*Choking Hazard Productions™ is a division of La Gi-Gi-Jay LLC. Gigi James, La Gi-Gi-Jay LLC nor any affiliate thereof will submit your information to third party vendors.

Racist neighborhood in NYC? Really?! Nooooooooooo!

Racist Neighborhood in NYC? Really? Nooooooooooo

By now we should all be somewhat aware of the little backwater town Jena, Louisiana and its population consisting mostly of racist inbred Cone Heads that go to extremes to prohibit basic civil rights for its Black citizens. Well, have you heard of Howard Beach, New York? Howard Beach is a small town in the borough of Queens not too far from JFK Airport near Long Island.

Howard Beach is prime fucking real estate okay. The homes there are mansion-like (not quite) and are mostly waterfront. If you’re walking around and someone asks you what area do you live and you respond: “Howard Beach.” They will look at you and say, “excuusssse me.” Now if you’re Black, they will look at you and say, “Yeah right. Stop putzing around. Where do you really live?” Yours truly wouldn’t live in Howard Beach. As a real estate connoisseur, wherever there is a large body of water in NYC - there are rats. Huge, HUNGRY Ben-like, red-eyed, razor sharp teeth, no respect having for your food or small pets, bullet-size caca shooting rats. I wouldn’t pay a five dollars let alone a million dollars to live with rats bigger than my dog galloping around my house. But hey, to each his own, right?

Over the years, Howard Beach has earned a nasty reputation for being a staunch racist community. In 1986, a 22-year-old Black man, Michael Griffith, was struck and killed by a car as he was being chased by a gang of Whites. Look - they were convicted, so don’t go there with the Black-Man-Running-Must-Have-Stole-Something bullshit. This is New York - not Hooterville. We have more sense than that and have the ability to see the obvious unlike some places like . . . . Hmmm starts with “J” and rhymes with EENA. In 2005, Nicholas Minucci (a Howard Beach resident) was convicted of hate crimes for a racially motivated assault and robbery with an aluminum bat of 23-year-old Black Man, Glenn Moore. Do you know what it takes to be convicted of a racially motivated Hate Crime? FBI. Okay.

So why am I ranting about Howard Beach today? Because I was reading through Caribbean Life newspaper and came across an article about a Guyanese family, The Goundens, who bought a 15,000 square foot home (fifteen freaking THOUSAND!!) in Howard Beach and their neighbors are giving them hell trying to get them to leave. WTF? At first, I thought - okay, what could my Caribbean people be doing now? (for the record, Guyana is in South America and technically not in the Caribbean, but since they speak English, they are honorary . . . Haha!) Are they cooking too much curry and smelling up the neighborhood? Minding live poultry in the yard? Paint the house with Home Depot Oops Paint making it the house that could distract planes flying overhead (oh, I guess that only happens in South Florida)? Throwing parties with very loud ethnic music? Practicing voodoo rituals with sacrifices in the front yard? (sorry, having fun playing on the old stereotypes . . .) No, this traditional American Dream Family are hard working, law abiding, tax paying citizens (Mr. Gounden a self-employed aircraft technician). The Neighborhood Welcoming Committee in Howard Beach sure has an interesting way of saying “Welcome Neighbor” to the Goundens. In lieu of delivering, a basket of baked goodies, the residents residing in million dollar homes have delivered to the Goudens’ front yard garbage. One youth (with no job) went as far as to water the bushes with his very own urine. Hey, to each his own, right? Personally, a guy pissing on my bushes on my million dollar property would be greeted with a gesture from a bow and arrow. It’s a million dollar neighborhood! The Goundens have been harassed to no end including by their local government agencies and police. They have been imposed with tickets and fines for “violations” and other frivolous bullshit such as a four foot wagon that Cherry Gounden uses for gardening as an “illegal flatbed trailer.” Ohhhhh please.

The only way I would leave my home is if a scene from Amityville Horror Story were to be reenacted before my very eyes. Murderous ghosts telling me to get out - okay. No questions asked. Neighbors pissing on my lawn and attacking my kids, local officials hitting me with fake violations will be dealt with severely. What’s it take for you?

How the Married dates The Single

How The Married Dates The Single

The other day I was talking on the phone to my ex having one of our usual friendly chats. He lies, I bust him, it gets heated then I laugh at him and he confesses. Same old same old. Before we were married, my ex was involved with the same trifling tramp that he’s living with now. Don’t get me wrong - I’m not jealous of her being with him. I actually encouraged the union. She was someone that went after that man in the most predatory manner during our marriage and even went as far as to instigate many of the fights we had. However, that’s a whole other blog.

