by Leon Black
Needless to say, the wife insurance policy would have strict terms that would cause pre-existing conditions to disqualify you from collecting (see the section in the book covering flu dick). Also, if this is your second/third/fourth time around, the premium would be adjusted accordingly. I mean, did you not learn anything? To determine your risk, the adjusters would interview your crazy ass exes, your alcoholic grandma, and the nice girl who would have given you a hand job if you didn’t fucking open your big mouth about being married in the first place. In other words, for example, car insurance companies are not going to pay you if you steal your own fucking car. Take note.
ESCAPE CLAUSE
I don’t want to piss off the ladies, so I’m going to open with a disclaimer: I’m a man. I bring the ruckus to the ladies. I have a black belt in fucking. And so I will be writing this section from a man’s perspective. Just like I mentioned when I was talking to you about wife insurance, we men are the ones who need divorce advice because women are fucking communicative. When they are not happy, they just wake up one morning and tell their shit-for-nothing husband, “I’m done.” Or, “I’ve been fucking the Columbian housepainter the last four months, and it has been fantastic.”
Many of you fools are unhappy in your marriage and you are dying for a divorce, but you’re too scared to say it. Now, some men will never have this problem because they are the type of guys who, when they get bored in the relationship, start cheating. And whether they mean to be or not, they are so sloppy with their cheating that they get caught and their relationship ends. Problem, though, for some of you is that you’re not the kind of devious type who would cheat on your wife. And look, there’s nothing wrong with devious types—I mean, they are often contractors, own nightclubs, or even sell used cars, so they do contribute to society. But for the rest of you nondevious types, I have a better, more passive-aggressive technique that will lead you to the desired result without having to engage in that shady shit. I mean, come on, don’t disrespect women. Suppose that was your sister? Or your mother? I wish you would try and cheat on my mother; I would whup your ass! Here is my four-step break-up technique:
1. Contact Replacement/Renaming: A first easy step is to replace the most frequently used contacts on your phone with hot lady names. Include Natasha, Coco, and Peaches, no typical shit. Friends can be enlisted to actually role-play if your lady chooses to call and confront them. Now, if your wife is not the jealous type, or if she’s very trusting, then the phone shit won’t work. Time to kick it up a notch.
2. Controlled Nightmares: Natasha, Coco, and Peaches will now appear in your dreams. How dirty those dreams get is entirely up to you, because you will be yelling out shit in the middle of the night while pretending to be asleep. If you’re a great performer and can be convincingly vocal, do your dizzle and go for fucking gold. Just don’t overdo the volume, ’cause that can make the shit sound unbelievable, plus if you’ve got thin ass walls you’ll just sound crazy to your kids and/or neighbors.
3. Staging a “Real” Affair without Actually Fucking: If, for some crazy ass reason, Wifey finds your fuck fantasies amusing and still can’t imagine you would ever actually cheat on her . . . then you’re clearly rockin’ a cornball image in her eyes, which is a whole other problem we don’t have time to entertain right now. So anyway, at this point, cornball, you’re really gonna have to go for it. Again, I’m not saying you actually go fuck around (’cause that’s not gonna help your ass in the divorce settlement, unless you’re into losing your shit, ’cause that shit could happen) but making her believe you are will get the results you need. Yes, she will hate your ass, but that will HELP her move the fuck on. Her level of hatred, resentment, and disgust will cause her to leave you. Trust me, you’ll be doing her a favor. She’ll feel so empowered by leaving you that she will be able to hang out with her friends, sip her glass of chardonnay (women love that wine shit), and tell them that she got out in time and didn’t waste the rest of her life with that asshole Kelvin!
4. The Leon Phase: Some crazy ass women refuse to give up on the marriage no matter what happens. They could walk in on you fucking their best friend, but after they scream and throw some bowls and cutlery around, they will sit down with you and suggest couples therapy (Fuck!) so BOTH of you can take responsibility and figure out how you got into this dark place to begin with. Who has time for that shit? If that setback happens, I, Leon, will intervene. You text me, I will come over, take your lady to the bedroom, and bring so much ruckus she won’t have any desire to see your cornball ass ever again.
NAME DAT BABY
It took me a long time to embrace the name “Leon.” Now, I know some of you are thinking, “How about Leo, Leon?” First of all, I wish a muthfucka would call me “Leo!” I would knock somebody out for some lazy ass shit like that! That would be like calling Larry “Lar.” Why the fuck would you do that? Larry is already short for Lawrence! Why the fuck would you short a short! No, you can only short a short with certain names. Like someone says, “Hey, my name is William, but you can call me Willy for short!” Then you can short that short by calling Willy “Will”! See, that shit is cool: You have a formal name for dinner parties and job interviews and a casual name for clubs and arrest reports. Now that I think about it, you can also call that muthafucka Bill. Fuck William—bad example!
Or how about Richard: You can call that muthafucka Rich or—get this—Dick! Where the fuck did Dick come from!?! That’s why I say take your time when you’re coming up with a name for your damn seed. Don’t get caught up with no trends like naming kids nature shit, like River or Sky; and unless you want to raise a stripper, stay away from alcoholic beverages like Courvoisier, Brandy, or Sex on the Beach; shit like that ends badly.
