(1) Do I really care that Fiddy, M.JB or Ty.ler P.erry are using performance en.hancing drugs? Do I really care if athletes use them either? Look forget enhancing your image or adding years to your career. If you want to take that shit and your dick falls off and your balls shrivel up and your nipples start to peel off, go right the hell ahead. I’m sure it was worth it.

I wonder how many people would actually take that stuff if it helped their career. If I told you that I got some shit to help be a better engineer, director, accountant or whatever you do, it will help you make more money, get notoriety and the like, would you take it? Even if you know there’s a chance, although slim, that you could get caught, would you do it? And then would you be like Ma.rion J.ones all boo-hoo’ing and shit in front of the courtroom because years after you played your husband in the media for taking ‘roids, your ass was taking them too?

And hey, Congress, stop wasting my tax dollars investigating this shit? There’s other pressing issues in America you know. Don’t make me start naming some.

(2) Sometimes I want to divorce my race instead of embracing it. You know what I mean. There are those moments, those events, where you just want to say that you’re from another planet on some T.iger W.oods cablanasian shit. Like when the dudes from J.ena 6 came out on the B.ET awards blinged the fuck out. That was one of those moments. I became a different person. I was Brookamarlogeru (that’s Brooklyn, Maryland and Blogger all wrapped in one. The “u” is just in there to add effect). In case you’re wondering, Brookamarlogeru is just north of Tanzania. That’s what I tell people. And on Friday, I was Brookamarlogeru again when I came out a restaurant lounge and got handed a flier that say “Come Celebrate Martin’s Dream”…Ahhh…then I skimmed through the rest. Some “crew” named The Baller’s of who fucking knows were throwing a Martin Luther King Jr. Jam at a club with Free Drinks until 11pm and free admission to anyone women in a freak’em dress. Yep. That’s what the dream was all about. Dr. K.ing in the club yellin’ “BALLLIIINNNN”…

(3) I’m a one-message type dude. Let me explain. Some people blow you the fuck up with messages for unnecessary shit. First they call. Leave you a message. Then they send you a text. Then an email. And that’s the first hour. When you finally call them back, they either forgot why the hell they blew you up or it’s for something useless. Can’t stand it. Then they want to go and put timelines on their shit. “Yo, Fresh, I need you to call me back ASAP”. Fuck a ASAP. Then when I call back they ask me for the number to the Chinese food place. Never heard of 4-1-1 or text to G.oogle. So my rules are I leave you one message and that’s it. (that’s if it’s not important). I send you one text or email and that’s it. I’m not hunting you down for stuff I can probably find out myself.

(4) Sooooooooo….I’m in the G.AP buying the shorty some clothes and use up these gifts cards she got for X.mas. I pick up a shirt and I’m like well damn, this joint kinda big for 6 year old. Pick up the next shirt, same shit. Now I know I’m not crazy. So I ask the lady did they start making clothes bigger now or is it the style? She says no. They sell PLUS SIZES for kids. Are you kidding me?!?!? PLUS SIZES for a 6 year old. How come we just band-aid problems and don’t fix the root cause? They need to start selling treadmills to the lil’ cheeseburgers.

(5) I curse a lot in this blog but I really don’t do it outside of the internet. I wonder if my cursing on here turns off some of the readers. Ehhh….

(6) One of these weeks, months, I’m going post something erry-day.

(7) I’m really REALLY having a hard time trying to understand why so many black folk hate on O.bama?

(8) A few of the boys and I go the W.izards games pretty frequently (when we can and our other duties don’t interfere). After the game, we have somewhat of a ritual. A few spots we’ll hit for drinks, talk shit about women, you know…the usual. But this past weekend, we went to a different spot only because another friend of ours was there. At this spot there were a few of the W.izards there. Let me say this, g-r-o-u-p-i-e-s. But that’s expected right? So there were quiet a few women, some old and looked like they had sense, that lost their mind. Screaming at the top of their damn lungs “Oh my God….GA I love you. Oh my God, I’m your #1 fan”. Okay, who says that anymore?!?  I’m your #1 fan?!?!? I saw girls slip their numbers to the “ballers”.  It’s all good. Whatever floats your boat.

So as we’re watching this tossing down the drinks, my boy tells me that there is a website that groupies get on that talk about the different athletes.

SCREEEEEEEEEEECH.

Huh?

And he’s right. There’s a website (and no I will not provide a link to it because I don’t want shit tracking back to me) where women will post comments about an athlete. Is he big? Is he little? Is he married? To who? Does he have kids? Does he have STDs? I mean the joint puts dudes on blast. It’ll have comments like “yeah I fucked him in his truck” or “he’s married with 2 kids but his wife ugly and do this to him. He likes it”  Unreal.

Of course I read that stuff with a grain of salt because why would you really put that stuff on blast like that but still a revelation. I guess it’s part of being in the public spotlight.

What if they had sites like that for regular joes like us? People can post about their “experience” with you. “Yeah, I used to fuck with Fresh. We are talking about the Fresh from Brooklyn right? With the hang nail in his pinky toe on his left foot?!?! Yeah, we did it in back of his boy’s Denali  a few times cause Fresh car was in the shop. He likes when you lick his ear and recite the lyrics to B.ig P.oppa. And if he don’t eat no dessert like cookies and shit after you finish doing him, that means he ain’t like it. ”

Huh-larry-us…..