Citrus and Cedar

I felt pretty good about my liberal cred this last week, because I went to my local health food store and picked up a bottle of all natural, USDA Certified Organic, non-GMO, hormone free, cruelty free, fair trade, vegetarian fed, pasture raised lotion. The best part is it’s Everyone brand, so I can wear it in safe spaces.

But when I got it home, I noticed it also claims to be a 3-in-1 lotion, because you can use it on your hands, face, and body – as is the nature of lotion – and part of me hopes they fired the head of marketing over it. Like, “Really Tom?”

By the way, Tom went on to pursue a lucrative career in apparel design, where he pioneered 4-in-1 pants to be worn on your left leg, right leg, ass, and genitals. They’re totally revolutionizing the world of pants.

But even sillier than the whole 3-in-1 thing, the bottle I got also claims to be “Just for Men.” So, I have to ask. Are str8 guys worried they’ll sprout ovaries, if they use the “wrong” lotion? Is this a hot button issue, right now? I mean, it would certainly explain Trump’s popularity.

“We gotta make America great again, with notes of wood and citrus!”

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All The Racism

As some may have discerned, I am Black. But I often feel like an honorary Black, because I don’t rap, can’t dance, have no interest in sports, and I don’t intimidate White people. So basically, I get all the racism with none of the benefits.

Although, I did knock up a White woman. So, I think that qualifies me to use terms like “honky” and “cracker,” but “nigger” still sounds racist – which is fine by me, because I prefer derogatory terms for White people, because no one gets hurt, because there’s no power behind those words. It’s kind of like blasphemy.

I mean, if we go ahead and assume there really is a supreme power manipulating all things, I’m pretty sure being called a “fat fuck” is at the bottom of its list of reasons to smite someone. But if you call God a nigger, I’m pretty sure he’ll set the world ablaze.

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Stoner Level

I recently performed at a cannabis club, and if you’ve never been to one of these, I highly recommend watching the 1930s cinematic classic REEFER MADNESS, because that’s where I told jokes recently.

Upon entering, I did what I always do, and went straight to the back, to check in with the show’s producer, who told me to check in with the doorman. I politely replied, “What doorman?” To which he replied, “Walter,” as he pointed to the dab bar.

It took me a moment to process that Walter, the doorman, was also the large man finishing a bong rip at the end of the bar. All the same, I checked in with Walter, once he finished coughing, and then, I noticed one of the dab tenders wearing a GoPro, which made me extremely uncomfortable, until I realized she was the security camera. So, if you’re keeping tabs, the entire security for this club specializing in copious amounts of a substance more valuable per ounce than gold was Walter, the meandering doorman, and a hipster with a GoPro, which gave me an idea…

We need a new level of prison security: stoner level. You can leave all the doors wide open and ask the prisoners not to escape. Throw in some video games and you’re golden.

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Aisle 8

Having served my time in the trenches, I still feel a strong connection with retail workers. And by “the trenches,” I mean aisle 8 – the chaos aisle.

Aisle 8 was the aisle that started with bread and canned goods, but ended with feminine hygiene and incontinence products. Aisle 8 was where a charming, young man misplaced a large bag of heroin. Aisle 8 was also where an elderly gentleman once dropped his pants and took a giant shit in the middle of the aisle, before the stunt was repeated on two more occasions by two different, unrelated customers.

And on more than one occasion did a sex worker come in to buy sweats or scrubs, having misplaced her clothing the night before, but only once did she come in completely naked to buy mascara.

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