What did you just call me?!!

I don't know much about Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Based on this conversation she's an obnoxious idiot. She does make one valid point, although by making it in such an offensive manner she stomps on the value and makes herself a target for outrage rather than an instructor. If you want to make it clear to others that calling you by a certain name offends you, don't then call yourself that same name. Confusing to fools, a huge opening for jerks. Yes, intent is key. Yes, two people can use same word in very different ways. But why provide excuse for confusion even if it's fake confusion? If I chose to call myself an asshole I'd have a weak argument getting pissed at someone else for calling me an asshole. Simple logic. Everyone knows blacks who habitually use N word don't mean same thing by it as head of KKK. Still, it gives bigots opening to feign ignorance.

~~~

I do wonder how someone who listens to this woman & has phone # for her show doesn’t know that's the type of answer she'd give. Not giving Laura an excuse to be obnoxious since she already gave herself convenient one, but it is rather curious.

~~~

If it's okay for a black person to say a word but not cool for white person to say it, that's endorsing inequality, just as vice versa would be. Demanding equal rights & special privileges simultaneously is a form of hypocrisy. If a word offends ANYONE, even if not you personally, don't use it. e.g. The C word that rhymes with hunt doesn't offend me personally, but you won't hear me saying it casually because I know people who hate it.

~~~

One of these days my petition to have the N-word refer to NUBIAN rather than what it currently refers to will be realized. #KeepingHopeAlive Biggest problem I suppose is that current usage of N-word rhymes with a lot (trigger, figure, bigger, dig her). WTF does nubian rhyme with?

~~~

Sarcasm aside, the fact that blacks fight with other blacks over appropriateness of N-word is sufficient reason to abolish it. Why promote division from within? How can you focus on being angry at another race (if that's your thing) if you keep getting tripped up by members of your own? #Think

~~~

I doubt any habitual users of the N-word who happen upon this blog entry will be convinced to cease and desist. They believe they have every right to vocalize their re-interpreted version of a word that hurts and angers us more than any other when spoken by non-blacks. Now surely what people have the right to do and what they SHOULD do are not one and the same. Nevertheless, experience has taught me that people usually remain entrenched in initial opinions until something dramatic happens to alter their perspective. Strength of conviction is good, but inability to concede there are valid points other than yours equals refusal to learn what you don't already "know".

~~~

I don't listen to radio/TV shock jocks yet suppose they serve purpose of shedding light on opinions that are not exclusive to them, but disturbingly common. Eliminating N-word would not solve myriad problems. But like the election of a certain President not too long ago it would have meaning & be a start. Every long journey needs the initial steps. I always side with freedom of speech, which includes the right to insult yourself. I just wish people weren't so eager to insult themselves. I don't claim to be more enlightened than anyone. I just know I'd rather be called Mr. Pickering or Roy than nigg**.

~~~

All being equal I might say self-deprecate away. But even the most optimistic don't claim all is now equal, so proceed with caution. After all, people who brag on themselves are sometimes believed, somtimes not. But people who insult themselves are always believed. "Freedom is the right to tell people what they do not want to hear." - George Orwell

~~~

I suspect that by quitting her job, Dr. Laura is purposely drawing attention to herself as promotion for an upcoming project, call me #Cynic. She's a fool that may serve a useful purpose though. If a black person said what she said, minimum attention is paid. White person does, ears perk up.

~~~

I don't care if black people stop using N-word out of pride or to spite a foolish white woman, so long as they stop #MissionAccomplished. It's often more effective to shock people into action by being offensive than convincing them by teaching/preaching. C'est la vie.

~~~

Americans have right to free speech & all Americans have right to the same words. Sorry if this upsets you but that's how it goes, folks. I can say fuck/bitch/cunt/shit/nigger/dago/kike/etc. You can of course be offended. You can unfollow/block/respond, but not silence me. Censorship is unpatriotic.

~~~

Yet there are limits to free speech. You can't shout fire in a crowded movie theater or niggers in a movie theater in Harlem. Endangers people. So yes, Dr. Laura has right to say N-word. Yes, she should reserve her right NOT to say it because she knows it's offensive. Simple stuff made complicated by emotional response. People have the right to say N-word & mean "something different & inoffensive" by it. People also have right to find this hypocritical. A rose by any other name...Words hurt as much as we allow them to. N-word is not really worth defending by anyone of any race really. I'll defend your right to say most anything because that's what being an American is about. But some things I wish nobody was compelled to say.

