Protect Yourself At All Times: The Ray J Edition

Posted in hip hop, Music, niggas, ninjas with tags , , , on September 19, 2011 by theninjaparade

{Here are just a few reflections on the day’s events}

You niggas think I sing songs and run around here and do dances” – Ray J 

 

First off… shoutout to DJ Envy, Angela Yee, and Charlamagne Tha God (and the whole Power 105.1 staff) for keeping a straight face through the entire Ray J phone call.  [But ya’ll slick wrong as hell for playing “One Wish” to lead into the commercial break…we peeped that] Way to keep it professional in the face of patent absurdity.

 

I’m tired of being humble with niggas” – Ray J

 

Secondly…not that Infamous El Jugo doesn’t believe Ray J is a raging egomaniac that actually believes that he can “smack them b!tch ass niggas” on site, it’s just the mental image of Brandy’s brother actually putting his hands on someone that makes us shake our heads and go, “naaaahhh”.

 

I got pink slips on everyone of my whips” – Ray J.

 

Third… all things considered, it’s not out of the scope of reason that Ray J would want to spring on a nigga for cracking jokes; after all, he does roll with the “Money Team” and get designs cut into the side of his head, and who could forget “Boyfriend” off the All I Feel album?? #thugshyt

 

I play piano on that piano every muthafukin day” – Ray J

 

Lastly, as if the egregious name-dropping weren’t enough to raise an eyebrow about the interview he goes on to continue to make threats against Fab.  Granted, Fab has never portrayed himself as a “thug” type of rapper, or given the impression that he’s out here head-butting niggas and whatnot…but you know what, fuck it…this nigga Ray J lyin.

 

 

 

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Mean In These Streets: A Single Woman’s Take on These Clowns That Approach Her

Posted in black people, bustdowns, hip hop, ninjas, nupes, sideline hoes, Uncategorized with tags , , , on July 12, 2011 by theninjaparade

 

[Editor’s Note:  It was never my intention for The Ninja Parade to be a “Dating/Relationship” Blog.  However, in the interest of being complete with our fuckery we do deem it necessary that we delve into affairs of the heart.  That said, please enjoy Serenity. ***Sidenote: note really sure why I picked an image of Ralph for the blog, but that nigga seem like he could fit into any one of these categories]

When I liberated myself from a lackluster marriage a few years ago, I was admittedly a bit naïve.  I had married my high school sweetheart who was also my only lover and had dating experience and expectations that were outdated and completely unrealistic.

What I’ve found in my last few years back on the market has left me shocked, awestruck, and slightly confused. Who knew the pickings were so slim in the dating pool? Let’s examine some of the specimen I’ve run across, shall we?

1.  The Emo

Now, the first time a man broke down in front of me on a date, I didn’t know what the hell was going on.  I’ve seen a man cry, of course, at funerals, weddings, the birth of their children–but never because they were simply overcome by the moment.  We were sitting on the couch watching a movie I can’t remember the title of and a scene came on depicting a woman cheating on her husband.  Pretty standard right?  My date broke down in tears leaving me confused and with a strong urge to slip quietly out the back door, or pass this nigga a tampon.  I wanted to be anywhere but there watching this GROWN ASS MAN boo hoo over another woman.  I mean, what does one really do in that situation?  Honestly I thought it was a fluke, but it happened again with a different man several months later when his ex wife slapped him with more child support.  Maybe men feel like they can cry in front of me, maybe it’s the result of being exposed to too much estrogen in the womb–I have no idea.  Whatever it is, it’s not a good look.

2.  The Leech

I’m an intelligent woman, therefore this one is hard to admit too.  I fell for a leech. *Hangs head in shame* All the signs were there, but I was rendered stupid by good dick and a pair a light eyes.   For those of you who don’t know, a leech is a man who appears to have his shit together, but in actuality is out to bleed you dry until you wake up one morning and realize you’re out several hundred, if not thousand, bucks (which your ass is NOT getting back) and even though the sex is freaking fantastic, you don’t really like dude enough to be seen with him.  In my case, the leech was an educated executive who got fired from his good job and suddenly needed a little help until payday to get the alternator on his car fixed.  And get a new Armani suit.  And the new 2K11 game coming out Friday.  The list goes on and on.  I got hip to the game once three Fridays rolled around with promises of “Baby, I got you!” followed by some pretty great head as a diversionary tactic.  Ladies, beware of the broke ass ninjas packing serious weight below the belt, but next to none in there wallets or bank accounts.

