Ringside In Orangeburg

Meet Etzer Estiverne.

Today's tirade isn't about your standard Negro criminal, or the racial profiling applied in choosing today's accused from the streets. Because Etzer wasn't picked up for carjacking, or cokecracking, or even something as respectable as bitchsmacking.

Etzer Estiverne has a bad temper.

And he is a strong believer in the church of Peanut Butter. So devout are his beliefs, in fact, than when his young daughter Melanie denied her daily communion of PB with the crusts cut off, he did what any good father would do with a squirrelly child. Did he threaten to take away her television? Nope. Did he tell her Fine, then, you unthankful bitch, you can starve? Nope. Did he grab her up from the table, ball up his fists, and unload into her abdomen with a volley of jabs?

Yup.

Now color me stupid (no pun intended), but there seems to be some confusion between the concepts of punishment and abuse with today's parents. Maybe this chaos is resultant from the children being unsure exactly who their parents are, the violence people are fed through Japanese cartoons, or distant African genetics rearing their ugly head. I am no expert, and can only propose theories concerning these affairs. But I have a cousin who I watch on occasion, who recently turned 4, which is not so far from the 3 years Melanie endured before she died of internal injuries. And make no mistake about it, she has tested my patience. On at least one occasion, I can distinctly remember asking her to do something in a firm tone of voice, and her reaction was a sincere look at me...

And outright, blatent defiant laughter in my face, at the notion she eat another chicken nugget.

Because she's a fucking child, and that's what children do. Adults do. People do. They don't listen, because they don't care. Especially the female ones. Maybe the game is played by different rules in Orangeburg, New York.

What Mr. Estiverne did was offensive, criminal, and justice will likely be served at the Rockland County lockup. But why are we relying upon other felons and madmen, to do our dirty work? Because you don't have the balls to take out a fucker like this guy? Oh, wait, unless he let his kid be, and killed your kid. Then you'd get all pissed and shit. Then you'd start cleaning the sniper rifle. In case you didn't notice, I'm pissed. Pissed that there is some remote possibility this cocksucker will walk through the American legal system, get his 9 month old back, and dropkick her into a swimming pool. And pissed that I had to get your attention as the funny guy, attract you here with my ranting and raving, and poke a bit of run at Etzer just to make you look at what is happening right in front of you. For every girl that goes missing and makes the News, for every child that is abused / neglected / kidfucked to death, there are a hundred who are completely forgotten. Actually, forgotten is the wrong word. Forgotten would imply that we, the conglomerate you and me actually knew those kids existed at some point. And until you read this little rant, you didn't have a fucking clue about Melanie, did you? That's alright. I didn't either.

But you know now.

So in response to this social outrage, and reading a story about some weird bastard beating his little girl to death, in a weird town where the police say illustrative things like:

He was trying to feed her the sandwich and she was not receptive, and he just went off.

Just what the fuck are you going to do? Lay the smack down on Junior for coloring the wall? Chain whip your offspring for refusing to clean up their rooms? Shoot the boy dead when he brings the car home 10 minutes past curfew? Not sure? Well, I tell ya what I'm gonna do. Next time I see some sorry son-of-a-bitch go apeshit on their kid, I don't care if you're mommy or daddy, and I don't care if you're white, black, yellow, or red, 'cause you're gonna end up blue. That fun purple-blue you get a few days after some crazy redneck bastard recovering from his substance-abuse problem decides its your turn to lose, and introduces you to the nearest wall.

You keep that in mind, next time your young-un gets out of hand at Wal-Mart and you think to yourself, Well, hell, we're at Wal-Mart -- nothing but my fellow childbeating white trash here, 'cause if you even shake your kid to get their attention, I'll break your ass. And then people can stand in front of the cameras and say things like:

I'm not sure what happened, she slapped her kid across the face, and next thing you know some lunatic threw her down and was on top of her, choking her there in the shoe department and kind of humping her. And he was laughing. It was really weird. He just kinda went off.

Yeah, I'd say.

The King Of Gonzo Is Dead

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.- Hunter S. Thompson

America has lost a literary icon.

Apparently exhausted from watching the last 49 seconds of the Super Bowl, the bloodshed in Iraq, and George W. Bush's inaugural festivities, Hunter S. Thompson took matters into his own hands. The Wild Turkey-guzzling, mescaline-popping, Acid Freak of Lore is gone out exactly as he lived -- his own way, in his own time.

