Tuesday, February 28, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Why I Won't Write This Musing

Why I Won't Write This Musing

Recently, A New Millennium Nigga found himself discussing potential "Musing" topics with a friend. "Don't do Michael Jackson," she opined. "It's too easy." I thought about it and she was right. The jokes are all out there. And in the end, Michael's a living joke. So, what's the point.

I mean, I could have started out with some standard jokes like:

Q: How do you know it's bedtime at Neverland Ranch?
A: When the big hand's on the little hand.

But could there possibly be more to say. Maybe if...Here's the thing... It would feel good to say, "First of all...Fuck Michael Jackson!"

I mean, as far as I'm concerned, it seems pretty clear that he's a sexual predator...alright, alleged sexual predator. And with his fascination with Peter Pan, it seems odd that so many of the boys who have spent the night with him refer to him as "Captain Hooks To The Left" but I have better shit to do than sit around cursing Michael Jackson.

Now, those goddamn parents...They need a good cursin' out. What kind of bullshit pimp-fuckin'-ology is this? "So...you want me to stay in the guest house, being waited upon hand and foot and you'll spend the night in here, in your bedroom, having a sleepover with my pubescent son? Well, I don't see what could possibly be wrong with that. Sounds great." I think each and every one of those maternal madames and paternal pimps should be tossed in prison where their new cellmates can help them re-enact what probably happened to their kid. "Hey, J-Bo, is it alright if we don't play 'Sing Into My Mic' tonight?"

But, nah...I'm not going to do it. I could unveil some new jokes I'd written like.

A pop star, a lunatic and a child molester walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, "Hey everybody, it's Michael Jackson."

But where's the fun in that? I mean, as we've all heard a million times he never had a childhood. Of course, by extension of that logic, you'd have to empty out most of America's prisons, but hey...

It might have been fun, though...

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS HOUR (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

[A Just For Me commercial comes to a sing-songy end.]

NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA: And we're back. We head back to my exclusive interview with Michael Jackson. He never had a childhood, ya know?


MJ: I never really had a childhood.

NMN: And that's why you recorded "Have You Seen My Childhood?"

MJ: Yes.

NMN: Well, I ain't seen your muthafuckin' childhood, but I'm pretty fuckin' sure you ain't gonna find it up some twelve year old's ass.

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: What? You think you will find it in some twelve year old's ass?

MJ: You're making it sexual. Just because a grown man sleeps in the bed with boys and those boys keep saying--

NMN: Michael, do you really think it's a good idea for a nigga to be havin' sleepovers with little niggas even after said nigga has been accused of playin 'Back Door Pokey Karaoke' with other little niggas?

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: What? 'Back Door Pokey Karaoke'?


MJ: My shoulder hurts.

NMN: What?!

MJ: I'm in pain.

NMN: Whatever nigga. Let's talk about your music.

MJ: Good.

NMN: Is it true that 'Beat It' is about a slumber party?

MJ: No. That's just ignorant.

NMN: You wrote 'Pretty Young Thing.' Great song.

MJ: Thank you.

NMN: Just how pretty and just how young do you like them?

MJ: That's just ignorant.

NMN: I've heard that Webster's momma caught you trying to check into a hotel with him, claiming you was his pops. Any comment?


NMN: Is it true that was when you wrote 'Heartbreak Hotel?'

MJ: That's just ignorant. I'm leaving.

Michael removes his mic and storms off the set.

NMN: One more question. Any truth to the rumor that you are the spokesman for NAMBLA's 'Leave No Child's Behind Behind' Program.

Michael exits the studio. NMN chases after him.

NMN: Is it true that you will be collaborating with R. Kelly on a song entitled 'Jesus Loves The Little Children...And So Do We'?

NMN bends down and grabs something in the parking lot.

NMN: Wait! You dropped your nose.

Michael's caravan disappears into the distance.

Back in the studio, A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.

NMN: I would ask if Michael's excuses smell fishy, but with the whole nose thing, my lawyers thought that could be viewed as an indirect barb. So, I'll leave it at this. Michael, you will eventually pay for what you have done.

NMN puts a finger to his earpiece.

NMN: ...for what you have allegedly done. Who the fuck do you think you are? The Catholic church?

NMN puts a finger to his earpiece.

NMN: What do you mean I'm off the air?

VOICE-OVER: New Millennium Nigga News Hour is brought to you by Jesus Juice. If it's in a can, it must be alright to drink it, little boy.

Yeah, I could'a done that. But I'm glad I didn't. That would be ignorant.

Monday, February 27, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: I Am Not Real

I Am Not Real

It is rare in life that a nigga creates something before he exists. But that might be the case with the poem "I Am Not Real" and A New Millennium Nigga. It is unclear whether A New Millennium Nigga created "I Am Not Real" or "I Am Not Real" created A New Millennium Nigga. What is clear, in this "chicken or the egg" scenario, is that their births, their beginnings, are inextricably linked.

In an unorthodox move, NMN dedicates today's entry to...in the interest of not puttin' a brutha's bit-ness in the street, let's call him JGo...a brother who is standing tall in the face of man-sized grief and adversity in this everyday struggle called life. As a matter of fact, this goes out to all those unsung brothers who give all they've got to do right by their families, their communities and/or themselves. You are my niggas, my brothers! And that's my word! (Unless, of course, you don't like to be referred to as "nigga," in which case the vocabulary changes, but the sentiment remains the same.)


I am not real.

Allow me to explain
what I’m sayin’.
No, I ain’t lost my mind.
And no, I ain’t playin’.
I’m just sayin’
what I realized
when I looked at the mirror
into my own eyes
and hypthesized
I am not real.

Even as a child
as my moms and pops
each went their own way,
nobody gave a fuck
what I had to say.
I spent my whole life
trying to find my voice,
my way.
Then I realize
nobody gives a fuck today.

See, they want to hear
what real niggaz
is talkin’ ‘bout.
And when they sayin’ “real niggaz,”
Let’s be real, niggaz...
they leavin’ me out
I am not real.

Real niggaz sell drugs.
Real niggaz got guns.
Real niggaz wear jewels.
Real niggaz got funds.

I been workin’ at a job
since I turned fourteen.
And I kept my record clean.
Know what I mean?
A quarter million in tuition
invested in the shit I know.
But most of that was student loans-
No silver spoon for the bro.
Shit, my intellect is brilliant as afterglow.
Yet it’s like I should feel ashamed
for fuckin’ up the status quo.
Hell, no, I ain’t been to jail!
Was I supposed to go?!
My bad.
I forgot incarceration
was a part of the deal.
But that’s simply because...
I am not real.

Even on TV
I do not exist.
I check all the networks
and it gives me fits.
Either you got modern-day coons
displaying dim wit
or you got niggaz like Cosby
talkin’ dumb shit.
I’m lookin’ for me
and none’a that ain’t it.
When the revolution’s televised
I won’t even be missed
I am not real.

I rocked the SAT
and can write a bad-ass essay, b.
But in LA even the Mexicans
won’t “ese” me.
And though I used to chase ass
to the Nth degree,
I’m settled down now,
but I don’t get no articles in Essence, b.
‘Cause the community
just refuses to see
that there’s a lot of real niggaz out there
just like me.

But even though I ain’t real,
I know I can’t quit.
But I am gettin’ real tired,
‘cause this is real bullshit.

And that’s real.

Friday, February 24, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Word From Our Sponsor

A Word From Our Sponsor

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Thursday, February 23, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: THE AGONY OF VICTORY?


I watched a lot of sports as a kid. I even watched the Winter Olympics, which is more than most of America (including me) can say in our 2006 American Idol-run world. I particularly remember watching the 1980 Lake Placid Games. You know, The Miracle On Ice…that Olympics. I even remember Eric Heiden winning race after race in speed skating. I didn’t know shit about ice skating, but if it was anything like the sock slide I was doing in my tighty whities across the splintery wooden floor in my living room in Flatbush as I imitated him, I was the shit at it. Anyway, long story short…ice is cold…and only found in cold places…so I did my laps of the living room, did my “U.S.A.” chants and a fortnight or so later I went back to watching Knick games on channel 9 (Remember when sports events came to us on regular TV? That was the shit. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah…)

Anyway, that’s about as much attention as the Winter Olympics ever got from me. And from what I understand that was more than could be said for most Black people. Lots of snow, ice and cold? That ain’t the forecast that’s gonna entice the descendants of the sun people to come out and play.

