President

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

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

Jump Off

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

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

OCTOBER 1991

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

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

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

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

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

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

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

“$300.”

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

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

“$250?”

“$250.”

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

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

FEBRUARY 1996

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

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

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