Monday, July 17, 2006

What the fuck is a playard?

For those of you unfamiliar with the Min-o-Prop or, more formally, the Minister of Propaganda, he is the man who creates those crazy images you find in this blog. Well, it turns out the Min-o-Prop and Mrs. Min-o-Prop are expecting a Mini-o-Prop any day now. That said, there's some shit I have to say in one of my favorite art forms, the open letter.

Dear Min-o-Prop,

WHAT THE FUCK IS A PLAYARD? When you become a new parent, there's lots of shit to learn...sometimes literally. There's the miconeum. That's the first shit you have to worry about...even before they're born. Turns out that infants will start taking dumps right there inside of Mommy (quite R. Kelly, if you ask me!) and then will eat it (quite Chuck Berry, if you ask me!). So, as it turns out, with no prompting some kids try to eat shit and die right off the bat.

Read lots of baby books and you'll have a list of shit like that as long as your arm or my -- well, not that long...but pretty fuckin' long -- that they will give you to worry about. Rest easy, most kids turn out fine. Chances are that your kid won't be afflicted by some condition that only impacts .01% of the babies born in the Caucus Mountains. And no, your kid probably won't eat shit and die. It is their destiny to make YOU deal with their shit for years to come.

So, more than likely, the first shit you deal with will be miconeum. It looks like wet tar. You'll think it's cute. Having a new baby makes you fuckin' loopy like that. Nobody else thinks your kid's shit is cute. Trust me. I'm still not allowed within 50 feet of Roscoe's for making that mistake.

After that you'll head into garden variety baby poop. Milk in. This shit out. Doesn't stink too bad. And as long as you can keep it contained in a diaper -- by the way, not a given I have learned the hard way -- you should be alright.

But there's other shit. All this shit. Car seats...and strollers...and baby carriers, which you may also hear called a Baby Bjorn. Beware: the fancier the name sounds, the more you will pay for the same shit.

Which leads me to playards? What the fuck is a playard, you ask? So did I. See, here's what happened. A well-intentioned, more experienced mother came by the house to visit/commiserate/thank God she didn't have a newborn anymore just after we brought the niglets home. As we talked, she asked what must have seemed a very simple question. "Do you have a playard?"

A little panic bubbled in my guts. I was scared, scared that she would tell others that Cedar Sinai had allowed that "ign'ant muthafucka out the hospital with not one, but two babies, and he don't even know what the fuck a playard is." I tried to think. My mind scrambled. But, alas, I knew not of the playard of which she spoke.

See, when I was a kid we had these things called play pens. It was named a pen, because after all if you sit in a pile of your own shit, you live like an animal. The name was appropriate. But as time went on, I guess some White mom felt that little Johnny would be scarred by having to sit his ass in a pen. Or some Black mom was too scared to utter the phrase, "Antwan's in the pen." Either way, I had heard during Mrs. NMN's pregnancy that they now called a play pen a "Pack n' Play."

So, I knew what a Pack N' Play was. But what the fuck was a playard? Turns out a "Playard" ain't nothin' but a fuckin' "Pack N' Play" which in turn ain't nothin' but a fuckin' play pen. But if Babies r' Us called it a play pen, you would expect to buy it for a price similar to the one your father paid all those years ago. And they can't have that. They have to bend you over the counter -- after you've waited in the checkout line for the entire third fucking trimester -- and have you pay "Playard" prices for a fucking play pen which, if your kid is anything like my niglets, won't get no fuckin' use, because they will believe that it is their God-given goddamn right to be held all fucking day long. If you can't tell, I'm a little bitter about that shit.

So much shit! You'll see. It can be classified by color and texture most simply. On occasion, you'll also want to acknowledge quantity. This is particularly handy if you and the Mrs. are playing a late-night game of "Not It" when a diaper change is needed at 3 o-fuckin-clock in the fucking morning. If you can say, "Come on, man. I changed him/her earlier and it was a dump the size of a fucking Prius," you give yourself a fighting chance. Of course, you would then have to weather some onslaught about the rigors of pregnancy -- Hint: You have no answer for that. -- or childbirth -- Hint: See first hint...and multilply by one million. -- to win the debate. It won't happen. But you will have been competitive. And sometimes that's the best you can hope for, my friend.

Ahh yes, you've got "green runny." You've got your "red clay pellets." I've recently discovered "camouflage mound." And sometimes you get the "classic brown overflow." I've stood in a restaurant bathroom wiping shit from my shirt, arms and hands. (I called Zagat to share my experience, but no one has called back.) But the most memorable shit I've encountered will forever be known as a "Code Red."

There I was innocently bathing the niglets, when I peered past the bubbles looking for a toy so I could play with them. "That's odd," I thought, "I don't remember buying a floating Mr. Hanky." My eyes widened as the realization thudded against my skull. I sounded the alarm. "Mrs. NMN, CODE RED! We have a CODE RED!" She came running. Though we had never discussed the eventuality, she knew exactly what I meant. Yes, one of the niglets had shit in the tub.

Bet that's not what you had in mind when you and the Mrs. started "trying." I bet you weren't thinking about shit like babyproofing. That shit never ends. You can read lots of books about it, but here's my thumbnail on how you should babyproof. Get on your hands and knees and crawl around your house. Every few feet ask yourself this simple question: What is the dumbest fuckin' shit I could do at this very moment?

(Special note: Kids will put anything in their mouth. ANYTHING!!! Except, of course, the food you feed them which they will promptly spit on you.)

Then all you have to do is close off that particular path to the emergency room.

So, in conclusion...

Congratulations! And good luck!

Welcome to the fraternity, brother. And I mean that shit!

Not sure that you're ready? I sure wasn't. I guess I'm still not sure. But don't worry babyproofing. Don't worry about diaper sizes. (Just relax and read the box.) Or if you're bonding correctly. (If you're bonding, that's correct.) You'll figure all that shit out. In the end, who gives a fuck what a fucking playard is?

If you really want to know if you can be a father, here are the questions I think you should be thinking about:

So I ask you, do you give a shit? Do you know what love is? Do you know what selflessness is? Do you know what it is to see all the goodness in the world in something that weighs less than a big bag of rice? Do you know what it is to see a first smile and have all the troubles and bullshit of the world recede so far into the background that they basically disappear? Do you know what it is to give your whole self to someone thankfully? and to realize that they are giving even more to you just by being? If not, you will. Fatherhood is some serious shit.


Exhaustedly Yours,
A New Millennium Nigga


Wednesday, July 12, 2006

WHO IS STAR JONES?!?!?!

Welcome back to WNMN Radio 1863...the home of the "Slam-Bam-Thank You Ma'am-Oh Shit!-They shootin!-GODDDAMN!-Summer Jam!"

All you simple muthafuckas have to do is sit your ass near a radio all summer listening to ads that we get paid out the glutes for and we will lace .00000000000000001% of you with nosebleed tickets to see bad stage performances of the songs you should be sick of after listening to our wack-ass rotation through three months of Africa-hot weather.

And you can bet that no matter how many times we talk about how good it is to have Black people come together in peace, some ign'ant muthafucka will ruin it for every-fuckin'-body by clappin' dey pistol instead of dey fuckin' hands.

So, be sure to look for us...leading the evening news...embarassin' self-respectin' Black people everywhere. It happens every year. Like the changing of the seasons...or that muthafuckin' "shocking" study that shows that Hollywood is still as racist, sexist and generally fuckin' fucked up as it was the year before.

Alright, niggas...Next up, we got the latest battle rap. Looks like the ladies want to get down with all that cheddar that goes with havin' beef. Here's HGTV's Star Jones with..."I'M STAR JONES!!!"


(The track for Mike Jones' "Back Then" starts.)


I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Verse 1)
When Barbara Walters says my name
The ho never shows no love
She had me booted out the club
Fired, like I was a scrub

It was her “View”
The thing to do
Was to choose fuckin’ Rosie
In my “View”
I was the Star
I would’a thought she would’a chose me

Recognize. My name is Star
Yeah, I might’a took the shit too far
Sponsor my wedding, Gimme some bedding
And maybe then I’ll plug your shit
Yeah, I was straight runnin’ shit
On some ol’ corporate thuggin’ shit

So they kicked me off the show
And that’s fuckin’ up my dough
Plus, my man is on the low (allegedly)
They got Star Jones about to blow

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

(I said...) Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Because…)

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!

(Verse 2)
Since I got that bypass
Folks been talkin’ ‘bout my ass
They say it shrunk too fuckin’ fast
They put a sista’s spot on blast

Even Al Roker
That joker
Tried to call me out
Then when I leave “The View”
Babs went and fuckin’ bawled me out

And Elizabeth and Joy
Fuck y’all fuckin’ bitches too
Nine years
I was down wit you
Now what the fuck am I to do?

I been callin’ agencies
Just to see
Can they handle me
They say,
“You’ve got no fucking talent.
How many Ryan Seacrests can there be?”

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Yeah)

(I said...) Befo’ when steaks was on the grill
Befo’ I had to skip some meals
A sista had a fuckin’ way to deal. (Because…)

(Chorus)
When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong

When I was fat
Babs put me on
Then I got thin
And the bitch did me wrong. (I’M HUNGRY!)

I’M STAR JONES!!!


Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Tough Love

America walks up to the quiet house, stumbling drunk. After fumbling with his keys, he opens the door and trips into the living room. There, in the darkness, sits A New Millennium Nigga.


NMN: Where the fuck have you been? What the fuck have you been doing in Iraq for three years when I sent your ass to Afghanistan? I mean, seriously. Get your shit together. You're not some baby republic anymore. You're the United Fucking States of America. You're 230 years old today. And it's time you grew the fuck up.

230 years old and you still believe -- or at least tell - fairy tales like "democracy is on the march" and "mission accomplished." The time comes in every boy's life when he must put away his childish ways. That time has come and gone for you. Grow the fuck up! And don't tell me no bullshit about having to spread democracy to people who have been beaten, tortured and murdered by an evil government. 'Cause if that's what you're about, logically you would have to be one suicidal muthafucka, muthafucka.

230 years old and you are still the same racist muthafucka you have always been. No, there's no more slavery...officially, at least. But it's the small things. They add up. Like Big Ben Roethlisberger. Now, here this muthafucka rides a motorcycle...with no helmet -- AND NO GODDAMN LICENSE! -- and the sports world wrings its hands, "praying for a speedy recovery." A year earlier, Kellen Winslow Jr. does the same shit and everybody I heard on sports radio was using his accident to confirm and affirm that he was a bad seed. It is selfish and irresponsible for a person upon whom others depend to be out playing Russian Roulette with his life and their livelihood. But if that's true for K2 it has got to be true for Big Ben. See, it's little shit like that.

JJ Redick, basketball star and poster boy from Duke -- and by the way, their lacrosse team is a study in what's wrong with America -- gets busted driving drunk and where's the outrage in the sports world. But let Chad Johnson do an (entertaining) end zone celebration and, to hear people tell it, the very fabric of America is being shredded by his negritude. It's shit like that.

Shit like that fucking Andrea Yates. She drowned her fucking kids in a bathtub and admitted she did it. As a matter of fact, after drowning the first couple, one of the kids said, "Hey ma. Why you killin' everybody?" She chased that muthafucka down and killed him too. Now she's getting a new trial. And you're wringing your hands again. She's got post-partum depression?! She still killed her fucking kids. But because she's some nice white lady, who reminds Agnes in Des Moines of herself, we have to come up with some way to explain that she's less a murderer than the niggas you love to use to lead the local news. You can give Andrea Yates a thousand fucking trials, but at the end of the day, she's still gonna be the lady who killed her helpless fucking kids. Insanity? Really? OF COURSE SHE WAS INSANE! SHE KILLED HER FUCKING KIDS!

But where's all this compassion, all this fucking pious understanding, when some nigga shoots another nigga over a pair of sneakers or a vial of crack or a fifty-cent pack of cookies. Don't you think those muthafuckas might be crazy too? A friend of mine used to say that he was "Depressed on account of being oppressed." Most the niggas in jail are out dey goddamn minds. So let's give that shit a fancy name and set those muthafuckas free. I like "Post-Ghetto-Good-Muthafuckin'-Sense-Deficiency-Trigger- Finger-Hyperactivity-Disorder." But I'll leave the naming of the shit to the professionals. I just wish that everybody cared so much about mental health when the defendant looked like Lionel Jefferson instead of Marsha Brady. But all I hear is, "Marsha. Marsha. Marsha." And it makes me wish I could watch that clip of her beak being broken on a fucking loop on a jumbotron in Times Square.

230 years old and you still hold on to the same bullshit, non-sensical stereotypes you always have. It makes no fucking sense, you ignorant bastard. BLACK PEOPLE ARE LAZY?! Jus always remember this:

WHO THE FUCK WENT TO GET WHOM TO DO WHOSE MUTHAFUCKIN' WORK?! Lazy?! Fuck you, you slave driving piece of shit. There wouldn't be an America without the uncompensated sweat equity of Black people. LAZY?! You got a fuckin' nerve. But that comes as no surprise. You had to have a fucking nerve to do that shit in the first place.

BLACK PEOPLE CAN'T SWIM?! Just because niggas drowned during the Middle Passage does not mean they couldn't swim. It just means that they rathered diving into shark-infested waters to becoming your slaves, to spending another minute with you. And getting back to Iraq, that's your fucking problem now. You never consider that being around you ain't no privilege. You may be surprised by the insurgency, but I ain't. And I don't think I'm alone. You have no idea how many niggas in America have a litttle (unexpressed) Nat Turner in them.

BLACK PEOPLE LOVE FRIED CHICKEN AND WATERMELON?! First of all, I have, in my lifetime, known a brother whose nickname was "Watermelon." And still the people I know who love fried chicken and watermelon most were all white! Tell some white people there's gonna be fried chicken and/or watermelon served and they get a look of joy on their face like there's going to be a "90210" marathon on all fucking day. You know what? I had a chance to fly on a private jet last year (with a lovely group of white people). You know what they served? Cold fried chicken. I don't know what your hang up is about chicken and watermelon, but, for a change, don't put your shit on us.

230 years old! And what have you amounted to? You're a racist muthafucka who refuses to clean up the messes he makes...at home or abroad. You know what? Go straight to bed. No dinner. Let's face it. You could afford to miss a meal with your slothful, gluttonous, ever-widening ass.

So as you watch those fireworks tonight -- from your bedroom window, because you are on punishment, muthafucka -- realize that I, A New Millennium Nigga, am trying like those fireworks to bring light to your darkness. Now, if you would just listen and change your ugly, racist ways maybe by the tricentennial you will have managed to wash some of the blood of your Black people and of brown, yellow and every other color people throughout the world from your violent, wicked hands.


AMERICA STORMS OFF TO BED.


NMN: (after him) And no more invasions for another ten years, young man!


THE BEDROOM DOOR SLAMS.



NMN: HAPPY MUTHAFUCKIN' BIRTHDAY TO YOU!