Facebook Status | Epic Fail

Once again the irresistible, balls-out allure of the Facebook status brings a "higher-up" down to earth.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41238375/ns/local_news-new_orleans_la/

The offender this hour happens to be an officer of the court in my home town. If you failed to access the link above because you already know I'm gonna make it WAY more entertaining anyway, this is what you should have known by now: Child support hearing officer, Bill Dunckleman after presiding over (the now disgruntled and complainant) Larry Luther's case in his court, posted this status on his Facebook page

"Just had a fellow leave child support court. He works as a bouncer and has twenty-three children! Of course he gets paid cash and thus pays no taxes. I think he needs another job as he has way too much time on his hands! What do you think?"

Barring the fact that this was the dumbest thing you could do as a Parish official and that he's at least 50 years-old so his fool ass should know better than to play Facebook games... does the man not make a damn good point? I would imagine that self-venerated Senor Luther wouldn't even WANT to come forward because quite frankly he oughtta not have time to do so with 23 chillun. Oh wait... that's why yo ass is in child support court ain't it? Because you don't have to really deal with em directly, just most imminently. I'm surprised he can even keep count! I feel like the issue here isn't that he felt his rights as a citizen were violated, because seriously, sir, if you got 23 kids you have a slew of baby mamas on Facebook who have booked you PLENTY worse and DEM'OHS most likely didn't have the decency to keep your name out of it.

How bout we just keep it real "Larry Luther" (two first names)? Just hustler to playa, between you and me. First of all, you feel played that this white man with authority got the one-up on ya. It would piss me off too if my judge and jury had the nerve to sprinkle even more salt on my self-inflicted wounds. Second of all, you just want to raise a stink in the hopes that you can run Terrebonne Parish through the ringer and make yourself some duty-free scrilla to help you feed some of them hungry mouths'a yern. If you hop up on that lump sum you can shut up some of those baby mamas and maybe even find yourself a brand new one.

If any of you think I'm being judgemental, please answer me this: If YOU had 23 chillun wouldn't YOU want to come up as fast as you could? I'd do ANYTHING to shut up that many baby mamas. I'd even sob uncontrollably on WDSU just to make sure they feel my sorry little plight. I'd sell that shit like I was one of Jerry's Kids. I might even go Antoine Dobson on 'em: "Block ya Facebook! Block ya Twitter AND ya MySpace cause I'm suin' E'ERBODY out'cha! Now run n'status DAT homeboy!" I would be an overnight YouTube sensation. "Dig Johnny Cochran up cause I'm going IN on Terrebonne Parish like it was L.A. in 1995!" Oh yes. They would feel me...

But on the strength though bruh... wrap up your salami before you hang it out. PLEASE. Not for you or that misguided woman or girl who would gladly let you raw dog her. Do it for that child who you could spare a life of government assistance, neglect and embitterment by being just a little more responsible in the moment.

To close I understand that when it comes to social networking many of us take it too far. Hell, I do it everyday and have gotten to be very good at it. The point is you gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away and when to run... Okay that's not the point but here it is: Just shut the fuck up when you know you have something serious to lose by opening your mouth... OR your Facebook profile.

On Censorship...

For the greater part of my existence I have been leading the life of a circumstantial chameleon. I have excelled in the art of social adaptation by becoming a different person according to my surroundings. When in the company of the general public I'm outspoken and unapologetic. With more familiar company I am equally fiery just with a lighter heart and a calmer spirit. With my family (namely my mother)... the brizzle most of you know that doesn't really give a fuck about what she says, is much more reserved and measured with her words. I'm not a fan of that particular shade of Deanna, nor am I proud of her, but this is what I must do. It would be disrespectful to be as brash and crude in the presence of my "elders", so out of respect and a need for peace in my environment, I have maintained a subdued persona for the duration of my stay with them.

While I have been successful in my shape-shifting in the quiet of these suburban walls, I have found that when venturing beyond them I'm still not safe from the judgement within. In coming face to face with that reality after running from it for upwards of 25 years, I have collided with the conclusion that the real Deanna will find me wherever I may lay. She found me this morning at approximately 7:03AM when my mother came in my room to scold me for being "an angry, bitter, vulgar, ignorant racist" after Googling me and stumbling upon my unlocked Twitter page. (Yes, my mother Googled me, my sister and her niece and nephew.) As for her assertions I'd be lying if I didn't say I had my objections to them. Vulgar? I'll most def take that charge. Ignorant? I guess we all are on our own terms, so who am I to escape the remark? Angry? Yes. Quite and violent too. Bitter? Don't even know how that's supposed to feel really so I can't claim it. Racist? Naw. Not really. Especially since her characterization comes from the fact that I used the word "nigga" in quite general terms with no direction at any particular party, I think she may have missed the mark on that one.

