Yesterday I had a frank e-conversation with my homeboy about talking during sex (no Amaechi). Apparently he likes to give play-by-play and interview his partner while fornicating. I like to remain silent, so I can focus on lasting the length of a Teddy Pendergrass song. Yet, he strongly suggested talking shit during sex so the ladies stay interested. Well I thought about it for hours and came up with some great phrases to use while swaking. I’ll let you know how they work. But I think they’re great!

“Wrong hole? Girl, ain’t no such thing”

“Who’s your daddy? Sorry, who’s your dirty stepdaddy!”

“I think we can use that condom again.”

“Bitch I been bout it.”

“Girl your cooch gonna need some Bean-O after I’m done.”

“My neck/My back/My pussy and my crack. My bad, you ‘pose to say that.”

“Damn you got a pretty pussy. Shit looks like a balding chimp.”

“Shit girl. Them ain’t herpes. Those just beauty marks.”

“I’m finna give it to you raw. Put another mistake up in you.”

Dewan Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

First things first: The synching in the video is a little off, kind of like a 70′s karate movie I saw called Poon Hound Kim, but the music is  damn good. Though I’m more of a Wu-Tang head when it comes to hip-hop (who else can rap about religion, science, the streets AND sex so effortlessly?) I do get into traditional braggadocious hip-hop at times. For example, if I’m fixin’ to ride on somebody for telling me I look like Tevin Campbell while I’m using a public urinal or feel like showing off my 2004 Chrysler Crossfire in San Diego’s upper-middle class suburbs, I need to hear something like this that’ll get me in the right mind state.

Check out Meeche Packs’s video and be sure to have a look at his Youtube channel. As Master P used to say “That boy is tight behind that mic.” My favorite line in this song is “Broke niggas like Simba/They always Lion Kings.” Get it? That’s a Drake/Yeezy type line! Dude can really spit, as the cool kids say. Anyway, support these young bucks from Cleveland, especially those skinny niggas in the back, before they try to steal liquor from my daddy’s bar and sell it half-price on the corner of Cedar and Lee. Shout out to Meeche Packs!

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Fox “News” does a good job of reaching its target demographic—angry white men who have brought penis envy into politics. I don’t support the station but I will check its website on occasion (along with Drudge Report), just to see what The Man is up to. And The Man is always up to something.

But today’s news was a little different. Of course it had the usual Obama bashing and fear-mongering biased stories, but it also had a very unique alarmist story in its Children’s Health section titled, “Boy Blistered After Licking Used Condom, Grandma Says.”

Click the title to read the entire story. I guess it serves as fair warning to all you hockey loving grizzly moms and grandmas living up north right next to Russia. Watch out for Mooslims, insurance company death panels and used condoms in hotel rooms.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Rapradar.com is my favorite hip-hop website. Not only do they have the latest vids but the comments are hilarious, and wrong as hell. Just today they posted a song from an artist named “Fred Da Godson.” Rapradar’s audience didn’t like this guy too much. Just check out some of their (funny as hell) comments below. Guess dude does kind of look like Bonk from that old Sega game. This nigga must have a lot on his mind. Enjoy!

1) Dude looks like Sean Paul + Sean Kingston + Barry Bonds’ headbussin’ steroids.

2) Dis nigga look lik a fat Predator mixed wit a Alien

3) Nigga look like he got in a fight with a wall and lost….

4) HAHAHAH Damn yall goin hard on this nigga. One question….where is this niggas hairline?!

5) Who is this handsome young man?

6) Big was fat, but he looked like a normal person. This guy on the other hand…

7) It looks like theres another person trying to burst out of his head!

8) this fat ass nicca look like a fucking rhino..@mike b..It looks like theres another person trying to burst out of his head!…lmao..use a fool for that..lol.

9) is that a real person?

10) whats wrong with his skull?

11) why is his hand on his chin? is he really pondering? or is he hiding another facial deformity?

