Jenna Jameson Is Having a Baby!
Jenna Jameson announced that she's having a baby...so what's the good news?!
She was a porn star - the only good thing I see coming out of this, is when she's in delivery...she won't feel the need to push!
Good thing Jenna is out of the business now. Imagine her working throughout her pregnancy without taking maternity leave...who'd wanna watch that flick?
Poor kid; he will always be the child of an ex-porn star. His father's job ain't so bad, he's a martial artist - he gets paid to kick ass...his mom...got paid to lick 'em!
I really do feel sorry for this child; when he's in kindergarten doing arts & crafts and he has to draw a portrait of his mom...he gonna run out of pink crayon!
- Mista Mo
Monday, September 01, 2008
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
My "Peace" on Hope
I'm here to talk about one of the main driving forces of all human existence - this incredible force is called hope.
Because of hope, it helps us live another day; even though not all of us may want to.
Hope is why we go out of our way to make charitable donations. People give to charity hoping it will make a difference...others give it...hoping it will make a difference on their tax return!
Hope gives us the ability to aspire, the ability to persist, the ability to persevere. Take a look at those body builders for example; how do they get so humongous?
Was this achievable because of hope?
Yes...including training, diet and lots of steroids.
In times of trouble, hope will make you take desperate measures; because of hope, you'll pray to God...even if you're an atheist!
“Hey God, I know I don’t believe in you, but just in case you do exist...I need a job!”
Hope is an on-going thing; no matter if you're going through good or bad times, it's never ending.
People in single parent homes are working two jobs hoping to make ends meet. Low income families have to carefully budget hoping to stretch that dollar for another day. Many spend their last dollar on a lottery ticket hoping to strike it rich; then when they do...they're hoping they don't get robbed!
Hope will always exist especially when it comes to
potential relationships; actually hope is the only reason why men take women out on dates!
But in actual relationships, men and women hope for different things; especially on their wedding day. The Bride's hoping for a large wedding, the Groom's hoping for a small one. The Bride's hoping for an expensive wedding, the Groom's hoping for a cheap one.
The Bride's hoping to have a great wedding; the Groom just wants to get to the honeymoon!
Hope plays a big role in every marriage; some positive, some negative. When couples marry, they take a vow to have and to hold till death do us part.
Then after a year of marriage, and they get into a heated argument, they hope death will take them right there on the spot!
(Hoping the Grim Reaper will bump them up that waiting list!)
Now not all hope is genuine; some of it is wishful thinking - and wishful thinking is the ugly version of hope.
Wishful thinking is hope's less attractive identical twin.
Wishful thinking is so ugly...he almost looks fraternal!
At first, the two are hard to tell apart; but this is how you can see the difference. If you believe there's light at the end of the tunnel, that's hope!
But if you got your head in the clouds... then that's wishful thinking!
They both maybe wearing forest green, but you know what they say: the grass is always greener on the other side!
Hope brings people together; because of it, we anticipate the company and warmth of our loved ones. Some of us hope to spend time with friends and family on the weekend...the rest of us are hoping to get drunk!
Hey I didn't say your friend or your family member had to be an actual human being, sometimes it's just a bottle of Labatt Blue!
Many of us are hoping that the next generation will be better than the last; we even hope our offspring grows up to become law abiding citizens...so we have more than one just in case!
(At least with two or more kids...you'll have a fighting chance!)
We all hope to live in a world that is free of crime; a world that is caution free. We leave our cars in public parking hoping that when we get back, it will still be there.
But if you drive a piece of crap...you hope it won't be there when you get back!
(Now that's wishful thinking; and it's old and beat up just like the car you drive!)
As I said earlier, hope is the driving force of all human existence; hope is the fuel that allows us to achieve our goals and make our dreams become reality.
If you don't remember anything I said tonight, remember this: Hope leads to determination, determination leads to action, and action leads to results...hopefully!!
When dealing with the harsh reality, hope helps us raise our emotional threshold; by hoping, it releases endorphins that help us cope in times of trouble.
Because of hope, the illogical becomes logical; the invisible becomes visible; and the IMPOSSIBLE BECOMES POSSIBLE!
Because of hope, it helps us live another day; even though not all of us may want to.
Hope is why we go out of our way to make charitable donations. People give to charity hoping it will make a difference...others give it...hoping it will make a difference on their tax return!
Hope gives us the ability to aspire, the ability to persist, the ability to persevere. Take a look at those body builders for example; how do they get so humongous?
Was this achievable because of hope?
Yes...including training, diet and lots of steroids.
In times of trouble, hope will make you take desperate measures; because of hope, you'll pray to God...even if you're an atheist!
“Hey God, I know I don’t believe in you, but just in case you do exist...I need a job!”
Hope is an on-going thing; no matter if you're going through good or bad times, it's never ending.
People in single parent homes are working two jobs hoping to make ends meet. Low income families have to carefully budget hoping to stretch that dollar for another day. Many spend their last dollar on a lottery ticket hoping to strike it rich; then when they do...they're hoping they don't get robbed!
Hope will always exist especially when it comes to
potential relationships; actually hope is the only reason why men take women out on dates!
But in actual relationships, men and women hope for different things; especially on their wedding day. The Bride's hoping for a large wedding, the Groom's hoping for a small one. The Bride's hoping for an expensive wedding, the Groom's hoping for a cheap one.
The Bride's hoping to have a great wedding; the Groom just wants to get to the honeymoon!
Hope plays a big role in every marriage; some positive, some negative. When couples marry, they take a vow to have and to hold till death do us part.
Then after a year of marriage, and they get into a heated argument, they hope death will take them right there on the spot!
(Hoping the Grim Reaper will bump them up that waiting list!)
Now not all hope is genuine; some of it is wishful thinking - and wishful thinking is the ugly version of hope.
Wishful thinking is hope's less attractive identical twin.
Wishful thinking is so ugly...he almost looks fraternal!
At first, the two are hard to tell apart; but this is how you can see the difference. If you believe there's light at the end of the tunnel, that's hope!
But if you got your head in the clouds... then that's wishful thinking!
They both maybe wearing forest green, but you know what they say: the grass is always greener on the other side!
Hope brings people together; because of it, we anticipate the company and warmth of our loved ones. Some of us hope to spend time with friends and family on the weekend...the rest of us are hoping to get drunk!
Hey I didn't say your friend or your family member had to be an actual human being, sometimes it's just a bottle of Labatt Blue!
Many of us are hoping that the next generation will be better than the last; we even hope our offspring grows up to become law abiding citizens...so we have more than one just in case!
(At least with two or more kids...you'll have a fighting chance!)
We all hope to live in a world that is free of crime; a world that is caution free. We leave our cars in public parking hoping that when we get back, it will still be there.
But if you drive a piece of crap...you hope it won't be there when you get back!
(Now that's wishful thinking; and it's old and beat up just like the car you drive!)
As I said earlier, hope is the driving force of all human existence; hope is the fuel that allows us to achieve our goals and make our dreams become reality.
If you don't remember anything I said tonight, remember this: Hope leads to determination, determination leads to action, and action leads to results...hopefully!!
When dealing with the harsh reality, hope helps us raise our emotional threshold; by hoping, it releases endorphins that help us cope in times of trouble.
Because of hope, the illogical becomes logical; the invisible becomes visible; and the IMPOSSIBLE BECOMES POSSIBLE!
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Love’s Many Personalities
Some of us talk about love like its one thing; we fail to remember that there are many different types of love.
We will question a couple’s love for one another if they don’t flaunt it in public. We’ll even question a person’s love, if he claims he’s in love with more than one person.
Well I’m here to break down some of the different types of love; before we judge someone, let’s have a better understanding of the different variations of love, and its functions.
Everyone’s capable of love; few are limited on how it should be expressed...and I believe I’m one them. Because of my upbringing, I’ve always had trouble fully expressing affectionate and romantic love.
My father was never verbal about the two; and if he was, then my mother must have been deaf in one ear!
I was brought up not to show affection; just by watching the actions of my father, I believed showing that type of love was unmanly and weak.
We males grew up as young boys watching stereotypical men on TV; Hercules had the strength of ten men - who wants a male hero with the emotions of ten women?
We’re looking for male role models that will beat the shit out of evil villains; not nurture them!
My father never actually said don’t show love towards a female, but as a child, I watched how he treated my poor mother; that man was very distant!
He was so cold, we never needed a refrigerator; my dad could keep chicken frozen…by placing it on his chest!
