Monday, November 12, 2012

I remembered my MySpace password!

Horray! I remembered my myspace password! I copied and pasted some of my blog entries.

March 29, 2006
Children are heathens.  Born and Bred, plain and simple.  Yes even your child(ren) reader. Leave them alone with something you told them not to touch/eat/play with and see what happens when your back is turned (while trying to provide a home and food to eat no less!).  I am a school bus driver[ I got fired from this job a month later for "attendance policy violation" due to calling in exhausted from working nights at the Jail]-- hey stop snickering, it pays tuition and it beats stripping. Apparently 11 yr olds these days aren't just interested in the latest Barbie doll or G.I. Joe "action figure*"(* Dolls for boys who is Mattel trying to fool?) they're also interested in their school bus driver's sex life. I will explain.
 A pair of twins ride my bus, since they're minors I'll protect their identity, I'll call them Heathen1 and Heathen2.  Heathens 1&2 are fraternal twins a boy and a girl somehow through the magic of genetics/God's sense of humor Heathen1 (a boy) sounds a lot like LaToya Jackson, and Heathen2 (a girl) sounds like late Jazz great Louie Armstrong.  Like most twins there's a special relationship they share because unlike one being evil or one being smarter than the other. Heathen1 is more sane than Heathen2 and thus is her handler; in other words, he's her filter. She asks him questions first, and he decides whether or not they're appropriate for asking.  But alas, sometimes Heathen2 cannot control her insanity for it swells like gasses in a corpse and needs instant release and thus went the following sceneario:
Heathen2: Ms. Nia, can I ask you a personal question? (Heathen1 quickly turns in the direction of Heathen2 and raises an eyebrow as if to say "You have to ask ME first!")
Me: *sigh* No.
Heathen2: Welllllllllllllllllllllllll.  I'ma ask ya anyway. Have you ever slept with a Man? How many? And....what did it feel like?
3-4min later
Me: Girl...WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! Heathen1 I thought you had this under control dude! We had a deal!
Heathen1: Sorry! I gave her the look but she kept talking!
Heathen1: Yeah, but you don't ask about people's sex lives Heathen2! Especially Ms. Nia! I mean, come on Ms. Nia having sex? (Heathen1 throws his smaller than average head back in a fit of laughter, once it subsides he lowers his smaller than average head) Sorry Ms. Nia, I didn't mean that.
Me: It's cool.  Just don't let it happen again.
note: I couldn't really get mad, I mean it's not like I am having sex. I was just more pissed off at the fact that a kid could pick up on that.

September 22, 2006
I work at a jail. Getting hit on by inmates is just an occupational hazard, but a recent incident occured I just HAD to share.  Apparently there's a hot new trend amongst the unemployed with pending traffic tickets: Go to jail and work them off as a Trusty (pronounced trust-ee. hehe when you bring them up on the floors to work, you scream out "Trustys!" But I like to say "Trusteez-nuts"!!! Oh, come on, that's funny and you know it!). Long story short, I come in to work and there's a Trusty sitting on the bench outside the clinic waiting for me to take him up on the elevator. He smiled at me and  his lips cracked. and began. to. bleed. My night went downhill from there.
Trusty: I like yo dreads. They real nice, how long you had em like dat?
Me: Awhile.
T: You look like you into soul music, like Angie Stone. You like Angie Stone. (people this was not a question, it was a declarative STATEMENT)
T: I said...
M: I heard what you said man, stop fucking talking to me and board the elevator...and face the back.
T: I know ya'll aint allowed to git wit the inmates but I git out tonight. Maybe you and me could listen to a symphony ya know like dat Jill Scott song.
M: [eyeroll]
I decided to do a lil research on my admirer and found out that he's:
Homeless, arrested for possesion of crack cocaine, and HIV positive.  About an hour ago, I swear I saw the same dude in the library, CHECKING HIS MYSPACE PAGE!!  Fucked up ain't it?

 Feb 3, 2008
The following is an open letter to Ms. Alicia J. Aguello-Cook BKA;Alicia Keys
Ms. Keys,
I am Nia De-Bose, a female American citizen who falls within J Records/ Sony BMG Music Entertainment, Inc.'s target demo of 18-34 year old  Blacks and Hispanics. Firstly, I'd like to congratulate you on your record breaking event of the longest running consecuative singles of 16 weeks. Bringing your total residence atop the Billboard 100 to 38 weeks. Good job. With that being said, are you aware that your song "No One" has been played an average of 7,000 times per day?  Are you aware that your singles are played on multiple markets? For instance, in an attempt to escape said single, I switched to an "Easy Listening" FM station, and was greeted by sloppy, spitty  mouth-kiss by "No One".  Not one to give up, again I switched to a market touting "Smooth Jazz" and again, there you were. Taunting, teasing, mocking.  7000/day Alicia. That means as you sit at a bay window overlooking Manhattan, filling another notebook with self-reflective and introspective poems replacing the one that you "accidentally" left at your manager's office which will soon become your next album/monologue for your next feature film audtion, someone, somewhere is subjected to your single every 4.85 minutes spanning up to five separate stations.  This is the point where I'm sure you're sitting back, crossing those toned and tanned arms, scoffing while puffing on a Newport (menthol, perhaps?) calling me a hater. No ma'am! Alls I'm saying is; Can you turn it down a little?  Please? That is all.
PS: Oh yeah, one more thing: INDIA. ARIE GOT ROBBED!

August 6, 2008
How many times have you met or worked with someone who took their job way too seriously?  Here's a few tips for the overly enthusiastic Waistaff and Assistant Managers/Middle Men & Women of the world.
1. Accept the fact that your job is disposable.  Bennigan's Grill and Tavern closed all of its corporate-owned locations nationwide after filing for bankruptcy (which isn't surprising, since their food tasted like char broiled foreskin). That amounts to 160 locations, and about 10,000 employees are out of work. And they didn't find out until they showed up for work and the doors were locked.
2. If you haven't been promoted by now...- The old-fashioned way used to be kind of clear cut; show you were a hard worker as soon as you started and you could climb that ladder, resulting in your very own private office with a secretary to bang on your lunch break.  If you've been a Customer Service rep for 6 YEARS just let that pipe dream go, and either start over with another company, accept your fate... or sleep with your boss, but that one holds no guaruntee.
3. You're not getting paid enough to put up with your bullshit-ass job anyway. Nope, I don't want to hear it. You know you agree with me.
4. Don't be a back stabber- NO ONE LIKES A SNITCH!!! It won't get you promoted. The following conversation has never taken place; "Hey, let's promote Debbie.  She tells on EVERYBODY surely she would keep such great tabs on her subordinates she'd NEVER tell on us."  If you tell on fellow co-workers 10 times out of 10 you're gonna keep singing like canary. So knock that shit off.
5.  If you get fired, you can always start over.- You can go back to school, or you can switch careers entirely. So go ahead, tell your boss to suck it from the back!

August 22, 2008
(The following passage is written from the point of view of Salvatore Milano, an Italian tailor in Florence, Italy. FYI: Before you google that name, I MADE IT UP! This is a work of fiction...because it's a blog.)
Salvatore Milano sits near the window of his shop, Su Misura Vestiti adjusting a completed suit on a manequin.  Though the straight pins in his mouth cause his proper Italian words to sound muffled, his loud voice is clear and precise.  His nephew, Rodolpho, translates;
 My uncle says, some want this man, McCain, to be the next leader of America. Hmph, I spit! Ptwf!  His sense of style is a disgrace to the people of America.  He wears, how do you say? Sweater Vests!  And, coats made of...Denim! I would not bury my worst enemy that I murdered with my bare hands in a Denim jacket.  I'm sorry, who?  Repeat his name? Obama?  Sounds Muslim...but he dresses impeccably. For him, ehhhh I would vote. -fin
John McCain has been the perferred candidate in the Boots vs. Suits debate.  Meaning what kind of president do Americans want? A rough and tumble cowboy (Boot) or a slick, well-dressed "fast talker" (Suit)?  Well, how about Old&Cantakerous vs Young& Not Canakerous *sniff*, uh oh! what's that smell? *sniff*  *sniff* I SMELL A BUDDY COMEDY!!  C'mon America, get on board! Trend hopping and profit capitalizing is what we do best!  I give you:
[deep movie announcer voice]  In a world, where public funding, fashion, and foriegn policy collide.  Two men will become candidates...for Friendship!  Will this "Young Wippersnapper" teach this "Old Codger" a thing or two about foriegn oil dependency?
Obama: John McCain? More like PAJAMcCain! Up top Michelle! (slaps hi-five with wife)
Can John McCain put up with the vivacious engergy of this young Democrat...AND the sassy retorts of his potential running mate Hillary Clinton?!
Clinton: I bet you don't even know how many houses you own...WIT YO OLD RICH ASS!
McCain (flustered): Oh, yes I do, umm. 4, no 19? CINNNNNNNDDDDYYY!!
Coming to a polling place near you!
PS: John McCain's new nickname is PajaMcCain, pass it on.

September 19, 2008
I have been without electricity for a week now, courtesy of Hurricaine Ike (insert "What's Love Got to do With It?" quote here) So I go to my buddy-buds John Gard and gl-friend extrodinare Shoshanah's apt, where my life was forever changed for the better. The following shall be in the format of a short story.
She placed her hand over her stomach in the same fashion as an expectant mother. The rumbling had been going on for over an hour now and it seemed there was no relief in sight.  The city wide curfew would take effect in two hours, but the few resturaunts that were open had closed hours earlier due to restricted menus and limited deliveries of fresh meats and produce. 
"Hey Nia, you hungry?" John asked, tossing his flawlessly tossled salt-and-peppered blond locks out of his eyes.  He had a way of making you feel safe, even in the eye of peril.  He and his life partner Shoshanah took me and a few other friends in for the night, offering us libations with lime and Sierra Mist.  This was not unsual, for the pair were great friends and even better hosts, but tonight they would do more than offer me shelter with running water and electricity (& HD cable with South Park episodes saved to DVR).  Tonight John Gard prepared for me, a sammich.

"Yeah, you wanna order a pizza?" I said, with a hint of naivete "I'll put 8 bucks on it."  John answered with a scoff.
"Pizza?  Hmph, I'm gonna make something that's gonna change your life."
"For the better?" I asked.
"For the better." He responded.  I watched as he collected his ingrediants; Chicken Strips, Avocado, Pepper Jack Cheese...I shant reveal the rest.  Fifteen minutes later, he removed the chicken strips from the toaster oven, gingerly placing them atop the botton portion of a whole wheat bun, topping the Skrips with the aforementioned toppings.  Here me now, John Gard opened my eyes to the glorious wonders that are Chicken Skrips (available at all local low-cost grocers).  Paired with whole wheat buns and various ingrediants, the ending result: A CHICKEN SKRIP SAMMICH!! Educate yourselves MySpace.  Educate yourselves.

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