12) lol this nigga look crazy he should go to cartoons or somethin

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

The others crouch down, hips twisting and thrusting as they grind to the sounds of Baby Cham and Sizzla. But I stand erect. Tipsy but in no danger of falling thanks to a third leg that functions as a kickstand when my blood alcohol level reaches 0.10. A hard, veiny kickstand made of indestructible black steel that can gracefully pound her love pouch for 3-5 minutes. Hell yeah, 180 seconds is all you need. Short and intense like a preview for a Leonardo Dicaprio film.

I smile. Sweat and Royal Crown hair grease begin to run down my face and into my mouth. I frown. Shit kind of tastes like castor oil. Mama made me take that when my pipes only wanted to release little buoyant pebbles, and just hours later I’d have a guaranteed two-flusher. I laugh.

Passionate Afro-Caribbean voices bellow from the speakers. I think of my ancestors, namely Boubacar “Baby B” Gibson. I cry. He used to run with with Nat Turner and Denmark Vesey in the late 18th century. Boubacar was known to calm tension on the plantation by telling dirty jokes. One day, July 27, 1799 to be exact—the master’s birthday, Boubacar surprised him with a few jokes about how black people like to barbeque and how white people can’t dance. Those jokes weren’t cliché in 1799.

The master’s powerful, arrogant laugh roared through plantation. He laughed so much a piss tinkle ran down his leg. You could see it through his white (cotton) pants. That’s when Boubacar got him. And best believe he got that muthafucka good. He pulled a tiny spear from the pocket of his FUBU jeans and rammed it into the master’s carotid artery. Cracka ass cracka had it coming to him.

That night Boubacar freed all the slaves on the plantation (except for one named Clarence Thomas. Clarence insisted on staying and looking out for the master’s family).

As the newly freed left for Cleveland, Boubacar stood atop the master’s house. His people cheered for him with tears in their eyes. One guy yelled “Give me free!” Boubacar, always one to stress eloquence, said “Nigga! You better learn how to speak good English!”

Full of pride after freeing his people Boubacar decided he wanted to go home. So he swam all the way back to West Africa. Shit, it only took him about a week. They don’t make strong brothas like they used to.

I take a swig from my tallboy Jack and Coke. I return the glass to the bartender who calls me Bruce Leroy and say what’s up to the other bartender that hit on my ex-girlfriend; they’re good people.

I leave reggae night and call White Chocolate. I think of her thickness, like a vanilla shake from Arby’s, not that fake shit from Mc’Donalds. I ask her, “Do you have 180 seconds of free time?” Boubacar smiles with love from above.

This is another example of…The Baby D Experience.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Most of my time in the streets is spent as Vice President of Recruitment & Retention for the Bloods street gang, where I help to attract and initiate ignorant millionaires like Birdman and Lil’ Wayne into our violent organization. But as seen in this picture I was in the streets as a volunteer at Fiesta Del Sol 2010, held in Barrio Logan/San Diego. In between helping “Communities Come Together” and disappearing into a local bar I had the pleasure to meet platinum recording artist Frankie J.

He was such a nice and tiny man. I tried to get an autograph for my sister, who’s a big fan, but I didn’t have a pen and paper. So I said to Frankie, “Sign my chest, nigga. Right around my muthafuckin’ nipple. Pause.” At first Frankie refused so I said “Blood game. Homie. We gonna get all up in that ass. You better sign this muthafuckin pretty ass nipple, homie. Mess around and get that ass busted. Gonna be sitting in a tub of ice for 96 hours, my nigga.” Frankie was shook! Lucky for him my homies, D-Licious and Rainbow, couldn’t make it there before his security stepped in and made me settle for this picture. We was really gonna ride on that fool, literally.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

This picture is dedicated to that unnamed friend who texted me at 11pm on Tuesday with news of a crime scene sex experience. This blood’s for you. Drip on, player. And wash that shit off before it gets crusty.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

These "gals" are actually from D.C., but hey...

I saw her at a nightclub in San Jose, said hello but got no response. I figured she probably didn’t speak English, not even “hello.” So I said “Do…you…speak…English?” We laughed; 90 minutes later we were at Denny’s. Thirty minutes after that we were in her Grandma’s house. Ten minutes later her titties were in my face.