3.  The Commitment Phobe

This guy is probably the most frustrating of all the specimen. This is the guy that you fall most of the way in love with only to realize his ass is damaged goods.  And of course he doesn’t tell you he’s damaged goods until AFTER he’s enjoyed seven months of your goodies and undivided attention.  There always comes a point in a situation where it has to become a relationship or the shit just has to end.  For me it generally comes at the six month mark.  By that point you’ve established a rapport emotionally and physically and you know if this is something you want to progress.  With my phobe, I gave him the benefit of an extra month because he had a lot going on (grad school, and young daughter, a move), but at seven months, I asked the dreaded question: “Where are we going with this?”  I was then treated to a LONG dissertation on the horrors of past relationships and the stupidity of his daughter’s mother.  One  changed the title of his truck into her name when he sent her to renew his registration and drove off into the sunset.  One cheated on him with her babies’ daddy and is now producing porn for said babies’ daddy somewhere in suburban Texas.  His daughter’s mother is quite simply an imbecile.  NOW, NONE OF THIS SHIT HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME (except that it made me question his taste in woman) and I said as much.  I was then treated to the “I have trust issues” speech…needless to say I was pissed (and still am a little) that he’d wasted my damn time knowing full well he wasn’t trying to commit.  Or maybe I just wasn’t The One.  Either damn way, he should’ve spoken up in January rather than in July.  And yes–I’m a little bitter. **shrug**

4.  The Commodity

This is the good guy.  The educated, financially sound, emotionally stable, FINE man who embodies everything your mama wants for you.  He’s as close to perfect as you’re gonna get.  So…what’s wrong with the commodity?  Absolutely nothing–until he realizes he’s a damn commodity.  Suddenly, the “good guy” morphs into a semi player.  He’s not out and out heauxing around because he doesn’t want to ruin his choir boy image, but you can tell he’s enjoying the benefits of being a big, attractive fish in a small, quickly dwindling pond.  He doesn’t call or text as frequently.  He’s careful to meet you at events rather than driving there with you.  You see him check in at various places or events on Facebook or Foursquare that you had no idea he was going to…shit like that.  He never makes any type of firm commitment or solid plans for the future because honestly he’s enjoying the notoriety.  He’ll keep you on the line with a well-timed phone call or invite and a sweet “ good morning beautiful” text message that he’s sent en masse to you and 14 other girls.  Unlike a player, however, this specimen eventually tires of the fun and games and comes looking for you.  By then, you’ve hopefully gotten bored with the run around or have sadly settled for one of the other types of candidates.  He’s missed out on a woman who might’ve been goof to him and probably would’ve been good for him.  But hey, he’s got options.

5.  The Married Man

This one is last and certainly least for a reason.  I have yet to fully understand the allure of a married man.  Sure he’s a nester and open to commitment, but he’s  ALREADY FUCKING COMMITED TO SOMEONE ELSE!!!!  For men, it’s much simpler: They want the excitement of a second relationship without relinquishing the comforts of the first ( i.e.  a second income and condom-free sex).  I dated a married man, but it was the result of sheer naiveté.  I was freshly released from my marriage (the ink on my divorce decree wasn‘t even dry), and although I was happy to be free of my ex, I wasn’t feeling the long nights with an empty bed and a vagina collecting cobwebs.  I was emotionally fragile and undersexed–basically I had EASY TARGET stamped on my damn forehead.  I believed the claims of an impending divorce and a psycho wife.  When she threw his shit out on the lawn, I accepted him packed bag and all into my home.  But when she showed up a two a.m. on my doorstep, eight months pregnant and threatening to slice up the soft top of my Mercedes, the rose colored glasses finally slipped off.  There are some things I’m not willing to do for a man and risking my Benz and a high ass insurance claim is one of them.  I still got ten payments left.

[Author’s Disclaimer: I’d like to say that I’m not a cynic.  I have every confidence that there are good men out there.  As a matter of fact I know plenty.  I’ve just yet to meet one that’s right for me.  I hold no (well not much) ill will against  the men I’ve dated, loved, lost, or kicked to the curb–it’s all a part of the experience of being on the market. And it makes for pretty interesting reading, lol.  Until next time…]

****If you liked this blog, you’ll LOVE:  Why Educated Black Men Don’t Settle Down

The Everyday Black Woman & Beer: A Love Story

Posted in black culture, black people, Global Ninja, hip hop, Ninja Sports, ninjas, sideline hoes, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on June 23, 2011 by theninjaparade

The blogosphere, especially, is saturated with images and ideas of common sistas being inept, overly domineering, inconsiderate, and basically a bunch of onry bishes when it comes to relationships.  Bullshit.