When he did show some affection, it was a special event; for us it was like watching a live musical - it even got rave reviews.
During my father’s great performance, my sisters and I would discuss it…like it was an actual show!
“Love the scene where dad hugged mom…too bad this production’s only in town for a few more hours.”
My mom always expressed her feelings; when she used to tell me that she loved me as a child, I didn’t understand it at the time; but it made me cringe.
I would say to her, “You’re expressing love again…I’m gonna tell dad!”
Let’s talk about romantic love.
What’s the difference between romantic, and sexual love?
Some people can easily get the two confused.
In my opinion, romantic love is something that can last for eternity; but sexual love, it can end up lasting only three minutes!
When it comes to sexual love, both parties have to be on the same page; you have to let your partner know right away that you’re in love with that person...but only when you’re horny!
What’s considered making love?
Well you’re going to have to ask a female about that one!
What I do know about making love?
In my head, love making is it’s a slower, softer version of fucking!
Sorry; what I should be telling you is that love making is more than just poking at a hole, and caressing body parts; it’s more than just a physical activity.
Making love is one of many ways to express your feelings for another person; love making is the combination of two bodies, and two souls communicating in a language that can’t be translated by human tongue; but can be heard by human ear…if you’re listening through a cup on the wall!
Nothing’s wrong with casual sex, but the act can be a fight for dominance, or a way to boost one’s ego; making love is about connecting & sharing.
I know; I didn’t think of that…a former unsatisfied sex partner told me that one!
But I’ll add this: during this process, two individuals becomes one: one heart beat… one thought…one condom!
What’s the difference between affectionate, and infatuated love?
Now I can admit; I’ve had infatuated love for many women…but affectionately loved only few.
Many times I’ve met women at a club, and thought it was love at first sight; then realized afterwards that my eye sight wasn’t that good!
Love is blind; instead of an arrow, Cupid should’ve hit me with a blind stick!
Now the women I actually did love didn’t even know it - why? Because when I’m in love, I feel vulnerable; when it comes to expressing feelings, I put up my guard; as Captain Picard would say “Shields up!”
I was never good at expressing love as a kid, but great at expressing anger & aggression.
If I fell for someone, I would express my love by punching her in the face!
I’m sure that just turned some of you off; but maybe I can win you back, by telling you that I violently fought my enemies with hugs and kisses!
They were ready for combat holding sticks and crowbars; so I came prepared with lipstick!
(I just wanted to be the first hero with the emotions of ten women!)
There was a girl I loved in Junior High by the name of Anne Bassoon.
Maybe this was puppy love, but at the time, I can say that I truly loved her…but Anne Bassoon hated my guts!
She hated me so much she even got her older brother after me!
I was trying to express to her brother how much I loved her; I even said to him,
“Look at her black eye; if that ain’t love…what is?!
And if you come any closer…I’m gonna be forced to pull out my lipstick!”
Let’s talk about unconditional love.
Part of unconditional love is when you can view a person’s flaws without judgment.
I’m proud to say that I love my two sons unconditionally; even when they get out of hand…and we all know how I express my love!
I love my wife unconditionally…but under certain conditions!
I tell her,
“I will always love you no matter what…as long as you agree to my terms.”
She knows what my terms are; a carb diet, and a Stairmaster!
Do we love all our family members unconditionally, or is that obligatory love?
We have serial killers who have committed the worst crime known to man; and they have siblings who love them to death!
Love them to death?
I wish they could use that as a form of capital punishment!
Obligatory love for family is a reality; if my mom happened to be an evil bitch, I guess I’d be obligated to love her; because she didn’t have to carry me for 9 months.
Look’s like I’m obligated to love my father, because he could’ve kicked me out the house at 9 months!
Every time I pass by a trash can, I say to myself “This could’ve been home…but it’s a lot warmer out here than my dad’s house!”
Obligatory love can be beneficial at times when it comes to family.
Years ago, I was arrested for assault; my older sister was the one who bailed me out.
I guess she felt responsible; after all I did get the lipstick out of her make-up kit!
I have to say it pays to have other siblings during a time of need; when my friends tell me they’re an only child, I say to them
“If you get arrested…who’s gonna bail you out?
I hope you don’t call my sister; I need her just in case I get arrested for tax evasion!”
We all say we have love for our country; is this patriotic love, or is this also obligatory?
Saying you love your country is simply the right thing to say! What would happen if you said you hated it? Patriots won’t be attacking you with hugs and kisses!
Because of obligation, no matter how shitty things get, you can’t say your country sucks; only an illegal alien can say that!
(You can secretly agree with him…then have him deported.)
Now let’s talk about passionate love; how many of us really know this type?
Passionate Love is the driving force of all things created by man; without it, nothing manmade would exist.
Because of passion, George Washington Carver was passionate enough to invent peanut butter!
If it weren’t for peanut butter, where would jam be today?
Passion makes the impossible, possible.
If the Wright Brothers didn’t have passion for inventing the plane, we’d still be going on vacation by boat!
We would have to travel 7 months, just to go on a 7 day vacation!
Passionate love is something we feel in the middle of our chest; whether we feel it for another individual, career, or a simple hobby.
Though what we feel in our chest isn’t always passionate love; sometimes it’s just a heart attack!
(Looks like someone had a passion for fried food!)
This is all I have on this subject, but there are so many other types of love I didn’t get into, like platonic love; but for all you guys who has a hot chick as a best friend…that’s just plain evil!
The closest the two of you will ever have sex, is when you name your right-hand after her!
The reason why love can’t be easily defined is because love in itself isn’t just a single emotion; every time you feel love, it’s a combination of another sensation.
Now knowing this, I’d like to add more compassion to the love I feel inside; so that one day I can compassionately love and help…
ALL PEOPLE!
We will question a couple’s love for one another if they don’t flaunt it in public. We’ll even question a person’s love, if he claims he’s in love with more than one person.
Well I’m here to break down some of the different types of love; before we judge someone, let’s have a better understanding of the different variations of love, and its functions.
Everyone’s capable of love; few are limited on how it should be expressed...and I believe I’m one them. Because of my upbringing, I’ve always had trouble fully expressing affectionate and romantic love.
My father was never verbal about the two; and if he was, then my mother must have been deaf in one ear!
I was brought up not to show affection; just by watching the actions of my father, I believed showing that type of love was unmanly and weak.
We males grew up as young boys watching stereotypical men on TV; Hercules had the strength of ten men - who wants a male hero with the emotions of ten women?
We’re looking for male role models that will beat the shit out of evil villains; not nurture them!
My father never actually said don’t show love towards a female, but as a child, I watched how he treated my poor mother; that man was very distant!
He was so cold, we never needed a refrigerator; my dad could keep chicken frozen…by placing it on his chest!
When he did show some affection, it was a special event; for us it was like watching a live musical - it even got rave reviews.
During my father’s great performance, my sisters and I would discuss it…like it was an actual show!
“Love the scene where dad hugged mom…too bad this production’s only in town for a few more hours.”
My mom always expressed her feelings; when she used to tell me that she loved me as a child, I didn’t understand it at the time; but it made me cringe.
I would say to her, “You’re expressing love again…I’m gonna tell dad!”
Let’s talk about romantic love.
What’s the difference between romantic, and sexual love?
Some people can easily get the two confused.
In my opinion, romantic love is something that can last for eternity; but sexual love, it can end up lasting only three minutes!
When it comes to sexual love, both parties have to be on the same page; you have to let your partner know right away that you’re in love with that person...but only when you’re horny!
What’s considered making love?
Well you’re going to have to ask a female about that one!
What I do know about making love?
In my head, love making is it’s a slower, softer version of fucking!
Sorry; what I should be telling you is that love making is more than just poking at a hole, and caressing body parts; it’s more than just a physical activity.
Making love is one of many ways to express your feelings for another person; love making is the combination of two bodies, and two souls communicating in a language that can’t be translated by human tongue; but can be heard by human ear…if you’re listening through a cup on the wall!
Nothing’s wrong with casual sex, but the act can be a fight for dominance, or a way to boost one’s ego; making love is about connecting & sharing.
I know; I didn’t think of that…a former unsatisfied sex partner told me that one!
But I’ll add this: during this process, two individuals becomes one: one heart beat… one thought…one condom!
What’s the difference between affectionate, and infatuated love?
Now I can admit; I’ve had infatuated love for many women…but affectionately loved only few.
