Quoting Olivia Benson

Hope for women everywhere.

Well, well, well.  Weiner Weiner the "Porn Tweeter" has finally stepped down.

I'm not one to get excited about the falls of the powerful.  On the contrary:  I'm not petty enough to relish the downfall of powerful men people, unless you make it funny, or your name is Eddie Long.  So I was not happy to see how now former Congressman Anthony D. Weiner (NY-09) disgraced his family legacy, his loving wife, and his committed constituents.  It brought me no joy to gawk at his towel-clad body in the Member's Only Gym, both because I do not take pleasure in such things, and he's not really hitting those biceps enough for me to care.

But let's be real: there is some funny ish involved here.  And I think it's my duty to point them out:

1. Don't you love it when people get indignant when they KNOW they're wrong?  

Weiner damn near cussed out a very pregnant Dana Bash and had the nerve to call a CNN producer a "jackass" on television. He engaged in such shenanigans, apparently unwilling to "dignify" these accusations with a response...because he has oh so much dignity left.  See all his dignity below:

Dignified Pose A.

Dignified Pose B.

It takes some huge balls (which Jon Stewart was surprised to find out, Mr. Weiner actually has...) to know fully well that you are lying--to your wife, to the press, to the people--and get tough with folks while denying it.  I expected nothing less from a man whose favorite pastime was once screaming on the House floor.  But at least then he was exhibiting passion about something that actually matters.  Health Care.  Earmarks.  I'd have liked to see a little more passion about those things, and a little less about his less than stellar pectoral muscles.

2.  Apparently, Bill Clinton married the Weiners.

You heard me.  The very essence of infidelity officiated the ceremony between Sir Anthony and his bride, Hilary Clinton top aide Huma Abedin.  This woman is gorgeous.  And smart.  And accomplished.  Which goes to show you that a wayward Weiner can screw anybody over.  (These puns really do write themselves.)

But did anybody think to tell them, before their wedding day, that it might not be the best idea to jinx their marriage like that?  Sure...having a former president officiate your wedding is pretty damn cool.  But I have to believe that someone in the wedding party, bride's family, or even the bride herself would at least have an ominous nightmare detailing, in no uncertain terms, why one of the most unfaithful men in the Western Hemisphere is not the best officiant.  If Bill ever came to my wedding, he'd have to sit in a dunce chair and wear tape over his mouth, cause there will be NO stained blue dresses in my husband's future.  A woman's got to take every precaution possible.  

So in a terribly strange twist of irony, Big Willie may have done Weiner in.  (Yep.  There's another one!  These are getting terrible...)

At least Huma has a shoulder to cry on in her boss.  I'm sure Hilary's advice sounds something like "Lots of pantsuits...make his ass pay...he'll help you run for president."

3.  "'Stand by your man' sounds a lot better when Tammy Wynette sings it."

Ahh--finally the Olivia Benson quote I promised you from jump.  I'm sure she was talking to an abused woman whose husband pimped her and turned her into a crack-addicted prostitute...but the concept still fits, and Mrs. Weiner gets it:

Huma stayed her pretty ass the hell home.  

And good for her.  I'm so sick of these clearly heartbroken women standing next to their husbands like they don't have anything better to do!  Honey--pull an Elin, leave town, and run up that credit card bill!  At the end of the day, you do him no favors by doing him the favor of publicly standing by him.  If you're really going to take responsibility, take it for yourself, BY yourself--simple as that.  Let him get yelled at (did you all hear that "bye by pervert?  Hilarious).  Let him get photographed and ridiculed.  You have no parts in that, and anything else is a cop out.

If there is any mystery about exactly how to publicly respond to your husband's infidelity, here's a cheat sheet:

My Name Ain't Tammy:

A Guide for the Scorned Woman.  

Politics Edition.

