Oddities and a Bunch of Other Stuff I Talk About that You Probably Should Read

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

:-)

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

Obstructed

Little Andre knew there was something more. Rather, he felt there was. He had no idea what caused these thoughts to bounce around in his dreams; his intuition oftentimes caused him to lose sleep. On those nights, he would just stare out into the Southwest Atlanta night, beyond the terrace sprawling below him and past the apartment buildings stretching around him. Every now and again, a young boy would enter his frame of focus, but the image was always a blip of faint light that barely registered. This feeling would cut through all the distracting images flowing into his room and deafened the noises that accompanied them. Andre had it all figured out; he just didn’t know it yet.

Sasha took it all in. Everything competed for her attention and she enjoyed walking amongst the commotion. Her foundation was in this concrete jungle. Life began here and Sasha never figured- nor was she taught- that it could end elsewhere. These few blocks were comforting and provided a pleasant shroud of ignorance.

Sasha loved Andre because he was tall and funny. He liked to talk about things she didn’t quite understand, but she enjoyed the way he said them. They would sit out in the terrace and he would sometimes just sit there with an odd look on his face. Sometimes he would look directly at Sasha and she would look down as if she was searching for an answer to a question. She never really knew what his eyes wanted to know and maybe she should have felt uncomfortable, but she never did. She would just search and, for a few seconds, his gaze silenced the world.

Andre loved Sasha but felt an unexplainable sadness when he thought about her. He loved her spirit and vigor, but wished she could truly take it all in. He never understood how to live in the moment and was taken by Sasha’s ability to do so. She always seemed in such a rush to go nowhere, though. That’s why his favorite memories of her were always in that terrace; it was as close to subdued Sasha would ever seem to be. It was in those moments Andre could steal a few prolonged glances into her eyes. They were beautiful and busy and resigned to never leaving these few blocks. He knew growing apart was inevitable; he just hated that he couldn’t do a thing about it.

One particularly starry night, he sat quietly on a bench staring beyond them while she simply glanced in passing while resting in the only place in the world that mattered. The distance between them was never as abundantly clear than when Andre turned and asked Sasha what she wanted out of life.

“Baby girl, you ever think about what you wanna do when you get grown?”

“What you mean?”

“Just like…what you wanna be when you grow up?”

“…Alive.”

Andre looked directly into those busy eyes, hoping she was only downplaying her plans. It broke his heart to see that she wasn’t. He cast his stare back above the buildings that surrounded them both…

Time went on. They got grown. Andre returned home only to find Little Sasha was gone; her mama said she was ‘with some nigga that be treating her wrong’. It was saddening but not the least bit surprising. That summertime exchange on the bench all those years back had forced him to stop denying what he already knew. All the noises and blips of faint light that had harmlessly danced about Andre’s room swallowed Sasha whole long before she had realized it.

That bench is still in the middle of that terrace and whenever Andre comes to visit, he sits and thinks about Sasha. He also thinks about how those stars seemed to pull him away from his environment, even if only in his mind for a few detached moments. That was usually followed by the tinges of sorrow for those that could never find escape in them and preferred to remain distracted by their realities. However, like Sasha, these thoughts were relegated to the terrace and those buildings. They were left to linger as Andre stood up and walked off into that beautiful unknown.

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

End of My Rope

Simp: A seemingly genuine man that acts friendly, but is really trying to buy their way into a woman’s pants. They can be seen begging, being highly agreeable, and giving expensive gifts to women they just met, amongst other things.

-Urbandictionary.com

Great. Now you know what a simp is. Confetti.

*’’**’’’*’\o/**’**’*’’’

With that out the way, get Boyz II Men and their music the hell out my face. Bunch of no self-respect-having simps. Yeah, I know I’m about 17 years too late. And yeah, I know this is probably even more pointless because I’m pretty sure Boyz II Men moved to Venus or something in like 2002. I hear you. Don’t care. I’d rather listen to Young Thug sing hymnals standing behind a box fan. I’d rather peel duct tape in an empty warehouse with aluminum siding while Meek Mill tries to whisper in my ear. Bunch of saccharine-lined simps. You had me fooled for a while, Michael, Nathan and ‘em. But guess what? I grew up and realized how full of simpin’ y’all were.

Why do I even care about some barbershop super-quartet of yesteryear, anyway?

