THOT

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTOBER 1991

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

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

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

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

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

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

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

“$300.”

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

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

“$250?”

“$250.”

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

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

FEBRUARY 1996

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

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

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