But JJ really takes the cake. He was paid to be the comic relief in otherwise dire circumstances. He was paid to act like a damn fool yet the damn fool couldn’t act. I, for one, should know for I’ve acted a fool many, many a night and I excelled to heights that Jimmy Walker and his tribal Mursi plate lips could never fathom. If it were not for his rubbery countenance and beanpole stature, he wouldn’t have even been hired to sweep the set. Granted, JJ has provided some memorable moments in Black TV history. There was time JJ got shot, his Chicken Shack hat, his bird chest being exposed to the joy of the audience, and his famous exclamation that spawned t-shirts and 1970′s jokes around the water cooler: So never fear it’ll be alright/Thanks to the Kid DY-NO-MITE!!

You ever see the movie The Jacksons? Terrible, terrible, terrible thespianism. And though I haven’t seen the movie, I already knew what to expect when Beyonce and her bootyliciousism hit the big screen yet again: a gorgeous woman who couldn’t act even if she was the 5th book in the New Testament. And when all these actors and actresses convene at the Water Buffalo Lodge, JJ is the Grand Poobah.

But it’s quite easy to be critical when I’m just a voyeur. And after all, it is I who continues to tune in daily to just look out the window and watch the asphalt glow. Besides, I have been known to be a bad actor myself. That is certainly the reason my mother would give me and my siblings the speech before we went into the department store, which always included the directive to “act like you got some sense.” And the times I acted like I didn’t give a $hit when being stood up by some hottie who probably didn’t even remember we had a date. And the times I acted like a hard azz only to turn the other way when I saw some real hard-headed Negroes headed in my direction.

So who I am to judge? Besides, JJ got paid. He ran John Amos and Esther Rolle off the show. Black folks didn’t respond to the show’s constant reminders of the high price of meat and gas, corrupt politics, rampant subversive racism, and the self-destructive behavior of inner-city residents. No, they much preferred the clown who couldn’t act. Does this speak to a larger issue? Is there a reason the class clown who couldn’t read was more popular than the nerd who enunciated? Is there a reason the blinged-out clown on BET attracts more viewers than a History Channel special on Plessy vs Ferguson? Is there a reason hotghettomess gets more clicks than The Root? And is there a reason in its first weekend Obsessed raked in over half the gross revenue that The Last King of Scotland did in all? Probably. But I’m not here to explore the sociology behind such realities.

This is just about bad acting. It’s about JJ sucking and setting the standard of sucksation for all young Black men to follow him on the boob tube. Who cares if social commentary and life lessons play second fiddle to dy-no-mites, did-I-do-thats, and hey-HEY-heys? Who cares if Cosby had to add 27,000 characters to the show and resort to having muppets on an episode? At least we got a favorable time slot so the rest of America could see some Black faces on TV, right? That’s a victory in itself. Besides, hating on the brothers that did find steady work in Hollywood is a distant cousin of self-hatred. I mean, just look at how many brothers are in primetime sitcoms now. So damn James, just let JJ be.

I have an admission to make that has been weighing on me lately and I’ve finally decided to come out of the closet address it publicly. I have watched Dancing With The Stars on 4 occasions this year. Pray for me. Jesus be a Nielsen box.

Do men actually watch this show? Let me rephrase that…. do STRAIGHT men actually watch this show? Hey, I know dancing is not a feminine activity. Hell, I just wrote about missing the slow dance a few entries ago. I am an appreciator of the fine art of dancing. I will have you know that I can’t even count the number of times I’ve watched Nelly’s “Tip Drill” video or the amount of money I’ve spent watching a terpsichorean move about a shiny metallic pole… I think her name was Mocha Delight. I have even promised my lady that I’d take salsa lessons with her on three conditions: 1) That I don’t have to prance around like a gay Mexican cowboy; 2) that I don’t have to wear sequins; and 3) that she has to dress exactly like an Afro-Brazilian at the Rio Carnival.

So, as you can see, I clearly like dancing. It has been rumored that my trademark move was the inspiration for Cassidy’s song “My Drink and My Two-Step.” And I’ll have you know that I have worn fat laces and done backspins on a cut-up cardboard box that once housed the family’s new TV. Sure, my taste is more Breakin’ than Fame, but dancing ’tis dancing… ’tis not?