Many times I’ve met women at a club, and thought it was love at first sight; then realized afterwards that my eye sight wasn’t that good!
Love is blind; instead of an arrow, Cupid should’ve hit me with a blind stick!
Now the women I actually did love didn’t even know it - why? Because when I’m in love, I feel vulnerable; when it comes to expressing feelings, I put up my guard; as Captain Picard would say “Shields up!”
I was never good at expressing love as a kid, but great at expressing anger & aggression.
If I fell for someone, I would express my love by punching her in the face!
I’m sure that just turned some of you off; but maybe I can win you back, by telling you that I violently fought my enemies with hugs and kisses!
They were ready for combat holding sticks and crowbars; so I came prepared with lipstick!
(I just wanted to be the first hero with the emotions of ten women!)
There was a girl I loved in Junior High by the name of Anne Bassoon.
Maybe this was puppy love, but at the time, I can say that I truly loved her…but Anne Bassoon hated my guts!
She hated me so much she even got her older brother after me!
I was trying to express to her brother how much I loved her; I even said to him,
“Look at her black eye; if that ain’t love…what is?!
And if you come any closer…I’m gonna be forced to pull out my lipstick!”
Let’s talk about unconditional love.
Part of unconditional love is when you can view a person’s flaws without judgment.
I’m proud to say that I love my two sons unconditionally; even when they get out of hand…and we all know how I express my love!
I love my wife unconditionally…but under certain conditions!
I tell her,
“I will always love you no matter what…as long as you agree to my terms.”
She knows what my terms are; a carb diet, and a Stairmaster!
Do we love all our family members unconditionally, or is that obligatory love?
We have serial killers who have committed the worst crime known to man; and they have siblings who love them to death!
Love them to death?
I wish they could use that as a form of capital punishment!
Obligatory love for family is a reality; if my mom happened to be an evil bitch, I guess I’d be obligated to love her; because she didn’t have to carry me for 9 months.
Look’s like I’m obligated to love my father, because he could’ve kicked me out the house at 9 months!
Every time I pass by a trash can, I say to myself “This could’ve been home…but it’s a lot warmer out here than my dad’s house!”
Obligatory love can be beneficial at times when it comes to family.
Years ago, I was arrested for assault; my older sister was the one who bailed me out.
I guess she felt responsible; after all I did get the lipstick out of her make-up kit!
I have to say it pays to have other siblings during a time of need; when my friends tell me they’re an only child, I say to them
“If you get arrested…who’s gonna bail you out?
I hope you don’t call my sister; I need her just in case I get arrested for tax evasion!”
We all say we have love for our country; is this patriotic love, or is this also obligatory?
Saying you love your country is simply the right thing to say! What would happen if you said you hated it? Patriots won’t be attacking you with hugs and kisses!
Because of obligation, no matter how shitty things get, you can’t say your country sucks; only an illegal alien can say that!
(You can secretly agree with him…then have him deported.)
Now let’s talk about passionate love; how many of us really know this type?
Passionate Love is the driving force of all things created by man; without it, nothing manmade would exist.
Because of passion, George Washington Carver was passionate enough to invent peanut butter!
If it weren’t for peanut butter, where would jam be today?
Passion makes the impossible, possible.
If the Wright Brothers didn’t have passion for inventing the plane, we’d still be going on vacation by boat!
We would have to travel 7 months, just to go on a 7 day vacation!
Passionate love is something we feel in the middle of our chest; whether we feel it for another individual, career, or a simple hobby.
Though what we feel in our chest isn’t always passionate love; sometimes it’s just a heart attack!
(Looks like someone had a passion for fried food!)
This is all I have on this subject, but there are so many other types of love I didn’t get into, like platonic love; but for all you guys who has a hot chick as a best friend…that’s just plain evil!
The closest the two of you will ever have sex, is when you name your right-hand after her!
The reason why love can’t be easily defined is because love in itself isn’t just a single emotion; every time you feel love, it’s a combination of another sensation.
Now knowing this, I’d like to add more compassion to the love I feel inside; so that one day I can compassionately love and help…
ALL PEOPLE!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Rising Son of a Preacher Man
Many of you may not know this, but I’m the son of a Pentecostal Church Minister.
Growing up as a Pastor’s kid was pretty challenging back in those days; being the child of a Minister is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy…unless it’s my Mother-in-law!
I never wanted to be a PK; if I had a choice, I’d prefer to be a child of a crack head!
(At least people on crack are entertaining.)
If you’re a child of some low life on crack, the expectations are low; You could be looking for food out of a garbage can…it can’t be worse than being a druggie!
Your old man’s sucking dick for crack; you can’t do worse than that!
I lived a very sheltered life; I barely knew anything out side of the church…I felt like a bubble boy.
(A bubble boy; I didn’t even know what that was!)
I didn’t know anything outside of the church; back in my day, kids idolized Michael Jackson…oh not me; my idol was former Televangelist…Jim Bakker!
Watching hours of ‘The PTL Club’ was my personal Thriller.
Growing up, my siblings and I were not allowed to play outside; playing with heathen children was forbidden.
These kids were playing tag and street hockey; to my dad, that was the work of the Devil!
My dad didn’t want me outside - he was only trying to protect me; with all the kidnappings he heard about on the news, he was only making sure I didn’t end up getting snatched; he’d say, “If you get kidnapped, who’s gonna run my church?!”
I knew very little about the outside world, church was all I knew. I’ve been in church for so long, I couldn’t wait to see what ‘sin’ was like.
I was so curious back in those days; I’d pay anyone just to pick a combination lock.
I wasn’t always a Pastor’s kid; my parent’s weren’t always Christians.
We were sinners going happily straight to hell; then for some strange reason, my heathen reggae music, marijuana smoking father decided to go to church…bad move!
I was too young at the time, but I’m sure he tried to get out; then someone offered him Pastor hood!
He took it, and who could blame him.
When you’re the Pastor of your own church, you get to talk down to people, threaten sinners, and scare people into paying their tithes and offering…who could turn that down!
From then forward, I was transformed into a PK; by the way, this is worse than getting bitten by a radioactive spider.
(A Pastor’s kid can’t fight the devil, and he sure can’t beat Dr. Octopus.)
My father’s been a Pastor, for 30 years now; till this very day, Christians say to me “If your dad’s a Minister, what happened to you?”
What happened to me? Hey - I’m sorry for not walking in my dad’s foot steps; but apparently, those foot prints were covered in snow!
(There was a snow storm that day; I came out a few hours too late!)
When you’re the Preacher’s kid, you’re expected to carry the torch; if I decide on being anything other than a Minister, that’s a disappointment.
I could become the next Goodwill Ambassador of The United Nations, and members from my church would say “He’s an Ambassador? Where did his father go wrong? Thank God my baby’s sucking dick for crack!”
Growing up in church, I didn’t realize the whole time I was in training.
I know kids who took karate lessons four times a month, now they’re black belts. I went to church three days a week, and it definitely didn’t make me a better Christian; at this point, I should be walking on water!
I had too many responsibilities. At 8 years old, I was one of the church musicians. I had to play the drums, keyboards, and bass…sometimes all at once!
If I could heal the sick, I would heal a leper just so he could give me a hand!
I also had to sing in the church choir, the youth choir, and the men’s choir; I sang till I had strep throat!
If it weren’t for my five sisters, I would’ve had to join the women’s choir!
I never got to enjoy any of my school breaks; every March Break, and summer holidays were terrible. During those times I had to live at church; church was my summer camp!
(Well, minus the marshmallows, and the corny camp songs.)
(At my “summer camp”, you’d think we’d be allowed to reenact the last supper over a camp fire.)
During the year, I was at church pretty often; I had to go every Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday Morning and night.
Do you know what it’s like going to church three times a week?
Well imagine going to the Dentist three times a day! Yeah you won’t have gingivitis, but your gums would be raw as hell!
Growing up in church, we believed in water baptism. To be born again, your spiritual transformation happens in the pool; if you’re a midget…it’s a puddle.
Because we believed in the trinity, I was baptized in the name of the father, the son, and the holy-ghost, which was a mistake; because the father, the son, and the holy-ghost knew I couldn’t swim!
While I was in that pool drowning, I was waiting for one of them to throw me a lifesaver!
My father was the one who baptized me; you’d think he’d prep me by giving me a couple of swimming lessons. If I died…who would run his church?
To end things off, I think you all get the point that I never enjoyed being a Pastor’s kid; but the truth is, we all have to go through some form of chaos to evolve.