“Not so!” , we say, here at The Ninja Parade.  All these females can’t be clueless and only #winning if they’re ridiculously gorgeous, with nice firm asses and breasts like casaba melons (or, more popularly…white).

Some of these chicks have to be doing well.  Real well.  We know the statistics, 50% of marriages end in divorce…that means 50% of them shyts last F-O-R-E-V-E-R.  And ya know what?  That’s alright with us, because the aforementioned “forever” is predicated on two looming premises that we like to conveniently ignore: 1- ninjas need love too…and it’s not just women wanting to be in long-term joints. 2- the women who want it…get it, sans the ridiculously fat asses and casaba melon-esque breasts.

Today, we’ll address the latter premise, and answer the burning question:

How do average, everyday, sistas attract, secure, and maintain healthy relationships with capable upstanding black guys??

It’s really quite simple…beer.

You see, Ol El Jugo was educated at one of the finest Universities around and the majority of our student population was comprised of African American women.  It was there that I noticed something peculiar about a certain group of women that ignited an informal case study that I’ve been conducting ever since with a working hypothesis that: sistas who could enjoy themselves in the presence of beer seemed to be cut from a different cloth then those who didn’t.

They just are.

Blame it on the fact that they probably had a father, or father figure, who drank beer and loved they mama…blame it on the “Homegirl Syndrome” that connects beer with sports (which is most men’s first love)…hell, blame it on the rain, but a sista and a nice frosty mug, into perpetuity, are as sexy (if not more so) as stelletos/boy-shorts/wifebeater combination that we’ve grown to love.

Soooooo…

Instead of clowning heaux, which we have become quite infamous for, today we shall uplift, rejoice over, and dare I say…champion the marginally attractive-to-fine black woman with beer.  Today we’ll get our Special Agent Dr. George Huang from Law & Order: SVU on…and create a profile of these beautiful beer-clad nubian princesses.

Scenario One: She’s Married, buying Beer at the Grocery Store.  This bish IS. IN. LUH. Not just in luh, but a champion. No seriously.  She’s the epitome of winning.  Not simply because she’s married, but because she sees the value of beer’s synergistic magic in the peace and sactity of her household.  She gives good (not great) dome, washes clothes in Gain, and makes a mean ass homemade taco.  Not only that, she gives her husband the obligatory 45 minutes of complete silence that he needs upon entry of the home. She secretly runs the show, while making him feel like a Kang. *salutes* [Editor’s Note: the beer doesn’t actually have to be for him, if lil mama needs to throw back a cold one to shut the fcuk up...May God & Klkeninja keep her.]

Scenario Two: She’s Married, buying Beer at the Liquor Store.  Location, location, location.  Ok, she’s got the right idea…just hasn’t been married as long and jawn in Scenario One, but was surely mentored by her.  She get’s the big picture, however, the fact that she’s at the liquor store…when she was undoubtedly at the grocery store, or at least rode past it, earlier suggests her priorities are a bit out of whack.  It’s all good boo…we see you though.  Maybe daddy wasn’t there growing up, but your dedication to the cause of not coming home without a cold and refreshing Heineken, suggests she makes the best grape Kool-Aid in the contiguous United States AND definitely has hood tendencies and is probably a hood chick. (not to be confused with a Hood Rat. See also: Hood Chicks vs. Hood Rats) She keeps dish soap in the bathroom (why? we have NO CLUE, maybe it loosens the glue in her tracks better, or her nigga is just as hood and likes his boo to smell like Lemon Joy fresh out the tub…who knows?), but she’s winning.  Times get tough, but she knows where to go for comfort. *kee-chee* <—that’s the sound of a cold one being cracked open, and of winning.

