Author: The Fly Hobo

you tell me.

Everything is Funny

“LOLZ…wut?”

-God

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-The GOP

This is all Cam Newton’s fault. Better yet, it’s OUR fault for putting our hopes in a dude that writes like this. The illogical rage that engulfed white America made him Ours, though. The man described his teams’ march to last season’s Super Bowl as a process akin to preparing succulent, seasoned collard greens. Then he went out and lost, alienated his supporters, and began dressing like Stanley Ipkiss. 2016 is on you, pleighboi.

The world changed when Our brash, bumptious, brazen, Blackity-Black savior lost to an anthropomorphic bobblehead-ass quarterback with no neck muscles. I had never heard of the Zika Virus prior to February 7, 2016. Nashville was still airing on ABC. The Golden State Warriors were still dominating. Lil’ Wayne was merely pleasantly ignorant. And Donald Trump was a hilarious representative of Middle America’s ridiculous sensibilities, but not a viable threat. Nine months (and a summer full of Warriors jokes) later, Prince is dead and the country is about to be run by the human embodiment of the Annoying Orange. Damn you, Cameron.

I offer neither explanation nor commiseration; I don’t know what the hell happened. I guess I should be mortified, but I’m not. These next four years are about to be AMAZING. The Donald is going to turn his inauguration speech into an exercise in shit-talking that may reach Diddyian levels. To which he’ll then combine with several cups of Mayweather. That first Correspondents’ Dinner is going to be glorious. I envision Trump using every single Obama jab he typed up and stored in his drafts for the past two years. He deserves to gloat. He did the impossible. Rich white men that are otherwise mediocre at life NEVER tend to prosper. Especially at the expense of women and people of color. Celebrate, (not so) young Donnie. Celebrate like a Cam Newton first down in a game no one should be surprised you ultimately won.

I offer what I can: raging pessimism with tinges of sociopathic behavior. Shit ain’t good but it’s damn funny. I know this pussy-grabbing, Valencia orange clownfart is going to run the country into a ditch filled with syringes and dead goldfish; I’m just too fascinated to duck and cover my ass from it. I almost commend the American dedication to racism, sexism, and xenophobia…until I remember that it’s racism, sexism, and goddamn xenophobia. Racism seems inconvenient as hell, so I respect the commitment to being an awful person. Who am I to endorse societal decorum?

You guys offer what you can: faith in God. However, if you know Him like I know Him, then you know He’s been laughing at all of us for…mmm…the past nine months. Right after Cam lost to a team led by the live-action Jimmy Neutron, actually. Why, you ask? Because he’s a douc-*

*The previous statement has been redacted. This is not due to controversy; it is due to the author’s amusement tha-**

**The previously previous statement has been redacted because what does God have to do with any of this?? If anything, Your Man chose Trump, so can somebody explain this religion thing to me because it see-***

***The preceding paragraph was an editorial by the author and is not sponsored by the author’s publisher, which is me, and…this is dumb. Just shut up and tend to yo’ mam-****

****God has a sense of humor and laughs at things that are funny; He told me as much during our meeting at The International Lil’ Uzi Vert Fan Club Summit in Dover, Delaware. This disclaimer is pointless.

This is all Cam Newton’s fault. Better yet, it’s OUR fault for tying our hopes onto a dude that neither relates nor transcends. The illogical rage that engulfed white America prevailed, regardless. They hated him because he smiled too much; or covered his head in a towel too often; or danced too long. He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying being who he was, much less celebrating it openly. Quarterbacks, like our Presidents, are not supposed to look like that, comport themselves in that way, and refuse to genuflect to the “norms” of the majority. Super Bowl 50 began a year of whitewashing as pushback to Our pushback. The rage exhibited becoming so blinding, progression took a backseat to suppression. The natural order has been restored and things are as they should be. And that line of thinking is so absurd, fear and disgust has been trumped by genuine amusement. But that, as Cameron Jerrell Newton has pontificated, “is all part of the game; we’re not playing ballet.”

The world is on fire, and A.J. Armstrong is content to bask in its’ glow. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Transcendent

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they ain’t never gon’ forget how they made a muhfucka feel.”

-Maya Angelou, loosely quoted

We tend to qualify greatness. Outside factors and variables matter to us almost as much as inherent talent. ‘He or she was great, BUT…’; ‘(insert generational talent) would never be as great in (insert timespan of most reverence), etc. So much is contingent on the hypothetical, we can overlook what’s happening before our very eyes. Nostalgia also skews the way we view things. At best, we’re subjective and fair. At our most typical, we hold some dearly simply because their art is representative of something special in our lives. We rarely ever produce a fair assessment of an artist OR their work, but judging from the reaction of Prince’s death, it’s fair to use his art only as a background to how the man HIMSELF made us all feel.