I’m no longer religious, but being apart of that organization is apart of my life’s training for something better yet to come; and without that experience…
THIS SON CAN NEVER RISE!
Growing up as a Pastor’s kid was pretty challenging back in those days; being the child of a Minister is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy…unless it’s my Mother-in-law!
I never wanted to be a PK; if I had a choice, I’d prefer to be a child of a crack head!
(At least people on crack are entertaining.)
If you’re a child of some low life on crack, the expectations are low; You could be looking for food out of a garbage can…it can’t be worse than being a druggie!
Your old man’s sucking dick for crack; you can’t do worse than that!
I lived a very sheltered life; I barely knew anything out side of the church…I felt like a bubble boy.
(A bubble boy; I didn’t even know what that was!)
I didn’t know anything outside of the church; back in my day, kids idolized Michael Jackson…oh not me; my idol was former Televangelist…Jim Bakker!
Watching hours of ‘The PTL Club’ was my personal Thriller.
Growing up, my siblings and I were not allowed to play outside; playing with heathen children was forbidden.
These kids were playing tag and street hockey; to my dad, that was the work of the Devil!
My dad didn’t want me outside - he was only trying to protect me; with all the kidnappings he heard about on the news, he was only making sure I didn’t end up getting snatched; he’d say, “If you get kidnapped, who’s gonna run my church?!”
I knew very little about the outside world, church was all I knew. I’ve been in church for so long, I couldn’t wait to see what ‘sin’ was like.
I was so curious back in those days; I’d pay anyone just to pick a combination lock.
I wasn’t always a Pastor’s kid; my parent’s weren’t always Christians.
We were sinners going happily straight to hell; then for some strange reason, my heathen reggae music, marijuana smoking father decided to go to church…bad move!
I was too young at the time, but I’m sure he tried to get out; then someone offered him Pastor hood!
He took it, and who could blame him.
When you’re the Pastor of your own church, you get to talk down to people, threaten sinners, and scare people into paying their tithes and offering…who could turn that down!
From then forward, I was transformed into a PK; by the way, this is worse than getting bitten by a radioactive spider.
(A Pastor’s kid can’t fight the devil, and he sure can’t beat Dr. Octopus.)
My father’s been a Pastor, for 30 years now; till this very day, Christians say to me “If your dad’s a Minister, what happened to you?”
What happened to me? Hey - I’m sorry for not walking in my dad’s foot steps; but apparently, those foot prints were covered in snow!
(There was a snow storm that day; I came out a few hours too late!)
When you’re the Preacher’s kid, you’re expected to carry the torch; if I decide on being anything other than a Minister, that’s a disappointment.
I could become the next Goodwill Ambassador of The United Nations, and members from my church would say “He’s an Ambassador? Where did his father go wrong? Thank God my baby’s sucking dick for crack!”
Growing up in church, I didn’t realize the whole time I was in training.
I know kids who took karate lessons four times a month, now they’re black belts. I went to church three days a week, and it definitely didn’t make me a better Christian; at this point, I should be walking on water!
I had too many responsibilities. At 8 years old, I was one of the church musicians. I had to play the drums, keyboards, and bass…sometimes all at once!
If I could heal the sick, I would heal a leper just so he could give me a hand!
I also had to sing in the church choir, the youth choir, and the men’s choir; I sang till I had strep throat!
If it weren’t for my five sisters, I would’ve had to join the women’s choir!
I never got to enjoy any of my school breaks; every March Break, and summer holidays were terrible. During those times I had to live at church; church was my summer camp!
(Well, minus the marshmallows, and the corny camp songs.)
(At my “summer camp”, you’d think we’d be allowed to reenact the last supper over a camp fire.)
During the year, I was at church pretty often; I had to go every Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday Morning and night.
Do you know what it’s like going to church three times a week?
Well imagine going to the Dentist three times a day! Yeah you won’t have gingivitis, but your gums would be raw as hell!
Growing up in church, we believed in water baptism. To be born again, your spiritual transformation happens in the pool; if you’re a midget…it’s a puddle.
Because we believed in the trinity, I was baptized in the name of the father, the son, and the holy-ghost, which was a mistake; because the father, the son, and the holy-ghost knew I couldn’t swim!
While I was in that pool drowning, I was waiting for one of them to throw me a lifesaver!
My father was the one who baptized me; you’d think he’d prep me by giving me a couple of swimming lessons. If I died…who would run his church?
To end things off, I think you all get the point that I never enjoyed being a Pastor’s kid; but the truth is, we all have to go through some form of chaos to evolve.
I’m no longer religious, but being apart of that organization is apart of my life’s training for something better yet to come; and without that experience…
THIS SON CAN NEVER RISE!
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
My Mother-In-Flaw
There are only a few people throughout the history of mankind I can’t stand: Hitler, Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and Anne…my mother in law!
She’s not known to be a misanthrope, but if I heard she planned the attack on 911…I wouldn’t be surprised!
I know talking about mother-in-laws is hack, but hey; I can only speak from experience. If I was a pimp, I’d talk about smackin’ hoes.
I don’t get along with my mother-in-law, and I don’t think I ever will; but I have to put up with this woman, simply because she’s the mother of my loving wife Denise.
You may ask, “What is it like having a mother-in-law?” Well if I had to compare it, it would be like putting up with your room-mate’s smelly socks.
I simply don’t like this woman; she’s nothing but pure evil. I don’t know who’s worse: my mother-in-law…or the devil!
(In my opinion, she makes Satan look like a philanthropist!)
Anne is a scary woman: if it was Halloween, my costume would be in her image.
I would go out as Chucky, but he’s just not creepy enough.
Anne will do anything to get under my skin.
One time I drove 16 long hours to do a stand-up gig; when I got back, I was told that she accused me of having an affair!
She told Denise that I wasn’t out working, providing for my family; she told her I was straight out cheating!
First of all, I would never drive 16 hours to have an affair…I would book a flight!
Even then, while I’m sitting in first class, I’d be saying “This is an expensive plane ticket; this better be some good pussy!”
Some say when you marry your spouse, you marry the whole family.
Wow…that’s a lot of wedding bands!
I love my in-laws; I love them like my very own - but I’m sorry - we don’t have a commitment; my only commitment is to Denise.
I’ll keep Anne as my bona fide in-law…but with another mother-in-law on the side.
(A matter of fact, I’d drive 16 hours to visit her!)
Anne makes me sick; she’s like a virus that won’t go away.
Because of her, I walk around with medication; because you never know when my hatred’s going to act up!
This is a woman I can’t stand.
The truth is…I don’t think she can stand herself!
Anne’s not an unattractive woman, but I’m sure she has many broken mirrors!
Ever since I met her daughter, Anne always had something against me; she made this very clear.
The average mother-in-law would say “I don’t hate him; I just don’t know him.”
Anne would say “I hate him, and I don’t want to know him…if I do, I’d only hate him more.”
This woman dislikes me so much, the day I called her out on her accusations - she tried performing witch craft on me over the phone!
She chanted some evil spell which made me laugh at the time, but months later…I almost ended up in a car accident…twice!
Shortly after her voodoo demonstration, I slid off a slippery road and almost crashed into a cop car!
That wasn’t the bad part…the cop was still inside!
Then just recently I went into my car, turned on the ignition, and the air bag blew and completely shattered my windshield!
Luckily for me before I turned on the ignition, I had the side-window down; if I hadn’t done that, the pressure would have busted my ear drum…that would’ve been music to her ears!
Even worse; if that air bag went off while driving on the highway, I probably would have died!
The good thing with that possible scenario, Anne would come to my funeral, but she would show up in her most expensive dress!
(The same dress she would’ve worn ‘if’ she showed up to our wedding.)
After the air bag incident, Denise told her what happened; Anne didn’t even ask if I was okay or anything! All she said was “He didn’t survive did he? Damn; I got to take back this dress!”
I don’t trust Anne; I don’t even trust her around my kids!
When I’m not around, I know she’s telling them they aren’t mine; some how I get this feeling they think their dad’s Mekhi Phifer!
Denise’s father who past on, (May he rest in peace) didn’t like me either; but at least he had a legitimate reason; he found me arrogant, stubborn, and condescending…just like his good ol’ ex-wife.
But the good thing is, he never once showed it around his son-in-law; trust me that brother had me fooled!
I didn’t find out he hated me till the day of his funeral. I was so hurt when I found out…I almost didn’t show up!
The one thing I can say is we had one thing in common…we weren’t too crazy about Anne!
