The March 24 Edition
First of all...FUCK MY KIDS! And I don't just say that because I've learned that some pre-schools in LA cost roughly $15K per year. Oh, yeah...Did I mention they're twins? That's thirty-fuckin'-grand to learn all the verses of "The Itsy Bitsy [Fucking] Spider." But that's not why I curse the day they came into my life. I'm not even going to get started on the fact that I now need two weeks notice and a fuckin' UN resolution to see a movie with my own wife. And what's the point of discussing how much I hate it when they cry as I change their diaper? "Hey, pal. I'm the one who's elbow-deep in another muthafucka's shit. What the fuck are you crying about?"
Even as I write this, their picture sits on my desk. I look into those innocent eyes, those cherubic faces, and I am struck by the realization that I HATE THEIR FUCKING GUTS! Seriously...fuck them! Damn, I love them!
See, that's how they get you. They get you cooing to them to catch a glimpse of one of their first smiles. They touch your cheek. They rub their tiny hand back and forth on your arm as they down a bottle of milk. They lay on your chest and relax completely into a restful sleep. And the next thing you know, you love those little shitheads more than you love life itself. Beware! It could fuckin' happen to you. It fuckin' happened to me. And I should fuckin' know better.
Once, back when A New Millennium Nigga was just a little niglet, a friend teased me about my middle name. (You may be thinking, "Hey NMN, 'Millennium' is a strange name for a nigga to have." But I remind you, dear reader, that New Millennium Nigga is not my government name.) "That's my father's name," I shot back. See, I would joke around about a lot of things, but not my father's name. It was his gift to me. And it was on the short list of shit I just didn't find funny. Period. I loved having my father's name...mostly because I loved my father.
One reason I loved my father was our trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. I think back on that trip and now realize that it was a real sacrifice for an electrician to use up his vacation time to take his son to "sunny" Cooperstown. I now realize that he piled my little sister, who had no interest in baseball whatsoever, into the car, too. I now realize that motels...and gas...and food...and that souvenir glass I just had to have all cost money. That trip meant a lot to me. And I now realize that he did all of that for me, that he did other versions of that for me throughout my life.
Friday, March 24, will be his birthday. He would have been 79. He's been dead for five years.
And so I say...fuck him too! See, he neglected to warn a nigga that all those good memories boomerang back and do their best to take your fucking head off. He never told me that one day a tumor would take hold in his fuckin' brain and he would fuckin' die on me. And then...to top it off...as I wandered through his apartment after he was gone, holding my shit together by a thread...you'll never guess what that muthafucka had the nerve to do. Well, I went into the kitchen for something to drink. I opened the cabinet looking for a glass. And there it was...25 years after he bought it...the souvenir glass from our trip to Cooperstown. I guess that trip meant a lot to him, too. I lost it. That shit hurt. What a fuckin' asshole!
And you know what? On the morning of March 24, I'll pick up my phone to call him -- why should this year be any different? -- and then it'll hit me. It'll feel like an uppercut to the gut. "He's gone, nigga. Put down the phone."
As fate would have it, March 24 will also be the first anniversary of my mother's cremation. That coincidence is evidence that if there is a God, he/she/it's got a wicked sense of humor. Those two hated each other's guts.
My mother taught me lots of things. She taught me to say "Please"...to say "Thank you"...and to "always use the bathroom before you leave." She was practical like that. The one thing she didn't get around to teaching me was how to make her chicken lasagna. I loved that shit. And whenever we were together, she made it for me...special, for me. Sometimes she would tell me bits and pieces of how it was made. "A little of this and a little of that." Well, guess what? I've searched high and low and there are no measuring devices marked "a little." Not only that, but "this" and "that" are, apparently, not actual spices. So here I am, a year after she fuckin' died on me, fiendin' for some fuckin' chicken lasagna and I can't fuckin' have any. That shit hurts. Well...Fuck her too!
See, that's what muthafuckas do. They get you all comfortable. They get you likin' dey fuckin' chicken lasagna and shit and then when you ain't lookin' they fuckin' dip on you. Niggas be out! And they leave you with bullshit souvenir glasses to remember them by...as if that shit is supposed to be good enough.
So, I say...Fuck my kids! My wife, too! And fuck every muthafucka who has had the muthafuckin' nerve to weasel their bitch-ass way into my life, into my heart. If you are among that number...
Fuck you...for real. Fuck you for every time I dread the thought of losing you. A friend -- more like a brother really -- told me recently of some health problems he's having. If he doesn't handle it, the shit could get "catastrophic," he explained. I looked that nigga dead in the eye and told him -- 99% serious, 1% joking -- "Nigga, if you die on me, I will fuckin' kill you." Fuck him, too!
Fuck my son for ending up in the ICU after he was born. My stomach hurt for four sleepless...endless...days straight. Fuck my daughter for falling off the bed when I had just stepped out of the room for a second. I can still hear that gut-wrenching thud. It rings in my ears. It haunts me. Fuck my wife for every single time she hasn't answered her cell phone and I have had to spend the time between my call and her call back imagining every horrific goddamn thing that could have happened to her, imagining the hole in my soul that would be ripped open if I ever lost her. And fuck the realization that...sooner or later...death does us all part...and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.
I feel like now that I've brought up my mother, I should behave the way that she taught me to behave. So to all my loved ones...
"Say 'Please.'" - Please be careful out there in this crazy ass world.
"Say 'Thank you.'" - Thank you for making my life all that it is.
And...
"Always use the bathroom before you leave." - In conclusion, if you have managed to matter to me...PISS ON YOU, MUTHAFUCKA! And I mean that with all my heart.
Even as I write this, their picture sits on my desk. I look into those innocent eyes, those cherubic faces, and I am struck by the realization that I HATE THEIR FUCKING GUTS! Seriously...fuck them! Damn, I love them!
See, that's how they get you. They get you cooing to them to catch a glimpse of one of their first smiles. They touch your cheek. They rub their tiny hand back and forth on your arm as they down a bottle of milk. They lay on your chest and relax completely into a restful sleep. And the next thing you know, you love those little shitheads more than you love life itself. Beware! It could fuckin' happen to you. It fuckin' happened to me. And I should fuckin' know better.
Once, back when A New Millennium Nigga was just a little niglet, a friend teased me about my middle name. (You may be thinking, "Hey NMN, 'Millennium' is a strange name for a nigga to have." But I remind you, dear reader, that New Millennium Nigga is not my government name.) "That's my father's name," I shot back. See, I would joke around about a lot of things, but not my father's name. It was his gift to me. And it was on the short list of shit I just didn't find funny. Period. I loved having my father's name...mostly because I loved my father.
One reason I loved my father was our trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. I think back on that trip and now realize that it was a real sacrifice for an electrician to use up his vacation time to take his son to "sunny" Cooperstown. I now realize that he piled my little sister, who had no interest in baseball whatsoever, into the car, too. I now realize that motels...and gas...and food...and that souvenir glass I just had to have all cost money. That trip meant a lot to me. And I now realize that he did all of that for me, that he did other versions of that for me throughout my life.
Friday, March 24, will be his birthday. He would have been 79. He's been dead for five years.
And so I say...fuck him too! See, he neglected to warn a nigga that all those good memories boomerang back and do their best to take your fucking head off. He never told me that one day a tumor would take hold in his fuckin' brain and he would fuckin' die on me. And then...to top it off...as I wandered through his apartment after he was gone, holding my shit together by a thread...you'll never guess what that muthafucka had the nerve to do. Well, I went into the kitchen for something to drink. I opened the cabinet looking for a glass. And there it was...25 years after he bought it...the souvenir glass from our trip to Cooperstown. I guess that trip meant a lot to him, too. I lost it. That shit hurt. What a fuckin' asshole!
And you know what? On the morning of March 24, I'll pick up my phone to call him -- why should this year be any different? -- and then it'll hit me. It'll feel like an uppercut to the gut. "He's gone, nigga. Put down the phone."
As fate would have it, March 24 will also be the first anniversary of my mother's cremation. That coincidence is evidence that if there is a God, he/she/it's got a wicked sense of humor. Those two hated each other's guts.
My mother taught me lots of things. She taught me to say "Please"...to say "Thank you"...and to "always use the bathroom before you leave." She was practical like that. The one thing she didn't get around to teaching me was how to make her chicken lasagna. I loved that shit. And whenever we were together, she made it for me...special, for me. Sometimes she would tell me bits and pieces of how it was made. "A little of this and a little of that." Well, guess what? I've searched high and low and there are no measuring devices marked "a little." Not only that, but "this" and "that" are, apparently, not actual spices. So here I am, a year after she fuckin' died on me, fiendin' for some fuckin' chicken lasagna and I can't fuckin' have any. That shit hurts. Well...Fuck her too!
See, that's what muthafuckas do. They get you all comfortable. They get you likin' dey fuckin' chicken lasagna and shit and then when you ain't lookin' they fuckin' dip on you. Niggas be out! And they leave you with bullshit souvenir glasses to remember them by...as if that shit is supposed to be good enough.
So, I say...Fuck my kids! My wife, too! And fuck every muthafucka who has had the muthafuckin' nerve to weasel their bitch-ass way into my life, into my heart. If you are among that number...
Fuck you...for real. Fuck you for every time I dread the thought of losing you. A friend -- more like a brother really -- told me recently of some health problems he's having. If he doesn't handle it, the shit could get "catastrophic," he explained. I looked that nigga dead in the eye and told him -- 99% serious, 1% joking -- "Nigga, if you die on me, I will fuckin' kill you." Fuck him, too!
Fuck my son for ending up in the ICU after he was born. My stomach hurt for four sleepless...endless...days straight. Fuck my daughter for falling off the bed when I had just stepped out of the room for a second. I can still hear that gut-wrenching thud. It rings in my ears. It haunts me. Fuck my wife for every single time she hasn't answered her cell phone and I have had to spend the time between my call and her call back imagining every horrific goddamn thing that could have happened to her, imagining the hole in my soul that would be ripped open if I ever lost her. And fuck the realization that...sooner or later...death does us all part...and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.
I feel like now that I've brought up my mother, I should behave the way that she taught me to behave. So to all my loved ones...
"Say 'Please.'" - Please be careful out there in this crazy ass world.
"Say 'Thank you.'" - Thank you for making my life all that it is.
And...
"Always use the bathroom before you leave." - In conclusion, if you have managed to matter to me...PISS ON YOU, MUTHAFUCKA! And I mean that with all my heart.
posted by New Millennium Nigga at 1:13 AM
2 Comments:
Nik,
I've always been more of a "red" man myself, but Chappelle does a great bit on "grape drink" (consisting of water, sugar and purple). He talked about it on "Inside the Actor's Studio". Classic shit.
Cuz!?! I get it don't get me wrong, but... All my life, well as far back as I could remember, I had a favorite cousin. I could never feel like I had no one real to look up to because my cousin was the smartest person I ever had a two-way conversation with. But to read how you could express your true feelings so eloquently and unapologetic, well let's just say that I some how got a new sense of pride from my favorite cuz! love you!
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