Scenario Three: She’s Single, buying Beer at the Grocery Store.  Legendary football coach Vince Lombardi is quoted as saying…”success comes from knowing that you did your best to become the best that you are capable of being”. The single woman in the grocery store choosing between Yuengling Amber Bock and Newcastle Brown Ale is a champion in the making.  When you see her grab that 12-pack, take note of that moment in history.  It is a young Michael Jordan raising up over two Georgetown Hoyas defenders in ’82.  It’s magical.  And any woman who has ever bought beer in a grocery store and been approached by SEVERAL men can attest to the starry gaze they/we have in their/our eyes.  She may not cook or clean that well, but you’ll never hear her complaining about *Allen Iverson voice* practice?  Why? Because that’s where champions are made and she knows it.  And if you think niggas aren’t slick judging you when you host cookouts, Super Bowl parties, baby showers where men are invited, and any other shyt that would allow any man to glance into your fridge and see a beer that *looks* like its been there for a while…you crazy as hell.  We see that shyt and we’re either gonna shoot our shot right then, or toss an assist to one of our single homeboys and let him know just how special you are.  Real talk.

Scenario Four: She’s Single, buying Beer at the Liquor Store.  This bish just like drinking beer…and I ain’t even mad at her.  There’s a certain sexiness to women who independently purchase and consume beer.   I’ll bet two paychecks that ol girl has a great sense of humor and nice rack, and even if she’s not into sports (which she probably is)…she’s smart enough to enjoy a good game and *wait on it* …shut the fcuk up from tip-off and last shot.  Unlike the other three scenarios, where the purchaser could easily be buying for another person (presumably male), nah…jawn likes beer and drinks beer.  She’s the independent woman that pop culture song writers write about without all the pomp and circumstance.  She is in complete ownership of her social life, whether romance works out for her or not she can rest on her blessed assurance that when that nigga don’t call back she can paint her toenails, throw back a cold one, and bump that new Jill Scott until she goes to sleep and tomorrow will be a new day. God is able…ahhhhhshaddabowshay!

“I don’t always drink beer, but when I do…” – The Most Interesting Man In The World.

~ El Jugo

****if you liked this Blog, you’ll love: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles

Food & Liquor: Why Some Ninjas Should Just Stay In Their Lane

Posted in black culture, hip hop, Music, niggas, ninjas with tags , on June 20, 2011 by theninjaparade

<<insert image of El Jugo reading hard cover book, in front of blazing chimney, smoking pipe, in maroon smokers jacket…glass of Scotch in arms reach>>

[Editor’s Note:   Oh, Hello.  As a brief aside from the rather crass lambasting that the creative forces behind The Ninja Parade serve up on a regular, we would like to offer you today a more polished and refined piece.  Consider this a sprig of fresh cilantro on the side of your normally ignant Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.  Don’t get it twisted though, despite the rather high brow approach, we are actually SONNING THE SHYT out of famo.  Now, I’ll turn the blog over to our Sr. Geo-Political Correspondent, KatcherNTheRye]

‘Cause a ninja wear a kufi, it don’t mean that he bright

America is a more perfect union in part because its citizens have the right to free speech as provided by the 1st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. America has become a less intelligent society in part because too many of its citizens exercise that right despite not knowing what they’re talking about.

Hello, Lupe Fiasco, nee’ Wasalu Muhammad Jaco.

During a recent CBS interview, Fiasco, a critically acclaimed rapper and Chicago native, had this to say:

“For me, the biggest terrorist is Obama in the United States of America. I’m trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing the other forms of terrorism. You know the root cause of terrorists is the stuff the U.S. government allows to happen. The foreign policies that we have in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists.”

I don’t know about you but I feel absolutely fucking terrified.

All that stands between us and the biggest terrorist, President Obama, is Lupe Fiasco, who is trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing other forms of terrorism. Except, well, what other forms of terrorism are being caused by the terrorism he’s fighting? And by what means is Fiasco fighting this terrorism? By his own admission he doesn’t vote.

My brain atrophies each time I try to pick through Fiasco’s word salad, which is neither cogent nor salient. It’s the hubris that’s to be expected when someone who’s content to regurgitate the scattershot rhetoric of anti-establishment blowhards is given the opportunity to speak his mind publicly. Serious, thoughtful political discourse suffers another casualty each time someone such as Fiasco weighs in.
That’s intellectual terrorism and Fiasco needs to be called out, not celebrated.

In particular, his statement that,

“The foreign policies that [the U.S. has] in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists,”

…barely constitutes the shell of an argument. It’s much closer to being an accusation, one that is lacking wholly in substance.  What foreign policies, specifically? How are people inspired to become terrorists? What people?

