This is a great opportunity that could potentially lead to an appearance on a VH-1 show that involves fighting, yelling while clapping one’s hands and obliterating the image of minority women–while being wildly entertaining (and that’s all that matters).

“We are only accepting women for consideration. Men, even if you have a little sexy ass like Prince, are not being considered. Also, cellulite and stretch marks ARE more than welcome. However, one’s crack should be fairly clean and not too hairy as the final four contestants will be asked to wear a thong.”

Whoever wrote this is an evil genius. I’m sure he’ll post pictures of the “contestants” as they arrive.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I guess they’re just reenacting the closing scene from Y Tu Mamá También. Magic Johnson and Isiah Thomas used to do this each time they played against each other, till Magic couldn’t stop coughing. Well, Kobe did tell Pau to go hard in the paint. Pau must have thought he said “get hard.” Pausa?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

We’ve seen President Obama croon classic Al Green. Now Mitt Romney, who’s all up on Obama’s nuts, tries to do the same at a nightclub for rich white folks over 60. And he sounds like the weak link in a barbershop quartet, the guy they keep in the group because he buys the outfits. But maybe I shouldn’t call him a biter, since President Obama copied his health plan first.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I guess this is the antithesis of the Maury dance, and that’s a good thing. Ain’t nothing like black love, though I wouldn’t understand since I sold out last year. Now I don’t know what channel BET is on and no longer get invited to “Grown & Sexy” parties. Anyway, this guy can flow. “Dilated…cervix/What you doin’?/Servin…babies.” This is as good as the song Jay-Z made for Blue Ivy, but you can’t hear secret Illuminati chants when it’s played backwards.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Video of President Obama singing Al Green went viral today, but it turns out he’s been crooning in public since at least 2007. Let’s hope he’s not singing “It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye” come November. By the way, check out his black-cent before singing Dionne Warwick. Dude said “Earth, Wind and Fi-yah.” White folks, that’s how we talk in safe zones.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

6am to 7am: Baby Nile awakes with a thunderous cry; he’s hungry. I run interference while his Mom gets ready for work, but my bony chest has nothing to offer. I figure he has enough fat reserves to last at least another hour so I say, “Man, I’m about to put you back in this crib and close the door.” Mom appears out of nowhere with a concerned look on her face and takes Nile. Oops.

7am to 8:40am: Nile has a doctor’s appointment at 9am. The hospital’s only two miles away, but my car has a flat (as it has for over a week). In determining if I can sleep until 8am I calculate the walk time in my head: Gold medal sprinter Usain Bolt can run 100 yards in about 9.5 seconds; there are over 3,500 yards in a mile, which means it would take him a little over five minutes to complete the two mile journey. I’m not a world-class sprinter, plus I’ll be walk-running with a stroller. But I am black so I figure I can make it in 20 minutes if I pretend the police are chasing me. We leave at 8:40am. We get there at 9:15am. Oops.

9:15am to 10:30am: We check in at the hospital. The nurse sees Nile’s transparent olive skin tone and blue eyes and asks if I’m the father. I think, “No…I’m just a nig*a who likes to bring other people’s babies to hospitals.” He gets three shots in his thick thighs and does the “Save me!” cry where he turns bright red and scrunches his face, but holds the audio for 3 to 5 seconds until it can reach a maximum decibel level. He extends his arms to me, apparently I’m forgiven for trying to abandon him in his crib just hours earlier.

10:30am to Noon: We start the uphill trek home. It’s January but easily 70 degrees in the sun. Nile’s knocked out in the stroller and I’m sweating like I just went 12 rounds with Nene Leakes. I can think only think of lunch. We get home, Nile’s stays asleep in his stroller. I heat some leftover pasta and wish a beer would somehow magically appear. It does not. All I have is orange juice and water. And spiced rum. My goal for the month is to have no hangovers, so I’m hesitant to drink the rum. But then it hits me: If I drink more during the day and less during the night I’m less likely to have a morning hangover. I pour the rum into my glass of orange juice. Not bad. The second one is even better.

Noon to 4pm: Nile and I play a game I like to call “Prince.” We take turns seeing who can do the loudest high-pitched scream. After that he does calisthenics (crawling, assisted situps) and chews on the couch. I give him real food, rice cereal with a touch of titty milk. Then we watch “Syriana” on Netflix as I give him a 15 minute back rub so he can moan himself to sleep. He wakes for more food, but is soon back to sleep after being hypnotized while staring at the carpet’s design.

4pm to 7pm: Mom gets home and I start my paid work so Nile can have a home and one  day attend community college. I text a tenant who’s renting a condo in the hood from me. “Happy Monday. Rent was due last week.” I then leave to meet a guy who’s tech company I’m writing for. We were to meet at a Starbucks downtown, but he wants to go elsewhere after arriving early and seeing a guy seated next to the only open outdoor table shoot heroin (real talk, as the cool kids say). So our meeting turns into happy hour. Three beers later we have an agreement for our next project.

7pm to 8pm: On the way home I ask Mom/my woman/domestic partner if we have anything for dinner. She answers, “Baby food and spinach.” I go to the grocery store and buy chicken gizzards, ahi tuna, sprouts and a bottle of wine. (All for less than $20!) Mom says hell no to the gizzards so I prepare our other options. It’s also Nile’s peak time so he’s anxious to show us the new things he’s learned: the fake cough and the 1.5 leg, ass in the air crawl. We watch and try to minimize the number of times he falls on his head. We fail as parents and he ends up with a small shiner above his eye. But he’s alright and the temporary red mark gives his face a little more character.

8pm to Midnight: The Bachelor is on TV so to make it through two hours of the least diverse show on television I finish the bottle of wine while also speeding through my 50 or so favorite websites. Afterwards the family goes to sleep. I planned to stay up until 2am to blog, calculate my meager 2011 book sales and online ad revenue, and sees who’s bitten on my eBay sales; but as usual the wine knocks me out as only it and the act that created Nile can do.

7am: Sh*t, I wake up with a hangover.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

International No Pants Day was held Sunday with over 16,000 people in 27 countries participating. It’s a recently created holiday and as you see in the video celebrated by very few black people, which makes it like Kwanzaa, though I assume its creator doesn’t have a history of torturing women like Ron Karenga. There’s no point to the “holiday” outside of giving people an excuse to show man-print and cameltoe on the subway while shocking others. But the question remains, “Where are the thongs?” (No Sisqo).

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I’m all for gender equality, especially in sports, which is one of the reasons I pursued a part-time job as assistant volleyball coach/locker room attendant at Sweet Valley High. I’ve also supported the WNBA (see, I’m pro-lesbian too) and the Lingerie Basketball League.  Now I’m fully in support of Dennis Rodman’s attempt to form a topless basketball team. “The Worm,” as he was nicknamed after performing the johnson-in-the-popcorn-box-while-watching-a-movie-with-your-homeboys trick, is holding tryouts for a topless team that will compete against other teams formed at strip clubs. Making the team takes a lot of natural talent; you need to be at least 5-foot-10 and have a bust size comparable to the vertical leap of the NBA’s best dunkers. If you’re interested in trying out and regressing the women’s right movement, tweet The Worm, @dennisrodman.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Hundreds of priests from different sects (or should we say “sets?”) riot in Jesus’ old stomping grounds of Bethlehem. The fight was over “areas of authority within the church,” which is really just a fancy way of saying turf. Obviously the turf isn’t used to slang rocks, but the priests do use it to sell an inside track to Jesus for just 10 percent of your annual income. If this sort of behavior continues I’ll imagine we’ll see a fight on pay-per-view when it’s time to select another pope.

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Women tend to really want sex when they’re drunk or on Rohypnol. But some take it too far, as is the case with an Ohio woman who beat her husband for not giving in to her sexual demands. After Harold and Vera Baaske returned home from a bar Vera said, “Come down here in the basement and smang this kitty!” Or something like that.  Harold refused so she jumped atop him and began scratching and spitting on him. That’s hot. But not to Harold, who called police and had Vera jailed. I imagine some people would call this an instance of domestic violence; I say it’s gender equality.

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Damn, talk about an investment that won’t leave you dry. R. Kelly’s hoping to fund a new project. Unfortunately it’s not another instructional video featuring America’s most talented youth. According to TMZ, R. Kelly’s looking for investors for a film version of the 32 new chapters he’s written for “Trapped in the Closet.” Can you imagine watching this as a part of a double feature with whatever scorned black woman movie Tyler Perry makes next? I call that heaven.

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In an earlier post I referred to President Obama as The Black James Bond for his “you better ask somebody” response to criticism of  alleged appeasement of Middle Eastern leaders. But it turns out he’s been smacking haters down since 2008, on both sides of the aisle. From Hillary to McCain here’s a brief compilation of Obama’s baddest smackdowns (with assistance from Prince, Wu-Tang Clan, Snoop and Smokey from “Friday). This is what change looks like, bitches.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Football is an incredibly fascinating sport. A orgy of entertainment where the fun doesn’t start until the big guy bends over and has his balloon knot tickled by a tall stud who wants the ball(s) all the time (No Amaechi). But it turns out the most amazing moment in NFL history occurred during halftime of the Broncos -vs- Patriots game. A monkey rode a dog.

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This guy reminds me of Walt Kowalski, Clint Eastwood’s character in Gran Turino, and one of the most hilarious racists ever. He should advertise in Atlanta. Assuming T.I. does another stint in the big house he’ll need the help. Maybe if he gets enough business he can hire Casey Anthony as his assistant. Sorry, too soon…too damn soon, still.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

There’s a fine line between being thick, black man thick, and obese. Japan’s government is saying that line is at a waist size of 35.5 inches for women, 33.5 inches for men. Companies that employ workers above that size face fines and hours of intense staring from Pat Morita.

The Japanese were until recently a small, healthy people who emphasized Hara Hachi (eating until you’re only 80% full). But all hell broke loose when then they reached a trade agreement with the United States to exchange American fast food for bukkake and Honda cars. Now they, like many Westerners, are slowing killing themselves with unhealthy eating (as opposed to the old days when they would quickly off  themselves with a sword to the belly after being fired from the company they hoped to be employed by for life).

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Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Walmart is an interesting place to shop, and not just because they hire silent greeters. Their stores are great for people watching, second only to an inner city Greyhound station on a Saturday afternoon. Plus they have an extraordinary amount of ass walking through their aisles at the oddest hours; they’re pretty much a 24 hour nightclub. But they also have a dark side. And I’m not just talking about its sweatshops in rice-cooking countries. Walmart has a secret security force that’s retail’s version of the Mossad.

My brother and I were driving from Cleveland to Columbus, Ohio when we stopped at a Walmart in small town Macedonia to exchange a broken CD player (Fuck yo’ i-Pod). We approached the cashier with the replacement and she looked at us like we were criminals, though we hadn’t even stolen anything…yet. The cashier rudely explained that without a receipt she could not exchange the broken CD player. We pointed out that Walmart’s policy, as described on a sign directly behind her, said exchanges would be given without a receipt. Still, she didn’t budge. So my brother did what any mature adult would do, slam the broken CD player on the counter and walk out with the new one.

The cashier began yelling, “He’s stealing; he’s stealing!” An employee near the store’s exit momentarily tried to block his path, but simply moved out the way as my brother got near. (I guess being big and black is good for more than just having sex with white women in college.) I followed my brother out the store and yelled, “Man, what are you doing!” It was too late.

A plain clothes security guard grabbed my brother in the parking lot and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Another grabbed me, but quickly let my scrawny bones go when he saw his colleague needed a second body. The first guard was nearly riding my brother’s back. The second leaped for his legs and tried to bring him to the ground.

My brother, with the spirit of Kunta Kinte running through his veins, kept trudging his way towards our car. Then one of the security guards did the unthinkable; he squeezed the shit out my brother’s balls.

My big brother yelped in pain. I hadn’t heard him scream like that since my dad whooped his ass for losing a fight in school. I was nearly 10 feet away and felt the pain in MY stomach. Those big balls, which were flashed to me when they first grew hair, were crushed.

I tried to pull one of the guards off my brother, but he was strong and tired and unmovable. Within seconds police cars arrived. A goofy looking cop with a classic redneck haircut, sideburns shaved to the top of his earflaps, threw me against his car and cuffed me. For good measure he whispered, “You try to run, I’ll knock your fuckin’ head off.”

They pulled my brother off the ground and quickly cuffed him. We were taken to the station and interrogated separately. I was let go after the officers determined 1) I was not at fault and 2) My Air Jordan sneakers were not stolen.

My brother spent the weekend in jail where a bigger muthafucka took his grilled cheese, though he did leave his balloon knot intact. I vowed never again to shop at Walmart. I kept my word for awhile, until I needed a new CD player.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Unless it involves Prince slapping Apollonia with the Rafael Nadal backhand in “Purple Rain.” Damn, he had the force of Lake Minnetonka behind that smack. Made her look like a drunk ice skater trying to do a 360. I bet Suge Knight did the same thing to Dre and Snoop when they left Death Row. She should have known not to join Morris Day’s band. Or at least known to duck when Prince sticks that bottom lip up and gives the side-eye, like a kid picked last in a game of full-court. Prince don’t play that sh*t. She got beat up by a girl!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

When I was in school I learned the best way to deal with bullies was to show my bravery, by telling my older brother. If that didn’t work I’d use my girl fight technique: put my head down, swing wildly while yelling “you’re not the boss of me” and hope the teacher soon stopped the fight. But bullying has changed over the years. With the internet harassment is often nonstop, even driving some kids to suicide.

If it were up to me I’d create a “Shoot The Bully, Not Yourself” campaign, though I imagine such an initiative would only be popular in a blood hungry state like Texas. Outside of that I have two other proposed solutions. One, encourage bullied kids to focus on their studies and get revenge years later when they’re successful and the bullies are employed as recently paroled cart guys and gals at Target (browsing the Facebook pages of past foes shows me this is often the case). Two, have your son take bully defense classes so he can put an ass whipping on the kid who calls him gay just cause he likes to jump rope and do hair at recess.

Turns out my second proposal is gaining popularity. MSNBC reports bully defense programs are rapidly growing. The programs teach kids to set verbal boundaries and perform martial arts moves perfected in Brazilian favelas. Check out the article if your child is coming home from school with speed knots on his forehead.

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Come on, sista. We have to stop getting our news from Media Takeout. Don Cornelius is alive and well, as evidenced by the number of young white women he’s f*cking (and beating).

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Black things: VH1 shows, not smiling in pictures, and feeling that talking about Obama is like talking about my mama. Not black things: Doing corny sh*t, eating “supper” and long-term financial planning. I’d say mac-and-cheese is somewhere between the two categories, though definitely not a black thing. When the last time you seent a ni*ga in a Kraft commercial?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I’m a young and sensual 32, but going to nightclubs makes me feel old. Waiting in line for hours, dealing with assault charges when it should be considered self-defense since the woman started the fight by telling you “I’m just dancing with my friends,” finding a condom that’s comfortable enough to wear the whole time you’re there–is all a game for the young and foolish. But it’s hard to know when to throw in the towel. Though a receding hairline and constant requests that the DJ play the “Electric Slide” are clues, one can never be sure until you hear it from someone else. So here it is, a whole bunch of reasons why you need stay your geriatric ass home and leave the club alone:

-You have to use the wheelchair ramp to get on the party bus.

-You think a bar tab is something you don’t have to pay each time you leave the club, ’cause that’s how you saw it done on “Cheers.”

-Your pickup lines include words like “reckon” and “yonder.”

-You ask for directions to the colored people’s bathroom.

-You go to the coat check and steal a hanger just in case you need it to perform a back-alley abortion.-After getting rejected by numerous women you recommend to the club owner that they hold a Sadie Hawkins hopscotch.

-You don’t want to drive home drunk, so you make plans to take the Underground Railroad.

-You and your “posse” are kicked out the club for repeatedly harassing the DJ to play “Lionel Richie’s new sh*t” that you saw on Video Soul.

-To appear smart you wear a monocle and discuss the benefits of FDR’s New Deal with uninterested women while describing all that you’re doing to ensure he gets reelected.

(This is a repost from August, but fitting for the weekend. Also, I figure if people watch reruns on TV they’ll also read the occasional repost.)

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

America went in an uproar over a Jackson titty and now Egypt’s going wild over an activist/blogger wearing nothing but panty hose and the Pope’s red shoes. Aliaa Magda Elmahdy posted pictures of herself and a guy playing guitar with his dong out to make a statement against Egypt’s “sexual complexes.” Now the country, both liberals and conservatives, are pissed that she would show more than her eyelids. Hopefully Egypt soon learns that the acceptable way to oppress women is to bombard them with unattainable images of beauty, leaving them with low self-esteem and the willingness to undergo major cosmetic surgery.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Singer and instructional video creator R. Kelly once said “When a woman’s fed up, ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.” He also said “It’s like Jurassic Park, except I’m your Sexosaurus” (but that’s entirely unrelated to this post). What he meant in the “fed up” lyrics is really exemplified in this exchange between Bill Maher and Elizabeth Hasselback (Young Anne Coulter), except Hasselback is fed up from a joke and not from her man coming home late at night smelling of whore and scorched latex.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I almost joined the Nation of Islam years ago, but they would accept my love of pork and white women. Now there’s a product that will let me enjoy both: Bacon Lube, a bacon flavored massage oil and personal lubricant. A tube retails for about $12, which is a bit costly considering half a pound of salt pork works just as well for a quarter of the price. Hurry up and buy! Only 3,000 of the bottles are being produced.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Love makes you do the silliest things, like get married. Or even worse get married in the middle of a protest where the PO-lice are beating people like Marquez did Pacquiao last weekend. Of course in both instances there’s no justice. And what’s with the bike helmets? Can you imagine real protesters like the Reverend Jesse Jackson wearing a helmet (or for that matter, in his case, a condom)? Hopefully these two lovebirds in the 99 percent don’t become part of the 50 percent of marriages that end in divorce. Hey Babe, how ’bout we honeymoon in my tuberculosis ridden tent?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I could really use a personal trainer who calls me a “lame” and tells me he’s “straight out the muthaf**kin’ yard.” Plus I’d love the convenience of doing chin-ups on a walk/don’t walk sign, my nuts gently tapping the foreheads of waiting pedestrians. And how fun would it be to invade a playground and pull children off the jungle gym while yelling, “Not in my house!”

The video above is a 2002 (B.S.J.; before skinny jeans) release from Ruff Ryders Entertainment, home of DMX and those “real ni*gas from Yonkers.” But in today’s age of soaring gym membership costs it’s just as relevant today. Aerial assaults…dominating bars, son! It’s like 24 Hour Fitness without the smell of feet and ass.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Being the Son of God is a tough, often thankless job. Sure you get to work the door at that ultra exclusive club Heaven & Hell, but you also deal with people who confuse you with a swagerless pagan god by wrongly celebrating your birthday in December. Not to mention the headaches from all the kooky preachers like Bishop Eddie Long who ignore your 11th Commandment, “Thou shall not wear a lycra body shirt in the house of God.”

With all of that drama and the added responsibility of saving heathens, I’m sure Jesus can use a good laugh every now and then. That’s where Landover Baptist Church comes in. It’s a fictional church and satirical website written by a student who was kicked out of Liberty University, where Jesus holds a spot on the board of trustees, in spirit of course. Think of the site as the Dunder Mifflin of the Jesus industry. In addition to Christmas cards and t-shirts they also sell a genital free salvation turkey for Thanksgiving. Can I get a witness?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I’m all for making an honest buck, or a dishonest one provided it’s white-collar with a large reward-to-risk ratio. So I get why an Oscar nominated actor like Gary Busey is pitching Kias at a Houston car dealership. But I don’t get why anyone would buy off the lot when they could probably meet Gary in the alley behind the dealership for a much better deal. Check out the end of the video when he turns into a red faced monster. He made that same face when Dr. Drew took his smack.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Being a super tall, genetically-modified looking dude is cool if you’re in the NBA. But once your basketball career is over your freakishly long limbs are of little use outside of fetish porn or the UniverSoul Circus. But 7’5″ former NBA superstar and Chinese spy Yao Ming is taking a different route, he’s enrolled in college in Shanghai. In the video above, which for some reason has those silly drawings I see in the menu at Mandarin Express, you can see him walking his modest ass into class and receiving a round of applause. Apparently he always wanted to pursue higher education, but the Chinese government shipped him off to a sports academy where he learned to shoot hoops and literally beat the sh*t out of visiting American teams. Now he’s back taking history and English. Can’t wait to see him do a keg stand.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Two gay penguins in the Toronto Zoo, Bad Ass Buddy and Lady Pedro, want to be together and do all the things gay penguins do like strut across the ice with great posture and get their tuxedos tailored so they can really-really “work it, b*tch!” But the Toronto Zoo wants to separate the two because they are endangered African (and therefore down-low) penguins with “top-notch” genes for reproduction. Though they aren’t interested in “fish” the zoo is hoping they will find female mates who are unconcerned about their history with “menz.” This is really a shame considering outside of fight over cage design that led to Lady Pedro getting his face scratched, the two penguins have been great together. If you believe in equal rights for all penguins contact the Toronto Zoo.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I only believe in beating children that aren’t mine, especially kids that jaywalk slowly across the street and dare you to beep your horn so they can give you the Reginald Denny. But in a conversation with Dr. Drew, who I just learned is not the same person as Anderson Cooper, DMX said I should consider whooping ass in-house. X’s mom used to stop and drop him with a dookie braid of extension cords and if you disregard the crack and numerous jail sentences he turned out great. Now he pulls the strap out on his 10 kids. “X Gon’ Give It To Ya.”

You can watch the full interview this Wednesday. Apparently, when Dr. Drew’s not diagnosing people he’s never met on CNN or exploiting washed-up celebs on VH-1, he has a show called “Lifechangers” on THE network that used to show the “The Game” until they canceled it to appeal to a wider-whiter audience.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

When I saw all these black people in a circle I figured somebody was about to fight (no sellout). I was wrong and possibly jaded from watching too many videos on Worldstar. The clip above is actually a Jookin’ contest, also known as Gangsta Walkin’ or Memphis Buckin’. I vaguely remember Master P talk about this dance years ago, but the only information I retained from him was to be careful around devious women and pay special attention to that “big monkey between they legs.” Anyway, Jookin’ is cool. Hopefully I can learn right after I get the Casper Slide down. What happened to that guy? He was “tight behind that mic!” (-Master P)

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If you use blow you’re one missed paycheck away from using crack. And even though crack will make you a good dancer like Gator in “Jungle Fever,” it will also have you doing things you never thought possible…with your mouth. Plus, The Man looks down on crack, even if The Man himself does blow.

Prior to the Fair Sentencing Act passed by Congress in 2010 there was a 100-to-1 disparity between minimum sentences for crack and powder cocaine users. Now the disparity is 18-t0-1. The good news is that the sentence change is retroactive, freeing an estimated 12,000 former users and sellers. Though the majority of the people being released missed Halloween, and therefore the opportunity to dress as terribly realistic zombies, they will see the outside in the coming days. Also, there’s a chance this program will increase demand for drugs and stimulate the economy. Hopefully not in my neighborhood.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

This year we gave candy to trick-or-treaters and the occasional freeloading parents holding newborn babies. My domestic-partner in-a-not-gay-way wanted to give the chillun’ one piece of candy each. I suggested they take a handful. Why? I don’t want to make them mad. Children today are corrupted by evil forces, namely parents that are too busy posing in the bathroom mirror for mobile phone pics and thus unable to give their little tax credits the guidance they need. So the children end up unruly and perfectly capable of shooting you for any slight, even accidentally stepping on their Air Forces Ones.

In Aiken, Georgia a 10-year-old boy pulled a gun on a 28-year-old woman while trick-or-treating. She joked about taking his candy and he replied, “No, you’re not…bitch.” Well, he didn’t say “bitch” but I’m sure he thought it. The kid had gotten the handgun from his grandfather. Police came to the scene and told the woman not to worry, the clip was not loaded in the gun, though the boy did have the clip in his possession. The child’s only punishment was being turned over to his parents, so I’ll assume he’s white.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

This is the tale of my very worst sexual partner. For his own sake I won’t reveal his name so let’s just call him Shit*y McShitterson. I met Shit*y the same way a lot of us girls meet guys like him; while drunk at a bar.

Shit*y ended up coming back to my place. We do the whole foreplay thing, and holy sh*t he is the worst kisser I have ever had the misfortune of kissing. It was as if he learned how to kiss by practicing on a St Bernard. Just all slobber. For some reason dumbass me did not take this as a huge sign for how horrible him going down on me was going to be. As soon as he put his mouth down there my vagina felt like one of the passengers on the Titanic drowning in an ocean of despair. Now you guys want to hear the best part? Shit*y goes down on me for about two excruciating minutes, then quickly feels my vagina and gets up to get a condom. I ask, “What are you doing?” and he says, “We should f*ck now. You’re really wet.”

I was so pissed off at this point, and in my drunken stupor could not stop laughing. No I’m not fu*king wet you asshole. I’m just covered in your gross saliva and being reminded of the movie Beethoven not getting horny. At that point every bone in my body was telling me I was going to regret it if I had sex with this guy, but when I’m drunk I don’t listen to my bones. I listen to my dumb head that reminds me I haven’t fu*ked since my boyfriend and I broke up.

Well he gets it in there, and immediately the phrase “jack-hammer” comes to mind. He was going so fast that I could hear the sound of his stomach and leg fat loudly banging onto my body. I was thinking that it was a good thing I didn’t have one of those “clap on clap off” lights in my room or else it would have been going on the fritz at that moment—it would have looked like we were fu*king in a rave.

Then the dirty talk happened. He kept going, “Yeah, you like that don’t you?” Seriously, how can this guy be so stupid? There was nothing about my body language that even came close to implying I “liked that”. Yeah dude, I like it so much that I can barely look you in the face without laughing. I like it so much that I have to tell you to slow down every ten seconds, and stop breathing so hard. By the time he finished I was so pissed off and disappointed that when he tried to cuddle I told him to leave. He asked me why and I said, “That sex was so bad that there is no amount of post-coital cuddling or cutesy pillow talk in the world that can make up for it.”

This incident happened around a year ago and luckily I’ve been better at choosing partners. This guy just couldn’t face the fact that his fucking was so bad. Honestly, if I had to choose between having sex with him again and being forced to watch Justin Beiber music videos for five hours straight. I would go with Beiber. It was that bad.

Note to the fellas: being good at sex does not necessarily come naturally. These things take time and it’s different from woman to woman. A real good sexual partner is someone who will be open-minded, and will invest in the other person’s feelings as much as their own. A good sexual partner needs to have humility, and learn from mistakes. Not deny them to the point of delusion. Obviously, I never spoke to this guy again and if you’ve ever hooked up with a girl thinking she’d call you back…maybe this is the reason why she hasn’t.

-Alison S.

Myspace was great for dating and general whoredom. Facebook is great for venting, whether over a failed relationship or simply expressing disapproval of stereotypical Negro acts. In this case, a former acquaintance of the updater has been prank calling her. Said former acquaintance has a history of trouble with the federal justice system, but was able to get the The Law and The Man off her back by pleading insanity. But the updater, through use of various references to cereals, wants that bitch to know she ain’t see ain’t really seen crazy yet. Overall, the paragraph was well crafted; the threats were malignant yet elegant, and the prose was tactfully gangster. Thus Latasha is the recipient of my first Facebook Update of the Week award. Congratulations!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

At some point everyone drops a mean load that needs to be broken up with a coat hanger prior to flushing. And what do you do when that happens? You stare in disbelief at such a hideous but fascinating sight curled around your toilet bowl like a sleeping ferret. Such is the case when watching the “Big Bad Wolf” video by Duck Sauce. Though slightly upsetting, this is quite possibly the most interesting music video since Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling.” By the way, I still haven’t figured out how Lionel managed to hang upside down without dripping curl juice on the floor. Friggin’ amazing!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Unlike Snoop, I do love them hos. I admire their craftiness and ability to continually work despite serious occupational hazards, like throat herpes, which can leave its victims with a permanent T-Pain auto-tune voice. Unfortunately, most people hold negative stereotypes of prostitutes as drug-addicted heathens who will suck one’s balls off for the price of a Slurpee. Truth is a lot of hookers are sober and generally good, though money-hungry, people. I know, I lived with a prostitute.

I found my roommate “Autumn” on Craigslist. She was looking for a quiet, reliable housemate who would agree to leave the condo during client hours (weekdays from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. and by appointment). In exchange, I would receive ultra-cheap rent in a prime San Diego neighborhood. I moved in within three weeks.

Autumn claimed to be a masseuse; at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. There was a massage table in the living room and oils on the counters. Besides, she didn’t fit the image of hookers I’d seen on television or during drunken nights (and Sunday afternoons) in Tijuana. She was articulate and drug-free.

In due time, however, her story started to come apart. The condo was old and damp, and the shag carpet was stained. It was reasonable to imagine a client coming over for head but not a high priced massage. Also, there was a mobile stripper pole in the living room for clients who “want to learn pole dancing to improve their flexibility.” Next to the pole were strategically placed baby wipes, perfect for removing residue from snatch juice and Victoria’s Secret Strawberries and Champagne lotion. Autumn also told me she did “loin bedazzling” for clients who wanted bling around their privates. She claimed to make good money providing this service to strippers, male and female. I saw pictures of her work on her laptop and admittedly she had skills. I suggested she market her artistic talents to the hip-hop community. Who couldn’t imagine rappers yelling, “NIGGA, YO’ BALLS AIN’T SHININ’ LIKE MINE!”?

A couple months passed, and Autumn and I developed a cordial relationship. She was older, probably in her early 40s, and talked to me like a wise aunt would, but I knew very little of her personal life. I wasn’t even sure I knew her real name, as most of her mail was addressed to another name. Still, I minded my business and we were fine until the day I arrived home a few minutes earlier than usual.

It was only a little after 5 P.M., so technically I was abiding by our agreement. Something told me to leave and come back an hour later, but the urge to watchJudge Judy, whom I had missed for months, was too much. I slowly opened the door and walked towards the living room. Autumn yelled “Dammit! Hold on!” I stood there frozen, like that time my dad caught me having sex and gave me the following advice: “Boy, you ain’t done a woman right unless she leave some hairs between yo’ teeth!”

Autumn emerged from behind a makeshift curtain used to cover the massage table, which was actually a blanket attached to ceiling hooks. Her hair was unkempt. Her thick thighs spilled out of the boy shorts she wore. The underwear was crooked and pulled low. I could see a line where her shaved pubic hair would have started. She was not bedazzled.

She yelled, “I told you 5 o’clock!”

I answered, “My bad… but it’s already after 5.”

Just then I caught a glimpse of a bare-ass man hurrying towards the bathroom. My bathroom.

“What’s he doing?!” I yelled.

“Oh…he just needs to use the bathroom real fast…. Look, we’re gonna have to do something about this. I have clients! I didn’t mean exactly 5 o’clock. My clients need time!” I walked away without another word. I went into my room and shut the door. I sat there helpless as some man in need of a fix used my shower and probably rubbed one off.

Days later, Autumn said, “We need to talk.” She looked like a seasoned boss about to fire her employee. “I like having you has a roommate and everything but you’re kind of messing up my money. I need to work more than just 9 to 5–”

I cut her off: “Look, whatever you do is your business. I’m in my room keeping to myself. If you need to work, go ahead and work. I don’t judge.”

“I run a legitimate business,” she said. She had fallen in love with her lies. “But if I have to fuck to pay the bills, then so be it. But I need to be flexible for my clients.” Then she said it, “I’ll need you to be out the place by the 10th. Even without your rent, I can do better by having more hours for my people.”

I was being macked by a hooker, but my understanding wouldn’t allow me to be angry. Autumn was about making money, and I was in the way. I moved two weeks later.

Slick bitch never returned my security deposit.

This story also ran on StreetBonersAndTVCarnage. I’m contributing there bi-monthly until they get tired of me. Stay Black.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Girls just wanna have fun, right? Well the same goes for 7-year-old boys that wear knee-high diva boots and prefer double-dutch over football. Young Bobby Montoya likes everything little girls like; dolls, dresses, fad diets and hanging out other girls that are less pretty. Unfortunately for him he was born with something that would freak most little girls out: balls.

As a result, the Girl Scouts won’t let him join their elitist organization. To their credit they did issue a statement claiming anyone can join as long as she presents herself as a girl. So all Lil’ fierce Bobby has to do is take the “y” off his name, add an “i” and strut into that Girl Scouts’ office like, “Sign me up, bitches.” Go, Bobby! Oops…Go, Bobbi!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

At first I found Herman Cain unintentionally funny, mainly because he sounds like basket-bawl coach Avery Johnson. But then he said he wants to electrocute “illegals” and give Muslims the right to worship where they please, as long as it’s not in America. Now he’s back with a commercial featuring a loosy smoking campaign manager, who looks as if he’s been up for days–presumably to cook the books and make people believe 9-9-9 helps anyone besides the man who signs the checks of the man who signs your checks. But what’s great about the ad is Mr. Cain’s porno grin at the end of the spot, perfectly befitting of a man named Herman. Next up, Cain clad in his patented black cowboy hat and chest-naked on a horse, saving peons like me from the “democratic plantation.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Man, I wish I had fun in Vegas like these guys. But I guess that’s hard to do when you’re staying in the Motel 6 off the strip. Anyone up for a party in the algae-stained kiddie pool? Unlike Hard Rock there’s no DJ playing while you lounge in the water, but there is a homeless man in the alley who sings old Negro spirituals. There’s also a free continental breakfast in the morning, “continental” meaning toast and coffee. Orange juice (and beef jerky) is available for purchase at the 7/11 across the street.

Anyway, check out 50′s new Street King energy ad featuring Mike Tyson and Money Mayweather. Supporting the product helps feed children in Africa, which is much better than supporting his cologne made of rubbing alcohol and baby powder. I suppose this is what Tyson was drinking when he told Lennox Lewis, “I’m coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I’m just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!” Tyson’s hilarious, and it’s good to see him working. Hopefully they’ll invite him back to the Miss Black America pageant.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

1) On condition of receiving a bailout the Obama administration demanded all GM cars come with a 12 inch subwoofer and full size ho.

2) “Bruh, I gotta pray before I eat!”

3) “Honey, have you seent my dignity?”

4) This picture is actually a scene from Tyler Perry’s version of “He’s Just Not That Into You.”

5) “Listen, n*gga. You better not have no more hos up in here!” (Nope, you’re the only one.)

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Deviant behavior is only cool if it’s crafty. And this display of public indecency is pretty clever. But why go streaking if you’re not going to get buck naked? That’s like going trick or treating and only taking one piece of candy from the absent neighbor who left a bowl of Snickers with a note that reads, “Please take one.” If they left the candy, take it all…and break into their house.

Even though the streaker, University of Arizona student Jace Lankow, remained clothed he’s still facing 18 months in jail on felony charges of criminal impersonation. This is not a surprise considering he lives in Arizona, a state where the cops harass you for being brown while breathing. Worse yet, he could also face extra time for being named Jace and wearing tighty-whitey underwear that are only sold in five packs at Walmart. But look on the bright side, the degree he earns in jail will be just as valuable as the one he was pursuing at U 0f A.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

The only self-help I believe in is masturbation. I just don’t think one can find the secret to happiness in a book or DVD. Still, I realize that life can be hard. Having to put duct tape on the bottom of the dress shoes you can’t afford so they can be returned after a job interview, looking at your bad ass kids and thinking “I wish Planned Parenthood had had a payment plan…” and being unsure if the Kardashians will ever truly accept Kris Humphries are just some of the stresses life hands you.  But there’s something more out there for you. Here are five ways to a live a simpler and therefore less stressful life.

1) Get rid of the phrase “I’m about to…” N*gga, just do it. Each time I hear someone say, “I’m about to start this record label, shit’s more like a movement, son!” I think to myself, “If you weren’t talking about it you’d probably be doing it.” Actions first, words later. “I’m about to…” just leads to self-doubt and talking oneself out of actually doing something.

2) Stay away from credit cards. The only good thing about a credit card is you can charge a loin massage in a Tijuana brothel, return to the States and call your card company with the following explanation, “I lost my credit card. Are there any charges? Wait, Mexico? Never been there!” Besides that they’re trouble. For example, if the charges for said loin massage aren’t reversed you end up paying double due to interest…for a handy!

3) Have one nice outfit for every season and wear that sh*t everyday. My fall 2011 outfit is a v-neck sweater, jeans and desert boots. As a result my closet is nearly empty and I don’t spend time worrying about what I’m going to wear, or how I’m going to look. Plus people remember you more when you wear the same clothes. “That’s the n*gga with the v-neck…yep.” The trick is to wear good draws and undershirts so your outfit doesn’t get soiled. But even those can be changed every other day if you’re a champion ass wiper who’s good at removing dingleberries.

4) Don’t chase money at the expense of happiness. I don’t want life to pass me by as I sit in a boring office; I prefer life pass me by while I have my lazy ass parked on the couch watching “Judge Judy.” I make enough money to cover my modest expenses, anything extra gets invested. The goal is to “retire” in five years when I have a net income of $3,000 a month coming from stocks, real estate and drug deals. That’s all I need for beer, a mortgage, fake Jordans for my son and car maintenance. I’ll never be rich and that’s OK. Working and working so I can have more stuff, including two outfits a season?  Please!

5) Don’t settle for second place. Third or fourth place are completely fine. Everyone wants to be the best and to be the winner, often at the expense of being able to enjoy life outside their main goal. In high school I wanted to be the best basketball player ever, but I was only good on my backyard court. I worked and worked and worked harder, but basketball was just not what I was supposed to be doing. Regrettably the time I spent practicing could have been spent taking girls’ virginity or letting Black Jesus into my heart, both of which are more important than basketball. Set goals but most of all enjoy the process and diversify your interests.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

When news of the wild animal escape in Ohio broke, my girl, who’s white when we turn the lights on, looked at me and said “I know what you’re thinking…” Yep, white people do the darndest things. But then I remembered that foolishly raising deadly animals is not just something for those who like to barbecue without seasoning the meat. A few black people, few meaning less than the number of brothas you’ll see at the Winter Olympics or a Herman Cain pizza party, own dangerous and exotic animals. In fact, the brotha in the video above had a tiger living in his tiny Harlem apartment (in complete violation of his Section 8 agreement). All was well until the owner was bitten while trying to put a matching Dipset t-shirt and doo-rag on the animal.  ”Harlem stand up!”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

My Bible tells me that women get less pay for equal work and can’t win a presidential election because Eve disobeyed God and ate the apple. Plus she ignored Adam when he stood, thrust his pelvis to make his junk bounce and proclaimed “All the food you need is right here!” Silly women…

Since then women have tried to get revenge in a variety of ways. For example, my girlfriend in college created a fake email address and sent me pictures of a girl who was not really more attractive than her, but definitely newer, which counts just as much to a man in his early 20s. The woman claimed she met me during spring break and wanted to hang out. Of course I said yes; I even had a boner when I sent the reply. Next thing you know my girlfriend was storming at me with the emails printed out, screaming “Who is this bitch!” She finally admitted the “bitch” was in fact her. Pretty crafty! Months later I moved 3,000 miles away.

But a few scorned ex-wives in Martinez, California have taken revenge to new and more drastic heights. The heathens hired a private detective who hired a group of trollops to seduce the ex-husbands online. The women would then arrange to meet the guys in person. Once together the women would buy the men multiple drinks and suggest they drive to their friends for a party. The private detective, who secretly stood nearby to videotape the seductions, would then tip-off police that a drunk driver was on the road. Shady police would pull the men over and arrest them for driving under the influence. The ex-wives used the DUI arrest in family court to paint the father as “unfit” and therefore undeserving of custody.

Thankfully the F.B.I. got involved and the private detective will soon be in prison, where Fleece Johnson will have his way with him.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I grew up on “Just Say No,” a catchy campaign that gave First Lady Nancy Reagan something to do besides remind her husband that he was Ronald Reagan, President of the United States.  But sometimes it pays to say yes to drugs. I have a friend who used ‘roids in moderation for a few months because he was tired of being a fat ass. It worked; now he just maintains his figure with regular workouts. He’s had no side effects. In fact, I asked him “You didn’t care about your balls shrinking? No Amaechi.” He answered, “No. Chicks don’t like balls, they like d*ck.” Good point.

Outside of the occasional marijuana brownie alcohol is my drug of choice. It removes the hint of a stammer from my speech and enables me to say things I’d usually only write. Though too much alcohol can cause one to do crazy sh*t, like use a grocery bag as a condom, I know my limit at my advanced age: 3-5 glasses of wine and four beers make the night grand.

Now there’s another drug I want to use, modafinil. Scientists refer to it as a “smart drug” because it increases memory and brain power. It’s kind of like the drug Bradley Cooper used in that movie “Limitless,” except it won’t make you ashy when you get off it. Shit’s so good that surgeons use it to get the benefits of caffeine (and blow) without the shaky hands. Surprisingly enough, like HIV and used toasters, it’s available on Craigslist, though that could be a sting The Man is setting up. If you’re one of the few people with a reasonable insurance co-pay see your doc and tell him you need something to keep you focused while you work third shift. Better yet say, “I want that good sh*t you’re taking.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

There’s a Herman Cain in every black family (usually an uncle). All the children like him until they tire of his advice to be extra nice to white people that work in management. Then he freaks everyone out by discussing secret Muslim plots to gain mind control by fluoridating American water sources. Finally, you stop speaking to him after he says to your Mexican girlfriend, “I like my border jumpers as I like my chicken–fried.” But all is forgiven once rich Uncle Herman gives you a down payment loan for your first home, at nine percent interest.

Here’s Uncle Herman singing a pizza-based parody of John Lennon’s “Imagine” at a gathering in 1991. With hair he bears a striking resemblance to another of my favorite uncles, Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

“I’m lovin’ it.” First they charge for extra condiments and now they use your limp body to clean the floors. This wouldn’t have happened on Calvin’s watch.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I never got into comics as a kid, though I did wish I had  supernatural abilities to stop stuttering and fight off Little Ronnie in the green pants who touched “my thing” before nap time in kindergarten. Dammit Ronnie, all you had to do was ask…the little boy who played double-dutch with the girls at recess, not me. Anyway, I’m not well-versed in comic culture, but I imagine they have the potential to build a child’s self-esteem, especially if a character looks like him or her–which is what Kuwaiti clinical psychologist Naif Al-Mutawa is trying to do with The 99, a comic book series featuring Muslim characters.

The 99 is named after the 99 names Muslims have for God, none of which are Jesus. Take that Jesus freaks! Characters include Jabbar the Powerful, a Saudi Arabian teen with superhuman strength and Sami the Listener from Sudan, who has superhuman hearing. Sounds cool, but if it was up to me I’d have a character named Latifah Wrong Hole, who is in a relationship with Jabbar the Powerful but has the amazing ability to retain her virginity (and family’s pride) by only having butt sex. And maybe Kareem the Ex-Convict who can magically whip up bean pies and sell them by foot in Detroit’s busiest intersections without being hit by a car. When not selling bean pies Kareem as a secret life selling stolen electronics in the Best Buy parking lot.

There’s talk of The 99 becoming a cartoon on Discovery Channel, though I find that highly unlikely since Muslims aren’t even allowed to build mosques in America.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

My mentor and instructional video actor, Lex The Impaler, prides himself on blowing backs out with his patented jackhammer hump. Unfortunately many guys like me are blessed with more gab than girth and unable to beat it up like DMX did to Keisha in “Belly.” Still, we try hard and that’s all that matters. But now there’s more to aspire to: Actually blowing your partner’s mind out.

Researchers have found that bomb sex can cause transient global amnesia, a condition in which people forget the previous 24 hours and have trouble forming new memories. It sort of works like Rohypnol except guys need not worry about skipping town when their partner regains her memory. The rare condition usually lasts no more than a few hours, can occur in men and women, but leaves only one person with bragging rights.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Say what you want about Mexico, but they get a few things right. Namely Tostilocos seasoned with lead and the state-mandated cleavage requirement for female newscasters. Now they’ve struck gold again, this time in Mexico City, with pending legislation that would make marriage contracts last two years with the option to renew or dissolve at the end of the “lease” period–without the costliness and litigation associated with a formal divorce. The proposed law makes sense considering half of marriages don’t work out and another 40 percent become “I’m just with yo’ ass ’cause I ain’t nothing better to do” unions.

The powerful Catholic Church of Mexico is against the proposed law as they prefer to maintain traditional Catholic values like marriage for life and encouraging young boys to downward dog stretch before meeting with clergymen in private. However, the marriage “lease” bill will likely become law in liberal Mexico City, a city where men who drench themselves in CK One and practice Beyonce’s single ladies dance before going to the club can get married to each other.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I love to jump out and scare people. Especially if they’re holding hot coffee or a baby. It’s almost as fun as going to a haunted house with black people, who scream like crazy and say “Anybody touch me, they gettin’ they ass beat.” Anyway, Troy Polamalu does a good job pretending to be a wax figure. I just wish Mike Vick/Ron Mexico would do something like this, though I imagine customers would get herpes if they got too close. Well that’s what you get for touching the wax figure.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

To some, football is a brutal game symbolic of America’s tumultuous racial history, where fat white men command fast-twitch-muscle fiber-having Mandingo bucks to run—but then get mad if a brotha celebrates a touchdown by dancing and/or having interracial DP with lily white cheerleaders.

To others, football is an incredibly passionate and sensual sport. A virtual orgy where the fun doesn’t start until the big guy bends over and has his balloon knot molested by a tall stud who wants the ball(s) all the time.

But to most, football is the REAL American pastime—an elegant and beautiful sport that transcends politics and race, even among Americans that call a barbeque a “carne” and love to let you know that “We didn’t cross the border, holmes. The border crossed us!”

What I find interesting is the number of NFLers with dreadlocks. The trend was started by Dolphins’ cornerback Al Harris in ’97, now nearly 200 players have locks according to ESPN . Whether for style or spiritual reasons it’s refreshing to see such manly, aggressive warriors care about their hair while giving an aesthetic shout-out to the Motherland. By “care” I mean players like the Cardinals’ Larry Fitzgerald have full-on salons in their homes.

But like cornrows and baldies in the NBA and Jheri curls in baseball (and who knows what in hockey since the only black player in the NHL I’ve heard of is the guy who got a banana thrown at him), locks might have another five good years left of NFL popularity. Let’s just hope players can learn from Jerry Rice’s mistake and know when to let go. A receding hairline is one thing, a complete retraction demands immediate action.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

“Man, I eat sautéed hundred dollar bills and sh*t pennies! Y’all broke cats can’t buy brand name paper plates in bulk like me! I got your annual salary stuck between my teeth, son! I got the indoor grill; I got the outdoor grill–both of them bi*ches cook money all day! N**ga my girlfriend just bought the deluxe George Foreman grill! Can’t nobody end this beef but the IRS, homie! And when I see them, LaRue, my boy who like boys, gonna get up in ‘em while wearing a money green condom! Hold up, hold up…I know we ain’t live, are we?”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Booty Lounge Detroit, a mobile strip club, offers lap dances in a van from chicks that look like runaway teens fresh off the Greyhound. “Booty-booty-booty-booty everywhere.” Nah, booty ain’t really there. But they are clever enough to offer their services in the parking lot of Detroit Lions games, which has gotten them in trouble with uptight city officials who prefer discrete whoredom but whoredom nonetheless. After all, God forbid kids at the game see women dressed like their female classmates! By the way lap dances are only $10, much less than a beer and hot dog at an NFL game. Ass is really at a discount in this economy.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Receding hairlines are like relationships, it’s hard to say goodbye. But not everyone can have a “Drake,” where the forehead follicles nearly connect with the unibrow. I know firsthand. Back in my heyday of ’97 my hairline was straight and strong like Lex the Impaler’s moneymaker (No Amaechi). Since then I’ve lost a couple-few centimeters, revealing an immense forehead that’s usually only seen among East African immigrants. In fact, I didn’t even realize the retraction until my barber said, “What you want me to do with the front!” Damn. Point being I had someone to tell me that my s**t was no longer as it was in ’97, enabling me to take necessary action. But stars like LeBron James and Coolio, as evidenced in the picture above, are jaded–which is why he’s gone from having hundreds of tentacles in his hair during the “Gangster’s Paradise” days to around 10 today. None of which are in the scalp’s prime real estate area, the front hairline. Though hard, it’s never too late to say goodbye.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Enjoyment

I wonder if powder milk comes out her titty when she breast feeds. What if the baby’s first word is “bingo?” What if she tells the baby “Cry louder, I can’t hear you!” Anyway, increasingly more women over 50 are having babies. The process is fairly simple (yet expensive). Eggs are purchased from a donor, the husband rubs one off, egg and sperm are implanted into the “mature” woman–10 months later a baby who will get his first allowance from his parents’ Social Security is born. Problem is pregnancy at a relatively advanced age is more likely to cause problems with mother and child, including pregnancy induced stroke. Plus there are the physical demands of keeping up with a wild-child as the parents lose bone mass and are forced to spend hours on the couch watching reruns of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Oh yeah, as you get older you’re more likely to stop getting older, which means you’re dead. And if you’re dead the children will need to be raised by their grandparents. Oh wait…

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Damn, I thought my midnight barbecues would piss off the white neighbors. Jayo Felony, addressed as Mr. Felony by the reporter, is accused of squatting in a Hollywood Hills home. Neighbors have accused him of stereotypical n**ga acts like smoking weed, blasting music and doing hair on the front porch. Worse yet they’re scared of Mr. Felony putting a foot or cap in their asses and will only criticize him on camera if their faces are not shown. I wish I could make points about white flight and how the media chose to focus on this incident of squatting out of thousands in L.A., but I probably wouldn’t want him living next door to me either. I love my people, but not the lost five percent of us that dwell in nigga-dom.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Many parents choose to stay home and nest with their newborn. But that leads to boredom, fights and fantasies of suffocating your partner as she sleeps and telling the judge it was a sex game gone wrong. So my lady Amber and I take Young Nile everywhere. In fact, he’s even been to a few bars, though he was denied entrance into one. Most recently the three of us took a cross-country trip from San Diego to Jersey, D.C. and Cleveland–12 hours of flying and 20 hours of driving. Here are the highlights:

-We were in the Desperate Housewives like town of Brick, New Jersey for the wedding of Amber’s brother and his smiley fiance. They’re Catholic, which means there’s a good amount of priest led praying during the ceremony. Very much unlike the hood weddings I’m used to that are held in unreserved spaces in the park and use an old ass boombox to play the wedding song on CD, which keeps skipping as the bride tries to walk down the aisle (true story). Anyway, the priest and attendees were deep in prayer. I was pretending to be when Nile let off the shart of all sharts. It was loud, echoing and had that 808 bass. And it sounded wet too, like an over-salivated whoopie cushion. Some people looked, others tried not to laugh, others thought I did it since they couldn’t see Nile wrapped in my arms. I wanted to stay and finish the ceremony, but I couldn’t lest the melted Snickers start to leak out his diaper. So I took him to another room in the church and changed him, which was pretty cool since Jesus (who was hanging from the wall) looked on.

-The three of us where sleeping in the hotel when I awoke startled from a bad dream, probably about the girl who beat me up, and swung my arms wildly. I elbowed Nile in the head and he let out a post-circumcision like scream. Amber woke up and freaked out. She yelled “What happened!” I replied, “Had a bad dream. Think I elbowed Nile in the arm.”

-Nile had the chance to meet both sides of his extended family and got hugs, kisses and even tears from a number of people. But unbeknownst to them I played the role of Dr. Dad and scanned everyone for oral cold sores and lesions. Those who failed and asked to hold him were told “I should probably go change him.” or “He’s in a bad mood right now. Plus he’s racist against your kind.” Sorry, it’s a tough but necessary job.

-Other than the time he gave a trucker the finger for looking down his Mom’s shirt, Nile mostly slept during the driving portion of the trip. Since he was so comfortable in his child seat and since I was so lazy, I decided to not take him too far away and change him in the backseat. Remember what I said about a melted Snickers spilling out? Yeah. So if you rent a 2010 Ford Focus from Thrifty at Cleveland’s airport…the backseats aren’t really supposed to be brown.

-Oh yeah, I almost forgot. One night in the hotel Nile got to see his parents wrestling while nude. Mom won.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Damn! I’ll have a number one with an extra serving of ass! When not serving e-coli burgers  employees at a San Diego area Jack in the Box engage in simulated sex, which can cause young men to have joyful accidents that lead to flaky and crusty draws. Something tells me the girl in the video learned to dance like this when she was six, at a traditional black family dance contest gone terribly wrong. Something else tells me if the guy lives in East County San Diego he’ll soon be kicked out the house and banished from his community. But for a job that pays in boners and free Jumbo Jacks? It’s well worth it.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Years ago I almost joined the Nation of Islam. Fortunately my love of pork and white women prevented the initiation. The experience taught me that all religions have elements of craziness. Christianity: The Bible says you can’t wear clothes made of a wool and linen mix. However, Christians leaders like Bishop Eddie Long can wear nipple revealing  Lycra shirts and leave the smell of cologne on innocent young “mens.” Judaism has Kaparot, a ceremony where sins are transferred to a live chicken. Islam? I’m not saying anything. Fox News already makes it look crazy enough.

Hinduism: Just check out the guy, Amar Bharati, above. Though he looks he just shot a fadeaway jumper with a mean follow-through; he’s actually showing love for the Hindu deity Shiva. He’s held this position for 38 years which has left him with a hand like Woody Harrelson’s character in Kingpin, or the guy in Three 6 Mafia with the tiny arm. I imagine Bharati’s wife and three children aren’t too happy with his display of piety considering he dropped them years ago to fulfill his calling. Hold on…isn’t that a sin?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.

First things first: Women. Women love the scoot. Though they giggle as I ride past, it is a giggle of “Damn, who’s that guy weaving through traffic and playing by his own rules. Look at how his bony hand twists the throttle. It’s like he’s saying… fuck a Hummer.”

For example, I once pulled over on a side street to use my cell phone when I heard the erotic chuckle of young women sitting in an open garage. I looked over and stared at them through my fake designer shades. One of the young women said “What is that?” So I rode in the garage to give a closer look. As I was explaining a giant SUV came up the driveway and began beeping its horn. I turned around and noticed a middle-age female driver waving me aside. I asked the young women “How old are y’all?” Shouts of “I’m 16! I’m 17!” echoed in the garage. I scooted away, completely unscathed of potential statutory rape charges.

Or how about this other time: I was about to ride to the grocery store and stuff two days of groceries into my tiny scooter trunk when I received a call from a friend. She said “I’m off early. Is it cool if I stop by and say hi?” I answered, “Yeah. I’m about to grab some food and cook. Come by.”

She came over, hopped on the back of my scooter and received the most exciting ride of her life. Although the only physical contact came courtesy of our helmets banging, it was a joyful experience nonetheless. Well maybe a bit more joyful for me since I didn’t hear back from her again.

Next up: What’s it like to ride a scooter everyday? It’s cold, man. Riding in any temperature less than 70 degrees is guaranteed to chill your nipples. But there are ways around that. You can simply ride close behind a large bus and bask in its warm but mildly noxious fumes. You can also keep a flask of whiskey in the scooter’s ever-so-convenient pouch located near the handlebars. Taking a swig at a stoplight warms your whole respiratory system and helps you focus while driving.

Lastly, how does one maintain his masculinity while riding such a tiny and seemingly effeminate vehicle? I find this really interesting. In much of the world, scooters are the primary mode of personal transportation. But in hyper-masculine America, with its numerous phallic symbols and action stars that never retire, scooters are frowned upon—especially by young, overly aggressive males.

A few weeks ago I was on the side of the street attempting to start my scooter when a shabby car full of three young men drove by and threw a rock that hit me in my collarbone.

A white-hot anger filled my chest cavity and I went into fight or flight mode, which means I broke out in a forehead sweat and my balls ascended. In fact, I hadn’t felt that angry since my ex-girlfriend punched me in the nose, at which point I responded by giving her a throat massage.

Anyway, I thought “My dear scooter, if there’s a time when I really need you to start, that time is now.” And you know what? She started right up.

I sped down the street going at least 80 miles per hour, or maybe 45. I looked to my right and saw that the car used for the drive-by was parked outside the 7/11 and the three offenders were still inside the piece of shit ride. I went up to the passenger window and said things I had learned from watching John Singleton movies, like, “Get your bitch ass out the car.”

I then added “You like throwing shit! Throw something at me now!” The young man, not older than 20, sat in frozen fear. He said only “We didn’t throw anything, wasn’t us.” I responded, “Man, I saw you throw it!”

The driver stepped out the car. I thought “Damn he’s big… uh-oh.” I removed my helmet and quickly wrapped the strap around my hand. He looked and thought better of facing off with a lunatic skinny man holding a lethal weapon and walked into the store.

The situation defused; I had successfully defended Scooter Riders of America. I drove off, glancing from right to left at the sidewalks, hoping to find a female pedestrian lucky enough to ride on my powerful, manly moped. I didn’t see a worthy woman.

I also didn’t see the massive pothole in my path. My front tire rammed into the concrete ditch, nearly cracking the scooter’s frame in half. I fell to the ground and the scooter lay next to me. Traffic screeched to a halt but no one offered to help. They simply stared as I limped over to the sidewalk, full of embarrassment and pain and struggling to pull the wrecked motorbike from the street. I finally reached the sidewalk and lowered the bike to the ground. There it rested, battered and mangled with about four dollars in gas seeping out of the tank.

This is a re-post of a piece that was published on this blog and in Defenestration Magazine. Reasons for re-posting include: new blog subscribers (presumably from my story on Street Boners & TV Carnage), my search for a new scooter on Craigslist, feelings of self-doubt this morning (which I refer to as male menses) and trouble staying focused due to a baby that grunts like Master P at the oddest hours. 

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

When people learn I have a child they assume I’m either married or a deadbeat dad. Thanks to a generation that’s lived through The Cosby Show and Maury there’s no happy medium for a young black man.  Truth is, I’m in a domestic partnership. Though it sounds like something gays fought for when they strutted on Washington with great posture it’s actually for straight people like me too. In short, you get many of the benefits of marriage without making the relationship official in front of God, who’s much too busy working on Governor Rick Perry’s prayer for rain.

But not being officially married leaves me open to all sorts of questions and silliness. The most obvious being, “When are you two getting married?” I don’t have a firm answer so I’ll usually reply “It’ll happen.” Though inside I’m thinking “None ya business. You plan on playing some wedding bills up in this muthaf***a.” Then there’s the second most popular question, “How many more kids y’all gonna have?” My typical answer is “Maybe two or three more, hopefully adopt one too.” But again, inside I’m thinking “As many as the pull-out method blesses us with.”

And then there’s the third and silliest question: “Are your parents married?” Apparently if unmarried and in a happy relationship that includes a child I must have grown up in a broken household and dreamed of having parents like James and Florida Evans from Good Times. However, my stunted emotional growth brought on by Dad’s absence (except for the time he showed up at school to f**k my kindergarten teacher) makes traditional marriage seem unrealistic to me. No, n*gga! My parents are together and enjoying the comfortable boredom of marriage.

Worse yet are the people who don’t know how to refer to my domestic partner/girlfriend/lady. So they say “baby mama,” which insinuates I’m a deadbeat dad living away from my son and his mother. The type of guy who posts pictures of his children on Facebook in hopes of scoring cute-points with chicks. Pictures that include captions like “I can put one up in you too” and “Fatherhood is easy now that my BM accepts credit cards.” Even worse, the term “baby mama” makes my girl sound like a woman with 5-7 destitute chillun’ whose only toy is the shopping cart Mom stole from Big Lots. Come on, man! Her name, Amber, though somewhat common and surprisingly un-Negro-centric for a woman dating a guy with a black ass name like Dewan, works fine.

Damn! This is aggravating! But I’m sure I’ll have it together before my son is old enough to ask me, “Dad, when you gonna marry Mom?” Leaving me with no choice but to answer, “It’ll happen…when your broke ass gets a job to help pay for a wedding.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Most blacks (besides female readers of bossip.com) have always approved of black-white marriage. But until 1996 most whites–primarily those who dislike blacks because we pronounce words that end in “th” like they end in “f”–were against it. But today, after years and years of white women in college having to sneak into the athletes’ dorm and not being able to bring Sidney Poitier home for dinner (let alone Mandingo), interracial marriage is approved by an overwhelming majority of black and white Americans. So brothas, rejoice and feel proud that you no longer have to say “She ain’t white, she Italian!”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

A couple years ago the ‘net went wild over Aldi, the two-year-old who smoked 20 cigarettes a day. Two years later he’s back, fresh out of rehab but still dragging on the occasional loosy. ABC News went to Indonesia to discover why his parents let him endanger his health with smoking, as opposed to just feeding him chronic disease inducing fast-food like Americans do to their obese children. After watching the video I see a bright future for this kid as the lead actor in a Kim Jong-il biopic.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

As men age we develop a slightly crooked penis and an ugly looking cock vein, usually from too much sex–with ourselves. Along with that comes a decreased interest in sex with our wives, though sexual interest in unattainable women remains high. But women, whose sexual peak develops at a later age and runs inverse to their vaginal elasticity, often want sex (sometimes even with eye contact) multiple times a week. Damn, what’s a brotha to do? Well, you best get to humping.

A French woman successfully sued her husband of 21 years (now ex-husband of two years) for not giving her enough sex. She won 10,000 euros, which if you ask the millions of real racist Americans who hate our “Kenyan dictator” and want their country back the way it was when Negroes like Obama could only aspire to be elevator operators or tap dancers, is worth about a billion U.S. dollars in these tough economic times.

No word from the judge on if giving one’s wife throat babies is considered sex, thereby excluding him from potential litigation.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

I’ve always wondered about prison. Mainly how dudes in the joint get their hair braided. I’m sure most convicts aren’t too keen on sitting between Fleece Johnson’s legs for hours on end. But women’s prisons are even more fascinating. Though some of this fascination is due to a mind corrupted by soft porn on Skinemax, most of it stems from a curiosity of how humanity’s nurturers survive in a place that’s so damn brutal. Well, not too long ago I had the opportunity to find out firsthand.

I went to women’s prison in San Diego called “Los Colinas.” Though it sounds like a bar on the brown side of town that serves micheladas, it’s actually a 750 bed detention facility that holds violent and non-violent offenders. Think of it as a camp for a whole lot of women, most of whom could beat you’re a*s.

I was there as part of my former job, HNIC (Head Negro in Charge) of the health promotion department at a community clinic; one of my duties was to evaluate staff that provided HIV prevention education to the incarcerated. In short, I was looking for an excuse to get my lazy a*s out the office.

Upon entering the prison I was searched from head to toe. Thankfully my bunghole was unmolested; guess I didn’t look like someone who would “boof” drugs or weapons. Though maybe I would for the right price and the right weed. I was then forced to relinquish all valuables, including the wallet that held my Magnum Junior Condom for the Thin and Sleek. So much for that Skinemax fantasy…

To get to the classroom I was led past the glass-enclosed cells. Two women per cell shared a toilet and a space half the size of a gay man’s closet. I hate to make the comparison, but have you been to a zoo and seen an animal that was quarantined in a tiny cage for being himself and going for the throat of a zookeeper? That’s what it was like. Seriously, there are reptiles at your local zoo that have a larger habitat than these incarcerated women. And it was loud. Imagine the annoying, aggravating sound of your girlfriend’s voice multiplied by hundreds. Hopefully we’ll see more Asian women in prison to reduce the noise level.

I finally got to the classroom filled with women. Well, wo-men is a more descriptive term. These chicks were hard. I’m not talking about cute lesbian chicks like my fashion idol Ellen DeGeneres; these were hardcore butch chicks that will swing on you for looking at their women. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few “normal” looking ladies. But many of them looked wise beyond their years, probably due to meth.

The class started and the instructor noted that I was visiting the class to evaluate. The ladies turned around and stared with admiration. I had not had that much attention since I went to an “after-party” in Tijuana where all the ladies smelled like cheap strawberry lotion and introduced themselves by grabbing my schlong. But in the class (and for that matter, the brothel) I got nervous and didn’t know what to say so I just smiled and said to the students, “Thanks for having me.”

The class began and everything ran smoothly, for the most part. A large number of students were like bad kids in an elementary classroom: speaking out of turn, sitting with their legs wide open to air out their monkeys, laughing too damn loud at sex related terms, acting up as a way to cope with a touch-feely uncle who’s scarred them for life, etc. Basically, if you’ve ever wondered where the bad kid from fifth grade is now, and you can’t find him on Facebook—he’s probably in prison doing the same silly s**t.

A few of the women were genuinely interested in the material, or perhaps afraid that the guy who said “Come on baby…just let me put the tip in” could have given them a life-threatening illness. I suspected that these were the prisoners who would easily readjust to society until they find a felony conviction precludes them from getting almost any job on the outside.

Class ended and I waved goodbye to the prisoners. I regained my slim fit Magnum holding wallet and soon left feeling a bit more thankful for my freedom. Weeks later I would hear some of the prisoners wanted me to return. I thought more about them too, especially when I read most where incarcerated for drugs and/or assisting their boyfriends with crimes. Even more had been victims of sexual abuse, prior to prison and by guards while incarcerated. I imagine most of them are still in there; and it ain’t like a Skinemax movie.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I’m a young and sensual 32, but going to nightclubs makes me feel old. Waiting in line for hours, dealing with assault charges when it should be considered self-defense since the woman started the fight by telling you “I’m just dancing with my friends,”  finding a condom that’s comfortable enough to wear the whole time you’re there–is all a game for the young and foolish. But it’s hard to know when to throw in the towel. Though a receding hairline and constant requests that the DJ play the “Electric Slide” are clues, one can never be sure until you hear it from someone else. So here it is, a whole bunch of reasons why you need stay your geriatric ass home and leave the club alone:

-You have to use the wheelchair ramp to get on the party bus.

-You think a bar tab is something you don’t have to pay each time you leave the club, ’cause that’s how you saw it done on “Cheers.”

-Your pickup lines include words like “reckon” and “yonder.”

-You ask for directions to the colored people’s bathroom.

-You go to the coat check and steal a hanger just in case you need it to perform a back-alley abortion.

-After getting rejected by numerous women you recommend to the club owner that they hold a Sadie Hawkins hopscotch.

-You don’t want to drive home drunk, so you make plans to take the Underground Railroad.

-You and your “posse” are kicked out the club for repeatedly harassing the DJ to play “Lionel Richie’s new sh*t” that you saw on Video Soul.

-To appear smart you wear a monocle and discuss the benefits of FDR’s New Deal with uninterested women while describing all that you’re doing to ensure he gets reelected.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

As I drove past my local elementary school and gawked at the pretty little children playing in such glee, I thought to myself “They have no idea how harsh life will be.” Crushed dreams, irritable bowel syndrome and foreign call centers are just a few of life’s hardships. So to prevent low self-esteem that even Oprah can’t improve ’cause she’s off the air, it’s up to you to emotionally and mentally prepare your children for what’s hopefully a short life. Here are Seven Harsh Truths Children Need to Know:

1) Your lost puppy is actually not lost. He’s been stolen and sold to Bad Newz Kennels, or eaten by coyotes.

2) Next time you’re in class look at the person to the left of you. Then look at the person to the right. One of you will be a junky, the other a convicted felon. The third person will be incredibly average in every way, yet have delusions of reality show grandeur.

3) You remember that guy on Maury who said “That baby don’t got my swag!” He (or his brother) is your father.

4) Canada, with its abundant natural resources and educated population, will dominate the next century. China will take over the United States and attempt to create a carbon copy of Canada. So you’ll be a man without a country whose idea of good music will be whatever’s playing in Paul Shaffer’s knock-off i-Pod.

5) Losing your virginity will be neither fun nor romantic. But taking someone else’s anal virginity…now you’re talking.

6) One day you’ll be hanging out with a friend and get really excited to show him a funny Youtube video. But when he watches he won’t even laugh, not even a courtesy laugh. Lesson being: Funny Youtube videos are only funny when watched alone, so one does not have the awkward pressure to laugh.

7) As your parents we love you and your siblings equally. But we definitely like your punk ass a whole lot less than your gifted sister.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

China holds 16% of our debt, created some ingenious fake Apple stores and had their basketball team beat the s**t out of a team from one of our most esteemed universities. But now we’ve got revenge, with free labor as usual. The new MLK Memorial was built by unpaid Chinese laborers brought together by renowned sculptor Lei Yixin to “work for national honor and bring glory to the Chinese people.” Though I’m sure it’s a much better feeling than they get making Nikes, I’m not sure it meshes with MLK’s dream of interracial togetherness (sex) and workers’ rights. Besides, couldn’t the organizers of the project have found American workers to build the memorial? There’s plenty of brown Americans sitting out front of Home Depot looking for work as we speak. I hired a few of them earlier this summer. They moved our whole house in two hours. Literally the whole house. Two short, brown dudes with silver teeth picked it up from the foundation and everything. Damn language gap…

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog   

Elmhurst College will begin asking students their sexual orientation on the admission application. If students say they are a member of the LGBT community they can qualify for a scholarship. No word on the verification process; I assume it involves answering “Glee” trivia and demonstrating the ability to maintain great posture at all times. I’m also thinking black male applicants may be asked for the secret gay password, “mens.”

Of course a scholarship for being gay makes some people upset, mostly the kind of people who ask questions like “How come there’s not a TV station like BET for white people?” But before your panties get in a bunch, note that the scholarship is intended for gay students who face bullying, discrimination and for the next 2-3 weeks the inability to serve openly in the military. Which is uncool and definitely not fabulous.

You can read more about the new policy here. Brace yourself for a number of bigoted and close-minded comments predominately expressed by white males fearful of a changing America.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Nothing’s worse for a guy than getting his ass kicked by a girl. It’s not that women can’t beat up men, it’s just they rarely do. Guess women are too busy fishing for compliments and reassurance. I fought a girl once. Actually the girl fought me. It was the summer before 7th grade and I was playing at a friend’s house, getting ready to ask a girl who didn’t fight to be my girlfriend. Problem was her friend, a manly heifer who did like to fight, wanted my prepubescent, 75 pound body. I refused her offer and next thing you know she came at me with the sneak attack. As I was stuttering/talking with my friend she grabbed me from behind and threw me on the ground, just like strip clubs bouncers do to guys who try the ol’ touch and sniff with the talent. Man, it hurt–my pride and my bony knees. I got up and wanted to give her a few Hector Camacho punches, but I was raised not to hit women. Plus I was scared. So I took that ass beating like a man.

Point being, never underestimate the fighting skills of a woman. Terrorist-U.S. ally-turned terrorist again Muammar Gaddafi knows this, which is why he has a team of 40 female bodyguards who learn sophisticated killing techniques during three years of training. The female bodyguards are called “revolutionary nuns” and forbidden from having sex (unless with The Man himself) or ever marrying, and must be willing to die for their Jheri curled, Lionel Richie look-alike leader–all for a salary of $245 a month. Think of them as underpaid secret service agents who want verbal confirmation of your feelings. Apparently they are also among the few remaining Gaddafi loyalists and will remain true to him even as his dictator swag dissipates. Still, if I was him I’d watch my back.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Equating “ghetto” with African Americans is offensive and often wrong. Case in point, the white rapper in the video below: “Thug Kraka.” Jiggling skanks, a quadriplegic hype-man, malt liquor, a bedazzled belt buckle shaped like a gat–these boys is ’bout that life. Oh yeah, there’s also a guy wearing a sauna suit to lose weight and let the haters see the reflection of their gas faces while he’s performing. MLK had a dream. In some weird way this is part of it.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

My parents weren’t into paying for college. Spring quarter freshman year I asked Dad for new t-shirts and he told me to cut the sleeves off my sweaters. Next year I needed money for books; Mom told me to borrow them from the teacher. And any money they did send was actually a loan under Dad’s “six months no-interest, no a*s kicking” plan–payment due by the end of summer.  So in short, if there was something I needed in college I went without unless it was covered by financial aid or my part-time job(s).

This included food. But while most of my peers settled for Ramen noodles or microwave burritos, I wanted more. So I fried the hell out some gizzards. In case you’re unaware gizzards are a part of a chicken’s digestive system. They’re compact and chewy when cooked, imagine power pellets for a ghetto superhero. Plus they’re cheap. A pound of gizzards and chicken hearts will run you about $0.99. Basically you can feed a family for the price of a Newport loosy.

So one evening after class I started to fry up a pound. I seasoned them real good, just like Mama used to. Then I heated the cooking oil in a frying pan and went back to my room to use the computer. But these were the days of dial-up internet. Downloading music or an instructional video featuring Sinnamon Love, Obsession and Mr. Marcus could take hours.

After 15 or so minutes on the computer, having forgotten about the cooking oil, I heard a crash in the kitchen. My roommate Mike came out of his room holding a pair of scissors–thinking that someone was breaking in to steal our big 19 inch TV. He walked to the living room in search of the culprit. I followed behind, hoping the intruder would kill him first so I could safely run away and later release an “I Miss My Homies” rap song like “Gangsta Lean” by DRS.

We got to the living room and saw the kitchen ablaze. Fire was everywhere, like the London riots–without the free electronics and groceries–in an area the size of a telemarketer’s cubicle. Mike said, “Oh s**t!” and grabbed a towel to swing at the fire. Didn’t help at all. I did the same. We swung wildly as if we were in a girl fight, on the losing end of course. The flames grew larger and reached from the stove top to the ceiling. The smoke was thick and black, like the women in the instructional videos I mentioned above. We retreated and called 911.

The firemen arrived, sirens loud as hell; neighbors were coming out their places wondering what was going on–all this over some gizzards. The firemen were able to extinguish the blaze within 10 minute. We explained how the fire started and from the “what the hell” expressions on their faces I knew we would be the talk of the fire station. I could imagine the conversation, “These nig…black guys, sorry…burned up their apartment tryin’ to fry some gizzards. By the way, what are gizzards?”

We returned to our apartment the next day. The kitchen was almost completely burned and ruined with smoke damage. All black everything. A representative from the company who owned the complex came over to inspect. He asked, “Do you have renter’s insurance to pay for this?” We didn’t. He then asked, “Do your parents have insurance to cover this?”

I called Dad for advice.  He said, “Nope. I ain’t paying for s**t.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

See, this is the s**t Antoine Dodson warned us about. R. Kelly served as Grand Marshall of the Billiken parade, which celebrates “unity in diversity for the children of Chicago.” By “unity” I suppose they don’t mean the joining of loins. Just look at him up there grinning and looking for a pretty young thang who still wears cotton panties that come in packs of five. He’s still my favorite singer, and was my fashion idol after he wore those dong-enhancing pajamas in the “Half On A Baby” video, but he just has that molester mouth or something. Small teeth, slight underbite. Damn, we are some forgiving people…

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

This fall fashion photographer Ralph Mazzucco will release a book called Culo, which means a*s in Mexican. Unfortunately the models will not wear birth control patches on their rumps, nor have stretch marks, which means I won’t be buying it. Still, if you like high-end photography this might be worth your $60. Or you can put the money towards a year subscription to onionbooty.com. The promo video for the book, featuring Timbaland and a*s connoisseur Pitbull, can be viewed on GQ’s site.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Fleece Johnson from Kentucky State Penitentiary says of prison, “Booty is more important than food. Booty. A man’s butt…somebody gotta give up some booty…I like booty.” I don’t know, man. I kind of like steak and mashed potatoes. He goes on to say, “You sag yo’ pants in here, somebody gone be up in your butt.” Good point, easy access. Plus the air keeps the salad cool (No Amaechi).

Young folk, stay out of trouble and don’t become a victim of America’s prison-industrial complex. ‘Less you want some Fleece up in you.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Get that toffee out your ears, son! “Watch The Throne” is the album of the summer. Plus the CD cover from the deluxe edition is great for making Illuminati-themed arts and crafts. Here I cut two parts of the five piece cover and added a satin varnish to make a drink coaster. Look closely and you’ll notice that the glass is NOT filled with wine, that’s actually the blood of Jay-Hova–which is used in a spell to make overweight ex-correctional officers appear as international drug lords owed favors by the real Noriega. Masons stand up!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Man, America’s bigotry towards Islam is crazy. Rachael Ray, the less sexy version of Oprah, had her Dunkin’ Donuts commercial yanked for wearing a traditional Arab scarf. A serious presidential candidate (Republican Herman Cain, aka Clayton Bigsby) said he would not appoint a Muslim to his cabinet unless he or she takes a loyalty oath. Anti-First Amendment people in 26 states have sued to stop mosques from being built in OUR communities. The term “Muslim” itself has been used to slur President Obama, not to mention the criticism he’s taken for wishing Muslims a happy Ramadan (as did President Bush, ‘cept he didn’t get criticized–pretty much like the whole issue of debt and spending). And now Whole Foods is taking a lot of e-hate for promoting and selling halal foods during Ramadan.

Replace “Muslim” in the paragraph above with any of these terms: black, Jewish, Cablasian, Rick Fox cause I don’t know what he is, gay and fierce, BBW on Craigslist personal ads, dog lovers–and American would be in an uproar. But because we associate the horrific acts of a few people we don’t know with all 1.5 billion members of a particular religion, some of whom we acutally know, our discriminatory beliefs are permissible. And it’s crazy.

Think of this way. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is a Muslim. Very tall, yes. Dangerous, nope. The man starred in “Naked Gun,” did movies with Bruce Lee and writes history books! American hero Muhammad Ali is a Muslim too. Good with his hands during his time, yes. Dangerous outside the ring, nope. He has the shakes, but that’s due to Parkinson’s disease–not because he’s nervous about committing a suicide bombing. Ahmad Rashad, cool TV host…used to mack on chicks with Michael Jordan. Kind of corny, yes. But dangerous or involved in terrorism…come on, man! And 99.99 percent of Muslims in America are no different. In fact, they’re not much different than other Americans, except they’re picky eaters and Islamic women only get buckwild in the private.

Anyway, stop the hate!

“Kindness is a mark of faith, and whoever is not kind has no faith.” (Islamic proverb)

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Despite selling out my race by falling in love with and impregnating a white woman, I’m still in tune with black culture (as long as said culture doesn’t get too close to my suburban home and white prize). For example, I know Idris Elba is on his way to becoming one of America’s preeminent actors and has a way of making black women feel “some kind of way.” But I didn’t know that he also raps, just like my friends from the quasi-hood who refer to me as “Euro-Negro.” Here’s Idris (rap name Driss) on a new jam with Estelle of “American Boy” fame. Man, if Idris keeps doing his thing like this I’m sure he’ll have a white woman sooner than he thinks. Shout out to my N-word, O.J.!

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

It’s a sad day in America when Medicare won’t pay for the telescope this woman desperately needs.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Is it wrong that I let my infant son cry all day so he grows up to have a voice like DMX? Man! His voice is made for rapping, sounds like an angry Teddy Pendergrass. Check him out below on the “Otis” remix with Busta Rhymes. “Went away for awhile, jail..prison, Gettin’ down for real, f**k it, livin’…” X is back! Put ya pipes in the air! Question: Would you rather pay a couple hundred to see Jay and Kanye in an arena, or $25 to see X perform in a sweaty, stank ass bar?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Planking is fading fast. Now people are wasting time on Facebook groups that make the past seem better than it was. Groups like “You know you’re from Zamunda if…(Eddie Murphy left your tribe to work at McDowell’s in Queens and hang out with a bunch of Jheri-curled Negroes).” Remember folks, the good ol’ days are now. Live accordingly.

Anyway, Hugh Hefner and his trollops are trying to bring the planking phenomenon back. Here they are having a bit of fun while the Playboy franchise withers away in favor of unlimited free instructional videos starring talent like Lex The Impaler and Vanilla Bunns. Play on old man, play on.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Yep, I tried to smoke again. S**t was so strong it pushed my hairline back. Smoke got stuck in my throat, traveled north and engorged my forehead too. Now I got that John Legend. I tried not to embarrass myself, but I couldn’t stop choking and tearing up like loose neck-ded Chris Bosh after Dirk put that whoopin’ on him, or my three-week-old son after I tell him “Stop crying! Yo’ ass best be lucky Planned Parenthood ain’t have no payment plan.” Sorry, bad joke…again.

But it wasn’t completely my fault. Fatherhood put a stop to my twice weekly bar nights, so I had no choice but to fit all types of lawlessness into the one evening: blunts, grain alcohol, a thick ass goat, nipple clamps, and a car battery. And once “Ricardo,” my friend who’s high so much you figure something’s wrong when he’s not high offered me a toke; I couldn’t say no.

However, I paid for it the next day. Debauchery no longer sits well with my stomach. Five minutes of heaving, an upchuck, a silent prayer and a yelp like Prince gives in concert (and during his wild nights with Johnny Gill, Eddie Murphy, Arsenio Hall and Magic Johnson) taught me a lesson–I’m done with blunts.

Until I make it out again.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Surprisingly, one’s ability to “superman” a trollop pays extremely well. Soulja Boy, who made a fortune from a song and dance that tricked people into celebrating the Planned Parenthood pull-out method, purchased a private jet for $55 million–as a birthday present for himself. Well, the jet was $35 million, but he then added $20 million worth of black people things. All in all it’s more than double his net worth. 

