Fighting Shaq 
 I was sitting in the club last night, when the DJ announced that “we have a superstar in the house tonight!” I looked up from my watered-down $7 Hennessey to see a crew of large, well-dressed black dudes walking in the door. The entire group seemed to be hovering around the man in the middle who towered above the rest of them. He wore an oversized royal blue tailored suit and matching derby. His shirt, hat trim, handkerchief, and socks were lavender. As they reached the VIP area, I realized that it was Shaquille O’Neal.
He smiled and greeted people far more important than myself. I drained the remainder of my drink and ordered another, sorting through the few crumpled singles I still had. I went to take a piss. Being a miserable prick/15-year retail veteran/amateur facilities critic, I was sure to urinate next to the toilet and on the wall; soaked the whole corner.(I do this from time to time to let club/bar/restaurant/store/gas station owners/managers know that I am silently critiquing and rewarding/punishing them for their restroom-cleaning efforts. If it’s clean when I walk in, I respect it and treat it well. If your restroom is marred by unimaginative/unoriginal/amateurish graffiti and smells like a sack of cat-piss-scented assholes, I GIVE you a reason to go in there after the place closes for the night and mop it. It is only okay to do this at places you don’t frequently patronize; only to complete strangers who seem like they have it coming.)
 I returned just in time to see the bartender completing my drink order. Service went further downhill when he saw my last seven crumpled dollars on the bar. He had added 1/4 inch of Henn to a dirty glass full of ice. He turned and glared at me. His next insult was to carry my drink to the sink and fill it most of the way with tap water, staring at me the entire time. The worst part was, he used the warm water knob.
 Finally, this shiny-shirted bastard topped off my glass with a slight spritz of DIET cola for color and stirred the concoction with his middle finger. As he took my filthy money, I was suddenly glad that I couldn’t afford to tip him. (Hopefully HE would be the one to clean the restrooms later.) I decided:
“Damnit, I’m KZ. Shaq is about to find out that _I’M_ in the house tonight!”
 As drunk and stoned as I was, I had no business still being in the club. I should have been 86ed and placed in a homeward bound cab against my will three hours ago. As my confidence/distain for people far richer than me/poor self-esteem surged, I made a beeline for the VIP. I walked in slow-motion across the dance floor; well, the strobe lights/swaying crowd/pounding beat/free ecstasy pill made it seem like slow-motion. As it was still technically a “drink,” I sipped my cognac water and staggered through the room. When a dancing woman spilled my drink on my new knock-off Fendi flip-flops, I got side-tracked and nearly vented all my pent-up rage on her. My mind suddenly flashed a thought of the thick platinum chain Shaq was wearing on the way in. I simply walked away from that dancing bitch and went to find Mr. O’Neal. I spotted the VIP entrance about ten feet away, guarded by two 300+ pound goons in nice shoes.
 These guys immediately sized me up and decided (before I even spoke) that there was no way I was going to talk to the big man. I understand their position. At this range, I could see the grip of a stainless Beretta under the guy on the left’s tight shirt. Both of their torsos seemed bunched up with concealed body armor (funny how I was that faded and could still assess those crucial details.) Having peeked into the VIP room once on a past visit, I was relatively familiar with its layout. O’Neal would be on one of three black leather couches around the corner and five feet back.
He would no doubt be flanked by a few hired ass-bruisers and club sluts. At 150 pounds, I knew that physical intimidation alone wouldn’t win me a face-to-face meeting. I had to think fast; I looked at the muscle mountain on the right and shouted,
“I have Mr. O’Neal’s money!”
I didn’t have my own money, let alone for any for Shaq. But keys open doors; and these dumb bricks were not about to fuck up their boss’ cash flow. My knockoff Gucci shades/Prada track suit/Armani ball cap must have done the job. Luckily, I didn’t have to check the time on my fake Rolex (discreetly spelled R-O-T-E-X,) flash my aluminum foil grill, or make it rain with board game (or photocopied if you’re a real player) money to convince them that I indeed had Shaq’s money. At this point, they must have thought that my 40 diamond chains were real (under black lights in the club, K-Mart costume jewelry makes one look iced out!) He told his pal,
“Roscoe, watch him. If he rush, break both his damn arms. Hold on.”
The flunkie turned and went into the room. I could smell some skunky dro in the air, and wanted in on it. I asked the armed human barrier, “Man that smells good. Hey, let me hold a joint? Just one, man; a pinner!” He responded
“Naw man…ain’t got none. I don’t do drugs.”
Lying bitch. I sipped my room-temperature Hennessy and smiled. I asked the bodyguard, “How are your gun-fighting skills tonight? You sharp?” As he leaned forward to choke me or go for his piece, his friend suddenly reappeared, surely saving my life. He gestured with his fingers for me to follow him. I attempted to pop my collar, as I had just been invited to VIP by Shaquille O’Neal. I realized that my shirt was missing two buttons, so it was not possible to do so. Oh well. As I was two paces from entering the promise land, I was brought to a halt by something ahead. Shaq himself had unassed himself from his soft, plush couch and come out to see what the commotion was. I stood face-to-chest with a basketball legend. Somehow, he had changed clothes in the past three minutes.
 His icy chain was still on, and at this distance, I noticed the piece hanging on it. It was a diamond-encrusted plaque that read, “I CRUSH HATERS.” (I recognized it from Johnny Dang’s website.) He said,
“You got my money, huh? How much; and for what?”
The ruse continued; he must have thought his funds were inside the fake Louis Vuitton bag on my back. Little did he know that the bag only contained a change of clothing, half a bagged lunch, and for some reason, shredded newspaper. I smirked, broke eye contact, and sipped my drink again. I replied,
“Shaq, if I did have money for you, it would be leaving with me tonight along with that watch and anything else you got.”
It took the big guy three full seconds to wrap his big-ass mind around what I’d just said. He immediately threw up both arms to stop the beat-down I had coming from the two now-advancing security guards. Shaq smiled and said,
“If you ain’t got my money, why are you here?”
I unloaded a lifetime of frustration on him, sounding a lot like the Madd Rapper:
“Mr. O’Neal, I don’t have shit. You have everything. I’m not a hater by a damn sight, but it pisses me off that I can’t find minimum wage work anymore, but athletes/celebrities/politicians are way over-paid, even when they perform poorly. I lived in Florida while you played in Orlando and Miami. I lived in Ohio while you played in Cleveland. How you could miss three consecutive lay-ups, from inside the paint, during a Playoff game, I’ll never understand. The dope game dried up, home invasions are too risky, and identity theft is hard. I’m trying my hand at extortion; starting here with you tonight. It’s time to start giving back to the hood, big man. Run your pockets, take off that shine, and take up a collection in that VIP before I get all Belly up in here."
Shaq was shocked by my undeserved sense of entitlement. He asked me,
“You just playing, right? What’s your name, man?”
To which I replied,“I am KZ, bitch. KZ Concepts. I do art and creative write-ups. You could be paying me tonight to coat a Bentley with unique king/queen/jack finish. Unfortunately, the world has yet to learn about my custom royalty art. Therefore, I’m here to take your shit. My money; yes or no?" Shaq said,
“Hell no, man. You want anything from me, you gonna have to get it after you drop me.”
I didn’t appreciate being denied funds, so I decided to push the envelope.
“Look All-Star, I’ll make you a wager. I will fight you for it. I’m going to beat you into a heap of bitch meat in front of all these people. Keep your goons out of it. If I win, I get that chain, all the cash you got on you tonight, and whatever you’re driving.  There was now an audience. I lit a Newport and spit on the floor. Shaq must have picked up on how intoxicated I was; even I noticed how badly I was slurring throughout my speech. I could tell he didn’t appreciate me bringing his family into it. He smiled and said,
“My man, you are going to leave here in a bad way tonight. I ain’t no gangster so you ain’t getting dumped in the woods. You’ll be taken home AFTER I teach you simultaneous lessons in class, the value of hard work, and not mouthing off to strangers.”
I reminded him,
“You ain’t a stranger, bitch! You’re Shaq…the guy who got all his shit took tonight after getting stomped out by KZ! My touch is a gift; I should bill you for the beating I’m about to give you!”
I was being super abrasive/belligerent/out of line. With that attitude, I _deserved_ to lose. After explaining to his people that he would handle it, Shaq turned back toward the VIP room and announced,
“Motherfucker, I’ll see you in the middle of that dance floor in three minutes. Don’t leave. I’m gonna show you how to dance.”
I was about to make the obvious gay joke at his expense when he shouted,
“No homos!”
He disappeared into the VIP. As he had just taken mine, I wrestled to come up with a new insult. After a minute had passed, a club employee reminded me that I had a fight now two minutes away. I ordered a bottle of Louie 13 and told them to put it on Shaq’s tab. They didn’t. Instead, the dickhead behind the bar poured a shot of bottom-shelf Mr. Boston vodka and brought it to me. He started me a new tab, of course. (You’d think that fighting Shaq would earn you a free drink, but no.) I slammed the shot and tried to pocket the shot glass. He caught me and demanded it back. As I handed it to him, the asshole bartender said,
“Bro, you bit off more than you can chew. You ate the whole turkey, and are about to choke. Do you realize what’s going on right now?”
I told him,
“I got this. When I’m done with him, I’m coming looking for you for watering down my drink. Go fuck your dead mother.”
I turned my back on him and attempted to mentally prepare myself for the fight. However, my side talk with this table-wipe had eaten up my remaining pre-fight two minutes. Shaq suddenly reappeared. He was flanked by all the parasites who had been pole-jocking him in the VIP. At least fifty people came out of there; I had no idea the room could accommodate all those people. I wondered if the fire inspector would be making his rounds tonight.
Shaq had taped up his knuckles and put his rings back on! He had also changed clothes again. This massive man went from wearing a suit, to street clothes, to a super hero costume! I decided to dismiss it as mind-games he was trying to play.
Having played “Shaq Fu” on the Super Nintendo ten years ago, I felt I was already pretty in tune with his range of moves.
I had played AS him; how could I possibly lose TO him? In the game, I was defeating monsters; one mortal man would be a cinch.
I wondered if we would be taking it outside, as these types of events typically migrate outdoors to circumvent rules and shit getting broken inside. I was quickly informed that Shaq himself OWNED the club. He was willing to
renovate if necessary to avoid witnesses/paparazzi/police seeing/recording/breaking up the fight. Fine with me; now I was really glad I had peed on the bathroom floor. Shaq was now in front of me again. Standing this close to a giant man is like standing dangerously close to a horse. It makes you kind of uneasy. I slid my pack of Newports into my right pocket, cleverly giving me a way to slide my fingers around the pair of brass knuckles inside. As I realized they were not in my pocket, my opponent calmly asked,
“Sup player? You looking for these right here? You left them in the restroom.”
 He was holding my brass knuckles. (I knew they were mine, because I had carved kings and queens all over them; they looked tight!) Shaq said,
“You know it’s illegal to carry these in this state? I’m a sworn police officer; I could arrest you for this.
I could already arrest you for a lot of things tonight.
You solicited marijuana from my security staff. Roscoe doesn’t do that stuff, and neither do I; even though they did name Sour Diesel for me.
Why you drag Roscoe into this? He don’t have nothing to do with this. I’m about to beat you like you owe me money. Any last words?”
If anyone would be arrested, it should be him for dropping that first CD!
I recognized that the deck was stacked against me 52-0. The only way I would come through this unscathed would be to fight dirty. I took a breath as if I were about to say something, and immediately kicked at his nuts. Shaq’s tall;
I had to jump to connect, but squarely connect I did! Unfortunately, my toe got hurt worse than his crotch. I was puzzled.
“Oh, we got a dirty fighter, huh? You like to hit below the belt before we even start, huh? Bulletproof nut-cap. I’m the man of steel, bitch!”
He also tried to give me one last chance at backing out.
“You sure you want to go through with this? You’re seriously about to get hurt. Call it a night. Don’t even worry about apologizing. Just go home and sleep it off. My people will get you a taxi. No harm, no foul. You’re pretty drunk and probably not thinking clearly.”
Like a true hard-headed jackass, I snarled back,
“You scared? You realize I’m gonna bring you down a few pegs in front of these broads? I’ll bet your drink ain’t watered down, you rich son of a bitch! How your nuts feel? You wanna go? Cause we’ll go!”
Shaq sighed. Like the true class act he was, he immediately addressed my “broads” remark,
“You think it’s cool to come out here and disrespect these lovely ladies? Disrespect my friends and me? Fine. We’ll go. By the way, I know that’s been you peeing on the floor in the men’s room. You think that’s funny? Somebody has to mop that each time. When I get done here, you’re going in to clean that stall.”
Without admitting anything, I quickly attacked him again. When I dropped my smokes into my pocket, I had palmed my trusty KZ Burner; a custom Bic lighter. Without considering the consequences of doing so, I hurled it up at his head. The beautifully-lacquered lighter struck his temple, corner-first. It bounced off his dome and disappeared into the crowd. They began chanting,
“SHAQ! SHAQ! SHAQ!”
 I could nearly see the steam come out of his ears. His kind-hearted smile wrinkled into a mean mug and a pulsing vein began showing on his forehead. With lightning speed, Shaq reached out and grabbed me by the shirt. I expected to take a punch or two, so I decided to taunt him instead of fighting back. I screamed,
“Rape! Hey everyone, Shaq’s got his hands on a dude! Eew!”
As he gripped my wrinkled shirt collar with his left, Shaq cocked back and
released a right at my face. He punched my nose flat. Blood squirted from both nostrils. I glanced at the mirror on the wall and realized that I now had one large nostril, still gushing blood. Obviously intending to use a wide assortment of moves, Shaq released my shirt and shoved me against the mirror I was looking at. The mirror shattered and I fell. Glass and insults rained down upon me. Somebody in the crowd threw their Grey Goose & cranberry on me. I wish they’d saved it for the break between rounds. Blood and cranberry juice stained the entire front of my wife beater. As I tried to stand, Shaq kicked his big-ass size 22+ foot toward me, pinning the side of my head to the wall. Somehow, he managed to use his other foot to deliver about ten kicks to my rib cage. He dropped me to the floor, but didn’t back off. He put me in a head lock; the kind that finds his every bicep-flex choking you. He was still wearing his wrist watch, and put it in front of my face and said,
“You still want this? You still gonna take it? This is a limited edition C.I.A rose gold Perpetual Oyster. It has a pull-out garrote. I’ve put 200 carats in the band alone. President Obama gave me this watch. You still want to take it? I could kill you with it!”
 As God had previously deemed it necessary for me to go through my
adult life without hair, Shaq pulled me to a standing position by my scalp. In all the commotion, I had failed to notice that he had managed to change clothes again. It must be some Jedi mind trick. When this drunk, you rely on ONE identifiable outfit to recognize people. When I turned to the crowd to find my costumed nemesis, Shaq (now dressed as a genie,) shattered a champagne bottle across my face.
 I spit out two teeth and opened my eyes. I wiggled with my tongue and spit one more. I spat, and blood ricochet off Shaq’s left foot. I pointed and laughed at him, realizing that custom-made blue silk genie shoes were probably not cheap; and I had just ruined his.
