Tang Don't Care

How did I go my whole life without knowing about the deliciously funny Randall and the Honey Badger? YouTube sensation, you ask? Hell yeah. It's not like the Honey Badger gives a sh*t what you think. So over 14 million people have seen this video and no one decided to show it to me. What is this a conspiracy? I get invited to Google+ and Spotify, but no one bothers to send me a linky dink to the funniest sh*t I've ever seen in my life. It is genius. I'm jealous I didn't think of it first.

I tweeted about the Honey Badger, and you know what? The HONEY BADGER retweeted me. He acts like he "don't care." You care enough to retweet me Honey Badger.

Honey Badger, I love you. Now go on back to dragging snakes down from trees and eating them for your snacky snack.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4r7wHMg5Yjg

Owassoisms.com: Owasso Woman makes the September issue of Woman's ...

Owassoisms.com: Owasso Woman makes the September issue of Woman's ...: "The subject line read 'Guess WHAT????'  I didn't know you could feel someone jumping for joy in an email, but when I received ..."

Ahhhh, Romance!

I love me a good romance novel. I've loved them since I checked my first stack of Silhouette Desires out from the library when I was twelve-ish. I took a stack of the fire-engine red paperbacks to the counter, and that shaggy-haired, super strange dude that used to work at the Normandale Library just gave me a look that woulda made my Mama proud. Back in the day I wasn't so quick to tell people off. I just gave him a one eye squint and a slight neck roll to let him know he better mind his own business.

Nowadays, romance books cover everything from doing it with vampires, werewolves, and half monkey/half Greek Gods (all at the same time) to hog-tying the Mayor and spanking him with a Twizzler for not ordering enough firecrackers for the 4th of July. Every kink is covered. Romances set in 18th Century Ireland, Amish Romances (for real, yall, they exist), and my personal favorite, gay erotic romance. I have to tell you, there are some freaky people out there reading and writing romances. But people are reading, and that is a good thing...even if they are getting all hot and bothered over a sweet young woman losing her virginity to a rock star who is really a shape shifter who can only turn into a cute poodle puppy. Ewww.

I have found myself writing romance stories. Some good. Some really bad. But for me,they have been fun and exciting to write. It's a great way to tell lies about my weight and height, and sneak in some little known facts about how bad I was (allegedly) before the marital incident. I find myself injecting a little comedy in each one. I think I may be on to something. Comedy + Sex+ Creepy = Publishing Gold!

They say write what you know. I know a whole lot about the business end of the romance novel. (It ain't bragging if it's true.) I know very little about romance itself. That requires some real imagination. Romance for my sweet sexy fine zombie prince of a husband consists of him being kind enough to bring me home a large order of bread sticks from work with a tub of marinara. Garlic butter smothered foreplay! He loves him some me.

I find that most romance novels do a disservice by not keeping it real for the impressionable young women who read the books looking for clues to the perfect man/relationship/ happily ever after. Well, ladies here is your keep it real advice for the day...

1. All heroes in romance novels look like Bradley Cooper and are hung like Ron Jeremy.
Brace yourselves ladies, there are men among us who are packing Viennas, but they need love, too. Yes you will be utterly disappointed with his mini-meat stick, but if he's been properly trained; he can make your toes curl and sweat your hair into Buckwheat fro. You can always train him. Little man syndrome is a treatable disease.

MY advice: Buy yourself a nice toy to supplement his miniature throbbing orb of pleasure. Close your eyes and pretend he is Bradley Cooper if he really looks like Ron Jeremy.


2. All heroes in romance novels will overcome anything to be with the woman they love.

HA! There are guys who will love you deeper, longer, better than anyone else, but when it gets to nut cuttin' time they are throwing up "deuces" and all you see are elbows and ass walking out the door.

MY advice: If you have a man who has disappointed you in a big, life-altering way at least three times, WALK AWAY. He ain't changing. You can't make him.

3. All heroes in romance novels are Bad Boys with a heart of gold.

Ohhhhhh, baby, do I love bad boys! I won’t go into detail, because my Mama may read this. Bad Boys are fun and exciting and dangerous and yes, yes, yes getting your swerve on with a Bad Boy makes you want to tap into your inner Bad Girl and go rob a nursing home. Most Bad Boys are just bad. PERIOD. Girlfriend, you do not want to be with a Bad Boy when he is in a full blown herpes flare up of Bad Assity, because you could actually get “the herp” from this guy. You could get your car repo’d from being with this guy. You could end up being the hottest thing strolling the red carpet of Cellblock D from being with this guy. I’m sure you’ve seen those prison shows on MSNBC: jumpsuits are NEVER flattering and the tough boy-looking lesbian, who will decide to make you her prison wife, is usually not cute. I mean, if you’re gonna be a situational lesbian, wouldn’t you rather do it with a girl that looks like Angelina Jolie or Janet Jackson? It’s just too much for me. The prison stud never looks like Ellen or Rachel Maddow. The prison stud always looks like Don Knotts, and has a blackcent like Jay-Z. If I want a wigger, I'll stalk Eminem...or wigger-in- training, Justin Bieber, who would make an excellent prison stud IN 3-D!!!!!!. Just sayin’.

MY Advice: Bad Boys are gifts from Dr. Phil to remind us that Oprah loves us and wants us to be happy. Have a fling with a Bad Boy, repent, get tested for HIV, run a credit report on yourself, and find yourself a nice boy. Or find an older,reformed Bad Boy. A man who has been through some hard times, is over 40, ready to settle down…but still capable of breaking bad at a moment’s notice, if expert whup assery is needed.

I said all that to say I’ve hit terrible writers block. I’ve been working on an interracial romance between a time-traveling ghetto girl and a Leprechaun, and while I think the premise is totally believable; I just don’t know how to make the bondage scene with the third leg of the love triangle,the vampire drag queen, Fang-O-Licious, work. I’ll take suggestions…

Long Time Coming

Finally, it is all falling into place. Can we just take a moment and sing along with the late, great Sam Cooke. It's been a loooooooonnnnnnnnngggggg time comin', but finally a change has come! I am so excited about my new venture!

The Question Lady

If you came here thinking I had answers for you, you came to the wrong place. My head has been filled with random questions. Sure, I could Google the answers, but that would just lead to more questions. Some of these questions keep me up late at night long after the McBrothas have gone off to dream about the destruction they can cause tomorrow.

1. Where the hell is Kristy MacNichol?

2. Why can’t Jennifer Anniston/Rene’ Zellweger/ Halle Berry find true love?

3. What was so wrong with shoulder pads?

4. Why do all the men of pre-school shows look like creepy child molesting arsonists? Have you ever seen The Upside Down Show? It comes on Nick Jr at 10pm…long after bedtime for the demographic. I think it’s some sort of Morse code show for freaks. It “cweeps” me out, as my son says.

5. If I deleted my Twitter account, would Kanye West care?

6. If I actually used my Myspace, would Justin Timberlake notice?

7. How can I turn a sex tape into a money making machine without having to get my smack madam anywhere near nasty ass Ray J or brain dead Tommy Lee?

8. Can you die from eating salsa that’s old enough to have green fridge fuzz all on it?

9. How come no one told me after I turned 40 the hair on my legs would stop growing, but the hair on my face would get all militant? Seriously, if I didn’t keep the chin hairs in check, I’d look like an old, black Amish man, for real. Just call me Jebidiah Tyrone Ekhoff.

10. Is there really a market for plus-sized strippers, and would I be the skinniest one on the pole? Think about it, nobody wants to be the fat girl even at a fat girl freak fest.

The Broke Ass Whisperer: Practical Tips to Dealing with Debt Collectors

Bill collectors, hard-working Americans, and people from foreign counties who have settled into jobs formerly held by hard-working Americans, are the absolute bane of the poor person’s existence. Back in the day, the worst thing they would do is call you “up on your job,” as my Homegirl on the Beach, Alvita, says. Now they will let you know in 140 characters or less all up on your Twitter feed that they want their damn money. I even saw a friend being called out on her Facebook wall about a past due bill. If that doesn’t make you want to tighten up your online force field, grits ain’t groceries.
In these hard economic times, most of us will stumble into a temporary state of broke-assity. Chances are, some dude from a phone bank in the heart of downtown Can You Please Repeat That in English, India is gonna call you. If you are new to poverty, or you just need a little help shutting down all those begging ass agencies that help begging ass broke people, like me; I’ve got a few tips for you. I am an expert on poverty. I’ve been broke ass in two states. I practically deserve a leather chair next to Suze Orman’s black ass. I think I’ll call my show: The Broke Ass Whisperer. (Please say this with reverence and pretend you have on sparkly Michael Jackson gloves when you do that starburst “tah, dah” thingy!)
1. If you do slip up and answer the phone (you do know they make this thing called caller id?) use it as an opportunity to endear yourself with the collector. Start by playing Barry White’s Never, Never Gonna Give You Up, and in a whispery sing-songy voice, ask if you can kiss the collector all over his/her sweet, sexy body. Right on. (Bonus points if you’re willing to gay for the sake of bad debt. I can just see you now on a podium at the next Gay Pride event in your town. Drag queens will kiss you… You go, girl! ) You have to shift the focus away from your broke ass being stupid enough to actually answer the phone. If it means having phone sex with some dude in India, so be it. It’s only cheating if you take pictures of your Johnson or your Smack Madam and post it on Twitter.

2. Never, ever admit, affirm or even hint to the fact that you are on the phone. If you do, the credit clock starts all over again, and that crazy spending spree you went on buying all those Africa Medallions/ Mr. Hammer Pants/ Hair crimping appliances in 1991 will be straight up dope and freky, freky, fresh, AGAIN. This is the only time hanging up on someone without first giving them a good- old- fashioned -Trenholm Court Housing Project- caliber cussing out is ever acceptable. On second thought, just get ETHNIC on the collector, but stop short of threatening to cut them. That will just get the Po-Po dispatched to the hizzie; and you don’t want a piece of the badge. Remember, we are in a recession, and I have it on good authority that cops get paid a “put her black ass in jail” commission…ok, I’m totally making that up.

3. If you are broke ass and bone-headed enough to say your name, throw in a “residence” afterward. Like, “This is Mary. Mary’s RESIDENCE.” (and scream that part, just for fun!) That will make the collector pause. Then you can slide in, this is THE MAID, or even better, THE NANNY. Bill collectors hate to think that the debtor is using charged-off debt dollars to live the good life. This is also the perfect time to invent the life Oprah says you really want. Think of it as your big break in acting. I used this one recently, “I’m sorry, I’m Tamela’s (always screw your name up the second time) NANNY. She and her husband, Mr. Rafeal, (see, see, see, works for you and your baby daddy, too!) are on holiday in the South of France with Jay-Z and Beyonce. May I take a message?” The Collectress got all pissy with me, and asked me to repeat myself. So, I did, but this time I did it with my signature Afro-Cuban accent. I’ve got some country kinfolk in Cuba, Alabama and I know all the words to “Conga” by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine!That's close enough to #WINNING! Of course I sounded like a cross between Bono, Ellie Mae Clampett and Miss Cleo, but that is not the point. The point is the bill collector was so pissed that she thought Tamela was off having a Rump Shaker Rematch with Beyonce’ that she put me on hold while she conferenced in her MANAGER. I used that as the perfect opportunity to pretend the phone company had just cut off my phone. Well, that wasn’t much of a lie…the next day the telecommunications repo man got me! I totally saved myself from having to lie to the Collectress and her boss about when I could send them a check (eye roll, tooth suck, double cobra neck), by lying about my identity with an accent. Hell, I should submit it as part of my reel to casting directors. IT was NAACP Image Award worthy. I would like to thank all the broke ass people who taught me being broke isn’t just a way of life; it’s a state of mind…sniff,sniff.

Being broke ass is painful and embarrassing, but with a little creativity; you can make it fun! Just ask all those bastards that took TARP money…

Next Post: Teaching Your Toddlers to Shoplift Hair Weave and How to Resale Weave for PROFIT!

