Part 2: NABCAS Presents True Life: I Did Crack

Shortly after Kingsmomma leaves my hotel room I realize that I reeked of alcoholic and pants rubbing sin. I remember telling Rock that I was drunk and needed a shower. He agreed.

I ended up stripping and did the slow foot stumble into the glass shower almost hitting my face on the wall when I tripped over steam. This is when I realized I was super drunk and that Rose wasn't my friend but a pink enemy seeking vengeance on my body and soul. Not only did I choose to lounge in the shower like I was chillin on a sofa with my legs sprawled out but I also decided it was a perfect time to wash my hair.... with bar soap. That skinny ass leftover hotel soap. Sample soap.  Was there shampoo and conditioner provided by the four- star Hilton hotel? Well, yes but I like for my hair to be matted and tangled with flat bar soap when I'm drunk and fancy... and a drunk mind will have you washing your hair with anything that suds or inviting people back to your hotel room even when you have someone there waiting for you. As drunk as I was, I would've washed my hair with Tide or beer piss if it was available. You know what else a drunk mind will have you doing? Washing your ass and face with the same shampoo you failed to use on your head leaving your skin feeling like you just soaked in Epsom Salt and dawn dish detergent. Listen folks, when you're drunk everything that doesn't make sense makes perfect sense. Don't Drink and Drive, Shower, Fuck, Teach Children, Breathe, Live !

Feeling like I just ran through a car wash with toxic shit now seeping though my pores, I take my time getting out of the shower and stumble to the bed where Rock is laying. Now, these parts are a little foggy.

I remember climbing on top of him and telling him that I was drunk and wanted to vomit. That right there was that disgusting sexy talk that only a wife could say to her husband and still make him hard. So, right now I'm dizzy. Rock now has two heads and is starting to look like a Boondocks character. The room is spinning and I feel like I'm going to meet that 22.00 pasta I inhaled a few hours before. Theres music playing from my iPod "Love" playlist and a scene replaying  in my head:

Me: Yo, the last time I drank Rose I got soooooooo fuuuuuuuuucked up

Kingsmomma: Champagne doesnt really do that to me but I'll try it

Me: I'm serious dude. That shit will get you everytime
Kingsmomma:  Uhhh i doubt it

slow-fast forward both of us grinding on random 21 year olds, stumbling on the streets, hailing a cab and listening to Biggie in said cab with a Punjabi driver nodding his head.

I roll over on my side and Rock brings me a trash can. Even with his teenage voice and Connecticut accent that I always find so funny, he sounds comforting. I remember him telling me that I just needed to throw up and that i shouldn't be embarrassed about throwing up in front of him. I remember telling him that I'm not embarrassed I just cant throw up.After advising me to put my finger down my throat and me declining his offer to put something down my throat to throw up, he pulled my hair back, got back in the bed and we spooned while listening to music.

Somewhere between R. Kelly and 112, Souljah Boy comes on. Now, there are about 200 songs on that playlist. All of them are baby makers and here comes Souljah Boy's She Got A Donk out of the blue. Only during a time that two of the craziest bloggers end up in the same bed together would a random ass song magically appear on my playlist. Do I turn it off? Nope. What did I do? I did what every girl, your mother and grandmother included, does when that song comes on... I backed it up or did some drunk variation of backing it up. Yup, Ms. La'Docker did random booty popping Tip Drillish dance moves in the bed. As I'm writing this, I realize that I always pick the worst and most random times to booty pop which usually ends up in some embarrassing or blogworthy situation. File that one under Blogworthy.

"Donk" is where things got spicy and, unfortunately, I cant remember everything BUT I'll give you the following tidbits that I do remember and/or have text confirmation that it did happen.

Things that Khaki Vaguely Remembers About Doing Crack

• Breaking my Pretty Woman rule and kissing Rock allllllll in the mouth. He liked it.
• Both parties getting Facetime and even as a sloppy drunk I gave a pretty decent performance. No teeth or hands! BOOM!
• Rock Somebody did some questionable and pause-worthy shit that they didn't even pause on before doing it while someone else didn't even fight it. As a part of our marital agreement, I can not disclose the act that was performed.

• Rock has a mean stroke game and the perfect sized "junk". Mean as in pretty damn good and perfect sized as in it wasn't so big that I'd have to ball up and take the D like a champ or too small that I'd want to punch him in the neck and make him sleep in the hallway. If I was sober, I would've went to sleep with a Coke and a smile.
• Nobody came... at least i don't think i did. I know he didn't... I think. Wait, he did... once per her his text but I don't know... FML.
• I must've said "i gotta throw up" about 100 times and never actually threw up or attempted to. In fact, someone  kept stroking while I muttered my threats of puking.
• Rock uses some "regla" ass condoms. Yep, he doesn't use any of those fancy wrapper condoms... unless he saves those for the Cholas and Rosie Perez look-alikes.
• Changing positions often and feeling like Troy from Crooklyn when she had that dream about sniffing glue. I was floating through the air while the room moved around me. No bueno.

That pretty much sums up the non-experienced teenage like sex which ended with me having my head in a trash can after my final threat to puke. I still didn't puke and ended up going to sleep.

The morning after: Butt ass naked, I wake up and run to the bathroom where I kneel over the toilet and grab it like I'm about to make love to it for the last time. Rock walks over and tells me to throw up. Of course... I don't. I get back in the bed and he leaves to find me water and breakfast. After some time, the best husband in the world returns with a big ass waffle and a bottle of water which I'm sure cost him more than he should've paid.

