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Monday
Aug112014

5 Reasons You Should Have Sex With Your Husband Every Night And Why Lawsuits Are Pending

So, I’m browsing Huffington Post the other day and come across this article that looks familiar, entitled “5 Reasons You Should Have Sex With Your Husband Every Night”. The reason it sounds familiar is because, well, quite frankly, I wrote it. 

Well, I wrote the initial draft, but was told that the publication would pass on it. No biggie. Months later, I see that the article (which I enjoyed btw) was rearranged, sanitized and reproduced from the perspective of Meg Conley. 

I’m currently cashing in on my Prepaid Legal insurance that I signed up for in college as part of a pyramid scheme business venture, (did your friends promise it’d make you rich enough to retire by 30, too?) to take action against said publication for its blatant theft. Because the case is pending, I can’t post the full original five-point article, nor can I speak any further on the situation involving the Huffington Post as an entity, or Ms. Conley [This changes nothing between us, though, baby. Your eyes tell a thousand stories in that profile pic ;-*) ].

But what I can do, is set the record straight by including key excerpts that were changed or omitted from the REAL story.

Aside from the obvious fact that I'm not a married woman with a husband, I scratched portions of Ms. Conley's article where my words were blatantly changed and inserted pieces from my original article in bold: 

* * * 

EXHIBIT A

Being a mother, one of the ultimate expressions of womanhood, can often leave a girl feeling stripped of her femininity. There is something about being covered in spit up and attending to the every need of another human being that makes one feel distinctly gender neutral. Most of my days are spent playing with dolls, wiping baby food off of my clothes, changing diapers, wiping snot off of my clothes, going to the park, and wiping what-the-heavens-is-that off of my clothes. There is something restorative about kissing the boy you love. There are times in Riley's arms when I remember who I am before I even realize I have forgotten. Yes, I am a cook, cleaner, teacher, and wiper of all things disgusting. But I am also something more, something delightful and completely apart from my roles. I am a woman! And there is potential and depth and heck, I am pretty darn good kisser, too. It is a lovely thing, finding yourself through the touch of someone else. feeling like a whore again.

You see, long, long ago, before your wife was “schnookums”, “pudding pop” or “World’s #1 Mommy” she was out doing hoe activities. With hoe tendencies. Hoes were her friends. Hoes were her enemies. And then she got married.

And if she, like many, never actually engaged in said hoe activities, she secretly fantasized about how since she was a good girl all her life, she and her husband would reap the benefits of the untapped debauchery. In fact, show me an ardent church girl and I'll show you a girl who has memorized Song Of Solomon and can't wait to get biblicle on her husband on their wedding night.

But when some of us good citizens of the universe put on wedding rings, we lose track of the whore that lies within us all. My friends, because we’re worried about life insurance policies, or finding out what made little Winthrop throw up his meatloaf and cabbage dinner and who’s going to watch him tomorrow, we too often deny ourselves the carnal joy that even the common harlot experiences.

So ladies, think of reconnecting with your husband as a break from the Serious Susan you spend so much time being all day. Take a walk in the shoes of “that cheerleader” that you either were or you hated.

 

EXHIBIT B

If you want your husband to act like a man, you need to treat him like a man. Hold the eye rolls. I am not pushing for a return to the 1950′s. (Although, heaven knows an era in which low rise jeans did not exist is basically alright by me.) Women need any number of criteria met to feel loved. Men are far simpler. They need to be fed, they need to be appreciated, and they need to have sex. That is it. Really. So make or order dinner once in a while. Say thank you for the long hours spent at work with a hug and smile when he walks through the door each night. (Better yet? Smile as you hand him the kids and walk out the door for a long, much needed break.) And my goodness, let the poor man see you naked. It is astounding what a good man will do for a good woman that has made him feel loved. After a few weeks of meals and make outs, you will sit back and wonder why you didn't insist on having sex every night sooner. Talk about a small investment and big returns.Oh, and by sex, I mean sex his way. Any time he whispers sweet nothings, lights candles, throws on a Marvin Gaye vinyl or performs Swedish, Thai or Shiatsu massage, he’s doing it your way. Trust me when I say that doing it his way for a while will reveal a part of your man’s brain you might just need to brace yourself to find out about.