So, 26 years later, I hear about Shani, a brother from the South Side of Chicago that is supposed to be the shit at ice skating. Then came the controversy that leads me to say…

First of all…fuck the “U…S…A!”

Fuck the chant. Fuck the flag. Fuck the entire muthafuckin’ farce.

I’m sorry, Shani. I’m sorry that even the oft repeated promise of the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat must be added to the long ass list of unkept promises that this country has reneged on when it has come time for the Black man to get his. You are a gold medalist. A gold fuckin’ medalist. It ain’t summertime! This ain’t track! But there you stand…or more accurately, glide, the absolute picture of athletic prowess. You should be negotiating your Wheaties deal. Instead you have to defend yourself for focusing on a dream you’ve had for longer than I’ll ever know. I’m sorry that they shit on your moment, Shani.

Please know that I’m proud of you. I’m embarrassed that I’m proud. I mean, in 2006, I still find myself tuning in to game shows and rooting for the Black person. I scratch my head as Art Shell has to wait a lifetime to get another chance to coach as the NFL shuffles white mediocrity from sideline to sideline, season after season. I root for you…even though I don’t know the first thing about your sport. I root for you, for the same reason that I rooted for Tiger to win the Masters and I root for Venus and Serena to win everything. There’s still that gnawing feeling in me that something is being proven, that if you win, maybe the next Black kid who turns to something besides football or basketball won’t be seen as a freak of nature. But more importantly, I root because I know that somewhere some racist just had a bad day. That makes me smile.

My father told me an anecdote I suspect you can appreciate. A White co-worker confided in my father that he cried himself to sleep the night that Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s record. What was my father supposed to say to that bullshit? “Sorry that a Black man now holds the most precious of American sports records.” No, he just told me the story years later and we got to enjoy that even through death threats, through any hardship, it is possible to succeed, to excel at the highest levels. I hope that man is still crying. I hope he dies crying. Fuck him.

So, apparently all this fuss is because you weren’t willing to put your dreams on the back burner for some White boy. You see, I hate that it was expected, but I understand. He thought he was in some movie…you’ve seen others like it…Let’s call it “The Legend of Nigga Vance” (no disrespect to Will, who handles his business, so far as I’m concerned). This is the basic plot. A Black man with knowledge, wisdom and skill subjugates himself and serves to make some White man’s dream come true, to make his life better. (The real version goes like this. America asks the Black man to go someplace he may or may not have heard of to fight and die for democracy while denying him any at home. See: WWII, Iraq.) You didn’t help to fix anybody’s swing. You chose to win for yourself. America hates that. I love it.

You ain’t got to smile, neither. I don’t know what it was like to be the Black boy from the South Side in the world of speed skating, but I imagine that was some lonely shit. I went to Polytechnic Preparatory Country Day School for high school, Yale for college and USC (aka the University of Spoiled Children) for film school and that lily white reality must have been like an afternoon at Freaknik compared to what you had to deal with.

So, congratulations, Shani! I’m proud of you. Maybe by the next millennium a nigga won’t still be feelin’ good about the first Black (fill-in-the-blank), but today that is my reality. And you may not get a Wheaties deal, but this morning I salute you and all that you’ve accomplished, all that you must have endured.

I don’t feel much like chanting “U.S.A” the way I did when I was 8.

I’ve got no punchline to wrap this up. This shit ain’t funny to me.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Thin Line

A Thin Line

First of all...Fuck Kanye West! Well, not really. I mean...the music is hot. But no, on second thought, fuck him! Wait...

See, here's my problem. There's a thin line between love and hate and, for me, Kanye hopscotches back and forth over and all along that muthafucka.

There's the issue of the arrogance. Not only does this nigga act like his shit don't stink, I'm half-expecting to log on to eBay and see that he's trying to auction it off as sculpture. Boy, oh boy. I've never seen anybody who wasn't a yogi or named Ron Jeremy be this far on his own dick. I listen to him talk and it brings out the hater in me. I sit there thinking, "I hope his next single ain't shit. That nig-- (The song comes on the radio.) Dammit! That shit is hot. This muthafucka keeps hittin' with straight heaters and it makes me sick!" Drats!

"Okay," I thought after "College Dropout" (more on that later), "He had his one hot album. But there's always the sophomore slump. There ain't no way he can do it aga--("Gold Digger" drops.) Nooooooooo! I'm even feelin' the name of the album, 'Late Registration.' Building on the whole 'College Dropout' theme, huh? Foiled again!" The second album was arguably hotter than the first.

But my main beef with Kanye runs much deeper than the fact that he acts like the sun rises and sets on his ass. It goes back to the message of "College Dropout." Throughout many of the songs and skits, Kanye basically rails against the very idea of education. In character, he quips in a nerdy voice -- you know the one used on Black sitcoms to signal that the nigga speaking has actually read a book with more words than pictures -- that he may not have any money, "but he can count up the change in your purse really fast." In the "Li'l Jimmy Skit" he assumess the persona of a Black homeless child who laments the fact that his well educated father left him nothing more than a stack of degrees that are good for nothing more than burning for heat.

Sure, based on listening to the nigga's lyrics, that he knew better, I got pissed at Kanye. Yeah, that's right Kanye. That's the problem with the Black community. Too much education. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?! Are you really advising kids against going to school, against staying in school. Well, let me join in. Here are some other things that kids can aspire to, other than being a platinum artist like you, if they want to make good money without an education:

1. Professional lottery player - Every morning check with friends and family and ask if they had any peculiar dreams. If they did, all you have to do is figure out what number is going to play based on the image of Nana Jenkins riding an elephant down Flatbush Avenue and you are on easy street. Sure, the odds are millions to one, but at least you won't have to talk in that nerdy voice that all educated niggas are contractually obligated to use.

2. Pro Athlete - This is a popular one. Next time you're in the hood, swing by the basketball courts. See all those niggas playing and waiting for next? Ask yourself how many of them will be Lebron James someday. On a percentage basis -- wait, you don't understand percentages? because you didn't go to school? -- Well, that's alright. I'll break it down for you. You have a better shot with your dollar and your dream and going with #1.

3. Wish - When you're collecting bottles to pay for your lottery ticket...seeing as how you can't get your demo to anybody that matters and the market for 5'7" point guards isn't what you thought it would be...rub each and every bottle. May be some ghetto genie will pop out and will grant you three wishes. Be careful, though. You might want to spend one of those wishes on a financial planner or you might end up like Mike Tyson or MC Hammer, having made and lost the gross national product of a small nation. (What does gross national product mean?! Ask one of those nerdy voice niggas. I got other shit to do.)

I first heard it expressed by Malcolm X that Black kids grow up in poor areas with poor schools where they get poor educations that force them into poor jobs that pay poor wages that force them to live in poor areas where their kids get poor educations. The cycle has to be broken and Kanye is not helping...not one tiny little muthafuckin' bit with his stupid-ass skits.

"I hate Kanye. It's settled," I thought as I considered the bullshit he was serving our kids. Then came the Grammys.

"Got ya, now!" I was excited to see him in his Kool Moe Dee shades...inside. It was Michael Jackson-esque. At last he was going to play himself for good...and on the biggest stage music has to offer. He even showed up with his shirt open and his "taco meat" showing. (NMN has been informed that "taco meat" is what the folk in the beauty shop are calling those lovely little naps that reside on brothers' chests.) "Who are you supposed to be? You're going down, Mr. West. Once and for all." A sinister smile spread over my face. "I hate Kanye West."

Then came the performance. On a night when it was clear that video killed not only the radio star but also the live performance, Kanye, with the help of Jamie Foxx, ripped it. There I was alternating between nodding my head and shaking it. The marching bands. The stepping. The performance was the highlight of the night. DAMN YOU, KANYE WEST! I love that nigga, Kanye West!

No...I hate Kanye West...Well, I guess I love Kanye West!...No! Definitely hate. I hate--

This shit is giving me a fuckin' headache. To quote "College Dropout"...

