The Roast Of J-Wunder And A Toast to Him On His Birthday

It’s Friday, bitches! It’s a big day here at Ghetto Genius HQ, and we’re gearing up for an even bigger year for J-Wun and the CREW. Put down the bong or the doughnuts or whatever the fuck you do when you wake up, and join the CREW in saying:

HAPPY MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY, J-WUNDERFUL!!!

Our boy is 13 now, a "man" in some cultures, so what better way to get all in that birthday ass than to receive birthday wishes from 168,000 people? There are big things poppin’ for J in the coming months, and you will all learn about that in due time. Like when we SAY you can know, okay? Also, I need y’all to create a distraction so I can get G’d up for that bar mitzvah cash, ya heard me?

Since it was H-Bomb’s bright idea to honor this Day of Special Days with a blog post, she’s gonna shed a little insight into what it’s like to be friends with this forever-drinking, forever-shitting, forever-drunk dialing Guamaican Freak Show and Flo is gonna add some prose of her own. Shit is about to get real for this mother fucker.

A few things from L-T before H-Bomb breaks this shit down:

1. Happy Birthday, Asshole.

2. We’re out of fucking toilet paper. Again.

3. Love you like our faces rubbed the same vagina at birth. RIDE OR DIE.

Now, for H-Bomb:

My Dearest J-Wundercunt,

Today we celebrate the day that you were expelled from your mother’s uterus. I am not sure how that big head of yours actually made it out, with out splitting her in two, but I guess I can just chalk that shit up to SCIENCE.

Here we are, 34 years later and you are still a giant bobble-headed motherfucker, who also happens to be a prolific writer and first-class jive-ass-turkey. I know L-Train said you were becoming a man and turning 13 today, but I think she meant that you were hung like a 13 year old boy...I am sure you are a grower, not a shower. Oh, fuck, who am I kidding. My mom told me you really are packing a Guamaconda down there. And now the pukes begin. But, I digress.

What stemmed from a photo and an email about back alley sex quickly, turned into what we have today. Friendship? I wouldn’t go that far. Mutual respect and admiration? Now I am just using words you don’t understand. Mexican Standoff because we both know too much about each other to ever NOT be on good terms? That seems about right. I can't believe some of the things I have told and I swear to God if you EVER tell anyone about that thing I did in New Mexico back in '01, I will chop your wang off and use it to lasso lesbian cows. Literally and figuratively.

But back to our "friendship." Who the fuck calls someone at midnight, West Coast time, when they know the person they are calling lives on the East Coast and is sleeping, only to be drunk and borderline incoherent? You do, that’s who. I am pretty sure you also left the phone on while you were doing what I could only imagine to be sucking off a homeless person in the bathroom SFO. Real fucking classy, sweet tits.

Who calls someone at 6am their time (DO YOU NOT REALIZE I LIVE IN FLORIDA ASSCLOWN?) and in one breath asks for bail money and then in the next breath calls them a cunt and other assortment of insults, racial and ethnic slurs? YOU DO. Seriously, I think I am getting you a month in rehab for your birthday. No, fuck that. You would just get Lindsay Lohan pregnant and then the world would have it’s first Ginger-Guamaican. The world is not ready for that and I am not ready for any more late night phone calls that are either of you crying or sucking off homeless men. Please make some more friends to bug in the wee hours of the morn, because I am getting your number blocked today. REAL TALK.

All of that could have been forgiven, when I went to San Francisco for my birthday last year. But, instead of taking me to a nice strip club to celebrate my birthday, you took me to some borderline Tiajuana Donkey Show of a strip club that was probably full of AIDS and then made me bear witness to the saddest group of strippers with more daddy issues than Freud could unravel. Thankfully, we were so drunk that I could have easily hallucinated the whole thing. I know the truth, son. And you are truly a mother fucker.

Speaking of being a mother fucker, PLEASE stop boning my mom. I am not ready to call a dude who is only 8 months older than me "Dad." That is some sick shit; but I wouldn't expect less from someone who knows the likes of Anonymous and The Ringer (who were not able to contribute to this for legal reasons...i.e. they are probably incarcerated) and have fallen asleep at construction sites.

For the record, I do love you like a long lost brother from another mother (please don't try to fuck her, too, you sicko) and am so thankful that we are friends. But the more I think about the shit you have put me through in the last 2 years, I wholeheartedly agree with what I texted you this morning. I wish you nothing but the best for your birthday and the rest of your days, and I really and truly hope you only get Chlamydia and not Herpes today.

Love ya, fucker. H.

I am gonna pass the mic to Flo, because that literary genius knows how to write some prose that will make a girl (me, H-Bomb, not J-Wunder...but that little bitch will probably cry when he reads this, too) tear up. With out further ado, Flo-Rich:

Every single year, when I manage to live to see another birthday, I feel two things:

I feel a deep sense of satisfaction that I made it through the previous year relatively unscathed, and I feel a profound disappointment that I didn't do more.