“That movie sucked. I can’t believe you sold out like that!”
He angrily shot back,
 Of course I didn’t have his money, so Shaq went off on me again. This time, he open-palm slapped me across the cheek bone; right on that special spot that is sure to bruise if it’s even tapped. This wouldn’t have been so bad, but he still had his rings on and everyone had seen it. His NBA rings were turned inward and split my cheek open. The big man tore away his genie garb and was wearing a pinstripe Armani vest and tie. Before I could compliment him on his keen fashion sense, he struck again. Shaq threw up a peace sign which made the crowd erupt in applause. Then, he used the peace sign to jab my eyeballs like I was a Stooge. Even though his nails were expertly manicured, he still managed to open up a deep cut on each eyeball. Every hole on my face was now bleeding. I stumbled around helplessly as I tried to wipe the blood from my eyes. It took a few minutes, so Shaq grabbed the microphone and made a toast to the crowd:“I want to thank you all for coming out to Club Super tonight. We have had a bit of unpleasantness tonight, but that problem will be solved momentarily. With that in mind, have a good night, tip your bartenders and servers, and drive safely tonight. If you are a bit tipsy, just let someone know and we’ll have a limo take you home safely. Cause drinking and driving is bad news, y’all. Texting while you drive, too. It ain’t worth it. Let me get back to this, folks…”
 He passed the mic back to the DJ, who introduced Shaq’s surprise musical guests, Fu Schnickens (how cool is that? I have not heard these guys in years!) Even during this fight, Shaq has been nothing but a class act. It’s hard to hate a guy like that. Even then, I was getting first aid at a makeshift tent Shaq’s people had set up for the event, should anybody (I) need it. A team of personal chefs were busy assembling a post-fight barbecue spread. I was hungry as a hostage and it smelled great! When I was finally visually able, I put my cigarette out in my nearly-empty glass and was ready to go again. I grabbed the glass, poured it out, and gripped it as a weapon. I turned to Shaq, who was now mingling with beautiful people in designer clothing.
 Somehow, he was now dressed like Raiden from Mortal Kombat. I was speechless. The situation went from confusing to downright creepy when I glanced down at my own clothes. While I was blinded, someone must have dressed me up as Reptile. My original outfit had been dry cleaned, and was hanging neatly wrapped on a hanger. I yelled,
“Those jeans better have extra starch, or I’m going to cripple you, you big free-throw-missing machine!”
 For some reason, Shaq took this insult _really_ personally. Before I had a chance to react, he harnessed the power of lightning and fired a bolt at me. Defying physics, he fell through the floor, and dropped from the ceiling to kick me again. By now, I was pretty low on stamina. I was about to collapse from blood loss, and swayed back and forth. In a sinister voice, the DJ yelled,
“FINISH HIM!"
Since he called the shots, not the DJ, Shaq sipped his scotch rather than ripping my head off. He hyped up the crowd again by tossing out some free T-shirts.
This gave me a moment to recover. Seeing that I was still alert and upright,
Shaq politely gave me fair warning that another assault was imminent.
“You ready? I’m going to punch you horizontal.”
As promised, Shaq walked up to me and punched me with his massive left fist. That hand had a four-finger ring on it. The blow knocked me airborne. I tilted backwards, and hovered for a few seconds in midair. I landed hard on my back with a 3-inch Superman logo stamped between my eyes. I thought I was seeing birds Looney Tunes style; turns out it was a flock of doves Shaq released in support of our troops. The crowd went wild. I pried my eyeballs from the back of their sockets and focused on my attacker. Suddenly, the rules changed. Shaq had knocked me right out of my flip-flops. My socked toes were pointed toward the disco ball.
 This was really embarrassing; I was wearing socks with holes in them (yes, with flip-flops.) Shaq pulled a small pistol from a small-of-back holster. He racked the slide and chambered a round. From the large bore, I judged it to be a compact .45. It had a large aftermarket sight mounted on it. Before I could compliment him on his great taste in firearms, Shaq spoke:
“This is a special gun. You have to be a cop to get one. The bullets are coated with a fast-acting paralysis agent. I will shoot off your baby toe from here and disable you at the same time. It’s gotta be the baby toe; for the babies. My agent just told me that if I make this shot, the league will donate $20,000 in my name to Toys for Tots. Great cause, isn’t it? You don’t want to take money from the kids, do you?”
As a matter of fact I did. To hell with those kids! Are those kids going to pay for my hospital stay when he knocks me into a coma? I squirmed to avoid it, but Shaq is an excellent shot. As I took a breath to object, he fired.
BAM!
My baby toe was gone. Great shot, Shaq. The venom-soaked bullets had now completely paused my central nervous system. My bowels released. While it clearly sucks to shit your pants in front of a crowd, I was happy that I had done so in his Reptile Costume rather than in my own outfit. Shaq added insult to injury by standing over me with the Reptile costume on a hanger. Out of sheer frustration, I cried out,
“How do you keep doing that!?”  Shaq smirked and said,
“You ruined your draws, player. Here. These will get you home.”
He dropped a clean pair of little boy’s Kazaam briefs on my face. No matter how mad I was, I appreciated the gesture. That’s “bro-code” shit. (Note to self: When I get home, wash these and sell them on Ebay. Try not to sit between now and then.) Sensing that the food was nearly done, Shaq came back to ask me if I’d had enough.
“You done yet? I’ve beat your ass for four hours straight. You’ve been humiliated, out-classed, blinded, paralyzed, beaten video game style, made to go doo-doo in your pants, and videotaped for Youtube. Have you learned respect and humility yet? We have some amazing ribs on the grill. You want a plate? Got all the fixin’s, too.”
By now, I accepted that Shaq had beat me fair and square; his riches would be going home with him…this time. Deep down, I knew that I was wrong from the beginning. When this drunk, it can be difficult to form the words to admit when you’re wrong. Just by looking at me, Shaq knew I was sorry. We spoke man-to-broken man. He said,
 “Look man, I didn’t get where I am today without a lot of hard work. I’m sure your art business has a bright future. Just stay grinding’ and I’m sure you’ll be a huge success. I know a few guys on the team who would pay to have you coat their rides with playing card art.
 That’s fresh and original. You’re strong-willed, drew an impressive royalty scene on my bathroom wall, and if you were not so drunk, you’d probably strike me as intelligent. You have balls for ever thinking you could ever take me on. I’m going on home; I’ve got to dedicate a new church to villagers in Central America with Oprah in the morning. I’m going to read my kids a bedtime story and give my beautiful wife that sweet, sweet loving. I’m sure in due time, you’ll be doing the same. Send me a message on Twitter next week. You can start by painting the car I’m driving tonight. It’s a throw-away, so if you suck at what you do, it won’t matter. The job pays five grand. I will however, pay you in rolled change so the boys can laugh at you while you spend it. My friend, you are prime for embarrassing Youtube videos!”
Shaq helped me up and shook my hand. It took a life-threatening ‘super assault’ to open my eyes, but at that point, we understood each other. Once everything had been said, Shaq side-stepped through the crowd to avoid being spotted talking to me. I staggered toward the door to leave. As I walked toward the door, I glanced over at Shaq. He was getting congratulatory pats on the back and fist bumps. Without speaking, Shaq looked up at me. He smirked one last time and tapped two fingers against his breast pocket. Realizing what he meant, I reached down into my own pocket. Shaq had given back my brass knuckles and slipped me a $20 bill. I turned back, unsure what to do next. Somehow, Shaq had appeared in front of me. He said,
“That’s a down payment on the paint job. You ever throw a lighter at me again, I’ll pay Sir Richard Branson to take your ass on a private trip to space and leave you there, you dig? Now get in that bathroom and clean it. There are supplies and a mop bucket in there. I want to be able to eat barbecue off that bitch.”
 I did as I was told. When I entered the men’s room, I found my sandals lying in the garbage can, and a pair of brand new Shaq shoes and clean socks on the counter. I reemerged 30 minutes later beaming with pride. I had taken great care to do a good job. With $20 burning a hole in my pocket, I considered my recent financial windfall. I would use this $20 for drinks and bus fare for two. It was time to find a woman to take home before the lights go out!
(Big ups to Shaquille O’Neal for being such a good sport. If you had to leave us in Cleveland, thank you for doing so gracefully. Best of luck in Boston…)
I have bit my tongue for so long now. As our oceans fill up with toxic oil, politicians openly cheat and shit-talk, I have kept my nasty opinion to myself. I just have to vent before I find myself in a standoff with a SWAT team somewhere…  Explore your Wormhole?
Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman: This show explores the origins of life, the possibility of time travel, as well as the physics of our galaxy. This is actually a pretty clever show, and Freeman makes it all the more pleasant (while he is “just” an actor, I still think he seems more Presidential than a Rolex.) On the topic of time travel: Even if time travel were possible, would we would only be able to go back to when the machine was created? This show seems like an old NOVA show or something. Morgan Freeman’s narration neatly packages cheesy graphics, unanswerable questions, and endless possibilities. Normally, TV execs would eviscerate themselves before pitching a show about Einstein/geek/science in earshot of their peers; but this show works. I’m told that there are few things better than tuning out the world, introducing some sticky bud to the equation, and pondering our origins. By the show’s end, no matter how insignificant you may feel, you’re heavily stoned and ready for bed; win-freakin’-win.
NASA is said to be attempting to build relations with Muslim nations. We brutalize and stomp around in their region, but we really just want to be friends with them, right? I won’t even make the obvious ‘space shuttle car bomb’ joke, but it’s not a good idea. Does our government really want to help other nations put defense and spy satellites in orbit? If we really want to win these people over, why not stop controlling them?
 By now, one would think that genuine news outlets would be able to
differentiate between actual “NEWS,” and celebrity gossip. Extended coverage of Lindsay Lohan’s most recent court date is called news. What a hot mess. While she is touted as an out-of-control celebrity, is this event really important enough to discuss rather than say, millions of gallons slowly killing our planet? This afternoon, MSNBC pointed out many times that Lindsay had “Fuck You” written on her middle fingernail in court. Who the hell cares? She’s been in a few movies; does it really matter to other viewers how this chick carries herself in the course of her day? If a two-time offender named Tyrone in Detroit
violated his parole, would MSNBC feel obligated to announce breaking news, and cut away to Tyrone in court? Hell no. News outlets, please, leave the trash TV thing to TMZ. They pride themselves on simply covering celebrity status. There is no reason I should be reading Lebron James’ tweets and Obama/McChrystal/Petraeus updates in the same block of programming.
King Lebron?
After more than a month of anticipation, we’ll soon know where Akron’s cousin will play next season. His recent plunge into the world of Twitter should be enough, yes? The guy gained 220,000+ followers in a day. The entire world would know within an hour. If that’s not enough, have the NBA announce it, post it on your website; and if that isn’t enough, do a simple 3 minute TV interview. Oh no…not for a King.
Real talk; Just me to Lebron personally: Dog, quit believing the hype. You’re just one man. You grew up where I did, we played ball in the same areas, and my family went to St. V. Stay grounded. The average fan is so sick of you biding your time. Obviously you know where you’re going. I’m not sure if it was your idea or IMG’s, but a special announcement show on ESPN? Have you lost touch? I hate to play the MJ card, but even with all those Championship WINS, Mike wouldn’t have played himself like this. He would have made a dignified announcement. Just get it over with. We’d be happy if you stayed in Cleveland, but at what cost? I refuse to kiss your ass to keep you here. Between the “We
Are The World” remake by Cleveland’s elite, Akron’s “Please Stay” rally, etc…I’m a bit sick of you! If you do leave, you’ll surely bruise Ohio’s pride and ego. I understand you going with the Knicks, and New Jersey (but only if they move to Brooklyn.) I hope you get your rings; but stop enjoying your own silence and the world’s chatter so much! Good luck, playboy…
 Nathan’s Foot-Long Deep Throat Contest:
Nathan’s hot dog eating contest. In itself, competitive eating is gross. I have no interest in it, and staged drama only further cheapens the “sport.” Japan’s made an intern Takeru Kobayashi made an international ass of himself by rushing the stage and getting himself arrested. To authenticate the bogus nature of the incident, the guy wore a “Free Kobi” shirt during. What a tool; play by the rules, or don’t play. Start your own competitive eating league. This tripe doesn’t belong on news stations; keep this nonsense on Youtube or Maury where it belongs.
-KZ
Falling Down
(A ‘relevant movie’ review by KZ) 
Remember “Falling Down?” From a magic time called 1993, this movie is a must-see for everybody. It showcases how much frustration modern society can place on one person, even if unintentionally. We watch the main character Bill Foster, over the course of one really bad day. Nearly everybody he encounters wants something from him, attempts to short-change him, or denies him what he deserves. When he’s had enough, Bill starts pushing back. Many of these people are not used to giving others their way, so Bill finds it necessary to escalate the severity of his responses.
After suffering a panic attack in standstill traffic on a Los Angeles freeway, Bill gets out of his car and starts walking. He had found himself faced with needless construction delays, intense heat, a shitty car, obnoxious talk radio, screaming children, family issues, and the fact that he’d lost his job recently; seemingly with no foreseeable escape.
 He is surrounded by many small annoyances; a plush Garfield stares at him, people around him argue, and flies pester him. The windows in his car won’t roll and the AC does not work; he is soaked with sweat. The proverbial water boils over, and Bill decides to make his own way. He walks away from his bad circumstances, abandoning his car right there on the freeway.
 Anxiety had gotten the best of him. From the time he started walking, everything he encountered seemed to be a hurdle intentionally placed in his way. His first stop was at a Korean-run bodega. He runs out of change to use the pay phone, so he takes a dollar inside to get more. We see the rude, dismissive clerk breaks open a fresh roll of quarters to replenish the register. With the drawer still open, he explains to Bill that he won’t make change for him unless he buys something.
When Bill chooses a much-needed can of Coca-Cola, he’s charged 85 cents; not leaving him with even enough change to make his call. When he complains, the clerk throws him out. Bill refuses to go, so the man tries to attack him with a baseball bat. Bill responds by trashing the store; and coerces the guy in to charging him a reasonable price. Bill only wants to be understood. He declares that he is simply “standing up for his rights as a consumer.” He’s still a good man, even paying for his drink. He takes the bat with him and leaves the store.  During the ordeal inside the store, we meet Detective Prendergast (Robert Duvall.) He is a seasoned, good-hearted, pussy-whipped Robbery-Homicide detective. Today is his last day on the job. On his way into work, he finds himself stuck in traffic behind an abandoned car. He only makes the connection later that the car he helped move out of the lane is actually Bill’s.
 Next, Bill decides to stop off at an empty lot to enjoy his cold beverage and collect his thoughts. He gazes through a hole that has developed in the sole of his shoe. We realize that he’s struggling to find employment when he tears up the well-worked classified ads to line his shoe. He clearly just wants to be left alone when he is suddenly accosted by two low-rent gang-bangers who attempt to intimidate him.
 They demand his briefcase as a toll, saying that he had “trespassed” on “their” property; he was also guilty of “loitering.” Bill cracks a few smart ass jokes, and tries speaking rationally to diffuse the situation. He understands the concept of respecting the turf of others, apologizes, and offers to leave. Perhaps the mismatched colors worn by this particular gang undermined their solidarity along with any credibility.
