Why we argue anyway? Oh I forgot it's Summertime...

Spring is in the air. The birds are chirping, the Cherry Blossoms are in full bloom, the weather is breaking, and with that, all across this great land, once fortified relationships are now being annihilated. From dust they came, and to dust they shall return.

I recently got wind of two different breakups... Two sets of lovers once happily joined at the hip had suddenly parted ways. Upon hearing the news I was somewhat saddened, but not overwhelmingly surprised.  

After all, “Bunning Season”, “Cuffin Season”, “Boo Lovin Season”. Whatever you choose to call it; is a wrap.

Saran Wrap, Big Tigger Wrap City the Basement, Aretha Franklin Wrap on your door, tap on your windowpane…You choose the poorly designed metaphor. Either way, Cuffin Season is all but done.

In Washington DC, Howard Homecoming/Halloween weekend represents final cuts. Time to make a final decision. Men have spent virtually every day of the offseason vigorously scouting, drafting, conducting “two-a-days”, calling up prospects from the D-league, & signing them to tenuous 10- day contracts. Basically doing whatever it takes to find All-Star caliber talent.

The Monday after Howard Homecoming i.e. November 1st, is Opening day! It is the moment of truth.  It is the official start of “Cuffin Season”. It spans from November 1^st, till quite frankly, Right. About. Now.

Cuffin season, like most everything in life, can be appropriately compartmentalized into 3 main phases; the beginning, middle, & end. Kindly allow me to explain in more detail.

Phase One – November 1^st till New Year’s Eve

Now everything is hunky-dory for about 6 weeks. You & your beau are doing dinner and a movie once-a-week, enjoying regular sleepovers, and his weekends belong to you.  Just 2 little peas in a pod… Heavy doses of dopamine constantly rushing to your brain as you vigorously exchange subliminal tweets and Facebook messages, each not so cleverly ending with a ;)

Things are going so well that the two of you often times find yourselves simultaneously engaging in 3 separate conversations; one on Twitter, another via text message, and the 3^rd, frenetically IMing one another back and forth on Gchat during the workday, never once overlapping conversational topics from one medium to another… Heck, you even passed on payday lunch at Chipotle with the coworkers last week as to not interrupt your precious online quality-time. You’re on cloud nine. It’s only been a month, but you start thinking maybe just maybe he’s “the one”!

But just as Christmas time rolls around you begin to observe a change in his behavior.  Suddenly he becomes moody and aloof. You don’t know why. All you know is that he’s acting different. His erratic behavior is out of character. You’re somewhat taken aback. Your girlfriend warns you not to get overly-excited as you’ve only known him for 6 weeks. You become indignant and promptly put her in her place, as surely she’s never experienced a love like yours. After all, 6 weeks is equivalent to like 6 years in soul-mate math.

Now you may not know it, but his temperamental, disagreeable or standoffish behavior can be directly attributed to the fact that he’s firmly entrenched in a crucial decision-making process. He knows that keeping you around through the holiday season has its consequences, both financially and emotionally.

He knows you’ve been eying a new IPod. But what he doesn’t know is if he is willing to come out his pocket to purchase said IPod for you as a Christmas gift. But far more important than the money, he knows what that IPOD represents. Seeing as he’s a sous-chef at The Olive Garden, he’s clearly not going to come out of his pocket for multiple IPods for numerous women. This purchase will surely set him back a couple of weeks, if not months. Thus, such a selfless sacrifice overtly acknowledges that you are that special person in his life. And such an acknowledgement can lead down only one path; a serious relationship.

But as the Winter Solstice (December 22^nd) passes, he gets slapped squarely in face; first, by an errant snowball, as he inadvertently stumbles into the crossfire of two white people, both inexplicably donning cargo shorts & flip flops in bitterly cold temperatures, as they joyously frolic in the season’s first snow; and second, by the realization that the harsh winter has only just begun. The warm days of offseason are equidistantly in front of & behind him.