"You know what, Kanye. You's a nigger. And I don't mean that in no nice way."

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: TVMA - LSV


If you can't fuck...shiiiiiit.
And if you can't shit...fuuuuuuck.
- Redd Foxx

I've heard it said that profanity is nothing more than a lazy mind trying to express itself. Well, that's just... just... that's... just... THAT'S FUCKIN' BULLSHIT, MAN! There are some great words in the English language, to be sure, but none more versatile, more agile...none more exquisitely simple and impactful than my favorite word...fuck.

You don't agree? Who gives a fuck?! See there. It fits almost any occasion.

Ladies, help me out. Tell me that in your lifetime you or a friend hasn't been fuckin' some fuck who didn't give a fuck and realized, "I'm fucked."

Fellas, tell me you've never heard a story about a "guys night out" that included something like this: He was so fucked up, he fucked with this guy and got fucked up. It was fucked up.

Try writing those sentences using some other word in place of fuck. It doesn't work. Recognize the power, the glory, of the mightiest of four letter words.

But my favorite employment of the f-bomb is the compound word. Sure, if someone does something you can't believe you could say, "Unbelievable." But there's a cathartic quality to saying, "Unbe-fuckin'-lievable." If you've never tried it, you should. Other favorites: Un-fuckin'-real. Whatso-fuckin'-ever. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. It really does work with anything. As a matter of fact, as you read this you may be thinking, "This is ri-fuckin'-diculous!" That's the spirit!

I've found that the average spell check does not even recognize this titan of profanity. Believe you me, the word gets learned quickly when I'm at the keyboard. It has so very much to offer.

I was but a boy when the following cautionary tale was shared with me. It opened my eyes in more ways than one and I'd like to share it with you.


There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you fuckin'
or you ain't fuckin'
If you ain't fuckin',
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you fuckin'...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you fuckin' one person
or you fuckin' more than one person
If you fuckin' one person,
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you fuckin' more than one person...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either they don't find out
or they do
If they don't find out
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if they do find out...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either they gon' be cool about it
or they gon' fuck you up
If they cool about it
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if they fuck you up...
There's only two fuckin' things to worry about
Either you'll be okay
or you'll fuckin' die
If you okay, you okay
you ain't got nothin' too worry about
But if you fuckin' die...
There's only two things to worry about
Either you'll go to heaven
or you'll go to hell
If you go to heaven
you ain't got nothin' to worry about
But if you go hell...
You'll be so fuckin' busy comparin' notes with muthafuckas who did the same fuckin' shit, you won't have time to fuckin' worry.

I love that one.

But A New Millennium Nigga isn't getting any younger. May be I should stop all this cursing...After all, I'm a father now...Not a baby daddy, but a father...and I should set a clean-cut example...you know...clean up my act...

Nah...I'm just fuckin' wit ya!

Friday, February 17, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Gettin' Real with Bill Maher Time

Gettin' Real with Bill Maher Time

Tonight on HBO, Bill Maher returns. I'm excited. I think "Real Time" is a great show and with TiVo pauses and rants it takes me and the Mrs. about 2 hours to watch a one-hour show. It also serves to scratch my counter-cultural itch to watch Bill Maher succeed on HBO after he was absolutely fucked by ABC, as they folded under the pressure of those who claim to love America but who hate the very notion of free speech.

Most importantly, though, I respect Bill Maher. But I am left to wonder why that muthafucka insists on disrespecting me. A New Millennium Nigga does not like to be disrespected and that's why I must greet the return of "Real Time with Bill Maher" with a hearty...

First of all...Fuck Bill Maher!

Do I say this because he made the news after being sued by his ex, Coco, a skanky little number who was so starved for fame that she named herself after the fucking lead character from the movie "Fame"? No. Of course not. Apparently, Bill likes them Black...and he likes 'em skanky. I give him his props though. There's no keep it on the D-L, Strom Thurmond-type creepin' in his game. No. Bill will walk down Main Street with these chicks. Now, that's keepin' it real. I am confused, though, when I consider Bill's love of realness, that he was feelin' those tits. Oh well. Life is full of contradictions.

Anyway...No. That's not my beef. My beef is that he is always insulting people who believe in God. Let me be clear. I didn't say the Christian Right. I can't stand the Christian Right...mostly because I don't think they're very fuckin' Christian. But Bill, I don't want to be associated with Pat Robertson any more than you, as a comedian, want to be associated with Carrot Top. (Seriously, how is that muthafucka funny? I don't get it.)

I don't know why Bill Maher insists on forcing his atheism on me. I don't want to force my Christianity on him. (Yes. A New Millennium Nigga is a Christian. I know that may be baffling to those of you who hold a narrow view of Christianity...and of A New Millennium Nigga.) I've heard him argue that these "fairy tales" we believe have caused wars. Well, they've also caused peace. But even beyond that, is Bill Maher really going to give up everything that causes war? That would mean giving up money, because Halliburton ain't doin' their thing in the name of Jesus. They're doing it to serve the Almighty...Dollar. So, he might as well return those HBO checks to sender. And then how popular will he be with the Black Skank population, huh? Tell me that.

And what about pussy. Pussy has caused wars. And I don't just mean pussy in the sense that Dubya is a pussy to be declaring war when he wouldn't go then and when he won't be sending anybody he knows or loves now. (I mean, the only shots his daughters ever deal with involve tequila.) No, I mean Helen of Troy-Hey Bathsheba, I'm gonna give your husband a promotion-type pussy causes war situations, where lust leads to blood being spilled and lives being lost.

And I know that Bill doesn't want to give up sex...not when he's now getting down with Superhead, the infamous "Video Vixen." I mean, let's face it. The woman didn't get her nickname because she wears big hats...or because she was the star of the Math Olympics in high school. She is nicknamed Superhead because, by all reports, the only woman to blow harder than her in the Black community was Katrina.

Here's the real. The only ones who have a rational leg to stand on are the agnostics. They take the reasonable, if painfully unexciting, stance that whether or not God exists is an unanswerable question. They say something that many of us might want to try out now and again…”I don’t know.”

But I have faith that there is a God. My faith is a belief in things unseen. It's not rational and I can't prove it. But, Bill, we've each chosen to believe something that we can't possibly know for sure. Seriously, you can't really mean to say that you can prove that there is no God. Besides, if there's no God, we're the highest beings around. And I'd rather not believe that one of the highest beings around is bedding down skanks I wouldn't fuck with Ann Coulter's dick.

Either way, we don't have to agree. We don't even have to agree to disagree. But I'd like to think we can show each other some basic respect. I don't want to have to stop watching your show. But when you disrespect me and my beliefs it makes me want to slap the Holy Ghost out of you. And...so help me God... I don't want to have to take the time to kneel down and do that.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: A Barback Love Story

A Barback Love Story

Having wasted so much of this Valentine's week railing against Flav, I've truly lost the loving spirit of the season. Some have even challenged that I don't know what love is, that I have no heart. And so...to prove them wrong...to prove that A New Millennium Nigga does have a heart...I'd like to share "A Barback Love Story" with all of you.

It was the summer of '91 -- Damn, how old am I? -- and I was looking for a job. I had graduated...with a certificate and everything...from the Columbia University School of Bartending (or something like that) and I was hitting every bar and restaurant in New Haven, CT looking for a job. Then I walked into Fat Tuesday's (not a part of the chain -- I always thought it was a McDowell's/McDonald's situation). I didn't look like I would rob the place blind and I spelled everything right on my application so I was hired on the spot. Little did I know that my life would change forever.

It was the end of my first night of work and my boss, having paid me five bucks an hour (+ ten percent of the tip jar), turned to me and said, "Good job. Get yourself a drink." I turned and there he stood...dressed in black...his golden visage as beautiful as anything I'd ever seen. That was the night I fell in with love...with Jack...Jack Daniel's.

He was smooth...so smooth. And the minute he touched my lips...I got a warm feeling in my chest. My heart was filled with joy. We spent a lot of time together that summer. And, oh, how he made me laugh. "Nigga, you're drunk," my friends would say. "You're just jealous, because we have a special bond. Jack swept me off my feet." "You landed on the sidewalk," they would shoot back as they walked away. "They don't understand us, Jack," I would say. He had my heart. Who had time to care what our love was doing to my liver?