Many of those who read the Good Doctor's weekly pieces, in the San Francisco Chronicle and Rolling Stone before it became a total sell-out rock whore periodical, have since cut their hippy hair and buried the blunts in the backyard. And the youth who worship his Fear and Loathing know next to nothing about the tragedy he depicted. But HST crossed generations with his writings, depicting stories of drugs, violence, politics, and March Madness with all the passion and beauty of a car accident. American readers were at once appalled and full of wonder, slowing down to catch a glimpse of the twisted bodies in the wreakage. But somehow, Thompson kept walking away from the scene of the crime, leaving behind a path of crumpled pages, hotel receipts, and whispered rumors. From behind his signature sunglasses to his cigarette holder, only the fierce style of his prose betrayed anything of this enigmatic author and journalist. Only a world-traveled redneck from Kentucky, with a sharp pen and no fear, could possibly carve the path this man cut through our libraries and our minds.

Hunter, as you never found peace before the televisions nor on the campaign trails, watching this nation consume itself, rest well knowing there are those who will endeavor to maintain your vigil. You outlived Richard Nixon, survived the wrath of Hells Angels, and chiseled your name deep into the marble before stepping down into your grave.

Help Yourself

If ever there was a time for a man to step up onto this proverbial cum-stained soap box we call the Internet, and offer up the brutal truth in this land of Puritan Christian rightwing ass-fuckery we call George Bush's Amerika, that time is NOW. So heed these words, oh fellow sick fucks, you glorious purveyors of unabashed adult entertainment. My ears and heart are open to any and all forms of query you would desire me to answer. Just send them here, and God willing that I sober up enough to remember my password, I will do my best to answer them in the only way I know how: utterly and completely devoid of any semblance of caring about your actual problems. Enjoy!

Odetta M. asks: Dear Johnny, I have been going with this dude for like 6 months. Well, he seems to have just like "settled in" and now, I can't suck his delicious shaft, take the time to have mind blowing building foreplay. He hasn't munched on my holy hole in ages and this is a really big thing 'cause he moved in a few months ago and now i am not getting the booty i wanted which was why i got with him in the first place. His personality kinda blows, but the sex as so good i did not care. Do you have any advice for what i might do to respark his fulfilling physical time... cause really, having to actually talk to him is turning me off more and more every day.

The Doctor Responds: For God's sakes people, somebody get this woman 37 CC's ofcock, STAT!You pose an interesting question, Odetta, and also reveal to the world at large what I have known for a long, long time now. This myth that has been perpetuated upon the male population, that women are the complete opposite of men in the sense that man is purely driven by an analytical and sexual force, and women desire the warm fuzzy comforts of a foot rub and perhaps a hot cup of peppermint tea is just that -- A FUCKING MYTH. We ALL desire to either fuck or be fucked, and that desire know's no differences between whether there's a penis or a vagina between those legs of yours. From a man's point of view, starting at a young age we are forcefed this bullshit ideal that a woman holds all the cards when it comes to the act of depraved carnality, so then we are forced to always be the ones to try and seek out the pussy -- and never to let it just come to us. Perhaps gay men are onto something when it comes to sexuality, the fact they completely revel in the act of purely perverted passions, and when together, never having to worry about whether or not you're going to score some ass. Somewhere in those two sentences probably lies the connection of male/female interaction and man's primal instinct of hunting and gathering, but I'm too ignorant to try and make that connection right now. This is my blog, after all. So to answer your question, Odetta, about whether or not I can offer you advice on to rekindle that which has grown cold, I offer you two suggestions.One: Sit that lazy fucking douchebag down, straddle his face, and demand that he give you a complete and thorough gynecological exam using only his tongue and mouth. If he refuses or says he's too tired, it's time to either get rid of his ungrateful ass or just put on your sluttiest dress, take a couple shots of liquid courage, go out without him and score yourself a piece of strange. He's probably cheating on you anyway.Or two: You can continue to live in a cold and wasteful relationship, all the while that precious womb of yours will go barren and dusty.

Electrician With Blue Balls writes: Hey Doc,I've just found a career for myself, and unconsciously, stopped partying and finding a new hole and heartbeat for the night. Because of the time frame that I work, and the fact I don't wanna fuck up this living, I just sit at home drinking during the weekdays. I think this needs to be fixed, so I can keep my job, and still lay berries to nameless women throughout the year.

The Doctor Responds: There comes a time in every man's life when such a decision comes crashing down your door like a German Stormtrooper, and beats you about the face and neck with the truncheon of Real Life. I, too, was forced to make that decision, fellow blue collar worker, and have regretted it ever since. Gone are the days of me waking up at noon on a Wednesday, breath stinking like cheap gin and cigarettes, my aching torso caught in the post-coital figure-four death lock we call "spooning" by some vixen who, for the life of me, I can never remember the name OR face of when they wake up, and do the exact same thing when the sunset again. I can offer you NO advice, my poor man, for if not for the fact that you don't want to fuck up anymore, I would have just simply said fuck it. Quit your stupid day job and go back to school, living off the fat of the land at the taxpayer's expense. Even better, hurt yourself on the job. I don't know, say you "accidently" cut off a pinkie or fell down a flight of stairs and broke both legs. Boom! You get a nice fat disability check, some much needed time off to invest in becoming a full time alcoholic playboy, and all you had to do was hurt yourself. But hey bro, you don't want to "fuck this up", right? Let me give you some advice my older brother gave me when it I asked him the very same question you asked me:

"Welcome to the machine! It sucks."

That's it. We're both fucked. Welcome to the machine...and the rest of your life as an adult.

Right-Click This, Bitch

Recently, I was told by a certain anonymous female that I would never have a normal relationship with a girl, due to my addiction to porn.

At first, I blew it off as just another broad running her gums. But the more I thought about it, the more my demented mind wandered. I considered my last girlfriend, who said "The only thing you're compatible with is a whore". Although I could've sworn I was highly compatible with her fat ass, I let her shenanigans slide and charged it to the game.

I thought about my relationships before my so-called "addiction". They mostly consisted of me taking a bitch out for dinner and movie, your everyday chit-chat, and me attempting to get her in the sack. I would get laid every now and then, and that mostly came down to regular missionary, some doggy-style and my half-hearted attempts at oral gratification.

Fast forward to 1998, when my girlfriend (at the time) introduced me to the Internet. As slow as our dial-up connection was, I still managed to download thousands of thumbnail images of whores spread-eagle. I spent hours upon hours online, attempting to find girls a few days past their 18th birthday doing the nastiest of things. If I do have any kind of "addiction", this may well be when it started. A few years, and a few sluts, later I came across the greatest invention ever. High Speed Internet Access. The Broadband. Not only could I now download those stills, now I was able to download entire full-length movies. If anything, this is when my so-called "addiction" was nourished and grew. The things I saw on the Web, I had never imagined would be accessible so quickly, and freely, as this.

Now I think about my relationships since the discovery of cable/DSL, and the more I think about it, that bitch might have been right. I may never have a normal relationship with a girl again. I've stopped taking bitches out to the movies or to eat. If they're lucky, they might get a burger shoved down their throat. I've also all but eliminated the polite chatter. My only goal now is to stick my man organ so far into them that their mothers feel it. Missionary and cunnilingus are no longer offered on the menu. Foreplay is a running start. Doggy style is preferred, but it's a bit more hardcore. Legs spread more open. Deeper pulverization. Thumb-in-her-ass type of dog-in-heat rutting.

And now I try to make them squirt. I humiliate my sexual partners with moves like The Alabama Dinner Special*, The Machine Gun Kelly, or every girl's favorite, The Winnie the Pooh. So I think about that goddamned bitch and the insight that came out of her piehole that day. Do I really want to go back to having "normal" relationships with these bitches? No, I don't think so, either. Rehab for an addiction starts with admission to the problem, but when I'm going down, I won't be admitting a goddamned thing. If I indeed do have a "porn addiction", and in fact it's making me have abnormal or immoral relationships, I don't blame pornography. I blame the Internet.

And the only thing I can say in my defense is, at least I've never sucked someone's dick to pay for my addiction.

*Definitions provided courtesy of GlossaryOfPerversion.com.
Alabama Dinner Special - Nail some hot, but slutty, Alabama tramp in her own home. Commence hitting her from behind. Then run her right out the front door and ram her headfirst into the broken stove on her front lawn. Sell tricks for her exposed twat at the price of your choosing.
Machine Gun Kelly - You stick two fingers into a girl's pussy, and one in her ass, then ream her repeatedly. AKA "Shocker"
Winnie the Pooh - When you are banging a broad doggystyle and you shove your fist up her ass...it proceeds to get stuck, just like Winnie the Pooh in the cave.

Cupid And His Shitty Dick

For one human being to love another that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof; the work for which all other work is but preparation.- Rainer Maria Rilke

Rilke was an idiot.

