pants on fire

before i start, i want to preface this by saying that i appreciate the effort. seriously, i do. i’m being completely sincere, non-patronizing, non-condescending, and non-disingenuous when i say that. kudos and sh*t for the effort.

with that being said, it greatly pains me to let many women know that their efforts have been for naught.

all those magazine articles? lies. that convo you had with your girlfriend two years ago that got you hooked to the game? she’s full of sh*t.

what am i referring to?

the kegel exercise, which results in tighter, stronger, vagina muscles during sex, is overrated.

yup. i said it.

don’t believe me? ask a guy, any random guy, to list in order the qualities that made the best gotdamn he’s ever had the best gotdamn he’s ever had, and numbers 1 through 20 will probably be one of at least 327 synonyms of the word “wet”, followed by enthusiasm and energy. “tightness” or “vaginal clenching-ness ability” would probably fall in the 25-35 range, bookmarked between “presentation” and “color”.

now, i’m not saying that we enjoy boning women with vaginal canals so cavernous that each stroke echoes twice, but having a vice-grips va-jay-jay is not the business. it, for lack of a better term, hurts dammit, and pain is usually not one of the optimum qualities straight men we associate with good sex.

anyway though, good people of vsb.com, what are some other popular misconceptions about sex that you wish to debunk?

—the champ

you’ve had it.

you had it bad.

yeah. you what i’m talking about.

whipped. sprung. gone. caught up. caught out there. stuck. hooked. thunderbolted

each word describes that same feeling, that same lustful and libidinous infatuation that gives you that same feeling down there everywhere every time you think about them. this isn’t love. not yet, at least. (although, everyones optimum long-term loving relationship does include these feelings) but it is random doodles and not so random flashbacks at work…the type of ish that’ll get you while you’re sitting at your desk, making you randomly shiver and exclaim “ooh shit!!” like someone just dropped a piece of ice down your shirt, and then nervously looking around to see if anyone noticed your aftershock.

it usually sneaks up on us. one day, you’re minding your own business, daydreaming about crocheting and pears and bowling night and sh*t and then, forty-eight hours later, your body has become a erogenous minefield, a walking, incoherently talking victim of ptfs (post-traumatic f*ck syndrome) and you’re wondering to yourself what the hell just happened and when the hell am i getting some again

thing is, although it sneaks up on us, there usually are subtle indicators that you’re on the sexual springboard, and, as a service from the champ, i’ve decided to give you 3 signs that you very well might be sprung

1. you become gilbert gottfried

i lived in a corner suite (two bedrooms separated by a common/living room type area) with three other roommates my freshman year of college, a somewhat unremarkable arrangement sans for an entertaining bi-weekly occurrence the entire second semester. you see, one of my roommates (jay) had a regular jump-off named kimmie, an extremely demure sophomore who would come through every other saturday afternoon (yes. afternoon!!!), chop it up with us in the living room for a few minutes while we were playing nba live, then head to the bedroom with jay. as you know, dormitory walls are notoriously thin, which makes afternoon sex a community affair, but this obviously didn’t phase kimmie at all.

without fail, within fifteen minutes, the barely audible moaning would began. nothing unusual there though, just your perfunctory garden variety sex moans. soon, though, the moans would then give way to the words. by “the words” i mean that when kimmie was kumming, she’d scream out some of the most bewildering, befuddling, and hilarious word combination’s known to man. from “you’re punching it papachulo” to something that sounded like “f*ckkkkk!! toaster!! f*ckkkkk!! toaster!! f*ckkkkk!! toaster!!”, she’d use horrifically awkward syntax, with word combination’s sounding similar to something you might overhear at in an esl classroom for asian toddlers with tourettes. then, afterwards, she’d come back out with us and play spades or tonk like nothing happened. in hindsight, i probably should have married kimmie.

my point is that there’s sex, good sex, very good sex, and sex that’ll have you doing and saying the most inane and unbelievable sh*t during and directly after the act. the type of sex that’ll make you jump up right afterward and iron clothes butt naked at 3 in the morning while whistling “ordinary people”. nothing you do during or directly after that time can be explained by any type of rational thought or reasoning. basically, you become gilbert gottfried

2. you schedule important sh*t around sex

“you know, even though i dont have any gas, and stopping for gas will insure i wont have any cash to buy lunch today, i need to drive to work instead of catching the bus, just to give me those extra 15 minutes i need this morning to, umm, yeah. f*ck this. i’m driving.”

these are the types of conversations you have with yourself everyday when you’re on the springboard.