What I try to remember is that there is still so much goodness coming my way.

Things I couldn't possibly imagine if you dared me to let loose and wish for anything and everything.

Sometimes, it feels like one day bleeds into the next with few moments that make you feel full and round with contentment.

It is then that I choose what is hardest - to be happy and have faith that everything will turn out beautifully.

I hope you live in rooms full of light.

Happy Birthday, J-Wunder. Much love to you for being my backbone and the smart part of my brain that I lack.



And there you have it, J-Wunder. Your three Ghetto Angels wanted to do something special to wish you a happy birthday; because no matter what shit we talk, or fucked up yet hilarious things we say to each other, none of us would be here unless you had a whisper of an idea in that giant fucking head of yours to start a blog and then the goddamn brilliance to have us be your Ghetto Angels/Contributors.

We love you, Boss.

L-Train, H-Bomb & Flo-Rich

A Series of TWOS

After dating every loser, criminal, and asshole on this side of the Prime Meridian, I feel like I deserve a medal of some kind. One that says, “This bitch made a series of poor life choices and is still around to tell the tale.” I’ve learned a few things along the way. So, in honor of Ghetto Genius’s two-year anniversary, I’m going to break down a REAL relationship, the good kind, in a series of twos. Real talk.

2 Hours: Oh, you caught the eye of a random mother fucker at a bar, and he asks for your number because he wants to holler at you later? Ain’t no such thing as the 3-day rule. That shit is for chumps. A real man will text you at the end of the night to make sure you got home safe. Not to ask you for a booty call. Not to ask for your sister’s number. Just a, “Hey, it was great to meet you. Hope you got home safe.”

2 Weeks: He’s taken you out on a few dates by now. Maybe you’re considering giving him the boot because he’s taken you to restaurants that have napkin dispensers instead of those stuffy white cloth napkins. But, you can’t pull the trigger because he’s been considerate: asking you on dates days in advance, texting you when he’s busy to let you know he’s “thinking about you” even though he can’t talk, and asking you questions about yourself, and then ACTUALLY LISTENING to your answers. Hoe, put those gold-digging tendencies away. A fat bankroll doesn’t equal a better man. This one may be a keeper.

2 Months: You’ve met his friends. He’s not hiding you, and he’s proud to show you off. He thinks you’re the mother fucking bomb, and let’s be real…you ARE the bomb. You don’t nag when he’s having a bad day, you’re down to let him do his thing when he wants to have a boys night out, and you even brought him some chicken soup and a blow job that one time he thought he was dying of the Bubonic Plague last week.

2 Seasons: He still stops to look you up and down and appreciate the time and effort you took getting ready for a date. He still holds the door open for you. When he talks about Rita, that psycho bitch at work, you know exactly who he’s talking about, and you want to push that fucker in the face. You like him, he likes you. It may even be….love.

2 Years: When you’re standing across the room from each other at a party, you can have a whole conversation without ever saying a word. What y’all got going on…this shit is forrealz. Like, FORREALZ for real. He tells you he loves you, and not just because he’s hoping for anal sex that night. He’s the first one you call when you lose out on that dream job. He’s the first one you call when you GET that dream job. And when he congratulates you, you can tell by the ease in his voice that he is really happy for you. Because we want the best for the people we love. Because…no matter what…you that he will be in your corner always, in all ways.

Happy 2-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! THANK YOU J and the rest of the CREW for helping me keep it real, even when it was so much easier to fake the funk. You bitches always have my back. I love you.

Advice Column: DMA Disorder - Dong, Money, Attention Disorder

I need your advice really bad. I met my bf online & we hit it off great. Our first time fucking was fucking awesome. Now I feel like he really doesn't like sex at all. Over the phone (before) he was like yeah I'm a freak, I'll do you morning, noon & night but not really. He's got a big dick and he thinks that's all he has to do. He never goes down on me, doesn't kiss, touch, tease, plays with any body part whatsoever. I BEG FOR SEX!!! When I was single I was the bomb. No love for anyone just nasty, freaky sex. The kind where just from kissing we were panting like thirsty dogs in the middle of a NYC heat wave!! I've had a lot of partners who have said my pussy is the bomb. They always came back for more. Now that I decided to love somebody I can't have good sex?? I've tried everything and I mean everything. It's degrading to have your own boyfriend physically push you away. I have to play with myself like 5 times a day just to ease my horniness a little bit. I don't want to dump him he's a great provider & is kind & blah blah blah all that mushy shit but I feel like I may have to go cheat to get my fucking brains banged out. Please help!!!



Dear Whore Muffin,

I don’t quite know why, but for some inexplicable reason, I’m motherfucking popular, and I have a shitload of friends. And every single one of those friends at one time or another has been in love. But because love can be a fickle bitch, shit doesn’t always work out. However, I can tell you one thing for goddamn certain...

