by Leon Black
Plus, dentists have a spit sink, which is pretty fantastic.
One doctor hybrid that wouldn’t work: psychiatrist-gynecologist! Can’t work on your head from there. Doesn’t work in particular because you might trust a gynecologist while he’s fiddling downstairs, asking you how your head is feeling, but you would not like a psychiatrist while he’s asking you about your relationship with your father asking a question about your coochie. You don’t need the psychiatrist dabbling into your fields.
Really, in the end, you’re better off just buying a fucking parrot: They’re gonna repeat what you say too, and they won’t charge you three hundred dollars an hour. Get a parrot or, better yet, a cockatoo. That’s one good-looking bird with one cool ass name. Let me tell you something about those birds: Give that bird a compliment, he’ll give it right back to you. Do you know how therapeutic it is to have a pretty bird call you a pretty bird?
FLIX AND CHICKS
I love going to see the movies in the theater. I don’t get all you cats who watch movies at home. Spend thousands of dollars on huge ass TVs. All that streaming shit is for losers. This country is fat enough as it is, now people are too fucking lazy to get in their cars to drive to the movie theater. The only reason to watch a flick at home is so that you can rub one out without getting arrested. But why would you want to see anything without a hundred people around you laughing and screaming along with you? That’s the communal experience. That’s why we were put on this earth.
I like action movies with just a hint of titty. Like Bond films from the 1960s. Bond would get some sexy woman, and just as they were about to make love, the screen would go dark. See, that leaves it to your imagination. That’s provocative. I would rather imagine for myself what’s going on, ’cause my sexual mind is a lot more creative than what’s out there. Shit, don’t try to figure me out with some half ass bullshit love scene. If you show me some shit, you’re just gonna disappoint me. You don’t even know what I’m into! For all you know, I like to roll around in a bathtub filled with baby oil and marbles. Better yet, put a woman in that tub, a couple gallons of melted butter, a Costco bag of marshmallows, and a case of Rice Krispies. Let that all set until that lady is at the center of a big ass Rice Krispies treat. Then I would eat my way through that damn Rice Krispies treat until I get to the damn woman! See, that’s freaky shit! Type of shit you make your lady sign a release form and a damn confidentiality agreement over! Bonus: Cleanup is simple. You’re already in the damn tub, so just turn the water on, grab a loofah, and scrub off all the excess shit that had not been previously orally removed. Last thing you need is to walk out of the house with a sweaty Rice Krispies remnant on your shoulder and have some asshole put two and two together. Next thing you know, muthafucka knows your tricks and word gets around and you’re getting less action.
My first celebrity crush overtook me when I saw the great Diahann Carroll appear as Claudine in that movie Claudine. Man, she was a beautiful lady! Fuck that, she’s still a beautiful lady! She played a single mom with a shitload of delinquent kids, like six or seven of them. She lived in the projects, was on welfare, and was struggling to raise her bad ass kids. There was something about her that was so strong and beautiful! I was just a little kid at the time, but when I saw her, I was ready to step up and be her man! I would have taken on all those responsibilities! You know how hard that would have been on me to have kids that were older than me?! Trying to help them with their homework? Or spank their ass?!? But I would have taken on the challenge, ’cause that’s how fine she was!
Sure, today there are plenty of fine ladies on the silver screen, but these days we know too much of their daily routine, with all the TMZ surveillance. We know what they look like first thing in the fucking morning right after they take their shit, or when they’re on some drug binge in Mexico. So when I do see one of these women on the big screen, all I see is that scary ass lady that took her garbage out that morning or the pasty ass on the beach in Cabo. I prefer to stick to the old school starlets who always looked glamorous and never took a shit. Ever.
In terms of classics, I am not one with the popular consensus. You know what I’m talking about: fucking Forrest Gump. That film pisses me the fuck off. It was the wrong movie to make. They should’ve made the movie about Jenny. That bitch lived her life! She definitely stripped, and she liked the ladies. Jenny got around. You know she had every sexual disease there was, because she wound up getting a sexual disease that didn’t even exist yet. Hell, it might’ve started with her. Patient Zero or whatever you call that shit. And come on, you know that smart ass kid was not Forrest’s. She was fucking some professor at some nearby community college.
