BLACK PANTHER PROBLEM

I was talking to my Brother-in-Law, Huey Newton III, yesterday.  He is having problems with his wife (my sister).  He said to me “Rusty, man, I need yo’ help wit dis bitch rite he’re.”  Well, hold on a second…let’s rewind a bit and get some perspective.  You see, Musty, my older sister, and Huey met at a New Black Panther Party rally in Oakland, California in September of 1995.  Huey is let’s say…not very tolerant of the fact that I’m white.  I keep trying to tell him that the name Shrew is, from what my mom told me, a Ugandan name, straight out of Africa, and that my family carries a rare albino genetic code that makes us all just LOOK Caucasian; but he doesn’t want to hear it.  So be it.  He insists that whenever I talk to him I speak to him in Ebonics, not because that is the only language he understands, he actually has a PhD. in linguistics; he just thinks Ebonics was a ridiculous segregationist technique created by the white man and that since I am a ridiculous white man that I should be forced to speak it.  That’s fine with me; when in Rome right?  So, therefore, I just adjust my vernacular when I’m around him, just as you would switch to Français when in Paris.  Musty is, of course, fluent in Ebonics, and is much more versed in the enunciation and inflection of the Ebonic vernacular than I am.  I’m working on it though.  Now that you have some background on Huey, let’s get back to his dilemma:

[ME] “So wuss yo beef wit Musty, cuz?”

[HUEY] “Bruh, lemme tell u bout dis heffa! I go tuh fuk dis bitch lass night, right? She gon tell me “My pussy hurts from da lass time we had sex”, I say, WHU!? Fuck dat shit!

[ME] “For real dog? Damn, wuz she sore or some shit from yo black mamba?”

[HUEY]  ”Nah, Homey, I get ta talkin’ to dis bitch and she tell me, after like 30 minutes or some shit, that it ain’t da pussy that hurts, it’s that she ain’t in da mood.”

[ME] “WHU! Bitch betta recognize!”

[HUEY]  “Dog, I wuz mad as hell, and I said, whut chu NEED tah do, is wash dat stank as pussy! Dat shit smell  like a ferret’s dick, girl! Dats problee why yo punk ass daddy named yo ass Musty!”

[ME] “Oh shit son! Den whut?”

[HUEY]  “Bruh, dis bitch dun pulled a gat out on mah ass!  She said “You evah say some shit like dat again, and I’ll blow yo muh fuckin’ dick, right duh fuck off!”  Yo! I wuz like, Oh SHIT dis skeezy is for real!

[ME] “Dat shit’s legit homey!  So, whutchu gon du now?”

[HUEY]  “I’m gon apologize to mah boo.  She don’t need shit like dat comin’ from her man.  I bought some flowers and candy and shit, cause bitches love flowers and candy and shit, you know what I’m sayin’ Dog?”

[ME] “True dat.”

[HUEY]  “A’ight bruh, I appreciate you lettin’ me holla at chu.  Peace out.”

[ME] “A’ight homey.”

Now that wasn’t so bad was it?  Nothing but a simple little misunderstanding between a married couple.  It happens to us all.  The point is that we learn to understand and listen to what our partner is trying to say and respect THEIR point of view as well.   Peace out, Homey.

LIFEGUARD HIERARCHY

When it comes to lifeguards in this world, I have found that there is a hierarchy.  You have the Baywatch California lifeguards who are hand selected, go through rigorous testing, and are professional and vigilant.  Then you go down the food chain a little bit to the YMCA pool lifeguard who is still fairly professional, requires a good swimming ability, is semiannually tested in basic water safety as well as CPR and basic life saving of some sort.  After that is the local neighborhood outdoor pool lifeguard.  This may be an actual full time employee position or just a local high school/ college kid summer job.  Minimal training in basic CPR and pseudo swimming ability is all that is really required.  They may or may not be in the best of shape, as this is not a primary job of theirs, and professionalism is dependent on their (GAFF) “Give A Fuck Factor”.   If they GAF then that’s good; if they don’t GAF, who’s gonna call them on it? 

Then you have THIS GUY…. whom I noticed today.  This is the bottom feeder; the tape worm; the primordial ooze of the lifeguard hierarchy.  The Motel outdoor pool lifeguard.  This guy was a real winner.  I saw him and had to stop my car, pull over, roll down the window, turn off the radio and devote my full attention to understand him.  He was magnificent.  Overly tanned, good sized gut but not necessarily fat just, portly, I guess is a good word.  He had “taught fat”.  If you don’t know what that is, then next time you’re naked in front of the mirror jump up and down; anything that flops like a pancake or keeps jiggling when you stop is NOT taught fat.  Taught fat feels and acts like the hard casing on a Honey Ham; its fat just not flabby fat.  Anyways, you fuckers got me on a tangent explaining taught fat; back to the Motel Pool lifeguard.   So, standard red lifeguard shorts, he ACTUALLY had the white sun tan lotion just on the nose (I shit you not), and he was sifting the dead leaves, bugs, cats, and other foreign objects out of the 15 FT by 8 FT pool with that netted pole sifter thing.  Now this is at 1130 in the morning on a Sunday.  No one’s gonna be in that fucking pool, guy!  Who are you planning on guarding that a sign that says “No life guard on duty, be careful” couldn’t take care of?  No one is the answer.  He was sifting that pool for himself, to quench his honey ham gut after a long afternoon of getting even more unnecessarily tanned.   This guy had the most meaningless of the lifeguard species’ jobs.  Was he gonna watch anybody; save anybody's life; keep someone from drowning in the 3 feet of motel pool water?  What can I say…  I was in awe of the bronzed Buddha, so, of course, I immediately reserved next weekend at that Motel  and will soon enough get to experience the uniqueness of this guy, myself; this lowest life form on the aquatic life savers totem pole….the Motel pool lifeguard.

AMAZONIAN ASS HAIR ON ARBOR DAY

I have found that in order to trim ass crack hair, and ladies don’t look at me obtusely like you don’t do it too, I have to perform a complex set of maneuvers.  To begin with, I feel that I should be honest with you.  I don’t trim/shave my ass hair very often.  Usually, it’s only for an anniversary or a Bar Mitzvah (I’m not Jewish, but why not, it’s an excuse) or because it’s Arbor Day (I’m environmentally conscious).  So anyways, you can’t just shove a Schick Quattro up your ass crack and expect magic.  You may get the tree tops of the Amazon but you won’t even be close to clearing the forest and kicking out the Natives to make room for your condominiums unless you get creative.

 I find that climbing completely onto the sink top itself, turning around, and facing my ass towards the mirror is the best approach.  I can then begin to bend over at this point.  You must, however, be extremely careful as you are top heavy and slightly off balance on that thin sink rim.  You can easily topple right off the sink and go through the bathroom door.  I managed to do this last Arbor Day and ended up smashing through the door like the Kool-Aid Man “OH YEAH!”, and knocking myself unconscious with my Quattro imbedded in my left ass cheek.  It was quite embarrassing, as my whole GREEN ECO-FIGHTERS CLUB group was there at the time having tea and strumpets before a rally on a local non-recycling 7-Eleven.  Needless to say, I was barred from the group as they found out that I was not full time Au Natural in the butt crack department….a lot of Oregonians and Northern Californians in that group.

 So, back to ass crack hair… you’re bent over looking at your pucker pipe from between your legs.  You then cock one leg up on the towel rack and begin to take on the briar patch.  Get it all, might as well, get the dingle berries, the taint trap, and the chocolate valley….hell, and even get those little strays that linger around the starfish.   When you’re done you’ll have a back end that’s as smooth as shark’s skin and will be the envy of all your friends.