With this revelation, he runs out in frenzy on Christmas Eve in hopes of procuring a last minute token of his affection, only to find that the shelves at the mall are as hopelessly barren as Oprah’s womb. So he calls you to declare that he thinks it best that the two of you wait until each of you return from your respective holiday destinations to exchange gifts. This common stalling tactic will effectively buy him at least a week to figure out what to get you, since clearly a $300 IPod out totally out of the question... The day after Christmas, while perusing Best Buy in hopes of finding a deal on a PlayStation for himself, he picks up a $15 ITunes gift card for you, all the while muttering to himself “if she wanted a G-d damn IPod so G-d damn badly she shoulda bought it her G-d damn self.”

Phase Two – New Year’s Day to Valentine’s Day

So you made it through the holidays and the two of you are cruising through January. It may be cold outside, but it’s steaming hot in the bedroom.

You’ve met his friends, and have a standing appointment to watch NFL Redzone network together each & every Sunday afternoon. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow can come between the two of you; as was harshly evidenced by the fact that y’all came to the mutual decision to stay together even after that ugly domestic incident.

You know the one I’m talking about; when the National Weather Service predicted you’d be buried under 10 feet of snow, so you spent your full 8 hour shift at work meticulously configuring the perfect menu for your upcoming day off, all the while rationalizing your spotty work ethic by convincing yourself that they’re not paying you enough anyway.  

The moment you clocked out you immediately made a bee-line to Harris Teeter to blow a month’s worth of grocery money on snow day essentials like wine, potato chips, Redbox movie rentals & condoms.  The two of you planned to spend your snow day preparing meals together and watching movies. It was going to be so romantic, snuggled up in his arms, cozied up by the fire. But something went terribly awry.

You spent all afternoon in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove, while he assumed the fetal position, drifting in and out of consciousness, leisurely catnapping and curiously catching up on “Watch What Happens Live” on DVR.

 Still it wasn’t until he asked you to pour him another glass of wine after you had just served him his dinner on the couch, that sh*t hit the fan. Your well-veiled disguise of submissiveness was suddenly cast to the wayside in favor of a more aggressive persona. A persona that until this point, although he suspected existed, he had yet to witness.

Feelings were hurt, dishes were broken, and needless to say he ended up pouring the glass of wine for himself…  But eventually things settled down. After “the incident”, you both agreed “What’s Love Got to Do with It” probably wasn’t going to be the best movie to watch before bed... Still, after talking to your girlfriends the next day and hearing their similar horror stories, you chalked the whole thing up to Cabin Fever.

He figured if he could get through “the incident” then he could get through anything. So when another apocalyptic snowstorm was forecast for Valentine’s Day, he decided to chalk it up, buy you a $49 charm bracelet from Jared’s Galleria of Jewelry, a $5 bouquet of wilted carnations from Giant, and ride this thing out for another couple of months till the weather broke.

Phase Three: March 22^nd till May 5^th.

Yes, May 5^th, Cinco de Mayo. The day that has overtaken St Patty’s day as the fakest holiday in America.

Men absolutely lose their minds on May 5th.

Do you remember in the Bible, at the beginning of the Book of Job when God asked the Devil, “Where have you come from?” And the devil replied “I’ve come from roaming the earth back and forth seeking whom I may devour.”

That conversation most likely took place on the morning on May 6^th.

So just hang on tight ladies. Only a couple more weeks to go. If you make it through Cinco De Mayo then consider yourself firmly on solid ground. At that point you will have successfully navigated through the Holidays, Valentine ’s Day, the first day of Spring, Lent and Easter Sunday. Your reward, a romantic summer of wine tastings, picnics in the park, and longs walks on the beach with your boo. I call it "Summer League".

