Shouting in Print

Miles To Go

Truck tires sink into the potholes on their way up the street, plodding along to their destinations under the dim streetlights. Pedestrians travel down the concrete barriers placed in between the lanes, unfazed by the loud clomping further ripping apart the divots. Liquor stores and tobacco shops sit at the corners, their doors open to fight the humid summer air. The heat is evident on the backs of the young men standing in the McDonald’s parking lot, sweat staining their white undershirts. They passed around a phone, listening to a video and breaking into a disarming smile at its content. A few of the boys sank back onto a black sedan, laughing heartedly and slumping onto the hood. An older man reclined in the driver’s seat and shared a gap-toothed cackle with the group. A block west, a group of young white men and women stumble out of an indoor mini golf bar, with one tripping haphazardly into a pair of parked cars.

This isn’t St. Louis.

The air is suffocating and thick in the summer heat. The street was filled with young professionals in full sweat as they walked from their parked cars on Benning Road towards the bars on H Street. Brittanie sat at her living room window and shook her head. They too comfortable.

“Close them blindszzz,” a muffled voice yelled out; Brit turned and saw her mother standing behind the couch, puffing a menthol cigarette. “It’szz…too much light in here.”

“Always out there. Damn traaaaiii…don’t know why they…they even put that out there.” Brit’s mother leaned back onto the couch, nearly dropping the lit cigarette. “Fuckin’ white folk alway wanna be somewhere they ain’t ‘posed to be.”

CiCi, Brit’s sister, walked out of the bedroom and looked down at her mother. Her eyes immediately cut toward the window where Brit still stood closing the blinds. “She out?”

This isn’t St. Louis.

The street was abuzz. A couple walked hand in hand, a corded set of earbuds split between them. Brit squinted from her second-floor window at the phone and saw motion from a video. She couldn’t make out the details, but she could see the young woman move toward the man slightly as her head bobbed. She didn’t glance up at the project building once; he stared straight ahead, also blissfully unaware of the residents’ conditions and circumstances above them.

The City welcomes those with the means to leave. There wasn’t much for those that sauntered back to their apartments, stuck here. Not Benning Road, anyway. Those young men in the McDonald’s parking lot were swatted away before prime bar hours. They left in every direction, slinking back into the various quandaries The City chose to ignore. While H Street indulged in all of the nonsense a tabbed credit card could afford, the rest of Northeast Washington, D.C. strove to live.

The swelling weekend traffic is nonexistent come Monday morning. On the walk up to Union Station, Brit routinely saw pieces of uneaten cookies, used bar napkins, and the returning foot soldiers previously ushered away by bar security. Northeast seemed a newly minted saint apologetic for its previous sins, and its City workers feverishly scrambled to cleanse its misgivings. Two men in black suits and briefcases shoved past her in the station entranceway, absentmindedly sipping from paper cups. Their thoughtlessness was nothing new. Brit continued behind them toward the escalators leading to the Metro train platform beneath the building. Government workers. Consultants, maybe. It was a daily routine. On her morning walk to work, dozens of men and women spilled out from the MARC commuter train and hastily walked down to the Metro Station. It was much the same in the evening, with many of the same faces instead going up the escalator toward the regional train, whisking them back into their waiting Maryland suburbs. Sometimes she would look at the gates full of people – eager to return home and forget D.C. – and long for that feeling again. A transactional relationship. For Washington, D.C. to be a destination, and not a net in which she found herself caught.

It’s not St. Louis.

The potholes become deeper and more pronounced as the street winds eastbound. The streetlights shine with varying levels of luminance, as does what sits beneath them. The dark shadow of RFK Stadium looms menacingly in the distance. There are no suits strolling aimlessly about. There is no promise of advancement. Self-importance does not lie in a title. The sights have not changed here. It is suspended in time, as the future hinges mostly on getting through today.

Brit slung her bag over a chair and walked past the dining room table into the living room. The television was on and obscenely loud; she could hear it echoing off the walls of the apartment building stairway as she walked up. Some commentators were going on about something as the screen showed football players in drenched compression shorts catching passes from a machine zipping balls in their direction. No one else was in the room, and she looked down the narrow hallway toward her mother’s room. Darren was here.

The borders of The City are as invisible as the residents bound by them. Every day, upwards of a million workers cross its boundaries from the neighboring Virginia and Maryland suburbs, focused solely on career advancement. Maybe a drink or five after work. When the sun begins to lower under the cityscape, outbound trains and cars race for those borders, their self-worth again fulfilled. The City’s swollen center is again empty.

Nothing like St. Louis.

Brit sat at the window looking down on the street. Two kids in white collared shirts and khakis walked below. The late August sun glared offensively into one of the young boy’s eyes and he glared up toward the window as if some bored soul was reflecting aluminum foil in his direction. Brit grinned slightly. She remembered being one of those children walking home with their friends, talking about a place outside of here. A loud shriek from the closed bedroom door brought her back to the present.

*****

The Maryland border sat two miles away, but for many inhabitants of the Benning Terrace apartment complex, it was an entire day’s worth of effort. North Carolina might as well be on the opposite coast. The smiles and shouts from Brit’s neighbors confirmed as much. “My girl goin’ to AT&T!” came a voice from somewhere in the crowded terrace. “Buuuuug!” exclaimed another. Brit held her acceptance letter above her head victoriously. A charcoal grill placed in a parking spot cooked burgers in celebration. An old man they called Blue – though Brit never knew why – sipped a Michelob while he cooked. A sign that read ‘Congratulations Bug’ was sprawled across the low fence surrounding the grassy area in front of her building. What should have been a moment of pride felt hollow, as a noticeable absence loomed over the party. Brit sat in a plastic lawn chair, greeting her well-wishers with an empty smile.

Greensboro is cool, but it ain’t St. Louis.

*****

“THEN GET THE…FUCK OUT THEN!” Brit’s mother swung the door open, and Darren stumbled backwards into the hallway. He fastened his pants, panting heavily and raising his right hand to feel for the doorframe. Brit’s mother wasn’t visible in the hallway, but her voice carried out into the living room and, surely, through the thin walls of the small apartment.