But then things took a turn for the worse. We spent the night together. When I woke up, he was gone...every drop. I had a splitting headache. "Damn, man, I said touch me in the morning...I ain't say to beat me over the head with a Louisville Slugger, then just walk away." Then...I...felt..Oh no...I'm gonna...

I ran down the hall to the bathroom. As I threw up, I wondered, "Am I pregnant?" My doctor assured me that I was not. I was relieved. Then he added, "You...can't get pregnant." "Oh no! Why me?!?!?!," I exclaimed. "Are you drunk right now?," he asked. "Maybe...," I responded, "Ask do you why?"

We'd see each other now and then after that summer -- Barback Summer I call it -- sometimes for birthdays or New Year's or days ending in "y". I saw him just the other day. "It's been so long," I said. "Too long," he smirked. Then it was like old times. The two of us...together...again. "I can't do this," I cried as I ran outside. A friend came after me. "Are you alright?," he asked. "That depends...Are you Siamese twins?" The looks of pity on his faces suggested that he wasn't. I cried as my friend walked away.

I sat out on the porch for a while...by myself...waiting for it to stop rocking like a fishing boat...waiting for Jack Daniel's to go away. Eventually he did. I got in my car and drove on home. As he shrank down to nothing in my rearview mirror, I wiped away the last of my tears and muttered, "Jack Daniel's...sometimes I wish I could quit you."

Are you happy now? There's your muthafuckin' love story!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Courtroom Sketch by Damani

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Courtroom Sketch by Damani

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Flava Slave, Part Deux

Flava Slave, Part Deux

First, let me revisit "First of all...Fuck R. Kelly" (Feb. 2, 2006) with this update.

AR-UH YOU KIDDING ME? I received an email this morning that tells of a new Kelly tape. This one is from Kerry Kelly -- an unfortunate name to be sure -- R. Kelly's brother, who reportedly drops dime on the genius mind that brought us a tale of incontinent midgets. Highlights? Kerry claims that Ar-uh is a molester...No!...that it was R. Kelly on the infamous DVD...You don't say? That was R. Kelly on the DVD that was marketed and sold with the title "R. Kelly Sex Tape"?...and that the #1 man of R&B (Get it? #1...Get it?) is a bisexual. (I told you! "Trapped in the Closet"?!?! Hellooooo.) Moving on...


An open letter to Chuck D,

Whuh happin'd? I know you saw Flav on "The Surreal Life" acting all love sick over Brigitte Nielsen. It was funny at first. I figured it was bizarre and thus decent TV. I also thought that would be the end of it. I imagine you hoped the same thing. Then came "Strange Love" or as I like to call it "After-Birth of a Nation." What the fuck was that? I ain't got nothin' against interracial dating, but I do have something against watching a brother who used to fight the power chase after some tore-down White woman like she's got the cure to cancer leaking out her ass.

"Red Sonja" came out in 1985. Let's face it. "Gita's" (why does he call her that?) best days were during the Reagan administration. These days she's as busted as R. Kelly after Kerry's tell-all DVD. The woman has a face that could curdle milk. Now, some have suggested -- and I tend to agree with them -- that you should personally pimp slap some sense into Flav. It seems that you have chosen not to and I am left wondering why.

You gave the verbal "Don't Worry, Be Happy" smackdown to Bobby McFerrin and what the fuck did he ever do to you? Meanwhile, Flav disrespected the sacred by letting "Gita" get on stage with Public Enemy. She fucked up the entire show. She made a mockery of the entire fucking thing. She would not have pulled that stunt with Van Halen, but since you were all just a bunch of monkeys doing a bunch of ghetto garbage music she didn't have to show you any respect at all. She should have died by S1W firing squad that night as far as I'm concerned. Instead, I got a letter from the government the other day. I opened and read it. They said y'all was suckas.

Damn, man. He lets her call him "Foofie"...in public... By the time y'all get to Arizona, the governor will be laughing at Public Enemy and, sadly, so will I. Help a nigga out, Chuck.

Now, let me be clear, Chuck. I would guess that at this point you are thinking something along the lines of "That's not me. That's Flav." But I have to talk to you, Chuck. You were always the one with sense. Flav was the comic relief that kept you from going into a Black Power Black Hole. It was yin and yang...Batman and Robin...cookies and milk...Peaches and Herb...and it worked. But now Flav has gone too far, too muthafuckin' far I say. He's off the deep end and you are the only person I can think of who has a chance of bringing him back.

So do us all a favor. Grab that branch he broke as he fell out of the ugly tree and beat some muthafuckin' sense into him. Take him back to the days when he might have always been joking, but he wasn't a such a fucking joke.

A New Millennium Nigga
Member, Party for Your Right to Fight

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Valentine's Edition

Valentine's Edition

When Cupid is shooting arrows to and and fro and a dozen long stem roses cost a hundred bucks it can mean only one thing...It's Valentine's Day! Some of you may be wondering, "Does a New Millennium Nigga, with all his venom and vitriol, with the weight of his race's...nay society's problems weighing on him...celebrate Valentine's Day?" The answer: He does if he wants any lovin' before the NEXT millennium.

So, in an effort to get into the mood of this holiday for the heart, I sat myself down and sought to answer one of life's eternal questions...

What is the Flava of Love?

Well, I can tell you that I mourn the 44 TiVo-assisted minutes that I spent watching that bullshit. 37 minutes in, I actually felt myself getting dumber. It felt like a mini-stroke and it occured in the part of my brain that governs racial pride. Holy shit! I can say that "Flava of Love" achieved something I thought was literally impossible. It was worse than I imagined.

I still don't know what the Flava of Love is, but I did surmise that it is dark chocolate and tart. Dear God. Where did they find these reject strippers? Did they hold the casting sessions at fucking Bellevue?

I sat there stunned, prepared to say that which, in 1989, I would have regarded as blasphemy...

First of all...fuck Flava Slave...I mean, Flava Flav!

"Elvis was a hero to most/but he never meant shit to me/He was straight out racist/the sucka was simple and plain/MUTHAFUCK HIM AND JOHN WAYNE!"

Ahhh yes...the music of my youth. Public Enemy let me know that I should be proud to be Black (not that I'd never heard that before) and that I was right to be pissed (that little gem got left out of most of the Black History Month celebrations in elementary school). As far as I was concerned, the revolution was comin' and the S1W's were the army I planned to join. Well, apparently Lieutenant Flav has gone fuckin' AWOL.

Where do I start? First of all, I turn this shit on and there is Flav talking to the camera...wearing Viking horns...maybe some viking named Pickaninny the Black. Anyway, he's going on and on about these "girls" who he has given new names for the show. I couldn't keep track, so for the purposes of this article, I have renamed them myself.

For the sake of those who have not seen this show, I have decided to use these names to paint a mental picture. I have named each girl (a term used loosely since one chick was at least 40 fuckin' years old) according to what time it would have to be at the club before I would leave with them. (Note:This New Millennium Nigga is married so this scale is used only for the sake of clarity and does not suggest any participation in night club shenanigans.) All times are on a 2:00am club closing scale.

So...first we had Midnight. She was a'ight in a strobe light hottie kind of way, but she was crazy. How could I tell? She is on television show seeking the affections of a man who most closely resembles Jimminy Cricket in black face, who is wearing somebody's kitchen wall clock around his fuckin' neck! How could I tell?!? I fuckin' guessed, alright.

Then there was 1:45. She was probably more of a Midnight when polka-dots were in style, but alas the years have been cruel. Also, her self-esteem was so low that she actually, referencing Flava Flav, uttered the phrase, "I don't know if I'm good enough for him." Crack kills, people. Don't do it!

Half-Past-I-Can't-Read-My-Watch-No-More is very confident. She believes that she can "win the heart of that beautiful man." I believe she is fucking blind, nuts or both.

Don't-Judge-Me-Just-Pour-Another-Drink was dressed in a red dress that was covered in red feathers. If Big Bird fucked a crack ho this goddamn train wreck would be their love child.

When-Jesus-Gets-Back was a hot mess and has too many fucking teeth. I think she's a descendant of dinosaurs...and thus an argument against intelligent design.