But if you didn’t make it through, don’t fret. Your summer offseason will be as awesome as you choose to make it. There will be plenty of Happy Hours, rooftop parties, and cookouts for you to find a solid Blue- Chip recruit for the upcoming Cuffin Season. And even if you don’t, fear not, for the love you lost will return. He’ll come crawling back to you on hands and knees… On November 1st. 

                                         "To everything there is a season..." - Ecclesiates 3:1                           

                                 Blackdondraper@facebook.com

A blueprint to getting out the game...

So it’s come to my attention that the two most prolific male gigolos of my collegiate era are currently in serious relationships. One has been with his girlfriend for going on a full year, and the other is recently engaged.

I went to college with both of these guys. Their living legend status with the ladies has led me to secretly hold each as a barometer. Their exit from the game would effectively serve as an alarm to signal to me if I’ve stayed too long.  I have to admit that upon hearing the news of the engagement, I turned to a friend for guidance & wisdom on Gchat.

Me: I think the game is passing me by.  I think I’ve stayed too long.

J: Stayed too long? Nah, not yet. But you’re definitely wearing out your welcome.

And it’s not like my eggs are drying up or anything like that, but anyone who knows me knows that I only subscribe to 2 fears:

1)   Accidentally impregnating a woman not attractive enough to be seen in public with for the  rest of my life. 

2)   Becoming the old guy in the club

So here I stand. Seemingly all of my friends getting married and a few even having children; and me, in the streets, thinking perhaps having the Jay Z “30 is the new 20” quote tatted on my left bicep in Arabic was maybe taking the movement a bit too far.

With this in mind, and the traditional 1 to 10 looks rating scale falling short, I have devised a foolproof rating system that will enable me to hone in on precisely what it is that I am seeking in a partner, guaranteeing that I choose the right woman to spend my life with.

How can it gaurantee I choose the right partner? Well quite honestly, my system is like a machine. It is not a machine. But it is like a machine. Hence it is not prone to human error. That is ofcourse, unless I make a mistake... Nonetheless The system is simple.  It is based on a 100 point system. It is broken down into 5 categories. Each category holds a maximum worth of 20 points.

·         20% Attraction

·         20% Intelligence/personality

·         20% Intimacy

·         20%Ride-or-die -ness

·         20% Intangibles

I figure if I can latch onto anything 85 or above then I’m good to go.

Attraction is self-explanatory. It’s innate to all of us.  It simply says “what is my measure of animal attraction towards you?”

Obviously, for each of us, what attracts us varies. Whereas I prefer a pretty-faced, thick, black women with shoulder length hair, some of my friends won’t be satisfied until they successfully locate and handcuff a racially ambiguous Rapunzel, with hair so long she’s in constant danger of accidently tripping over her flowing locks with each & every step she takes. In fact, I have a friend who won’t even take approaching a woman into consideration unless he believes she has to check at least 4 boxes in the “race” category when she fills out her Census form.  Well that is if she were to fill out a Census form. Most of the women he prefers do not, as their temporary visas have long since expired, relegating them to a life of residing inconspicuously in the shadows.

But to this I say; “To each his own”. Beauty is definitively in the eye of the beholder.

At this stage in the game I would easily settle for an 8. I figure 8 X 2 = 16, so I’m shooting for a 16 in this category.

Intelligence & Personality  go hand in hand. They are the foundation of the entire relationship. If you can’t stand to be around someone, well, you can’t stand to be around them. (Some things are best left uncomplicated.)

Intelligence is not based on degrees, merits, or credentials. It’s more of a common sense thing.

The most intelligent woman I have ever known possessed 3 degrees from a top university, was a high earning associate at a nationally recognized top 10 firm, was witty, quite the wordsmith, and was generally sharp as a tack in all necessary areas. Ironically, she possessed a shamefully low measure of common sense.

Four months after my beloved mother’s passing, she once preposterously uttered that;  me, losing my mother in her late 50’s,  while I was in my late 20’s, should be less difficult on me than her father losing his mother in her late 80s, while he was in his late 60’s, because her father "knew his mother longer than I knew mine.”

