August 20, 2010

No Bones About It . . . (too much?)

Hey y’all hey (OMFG – is that shit my tagline? Fuck it, I guess there are worse things, right? Yes, thank you. Moving on . . . ) How have you been? I hope this summer and our rapidly depleting Ozone (is that shit capitalized – pretty sure Al Gore’s infatuation with the Ozone warrants it to be a proper noun at this point) layer is getting you all good and bronze. Skin cancer? One word, two syllables: mys-tic. Nothing is more offensive than parading around porcelain white skin during my birthday season.

So, by now, we’ve come to know each other rather intimately (for those of you I don’t know intimately enough, i.e. “biblically” – shoot me a text or set off some smoke signals after 2AM EST, and I’ll take care of that for you, truth.) and to be honest, I like it. A lot. As is the case with any good friendship, we know a whole hell of a lot about each other, and yes, you’re welcome for that electronic birthday card that was less than fourteen days late. Just like I know your birthday (sort-of) by heart (we should both know that “heart” means “Facebook Reminders,” obvi – I’m only human, don’t judge!) each of you is well aware that I have based, currently model and will continue to form most of my sentiments, morals and thoughts about life on really fucking amazing songs (Grammy-winning and otherwise). When you’ve seen what I’ve seen and been where I’ve been, you know that not ever singer/songwriter is going to knock it out of the park with every single they release (or, if you’re “urban” substitute the word ‘drop’) – by now I’ve learned that not every tune is going to hit me like Britney Spears’ “Toxic” or touch my soul like any- and everything Michael Jackson ever put out. That’s fine – I get it. To make a long story longer – and hopefully bring this shit full circle (because I have no intention of trying to free Weezy – in this post, at least) – Sting is a motherfucking . . . oracle (does that word make sense there? I sure hope so – my editor is pussyfooting around in America’s heartland). In one of his chart-topping hits (can’t remember the name and I sure as fuck don’t have the album in my compact disc collection . . . for some reason “Fields of Gold” rings a bell . . .) he sings about loving something and letting it go and if it comes back its yours and all that ridiculous bullshit. The point is – although I don’t really follow that mantra in my real life – I do with blog topics, which brings us to where we are currently. I first read about this whole concept of “familial DNA” like a month ago and for some reason (probably because I’ve spent the majority of my time laying out and trying to find the perfect lip-stain, believe it or not, those things aren’t as mentally taxing for me as they would be for someone like . . . well, you, offense.) I keep coming back to it. So, let’s discuss.

At this point, y’all also know how good of a detective I’ve become. I’ve solved the Black Dahlia case, fight crime in the slums of North Carolina (also known as “Durham”), and am so fucking good at solving SVU episodes its scary (in an amazing way, duh). In addition, I know we share a moral concern for ridding the world of any form of racism or racial profiling or __________ (fill in that blank for me – I’m in a rush). Now, before we go too much further, please realize that I fucking hate serial killers – I mean who doesn’t (those of you that don’t probably are on my “watch list” of people who would love to make me into a skin coat on a shitty plastic hanger – creepy.) Now that we are definitely on the same page – you all probably haven’t heard that the “Grim Sleeper” was apprehended in California (big fucking surprise there – we all know Cali is home of society greats, like Snoop Dogg, and pretty much every criminal ever – at least, it is for the intents and purposes of this post). Anyway, like me, I know now that you’ve heard that news you’re placing an immediate call to the Govenator and joining me in a resounding “You Go Girl!” However – as I kind of read the nitty-gritty on, methinks I smell a rat. Allow me to go on. Turns out the only reason they got this guy was by matching his son’s genetic material left in an interview room to DNA from cold cases (or where ever it was – IDK, I haven’t had time to read the whole article, so sue me!). The fuzz elaborated by saying they took DNA from a pizza crust, fork and napkin left by homeboy’s son – who OF COURSE was in the clink being investigated for smoking pot or gangbanging or some shit – typical. I mean, let’s just take a second here – a pizza crust? A napkin? A motherfucking fork? Are they describing the arrest of Joe Pesci or any of the cast memmmbahhhhhs of the shit-TV show “Jersey Shore”? Give me a fucking break, LAPD (or where ever in that state you’re located – LAPD just sounds way better, right?) if you had taken the DNA off a chicken wing (or “chicken whaaaaaaang” if you must) you might have be in a more believing position. First off, I can say black people don’t even like pizza, let alone use a fork and napkin. Get real. Something isn’t right about this apprehension and I sure as hell hope that Jesse Jackson or some other champion of equality takes this cause up – it’s all way too ridic. I’m going to continue to delve into this business and will hopefully be able to bring you some sunshine next time we speak. I’m not making any promises though, that’s for sure. Something about this whole “familial DNA” just isn’t right – it doesn’t sit well with me. It’s certainly fishy at best - and not deep fried and served with a side of greenz (which would obvi make it totes okay) . . . don’t fret – I’ll be the first to keep you abreast (I could obvi do another chicken bit – but it’s time to start icing – apologies in advance!).