One flick that definitely would not have worked: Bubba. Bubba was as dumb as Forrest, but you cannot be dumb as Forrest and black. In the South! You can’t even get a good trailer out of that story—the footage would have burned the movie projector.
And horror movies? These days horror movies are fucking bullshit. It’s either special effects or fucking zombies. Zombies just look like strung-out crackheads. I can see those fools anywhere. Why do I gotta pay money to see them chasing white people in groups? Now, Sunset Boulevard, that was a fucking horror movie. I would have run that old lady’s ass to the ground like a rental car. As scary as she was, that’s all she really wanted. And that stupid fuck wouldn’t give it to her. If I was there, that movie would have had a lot different ending, with me throwing pool parties and shit, giving her my cell phone to take as many close-ups of herself as she wanted. Everybody would have been fucking happy.
CAT DOG MONKEY FALCON SOUP
Someone’s gotta shake up the dog training. Roll over, play dead. That shit has gotten old. Even the dogs are like, “Enough already with this bullshit. Teach us something cool.” I’ll tell you what’s the shit: teaching dogs how to chew gum. Do you know how cool that would look? Especially if you grabbed a piece too. You’d be walking down the street with your dog, chewing together, keeping rhythm. That’s true harmony and connection. Of course, you gotta make sure the dog won’t swallow the gum, choke, and die. That would not look as cool. Still working on how that would work.
Regardless, I’d stay away from Chihuahuas. They look way too nervous to be chewing. One piece of gum could send them over the edge. And nobody looks cool with a Chihuahua anyway. They are a ridiculous breed.
A friend of mine got a dog as a gift and didn’t want him, so he dropped him off at the park. I was like, “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just take him back to the shelter?” A couple of days later, the dog showed up at his door, and that shit created a whole new dilemma. What do you do with this damn dog? He clearly knows your address! Do you take him to another park farther away? Do you move or maybe just change the numbers on your building to confuse the dog? Poor little fucker standing there and being like, “I could’ve sworn it was 273. Shit, I must be getting old.”
If you’re gonna get a cat, get one of those weird ass hairless ones. That way you get the security features a cat offers without any of the hair to clean up. Petting one of those hairless cats is like caressing a really expensive leather purse, and who doesn’t love that shit?
Now, if you really want a pet that you can become friends with, go for a monkey. Monkeys are the best. They’ll peel your bananas and make you laugh all day. And if you keep one on your shoulder, everybody is gonna want to talk to you and give you money like you’re some traveling vaudeville guy or some shit like that. Just make sure they’re not rabid so you don’t die.
If you don’t want other people, money, or conversation, then go for the decadent pet: the falcon. A falcon oozes sophistication and decadence. You gotta get that big ass glove that goes all the way to your shoulder, perch the majestic bird on your hand, and just go walking around like a knight or lord of the fucking manor. That shit is royalty right there.
I have several dogs that go everywhere with me. They’re stray dogs that won’t go away. A lot of people get dogs for protection. B
ut dogs aren’t worth shit in that regard. Sure, they smell and sense fear, but all you gotta do to confuse them is tell them some fucking jokes. That throws them off, and then they won’t attack you. For those dogs that don’t have a sense of humor, a Milk Bone is enough. I keep a Milk Bone in my pocket at all times, just in case my humor doesn’t land with the particular breed I’m trying to avoid.
Point is, if you want to protect yourself and your loved ones, get a cat. Criminals come into your house, it’s dark, they hear a cat, they get fucking scared because they know that cat will pounce and scratch their face off. They don’t go for Milk Bones and shit. They have expensive tastes, and carrying around a Fancy Feast in your pocket with the can opener is not fucking practical.
SPERM BANK ACCOUNT
From when you’re little, you’re always taught to put your valuables in a bank. Whether that bank is a big building filled with rich people, cheap lollipops, and a vault or it’s a big mayonnaise jar, it is driven into your head that you need to save. Well, I got two damn problems with that. One, if you put all your shit in one place, it’s pretty damn easy for all of your shit to turn up missing—like how my jar did one day, coincidentally the same day my daddy got a bad ass new hat. Looking back, he did have a funeral to go to and he did wear that hat and he did eventually leave me that hat, so I guess you could call my jar an investment, something like a 401k with a hat option. Still, when it came down to it, I had a date lined up with this pretty little girl from my English class, and I ain’t had a dime to take her out. I was so embarrassed that I stopped going to that English class, which might explain why to this day I say “I ain’t got a dime” instead of “I didn’t have a dime.” See how shit works out?