The whole thing was downright absurd. One minute she’s saying that stupid sh*t, & the next, I’m sliding down her fire escape in a torrential downpour trying to evade the Virginia State boys in blue.

But thats another story for another day. (Which reminds me. What exactly is the statute of limitations in the Commonwealth of Virginia?) 

Personality is also major. It can boost a woman’s value, or bring it down expeditiously.

If you’re an average chick, you need not have a bad attitude. You might be able to get away with some bitchiness if you were a bit hotter, but simply put, you’re on the wrong end of the looks spectrum. Act accordingly.

But if you’re hot, you have slightly more wiggle room to act up. Consider for example, Toni Braxton's sister Tamar on Braxton Family Values. Her attitude is deplorable. But her husband tolerates her reproachable unruliness. Why, because shes hot, and he's morbidly obese. He also manages and produces Lady Gaga, hence he is rich as the dickens, which is clearly why she tolerates his dreadful unsightliness.  Still, I don't see this as a mutually beneficial relationship. In fact, I see his investment in her simple ass as perhaps the single greatest misallocation of resources in the history of the world. It's like  my boy says, "You can pour syrup on a Nubian Nuisance, but she's still a Nubian Nuisance"

I’ll settle for a 17 in this department. I don’t think that’s too much to ask

Intimacy is a nice way of saying “sex life”.

 I once heard a tale of a woman with a patented go-to move in her repertoire. While you were visiting the sights downtown, her gumby-like dexterity allowed for her to simultaneously reciprocate by bringing you to climax with her foot. Yeah I dunno? Here’s how it was explained to me (warning: explicit content)

Imagine the mattress was the bottom slice of bread in a sandwich.  The penis was (appropriately) the meat in the middle, and the heel of her foot was the top slice of bread on the sandwich. If the top slice of bread rubbed back & forth on the meat, and the bottom slice effectively kept the meat in place, there would be enough friction to eventually generate mayonnaise for the sandwich.

Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not good with visuals. All I could think is that this girl must have had really long legs.  Still I suspect that if there’s any truth to this tale, such a talent would be a pretty worthwhile incentive to deal with too oft uncomfortable heat & humidity associated with a south of the border adventure. I’d imagine the only drawback being that between her two jobs as a circus freak & a porn star she probably didn’t have much free time to spend practicing her craft on him.

Be it a patented go-to move, a mutual physical or emotional connection, or the fulfillment of some sexually deviant fantasy, a couple's sex life has has to be on point.

Ideally I’d like a 20, but I’d settle for a 17.

Ride-or-die -ness is vital…  I have a cousin (or at least that’s how he was presented to me. He is my great aunts nephew-in-law, so who really knows) who 15 years ago impregnated his then-girlfriend. He did not marry her. In fact, after she had the baby, he abandoned her, married another woman, and subsequently had a baby with his new wife. But kept his original the baby mama on the side. Then he got divorced. Went back to his Original baby mama, impregnated her again, but still refused to marry her. After that child was born he left her agayne for yet another woman, married and impregnated her.

The cycle went on. 3 times he impregnated his baby mama, and 3 times he refused to marry her, left her for another woman with whom he married, and fathered children with. Then the tax man came calling. The IRS brought my pseudo-cousin up on charges on Tax evasion. Of the 4 women, his original baby mama was the only one who showed up in court & supported him during the trial. He was eventually convicted and sentenced to 5 years imprisonment.

After 13 looooong years he finally proposed to Original baby mama two weeks before he was scheduled to begin serving his sentence. They were wed in a dreadful little store-front church (sadly, I was a groomsman) and had the reception in his mother’s basement. … Nonetheless, that was two years ago. And for the past 2 years she has religiously embarked on the arduous 5-hour-journey each way from her home in New York to the Minimum Security Prison where he is serving out his sentence in Pennsylvania, to see him every weekend, without fail; & will undoubtedly continue her weekend voyage for the remainder of his sentence.

I hope you were taking notes ladies, because that sh*t right there (Katt Williams voice) is some Ride-or-die sh*t. She doesn’t just get 20 points in this category, her spectacular foolishness & astonishing naivite has earned her extra credit. She scored a whopping 25!

I’m definitely hoping to land a 20 in this category.

Intangibles can be pretty much anything.  It’s just posing the question, “what extras do you bring to the table?”

A woman who is not only accomplished in the kitchen, but also finds joy in preparing a meal can garner a solid 10 points for her culinary passion alone.

Exceptional personal style and a mean shoe game might boost you another 2 – 4 points.

Does she come from money? Ding! Ding!! Ding!!!

Also, what are her education/ career credentials? Does she possess a top secret government clearance, law degree, MD, or some other highly regarded piece of paper and/or government job that all but guarantees to her a lifetime of income? (PHD’s don’t count because we all know that PHD stands for PHake Doctor, & half those mofos don’t make any money.)

What is her debt-income-ratio?  Is it good debt or bad debt. These are vital questions that must be answered. 

Education and/or mortgage = good debt. 

Single black female addicted to retail = bad news.

 A 15 in this arena is appropriate.

      Attractiveness                  16
      Intelligence/Personality17
      Intimacy                            17
      Ride-or-die-ness              20
      Intangibles                       15
      Total                                  85

So there you have it. A sound blueprint you can hang your hat on. Marinate on these words. Surely my foolproof system will effectively land you a formidable life partner. And never forget the mantra fellas:

If she's an eighty-five to one-hundred, your days of bachelorhood are numbered. But if she’s an 84 or under, your best bet is to dump her.

The hardest thing is to forgive but God does. Even if you murdered or killed, yeah it’s wrong but God loves. Take one step toward Him, He’ll take two toward you. Even when all else fails God supports you... Happy Easter

The Happy Hour from hell...

Yesterday was a magnificent day. Not a cloud in the sky. The white hot rays of a beaming sun effortlessly penetrated the earth’s atmosphere, causing the temperature to climb to an unseasonably mild 85 degrees.

As my 14^th annual, 2011 “Spring Campaign” has commenced, I could not in good conscience allow such a gorgeous evening to go to waste.  I decided to head down to a popular watering hole for an evening of carousal & propositioning.

I felt good. Really good.

My hair was cooperating.

After 2 years of failing, I had finally solved the puzzle of how to maximize the potential of a particularly nice Ralph Lauren shirt. (You know the feeling, when you buy something nice, but it’s just not totally working for you the way you envisioned it would have, and then something clicks, and in an instant, it does.)

My vehicle was freshly washed & waxed & vacuumed; windows down, roof open…

 Surely this delightful evening was destined to yield exceedingly positive results.

I scooped up my boy and we headed down to rooftop bar in the popular Washington DC U Street District…

                                                                                                                                                        

Black culture has been getting ripped off since the days of Elvis Pressley. Don’t get me started on those kids from the Jersey Shore.  Every other word out of their mouths is black-derived slang. And Charlie Sheen’s celebrity propelled to astronomical new heights when he thrust the very commonly used “winning” into mainstream America. Even Justin Timberlake was effectively able to garner some measure of inauthentic street cred through the usage of street vernacular. That is before he so poignantly wept like Jesus on national television while being “punked” by Ashton Kutcher.

                                                                                                                                                                   

 I say that to say that the entire world borrows from Black Culture. I am certainly proud of who I am, and I encourage you to be proud of who you are too. But perhaps some of us are a bit too proud. These people literally wear their pride on their sleeves, (and every part of their person) in the form of Afrocentrism.

Seriously, why are you wearing a full length Kente Cloth robe (Dashiki) with a matching head-dress to Happy hour in 2011?

And I’m not one of those shallow people who feels like everything in your closet has to be designer, or even name- brand for that matter, but…

If your handbag is manufactured from cloth or beads, or is a reusable grocery sack, then it’s safe to say you’ve taken this whole “earthy” movement a bit too seriously.  

Everywhere I looked, fashion faux pas' of the most egregious nature; bald-headed women, female (dread) locks, open-toe-sandals, Africa-shaped pendants attached to necklaces made of string.

So there I stood, visibly mortified. Apparently this unexpected shell-shocking had unwittingly caused me to slip into deep trance-like state. My friend attentively made an attempt to reel me back into reality as he tapped me on the shoulder and said “are you okay?”

I replied “yes”.

But that was a lie. I was not okay.

How could I be okay? I had somehow entered some alternate reality, as if the door to the bar was some sort of time portal that had forcibly transported me into an ancient African Kingdom.  

Then, in this state of Purgatory, I saw a vision. It was my freshman year Statistics Professor, Dr. Aiello. His voice whispered softly(probably from the grave as Dr. Aiello had to be at least 90 years old back in ’96)

VISION: “Remember what I taught you Grasshopper; the law of averages, the Bell curve. Statistical probability all but guarantees us that eventually a normal woman will walk through that door.”

I smiled and responded to the vision of my likely-deceased mentor.

ME: “Will she have a perm, and a pair of high-heeled shoes?”

VISION: “No perm. Will you settle for a weave?”

ME: “Yes I would. At this point I’d settle for a wig. Maybe it’d help cover up some of these bald-headed-hoes.”

VISION: “Well then a wig you shall receive.”

Me: “And what about the high heeled shoes?”

VISION: “Red-bottoms”  

 ME: “You mean…”

 VISION: “Yes, that’s right, “Louboutins”

ME: “And her credit rating?”

VISION: “Shot to hell”

ME: “Well that’s fine because I’m pretty sure that’s where I’m going. BTW is that where you are Professor?”

But the vision was gone.

Nonetheless I was overcome with a feeling of relief.  I’m not entirely sure if my relief was a direct result of the vision, or if it had more to do with the 3 vodka on the rocks I had imbibed. After all, I rarely experience hallucinations of dead people whispering to me about mathematical probabilities & women’s shoes in my ear when I’m sober.

Anyway, I scanned the room again. Still nothing.

I needed an outlet… This time hopefully an actual living breathing human being. Unfortunately my friend, with whom I came, becomes sort of a "Chatty Cathy" when he has a couple of drinks. He was now engaged in a conversation with his old college roommate whom he had not seen in years.  With his garrulous tendencies, that conversation could quite possibly still be going on as you read this blog… So I resorted to Twitter.

In a moment’s notice I was tweeting away. Paul Revere and his frantic cries of “the British are coming” had nothing on me…I began tweeting incessantly. I saw it as my manly duty to forewarn the good people of twitter that with gas prices approaching near-record highs, they should probably consider staying put where they were.

A feeling of satisfaction came over me as I felt as though my tweets had sure averted some unsuspecting soul of the regrettable inevitability that would surely overwhelm their spirit had they opted to join us at the bar.

I looked at my watch and realized two hours had passed. I don’t think I had said more than 10 words to anyone besides the ghost of Dr. Aiello.  I began to sober up. So I ordered a beer in hopes of seeking more guidance from my former Statistics professor… But nothing... I turned around and saw a gentleman in the corner seemingly talking to himself. I lip-read him mouth the words “statistical probability” and knew that Professor Aiello had moved on from me, as he apparently had other dejected barflies to assist.

At that point, all hope was lost. My dream of a productive evening had been deferred & effectively dried up like a raisin in the sun.

As I exited the bar I was immediately transported back from the ancient African kingdom parallel universe, to the contemporary, concrete cement of Washington DC. I trotted across the street to Taco Hell and ordered two tacos; Lettuce. Tomato. Cheese. Sour cream. Possum meat. Hold the Possum dung.

