The Black Snob

Politics. Pop Culture. Pretentiousness.

Archive for May 6th, 2008

Zahara Jolie-Pitt, SCAN’s Littlest Agent in "La Cage aux Folles"

with 16 comments

The last time we contacted our most wily Ethiopian-American spy, code name: Sallie Selassie, she was working hard on the front lines of blackness, convincing her parent proxies, celebrities Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, to bring more attention to the plight of Katrina victims and to get more acting roles for Angela Bassett. Now Sallie is in France awaiting the birth of the Jolie-Pitts’ twins, creating new tensions amongst the rival agents/siblings working to manipulate their wealthy, influential patsies.

Sallie: This is Sallie.
SCAN: Are you alone?
Sallie: How can I be alone when I’m trapped in the house all the time with The Woman and that rhubarb sperm donor? As big as this house is you’d think I could crawl off to a corner and do my work, but noooo. A fucking zoo, every day.
SCAN: Yeah but … are you alone alone?
Sallie: God, you’re fucking dense. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?
SCAN: OK. I’ll take that as a yes.
Sallie: I swear, who the fuck do I have to play “peek-a-boo” with to get some God Damn Similac!
SCAN: Aren’t you on solid foods now?
Sallie: I’m fucking rich. I eat whatever I want and I want my Similac! It’s like crack to me. And we get the really good Similac, not that swill poor babies get. It’s hard to stay true your tribal roots when all you have to do is sniffle and you get an ice cream cake designed by Stella McCartney and Wolfgang Puck … actually. Ice cream cake sounds good right now. Hold on.

(Sounds of footsteps. People speaking.)

Sallie: Waaa, Dada me wan ice keem cake fom Auntie Stella! Wah! Me no likey stoopid crepes! Wah!
The Man: OK. It’s OK. Don’t cry. Daddy’s here. Come here let me ..
Sallie: Don’t you fucking touch me … I mean, waaaaah! Me wan specially designed ice keem cake! Waaaaah!
The Man: Ang?
The Woman: What!
The Man: Zee wants another ice cream cake from Stella McCartney.
The Woman: What is wrong with you? She’s lactose intolerant. We’ve discussed this! Tell her to eat the crepes she begged for all day at the Louvre!
The Man: But she looks so sad! Look at her little face! How can you say no to that face?
The Woman: She gets the shits. Have you forgotten that? It makes her poop everywhere.
The Man: It’s not like you clean it up!
The Woman: I’d still have to SMELL IT, BRADLEY!
The Man: What’s your deal? You used to be cool!
The Woman: I AM NINE MONTHS FUCKING PREGNANT WITH FUCKING TWINS! Excuse me if I DON’T WANT TO SMELL SHIT! I do not have time for this! Tell her no!
The Man: You tell her no. You look into her little brown orphan eyes where she was starving to death in that village and you tell her she can’t have whatever in the world she wants! And I didn’t even have to tell you. I could have flown us to Great Britain and got, like, a million ice cream cakes, flown back to France and hired seven more maids to deal with the baby poop. Seriously. Where are your priorities?
The Woman: Fine. If you’re going to be a bitch about it I’ll call Stella. But she’ll have to wait at least a day. Stella doesn’t exactly have a stockpile of those fuckers.
The Man: Hey, Ang? Could you stop the cursing around the kids? Have a little fucking class, OK?
The Woman: (mumbling) … such a fucking douche. I swear.
The Man: See? Daddy got you the cake, Zee! Yeah! Who do you love more? Who do you love more? Me! You love me more!
Sallie: I wuv cho, Dada!
The Man: Eskimo kiss! Now you go back to your room, OK? And play quietly because Mommy’s being a huge bitch today.
The Woman: I can hear you!
The Man: GROW UP! This is why all the kids hate you!
Sallie: Dank koo, Dada! (mutters under breath) You fucking moron.

(Sounds of footsteps, someone picking up the phone.)

Sallie: Sorry about that. What were we talking about?
SCAN: Actually we didn’t start yet.
Sallie: Oh. Sure. Whatever.
SCAN: So how are your objectives coming along?
Sallie: Um … I think The Woman is talking … about … Man. I should have asked for that Similac. You know it comes in different flavors if you’re rich, right? You haven’t lived until you have Amaretto flavored Similac.
SCAN: I’d really like it if you could give me your update first.
Sallie: Gary?
SCAN: We talked about this. No real names.
Sallie: I know, but no one’s listening. I’m on my Playskool Phone.
SCAN: We’re still not supposed to use our real names.
Sallie: Fine. What’s your code name again?
SCAN: Brofucious.
Sallie: Really. It’s “Brofucius.” Is that supposed to be some hippity hop version of Confucius?
SCAN: Actually, it is.
Sallie: Don’t you have to be smart to be named Confucius?
SCAN: Just tell me if your achieving your objectives.

Sallie: Fine. On Monday I convinced The Woman and The Man to take me on a helicopter ride so I could take surveillance photos of Sarkosy’s estate. As you know, I am digging up dirt to blackmail him so the Black people of France can be brought out of the ghettos and mainstreamed into society. Afterwards we went to Bono’s estate for swimming and finger food. Pax threw up on Bono and I got into a Kung Fu fight with Maddox because he saw me readying poison darts to take out the maid. She caught me downloading those photos and sending them to base, but Maddox said he needed the bitch because he was using her to topple the military junta in Myanmar. I’m like, sure. Take down a totalitarian regime with an 65-year-old fat lady from Paraguay. He’s such a fucking idealist. I’m really losing respect for the dude.
SCAN: Wait? You got in a Kung Fu fight? I didn’t know either of you knew Kung Fu?
Sallie: Actually, I think he practices Bokator. I don’t know Kung Fu, but I do know how to take a whiffle ball bat to your man parts. I dumped the maid into the sea while everyone was playing Marco Polo with Bono. When Maddox came to he was all pissed and took the heads off all my dolls. Fool. I don’t even LIKE dolls. But I pretended to give a shit anyway. The Man bought me a diamond encrusted binkie just to make up for it. The mother fucker can drop a mil on a binkie but can’t come up with a decent hair stylist. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? Look at this hair. We’re fucking rich. Where’s my braidologist? They can just get me who ever does Iverson’s.
SCAN: You still suck a pacifier?
Sallie: OK. Do I go to your house, Gary, and slap the reefer out of your mouth?
SCAN: We said no real names. And you know they drug test at SCAN. Are trying to get me fired?
Sallie: Maybe. One phone call to the Big O and you’ll be working the labeling machine at a Kinko’s.
SCAN: I got kids, man.
Sallie: What? Are you upset? Are you going to cry? Baby going to squirt a little? Wah, don’t get me fired! Wah, I can’t help it if I like hookers and weed! Wah! I have your wife on speed dial and I know how to hack into your computer! Wah! Wah! Fucking wah! I’m from Ethiopia, bitch. This trigger’s got no heart!
SCAN: (crying) You. Are. So. Mean!
Sallie: OK. Don’t cry. I’ll send you a jewel encrusted binkie, OK? I got, like, fifty of them. You can probably pawn them to buy some blow or something or whatever you use to, as they say, “party.” That’s what you do, Gary? You party with hookers and smoke the ganja?
SCAN: Do you even know what “blow” is?
Sallie: No, but whatever it is Sarkosy’s got a stockpile of it behind his pool house.
SCAN: Just give me the rest of your update.

Sallie: Anyway. I got to meet The Edge. That was pretty cool. And Bono’s good people. I think I can get him to expand his black interests to black people worldwide. Maybe get you Americans a library named after The D.O.C. or something. I dunno. I need more time to flesh him out and God only knows when those twins pop. The Woman has major boob saggage. It’s worst than it was with The Choosen One. Sheesh. I don’t want to be that plastic surgeon.
SCAN: Again. Do you know at least half of what you’re talking about?
Sallie: When you’ve had a life like mine you have to learn things fast. There’s no time for a real babyhood. In the desert you gotta be born feet first so you can come out that bitch running. Ya heard? No. No you haven’t, Gary. You were born in America. Your projects, my paradise, bitch.
SCAN: I’m not from the projects.
Sallie: That’s not the point, County Brownie. You pimp the facsimile, I pimp the real.
SCAN: Yeah. With diamond encrusted binkies and Amaretto flavored Similac?
Sallie: This conversation is dunzo. I can hear Maddox conspiring with Pax to get us Pad Thai for dinner tonight. Fuck that shit, son. It’s kitfo or no food. Tell you wife Monifah I said, “A salaam alaikum.”


Written by blacksnob

May 6, 2008 at 9:15 pm

What Is Your Definition of "Cooning?"

with 18 comments

Pictured above is Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry who created the character “Stepin Fetchit.” Billed as the “Laziest Man in the World,” many critics view the Fetchit character as a malignant, buffoonish stereotype that denigrated black culture. But some later scholars see Perry’s work as revolutionary, subversive humor and point out he wrote for legendary black newspaper The Chicago Defender and was the first black actor to become a millionaire.

Recently I got into a dialog with a reader on my Alan Keyes/Obama entry about what constitutes “cooning,” nee “Tomming,” in modern culture.

I thought this was a pretty interesting question as people often fling the terms around so liberally that they apply to people or actions that should be a little more gray in their interpretation. In the past I’ve been accused of “selling out” or being “uppity” because I was critical of the celebration of the lowest end of black culture.

Also, I find the term “Uncle Tom” pretty offensive, given that if the term refers to the “Uncle Tom” of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s abolitionist novel, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” the term has been twisted maliciously. The actual character of “Tom” did love his original master who was kind, but Tom later dies, beaten to death by slave master Simon Legree for protecting a pair of runaway slaves. Dying so others could be free is the opposite of what a so-called “sell-out” is. After I read the novel in college I stopped using the term “Uncle Tom” altogether.

That said, I’m looking for the opinions of others so I can write a column reflecting on these views. What is your definition of a “sell-out” or a “coon?” What is constitutes “cooning?” To whom and what should these labels should apply? Should these terms even be used at all? And how are those who you believe apply to those terms harming black Americans?

Do you think the terms are overused? Do you think they are justified? Do you think black Republicans and conservatives are unfairly labeled as “sell-outs” or are their views/actions tantamount to racial betrayal?

If you have an opinion, please share below or shoot me an email. Your views are appreciated!

Written by blacksnob

May 6, 2008 at 4:10 pm

Things That Have Nothing To Do With Today’s Primary

with 25 comments

1. Gary Dourdan was fired from CSI. I don’t watch CSI so I didn’t realize he’d been unceremoniously fired from the show. Gary is a member of The Great Wall of Sexy. He’s been hot since “A Different World” when he sent Freddie’s woman-parts aflame. He was also hot in Janet Jackson’s video “Again.” And I’m sure he continued to be hot when he was busted after Coachella with a bunch of drugs in the car.

Those totally weren’t his. Complete misunderstanding there, I’m sure.

Once again, while I didn’t watch the show, this has to be just as bad when Jesse L. Martin announced he was leaving “Law and Order.” Jesse is also a Great Wall alumnus. Who is driving all the hot black men from network television? Who, I say, WHO??? If CSI: NY (which I also don’t watch) dumps Hill Harper (also on the wall) I’m going to call “shenanigans” and declare this an official conspiracy to deny women of hot black men on television. When they came for Isaiah Washington, I said nothing. Then they came for Jesse L. Martin, and I said nothing. How far will this purging of hotness go, Hollywood? HOW FAR!!!

2. Things I’m declaring a moratorium on:

  • Songs about strippers
  • Young-Joc
  • So-called “hip hop” radio stations who only play Young-Joc and T-Pain
  • Ray J
  • $4-per-gallon gasoline
  • “thrown under the bus”
  • Bossy people
  • This Montag person
  • Making fun of Britney Spears
  • Celebrating athletes for being “good fathers” who aren’t married to the women who gave birth to the kid, but are shacking up with her anyway (And I mean you, LeBron James.)
  • Crip walking if you are not, in fact, a gangbanger
  • Gangbangers
  • Wolf Blitzer
  • Wearing all your money on your back
  • “I wanna make love in this club.”
  • Cigarette smoking in clubs and bars
  • Will Smith

3. What is the cheesiest song you love? Mine is Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy.” It’s shitacular, only rivaled by every song recored by Sir Mix-A-Lot and songs from Hall & Oates’ 80s period. M-E-T-H-O-D O-F L-O-V-E! It’s the method of modern love!

Indecision 2008 Stumbles Along

with 7 comments

I think it would have been more fun if the primaries hadn’t been front-loaded onto Super Tuesday. Because then the battle for Hoosier Country and the Tarheel State would mean more. It wouldn’t be a political war by attrition where pundits via the Clintons do their best to convince me Tuesday means something.

But wasn’t this Tuesday decided on Super Tuesday? Hillary Clinton has been playing a catch up game where she can’t statistically catch up. Barack Obama had to endure the umpteenth question about Rev. Wright on “Meet the Press” last Sunday. And everyone is just tired. Capital “T” that ends with “d, tired.

It would be different if we were talking about the issues, but instead we’re talking about who is going to beat the spread, what poll can you trust and is Rush Limbaugh impacting the race. And why is everyone behaving like Limbaugh is legitimate all of a sudden? Last time I checked people weren’t miking up DL Hughley and asking him about Nancy Pelosi. What gives? Is there some rule that if you show footage of Rush getting all red and blustery over John McCain you have to show him squealing like a pig in slop over the Democratic race? Because he’s not legitimate in either case.

That said, I might use Tuesday’s evening of non-importance to read a book or watch something out of my neglected DVD collection that probably thinks I must hate it as I haven’t watched a DVD in almost six months. I used to watch more often when I had a larger television. Now that I have a tiny, grainy, blurry TV it’s pointless. How can I enjoy the original RoboCop on that? And I own the Criterion Collection DVD of RoboCop. They don’t even make that anymore. I had to order a used copy for $40 from Amazon. That’s how serious I take my movies. I might even watch RoboCop tomorrow, or finally watch movies I bought last year, but never opened, like my copy of the anime suspense-thriller “Perfect Blue” and the last Bret Easton Ellis novel adapted for film, “The Rules of Attraction.”

But I’m not spending another evening with Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann, both of whom have a bad case of Democratic Primary Night Stigmata. I’m surprised they aren’t wearing black lace veils and acting out the stations of the cross.

And unless CNN adds my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of TV News, TJ Holmes, to their election night coverage I won’t be watching Wolf Blitzer and Soledad O’Brien either.

I’m just going to keep watching RoboCop, the Terminator Trilogy, Brazil and all the other dystopian sci-fi films I own over and over until June. You’ll let me know when they make Obama the nominee, right? Right?

And did anyone go see “Iron Man” this weekend because I did and Robert Downey Jr. was awesome.

Downey is also on The Great Wall of Sexy.