Friday Folly: Who Are You Calling A Ni**er b**ch? Bitch!


Rihanna nude pictures, El Destape de Rihanna

Rihanna nude pictures, El Destape de Rihanna (Photo credit: pics)

Rihanna rocks!  Sexy body, so-so voice, lots of money. At least enough to drop $8000 at a strip joint.  She has everything going for her you would agree.


A magazine in Dutchland described Her Royal Highness as a Nigger Bitch and she got royally upset.  She tweeted, “Who u calling Nigger Bitch?Bitch!  U ain’t even know english!  What u wrote is an abasement and insult me and the other little niggers out there! No peace out for you! Wigger ho bitch!  Oh and here are three words for u and your peeps on behalf of the black race you dissed, ‘F**k u!”  Oh Rihanna…


RiRi also said some stuff about evolution, race, future leaders and degrading.  I am not sure why she ended up talking about herself.  Then she later posted a photo of her with a toddler, calling him her ‘Lil’ Nigger’.  When asked how come she could use such derogatory terms but takes offense when someone else does, Rihanna mumbled something about being black, flashed her boobs, kissed her gal pal, slapped Chris Brown, exhaled her marijuana smoke, flashed her crotch and give the reporter the finger.  Such a classy woman!  Anything less would be an abasement to humans.

Oh, she also wanted to let her fans know that she’s not pregnant.  Just a bit bloated, bitch!


Read it for yourself:


Rihanna does not appreciate the N.B comment
Ni**er Bi**h Irks RiRi
Rihanna calls toddler her little nig**r


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Friday’s Folly: Excuse me, can I rub your pregnant belly?

th (1)Man, times they are a changing.  Do you remember the good old days when it was not only acceptable but recommended for strangers to touch a woman’s belly when she was pregnant?  No? hmm…It never was?  Well anyways, did you know that women aren’t down with that anymore? I didn’t either. I thought it was still acceptable for strangers to get up close and personal with a woman they have never seen before.  Are you sure it never used to be?

I found how the hard way yesterday while waiting at the bus stop.  An obviously pregnant young lady sat beside me on the bench and I, being the nice person I am, decided to show her my feminine side.  I put my ear to her stomach while placing a hand on top of her baby-filled stomach.  No need to ask permission, everyone’s doing it.  “Can’t hear the cute one yet.  How far along are we?”

And that’s when everything exploded in a verbiage of insults.  “What the eff are you doing? You effing creep!  I am not pregnant!  Are you calling me fat?  Why are you touching me?  Your sick mother effer! I should call the cops!” Plus taxes and handling.

I managed to stammer an unaccepted apology and ran away red-faced.  There was no way I was going to sit in the same bus with that irate woman.  Baby or no baby.  Plus, I didn’t relish the idea of being dragged off a bus by the police for sexual harassment.

Ok, I admit, I am a chronic liar and the above story never took place.  So what?  It could very well have happened.  So I hope you learned something from this.  DO NOT ASSUME THAT EVERY WOMAN WITH A GUT IS PREGNANT. (You are welcome, Rihanna).  AND IT IS NEVER POLITE TO RUB THE BELLY OF STRANGERS, PREGNANT OR OTHERWISE.  THEY ARE NOT BUDDHAS.

Some women can be so sensitive when they are pregnant…

Is That A Suspicious Package Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

English: utensils used in Indian kitchen.

English: utensils used in Indian kitchen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As a kid, I loved playing with my aunt’s pressure cooker.  When she wasn’t looking, I would play with the little knob on top of the lid that allowed the steam to escape.  PSSSST…For some strange reason, I enjoyed that sound.  Sometimes I would get too close and suffered steam burns to my hands or face.  Man those were the good ole days.  When pressure cooker was only used for tenderizing food, not people.  Thank you terrorists!  You cowardly bastards!