Even in death, there are very few entertainers held in universal reverence. It’s usually through a combination of death and eventual change in societal consciousness that we retroactively applaud our luminaries. Admiration is a minefield most of our heroes and idols fail to successfully navigate. Hindsight often serves to capture our stars at their brightest and encapsulate them at their finest and most virtuous, despite how polarizing their careers may have been. The immediacy of death tends to bring forth a collective- and selective- stroll through our memories. While we’re all mining our sadness for the nuggets of joy Prince provided us throughout the years, it’s in the varied arrivals to our solace that make him uniquely great.

So why do you love him?

Of course, the tangible reasons are all there, the music being the most obvious and, perhaps, the least important of all. We loved the music then, and we’ll cherish it even more now. His SOUND has become so ubiquitous and (poorly) imitated, the fact his own catalog remains so exclusive and inaccessible is brilliantly ironic. Few artists can ooze eroticism while largely eschewing misogyny. Fewer still can seamlessly reappear every few years with the exact same aplomb with which he captivated us all. Even fewer can do this (look at Tom Petty’s face; he’s out here hating sooooooo hard).

But why do We love him?

THEY say he transcended race. OTHERS say he succeeded in spite of it. OUR arms were wrapped tightly around him because We knew how content he was in them, to hell with who demanded anything different. He won Their awards, and still let Us know how much pride he felt to still win his own. He knew Our lives mattered, and We cherished his in earnest.

Why does she love him?

“Heeeeeeey Valentina, tell yo mama she should give me a call…”

…Because of shit like that.

Why does she AND he love him?

There was an intangible, yet definitive aura about him. Our indoctrinated concepts of masculinity got shattered underneath a pair of purple high heels. Here a man stood at 5’7”- 5’2” without those heels- both resonating with men about his Broken Heart (Again) and usurping the hearts of their women, one chord at a time. Here this man stood, clad in purple velvet pants and a white blouse, the envy of all that became enamored in his dimples and curly hair and brazen sexuality. Here stood a man so comfortable in his masculinity that he could both reassure and disappoint us all in a mere six lines. His sexuality was unarguably concrete, yet incredibly fluid. How could we ever object either way?

To hear Prince speak and act was a pleasure in itself. To see him perform was otherworldly. The man gave us everything: intrigue, insightfulness, mystery, passion, ambiguity, comedy, and utter pettiness whenever we so desired. We love him for so many reasons; we’re all hurt because of one.

Why do I mourn?

Because the one man I thought to be immortal fell. Because someone so supernatural is susceptible to the same vices, diseases, and misfortune as I. Because his death makes me acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve always thought I could die at any time; the death of Prince only serves to force me to KNOW I could. Because someone so unaffected by the constraints of space and time as Prince could suddenly succumb to them. Because Prince never showed up to your event, he materialized. Because Prince never walked onto a stage, he floated. Because Prince never spoke, he summoned the words from the air left vacant by our bated breath. Because Prince never began, he just was. The man is magical, so there will never be an end. And because of that, he will always be.

“Everybody’s going Uptown; that’s where I wanna be…”

From my Uptown to yours in the sky, I wish you peace. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Insomnia

“But I’m afraid of not being able to laugh anymore
What’s life going to become once we don’t have anymore
…Heroes?”

-Cee-Lo Green

I get tired. I sometimes drift off in front of my social media feed. My eyes tend to get sooooo heavy from pontificating with strangers. Commiserating with you is draining; I apologize if I distract myself with more pressing and immediate concerns. Your stupidity tires me out and I need a break. If you knew how dumb and shortsighted you are, then you’d need a snooze, too. Correcting you saps the little energy I have, but monitor our Black Lives with an otherworldly attentiveness, you little vanguard, you. You deserve my sincere apology for correcting whatever absurdities wafted out the midnight oil of condescension and misguided righteous gallivanting. I’ll just look past the fact you’re delving into a very dangerous and harmful logic. Yeah…naw. Good luck getting me to comport myself as someone willing to acquies…

“…Yo, Young Militant Facebook Jerk, I had this weird dream. I dreamt that my ex got back with me and gave me Chlamydia. Chlamydia, yeah. But here’s the weird thing; she got it from Katt Williams and he was chasing me around, apparently mad I took my girl back from him…

…Dozed off, sorry. #BlackLivesMatter made idiots of a few that garner reverence by impressing other idiots. The share button only helps if you can discern between validity and propaganda, champ. It kinda sucks because your intentions are (to you) noble. We get it; nothing else invades your immaculate consciousness…

“…But dig this part…everybody running with Katt in my dream were my friends in real life. So I had like five people chasing and shooting at me. My ex doubled back to ol’ boy and I was just running by myself until I finally got to my mother’s house…”

Shit. Fell asleep. I do wonder how YOU condemning ME for losing focus of an issue isn’t egregious in its own right. It seems totally counterproductive and unnecessary. Why are our “leaders” continuously slinking back into the pack to make sure all of us are fixated on the same thing? And why does your indignation only apply to others? Oh, to be so aware of everything except your own actions, Young Wack Hotep Brother. I have no problem pointing a finger directly in the face of this hypocrisy, because I have never claimed to be too involved to do otherwise.