And, finally, When-Hell-Freezes-Over was a dirty lookin' White chick who kind'a looked like if she bumped into you, y'all might stick together. She was wearing cornrows. I'm sure she thought it made her fit in. It just made her look like a broke-ass Bo Derek.

So, anyway 1:45 told Half-Past-I-Can’t-Read-My-Watch-No-More that she wasn’t sure that she had anything to offer Flav because she felt empty inside. Then, apparently, Half-Past-I-Can't-Read-My-Watch-No-More told Midnight, Don't-Judge-Me-Just-Pour-Another-Drink, When-Jesus-Gets-Back and When-Hell-Freezes-Over, because they all went to Flav right before the elimination – during which the nigga hands out personalized clocks…What?! – and they all ratted 1:45 out. That led to a big argument between 1:45 and Half-Past-I-Can't-Read-My-Watch-No-More during which 1:45 said -- and I shit you not – she said the aforementioned, “I don’t know if I’m good enough for him.” Honey, Flavor Flav looks like a Mr. Hanky in a top hat and is the biggest embarrassment to Black people since the D.C. sniper turned out to be Black. (Seriously, we have enough problems without venturing into the heretofore White boy dominated world of serial killing. Anyway...)

Flav goes around in a top hat, holding a cane and looking like Mr. BoCrackles as he decides who will be going home to the existence that was so shitty that a life of coonery and buffoonery with Flav was an upgrade. I mean, seriously, at one point he was sitting there wearing a crown, looking like the King of Coonville.

Finally, he put not one, but two girls out of their misery. Now, I am just waiting for somebody to put me out of mine. Or may be they could convince Flav to melt down all those gold teeth and buy himself some fucking pride.

Flav, 911 may indeed be a joke...but now so are you. When "she watches Channel Zero," I'm betting there'll be a "Flava of Love" marathon on and Flava Slave will be betraying everything that Public Enemy stood for and stands for in my life.

It may be the world I've chosen to live in, but I must say it...

Burn, Hollywood, Burn!

Monday, February 13, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Cheney Shoots Companion

Cheney Shoots Companion

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS HOUR (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

A NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA speaks directly to Camera A delivering "Today's Mathematics," his final thought and sign-off.

NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA: ...and so, in conclusion, while it is true that people kill people, guns do expedite the process. Anyone who has tried to kill a nigga with a basketball, as I have, can attest--

A New Millennium Nigga stops and puts his finger to his earpiece. He listens intently.

NMN: This just in...Vice President Dick Cheney has reportedly shot a hunting companion. (to the producers) Was it Rumsfeld? If it was Rumsfeld, I'm joining the NRA. That's my word, nigga.

A New Millennium Nigga listens some more.

NMN: Really? What was he doing there.

A New Millennium Nigga turns to Camera B camera.

NMN: Apparently, Jesse Jackson is in stable condition. No word yet on whether he will accept the Vice President's invitation to join him on a second hunting excursion.

A New Millennium NIgga puts his finger back to his earpiece.

NMN: Wait...sorry...they got a shot of Jesse Jackson going down to the ranch. Well, you already know that. Wherever there's a camera, he'll be there. So who did Cheney shoot?...Harry?...Harry who?...Dick shot Harry in the face? I ain't know it was a Brokeback "hunting" trip. I thought it was his daughter who got down like that.

A New Millennium Nigga laughs at his own joke...then remembers he's on the air. He turns back to Camera A.

NMN: The man who was shot, Harry Whittington, a 78 year old had appartently "pulled off a double," which is what it is called when a hunter brings down two quail with two successive shots from his shotgun. Reportedly, the Vice President was not doing quite as well. Then, mysteriously, Mr. Whittington gets shot. Daaaammmmmnnnn. Now, that's gangsta.

Back to Camera B.

NMN: I'm just glad to see that after two years of war in Iraq, somebody in this administration finally picked up a gun.

A New Millennium Nigga puts his finger back to the earpiece.

NMN: So?...First of all...fuck the FBI! Ain't nobody scared of them,

Back to Camera A.

NMN: That does it for tonight's New Millennium Nigga News Hour. Tune in next week, when we'll have Dr. Sanjay Gupta on to explain how Star Jones balances that same ol' big ass head on her newly slenderized neck. Good night. And Peace in the Middle East...again.

Chuck D leads Public Enemy out onto the stage (without Flavor Flav who is permanently barred by A New Millennium Nigga). They perform the New Millennium Nigga News Hour theme song.

VOICE-OVER: New Millennium Nigga News Hour is brought to you by your local Check Cashing Spot. "If you charged this kind of interest on a loan, you would be arrested for loan sharking." Your local Check Cashing Spot...fucking poor people for years now.

Friday, February 10, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: We Do Not Interrupt This Broadcast

We Do Not Interrupt This Broadcast

February 10, 2006

This past Tuesday, Coretta Scott King, a proponent of justice in this world and wife of Boondocks-maligned civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., was sent off to her final resting place. And she indeed must have needed the rest after a lifetime of work that benefitted all people, but especially Black people in this country.

And that's why I say...

First of all...Fuck BET!

Did you know that BLACK Entertainment Television chose not to broadcast Coretta Scott King's funeral? For the love of God... Fox News, the home of Sean "This Is My Playground, Now Get Over Here And Take Your Public Wedgie, you damn liberal" Hannity, aired the funeral. And if they hadn't, I would have been calling all sorts of people all kinds of racists...from Bill O'Reilly to Rupert Murdoch to Vicente Fox...and he doesn't even have anything to do with Fox News. That just happens to be his name. (Although, I know I'm supposed to be mad at him for saying that Black people don't want to do shitty jobs. Which we don't. But it was racist to say. I think. I don't know. Ask Jesse.)

George W. Bush attended...and spoke...and Kanye has already established that Dubya doesn't even care about Black people.

"There must be something more to this story," I thought after receiving the email that alerted me to this travesty. "There must be some really important shit going down on BET if the funeral of the first lady of civil rights didn't make the cut." So I tuned in last night to take in some of the mind-expanding goodness and watched some "Comic View":

Raucous laughter dies down as the WHITE COMEDIAN on stage wraps up.

WHITE COMEDIAN: ...and now I'll reference some rap song, raise the roof and throw on my "Black" voice and attitude. Isn't that hilarious?

Apparently, it is. The audience loves it. Applause. Laughter. HOST walks onto the stage and takes the mic.

HOST: Wheeeeewwww! Man, that was funny. See, he was White. But he was saying things that Black people say. That's funny. Anyway, the next brother coming to the stage is going to be doing Richard Pryor's jokes using Eddie Murphy's voices and gestures. Welcome to the stage...Generic...Black...Comedian!


GENERIC BLACK COMEDIAN: You know what I noticed. When White people eat, they be like, "Excuse me, sir. Would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?" When Black people eat, they be like, "Hey, man...pass the hot sauce!"

Hysterics. A Big Black Woman who stands in a kitchen set on the side of the stage laughs so hard she cries as she inexplicably stirs a pot of collard greens.


A New MIllennium Nigga stands at the mic.

NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA: On the White cable outlets, they were paying their respects to a woman who fought to secure the right to vote. On BET, they were voting...on who has the #1 video on "106 & Park". Holla!

People roll in the aisles. Two audience members jump up and start doing the Kid N Play kick step. A Black Man in the front row laughs so hard he goes into cardiac arrest...although that could be from a bad diet and the overall stress of being a Black man in America.

NMN: On the white cable outlets, they were commemorating the life of a woman who was loved by and was in love with one of the great political leaders of all time. On BET, they were celebrating the life and times of T-Pain and Mike Jones who are "N Luv (Wit a Stripper)." [sic] Holla!

The audience erupts. Big Black Woman laughs so hard she cries as she scrubs laundry in a basin at the side of the stage, the handkerchief on her head drenched and stained with sweat.

NMN: On the White cable outlets, they aired the funeral live. On BET, there's a special on Coretta Scott King's funeral and her life the following Sunday, almost a week later. Talk about your CP Time. Holla!

The audience explodes with laughter. Big Black Woman picks cotton on the side of the stage as she laughs so hard, she cries...or is she just crying?

