I should have just said, "Naw dude, Naw!"

On one of the many nights when I keep myself up by thinking of regrets, mistakes, funny shit and your mother, I remembered a funny freshmen memory. A kind of memory that you fantasize that you acted differently in the way you actually behaved. Kind of like not dropping that game winning pass in a high school football game, or not breaking up with someone that was well worth your time. Only this kind of memory was one that I let someone get away with not being safe.

Those who know what I mean by safe should skip ahead: Safeness is the state of imperfection. When one is not safe it means that one is liable to being insulted or teased. For example, Susie had to pass gas, so she thought she would lean to make sure no one hear it. However, unbeknownst to Susie, Michael saw and realized what she was doing. Michael then exclaimed, "Susie! I saw that shit! You ain't safe! Tryna lean fart and stuff!" Susie was ashamed. 

It was my first upper division English professor. The course was an introduction to Victorian Literature. The professor's name will be changed for the sake of privacy (and the fact that my friends have Googled my name and it has turned up on the bottom of the first page of Google images. The worlds getting smaller!) 

Dr. Blaine was teaching the class about the different forms of criticism that we would have to choose from when writing about Dracula. I remember wanting to complain about analyzing boringness that is Dracula for the second time within the same 3 semester, but I was trying to get my grown man on and resisted being a childish dick. Dr. Blaine gave us a quick example of each form of criticism. He started with Marxist criticism, which was looking at the novel from a economic perspective. He discussed Historical criticism, which was, I shit you not, viewing the book from a historical point of view. He went over Feminist criticism, but told us that it wasn't an option. Sad face. Then he said Freudian criticism and boy oh boy from that point on, he became very very unsafe.

First of all, he explained it for about 20 minutes longer than he should have. Now, I have done some research on Freud (and by "research," I mean I had some psychology major friends and asked them about him). Apparently, Freud's studies, although beneficial, were very flawed. And yes, I knew that the Dr. Blaine was not talking about Freudian criticism as a complete representation of his studies, but he was just talking about how looking at characters from a sexual perspective. However, instead of being sexual, he got horny.

Or dare I say....Thirsty

For those who know what I mean by Thirst, skip ahead.  Thirst is another word for horny but a more desperate  form of horniness. It means that you desire sexy so much that you are thirsty for it. Some people even say "Thirsting" or "Thirstin.'" If you see someone on Facebook that has a habit of commenting on the same people's photos, perhaps the photo has someone dressed scantly clad, then you would use some variation of thirst. For example, your best friend keeps writing "Damn, you fine" on the same chicks picture, it would be your responsibility as a friend (or a douchebag) to inform him and all Facebook users that he is indeed thirsty. Maybe by saying "Man, the thirst," or " The thirst is real out here today." If you want to get really clever you'd say something like "There's a drought in this comment section."

Dr. Blaine than began the thirsties, sexual observation of Dracula, nuns and even Jesus Christ. He informed us on the butt sex analogies in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Oedipus complexes in Dracula and even the sexualization of Jesus Christ. This, this is the moment where things just went off sanity graph.

Dr. Blaine started to explain how much of a sexual symbol Jesus is.. Sidenote: I am not at all religious. In fact, I am all about some Jesus jokes but Dr. Blaine was totally serious. And just not safe. He stated:

"Well, sex is all we think about. Just think about religion. Religion is very sexual. Jesus is always depicted on" the cross sexually. Look at his abs. He has a six pack. Jesus is never depicted fat or even slightly anything beyond skinny."

I thought that one was interesting, but kind of silly. I think its interesting that he is always depicted skinny (and I'll go a step further and say he usually is only one race.). I think it may be shallowness, but sexy? Moans and growns followed suit. Nevertheless he continued:

"And nuns! They are very sexual. They are 'the brides of Jesus' they don't have sex because they are saving themselves for Jesus. And, let's be honest. Nuns are sexy. I mean, when I see a nun, I gotta say, it kinda turns me on. You know?"

Oh shit! I know he didn't! Everyone had a light chuckle after that. Then, he moved on to Oedipus complexes. This is when it reaches the maximum level of unsafeness. He states:

"The Oedipus complex is a very realistic phenomenon. I mean, we've all had those dreams about our mothers. You know?"