………I debated R&B music with a woman, that’s why. I walked onto a bumper car rink looking for an SUV, I know. Anyway, the whole discussion wasn’t even the clusterfuck I thought it would be. She named her favorite current artists, as well as her favorite Golden-Era groups (Golden-Era = 90s R&B for us mid-80s babies. We ain’t out here shoop-shoobee doo waaaaaah’in with The Chi-Lites or whatever) and it was cool. That is, until she mentioned Boyz II No-Man-Would-Ever-Play-Himself-THAT-Bad, while opening and closing her fist- and occasionally pointing- in front of her face. It looked like she was checking her nails after every other syllable, being Unbothered nshit. It was kind of hypnotizing…

“Blackstreet (open), Boyz-Tew (point; she’s from Baltimore, by the way) Men (close)…”

The very mention of those simps made my left eyelid close a little. Of COURSE women love them; they humiliated their way to the panties. Don’t believe me? Peep “End of The Road”. Some epic simpin’ begins here.

I even love how the video I shared spells the name wrong. Because…get Boyz II Men the hell outta here. Matter fact, let me write these words down so you can see the VISUAL, RIDICULOUS, PATHETIC SIMPIN’:

Wanya (Or Michael. The simp with the deep, Dresser-from-The Five Heartbeats-voice):

“Girl, I’m here for you. All those times at night when you just hurt me and just ran out with that other fella…baby I knew about it; I just didn’t care. You just don’t understand how much I love you, do you? I’m here for YOU. I’m not out to go out there and cheat at night- just like you did baby- but that’s alright…I love you anyway. And I’m still gonna be here for you until my dying day, baby. Right now, I’m just in so much pain, baby, because you just won’t come back to me, will you? Just come back to me! Yes baby, my heart IS lonely. My heart hurts baby, because I feel pain too…”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….wut?

This is why I love the current batch of Ratchet&Blues artists. There’s less Boyz II Men and Keith Sweat simpin’ and more Chris Brown ‘I’m kind of sick of all of you crazy women but you don’t care because you’re still gonna listen to it and dance hahaha #swagswagswag’. It’s ironic because R&B used to be the music women ran to when they were tired of being called out of their names in rap lyrics; now they’re being called out of their names by dudes harmonizing at the same time. I don’t love today’s R&B because of that fact, though. Well, I kind of do. But I love it more because dudes aren’t out here begging QUITE as much.

“But what about REAL R&B artists like Maxwell, Erykah Badu, and Ji…”

Shut up…nobody cares about those Shea butter songs. Nobody other than the people I talked about in this poem. I ran out of jokes for those people a year ago. Let’s move on.

Matter fact, let me run down your R&B icons right quick. Usher and Trey Songz died to me in 2010, Keyshia Cole’s music stopped being good after life got better for her, Tinashe is too new and please don’t get me started on Beyonce. To hell with Jhene Aiko’s…maaaaaan…nevermind (word to Kurt Cobain), The Weeknd, August Alsina (Miguel, you’re cool) and Party Next Door. All hail Chris Brown.

Breezy is quite possibly the greatest R&B singer and magician ever. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing us he didn’t exist, right? The greatest trick Chris Brown ever pulled was making these women love him. I love it. You hoes ain’t loyal- yet dance…kinda unloyally, really- to his slander of you. Hahaha #swagswagswag.

I don’t even actually know what my point is. I guess…Boyz II Men is the worst thing ever? Yeah, we’ll go with that. There have been so many R&B songs/groups to just really put men in unpleasant situations, I’m cool with Young Breezy. Thank God I wasn’t old enough to get a woman’s side-eye at Wanya’s (Or Shawn. Whatever simp that was) Simp of the Decade on “End of the Road”. Praise Jeebus I didn’t have to deal with the Jagged Edge “Let’s Get Married” fallout. I’m lucky to never have to ‘beg like Keith Sweat’. Sorry. However, I love, love, LOVE being able to yell ‘these broads ain’t loyal”.