To those who pride themselves on feeling (as opposed to actually being) “conscious,” Fiasco is killin’ it! [These same niggas typically have Ph.d’s in the most popular conspiracy theories and cut hair on the side, See Also 4 Great Myths & Conspiracies] It doesn’t really matter than he didn’t get around to saying what makes President Obama not just a terrorist, but the biggest terrorist. And I guess it doesn’t matter, either, that Fiasco didn’t cite an example of America’s foreign policy toward even one nation.

But words have meaning, so, yes, it does matter. Lots.

In the micro, the reality is that President Obama is not a terrorist. The far-left fringe is upset because America is prosecuting three wars that it can’t afford to fight and, unfortunately, have resulted in the deaths of innocent civilians.

In the macro, the reality is that no one who is elected president of the United States begins his term with a clean foreign policy slate. The policies he adopts and pursues are necessarily influenced by the policies his predecessor adopted and pursued. Then there’s the matter of the countries these policies affect.

Are the Chinese, for example, going to wake up one day and decide it’s just fine that America sells tens of billions of dollars of arms to Taiwan? Are Americans going to be energy independent anytime soon, thereby freeing the government to stop supporting the oppressive House of Saud?

People are entitled to their opinions but not their own facts.  If people want to be taken seriously even after they’ve offered their opinion –often unsolicited– it must be informed by understanding and an appreciation for context. Fiasco’s opinions are informed by abysmal ignorance and a pitifully myopic world view.

That’s enough to get Facebook to get “Likes,” Retweets and blog co-signs, but among people who have a real interest in geopolitics, Fiasco can kick … and push … and coast his ass the fcuk outta here.

What.

@KatcherNTheRye

I Got The Victory: These Heaux Is WINNING

Posted in black culture, black people, bustdowns, Global Ninja, hip hop, Music, sideline hoes, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on June 16, 2011 by theninjaparade

Spoiler alert bish!

It’s the second quarter of 2011, and if you haven’t noticed, MVP Kim Kardashian is wearing a Sierra-Leonian knee cap on her left ring finger. Leading the league in assists is Evelyn Lozada. [Formerly noted for running behind cars in heels, Lozada,  has moved on from the Rookie of The Year victories of head for handbags to the All Star team of wifey/ aspiring baby mama]

And, please… Spare me the cries of hate that “That ish won’t last” and “she’s not happy” commentaries because their sponsors are black and their lambos are blue ninja! The heauxs are winning, plain and simple. Here’s why:

Heaux Skills Are Transferrable: Gone are the days when a heaux was just a heaux. Neo-heauxs are bringing back the Margie Hendricks brand of heauxing. The self-professed Mrs. Ray Charles Robinson on the road was his wife away from home, not just nookie. She was ride or die, contributed to his financial gain and, most importantly, she shut the fukc up! {see klkeninja’s “ Put a ring on It “ post.}.  Heauxs are making dollars and sense as the low-key, high-return alternative to wifing loud ass, broke ass chicks who can’t cook and hate their jobs.

Keeping His Name Hot in These Streets:  That’s right, while you were at the bar screaming “ninjas ain’t sh!t”, heauxs were having the BEST YEAR EVER. Heauxs are becoming better at talking to the right people. Talking to your girlfriends about him gets him nowhere… talking to the press keeps him relevant. Heauxs are the best PR for ninjas in NFL-lockouts, bad seasons, jail stints and whatever fukcup your man has gotten himself into. Ladies, trust me and Beyonce, be the light that keeps the streets on and upgrade his reputation whenever you get the chance. If you don’t, the heauxs will (and heauxs  will light it up on twitter, faceook, vimeo, foursquare and via press release while yo’ ass sits up somewhere hating)

Heauxs Have Money:  Get your weight up BISH!! Heauxs are bringing their own money to the table. Regardless of who they threw a drink on to get it, neo-heauxs have dough. So, why are they chasing money, you may ask? This isn’t about getting money for them…it’s about doubling money and stackin that shyt.. Longevity. Stability. Twenty-Four hour champagne diets! Selling Body Magic is not an entrepreneurial plan, honey! And for this reason, girls, your man is on to the next one…

Heauxs are Heauxs: I know what you’re thinking:  “This chick is a heaux.” Not exactly. I just know what I want out of life (name that tune). I’m a believer in fundamental truths begetting other truths. The Secret, or positive visualization, works because it stands on the fundamentals of faith. Heaux visionaries understand that keeping him focused in the bedroom lessens idle time in the streets. I employ said fundamental tendency in my marriage. Yes, homie, marriage. Get you one!