For all the lost investments, blown time, money snorted up my nose or sucked through a hot pipe, I have suffered no such monumental loss as that inflicted by romance. And what better day to open up the bitch flood gates than on this Hallmark Holiday known as Valentine's.

Now while many of you are versed in the arts of shit-eating, gangbangs, or quick-stop masturbation, a doubt I could fill a room with those educated fuckers who actually know the origin of this bullshit celebration. Back in the day - like, the Roman day - the feast of Lupercalia was held on the 15th day of February. Why do I give a shit? I hear you ask. Because thanks for those godless faggots, we have to deal with silent obligation to spend cash on cut roses, flimsy cards, extravagant dinners, and frilly condoms. And thanks to capitalistic pigs like you, we've wandered about as far from Lupercalia as Christ has from Christmas. Naked men-children would cover themselves in dog and goat blood before running the streets of Rome, flinging thongs cut from goatskin. Good times! And lucky girl, if you happened to have one of these bloody objects land on your person, you were blessed with fertility! Just what you were hoping for, huh? That way, when you got the shit raped out of you later that night for standing too close to the wineskin, the memory could haunt you for decades to come!

Maybe the game hasn't changed so much, now that I think on it for a sober moment. I mean, the sheer proximity of Valentine's to Mardi Gras this year could have resulted in that sort of Bourbon Street mayhem. And I've seen more than a few bloody thongs in my time, which implied the time between fertility, but I took that as a sign -- a sign to get the sex on without taking a penalty shot at the local Unplug Clinic. In any regard, rather than watch for Cupid's arrow over my shoulder and ramrod yet another credit card to glory, I've opted for a cheaper, tighter way.

Sodomy.

Yes, should you see me out and about later this evening, I'll be the grimacing backpack of a man, hanging for dear life onto the hips of some drunken bear with semen and liquified shit running down the inside of his thighs. Now there's a visual for you! And if you are having doubts about going through with this whole Valentine's day thing yourself, take this into consideration:

• Christina Aguilera is purportedly engaged.
• Mary Kay Letourneau is wedding the elementary school student she raped after she gets out of jail.
• My ex is boarding a plane for New Orleans.
  

So unless you're in the Big Easy waiting for the Bigger Easy to land, your best bet is boy butt on this fancy day.

Dan, you'd better grow eyes in the back of your head, 'cause I'm coming for your Polish ass!

The Doctor Is In....Again

Open your hearts people, and your minds, as we once again delve into the darkest, most foulest pits of depraved self-help advice. Time once again for me to answer the few readers brave enough to send me their questions in a futile effort to bring some sort of closure to their meaningless and drab lives. Jesus on a fucking pogo-stick, I do so love my job.

The Patient Asks:
Doctor John,You see, I don't know what to do. I have a little problem. There is this hot ass 17 yr old gurl that gives very good blowjobs, and I am 19. I didn't want to go all the way with her because of the laws and bullshit, but if she can fuck as good as she sucks, it makes it all most seem worth going to prison. But I don't know if anyone would even find out. What should I do? - Brandon V.

The Doctor's Advice:
You pose an interesting question, young master Brandon. Do you, a man who is ONLY two years older than Little Miss Sucks-cock-alot, dare dive down that slimy, yet oh so velvety tight slope into statutory rape? Or do you have the moral fiber to wait out the brutally long 365 days until her underage vagina becomes magically open for business? Without parental consent, Brandon, what you've done is still just plain illegal in the eyes of the law, no matter how jaded and unfair it seems. It just doesn't seem fair, does it? I mean, this chick of yours is just one cunt hair shy of being allowed to star in "Black Dicks/White Chicks 18", and from your description it also sounds like she's a pro at checking for hernias using her mouth, but I still think waiting out for a year to plug her ass is infinitely better than spending the next twelves years or so getting YOUR ass plugged. A wiser man than I would also probably suggest that you NOT admit to receiving blowjobs from an underage girl, but who am I to judge?

The Patient Asks:
John,I have become aware of a few things about you. For instance, you are a desperate failure of a human being. Often you feel the urge to suckfuck the elderly. Ugly fat girls think they are pretty around you. Reacharounds get you a second date. Everyone thinks you are mildly entertaining. Poor, homeless niggaboos offer you change. Little children french kiss your peehole. You dream of one day tea-bagging Mr. T. To be honest, you might get cooler over time. Oh, wait, you are fucking queer. Two words for you: Failed Abortion. Happiness is something you believe is in kid's anuses. If you could be a plant, you would be a faggot. Sometimes you forget to suck and just blow. Your mother was a post-op fireman. Of all the faces in stock, you had to get a goat nutsack. Understanding this will make you a more efficient faggot. Africans think you are stupid. Rimjobbing dachsunds make you feel like a man. Even if you were a fan, you'd still suck. A wise man once said, "John fucks man fanny". Fun Fact: Your posts are boring and fucking lame. As we know, you're too fucking incompetent to respond. Got any professional explanation for this, clitwit?- Richard B.