3. you’re willing to overlook common sense deal-breakers

she still lives with her ma? so what. stop hating. she has the whole basement to herself anyway.

he has a different colored grill for each season? well…you can’t really tell in the dark.

her baby daddy is kimbo slice? whatever. dat bald n*gga can’t beat me

most of us have been there before, where you’re so into someone that you always find yourself making excuses for them and intentionally ignoring sh*t instead of actually wondering why you’re always making excuses and ignoring sh*t. this is easily the worse by-product of the springboard…the fact that your cognitive sense goes completely to sh*t, and, despite your intelligence, you’re prone to make more bad decisions than tavaris jackson

on a positive note, though, the antagonists in these types of situations have been the muses for some of the best music, movies, and art ever made, so maybe its not all bad.

damn. alot of memories in these paragraphs today.

i need my f*ckin toast

—the champ

yesterday’s discussion about privilege (or lack thereof) sparked an idea in my head, perfectly articulated by vsb.com regular v.e.g.

“I wonder what privileges VSBers would say they get…i.e. tall man privilege, skinny girl privilege. etc.??? Would be an interesting exercise to have folks list what they perceive to be their privileges. OR if they feel like they DON’T benefit from them at all.”

one of the main themes i tried to convey yesterday was the fact that pretty much everybody benefits from some sort of privilege, whether you admit to it or not. whether its something as simple as dimples and perfect pearly whites that allow you to immediately charm people or the fact that you’re the only black in the hr department at work, basically insuring that you’ll never, ever, ever get fired from your job, the majority of us have at least one subtle or obvious advantage over most other people that we use to our benefit, including the champ himself.

to prove my point, here’s a short list of the champs perceived privileges.

1. the dark-brown skinned black guy privilege…which means that my skin is dark enough to never have my “blackness” or masculinity questioned, but not so dark that it’s been the object of ridicule. in recent years, i’ve also found that i’m tall and dark enough to scare unsuspecting 2520’s away with a stanley-esque glare if i want to keep the seat next to me open on the bus, but, with my glasses and attache, still non-threatening enough to be the black guy lost white women ask for orgasms directions

did i stutter???

2. the black male former english teacher privilege…which insures that, regardless of how hard things are economically, unless i’m caught on rude.com akon-ing keke palmer, i’ll always be able to get a job somewhere teaching english. sh*t, at this point, i might as well put “quota filler” on my resume instead of my name

3. the educated and not under-employed male (**knocking on wood**) in the burgh privilege…lets just say that theres a reason why i haven’t moved out of the cave to the beltway or atlanta. like marlo says, “noone f*cks with me now“.

4. the ball-player with a brain privilege…an advantage i especially enjoyed in college, when being able to dribble a basketball and put more than three sentences together without slobbering kept the nights of dry nuts to a minimum, a dynamic which eventually led to the…

...5. the black male blogging privilege, which i choose not to expound upon because i actually want people to continue to frequent the site, lol. i plead the fif and sh*t

these are just a few of mine. what are yours?

–the champ

***paraphrased version of a question raised by a friend of the champ’s last week***

With the most important election of our lifetime coming up, its getting harder and harder for me to separate peoples political selves from their actual selves. I was able to compartmentalize before, but I’m so aggressively pro-Obama now that I can’t see myself even considering the idea of dating someone who wasn’t. Is this a bad that I feel this way?

–friend of the champ

you know what, i’m not even going to touch this one (yet). somewhat intelligent people of vsb.com, how would you answer her question. in regards to dating prospects and relationships, how important is politics to you?

—the champ

Attempted murder suspect, victim were romantic rivals

An arrest warrant was issued for Valerie Walls, 27, suspected of assaulting a 29-year-old San Bernardino County woman between 7 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. Tuesday.

