Thursday, March 17, 2011

Weaves, Spanx, and Push-up Bras: The Business of Female False Advertisement

Men do all types of shit to catch the eye of females: grow hair, cut hair, buy cars, buy jewelry, dress up, dress down, pretend to be a thug, pretend to be paid, and every gotdamn thing in between. But, this isn’t about men; it’s about women and the industries behind them that profit off of fooling niggas.

If you haven’t been down the road when it seemed like something it wasn’t, this isn’t for you…

Whether you met her in the club, isle 17 in Target, or the counter at Starbucks waiting on her cappuccino, you saw something that you liked and decided to make your move. It might have been that long weave going halfway down her back, which was giving to her by a black woman that could’ve been a neurosurgeon but decided that sewing Indian hair into the scalps of black women was way more lucrative (and took less schooling). It might have been that tight slim waist that looked like you could possibly wrap your hands around it and make your fingers touch. In reality, she can’t really breathe because the body-shaper (aka girdle) she’s wearing under her blouse is pushing her love handles and gut into her lungs. Although her next breath may very well be her last, she caught your eye by fooling you into thinking she had a waist, but in reality, she hasn’t had one since ’07. Then to top it all off, she’s wearing a padded push-up bra that morphed her average somewhat droopy B cups into full and perky C cups. Everything about her says 9, maybe even a dime, and that’s before we factor in what Maybelline and MAC have done for her appearance. Lord only knows what’s hiding behind that foundation, but probably scuffmarks and pimples that P.Diddy prescribed Proactiv just couldn’t quite cure. You thought you were on top of the world when you pulled her not knowing any better…

… until you get her home. Tummy flat, ass phat, and perky breasts… all wrapped up nice and tight in that slim fitting black dress. The moment she walks through your door, your fingers are crossed. You might not be a praying type-of nigga, but you silently send one up to the Man, “Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, please let this go down.” When flowing conversation (and flowing Ciroc, women love that red berry shit) turn into touching and rubbing, you have to do everything in your power not to call a timeout just to do a fist pump. The heat’s rising, your “man” is on command, but as you begin to peel her out of her dress, she goes from bombshell to transformer. Gentlemen, this is the definition of “more than meets the eyes” because she goes up two dress sizes. Just face it; you’ve been fooled by clever packaging. She was a used Honda with a body kit from Fast and Furious, but still a Honda all the same. The thing about getting a Honda with a body kit is although you drove it off the lot, you didn’t want a Honda; you wanted a Porsche. So, you treat her like a Porsche. Take her out to Morton’s instead of Friday’s (we all know that Honda’s love Friday’s). You bought into her elaborate disguise. That tricky bitch had you wining, dining, dating, and halfway tricking on something that you wouldn’t have otherwise looked twice at.

There’re corporations making millions upon millions capitalizing on fooling men. The corporation that owns Victoria’s Secret made $356.1 million in the 4th quarter of 2010. Based on the number of supped up Honda’s I cracked in the 4th quarter of last year, I’m going to estimate $200 million of that was made off the “Bombshell” bra alone (Google it). You know the one that can miraculously increases titties two cup sizes? And, that’s just the bra. I hear that a good pack of Indian hair weave can run about $150, and that’s not counting the $200 spent to get the shit sewed in. It’s the business of selling the swindle, and every basic bitch owns stock in it. If you’re that chick, I know you feel like you’re winning while you’re sitting at Morton’s eating a $50 steak sipping merlot and shit, but I’m here to tell you that bullshit only goes so far… about the distance from Morton’s to his bedroom. A nigga is not going to wake up and say, “Even though you tricked me into believing you were a 9 when you’re really a 5, I’m digging you anyway.” Instead, after he finishes fucking your basic ass, he’s going to send you home in a cab and toss you the deuces, no Chris Brown.

I should really invent some sort of device that can detect the amount of bullshit chicks have on trumping them up out of mediocrity… I’ll call it “the mediocrity meter”.

Jean DeGrate has spoken

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Would you date you?

I’m fine, and 9 out of 10 thirsty bitches would agree. Since my looks have absolutely nothing to do with me, I can’t really take credit for that. Truth be told, thanks to the unique mixing of my mother’s and my sperm donor’s DNA with the intervention of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, you have this hellified nigga you see before you now. Shout out to The Almighty. Yeah, this entire paragraph was just a bunch of cocky ass JD bullshit, but it’s here now, and I just wasted 30 seconds of your life… Jokes on you.

Ok, anyway on with the blog…

Last week, I overheard a fat woman saying, “There’s no way I would date a fat guy.” I almost choked; I mean really though, who gave her options? The funny thing is this isn’t the first time (or 2nd or 23rd or 144th time either) I’ve heard a woman say something like that when she didn’t appear to have a vast selection of male suitors. Before ya’ll come at me with that “everybody has their type, and some dudes like big girls” bullshit, I have to say, I don’t know any type of dude (yep, lames included) that would say, “Miss me with that Halle Berry type-of-chick point me in the direction of them Monique body-type-bitches.” Plus, what good is having a type if you can almost never obtain it? There’re a lot of people running around here with this “love me for me” disposition, and by “people” I mean “women.” Men just know better. All of that got me to thinking… “Would these people date the opposite sex version of themselves?” Would I date the girl version of Jean DeGrate? The answer is yes; I fucking love me. (If you have any doubts that I love me, refer back to paragraph one) Truth is, women have yet to grasp the concept of how to recognize their flaws, fix them, and THEN lay out the list of standards they require of their prospective mate and none of that “What Chilli Wants” unrealistic nonsense either. Therefore, I’m providing a Jean DeGrate tutorial…

You have a boatload of issues

You got daddy issues, mommy issues, insecurity issues, the summer after the 8th grade your camp counselor grabbed your left ass cheek issues, and a whole disarray of other shit that causes you to flip out or shut down as soon as the slightest thing sets you off. Yeah, nobody wants to deal with that shit… including you. No guy in his right mind wants to hear that he can’t eat fried chicken because your daddy used to dress up like Colonel Sanders and lock you in the closet for hours. See a shrink, go kick it with Dr Phil, read some self-help books, just do something to iron those issues out or at least tame them… THEN lay out the list of standards you require of your prospective mate.

You don’t really give a fuck about how you look

You dress poorly; and not poorly as in bad fashion sense, but poorly as in you buy clothes simply because you can’t roam the streets in your PJ’s. You have a bad hair day 362 days a year, and to top it all off, you’re out of shape. Well wait let me take that back, pardon me for being insensitive to the fatties… you’re in shape; that shape is just round. You’re not even approachable so you’re damn sure not datable. Let’s face it; nobody’s looking for a rundown chick to settle down with. Trade in those pajama jeans for some Trues or at least some jazzy H&M denim, call Tammy from the southside who does hair in her basement, do 10 sets of 20 reps of crunches, just do something to fix yourself up… THEN lay out the list of standards you require of your prospective mate.

You’re broke

Don’t get me wrong, broke women are great for fucking simply because they expect less. Take them to Friday’s for the Jack Daniel sampler and $4 marquiritas, and they act like you flew them to France for lunch, but that’s about where the magic stops. Bunning a broke chick is almost like adopting a child. Your quality of life goes down so hers can come up. No nigga wants to have to go to the grocery store or the mall behind his chick’s back. This is definitely one of those things that is way easier said than done. I know gas prices are high and got some chicks debating whether to fuck for gas or start walking everywhere. If that bitch is you, get your money up… THEN lay out the list of standards you require of your prospective mate.

You got baggage

Whether its kids, crazy ex boyfriends/baby daddies, or just emotional scarring from all the niggas that did you wrong in the past, all that shit is waiting right at your front door for the next unlucky nigga to come along. It’s hard enough to build a relationship without your past popping up and your kids ramming Tonka trucks into my shoes while we attempt to watch a bootleg of the latest Tyler Perry flick, “For Black Men Who Decided to Dress Up Like Gun Toting Elderly Women When Being a Man Acting a Fool Just isn’t Enough”. Plus, nobody likes to be that guy sitting on your couch weaponless when your crazy ex boyfriend Tyrone decides to pop up to tell you why you two should work it out. We understand that you and your kids are a package deal, but just like with other package deals, some of the extra shit just isn’t that attractive. How many times have you gotten a value meal and only eaten the burger and fries, without finishing the drink? Squash the lingering issues with Tyrone, send your kids to your mama’s house from time to time, stop blaming niggas cause your high school boyfriend cheated 10 years ago, just do something to eliminate some baggage… THEN lay out the list of standards you require of your prospective mate.

Now, take a long look in the mirror, be brutally honest with yourself, list all of your flaws, then ask yourself… “Would you date you?

Jean DeGrate is asking