A.J. Armstrong doesn’t hate women at all; his mother is a woman. He loves how your beloved Simp Music has forsaken you, though. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part V: My Last Post About Women Ever (He’s Talking About Light-Skinned Women Again; You Probably Shouldn’t Read it. You Ought To, Though)

“One of the prevailing topics in your work has been the exploration of intrarace relations and- more specifically- the lampooning of “light-skinned” African American women. It is your red thread of sorts and has been a source of criticism. How do you respond to those that call your writing ‘sophomoric’, ‘undeveloped’, and ‘championing self-hatred’? “Well, White Reporter, there has always been this weird dichotomy between light and dark-skinned Black people. That divide has been there LONG before I started actually talking about it. I mean…look, all I know is America. I ain’t never been out of this country; all I know is how race relations- interracial and intraracial- have gone in this country. It interests me because the entire history of this country is checkered with questionable moments within those relations. It intrigues me. Honestly, I find humor in so much of it and in how people react to the things I say. It’s all so funny to me but I find the most humor in how light-skinned Black people- especially women- view themselves and others. That’s, I think, what I get the most enjoyment from writing, regardless of how other people feel about it. So yeah, I get why they feel that way but I’m way more self-aware than they give me credit for…” -2013 interview with the White Reporter in those Frontline Chappelle’s Show skits I always imagine that White Reporter. I even gave him a name: White Reporter. The funniest thing about everything I say is that I get everything I say. That’s kind of why I say it. It entertains me and antagonizes a group of people. Awesome. Derive from it what you will because that’s why I put it out there. I’m like those authors that write novels that high school English teachers overanalyze: “In this passage, the author makes mention of the red bed sheets in her bedroom. That signals the rage and emotion she was feeling during her struggle with her identity and efsdlkefvvjeoscowmemfpdpvpvjejfeejwqqocwfkf and some other ridiculous shit…” The bed sheets are red because that’s what Target had for the cheap, bitch. My ridiculous assumptions of light-skinned women are just that: ridiculous. Do I really believe all light-skinned women are soulless, self-serving narcissists that were born with 74 unread text messages? I’m lying…of course I do. You’re all terrible people that have been coddled by the white man and overly praised by everybody else. No light-skinned woman has ever helped me in anything I’ve ever done. Nope. Not one has ever shown any type of compassion at all. I made it through college all by myself. I don’t recall any high yellow woman assisting me in any way. There was no teacher taking interest in me and realizing potential I never felt was there. Never once did she help me with my schedule when my advisor wrongly placed me in classes I had no business being in. There were no Giant gift cards mysteriously placed in my Nike backpacks when I seemed a little sluggish. There’s no way in hell she would (rightfully) place her foot in my ass during a time of misguided ambition, blinding lust for the wrong things, and shallow intents for the wrong women. None of that even seems plausible. Not from anybody the color of the McDonald’s logo. Nah. If you’re stupid, you stopped reading a long time ago, dismissing this as more of that typical Fly Hobo nonsense. Good luck at the self-checkout, champ; your produce struggle is going to be SO REAL. Racism effectively hates an entire group of people while designating members of that same group as acceptable. The best example I’ve ever seen was on an old episode of The Jerry Springer Show when Jerry interviewed a Klu Klux Klan member that was an avid fan of Michael Jordan. Sometimes ignorance provides clarity. Sometimes somebody says absurd things in an attempt to hold up a mirror to society to show it how ugly we can be. And sometimes people are racist. Whatever. The White Reporter stopped taping a while ago. A.J. Armstrong dedicates this post to Mrs. Hope Jackson. No person achieves anything alone. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. Pardon the swear words

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part IV: THOT-ful: A Jump-Off Story

Now, I’m sure most of you have a general idea of what a jump-off is; for those not as educated, Urbandictionary.com defines them as ‘a woman of dubious sexual practices’. They go by many names (rollers, crankers, tip drills, shones, etc.), as do their…”talents”. I refrain from using more derogatory words because they have different meanings for me; if that’s how you choose to identify them, I can’t really do much about that, now can I?

Where was the avenue for these types of women birthed from? Nobody knows the true origin story of jump-offs, nor do we know the primary characters. We just know some dude found some woman to do what he “needed” her to do one day. While I don’t know the exact date, the creation of the modern jump most likely happened something like this:

OCTOBER 1991

Two dudes- we’ll call them Los and William- were lounging in a Washington, D.C.-area strip club in October 1991. Los, dressed in a black Champion hoodie, Karl Kani jeans, and Nike Air Max 180s, was in stark contrast to the well-groomed William who was clad in a grey three-piece suit and blue tie. These were very different men of two different generations, castes, and classes. However, what they did have in common built the foundation of what I speak on today.