Darren gathered his balance and walked around Brit to collect his things. She turned towards him expressionless as he stooped over, grabbed his shoes, and exited silently. There was a thump after the door closed, presumably from Darren leaning back on the door to slip into his shoes in the safety of the stairway. Brit turned back to the window as her mother entered the room yelling at the closed door.

Empty McDonald’s wrappers and cups are pushed aside when the cars travel down the street. Their drivers pay no mind to the garbage and continue driving along swiftly toward Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The workday is over. The City served its purpose, and the urban sprawl becomes smaller and more distant in the rearview mirrors. They cross the bridges en masse, as if they were escaping the clutches of an imminent threat, its reach only extending to those invisible borders.

Brit continued staring out the window at the bustle of the people on the street below her. She wondered why everyone walked so fast. What urgency was there to continue to do the same thing? She wondered what their lives were like. What motivated them to get up and repeat this mundane existence? She obsessed over these questions, perhaps trying to derive some meaning for her own life as well. She stared at the setting sun for a few moments. It too made its exit to some far-off land. Somewhere beyond D.C. What was it like to be bound to nothing but your own desire? To be unfettered by demand and oblivious to obligation? What was it like to not feel trapped?

*****

The genuine pride emanating from the attendees stuck in Brit’s mind vividly. The smiles were radiant, not at all clouded by jealousy. What these people felt about Brit’s accomplishment was pure. A scholarship to go to school in another state. To be somewhere else for four years. Maybe forever. It was the fulfilment of many dashed hopes and ambitions, and the vicarious shared existence that allowed them to believe in something more than this. That the world was not as far away as it seemed. That those borders were open to traverse freely. That it was possible. That they could move about as unincumbered as those businessmen and women in Union Station.

Missouri Avenue was only about six miles to the west, and with it, Brit’s father. Maybe the bus ride was a bit too far, and waiting at the stop would leave his beard moist with perspiration. Maybe his wife and other daughter were more worthy of his attention. Those imagined motivations, Brit had long been able to justify and compartmentalize. But she knew. He was selfish and disinterested in her life. It was normal and familiar at this point. She used to trek over to Northwest on occasion once she was old enough to traverse The City, but that stopped once she realized the effort was one-sided and – quite frankly – unfair. But even still. This was a huge achievement that no one on either side of her family had come close to realizing. It stung. There were no new tears to cry or burgeoning insecurities to harbor, but it pricked at her pride all the same. A stack of congratulatory greeting cards were piled on a table next to the grill; none were from him. She was certain.

*****

Being back in D.C. played devious games with her ego. A year ago, she sat in that plastic chair, enjoying the fruits of so much labor. A reward then promised to supplant youthful whims now tangible. Standing out in a school full of standouts finally paying a dividend that had seemed uncertain entering her senior year of high school. It was a lifetime of sacrifice lost in the matter of a schoolyear. Finally enjoying a sliver of independence and autonomy, only to lose her scholarship. She now had to place her faith in the Department of Education, a faith that had yet to be reciprocated. It was a feeling of despair that was not afforded her. As her dreams sat in deferral, she couldn’t help but feel the glimmer of hope that was St. Louis vanishing with the setting sun.

As a grade-schooler, Brit talked almost obsessively about going to St. Louis. It was right down the street, she had thought. Right there on Missouri Avenue. She would buy a big house with some pretty purple flowers adorning the walkway. There would be a fenced in swing set with monkey bars attached at the end. Maybe even a little doghouse for BeBe and CeCe, named after characters from her favorite cartoon, The Proud Family. She would be successful and rich and happy and everyone would love her. Mommy would be so proud. And maybe Daddy would be, too. Maybe being this close to him would make him stop by. He could even make her popcorn and hot dogs while they watched the Redskins play on Sundays. Linda, his wife, would bring her leftover cookies from the middle school in Prince George’s County she taught at, just as she did for Bethany. She could even walk to their house after work! There would be pans of spaghetti and garlic bread on the table. She would tell Daddy about her day and its frustrations and tease Bethany for being a timid, quirky little sister. She Googled St. Louis in fifth grade and it looked so comely. There was an arch overlooking a long river. Behind it were buildings she couldn’t recall seeing in D.C.; an unexplored part of The City robust with boundless opportunity. She imagined the streets weren’t worn down and littered with plastic bottles and cigarette butts. No wonder Daddy never came to Benning Road. I wouldn’t either, she had thought.

Her childhood dream of St. Louis was jaded shortly after her eleventh birthday. She learned the Gateway Arch, the structure of which she envisioned so endearingly, was placed in Missouri as part of America’s westward expansion. she was disheartened to learn that this place of promise and contentment sat hundreds of miles away in the state of Missouri. The place her father had found happiness was simply another area of D.C., not terribly unlike her little section of Northeast. Still, she sat almost daily at the window, staring off into the sunset. She wondered what her father was doing, and if he ever had a passing thought about his eldest daughter. It was just six miles away. Some days she stared intently, as if to will Missouri Avenue into her focus through the buildings amongst her.

Brit’s mother, now calm from the brown drink in her hand, turned the television volume to full blast again, stirring Brit from her dusky dalliance with the street below. “Ain’t nothing out there girl, I told you that before. Now close them damn blinds, Bug. I can’t see the TV.” Brit sighed, twisted the tilt wand, and her view slowly became obscured by the white plastic.

The Day The Parties Stopped

Lord, let us party tonight; cuz tomorrow they might kill us all…

The locals show out every Sunday. The floor is sticky and slippery, giving slightly as the wanton movements of the bodies above twist and grind. We drink, we dance, we fight, and we leave…

The sun shone unobstructed, fooling those peering out their windows, hopeful the late February day may promise warmer temperatures and a sign of an early spring. The second semester was in full swing, removed from the early January renewal that saw students reunite with one another after the winter break. Those early days saw a swollen campus filled with parents dropping their children off, only slightly less emotional than their initial goodbyes the previous August. The nervous energy amongst the underclassmen was replaced by a knowing familiarity and comfort in navigating what was once a frightening new chapter. Seniors drove their cars throughout the campus slowly, music blaring, with their immediate future rapidly approaching their purview. In their windshields was the blinding light from the sun, promising a gorgeous spring in Greensboro. Today, however, the campus was light, waiting for the evening when students would return from the weekend.