We got dressed and checked out of the hotel before getting a cab. I gave him a hug and a kiss, got in my cab and 5 minutes later opened the cab door and threw up. It was THE best vomit ever. I felt like i had just gotten head by a human rattlesnake while gumdrops and raindrops fell on my head. Shit was superb.

On my bus ride home things started to get clearer and a feeling of failure came over me. I felt bad and not because I just had what felt like 18 gallons of "drank" trapped in my system but I felt like I didn't rep for all of the black girls that get traded for the Peeta Ricans and border jumpers. That night was for the Tamikas and ShaQuans that Kobe skeeted on before marrying Vanessa. This was for all of the black baby mamas of pro athletes with J-Lo lookalike wives. I started questioning the authenticity of my vagina and head game. Were the blogs I write about me being a sex goddess all bullshit? I admit I cant sext and I don't masturbate, but was I capable of bad sex? Would Rock think I was a bad "lay"? Did I care what he thought? Not really because he did questionable shit but it was the principle. I take pride in being able to make a mans eyes roll in the back of his head like he's Rick Ross on a plane. I enjoy popping my collar after a night of heavy breathing and leg spreading and I just didn't feel like I gave him the Khaki Experience. It was like he paid for a Michael Jackson concert and only got "the brothers" or he expected Cirque Du Soleil and got the Universoul Circus with Uncle Tyrone shucking and jiving with a Rottweiler dressed as a lion to Frankie Beverly and Maze's Before I Let Go. This was my "See what you missing fucking with them Ez's?" moment and I failed miserably.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

STOP THE RECORD! What am I talking about? Rock did get the Khaki Experience-- sloppy toppy, drunk doggy style and all. I'm unpredictable... and memorable. Thats is THE Khaki Experience.  

So ladies and gents there you have it, my admission to doing Crack. It was the first and last time I will ever do a fellow blogger unless you're Nightfall, NC17 minus the girlfriend or Simone Dior minus the vagina.  I have no regrets and I would do it again but someone went back to Peetas.

Questions? Comments? Drop em down low.

OH... and YALL better stop rushing me to post  :-)

aaaaaaaaaand I hate blogger for being assholes and not posting all of my pics.

NABCAS Presents True Life: I Did Crack

Due to random and not-so-random people visiting my blog,  some details of this post was changed to protect the reputation of individuals mentioned.

It was a long (maybe) time ago and doing Crack was not planned. Everybody told me I should try it...and you know how peer pressure is. Never one to back down from pressure, i did it. I did CrackRock.

Right next to my love for Converses and those fat ass burritos from Chipotle there’s a really, really small almost doesn’t exist space that holds my love for blog hubby, Sir Rock-A-Lot. He’s the oodle to my noodle, the Section to my 8 and the apple to my bottom. He’s Rick James and Im Teena Marie. We’re like this :crosses fingers: Definition of Black Love.

So what happens when you put all of that Fire and Desire in a hotel room after a night of drinking and pants rubbing???  I can barely remember it so I’ll try my best to recapture the night I did Crack or as yall know him- Rock. Like every story that involves trollopfication and blog fornication, there will be 3 parts. My story (which is probably the most truthful that someone who was drunk and cant remember how i got home from the bus station can get), his story (the most accurate without the details that admits he did the unthinkable) and the story we don't want our family or children reading.

It was some months ago and I was visiting friends in… uhhhhh York, New so I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to meet up with my nappyheaded love for some marital bonding. I know you guys don’t care about what I did before Rock showed up to my room so I’ll skip the boring details of shopping and eating overpriced Olive Garden food.

Approximately 4 hours had went by when I got the phone call from the front desk telling me that there was a suspicious young black man with an incorrectly spelled white name attempting to pick up a key to my room. After confirming that Rock wasn’t a drug dealer or DVD bootlegger hustling the Kevin Hart movie, the concierge (that’s fancy talk for front desk. They don’t have those at the RedRoof Inn hoodrats. Step yo hotel game up!) gave him the key but not before collecting his information and alerting the security staff.

So Rock, the confident almost arrogant little troll that he is, opens the door and he walks in like he owns the place or helped pay for the room. My first thought when I saw him: Damn, I should’ve smashed when I saw him in Miami. Smelling like a newborn puppy, was the love of my bloglife with his fresh sharp cornered shape up, health insured smile ,shoulder length dreads, cargo shorts and a pair of 200.00 foamposites or “dopes” as well call them in B-more.

I think we hugged before he pulled out his gift to me. That’s right ladies! My husband knows how to treat a lady. From his hoebag, he pulls out a bottle of wine. Now, before you start Awwww’ing and patting him on his back let me point out that the bottle of wine was the size of a 20 ounce bottle of Pepsi. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve assumed that he got it out of the soda machine but, nonetheless, he bought me wine. Sample sized wine… but wine.

I clown his baby bottle of wine and we end up on the plush king sized bed. I'm wearing my hooker dress that barely passed the bend over test and he couldn’t keep his hands off my khakis. Let me say that the hubby has soft hands… like he either beats off a whole lot or has a thing for lotion… which could mean that he beats off a lot. Regardless, he’s got nice hands and lips (as KingsMomma pointed out later). Anyway, I remind him that I'm about to hit the club with KingsMomma and I’d see him later. I could tell he wanted me... even though Im black. You see- Rock only dates Ez-girls. Hernandez. Fernandez. Sanchez. You get the point. If they dont wear jeans with no back pockets and high heeled jordans, he aint checking for them. My man has got a thing for the Goya. I'm not proud of that but I accept him for who he is. Sellout... and all.

