Lady Killer: Nasty, Ain’t It?

Nicole is our resident Lady Killer.  You will never catch her haiku-ing in Auto-tune.

Summertime is just
Another way of saying
Your nuts smell like musk.

Just because it’s hot
Doesn’t mean that you are, girl.
Put some damn clothes on.

If for nothing else,
Drake fulfills my fantasy
Of fucking cripples.

Cricket and Metro?
Is this what’s hot in the streets?
Our minutes are up.

What I love most is
Kissing dudes with Freeway beards
Praise be to Allah.

A Magnum condom
Is wishful thinking for men
Cursed with baby dick.

Zilla got a girl.
Like a girlfriend. Whom he fucks.
My thoughts exactly.

Can’t stand germs, people.
But jizz on the face? Fair game.
Oh, the irony.

Differs drastically between
Oral and anal.

Astroglide pussy,
A slip-and-slide for big dicks.
Squelch, squelch, queef queef, squelch.

You deal drugs, don’t you?
That sure does sound exciting!
Oh, not to me, though.

This is just a fact:
Men favor right titties and
Lifting the left leg.

Tiny and Toya:
Proof that money will never
Buy class or um, class.


Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better: The Lady Killer Essential Guide To Gettin’ It In, On, and Gone


My jump off never ask why I go out so much

My jump off never ask why I go out so much

Nicole can get low down and dirty (word to Keenan Ivory Wayans).  But there’s no shame in learning proper jump-off etiquette. 

Hey, guy. Nice shirt. Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. No, don’t do that. Don’t pull over. Oh, we’re pulling over.  Listen, since it’s just you and me here on the side of this road where one of us might die, I’m just going to say it. Okay? Please stop making that face. And that one. Oh, that’s nice, real fucking nice, guy. Okay, you want to do it like that, you want to play dirty? Well here goes:  It is as much a game to me as it is to you. If you have ever had some version of sex with a woman from whom you’ve never heard again (This will be me as soon as I find my way home from this Interstate), you were part of an elaborate ruse at the end of which you might have cried. You’re crying, you are actually crying. Great! Oh, that’s rich! You may have also tried calling, writing, texting to no gain. I meant to do that. Here’s a tissue.

1. The Choice is Yours: A grave misconception among women is their thinking that the uglier the man, the more willing they are to play their position. Because many men have gotten into the habit of bedding those less fortunate in both aesthetic and esteem, women tend to follow suit. These men are amateurs. A woman must behave like an overpaid athlete or rapper who wouldn’t dare be seen with anything less than a ten hanging from neither arm nor cock. Your success rate is only as high as your expectation, so choose a man as you would a prom date. You want him to be sexy enough to incite jealousy amongst your friends. You want him to look good in the pictures. You will delete those pictures. Also, you really want to fuck someone hot. Guilty as charged.

2. Broadening Your Whore-izons: Sure, you have a type (Mine? Rappers, DJs, assorted participants of thuggery.) but with that type comes a world of conflicting interests that will have you labeled the Pass Around Girl faster than you can say whatever it is you can say really fast. I know the hormonal haze of rapper dick can get you loopy. Been there. However, I implore you to snap the fuck out of it. You are doing the passing around. Unless you are looking for a boyfriend or someone to trick into marriage, leave the preferential treatment where you found it and choose your partners carefully and from within different social circles. The less chance you offer for these men to happen upon each other, trade stories, or becomes friends, the more chance you have of not ever having sex again. Unless you possess a doctorate in Damage Control (I do), you really should not ever allow them the opportunity to be in the same room together (I have) unless you like to cry in public (I’d never.).

3. Location, Location, Location: Like any proper white folk looking for a slummy neighborhood to gentrify, location is everything. Sniffing out a lovah is as important as ensuring your new lovah lives close enough to ensure speedy dick delivery but far enough to discourage unannounced visits because he was “in the neighborhood.” No he wasn’t. Nor should he ever be. A jump-off who drives is both a blessing and a curse. Sure he can be at your home within seconds but he can also be at your home within seconds. You want your door to be a revolving one, not one in which men trip over each other or high five on the way out. Your pussy is not the meth clinic nor should you be giving it out to men who may receive services from the meth clinic.

4. The Age-Old Rule: Yes, you are a woman of a certain age. We all are. This, however, does not limit your sexual scope to those within your dating demographic. Younger men, I’m talking the 18 to 23s, are typically more eager to a) fuck b) please c) try questionable shit in bed d) text you back after you send them a dirty one-liner e) FUCK. Older men are good for what they are, but present roadblocks the youngins do not. They usually drive. They like to go out on dates. They probably have ex-wives. Also, children. Some of these elders might say something about having more experience. Ignore this. This is a ploy and usually means nothing more than their having boned a cool thousand. The young ones are typically dumber, too. Dumb is good. You don’t plan on talking to your jump-off outside his dick being inside you. You can talk to him then. However, there will be little phone communication, less small talk, and no outside interaction. Unless you like to fuck in front of people. You can do that.


Uncle Sams jump off does not have Twitter nor indoor plumbing

Uncle Sam's jump off does not have Twitter nor indoor plumbing

5. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell: Unlike with traditional dating, jumping off does not survive in the details. It is important to resist the temptation to ask personal questions about your new lover. A first name is more than enough information. A last name just fucks shit up. You start Facebooking dudes, discovering the likes and dislikes of their children’s mother, wondering why he’s online rather than responding to your request for dick service. Knowledge is not power. If you think that your supplier might possess any kind of technological prowess, possibly could find you on Twitter, or knows how to send anything more than a two-word text message, RUN. Run very far and very fast into the arms of someone too poor to afford a computer, someone whose pre-paid phone is perpetually out of minutes, someone who previously spent years in jail and is now paranoid of communicating in any other way except for lips-to-labia. This is also important in reminding you not to shit where you eat. If you are already friends with someone with whom you’d like to fornicate, Eternal Sunshine that thought and remain strong of mind and loin. Friends are meant to be nothing more than people who want to fuck you but who you will never fuck back. A friend is the jump-off’s sworn enemy. Vinegar and KY-Jelly.

6. Initiating Contact: You found him. You like what he looks like. You think you’d like to accidentally get pregnant by him. The only way you can know for sure is by approaching him. The execution is a simple one. You go up to him and say something that could and should be misconstrued as fresh. He laughs. You laugh. He says something stupid and obvious that you will ignore. He then says something like, “So, you got a boyfriend.” You laugh again and say something that gives him the impression that you are not looking for a boyfriend. Something like, “I don’t want a boyfriend” usually does the trick. Now he knows that you want nothing from him other than his pipe cleaning services. He will then hand you his Metro PCS phone in which you will put your phone number. Later, he will send you a text. It will say something retarded. Maybe, “Sup, Ma?” You will then skip past the happy horseshit of actual textual communications and say something suggestive like, “How about you come over and fuck me.” He will then call you because he doesn’t know how to text well beyond what he’s already said. You will ignore all of his questions and insult him a little bit. Then you will tell him where you live. He will ask what bus runs by there. You tell him to figure it out. He calls you from your door.

7. The Big Show: Once inside, you cease all communication. You show him where you will be fucking. This might be a bedroom. This might also be a roommate’s bedroom. This might also be in your bathroom on the toilet because your annoying roommate is depressed and never leaves your apartment. Wherever it is that you choose, you lead him there. He will probably look very handsome and smell almost nice. This is because he is about to have sex with a woman. You are this woman. You can make out with him. He is a jump-off, not a prostitute. You can then put your hands in his pants. He will fuck you in one position after you go down on him (Oh yeah, you will go down on him) because he cannot hold out for long as he is fucking a woman. You are that woman.  This is okay because then he will leave and be out of your home. Once he sprays his shit, you can make one and only one comment, vague in nature. It is your choice, but it should be sexual. You will walk him to your door and say nothing. He will say, “Call me.” You will say what? NOTHING. Very good.


8. Maintaining: The best jump-off relationships are ones that are long lasting. They persevere through boyfriends and girlfriends, sometimes concurrently if you are into infidelity which, clearly, you are. They are not one-night stands. They are people who you fuck at least three times per season. More often if you are fortunate and know how to engage them beyond the first titty-fuck. Most of the time, you have to do nothing in order to maintain your jump-off. If your shit was right, it was right. There is not denying one’s Kegel force. You can send him a noncommittal text every so often. He will send you some as well. You are not required to respond. If you have sex more often than twice, the chances of forging a sexual relationship become great. If you do not hear from him in a month or two, fear not. His phone probably got turned off or he has reconciled temporarily with his baby’s mother. Or he might have gotten an actual girlfriend but then again, he probably didn’t. You, too, are free to seek out other sources of dick as keeping only one man in your cache is reckless and guarantees little result. You may as well get a boyfriend. So in the lulls, you create new relationships with other boys and rotate them as you see fit. The options are as endless as the combinations on a Ruby Tuesday lunch menu and seeing what you’re working with, you are all too familiar.

 9. Role Reversal: There will come a time in your jump-off’s life when he will begin to see you as his booty call. This is inappropriate and not at all what you signed up for. He will call you and ask you to have sex with him. You will agree and then flake out on the plans. He will feel salty. He will then call you all night and leave you voicemails ranging from confused (“Hey, I think your phone is broken…”) to enraged (“You know, that’s real fucked up what you did!”), and back to confused and enraged (“I don’t know what the fuck’s up with your phone, but if you still wanna link up, holla back at me.”) You will not holla back at him until one week later when you want to have sex with him. He will show up. Feel free to make one passing comment about how he needs to stop acting like he is your boyfriend. That will make him mad probably and then he will fuck you and say something weird between grunts like, “You want a fucking boyfriend, bitch?” You can then grip him up by the neck and perform hateful coitus.

10. The Bottom Line: Managing a harem of lovers is an uncomplicated task so long as you do not invest yourself in any one of these men more than within the duration of deep dicking. It is when you begin to think of these people when they are not inside of you.  If you do find yourself thinking what life would be like with your sex partner, you need to not. You need to do all that you can to avoid communicating with this person. You will not visit his blog. You will not follow him on Twitter. You do not need to know who he is having sex with when he is not having sex with you. Nor should he be privy to your vagina’s trade secrets.  You will only invite dramatics into your life. You are carefree. You do not want a boyfriend. If you do want a boyfriend, solicit advice from someone in the business of boyfriends. I am not that person. You must remember that these men are replaceable. If one drops off, gets married, or goes gay, there are four more willings you can swap out in his place. You can add or subtract from your Fuck Fleet as little or as much as your vagina can handle before contracting something itchy.

Lady Killer: Hi Hi Hi Kooz


Poon-Tang Clan

Poon-Tang Clan

 Nicole has mastered the tiger style, the mantis style, Shaolin shadowboxing, the water method, and the flying Twitter.





Dear Douglas Martin,

 My pixel tits are bigger.

Dump her already.


Zilla’s friends, take note:

I’m chubby and a white girl.

You know what that means.


Cute face, bad music:

Tyga, Shwayze, Asher Roth.

Would still fuck them all.


You don’t do what now?

Hater you participate!

I will replace you.


Bald is beautiful,

See also: Larry David

And Kanye’s girlfriend.


From the jump-off to

Threesomes in your mama’s house

More the merrier.


Oh fuck yeah, baby,

Right there, keep doing that, yes!

Hold on, other line.


He doesn’t like you.

I know because he told you

He doesn’t like you.


Is it bad that I

Forgot the name of a man

Whose dick was in me?


Dear single fathers,

I only like you because

There’s proof that you fuck

Lady Killer: Things Dudes Should Stop Doing, Part 2

In case you haven’t been reading this italicized area, Nicole is the author of the Lady Killer columns.  I’m making this extra special announcement after catching minor flack for my video “Zilla Rocca Schools You on Girls”.  I hope the same amount of drunken gripes are cast upon Nicole, even though both of us speak ONLY the truth every time we step in the booth.  Part one of this ongoing mini-series is located at the end of the post.  Enjoy!

1. I think you’re cute and all (why else would we be laying up in this bed together?) and you seem to think the same of me (for real?), but please don’t stare at me longingly and for extended periods of thrust while we’re doing what we’re doing here. You don’t know me like that to be all up in my soul. Just barely enough for me to be all up on your pole.

2. Smutty conversation is admissible. In fact, I encourage kickin’ that trash vernax. Use your tongue for something other than whatever you swear you’re doing well down there. However…

3. Dirty talk, make that any talk, during our dalliance is not beyond the interpretation of regular talk. If we were in the mean streets and you were stabbing me upon my person and I, in a fit of stab-rage screamed, “Yo, cuz, you’re killing me because you are stabbing me upon my person!” I would assume you would stop killing me. Same rules apply to those times you are railing me with such go-go-gusto that physical pain is brought upon my person. Sort of like being stabbed upon my person. But with your dick. So when the time comes and I do say “Yo, cuz, you’re killing me over here!” this does not mean that I am loving what you’re shoving. This also does not mean that you know what to do with all that wasted homicidal rock and that I just “can’t handle it.” Joke’s on you, boo.

4. As a general rule, men fare better against technology than women. Most of those I know love button-mashing a gadget into submission. It’s a little sexy. Why is it then, that men can’t compose a text message for balls? Or, if they do begrudgingly decide that a response is in order, it’s never timely and always single-worded? I just typed award winning prose, some of which was explicit in nature, and you, three hours later and beyond the window of time wherein I would still want to get freaky-deaky, decide that “Ok” is satisfactory enough to a woman in heat? You are not taking this seriously. I will keep that in mind when you are trying to seriously get to know me. On the inside.

5. There is no scent more timelessly seductive than soap. No I would not like to smell your roller-ball of Muslim oil, and I absolutely do not encourage wiping yourself down with magazine samples of Diddy. None of this is up for debate. You smell like a whore.  Get out of my house.

Dolphin teeth not included with cologne

Dolphin teeth not included with cologne

6. I have learned a lot from He’s Just Not That Into You both in book and movie form. I know that you don’t want to have sex with me when you’re telling me you don’t want to have sex with me. I know that by you not answering my phone calls, you do not want to talk to me nor have sex with me. I know that when you tell me about the other women with whom you have regular sex, you probably don’t want to have sex with me. However, would you like to have sex with me?