Not one person I know that has ever been in love, like FORREAL forreal love, has ever described their partner the way you did in your email. It’s obvious you’re about to shank this mother fucker in his well-endowed man part for not working your pussy right, but it seems to me that you can’t leave him because he’s great at opening up his wallet to pay for your shit and, oh, total afterthought on your part, he’s kind. And I don’t know what “blah blah blah” means, but in second grade, I learned something called “using context clues,” so I’m just going to go ahead and assume that for the most part, when he’s not pushing your unappreciative gold-digging ass away in the bedroom, this motherfucker treats you pretty decently. Maybe I’m wrong, but nowhere in there did I read that he was selling you on the street corner or calling you dirty names or pushing you face in for being, well, yourself.

You know what I’ve learned? Women who really are low-maintenance never feel the need to repeat (fucking CONSTANTLY, I might add) that they are low-maintenance over and over again. The same goes for the baddest bitches in bed. They are quietly confident in their skill to make a man’s eyes roll back as they suck, fuck, tease, lick, and kiss. No loud advertisements needed.

You are not a McDonald’s billboard. We do not need to know that billions and billions have been served. Ok, yes, maybe some men in this world have told you that your love canal is made of gold. Who are these men? How long had they been out of prison? I am told that anything feels better than a latex glove with a generous squirt of lotion inside. Read this next sentence very carefully…twice. NO MAN WILL EVER TURN DOWN A BOMB PUSSY, especially if that pussy belongs to the woman he loves. Let that marinate overnight.

So really, I think this can be broken down into some simple truths.

-Your pussy is in fact, not the bomb.

-You are an insincere gold digger.

-You need an attitude adjustment.

You say you’ve tried everything….but perhaps a nice thing to do might be to quit your bitching and act like someone who deserves a good fucking. Right now, I would say that you, in fact, do not deserve a good fucking because rather than leaving the relationship like a dissatisfied honest person would, you are thinking about cheating. You’d like to take a ride on someone’s Dick Express to satisfy your whims, but still want the security and cash from your current “love.”

No, ma’am, that is not how sanity works. No, no, no, no, no. Also, no.

I’m all about keeping it real. That’s something you need to work on. Keep it real with the people you claim to love. They deserve that much. And don’t think I forgot about you. You obviously think you deserve someone who is rich and attentive and well-endowed and all about you, you, you. I think you’re going to have a lot of competition from girls who aren’t so heartless and whiny, but I hope you get what you deserve. I mean…I hope you get what you want.

Bitches Be Trippin',

Flo-Rich

A Ghetto Fabulous Wedding

So, when we sit around at Ghetto Genius HQ and talk about shit, we talk about the most random shit you can think of. Drinking, smoking, farting, fucking, my mom…nothing is off limits.  Well, except for the fart and shit talk usually, because H-Bomb is all Squeamy Squeamerton about it - like she doesn’t drop deuces, but bouquets of fucking daisies...bitch please. Anyway, with wedding season in full swing, we got to talking about some of the fucked up shit we’ve done and seen at weddings, which led to what kind of fucked up shit would happen at our own Ghetto Genius-style weddings. Grab a cocktail, sit your ass down, read and laugh because you're about to embark on how shit would go down if three of us had our way and how one of ours actually went down. We are some crazy fucks. Enjoy bitches!


L-Train:
So, everybody knows by now that I have mad love for the black man. MAD. LOVE. I don’t want to pigeon-hole myself or whatever, but that’s my deal. I have two “ideal” wedding scenarios, both of which would work with a black man, but only one would work with Whitey. The Whitey Wedding would be all romantical and shit. On the beach, some place hot and tropical, sunset, bare feet, just the two of us…very sweet and quiet and loving, all of which is good shit. You can see how this would work with either black or white men. HOW-FUCKING-EVER…

When I go to a wedding, I want to party the fuck down. Anybody who has ever been to a black wedding will tell you: Ain’t no wedding like a black folks’ wedding. Brothers and sisters be GETTIN’ IT. What I love about black weddings is almost the same as what I love about black churches – the music. You’ve been to the weddings where all the bridesmaids get white-girl wasted and dance like dick faces to “Celebration” or “White Wedding” or some other stupid fucking overplayed-the-fuck-out-of-it-in-the-80’s bullshit. 

Every second of music played at my wedding will be precisely planned to ensure the fucking D.J. doesn’t slip in some “Twist and Shout” or other shit that ain’t on the fuckin’ list. Speaking of lists, over the years, I have made a list of songs that will NOT be played at or around my wedding day. All the ones mentioned so far are on that list of eardrum bleeders. Real talk: If I have to hear “Old Time Rock and Roll” and watch drunk, over-dressed white people dance to it one more fucking time, I will just start capping bitches. I want Snoop Dogg and Marvin Gaye and Rev. Green and Curtis Mayfield.  This is MY DAY, BITCHES, and no fucking Bob Seger will be had.

