January

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

Asshat

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

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

“New Year, New Me!”

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

“No more new baby faaaaaaathers/mothers…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 2, 2041

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“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 55th 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.