Monthly Archives: November 2008


Ever the savvy marketing mavens, the Mattel-makers have made a maiden perfect for mirth-making this Christmas. With their finger on the pulse of kids everywhere, they’ve created their latest Barbie to reflect the times:

Meet Goth-Punk Barbie.pnkrckbarbie_dt1

I bet you’re thinking that The Kids…made this one up, but uh, no–I’m not that advanced here at TKDGI HQ. This is real. As a matter of fact, I wrote Mattel and requested a prototype model so I could review it for my readership. Here’s my report on Goth-Punk Barbie.

The Box:

  • My Goth-Punk Barbie came in an all-black box that had cigarette burns and small cuts hidden under the “Mattel” sticker and other only-the-counselor-can-find places.
  • The outside of the box was adorned with phrases like, “Open me or don’t-I don’t really care”….”Let’s hang at the elementary school playground and smoke joints together”….”I want to dress your little brother in your dead Nana’s clothes”….
  • Advertised that it was “Exclusive to ‘Hot Topic’!”
  • Box interior was decorated with Goth-punk type room, complete with burned Miley Cyrus poster, morbid newspaper clippings (“Teens Convicted of Pet Store Slayings”) and walls covered in bloody fingernail scratches

The Doll:

My Goth-Punk Barbie came with an assortment of accessories/details too, to complete her ‘look’. They included:

  • A ‘Hello Kitty’ backpack full of ‘daddy issues’ , ‘vampire’ poetry….and a box-cutter knife
  • Ironic t-shirts for Goth-Punk Barbie to wear like, “Britney Spears for Prez”, “I F*cked Your Teddy Bear'” and “I ❤ Courtney Love”
  • Gag-ball and gimp-mask (for Ken) and each Goth-Punk Barbie comes with its own ‘safe word’. (Mine was ‘Jem’)
  • Special wipe-on/wipe-off white-face make-up allows Barbie to go from “scary babysitter Callista” to “reformed suburbanite Callie”, allowing both to wear the same man-hating, ‘inner demons’ facial expression!

Priced at $6.66 for a limited time.

Mattel also promises that a “Wannabe-Thug” Ken will be released 1/19/2009, complete with over-indulgent obscure hip-hop references (“Why don’t more people listen to The Cool Kids?”), “BARACK IS THE NEW BLACK” t-shirt, Converse sneakers and bachelor’s degree.


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Style Quiz! #4: Hair Apparent

Time for a new “Style Quiz!”, wouldn’t you say? I would.

Previous style quizzes have examined hands, feet and accessories–technically, the ever-popular “skinny jeans” post could also be considered a “Style Quiz!” entry, too. But we’ve managed to skip over a crucial area in covering it all: hair!

So, get out your pencils (and your combs) and let’s take this quiz. This one’s fairly brief, I think.

Please read the following instructions carefully.

For the purposes of this quiz, please assume the role of a female person of color. If you are already a female person of color, DO NOT assume the role of a white female; please remain a female person of color.

Please proceed.

1. “I am waking up this morning, and I am black/brown woman. Time to do my hair.” In this instance, what colors are most appropriate for your skin tone/type?

a) black like coffee

b) a lighter shade of brown like caramelcrayolacrayons_rg

c) gold like gold

d) copper like a penny or decorative cookware

e) “other” like Crayola boxes

2. *yawn* *stretch* “I am a black/brown woman standing in the bathroom mirror. I rub my eyes, put on my contacts and they are–”

a) a natural brown, black color as I am of African/Caribbean/Hispanic/etc descent


"Wish I could be, part of that world"

b) blue-ish green, like Mer-people

c) shockingly blue and piercing, like a white person, on meth

d) “other” (green, magenta, purple), like pre-schooler’s coloring book

3. Your black/brown woman eyes have now adjusted to the new day. Time to do your hair. What a mess it is! You begin running your fingers through it and–

a) it catches because it has knots in it (you will refer to this as, “nappy”)

b) an assortment of horse-hair/tracks fall out, revealing my jaw-length hair. Once properly re-installed, it is back to being down to the middle of my back. I am Beyonce’ now.

c) pick it up off the dummy’s head on the sink, place it on head. I am now ready for the world.

