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