Her nips were devil red. If seen by an overzealous preacher they would have surely been rebuked. Well, stroked and then rebuked. Like many Iranian women she had dark hair and visible blood vessels under her eyes. Her face was round and blank and insignificant.

She kept her pants on that night; our time together was like a soft porn on Skinemax: titty galore, no bush. “I’m not that kind of girl” she said. Most say that. Only about 20 percent actually mean it, 10 percent when you throw alcohol in the mix (well, 100% of the Gibson women mean it).

Just two weeks later Rana flew down to San Diego—to see a cousin, not me. However, she did make time to “stop by and say hello” that Saturday evening. I invited her in and immediately we went into my room. This was not due to uncontrollable lust or tackiness on my part; shit, I would have preferred that we stayed in the living room for a least a few minutes. But my big brother was visiting and that was his temporary territory. Besides, my get to know you conversation with women, usually full of direct eye contact and great follow-up questions, is personally intimate and not for public consumption or criticism. Hell, to be honest I’m uncomfortable talking to women in front of other guys. In some weird way it’s like pissing next to another due in a public bathroom—terribly awkward and conducive to severe communication apprehension.

We got to my room and sat in the only available seating, the bed. And since I considered wearing jeans in bed to be unbecoming, Rana soon removed the pants which would not budge just two weeks before.

 What I quickly found is that she bested me in bed. I was hurried and in a rush, just a young nigga trying to get as many strokes in as possible before I expired. Keep in mind that in during this time (the mid-2000’s) my typical last time was about four minutes. My only goal was to last for an entire R. Kelly song. I could often make it to the end-of-song-ad-libs, but anything past that was a rare and special event.

Still, I guess I wasn’t that bad or maybe she saw potential in me (or whatever you call it when women think they can change you into their ideal man) because she invited me to San Francisco for her birthday party.

I decided to make the trip for a couple reasons: 1) Maybe I could see my long lost cousin Billy, whom I hadn’t seen in about 15 years 2) I’d have a chance to meet cool people and maybe even another Bay area woman (Sorry, but when groups of unattached young people go out together often times it’s just an in-group dick offering and someone is going to drink too much and wake up next to an unknown cock. But that cock may or may not be unknown to her friend). 3) Rana was cool, fun and seemingly not looking for a serious long distance relationship.

But as soon as I got off the plane and met the crew in San Fran’s Union Square, I noticed everyone was coupled-up. To be exact there were a total of 3.25 couples. Two of which seemed unhappy, one that basking in fresh love and .25 that had only seen other twice and were surely not a couple.

We started off the day with sightseeing. The usual San Francisco shit. Fisherman’s wharf, male hookers offering tossed salads 2-for-1, Union Square, and female hookers promoting an “only curable STD” special.

I swear we took at least 100 pictures. In the poses hands were being held and laps were being sat on. And with each snap my forehead grew increasingly sweaty and shiny with nervousness. What the hell had I gotten myself into to? I was only temporary fun and a maybe a permanent confidant. A relationship with someone 800 miles away would be impossible, especially since my cheating radius was only about 3 miles. In short, if I was dating someone and she happened to leave from within 3 miles of me, even for just a quick trip to the mall, somebody else was getting fucked.

That first night we got exhausted from all the sightseeing and had little energy left for a night on the town. So we grabbed some food and retreated to our hotel rooms. What I thought would be an opportunity for me to last for a song and a half turned into a late night counseling session with her girlfriend. Apparently she had gotten into an argument with her boyfriend and needed our counseling. This lasted for hours. I could only find so many ways to politely say “Most men are not that bad. But new pussy is kryptonite. He’s gonna look and maybe touch, if he can get away with it. Bear with that or just wait til he’s older and doesn’t care so much about new trim.” The hell with that Mars Venus bullshit, that’s all the relationship advice one could ever need.

I slept in the following day, but awoke around noon to a warm mouth around my Johnson. I thought, “Damn, I’m not that nice of a guy. But if you insist. Maybe I should say thank you. This is really kind and considerate of her.”