Admittedly, I didn’t start watching Dancing with the Stars on my own volition. But persuasion by the opposite sex is quite persuasive. And the fact that Lawrence Taylor was on the show made me feel a little better. I mean, if he is jumping around on TV, then clearly this isn’t dancing… it’s just a co-ed New York Giants’ game on a stage without pads. I can drink a beer to that. But then I saw tough azz LT prancing. Pigs shall soon fly, no doubt. And then David Alan Grier showed up, and this worried me more. Aside from the fact that his smirk makes him look like the Black gay Grinch who stole Kwanzaa, his most famous role on In Living Color suddenly became so much clearer. Hindsight w/ Lasik clear.

But then I saw someone that forced me to watch the show beyond that first episode: Lil’ Kim. Holy Collagen, Batman! Yes, I know the Queen Bee is a felon. Yes, I know that she has had more surgeries than the red-nosed fellow in that Milton Bradley game Operation. Yes, I am aware that the hoodrat from Brooklyn now looks like the love child of Michael Jackson and a Bratz doll. But I simply do not care. Watching her dance is a beautiful thing… she’s got skillz. The ghetto jump-off has actually managed to seduce me while dancing with another dude… this is no small feat. I know her body measurements have been inflated like the 2005 real estate market, but I don’t care one iota. Watching that big ol’ implanted booty, those siliconed milk puppies, and those Angelina Hoe-lee lips cavorting about to dances I’ve never heard of from Argentina is quite the spectacle. Plus, this is the girl who rapped that she has “buffoons eating her [cat] while she watches cartoons.” How can you NOT love her??

So there, I’ve admitted it. I’ve watched Dancing with the Stars more than once, and will probably see it again as long as Lil Kim is on. For those of you who think less of me, you can kiss my black Rumba.

*this is Black folks’ equivalent of “no homo” and “no brokeback” as discussed in the Treehouse comments

Imagine my surprise a few years back when I learned that the money George Foremen received to sponsor the now infamous Foreman Grill was one of the largest sponsorship deals in history. Yes, larger than Tiger Woods with Buick or Gatorade. Even larger than his Airness received with Nike. The only deal larger than Foreman’s is David Beckham’s deal with Adidas… ain’t it amazing what a symmetrical face will get one nowadays?? Though, I suppose it should surprise no one since he married a Spice Girl – whom every white man wanted to bone and every white woman wanted to be – and even Black women who vow to never date outside their race often caveat such assertions with “But that Beckham could get it. I’ll show that Brit how to bend it…”

Naturally, like all things that have an enduring popularity, I swore never to be a fan (see iPod, the Dallas Cowboys, and Wii). And naturally, I have an iPod, a Wii, and I even rooted for the Cowboys once. So in keeping with my tradition of purchasing things I hate only because everyone else loves them, I bought a Foreman Grill years ago. And it was love and adulation at first heating. While I never became the expert that Jadakiss professed to be — he once rhymed that he could make crack on a Foreman Grill; I don’t have that skill or even the cocaine to get started… but I do have baking soda and water… not that I know the recipe for crack or anything — I have been known to make a perfectly grilled chicken breast on le gril de Foreman.

In fact, old Grilly and I shared many a culinary adventure or bored weeknights, and afternoons while downing glasses of 12-yr old Guyanese El Dorado Rum. There was that time I grilled to perfection those onions and peppers in olive oil and oregano to go with Italian sausage. And the time I tried to convince a hottie that the grill could be used to make S’mores. (By the way, it can’t. Bet lost.) And the time I tried to grill a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because it just sounds good, only to end up with caramelized strawberry preserve on that so-called non-stick surface. Yep, old Grilly and I had a great time together.

And I use the past tense because my Foreman Grill died on me this weekend. It all happened so unexpectedly; I’m still a bit shook up from it. See, I plugged Grilly in like I always do, but this time, that orange light… that beautiful, sweet orange light that foretells of hot meat to soon be enjoyed… did not respond. No matter how I plugged and unplugged, reset and retried electrical sockets, and utilized the tried and true method of American handymen everywhere by beating it and cursing at it, old Grilly was not responding. I guess it had the big one and went to join Elizabeth in that big blue sky… with strawberry preserve on its back. The big dummy.