The victim suffered deep slicing wounds to her upper torso area and she lost a lot of blood, Desert Hot Springs Det. Sgt. Radames Gil said Wednesday. The victim was able to get to the K-Mart store, where she sought help and authorities were called, Gil said.

Walls and the victim were romantically involved with the same person, Gil added

we all do it. whether conscious or not, every second of every day we spend on earth we’re doing it. you did it with millions of other sperm twenty six years ago in the back room of your mom’s shanty, when that pint of md 20/20 convinced her to finally let her uncle’s leadfoots jenkins squirt his “kind milk” inside of her. as a toddler, you did it with your dad for your mom’s attention, at least until you grew older and focused your energy on your siblings. you did it for a spot in that college you’re still paying off loans for, along with that job that allows you to spend three hours a day on vsb, and that apartment you lay your head in every night, dreaming about the champ of ways to do it better. shit, that air you’re breathing? you’re doing it with trillions of other organisms for that as well.

we can’t help doing it, even if we do want to. competing is in our nature, as fundamental to humanity as oxygen and stacey dash.

this everlasting competition extends to the dating arena. each of us are equal parts free agent and general manager, constantly evaluating, being evaluated, and battling for spots on the right team. with more intense focus than kobe in a snizzles anus the 4th quarter, we’re as cutthroat as anton chigurh. we lie. we cajole. we run game. we rock wonderwaterbras and subtlely twirl our benz keys while we’re walking in the mall. we sabotage. we throw salt. we’re subtle, tactless, implicit, and direct. we start trojan wars, and gleefully shank boat ninjas outside of kmarts.

a couple questions, good people of vsb.com:

1. in regards to romance, how do you compete? (notice, i’m not asking “if” you compete, because everyone does. stop lying to yourself. you aint special and sh*t)

2. has there ever been a situation where you’ve openly competed, or have been openly competed for?

3. have you ever been shanked outside of a kmart?

remember, we’re all fam here. just me and roughly twenty-five hundred of your closest friends. dont be scurred to tell the truth and sh*t.

—the champ

we were lied to.

you see, as youngsters, most of us were told that life was fair. ingrained in us from that first kindergarten kickball game when ms. edwards split the teams evenly so that aspergers alex and short-foot shawn wouldn’t hafta be on the same squad, we’ve been told that if you played by the rules, ate your veggies and kissed your janky looking teachers aide mom on the lips at least once a day, everything would be ok.

as we grew older and more worldly, we began to realize that the apples we placed on ms edwards desk everyday apparently just kept her stock-full of sh*t. life isn’t fair, jim jones still exists, and the pittsburgh steelers continue to prove that pittsburghers are just inherently better at everything...a fact which really isn’t fair to everyone else.

thing is, despite our knowledge of the latent unfairness and inequality synonymous with human life, there’s one aspect of our existence that many of us still hope will be even and balanced and just and exactly like that kickball game, except, of course, without short-foot shawn running in circles because he can’t make right turns. yet, as an example of one of lifes more darkly humorous ironies, this hope is kept for the one aspect of our existence that will never be completely even.

fair? maybe. just? ha! even? hell the f*ck no.

i’m referring, of course, to romantic relationships.

70-30

60-40

52-48

50.1-49.9

pick your percentage. there’s literally billions, trillions of different ways to add to 100. just know that it will never, ever, ever be 50-50.

never.

there’s always going to be someone who loves a tiny bit more, who has a bit more invested than the other person, and who has a larger emotional capacity than the person they’re in the relationship with. things will never be 50-50. someone will always have the final say, and someone will always possess the virtual perpetual tie-breaker sitting on top of the elephant in the room.

that utopic vision of a life replete with equal salaries, equal libido, equal responsibility, and equal say, with everyday culminating with the perfect o where you both climax at the exact same time while staring at the exact same spot in each others eyes? ha! that’s more contrived and unbelievable than this new subway promotion (thanks c.f.)

