Harlem Style.

Before I tell this story, I want to clarify a few things…

Flyteclub is a budding media company/social movement headquartered in Harlem, NY.  It’s comprised of some dudes that I met when I moved out to the Apple and it is straight up awesome.  They have a clothing line in the works, film productions, as well as a rising star named “Jewlez Milla” who is the primary focus of the label.  All you need to know is that these dudes know how to party and the following story is about my first experience getting Flyeclub wasted.

There are BBQ’s, there are cookouts and there are pool parties.  Then there are parties which grab all three of those by the throat and say, “fuck you, I’m gunna rape a young white boy.”  

Imagine this:  A caravan of a dozen quality cars lined up in Harlem, a bunch of well-dressed black men wearing custom outfits courtesy of Flyteclub, and me.  Me, the one smiling son-of-a-bitch running around like a mascot.  Well, that was my reality the other weekend.  We all rallied East uptown and made an exodus to this bitchin’ party.  With our golden boy Jewlez Milla spearheading the operation, the plan was to have him perform in front of a mass of drunken partiers.  With everything set, the only other objective was to have a sexy time.

We showed up like a hip hop music video!  We had coolers of alcohol, we had greenery ripe for the schmokin’ and there were scantily clad women already there.  Not to mention the house?  Oh lawd the house was gorgeous.  An Olympic-sized pool in the backyard, huge courtyard decorated with the aforementioned women.  It was Christmas inside my pants.  The entire time the Flyteclub army kept repeating, “Doin’ it Harlem style!” 

Now, see at first I didn’t know what Harlem style was...  But now?  I finally know what that means and I try to do every God damn thing Harlem style, forever.  Harlem-style burger?  It’s a burger with booty, weed and liquor...  No mayo.

Reverse the colors on Diddy and that's exactly what I looked like at the party.

And this little Mountain Boy’s mind was being blown by the Harlem-style antics (specifically the booty); I had to take some measures to keep a calm exterior. In order to do so, I figured a bottle of Honey Jack Daniels would suffice.  I consumed about half of the bottle before getting comfortable enough to mingle with women. 

I was strutting around as the only white guy and it was magnificent.  No one had to know my name and I didn’t have to introduce myself, I was known only as “Whiteboy.”  And Whiteboy was the most exotic thing in the world, apparently.  If you take a white person out of their element and suddenly introduce him to an all-black party, he becomes a diamond.  And diamonds are forever.  I was hilarious no matter what I said!  Adorable no matter where I puked.  And best part?  The ladies were after me like an iPod in a claw machine filled with shit.

I was bopped.  Absolutely bopped.  I was higher than a bald eagle’s pussy and pretty extremely drunk.  In other words, I was the most confident whiteboy in the world that Saturday…  That was until I got raped.  Oh yeah?  I wasn’t lying when I said this party was going to rape a young white boy.

"Uncle Phil...  I am FUCKED UP!"

So there I was, standing around looking all cool and white.  Then boom.  A whole lotta woman came up and smiled at me.  She was a beautiful ebony gal and if I weren’t the way I was…  I would’ve likely prematurely creamed my panties.  Whiskey dick saved my life. 

I'll never look at bread the same...

But as I was in another dimension, I just smiled back.  This was likely the best and worst decision of my life because she took that as an invitation to take my by my waistband and drag me away…

To her car to rape me.  I was manhandled by a woman…  It was terrible.  I was thrown into the back seat of her car, stripped of my clothing and -  Wait…  Wait now, this is feeling kinda good…  In fact, this the greatest experience I’ve ever experienced!  I was raped Harlem style.

She was throwing me around, twisting me like a pretzel, slapping my ass, tossing me like a ragdoll and I couldn’t help but smile the entire time.  And not to mention…  Booty.

BOOTY.  The greatest invention.  Butts are butts.  Booty is booty.  And it’s the first time I ever had booty…  Or booty had me?  Regardless, her ass alone swallowed my entire body up, chewed on me, spit me out and repeated this several times over until my smile became foaming “O” face. 

One day, my grandchildren will be gathered around my feet asking me to tell a story.  When I tell this story then they will truly know, I was one cool motherfucker. 

Old Man Strength.

There’s a point in a man’s life where his blood becomes toxic, his brow drops to Neanderthalian levels and he becomes physically stronger regardless of silly things like exercise or steroids.  Now, I haven’t attained this natural upgrade yet…  But I know damn well it exists. 

Case and point…

My father isn’t a fat man.  He isn’t very skinny either.  He’s a bulbous mass of rage and Hellenic genetics.  So in other words, my father may look fat but were you to challenge this appearance with a slight prod of your finger pon his belly…  You’d feel the density of a dying sun. 

He’s a wrecking ball.  And he hates it when I call him that, but it’s true.  It’s not an insult.  Wrecking balls are the most dreaded spheres known to man, God fuckin’ forbid you come between a wrecking ball and its wreck, you’ll be wrecked.  Some people argue that a cannonball is scarier; what the fuck is a wrecking ball?  It’s a cannonball with a chain attached to it, making it a thousand times scarier because you know it’s coming back around in a red rage.

Contrary to popular belief, the large spherical bulge emerging from my father’s torso is not a belly, it’s a container.  Within this container are years of rage pent up from life experiences that he may or may not choose to release, but Gods be damned the day he releases it.

From the elbow to his fingertips, pure unsaturated manliness.

My father is short, that is a fact undeniable by anyone.  However, he is proportioned like that of a military-issue tank.  Stout legs, thick neck, big head and forearms that put Mel Gibson’s to shame, my father looks like someone who could easily come from the Misty Mountains of Middle Earth…  Only beardless.



I’ve never seen my father lift a weight in his entire life; I’ve never heard stories of him tearing a head off or anything like that.  I have seen him watch a Steven Seagal marathon with a shit-eating grin on his face, though.  And I’ve also never seen him lose an arm wrasslin’ match…  And let me tell you something, I’ve seen him in a lot of arm wrasslin’ matches.  Professional body builders, wrestlers, cops and even marines have all been defeated at the calloused hands of this restaurant proprietor.  So all that’s left to ask is, “How the hell does he do it?” 

My father has old man strength.  And that shit is 100% real, fo’ real.  Old man strength is achieved right around the time you have your first child and in the words of Marsellus Wallace, “that’s pride fuckin’ with you.”  When a man lays his eyes on his first child for the first time, pride triggers and turns a man into a murder machine.  He realizes that in order to be a successful father, he mustn’t show a shred of weakness or that’ll ultimately ruin everything.  In doing so every stubbed toe, hour of work, argument, fuck up, death or plain negativity must be swallowed down into his stomach and converted into pure old man strength.  When the day comes a sorry son-of-a-bitch comes around and fucks with Daddy’s family, all that built up rage will be released and then there will be no one to stop the utter genocide after it.

"FUCK GRAVITY."

It's the true story of will power or in the case of these old men, stubbornness.  His will to dead lift heaps of heavy lumber is stronger than the gravity pulling it down.  It has nothing to do with method after that point.  His experience, his infinite wisdom, his battered body doesn't have time to fuck around with gravity and all that bullshit and makes science yield to his anger.

That crazy look in an older man’s eye?  That’s exactly what I’m talking about.  Years of suppressed anger, ignored boiling points, trying to play the foundation for your family in an unstable world will turn you into a Viking.  It's the only reason why you'll never be able to beat your dad in anything.

Bad News, Good News. 8/24/11

5.  Will Smith is Getting a Divorce, maybe.

The Bad News:  The Willennium has ended on Will Smith's marriage.  The whipping of hair to-and-fro will become nothing but a sullen hang for Weeping Willow Smith and the years of Kung Fu training forgot to give Jaden a lesson in divorce.

But why are they having a divorce?  There's no official statement yet, but I speculate it has something to do with Jada Smith's music career.  Oh?  You've never heard of her band, Wicked Wisdom?  They're supposed to open for the growing sensation Guns N' Roses, whose last album was so fucking terrible a dude wearing a bucket on his head quit the band before its release.

The Good News:  Though the couple denies it, I like to believe Jada Pinkett will be officially back on the market, meaning she'll probably be doing some full-frontal-nudity in the near future.  As for William, maybe the depression will make him smoke a joint finally.  Will Smith used to be hilarious, what happened?  I'll tell you what happened, he became mature.  He needs something to offset that maturity, why not a little weed?  If anyone is qualified to smoke a little reefer it should be Willam Smith; he's an established actor, pop artist, dancer, director, producer.  He's one of the wealthiest men in Hollywood, he seems to have a nice moral foundation...  Weed would honestly just make him all the more awesome.

"Uncle Phil!  I am FUCKED up."

4.  Pat Summitt is Demented.

The Bad News:  Pat Summitt, Olympic Women's Basketball coach was diagnosed with dementia and no one cares, not even her.  She said it herself, "There's not going to be any pity party and I'll make sure of that." 

Since no one cares about Pat, let's think about ourselves for a moment.  If Pat Summitt, person no one cares about, can get dementia...  Can we?  Yes, we can.  The bad news isn't about Pat per-say, but more in being reminded of the fact that dementia exists.  On top of the stress that's aging us, now we have to worry about dementia settling in as we age?  It creates an endless cycle of worry, age, worry, age, BAM, dementia'd.

The Good News:  Perhaps with Pat Summitt becoming batshit crazy, we'll finally have a reason to watch women's basketball.  A rabid, middle-aged woman dashing onto the court and catching the ball in her frothy maw, squatting down on her haunches and defecating all over the place will definitely make for some good television.

"Uncle Phil!  I am FUCKED up."

3.  Apocalypse East.  Earthquakes and Hurricanes Team Up.

The Bad News:  Earthquakes are now teaming up with hurricanes and declaring war on the East Coast.  The first assault launched was directly at our nation's capitol.  From there, ninja tremors rattled northward and hit New York and New England.  In Virginia, a nuclear plant was shut down and D.C. felt about 30 seconds of shakin'.   On top of that, meteorologists took a brief break from watching meteors and caught wind of a hurricane brewing off the coast of Florida.  They're naming it Irene, after Renee Zellweger's character in Me, Myself and Irene because, "it'll be just as ugly and disastrous as Ms. Zellweger in the movie."

The Good News:  Thankfully, only Brooklyn felt devastation from the earthquake whereas the rest of us in the city felt a sensual vibration.  As for New England...  Who honestly gives a fuck?  The Patriots are fine.

In a last ditch effort to save themselves from the terroristic earthquake, they evacuated D.C. and City Hall in New York...  It's two floors tall.  I'm writing this article from Manhattan, on the tenth floor of a skyscraper (the most earthquake-destroyable structure) about 20 minutes after the earthquake just hit.  Good news our politicians are safe.

They expect the hurricane to just miss Florida and hit the Carolinas dead on.  Otherwise we'd have silicon and meth displaced all over the country.  Now it'll just be meth.

On a side note, who the fuck would live down in Florida anyway?  It's so prone to hurricanes, skin cancer and narcotics that Dog the Bounty Hunter couldn't stand it.  God hates Florida and if Florida doesn't understand that, maybe it's time they did.

"GTFO FLORIDA."  -God

2.  Martin Luther King Statue is White.

The Bad News:  In 1939, a famous monument was pretty much finished.   Mount Rushmore isn't even that cool, it's not even finished...  Where's the rest of them?  It's also a huge cliff with four racist drunks etched into it.  In 2011, MLK Jr. was honored with his own memorial and it's pretty terrible.  I love Martin Luther King Jr. don'tcha get me wrong...  I'm just a little angry that his memorial isn't nearly as cool as the ones surrounding him at the National Mall.  When I see his memorial, I see two big white rocks with another big white rock with an admittedly cartoony Dr. King carved into it.  And why white rocks?  Aren't there enough white statues?  What's wrong with using black for a civil rights titan?  It's a sexier tone for a rock anyway, shit.

The Good News:  He's been immortalized at our nation's capitol, finally.  And no one is complaining about the statue being black, which I guess is a headache we could do without.  They depicted him as one swaguluous (swag-fabulous) bastard, too.  His arms are crossed, he's got his swug (swag-mug) on, and he has some sort of magician scroll that probably banishes the forces of racism with laser beams.

"I'm the Civil Rights Leader you wish your Civil Rights Leader smelled like."

1. Irony Kills Cheesesteak Vendor.

The Bad News:  Legendary cheesesteak vendor Joey Vento of south Philly died of a heart attack at 71.  He was diagnosed with some crazy cancer, but we all know what really killed him.  If you spend your entire life cooking, selling and eating Philly cheesesteaks, the chances are high your arteries have become a reservoir of grease and pure delicious death.

There's more to the story though.  Murder.  Pat's King of Steaks (delicious fucking sandwich, by the way) was his competitor just across the street.  And if anyone knows the law of the street, you don't fuck with the King.  I speculate King Pat was sick and tired of this underdog trumping his steak sales...  So he did what any original steak gangsta would do, he fuckin' gave him a Philly Special with onions, peppers, cheese, extra grease, and extra cold-blooded murder.


The Good News:  The success of King Pat's murder has upped his sales by almost 60%, which is a great thing to happen in this dying economy.  Saw what I did there?  I think we can all pull a lesson from this story...  If someone is cramping your style, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.  Natural fucking selection; you naturally select a dumbass to bump off the wagon and give you a little more space. 

The special ingredient?  Joey Vento.