Nonetheless, she is entitled to her opinions about me and my character--possibly more so than anyone else. I just hope she realizes that when I leave the next time, whatever Deanna she has come to know will be gone for good. I enjoy being me too much to have to hide it from anybody, even moms. She may not like Deanna but I love every drop of that bitch. I love all the political incorrectness, the drinkin', the cussin', the "Ya'll niggas don't have to fuck wit me cause I'm one deep" outlook, the idiosyncratic feminism, the hard-partying, the hard-working, the big dreaming, the bluntness, the crassness, the verbosity, the vivacity, the tenacity, the bawdiness, the cynicism, the loyalty, the intensity, the impulse, the good, the bad and the ugly.

And bitch I betcha you ain't neva seen another one like it...

The Ride | The Game

Unfortunately for this world and for my own emotional success, I was born with a miserable need to be direct. This condition of mine makes for an certain ease of engagement when it comes to the general public but thus far has not been very helpful in my relations with the "men folk." Sure it gets the intended result when I just wanna bone, but when more profound sentiments are involved, I am always derailed by my pursuit of the more expedient tracks to courtship. To the merit of my would-be suitors, I will say that I do move with haste when it comes to matters of the heart, and I'm sure that can prove a bit unnerving when caught unawares. But I only act so decisively because I know what I like and what I don't. If I want ya, then nigga I want ya. If I don't then move out my way so I can holla at ya homeboy and DON'T hate. How long am I supposed to wait before I tell the rare 5% of all men I encounter that "I would love to do way more with you than just beat headboards on walls?" My timing or lack of it is often wrong (as the methods of my disclosure have little use for patience) and I wind up sending yet another indecisive, pensive, long-tarrying Negro running and screaming like he's on fire.


There once was a time in my life when I proceeded without pause in such matters despite the threat of such an unfavorable outcome but with age comes an inclination toward calculation. Unfortunately, my mouth hasn't quite jumped on board with that whole "think before you speak" jive. So instead of the easy bluntness I used to express, I am now relegated to stifled expressions of marked nervousness and hesitation. In effect, I look like a neurotic fool, at least that's how I perceive myself as I hover transcendentally over the situation shaking my head in shame and covering my eyes as though I were watching "Saw" and not my own regrettable life. "What the fuck is up with you lately?" is the question I ask myself, who is unaware that I am looming and reproaching overhead. "That's not me. That can't be me. That bitch right there, nigga? That bitch is a mess." And as I continue to loathe the uneasy, forced display transpiring beneath me, I know that, truthfully, I have nothing beneficial to impart. Basically, I'm coaching from my couch--judging every play but can't come up with a better one. With the realization that I cannot save myself further embarrassment from any vantage point, I am absorbed back into my body, racked with jitters of anticipation, rejection and disappointment. "Ugh. Bitch..."


Now, with no admirers or affinities to tempt my tongue, I wonder how the next scenario will play out. By then, I hope that I will have gained the knowledge necessary to play the game with the same competitive vigor as those others who seem to have mastered the sport of modern day courtship. I might be long past the days of Parlor Rooms and Chaperons but I haven't quite caught up with the era of Club Hook-Ups and BlackPeopleMeet. Maybe I've evolved too far beyond those venues as well for there is no honesty there--only lies wrapped tight in mini bandage skirts and sweater vests and bow ties (clips-ons I assume); masks hidden behind another mask and another mask and still another it seems. Each and every one of the players searching for something that they can never find simply because they hold no true confessions of themselves. How can one possibly seek to find someone whom they can hold at face value when no one could ever expect the same of them? How much time should one waste digging through beautiful lies just to find one wholly undesirable truth? By the time we find the truth, many of us are stuck--stuck with children, joint accounts and collateral damage. True you can't win if you don't play but what are you really playing for? Why must it be a "game"? Maybe honestly isn't what's missing. Maybe the apparitions among the single-and-looking are earnest and sober intent.


Eh... maybe I'll just keep fuckin these hoes and leave it at that. TO THE DANCEHALL!!!