Warren G: Citigroup’s Ass is a Busta!

So the man most likely to take over Warren Buffet’s title as Smartest Investor in the Universe is John Paulson, a hedge fund titan who made about $6B shorting mortgage backed securities in 2007 and banks in 2008. Paulson is now betting on financial recovery and has reversed his stance on banks, most notably snapping up a 2% stake in the much-maligned Citigroup.

Now, Citi’s shares have more than quadrupled since March, so it stands to reason that Mr. Paulson might be on to something. But it’s possible that Warren G, last seen in 1994 regulating bustas with Nate Dogg and laying dames at the eastside motel, knows a little more. 

His newest album, The G Files, drops on Tuesday and features a track called "Swagger Rich." Since I live in the world, I know that swagger is all about attitude; confidence. It’s having a certain air about oneself that causes people to turn their heads and marvel. But some grade A cockhat at Vanity Fair was so vexed by the meaning of the title that he rang up Warren for an interview. You see, we’re in a recession, and if Warren is talking about swaggering rich, then he "has yet to realize that his bank account is empty or he’s a financial wizard the likes of which hip-hop has never seen before."

From Madoff to AIG, it doesn’t seem like there’s anybody we can trust. In this financial climate, does it make more sense to invest in Citigroup or the Crips?

Oh, hell no! Invest in the Crips? That’s crazy, man!

So you think the Bloods are a better investment?

Neither one of them! You don’t wanna get involved in any of that!

(Ed. note: this interview must be over the phone. Surely, Warren would have slapped this clown by now.)

You’re not seriously suggesting buying Citigroup stock, are you?

None of that shit, man. I think this recession was all caused by these humongous corporations. Those motherfuckers got money. Even with the recession, those motherfuckers got money. But everybody use the recession as an excuse. Everybody in the music industry, they be like, “We can’t pay you. It’s the recession, it’s the recession.” Recession my ass, motherfuckers. People got to get paid for what they’re worth. You know what I’m saying? You making a hundred thousand on a show and you only be giving me some crumbs. That shit gonna run out.

Where is the Wall Street Journal to snap him up for a column? What was that, Peggy Noonan? Warren doesn’t have the expertise to speak for the Journal? Step aside, honey. Your shit is played and tired. We’re ready for a man who will punch us in the mouth with real knowledge and opinion. See Peggy, Warren is no geek from the street. He’s from the G-Funk era, which, as you may or may not recall, was funked out with a gangsta twist. Financial bustas came at him with gats drawn. They took his rings; they took his Rolex. They did what they could to take Warren’s wealth. But when Nate Dogg rolled up with 16 in the clip and one in the hole, he and Warren G made those bodies turn cold. And that type of funk is just what the Journal needs. In fact, it’s what the United States of America needs!

It’s time for President Obama to nominate Warren G as the Czar of Financial Regulators. We could even bring in Nate Dogg to sing Cliff’s Notes of his speeches.

REGULATORS! Mount up!

Why Do Men Watch Porn?

So my fella and I were laying around yesterday when the subject of porn came up. It was my doing, really, as I was telling him about this lech I once worked with who spent more time cranking off in his office than actually working. When Phil resigned, IT discovered that his browsing history was full of nothing but XTube, PornHub, cam girls and email. A well-rounded chap.

After the mockery, the conversation took its course and the boy shared that he watches porn when I’m not around and his imagination isn’t enough. “That doesn’t bother you does it?” Why would it? He’s a dude and dudes watch porn. They’re visual creatures who like to get off, and as long as his liking to get off doesn’t turn into some crazy addiction where he’s more interested in porn than me, I don’t care. Maybe next time, we’ll even watch together.

Well according to Revolutionary Man, a site that helps male personal and spiritual development, I need to care because it’s likely that my man has a serious problem, and, sadly, so do the rest of you.

Even though every second sees 28,258 people surf porn (72% of whom are men), you all deny it and even go to extreme measures to cover your scandalous tracks. Why? Well, you’re repressed and confused by “oversexualized imagery and messages” from society. This sad state of affairs creates stress at home because it means you might have to admit to a partner that you don’t “know how to manage the sexual life forces raging through [your] body.”

Perhaps I’m acquainted with the wrong type of men, but I was pretty sure that about 98% of you were little more than raging sexual life forces. That you get through the day with only a few physical manifestations of that fact is a testament to your managerial skills.

Men get mixed messages about sex, and with all the conflicting information, and nowhere to go to sort it out, it can end up coming out sideways in the form of strip clubs, constantly objectifying women, porn use, hookers and much more.

Repression + confusion = porn, hookers, strippers, late nights, blow. Porn is the ultimate gateway drug. Remember that.

Surfing porn is a symptom of some underlying discomfort a man is experiencing… surfing porn becomes a way to ‘get rid of’ the discomfort. It is very much like a quick high, a jolt of energy that feels great for a microsecond during orgasm… But much like getting high or even taking a nap, reality has a way of creeping back in and, almost without fail, seconds after ejaculation shame and guilt set in as a guy attempts to hide his tracks and close his computer’s browser.

Of course the guy closes his browser. It’s not like cuddling after sex. There’s no reason to linger. There’s no semi-delirious, romantic afterglow where he reminisces about his 7 minutes with images and videos of big jugged broads with spunk dripping down their faces. When the brain finally clears out the inevitable clouds and fog that come along with masturbation, you close the browser and find something else to do – take a nap, watch sports, mow the lawn, hit the store.

But if, after this period, a man is mindful of deleting the evidence, then it’s probably for the best. Maybe he lives with an insecure pit viper who will give him hell him for it. Maybe he shares the computer and doesn’t want roommates knowing that he’s into pregnant trannies and black guys. Or maybe he’s doing this at work and doesn’t want evidence on his computer. People cover their tracks so they can cover their asses, not because they’re wracked with guilt and shame.

Even I watch porn every now and again, and while there’s no shame in my game, I will admit to one porn-related fear: that I’ll die in the middle of it and porn will be all over my screen. It’s the same reason it took me ages to get a vibrator. I’ll tap out and the first responders will clown my dead, half naked body because my heart couldn’t handle the combination of thug love videos and my OhMiBod. Who wants to go out like that?

But not wanting to die with porn on blast doesn’t mean I scramble to erase the traces when I’m done. In fact, I have favorites bookmarked because I don’t want to waste time looking for something new. For me, porn is like fast food. Could I really treat myself? Yeah. But I’m hungry and I want to eat NOW. So I hit the drive up, order a combo and in 6 minutes or less, I’m good to go. Thank you. Come again. Sure, it’s not good to be eating like that all the time, but it’s efficient and effective.

However, now that I’ve admitted to being a sucker for voyeurism, I’m in the same boat with the rest of you sex maniacs. Luckily, Revolutionary Man gives us self-help steps:

1) Tell someone.

This is a hotly debated subject with men who are willing to have this conversation. One option is to come out of the closet with your porn behavior. You kept it a secret for a reason, now break the ice by telling a close, trusting male friend that won’t judge you… Next, determine how your partner might react to your porn use if you told her/him. For some folks, it helps, others it hurts.

The first step is admitting you have a problem, but unlike other shameful afflictions, you’d be just as well off telling a random man on the street than any of your boys because 99 times out of 100, he’ll identify with you. In fact, he may even have a free password you can use.

2) Start paying attention to when you surf

If porn is a symptom of being “off” in your life, the “off” feeling is what you need to address. If you surf porn occasionally, start taking note of when these times occur. Did you just get in a fight with your wife recently? Do you have a lot of free time and this helps you pass the time? Why is it so hard to just be with yourself? What is going on in your life right now that feels so off? What time of day do you surf?

The “off feeling” is your body telling you that it’s done messing around and it wants the sweet release of an orgasm. It’s not that deep.

“Say Flash, if you wouldn’t mind swinging by Wahoo’s for fish tacos – like right now – I’d appreciate it. I’m starving.”
“No problem, Buddha, that sounds tasty. I’m happy to oblige!”

Surely you’re having a similar conversation with your cock and balls from time to time.

3) Porn fast.

No more porn. Commit to no porn for at least 3 months and then observe yourself and your behavior. Of course, if you’ve never done any self-inquiry, this is going to be challenging for you.  What you may find is by removing porn from the equation, you start to notice that you used porn to deal with some discomfort in your life. What do you replace it with? How do you cope?

BAHAHAHAHAHA. Please.

Everyone needs a little visual entertainment every now and again (some of us more than others). As long as you do porn and don’t let porn do you, there should be no guilt or shame attached. The only people who should feel ashamed are the saps over at Revolutionary Man, who get two enthusiastic thumbs down for trying to pawn this garbage talk onto unsuspecting, impressionable, repressed blokes. If they’re on your site trying to find their way, the last thing they need is your fearmongering rubbish about porn being crack in disguise.

Boo, Revolutionary Man. Boo and hiss.

Sucked Back Into the Raiders Vortex

Before Monday, more than 18 months had passed since I last wasted an emotion on the Oakland Raiders. I used to have this butterflies-in-the-stomach, sweaty-palmed, rapid heartbeat giddiness at the start of every season because the Silver & Black were gonna rule the world – or, at the very least – kick it in the ass.

But the perennial Commitment to Impotence and Mediocrity eventually sucked out my passion and turned me into the bitter half of one of those couples who had been together for 20 years, gotten comfortable and fallen out of love. Sure, I still told the Raiders I loved them, pecked them on the cheek when I left for work and even gave it up in the sack every Sunday night because that was our "routine." But that heat? That fire? That adrenaline rush I’d get every time I saw them? That was long gone. After a while I started ogling other teams; entertaining thoughts of illicit affairs; closing my eyes during our Sunday interludes and fantasizing I was with the Packers or the Giants.

But even though I was jilted and lonely, I never had the stones to leave them or even cheat, so I settled in on Monday night for a new season of doormat football. I was going to watch a quarter and go to bed because how long can it really last when you’ve got Tom Cable, a quarterback who looks like he ate Aaron Brooks, two rookie wide receivers and a defense led by a guy who got Shanghaied out of Foxboro?

But when we came out of the gate, we weren’t just aggressive, we were nasty. A punishing rushing attack was followed up with a bust-you-in-the-mouth defense. Bodies flew around the field. First round busts emerged from the ether. The Stay-Puft quarterback blew people up on blocks. We were switched on; energized. It felt like vintage Raider football but with young players who had no idea what that was all about. For once, the Silver & Black looked like a legit NFL team instead of the deformed hobgoblin that hides in the damp, dark recesses of Roger Goodell’s soul. And even though Jamarcus Russell couldn’t hit the ocean from the beach, we looked so decent and the Chargers so bad that I started to wonder if NFL Films had replaced the game with a flashback video from the 1990s the way ABC had with the Florida State/Miami tilt a couple weeks back.

That hesitant wonder turned to unabashed, obnoxious glee. And when we went up 20-17 with a little more than two minutes to play on a 4th and 14 miracle bomb from Russell to rookie Louis Murphy, I called my friend Maine, fellow Raider fan and malcontent:

"Do you believe what we’re seeing? Could it happen?"
"Don’t talk to me. You’ll jinx it. I’ll call you back."

I should have known better than to call him with that much time on the clock. Philip Rivers could still hit LT for the touchdown with 7 seconds left to play and deep down, I knew it was the most likely outcome. But I was so wrapped up in that moment that I didn’t care. Christ, I couldn’t care. All of those old emotions came flooding back and for the first time since 2002, I really believed. I was giddy with it, anxious with it. I was living with every Richard Seymour tackle and dying with every inaccurate Jamarcus pass, all the while knowing and believing that the Raiders weren’t going to merely pull off an upset, they were going to turn the league on its ear.

But then came Philip Rivers, Darren Sproles and a defensive regression to 2004. I didn’t have Sproles programmed into my doom and gloom scenario but I didn’t count on our defense bitching out and getting soft either. Rivers went 7/7 and moved the ball up the field with ease before Sproles took the draw and strolled into the endzone to give the Chargers the 24-20 win.

I was gutted. I still am. It’s been a long time since Oakland has made me feel so low but there’s no one to blame but myself. They were able to rip out my still-beating heart, shit on it and set it aflame because I was weak enough to believe again. It was like being a Bills fan for a day.

I remarked to a friend yesterday morning that the worst thing about football season these days isn’t knowing that we’re going to lose but knowing that there’s no hope. He said, "Welcome to my time in the Rich Kotite era." We had a good laugh over it but after last night, I realized that those hopeless days in Oakland  might just be gone. I also realized that the spineless part of me wants them back.