Here are some important factors that go into choosing a good ass name that won’t fuck your kid up for life:
1. Don’t choose a name until your kid is at least five years old. Until then, just keep alternating names to see which one fits. This will confuse your kid, but eventually none of those names will have any meaning to that kid. Eventually, he or she will respond to anything without caring, which is exactly what you want. You want to build a kid who’s not sensitive to the nonsense around them. That way bullies with all the mean shit they say will have no power against that kid.
2. Also, don’t choose that name too early, because to be honest, I know that’s your kid, but you don’t know that kid yet! You have no idea what your kid’s personality is gonna be like, and the last thing you want to do is give your kid some punk ass name like Kyle when it becomes clear, when he turns sixteen, that he should’ve been a Dwayne.
3. Stop trying to be so damn original. It’s a global world out there, and you want to make sure your name sounds powerful no matter where you are. Names that might be good in one area might not translate somewhere else. Make shit sound like it spells and make it easy to pronounce. Like, what if you’ve given your daughter some beautiful African name like Nyla and she ends up falling in love with some Japanese businessman, but her husband can’t pronounce that shit and she has to live her entire life with her name being slaughtered by her own fucking husband.
4. I know #3 sounds racist, but it’s the truth: Some ethnicities have a hard time pronouncing words that other cultures say with no trouble. For instance, Larry let me try some nasty-looking food that he likes, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t fall in love with that shit. Problem is, I can’t pronounce it, so whenever I want some of it, I tell Larry, “Lemme get some of that good ass nasty shit,” and he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
5. Every random ass new word you hear does not necessarily make for a good baby name. Don’t be some dude who overhears some woman on a train talking about her labia and then run home and tell the mother of your unborn baby that you want to name it that . . . don’t do that! Look up a word before you use it, let alone name your kid it. Don’t make your lady have to point out to you just how dumb you are. Or, worse yet, don’t have that kid get fucked u
p in the end because both of her parents were dumb enough to think Labia would be a good damn name.
HARD HEAD—SOFT BEHIND
Y’all are prisoners, prisoners of convention. You dole out cash to your kid for every stupid, cavity-ridden tooth that falls out. I mean, what the fuck? Have you forgotten that you are the Tooth Fairy, you are the Easter Bunny, you are that jolly ass Santa! Wake up! You establish the market and you make the rules. Instead of candy, give your kids vitamins; instead of money, give them a washcloth and soap. And if your alcoholic mother still wants to give them money, you take that dollar and tear it in half, and take that damn half a dollar and put it under your kid’s pillow so that when they wake up and see it, they will have to ask themselves, “What did I do wrong?” Doesn’t matter that they didn’t do anything wrong, they think they did, and the guilt and fear makes them manageable. It fucks with their head and prepares them for life. And that is good parenting.
There’s an emotional song I enjoy listening to, I don’t remember the name but I Iove the fuck out of the song. That being said, there are some lyrics that I feel are misleading. For instance, “I believe the children are our future . . .” That lyric single-handedly fucked up parenting. Also, “Show them the beauty they possess inside . . .” Beauty should be obvious. Something that has to be shown is not. And let’s be honest, most kids are not beautiful inside, they’re just rotten. I’m not saying it’s always the kid’s fault, but it’s simple math. If every other piece of fruit in the house is rotten, how do you think that little ass tangerine is gonna turn out?
Really, parenting begins right when that damn baby pops out! If that doctor doesn’t slap that ass good, things will never be right. Next big moment is feeding that damn baby. Now, I was a breast baby myself, and that’s the best way to go. Canned milk is all right, but it ain’t as good as breast milk. “Why did I say ‘breast milk’ instead of ‘titty milk’?” you ask. Because breast milk is for the baby and titty milk is for the daddy . . . if you’re into that kind of thing. Now, back to breast milk versus canned milk: Don’t get me wrong, although breast milk is better, you can still fuck your kid up with that stuff ’cause you have to know when to get your kid off the titty. See, I said “titty” there, because when that breast turns back into a titty, it’s time to get that damn kid off it! I saw a documentary where this lady was still titty feeding her eight-year-old kid, and she was having trouble weaning him off. As a matter of fact, she said she started trying to get him to stop when he was five. Hell, at five that little muthafucka was already too old! Mothers, you want a tip on how to wean your baby (or in some cases your husband or boyfriend) off the titty? Hot sauce! I had a friend that said his mother got him to stop sucking his thumb by putting hot sauce on it. I suggest you put some hot sauce on your nipple, but make sure to put some Vaseline on first so you don’t burn your shit. Trust me, when whoever goes in for a sweet sip gets hit with that red-hot taste, the suck session will be over.
One disclaimer: If you’re dating someone black, the hot sauce might not be a deterrent. I’m just saying.
IT TAKES A DAMN VILLAGE
I hate tired ass phrases that don’t mean shit. For instance, “Look at you.” What’s the point of that one? Can you reeealIy look at yourself? I do think it would be great if you could actually see yourself. You do realize, though, that most people in your life have seen you more than you have seen you. I mean, you’ve seen yourself in mirrors and pictures and shit, but to be honest, when it’s all said and done, you have never really seen yourself enough to know what you really look like. Like if you could somehow walk behind yourself, trust me, you would be like, “Who is this dumb muthafucka in front of me?”
Think about it: When you dream, you create a little image of you in there. It’s a version of you that you think is accurate. But if you could ever let someone you know drop by one of your dreams for a cameo, they would look at that little dream you and be like, “Who the fuck is that?” And you would be like, “Me,” and they would be like, “That’s not what the fuck you look like.” At which point you would probably dream a ferocious cougar into the scenario to eat your friend’s ass for talking shit. Regardless, you don’t really know what the fuck you look like.
Or another one is like when people say it takes a village. I get it, you’re saying everyone should play their part in raising that kid. By the way, I would actually prefer to say it takes a village to raise “children,” but I acknowledge it doesn’t sound right. Personally I just don’t like the word “kid.” A “kid” is a goat, so in reality, you’re saying it takes a village to raise a goat, which doesn’t make any damn sense. Oh, and don’t be shocked that I knew “kid” is another name for “goat.” To be honest, I would be shocked if you didn’t know. And if you didn’t, now would be a good time to look at yourself and see why you didn’t know. See how I brought that shit back around?
Back to the whole “village to raise your kids” bullshit: You know how many strong single moms and dads I’ve met? Ones that have raised several kids!?! Who the hell came up with that saying? My thing is, what the hell is wrong with that kid? You think that village ain’t got nothing better to do? How about running businesses, driving Ubers, hustling and bustling? Is the village supposed to just stop what they’re doing to raise that mess of a kid? Where are his parents? I tell you, what that village needs to do, they need to line them parents up and whup their asses for trying to pawn off their parenting responsibilities on the damn village! A village got shit to do, shit like putting horseshoes on horses, paying taxes to the king, and burning witches . . .
Maybe I went back too far, but you get the idea—raise your own fucking kids!
BIRDS AND BEES
And while we’re on the subject of bullshit phrases, here’s an expression that drives me crazy: Why is it that when a parent wants to talk to their children about sex, they use that stupid old “birds and bees” thing? First thing motherfucking first, a bird would never fuck a bee. You would never see that shit. They’d both get hurt. Birds like birds and bees like bees; if anything a bird might eat a bee, but he wouldn’t fuck it. Plain and simple, birds eat bees!
If anything, if you want to use the birds and bees phrase in a productive way, use it to inspire your kids to try a new trade! Give your kids a beekeeper suit—you know how much natural honey costs? Or how about a falcon and one of them falconry gloves? Let your kid take that to school. I bet your kid will never get bullied with a big ass falcon on his arm! Just make sure to consider your kid’s weight when choosing the size of your falcon, because they can and most definitely will carry a small child away. I’ve seen it happen.
Really, when you think about it, why would someone ever have come up with having “the birds and bees talk”? If you ask me, that’s just some random shit! They might as well have called it “the potatoes and onions talk”! Now, that one would have made more sense! Just like how the birds and the bees are different, so are potatoes and onions, but at least you can picture potatoes and onions hooking up. I mean, on the one hand you’ve got this strange shape, bulky ass–looking potato man hooking up with a multilayered sweet yet pungent lady onion! And we all know what happens when a potato hooks up with an onion: home fries. See? That makes sense.
I do realize, though, at the core of that sloppy ass metaphor is the real issue of how do you talk to your kids about sex. Look here, it’s an important conversation, and I can’t state it enough that it’s not a time to fuck around with metaphors. Trust me, when your teenager brings home that newborn baby, that metaphor will turn into reality very fast. To me, the way you deal with it is the same way you get into a cold ass pool: You dive the fuck in and deal with the initial shock. Just walk up to your kid, look him/her in the eye, and say, “Speaking of fucking!” Once you start there and the shock wears off, everything will be much easier to talk about.
To be honest, I don’t believe in long bullshit conversations to explain fucking to your kids. Just like the expression “It’s easier to
ask for forgiveness than permission,” I say the best way to go is to just let your kid catch you a few times. Trust me, it’s easier to explain to them what the fuck they just saw than to explain to them what the fuck is supposed to happen.
RAN-AWAYS
The runaway epidemic has gotten out of control, for one reason only: You can’t tell who’s a runaway anymore. Years ago people dressed based on their social class: You knew who was rich and who was poor, who was black and who was white. These days, everyone dresses the same way: raggedy. A runaway? You can’t spot a runaway when they are interspersed among the motherfucking hipsters and hobos.
Another one often confused for a runaway is a hitchhiker, but they are pretty easy to distinguish. First of all, a hitchhiker is too old to be running away. Second, while a runaway is running away, a hitchhiker is more likely on the run; that’s a big difference. You run away from shit like your parents or school; you are on the run from shit like the authorities or your responsibilities. Plus a runaway is the one you wonder, “Where the fuck did they come from!?!” And the hitchhiker is the one you wonder, “Where the fuck are they going!?!”