KingsMomma gets to my hotel, they both tell me my dress is short, I take a few pics and we roll out to the club. Two bottles of Rose, about 4 mixed drinks later and a dizzy cab ride later, KingsMomma and I stumble back to the 23^rd floor of my hotel. It's probably about 2 or 3 Am and I walk in to the room and fall onto Rock – who is on the bed listening to my iPod. He’s washed that outdoor puppy smell off of him and is wearing a pair of pajama pants. Let me remind you all again that I’m SLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZARD. Im Charlie Sheen. Im Amy WINEhoused (RIP). Im Ned the Wino drunk. KingsMomma is sitting on the leather ottoman just as drunk.

I tell Rock I missed him and stumble to the bathroom. Peeing with the door open and thongs around my ankles, I hear Rock get out of the bed and walk over to the bathroom and KingsMomma says “let me see yo dick” or "pull out yo dick" or something like that.

Rock says something like “ya’ll are wasted/drunk/plastered/fucked up etc” and tells me that KingsMomma asked to see his dick. Too drunk but not drunk enough for a threesome with two nappyheaded bloggers, I think I told her she had to go. A part of me wanted  him to pull it out so I could see if he had reason to be COCKy but I also couldn’t let Kingsmomma see if I was about to get played or not. Know how embarassing that would be to brag to your friend that you were getting D'd down just to have them see that the dude was working with a Slim Jim?!!?  

Kingsmomma realizes she’s cock blocking and gets up from the ottoman and then before she can stand up straight, she falls. Hard. Rock helps her back up and she leaves to “go home”. Please note: She didn’t actually go home. She told me she was going home but I knew she wasn’t going home… She had the look in her eye. The look that makes babies and gets people herpes.

I think this post is long enough……….. Part 2 coming soon :)

NABCAS Presents True Life: Life Without Shoe Strings

There isn't too much that I wouldn't share with you guys. Ive posted on my inability to sext, my summer romp with a married dude, each time I got caught not fucking and just about every entertaining, embarrassing or funny moment of my life (sorry, there aren't many).

Anyway, while I love being able to brag that I'm so open and honest with you all about my life experiences and teenage fuckery, i have to admit that Ive been keeping a secret about my past. Ready for it....

I. DID.TIME

Yep, I jammed in jail. I swag surfed in the slammer. Poked (ahem) in the Pokie. 

Gimme my hood stripes right now. Didn't know I was a thug, did you? Huh? What? Nigga, I pops the trunk! I go hard in the mufuggin paint. Yaheardme?

Take a journey with me while I give you the juice on my brief stint in prison lockup.

It was a pretty warm Saturday evening in September 2009. After partying it up at a DC nightclub with a few friends, we decided to head back to the car parked on K street in Washington DC. Now, if you're from DC you know that K Street is where all of the trannies, fairies and other mythological gay creatures hang out to sell some Dick Head or Asshole (literally). Now, if you're not from DC and you know that there is an abundance of sex switchers walking around with sales tags on their private parts, then either you're (A) buying the DHA or (B) you're like me in a sense that you like to hang around trannies for entertainment and head giving advice. Please don't judge me; thank me for I pass along those tips to you. Now, there's probably a C but that's pretty much irrelevant since this story isn't about buying dick... or is it?

So, my friends and I walk back to the car and we spot the trannies. Total- there was about 10 of em. There was one with a fishnet one piece on, a ch(d)ick with some metallic pants and a bra top on and several others rocking shit from old Luke and MC Hammer videos. These (br)hoes were Too Legit to Quit. I  said to myself  "Self, i ain't got shit to do. Maybe we should kick it with the trannies tonight. This has to be fun". Mistake 1.

My friends and I agreed that we were bored and the sight of transgendered men with terrible lacefronts on the hoe stroll intrigued the hell out of us. While sipping my root beer, I notice that there seemed to be some sort of dick purchasing routine. "The Checkout".  Don't ask my why but I was highly entertained by the dickcheckout that went something like this:

All the trannies are standing on each side of the street in a circle of lust
Car pulls up and rolls down window
Trannies look at each other and whoever is up walks to vehicle
After some "business talk" tranny holds up a finger and hops in vehicle
I bust out laughing

That's pretty much how the next 20 minutes went. If you don't see the entertainment in that then.... kill yourself and start a new life with a good sense of humor because that shit is funny!

That scenario happened about 3 times before a bunch of drunk dudes and girls walked past the tranny circle of lust. I have no idea what was said to the trannies but I know shit.got.real.

I remember the Tracy Morganish ch(d)ick started cussing and talking about stabbing folks up. I remember someone jumping on someone else. Vaguely remember a few "faggots" being said, then a couple hundred "bitch" words being said and then some other code words for dick, fuck, and kill. Next thing I know, someone screamed and i realized that this wasn't just a FagFight. Shit was going down and I was apart of it. Thrilling!

A few seconds later, I'm standing there damn near by myself still sipping my root beer and see a bunch of blue and red lights. I look for my friends. Gone! Bastards had bounced on me. Laughing at the fuckery, I hadn't even noticed that the police had me and the remaining trannies surrounded. It was too late- I'd been busted.

