WHEN NO ONE'S LOOKIN'

I'm a grown ass man; a responsible one for that matter and I know y'all can tell even though there may be one or two folks who won’t mind throwin' dirt on that claim... ok ok, maybe am half irresponsible but I swear, am working on it. Anyways, I do what grown asses do, well at least, most of it and a lot more that a grown man shouldn't be caught dead doin'.

Am thirty some' years old... oh, you're shocked? Did you just go check my pictures again tryna connect my Facebook/ Twitter tantrums with this new revelation? Did your head just nod on its own accord? Well, it's okay, you can now pick your jaws from the floor! If it's any consolation, you'd be surprised to know that am as shocked as you because I feel like that nigga Jigga (the thick-lipped rap mogul)... am forever young, dammit!

I hate not being able to do what the fuck I wanna do, I mean, am not rich yet like most of my friends *checks watch…quarter to rich O’clock, it says... shakes head*, so the least a grown ass dawg like me can do is have one or two or more carry-over childish vices he can secretly indulge in.

Here are some of my childhood deeds carried-over to adulthood... plus some of the new shenanigans I get up to when nobody’s looking.

I love to scrape pots... yeeea men *in Usher’s voice*. I love it when that sweet pot of rice is nicely burnt, leavin' them grains brown and yummy. I just take my shirt off, lock that pot between my thighs and get lost in the "scrapeture". Can't blame a brotha, can you? What with all that ingredients chilling down there. No wonder that African proverb says, “The bottom of the pot is the sweetest”. I know some of y'all have done it before and those who haven't, you should do it sometime.

I’m so freakin' sure this next one is an original. A never-before-seen or done-type of shit as far as am concerned, that is. Oh oh I think I deserve an award for this one (y'all can decide the type of award... ingenuity or absurdity?). I use my phone a lot, right? Me and my insomniac ass posted up on Facebook all day and all night. Only hell gets hotter than that piece of gadget and what'd I do whenever I want to give it alil rest? I put the poor thing in the fridge... you want me to write that again? I refrigerate the damn thing! It's crazy, I know but ay, a brotha’s gotta do what a brotha’s gotta do.

Whenever I go to a new place where English is not the main language, I like to make-pretend like I understand what the fuck they are saying. I just nod, smile, shrug or mumble, timing my response with the body language of whoever's talking to me. Why'd I do that, you say? Well, I do it just for the heck of it; it's a little game I enjoy playing just to see how far I can fool the speaker! My boy BJ and Barry know what am talking about... BJ, especially love to see me do my thing.

When am alone or when I think no one's got me in their sight, I turn Miner! I take my sweet little time to mine those gooey stuffs from my nose... yeah! Cast the first stone if you ain't guilty. Go ahead, what? You can't do it? Yea, I thought so.



Oh I love this one…growing up with my Granny, I was taught to always eat my meat or fish last. She would tell me only lions and greedy folks eat their meat first. Guess what? I still do that till today even though I had a somewhat painful experience with that practice once. One night, as a little country boy, after having my dinner (outside, of course), with my plate shining and shit after performing that little art of licking, my lil’ country ass place the fish in another plate while trying to wash my plate facing another direction. Done with the small matter of plate-washing, I reached out for my fish…it was gone. The damn fried fish had swum away on dry land! The culprit, a damn mongrel…the mutherfucking canine was licking its mouth not far from me. Fuck what Mrs. Elton John sang about not looking back in anger…the next day; I nearly killed the damn dog!

Did you just say, what about wet dreams?
Here’s my reply to your thought, "Yeah, why don’t you tell me?"

WHEN NO ONE'S LOOKIN'

I'm a grown ass man; a responsible one for that matter and I know y'all can tell even though there may be one or two folks who won’t mind throwin' dirt on that claim... ok ok, maybe am half irresponsible but I swear, am working on it. Anyways, I do what grown asses do, well at least, most of it and a lot more that a grown man shouldn't be caught dead doin'.

Am thirty some' years old... oh, you're shocked? Did you just go check my pictures again tryna connect my Facebook/ Twitter tantrums with this new revelation? Did your head just nod on its own accord? Well, it's okay, you can now pick your jaws from the floor! If it's any consolation, you'd be surprised to know that am as shocked as you because I feel like that nigga Jigga (the thick-lipped rap mogul)... am forever young, dammit!

I hate not being able to do what the fuck I wanna do, I mean, am not rich yet like most of my friends *checks watch…quarter to rich O’clock, it says... shakes head*, so the least a grown ass dawg like me can do is have one or two or more carry-over childish vices he can secretly indulge in.

Here are some of my childhood deeds carried-over to adulthood... plus some of the new shenanigans I get up to when nobody’s looking.

I love to scrape pots... yeeea men *in Usher’s voice*. I love it when that sweet pot of rice is nicely burnt, leavin' them grains brown and yummy. I just take my shirt off, lock that pot between my thighs and get lost in the "scrapeture". Can't blame a brotha, can you? What with all that ingredients chilling down there. No wonder that African proverb says, “The bottom of the pot is the sweetest”. I know some of y'all have done it before and those who haven't, you should do it sometime.

I’m so freakin' sure this next one is an original. A never-before-seen or done-type of shit as far as am concerned, that is. Oh oh I think I deserve an award for this one (y'all can decide the type of award... ingenuity or absurdity?). I use my phone a lot, right? Me and my insomniac ass posted up on Facebook all day and all night. Only hell gets hotter than that piece of gadget and what'd I do whenever I want to give it alil rest? I put the poor thing in the fridge... you want me to write that again? I refrigerate the damn thing! It's crazy, I know but ay, a brotha’s gotta do what a brotha’s gotta do.

Whenever I go to a new place where English is not the main language, I like to make-pretend like I understand what the fuck they are saying. I just nod, smile, shrug or mumble, timing my response with the body language of whoever's talking to me. Why'd I do that, you say? Well, I do it just for the heck of it; it's a little game I enjoy playing just to see how far I can fool the speaker! My boy BJ and Barry know what am talking about... BJ, especially love to see me do my thing.

When am alone or when I think no one's got me in their sight, I turn Miner! I take my sweet little time to mine those gooey stuffs from my nose... yeah! Cast the first stone if you ain't guilty. Go ahead, what? You can't do it? Yea, I thought so.



Oh I love this one…growing up with my Granny, I was taught to always eat my meat or fish last. She would tell me only lions and greedy folks eat their meat first. Guess what? I still do that till today even though I had a somewhat painful experience with that practice once. One night, as a little country boy, after having my dinner (outside, of course), with my plate shining and shit after performing that little art of licking, my lil’ country ass place the fish in another plate while trying to wash my plate facing another direction. Done with the small matter of plate-washing, I reached out for my fish…it was gone. The damn fried fish had swum away on dry land! The culprit, a damn mongrel…the mutherfucking canine was licking its mouth not far from me. Fuck what Mrs. Elton John sang about not looking back in anger…the next day; I nearly killed the damn dog!

Did you just say, what about wet dreams?
Here’s my reply to your thought, "Yeah, why don’t you tell me?"

THE BOY WHO GOT DECEIVED

I was born when televisions were black and white and TV stations were government owned. You can count those on the fingers of a palm. This was the era when stations don't open for transmission before 1600hrs and they shut down immediately that old grand Pa clock on the wall strikes midnight with its long swingin’ dick *clears throat*, I meant, bell.

I remember those columns of colors and that annoying piercing sound that precedes the national anthem whenever the station’s ‘bout to start transmission.

These were the days when President, JVC, Akai and ‘em were the kings of the electronic hill. Television were owned by very few and the rest of us would usually be caught hangin’ in someone’s window jus’ to catch a glimpse of what’s goin’ on.

I had fond memories of me and some of my goons (K’roy and ‘em), religiously goin’ to a neighbor’s crib every Sunday to watch Indian movies. If you were allowed to hang in the window (the room is usually packed to the rafters with Ol’ Gs), you’d feel like some V.I.P! Know why? ‘Cause the next day at school, you’d be among the precious few who’d be the centre of attention, spinning yarns to your classmates ‘bout the adventures of Amitab Bacchant and that fine ass heroine!

Damn those Indian films, lying to us and shit. Imagine the hero as a boy on a horse, tryna flee from the Boss (the Boss…that was what we used to call the villain and oh, the hero was the “actor”) and the next thing you know, bam, the hero is grown... on that same horse!

Anyways, what brought those childhood memories back is a friend of mine up on facebook. Always goin’ on and on about John Cena. Putting up updates bout how she wouldn’t hesitate takin’ one in for Mr. Cena. I love to get up on her grill with my usual rhetoric ’bout how my nigger The Rock and Team Bring It is the truest! We would go back and forth on who the best is and stuff. But y’all know what the funny thing is? I don’t watch wrestling... well, not anymore.

I lost faith in wrestling a long time ago. I felt cheated and used… My second favorite sport on TV was a fuckin’ big joke. The whole dam thing was scripted! I mean, what’d you expect from a lil’ boy who one day found out that the whole shebag was a big production, some hoax put together by some folks to deceive the lil’ boy I was.

The day my Uncle hit me with the truth, I couldn’t sleep... my world crashed (ok, that was an exaggeration *winks*). Watchin’ wrestlin’ on TV was an event for me back then. I would dream about that shit every time, I would close my eyes and generate visions of Mighty Igor choke-holding Sergeant Slaughter, Mascara body-slammin’ the undertaker. I would patiently wait for Sunday when a new episode would air.

My Dad loves watchin’ the shit, by the way. Always tryna get me to kick it with him whenever it came on and I was around. The convo is always the same...

Pops would say, "the big man, wrestling is on come join me".
"Nah", I'd reply, smiling.
"You know, this is no different from the movies, all scripted".
"I know", shaking my head and smiling even harder.

Wrestling deceived me... I've forgiven the deceit but I’ll never forget.

THE BOY WHO GOT DECEIVED

I was born when televisions were black and white and TV stations were government owned. You can count those on the fingers of a palm. This was the era when stations don't open for transmission before 1600hrs and they shut down immediately that old grand Pa clock on the wall strikes midnight with its long swingin’ dick *clears throat*, I meant, bell.

I remember those columns of colors and that annoying piercing sound that precedes the national anthem whenever the station’s ‘bout to start transmission.

These were the days when President, JVC, Akai and ‘em were the kings of the electronic hill. Television were owned by very few and the rest of us would usually be caught hangin’ in someone’s window jus’ to catch a glimpse of what’s goin’ on.

I had fond memories of me and some of my goons (K’roy and ‘em), religiously goin’ to a neighbor’s crib every Sunday to watch Indian movies. If you were allowed to hang in the window (the room is usually packed to the rafters with Ol’ Gs), you’d feel like some V.I.P! Know why? ‘Cause the next day at school, you’d be among the precious few who’d be the centre of attention, spinning yarns to your classmates ‘bout the adventures of Amitab Bacchant and that fine ass heroine!

Damn those Indian films, lying to us and shit. Imagine the hero as a boy on a horse, tryna flee from the Boss (the Boss…that was what we used to call the villain and oh, the hero was the “actor”) and the next thing you know, bam, the hero is grown... on that same horse!

Anyways, what brought those childhood memories back is a friend of mine up on facebook. Always goin’ on and on about John Cena. Putting up updates bout how she wouldn’t hesitate takin’ one in for Mr. Cena. I love to get up on her grill with my usual rhetoric ’bout how my nigger The Rock and Team Bring It is the truest! We would go back and forth on who the best is and stuff. But y’all know what the funny thing is? I don’t watch wrestling... well, not anymore.

I lost faith in wrestling a long time ago. I felt cheated and used… My second favorite sport on TV was a fuckin’ big joke. The whole dam thing was scripted! I mean, what’d you expect from a lil’ boy who one day found out that the whole shebag was a big production, some hoax put together by some folks to deceive the lil’ boy I was.

The day my Uncle hit me with the truth, I couldn’t sleep... my world crashed (ok, that was an exaggeration *winks*). Watchin’ wrestlin’ on TV was an event for me back then. I would dream about that shit every time, I would close my eyes and generate visions of Mighty Igor choke-holding Sergeant Slaughter, Mascara body-slammin’ the undertaker. I would patiently wait for Sunday when a new episode would air.

My Dad loves watchin’ the shit, by the way. Always tryna get me to kick it with him whenever it came on and I was around. The convo is always the same...

Pops would say, "the big man, wrestling is on come join me".
"Nah", I'd reply, smiling.
"You know, this is no different from the movies, all scripted".
"I know", shaking my head and smiling even harder.

Wrestling deceived me... I've forgiven the deceit but I’ll never forget.

EJACULATORY INEVITABILITY (The One Minute Man)

The other day, I was riding short-gun in a friend’s whip. My men Piper and Sam were vibin' in the backseat while the homie Femi was on the wheel. It was a beautiful mid-week night and we were headed to some swanky over-priced hang-out somewhere in the ‘burb.

As we approached a corner, I stuck my head out the window trying to get a good look at the ladies of the night strutting their stuffs. Clad in very skimpy tops with swatches of cloths masquerading as skirts around their waists. They swivel their hips back and forth, calling to every car that passes- by, “hi, sweetie!” or “hey, darling”.

Just for the heck of it, Piper suggested we slow down. One of the hoochies ran up to the car smiling that annoying plastic sexy smile they all put on and smelling like she just took a dip in a pool of cheap perfume. As she got closer I told my boy to step on it, she ran after the car but when she realized we were just messing with her, she hurled explitive after us as we drove away laughing. The mood in the car was of burst of brilliant colors!

At some point in the drive, we all fell into default mode, that brief moment when people keep quiet at the same time, every man to his thought, like some god had waved a magic wand, casting a spell of silence on everybody.

I reached for the radio and clicked on the search button. Keri Hilson’s new joint “Lose Control” came on and am like, damn! That record sounds so much like Rihanna’s “What’s My Name?” I said to no one in particular. I loved it, though. The other guys didn’t appear to give two-fucks about me or the song or Miss Keri!

And just as I was settling into the groove of the song, the on-air personality interrupted my flow with the usual rhetoric about going into a short commercial break and how the listeners shouldn’t touch the dial and some other bullshits they like to reel off the top of their domes like some programmed robot. I hate that shit, so I made up my mind to do what i usually do whenever I hear a DJ say that... change the fucking channel but then, the guy said something about how the topic of discussion for the night is premature ejac!

It was almost as if the radio got our collective attention in a choke-hold!

“My oga, don’t change the station”, Piper said from the backseat, taking a long pull from the bottle of cold beer in his hand.

And am like, “hmm, heavy topic, huh?” Nobody replied, they just nodded their heads in unison as if they’re connected to a mother switch.

“Trust you’re an all-nighter, huh?” I said, directing my question at Piper.

Instead of answering, he deflected the question back to me, saying something about how I was the only single man in the car. Of course, I wasn’t having none of it. There was no way I was going to answer that. Told them I’d exercise my right to be silent on that one!

A couple of anonymous callers phoned in, lamenting how they’ve been battling the problem for some time now. And of course there were the few ones who claimed they’ve never been there. There was this loudmouth calling himself “the lady magnet” who kept in going on and on about how’s always been the man from day one.

“That right there”, Sam said, referring to the lady magnet, “is the attitude of a lot of cats”

“So, has any of you porn stars (referring to the rest of us ) experienced quick ejac before and am not just talking about those times when you were learning how to get shit done or the once-in-a-whiler?” Femi asked, taking his eyes off the road for a bit.

“Neverrrr!” from his throne in the backseat, piper yelled, spilling a good dose of beer from his mouth to the back of my neck.

I'm sure a lot of guys have seen this kind of situation play out before and a lot more have been part of this familiarly strange jaw-jaw many times before. The thing about this taboo is, many men are given to casting themselves in the role of the legendary porn-star; John C. Holmes. There’s every tendency for men to boast and don themselves in the garb of a bedroom super-hero.  It's a well-kept open secret that a lot of guys would rather go six-feet under than admit to his boys that he's a one-minute man. Never! It's an ego thing.

We got to the spot, grabbed a table. We teased ourselves subtly about how we heard that the other can rotate on all tyres all night-long. Other guys joined in. Bottles after bottles of beers were downed. Despite the amount of alcohol consumed, nobody let slip or gave anything away. The closest anybody came to admitting anything was agreeing to using locally brewed concoctions every once in a while.

Anybody still want to know if I reach the point of ejaculatory inevitability too easily? Umm, maybe I do but then again, maybe I don’t. Truth is, y'all might to test a brotha wit that pussy to find out!

EJACULATORY INEVITABILITY (The One Minute Man)

The other day, I was riding short-gun in a friend’s whip. My men Piper and Sam were vibin' in the backseat while the homie Femi was on the wheel. It was a beautiful mid-week night and we were headed to some swanky over-priced hang-out somewhere in the ‘burb.

As we approached a corner, I stuck my head out the window trying to get a good look at the ladies of the night strutting their stuffs. Clad in very skimpy tops with swatches of cloths masquerading as skirts around their waists. They swivel their hips back and forth, calling to every car that passes- by, “hi, sweetie!” or “hey, darling”.

Just for the heck of it, Piper suggested we slow down. One of the hoochies ran up to the car smiling that annoying plastic sexy smile they all put on and smelling like she just took a dip in a pool of cheap perfume. As she got closer I told my boy to step on it, she ran after the car but when she realized we were just messing with her, she hurled explitive after us as we drove away laughing. The mood in the car was of burst of brilliant colors!

At some point in the drive, we all fell into default mode, that brief moment when people keep quiet at the same time, every man to his thought, like some god had waved a magic wand, casting a spell of silence on everybody.

I reached for the radio and clicked on the search button. Keri Hilson’s new joint “Lose Control” came on and am like, damn! That record sounds so much like Rihanna’s “What’s My Name?” I said to no one in particular. I loved it, though. The other guys didn’t appear to give two-fucks about me or the song or Miss Keri!

And just as I was settling into the groove of the song, the on-air personality interrupted my flow with the usual rhetoric about going into a short commercial break and how the listeners shouldn’t touch the dial and some other bullshits they like to reel off the top of their domes like some programmed robot. I hate that shit, so I made up my mind to do what i usually do whenever I hear a DJ say that... change the fucking channel but then, the guy said something about how the topic of discussion for the night is premature ejac!

It was almost as if the radio got our collective attention in a choke-hold!

“My oga, don’t change the station”, Piper said from the backseat, taking a long pull from the bottle of cold beer in his hand.

And am like, “hmm, heavy topic, huh?” Nobody replied, they just nodded their heads in unison as if they’re connected to a mother switch.

“Trust you’re an all-nighter, huh?” I said, directing my question at Piper.

Instead of answering, he deflected the question back to me, saying something about how I was the only single man in the car. Of course, I wasn’t having none of it. There was no way I was going to answer that. Told them I’d exercise my right to be silent on that one!

A couple of anonymous callers phoned in, lamenting how they’ve been battling the problem for some time now. And of course there were the few ones who claimed they’ve never been there. There was this loudmouth calling himself “the lady magnet” who kept in going on and on about how’s always been the man from day one.

“That right there”, Sam said, referring to the lady magnet, “is the attitude of a lot of cats”

“So, has any of you porn stars (referring to the rest of us ) experienced quick ejac before and am not just talking about those times when you were learning how to get shit done or the once-in-a-whiler?” Femi asked, taking his eyes off the road for a bit.

“Neverrrr!” from his throne in the backseat, piper yelled, spilling a good dose of beer from his mouth to the back of my neck.

I'm sure a lot of guys have seen this kind of situation play out before and a lot more have been part of this familiarly strange jaw-jaw many times before. The thing about this taboo is, many men are given to casting themselves in the role of the legendary porn-star; John C. Holmes. There’s every tendency for men to boast and don themselves in the garb of a bedroom super-hero.  It's a well-kept open secret that a lot of guys would rather go six-feet under than admit to his boys that he's a one-minute man. Never! It's an ego thing.

We got to the spot, grabbed a table. We teased ourselves subtly about how we heard that the other can rotate on all tyres all night-long. Other guys joined in. Bottles after bottles of beers were downed. Despite the amount of alcohol consumed, nobody let slip or gave anything away. The closest anybody came to admitting anything was agreeing to using locally brewed concoctions every once in a while.

Anybody still want to know if I reach the point of ejaculatory inevitability too easily? Umm, maybe I do but then again, maybe I don’t. Truth is, y'all might to test a brotha wit that pussy to find out!

SKINNY JEANS

So, I saw a grown ass dude today, able bodied and shit but this cat was takin' the stairs like he got a spaldin (name of a ball for basketball) between his freakin' legs. Dude couldn't walk properly because of the pant he got his skinny ass into. A skinny jeans hangin' so tight and so low on his ass he could barely move. I swear, a year old child woulda out run this punk ass!

That appallin' sight kinda take my recollection back to a classic line ''I don't wear skinny jeans 'cos my nuts don't fit, yeaaaah", ain't that what the newly revealed soon to be Dad said in one of his hot joint? Am talkin bout Jay, as in Jay Z, the I got 99 pro'lem and a bitch ain't one rapper. Jus like Jay, I don't wear skinny jeans, but unlike Jay, I got a totally different reason why I would never be caught dead in one of those... and nah, it's not because my balls dont fit (unlike Hova). I had a traumatic experience with a skinny jean from way back when.

If this was on a talk show, this is the part where Oprah would lower her voice to a loverly tone, nudgin' me gently, tellin' me to let it all out. Dr Phil woulda put his hand on my shoulder, tellin' me everythin's goin' to be ok.

Anyways, ways before I was Badly Drawn, I think was about 7 or 8 years old, I had this lovely jean my Pops got me from one of his world tours... gettin in the jean was no problem at all. I'd feel like a freakin' rock star in 'em. Go to church with my Granny, showin' off and shit. The problem with this pant was, GETTIN' IT OF... I would spend close to an hour sweatin' and sheddin' tears of frustration, pullin' and wrigglin' with it... it'd take almost half the household to free me from that damn contraption. I had that same truamatic experience one more time before I said hasta la vista to it. I abandoned the pant still smellin' fresh like the day it came out the factory. Ever since those years, I've never dressed my ass with a skinny pant.