No more effortless grilled shrimp. No more strips of red meat with the bovine blubber draining out of its slanted countenance. No late night, drunken experimentation courtesy of questions that begin with a smirk and an “I wonder what would happen if….”

So to commemorate the years of service and friendship that grill has provided to me, I will do what every man does when losing a love of his life:

I shall write a limerick.

There once was a grill from Nantucket

There was once was a grill by George Foreman
Wore white like a hospital corpsman
       When put to the test
        It choked on fowl breast
Knocked out, now my mouthpiece is mournin’.

Farewell, dear friend. Grilled Smuckers just won’t be the same without you.

The way our new President has blitzed all forms of media with his message is an action unrivaled in scope by anything, except perhaps the p@rn industry on the Internet. He has been omnipresent like Rick Ross in MTV Jams videos, and as such, none have had to fill in knowledge gaps when it comes to what direction Obama is attempting to move the country. You turn on YouTube? Obama. You turn on your TV to catch your favorite primetime sitcom? Obama in an evening press conference. You go on Facebook? Message from Obama n’em. Hell, even my cell phone was getting hit up with text messages from the Obama. He’s working off the old tried and true adage that if you say it enough times, people will believe it.

My quandary is that the media blitz has hit overdrive with nitrous oxide boosters like an Asian kid’s car in a Fast & Furious remake. And since reaching these heights, not only am I prone to support stimuli packages and death-defying deficits, it’s starting to affect my personal life. Not only has the President got his Newark, New Jersey on and carjacked my political support, but the Obamas are now changing my habits, my likes and dislikes, my goals and aims.

First there was Michelle and that organic garden she’s planting on the White House lawns. Being a good Southern boy, I have always been Snoop Dogg’n my landscape – that is, I have quite the affinity for the plush greenness of grass. And while Snoop’s genus of choice is a psychoactive variant of hemp, mine has been of the bluegrass-fescue variety. Nothing to me says manhood and insane debt to failing banks than a mortgage payment made more tolerable by a nice green lawn. I currently have a small plot in my yard that the previous owners decided was an ideal spot to grow raspberries. Now, after being beat about the head with Washington Post reports on Michelle’s green thumb, I’m flirting with the idea of maybe planting some tomatoes and fresh herbs there. WTF?? My thumb has always been the same shade of brown, but now the Obamas got me thinking that perhaps I’m colorblind and it’s green after all. And from everything I’ve heard, it’s not particularly easy being green.

Then there was this issue of the new First Pet aka the ObamaDog. I am not a fan of pets. In fact, I’m not a fan of anything with “pet” in it… muppets, Pet Shop Boys, PETA, petroleum, Petersburg, saltpeter, strumpets… nothing. Wellll… Petra is kinda cool, but it’s the exception. Yet, here I am, after seeing the reputable news outlets contorting themselves unduly to get a shot of a freakin’ Portuguese Water Dog, I’m now surfing the web trying to determine if I’d want a Samoyed or an English Mastiff. Despite my fraternal alliance, dogs get on my dayum nerves. And in concert with my fraternal alliance, cats suck more than that girl in my freshman orientation with low self-esteem…. dayum strumpet.

But the ultimate was when, out of nowhere, I said to my lady that she should look into shopping at J. Crew more since Michelle Obama seems to work wonders with their wardrobe. If there is one truism when a man addresses a woman’s wardrobe, it is that he is not to encourage her to wear something because he thought it looked hot on another woman. After a bevy of questions about Michelle’s “hotness” and “what else do you want me to adopt of Michelle’s?” and whether or not I was interested in patrolling the suburbs of Chicago for Black Princeton grads, she hit me with the ultimate comeback: “Well, Obama looks good with his mocha skin and wavy hair, perhaps you should look into getting some of that.

Touché.

I tried to explain that it wasn’t of my own doing that I suggested such rubbish. The Obamas made me do it. If Milli Vanilli can blame it on the rain, and Jamie Foxx can blame it on the alcohol, then I most certainly can blame it on the O-o-o-o-o-bah-ah-mas.

