When Jonny hits the weekend—all worn out from Bingo—he might hit a low moment. Start feeling a little lonely. Maybe even wish Sally Sue was there. Any thinking man would agree: the next logical step would be…
A trip to the strip club!
But there have been one too many nights like this, and the strip joints are starting to get weak. (He dare not violate parole by visiting 110th Ave, either.)
So instead he loads up the car and heads for Rio!! Problem solved. He hits his easy button.
Meanwhile, Sally Sue is stuck in her apartment, watching “How Stella Got Her Groove Back” for the nth time. (And before that Oprah’s reinvention of “Their Eyes Were Watching God.” That Tea Cake.)
Every once in a while she pauses to re-scroll through her missed calls. 1-800, 1-866, 1-877, call center in India, Pammy Lou wanting to visit Man-Kini’s, 1-900…
There’s a 555 from three months prior—but no she did not happen to “accidentally” miss his call.
Quite frankly, Taye Diggs is getting old. She’s ashamed of herself and her Juris Doctorate. And while Angie B is her girl, she ‘bout sick of this chick scoring all potential booty without sharing the how-to.
She considers hitting the south side in an almost freakum dress>>said south side is the only place she can expect to get a free catcall in sweatpants, so imagine the revelry over a V-neck. She grew up in “da ‘hood” too, so she’s wize enough to navigate what would otherwise qualify as sexual assault and molestation.
Once the mental hits, she remembers…she just doesn’t have enough mace for all that.
And then, “the scene” appears. Angela Bassett on the phone with the Judge. Seeing herself on the beach. The horrendous fakin’-Jamaican accent overwhelming all common sense as the dreadlocked brotha offers her a smoothie sip.
Just as she’s at the height of frustration.
Wait! Sally Sue thinks to self…
And the counter “exploitation” of the social construct we call “The Black Man” outside of U.S. contexts begins. Soon enough, the pity-party-ed, financially ‘independent’ U.S. Black woman’s exploitation of the “ethnically ambiguous man’s man” begins, too.
Forget every stereotype they tagged to us (…except the licentiousness in this case.) Forget Martin’s Sha-Nay-Nay. Forget Jamie Foxx on In Living Color. Forget that po’ Black girl on that vampire piece of foolishness on HBO. Forget every mediated incidence of an unwanted but always wanting Black woman (outside of apparently…Halle Berry…according to Hurricane Chris…and Beyonce, according to Maxim and some other whitemanmade Top 100 Beautiful women list).
Right before Sally Sue’s eyes is the solution to her problem. Angie B—once again you’ve risen to the challenge of being a phenomenal Black woman, she thinks.
Sally Sue snatches up her cell phone like a woman possessed. First, she’ll take over Jamaica. Then Bermuda. Before you know it, the Samoan Islands. Next…THE ENTIRE MELANIN-IZED WORLD!!!
Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!
(Halle Berry, as much as I love you: eat your heart out.)
A trip to the strip club!
But there have been one too many nights like this, and the strip joints are starting to get weak. (He dare not violate parole by visiting 110th Ave, either.)
So instead he loads up the car and heads for Rio!! Problem solved. He hits his easy button.
Meanwhile, Sally Sue is stuck in her apartment, watching “How Stella Got Her Groove Back” for the nth time. (And before that Oprah’s reinvention of “Their Eyes Were Watching God.” That Tea Cake.)
Every once in a while she pauses to re-scroll through her missed calls. 1-800, 1-866, 1-877, call center in India, Pammy Lou wanting to visit Man-Kini’s, 1-900…
There’s a 555 from three months prior—but no she did not happen to “accidentally” miss his call.
Quite frankly, Taye Diggs is getting old. She’s ashamed of herself and her Juris Doctorate. And while Angie B is her girl, she ‘bout sick of this chick scoring all potential booty without sharing the how-to.
She considers hitting the south side in an almost freakum dress>>said south side is the only place she can expect to get a free catcall in sweatpants, so imagine the revelry over a V-neck. She grew up in “da ‘hood” too, so she’s wize enough to navigate what would otherwise qualify as sexual assault and molestation.
Once the mental hits, she remembers…she just doesn’t have enough mace for all that.
And then, “the scene” appears. Angela Bassett on the phone with the Judge. Seeing herself on the beach. The horrendous fakin’-Jamaican accent overwhelming all common sense as the dreadlocked brotha offers her a smoothie sip.
Just as she’s at the height of frustration.
Wait! Sally Sue thinks to self…
And the counter “exploitation” of the social construct we call “The Black Man” outside of U.S. contexts begins. Soon enough, the pity-party-ed, financially ‘independent’ U.S. Black woman’s exploitation of the “ethnically ambiguous man’s man” begins, too.
Forget every stereotype they tagged to us (…except the licentiousness in this case.) Forget Martin’s Sha-Nay-Nay. Forget Jamie Foxx on In Living Color. Forget that po’ Black girl on that vampire piece of foolishness on HBO. Forget every mediated incidence of an unwanted but always wanting Black woman (outside of apparently…Halle Berry…according to Hurricane Chris…and Beyonce, according to Maxim and some other whitemanmade Top 100 Beautiful women list).
Right before Sally Sue’s eyes is the solution to her problem. Angie B—once again you’ve risen to the challenge of being a phenomenal Black woman, she thinks.
Sally Sue snatches up her cell phone like a woman possessed. First, she’ll take over Jamaica. Then Bermuda. Before you know it, the Samoan Islands. Next…THE ENTIRE MELANIN-IZED WORLD!!!
Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!
(Halle Berry, as much as I love you: eat your heart out.)
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