Later we did a bit more sightseeing and then headed back to the hotel to dress for Rana’s birthday party at a local club. I wore skinny pants and a bright orange v-neck sweater to channel a bit of San Fran’s hip and sexually ambiguous style. Rana wore what young women often wear for their birthdays. Extra short skirt and high heels, the “whorish is okay on one’s birthday” style.

We got to the nightclub and did the trite birthday celebration of taking shots with funny, sexual names: blowjob, lick my ass, sit on my face, pack my fudge, etc, etc. After a few of those I took Rana on the dance floor for a public molestation. This continued for about 30 minutes until she had to take a smoke break. I had yet to see Rana smoke so I assumed she was going to stroll around the club with friends and hope guys hit on her. So I took my smiling ass back to the bar to see what was there for me.

It was there that I saw a group of Asian women. Tall, shiny Filipinas to be exact. One caught my eye but those fruity ass shots had yet to give me the inebriated confidence I needed to break that often impenetrable circle of female solidarity. So I just stood there and ordered a drink.

I was only on my second or third sip when of the gals approached. As usual when I meet women I remember very little of what she said. Or for that matter, very little of what I said. I do remember saying “Can I call you sometime?” And just as I was getting her number Rana and her friends approached. Apparently they used their special female night vision and caught the entire interaction.

The spot blew up. Rana and her friends were trying to get their verbal shots in at the same time, so it was difficult to understand all the racket. Though I did hear “Get your shit out the hotel!” One of her friends also said “Really? On her fucking birthday! Fuck you!”

I tried to explain, “Hold on! I thought we were just all having a good time meeting people and hanging out…” I tried to finish but another one of the gals cut me off to yell at her boyfriend, “What the fuck were you doing? I saw you going there too. You want those bitches! Go ‘head!”

Damn, I messed up the whole party. The tall, Asian girls were still there looking on, some laughing and others giving the “you black bastard” look. All the commotion and energy made me nervous and my stomach started to bubble. Or maybe that was because I had a “blowjob” shot and no man should take such shots. Anyway, I could do nothing but walk away and so I did.

But not before letting off a mean and cruel fart. Man, that shit smelled like a neglected old person left alone to slowly die, or open ass unexpectedly blowing in the wind. It hit the Asian girls first and they yelled a remarkably cohesive “Ewww.” I wished I’d have stayed to see it hit the evil Iranian dictators but I was embarrassed and had to shake the spot.

I left the club and texted Rana, “Sorry about all of that, I really didn’t mean for it to be like that. Tell the one dude to be easy and good luck. Just leave my stuff at the hotel desk.”

 I called long lost Cousin Billy.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

OK, first let’s cover the positives from this video: derriere has a fair amount of jiggle, great ass movement as led by the left cheek and the ass is appropriately labeled so one knows that she is in fact a whooty. Also, in filming this video from her room she makes great use of a Section 8 apartment.

And now for the glaring negative: THE ASS COVERING TIGER TATTOO. I can’t really talk because I have my name tatted on my arm (got it when I was 16, only had $75, so five letter is all I could afford…nigga), but this woman has ruined an otherwise good donk. Hitting it from the back would be akin to fucking a Bengal. Smack that ass too hard and you might need a prosthetic limb. Hmmm…I’ll pass.

NOTE: The picture above of Kiha has nothing to do with this post. For some reason I can’t get ‘My Neck, My Back” out of my head.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Whether correctional officer or porn fluffer, I don’t have a problem with anyone earning an honest living. But when you do a William Roberts (Rick Ross) and deny your past to portray an image as a international cocaine dealer, that’s wack. You’re leading kids down the wrong path, man. We should encourage our children to do things like write slightly explicit books about love, lust and sex–not become drug dealers.

Look, here’s what Ross SHOULD HAVE said in response to the C.O. controversy: “Yeah, I was a C.O. I was earning a living to feed my family. Look man, this rap shit is fake. None of us are real gangsters or dopeboys. It’s all entertainment.” Instead Ross insinuated that he was dealing drugs from INSIDE the prison when he worked as a correctional officer.  Come on, man! Oh yeah, give the real Rick Ross is name back. You’re William Roberts–overweight street poet and entertainer. Love yourself, nigga.

