Friday, September 4, 2009

Humility...and Tattoos

I once said to my friends K-man and Slim jones, while drunk of course, "I'm the coolest friend you guys have, aren't I?" While i quickly tried to back peddle out of the blatant balderdash which had spewed from my own foul mouth, the damage had already be done. Yep, that's right. My friends fell into the trap of thinking I'm a vain, prickish (is that a word?) jackass. It's OK though, because they follow suit and are some of the most morally questionable people I know. That's why we love each other. No homo. LOL.

This brings me to today's topic...Humility. Now when I say humility I don't mean a DD cup cutie saying she thinks shes a 36 C. This is what we consider denial, as she is most likely unable to accept the fact that men have have been fixated with her buxom bosom blatantly busting her brassiere in so brazen a manner that she bashfully blushes, blocking the view of her beautifully balanced backbreaking breasts bouncing bare-chested within her barely buttoned blouse. Phew. This some alliteration for that ass. Nevertheless, I digress...

Moral of the story is Humility is good and tits are great.

This being said, I went and got a new tattoo last night, which reads "Humility breeds success." Sidenote: My mother is going to kill me, and this post isn't really about humility. It's really more about tattoos.

Yes, my friends, I've finally went and done it...I've gotten a tattoo across the front of my frickin throat. Why here might you ask? Because I want to see it everyday no matter what I'm wearing and always remember to be humble...well, than and it looks badass. Funny thing is, it didn't even hurt. (Sidenote: I'm sure the Percocet helped). Unfortunately, I am now at work without the aid of prescription drugs and am suffocating my new tat with a shirt and tie. Fuck my life. Right about now my neck hurts worse than a girl who won first place in an elephant fellatio contest. Ewwwww. LOL. No homo.

Scared of needles? try motorized ones. LOL.

Now...let me tell you something. Hanging in a dentist chair with you head hanging over backwards like an aspiring "adult" model about to get face-fu*ked on her first audition, is a very humbling experience. It didn't hurt....but I thought it was going to and the anticipation was killing me. It was one of those psychosomatic things like when you get head from a morally loose girl and "think" it "burns a little" when you pee, despite the fact that you know nothings wrong with you. Wait? You don't know what that's like? Never mind then....i'd like those comments stricken from the record.

Anyways, my girl Cass von D took care of me and didnt sever a jugular vein nor puncture my throat. Kudos. See, my African American Bredren....not all white people are out to kill us. Just Ronald Regan. It's OK though...that nig*a's dead. Black people = +1, The Man = 0. Just kidding.

Call her! She will give you a great tattoo...and NO I DON'T MAKE MONEY OFF REFERRALS.

My life as a human illustration

As I walk up to the tattoo shop I notice something funny about the business below it...No, not the fact that this "massage parlour" has Limo tinted windows allowing no light in whatsoever, but rather, the fact that the parking lot is empty. Upon further prying I find out that everyone's favorite whore house has finally been raided (Sheds Tear.) Oh well, guess I'll have to get a tattoo without the ambiance created by not so subtle Asian moans and groans. I'll survive.

Notice the glass door painted green so you can't see through. yeah. that's not shady or anything.

Nothing all too interesting happened after that, and after chatting it up with Cass and finally finding the right position (for sitting...get your minds out the gutter!), I was outa there in about an hour with an awesome tattoo.

Sure it's considered unprofessional and roguish but as anyone who knows me will tell you...I could give a rats ass. Girls think its sexy. Right ladies?

Anyway, I have a whole theory on tattoos which I can basically sum up in the following line from one of my old songs:

"I tell em' that my skin is black/

and that's worse than any tat/

in terms of a stigma? /

I'm a nigga, what you think of that?/"

I refuse to conform to anyone's idea of what an educated black man should look or act like. If we all begin grooming ourselves to be carlton banks's just because its inoffensive and corporate friendly, then we will continue to reinforce the stereotype that all intellectual people look a certain way. I have a Upenn undergraduate degree and 2 Master's Degrees. I got my MBA with a 4.o. I have over 20 tattoos. I am an Ivy league hoodlum...and I love it.

In the same way that R & B singers get to sing about skeeting on chicks and fu*king them in the ass just because they can croon, I am afforded the luxury of looking like this because I have the credentials to back it up. Beyyyyyatch.

Hmmmmmmm. Come to think of it, maybe my friends were right. I guess I should work on that whole "humility" thing. LOL.

I'm also still smart enough that I can hide these permanently inked calling cards of the urban scholar when it's time for work. Sheeeeeit....I still got a mortgage to pay ni**as. LOL. Don't judge me.

Live, Love, Living as I see fit


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