Monday, October 18, 2010

Ashy Jack Strikes Back. Again.

Two weeks ago, the de-lotioned deity known as Ashy Jack (meet him here and here) shared the beginning of his memoir with the writing class. I was all prepared to make a grand spectacle out of sharing his memoir with you, my lovely readers. However, as the circus began and he started reading, it all became less and less funny. What started out as my wishes to strike back at a man that took digs at my skinny jeans, sexuality, and hair became my pity for a geriatric bag man who silently protests deodorant and toothpaste, and reads at a fifth grade level.


Since he felt inclined to restate his disapproval of my skinny jeans, I have mustered the courage to put my pity in the corner for a second. Bastard.

He prefaced his tale by warning us of his difficulty in finding focus in his storytelling. He admitted that he wandered a little, unable to find a clear direction:
It's hard to decide what to write about, especially when my parents is both so equally yoped in my life.

 Its title:  
My early childhood memoir of living at 3057 [insert street] in Los angeles california.

All of that.
 
It's a harrowing tale of growing up in a loving, big family here in Los Angeles. He details his life among his siblings, and the wonders of his beautiful family home:

we had large backyard with many different s kinds of fruit trees such as plum tree, pear tree, lemon tree,orangetree,avocado tree,preach tree.
Yes, folks. Ashy Jack's family cultivated a new tree species: the preach tree, kids. You think raising a shit ton of kids and surviving poverty is enough? That's all your family did? Did YOUR mom and dad discover a new species of plant life? Didn't think so.

my parents bought their home in the nineteen fifty four.
I'm sure some of you may have been born in 1954  or have parents born in 1954. And that ol' regular ass 1954 wasn't special enough for this clan. Jack's family started THEIR life together in
THE nineteen fifty four. BITCH.

Fix your average 1954 ass mouth around it and suck on THAT.

I working class middle class area their property was manicure lawn. The enviroment was a positive place to live. My mom...was five feet ten inches tall with long black hair. She look taller when she put high heel on she look as tall as my dad. My dad was six feet four and the short in his family. my dad wear his hair in a afro hair style in those days.Hewas a muscle built man that work sometime in our garage with the weight.
So, kneeggur? I was the YOUNG in my family! Yeen special, Ashy Jack's Dad! So you think you're some special muscle built drug dealer or something, moving weight and such? YEEN SPECIAL.

She would bake many different kinds of desert likecholate cake, carrot cake lemon cake, whitecake,banana pudding,sweet potato pie.she also cook many different kinds of impeacher cobbler, apple cabbler,black berry cabbler.
Mr. Jack just shat on your entire life. Can your mom bake a desert? My mama baked brownies and cookies, but Ashy Jack's mama baked THE FUCKING SAHARA. Suck.on.that. She invented something called cholate cake, too! BOO to your sad ass mama. And can YOUR mama bake impeacher cobbler?? I don't EVEN know what the fuck impeacher cobbler IS. So, that family is on some NEXT level culinary shit.

and CABBLER????

what
do
you
know
about
CABBLER?

nothing.

Accept it. Ashy Jack is superior to you in every way. He rocks the party WITHOUT lotion and is too cool for subject-verb agreement. He is an expert on what the rest of us in the class should have done differently in life, and feels very strongly about my skinny jeans. King of put-downs, he is! Shut me RIGHT the fuck up.

BAOW.

Anywho, that week also saw the disappearance of his sidekick, Lady Create-A-Waist:

sporting a lovely belted MJ shirt

...and the debut of her new alter-ego. Move over Beysus.

World, meet the intended lead of Austin Powers: Goldmember, Stocky Cleopatra.
OW!

Photobucket
BAM!

WORK!

Photobucket
BOOM!

 SERVE!

Little Miss Stuffit is out to steal a pastor tonight! Shazzam!

What's that smell? Is that you shitting on yourself?

I just realized I forgot to capture her glory last week, but she certainly outdid herself. Her goal is clear: to look sillier with each class. Ladies and Gentleman, we are witnessing a silent one-bison competition to out-foolish oneself. 

Close your eyes and picture it:

A grey "I Love LA" sweatshirt with a floral sarong over one shoulder. Bell bottoms. Beyonce's hand-me-down weave from 2001's Carmen: A HipHopera. She apparently did her makeup early for that night's stint as "Povertina the Clown" at Compton's Chubby Junkie Rodeo. Pubic hair lashes. Black. Lip. Liner. Kids, looking across the room, I saw Fozzie Bear. In drag. High on pigfeet and drunk on shameless juice.

She shared her memoir last week. She intends to tell of her former life as a Soul Train dancer, and associate of Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy in the 80s. I didn't get to capture it, but it certainly included the phrase, "gettin my Hallelujah on." I appreciate her bold fashion flair. Mudslide eyebrows and all.

Another glimpse, to show you the type of grand Negress we're dealing with...

giving you "1980's La Toya Jackson-turned-deaconess". Get IN.


If you're overwhelmed, I totally understand. That's a lot of awesome to take in at once. Now, go ahead and run down to "WalMark" and boost some new brushes and lip liner and get your regular ass life together. Try this: Tomorrow, leave the lotion at home, and see if you don't walk with a little extra pep in your step like my main man Ashy Jack. Okay? Okay.

 Don't hurt nobody. Stay tuned for more updates.

~colored boy

all feedback is welcomed. yes, even those of you in the Bronx.|be notified of new posts: Subscribe

LinkWithin

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...