Anyway, the video below is a promotional mini-film for Ross’s new Teflon Don album. Check it out for the unintentional laughs, sort of like Master P’s Bout It in the late 90s. This man has Pakistanis actors pretending to be Cubans. You’re telling that even though you’re from Miami you couldn’t find a proper Cuban to play a fake ass Tony Montana? And pay close attention to the scene at 2:55. Woman gets shot but no blood, no hole. That hoe’s indestructable!

 Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Ok, ok…nothing wrong with a little internet game. But you have to use instant messenger, man! You can’t go to ex’s friend’s Facebook wall and try to pull some slick shit. Anyway, I like how he tried to save face at the end, “Can you send me a pic cuz I really don’t remember her.” Neeegro please! Those fools on The First 48 lie better than that.

Worst of all, the girl he’s trying to get at JUST changed her relationship status minutes before he wrote. Damn, he must have been waiting on that status change for months. Just lurking online, palms sweaty as hell, looking through all 467 of her pictures. And as soon as her status changed he said, “Fuck it…I’m going all in. I don’t give a damn who sees. Balls out. Rebound sex, son!”

Well, so much for that…

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Here’s a look at yours truly hanging out with White Chocolate at the 2010 Michael Jackson Tribute Party in San Diego. I thought to honor the King Of Pop by dangling a baby off my hotel balcony, but couldn’t find any takers—not even a toddler selling Chiclets in Tijuana wanted that gig. So I ended up giving Jesus Juice to the neighborhood boys and providing them with a time they’ll never forget (no homo?). Once my trial starts I’ll be sure to show up late for court in pajamas. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to dance outside the courthouse on top of a SUV. Damn, the things I do to pay tribute to MJ…The King.

Well, wish I could write more about my splendid evening but my New Black Panther Party meeting is about to start. Gotta keep the heat on them crackas!

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Chris Rock said a father’s most important responsibility is to make sure his daughter doesn’t wind up on the pole—the stripper pole. So, Laurence Fishburne…you know you done fucked up, right? Big time.

Laurence Fishburne’s daughter Montana aka “Chippy D” is set to star in a new porno film. Apparently Chippy D wants to follow in Kim Kardashian’s footsteps and use a good ol’ fashioned cooch beating as a segue to a career in mainstream entertainment.

Come on Montana, how the hell you gonna do that to Furious Styles? After all that knowledge he dropped to them boys in Compton. Even worse, how the fuck you gonna do that to Jimmy Jump? The man is goon affiliated—right hand man to Frank White. Mess around and your kneecaps broke, get your goddamn skull cracked for shaming your father like that. Man, these floosies are crazy now…

I really feel bad for Laurence, but maybe this would not have happened if he had kept going by Larry. Larry sounds more like a name of a father that doesn’t play that shit. Laurence sounds like someone who’s oblivious and busy perfecting his craft, while his daughter yearns for attention and eventually gets it from a dude with calf implants, waxed pubes and a giant cock vein.

I can kind of understand a young girl getting caught up with an older, manipulative man and making a HOME movie. Or even getting involved with R. Kelly and making an instructional video in his wood-paneled basement, but to intentionally make a porn in hopes of being the next Kim Kardashian….ewww.

Damn Laurence, you really done fucked up.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Well, I kind of made the “Just Hit It” thingy up. But I think Nike’s trying to communicate something along those lines. Oh yeah, nice try with the butt poem in the first picture. What a crafty move to appease feminists, while giving the rest of us some good ol’ female exploitation! Slick, corporate mutha…shut yo’ mouth! I love y’all…

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

It’s not easy being a skinny guy. People feel they can treat men emaciated, Vitamin D deficient men any way they please. For example, it’s socially acceptable to ask a skinny guy how much he weighs. You can’t do that to a fat man. Nope. Damn sure can’t do it to any woman—fat or skinny. Even worse, after finding what the stick-of-a-man weighs it’s perfectly fine to yell, “What! I weighed 145 pounds in 8th grade!” Oh yeah, though you’re probably not qualified to give nutritional advice you’re also free to say “Damn man, you need to eat some baked potatoes.”

