Jamaica Funk

Please pardon the jacked-up attitude of this post, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. Let me just put a piece of life advice out there for all of you: if two people are having a conversation that in no way concerns you, stay out of it unless you’re invited in or can provide relevant discussion.

A co-worker and myself were joking about our Jamaican heritage. Yes people, I’m a full-blooded Jamerican (for those of you who can’t figure this word out, Jamerican means half Jamaican, half American. My mom’s American and my father–not to be confused with the stepfather that I call daddy–is Jamaican.) Any-stinkin-way, we were enjoying our jokes, some of which would only be funny if you grew up or were closely associated with an island family. Enter co-worker #2 who decides to chime in, “Hey Mon, Me like de Bob Marley Mon. You know you be de Rastafari”

Record scratch, dead silence. What in all the hell? Here was this woman whose only experience with Jamaica was a family trip in 1987 and hanging around the white kids with dreads who listen to Bob Marley all day long trying to be part of a discussion that she obviously couldn’t keep up with. Co-worker #2, if you can’t tell, is NOT Jamaican, NOT Jamerican. She’s a tourist if you will, and a bad one, at that. Co-worker #1 and myself are the only people with Caribbean backgrounds that she actually knows.

“Yo yo yo, how many jobs did your parents have? You know how de Jam-eeee-cans be havin mad jobs at once!” and even worse “Tasha, stop playin…your parents are divorced. Your mom and stepdad raised you, so you couldn’t have been around that many Jamaicans”

How in the name of Purple Rain did she think she had any right to comment on something so, well… non comment-worthy? I don’t know if she really thought showing off her fake-ass Jam-eeee-can accent would make us think she was cool or make us jealous of the fact that she’s actually travelled to the country? Duh woman, we’ve already been there, parts of our families live there. Trust me, you haven’t been where we’ve been. You got off the Carnival Cruiseboat and hung around the tourist traps. You couldn’t tell the difference between Bob Marley and Garnet Silk if your life depended on it.

Both of us were quite offended by the things she said. I mean damn, not every Jamaican has five jobs at a time, I don’t care what the old “In Living Color” skit said. And even if they did, that’s for us to joke about, not her. Oh, and let me put this out there, just because my parents are divorced doesn’t mean that my father and I don’t speak. I grew up with his Jamaican family just as much as with my mom and stepdad’s. So I do get to speak about my ethnic background, however dysfunctional as it may be, LOL.

People please, if you know that you only have a passing understanding of the subject being discussed, stay out of it. You will quickly be dismissed. No one wants to listen to a know-it-all. Think about it this way, would you interject into the conversations of people speaking Spanish just because you took Spanish I in high school? No you wouldn’t. Well I hope you wouldn’t, because that’s plain rude. If you have questions about someone’s conversation, go ahead and ask, but wait until the first conversation is over. Usually people don’t mind answering questions when they’re asked with a genuine desire to learn. (That’s a topic for a different day).

Have you ever heard, “This is an A and B conversation, so C your way out of it”?? Yes, this elementary school phrase holds true even in your adult life.

People, help me out here…do I have a right to be offended or am I overreacting?

Toddler Say What?

“Lady you need to move!”

Not bothering to look behind me, I said “Sorry, I’ll be done in a second”

“Move bitch.”

Oh no, you are not about to disrespect me in public like that. I turned around fully expecting to see a grown woman behind me, but I saw nothing. I looked down and I saw nothing but 2 and a half feet of three year old standing there with the fiercest face I’ve ever seen. I had to stop a second and make sure I was in my right mind before I spoke.

“Sweetie, where is your mother? You know you shouldn’t speak to grown ups like that.”

“Don’t worry bout me and my mama she’s coming. You need to move, okay”

There I stood, a completely grown woman about to get in an argument with a toddler. I was really about to come out of my face with some grown folks words and hurl them at a child. At the grocery store about to get into it with someone whose idol is Dora the Explorer. All I could do was gather my stuff from the self-checkout, and leave in silent fury.

What made me angrier than anything in this situation was the fact that the child is obviously smart. Very few kids that young, she couldn’t have been a day over 4 years, can string sentences together that well. And there she stood spewing cuss words and the like. If her mother had only paid attention to her daughter’s linguistic prowess, and nurtured that quality, maybe she’d be more skilled at expressing herself properly.

Parents, again I beg you all to take a look at the things your toddlers are saying and doing. Whether or not you want to believe this, your children pay attention to everything you say and do. You may be aware of some of your bad habits, and therefore tell your children to “do as I say, not as I do”. But children, being the sponges that they are will want to mimic your every move regardless of what you tell them. If you’re always in somebody’s face swearing like a sailor and showing off otherwise unsavory behavior, guess what—your child will have a propensity to do the same thing. You might really think it’s cute the first time you see little Jaquenisha catch an attitude with a grown person, but please realize that her little “act” didn’t come out of the blue. She learned how to do that from you and the other adults she’s around all the time. Also, if you find yourself in a position where you have to get stank with someone, but your child is right there, do what you have to do. Just remember to explain after the incident that what you did is not something that should be done every day, nor is that behavior acceptable in most situations.

It’s bad enough that we have to deal with piss-poor attitudes from other adults, so to have to deal with the same and worse from very young children is absolutely unacceptable. I swear, the next ornery toddler that I have to deal with will be told that Santa’s not real. That’ll show em!

Holy Ghost Hoedown

When I went back home over the Thanksgiving holiday, I went to my home church as expected. As I’m sure I’ve said at some point or another, I grew up in a Baptist Church. So of course that means I’ve seen my fair share of people catch the Holy Ghost, and I suppose I’ve done so myself. Some people cry, some people dance to the music. But there exists a pattern of how people show that they’ve been affected by the sermon or the song, and I actually wonder if there is some type of “Holy Ghost School” that these people go to, because they all do the same thing. Let me list a few for you.

1) Throwing Wigs and Hats- In my church, and many others like it, a lot of the older women wear huge hats. I’m not talking about dainty little pillbox hats either, I mean large windmill-like creations that somehow block the view of the pulpit from every possible angle. A lot of these women also wear intricate wigs under said hats to cover up whatever funk-tastical state their natural hair is in. When the Holy Ghost enters their body, off come the hats and the wigs with some supernatural flair. They don’t simply place the things in the pew next to their belongings. Nope. None of that. The hats and wigs go flying in whatever direction they will, and sometimes land in the aisles or actually on people several pews in front or behind. Not to worry though, after the sermon, the ushers return the hairpieces to their rightful owners. I tell you, those ushers must have hawk-like vision to be able to accurately determine whose hair landed where. I was an usher for a while back in the day, and I couldn’t keep up.

2) Jheri Curl Juice Shake em’ up- For some reason unknown to me, a lot of the men, especially those over 50, have drippy jheri curls. I’m not sure if they’re trying to hold on to some fabulous part of their youth or something, but trust me when I say it is far from a good look. When they “get happy” they do some epileptic-type shake that sends activator flying everywhere. I’m glad churches are non-smoking environments because that stuff is flammable. It’d be terrible if some poor soul was calmly smoking a cigarette during the sermon and one of the jheri curled bunch started shaking and the activator landed on them. POOF, instant backdraft. I shudder at the thought.

3) The half hand-raise- I truly don’t know why EVERYONE does this. I’m guilty of it too, so I’m stumped. When something moving is said or sung, the left hand goes up as if answering a question in grade school. It only goes halfway up though, and the palm is ALWAYS facing the pastor or the choir. Maybe we think that the spirit of the Lord will enter our bodies through our palms? Or perhaps we’re giving whoever is at the pulpit a somber high-five? Whatever the case, up go the hands, and grab a Kleenex because the tears are about to flow freely.

4) The faux faint- It’s usually the same person, at the same time every Sunday. For some reason, at my church, this woman likes when the pastor gives the church announcements. “Hallelujah Jeeeessuuuussss” and out she goes. The hand on the forehead, Scarlet O’Hara style. She manages to land on one of the strapping young ushers. Maybe something is lacking at home. I don’t know, but she sits in the same seat every week, and the same ushers catch her every time. Poor Jason and Sean. That woman is a hot mess.

5) Marathon aisle running- When things really get going, and the spirit has really filled the church, the music changes to a more frenetic pace and people start acting up. Out come the marathon runners. These same few people feel it necessary to show their praise by running up and down the center and side aisles of the church. The sanctuary of my church is on the second floor, and I’m afraid that one day the floor will give in and it’s going to be a replay of the Titanic. Now, the aisle runners don’t just run amok. They have a patented type of run that resembles some NFL player’s end zone dance. High-knee stepping with the quickness all over the place. They never enter the pews or enter the pulpit. Oh no, they know better than that. That’s not good Churchianty. The ushers have stopped trying to corral these people into one place; they just run until they tire themselves out. I’m convinced that these people are trying to get in an extra aerobic workout for the week. “Watch out now Gold’s Gym, I’m getting my religion and my workout all at once!”

6) Dance club show off- Okay, so Sunday service is the morning after many people hit the clubs. Some people feel the need to show off whatever dances they learned at the club the night before during the freestyle instrumental gospel getdown. Yes, the music is upbeat, and yes some of it sounds like you can really groove to it. The Lord is cool with you getting your dance on to music being played in his honor, I’m sure of it. But some dances are best left at the club. I swear I’ve seen people doing the ‘Walk it Out’ and ‘Chicken Noodle Soup’ and even the ‘Laffy Taffy’ and ‘Electric Slide’ to some holy music. Oh goodness. Oh goodness. Oh goodness! I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ll get my dance on if I’m really into the music, but I’m smart enough to stick to a two step or something. It’s beyond hilarious to me when people claim to be Bible-beating Christians who don’t go out except to Bible Study and choir rehersal, but they can do the ‘Chicken Noodle Soup’ better than those of us who freely admit to going to the club. The lyrics are “Oh happy day, when Jesus washed….washed my sins away” NOT “let it rain, clear it out…Chicken Noodle Soup, with a soda on the side”. I promise you that. Even the pastor looks at them sometimes like “Dayum, where’d you learn that move Sister Yvonne?”

There are plenty more similar things that people do when the Holy Ghost gets them, I’ve only listed a few. I have strong opinions about church, and some of them are not so favorable. However, I keep going back—of course to get the Word, but partially to see the debauchery going on within the hallowed walls. I should probably be ashamed of that, but me being who I am, of course I’m not. When I was a kid not yet old enough to go to the club on the weekends, I would be excited to go watch people get down with their bad selves!

I just hope when I get old, I don’t end up throwing my wig one day. I’m not sure I could live with myself.

The Name Game gone BAD

I work in an industry that forces me to look at the profiles and demographic information of people across the country day in and day out. So of course, I run across all kinds of names. Normally, I’m not really bothered by the more creative sounding names or the so-called ghetto black names. To each their own. But today, I’m in shock and horror over the names I’m seeing. Parents, I beg you, pleeeeeeease at the very least check a dictionary before bestowing a name upon your child. Your darling offspring will have to live with that name for the rest of his or ner natural life or at least until the legal age to change a given name.

I know most of us have heard the jokes. But this is seriously turning into an epidemic.

“Gonorrhea” “Syphillis” “Oncology” “Chlamydia” “Amoeba” “Dysentary” “Escherichia” “Clostridium” “Angina” “Carotid” “Parotid”

Yes, those are all names of medical terms and diseases, and they’re also the names of real children. I’ve spoken to each of their parents. Carotid and Parotid are twins, and when I asked the mother where she got the name from, she told me that she’d heard the doctor say those names and she thought they were cute. She really had no idea that carotid and parotid are actualy arteries in the body, and when I mentioned it, she was like “Ohmygoodness, I’m kind of embarassed now”. I didn’t mean to embarass her, really I didn’t, I promise. When I call the parents of children with odd names such as those above, I usually end up getting schooled on how to pronounce the name properly. Like when I called little Angina’s mom, I was quickly informed that her name is pronounced “Ehn-Gee-nya” like it’s supposed to be French or something.

I’m all for being creative, even with pronunciations, but people need to understand that when the spelling doesn’t remotely match the sound of the name or when the spelling of the name equals something that’s best left in an anatomy book or a grocery store shelf, their kids may suffer for it. I could write a book about all of the Alize’s, Sha’Quinessence’s, Boone Farm’s (YES!! It’s a real person, DO NOT ASK!!), Pretzel’s, Chrysler’s, Bentley’s, etc. that I’ve had to deal with, but that might just encourage people to give their children horrendous names.

My plea to parents-to-be:

I’m excited about your impending parenthood. I think. Well anyway, please make sure you take the task of naming your baby seriously. I know we have lots of ideas for cute names that will serve the babies well into their toddler years. But your children will grow up. Trust me when I say this. It’s hard for people to take a 48-year old named Precious Cuddles Monée Johnson seriously. Also, I want to save your child the embarassment of finding out that they were named after an alcoholic drink or a medical anomaly. I’d hate to see your daughter in Microbiology class studying bacteria, and she discovers that “Eukaryote Escherichia Coli” is not African or French, but rather something that grows in a petrie dish, studied under a microscope, and can kill people (E. Coli). Or I’d really hate to see your son in the doctor’s office when they tell him he’s tested positive for Staphylococcus and he finally figures out where you got his name from.

And parents, please for the love, don’t name your new child after the vehicle he or she was conceived in. Something’s just really fishy about a daughter named Chrysler or RangéRover (pronounced Rahn-jay Roh-veir —I kid you not!). I’m not sure if you realize how difficult it is for people like me that have to work with your children’s files to make sense of what we look at. I’m in no way saying that you should name your child something bland for the sake of making his/her life easier or to avoid undue embarassment. However, by naming your child something truly beautiful and unique, or even simple and sensible, you are showing us that you have faith in your child that s/he doesn’t require a NAME to make a good impression on the world and you are showing us just how creative you really are.

I ask this humbly, as I don’t have any children of my own. However, if I see another Mononuclei–age 4, I may just be ready to pull my hair out. Please, it’s a simple guideline to follow: If you don’t know what it means, DO NOT use it as your child’s name. If you heard it in a medical office, chances are you don’t want to be naming your baby that. If you saw it in your little brother’s Biology textbook–just say NO! If you can drink it, drive it, eat it, or wear it–please stop and think before you put it on your baby’s birth certificate.

*Sigh* The defense rests.

NYPD shoots a groom

I tried all weekend to make heads or tails of this story (another version of events here) about the NYPD shooting up an unarmed man on the night before his wedding day, and I’m still struggling. My stepsister, who is an NYPD detective, I’m sure has some strong opinions about what’s happened, but she’s done the honorable thing and hasn’t said jack. I wasn’t there, so I really don’t know the true story of what happened. However, judging by the intense grief of the families and the tight-lipped attitude of the NYPD, this situation has the potential to damn the organization forever.

I could very easily pull the race card in this situation, but I’m going to wait until I more facts have been revealed. I will go so far as to say though, that I have never seen something like this happen where the races are reversed. I can’t even imagine how something like that would play out. Anyway, what I’m most sad about is that the brother we lost seemed to be a good one. He was engaged to his high school sweetheart, the mother of his children. So many young men don’t stay on the type of path to do good by their families.

As much as I try to play out every possible situation that could have occured that night, there is still no justification for this one. We had an unarmed 23-year old get pumped full of bullets, sustaining fatal injuries, all because he’d decided to marry the mother of his children and have a bachelor party at a strip club that just happened to be under investigation. Where is the sense in that? I’m furious, curious, and just plain sad. How many times does it take before we start to get things like this right? Just because you’re in the “hood” doesn’t mean that everyone is strapped. Damn NYPD, I thought they taught you that in police academy. Warning shots aren’t supposed to kill people. Hell, I understand the need to protect themselves. After all, the groom’s car did ram the unmarked police vehicle, and apparently at some point during the altercation, a gun was mentioned. But NO ONE was armed. Does it really take 50 rounds to see that no one is shooting back? That’s where things go wrong for me. I know the cops were doing their job but seriously, 50 rounds? And NOT one shot was fired in retaliation? Something is not adding up properly there. And please spare me the “But they were at the strip club at 4AM the day before his wedding” garbage. Have you ever heard of a bachelor party? Damn, the same situation is played out almost daily across this nation. And you know more than likely that you’ve been in the same setting yourself–leaving the dance club, strip club, bar, or whatever else at some crazy hour of the night. So please, save your breath. Really.

May God rest that young man’s soul. *Shaking my head*

When home isn’t home anymore

I got back a little while ago from spending Thanksgiving with my family at home in NY, and I’m happy to be back. Usually when I leave there, I do so with a heavy heart, but this time it was different. Of course I was more than glad to see my parents and eat yummy home cooked food, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I was at my parents’ house, not at home. For some reason, I felt out of place, more like a guest. I know now what my brother (he lives up I-95 in Baltimore) and my other friends who’ve moved away mean when they say that when you leave for good, home is never quite the same.

Now don’t get me wrong, I will be a very proud New Yorker until the day I die, but being back in my hometown just felt odd. I’ll always have a strong connection to home–I talk to my mom at least once a day and still keep in touch with my friends who haven’t left yet–but I see now that when you leave, most of your soul goes with you. I’ve lived away from home before, but always in the same state, and never actually permanently, so my parents’ house was still the big H-O-M-E. Now that I’m out of college and decided to make the DC area my permanent place of residence, things are different. I can’t really explain it, because I’ll always be happy to sleep in my childhood bedroom for nostalgia’s sake and I’ll always be happy to see my mom and dad and to troll around my old stomping grounds.

I know that if the proverbial shit hits the fan, I can still move back into their house and be comfortable–I guess that’s what it means to move on in life. Seeing as I’ll be starting my own family at some point in the future, my house will be the same way to my kids. My mom had a rough time letting go when I moved almost a year ago–I’m the baby of the bunch–but now that she sees and has internalized that I can make it on my own, she supports me wholeheartedly. That’s strangely comforting, seeing the shift in our relationship from parent to friend as I’ve stepped out completely on my own. I guess she and my stepdad know that they did their job raising us well. We’re self-sustaining adults who know that our parents, not their house, will always represent home and that soft, comfortable spot.

I’m looking forward to visiting again for Christmas, but this time I won’t be going back like a college student going home. I’ll be going as an adult to see her parents and reminisce on “back in the day”. Just like my parents did when they left home, their parents before them, and like every person that’s ever grown up. I miss my parents, I miss my family, but I’m home now.

Happy Thanksgiving

I’m going home to see my family today, so I probably won’t be blogging until I get back. Have a safe and blessed Thanksgiving, and eat until you’re stuffed. Watch all the football you can! See you Sunday!!!

~Tasha

Michael "Kramer" Richards not laughing today

I wasn’t even going to give this situation my time, but after seeing the apology for his 3-minute racial tirade at the Laugh Factory, I have to say something. I’m mad at the fact that he dropped the N-bomb more times than some 2-bit black comic on Def Comedy Jam, but I’m not mad at him per se. Obviously, that wasn’t some drunken misstep or some sad attempt at a joke. Those are his true feelings, even as many times as he says he’s not a bigot. Even the ‘drunken missteps’ are usually someone’s true feelings, seeing as most people become brutally honest when they’re drunk.

When you have to make a statement like “I’m not a bigot”, that usually means you are. People who are not racist don’t have to quantify their statements like that because their lifestyles speak for themselves. When I hear, “My best friend is black” or “I have black people at my house all the time”, that’s usually a sign that they’ve kept track of these things because they’re uncomfortable with the fact.

Anyway, I’m fairly certain that this will not be a nail in the coffin of Michael Richards’ career, especially because blacks do not control Hollywood. If his statements were anti-semitic in nature, then I’d be more apt to say that he should just go ahead and call his career a wrap. Unfortunate as this all is, racism is still alive and well–that’s something we have to live with. I can’t help but wonder though, maybe we (I’m speaking of black people here) need to look at ourselves and ask if we need to stop giving people reasons to think so lowly of us. People do take notice of the coonery and buffonery and minstrel-show antics perpetrated by some of our music, etc. Just a thought. Yeah, I’ll be posting about that at another time I’m sure.

Phawkin Pigeons!!

Ok, it’s getting cold outside. I thought birds fly south when it gets cold. At least that’s what they do back home. But I suppose this is as far south as some of those birds go. Fairfax County, VA. Yes, I can see the birds’ travel agent trying to sell this location now…”Yes, Vienna is a beautiful town, just across the bridge from DC, with lovely smog from Beltway traffic, and plenty of low-lying tree tops on which to rest your laurels. There are lots of office workers there who take up space for the majority of the day. It’s a great place to spend your winter.” Well I’m mad at that travel agent now.