[Disclaimer: The mayhem and foolishness spewed in the above article is indeed the shared viewpoint of a population of happily married women who ain’t mad at heauxs for being heauxs. All subsequent emails (which can be forwarded to yomommawasaheaux@yodaddyiswinning.com) will receive automated messages of the “Put a Ring on It” post strictly re-inforcing your need to STFU and listen.

~The Fundraiser

****if you liked this blog, you’ll love: The $15 Million Dollar Question

Little Girl Lost: Confessions of A Sista, That’s Been There…Done That

Posted in black culture, black people, bustdowns, Global Ninja, Music, niggas, ninjas, Pimpin', sideline hoes with tags , , , on June 15, 2011 by theninjaparade

“LOVE?  You know, what do you know about love? What do you possibly think you know about love? You know LOVE should have brought your ass home last night!”

[Editor’s Forward:  As stated in other blogs, we at the Ninja Parade are taking great strides to diversify our content.  Our ignorance can no longer be confined to the sheer mockery of society and putting a muthafuka on blast for kicks and giggles…but we desire also, to show our softer, more compassionate, ignant side.  Enjoy, ~The Infamous El Jugo]

Little girl lost

I’m a virgin to the ninja parade [Editor’s Note: …and to the Ninja Parade only] but I’m going to rock this shyt like I’m Tyler Perry at a Women in White “Usher Board” Baptist Church convention.  

So, my so called adult life started out like a story straight out of black college life weekly.  Girl goes to black college, pledges sorority, meets boy, falls in love, dates all through college, gets married, and *wait for it*… Divorces boy.

Then I spend the next two years grieving over a failed marriage. <<cues up Mary J. Bilges’ “I’m Not Going To Cry“, blazes blunt of that Afghan, sips Pinot>> to say the least, I was a fcking wreck <<insert picture of fcuking wreck>>  

I am ashamed to admit it, but I even thought of several ways in which to ruin my ex husbands career. *yeah, I was on some bitter sour apple b*tch shyt*

I even went through his emails and forwarded out all his philandering emails with other women [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 1] to his new main chick.  I must say, that was some of my best work.  I had to show the New b*tch, I mean new chick, nah…I mean bitch:  he cheating on you and you just a couple months in, heaux [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 2].  You not special…bwhahaha…But I digress.

As more time passed, I discovered that I was in fact a little girl lost.  I didn’t know what I wanted out of life anymore.  I didn’t know what true love meant anymore.  I questioned everything that I once knew to be fact.  All I knew was that, things changed and they were not for the better.

I spent day in and day out working, hanging out occasionally, and just surviving.  It’s like my life was on auto pilot and Phyllis Hyman was singing the soundtrack to my new life. *and we know how that story ended*  <<cues Phyllis Hyman “Living All Alone”, takes extra long hit of that Afghan, sits down glass of Pinot…picks up bottle>>

And while the days have gotten better, it’s still an uphill battle to find myself again and I’ve currently drawn the following conclusions…

  1. I Don’t Know Shyt About Men…I Admit it…You F*ckas Confuse the Shyt Out of Me.  Some of you ninjas want a quiet submissive woman, some want you to be they momma, and others want you to be a fucking mind reader…I give up…you win…Ill just love on B.O.B till I figure out an alternative…<<insert images of Bullet named Leroy>>
  1. I’m a Strong Punk…What I mean by this is…I cry about everything, yet I manage to pick myself up and get right back on the horse.  At first I thought this showed my weakness, but I have learned it shows my never give up nature. <<cues “We Fall Down” by Donnie McClurkin with strange vibrating sound in back>>
  1. The biggest thing I hate to admit it  *drumroll* As Much as I Want to Say I Don’t Need or Want a Man, I Know That is The Farthest Thing From MY Truth.  I need and want the right man for me. But I have to learn to stop fucking up with the good ones, and allowing the bad ones to stay passed their expiration date. <<insert picture of jobless ex-boo, in dingy, loose-fitting wifebeater, rolling blunt on formica end table>>

I’ve always been told the first step to healing or solving a problem is to admit it.  So here it is.  I am a lost little girl who is trying to find her way in life and love with a broken compass.  I think its time to ditch the compass and actually learn from my mistakes, listen to sound advice from creditable individuals, and trust that tiny voice inside that I have ignored in the past.