Sundays are usually a return to normalcy. The school, noticeably empty from the admittedly homesick over the weekend, would see attendees return to their dorms, some with a crisp set of bills in their pocket, and most with a clean bag of laundry slung across their shoulders. Their makeshift homes seemed fresher in their absence, welcoming their renewed spirits. Sunday nights were usually a return to action. And Club Menage.

High Point Road housed any variety of late-night pleasures for the broke and pseudo rich alike. Strip clubs and tattoo parlors line the streets on the drive from the campus toward the mall, with nightclubs nestled on every few corners along the way. Menage sat behind a Wendy’s and was typically deserted during the day. Friday and Saturday nights there were pretty calm; most people found their way downtown, lines stretching down Greene Street with patrons mingling with the vendors selling hot dogs and bootleg hats. However, Sunday night belonged to Menage. While the weekend traffic was segregated between college students and actual Greensborians downtown, Menage was a hodgepodge of both. Florida Street and Pride Hall joked in the entry lines; cars from Randleman Road and Haley Hall fought for space across the street in the Total Wine parking lot; the McDonald’s saw traffic from North Eugene and the Aggie Village. Sundays at Menage were for the city, a collective effort to ignore the demands of the upcoming work week.

Menage is largely like any other nightclub; however, regulars came because of the slight nuances that separated it from their counterparts. Sure, there was a dancefloor and a stage, as there were for most other clubs in the city. Here, the bartenders overpour on specific drinks; their reasoning seemingly indiscriminate. It felt more of a practice of in-the-know patrons to learn which drinks were on this intimate menu, and which servers let the liquor pour freely into the clear plastic cups. There was a grill on a patio near a Dumpster that served the hungry with burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, and fish plates that was just beyond a door that most assumed was a hallway leading to some unremarkable back area of the building. The place is a secretive society within a club that welcomed everyone, and the slight pleasures of being familiarized with its unique atmosphere made it irresistible.

Scattered Black bodies occupied the dancefloor, mostly reserved and mingling. The ground wasn’t yet littered with those overfilled plastic cups and worn wristbands. The stage had remnants of a local rap group that dragged a drummer along to comport themselves as a live band. A mic stand and a single cymbal occupied a corner, their owners unconcerned about the waves of men and women dancing tonight, their clutter gathered around high heels and Nikes. A prepopulated playlist thumped through the speakers; the resident DJ never showed up before 10:30. A man in an outdated Gino Green hoodie and jeans leaned on his stool, no doubt at the mercy of the drinks taken in that Total Wine parking lot, his eyes focused solely on the leggings and fitted pants of the women strolling by.

Tonight – February 26 – began as a release, but ended in a combination of commiseration and unified angst.

At about ten that night, the news trickled in slowly and without context. A Black kid. Skittles. A hoodie. On campus, PlayStations were paused, and the music didn’t intermingle with the raucousness in the dorm room halls as much. A group of residents gathered in the second-floor common area of Pride Hall, with one girl giving periodic updates from her phone. Another woman, in Barbee Hall, muted the TV, garnering puzzled looks from her roommate and her girlfriend. The campus stood still, seemingly taking a collective breath to process. Maybe the cars with the loud stereo systems drove past, but their vibrating trunks caught the ear of almost no one tonight. And maybe a few individuals continued to dress for Sunday night at Club Menage, but they were greeted by an unwilling desire from their peers to move from the spots they occupied in those halls and common areas.

Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old Miami native visiting his father and his fiancée in Sanford, Florida, had been shot and killed by a neighborhood watch coordinator. The facts, as reported, were that Martin was walking home from a convenience store, candy and drink in hand, when George Zimmerman, a resident of the Twin Lakes housing community, seemingly appointed himself arbiter of all things threatening. What ensued was a confrontation that left Martin dead, and audio of a phone call between Zimmerman and the local authorities in which Zimmerman was explicitly asked to not follow the teen. While the days and months following the murder proved to be devastating, both with Zimmerman being found innocent of second-degree murder and his subsequent boorish and repulsive smugness toward a community still in mourning, tonight – February 26 – felt overwhelmingly hopeless.

Still, We danced into those bright strobe lights, phones buzzing nonstop. We ordered drinks, innately knowing the week would punish Us for simply existing, even apart from another damning example of “white authority” to which We were not yet privy. We listened for songs that We knew would fill the room with exuberance, women stepping gingerly toward the seductive glow; men hurried bottom-shelf liquor into their bodies before doing the same. We bumped into someone We didn’t like, staring intently into Their eyes, resigned to whatever violence may result. We sat on the steps, twisting weed up, looking around for Our folks, phones still buzzing. We just hoped We could make it home with some of that light.

Black pain can be both fatalistic and crushing, while being understood to be pain not of Our own doing, but of the circumstances that have arrived to collect whatever some determining body deemed more valuable than Ours chooses to amass. That body is constructed to spread the inherently flawed and historical ideal of Black bodies being lesser, and therefore disposable. They serve to excuse, rationalize, and – grossly – justify the inhumane. What is even more incriminatory about this wicked, never ending, and inescapable pain is that it is simply a burden We have been conditioned to work around. It is as if the hope for lessening that pain is silly; that the focus should be on cohabitation with, and not elimination of, this pain. Merely treating the symptoms of this pain – laughing in spite of, numbing Ourselves because of, and struggling to prevail in the face of – is the concession offered to us. The causes of this pain are permanent, unchanging despite the best efforts of those afflicted, because the creators of this pain are strident in their efforts to maintain their normalcy. That is why Our laughs are heavy and hearty; the weight of this construction tinges even Our most carefree and effervescent moments.