I never thought I could despise a woman so much.
The woman I thought I would hate the most, was Alexis from Dynasty!
I despise Anne so much, when she calls, I don’t even answer the receiver; I just throw the cordless phone to Denise.
Correction: I throw the phone at Denise!
Her mom calls three times a day, so that’s a black eye, a chipped tooth, and a concussion!
Whenever Denise and I get in an argument, and
I know I can’t hit her, I’d just say, “I hope your mother calls right about now!”
(Denise is so afraid of getting an ass whoopin’, she now turns off the ringer!)
Anne is doing anything she can to break up our marriage; but after Denise reads this, who needs her mom? Looks like I’m doing a fine job on my own.
Anne finds nothing good in me.
Denise could tell her that I saved 11 kids from a burning building; and she’d say, “I told you he’s no good!
If he’s willing to save 11 kids from a burning house, then they got to be his…or so he thinks!”
Good thing I don’t have to see her often, because she’s always working. A matter of fact, Anne’s a Nurse; she works at a mental institute. Because of her, I now believe that mental illness is contagious!
(That woman needs to take her crazy shots!)
When she calls, I tell Denise to put on a surgical mask…plus it will cover up that chipped tooth!
Sometimes I don’t know if I can take much more of this woman.
I’m surprised Denise didn’t come out like her; if she didn’t resemble her mother, I’d think she was adopted!
You may be saying that I’m way too harsh on my mother-in-law; no human is perfect.
This is true, but a flaw should never outshine a human being’s good qualities.
If it takes a flaw to define who you are as a person, then you’re no good to me…
OR TO THE REST OF SOCIETY!
She’s not known to be a misanthrope, but if I heard she planned the attack on 911…I wouldn’t be surprised!
I know talking about mother-in-laws is hack, but hey; I can only speak from experience. If I was a pimp, I’d talk about smackin’ hoes.
I don’t get along with my mother-in-law, and I don’t think I ever will; but I have to put up with this woman, simply because she’s the mother of my loving wife Denise.
You may ask, “What is it like having a mother-in-law?” Well if I had to compare it, it would be like putting up with your room-mate’s smelly socks.
I simply don’t like this woman; she’s nothing but pure evil. I don’t know who’s worse: my mother-in-law…or the devil!
(In my opinion, she makes Satan look like a philanthropist!)
Anne is a scary woman: if it was Halloween, my costume would be in her image.
I would go out as Chucky, but he’s just not creepy enough.
Anne will do anything to get under my skin.
One time I drove 16 long hours to do a stand-up gig; when I got back, I was told that she accused me of having an affair!
She told Denise that I wasn’t out working, providing for my family; she told her I was straight out cheating!
First of all, I would never drive 16 hours to have an affair…I would book a flight!
Even then, while I’m sitting in first class, I’d be saying “This is an expensive plane ticket; this better be some good pussy!”
Some say when you marry your spouse, you marry the whole family.
Wow…that’s a lot of wedding bands!
I love my in-laws; I love them like my very own - but I’m sorry - we don’t have a commitment; my only commitment is to Denise.
I’ll keep Anne as my bona fide in-law…but with another mother-in-law on the side.
(A matter of fact, I’d drive 16 hours to visit her!)
Anne makes me sick; she’s like a virus that won’t go away.
Because of her, I walk around with medication; because you never know when my hatred’s going to act up!
This is a woman I can’t stand.
The truth is…I don’t think she can stand herself!
Anne’s not an unattractive woman, but I’m sure she has many broken mirrors!
Ever since I met her daughter, Anne always had something against me; she made this very clear.
The average mother-in-law would say “I don’t hate him; I just don’t know him.”
Anne would say “I hate him, and I don’t want to know him…if I do, I’d only hate him more.”
This woman dislikes me so much, the day I called her out on her accusations - she tried performing witch craft on me over the phone!
She chanted some evil spell which made me laugh at the time, but months later…I almost ended up in a car accident…twice!
Shortly after her voodoo demonstration, I slid off a slippery road and almost crashed into a cop car!
That wasn’t the bad part…the cop was still inside!
Then just recently I went into my car, turned on the ignition, and the air bag blew and completely shattered my windshield!
Luckily for me before I turned on the ignition, I had the side-window down; if I hadn’t done that, the pressure would have busted my ear drum…that would’ve been music to her ears!
Even worse; if that air bag went off while driving on the highway, I probably would have died!
The good thing with that possible scenario, Anne would come to my funeral, but she would show up in her most expensive dress!
(The same dress she would’ve worn ‘if’ she showed up to our wedding.)
After the air bag incident, Denise told her what happened; Anne didn’t even ask if I was okay or anything! All she said was “He didn’t survive did he? Damn; I got to take back this dress!”
I don’t trust Anne; I don’t even trust her around my kids!
When I’m not around, I know she’s telling them they aren’t mine; some how I get this feeling they think their dad’s Mekhi Phifer!
Denise’s father who past on, (May he rest in peace) didn’t like me either; but at least he had a legitimate reason; he found me arrogant, stubborn, and condescending…just like his good ol’ ex-wife.
But the good thing is, he never once showed it around his son-in-law; trust me that brother had me fooled!
I didn’t find out he hated me till the day of his funeral. I was so hurt when I found out…I almost didn’t show up!
The one thing I can say is we had one thing in common…we weren’t too crazy about Anne!
I never thought I could despise a woman so much.
The woman I thought I would hate the most, was Alexis from Dynasty!
I despise Anne so much, when she calls, I don’t even answer the receiver; I just throw the cordless phone to Denise.
Correction: I throw the phone at Denise!
Her mom calls three times a day, so that’s a black eye, a chipped tooth, and a concussion!
Whenever Denise and I get in an argument, and
I know I can’t hit her, I’d just say, “I hope your mother calls right about now!”
(Denise is so afraid of getting an ass whoopin’, she now turns off the ringer!)
Anne is doing anything she can to break up our marriage; but after Denise reads this, who needs her mom? Looks like I’m doing a fine job on my own.
Anne finds nothing good in me.
Denise could tell her that I saved 11 kids from a burning building; and she’d say, “I told you he’s no good!
If he’s willing to save 11 kids from a burning house, then they got to be his…or so he thinks!”
Good thing I don’t have to see her often, because she’s always working. A matter of fact, Anne’s a Nurse; she works at a mental institute. Because of her, I now believe that mental illness is contagious!
(That woman needs to take her crazy shots!)
When she calls, I tell Denise to put on a surgical mask…plus it will cover up that chipped tooth!
Sometimes I don’t know if I can take much more of this woman.
I’m surprised Denise didn’t come out like her; if she didn’t resemble her mother, I’d think she was adopted!
You may be saying that I’m way too harsh on my mother-in-law; no human is perfect.
This is true, but a flaw should never outshine a human being’s good qualities.
If it takes a flaw to define who you are as a person, then you’re no good to me…
OR TO THE REST OF SOCIETY!
Saturday, January 28, 2006
The Magnum Opus of a Proud Dyslexic
About 10% of the North American population has some form of dyslexia; I happen to be one of them…I think it would’ve been easier dealing with ADD.
The reason why I'm writing this article is because I'm tired of people making fun of this disability.
Back in the day when people cracked their little jokes about dyslexics, I would laugh along with the group; after all…I didn’t want my crew to know I was one of them!
After being put in that position, I think I know what it’s like being in the closet!
My biggest fear was getting caught in the stairwell by my school mates; not for blowing another guy, but for trying to read a book out loud!
Dyslexia is one type of learning disability that affects a person's ability to read.
Being dyslexic didn't necessarily mean I couldn’t read; but reading a 350 page books wasn't something I took up as a regular hobby either.
A hobby is having a rock collection, or taking up photography; but for a dyslexic, reading is a god damn chore!
Improving my reading skills was such a slow process; when people in high school were reading “One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest” I was still trying to master “Clifford the Big Red Dog”!
Now I read pretty well...as long as I'm alone.
As long as I have some privacy, my reading is as good as a bad vocalist singing in the shower.
People would say to me, "When you lock yourself up in your bedroom like that, you almost sound like the president of a book club!"
Some dyslexics see words backwards; this was not always the case with me, but when I was a kid, I’d naturally viewed books from back to front.
Remembering my childhood years, I didn't see the first Star Wars movie when it came out, so I ended up reading the book. At the time I couldn’t understand why the book ended off with "A long time ago".
