Fugly Gets You No Wheres

So I was chatting it up with my coworkers, discussing the follies of the world we live in, and we somehow got on the topic of ugly people.

Now before you get all judgmental, let me tell you, it was not I who inspired this debate. Cause if you aint know, I am as cute as a button. So cute in fact, that many people have attempted to place me in their pockets…unsuccessfully. However, I digress.

It seems like research and development departments of huge biology firms and research labs and whatever else are generally focused on discovering new, unimaginable connections. Things like “is homosexuality genetic,” “is smiling a learned behavior,” this, that, and the other.

I mean that’s great and all but let’s get back to basics. Let’s justify the truths we know before we justify the truths we haven't learned. For instance, let us re-imagine the reasons behind things like genetics relating to success, i.e. how is it that ugly people tend to be so unsuccessful at life?

I mean, let’s be honest, if you are ugly, your life is pretty much ruined. For instance, all presidents have been easy on the eyes, especially as of late (yeah that’s a shout-out to the half chocolate chip, half macadamia nut leader of the free world). 

And then there's the correlation between attractiveness and difficulty of major. Oh, wait. You haven't noticed? No? Well then, walk on to the campus of the university of your choosing, without looking like a sexual offender please. Count the attractive engineers and then count the attractive criminology majors. Count the attractive physicists and then count the attractive marketing majors. Now, correlate success rates to major. . . Do you get what I am laying down?

The secret to life is simple, if you aren’t attractive, find another way. I mean seriously, the only unattractive people that have some success (relative to how you define success) are comedians, rappers, statisticians, geeks, athletes, and any other profession that requires you to be extremely talented in one area or another.

Vice versa is also true. Attractive people can let themselves go. If Brad Pitt became robust, I would still try and rock his World War Z. But if you see a fat chick with buckteeth and a GED equivalent, you have to wonder how are you not dead yet or when is your episode of Maury coming on? (okay, so that was wrong but ehh my blog. #SuckIt ). To be realistic, how can you possibly compete in a world rampant with the Cash Money DJing Hiltons of the world. I mean seriously. This girl is so over-accomplished it is disgusting.

Well anyway as mean as that was, it was a thought I had. If you’re attractive, you are pretty much set for success. Whatever. 

But if you are ugly, motivate motivate motivate. Cause you might not make it boo boo. #Fact!

Aint Going Nowhere - The Investment Strategy

Let's face it. My investment strategy, when I do ignore Sallie Mae long enough to invest, is to put money in industries that I deem "aint going nowhere." Novelties such as gold and sugar and paper. These are the staples of the world.

Everyone knows it and loves it and ... I am an idiot. Obviously not the savvy investor. But funny thing, there are crazier people out there.

As I review the sadness that is my decision to work for the Federal Government, as they work toward cohesion, I am now forced to re-reflect on my life. Doing so results in scanning various CNN and news websites (totally not searching for a FT j-o-b but I may spot evening and weekend money just in case the whole, deadlocked Executive-Legislative situation doesn't improve).

And on this voyage to converting my soon to be student loan debt into my soon to be riches, I find an article about Sean Hyman and his "Biblical Money Code." I jumped to the same conclusion you've probably jumped to, which is an obvious theFuk. But, give the man a chance.

The article, which increasingly looks more and more like a scam, turns out to be an exploitation of the Bible for the easy price of ...exactly. And that's when I had my thought.

This is our future.

I hope we don't get to a point where all we are going to be seeing is more of these sorry attempts at taking our money. And these attempts will get better and more convincing. Until finally, we, as a nation, are forced to fund the private dreams of the SeanHymans of the world. We deserve better. We, the people, have rights to pursue happyness. We, not just the clever website developers who can post a video on a website, but all of us.

So, please, don't invest just in gold. As I will not invest just in my 9-to-5. Diversify your investments as I will my various future odd jobs.

Note: When Australia had a government shutdown, the Queen fired all of Parliament. Monarchs. Cray!

Blog Recap

So I have been blogging for over a year (my Blog-versary was on August 27th) and I decided it is time to re-vamp my blog. Talking to my followers, i.e. that one person, a few changes have been recommended. The top two being content reduction and inconsistent posts. Well don’t that beat all. I get punished for Having A Life!

But other than that sorry excuse for an excuse, I have no excuse. All the thoughts I think are accumulating into my mind and falling out of my ears. The only thing I can do, to ease myself of this medical ailment, is to type.

Anyway, therefore, as a result, in conclusion, I will be blogging at least twice a month and will be writing shorter passages (I mean not like 140-character, Twitter-short but you get me). And yes I know it is sad and I know the one person following me is devastated but Quality over Quantity!

