One more SNUG-TYPE I really don’t want to see…

There’s one person, and one person only to thank for what you’re about to witness.  Normally the mental drivel just OOZES out on it’s own – however, this time the insanity had a wee bit of help from one who SHALL remain nameless – but is extremely condescending (and closetly-sick in the head) none the less. 

(Wouldn’t it be funny if the syrup company for I aint cho Mama! syrup got together with the blanket with arm hole moguls? 

 

and decided to make the most famous blanket of all? Something for the elderly, the large, and the freezing -cold porn actors….

  

Remember who to BLAME if you have nightmares…

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How YOU doin these days Aunt Jemima?

I’ve been thinking about something for a while now – ever since I saw the movie “Norbit” back in 2007. anyway.  As funny as Eddie Murphy was as Norbit – the nerdy and timid “girly-man”  main character of the movie, it was the character  Rasputia who definitely stole the show.  “How You Doin?!” became my catchall phrase the moment I first heard Rasputia screech it the movie.   I say it so much I’ve gotten Rasputia voice inflections down perfectly – if  I say so myself.

Because I’m kinda dingy and scattered, I don’t always pay attention to my surroundings – I tend to just blurt out whatever ‘s in my head. And Rasputia is once again on my mind, having been there for about the last month – and I’ve been crowing “How YOU doin?!  every chance I get, no matter where I am.  I have to remember to break that little habit.  And the perfect place to put this resolution into play is where we currently live at the moment. And it would be wise for me to remember that we are the minority white couple on the block.  A block that’s none too stable resident-wise to begin with. Fluffy’s size and ferocious growl are probably the main reasons we’ve been left alone so far, but it’s only a matter of time before people start realizing that Fluffy is actually “fluffy” – then it’s all over.

I’ve had Rasputia on the brain for a reason other than having rewatched Norbit for the 100th time this year.  It’s a reason you’d never guess  for it’s random weirdness. But believe me when I say the random weirdness is hysterical for it’s random weirdness. It’s also dangerous for the bubble-headed tourette’s-like clueless like MOI – the explanation of which I will give you now.

We recently discovered that our fair street, in addition to being party central for a slew of family activities – drive by’s, cop car chases,  and drug addicts knocking on your window at 4 a.m. trying to sell you your own tools, to name a few – is also the favored location for large, angry black women to administer a little “home correction” on their idiotic, skinny and scared to death boyfriends and husbands – who have either been caught cheating or spending the welfare money on drugs.  These cans of whoopass – which are frequent events with different participants each time – are open to the public for viewing and  accentuated by extremely vocal taunts and insults hurled by both parties at the other – and what’s more is they have a duration life of at least 30 minutes – a lot of times longer. And they’re as funny as hell to watch! Todd and I sit there in amazement every time we witness another “Rasputia -instigated ass-whoppin’” visited upon a hapless man.

An upcoming event is announced the same way each time.  Either Todd or myself (or both) know to stop whatever it is we’re doing when we hear the high-pitched scream of a terrified girly man out in the street that gives us the heads up that we have about 5 minutes or so to grab a couple of beers and a bag of chips before showtime.  The show consists of a very public, very vocal and very, very physical display of a large woman’s rage against life being taken out on her skinny weakling husband for whatever cardinal sin he’s committed this time. It’s a one woman cage fight of body blows, loud slaps, and impressive right hooks connecting with cheek bones and nose cartilage. And for course everytime the blushing bride delivers a particulary perfect uppercut or kidney punch, I’m screaming ” How YOU DOIN?! as encouragement out the window.  Not smart I know, and I fully expect that one day that angry black woman will forget all about her man and turn her sights on me – but it’s funny enough that I’m willing to take the risk.

The video below unfortunately, isn’t one of any of the characters from my story.  I  stole it off of You Tube for it’s striking similarities to the details of my story. Except for the existance of growing vegetation, the presence of children and the fact that the street looks inhabitable by actual human beings – the content of this video contains an exact blow by blow of  the  wife-hubby smack downs that grace our street with their festivities. From the insults both scream at each other, to the physical make up of the characters involved – from the deer caught in the headlamps look of a man as he becomes paralyzed at the sight of his woman coming at him like a 300 baby rhino – and even the ending – the cop car driving down the street and slowing down to check out the domestic going on in front of it before deciding to head over to Winchell’s donuts instead – and speeding up and out of there.  All  of the things on this video happen on my street.

Anyway, this brings me to my last point. Why I keep thinking about Rasputia.

In Norbit, the character of Rasputia paints an accurate, yet admittedly exaggerated, picture of the turmoil a lot of african-american women must feel to this day about their lives.  Sure –  things have changed for the better for all of us as women – in different ways for black women because of past injustices and challenges.  But I’ve read books and seen firsthand the ramifications of the chaos many still carry around – for reasons too numerous to list.  So in that way, I believe that Rasputia is a worthy poster child for their existing anger today.

But there’s more.

A few weeks after having laughed my ass off watching Norbit for the first time, I saw an ad for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup on TV and mused that those ads had been in one form or another, since  my grandmother was born in the late 1800s.   But even though they’ve updated Aunt Jemima’s wardrobe colors and changed her bottle to that spiffy brown plastic easy pour – the expression on her face has always stayed the same. She’s always maintained the same cheerful and welcoming enthusiastic look on her face –  as if she can’t wait to serve hordes of hungry people pancakes and syrup,  continually around the clock never stopping, until either the end of time commences or she dies suddely of a massive coronary mid-syrup pour.

But there’s something else as well.

Besides the expression of continual servitudal bliss, the Jemima of the ad is has always been portrayed as a heavy woman. Now if you’ve spent the last 100 plus years in the same clothes, serving endless pancakes with syrup to scads of the whiny, self-entitled and their offspring, it would stand to reason you’d eventually lose a pound of two during your indentured serventhood.  So I don’t buy a fat cheerful Aunt Jemima whose smiling face looks for all the world that she’s where she’s always wanted to be. Not with the anger I’ve seen from the black women on my block, and from Rasputia of couse. I know now what large angry black women are capable of in their rage.

So I have to admit, I’m kinda irked that we’ve been lied to by the syrup company all these 100 plus years. Just so we would buy their syrup. In fact, I’m going to venture out and say something else. Not only do I believe the advertising companies stretched the truth about sweet and cheerful Jemima – I think they outright lied about Jemima. I don’t think Jemima was happy or cheerful at all. I mean the real Jemima.  The Jemima whose name probably hasn’t ever been Jemima. I couldn’t guess what she felt back then, but I bet my last dollar it wasn’t happiness. I mean, think about it.  If a great deal of african-american women in this country are still pissed off about everything this late in the game, then just how angry must Not-Jemima have been back when things were REALLY HORRIBLE for a black woman? I can bet she didn’t care shit about “How YOU  was DOIN!”

So without further ado, may I present to you my opinion in pictures of the “real” Not Jemima who was the model for smiling Jemima and her pancake syrup. Maybe she would have told us what she really felt, had she been asked and had she been given the opportunity to have a life. So Syrup Queeen, although I don’t know your real name – my hat’s off to you and all the crap you’ve gone through just to make sure one more fatass has syrup for their pancakes.

“Tell it like is WAS sistah!”

TLANDA1