That’s what happens with having your money all in one place. You see it every day: Some rich ass actor goes on a talk show and says he’s broke because his accountant or lawyer or business manager or some shit stole all his money. See, I will never have that problem. First of all, I would never trust any of those muthafuckas with my shit! To this day, if you want to hold something of mine, you’ll have to let me hold something of yours. Want to borrow five hundred bucks to buy your newborn baby a crib? Sure, just lemme hold your brand-new baby till you pay me back. I bet you I’ll get my money back.
Thankfully for me, I don’t have money—not because I can’t get it, but because it’s much easier to not have it. That way I don’t have to carry money around or find a place to keep it or hide it. Plus, hiding money is dangerous, because one day you could be at a baseball game and have a foul ball hit you on the head and wind up with one of them tall lumps and amnesia. Ever find a bag of money? How do you think it got there? Someone with amnesia left it there. Damn shame!
All of this brings me to the only bank I use, and that’s a sperm bank, because to be quite honest, the only thing of value that I ever carry around with me is my sperm. And trust me, it’s very valuable! Now, not only do I go to sperm banks, I enjoy going! Hell, I make a weekend of it! Oh yeah, I get in one of those nice comfy rooms and I make myself at home! Wanna know how? First of all, most of those places offer you some porn to help you along with the process. But trust me, their stuff is bullshit: a lot of women with flat asses fuckin’ in the missionary position. Like I said, bullshit! Here’s what you do: You show up in a robe and some boxers, carrying your own pillow, blanket, and your own damn porn, hard core shit!!! Come in there carrying DVDs with donkeys, catapults, and all sorts of shit on the cover—and make sure it’s all visible! Tell the person at the front desk you’ll need a room for two, and when she looks at you sideways, tell her that you are the two! Hell, you’re gonna be making love to yourself. I mean, that’s what you’re doing, so own that shit! And if she’s good-looking, tell her if she’s not busy later, you and yourself might be looking for a third! Once your provocative entrance is done, take your shit and head into your room.
Once you’re in that room, don’t feel rushed. Remember, that door locks from the inside. Plus, they are not gonna come knocking at that door for a while, and even when they do, it will be a gentle tap on the door and a soft “How are you doing in there?” So pace yourself, relax, eat a snack, watch a game on your phone, or just chill. During the course of your masturbatory weekend, after that first tap at the door, if you hear someone approaching the door again, start making a lot of loud sex noises. A loud, passionate “Oh shit!” will most definitely cause any nurse or orderly to jump back and go about their business. After the first day, you might have to make an appearance to let them know you didn’t ejackalit yourself to death. What you do is you splash some water on yourself to look like you’ve worked up a sweat and then come out with no drawers on and your robe wide open. Step up to that front desk, look that damn front-desk lady in the face, and give her a nice, loud, sexually satisfied, “WOOOOOO! Round Two!!!” Then ask that lady for some water or, better yet, juice. When she brings it to you, no matter how big the container, you chug that shit completely! And be sloppy with it: Let it run out of your mouth and drip all down your chest and shit! See, that gives off the idea that you are insatiable! Nothing can satisfy your thirst, so in turn, nothing will stop you from trying to quench that damn thirst! Trust me, either she follows you back to the room or everyone will stay the fuck away from you and leave you alone. Either way, you get a weekend stay.
One last thought on sperm banks: They need to run them like weed dispensaries. From what I have been told, weed dispensaries name the different strains of weed that they offer—that way you know what you’re getting. For instance, you hear some name like Dolly Parton, you know the weed will make your chest feel heavy. Sperm banks need to name their various sperm offerings—that way people who come there to make a withdrawal know what the fuck they’re getting. Want to know what I would call mine? I’ll tell you. Now, although I’m not religious, it would seem to me that having a baby using a sperm bank is kind of an alternative route—I mean, you’re actually missing out on the best part of having a baby, and that is making that muthafucka. But considering I once read about a famous baby that was supposed to have been born without the act of some parental fucking, and since I would not have the pleasure of fucking whoever had selected my fine sperm, I came up with this name: Immaculate Ejackalit! Don’t try to steal it, I have a copyright pending.
CATFISH AND GRITS
I hear all this talk about Catfish and Catfishing, and all of it is bad. Look, if someone tricks your ass, that’s on you. I mean, you can only be tricked if you are open to it. And if you’re open to it, that means you were looking for something, and fuck, we’re all looking for something! Bottom line: Have you ever had catfish? Fried up in a po’boy?! What?! That shit is delicious! So the way I see it, when it comes to catfish, just make sure you’re the one doing the cooking! Pick out a nice catfish, fillet that shit, and remove all the bones—you don’t want to choke on a catfish bone! Clean the fish, dip it in some egg wash, then in some salted and seasoned bread crumbs, then fry that muthafucka golden brown, throw on some hot sauce, and voilà!
I know, I just gave you a recipe for actual catfish (a damn good ass recipe). I don’t want you thinking I don’t know what the fuck an online catfish is. I have a recipe for that one too. First of all, you need a fake profile and you need to fill it with fake interests; I call that shit the bait. Use the type of bait that you need to attract the type of fish you want. Don’t talk about whips and chains and shit in your profile, unless you intend to do some or have your ass whipped. I won’t go on about interests ’cause I think most people get that part right. Where people fuck up is the picture, or should I say fake picture. Now, I’m not against the fake picture, but I think people back themselves into a corner with their selection. Most people pick the picture of someone way more attractive than themselves, and that’s fine if you never want to meet the person. But I’m Leon damn Black: I’m online to fuck, not fuck around!
So, here’s how you pick a picture! Say you are looking to hook up with some artsy type: Load up your profil
e with a bunch of works of art, and if you don’t know any, go to a fucking museum and do your homework—you’ll find this trip useful. While you’re there, look at some art, get some culture, learn a little something. Think you can’t? One day I stared at the Mona Lisa for damn near three hours just to try to figure out what that smug ass lady was thinking! See, she’s a quintessential woman, kind of like one of my aunties. She’s like this aunt of mine who comes to family reunions and always has that “I’m better than you” face on. Maybe she has a different father than everyone else or went to some fancy school so she thinks she can sit in the corner eating banana pudding while judging everyone. That’s that Mona Lisa look. It’s complex, a lot of ladies rock it, hard as fuck to read. Not like this other painting I stared at, this one called The Scream—that creepy ass lady’s face is straightforward as fuck! And haunting! That painting reminds me of a lady with a three-feet restraining order: So, Peaches, if you’re reading this book, that constitutes a violation of the order, so put it down and step four feet back.
Back to the picture: While you’re there, remember some works of art to use in your profile, and then—and most important—find a handsome security guard or tour guide and discreetly snap his picture. That is the picture you use on your profile! Then over the next few days case the place like you’re a bank robber from one of those heist movies. Have yourself a little pad and pencil and take notes of that security guard or that tour guide’s schedule; you will need this info. Once you finish that process, go home, set up your catfishing bait, and wait for the fish! Once you get one, reel that shit in! Based on the schedule from your notes, make a date to meet at that museum, let her know you work there, and tell her to look for you because you’ll be waiting. Then go to that museum, go to the snack bar and get some snacks, find a good spot, and wait. See, now you’re in a position to see your catfish before she sees you. Watch that damn tour guide and notice the expressions of the people who approach him. Sooner or later some nervous ass woman dressed to impress will awkwardly approach him. If she’s a train wreck or looks like she narrowly survived one, cut your losses and leave. But if she’s attractive, slowly make your way over. What’s gonna happen is that she’s gonna come up to him with a whole bunch of stuff to say, and he’s gonna be like, “What the fuck’s going on?!” You know, all confused and shit. At that point, you should be within ear range so that you can offer some comforting words, like “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was overhearing what’s going on. It appears to me that this beautiful lady has been catfished, and I think that’s awful, just awful.” Definitely hit her with the double “awful.” See, she will be so vulnerable and embarrassed that she’ll eat your kindness up. Then say some shit like it might be a bad day for her, but as for you, “I came here to see some works of art, and lucky for me you walked in!” Trust me, you’ll be fucking by nightfall! Damn, I love me some fried catfish!