So he starts telling me how he’s not really happy with her . . . She’s just there for convenience . . . He was lonely and she left her husband for him . . She’s not prettier than me . . . She’s not better than me . . . He knows that I would never take him back after what happened between us . . . He will never be happy . . . , blah blah blah . . . I’m listening to him and then it hits me. This is the same shit he used to tell other broads when he was with me. That fuckwit was dogging her to me the same way he did me to other women (only this time worse). He was trying to con me to leave a door open for him. WTF?!! So I told him to cut the crap and called him out on it! I reminded him that I am Gigi and this is America. I’m not from that little small town whence he came where the majority of the residents didn’t have flushing toilets and live with limited electricity. In other words: I KNOW BETTER ASSHOLE!

Do We Really Fall For This Shit? WHY DAMN IT WHY?

I know some people out there seem to be attracted and actually desire married people. Those folks are what we call amoral. When I was married, Sandy, even blatantly called my house and asked for him. I was smarter though, I knew what was going on a lot sooner than I let on and would pester my ex for money. Money I knew he would go get from her. You want to fuck my husband? It’ll cost you.*grins evil* [Folks - this is the absolute truth.] Once I accepted what was happening and the drunken fights were increasing (she used to tell him that he wasn’t really a drunk . . . The cops, judges and counselors were all wrong according to her), I kept playing the game until I almost caught the case . . .

The Common Pick Up LIES Married Folks Tell to Snag A Single Person:



“I’m not happy at home.”
How Gigi James would respond: That’s too bad isn’t it?! Maybe you should get a Hummer or a Home Theater system like most men trying to overcompensate for a small penis would do. Am I your fucking pet? Good. Stroke this.

“I’m just sticking around for the kids.”
La Gigi: Since you’re such a good person, then why don’t you stay at home and baby sit the kids and let him/her go out to the club or movie instead? You are sticking around for the kids aren’t you?

It makes our kids happy to see us together even though we don’t love each other. We even sleep in separate rooms.”
La Gigi: LMAO! Some shrink set that up - because children just thrive in loveless homes! (Where the hell is that Sarcasm Font?!) Okay - my ex and I slept in separate rooms too, but you better believe when the bodies were calling, they were answered. Especially during those frigid winter months when venturing outside was not even a thought! A married couple always roll over onto each other at some time.




“If he/she finds out, he/she will take everything and leave me with nothing.”
La Gigi: *DING DING DING* BAD CREDIT ALERT! BAD CREDIT ALERT! BAD CREDIT ALERT!

“She doesn’t love me, but needs me to pay the bills and I don’t want my kids to think I’m an asshole.”
La Gigi: HELL-OOO! Is it not just as important for the person you’re tying to pick to NOT think you’re an asshole too? Sorry- but that sounds like this person is weak in the sack and the Spouse is fed up with it. *runs to the adult toy store to buy gift certificate*

“I feel so lonely and I need love in my life.”
La Gigi: If responding on the internet then the possible cause for loneliness could either be severe B.O., Chronic Halitosis or a scorching case of a festering fungus. This guy or gal may not be married - but I always wondered how those people on Extreme Makeover with jacked up teeth and kids shouting real loud to inform them and the world over that “Daddy has REALLY bad breath!” got married in the first place. Oh, sorry off subject. BAD OCD! BAD!

“He/She doesn’t make me feel as good as you do.”
La Gigi: This is probably one of the best mind fuckers of them all because we all love to be told that we are Zee Best {uhhh hmmm hmm hm}, this is also a very common line -about as common as the Clap (gonorrhea).

I ended my conversation with my ex who admitted to still fucking around (with some details) with other women. Hey - that cock hungry slappah fought for him (if you think she has never retaliated, that’s another joke. That broad has made an art of tit for tat sex). So now she has to deal. That’s what she signed up for. *smirks*

Dating the Married is wrong. Dead wrong. If anyone can explain a justifiable reason to be romantically involved with a married person - please enlighten me.

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How to Kick A Man's Ass and Get Away With It!

How to Kick a Man's Ass and Get Away With It!


Some of you may have heard about Evangelist Juanita Bynum-Weeks getting a beat down in hotel parking lot by her husband fellow evangelist Bishop Thomas Weeks. Prophetess Bynum sustained multiple injuries and has subsequently filed for divorce from Bishop Weeks who made public apologies to his wife and to the Christians. If you think I'm going to make a commonly denominated "Christian Crack" - you're dead wrong. That would be an insult to my own intelligence because being Christian had nothing to do with it. It was a man beating his wife. Bishop Weeks - I'm a Christian and I don't accept your apology. You want me to feel better? Fling one of them 8 carat diamond rings you gave to your wife on your wedding day my way instead, because your word doesn't mean shit.


