In The New Year

Normally around this time I'm telling people to refrain from claiming the New Year as theirs. I've been there, done that, so this year I'm going to give you a break. Instead of telling you want not to do I'm going to give some helpful suggestions of what you should do.

Be humble like your bank account
I know I know money isn't everything. Wealth won't buy you health and whatever cliché bullshit saying you can think of. All that shit is cool but money matters unless you are out here living out your dreams and that's putting food on your table. Chances are you're not. Money isn't everything but not having it is. Kanye taught us that.

Find happiness in yourself
This year I've come across a bevy of people that based their happiness on what others think of them, finding love and starting a family. These are things you can't ultimately control. Find your own passion. Find your own reason to get in the morning that's not dependant on people who have not yet (and maybe never will) make it into your life. Strive to be a better you for the satisfaction of self.

Be easy
There is lot of things that will potentially ruffle your feathers in the New Year just as it did this year. Some of the shit won't be worth your time or energy. Don't let the guy that cut you of on 495 set the tone for your day. Don't run around the office holding a grudge because somebody keeps leaving used K Cups in the Keurig. You've heard this before but don't sweat the small stuff. Giving a fucking about the dumb shit will steal your joy.

It's just Twitter, it's just FB and it's just IG
Seriously unless the stuff you're doing online brings you a check it's just a pastime. So just past the time there. If it's stressing you out log the fuck off. If people are being mean to you log the off. If somebody is posting more selfies than you care to see log the fuck off. Just like MySpace, Black Planet and any other social network of the past you can just walk away and don't look back. Life will go on I assure you.

Find yourself a HONEST friend and listen to them
A lot of people lack those that give it to us straight. More times than not, people tip toe around the feelings of their friends in fear of ruining a friendship and being considered a "hater". We all need somebody to get us on track when our dreams are bigger than our means and our wants start to overshadow our needs. Or at the very least tell us our outfit sucks before we go out to the club.

You might not be able to claim this year but you can make it better than the last one
Jean DeGrate has Spoken

Tale of a Wingman

It was Tuesday, May 2nd 2006 at about 8:45pm and I'm lying across my futon watching Eddie Murphy's "Raw". I just got off work and just felt like chilling so get in the house pop in the DVD make a sandwich and grab a beer. I get three bites into this sandwich and my phone starts to ring; which is about a foot outside of arms reach from where I'm laying. I don't even look at the caller ID because I don't have any plans on answering. Fifteen minutes passes and my phone is still ringing so I could either smash it to pieces or answer it. In retrospect I should have smashed. I mute the TV and crush the last piece of sandwich...

JD - Hello *using the half sleep voice*
Dave (of course it's an alias) - What you doing dog?
JD - I'm running track! What the fuck does it sound like I'm doing?
Dave - I need you I got some 2 player action
JD - It can't be made into 1 player?
Dave - Nah it's got to be 2 player possible 3 players
***2 player 3, 4 so on and so forth = the number of guys needed in a mixed gender situation***
JD - Aigh I'mma call you back in fifteen minutes

I hop up then turn off the movie and get myself together, all the while cursing myself for answering the fucking phone. Pick up Dave, of course I'm the lucky guy to play wingman because I own a car, then head out to god knows where Virginia while he fills my head with all this "you should see her friends" bullshit and telling me how I'll be thanking him for calling me. Niggas always lay the sice on extra thick before sending you on a setup mission. When you hear stories like this you want to believe it, you need to believe it, but if you've been doing this wingman shit as long as I have you know better.

After getting extremely flawed directions from this chick we decide to let them meet us at this gas just east of the middle of fucking nowhere. A pack of Black & Mild's and an hour later (more like 15 minutes and 1 black but it felt like fucking forever) this bitch pulls up in a Super Shuttle van (as in the airport Super Shuttle). A burly black chick hops out with two Spanish chicks and a toddler. I look over in their direction thinking "I know these can't be the bitches" and at that exact moment this nigga Dave starts walking over to them.

Before I go any further let me tell you what these girls look like... The two Spanish girls were cute as shit to be perfectly honest. They had on matching Baby Phat winter bombers with the fur around the hood zipped all the way up to the neck even though it was 72 degree outside. Maybe they had recently crossed the boarder and weren't used to weather in America yet. They both had nice shapes as far as I could, it kind of hard to tell staring at winter coats. At this point things were looking up.

Now my man Dave on the other hand appears to be in real bad shape. This girl is fucked up for the floor up. Body shot. Face shot. Hair shot. Clothes shot. She might have one positive feature but I couldn't see it from the angle I was standing at. She had her hair in a struggle pony tail. A struggle ponytail is a pony tail where the hair in the front won't reach the back so you brush and grease it down then pray that it stays put but after a while it's all sticking up expect a pinky finger sized knot of hair held down by a scrungi. She was super dark skin and looked as if she was sweating so her face was glistening in the moon light like black patent leather. She was at least 70lbs over weight; her body was shaped like a 2 liter soda. I would keep going in but I got a story to tell; just know she was fucked up.

This coon calls me over to introduce me as I notice the Super Shuttle pulling off; at the time I was driving a coupe a true four seater a 2003 Acura CL to be exact. This team of misfits' piles into my car and to this day I'm still not sure how 2 Mexicans, a fat girl, and baby fit in the back seat of my whip. Good thing it was a short drive because I know that big bitch was hell on my shocks. We literally at big girl's apartment complex in 3 minutes but she lived in one of those places were the visitor parking is at the very beginning of the complex. As we embark on this huge trek towards BG's (big girl) apartment, which is a good 7 blocks away from where I parked, everybody is talking with the exception of the Spanish girls and me because I was pissed the fuck of still so I thought nothing of it at first. The moment we walk through the door of BG's apartment her mother gets to complaining...

BG's mother - I know you ain't in here again with a gang of niggas!!! Oh how ya'll doing tonight?
JD - I'm fine ma'am
Dave - I'm okay
(Yeah she took time out to speak to us and got back to screaming on her daughter)
BG - Ma it's my birthday! Don't do this on my birthday!
BG's mother - I don't give a fuck whose birthday it could be Jesus birthday. Just look at the example you are setting for your daughter!

Okay that carried on for about 20 more minutes and I'm all for ratchet shit but it got down right awkward after 5 minutes. After that we all made our way to BG's bedroom. I was really praying that we would get put out, but no such luck. BG pulls out this pint of Hypnotic then had the nerve to ask everybody if they wanted a cup. After that the two Spanish girls step off and come back with bowls of spaghetti O's as they walk back in the room I notice that they still have their jackets zipped all the way and still haven't said a single word. At this point I'm beyond done; I grab the remote and try to focus on the TV. BG decides she doesn't want to see the shit I'm watching and my man sides with her off some "Come dog, on it's her birthday", so now all the wingman in me has left the building. In the mist of trying to figure out how the hell I'm going get out of here I hear the front door slam and when I look around the Spanish girls are gone. I turn to BG...

JD - Fuck happened to you girls? They just rolled out like that?
BG - Yeah they do that from time to time
JD - Go long periods of time without talking or just roll out without warning?
BG - Oh they don't speak English
*During this conversation BG's daughter has invented a new game it's called "Step on Jean's new shoes" but this is before I was wearing Gucci shoes and shit*
Dave - Do you speak Spanish?
BG - No, not really?
JD - What the fuck do you mean not really? It's either you speak it of you don't Dave - Are you telling me that I dragged my man way out here for some girls that don't even speak our language?
JD - Get your child to stop stepping on my shoes. Son I'm ready to fucking roll.
*During this going back and forth we've managed to wake BG's younger sister. *
BG's sister (BGS) - *Banging on the door to her room* Ya'll need to shut the fuck up
Dave - Who the fuck do you think you're talking
BGS - *Pokes her head into the room* To who ever been talking
Dave - Don't make me get up
BGS - Get up you ain't about to do shit to me
BG - Everybody shut up ya'll are fucking up my birthday
JD - It was fucked up way before we got here. Dave come on I'm gone. As we get up and walk out of BG's room she races behind us with child in tow.
BG - Dave, I know you ain't going to leave me like this on my birthday
BGS - Let them weak ass niggas go (as she walks into her room and slams the door).
Dave - Let me go holla at her right quick I'll be like 5 minutes
JD - Give me the hammer and I'mma wait out here. You got 5 minutes after that I'm knocking on the door. *You never go to a strange hood without the pistol*
BG, the baby, and Dave make their way back to her room and I sit on the couch in darkness playing with Dave's snub nose 38. After about ten minutes I hear a hard knock on the door and BG's sister comes flying out of her room. She opens the door without even looking to see who it is and enters some dude who immediately starts to ask questions.
SD (some dude) - So is that him? (Pointing in my direction)
BGS - Yeah that's one of them
SD - Where is the other one?
BGS - He's in the back with my sister
At this point I'm staring directly at SD then he turns and walks out of the door and BGS goes back into her room smiling. I immediately start calling Dave's phones after fifteen attempts this dude don't answer the phone once. I wait on the couch for about 3 minutes then there is another knock on the door and I got gun in hand now thinking "From now on I'mma cut my ringer off as soon as I get in the house". Once again BGS is at the door in a flash and it's SD and about four of his buddies talking loud and ready for war I guess. I'm sitting on the couch as cool as an ice cube waiting for shit to jump off. These dudes walk around living room and look directly over at me; I give them the head nod and they give it back. SD cut's on the light for a second takes a good look at me then his friends leave and SD follows BGS into her bedroom. I put the gun in my pocket and relax a bit then I hear SD and BGS arguing and then a loud crash. I hopped up, went to the door of BG's bedroom and started knocking.