There were about 8 police officers and 2 of them were female. One of them comes to me and snatches my root beer out of my hand. Now, this is the part when I realized I'm not as hood as I'd like to believe. I always thought because I grew up in a "hood" that I was automatically privy to "hoodshit". Hoodcards were given to anyone in my zip code, no? I thought I could do "hoodshit" and make it believable. The problem with that was all of that shit I thought about being hood and getting locked up was inaccurate. I was actually the white chick that threatens the police on an episode of Cops. Yeah,  so, I watch too much t.v

"Fuck you do that for? I was drinking that!" (Mistake 2), I politely ignorantly asked the policewoman who was now holding my root beer.
"Put your hands in front of you!", the other officer demanded.

"For what? Shit, i wasn't doing anything but walking to my car from the club. I'm not doing shit til you tell me..." (Mistake 3)

The policewoman with the old school Halle Berry/Different World Kimberly Reese mushroom haircut yells "Shut the fuck up and hold your hands in front of you!" The bitch then pours out my drink.... in slow motion. I felt like she was saying "Fuck yo drank bitch!"

So, you know ya girl went hard, right? Wasn't nooooooo bitch going to punk me! I studied law. I know my rights. Shit, I watch First 48 and Law &Order faith.ful.ly.  FUCK THE POLICE!!!!

Reality: Sooooo I shat the fuck up while they tossed my ass in a paddywagon with a bunch of hoodrats and  sweaty trannies covered in glitter and a mixture of baby phat perfume and KY Jelly. As the paddywagon pulled away, a slow tear ran down my cheek. Frustrated that I couldnt even wipe it without using both hands, I cried even harder. I thought to myself:  "This must be what a 6 pack of soda cans feel like.". Confined with plastic hand cuffs, I sat there shocked while the trannies and random folk laughed at me for my blatant display of bitchassness.  

After what seemed like a 3 hour trip,we pull up to the police station. I'm taken out of the paddywagon and into the processing area of the jail. I'm being told that I was brought in for questioning on an attempted murder and possible charges for resisting arrest. Possible charges for resisting arrest?!?!? Did I resist arrest? No. Kinda. Possibly. Maybe. I probably did.

Now, I hear murder and I start asking for my phone call, a lawyer, my pastor, the NAACP, my grandmother, my next door neighbor, my address for letters, my commissary number, my greendot card etc. I was giving them my best jail talk.  

They take off the plastic "cuffs", ask me for my ID, take my shoe strings from my mid thigh high boots and sit my ass in a holding cell with the rest of DC's Friday night scum.

As soon as I walked in with my arms together I was greeted with a smell of death. I'll always remember the strong odor-  It was a potion of "What the Fuck?".

Recipe for "What the Fuck?": Mix a little crackhead with a teaspoon of homeless, add a pinch of 4 week old vagina, sprinkle in a little morning breath, add a 1/2 cup of asshole, 4 ounces of garbage juice, a tablespoon of piss, 3 cups of diarrhea, bake it for 30 mins at 350 degrees and, Voila, you have the scent of my holding cell.

There were hookers, crackheads, drunk bitches... basically a plethora of all the shit A&E makes reality shows out of. I felt like i was on an episode of LockUp or Scared Straight. Why? Well, because I was locked up and scared straight. As I always do when shit gets too real for me, I started humming spirituals. Sung a little "Silver and Gold" and then i figured it was a good time to hit up my old friend. So, I called God collect and told him I was going to change. I promised to pay all my debt and do a bunch of shit that I knew I wasn't going to do. Look, whatever I had to say to not become Dykisha's bitch was being said. God knows I sometimes lie to get out of shit. He knows his child- well.

Hours 30 minutes or so go by and I ask an officer when I'm going to be questioned and when I can go home. She laughs at me and tells me to "Chill out. Your time is coming up".

"Well, whats my bail?"
"You don't have a bail and you aren't being charged with anything".
"Oh, well, can I call my mother?"
"No."
"Is this a black thing?"
"Well, yes, it is.", she laughs as she walks away.

Feeling bitched again, I go back to my corner and cry. Not just the silent thug tears. The Smokey on Friday cry. The snot running down my face and my lip catching it cry.

Of course, someone had to sit next to me to school me on the ins and out.... so after a 2 hour 10 minute conversation with a religious junkie about the bible and the power of pussy, the officer came and escorted me to a room that Ive seen on every cop show: The Questioning Room.

"Hi Miss La'Docker. Do you know why you're here?", the officer asked.
"No. They said something about attempted murder.", I mumbled as I felt that brick in my throat alerting me that i was about to start crying like a bitch again.
"Oh, ok. Well do you know what happened tonight?"
"No. I was just hanging with the trannies to ask questions about fellating and then that lady locked me up."
Officer Douchebag laughs and tells me he'll be right back as someone knocks on the door.

A whole hour 5 minutes go by and he says the words I've been waiting for all night: "Let's go get your stuff so that you can leave". Im convinced that they were fucking with me the whole night. Sick bastards.

Boots flopping, I damn near ran to officer and jumped in his arms. We walk to the processing clerk to get my belongings and the lady hands me a plastic bag with all of my shit minus..... my fucking boot strings.

Irritated, I yell "Yo, where the fuck are my shoe strings?". (almost mistake 4)

She tells me she doesn't know and something about shift changes.

