Friday, March 30, 2012

The Top 6 Things I’d Do If I Won the Lottery

The Mega Millions has the internet going nuts. Even some of that “Trayvon Martin” talk has taken a decline to the millions hoping to be millionaires over night. Since everybody has a “What I’m gonna do if I win” list I’d figure I’ll share mine too. You care.
Let’s get the basic shit out the way…
Buy my mother a house, nice car and make sure she’s straight for the rest of her days. CHECK. Put millions aside for my daughter. CHECK. Set up a trust fund for my niece and nephew for a few hundred thousand. (I mean those ain’t my kids why do they need to be millionaires too? College, a car and condo that should about cover them, right?). CHECK. Clear all of the debt of my close homies. CHECK. (If you’re wondering if you’re one of my closest homies then you’re most likely NOT.) Quit my job. UNCHECK. I’m not saying I’m going to keep working towards my retirement because I can’t chance that at all, but I won’t be getting off the payroll any time soon. People quit their jobs and go on spending sprees and cocaine binges. Not this guy; I need structure in my life.
Now on to that ignant dumb shit…
1. I’m going to give a homeless person 25k in cash just so I can follow him around until he either makes something of himself or blows it all. I’m going to assume he’ll blow it all and I’ll only be following him for 3 weeks tops before that happens.
2. Hirer Samuel L. Jackson or Dave Chappelle (whoever’s cheaper and available at the time) to walk around with me and tell niggas “no”. I know people are going to keep rolling up on me asking for shit and I need somebody on my team to deliver that “Fuck no nigga, get the fuck from around me” in a comedic yet ignant flare.
3. Get some Galaxy foamposites. I know foams are a down right coontastic shoe but the Galaxy foams are so fucking beautiful. At my current multi thousandaire status I couldn’t see myself dropping 2k on a pair off of EBay but with a few 100 million in the bank I might just cop 2 pairs.
4. Rent out a seedy strip club for a night and ball the fuck out. I know the strip club of choice is currently Stadium in my neck of the woods but I like my strippers with real life issues. I know the next bitch coming on stage is stripping to get her lights back on so when I set my cash out I know it’s going to her struggle instead of the tune-up on her Range Rover Sport. You ever saw the look on one of these hoes faces when you make it rain on them? You’d think it was the second coming of Christ and you can actually see her dreams coming true like finally paying off that 99 Ford Taurus.
5. Start the “You ain’t shit awards”. You know all of these twitpics, YouTube and WorldStar videos of people doing stupid, ratchet and just overall hood shit? I.e. the bitch from last year twerking on WorldStar and her toddler walked on camera. I would have a team of internet researchers tracking them down finding their home addresses, places of employment and any kind of contact info. I’d pop up on them, like Ed McMahon did with Publishing Clearing House, with a big ass 6 foot wide check for a grand and a bronzed trophy shaped like a pile of shit. “For your contributions against the progression of the human race the nomination committee of the “YAS Awards” decided you ain’t shit, congratulations.”
6. Pay a chick to pretend I’m the father of her child so I could go on the Maury show. Do to the good people at Trojan I don’t have any maybe babies floating around (damn you safe sex). Nevertheless, I’ve always wanted to go on Maury and do my personal "I’m not the daddy" speech and dance after the results are read. When I tell you I have the meanest pop lock/moonwalk/Dougie dance combo up my sleeve. Man listen, they’d probably have to bring Chris Brown out on stage to top the jig I’m going to put down that day.
If you won what ignant shit are you going to get into?
Jean DeGrate is wondering

Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Simp in Me Died that Day

It was Spring, 2004. I remember it like it was just yesterday; the simplest details of that day still remain clear as if it happened 15 minutes ago. (That’s pretty impressive considering I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday morning). Yeah, I know… fuck all that, and tell the story.   

So… one evening, after getting off work, I’m sitting up in the house flipping thru channels at approximately 9pm (my life is like a movie son). Then my stomach starts growling, and I get up to open an empty fridge. (One of the downfalls of living alone: when there isn’t shit in the fridge, you can only blame yourself.) It wasn’t entirely empty; I had like 2 Diet Shasta Colas and a half eaten PopTart from like a month ago. I grabbed a loose $20 bill; threw on a pair of jeans, a dingy T-shirt, and shoes with no socks; and headed to the nearest Wendy’s.        

The phone call that started it all      Ring… Ring… Ring… (literally cause in 2004, Nextel’s were ringing like house phones)

JD – What’s up?
(Let’s call her Jewel; well… because her name is Jewel.)
Jewel – Hey; what you doing?
JD – About to hop in this Drive-Thru line at Wendy’s.
Jewel – You didn’t ask me if I wanted anything.
JD – Tell me what you want; I’ll FedEx it to Virginia Tech.
Jewel – I’m home. I’m at my sister’s house now; swing thru.
(And this is when I fucked up)
JD – Cool. You really want something?
Jewel – Yeah let me…

…And she ran down an assortment of shit, then asked her sister in the background did she want anything, adding another list of junior bacon cheeseburgers and 4-piece nuggets. Their order left me with about $1.17 out of the $20. So with a passenger seat full of food, none of which was intended for me to consume, and an empty stomach, I headed out to see Jewel.        

When I got to the door, looking like a delivery boy, Jewel was fresh out of the shower wearing only a towel. Even back then, if a chick opened the door in a towel still damp from a shower, you were pretty much guaranteed the cheeks. She took me to a backroom, then steps off with the food for her sister. Wholetime, I’m just anticipating her coming back and dropping that towel… and she did. After about 2 commercial breaks into Boston Public, she came back into the room wearing a bra and panties, holding a bottle of lotion. (In my mind, I’m doing the Birdman hand rub. It’s about to go down.) Just as I make the obvious moves, applying lotion to her back while kissing her neck and then a little titty sucking, her sister calls her into the other bedroom. About 15 minutes more of Boston Public, which retrospectively wasn’t a half bad show, there was a knock on the door.

Jewel – Jean, can get the door for me, Sweetie?
JD – Bet. Hey; there’s some little dude at door.
Jewel – Let him in.

He walks in and sits on the couch, and I walk back into the room to finish off that last corner of Boston Public until Jewel came back into the room to finish what was started. Yeah, no such luck for the kid.        

And that’s when it all when left…
Jewel emerged from her sister’s room dressed for a night out. She walked to the couch, greeted the little dude with a kiss on the mouth, and tossed me the deuces as I looked on from the backroom. Son, I was stuck. I stood there for 5 minutes just to make sure I didn’t walk out of house as they were pulling off. Her sister yelled out, “lock the bottom lock,” as I opened the front door, and I swear I heard her laughing. I hopped in my car, and drove two blocks just to sit there and get my thoughts together. (1) How the fuck did I get here? (2) When did I become that guy: The Simp? (3) Why did I even think it was remotely ok to feed this chick and her greedy ass sister? The list of questions that ran across my mind as I sat in that car STILL HUNGRY goes on. I felt like one of those people caught up in Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, but I couldn’t even be mad at her; I set myself up. I drove home and went to bed hungry. I didn’t even deserve food for putting myself on a fuck boy mission. Never again.     
I stopped eating Wendy’s for like a year after that happened.     
Jean DeGrate has told his story

Friday, March 23, 2012

Injustice happens everyday B

“By no stretch of the imagination am I cool with what happen to Trayvon Martin. If I was his father I would have given up on the justice system about a week ago and just walked down the street and shot Zimmerman in the face. I’m about that life.”
Right now the nation is caught up in one of those black vs. white racially charged events that causes every 3rd person to become a freedom fighter. Skittles: check. Hoodie: check. Iced-tea: check. Well… let me join the cause before it fades into distant memory. Word to Don Imus (but those hoes were jive nappy headed tho).
The “White Man” is evil
Yeah I know “The White Man” is the face of “The Man”, “The Government”, the boogie man and the Illuminati. (Or is Jay-Z the face of the Illuminati; I get confused easily?) So when the media exposes a white man for being dead wrong when involving a person of color (as long as that color is black) Al Sharpton, his awesome perm and black people with internet access head out for justice. Cue the Negro national anthem.
We’re racist too
If Zimmerman would have shot an unarmed hooded 17 year old WHITE Joshua McBeal, it would be no less fucked up but you wouldn’t be rushing out to buy Snapple and Chex Mix? You wouldn’t give a fuck about Florida’s self defense laws. You wouldn’t have posted pictures of you and your kids wearing hoodies either. Three years ago when Dante Stallworth mowed down that tacobreaker Mario Reyes while driving drunk in that Bentley coupe where was the outrage? Stallworth did 24 days in jail for killing that guy but no fucks where given and it happened right there in Florida. Was that not unjust? I’d bet my life saving that if that was Ben Roethlisberger driving a F-250 and he killed somebody name DeAndre Jenkins you’d want him in jail and out of the league, right? Of course you would.
What about all these other “good” causes?
You know they are about to double the interest rate on government student loans. Some of ya’ll have kids that will be looking into colleges in the next few years you might want to hop on that front. How about the “Republican War on Women”? You know they are attempting to limit your abortion rights, cut a billion dollars from programs like WIC and all funding from Planned Parenthood. I haven’t seen a FaceBook status or a trending topic about any of that however. Maybe none of that shit is important or maybe the rest of the in crowd hasn’t hopped on those issues. Welp.
I wish your sense of justice was color blind
Jean DeGrate is eating Skittles 

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

You’re Way More Ordinary than You’d Like to Believe

I briefly alluded to this subject before in a section of another blog, but just from having regular day-to-day interactions with ordinary cocky coons, I now see this deserves a blog all of its own…   

I don’t know what misleading events happened in you peoples’ childhoods, but there’re a whole lot of grown ass average Joe’s and Jane’s (and Jean’s) walking around overvaluing their worth. Maybe, your mom put one too many “C” report cards on the fridge door or your Grandma told you could be anything you wanted to be, but years later, it’s clear that you really took that shit to heart.   

You’re not special and I really mean that  
Let’s be clear folks: I know Jesus loves you… Your momma does too. Hell, the bitch you fucked last night probably just sent you an “I love you” text message with a naked picture attached. That’s cool. Chances are your life will come to end and nothing noteworthy will come from it. Your tombstone will read, “Here Lies Devoted Father and Son…” and not “The first nigga to flip a pair of Galaxy Foamposites on EBay for 2 stacks” or “The best spades player from all of uptown” or “The only nigga on Southside to got stuck up ass Keisha pregnant”.  You niggas are not out here curing cancer, saving dying babies in Africa, or promoting world peace (retweeting that Kony shit doesn't count)… Fuck it; me either, and that’s cool we’re all just ordinary people. When you die, it’s safe to assume none of your accomplishments will be etched in stone. Your momma and Keisha will cry, and the Earth will continue to spin on its 23 degree axis. Please, don’t let those 65 “likes” on your last FaceBook status go to your head.   

Stop patting yourself on the back for doing the right thing  
You break your neck to make sure your kids are good. Big fucking deal; that’s what you’re supposed to do. You made them so you have to take care of them. Of course, there’re some people who don’t do all they need to do for their kids, and those people are fucked up parents. But, nobody’s sending out awards to single mothers who manage to make PTA meetings, parent-teacher conferences, help with homework, and still keep a full-time job. Here’s a cookie, though. (Don’t ever say Jean DeGrate ain’t give you shit.) Oh, you’re good at your job and always come to work on time. Great, I’m sure the management is doing cartwheels behind closed doors because of your efforts.  Did it ever cross your mind that maybe because your job keeps food on your table and Remy weave in your head that maybe (just maybe) you should be good at it? How hard is bagging groceries at Safeway anyway? No kudos shall be given. The list of trivial shit that you coons want recognition for goes on and on: you’ve never been locked up, you pay your bills on time, you have good credit, you live on your own, you own a car, or you’ve never caught an STD. Congratulations… you’re an average motherfucker.  

Nobody is really “hating” on you  
There’s a huge line between hate and “hating”. Some people genuinely dislike you and it has nothing to do with your current lifestyle, who you’re dating, or how much you got back on your tax return because you claimed your cousin’s kids. This is an example of hating: “I hate Lil’ Wayne mainly because he dresses funny and talks weird. I believe that should negate his money and fame, and he should be reduced to fucking ordinary bitches.” Now, does Lil’ Wayne fucking bad bitches effect me in any way? Nope. I don’t have to hear his music, listen to his interviews, or look at pictures of his babies’ mothers. I could completely cancel him out of my life. Nobody probably cares that much about what you do to go out the way to hate on you. So paying off your car from Eastern Motors in 3 years instead of 5 isn’t really stirring up as much as a fuss as you thought it might.  

Get the fuck over yourself, and live your life  
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Why I No Longer Club

It seems like all so long ago I used to be Mr. Party Time. I literally used to be in the club 2 or 3 times a week. I’m so off that shit and this is why…
I don’t need the club to meet women
I don’t dance. None of the dudes I know actually really dance (allowing a chick the grind up on you for a song or two isn’t dancing its dry humping, not that it’s anything wrong with that). This ain’t California where niggas are going Chris Brown on the dance floor. So the primary reason for any dude to go to the club is to meet women. Oh, your man goes to the club to hang out with his boys? Either that guy is playing wingman of the year or he’s trying to recruit some new bitches of his own. Seriously have you ever tried to hold a conversation over 30 seconds in the club? It’s fucking impossible; due to communicating with my homies across night club dance floors I’ve invented my own form of sign language.
Its way more women on the net than any club
I don’t even know how and eHarmony are in business. The best dating sites on the net are absolutely free. Over the last 10 years BlackPlanet, MySpace and FaceBook (in that order) has gotten me way more cheeks than the club ever did without paying a cover charge. Most of the time I spent scanning through these internet social sites I was at work so technically I was getting paid to find new pussy. Yeah, me. A friend request here, comment on a status there, a few inbox messages and a handful of phone conversations later you’d think she knew me all her life. Cheeks follow soon after and I didn’t even have to buy her a drink to get her number.
I hate waiting
I’m waiting in line. I’m waiting at the bar. I’m waiting for the DJ to play some shit I want to hear. I’m waiting to use the bathroom. I’m waiting for VIP to open. I even have to wait at the parking lot for the attendant to go get my car so I can go home.
Clubs cost too much
When you think of the total cost of clubbing, even when doing the low end of shit, you’re kind of getting raped. When I think of the money I put into clubbing over the years I could have bought the brand new Kia Optima in cash (you know the one from the commercial with Adriana Lima). I never paid any attention to any Kia car prior to that commercial that’s proof that sex sells. Ok, cool, now back to the blog. For about a 5 year span the only shoes I owned that weren’t Nike’s where purchased exclusively for the purpose of getting in the club. I dropped at least a G on Lacoste polo shirts that are all folded up neatly on the top shelf of my closet never to see the light of day again. When I get down to parking, drinks and cover charges I was dropping at least 75 to stand around in a crowded room sweating trying to avoid getting my shoes stepped on while a strange chick grinded her ass on me to the “Walk it out” remix. I lost B.
I only party when the club is free and everybody already knows me
Jean DeGrate has spoken