Al Sharpton: Bump & Grind
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
"Ok Now Watch the Hair"
I’m Al Sharpton bitch! Check out Rev. Al getting his grind on at the Apollo to celebrate Michael Jackson’s life. Looks as if he’s doing some sort of old Bill Cosby move with a bit more sex appeal. Speak Reverend!
"Jesus said give me that ass!"
"Naw Man, Don't Want That Ass"
Poems from the Pen
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Social Comm
I know I make jokes about Big Leroy in San Quentin and allude to my fear of having my anal virginity taken while incarcerated, but of course there are actually people in the pen doing hard time. And statiscally speaking most of us know at least one person in there right now. Well, as a special post I’ve included poems from my Uncle Tony aka Skip Donahue, who is doing time in Noble Correctional Institute. Growing up we called his black ass Uncle Boo and he was instrumental in shaping me and my brother’s sense of humor (though these poems are serious). Within the last few months we started corresponding again and hopefully we’ll soon have a buckwild ass and titties welcome home party. Until then drop Skip a comment and I’ll mail out what you all say. Thanks!
Where’s Thou Cameltoe?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Beyonce’s lil sis Solange Knowles performed at San Francisco’s Gay Pride in this outfit (isn’t that like every day up there). I could care less about the outfit’s sartorial qualities, outside of the fact that Solange appears to display little to no camel toe. In fact there is no muff to speak of. Listen, when I see I lycra I want to see the imprint of a V-shaped afro. What a tease! Check out the pic below for a prime example of how to display proper camel toe. Ice T’s wife Coco is legendary in this department.
Ice-T Gonna Beat His Ass
Ol’ Dirty Draws
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Look At Those Tracks!
I don’t usually walk around town looking for discarded underwear, but I found these shitty draws near the parking lot at work. The brown and blue contrast is stunning, in fact it appears the wearer took a shit outside, removed her draws and then wiped with said draws. Oh what creativity! One person’s soiled underwear is another person’s art.
Player Hall of F(sh)ame: Governor Mark Sanford
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Player Hall of F(sh)ame
"Listen playa--if u saw her you'd take a secret trip too"
South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford is my next inductee into the Player Hall of F(sh)ame. As someone who traveled to Denmark for trim I can sort of understand the Governor’s top secret trip to Argentina to see his mistress. But you can’t travel all that way and tell your staff that you’re going to the Appalachia area for a hiking trip! So here he is now BUSTED after concerned SC legislators wondered why the governor was missing without giving notice. Well now we know why: PUSSY WHIPPED! Like my Great Grandma always says “Whip that pussy, don’t let that pussy whip you.” Okay, actually John Witherspoon from “Friday” says that, but I know my great-grandma agrees. Kind of sucks that he’s married and was considered a front-runner for the GOP presidential nomination in 2012. BTW the pic below is not the woman he was cheating with, but actually Argentinian model Melina Pitra. I just figured I’d give Sanford the benefit of the doubt and assume his mistress looks something like her.
President Obama Loves My Book
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
Both Big Los and the Pres Agree!
Who would’ve known that President Obama is such a big fan of my book! I hear his favorite section is when I fantasize about sniffing coke off a fat white girl’s ass. Those Harvard men have great taste in literature!
National Punch a Preacher Day
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
When I think of preachers I think of Pastor Darryl Scott in Cleveland Heights, Ohio who often talked of having a strong moral backing, but then tried to holla at my mom at the grocery store (yes he was married). Evidently the assailant in this video views this man of the Lord in the same regard. Watch as he shakes the preacher’s hand and then hits him with a right hand. Shit looks straight out of an old school western. The preacher not only turns the other cheek, but also turns completely around and walks away in a daze. Thankfully the organist, who is blessed with a great modern day mullett, keeps the service going. Can I get a witness!
Sing it With Me: Ass/Ass/Ass!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
There’s really no reason to post this pic. However, it is Sunday afternoon and I’m sure if Jesus saw this ass he would say “GOD DAMN!” Maybe I’m going a bit too far, but I’d probably propose to these girls having only seen them from behind. Their asses are multifunctional: pillow, chewing toy, punching bag, foot stool, beach chair…the list goes on! Enjoy.
Negro Kryptonite (Sample from The Imperfect Enjoyment)
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
MOVING ON IS MUCH EASIER said than done. I think back to some bullshit advice I once got that claims it takes a third of the time you spent in a relationship to get over it. So for at least the next sixteen months I’ll be stuck with this guilt and regret, constantly thinking of how I didn’t even have enough sense to take off that silly nightclub outfit and have a proper last moment with Haniyah. No, I refuse to go through more than a year of this shit.