One of them produces a butterfly knife, repeating his demand. When he realizes that there’s just no talking to some people, Bill makes his move for his bat; striking both men. He refused to be strong-armed out of what was rightfully his. This guy just can’t catch a break. The would-be robber drops his knife and both beat a hasty retreat. Bill screams out in frustration,
“I’M GOING HOME!”
“CLEAR A PATH, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”  Bill pockets the blade and continues on his way. He finds another pay phone to call his ex-wife. Meanwhile, the gang immediately rounds up recruits. They procures an arsenal of guns and begin to look for him. When they finally spot him, Bill is targeted for a drive-by shooting. As he talks on the phone, the car rolls up right behind him. Two of the gang members empty out submachine guns. They destroy storefronts and wound two bystanders, but Bill is miraculously unharmed. As they try to escape, the driver loses control and they have a serious car crash.
Bill approaches them; he shoots one of them in the leg with his own Uzi, and takes their gym bag of with assorted guns. He then quips, “Take some shooting lessons, asshole;” and calmly walks away.
As Bill continues walking, he is denied access to a sidewalk by a construction crew. This irks him, because he feels that many of the hardships he’s faced today, were caused by unnecessary, sprawling construction projects.
 He takes a detour through a nearby park; and is approached by an aggressive
panhandler. The guy tells every story under the sun in an effort to get a handout. After resisting initially, Bill decides to give the man his briefcase. When the guy realizes that it contains nothing but a bagged lunch, he curses Bill; who keeps walking with yet another reminder of how selfish and ungrateful the world really
Then next chapter of his journey finds Bill stopping at the local Whammy Burger for breakfast. The inept cashier and manager provoke him further by denying him breakfast, despite the fact that he missed the cutoff time by just three minutes.
When he explains that “the customer is always right,” Bill is told that it isn’t their policy. As he sets his newly-acquired gym bag on the counter, we are alerted to the fact that Bill is about to lose it again. After the dickhead manager smugly tells him no one last time, Bill pulls a full auto Tec-9 from the gym bag.
 Now he has their attention (all he wanted was a little consideration.) An accidental discharge occurs. Bill makes small talk with patrons; an eldery woman needlessly vomits. Suddenly involved in a hostage situation, Bill decides that he’ll have lunch after all. The burger they prepare for him is smashed and unappealing, looking nothing at all like the photo on the menu board. Bill points out the discrepancy to the employees and leaves.
Next, Bill stops on the street to make another phone call. He was apparently taking too long, and some douche bag waiting to use it starts yelling at him about it. To make the petty prick rethink his rude ways, Bill uses the stolen Uzi to destroy the phone booth. (Many of his violent actions are done solely to teach rude people some manners.)
Next Bill stops off in an Army/Navy store; to look for a sturdy pair of boots. The proprietor of the business is a racist, homophobic Nazi. He has been listening to Bill’s antics on a police scanner all day, and immediately recognizes him. Bill explains that his actions were not racially-motivated.
When Bill fails to agree with the man, the conversation goes downhill fast. The shopkeeper draws a gun and attempts to ‘arrest’ Bill. He roughs Bill up; making him break his glasses. (Again, just seconds before it happens, we get a glimpse at the anger about to boil over in Bill.)
In the last second before being handcuffed, Bill stabs the guy with the knife he stole from the gangster in the beginning of the film. Bill reasserts himself, and shoots the Nazi to death with his own Beretta.
 After changing clothes and boots, Bill heads out with the dead Nazi’s rocket launcher and a few supplies. Upon leaving the store, Bill finds himself at another cumbersome construction project. He argues with a worker, demanding that he admit that nothing is actually wrong with the street. It takes displaying his pistol to get the man to be honest; there is nothing wrong with the street. Bill decides he’ll give them something to fix; and blows a huge crater in the road with the rocket launcher.
 Bill jumps a fence, and finds himself passing through a private golf course. A pair of elitist, old rich men try to make him go back the way he came. He ignores their words, but gets pissed when one of the men intentionally drives a golf ball at his head. He pulls out a shotgun and shoots their golf cart (which rolls down the hill and into a pond.) The mean old man has a heart attack. Bill asks him if it was worth it to die, just because they didn’t want to let him walk through ’their’ area.
 Hearing approaching sirens, Bill jumps another fence, and winds up at the mansion of a plastic surgeon. The groundskeeper and his family are having a cookout on the property. It’s at this point that Bill realizes they see him as the bad guy. He leaves them unharmed and goes to Venice to reunite with his estranged ex-wife and daughter on her birthday.
By this time, police have connected the dots and spoken with Bill Foster’s mother. They realize that he is headed to the ex-wife and daughter. Venice cops had ignored and dismissed her fears and pleas for protection all day. After they had left, Bill arrived at the house.
Throughout the movie, constantly bothering his ex-wife was Bill’s only real character flaw. His biggest motivator throughout the day was just to see his daughter; and take her a gift on her birthday.
When the detectives show up at Bill’s ex-wife’s house, Bill shoots and injures Prendergast’s female partner. He runs to the nearby pier, where he knew his family would be. He confronts them. The wife was clearly scared, but the little girl was happy to see her father.
 Supercop (Duval) finally catches up, and the pier clears out. As police cordon off the area, the detective calmly moves in making small talk. He attempts to talk Bill down. Bill’s ex-wife sees her chance, and snatches Bill’s gun; throwing it off the pier. She and the daughter are immediately removed from the situation. Rather than entertain the notion of hoping to see his little girl from behind bars, Bill decides his fate. Claiming to have another gun, he challenges the detective to a duel.
 He explained that if he was killed by the police, his little girl would get the insurance money. Despite his ex-wife’s negative opinion of him, Bill did one of the noblest things a man can do; trade his life to preserve the financial well-being of a family that had shunned him. After a three-count, Bill makes his move, forcing Prendergast to shoot him.
 He was shot center-mass while drawing a water pistol from his coat pocket. He smirked at the detective, as if to say “no hard feelings.” Bill uttered, “I would have got ya…” before falling dead into the surf below. I’m not saying everything Bill did was right, but I understand. This film serves to remind that there is a breaking point inside each of us. If you haven’t already…
Go see it.
-KZ
 Jay-Z In His Own Words
What Would Jigga Do?
Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter is one of the most prolific figures in the music industry. Besides launching countless award-winning artists and business ventures, Hov remains one of the sharpest lyricists to date. Jay’s rhymes are raw, real, and carefully crafted from words that prompt personal
thought. With so many current rappers still rhyming “Glock” with “block,” I am overjoyed to have Jay-Z’s music available. Without it, my daily routine would sometimes seem unbearable. The journey from poverty and crime to success never seemed so possible. The following is a respectful collection of the 200 most profound and clever quotes of his discography.
 “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man…”
 “Nigga, I be Spiked out; I could trip a referee…”
 “I got watches I ain’t seen in months;
apartment at the Trump I only slept in it once.”
 “I do this in my sleep;
I sold kilos of coke, I’m guessing I can sell CDs.”
 “Fear not where, fear not why, fear not much while we’re alive;
Life is for living not living uptight, until you’re somewhere up in the sky.”
 “The allure of breaking the law was always too much for me to ever ignore.”
 “Blame Reagan for making me into a monster, blame Oliver North and Iran-Contra;
I ran contraband that they sponsored, before this rhyming stuff, we was in concert”
 “I hate all girls with ulterior motives;
that’s why I’m 20+ years old, no sons, no daughters.”
 “Nigga had very bad credit, you helped me lease that whip.
You helped me get the keys to that V dot six.”
 “You know in more than one way cocaine numbs the brain;
all I did was think about how the funds once came.”
 “This is food for thought, you do the dishes.”
 “He who does not feel me is not real to me, therefore he doesn’t exist;
so poof, vamoose, son-of-a bitch.”
 “All hustlas who ever bought an eighth from me, take the time out to set the record straight for me.”
 “When I start spitting them lyrics, niggas get very religious.
Six Hail Mary’s, please Father forgive us.”
 “I’m way too important to be talking extorting;
asking me for a portion is like asking me for a coffin.”
 “Back when rappers wouldn’t play lyrical roulette;
with an automatic weapon, I was reppin’ with a Tec.”
 “MDMA got you feeling like a champion;
the city never sleeps better slip you a Ambien.”
 “Get stoned every day like Jesus did.”
 “I’m a hop, skip, and a jump from grippin the pump.”
 ”My favorite hue is Jay-Z Blue.”
 “Most niggas don’t know a brick from a bite, they keep buying hard white.”
 “Cops pulling it over, Jigga react militant.”
 “How could you falter, when you the Rock of Gibralter.”
 “I ain’t perfect; nobody walking this earth’s surface is.”
 “Difficult takes a day, impossible takes a week.”
 “I get my ‘by-any-means’ on”
 “Sisters work hard; bitches work your nerves.”
 “…somehow, I beat them charges like Rocky.”
 “Hospital days, reflectin when my man laid up,
on the Uptown high block he got his side sprayed up.”
 “Rappers with no relation,
there’s 7 degrees of separation and I’m Kevin Bacon.”
 ”When the twin towers dropped I was the first in line.”
 “My name is Hov; H to the O-V. I used to move snowflake by the OZ.”
 “I ain’t even wanna be famous;
niggas is brainless to unnecessarily go through these changes.”
 “Seen them Rovers roll up with ribbons;
I’ve seen em repoed, resold, and redriven.”
 “I’m gonna get richer through any means, with that thing that Malcolm palmed in the picture.”
 “I know how this movie ends and still I play; starring role in “Hovito’s Way.”
 “Factions from the other side would love to kill me, spill three quarts of my blood into the street, let alone the heat.”
 “I ain’t passed the bar but I know a little bit;
enough that you won’t illegally search my shit.”
 “I’ll do anything necessary for her;
so don’t let the necessary occur.”
 “Used to tell they friends I was ugly and wouldn’t touch me;
then I showed up in that dubbed-out buggy.”
 “Just sent a million dollars through a hands-free;
that’s big-money talk, can you answer me?”
 “I do this for my culture;
to let em know what a nigga look like, when a nigga in a Rossa.”
 “Your house is your house, I didn’t respect the rules;
brought crack past your door, beefed with rival crews.”
 “I don’t always wanna be this drug dealing motherfucker.”
 “I ain’t with foreclosure; I will never forfeit.”
 “Saw the devil in your eyes, high off more than weed.
Confused, I just closed my young eyes and squeezed.”
 “I’m forever young; my name shouts survive.”
 “Clap whoever stand between Shawn and figures.”
 “Since diapers, had nothing to live for like them lifers…”
 “…and the Haven introduced me to the game; Spanish hoes they introduced me to caine.”
 “Time don’t go back, it go forward.
Can’t run from the pain, go towards it.”
 “Y’all don’t wanna witness shit;
we squeeze hammers man, bullets squeeze bayou like Louisiana man.”
 “I was raised in the projects;
roaches and rats. Smokers out back, selling they mama’s sofa.”
 “Girls and guns, all I want.”
 “I swear to everything, when I leave this Earth,
it’s gonna be on both feet, never knees in the dirt.”
 “FYI, I’ve never been robbed in my life.”
 “Look man, a tree grows in Brooklyn.”
 “Could you see yourself with a nigga working 9 to 5;
then 10 to 6, two jobs to survive?”
 “I know you love me like cooked food;
even though a nigga gotta move like a crook move.”
 “I ain’t never been afraid of a drought,
since I was six-seventeen getting money down south.”
 “Flyer that a piece of paper bearing my name.”
 “…I keep it ghetto like sunflower seeds and quarter-waters.”
 “Living adventurous, not worrying about expenditures.”
 “Slimmy at the Rucker want to leave and spend with me,
I consistently take em out the park like Ken Griffey.”
 “Like a running back, get it man? I’m straight off the block.”
 “Even if it ain’t sunny, hey I ain’t complaining;
I’m in the rain, doing a buck-forty hydroplaning.”
 “I was just fuckin’ them girls;
I was gon' get right back.”
 “Let him unlock doors off my keys.”
 “Rare porsches, rare portraits,
rare guns if you dare come near the fortress.”
 “I check cheddar like a food inspector.”
 “As a youngen, dumb and gun in the waist;
sold crack to those who couldn’t take the pain and had to numb it with base.”
 “I rock my jewels, I’m not a fool;
in the small of my back I got this big ass tool.”
 “I see Euros, that’s right plural;
I took so much change from this rap game, it’s your go.”
 “You can try me fucker, but when I squeeze it hurts. Fine;
we’ll lose two lives, yours and mines.”
 “We can talk; but money talks, so talk mo bucks.”
 “When my situation ain’t improving,
I’m trying to murder everything moving.”
 “Men lie, women lie; numbers don’t.”
 “I drove by the fork in the road and went straight.”
 “I meant no malice; I just met his challenge and won.”
 “They got the Maybach coupe now; look like the Batmobile.”
 “…saving me the hassle of speaking to half of these assholes…”
 “…no two days are alike, except the first and fifteenth pretty much.”
 “Born in sewage; born to make bomb music.
Flow tight like I was born Jewish.”
 “…Hov’s the audio equivalent of Braille.”
 “My president is black, in fact he’s half white;
so even in the racist minds he’s half right.”
 “They say you can’t turn a bad girl good;
but once a good girl’s gone bad, she’s gone forever”
 “…at age 9, saw my first hate crime.”
 “When you live by the gun you die by the same fate.”
 “I can’t justify genocide,
but I was born in a city where the skinny niggas die.”
 “Where are you victory, I need you desperately;
not just for the moment, to make history.”
 “Since this is a new era, got a fresh new hat.”
 “You better hope a rich rapper never attacks you.”
 “Could not stress me I wasn’t grown;
especially on nights I brought something home to quiet the stomach rumblings.”
 “When it comes to relationships, I don’t have the patience.”
 “Nigga I’m home on these charts, y’all niggas visiting.”
 “We all fish, better teach your folk.
Give him money to eat, the next week he’s broke.”
 “Can’t be too safe cause niggas is two-faced,
and they show the other side when they catch a new case.”
 “Last nigga that fronted, two shots spun him around.”
 “Intuition is there, even when my vision’s impaired.”
 “I’m a hustler, homie; you a customer, crony.”
 “Told the judge, didn’t budge, it was him or me.
And I ain’t trying to be hard, but I’m guilty as charged.”
 “…bring em a lot closer to the block where they pop toasters;
and they live with their moms, got dropped roasters from botched robberies…”
 “Coke is still my sponsor. Cola, yeah, Hova;
still getting it in with soda.”
 “I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor, I’ve saved and blown
bread…”
 “…heron got less steps then Britney…”
 “…I’ll Castor Troy you…”
 “…so I stretched the game out;
etched your name out…”
 “Got a chick from Peru, that sniff Peru;
she got a cousin at Customs that get shit through.”
 “I’ll spend Japan yen at ten major events.”
 “Damn, Im’ma be a failure;
surrounded by thugs, drugs, and drug paraphernalia.”
 “I should take him in back of the building and blaze
him.”
 “This is crew love; move music or move drugs. Rival crews, get your black suits up.”
 “I’m a legend; you should take a picture with me. You should be happy to be in my presence; I should charge you a fee.”
 “I’m living proof that crime do pay.”
 “I had to hustle; my back to the wall, ashy knuckles.”
 “Peter Park, Spiderman; all I do is climb the charts.”
 “I got no patience; and I hate waiting.”
 “I went to school, got good grades, could behave when I wanted;
but I had demons deep inside that would raise when confronted.”
 “Pass the reefer over to this freak;
breathe mami, this is good weed mami.”
 “…sitting courtside; Knicks and Nets give me high-fives.”
 “Told you put away some cheddar, now you crying for bail.”
 “I’m retarded with the Glock nigga, clip by clip;
the competition is none, they just cease to exist.”
 “…I’ll Sinatra, shot ya, goddamn you.”
 “Caught him with his feet up and shoes off;
bout to snooze off.”
 "Hear the hate in my voice, right? I hate that you noticed.”
 “…so I move keys, you can call me the piano man.”
 “Who wants to be the mother of the son who sold drugs?
Coworkers saw me on the corner slinging Larry Love.”
 “The world’s facing terror; Bin Laden been happened in Manhattan.”
 "I used to give a shit, now I don’t give a shit more; truth be told, I had more fun when I was piss poor”
 “I caught smaller cases, but I had capital.
Hypocritic system let me right back at you.”
 “I take off the blazer, loosen up the tie;
step inside the booth, Superman is alive.”
 “Traded in the gold for the platinum Rolexes,
now a nigga wrist match the status of my records.”
 “Gucci this, Prada that.”
 “Plead the 5th when it comes to the fam;
I’m like a dog, I’ll never speak, but I understand.”
 “Three-times felons in shorts with jealous thoughts. Trying to figure where you mail is, guestimate the weight you’re selling,
so they can send shots, straight to your melon. Wait!”
 “Look at that fake smile he just gave me it’s breaking my heart;
should I school him or pull the tools out and just break him apart?”
 “You put on two tube socks; you couldn’t walk in my shoes.”
 “Got the city drinkin’ Crystal raise up the fee; rappers going broke tryin’ to keep up with me.”
 “Before they look up, you selling the town cook up.”
 “Pop pills and stay in beat.”
 “Trust is a word you never hear from us;
hustlers we don’t sleep we rest one eye up.”
 “…brought that crack back like a yo-yo.”
 “I hated algebra, but I loved to multiply.”
 “Murder is a tough thing to digest;
it’s a slow process, and I ain’t got nothing but time.”
 “Impregnate the world when I come through your speakers.”
 “…I can’t see past the girl’s greed to call her wife.”
 “All this stress, all I got is this big house.
Couple cars, I don’t bring half of them shits out.”
 “We run streets like drunks run street lights;
we collide with life as we speak.”
 “…ESPN; see me in action Monday nights, when the half ends.”
 “Roy Jones couldn’t steal us.”
 “…I pack heat like I’m the oven door.”
 “My President is Black, my Maybach too;
and I’ll be godamned if my diamonds ain’t blue.”
 “I’ll put the wolves on you; put a price on your head.
The whole hood will want you; you’re starting to look like bread.”
 “…I’ll probably never see jail.
Each tale contains more of the truth, but the statute allows me to go into detail.”
 “The next time you’re thinking heist, better be precise.
Cause I’m fully prepared; one of us is gonna leave here.”
 “Like a stranger damn I just shot my nigga;
and ran off into the night as if it was not my nigga.”
 “Hit with the RICO, they repoed ya vehicle;
Everything was all good just a week ago.”
 “Out the country, but the blueberry still connect.”
 “You dudes is noodles; I got more ziti to bake.”
 “Now my name’s being mentioned with the martyrs;
the Biggies and the Pacs, and the Marleys, and the Marcuses.”
 “I’m not looking at you dudes; I’m looking past you.”
 “Y’all niggas want war, y’all got it backwards y’all should want raw;
y’all should want more…”
 “…at the 40/40 club ESPN on the screen.”
 “Abide by the block rules, I buy my Glock used with bodies on it;
let me know anybody want it.”
 “This is the shit you dream about with the homie steamin’ out…”
 “I’ll make you and your wack mans fold like bad hands…”
 “…a life like Grand Theft Auto, PSP.”
 “On repeat, the CD of Big’s “Me and My Bitch.” Watchin Bonnie and Clyde pretendin to be that shit;
empty gun in your hand sayin, “Let me see that
clip…”
 “Had to play with fire and get burned;
only way the boy ever gonna learn.”
 “I’ll put holes through your hoes too;
through your clothes, through the fours, through the niggas close to you.”
 “Hate that I can’t roam the street without the clip and chrome;
knowing one day Im’ma have to flip, come on.”
 “I’ve seen hoop dreams deflate like a true fiend’s weight.”
 “I taught em about fish scale, they want me to fish for them;
they want me to catch clean, then cook up a dish for them.”
 “He who hesitates is lost.”
 Also, I’m so fly I’m on auto…pilot, while guys just stare at my wardrobe.”
 “But I don’t see the ending through these millionaire lenses;
just the two M’s on the emblem.”
 “Step One in this process, scramble up in your projects,
and head to the Heights, where big coke is processed.”
 “Keep coke in coffee, keep money smelling mothy.”
 “Perfect time to say goodbye;
when I come back like Jordan, wearing the 45.”
 “Know why they call a project a project? Because it’s a project;
an experiment and we’re in it, only as objects.”
 “Fuck rap; coke by the boatload.”
 “Slamming Bentley doors, hopping out of Porsches; popping up on Forbes list; gorgeous.”
 “…had girlies in girldles weighing more than they supposed to.”
 “We wiled out in Vegas; styled on haters.”
 “Males shouldn’t be jealous that’s a female trait. What, you mad cause you push dimes and he sell weight?”
 “I’ll dig a hole in the desert and build the Sands on you;
lay out blueprint plans on you.”
 “I’m like a Russian mobster, drinking distilled vodka;
til I’m under field with Hoffa.”
 “Let your hair down baby, I just hit a score, pick any place on the planet, pick a shore.
Take what Forbes figured then figure more, cause they forgot to account what I did with the fraud.”
 “Just read a magazine that fucked up my day.”
 “Streets robbed me, wasn’t educated properly.
Well fuck y’all, I needed money for Atari.”
 “Hov’s a Blackberry Bold, shawty is a Sidekick…”
 “More fire, more Rocawear attire.”
 “…kingpin of the ink pen; monster of the double-entendre…”
 “Can’t even enjoy myself at a party unless,
I’m on the dance floor, hot ass vest.”
 “Baby girl’s so thorough, she been with me from the start;
hid my drugs from the narcs, hid my guns by the park.
 “I’m new in town, I don’t know my way around;
but I got some soft white that’s sure to come back around.”
 “My repitition with riches will bring the kilo business,
I got Creole C-O bitches, for my niggas who slipped/became prisoners.”
 “Life like a treadmill, niggas running in place;
getting nowhere fast, a whole year done passed.”
 “Built the Roc from a pebble;
peddled rock before I met you.”
 “Hanging out the window when she first seen him fight;
she was so turned on that she had to shower twice.”
 “Wood grain, four and change; Armor-All-ed down.”
 “North Beach leathers, matching Gucci sweater;
Gucci sneaks on to keep my outfit together.”
 “What you call money, I paid more in taxes.”
 “Holsters for my open hand.”
Three Generations Deep In The Dope Game
(Fiction not conviction. This story is um, not based on any person, living or dead. Any similarities are completely
coincidental.)
My father was a natural hustler. It was in his blood. Growing up, it was a pleasure to watch him work. I never saw him take a loss on anything. He worked everybody; strong-arming fast food restaurants out of free meals, high drug finance, even arson-for-hire. It was embarrassing at times, but he was the kind of guy you were glad to have arguing on your behalf when necessary. He was also what the BATFE dubbed a “kitchen table” dealer,
selling machine guns out of our house. I remember him sipping scotch, playing chess, and reloading his own ammunition as he met with guests. Pops also fiercely battled bad drug addiction his whole life. Watching him struggle with his demons kept me clear of many pitfalls.
Like his father before him (and me after him,) he dismissed man-made laws as irrelevant. “If you don’t get caught, they don’t apply.” My father grew up in northeast Ohio . He began selling marijuana for my grandmother when he was in elementary school. He was regularly sent off to school with $5 and $10 bags of marijuana to sell to classmates. He reminisced about being good at it. He also used to tell the story about the one time he did get caught. His mother came to pick him up. When she arrived at school, he was released to her. When they got home, she beat him badly and locked him in a closet for several days. He was punished not for selling pot, but for losing his front. It was a hard lesson to be learned that early in life; DON’T COME SHORT.
When his heroin-dealing biological father was sent to prison for a string of bank robberies, his mother married a local police officer who was on the take. (Since then, she has tried unsuccessfully to sue the U.S. Attorney General’s Office, even naming Janet Reno in the lawsuit. The case was later dismissed. She has also stolen half a million dollars and a luxury car from a German businessman, and been linked to several suspicious deaths. My grandmother then used the media to expose the mother of a young kidnap/murder victim as a crack addict; who had pimped out her own daughter. The victim originally made national news when she was caught on tape being led away from a local business. She was later found sexually assaulted and murdered. Evidence suggested that the crime was retailiation for an unpaid drug debt; although it was suppressed until after the suspect was convicted.
Granny’s other son, my uncle, was later stabbed in the heart inside the mother’s crack-den home.) My father continued the drug use and sales. This practice carried over into his teen years. By the mid 1970′s, he was the guy to know. School ended without him actually finishing, and he married a classmate; my mother. He continued what he was doing with great success, for some time. As they began having children, they decided to move out of the slums of south Akron. Lake Street was no place to raise a child. They found a family-friendly neighborhood on Akron ’s east side; Goodyear Heights. This is where they would settle.
By the late 1980′s, my father was the American success story. He had an adoring wife, three young children, a home, and two cars. He even had a VCR and a camcorder; which was HUGE at that time. Pops never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He worked regular jobs to pay the bills, and hustling bought everything else. We were still poor; living in AMHA housing, yet I wore nice shoes in gym class. We ate meals bought with
food stamps, but I got Reebok Pumps when they first hit the market. I saw my father bullshit his way into so many legit jobs (that he was dangerously underqualified for,) it would terrify the public. Those jobs always came and
went, and he always left them with a bang. He wouldn’t just quit or get fired though; employment was always dissolved with a lingering lawsuit, debt, or mortal enemy.
My father eventually smooth talked his way into an executive position at a large Ohio car-rental company. It was then that he put marijuana on the shelf for the most part, and began using cocaine with coworkers. It started out as staying late after work for drinks. It seemed like he had always done that anyways, so it didn’t bother me any. Christmas was always an event; so many gifts they couldn’t fit under the tree. My father would laugh about the holiday bribes he always got; expensive cheese and wine baskets containing cash-filled envelopes.
The job ended abruptly one night, when he “borrowed” a rental car from work. He got a half an ounce of powder and went joyriding in Cleveland . He made an eerie premonition during a phone call to my mother; almost as if he knew how the night would end. My father took a lethal dose of cocaine, blacked out, and crashed the car into a cement bridge pillar at a high rate of speed. He mystified paramedics when he walked away without a scratch; having consumed enough blow to kill a horse. The car was totaled, and my father was right back to unemployment and drug sales. My parents fought constantly after that. They never got physical; just a lot of public arguing. I began hearing the name “John” more and more frequently.
One night, my mother took me with her to a sports bar in Cleveland . On the way, she explained that she was going to confront my father, and his connect. I was probably 8 or 9 at the time, and I really didn’t know what to expect. When we arrived, the bar was packed. I met John. He was an average 80′s party guy. He had dark hair and a mustache. He sort of looked like ABC’s John Stossil…back then. I instantly realized that everyone in the bar
liked him. He was sending rounds of shots to the whole place. He ordered me a Diet Coke and some chips. Then, I noticed the thick roll of cash stuffed in his left shirt pocked. I instantly wanted to be like him. His jewelry, the love
people showed him; I wanted that. As a young boy in the 80′s, I never really understood how my family always got by, despite dad being out of work a lot.
Now I know why…and years later, I have BECOME why.
I believe in free will; but I am certain that these events, filling my formative years, dictated my current path. How can a person swear off a life of crime and drugs, when it seems to be the family business? I viewed angry dealers showing up at our home as normal. Perhaps to outsiders, it was unusual. It’s all I saw growing up. It was just something else that happened; another part of life. I remember a crack dealer named Roe showing up one morning while my dad was away. They worked at a nearby car dealership together, and Roe had apparently fronted some dope the night before. He explained to my mother (in front of us) that my father owed him money. He didn’t
want to do it, but he vowed to put a bullet in each of my father’s kneecaps if he didn’t get paid. This reinforced the lesson in my mind; DON’T COME SHORT. Ever.
After losing the love of my life after high school, I filled the void with marijuana. I decided to give up on trying to find
and please a significant other (she would probably just leave me eventually, anyways.) Instead I took random hook-ups as they came, and focused on what I saw as my patriotic duty; providing the highest quality marijuana to friends who wanted it, at a price we could both live with. It’s a gratifying feeling when everybody you know is smoking your shit. Cocaine and other hard drugs were where the REAL money was, but with them came longer potential jail sentences, grimier clientele, and higher risk for jackers. Plus, competition in that market is fierce. I didn’t know coke. Selling it means using and tasting it. I stuck to what I knew. With just a few exceptions, I steered clear of the white bitch. I had seen her take my dad’s soul over the years. He had taught me an important life lesson without even knowing it.
I’d fly below the radar serving good green to friends. The money kept my car on the road, and fresh Jordans on my feet. A legit job was always in the equation, too. It explained income and expanded my clientele. Once established, I ventured into the cocaine business on just two occasions. Both times, I put aside all personal feelings, and bought two 8-balls. Once for my father (after he hounded me for 2 weeks straight,) and one for a handful of friends seeking “the set-up” (a gram of weed and just enough powder to dirty up one blunt.) The purchase I made for my father ended up sparking a weekend binge for him. “Damn it dad, I told you…” I vowed to never get involved again.
Throughout the years, I pondered changing my ways many times. This life can be a burden. My phone rang all hours of the day and night. I could find no peace. At times, I felt as if I had 20 different employers, and I essentially did; each with their own set of quirks, requests, and habits. Quitting the drug business is much harder that getting into it. I would really like to have children one day, but what would make a woman want to have children with a man, if she thinks his door will be getting kicked in by a SWAT team at some point?
I made numerous attempts to stop selling, but with no success. Requests always kept coming. I faced the prospect of disappointing everyone who called me, I still didn’t have a woman in my life, and my extra pocket money had dried up. What else could I do but re-up and do it all over again? My eyes show sadness now; having witnessed a wasted lifetime of violence, drugs, and betrayal. I wanted more out of life, but I was never really taught how to get it. Instead, all I learned how to not get caught doing things I shouldn’t be. Friends from my childhood have kids now; as well as mortgages and college degrees. Sadly, my life is far simpler:
Don’t get pulled over between Point A and Point B, and I can go spend my reward at Point C.