~~~

As for those who support how Dr. Laura chooses to exercise the freedom of speech guaranteed to all of us by First Amendment such as @SarahPalinUSA - Hi Sarah. Please keep saying whatever it takes to make you increasingly irrelevant & unelectable. But I can't work myself into a lather over latest displays of ignorance by Palins-Becks-Limbaughs etc. of the world. They're simply doing what they do.

xxx

xxx

Sorry if anyone was offended by salty language of my rant. Necessary to make my point.

.@jemelehill said somebody needs to make a n-word debate bingo board, so of course we had to do it!!! pic.twitter.com/qyqMiIF4vM

— The Undefeated (@TheUndefeated) August 17, 2018

AMARETTO KISSES

AMARETTO KISSES

BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.
Copyright by Roy L. Pickering Jr.

She took me in with emerald eyes, slanted ever so slightly from a partial Asian ancestry. Her tongue habitually licked her pouty lips whenever she was about to smile, and each time I imagined those lips in the location and activity of my choosing. They say a woman knows well in advance of the proposition if she will sleep with someone. I strongly believe this to be true. I can’t make a woman’s mind up for her, but I usually know what she has decided far before she officially informs me. My radar picks up the slightest indication of desirous inclinations. A touch on the elbow, a lilt in her laughter, the directness of a gaze, the subtle whisper of invitation beneath her words. Or sometimes not so subtle.

“Come on, let’s get out of here”, she said.

It was then that I received my first taste of Lola's amaretto kisses.

Her apartment was just up the street. We went there to explore one another, to see if what we'd find would hold up to the exquisiteness of what was promised. It did. So much so that I remained for three days. Three days of raucous love making that left me spent and supremely satisfied.

Playtime is always too brief. Reality invariably intervenes to stake its claim on one's priorities. Enough was enough. I returned home to settle the argument with my wife in a more civilized manner than walking out.

Vanessa and I are quite the pair. When we disagree, which is often, no one fights like us. When times are good, no one loves like we do. We each serve as a magnet to the other's fiercest passions. She courses through my veins, infecting my bloodstream with a sweet poison to which there is no antidote.

In the past I had exchanged relationships at a faster rate than I switched television channels. Only the slightest provocation was required to call it quits. On one occasion after another I would suddenly and irrevocably decide that time was up on my liaison of the moment.

Vanessa changed all that. I could not get enough of her. The craving was a phenomenon beyond logical explanation, unless one gives credence to that fairy tale notion known as love.

I opened the door to our home with the scent of Lola seemingly still clinging to me in spite of a shower and cologne. My wife lay naked in the middle of the living room, a sight to behold, beauty beyond comprehension, clearly lifeless. In a daze I dropped to my knees and crawled forward, the shag carpet feeling like ten thousand razor blades.

Who could have dared to destroy such perfection? Our home appeared undisturbed, nothing of value removed. Not even Vanessa’s engagement ring had been taken from the finger I had so recently placed it upon. But if robbery was not the explanation, what else could account for how this horror came to be? My wife had no enemies. Who would choose to be the foe of an angel? Only the devil himself.

I cradled Vanessa's limp form, kissed her fervently, sobbed prayers of desperation. But neither my lips nor my tears possessed the power to resuscitate.

The kiss sobered me sufficiently to begin thinking straight. I would be blamed. The whole building knew of our altercations, could not help but overhear our heated disputes. I am six foot four inches tall; two hundred and forty muscled pounds; with searing eyes that gaze straight forwardly from a cleanly shaved, ebony skull. My mostly Caucasian neighbors instinctively perceive me as menacing. Their stares never mask the disapproval they feel of one of their own; a five foot three inch, one hundred and five pound, blonde haired and blue eyed white girl; living and loving with the likes of me. I would have to grieve later. First things first. I needed to get in touch with my alibi.

It seemed the cab I took missed not a single red light. Every driver in front of us was determined to keep their miles per hour in single digits. Finally I arrived at Lola's apartment and began knocking on the door. Ten seconds later a man stood before me, wondering who I was and what I wanted. Over his shoulder I spied Lola on the couch, staring at me with shock and worry. Immediately the situation grew apparent. This man was her husband, come back from wherever he had been. I had no alibi. What I had in my hands, on my shoulders, in my lap, was a heap of trouble.