But still, We danced. We finally learned that the world had let Us down yet again. We gathered around, arms on shoulders, and communed. We were reminded that the world outside these doors were unkind; maybe even more so to these older, lighthearted versions of Us. We knew that, and carried on as We were, because in that moment, We had to. This was but another derivative plotline of a sequel retread so frequently, We no longer had the energy to protest its opening night. We danced because We were defeated. Again. We were lost out there, but here – HERE – We were isolated only in danger We could tangibly see and feel and touch. And tonight, February 26, We were above inconsequential conflict. We danced together because once those bright fluorescent lights turned on and We were forced to trot back to Our waiting realities, We were no longer unguarded from them.

At the fountain near the Aggie Village, a young man from Pine Hills, Florida – a 40-minute drive from where a 17-year-old Black child was murdered for having the audacity to exist – sat for hours in pure resignation. There were no tears, and his eyes focused on the spurting water shooting up from the middle of the fountain. In those long solemn moments, and in the midst of a crowd that had gathered around him, he couldn’t help but feel that the water that continuously went recycled through the fountain system and lightly dusted his already frigid arms was analogous to exactly what We were all destined to be. To which all of Us were relegated to, eventually. That no matter how dogged the attempt to escape this cycle, We were simply forced to be subjected to the same result over and over.

Monday passed with expected glumness. The nervous energy of the younger students returned, along with an uncertainty they could not fully explain. The seniors still drove through, their radios more muted and reserved. Classes were melancholy, filled with the silences Sunday’s events filled awkwardly. Conversations were brief, as if a barrier of despair lingered in the air, blocking the words that followed the handshakes and semi-hugs in front of the cafeteria.

Trauma is indirect at times, aiming its arrow of hurt upward, eventually descending into a crowd of people otherwise ignoring its ambush as best they can. We were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the small microcosm that has been afforded Us because of their unwillingness to share their freedoms on any significant scale. To be Black is to be reminded repeatedly of the frivolity of Our humanity. To be constantly forced to accept the reality of why so many Black bodies were no longer able to share in the momentary successes and brief flings of joy granted to Us. Reality had creeped into Our shrouded and private dance, and demanded to buy Us a strong drink while whispering a low but firm reminder of a power that lies so very far beyond Our reach. And yet, the drink spilled into Our stomachs cleanly as We swallowed, clenching Our jaws at this condescending gesture in anticipation of what may come later…

Awareness can be convenient in its arrival and distasteful in its digestion. Trayvon Martin was not Me in fact, but he was Me in essence. Trayvon Martin was Him in the front of class, jotting notes furiously in an attempt to understand Advanced Statistics. Trayvon was Her, walking in front of Smith Hall scrolling through her iPod Touch. He could very well be a Nigga many of Us cannot stand, right up until Their life is tried by those that are eagerly intent of destroying. Mundane territorial matters of self against others that look like Us, for right now, anyway, just seem…less important than they did before Sunday, February 26. What mattered then to so many of Us was that We danced and lived. And what mattered so much more as We learned the evil that We battled so fiercely to escape was inescapable, was that We – jointly and perpetually – did not let that be the day the parties stopped.

We grieve different; A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Side Nigga Theorem

June 17, 2042

My son walked in the house distraught. I knew something was wrong before the key even slid in the lock. My Nigga didn’t even check to see if the Ring alarm was activated. It was two in the morning, after all. Niggas like to shoot at stuff this time of night. It was one of those restless nights where I would sit on the couch and watch reruns of Atlanta Braves games from earlier in the day, if they won. That’s when I heard something drop outside of the door. Bullets don’t make metallic clinking sounds outside, so I knew it was him coming home for the weekend. Neither myself nor his mother was expecting him, but we never do. And I resent that he thinks our lives are tame enough to walk in unannounced; maybe my Friday night couch time is reserved for doing a little heroin while his mother sleeps soundly upstairs, I don’t know. I got an Instagram too; a little swinger’s ball could have been the move. But no, My Nigga knows his father’s a lame, it’s baseball season, and- you know what- maybe he DOES let me know when he’s headed this way. One day I’ll read all those notifications that come to my BezoPhone, but probably not. Anyway, my guy walked in and closed the door so loudly, I turned and furrowed my eyebrows at him in the breezeway. “Your mama sleep, boy. Don’t let her come down here; this the only time I can eat these pork rinds without hearing her mouth. Ever since that SZA girl opened that juice bar down the street, all I hear is ‘Garden gang’ this and ‘Control your sodium’ that.”

That boy don’t listen to me, ever. I told him to look at an HBCU; he chose Wake Forest. Now, here I am writing MY name on these student loans for a school that ain’t even lit. I told him those exact words, and he look confused. His mama had to explain the concept of ‘lit’ to him. She also supported his terrible decision to go there. Every story he tells me is of something he experienced at Winston-Salem State, a much cheaper and much Blacker option. I don’t get it at all. I don’t get him, or the audaciousness of these kids in general, though. You know what My Nigga asked me when he was 15? He tapped me on the arm and asked, “Who is Wu-Tang and why aren’t they anything to mess with?”

I thought my ears were going to overflow with blood and explode like I was on that Tesla nigga’s son’s deep-water submarine that blew up a year back. “Son,” I explained to him, “It’s ‘AIN’T nothing to FUCK with’; also…it’s my birthday, nigga, damn.”

I think about that moment every time he comes to me with an issue. If Wu-Tang is for the children, and your little young ass doesn’t know who Wu-Tang is, by default, you don’t know nothing. But whatever, I give My Nigga advice regardless. If he listens and applies any of it? I couldn’t tell you.

Tonight, however, My Nigga was DISTRAUGHT. I turned off the TV and stared at him. He was going through it. His eyes surveyed the rug. The keys dangled in his hand loosely, and I could see he shook slightly before he wiped his eyes. “Aiyo…what’s wrong?”

“Is Mom woke?”

“I just told you she’s not. Why you run to your mother when something’s wrong anyway? I’m sitting right here.”

“Cuz all you’re gonna say is ‘fuck it’.”

I scrunched my face up like My Nigga had just shoved Bhad Bhabie’s nasty ass perfume line under my nose. He didn’t confide in me, and that was bad enough. But waiting to do so with his mother was offensive. My wife, God bless her, doesn’t dispense wisdom quite as salient to My Nigga as she does to people she didn’t give birth to. And I don’t blame her one bit. She’s a very logical person, and logic always gives way to protection when it comes to matters involving her baby. I studied him for a few quiet seconds and motioned for him to sit down. He put his chin in his hand and played with the few beard hairs that danced wildly on his face. I saw his nostrils flare, and those beard hairs moved slightly as he clenched his jaw. That was all that needed to be communicated. “So, who is she?” I asked.