7. On the bright side, though, I have come to understand why some women like to forge friendships when men rather than their womanly compatriots. For more than just the unlimited supply of dick. Men are light on the backbiting and subtle backhandedness. They are a simple creature. Man wouldn’t know the first thing about executing a champion level one-upping with a smile smeared across its smugly little face. Man wouldn’t try to do it with your boyfriend even though man had no interest in your boyfriend besides in proving that your boyfriend would probably fuck anything indiscriminately. Man doesn’t talk in a baby voice. Man doesn’t pretend he wants to fuck you until it’s time to fuck you when man decides he doesn’t really want to fuck you, he just wants to kiss a lot. I might even go so far as to say that I’d rather hang out with the douche-coiniest of rape bros, have him execute a bro rape on me, reverse bro rape him in self defense, and then press bro-vs.-raped charges against him that I will later drop when I learn that he is a rich bro rapist. That, all of that…than hang out with more than 88% of women.**

8. I see that you’re still wearing your sunglasses inside this building here. This building wherein the sun does not shine usually, you know, because it’s a night club where people go in the night time.

9. Why is your pinkie fingernail so long? Are you cracking open blunts or stabbing folk in the eyeballs in self-defense? And if the answer is neither, you might want to fill in your dawg, Jeeves.

10. When dudes start asking questions they needn’t, I simply reply with, “Do I mind your business?” (Which I don’t because I don’t care enough to do so.) And they say “No.” And then hopefully shut the fuck up. It’s a simple mom-approved tactic effective in keeping the gossip girls at bay.

**That said, if you are a cool woman and you think that I am a cool woman and you’d like to do cool womanly things with me, please direct yourselves to the comments section wherein I will screen you for coolness and then execute a bro rape on you. A bro friend rape.

Previously on

Lady Killer: Things Dudes Should Stop Doing, Saying, or Trying to Put Inside Me, Part 1

Lady Killer: Four Eyes Are Better Than Two


For the latest installment of Lady Killer, Nicole has decided to celebrate the Vernal Equinox a full 8 days early.  You, the faithful reader and haiku swallower, stay winning.


Heard it’s your birthday.

Wish that I could give a shit.

Here’s a greeting card.


You’re one year older,

And one more closer to death.

So, you wanna fuck?


I thought you were fat

But it turns out you’re knocked up.

Oh, and you’re still fat.


Bespectacled boys:

Four eyes are better than two.

Watch me suck your dick.


You’re sick? What’s that mean?

Is that just code for Herpes?

No? Um, check your lip.


You had a baby.

I wish I could find the words.

Oh, here goes: That sucks.


Want you in my life,

Just not in my apartment.

We are so over.


Talking about you

Is something that you enjoy.

I can’t say the same.


The sound of your voice

Makes the size of your dick seem

Way less offensive.


No, seriously,

Be my date for this wedding,

And handjobs ensue.



Lady Killer: My Punny Valentine

Nicole is to Valentine’s sentiments as Marisa Tomei is to full frontal at 42 years old: something you need to see.


Valentino [val-en-tee-no] noun: As in Bobby.  A honey-tongued male suitor in the business of overwrought and indiscernible Ooh-ing and Ahh-ing during coital participations.


Usage: Girl, don’t even get me started on some dirty talkin’ knuckleheads.  Tre from around the way? He ain’t got nothin’ to say to me when we posted up on the phone at night, but as soon as he find himself in some shit worth talking about? He goes and gets all Valentino in my mama’s basement. I swear I was fixin’ to smother a brother right there, boo.  Ooh, lemme get a sip?


Valentomb [val-en-toom] noun: Any number of romantic settings in which a man would rather meet his end than exist alongside the needy yippity-yap that dragged him there.


Usage: You know that chicken head, Leslie I’ve been talking to? Yeah, she got a friend, so what? Naw, dawg, you ain’t listening! So this bitch tells me she got some real special shit planned for me for Valentine’s Day or whatever.  I’m thinking she gonna let me hit her sister, Patrice, you know, some real Venus and Serena type stuff and whatnot. Homie, I swear to God, I got to that linen napkin motherfucker, I look around and see a dozen dead dreams of pussy smashing flash before my eyes. It was like I was being buried alive on some Pac shit and that restaurant was my valentomb. 


Valentoday? Maybe tomorrow [val-en-too-day  may-be-too-mar-row] noun: The woman in whom a man has shown some interest but who has been kept on reserve until after the heart holiday as a means to save both face and funds.


Usage:  Val’s a lovely girl, reeeeeally great, such a wonderful spirit inside of her and that’s not all, hiii-ohhh!  But times are tough, am I right, my hombres? She’s been asking me to take her here and there, meet her mother and all sorts of other romantic obligations.  So I say to her, oh you’re gonna love this, Brent, I say to her, ”Valentoday? Maybe tomorrow!” Up top, brother!


Valentini [val-en-tee-nee] noun: Brightly colored cocktails ordered by and served to single women who are commonly known to drink rather than feel their feelings. Those who favor such concoctions think that any prefix slapped onto the front end of -tini makes their drinkers seem cutesy-wootsy and not horribly insufferable as they so genuinely have proven themselves time and again.


Usage: Oh shittttt, this is my jammmmm! SINCE YOU BEEN GONEEE, I CAN BREATHE FOR THE…OH MY GOD, Beth, I love you, I fucking love you. You are my fucking girl, you know that. I swear to God, let any bitch in here come…oh shit, WAITER! WAIIIITER. Baby, we need…you are soooo sexy to me right now. Oh shitttt, lemme get…I am so wasted it’s not even funny right now…lemme get a round, like two, like a thousand rounds of valentinies for my fuckin’ girls. I love these whores. Oh God, I’m gonna throw…BLAAWWWARGH!



Snowmance [sno-mans] noun: An amorous relationship transpiring during the coldest and darkest days as a last resort for chilly singles sleeping double to kick up some heat between the sheets. Because there is no sensible person who wishes to be anchored in the season of cool breezes, snowmances drift as Spring thaws the clothes off our girlfriends. Commonly formed on ski lifts and around fireplaces.


Usage:  Duuuude, what’s up? Nah, I’m not busy, bro, I’m just shaving my dick hairs. I know, right? Ah, hold on, bro. Okay, I’m back, I had to precision trim, bro, precision, dawg, ahhh, that’s wild. So, what’s up, Dirk, what’s going on? What’s the word? C’mon man, give it to me, dawg. Rochelle, ahh, no, bro, you saw the weather forecast this week, right? Fuckin’ A, bro dawgy. I sent her packing back to Aspen, dude. Strictly a snowmance ya heard?  I’m not fucking Aspenian, bro. I’m fucking awesome is what I am. I let her know that shit. Capital fucking A-awes…Oh shit, gotta run, bro, my dick, dude, my dick!


Scowlentine [scowl-en-tine] noun: Miserable singles who, at the behest of no one, prattle on without provocation about the commercial and demeaning nature of Valentine’s Day in order to justify their being miserable singles. Scowlentines who later find themselves in relationships pretty much behave exactly the opposite because they are high on the vapor of being fucked by someone who really just wants to fuck someone.


Usage:  I am soooo happy I am pretty, Simone.  You should have seen the sad group of fat scowlentines hovering around the bar. If Jeffrey hadn’t given me this gigantic blood diamond mined from the souls of young African villagers, I might have actually lost my appetite over it.  A what?  What’s a recession?  You know I don’t speak poor people, now fetch me my copter.



Valentiming [val-en-tie-meeng] noun: Comes in two varieties: poor and good. One who locks down a lover between the cold and lonelies of December and January is said to exhibit good Valentiming as they have a greater chance of becoming cuffed in time for romantic merrymaking. Any time thereafter and men are on high alert, becoming acutely aware of their impending holiday duties, thus rendering them incapable of committing until after February 14th. In a word: Poor. In another: Valentiming.


Usage:  While Chris Brown’s abuse of leggy international superstar, Rihanna proved an unfortunate blow to their pristine pop bubble, his Valentiming could not have been better. We reckon the 50 G’s for bail pales in comparison to the needs and wants of a monied Caribbean queen.


Palin-time [pal-en-time] noun: The bookish bespectacled friend you enthusiastically bang behind closed doors but who, in public, is nary mentioned to friends unless in cold blooded jest.


Usage:  My brother, my brother, my brother, let me school you on something, my ba-ruh-thurrr.  The white woman? Devil incarnate. Motherfucking devil reborn on two legs, casting her spell on to the black man as a way to keep us way way down, down in the fiery pits, to perish at the foot of Beelzebub himself. Come close, my brother, closer now. You see that she-devil over there, with the pale white skin and dark brown hair, that vile lady demon?  I fucked the Holy ever-loving Spirit out of that Palin-time in the name of Sarah herself!  I steamed up thy corrective lens and cast the spell right back into the soul of that swine-eating imp!  But you ain’t never heard that word from me. Brother.


Van Gogh-mance [van-go-mans] noun: The sort of chatty naggy relationship one endures primarily for sexual reasons, as participating in a Van Gogh-mance more often than not makes you wish yourself deaf or, ideally, earless.


Usage: Sometimes when I think about the hell that I’ve been through over the past year-and-a-half with Renee and her constant talking about boring shit loudly, I recall fond memories of her chowing down on my piece like it’s her last meal. And that other shit she does when she’s splayed on my futon like a seizing, big-tittied starfish. And her indiscriminate lovemaking of women in my presence. And the butt stuff. Yo, the butt stuff! And pretty much every time she’s let me bust off in her with the comfort of knowing she’s got Plan B by the pound stashed in her nightstand. Yeah, I think of that shit, man. And it’s that shit that makes me proud to be trapped in a Van Gogh-mance with one of the most vile, self-serving women on the planet.   


Dow-entine [dow-en-tine] noun: The man one pity fucks as a means to soften the blow of his recent recession related unemployment.  The man one also doesn’t fuck as a result of recession related impotence.


Usage:  Working as a high class hooker, I’ve had my fair share of limp-dicked Dow-entines crawling out from under their stocks and bondage to give my profesh puss some play. Yet not even the scent of my lavender and Gold Bond infused money grip can raise their falling economies. You know, their dicks and shit.



UGK f/ Outkast “International Player’s Anthem”


Etta James “My Funny Valentine”


Jodeci “Forever My Lady”

Lady Killer: Haikulyhighharmony


Nicole wouldn’t be caught dead dressed as a prepped out Islamic leader, though she was a rogue member of the East Coast Family for almost two decades.

We fucked in the back

Of your converted cop car

While baby moms called.


Oh, did I mention

It was on your kid’s car seat?

“It” being” my snatch.


Good thing you look like

B2K’s long lost member…

But a lot less gay.


I’ve got a thing for

Dudes who don’t have a thing for

My mad boning skills.


All Lifetime movies

Will forever be better

Than, well, everything.


Hating Lil Wayne

Is the new loving Lil Wayne.

Make up your mind, bitch.


Hating Lil Wayne

Is just your way of making

Your lil Wayne bigger.


Hate parties, bullshit,

Other people’s kids, problems,

And farts. Love big dicks.


Heidi and Spencer:

Scumbags who probably shave

All their pubic hairs.


Sequence of events:

MySpace stalk, schedule fuck date,

Smash, bounce, then ignore.


Looking for a date

For a wedding in 9 months.

Yo, I’m punctual.


Looking for a date

For a wedding in 9 months.

Don’t dance? Don’t bother.


Hand sanitizer

Is the trip to the clinic

You don’t have to make.


Rub it on your piece–

It might burn a little bit!

A small price to pay.


Still can’t get enough

Of Positive K’s brilliant

“I Got a Man.” And?


I judge people on:

Promptness of text responses,

Hair, breath, and sneakers.

Lady Killer: Garth, That Was a Haiku! Excellent!


Nicole spent her New Year’s peacefully reflecting on 2008.  Beer was flowing, cigarettes were illegally puffed, haikus were ferociously scripted.  No word on the status of crack in her sock, though.


Wasted all my time

Thinking about fucking you.

Shame you’re impotent.


Let me get a sip

Of that Pepsi Slurpee, bitch.

The Herp sores? My treat.


Cats are pitiful

And I hate that you have one.

You smell like pee pee.


It’s so cold outside!

My nipples? Hard like diamonds.

Come eat your carats.


A kiss on New Year’s…

So many options to choose:

Who here’s the youngest?


In my heart for life:

First: Ruff Ryders Volume One.

Second: Your motha.


Face it, I Haiku,

Yes, as a verb, better than

Anything you do.


Can’t miss Gossip Girl.

Where else to get my fix of

Bitches in headbands?


Sucking dick for drugs

Is not nearly as bad as

Fucking you for free.


Ring in the New Year

With someone who gives it up

After the first drink.


I love it when dudes

Tell me about their girlfriends…

Like that would stop me.


Old slutty cougars:

Your perfume is choking me.

Please become extinct.


I miss the Winehouse

More than the Winehouse misses

Blake’s fleshy crack pipe.


My mouth is filthy.

Yes, I admit this freely.

But my crotch? Pristine.


Who’s got a Twitter?

My name is casual_text.

Let’s bore each other.


Jail is a fine place

To meet single gents who might

Let me finger them.


Obese mouth breathers

Swear we have shit in common.

Wait, we do. Binging.


If forced to pick one,

Always choose the fatter bitch.

Hates herself, loves dick.

Lady Killer: Keepin’ The Ho in Holiday


Nicole only wants four things for Christmas this year: a Segue, a gift card to Caldor, the advancement of US foreign policy to increase diplomacy while weening off our dependency to oil, and some warm peppermint MD 20/20.


Tis the season for tricking your number one into thinking the relationship is going to last half-past New Year’s Eve. Since such is the case, why not finagle some ill gifts from his paws while the pipe game is still right? ‘Cause you and I both know that once the winter doldrums set in so does the need for fireplace cuddles and Eskimo kisses.  And that shit’s just not conducive to your gangster. 


Boys are terrible gift givers, women even more so.  So before you go to the Walgreen’s photo bar to have your favorite kissing couples digi-pics blown to poster-size, get real familiar with the following holiday do’s and do not’s to spare yourself the sort of embarrassment you can prevent. Your face, on the other hand? You got that shit.


Do: invest an interest in the ones you love by actually, you know, talking to them rather than looking for clues in unreliable places. Like their MySpace page. We all adore a blinking glitter kitty as much as the next litter loving cat-lady, but does your bestie really need a set of pulsing LCD feline dildos to get her through the lonely blustery months? Possibly. But save that shit for your first girl-on-girl get-it-on, not for the office Pollyanna luncheon.  


Do not: think that your boyfriend shares your passion for memory making by decoupaging him a trinket box filled with ticket stubs from Mamma Mia! and old valentines. The day that he can stick his dick in either is the day that both of these gifts will mean something other than the nothing they will come Christmas morning.


Do: attend every holiday party to which you are invited. Why is this even up for discussion? I understand that you hate your parents–you’ll outgrow the angry fat teenage phase soon enough–but, by not attending, it seems that you also hate delicious home cooking, free booze, and not-so-charming anecdotes from the drunk one in the family. Oh wait, that’s you. But on some real shit, if you’re so up your own ass that you forgo an invite to merrymake over whatever un-fun bullshit you intend, you don’t deserve a holiday. Do us all a favor, sleep through it. We’ll wake you up in January when you can continue being insufferable and boring.


Do not:  cop out on the hostess gift by plunking down dollars on things that smell like shit.  Like Bath & Body Works.  Or potpourri. Or candles. Or potpourri scented candles from Bath & Body Works. Nobody likes the smell of shit. Except for people who like the smell of shit. Believe me, we are few.


 Do: your gracious host a favor and bring something edible to the party. Chocolate covered anything is a safe bet. Candy panties, less so.  Telling your girl’s aunt to eat your dick? You’re an idiot. A funny one, but really, you’re an idiot.


Do not under any circumstance, wear the fucking Santa hat. This is as inexcusable as wearing sunglasses in the club. I don’t care if St. Nick himself materializes before you and demands your putting one on. Do it and we’re through.


The offical cap of the 1972 Anchorage St. Nix of the Single A FreezeYourBallsOff Leage (minor league affiliates of the Seattle Pilots)


Do: take plenty of pictures of your friends and family before they realize that you’re the idiot in the Santa hat and drop you like a bad habit. At least you will have something for next year’s memory box.


Do not: profess your love for your best friend on New Year’s Eve thinking that, by the grace of some holiday miracle, he or she will find your less disgusting than he or she has all year prior. You still look exactly the same except now you have on stupid 2009 glasses and blinking Mardi Gras beads. And yep, you just pissed your pants.


Do: embrace your inner recessionista and hand make meaningful gifts for those closest to you. Knit nana a scarf or brew bathtub beer for your office crush . Or, if you’re really strapped for cash, give the gift of vagina. From what I’ve heard, yours is one size fits plenty, any, and many.


Do not: believe the hype. Not all women are soulless enough to hyperventilate over shiny things like diamonds and pricey gas guzzlers. Well maybe just the gas guzz. I can’t lie, it’d be nice to grip some grain now and again rather than gripping spit and shit covered subway railings.


 Do: give the gift of music. Whether this means making a mixtape for the dude who knows not of your existence or making out with a drum tech for a low-level local band, do the right thing this season and throw your support behind an art on its deathbed.  And yes, the rumors are true: Zilla Rocca accepts both donations of dollas and swallas.  Tis the season, honey.



Swallas = the plural term for “swallow” when speaking in South Philly 



Do not: hang mistletoe from your dick. That’s not funny and your dick is still the same dick we refused to put inside of us before Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And that one time in the bathroom at Ruby Tuesday.  Go hang with Santa Hat. I’m sure he’s looking for a chimney to stuff.


Do: love your children. It’s important and a law, I think.  However…


Do not: send out holiday greetings with their faces on a custom made card. Cute as it may be to someone who is into children (that’d be you), it’s really just an invite for someone with loose morals (that’d be me) to mustachio the otherwise innocent face of an antler-eared baby.


Do: gift the gift of necessity. During this time of financial disrepair, nothing says “Sorry about the pink slip, brah” like a paid-in-full T-Mobile bill or a gratis ride to the local Piggly Wiggly to your lesser-vehicled buds. What once was a holiday of decadence and disposable income, has now become a red and green reminder of one’s No Money, Mo Problems. Which reminds me…


Do not: forget to gift or re-gift your favorite blogger. Despite what you’ve heard about the six-figure deals some of the Internerd’s finest have had inked, we are not recession-proof. And that shit isn’t true. I mean, not for me it isn’t. And this is, after all, mostly about me.  I like my gifts like I like my men. You know, like men.  Send some my way and we’ll call it even. 

Lady Killer: If I Were a Bore


Nicole was putting it down back when Beyonce was just the light skinned jawn in the blonde weave clinging to a Wyclef remix.  No no no no! 


There are only two directions a blog post about Beyonce can take when a woman is wielding the pen: Hater territory and booty worship. I pray at the altar of neither. I am apathetic in the throes of well-oiled thigh jerking and the tossing of expensive hair. I bat nary an eyelash towards her success as I cannot change the minds of sassy 20-something women who, too, think they are independent womyn. They usually are not. And that’s cool, I get it. Everyone has their something. I have bounced my shit in more than one nightclub to more than most Beyonce songs. If you wish to know my weaknesses they are 808 beats, sirens, and whistles. Lady B has been my pusher man. To the untrained eye, I am the casual fan. My iPod both likes it and wishes to put a ring on it. My ass pales in comparison. But I don’t think about her much, don’t worry about whether or not her backup dancer has a dick taped into his bodysuit, don’t wonder what she’s doing with Jay-Z or how often or in which positions. And the reason is simple. Beyonce is be-oring. Despite recent efforts to sell herself as the man-eating double-identity (and, conveniently enough, double CD), Sasha Fierce, homegirl is the barely living equivalent to a Quaalude and Zima sake bomb..


Sure her music videos are innovative and her dance moves spin my shit into a seizing mess of two left feet and honky rhythm, but otherwise, I am often left feeling uninspired and dissatisfied. Which, given my record with big-talking men, is pretty much par for the course. But Beyonce isn’t supposed to make me feel the way a man makes me feel. She is supposed to raise me up on the wings of wealth and positivity. She is supposed to make horrible career-ending mistakes, throw up on something, spill a secret, a drink, out of a Tina Knowles designer gown. She exists to allow laypeople such as I to feel something, better, newer. And yet, and still, she just…doesn’t.  At this point, I can’t even be sure that Beyonce is human. But not in a sweet, robo-babe way, but more like that of a badonk’d cardboard cutout.


Beyonce’s contemporaries, while hardly as successful (save for Rihanna who rips shit up on the reg), make up and break up with fly lookin’ teen wet dreams like Chris Brown and Bow Wow (I see you, Ciara…actually, I haven’t seen you come to think of it.), wear bizarre headdresses (Alicia, girl, let me help you help yourself), and strike people down with their cars (Dare not question Brandy’s gangster.). They stumble, they fall, they probably have freak shit saved on their handy-cams. Beyonce? Her most intriguing moments are award show performances where here papa-teer and momager have her shit on lock, each move orchestrated to the teeth. Her most fascinating moment in recent history is hardly so. Rewind the time machine back to January and you might find Beyonce, oh I don’t know, marginally more likeable than say, every other month she remains on the Earth. Remember-member when blogger habitué, Kanye West, posted snaps of himself and Beyonce engaging in a heated Connect Four tourney to her prevail? Sigh. Stars, they’re just like us.


Since then? Barely a peep.



Even Beyonce, it seems, is not that into Beyonce. Her latest song and music video, “If I Were a Boy” paints the picture of Lady Knowles as if she were any other women living on the shit end of the dick—she’s got the boyfriend with a case of Roman eyes and Russian fingers, a thankless homemaking gig, and all those weepy eyed histrionics. Beyonce, you are Beyonce. What’chu know about that? In retrospect, I can understand the man-serving “Cater 2 U” of the Destiny’s Child era. I get that shit. Beyonce was just some chick with a fatty looking for an audience among bunnies with no to low self esteem who would do anything for their men short of wiping the dooksicles from their boo’s crap canyons. Been there. But you only get one of those. What would Sasha Fierce say?  Speaking of which, Sasha Fierce isn’t even all that fierce. It’s just Beyonce, you guys! Underneath the pricey ponytail and fake eyelashes. See? There she is, bougie-ass B. with her songs about lost lovers and waterfalls and feelings. Since when do Beyonce-bots even have feelings? Jigga, get your girl, yo.


I am acutely aware of how unsuccessful I am. No need to remind. However, I do think that my advice is not without its merits. And so, a word: Beyonce, baby girl, listen, you got the party-jam game on lock. When shit starts not making sense, you know you’ve done it right. “Bootylicious?” Certified tail shaker. “Ring the Alarm?” Blaring. “Put a Ring on It?” Deleriously stoopid. “Crazy in Love?” Uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh! Do that and do that shit often. Every time someone sticks a microphone in front of your lips just start repeating any word, your choice, and blow a whistle to the beat. Solid goldfinger.


Keep the booty bus plowing through the bachelorette party circuit, B., and worry not about looking deep inside of yourself. Afterall, you’ve got Hov for all that.