“Yoooo…they all pulled out guns and I couldn’t run anymore because apparently Chlamydia makes you really slow. So I just stood there…I STOOD there, dude…they all had guns on me. Did I mention that before?? Well anyway, they all sat there ready to shoot when my ex popped up in the window and had one of those bullets Angelina Jolie had in Wanted…yeah, the ones that boomerang around the room…so, yeah, she shot in the window and hit all of them in the che…”

Those covers had me lazy. Carry on with your conquests, you valiant social media trooper. Disperse your wisdom by inundating us with questionable information on the basis the headlines alone appease to a certain sensibility we should all be required to share. Condemn us because we find time to laugh, joke, and relax. Forgive us if our outrage isn’t incessant while our awareness is meandering. Call me obtuse and take pity on me for not occupying the same post with you, scanning the horizon with aimless zeal. I suppose taking any regard of my own Black Life at times is selfish and unfocused. Forgive me.

“So they all sat there shaking on the floor and my ex crawled through the window and threw a small vial in my direction. She said, ‘sorry for giving you The Clap’, and walked out through the front door. It bothered me because I had Chlamydia; did she not know ‘The Clap’ refers to Gonorrhea? Because I can’t deal with somebody that’s not #Woke.

Look, the battles are ceaseless. The problem with our midnight crusaders isn’t that there is no recognition of the endless nature of our issues; it’s that my deviance is incorrectly identified as resignation. It’s that watching- and not subsequently analyzing- is equivalent to knowledge for you folk. I am not stepping away from this fight; I am simply regrouping in order to determine a more effective approach. Why barge into the middle of a sociopolitical issue while alienating those that share your desire for change? If fights were meant to be around-the-clock solo missions, there would be no need for a more rested set of eyes to ever defend our livelihoods, right?

“What you mean did I chase after her?? She gave me Chlamydia and- through her “research”- called it ‘The Clap’. Her ignorance is going to kill us both if I allow it…”

It is not because I do not care. Nor is it because I am unaware. My reticence is not hesitance. Consciousness is a weapon unto oneself under YOUR sanctimony; look both ways before you lob grenades. Sleep because you dare to dream, not because you believe your truth is the one and only. Understand your platitudes are simply blinders; they are not shades.

#YouCouldStayWokeButYouShouldProbablyTakeYoAssToSleepForALittleBit

A.J. Armstrong is smarter than you; he’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

New Year, New You (But Not Really Because You’re An…)

“I’ll never call yo mama outta her name, but I’ll damn sure call her Collect…”

That’s the last one I promise. New Year, New Me, amiright? Besides, it ain’t my fault yo mama agrees with me…and answers my calls.

“New Year, New Me!”

“Cutting all the negativity out my life in 2016!”

“No more new baby faaaaaaathers/mothers…”

And, save for the part about not getting knocked up (or knocking up) AGAIN, I believe them all. Because New Year, a New EVEN SHITTIER Version of the Douche We Already Knew. I, for one, appreciate the unintentional transparency. If the move is to announce what will and won’t remain in your life, it’s mighty considerate to remind us the most ugly aspects of it will remain. Can’t pour syrup on shit and call it decency, you know?

I tend to consider myself a solutions-orientated person and I enjoy helping others. With that in mind, your shortcomings aren’t the result of some extrinsic shitstorm that meandered into your life somehow. It’s not as complex as you conveniently seem to make it. No, the problem (and remember, you can fill oceans with my compassion) lies in the fact that you’re a terrible human being that just isn’t good at being alive. You suck. The people that have enabled you to suck as bad as you do suck even more. Success and personal happiness aside, you’re a Shitkicking Assclown that probably shares posts on Facebook about what the best physical feature of each zodiac sign should be (as if each sign is basically a long ass incestuous breeding ground to ensure that all Scorpios have shiny fingernails. That’s not how any of this works, you SHIT. SIPPING. ASS. HAT). Or maybe you stop in doorways to check your phone while six people try to get by. I COULD continue to wish all the inconveniences of life onto you, exclusively and concurrently, or I can try to help these poor, lost Douchenozzles…

How do I know you’re an awful, insufferable person? Because, you Dried Pit Stain, you’ve been telling on yourself all year. From declaring yourself as ‘petty’, to your douchey thinkpieces, to your bathroom selfies, to the excessive sharing of your ugly ass baby, there’s a long trail of turd nuggets that point me in the direction of your delusional self-aggrandizing. Maybe you’re cognizant of your behavior; perhaps you aren’t. Or maybe- most likely- you just aren’t aware of how much of an Asshat you really are.