Till this very day I do have a problem with comprehension; comprehending what I just read is difficult depending on the subject matter.
All I can say is thank God for ‘Hustler’...I can just look at the pictures!
Do you know what it's like not being able to understand what you just read?
I could read a ransom note, and I’ll still be confused!
“This guy wants what? Tell the kids its supper time!”
I've struggled with dyslexia when I was younger, and didn't even know I had it.
No damage done; I knew people who were slow, and didn’t know they were retarded!
They’d hop on that special bus thinking they were riding in a big yellow limo.
I grew up in a West Indian household; in the West Indian community, there were no such thing as a disability or anything like that; if you're falling behind in school, there can't be an neurological explanation for it…you're just lazy!
You don’t get any special attention, no extra tutoring; they’d just try to beat the lazy out of you!
(To them it’s like beating dust out of an old rug.)
One of the reasons why I write today, is because when I was in the fourth grade, all of the students in my class had to write a short story; being considered to be one of the students who needed special attention, I came in third!
When the teacher called me up to receive my prize, one of the so-called smart kids almost had a heart attack; the good thing is he got to miss the rest of school.
How can a person who has a problem with reading and writing beat out most of his classmates?
Easy; it took creativity, imagination, and a passion for story telling…and it also helped that I had a crush on my Teacher!
(Good grades were the last thing on my list…I was trying to impress her.)
Now when I think about it, the only reason why I'm a writer today is because I was always told I could never be one.
I didn't become a writer out of ambition; I’m a writer because I’m hard headed.
Now I wish my Guidance counselor told me I could never become a Biologist.
The truth is I have more than just dyslexia; dyslexia only affects words and language; 'Dys' meaning 'difficulty' and 'lexia' meaning 'words'.
I also have dysgraphia which affects handwriting, and dyscalculia which responsible for poor mathematical skills; in my case these things are affected by the evil ‘dyslexia’.
If I knew this before, I might have been able to stop my crazy West Indian Father from trying to beat the laziness out of me!
I have very limited verbal skills; proper grammar, and pronunciation is a bitch!
I always had a problem pronouncing long words...even the shortest word was a sesquipedalian!
(Words like 'it' were a pain in the ass.)
Because of my problem with language, I learned to talk very late in life; my mom told me I didn't know how to fully talk till I was five!
Do you know what it’s like not being able to talk till the age of five?
People would ask me my name, and I had to mumble it!
Even till this day I have a really hard time learning other languages.
I don't know a single language other than English, and even that's a struggle!
I'm from Canada, a bilingual country; and I don't know a bit of French...but I took French emersion!
Whenever I’m in Quebec, and a Francophone says “Bonjour”, for some reason…I think it’s French for the N-word!
As I said earlier, having this disability affects my handwriting; people who’ve seen my writing calls it chicken scratch. But the truth is if you saw my writing, it's actually an insult to the chicken!
(Foghorn Leghorn from ‘Looney Toons’ would’ve been pissed.)
Spelling can also be affected by dyslexia.
I always knew I wasn't stupid, because I have a very high IQ; according to my test scores, I’m a practically a ‘genius’...but I didn't know how to spell it!
Because of this disability, I always had a problem learning how to tell time; clocks and hand watches were the enemy.
I do understand how it all works, but sometimes it takes awhile; even though I own a watch myself, I still ask people for the time…just for validation.
I had this problem all the way up to high school: because of this difficulty, I always wore a digital watch!
Digital watches came in handy; people would always ask me for the time.
They would come up to me and say "Excuse me, could you tell me if it's quarter after three?”
I would look at my watch and say, "Nope...it's only three fifteen!"
Basic math was a bitch to learn especially multiplication.
The easiest of all the time tables, were multiplying by one.
I’m not good with numbers at all; when I'm in a restaurant, sometimes I can’t even figure out the tip.
Sometimes I prefer not to give the tip...I rather appear as an ass-hole, than a dumb-ass!
Dyslexia is pretty tough to deal with; because of it, I don't like driving.
I drive all the time because I don’t have a choice; but most of the time, I will only drive alone.
Now when I think of it, I should throw out those car-seats; my kids aren’t driving with me, especially my younger one.
The last thing I need is a three year old backseat driver…who can talk!
I hate driving: when I’m under pressure, I can’t differentiate between left and right, I can't parallel park, and I can't read maps!
Every time I look at a road map, to me it looks like varicose veins!
I’m terrible at taking directions; don’t ever give me directions verbally.
I’m so bad at it - I'm probably the only brother in the world…who can get lost on my way to a booty call!
(Even if she’s my next door neighbor, that girl would have to come to me - that’s not because of dyslexia; that’s from being lazy.)
I'm bad at directions; I don't know my north and south, my east or my west; as far as I know, that song "Jesus Walks" was performed by a Kanye ‘blank’!
Dyslexia can also affect hand-eye coordination; I believe this is the reason I’m so bad at video games.
Whenever I play that new 50 Cent game ‘Bulletproof’, 50 says “That nigga gon’ get me killed!”
I guess this is why I’m so terrible at sports; I’m so bad at it, my athletic skills are the equivalent of a white person dancing.
When I was a kid I loved playing soccer.
Because I had a great love for this sport, I was able to become good enough to make the school team; but I was always the last one picked, and I barely got to participate.
When people asked me what position I played, I'd say 'bench warmer'!
When you're a bench warmer, you're pretty much a spectator; the only difference is…you get to wear the uniform.
The positive side to dyslexia is, it gives me a creative edge, and I perceive things differently than the average person.
Very early in age, people realized I was a wunderkind when it came to the arts.
I was always highly gifted in music, poetry, and visual arts…if you want to include graffiti.
Then very much later, I found out I had good comedic timing; which led me to stand-up comedy, then branched off to a hosting career in Television.
Now when I think about it, if I had to live my life again, I wouldn’t change it for the world; I look at dyslexia as a gift.
If it wasn't for my condition, I probably wouldn't be able to view life the way I do.
In closing, I hope I gave some insight on this subject.
You may not view this article to be a Masterpiece, but as a dyslexic, I am proud of all my accomplishments.
This specific article may not be my magnum opus, but if you're dyslexic, I hope you find this to be my…
OPUS MAGNUM!
The reason why I'm writing this article is because I'm tired of people making fun of this disability.
Back in the day when people cracked their little jokes about dyslexics, I would laugh along with the group; after all…I didn’t want my crew to know I was one of them!
After being put in that position, I think I know what it’s like being in the closet!
My biggest fear was getting caught in the stairwell by my school mates; not for blowing another guy, but for trying to read a book out loud!
Dyslexia is one type of learning disability that affects a person's ability to read.
Being dyslexic didn't necessarily mean I couldn’t read; but reading a 350 page books wasn't something I took up as a regular hobby either.
A hobby is having a rock collection, or taking up photography; but for a dyslexic, reading is a god damn chore!
Improving my reading skills was such a slow process; when people in high school were reading “One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest” I was still trying to master “Clifford the Big Red Dog”!
Now I read pretty well...as long as I'm alone.
As long as I have some privacy, my reading is as good as a bad vocalist singing in the shower.
People would say to me, "When you lock yourself up in your bedroom like that, you almost sound like the president of a book club!"
Some dyslexics see words backwards; this was not always the case with me, but when I was a kid, I’d naturally viewed books from back to front.
Remembering my childhood years, I didn't see the first Star Wars movie when it came out, so I ended up reading the book. At the time I couldn’t understand why the book ended off with "A long time ago".
Till this very day I do have a problem with comprehension; comprehending what I just read is difficult depending on the subject matter.
All I can say is thank God for ‘Hustler’...I can just look at the pictures!
Do you know what it's like not being able to understand what you just read?
I could read a ransom note, and I’ll still be confused!
“This guy wants what? Tell the kids its supper time!”
I've struggled with dyslexia when I was younger, and didn't even know I had it.
No damage done; I knew people who were slow, and didn’t know they were retarded!
They’d hop on that special bus thinking they were riding in a big yellow limo.
I grew up in a West Indian household; in the West Indian community, there were no such thing as a disability or anything like that; if you're falling behind in school, there can't be an neurological explanation for it…you're just lazy!
You don’t get any special attention, no extra tutoring; they’d just try to beat the lazy out of you!
(To them it’s like beating dust out of an old rug.)
One of the reasons why I write today, is because when I was in the fourth grade, all of the students in my class had to write a short story; being considered to be one of the students who needed special attention, I came in third!