Apparently whoever was responsible for the bombings in Boston used pressure cookers as their IEDs.  Now thanks to them, pressure cookers will be under the microscope.  I won’t be able to travel with my precious cooker.  Hell, I could be in the comfort of my house, waiting for my deer meat to soften and suddenly find myself confronted by the swat team.  “Drop to the ground and back away from that pressure cooker!  What do you have in there, boy?  Ball bearings? Nails?  What?  And what’s that suspicious package you got there?”  “Sorry sir, it’s just my penis.  Wanna see?”  “Don’t be fresh with me boy.  And we will be taking this pressure cooker.  Don’t you know it’s now on the list of banned items? You know what, let’s take a look at that penis…”

Cheaters, Liars and Food Wasters

thYesterday’s blog left a really bad taste in my mouth.  Not literally of course.  I owe it to you to write a make-up blog to erase that memory.  After all I am not a foul-mouthed person as a first time reader might have thought.  I don’t do gross. Right? Right?

Ok, let me tell you about my lunch today.  I paid Burger King a rare visit, it being Whopper Wednesday and all.  It was quite an experience.  The things you see everything in places like that.  I saw a man cheating on his poor wife.  How do I know?  Well he was with this hottie and they were laughing and enjoying each other’s company.  No cell phones were visible and he even pulled out her chair!  The Cheating bastard!  I wish his wife could have seen the silly happy grin on his face…

There was an ad for hand-spun shakes and for a second I was interested but then I noticed that they  were actually getting the shakes from a machine like every other restaurant.  No one was standing there whipping it manually.  Rip off! It’s like saying your restaurant sells homemade fries yet I can see the chef in the back peeling then frying the darn things.  Nice try, liar!

I ordered a whopper avec fromage meal  That’s a whopper with cheese for you non-french. I substituted my fries for onion rings because…I can.  After I was done eating the rings, I opened up the burger only to find that it was sans fromage!  That’s ‘without cheese’ for you non-french-speaking readers.  I was aghast! “My cheese! Where’s my cheese!”  I screamed to no one in particular.  “I want it my way!” Just kidding, I didn’t say any of that.  I re-wrapped the evidence and presented it as exhibit ‘A’ to the BK person to rectify.  I also watched in dismay as he threw it in the garbage!  “And you couldn’t ask me if I wanted it?”  I thought to myself.  No kidding this time, I did think that.  All I wanted was cheese added to the burger.  He didn’t have to toss it out.  I wouldn’t have complained if he had opened it up and slap a piece of reluctant cheese in the thing.  Cuz I’m cool like that.  But no, he dumped it out without offering it to me first.  To make matters worse, I was still a bit hungry after eating the replacement whopper. Not happy.  Is that what the king would have done? Do he know that there are starving bloggers out there?  Starving blog readers even?

Quite an eventful lunch break you’ll agree.  Again, I apologize for yesterday’s post.  lol.  I won’t even link to it here.

Scent Of A Woman

Fasten your seatbelts folks, this ain’t no movie review.  To some, it might get downright disgusting.  So stop now if you are easily disgusted, especially by smelly parts.  Today, we are going to talk a bit about women and their smell.  Well to be more accurate, the smell of their womanhood.  Or ladyhood. Whatever.

I am not taking sole responsibility for waking up this topic.  No ma’am.  It wasn’t me.  I was minding my own business reading about the Boston bombing on the puter when I absent-mindedly clicked on a link that took me to a topic that read. ‘The answer to every woman’s question:  What is it supposed to smell like down there.’

Now before you ask, “Why were you reading it, you are not a woman.”  I know I am not a woman and don’t have a ‘down there’ but as I ‘eat’ down there, I figured that I should at least be interested in what and where I eat. (Sorry about the ‘eat’ thing.  I assumed we are all adults here).  So I basically wanted to find out what exactly my food should smell like so I dove right in.  No use beating around the bush.  (Again, I am sorry if I come off crude).

What did I learn?  I learned that Vaginas are not supposed to smell like roses.  But also not supposed to smell like rotten fish either.  Somewhere in between is where is should be.  So a rose with a faint fish smell should be ok. Or even a fish with a rosie smell is fine too.

Interestingly, there was a paragraph on how a woman can tell if she has an odor.  I was expecting it to be, ‘If your man refuses to put his lips close to your rose petals, even though you have a mistletoe hanging in front of it, you might have an odor problem’.  Or even, “If your man puts on a gas mask before he ventures down under, do a smell test.”

Women, did you know that you could and should measure your vagina’s ph level?  I didn’t either.  I wonder what color it turns the ph paper? Some overly eager guys have used their penis as a ph paper and test many a foul-smelling vagina and from what I have heard, it turns them red.  Don’t hate.  I said ‘so I heard.’

I will leave you girls to go read it yourself.  You might learn something.  Me, I am going to eat.  Food silly!

And hey, if you have a strong odor, don’t be too worried. Just leave it.  It makes it easier for the dogs to find you if you ever get lost in the woods.  See?  It’s not all doom and gloom.

Friday Folly: Don’t Let My Pastor Know

Today’s edition of Friday Folly is a deviation from me having fun at the expense of those with reduced brain cells.  Today, it’s all about me.  I need to make a confession of sort.

The thing is, as a God-fearing Christian, I am worried that one day my pastor would accidentally find my blog (the way he accidentally found that gay porn site) and read it, thus finding out that I am not who I said I am but more than what I said I am.  I don’t want that! Heaven’s no!  He mustn’t know that as he preaches in church, I stare at him while I distractedly wonder what I should blog about in my next post.  Sorry Pastor.

Could you imagine him reading my blog about my boner on the massage table?  My love for yoga pants? Or even my confessions about banging my friends?  There are more, lots more. He just cannot read them!

I really hope that the God I serve has a sense of humor about all this.  God you know that I’m happily married and won’t tap an ass unless I put a ring on it.  I think I am a good guy.  Today, I even held the door open for a lady who was walking behind me.  Her being a hot blonde had nothing to do with it.  Checking out her ass as she walked ahead of me was pure accidental and instinctive. It meant squat.  No no, I don’t mean she got her hot ass from doing squats, I meant me checking out her bum meant nothing.  So you see, I am a nice guy.

Some of you follow my blog and like what I write about. If you want to see this continue, then please don’t let my pastor know!

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You. Want Me. To Kill You? Wtf!

th (2)I was reading a blog about Assisted Suicide a couple of days ago and was thinking a bit about it lately.  I really don’t understand the concept behind it.  So help me here.  Someone wants to end their miserable and hopeless life but doesn’t want to look like the bad guy so they get some poor ‘killer’ to help them?  Is that what it’s about?  You hire a killer to off you because you are too much of a wimp to do it yourself?  Hmmm…I see.

Well for those who are thinking of ‘going out’ in this way, please don’t do like this lady in the blog, here and travel overseas just to get some guy to pass you a glass of the eternal sleep mix. You can get this shit taken care of right outside your door.  Go walking late at night in a rough neighborhood.  Get your wheelchair stuck on a train track.  Go to your local hospital. There is stuff right in your house just waiting to be utilized.

Remember, it’s not ‘assisted’ if you are not as assisting.  You can’t lie there and let someone do all the work and still call it assisted suicide.  That’s murder!  He just murdered your ass!  Plain and simple.  How did you assist him in murdering you? By saying, “Hey, pass me a drink of your most potent stuff.  Yes! You idiot! Of course I’m talking about poison!  Can’t you see I’m trying to die here?’ Is that your input in the Assisted Suicide process?

th (3)





For those of you hopeless souls who think euthanasia is great and the best way to die with dignity, think again.  I prefer to call it weak.  A slap in the face of those living with disabilities. Those who haven’t given up hope.  Those who came back from the brink of death to see their doctor’s hand reaching for the cord.

Maybe you should reconsider this assisted suicide thing.