I like food. If you know anything about me…you know I like food. I’m down for food. I love it. I want to sex it. I love food so much, that sometimes it gets violent. I got that Ike and Tina love for food. I love food so much, that when it hurts me, I wanna beat the Proud-Mary-Keep-on-Rollin SH*T out of it! And then feed it cake. Eat the cake, Anna-Mae.

So, knowing that (I love food. Remember?), it should come as no surprise that having food named after me is an honor no less adulating than receiving an email from Jesus that reads:

Dear Haji, you my main man, son! Here’s a VIP pass to heaven. When you get to the gates, you aint even got to wait in the line…just walk straight past all them cornball motherfreakers and tell Peter that Jesus got you. Once you pass the gates, go to the front desk and ask the receptionist for the keys to Cloud 22P. Its in the financial  district. I made sure to give you the cloud next to Jim Henson and Michael Jackson. MY NIGGA DEAD!

It really is quite the gesture. Ask Doug Heffernan, he knows exactly what Im taumbout.

Anyway, to know that, for whatever reason, my mama-aint-name-me-dat moniker is as esteemed to put on meat thats going to go in your mouth…well…it kinda makes a brotha weep. Some rappers get Grammys, some rappers get groupies, some rappers get groupies pregnant…none of that for me..I got my name on some chicken!

We’ll get back to the racial implications of all of that later.

About the sandwich: Its a Carolina style BBQ chicken sandwich.Its delicious.

In closing, thank you, “The Red,” downtown Santa Cruz. Im honored.

Oh..PS…Whats the possibilities of nixing the fries for some buttery a** hushpuppies as the side dish?

On your next visit, order the me sandwich.

peas.

…another day, another tale of  uncertain discrimination and cunningly veiled anti-niggerness.

So peep…

Last Sunday, Dundee and I were considering the best options to conclude what had previously been an otherwise, delightfully enjoyable North Carolinian visit. Which, lets be honest, any establishment even up for consideration should be  drowned in the warm fuzzies knowing that they’d even have the potential of our patronism. I mean…we’re Brown Co! We’re America’s most fun-loveably awesome tandem of dark skinned dynamos. Get a grip! Anyhow, after much deliberation (and by “much deliberation”, I mean “after an episode of In Living Color”) we decided to go to Fibber McGees.

Fibber McGees is a cozy little night club in Whitesville…err…WRIGHTSville Beach, where the crowd is predominately caucasian young adults who enjoy modeling dirty flip-flops while they demonstrate dance moves they saw on BET thirty minutes prior. Its also where my homeboy (DJ Battle) works every Sunday night. So, it wasnt so much about going to Fibby McG’s as it was to hang out with Battle before I peaced out.

Knowing full well the environment we had decided to be apart of, Dunny and I specifically made sure we avoided any article of clothing that said, “‘Sup niggas! We came to smack b*tches and shoot sh*t!” Instead, we put on our “Yes, I enjoy cocoa butter, but I also have a respectable education” gear.  Non-threatening polo tees, clean denim (free of golden dragons, purple monkeys and weed leaves on the back pockets) , and elegant footwear , delicately stitched by the hands of little asian baby-workers. Per usual, I was wearing a fitted cap, which I had convinced myself I’d be willing to part with if need be. Regardless, suited up and ready to boogie, Dunny and I took a celebratory shot of jack and headed out to the club…

We arrived at the door, when we were pleasantly greeted by the every-stereotype doorman who asked for  our ID’s. After several minutes of ID examination, he softly whispered to us, “Sorry guys,  fitted jeans only.”

WHAT!?

I decided that was an unacceptable reason to deny my right of freaky-dancin’ and dry humpin’,  so I asked,  “how are my jeans any less fitted than theirs?” (pointing to a white guy wearing a pair of thousand year old tattered, beer stained-britches, draped over his sandals…and two other white guys who clearly just left a “I learned how to dress from watching rappers at swap meets in 1995″ beauty pageant.) His answer, “because your jeans are cuffed.” When I offered the brainlessly easy solution of de-cuffing my jeans he retardedly muttered “uh, well, uh, we have a dress code and we need to stick to it.”

Now, I know, that doorman was merely performing a task he’s trained all his life to do. I shouldnt allow myself to be upset that he’s a grown man telling another grown man what he thinks about their pants. And true, Fibber McGees is an establishment of the highest quality. They cant just have any ol’ straggly monkeys running amok in their building. Its a place of class. Besides, we had no place going to a nightclub that hired a hip hop DJ to play hip hop music…in our hip hop clothes. What were we thinking?

So, I really dont know?

Was that racist?

*the pants in question

First of all, allow me to extend my apologies. With the coming of my new album, I realize the greater portion of my posts have been rap-related.  New song this, download that… I assumed as a reader, you would also be interested in the awesome music I make. I shouldve considered your feelings. Instead,  I was entirely too preoccupied with reminding you that , NEIGHBORHOOD KID COMES OUT FEB 23RD!  PLEASE BUY IT AND VALIDATE MY TALENT AS A MUSICAL ARTIST…ahem…anyhow, Im sorry.

With that said, I’ve decided to introduce a new segment to this site. I know, in many occurrences, I’m more often than not, readily eager to point out the bigotry in people.  Mostly white people. Its kinda like playing “I Spy.” And, I totally understand, there’s a “you people” in office now, and we’re a post-racial society…but,  for whatever  inexplicable reason, I just always feel like every white person still got a little Rosewood in’em.  Except for John Mayer. John Mayer is tight! But, let it not be said that Haji P is so ig’nant that he cant give people the benefit of the doubt. That’s where you come in. From now on, when I think somebody is trying to tell me “these is whites only pies,”  I’m just gonna smile, write it down and let you decide…was that racist?

for example…

Last weekend, me and a friend of mine (of the caucazoid type) went to a bar in SF.  We stepped outside to the patio, where the scenery was clad with pirate guidon’s. We met a man and his dog, the man was also of the caucazoid type…the dog, was of the mangy variety.  If I had to guess, the man was probably in his early fifties…but years of alcohol gave him the dampening presence of a gentleman in his late thousands.

For the most part, he was pretty amicable about explaining the meaning behind the symbols on the flags…and something about how Barry Bonds and Pinoccio laying on a rubber headstone had some type of broodingly deep meaning ( he couldnt decipher what… but he was very adamant about it). Mid-conversation he looks at his dog, who was playing in the plants, and shouts for it to stop. Then, after scolding the dog, he gives it a lamenting stare , sighs and says….”f*cking ni**er.”

Now, I ask you…was that racist?

I mean, its not like he called me the N-word (nigga…with a hard “r”). He was addressing the dog. That makes it okay, right? Or…should I just add him to the list of  deer hunters, people that wear Hollister and waitresses who assume I’ll be having the chicken plate (of whom I think are all racist)? You tell me…I’d hate to lose a potential friend because he would never want a scooby doo to date his daughter.

Thanks a bunch!

Sincerely,

Conspiracy Brotha P.