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