When I become very tan, a lot of white people think I look Black. This is puzzling to me because when I see really tan white people, I don’t think they look Latino.
I’m back from a blissful week of tropical sun, which has apparently left me looking like a “relaxed,” “happy” cast member of UPN’s Girlfriends. Before my island getaway, I was the color of congealed oatmeal and suffering from vitamin-D deficiency induced depression. After an intensive sun-swimming-SPF 70 intervention, my complexion has deepened to a cinnamon or burnt sienna hue.
This is a Toni Morrison way of saying, I’m really tan. [ . . . ] Continue »
Unless I step into the voting booth on November 4th, close that weird spring-tension curtain, flick down all the little switches, pull the space-shuttle emergency brake lever, cast my votes, and am then sexually gratified by a stars-and-stripes sex toy to the point of experiencing the longest, hardest orgasm of my life—I don’t think I’m going to be satisfied by the results of Election 2008.
As most voting stations around the country cannot be relied upon to properly perform their one and only function—to accurately record and report the number of votes cast for each respective candidate—I suppose I won’t stand around on November 4th with my dress up around my waist, waiting for a full body flush and sweet release. [ . . . ] Continue »
My 91-year-old maternal grandfather, Poppi, the widowed husband of The Dead Nana, may just be a geriatric G.* And this causes problems for some people.
* A “G” being defined as a Gangster.
I could set the scene with the whole,
My sister said, “Did Mom tell you yet?”
And I thought, “Someone is (1.) dead, (2.) in the hospital, (3.) gay, or (4.) in jail.”
But it was none of the above, and upon hearing the actual news, I gasped, “That’s amazing!”
[ . . . ] Continue »
Strap on your merkins*; it’s time to talk about the ladies.
* Yes, a “merkin” is a pubic wig. Just marinate on that.
By the time the opening credits of “Sex And The City: The Movie” flickered across the screen, my eyes had rolled to the back of my head, and my body was limply twitching into submission to the beat of a new Fergie song that sounded a lot like that other song of hers about the glamour of dental hygiene. [ . . . ] Continue »
