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

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A Tale of Two Titties

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Fuck that. It was just the worst of times.

Picture this: I am on my birthday vacation in San Francisco with the Crew, at a titty bar. One would think this would be the pinnacle of my trip. As if when we walked in the door, angels heralded and bitches in sparkly tassels and gossamer panties floated down to greet us and take our drink order. Then, San Francisco’s finest pieces of ass would come shake what their mommas gave them, all up in my face, whilst the Three 6 Mafia song, "Ass and Titties" was being played in the background by a midget harpist.

One would THINK that J-Wundercunt would be rolling out the titty bar red carpet for us. He KNOWS that Flo-Rich and I love titty bars like we love shoes and Gucci Fanny Packs. He also knows that we are strip club afficionados and that you can’t take us to the Steak and Shake of strip clubs, when we are used to going to the Morton’s of strip clubs. But he did. Oh, that mother fucker did just that.

Let me backtrack and say this - I have been going to strip clubs since I was a teenager. How, you ask? Well that was simple, I made friends with a few strippers and they would always get us into the clubs when we were underage. I have done some of my best work in a strip club bathroom. Ba-LEE-dat.

However, the strippers I used to hang with take PRIDE in their art. They are creative geniuses, who not only danced, but put on a show. Case in point, my good friend who we will call Naomi. My favorite show of Naomi’s was when she would dress up as Dorothy from The Wizard of OZ, complete with 7 inch, red, plastic shoes. Let me tell you, when that hoe took the stage, I wanted to follow her yellow brick road back to KansASS. All day, erry day.

I am from South Florida, where there are more titty bars than elementary schools, per capita. One of my favorites is a classy little joint in West Palm Beach called, T’s Lounge. Why T’s, you ask? Simple: Because of a fun little game we like to call ‘Cooter Ball.’ Who wouldn’t love a strip club where the strippers shoot ping pong balls out of their coochies and is also across the street from the local jail?

Now, I have been to some shit holes in my day, too. Stripper with a visible (possibly new) c-section scar? Check. One-armed chick who could still swing from a pole? Check. A bitch that could make her booty clap so hard it actually made a clapping noise? Check baby, check baby, one, two, three, four!

None of my past experiences could have prepared me for what happened at the Condor. Thankfully, I had physically prepared myself for what was about to go down by getting white girl wasted. I am not talking your run of the mill, mild intoxication. I am talking borderline "Weekend at Bernie’s" drunk... you know, the kind of drunk where you normally need two people to prop you up, drunk.

So, here I am, playing human bumper cars with the people in line, waiting to get into what is supposed to one of the premier titty bars in San Fran. I vaguely remembered from my bus tour the previous day, that this was the first topless bar in San Fran. I think some of the original bitches are still working there.

I wish I would have had what alcoholics call, "a moment of clarity,"and realized that this place was NOT going to be the shit when it said, "topless." See, in the sunshine state our bitches get butt-ass-nekkid when they strip. We get the same view their gyno gets. Meat curtains and all.

We walked in, and I swear to all things holy, I sobered up real quick. Especially when Anonymous looked around and said "I want my $15 back..." I mean, that guy fucks with Cat Lady, so this is actually an improvement in his choices of poon.

We took our seats in a row against the back and start ordering drinks. I started pounding drinks, because I am hoping that if I get drunk enough the Faces of Meth I see before me might start looking a little less like Lindsey Lohan of today and little more like Lindsey Lohan of the past. With each passing dancer (and I use the term loosely) the "talent" gets worse and worse. Then, I see and hear something I have never seen before in a strip club.

WHACK!

The bitch on stage clacked her stripper shoes together, and I swear I thought Satan himself was going to come up from the stage and confirm that this was, in fact, hell. Next, I thought it was my good friend Naomi, clicking her heels together to come and take me back to the land of real strip clubs and nekkid bitches. But alas, it was just another moment of fuckery in a night filled with them.

To the left of me, Flo-Rich is cursing in Korean and playing Angry Birds with such intensity I was becoming a little worried. So I kept drinking. To the right of me, WunderCunt, RoMo and The Boss were trying in vain to order more drinks, because I was stealing them and drinking them in one gulp. Sobriety was not my friend, I had to come to realize, and I am waiting for the sweet cloud of a blackout to envelope me, so I can forget the crimes against humanity being perpetuated on the stage.

In my haze, I decide to get a private dance, because the bitches ON stage are so busted, I can’t even imagine what the ones who are giving the private dancers are like. But, I am determined to find out.
I find the least horrendous bitch (oh, how I wish I could go back to the days of one-armed-bitches-with-c-section-scar-strippers) and she took some seedy back room. She sat me down and purred in voice that was more like a head on collision with two freight trains and about as seductive as the idea of anal electrocution, and asked me if I am ready for a good time. I wanted to be like "Bitch, define good?" Instead, I just smiled drunkenly and let the shit-show begin.

She started doing this shimmy-shake thing that looked like a retarded giraffe, learning to walk for the first time. Normally, when a Rob Zombie song comes on, a bitch shakes her money maker. And shakes that shit to the point you get a head rush. Red face and all. I think this bitch was on tilt. Or lopsided. Or something. Being the humanitarian and proud supporter of the arts that I am, I let her finish.

Song two came on, and I thought she was going to give the next dance the old college try, because even if you are a paraplegic with epilepsy, you can still shake something to Usher’s "Yeah." But not this bitch. I think she had full body botox, because she seemed frozen.

By the time song two ends, I am pissed, drunk and just sad for this chick, so I do what anyone in my non-plastic-heeled shoes would do. I get my roll of nickels out of my purse, crack them shits open and thrown them in the air, like confetti. I make it mother fucking hail in the private room. Clink, clank, ting-ting, bitches. Side note: strippers do not like getting pelted with nickels, especially in the head/face.

Two men approached me, told me I needed to pay the young lady (what young lady? This bitch had to be at least 40) and leave. Immediately.

I told them that I am not paying  $20 for some chick that dances like a, "One-legged, three-titted, T-Rex." I then told them that I would give them $5, because "The Price is Wrong, Bitch." When they kept telling me that I had to pay the $20 dollars I screamed, "Don’t fuck with me, I negotiate shit for a living." It was at this point that I was "escorted" off the premises. I kind of waved bye to K-Piddy as he was getting fleeced by the smartest bitch in the hoe-game. Oh, and fuck you, K-Piddy, for even suggesting this shit hole so that you could go see your "girlfriend." I can’t wait to see you on Maury, with 11 other dudes waiting to find out if you are not the father. Ass fuck.

There I was, outside, in the cold of San Fran, waiting for my motley crew to assemble. They all kind of stumbled out, minus Anonymous. I looked J-Wunder dead in the face and said, "If you were a man, I would punch you right in the mouth." Then I threw up and got into the cab only to wander off somewhere to drink more and later find Mr. Wunder passed the fuck out inside a bulldozer. Pussy.

Fuck you for taking me to this degenerate excuse for a strip club, J- Wunder. When you come and visit me in Florida, I am taking you to the strip clubs where bitches get paid in Meth and dusting your clothes with Meth before we walk in. Real Talk.

The CREW, Booze, Strip Clubs, Poor Decisions and A Bulldozer

It was something no one from The CREW could prepare for. All I knew was that everyone had some idea, but at the end of the day, had no fucking idea...AT ALL. Thanksgiving weekend wasn't just about family and friends getting together, but The CREW meeting face-to-face FOR THE FIRST FUCKING TIME. EVER.

Me, Flo-Rich, Anonymous, H-Bomb who were part of the present six, joined RoMo, K-Piddy and The Boss (who have been around for days and are still considered part of the posse) for a weekend of pure and utter fuckcitement (new word, you're welcome). The Boss however, she's the broad that kinda manages shit, but during this weekend, she wasn't even trying to manage the fuckery that was about to go down. Could you blame her?

As planned and promised, we got fucking drunk. From beer to vodka to tequila to whiskey to angry, the mission was set and accomplished. Fools were getting faded, Flo-Rich was glued to her fucking phone Facebooking, Twittering and Instagraming so much that Anonymous pulled her ass to the side and said she was two posts away from a goddamn intervention and an old fashioned Bukaki feeding. Yeah, she's on her phone that much. But hey, she's important. Important people do important shit. Whatever.

Night one was nothing more than hanging out at the Horseshoe, a few other joints that I can't even recall and me getting angry because I have no idea. I've come to find out that if I mix whiskey into my little buffet of alcohol intake, I turn into an angry man. For no apparent fucking reason. There was a point in the night where I became so angry I just started yelling at inanimate objects and telling H-Bomb I was going to jackknife her in the tits if she didn't find me an Asian masseuse who specialized in reverse cowgirl riding and sandwich making, simultaneously. That shit all came to a screeching halt after she told me she'd do a drop knee and dick punch me if I didn't stand the fuck down and stop acting like someone who just drank alcohol for the first time. Bitch may be small but she packs a punch like Tyson.

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT...ASS KICKING.

No stories on night one are worth talking about because to be quite honest, we all played the conservative drunk card...well, except me because I just don't give a fuck. Onto night two...

We meet up with K-Piddy and my boy Shapiro at Northstar Bar and start the night off drinking. Right out of the fucking gate it's shots of Fireball, Fernet, some fruity gay shit and every other kind of alcohol you can think of. At one moment of the night I took a step back, looked around and realized someone in this group was going to die or get into some shit. It was probably going to be me. Mother fuckers were ready to get down, to get down. When that shit happens, watch the fuck out.

K-Piddy: "So we're going to a strip club tonight, right?"

Me: "You ask me that question again, I will slap the fuck out of you then piss on your face. Of course we're going."

Flo-Rich: "So J, you know you can't tell me we're going to a strip club and not go, right? Don't think I won't embarrass your ass on Facebook come Monday."

Me: "Does it look like I would tease a woman who likes strips clubs and not go to a fucking strip club? Stop that shit, go Instagram something and keep drinking your tequila."

The rule of the night was simple:

No one goes off on their own tonight. No one dies. 

More drinks are flowing, more shit is being talked to one another and by this time, everyone in The CREW is ready. Ready to do some fucking damage. I've never seen more intense looks in peoples eyes. Looks that say, "I'm ready to do some shit that would make a goat throw up. Real talk." Not gonna lie, I was a little scared. Scared that I had the ability to take this shit Hangover style and not feel bad about IT or anyone who was willing to follow my lead. So we drank even more. The best and worst idea ever planned. 

Shot after shot, drink after drink, I made sure before we went to the strip club we were fucking drunk to the point that if we were gonna do damage, why not do it in style. We close our tabs and head to the Condor Club. This is where it all went downhill. 

I'm not gonna bore you guys to death with all the nit-picky shit, so I'll just get down to the details. 

While standing in line, 4 of my co-workers see me on their way to a bar, stop, stare and say, "At it again huh, J?" That right there should tell all you folks how the fuck I roll. Or not. Who gives a fuck.

The cashier chick was the only woman in that club who made my night. Why you ask? Because of this conversation:

Me: "Yeah, I'm paying for myself and those two big breasted chicks behind me."

Cashier: "Wait, what?"

Me: "Me and those two hot broads behind me. I'm paying for us."

Cashier: "Wait, what?"

Me: "Three people. I'm paying for one male and two fine ass females to look at some strippers."

Cashier: "Wait, what?"

Me: "I know the music is loud up in this bitch but listen...I just want to pay for three fucking people. Are you fucking deaf lady?"

Cashier: "Wait, what?"

It was then and only then that I realized this chick wasn't deaf but was reading my shirt and smiling the whole fucking time because she was digging it. As I look like a complete fucking fool, RoMo and The Boss just shake their heads and tell me to sit the fuck down and have another drink. Well played, cashier lady. Well played. 

From the moment I walked in this joint, it fucking sucked. Actually, it was straight up depressing. You would think for a place that was filled with an even amount of men AND women, wall to wall, that this place was bound to have some bad ass bitches. 

WRONG. 

There were two cute girls and that was about it. One chick was about 4 months pregnant and was so fucking awful that Anonymous crumbled up a dollar and threw that shit on the stage like he was skipping fucking rocks on the lake. BTW - that was the only fucking dollar she got for her two song dance. And it wasn't even a dance. It was more like a jiggle and a few tummy rubs like the bitch was starving. Then there was the girl who did nothing more than hip check the pole. Like her body went into a seizure and her ass cheeks wanted to fight something. Around this point, Flo-Rich downloaded Angry Birds on her phone because it wasn't even worth looking at. She even tweeted about the shit. Never mess with Asians when it comes to strip clubs. They love strip clubs. Just not shitty ones.  


Then there was the "pole dancing champion". One would think this was going to be fucking epic, right? Again...WRONG. This chick had mad skills on the pole but other than that, she didn't do shit. When she wasn't climbing the fucking thing like Spider-Man and sliding down that bad boy like a group of firefighters from Ladder 49, she just stood there and checked herself out in the mirror. Trying to  catch her breath and shit. No dancing whatsoever. Maybe a couple of heel clacks but that's about as far as this bitch got. CLICKETY CLACK CLACK! That's it. And she did this for two fucking songs!! Get the fuck outta here with that shit woman! Pole technique - A fucking +. Execution, enthusiasm and dancing ability - GO FUCK YOURSELF. If you thought that was bad, after her "dance", she booed the fucking crowd then gave everyone a thumbs down...literally. Well, except for the one chick by the stage who was rockin' the tightest fucking mullet west of the Mississippi. Bitch had some hefty ass mud flaps and was proud of it. Matter of fact, her White Snake ass smelled like a whole can of Aqua Net but no fucks were to be given by her. NONE. Mad props to you, Rosie O'Donnell. Mad props. 

I could see the disappointment and sadness on everyones faces when I looked around. It was so bad that I started to apologize because I had no idea that the Condor Club was more like a topless bar with women who would more than likely pay their patrons to fuck THEM then the other way around. It got to the point where Anonymous hit up Cat Woman ('memba her?) and bounced the fuck out (story to be told by the man himself). That's how bad it was...that Anonymous would rather go hook up with a chick who smelled like potpourri and mayonnaise then to see strippers not do shit that strippers do. 

H-Bomb drank more and decided the only way to see how bad this place was, was to get a private dance. 10 minutes later, she was kicked the fuck out. Why? I won't go into all the details (I'll let her tell you guys this shit in a column), but from what I was told, she took a roll of nickels and made it hail on Strip Tease Magee. If that wasn't enough, she tried to negotiate the lap dance fee because "Bitch looked broke as fuck and danced around like she had one leg, T-Rex arms and three titties." True story. 

That's how the night was going...so we left, drank a shit ton more then I blacked out. Around 3:30am, I woke up in one of those bulldozer lifts on an empty street by a homeless man. He didn't wake me up because he was trying to help but, apparently I took the fuckers spot where he sleeps at night. When I came to, I checked my phone and all I saw were 6 text messages...all from different people. 

Flo-Rich: "J, see this picture? That's you passed the fuck out inside of a bulldozer thingy. We left you because you told us you were still drinking. Hope you're not dead."

The Boss: "Jesus fucking Christ. Never seen a man eat pizza so fast then tell a whole line of women you are giving oral exams for shots of whiskey. I think that chick you made out with in that bathroom you took a pic in had something. Go get checked please. Oh, hope the cops didn't arrest you for sleeping in that bulldozer. LOL."

K-Piddy: "Sorry I missed you guys. I was upstairs at the Condor. Don't ask how much money I spent. We don't talk about things like that."

H-Bomb: "Pussy."

Anonymous: "Dude, I just got a foot job from Cat Woman. Hey, is it true The CREW found your ass in a bulldozer passed the fuck out? See you back at the hotel if you're not in jail. Drunk fuck."

Mom: "I hope you're not dead, son. I know how you get with your friends. Call me when you get this."

I don't know what happened after the strip club. But apparently it was good enough to take a picture and document. I didn't get arrested, I didn't get in a fight, I didn't fuck a stripper but I did do something that I just remembered...after the homeless guy told me to get the fuck up, he went into a port-a-potty that was near the bulldozer...I got so pissed for him waking me up as I was leaving, I thanked him by drop kicking the port-a-potty while he was in it. Wait, what? 

I'm going to hell but tell me something I don't know. 

Just remember...if you don't stick together, fucked up things will happen. Specifically to you. 

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

2 MILLION UP IN THIS BITCH!!!

If there is one thing that I try to do and do well, it's entertain. I'm not a writer. I'm not even an English fucking major. I'm just a guy who got through life by not taking it so seriously. Because during the time I had a stick rammed up my candy ass, life fucking sucked. I was uptight. Angry. Hated the world. I felt like I hated everything...and everybody. Then one day, I got out of the shower and took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized, I needed to lighten the fuck up. For real. Live life by not giving two shits in the world and just be. Be the guy to entertain folks. Be the guy who doesn't worry about what others fucking think. Be the guy who, at the end of the day, will not lose any sleep over monkey mouth bitch shit because it ain't fucking worth the stress and drama. Real talk.

Then one day, a blog was born. And you know what? Haterade was being served . BIG TIME. I was told my blog was shit. It was pointless. Worthless. Not funny. Every possible negative thing you could think of, that's what I was told. But instead of beating a mother fucker into the ground and feeding them Doritos out of my butt cheeks, I took all that negativity and used it as motivation.

November 2010 results were in, and the stats read: 4,637 hits or some shit like that.

Not too shabby for a mother fucker with an idea to do something some loved and others despised. With that love and hate though, brewed ideas that I knew people weren't expecting - a blog that was different. Not just some fucking picture book of shit 90% of society steals off the internet. Not just some funny video that 65% of people post that is a day late and a dollar fucking short. Not text messages that we already get from a site that probably has one of the highest volumes of traffic of all the interwebs. Hell fucking no. Why be one dimensional? One dimensional has already been done. It has already succeeded. Only a dumb fuck would copy what another site does to a tee and try to find the same results. So why not be a one stop shop with a bunch of shit for a mother fucker to drop in and laugh if they have 10 minutes in their fucked up, hard working day, to spare? That's where it got even better...

From advice columns to random fucked up stories to videos, pics, text messages and hilarious Facebook posts, I made sure I had a site that you could find more shit than a goddamn amusement park.  When that happened, word spread quick. 4K hits increased to 8K, then to 10K, then to 20K. Whatever I brought, I made sure it was good enough for each person to come back for more. And they did...100 times over.

It got to the point where emails were a daily fucking occurrence and "Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius" was getting mad fucking love. We posted shit, fans laughed and everything was coming full fucking circle. Fast forward to June 11th, 2012:

Stat line: 2,000,000+ hits

If you were to ask me if the blog I started less than two years ago would ever see 2+ million hits in its existence...I probably would have punched you in your goddamn face then bought you a beer as I proceeded to call you a dumb fuck. That number is fucking ridiculous. Especially since this blog is different and not one dimensional like others I've mentioned. A chance was taken, success was being made.

I got to this point not only from an idea I had for people who needed a fucking laugh, but because of ALL the supporters, Facebook fans and contributors who have kept it real and were able to LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP. However, even though it's no secret this blog is an ENTERTAINMENT BLOG,  there are still some sensitive ass bitches who can't tell the difference between entertainment and some "ABC After School Special" shit. For that, I really feel sorry for you fucks. No one put a fucking gun to your head and told you to read any of this. Hell, no one even told you to fucking like it. But you know what? You always come back for more. If not to secretly love the page, then to critique it. The greatest part? You're really not gonna bother myself and The CREW to take you seriously because again, this is an ENTERTAINMENT BLOG. Bitchassness need not apply. But I digress...

If it wasn't for the supporters, fan-faithful and my CREW, this blog wouldn't be where it is today. We're about to lay some shit down and just get better. Because we have mother fuckers out there who "get it" and appreciate the humor and shit that makes a mother fuckers mood 1,000 times better then how it started. For that, I'm thankful and humble to get all the support from each fan and crazy ass follower.

Truth is, I may not be shit and that's ok with me. However, numbers tell the story. Like they say, "Proof is in the fucking pudding, right?"

I got nothing more to say than THANK YOU and here's to another 2 million and another 5 million after that. Shit only gets better folks. That I can fucking promise you. As long as my contributors and I stay "Ride or Die", you fans are gonna have a lot of shit to read and talk about. My word in bond.

True story.

Much love and many fucking thanks!

J-Wunder

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

Win a Date With...The Man, The Myth, The Legend.

Well ladies, (and some men, but shhhhhhhhh.... don't tell GG, surprise buttsecks is the only kind of buttsecks he likes.... just kidding. He is strictly a Poon Pounder) you asked for it, and we here at GG Headquarters like to give back to the people who make all this possible. Presented to you on a rusty platter from last year's Merry Shitfacemas and with the paperwork to prove he only has a slight case of the mouth herps, The Ghetto Angels give you...

Mr. Wunderful himself, J-Wunder The Magnificunt, also known as the "Guamaconda" for your sexual displeasure. Or pleasure if you are into 2 minutes of jack-rabbit thrusting and one giant heave of sadness when he comes. If you actually believe what we just wrote, then you don't deserve a chance with J-Wunder. Whoever the lucky lady is that gets to spend a night with him is going to be turned into a human pretzel and devoured. He brings his own mustard, too.

Since he puts EVERYTHING out there for all the world to see, you might think you know the Ghetto Genius. But, there is so much more to the man, the myth, the legend. We are going to give you a rare glimpse into the tender, poet-soul of J-Wunder, and when you are done reading, if you think you can step toe-to-toe with this man (and you can show us a valid Guamaconda wrangler's license) you will win one night of hot, sweaty, monkey butt loving, courtesy of The CREW. Oh, we didn't mention that we are footing the bill for this misadventure? We are and you are very fucking welcome, bitches. Since this is on our dime, you had better bring it, or the next date you go on is going to be with my open hand.

Now for the good stuff:

Sex: 100% Male. More like Beast. Sexy Fucking Beast. But you already knew that.

Age: 33 years old and fucks like an 18 year old. Speaking of 18 year olds, you do have to be 18 to do this. 21 if you want to drink and do this. I don't want to see that J-Wunder had to shoe box Chris Hanson because your dumb ass did some dumb ass shit.

Height: 5'11", legs like tree trunks (did I hear some one say Standing 69??), ass you can bounce a quarter off of, and as for the "other" appendage? Well, we will let you find out for yourself. But we are willing to bet that you are going to need a tele-thon for vagoplasty when he is done smashing you. We are already in talks to get Sarah McLachlan to write a song for your busted meat curtains.

Weight: He feels light as a feather in your arms. Fuck that emo bullshit, the man is solid, works out and looks fucking good. You had better look half as good as him or he is 2 bag fucking you. I know we all know what that is, so I am not going to clarify. And if you don't? You are too stupid to go out with him anyway.

Hair Color: Bald is beautiful. However, he does rock some sweet facial hair and if you are lucky his face is going to look like a Krispy Kreme donut when he is done pleasuring you.

Eye Color: Do you really fucking care? All you need to know is that yours will be rolling in the back of you head during the night. If you really fucking care, they are brown. Ok. Like doo-doo brown. Looks like someone shit in his eye sockets? Are you happy now?

Marital Status: Ready to mingle with your private parts. We mean S-E-X.

Kids: About 8 million of them swimming in his balls, as we write this. He likes to put his babies in your mouth, BTW.

Occupation: Producer by day, Blogger by night, and semi-professional Stunt Cock. He would do porn professionally, but the last porn star he banged said it hurt too much and lasted too long.

College: Cal Poly - San Luis Obispo. We don't even know what the fucking mascot is and we bet he doesn't either. He is fucking smart and shit; he majored in partying, pussy and reckless abandon. He got his Ph.D in awesome from the University of Your Mom and graduated Cuma Ona Yourface with a 6.0.

Current Location: Bay Area, but he has been saving his frequent flyer miles so he can come to you, too. We would prefer to come to you because the fucker really likes to travel. Give him an airplane seat, a blankie and a ginger ale in a can and he is a happy mother fucker. Oh, and he likes sex in airplane bathrooms. We want him to go to you, because if you are bat shit fucking crazy (and we are really hoping you are) then we want him to be as far away from his safe space, so that when you bring the crazy he is in an alley somewhere, crying, pissing and shitting himself, and begging for his mommy.

If you think you have the stamina, prowess and extra kidney it takes to spend a night in the presence of greatness, then feel free to send us a short essay, double spaced, in 10 pt Arial font, and let us know why you think you should Win a Date with J-Wunder. All submissions will be shared between us and nothing is personal or confidential. Don't forget to send pictures. Naked ones, preferably, with you and another female friend applying. You will be judged on your appearance and ability to bring it. Don't fuck this up.

Now get to work...you have some cock to win.

Send all inquiries to: goodgirl1122@gmail.com


Please note: So my crew came to me with this goddamn idea...lets just say, they are always looking out for my best interest. BUT, they love taking shit to the next level. Fucking bitches.