Just Biden Time

There’s few headlines that immediately send chills down my spine, but anything with Joe Biden, a man I’m convinced learned his governance politics from The Dukes of Hazard and G.I. Joe, gets me every time.

I mean it’s Joe’s very presence that makes me cringe whenever I hear Obama’s name during the nightly news because anyone foolhardy enough to include Biden in their administration is looking to have a national holiday named after them, if you catch my drift.


But there it is: “Biden to Iraq”.

How do these things happen?

I’ve got to imagine that good ol’ Uncle Joe must’ve muscled his way into that assignment, literally ripping the brief from Hillary’s hands during a meeting (“GO FIND YOURSELF A SKIRT, HILLY—MARRIED DAMES DON’T WEAR PANTS”) and then appointing himself as the “NU DIRECTOR OF STUFF SHE DID”.

His thinking? “LOOK BARACKY, YA DON’T SEND SECRETARIES TO DO A BOSS’ JOB, AM I RIGHT FELLAS?” (and then looks bewilderingly around the room).

Biden, who probably insists on being called things like “J.B.” or, “OPTIMUS PRIME” by the staff, was then probably sent to Iraq with the equivalent of “It’s over” on a Five Guys napkin signed by Barack and simply had to hand it over.

Biden consults with Roadblock on the Tomahawk.

He’d nod; Barack would nod.
Then Biden would leave the Oval Office, stuffing the napkin into his mouth.


This is what happens when two your V.P. has watched ‘The Expendables’.

So yeah, he’ll get there, and in typical Biden fashion he’ll try and handle things his own way.

Instead of brokering peace or announcing U.S. withdrawal, one can bet that J.B. will instead do the following with (or rather, “to”) Iraq’s leaders:

  • First, he’ll introduce himself as an honored guest by bringing something like monkey brains or burning hearts or whatever else he gleaned while watching ‘Temple of Doom’ on the Tomahawk flight in. And probably a case of Yoo-Hoo because Uncle Joe looks like he drinks that kind of stuff.


  • Challenge the Iraqi leaders to an arm-wrestling contest. All of them. At the same time.
  • Suggest doing an “Strongman” competition where they’ll see who can pull a tank the farthest, using nothing but, “BACK MUSCLES, ROPE AND A LITTLE THING I CALL ‘CAN-DOISM’ ”. The winner “GETS THE UNIVERSE”.
  • Suggest doing an “Ironman” competition where they’ll see who can make a  flying suit of armor first out of IED fragments. What’s that–a flying suit sounds impossible? Not if you were smart enough to buy “magic beans” off that Iraqi boy outside the embassy like Uncle Joe did…..


Within 15mins, not only will we not withdraw troops, we’ll have jumpstarted a whole new skirmish with Iraq thanks to J.B. Trust me; this won’t end well.

So when it does happen, don’t say you didn’t know before hand.

After all, knowing is half the battle.

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We Wear the Mosque

Straight out of the Book of Predictability (it’s the little-read 8th book after the Deathly Hallows), Americans the country over are up in arms about the proposed mosque to be built on Ground Zero.

It’s got people sending in angry emails and comments to places like Huffington Post, Slate.com and the Washington Post. Why even as I was perusing the khakis section on Gap.com, there was a comment in the customer review section (“these khakis fit as tight as my wedding ring; oh and F-CK THAT MOSQUE @ GRD ZERO WE CANT LET THEM WIN NEVER FORGET. Oh, and I suggest getting ur pants at Banana Republic”).

So, it’s everywhere.

While it’s not important to sweat the details, let’s sweat the details for a minute, ok?

YOU ARE HERE. Allah is everywhere!

For starters, the mosque isn’t even at Ground Zero—it’s about 2 blocks and around a corner, from the World Trade Center site, thereby making it about as “on Ground Zero” as I was “all up on Erykah Badu” when I was sitting in the 32 rows from her at her concert a couple months ago.

Secondly, the site isn’t fully a mosque, it’s a community/cultural center (something that clearly many of us could use a bit more of) with a prayer room set aside. Again, important—it’s not fair calling this place a “mosque” just because it has Muslim-related activities happening in there. I mean the local Catholic church has the occasional handjobs but we don’t call it a “whorehouse” just because they happen to collect offerings before they do it.

So if we’re going to get mad about landmarks in our good cities, I fear we’re a little behind the times.

Everywhere you look, we’ve erected statues, bridges, tunnels and holidays to tons of white guys who’s answer to ‘domestication’ was repeatedly Smurfing-up the lives of brown people every time they came across them. We’re talking generations, centuries. For some perspective, take a look at the long-running White Dudes Are F-cking This Place Up Show:

From Kidsipedia

  1. White Dudes Are F-cking This Place Up Show(like, forever)
  2. Meet the Press (62 years)
  3. The Today Show (58 years)
  4. Black Eyed Peas (only about 15 years, but fuck, doesn’t it FEEL a lot longer?)

"I'll have those teeth now, Erasmus."

….but yet they get all the acclaim and prestige for doing things like “writing the country’s rules on a bar napkin” (my friends and I have had about a zillion great ideas about how to fix things: education, poverty, the Eagles, Seal’s face but just didn’t have the powdered wigs and wooden teeth to get the job done).

Anyway, these guys were slave owners—slave owners!—and we celebrate them like Superbowl champs.

I mean there’s Washington and his famous “wooden teeth”—which, historians have later discovered weren’t wooden teeth at all, but actually the teeth of his slaves fitted into his mouth.

First of all, I now understand that any white person that I see on TV kissing a dog, monkey or old person on the mouth is a clear descendant of Washington. Secondly, how the f-ck do you wear other people’s teeth? And how much must it suck if you’re the house slave serving old gum-bucks Washington some hot grits, fried chicken and okra, and have to watch him eat that food with your own teeth?

"The Colonel's secret ingredient is slavery!"

“Sweet Freedom of Speech, Erasmus! This chicken is to whip for*– I would say ‘I must have the recipe!’, but I have you! Why, if I had the intention of freeing you, which I will not because I need you and your family’s strong backs and teeth, I would suggest you start your own business. What I do need is for my good friend the Colonel to try some of this though. Colonel Sanders—come have some of fried chicken I made! It will change your life! I must say Erasmus, this ‘America’ idea is coming up roses!”

I mean, even Benny Franklin, beloved real-life Reed Richards of early America, had a couple of slaves too—oh you think it was Franklin holding that kite?

“Ben Franklin Test Slave #99; please go outside and hold this metal key on a kite string up to the stormy skies. I have a theory that the lightning of the attracted to that key will either hold great power or kill you. As I am a scientist and inventor I am fine with either outcome. I am now off to have my face sketched. We’re going to put it on money and use it here. I must say Ben Franklin Test Slave #99—this America idea is coming up roses!”

Fortunately, BF Test Slave #99 would later get revenge as Candy Man.

But yet, we don’t make a fuss about the blood, hypocrisy and Negro teeth that these guys started as a virtual legacy here in the United States; I mean ask the Native American population how it feels to have their cumulative land mass reduced to somewhere between Gilligan’s Island and Lost.

So start burning that money. Take down some tunnels. Cut the cables on the GW Bridge. Flip over that Lincoln Towncar.

Franklin waits outside the U.S. Mint drawing room for his turn.

We can’t let them win, right?

*this was before the assassinations of JFK, Malcolm X, MLK and hip-hop, when the phrase was appropriately changed to “…to die for”.

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Girl Power!

Dr. Laura is one of those media “doctors” that I never believe is really a doctor. 


In a pop culture universe littered with Dr. Phil, Dr. Drew, Dr. Ruth, Dr. Oz and Dr. Doom, there’s no telling whether you’re getting advice on marriage, drug abuse or How To Kill That Meddlesome Fantastic Four! 

Hell, I’m still locked up in litigation behind my suing Dr. J for all the heightening years I lost drinking Dr. Pepper because of his say-so as a “doctor” (and I’ll win dammit, I will). 

So it’s of little surprise to me that Dr. Laura, one of those shrill talking heads that occasionally spawns other Talking Things like Anne C*nter Coulter and Glenn Beck from the recesses of her hate-box, completely lost her WebMd-ness on air the other day talking to a black female caller who was phoning in about her troubles with her white husband’s racist friends. 

Instead of offering her usual “tough-talk” advice, Dr. Laura slipped on her finest white robes and said the following: 

Black guys use it all the time. Turn on HBO and listen to a black comic, and all you hear is n****, n*****, n*****. I don’t get it. If anybody without enough melanin says it, it’s a horrible thing. But when black people say it, it’s affectionate. It’s very confusing. 

"Anyone ever tell you you look like Magic Johnson? No? Well, n****, you do! It's ok; I'm a doctor."

The Kids Note: In case you’re wondering, the n***** does not stand for “nachos”, though black guys are pretty fond of nachos, and there was definitely at least one drunken night in College Park I ran through the streets yelling, “nacho, nachos, NACHOS“. 

But she didn’t stop there. I mean, once you’ve opened Pandora’s Box and discovered there’s sins, Justin Beiber and some n***** in there, well, you can’t just sit there and try and put the lid back on, right? You got to let those n***** out! And so, that’s what Dr. Laura proceeded to do. 

To wit: 

CALLER: Is it OK to say that word? Is it ever OK to say that word?
DR. LAURA: It depends how it’s said. Black guys talking to each other seem to think it’s ok.
CALLER: But you’re not black, they’re not black, my husband is white.
DR. LAURA: Oh, I see, so a word is restricted to race. Got it. Can’t do much about that.
CALLER: I can’t believe someone like you is on the radio spewing out the n***** word, and I hope everybody heard it.
DR. LAURA: I didn’t spew out the n***** word!
CALLER: You said “n*****, n*****, n*****” and I hope everybody heard it.
DR. LAURA: Yes they did, and I’ll say it again: n*****, n*****, n***** is what you hear on HBO.
DR. LAURA: Why don’t you let me finish a sentence? Don’t take things out of context. Don’t NAACP me, leave them in context. 

Props to Dr. Laura for keeping her head on long enough to not only find about 8 more ways to use the N-word, but also, in perhaps a vain attempt to get some street-cred (’cause Dr. Laura knows that n****** love street-cred like it’s Capital One) she even found the time to coin a new slang phrase: “Don’t NAACP me”, which will now join “stop hatin’ ” and “do you” in the Oxford Dictionary lexicon of phrases. 

Then, in a painful attempt to rectify the situation, Dr. Laura went on air to apologize for her tirade: 

She then got on the air the next day to issue a painfully awkward apology:  

“Yesterday, I did the wrong thing,” she said. “I didn’t intend to hurt people, but I did. And that makes it the wrong thing to have done. I was attempting to make a philosophical point, and I articulated the “n” word all the way out – more than one time. And that was wrong. I’ll say it again – that was wrong. I guess I didn’t realize n***** were so sensitive.” 

Ok, ok, ok–I made the first 3-4 sentences up. Guilty. 

But as if this circus of slurs wasn’t enough, who decides to come to her rescue? 

"Look at me, I'm 'urban'! Bang! Bang! Gimme muh welfare!"

Everyone’s favorite clueless aunt, Sarah Palin! 

Palin issued the following on Twitter, most likely via one of those microphones that quadriplegics use to type since she’s illiterate: 

Dr.Laura:don’t retreat…reload! (Steps aside bc her 1st Amend.rights ceased 2exist thx 2activists trying 2silence”isn’t American,not fair”) 

Dr.Laura=even more powerful & effective w/out the shackles, so watch out Constitutional obstructionists. And b thankful 4 her voice,America! 

…..all of which sounds like the outtakes of Rush Limbaugh’s failed “Schoolhouse Rock” tapes. 

So, at the end of the day, what do we learn? 

  1. “Post-racial America” looks a lot like “Racial America”
  2. Sarah Palin is like the white conservatives’ Al Sharpton
  3. Dr. Laura should be really, really glad ‘Chappelle’s Show’ isn’t on anymore
  4. ….but ‘The Boondocks’ is still on TV
  5. ….and that she’s already dropped enough N-bombs to warrant 80% of a rap record
  6. Sarah Palin apparently outsources her Twitter account to 12 yr olds probably can’t spell


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Alicia Keys: Octomom

Don't feed after midnight.

If you hadn’t heard by now, Alicia Keys, Grammy-award-winning music-harpy, is pregnant with Swizz Beatz’ (famed hip-hop producer that resembles something between Star Wars concept art and an Middle Eastern Pinocchio) baby.

Normally such news calls for congratulations and, if you have a Facebook account, an opportunity to do creepy shit like change your profile pic to your first sonogram.

But here at The Kids headquarters, I see it as just another attempt by Keys to get people to swoon over her.

First of all, it should be noted that Keys and Beats got together after Keys played an instrumental part in breaking up Swizz’s marriage.

Wait, that's not Alicia! Maybe....

According to reports, Keys and Beatz (I love going back and forth between calling him “Beatz” or “Swizz”) met while collaborating on some music, and during that time together, she apparently convinced Swizz that the screeching sound that he heard in the listening booth wasn’t (just) her singing voice but her Heart Singing too.

And apparently Keys dug Beatz’ swagger so much she let him stay over at some point, bang her Keys and see her minus the Proactiv, eventually getting knocked up. This will be Beatz’ 3rd or 4th child–ah, I can’t remember son, too busy countin’ these Swizz Beatz hits!–which just goes to show you that even in this day and age, at the end of the day, people are still using a Swizz Army Knife as their go-to tool.

...oops! Still not Alicia!

Unsurprisingly, people are all curious about the sex of the child, though I find myself much more worried what Keys will give birth to.

Let’s look at the likely outcomes of an Alicia Keys baby:

  • another “Empire State of Mind” or worse yet,
  • “Alicia Keys Discography”, but most likely,
  • “Godzilla”


That’s about it. That’s our choices. I’m not sure about you, but I don’t want to live in a world with Godzilla in it, and certainly don’t want one with “Empire State of Mind” in it.

What at least comforts me is knowing that a baby will pull Keys out of the spotlight at least through the larvae stage.

As for Swizz Beatz?

Well, if history’s any indication, he’s probably already making hits with Lady GaGa.

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Killing Me Softly

If you haven’t heard, it’s been quite the biblical stretch:

When I checked my Mayan calendar (I got it during the time Nickelodeon was giving Maya the Bee calendars to every 5th caller one summer), it presaged the following:

  • Chelsea Clinton shall get married, which will beget
  • ….the state of California approving gay marriage, (history will call this the “Oprah, Gail King Bill”) which will beget today’s post:
  • …. Wyclef Jean running for president of Haiti

When I heard the news that Wyclef Jean had intentions to run for the presidential office of Haiti, I first had to Wikipedia Wyclef Jean to make sure that he was actually still alive.

He is; just turns out his career’s been dead for about 6 years.

If you didn’t already know, Wyclef is probably Haiti’s best-known talent; for perspective there was a time when New Jersey’s claim to fame was being the birthplace of Joe Piscopo, which is funny whether you know who he is or not.

I’m incredibly mystified by this decision, and somehow, in the deepest darkest corners of my mind, I secretly feel that I should blame Obama for inspiring a nation of people to think that little experience shouldn’t mean anything when it comes to big dreams.

But alas; Wyclef Jean?

When Anderson Cooper reached out to some people in Haiti for reactions to the Wyclef news, the only response he got was “Please, stop; we’re just getting back on our feet”.

Seems fair, right?

Well, it appears he’s not; the Haitian council ruled that Jean was ineligible to run based on the fact that Haitian law requires that candidates be a resident of Haiti for at least 5 years, and have been off Lauryn Hill’s tit for at least 1/2 that time.

What was once senseless bravado–he made the announcement that he was running on ‘Larry King Live’, a show that Jean apparently thinks Haitians watch when they’re not too busy playing Joe vs the Volcano back home–was quickly reduced to rubble by the council’s decision as legit candidates eventually surfaced.

This was an unfortunate turn of events since before the decision had arrived, Jean’s only opposition for office was the Earthquake and Marvel Comic’s Brother Voodoo, though both were leading Wyclef in Gallup polls:

Gallup Poll: Who Would You Vote For in the Upcoming Haiti Presidential Election?

  • Brother Voodoo (fictional superhero with voodoo-based powers): 35%
  • Black Panther (superhero king of fictional African kingdom): 31%
  • Haitian Earthquake (Mother Nature’s bastard child, demolished Haiti): 20%
  • Black panther (savage animal last scene in Janet Jackson video):  12%
  • Wyclef Jean (former Fugees group member last seen wrestling a black panther for money–owed to black panther): 2%

While most people who make shitty records but decide to run for Haitian president on a basis as seemingly scientific as iTunes sales would eventually understand that hey, maybe my dilapidated country doesn’t need my help, Wyclef Jean takes the fight to the streets of Twitter, apparently another bastion of Haitian communication:

“We have met all the requirements set by the laws. And the law must be Respected.” via Wyclef Jean Twitter

I’m guessing that “Respect” is capitalized because it’s probably also the name of his upcoming shitty album.

But then, is his dream really that insane? And aren’t we partially to blame?

We’ve already voted Arnold Schwarzen-N-word, Sonny Bono, Jesse Ventura, Al Franken and Bill Bradley into office over the years–a cast of name that seems more appropriate for Celebrity Apprentice than political office–so maybe Wyclef’s not so crazy.

I mean hell, if he can bring Lauryn Hill back, it’s worth it, right?


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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: Behind the Iron Curtain

Man, these C.R.A.P.’s are getting further and further apart, aren’t they?

Well, we’ll have to make sure we change that, won’t we?

You bet your ass we do.

Pat's to the Sofitel's Geno's

So, if you’re unfamiliar with these entries, the C.R.A.P. is a detailed review of public places to take a dump here in the City of Brotherly Love and United Hatred for McNabb (and occasionally elsewhere) and is reviewed according to several specific criteria: Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access, Privacy. All of which of course equals “C.R.A.P.”.

Some people find the categories a little redundant; they say, “hey Kids, aren’t access and remoteness sort of the same?”, to which I usually say, “hey, go write your own shit, Dear Abby; I’ll handle mine”.

As the kids (not to be confused with The Kids) say: do you.

And so, without further ado-doo, the latest C.R.A.P.

The Kids Don’t Get It Sends You Some Shit From Hotel Palomar, With Love

Turn the wrong faucet on and LAVA COMES

The Hotel Palomar is pretty Smurfing ballsy. They opened their swank hotel right across the street from the King of C.R.A.P. the Hotel Sofitel. When I first saw the glossy doors of the Hotel Palomar open for business, I knew it’d be trouble for my ass. These two places co-existing on the exact same block, mere feet from each other, was like having Pat’s and Geno’s for your ass suddenly open. Most times when I’m downtown, I’ve still opted for Hotel Sofitel; at this point, I go there so often the hotel staff has hand towels waiting for me once I’m done.

But on this fateful day, I took the plunge(r) and headed to Hotel Palomar. With a bellyful of butt batter, I sidled up to the new hotel, which looks impressively impregnable from the outside. Fortunately, I’ve impregnated a lot of places in the past.

Wait, what?

Your mission should you choose to accept it? To do the same. In the meantime, let’s take a look at what I learned inside. Armed with a spy camera (my Palm Pre) and this morning’s Starbucks multi-grain bagel and grande hot chocolate, Agent 002 was ready for her majestry’s service.

  • Cleanliness: The Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms were pretty spiffy. The stalls are all painted a dark blue, and the floor and the walls are adorned with blue tile. The whole place feels like a psychological experiment; it’s as if the blue color is dark and foreboding enough to make you spill your country’s most guarded secrets and last night’s turkey chili with almost hypnotic ease.To add to this intrigue, two other details curiously stood out:

"Think Nothing But Blue Skies": It's the "think baseball, grandmother" of pooping!

Stalls, prepared to be classified as "K.I.A."

Observation #1: immediately inside the restroom wall was a huge framed picture with the phrase “Think Nothing But Blue Skies” repeated over and over again (see the adjacent picture). As I snapped a series of pics of the frame, I stared at it several times, and before I knew it I was not only reciting my social security number, but I was so relaxed, I was already shitting on the floor. Impressive.

Observation #2: the entire time I was in there, Euro techno music was thumping overhead through hidden speakers. Oddly enough, this wasn’t that intrusive, but certainly added to the “Euro undercover mission” vibe I was feeling.

I stopped in the middle of the restroom and took stock: 3 toilet stalls to the right, about 3 urinals lining the left wall, and then a handicap-accessible toilet far in the back. The sinks were bone-white with a sloped basin and these cute little trapdoors located under the faucet that seemed to catch the water. The whole thing was very zen-like. I ceremoniously washed my hands before stepping into the stall to remove my trousers. I’ve got a license to kill, and I aim to use it before it’s revoked (again). +10

  • Remoteness: Where’s these bathrooms located, right? I mean, if it was in the lair of say, Dr. No, it’d be located through some sort of exotic venereal-disease-infested grotto like at the Playboy mansion. Here though, the public restrooms are located on the 2nd floor (clever birds) and tucked away off a hallway that resembled the ‘auction house’ in Taken–they were incredibly dark and dimly lit, with dark wood walls and, I’m sure, with a touch of a panel, a room would reveal itself that would allow you to bid on young chicks like they were concert tickets on eBay. As I walked down the hall, I occasionally passed Palomar staff, many of whom stopped eying me suspiciously once I affected my best British accent and said, “Washroom? It would appear that one of the Czech-area hookers I’m bidding on has spat upon my knickers.” With a click of a heel to the right, I walked down the hall and entered the bathroom.+8

    The Man-sittin' Project

  • Access: It’s not easy getting to the restrooms. It’s downright intimidating even. Even under my prepared guise (Name: Truman America. Age: 128. Occupation: Arts importer/exporter. Sex: Lots Marital Status: Delayed.) I found that despite my years of previous restroom infiltration, this one made me sweat it out a bit. Hotel Palomar isn’t intuitively laid out; there’s a bar/restaurant to your right, a check-in desk up to the left, and a yawning hallway ahead of you that leads to elevators and a shark pit I think. This process would be much, much easier with the aid of a Bond girl with a scene appropriate name like “Delores Brownbottom”, or “Candy Deucedropper”. I shut my eyes at one point and strode forward with an icy resolve. My secret? blueskiesblueskiesblueskiesblueskies. +6
  • Privacy:Once again, with the removed location, the sound-dampening oak walls, and the ink-blot test blue stalls, the Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms are a secret ass-gent’s ideal HQ. I felt like I could not only take the “silencer” off my butt when I let loose, I probably could have also contacted M back at HQ and told her of my progress thus far. I’ve actually been to the Hotel Palomar 3x, and each time I’ve been pleasantly surprised to see how empty the bathrooms are every time. After awhile you even start to fall into the groove of the place; I sat as I shat and dreamed of racing through halls with Candi Deucedropper trying to locate toilet paper, or Russian bomb blueprints  (or maybe Russian bomb blueprints printed on toilet paper?) while toe-tapping to the overhead tune of “This This THIS Is For the ReVolUtiOn” by that hit group “Progrom”.

    Agent, you are cleared to use lethal force!

But I mean, f-ck man, after awhile I just wanted to boogie, so at some point, with a wipe (shaken, not stirred) and a whistle, I got up and waltzed back into the bright, searing Philadelphia sun.+8
  • Total C.R.A.P. Score: 32
The only drawback I could find? Now whenever I hear the phrase “blue skies” I immediately shit myself.

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