The story flowed out of him without pause like a fountain in a mall terrace. Her name was Deidra. She was a student at North Carolina Central, and someone he had brought over to the house as a friend, which, to me, signified that he wanted something more. My Nigga is very cryptic with things like this, and to introduce her was a revelation. The young lady was cute as a button, quiet and demure, sitting on the love seat and smiling and agreeing with everything my wife said. I knew My Nigga liked her then, but perhaps was too passive in letting her know. I held up a finger to stop him, went to the bar, and poured a small amount of Cabernet Sauvignon into two tumblers. My Nigga looked like he needed a drink. He went on, telling me how he liked her, how they were around each other all the time, and (gasp…) how they had had sex on occasion. She was from Northern Virginia, and had told him that she had a longtime boyfriend back home. By this point, the sniffles became more pronounced, and he stuttered and tripped over words as he spoke. I just listened and nodded, fully aware that this may have been- or still very much is- his first love.

The story went on, as convoluted as emotional retellings tend to be. It was clear My Nigga needed to get this out, and I wasn’t going to interrupt him, save for the glass of wine I poured that he sipped intermittently. I heard a stirring come from upstairs, and thought for a minute his mother had heard him arrive. Apparently he heard it too, because he stared directly up at the ceiling and paused, sliding his wine glass in my direction. After a few moments, and after it was evident that she was still upstairs and oblivious to the two men sipping red wine over a lovelorn tale, he continued. He did indeed like her, and he sat confused and angry over not telling her exactly how he felt. I sat for a few seconds- maybe even a whole minute- while he stared into my eyes with a look I hadn’t seen since he first skinned his knee falling off a bicycle. My Nigga needed help, advice, and guidance. And he relied on me to give that to him. What on earth should he do about this? Why does this hurt so much? And why does this person still invade his thoughts during activities meant to forget about her? It was all there, and I saw it without a word uttered from his mouth. I went to the staircase with my glass in hand, looked up to make sure she wasn’t listening, took a sip from my glass, and whispered, “you a side nigga.”

I can’t describe the look in My Nigga’s eyes, but it was the reaction I both expected and welcomed. His pupils were tiny embers of resolve and anger, hurt and insulted that his father reduced him to some dude this young woman was biding her time with. He sat up, and I knew I had his attention, if not his ire. That completely out-of-context observation had awoken something within him, defiant to not be relegated as someone as unimportant as a ‘side nigga’. “Think about it…she has a boyfriend- had a boyfriend- the entire time y’all were together, right? The ENTIRE time?”

The embers were now fully ablaze. He leaned forward and tilted his head to one side, as if affirming the disrespect that fell upon his ears wasn’t some late night, overserved oversight. I saw his body jerk towards me, and, for a second, envisioned the coming-of-age conflict sons have with their fathers I’ve read and heard so much about. One of my friends had an encounter like that not too long ago. Apparently, his little man thought he was too grown to do some chore or something. We sat in his kitchen as he told the story, stopping right before the interaction between he and his son. God must love drama and awkwardness as much as I do, because as I asked what he did to handle the situation, his son walked in and opened the refrigerator. My man looked right at him, almost as if taking the pulse of his son, and said unflinchingly, “I simply reminded him of a few things…”

His mother was presumably fast asleep, only waking to use the bathroom, so there would be no referee to this battle. My Nigga looked on, and I could tell that he knew I had something to add to my previous statement, which I did. “The entire time,” I continued. “The entire time she was messing with you knowing she had something, or someone, rather, back “here”, right?”

He clenched his teeth, but eventually nodded. “So you a side nigga. But…and I see your face…that’s not meant to be a pejorative term. That’s the young lady you brought to the house, right? Deanna?”

“Deidra.”

“Right. So, Dianna cle…”

“Deidra!”

“Don’t go correc…you know what I mean. So, this girl is clearly into you in some form or fashion. I don’t know why. You can’t dress. Who wears Pumas? Anyway, all I’m saying is maybe you have to play your role until you get off deck and up to bat.”

“I hate baseball. Why is everything a baseball reference with you?”

“Because Tom Glavine pitched us to a Wo…you know what, why do I even talk to you? You don’t even know…name all the members of Wu-Tang.”

“Dad, you know I don’t even know…”

“Exactly! Hush. You don’t know the Purple Tape…BUT do you like this woman? You do, right?”

“…Yeah.”

“And she likes you, too. Maybe she doesn’t know it yet. Maybe she does, but feels obligated to whoever she’s with. And maybe she’s just holding on to him because he’s familiar and comfortable. College can be scary as shit sometimes, and it helps to have people that know you to talk to. Maybe she’s confused. I don’t know. But what I do know is that she’s young. What is she, 19? How old are you, again? 19?”

“20. I’m 20. She’s 20.”

“You don’t know shit; she don’t know shit. Y’all don’t know shit, is what I’m saying. What you DO know is you can be the best side nigga in the world to her until SHE knows you’re somebody tha- don’t lean over on my pork skins, that’s my last bag- that’s down for her. That she understands that clearly and without a doubt. You know what I mean when I say side nigga?

“Yeah, I’m just fucking her until she realizes I want to be with her.”

“Watch your mouth, boy. You don’t talk to your mama like that. We ain’t friends. I ain’t got to like you, boy. While you be thinkin’ bout TV, I’ll be thinkin’ bout the roof. You gon’ sit the-”

My Nigga just rolled his eyes and laughed. “How come you ain’t never like me?”

“What law is there say I gotta like you? Wanna stand up there in front my face and ask a damn ass fool ass question like that? Talkin’ bout likin’ somebody!”

“I’m not watching that while I’m home, Dad.”