The number of social networking sites out there makes for some interesting interactions with people you’ve long forgotten about or who’ve long forgotten about you. I will admit to succumbing to occasional fits of boredom or curiosity to Google or Facebook some person from my past, like the girl in my 9th grade math class whose friends laughed at me when I gave her a Valentine’s Day “will you be my girl?” note (she’s married, no kids, and has a body like a bag of bowling balls – thank God she rejected my offer) . Quite honestly, I have yet to reconnect with someone that resulted in us being fast friends all over again. It usually results in playing the “what have you been up to for the last 10 years?” game of twenty questions, promises of keeping in touch, and then totally forgetting that ol’ what’s his face is even on your friends list.

What amazes me most are those people who remember you though your interaction with them years ago may have lasted no longer than a month. Such a thing happened to me a couple days ago. I received a friend request from a girl – let’s call her Tonya – which I “went with” for like three weeks over 15 years ago. We broke up because I kissed this other girl in the usher board room at church and the two girls ended up fighting over it in the church parking lot one day after Sunday School – one screaming “I don’t want him any-damn-way! You can have him!” and the other screaming back “I don’t want his azz; you take him!” My ego has never been so stroked and so humiliated in the same moment. Apparently the agreement of not wanting me was too much for the young ladies to stand, so they had to come to blows over who didn’t want me more… with the spoils going to the loser.

Fast forward from 1991 to this past Friday. I get a friend request from Tonya, whom I immediately remembered because she fought so gallantly so she wouldn’t have to be my girl anymore. After a couple days of back and forth emails of catching up, it became clear that she was looking for me because was trying to get that old thing back. Somehow, I came to her mind and she reached out. All of her responses to me overtly implied that she was smart, successful, and ambitious – she was advertising.

She took note of my academic pedigree, which includes studies at an Ivy League school and a Black Ivy League school, and obviously felt the need to impress upon me her love of school. She goes on to tell me that she has four degrees, so I’m thinking she probably has a couple bachelor’s and a couple master’s, or maybe even a doctorate’s in something. Now, she never struck me as the Ph.D. type, but with the number of online programs out there, who knows. You can literally become a Ph.D. and a Reverend in a few hours onlie with just a few dollars. So, curious, I asked what her degrees were in and this is how she responded:

I have certificates in social work, medical laboratory technology, dialysis, and medical records.

In other words, she went to one of those schools that has commercials during The Jerry Springer Show.

I’m not belittling those who go to such schools who offer certificates in the important and varied fields like G.E.D, File Cabinet, and Doctor. Hell, I would love to go to school for 30 Saturdays and get a certificate in Doctor, whatever the hell that means. I’m also not belittling those who don’t go on to school after high school because college really isn’t for everybody. What I AM belittling is someone who misrepresents they’re accomplishments just to make themselves more attractive. If you are a maid Au Pair Extraodinaire at the Red Roof Inn on MLK, Jr. Boulevard, then say so. Or if you empty bedpans on the old folks’ floor at the hospital, then just say so. There is no shame in an honest, paying job, especially in today’s economic climate. But don’t misrepresent yourself.

This is a classic occurrence when meeting someone new (or catching up with someone from the past in this case). Many men say women misrepresent themselves all the time with weave, fake nails, color contacts, caked-on make-up, wonderbras, and booty-lifting J. Lo jeans. And women have the same complaint about men acting like they are financially secure ballin’ at the bar, rollin’ up in a Beamer with spinning rims, and making women promises of vacations and expensive dinners, when in reality they “are living in their parents’ basement and writing their name on the orange juice talkin’ about ‘Ma, don’t touch my shyt!’ “*

But I think it is one thing to play the dating game, and another thing entirely to misrepresent what you’ve achieved and what you believe. Acting like you are saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost on Sunday morning only to get that big booty honey in the choir over to your house Sunday night, ply her with Patron, and bareback her on your twin bed is just criminal. Acting like you are a lawyer at the city’s biggest firm when you are really the dude in the mailroom who licks the manila envelopes is downright deception. And acting like you have 4 degrees when you really have a certificate from an institution that shares floor space with a telemarketing call center is unfairly misleading.

In fact, it’s more than misleading; it’s downright cold. Like 4 degrees F.