So get ready for a whole new year of me continuing to be crazy. I hope I can present my ideas in a digestible length every other week. And if not, then well, screw you.

I’m Out like the Lights on Prom Night!

DJing Stories: The Old Man in the Club

Bars are so much fun to work in because of the nights where you get the randomly specific set of locals who come in. Those who know college park are familiar with Cluck-U-Pac, the 2Pac look-a-like who works at the corner store chicken joint, aka Cluck-U-Chicken. Then you got the guys who show up with props tryna book chicks. I seen one man walk with a toy horse-head-on-a-stick. Then we got the old dude in the club who would roll up in his 1973, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, silk, V-neck shirt with grey taco meat on his chest. He staying picking up women and ballroom dancing to umm every song.

Honestly, most nights can be unpredictable. But beyond those nights of expecting the unexpected, you can find comfort in relying on the expected. Aka, the regulars.  Rarely do you find a bar where the crowd is dull and the regulars are lame. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it happens. But not that often.

The bar I DJed at had a host of normies that come in for their usuals and leave with fun stories to tell. To name  a few of the CP-flava, we had the following groups:

1.       Sororities – I swear these chicks had a competition to see who could spend the most of their non-academic hours at the bar.

2.       Jocks – you’re on scholarship so school is free, books are free, and there are drunk/horny/gold-digging sorority girls practically living at the bar. #ObvyChoice

3.       Locals – you were born and raised in Hyattsville and this is “going out” for you. A college bar for 19 to 21 year-olds.

4.       Perverts – scheming the dance floors looking for the freshman and the younger sisters who snuck in behind them.

Now I have had the displeasure of seeing a-many-a-drunk-woman get taken advantage of on the dance floor. I’ve seen finger rape and damn-near-gang-pile-ons. There’ve even been women who performed fellatio on the manager just to get in through the back door. It’s crazy what these drunk, desperate, young women do just to get in a bar (and not just any bar but a bar that smells like shit and is full of underage children and randoms. I’m sorry but no random penis in my mouth is #WorthThat . . .  But hey I guess I was raised different. Good parenting momma). However, I digress.

Despite the a-many-a-drunk-woman who were sexually mistreated and disregarded as a sexual object and nothing more, the universe has a strange way of evening the playing field. In addition to all the perverts that were checking out women, we had one dude who loved men. So, out of the handful of old men sprinkled around the bar, we had random disco guy, the owner, the manager, and the one who was taking advantage of men . . . sexually.

So quick synopsis, this dude was like in his 50s. Old, white man #SilverFox. Seemingly friendly to everyone. Men and women. Strange thing, this guy was rich. He had a lot of money and enjoyed buying drinks for everyone. Men and women. He even had a boat that he took out on the water on the weekend. If you were special he would even invite you on his boat. But not everyone, just men. He would take these jocks who loved to get shit-faced and they would set sail for an “adventure.”

And every guy who went on this boat would NEVER return to the bar. Dead? Nope. They would show up in school after the “adventurous” weekend. They would even show up at their perspective sports games. But not a-one would mention would happened on their sea “adventure.”

But we all know, he took them men out their and had a good ole sexperimenting time.

Okay, so maybe this is just some habitual rumor that gets spread every Fall season. .... Or maybe it's not. Either way, that is reason #2 why I won’t get drunk around people I don’t know. 

SOOOOoooo many life lessons learned at the bar!

Trayvon Martin Lessons

So this depressing-ass weekend has resulted in me saddened by the verdict. My first attempt at coping with this tragedy was to lessen the pain by creating a verb, either Trayvoning or Zimmermaning. But I couldn’t decide exactly what the situation meant to me. Does it mean being racially profiled? Or does it mean getting away with murder? Or does it mean shooting children? What exactly is being Trayvon-ed!

After a lot of reflection and with a lost for resolution, I, instead, have made a list of what I learned from the case:

1.       You will be judged not by the content of your character but by the bullshit of your social media. Be careful what you post.

2.       If you are a teenager, don’t fight adults. They may lose the fight but they won’t lose the war.

3.       If you want to get away with murder, fight a child, lose, kill them, and then plead self-defense.

4.       Racial profiling is inevitable. If you are a tall, muscular, Black man you should become shorter, workout less, become pale, and/or get a sex change.

5.       If you are Black, don't do things like wear hoodies at night.

6.       If you are Black, don’t walk toward your house at night.

7.       If you are Black, don’t go out at night.

8.       If you are Black and you’ve done nothing wrong, you are lying.

9.       If you are Black and you see a white man walking toward you, RUN AWAY.

10.   If you are Black and you are in a neighborhood, you should get down on the ground and place your arms behind your head so that the neighbors know you aren’t up to trouble.

11. If you are in the neighborhood watch, you have the right to police your neighborhood as if you were a trained officer with a gun. 
12. The State of Florida is not welcoming to Negro-kind.

So that last one may have been a little racist but this was a racially charged act. The 6 jurors all agreed that Trayvon was PROBABLY guilty of something and Zimmerman had the right to stalk him because of how suspicious he looked. And even though the 911-operator told Zimmerman NOT to leave his car, during his self-inspired pursuit of the most-likely-up-to-no-gooder, he was within his legal bounds to put himself in a dangerous situation. And no matter the result of said pursuit and said danger, his heart was in the right place. So he is innocent by conscience?!?

In short, I, as a Black person, should be okay with the Zimmermans of the world killing Blacks legally because they are good samaritans? Not to sound crazy but #FuckThatNoise.

The point is there are stereotypes against us all. Sadly, we can’t change everyone’s mind. And Black people repeatedly racking up the statistics for violent crime and filling up the prison system kinda looks bad on our part.

I guess the only thing we can do is be conscious of stereotypes against us, take the proper steps to avoid these situations, and hope for good circumstances.

Life sucks, and then you die. 

DJing Stories: The Veteran with the Red Lamborghini

So it was about 2007 and I was playing a weak night at the bar. I had just finished this Power Hour set (pretty much, you play a different song every minute of the hour and the people have to drink when the song changes. 60 shots of beer in 60 minutes = ReallyDrunk People) and was getting ready to pull out some actual songs that weren’t Power Rangers Theme songs and hits from the movie Grease.

The 30 or so people there were good and drunk and happy (again, 60 drinks in an hour). Unluckily, it was June-ish so all the college chil’ren were home pretending that they didn’t have a drinking problem. I was playing Christmas music and a little top 40 cause no one was there (yeah, I’m about that life), and people weren’t really paying attention.

The point is everyone was in a good mood . . . except for this one dude.

So, I put on one of those long-ass, white-people-love-it, bar songs that last like 15 minutes “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” (aka, my DJ has gone to the bathroom  song).I usually jump off the stage to chat with whoever is closest to me. This guy, who just happened to be in my vicinity, was at the bar, by himself, with a fresh scar on his head.

I ask him, in my “I’m a friendly, personal DJ that cares but seriously tip me or get me a drink” voice, how his night was going. He said well. And then leisurely explains how he is looking for a girl to take him home.

It turns out this guy is fresh from the Afghanistan war, thanks to our President at the time, and had survived a very serious bomb explosion.

I said something along the lines of “wow, it’s amazing you are alive.”

Then, he takes a moment to stare into his drink. He swivels it around and proceeds to explain how his surgery went. He says he was very fortunate that the doctors were able to remove the scrap medal from his head.  But while they were there, they found a malignant tumor in his brain. They gave him an estimated life expectancy of 8 to 12 months and sent him back to the US with six figures and hella veteran benefits.

I stared at him, shocked, as he sat there content. I told him how sorry I was to hear the news.

He goes on to tell me that he’s not sorry. He recognizes the fact that this will be his last 4^th of July, his last Thanksgiving, his last Christmas, his last everything with everyone. He doesn’t see a point in being regretful or maintaining poisonous friendships or focusing too hard on anything that causes stress. Apparently, when you only have so much time left in this world, you worry only about the things that matter.

Being the daughter of a veteran, my heart went out to this man. All he wanted to do was serve his country and prepare a better life for himself. In his effort to pursue happyness, all he received was the prediction of his untimely death.

I got on the mic and professed to the crowd that we had a veteran at the bar who just got back from 

Afghanistan who had NO BITCHES and a PARCHED MOUTH. He looks up at me and smiles as I point him out to the patrons of the bar.

In a few hours, the place gets packed and he ends up having a fantastic evening. (Noted, he didn’t get too much attention from the ladies. But he did enjoy talking to our busty bartenders. Smiling from ear-to-ear as only a man in lust can.)

At around midnight, when it was really starting to get crazy, he leaves surprisingly. He pays his tab, tips his busty beaut, and walks out to his car (with no woman on his arm, mind you). He jumps in this bright red Lamborghini, that is COMPLETELY uncharacteristic of College Park, and drives off into DC.

I tell this story to a lot and people always ask me “how do you know he wasn’t lying? Maybe he was just trying to get in your pants.” To them, I respond with it doesn’t matter if he were lying or not. Because at some point throughout this ridiculous war, we had lost men and women. Some of them never got the chance to finish their year with family. And regardless of whether his story was true or false, unbeknownst to him, he was telling an account of SOMEONE’s life.