"Man, how am I supposed to walk with my boots flopping like this?", I ask.
The officer goes over to the clerk and says something to her and she walked to the back office.
Standing there with the "bitch, he told you" face, I see the clerk come back with something in her hands.
Shoe strings. White shoe strings. White Air Force 1ish shoe strings. I look at my black leather mid thigh -high boots, then look back at the shoe strings, then back to my boot. One of these things is not like the other...


Ohhhhhhhhh heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllll tooooooooooooooo ttttttttttttthhhheeeeeee NAWL

Reality: So, I took the shoe strings and laced the first 5 holes up and walked outside to where my friends were sitting in the car waiting for me.

I give myself the "bitch, act tough" speech and get into the car. I slam the door and throw a mean mug. You know... one of those looks like you just did some shit that would earn your respect. Yeah, that look.

Friend #1: Yo, where the fuck are your shoe strings?
Me: Bitch wanted the business so I choked her ass out with my shoe strings and they gave me these. Real bitches do real shit, ya feel me?!?!?

Reality: I cried all the way home and tossed my useless boots in the trash.

I kept the shoe strings tho. Lesson learned...

Oh yeah i had pics but Blogger on that bullshit.

How to Not Get Stabbed in the Throat: A Womans Guide to Avoiding Ignant Niggas

Ms. Eyes on the Prize asked a very good question in the comments section of the last post: " So WTF are we supposed to do?". Walk away? No, then he'll shoot you in the knees or call you a dumb bitch before spitting on you. Cuss him out? Absolutely not! The hoodlum would probably stab you in the throat with a rat tail comb and no one wants to be stabbed in the throat.



As the Mr. said previously, there is nothing wrong with a guy approaching you or "trying to holla". However, we aren't talking about the respectful regular guys that can take "no" for an answer. Today, we're going to go over some safety tips and rebuttals for those 78 degrees and over Ignant Niggas. Take out your notepad... or copy, paste and send this as a chain letter to all of your girlfriends. We're trying to save lives.

If you ever find yourself about to become a possible victim of hollarassment remember this word

I.G.N.A.N.T

I: Ignore- Novice I.N : This one is tricky and it takes time and practice to become a pro at nicely ignoring someone. The last thing you want to do is come off as a bougie bitch by looking at the I.N's then ignoring them. ironically, they don't like to be disrespected by being disregarded so doing so will usually end up with obscenities and/or violence. Simply put: preoccupy yourself = nicely ignoring. If you see yourself about to encounter an I.N or, worse, a GROUP of I.N's, pull out your cell phone and call somebody. I don't care who it is... call your grandmother, your auntie...shit, call the movie hot line or local carry out. Whatever you do... look busy, seem engaged in your conversation and don't give the I.N's any eye contact. Yeah, you'll feel like an idiot for laughing ridiculously loud at the pre-recorded time but you still have your face intact, now don't you? This will usually get you away from being approached by the novice.


G: Go the other way- Unless you are absolutely, positively stuck go the other way. Avoid, avoid, avoid. As soon as you see any sign of warm weather, put your "Ignant Nigga" radar on and when it starts beeping slowly and letting you know there's imminent danger, go the other way. Now is not the time to "keep it real". You wont look like a bitch by avoiding the thugs selling bootleg DVD's. As long as you look busy on your fake phone call laughing like you've never heard that joke before, they'll just think you changed your mind. Doesn't matter that you're a punk bitch and you cant pay for your gas... you're a punk bitch with no bullet holes and that's all that matters.


N: Nice Smile- Intermediate I.N's: There will come a time when you're caught off guard by an Intermediate Ignant Nigga. You wont be able to phone a friend, pick a clue or ask the audience... no lifelines just you and the Ignant Nigga. One of these times will be in the club- where the Ignant Niggas seem to be in sporadic clusters everywhere. They're unavoidable so if, and when, you get approached by one... give them a nice smile and go on about your business. Smile should be just enough to let them know that you recognize them--- 6 teeth maximum. Too little of a smile and you'll seem scared which you probably are BUT I.N's live off of fear so show no signs of fear. Remember 6 teeth only. Go head and be brave and show all your fronts, and then when you deny them, end up with none. if they see more than the 6, they see pussy. Don't question me. Head tilt- OK but body language should still speak "I'm just trying to be nice and not get robbed or shot". The Intermediate I.N will catch a hint and realize that there is too much pussy to be chased to worry about yours and will usually walk away defeated but not violent.







A: Acknowledge and Listen: SuperIgnant Niggas- The super Ignant Niggas are not going to read your body language. Most of them cant even read so they will go on with their lame lines, requests for your number and not even notice that you are backing away slowly. More than likely, if they're with their boys, you wont even be able to back away because they'll have you surrounded like pit bulls around kitten. So, do what you have to do... acknowledge him and listen to what he has to say. If he's trying to "holla", take him out of his routine and extend your arm for a handshake. Listen to whatever it is that he's trying to say. Don't blow him off. Plain and simple- be nice but not too nice. Hear him out and go to the next step.


N.No... T. Thank You: After he's offered to take you to the motel or commented on your phat ass, its time for the rebuttal. Don't go getting long-winded with excuses an shit. "i have a man/woman" means nothing to the ignant nigga. He's going to ask you if you can have friends. If youre dumb, youre going to say No and then... the ignance is going to start. I.N's are simple therefore your rebuttal should be the same. If I'm in the club, I'll hit a dude with "Sorry, but Im not here for looking for anyone; just trying to be here for my homegirl who's going through a rough time. Thank you coming over here though" smile, walk away and SAFE. Whatever you say, begin it with some form of "no" and end it with a "thank you". No one is going to hit you with a beer bottle if you're polite. Well, maybe them Wire niggas but you'll never run into them unless you live on the block so you're safe.


and just because I care... here's three more tips for you.


Stop claiming gay unless youre really gay or paid your gay dues: Now, I don't use the "I'm Gay" excuse for two reasons... 1. I'm not gay and gay people work too hard to be gay for me just to claim gayness to avoid unwanted penis. Eh, I got morals an' shit. and 2. Most I.N's don't care. Most of them would invite you and your girl. Then, if you get the Super I.N's, you could end up like the ending of Women of Brewster's Place with some thug trying to change your sexuality with forceful penis. No, maam - I'm good. I would say that if you can pull it off, go for it.


Turn the music up: I fucking hate red lights for this reason: I.N's will disrupt your traveling to say something ignant to you and you cant do shit without getting a 75.00 red light ticket. Two options: pace your slow down to avoid coming up side to side with them or turn your music up loud enough to drown them out. The key is to see them before they see you and already have your music up so you wont seem like you're trying to ignore them. Remember, politely ignoring = no stitches. I've heard of niggas throwing piss filled bottles into a chicks car so don't think because you can speed off you wont be disrespected.

Giving out wrong numbers is old school: I.N's have gotten hip to the whole "give a nigga the wrong number"play. They'll ask you to call their phone so they can store you or they'll dial your shit while you stand there. Now try walking back to your car after you just lied to an ignant nigga. Best bet is to not give in. Now, if you feel like this mufucka isnt going to budge and you fear for your life, go ahead and give him your number but make sure you take his so you know when to not pick up. If he's pressed and calls you from a different number, you can always hang up or stop answering. I wouldnt do that to someone that you may run into frequently though.

This is an excerpt from the higly anticipated best seller "A Womans Guide to Avoiding Ignant Niggas" by Khaki La'Docker. Copies will be on Craigslist for all those interested in the full copy.

Coming to a corner store near you: Khaki's Decoy Kit for Avoiding Ignance.

Part 2: My love for Midgets Was Tested

It was a cold and breezy night... still snow on the ground but i was dying for some shrimp and broccoli from the neighborhood china joint. Almost feigning for the greasy concoction of 2 week old broccoli and Inner Harbor shrimp, I almost forgot that I had to pee and ran into Lucky Express but what happened next changed my entire view of the people that I adored the most... midgets.


I walk to the order counter and ask for an L7 extra spicy. Doing the i-gotta-pee-hurry-the-fuck-up dance, I heard the bell used to alert when someone is entering go off. My already weak bladder was about to explode, I was hungry and didn't even bother to turn around. Feel free to revoke my Black Card for not following the #1 Black Rule for Safety: Never turn your back to the entrance of any establishment.



I receive my change and put it in my pocket and the next thing I know I'm verbally attacked by the human version of the Honey Combs monster.








A ga' damn midget wearing a leather Packers jacket, a Coors beer t-shirt, and his baggy jeans tucked in his wee lil' snow boots ran up on me and screamed "I WANNA GET ME SOME FOOD!". Had my bladder been a little weaker, I would've pissed myself. Frozen, I stood there looking at the wee-man and couldn't say one word.



He yelled again, "Chicken wings! I want chicken wings!". I nervously replied "OK" and backed up away from the hybrid of a person that was now so close that I could smell his breath and see his tartar encrusted tongue.



He ordered 4 wings and french fries and the Asian woman asked for $5.05. He handed her ONE dollar and screamed something that I was sure was some ancient version of Pig Latin. The lady at the counter took the dollar bill with confusion and fear etched all over her face. She wanted her 4.05 but she knew not to fuck with a midget with a bad attitude.


I walked out of the store and tried to take a picture of this angry mythical humanette. I get his picture as he's walking out of the store and I'm thinking "Fuck! He's going to kick my ass and I'm going to end up peeing on myself in this crowded ass shopping center". I lean closer to the glass window and, thankfully, he walks in the opposite direction of me. After breathing a sigh of relief, I run into the store and wait anxiously for my food secretly hoping that the angry dwarf wouldn't come back to harass me anymore.






For the last 19 years, i have been fascinated by little people and here I am getting harassed by a little person. I support midgets and what do I get in return? Being yelled at in Latin by a dwarf with halitosis? Everything I believed in for almost 2 decades was diminished by this one 3 minute encounter. I used to get a warm feeling at the thought of little people. Now, I just sit there clutching my pretend Glock with my trigger happy finger ready to blast one of em like a midget version game of Duck Hunt. It may sound mean but I was viciously attacked my a fucking midget! Well- maybe not attacked and maybe not viciously but you know what I mean. I felt like someone told me there was no Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus or Easter Rabbit.


I don't know how I feel about "them" anymore. I'm still getting over this traumatizing event.

My Love for Midgets Was Tested- Part 1

Disclaimer: Please note that I am not trying to offend anyone and this is merely my point of view and my feelings. If you're a little person, I'm sorry but... Im not. Uhm, I am in no way trying to be hurtful... but this is my blog. Read on...