* workcite Martin Lawrence

Recently, the news, magazines, and talk shows have been replete with warnings against the dangers of foods high in trans fat and LDL. These ominous declarations have us all looking at the back of boxes and containers assessing just how bad those Oreos are, how much sodium is in Kung Pao chicken, and how much saturated fat is in Fergie’s Botox’d bottom lip. I’ll even admit that I’ve gone online to check the calories in my favorite beers, and cringed like a gay dude at mismatched drapes when I discovered Blue Moon Belgian White Ale was 270 calories a bottle.

We all need to be more conscious of what we stuff in our mouths. We need to eat healthy foods like peanut butter which has the good fat, and more vegetables like spinach and tomatoes, and more nuts like pistachios. The problem is ALL those things in the last year have been recalled for salmonella! So let me get this right: eat unhealthy food and die a slow death, or eat healthy food and get poisoned by old rat poop and dead cockroaches in nut sacks bags of nuts. And then it was confirmed recently that my favorite food in the world – a thick, lean slab of medium rare beef – shortens your lifespan. Basically, we can’t eat shyt but rice cakes and lettuce.

But here is the stark reality of healthy eating: it costs money to eat right. I recently went to the grocery store and decided to shop with my healthy hat on. My grocery bill was about 175% MORE than normal! Fortunately, I’m in a position where I can afford it, but my case isn’t everyone’s situation, especially in this economy. Now, if I was a conspiracy theorist, I’d be screamin’ how this is all a scam to increase the profitability of the local Stop&Shop or Food Lion. Or worse, let the poor people die from obesity and heart disease, while the affluent live longer lives thanks to crabgrass smoothies and health insurance. You know, I can go to Burger King with a dollar and roll out with a big azz burger. If I take a dollar to the grocery store, I leave with a mango the size of my fist. But if take that same dollar to the grocery store, and leave the healthy hat in the closet, I could leave with 8 packs of Top Ramen or 3 packs of store brand shoestring french fries. That is so unfair that even Rod Blagojevich would say, “Now see, that just ain’t right.”

Quite the dilemma, n’est-ce pas? Well, I am firm believer in having one’s cake and eating same said cake as well. So, in an effort to eat healthier, I replaced my regular bacon with turkey bacon. I replaced my beer with red wine. I replaced by lunch courtesy of the second floor vending machine with grocery store-bought Healthy Choice Fresh Mixers. That late night snack is now the heavenly citric delight of ruby red grapefruit. I admit that I do feel better and not as sluggish at the end of the day. And of course, exercise is paramount.

But I simply refuse to live my life in a Whole Foods bubble. I refuse to walk around like some granola-eating vegan who drives a Prius and only bathes once a week because “the earth is dying of thirst.” I am definitely eating healthier, but I give myself one day a week to indulge. And that day is Saturday. I eat whatever “da hells I wants” on Saturday. That means 1 pound burritos from Chipotle, 6 packs of Blue Moon or Sam Adams, and some big slices of country cut pork bacon. No baby spinach salads with olive oil and lemon juice on Saturdays. Nope, I’m eating pig skins drenched in Texas Pete. These lapses in a healthy lifestyle may shorten my days by some weeks or months, but life is lived to be enjoyed. I would rather live until 75 and enjoy life, than live to 80 eating like Bugs Bunny.

Besides, even God took a day of rest. So surely, I can enjoy the pleasures of cow meat from time to time. Forget Justin Timberlake, Bessie the Heifer has the SexyBack I’m checking for…

So what happened? “I got hollered at.” Now, that in and of itself isn’t all that dumbfounding because it’s not as if I look like Jimmie Walker. But it is out of the ordinary for three reasons:

1) The girl was GORGEOUS. Drunken women on the rebound aside, it’s been my experience that beautiful women don’t make a habit of making the first move with strangers. I’ve heard that attractive women are usually dateless because they intimidate men with their beauty. I filed that bit of info away in the bullsh*t chronicles, right along with Michael Steele apologies and Family Matters trying to convince people that Jaleel White can be a ladies’ man. Attractive women attract men… that’s why they are called “attractive.” Duh.

2) I’m no pin-up dude. Like I said, I’m an ok looking guy, but I’m no Idris Elbow or Boris Kujo or whomever women are going crazy over this year. So for a gorgeous woman to single me out was unexpected; not entirely because I AM pretty awesome and sh*t, but surprising nonetheless. And I must add this, I wasn’t dressed in Armani shoes and Rolex either. It’s well-chronicled that ugly, rich dudes get women… please don’t make me name names.