“And that’s y’all’s problem. Little niggas can’t appreciate Denzel, God bless his soul. Damn shame that Zuckerberg money he took for Equalizer 8 couldn’t save him. ‘I’m not watching that’, I don’t know where I went wrong with you. But no, I don’t mean just being some dude she can call when she looking for fun. Be the dude she can call when it ain’t sexy time. Be the PERSON she can rely on. You like her, right? Be someone she can talk to about her man, even if it burns you up inside. Because understand, those things do not go unappreciated. Be her friend, son. Be her side nigga that is literally on her side. Very easy to do…if you really like her, no?”

My Nigga just looked off into the distance, looking for an argument that could refute what he just heard. Finally, he shrugged and mumbled and very resigned, “probably. That how it went with you and mom?”

“No, not at all.”

“Y’all never told me how y’all got together, though.”

“And I never will. It was a lot of snap music and this,” I said, holding up the glass of wine.

“What’s snap music?”

“Go on now and get out my face, boy.”

My Nigga smiled and walked upstairs, only to check on his mother before laying down in the guest room, phone in hand and dropping his keys on the ottoman beside his bed.

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

rage TO BE BLACK

“The banality of violence can never excuse America, because America makes no claim to the banal.”

-Ta-Nehisi Coates

To navigate Black life in America is to understand hypocrisy. It is also to understand selective dissonance. It is to understand how innocuous action is typically ignored by all, and forceful appeals for humanity become admonished by many. It is to feel bewildered that such a simple request from the disenfranchised is met with a willing obtuseness, and, at most, a shrug and the promise of “needed discourse”. Such a blatant disregard for Blackness- a Blackness that is emulated only slightly less often than it is dehumanized- can only lead to anger. And to understand this anger is to truly understand America.

The embers always burn- too casually, even- in the back of Our minds, the omnipresent sense of hopelessness wrestling Our well-being into submission. We try Our best to ignore its’ persistent appearance into the forefront of Our consciousness like an emergent migraine at each disheartening article, video, or newsclip. The injustice befalls onto hearts cursed to break again and eyes long thought to be desensitized. Some seek solace in the forced insanity that is expecting justice, while others recognize- either innately or through years of witnessing those operating in bad faith- that there will be none. Both are tethered- the former to hope, the latter to grim realism- to an existence that is uniquely tragic and deeply depressing. Only then does that pain begin to arise, not because it was never present, but because We, yet again, are subject to the whims of those tasked with ensuring this pain is recurring.

The construction is taxing; it is the result of an assemblage of ideals built to revel in our collective disdain at their practiced song-and-dance. The construction has long become the device of those maliciously devouring our sense of safety, equality, and self-esteem while malnourishing Us with trite platitudes. The construction publicly acknowledges fault in words that remove any wrongdoing on their behalf- the way things currently stand cannot possibly be of their doing- while privately crossing their collective fingers in hopes that change will not disrupt their well-being. They will stand, not because of an intrinsic belief in all that is just, but because placation is the most direct route back to THEIR normalcy.

The construction is sanctimonious and pompous and misleading. The construction devalues the merits of Our righteous fury and instead champions the meekest and most docile among Us. The construction has long deemed protest to be noble and heroic and liberating and violent and contentious for some, while all other objection is painted in the unflattering undertones of savagery and unruliness. The construction values comfort. Please pardon, for I misspoke: the construction values their comfort, and acquiescence to this comfort is not only preferred, it is enforced. Beyond that, it is deputized. It is taught. It is highlighted and promoted as the most honorable value Our leaders possess, whether cherrypicked conveniently from Martin’s words, or delivered as a plea of compliance from our pulpits.

This is why We must never ignore those embers. They do not merely reside in Our psyches; they gnaw away at them. To be Us is to be constantly assaulted in ways that are both unique and unrelenting. Because the construction fears that WE are unique and unrelenting. To be Us is to understand the problem is inherently theirs. That the idea of Us and them is simply to explain injustice in a way that exonerates the culprits. To be Us is to understand this notion and to wholly reject it. To be Us is to understand Our exposure and nakedness to a world that expertly illuminates the trivial reconciliations of the past while never acknowledging the remaining darkness surrounding it.

Those flickering embers must never fade, for it is when the anger transforms into resignation that we are truly doomed. A quiet resignation then becomes a submission that accepts the tiniest pacifications. This is when the journey is recounted and the appreciation lies in the destination that is now amongst Us, and not beyond. This is when false equivalencies are made and hidden self-prejudices are revealed. This is when We somehow become responsible for a construct We neither created, nor willingly participated in. This is when the belief that transcending this construct is not only possible, but attainable by all with the gumption to do so. This anger must always continue to be present, unbridled in spirit while measured in pragmatism and action.

My plea is not for them in the same way my patience for their stagnation is no longer present. They are deserving of neither. There is no use appealing to some general decency that has been proven many times over to merely reside in theory. The construction is cold and overbearing, an efficiently operating system that is unaffected by nuance, sound reason, or civility. But as more ears become sympathetic to opposition of this construction, it is imperative that the sounds they hear are of loud defiance and resolute demands that will not be swayed by immoral negotiation, inducement, or hollow promises. My plea is for Us to continue to apply pressure to a construction that, for the first time in a long while, has been taken aback and appears staggered in their amoral resolutions.

I say all of this to not deride whatever earned celebrations, pleasures, and exuberance this country begrudgingly affords Us; I simply imply that joy is of Our own construction, and that the embers of Our rage should remain ablaze and directed towards those that seek to extinguish our collective desire for a land We dare challenge to be better. Anger- very much like trouble- can be good for Us. It is necessary for Us. We are not docile, nor are We scared to strip leadership to remove every inkling of Our silent acquiescence. This is America, right? And to be American SHOULD BE to vehemently deny injustice; for too long this notion has not been accepted as an all-encompassing right. To be in America is to also understand that the story of this country is rooted in violence and civil disobedience, which is to say…

Kindly fuck yourself if you don’t know, don’t show, or don’t care what the hell is going on.