If you're a friend, family member, frequent reader of this blog or if you've ever met me, you should already know that I have a fascination almost borderline obsession with little people.

Before you either laugh and think I'm bullshitting you or give me the side eye and call me an ignorant bitch, please note that I have always kept it 100 with all of you and I am very aware that this is a bit strange and I know Im a bitch.

I digress-

Last night, my love for midgets was tested and it made me question what everyone else has asked for years-"What's up with you and midgets?".

I went back to my childhood... and a very vivid memory was resurrected. I was about 5 or so and I was watching a dubbed-version of I'm Gonna Get You Sucka. Of course, I was supposed to be fast asleep with my little brother laying next to me but I couldn't help but be drawn into this movie with a lot of cussing, that dude from In Living Color, and a bald head woman with missing limbs named Cherry.

After sneakily watching the movie with my mother who didn't know I was awake came a scene that changed my damn life. More than halfway through the movie, Jack Spade, John Slade, Kung Fu Joe, Slammer and Hammer all attempt to take down Mr. Big by fucking up one of his spots "The Big Hat Club". Following me? Good.

So, they're surrounding all these gangster dudes with big hats on and from one of the hat emerges a hand holding a gun. These mufuckas had midgets hiding in these big ass pimp hats and holding guns. So out comes this little dude, Wayne Evans, that used to kick Jack's ass in grade school and they start scrapping. It was the funniest shit I have ever seen in my life. Here I am 5 or 6 years old... half way asleep, watching a movie with a miniature human and I'm shocked. I was amazed by this pocket-sized version of an adult. This little dude is smaller than me but looks like a grown ass man. I had never seen anything like it before and from that moment on I was in love with all people miniature.

After that came the infatuation with Troll dolls which may or not be related to my love for midgets but... it could. Then there were those damn Leprechaun movies that I just had to watch no mater how lame they were. If a movie had a midget or little person, I was glued to the tube.

I watch midget wrestling- midget bowling- midget porn ... all things miniature. Sounding like Confessions of a midgetholic?

I'm weird like that but it's OK. I'm a happy person and little people make me happy. I have a picture of midgets playing basketball on the wall in my office; it keeps me from going crazy. I've watched Bad Santa a trillion times just to see my favorite little actor Tony Cox (uhm, i didnt know his name until I decided to write this post- Fail for me).

I wish I had a little friend that can walk around the mall with me and I'd introduce her as "My Midget" and she'd call me "My Bigget". She'd be a Goon with a doo-rag and gold teeth like Midget Mac and she'd rap. If they weren't real people that required care and special attention like puppies and human trafficking weren't illegal, I'd probably rent me a midget. Just to hang out and do shit with.

I have a distant cousin who's a little person but I don't fuck with her. She's a little bitch with a short fuse <---- get it. *crickets* Seriously, Shortie- as she is affectionately called- got a mean chip on her shoulder. Real diva with a stank ass attitude and i promise if I ever saw her again, I'd glue her fingers together or hide all of her "Grabbers".

Sooooo this post has gone a little off track and has become super long so I'll end it now and promise to follow up with a Part 2 for those that didn't get offended and un-followed me. Fuck it, this is real life.

Confessional Monday on Friday

So... no bullshit... I keep saying Im going to blog and, to be quite honest, I really have meant to. I have shit on my mind but things just keep coming up. My homie/sister/co-worker was laid off of my job so I'm the only one in my office now and work has to be done... thus, causing the lack of blogs since I cant sit here and bullshit all day.

Anyway... here's a quick one.

I loved Michael Jackson as a kid. I wanted to dance like him... kinda looked like him (don't judge me), wanted to dress like him (continue the non-judging). MJ was the fucking King in my book. Anyway, one day me and my little brother was watching the old Moonwalker movie on VHS and I decided that I wanted to lean like dude in the Smooth Criminal video

.

So, I convince my little brother to safety pin his robe belt to my tank top and hold me while i leaned. We gather some safety pins and he takes his blue robe belt and attaches it to my tank top. The video is on... we're watching it... enjoying it... and waiting for the part.

Dance sequence comes on... I'm into it and he grabs the robe to help me lean and... wait for it... I'm leaning... wait for it... I'm leaning a little more... wait for it....

*Boom* I fall into the fucking coffee table and crack my damn head. My brother busts out in laughter while I'm rolling on the floor saying "that's not what was supposed to happen" and crying like a little Bi-Atch.

My mother came home and asked what happened and we both lied and said I fell off my bike. We weren't supposed to be in the living room watching Moonwalker and we had meddled in her sewing drawer which was off-limits so we had no choice. Whats even worse is that I had to walk around school with this big ass homemade bandage to cover up my bruised and gashed forehead.

Moral of the story: You aint Michael Jackson and gravity is real.

True shit.

P.S not all of my confessions revolve around me dancing or embarrassing myself... but a lot of them do. ;)

Confessional Monday

I was about 13 years old and was spending the entire summer with my cousin Dee. We were watching music videos and Hot Boyz "I need a Hot Girl"video came on with all the girls booty shaking and washing cars an' shit. Anyway, I went upstairs to get something out of her room and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and without thinking starting booty dancing in the mirror. You know the booty dance, right? Hand on knees and popping booty. So, I'm hiking up my shorts and dropping it likes its hot like I'm one of the girls in the video when i hear a familiar voice say while laughing"What the hell are you doing... looking hoochie as hell. Girl, Imma tell your mother". Then he called his girlfriend (my cousin/Dee's mom) and my aunt into the room to tell them about my impromptu performance.