“Lemme get a quarter to call my girl,” Los asks over his shoulder, eyes still fixated on the voluptuous Carmel-colored woman on his lap. Two songs and $10 later, he grabs the quarter and saunters to the pay phone. Placing the quarter in, the only thought he could muster in his hazy mind is broad better be woke. After misdialing twice, a ringtone finally becomes audible in the receiver.

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

As he hangs up the phone, he subconsciously scans the dimly lit building for an answer to his sexual tension. Three hours in a strip club tends to do that to people. Unable to find anything of value that wasn’t on the stage or the pole, Los, in an act of desperation and excitement, pulls aside a waitress. “I got a hundred if you trynna do something.”

The indignant look on the high school senior’s face probably would have been an indicator to a more sober and rational Los to stop, but the Crown Royal only urges him on.

“One-fifty, slim…no wait…two hundred. Only cuz I ain’t seen ‘em,” he adds with a sly grin as he points to the frilly lace bra she wore.

Something about money- the prospect of receiving it in particular- really piques a true jumps interest. The waitress, who had been disgusted and offended at Los’ crude courting, was not seriously considering his offer…at first. All of a sudden, she senses an opportunity to bargain with the young man; he doesn’t even look that bad, she rationalizes.

“$300.”

She knew Los was not going to accept; she just wanted a place to begin negotiations. Los’ arched eyebrows of disbelief were a bonus.

“Hell na…$250. That’s all I got. If you would have hit me up sooner, I might’ve thought about three. Your bad, slim.”

“$250?”

“$250.”

“…Mmm…I’m with it. Lemme finish giving these drinks out and I’ll come get you.”

William, noticing the whole exchange take place, shared Los’ dilemma. Not only was his wife sleep, she was in Arkansas. His problem was further compounded by the fact that he was a high-profile public official. Hell, even being at this club at two in the morning was questionable. Being high and tipsy made this situation downright scandalous. There was too much risk for him despite his urges to do exactly what Los had so fearlessly done minutes prior.

FEBRUARY 1996

While on a conference call, William motioned to a young intern to enter his office. As this was the fourth or fifth time, the slightly overweight 22 year-old was well aware of what he desired. Taking her position under his desk and away from view, she began her spectacular and sudden ascent into pop culture infamy. The scene in the club had stuck with him all these years and he reveled in finally being able to wildly live out those whimsical fantasies. The intern’s careful positioning under the desk proved heady, because shortly afterward, the office door slowly creaked open to reveal an aged man with a stack of papers in his arms. “These are urgent and pressing documents you need to address immediately, Mr. President.”

Now you know how jump-offs became popular knowledge, by a man in a strip club and the 42nd President of the United States (sure, some of those facts are debatable but that’s how I remember it). That totally true scene also…er…okay, this is absurd. This was also probably not the best story to share with my little cousin’s third grade class. I’m going to go re-evaluate my life; I’ll see you guys next Thursday for the My Last Post…finale. In the meantime, you can read Part I, Part II, and Part III to occupy your time.

A.J. Armstrong will be finishing his five-part exploration next Thursday. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities…? Right?

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part III: Faded Pictures and Old Playlists

Is it weird I still think about them? What about the fact they routinely pop up in my head in the form of wistful nostalgia? How about the fact I still have pictures of them in my phone, even though some of them were two or three cells ago? Would you judge me if I told you I still pull up those pictures from time to time? Or that I stare at them longingly, wishing I could somehow relive some of the moments that continue to play on in my dreams? And the damn songs. Those songs all of them ruined because they send those complex emotions rushing back to me and make me relive the memories so often. Sometimes I sift through those pictures and replay those songs in my mind silently, some more somber than others…

“As she turned through the pages, a tear rolled down her face/I could see her reminiscing…why her life had to be this way…”

I was in love with her at 12. By then, she lived 688 miles away in a city I had just left but loved just as much. I grew up with her and fell for her temper. We fought so damn fiercely, I knew that passion would eventually be channeled into something mature and timeless. I just KNEW it would. The song doesn’t really speak to what I felt and what I wanted her to feel; she just used to sing it off-key on the couch when I visited her. That picture of her smiling at me while an Ebony Magazine sits open in her lap always conjures up the love I have for the summer of ‘99…

This one loved the song “Like You” by Bow Wow and Ciara. I sit and look at my phone, amazed that somebody so pretty then could become more beautiful years after that youthfully ignorant pose that smiles back at me. I remember that song because it blared from her phone and I knew that someone she was more interested in was calling. The bridge is a run-on sentence that ended with what my heart screamed silently at her: IAin’tNeverHadNobodyShowMeAllTheThingsThatYouDoneShowedMeAndTheSpecialWayIFeelWhenYouHoldMeWeGon’AlwaysBeTogetherBabyThat’sWhatYouToldMe- and I believe it- cuz I ain’t never had nobody do me like you….

I still hate the man on the other end of those calls, even though I never formally met him. The fact my feelings were embodied in a song reserved for another dude pissed me off. Despite it (or because of it), that drove me harder to live out those lyrics during our aimless drives in my Ford Explorer…

Love can be either a continuous melody or a painful bookend, which is why Ms. “Like You” will forever be remembered by a Ghostface Killah song, too. Not even a song, actually; the instrumental to said song…I had some SHIT to say. Is love really being up late writing angry lyrics over a Ghostface track? If you’re angry enough…it makes sense to you, trust me. The “Back Like That” beat played in some shitty iPod headphones while I scribbled a message I desperately wanted to shout in her face…

Jay-Z’s “Dear Summer” made me a stalker. The copied-and-pasted Facebook pictures of her posing in her dorm room made me weird to the people that didn’t understand what love really is. If they knew, then they had to know why I wanted to stalk her. With that song playing over and over from an iPhone 3 perched in the bushes situated below her kitchen window. She would never notice my actual presence…but she would absolutely feel a certain discomfort at the amount of weird things happening around her. Simple things like me gluing the hair in her combs to her bathroom mirror in vague messages. Or weird, square-shaped patches missing from her beige pillow covers. Or her Twitter account being followed by @ImUp_IAmAlwaysUP_AndWatching_You. Thank God that’s not a long song, my Dear [Redacted]…

The next image is hard to look at; it’s harder to describe the impact such a passing moment continues to have. She stood in front of a fountain- one I walked by daily to a building that had professors that changed my life and women that made life hard and a department that dared me to be great- and held me like she was in love with it all without her really knowing so. My Little One. The single mother that was both thirsty for knowledge and unaware of her immaturity. When somebody so young is the anchor of her entire family, her saying her ringtone for you is “No Better Love” is special. I couldn’t even come up with a decent quip for it; it’s awesome, period. I hear that song and just imagine she still smiles whenever it gets played. It’s my only bridge to a past that easily could have been my forever. Maybe it’s my ego whispering to me that I will always matter within those three or four minutes. Maybe I just like the damn song and misremember how special it really was to her. Whatever. I don’t miss her. Nope. I’m not trying to convince myself at all…

Man, she stole MY song and made it OURS. That motherfucker. That humble, pretty, stacked motherfucker. I played a song I loved and she loved the song and now we love the song. “Time of Your Life” went from being something that elevated my mood and made me smile at the ridiculous nature of day-to-day life to becoming a burgeoning couples’ mood music. Her pictures are explicit so I won’t describe them (but I damn sure will keep on looking) but what the hell…?

This last picture is always hard because I never know how to feel. She deserved better from both him and I. I never knew what she was telling him when she laid in his apartment and I’m sure he never knew about our conversations. The only picture is one I snuck while she was looking at the video to our song, too drunk to even notice the flash. Did she play our song for him? Did she introduce him to the music video with her head so perfectly nestled under his chin like she did with me on my couch? She was never mine; she was either under me or him and the influence. I wonder what that kind of tugging did to her psyche, but I never asked. I just kind of waited for her to blurt it out in her weaker moments…

“8 doobies to the face…fuck dat/12 bottles in a case…nigga, fuck dat/2 pills and a half-weight…nigga, fuck dat/Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

My Beautiful Mistake makes those words seem so surreal. Who gives a shit about growing old when living in the now is so much more pleasurable? She had no concern to even know she would forever be suspended in that nonchalant pose. I wonder so many things when I stare at it. It feels ominous and dark; it’s also telling and intimate…

“Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

Timeless photos…

A.J. Armstrong listens to a lot of Drake late at night and tends to reminisce hard; this post was supposed to come out two days earlier. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part II: Questlove

I love making fun of women. I love them but I’ll be damned if I don’t get these jokes off. Y’all are so funny to me. Every duck-lipped selfie and inspirational Instagram post tickles me something fierce (that’s my new thing…saying something tickles me fierce. It sounds like something an old Black woman from Atlanta in 1968 would say. I love it) Light-skinned women make the jokes almost too easy. Self-important broads get that good HARSH sarcasm. All that’s cool but less than 24 hours away from my favorite holiday, I gotta send some love to my beautiful bitter broads.