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

Harbour

You no longer the man, that’s a bitter pill to swallow/All I know is I’m wallowing, self-loathing and hollow…

It all seems so festive from here. I’ll bet the air is filled with competing music bleeding into the promenade from the various bars and restaurants. I imagine new couples still in a whirlwind of new emotions basking in the welcoming glow of the neon lights. I envision the embers of older romance being sparked by the electricity in the air. I imagine the escape this area provides; the veil of serenity lightly shielding all that awaits after the parties and the sweet smells and the pleasant breezes. I look on from my world of worry onto a whimsical harbor where everything is new, the Wheel rotates seductively on the pier, and the setting sun bounces rays off the river, making everything seem more vibrant. And as I make my commute from one deflation to the next disappointment, I see it all so painfully vividly.

The pearly white beams and twinkling golden hue of the MGM stands amongst its surroundings as the centerpiece of a reclamation project. Its perch, slightly above the other buildings situated in the valley of the National Harbor, dominate the eye from all that surrounds it. It’s exorbitant. It’s opulent. It’s immaculate. And I fucking hate it.

That damn building is omnipresent. I see it when I leave for work. I see it when I come home. I see it FROM my home. I see its glow, continuous and confident, refusing to be dimmed by short days and long shadows. I see the Wheel meandering about lightheartedly, while its patrons look onto the frigid and congested urban sprawl, memories no longer focused on having to navigate it daily. The moment is fleeting, but in them I can’t help but to long for living temporarily, and not the Sisyphean task of simply surviving.

As the traffic crawls along on I-495, I routinely glance over to see something jubilantly defiant in its existence and juxtaposition to all that occurs around it. I see a happiness that I can’t seem to find and an assuredness that I grasp at futilely. I loathe what I see because I loathe the unforeseen obstacles placed between us, and because of this, I envy something that I don’t even have a full view of.

I’m enamored with a dream, a promise that is often unfulfilled and underwhelming. What I believed to be solace and protection only exists to exacerbate what I feel. What was supposed to be an oasis from a distance is really more of the norm up close. There is no momentarily escaping life, because life’s only escape is permanent.

But that’s how it works, this pesky, nagging depression and self-doubt. It can make things seem whole and pristine and exorbitant and opulent and immaculate. It can fill you with resentment for all the happy people, happy things, and happy places, jealous such pleasure doesn’t exist in your own psyche. It’s neither healthy nor rational. It’s absurd to torture myself by envisioning this place as if it were simply a laminated postcard hanging askew in a drafty dungeon. Furthermore, it’s embarrassing to long for a place that I never found to be anything but a source of great annoyance…

The air is filled with a mishmash of sterilized pop songs and asinine teenage gossip. New couples aimlessly walk hand-in-hand, oblivious to others that have to swerve into fresh manure to get around them. Their love is fresh and broadcast for the world to view and like and comment on with each filter and pointless caption. Older couples sit at restaurants sipping Pinot quietly as they both make fruitless attempts to recapture what has long been dead. They retell the same stories and traffic in the lives of their friends, as if attempting to flee their own shared misery. I imagine this place as the Phoenix of hipster racism and undeserved vanity flying across the water from the charred remains of a city that once proudly flaunted its diversity. As I walk among it all, I’m oddly comforted. What I deemed to be whole is comprised of a bunch of pieces as broken as the rest of us.

I’ll be back 2018 to give you the summary. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

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

Play Me Off

“Daddy, do you think I don’t have a soul because of my wires?”

I froze; this little girl stared at me with those big hazel eyes and clutched a beat up brown teddy bear. At this moment, I knew she deserved the truth. I swallowed, knelt down and grabbed her shoulders.

“Baby, I love your wires. You don’t have a soul because of those; you don’t have a soul because…well…baby, you’re light-skinned…”

*RIMSHOT* PLAY ME OFF, JAMES!!!

Let’s talk about social media, James. Remember when sane people were the only ones allowed online? No? Neither do I. What I do remember, though, is when people didn’t take it to such extremes. My homeboy would ‘poke’ 5 females a night on Facebook in 2005 and we all arched our eyebrows and commended his boldness (Eds. Note: Facebook was created and originally intended for college kids; I know 2005 seems early to some of you). Today, girls hold roundtables to determine maximum selfie ‘like’ time and some Central Nigga sits and creates random memes that take hold of the Twittersphere within minutes of anything newsworthy occurring. That’s all cool, I guess, but let’s talk about some people that need to just chill. Like forever.

Remember that Instagram post we saw yesterday, James? The one with the ‘model’ bent over some community pool with heels on? Yeah…that THOT. THOT is here to stay, James; don’t look at me like that. That THOT…THOT…got 128 ‘likes’. I ain’t mad at all, but the comments section made me purse my lips a bit:

“Daimt lil mamaa…”

@ric_slick_thick

“You got twwwo migetts in yo bacc pokets”

@show…SomethingTheNameIsReallyLongAndStupidAndImNotRepeatingItBecause…Stupid

“U need some street D numba 980…”

@SomeGuyThatWasAboutToHaveHisNumberAllOnThisPostForTheSakeOfMyArgument

Hahahahahaha…and this is some girl that lives in suburban Detroit.

How about these Twitter clowns though, James? The ones that…what’s that? Steak them? Oh…you HATE them…I do too, man. I do too. The charm of Twitter is that you have to write words to express your point. The sad part of Twitter is that people can’t spell (even with a Smartphone), can’t form whole sentences and sound ridiculous. The Gucci Mane rant was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen but damn…why are there periods in random. ass places, Guc’? Instagram is why women have left Twitter in the dust though. You don’t need a personality when you’re taking pictures of yourself in a dirty bathroom mirror with water spots dotting the bottom of your filtered posts. James just pointed out something really poignant about Instagram women but I won’t repeat it because…it’s not like those girls can read it, right? Bunch of THOTs.

#FelonCrushFriday. Remember when that doofy shit happened? Women need to explain why that was ever a thing. Not to me, though; I saw how ridiculous most of you all were on Father’s Day. How did you convince yourselves this was okay? The worst part about it all is that it spread SO quickly. I mean, I’m sitting back watching my Twitter timeline and I see the same felon that was on my Instagram feed. Then I open Facebook and I see the same felon that was in my homegirl’s GroupMe conversation. What makes it even worse is that I watched the BET Awards and I saw the same felon being mentioned by a famous THOT that was…play me the hell off, James.

Facebook died when old people could get accounts. I hate everything about Facebook. I hate the women so in love and insecure about their relationships that every uploaded picture is of her and her man doing…stuff. Mundane, pointless, annoying, stupid stuff that only serves as a confirmation to themselves that their boyfriend is theirs and only theirs. Crazy THOTs. I hate every teenaged picture of me floating around that terrible place. I don’t want to play Slotomania Slot Machines, yet I get invited twice daily by weird old women that probably use their two index fingers to type Facebook chat messages to people that aren’t even logged on. I hate Facebook so much. I really do; my feed is filled with God and Worldstar fights. Dear Jeebus, can you just send BOTH of these people to Hell for being douches? That actually might be my next status. Just pray for the babies and the THOTs, please. Play me off, James.

A.J. Armstrong really doesn’t get you people. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. He also understands the irony of sharing this with his Facebook friends so…shut up

Homecoming King

I’ve never been voted most likely to do anything. God willing, I’ll never become famous, infamous, scandalous, or a national story. The most attention-grabbing prom date wasn’t on my arm and Homecoming King went to somebody else. I’m not popular AT ALL. I’ve never trolled for followers, got naked for Likes, or asked celebs to ‘#FB’. My blogs aren’t any more popular, either. My own friends and family don’t even read these posts. They’ll share them, sure, but I can bet that if I got them away from their phones and computers and asked what they liked about what I’ve written, they would search their brains just trying to remember the title. I’m not popular and you know what? I WOULDN’T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY. I can get away with so much more shit.

Being popular means you have to appeal to a large group of people in some way. Being infamous suggests you cherish the thought of carrying around a bad reputation. Being Nobody gives you the freedom to be both, because who really cares, right? If I was out here giving away turkeys like Nino Brown or driving old people to bingo or some magnanimous shit like that, it would be hard to maintain that goodwill in three hours when I shoot a mall Santa with a pellet gun. Not that I would go all Riley Freeman on Santa, but you get the point; I like having the option.

How many popular people actually can do what they REALLY want without losing admirers or being followed by a crowd that is now laughing at them? Kanye West is now a caricature sketch that nobody really takes seriously, Justin Bieber shocked the world when he wasn’t as Canadian-ly humble as we thought, and Hitler’s infamy is his only narrative (and rightfully so). That’s kind of why I oddly admire George W. Bush. That guy was an absolute Nobody that just so happened to be related to some popular people and he never failed to remind us how much he didn’t care about our perceptions of him. But then again, he’s a Texan and they’ll be seceding from the rest of the country pretty soon anyway so that probably doesn’t count.

Being Nobody isn’t about being anonymous as much as it’s about not letting people affect your choices and having titles and labels define you.

All I’m saying is being popular is hard work. Being the enemy is pretty tough, too. But being Nobody is so unique and refreshing, I wonder why more people don’t do it. The constraints are lifted, the expectations are of your own creation, and the sheep around you become blindingly white. I’m fully aware of what others want to hear but I’m too busy setting up pig’s blood over your homecoming stage to care. Happy *expletive* New Year, yo.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities; the blog site that is- and will forever be- proudly sponsored by Nobody.

Asshole

“Why do you suck so much at this game?”

“Because…fuck you. That’s why.”

Dictionary.com defines asshole as ‘a stupid, mean, or contemptible person’. I’m surprised somebody actually defined that word. I don’t think that really accurately defines it, though. An asshole, to me, is somebody that does things out of spite and is intelligent enough to make those spiteful things clever. An asshole won’t send a Father’s Day card to a couple that had an abortion; an asshole would buy the card, rip it in half, write ‘Almost…whew’ under the printed text, and hand deliver it to them during a quiet Sunday dinner. Well, that might be a little mean but it DAMN sure isn’t stupid.

Ignore my last post; that was me being an asshole. This is me trying to explain the inner workings of asshole-ness to you all. This is me separating the assholes from the immature audience that will just shout (or type) profanities for no other reason besides immaturity. Fuck that shit. Fuck it to hell. Fuckitty fuck-fuck, B. I’m an asshole; not an immature shit-talker that talks shit because shit is a really cool word to say over and over. I mean…SHIT.

Asshole is a term too widely used, as far as I’m concerned. That racist cop stopping young Black males in Vance County for no reason other than being Black isn’t an asshole; he’s a racist cop that loathes his life. His wife has been breaking scales for the last 12 years and his son dressed up as his favorite rapper for Halloween. Of course he’s going to be all in my shit. That’s not an asshole. That’s a guy frustrated that his shift prevents him from going to the VIP room for happy endings at Christie’s Cabaret.

Let’s talk REGULAR assholes. Regular assholes shut down the government over healthcare. Regular assholes become Business majors and explain to you how difficult being a Business major is. Regular assholes say they’re flirts but get mad when somebody takes those flirts seriously. Regular assholes are Red Sox and Yankees fans.

Now, let’s talk REAL assholes. Real assholes snatch bags from kids with crutches on Halloween. Real assholes go to war without any approval from the United Nations and forces a nation to sigh and vote for a Black man to take his position. A real asshole Rick rolls me while I’m looking up racist George Bush moments. Real assholes are evil geniuses. Real assholes killed Mufasa and blamed the dark skinned lion. Bill O’Reilly is a real asshole; that man is smart enough to evoke rage in Black men and, in turn, bolsters his ratings. You genius, you.

Am I REALLY an asshole? I’d like to think so but I don’t think I am. I’m just a guy that saw the deep end and drowned a baby gerbil in it. I’ll row by in my canoe and poke fun at your cruise ship, yes, but that’s not really an ass move. That’s just a guy that has just given up on the world and does what the MOTHERFUCK he feels like doing. This is a guy that went to Boston and counted all the Black people he saw (17) and kept a mental note just in case he wants to hold a rally in a hotel ballroom promoting the expansion of Mrs. Winner’s to The Hub. Yeah…no, I’m not quite the asshole you think I am but, Lord willing, I will be.

A.J. Armstrong is not a complete asshole; he only plays one on blogs. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities.