For my introductory blog entry for Pretty Damn Dope I feel obliged to tell you a little about who I am (hopefully most of you don’t know me already because that would mean there’s mad traffic outside of the 15 people I regularly associate with) and to prep you for the kinds of reoccuring themes that you’ll see here. I’ve been told numerous times after my stand-up that I’m angry, that my schtick is the prototypical “angry black man,” some have even been bold enough to suggest that the cure for my anger could only be found between the legs of a semi-fuckable to attractive female (depending on my sobriety) as if somehow busting a magical nut of catharsis would decloud my brain and make me view the world in a less angry light.

If you’ve seen my stand-up (and if you haven’t…YOU WILL, bwahahahahaha!) you probably understand what’s brought on such commentary. I talk about everything from running over pedestrians with my car and dancing delightfully over their bodies to a proposed national kick-a-motherfucker-in-his-chest day for anyone who has a problem with our annual celebration of MLK’s birthday. But I think people often confuse anger with what I would simply call not giving a fuck. I’m a comedian. The shit I talk about is mostly my real life, so if it was all angry, I’d probably be suicidal by now. I’m not angry as much as I am honest. Honesty is what I prioritize over everything else. It only comes across as “anger” because people are a bunch of pussies who are afraid to really say what’s on their mind and take their cues on what they’re allowed to say from the status quo. Instead of really communicating, we carefully craft a symphony of bullshit to say, while subtly trying to hint at what we really mean, which just ends up confusing the shit out of people and forces them to mire their way through our bullshit to get to the truth. You know what I mean because you’ve seen it. A girl gives you her REAL phone number at a bar, then acts as if she’s never met you when you call her (THEN WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER FOR?!?!?) Your friend sees you have a corn flake sized booger hanging out of your nose, but instead of just telling you it’s there, they wipe their nose as if you’ll get the hint (and if you’ve ever done that, let me just say there’s a special place in hell saved just for you). The republican party tells you that Barack Obama wants to raise your taxes, usually in front of a crowd of people who are all cued to say booooooo whenever John McCain utters one of his awkwardly phrased talking points from his robotically uncomfortable, short-armed vessel. But when you know that he’s actually proposed tax breaks for %95 of Americans, you realize who the republican party is talking to. The other %5 who you probably work for, who’s mansions and yachts your work pays for, whose blubberous greedy asses your tax dollars go toward bailing out when their greed and carelessness fucks up the entire American economy, yeah, those motherfuckers. That’s why they’re called “conservatives.” They conserve their own shit. And there’s nothing wrong with that. If you have money, naturally you wanna keep it. Just nut the fuck up and say that shit. But they don’t. They’re not honest. They’re pussies. And like pussy, sometimes the only way to get it is through deception, through doubletalk and misinformation, playing to ideals and selling dreams. I don’t even think there is such thing as a collective truth. Everybody has their own version of the truth. The goal of this blog is share my version with you. And when my honesty results in another pussyless night of drunken misfortune, I’ll tell you about that, too.