It isn’t entirely your fault, you poor Asswipe. Your friends and family have allowed you to become blissfully unaware of your transformation from irritating to fully terrible. Facebook is mostly culpable. There is no other space, digitally or otherwise, that applauds and encourages your increasingly egocentric conduct. Who else would take pride in seeing a picture of a weak ass Chipotle burrito bowl or read about how Blacks should be celebrating Kwanzaa because…? You don’t even know, either. That’s the worst part. You didn’t even read the article; you saw a heading that KIND of applied to something you MIGHT be persuaded to think is true so you shared it with all of us. I thank you for inundating my feed with that asinine shit. I also thank you for allowing me to see all the unsavory things in your personal life that you ought to be more hesitant about sharing. You’re not terrible because of the others that encourage this shitshow; you’re terrible for letting your shitty decisions bathe in their approval.

So how can we make you a less shitty version of yourself in 2016? Simple. Shut the hell up. Just stop saying or doing anything. Period. Don’t go outside. Don’t go online. Become a recluse; only appear in public to do whatever it is you do to earn money. Go home every night and sit in an armchair and let life pass you by because you clearly don’t contribute anything to it. Disappear from the collective consciousness of the social world entirely. If you have to welcome some of that negativity back into your life in 2016 for that to happen…collateral damage, right? Just don’t tell us about it this time next year. And give yo mama my Skype ID for me.

A.J. Armstrong is the Creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

The 13th Floor

“Something’s gotta change

Sounds of laughter and happiness turn my teardrops to rain

Been bearing this burden for too many of my days

Looks like breezes of Autumn done finally blew my way

Like memories of yesterday…”

-“13^th Floor/Growing Old”

Play this song- and nothing else- at my funeral. Please and thank you.

When I think about death, the first thing that comes to mind is that creepy ass song the choir was singing at the beginning of “Tha Crossroads” video. I don’t know what age normal, well-adjusted people come to terms with their own mortality- I would guess sometime after you wake up and realize your body doesn’t work and your face looks like a soggy pork chop- but I remember becoming very aware of my own death right after that video. Like IMMEDIATELY after seeing that video. Since that point, I oftentimes think about how and when I may die. And it freaks people the HELL out.

We’re not talking about my actual death today, though (January 1, 2026. Shot. Vegas Strip. Preferably over something asinine as hell). It’s just crazy to have discussions with other people and they, in large part, tend to deflect any talk regarding their deaths. It’s like the ‘I Don’t See Color’ argument for your inevitable reaaaaally long nap, but whatever.

Death is one thing; what you’re leaving behind is another. And all too often, we see people leaving behind children that aren’t even old enough to fully understand the concept of death, much less process it. It’s also stealing away a significant piece of their innocence long before the world, and life in general, gets its chance. And when I compare that to my life as a 29 year-old man with no kids, I get so disheartened by my next thought: I’m going to have to try so much harder to not die if I have a child.

Don’t misinterpret “not trying my hardest to not die” as “I’m determined to end it all” because that is simply not true. Being alive is great; I just don’t want to have to try insanely hard to do it, though. As long as I can play video games and laugh at people calling Internet strangers ‘fatherless’ on Twitter, I’m good. I might start to lose that lust for life the day my body gives out and I can’t play basketball or hit the batting cages, but hopefully I have time. If I start shitting on myself and have to be wheeled around with a weak ass shawl covering my bony legs, then I’ll know I never truly had any friends because somebody should have locked me in their garage and turned the car on like ten years prior. I heard getting old is glorious or whatever, buuuuuut…that’s really not my thing. I’ll be cool if I accidentally break my whole neck in a freak accident involving a belt, two Brazilian hand models, four candles and a cheese grater at like 55. I was going somewhere with this at one point…

Oh, yeah. Kids force you to try harder to stay alive. That’s a lot of responsibility and pressure, dude. That means I’d have to start watching my sodium intake, start going to doctors that actually speak English, and stop dressing like an approachable drug dealer. No more using Old Bay like a dipping sauce. No more Slim Jims and orange soda for breakfast. No more raw shrimp and chicken seasoning for snacks. No more going to bars where there’s a very real possibility I might get hit over the head with an empty Scotch tumbler (I’m from D.C.; even the thugs are bourgeois now). So basically I have to give up everything I love. So yeah, I might not die as soon, but damnit I apparently won’t be dying happy, either.