Let me break it down for you:

1) I’m walking down the aisle to Snoop Dogg’s, “It Ain’t No Fun (if the Homies Can’t Have None)” and the bridesmaids and groomsmen will be my backup dancers. Anybody who doesn’t get up and dance will be politely told to get the fuck out. Also, if you don’t know the words, you don’t belong here, get the fuck out.

2) I will be dressed like a teeny-tiny white version of Patti LaBelle. And I will be gettin’ it.

3) The ceremony will be 5 minutes long, and Stevie Wonder will be singing “As” for 3 of those minutes. Y’all are gonna need to shut the fuck up for those 3 minutes. For real. 

4) You know how white people blow bubbles and shit instead of throwing rice or bird seed or whatever? Well. Bear with me. Everybody at MY motherfucking party gets a blunt as a party favor.  You can throw that shit at us as we leave the church, then pick it back up and smoke it. Don’t worry about saving some for later. There will be trays of them passed throughout the night, along with 40’s and all the fucking Henny you can drink. That’s better than some fucking bubbles or bird seed or some shit, right? Like who wants soap in their hair or a fucking bra full of bird seed when they could have a blunt instead? Nomotherfuckingbody, that’s who.

5) Those of you who read our blog know us all pretty well by now. So you know that J-Wunder loves him some fried fucking chicken, and that H-Bomb can cook up some fucking greens. No black wedding would be complete without either of those things, along with all the other soul food I love so much. Fried fucking chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese and cornbread? Fuck yeah!! Y’all gonna be some fat, happy motherfuckers when I’m through with you! 

6) And, finally, my favorite moment at any event filled with my African American brothers and sisters from other mothers and misters: THE MOTHERFUCKING CUPID SHUFFLE. Aside from the movies, have you ever seen 200 black people – ages 6 to 96 – dance in unison? And enjoy every fucking second of it? Shit doesn’t get real at a black wedding until Granny gets on the dance floor to do the Shuffle. And when she does, you’re gonna want to step over there and give Big Mama some room. At the end of it all, I’ve had a great party with all the people I love, eating, drinking, smoking, and dancing. And then I get to take my Mandingo back to the room…ya heard me?


H-Bomb:
I am pretty sure my dream wedding cannot really occur, because I cannot have a same sex marriage at the local Chik-Fil-A on a Sunday. Until that day comes, I will have to settle for my 2nd dream wedding. On my dad's side I am the only biological child and grandchild (my brothers are the step-kids/grand kids from my mom's other hoe-strolls), so the day I tell them someone liked me enough to put a ring on it, I can pretty much write my ticket for whatever classy, 5 star, black tie affair that I want to have.

Fuck.That.

You know what is worse than a wedding where you know the bride fucked most of the bridesmaids, all of the groomsmen (or other bridesmaids/groomsmen, it's 2012, we don't discriminate) and probably at least one of the officiants? A stuffy, boring-ass wedding where no one dances, the chicken Kiev is cold and the open bar only lasts 2 hours. BTW - that should never be considered an "open bar". More like a cock tease.

Let me repeat myself, in case your short term memory is fuzzy, or you are drunk (guilty): Fuck.That.

Since I am probably only going to do this 3 or 4 times and this may be the only time I am not knocked up when it happens, I want this to be the funnest, most redonkulous shindig this side of Toddlers and Tiaras and My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. I want people to talk about it for years to come and then it go down as folklore, only to be discussed reverently, in hushed tones.

First things, first - The dress. I am not one of those prissy, bitches that wants a princess ball-gown with 8 layers of tulle and taffeta. I live in Florida and with the seasons of: ball-sweat hot, Africa-hot, hurricane, and 3 days of winter, I am thinking I need something more along the lines of mesh, linen or a nice breathable white garbage bag. Something that I don't care if I sweat, spill drinks or BBQ sauce on...which brings me to my next item.

The Food. My friends and I like to get fucked up and do fucked up shit and my wedding day will be no different. However, in the midst of all the fuckery and foolery, we also like to get our eat the fuck on. My wedding will have not one, but TWO caterers. McCray's Ribs and The Brass Ring. Real Talk. McCray's the best goddamn ribs in town, and they used to be a free standing rib shack on the side of the road in Mangonia Park until those ignant assholes made them move to Raw-Vera, because they wouldn't give them a fucking permit. I call racism. Where is Al Sharpton when I need his busted wig ass. But I digress. When people come to visit me they go to at least one of these places, so it is only fitting that my two favorite places cater my wedding. Plus, it is good drunk people food. Oh, and there WILL be an open bar, all night, until every last mother fucker is drunk, dead or trying to get a ride to rehab. Moving on.