~ Aye Red The Ninja

**if you liked this blog, you’ll love: The Basic B!tch Home Testing Kit

“Cut Tha Check”: The Common-Man’s Guide to Doing Kang Sh!t

Posted in Uncategorized on June 14, 2011 by theninjaparade

Phrased differently, “El Jugo, this…”, “El Jugo, that…” it’s all the same thing; I get emails all the time from baffled readers of The Ninja Parade wondering just how El Jugo can stay so brilliantly consistent?

*leans in, glances from side to side, and whispers*

I’ll let ya’ll in on a lil secret.  Ol El Jugo has some help.  You see, for years now, I’ve kept an inner circle of ignorance to keep me grounded.  Yes, a core group of unique individuals with flagrant disregard, in their own unique way, for that which is up-right and correct but embracing  sarcasm, hood sociology, and relationships.

Within this inner circle, one individual sticks out as a creative Muse for The Ninja Parade.  Like the muses of Greek mythology, our muse has inspired debauchery and ratchetness of epic proportions.

Once more, you’ll even be surprised to know this person is royalty.

“But El Jugo, how can I become a muse for such a noble endeavor as the Ninja Parade?”, you ask.

Very simple my child, just follow these simple steps:

STEP 1: Declare Yo’self Kang.  As Editor in Chief (dare I day Kang Ninja) of The Ninja Parade, I come to dispel the antiquated notion that all royalty is a result of carefully conjoined bloodlines and power-move pregnancies…nope.  All a nigga really gotta do is call himself a kang and act accordingly.  Doin’ Kang shyt starts first with the notion that one is a Kang amidst the backdrop of a traditional upbringing, a loving family,  etc…or if you haven’t had that, really just some regular nigga shyt.  Yes…you, HAVE TO, wake up tomorrow and say “fcuk it…imma Kang”.  T.I. did it.  Lebron James did it.  You can do it.  If you’re feeling a little uneasy, it’s cool, start of modest.  Instead of being the kang of tha south, or a kang of rap. Or the kang of pro basketball…try being the kang of some shyt like, I dunno…t-shirts.

STEP 2: Don’t Knock.  Unlike *JayZ voice* can’t knock the hustle; by this I mean, literally, don’t knock.  Sure my nigga I said you could grab a blank CD whenever you want, buuuuuut that doesn’t necessarily give you the green light to waltz into a nigga room unannounced while i’m doing the grown-folk with one of my boos, looking with a semi-approving shrug, grabbing the CDs, and bouncing.  You see, part of doing Kang Shyt, and thus being a Kang…isn’t to be overly concerned with trifles like the privacy of your friends, nope; more specifically, it’s to be completely oblivious to the awardness of walking in on ya boy in the throws of passion, grabbing a nominal object, and leaving as if you didn’t JUST walk in.  Kang shyt.

STEP 3: Get It…And Trick It.  We all know it ain’t trickin’ if you got it, right? [Editor’s Note: The Ninja Parade is diametrically opposed to the premise of the previous question.] Well, apparently, part of being a Kang is the gleeful spread of affluence upon the opposite sex.  Once one reaches Kang status, apparently, you crossed the thresh-hold of criticism for trickin.  And despite any arguments that said activity thus raises the price of p*ssy for everyone else (much the way energy speculators horde fuel)…instead you feel COMPLETELY justified in this act, simply because this shyt makes you feel good.  I mean, what Kang doesn’t provide for his subjects??

STEP 4: Meet The Browns.  This is the final, and most difficult step in your training.  Your royal persona is not that of Prince Akeem, nah son.  You gotta be 1/2 Nino Brown (Fictitious 90’s New York Drug “Kangpin”) aaaaaand 1/2 Bobby Brown (ironically the  “Kang of R&B”).  This is a hard line to walk young Jedi, but you can do it.  It’s going to take a lot of hard work, dedication and late nights gyrating to “My Perogative” and then making it rain  $20’s backstage on groupies after dousing them all with Andre Spumante Champagne and blanketly threatening to “cancel” them heaux in a Crown Royal Black and champagne tyraid.  Yep, it’s THAT serious ya’ll.

…may the new Kangs birthed from these words walk in truth, and the old Kangs continue to make it rain and not knock.

~El Jugo.

***If you liked this blog, you’ll love: Why Educated Black Men Won’t Settle Down