Casey Anthony, the Debt Ceiling and Michele Bachman

I have an opinion on all three: WHY? Also, these were the top three topics on Google, and I figure other people have opinions, too.

Why is Casey Anthony still wasting tax payer’s money? Why would you let your child go missing a month before you got out the tattoo chair and off the pole at the club and decided to search for her? Because you killed your baby, that’s why. If I don’t hear my kids for five minutes, I know something is wrong. If there is silence in the Ekhoff house, I know somebody is getting into something- or somebody is bad sick. No mama worth even a half-bucket of a damn is going to let her baby go missing that long, unless said mama did something wrong. Sure, we all have that point in Wal-Mart when we want a tractor beam to swoop down and suck our precious, screaming sweethearts up to the planet “Will You Shut the Hell Up So Mommy Can Shop in Peace.” Alas, the tractor beam doesn’t come and long-suffering Mamas in Wal-Marts all over the world have to live through shopping trips of doom, and they don’t go looking in the sporting goods section for some fresh chloroform. This heifer doesn’t need to be thrown in jail; she needs to be covered in Alaga syrup, and placed ever-so-gently in the biggest red-ant bed in Alabama. I’m guessing the best ant beds are somewhere between Clio and Smut Eye. If I were George Foreman of that jury, it would have taken us about an hour- wouldn’t want people to think we were biased- to end this trial.

I know you’re thinking, “Tang, clearly, you know nothing of politics or money, why do you feel the need to speak out on the debt ceiling?” My answer to this one is simple, because I can. We’ve raised the debt ceiling before. This ain’t America’s first time at the debtor’s rodeo. Do it or don’t do it, but for the love of Oprah, stop talking about it. It’s been raised over 100 times since 1917, it ain’t like The President and Mrs. Obama just invented it for funzies while lighting sparklers with the girls last night. Hell, it’s been done ten times in the last decade. I hate to be the one to remind you, but old W. was President when we raised it without stuttering eight years in a row. Can’t we just get back to picking on Mrs. Obama for trying to get future rap star, ‘Lil Fat Ass to step away from the fried Kool-Aid?

Michele Bachman, I hate to be the one to break this down like a simple fraction for you, but your husband may be a little gay. Where I come from, people who like to de-program gay people are usually gay. See, straight people don’t get all up in gay people’s business like that. Usually, it’s sexually frustrated uber-christians who want to pray the gay away. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret Michele, most husbands, the straight ones, are too busy working their asses off to take care of their families to be concerned with how to make gay go away. Most American husbands don’t give a damn what two grown people do with their own bodies in their own homes.
I did a quick survey at my house.
Me: Honey, how do you feel about gays?
Him: Why is the thermostat set at 72 in here? We aren’t trying to hang meat in here. Do you know how much the power bill is?
Me: No, because I was watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and….
Him: You had the TV on today? I told you that TV uses too much electricity. Do I hear water dripping in the bathroom? Are you using the oven???
Notice a trend here, Michele, my hot-blooded, American husband cares about one thing: paying the bills, bills, bills.
The only people who seem to make a living at professional gay-hunting are just looking for an excuse to take advantage of young, confused people, and all the while they use religion as the rack to hang their Bob Mackie ball gowns on. Michele, when your husband calls gay men barbarians, what he means is, “ I wish that Native would get restless all up in this…” Girlfriend, you better get your wife in check, before you decide to run for President, because Ru Paul is in hair and make-up just itching to call Mr. Bachman out.
Before you go hurling the Liberal word at me, I’m ok with my gay-loving, idiot-loathing, bad-ass self. I believe God, and Oprah, loves us all. I believe Jesus died for me. Thank the Lord for that, because I'd be bustin hell wide open for my past sins, and my current state of "fry baby-killing Casey Anthony." Now, let’s raise that debt ceiling, buy some tacky crap from Oriental Trading Company, and throw a Casey Anthony Burn in Hell Party! I bet we all know who’ll be the first one on the Karaoke stage when “It’s Raining Men” starts to play. God Bless the USA!