Thursday, February 09, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Claiming The Millennium...and The Word

Claiming The Millennium...and The Word

A friend of a loyal reader, responded to a forward entitled "New Millennium Nigga" with the response "New Millennium/Old Millennium...I'm not one of them." He included an article he had written a couple of years back outlining why he does not use the words "nigga" or "nigger." I felt compelled to respond, particularly because the author added the tag, "(Regardless of what millennium you claim)". That seemed a personal barb. I hope that the author will grant me permission to at least share a link to his comments and article. I have asked that he do so.

I will forego my usual "First of all...Fuck (insert topic)!" And simply share my response.

As one of the few Black students in a predominantly White high school, I found that I had a lot of roles to play. One of those roles was protector of the younger Black kids.

At our school, as a fundraiser, the Student Government would sell Valentine's Beamers, little messages to be sent to sweethearts and friends on Valentine's Day. Well, one year, some White students decided that they would use that forum to insult and intimidate some of the younger Black students. There were drawings. There were epithets. I don't remember
the specifics but you can fill in the blanks.

Anyway, my buddy Kenyatta and I were shown the messages and we took it upon ourselves to get to the bottom of it. We felt we needed to regulate, to put it simply.

We found out who had sent the beamers and confronted one of the perpetrators in the hallway between classes. Again, I don't recall the specifics. But it probably went something like, "If you see a nigger, you slap a nigger."

A teacher then approached and shielded the White perpetrator from Kenny and me (Two people, though he would later describe us as a mob.) and declared, "We're not going to turn this into some inner-city high school."

I think back on that incident and something strikes me. Someone can say "inner-city" and mean everything that Mo'Kelly claims is the only definition of "nigger/nigga".

Over the course of American history, name changes have occurred, euphemisms have abounded. But whether I am described as an urban youth or nigger, the NYPD will still shoot me dead for reaching for my wallet. And all my Yale degree will be good for is cleaning up the blood.

I understand that many may use "nigga" without thinking, but I do not. I was an Afro-American Studies major. And my study of and thinking about my people has gone far beyond those four years. I once kept the word out of my mouth. But the truth is that I honestly believe that the meaning of a word can be changed. If not, "We're here/We're queer/and we're not going
anywhere" wouldn't be such a powerful refrain.

Further, as a matter of logic, my "brother" (and so far as I know we do not have the same parents) I think it is "cold" (not in temperature, but in sentiment) to "shit on" my blog (need I explain) with your "bad-ass" article (bad meaning good) and demand that I "pump my brakes" (though I am not presently driving). If the word once meant black and it now means all
that you say then the meaning of a word can change. And if it can, then the entire underlying premise of your article is shattered. A new generation can use an old word in a new way. And to use a phrase from my youth, that's "fresh" (though in no way related to produce). But at least you ain't "fuckin' with my cheddar" (though I have no idea about your sexual proclivities or feelings about dairy products), so I "ain't gon raise up" (na'i'm sayin?).

I agree that the social problems that Mo'Kelly cites are indeed plauging this nation. I simply disagree with the premise that the use of or prohibition of the use of the word will change anything at all.

Further, I do not demand that anyone else embrace the word. In fact, I have friends who do not agree with the use of the word and I don't use it when referring to them. As a matter of fact, I generally don't use it much in their presence, just to show what respect I have for their personal decision. (My musing about Al Sharpton is an obvious exception where I used
the word in it's two forms to clearly express my disappointment and anger to Rev. Al.) But here's what I will not do. I will not allow anyone to dictate to me from on high what I must think, do or say. That would make me their nigger. And as a New Millennium Nigga, I ain't nobody's nigger.

I enjoy debate. I think that the exchange of ideas is amongst the greatest gifts life has to offer. But anyone who would dismiss any and all thoughts I express based on my personal and political choice to use the word "nigga" is making a mistake. I believe I have something to offer...actually a great deal to offer our community. And to rebut your assertion that there is only one way for a given word to be received, I will say this. You say that your message is offered in love and I accept that. I accept that, though your words could be taken as an insult to my intellect and an insult to my love of my people. As a matter of fact, we can put this entire exchange onto the blog, if you are agreeable to that, as I'm sure that many would want to participate in this discussion.

So, I hope you and I can debate on the blog, sit down and talk or even just email one another, exchange ideas and "build" as our brothers like to say. And, "my brother," I will not refer to you as "my nigga". But I truly hope that you don't think you can make me yours. I am a New Millennium Nigga and I don't "get down" (not a reference to a depressed emotional state) like
that. Tell a friend!

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Rest In Peace

Rest In Peace

Thinking about niggas resting in peace got me to thinking about one of the most familiar refrains in all of hip-hop:

R.I.P. B.I.G.

And that's why it is with a heavy heart -- and a kevlar vest -- that I must offer this musing. First of all...fuck Biggie Smalls!

Awww damn! You think it was hard for you to read. Imagine how hard it was for me to write. The flow was untouchable. The style beyond compare. Biggie truly represented Brooklyn--the good, the bad and the ugly--and I loved him for it. And it is well documented that he "put the NYC back on the map" in the hip-hop world of the mid-90's. Yes...

The N-O-
You just
Can’t let go
And recognize the blood
On all of our hands
From the fuckin’ media
To the so called fans

When he went (he went)
back (back)
to Cali (Cali)

Do you realize that it has been almost 9 years since Christopher Wallace aka Biggie Smalls, aka The Notorious BIG, aka Frank White (Niggas do love their nicknames, don't they? FYI - The police call them aliases.) was killed at the corner of Wilshire and Fairfax? I drive by that corner all the time. I sit just a few blocks away as I write this shit. And sometimes as I go through the intersection, I think of Biggie. I mean, don't get it twisted. It ain't quite like visiting the Lorraine Motel. But thinking about March 9, 1997 really does make this little nigga from Brooklyn sad. But goddammit, we killed the muthafucka. And it is time to let him go.

NO MORE FUCKING TRIBUTES! I loved Biggie's music as much as any nigga...maybe more than most...but I have fucking had it! At the end of the day he was a fucking rapper not Medgar Evars and I find the whole necrophilic orgy distasteful and disgusting. And frankly, I don't think I'm the only one who has seen enough of Sean-Puff Daddy-Puffy-P.Diddy-Diddy-That ain't my gun and I don't know whose it is-Danny Terrio-Combs and his fuckin' soft shoe.

No matter how much we wring our hands, our bullshit, fake-ass tears can not wash away the blood on all our hands. It's there because we played into the shit. Niggas callin' in to countdowns talkin' shit played into the shit. Niggas writin' in to video shows played into the shit. And every muthafucka who ever reveled in the threatening, violent rhymes that were spit from coast to coast played into the shit. And I say Fuck Biggie Smalls! I say Fuck Biggie Smalls because if we were truly sorry, if we truly missed him, we would have changed.

My grandmother used to tell everybody in the family not to bring flowers to her gravesite. She explained, "I won't be able to smell them then. Bring me flowers now, when I can smell them."

I'm tired of this shit, because the truth is that we can't possibly miss Big and get so excited about the 50-Game beef that the reconciliation makes CNN. And don't blame the media either, you excuse-makin' muthafuckas. Was the media there to get Israel Ramirez killed at Busta's video shoot? If we missed Big, Nas v. Jay-Z doesn't generate millions of dollars. If we missed Big, MCs like Common wouldn't be a sideshow, they would be the muthafuckin' main event because we would be lookin' to do somethin' for our communities besides teaching three year old girls how to shake dey laffy taffy!

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! He has died in vain. Nobody learned a goddamn thing...except that a dead rapper may actually sell more records (see Tupac).

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! I will not participate in the fucking lie that has tributes to him at award shows where security has to be beefed up to deal with the riot that will almost assuredly break out.

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! Because if we loved Biggie we would be making the world a better place for the next Biggie. Maybe he (or she) would have a chance to move on from talking about five cent gums and guns to how our people must overcome. Biggie never had that chance. And I don't have any reason to believe that the nigga after him will either.

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! Because we are all seemingly content to continue on in a world where too many Black boys still know that to get theirs they better either "sling crack rock or have a wicked jumpshot."