In 2005, my legitimate job was managing a pharmacy. I found myself immersed in a world of drugs, junkies, violence, and fast money. I was an occasional pot smoker, but I generally kept my hands clean. However, temptation eventually triumphed. The money was just too good to continue sitting out. I shut down the pharmacy one night, clocked out, and locked up. It was time to go home (and essentially clock right back in.) I had arranged for an ounce of frosty mids to be dropped by my house after work. I had just gotten in the door when I got the phone call: my brother’s wife had gone into labor. I knew I had to get to the hospital fast. My weed man was running
way behind, and I had people waiting on it. I still had two drops to make that day. Some of these people were so hard up, they had prepaid me a week in advance (dumb-asses…good thing I’m ethical.) Eventually, I made the decision to just go.
I brokered a deal that would cost me a few extra dollars, but ensure prompt delivery to the hospital. The city was hot at the time. I acknowledged that I owed this guy big for risking the drive for me. I put my gun on, and headed out. On my way there, I rescheduled both drops for later that evening. When I arrived at the hospital, both families were already upstairs, milling around in the waiting room. Everybody else was socializing, but I was detached. Sure, I was happy about the impending birth of my nephew, but the timing was off. My mind kept working on price equations and timelines.
I was armed, had drugs on their way, and felt like everybody’s eyes were upon me. I was disappointed with myself. I kept disappearing from the room, saying I was going outside to smoke a Newport. My sister knew the play, and accompanied me on each trip, in an effort to minimize suspicion. On my third trip to the parking lot, my order finally arrived. I was glad to have it in hand, but nervous as hell about being detected with it and a 9mm. I kept it in my cargos for one trip upstairs. To this day, I still can’t believe nobody smelled it. These mids were so dank, I was able to price them at $70 a quarter. Every time I found myself in a conversation with someone, I caught a whiff of it. I cut the small talk short, and returned to the car. I buried the stinky onion and the burner under some clothes in the trunk. It was baby time.
After the main event, I agreed to leave my car for my sister to take home. I called my boy Q, and asked him to bring out the Chevy so I could make my two remaining drops. No sweat. My father offered me a ride to his house. I quickly went to my car and retrieved the things I needed. I hid the ounce under some papers in his glove box before he could make it outside. Before long, we were off. Between the hospital and the bridge, I was looking around a lot, unusually tense. Pops made small talk and listened to Johnny Cash.
As we pulled up to a toll plaza, I broke into an instant cold sweat. Cops were everywhere. I saw cars from Highway Patrol, the Sheriffs Department, two different city’s police departments, and a K-9. It was a roadblock. As if he had known what I was up to all along, my father mused, “I hope you don’t have anything with you that you don’t want to answer for.” I figured this was it; game over. My old man was a convicted felon, and had enough legally-prescribed oxycodone with him to string out an entire middle school. I had a loaded custom Glock and an ounce of green. A simple ID check of the driver would surely prompt them to check us out. I sat gazing out the window as we passed through, seemingly in slow motion.
Miraculously, the police had focused their attention on a black F-150 they had pulled over in the eastbound lanes. Our side (westbound) didn’t have a single officer. I exhaled with relief. It was as if the “Ganja Gods” wanted me to seal this deal, and had parted the blue roadblock for me to do so. Three blocks later, I was where I needed to be. I quickly weighed out, and Q and I made the two final drops. We came home that night and got blunted. Once the adrenaline rush had tapered off, the realization quickly set in; I had done it again. I literally just hustled right under law enforcement’s nose. It can’t be Divine protection…I must actually be good at this. I will do more of it.
Life was getting more interesting; and more lucrative. I found a solid supply line in a friend named PG. Then, I coordinated my middlemen and end-users. PG was one of the most interesting players in the game; my best connect ever. He put us on. He had pounds of the best hydro coming in from all over the state. High-end BC Bud, Northern Lights, Silver Haze (when it’s broken up, Silver Haze almost glows; like metallic pencil shavings.) I
quickly decided to adopt his philosophy; Smoke the best, sell the rest. But he SOLD the best, too. He typically
“settled” for good mids if someone wanted bulk without the price, but never bothered with dirt. His shit was FIRE.
Call it Miami Hurricane with a sparkle…large vibrant spring green buds, with long, elegant orange hairs. Crystals sparkled throughout it under the light. It had the scent of good dro; a chemically, leather and cologne smell. He was a role model to us. He had fresh Polos, hot women, the right car, and a grip that I wouldn’t see in a year’s time working. His young, “spoiled kid” face carried the stress lines of a middle-aged businessman (I realize now how much this profession aged him back then.) He would typically drop by my apartment after pickups. He’d roll up a few blunts for us and we’d catch up. He’d sit at the table and break up a pound as I bagged quarters and ounces. On most occasions, PG fielded about three calls during that time, from three different people. He would tell three different lies about where he was. Everything about him was the game.
One evening, he asked me to ride with him for a routine pickup. I agreed to. His ride was a limo-tinted Cadillac on 20”s. It was black with peanut butter leather. Screens in the headrests showed flossy Mike Jones videos; not exactly low profile. As we curved through side streets, I was observing every turn, curious where we’d end up. I was also silently pondering the “go-where-he-go” possibilities. We ended up suddenly turning into a Steak N Shake parking lot and backing into a space. I froze; Steak N Shake is one of the biggest cop hangouts in town. What? “And we’re here for…really?” HERE? Phone call: “Be there in 3 minutes.” There were also probably four or five Sheriff’s cruisers, marked and unmarked, parked on the lot. All were empty. It must have been their dinner time before shift change. The Solo-Barics in PG’s trunk never rested, and tonight was no different. Paying no mind to the sheriffs deputiesinside, he continued to vibrate the mirrors for several minutes.
Within that time frame quoted, the other half of the transaction had arrived. It was Main Man! He had brought out the royal-blue Yukon tonight. He backed in slowly, stopping alongside the driver’s window, smoking a blunt. His chrome 24″s reflected the Cadillac back at us. He and PG decided it was a good idea to initiate a bass competition before the exchange. I sat stunned at the lack of professionalism displayed. I mentally predicted my gun empty; laid out on the hood of the car. With it would be several large bags of marijuana and PG and I handcuffed on the curb. With both vehicles’ stereos eventually bumped up to max, all anybody could do was sit and grin at each other. Main Man muted his suddenly. When all was quiet again, disparaging comments about each other’s mothers were jokingly exchanged. Main Man then threw a bag out his window, into PG’s lap. He said, “Get me on that,” and then threw another. He grinned, hit his blunt twice for emphasis, and pulled out fast.
We headed back to my place to process over two pounds of the best weed in town. As we crept off the lot, the dining deputies were just exiting the restaurant; clearly still focused on the good meal they’d just enjoyed. Despite how I thought it should have gone, it had worked. Again, I asked myself, “Is crime really this easy?” This was probably the most flagrant drug deal in the city’s history! Even with the police literally RIGHT there, we had skated without so much as a second look. I had not smoked for very long when I met PG, and I was starting to really enjoy it. I was lucky to have such a good supplier early on, but it spoiled me. Like a dog that had been raised on steak,
I vowed to never ‘eat hamburger’ again. I locked in a good price for ounces, and set up a franchise of my own. My price scale has always been set on a variety of factors. It’s a formula:
Initial investment + time spent + rarity of product + quantity ordered + quality vs. going rate for said quality product + delivery, divided by 28= YOUR PRICE.
(I should print that up on t-shirts; I’d probably sell a million.)
Grams were $20, 1/8 went for $60, and a quarter was $100 (as much as $120 if I didn’t know you.) This shit sold itself. I even had Haitians in the neighborhood that would buy my burnt-up roaches. Unable to pay $20 for a gram, they would give me whatever dollar bills they could put together, and I would make sure they got high that day. PG and I soon found that we were good friends, working a good racket. Things got even better when I started to branch out into two worlds he had no lead on: guns and pills. Business was booming now, and PG realized that he needed protection of his own. I was there to help him find the right gun. He procured his first handgun: a new-in-box Glock 19. He got comfortable with carrying it fast, and quickly added a pistol-gripped Mossberg Persuader to his trunk. Eventually, he sold the 9mm and bought a Glock 21C.
With guns came the desire to use them. The whole crew was embracing the notion of robbing other drug dealers. Knowing how I would feel of some lowlife robbed my stash (plus the threat of a murder charge if something were to go wrong,) I decided against it. One night, PG arrived with a crew of four in an unfamiliar SUV. It was late at night, and they had showed up unannounced. They had a plan and wanted back up. They had discovered some young
punk over at the college who was pushing good weight. He was flossing, and they just had to get him. They had two guys in the bushes around his home, sharing his every move on a cell phone. When the kid finally hopped in his truck and left, they had the green light. All that was missing was a gun, just in case. PG had left his home, opting to ride clean in the borrowed truck. I told them I was sorry to flag, but that was not my style. Plus, I had just smoked a blunt; I was way too fucked up to be running around in the dark, especially on a sensitive mission like that. My roommate decided he wanted in. After acquiring my roommate and his gun, they were off. I waited.
The whole crew returned roughly 30 minutes later. In came bags, rifle cases, a Playstation 2…they had done it. It was like the Grinch had just stolen someone’s Christmas. When they knocked and got no answer, they had pried his door. They ransacked the place, even smoking the remainder of what the kid had left in his bong, while there. They saw no resistance and no trigger time. They had, however, stolen a rifle, a shotgun, video games, and a
bag containing just over 13 ounces of the most perfectly manicured buds imaginable. This was promptly weighed and split up. Just for being me, I was handed two free ounces. The next day, I sold them both to PG for $350 apiece. (My roommate also found $2000 cash when he first entered the bedroom alone. He never told PG or the others about it. It paid our house bills for a while and afforded us each a few nice things.)
But with a score like that, once is never enough. “Guys, you came out ahead…let it go.” Two months later, they caught wind of a grow house in town, and were right back in business. They used a bigger crew this time, with crazier recruits. They were successful; managing to lick 45 pounds from the house. God knows who the growers were connected with. Robbing some college kid for his stash was one thing, but somebody WILL have you killed
over that kind of weight. All of the guys involved partied away their take within a week. The robbers kept running into each other at the mall, blowing their shares. It became a big public joke.
PG also began spending a lot of his profits. Parties at the spot got more crowded. He was drinking a lot, even while eating Xanax bars and driving. Ecstasy became a biweekly event. His downfall came when he learned about cocaine. Even with the great profit margin he had with the hydro, PG wanted more. When he realized what guys were selling powder for, it became his new thing. Suddenly, the best weed in town was boring without a little coke on it. Everyone in the crew started camming out their blunts. They were called whammers, yams, or yodas. To me, the shit smelled like concrete dust burning. Some even began crushing up ecstasy pills in their blunts, rolling “Heavy Chevies.” PG knew that I had a dislike for coke, based on my father’s history with it. He was always very accommodating. When they rolled one up, he would always break me off some crip to roll a clean blunt beside it. They warned me when a blunt going around was dirty. Sometimes, I’d smoke some of my shit and sell his gram the next day.
I began to distance myself. To me, this weed was a great product. The payoff was good, I smoked when I felt like it, and it didn’t bring around the shiftless clientele the hard drugs did. I continued what I was doing, but I started aligning myself with other suppliers around town. None quite had PG’s quality, but the price was right, and it wasn’t bad. I also saved myself a world of grief by walking away. As the partying continued, PG got sloppy. He was buying and eating any pill he could get his hands on. I even sold him Viagras I had managed to get my hands on; for $10 a pop. He picked up a charge; possession of marijuana over 20 grams, and eventually a probation violation. He followed that up with another trafficking charge and minor stuff for paraphernalia. The final curtain seemed to be when he finally got his last traffic stop. PG, a friend of his, and an underage blond were pulled over for speeding in town. All three were rang up on separate charges including open container, DUI, underage drinking, possession of controlled substance without a prescription and possession of drug paraphernalia. A search of the car uncovered a digital scale, the pistol-gripped shotgun, a .45-caliber Glock, assorted pills, and surprisingly, no marijuana. During the search, deputies also found a small, empty cocaine bag (crack sack.)
To this day PG swears that it was a plant. I know the guy. I’m sure if it were his, he’d admit it; at least to us. However, it could have just been another case of drug-induced sloppiness; misplaced goods. All of his toys were confiscated. He fought it and lost, racking up major legal bills in the process. He was forced to give up his beautiful townhouse in the gated community, for a spot in a drug-filled trailer park. But PG was still not done. Not long after, he traded in the Cadillac for an Audi. He showed up at my house one evening, a few weeks later. He joked as he showed me a gym bag containing 7 pounds of dro. Not in the trunk, not on stash, just sitting on the passenger seat. It seemed to me like he wanted to get caught. I moved away, but heard rumors that they were now doing flat-out armed robberies at convenience stores locally. Crazy fuckers; goodbye and best of luck. (Note: PG, Main Man, or one of their people is still in business locally. When I got back in town, the first thing I did was pick up a sack. The product I got was PG’s shit…I’m certain. Good to know; I’ve missed the quality.)
This debate over marijuana prohibition is slowly dividing the nation into two classes: the rich and the poor. Rich people as a whole, tend to view weed as a “hood” drug. The poor are the hard-working, pot-smoking people of America who are being imprisoned for having a joint after work instead of a beer. How did we end up in this sad state? Police have the right to essentially ruin our lives on a whim, over a single weed-filled cigar. Law enforcement can and will stop you if you if your appearance isn’t up to their expectations, but somehow, it isn’t profiling. Illegal searches are routinely employed, usually called “checkpoints.” Under the guise of keeping roads drunk-free, the Bill of Rights is once again circumvented.
The Fourth Amendment, which guarantees freedom from unlawful search and seizure, was the first to go. The moment you stop and roll down the window, the officer is looking for any of a thousand tell-tale violations. Any smell, behavior, or personal items visible in the car can result in further probing. Forget about turning around to avoid the stop, too. Law enforcement typically posts waiting units to stop suspicious drivers who do an about face when they see the police. The law states that cops legally need a reason to pull you over. Checkpoints seem to be the exception. The mentality that “driving on tax-funded roads make you fair game,” is all too prevalent. Cameras now line public roads and neighborhoods, and are usually pointed at the driver’s seat. K-9 officers only have to get a police dog to bark or scratch, and you catch a drug charge. At that point, you are tainted for life; even if the charges are later dismissed. The arrest will still appear on your record. With a drug conviction on your record, you can kiss your financial aid for college goodbye; along with the ability to find a job. In this age of Internet, criminal records are easily accessible to potential employers with just a PC and a search engine. Also, you better believe the police will be conducting a follow-up shakedown a week or a month later.