Please review your answers. If you’ve answered “a” or “b” for #1, and then answered “a” for #2 and #3– Congratulations! –you may join society. Please feel free to explore malls, museums and supermarkets without fear of reprisal or confusion.storm1

If you’ve answered with any other combination, please pause and take a moment to reflect. These other combinations, while readily seen in everyday life, are not appropriate. If someone told me that they saw a woman of color with copper hair, cobalt blue eyes and a horse tail, I would say, “Sir/Madam, you have just seen–”

a. Storm, from the X-Men

b. a Fraggle

c. Margaret Cho

d. Beowulf’s enemy, Grendel

It’s quite clear, isn’t it? There are only certain situations where such appearances are ok for you. They are:


a) hanging with Biggie

b) living amongst Peter Pan’s Lost Boys

c) being a Popple.

This is perhaps the only time you’d want to look more “Oprah” than “Tyra”.


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Black Holes

As I was typing the latest edition of C.R.A.P. it occurred to me that sci-fi’s two flagship series–Star Trek and Star Wars–have some serious race issues. I mean, what’s it say when these sci-fi utopias all revolve around a world virtually devoid of black people? I mean really, what the f-ck happens between now and the 2063 (Star Trek’s stated time frame)??? Have you noticed this?

Dear Batman, does Obama just really f-ck this shit up for us or something?

Let’s take a look, shall we?

What we learn from Star Trek:


The USS Amistad: Give us, us beam!

Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek takes place in the year 2063 and beyond. The plot of Star Trek is that this is the year that humans perfect the technology to “warp” which in average Joe speak essentially means traveling at the speed of light–apparently fast enough to strip pigment from everyone’s skin. Needless to say, they warp all the time in Star Trek.

The entire make-up of The Enterprise (the spaceship the crew travels in) is a joke, too. The cast consists of Kirk, Spock, Scotty, Checkov, Sulu, Dr. McCoy and Uhura. This means that amazingly, at this point in the future, you can find a gay Asian engineer (as helmsman, Sulu is The Enterprise’s driver, shocker) and most bizarrely, a black woman “Communications Officer” with the last name “Uhura”, which I think is Swahili for “token”. I mean shit, they even found a white man (Dr. McCoy) named “Bones”! I mean really; Dr. Bones? That’s a pimp’s name. Or at least a rapper.


The stress of 22nd-century living does horrors to a brother's face

As a matter of fact, the obvious black substitutes in the future are the Klingons. These war-mongering, pack-traveling , brothers speak their own language (Klingon, which is like space ebonics) and English. As a matter of fact, in their first appearance on Star Trek, the first time the crew makes contact with one, his opening greeting was, no lie, “What-up, n****a?”

If you listen hard enough, you can even hear Roddenberry and co. laughing hysterically backstage.

What we learn from Star Wars:


The Ladies' Man: me, you, some Courvessier, and the Millenium Falcon, baby

Star Wars might be even worse than Star Trek. First of all, SW takes place in some weird alternate reality–the kind where even the Dark Side doesn’t have a ‘dark side’. And the one black that does make an appearance has the outfit of a 3-Musketeer, the hairdo of Al Sharpton, goes by the name “Lando” and used to be a space pirate, meaning he loves booty –all of which I think makes him the SW galaxy’s only black porn star. No surprise that his old ride was a ship called the ‘Millenium Falcon’ joining the illustrious list of other number-themed black properties like Colt .45, Dr. Dre 2001 and of course, Andre 3000.

But if you look a little closer, there’s some more ‘black magic’ at work. Luke Skywalker, the story’s main protagonist, is raised on a barren, scorching earth desert planet known as Tatooine. This planet has multiple suns, no shade and tons of sand everywhere, yet Luke’s as white as a Stormtrooper. You know who isn’t though? The guys who’ve been gentrified to the far side of the planet–the Sandmen and the Jawas. While Luke gets to live the sweet life in a low-rent bubble-house right outside the city, the Jawas and the Sandmen are forced to make due with some of the whackest accommodations on the planet.


Jawas: criminally-discriminated against, but too high to really care.

I mean the fucking Jawas drive this over-sized, tricked-out Cadillac, picking up trash and androids to recycle down in the city. They’re so under-fed they can’t even grow more than two-feet, meaning they can’t even get a basketball scholarship to Tatooine State, forced instead to drive around in that hoopty and smoke weed all day (hence they’re glowing little eyes). They’re living the Tatooine Dream, Dr. Dre-style. If you’ve been to D.C., New Orleans and Houston, you know what I mean.


Vader shows Luke the Brother Handshake to prove he's "down for the brown"

And then there’s the Sandmen, who are just plain pissed all the time. Hey, you would be too if you were kicked out to Tatooine’s version of Ward 9. All they do is stand around on in their hoods, tossing shit at passing cars and stuff. You know something’s up about them, because early on in the movie, when someone mentions having to go through their hood possibly, Obi-Wan and Luke both look at each other and say, “Oh hell no, we’ve seen The Wire; those mofos are crazy.” It’s not too long after that that Obi-Wan thinks it’s time to give Luke a lightsaber.

Unsurprisingly, once Luke starts blowing-up in the Jedi and Rebellion ranks, who comes crawling out of hiding but Darth Vader, Luke’s black daddy. The poor boy attempts to kill himself rather than face the reality that his daddy was James Earl Jones.

And as he dropped through the long series of shafts in Cloud City, who was there at the bottom to save him?

Lando Calrissian.

But I bet he was looking for some booty.


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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”, Pt. 3

It’s been awhile (kinda) so it’s time for another installment of C.R.A.P. This time, we’re boldly going to a place The Kids… shit has not gone before.

New to C.R.A.P.? It’s quite simple, really. This little on-going feature is all about where to squat when you’re in a jam and gotta drop some butt-Spam. Some Philadelphia places to go when your ass has got a question and you need to give it an Answer. When you’re suddenly McNabbed with the need to run a poot-leg play. You get it.

I rank these places on an easy-to-use scale based on Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access and Privacy–all the essential ingredients for public poos.


"Ass-bibs"? Where we're going, we don't NEED ass-bibs.


Let’s do this.

Need to make a ‘deposit’ downtown?

Got a little extra ‘dough’ you want to dump?

With these hard economic times that we’re in, it’s only fitt-ING that our first review is for the ING Cafe’ in downtown Philly on the corner of 17th and Walnut. The ING Cafe’ stands out because it looks like someone’s combined an Orange Julius with a Sharper Image store. It’s futuristic insides is like being in the leisure deck on The Enterprise–there’s an expansive, ‘futuristic’ feel to the place that no other place in the city really captures. Plus, when I was there, I was waited on a black girl that I decided to call “Guinan”. There’s pods for checking email and wireless access (more on that) too while you sip, save and shit.

So how’s the market look for crapping?

Let’s take a look.


You'll need an ass-cess card to do that here, Mr. Man.

Cleanliness: ING’s bathrooms are crispy-clean. I mean honestly, a place where you can eat blueberry muffins, drink coffee and look at your financial state is bound to make people shit their pants a lot, right? Not so here. When I walked in, I was amazed–floored even–by the cleanliness of the men’s room. I was convinced that only robots shat in this place. It was spotless. I really can’t stress how amazed I was. It was so clean in there, I considered dropping a load in my pants instead. +8

Remoteness: ING’s bathrooms are located at the back of the Cafe’. They are unassuming and sterile-looking whose frosty-colored, opaque doors could easily be mistaken for ‘droid storage units. What’s also great is that most people are so busy surfing Craigslist’s “Casual Encounters of the Trannie Kind ” they won’t notice or care that you’re slipping by to photon-torpedo the john. +8


Thanks to ING's accommodations, public-Wookie shitting is down 80%

Access: Well, true to Philadelphia’s own political system here, ING is sort of a “pay-to-play” gig. For example, if you’re going to use the wireless there, you have to purchase something at the cafe’ where they’ll give you a card that has an access code on it. This card’s good for about a 30min access to the internet, meaning that you’ve got to buy more stuff there to be on the internet longer. Sounds odd for a place that stresses savings, huh? Yeah, I think so too.

So, based on an “honor system” of sorts, you’re going to feel rather obligated (if you’re not an ING member, that is) to get something there, since their synthetic employees have mastered the art of “passive aggressive inquiry” about possible lay-abouts and doo-dooers there. If you’re bold of course (say your Perineum Falcon’s in danger of leaving an “ion trail” in your pants), you can just make a warp-speed beeline to the bathrooms, but for the rest of us, I’d suggest buying something.


"KAAAAAHHHHNNN!"--Kirk sets his ass-phaser to KILL.

In addition to that, because of it’s rather “austere” appearances, the ING Cafe’ subconsciously discourages vagrants from coming in there. There’s nowhere to hide in a place so brightly-lit and sparsely-deocrated place. While liberally in most things, I’m decidedly conservative to public poo-ing, meaning that unlike your local Barnes & Noble, you can get your stinkon without sharing a bathroom with a Klingon. Star-skeet Academy approved. +6

Privacy: They say in space, no one can hear you scream. I daresay that that’s the case for the ING’s space station C.R.A.P. utopia. It could be the large stalls (big enough for a Wookie dookie) and their hard-to-see through stall linings. It could be the cold, stark space itself which seems airy and sound-swallowing at the same time. I don’t know what it was, but I’ve been there twice, and each time I’ve felt comfortable to set my ass-phaser to “LOUD”. Impressively, I felt as though the sound was muffled by the frosted toilet stall: I was giddy. I’ve even tried the yelling following while on the toilet:

  • “One to beam!”
  • “The Force is strong with this one”.
  • “Doo or doo not; there is no try”

So if you’re in for a (butt)blaster-battle, you’re at the right place, Ensign. +8

Total C.R.A.P. Score: 30


Lt. Spock, reporting to the poop deck, Captain.

Shit long, and prosper.


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My tender ‘roni

So, the last couple of days The Kids…had been home alone as the better half was away on business. It was the first time in awhile that I had the entire place to myself.

That night I made a Boboli pepperoni pizza with the plan of eating 1/2 for dinner and 1/2 for lunch tomorrow. But man, when that pizza came out at 8pm, and I took that first bite…it was like the episode Seinfeld when Elaine eats some of that cake in the office.


The effects of 1 man vs 1 Boboli pizza

I felt like Bruce Banner when he’s hit with the gamma bomb; I stumbled around the apartment, crashing into shit, falling onto the couch, and seriously, it was like I was on shrooms.

With 1/2 the pizza gone, as I went to wrap up the other 1/2, one slice looked up at me and said, “Come on now, baby; I thought we were just getting this party started?”

“No Boboli; I’m saving you for lunch tomorrow”

(Boboli, looking hurt) “You ain’t having a good time?”

“Well, I, I mean yeah but–”

“–I think the sauce on your face says you’re having a good time”

“…you’re right, Boboli….Batdamn-you, you’re right….”

“Look shutup. Come over here. That’s right…that’s right….just nibble and let loose…nibble and let loose…”

Soon, I was dancing and prancing around….by 8:15 the pizza was gone. All of it.

I don’t know how many of you have ever done this before–in college, we’d do that weekly during one summer thanks to a promotion from Dominoes–but it feels pretty fucking gross.

Homeless in brand new Dr. Martens boots

This is "Cletus the James Sir Esquire IV" and he does body shots

I came to at12am, exhausted and ready for bed, so I slipped into a t-shirt, shorts and my girlfriend’s thong, turned out the light and proceeded to sleep.

Well, not too long. There was a knock on my door at about 1am. It was the police.

Apparently, I blacked out, but according to the police, the following happened:

  • Drunk-dialed Mom (“Is yur refridgerader is fucking, I mean *vomit*)
  • Threw kick-ass party with neighborhood hipsters (turns out they were homeless people. I think.)
  • Dressed-up in girlfriend’s clothing; flashed neighbors neighbors three times (Calls of “there’s a woman with hairy bear tits” flooded the switchboard for two hours
  • Made the latest “Yes We Can (Ride this Campaign For All It’s Worth)” video with

Needless to say, I was embarrassed. I tried to explain that it wasn’t me, it was Boboli, but as I tried to talk, one of the leftover crusts whispered from the kitchen, “Snitches get stitches”.

Plus, I still had a thong on.


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I Wanna Rock With You

Not too long ago, on a bright, hot sunny Saturday, I went to a party at a friend of a friend’s place. This party promised to be a decent amount of fun, so I was looking forward to it. So when we got there, where was everyone on such a beautiful day?

Why inside playing Rock Band of course.


You can rock out with your dark out, thanks to Rock Band

Anyway, at some point my group of pals were given a chance to play. I’d never played before, but I was interested to see what all the fuss was about.

Well, as we took our stations (I was on the drums), one of the guys said, “What song do you want to do?”. As we scrolled through the listings, I was confused and petrified.

Soundgarden…..Jet…..Queens of the Stone Age…..The Hives….Foo Fighters….The New Pornographers….

I had no fuggin’ idea who 90% of these bands were. I sat there numbly while the others debated between bands like Garbage and Boston, which was rather ironic, since when I think of “Boston” I think of “garbage” anyway.

But anyway, as I sat there and watched the screen flip from one rock band to another, I suddenly realized that Rock Band is like those culturally biased standardized tests that everyone talks about. You know, the ones were there are questions on there that people argue handicap minority test-takers because the questions aren’t grounded in anything in a reality you’re familiar with.


SAT Factoid: 87% of the time, the answer's either "A" like "aryan" or "c", like "Caucasian". Coincidence? You decide.

For example, I remember the following from when I took the SAT:

SAT Question #65

Recently, a family, the Jacksons, moved two doors down from your house. Over dinner, your father slams the table and says, “great, now we’ve got lower property value and we’ve got Shaquille O’Puff Daddy practically living next door”. As your mother attempts to calm him with some Yo Yo Ma and his favorite pair of Tevas, your father calls up his ‘drinking buddies’, hangs up the phone and ask you to, ‘grab all the bed sheets in the house–the white ones’.

What’s the best answer to this question?

a. x=24

b. “Keep’em separate, keep’em pure!”

c. insufficient information; no solution possible

d. x= -21


While Matt and Stacey breeze through the test, look how much lower Jamal's head is. Later, they will play Rock Band to celebrate taking the test. Worst day of Jamal's life.

That’s what it’s like playing Rock Band. It’s like the very songs themselves are in a different language. I mean, I couldn’t keep up; I felt like an ESL kid in an AP English class.

The game is deceptively simple too: you see blue on the screen? Hit blue on your instrument. Repeat steps with corresponding colors.

Sounds really easy, but within the span of 15 seconds, I went from the cool, unaffected posture of ?uestlove to the manic, belligerent motions of Animal, from the Muppets. I started hitting shit during breaks in the song when no one was playing. I was feverish, hot and sweaty; it was like the time that an ex told me the only two words scarier than Rock Band: “it broke” (I wanted to break some shit then too).

Thanks to Enter the Sandman, I had already done an about-face on my perspectives of race in America via  my new-found hatred for Rock Band. As the song neared the middle mark, I had mentally signed up for the Black Panthers.

I looked around the room in a stupor, when a girl came over and took the drumsticks from me in mid-song. Granted, at this point I couldn’t have played worse if I was using my junk for drumsticks, but it still hurt. The delicate way she took the drumsticks from me was like when you see people take things from old people so they don’t hurt themselves.

“Don’t worry Pop-Pop; let me mow the lawn. Why don’t you go inside and lick some stamps for awhile, k?”

I was, out of sheer manhood, stubborn about giving in to such a stupid game. Plus, in my fury, desperation and concentration to get the music right, I’d peed on the stool I was sitting on.

But still: no Roots? No Prince? Sheila-E’s drumming was the stuff of my childhood. Maybe they should make a Rap Band video game. It could be like karaoke. I’d kill to see the same group of people do “A Mili”.

Hm, actually, maybe I’d just kill someone.

Oh, and the answer’s “a”.


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Dirty Cover-ups


Trust me, it's worse coming out

I have a rotten stomach today.

I mean rotten.


No more for you, Gizmo

I feel like I visited the Asian shopkeeper from Gremlins and now I’ve got a Mogwai crawling in my ass that I’ve just fed it after dark.

I feel like my two gay cats are mud-wrestling in my stomach.

And the sound? Ugh; it’s like someone shuffling playing cards in butter.

I was in a meeting this afternoon, and while everyone pondered a profound question that I asked, my ass decided to offer a suggestion first through a series of bloops. With quiet horror, everyone looked at my stomach like we were in Aliens.


In space, no one can hear you "bloop". In meetings, though? Everyone!

I hate those situations–I mean really; what’s the best way to cover-up your body making booty boombox sounds? I’ve tried the following:

1. Coughing whenever the sound seems imminent. Good for providing some static noise, but bad because everyone thinks you smoke killah weed all the time instead

2. Humming suddenly. Great for melodic background noise, bad if you start humming, say, “Get Me Bodied” and then someone’s like, “oh shit–that’s my jam” and then they get up and want to dry hump you and then they’re jiggling your stomach around and you’re awkwardly grinding back and then–splat!–you’ve shit yourself.

3. Laughing. It makes you look deranged and unbalanced.

4. “Ok, seriously? STFU. I’m totally about to pudding myself. We gotta end this meaning. Like ahora. Wait…..forget it.”

5. Suddenly turning to the person next to me and saying as I rub my stomach, “You’re the father”

These are all great for one-shot escapes, but I need something more…pliable.

Help me, Obi-Wan.

I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle.

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