This just in: The chinese celebrated the New Year today, saying goodbye to the year of the monkey and greeting the year of the rooster. Well, this certainly explains a few things, doesn't it? The year of the monkey?? Who can have good luck in such a proposterous year, I ask you? Damn Chinese. Things will hopefully start looking up for me soon then. I have a funny little feeling the Year of the Cock might be my kind of year.

So on Friday night I went to the base club to partake in S.G Killah's birthday party. Horror of horrors. How that club manages to maintain such a standard of piss-poorness for years running is beyond me. Perhaps it's just the quality of the clientele... who can say? Who, you ask? I can. An entire club full of guys that are fairly evenly divided into two groups:

Group 1: Limping black guys in oversized baby clothes whose language and communication skills are around a 2nd grade level or so. Liable to say anything from "Yo gurrl, can I axe you a question? How a white gurrl git such a phat ass" to "Yo... I got yo chocolate love right hurr, HOLLAAAA". At which point I am so aroused that I must retreat to the lavatories to finish myself off so I can continue functioning normally.

Group 2: Chubby, fully mustached white men with the ever-stylish crew cut that we all know and love. Nothing like a man with just a bush of hair right on the top of his head like a miniature version of the Kid'n'Play hairstyles of old. And as if the hair wasn't enough to get the girl juices flowing! Available for your viewing pleasure is also a pair of jeans, fresh from the shelves of K-Mart, a shirt that is preferrably a little too small to hide the pudgy Doughboy tummy, decorated with the logo of one of the following, 1. Iron Man (coz Pillsbury boy fancies himself as a bit of a hardass), 2. Daytona Bike Week (because for some unexplainable reason, they think that is cool), 3. The American flag. Betsy Ross would shit a brick if she saw what "her creation" has been reduced to. What more could we ask for? Well, how about a nice humongous pair of a) white tennis shoes or even b) hiking boots to finish off the outfit in true Base Club style.

Then there is what I would like to call a subgroup of Group 2. Basically just a bunch of white boys that are dressed somewhat inconspicuously, indentifiable only by the uniform ballcap that sets this group apart from the rest of the world. These boys come with 3 different types of communication techniques. The first being the Wiggas, they copy Group 1 in mannerisms and idioms to varying degrees of success. They do however usually manage to be almost as off-putting as Group 1, so one might consider that success for this team. The 2nd technique are the Rednecks. They dress like normal men, but beware! Once you get too close to them, they will without fail a) refer to their mother as "mommy" or "mama" (the fact that they even mention her at all is alarming enough - think Norman Bates), b) say something nice about George W. Bush and
c) make some insane comment about how great the States are. But that's understandable, I'm sure the States are lovely. The thing about the Rednecks is the reasoning behind why the States are great. According to them, they're great coz they have Nascar, country music radio and sisters who aren't predjudiced against their own brothers. Ok, so I made that last one up. The third communication technique is what I like to call The Awkward Half-Mutes. They come up to you and manage to squeeze one sentence out of their mute little mouths, usually nothing more gripping than "Hey how you doing?". And then they just kind of shut down, only coming to life in brief intervals to drop more monosyllabic gems into the already flowing conversation. But because they squeezed out that first sentence, they are "talking to you". So they will staple themselves to your ass and stay there for unlimited amounts of time, grinning awkwardly from time to time, otherwise staring straight at the floor.

Also, a special catagory exists for one man and one man only. This is the catagory for baldheaded men with bitchtits that get on my nerves. Accessibly only to baldheaded men with bitchtits that giggle and get on my nerves.

Someone remind me of all this the next time I am cordially invited to go to that establishment.