a.j.

Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

“Joan was quizzical; studied pataphysical

Science in the home.

Late nights all alone with a test tube.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine,

Calls her on the phone.

“Can I take you out to the pictures,

Joa, oa, oa, oan?”

But as she’s getting ready to go,

A knock comes on the door…”

Do you know the story of Victor? Did you empathize with his heartache? Could you fault him for delving into his experiments as an escape from his sorrow? Seriously…have you heard this story? The one about the young scientist chipping away at human limitation, one oversized limb at a time? Can you imagine yourself as the engineer of such a destructive force? Do you know the story of Victor and the creature that destroyed things that did not understand him? Do you know the story of the creature that came to be known as Frankenstein? Surely you know how this creature evokes fear and revulsion amongst the “civil” world? Do you know the story of Victor Frankenstein, the creator of a savage that has taken the brunt of the burden for his own indiscretion?

They’re hopeless, and want what you have. They want your opportunity, your privilege, your resources; hell, they’ll settle for your general right to exist. What they have is a set of very limited options and detrimental influences. They’re hopeless, and will TAKE what you have, right? If that were even possible. If they weren’t confined to the South Side of Chicago, tucked conveniently away and left to prey on each other, that is. The savages- by design- have their habitat, and you have yours.

Has history painted Victor in nearly the same light as his creation? Or has the iniquity fallen solely on a creature that struggled to come to terms with such a dismal reality? Why is there no outcry for the lack of opportunity by those with the ability to provide such? Why is one viewed as a sympathetic figure, while the other has been labeled a savage nuisance? Furthermore, why is their so-called “barbarity” met with a convenient obliviousness? Why is their existence condemned?

Accountability rarely falls onto those in position to create change. That responsibility somehow falls onto those trapped in an environment of someone else’s creation. Savages created and placed in less than ideal conditions…

Victor eventually came to understand the error in his judgment. His recklessness afforded him a place as the victim. Hindsight has deemed him the tragic genius. He was unfortunate enough to create something that should not have been and a system in place that he himself would object to. He is pitied, while the true victims are admonished. But pointing out that dichotomy is frowned upon…

The protests and discussions are all well and fine. Town halls to address Black on Black violence open a very important dialogue, but where do YOU go after you leave these conventions? Home, away from the turmoil that surrounds the very people you claim to “educate” and “help”. Weird how quickly hollow intelligence dissolves into an obtuse, sheltered, wiggity-wack bunch of fuckboys, huh?

Yet you come and tell them they’re all a bunch of insensible animals…

Trapped. Isolated. Far-removed. But THEY’RE the ones lacking self-awareness…

Do you remember when the savage murdered Frankenstein’s family? You don’t, because that literary device just may make you face your guilt. And who wants that when deflecting is simpler, right? Right??

You remember the monster. You remember the damage, disruption, and disorder. The unabashed anger and brazen savagery from this beast. But do you remember how he was created? South Side wasn’t made by Us; it was created.

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

The 13th Floor

“Something’s gotta change

Sounds of laughter and happiness turn my teardrops to rain

Been bearing this burden for too many of my days

Looks like breezes of Autumn done finally blew my way

Like memories of yesterday…”

-“13^th Floor/Growing Old”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agamemnon’s Manifesto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

January 2, 2041

“Aye! Aye!! Come here, gul! Slim, you! Redtail! Redtail!! I know you hear me, gul! Why you gotta be like that gul?? Come on now, gul! Don’t be cruel, gul!”

My 55^th birthday party (which WILL be at The Park at Fourteenth in D.C. – or whatever replaces it) will play out JUST like that. I’m gonna see to that. By then, I figure the kids will be onto something else, so my pants will be alllllllll the way off my ass. Red Berry Ciroc for everybody! I’ll dance in my own world to the hits of my time: everything from “Gangsta’s Paradise” to “Right Thurr” will have the chickenheads…um…chickenheading…? Trust me, DJ Soulja Boy will have my Old School night jammin’! Yeeeaaah…ooooooohhhhhhh! Kill ‘em, Terio! Better yet, just manage your Huddle House. Sorry for the interruption, T. Feed ‘em. Girbaud jeans, Iceberg sweaters, and, of course, the final wardrobe piece of a man who’s lost touch with the times and couldn’t care less about it: the infamous Flying Durag.

Look, old people. 55 ain’t really that old. You can still do plenty of things like…I don’t know…use your Wii Fit twice a month and buy iPhones and use them to actually call people. Okay…those weird “dances” you do when “All Night Long” plays do make me chuckle a bit, I admit. Seriously, though; 55 is only old to a 27 year-old Black male that was fairly certain (and a little disappointed) that he’d be gunned down by SOMEBODY by now. I guess an awkward Rumba to ol’ Lionel is in order for me, too.

55 isn’t old at all. 55 is when you…settle down (maybe…? I don’t know how this life thing works) and read actual newspapers and suddenly forget how to use a computer. But it’s also around that glorious time you just stop caring. You fart in public (although SOME of you younger folk should be ashamed of yourselves; you ain’t earned that yet!), write checks at the grocery store, and enjoy how people’s opinions no longer matter. Let’s be clear: I do some sociopathic things but if I wear black FUBU jean shorts on U. St. on a Friday night, I’ll fall apart. 55 makes you blind to all that. Hence, the infamous Flying Durag.

“THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK! *Loses breath* THESE FOLK WON’T HOLD ME BACK!” Listen to that Rick Ross song again; he got tired after repeating it twice and fell off beat! Listen! Anyway…

I can see my birthday party now: all of my friends gathered around and their wives and husbands side-eyeing and judging them for still keeping in contact with me. The DJ spinning Youngbloodz records while I A-Town stomp happily. Me pulling on the elbow of some 22 year-old hardbody named Carlita telling her EXACTLY what I was doing in 2020. Flirting with the female bartender in an accent that inexplicably changed over the years to sound like the South Carolinian and Southern Georgian roots that combined to make me. And that damn infamous Flying Durag. That glorious Flying Durag. It’s almost as good as an A.A.R.P. card: you might not like me but, damnit, you will respect me for living this long! There I will stand: dressed in my leather and my Timbs like it’s 1998, throwing money at the yellow broads (do older men just get older and suddenly like light-skinned joints exclusively? Always wondered that. I’ll do some research…), and banging on the DJ table, yelling for him to play some Ma$e. With my infamous Flying Durag flowing in the breeze the entire time. Now, you tell ME: who hot, who not??

A.J. Armstrong looks forward to putting his arm around a young man wearing an ‘I’m a 2010s baby’ shirt and consoling him. He just doesn’t know, the poor soul. Saying I’m a 2010s baby is like yelling ‘vote or perish because of your lack of participation’ when the cooler kids just scream ‘vote or die’. Just saying. He’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. My born date is also 1.2.86. Just in case you didn’t get the context clues. I want presents. Good presents. Amazing presents for entertaining you all. Hit me up for ideas on my presents. Seriously. You have less than two months. And don’t laugh, y’all; we’re all gonna get old at the same time. Have a nice day and get off my lawn.

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.