As of this writing, I am 30 years old. I have never been to jail, in cuffs, or charged with any crime. I have been patted down three times over the years, mostly in my teens. In this life, I am the rare exception. Arrests are a common occupational hazard in this business. Unable to admit that its drug policy is a complete failure, America ’s government still prefers to lock up hundreds of thousands of pot smokers annually. People like me; generations deep in drug use. Attacking marijuana means waging a war of sorts, on the very fiber of our families. The issue is far more complex than just “legal or illegal.” It becomes a matter of false-propped authority attacking the people’s very character and upbringing. Marijuana is now rooted so deeply in our culture, it is impossible to eradicate. Celebrities, working people, and even some politicians use it. California calls it medicine. Our movies and music incorporate and celebrate it. Spending billions in tax dollars in efforts to curb it just doesn’t make sense.
Our economy is in shambles now, our troops are still dying in the Middle East , and there is a drug war happening on the Mexican border. Washington D.C. must realize that now is the time to re-prioritize. Legalize it. Tax it if you feel you have to. Remove the criminal element. Learn to live with marijuana (just like alcohol,) even if you don’t use
it personally. Change seems inevitable. The election of President Obama is a glimmer of hope in the marijuana arena. Hints at legalization (or at least decriminalization) have surfaced. Mr. Obama seems both level-headed and radical. He faces the daunting task of “fixing” both America ’s financial woes and crime problems. Marijuana law reform seems like a reasonable place to start on both issues. Perhaps common-sense is not dead after all. Good luck, Mr. President.
-KZ
This Can’t Be Life: America
In the land of the free, we expect to be able to live our lives as we see fit. What we ingest, how we raise our kids, and how we spend our free time is entirely up to us, correct? Think again.
Imagine this scenario:
Extreme social anxiety has plagued you your entire life. Among other things, it has crippled your efforts to finish college. After four attempts (and government loans to repay,) you find yourself unable to sit in classes with strangers. Move right back at square one. Any well-paying job nowadays requires a college degree. You have been out of high school for nearly fifteen years. You’ve cycled through countless dead-end retail positions. Not only have you burned bridges with the biggest employers in your county, but there are generations of 18 year-old kids willing to do the same jobs for far less money. Your best money-maker was a job you held four years ago. You worked a legitimate job for a man with more wealth and whims, than brains or self-control. As you worked hard to earn $17,500 in a single year, your boss decided to supplement his income by trafficking prescription pain medication.
While employed, you found yourself facing potentially violent situations on a daly basis. An armed robbery attempt forces you to fire your gun into the torso of another human being. The shooting was ruled justified, but you soon learn that it is a lot to deal with emotionally. The state fails to renew a grant for victim’s counseling, so you keep working without it; thinking you’ll be okay. But you’re not. Mood swings, fear, paranoia, and depression set in; and you don’t understand why. You’ve never really heard of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Didn’t that used to be called “shell shock?” You struggle to do the right thing and continue working. You don’t have health coverage, so you resort to self-medicating with black market marijuana and Xanax to keep calm. One morning, you find yourself unable to look around your workplace without tears rolling out of your eyes; still, you don’t understand what’s wrong with you. On foot, you head home; which is five miles away. You stagger aimlessly down the street trying to make sense of it all. With your workplace under the scrutiny of federal investigators, you decide to leave the state and start over fresh. They approached you the day after the robbery, and asked you to stay and snitch for them. You refuse, even though you KNOW they now consider you part of the problem. You explain that you are leaving town, and you have no interest in helping lock up a friend. Your attempts to leave are hindered by mooching and
controlling family members who think they know what is best for you. They hinder every effort you make to get away. You have not been to the doctor for a checkup since age ten. Years of unloading and stocking trucks in grocery stores have taken their toll on your body. The physical pain you’ve been living with has become unbearable, so you finally make that trip to the emergency room. When they diagnose you with a hernia, you’re referred to a specialist for a $3,000 procedure. You can’t afford that, so you limp on ahead, leaving it untreated.
You fold up your diagnosis paperwork, and pack it up with everything else. You scrape together any savings you still have, rent a car, fill it with any possessions you can fit, and drive 1,200 miles north. You find yourself in a
frozen state with one distant family member and no friends. Once the rental car is returned, you suddenly have no way to get around. You notice that you have burned through most of your savings contributing to the house you’ve been staying in. After lying numb and depressed for 4 months, you realize that you HAVE to find work. You apply and get hired in a grocery store pharmacy. It’s not a bad job; but you get frustrated when your pay is far less than what was agreed. After promising you a fair rate, the store manager says the issue was “out of his hands.” Management refuses to discuss it with you further; literally avoiding you within the store. You are torn between keeping the employment that you now have, and standing up for yourself. You’re sure you can find something
better. On your 11th day (after a LOT of thought,) you clock out for lunch and never return. You’re mad at yourself for quitting a job this way, but you recognize abuse and refuse to let them do it to you. You’re in a small town now,
and know that employment is a must. You apply and get hired at a pizza shop down the street. You quickly work your way from part-time prep guy to assistant manager. Two months after you are promoted to store manager, the shop sells. The new owner bought the franchise to reinvest the $1.7 million he recently obtained through mortgage fraud. When the purchase is official, his first move is to fire the entire crew without notice; to replace them with ignorant teenagers. It’s the middle of winter, and you have a lot of bills to pay. However, the job market has essentially died since you had to look for a job last. You drop resumes around town and follow up on them, but it seems like nobody is hiring. The construction industry is huge in your town. When you see that your friends in construction are hurting for shifts, you start to realize that this “bad economy” really is affecting Americans. You understand their struggle now. For the first time in your 15 years in the workforce, you decide to apply for unemployment. You are denied. While you have been in the past job for over 1.5 years, the new owner has only been there for three weeks. You quickly grow overwhelmed by the frustrating website and give up. Your family comes to town for a visit. You’re happy to see them; it’s been two years since you have. When they leave, you feel a loss. You sit alone in your small house night after night, taking stock of your current situation. You realize that there are no jobs to be had where you are, you’re missing out on your nieces and nephews growing up; perhaps the grass is not greener here after all. You stay in close contact with your family down south. You’ve recognized all along that they are attempting to get you to come back. They paint a pretty picture of endless job opportunities, decreased population, inexpensive housing, and new ventures. They promise to lend all the support under the sun; a temporary place to stay, leads on jobs, even a truck and trailer to help move the furniture and appliances you
rebought over the past two years. You make the decision to return. Suddenly, help not an option. They offer to fly a family member up to make the drive with you, and that plan falls through. You’ve already given notice to your landlord and friends; you HAVE to go. Sadly, you do it alone. You abandon your couches and appliances, pack as many of your possessions into the car as you can fit, and leave it all behind again. Driving through the night alone, you realize how uncertain your future really is. There is an apartment waiting for you down there to move into it. You’ve never seen it, have no details on the neighborhood, and have no input on the lease agreement. When you arrive, you immediately start applying for jobs. Even with 15+ years in customer service, you find yourself unmarketable. You’ve updated your profile on Monster.com, applied for countless positions online and got dressed up to submit physical resumes in person. You’ve applied for over 200 jobs, and not one of them has panned out. You wonder, “Is it me? Or are the jobs just not there?” What is a person to do? You sell off all of your possessions over time, for pennies on the dollar, to make bills. Family blindly yells “Get a job!” You have tried; and they don’t seem to understand or care about the decline in employment opportunities or anxiety/PTSD. It’s been years since any of them have tried applying for anything. Even local Wal-Mart stores are on a hiring freeze. When you worked there in 1998, they turned over 14 cashiers a week! You were also with Sam’s Club for nearly two years; even won a Front-End Associate plaque once. Yet these inept cashiers in their stores hoard precious positions. You’re trapped now. Your family begins calling in favors; you’re a good person, so you do what you can to help. Your window for a Victim’s Assistance claim has closed, and you feel as though your mind is collapsing under its own weight. You finally find a therapist who offers you counseling sessions at $10 per. When you realize how she views you, you sign with a law firm, believing you might just be determined eligible for Social Security Disability. After all, you put in fifteen years of hard work and never asked anything in return. They’ll do the right thing, won’t they? No. You meet with their shrinks, and they rule you perfectly suitable to work; despite your constant fear, nausea when faced with social situations, and crippling depression. You petition for a hearing with SSA, but it could take up to 18
months to get a hearing. You die a little inside, realizing that in your time of need, “the system” has turned its back on you again. Your application for disability doubles as an application for Medicaid. You hate the idea of being a
burden on the system, but remember, you’ve not had a doctor checkup since the fourth grade; a physical to play basketball. You apply, hoping to at least find out if you’re doing okay, and are promptly denied. Anxiety and lack of a running/legal vehicle keep you from inquiring at walk-in, sliding-scale clinics in the neighboring town. You broke bastard, you don’t have bus fare! You ignore your constant headaches and groin pain. While not working, you decide that if you can’t find a job, you’ll create one. You dedicate all your free time to writing, drawing, and submitting to anyone with an e-mail address. The same people, who pushed you to return, are now sick of you; the honeymoon’s over. You can’t ask your friends for help, because you just left them all up north. Most of the people you knew down here before are now immersed in drugs and crime. They want nothing to do with you, and really, you want nothing to do with them. So with a dream inside, you continue on alone. Your apartment’s electricity
system is faulty, and the landlady won’t fix it. Between that, your neighbor stealing power, and price increases, you find yourself paying $300-$350 per MONTH, to keep the lights on in a 2-bedroom apartment. The landlady also rents out the place next to you for less than she’s charging you. You know you’re getting screwed on both fronts, but have no recourse. You must not let the power or water get cut; if child protective services find out, people could start getting their kids taken away. You squeeze out every remaining possession left to sell, and keep the bills paid. (This includes selling 13 grams of gold jewelry at a pawn shop offering you just $50. The pawnbroker smirked as he
watched you silently contemplate his terribly unfair offer. Gold is over $1,000 an ounce right now! If you didn’t coast onto his lot with mere fumes in your gas tank and need the money, you would have immediately told him where to cram his lousy $50.) At one point, you even resort to asking for assistance from a local charity. They take your info and give up to $75 towards your $300 bill. Unfortunately, they also pass your info on to a poverty reporter
with the New York Times, who promptly contacts you. Against the wishes of your family, you do the interview hoping it will lead to a solution. The reporter screws you; rather than explaining how you fell through the cracks of
the system, he publicly humiliates you for the things you’ve done to get by. He prints flat-out lies about you and your situation. He also fails to mention all the positive things you have done in the past, and are currently trying to do. In his relentless pursuit of a Pulitzer Prize, he seems concerned only with getting minor details correct. His wife works for the Obama Administration, so you know better than to make waves. You don’t bother demanding a retraction/correction from the Times like you should; you just visit websites that mention you, putting out fires. Family members disown you for embarrassing them. They vow to give your address to anybody who contacts them angry about the article. You say “Fuck the media” and move on. While you take full credit for some poor choices in your past, you can’t escape the feeling that the cards have been stacked against you all along. Savings were always a priority, but every time you saved something up, you found yourself raiding the piggy bank again in
order to stay afloat. You have no money to go out, catch a movie, or grab a burger. Dating and networking are now out of the question. Life is no longer about having things; it’s about survival. You get disgusted every time you see
the President or a financial analyst on TV talking about how the economy/job market is rebounding. When your tax return finally comes in, it is immediately eaten up. Family that has lent you money shows up demanding their take. Still, you manage to scrape together enough to move out of the overpriced dump. Everything you find seems to be in the same price range. You find a realtor willing to work with you on deposits. You express your fears of not being able to cover rent in such a nice place. He says not to worry; it’ll all work out. You start getting mail addressed to former tenants. You do the math, and realize that within the past six months, you are the third party to occupy the house. You can’t help but question whether this is the landlord’s scheme; moving in people who can’t afford the place, taking their deposits, and throwing them out. Rent was due ten days ago; plus $250 of the original deposit. With no income and no prospects, you are expected to cover $950/month for the next five months…plus bills. Every cent of money you accepted for student loans was spent repaying personal loans you took to stay afloat. The school refuses to release your second half of the payment, but within 2 months, you’re obligated to start repaying the entire amount. It gets better. A few months back, a family member crashed and totaled a truck owned by your former boss. They asked you to go get it out of impound. You agreed to, and got a speeding ticket on the way. While it was your fault for driving too fast, you are bothered by the fact that you would have never even been on the road that day if they didn’t ask you to do so. Both the multi-millionaire and your family look the other way when it’s time to pay the $144 ticket. It’s Christmas time. You hang your head very low; not only do you not have cash to buy anybody a single gift, but you can’t afford this ticket. The city allows you to break it into three payments. You pay the first, and default on the second. You receive a letter, saying that your license will be suspended if you don’t pay it by a certain date. You sit and watch helplessly as the date grows near. On the final day to pay it, you’ve actually managed to put the full amount together. You get a ride (as your car insurance was cancelled long ago due to non-payment,) to the tax collector’s office. They closed early that Friday; essentially meaning that you will be suspended by Sunday night. You mail the payment out; hoping that it counts if it’s postmarked before the date of suspension. Within a few days, the tax collector acknowledges your payment. However, you now owe the Highway Patrol a $60 reinstate fee. Over a simple $60 fee and a missed deadline, your right to drive a car has been stripped away. You sit stranded at home now; in the over-priced house you’ll likely be losing soon. The closest store is over a mile away, and you have no way to pound the pavement with your resume. Thank goodness Internet is still on! You plug away endlessly; trying to float your portfolio by anybody you think might hire you. You’ve always held yourself to a fairly high standard of living; car, home, pocket money, decent clothing, and savings. While you realize that there are “Obamatowns” (tent cities of recently homeless people) popping up across the country; many people are living harder than you are. Inside, you know that you are days (maybe weeks) away from that same fate.
Thanks to government over-regulation, it has become a crime to be poor.
(I know…boo-hoo. Things are tough all over, right? Consider this:)
If you do get evicted, you have no family that will take you in. You can’t live in your car until you figure things out; it’s illegal to park somewhere and camp out. If a cop catches you sleeping in that car, a simple insurance license/check will tell him you can’t drive it. Whether it’s parked on private or public property, it will be impounded. If you attempt to drive it away, you’ll be arrested for driving without a license; car towed for not having insurance. A
driver can be sentenced to a YEAR in prison for not keeping up with payments. The system is geared toward keeping down anybody who can’t pay their way. If one facet of life falls behind, it slowly erodes others around it. So now, you’re homeless and have no car…the cops took it.) As a transient, your concealed weapon permit is no longer valid; you must have a physical address. Now if you get caught with the means to protect yourself, they take your gun and jail you on felony charges. Your Second Amendment Rights have been taken away essentially
because you couldn’t afford to keep them. Now you’re broke, homeless, dirty, quite hungry, and living at the mercy of anyone you encounter. You still like to consider yourself halfway self-reliant, so you decide to catch a fish. However, you can’t afford a state-issued fishing license. You used to be able to fish in salt water within 3 feet of the shore, but not anymore. You are a criminal if you catch a fish to eat/survive without ”their” license (which is purchased by showing a state-issued photo ID.) You wonder again how you have fallen so far. You are enraged by the fact that the means to make your own living and eat have been removed. You are now essentially forced to take help from the state if you fall on high times, or be jailed for “doing for self.” Shelters generally tend to land women and children in low-rent/Section 8 housing, but men are not so fortunate. You can stay at the Salvation Army
shelter with the junkies, or go back to the street to be arrested later for what is essentially a human version of ‘dog running without papers.’ The system expects men to simply “get a job.” Some can’t. Men are routinely denied Medicaid benefits and housing. Unless you are a woman with a child under five years of age, you can expect no help from local government institutions. You even resort to calling the White House! You explain your situation in a recorded message and hang up. Several minutes later, the White House calls you back. The caller ID simply says “713.” The man on the phone gives you all your local assistance numbers; the same ones that have already told you there’s nothing they can do. Most of these organizations start their calls with “Do you feel like you’re going to harm yourself?” All they want is for you to admit that you’re feeling suicidal, so they can send in the storm troopers to “save you from yourself.” If people are poor and feeling despair, the current preferred solution is just to jail/admit them against their will.