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! In the end, it feels good to say it. At least now I don't feel like such a fucking fraud. That's a relief. How could he possibly rest in peace, when niggas keep calling his name? While they keep dancing on his grave?

I say fuck Biggie Smalls! And fuck you if you are cashing checks written in his blood! That goes for the show producers, the networks, everybody. I mean, I ain't callin' no names. But if the diamond-encrusted cap fits...wear it!

Tuesday, February 07, 2006


February 7, 2006

Over the weekend, Israel Ramirez, 29, was killed in Brooklyn. He was a bodyguard who was unfortunate enough to be standing in the way when somebody decided they would prove their manhood by shooting into a crowd at a video shoot, confirming that "Brooklyn niggaz are [indeed] the craziest."


Now, I could say, "First of all, fuck rap music!" But then I would be perpetuating the lie that all rap is about violence and inspires violence. I could say, "First of all, fuck Black on Black violence!" But we've been hearing that shit for years, in one form or another, and what difference has it made?

No, today, I will address the senseless tragedy in a new way, with a new voice. I say...First of all, fuck Beyonce! "What's that," you say. "I won't stand for no blasphemin'," you exclaim. "Beyonce wasn't even there," you protest. But someone must hold Ms. Knowles responsible for her actions. She is a part of the fucking problem. I only hope that she can eventually become part of the fucking solution...literally.

And now I present to you...


New Millenium Nigga paces back and forth then faces the court.

New Millennium Nigga: We gather here today, in the Court of Public Opinion, to hear the case of New Millennium Nigga v. Beyonce, et al (aka Beyonce n'dem, aka Destiny's Child). Why are we here? Because I submit that Beyonce...and Kelly... and...what's your name, again?

Michelle: Michelle.

NMN: And Michelle...better known to the world as Destiny's Child have participated in a conspiracy to kill Israel Ramirez.

Court members murmur. Johnny Cochran, resurrected for this high profile case, stands.

Johnny: Objection. This is bullshit. You must acquit.

NMN: Is it? Is it true, Beyonce, that you sang the song "Soldier"?

Beyonce: It is.

NMN: And in that song you sing, "If your status ain't hood/I ain't checkin' for him/Betta be street if he lookin' at me/I need a soldier..." I submit that in declaring that you want a soldier you helped to contribute to the bullshit gangsta culture and image that took the lives of Israel Ramirez and Big L and Scott La Rock and Biggie and Tupac--

Johnny: Obviously, we could stand here all day and list young niggas that have been killed--

NMN: And that's my point. Young niggas are getting killed every day. How is this shit cute? You want a fucking soldier. Let me tell you what soldiers do. They kill...and they fucking die! So to every woman out there who sings along that they, too, want a soldier, know this. You are a part of the fucking problem. Do not believe there is no blood on your hands just because you are not pulling the trigger.

You have to understand the basic nature of men. They will do anything...ANYTHING...to get some ass. ANYTHING. They will go to see "Bridget Jones' Diary." They will spend money they don't have on shit they can't afford. They will say they love you as they silence their cellphone to make sure dey girl's call don't come through. And they will most certainly become the soldiers you claim that you want. Somewhere, some boy believes that if when he grows up, he "ain't afraid to pop them things," he will get a girl who looks like Beyonce. Now, why is he supposed to "stay in school," "be positive" or "be a leader" again? Apparently, there's no ass in that.

The truth is that, if men are from Mars, I can tell you what to expect when you get there. There will be sports bars. And there will be a bunch of muthafuckas standing around saying, "Hey, man, when's the next shuttle to Venus? I'm horny as a muthafucka." Beyonce, you could help the cause.

"Lysistrata" is a Greek play about a bunch of women who were so tired of their warring men that they decided that no sex was going down for anybody until their men stopped their violent ways. Now, those were some women who were willing to do their part for the struggle. When 50 Cent brags about being shot nine times -- And by the way, somebody should teach that
nigga how to duck! -- I assume he doesn't understand the damage he's doing. But you know better. I know you do. I know you all do. That's why Michelle always look like she's singing that shit because somebody's holding her family captive, threatening to kill them if she don't.

I'm a Survivor. And I'm not just saying that because I've been through enough English classes to know that "I ain't gon' talk about you on the internet" and "Cuz my mama taught me better than than that" don't rhyme. That shit don't rhyme!

Beyonce: Ain't you gonna object, Johnny?

Johnny: I can't. Nobody knows rhymin' like I know rhymin' and that shit don't rhyme.

NMN: No, I'm a survior of Flatbush, Brooklyn. And Brooklyn niggas are the craziest (see above). When Aristophanes wrote--

T.I. leans over to Li'l Wayne.

T.I.: Who the fuck is Aristophanes?

Li'l Wayne: I don't know. Maybe he's down with Mike Jones n'dem?

From the back of the courtroom--

Mike Jones: I'm Mike Jones!

The MUSIC STARTS. People start dancing.


Nobody listens. The party continues.

New Millennium Nigga grabs the Bailiff's gun and busts two shots in the air.

The Court falls silent.

NMN: That really is all you niggaz understand, isn't it? I'm'a go talk to about y'all on the internet/'Cuz I know your mamas taught you better than that.

New Millenium Nigga shakes his head and walks away.

NMN: I don't care what nobody say. That shit don't rhyme.

Rest in peace Israel Ramirez...though I don't know how you could.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Good morning!

First things first. In Friday's installment, "Fuck Al Sharpton!", I
mistakenly credited Comedy Central with airing "The Boondocks". In
fact, the cartoon airs on The Cartoon Network. Though the error was
regrettable, it gives me an opportunity to unveil a new feature of this article: The
Recant and Re-Rant. (See, I wouldn't want my error to detract from the
initial vitriol of the views expressed.) Here it goes:

And don't you have some better shit to do than to be speaking out on
some animated series on The Cartoon Network? I mean...after all...it's a
fucking cartoon. Get it? No? Well, here are some other issues raised by
cartoons that you shouldn't worry your pretty little conked head about:

1. If Jesse Jackson drops an anvil on your head, you will not spend the
rest of your life looking like an accordion. (You will, however, die.)

2. Dogs can't talk.

3. Cats neither.

4. Mice? Nope.

5. Nobody is going to sell a gorilla to a little White girl no matter
how cute she is as she sings the opening to the "Magilla Gorilla Show."
(If you like to talk about White girls and gorillas, you'll really enjoy "Fuck
Peter Jackson! And Fuck EVERY Version of King Kong.")

Moving on...


February 6, 2006

So I fully expected to go home on Friday, settle in in front of the ol'
TiVo and be spoon-fed today's "Musings": Fuck Dave Chappelle! I was
somewhat angry with Dave for leaving me with comedic blue balls as he pulled the
plug on Season Three and I figured that it would be funny to go after a guy
whose comedy I respect so much. But it didn't take long to see that Dave has
folded like a wet noodle under all the pressure and it's no fun to kick
a man when he's down. Well, it's fun. It's just not right.

Anyway, I sat there watching and I was struck by a new topic: FUCK


Ohhhhh Laaawwwd. Did y'all see what Oprah did to James Frey? Oh my
God! It was terrific. It was horrific. It was astounding. It was awful.
It was...beautiful. And I don't think America fully appreciated what
happened that fateful afternoon.

A Black woman got on national TV and tongue lashed a White man. In my
lifetime, I have seen one man threaten to shoot another man over a
fifty cent pack of cookies. But I have never seen a Black woman get on
national TV and read a White man the riot act. That's some seriously "bizarro
world" shit. She broke his ass down like an organic compound until the only
thing that was in a million little pieces was his ego. Within an hour, with
commercials, she had him "joking" about finding a gun backstage and
killing himself. Wow.

At one point--as she was blasting him so bad--I thought she was going
to send him outside the studio to pick his switch. That was all there was
left. Damn.

Someday, I'll tell my children that I saw it. I'll tell the tale in
the special tone of voice reserved for the telling of Jackie Robinson's
story. "It happened," I'll say as they look up at me with wonder. "I seent it
with my own two eyes. Her name was Oprah Winfrey. And she stood ten feet

Am I alone in thinking that this shit was amazing? I sat there and
thought, "I didn't know Black people could talk to White people like this."
Then it struck me. We can't. Even in 2006...we can't. If the average nigga
talks to a White person like that they will find their ass fired...or hit
over the head with a billy club...or, if they happen to be in the precinct where
I grew up, with an NYPD plunger up their ass.

Shhhiiiiiitttt...If you're Jesse Jackson and let your tongue get too
slick on some "America, stay out of the Bushes!" shit, you end up with your
baby mama drama on page one. (Or was I the only one who didn't think that
was a coincidence?)

But not Oprah. Oprah is so powerful that an audience applauded as she
made a White man her bitch on ABC, the AMERICAN Broadcasting Company. A
Black Woman pulling that off is the socio-political equivalent of that kid
Corky, from "Life Goes On" dunking on Shaquille O'Neal. And dammit...I want
you people to recognize it. Now, say it wit' me:


[Note: Oprah, I'm sorry about the whole "Fuck Oprah!" thing. I just
did it for effect. And I'm sorry. Does this mean I don't get a car?]

Friday, February 03, 2006


February 3, 2006

Welcome back. It seems no one has replied with the "Fuck off, you mad
Black man" option, so you're all still being subjected to "Musings of a
New Millennium Nigga". (I apologize for spelling millennium with one 'n'
yesterday. No one mentioned catching it, but I know how picky you
educated negroes can be about little things like correct spelling.)

Anyway, earlier this week, I read that Rev. Al Sharpton is demanding an
apology from Aaron McGruder for his portrayal of Dr. King in a recent
episode of "The Boondocks." Apparently, he did not like that Dr. King
used the word "nigger" when he had to scream to get the attention of a
bunch of niggers who were too busy doing nigger shit (e.g. drinking, dancing,
fighting) to get to the work of the new political party that Dr.King
and Huey were trying to form. I saw the episode and I can only say

First of all...FUCK AL SHARPTON!

But in this instance, I thought it would be best to address Rev.
Sharpton in an open letter.

Dear Rev. Al,

First of all, fuck you! Who the fuck is you...? (Ebonics intentional.
Don't you dare correct me.) Who the fuck is you to be questioning
Aaron McGruder's artistic expression. Who the fuck died and left you
in charge?

Well, I guess Dr. King and Malcolm X did. But isn't that the point.
Even those of us who like you have to admit that -- as Chris Rock
stated first -- as a Black leader, you ain't nothin' more than a fuckin'
substitute teacher.

Let's be real. Your hair alone is an affront to the very notion of
Black pride. Yeah...I said it. Promise to James Brown or no promise
to James Brown, that fried, dyed and laid to the side shit is one of the
worst hair-don'ts in the public eye today.

But back to the matter at hand. What is with you civil rights era
muthafuckas? Boy, oh boy. Cedric makes a joke about Rosa Parks not
being the first nigga who ever was tired on a bus (and it's a fact that
others had stood their ground before her, you revisionist bastards!)
and you're all up in arms. Aaron McGruder departs from the quaint, comfortable
approach to commemorating the King holiday and you want an apology.

Well, guess what? I want an apology from you! Not only for attacking
one of the few niggas in the media or in entertainment who is willing
to let the shit be broke on political topics, but for being so stuck in the
yesterday of the March on Washington and the Montgomery Bus Boycott
that you are forgetting what niggas are up against today. Chris Rock...Aaron
McGruder...They have it right. I love my niggas. But I HATE NIGGERS!
I hate the smell of Krystal and Courvoisier on their breath as they
regale me with tales of their baby mama drama and drug deals that they
were never really a part of in real life. I hate the way they respect guns and
shun books. I hate the way they choose to party when the time would be
better spent pondering why half a century after the Voting Rights Act
niggers don't vote!!!

I suspect that Dr. King would be sick of today's niggers and their
bullshit. (And I say "their," but I really mean "our," because we will
either rise together or fall together.) And don't you have some better shit
to do than to be speaking out on some animated series on Comedy Central?
(That's right. Comedy Central. Comedy isn't always going to be tame. See
the late, great Richard Pryor.)

Don't think you need to listen to me? Well, you better. You owe me,
nigga. Do you have any idea what it was like to eat my words in a Bay
Ridge school full of white kids after Tawana Brawley?!?! Muthafucka, I had
your back. And that was pre-hunger strike. That was a lot of back...A

For that shit alone, you should be doin' my laundry once a month.

In conclusion...Don't like the idea of Dr. King using the word "nigger"
to reprimand a bunch of niggers for acting like niggers? Well, get to
work on gettin' niggers to stop actin' like such goddamn niggers all
the time, my nigga. And leave niggas like Aaron McGruder the fuck alone.

Your Nigga,

Orlando Bishop

p.s. Nice job at the convention. Your speech was on point.

p.p.s. Seriously, do something about the hair. It's hurting the cause.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

My wife pointed out to me the irony of distributing "Slavery
Reinstated" on the first day of February, Black History Month. And
that got me thinking. I don't do enough to celebrate Black History Month. So this
year, I amgoing to commemorate these sacred days by unveiling something that I've
been thinking about for a long time. Moments in history...political
philosophy...random thoughts...

I call it...

"The Musings of a New Millenium Nigga"

February 2, 2006

First of all, fuck R. Kelly! And fuck all niggas who have uttered
these phrases:

Yeah, but the album is hot.

You can't really tell if that's him in the video. (Meanwhile they
bought the dvd because it said "R. Kelly Sex Tape")

Let us remember that the LA Riots (aka The LA Uprising) were caused
because Black people couldn't believe that a white jury could watch a
video and deny what was clear for all to see. Hello. The man is on video pissing
ongirls and he won an NAACP Image Award! While I'm ranting...Fuck the
NAACP, too!

Only a people who hate their girls could possibly embrace this goddamn

And for the record...R. Kelly is a grown Black man who hates Black
women so much that he literally pisses on Black girls. He is also the
man who brought the world a ghetto opera centered around some brothers on the
down low called... and you can't make this shit up...It's called "Trapped in
the Closet!" Wake up, Black people!

Say it with me. FUCK R. KELLY! (pronounced ar-ruh kell-ee)

Tomorrow's installment: FUCK AL SHARPTON!

To unsubscribe from this service, simply respond to this email with the
subject line "Fuck off, you mad Black man!"

Wednesday, February 01, 2006


So here's the deal. On February 1, 2006, a friend unwittingly
forwarded a hoax email that claimed that the Voting Rights Act was
expiring. I was inspired to respond and that one response has sort of morphed
into "Musings of a New Millennium Nigga." Here's that original response:

With today's false alarm about the Voting Rights Act, I was reminded of
an issue that few Americans seem to be aware of...

Did you know that as of 2013 the Emancipation Proclamation will expire?
Unsure that the social experiment of free Blacks would be a success,
President Lincoln included a seldom discussed 150 year limit into the
famous document. But before you call your Senators to suggest that slavery be
permanently outlawed in America, consider the upside of this oft
disparaged institution.

1. No unemployment - With joblessness and shiftlessness as major
contributors to urban blight, wouldn't it be refreshing to see a day
where every man, woman and child is gainfully employed. Okay, well not
gainfully...but employed nonetheless.

2. Community building - With gang violence having ravaged so many of
America's cities, I find myself nostalgic for the days before crips and
bloods when we were divided only as field niggers and house niggers.
That was the way God intended it and that is the way it should be.

3. Fitness - In our couch potato society, when was the last time you
had to run for your life? I'll tell you what...Running from bloodhounds and
lynch mobs all the way from Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Detroit, Michigan is a
much better weight loss program than Tae-Bo.

4. Nutrition - Okay, so there wouldn't be an improvement in this area,
but when you consider the shit we eat these days...Would there really be a
drop-off? Below the 10 Freeway is the land of the soul food
restaurant. At least then we would get our chitterlings for free. And when we got
hypertension and diabetes and were debilitated by other obesity-related
diseases we would have someone to blame besides ourselves.

As I consider myself a part of the talented tenth, I assume that I will
be able to opt out of 21st century slavery. If not, maybe I will be
"employed" by the Slavery Network. Hey I could be a staff writer on the new Meth
& Red show...if I'm lucky.

Slavery...it can't be beat!