Matter of fact, he’s probably so busy lying and being Mr. Hi Honey I’m Home that he has a habit of hiding his real, secret fun life from you. If you want to know a man down to his heart and nerve and sinew, you gotta bare it all, go for the gusto (see: Bring Some, To Get Some, revisited) and try things his way for a change. This way, you'll be acquainted with his authentic self, not the self that does just enough to not make you mad, so he can hopefully get a Scooby snack after dinner.

 

EXHIBIT C

Sex relieves stress. I don't know that this one needs much explanation. As a mother I eat stress for breakfast. So it seems to me I have a choice. I can let off steam by A) driving around at night and bashing in strangers mailboxes or B) I can get down and dirty with that one guy I married that one time. I choose option B. (So far the mailboxes in my neighborhood have escaped unscathed, so Option B must be working.) So basically, with your powers combined, you can create nature’s best anti-depressant and save that energy you used to use on stress, and put it toward something productive. It’s the difference between having a magic wand that can make everyone in the world (household) happy and bluffing the other side with your Weapon Of Mass Distraction, so that they walk uncertain and on eggshells. If momma ain't happy, no one is happy--so let your husband make momma happy.

Ms. Conley’s article continues with a bunch of good points that have merit, but it is clear that much of her philosophy was taken from my original article. While my calls to editors over at the Post haven’t been returned, I promise to keep you guys updated.

--Lerone 

*The story above is a lie. Ms. Conley's article is her own work and I am not suing The Huffington Post. This was my way of describing the passion I share for her and womankind as a whole. 

 

Wednesday
Aug062014

No Trust In The Animal Kingdom 

So I realize more and more that I don’t trust people. 

There have been a few times in recent memory when I’ve had to employ Rule #213 B of the Animal Kingdom—don’t turn your back on someone. 

My little brother and his girlfriend were out here not long ago and we were in Downtown Los Angeles. This dude stops us, swearing up and down that he knows me from somewhere. 

“Are you from Philly? You’re not from Philly?” the dude asked.

I looked in his eyes and it's hard to explain, but something told me he was weird, crazy, or not being totally serious. I said no to about five of his questions, but out of the corner of my eye, saw some other dude circle around.

Hm.

He wasn’t speaking to the guy who was asking me 21 questions, but I shifted my body weight so that he was never behind me. I glance at my little brother and realize that he switched his posture also, to be sure that he was facing the other dude. 

I still didn’t know what this guy was getting at, but seeing the young lion pick up the same vibe put my mind at ease.

We ride together, we die together. G Boys for life. 

“So it’s like that? Alright then,” the dude finally said. 

My brother, his girlfriend and I kept it moving down the sidewalk. My little brother and I immediately began breaking down the situation. He picked up on the vibe also. 

My Spider Sense talks to me sometimes, to the point that I’m not necessarily paranoid, but I’ve learned to trust those instincts, in order to avoid a set up to get wet up. 

Not long ago, Mrs. G and myself went to a house party. She knew a couple of people there and I didn’t know anybody. At some point, we got separated. 

“Hey man, you work out? I’m trying to get like that,” a few dudes would say throughout the night. 

Now, I’m not cruel, so I would never deny anybody a ticket to the gun show, but I noticed more and more that they KEPT making comments like that. 

My Spider Sense went off again, and something told me these might not be compliments. I run this scenario over in my head often, and I could have been paranoid, but the rules of the animal kingdom began to tell me that these dudes might be testing me.

At parties when the night wears on, three drinks become 13 and some dudes are either looking to let out that aggression in the bed or with the fisticuffs. 

Since, to steal a line from a Kid N Play classic movie moment, the sign on my butt says “Do Not Enter” and the females in the vicinity were kind of scarce, my Spider Sense told me there’s a very real possibility that I might be food in a den of wolves.

Now, if I had thought like Steve Urkel, I’d keep the Bruce Lee machine at the ready for situations like this, but barring that, I didn’t like my odds against three, four, or five dudes.

I also don’t like thinking back on Family Matters and how much ridiculous nonsense I put up with as a viewer, so F those dudes for even making my mind go to that example.

-Rone

Thursday
Jul242014

Getting Unstuck 

Heard a quote from a wise man. He was a pimp, but wise, nonetheless...

If things in your life are constantly going in circles, it's probably because you're cutting corners somewhere. 

Think about it. 

-Rone

Wednesday
Jul232014

Almost Got Killed The Other Day... These Are My Confessions

While at an open mic the other night, this ridiculously drunk dude showed up right before my set. He staggered in and immediately yelled “shut the fuck up” while some guy was doing a spoken word piece about how everyone in the world needs to treat each other right. 

The guy running the café counter heard enough and kicked the dude out. As he staggered out of the door, I saw the employee on the phone with the cops. The drunk dude staggered back and reached deep into his pants. I sat by the doorway and all I saw was the flash of steel. 

Oh, Lord. I’m about to get merked in a place that serves gluten free bagels, was the only thing that ran through my mind. 

As three or four dudes wrestled the steel from him, I realized it was a knife and breathed a sigh of relief. But after I did a decent set and hopped in my car, my mind zoned out as I put on Usher’s confessions. I sped up the 5 Freeway and let my brain cycle through all of the things I needed to get off of my chest, since that night could have been the end… 

I’ve never seen a Star Wars movie in my life. I don’t know how that happened, but it’s something I kind of secretly take pride in now. I know I’ll binge watch them all some day, but in the meantime I feel like I’m saving myself for something special. 

I swiped a piece of bubble gum from my granddad when I was five. He dropped me off at Kindergarten and the gum was just sitting there, taunting me. I thought to myself “Now’s my chance” and strategically scooped up the gum, but kept my hand there in a closed fist for the entire ride. 

I remember granddaddy looking down at my hand and at me like I was a weirdo, so I’m sure he knew I had the gum. But you couldn’t tell me I wasn’t a mastermind on a covert ops mission. Like a good kid, though, I waited until after school finished to enjoy the grape flavored Bubble Yum. You’re not allowed to chew gum in school. 

I have a weird phobia of becoming paralyzed. If we’re out and about, I won’t walk through the handicapped doorway. 

I’m developing a thing for pale white girls with colorful arm tattoos.

Leave that tanning bed alone, baby. Ink it up. In fact, I hope the no tan movement catches on just like black girls have stopped perming their hair.

I used to be into conspiracy theories but you mothereffers are jumping the shark by thinking everyone is in the illuminati. It’s not even fun to speculate about anymore.

Until the next time I almost get killed, these are my confessions.

 -Rone

Tuesday
Jul222014

Why My Children Will Be Smurf Children 

 

Keep your options open. No, keep your mind open. 

I say that, because a few weeks ago, my lady dyed her hair teal. Sometimes it looks more blue, sometimes it looks green. 

She had been talking about doing something crazy with her hair for a while, then just made an appointment and did it. 

Now, you know how you like dudes that are exactly 6-foot-2 with 6 percent body fat, a pHD at least, with a neck tattoo?

Or how your girl has to have shoulder length hair, an Xbox Live subscription and wear no less than a Double D?

Throw all of that out. Really, get rid of it. We evolve like crazy, so you never know what's going to make you tick tomorrow. Be fluid with it. 

Because that blueness has my head messed up.

I can't keep my smurfing hands off Mrs. G. So if I bow out of the no kids club, just know that it was meant to be. The gods so fit to bless me with a blue headed goddess and I yielded to the desires of the universe. 

If Jay-Z can name his kid Blue, so can I. Or maybe if he's a boy I'll name him Azul. That's "blue" in Spanish. Because I'm cultured. 

-Rone