I hopped in my car, and flipped on the radio. The 1980s hit song “Africa” by Toto was playing. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of deja vu as I sang the lyrics; “I bless the rains down in Affffffricaaaaa!”, as I sped off into the dark night, clumsily spilling Taco Hell Possum meat all over my lap. I didn’t even care. I just had to get out of there, fast!

“For some reason I can’t explain, I know Saint Peter will call my name.”

The Riff Raff Club: A story of the 2012 Republican Presidential Nomination

Many thousands of us awakened this morning to a tweet and/or email from “Barack Obama” stating that he, on this 4^th day of April, 2011, will be filing his papers, officially launching his 2012 reelection campaign. Like most sitting Presidents, Barack will garner the 2012 Democratic nomination without encountering any viable or sustainable party contention.

But now that it’s become glaringly obvious that senility has totally consumed both Senator John McCain’s left & right cortex; Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindel has quietly returned to his rightful position as head of the high school Audio Visual department, & Florida Senator Marco Rubio has come to the intelligent determination that it’ll be over a nation of racists collective dead body that  America will elect a Hispanic President on the heels of a Black one, it begs of the question, just who is the frontrunner on the other side of the aisle?

Let’s take a closer look at the pending shortlist of Republican candidates; or as I prefer to call them, “The Riff-Raff Club”.

Mitt Romney  

Mitt, while being rich, tall & handsome, is also excruciatingly uninspiring. During the 2008 campaign, while Barack Obama was ubiquitously wholesaling arguably the single-most-commonly-shared human emotion i.e. HOPE to a nation desperately in need of such an inspiring message, Mitt was perversely gallivanting across the country claiming his best asset to be his… efficient management style.

“I’m a good manager” he remarked time & again; a message so uninspiring he found himself on the losing end of a landslide battle with Centurion John McCain, for the Republican Nomination. And while I don’t doubt Mitt the Mormon may likely be the most affable Republican candidate, (his pro-polygamist values notwithstanding) it’s quite evident he needs to consider cutting ties with his current PR firm, “Dreadfully, Insufferable, & Monotonous LLC”, before they lead him down yet another path to defeat. I mean seriously “I’m and efficient manager”. Is that the best they could do? What’s next, a new campaign slogan: “Mitt ain’t sh*t”.

Donald Trump

When exactly did Donald become a member of the Birther party? Actually, when did Donald become a member of the Republican Party? I must have missed that memo…

I vividly recall being 10 years old, informing whomever would listen, that when I grew up I wanted to be like Donald Trump. Well, I still do, kind of. But just in a filthy-rich Scrooge McDuck kind of way. I mean let’s face it; his 7 billon dollar fortune is his only redeeming quality. Aside from that, the man is insufferable.

“The Donald” single handedly killed the United States Football League, has filed three separate Chapter Eleven “Reorganizations” i.e. bankruptcies, & didn’t I just see him getting roasted by Snoop Dog & “The Situation” on Comedy Central last week? 

And while I do have to give Mr. trump his proper due for contributing one-half of the genetic DNA that produced the single most aesthetically flawless creature currently inhabiting this earth, i.e. his daughter Ivanka, I find myself somewhat confused as to just what merits & credentials he possesses to make him a viable candidate to be the next Leader of the Free world; unless of course the lovely Ivanka begrudgingly appears on the ballot as his running mate. In that case, even President Obama is in jeopardy of losing my vote. I mean let’s face it; Ivanka is good for the national mood. The more TV time she gets, the better off we all are. 

New Jersey Governor Chris Christie

I won’t even address his policies, except to say that they are exceedingly shortsighted. But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s talk about the important stuff…

First of all, his name is Chris Christie. That’s pretty much like having the same name twice. Like “Tom Thomas” or “God Shamgod”. And while his parents’ misguided folly should not necessarily be inextricably linked to their son’s character or competence, we all know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Secondly, the man is morbidly obese. Can a 300 lbs. man really get elected to the highest office in the land? I mean let’s face it; it’s not uncommon for Americans to discriminate against our overweight brethren. The presidency is obviously a high pressure position. Is it really in our collective best interest to elect a profusely sweaty man, with a 99% body fat composition, and an unreadable blood-sugar level, to call the shots?

Sarah Palin

Let me just start by apologizing for taking the easy road on this one. But in all honesty, I don’t have much choice. When it comes to Sarah from Alaska, every road is the easy road. So with that, let’s address her basic comprehension & grasp of the English venacular.

I mean we all take shortcuts as we attempt to consolidate our constantly racing thoughts into 140 characters before unabatedly casting them into the Twitter-sphere, but Sarah straight up acts like her IPhone doesn’t have a spell-check feature.

She’s unconscionable. One recklessly butchered word & phrase after another. I mean, I’d imagine that the Whitehouse employs a staff editor who would be responsible for proofreading her memos, but this is a woman who would encounter a difficult time winning a 3^rd grade Spelling bee, let alone the Presidency.

But maybe in Palin’s case, a 3^rd grade spelling bee would be precisely what the Doctor ordered. Perhaps if she spent some time around 8 year olds she would actually learn that contrary to her current belief, she cannot “see Russia from her bedroom window” (in Alaska), as she has misguidedly stated to have done in the past.

And those are the “serious contenders”. In an effort to preserve time, and my readership, we will take only a cursory glance at the final 4 candidates.

Michelle Bachman, Haley Barbour, Mike Huckabee, Newt Gingrich

The only person less qualified for president than Sarah from Alaska is Minnesota’s poor man’s Palin, Michelle Bachman. The famous quote she “couldn’t be elected dogcatcher” involuntarily thrusts into my stream of consciousness every time I hear the mention of her name.  Bachman, although perhaps only slightly more qualified than our current appointee, would have a hard time being elected president of my condo association.  As I see it, her only identifiable skillset is her ability to provoke people with her scathingly vitriolic rhetoric. And while such a skill might come in handy when pushing her partisan agenda in Congress, her brand of overt hatred is clearly not one that will move this country forward.

Redneck Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour AKA Boss Hog from the Dukes of Hazzard, recently, against strong opposition, opted to pass a bill allowing the state of Mississippi to print license plates commemorating former Ku Klux Klan “Imperial Grand Wizard”, General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Perhaps the Governor thought the sale of these license plates would be a good source of revenue to help alleviate his state’s debt crisis. Imagine if this man were elected. I wonder what he believes would be an appropriate measure to solve our Nation’s debt crisis; my guess, the revocation of the Emancipation Proclamation… Do you get my drift?

Former Governor of Arkansas Mike Huckabee is clearly Jared from Subway’s illegitimate father? Is this not a proven fact? They’re both fat-skinny, wear glasses, and are victoriously breezing through life on little-to-no discernable talent. Seriously, a paternity test is in order. In fact, I refuse to utter another word about “Huckabee for President” of anything aside from the Little Rock Rodeo until said DNA test results have been revealed.

Admittedly, I’m a bit surprised to hear Former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich’s name get so whimsically thrown into the mix. He’s so passé. The man is pushing 70 for God’s sake...  This is the man who led the charge to impeach former President Bill Clinton for having an affair with one of his staffers, while at the very same time Gingrich himself was… having an affair with one of his staffers… But when I think about it, I suppose such brazen hypocrisy actually speaks to his credibility as a legitimate Republican candidate. After all, isn’t the ability to unapologetically demonstrate spectacularly obscene hypocrisy the one shared characteristic of Republicans everywhere?

“The seal in the Constitution reflects the thinking of the Founding Fathers that this was to a nation by white people & for white people. Native Americans, Blacks, & all other non-white people were to be the burden bearers for the real citizens of this nation”