I know at this point it sounds like I’m complaining, which is convenient because that is EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING. I fear the day I no longer have the option to take a bunch of Ketamine and drive down sidewalks at 3am with no headlights on. Not something I’ve done before but hey…never know what I’ll be interested in in my 30s. Never say never, amiright? But for all my complaining, I say that to say this: I, and most of you, will gladly make that sacrifice each and every time. It would be a very nominal thing to do, in fact. It’s not about us living for others; it’s about staying alive for others. I live for me; I’m selfish that way. But to want to be around just to see pieces of you grow and experience life is so instinctive and innate, it kind of makes me believe that despite so, so, SO many acts of hatred we have witnessed as of late, most people are intrinsically good and just. I just want to be able to look in my child’s eyes and tell him or her that I’m trying my hardest to stay alive. I also want to look a woman in the eye and promise her I’ll never die right before we have sex like that scene in Team America so…I mean…take my words with the grain of salt I guess I might have to stop eating one day.

I only hope my friends aren’t assholes; they better wait until I’m dead to start dying themselves. How selfish would it be to make me feel bad for missing your funerals, man? Have some class. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

The Beating She Deserves

I ain’t go to reason with her; I want to beat the hell out her…

If she has the nerve to agitate me, then it’s within my right to remind her that I’m not above showing her what I’m capable of, right? I feel demeaned; like less of a man, even, when she stands there with the comfort to tell me what I CAN’T do. What recourse do I have at this point? She’s bringing this on herself.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand. That picture she’s been clinging to went from an ideology to a tangible goal…with me. I’m just as taken with her, too. It’s just…it’s just…I just can’t tolerate disrespect. I wasn’t raised to tolerate it, and I have to prove myself as a man. She left me with no other option.

Believe me, I’ve gone through every situation at least twice before I decided she deserved to get her ass beat. Of course the general public won’t condone this behavior, but they don’t understand that our situation is one that is unique and very sensitive and dear to me. How can I provide the security, masculinity, and passion she desires if I back down now? I can’t. And I hope you understand; if you don’t, I apologize.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand, if I can be totally honest with you.

The courts knew and supported my decision. Hell, they cleared an area and turned a blind eye when I finally went through with it. Not a single word was uttered to either of us as I lifted my right hand again and again, smiling victoriously at every hit…

Am I less than a man? A coward, perhaps? Circumstantially, how could you ever know or judge? Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt, as well? She chose me; I was just fortunate enough to register on her radar. For that, I am so grateful. However, I am steadfast in my decision to beat her senseless…

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose this game, and will suffer dearly for it. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand; this is OUR issue, not yours.

How can I do this to the person standing before me in my shorts and a t-shirt that refused to hide her belly button? Her bun became an unkempt mess trying to avoid this and, while it turns me on, I refused to stop. I just hope she understands she deserves this. I can only hope she gets why this is happening to her. She asked for it constantly.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose the game, and will suffer dearly for it. She wants to play for my heart, oblivious to the fact that she owned it already. But I guess beating her because I love her doesn’t make any sense to her; YOU don’t have to understand, but I hope one day she does.

I guess she thought I’d be “cute” and let her win. Nope. Ain’t no friends on this basketball court. Although I do love when she fouls me…

I hated it had to be her; I love the post-game showers though. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Agamemnon’s Manifesto

I am the reason for indulgence, for I am King of all I survey. I was birthed into royalty, washed by the blessings of gods, and feared by even the powerful. My significance is not simply conjecture; it is fact. I exist because I am necessary. The heinous crimes of my ancestors did nothing to prevent my ascension. I am both builder and destroyer. The greatest warriors of our time are indebted to me. And for my bravery, honor, and loyalty, the spoils of war are mine and mine alone. I am not only King. I am God.

I am omnipresent, for my influence has only become more formidable with the passing of time. Look what I have created some three thousand years later. I am selfish and deservedly so. My gratification should be instantaneous and the priority of others. I am entitled to what I want and whomever I choose. I am an advocate of the affluent. I am a fighter for the entitled. The world shall be carried on the scarred backs of the lowly and placed in the opulent dwellings of the fortunate.

I am a ruler. My beliefs trump those of all others, for I do not deem their conviction worthy. I condemn those that are a threat to my hubris. I am appalled and defensive when asked to explain my prejudices and chauvinisms. I am a leader and a lawmaker; I do not tolerate disrespect. Soldiers that history exalts and idolizes dared not attempt such. I will admonish any plebeian insubordination thusly.

I am self-important. My accomplishments are no longer relevant; my mere presence alone is worth the undivided attention of friends and strangers alike. I demand that you care. I command you to care. I am the center of a microcosm that requires your unwavering devotion to my vanity. I am your King. Therefore, you will understand why the adulation of my followers will not be reciprocated. I am your leader. I am above you.

I am a God. I am the most high. There are millions of men and women who believe they are to be mentioned in the same vein as I and this disturbs me. You dare allow your society to afford you the comfort to speak so incredulously? I am a ruler of men, a leader of an empire, and favored by millions. Do you converse with the controllers of your destiny as fearlessly as I? Do the respected bow at your feet? Do the powerful relinquish their authority in deference? Will you leave behind a story rich in inspiration? What I have accomplished will forever be unattainable. You may not refer to me as anything less than the historical titan I truly am. History will quickly place your importance into its proper perspective.

I am the reason for indulgence. However, I am not the architect of your egotism, pride, and self-involved behavior. I was a victim of the jealousy and vengeance of others. Your downfall shall be of your own creation. You are not a God. You are not a ruler. You are not a king. You tumble blithely through life searching for confirmation for simply existing. Until your significance is more than mere estimation, you shall not be mentioned among Kings such as I, Agamemnon of Argos.

All of us really aren’t anything special; we just kinda THINK we are. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Undone

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable…

*Throws book into fireplace and rubs bridge of nose with thumb and index finger*

Enjoy your day, ladies.

I’ve loved and I’ve loved being loved…

She has peeled back my layers of bravado and bluster to expose a fractured psyche. My wounds were made as visible as the vulnerability exhibited in allowing them to become tangible. She has allowed me to see the strength in my weakness. Intimate conversations are held without a sound seeping from either pair of lips; instead an extended gaze speaks words that touch the back of the mind and the center of the heart.

I have chipped away at the uncertainty that lies behind her mascara to find what lies underneath is a beauty that Clinique has not been able to bottle. I let her hazel eyes paint the pictures she has etched in her soul onto my tongue. I make love to her insecurity, give birth to trust, and raise her expectations of what the men in her life are supposed to look like. Her heart will never be stolen; I have no need to burgle what she is becoming increasingly comfortable to give to me.

I’ve loved and I’ve lost…

I have held and I have hurt. I have shivered in my sleep and lingered in my shower while scalding water assails my back as I lean against the tile. Each sleepless night leads me back to the same reality: I don’t want to be here. It all seems so mundane, this existence.

I have denied the existence of these feelings. I have refuted human nature so convincingly that I now seem impenetrable. But I am not whole.

You see, it is not her that is slowly killing me; it is this cycle and moments of weakness that allow me to believe that this is healthy. This is a drug. This is insanity. She is merely the vehicle that allows my dependence to progress into something so terr…

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie

“Jesus, this guy is good.”

“I know, my son,” a booming voice acknowledged from somewhere behind those tall, glittering gates…

Well shit…how the hell am I getting into Heaven if I can’t even beat the first person? A slight breeze whipped by my neck and caused my shoulders to tremble a little.

Three days ago

It had only been about 30 minutes since waking up in this place, on a cot in a cabin made of finished oak. There were rows of beds stretched endlessly in either direction. On my left, a man gyrated to whatever was playing in his earbuds. He didn’t seem old at all- I would have guessed 24 at the most- and sweat flew from his long, brown hair as he moved. Another young man on my right swatted at the air wildly. A bright red pair of Beats By Dre slid about which each gesture. After looking around, I realized everybody had some sort of headphone on. Most moved frantically, some danced, and others lay on their beds quietly. Confused, I searched around for some sort of clue as to why I was here with these people. Finally I found a small box sealed shut with masking tape. I ripped it open and found my own pair of Beats By Dre connected to a black iPod Touch. As I placed the headphones over my head, the iPod magically turned on and a deep, soothing voice began to explain everything I desperately wanted to know.

“On the evening of January 12, 2015, you were shot 3 times; twice in your chest and once in your head. You were unresponsive and left your Earthly life almost immediately. Although you were young in age- 29- you have left quite a polarizing impression on Heaven’s Acceptance Committee. This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord. Because of their conflict, you were sent here, to the Purgatory Appeals Program. As such, you and everyone you see here will be forced to win your way into Heaven via a dance-off competition against Heaven’s elite. You will face three opponents that will be chosen at random and will dance to the song of your choice. Defeating all three will result in your acceptance into God’s Kingdom. However, should you lose to the first, you will be sentenced to an eternity in Hellfire. Should you lose to the second, you will be sent back to Purgatory where you will have the opportunity to win your way into Heaven again in five years. Should you defeat both but lose to your final opponent, you will be sent back to Earth to resume your life. This iPod will allow you to play any song of your choosing. Your dance-off will be held in three days in The Golden Gates-Courtyard Marriott Center in East Cloud, Outer Heaven. Good luck, my son…”

Well shit…

Round 1: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Silas of Macedonia

“D.J. Taz! That’s riiiiiiiiiiight! That’s riiiiiiiiiiie-i-e-iiiiiiight!!!”

Silas’ shoulders bobbed up and down as he worked his pelvis into the most unimaginable positions. He was nearly through his three-minute set and didn’t seem to tire at all. There was a one-legged Butterfly, then a Sprinkler. His transitions were seamless and his brown robe flapped around his bare feet for added effect. At this point, getting into Heaven wasn’t even my goal; I wanted those five years of practice to work on serving this fool something fierce. I didn’t think my routine was going to cut it. My only hope was to surprise the judges with my song selection…

“And we began to Rock…Steady! Steeeady rockin’ all night long! Rock…Steady! Rockin’ to the break of dawn!!!”

It was over after those first horns played over the Cloud’s iCloud storage and speaker system. The committee ate it up. John’s eyebrows arched all the way to the top of his forehead. Philip jumped up from his seat and yelled “YOOOOOOO” at the top of his lungs. Even Simon, the most reserved of the 12, ran from the table, covering his mouth the whole time. I had them.

A couple aggressive two-steps and stop-and-go heartbeat pantomimes sent that bum Silas to the sidelines with his rosary beads clenched firmly in his fist. I doubled over in laughter when David ran up to him screaming ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH’ while extending a finger at Silas’ neck. If they’re all going to be this easy, then maybe I’ll get to see what these Golden Strippers working with, after all…

Round 2: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Rachel of Paddan Aram

“Drop it down on it! Made me get a couple bands drop it down on it! Make you get a couple friends drop it down on it! Turn around drop it down, drop it down on it! Do it for a real nigga, do it for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’ for a real nigga! Go and do somethin’ for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’!”

This shit was so unfair for so many reasons. First, Rachel wasn’t even dancing; she sat there and twerked for three minutes! The committee was all male, what could I possibly do to top this? Jacob ran over and started throwing gold coins at her as she took it low. Even I had a hard time not throwing these Earth dollars at her; this broad was going OFF! At that moment, I knew my Dougie wasn’t going to do ANYTHING. I had to change things up on the fly…

“MITCH CAUGHT A BODY BOUT A WEEK AGO!!!!”

I grabbed Jacob’s halo and threw that shit seven rows deep into the crowd of angels. My only hope was to do something so shocking that everyone would forget about Rachel throwing that thang around the arena floor. Until that point, I stayed pretty calm, doing some Bankhead Bounces and soft finger snaps. I hoped that made the halo toss seem even more disrespectful. I think it worked, too. Jacob stood by Rachel furious, but didn’t move because any disqualification would result in an automatic win for me. The committee was full of wide eyes and disbelief, so I jumped on their table and did my most violent Elmo Shmoney Dance; scrolls and cloaks flew everywhere. They had no choice but to advance me. I pointed two fingers at James and told him I’d get to tweakin’ on him if he didn’t…

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Mickey Mantle and Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles flanked him as Steve Jobs held a Beats Pill over his head. “No Problem” by Lil’ Scrappy filled the air and Jobs twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want it with this guy, but I had come too far to not get in to see these strippers. Jesus threw his robe into the overzealous audience and Jobs dropped the beat…

*The results of this battle are undisclosed. However, it can be assumed The Fly Hobo lost, as he was resuscitated at 1:37AM in Grady Memorial Hospital*

I can remember everything but that last battle. I will go to my (next) death convinced I was robbed, though. Oh yeah, Jesus is 4’11” with a thick Cajun drawl. Just so, you know, you’re not surprised when you meet him…

Silas and Rachel ain’t want this work. The Fly Hobo: The 2015 New TestaMOVE runner-up. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

:-)

Happy New Year, everybody! I hope whatever you guys were doing was awesome or whatever. I had a very peaceful January 1, thanks for asking. I even made some resolutions, which I typically don’t do. More specifically, I made three particular yearly declarations that I plan to abide by for, at minimum, the next twelve months. Resolution One: People are dumb. Is that technically a resolution? I guess it’s more fact than anything. But, again, people are dumb. I even made a hashtag: #YallDumb. Because y’all dumb. But I digress. Resolution Two: I’m going to stop mentioning how dumb people are. Even if I DID just create a hashtag called #YallDumb. No more calling people dumb. Even if it’s true. Resolution Three: I vow to only speak to you guys in a positive tone. No more calling people dumb and rationalizing it with ‘but I just created a hashtag!’ So let’s talk about some stuff…