BG - Who is it?
JD - Fuck you mean who is it? Dave bring your ass on son you're fifteen minutes over your five.
Dave - Give me one minute

After about two minutes Dave opens the door adjusting his clothes, the smell of boodaussy rushes out with BG following behind looking like somebody threw a bucket of water on her big busted ass. When we're outside of the apartment I tell Dave of shit that transpired while he was fucking this ape and let him know that his wingman rights have been forever revoked.

Being a wingman is a hard line of work
Jean DeGrate told you a story

5 Signs She Might Be a Hoe

A Choosing Season PSA

There used to be a time where you could spot a hoe a mile away. If she looked like a hoe, talked like a hoe, and acted like a hoe... well by God Almighty, she was most certainly a hoe. How I miss the golden era of clear-cut hoes. These days we have professional daters, attention whores, and dot.com freaks. (Dot.com freak - a woman that talks in an overtly lusty manner online but the entire time she probably hasn't had sex in 6 months and in-between status updates she's ordering shit off of QVC.) They all seem like hoes, but in all honesty, they're only wearing a hoe's uniform. I'm going to give you these signs that will prevent you from mistaking a thirst-trapping chick for a legit whore. Because hoes are going be hoes, and you don't want to get snowed in with a chick who has been fucked more times than she's had hot meals. So here's the list...

1. She has hoe tattoos
There're primarily two types of hoe ink: (1) fruit tattoos and (2) bad ink. Older hoes (normally 30+) love to tattoo cherries and strawberries on their body. I don't understand the fascination with it, but they normally place them in on a sexual area like the ass or the breasts. On her left titty, she has a pair of dripping cherries with the caption "juicy"? Yep, she's a hoe for sure. When it comes to bad ink, there're a lot of people in their youth, who let their homie give them a shady ass jailhouse tatt for the low. If they didn't get it covered up, they are still running around with loyalty tattered on their rib cage spelled "l-o-y-a-l-t-i-e" in Old English lettering. Welp, life comes at you fast. Now you have the grown women that proudly showcase their shitty ink for the world to see, those women are hoes. It takes a certain type of female to get bad ink in adulthood, and that type of female is the one who will suck your dick in the movies on the first date. They also frequent tattoo parties where they get new shitty ink by a guy using Stoli instead of rubbing alcohol; so she might also have hepatitis.

2. She's a syke-a-dyke
"Girls kissing girls because it's hot right? But unless they use a strap on then they not dykes. They ain't about that life. They ain't about that life" - Kanye West. There's a gang of girls out here faking their lesbian. They kiss girls, they talk threesomes, and even post pictures of phat ass half-naked women from time to time on social media, but they are not about to go get no pussy for real. They talk a good game to make them seem freaky, but on the real, they are just regular ass cum swallowing hoes.

3. She doesn't dress her age
Hoes love to dress like women half their age. There's actually legitimate science behind that because younger looking hoes tend to be more approachable, and nobody wants to be an unapproachable hoe. All of her date night clothes come from Forever 21? Yep, she's a hoe. She's 30, and her winter coat is a baby pink Helly Hanson/North Face/Spyder? Yep, 9 times out of 10, she's a hoe. She's rocking leggings under her skirt that look like a kindergarten class designed them? Yep, she's probably a hoe (or color blind). She doesn't own any shirts with buttons on them? Yep, she's a hoe. Her lip gloss has glitter in it, but she's damn near 35... that lady is a hoe.

4. She's a heavy drinker
Girls love their Patron, Ciroc, Moscato, and whatever liquor is popular right now, but that doesn't make her a heavy drinker for real. It doesn't even make her a drinker at all. They'll probably chase the Red Berry so much that it's not even vodka anymore, it's just juice. Nah, the real heavy drinkers will go shot for shot with you, and will hold her liquor like she's an Irishman. Her liquor of preference is whatever liquor you're buying, and it doesn't matter if Jay-Z drinks it or not. If she orders Goose and cranberry in the club, but it's light pink instead of deep red, that bitch is a hoe.

5. She constantly reminds you of the other dudes checking for her
Hoes love to let you know about all their options, especially if she thinks that you aren't giving her the attention she deems she deserves. Funny thing about it is when she says other guys are checking for her, she really means niggas are trying to fuck her. She's not counting the 1 or 2 thirsty dudes who will shoot her a text on regular basis trying to break out of the friendzone. Nah, she's exclusively speaking on the dudes who make reoccurring appearances in her phone, inbox, and DM's that have been given a reason to believe that pussy is accessible because they've probably already got the pussy.

That Hennessy straight drinking broad at the bar with the rainbow colored hair is a hoe
Jean DeGrate has spoken

5 Signs That She Might Be Butt Hurt

A Choosing Season PSA...

Scorned women are amongst us. They blend in perfectly to the untrained eye, but they are emotional clusterfucks. Their hearts are filled with bitterness and insecurity, and you ain't even know it. It may not seem like such a big problem today, a few weeks before cuffing season officially begins. But, as we near Thanksgiving, Christmas, and countless snowed-in days, you'll realize that choosing a butt hurt bitch isn't the move. So let ol' Jean put you up on game on by revealing some of the butt hurt signs.

1. She often compliments herself and speaks on her self-worth
She's so used to being taking for granted and the men in her life overlooking her "greatness", she will take any opportunity she can find to let you (and anybody else willing to listen) know how dope she thinks she is. Bitch might be a bagger at Safeway and be in her second semester in hair school, but to her that means the world, and all men should bow down.  She feels as though she's deserving of so much: love, attention, front row tickets to a Beyonce concert, a faithful man, dinner at restaurants that don't have pictures on the menu, Gucci bags, midnight walks on the oceanfront, and a vast assortment of other shit. She can't understand why she has never gotten any of these things and she is determined to never settle for less than what she is "worth" again. Vagina logic dictates that if she makes it known to her suitors all that she's worthy of and how awesome she is, the men will finally take notice and treat her in such a matter. It almost never works though, and by "almost never" I mean "never ever".

2. She changes her phone number often
Butt hurt woman love to escape reality by dropping off of the radar and crawling into a deep dark hole filled with snacks and solitude... and often times rebound dick (but that is another blog). The best way to escape from everything and everyone is by changing their phone number. With every break-up, emotional letdown, or flat-out curve, you can expect her phone contact info to change. Just for shit and giggles, and to convince herself that she is really "moving on", she might add a digit to the end of her gmail address too. When she re-emerges into your inbox as JBeauty1@gmail.com, the reason for number change is always some variation of, "I had too many people from my past still trying to contact me", which normally loosely translates into "My old 'him' hurt me so bad, I can't allow him to contact me anymore".

3. She shuts down social media pages
The other part of the butt hurt shutout is through social networking sites; Instagram, FB, Twitter, and whatever else the cool kids are using these days all have to go. You might get a sad status or tweetgram before it all goes black. Even if it's for just 24 hours, that's the only way for her to fight urge to search his social networking on-goings, which will only add fuel to her already spurned feelings. Bitches be strong and bold until their "him" gets a new "her" online after merely 10 hours of being broken up. Even if she didn't want to stalk him, mysteriously her fingers type www.twitter.com/jeandegrate (for example) into the browser every time she gets online. Following the cyber stalking, a butt hurt bitch will formulate entire secret relationships between her "him" and other women based on the slightest online interactions. "Oh, he's commenting and liking this bitch's pictures now? I knew he was fucking that hoe. They've always been way too friendly." To avoid that the best way she knows how, she deletes all social network sites and put child protection blocks on all his personal page urls on her computer.

4. She thinks God will send her a man
Scorned women love Jesus. Scorned women go to church every Sunday (or at least post some scriptures on twitter and FB), praying for their new "him" to come rescue their tarnished hearts. In the world of scorned women, the only man that's really looking out for them is Jesus. Jesus doesn't want her to die alone. Jesus doesn't want her to be a cat lady. Jesus doesn't want to her baby father to flourish while she sits in the house watch reality TV. Jesus has a plan for her to get a great man that will make all the mishaps of the heart she has experienced seem miniscule in retrospect. All she needs to do is be patient, and Jesus will provide her with the man she has been longing for. She'll be like 35 and alone, with two baby daddies, and still proclaiming she's waiting on Jesus to send her the right man.

5. She compares you to other guys in her past
She asks random questions that seem to have no meaning with the conversation you're currently having. She's making comparisons to past "hims", and you don't even know it. "Would you ever borrow money from your girl to get new rims on your truck?" "Huh? I mean, no. So you trying to see the 8 o'clock movie or the 10 o'clock showing and we can get something to eat first." As soon as you do something vaguely familiar to a guy that hurt her, you'll hear about it. "I sent you a good morning text with 4 emojis in it, and here it is almost 12, and I haven't heard back from you. If this ain't what you want, you should just let me know. I'm tired of going thru this shit." This is happening because Tyrone didn't respond to good morning text after he got pussy, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you're still sleeping in on a Sunday morning. Her butt hurt automatically makes the irrational comparisons for her.

Beware of the butt hurt
Jean DeGrate has spoken

5 Things I'll Make Sure My Daughter Knows Before She Grows Up

***There are no jokes in the blog***

When I was a kid, the basis of being a grownup was finishing school then going to college (I dropped out), finding a good job, moving out, and starting a family. It seemed so simple. Along the way, ideals and morals were forced upon me, and as a child knowing nothing of the real world, of course I accepted them. We can call it the "Miss-education of Jean DeGrate". I've spent the last 10 years of my life unlearning this bullshit, but now that I'm up on game, I will pass my knowledge off to my seed.

1. Being fake is a big part of being a grown up
As a youngin', my peers and adults told me to: "Speak my mind", "Honesty is the best policy", and all sorts of other similar bullshit that turned around to do more harm than good. Honestly, being phony is the best policy. If it wasn't for being fake, I would have never made it through a single job interview. I have work laugher designated for corny jokes told my co-workers and superiors. I have perfected playing nice with other people I absolutely can't stand for the sake of professional advancement. Keeping it 100 is all fine and dandy when you're slanging rocks on the block, popping off on twitter, and hanging with your homies, but that's about the extent of its usefulness.

2. It really does matter what people think of you
Without the input of others, you can only successfully be two things in life: (1) a bum or (2) a criminal. Unless you plan on knocking over liquor stores or making your bed on the warm heating grates of the local business district, you might want to conform to society just a little bit. The truth is your path to greatness or failure is paved by the judgment of others. Revolting against the machine is dope in concept, but there must be balance to live a productive life. It might not matter what your FB and Twitter friends think of you, but your teachers, co-workers, superiors, and business partners should always view you in a positive light. So no facial tattoos, ok?

3. Don't let your dreams hurt you
The line between what you want to do and what you can do is laden with varying obstacles, none of which are more difficult to overcome than talent and opportunity. Some people fall ass backwards into success and others work entire lifetimes only to never see their dreams achieved. There may come a time to abandon the dream and to start living your life in pursuit of goals that are achievable. Don't be the 30 year old R&B singer trying to get on, quitting a good job to stand in line at an American Idol tryout.

4. See the world how it is and not how it should be
Don't look for the evil in man, but don't look for the good in man either. The modern world is filled with people with good intentions, who lack either the will, courage, or know how to put it into application. Evil exists, and good exists... and you will experience both. Life is unfair and somehow that ultimately makes it fair consequently. Things don't stay bad forever; they get better or you die; whatever comes first.

5. Deciphering what's permanent and temporary in your life
Relationships will come and go even if they seem like they'll last forever (or you at least hope them to). Family and your body are the only guaranteed things in your life; it would behoove you to take care of both. As for other things in your life, you will have you use your discretion to determine what will be around, what will be worth nurturing, and what will be better just letting wither away. This will ultimately decide your priority matrix in life.

Jean DeGrate, I mean your dad has spoken

Body Shapers Are The Devil

I used to be a bouncer at a night club on U Street, and during my time of employment at this club, I made it a point not to date and/or fuck any of the patrons. Even though working at the club was just a part time job, it was full time job just avoiding fucking one of these young ladies. The general rule of thumb is this... if she finds you attractive on the way into the club, you'll be the best looking man on the planet 3 to 6 drinks later on her way out of the club. Every single night, without fail, a woman was pitching that 1 nightstand, so much so that I started to wear a wedding band just to avoid the bullshit. I still wear the ring to this day (it comes in handy still).

There was a chick who was relentless on trying to give the boy some pussy. (Well, there were actually a few chicks, but this chick just got farther than the rest.) She was a club regular so I saw her at least twice a month. We'll call her Cindy because she had a white girl name in real life, and "Becky" is too obvious. After our first few encounters, Cindy used to take 10 to 20 minutes out of her club going experience to kick it outside with me if I was working the door. During this 2 month span, the only thing I ever told her is I wasn't really married, but I refused to deal with girls that came to the club. That backfired on me because it only seemed to fuel her thirst.

As it goes in the club business, good parties come and go because nothing stays hot forever. I went from working 5 nights a week to working 1 or 2 nights in the middle of the week at parties that barely needed security, instead of working the premium nights. In turn, I got my life back, and I never saw Cindy because she was a weekend clubber. It wasn't like we were FB friends or she had my phone number. My discipline for leaving the club at the club was impeccable, if I have to say so myself.

Off top: if you didn't know one of the biggest perks of working at the club was going up to club on your day off and drinking for free. Even if the party wasn't great, you didn't pay to get in, you didn't wait in line, and you didn't have to wait 20 minutes to get the attention of the bartender... and oh yeah, the drinks are free... and strong. Now that I had weekends off, once in a blue moon, I'd slide up to the club on one of these premium nights to enjoy these perks, kick it with the homies, and people-watch all of the drunk bammas that came through. On this particular night, I didn't even drive because I fully planned on getting blasted. I figured I could have one of the other bouncers take me home; that was my go-to move on nights I didn't have shit else better to do... Show up to the club solo, drink, drink some more, then wait until closing and have one of them niggas drop me off at the crib.

On one of these nights that I popped up as I hit the bar, Cindy is standing on the other side ordering a drink. I looked away with quickness and went to the bar upstairs. I guess she felt my presence in the building because I got my drink and sat down in a chair in the cut, with my fitted cap down low. She walked up me like she had night vision goggles. Fuck it, she'd found me. It wasn't like I was about to run out of the club. I just kept on drinking and let her hang around. I can't even begin to tell you what we were talking about because every word is barely audible in the club, but we were having fun. Two hours and countless drinks later, I was at my level and there was no way I was waiting until 330a to catch a ride home. I told Cindy I was about to be out while she was talking to one of her friends, and before she could acknowledge me, I was out the door. 20 minutes later, she found me standing on the corner of 11th and U Street playing "how to catch a cab while being black", and I was losing. I was also getting drunker by the minute. She rolled up on me and offered a ride; I put up about 10 seconds of objection before I hopped in the car.

It wasn't until she pulled up in front of my apartment building that it hit me: "I just led my club stalker to my fucking front door", but that thought was pushed out of my head immediately by "damn shorty is jive phat as shit in the black dress though". I spent the next 15 minutes sitting in the car making non-sexual small talk hoping: (A) she would invite herself up, and (B) when I try to stand up I don't fall on my fucking face because I was bent. I got (A) and (B) because 3 slow jams in she asked to come to use the bathroom. We walked thru the door. I cut on the light; then I sat on the couch, and she sat right down with me. She slid off her shoes like she was planning to stay a while. In my mind, I was doing the Birdman hand rub. I tossed all the rules out of the window and was about to get rapey to get the show on the road before I passed the fuck out. Right before I could make my move...

***Now I'm going to pause this story and give you this ever so important description: Cindy was light skin, about 5'4, and shapely. She had decent sized titties for a woman with a big ass and little to no gut so she fit into her black dress well. She also had long black hair that may or may not have belonged to her; I didn't get a chance to grab her scalp. Her face was ok; let's just say if she had on a big coat she would surely go unnoticed.***

...she stood up turned to me and asked where the bathroom was. "Around the corner, first door on the left." She grabbed her purse and stepped off. Keep in mind, the lights are on, and these aren't those BS 60 watt soft light bulbs. Nah, I had the 100 watt daylight joints that you can see from the street driving by. About two minutes later, Cindy stepped around that corner with her hair in a ponytail, dress in one hand, and purse in the other. She had smoothly moved up 2 to 3 dress sizes. Her gut was on smash, her waistline had vanished, and her titties looked so sad peeking out of that push up bra. I went from horny and drunk to confused and mildly-buzzed in 2 seconds. The rules that I had just tossed out of the window came flying back in, landed on my lap, and were highlighted in bold print.

I threw my hands up as if that FUPA (Fat Upper Pussy Area) was holding a gun.
JD - Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!!!
Cindy - What's wrong?
JD - Why your clothes off? You know the rules.
Cindy - Fuck the rules. I'm standing here right now, and you going to tell me no?

***At this moment all my G is gone. I have a partially nude fat woman standing in my apartment demanding sex. I've drank enough liquor tonight that she could probably fuck my apartment up and I wouldn't be able to stop her without punching her in the face. I had to tread lightly.***

JD - It's not like that. You think I can just sleep with you and act like I don't know you the next day? I don't even roll like that. I'm not one of these players in the club trying to take women home every night. That's that little boy shit. (But, if she had been fine, you better believe she would have been fucked and forgotten.)
Cindy - If you don't find me attractive, you can just say so.
JD - Girl, you know you look good. I don't even give other girls at the club this much time, let alone let them see where I live. (She didn't look good to me, and I was secretly hoping that she would keep standing and not put that dimply butt on my couch.) It's not even about that.
Cindy - I promise I'll never come to the club again.
JD - What? Why would you stop coming to the club? I enjoy it when you come keep me company outside. I even enjoyed running into you tonight. I couldn't allow you to just stop coming to the club. I'm going to turn on this TV, and we're going to pretend like this didn't happen. I won't be working at the club forever.

Cindy just nodded back at me looking like she wanted to cry. She went back into bathroom, put her clothes back on, then sat back on the couch. The moment she sat down, I got up, and ran into the bathroom to call Earl. I didn't even hear her leave. I never saw Cindy again. Maybe she died from embarrassment or caught a mean case of decompression sickness from coming out of those Spanx so fast... either way, I never saw her at Liv or even on U St ever again.

When you see that FUPA in HD you start making life decisions.
Jean DeGrate hates body shapers.

5 Signs You'll Never Get A Ring

You cook, you clean, you never smell like onion rings, and you suck dick like you invented sex. Yet somehow your ring finger remains bare. Your "hims" enjoy all you have to offer, then go back into the world to flourish with other females. I could blame it on your unrealistic standards, but I've already told that story. In all honesty, you're probably just not the marrying kind, and the jump from fiancé (because almost any bitch can get an engagement ring, especially around tax time) to wife is just far too wide for a man to consider making for you, at least in your current state. I wrote this list to put you ladies up on game. Hell if you change a few things, you might even be able to snatch you a hubby (and not the made-for-twitter kind, but the kind you can file taxes with).
1. You make a spectacle of yourself
Some of you hoes are just plain ratchet. I'm talking you purple braid wearing power ranger dressing ass hoes. Yep, you ratchet bitches who love posing in front of the Moet backdrop at GoGo's holding a beer. Some of you ladies are a bit too outspoken. I'm talking you stand behind every cause, fighting the power, raging against the machines ass women. Yep, you outspoken bitches who bought stock in Skittles just to #StandwithTrayvon and you still harbor deep hate for the Tea Party. Some of you bitches are attention whores. I'm talking about you joints who make it a point to drop thirst traps and make lusty conversation via social media. Yep, you're an attention-seeking whore who just posted, "lonely and naked on this rainy night", that tweet is precisely why you will be lonely for many a rainy night to come.  All that might be dope enough that you have 47 unanswered DMs and 50 unread text messages, but it ain't necessarily worth the trip to Jared. You have no chill and it would suit you to acquire some.

2. You're boring
You're a homebody. You take more naps than a newborn baby. Your hobbies include: sitting on the phone in silence, taking your bra off after work, wrapping your hair before the sun sets, reading "Fifty Shade of Gray" for the 3rd time, and replying to fun ideas by saying some variation of "you're doing too much". The ability to be perfectly happy doing nothing at all is dope if you're snowed in, broke, or can't find a babysitter for the night, but outside of that, the boring bitch role gets real old real fast. Plus, it's really hard to imagine growing old with somebody who's already acting like she belongs in a retirement home. Every night can't be a suck-his-dick-midway-thru-the-Redbox type of night.

3. Your sex is not as dope as you think it is
I don't think there's a woman on the face of the earth who doesn't think her pussy isn't everything (or at least lead every male suitor to think she believes that even if history has proven otherwise). Sex is a big thing to men. You know how they say, "women think about sex just as often as men do"? Just know "they" are fucking idiots; men are actively trying to make sex happen. Niggas invest more into getting sex, mentally, physically, and financially. With that said, you need to have that keep a nigga coming back pussy. And I'm not talking about coming back the next night. I'm talking about pussy that a nigga feels he can come back to at least 3 times a week for a lifetime. Wait, before you think you have the golden box, 3 times a week for years ain't shit if he hasn't bought the ring yet. It's hard to tell if you have dope pussy because we as men with our kind hearts will tell you it's awesome, even if that's furthest from the truth. We will come back to the pussy, time and time again. cause for real. sometimes there just ain't shit else to do. Here's the general rule of thumb: if you can't end a heated argument by getting naked, your pussy ain't all you might think it is.

4. Your kids
Meeting an attractive, single, non-lesbian, childless black woman over 27 is a small feat on to itself. I know about 5, but I know endless baby mothers. ENDLESS. I know more women with kids than I know women with cars. Being a single mom is already tough enough, but if your kids aren't likable. sweetheart the road ahead is going to be filled with loneliness. When a man marries you, he's also marrying those kids, and whatever that comes along with them. If your fuck trophies are unruly, ugly, and ill-mannered you'll never cross from girlfriend to wife.

5. You're FUCKING CRAZY
Women as a gender are crazy, but it's levels to this shit. Most of you are just "this bitch be tripping" crazy which is fairly easy to work around because of the commonality of the affliction. "This bitch be tripping" crazy is equivalent of the common cold when it comes to mental instability. Now for the rest of you that suffer from clinical grade insanity issues this paragraph is for you. You're an emotional roller coaster without experiencing anything of note. The man in your life can't even begin to comprehend how you of from zero to sixty and back again over the smallest shit and probably won't stick around long enough to figure it out. Maybe you saw your dad punch your mom in the face, perhaps you didn't get hug enough as a child or whatever it is that makes you go bouncing off the wall is unbearable for short periods of time let alone a lifetime. Seek help. Real help; don't call your girlfriends up to talk about your issues while you sip merlot. Consult with a psychiatrist, spend that 80 bucks a week then let him help sort thru your issues and subscribe some drugs that will keep you on the level.

Get your shit together and you might find a man to grow old with you
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Girl... Beyonce

Yeah, this is totally not what you think this is. Seriously, it's not.

A while back, I dropped a blog called "Why Women Are Better Cheaters," proving why women are able to pull the wool over the opposite sexes' eyes when it comes to sleeping around. Today, I'm going to tell the story of this chick who I was cracking. Like the perfect fuck buddy, she had a man, and she also had the stepping out game on lock (like most women do). We're going to call her Angel.

I ran into Angel in a CVS, and I mean I literally walked directly into her while I was watching some ratchet fight video on WorldStar. I smoothly knocked her into that aluminum cage full of those cheap plastic balls. She was mad as fuck and on the brink of spazzing the fuck out, until her homie bent the corner. "Hey Mr. De-Graw-Tae" because women who know me solely via the internet never ever say "DeGrate". And, just like that, Angel's face changed from "curse-a-nigga-out-mad" into "oh-you-know-him-calm". So there I was chopping in up with one of my random ass FB homies, who, by the way, I couldn't point out in a room with only me and her in it, and there Angel was standing within earshot hearing all about my miscellaneous rants and adventures that I've posted on the net. After about 10 minutes, Angel chimed into the conversation, and we ended up exchanging FB info.

Angel didn't start off cheating on her dude. She started off reading blogs and inboxing me for advice related to her relationship and his behavior that she found disturbing. We jumped from inboxing to texting, then from texting to actually talking on the phone. Needless to say, with every change in communication method, we strayed farther and farther away from the topic of her dude. As a precautionary measure, she created the "Beyonce" code to avoid any type of falling out if her dude were to become suspicious of some dude she was just cool with. I mean guys never trust dudes that just randomly pop up out of nowhere. If I was an insecure dude, I totally wouldn't trust me; I totally look like the type of guy that would fuck some other guy's girl. It made sense to me; after all, I wasn't fucking her. I had only seen her that one random time in CVS so the shit seemed on the level. The code went like this...

I could only initiate contact via text, and I'd have to say some toned-down shit like "Hey", and wait for a response. If her dude was around, she would respond by saying something about Beyonce, i.e. "Girl, have you seen the new Beyonce pictures in Vogue," and that would my cue to say something like, "Of course, you know that's my bitch," (don't judge me) and just allow the conversation to wane off. But, if he wasn't around, she'd just call my phone.

The big fight
In almost every relationship, there's a big fight (or several) that puts the relationship into a gray area where neither party is exactly sure of the relationship status. This subsequently leads to questionable behavior by both parties that probably won't be brought up during the reconciliation process (or any other time unless to be used as with malicious intent). Newsflash: During that "break" when you were living life as scheduled, rekindling old flames with college-sweethearts and shit, random John (no pun intended) had his dick down your girl's throat, but hey... it was a "break" though. Anyway, I'm bullshitting down U Street on a random ass Wednesday night, and my phone rings... Angel's name flashes across my screen.

JD - What's good? (Unfortunately, I still answer my phone like that.)
Angel - What are you doing tonight?
JD - I'm uptown, on U Street, just bullshitting around.
Angel - How long are you going to be out?
(Once a female asks me 2 questions back-to-back, my inner "I don't want to be questioned" reflex kicks in.)
JD - Why? What's up? What's going on?
Angel - I'm trying to hangout.
JD - What's going on here?
Angel - Me and Greg broke it off, and I'm just trying to get out of the house.
(This was my first encounter with the "dick in a glass" maneuver that didn't consist of a woman I had fucked previously so I was in uncharted waters. I was confused, and almost parted my lips to ask her, "But where your real friends at?" However, cooler heads prevailed.)
JD - Oh ok; well how long do you think it's going to take you to get up here?
Angel - I'm already ready. I'll be there in 15 minutes.
JD - Bet; I'm outside of Liv now so I'mma just post up here.

45 minutes later she walks in. We drank, and I told some jokes. At about 11 o'clock, I was ready to wrap shit up, and she paid the tab. Yeah, it surprised the fuck out of me that she paid for the drinks. I was sleepy, buzzed, and was about to attempt to catch a cab while black on U St. She offered me a ride, and I gladly accepted. We pulled up to my house, and she decided to come up. Right about now, you're probably thinking it went down as soon as we got thru the door. Nope. No such thing. I turned on the TV, sat on the couch, and we were both knocked the fuck out moments later.

I woke up around 3am to her laying on me in the "I fell asleep on the plane now I'm leaning on your shoulder" position. I was literally sweating. I pushed her off me, got up, and went to my bed. I got up when my alarm went off and hopped in the shower, all the while assuming Angel was still sound asleep. Nah. Two minutes into the shower, she busted through the bathroom, pulls back the curtain, takes a good look, and steps back out. I was heated (mainly because of the gust of cold air she let into the bathroom), but I finished my shower. I walked out of the bathroom to find her standing by the door in her bra and panties. She grabbed me by my neck and kissed me dead in the mouth. It felt mad rapey, but I went with it, and we all know how the story goes. Plus, there weren't any sexual highlights. But if you need details: the mouf was mediocre, and she had a surprisingly phat ass.

Later that afternoon, Angel and her dude patched things back up; it was accompanied by a sappy FB status just for the "haters". We all know that "breaks" usually last no more than 48 hours, so I wasn't surprised. We also went back to exactly how we were as if nothing had happened, that is until the next hiccup in the relationship. By the second time around, she was in "cut the shit" mode.

JD - What's good?
Angel - You home? You Busy? You got anything planned?
JD - Yes, no, and no. (It kinda made me feel like a loser because I was literally sitting Indian style on my living room floor counting my DVDs just to be counting DVDs.)
Angel - I'll be there in 30 minutes.

... and she just hung up; she didn't even wait for me to say cool. This just amplified my loser status. How did she know I wanted some no strings attached pussy at that very moment? I could have been enjoying my "me" time. Anyway, she showed up within 20 minutes and brought her A game. It continued on that way for a few months. Every argument at her home ended with my penis in her mouth that night or following day. Yeah, by this time, she was just flat out cheating. One week she came thru twice, and I said, "Damn, two breakups in one week," and she replied, "Oh we not broke up. He's just been acting funny lately so if he doing something on the side, I don't want him to be the only one." I almost stopped her from taking her clothes off to ask what type of sense did that statement make, but it was too late to ask; my dick was already hard. It turns out that nigga was acting "funny" because he already bought the engagement ring and was waiting for right moment to bring it out.

She said, "Yes". I was still her FB friend long enough to see her post pictures of the engagement ring. Then, she deleted and blocked me on FB. I didn't even try to text her, but I'm sure I was blocked on that too. She cleaned all traces of me from her life. When I ran into the initial FB homie two weeks ago, she said Angel is happily married, with a kid, and they still talk about my blogs; so I know she's going flip when she sees this.

Out of all the girls with boyfriends I've smashed, she might have been the best who ever did it.
Jean DeGrate doesn't even like Beyonce.

4 Things Fellas Should Be Telling Ladies About, but Don't

Because you women folk need to be put up on game, and I like to make lists...

1. When you're on top and pull us forward to suck your titties, that shit hurts.
Seriously that maneuver is all types of ergonomically incorrect, especially if your fuck buddy is at least 4 inches taller than you. The strain on our necks alone is enough to make us say, "Bitch get up off me," but we power thru the pain because we want the nut. Stop trying to do the most. Just let us lay there, with our eyes closed, enjoying the ride. And, if you're one of these A/B cup Bitches pulling that move, you owe your dude mouf as soon as you finish reading this blog.

2. All of yall ain't that fresh down below.
I know every woman thinks her pussy smells like roses and tastes like water; I personally can't vouch for the latter, but I'm 100% certain that 3 out of 10 of you aren't as fresh as you'd like to believe. This is another thing guys just take on the chin. He's wined and dined a female, spent hours upon hours texting and talking, and the moment of truth is here. He does the classic "two-finger test" (you know the one where he pretends to be interested in fingering you, but smoothly runs his fingers by his nostrils after two finger pumps?). Yep, 30% of the time, that box smells a little tart. Oh, trust and believe, he's still fucking away. You're already naked, you're already wet, and you've already wasted half his night on a so-called "date". He's fucking, and he won't even say a fucking thing about the smell. (Side note - fingering a chick in this day and age doesn't have shit to do with female pleasure. We need to know if the pussy is wet enough and what it smells like. It's a necessary evil.)

3. You might not be relationship material.
As men, we date a lot of women knowingly that they don't have what it takes to actually acquire a title. And by "date", I mean invite them over for a Ciroc and Simply concoction and a BluRay after 10pm maybe even the occasional Sunday matinee movie that been out 4 weeks already.  Whether it be the Party Girl, the owner of several kids, the seemingly hoeish hoodrat, or any other criteria that would make it unacceptable to bring her home for Thanksgiving, we'll just keep them in that gray non-girlfriend area. That moment when a man pulls a hoe with the best mouf in SouthEast to the side to say, "You know this ain't going anywhere, right?" ... yeah that never happens.

4. We don't give a fuck about your designer shit
Right now, it's a 1000 bitches running around with leggins with crosses all over them, and I guarantee you no straight man on the face of the Earth knows who makes that shit. Men typically don't follow trends for women's fashion, but we are fans of form fitting and revealing clothing. We don't know and don't care who makes the things that make you look fuckable. We especially don't care about your designer bags and heels. Nope not even your "fuck me pumps" that you leave on during sex; the brand of those aren't even of the slightest importance. Now, thanks to JD, you can pay your rent instead of buying those Loubs you've been eyeing to wear on your man's birthday. Aldo pumps do the same sexy trick.

Consider this bit of information charity, and thank me later.
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Choosing Season Protocol: Ladies Play Fair

It's September. Real football is only a few days away, the kids are back in school, and the last few days of summer are upon us. As we enjoy the last of these 80 degree days, we can all see that choosing season isn't too far off. It's time to get a few things in order before we kick the season off. I observed many interactions during last year's Choosing Season, and a lot of you ladies weren't playing fair. Women down right took advantage of men out here looking to get chose. (Yeah, really women taking advantage of men; I'll probably never get to use that ever again.) So I've made a list of the top 3 choosing season fouls women commit.

Don't accept that drink at the bar
I've seen it time and time again... Some unsuspecting misguided guy that thinks a great icebreaker is buying a perfect stranger an alcoholic beverage, just to see the lady say "thank you" before returning her focus elsewhere. Just to see the lady twerk on the next man when the DJ plays "Single Ladies". It's so cold. It's so unnecessary. You knew what he was expecting when he asked you what were you drinking... some light conversation, maybe a dance or two, and hopefully a phone number that would turn into a date later down the line. Don't let a guy buy you anything if he's only worth the time it takes him to hand the bartender the money and pass you the drink.

Tell him off top if you're celibate
Women decide to put the box on the shelf for all types of reasons: religion, been done wrong too many times, or caught something *cough* along the way in her dating adventures. Whatever the cause is, that doesn't really matter; all that really matters is that you're not fucking. He's privy to that information before a single outing is set, before you exchange FaceBook and Instagram information, and before a "get to know you" phone call turns into a 4 hour conversation extending into the wee hours of the morning about everything but the fact that you're not fucking. When he approached you, I can assure you that he wasn't thinking, "hey she's probably a really nice person that I'll like to feed, entertain, and spend time with and money on with no hopes of ever seeing naked". But you already knew his intentions (just like you know the intentions of those lames you let buy you drinks in the club), and since you know his intentions, you're dead wrong for allowing it to happen.

If he's in the friend zone let him know he's in the friend zone
Ladies you know if he's a cool dude that will never make it to the pussy promise land. He's just missing that certain something and that pushes him all the way out of the running to ever see you naked. Don't wait until he gets all rapey and then call him your brother or until some other guy has you confused and in your feelings so you turn to him for advice. Nah. Let that man know the moment he's out of the running for panties. Shoot him a text, make one of those goofy tweetgrams, then tag him in it. Hell, whatever you do, just be sure to make it clear that he's just a friend. Don't get endless free dinners, platonic massages, and moving help from a guy that's applying for a job he's not qualified to fill.

If you're going to play the choosing season game, at least play it fair.
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Attention Ugly Women

*I love posting pictures to help bring the messages of my blogs to life, and in this particular instance, I'd love to post a collage of ugly bitches. Particularly those that I know personally, who clog my timeline with selfies day in and day out. We all know a few of these bitches, the ones with like 4 combined likes on their Instagram "selfies". But, airing them out might just be the line I'm not willing to cross. Isn't that crazy? After all the fucked up shit I've put into print, came back to edit and proofread, then still decide to post on the web for the whole wide world to read, I still have boundaries and shit. I still have a teeny tiny corner of tact left in me. Look at God. Ok, enough of that; now on with the blog...* (Sidenote: If you're curious about whether I'm talking about you, send me a DM, and I'll gladly let you know.)

First of all, when I say "ugly" I mean "all-around unattractive". I know as soon as you get like 4 lines into this blog, 75% of you are going to think, "Well, what if she has a phat ass?" or some silly shit along that line. NO! I'm talking about flat-out, all-around busted bitches. Her face is ugly. Her body is ugly. Her soul might be beautiful. Her mind might be beautiful. Yet and still, nobody wants to FaceTime this hoe. If she has kids, every single one of them was an accident or a blatant setup. Nobody intentionally gets these types of women pregnant. NOBODY! There will be no "it gets better" ad campaign for these bitches; this type of ugly doesn't fade with time.

I'm sick of you bitches. Not because you're ugly; that's the hand that poor genetics and Jesus dealt you. There's nothing you can do about that. It's your failure to accept your ugliness that blows my life. We all have flaws. I personally have ugly feet and a horrible speaking voice. Your flaws just cover the entirety of your physical form. Let us not pretend they don't exist. Don't punish the world with your ugly face posted up all over the net. Don't call people bullies when they come at your neck for being gruesome. You did this to yourself by drawing attention to yoursefl. Go be one of those face-covered Muslim chicks; Allah and them are still taking applications. Nope, you're still Christians, walking around showing your face off to the world and snapping a pic in every bathroom mirror you pass. You hoes don't want to be humble for real though.

See that's the problem with you new wave ugly bitches is that you knew you were ugly as a child, you just refused to believe it. You were the girls that got picked on daily... the girls little boys didn't want to give candy to when they were handing out those Valentine's Day lollipops and shit. It's wasn't a thought in even one of you unpleasant looking hoe's minds that you were anything more than ugly. Then you grew up, started making money, buying your own clothes, tossing weave on your heads, applying makeup with butter knives, and thought you defeated the ugly. Nah boo; you're still ugly, and very much so. If you put Gucci, Louie, a Remy weave, and MAC on a donkey, it's still going to be a fucking donkey (a fly ass donkey, but a donkey nonetheless). If you put syrup on a pile of shit, that doesn't make it pancakes. You can't undo your ugly; know your fucking lane.

In my eyes, being an ugly woman is just like being a man. You've got to work for everything in life. Better yet, let's just call ugly women, "the new men". Find yourself a trade. Be a mechanic. Niggas love bitches who can change a tire and fix a transmission. Learn some jokes and get your funny up. The only way to soften the blow of your face is if something humorous is coming out of it. Buy men drinks in the club, and pay for all your first dates; it shows your independence and helps balance out your appearance. Only post pictures of yourself doing epic shit. You know when you're crossing the finish line at the Boston Marathon, post that. Or when you're rescuing babies from burning buildings, post that shit. Feeding the homeless on Thanksgiving, post that shit. Removing flies from the eyeballs of starving African kids, post that shit. Sucking a dick while doing a handstand, yeah... post that shit there. A selfie of you sitting in your cubicle captioned "bored waiting on 5 o'clock", don't post that shit.

Don't let your ugly be your crutch; let it be your motivation.
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Women Stay Misremembering

I've been swerved, curbed, carried, friend-zoned, or whatever you kids are calling it these days. Thank God I have more victories than defeats. 9 out of 10 times, my wins are kind of hazy, unless of course there's some epic chain of events that takes place to be blogged about at some later date. Now, on the other hand, every single swerve I've encountered in my adult life is etched into my brain with a laser. I can tell you the time of day, the temperature, most recent Jordan release, what I had for breakfast, and what she was wearing at the time of said swerve. Every single time I've been curbed its retained in 1080p HD and Dolby digital surround sound. But, with you women recollection on these less than splendor-filled moments get really really muddled in retrospect.

I guess last week was "I want that old thing back" week for JD because at least 4 women I've once stuck my penis just called me out the blue to play catch up and shit. (This mainly happens because I've had the same phone number since Nextel was the hottest phone in the streets, and I had that trusty i1000 on my hip. Oh yeah, and choosing preseason is already in effect. That blog is coming soon.) Anyway, there's always some sort of discrepancy in the circumstances that caused our little thing to come to an end. And by "some sort of discrepancy" I mean "a total fucking fabrication". So of course I had to do my research to make sure this just wasn't a freak occurrence, and wouldn't you know it: 6 homie testimonies and 8 more friend-zoned chicks later, my suspicions were confirmed. Yep, these women were definitely telling HER-story and saying fuck the facts. I'm not about to break into every single account; I'll just share the most interesting re-creation of what transpired.

Let's girl call her Girl 3 because she called 3rd. I'm super busy in the office, and I'm not that motivated to think up a fake name. Sue me. Ok first thing first this is how we stop getting up. I stopped talking her calls because she came over to my house unannounced on 3 different occasions, and she asked me to co-sign on a car. Seriously, she legitimately popped at my front door 3 different times (twice I wasn't there) talking about, "I'm at the door come let me in". The straw that actually broke the camel's back came 2 days after the last pop up visit when she called me on a Saturday morning begging me to take her to a car dealership. Short story shorter. I took her, she got declined for the loan and then she broke down in tears begging me to co-sign on the car. I left her at the dealership. I didn't call her, and she didn't call me (not that I would have answered). That was 3 years ago.

And now for HER-story

After the regular: "How've you been." "How's the kid," and complex questions that ultimately translate into "Do you have a girl or are you fucking anybody steadily?", she voluntarily breaks into the demise of us.

Girl 3 - You know why we never made it anywhere?
JD - Life? (I'm interested so I don't even interrupt her with the truth plus saying "life" is like the safest empty answer ever)
Girl 3 - Yes, that plus you also had too much going on.
JD - Going on like what? (Because she upped my empty response with another empty response and flipped put the blame on me. Touché. Bitch, touché.)
Girl 3 - You were just unavailable when I wanted you the most.
JD - Huh? (And by "huh" I meant, "Oh like when you popped up at my house, and I wasn't home.")
Girl 3 - You know you were always busy and didn't have time for me so I just stopped calling and you didn't call either.
JD - Oh ok. (And by "oh ok" I meant, "And all this time I thought you didn't call because I left you are Darcars on St Barnabas Rd. Who knew?")
Girl 3 - Anyway, I was on your FaceBook page earlier today, and I forgot how much you used to make me laugh, then it made me miss you.
JD - Oh OK.
Girl 3 - You don't ever think of me?
JD - Send me a recent picture, and I'll call you right back.

She sent a nude. She'd fell off. I had to unfuck her. I deleted her from my FaceBook, and added her to my blacklist app.

Welp.
Jean DeGrate ain't said shit

Take Your Vagina Off of the Pedestal

I bullshit you not; once a week, I'm talking to some chick telling her about my dealings with another chick. Without fail, the chick I'm sharing my story with is always in shock and disbelief of my interactions with these chicks. like head-exploding, absolutely floored. dumbfounded. Be advised, I'm not talking about the over-the-top adventure like shit, which I normally blog about. These stories aren't laced with spades games that turn into ménages. (Yea, that totally happened a few years back; in case you were wondering.) Normally, I'm telling these pedestrian ass stories. You know. just regular everyday shit. I'll say something like, "So she caught a cab home" or "Then sent me some nudes" and these women will lose their mind. The responses range from "Oh my God. What type of women are you dealing with?" to "There's no way I'd go for something like." to "Where's her self-esteem?" to "You wouldn't be doing me like that". So after about a 1000 of these gross overreactions, I bring this up to my homie Greg, and wouldn't you know it. the same shit happens to him all the time. Nope ladies and gentlemen, this isn't a Jean DeGrate anomaly here. Bitches are just generally delusional.

To add insult to injury, 17 out of 20 times, they're women who have been firmly placed into the friendzone and/or just plain single. Yet they are giving up all of this fake outrage (and we all know how much I hate fake outrage). They've placed their wants way above what any man with common sense would be willing to provide for a woman of their caliber (Yes, there are levels to this shit). They need help, and JD is going to help them in the way only JD can. I came up with 3 quick steps to get your pussy back at its proper level, instead of sitting it atop of a bookshelf so high, a nigga would have to be a NBA center to reach it.

Find a woman you see as your superior and your peer
No, not Beyonce bitch. Relax, I'm not asking for you to reach for the stars. I'm sure there's someone in your life who looks better than you and is doing better than you. If you can't find her, @ me on Twitter, and I'll go through the people you follow and find at least 10 bitches who are shitting on you, free of charge. I'm that nice of a guy. Find out who she's dating or previously dated. If these guys are below your standards, then you need to lower your standards. If you think you can do better than her, just stop reading this blog right now, and revisit it when you fail.

Look at the guys who approach you
If 29 out of the last 30 guys who came onto you couldn't get you to throw a glass of water on them if they were dying of thirst, there's something about you that's telling those guys that you're just their speed. Unlike women, men typically stay in their own league. Of course, we have a handful of dreamers who reach for the stars, but that's only like 10%. Your clothes, your hair, your body type, and your walk are dead giveaways to the type of person you are... AND the type of person you'd date (or in 2013 "date" terms. "fuck with"). Stereotypes exist because they work; you rarely ever find an Ernest Hemmingway book bound in a cover from a XXL.

Consider dating your equal
You're 3 years into a dead end job. You have 2 kids by 2 different niggas, neither of which has even ever discussed a wedding with you, let alone went to Jared. You're paying a car note on a 2004 Impala. You have $1500 in your bank account, but a $1000 of that is for rent, and the rest of it is to put down on your Miami trip. (You niggas are still going to Miami on vacation though? Yeah, that's another blog.) You're 40lbs overweight, all of which you claim is leftover baby weight, but your youngest kid is 4. Stop looking for a hero. Nobody is coming to pull you out of the slums, and if a guy does reach down and pull you out of it, you're the exception to the rule. God is not sending you a baller. We know, yeah. yeah. yeah. you can do bad all by yourself. Damn right, looking for Superman, it's going to continue on that way... BAD. and damn near HORRIBLE. by your damn self. Start looking at your actual peers and stop turning up your nose to the nigga that refills the soda case at your job. (You still pull the day shift at 7Eleven, right?). He's getting $18/ hour plus overtime. Coca-Cola is a fortune 500 so he's also getting solid benefits. Yep, that means no need for ObamaCare for you. Some of his OT will get Rent-A-Center off your back. Splitting the rent with him will stop the light bill from coming in pink envelopes. You might be able to upgrade your 2004 Impala to a 2013 if you show him some attention. and suck good dick.

Your dream man can't 6'2, drives a 6 series BMW, makes 6 figures and has a 6 pack when all you can bring to the table is your kids your pussy and your debt.

So you dying alone or. you gonna give the mailman some cheeks?
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Lil Man, You're a Hater

***Yeah... This is a long one.***

I've dated... Ok, ok, I've fucked plenty of single mothers. Trust and believe, a girl with an existing fuck trophy is 7 out of 10 times way friendlier with the vagina than a woman without. This is a non-debatable fact. Some single mothers sneak you into the house in the dead of night, give you the pussy, and send you on your way before the kids wake up. Now others will have you up in the house interacting with their children and might even make you an honorary uncle. But, this blog isn't about the joys and the conveniences of bedding women with kids. Nope; that blog is coming at a later date. This is about the mix bag that is the children of said single mothers and how much of a cock blocker they can be.

You know what prepared me for fatherhood? Playing with other bitches' children. I bullshit you not. I beta tested 90% of my parenting skills on some other dudes' lil' niglets. With all my experience and 16 plus years of baby mama fucking, every once in a while a child comes along that you just can't win over. That child is normally a championship level cock blocker. Not to say that I don't understand where he's coming from though; I wouldn't want anybody fucking my mother either. Anyway, on with the story...

We're going to go with the name Christy, and as for her hating ass son, we're just going to call him Damien.

Nine out of ten baby mothers that allow you to meet their kid before they even know your last name will hit you with a line that goes something like this, "I normally don't let guys come around my child(ren)... (blah blah blah and blah blah blah) but you seem like a really good guy." Establishing this situation as a rarity and making you the exception to the rule like you really give a fuck about her parenting skills. Wholetime you're thinking, "Oh ok, and... what that mouf do." So of course I got the little speech about being invited over whilst her kid was present and awake. We were supposed to being going out, but Christy's babysitter canceled on her; instead of calling the whole thing off, she invited me over for "dinner".

So I walk in, she greets me with a church hug, and over her shoulder, I see this little niglet has his territory all marked out. Toys were scattered all over the living room floor, action figures were posted up on the couch like they were standing guard, and the TV was on cartoon network with the volume up loud enough for me to hear everything clearly before even I walked thru the door. He's played this game before; that was obvious. He was prepared, and I clearly wasn't.

Christy - Damien this Mr. Jean, Mommy's friend. Say "Hello".
Damien - *No response... blank stare... crickets*
JD - What's up?
Damien - *No response... blank stare... crickets*
Christy - Damien, now don't be rude.
Damien - *No response... blank stare... crickets*
JD - Well, ok then.

Since the boy clearly had the living room bordered off, I was forced to sit at the dining room while she prepared dinner. After about 10 minutes of silence, I whipped the trusty Sidekick out (yeah, the ol' T-Mobile joint) to hop on the net. This must of set Damien's spidey senses off because I looked up, and he was standing right in front of me.

Damien - You got games on your phone?

Of course, I had games on my phone, but I wasn't about to let this niglet step off with my sole source of entertainment after that warm reception he'd just given me. Plus, I had nudes in my phone, even a couple from his mom so that would've been all bad.

JD - Nah, I don't really play games.
Damien - Can't you download one?
JD - These games cost money.
Damien - *No response... blank stare... crickets*

And, little did I know that was my first mistake because from that moment on he was on full fledge hater mode.

I saw the hate in his eyes so I figured I'd try to the get the boy to warm up to me because I knew he was the only thing standing in the way of the pussy. I had to use my go to move: the rough play. Fact: little boys love rough play. I figured I'd pick the little nigga up and toss him around a bit. He was all for it except that when I was worn out and ready to chill, he wasn't. So I pushed thru it far into my fatigue, and I dropped the little nigga. As Damien fell in slow motion all 2 feet 6 inches onto the plush carpet I was standing on, I could see him look back at me with the face that Bill Duke gave Cain in Menace (You know you done fucked up right?). As he ever so softly landed without even making a sound, there were 3 seconds of silence before he erupted into a crying howl that would wake his ancestors, let alone alarm  his mother standing on the other side of a kitchen wall. I just knew it was a wrap for me. Before Christy even got a chance to ask what happened I got to explaining myself like I was an 8 year old that just got caught sticking a toy in an electrical socket...

JD - See we were rough playing; then he fell. He ain't even hit the ground hard, for real. Damien, you're ok right?

Christy picked Damien up off the carpet, stroked his back, and his howl turned into a punk ass whimper.

Christy - He's not as tough as he makes out to be, and he always tries to play with the big boys and gets hurt...

Is she giving me a pass for dropping her child on the ground? Is this really happening right now?

Christy - ...He'll be fine. Don't worry; just give him a little time to get himself together and no more rough play.

After she sat him down on the love seat went back to the kitchen that little niglet sat there mean mugging me for the next 15 minutes, and it took every fiber in my body not to give him the middle finger. He wasn't hurt.

About 10 minutes later, the meal was ready. We sat down at the table, and as I made child-friendly conversation with his phat ass mother, he continued to ice grill me while pushing vegetables back and forth across his plate. I wasn't even worried about him. I dropped him on the floor, Christy gave me a pass, and when I get up and dump these veggies in the trash, he's really going to be beefing while he sits there staring at cold carrots and shit. I was doing the victory lap in my head. I whipped out the sidekick and read my twitter feed as his mom cleared the dishes. I clearly had won because bedtime for him was at 9, and it was 8:47. Moments later, she was walking him upstairs to call it a night as he looked through the railing at me with his ice grill still intact. I laughed silently, and gave him the thumbs up.

A bath and 2 bedtime stories later she was sitting hugged up with me watching a rerun of Martin on TV One. She revisited the meeting my child speech, but I politely interrupted her by pulling out one her titties. Conversation over. Right before things got too hot and heavy, she readjusted her clothing, and tiptoed upstairs to check if Damien was asleep or not. When she opened his bedroom door, I could hear him snoring down stairs. I won. She came half way back down the stairs and motioned me up. I slide off my shoes like Usher in the end of the "You Make Me Wanna" video and tiptoed up the stairs right after her. I followed her silhouette into her bedroom and started to close the door behind me as she said, "Leave it cracked so I can hear him if he gets up." In retrospect, I should have locked the fucking door and put a dresser in front of it.

She stripped completely down before I could even get my belt unbuckled and crawled over to me, then *voila* starts in with the head. I know I've said it in this blog already, but damn it I won. She undressed me the rest of way and grabbed a condom out of the nightstand, and then *voila* puts it on me using her mouth. Yep, she's a hoe but whatever... again... I won. I tossed her on the bed and get about 11 strokes in, and I hear...

Damien - Mommy, I had a nightmare.

This bitch tossed me up off and on the floor on the opposite side of the bed and slid under the blanket all in one fluid motion. I can't even begin to explain her precision or strength.

Damien - What were you doing?
Christy - Nothing baby; what were you dreaming about?
Damien - Mommy it was... *he continues with this made up story about monsters or some shit*

And then this lil' niglet climbed smooth in the bed as I laid on floor with a hard dick gathering my clothes. I managed to get my boxers and jeans on without standing up, and I crawled out of the bedroom. I didn't even want to temp another awkward moment. I sat on her couch for about 15 minutes after I got myself back together, hoping she'd come down and tell me he's gone back to sleep, but I knew better. Her 5 year old just witnessed her receiving hard dick. I just didn't want to admit defeat. I walked out, and sent the "I'm gone text". That walk of shame to the car was the meanest one I've ever taken in my life. She didn't even respond to my text until 2 days later with a "Sorry" and nothing else.

That boy hated me right out of the pussy, literally. I lost.
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Fuck You Team Fake Outrage

Welcome to the internet age... The days of people bitching and moaning about irrelevant bullshit and wrongs against people that predated their existence by more than 50 years. I really wanted to let team fake outrage cook with all the bullshit surrounding the Zimmerman trial. I know Zimmerman is a racist. But, you want to know who are really racists? Black people. Yep. Negroes are getting smoked everyday, and we turn a blind eye to it because other black men are pointing the pistol. I knew you were all emotionally-charged, wearing your black power fist wooden necklaces, buying Skittles, and shit so I let it cook. But, I can't let team fake outrage carryon any longer without saying anything so here it goes...

Our people were slaves on July 4th 1776
You don't want to celebrate the 4th of July anymore because when America won its independence blacks were still in shackles, tending to crops, and shit? That's deep. But, before we get all wrapped up in this selfless act of non-celebration, please explain how the fuck you were celebrating it before. You bought fireworks? You cooked out? You bought an Old Navy t-shirt with a flag on it? You got the day off from work? Oh. For the record: you never celebrated the 4th of July. Your company does because they gave your ass a paid day off, and if you go in, they'll even pay you double time. If you're so outraged by the fact that there were slaves in America, forfeit your holiday. Donate your money to charity, and do volunteer work that entire day. That will teach the white man who enslaved your people. 'Cause Lord knows these pictures of niggas in shackles aren't ruffling any feathers. Look at it this way: your ancestors could have escaped slavery, and you could be in Africa right now being a regular ass African. See now that your great-great grandma was brought over here on that boat, you're an African-AMERICAN with Obamacare and running water. Aren't you grateful? You damn well should be; the Ivory Coast sucks this time of year.

The leave Rachel Jeantel alone campaign
For those of you who have been living in a box and don't know who Rachel Jeantel is, here's the breakdown: She's the young lady that testified on the behalf of Trayvon Martin and was the last person to speak to him prior to the incident that led to him losing his life. Niggas were praising her as a hero for giving her testimony like Zimmerman was the leader of the KKK and after this court appearance she and her family would be whisked away into protective custody. Niggas, please. Truth be told, Rachel is a 19 year old 11th grader. She spoke poorly, and people made fun of her. Neither the jury nor the judge are reading your tweets or FB statuses; nothing done on social media will have any effect on the outcome of the trial. Find some chill.

Gay marriage, Willow Smith's wardrobe, The Illuminati, Paula Deen, Kanye's kid "North", and the price of cheese grits in Greece...
*       Dear straight people, Seriously though, why are you mad about gay marriage? How is it affecting you in the slightest? It's not? Oh. You just feel some sort of way about it? Oh ok. Shut the fuck up then.
*       Willow Smith is richer than anybody reading this (and by "richer" I mean "her dad's shoe shiner makes more than you... richer"). If her biggest issue at 12 years old is her lack of fashion sense and the occasional yellow afro, let that little girl be great.
*       Whether the Illuminati exist or not shouldn't be any of your broke ass' concerns. If there is some high society of people who choose to worship the devil, sacrifice their love ones, all the while getting rich selling millions of albums to you coons, ain't shit you can do about it.
*       Paula Deen said some racist shit and lost her job; that's kind of how it goes when you drop the N word, and you work for TV or radio. You niggas were sitting on twitter, RTing her apology video left and right, all the while she was signing contracts with Fox. Apparently, Fox doesn't care about you niggas' feelings, and you shouldn't care that some cracker you don't know said "Nigga"... nigga. Maybe you should boycott Fox.
*       Kanye is a weirdo, and he prides himself on being a creative genius (whether or not this holds true in your opinion is neither here nor there). What the fuck did you expect him and Ray-J's ex-piece to name their baby? Ya'll really were out here trying to guess that kid's name, coming up with every mixture of letters with a K in the beginning. Ha. Little North is already rich. I'm sure she'll be going to school with kids named shit like "Apple" and "Blanket"; she'll fit right in. How is your name going to be regular ass Kandice while your're hanging out with a "Blue Ivy" anyway?
*       Oh, and lastly, I don't even know much about the price of grits here in the US food let alone abroad. Sue me; I don't eat shit that looks like slave slop leftovers. However, I do know that Greece is in financial ruin so I'm just going to assume getting cheese in your Grecian grits will be a major feat.

Find something worthy to be outraged about. Perhaps, the body count in Chicago or the fact that a cheeseburger is cheaper than a salad. Go out a start a movement about some real shit.

Jean DeGrate is outraged by your fake outrage

Cut the Shit: Part II

There's still a lot of shit going on that just needs to be stopped. Some of ya'll are still carrying on doing the all the bama shit I told you to stop in "Cut the Shit Part I". (Ya'll ain't really hearing me though. So to give you some motivation (or just to make you feel like you STILL ain't shit)... I'm adding these to the list.

You're Not Royalty
I know this might be hard to grasp, especially if you're related to Mama Dee (Lil Scrappy's mother). After an hour of watching her crown everyone on Monday nights, you might feel like you yourself may be "The King", "The Queen", "The Prince", "The Duchess", or "The Earl"... but let's be clear: you're not royalty. See there're levels to this royalty shit, and not even the lowest level of royalty includes getting up and going to work everyday. Oh, you make 6 figures, eh? Oh, your office is on the top floor overlooking the city, eh?  Hell, you might have even hopped on Ancestory.com, and they told you are a direct descendant of the King of France. Were you looking up your ancestry from your work computer, or nah? Miss "Princess of France", you're still trapped in your cubicle until 4pm... That renders you a Peasant, at best. Have you even ever been to France? Oh. I digress...

You're not doing your boss a favor by doing your job
Your job doesn't care about your kids, the killer unpredictable traffic that makes you late twice a week, or that you believe you're extremely over qualified for this position. Nope, the fortune 500 company that cuts your check should not just be thankful to have you. Who the fuck are you? You know the economy is still fucked up, right? They could hire your just-as-qualified replacement, likely for cheaper, tomorrow. Chances are you're not the linchpin saving your company from bankruptcy, you've never even been face to face with the CEO, and if your boss was to tumble across your Instagram and see all your bathroom "selfies", you'd probably be cleaning off your desk right now instead of reading this blog. Find some fucking chill with all this self-gratification. Be happy with all the dumb shit you get away with, and be extra excited that they are still paying you to half-ass do your job.

You're ugly so relax with all the "selfies"
You not-so-hot women love to compliment yourselves. Stop it. Seriously, stop it. Nobody is buying you drinks in the club. Nobody is holding up traffic to stare at you as you walk by. Niggas are skipping over your twitter avi on their timeline as if you don't even exist. You have 400 FB friends and 200 IG and twitter followers combined. When you post one of those Kevin Hart memes, you get 100 likes, but when you post that morning "selfie"... 30 likes and 20 of those come from your female homies. Numbers don't lie (in my best HOV voice)... Baby girl you're ugly.

Stop being fake religious
Every morning, I hop onto FB and Twitter only to see all types of bible verses, Christ memes, and folks putting God first. Yes sir, every third person is a bible carrying Christian between the hours of 5 and 9am. How are you putting God first this morning, but you were fucking out of wedlock last night... doggie style? How Christ like are you if all you do is pass judgment on others? (I see you coons going in during the airings of "Love and Hip Hop"). Half of you are out working and conducting business on Sundays. In the bible, that's punishable by death, but then again, you probably never read that part. You are just a convenient Christian. You're only interested in doing shit in the bible that won't have you too bent out of shape. As you dabble in your vices, you remind yourself that Jesus died for you sins, and keep it moving.

Jesus says, "Cut the shit, Man." It's in the bible (but you can't be sure of that can you?)
Jean DeGrate has spoken

The Nerve of This Hoe

I'm a habitual flirt with women working in retail because a few kind words and some undue flattery just might get me 30% off of my purchase. I don't care if she fat, ugly or Halle Berry I'm approaching them all with the degree of game because my goal ain't those cheeks it's keeping this money in my pocket. I'm thrifty like that and ya'll ain't even know it.

So about 2 or 3 years back I was up in one of those shoe stores in Forestville mall chopping it up with the assistant manager trying to work in a quick discount in for 2 pairs of shoes for Madi. Unlike the normal chick working retail in a rundown mall she was actually an adult and not a hood rat; surprised the shit out of me. Oh and actually attractive enough to be seen with. I got the discount; she took 25% off of all 3 pairs of shoes (tossed in a pair for me). After that I made it point to visit her store every time I was in the mall even if I wasn't in the market for a pair of shoes. (Before any of you pass judgment the Target in Forestville is the closest Target to where I live so yeah I'm out that way at least once a month.) 3 months and 4 pairs of children shoes later we've moved beyond in store flirting and we were texting back and forth. (Oh shit I totally forgot to give this lady a name, ok let's call her Roz.) Then one day out the blue...

Roz - Why have you never tried to see me outside of the store?
And I wanted to say to "Well ma'am you got a boyfriend and on the real you're just a cool cute lady that gives me a discount on my daughter shoes." But of course I didn't say shit like that.
JD - I mean you're the homie if you want to get up you can just say so
Roz - I'm going to come to your house one of these days before work
JD – Its whatever but ain't shit to do in this apartment but watch TV and lift weights. I also live in the hood hood, not the rap hood.
Roz - I don't care I'm coming

At the time I didn't know "I don't care I'm coming" was code for "I'mma give you this pussy stop trying to talk yourself out of it".

Three days later at 7:22am on Wednesday she was ringing my buzzer and I bullshit you not at 7:31am she was completely naked and kissing the tip of my dick. From here you can fill in the blank, right? Right. Ok after that she got low for like two weeks. Sent like 3 text messages no response. I was so worried that I fucked my hook up; all the shoes I should have bought when I had the chance came dancing through my head in a Soul Train line. Just when I though all hope was lost and I'd be back to paying full price she sent me a text...

Roz - Hey
JD - Fuck you been
Roz - My phone been acting up
What a coincidence that her phone broke the day after my penis was in her mouth.
JD - Oh Ok

And just like that we were back like she never left plus her twice a week a.m. sex visit. After about month of that she got super reckless; late night "You woke text", swinging pass the spot after work, she was doing anything. Did mention she had a live in boyfriend?

Then shit got real.
It's like 8:30 on a Tuesday morning and she was due to at my spot about 90 minutes ago. Cell phone rings and her name flashes across the screen. I answer "Where you at?" then a dude says "Oh aigh" and the call disconnects. I'm not going to lie I said a small prayer for her. I just knew that wasn't going to end well. So about 6p that same day her or somebody from her phone keeps calling me back to back to back. I sent ever single call to voicemail; this nigga won't be questioning me about his girl's whereabouts and actions. After about 20 straight minutes of calling she sends me a picture text of her with a black eye and swollen lip and the caption please answer the phone. I answer...

JD - You alright?
The bitch looks like she just went 12 rounds with the champ but what the fuck else was I going to say?
Roz - This nigga done fucked up he put his hands on me
JD - Yeah I see
Roz - What you gonna do?
JD - Fuck you mean? The police don't service your neighborhood?
Roz - Really Jean?
JD - All jokes aside you earned that how did you think that shit was going to go over?
Roz - Fuck you
Phone disconnects

About an hour later she sent me 172 page text message; I read the first 4, maybe, I can't be sure. The gist of what I read was she was on a different level than I was. She expected me to hold her down or at least pretend to give a fuck. For the life of me I don't know how she got there. She gave me discounted shoes and a shot of pussy here and there. Were we supposed to get married? I bet she don't even know my last name because I damn sure didn't know hers. Welp delete thread and block contact. Still to this day I haven't set foot in her store.

I got to stop fucking girls with discounts on shit
Jean DeGrate told you a story