Trying at least to start the move-on process, I relocate from the drab sliding-door-entrance apartment to a proper bachelor pad equipped with air conditioning and a balcony. Then after receiving a promotion at the community health center, I, like many young black men who focus on image instead of building wealth, decide to purchase an expensive depreciating asset as soon as possible. After having my eye on a Chrysler Crossfire for almost a year, a two-door, futuristic poor man’s Porsche, I take the plunge.
Calling around to a few car dealerships in search of my dream ride, I find a year-old Crossfire at a large suburban dealership. Within thirty minutes I’m there in my beaten-down Nissan sedan with the Tijuana paint job and the stereo that shuts itself off and on when the road gets too rough. Armed with a blank check from a reckless financier, I test drive the two-seater and feel my potential for new women grow exponentially.
While not a Ferrari, which offers a cash-back warranty to drivers who don’t see a marked increase in the number of available sex partners, it is a fitting car for a now single and somewhat successful young man.
After an hour of refusing special paint protection and unlimited warranties, I hand the check over to the dealership and progress begins. The college degrees I earned in the easy
majors and the moderately hard work I’ve done over the past few years have come to fruition in the form of a V6 engine and angular styling. Never mind that it does not have back seats and is designed in a such way that the driver can’t see out the rear-view mirror, or that it once flipped over as the dealer was exiting the highway, leaving a slight nick on the roof. This car is change.
Finally, I drive my new ride off the lot. I recklessly coast down Interstate 15, disregarding the danger inherent in speeding over one hundred miles per hour. I pull off and onto the
highway, strolling through mini-malls and shopping plazas, hoping someone sees me cruising in my self-importance.
Considering that in my family, the purchase of a new car has the importance of the birth of a first-born son, I pull over and call my dad to tell him the good news. His enthusiasm
approaches that of an overpaid twelfth man whose team just made a comeback in game seven of the NBA finals. “What! They let you drive it off the lot already! You gotz to be kidding me. Damn!”
After a month of enjoying my new ride, I take a quick getaway trip to Phoenix. The driving portion of the trip lives upto my expectations. The early morning desert highway is empty, giving me the chance to speed past tumbleweeds and peculiar roadrunners. I pass through parched and impoverished towns surrounded by decaying nothingness and I wonder how people live in such conditions, until I see a Super Wal-Mart that could probably feed much of sub-Saharan Africa.
Five hours later I’m in Phoenix. While trying to find my hotel, I stop at a fundraising car wash held by evangelical teens. The female disciples flirtatiously admire my worldly asset as they wash and shine. One girl says, “Are you from Los Angeles
or something?” “Nah, just down from San Diego. L.A. can be a little too much sometimes.”
I want to continue the conversation, not out of law-breaking lust, but out of curiosity of how she supposedly found God at such an early age. But my questions and criticisms could keep me there for hours, so I move on. The hotel is actually more of a resort. Typical of hotels in the Phoenix and Scottsdale areas, it includes golf, tennis and
enough old white people to fill a Wayne Newton concert.
Browsing the grounds, I find a bike trail and other amenities I couldn’t care less about. But the room has a Jacuzzi bathtub and a bed much softer than my IKEA mattress. Compared to the hostels and living-rooms I’ve slept in, this is a five-star resort. I call up a female friend who lives in the area, in the hopes that she’s able to hang out. I met Andrea a few weeks earlier when she was in San Diego for her sorority’s conference. Since then we’ve had at least two long phone conversations per week. She’s recently out of long-term relationship that left her with a young daughter, so we’re able to discuss our ex-partners without the usual apprehension.
She is not a typical sorority girl: a blonde who refers to oral sex as a “BJ” and sees a lesbian experience as a college rite of passage. Andrea is actually a thick Latina who works full-time as a correctional officer to put herself through school and raise her young daughter. She sounds startled that I actually drove down as I said I might. I ask her to dinner, but she’s scheduled to work most of the night and probably can’t find a babysitter on such short notice.I don’t force the issue, considering my spontaneity could be her inconvenience. I tell her, “Don’t worry about it. I’m only a few hours away; we can catch up some other time.” But she gives her word that she’ll try to trade shifts. If she can’t, she’ll try to see me the following morning before I hit the highway back to San Diego.
In the meantime, with nothing planned, I drive around the city and go to the mall, where I sit around and have lunch while watching a diverse mixture of Mexican cowboys and
hip yuppies browse the stores. I try to brave the scorching heat to visit the outdoor shops, but even with the sidewalk mist fans, it’s unbearable. Somehow the native Arizonians carry on as if their breath isn’t being sucked away by the triple- digit temperatures.
