Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Okay, what the fuck? Supa Sister heard about the woman with a cell phone lodged in her throat, but silly she thought it was a joke. Turns out the shit is true! Now...Supa Sister has been sitting here suspiciously eyeing her teeny weeny Motorola Razr cell phone and wondering how a situation like this is physically fucking possible....
The detective was quoted in the article as saying.."I don't know if it was on ring or vibrate, either."
And I 'aint lyin', but when I pulled up the link there was an advertisement for a free flip phone from Cingular.
That 'aint right.
That is all.
So Supa Sister had a delightful holiday “vacation,” as far as “vacations at home with the kids and not relaxing on the island of Jamaica” go…which means for the last seven or so days, Supa Sister has caught up on every lost episode of Spongebob, Punk’d, and That’s So Raven; completed all last minute holiday shopping, gift wrapping, card mailing, visiting, and phone calling; went grocery shopping every other day to keep the Ruff Ryder’s and their greedy pals fed and content; nursed my schizophrenic pooch through a severe case of the holiday bubble guts; finally watched my Netflix dvd’s; did 1,569 loads of laundry; whipped up a batch of my infamous fried chicken wings at 11pm on a Sunday night at the Ruff Ryder’s request; basked in maternal pride as the RR’s presented me with the I Love the ‘80’s board game as a Xmas gift (awwww!); played endless games of Scrabble, Hangman, Hide-n-go-Seek, Hot Hands, Ms. Pac Man, Monopoly, and The Sims; turned down a sweet but implausible marriage proposal; thought about watering my lawn; fed every insane food craving I had within every 24 hour period; pondered the meaning of my entire fucking life; cleaned out my closet, my room, the RR’s rooms, garage, spare room, linen closet, and beneath the kitchen sink in some sort of PMS obsessive-compulsive attack; took down half my plaits; gushed over RR #2’s drawing skills
and helped her perfect her runway model walk, and assured RR # 1 that showering every day in no way makes him any less cool. So Supa Sister is happy to report that she was very much looking forward to her one day back at the office, so she could come to work and get some fucking rest.
PS - Thanks for the love, One Cool Sis.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
photo& caption courtesy of Fresh
Ms. Number Two, Rebecca from The Apprentice.
Supa Sister is tired of seeing your whiny, complaining, self-entitled ass on her television screen. She knows you (and the rest of whining-ass White America) can't fucking stand it....but Randal won.
Go home already.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
So Supa Sister decided to do an in-depth expose on what her problem was and why she couldn't ever seem get to work on time. The following is an itemized, blow-by-blow account of a garden variety weekday morning in the World of Supa Sister:
Daily Objective: Arrive at work by 8 am
6:05 am: Radio alarm goes off. Hit snooze
6:14 am: Radio alarm goes off. Hit snooze
6:23 am: Radio alarm goes off. Hit snooze
6:32 am: Radio alarm goes off. Half listen to whoever’s on NPR while dozing back to sleep.
6:42 am: Open eyes. Sit up. Look around. Push Pooch off pillow.
6:43 am: Turn off radio. Turn on TV. Flip to CNN to see if the other side of the world has exploded.
6:45 am: If other side of world is still intact, switch from CNN to Local News. Get out of bed. Do some half-ass stretching. Walk into living room, turn on heater. Stand over heater.
6:48 am: Take nice, luxurious, steaming shower. The kind one might take on the weekend, when one has all the time in the world. Exact opposite kind one should take when one is chronically late for work. Eventually exit shower. Pre-moisturize with baby oil. Wrap towel around self. Wash hands. Put on contact lenses.
7:03 am: Suddenly remember last night’s dream. Promise self to go write it down in journal, once self dries off and slathers down with mango scented shea butter.
7:04 am: Dry off and apply delicious amounts of mango shea butter. Inadvertently rub eye. Lose left contact lens.
7:04:30 am: Pooch demands to go outside and take a dump. Turn off house alarm, release Pooch into backyard. Crawl back to bathroom on all fours, cursing and looking for defunct left contact lens. Eventually give up. Insert new lens. Make mental note to order more disposables.
7:10 am: Go back into room. Stand inside closet. Ponder appropriate outfit selection.
7:11 am: Struggle to remember details of dream which are now magically evaporating.
7:12 am: Try on tentative outfit. Model in full length mirror from every conceivable angle.
7:15 am: Ditch Outfit #1. Put on favorite silk floral printed robe. Stretch across bed. Channel surf. Become engrossed in an unseen episode of “Tracey Takes On…” That bitch is funny.
7:20 am: Pooch scratches on French door, indicating Pooch has finished morning shit session, wants to come back inside, and wishes to be fed. Post haste.
7:22 am: Feed Pooch. Talk to Pooch. Rub Pooch's fat belly. Whine to Pooch that one wishes one had Pooch’s pampered life, wherein someone would feed me and see to all my earthly needs while I pass time relaxing and napping all day on a designer bed while watching Animal Planet.
7:25 am: Ponder next outfit selection. Re-enter bathroom Complete all 758 steps to Dermalogica skin care regimen. Brush teeth. Scrape tongue. Floss. Twice. Study skin surface under magnifying mirror. Make funny faces in mirror. Ramble through make-up drawer. Run across outdated Life & Style magazine. Sit on edge of tub and casually flip through magazine. Enter kitchen, pour self a glass of Tropicana OJ with lots of ice. Drink. Re-enter bathroom. Style hair into top knot.
7:50 am: Re-enter closet. Select and model Outfit #2. Not feeling Outfit #2. Discard Outfit #2.
7:52 am: Complain to self that it’s unfair how self can shop endlessly and still have nothing to wear. Take elements from Outfit #1 and #2, and create Outfit #3.
7:57 am: Select matching jewelry, shoes, purse, scarf, coat, other miscellaneous necessary accessories.
8:00 am: Spritz on selected fragrance of the day. Suddenly decide don’t want hair in top knot. Meticulously pick and primp in mirror until large, funky lion mane style/look is achieved.
8:06 am: Scramble around to locate keys, laptop, Palm Pilot, cellie, reading material, alternate flat shoes for when heels become unbearable, snacks, purse, carry-all bag, shitload of unpaid bills to pay balances while online at work, etc.
8:08 am: Interrupt search to go pee.
Somewhere between 8:10 and 8:25 am: Drive to work. Hope for some major traffic calamity within a 10 mile radius of jobsite to use for sufficient excuse. Practice backup excuse in rear view mirror while applying eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss. Park on second level, away from Manager’s office window. Take stairwell, sneak into office like a felon.
8: 45 am: At desk, pretend to check the day's assignments when actually firing up laptop in order to make first blog entry of the day. Front like I’ve been here since 8:00. Take an herbal tea break at 9 am.
Disclaimer: This schedule is only accurate when Supa Sister has only herself to worry about. Throw the Ruff Ryders into the morning mix, and you can forgetaboutit.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
ARDENA MARIE CARTER
March 12th, 1979 - September 11th, 2003
You always had my back, Dena-D. Now I'll forever have yours. Today, we were informed that the U.S. Attorney got the approval to charge that bastard who snatched you away from us with the death penalty. Imagine that. Two years to the very day your body was found. It's been real hard without you, babygirl. So hard. Too hard. Usually we'd be tearing up the mall's right about now. Shopping and buying like some high-level divas. Gotta tell you, the holiday's just 'aint the same. Not since you and mommy left. I'm acting like a big-ass baby right now, pouting and carrying on. I'm still mad, I'm still sad. Folks just don't understand. And you know how your big sis hates to make a spectacle of herself, but hey. What cha gonna do. So, like you (and Pac) always tried to remind me - I'll "Keep My Head Up." And try to "Smile." I know you and Mommy are looking after us. I'll try and hold it down 'till we're all face to face again, baby sis. 'Til then.
PS - I really meant what I told you.....When I grow up, I wanna be just like you.
Monday, December 19, 2005
So one of my Supa Friends just brought her baby boy home from the hospital last night. It’s her and her husband’s third little rugrat. His name is Brent, he’s cute as all get out, and he’s happy and healthy. Yay!
But alas...Supa giggled and cooed from afar….she had no discernible desire to hold the little sucker. Nowadays, those miniature humans give her the creeps. Babies, especially the cute ones, are so fucking deceiving it oughta be a crime. Supa has two Ruff Ryders of her own, so she knows of what she speaks.
I mean really, when I think about it, just the idea that at some point you fell in love with some guy and you married him and one night he got on top of you and shot his genetic material up inside you and for almost a freaking year you had this unknown person growing from within like some kind of science fiction shit and then after many excruciating mind-numbing hours you gave painful birth to said little person who then needed every fucking iota of your time brain cells and energy and then the years passed and somewhere in the mix the whole marriage thing bit the dust yet the law says you’re both still required to raise and guide and feed this thing that keeps growing and eating all the Fruit Loops and has all kinds of wants and demands like Blackberry’s and the latest Jordans and X-boxes and new cars and shit and that this little seemingly harmless thing eventually grew into a spoiled know-it-all teenager who says mom can you give me a hundred bucks or mom can you please get out of my room, well, the whole idea just grosses Supa out a little.
That is all. Carry on.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Now ladies, is there any way on earth
you would get with this
for all the muthafuckin' money in the world?
That's right! Take him away!!!!!
P.S. Simply imagining Flava Flav coming anywhere near the vicinity of Supa Sister's personal space just made her throw up in her mouth a little.
That is all. Carry on.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
So, I'm out for the day...but a big shout out to my fellow bloggers who stopped by and gave me a holla: That Girl Tam, Supa Sista, Dizzy, and wansumor!
Supa Sister, out!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Why so many damn luncheons, you ask? Well 'cause Supa Sister is some sorta mid-level bigwig for a highly touted governmental agency, and we've got all these different sections and divisions and Bureaus and whatnot to fellowship with, plus we all know the soiled reputation we guv'ment workers toil under - that we're basically civil servant slobs who don't do shit, and if that's the case, then we especially don't do shit around the holidays...Guess my retort or argument should go (here)
So. Supa Sister will go and eat and laugh at people wearing ridiculous santa hats and fake-network and look fabulous in her gold strappy sandals and see if she can win any prizes. And another thing... it's been kinda strange since Supa Sister's uh, cough*overindulgence*cough at the last holiday function. People Supa Sister doesn't know or care to know are speaking to her and sending her emails as if they and Supa Sister are old buddies or something. Folks moseying all into her office striking up idiotic conversations while Supa Sister has a what the fuck? look smeared all over her face...
Hmmm...did word get out that Supa Sister is a loud friendly lush who will speak to anyone once properly inebriated? I asked my rowdy drinking co-workers if anything went down of which Supa Sister was not aware, and they assured me that I didn't kiss anyone, get caught in an uncompromising position in the custodial closet or profess some kind of drunken crush on an undesirable or anything like that.
Yet they say this with a smirk I still don't quite understand...
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Because really, we all know we're going to die. But unlike Stanley, we (probably) don't know the exact time, date, method, or circumstance for which it'll take place. Which is probably good, because how many of us could handle that type of knowledge. But then again - what if we did know? What if we had an unshakeable premonition (like Supa Sister has had since she was a kid), or a condition or disease (like Supa Sister's mom) that put a time period on our days? And an even better question - do we live every day like it may be our last, regardless? Why or why not?
All this reminds me of one of Supa Sister's favorite movies called "My Life Without Me". It's about this young married chick with two small daughters who finds out she has terminal cancer. She tells no one, and then decides to live her life with a passion she never had before.
Upon learning she had about two months to live, she wrote a THINGS TO DO BEFORE I DIE list in her journal, which was:
1. Tell my daughters I love them several times a day.
2. Find Don a new wife who the girls like.
3. Record birthday messages for the girls for every year until they're 18.
4. Go to Whalebay Beach together and have a big picnic.
5. Smoke and drink as much as I want.
6. Say what I'm thinking.
7. Make love with other men to see what it's like.
8. Make someone fall in love with me.
9. Go and see Dad in Jail.
10. Get false nails. And do something with my hair.
I've often wondered what it would feel like to write that list. What would be on my list? What would be on yours?
Also reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from Shawshank Redemption:
"Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'.."
Man. This is the kinda shit Supa Sister thinks about, when she's not oversleeping, over boozing, being stalked, or being silly.
And the winners are:
Al Sharpton, for being simply obnoxious, holding on to a bad perm, and this
Dennis Fucking Rodman at his booksigning @ Seminole Hard Rock Hotel. Someone please just take him away and put him out of his fucking misery.
Monday, December 12, 2005
So Supa Sister began a post on Stanley “Tookie” Williams last week, but she quickly abandoned the damn thing. Because Supa Sister realized she really didn’t….care all that much. So he committed some cold-blooded murders, jump started one of the most violent heinous criminal organizations to date, then wrote some books and kinda redeemed himself. Okay…and? So give him his Nobel Peace Prize and put him to sleep already.
Even though Williams claims that he’s innocent of committing the murders which landed him on death row, homie knows he engaged in other forms of mayhem that he never got popped for, so in reality - it’s all a wash. Supa Sister has other criminal justice matters that hit a little closer to home to fret about, like the capital murder trial against Michael Antonio Natson, who killed Supa Sister’s little sister, Ardena Carter, in September 2003.
So. After hearing a brief phone interview that Williams gave to some NPR journalist last week, here are some of the things of minor note that Supa Sister does care to comment on:
1) Supa Sister finds it very difficult to rally behind someone who’s given legal name involves the word TOOKIE
2) Supa Sister likened Tookie’s phone interview to that Miseducation of a Felon skit that Damon Wayan used to do on "In Living Color "
3) Since an incarcerated murderer like Williams’ has written a zillion books over the last fifteen years, Supa Sister looked quietly over her latest manuscript and wondered for the fiftieth time what the fuck her problem was in completing just one.
4) After seeing this picture, Supa Sister wondered if making one's body look like this is a necessity to keep your butt hole untouched in the penn
5) Supa Sister wondered if he went to sleep in the horizontal position, would he suffocate to death like the Elephant Man
6) Though Supa Sister will put forth that, if that Charles Manson can walk around with a swastika on his forehead and get life without parole, then Tookie getting it as well wouldn’t cause her any major sleep-loss.
Oh well. Just saw the news headlines. The Governator said Tookie gotta die.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Supa Sister is so. fucking. mortified.
(Note* On the upside - above referenced incident did not take place in front of anyone important, so Supa Sister still has a place of employment)
P.S. - The white girl went unscathed.
Going back to bed with my saltines and 7-Up now....
That is all. Carry on.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Today is the day - Supa Sister’s dreaded Company Holiday Party! Always an interesting festivity, considering Supa Sister works with an eclectic mix of Corporate Rednecks, Sniveling Engineers, brazen Guppies (Ghetto Urban Professionals), and a variety of drunks and folks with miscellaneous psychiatric disorders for which they refuse to be medicated. It'll be interesting, because there’s set to be a medley of sub-celebrations going on – one being a few rounds to Supa Sister who just landed her Supa Promotion. (Patron, anyone?) Then, another co-worker made a couple hundred jello shots to throw back on the low. (Drinking game anyone?) Then some other dude from some other division threw in fifty bucks toward the tab – just because. Let’s just hope Supa Sister can refrain from turning this into some kind of office roast, ‘cause I’ve really been dying to tell this white chick to stop talking to me because her constant whipering-and-whiny ass voice gets on my fucking nerves. (I hope I don't make her CRY) Stay tuned. It's about to go down.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Nah. Not really.
For those who hadn't heard, a 13 year old kid named Devin Brown was fatally shot by the good ole LAPD earlier in February, and now our punk ass District Attorney announced that no charges will be filed against the officer in question. Here's a little snippet, click here for the entire article:
District Attorney Steve Cooley, in a 21-page report, said there was "insufficient evidence to initiate criminal proceedings against Officer Steven Garcia for the death of Devin B. As a result of these findings, we are closing our file and will take no further action in this matter."
When this all went down, I wrote a letter and sent it to the Chief of Police, the Police Commission, and our council members. It's a little long but worth the read. RIP Devin.
February 10th, 2005
South Central Redux
Four days later, and the details are still being revised and reworked, typical LAPD style. There’s so much we still don’t know, they moan, so please, everyone. Be patient.
But this, we do know:
Devin Brown is dead.
Devin was 13. He was in the magnet program at Audubon Middle school. He was a good student. Was popular and well-liked. No gang affiliations. He was loved. He was black. His family resided in South Central Los Angeles, which meant the alleged “protection” of his life fell under the jurisdiction of the LAPD. He was out joyriding in a stolen car with a friend early Sunday morning, when he was murdered in a drive-by shooting. The suspect was wearing a badge, wielding a department-issued semi-automatic, and emptied ten bullets into the car Devin was driving.
And now, Devin Brown is dead.
People are enraged. And my hands haven’t stopped shaking since.
As with anything else, I had to try and make sense of it. I read the Times, watched the news, scanned the net, talked to folks. Before I unleashed my accumulating rage with pen and paper, I wanted to watch Chief Bratton’s press conference, because, well, you know. To er, um..get the facts. There’s word around town how we in the community tend to “overact” when an unarmed person of color ends up beaten or shot at the end of one of those pesky traffic stops. We’re kind of funny that way.
So, yesterday evening around six, I was immediately greeted with a stern lecture by Deputy Chief Michael Berkow of the Department’s Professional Standards Bureau about all the legal requirements involved and the multiple parallel investigations taking place and how we shouldn’t be so easily swayed by rumors.
I was then treated to some fancy PowerPoint presentation, where Chief Berkow barked about details of timelines and skid marks and broken glass and patrol car damage and accident reconstruction, as if to give silly little ol’ misinformed over-reactionary me the reasons why Officer Steven Garcia had no other alternative but to squeeze ten caps into a moving vehicle purportedly pulled over for drunk driving.
Oh, oh, and I almost forgot. And this is really important: We are to save our immediate concerns about where the officer was standing when he was “threatened” by this vehicle, or why it took ten (POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP) rounds to respond to such a situation, or what this fool’s partner was doing at the time, or how he actually endangered other officers and citizens by his excessive, trigger-happy behavior; save all those questions because this officer has rights and this officer is distraught and this officer didn’t ever really intend to kill a 13-year old child. Oh, and the FBI has been called in to investigate any possible civil rights violations, and hopefully that’ll make you people happy, but just know they’ll have limited authority in this investigation so there’s nothing to see here everybody just go home and be patient and give the system opportunity to work.
It was the most non-informative, unapologetic, suspicious, defensive press conference I’d seen LAPD deliver in quite some time. In six, seven months, at least. Since Stanley Miller got the boot-and-flashlight beat down, after lying prone with his hands behind his back and two officers sitting on him and the whole thing was caught on videotape. Since then.
Strange how everyone up at the podium last night just seemed a little bit pissed. That they were being forced to explain themselves, once again. That they were being called to the carpet. Again.
And another thing. No one, nobody, not a soul – not once - extended sympathy for Devin Brown. Or his family, friends, or classmates. About what another tragedy this is turning out to be, for a community, our police department. Our city.
It was all spin. Damage control. Justification. Bullshit.
And this just might be me, but I have to wonder how scared Devin was during the last moments of his life in that car. He was a kid. He was probably inexperienced behind the wheel. He probably panicked. He was caught, he knew that for sure. Not for one second do I believe he was trying to threaten or kill that officer, whom he knew had a bulletproof vest, backup, and a gun. You don’t come up in South Central not knowing who has the upper hand in a situation like that. Yes, he stole a car and had no damn business being out in the first place. He had some consequences coming, and rightfully so.
But he didn’t deserve to die.
And something else I know for fact: Had these been Orange County cops and Orange county kids, none of this would have ever ever happened. Don’t fool yourself. White kids don’t get shot for stealing a car, they get apprehended. Taken to the station, reprimanded, then sent home or down to juvenile hall. Simple. Easy.
But everything’s so complicated around here, they tell us. We’ve got all this history. Like – Chief Darryl Gates. Latasha Harlins. Rodney. All white-jury acquittals. Riots. Rampart. Police shootings of mentally ill grandmothers, beat-downs on handcuffed teenagers. Now, the natives are unruly. The cops are scared. Everyone’s just fearful and resentful and angry.
But any way you slice it, here’s the real deal:
Devin Brown’s tragedy – just like Margaret Mitchell’s, Juan Sepulveda’s and Anthony Dwain Lee’s – stems directly from the wack attitudes and policies within the Los Angeles Police Department, that support the general belief that the majority of black and brown people in the communities they “serve” are expendable lowlifes.
LAPD feels we don’t care about the crime and violence within our own communities, so why should they. They feel we only start hollering when some white-cop/black-person incident goes down , which is what Councilman Dennis Zine hinted at yesterday, which is complete bull. (Excuse me Councilman Zine, but you’re an asshole) When 14 year old Byron Lee was gunned down by gangsters in that alley, our community was as equally outraged. We cooperated, assisted, risked personal safety to put those murderers behind bars. Which is more than I can say for the Police Department, and the killers they have in their midst.
And besides, we told Chief Bratton that these police drive-bys need to be handled, and he promised to “review the policy of police shooting into moving vehicles” after Juan Sepulveda got “stopped” LAPD-style. That was over a year ago. And now suddenly, after this latest disaster which prompted folks to bum rush the streets and City Hall and raise holy unmitigated hell, Chief Bratton has now drafted a new policy that will go to the Police Commission, quick, like next week.
Wonderful. He sat on his ass just long enough for Devin to lose his life.
Meanwhile Officer Garcia is very much alive and has been relegated to desk duty, and Devin Brown’s family is planning a funeral.
I didn’t know Devin, but then again, yes I did. Most of us do. He’s Your Nephew, My Son, Her Brother, or Cousin, or Student, or so-and-so’s Best Friend or Schoolmate. He is every little boy we live to do right by, knowing all the while, he’ll grow up and get older and not be under our influence or control all the time. Sometimes, they might use bad judgement. And if that happens, we know there is little room for mistakes. Not around here. A mishap could very easily cost them their lives.
“There’s a lack of trust in large segments of this community, particularly the African-American community, in the LAPD. That’s unfortunate, but that’s a reality,” Chief Bratton admits.
That’s real profound, Chief. But don’t stop there. Admit there’s something grossly wrong within this department you’ve inherited, admit there’s something wrong with Officer Garcia, and you handle it. No grandstanding, no justifications, no excuses. Admit the department needs sincere reform from within, along with the banishment of the kick ass-shoot-kill culture in which these officers are indoctrinated.
Yeah, I know. Not every officer contributes to the cancer in this city. There are decent ones. But the good, decent ones can’t seem to keep the others from doing all the damage. And because of it, once again, our city is falling apart.
It’s like de ja vu. Over and over and over. Again and again and again.
Note* everyone pictured has either been killed or brutalized by the Los Angeles Police Department. Except Donovan Jackson, which was the Inglewood Police Department.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Supa Sister is beginning to accept the fact that it might be a basic physical impossibility to present herself to work on time. (Cocoa Girl spoke on this subject..somewhere on her blog.) Because surely no matter what Supa Sister does or how much lead time she gives herself, she will always find a way to Fuck Up her meticulously thought-out and preemptive "Get Your Shit Together So You Don't Have to Rush in the Morning" plan.
Main reasons of failure being: Supa Sister spends the most of each day getting her complete and fabulous hustle on and therefore really really needs her replenish time, and also because she’s a bona fide sleep whore who simply relishes any time spent luxuriating and power-lounging amongst her 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, overly fluffy down comforter, gang of white linen scented feather down pillows and cozy electric blanket, in her mosquito-net draped, mahogany-oak sleigh bed. That, and the simple fact Supa Sister just has no fucking interest in waking up every weekday morning at six got damn fifteen a.m.
And to complicate matters, it doesn’t at all help that Supa Sister’s special powers tend to present themselves during that coveted unconscious mode most people call QUALITY SLEEP, which in Supa Sister’s case, means she’s usually off astral traveling somewhere, or having some kind of lucid dream, or vision, or premonition, so when Supa Sister awakes, she must take a quantifiable amount of time to decipher what went down and if she needs to call anyone to inform them that she's sorry but in about two days they’re gonna die.
Don't misunderstand, all that traveling and romping around in the astral realm and seeing into the unchangeable future can be loads of fun, but that shit does makes me kinda tired. (Trust and believe – it’s a gift and a curse.) So if anyone has found the proper knack of coming to grips with one’s psychic abilities while simultaneously selecting a proper outfit and jewelry combination befitting a fly-ass fashionista on her way to the C.S.S. (Corporate Slave Ship), please - let a sista know.
So. This morning Supa Sister’s tardiness surpassed the ‘mildly late’ range and quietly careened into the Just Fucking Triflin’category. Her first outfit selection wasn’t to her liking, and the second showed strong improvement, but then the remaining accessories from Outfit #1 were all wrong. And Supa Sister just hates when that happens. So it took her an extra thirty minutes to remedy the gear faux pas, all while trying to figure out what that dream about chatting over Starbucks coffee while vacationing on the Planet Venus with her favorite dead uncle, an anonymous talking brown spotted duck, and J-Lo really meant.
Supa Sister, out.
And still sleepy.
And still kinda mad because I still don't like what I have on.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Just some innocuous happenings to ponder for the week:
So Irv Gotti beat his case. This is one happy Negro. Fool, get down. You supposed to be gangsta.
Supa Sister didn't watch the big fight. Doesn't particularly care to see brothas thumping on each other. However, I did find it particularly hilarious that those with bootleg cable got ganked on fight night.
So Dave Chapelle is still pimpin' Comedy Central. Chapelle just said, 'I 'aint comin' back, beeyatch! Do what ya gotta!" Now that's gangsta. Do your thing, Dave, I 'aint mad. Although I don't know how long I can go without another WHEN KEEPIN' IT REAL GOES WRONG skit. That shit was priceless.
What? Saddam gettin' gangsta on 'em? AP reported that Saddam and his defense team are just actin' a straight fool up in court. At one point, Dat N!gga 'Dam (he needs a gangsta moniker now) told one witness, "Don't interrupt me, son." Who knew Saddam could channel Method Man.
And finally...this week's Brothas lovin' Sistas spotlight:
Go Pharrell! She's pretty!
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