Donnie’s Little Problem

Our Subject: Pointing the finger, which should come as no surprise

 

“Everyone needs dick.  See, I can buy fags. Bunch of guys that need dick – just plain need it? That I get.” -Banky Edwards (Chasing Amy)

 

Donnie McClurkin loves dick. He lusts for it.  He fantasizes about it. He’s obsessed with it. Undoubtedly, if he had his druthers, he’d have his mouth wrapped around one as I type this. Yes, indeed. Donnie is infatuated with men, and he hates himself because of it.

Video has been circulating of Donnie giving a sermon at the recent Church of God in Christ convocation in Memphis, in which he attacks young gay people and speaks, in an admittedly familiar way, about the “perversion” of homosexuality. According to McClurkin, “God did not call young people to such perversion. Society has failed him, his church has failed him … I would be homosexual to this day if Jesus hadn’t delivered (me).”

He goes on: “I see feminine men, feminine boys, everywhere I go … No, don’t applaud ‘cuz it ain’t funny. It’s because we failed. I see them everywhere.”

Get it? Much like those pesky ghosts that haunted Haley Joel Osment’s character in The Sixth Sense, they’re everywhere. Actually, this analogy works pretty well. Let’s just make a slight adjustment..

Donnie McClurkin: I see gay people.
Malcolm Crowe: In your dreams?
[Donnie shakes his head no]
Malcolm Crowe: While you’re awake?
[Donnie nods]
Malcolm Crowe: Gay people like, in bars? In bathhouses?
Donnie McClurkin: Walking around like regular people. They don’t see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re gay.
Malcolm Crowe: How often do you see them?
Donnie McClurkin: All the time. They’re everywhere.

As a “former” gay man who has been delivered by Jesus from homosexuality, McClurkin has made no bones about his disdain of gays and of the “gay lifestyle” in the past. He recently took singer/performer/preacher Tonex to task after Tonex admitted that he, himself is gay. Donnie encourages Tonex to turn away from this “affliction” and “pray away the gay.”

I have a HUGE problem with this. First, if McClurkin, who is obviously still gay and still attracted to men (during this same Memphis speech, he likened his same-sex urges to those of a diabetic, “I don’t eat sugar, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want sugar”) wants to remain celebate (and I highly doubt this, given the lurid rumors of his dabbling in sex with men) so be it. But it’s shameful of him to use his bully pulpit to hatefully condemn unapologetic, uncloseted gays.

Second, I’d like it very much if the anti-gay religious community could come to grips with the fact that a) no amount of prayer or heterosexual programming can change a gay man into a ravenous vagina-pounder and b) gay isn’t wrong. This last point needs it’s own post (or, more likely, a series of posts) so I’ll just leave it at that (for now).

Third, I can think of little worse than a cowardly hypocrite using a 30-year-old tragedy (his alleged molestation as a child) to make excuses for his own perceived failings. Make no mistake about it. Donnie McClurkin isn’t gay because of a traumatic childhood event.  He’s gay because he’s insatiably attracted to men. The former has NOTHING to do with the latter.

I want to make it clear that I certainly don’t intend to make light of Donnie McClurkin’s past. Molestation is a horrible, inexcusable crime, and no one deserves to be made a victim. But it is disingenuous of him to keep pointing to that as the cause for his gayness. Further, I find it unsettling that he can so easily use his own tragedy as a launching pad from which to persecute others. Donnie ain’t right, and he knows it. His problem is, he thinks he’s not right because he’s gay, not because he’s a self-hating charlatan.

 

Note: Afromamba and I are in the business of helping you solve your relationship problems. Really. We’re good like that. So if you have any questions or need any advice please drop us a line at nakedadmonition@yahoo.com

You need it up, I need it down. What do we do about this?

After two heavy posts, let’s shift to a topic that errs on the side of levity:  toilet seat follies.  There is nothing more jarring in the middle of the night, than a surprise episode of splash booty.  And then, the rage begins, as does a lifelong battle for bathroom supremacy.

Personally, I think that putting the seat down is a matter of common courtesy.  The consequences of a raised toilet seat have a higher consequence to a woman than a lowered seat has to a man.  It’s gross.  So, why the seat lowering resistance?

Because men and women are stupid.  Women have made it some exercise in “housebreaking” their unruly male.  We’ve all heard a war story or two, where a victorious woman brags over her conquest.  “Girl, it took six months, but he finally puts the seat down.”  It’s a matter of presentation.  It’s presented in a way that makes a guy feel de-balled.  Naturally, men are going to rebel.  So to prove that you’re nobody’s beyotch, guys choose the road less considerate.

