I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.

With the advent of the internet, people now have a new medium to “get discovered” on, hence my column… In the sea of talent, there are dim bulbs who take Edison’s quote of “Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration,” and focus on the 90% to pump out crap as if King Midas

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Football (REAL football, not this soccer nonsense), a sport enjoyed by Americans the world over. A game where it’s not only allowed, but encouraged to knock the crap out of people much smaller than you. A sport that has a holiday dedicated to it, where the main course consists of various meats covered with various

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To the Admissions Board of Harvard University:

This letter of intent has been written to announce my intentions to receive a four-year scholarship as your starting quarterback. While I have had a few options in the academic market, none of the community colleges or online universities have the wealth of history (and history of wealth) that Harvard’s MBA program offers.

Charlotte, Sam, and I took a trip in the summer of 1984 to the Rocky Mountains to mend our strained relationships. I remember it like it was yesterday plus twenty-six years. Looking back, we were just kids at the time. All I thought about were girls and my doctoral thesis. Sam was teething. None of us were in jail.