Kyrie Irving, and Why “Good” Men Make Bad Dating Decisions

Posted on 7 July, 2011 by The Champ

***Filed under "Women who definitely never celebrated Father's Day"***

Crispy bacon. The NBA playoffs. The morning after you’ve slept with someone you’ve been attracted to for a long time. YouTube strippers. New Klosterman books. Achieving perfect beard symmetry.

Listed above are the only things on Earth that give me more pleasure than making true predictions and saying “I told you so,” so imagine my elation when Kyrie Irving — a person I touted last summer as the most complete high school point guard I’ve ever seen — ended up being the number 1 overall pick in the NBA draft.

But, although I’m still very confident that Irving will end up being a standout player once this G0d-awful lockout ends, I have to say that I’m disappointed in the fact that he’s making headlines this summer for all the wrong reasons.

From “Kyrie Irving has already gotten himself in a weird Twitter beef” (via Ball Don’t Lie)

Duke product Kyrie Irving, the first overall selection of the Cleveland Cavaliers in last month’s NBA draft, has filed a harassment claim and hopes to acquire a restraining order against a woman whom he allegedly met on Twitter. Also, knock us over with a feather if this doesn’t happen 25 more times in the 12 months with several other players.

Now, Irving did nothing illegal, and after reading about some of the particulars of this situation, the restraining order is definitely the right move. But, my disappointment lies in the fact that Irving somehow managed to even associate with a chick who is so conspicuously batshit that even Casey Anthony would say “That bitch is f*cking crazy!” (Too soon?)

It’s especially perplexing when you consider Irving’s atypical (well, atypical for a professional athlete) background. He grew up with a loving and supportive father (former professional basketball player Drederick Irving), had an upper-middle class upbringing, was strong enough academically to get accepted to Duke, and, from all accounts, is mature beyond his years. Basically, he’s the type of guy who should definitely know better than to have any type of interaction with a broad from the Bronx who calls herself “Miss Hawaii.”

But, although Irving’s misstep was disappointing, I can’t really say that it was all that surprising. I’ve been 19 before, and, well, lets just say that a line-up of the women I slept with or would have slept with at that age could easily pass for the dancers in the Walmart rap video.

Plus, professional athletes (and by “professional athletes” I mean “black NBA and NFL players who didn’t stay in college for four years“) are at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to being able to identify and even meet quality women.

Think about it: If an athlete leaves school his freshman or sophomore year to enter the draft (or doesn’t go to school at all), most of the women he’s going to encounter as a young adult will be groupies. He’s not going to have the same opportunities to meet decent women with actual lives and aspirations of their own because they’re just not going to travel in the same circles.

Obviously, there are exceptions to this rule, but the majority of the men in that life don’t know anything other than the Evelyn Lozadas of the world. Because of this, a guy like me actually has more access to quality women — and “quality” in this case refers to women who are attractive and actually have goals past poking tiny holes in condoms — and more opportunity to actually get to know these women than most black professional athletes ever will.

Still, while the troubles a Kyrie Irving or a Roy Williams might have with women are easy to understand, how do you explain the fact that “guys like me” — regular joe schmoes with degrees and dads and sh*t — still make some of the same mistakes?

I mean, shouldn’t we know better? Shouldn’t we have been taught how to discern between “mate potential” and “may potentially cut holes in each of your shoes because you were 15 seconds to late to pick her up from work” sometime between sophomore year and last summer? Shouldn’t we have learned that the ability to bootyclap is an asset, not a requirement, and definitely not something you want to show off to your boss at your company’s annual volleyball game? Shouldn’t we know that the only woman whose big butt and smile merits automatic trust is Annie the Chicken Queen?

I can’t even excuse myself from this, as I’ve done things as a fully grown adult that would even make my 8 year old niece say “Uncle Champ, that was some dumb ass sh*t. Even I knew she was nuts, and I still suck my thumb and think Freddy Kruger really exists!!!”

We can’t use “well, she looked good” as a valid reason because while good-looking women are more likely to be nuts (It’s scientifically proven and sh*t), most of us can just as easily find an attractive woman who actually isn’t two sandwiches short of a picnic. Plus, well, some of these crazies we end up sleeping with and/or seriously dating aint exactly going to be Jet Beauty of The Week any time soon either. Shit, I see women working at the seafood section at Costco who look better than Miss (Ha!) Hawaii.

Part of me wants to say that batshit comes in all forms, and some women hide it so well that it’s difficult to sort the crazy colored Skittles from the rest of the bag. But, although this is true — some women are truly on some Jason Bourne shit when trying to keep from being spotted on the batshit grid — it’s a cop out. We all know when we’re taking a chance on a potential eventual restraining order, but we ignore the red lights and keep driving right on through that intersection, hoping that a police camera or an oncoming Dodge Ram don’t catch us.

Hmmm. Kyrie has his built in excuses. What the hell are ours?

—The Champ

When you get a minute, check out “Dating Online and the ‘Big Brother’ Types,” this week’s edition of The Champ’s advice column at Madame Noire.

5 Lame Motherf*ckers Who Ruin Dating For Everyone Else

Posted on 26 May, 2011 by The Champ

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Despite my relatively sympathetic entry about the Schwarzenegger situation the other day, my utter abhorrence for cheating is well-documented. I’ve written about it numerous times, included a couple chapters solely devoted to this abhorrence in our book, and even distanced myself from a few friends because of their habitual cheating. But, while my feelings about this subject are well-known, the impetus behind these thoughts has never been made public…at least until today.

It stems back to the second semester of my sophomore year in college. I became enthralled with Concepcion Jenkins — a fellow sophomore — and everything about her. Her laugh, her booty, her knack for well-timed (and surprisingly undetectable) spades renigging, her endless collection of Old Navy bubblegooses (or is this bubblegeese?), the fact that she was a black girl from Detroit with a name that was maybe 85% too Hispanic, everything. And, after I allowed her to buy an omelet with my meal plan when she was short on cash one day, the feeling was (almost) mutual. Although we hadn’t slept together yet, she’d always run up and grind on me if we were at a party and the Chi-Chi Man song came on, an act that somehow made everyone assume we were having sex. We had a complicated relationship.

Anyway, I actually met Concepcion through her best friend, Marisol (another black chick from Detroit with a excessively Hispanic first name. What the hell is up with that city?) who happened to be dating one of my teammates (Frank) at the time. Now, Frank was a dog. In fact, Frank was such a dog that we wouldn’t even introduce this man to our mothers. (What? You think Delonte West was the first man to ever sleep with one of his teammate’s parents?)

Predictably, Frank messed around on Marisol, and she was very distraught. Of course Concepcion found out about this, and, after spending at least a week consoling an a bit too tearful and dramatic Marisol (I mean, I understand that she was upset, but they were only dating for like 5 weeks! No need to be dropping out of class and shit), they made some sort of “black chicks from Detroit with Hispanic first names” pact to never date athletes again. No more Concepcion time for the young Champ. Drats!

Anyway, Frank’s inability to keep it in his pants gave me the “dog” brand by osmosis, messed up my dating prospects, and forced me to forever feel a certain way about people who cheat with no conscience. Habitual cheaters like him are just one of the many types of lame motherf*ckers who ruin dating for everyone else, and here’s 4 more.

2. The Lame Motherf*cker who posts every single thing they do with their significant other on Facebook

How does she (yes, 99.99999% of the time, this lame motherf*cker is a she) ruin things for everyone else?

Well, this Mistress of Lameness surely has friends who follow her Facebook feeds. These friends see her perpetually bubbly updates (“Oh My God! He just drove all the way to my job just to bring me a bowl of Wheaties! Thank you God for this man!!!“) and, predictably, these friends wonder why their men aren’t bringing them bowls of Wheaties to work and shit. Feelings are hurt, panties are bunched, and men end up spending the entire day wondering why he just got a random “I think we need to talk” text from his girl.

F*ckers.

Not to be out-done…

3. The Lame Motherf*cker who does waaaaay too much for their mate

How does he (yes, 99.99999% of the time, this lame motherf*cker is a he) ruin things for everyone else?

This is the cat who does a 60 mile u-turn just because his “baby forgot her phone charger,” the asshole who tags himself on his girlfriend’s heart in each of her Facebook pictures, the piece of shit who’s the reason why his chick is making every other chick green with tales of his otherworldly awesomeness. While regular guys are taking women to the mall food court or the Walmart sushi bar, this motherf*cker is flying first dates to Aruba.

What makes it even worse is the fact that these guys are usually serial monogamists, so while you’ve actually managed to get past the honeymoon relationship period and you’re knee deep in reality, this motherf*cker is hopping from chick to chick every six to eight months, ruining the relationship expectation curve, and making every man aware of his treachery want to spray a can of Tinactin in his eye.

4. The Lame Motherf*cker who hasn’t been happy since the season premiere of Boomtown, and seems intent on ruining dating for everyone else

How do they ruin things for everyone else?

Calling this person a turd in the punchbowl would be a gross understatement. They’re a shit in the milk carton, a cockroach on the wedding cake, the cat urine on your toothbrush. Their life sucks, they hate each and every member of the opposite sex, and they won’t relent until you share their feelings.

They’re your friend so you don’t cut them off, but their relentless melancholy ends up affecting you by osmosis. Before you know it, you find yourself trolling message boards and blogs at night, fabricating reasons to explain exactly why black men, people who like black men, people who have sex with black men, and people who’ve given birth to black men aint shit.

5. The Lame Motherf*ckers in your crew who always have a f*cking curfew

How do they ruin things for everyone else?

It’s Friday night, you just got paid, and you’re ready to go hit the clubs with your homegirls. You get there at 10 to take advantage of the “all women with green thongs get half-off mojitos before 11″ special. By 11:00 the DJ has warmed up, you’re perfectly tipsy, a few cuties have just walked in, and…your homegirl tells everyone that she needs to get home by 11:30 so she won’t sleep through her 5:00 am knitting class again.

You can’t just tell her deuces because her lame motherf*cking ass drove, so you all have to pack in her Scion, angry, horny, and tipsy. So angry, horny, and tipsy that you decide to call your just-released 6th man booty call to take care of you. He comes through, gives you five and a half good pumps, bounces, and now you’re trolling blogs at night (again), writing 1000 word comments on 200 word entries about why humans with penises aint shit.

All because of the lame motherf*cker with the curfew.

Anyway, people of VSB: that’s it for me today. Can you think of any other lame motherf*ckers who ruin dating for everyone else? The carpet is yours.

—The Champ

In case you missed it, check out our interview with Black Enterprise.

No rapture means that God wants you to stay on Earth and purchase the paperback or the $9.99 Kindle version of “Your Degrees Wont Keep You Warm at Night: The Very Smart Brothas Guide to Dating, Mating, and Fighting Crime”

Lastly, we’d like to thank all of you for coming through and nominating us for FIVE Black Weblog Awards. We’re on the final ballot for Best Humor Blog, Best Writing in a Blog, Best Sex & Relationships Blog, Best Group Blog, and Blog of the Year. Please vote for us here.

A Different World?

Posted on 21 February, 2011 by Panama Jackson

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It’s no secret that I attended an HBCU. I went to the one that everybody either loves or hates but everybody wants to be like. (Girl) You know it’s true, ooh ooh ooh, I love you.

And do you know why I love you?

It’s because we’re marriage material. Straight up, like that. Ask ya mama.

Anybody who went to an HBCU will tell you that its like living in a bubble. It’s pretty much a false representation of what the real world looks like. In fact, the real world looks nearly exactly opposite of an HBCU – a place where all the ninjas read and aren’t afraid of information. We all hope that when we leave we’ll enter a world where life was exactly like college but it never is…

…which is why so many Black women who graduate stay single for so long. The second we graduate, there is a significant power shift from the women dominated-choice-is-yours to the male-centric-its a thousand yous and only one of mes dynamic. But that’s not what this post is about. See, I had a revelation recently. A realization, if you will. Plymouth Rock landed on me something fierce and it took three Muslims and two Pac’s to show me the way. You see, I discovered that life at PWI (predominantly white institutions) wasn’t like life at HBCUs.

I knew that, but I didn’t really know that. Nahmean?

See, I assumed that all Black folks shared the same college experience, but that’s not true. Who knew? And what am I talking about? Glad you asked. Here are some assumptions I made about all ninjas in college.

1) Everybody’s college goal wasn’t to live life like A Different World

Nearly all of us that went to HBCUs went and had some expectation of it being something like A Different World. Hell, my experience was a lot like that. Do you know that I recently met somebody who who couldn’t remember Whitley OR Dwayne Wayne’s name? She told me that she’d seen the show but never really got into it. Floored me like four shots of Patron and a Rihanna rendition of “Lift Every Voice And Sing”. I just assumed that all Black folks wanted that life. Apparently I was wrong. And if two wrongs don’t make a right, and three rights make a left, upside down and inside out is the same things as back back, forth and forth, then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Bubbles.

Sidenote: What the f*ck is up with Kanye’s videos for My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy? Who would have thought his 34 minute mini-movie would be the best video to come out of the whole thing? The absolute best thing about the “All Of The Lights” video is Rihanna’s boobs. Man, they look lovely. I would propose to them, and even if they told me no, I’d say thanks for the opportunity. Other than that, the video, though colorful seems like it needs to come with a warning because of the epileptic seizures it’s sure to cause. Oh, and Kanye needs a fashion intervention. Thank you.

2) That everybody sat around watching movies like Love Jones, The Best Man, Friday, Thin Line etc…

We pretty much only watched Black movies on repeat. In case you aren’t aware, Champ really liked Love Jones and just saw it for the first time. Which he’s made sure to let us know a few times. He also hasn’t seen a plethora of other movies that were just standard fare at my HBCU and I’m sure were at others. If a Black movie came out, we all went…together. Like we shut sh*t down in the A. The Wood? Check. Love & Basketball? Check. Stomp The Yard? Check. We might think they suck, but we’re gonna go see them and watch the over and over. I thought all ninjas did that. I mean, we all Black. Ise ‘ron.

3) College was littered with poets and “Sanctuary” style events

I can’t tell you how many sh*tty poets were running rampant at my and other HBCUs. It’s like an HBCU rite of passage: thou shalt attempt to be a poet. Everybody is required to write at least one poem in order to graduate. Every Tuesday, we had some kind of poetry event, not to mention our Underground Live events. Random celebs would just come chill. It’s where I learned to add “fallacy of reality” and “virgin to the mic” into my lexicon and realized that I needed to talk about my soul a lot. That’s what ninjas at HBCUs do, we talk about our soul.

4) Experiment with religions that contradict your upbringing

If you went to a school upnorf, chances are you there were a few 5 Percenters on your campus. I went to an HBCU, there was like a 5 Percenter smoker, BBQ, and bake sale. We had so many random “religious” organizations and pseudo-spiritual ninjas running around. And these would be the dudes shouting down the white man….except for their white mothers. Let’s just say, there was a noticeable population of “spiritual” ninjas who nobody took serious. I’m not sure if this happens at PWIs but I figured, ya know, there were ninjas named Golden Sun on EVERYBODY’s campus.

5) Spend seven years in undergrad

Um…#hbcushotsfired?

Anyway, my people, my people, are there any assumptions you had about the opposite situation (HBCU vs PWI) that you may have found out just wasn’t the case?

When did you fall in love with hiphop realize that Black folks weren’t monolithic?

Talk to me.

-VSB P aka HBC P aka THE ARSONIST aka lower.case.p aka GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL HE A 3

the joy of insert word that starts with “m” and rhymes with “fasturation”

Posted on 27 October, 2008 by The Champ

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i remember like it was yesterday. it was approximately 3pm on a friday, culminating my hectic first week of college, and i was sitting in my dorm, pensive and determined. i knew my roommate was leaving town for the weekend, leaving me all by my lonesome for the first time since i arrived on campus, and i knew i couldn’t take any longer to finally “christen” my room. i wouldnt feel “home” without it. slowly and and surely, i locked my door, closed my blinds, and laid on my twin bed, conjuring up thoughts of that spicy harlemite i flirted with in the cafe earlier that day while the theme song from “trouble man” played on an endless loop in my head.

i won’t go into too many details of my 240 second blissful solo sex-spree, but as you can imagine, it was a joyous occasion. one of many memorable moments with me, my lefty, and God.

an unabashed “remote control clicker“, today the champ wants to share his love of “percussionisting” with you, and, without further ado, here’s four reasons why the champ loves ***insert word that starts with “m” and rhymes with “pastor nation”***…and why he feels that you should love it too.

1. vagina vetting

no sense of humor.

warped sense of self.

smells exactly how courtney love looks.

these are just a few of the many qualities the champ would consider to be immediate red flags and/or deal breakers, yet each of these pale in comparison to the horror the champ exhibits when encountering a grown-ass woman who proudly states that she “doesn’t ***insert word that starts with “m” and rhymes with “gasmerfate“***”.

usually when making this claim, they’ll happily follow up with some variant of “i mean, why would i do something like that when i can just call someone do to it for me“, a statement which basically advertises…

“hey everyone! guess what?? i have a barren and stupid crotch, and boning me would be like watching paint f*ck, only weirder. i also wear jeans to bed occasionally and i keep a fridge full of dad’s root beer“.

there’s no boringer date and worse lay than a chick who’s scared of her own parts, and nothing says “my vagina intimidates me” more than a woman who refuses to ***insert word that starts with “m” and rhymes with “grassy fate“***. trust me. run like you sell drugs in the school zone.

2. kitten control

kittens, with their big eyes, playful dispositions, adorable whiskers, and furry feet are the bane of human existence, stealth mammal spies sent from the devil to steal all of our belts and murder dave chappelle.

i, for one, won’t stand idly by while we allow these cute-ass beasts of prey to destroy our quality of life, so, through my daily “turkey bastings”, i kill at least one kitten per day. its the least i can do.

3. yup. we’re talking about “practice”

when you buy your ak-47′s, you don’t just start immediately and indiscriminately spraying up your block and harassing co-workers do you?? no. you go to the firing range to practice first. why? because even though your own your gun, you don’t know your gun.

maybe your gun has a light trigger-pull, and it doesn’t take much stimulation to fire. maybe your weapon needs to heat up a bit before it’s able to shoot accurately. maybe you need to practice your aim, cause maybe your gun isn’t as powerful as you thought it was, so your ass better be an expert marksman.

since you want to go through life with the least amount of unknown “maybes” possible, doesn’t it make sense to “practice” as much as possible, sometimes three times a day a bit before (and after) the big game? you can never have too much practice. i love practice. sometimes during a game, i’ll be thinking to myself “self, i can’t wait until i get an opportunity to practice this some more!!!!”

4. the multi-tasking test

lets just say that once you’re able to effectively type one-handed coherent. legible, and intelligent thoughts to a client on your blackberry while popping the pepsi can, there’s nothing left to accomplish as a human being. you’ve reached the pinnacle of humanity. you’ve solved the rubic cube, topped the summit, and passed the ultimate test. seriously, you could perish right at that moment and die a content person.

okay. thats enough for today. i have some, ummm, “weeds” that need hedged before i go to sleep.

yeah, thats it. weeds.

i love gardening

—the champ

gotdamn!

Posted on 1 October, 2008 by The Champ

430

you’ve had it.

you had it bad.

yeah. you what i’m talking about.

whipped. sprung. gone. caught up. caught out there. stuck. hooked. thunderbolted

each word describes that same feeling, that same lustful and libidinous infatuation that gives you that same feeling down there everywhere every time you think about them. this isn’t love. not yet, at least. (although, everyones optimum long-term loving relationship does include these feelings) but it is random doodles and not so random flashbacks at work…the type of ish that’ll get you while you’re sitting at your desk, making you randomly shiver and exclaim “ooh shit!!” like someone just dropped a piece of ice down your shirt, and then nervously looking around to see if anyone noticed your aftershock.

it usually sneaks up on us. one day, you’re minding your own business, daydreaming about crocheting and pears and bowling night and sh*t and then, forty-eight hours later, your body has become a erogenous minefield, a walking, incoherently talking victim of ptfs (post-traumatic f*ck syndrome) and you’re wondering to yourself what the hell just happened and when the hell am i getting some again

thing is, although it sneaks up on us, there usually are subtle indicators that you’re on the sexual springboard, and, as a service from the champ, i’ve decided to give you 3 signs that you very well might be sprung

1. you become gilbert gottfried

i lived in a corner suite (two bedrooms separated by a common/living room type area) with three other roommates my freshman year of college, a somewhat unremarkable arrangement sans for an entertaining bi-weekly occurrence the entire second semester. you see, one of my roommates (jay) had a regular jump-off named kimmie, an extremely demure sophomore who would come through every other saturday afternoon (yes. afternoon!!!), chop it up with us in the living room for a few minutes while we were playing nba live, then head to the bedroom with jay. as you know, dormitory walls are notoriously thin, which makes afternoon sex a community affair, but this obviously didn’t phase kimmie at all.

without fail, within fifteen minutes, the barely audible moaning would began. nothing unusual there though, just your perfunctory garden variety sex moans. soon, though, the moans would then give way to the words. by “the words” i mean that when kimmie was kumming, she’d scream out some of the most bewildering, befuddling, and hilarious word combination’s known to man. from “you’re punching it papachulo” to something that sounded like “f*ckkkkk!! toaster!! f*ckkkkk!! toaster!! f*ckkkkk!! toaster!!”, she’d use horrifically awkward syntax, with word combination’s sounding similar to something you might overhear at in an esl classroom for asian toddlers with tourettes. then, afterwards, she’d come back out with us and play spades or tonk like nothing happened. in hindsight, i probably should have married kimmie.

my point is that there’s sex, good sex, very good sex, and sex that’ll have you doing and saying the most inane and unbelievable sh*t during and directly after the act. the type of sex that’ll make you jump up right afterward and iron clothes butt naked at 3 in the morning while whistling “ordinary people”. nothing you do during or directly after that time can be explained by any type of rational thought or reasoning. basically, you become gilbert gottfried

2. you schedule important sh*t around sex

“you know, even though i dont have any gas, and stopping for gas will insure i wont have any cash to buy lunch today, i need to drive to work instead of catching the bus, just to give me those extra 15 minutes i need this morning to, umm, yeah. f*ck this. i’m driving.”

these are the types of conversations you have with yourself everyday when you’re on the springboard.

3. you’re willing to overlook common sense deal-breakers

she still lives with her ma? so what. stop hating. she has the whole basement to herself anyway.

he has a different colored grill for each season? well…you can’t really tell in the dark.

her baby daddy is kimbo slice? whatever. dat bald n*gga can’t beat me

most of us have been there before, where you’re so into someone that you always find yourself making excuses for them and intentionally ignoring sh*t instead of actually wondering why you’re always making excuses and ignoring sh*t. this is easily the worse by-product of the springboard…the fact that your cognitive sense goes completely to sh*t, and, despite your intelligence, you’re prone to make more bad decisions than tavaris jackson

on a positive note, though, the antagonists in these types of situations have been the muses for some of the best music, movies, and art ever made, so maybe its not all bad.

damn. alot of memories in these paragraphs today.

i need my f*ckin toast

—the champ