When the teacher called me up to receive my prize, one of the so-called smart kids almost had a heart attack; the good thing is he got to miss the rest of school.
How can a person who has a problem with reading and writing beat out most of his classmates?
Easy; it took creativity, imagination, and a passion for story telling…and it also helped that I had a crush on my Teacher!
(Good grades were the last thing on my list…I was trying to impress her.)
Now when I think about it, the only reason why I'm a writer today is because I was always told I could never be one.
I didn't become a writer out of ambition; I’m a writer because I’m hard headed.
Now I wish my Guidance counselor told me I could never become a Biologist.
The truth is I have more than just dyslexia; dyslexia only affects words and language; 'Dys' meaning 'difficulty' and 'lexia' meaning 'words'.
I also have dysgraphia which affects handwriting, and dyscalculia which responsible for poor mathematical skills; in my case these things are affected by the evil ‘dyslexia’.
If I knew this before, I might have been able to stop my crazy West Indian Father from trying to beat the laziness out of me!
I have very limited verbal skills; proper grammar, and pronunciation is a bitch!
I always had a problem pronouncing long words...even the shortest word was a sesquipedalian!
(Words like 'it' were a pain in the ass.)
Because of my problem with language, I learned to talk very late in life; my mom told me I didn't know how to fully talk till I was five!
Do you know what it’s like not being able to talk till the age of five?
People would ask me my name, and I had to mumble it!
Even till this day I have a really hard time learning other languages.
I don't know a single language other than English, and even that's a struggle!
I'm from Canada, a bilingual country; and I don't know a bit of French...but I took French emersion!
Whenever I’m in Quebec, and a Francophone says “Bonjour”, for some reason…I think it’s French for the N-word!
As I said earlier, having this disability affects my handwriting; people who’ve seen my writing calls it chicken scratch. But the truth is if you saw my writing, it's actually an insult to the chicken!
(Foghorn Leghorn from ‘Looney Toons’ would’ve been pissed.)
Spelling can also be affected by dyslexia.
I always knew I wasn't stupid, because I have a very high IQ; according to my test scores, I’m a practically a ‘genius’...but I didn't know how to spell it!
Because of this disability, I always had a problem learning how to tell time; clocks and hand watches were the enemy.
I do understand how it all works, but sometimes it takes awhile; even though I own a watch myself, I still ask people for the time…just for validation.
I had this problem all the way up to high school: because of this difficulty, I always wore a digital watch!
Digital watches came in handy; people would always ask me for the time.
They would come up to me and say "Excuse me, could you tell me if it's quarter after three?”
I would look at my watch and say, "Nope...it's only three fifteen!"
Basic math was a bitch to learn especially multiplication.
The easiest of all the time tables, were multiplying by one.
I’m not good with numbers at all; when I'm in a restaurant, sometimes I can’t even figure out the tip.
Sometimes I prefer not to give the tip...I rather appear as an ass-hole, than a dumb-ass!
Dyslexia is pretty tough to deal with; because of it, I don't like driving.
I drive all the time because I don’t have a choice; but most of the time, I will only drive alone.
Now when I think of it, I should throw out those car-seats; my kids aren’t driving with me, especially my younger one.
The last thing I need is a three year old backseat driver…who can talk!
I hate driving: when I’m under pressure, I can’t differentiate between left and right, I can't parallel park, and I can't read maps!
Every time I look at a road map, to me it looks like varicose veins!
I’m terrible at taking directions; don’t ever give me directions verbally.
I’m so bad at it - I'm probably the only brother in the world…who can get lost on my way to a booty call!
(Even if she’s my next door neighbor, that girl would have to come to me - that’s not because of dyslexia; that’s from being lazy.)
I'm bad at directions; I don't know my north and south, my east or my west; as far as I know, that song "Jesus Walks" was performed by a Kanye ‘blank’!
Dyslexia can also affect hand-eye coordination; I believe this is the reason I’m so bad at video games.
Whenever I play that new 50 Cent game ‘Bulletproof’, 50 says “That nigga gon’ get me killed!”
I guess this is why I’m so terrible at sports; I’m so bad at it, my athletic skills are the equivalent of a white person dancing.
When I was a kid I loved playing soccer.
Because I had a great love for this sport, I was able to become good enough to make the school team; but I was always the last one picked, and I barely got to participate.
When people asked me what position I played, I'd say 'bench warmer'!
When you're a bench warmer, you're pretty much a spectator; the only difference is…you get to wear the uniform.
The positive side to dyslexia is, it gives me a creative edge, and I perceive things differently than the average person.
Very early in age, people realized I was a wunderkind when it came to the arts.
I was always highly gifted in music, poetry, and visual arts…if you want to include graffiti.
Then very much later, I found out I had good comedic timing; which led me to stand-up comedy, then branched off to a hosting career in Television.
Now when I think about it, if I had to live my life again, I wouldn’t change it for the world; I look at dyslexia as a gift.
If it wasn't for my condition, I probably wouldn't be able to view life the way I do.
In closing, I hope I gave some insight on this subject.
You may not view this article to be a Masterpiece, but as a dyslexic, I am proud of all my accomplishments.
This specific article may not be my magnum opus, but if you're dyslexic, I hope you find this to be my…
OPUS MAGNUM!
Friday, January 27, 2006
Self Expression Behind The Sobriquet
People have always been curious on why I use ‘MISTA MO’ as my moniker, instead of going by God given name which is actually ‘Morgan’.
When I started doing stand-up comedy back ’94, I had a club manager tell me that I should drop the name; because it made me sound like a Rapper.
Back then I said to myself; “Why should I listen to a white bred club manager, making decisions on how I should represent myself; I don’t give him advice on how to play the banjo!”
You would never hear me say
“You’re playing it all wrong; you sound too Country!”
The truth is I go by ‘MISTA MO’ for many reasons:
For one, as far as I can remember - I've always went by pet names; it all started with my creative parents.
(Well my mother was creative; my dad…he was high on weed!)
Growing up, they never called me by my real name…I guess it's just a Jamaican thing.
In Jamaica, you are identified by something that relates to you. If you’re over weight, they call you Bigga; if you’re tall, they call you Straights; if you’re from a foreign country…they call you Lucky!
Growing up in my parent’s home, I was given two pet names; my mom calls me ‘Mickey’, and my dad calls me ‘Jah Jah Bwoy’: ‘Jah’ meaning God the most High, and ‘bwoy’ which is simple broken English for ‘boy’.
God’s boy: hmmm…I guess my dad thought he was Joseph, and I wasn't really his.
I don't know why my mom calls me Mickey; she calls me by that name till this very day.
Every time she calls me that name in public, I’d say to myself “I wish Alzheimer’s would strike any day now.”
Everyone in my family’s got a nickname: my Mother’s real name is Ruby Lee; but she goes by Ruby, Sam, and Jackie.
She has so many names…you'd swear she's on the run!
(Like some real shit went down during the Civil Rights Movement.)
Even my Grandmother on my father’s side has a pet name; her real name is Imogene, but my dad and everyone on his side of the family calls her Tiss!
But if me and my siblings ever get caught calling her that, my dad would whip our ass.
I would have to remind him
“You can’t touch me; I’m God’s boy…remember?”
People have always called me something other than my real name; but not all these names came from out of love.
Even when I started going to school, people had a nickname for me.
No one called me Morgan, oh not even close…they called me Nigger!
I heard it so much, after awhile I just responded to it.
Even on field trips the word ‘Nigger’ was written on my name tag…my teacher wrote it in herself!
The odd kid would call me jungle bunny; I’d always let him know that he got the wrong guy; I would say to him “Buddy…read the name tag! Jungle bunny is the other Black kid…we don’t all look alike!”
After awhile no matter where I went, everyone was calling me the N-word; but at that time, I didn't know this word was offensive; I just didn’t think the name suit me!
Everyday I would walk around all confused saying, “I don’t look like a Nigger, I think I look more like a Steve, or a Craig!”
Back in those days I thought I was celebrity; because everybody knew me by name.
I wasn't starring in anything, so I just assumed people knew I could sing!
(I thought my Mom was really good at PR!)
Little did I know if I happened to have my own Hollywood Star of Fame, those people would’ve stomped all over it.
I thought I was big time: thinking I was a celebrity, I even used that N-word to sign autographs!
Young screaming white girls would come up to me saying "Excuse me little nigger, could you sign my poster?"
I still didn't catch on; I was so excited, all I could say was, "I thought you'd never ask...would you also like me to sign your Buckwheat lunch box?"