The Doctor's Advice:
Well, Dick, while your attempt to get my goad up has certainly piqued my interest, the fact that you had to rely on an insult generator speaks volumes about your own creativity. But you are right about one thing though: I do so desperately dream about tea-bagging Mr. T. But in my dreams, Mr. T is lying in his death bed, cancer-ridden, and so far into remission he can barely defend himself as I sneak into his hospital room. And as I stand over his weak and sickly body, my gigantic floppy ol' wrinkly ball sack dangling over his spittle encrusted mouth, the only words he can weakly eek out are:

"Wow, those balls of yours, John...those are much bigger than Richard B's."
Then he gags to death on my sweaty testes. As a doctor, I'd hate to see him suffer in pain.

The Patient Asks:
Dear John,i'm a 34 single mom...kinky as fuck and always horny... when can i suck your cock?M- Blood Princess

The Doctor's Advice:
Dear Princess,This Saturday afternoon, from 3-4 pm, I will be waiting for you behind the dumpster of the Waffle House off of Hwy 27 in Newark, NJ. Any time later than that, and it's your loss, honey. I'll be the guy jerking off to old comics of "Mr. T and his Super Friends". Do me a favor though. Leave the kids at home. Nothing gets me out of the mood faster than a bunch of screaming kids. Hell, do a good job, and I might even buy you some hash browns afterwards.

Wondering if I just blew my chances with a 34 year old single mom,

*Editor's Note: John is still in NO way a doctor, NOR does he actually care about your feelings. He probably is still just looking for sex, i.e. send all questions to Dr. John at your own risk. In fact, if there was a way to wrap your email in latex, I'd advise you use two.

The Doctor Is In

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, not only am I a poorly educated hack writer, but I am also a certified self-help guru specializing in all sorts o' advice and answers to your various problems. In an effort to further enhance the confidence of our fellow sick fucks, I offer my services to YOU, our readers. I have a vast storehouse of advice locked up somewhere in this model glue-addled brain of mine, so in an effort to save my soul and perhaps yours, I contacted a few fellow fans and asked them to contribute to this column. Who knows, if all goes well, and you want YOUR NAME under the harsh perverted lights of the internet's scummiest critics, email me with your questions. Perhaps I'll be sober enough to answer them in the coming weeks.

Dear John,
I am an 19 year old freshman in college. Let me just first say that I LOVE this site and I think that you are the craziest mutherfucker to put type to computer screen! Rock the fuck on, yo. Here's the problem: all through out high school, I never got laid. Believe me, I tried. I hung out with the cool crowd, I played fucking football for 3 years, and made it my mission to to at least try to get some ass. But it never happened. Maybe I was just too shy but shit, John, even when I finally got a girlfriend in the 12th grade, she never wanted to go any further than second base. Not even a fucking hummer, dude! So right before I was going to go to college, the few understanding friends told me that college was like a veritable non-stop suck and fuck party. I guess I went to the wrong college because I STILL CAN'T SEEM TO GET FUCKING LAID! HELP! What the fuck am I doing wrong?
-Todd in Wichita

The Doctor's Advice:

Dear Todd,
It's fairly evident, at least in MY eyes, that you are a either one of two things: 1. A self denying closet case fag, or; 2. The ugliest motherfucker alive. Because quite honestly, college in Anytown, USA IS a cornucopia of hot young nubile sluts looking to get their greasy tight cockpits stretched open by any and all means necessary. At least that's what college was for ME. Perhaps your problem is that you try too hard, Todd. You admit your own lack of self-confidence by stating you "hung out with the cool crowd". True players ARE the cool crowd, Todd. And football for three years? If that ain't a blatant cry for a wanton desire to chuggle some trouser-snake, I don't what is. Face the facts, Todd. You should seriously just end this sad charade of "trying" to score some pussy. Go out, smell all pretty, head your virgin ass over to the nearest "ManHole" bar, and get your cherry bunghole slammed by another football player. It MAY just change your life, Todd. And who cares if your letting another man slap his hairy ballsack against your own? At least you'll be finally be getting laid. Or you could just get a chick drunk, wait until she passes out, and reenact the end scene from "Kids".

Dear John,
You are an asshole. And your grammur is fcking atroshis. How the fuck did u get this job annyway you stupid hippie asshat?
-SkYn3t_666 in location withheld

The Doctor's Advice:

Dear SkYn3t_666,
The stupidity of this email amazes to the point of being speechless, but I'll try my best to at least attempt to answer your sole question. Not to divulge any of my secrets, but the process I went through to became a lowly part-time writer involved, and not in any particular order:

1. A vigorous and intensive obstacle course, complete with swinging vines and snapping alligators.
2. A torturous 43 hour hike through the deserts of the Arizona/Mexico border as my boss' personal drug mule, smuggling 18 pounds of latex wrapped pure Colombian coca snuggled lovingly inside my lower intestine, and;
3. You must have "atroshis fcking grammur".
Now eat my fuck, you snaggletoothed inbred shitneck. "Asshat" is SOOOOOO 6 months ago.

Dear John,
How can I get my long lost son to call me?
- Your Mom

The Doctor's Advice:

Dear Mom,
Maybe you could APOLOGIZE for touching me that one time while I was bathing. UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!!!

So, folks, if you** desire to see your name shamed in lights, you know where to send an email. I gotta go cry in the shower now, knees tucked tight to my chest in the fetal position, waiting for the hot water to run out.


*Editor's Note: John is in NO way a doctor, NOR does he actually care about your feelings. He probably is just looking for sex, i.e. send all questions to Dr. John at your own risk.
**Editor's Second Note: Danny is in NO way "offering" himself to any male readers who would interested in snuggling his cock and balls, like Todd so secretly desires. This exclusive offer is only valid to sex starved college girls.

Ice Cube...Straight To Video

I'm curious to see the new 2005 Oscar-eligible Ice Cube comedy entitled, "Are We There Yet?" It's about Ice Cube playing a gentleman who gets sexually aroused at the sight of a particular single mother to the degree that he'll even drive with her rotten kids across the country alone just to get within a nose length of the mom's panties. This is the same Ice Cube that was a member of one of the scariest, hardcore rap groups of all time, the NWA, the N-words With Attitude. A group so ferocious that I can't even say their name on the internet. Now he's in the black Home Alone. Homey Alone.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's high time we had another film that takes a look at the inherent fun of being the child of a single mother. Nothing better than being 6 and competing with a big horny man for your mom's attention. Great times! And I hope at the end the kids will realize what a gem this fellow is and gladly roll out the red carpet to their mother's vagina.

My biggest worry is that Ice Cube has really done his fellow gangsta-rappers a disservice. Who's going to take them seriously when the public thinks they're auditioning for the lead in the next heartwarming illegitimacy comedy? Then violence will erupt as the gangstas try to get their credibility back. People will die. Ice Cube was safer when he was rapping gangsta.

In TV, the phenomenon of a show running way past it's prime years has been identified with the term, "jumping the shark" in honor of the past-it's-heyday episode of the series "Happy Days" in which Arthur (Fonzie) Fonzarelli, portrayed by Henry Winkler, jumps a tank filled with sharks while riding his motorbike, because, well, that's what people did in the 50s. I'm tired of that phrase.

I personally prefer to point out which shows have gone stale by saying, "Rudi's got her period!" based on the episode in the 80th season of the Cosby Show, where Cute Little Rudi Huxstable, portrayed by Miss Keisha Knight Pullam, got her first period. Say it with me: "Rudi's got her period!" Pretty fresh, huh?

"Hey, did you see Desperate Housewives last night? Special Guest Star Monica Lewinsky blew all the husbands at the office."
"Naaahh. That Rudi's got her period, man."

Anyway, getting back to Ice Cube and his new cinema venture, I came up with a similar term for the as-yet-unnamed phenomenon of hardcore rappers who turn soft. I know there's "sellout" but that's inaccurate. They are actually selling in. IN to a better lifestyle. And the word is always spoken with the acid of anti-capitalism. From now on this phenomenon will be referred to as "Going to the Barbershop" in honor of the very hilarious "Barbershop," and being that it was the last time Ice Cube kept together any assemblage of real.

Dig now with me please:

"Yo, did y'all see the new Coolio movie?"
"Naw man, that dude went to the barbershop a long time ago."
End scene.

"Are We There Yet?"
Yes, you've arrived. Time for your haircut, muthafucka