#MNR: ACCOUNT-ABILITY

#MNR: ACCOUNT-ABILITY
 
“Guns, I bust ‘em. Problems with my wife, don’t discuss ‘em. Coupes and lear jets, I lust them.”
Francis White, the BIG fella
 
Big ups to Shamara, AKA (pun intended) Shay, my ONLY big sister from 1500 North Lombardy St., Richmond, VA, and a witness to the story I’m finna tell you children of God. Big ups to my brother Robert “St. Louis/Louie” Glaspy. He too was witness to the story I have for you beautiful folk on this blessed evening. The only other witness is a hoe ass nigga who shall remain nameless. Well, damn, Monday. What did the other person do to you? You’re right. He didn’t do anything crazy to me. But my folk don’t fuck with him, so neither do I. Anyway, back to the story. Back to? How about let’s START the fucking story, you sockcucker. How about that, Monday? Ok, ok. You’re absolutely correct. But calm your hostile ass down, Mr. Italics. I don’t play all that. I’m from the town. Anyway, here’s the story.
 
At some point during Freshman Week, let’s call it my first Thursday afternoon at Virginia Union University, I was in the lobby of Huntley World (our dormitory) with the aforementioned individuals. If you’re keeping score, that’s two godly humans, one hoe ass nigga, and Mr. Ty Monday, formerly Ty Nitty. To set the scene properly, the lobby (at the time – August 1996) was the only place where cable television could be viewed in the dormitory. Our rooms only had the four major networks, PBS, and The Box (not to be mistaken with Video Music Box). If you don’t know about The Box, ask your auntie. I guarantee she’ll tell you ‘bout it with a gleam in her good eye. The lobby was cavernous, with an emergency exit that led to a couple of unused rooms with dormitory furniture, much of which we procured to furnish Keith’s apartment senior year. FACTS (Piperboy voice)! There were a couple of soda machines, three tables, about a dozen chairs to match the tables, and some cheap ass furniture that a semi-homeless nigga in Chelsea may turn down on a good day. I can’t forget the pool table. Ah, what a beautiful place.
 
Like I said, we were in the lobby. We were just shooting the shit, nothing special. It was about 98 degrees with 193% Virginia humidity outside, so we were in the coolest place available. Amid shooting the shit, someone said something that was extra funny. I had all types of energy back then because I wasn’t really fat, so I decided to get up and take a lap around the lobby like a doggie in the living room. I had this thing where I’d run up to a wall, jump into it and push off with either leg. I’d do a 180 (more like a 165) and land facing the direction I’d just come from. I was still athletic, and I loved to do it. I ran up to the wall by the pool table and to the left of the emergency exit steps, platform, and door. I made the first jump. It was successful. Oh yeah. I was extra gassed. I’m pretty sure big sis and bro were looking at me like I was a damn fool. My adrenaline was pumping. I had to get one more off. I took off, sprinting towards the exit doors. I hung a sharp left and approached the wall to the right of the television and left of the soda machines (at the time). I lunged the exact way I did to the prior wall, only this time, my leg went clean through this wall. Damn it, man (Sean voice). Cheap ass sheetrock. I distinctly heard three synchronous Oh shit(s)!, immediately followed by everyone ghosting the lobby.
 
I was down bad. The hole in the wall was big den a MF. I was more nervous than a hooker in church with active warrants and the deputy sitting with his wife in the right third row pew. I pulled my Usain Bolt-like leg out of the wall and dipped out the lobby my damn self. At that time, the dorm was patrolled by Ms. Murphy, an old lady with an attitude. Her voice was annoying, and she reminded me of Mr. Furley from Three’s Company because she had the googly eyes. By day three or so, I already knew she was going to be a problem. She couldn’t wait to lock the lobby down every weeknight at 12, and she had already shown a proclivity to "writing up" young niggs. By young niggas, I mean me. In contrast, Ms. Segress, our dorm coordinator the last three years of my Huntley run, never once locked the doors. She also never wrote me up. Old Lady Murphy caught me twice and reported me for the Halloween Massacre of ’96. Heifer. I want to say RIP to her, but for all I know, Ms. Murphy is probably about 98 years old, telling on folk in the nursing home. You go, girl. I guess (Brandi voice).
 
I don’t remember how, but somehow, I managed to get all the freshman boys outside to line up against The Bricks, or the backside of Huntley Hall. There was a ramp that led to one of the doors, and there was masonry in front of it. We sat on the parts where our feet were still touching the ground. I was definitely a pioneer of The Bricks. But anyway, I had these niggas lined up like the pigs had Sonny and the crew at the beginning of A Bronx Tale. No, really. I had recently seen the movie for the first time and wanted to reenact that scene. I was a wild young’n. I went down the line while Louie, Rock, and a few other live niggas watched in laughter as I asked each and every one of those cotton-picking Negroes if they were the informer dem. I didn’t even ask a couple of them. I looked them in the eyes and told them they looked like rats. I was completely correct about one of them, but that story takes place a year later. Anyway, after I went down the line, looked all those niggas in their eyes, and asked them if they’d tell on me, do you know what I did in the end?
 
I waited a half-hour or so. I went to Ms. Murphy’s suite door and knocked. I told her that I was responsible for the hole. I received a $150 fine from Virginia Union University and a cuss out to a fairly well from Shareon. I always knew that she saved her best vitriol for her baby boy because I was the only bama she said the word “fuck” to when she cussed a MF out. I’m pretty sure it was said in the phrase “I don’t give a fuck...” Irrespective of the specifics, she dropped a triple-double on my punk ass over the phone. I’m talmbout in under three minutes. I smirked, shook it off, and went to place $5 on a bag of reefa. Peace (Pam from Martin voice, with the OD peace sign and cockeye)! I ain’t have to pay that MF fine. Love you, mommy!
 
MORAL OF THE STORY: I stood tall and owned up to my fuck-up. I didn’t necessarily do it because it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do, but I’m being completely candid.  If I didn’t own up to it, Murphy would have locked down the lobby indefinitely. It wouldn’t have bothered me if niggas would’ve felt a way. Take it in blood if you feel a type of way, nigga. You be aight. It would have bothered me that people would have had to suffer because of my bullshit. I’m built different. That’s fuckery in my eyes. I don’t endorse fuckery of any type. But back to the suffering part.
 
I have HEBREWS 11 tatted on my right forearm because it’s my favorite chapter in the Bible. If this seems like déjà vu, it’s not; I’ve mentioned this in a previous #MNR. My favorite part of the chapter, which deals with specific acts of faith from the Old Testament, are the verses that pertain to Moses (Hebrews 11, verses 24-29 NIV). They talk about how he chose to forsake being the right hand to the pharaoh along with all treasures of Egypt and lead his people, the people of God, through the wilderness and pass through the Red Sea “as on dry land” while the Egyptians drowned when they tried. I’m crazy enough to forsake all the money in the world for my people and the glory of the Lord. But like I said, I’m built different. And I’m always accountable. I ride and die with mine. Even if the die part is imminent.
 
Unless you truly hate politics, are completely aloof, or just awoke from a coma and read this blog first thing, you know that President Joe Biden dropped out of the race. I’ve read plenty of pundits who believe that Sleepy Joe is to blame for being so stubborn and dragging this thing past what many consider to be the point of return. They have long said that he’s too old to run. They are partially correct. He should have read the tea leaves, or perhaps listened to advice and strategy. He’s as old as dirt. But I don’t believe that he is incapable of running this country for another four years. I fuck with the policy he was able to have signed into law. The Infrastructure Act, CHIPs, Build Back America, and the child tax credits he provided his first two years will be seen in retrospect as amazing and very noteworthy accomplishments. But, in this era of social media, we run with whatever one or two MF say is what we should run with. And by “we,” I mean Americans. I don’t mean myself. I study. I know what Sleepy Joe has accomplished. I’m also aware that this inflation is a result of the pandemic he inherited. I have studied supply chains in-depth. You should as well in your spare time. I know one thing for certain; tRump is not the answer, for a plethora of reasons. I’ve named plenty before, and you already know more than enough. I also listen to his unhinged speeches. He fucks up way more than Biden does. He slurs words, mispronounces names and calls people the wrong name, and simply cannot pronounce certain words. He also lies through his false teeth. Incessantly. Oh, Sleepy. If it weren’t for that disastrous debate. C’est la vie.
 
If I were Biden, I would’ve held out for as long as he did as well because I, like he, know in my heart that I got the job done. I would have been impervious to all the criticism my damn self. Joseph Biden isn’t senile. He isn’t slow. He’s 81 fucking years old. Old folk fuck up language from time to time. They mix up names. They take a bit longer to recall things. I’m not a fan of ageism, especially when the other guy is a felonious sociopath who sexually assaults women in his spare time. And he’s only three years younger. Miss me with the bullshit. I’m not mad at you, Sleepy, and I guarantee that history won’t be either. I may not be around to witness it, but contextual American history will paint a more than favorable picture of Joseph Biden.  
 
Yes, he held out longer than he should have. But he was accountable in the end, even though he isn’t what he’s said to be. You don’t have to agree.
 
Kamala, you and I are going to take that walk. Tonight is not the night. But we’re going to figure it out the figure it out way, word to Mack Mel.
 
Goodnight, y’all. Remember, take a shower, change your drawz. Brush your teeth, too. 
RIP POP HEMMINGS