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?