I want to thank Juanita Bynum today via this blog. She has decided to put her celebrity status to good use and launch a new ministry to help other women who have been physically attacked by "the men who were supposed to love them." That's right, if you were a woman that was beaten by a man that didn't love you - you're assed out. So Gigi is here for YOU!


[Disclaimer: I'm about to get real here. It seems that whenever I write a blog and get truthful in it - I get messages from people who feel the need to call me "whore", "bitch" and all kinds of colorful words that don't always get picked up by spell check. If you want to leave me a nasty message - have the intestinal fortitude to leave the message in the comment section below. DUH!]


The first time my husband hit me - he was drunk. He started in on me and I ignored him. Pretended he didn't exist. So he kept on and on and when he didn't get a response - he called me a "cunt." I hate that word. I called him a "fag." If you know me - I can get real creative when it comes to spewing the insults. He got real mad and slapped me in my mouth. The last time I checked - I wasn't Muslim. Even if there was a need to correct me - that was not the fucking way to do it. As a former playground bully, the niece of Arab men, the daughter of a Navy Man and the FIRST girl in a family of boys - I hit him back and kept on hitting him back. It was the first time in my adult life I had to fuck a man up. I always remembered the time I witnessed a family member get beat by her husband; I was a teen at the time and ran to rescue her. I vowed to NEVER allow that to happen to me or anybody else if I can help it. Whether the man loves the woman or not. I was with my baby father for years and we never physically fought. Wrestled maybe - but that was for another reason . . . hehe. That should have been a sign for me - and was - but I didn't listen to myself. I listened to others and got married anyway. To make a long story short - I walked away from that marriage with a permanent bump on my nose from the break, a head scalded from boiling water, misaligned bones in my fingers -not to mention slightly traumatized children (they're okay now). Every time we fought - he was drunk. I learned that with each time, the fights got more intense - because he knew he was fighting with someone who was not going to take the shit. I'm also a woman. Not too many egos like getting beat up by a woman. His prior girlfriend (and the proverbial dog vomit - as they are living together now) would take the slaps and cry (usually on some other dude's shoulder later on, but hey . . . To each his own, right?) The last time we fought - the cops actually debated on who to take in. They didn't take me in because they knew I worked legal and their asses would have been in every court room I could file a case against them in. WTF?!


We have laws now -thanks to O.J. - that are supposed to be less lenient to abusers and more helpful to women. However - I believe the majority of them are bullshit and blatant violations of constitutional rights therefore making it in the long run the women suffer a hell of a lot more being dragged through the bureaucratic mud of our legal system. Not every woman is a celebrity with a major bank roll to protect them like Prophetess Bynum. Are we really supposed to care that she's filing for divorce and he apologized? She will not have to go through what most abused women have to go through. She says that she still loves the good Bishop - enough to marry twice. Keep your soap opera Bynum and Weeks - you're a bunch of publicity whoring bamas. Ladies - you want to keep your sanity and out of jail? Remember, Johnny Cochran is dead so you have got to fuck that man up! I won't advocate being a sucker and just cut the man's dick off - you will go to jail. Jab him in the throat as hard as you can instead. Sometimes it's impossible to do immediately after - so wait a few days after everything has cooled down. My friend, Brent, teaches a class on women's self defense which is very helpful and every community should have one - but here are a few tips just in case, you are not able to make such a class:


Hit him in the spine while holding a sock full of quarters, then go get a manicure right after;


This one was inspired by Madame Jules - lop him over the head with frozen meat (she suggested leg of lamb) - then cook the weapon and serve it for dinner;


Take the palm of your hand with your top fingers curled downward - slam it straight into his nose. Debilitate him for a few seconds then run for the shovel.


Personally, I'm a boxer and kicker. I will ball up my fist and knock the wind out of someone by punching him dead in the chest. I usually hit fast in repetition. I don't like receiving hits, so I try to prevent them. I don't knee in the balls - sometimes the coordination goes awry in the middle of battle and the knee can land against another knee cap (I'm short). Please note: I may come off aggressive almost as much as Juanita Bynum, but I'm really not. I only fought with one man in my life. The guys back in school don't count . . .