The Entertainment. I want the band at the end of The Hangover for my reception. I want my party-goers dancing to shit like "Candy Shop" and "Back That Azz Up," and with that band it is a guaran-fucking-tee that my 94 year old grandma will be shaking her glass, waiting for another scotch on the rocks, and trying not to break a hip from busting a move. Speaking of music, there is a debate in my family as to whether I am walking down the aisle to "Sympathy for the Devil" or "It's getting hot in Herre," but as my dad has said in the past when I mention this quandary, "If you are actually getting married, I don't give a fuck what you walk down the aisle to. But if you pick that stupid ass "Butterfly Kisses" as our dance, I swear I will walk off the floor and leave your ass standing there." Like a mother fucking boss. My first dance with my spouse will of course be to Celine Dion. Also, like a mother fucking boss.

We ate, we drank, we got the borracha dancers from that video to shake they asses. And now it is time to have some more fun. What classy affair is complete without a bouncy castle? Not this one, that is for goddamn sure. Oh, and if the little fucking rat-bastard children who I am obligated to invite to this wedding so their parents can get drunk enough to have their sloppy, quarterly drunk hump think for one second I will not push them out of the bouncy castle so me and my friends can start drunk BBQ sauce wrestling, they need to check themselves before I wreck them. That will be the only time I get all Bridezilla.

Speaking of Bridezilla, I know I won't be one of those psycho brides that make their attendants do a bunch of fucked up shit on the big day because "it's my day." Lame. No, the only request that I am going to have is that they have to keep, is to wear jean jackets, with the cut-off sleeves with mine and my spouse's initials monogrammed AND bedazzled on the back, that we are giving them. And it is their attendant gift. BOOM!

As soon as I find a park/campground with RV hook-ups and a loose open container policy, I am going to get on planning the obvious social event of the millennium.

Shit. I might want to get a boyfriend/girlfriend (or both, let's move this fucking party to Utah) before I start planning. I wonder if I can make a board for this fuckery on Pinterest?


J-Wunder:
You know what I love about my contributors? They are fucking crazy. Straight up, 100%, crazy and some outrageous mother fuckers. I wouldn't lie about this shit. For reals.

One day it's inevitable the big day is gonna come. I, J-Wunder, will be giving some vows and making promises to some broad who finally got me pussy whooped. Man, that's a funny ass joke. I crack myself up sometimes. Seriously though...one day if it WERE to happen, I'm gonna need to really think about how the fuck I plan to celebrate this special day with my boo. Plain and simple, I would do exactly what L-Train and H-Bomb described with a few minor changes. For starters, that Celine Dion bullshit will NOT be playing at my mother fucking wedding. Fuck all that. I dare the DJ to play some of that shit...mother fucker WILL get stabbed in back of the knee caps. And as much as L-Train has the bomb ass playlist of music ready to go, you damn well know that no party is a party without a little N.W.A. and 2 Live Crew (face down, ass up is all I'm sayin')...so on top of all the rap that will be playing, this has to be at the top of the list. Don't get it twisted though...2Pac is going to be right fucking up there too. California Love, bitches.

See, there's no method to my madness. I'm a simple fucking guy. I don't ask for much other than booze, food, music, sports and a ton of sex. Guess what? All that shit WILL be at my wedding. Fried chicken with other amazing fried food that will make you shit black and yellow for 6-8 weeks - CHECK. A full bar that would make a recovering alcoholic give up sobriety just to drink til they died - Double CHECK. Music to make those crippled ass relatives attempt to do a head spin - KA-BLIKATY-BLAMO CHE...CHE...CHECK! Big screen tv's so no man, woman or sports fan misses the "big game" - Shit dog...CHECK, CHECK, CHECK ALL UP IN THIS BITCH! And don't think for a goddamn second that there won't be any wings, nachos and a fountain of bacon (yes I said fountain of bacon) for the beloved sports fans because there will be...you can bet on that shit. Hell, let's go for fucking broke and throw a goddamn sports book in that mother fucker too. Seems legit to me. Ok, where the fuck was I before I got all crazy? Oh yeah...my goddamn dream wedding.

Rooms decked out to the 9's with a private hot tub, so much fucking lube you could start a fire, condoms (for her pleasure and for his little wang), rose pedals picked from the richest neighbors front yard, plastic dolls, leather masks and double headed dildo's for the kinky and drunk guests who plan to "go out on a limb" for a night - Don't make me say it...CHHHHHHHEEEEEECCCCCCK!

This is my day. My special fucking day. Ain't no day like that day, that's for damn sure, son! It'll go down in history as the most fucked up, awesome, memorable, "why the fuck did I go?!", bad ass, "I can't believe I fucked him/her", mind blowing, "please God forgive me", "a mother fucker did what?!", unimaginable, "bitch gave me what?!", "I should have used a condom", most talked about, "I didn't know he barked when he drank tequila?", "That roofie colada wasn't meant for him", wedding event EVER. And you can take that shit to the bank.

BOOM bitches...because it's about to go off like dy-no-mite!

Where's my black book? It's time to find me a "forever bitch".


Flo-Rich:
I was forced to marry the same man. TWICE. Shit, “forced” is such a strong word. Fine, I was only forced the second time. I was TRICKED the first time. Don’t automatically assume I had an arranged marriage because I’m Asian. Racist mother fuckers.

So it’s hard for me to imagine grand wedding scenarios like the rest of the CREW because I’m still scratching my mother fucking head as to how this playa tricked me into marrying him after dating for only 18 days the first time around.

“Get the fuck out, Flo-Rich. That’s some bullshit. Ain’t no one get married in no 18 days,” you might be thinking.

Real talk, bitches. I don’t play around when it comes to love and good deals at Costco.

Just how did I find this gem? Remember Myspace? It was my modern-day cupid. I got a message in my inbox from some boy in Miami. It sounded a little nerdy, but he asked if he could call and chat sometime. Since I had incredibly low standards and would fuck anything that didn’t outrun me, I replied with a simple “Fuck yeah. Call me. 310-xxx-xxxx.” I know. I’m romantic. Don’t hate.

A few phone calls later, he asked to visit me in Los Angeles. “Sure, buddy, it’s your dime.” I know how men like to talk a good game but never follow through. This fool surprised me by showing up in my city. And shocked me even further by not being a fucking murderer and shit. I had never dated anyone like him before. He didn’t live with his parents. He had his own car. He had a FOR REAL high school diploma and not one of those GED messes. The boy had manners and charm and he treated me like a fucking queen.

So when he asked me to marry him a week after he landed in L.A., I said what was in my heart: “Why not.”

Eleven days after that, we flew to Vegas and got married at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. Me: black cocktail dress. Him: Work interview suit. We didn’t shell out for Elvis though. That mother fucker was only available for an additional charge, and we weren’t trying to live the life of katrillionaires. But my man did splurge for the seven rose bouquet instead of the three rose bouquet. I got myself a real man.

Best $245 we ever spent.

And that second “forced” marriage? Another time, thugs. My five-year anniversary is coming up. Maybe I’ll share it then.

The 10 Things You Need To Do This Summer

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Advice Column: No Laughing Matter

Dear J-wunder & Crew, 

I need your opinion, because lets face it, you always deliver the no-holds-barred  bottomline, one that I can appreciate.

My boyfriend and I have been together for a couple years, in the beginning he had a shit load of trust issues because he thought he was the only man or person on the fucking planet that had ever been cheated on, and well that's not my style. He put me through hell at times over that shit and tried to set me up to fail but I'm straight up and don't play. Fast forward through all the bullshit and hes over it. He left the state to work 1,200 miles away and 4 months later we ( myself & offspring ) all relocated. I now stay at home ( I have always worked in the past ) he drives our currently only vehicle to work everyday and sometimes stays over with a co-worker because his commute is  about 150 round trip. So I am held fucking captive in a foreign place with kids and no transportation. Fucking shoot me now.

Now my issue is the buddy he stays with and himself devising a joke...One that involves my bf spreading a rumor at work that he slept with a local college cheerleader...Wait, What?!  yuh uhhh Not so funny. Story goes his buddy said, "man you look tired, must have been up all night!" in front of some other coworkers...my bf being the typical funny guy took the bait and concocted a story of how he stayed over at his friends and met up with said cheerleader and never went to bed that night, so on and so forth I don't need to paint the picture. Evidently by the end of the day guys on the other crew had even heard about it and were making comments back at the shop...so success to bf and idiot friend.   He tells me about his joke and of course I was not entertained at all. I get it's supposed to be a fucking joke but seriously, in my book it makes him look like a fucking scumbag and totally disrespects me. I'm pissed and he maintains it's just a joke and I need to get over it.  Now I'm heated, not busting up our home or throwing his shit out on the lawn pissed, but seriously slapped in the face and he's a fucking douche pissed.  So my question is...am I overreacting or was that really a total asshat thing for him to do especially considering all the slightly psychotic issues about cheating from our past?

Thanks for putting shit in check as always,
-So not rotflmfao



Dear So Not ROTFLMFAO,

I don’t know how many advice columns start out with a fist bump but you deserve it, and I like to give credit where credit is due. So a big fist bump and CONGRATULATIONS for not pushing that motherfucker in the face, changing the locks, or assembling his clothes into a pile on your driveway and setting that shit on fire.

I like men so don’t take this as a come-on, but I want you to be MY girlfriend. You’re patient. You’re willing to work through trust issues. You will move 1,200 fucking miles to be with the one you love. You withstand being a prisoner in your own home to give your man a source of transportation.

Maybe you’ve always been a good person so you don’t know how the rest of us haggard hoes work, but let me give you a comparison. I made my man a Hot Pocket yesterday. I’m done being awesome for the rest of the week. Where's my high 5 up in this bitch?!

I want you to repeat after me: “I AM NOT OVERREACTING. I DO NOT HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS. I DESERVE BETTER.” Say this out loud. Maybe you’re waiting in line for a carnitas burrito at Chipotle while reading this, and you’re afraid to look crazy. Fuck those strangers around you. Fuck 'em.

I’m trying to imagine what your day-to-day life is like right now. I imagine you like to eat. How do you get them groceries? Do you walk? How do you deal with the loneliness of living in a new place with no support except for a man who has shitty taste in friends and a sick sense of humor?

I’m not coming at you from a place of “Men need to be goddamn perfect and treat me like a queen.” No ma’am. I know what it’s like to be in a relationship where there is so much mind-fucking, insecurity, and problems in the beginning that when the man acts like a half-decent human being once in a while, I would convince myself that it was worth staying because he was changing. That it is worth sacrificing my self-respect and dignity because he is going to become a Good Man. One day.

Maybe he’s blaming his friend for coming up with the joke. I blame your man for going along with it. And I blame your man for keeping company with such a dickhead. You don’t have to worry about what all of his co-workers think; they’re not important. But, think about the message you’re sending to your kids. Maybe you got a boy. Would you be okay with your boy growing up to act exactly like your boyfriend? Maybe you got a girl. Would you be okay with a man treating your daughter the way your boyfriend treats you?

Grown-ass men need to know where to draw the line. I don’t give a fuck if it’s supposed to be “just a joke.” If this stupid shit is okay, I’m afraid to know what else he’s done in the past. I’m also afraid to know what else he’s going to concoct “for entertainment purposes only” in the future. I ain’t trying to break up a happy home, but this is not a happy home.

The longer you stay with someone who isn’t right in the head and certainly not right for you, the longer you keep yourself from finding a man who will love you always, in all ways.

YOU DESERVE THAT. You are NOT a collector of broken things. Don’t be afraid to want better.


Real Talk,

Flo-Rich

Advice Column: Mind Games

Dear Flo-Rich,

Long time reader and believer in your blog. I'm writing you because I was dating this guy for almost a year and he has been traveling a lot for the summer so we haven't been keeping in contact as much. I'm not quite sure you can call it dating since we go out occasionally together but mainly have sex. Recently he has messaged me asking whether or not I've slept with anyone since he has left and admittedly being jealous. So rule of thumb I ask him the same and he confessed to sleeping with this one night stand while i was dating someone else. I've asked him before if he would get mad if i went out with another guy and he was always nonchalantly saying why would he care. I've always given him first priority and wanted to establish a relationship with him but he says he doesn't have the time to be a proper boyfriend to me. I do realize the whole if he wants to be with you he will thing but i know he's right deep down because we are both just starting out in our lives and trying to establish a life. Before he left on his travels i wrote him a letter telling him how i feel not to get a reaction but just to let him know. Anyways we got into this huge argument because he said that he wished i was more open so that he could share with me every minuscule detail of his sexual life and i was like WTF are you even serious. I know that i can't continue to be with him or what ever we are doing but i just hate this feeling. How can i get over it and how did i even start to develop feelings for him?

Thanks,
Desperate



Dear Desperate,

It’s always the boys who don’t give a shit that end up getting the most attention. I’m about to give you some REAL TALK because if you don’t put a brake on this loser’s inconsiderate, mind-fucking ways, you’re going to find yourself stranded at the Oakland Airport.

Wait, what?

Back in the day, I liked a guy who lived in the Bay Area. I lived in LA. I called him a lot more than he called me. He didn’t want me to date anyone else, but that rule didn’t apply to him. He loved to go into detail about all the women who were jocking him and all the nasty shit he did to them in bar bathrooms, on the hood of his 15-year-old Camry, and in the one-bedroom apartment he shared with five other guys.

He was nice enough when he paid attention to me, and that’s what kept me coming back. So I turned a blind eye. I made him a priority. My girlfriends said I was being stupid. I claimed I was being understanding and patient. He was young. He needed to “find his way.” I believed that eventually, he would become a proper boyfriend because he would realize what a gem I was.

No ma’am, that’s not the way sanity works.

I finally saved up enough cash to buy a plane ticket to see this fool. Although he said he would be busy for most of the weekend, I didn’t mind. He must have been very busy because he didn’t pick me up at the airport. I spent the night, ALONE, in Oakland. Haven’t heard from him since.

DON’T BE ME. I plan to tell my kid this when she gets old enough to start meeting sad-ass fuckers.

I can tell you’re sprung on this guy because you’re making excuses for him. “He’s traveling a lot” and that’s why he can’t reach out. You know “he’s right deep down,” because y’all are both still trying to establish a life.

When I was broke as fuck, I had a cheap-ass cell phone that didn’t flip shut. I butt-dialed at least six people every hour on accident. These days, if I don’t feel like talking, I am still able to email, tweet, text, FB message, write a letter, or send some goddamn smoke signals to the ones I care about. He doesn’t reach out because he’s doesn’t want to. I am very sorry if that was harsh. But I want to give it to you straight because sometimes, a jolt of pain wakes us up.

You said it yourself. You CANNOT continue to be with him. He imposes double standards. He is manipulative.

But just because you decide this in your head doesn’t make it an easy reality.

So do this: 60 days. No contact. I am being serious. Go to the dollar store and buy a goddamn calendar and count out 60 days. Today can count if that makes you feel better. Mark it in bold. And whatever the hell you do, DO NOT have any contact with him. And on Day 60, I promise you that even when given the choice to reach out, you won’t.

If I’m wrong, email me. I will refund you the dollar for your calendar. And I’ll buy you a beer. I’m cheap as fuck, so you should know that I only offer this because I know THIS WILL WORK.

You deserve more. I know this much is true.

Flo-Rich

How To Deal With An Asshole

It's her blog debut. She has her own blog "Flourish In Progress" (which is funny as fuck, btw) but by the powers of the moon, sun, stars and all that hippity hoppity bullshit, I asked her to write for "Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius". She said, "Fuck yeah," my cock got hard and the rest is fucking history. She's got a Facebook Fan Page (Flourish In Progress FB ) in addition to her blog AND she writes for the goddamn Huffington Post. Bad ass bitch? Shit...I thought you knew. 

So it's my mother fucking pleasure to introduce y'all to the newest contributor to the Ghetto Genius fam...Flo-Rich. What better way to make a debut then to write about asshole, right? Enjoy!

PS - On her blog she writes a "Monday Dare" column. Be sure to check out the latest one here: Are You Dating a Mofo?



Until the age of 12, I had the most fucked-up teeth imaginable. My severe overbite meant that even when I squeezed my lips closed, two chiclets of enamel still poked through. My teeth, along with my thick glasses, made me easy bait for every asshole bully in the neighborhood. It didn’t help that I stepped on my glasses just days after getting them and because my parents weren’t high rollers, they repaired the glasses with several pieces of silver electrical tape. I really wish I was making this shit up for entertainment value.

I didn't fight back when the assholes called me names or threw gum in my hair because my mom scared the bejesus out of me by saying that all confrontations get messy and someone usually ends up losing an eye.

Fuck that shit.

A confrontation only becomes messy if blood or other bodily fluids are involved. Or if you choose to exchange heated words near the salad bar at Sizzlers. That could get ugly too.

Everyone knows an asshole.

Maybe you give up your Buffalo Wild Wings habit so you can sock away $17 a week for a down payment on a car because you got tired of taking the bus. You finally roll through the company parking lot with pride in your brand-new Toyota Corolla sporting a power-tilt moonroof and 16-inch alloy wheels after saving for THREE GODDAMN YEARS. Instead of congratulating you, your co-worker, Cleetus, smirks and starts dusting a smudge from his Porsche with the tip of his tie. Asshole.

Maybe you finally decide FUCK BEING FAT and shed 120 lbs by sticking to a low-fat, low-sugar, bland-as-hell meal plan where the only salt you ever get is by sticking your tongue out and tasting your tears as they stream down your face every time you pass a Krispy Kreme. You celebrate the New You by buying a shitload of tube tops and going out with more confidence. Then, your girlfriend, Tammie, suggests that since you’ve gotten the weight thing under control, maybe it’s time to take a good hard look at your nose. Asshole.

It's easy to hate the shit out of an asshole silently, but what's that quote about angry bitterness eating your soul away until you develop cirrhosis of the liver from drinking Boone's Strawberry Hill Wine? Wait, maybe that quote doesn't actually exist. In that case, you heard it here first. You're welcome.

I don't believe physical violence is the best way to deal with an asshole. The quickest way to end up as Inmate 5783 is to use that sharpened G.I. Joe leg (the one you had laying around in your computer bag as a makeshift shiv) to express displeasure with a particular person.

Instead, I have to be creative. If I find out that Cleetus's parents are Southern Baptist ministers, I take out a subscription to Penthouse and send it as a Mother's Day gift in his name. I add eye drops to Tammie's cocktail before a date and look around innocently as she runs to the bathroom every five minutes with the shits.

If I'm being honest, I've never had the balls to carry out any of these plans. The thug-est thing I've done lately is swinging by the Costco sample lady twelve times while making direct eye contact so she knows that I know what I'm doing is awesome. I mean ghetto. No, I mean awesome.

When I come across an asshole, I keep in mind that I'm basically dealing with an animal. And animals smell fear. So I keep it straight up. I confront them by asking, "Do you have a problem with me?" It usually stumps the fucker. I've even tried befriending assholes. This only works when I'm having an especially patient day. Assholes are lonely, sad, pathetic, underdeveloped losers who crave attention. The few times I've reached out and made an effort to get to know these fools, I've gotten some pretty surprising responses.

When all else fails, the greatest revenge is just to keep doing your shit. All assholes are haters, and nothing makes a hater seethe more than to see you happy.  Enjoy that moonroof. Stick your tits out as you wear that tube top. And keep that shit-eating grin plastered on your face.