And no one fights for the skinny guy. Fat people have Tyra Banks. Whether she’s wearing an unflattering bikini or a fat suit, she’s always looking out for fat people. She’ll even drop her pants and tell the world to kiss her fat ass. Who’s the celebrity champion for skinny guys? Come on Chris Rock! Come on “Big” Snoop Dog! I’m waiting…

There’s also no media representation of the skinny guy experience. Fat people have lots of TV shows. We cry as they struggle to lose weight and regain their lives and laugh as they fall to the ground while trying to jump rope. But the lives of skinny men, for example, having a woman look at you with disappointment after she’s unable to lay her head on your shoulder without being impaled by your scapula, or being afraid to wear flip-flops because your bony feet look like talons, is never shown on the small screen.

Plus, there are no politically correct terms for skinny guys; we’re just “skinny.” But fat people have many PC names. Curvy, voluptuous, BBW, thick, chubby, big-boned, football player-ish, a little meaty, not really that big, healthy—and I’m sure there’s many others, just check the personal ads on Craigslist.

But what’s most difficult about being a skinny a guy is sex. We just aren’t known for fuckin’! Big dudes get to star in pornos, where they get ass naked (well they do leave on their Timberland hiking boots) and bang curvy women to the beat of a hip-hop soundtrack. As for skinny guys…we just film that shit, or at the most cheer on the big guy from off-camera. “Damn son! You hitting that hard! Ah man, you even got juice runnin’ down your balls! No homo.”

Also, skinny women don’t want to bump bones with us and “football player-ish” women don’t believe we’re up to handling all that thickness. Case in point, months ago I was in my favorite reggae bar minding my own business, deep in the corner near the speakers. I ventured off to do a quick talent search when a young woman named Precious stopped me. (Yes, that her real name. In order to preserve the hilarity of when I found out that was actually her name I have decided NOT to change it.)

Wearing only a tank top and extra small men’s boxers, Precious’ chunky thighs and ass smile (the curved line where the back of the thigh morphs into the buttocks) spilled out of the no-damn-business-wearing-those-in-public shorts. As an aunt would talk to her niece she said to me “Ahhh, you’re so cute. Kind of skinny though.” Accustomed to only getting hit on by streetwalkers in Tijuana, tensioned griped my throat and I responded in a stutter “Oh, uh. Thanks.” Precious then said “Can I touch your abs?” I said “I’m mainly just bones.”

She gave me the “negro please” look so I leaned forward slightly and tried to flex to prepare for her impending touch. But her silly ass aimed to high and poked me in the ribs. Talk about a conversation ender. She soon walked away; I saw her about 15 minutes later—gripping the bar for leverage has some thick, muscular dude battered that ass from behind. He had on Timberlands.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Pay no attention to the hulking calf muscle and dry skin in need of an extreme de-ashinating; I want to talk about the shoe.

I bought these fake Wally’s from Urban Outfitters for $35. At first I thought they were the shit. So much so that I invented a brand new walk to go along with the shoe: a slightly pigeon toed stroll with exaggerated shoulder movement.

But after a day the appeal was gone. For one, I don’t believe this shoe is actually leather. The tag says “man made materials,” which is code for rubber. Also, besides a single pair of khakis I don’t have much to wear with the shoes. Finally, these shits is kind of ugly!

I’m beating myself up for spending 35 dollars that I through earned through moderately hard work (hanging out on the internet from 9am-4:30pm). Guess I should have done as Dad did during my 5th grade graduation, put duct tape on the soles so you can return them later—no questions asked.

Well, if you are a fashion diva or divo, feel free to send suggestions on what I should wear these with. Until then these are going to the back of my already bare closet, right next to my aerated mesh tanktop.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

If I actually attended this year’s Comic Con I’d probably have cool pictures of celebrities and women dressed in a style I like to call cartoon-whore. However, I chose to walk the streets outside of Comic  Con and ended up with a picture of a dog riding a motorcycle. BTW if you happen to know an African American person over age 50 show him or her this pic, there’s a 90% chance he will shake his head with dismay and say “White people and their damn pets…”

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of Imperfect Enjoyment

I’m late on this, but as is the case with a mistress’s menstural period, better late than never.

Anyway, a black Nigerian couple living in London gave birth to white baby boy. The baby is not Albino and researchers think either a white gene from years ago crept back up (You can never escape THE MAN’s wrath) ) or some sort of genetic mutation caused this baby to have skin that will lead to more social and economic opportunity than that of his brothers and sisters.

Wouldn’t it be a trip if the baby looked at his dad, welled up with tears  and said his first word…”Nigga!” Anyway, as noted in the comment below we can see the baby’s African features. How interesting would be if he ends up looking like a white Obama?

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

“Run” by Ghostface Killah and Jadakiss is my second favorite song—ever, slightly behind “Rock With You” by the King of Pop and Hair Products. Though I’ve never been chased by the FBI or any of the other alphabet boys, I can relate to being “chased” by an inner voice that demands I do something great before I die. It bugs me everyday and often ruins my sleep; it seems to have me on some sort of mental run. Sadly, the peculiar muthafucka never says exactly what I should be doing.

Anyway, if you are often chased by the police you should strongly consider using this song as a form of pre-crime motivation. Better yet do like Jeezy says and hide the dope in your Aunty’s house. For those who tend to avoid The Law, just enjoy the passionate lyrics from two of hip-hop’s greatest.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

Only a few good men reach a state of I-don’t-give-a-damn bliss, a level of complete self-comfort when the words and thoughts of others mean very-very little. I reached that point in April 2009 when I cut out of work three hours early to go to a San Diego Padres game. The kicker is that the local Fox News affiliate interviewed me on camera and I proudly announced “I wanted to go to this game so bad that I ditched work and didn’t tell anyone!”

Every man should march to the beat of his own historically black college drumline. Golfer John Daly understands this. After battling alcohol, drug, and weight problems Daly said fuck it and started wearing LSD inspired pants on the course. He’s a classic case…other common signs of I-don’t-give a-damn bliss include the following:

1) You name your new baby boy Maverick Goose.

2) You go to a hip-hop nightclub and say to women “Excuse me, would you like to tap dance?”

3) When asked to complete a task at work you reply “I ain’t got to do nothin’ but stay black and die, bitch!” Even if you’re not black.

4) You no longer walk and run, you simply skip and gallop.

5) You wear a condom all day long, just in case.

6) You only tie your shoes when jaywalking and in the face of oncoming traffic.

7) After being accused of child molestation you show up late to court wearing pajama pants and a Captain Crunch jacket. (Sorry MJ, but that shit you pulled was hilarious.)

Get on John’s level. Chuuch.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

A little less than a year ago I wrote of my experience at a TEA Party rally in Oceanside, Cali. The post alluded to TEA Party Express (“express” meaning they can spread hate faster than other TEA Party groups) leader Mark Williams calling President Obama an “Indonesian Muslim turned welfare thug.” Punk ass Mark Williams then left a comment on the post calling me a “ward of the state,” presumably because I taught at a state university.

I responded but quickly forgot about Williams—I figured he was another internet gangster, a hypersensitive e-thug that checks his Google alerts every morning in hopes that someone mentions his name so he can say a bunch of shit he’d never say face-to-face.

Well, this weekend Williams caught my attention again. He wrote a fictional letter on his blog to President Abraham Lincoln from “Precious Ben Jealous, Tom’s Nephew, NAACP head colored person” that read in part, “We Coloreds have taken a vote and decided that we don’t cotton to that whole emancipation thing. Freedom means having to work for real, think for ourselves, and take consequences along with the rewards. That is just far too much to ask of us Colored people and we demand that it stop!”

Turns out the joke was really on Mark Williams…so much for satire. The National TEA Party Federation, having been called out by the NAACP, expelled Williams and the TEA Party Express. Karma all up in that ass! Enough said.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

I have no idea if this is real. I simply found it on the Facebook profile of a friend named “Ron Artesticles.” I’m serious. But I figure Facebook information is at least as reliable as Fox “News.”

