SWEET LOU

I’ve been thinkin’ about the Harlem Globetrotters a lot lately and that’s even more so in the past three days. And nah, my renewed interest in the Globetrotters didn’t jus’ come out of the blue, a common phenomenon around inspired it.

Before I let y’all in on the reason why I’ve had the Harlem Globetrotters kickin’ it in my mind, let me first ask, do you guys know who the Harlem Globetrotters are? Yes - No?

(Aight, let me school some of y’all who doesn’t know, is that ok? Good!)

The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition basket ball team that hooked their game on athleticism, theater and comedy. It was founded in Chicago back in the twenties (1926) by my great great great grandfather Abe Saperstein (jus’ messin’ wit y’all, we ain’t related).

(Are guys following me? Good, cause am takin’ y’all somewhere wit this!)

I remember goin’ to the Globetrotters games as a kid; I loved sittin’ courtside, I loved the atmosphere, the excitement and the whole nine yard but guess what the best part of the whole gig was? I didn’t have to leave my neighborhood! How, you say? Well, all I had to do was wait for the National Television authority to open for transmission at 1600 hour (there was no twenty hours television back then) and bam, my lil ass would be at the games via the Hanna-Barbera animated Harlem Globetrotters series! Ah ha, I got ya, didn’t I? Lol

(Are you guys still wit me? Please, be patient, soon you’ll understand why am borin’ your asses spinnin’ all these globetrotters’ yarn, ok?)

If your ass was old enough to watch the Hannah Barbera series of the Globetrotters back in the eighties, you’d know that it featured the animated version of the players from the basket ball team. The show had guys like George “meadow lark” Lemar, Freddie “curly” Neal, Hubert “Geese” Ausby, JC “Gips” Gipson, Bobby Joe Mason and Pablo Robertson alongside their fictional bus driver and manager Granny and Dribble, their Dog mascot.

(Are you guys bored yet? Yes - No? Let’s keep it goin’, we almost hittin’ home run…)

If you remember the series very well, you’ll certainly remember Louis “Sweet Lou” Dunbar. The first thing that stood him out was his funky sky high afro, the second was in skill but what made him unforgettable were the things he could pull up out of that afro

Sweet Lou’s Afro is why I took y’all through this Israelites’ type of journey. Sweet Lou’s fro is a “magic portable lockers carried in his afro or in a basket ball shaped medallion”. That nigga could pull a anythin’ out of the afro, all it’d take is a moment of rummaging through and whatever he wanted would be found, that fro is like a magic hat and he ain’t even gotta say hocus pocus or abracadabra, how sweet is that, huh?

*clears throat*

Now picture Sweet Lou’s afro, done that? Ok, now picture Ladies’ hang bag…bull’s eye! Remember the common phenomenon I was talkin’ about in the openin’ paragragh? Ladies’ hand bag it is!

From this day forward, I propose that lady’s hand bag should be called SWEET LOU because whatever you want could be found in those bags. Those fuckin’ handbag are like tortoise, it’s a dressing table, wardrobe and toilet in there!

SWEET LOU

I’ve been thinkin’ about the Harlem Globetrotters a lot lately and that’s even more so in the past three days. And nah, my renewed interest in the Globetrotters didn’t jus’ come out of the blue, a common phenomenon around inspired it.

Before I let y’all in on the reason why I’ve had the Harlem Globetrotters kickin’ it in my mind, let me first ask, do you guys know who the Harlem Globetrotters are? Yes - No?

(Aight, let me school some of y’all who doesn’t know, is that ok? Good!)

The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition basket ball team that hooked their game on athleticism, theater and comedy. It was founded in Chicago back in the twenties (1926) by my great great great grandfather Abe Saperstein (jus’ messin’ wit y’all, we ain’t related).

(Are guys following me? Good, cause am takin’ y’all somewhere wit this!)