Who is more awesome than Oprah Winfrey? She’s a total class act and a role model to young white women around the globe. There are so many reasons I admire her. Golly, where to start? I think I would have to say her newfound respect for Jay-Z is quite appealing to someone like me. It gives me something to strive for, actually. How cool is it to have someone admonish your profession and culture, gain their respect by making an insane amount of money in the process, and have that same person wrap their arms around you and gently whisper ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ in your ear years later? Oprah is downright decent. It only took hundreds of millions of dollars to redefine the lines of what’s unacceptable. Maybe if the ‘leaderless’ youth in Ferguson she so rightly criticized (constructively, of course. Oprah don’t be hatin’) or these underserved inner city children she so rightly lumped into a colored ball of wanton sneaker fiends could just stop making excuses and earn $520 million, then Goddess Winfrey shall bless you with her approval. And what on Earth is more coveted than Oprah’s consent to be a citizen deserving of respect?

People are entitled to their opinions, even when they are blatantly wrong and grossly off base. Please let me guide you to the right side of the argument since we are all about uplifting each other in 2015. The women (or “victims”, as some people have come to calling them) accusing Bill Cosby and the people bringing light to sexual assault aren’t terrible people, they’re just a tad misguided. They just don’t understand the issue doesn’t lie in the seriousness of the allegations levied against Cliff Huxtable; it lies in the attempted assassination of Black America’s TV dad. What is rape when THEY’RE TRYING TO BRING DOWN OUR FATHER BILL?!? Plus, Jill Scott said as much and the Founder of the Shea Butter Mafia always knows the score. Even Claire Huxtable said this is all a conspiracy. They’re trying to discredit him and, by pulling reruns of The Cosby Show off the air, are doing just that in the most systemic way possible. Now, if PHYLICIA RASHAD is saying this, then it has to be true. Why would she care about losing any residuals from her show being pulled? She was in a 2007 episode of Everybody Hates Chris; money is no object. Stop letting The Man (or woman. or women. Many women of differing races and nothing to really gain as a whole so many years after the fact) jade your opinion of Our Father, Bill Cosby.

Every generation, Black people get a leader that speaks for us and represents us in a way we all universally agree with. For the post-M.L.K. generation, that person has GOT to be Lupe Fiasco. Mr. Fiasco (née Wasalu Muhammed Jaco), for those that don’t really give a shit, is an outspoken rap artist. Here’s why you should care, though: his music consists largely of telling Black America that we are living our lives completely wrong. As accurate as this is, the true genius lies in Mr. Fiasco’s unwillingness to give us logical ways to remedy the problems plaguing our societies. This speaks to true leadership:

“Let’s point out what’s wrong and say it’s wrong! Providing alternatives isn’t what we need concern ourselves with!”

How can you not march with this man?? Furthermore, true leaders abide by one simple idiom: do as I say and not as I do. I don’t know about you, but I would hate to follow any man that actually LIVED the words he spoke. For example, Mr. Fiasco rails against the drug game that has dogged Our communities for years. However, Chilly, the co-founder of Fiasco’s music imprint, 1^st & 15^th Records, was indicted and sent to jail for the very same thing Lupe tells us to eschew. The fact that label- and his very stardom- can be directly attributed to heinous activity that also very well has contributed to even MORE violence in Mr. Fiasco’s hometown of Chicago, Illinois is merely secondary. How can people say he’s “hypocritical”, “disingenuous”, and “sanctimonious”? The man has a right to tell us how to live while shielding his own life at his convenience.

It’s a simple thing, really. Content of character does not lie in one’s actions. Clearly, it is their words that truly show us who they are. To many young Black boys and girls, Oprah Winfrey is that little poor girl from Tennessee by way of Wisconsin by way of Kosciusko, Mississippi that made something of herself. I doubt she even remembers that, and why should she? Becoming a billionaire isn’t about who you were; it’s about appealing to those that can make you more. What’s so elitist about that? Cosby taught generations of boys and girls to support his business interests. Him APPEARING to be a good person is way more lucrative than him actually BEING one. What’s so evil about that? Lupe Fiasco is a pseudo anti-establishment puppet with real outrage at the people he “represents” while maintaining faux-indignation at those that force him to acquiesce to their caricature sketches of Us. But why is that so fake? Seriously people, let’s applaud these titans of Black Excellence! And lastly, don’t forget to smile. All the best to you guys in 2015. For this and all other blessings, I pray to Our Father, Bill Fucking Cosby.

A.J. Armstrong truly believes in Our Father, Bill Cosby. At the risk of jeopardizing his resolution a mere 9 days in, all of these totally logical arguments that don’t stray from the fundamental issue of right and wrong are absolutely ridiculous. But he is also the Creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. ❤ you, Oprah