1. If your husband cheats on you with another woman and CONFESSES:  
1. Attend no press conferences.
2. Take a 2-week vacation to any Jay and Bey-qualified location (including, but not limited to Bora Bora, St. Tropez, and other exclusive Islands with names I'm not allowed to print.)  If asked, simply respond that you wish to "reconnect with yourself,"  but really, take as many girlfriends and have as much anonymous sex as you desire while there.
3. Make sure he buys one of these.  Money can be no object.  If he is confused, just tell him to tell the jeweler he's in the market for the "Kobe Special."  Whether or not you stay with him after purchase of said ring is irrelevant.  Get yours.
4. Make sure his dumb ass gets tested.  That's just common sense.
2. If your husband cheats on you with another woman and LIES:
1. Attend no press conferences.  
2. Extend the nominal 2-week vacation to one month.  Let him find out where you are via tabloid speculation and TMZ photos.  Take a man.  A gorgeous one--English-speakers optional.
3. Kobe Special.  Times 4. 
4. Make sure his dumb ass gets tested.  Leave him after said test.
5. IF YOU CHOOSE TO STAY:  Pull a Hilary and ensure that he devotes the rest of his life to (a) pull strings to get you elected and/or nominated to important posts, (b) cleans up his image, so as to not tarnish your chances, and (c) stays the hell away from you in public, so as to not tarnish your chances.
3. If your husband cheats on you with another man: 
1. Don't be this dumb broad.  He clearly doesn't like your lady parts.  Pack up and move on.  All in all, "it's Idaho.  There's nowhere to go but up."
4. If your husband is caught sexting:
1. Realize how pathetic a grown man is for needing to send naked pictures of himself to anonymous women.  Get out.  Kobe Special optional before departure.

Seppuku vs. New Birth: Showdown in the A-Town

He's back, y'all...

Gen. Robert E. Leroy is officially making his long-awaited return to the blog, which should come as sweet relief to the 2.5 people who have ever laid eyes on anything written here.

Anywho, with formalities out of the way, let's get straight to the point of this post:

Eddie Long..... kill yo'self.

Yeah... I said it.

And be sure to take Creflo "I'll say and/or do damn near anything to make a" Dollar with you on your way to whatever afterlife awaits the two of you.

But seriously... although I've been planning to make a return to writing here for quite some time (it was on my to-do list right between "start a new fitness regimen" and "slap the dog-sh*t out of Michael Steele", both of which, unfortunately, remain undone), the pathetic ending/aftermath of this whole Eddie Long saga is what finally forced my hand back to the keyboard.

I'm not going to talk about the fact that Eddie Long has been one of the loudest anti-homosexual voices around for quite some time. I'm not going to dwell on the pause-inducing photos of said Bishop Long(stroke) standing in the mirror in all of his spandex-clad glory. (WWJD? I'm pretty sure it ain't that, Edward).

Tangentially-related sidenote: What exactly qualifies a Protestant minister to give himself the title of "Bishop" anyway? Does it just happen whenever he thinks it would sound good in front of his name? Someone really ought to look into that....

But I digress...

The source of the General's disgust (yes, I switch from 1st-person to 3rd-person references..... deal with it) is the fact that after vowing to "fight his charges like David did Goliath", the good Bishop decided that he'd rather throw money at the problem in a feeble attempt to make it go away. This has already been said numerous times, but innocent people rarely settle lawsuits of this nature, especially when they have a well-known reputation to consider.

Guess what, Eddie?

That lawsuit may have been dropped, but in the court of public opinion, your sorry ass is looking worse than LeBron in the 4th quarter.

So.... lawsuit is settled (almost certainly with funds contributed by members of New Birth M.B.C.).

Quite understandably, members start disappearing from New Birth faster than a bucket of KFC Original Recipe at a family reunion.

The story should end there, right?

WRONG.

This is where our good friend Creflo comes running to the rescue...
(be sure to enlarge the video so you can read the running commentary if you're so inclined)

All i really want to know is this....

WTF is a "wreck"?

And where in the blue hell do you get off telling people where or where not to take their worship preferences, Creflo?

I could talk for hours about how Creflo and Eddie's "prosperity gospel" is a load of crap, but I'm going to let you readers (both of you) make your own decisions on how you feel about good old Cref' and his decision to share some of his infinite wisdom by telling "Negroes" where to go and how to worship.

This world-class crock of bullsh*t is making my head hurt.

I'm Audi 5000 (yeah.... I'm bringing it back).

But allow me to leave you with this surprisingly educational video for anyone out there who might want to learn how to do the "Eddie Long Stroke" (props to the Ass Bakwards crew).

Love, peace, and hair grease, y'all...

(except for Eddie and Creflo.... you two can go preach in I-20 traffic)

Apparent Necessities: The Adolescent 2520 Come-Up

J. and the Crew really oughtta be paying you, Shels... 

The gracious men over at VerySmartBrothas.com taught me something recently, through their amusing glossary of terms.  To quote:

"2520: Code for refering to caucasians and sh*t. If said aloud, the 25th (w) and 20th (t) letters of the alphabet “y”-”t” sound almost exactly like “white.” First used on VSB by Sister T, we think this term originally derived from harold clemens blog, ghettouprising."

I told a close friend (a Spelman woman, no less) that I found this new (to me) phrase spectaculrarly freaking awesome and that I was, very deliberately, going to introduce it into my vocabulary.  What's code-switching without new codes?  DuBois would be proud.  But probably not.  He'd chuckle for a second.  DuBois probably didn't chuckle.

Anyway, Sista Spelman duly informed me that I was late to the game--she and her friends had been using it for years.  (Don't know why you need to speak in code at an HBCU, but I'm sure she had her reasons...)

I felt crushed...but I had to cut myself some slack.  See,  I've attended PWI's my whole life.  (If you don't know what it means, 98% of the W's in Negro Code stand for white...though this is actually a commonly used education term.  Just keep reading.)  I love my parents, because they did an amazing job of keeping me grounded in church and with family, friends, and service, but worked their asses off to give me the best education they could afford.  In St. Louis, that meant predominately white institutions (there you go)--the ones where rich people pretended like they weren't rich even though they clearly, clearly were.  

That meant that I led a particularly Clandestinegro life for much of my adolescence.  The Negro in me was Clandestine, not by personal force or desire, but because my environment was so diverse, the ways of my inner blackness had yet to emerge.  My Great Black Awakening was a little ways off, but I was still living betwixt two worlds--and I didn't realize I didn't really fit into the PWI world until 7th grade.  Sure, I was smart enough to gain entry into the top private school in the area, but apparently I needed a 2520 come up--and fast--to be one of the cool kids, when I had no problems with this at my hippie-dippy-love-everyone-alternative-education-awesome-place-for-kids elementary school.

This is to say that there were several membership requirements I didn't realize I was lacking until the time came:

1.  I had never seen, nor did I know the entire script of Dirty Dancing.

It was at my first 7th grade sleepover where they played this apparent classic. I say apparent because, if you ask me, I didn't see what was so special about it.  White folks dancing the way black and Latino folks had been doing for far longer?  Not exciting or brand new.  Not to mention that, excepting the ever-agile Patrick Swayze, the "dirtiness" of their "dancing" wasn't even cool because they did it poorly.  It felt more like  A Chorus Line: Summer Camp Special,  full of Broadway dancing and flouncy dresses, all occurring in some remote sleepy town that would never exist in real life.  Not never.  

Quite frankly, as the only brown skin baby in the place, I had the urge to tell them that wasn't cool at all--turn on an old episode of Video Soul and they could see MUCH better dancing--dirty and non.  But that urge was fleeting--they were contemplating letting me into their club, so I just shut the hell up and pretended to know what was going on.

That meant pretending to recite lines and feign excitement ("Yeah...nobody...baby...corner.  OMG...yeah-I love this part too!") and trying to stay awake.  Alas, this piece of crap is a 2520 come-up requirement.

To this day, I'm still not impressed.

2.  I owned nothing from J. Crew.  Or Abercrombie.  And little from Banana Republic.

I was 11--what the hell did I need with clothes that expensive?  I was tall, gangly, awkward (but cute!), and growing out of my clothes at an alarming rate.  My mother would have been crazy to buy me distressed denim at $69.50 a pop when I was distressing my jeans from the Dillard's kids section just fine.  