DOMESTIC VIOLENCE IS STILL A MAJOR ISSUE - NO ONE IS IMMUNED anymore. OJ sparked new laws and statutes to be instituted in society - do they work? Is it easier and less traumatizing to take the chance and whip a man's ass - who assaulted you - instead of calling the cops? I once told a friend who called me right after her baby father hit her to get out of the house and that I was on my way to pick her. As I loaded my .357 Magnum, I yelled back into the phone, "Whatever you do, DON'T CALL THE POLICE!" Self-defense is a lot harder to prove, in case you didn't know.


Here are a few highlights from Saturday's reading and signing at the Caribbean Literary & Cultural Center in Brooklyn, New York:




The New Leccie Cover arrived in time for the Signing! I would have been happier if Leccie had made it over the pond for the event, but there will be more opportunities later on as the book tour gets underway. Copies of I Didn't Sign Up For This! are now available at

www.barnesandnoble.com

and

www.amazon.com







Me signing. The twins kept getting in the way on the hot muggy frizz pit day.





Mary Sumter with Ken Cook. Mary won the dinner for two at Harbour Lights restaurant. This is great - Mary came all the way from Washington D.C. for the signing and met Ken Cook at the signing. Mr. Cook is a former science teacher from Winthrop Junior High (he wasn't my teacher, but he taught many of my friends). The Widow and the Widower hit it off and ended up each other's dates for the evening! Harbour Lights has got something going on besides the wonderful food (and the BEST crème brulee!) I hear those two have really hit it off ! I am SOOOOO excited for them! Thank you Harbour Lights!!


Thank you all that came out and showed support and love. I hope you enjoy the book!

Could You Date a Howard Hughes?

I’m having a high maintenance rant – so please just bear with me . . .

I was running late for a cocktail party last night and as usual I ran into some small catastrophes which set my mood to “annoyed.”

As I was rushing to get dressed, I was on the phone talking to someone to run down my spare set of car keys and talking on the phone to two lines – one to locate some keys and the other to advise some inquisitive fucker my itinerary for the evening while reminding them that I had no time for bullshit – so they were to cut it while they were ahead. I don’t recall who the person was on the other end – it could have been a cop, or it could have been my mother. Mind you –I’m naked and clumsily applying lotion to my skin and balancing the phone on my shoulder and engaged in two separate conversations. Some might call it multi-tasking, others would call it “schizophrenia.”

I proceeded to spray on my perfume – the usual spots: the back of the neck, the front of the chest and the abdomen. Why on Earth was I being so meticulous about personal hygiene and grooming? Because I have Germophobe OCD. No other reason at all. Then all of a sudden a strong stinging sensation practically blinds from the subsequent white light and I see every star in the cosmos paralyzing my ass for a complete fifteen seconds. Turns out, in my haste and compulsive dressing regimen - I had inadvertently sprayed DKNY Red Apple on my Peach. A freshly shaved Peach. [Side Note: I never spray perfume on my privates as there is absolutely no need for me to do so. It’s clean.] I am generally a Brazilian waxer – however, prior to this special occasion I went to a new salon and the Bermuda Triangle seemed not quite straight and a little wider than usual. So I took care of it with a razor – to be consistent. Again OCD emerged. It really was bugging the shit out of me! When my legs regained composure, I spouted every vulgar expression that I never knew I could ever concoct without premeditation. I realized I was running out of time and nursing my blazoned pum pum would have to wait. So I abruptly ended both conversations (the scream probably did that . . .) and continued to get dressed slowly. Painfully, I perfected my ensemble with the pink and cream suit with pink patent leather pumps and coordinating jewels. My hair was curled and styled and make-up in proper order. I was out.

I arrived at the cocktail party (hiding my limp) and began to mingle through the crowd. Now, if anyone knows me – I don’t play cute. I eat. I had a plate full of delicious sandwiches, brownies crackers, cheese and white wine. There was fruit too, but I don’t eat fruit, wine and cheese because –to put it mildly –it makes me fart. There I said it. I was standing with my plate and talking to a gentleman having a nice professional discussion about our professions when I decided to taste a wrap that unknown to me had the dreaded ingredient of Sun Dried Tomato [insert music from the movie Psycho]. The way I reacted to the sun dried tomato blaspheming my palate, you would have assumed I had just swallowed its weight in Wasabi. My automatic Sun Dried Tomato Gag Reflexes had sounded the internal alarm and I was fighting my body from abruptly evicting the vile food product in a chaotic, very gross and rude manner. However, I knew that I also absolutely could not actually swallow the fucking thing or else I was taking a chance on shitting my cream white Donna Karan trousers. I thought about just passing out on the floor to save face and gain some sympathy; but in order to pull that off successfully – I would most definitely have to shit my cream white pants. Completely mortified and with a trembling hand whilst profusely sweating, I managed to do the napkin thing with the un-masticated “food.” I excused myself with tears in my eyes noticing that the gentleman I was talking to didn’t even offer some kind of compassion and ask if I was okay. After all, I could have been having an extreme allergic reaction and asphyxiated. Give it 30 more seconds and I would have. Asshole.

