The Measuring Sticks of Life, OR, Why I Can't be with a loose woman

Life is kinda like a board game in that it has a simple objective. But games are a bad analogy for life because people associate them with fun. It ain't all about fun. Sure you can have it, but that can't be your measuring stick of life if you intend to accomplish anything of substance.
The 0bjective of life is to build yourself to a point where you can have offspring, and raise them to be successful adults capable of doing the same thing. Everybody's idea of success if likely to vary, but my idea of success is to be able to make some kind of contribution to humanity. You have to try to make things a little better than they were when you started out. Otherwise, everything is to shit.
As an adult, it can be argued that the accomplishments and relative success of your offspring are the measuring stick of your own success. If you raise good kids, you've done your job. Moreover, as a man in particular, the greatest thing you can do to fail as a man, husband, and father, is to raise a little girl, to become a promiscuous woman. (If you don't believe me, just ask any good father with a daughter what his deepest darkest fear is that doesn't involve death.) The reason is obvious, and self-contained. If I personally raise my daughter to become a "ho" in the parlance of our times, I have quite simply, FAILED. High school, college, law school, my career, everything else I could have done will be overshadowed to me by that glaring hole. Not to say that I don't care about my son, but it's different. It's fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, we all know this. You have a different sensitivity about your opposite-sex child because you know your own sex, and you know what they're trying to do to you little girl (or boy as the case may be). If I select a woman, to be my children's mother, and she's laid out with 2 dozen men, what can I really expect her to impart to my daughter but more of the same? For whatever reason, I understand there may be extenuating circumstances, but the result of her mix of nature and nurture was hoedom*. Wouldn't I be a fool to make that gamble on the future prosperity of my little girl?
Think about it. If you don't want your kids to grow up and become drug-addicts, you don't go looking for your future mate at the heroin-overdose clinic. Why should hoedom be any different? To me, it's not. It's that simple.
So my only request is this: If any woman ever finds herself interested in me (for what reason I couldn't imagine but that's a different topic), if you've got a body count anywhere near half of your age, keep right on walking and save us both the trouble.
I'm out.

Things Grown Men Just Can't Do (suggestions welcome)

One cannot call himself a grown man if he still hath not mastered the art of urination without dampening the toilet seat...

Under no circumstances may a grown man make a nickname for himself and try to make others use it.

Nor can one call himself a grown man if he uses the phrase, "Getting my grown man on..." - thanks to M. Singleton

A grown man may not boo-hoo at ANY time
especially after getting his ass kicked in an oral argument in his first year of law school

A grown man cannot wear flip-flops outside of the house if he is not at the beach (this includes man-sandals)

Video games are fun, but the successful grown man cannot spend any considerable amount of time playing them...

In fact, it is best for the putative grown man not to invest in any video game systems, for they shall surely lock him into the notorious 2nd childhood...

A grown man may not seek credit for doing things that he is supposed to do as a grown man

A grown man cannot obsess over such nonsense as rims for his car and ringtones for his cell phone...

A grown man cannot address women as "bitches"
Some of them may act bitchy, and some really are bitches but don't over generalize, furthermore some things are just rude and that's one of them

A grown man cannot be involved in the club scene

A grown man cannot overuse the words "dude" or "yo"

There is no reason for a grown man to EVER participate in a dance-off.

The Man-Crush.....enough said

A grown man shall not send another grown man text messages

(not) my life...

An unfortunate side-effect of living in an ethnically heterogenous society such as America, is that there are always going to be cultural divides amongst people. The one that gets the most press for obvious reasons has always been that between blacks and whites. Over time, a natural consequence of close interaction with each other is that in certain places, the edges start to blur a little. So what do you do when you're one of those people who grow up with one foot in each shoe?
"You're a Huxtable" everyone would say to me. "He's not really black." Others would say. "You're so white." yet others would suggest. But it was funny to me how quickly I became black when I was pulled over one time after I may or may not have been spent the night speaking to Mr. James Beam for a few hours. When the rubber hits the road, all bets are off.
I will always be exactly what I am. A fortunate upper-middle class raised black american male. It's not exactly commonplace I wouldn't say, but I'm not exactly a spotted unicorn either. But what has always been present in my life, is someone trying to push me from one group to another. People trying to force their own conception of my identity upon me. Some do it jokingly, some with hostility, some in outright anger at the fact that since I was raised to pronounce words properly I can never call myself black. If this isn't the most backwards shit I've ever heard. Think about it... What are they really saying? And this is just one side of the coin, the other side isn't any better. I'll get to that one later, but for now, just something to think about.

Everybody's an ASSHOLE

I have to apologize for my vulgarity, but my new take on my fellow people is that everybody is a fucking asshole until they show otherwise. I'm tired of it, people deserve no more credit. I was at the bar the other day discussing this and similar matters with my man Mike, (who's one of the ever-shrinking list of people in my life who help to serve as my last bastion of sanity), when this girl walked by. A black girl she was. She had some kind of braided hair on half of her scalp, the other half shiny bald like a nice new pair of brown leather loafers. The braids looked kinda stiff and were flipped into some sort of curl over to the bald side. Through her ear, there was a bone. A bone that looked like at some point in its history, it did its work in the leg of some unfortunate woodland creature who met its demise in some certainly horrible fashion, and donated its once vibrant femur to some knucklehead, hipster-dufus jewelry shop, whereupon it was purchased by our wonderful specimen of humanity which now stood before me. She had nazi-style leather boots on her feet, and some baggy, maroon burlap pants. As she was leaving the bar, she turned to her friend, and out of her mouth came the phrase, "We're going to turn that mother out." My mouth opened to say something, but I just couldn't find the words in my vocabulary to express my precise thoughts at that moment. Mike I'm sure was experiencing the same thing. But what was so disturbing is that no one else so much as batted an eye. If they thought about it at all, I'm sure it was something like 'She's expressing herself'' or, 'she's being her.' You can justify anything if that's how you think. And surely they do. This is life? This girl is a real person? This is normal? I'm done. Everybody's a fucking asshole.