America is now comprised of “the haves,” “the have-nots,” and “the barely-still-haves.” People who still have the good jobs look down their noses at those who have lost everything. “Get a job!” is still a favorite of theirs. What they fail to realize, is that many of them got their cozy cubicle job five years ago because a family member pulled strings to get them in. They have simply not been downsized yet. These people continue to buy SUVs, plasma TVs, and expensive handbags. Poor folks stare in disbelief as they mentally calculate how many months worth of bills the next guy’s entertainment budget could have covered in their hands. They have been up and down at times, but feel like things have NEVER been this grim. Although you are proud of yourself for not even considering doing so, you understand the increase in bank robberies and other theft across the country. Jobs in some industries are just
not available, yet the President simply tells people to ‘hang in there.’ There are however, a few industries still flourishing thanks to public grants and rich benefactors.
Health Care:
The health care industry is filled with arrogant second-year doctors who speak to people as if they are Dr. House. If you’re at the top of you’re field, go ahead…you can get away with being a bit cocky. If you’re just some disrespectful punk kid/doctor talking down to patients, shut up. (We might BOTH end up needing treatment here in a minute. Feel me?) Medical types like to silently feel superior for “helping people” or “saving lives.” What they actually do is dispense medication, arrange costly procedures, and line their pockets at the cost of the poor (or insurance companies of the rich.) Not all medical people are bad; some do try to help. If you’re a scrub-wearing
hospital employee who files reports, escorts patients from room to room, and has a dish of candy on your desk, don’t talk about saving lives. You’re in it for the money and social aspect.
Local Government
While many of us are unable to find jobs beyond the level of day laborer or sign holder (the most degrading profession ever,) county employees have no problem earning their 40 hours and then some. Local news recently reported the unbelievable overtime amounts paid to city/Department of Public Works employees. Last year, a Maintenance Supervisor pocketed nearly $10,000 in overtime pay, a Wastewater Operator soaked up about $16,000, and a Fire Lieutenant got close to $17,000. A Storm Water Superintendent took the prize by grabbing just under $28,000; all in addition to their base pay. I’ve watched quietly as road projects run well past their estimated completion dates. Some days, you’ll see 12 workers leaning on shovels for hours on end, as one guy in a Bobcat digs a hole. Scenes like this breed contempt in people like me. In a city where a councilman is busted for embezzlement and a police captain’s son (also a police officer) is popped for mortgage fraud (back-to-back,) this is
business as usual to some.
Law Enforcement:
Stimulus money swells the ranks and ability of law enforcement agencies. Fresh recruits, new toys, and expanded rights make it far easier to lock away the population. It is appalling that zapping people with tasers has become acceptable over time. That is torture! Hell, I’d rather be water-boarded! Pour some water in my nose/face…I’ll do my best to hold my breath. Shooting a dart into me, and shocking me powerless is no way to get me to agree with you in the long-run. Why should it be up to a beat cop to uncover an undiagnosed heart murmur that kills a suspect? At bare minimum, its manslaughter. However, since they did so in an official capacity, they are cleared…for ending a life. Cops point their guns at both innocent and guilty people all the time; until they get everything figured out. They are endangering innocent lives! Rule number one in firearms: never let your muzzle cross anything you’re not willing to destroy. Example: Police show up at an unknown disturbance, and hold two men involved at gunpoint. They investigate, and find that one was the aggressor; the other was the victim of the assault. Five minutes ago, you were pointing a loaded weapon at a crime victim’s face; because you didn’t know the facts? To an innocent person, that is the most disrespectful thing you can do. Fighting the law in this day and age will quickly land you in a prison cell or a cemetery plot. The brass has the officers’ backs; infractions and brutality are overlooked or covered up completely. Cops are hailed as heroes for simply doing a job for paycheck. Get over the hype; many do the job simply for the benefits, praise, and authority that come with it. Police officers and first-responders CAN make a difference; but many do the job for the wrong reasons and let the praise go to their head. Look at the corrupt cop who get exposed and disgraced. Does this mean that he was a hero all along, but only until he is discovered to be involved in wrong-doing?
Military:
It seems like a courageous notion; a young American citizen enlisting in the military to do their service. But who are they serving? In the days following September 11th 2001, the United States military witnessed an unparalleled rise in its recruitment numbers. Young men and women from neighborhoods across America pledged to stand up and strike back against the cowards that had attacked us. Once trained and deployed, many started changing their minds. Soldiers saw first-hand how under-funding for body armor and suicide missions into foreign lands really affected them. When they were injured, not all received the health care they deserved. These people had given
life and limb to secure freedom here, and dole out justice ‘there.’ I am not unpatriotic; I love my country and commend what these brave people did. These past years have simply made me wonder if:
a) We were actually justified in invading all the places we did,
b) A handful of rag-tag saboteurs could have really been capable of pulling off all the carnage and security bypasses they did unassisted, and
c) What are our men and women really fighting for now?
The official story echoes through the media. It tells of a pocket of resistance remaining, and we need thousands of additional troops to quell the uprising. At this point, our troops are attempting to capture and kill a state of mind, manifested through Iraqi and Afghan citizens. I know guys serving in Iraq who sit around playing Playstation 3 most of the time; even while working. Soldiers are some of the lucky few that still have steady employment. It’s a damn shame when you have to be willing to take a bullet to the face in order to collect a regular paycheck.
The Puppet Masters
Al Qaeda is said to be spread across the globe; the task of completely eradicating it is impossible. Obama says that we’ll pull out neatly by the end of next year…if all goes as planned. He is simply a charismatic hand puppet. Clearly enjoying his rock star lifestyle, Obama gets rich and well-known to follow orders and keep things going just as they are. The proverbial middle finger on his prostate is that of the Military Industrial Complex. Obama, Senate, Congress, We the People…none of us run the country. The MIC incorporates parts of all these entities to control the wealth and power in America; even the world. It’s a vague enemy; not a single person, company, or branch of government that can assume liability. It’s “the way things are.” Call it Bilderberg, Illuminati, Skull & Bones; whatever you want. It’s the same thing. Rich, well-connected people silently pulling strings in order to manipulate the behavior of a society. They do think they’re better than you. They are far richer, better insulated against removal, and they have more friends, toys, and employees than you could ever imagine. Don’t bother thinking of ways to dismantle this machine; it simply cannot be done. Chances are you already work for them, without even realizing
it. They have found subtle ways to make you pay for their homes, vacations, new projects, and even forces to use against you. As a young firebrand, I always wanted to so something to stop this; but with old age comes wisdom. I am tired now. I don’t fight it because I understand that there is no way to do so. They monitor your phone records and e-mails (calling it the Patriot Act,) tack on unnecessary fees everywhere possible, and allow every entity (from schools to utility companies) to ask you for your PRIVATE social security tax ID number. No wonder identity theft is happening so much nowadays. Speaking out too loudly can get you detained and interrogated. Disagreeing with or questioning official accounts will see you labeled as “unpatriotic” by the media. Remember when America had “due process?” Now we have secret prisons (and internment camps; look it up) set up to hold enemy combatants with no access to a lawyer OR a day in court. We have forced a nice-sized chunk of the Middle East to vote how we do, surrender their weapons, obey curfews we impose on them, and essentially subscribe to the way of thinking that we believe. Imagine if twenty American radicals had hijacked and crashed planes into a few of Afghanistan’s best-known landmarks. Good old militia boys from Michigan or Wyoming. If a connection to the groups they originated in couldn’t be proved, our country would have no right or justification to deport them. Would it be acceptable for Afghanistan’s troops to then invade our borders, impose curfews, launch missiles into cities, and replace our beloved democracy with a dictatorship? Would our leaders stand by and allow it? Or would they dispatch every American who still owned a firearm to repel the invasion by any means necessary?
As I said before, I love America. I was born here, raised here, and I will die here. No other country in the world looks as appealing to me as this one. I support and uphold the U.S. Constitution to the best of my ability. What
I don’t care for however, is the watered-down version that so many politicians and soccer moms would rather replace it with. Gun ownership is nothing that can ever be taken away. To carry a weapon and forbid others from doing so is a form of slavery. It is elitism in its worst form. Freedom of speech and assembly should never end with skull-cracking, long-range acoustic devices, or chemical agents used on peaceful demonstrators. These tactics are relics of a Nazi-era dictatorship; we’re better than that. If the forces that be really wanted to unite the people, it’s as simple as buying them. For the money squandered on an obsolete war, research & development, and incarcerating a quarter of our population, my proposal would be a drop in the bucket. Rather than brutalizing and
controlling the masses, befriend them. If every American received a “good citizen” check once or twice a year, financially-strapped Americans would become model subjects. If people knew they would each receive a $500-$1,000 bonus check for staying out of jail and doing the right thing (add your own criteria here,) it would serve as an incentive for everyone to do what’s right. I don’t mean welfare, but a simple “thank you” from the people “we” have put in power. It would give Americans something to strive for. It would also turn our economy around fast, and simplify the census process. Honestly, when we are scorned time and again by our leadership, how can the population be expected to overlook or even be happy about their situation? Some will say that people should be doing the right things already. In theory, yes; but guess what? On a large scale, they aren’t. If our foreign wars ended today, and the money involved were re-routed and invested in America, we would become a utopia. We could have a perfect mix of industry and landscape, free health care for U.S. citizens, and a sense of united pride would shroud us. In both politics and the private sector, people are so busy squabbling over power and their own views, that nothing gets done. If everybody in America shared one common goal and built towards it, we would
all end up with something to be very proud of. The nation is currently being run by banks, corporations and a self-serving few. They’ve already grown fat and rich, yet they refuse to stand down even one inch. They won’t sacrifice a single potential dollar of their own, or a shred of control over what they now grasp. They allow their buddies on Wall Street to get richer; no doubt in an effort to earn their cut and forge stronger ties with powerful CEOs. The current leadership in Washington D.C. seems hell-bent on spending its way out of debt. Some of the “non-earmarks” in the Stimulus were shameful; research on mice and proverbial ’bridges to nowhere’ for their own states. Does it really cost $198 million to compensate Filipino WWII vets for service? We all know whose names are on the “I should resign” list. People are starving and living in America’s streets right now; and we’re building tennis courts? Grade school children could tell you that this isn’t in our best interest right now! As “the beast” continues to eat (buying car companies, providing prostitutes to Blackwater, etc.) Americans are only growing angrier, hungrier, and more divided.
An Appeal
No amount of speeches or D.C. pep rallies can correct the problem. As yes-men feed the President suggestions on what ‘normal’ people want and need, he seemingly swims in a lake of disillusion. Mr. President, I don’t have a dollar to my name. No credit cards, bank account, or home to be foreclosed on. Your tax credits only help people with children and those who DO have money. I couldn’t take advantage of “Cash for Clunkers; I couldn’t afford to buy a new car, even at a $4,500 discount. I’m certainly not able to consider buying an environmentally-friendly washer & dryer set, hybrid car, or foreclosed home. Some people have NOTHING to begin with. The system isn’t taking them into account. Social services are famous for bouncing people with the least amount of resources to office after office, to fill out form after form. I used to have no problem lining up three jobs and choosing the one I want. Now, even with 15 years in retail management, I’d be lucky if a part-time position at my local McDonald’s opened up. You tell me, Mr. President; what am I to do? I’m not just another poor American who expects Mr. Obama to “help us” personally. That is weak-minded socialism. I don’t expect anybody to do for me. I’m merely struggling to determine a starting point for my climb back up the financial ladder. So far, you sir have offered no plausible solution. ‘Hang in there’ won’t cut it anymore. As I watch you and the First Lady wearing designer clothing and entertaining movie stars, I’m convinced that you have no possible clue what people need. Problems are staggered for the poor; you have to fix three, just to reach the one that needs attention next. Meanwhile, you use our tax dollars on your anniversary to take your wife to a Broadway show in a chopper. Your priorities are a bit skewed, can we agree? When you campaigned on “change,” you must have meant change (for the better) for yourself and inner circle. “Yes we can” must have meant “yes we can get paid and have a lot of fun now that I’m in office.” Your endless lip service and neatly rolled-up sleeves have done nothing to inspire anyone I know since the Inauguration. We see just
another comfortable-enough politician who can’t manage to get the country back on track. I’m not saying that Senator McCain would have done any better in your position, but a year in, only a select few are seeing the benefits of your leadership. Like most Americans, I’ll never get to meet you face-to-face. I would love to commend you personally for the positive changes that have been implemented. I’d also like to share with you all the not-thought-of
problems that ‘Joe Nobody’ really experiences. Despite all your success and accomplishments, I think you could learn a thing or two from me.
I’ll cut this short; falling just short of dangerous “manifesto” status. This is simply a recorded thought. Don’t bother dispatching teams; save your resources. I am no threat to anybody, and hope the people mentioned understand
what I mean. I’m just a guy in America who is fed up with the whole sad situation.
This can’t be life…
Regards,
-KZ
Dear Nature,
Where do you get off? People around the world have deemed you “Mother Nature.” You’re a real mother, alright. Sure, we live in/on you; thanks for putting us up. But let’s not forget, sister, it’s a two-way street. Why does everyone put you on a pedestal? In all honesty, you’re a whiney, tempermental, indecicive bitch, with a real ugly side. Let’s reflect on you for a moment:
 Earthquakes:
Another menstral symptom of Nature is earthquakes. You recently swept the rug out from people in Chile, Asia, and worst of all, Haiti. How could you possibly murder nearly 300,000 of the world’s poorest people? Nature, I hate you for your earthquakes. The people of Haiti did nothing but live their lives, and make the most of what little they had. But no, that was not good enough for you. You destroyed their capital city, left a million people without homes, and many more dying thanks to disease and hunger. Fuck you, Nature. Haiti? Really? You couldn’t have targeted a few key Wall
Street institutions? Tactless…
 Hurricanes:
Nature, you blow. Each summer, you grace our coasts with flash floods and 100+ mph-an-hour winds. You even have a season dedicated to these juvenile outbursts. You peel back aluminum siding, damage our pool cages, and level mobile home parks. How long until we as people decide that enough is enough? I watched in awe as you wrecked Homestead with Andrew and Punta Gorda with Charley.
 Then came the unthinkable; New Orleans. In a city filled with struggling people, you breezed into town and ruined things. Nature, I’d tell you to go to hell, if I didn’t think parts of you WERE hell. You typically bring rain, surging flood water, high winds, and downed power lines.