I moved over to the sofa area to sit down with my plate after refilling my wine glass – I had to gulp down the last one for the obvious reason. I sat about two feet away from a guy who had he not been in there, would probably have not been acknowledged by yours truly. He introduced himself to me attempting to spark up conversation. Now, I had my sandwich in my damn hand and his hand was extended out for me to shake it. The last fucking thing I want to do when I’m eating is shake anyone’s hand. And his hand I had already spied was dirty. Very dirty. I wondered if he was a vagrant that had managed to charm his way in to the shindig for the free food. It was not an “Open To the Public” kind of event. It was invitation only. I was even more annoyed that I had gone stag. To be polite, I shook his hand and then grabbed my sandwich with the napkin and ate while he talked (and me praying that he wouldn’t accidentally spit in my direction).

This guy was fascinating. He actually piqued my interest with his intelligent conversation. Because he was so articulated, I naturally upgraded him from Vagrant to Hippie. The little respect he earned from this Glamour Girl – still did not place him in my “Possible” list even though he truly impressed me. He was safe in the “Friend” zone. Then I asked him where was he staying (as he had indicated that he was visiting from the UK. As I waited to hear the response of “at a friend” or “by my family” – to my shock – he named one of the most prestigious and expensive hotels New York City has to offer (and go to great lengths to not offer to just any old body). My neck almost snapped. Turns out – that grungy motherfucker is literally filthy rich. He inherited his money from his damn wealthy and prominent family.

This is where I started twisting around with inner turmoil. Most women’s panties just disintegrate when they are in the company of a wealthy man they think they have a chance at. Not me. There was something in his conversation that confirmed that this man was not only interested in speaking with me, but was attracted to me too. WHAT?! It is no secret I am a serious germophobe. I don’t care to be in the presence of grime. I’m also unattached. This fucking bum was far more educated that I am AND had more money jingling in his dirty pockets than I have to my name. It was also apparent that he had a very kind and sweet spirit. But he was Pig Pen from the Peanuts gang damn it! EWWWWW! I know most gold diggers out there are saying – “Girrrl, get him and then put his ass in the bath!” Look the maintenance guy in my grandmother’s neighborhood is just as nice as this guy. I don’t look twice at the maintenance guy in that aspect because he bags garbage all day long and I have some serious issues with a guy handling trash and then later on handling me. I mean – there just is not enough hot water and bleach in the world! Let’s get real – you gold diggers know damn good and well – you don’t get the gold until he gets to dive in your Gold Mine. I’m fucking skeeving just at the thought of doing it with Pepe Le Pew (by the way – I didn’t smell him at all – my sinuses clogged at sight of the yellowy teeth). I remember laughing hysterically at a story of a friend who went car shopping with his sister and her weird Daddy Big Bucks husband –his treat- and while they were sitting in the salesman’s office negotiating, Brother-in-law whipped out a nail clipper and started clipping his toenails. The words of comfort I offered were, “at least he didn’t clip his nose hairs.”

Dani’s blog the other day was about women with money picking up broke ass men for “love.” *snort* What about Wealthy Men that are either not aesthetically pleasing or downright unappealing? From the above info and my other blogs – it is already established that I don’t do stinky . . funky . . dirty or anything near nasty. Would it be shallow to forego my values and fuck a Howard Hughes? The past men in my life were jerks but they were clean jerks. Okay even it the dumpiness was overlooked – people would see a well-dressed and groomed woman with a dumpy guy – and automatically come to the conclusions: “She only wants the money,” or “Wow! He must lay some pretty good pipe to be hooked up with her.” I should let you know that while I wouldn’t be bringing the same amount of money to the relationship- I’m not walking in with a change purse either. I personally will not class up with a loving pauper. Not a gold digger – viewing certain men that don’t have the same aspirations as I do.

Could you do Howard Hughes? Would I have to conform and become *shudder* a Nasty Girl? I gotta know! This is just my personal issue . . . Just how much could you be bought for?

Come play with me at www.myspace.com/gighumor