T*W*A*T* - A Tactical Guide to Feminine Weaponry

We all know those chicks who withhold the cookie from their man for one reason or another. They're all, "If you do this for me, I might give you the kitty." Child, please...are you for real?? It's time to re-think your tactical position.

You clearly don't realize that your lady cave is not just a weapon - it is an entire arsenal. Women could win wars (and eventually achieve world domination) with the vajine if they would only learn how to use it correctly. The vagina is not a one-trick pony. At least, it doesn't have to be. You want to approach your sex life as though you are a soldier preparing for battle. You must understand each of the weapons at your disposal, how best to utilize each of them for maximum effect, and in what situation each weapon is appropriate. Below are strategic, operational and tactical approaches to maximizing your pussy's firepower. Each manner of attack has been tested and proven 100% effective (don't doubt me, I know things).

Before we get started, pour yourself a cocktail. A little liquor to help loosen you up is never a bad thing but, remember, you are in control of a very powerful weapon. If you misuse the booze, it would be like if Bush was still a drunk when he was President and we went to war over 9/11 and then he gets all wastey-face in the Oval Office one night and says, “I’ma push this red button and see what happens.” You want your man to be humming, “You Dropped a Bomb on Me”, but you will ruin the O-face for all involved if you lead with the nukes.

(For the record, I don’t get drunk, I get awesomer. That’s right: AWESOMER. And awesomer, as we know, wins the motherloving war.)

Let's commence to you bitches winning this war.

The Sniper:

You know how your man likes to go out drinking with his boys on occasion? And you know how you get all insecure-bitch jealous about it? Change your tactics. Let him go out with his boys. Find out where he is right before the bar closes. Show up dressed in your slutty best - short skirt (do I have to say no panties, or is that just understood?), tall shoes, hair and make-up did. Since you are fresh meat at the end of the night, you will get LOTS of attention when you walk in. Make the most of it by flirting with every guy who even makes eye contact, but don't let it go too far - you don't want dude to start bitch-slapping people. Make sure you have your guy's attention, then you walk right over to him, grab him by the hair (if he has any) or some other sexy place, and lay a big, fat kiss on him. Then walk away. Leave. Go home. I promise you he will be right behind you. (You can also work in a tactic called “leapfrogging”, which will require the help of your homegirls. Send them ahead to do some recon. Warm up the crowd, if you will. But this only works if you have hot friends. Don’t send the funny, fat, ugly bitch.


The Ambush:

The ambush is one of the favorite types of attacks. Studies have found that if you want to have a really great weekend with no shortage of getting your freak on, do this on Friday night after work. Again, because boys are all about the visual aids, make sure you do the porn star hair and make-up thing and really skank it up in your dirtiest lingerie and most hooker-y heels. Make his favorite snack, put a great dinner together (for “after”), hand him a beer when he steps in the door and head for the boom-boom room, shedding clothing as you go. If he makes it to the bedroom (or wherever), take him fast and dirty. Don't even let him shower unless he's one of those guys who cleans port-a-potties or exterminates cockroaches and vermin and gross shit like that.


The Amphibious Attack:

If your guy is one who does one of the above disgusting jobs, or even if he isn’t, another plan of action is to hit him in the shower. Wait until he starts soaping down, then start helping. Chances are good that he will not say, “Stop it, I’m trying to take a shower.” Be naked, because there is a better chance he will yank you in there with him. And that’s exactly what you want, right? This also works for bathtubs and hot tubs, though I don’t recommend doing it at one of those public hot tub places because, fuck...you want some shit growing on your vagina, motherfucker? That would be like douching with toilet water.


The Diversionary Tactic:

Sometimes men get all bent out of shape about how much money their woman spends – on clothes, shoes, hair, nails, whatever. I hate a woman that lies (or that feels like she has to lie) to their man about that kind of stuff, especially if she has a job and makes her own cheddar. Rather than lie to your man about what you bought, create a diversion. Stop by your local VS (that's Victoria's Secret for you dumb motherfuckers) and grab yourself a little somethin’ sexy. While he’s railing on you about your expenditures, dip into another room and throw on the Slut Gear. Once he sees you in the gear and, perhaps, on your knees “begging for forgiveness”, he will forget all about why he was mad. This also works for girls’ nights, book clubs or any other stupid shit you do that annoys him.

Here’s the thing I’m trying to hammer into your over-processed heads: the Love Muffin is not a retaliatory weapon. It is a valuable and highly technical arsenal with which you can do glorious and magical things. To a penis. And we all know, if you control the penis, you control the man. All your man wants is more sex. That’s all. If you feed him on occasion and keep the girly meow meow bullshit to a minimum, everybody’s happy. What guy doesn’t want to fantasize about his woman all day at work and then come home to find her in one or more of the above “tactical positions”? He will be less inclined to dip out because he never knows what to expect at home, but the possibilities sure will make him want to be there to find out.

You know what? You’re welcome.

Top Things You Can Never UNSEE!!!

1) Mom & Dad Having Sex

Whether you were 7 years old at the time or 27 today, the one thing we never want to experience is walking in on good ‘ol mom and dad fucking each others brains out. Or as I like to call it, “cleaning the carpets”. Is this bringing back some memories or what?

Hey, I get EVERYONE has sex. But to walk in on your pops fucking your mom doggy style while she’s reciting the “Hail Mary”, isn’t what I’d like to call sexy, let alone a goddamn turn-on. This is in no way, shape or form something I want to keep locked in my spank bank for eternity. Fuck that and fuck no.

The reality is, any time any one of us have walked in on someone having sex, the initial thing to do is leave immediately. How-the-fuck-ever, when we walk in on our parents…you know, the two people that created your ass…for some goddamn reason, the majority of society doesn’t immediately turn or walk away. Oh no, people. You know what a majority of society does in this fucked up situation? They catch their parents humping and watch. As if this shit was the worst train wreck they have ever witnessed but at no point choose to look away. It’s the one point in life that you wish was never frozen in time. You would think seeing your wife or husband was a "frozen in time" moment. No sir. Mom going reverse cowgirl on dad steals that moment. Straight up.

You know what’s funny? For those of you that have never experienced this, you’re visioning it right now, aren’t you? That shit ain’t right.


2) Elephantitis

I have seen some things in my life. Some breathtaking. Some head scratching. Some so fucking bad that I threw up all fucking day because I just couldn’t get that picture out of my head. Seeing someone with Elephantitis took me to a place that not only put me in “fight or flight” mode, but has scarred me bad enough to never like KFC ever again.

To watch a man who stands a mere 5 foot 7 inches with a nut sack the size of a yoga ball, walk, not only shocked the living shit out of me, but made me rethink all the bad shit I’ve done in life and pray to God that one day, he doesn’t curse me with a nut sack of that magnitude.

People, I witnessed a man walk slower than a snail to KFC with a scrotum (just one big ass ball), that probably weighed 60 pounds. Do you know what that looks like? It’s fucked up and mind-blowing, that’s what that looks like.

In my lifetime, I’ve seen bad accidents, people being shot and hell, I’ve seen a donkey show in TJ, but to see an actual human being two feet in front of me with Elephantitis was some shit that I would never wish on my own worst enemy. And for something of this caliber to make one man not want to eat some goddamn fried chicken anymore, this shit is serious stuff. Real talk.


3) Asian Puke porn

I have a pretty high tolerance for nasty shit. I’ve seen bitches puke at parties and 90 seconds later, go make out with some dude. In high school, I saw a guy actually barf right in a girl’s mouth. You’ve never seen a roomful of wasted 16 year olds clear so fast. When the internet first invaded my life, someone emailed me a video and said, “Watch this shit.  It is TOO funny.” The setting was 2 Asian chicks. Both naked. One in a bathtub, one not.  The one not in the bathtub pukes, and they both start eating it. They’re over there making the “nom nom nom” noises while eating regurgitated Asian food (which, by the way, doesn’t look much different than when it went in). When one of them picked out what appeared to be a large piece of meat and ate it, again with the “nom nom nom” noises, I almost added my puke to the fucking tub. I am gagging on my own spit just thinking about that it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Fuck.


4) The 1st Dog You Ran Over

This is the shit J-Wunder makes me write about to challenge myself. “Hey, L, think about the saddest thing ever, make it funny, and write that shit down.” Also, the FIRST dog, J? How many fucking dogs have you squished with your 1992 Toyota Tercel, Guamaica? I, myself, have never run over a dog (for fuck’s sake), but I ran over a whole goddamn litter of teeny little black kittens. These little fucks were so fucking tiny and cute and fuzzy and I turned them into road pizza. Right in front of The Goddamn Animal Shelter. Why the FUCK were they running around outside The Goddamn Animal Shelter in the middle of the goddamn night?   I jump out and run to the front of my car, and…there it is. 3 of those little sons-a-bitches just silent and still. And one uninjured, all alone, sitting there howling its adorable fucking head off. You have never, EVER, seen a bitch trip like I did when that happened.  Flashers on, screaming at the homeless people under the bridge to HELP THESE FUCKING KITTENS!!!, when one of them yells out, “Maybe you shouldn’t have run them over. Then they’d still be alive.” Remember a long time ago when I said I hate people? Yeah, well I didn’t know how much I hated that guy until he walked over to me and said, “Aw.  This one’s cute.  I’ll take it.” He picked up a dead kitten and walked away. What the fuck just happened?


5) Homeless 69

I am not a big fan of the "69" as it is, so throw some skeezy bums into it and I am out like a fat chick in dodge-ball. For the record, I am short and I prefer my male playmates to be bigger than me, so there is always an awkward size difference thing going on. Try to imagine a midget, upside-down, trying to climb down a tree and now you know what a 69 with me looks like. Also, if the guy I am fooling around with is doing it right, I can’t be all focused on trying to get him to cum, too. Ain’t nobody got time to multi-task during sex.

Back to the skeezy homeless people 69'ing. Think about this: on a good day, sex is and of itself, messy, just the way is should be. Now, think about this: if some chick is homeless, when do you think she last shaved her pa-dussy? Exactly. I just threw up, too. Not to mention, I am sure there is nary a bar of soap between these two human petri dishes, so between the Sascrotch, the rank stench of street life and what I could only imagine a homeless persons taint to smell like, the image of them 69'ing under the I-95 overpass is one that will haunt me forever. If someone out there loves me, please send me some brain bleach. Better yet, just fucking club me to the back of the skull so I can forget everything, including this.


6) Your Sibling/Relative/Friend Masturbating

We all know I love sex. I love fucking, sucking, licking and all the things that go with it. However, when most people want to talk to me about the depraved things they do to the town mule, I really don’t want to fucking hear about it. Not because I have a prudish bone in my body, but because I don’t ever want to imagine this person that I talk to on the regular getting filled out like an application and stuffed like a pair of Chinese-fucking-finger-cuffs.

I also NEVER want to hear about them masturbating and I especially don’t want to see it. I grew up with 2 brothers, so I know that jerking off is a way of life, especially for the young and horny men of this world. I also know that no one loves you like you, so pulling on your pud is perfectly ok with me, as long as you do it in the privacy of your own space, with your door closed.

Picture this: California, 2003. H-Bomb walks into her apartment, a little early from work. She finds her roommate on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Covered in a blanket. Looking 50 Shades of Guilty. I just went into my room to get out of my work clothes and go about my business. And then, I see him. My 25 year old, devoutly Christian, Celine Dion loving, VIRGIN roommate was jerkin’ his gherkin to a little Sarah Michelle Gellar. ON OUR COUCH. The one I laid my golden locks on when I was watching Dawson’s Creek. The one I may or may not have had some sex on a few times, myself. Yeah, so what I am fucking hypocrite. But at least I didn’t get caught...

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

PSA: Control The C-R-A-Z-Y

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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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That just happened!

Last night around 10 pm EST the ticker on the GG Blog ticked 2 Million hits.  I sat there, watching the ticker for a few hours, like it was New Years Eve in June, or some shit. It was a proud moment to watch it roll over. I said roll over.

People ask me how I got started and became a member of the Crew. It's a funny story actually.  Someone I know (who actually can't stand me) posted something from ITMOAGG Fan Page and I slapped my desk in my office from laughing so hard. I liked the page and kept laughing every day. The random stories, funny pictures and the fact that The GG interacted with his fans made me think this guy was not only funny, but real as fuck.

A few weeks later I was on Fakebook and saw that one of my photographer friends posted a picture from an engagement photo shoot she had done over the weekend. The happy couple was standing in an alley in my hometown and something looked verrrrrrrrrry familiar about that alley. And then it hit me. That was the alley that many of us have may or may not have had a sexual interlude in. I sent a copy of the picture to J-Wunder titled "one girl's engagement photo is another girl's sex alley" and from there the rest is history.

As I sit in my kitchen, drinking my coffee and getting ready to go slay the dragons at work, I can't believe how lucky I am to have a friend, mentor and collaborator like J-Wunder. His ability to bring the funny only makes me, and the crew as a whole, funnier. I can't even talk about The Ringer or Anonynmous, because those fuckers threatened to kick my ass if I ever told their secrets. As for L-Train, that is my Roll Dog. I almost killed her when she was visiting me and we haven't told the story yet because she is still in therapy over it. Bitch was warned.

Most of all, I thank everyone who takes a few minutes, hours or what the fucker ever out of their day to read what we have to write and laugh at the shit that gives us the giggles. Even those that don't agree with or like what we have to say, keep reading and keep feeding us. Sometimes the most fucktarded comments are the ones that make us think of funnier shit to write about.

I am excited to see what the future has to bring, if L-Train is going to let me hit it from the back and most importantly, if J-Wunder is going to get drunk and show us his Guamaconda one night. Fingers crossed!

Time to go make the doughnuts!

XO
H-Bomb

The Things We Fucking Love

Like the rest of the world, myself and The CREW love a lot of fucking things. So today, I thought I would share some of the shit that we can't live without. Without further adieu, I give to you sons of bitches, "The Things We Fucking Love..."


Fried Fucking Chicken:
JW: Notice how I didn't just say "food" or fried chicken? Hell nah...I'm talking about FRIED FUCKING CHICKEN. Now, some of y'all are gonna think this is gonna turn into some black joke or some shit. Fuck no it ain't. Dave Chappelle already nailed that shit down. On a serious note, fried chicken ain't nothing to fuck with. Damn straight. And to all my African American peeps - I love me some fried fucking chicken. I fuck that shit up to the bone. Hell, sometimes I just eat the bone because that shit is so goddamn delicious, I think I should eat like a homeless person. Real talk.

Growing up, my moms would make 5 tupperwares of this shit for dinner. No joke. I guess that's what happens when you got a hungry ass family of seven to feed, right? Anyway, since I went from sucking on my mom’s titties to sucking down some of her delicious ass drum sticks and chicken wings, I've become addicted to this wholesome goodness and quite honestly, have not met a piece of fried chicken I didn't like. Serve that shit with a cold ass beer and some corn on the cob...watch the fuck out because I will eat that shit like a kid from a 3rd world country eating rice for the first time AND probably beat your ass and eat your shit too. Next.


Booze:
If there is one thing I love, it's booze. I cannot even tell you how goddamn much I enjoy booze. I don't care if that shit is wine, beer, malt liquor, hard alcohol...shit, even mouthwash...anything with an alcohol content, I'll probably drink it. Now, some of you bitches are probably saying, "That fool J-Wunderdrunk is a goddamn alcoholic." Yeah I'm an alcoholic...of awesomeness. I mean, what is the only thing outside of drugs that will make you:

- Feel good
- Feel great
- Feel like shit
- Feel like death
- Help you tell the truth
- Help you lie, but not really
- Fuck for hours
- Not fuck at all
- Pass out
- Blackout
- Shit for a week straight
- Piss for a week straight, out yo ass
- Fight
- Fight for no reason
- Get your ass kicked
- Go to jail
- Eat
- Sleep
- Cry
- Listen to Boys II Men naked while reading love letters from your high school Biology teacher you finger banged in high school...wait, what?

You get my point.

Booze is a game changer. With EVERYTHING. Too much of it, you're screwed. Too little of it, you're fucked. Just the right amount...SHIT'S ABOUT TO GET REAL, SON! Booze: it's so good when you drink it, you already know how shit's gonna go down. True story.


Sex:
H-Bomb: I can't believe J's candy-ass didn't say sex, because that mother fucker loves sex like I love Gucci Fanny Packs. Since he did steal Fried Fucking Chicken (I think he forgets that I am from the South, and when I stopped sucking titties, I too was given a piece of chicken to gnaw on) and Booze (such a greedy fucker), I choose sex. Actually, I fucking love fucking. I would rather go to pound town than do just about anything else. One of my dreams is to be riding a dude, while eating a piece of Fried Fucking Chicken.

I love sex so much that I can't even pick one gender to bang. Yep, that's right kiddos, sometimes I feel like a nut, and sometimes I don't. Let me tell you, if you are sexy and I am drunky, chances are I am going to try to get with you. Chances are even better that I am going to succeed. I am not a cocky person, but I do know what I bring to the table. And when I bring something to the table, I fucking bring IT.

Sex is truly a magical drug. It cures or improves anything and everything. Bad day at work? Anger Bang! Promotion at work? Celebration Bang! Going to the midnight showing of Twilight? Distraction from shitty movie bang (extra points for public sex). Crashed your car? Consolation Bang! Being in your best friend's wedding? Bridesmaid Bang (double points if you don't mess up your hair and make-up)! On Vacation? Hotel Bang! Flying to go to your vacation destination? Mile High Bang!  You see where I am going with this? There isn't much that sexicillan can't fix or, in fact, make better. I want to get my doctor to write me a script, so I can hand it to people and say, "We gotta bang, Doctor's orders." Sex. It's what's for dinner.


Beats:
In addition to the horizontal Mambo, the other thing that I fucking love is Music. Some people thought I was going to say Scotch and you are very close, but music is my passion. The only instrument I can actually play is the skin flute, but I do appreciate music in all genres, even country and classical.

For as long as I can remember I have been a music fanatic. As a kid I was Madonna for Halloween 3 years in a row, until my dad finally told my mom to stop allowing his 7 year old to dress like a prostitot. The next year I was a butterfly, thanks Dad. I could have had a lucrative career as a child Madonna impersonator. But, much to dad's chagrin, that didn't stop me from playing dress up and wearing my grandmas slips and night gowns and lip synching to 'Like a Virgin' 52 times a day.

As I have gotten older, my tastes have evolved slightly with regards to music, but the fact that I love music remains the same. I have seen my favorite band over 20 times, and actually am going to see them at least 2 more times this summer. I always have music on in my office - anything from Gangster Rap to Celine Dion (haters to the motherfucking left; the line starts behind L-Train) to everything else in between. I make no apologies for what I like, either. I have some friends that hate some of the music that I listen to, and I always remind them that I am DILLAGAF for life. Can't nobody break-a my style, can't nobody hold me down... Oh, no! I got to keep on moving.

When I get to combine my two favorite things, the stars will align in someone's favor. I went on a date with a dude a few years back and after dinner and drinks we went back to his house. He handed a glass of wine, threw on one of my favorite songs from my favorite band, and you could literally hear my panties falling to the ground. He knew he was in there, like swimwear. Winner, Winner, Fried Fucking Chicken Dinner.


Weed:
L-Train: Our assignment was to write about a few things that we love.  Since nobody wants to hear about my kids or my awesome friends or how all the fucking flowers I bought and planted have already died, I decided to write about the only other thing I love in the world. To our fan faithfuls, you already know…

J-Wunder and H-Bomb like to booze it up. Alcohol hates me, so I turned for comfort to its close friend and neighbor, The Chronic. That bitch loves me. The best thing about weed is that it doesn’t impair your ability to do a fucking thing. Not one. Well, maybe get off the couch to get the remote because it’s way the fuck over there, but, other than that, weed makes you awesome at everything. You can drive like a motherfucker while you’re high. Yes, you’re only driving 12 miles an hour, but you’re doing it like a slow-mo fucking boss. And then when you get to 7/11, you forgot why you went there, but now that you’re there you might as well get something. Doritos? Fuck yeah! I better get 2 bags because what if I spill one? Snickers bar? I need 3 of those motherfuckers. Water. Dude, why am I so fucking thirsty? Then, when you’re standing in the store considering last-minute additions to your digestive nightmare of a fucking smorgasbord, you start laughing because weed makes everything – even things that aren’t funny - funnier. When you see a kid eat shit on his bike or run face-first into something, that shit’s not fucking funny, right?  Well, then, you must not be high. I’m not saying I enjoy watching children injure themselves so don’t get on some fucking wankage and start sending J-Wunder emails about how “L-Train thinks child abuse is okay” , meow, meow. I don’t like it when kids hurt themselves, but any of you assholes who have watched AFV while you were high knows EXACTLY what the fuck I’m talking about. Once you’ve realized that you’ve been at 7/11 for 38 minutes and you bounce the fuck out of the store, you get in your car and creep away.

Once you’re back on the street, everything is high again and all you can think about is swinging back around to KFC, because nothing goes better with Doritos than Fried Fucking Chicken and some mashed potatoes and gravy that taste like the smell of cat piss. Fried Fucking Chicken Tastes Better When You’re High. That’s gonna be the title of my first book. You can quote me on that shit. (And, for the record, I will eat J-Wunder under the goddamn table in a chicken-off. Real talk. Fuck him and his McDonald’s gorge-a-thon. Real bitches power-pound chicken for sport.) One of you high-ass motherfuckers better weigh in on this shit to let me know I’m not alone because I’m getting a little paranoid.  Now I gotta go get my fucking Boyz II Men Greatest Hits cassette tape back from H-Bomb. I hope she’s finished cry-maxing.

Advice Column: The Art of the Fart

Sup J!

I've been reading your blog for just a few weeks, and I have to say they are fucking hilarious! I'm gonna have to start quoting some of your shit, 'cause I can't think of anything better myself. Now, i don't know if you've covered this topic yet, but I would love to hear your thoughts on The Female Fart. I'm having one of the funniest fucking conversations with a friend about this and he's told me that NO woman has ever "cut the cheese" in front of him. Not even his ex-wife. I understand the whole bullshit that women are supposed to be modest and proper - and i think i'm pretty fucking classy...but I say fuck that shit. Let your inner Jenny McCarthy out! Why do the guys get to have all the fun while we sit in pain holding that shit in? As long as you're not on all fours with his face in your ass...or at the dinner table...or both...let it out. So J, tell me, in your opinion - When is it and when isn't it acceptable? If your lady-friend, girlfriend or wife lets one go in your presence, do you give her a high-five or drop the bitch faster than the worst lay of your life?


Thanks,
GiGi Towers


Dear GiGi Towers:

Is that your porn name? Just wondering. Sounds like a first pet/street you grew up on kind of name. 

In answer to your question, we’ve covered a lot of ground in the fart department, but never answered a specific question from a fan on this topic. It’s an interesting question that I’m sure will spark a heated debate among the Pro-Fart / Pro-Hold-That-Shit-In camps. The Ghetto Genius Team gathered at HQ to discuss this pressing question over some beers and hard-boiled eggs and we learned some shit about each other. For instance, one team member is uptight and kind of squeamish about anything that comes OUT of the ass. As you read, you will figure out who the fuck is who in this bitch. As those of you who have been fans for a while might have guessed, I’m Team Pro-Fart, and here’s why:   

FARTS ARE FUCKING FUNNY. I have a whole bunch more shit to say, but I’m gonna lead with that because it’s the absolute fucking truth. Anybody who disagrees with that shit might as well just skip down to another (H-Bomb’s) opinion on the subject, because you’re not gonna like a fucking thing you read here.

My 3 closest female friends take their membership in Team Pro-Hold-That-Shit-In really fucking seriously. One, Tamika, has been with her husband for 13 years, married for 10, and she won’t shit while he’s in the house. WTF??? She has never shit while he was home, and has never let him hear her fart. That is not to say she doesn’t fart, because me and Tamika could have made a living off the natural gas we produced back in the day. And still could. We some gassy bitches. Maybe not everyone has that problem, but I feel bad as HELL for the people who do have the problem and don’t let that business fly when it’s necessary. I refuse – RE.FUSE. – to hold in a fart for anybody or anything. Ever. In life. Ladies, don’t get all “Ew, that’s so nasty” because I don’t care what you bitches say, you all fucking do it. They even wrote a book about it, so stop trying to front. It’s fine if you don’t get a personal thrill out of a particularly awesome fart – the really long, really loud ones that you can control with your butt muscles?  That’s when shit gets real. And I fucking love it. 

We were competitive farters in my family when I was growing up. Some of us have never grown past it. I have aunts and uncles who are old enough to be grandparents and we laugh until we cry about fucking farts. Is it immature?  Absolutely? Have we pissed ourselves laughing over it?  Frequently. Tamika and I once pissed ourselves in a rowboat in the middle of the lake on a calm, misty morning  because we were farting on the metal seats in the boat and making that shit echo all the way to Michigan. What, I ask you, is not funny about that?  

My ex-boyfriend was great about the farting and burping, too. As you have by now realized, I have never been shy with anyone I’ve ever dated. I don’t, like, lift a leg and do the “throttle hand” on a first date or anything, but it’s never long before a dude gets to know the REAL me. The ex and I would have contests (yes, we were well into our 30’s) and I introduced him to fart-lighting because HE.HAD.NEVER.HEARD.OF.IT. What the fuck did they do in HIS neighborhood on Friday nights?  Some fucking people just don’t know how to live.  You know who knows how to live? People who fart.


HB: Before I throw in my 2 cents I want to first give a personal "Fuck You" to Toots McGee, aka, L-Train for calling me out 'cus I clench my asshole so tight I can pick up a quarter off a freshly waxed floor. Bitch wishes she could clench an anus like me. But (no pun intended) back to the matter at hand, er, ass. I am of the Native American Tribe, Clenchyourhole. Yes, I am a proud fart holder. Why? Because Fuck You. That's why. I don't know why I can't let a fart rip with the best of them, I just never have, never will. It's actually a joke amongst my friends and one year as a gift I was given the book "Everyone Poops." I know everyone poops and farts, but I a) don't need to know about your butthole situation b) don't need to share mine with you and c) there is no c, I just didn't want to leave only a and b. L - your friend Tamika sounds like a chick I could be down with. I lived with my ex for a long ass time and during that time I NEVER farted in front of him. Seriously. I also never took a crap in front of him and when we were sleeping at night I would go downstairs to the guest bathroom to pee. I am not a fan of the expulsion of bodily fluids unless they are directly correlating to me making an O-Face. Realest Motherfucking Talk Ever. And don't even think about calling me uptight. I am about as fucking laid back as they get, especially when it comes to the freak nasty shit. Just not the actual shit. Nope. Never. Uh-Uh. No way, now how. Call me weird, crazy, or whatever, but I don't fart in front of anyone I am trying to make sexy time with. Just ain't my bag baby. Now, if you want to get an air mattress, some baby oil and a video camera...I am down for that.

JW: I’m gonna be 100% honest..mother fuckers need to fart. It’s a part of life. I fart, you fart, we ALL fucking fart. Now, some people who fart…like you obese mother fuckers for example, need to check their goddamn drawers 85% of the fucking time. Why? Because I question what comes out of your goddamn ass sometimes yo. My farts, by any means, don’t smell like roses…but a decomposed body? Get the fuck outta here son!!!! I’ll laugh til the goddamn strippers come home when it comes to farting, but if you haven’t eaten a salad or a piece of fruit in, lets just say, EVER…take yourself to the next city over if you’re about to blast ass. Better yet, just go hot box yourself in your ride. It’s one thing to have a loud, smelly, fart…and it’s another to have a loud, “I’m about to roll over and die mother fucker”, fart.

Now, with exception to the farts that smell like a dead body that hasn’t been found for 6 months, I could care less if a mother fucker, this includes you ladies, farts. I mean, if I’m fucking a broad and she farts during sexy time, I might punch the bitch in her shoulder blade (because you know I be tappin’ that shit from the back yo), so make sure you fart before or after I’m done tappin’ the Pu-Tang. Ya dig?

Farting is nothing to be embarrassed about. Especially if I know what will lead you to fart. For example…if we’re at a lovely Mexican Restaurant and you’re eating beans and all that other shit cooked in lard…there’s a great fucking chance you’re not only gonna fart, but probably clog my goddamn toilet for roughly 30-45 minutes. Just sayin’. Also, if we’re at Buffalo Wild Wings and your hot little ass is drinking a ton of beer with me, I know for goddamn certain, your ass will get a case of the bubble guts and be pootin' like a mother fucker. Hey, it’s cool. As long as you’re not trying to celebrate the shit every fucking time, go ahead and rip ass once in a while. I mean, I might look shocked as fuck at first, but once I let one fly, it’s all good. We can play "ass commander" or some shit.

Now, some of you fellas and ladies are thinking I might be some morbid sick fuck…but lets be real. 73% of you couples out there play ass trombone on the daily with one another. So don’t be acting like I’m the crazy mother fucker. If you gots to go, you gots to fucking go. It’s just like me when I gotta take a shit…I’m sorry I fucked up your bathroom but what would you rather have happen? Me shit on your Persian fucking rug with remnants of corn and black beans with 2 day old Guinness mixed in, OR I blow your toilet the fuck up and throw some Clorox in that mother fucker after I plunge it 3-4 times? See where I’m going with this? Good because I don’t.

There is never a good or bad time to fart…just let that fucker rip and if they look at you all crazy and shit, just laugh and say, “What? Don’t be hatin’ because my ass is celebratin’." Gotta keep that shit 100.

Do As You Dig...Just Don't Shit Your Pants,

The CREW