Sometimes things happen that make me lose the ability to conjugate verbs properly.

I tried to write about Bob Johnson and his nonsense last week, but I was just in too good of a mood. Now that the world has smacked me back into my normal sense of disdain, I can finally say “House Negro, is you serious?” to him. He can support Billary or pull a Nino Brown by capitalizing on the crackish yearn for vulgarity in the black community if he likes. But going around pretending that he’s not really one of the Jacksons? Not Ok.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think he’s one of Joe Jackson’s unclaimed spawn.

My love/hate relationship with Johnson Publishing just intensified today, when I finally received the March 31 issue in the mail, all bent and crushed like someone used it to prop up a wobbly table leg. My subscription is about to expire and they keep sending me renewal letters that look JUST like collection notices. Is you serious? Why would you do that to another black person?

The other day I was supporting the Korean-American sub-economy by getting a refill and pedicure. My feet are kind of funny looking (they’re just like my grandmother’s, so haters fall back), but they’re not at all crusty. So I’m sitting there getting my feet scrubbed and this big fat dude who was in the salon to pick up his mother walked past me and stopped to say “Ew! Your feet need professional help! You got them Flintstone Feet.” Nigga, is you serious? Who are you? I was like “Why don’t you take your shoes off, let’s see your feet!” which I immediately wished I hadn’t said because by looking in the direction of his feet I was forced to see a pair of brokedown blue suede Hush Puppies with a big ol’ gold buckle. It was 77 degrees and Elvis was still dead. He said “My feets is pretty, I don’t know what you talkin’ about!” and continued to just stand there as if we were in the process of developing a rapport. He looked back at his still-primping mother, who was already giving him this “Terrell, you know you shouldn’t talk to strangers,” type of look, so he waddled on out of the door.

Everybody needs somebody, and no one should be stuck with a crazy drug-addicted husband. But I hear that Whitney Houston is dating Ray-J? The song “All The Man That I Need,” was discredited the day she married Bobby, but flashing your sex-tape tenderoni in public? Girl, is you serious?

I don’t know about you all, but I’ve learned that once I watch a single episode of a VH-1 show, I’m hooked for the rest of the season. From Flavor of Love to Celebrity Fit Club, within the first fifteen minutes of these joints I’ve already programmed my Tivo to record every new episode. So when I started watching Miss Rap Supreme just to see how the hosts Yo-Yo and MC Serch are holding up (wonderfully, by the way), how mad was I when I saw that Khia of “My Neck, My Back” fame was a contestant? While I’m not willing to call her one hit a hip-hop masterpiece, it’s still one of my jams. She already sold thousands of records, so shouldn’t she feel silly even competing with these nobodies? Instead, Khia cops constant attitude and then drops an “original” rhyme that would make Barney Rubble use her next CD to break weed up on. The chorus was “R-E-S-P-E Me!” Hunh? Ho, is you serious? Is it that you can’t spell the word “respect” or that you’re trying to drop the first text-message-inspired summer hit? What’s the b-side gonna be, “IDK, my BFF Jill”? THEN she got disqualified because it turns out that the song was already on her website, making it anything but original. Note: Usually when people hate on celebrities they just want attention, but please do not direct Khia my way. She doesn’t wear a bra and she is missing teeth, which are two clear signs that she would succeed in giving me a serious tail whoopin’.