I remember goin’ to the Globetrotters games as a kid; I loved sittin’ courtside, I loved the atmosphere, the excitement and the whole nine yard but guess what the best part of the whole gig was? I didn’t have to leave my neighborhood! How, you say? Well, all I had to do was wait for the National Television authority to open for transmission at 1600 hour (there was no twenty hours television back then) and bam, my lil ass would be at the games via the Hanna-Barbera animated Harlem Globetrotters series! Ah ha, I got ya, didn’t I? Lol

(Are you guys still wit me? Please, be patient, soon you’ll understand why am borin’ your asses spinnin’ all these globetrotters’ yarn, ok?)

If your ass was old enough to watch the Hannah Barbera series of the Globetrotters back in the eighties, you’d know that it featured the animated version of the players from the basket ball team. The show had guys like George “meadow lark” Lemar, Freddie “curly” Neal, Hubert “Geese” Ausby, JC “Gips” Gipson, Bobby Joe Mason and Pablo Robertson alongside their fictional bus driver and manager Granny and Dribble, their Dog mascot.

(Are you guys bored yet? Yes - No? Let’s keep it goin’, we almost hittin’ home run…)

If you remember the series very well, you’ll certainly remember Louis “Sweet Lou” Dunbar. The first thing that stood him out was his funky sky high afro, the second was in skill but what made him unforgettable were the things he could pull up out of that afro

Sweet Lou’s Afro is why I took y’all through this Israelites’ type of journey. Sweet Lou’s fro is a “magic portable lockers carried in his afro or in a basket ball shaped medallion”. That nigga could pull a anythin’ out of the afro, all it’d take is a moment of rummaging through and whatever he wanted would be found, that fro is like a magic hat and he ain’t even gotta say hocus pocus or abracadabra, how sweet is that, huh?

*clears throat*

Now picture Sweet Lou’s afro, done that? Ok, now picture Ladies’ hang bag…bull’s eye! Remember the common phenomenon I was talkin’ about in the openin’ paragragh? Ladies’ hand bag it is!

From this day forward, I propose that lady’s hand bag should be called SWEET LOU because whatever you want could be found in those bags. Those fuckin’ handbag are like tortoise, it’s a dressing table, wardrobe and toilet in there!

AYLMER MAY: The Finest Estate

Friday, Oct 15
About 18:00hrs
I took a stroll cause my freakin’ head was getting’ cobwebbed with a whole lotta shit and for some reasons, an old school Boyz II Men’s joint kept playin’ in my head. It was like the song was stuck replay and it wouldn’t stop, in no time I was singin’ it too. Loved it back in the day, still love it. R&B cats these days jus’ don’t make shit like that no more.

And if you could see inside my heart
You would be depressed
And if you should know what am feelin’
You would be…blah blah (couldn’t remember that part so I jus’ hummed the shit out of it)

And the chorus goes,

So I stay away lonely
And only get away in my mind

I had nowhere particular in mind, I jus’ wanted to walk wit’ myself and talk to wind or somethin. Did you jus’ ask what that somethin is? Well, am not tellin’ *sticks tongue out*.

18:10
I was so lost in thought; I didn't realize I was standin’ in front of the gate of one of the most beautiful estates around. It wasn't like I’ve never passed by it before but I’ve never really took the time to check it out properly.

The big sign board by the gate says the joint is called Aylmer May somethin’ (yep, that word “somethin’’ again but calm down and I’ll re-read the signpost again and let y’all know the complete name, ok?). Jus below the name of the estate, a line proclaimed that visitors to the estate will only be permitted from certain time to certain time. Ooh wee, these niggas are very security conscious, or aren’t they? But then again, I expect nothin’ less from such a lovely and deeply quiet place.

I heard the estate has got alotta rich and well-learned folks kickin’ it in there wit’ some of their fams. No doubt, this place is not for Joe Blows…you can’t find no average Joe here. Estates like these have got that exclusiveness about them.