3) Is how she did it.

I’ve been approached before, so I’m not completely ignorant to the game women have when they meet a man. It is certainly less creative and less aggressive than the lines I’ve used on women. Well, save for this one chick who rolled up on me smelling of margarita mix and tequila and as her introduction said, “Mmmm… you have those click-licking lips.” I’m not sure I know what a click is, but I suppose that was a compliment. Oh wait! She meant a cl- …. got it. LOL

Ok, so I was at a Chili’s, of all places, sitting at the bar mindlessly watching an NBA game and enjoying a big boy glass of Blue Moon. I spot this Hispanic lady who is almost too beautiful to be in a Chili’s. I admire her for a couple seconds longer than a cursory glance, but not nearly long enough to develop one of those “eye problems” I heard girls in high school diagnose each other with just before they started fighting. I mean, after all, I’m taken; I have a lady.

I could hear the guys sitting next to her chatting her up using ridiculous lines as men who drink Bud Light are wont to do. As one of the guys began bragging about his portfolio, which was probably a Trapper Keeper from like ’85, I rolled my eyes and looked at this lady to see her reaction. We caught eyes for a second, no big deal.

About 15 minutes later, she pays her bill and leaves. After she’s out the door, the bartender asks if I’m ready for a refill. I indicated I was ok and would just finish the one in front of me. That’s when the bartender informed me that the lady that just left had already paid for my next round! She left without saying a word to me, without leaving a note, without idling outside for me to try and find her. She just bought me a drink and rolled.

The end. C’est finni.

As I said, I’m puzzled. I have no clue what that was about. Maybe just a kind gesture for some stranger she never said a word too and never will? Maybe it was a reward for not attempting to chat her up with breath wreaking of southwestern eggrolls like my Bud Light compadres?? Perhaps she lost her nerve in the face of my awesome averageness? I have no idea. But the first time in a long time, I was left as confused as Sarah Palin on a question about newspapers.

However, it is great story to tell to hear the many suppositions of those to whom the story is told. As for me and my ego, we love the ambiguity just fine because the topic of discussion really is such a fascinating one.

In between killing a bottle of South African Red and drowning in dihedral group theory the other night, I was watching Good Times. On this particular episode, like so many others, Florida was praying to a picture of Jesus on the wall to help the family make rent. It reminded me of the episode when the family hung a picture of a black Jesus on the wall, rumored to be nicknamed Obama, and good things started to happen.

I have been suspicious of organized religion for years now since learning that the friendly lady who always had those chalky mints that old people carry around wrapped in napkins was cheating on her deacon husband with some scrub of an usher. Then there was the time the preacher got into a shouting match over the church budget and accused dude of being whipped by his wife. And the time when a fist fight broke out on the steps outside the church between this gray-haired parishioner and some young whippersnapper who didn’t know ol’ Otis was “old man strong.” And of course, there was the repetitive message of the hellafied future for all the young people who dared go to a club or partook in the privatized palm proceedings in the comfort of a bathroom thanks to an inviting bottle of cocoa butter.

But I have always believed in the power of faith and hope; two items that black people collect in bundles from their belief in Jesus. Say what you will about the fantastical bible stories and incredible adventures of bible characters that seem to find themselves in the odd positions of whale snacks and talking bushes. And I’ve seen a booty clap, but a talking ass is even hard for me to fathom. But when I was in danger of getting my first C in 9th grade Algebra, I asked Jesus to help. And when my mother fell ill with breast cancer, I asked Jesus to heal her. And when I was sleepy as the sandman attempting to knock out the late hour drive back to my dorm room after an evening of doing someone something I shouldn’t have been doing, I asked Jesus to help me make it safely. And he did. Thrice over: I got a B, my mother is a 10 year survivor, and I made it back to the discomforts of a non-air-conditioned dorm room in the sweltering heat of August just fine.

So did He feed 5000 people fish and wine? Did He walk on water? Did He rise only to be celebrated two thousand years later with boiled eggs dyed and placed under a bush replete with switches that burned my bottom on many an insolent afternoon? Inconsequential. I have seen the evidence of faith in Him realized in my everyday, uninteresting life amidst the grand scheme of cosmic occurrences.