First the LeBron goes south/Gloria goes west t-shirt and now this from Queensbridge’s own. By the way, no matter how you feel about LeBron be careful talking about his mama. He’s a big guy and you probably wouldn’t say it to his face. Remember the song “Mind Playing Tricks On Me” when Bushwick Bill rapped “He stood about six or seven feet/That’s the nigga I be seeing in my sleep”? He was talking about LeBron. Bron-Bron will beat that ass. Anyway, let Gloria and Delonte live—shit, ain’t nothin’ like black love.

With all that said, I really like to check out that party this weekend.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of  The Imperfect Enjoyment

Perhaps I’m getting old, but have you noticed a lack of manners among a lot of grown men? “Excuse me” as been replaced with “hey,” they curse in front of women—even old women, and some of these ingrates even write books that mention various sexual exploits. Huh? Anyway, here’s my Advanced Guide To Being A Gentleman. Real Talk (as people often say before telling a slick ass lie).

1) At some point in your life you will be caught cheating with another woman. Own up to it. Don’t point out your girlfriend’s imperfections in order to justify your behavior. Apologize and move on. Even if she takes you back there’s no need to be in a distrustful relationship. Oh yeah, keep in mind that to a lot of women cheating simply means having fun anywhere near another woman age 15-50. Be cautious, or not.

2) Never refer to someone as a “bitch” while in the company of a woman. It just shows you’re one disagreement away from calling her the same. Nope, not even “My ex is such a bitch.” And not even “bitchassness” as made famous by that buck tooth cat who keeps comparing Rick Ross to Notorious B.I.G. Looks tacky. If you say such things your bitch-ass should consider expanding your vocabulary. Punk ass bitch.

3) Grow ass men shouldn’t follow trends too closely. Whether your clothes are too tight or too baggy, you’re too old for that. And always remember: There is NEVER an appropriate time to wear a Chopper suit.

4) If you’re strong minded and able to solve problems by communicating, chances are you won’t end up in a physical fight. But if you are, consider retaining your manliness. It’s funny how when two hyper-masculine engage in a bar/club fight there’s at least dude screaming at the top of his lungs, making pointless threats—just looking like a (more) maniacal version of Richard Simmons. Throw your blows and shut up. It’ll be over soon. Oh yeah, if it comes down to it try the Denzel throat chop.

5) This one is somewhat elementary, but…never-ever do the dick in the booty introduction. In other words, don’t just come up behind a woman and start dry humping. A real gentleman would put her in the full-nelson and then commence to dry humping. But seriously, meeting someone while in a bar or nightclub is no difference than meeting someone elsewhere. Would you do a dry hump introduction while at work? Probably not. Unless you work someplace where the uniform is birthday suit and the environment smells of whore. Introduce yourself, that’s it. That’s all the game you need.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

I have a habit of picking things up off the ground. Scratched lottery tickets, female audio engineers that had their veneers knocked out by Mel Gibson and in this case Ferragamo shoes.

I found this shoe last month, around 2:15am—Downtown San Diego. I was leaving a bar with the homeboy Chris, who by the way defies all stereotypes of Indian men: he’s a fairly big guy, has a very low date to sex ratio with women (Based on his stories he usually gets some by the second or third cheap date) and took a few extra years to graduate college.

Anyway, I saw the shoe and was immediately attracted to its shape and shine. It’s slightly curved, like the arc from back to bum of a blessed woman. And its luster rivals that of Jermaine Jackson.

I suppose it belongs to a drunken, downtown yuppie. She probably works in pharmaceutical sales. Parties hard on the company’s tab, maybe even flirts a bit but doesn’t go all the way—not with clients. She expected much more from this $500 shoe. At the very least a foot not left red and bunioned. And when it didn’t meet her expectations she kicked that sum-a-bitch off. Twelve dollar martinis will make you do that.

If you know the owner, have her (or him?) contact me.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment