Thanks for Nothing, Douche Bags

It’s not easy getting my wife in the mood. She’s built up quite a tolerance to the roofies. Typically, seduction consists of a Grey Goose martini and a two-hour spree in DSW. That she considers tracking down a size eight in practical one-inch heels foreplay is fine by me, as long I later reap the benefits of a steamy buy one, get one free sale. Sadly though, we’re only shoe shopping about twice a month now.

So I was excited – very excited – when I heard there was this new patch for women that functions as Viagra for horniless chicks. You simply smack it on her (or carefully smooth it on if she’s still sleeping), wait for the high powered testosterone to makes it way into the bloodstream, and then go at it like you wanted to on Spring Break (but couldn’t because you had irritable bowel syndrome).

It’s the invention mankind has been waiting for, and by that I mean that regardless of the outcome, when man sat down to invent something, he was thinking sex. Fire, telephones, space shuttles – all by-products of guys trying to create something that would mean more sex. The wheel was created so that we can pick girls up and go somewhere to have sex. The microscope was created so we could watch tiny things have sex. Blenders were created to make margaritas, which guarantees sex, even for ugly people. And the beauty of the patch is it cuts out all the work. Peel, stick, screw, sleep.

But the Food and Drug Administration, obviously made up and hateful old ladies and gay men, refused to clear the patch until more studies could be done to prove its safety and effectiveness. Past studies showed that the patch can cause a little acne, some body hair and a deeper voice. But I can deal with that. I’d sleep with Barry White if it meant not going shoe shopping again.

The FDA needs to be more considerate here. The Spring fashion lines won’t be here till March and I can’t wait that long. Aside from thank-you sex after shopping, the only other opportunity will be sympathy-sex after hanging out with her parents. For God’s sake, release the patch, douche bags!

D.W.A.: Douche Bags With Attitude

Who would ever screw with 50 Cent? 50 was shot nine times while battle rapping in the mean streets of LA and still finished the song. I was shot in the knee with a B.B. gun and missed half of the seventh grade while in a coma. 50 is tough. When 50 says "holla," I say "how loud."

So I have to wonder what Nigeria's version of the Fresh Prince, Idris Abdulkareem, was thinking when he refused to budge from 50's first class seat on a chartered plan carrying a bunch of rappers on tour. 50 has bullet scars and prison tattoos all over his body. Idris Abdulkareem has a bronze medal in table tennis from the African Olympics. 50 lists songs with titles like P.I.M.P and I Will Shoot You Until You Be Dead Fool. Idris, deeply upset by sexual discrimination and government outsourcing, penned the not so street Mr. Lecturer and Retirement Benefits Are Dope.

Like the original gansta Kenny Rogers once said, you gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. You can take a man's wife, but his first class seat? Hell no. After "hurting Idris real bad," 50 cancelled the rest of the tour, denying thousands of Nigerian homies the opportunity to party like it's their birthday. So if you're planning to make a name for yourself in the Nigerian rap game by taking a man's first class seat, you may want to make sure that man's not from South Central and already been shot nine times, enka tacka doodoo *click* *clock* kaka meme (that's Nigerian for douche bag).