We sit glued to TV news, watching half-assed reporters speculate where you’ll make landfall. You threatened Florida before, and decided to drive all the way north. Dumbass, you hit Canada…then doubled back and hit it again! Unless your job IS to destroy our communities, you suck at what you do.
 Wildfires:
Fix your face, Nature. Patches of your surface burn out of control. You seem unable to regulate yourself. You sit back and give up a few acres, while brave firefighters and volunteers battle blazes to save lives and property. I don’t know…if my face were on fire, I like to think that I’d take some step to remedy the situation. Are you fucking stupid or just lazy?
 Blizzards:
Right now, you pummel the Northeastern United States with back-to-back-to-back blizzards. Hurricane-force winds bury our Capital. Kids in Cleveland can’t go to school. New York, the business leader of the free world, has been brought to a standstill. Enough already! You have made your point. You just had to prove Al Gore wrong; mission accomplished. Now, could you let our people get along with their lives? We’d better have a damn beautiful Spring this year Nature, or I’m coming for YOU…
Tornados:
Occasionally, you pull a funnel cloud out of your ass, and unleash it in the worst possible place. You clearly have no respect for our homes, work routines, or traffic lights. Just plow down Main Street, huh? If it was possible, I would scale that cloud with a sharp blade and slit your throat. You especially seem to enjoy bullying Texas and Oklahoma. Trust me Nature, those aren’t exactly the people you wanna piss off…fuck around
and get shot!
 Floods:
Oh, come on now, Nature! Are you going to help fish these cars out? You did bury them. Did you bother to see if there were people inside them first? Of course not; you’re a thoughtless pig. We blame ourselves for littering, for something as simple as dropping a gum wrapper. You strand totaled cars in your own rivers! You know I spell Nature with a “B.”
 Tsunamis:
Oh yes, the curse you typically bestow on Asian nations; besides Godzilla attacks. You aim to destroy a cultured, productive people; along with their inventive architecture and delicious food. You are a racist, Nature. Toyotas malfunction? It’s your fault. Their computers
spam the world? Also your fault. How can people in tsunami-plagued regions get things done, without constantly worrying that you’ll show your ugly face unannounced?
At least in SimEarth, we could choose when and where disaster strikes…
 Nature: The FRAUD
You sell yourself as a beautiful place to live; worthy of God-like worship. But what are we praising? The countless dead animals that polka-dot your surface?
Corpses pile up on our roadways, while you sit back with your feet up, waiting for things to break down on their own. We have to spend a LOT of tax dollars to keep roadkill crews working. I don’t know if you need to shine your sun brighter, or spawn more animals to eat the dead here; but do something!
 Don’t get me wrong, Nature…I love you. I do! I just feel like maybe we, the individuals, guilt ourselves a bit too much over things that you do; or fail to do.
Just look at this mess. Sure, the people of India “created” it, but come on, help us out! We’re swimming in our own byproducts here! Flush your Heavenly toilet so to speak; cause a mudslide in the middle of nowhere. An actual bottomless pit; somewhere for India to toss all of it’s used diapers and obsolete computer peripherals. Together we can make this work! They don’t enjoy wading knee-deep in this shit. Why do you think some people have no qualms about say, burying a dead body in you?
Besides being a really easy way to dispose of a body, some might view it as just contributing a single piece of garbage to an already out-of-control problem. Wrong, I know. But at least they don’t use dangerous chemicals like Draino to solve the problem. They are planting something ‘organic.’
 Until a new, better, steel-framed planet opens up, I guess we’re stuck with each other. It seems so pointless that workers bulldoze your Rain Forest. It’s beautiful, contains cool, creepy animals we’ve never seen, and probably cures for all the diseases that haunt us today. Corporations exploit it, others rally to stop it. I don’t advocate burning you down or harvesting you beyond necessity…but damn! Nature, why haven’t you shared it with us all these years? It’s kinda like that secret weed stash your cousin keeps in the back of his closet. We don’t want to take it all, and we don’t wanna flush it down the toilet. Be cool, Nature…let us pinch one bud?
 Let’s face it: there’s always going to be some asshole who discards caustic things in an irresponsible manner. These jerks only need to be embarassed once in a group, and they regulate themselves. Who has the balls, resources, and discipline to take on the business conglomerates that murder you an acre at a time? College kids smoking pot and eating vegan at a protest isn’t getting enough done. They grow lazy and selective about their causes. For your sake and mine, Nature…things need to change now.
 If anyone would like to help save you, Nature, they are urged to contact one of these fine organizations:
www.greenpeace.orgwww.ewg.org/homewww.madisonenvironmental.comwww.eco.org Obviously, it would be best if they volunteer. If they’re too busy (or worthless) to actually get involved, they should send money. I’m sure these dedicated groups will find some way to help you with it. I’ll cut it short, since you’re obviously in the process of throwing a huge weather rebellion.
You stay classy, Mother Nature!
Sincerely,
-KZ
 I am typically not a big fan of the police. What they do by definition runs parallel to the freedom with which I live my life. However, I do occasionally wonder what it would have been like if I had gone the other route; became a cop? Most likely, I’d be more corrupt than a politician around elections. I grew up poor, surrounded by the same people police tend to harass. Fast money would be my motto, and deals would be cut. Protection rackets, drug dealer shake-downs, bribes to let people with warrants go at traffic stops…I
would be full-service!
In Training Day, we witness a day the life of a cool, calculating, do-for-self dirty cop; and that of a squeaky-clean, boyscout cop seeking acceptance to his unit.
 Detective Alonzo Harris (played by Denzel Washington,) is at the top of his game. He appears to be paid, well-respected, and in charge of his own world. By this point in the movie, he’s already put Snoop Dogg in a wheelchair, and beat a man to death in Las Vegas.
 This menthol-smoking player seems to have it all figured out. He has a well-paying public service job to abuse, an old-school Monte carlo to ride around in, a cozy apartment in a gang-controlled neighborhood, and a hot, Eva Mendes-looking wife to come home to.
Priorities:
 This badass knows when to use his power, and when not to. If he needs a lead, he’s quick to protect and serve; robbing and embarassing a car full of stoner college kids. If the matter at hand is a pair of crackheads raping a girl, he lets a partner do the heavy lifting. After the beatdown has been issued, he’d simply step on their rock, take their money, and threaten them at gunpoint. Not wishing to waste his day on paperwork for two dirtbags, he simply leaves them for Mexican street gangs to murder.
Not giving a fuck:
Shoot at me? Who do you think you are? Out come the .45s…Denzel has no qualms about initiating a gun battle with a Crip set in the middle of a neighborhood. His off-the-books search and seizure of cash at a drug dealer’s home were not about to be cut short by petty small arms fire.
After using the stolen cash to bribe a few high-ranking LAPD figures, Harris manages to buy a real search warrant to serve on an old friend. He rounds up his loyal crew, and goes to the raid. Dr. Dre rolls with him, using the name
Paul. After hitting a $5 million cash siezure, they each grab a cash bundle for their trouble, and turn their attention to the witness. After sissy-cop refuses to kill him, Denzel serves the dealer a gutful of buckshot. They use the
suspects gun to fire on a vested detective; really make it look legit and justified. The detectives in this crew are tight, and don’t appreciate how Hoyt’s honesty makes them appear. They offer to kill him for Denzel, but he still holds hope that Jake can roll with the program.  When Detective Harris realizes that tattle tale cop Jake Hoyt won’t play ball, he sets him up with the vatos. He pays a Mexican gang to kill Hoyt, and leaves. It’s a grimey move, but one that had to be done.
 After foolishly being talked out of his firearm, Hoyt realizes what’s happening and makes a move. He is quickly subdued, and ends up in the place that none of us ever want to find ourselves; on his back, facing death by shotgun in someone’s bathtub.
 Gangster Smiley suddenly develops a heart right before squeezing Hoyt’s final trigger. He does some research, and realizes this was indeed the same cop who had saved his cousin from crackhead rapists earlier that day. He explains that it was only business, and gives the LAPD Beretta back to Hoyt; who is now free to go.
 As Detective Harris bags his money to pay off a Russian mob bounty on his head, he has no idea that Hoyt is playing with his 9mm on a city bus; coming for him. When he arrives, a gunfight immediately ensues inside Denzel’s apartment. A whole cul-de-sac of Bloods watch as the white boy whips the shit out of and robs Harris. Not being able to pay off the Russians, Denzel and his Monte Carlo are chopped in half by a chorus of well-orchestrated full-auto AKs
-KZ
 The Mullet Game
Mullets are undisputedly the worst hair style ever. This is a fact. Yet in our society, some people still insist on wearing them. Is it that they’re incredibly easy to maintainDo you honestly think that looks cool? What is the appeal? I’ve come to break wearers of this attrocious
style accident into several categories…
The Mullet-in-Training:Asshole parents often start their children’s lives out with the trauma of a mullet. Kids are often too young to identify or even vocalize the problem, but they know something isn’t right about them. Children often end up residents of Mullet Town as their parents lazily wait for hair to grow; and a style to take over. Half-assed scissor cuts are often the culprit. Once a young mullet is detected, it is imperative to correct it immediately; even if this means shaving it. Otherwise, a child could end up here:
Look at that; leather jacket and all. This kid’s
fashion-crippled parents have actually convinced him that he looks cool. A poofy
do like this will get his ass kicked for him once school starts.
 The Teen Mullet:
Look at this fool; racing stripes. That quit being fly in ’89. If young children are allowed to progress through their formative years with mullets, they become what everybody hates; teenagers with mullets. Mullet-wearing often leads to delinquent behavior in juveniles, (and all-out “hellraising” in adults.) Some teen mullet-wearers habitually piss themselves out of embarassment and frustration.
The Meth Mullet: Methamphetamine is ravaging our country right now. With it comes no shortage of people with mullets. Mugshot photographers and rehab centers are reporting record numbers at intake. Many of these offenders had bad hair to begin with, but for most, their bad mullet is a sign of their addiction. After four days awake on meth, who really wants to spend ‘sleep day’ socializing in a barber shop? These people just give up.  The Big-Shot Mullet:
A lot of cocaine-snorting sales guys end up sporting mullets like these. They cut the back just a little shorter, and get retail jobs; selling everything from home electronics to used cars. Their attitudes are condescending and agressive, reflecting only one thing: Sell Like Hell. They like having the option of cleaning up to fit in at work-related functions, but still enjoy bass fishing and beer drinking on the weekend. “He’s a big shot!”
 The FeMullet:“Dude, look at the mullet on that chick!”
(Yeah, we say that…) Women with mullets both intrigue and disgust me. How could a woman see that haircut and say “Gimme that?” I’m guessing most were different styles and old perms that simply went bad over time. Poofy mullets like this one are generally an inbred biproduct occasional “touch ups” with sheep shears; and hair spray.
Here are a few examples of the FeMullet.They can range from butch, to plain-jane, to sassy.
Women have made incredible progress in the mullet game. Chicks like Katie Couric and Hillary Clinton have spawned the “power mullet/femullet.” This no-nonsense do says all business. 
The Rare Meth FeMullet:
Meth-user hair on a woman. Steer clear, fellas…she likely has an expensive habit, and a speed-freak man elsewhere.
 The Unintentional Mullet:
This guy probably had long hair during the 1980′s, so it’s become normal. As he’s missed haircut appointments and current trends, he ened up with this haircut. People are typically too polite to say anything, so he continues to hit on random trim at the bar, thinking he has a real shot.
The High School Senior Pic Mullet:
Probably a redneck in his high school years, this guy didn’t realize that the mullet he was sporting as a high school senior would haunt him for the rest of his life. Hopefully by now, he’s come to his senses and gotten that wild badger faded.
 The Good-Ol’-Boy Mullet:
Mullets originated with rednecks. The hair style says “court date” in the front, “hell-raising drug dealer” in the back. These guys are known for petty, local police records, and low IQ scores. This type of mullet can be viewed frequently in rural areas and pickup truck windows.
 The Teased Mullet:
Mullets like this are continually sprayed with hair spray and brushed. The result is a poofy mess that resembles a bad wig. With hair like this, any wig would only serve as an improvement. Also referred to as the “New Jersey Mullet.”
 The Proud Mullet:
“Hello. I’m Michael Bolton’s son, Michael Bolton Jr. How do you do?” How could one wear this rat trap on their head and still muster up a smile? They’ve somehow grown proud of their hair style. They often jump into the mullet game to be ironic, and it ends up sticking. People
like this may refer to their hair as their “mane.”
 The College Drinker Mullet:
We’ve all seen this mullet; often in bars, especially in college towns. They over-socialize, blow a week’s pay on liquor in one night, and pull pranks. They have simple, easy-to-remember names like “Skip” or “J.” People like this have no identity of their own, so they soak up the worst parts of the culture surrounding them.
The Dying Mullet:
As imbalanced as a mullet is by definition, it’s possible to fall to extremes. While that hair keeps growing down your back, your grandfather’s traits are eradicating your hairline. You’re forehead is now huge. Shave it all; let the mullet die with some dignity.
 The Dead Mullet:
All good things have to come to an end. Some people just can’t let go. As they cling to the few hairs still attached, they don’t realize how bad their mullet’s look has become. The horseshoe-pattern bald spot and remaining ponytail are still a mullet; barely. Advice: shave it all. Face, head, neck… Cut that squirril of your neck and begin a new chapter of life.
 Let’s be realistic;
this haircut will not get you laid unless your ol’ lady has one too.
-KZ
Last night, I decided to branch out. I’ve never tried my hand at poetry, so I decided I’d see if I could qualify. I used
Retribution and Redemption: http://kzconcepts.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/retribution-and-redemption/I registered and posted it to the “Poetry Free For All” on www.everypoet.com.
Now, in this thread, posts are routinely torn apart by the regulars and moderators. It even comes with a disclaimer:
WARNING! We’re mean. We’re nasty. We’re merciless. We’re cruel. We’re vile. We’re heartless.
We’ll slash your soul to ribbons. We’re an evil clique conspiring to annihilate your self-esteem. Ready? John Boddie:
“Where did you come up with the idea that this rambling harangue was a form of poetry? It’s really boring centered prose – hardly a form of writing that would appeal to sentient human beings.”
This was clearly a personal attack. Mr. Boddie couldn’t have imagined the circumstances I’ve lived with to inspire prose like that.
I proceeded to toss an insult back his way (affecting his mother, as well.) I explained my motivation for writing it. I
also suggested that if he’d like to continue the debate, I’d gladly do so OFFLIST. I never resorted to profanity, either.
My response came in the worst form: censorship. My post had been killed! Anywhere on the site I tried to navigate (even the unsubscribe,) I was met with this message: It must be easy to dish out insults, when you can killpost any comment you
don’t want to have to explain… John Boddie can go fuck his dead mother, everypoet.com, and everypoet.org. Isn’t the point to encourage others to strive for better? Even with a few books already to your credit; you sir appear to have no class. I view you as a
false-propped elitist who enjoys disparaging the underdog. CONSTRUCTIVE criticism would have been far more productive (and appreciated.)I guess if you are not pissing people off, you’re not doing something right…
-KZ
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