At this point I'm trying to be openminded. I am like, 'well, perhaps thats normal. I have never had sexual dreams about my mother, but maybe everyone else has." So, I looked around the room to see some hands a' rising. To my surprise, everyone else was doing the exact thing. They thought " Shit, homie, he ain't talkin' 'bout me!" So, we all reached the conclusion that it was only him who was having silly dreams about nailing his mother.

And so, as I fall asleep I think, "I should have just said 'naw dude, naw. You the only one nailin' ya momz in deep sleep homie. YOU AIN'T SAFE! You thirsty as hell, fam!'"

And that is how you spell Villainy, folks.

G'night.

"Man, Ya'll some of the most nicest mo' fuckaz I've met"

There are moments in life that occur only for the sake of being a good story to tell later. Some of the most fascinatingly awkward situations I have had eventually become friend-unifying stories. With knowing that terrible experiences have the potential of becoming high quality entertainment, comes a bizarre form of optimism that encourages me to get into questionable situations (within reason). No, I am not sucking dicks for crack cocaine or assisting criminals in bank robbery's but I am a little less hesitant to do something boring or time consuming if it means I can make me the center of attention later.

Last night, I went to a friend's house with the purpose of minding my own god damn business with pals. But fate had other plans. As I sat with 3 other friends of mine in an Otaku-swagged apartment living room (an awesome one), there was a knock on the apartment door. Realizing that it was 1 am, the host approached the door with extreme caution. We stood not too far behind him. But we were definitely behind him. When we got close to the door we heard:

"Hey man, it's your neighbor."

When the door opened the room filled with the aroma of alcohol and...well...ass. The kind of ass smell you smell when someone has whipped there ass one time less than they should have and then proceeded to jog in shorts. THEN, tried to cover it with Axe but didn't have enough so he became depressed and drank. That is what it smelled like. I'm serious.

It wasn't a neighbor at all. It was a guy that stank and was sweating. Before the host could ask "Um...what do ya need," the stranger(who was not a neighbor at all) interrupted with

"Hey man, don't be scared because I'm black, man. I'm in desperate need of a ride. They took my car and, man, I got the sheet right here man. My car got towed man. I need a ride man. Please, I'm begging, man. I don't have any weapons man."

The room was uncomfortably silent. Then I volunteered to drive him, under the condition that someone comes with me (because I was actually kind of scared). I put on my shoes and then, as if he forgot I agreed to drive him, he began to sell us his story again, adding more plot--which no one asked for.

"Hey man. Don't be scared because I'm black, man. I don't got weapons man. I just got my ass whooped by some white boys man. Then this [other] white dude gave me his bicycle to ride because he felt bad for me man. I appreciate ya'll mo' fuckaz, man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through for me."

I replied, " Dude, you don't have to do that. I'm gonna drive you. No worries."

As we walked to my car, he told me to take him to University Gables, an apartment not to far from where I was at that time. I began driving towards our destination and the man began talking even more and more circular than before.

"Man, my dad's gonna whoop my ass man. Them white boys kicked my ass man. But that white dude gave me his bike man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through, man. I'm not from around here man. I'm from Clarksville."

Something was  odd about this young man besides his endlessly outrageous storytelling style. His stories were becoming more and more paradoxical. For example, he said he wasn't from around this area, but gave me extremely accurate directions to two different places I could drop him off at--all in the dead of night. Also, the white dudes and daddy's that were all conspiring together to whoop his ass was a pretty big pill to swallow too. However, the strangest part of the whole ordeal was his continuous referral to us (my friends and I) as mother fuckers.

When were almost to Gables, he began praising us in the most absurd way possible:

"Man, thank ya'll mo' fuckaz. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through man. Thank you so much. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz are some good people."

When he left the car, he took his smell of sweaty, alcohol covered ass-farts with him. I got a story and did a good deed, despite my mockery of the man nullifying my good deed.

Whatever,
Villainy.

The Illogical Spider-Girl: Man, do I have a funny story for you

Working a midnight to 5 am shift as Desk Assistant has its perks other than being paid. One is that I get a lot of homework time. I usually knock out a good chunk of British Literature and Japanese assignments throughout the shift. Another perk is that the few events that do occur between 12-5am are over-the-top and memorable. Enter Spider-douche.

I was sitting behind Womack front desk for probably the last time, since I will be graduating later this summer. I was living it up. I brought my laptop to the desk (a policy breaker) and wrote some of my essays due in the upcoming days(its a shame that "living it up" means writing essays all night). Eventually, your friendly neighborhood Spider-douche tumbled into the lobby to ruin my living it up.

She stood in front of the desk, wide-eyed and excited.

"Hey, is there something wrong with the phone? Because I have been calling the front desk all night."

"Really? I have been here all night since 12. Haven't heard a ring. What's wrong?"

"Uh yeah, there is a big brown spider in my room."

I knew what she would say next. If you live in the Murfreesboro area, you probably know what she's going to say next too. I'll spoil it: She claimed it was a Brown Recluse. She said she could not sleep until that thing was dead. I sympathized for her. If I found one of those things in my room, its over--everything is over. I would withdraw from school and start seeing a psychologist. I am very disgusted by insects but I loathe spiders. I hate talking about them more than anything...

Guess what she did next.

"It was so gross. It was moving so quickly. I saw all of its eyes. Don't you just hate those things. They hid anywhere. They are determined to get you, it seems. Ew. I feel all itchy now. Don't you feel itchy? Yuck. I hate that feeling. I also killed a big nasty roach..."

Oh god she wouldn't stop. It was like she knew I hated it. My stomach dictated and so I followed. I had to drop a hint to make her stop.

"Oh...oh god...I want to throw up. I hate hearing things like that," I said very not so nonchalantly. I don't even think this is a hint. Its a dead give away. An open invitation that says "hey, fuckin' quit it."

"I know, right? Its so nasty. I crushed the roach and there is now, like, 12 inches of roach fluid across my floor."

Now, I am going to take a little time to describe the girl's appearance. I don't want to be rude, so I'll just say it was obvious she was ready for bed. She was not extremely attractive..at all...but that was probably because it was morning. We all have our days. I could tell this was her's. With that said, You'd think she'd be a little self-conscious--at least I would be.
Wrong.

She then started to show me all of her spider bites. On her chest, face, legs, shoulders, back and arms. I really felt like she was on a mission to see projectile vomit. She had too. She described the nasty feeling of spotting a big roach crawl up her leg and how unclean she felt afterwards. She claimed that all of the marks--including the zit on her face which was not a bite at all, it was a zit--were bites of a brown recluse.

Nope. I called bullshit inside my head. Her logic was that because she saw a brown spider, it must have been a villainous, deviously plotting brown recluse that has been biting her for the past few months. Each night the spider would plan to annoyingly nibble on her skin--which would hospitalize most human beings--and crawled away, planning its eventual return.

"Its so nasty. I have never lived like this before. You should have seen that roach. It was so big. I couldn't even such it up with my vaccum. Its a new brand. It sucks up a lot of dirt. The vacuum chocked on the roach. I had to stop the vacuum and shake the roaches dead body out. It was so gross. Just talking about it make me sick. Anyways, Can you like, call somebody and get them to kill it for me. The spider ran away though. I don't know where it went. But I know its still there. I can feel it. I can't sleep until I know I am safe, ya know? And plus, I have finals in the morning."

I looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:08am. Any DA will tell you that it is hard to get a hold of an RA at 4:00 am--which means, who ever I would call instead was going to be very unhappy. Plus, why was I calling someone to kill a spider at 4 am? Why couldn't she kill the spider? After all, she had just killed a roach. When I asked her if she had a roommate that would kill it, she said "Aw, no. She has finals tomorrow. Plus, why would I wake her up to kill a bug." She failed to see the irony. Why couldn't she feel that.

I went through the motions anyways. I called the RA 4 times and no one answered. I really hate calling anyone that is not the RA because it seems like calling the RD and AC (people higher on the Residential Life and Housing hierarchy) because it seems like I am going further than just one step up the totem pole. Every time I wake up one of those higher ups, they make your reason for calling seem trivial and you ultimately feel bad. This was actually a trivial situation which means the chance of phone call assholery were going to skyrocket.

I called the RD who was actually not that bad. She wasn't happy to be woken up, but she just asked me to call that RA one more time and if I didn't get a hold of them then I should call her back. When I got off the phone again, the strange girl harassed a young man in the lobby explaining the same story, remarkably, almost word for word. The only noticeable change was the uncertainty from before of not knowing whether or not it was a brown recluse or just a brown spider had gone. She was now claiming it was definitely a brown recluse...For sure. She was trying to get this guy to help her kill the spider. After the guy gave me some smug smirks, mocking her paranoia, he finally declined, resulting in me calling the RD again.

Until the RD arrived, the girl talked my ear off more about how the spider may have been laying eggs in her afro--which would explain her itchy feelings. I barfed in my mouth a little and tried to the change the subject...she wasn't having it.

Eventually the RD showed up, tired and unamused. The RD met with the spider obsessed girl who refused to read RD's body language of trying to quickly leave the lobby to go kill the spider. Spider-girl stood stationary until she retold her story and reshowed her weeks old brown recluse bites--that for some reason had not killed her.

No greater joy have I received than the joy of watching the Spider-girl leave with the RD to go kill the spider.

The only thing that sucked was that the RD returned saying they couldn't find spider. Luckily, 5 minutes after the RD left, Spider-girl returned exclaiming that the spider came out right after they left... Then showed me a picture of a crushed spider along with a crushed roach. Thanks, Spider-Jerk. Goodnight.

Arachnid Villainy.

4:09: Just Give Up

Although quietly stated, it echoed throughout the room.

"Seriously, Just quit," she said.

I started opening my mouth to give her my retort but she silenced me before the words could even leave my mouth:

"Don't give me that 'I can achieve all things' speech. I am sick of your comparisons to Michael Jordan. Frank, this is just not for you."

Her words stung me. My fractured pride began to show on my face a bit. Starting with my eye brows shifting up like the magma turned lava, blasting through the top of the volcano. The ash surrounded the room in the form of embarrassment and rage. Before I could even form any retort, any defense I said the first thing everyone says at a loss of words:

"Just shut up," I shouted proudly, stalling until the next sentence would arrive from the heavens, yanking me from the awkward tension in the gym. It never didn't arrive. It might have if she didn't start talking again.

"Frank, look man. I know you love basketball, but its not for you. I am just trying to save your time. You invest entirely too much into something that's not working for you."

I went ahead and used my Michael Jordan retort anyways:

"Michelle! Jordan didn't make his high school basketball team. He practiced nonstop. I bet he heard the same kind of comments. 'Just quit. You suck!' But he persevered. And that is the kind of message Jordan stood for. Working hard and achieving. No matter how grueling the obstacle may be. If the heavens hold you down, you gotta go Atlas on 'em"

She laughed. It was the most painful, piercing laugh. It burned. I really felt what I said and she mocked it. I felt trivial. She realized what she had done to my spirit a few moments later. Perhaps it was the watering of my eyes and the stillness of my body that gave it away. But she realized the pain and tried to make amends.

She got quiet and said, "Frank, I'm really sorry. I know this is important to you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I tried to respond as if she hurt me but I was too embarrassed to pretend. My emotions could fill the entire empty gym. So I vented:

" Why the hell do you think I can't do this? What makes you think that I can't develop the skill, ever?"

She humbled her self and said, " I don't know. You're right. I have no clue. You could become the next Michael Jordan. But let me ask you something."

She walked a little closer and put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. I wanted to punch her. I really did not feel like being touched. She continued. "When do you think its a good time to give up a dream?"

I wanted to laugh. It was an absurd question. I thought she was really going to ask me something that would really open my eyes or change my way of thinking. I quickly, without a single thought, chuckled and responded.

"Never." I stared smuggly with an impeccable ego, swelling, swelling and swelling some more at the same speed as my ear to ear grin.

"Frank," she said politely and without any condescension, "Jordan knew when to quit."

I was immediately afraid of what she would say next. I knew exactly where she was going with her argument. Before she even began to explain herself, my ego had packed up it's things and returned home in my shrinking head, like a family picknic, spoiled by stormy weather. Oh did it storm.

She reminded me of Jordan's one year baseball career. I didn't even listen to her words because I just knew. The worst part of knowing that you're wrong is when you realize it too quickly and then experience everything you just heard in your head, out loud by a friend. I started listening again after she told me Jordan's stats.

"Frank," she said calmly and sympathetically, trying to protect my ego, which worked, "You can become the next Jordan but how much time do you have? Time is so important, Frank. I am afraid you're wasting it. We're in college now. You didn't even make the team in high school, or you're freshmen and sophomore years here at the university. You're a junior now! Just give up. You are so talented at so many other things. You're a master chef, you write tear jerking poetry, and you are technologically inclined. Yet, you have NBA dreams. There are people in the world that can only play basketball and rely on that to in life. You are really not good at it but have other talents. The last thing you should do is ignore your other talents and waste your time. Its the most important thing you have."

After that day, and a few more days of an awkward air between Michelle and I, things went back to normal. I was too proud to quit immediately so I played it off over time. I didn't bring up tryouts this semester because I didn't go. I had less basketball conversations and made more Computer Science references. No to mention I started having secret meetings with my advisers, who were helping make some last minute career paths changes. Then, eventually basketball had fallen off the face of my world.

My whole life I was told to never give up. But I guess I misinterpreted the meaning.

Giving up goals is a part of life. People change, so do dreams.

But giving up hope, not believing you can achieve anything, is what people should avoid.

You can beat the odds, but you can't beat Time.

5:38 am: "The Letter They Found On Time. However, Too Late."

They found the letter 2 days after they found his body. It stated as follows:

Dear Reader,

It hit me the moment I got married. I realized that one day, the woman I loved the most, the one I chose to invest emotion, experiences and time into will one day leave this earth. I looked around the wedding ceremony seeing kin pouring every ounce of their happiness into the two of us. I remember wanting to be among them, showing my support with smiles, ear-to-ear smiles, rapid clapping and pats on the back. Everyone was living in the moment except me. Some nights, I feared that I would wake up and feel an empty cold pillow to the right of me. Perhaps the months following her funeral or hours after her passing.    Our honeymoon was not the peak of my depression, but it was definitely the close to the climax. The night we made the cliche love all newlyweds do, I cried. I pretended it was because I was so happy, but I was afraid of the next day being further from the day we were born and closer to the day we will pass. When our kids born, I relapsed on the depression that, for a short time, abandoned me. I spent 25 years being a paranoid father: waiting for my children to accidentally choke on a coin and tearing up when they left for their friend's house when the sun was past set. Phone calls in the middle of the night from my children calling from their dorm rooms just to say "I love you" had me certain they were being held hostage by murderous rapists. However, even then was not the peak of my depression. By the time my grandchildren had turned 7, my paranoia had finally subdued. The grandchildren would run around with sharpened pencils and I did not scream. In some cases, I even joined in on the action, giving the game names like "Pencil Wars" or "King Pencil." Actually, my wife had become the paranoid one. Its ironic how much personalities rub off on you after years of being together. Living together. 

The peak of my paranoia was when my beloved wife came home from work one day and asked me where Donna was. Donna was our first Dog we had when our kids turned 13. We surprised them with Donna one evening after they had complained for 7 or more years about not having a dog. Our kids were far to irresponsible enough. Unfortunately, the dog ran into the street about a month later and was run over by our neighbor during the night. It was pretty sad and a little awkward for about a few weeks after that. My wife had developed Alzheimer's. It was the biggest slap in the face by death. I became a very angry man for the following year after our doctors confirmed her conditions. I was mad at the world as well as myself. I had allowed myself to focus obsess over death and I had let my fear dictate and spoil important parts of my moments in my life. I know all the cliches about death being a part of life and counting my blessings. Our family was death-free for so long, I felt like it was Death's way of getting back. People felt the need to remind me to remember all the good times, forgetting that the reason the "good times" were good become of her. I would be remembering these good times alone for the rest of my life. I am expected to watch myself be forgotten. 

As I think back, my most tragic mistake was my lack of appreciation. I spent too much of my life living in fear of death, preparing myself for the worst situations that cannot be prepared for. I hid from situations that make a person, a person. There were just not enough times I lived in the moment with her. She must be the one that feels alone. I made her feel alone. I should have joined her in the moments. But I will join her now...She'll meet me there. Somewhere in our memories.

Live.

The message was found in the bedroom two feet away from his body. Next to the alarm clock.

I wrote this at 4:30. Make it Matter, Please.

He cleared his throat and repeated:
"This is the last stop. I won't say it again!"
Without words, I got out of my seat.
I walked down the aisle at my own pace.
My own pace did not please the bus driver.
It was obvious by the way he sighed and glared
through the rear view mirror. I pretended to fidget
with my MP3 player. There was nothing on it.
I erased the memory before I left.

I stepped off the last step of the bus, which meant way more
to me than it did the driver. For him, it was the farewell of a nuisance.
For me, it was a  July 20th 1969.
I didn't have 500 million viewers. I didn't need them. I didn't want them.
The bus began to drive away and I felt my last chance leaving with it.
I ignored it of course. I didn't even turn around to watch it.
Its a bad omen to turn around. Pillars of salt and whatnot.

The fear and anxiety didn't surprise attack me
until the bus's engine was completely unheard.
I realized the only thing I had was a bag.
It contained deodorant, underwear, toothbrush, Shampoo,
a book, two pairs of jeans, 4 T-shirts and a brush.
I forgot toothpaste.

I began realizing I had less than what I left behind:
Money, a nice home, friends, shelter, a garden,
a dog, a promising future, a few rows of shoes,
a few good books, a bunch of bad books,
lipstick, make-up, contacts, a good husband,
and a letter.

I can't remember what the letter said,
but remember what it meant to me.
It meant that I would be stressed,
worried, reckless, poor, thoughtless,
hungry, pissed and dead.

But I would also be free.
I had everything. I left Everything.
Everything was there
but I was not.

So I am not.

But I am.

And I am happy.

Black Elitism and discouragement: "Man, Ya'll so ignorant"

Education is a  useful tool and a dangerous weapon. An ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless.We have all seen education being used as method of separating, oppressing and attacking those who may not be informed on certain topics as others. In some cases, we have also been those people who have misused something that was passed down to us from someone much wiser than us. Remember when you first learned something interesting from someone interesting and went fleeting somewhere to mercilessly destory  someones ego.  Whether it was what season the Green Ranger arrived or the name of the first Vice President, we have all done it. Sometimes, it is harmless 1upmenship. But then there are those other times when someone with more experience than you comes along and pointlessly reminds you that you are imperfect, which in some cases is needed and well deserved. However in other cases, it is frustrating, embarrassing,  life-changing and discouraging.  What's gross is when individuals hold the education they have acquired over the heads of others who were not as fortunate to gain access to it and are aware of what they are doing. In the the 5 years I have been in college, I have experienced an annoying amount of Black elitism. Not the good kind. The bad kind. The kind that acquires knowledge and refuses to spread it and enrich the black community as well as the world. They would much rather rub and shower themselves in their egoism.

 I remember I was in 11th grade when one of my teacher's friends, a fellow teacher, decided she wanted to condescend to some one of lower experience. She picked me. We were watching some of the destruction  caused by 2005's Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. Somehow it affected gas prices and I did not know because I was not informed on the subject. So, being a student, I asked "how does it affect gas prices?"

and the teacher and one other student mocked me. The teacher started with an eyeroll and then said "...you just don't get it do you..?" She obviously knew I didn't get it, but she wanted to reiterate on the fact that I didn't know something that she knew. The student said "Man, even I know that," singing the pronoun in a way that implied that I should know more than him...whoever he was. Of course I knew they were overacting to something, but I remember not feeling good. I felt dumb and angry. Why should I be mocked for not knowing something like that? I felt like I asked something like "What the fuck is air?" 

What further grinds my gears is when teachers like her want to get on soapboxes and talk about how the black youth cares about nothing but Hip-hop, the internet etc. Of course these kinds of complaints exist in every community and we all roll our eyes at this. But what burns me up is that there are way too much discouragement in black entertainment and in general that makes a sport of point out the black person who doesn't know. Every other black comedian, political commentator and teacher wants to tell you whats wrong with the black generation today and laugh at their problems as if the previous generation was free of similar issues. Why not inform him/her rather than repel and intimidate them from engaging knowledge? 

I'll give you a better example. I was on Twitter the other day and read someone's comments about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I'll paraphrase for you, "I don't know why ya'll love Dr. King so much! He cheated on his wife!!! Ya'll are so ignorant." In all honesty, it's true. Dr. King cheated on his wife. I never liked holding an individual so high that we overlook his/her mistakes, so sure: He cheated. He was probably not that great of a husband. Now let me inform you who may not know what this status does not show is the whole story. J. Edgar Hoover, former president of the US, became the head of the FBI. The FBI believed King to be a Communist so they installed cameras and tape recorders in his room, finding out only two or three things: He was innocent, made JFK jokes and cheated on his wife, Coretta King. Check my bullshit to see if I am lying. Basically, not following Dr. King because he was ostensibly not a good husband is holding him to unfair standard. People make mistakes and discarding their wisdom just cause its hip is hurtful to you. So sure, you can present only one side of a story and school someone on being ignorant for not knowing something you just read on some smug forum and look like the world's biggest dick when someone humbly or arrogantly informs you one the whole story. Just realize that your comment leaves little ripples in the lake and does not disturb any universe whatsover.

So, this Black History month, regardless of what color you are, let's not be pretentious. Instead, lets inform and encourage. It's a celebration.

Villainy.