“Why y’all gotta waste my flava? Damn!”

The great thing about the Kenny Fisher character was that every high school had one or two or three of these guys. We had just enough Kenny Fishers sprinkled throughout our own high school that made Seth Green’s acting far from exaggeratory. The clothes, the forced dialect, the obvious struggle to be accepted into a clique. Hey, Todd or Tim or any other painfully white name, if you’re looking to be a part of a group, man, you picked the hardest one, don’t you think?  You’re, uh, kinda missing the key ingredient. Wouldn’t it be much easier to be a punk or in the ROTC? There’s a certain, confident swagger which black guys pull off where you don’t question the authenticity, you know? If the black guy walked down the hall rhyming and swaying, you were convinced this dude was destined for stardom. But, on the flip side, if you saw a Kenny Fisher walking down the same hall dropping the same rhymes, you laughed your way to your locker. Why is that?

Because it was just so obvious these dudes were playing a part. A short-lived part until they moved on to the next group when their acceptance was denied. Plus, they wanted to be intimidating. They wanted to wear a costume—pretend they weren’t from the perfect nuclear family in the swim/tennis community. My group of friends and I were stoked on rap like everyone else, but we never understood the costume, though. Never felt the need to dress the role. Well, except after seeing Menace to Society, we went out to Big Lots® and bought those corduroy slippers that O-Dog wore. That was a good look, though. I am currently wearing similar house shoes.

Anyway, rap was huge. Huge for everyone at that age. We loved NWA and Eazy, the DOC. But we never felt like the costume was for us… we never understood—and I still can’t till this day—how these suburban “gangstas” expected to be taken seriously. You’ve got these ridiculous white, previously- redneck clowns dressing up in their street costumes trying to pretend they somehow related to the lives of ruthless black dudes from an apparent warzone called Compton. Look, these jokers were toilet papering 4 bedroom houses with finished basements dawned in Raiders Starter® jackets, while their influencers were doing drive bys and selling crack (in the songs, at least). Things are a little different in the burbs, yeah?

Kenny’s costume was hilarious, though. The huge pants, the oversized shirts, huge moon-boot high tops, and of course those absurd goggles. Remember when knuckleheads wore those things for the sake of style? This trend was absolutely asinine. Goggles! I mean, seriously, trends—regardless of the fashion element—have to serve some function right!? Good grief. Goggles!? What?!  Are the snow making machines on today?  Doing some metal fabrication, perhaps?

Unreal what trends came and went. I think sometime in the future I’ll compile a list of all the ridiculous trends that I find/found unnacceptable—especially in the world of hip hop. But, worse than goggles on the head, the most ridiculous trend in hip hop: clothing on backwards. What’s up, Kris Kross. Think about this for a sec, there were grown ass men wearing their Cross Color® Jeans on backwards. These full-on adults were following a trend which was started by a couple prepubescent rappers. Kriss Kross were like 7, weren’t they? Where’s the pride, dogs?  Good Lord. That’s like me propping up my fresh, New Era® Atlanta Braves cap on the top of my head, so my bangs hang underneath in a total Zac Efron, grown out bowl cut, kinda way because I think Justin Beiber’s style is the real deal, y’all.

You familiar with Justin Beiber?  If not, google him and prepare to be mad. He’s the latest R&B sensation. The next Usher. Except for a couple things: a) He’s like 9 years old and b) He’s a white kid most likely from the suburbs of Atlanta, like a Johns Creek or some other rich white zone. There are rules in life for 9 year olds, right?  If you’re 9, you can’t drive a car, you can’t shoot a gun, and you can’t be a R&B crooner.  You just can’t.

This toddler sings about how he thought this girl was gonna be there forever. Forever!? Dude, you’re nine. Aren’t you still having birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese?  You’re still into McDonald’s desserts. Come on, man. What are you even talking about? I want to know who writes this shit for this kid. What creepy old fat man is sitting behind a mahogany desk where the stub of a cigar is still burning while he rubs his torso, generally spending more time in the nipple region, thinking about the wide range of suburban white boys he can line up and parade around like the second coming of Justin Timberlake (only younger and fresher—gross) as the money floods to both him and the kid’s parents who instead of depositing the funds into a college savings for their now famous tween, spend his cash on ridiculous cars to impress other OTP $50 thousand dollar millionaires while the fat music mogul and his questionable pedophiliac leanings, is taking cash—which really belongs to talent, right?—and regularly embezzling it into multiple off-shore accounts to avoid payments to the IRS which inevitably lands him in jail with the violent offenders who heard through the prison grape vine that he was a child molester so they orchestrate a plan to jump his fat ass out in the yard shanking him continuously until they hear him muster his last words through a gargle of blood and stomach acid, “rrgggle…(spit) …rrrrrgggggllll…..(spit)…the boy…(catching a non-existent breath)….could really sing, couldn’t he? He could really croon….” And then one last dramatic shutter of an obese body as it lies face down in the muck of an old prison yard.

….AND SCENE!!! (insert extremely gay high-pitched voice with arms thrown up and foot flamboyantly stomped forward here)

The point is, why isn’t he out on the baseball field hitting a ball off the tee? Or pusing a Razor® scooter? Or in the cul-de-sac playing ‘kick the can.’ Instead, this rascal is out singing about lonely girls and love lasting forever and other hot crooner topics. Who’s buying this load? Oh, what’s that you say? His music isn’t for 32 year old men? Oh, I’m not exactly his target demo?  It’s more for tween girls? Oh. Well, then. Attention tween girls: you’re retarded. You’re absolutely retarded if buy into this shit. Just wait girls. Just wait a couple years until he’s like 12 or something and all the guest appearances by Ludicris and other rappers who’ve forgone the notion of street cred start influencing this beautiful shining star. Just wait until he’s introduced to weed and guns. You think all the “love lasting forever” is about you? Nope, it’s about St. Ides and Old English and Steel Reserve. That’s the love he’s talking about… He’s the real deal now, girls. He went from Usher to all Chris Brown, now. Y’all best watch out, punches will be thrown.

Seriously, man, I haven’t hated a kid so much since that little red-headed kid appeared on 90210 as the son of the single mother played by Hillary Swank. Wow, did that kid suck. I’m not positive, but I think it was the same kid who played Jim Carey’s son in Liar Liar. That sniffling, winey ginger really got my goat, man. When are parents going to learn grown out bowl cuts on kids aren’t cute. Especially redheads. Bowl cuts on redheads is a terrible decision. You’re choosing to make your kid look like an infected phallus.

I just realized that in the short life of this ridiculous site, I’ve been pretty liberal with the redhead bashing. That’s kinda funny…What is it about the redheads? Why did they become the step children? The Scott Farcus-es of the world.  I think it’s because everyone—like me—instantly pictures kids like the aforementioned 90210 brat.  A bowl-cutted, freckle-faced, nasally little shit. It’s funny, everyone used to say with the many derogatory comments I’ve made toward the rychies (redheads), my kid is definitely going to end up with red hair.Well, guess what…our baby was born with hair. Tons of it. And it wasn’t red. But, man, I’ll admit to this… his hair has red “tendencies.”  He’s over 3 months old now, and the little guy’s hair is thinning and lightening. And because of this, in certain light, like the sun, it looks almost red. Orange-ish. What do you make of that?  Is it turning red?  Hair doesn’t turn red, does it?  I don’t think so. But if it does…well, lets just say that Just for Men® won’t be just for men.

And if all else fails, I’ll cover it up with a pair of goggles.