by Leon Black
SLOW THE FUCK UP
This one is easy: In life, don’t rush your shit! Take your time, ’cause when you don’t trust me, you will fuck up! Unless a safe has fallen from a window and is about to drop on your head, take your time! Watch how easy I explain this to you!
When McDonald’s has their 99-cent Big Mac sale, right, people love the fuckin’ Big Mac. But because it’s 99 cents, everybody wants ’em, right? People order four, five at a time. But now, the people who work there gotta rush. They gotta fuckin’ rush to make the fuckin’ Big Mac faster, because everybody wants ’em. They’re fucking 99 cents! But now they’ve fuckin’ rushed them so fuckin’ fast that every once in a while you bite into a Big Mac and it’s missing one of the goddamn ingredients! Everybody knows it’s two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun, right? You fuck around and bite one of them Big Macs that’s missing special sauce, you’re like, “Fuck! There’s no special sauce on this muthafucka!” You bite another one, the pickles ain’t in the shit. You know why? Because muthafuckas is rushing. It takes time. You gotta make the shit how it’s supposed to be made. When you start rushing the burger, you open the shit up—the burger’s crooked and shit. What the fuck? The burger’s hanging halfway off the goddamn bun, because they’re fuckin’ rushing, and they’re not doing it right. You gotta make it exactly how the ingredients were initially pitched to the person, and how it’s supposed to taste, and how it’s supposed to look, and how it’s supposed to feel. And that’s the problem when you start rushing and cutting corners. In life you end up old with the gout in your foot, five failed marriages, a stripper daughter, and a no-good son. You are the human equivalent of a crooked ass, pickleless 99-cent Big Mac. Sometimes the simplest shit makes the most sense.
SNITCHING
A good friend takes the rap for your ass. If some bullshit is going down, he’s in the yard, making sure you’re protected. I mean, that’s what real friends do, but now I’m gonna be honest: If some shit goes down and you didn’t do it, you better snitch on someone; and if there’s no one around but that good ass friend, your best bet is to snitch on that muthafucka. There is an expression that goes “Snitches get stitches.” Now, I don’t know if that’s true, but what I do know is that muthafuckas who wind up in jail get stitches, mostly to sew up their stretched-out assholes.
That being said, I’m not advocating snitching—snitching is a bad look. What I’m telling you to do is to not snitch directly. Here’s what you do: You snitch to the other snitches. You see, you have to fragment the snitch. You find yourself a blabbermouth (there are plenty out there). That way you are indirectly attached to the snitch, and you still did your duty.
Make sure you are discreet about your snitch. Don’t make it seem like you’re snitching; just encourage the blabbermouth to move the information forward. Some helpful phrases to use:
“You ain’t gonna believe this!”
“I hope nobody calls the cops on his ass, but if they did it, well . . . .”
“Between you and me . . .”
Then just sit back and let the authorities handle the rest. And if somehow it comes back to you, just snitch on the blabbermouth you snitched to. See, that shit is symmetry.
POSITIVE SNITCHING
I tell you, snitching has gotten a bad reputation. To snitch just means to inform on someone; it doesn’t say anything about sending someone to jail. What I’m trying to say is that just like you can snitch negative stuff, you can also snitch positive stuff. That’s why, if I was technologically inclined, I would make a mint with this idea—and don’t steal this shit—the Positive Snitch App. This app would send texts, emails, and phone calls to your significant other to positively snitch on you. The messages start off like they are going to be scandalous, but they end up positive.
Let’s say you’re cheating on your girlfriend and you fuck around and leave your jacket at her place—and the jacket your lady gave you is an anniversary gift. Open up the app, punch in the details, and then before your ass gets whupped, your lady will get this text:
You don’t know me, but I was in the supermarket and I saw your man—I think you were on the phone with him—anyway, I had this tight skirt on and I bent over and it ripped! Girl, you know what your man did? He took off his jacket and handed it to me to wrap around my big booty. When he did, he dropped his phone, and I saw your name and number with a heart emoji, so I memorized the number to text you to tell you what a good ass man you’ve got!
Pretty good, huh? I added the “big booty” part to make it more realistic, because your lady knows you and she knows you wouldn’t be so ready to help some lady unless she had a big booty. Now, when you walk in the door, before you can even begin to lie about the jacket, she’s like, “Baby, I know what happened. You are such a gentleman! Come here!” See that! I’ve got a lot of get your ass out of trouble ideas. Billionaires, hit me up, I’m always looking for investors.
SELF-ESTEEM DEFENSE
People take up martial arts as self-defense. That’s misguided advertising. Don’t spend your money learning how to lift your leg up so high you can kick the side of someone’s face, ’cause that won’t defend you. Let me tell you something, if you threw a kick at me, I would grab your damn fake ass karate leg, twist you to the fuckin ground, and embarrass you! Don’t try that shit on me! And definitely don’t try it on some desperate ass criminal. Look, I know you’re going to want to, I mean, you’ve been training for a bunch of years, mastering your skill, waiting for the opportunity to try your shit out. I mean you can’t practice that shit on your family what you gonna do, chop your grandparents in the throat while they’re napping, leg sweep your nephew? You need some bully to come fuck with you so you can look him in the eye and say, “You picked the wrong one!” And then that day finally comes, and someone calls you out and you square up, ready to do your shit, only he doesn’t throw a punch, he just looks at you and laughs, he makes fun of your dumbass karate stance and your little ass head and your big ass feet. Then he starts riding your lady’s hairstyle. Damn! So now you gotta do something, you get so mad you lift your leg up to bring the muthafuckin’ Ruckus with a roundhouse for his ass, he catches your shit like I would. And in the three seconds it took to do a move that should’ve only taken one, you realize you can’t bring the Ruckus to someone if you don’t have it in you to begin with. And as he is punching you in the face repeatedly, you realize the classes were bullshit and so were you, and really the reason you bought that martial arts Groupon three years ago wasn’t because you wanted to learn about karate, it was ’cause you wanted to gain discipline and learn about yourself.
Deep shit huh? Seriously you want self-defense? You’ve got to work on self, I call it Self-Esteem Defense. One thing I know for a fact is no one can beat me at a mind game! My Ruckus game is tight. You can’t shake me in a fucking mind game! I may not look it but trust me one thing I got is a warehouse full of unopen boxes of self-esteem! They say the best offense is a good defense but they got that shit backwards! Protect yourself by strengthening your mind!
Now I’m not saying don’t learn how to physically protect yourself but as you’ve read so far there are better ways to get in that brain ass. For instance, shut the fuck up once in a while and just watch people. Doing this will help you develop your wenta muscle, which is important for survival. Trust me, knowing wenta talk shit and wenta shut the fuck up just might save you from embarrassment.
A good way to enter the mental state necessary to master your mind is to achieve Zen. Now while I recommend practicing it, just be aware of where and when you are doing it. I mean, don’t do it while operating heavy machinery or filling out important paperwork and definitely don’t try it in the middle of a fight. I highly suggest doing it while sitting on the toilet, preferably in a guest or basement bathroom or rarely used powder room where you are least likely to have someone pounding on the door and ruining your concentration. Sitting on the toilet is a great time to focus on you
r mind, your body, and your shit. Bottom line: Once you get your brain right you will be able to mind-slap the shit out of a muthafucka right, to the side of the head, and trust me he won’t be able to catch it.
SHUTTING SHIT DOWN
One thing I know about being in a relationship is that arguments happen. And at the core of most arguments is dis-re-fuckin-spect! The majority of the time, disrespect occurs when you speak the truth to your partner but you do it in the wrong way! Bottom line: If you have some shit to say that’s bothering you, it’s better to keep that shit to yourself. But if you find you must say something, here’s a suggestion: Start your statement with “No disrespect.” Once you say “No disrespect,” it gives you the freedom to disrespect. Also, you might try adding “Honestly” or “I’m just saying.” Shit like that technically puts you in the clear, because I mean, you’ve clearly stated that you don’t mean to disrespect and you’re only being honest.
Despite my great advice to you, as I mentioned before, if you speak your mind to your partner, an argument will follow. Now, in general, I feel the best way to end an argument is to punch the person you are arguing with in the fucking face. That usually just stops the whole argument instantly. But if you’re fighting with a woman, never—I repeat, never—lay hands on a woman; I don’t play that shit. Now, that is not to say that I have never felt like it and I’m sure a lady or two has felt like doing the same to me, but I can’t say it enough: not only should you not touch your lady like that, she shouldn’t touch you like that either; it should never come down to some shit like that. No, instead, you and your wife should always have a wide selection of premade pies in the fridge, ’cause trust me, a pie to the face is the way to go—in particular, pies in the cream and meringue family. Nothing heavy, like pumpkin or like a cobbler; shit like that will do damage. No, you make sure you use something like a coconut custard or, better yet, a banana cream. (Make sure it’s a flavor you both like, in case makeup sex occurs—that way you can enjoy licking it off each other.) See? Now when the police show up on account of a “domestic disturbance” and the officer sees both of you with pie filling on your faces, that cop is gonna smirk. I mean, there’s no way he can take that shit seriously. Also, to help your cause, rent a clown suit. If a cop shows up and sees the two of you standing there dressed like clowns, that cop will have no choice but to turn his body cam off, get back into that damn patrol car, and drive the fuck away.
IN IT TO WIN IT
Now, while I believe lotteries are for suckers, I also believe that it is important to play them once in a while. Think about it: No matter how poor you are, no matter how many bills you’ve run up or how many kids you have when you buy that ticket, right up to the moment you scratch it or that shit draws, you have the possibility of hitting it rich and flying the fuck out of that hole that you’re in! A dollar and a fucking dream!
Make sure you enjoy the process; if you don’t, then you are probably a degenerate gambler and I’m not speaking to you right now except to say, “Get some damn help!” When you pick numbers, don’t do it on the day of the drawing; do it a few days ahead, so you have more time to fantasize. And don’t read the winning numbers online or (if you’re old) in the papers the next day. You make sure you’re in your home and watching that damn drawing wearing a suit or a fancy gown like you’re at some damn awards show—that way if you win, you can feel special! Even if you lose, you can pretend you’re like Matt Damon or some shit and act like there’s a camera in your face and practice your gracious loser face.
Scratch-offs are different. When you buy a scratch-off, make sure to scratch that shit off right there. Don’t take it home. And buy at least five at a time to increase your odds! And when you lose, say, “Fuck me!” and walk out the store; let people feel your frustration. Try to avoid this wicked loop: You scratch off and win a free ticket, but then of course you scratch that off and lose, and there you are again screaming, “Fuck me!”
By the way, a lot of people think giving lottery tickets as gifts is a good idea. Well, it might be—right up to the point where your friend wins $1.2 million on that ticket but won’t give you shit! That’s why you never give lottery tickets as a gift without saying, “Look what I got us!” That way, if they win, legally, “We won.” You gotta lock down that full “we” coverage. That’s fucking important!
TECHNOLOGY SPEAKING
The show Silicon Valley is the shit. I love watching those ugly white kids coding and creating platforms and shit. They’re like me: They take the words that you use in one way and twist them up for their own purposes. Like the word “pivot,” which is really a dance move, but in tech talk it means changing your ideas or your direction; and “disrupt,” which really means ejackalit, but to these cats it just means to cause a ruckus.
If I were going to take over a company in Silicon Valley, I’d take over Apple. They look like they’re having fun over there. I mean, all their products have a fucking piece of fruit on them. Everything is white and stylish, but if I were the head of Apple, I would shake things up. Technology is way the fuck behind. It hasn’t fixed the old problems, just created random new shit that will create new problems.
Not everybody needs a goddamn laptop or a tiny little Walkman the size of an Altoid where nobody can tell that you’re listening to music. What’s the fun in that? You need to share the party. I’d bring the boom box back. And I’d make them bigger. I’d still keep the apple on them, because fruit is always welcome, but I’d design some straps so you can walk around with the device on your back. I’m too old to be carrying heavy shit on one shoulder. That shit makes me lopsided, throws my whole body off, and then my dick doesn’t know where to go when it’s excited. Instead of looking up, it might point to my right foot, and that makes a certain position complicated, if not impossible.
I’d also come up with the idea for a something I would call the double-talk phone. Imagine you were on one phone call with two different ladies but they didn’t know the other was on the call! Do you know how useful that would be! Being able to say the same shit once to two different ladies!?! At the same damn time!?! Killing two birds with one damn stone! So if you’re setting up a late-night rendezvous, you immediately have given yourself multiple options. Worst-case scenario, if one lady flakes you have a spare; best-case, you wind up with a three-way on a muthafuckin’ one-way! Letcha man do this! One pickup line, multiple options—that’s fucking technology!
UBERSTAND
You Uber? What the fuck are you thinking?? You driving for Lyft? What the fuck are you thinking? Weren’t ya’ll taught to never pick up strangers or get in a car with strangers? But now, all of a sudden, off of reviews from possible psychopaths and a tiny ass picture, y’all go for a ride together, with the hope that you have a mutual Uberstanding that neither one of you will murder the other. But Uberstandings don’t mean shit.
Imagine you get picked up one night by a guy named Dou-Dou. Think that doesn’t even sound right? Sounds like some made-up shit to you?! Trust me, I’ve heard some stories! BUT because Dou-Dou has a 3.2 rating and it’s late and you’re tired, you decide to trust him. You get into his banged-up UberX Corolla that smells like old hot dog water and shame. And then Dou-Dou starts fighting with his wife on the phone in French. He yells at her about his sister-in-law’s husband not wanting to be an Uber driver because he’s lazy, and really that muthafucka just doesn’t want to work at all. All of a sudden Dou-Dou gets so angry that he bangs the dashboard, misses a stop sign, and knocks over an old man on his motorized wheelchair. It’s at that point you begin to realize how Dou-Dou lost those rating points, Dou-Dou clearly has some anger issues. Bottom line: while I like and use Uber, never forget you don’t know that fucking driver. And every time you hop in one of those bitches, you are violating one of the first things you were taught as a child, right after “Don’t go swimming after you eat” and “Don’t stand under a tree during a lightning storm,” which is “Never take a ride from a stranger!” Uberstand?
UBERFEET
I’m a big walker. I walk all the fucking time, because I like to see shit! (I’m not big on the name-brand sneakers. I just want shoes that fit my fucking feet.) But the walking directions on the map apps could use some improvement.
First off, they need to let you know what’s on your route, just like they do with traffic, like “Police reported ahead” or “Car on shoulder.” The voice should be telling me, “Dog shit on your right,” “Annoying sign spinner in 200 feet.” That way you can choose the route that’s right for you and also walk with your head up high, knowing the app has got your back.
They also need a walk-sharing app. We could all use someone to come and walk with us. I’d call it Uberfeet. You order someone to come walk with you so you feel safe, and you have someone to bounce shit off of.
Personally, I would be a great person to Uberfeet with. But if you order me, you gotta be patient, ’cause I gotta walk to you from wherever the fuck I am, and maybe that’s far away. Or if I’m close, I may have decided to stop by a friend’s place to nap or some shit. You could opt for someone closer, but my advice is you might as well wait for me, ’cause you never know who you’re gonna get. I would expand this service to other areas, like Ubercoach, where I come over to help you break up with your boyfriend or girlfriend or help throw all their shit out. I thought about Ubermove but I have a bad back. Or Ubercuddle . . . clothing optional.
STRIP PAY
All strippers should have a QR code bracelet, which your cell phone can read and instantly issue payment. And don’t tell me that’s degrading! Raining filthy money on a stripper is degrading! Do you have any idea where most money has been? If you don’t, I’ll tell you who does: a stripper. Because it’s been up her ass, thanks to stupid ass patrons who are adamant about sticking their singles in her G-string but can’t get her to stop shaking, so it winds up in her privates.