I go back to the resort and while I’m taking a short nap, Andrea calls. She’s at work, but is getting off early. Not knowing my way around the area, I ask her to meet me at one of the restaurants I found at the mall. I dig through my book bag for an outfit that’s hip and weather appropriate. I find nothing. Foolishly expecting cool nights similar to those in San Diego, I packed The Blazer, an army of button-down shirts and an old dressy t-shirt I was planning to sleep in. In desperation, I iron the shirt and discover that it looks less worn than I thought, so I throw it on with a pair of dark blue jeans. I’m back at the mall with an hour to spare to find a nice restaurant that won’t break my brittle bank.
Thankfully, when Andrea arrives, there’s no she-beast surprise. Just as I remember, she’s of average height with a round playful face. Her child-bearing hips easily allow one to guess at what’s behind. A tribal tattoo stretches from the small of her back to her waist.
I try to appear as confident as I did the night we met and greet her with a strong hug. We walk to our table and I nudge her chair a bit even though it’s already pulled out. She says,
“Ah, thanks. You’re so nice,” as an older sister would to her little brother.
We order drinks before selecting a fancy Mexican dish. During dinner, we talk just like we have on the telephone. With the stress of school, a busy workday and raising a child, it seems she never has a chance to vent. Seemingly impressed with my listening skills, she goes on about her daughter and her job. I put on my interested look, nod my head and say “Whaaaatttt” every thirty to forty-five seconds.
Enjoying the ease of drinking beer and listening, I try to deflect questions back to her whenever the conversation turns to me. But she continues to probe. “So do you always just travel around alone and just show up places?”
Sounding much more interesting than I really am, I answer, “Yeah, you know, sometimes you just feel like getting up and seeing something different. If you wait for friends you’ll be waiting forever.”
She then asks, “Are you only staying here for the night?”
Instantly reevaluating my travel plans I say, “Well, it depends. The resort is nice and it seems cool here. I wouldn’t mind staying an extra night.”
After nearly two hours at the restaurant we reach that awkward moment when someone, usually the woman, decides to extend or end the date. I make the offer.
“The resort place I’m staying at has a bar. There’s mostly old people staying there, but it looks nice.” Obviously, after seven years of studying communication, my persuasive skills still are not refined.
“There might be a bar near here, but I’m not sure.”
“Okay. You want to try to find it?”
“No, let’s just go back to your place.”
My place? I don’t own a thing here and got the room on a priceline.com discount, but tonight it is, in fact, my place. Andrea leaves her car at the mall and rides with me to the resort. I get the door for her and watch her sink with surprise into the almost-floor-level passenger seat. As I get in the cockpit, she says, “Wow, this is really … it’s a really cute car.”
I want to tell her that “cute” does not accurately describe a car with a powerful V6 engine and an automatic retracting spoiler. How about calling it “dangerous,” “sexually aggressive” or just plain old “off the chain?” Instead I answer, “Yeah, I like it. It’s cool because it’s strong and it rides pretty good.”
She just nods her head in agreement.
Sitting close in the compact car, we are quiet on the ride to the resort. Well versed in easing tension through alcohol, I tell Andrea, “I think I brought a bottle of wine in my bag. It’s not the best stuff. Well, it was on sale at the grocery store, but I’m sure its okay.”
Laughing, she says, “Let’s just drink that instead of trying to kick it with the old people.” The room has few seating options so we both end up sitting on the king-size bed. Over-enthused with the way things are turning out, I break the cork in half while trying to open
the bottle. She laughs at my lack of dexterity and soon we’re drinking sediment-filled wine out of plastic hotel cups. Between sips she moves closer to me and I return the favor to take up the last six inches that separate us. I sit there for at least five minutes, frozen and unsure if her hints are really hints. Thinking “The hell with it,” I make my move.
The hints were real. Andrea’s kisses move from my lips to my neck. She bites near my shoulder and I jump at the pain that doesn’t feel as good as the movies make it appear. I toughen up and come even closer for more.
She whispers in my ear, “I wanted to fuck you as soon as I met you.”
What the hell? Occasionally women have told me I’m “cute.” But as far as wanting to have sex with someone as soon as they’ve met, that’s reserved for the too-cool muscular guys who speak in hushed tones. Women are more likely to date me for a while, laugh at me when we finally get undressed and look for that previously mentioned muscular guy when they get tired of bumping against a sack of bones. But I don’t argue with Andrea.
We continue kissing and move across the bed so her legs hang off, spread and folded at the knee. I struggle to remove her jeans and she starts pushing and kicking playfully as I pull.
After a few strong tugs her underwear comes off with the jeans. Bush…lots of bush. She could cornrow that shit if she wanted.
I do a three second condom on penis maneuver and I’m soon inside. Less than a minute passes and I already know I can’t last. To regain my composure I withdraw and let her
ride on top. I still can’t hang. I grip her waist tightly to stop her movement and try for another change of position. I say “I wanna get behind you.” She replies, “You might hurt me with that.”
She’s lying her ass off, but at least she knows how to boost my ego. She stays on top and I release in a fit a spasms. Sorry, but that’s how I get down, short and intense. I’ll leave
the marathon sex to the porn stars. Afterwards we lie and watch television in uncomfortable embraces. She tells me that she has to pick up her daughter from the babysitter and should be on her way. I let her know that I’m staying an extra day and hope to see her before or after work tomorrow.
After driving her back to her car, I contemplate finding a bar to hang out at, but decide to take full advantage of a long sleep on the comfortable bed. On the way back from the mall I notice that the dashboard lights are dim. I turn off the radio and air conditioning and speed back to the resort, thinking that my battery is being drained by the extreme temperatures. I sleep for a few hours, but keep waking up with the hunch that something is wrong.
Thinking the car might have overheated, I go out to check on it in the slightly cooler late night. It powers on without a struggle, but the dashboard lights are still dim. Knowing little about cars besides how to drive them to the mechanic for service, I panic. Afraid to drive in the daytime temperatures and of the possible risks of overheating, I decide to make a run for it. It’s around 5:00 a.m. I pack my stuff, check out of the hotel and get straight onto the highway, hoping to make it back to California’s cooler weather before I end up stuck in Arizona. After about three hours on the road, the car is still running smoothly. I get a call from Andrea to meet for breakfast. I casually break the news to her that I’ve left. “I’m on the highway not too far from San Diego. I ended up leaving early…”
She doesn’t even give me time to explain. Click.
Thinking I lost the signal, I try to call her back, but there’s no answer. Well, I fucked that up big time. So much for weekend trips to Phoenix once a month. In my anxiety over the whole situation, I start to fool around with the numerous knobs and buttons in my car. I come across a rotating lever near the headlight switch. I turn it one way, but it seems to have no effect. I play around with it some more and see the stereo faceplate brightening and then dimming. Oops, I’m a dumbass.
I guess it’s cool that my car has an inside-light dimmer. But it’s not so cool that it ruined things with Andrea. I try to call her back once again, but I don’t even get a ring this time. The call goes straight to voicemail. I start to leave a message. “This probably looks bad, but my car …” Sounding dumber by the second, I hang up before going through the details. Shit.
Dewan’s Top Model: Iran Edition
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Dewan's Top Models, Humor
Great Ass to Waist Ratio
A society only goes as far as its women. Thus in addition to fair elections and the ouster of a certain tiny and tie-less president the Iranian people should ensure women have equal standing in society. Equal access to education, jobs and of course the ability to play soccer while wearing only body paint if they so choose. All that sweet ass throughout the Middle East and some tiny dick clerics demand that women cover up. Though I have little scientific evidence I’m willing to bet a $25 Target gift card (won it for doing a survey) that there is an inverse relationship between public displays of T&A and war. So in an effort to at least calm the situation down in Iran just a bit, I present to Iranian body paint girl that loves balls. Shit I’m sure if President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad saw this woman he’d come out that old ass Members Only jacket in a second. Peace to everyone in Iran, justice is on its way!
No Business Showing All That Muff!
Photo Shoot on a Budget: GQ Zamunda
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts, Fashion, Humor
I usually don’t go around taking pics, but I was asked to as part of a blog feature on my book The Imperfect Enjoyment. So I ended up driving 20 minutes to the San Diego/Tijuana border and taking pics nearing the new border wall (tax dollars NOT at work). Follow the link to see more: http://www.aliceteh.com/2009/06/author-dewan-gibson-on-six-tips-to.html UPDATE: I’m now hearing that GQ will publish these pics. However, that edition will only be released in Zamunda.
Bruno in GQ
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts, Humor
Nice Tan
I was hoping to see Halle Berry or Joanna Pena (I know that’s a stretch) on the cover of this month’s GQ, but I ended up with Bruno. Sorry for the over abundance of homoerotic humor, but with Spec from Pretty Ricky and Bruno this is turning out to one big gay summer. Well, here are the pics from the July 2009 edition of GQ Magazine. Enjoy!
You's a Wild Boy!
Call the Plumber...and his Boyfriend
Pretty Rick What They Call Them: Part 3, The Prelude
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
It turns out Spec from Pretty Ricky has a long history of dancing in his draws. This video from a 2007 concert features him in a pajama-jammy dance off against his crew, sort of like an impromptu Chippendales show. I bet there’s a Part 4 out there somewhere called “Boots & Bikinis,” stay tuned. BTW he needs to call up Prince and learn proper ass shaking techniques. If you’re going to do it, do it right!
Tags: Pretty Ricky
Chastity Bono to become John Goodman
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Chastity, that name doesn't really fit
Chastity Bono, daughter of Cher and Sonny Bono, is set to have a sex change or as the PC media call it, gender reassignment surgery. This got me to thinking…if you’re having a sex change shouldn’t you just keep it to yourself? I’d fake my own death, slip into the hospital and come back out a brand new woman. If you tell everyone you’re having a sex change and suddenly become a man no one really believes you! You can’t be Anne and come out the hospital a day as Arnold. So my advice to Chastity Bono is fake your own death (perferably by drowning at sea) head down to Brazil (much better deals on surgery) and just come back swinging your dick. BTW does she really need a sex change. She already looks a lot like John Goodman from Roseanne.
Wanna Wrestle?
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
SYNOPSIS: When college instructor Dewan Gibson leaves the Midwest for California, he expects to find a world of breast implants, beer and beaches. Instead he enters a secret and ill-fated romance with a Middle Eastern undergraduate. In this vivid and humorous memoir, Gibson describes his attempts to overcome his forbidden love affair by jumping into an office fling gone wrong (Tijuana Mornings), traveling across the world to Denmark in hopes of meeting “Ms. Booty Mama” (Arhus Ain’t for Lovers) and musing over the interracial relationships between his African-American uncles and “rural white women that wore 1980’s big bangs and resembled Guns N’ Roses groupies” (Too Much Tupac). Toeing the line between stable adulthood and post-college debauchery, Gibson presents a comically honest look at the frailty of modern relationships. Poignant, witty and at times downright hilarious–The Imperfect Enjoyment is a story of toxic relationships and the search for a second chance at love that enlightens and amuses as very few books do.
T-Pain: Big Ass Chain, Small Ass Brain?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Fashion, Humor
Diamonds R A Girl's Best Friend!
T-Pain paid $410,000 for a 197 carot diamond chain that weighs 10 pounds. Knowing damn well that cars and jewelry are a black man’s kryptonite Pain twitted (I hate that damn word) about how his family is very well taken care of. Though my credit is tow up, I must say this is why black people are rich and not WEALTHY. 410k for a chain and this negro can’t even keep his baby hair lined up! 410k could have fed 410 thousand villages in Africa, where you know black ass T-Pain has some first cousins! Makes no sense to me, I’ll let Chris Rock explain it in this vid where he talks about the difference between rich and wealthy. “They spinnin nigga they spinnin!” Kind of old, but still hilarious.
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-Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Killing Johnny Fry
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts
I’ve been so obsessed with promoting my own book (The Imperfect Enjoyment, buy it now–blogging doesn’t pay the bills) that I’ve given little attention to some of my recent reads. Near the top of the list is Killing Johnny Fry by Walter Mosley. I realize most people know Mosley from his mysteries, but this book is a bit different. Killing Johnny Fry is extremely sexual (I’ve never heard “fuck you in the ass” used so eloquently), but also very thought provoking. It is a mental explosion of jealousy, lust, anger, violence and sexual nature. Oh yeah I forgot to say what it’s about. In short, a somewhat nerdy guy catches his wife having an affair, which causes self-examination and his personal demons to erupt, or something like that. Just read the damn book…after you buy The Imperfect Enjoyment:)
News from Israel: Leo & Bar Breakup, Plus Young Israeli Racists
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Social Comm
Yeah I'd Say She's a Whooty
Big news from our #1 co-conspriator Israel: Leonardo Dicaprio and Israeli supermodel Bar Rafeli brokeup and some drunken Israeli youths talked shit about Obama. One even had the nerve to yell white power (though I bet he just finished partying to hip-hop music)! Shout out to Leo for doing the young George Clooney, but thumbs down to the young people on this video. We need to send George Jefferson over there to straighten shit up. I know Sammy Davis Jr. is rolling over in his grave…
Mandatory Retirement: THE VEST
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Fashion
Good Look, We Started Off Well
During the past two years THE VEST has become the men’s nightclub uniform. It all started so very innocent after a few fashion trendsetters decided to take scraps from a three-piece suit and and create and dressy but casual look. It was a smooth and easy alternative to the previous nightclub uniform: blazer and striped shirt worn untucked. Justin Timberlake, Pharrell, Shia Lebeouf all wore it and wore it well. Then the douchebags got to it and ruined it for the rest of us. Unable to relinquish the early 2000’s baggy style they started wearing ill-fitting button down shirts UNTUCKED with an otherwise great vest. Worse yet the muscleheads fucked it up even more by going shirtless and using a vest to cover their steroid injection marks. So today June 10th The Vest is retired. Put that shit deep in your closet and save it for your son 20 years down the road. Well hold on, I’m going clubbing in DC this weekend and need to get a couple more days use out my vest. Sorry…
and then we went to this...
The Strut on Washington—October 11
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Social Comm
Rupaul as BOTH of the Obamas
Cleve Jones who worked with gay rights activist Harvey Milk has announced a march on Washington scheduled for October 11. The march will focus on marriage rights for GLBT community. While I support gay marriage 100 percent I believe they need to be a bit more aggressive with their methods in gaining equality. Imagine if they created a Black Panther-esque hardcore gay militant group that would just slap the shit out of whoever disagreed with their lifestyle. Just as the Civil Rights Movement was balanced between the nonviolent methods of Dr. King and the self-defense methods of Malcolm X, the gays need diversity in their movement. Whatever the case I recommend that Rupaul be the leader of this group. Although many think Ru-Dogg is soft because he cross-dresses, he’s actually about 6′5″ and can probably beat some ass (not like that! get ur mind out the gutter). So best of luck in October to the gay community and also to us that are pro-EQUALITY. And remember I kid around because I care, which is why I had to post this “Men on Fitness” video from In Living Color.
Whitney Houston’s Comeback Record–Tyrone Biggums (a soprano) Will Sing Background?
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Arts, Humor
Whitney with the Natural!
I told y’all crack ain’t that bad! Free of drugs and Bobby Brown, Whitney Houston’s new CD is coming out on September 1. Produced by R. Kelly and Swizz Beatz (among others) the new CD will be called “Tenacious.” Tyrone Biggums, who sings soprano, will provide background vocals on three songs:) BTW speaking of crack all you party boys and girls that use cocaine on the weekends need to realize that you’re only a couple steps away from crack! So please stop offering it to me. I’m already female supermodel skinny and can’t afford to have all my bones showing. Anyway, I’ll be sure to post Whitney tracks as soon as Tyrone starts leaking them for $2 a song. Enjoy the Biggums video below. BTW since Comedy Central took all the real Biggums vids off this is some dude imitating him. Hilarious, cus his scratch just sucks lol. But seriously, best of luck to the greatest diva of all time.
-Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
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Randy Watson & SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Randy Watson (one of Eddie Murphy’s characters from Coming to America), has a Facebook fan page. Other than the occasional update of “Sexual Chocolate!” he says very little. But at least it gives everyone a chance to relive the greatest singer ever to come out of Jackson Heights. Check out the video below, hilarious.
Damn David Carradine! Too Freaky Man…
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Social Comm
Never Trust a Kimono and a Smile
Flush & Run
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
This Also Comes out of You, FLUSH TWICE
Listen, sometimes when you blow up the bathroom you need to flush multiple times. I call it having a “two-flusher.” So before you flush and run double-check to make sure you don’t have ass flakes hanging around in the otherwise pristine and clear toilet water. Worse yet, make sure you have not left behind any shit pebbles. In case you’re unfamiliar, those are the low-density floaters that often refuse to go down. Believe me…they are incredibly nimble and bouncy.
Sorry for the disgusting rant, but someone at work has trouble remembering this rule. I posted a sign for the toilet seat pisser and fixed that problem, so it looks like I’ll need to do the same. Shit!
My Turn for an Intern: Lost Chapter from The Imperfect Enjoyment
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Joke All U Want, She's Ain't That Bad
I was pulling files from my old jump drive and notice I had a section of deleted chapters from my book The Imperfect Enjoyment. I figured they would slowly drift off into no man’s land so I’ve decided to periodically post a few. Here’s the first, which is about an intern and motorcycle tracks in underwear.
MY TURN FOR AN INTERN
As a college educator and health care professional I’ve always felt a strong obligation to help 18 and 19 year olds reach their potential. While the freshman level courses I teach may not be of the utmost importance to a student’s career, my guidance for life outside of the classroom is vital to their success. By offering “profound” advice such as “failure to plan is planning to fail” and “it’s not really sex if you’re wearing a condom,” I have been able to steer many young adults in the direction towards self-actualization. However, what I enjoy most are the lessons I learn from them. From the importance of skipping work “just cause I freakin’ feel like it,” to partying through a hangover, I recognize that the 18 to 19 year old crowd has valuable advice for adults of any age. With this being said nothing could prepare me to be schooled by a young and extremely gifted summer intern.
I didn’t notice her arrival in the office. You would think that with my extreme visual perverseness I would notice every new employee, particularly young big-breasted interns, but somehow she was missed. We actually only worked together about once a week, as I spent most of my time out the office on official slack off assignment (which mainly consisted of browsing at Border’s books, eating lunch at home, and on Mondays…I’m ashamed to admit…enjoying an afternoon beat-off to the newly posted assparade.com updates).
As for Tiffany she was your usual bright eyed and eager to please intern, seemingly unaffected by the banality of a typical 8 to 5 workday. I often watched her stroll into my office to make copies, with an enthusiasm that made it seem as if she talked about work after work, thought about work before work, and actually focused on work during work. In contrast to my own sloth-like work ethic she was an all-star employee. While I sat daydreaming of ways to get the corporate foot off my throat or at the very least make everyday somewhat as interesting as my Monday slack sessions spent online, Tiffany actually earned her meager pay.
A couple of weeks passed and I would continue to watch Tiffany as she made copies. In return she would ignore me, save for a cold hello, which of course women are innately skilled at. In paying you no attention at all, women give the impression that they either cannot stand to be around you or are so turned on by you that they can’t bare to look. With Tiffany I like to believe it was the latter. Although I’m not sure how much attraction there is in a guy who has bones for abs and a forehead that has outgrown his hairline. Yet, I guess there was something because Tiffany would send me a surprising email one night after work.
I arrive home from work, log on to my computer and see a Myspace message from Tiffany. Evidently she had looked me up online. In short, the message read “Hi, I’m not sure if you know me, but I work with you and wanted to say hello.” I reply and we begin a series of short, careful messages to one another. I look at her page and it’s plain to see, she’s only 18. Actually she just turned 18. I also see she enjoys going to her school’s football games and doing assorted other things I missed out on as a gremlin looking teenager.
I browse her page further and look at her Myspace friends list, as expected they are also 17 and 18 years old. I see one guy who could probably pass for the high school stud-jerk, has left message after message on her page. I check his profile and think “shit, he aint all that.” He reminds me of many of the guys I knew, envied, and disliked in high school. He looks like the type of guy that hit puberty in 6th grade and stretched his physical dominance out for an additional six years. While he was out fingering girls, I was checking my pubic region for any signs of growth, be it in hair or schlong. And once late bloomers like I finally hit our growth spurt in 10th grade it was too late, as his four previous years of physical dominance had left me unable to grasp the fact that I too was now physically capable. However, my revenge would come years down the road as I reached my social peak after college. I now had everything that he had in middle school, with a couple dollars in my pocket and access to women with mature tits and ass. He however, was a legend of the past. Unable to parlay his preteen mojo into a buckwild or at least stable adulthood, he now pushes carts at Target. Damn, I’m being a hater. This 18 year old on Tiffany’s page is probably a perfectly nice guy, an actual friend to subjugated and assorted high school guys weighing less than 100 pounds. Besides, it’s lame that I’m bashing 18 year guy whose profile I found while checking out an 18 year old girl on Myspace, and I’m how old…Oh yeah, 28.
Tiffany and I message back and forth and decide to meet after work at a bookstore café. We start to talk and I realize she’s more mature than I anticipated. Her hair is neatly parted. She’s wearing a cut top that accentuates her size D breasts, and best of all she’s not chewing gum. Somehow I’d imagined we’d talk and she’d be constantly smacking on bubbalicious, bazooka, or whatever gum is the “in gum” for young people. This would then lead me to think she probably wears panties that come in a three pack. That’s right panties, not underwear or thongs, plain cotton panties that are sold in a large bin at Walmart. The type of panties that you’d find as a boy while curiously sifting through your little sister’s dirty clothes, but quickly throw back down after realizing girls also leave motorcycle tracks in their draws. Yet, their tracks are not quite as brown and located in a different spot than that of yours as a boy…or as a man depending if you’ve been lucky enough to mature into a shit before shower guy (or meticulous ass-wiper) with a regular scheduled toilet time.
I continue my conversation with Tiffany and realize the jerk-stud guy that I should be ashamed of myself for criticizing is her boyfriend. She talks incessantly about him and his habits and I see she’s really into him. I’m fine with that and figure she must be seeking a mentor to guide her through the workplace and university. I offer her advice for college and that runs the course of our conversation. She does not pry into my private life and I return the favor. It is strictly professional. Two young people (well one is older than he believes himself to be) discussing careers and opportunities for success.
Well that was before the text messages started. In a sudden flurry of interest Tiffany began a series of text messages that became naughtier as time passed. The messages started as typical complaints about the workday and then somehow progressed to “I hope you enjoy” texts with semi-nude camera phone pictures attached. Actually “semi-nude camera phone pics” is not an adequate description, they were in fact glamour shots. It looked as if she constructed a set, hired a costume and lingerie designer, and struck poses so fierce that even the platinum hair guy from America’s Top Model might be satisfied. She modeled with her breasts squeezed together and nipples erect. In other pictures she bent over on all fours filling the camera with her black man’s weakness. I was nearly satisfied and hadn’t even come close to touching her.
Tiffany and I then made plans to meet on a Friday night. As the day approached I was unsure of what to expect. She arrives in the biggest god damn pickup truck I’ve ever seen a woman drive. Of course this has nothing to do with the story, but I simply found that interesting. Once inside we exchange an awkward “I don’t know if we’re there yet hug.” I offer her a drink and she quickly obliges. Ok, good. Misdemeanor number one, furnishing a minor with alcohol, wasn’t so difficult. After a couple of drinks she pulls out her I-pod and asks if I like Dane Cook. I think “uhmm, well…hell naw. You have any Dave Chapelle?” Instead I say, “yeah he’s cool.” And that was the only encouragement she needed. She whips out the portable speakers and the two of us get down with Dane.
After an hour of listening to Dane describe his first blow job, the mood is set. Tiffany’s exuberant laughing has landed her prone on the couch. As her face comes to a rest near my lap I feel as I did during after school naps as a teen, in which I would slyly give the bottom half of Mom’s bed at least two powerful pumps during the course of my siesta. Even though my parents were also in the bed watching Oprah and I was “sleeping,” I felt it was my duty to oblige what nature had caused. And so it was with Tiffany.
I glance at Tiffany’s purse and notice she’s carrying a toothbrush. She might as well been carrying condoms marked with my initials, as it’s obvious she has plans to stay the night. I awkwardly stretch downward to give her a kiss her and feel the want in her breath. I then pull her on top of me for an early view of those breasts that will one day hang low. I roughly stroke and uncover what my eyes had stalked. Although I’m not typically a breast man, I tend to become one when two big titties are in suckling range. After feeding for a couple minutes Tiffany asks “Do you want a drink?” I’m in freak mode at this time so I figure her titties must do something special, like stretch over her shoulder to feed a crying African child in a twig sling-ring or lactate despite not giving birth I quickly realize she means more alcohol, so I hurriedly get up and pour two tequila shots. We drink up and I follow with a chaser of teenage nipple …deee-licious.
After this initial night together Tiffany and I would maintain a simple and comfortable relationship for the next six weeks, until she unexpectedly showed at my apartment. I was in the company of another young woman (with hips and thighs so round I felt like thanking the guy that had twice impregnated her and foolishly left) and failed to answer my cell phone that kept vibrating every 10 minutes. I briefly leave the apartment to grab my clothes from the washer and return to see Tiffany knocking at the door.
My heart jumps like it did in kindergarten when I accidentally let out a noxious fart whose sound was exacerbated by the friction of ass sitting Indian style on thin, cheap carpet. The fart was supposed to be silent and only somewhat deadly, but instead the entire class heard, smelled and laughed at my gastric issues. I’m 20 feet away from the door when Tiffany turns and spots me. Shit, too late to turn back around and hide out for five minutes. In her youthful naiveté she says “Hey I was calling you, why didn’t you answer?” In a hushed and serious tone, with a hint of territorial annoyance, I say “Sorry I’m busy and you can’t just show up here.” Her expression drops as if she heard Hannah Montana will cancel the final leg of her North American tour. Despite Tiffany being in a relationship of her own, she replies with a sarcastic and disgusted “sorry.” She turns and walks away, perhaps a bit less green and more mistrusting of men, but still only 18. I go back in my apartment, ashamed at the predicament and maybe a bit more mature, but still only 28 years old going on 19.
Man with 21 Kids Marries Octomom!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor
Got Sperm?
Ok, the headline was a flat out lie to catch your attention. Brotha gotta do what he gotta do to get this page views up:) But it is true that Desmond Hatchett from Knoxville, Tennessee has admitted to fathering 21 children by 11 different women. Obviously Desmond’s man juice is beyond super. That shit is special and should be studied to see if it contains a cure for cancer or acts as a fountain of youth. This whole debacle got me to thinking, Octomom is probably horny as hell just watching Desmond from a distance. If the two got together they would have a combined 35 children! Now that’s a reality show. Check out the news report on Desmond Hatchett.