What I needed was time to think. Once Vanessa's murder was discovered, the cops would be all over me. They would naturally assume I had done it, and use their brutish tactics to force a confession which matched their conclusion. The cops I could handle, having dealt with their legally authorized brand of racist terrorism on more than one unpleasant occasion. Badges, clubs and guns didn't intimidate me. But I knew sufficient evidence could be gathered to put me on trial, where my chances of proving innocence would be slim.

I returned home, entering as conspicuously as a shadow and proceeded to do the unimaginable. I placed Vanessa's body into the bathtub. Disregarding the memory of her submerged in bubbles upon which rose petals floated; her glorious face illuminated by candle light; sipping a glass of Moet as the music of Vivaldi massaged her senses; I commenced to hacking her into pieces with a miter saw and butcher knife and placing each chunk of flesh into a garbage bag. It was tougher work physically than anticipated. As for the emotional challenge, mourning and revulsion had to be put aside. I operated in strict self preservation mode. Before removing my wife's head from her torso I caressed the bruises on her neck. They were no doubt caused by the choking hands that had ended her life. When all was done, I tied the dark green bag shut on what had been my world.

Much cleaning up was required. I began washing away the gallons of blood, working quickly and efficiently, performing as if my life had been spent in preparation for such mortifying acts. I was beyond shock, beyond fear, in a morally comatose state which allowed me to move as purposeful as a well trained soldier.

Three hours later I sit in an airport lounge awaiting my flight to exile. Vanessa has been carefully and permanently disposed of. We are both pulling disappearing acts, neither of our paths traceable. A part of me insists that I feel some measure of guilt, but I am certain I can drink this part into submission. The death of my wife was a tragedy. For me to take the fall, to be condemned by strangers for destroying what was most sacred to me, would just make two tragedies. No point to that. Vanessa's spirit would not be able to rest easy if on top of the heavy duty of coping with her loss, I was also blamed and punished for her unfortunate passing.

I continue to drink my spare time away but soon find an accompanying diversion. A lovely young lady sits next to me, starts up a conversation which grows increasingly intimate. Her feline orbs are topped by mile long lashes. Her skin is the same tone and seemingly identical texture to maple syrup. Immediately I make plans to immerse myself in her sweet, sticky stuff.

“So where are you off to?” I ask.

“I’m headed back home to Austin.”

“What a coincidence. I’m going there as well. I was offered a great job. I suppose I’ll be pretty lonely at first, since I won’t know a soul.”

“You know me”, says Sharon, her voice a little slurred from the cocktails she’s been imbibing to settle her nerves for the flight ahead.

“I’m beginning to. And we do have a long flight to get much better acquainted.”

“I just hate to fly. I know the fear is somewhat irrational. The odds are greater of being killed in a car accident, or slipping in your bathtub. So they say, anyway. But that doesn’t make me any less nervous.”

“Fortunately you have a new friend to help make the flight go a little easier”, I say. “I’m great at distracting.”

“Sounds promising.”

Next thing I know our tongues are exploring the inside of one another's mouths. The taste I come upon is familiar, remindful of the recent past. Succulent, tantalizing, irresistible amaretto kisses. My memory floods so quickly that it gives me an immediate, sharp headache.

I should have walked away from Lola's door. It would not have been difficult to stammer a quickly conceived fib about having the wrong address. But I panicked. I needed an alibi to prove my innocence of Vanessa’s murder. Lola's secret from her husband would have to be revealed, my liberty was at stake. I had no choice but to truthfully state my purpose.

Ideally there would have been a more civilized manner in which to handle the whole tawdry affair. Once tempers flared and the situation grew hectic, it became obvious that control was necessary. So I took it. I quelled matters before they went from bad to worse, not bothering to clean up afterwards because I had no intention of sticking around long enough to be connected to Lola by the bartender and a couple observant alcoholics upon questioning.

It's funny how certain events can slip one's mind until another scarcely related happening sends it spiraling backwards. Not until I was through hacking Lola and hubby to death with the butcher knife I’d held on to in my gloved hands for safe keeping did I realize that she was not a valid alibi after all. We actually met each other more than an hour after my wife's death. I knew this now because the precise time and reason and cause of Vanessa's execution had crept to the top of my consciousness. What I was certain my neighbors would falsely believe and the cops would erroneously suspect, turned out to be in fact, the truth. It was I who choked Vanessa to death, directly after making frantic love to her on our living room floor.