“Quest…play the damn thing!”

Women, Valentine’s Day is YOUR holiday and when it doesn’t go exactly how you wish, emotions run high and it tickles me something fierce. The crazy thing is I have no idea if bitterness, anger, loneliness, regret, or pure, absolute, radiant craziness is the cause. It doesn’t even matter, truthfully. It’s funny as hell and tickles me something fierce. So I encourage all of you to remember that tomorrow is your day to publicly share all of those emotions with us. C’mon. Share. Shaaaaare! *Sigh*…okay, Lou. Open fire. Quest!

I laugh at your frustration. Good wholesome laughs that emanate from my gut and settle in my throat. Deep-throated laughs that make me clap my hands and collapse on the floor. Thank you, ladies. But when I finish, when I finish- if I ever finish- you can be my valentine. All of you disgruntled, fed-up women can be the objects of my affection tomorrow. I love you all and it sucks you don’t like your own holiday that one of your own people made up so that she can feel even more special than we already have to treat her because she was raised with some weird idea of a man completely pacifying her ideas of romance and she’s crazy as hell and none of you should even pay attention to this crazy broad because you deserve somebody that acts like they like you every day of the year and you should probably boycott this wack broad but I don’t blame you if you don’t because Valentine’s Day has been around so long, you have no idea how to adjust your life and that’s fine because a lot of us men just accept that this is your day and the fact that some of you don’t have that man to acknowledge that and suffer for your happiness makes me sad and I want to buy teddy bears that say ‘Bitch, You Fine’ on the stomach to make you happy and do cute stuff with you and act like nothing was the same and tickle you something fierce. *Takes breath*…Happy Valentine’s Day. Quest, please keep playing something nice for these bitter broads. And bitter broads, keep being bitter; I love you all for it.

A.J. Armstrong paid a lot of money to have ?uestlove play something nice for you bitter broads. He hopes you appreciate it. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part I: These Beautiful Cars

Women are the givers of life, the wonderful and caring creatures thaaaaxcclqiwfivneowvpropeicc…you get the point; I almost put MYSELF to sleep. They’re gorgeous and deserve our respect and all that, of course. While they do turn heads, they also leave us with our faces buried palm-deep in frustration quite often. Men are simple; women are not. Men are stupid; women are crazy. It’s some Circle of Life shit or something, I don’t know. Whatever. There are just some things I don’t understand about y’all. Namely: everything.

I agree that men are dogs. That makes it easier to compare women to the cars we chase up and down our neighborhoods without some hypersensitive feminist kickback about objectifying these broads. Not that any of that would matter to me anyway. Again: whatever. Women are cars. They are wonderfully flawless cars with exquisite paint jobs and polished wheels that attract us the minute the sun reflects off those beautiful exteriors. We chase them instinctively only to be confused and slightly aggravated two minutes after we get that driver’s side door open.

The interior SEEMS just as striking but that’s well before you start to notice the controls on the console aren’t properly marked. You try to turn on the windshield wipers only to see the high beams flickering on and off. Pumping the brakes turns on the AC somehow. The left turn signal pops the trunk and lowering the passenger side window makes the entire vehicle cry and question where you’re even going in the first place. Obviously, getting anywhere is a hassle and you sometimes look out your window and shake your head before grabbing the keys and walking out the door.

Yeah, your car probably frustrates you. It probably makes you want to smack the dash and bang your head against the steering wheel. It also gets you to where you need to be. Every button you press and every lever you pull might not do what you expect but eventually you figure it out, right? The trips are unorthodox but get much smoother the more you drive. In fact, some of those drives are amusing as you watch the eyes locking onto that exquisite paint job and those polished wheels that glisten in the sun. The car- your car- is still beautiful as hell. So yeah, a lot of these vehicles are bass-ackwards, emotional, and I joke a lot about them; I’d much rather be driving my own. Preferably that sand colored, ’14 Draya Michele.

A.J. Armstrong still takes public transportation. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities