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