thing is…this isn’t a bad thing. sure, you dont want to be in a situation where you’re willing to die for someone who still has you listed in their phone as “samia safenut“, but every human relationship has the same dynamic: someone always the upper-hand. shit even in business, there’s always one stakeholder who owns a tiny bit more of the company than everyone else. the difference can be one half of one percentage point, but that number is enough to give him the trump card if the hand ever gets to that point…and its for our own benefit.

without this in place, life would be nothing but a series of continual stalemates and tie scores. billions of people stuck at forks in the road, stagnant for eons because they couldnt decide between chinese or mexican food that night. a world full of people with jagged genitals because they’ve spent their entire lives sitting on fences contemplating sh*t instead of leading or being led.

so…what do to? just make sure you’re not aspergers alex out there trying to play dodgeball with roger clemens, catching fastballs and sh*t with your what remains of your teeth, and you should be good.

hmmm…maybe ms edwards knew what she was doing after all.

—the champ

***paraphrased six or seven month old convo with a friend***

friend: “why even bother with this election sh*t? i mean, why is everybody getting so worked up about obama?

a slightly annoyed champ: “please expound”

friend: “i mean…i crack the hell up seeing everyone all worked up about hilary this and obama that and we all know that edwards is gonna win the nomination. why even bother?”

***insert extended “hmmmm” exaggerated smirk, and sarcastic slow shake of head for dramatic effect***

friend: “what? stop it. you know i’m right”

champ: “ummm…edwards dropped out today”

friend: “what?? when??”

champ: “like an hour ago”

friend: “well, it doesnt matter who’s president anyway, since the american president is just a figurehead to represent the zionist interests of the freemasons and the six jewish bankers in prague who…”

***while the champ’s friend is ranting, the champ slowly removes pistol from his waistband, and calmly shoots himself in the head. luckily, the gun is filled with paper mache bullets, but the effect remains the same***

fire-proof panties not included

those close to me know that i hate conspiracy theorists with the heat of a thousand AKA crotches. you know exactly who i’m talking about…the cat who thinks that every professional sporting event is fixed, the woman who swears that AIDS doesnt really exist and thinks that its a racket created by the government to make people pay for AIDS drugs, the idiot who swears that if you divide the mayan calender year you were born by the sixth digit of your social security number, it equals the number of cameras the illuminati secretly implanted in your rectum the last time you got your teeth cleaned, which is why he refers to dick cheney as “the dentist”.

yet, despite my utter disdain for this way of thinking, i always manage to have at least two or three friends who fit this profile, and i’m curious why. maybe it’s an unavoidable bi-product of knowing “educated” people. maybe my propensity to pretend to listen to people instead of immediately dismissing them makes me attractive to them. maybe its because conspiracy theorist chicks are notorious for being easier than bristol palin. who knows?

as i pondered this question, i began to think of other annoying ass friends to have in your circle. people who aren’t quite annoying enough to completely cut off, but just annoying enough for you to ask yourself “wait…why are we cool again? how the hell did this happen??” at least once every four months, and i thought of a few.

the exaggerated drunk (”ed” for short), aka “the perper”

not to be mistaken with the “lightweight” (a person who knows that they don’t have the highest tolerance for alcohol, but doesnt act like an horses ass about it), the ed takes one half sip of a mikes hard lemonade and turns into dudley f*cking moore. they’re so enthralled with the idea of being drunk, that they don’t even bother to actually be drunk before they start acting drunk.

the cheap bastard, aka “the cheap piece of sh*t” and “black women”

n.e.n. (no explaination needed)

the habitual cheater

seriously, there might not be anything more annoying then the friend who consistently makes you their alibi and expects you to always cover for their raggedy d*ck asses. honestly, the older i get, the more i distance myself from these people. not because of some holier than thou attitude, but, i figure if someone’s washing your dirty drawls and swallowing your kids every night and you still do them dirty like that, what type of foulness would you do to me if given the opportunity?

the fun police, aka “the wet blanket”, aka “the diamond sh*tters”

**fast-forward to 4:08 to witness what the champ fantasizes about doing to every fun police member**

ok. i know i’m forgetting a few. any suggestions?

***btw, the conspiracy theorist friend from the beginning? volunteers at an obama campaign office now. the audacity of hope strikes again and sh*t.***

—the champ