I had grown mighty curious about the many hours spent by Vanessa in front of our computer terminal. The evidence I unearthed proved my suspicions to be well founded. At least her adultery was not yet one of the flesh, but still confined to sweet nothings typed on screen. Each romantic declaration found in the emails they sent one another was now branded on my skull. I had to determine if it was possible to reclaim Vanessa's roaming heart.

But in the argument which ensued after I made love to her one last time, my hands somehow wound up around her throat. My actions seemed too strange to be anything but the product of an overworked imagination. This could not be reality. It had to be a macabre nightmare from which I was finally awakened by the scent of perfume drifting in the air of an unfamiliar tavern as a beautiful woman sat in the stool next to mine. I have yet to figure out how I get from place to place during my occasional black outs, but more often than not my feet guide me to a place where alcohol is being served and women are generously partaking.

Now that the full story has been told you probably look upon me as a monster. It is easy for you to sit back in judgment. If I dwelled upon these heinous deeds, perhaps I too would be horrified. The very act of continuing to live would grow unbearable. Which is why I don't look back. I simply clean up all traces of the past as best I can, and then move forward. I head to the only place where relief can be found, the beautiful state of intoxication, though it is only temporary salvation. Eventually I will find myself with someone else's blood to wash from my hands. Though I may once again say "never again", I can't seem to make the oath stick. I am no stranger to airport lounges, another city and identity awaiting me. Again I will fall in love and I will have to grow used to a woman moaning the latest name I’ve assumed to stay incognito. Again something will happen to ruin it, and to deal with the pain my darker impulses will take over. Only my death will terminate the cycle, but I am nowhere near ready to die just yet.

I refuse to ponder further such morbid thoughts. Euphoria inducing spirits are swishing around delightfully in my head. The headache has faded as quickly as it arrived and I’m now feeling better than ever before in my life. After all, I am delighting in a beautiful stranger's sweet amaretto kisses. What more could a man ask for? What more could I possibly need?

~~~

~~~

THE END

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Are You Ready For Some...Contract Renegotiating?

Those of you who follow this blog (yeah, both of you) know that while I may venture to the topic of sports somewhat frequently, when I do so it’s to comment on an issue that transcends the games themselves. I’m not a play-by-play guy, hold minimal interest in chronicling happenings that take place in every city on every team each and every season. I may follow the minutiae of football and basketball and boxing and tennis because of my passion for them, but this doesn’t mean I care to report on the daily grind that others already do quite adequately. I only raise my voice and pen if I feel there’s something unique and compelling about a situation. My two cents are always at the ready, but I try to use discretion with offering them.

There is very little one-of-a-kindness to Darrelle Revis holding out for a new contract from the New York Jets rather than fulfilling the obligations of the one he’s currently working under. Every year in each professional team sport there are a number of athletes who want to renegotiate their contracts. Rather than waiting until they become free agents, if they’re coming off a big year they opt to capitalize while the getting is good and their bargaining power is at its peak. If this sounds a tad unreasonable of them, I suppose we should keep in mind that they can be traded to undesirable locales at any point management decides more bang for their bucks can be obtained from someone else. Even in the case of coddled superstars, when they’re nearing the end of their careers and their talents are on the decline, they are suddenly seen as expendable when just a few years earlier they were treated like royalty. The modern day athlete has concluded it makes the most sense to be primarily loyal to self. Athletic careers are short, especially in a rock-em sock-em game like football, so players need to make as much as they can as fast as they can before their run is over. For every athlete with a post retirement plan (coaching, broadcasting, starting a business while flush with cash to put into it, or perhaps actually entering the career his college major was to prepare him for in case the sports thing didn’t work out), there are many more who come up with no better plan than to make as much as possible in their playing careers and hope it won’t run out before the ultimate retirement.

Since this scenario is so commonplace, why am I writing about Revis’ tussle with the holders of purse strings for the Jets? First, because this is my beloved Jets we’re talking about. Second, because Darrelle Revis is a phenomenal talent. Only so many of those come around, a pretty small percentage end up in green and white. Third, the Jets look as good coming into this season as ever, their future no less promising than it appeared back in 1999 when they were supposed to follow up a trip to the AFC championship game with one to the Super Bowl. Jets fans know all too well how that worked out and why things fell apart. Over a decade later and we find ourselves in the same situation, fresh off a trip to the AFC championship, poised to take the next big step so long as nothing goes wrong. Revis holding out for the season would definitely qualify as something going terribly wrong.

If only there was no pesky salary cap to consider, the Jets organization could simply follow the blueprint laid out by the Yankees and spend what needed to be spent to secure the best available talent. What does that get you? A championship about once every four years, that’s what. Yet even with a salary cap in place, dynasties are possible when talent is combined with smart decision making. Several NFL franchises have managed to field repeat champions, but the Jets sadly are not among them. They won it all in 1969, Super Bowl III, a mighty long time ago. If the long delayed trip down the road to glory is to finally be traveled upon once more, surely the Jets need to be at full strength. They can’t afford for the guy who is clearly their top player on either side of the ball to sit this dance out. But the longer negotiating drags, the more difficult it becomes to believe things will work themselves out for the best.

Most Jets fans aren’t rooting for Revis to get every last dime he’s asking for, nor are they pulling for ownership to put him in his place. They just want this dilemma to be worked out fast so that come opening day Gang Green will be operating at full capacity. Those who say different (no shortage of opinions being given on Twitter and Facebook) are either shell shocked from years of frustration and are now venting incoherently, or else they aren’t real Jets fans, or knowledgeable football fans for that matter. Anybody who has paid any attention to the sport knows how few and far between cornerbacks of Darrelle Revis’ caliber are, just as they know how difficult it is to put together a legitimate championship contender in the NFL. Sure, the Jets might still be fairly good without Revis. But with him they have the potential to be great, and nothing less than greatness will do this year for long suffering fans. Jets fans thinking about the situation at all rationally desperately want Revis’ services to be retained, but not at so high a cost that they can’t afford to place quality pieces around him going forward. If overpaying him means the team is not able to maintain sufficient talent where needed elsewhere, the future will not look exceptionally bright. The Jets may be screwed short term if they don’t make Revis happy, screwed long term if they give up too much to bring that happiness about. If you have a win now at all costs mindset (which the Jets themselves seemed to possess with acquisition of well past prime players such as Jason Taylor and LaDainian Tomlinson) then the answer is simple - pay the man what he wants. Compromise is necessary if a dynasty is the goal. If neither party is willing to bend, hope is lost before the season even begins. At least in 1999 Jets fans were able to make it to Week 1 filled with optimism before it was cruelly dashed.

My advice to Mr. Revis is to look at guys like Alex Rodriquez and LeBron James, superstars who invited scorn and ridicule from fans that once idolized them by attempting to make themselves bigger than the game rather than allowing the fans to inflate them the way they did with Babe Ruth, Michael Jordan, and the Jets’ own Joe Namath. Let the people declare you king, don’t put the throne upon your own head. That might work out fine in individual sports such as boxing where a charismatic guy like Muhammad Ali could effectively proclaim himself to be the greatest, but part of what fans value in athletes who play team sports is an ability to be a team player. And in the defense of A-Rod and LeBron, they at least pulled off their shenanigans when free agents. The Mets did their best to make Rodriquez look like a jerk when he pulled his diva routine on them, perhaps recognizing he was merely using them to gain greater leverage with the Yankees, but A-Rod did most of the work. By the time it was his turn to be busted as a steroid abuser there was little sympathy to be found. And LeBron single handedly transformed from icon to punch line while taking himself out of NBA GOAT consideration with “The Decision”. Take my talents to Miami indeed. The lesson learned? Handle your business quietly and respectfully, and if others choose to make a lot of noise about it, so be it.

Revis should not foolishly alter his image from spectacularly talented yet impressively humble guy to yet another Me First Schumuck so long as the Jets are trying to do reasonably right by him. Brett Favre doesn’t need any more competition in the largest ego category. It’s still possible for Darelle to remain likeable, be highly compensated for what he does exceptionally well, and to possibly win one or more Super Bowl rings in the bargain. From this endorsement deals will flow and money will be the least of his problems. That is how sports legends are created. Revis deserves to get as much as he can get, but also needs to recognize when enough is enough, that it’s time to stop being a businessman attempting a hostile takeover and resume being a football player. And whatever he does from here on out, I’d highly advise staying far away from the Latrell Sprewell “I need to feed my family” card. It simply doesn't look so hot on a millionaire. If this hand is played right by the participants, everybody in Jetsdom can be a big winner. If played wrong then everybody involved loses yet again, and the chorus shouting SAME OLD JETS will grow louder. The thing Jets fans desire most is for their team to avoid finding yet another new way to screw things up.

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