I didn't even know what J. Crew or Abercrombie were until I got to secondary school.  For me, cool clothes came from whatever stores they had in Jamestown Mall (which used to, by the way, be the spot).  And don't mistake--they were cool.  Limited Too (paint splatter jeans, anyone?), Dillard's, Famous-Barr (now known as the atrocity that is Macy's)...hell--THIS is the mall where I first met Express and her formerly cute clothes.  You could not tell me I wasn't stylin' on these pre-pubescent hoes.  

But tragically, I realized I didn't have the right cool clothes for my new 7-12th grade environs.  You needed lots of torn up hats from Abercrombie & Fitch.  And some Birkenstocks--preferably well worn.  Dresses?  Banana or Nordstrom--any label.  And your everything else?  Your cardis and necklaces and jeans and tees and definitely your shorts and your two-pieces and your flip flops?  Those must be J. Crew, darling.  Nevermind the fact that my Pastor father wasn't even trying to let me wear a 2-piece to the bathtub, let alone buy me some bright pink shorts for 40 bucks cause I just had to have them.  Just give me those flip flops.

There was one pair that I finally put my hands on, around freshman year.  J. Crew had gone and upped the standard:  now, the flops were platform, with an elastic thong where the rubber used to be.  J. Crew, I can officially afford to love and wear your whimsical clothes now, but I do have a bone to pick with you, because that was the most STUPIDLY designed pair of footwear I had ever owned.  I really thought I was doing the damn thing.  But I was trippin'.  Literally.  YOU try walking on some 13 year old skinny stilts for legs on a big-ass foam platform and some stretchy material to hold your foot in place.  That sh*t made NO damn sense, J.  Your foot would extend so far up that you'd lose your balance going up the stairs to class.

But it didn't matter.  Cause if I fell over, or my shoe slipped off, you'd still see the "J. Crew" insignia on the inside.  Making me the coolest klutz in class.  

3. I owned no low-key 2520 status symbols.  

In the land of understated prep, there were some must-haves that separated the in-crowd from the rest of the mostly black, mostly poor and middle-class people.

The Speedo 1-piece Swimsuit:

You'd think the purple racerback suit I got on vacation in Orlando would have been satisfactory.  But no.  I had to beg Moms for the swimmer's standard.  Speedo symbol: clear but not obvious.  Bright colors: a must.  Slight pattern:  preferable, but not necessary.  But sporty for sure--no ladylike embellishments or corny details.  I was convinced I'd die a very long and embarrassing death over and over again, ever day in gym class, without one.

It was the most uncomfortable suit I had ever owned--probably because it was gotten on sale and I was 2 steps away from being too tall for it.  But I wore it till the material started peeling.  Shameful.

The Nalegene Bottle & Matching Carabiner:

You never actually had to drink out of it, but you did have to have it--the classic blue, light purple or grey with wide-mouth top--nothing fancy (even though they were $15-20 back in the day).  It had to be hanging from your L.L. Bean backpack (with the monogram, of course).  And how did it hang?  

With your bright green carabiner!   I don't think I ever really hiked a day in my life, but I've gone through 15 of those freaking things.  You're welcome, R.E.I.

My boyfriend bought a Nalgene bottle last night.  And it had to be a Nalgene.  Guess my life has officially come full circle.

The Right Keychain:

It wasn't a Tiffany's keyring.  Or a Coach one, or some other luxury brand, as you might suspect.  No.  It was these monogrammed, needlepoint leather key fobs that everybody had.  You could only get them at this extra shi-shi arts and crafts store on the street around the corner from the school.  

But these were a trap.  You see, in order for said key fob to qualify, it had to be made for you by a friend.  Which meant if you didn't have one, no one liked you.  If you had 4, you were the freaking (wo)man.  You knew if someone actually gave it to you if there were a note inside, filled with awesome inside jokes about your parent's pool house, beer, and awesome closings like "LYLAS" or "You're SO Money!"

Eventually...I said f*ck it.  I made my own and my friend Kara wrote the note.  And neither of our families have a pool.  Or a house for said pool.

Note: My 2520's did NOT include those silly symbols.  We were too money for that...