I was on my way back from lunch and I heard all of this commotion in the trees just above my head. Lots of rustling and strange gutteral sounds that pigeons make when communicating with their homies. I’m not sure if the red shirt I have on today makes me look like some type of extra large berry but out of nowhere, three big-ass birds land on my shoulders and start pecking at my shirt and my ears. I’m not wearing green or brown so I know I couldn’t have looked like a comfy shrub on which to take up residence. For those of you who don’t know, pigeon beaks hurt like a mutha^&*). I thought one of them actually drew blood, but to my relief, it didn’t. If it did, I was really about to step out of here and find some rabies and cooties vaccines, because God only knows where pigeon piehole has been.

Once I took about ten running steps, the pigeons flew off of my shoulders and back into the treees above. Then I heard a faint, sick-sounding thud–kind of like what a spitball landing on a chalkboard sounds like. I heard it again, then once again, again, again, again. It sounded like I was in a war of spitball flinging fourth graders. My first instinct was to duck, but curiosity got the best of me. I took a glance upward, and at that moment, everything registered and I knew what was about to happen. Pigeon posterior in prime position to poop. I had one of those B-movie quality slow-motion moments, “Noooooooooooo” in the crazy altered voice as the pooplet made its way to my cheek.

Oh my holy hot mess, I have officially been shat on. I made a bee-line for the ladies room and washed the crap off of my face (mmm, double entendre or something) then went back to my office. I called my mom to share my unfortunate story with her, and I was really expecting some type of sympathy. Like maybe something along the lines of, “Aww, my poor baby, are you alright? Did the pigeon beak break your skin? Did the poop get on your clothes, did it stain anything?”. But no, all she does is tell me that getting shat on is good luck. Umm, well if it was good luck, my sweater wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the front door of the building when I was coming back in to wash off, leaving me fighting standing in the middle of the lobby with crap on my face cussing up a storm. When I told her that, she laughed and said, “Well honey, all I can tell you then is…shit happens”

Ha. Ha. Friggin Ha.

Sketchy Superstar of the Week

I’m not sure what it is about me that draws insanely sketchy men, but as much as it sucks, they provide me with all sorts of comic relief. This poor excuse for a man found me on The Crackpace, aka MySpace.

I don’t spend my time on The ‘Space stalking people, but I do log on pretty often to get in touch with friends that I don’t see on the regular and to add pics now and again. This is what normal people use Crackspace for. Some people, however, see this venue as a way to get their cyber-pimp on, and contiunously make fools of themselves.

On Tuesday, I got a message from some idiot named “Black&Long” telling me that he liked my smile. I sent a thank you back and figured that would be the end of it. All of a half-hour later, I got another message from him telling me that he’s called “Black&Long” because he’s got enough to be able to take care of a thick woman like myself. He wanted to know when we could meet up to watch a movie. I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to his message because all I could think was his personality must be so vapid that the only way he can potentially find himself in the presence of a flesh-and-blood woman is to go the x-rated route. Just to humor myself, I looked at his profile and there was nothing but Freak McNasty quotes all over the place. Shook my head and logged off.

The next day, waiting for me in my Crackspace inbox was another message from him. He wrote (copied and pasted verbatim), “Oh gyrl I skurred you away? Don’t be skurred of me, you know you can handle it. But what if I told you I will cook for you and wash up yo hairs and make you sweats? Wouldn’t that excite you mamacita?” What in the goodness?? Sweats!? Is this fool actually going to sew me a pair of sweatpants? I responded, “Ooooh, you’re really going to do all that for lil ol’ me??? I only eat organic food, and I only allow my personal stylist to wash my hair with rare Artesian shampoo” (again people, I lied to get a response from him. I don’t know what Artesian shampoo is, but it sounds more classy than anything he knows of).

Thursday rolled around and I got “I ain’t really gonna do that shit for you, but you best to be happy I want to bless you with my black and long cuz you know can’t nobody take curr dat azz like dis nicca right here” All I could do was roll my eyes and respond with, “Please take your foolish attempt at pimping elsewhere. You don’t excite me, you can’t string a coherent sentence together to save your life. If you really were black and long and great like you say you are, you wouldn’t need to use MySpace to get a piece. Don’t you know that you can use match.com or something? MySpace dating is for teenagers, you’re 38. Now run along and eat your cereal, your mama’s calling. And I bet she’s the only female who’s actually seen your bull-isht black&long”

I guess he was offended by my statement because his final communication with me was “Fine. Scooby Doo to you too” Damn, I don’t even know if that’s supposed to be an insult. Yikes!!

Men, please step up your game. This is getting out of hand.