Onetime a bunch of white guys called me that word from a drive by pick-up truck; but because I thought I was a celebrity, I gave them the queen’s wave!
What else was I supposed to do? I was young, I was naïve; I was only in the third grade!
Months Later, I started realizing that the N-word was derogatory; white boys would call me that word while kicking my ass, and burying my face in the mud; that's when I thought to myself, "Something’s wrong here…they would never do this to JJ From ‘Good Times’!”
Kids continued to call me that word through out public school, and Junior High; but it came with a price.
When these kids called me the N-word, I would respond; but my response came with an ass whooping!
When I began going to High School, most of the students went by nicknames; because I was dealing with urban kids from the streets - they either had an alias, or they went by their surnames…there's something about just using your last name that makes you sound like you were the shit.
Dave Plummer was Plummer, Chris Steeles was Steeles, and Lisa Cox was Cocks!
(Pardon the pun, but the name did fit her very well…sometimes a perfect fit!)
Later on in High School, I was going through my black power phase; after all that nigger talk, who could blame me; so I took on the name 'Emoja': if you remove the 'E', Moja is Swahili for ‘one’, or ‘unity’.
I wish I thought of that name in my earlier years; I would’ve preached ‘unity’ before those white boys beat the crap out of me!
Then after quitting school, and having problems with authority, I changed it to ‘MISTA MO’ in ‘92. I wanted to show that I don’t go by society’s standards.
‘MISTA’ which is slang for Mr. - because I demand respect, and ‘Mo’ which is short for Morgan, or my initials for Morgan Oliver; unfortunately Oliver is my middle name.
The truth is if I ever went to prison under Morgan Oliver Smith…I’d get raped!
By the end of my prison term, I would have a brand new nickname; I would’ve been given the name ‘Bitch’!
Using an alias confuses people outside urban culture; people ask why I don’t I just use my real name.
The truth is, I've never came to grips about using my real name; especially my last name, because it’s a product of slavery; by not using it, it's my own way of making a social statement.
(I guess my Black Power phase ain’t over yet. Call me nigger now…I dare you!)
I guess some non-blacks are threatened by this, but it has nothing to do with whites; it's just simply a personal thing between me and the people who ripped that part away from my African culture.
The last name 'Smith' doesn't bring me any closer to my African ancestry; it only brings me closer to a whip!
(With an Anglo-Saxon man holding it)
To end things off, I use an alias because I love being attached to hip hop culture; it represents my struggle, my pain, and my freedom of speech.
Some may say that I use a moniker to hide behind my true identity; I find this to be far from the truth.
I’m slowly showing the public the real me.
The true self
ALWAYS OVER SHADOWS THE NAME!
When I started doing stand-up comedy back ’94, I had a club manager tell me that I should drop the name; because it made me sound like a Rapper.
Back then I said to myself; “Why should I listen to a white bred club manager, making decisions on how I should represent myself; I don’t give him advice on how to play the banjo!”
You would never hear me say
“You’re playing it all wrong; you sound too Country!”
The truth is I go by ‘MISTA MO’ for many reasons:
For one, as far as I can remember - I've always went by pet names; it all started with my creative parents.
(Well my mother was creative; my dad…he was high on weed!)
Growing up, they never called me by my real name…I guess it's just a Jamaican thing.
In Jamaica, you are identified by something that relates to you. If you’re over weight, they call you Bigga; if you’re tall, they call you Straights; if you’re from a foreign country…they call you Lucky!
Growing up in my parent’s home, I was given two pet names; my mom calls me ‘Mickey’, and my dad calls me ‘Jah Jah Bwoy’: ‘Jah’ meaning God the most High, and ‘bwoy’ which is simple broken English for ‘boy’.
God’s boy: hmmm…I guess my dad thought he was Joseph, and I wasn't really his.
I don't know why my mom calls me Mickey; she calls me by that name till this very day.
Every time she calls me that name in public, I’d say to myself “I wish Alzheimer’s would strike any day now.”
Everyone in my family’s got a nickname: my Mother’s real name is Ruby Lee; but she goes by Ruby, Sam, and Jackie.
She has so many names…you'd swear she's on the run!
(Like some real shit went down during the Civil Rights Movement.)
Even my Grandmother on my father’s side has a pet name; her real name is Imogene, but my dad and everyone on his side of the family calls her Tiss!
But if me and my siblings ever get caught calling her that, my dad would whip our ass.
I would have to remind him
“You can’t touch me; I’m God’s boy…remember?”
People have always called me something other than my real name; but not all these names came from out of love.
Even when I started going to school, people had a nickname for me.
No one called me Morgan, oh not even close…they called me Nigger!
I heard it so much, after awhile I just responded to it.
Even on field trips the word ‘Nigger’ was written on my name tag…my teacher wrote it in herself!
The odd kid would call me jungle bunny; I’d always let him know that he got the wrong guy; I would say to him “Buddy…read the name tag! Jungle bunny is the other Black kid…we don’t all look alike!”
After awhile no matter where I went, everyone was calling me the N-word; but at that time, I didn't know this word was offensive; I just didn’t think the name suit me!
Everyday I would walk around all confused saying, “I don’t look like a Nigger, I think I look more like a Steve, or a Craig!”
Back in those days I thought I was celebrity; because everybody knew me by name.
I wasn't starring in anything, so I just assumed people knew I could sing!
(I thought my Mom was really good at PR!)
Little did I know if I happened to have my own Hollywood Star of Fame, those people would’ve stomped all over it.
I thought I was big time: thinking I was a celebrity, I even used that N-word to sign autographs!
Young screaming white girls would come up to me saying "Excuse me little nigger, could you sign my poster?"
I still didn't catch on; I was so excited, all I could say was, "I thought you'd never ask...would you also like me to sign your Buckwheat lunch box?"
Onetime a bunch of white guys called me that word from a drive by pick-up truck; but because I thought I was a celebrity, I gave them the queen’s wave!
What else was I supposed to do? I was young, I was naïve; I was only in the third grade!
Months Later, I started realizing that the N-word was derogatory; white boys would call me that word while kicking my ass, and burying my face in the mud; that's when I thought to myself, "Something’s wrong here…they would never do this to JJ From ‘Good Times’!”
Kids continued to call me that word through out public school, and Junior High; but it came with a price.
When these kids called me the N-word, I would respond; but my response came with an ass whooping!
When I began going to High School, most of the students went by nicknames; because I was dealing with urban kids from the streets - they either had an alias, or they went by their surnames…there's something about just using your last name that makes you sound like you were the shit.
Dave Plummer was Plummer, Chris Steeles was Steeles, and Lisa Cox was Cocks!
(Pardon the pun, but the name did fit her very well…sometimes a perfect fit!)
Later on in High School, I was going through my black power phase; after all that nigger talk, who could blame me; so I took on the name 'Emoja': if you remove the 'E', Moja is Swahili for ‘one’, or ‘unity’.
I wish I thought of that name in my earlier years; I would’ve preached ‘unity’ before those white boys beat the crap out of me!
Then after quitting school, and having problems with authority, I changed it to ‘MISTA MO’ in ‘92. I wanted to show that I don’t go by society’s standards.
‘MISTA’ which is slang for Mr. - because I demand respect, and ‘Mo’ which is short for Morgan, or my initials for Morgan Oliver; unfortunately Oliver is my middle name.
The truth is if I ever went to prison under Morgan Oliver Smith…I’d get raped!
By the end of my prison term, I would have a brand new nickname; I would’ve been given the name ‘Bitch’!
Using an alias confuses people outside urban culture; people ask why I don’t I just use my real name.
The truth is, I've never came to grips about using my real name; especially my last name, because it’s a product of slavery; by not using it, it's my own way of making a social statement.
(I guess my Black Power phase ain’t over yet. Call me nigger now…I dare you!)
I guess some non-blacks are threatened by this, but it has nothing to do with whites; it's just simply a personal thing between me and the people who ripped that part away from my African culture.
The last name 'Smith' doesn't bring me any closer to my African ancestry; it only brings me closer to a whip!
(With an Anglo-Saxon man holding it)
To end things off, I use an alias because I love being attached to hip hop culture; it represents my struggle, my pain, and my freedom of speech.
Some may say that I use a moniker to hide behind my true identity; I find this to be far from the truth.
I’m slowly showing the public the real me.
The true self
ALWAYS OVER SHADOWS THE NAME!
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