But I am still convinced that when it comes to resisting temptation, you are on your own. That is not to say faith does not provide you additional strength to resist, but that the resisting is left all up to you. God didn’t help Jesus resist the devil in the wilderness; God only provided the strength for the resisting.

George Bernard Shaw once said that virtue is insufficient temptation. I buy major stock in that theory, and the falling Dow’s bear market hath nil effect on its value. There is a colleague on the job whose stomach is in dire need of some gut-punching. I am quite tempted to do it, but I haven’t. And I claim to take the higher road, but I’m actually just not sufficiently tempted. Let someone offer me a cool million to do it, or let said subject of a potential rib-rattling sucker punch to the navel say something off-color to me like, “Shut up n!gg@” or “The Tarheels suck” and I shall leave virtue idling beside the same place as cut cheese… in the wind.

As much as you may call on “da Lawd” to help resist something you don’t want to give in to, you are on your own to make the choice to do it or not.

The free MGD at a house party was insufficient temptation; the dollar Patron was sufficient. The fat girl with a bad weave was insufficient temptation; the dreaded beauty in a San Francisco bar playing pool was sufficient. The disrespectful cashier at Target was insufficient temptation; the disrespectful dude telling me I need to “check my b*tch” was sufficient.

In each of those cases where I didn’t give in, I could falsely claim virtue. The fact is it was the times that I did give in, and then sought help from on high to cope with my decision, that virtue became like the G to Fred Sanford… my middle name.

But what strikes me most is how she has made Kanye even weirder. Of course, Kanye has always been a few Easter eggs short of a hunt, but now he’s brought his Easter eggs to the great pumpkin patch, Charlie Brown. To pose drawless like Squidward from SpongeBob is even a bit outlandish for a guy who wears pink Nikes and shades the size of an SUV windshield. It’s been well-chronicled that Erykah Badu is infamous for taking the stoic rapper and turning him into a ghetto Socrates who wears saddle shoes and drinks wheatgrass cappuccinos. But Kanye got Badu’d without even having the fortune, good or otherwise, to do the do with Badu. In other words, he got Ba-did even though he Ba-didn’t.

I suppose love is funny like that. It’s been my experience that when the attractive woman with long flowing hair gets her heart broken, one of her first inclinations is to cut her hair and either go natural or T-Boz. For men, I’d always thought the natural response to heartbreak was to find an immediate replacement for ephemeral relief. That’s what I did the one time my heart was smashed back in college. I promptly hollered at the alarmingly average girl at the Checkers drive-thru. Apparently for black rappers, the response is to go weird.

Which led me to thinking how I would weird out if I were a rapper with a heartbreak and a Roland TR-808. Assuming that I was rich and didn’t have to worry about repercussions in my career and amongst colleagues, here’s what I’d do:

First, I wouldn’t ever comb my hair, but I’d still use generous applications of pomade. Kanye got a mohawk. Andre got a perm. Common went baldheaded with a beard that looks like the lovechild of Freeway and a Lancaster, PA Quaker. But nobody went nappy. I’ve got that ethnic hair that balls up when left unattended. After getting out the pool and left to dry on it own devices, my hair can best be described by the MJG lyric “my hair is getting nappy as the a$s of a sheep.” I’d have the shiny-nap-do on lockdown; James Evans would have nothing on me.

Second, I’d make a whole rap album where not a single bar rhymed like Son of Bazerk’s track on the Juice soundtrack. The album cover would have me dressed in alpaca fur standing next to a bald alpaca. It would be full of rodomontade and I’d ridicule everyone who hated on it for being “shallow like a kiddie pool, yet with twice the urine.” It would be awesome.

Lastly, I’d have to find a new weird chick to date that can understand and appreciate my newfound depth. And who is weirder than the waitresses at Waffle House?? I’d have a whole roster of them and they’d answer the phone like, “What ya need hun?”

In all honesty, I’m not sure if I’d follow each of the above to the letter, less the alpaca thing… there’s promise there. But I really would love to throw off the confines of professionalism for a bit. I actually don’t know how I’d express myself if I only had to worry about happiness and not paychecks. Suffice it to say, Gloria from the I-85 Waffle House and I wouldn’t be posing sans vêtements.

