When putting into consideration a title for this blog, I made my brain empty its pockets in hopes that something good would come out of it. Scrounging around some of the items that it pulled out, I tried to get clues from possessions as they clanked on a silver platter as if it were getting searched by airport security. Rolling its eyes at me, I could tell that my brain did not like the comment that I dished toward it in lyrical form as I sang “Pants on the ground…Pants on the ground. Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground.” Apparently, resembling a gangsta is one thing (which it does quite often), but being called one in subtle fashion is another. If I am not mistaken, my brain spent the amount with the same figures as the year it was born on the jeans it was sporting. I will not tell you how old this think tank is, but trust me, that is a quite a large sum of digits. A polo shirt with the collar flipped, and a nice pair of expensive white kicks accompanied the heavy—HEAVY scent of Calvin Klein cologne. Ooooh myyyy goooosh! This could only be the premature sign of one thing: My brain is a douche bag. Hence, the “Easy D” which is a copy cat streamline to a movie title, except of course, a different letter at the end. Kind of a nice piece of extra garland on the artificial Christmas tree this season I guess.
Normally, when identifying somebody of this attribute, my fingers would have defaulted to type the name of Alex Rodriguez or any other member of the New York Yankees. However, I thought that I would spin the ol’ pointer finger back at myself for a moment of rarity. So, let’s roll up the sleeves and start taking the punches, brain because my fists of fury are registered weapons. Look at the man in the mirror, Mr. intelligence ‘cause the definition of a “Debag” is about to be reflected from your shiny forehead.
Gray matter, your kindness has a deficit much like that of the U.S. Government’s budget. You’re a watered-down version of a mother f*cker with a side of prick that’s flavored with an artificial sweetener called Equal. Rico Suave with a touch of Clark Griswold. Alter ego of the knight in shining armor. In the flight of life, mind, you ride in the section of “coach” of jerks and aholes. Not enough frequent flyer miles accredited to be a first class male bizzo--yet. You are about as friendly as the VCR timer back in the day. Confidently bloated swaggah with a circle-n-slash drawn around your persona. Generosity of yours in a neck brace, and the growth of your compassion stunted to the size of a Gary Coleman or Emmanuel Lewis. A personality with more recalls and “bugs” in the system than a Toyota. You’re a male diva in your mind’s eye set at the Neighborhood of Make Believe. Playah in the nymph stage of the life cycle, (lemme teach you the ways, grasshoppa ) and the witty face self-proclaimed to be photogenic as you shoot pics of yourself with your disposable camera.
Need I go on, or do you get the picture drawn and painted like that of a Bob Ross PBS special? If I were you, cranium, I would register that space as a high-level offender of the douche bag class.
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