Case and point; every Monday morning I usually wake up around 5:30 to go take my little god daughter to school.  Her mother, a dear friend, usually has to be at work by six.  Seeing how they only live five blocks away, it’s generally no problem for me to go make sure she gets off to school okay.  Today started off pretty much just like any other Monday.  My alarm went off at 5:30; I immediately jumped up and bumped my left shin on the way to the bathroom on the corner of my stupid Ikea bed that sticks out two inches further than I always seem to recall; I grabbed my trusted bebop cap, and was out of the door in just six minutes flat.  I used to have it down to four, but after several times of making it all the way to the corner before looking down to realize I was wearing nothing but my high top Pumas and Hanes; I discovered  just that extra two minutes could possibly make all the difference in the world.

Just as I was approaching the set of projects nestled neatly between both of our blocks, I heard a lot of rustling behind the big trash dumpster.  At that time of morning I figured it could only be ‘Holler Back’ (the old neighborhood crack whore affectionately nicknamed after her favorite 2001 rap song) inside the dumpster with some new John.  But when I yelled out my usual “Good Morning Holler Back!”, instead I saw two humongous raccoons going to town on a bunch of garbage bags.

Seeing how the last thing Brooklyn needs is more damn trash on the streets; doing my part to keep the block clean I stumped my feet at them and yelled “Get out of that trash!  Shoe you stupid coons!”  A phrase I had heard yelled at me many times as a child in the south, although something tells me they weren’t really talking about these kind.  I assumed they would both just scatter off just like the cats do but instead, they both turned and simultaneously hissed as they showed me their fangs.  I thought “Stupid coons!  They obviously must be a little tipsy from the remnants of all of those old bottles of cheap gin and not realize that they’re bucking up to a human.”  So naturally I stumped my feet again and yelled even louder “I said get out of that damn trash!” as I hurled an old Snapple bottle at them someone left on a nearby bench.  However instead of running away, to my surprise they actually hissed again even louder and then started off after me.

Talk about some scary shit!  Before I knew it, I had let out the loudest white woman shriek I’ve ever heard and then took off running for my life.  So now here I am, a grown ass man, at 5:30am being chased down the street by raccoons, and in Brooklyn of all places. Yet again, another one of those unbelievable “Brett and the City” moments where I looked up to the sky and thought, “Wow God… really?”  I figured they would eventually turn back after a few feet, but as I looked over my shoulder they were actually gaining speed.  I thought “WTF?”  By block three and a half with two drunk ass project raccoons hot on my ass, my mind started really getting the best of me.  I thought “Why are they so damn mad?” and even more important, “Just what were they planning to do once they caught me?”  It could’ve been my imagination again, but I could’ve swore one of them had a couple of those little tear drop tattoos under his eye you always see in the Mexican gangster films right before someone gets snuffed.  I thought “Oh shit… what if this is how it all ends?”  I felt just like Will Smith in I am Legend 2.

As luck would have it, I made it inside my friend’s building just in the nick of time.  When I got upstairs naturally I thought about calling the police.  But judging by the several times I had already called this year when: that day Holler Back got high and tried to rape me; the time that crazy religious cult tried to abduct me; and not to mention that time those damn racists let their chickens attack me; I realized that they probably weren’t going to take me too serious this time.  So let’s just say next Monday morning I have already budgeted for a taxi.

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Now I knew the two close and personal friends of Oprah had enormous star power, but who knew they had the power to potentially cause of the end of the world?  My grandma was so distraught over the news she literally called in tears.  “If Will and Jada can’t keep it together…then what hope is there for the rest of us heathens?”  Believe it or not she was actually okay with the earth quake; but according to my aunt Gussie when the news broke about Will and Jada; she jumped clear out of the shower screaming and ran naked through the neighborhood.

For the sake of us all and the state of this world as we know it, let’s all pray that the two stars decide to stay together forever.  This was in deed a close call but we’re not totally in the clear just yet.  If God got this worked up over merely hearing a rumor of their separation.  If the two one day ever really did decide to throw in the towel; my fear is that God might just say f*ck it and finally just go ahead and really  “Releases the Cracken!” on us all.

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Last Saturday night I finally hooked up with this girl that I had been after for the past nine months. Just when I was beginning to doubt if we’d ever get together; as luck would have it– and after weeks of back and forth messages on Facebook, she finally agreed to meet me out for drinks. It was my lucky day (and so I thought).

After several rounds of vodka gimlets we were both well on our way to being smashed. So naturally I ordered a few more rounds for good measure. Although things in my opinion were going pretty well, my first clue that something was off should’ve been all of the “casual” prison references she kept dropping all throughout the night. At one point she even commented that her favorite TV series of all time was OZ because of all the love scenes. Now although in my mind I was thinking, “Okay…I don’t particularly remember that program being known for its touching love scenarios.” I figured “Hell…maybe I just missed an episode or two.”

Now fast forward to a couple hours later and the two of us getting hot and heavy on my new Ikea sofa. It’s amazing what $60 bucks and a good relationship with your local bartender can get you these days. Finally she muttered those words every guy longs to hear in that situation, “We’d probably be more comfortable in your room.” I’ll tell you; those damn vampires from True Blood could not have zipped to my bed any faster.

Twenty minutes later in the midst of making out, to my surprise she asked “Hey…how do you feel about anal sex?” I thought “Huh?” Talk about being thrown for a loop. So of course not wanting to sound like a square, I replied “I guess I’m okay with it.” With a huge smile she replied “Great!”, and then before I knew it she had reached into her purse and whipped out the biggest rubber dildo I’d ever seen. Now in my mind I’m thinking “Although I certainly appreciate a woman coming prepared just like the next guy. I kind of already have a built in version that I’m particularly partial to.” So her pulling out hers was kind of like bringing your own ground beef to McDonalds. And that was when it sunk in; “Holy shit Brett! She obviously wants some double insertion action.” Although I’d seen it done countless times in some of my midget porn movies; never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever find a girl freaky enough to give it a go. I was so ecstatic it took everything I had not to immediately grab my phone and check in on Facebook: “Hey guys– guess what I’m about to do?”

As we tore through our clothes still in the heat of passion, she whispered “Papi…you have any lube?” Remembering that one really old bottle somewhere in the back of my closet that came along with that DVD I bought titled Backdoor Midgets 64; I quickly scrambled through the dark until I spotted the long blue tube near my shoe box. I snagged it up, and we were ready to go. But just as I was preparing to grease up; to my astonishment she began strapping on the dildo and then exclaimed “Okay, now I’m going to try my best to be gentle on you in the beginning.” I literally heard a record scratch, as I did my Scooby Doo double take “On me?! WTF?” I replied, “Wait…you were talking about doing me?” And with a slight attitude she commented, “Well…turnabout is fair play. So…if you want to hit it from the front, you’re gonna have to let me get it from the back.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What kind of a f*cked up ultimatum was that?!”  I felt like I had just been masterfully set up, and I had the right mind to ask for my damn $60 back. I was beyond perplexed. My dream date had somehow just turned into a horrible episode of Deal or No Deal. I thought “okay, at this point do I just walk away with all my earnings? Or instead do I stay and go for it all?” And as horny as I was from all of the night’s foreplay, she knew she had me exactly where she wanted me. My natural instinct was to call the whole thing off. But then I looked down at my penis looking all excited, like a little retarded kid on Christmas morning, and suddenly I just didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. Yep; he had been a great friend to me over the years, and I reckoned if ever I had to “take one for the team”, it would damn sure be for him. So…I did what any man would do in that situation. I replied “Okay, but only two pumps.” I then turned over and gripped the bed posts, as I took a deep breath and prayed “Jesus please be with me?”

Next it was the craziest thing. She tried and tried, but for some reason she just wasn’t able to past go. I remember her saying several times, “This sure is some dry ass lube. Do you have anything else?” But I just figured with it being years old and all, who knows…perhaps it had just went bad? I suggested that maybe she just needed to try doubling up on the recipe. However as much lube as she would spray on, nothing seemed to work. Apparently my ass had a mind of its own that night. After several attempts she finally decided to give up, which I was more than okay with.

Early that next morning I got up to go take my morning leak. As I walked back into my room, suddenly I noticed there in the window seal above my bed, a big ass blue can of Lamisil Foot Spray. Still hung over, I thought “Huh…that’s strange? Had that can been there the entire night?” I suddenly shrieked with embarrassment thinking “Dammit Brett! What a stupid place to leave your damn foot fungus spray– especially with date. Now there’s no telling what she must be thinking now? And that was when it hit me. I thought “Oh no!” and immediately ran to the closet. I could not believe my eyes. There next to the shoe box sat a long blue bottle of lube. I was mortified. In all the darkness I must’ve accidentally grabbed my foot fungus spray. It suddenly made all the sense in the world. Specially all her remarks about how dry the lube was. It was that exact moment that I realized that God must’ve obviously heard my prayer. I then of course spent the next three hours trying to scrub Lamisil out my ass. We’ve all heard of the condition Hoof in Mouth; but leave it to me to become the first person on the planet to ever contract Foot in Ass disease.

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Comedy sure is a tough job but dammit somebody has got to do it!!!

You asked for it folks and now you got it.  I am beyond excited to announce that this summer, my amazing team and I have been hard at work developing the all new ‘Brett and the City’ web series just for you, to be released this Fall.

Yes… finally you will be able to see some of your favorite stories and characters that you have come to love acted out on the small screen.  I would like to thank all of you for your amazing support over the past year and a half.  Because of all of your emails, comments, reposts, and word of mouth; you guys have made this happen for me and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Unfortunately I won’t be able to update as much as I would love to this summer.  However, please make sure you hit the Twitter and FB links above so you can be notified whenever there is a new update or episode is posted.  Filming the upcoming series has been an amazing experience.  I only hope that you enjoy watching it half as much as I have making it.

Thanks again,

Brett-

Just for the record, I would like to give a personal Brett and the City shout out to all of you women still rocking those big hot ass wigs in over a hundred degree temperatures.  Unless those things come with a built in cooling system, or little battery operated fan packs hidden inside I’ll just never understand how you do it.  It was so hot out there that day that I saw one lady basically pass out from heat exhaustion.  And then when the emergency unit came over to revive her, believe it or not she still refused to take off her wig.  She literally told them to cut off her blouse instead.  Okay… so now you’re sitting on a curb at a crowded street fair, with nothing but your bra on and a big ass I.V sticking out your arm, surrounded by a team of paramedics, not to mention your two sisters fanning you with flyers while your baby holds your purse; and yet you STILL refuse to take off your wig.  Talk about committing to a look.  Honestly, I’ve seen people let go of their religion and loved ones in far lesser times of peril.

What’s ironic is that for a supposed celebration of all things African, there wasn’t a single Afro in the entire place.  There were so many weaves walking around that for a second I actually thought I was at The Lace Front Awards.  There were literally weaves as far as the eye could see.  I saw blonde ones, plaid ones, and pink ones.  I even saw a set of little four year old twins sporting what looked to be two custom made fire engine red Rhianna ones.  To which I overheard several other woman comment, “Ooh those are too cute!  I should get one of them for Jatasia.  I wonder if it comes in blue.”

I thought to myself, “Wow… Back to School Lace Fronts. Boy have parent’s priorities changed since I was a kid.”  Hell, I was lucky if I got my own pair of Bugle Boys that I didn’t have to share with my two brothers.  I still remember the day my mother looked at me sideways for merely asking, “Mama… just this once can I PLEASE get a new pair of sneakers that don’t come from Kroger?”  Her exact response was, “Nigga please, who the hell you think you are… a Kennedy?  You better throw them shoes over in this grocery basket.  And then carry yo’ little ass over to aisle nine and grab me the big bottle of vinegar.”  And we all knew what mama used the “Big Bottle of Vinegar” for back in the day.  And let’s just say it had absolutely nothing to do with collard greens.

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That’s when it hit me; what exactly is the polite way to say to someone “Hey lady… your baby is staring at me too much?” I guess I somehow missed that episode of Oprah. Now I’ll admit, the first few minutes it was actually kind of cute; but then it just got downright awkward. I naturally assumed he would eventually grow tired and look away, but to my surprise the gazes actually got even more intense with time. Talk about uncomfortable: every time I looked up there he was looking at me with those beady little Hannibal Lector eyes staring right thru me; almost as if the little fucker knew something I didn’t. Then to make matters even worse, he didn’t look away once nor did he ever blink. Meanwhile frustrated out of my freaking mind, I’m sitting there like “Really baby? I mean who does that?” Honestly, who can work under this type of scrutiny? It was like I was constantly being judged. The whole thing felt like one bad Barbara Walters interview.

Finally I tried to drop a hint to the woman by commenting, “Wow… your baby sure is observant. Does he stare this intently at everyone?” Even though what I really wanted to do was yell, “Damn lady enough is enough! Either turn that little big head mother fucker around the other way, or take that little freaky looking bastard outside!  My feeling is that people should really be required to teach their toddlers a few manners before bringing them out in public. I don’t care if your child is only nine months old. No one wants to be forced to sit through the damn Spanish Inquisition every time they sit beside you in a restaurant or on the train. Now if I were to do that same thing my ass would catch a case. Because the bottom line is, no matter who’s doing it, it doesn’t feel good to be stared at. So in closing, if you can’t manage to teach your baby to stop ice grilling folks in public, then dammit get that little mother fucker some shades.

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Why can’t we Black people just shut the f*ck up whenever we go to the movies?  This has to be hands down one of the 7 mysteries of the World.  Right up there with Stonehenge and who really built the Pyramids of Giza?  After a recent experience during the opening night of the new action flick Fast 5; I can honestly say that I would seriously rather gnaw my own arm off than sit in a theater full of Black people again.  Something tells me it would at least be less painful.  Sitting in that theater was like nothing you could ever imagine.  I’m sure there was probably even far less chatter going back and forth the day of that infamous town hall meeting back in Little Rock Arkansas, the day the moderator stood up and announced “Okay, next order of business… desegregating the school system.  Who in here thinks it’s a good idea?”

I literally couldn’t hear one single word that was being said by the actors, although with Vin Diesel as the lead they were probably doing me a favor.  It got so bad at one point that I actually went downstairs and asked for those special earphones they normally give out to the hearing impaired customers, but unfortunately they were all out.  Apparently the few white folks there that night had already beaten me to them.  For starters there were two couples sitting directly behind me that I swear were having just full out dinner conversation; and at normal volume too.  They covered every topic of interest BUT the actual movie they were there to see.  Then there was the lady in the front row with not 1, but actually 3 crying babies.  And believe it or not, they were still no where near as loud as her.  And finally let’s not forget Ms. State the Obvious Lady.  She’s that one lady that absolutely insists on shouting out the most obvious statements ever imaginable at the top of her lunges.  The statement that of course took the cake, was when after a somewhat witty remark from The Rock; while falling out laughing, she proceeds to yell out “Hahaha!!!  I knew he was gone’ say that!  I saw that on the commercial” Gee… really lady?  Then you’d think you’d be a little better prepared for it, specially since you knew it was coming and all.

I was beyond frustrated.  So much that I  immediately thought about going home and firing off one fierce letter to congress, urging them to just flat out make it against the law for Black people to go to the movies in parties of two or more; assuming that would surely alleviate the problem.  But then again that still didn’t  account for the guy sitting to my left who not only answered his cell phone when it rang, but then proceeded to have a 10 minute argument with his girlfriend about an apparent comment some other girl just left on his facebook.  To which he replied verbatim  “And bitch don’t think I don’t be seeing all them ‘Likes’ you be doing on your ex Jamar’s page either!!”  As God is my witness, we have to be the only people on this entire planet who literally have full blown phone conversations during a movie.  If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard someone answer their phone during a movie and reply “I’m at the movies.  Nah it’s cool I can talk.  What you doing?”

So in closing, Black people I beg of you.  The next time you decide to go see a movie; can you please find it in your heart to just shut the f*ck up?  Just remember that whenever you see those big ass “No Talking” signs posted everywhere… they’re not really a “suggestion”.

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I think it’s pretty safe to say that Obama is definitely “getting him some” tonight.  That’s probably why he kept the press conference so short.  Michelle was already up stairs in the White House bedroom stretching and putting on her good cocoa butter.  We all know the look of a man who’s about to get him some, and Obama definitely had it.  Michelle had probably already told him “Baby you did so good that just this once, I’m not even gone put my head wrap on first.”  And everyone knows that “sweating her perm out” is the number one cardinal sin for Black women.

That’s no doubt  the real reason that Obama’s speech was so brief and to the point.  Before I could even hit my DVR is was over.  He came right out and said, “Hey everybody. I just wanted to let yawl know I finally killed that Mutha F*cka.  And peace out.”   That was the only press conference I’ve ever seen where the POTUS didn’t open up the floor for questions afterwards.  I think I saw him get ready to, but then Michelle must’ve sent him a quick text saying “OK N*gga.  Mess around & miss dis ass if u want 2”.  Congrats again to Obama.  But something tells me the “REAL” business got taken care the moment got back to the White House Bedroom.

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Why is that when ever you go out to a club there’s always Vondell; that one woman on the floor trying her damnedest to prove she’s still got it by doing her interpretation of whatever dance is currently out that she just happened to oversee her kids do when she ran home between shifts to change shoes and grab her Dairy Queen apron?  We’ve all seen her right?  The one who almost has the arms down, but just can’t seem to get the feet together.  There’s also Miss Mary; the nurse or city worker who between church and working 72 hours a week has finally just managed to learn the “Soldier Boy”, but still sometimes needs someone to “help get her started”.  Then in the center of the floor is always that other woman who clearly doesn’t have a job because she has far too much BET time on her hands.  You’ve seen her too…. Peaches?  The one with her favorite niece’s stretch jeans on, and her daughter Ebony’s good ponytail that she managed to sneak out of the house because Ebony forgot to lock her door.  Peaches can not only do every dance that’s currently out with the precision of a video girl; she can also show you the different versions of the move from every city.

People STOP IT already!  Enough is enough!  No kid on earth wants to hear that their mama was out at the club the night before doing “The Stankey Leg”.   It’s not sexy and it’s not cute.  At what age do we finally give up the madness and embrace that ever looming and old faithful “two step”?  You remember… that one yo’ mama and aunt Martha-Rae used to embarrass you with at every single back yard barbecue the moment anybody would put on Cameo or the Barkays?

How old is… TOO OLD  to do “The Dougie”?  I honestly think that after a certain age certain dance moves should be just flat out against the law, and punishable by jail time.  I believe once a person reaches 35, they should be required by law to go downtown and register their own personal 2 step move with the courts.  If you don’t have one then fine, they could even assign you one.  And from then on out, that will be the ONLY move you’re allowed to do.  Then if ever you’re at a club and decide to stray by attempting something yo’ old ass know you don’t need to be doing like “The Dirty Wind”; there should be a special hot line people can call to have the police come pull yo’ ass right off the dance floor and taken straight to the lock up.  I believe that is the only way that this madness will ever stop.  So let’s get the ball rolling now. People…  the next time you’re at the club and see some old person trying to do “The Dougie”, it is now your civic duty to go over and make a citizen’s arrest.

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I have a serious problem with this concept, so much that whenever I’m in there taking a dump and someone else walks in, I instantly begin to feel like I’m being judged.  It’s so darn nerve wrecking that I can’t even relax.  Mainly because I just know inside of all of their heads they’re thinking, “Boy, Brett must’ve had Italian again last night”, or “Gee… I wonder if he’s okay.  This one seems to be taking a little longer than usual.”  How can any one take a dump under that kind of scrutiny?  I know if I had a dollar for every single time I walked in there and yelled out “Oh God Chuck that smells awful!  What the hell are you eating at night… people?” I’d be rich.  So I can just imagine the things those little judgmental bastards are thinking about me when they leave out.  Believe it or not but I developed so much an anxiety about taking a dump at work, that my doctor actually had to put me on nerve pills.  I was diagnosed with PABS (Public Anxiety Bowel Syndrome).

Truthfully I’ll never get it.  We can fly people to the moon and shoot and edit full-length feature films from our cell phones, yet we still can’t find a way to design a bathroom stall that goes all the way to the ground.  What’s with the whole peek-a -boo shoe action thing anyway?  Was it designed to be some kind of an emergency crawl space in case something goes wrong and someone else needs to shimmy underneath and help?  My feeling is, if you can tell exactly who’s in there simply by looking at their shoes, the whole “anonymity” thing just goes completely out the window.  Hell, why not just remove the damn stall all together, that way when people walk in and see you taking a crap they can just wave and say hello?  Can you imagine…“Oh hey there Rick, I see you’re back on oatmeal.  Is that organic or steel cut?” or “Wow Sue, love the new highlights.  We should maybe do lunch when you’re done.”

Finally after years of torment and drugs I eventually came up with the perfect solution.  I started bringing in an extra pair of shoes to work just to slip on whenever I need to take a dump.  I call them my “Shitting Shoes”.  I wear my normal shoes throughout the entire day, and then when its time to go crap I discreetly slip on the other pair I keep hidden in my duffel bag that no one’s ever seen before.  It’s genius!  Now it doesn’t matter what I ate the night before; how much time I take in there; or even how much noise I make.  I can completely go to town in there and no one ever has the slightest clue its me.  I have even sometimes heard people outside the stall comment “Hey, who’s the new guy?  He seems a little aggressive.”  Its the most freeing experience of my life.

One day while running late for work my absolute worst night mare came to life.  I completely forgot my duffel bag, so when it was time to go to the bathroom I was beyond devastated to discover I had left my shitting shoes at home.  I couldn’t believe how careless I was.  Out of all the things to leave at home I thought “how on earth did I leave my damn shitting shoes?”  And to make matters worse, I had just finished off a big bowl of my grandma’s collard greens the night before.  I frantically searched my desk for any of my remaining PABS pills, but to no avail.  I was up “Shit’s Creek” as they say.

I went into that stall and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t bring myself to go.  I tried everything too like lifting my legs high off the ground so that no one else could see my feet; sitting on the toilet with my legs folded Indian style; I even tried going with both legs hoisted on top of the handicap bars, which by the way I don’t ever recommend.  After slipping in and submerging my entire ass and half my back in bacteria ridden toilet water, I wanted to just die.  Literally.  Things were not looking good.  Then just when I was about ready to give up all hope, I suddenly remembered in that moment that Gracie from sales was gone.  Gracie is the little 70 year old Jewish lady whose cubicle sits directly across from the men’s room.  With the exception of her little drinking problem, Gracie is literally one of the sweetest old women you’ll ever meet, so long as she hasn’t had a few too many glasses of scotch.  To this day, Gracie is the only person I’ve ever known to be arrested for WUI (Walking Under the Influence) one day while walking home from her bingo social.  And from what I hear that day old Gracie didn’t go down without a fight.

Ever since she got run over by that city bus a few months back, she usually spends all of her lunch breaks now in physical therapy.  I remembered that since Gracie usually switches to her sneakers right before she leaves out every day, her work shoes were probably still sitting under her desk.  So I discretely opened up the restroom door to take a peep and just as I thought there they were, a pair of old worn down Easy Spirit sling backs in battleship gray.  I thought to myself, “Could I possibly get away with this?”  Of course they were about five sizes too small for me but I thought then again, “I just need a quick pair of shitting shoes to throw on.  It wasn’t like I was going to go jogging in them.”  So with seconds to spare, I quickly grabbed them before anyone could see and then darted back into the stall to slip them on.

Alas I was saved.  I could finally now take my dump in peace.  Sure when people walked in it must’ve looked a little strange to see my big gold toe dress socks sticking out the fronts and backs of Gracie’s wedge sling backs, but let me tell you; that was one of the best damn shits I’ve had in years.  For a second I thought “Hmnh.. Easy Spirit might really be onto something here with these Comfort Soles.  I wonder if they make them for men?”  It was brilliant!  I couldn’t believe that I was able to pull it off.

When I was done I carefully placed them back under her desk exactly the way I had found them, and no one was ever the wiser.  With the exception of poor little Gracie trying to figure out for the rest of the day why for some strange reason now, her entire foot kept slipping through the front of her shoes as she walked through the office, I was pretty much home free.  At least so I thought.  As luck would have it, later on that day I just happened to be walking by Gracie’s desk and overheard her boss Joe say, “Hey Gracie, can I speak to you for a second?  Apparently… HR just called and said they need to see you.  Something about you being drunk earlier today and accidentally using the men’s rest room?”

Then and there I felt just awful too.  Mainly because I could tell from the confused look on poor Gracie’s face, that even though she had no idea in hell what Joe was talking about.  In all honestly, she couldn’t exactly with 100 percent certainty really say it didn’t happen either.