You’d already know without being told that only heavy-hitters call place this home. The old moneys; pot-bellied, bald headed and shit, the nouveau riche and of course, the young and the beautiful are in there.

Though, I don’t personally know anybody in this gated community but hell, I ain’t gotta personally know anybody there to know that only rich folks lives it up in there. The wealth in this neighborhood is so freakin’ obvious in the tree-lined “streets” and the well-tended lawns. One strange thing though, I noticed that there were no cars…strange, right?

18:13
So there I was in front of this extravagantly rich estate and am thinkin’ about a friend of mine from a few years back, his name was NASIR. And yep, I used WAS cause that nigga been DEAD for a minute now. Isn’t it strange for me to be thinkin’ about a dead friend in front of such opulence?

I think not and I’ma tell you why…

My nigga NASIR was a Muslim and am standin’ in front of the Aylmer May Cemetery! Do you know that when Muslims die, they don’t waste time or money tryna pretty-up a dead people? They jus’ wash the body and wrapped up nicely in white sheet before sendin’ them on their way to the hereafter.

Now that’s how I wanna go, quietly floatin’ across River Stix wit my ass strapped in white cloth while coolin’ in a home-made coffin (would prefer no coffin if it would not mess wit the health of the people livin’ around where am gon’ be buried).

Bottom line, I still don’t understand why people waste a whole lotta resources on the dead. I just can’t wrap my big head around that concept. These niggas are dead for God’s sake; they don’t freakin’ care if their asses are buried in caskets draped with the purest of gold. As I walked away from the restin’ of the dead, I only had one thought in my mind, when I die, jus’ fuckin’ toss my ass in a grave the same fuckin’ day, no pomp no pageantry!

AYLMER MAY: The Finest Estate

Friday, Oct 15
About 18:00hrs
I took a stroll cause my freakin’ head was getting’ cobwebbed with a whole lotta shit and for some reasons, an old school Boyz II Men’s joint kept playin’ in my head. It was like the song was stuck replay and it wouldn’t stop, in no time I was singin’ it too. Loved it back in the day, still love it. R&B cats these days jus’ don’t make shit like that no more.

And if you could see inside my heart
You would be depressed
And if you should know what am feelin’
You would be…blah blah (couldn’t remember that part so I jus’ hummed the shit out of it)

And the chorus goes,

So I stay away lonely
And only get away in my mind

I had nowhere particular in mind, I jus’ wanted to walk wit’ myself and talk to wind or somethin. Did you jus’ ask what that somethin is? Well, am not tellin’ *sticks tongue out*.

18:10
I was so lost in thought; I didn't realize I was standin’ in front of the gate of one of the most beautiful estates around. It wasn't like I’ve never passed by it before but I’ve never really took the time to check it out properly.

The big sign board by the gate says the joint is called Aylmer May somethin’ (yep, that word “somethin’’ again but calm down and I’ll re-read the signpost again and let y’all know the complete name, ok?). Jus below the name of the estate, a line proclaimed that visitors to the estate will only be permitted from certain time to certain time. Ooh wee, these niggas are very security conscious, or aren’t they? But then again, I expect nothin’ less from such a lovely and deeply quiet place.

I heard the estate has got alotta rich and well-learned folks kickin’ it in there wit’ some of their fams. No doubt, this place is not for Joe Blows…you can’t find no average Joe here. Estates like these have got that exclusiveness about them.

You’d already know without being told that only heavy-hitters call place this home. The old moneys; pot-bellied, bald headed and shit, the nouveau riche and of course, the young and the beautiful are in there.

Though, I don’t personally know anybody in this gated community but hell, I ain’t gotta personally know anybody there to know that only rich folks lives it up in there. The wealth in this neighborhood is so freakin’ obvious in the tree-lined “streets” and the well-tended lawns. One strange thing though, I noticed that there were no cars…strange, right?

18:13
So there I was in front of this extravagantly rich estate and am thinkin’ about a friend of mine from a few years back, his name was NASIR. And yep, I used WAS cause that nigga been DEAD for a minute now. Isn’t it strange for me to be thinkin’ about a dead friend in front of such opulence?

I think not and I’ma tell you why…

My nigga NASIR was a Muslim and am standin’ in front of the Aylmer May Cemetery! Do you know that when Muslims die, they don’t waste time or money tryna pretty-up a dead people? They jus’ wash the body and wrapped up nicely in white sheet before sendin’ them on their way to the hereafter.

Now that’s how I wanna go, quietly floatin’ across River Stix wit my ass strapped in white cloth while coolin’ in a home-made coffin (would prefer no coffin if it would not mess wit the health of the people livin’ around where am gon’ be buried).

Bottom line, I still don’t understand why people waste a whole lotta resources on the dead. I just can’t wrap my big head around that concept. These niggas are dead for God’s sake; they don’t freakin’ care if their asses are buried in caskets draped with the purest of gold. As I walked away from the restin’ of the dead, I only had one thought in my mind, when I die, jus’ fuckin’ toss my ass in a grave the same fuckin’ day, no pomp no pageantry!

PASSENGER 57

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, do you know who this guy is?
Huh?
You don’t?
Oh, you wanna Google the name?
Nah, don’t go worryin’ yourself about nuthin’. I got a lil yarn I wanna spin to y’all, when am done, you might not need to Google shit again.

December 25, 2009
You got on some international flight from somewhere in Europe, you’re headed to the other side of the Atlantic tryna get your ass home in time to celebrate Christmas wit your peeps. You’ve hustled so hard all year long in Europe and you were really lookin’ forward to seein’ your fam again. Your spirit was high as the jet you were flyin’ in. You tried to get some shut-eye but your excitement wouldn’t let you sleep a wink. You turned to the fine young man guy sitting next to you tryna spark some kinda of convo but no cigar.

Few minutes later, you tried again and this time, the young man opened up a bit…jus a bit. You thought you heard a trace of West African accent in there somewhere when he spoke but you weren’t too sure, so you asked if he was West African. You couldn’t make anything out of his mumbled response so let his punk ass be.

It was obvious, the young man was preoccupied, and he had that spaced-out look of a man lost in deep thought. Somewhere in your mind you sensed there was somethin’ odd about this guy. Something was off but you couldn’t place your finger on it. He was too fuckin’ quiet and the look on his face wasn’t that of a first time flier (he doesn’t look like somebody who’s afraid of flying). The look was like that of a man who had jus made a life altering decision. You thought about it for a second or two jus to keep your mind occupied but soon enough, your mind drifted off to more important things like your kids, your mother, your friends or some sweet ass you wanna have a piece of…even at 30,000 feet, you could smell Christmas!

BACK TO NOW
If you were on board that Northwest airline Flight 253, en route Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan on December 25, 2009, chances are that you could’ve been coolin’ next to or not far from that fine young man, an engineering MBA holder and a student of Arabic language who celebrated his birthday jus three days before. At 23, shit was lookin’ hella good for this dude until got radicalized and he fucked it all up!
If you were on that Christmas day flight back in 2009, possibly you could have been sittin next to a certain Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a would-be terrorist wit plastic explosive stashed away in his underwear. He was trained in Yemen by the infamous al-Qaeda

I hate terrorists (not that I know one personally) and I hate the mutherfuckers behind them even more, you know, the ones who radicalize these ignorant young men. The ones who hide away somewhere safe wit their fams and push out inflammatory tapes like underground rappers. If suicide bombing is so rewardin’, then why aren’t these mullahs sendin’ their own children for those kamikaze missions? Mutherfuckers hide their asses away somewhere, pro’ly eatin’ on some virgin’s pussy wit pussy juice all over their beards and they got the gut to do a Manchurian candidate-type thing on these otherwise innocent young minds

Last week, Thursday
13 October
The screamin’ headlines everywhere was “The Underwear Bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab Pleads guilty” A Nigerian man accused of trying to blow up a U.S. airliner with a bomb in his pant blah blah…good I said to myself, the punkass nigga will now get to pay for his stupidity. If he’s lucky up in the joint, someone might “wife” him and protect his ass from being the go-to “girl” for them inmates.

Today
The part that riles me in this whole shebang is the fact that this little fuck almost ruined our image as Nigerians. Yeah, I know we got quite a reputation but terrorist ain’t one of ‘em…we are hustlers. We’re all about that paper but we ain’t terrorists.

Am pissed, so I’ma shut this thing down with what a devout Muslim friend wrote on his FB status about mutallab… “This boy is a liar. Islam did not teach him to avenge with the blood of the innocent. In fact, vengeance belong to Allah, hence if you take laws to your hands, be ready to face the consequence. How can the Al-Quaran an attempt to murder 289 innocent souls? The boy is a spoilt brat who has always enjoy the best of life”.

PASSENGER 57

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, do you know who this guy is?
Huh?
You don’t?
Oh, you wanna Google the name?
Nah, don’t go worryin’ yourself about nuthin’. I got a lil yarn I wanna spin to y’all, when am done, you might not need to Google shit again.

December 25, 2009
You got on some international flight from somewhere in Europe, you’re headed to the other side of the Atlantic tryna get your ass home in time to celebrate Christmas wit your peeps. You’ve hustled so hard all year long in Europe and you were really lookin’ forward to seein’ your fam again. Your spirit was high as the jet you were flyin’ in. You tried to get some shut-eye but your excitement wouldn’t let you sleep a wink. You turned to the fine young man guy sitting next to you tryna spark some kinda of convo but no cigar.

Few minutes later, you tried again and this time, the young man opened up a bit…jus a bit. You thought you heard a trace of West African accent in there somewhere when he spoke but you weren’t too sure, so you asked if he was West African. You couldn’t make anything out of his mumbled response so let his punk ass be.

It was obvious, the young man was preoccupied, and he had that spaced-out look of a man lost in deep thought. Somewhere in your mind you sensed there was somethin’ odd about this guy. Something was off but you couldn’t place your finger on it. He was too fuckin’ quiet and the look on his face wasn’t that of a first time flier (he doesn’t look like somebody who’s afraid of flying). The look was like that of a man who had jus made a life altering decision. You thought about it for a second or two jus to keep your mind occupied but soon enough, your mind drifted off to more important things like your kids, your mother, your friends or some sweet ass you wanna have a piece of…even at 30,000 feet, you could smell Christmas!

BACK TO NOW
If you were on board that Northwest airline Flight 253, en route Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan on December 25, 2009, chances are that you could’ve been coolin’ next to or not far from that fine young man, an engineering MBA holder and a student of Arabic language who celebrated his birthday jus three days before. At 23, shit was lookin’ hella good for this dude until got radicalized and he fucked it all up!
If you were on that Christmas day flight back in 2009, possibly you could have been sittin next to a certain Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a would-be terrorist wit plastic explosive stashed away in his underwear. He was trained in Yemen by the infamous al-Qaeda

I hate terrorists (not that I know one personally) and I hate the mutherfuckers behind them even more, you know, the ones who radicalize these ignorant young men. The ones who hide away somewhere safe wit their fams and push out inflammatory tapes like underground rappers. If suicide bombing is so rewardin’, then why aren’t these mullahs sendin’ their own children for those kamikaze missions? Mutherfuckers hide their asses away somewhere, pro’ly eatin’ on some virgin’s pussy wit pussy juice all over their beards and they got the gut to do a Manchurian candidate-type thing on these otherwise innocent young minds

Last week, Thursday
13 October
The screamin’ headlines everywhere was “The Underwear Bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab Pleads guilty” A Nigerian man accused of trying to blow up a U.S. airliner with a bomb in his pant blah blah…good I said to myself, the punkass nigga will now get to pay for his stupidity. If he’s lucky up in the joint, someone might “wife” him and protect his ass from being the go-to “girl” for them inmates.

Today
The part that riles me in this whole shebang is the fact that this little fuck almost ruined our image as Nigerians. Yeah, I know we got quite a reputation but terrorist ain’t one of ‘em…we are hustlers. We’re all about that paper but we ain’t terrorists.

Am pissed, so I’ma shut this thing down with what a devout Muslim friend wrote on his FB status about mutallab… “This boy is a liar. Islam did not teach him to avenge with the blood of the innocent. In fact, vengeance belong to Allah, hence if you take laws to your hands, be ready to face the consequence. How can the Al-Quaran an attempt to murder 289 innocent souls? The boy is a spoilt brat who has always enjoy the best of life”.

NOT JUS' ANUTHER SUNDAY

Sunday Oct., 16
11:45
Morning
Feelin’ photo-shoot fresh and clean in a Hope and Glory emblazoned brown tee, faded blue jeans and a pair of Chuck’s, I slipped quietly into the park like a rock star tryin’ to evade the pryin’ eyes of his adoring fans (yep, I know am delusional like that but hey, that was how a brotha was feelin’. Lol) As I expected, the joint was packed to the rafters

Are you wonderin’, “what the fuck was he doin’ at a park on a Sunday morning?”
“Was he there to perform?”
“Wasn’t his ass supposed to be in church or somethin’?”

Nope, I wasn’t there to perform and yep, my ass was exactly where y’all thought it should be…the church! The church is bum smack in the middle of a park. How cool is that, huh? Trees swayin’, birds yodeling while the M.O.G (Man Of God, jus’ in case you’re wonderin’ what that meant) drops the word of God in your ear holes…hella cool, if you ask me.

Like I said, the place was already filled with folks who took punctuality to church service more seriously than others. I grabbed a chair and sat my ass down under the biggest baobab tree you’d ever seen with them other late comers jus’ outside the big ass tent (serving as the church buidin’). It was testimony time, testimonies were flowin’ and I was lovin’ it.

By the way, do you guys know that more than any other days of the week, people look most beautiful on Sunday mornings? Ummm, don’t take my statement as the gospel though.

Anyways, your boy was so moved by the testimonies, my ass was tempted to go grab the mike and let loose a testimony or two. But then I thought, what was I goin’ to testify about?

A voice inside my head said, “testify about your blog, tell ‘em how thousands of folks been troopin’ there and shit”.

What! I can’t tell the church about the freakin’ blog, nah I can’t. My shit ain’t fit for church consumption; the church will definitely puke from that shit. Besides, am always snitchin’ on the church members up in there.

A crow cawin’ up on the baobab tree snapped me out of the lil dabate I was having in my head.

I got my concentration together and I turned my bible to Exodus 25 verse 9 like the MOG said. I did good for about an hour but the sermon was takin’ way too long, the heat was beginnin’ to affect my thoughts and my mind started to stray. Surroundin’ me were two nursin’ mothers, two men, some young ladies and a coupla kids.

The nursin’ mother sittin diagonally in front of me was a plus size woman, if y’all know what I mean, her baby wouldn’t stop cryin’ so she did what most mothers would do…she unleashed a portion of her generous breast for the tot to suck on…I was stunned, my head snapped away instantly! Gawd, I can’t be peepin’ stuff like that in the house of God! I felt put on the spot…I willed my eyes glued to my pocket size bible and left it there for the next three minute or so.

14:10
The Pastor doesn’t look like he was gonna shut his sermon down anytime soon, matter of fact, it looked like he was jus getting’ warmed up and that was two hours after he got on the mike! I’d had enough sermon to last me the whole week, I was blessed and it was time for to jet.