Happy Black History Month!! Today We Salute… My Big Long Black Chocolate Stereotype

Most things that happen to Black people are based on fears about what people have heard about us.  We are violent, emotional, uneducated, to name a few.  Many are hurtful and have damaged us as a community; people in our community have been killed based on the fears developed from misconceptions.  We have been kept out of institutions of higher learning and locked out of neighborhoods because of misguided beliefs.

Then there is that one ain’t one brotha complaining about, talk about how we all have rhythm and we show you our cousin that couldn’t keep the beat if you put a gun to his momma’s head and said you would blow it off if he pulled a Johnny Gill and clapped a half a second before or after everyone else.  Tell us we all are good at basketball and we will introduce you to our brother that gets picked after the Asian kid for a pick-up game (that’s how Jeremy Lin got so good).  Tell us we all like chicken and we show you our vegetarian cousin with the dread locks that eats organic foods and is skeptical about even eating tofu as a source of protein.  Tell us we all have big …. And we smile and say ‘well… heh… heh… heh’ (That’s me laughing).

So today on this day in Black History Month we thank you for the stereotype we ain’t marched against.  We hold on to this stereotype and thank you for sharing with everyone.  It helps that the only one’s of ours you have ever seen was the 6’7” basketball player your school recruited that walked around the locker room with his towel over his shoulder after he got out the shower.  If you have seen a little one on a brotha, what are you going to say?  You will sound like you spend your time at your gym hanging out by the lockers… looking to see if the myth of the Black man is true.  Freakin’ perv!

I don’t know if curiosity really killed the cat, but it did get it laid.  When a brotha gets to college he can smell the fascination from across the cafeteria.  You hinted at it so much, that Becky the Farm Girl, that has only seen Black people on television before getting to the University of We Here Too, wonders about it for months maybe even a couple of years that by the time her junior year rolls around she has the numbers for every football player that wears his hair in dreds or braids in her iPhone.  Then before you know it, you have a young lady that is going way too far out of her way to disappoint her daddy, heh… heh… heh…

Call us every ignorant thing you can come up with, every name you dream of, you put a stereotype on us that by the time it comes to prove if we measure up to it… who cares if we don’t we’re both here now and the lights are off.  Talk about us not having the tools, you then have to get into a conversation of why you were with us to begin with.  There is an entire division in the porn industry dedicated to the myth of the Black man. I can hear frat boys looking at those sites screaming “COME ON!!! THEY ALL CAN’T BE THAT BIG!” heh… heh… heh…

Black men could scream about a lot of things, we could scream every moment of our waking life.  No role models, poor prospects for a job, limited opportunities, if it wasn’t this big cock you say we have we really would be pissed.  Ever wonder why a trust fund kid says something to a brotha and the brotha doesn’t pop him upside his head?  Outside of police coming faster than a 22-year-old virgin, we generally appreciate this one stereotype.  The next time that brotha sees the guy, that he should have crushed, he almost feels obligated to thank him.  All the stereotypes he hurled about Black guys made his girlfriend slip the brotha her number with a message beneath it “I just wanna know if it’s true”.

Happy Black History Month to the stereotype we like!  It is nice to walk around with a mythical being tucked away beneath your saggin’ jeans.  I hate to cut this short, not something us Black guys usually do.  Let me hurry up and get out of here…  About to head over to a Black History Month celebration in honor of the movie Mandingo on campus, I need to shower, throw on some clothes, and toss my dick over my shoulder before I head out.  Heh… heh… heh…

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Happy Black History Month!! Basketball, Rap, and Selling Crack

Today we honor the only three things a Black man can hope to find success in growing up in the hood… Basketball, Record Deals, and Crack sells.  Who in the hell do we think we are fooling?  Let’s be real, when was the last time you saw a 12-year-old Black kid say when he grows up he wants to be a CPA… NEVER!  Balla, Rappa, Hustla… IN THAT ORDER!  The only things celebrated on BET.

Hey you gotta get paid somehow, until there is a government program giving out free Nike’s a brotha has to figure out how to make that gwop (that is ‘street’ for money to all my Republican friends and anyone that is over the age 25 and does not work with kids all damn day).  In the words of the Notorious B.I.G. ‘either you slinging crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot’.  Because the dream is the life, you don’t care how you get the money to afford the life as long as you get to live it.

Ball players, rappers, and drug dealers tend to run in the same circles even if on different levels.  The NBA player’s money is guaranteed, when the 6’7” guy that averaged 18.3 points, 5.5 assists, and 4.5 rebounds over the last 3 years signs a 4-year $38 million dollar contract, he will see all 38 of them milli’s!  The rapper may get a half a million advance but if you don’t like his songs he doesn’t go on tour.  The rapper gets paid from performing; only a few guys in hip-hop are really making money when a rapper gets a show he is guaranteed to make money that night.  For the crack dealer, ain’t a damn thing guaranteed.

So the ball players throw the party and hire the rappers to perform at the party so they get to hang out.  The crack dealer can afford to buy tickets and a VIP table to the ball players party… if they don’t get pulled over by the Feds on their way to the party, ain’t a nothing guaranteed for him not even a 15 minute drive downtown.  The crack dealer can usually crack the inner circle of the balla and the rapper by, getting weed to the ball player (dude’s in the L smoke a lot of weed, trust me on this one), bringing X-pills for the trifling broads hanging out so they now have something to blame the freaky things they were going to do anyway on.  A gram or two of coke for the rapper… yep coke, when you see a rapper smoking a joint it is because he has an interview on TV or morning radio in ten minutes and needs to come down from the coke he was tootin’ that boy all night long.

Hood stars, the guys in the hood that get all the attention.  The basketball player gets the girls he got grown women in the 10th grade, the dope man has a FINE girl the only thing he is guaranteed, and the rapper… well they get a girl once they get a contract.  The life is about the women, you need the clothes, cars, and jewelry to attract the women.  You need the money to get the clothes, cars, jewelry and to keep the women.  So when you see basketball player that does not get drafted and has no other options because he never learned to read, when you see a guy with an incredible flow but unfortunately he turned 30 before he could sign his name to a record deal, and when you see a drug dealer’s laid out in the middle of street unrecognizable from the 39 bullets to his upper body… blame women.

So on this the 26th day in February, the day the NBA is having their All Star game (you thought it was a coincidence the NBA had this event in February?  Oh no, this is event on the Black Calendar… I once heard someone say “it’s more nigga’s at NBA All-Star weekend than in college”) we salute the 3 things that you see most during All-Star weekend, basketball players, rappers, and dope dealers.  Unfortunately you also saw a lot of boring dunks this year, but that is NOT the fault of women.  Happy Black History Month to hopes and dreams as limited as they may be.