First, the “educated” modifier is necessary because I’ve yet to meet a woman with a college degree aspiring to be a video diva dancing with blinged out men who make their dental appointments at Kay Jewelers. Women with education normally have their sights set on a goal of riches, fame, and/or a Cosby-esque family, all of which are to be obtained by talents and intellect and not because they have an apple bottom or Linda Tripp as a best friend.

So why those three? Because they represent the proverbial end of the rainbow. When a woman reaches that fork in the road of life where they must choose their goals and make their path, the end goal is to be like Oprah, Michelle, or Beyonce. Oprah represents otherwordly success based on her abilities alone. And she don’t need no stinkin’ man. If Oprah was as gorgeous as Beyonce, there is no way her talent shines through. She would always be “that pretty girl” who “thinks she’s all that;” other women would hate on her. If she was as intellectual and family-oriented as Michelle, there is no way she has the time or interest to host talk shows everyday. Oprah captured the hearts of women everywhere because she was so regular. She isn’t a dime and she isn’t inordinately smart, thus she makes her accomplishments seem attainable by all. But those accomplishments were only achieved because she didn’t have to be a full-time mom or put her dreams on hold for her husband’s dreams from his father.

If Oprah represents ambition above all else, then Beyonce represents beauty. Yes, of course, she is talented. But so are the seals at Sea World. If Beyonce looked like Kelly Rowland, she’d be like… Kelly Rowland. So why would educated Black women want to be like this uneducated lady recognized for looks? Because she is uncommonly beautiful and talented and marketable. And what woman doesn’t want to be a force to be reckoned with and adored by millions, while remaining the apple of every man’s eye? Show me a woman who doesn’t want to be Beyonce for a day, and I’ll show you a man who wants to be a eunuch. Certainly being lusted after by every Black man on earth and having your life plastered on every page of every magainze isn’t for everyone, but for some, it is.

But for me, like Jack Cafferty, the woman who aspires to be similar to Michelle Obama is the type most attractive to me. Of course, I’m a bit old-fashioned, so I may be jaded. My younger brother would much prefer Beyonce. But Michelle, the Ivy League graduate twice-over, is the epitome of intellect and the self-abnegation of motherhood and marriage without being hard on the eyes. Could you imagine if Oprah married to Barack?? They’d be fighting over who got more time on the microphone and who’s book sold more copies. Barack married to Beyonce? A like scenario has actually happened before with a recent presidential candidate… his name was John McCain. It takes a remarkable woman to put her successful career aside to support her man in his ambition. Michelle is like Corretta Scott on steroids. No, she’s not as gorgeous as Beyonce or as ambitious and rich as Oprah, but somehow she outshines the both of them. It may even seem a little sexist to imply that I’m attracted to women who’s ultimate goal is to be a role model mother and wife AND woman. But I assure you there is no shame or misogyny in a woman standing beside her man and raising her children. For me, Michelle is the epitome of Black womanhood… so shoot me.

Of course, it is possible to aspire to bits and pieces of each of these women. For example: Oprah + Michelle Obama equals Condoleeza Rice. If Oprah had Condi’s money, she’d jump off a cliff. If Michelle was all alone and had nothing to show for it but a signature hairstyle and a grand piano, she’d be unfilled at best.

Beyonce + Oprah equals Tyra Banks. If Oprah had Tyra’s ratings, she’d weigh 350 pounds from stress-eating. If Beyonce looked like Tyra, she’d be Ciara, which means dating dudes like Bow-Wow and barely filling up an ampitheater as an opening act; that ain’t Beyonce-esque.

Beyonce + Michelle Obama equals Vanessa Williams. Who knows, maybe this is Beyonce’s future… it isn’t necessarily a horrible future. But for Michelle, divorce and multiple baby daddies is not on the agenda… ever.

But the bottom line is that each of those women would be unfilled in the shoes of their sum. Besides, the women who aspire to be Condi are Oprahesque. The ones who aspire to Tyra Banks just want to be the Beyonce of the model industry. And those who aspire to be Vanessa Williams are Michelle minus the penchant for familial sacrifice.

So there it is: Oprah, Beyonce, and Michelle. They are the other side of the Black woman’s rainbow, not a leprechaun. Wear black on March 17 in their honor.