Sounds crazy, right? But not so much if you consider young Americans routinely buy cars worth more than double their net worth. The average American under 25 (Soulja Boy is 21) has a net worth of less than $1,500. Assuming he/she buys a car worth only $3,000 that’s double his net worth. Plus “buy” is a loose term. Soulja Boy likely put a down payment on the jet and will make monthly lease payments. Still, considering his most recent album sold less than 70,000 copies, after selling more than one million of his first album; Soulja Boy might want to fly Southwest.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

The women pictured above are not VH-1 harlots who smashed the homies, or nightclub drink girls who got me kicked out the party for offering sexual and spiritual healing in lieu of a tip; they’re actually professional basketball players in the Lingerie Basketball League (LBL). The league is comprised of former college basketball players, probably not whom Don Imus had in mind, and touts itself as the place “where beauty meets the hardwood” (that’s what she said).

The league opens tonight with a doubleheader in Van Nuys. Tickets for both games are $30. To attend you must be 18 and older and perhaps a bit oblivious to what $30 can get a horny 18 year old man with just a quick trip to South L.A., along Western Avenue between 27th and 30th streets. But if you’re looking for innocent, anti-feminist and safe fun with the guys, along with some gritty b-ball; the LBL is a good choice. Check out their site for more info, including player stats. By stats I mean bust, waist and hip size.

NOTE: LBL does not mean Lesbian Basketball League, you’re probably thinking of the WNBA. 

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

My 32nd birthday has been great. I got the gift of taking my son to get his foreskin snipped. Now he need not worry about having a funny looking penis and can cock-flash his friends with complete confidence. But most of all I’m thankful just to have another year. As we all know there’s only one alternative to getting older and that’s death. And based on the reviews I’ve read on Yelp, death is not a place I want to visit anytime soon. Even though it would be nice to see ‘Pac (yes, there’s a heaven for a gangsta) and Fred Sanford, “ya big dummy!”

Oh yeah, I’ve had quite a few people mention that I look young for 32. Though most of this can be attributed to my Zamundan roots, there are certain things I do to remain adolescent in spirit. For example, I make time for my hobbies (sending poison from the eyes of fugu fish to enemies from elementary school, singing “Fair Eastside High in the bathroom of my local inner-city high school) and avoid worrying about s**t I can’t control (embarrassing nocturnal emissions). Try it some time!

Anyway, thanks much for thinking of me on my special day, cupcakes. (No Amaechi.)

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Having met each other on the first day of our ubiquitous minority pre-college summer program, Terrell and I have seen each other through the typical post-adolescent growing pains. From break-ups to near academic probation to facing alienation from the tiny African American community in Athens, Ohio, we’d grown from college buddies to confidants.

A classic sartorialist and tactful in nature, Terrell’s most telling characteristic is a verbal bluntness that hints at his inner-city upbringing. With his candor a good match for my more indirect honesty, we became fast friends. In addition to the typical guy talk of girls and more girls, we spent hours on end disputing the validity of religion; laughing at the characters you can find only in a small, isolated university town; and contemplating our potential achievement as the first from our families to graduate from college. In short, he has an open ear and an opinionated mouth.

After Terrell and I return from a five hour drive to Vegas, we come back to my place to chill. I decide to distract myself on the internet while Terrell watches television. As I struggle with the unreliable connection, Terrell comes into my room and sits down, but he says little. I think about asking him if he wants to get food, but figure that since he speaks up about everything, he’ll say something if he’s hungry. I pay him little attention as I concentrate on logging onto instant messenger.

Out of nowhere he asks, “What do you think about bisexual people?”

Awaiting his punch line I reply, “I don’t know. I guess they’re greedy.”

In a disappointed tone he answers, “I’m bisexual.”

“Shut up, man. What?”

Tears pour down his face, tracing the outline of his wide African nose. He lowers his head between his knees and I see the sweat glowing beneath his Caesar haircut.

He repeats, “I’m bisexual.”

Whether it’s shock or the false notion of betrayal, I get a sinking feeling of loss. I’ve always considered myself liberal and supportive of gay rights, but discover that the situation is different when someone so close to me comes out his impeccably neat designer closet.

Besides a couple distant relatives who are gay and a few associates who are rumored to be bisexual, my only encounters with homosexuality have been through discussions of tossed salads on prison television shows and Ned Beatty’s getting turned out on the banks of the Cahulawassee River. So of course I have stereotypes of gay males as prison bitches or sexcrazed aggressors around whom I need to lock my ass cheeks and post an “Exit only” sign near the crack.

But this is Terrell! My best friend who has just tongued down some woman in a Vegas elevator. I need to disregard my stereotypes—right now—and be there for him, as he has been there for me countless times before. From taking out a student loan and giving me half to pay for my fraternity initiation, to distracting ex-girlfriends when I wanted to stray in peace, to delivering a punch toward a would-be attacker that missed and accidentally hit the foe’s girlfriend, Terrell is one of the few people I can count on.

I ask him, “Are you sure? Were you always bisexual?”

He doesn’t answer this immediately, but instead gets to the point that’s at the front, side, corner and back of my mind. “I never thought of you in that way. I wasn’t sure if I was, but I know I am,” he says.

Relieved, I become more accepting and my ass cheeks relax.

I start to think of signs from our seven-year-long friendship. Should I have seen this coming? After all, he’s really into fashion. So much so that he doesn’t have mere clothes; his wardrobe is more like wearable art. Well yeah, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look GQ.

What about the two guys he smacked? Literally bitch slapped right in the face. He could have punched them, but he chose to take their manhood with his open hand.Damn, I shouldn’t be that surprised. And maybe I shouldn’t be that concerned. I gather my composure and tell him, “It doesn’t matter, man; it’s just sex.” His mood immediately brightens, but I still wonder if this is going to change who I’ve known him to be. Will I end up seeing him on television at a gay pride march wearing a rainbow-print doo-rag? Will his hip-hop dancing and grinding on women become vogueing contests with emaciated, spike-haired white guys wearing lip rings and mesh shirts? Probably not, if he’s been bisexual the entire time I’ve known him.

Wait … maybe I shouldn’t even use the terms bisexual or gay. They’re both tainted with negative connotations. If you don’t believe me, go up to a random person and ask, “Hey, I was just wondering, are you gay?” So from now on I’ll say Terrell is a sexual maverick, a term that gives him an edge that might protect him from the rampant homophobia that we all know exists.

F**k it; whatever he chooses to call himself is fine by me. What right do I have to judge?

This post is an altered excerpt from my book, The Imperfect Enjoyment. The flow’s a little messed up due to deleting parts relevant to the book but not the blog post. Anyway, watching TV reports of mens marrying mens and fish marrying fish this weekend in New York made me nostalgic for this story. If heterosexual black men like myself, who tend to be some of the most homophobic people in the country, can overcome our discriminatory beliefs everyone will have equal rights and phrases like “that’s gay” will one day mean cool. We shall see. 

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I peeked through the bathroom door as my lady took her morning pee and thought to myself, “Hell yeah! Look at those thighs! That’s a real woman!” Furthermore, as I wrote in my book, “When a woman sits on a toilet, her ass and thighs should engulf the seat…if it looks like she’s sitting on a soup bowl,that’s an A+; if it looks like she’s sitting on Caesar salad bowl, that’s a B; if she needs to hold the sides of the toilet to stop her skinny ass from falling in, that’s a failing grade.”

A woman’s thighs should be jiggly and shake repeatedly, like when Muhammad Ali carried the torch in the ’96 Olympics. Sorry, bad joke. But what I’m trying to say is there’s no need to tone them, do squats or worry about them rubbing together (just throw a little baby powder between them so they don’t get too tender to touch). And who cares about a little cellulite? It’s nice to touch it, reminds me of when I would play with topographic maps in elementary school. As for stretch marks? Those are just secret trails to your magic kingdom/mon-kay/clam/snatch/trap/mound…ok, that’s crude. But fun. I’ll stop. More pics on the next page.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

White Dudes Liked Them On Marilyn Monroe

Even Pakistanis Have To Shout?

Get your ass out the gym!

I was browsing the internet for a doo-rag that matches my favorite linen suit when I spotted this clever new product: The Doo-Rag Visor, as modeled by Master P. It allows you to maintain 360 waves while also blocking the sun and haters lurking in the projects windows above. And as you can see in the picture it goes great with a gold chain, even gold over bronze chains that South Asians and Arabs sell from inner-city kiosks. The Doo-Rag Visor is also available in various animal prints and of course red, black and green for brothas who have recently changed their names after listening to lessons from a kufi wearing uncle. Order yours today! Shout out to “I’m Not A Toy “ for the pic.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

God works in mysterious ways, such as using Bishop Eddie Long to show us boys and body shirts don’t mix. Now He’s using DMX, just out of prison, as a vessel for His word. And boy does he bring it home! Man, X’s voice is rough yet soothing, sort of like a childhood beating and subsequent apology from Dad. I really hope X gets his own church one day. Of course only when he’s completely sobered up. It’s not ideal to have parishioners paying tithes with angel dust. Anyway, best of luck to X on his release and recovery. If you’re reading, try not to have your homies intimidate me like they did when I tried to get a picture with you in the Detroit airport. Woof?

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

When my lady’s water broke, marking the coming of our first born, I licked the amniotic fluid that ran down her leg. Why? 1) I like to be juicy mouth-ded. 2) To solidify the physical bond between the three of us. 3) To mark the beginning of a life-long course in fatherhood.

Here’s what I’ve learned during my first week (other than amniotic fluid is only tasty in minuscule quantities and when combined with skin that’s been moistened with Neutrogena cocoa butter lotion):

-Don’t believe anyone who says “Even if you don’t think newborns are cute you’ll think yours is.” That’s a lie. When Nile was first born I thought he looked like a baby possum with a cone head. It wasn’t until his head humanized and they cleaned him up that he looked like a mix between Fabio and Black Jesus.

-Babies are so far less expensive than I was led to believe. Prior to the pregnancy I was spending about $150 a week on bars and cologne. During the pregnancy this went down to $50 a week as I went out less and started sniffing bath salts for a cheaper buzz. Since Nile’s been here I haven’t gone out for a drink once, except to get beer at Walmart. His food is free (comes from the titty) and $10 worth of pampers last him a week. If he keeps this up Baby Jordans might be in his future.

-Fathering a newborn is very much like a basketball game. The baby is the coach. He demands that the players (Mom and Dad) perform at a high level. But Mom is the all-star. She has the talent (her milk and ability to soothe); she and the coach have a long and intimate history (10 months and counting); and the coach most trusts her to execute–so he always wants her close. Dad is like a marginally talented role player off the bench. He has to fill in the small gaps to make the team championship caliber. Such as not pouting when coach takes his titties and his space in the bed, whipping up breakfast while the all-star feeds the coach, getting the hell out the way and conserving energy when other team members (relatives, friends) want to tend to the all-star, making sure Mom has enough mineral oil so her pipes don’t clog, and saying “Yep, sounds good to me” when Mom makes any baby related suggestions.

-It’s easy to worry as a father. You want to make sure your child has the opportunity to be brilliant and avoids adding pictures on Facebook with the caption “Dad and I” when it should actually read “Me and Dad.” And obviously you want to ensure he remains physically safe and doesn’t hit his head after rolling off the couch, no matter how hilarious it would be if you had it on tape to send to “Tosh.O.” But there’s no need to fret. Babies have superhuman abilities. Not only can they hear better than adults and see dead people, but as Nile as proven their skin cells can regenerate in mere hours after a self-inflicted scratch or injury. Lesson being, chill out and let him fall a bit.

Well, that’s what I’ve learned thus far. Nile are I are really excited about his upcoming circumcision so I’m sure that too will be an educational experience. Feel free to let me know anything you have learned while raising kids, even if you are a deadbeat that complains that “My B.M. finna take me to jail.” Thanks for reading.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

I’ve had a complex relationship with money. I’ve made a good amount; went broke spending it on cars and other types of Negro Kryptonite, made more and lost it in the stock market crash of 2008, and then worked smarter not harder to make enough to cover my needs and a few wants: good beer, Luster’s Pink Oil Moisturizer, big boxes of Mike & Ike’s, and now an investment property.

I started my search for an investment property with a budget of $15,000. Yep, you read that correctly. I was looking for a property for the price of a Kia. A used Kia with spinner hubcaps and a broken window motor. So in case you’re wondering if property is a good investment in today’s economic climate, there’s your answer. Considering you can get a fairly good place for less than $15,000 in parts of the country, rental property is still a good investment. But keep in mind you’ll probably need cash. Banks generally are not giving loans for less than 50k and banks damn sure weren’t giving me a loan for any amount. Apparently banks favor a sterling credit report over a fist bump, man hug and an “I’ma get you back soon as soon as I can.”

With such a small budget my search for an investment property would need to be nationwide. I live in San Diego, where $15,000 won’t even cover one year of rent. So I began searching in Cleveland, my hometown. The Great Recession and the loss of LeBron James decimated the local economy. And groups of teens who jaywalk slowly in front of oncoming traffic without a care in the world while daring you to beep at them, had lowered the property values in previously great suburban neighborhoods. But of course there were still pockets of safe, comfortable neighborhoods in Cleveland’s suburbs where deals could be had.

I found a small three bedroom, 1.5 bath home in the suburb of Garfield Heights priced at $14,900 that could likely rent for around $600. It was right near my budget, but there was a catch. The property was more than livable but needed about $10,000 in city mandated repairs to bring it to neighborhood standards (driveway needed to be repaved, plumbing redone, assorted other small repairs). Not so bad, right? Well the city also requires buyers to give them 75% of the estimated repair costs to hold until the repairs are completed. Regrettably, they also refused to accept a fist bump, man hug and an “I’ma get you back soon as soon as I can” in lieu of an excessively large 75% down payment. I needed to look elsewhere.

My search continued in Phoenix, Arizona. I spent hours browsing Trulia.com and various other real estate websites. I made a few contacts and met a couple-few sellers who were offering owner financing with a large down payment. Nope. I wanted to pay cash and be mortgage free.

Surprisingly enough I looked on a website frequented by pervs looking for one nighters and people looking to buy used furniture, Craigslist, and found a nice two bedroom, one bath condo in an “OK” neighborhood. The place was recently renovated and was being sold for $20,000 by an investor looking to leave the state. Her recent tenant had moved out, but the place was just rented for $500 a month, minus HOA fees of $150.

I drove down to Phoenix to view the place and meet the seller. Other than a strange man in the complex parking lot who asked me for a ride to the bus stop, the neighborhood seemed only slightly below average. The actual condo was clean. Nothing fancy of course, but it had a washer/dryer, shiny linoleum floors and two small bedrooms. Though I had never purchased a home, I pretended to know a bit about real estate and conducted an “inspection,” which mainly consisted of me looking in closets and saying, “Yep, yep…looks good.” Then I called the HOA company to see if the monthly fees were paid to date, they were. Finally I called my lawyer friend and had him run a title search, it was clear and the seller owned the property outright. Interestingly enough he also uses Craigslist, but more so for things I should not speak of.

On the drive back to San Diego I sent the seller a text message offer of $14,500. Lower than the listed price but not a “Negro please!” lowball offer. She accepted. Just a week later I returned to Phoenix and we transferred the title at the Maricopa County recorder’s office. No playa-hating banks and no mortgage or title fees, just a plain ol’ purchase and transfer.

I immediately hired a property management company and put the place on the market for $550. But I soon learned property managers generally aren’t too aggressive in getting your property rented if you only own a two bedroom shack that gives them an income of $50 a month. So I went back on Craigslist and found a tenant who posted an ad in the housing wanted section of the site. Within a week the place was rented for $550 a month, plus a $550 deposit. However, I required a lease be signed and did not settle for a fist bump, man hug and an “I’ma get you back soon as soon as I can.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Some illnesses are hilarious—for example, monkeypox. As we saw during the outbreak of 2003 it’s like chickenpox except it makes people do crazy s**t, like throw feces and bite their handlers. Rickets…even funnier. Nothing more hilarious than seeing old bowlegged men. Step your vitamin D game up, son! But HIV is not so funny. Like other diseases that are known by acronyms (BBS: Bashful Bladder Syndrome); HIV is a very serious matter.

A few years back I went to the campus clinic because my face was turning white. I thought to ride it out and do whites only things like hitchhike or become a contestant on “The Bachelorette,” but I didn’t want to lose the ability to say “n**ga” while rapping along to all the hits from Cash Money Records. My doctor, a monotone and seemingly bored man, diagnosed me with tinea versicolor (TV). He said TV is a yeast-based fungal infection that changes your pigment production. In short, I pretty much had a yeast infection on my face. That’s hot.

But then the doctor started making cryptic statements. He said, “I’ve never seen tinea cover someone’s entire face.” He added, “We need to see why your immune system is not fighting off the fungus. I’ll have to run a test of your white blood count.”

I got a little nervous, but considering I live by the mantra of “I don’t get sick, I get even” I wasn’t too worried. Plus I’m a friggin’ stud emotionally and figured I can deal with whatever comes my way, except for dealing with the self-anguish that results from my inability to whistle.

The doctor called about a week later and said “Your white blood cell count is extremely low.” And then he hit me with the killer “You should come in for a confidential HIV test.”

That hit me hard. First thought: “This punk ass doctor really just told me this on the phone. HIV is fighting words!” I mean, come on. Tell me to get an HIV test to my face…so I can have someone to hug when I get week in the knees. Then I tried to respond coherently, but the devastation made me speak in slave talk, “Do yous o’fen see this here illness on campus” or something like that. He replied, “Around one percent of the people we test at the clinic are positive.” S**t. I agreed to come in for a test.

But first I needed someone to talk to. My girlfriend at the time, who suffered from an illness called celibacy, was out the question for the time being. So I called my best friend, who said “Don’t worry, man.” But he didn’t give me a reason not to worry. So I worried more. Hours later I called my dad. He remained levelheaded and said “Worse case you just have to take the meds and deal with it. Magic Johnson’s doing fine.” But then he threw some HIV humor, “You just gotta get that Magic Johnson money!” Damn, Dad.

Since I had beef with my campus doctor I decided to go to a community clinic for the test. These were the days before the 20 minute confidential HIV test was popular, so I had to wait five days for the results. I waited longer than five days, went to Cleveland for Christmas vacation and could not bring myself to get the results when I returned to San Diego.

But I was unable stop thinking about HIV. I spent hours online reading up on the disease and freaked out when I discovered black men have the highest HIV infection rate of any group. I thought to myself “I wonder if my chances are lower ‘cause I’m light skin-ded.” Nah, bruh. Then I read about high-risk behaviors like butt sex, IV drug use and unprotected vaginal sex. I figured, “Well, I’m kind of metrosexual and one of my goals in life is to be sexy like Rod Stewart, but I’ve never engaged in any homosexual acts, or hetero anal (woah!). And you can’t inject marijuana. As for participating in unprotected vaginal sex…oops, but for most of my adult life I did tend to wear condoms on weekdays.”

All the thinking drove me crazy. I was stressed out and unable to eat much. An ex-flame even joked, “You got skinny, Dewan. Better get that AIDS test.” I thought to myself, “Laugh now, cry later b***h.”

I finally gave in and went to a different clinic that offered the 20 minutes of hell test. The HIV counselor, a flamboyant and hefty gay dude, asked questions about my sexual history. Then he put the thing in my mouth. No Amaechi. I mean he put the swab in my mouth and then placed it in a bag and took it away. He returned and told me the results. NEGATIVE.

I was pumped as hell and wanted to hug the guy. But at the time I was foolishly uncomfortable around gays and thought he might want my anal virginity. So I shook his hand, a really strong manly shake too, and left. Then I called my people when I got back into the car and bragged like I just got a new job. “Negative! I knew I was fine!”

I drove off and thought to myself, “All this stress is crazy. I need to go out and have some sex.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

They did not know me well; I kept quiet in their presence. I was afraid my eccentricities–talking to myself in Old English, the bout with depression over the inability to beat myself in shadowboxing, the tattoo above my package that reads “Make you queef or die trying,” storing a razor beneath my tongue to fix my stutter–were too much for most people to understand. In fact, I had hoped and prayed with great zeal that my powerful loins, which impregnated their dear friend, had said enough. But more was required. I was asked to give an impromptu speech at the baby shower to celebrate our unborn son.

As the speech was to begin I felt afraid that four beers and two cups of wine in two hours had gotten the best of me. Just minutes earlier I yelled “Her nipples are like sausages now! Like pizza sausages!” during a conversation about my better half’s decision to breastfeed, I think. But with only five seconds to prepare for the most important speech of my life, even more important than the speech I gave to bridge the “jiggaboo/wannabe” divide among students at Mission College in the late ’80s, I would need to get my shit together. If I couldn’t tens of young potential parents would be scared into using the Planned Parenthood pullout method, or other techniques that decrease the likelihood of going half on a baby. And the terrorists would win. Well, maybe not. But that sounds like something that should go at the end of that sentence.

The speech began and surprisingly my voice sounded clear and serious; I commanded attention. You know how Chris Hansen from “To Catch A Predator” sounds when he hates on suburban fathers trying to inspire youth through online education? That was me. For two amazing minutes my words centered on “celebrating the baby and the importance of maintaining friendships during parenthood.” In short, I was saying that even though we’ll be busy parenting be sure to invite us out for free drinks.

As my speech concluded tears fell throughout the room. Well, I at least saw one person crying. But unlike most times when I see someone cry I didn’t laugh out loud. I grinned with a big, drunken smile. I then looked around and noticed the room was a bit emptier than when I started. The sheer magnitude of my words had caused people to leave the room, much more so than boredom did. I felt on top of the world, as confident as ever! And I thought to myself, “I bet I can finally beat my own ass in shadowboxing.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog 

Pimpin’ ain’t easy, nor is it cool. Who wants a life full of violence and Just For Me No Lye Gentle Hair Relaxer? Not to mention carpal tunnel syndrome from excessive backhand slapping. My childhood friend Tip-Toe, a former international pimp and star on the JV basketball team, always told me “Man, these hos be inflaming my joints and twisting my ligaments. I’m tellin’ you man, get your degree and pimp that corporate game. But send me some of them college hos while you doing that…oh yeah, can a nig*a hold $10?”

However, all is not bad for pimps. They can change their lives by following the lead of Chuvit Kamolvisit, a former brothel owner who’s now running for parliament in Thailand. Chuvit once employed over 1,000 women in masage parlors that offered handies and more, including ball tickling. He was able to keep his illegal business afloat thanks to $300,000 in monthly bribes he gave to PO-lice and government officials.  But the PO-lice flipped on him and closed down his empire. So he decided to beat them at their own game by running for office. Pimp s**t!

Apparently Chuvit is the real deal and has a chance of winning. In fact, he had a fair chance of winning last time but he beat down a newsman for asking the wrong questions. Fair enough. But he’s since put the violence and gorilla pimping aside to run an independent, anti-corruption campaign with rallies in Thailand’s seediest neighborhoods. Chuvit says, “I say yes … I should go back to the massage parlors, because that was better — cleaner than politics.”

Chuuch.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

My heart don’t pump no Kool-Aid. I’m fearless and enjoy doing dangerous things like ghostriding a ’78 Cutlass down East 9th Street in Cleveland and playing drinking games with white people. But I’m scared of Pit Bulls. They’re ruthless and skrong, way too skrong. And like the Gibson boys they gang up on you in a fight and try to rip you apart if you fall to the ground (Durrell takes the legs, Big Wayne takes the arms, Dewan takes the soul).

But is my fear misplaced? Well, maybe. Pit Bulls actually don’t have dog’s strongest bite, they’re third behind Rottweilers and German Shepherds. And smaller dogs with Napoleon complexes who travel in purses are more likely to bite. But according to the Center for Disease Control the dog most responsible for human deaths is the Pit Bull. In fact, DogsBite.org said Pit Bulls killed 52 Americans from 2006-2008. Shit! That’s more than Osama bin Laden killed in the same time frame! Not to mention the entire state of Texas was considering banning Pit Bulls. That’s right, Texas–who celebrate human executions as a state past-time were considering a ban on Pit Bulls that would result in felony charges for those who owned one.

Anyway, just a a few days ago I had my first face-to-face encounter with two feared members of Al-Canine. My friend “Marco,” a gregarious and gentle Mexican giant with an addiction to weed, women, tattoos and big rims (in that order), said “come check out the dogs” as I was having a beer and contact high at his place. By “dogs” he meant two Pit Bulls that were hiding in a backyard shed plotting acts of violence. I said “Nah man I’m cool. I’m not really into Pit Bulls like that.” But just like that time in middle school when I reluctantly French kissed the girl down the street with the Jheri curl and the angry father, peer pressure got the best of me.

I walked towards the backyard as I do when I go into clubs with metal detectors and specials on Hennessy; tense and puffy chested. Marco was already out back opening the shed when I had a change of heart. I tried to close the glass door, but as is typically the case in homes owned by weed smokers, random shit like backyard doors break and remain broken until the owner comes down from his high–never.

The two Pit Bulls ran up to me like I was their long lost friend. The blue one with the gigantic testicles (no canine homo) got a little too happy and jumped up on me. I suddenly felt a whole lot of bitch run through my blood. I shrieked like Prince, but only in the inside. The smaller Pit rushed back and forth between my legs, playfully testing me out like a fish in prison. I kept my manhood. I thought, “Damn man just chill. When they attack you Marco will get ‘em off you.” Then I did what I learned in birthing classes with my girlfriend, I took deep breaths. That didn’t work so I got more nervous and started asking stupid questions to take my mind elsewhere. “How they get so skrong? Oh you kept his balls on, huh? He big. What he mixed with? You keep ‘em in the back, like a surprise for the neighbors, huh?”

The visit was quickly over the dogs returned to their shed on command.  I felt like I did when I shanked this guy in juvie who tried to take my loafers–hard as hell. Well, that was just a dream. But that’s how I felt. Man, I ran that prison.

Marco and I go back into the house and he says, “Let me show my other dog.” Shit. He must have a Pit in the house too? Damn. I bet he calls him Osama.

He comes back with a Teacup Chihuahua puppy. Though he probably bites I could take him in a wrestling match if it came to that. Marco says, “He’s for sale. You want him? I keep him inside for now. The Pits are gonna try to eat him.”

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog

Damn I wish I could take a nekkid picture like this. Problem is I get nervous which triggers the automatic lock on my ass cheeks. Then I begin to wonder if my gooch hair is properly braided, which makes me even more nervous. After that my fierceness and mojo are gone and I look like a little boy from a “Feed the Children” commercial. Why, God! Why!

But I guess everyone can’t have a certain je ne sais quoi like Fred “THE HAMMER” Williamson. He has a coolness that can’t be taught. A swag that can’t be replicated. A dick that’s tender enough to tame a restless kitty. A powerful foot that might end up on your throat if you mess up his line-up. And a smile that makes him look like your polite black neighbor who won’t come to your cookouts but will f**k your wife. “Girl you move this kitty the whole damn room go dark.”

And there’s a lesson to be learned from this picture: Y’all young boys need to learn how to turn these women on. Stop sending ‘em pics of your ashy cock. Hire yourself a student photographer, reserve a room at your local library, kidnap a stray cat and take nekkid pics like you got some damn sense. Like a real man. Like the one and only, Fred “THE HAMMER” Williamson.

Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog