Cool Artwork by cartoonist Jean-Marc Borot

Ms. Rehab: Amy Winehouse

I love art! Even more, I love caricatures. I love picking up the local newspaper and turning to the cartoon section just to see the caricatures of the day; especially the political ones. To my amusement, this morning, as I paid a visit to my web home page, MSN, I ran across some awesome caricatures of artists from our past and present. French cartoonist Jean-Marc Borot, does an incredible job of bringing these cartoons to life and accentuating the unique features that made and/or make these artists who they are/or were. Check 'em out!

Freddie Mercury

Kylie Minogue

The Original Guitar Hero: Jimi Hendrix

Iggy Pop

The Godfather of Soul: James Brown

Marilyn Manson

"I don't love 'em ho's": Snopp Dogg

Tina Turner

Tokio Hotel

The King of Pop: Michael Jackson

Props go out to Artist Jean-Marc Borot. If you wanna see more of his work, well you're in luck, he's a fellow blogger. Check him out at http://leboblogaboro.blogspot.com/. Hey Jean-Marc, you have a new fan dude.

A Rear Obsession...

Folks I have something to confess. I have an obsession, or better yet an addiction. I'm addicted to crack. Not cocaine crackel-pop-crack, but Female crack; phat ass crack; booty crack. I desperately need your immediate assistance in this matter. I've tried to go cold turkey on my own since the age of 7 or 8, when I first caught myself staring at a girls phat ass for a longer than normal period of time, but my attempts to rid myself of this addiction have constantly failed; nothing seems to work. I've continuously attended A.A.S.S. (Ass Anonymous Stop Staring) meetings, but I immediately start staring at the instructor's phat ass and am asked to leave within the first 15 minutes of arriving to the session. If only they would listen to what I had to say, maybe they could help. Can somebody help me? Anyone? Please help me. I'm obsessed with the booty!

OK, maybe most of the introduction was a bit fabricated, you know the whole attending A.A.S.S. meetings business and all, which by the way you must admit was pretty clever, but the reality of it all is that I do have an unhealthy obsession with the “butt”; "junk in the trunk"; "onion"; "badunkadunk"; "phatty"; “back”; “buns”; “wobble-wobble”; "sweet-tweet"; "cabinet"; “pancakes”; "ass"; "booty".

You see, it all started in 1985 or 6, right around the time my uncle exposed me to a second-hand copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. Up until the age of 7 or 8, my life was filled with sweet and heavenly innocence. I mean I wasn't an angel, but I was a good kid; my eyes were veiled. Unfortunately for me, this veil came burning and crashing down when I was exposed to my first event of some watermelon jolly rancher tongue action.

She was my 1st floor neighbor and I was 3 yrs her minor, and she must have had cable back then or something cause the girl was highly sexual. Every once in a while we kept each other company, playing one-on-one games of: MOTHER MAY I, RED LIGHT-GREEN LIGHT-1-2-3, TAG and I DECLARE WAR; the card game. We never did any of that touchy-touchy stuff cause for ONE, she was a girl and therefore an automatic carrier of the cooties, and TWO, I was a younger, inexperienced and shorter boy, and a love relationship between us was socially forbidden. Yet, one lovely summer day, this memory will stay with me 'til death, she looked me in the eyes, it was a different kind of look, and asked me to play HOUSE with her. She placed the rules and regulations: she would be the mom, the caretaker of the home and I would be the hard working dad. She clarified that because we were now "a couple" we were obligated to act like one; the veil was beginning to burn. She found two huge cardboard boxes and we built a cozy home to our liking; the veil was beginning to catch on fire. All of a sudden, she asked to speak to me outside of our home, which was situated by the stairs leading to our basement. She quickly grabbed me by my t-shirt, and pushed me against an adjacent wall. Her hour-glass shaped, well nourished body, suffocated mine as her overdeveloped breast pressed against the upper portions of my bony chest.


The scent of her watermelon-jolly rancher breath was absorbed and savored by my nostrils and lips; the freaking veil burned. She took my soft Johnson & Johnson baby-lotion hands and wrapped them around her round, lower mid section and forced me to squeeze and hold; the veil quickly burned. She then slowly leaned towards my face, puckered up and gave me a watermelon jolly rancher tongue-flavored French kiss. Honestly, at that time, not knowing what a French kiss was, I thought it was an alien kiss with candy bliss. You see, her tongue was all up in my tonsils, and it was sort of wrestling my tongue and teeth; it scared me shitless. For starters, I wasn't expecting “it” and secondly, I wasn't expecting “that!” When she finished, she leaned back, my hands still firmly gripping her larger than humanly normal assets, and she asked: "Did u like it?" Liked it? I hated it! I did! Well, I hated everything about it except for two things. One, the warm watermelon jolly rancher (my favorite flavor) that she had purposely transferred to my mouth as a token of completion, and was now being nervously tossed around by my tongue, and TWO, the wonderful feeling of her boombastic and amazingly virtuous badunk-adunk-acrunk soft Dominican ass, still within the grips of my tiny baby-lotion hands; the burning veil came mother-freaking crashing down.

Five minutes passed and we stood there motionless. Well, motionless except for one specific part of my body, which has always had a mind of its own, literally. I stood my ground and maintained a firm grip. What happened next would change my life forever. She gently loosened the grip I had on her trunk and slowly walked away, speaking into my mind saying: "you felt it, now pay attention to the way gravity helps it move". Good lawd! I surely did pay attention. So much so, that my eyes were transplanted to the back of her Adidas wind-breakers. Chick's ass was a sweet-a-lee, tweet-a-lee and I followed the rhythmic movement of them cheeks. It had been there all of this time but I never noticed it. How could I have missed that? Feeling the "phatty" was an amazing and ground breaking event, but staring at it, with the movement and sounds of her wind-breaker pants, was overwhelmingly spectacular. True story.

So thus began my years of torment as a result of "the booty". A boy prematurely introduced to the "ass realm", "por una maltida" (by a damn girl). I was hitched. Hitched to the round phat ass of a woman; an obsessed individual. The life of ongoing days of whiplash and eye cramps had begun. Twenty-three somewhat years later and I still can't resist the cravings of a harmless peek, an undercover look, a reflection, a tease. The view of a bikini, a thong, a pair of booty shorts, a tight spandex dress, a pair of pajamas with little Mickey Mouse faces in the corner bodega, some tight denims on the 6 train, khaki slacks at Best Buy, a nice two-piece business suit, some SWEATS. A glimpse of a phat ass in any of these garments is like White Castle to me: "It's what I crave".

Now, am I the only sicko in this world that suffers from this disease? Au contraire (French: On the contrary), I am not alone. Out of random curiosity, as it always occurs with me, I conducted a survey via text messaging and e-mail, in which 50 NYC males between the ages of 21-51 were asked the following question: If you had a chance to choose, what would you go for, nice teeth, beautiful hair, or a phat ass? The results were astonishing. Out of the 50 surveyed, only two men answered something other than a PHAT ASS. One of them said teeth, you know who you are, and the other male, said Tits, which was not even part of the f*&cking question. What does this quick survey show? That for one, I’m not the only addicted individual, but most importantly, that it’s not just about the beauty, it’s ultimately about the B-to-the-double-O-T-Y! Yes sir! It’s all about the booty!

Honestly, having nice teeth is a plus. It would probably, and I mean probably, get you a few compliments here and there and maybe even a Colgate commercial, although very unlikely. A nice set of hair would have your girlfriends going on and on about what products you use and how you gave your hair so much volume, but it would pretty much end there. But, a phat ass? A phat ass you say? A phat ass can get you a record deal, hook you up with a professional athlete, get you a mansion in the Hampton's, a shoe/sneaker contract, your own perfume: “Le Bootylicious Eau de toilette”, an instant modeling career, a starring role in a box office hit, your own talk show, appearances in more than your fair share of hip-hop music videos, and more than a few filthy rich baby daddy’s supplying some form of child support; and you don’t even have to be all that cute.

There are times in a given week when an addict's craving for rear “pancakes” doesn't even take into consideration what the girl looks like. The chick could be a “butaface” (everything looks good but-a-face), shit, she could have a chest made up of two large nipples and an eye in the middle of her forehead, but if she has a nice-round “sweet-tweet”, someone, will turn around and stare at her “wobble-wobble”. Strangely enough, the chick becomes equivalent to a Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme; "Good To Go!" The truth is, that being ugly and having a phat ass, justifies your man’s choice in YOU. His friends will tease him and say, “that bitch is ugly…(pause)…but she got a phat ass though”.

So, do I really have a serious problem here? Maybe so. Do I really want some help? Maybe not. I just wanted your attention. I take this time to send a shout out to the legend, Mr. Sir Mix-A-Lot, for his contribution to the music industry with his powerful “Baby Got Back” song, and I leave this blog dedicating a song to the booty, in the words of Ryan Leslie:

I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, you’re my addiction!


Berry Merry, Live, love and laugh. If you have a chance, take a peek at what this world has to offer. There’s booty everywhere!

It’s a Celebration Bitches!!!

Do you prefer 6 inches or 12?

The title sounds a bit pornographic doesn't it? But, as you may have already noticed by my history of blogs, I'm a master of "random" thoughts. Over several months now, I've been disturbed; frustrated; and filled with curiosity as a result of the following question: Who the hell made the 6 inch or 12 inch sandwich, the rule of thumb for supreme hunger satisfaction? Ah, you thought I was going to talk about something else huh? You nasty people you.

For starters, why has the world become so hooked on sandwiches all of a sudden? Well, a bit of recent sandwich history reminds us of just why. In 1999, a young man named Jared Fogle, an Indiana University student at that time, lost an astonishing 245 pounds, with a diet focused on eating Subway Restaurant sandwiches and exercise. His remarkable weight-loss story impacted people around the world, and got everyone hooked on sandwiches like the resurgence of coffee.

This began a movement, and businesses everywhere, introduced some sort of cold cut alternative to their ever so popular menus; Dunkin Donuts and Dominoes now offer sandwiches as well. The ever so famous Blimpies is back on track (I'm a Blimpies man myself), and the idea of "healthy eating made possible via the sandwich", stuck a thorn to the side of all the burger eateries and gave birth to businesses like Quiznos, who makes a pretty freaking good toasty sandwich. Yet, the question at hand: Why a 6 inch/12inch and not a 5 inch,or a 8 1/2 inch, or 7 3/4 inch with a curve (you nasty) or any other measurement, remains unanswered.
Who came up with this precise statistic of measurement and labeled this finding, as the "SANDWICH SIZE PHENOMENON". Was there a town hall meeting about how long (stop being nasty) a sandwich should be to satisfy the appetite of all humanoids. Maybe, in one of the past business Expos, while all the up and coming entrepreneurs were off to lunch, someone suggested:


"Hey!" "How about we go to a sandwich store and tell them to cut all of our sandwiches in rectangular shapes of six inches? Or for those who are a bit hungrier, let them get a whole foot long with their favorite condiments. Sounds delicious doesn't it? Mmmmmm... (your nasty)."

Well, having nothing better to do with the spare minutes of my life...

(Sidebar: I just got a flashback of that AT&T commercial, where the dad spills milk on his left-over roll-over minutes and he's about to throw them away. "Who wants milky minutes anyway...". Check it out:



Anyway, as I was saying, having nothing better to do with the spare minutes of my life, I began an extensive research trying to discover the history and founder of the 6 inch/12 inch sandwich idea. Looking into the history of the franchise known as Subway Restaurants aka Subway, who as I recall were the first to make an emphasis on "bread" inches, I learned several cool things.

According to Wikipedia (which I must warn you, shouldn't be your go to source for any medical information, or anything that's truly serious, as it can be edited by it's subscribers), the franchise which is owned by Doctor's Associates, Inc. (DAI), not medical doctors by the way, is currently the fastest growing franchise in the world. There are over 30,016 franchised units in 88 countries, and as of this month, is third largest fast food operator globally after Yum! Brands (35,000 locations) and McDonald's (31,000 locations). Not bad huh? In further research, I learned that there are Subway's in Muslim countries that serve alternative menus with substitutes with Halal produce. That means that my man Amir, from The Kite Runner, the best-selling novel by Khaled Hosseini and one of my favorite books, thanks Zak, can revisit Afghanistan and pick-up a foot-long Halal Sub. Cool isn't it?

As I continued my research, I obtained other cool info, like the fact that the first form of sandwich was attributed to the ancient Jewish sage Hillel the Elder, who is said to have put meat from the Paschal lamb and bitter herbs inside matzo (or flat, unleavened bread) during Passover; hey that flat bread idea goes way back. Furthermore, I discovered that the first English usage of the word "sandwich" goes back to the 18th century. According to Wikipedia, the sandwich was named after an English aristocrat named John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich.

Mr. Montagu aka Lord Sandwich, who quite strangely resembles our contries 1st president (please see pic above), and even more strangely existed in same time period of G.W., was fond of this type of food that consisted of "bits of cold meat" in bread. He favored this food because it allowed him to continue playing cards while eating, without getting his cards greasy. Far out right?

Nevertheless, I was not able to obtain any information on the emphasis on SIZE and how it mattered (you nasty). I was eventually forced to arrive to a theory of my own.

My theory: I believe the guy who came up with this was probably watching an X-rated... No sorry, I don't think that, please disregard the previous statement. I think that, some jobless dude with a whole bunch of "roll-over" minutes to spare, a kitchen counter overflowing with loafs of bread of all sizes, and a fridge full of healthy vegetables, and condiments, sat down and began a personal investigation of this "cold-cut" case. His mission? To uncover the myth behind the statement: Does size really matter? He locked himself up, in a dungeon, or a basement, as the time period of this discovery is unclear, and conducted several tests until he would satisfy his hunger. Maybe he began at 1, then 2, until reaching six inches and feeling a complete sense of pleasure and satisfaction. Then, all of a sudden, he received an unexpected visit from his larger than normal cousin, who found two six inch subs and scarfed them down with no apparent difficulty. At that exact moment, this man was enlightened with a new discovery, and thus began his voyage across the globe to spread the "good news", the gospel, on how many inches does it really take to satisfy mankind.

Is this how it really went down? The world may never know. Just another one of those things that make you go Hmmmm....

Yes i'm random, but you freaking love it.

Be merry, call Jared and try a $5 foot-long. You'll be totally satisfied with how BIG it really is. Oh yeah! hehe (you nasty).