Here’s a thought:  let’s treat each other like adults.  Splash booty is gross.  Have a heart.  Put the freaking seat down.  But ladies, please…give it a rest.  The sooner you treat a relationship like a partnership rather than abject war, the better off you’ll be.  In truth, it’s a simple issue with much large implications.  Implications that we will address in this blog as time goes on.

And the best way we can do that is by answering your looming questions.  Therefore, if something is grinding your gears, stuck in your craw, getting your goat, chapping your hide…or you simply want to incite dialogue and get the perspective of two bright and dazzling bon vivants, please send your questions to nakedadmonition@yahoo.com.  We’ll be waiting.

Your Cancer Can Wait

Cancer Isn't The Only Thing We're Fighting

“Every cancer is a homicide.” –Boots Riley of The Coup (Everything)

 

There’s no other way for me to put this. Certain people, certain groups, don’t seem to particularly care if women die.

That’s the only explanation that I can come up with for the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force’s recent, stupid-as-fuck recommendation that women 40-49 forego routine mammograms and self-examinations. Before I start laying out a very personal anecdote, I want to ask a rhetorical question. Does this shit even sound like it makes sense? I mean, really.  Does this seem like good advice? It doesn’t. Certainly not to my mind, and surely not to the millions of courageous women who have survived breast cancer.

My wife is one of them. She was a tad under 50 years old – 36 to be exact – when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She has no history of any kind of cancer in her family. She’s never smoked cigarettes (or marijuana, which is kind of weird if you ask me). She’d never previously been exposed to any radiation. In short, she was extremely low-risk. She happened to discover a lump in her breast during a self-examination and immediately went to get it checked out.

Her doctor referred her to get a biopsy. The results of the biopsy revealed a deadly little cancerous mass that had to be immediately removed. Fortunately for us, it was a stage one diagnosis that required an hour-and-a-half surgery, eight weeks of radiation treatment and, miracle of miracles, no chemotherapy. Now, some eight months after her initially diagnosis, she’s officially a survivor.

But you know what? My wife’s entire medical team, the doctor who performed the biopsy, her surgeon, her oncologist and her radiologist, all admitted that they were seeing more and more cases of young women being diagnosed with breast cancer. If Dr. Diana Petitti, vice-chair of the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, and her colleagues were sincerely operating in the best interest of women, they would have spent their time investigating the implications of THAT shit, as opposed to telling young women that they needn’t concern themselves with regularly-scheduled mammograms.

Now that the backlash is in full swing, the task force is seeking to clarify it’s position. Tellingly, Dr. Petitti admits that the reaction from the report caught her off guard.  She concedes that, “we probably, in retrospect, could have been more clear.” Actually, I don’t agree.  I think they were crystal clear.  Their message was very simple: “We don’t give a damn.”

Even when I’m a mess, I still put on a vest…

And I’m starting to take that joint off.  As much as I want to be frank about what’s going on with the sisters, the recent comments (calling them “recommendations” make me livid) regarding breast cancer screenings and mammograms sent me to another place.

The newer comments stated that women need not obtain mammograms until 50 years of age, mammograms need only be performed every other year, and NO self-examination.  If men were dying of breast cancer at such an alarming rate, I maintain there would have been no such task force to debunk male health care.  Not only do they debunk mammograms, but also state that women need not perform self-exams.

There have been several woman who are close friends who have been diagnosed with cancer, two of whom have passed away.  All of the women have been below the age of 50.  My aunt, who passed away from cancer at the age of 48, died in less than 8 months when her cancer returned.

Meanwhile, prostate cancer can be wiped out damn near at half-time.  Additionally, where men can get their “dude health” checked out during a regular physical, women must pay a premium rate to visit a specialist for their reproductive health.

Sisters, we need to use these damn capes for more than wiping noses.

They’ll do it as long as you encourage them

Hey! You! I don’t like your boyfriend! Be! Cause! You both share the same jeans!

Ladies, our boyfriends have muffin tops.  This is not a good look.  We encourage this by allowing them to continue to be our boyfriends.  Fellas, we think you look ridiculous.  I’m a woman.  I talk to women ALLL the time.  I have never, in my adult life, heard a woman say, “But what really hooked me was the fact that his jeans looked like stretch pants.”  There’s nothing sexy or compelling.

It’s been scientifically proven that as heterosexual men have a base attraction to women with the traits associated with fertility, heterosexual women are attracted to men with the traits associated with virility.  Guess what’s not among those traits?  Man camel toe. But women, we only have ourselves to blame.  The guys who wear these items, have more likely than not, never been told, “Hey, your outfit is stupid.”

Stop it.  Every time I see a dude who looks like he should be wearing boots over his pants with a woman, I want to get medieval on her ass.  She KNOWS better, yet refuses to do better.  I believe it was Dave Chappelle who said that if a man could get laid living in a cardboard box, he wouldn’t buy a house.  So, giving these men attention makes you part of the problem.

Part of me is thankful that men of this ilk are limiting their sperm count, and by extension, their ability to reproduce, but I need this issue eradicated.  It’s a judgment thing.  Men who suffocated their johnsons are not to be trusted.  Yeah.  I said it.  I’m not joking either.  And no, this isn’t a swipe at masculinity or sexuality.  It’s a swipe at being too stupid to give  your wood some air.  Nothing about that sounds like a good idea.  Then, they sag.  So I have to see your moose knuckles AND your underwear.

I want to harm you.  I want to harm the women who are with you.  I want to make them pay a fine.  I want the women who date you to be suspended from something.  Womanhood should come with a membership card, which allows  you to accrue points and demerits.  If you’re caught with a man wearing offensive outfits, you would be denied access to all the things that the ladies love.  No Sister Circle meetings.  Grey’s Anatomy?  No chance.  Oprah won’t be rocking with you.  Access to Cool James?  Denied. Don’t even THINK about trying to go see the musical production of The Color Purple.  You’ll be told HELLLLLL NO!

I know this seems extreme, but these are extreme times.  No male leggings for 2010.  We got a brother in the White House.  I know we can accomplish this.

The Office of My Familiar

Peace,

My apologies. This is a reprint from a post I wrote in another blog. I injured my back today and haven’t spent much time today unmedicated. I haven’t had an opportunity to gather my thoughts and commit to a new post. Still, I’m fond of this post and I hope you enjoy it.

My wife is a pharmacist. That means she’s got her doctorate (Pharm.D.) and is a nationally recognized and state-certified professional. I’m not simply bragging on my lady here (not that it would score me any points since she stopped reading my blog long ago). I mean, I’m extremely proud of her and I understand the economic and social obstacles that she’s had to overcome to accomplish her goals, but the whole reason I’m mentioning it is because of two work-related incidents she’s shared with me.

The first was recurring. While we were living in Virginia some years ago, she was working with a pharmacist who happened to be a black male.  At any rate, she began to notice that as soon as he became comfortable with her, he suddenly lost all traces of his professionalism. Propriety and pretense devolved into frequent and often bizarre inappropriateness. In her eyes, this fall into unsuitable familiarity was precipitated by the fact that she was a black woman. Because she was a “sister,” he immediately assumed that he could get away with what one of my Houston frat brothers refers to as, “that ol’ bullshit.”

Fast forward to the present. My wife works with a Jewish man (let’s call him Mike) who is the pharmacist-in-charge. The two of them are the regular, nine-to-fivers at her current location. Other pharmacists are often brought in to provide coverage when one of them needs to take off. Recently, an outside pharmacist (let’s call him Elroy) was hired to take over for Mike when he had a doctor’s appointment. For about a half-an-hour, Mike, Elroy and my wife worked together with seamless professionalism. As soon as Mike left for his appointment, Elroy asked, loudly and to no one in particular, “Alright! Where the party at?” In her words, “This Negro thought that the pharmacy transformed into a nightclub just because a white man went to a doctor’s appointment.”

She’s not alone. EVERY SINGLE black female professional that I know has had to endure (or is doing so currently) some kind of come on, ignorant comment, leer or improper gesture from some brother that gets just a little too familiar. Now, before you rush to judgment about me, I recognize that this is not endemic to my people. Men being what they are, women in general have historically been exposed to both sexual and non-sexual workplace incongruities. Having acknowledged that, I still find it regrettable that some brothers just can’t check that player shit at the office door. If I had a dollar for every complaint I’ve heard, from my wife, sister, mother, and women friends, about some failed attempt at workplace pimpery, I’d move my family to the Hamptons. If any of you would-be office Lotharios are reading this, my suggestion to you would be to focus on your God-damned job. Apart from having to occasionally bear witness to some of the shittiest game I’ve ever seen, I’m tired of sisters at my job regarding me with suspicion just because I smile at them and say “Hello.”

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king

But in the land of relationships, the manless woman is sage?

For some reason, the first person a woman goes to when she’s having relationship problems, is her single friends.  I’m a woman, I’ve done it.  My committed friends do it to me.  Because of course, when your man pisses you off, you’re out the door.  Married women are going to tell you that marriage is hard work, and to stick it out, and that it’s all worth it in the end.  When you’re mad, you’re not trying to hear that foolishness.  You want fire and brimstone to run all up in your lousy man’s ass.

Now, the average woman with sense will come to her senses, and realize that she’s got something worth saving (I hope), and will eventually seek out sage advice from a more experienced, successfully married woman.  Their single friends are a good sounding board, the appetizer if you will.  They go to experienced women for the “food.”

Unfortunately, not enough women do this.  And that speaks to the MAJOR disconnect that exists between men and women.  A woman in a relationship has a completely different dynamic from her single counterpart.  You can truly just speak to your circumstances.  Single women aren’t necessarily coming from a man-hating place.  It’s the logical, “You’re not happy, get happy,” place.  (Single women can be quite pragmatic when it comes to other women’s relationships.)

As women, there’s a pressure to be committed, yet not lose touch with your single friends.  Solidarity in sisterhood is all good, but it shouldnt’ be at the expense of your well being.  Once you are committed, the well being of you, turns to the well being of us, so your single friends can’t always give sound advice, because they’re coming from a different place.

I’m sure there are single women who will take issue with what I have said, but if you think about it, I’m really not wrong here.  We do the best we can, but our best isn’t always a good fit for the situation.  When I was eight and my younger sister was six, my mother spent a great deal of time in the hospital, and my father was our primary caregiver, including combing our hair.  He was taking care of his girls, as always, as best he could, but hair combing wasn’t exactly in his lane.  I remember bragging that my dad could comb hair.  I saw pictures of us during that time, and it was the definition of hot mess.  But I knew my father’s intention, and that was enough for me.  That’s what happens when the people we love, and who love us, give us advice that isn’t always coming from knowledge and experience.

We would do well to seek out people who have a measure of success in our specific situation if we desire improvement.  I’m not saying to dismiss your single friends as uninformed dolts.  I’m just saying don’t go to the dentist for brain surgery.

Just food for thought.

What’s Eating Gilbert…

Only now does the smile resemble a cry for help..

Let’s just dispense with the introductory prattle and get right to it, shall we?  As many of you already know, according to various and sundry reports, Shaquille O’Neal has been fucking Gilbert Arenas’ fiancée.  Rampant speculation about the affair has only gained momentum now that Shaunie O’Neal, Shaq’s wife, has officially filed for separation. To muddy the waters even further, this tart has, apparently, given birth to at least one of Arenas’ children.

Now, normally, I don’t go in for all this scandalous gossip but a) I figured it would be GREAT fodder for a relationship blog and b) this shit is just interesting. It’s not everyday that the general public becomes privy to the trifling sexual habits of the rich and famous. I, for one, would like to offer a few thoughts on each of the four individuals involved in this tawdry quagmire:

Shaq – What can one say about a man who has been on an unapologetic 32-city, groupie-groping, ego-stroking, self-love fest for the past 17 years? Stories of Shaquille’s sexual improprieties have been circulating since he’s been in the league. The over-publicized falling out between he and Kobe Bryant was, at least in large part, due to Kobe dry-snitching to the cops about Shaq’s habit of paying women he’d slept with to keep their mouths shut. If this rumor about him shaqquing Gil’s woman is true, the brother is a grimy cat. But I think we can safely assume that at least some of the other women he’s been with over the years have “belonged” to someone else. Surely this isn’t the first girlfriend or wife of some poor, unsuspecting sap that he’s bagged, right?

Agent Zero – Now it all makes sense.  The absence of the usual brio with which you attack the rim.  The way you surreptitiously dismissed a press with which you’d enjoyed an agreeable relationship.  The abandonment of your charming blog. I realize that things look bleak right now, but buck up. First, you’ll have the sympathy vote. Every cat that I know right now is feeling for you (when they’re not laughing about it). Second, you found out BEFORE you married this chick. I’d rather have someone fucking my girlfriend than sticking it to my wife. Third, you’re quite a wealthy man, and you have the resources to bounce back from this. Could’ve been worse.  You could have been a cautionary tale AND broke. Finally, as Michael Wilbon is found of saying, “There’s another train coming.” If you can learn to trust anybody again, you’ll eventually be able to move on a build a healthier relationship.