My cousin's step dad was in the room laying down under the covers the WHOLE TIME and I hadn't even noticed that he was in there. It looked like a pile of clothes or blankets jumbled on the bed so I didn't pay it any attention. Needless to say, I was soooooo embarrassed that I just went downstairs and tried to avoid him for weeks. Of course, being the obnoxious asshole that he is, he made sure to make fun of me for the rest of the summer and tell all the neighborhood boys that came by to visit that i liked to dance. Did I mention that I hate him?

I don't think I ever told anyone that... *hangs head in shame*

True Shit.

Dawn, Hot Water, No Plunger?!?!?!?!?

Fun fact of the day: DID YOU KNOW...that if you are :ahem: constipated... and end up having to take something like... :ahem:... Milk of Magnesia... that a few hours later... you may end up in your friends bathroom... saying a silent prayer while everything in your digestive track suddenly gushes out of you and splashes in the toilet causing a ricocheting effect... and finally a clogged toilet... that dishwashing liquid such as Dawn and a pot of almost boiled water will unclog the drain?

Well, its true and I'm not telling how I know. Just know that the Google feature on the G1 is very informative and a damn savior at 2AM.

End of Days: High-heeled Sneakers

They had their run in the early nineties with the canvas chunky heeled, squared toe style and then re-vamped around 2000 in the style of Air Force Ones. Almost ten years later, the high-heeled sneaker has re-emerged in the style of the classic sneaker... the Air Jordan.

I SWEAR on all things good in life that I hate, yes HATE, the high-heeled sneaker. These are the "hoodrats" of footwear and there is nothing cute, sexy, stylish, classy or fashionable about them yet they seem to make their way back to the streets every 10 years or so.

My deep hatred comes from an experience about 10 years ago. It was 1999 and I was beginning my freshman year at Western High School. After years of being a borderline chubby tomboy, wearing baggy khaki's and polo-styled shoes (it was my uniform), the summer after graduating middle school had changed me into this new found hottie with a new body. Ya know how you go on summer vacation as an awkward teen and come back finer than silk?

Anyway, my grandmother was never one to shop or buy anything for us so when she called me and asked what I wanted her to buy me for school, I was happy-yet pessimistic- about requesting a pair of shoes in a size 8 1/2. A week later, I received a package from her that I was sure would be some Reebok classics or flat Mary Jane's that were hot that year (don't front like you didn't wear them with crazy socks). Instead- I pulled out some high-heeled, double strapped, white, soft 'leather-like" sneakers that resembled Air Force Ones. My Uncle K had convinced me to wear them stating that "grandma was really excited about purchasing them for me" and i should wear them to appease her. I listened to my uncle and... well, i wish i hadn't.

I started my first day at Western, an all-girl high school with the most uppity bitches Baltimore had to offer, rocking my jean skirt, jean jacket, white shirt with silver lame roses on it and... them wack ass high heeled, no- name Rainbow sneakers and striped crazy socks. Not gonna lie- I thought I was the shit! You couldn't tell me I wasn't hot shit.

Well, you couldn't but the upper classmen of Western did. All day long I heard snickers and saw the looks as I pranced around the halls in my hoodrat sneakers. It wasn't until I went to the Quad- an outdoor lounge area where Poly and Western would eat lunch- during lunch time that I realized that the looks and snickers wasn't because they thought I was hot; it was because I had made a huge mistake wearing the damn shoes.

Some flamboyant knock-off Uncle K made a statement about my fashion faux-pas that wilted my inner flower. "Who is gonna tell her that she look a hot fucking mess with that wack ass shoes, yo? Damn, you can tell freshman!"The group laughed as I walked back into the building with my head held high stomping like I was Naomi Campbell in a high-end fashion show. I found the nearest girls bathroom and balled up in the first stall and cried to high heavens. I was so damn embarrassed. I went home and chucked them ugly ass shoes right in the trash.

Ever since then, I have despised all things high-heeled that shouldn't be- including, them high heeled Timberlands that Manolo Blahnik and Beyonce had everyone wearing and re-producing.

*sigh* I took me a long time to get over that traumatizing first day but I learned a very valuable lesson NEVER ASK MY GRANDMA TO BUY ME ANYTHING AGAIN!!

In all honesty... Honest Scrap Award

and the award for honest scrap goes to Ms. Khaki LaDocker over at Not All Baltimore Chicks Are Stupid.

Blog crowd stands and applauds.

*raises award and wipes lonely tear* Oh my god... I cant believe it. I never thought in a million years that I would be the recipient of this award even though I received one a few months ago. Imma keep this real short before Kanye comes up here and interrupts my speech n shit. Anyway, I would first like to thank Reesey Cup for always sending me awards and giving my something to blog about. Lastly, I just wanna thank erebody out there who supports my idiotic views, sarcasm and constant bitchiness. **

The rest of this blog has been moved to ALL THE SHIT I WANT PRIVATE blog.

Why I Love ...

So-I just wrote that post about me losing my virginity and why i lost my virginity... etc and then I realized that i actually discovered why i love peen so much a little while back. I would call it an obsession but uhm... nah.

The rest of this post was moved to my other blog ALL THE SHIT I WANT PRIVATE