So that was one of the most interesting nights at the bar. And plus, I got to see a lambo. And those joints are SHWEET!

DJing Stories: Shit Girl

So this story is by far my favoritest story to tell. Back when I first started DJing, I had the privilege of working at a crappy college bar (FYI, it literally smelled like crap. Not sarcastically smelled like crap or figuratively smelled like crap. It SMELLED like crap! Later on, I found out that they didn’t technically clean the bar. They just threw down hot water and bleach and swiveled the stuff around. #Disgusting.)

Moving right along, the bar I worked at had a mixed crowd. We had college kids, locals (who tend to be of the Negro variety), old playas (which tend to be of the retired variety), and your young escapees from the nearest military base. As a DJ, I had to keep these various folks and their various tastes in music entertained while maintaining civil interactions. Talk about tough titty.

One evening, as all evenings, a group of Caucasian females (coming from one trashy sorority or another) comes strolling in ready for a night out. This night out swiftly turns into White Girl Wasted part 456-delta-sigma-prime, aka too many to count. Anyway, one of the intoxicated patrons included a new recruit, nicknamed ShitGirl.

Ya see, one can only assume ShitGirl was new because one would want to volunteer an excuse for her actions. In actuality, she would need to be young or stupid from the way she handled her liquor. Talk about sloppy to the sloppiest degree, she was on the ground crawling to the music. And I don’t mean on beat or for any particular reason. Just kinda down there, chilling, enjoying the view.
RULE: The drunk person is entertainment to everyone, an embarrassment to their friends, and a lesson learned to ALL onlookers.

At one point, she disappeared into a different bar, unbeknownst to anyone (or mainly the people who cared). Yes, her own FRIENDS lost her and didn't really care to resurface her remains.
RULE: Friends don't let friends leave alone.

In her failed effort to be classy and not trashy, ShitGirl lost her phone. Accordingly, some college student, either ignorant to the profitable world of Ebay, Craigslist, or Amazon AND/OR practicing the basics of Karama learned from their World Religions lecture, decided to turn in her phone to the bartenders. 

At around 2:30 AM, ShitGirl reappears at the front of the bar. At this point, we had kicked everyone out. The bouncers are still around patrolling the last few straddlers, the bartenders are cleaning up the bar, the DJ is packing up her equipment, and the manager, keeping a micromanaging, stern eye on everyone and everything, has locked the doors. 

RULE: Shut AND lock the door if you want to count money. This should be logic, but hey stupider things have happened in College Park.

ShitGirl proclaims, through the door in her best, articulate, drunk slur of English, that she has left her phone inside. Being of masculine body and feminine heart, one bouncer feels pity and lets her in. #Mistake1

She stammers directly to the basement, bypassing the bartenders, and heads to the bathroom. Us remaining folks sit around, shoot the shit, and continue with our nightly duties. In 3 to 5 minutes, ShitGirl reappears with the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life.

She appears with human feces, tampon blood, alcohol, beer bottle labels, and toilet paper on her arms where she had been blatantly digging in what is most obviously the women’s toilet(s). On top of that, she walks toward the bouncer who let her in, asking for her phone. He shrieks, as any person would with a drunk Zombie covered in other people’s blood, shit, urine, etc.

Although you think she was alone, she apparently had one friend left. Remaining in the bar, sitting near the coat rack with other bouncers, was a group of Navy men. These young gents did not want their night to end and sat peacefully with the bouncers, most likely discussing after-parties or politics (believe whatever suits your fancy). One of them, who will now be referred to as NavyPatron, takes ShitGirl back downstairs and cleans her up. Aww what a nice guy, right? Wrong!

In a few minutes, ShitGirl reappears less like a mess, but still troubled with a look of confusion and longing for her phone. NavyPatron walks up to the bartender and asks for a specific phone. Like magic, it appears. Apparently, it had been safe at the bar since 10PM. #Mistake2

NavyPatron hands the phone to ShitGirl and then receives a very gracious hug. Assuming he liked said hug or said girl, he asks ShitGirl where her friends were. In the bar? No. Neighboring bar? No. Picking up phones? No. Well, it looks like ShitGirl needs a ride home.

So NavyPatron takes ShitGirl away with him in his Ford Mustang of that year (yes, the military pays well). Anyway, she leaves with, not her friends, but a random male stranger to go “home.” #Mistake3

And when people ask me how I went 4 years without barely touching a drink in college, I tell them it's cause of ShitGirl. She is a true inspiration.