Shaunie – Nobody in his or her right mind should be feeling sorry for this woman. She knew what she was getting. She’s been getting it for years. It’s likely that the perks of being married to a celebrity outweighed the pain of having to send plaid, lipstick-stained twelve-piece suits out to be dry-cleaned. Frankly, women have to know by now that they either want a baller, or they want a faithful husband.  Can’t have both. These cats do this all the time.  Generally, as Chris Rock (who, by the way, you’ll find that I’m awfully fond of quoting) says, a man is only as faithful as his options. Who has more options than rich, famous, body-by-God professional athletes? I know what you’re thinking: a man doesn’t have to put a ball in a hoop for a living to cheat. Hell, men who fill up Pepsi machines for a living cheat. But at least women have a shot at fidelity with a normal cat.  If you’re with a man who has women climbing onto hotel balconies to catch a glimpse of him, you’ve got a problem.

The Hussy – Well done, Laura Govan. Thou hast it now: Child, Paycheck, Infamy, all as the How to Snag a Baller handbook promised, and I fear thou play’dst most foully for’t. But what the hell?  How are you any more immoral than Shaq, or any more superficial than Gilbert?  I don’t think you are.  In my estimation, everybody’s taken a nice big bite of this nauseating shitburger. So enjoy the view from the top, and remember to savor it while you can. I’ve been hearing lately that Karma is a bitch. You might have something in common with it.

Skinny Women are…Acceptable…Now…Because You Said So?

So, my cohort has REALLY been getting at me about ripping Mo’Nique a new one.  (Did you read that last post?  He is NOT PLAYIN’ right about now.)  So consider this an Open Letter to Mo’Nique.

I try to like you.  For real.  Believe it or not, I’m even going to go see “Precious.”  (Not because of you.  I love to see new breakout stars that don’t look like movie stars.)  It’s refreshing to hear that you stepped out of your “Mmm Hmm Girrrrrrl” style of movies.  And as blah as I considered “Phat Girls,” I maintain that even the big girls need fairy tales, and I want to thank you for introducing me to Jimmy Jean Louis.

My writing partner can’t stand you.  He considers you a “bald-faced hypocrite” for your touting health, after so many years of insisting that being fat was fine and “skinny women were evil.”  I can’t disagree.  You justified an unhealthy way of living, because it was YOUR way of living.  Even in your movie (yes, I’m referencing Phat Girls again), you behaved as though eating lean meat and salad was akin to the black and blue carpet treatment at Abu Ghraib.

I don’t look at you with the vehemence of some, but I do find your attitude harmful. And I don’t always find you funny.  And your attitude can be off putting.  AND if those things are not enough, if you do win the Oscar for this role, however good your performance may be, you will be another black woman walking the line of degradation to be acclaimed by mainstream society.  I’m not crazy about you, but I’m getting soft in my old age.  For my birthday, I’m going to give you a gift:  a second chance.  But consider yourself on notice.  You go back to the puke that was your Soul Plane career, and I might have to catch you in the streets.

Fuck My Boss…Please

To Whom It May Concern:

This is an open letter to any man with low standards and/or poor eyesight. I’d like to offer you the opportunity to come to the Dallas area and spend some time wooing and (hopefully!) eventually throwing your penis inside of my supervisor.

This is a standing offer, however, I should mention that I’d rather you act on it sooner than later. Those of you who are especially fond of soulless, haggard, perennially dry-skinned, cat-collecting white women should find this offer especially enticing.

As a special bonus, I offer you peace of mind. You needn’t worry about your performance. It’s been so long since she’s enjoyed the pleasures of a man that she’s sure to appreciate anything – with regard to size or technique – that you give her.

Why would I make such an offer, you ask? Simply because it is the consensus of her direct reports, both men and women, that if she could look forward to going home and lovingly taking back shots, she wouldn’t be such a repugnant, unrepentant shit bag. She herself acknowledges as much. A few months ago, she literally (LITERALLY) cried in front of me when she discussed her last boyfriend (with whom she wistfully broke up during the Reagan adminstration) and openly wondered if their staying together wouldn’t have made her a better person. Indeed, she has spent ample company time reminiscing about the one time in her life when she miraculously managed to get undressed in front of an unpaid human male, and complaining about her lack of 21^st century dating options.

As a final appeal, I’d like for you to consider the fact that it’s Veteran’s Day.  I think that it is nothing short of kismet that on the day Americans recognize national sacrifice, you would sign up for a mission for which you would almost certainly be eligible for combat pay.

So, if you have a strong stomach and happen to be in the DFW area, do the organization for which I work a favor and give this woman some dick. My boss, colleagues and I would be grateful, and you will have made a sacrifice not unlike that of Jesus Christ himself.

God bless you, and God bless America.