Stay Off Timelines That Offend You #BodyShaming

I just finished reading an article over at People about a young lady who claims she was body shamed.  Now, I'll be the first to tell you that these "shaming" accusations that we see thrown around social media can be ridiculous to some.  However, at what point do we allow people to live their lives and deal with their own consequences?

Shalom Ifeanyi is a student at the Univ. of Cincinnati.  She posted some photos on her IG page that caught the eye of her volleyball coach.

The photos look extremely tame compared to what we see online these days.  But, her coach, Molly Alvey asked Ifeanyi to remove the photos because they showed too much of her breasts, despite the fact that she was fully-clothed in all of the photos.  Mix in the fact that some of her white teammates were allowed to pose in two-piece swimsuits and you have the formula for a discrimination lawsuit against the school.

Corporations and institutions need to stop policing people's personal lives.  A person shouldn't have to censor their personal online sites to comply by someone else's standards.  They should be allowed to post at will and forced to deal with the consequences, if there are any.

I'll be the first to tell you that people shouldn't post online half of the things that they do, but they are responsible for their reputation, not me.  If I don't like it, then I shouldn't view it.  It's just that simple!

Why are people so compelled to remove or ban something they're not forced to look at in the first place?  And if you feel that it's some sort of black eye to the reputation of your corporation or institution, then you're the one with the problem.  Ifeanyi is a volleyball player.  If she shows up at a game wearing something deemed provocative, then at that point, discipline her as you see fit.  Other than that, she owes Univ. of Cincy nothing outside of the school system.

Companies need to stop selling the allusion that they're only employing perfect people.  There are no perfect people.  And if the photo posted above is "too sexy" for Coach Alvey, then please don't ever let her see some of the 2018 prom season photos that I saw on Facebook this month.  Her had would explode.

It's sad that Miss Ifeanyi, who is a beautiful girl, has to endure this sort of attention for something that is ultimately so inconsequential to the Univ. of Cincy.  But, I guess that she realizes now that what she does as a black woman, right or wrong, will be scrutinized.

That's just how we roll in America.

Tippin' Isn't A City in China

(Source)

Despite the fact that I hate doing this, I must throw out a disclaimer: I was 18 years old and very immature! So, if someone reads this and gets upset over what (almost) happened, then remember that I was a kid.  Now, on to the story...

Going to school on a campus in the middle of nowhere can be boring. Very boring. My homies and I decided that this particular Friday night, we were going to do something different. I had no idea what they had in mind. All I knew is that it was Friday night, 70% of the campus had obviously gone home for the weekend and it was absolutely nothing to do.

One of my homies was from Shaw, MS. In fact, I never knew his real name and always referred to him as "Shaw." The other guy was from Tyler, TX and guess what we called him? We called him "Al." Duh! That was his name. Nah, seriously, everyone called him "Ty." I guess we weren't very creative at this particular time of our lives. Two guys from two small towns in two different states, but apprarently, they both have a similar, late-night hobby. "Q," started Shaw, "I know what we can do, man. Grab your keys."

I didn't hesitate. I was just about down for whatever. We were halfway to the car before I asked, "where are we going?"

"I'll tell you later, but for now, I just need you to drive," he replied.

We hopped in the car and started heading towards town. The closest town, Greenwood, is about eight miles away. We arrived at the city limits, I asked again, "where are we going?"

"Just keep driving. It's going to be a while," he smiled.

I'm not nervous yet. Although I don't normally hang with these two guys, I knew them well enough to know that they weren't criminals or anything. So, I didn't feel like I was heading towards something that would land me in trouble.

After another 30 minutes of driving north towards Senatobia, MS, I asked again, "man, I'm going to turn around unless you tell me where we're going. I'm not driving to Memphis tonight. It's 1 AM."

"Give me 20 more minutes, Q, and we'll be there," Shaw assured.

Sure enough, 20 minutes later, Shaw told me to pull over on the side of Interstate 55. "Right here, right here," he said looking out of the passenger window.

I looked out the window as well and noticed a pasture. "I don't see anything," I said.

"Q," Ty started, "we're going 'cow tippin',' dude!"

Now, I wasn't raised on a farm or anything, but I definitely knew what "cow tipping" was. "Tippin'" isn't a city in China.  I had once been told that cows "sleep" (or get in a relaxed state) while standing. The object of "cow tipping" is to push them while they are in that state and watch them fall.  I'd never seen it done before, but I'd heard about it in high school from some guys. However, because I'm not down with farm animals whatsoever, I was not comfortable at all around them and had no plans of participating.

"Okay, Q," started Ty, "here's what you gotta do..."

"Oh, I'm not going out there!" I responded.

"Man, these cows ain't gonna hurt you," Ty laughed. "Well, if you let them catch you, then you may get hurt. Just sneak up on them, get a running start, use your hands to push them and turn around and run."

I looked at this one cow that was about 20 yards from the fenceline. I thought to myself that I could do it. "Don't use your shoulder to knock them over!" Shaw instructed. "Use your hands becasue it doesn't take much."

I'm really psyched up at this point. I thought about being able to have a story to tell one day. I guess I was right about that part!

I slipped in between the barbwire fence while I tried to ignore the giggles from Shaw and Ty. There were roughly 10-15 cows in the area and all of them were absolutely still. The only light that I had was a full moon, so I could not see very far in front of me, but it was enough light for me to recognize a bull if I saw one! I got about 60 feet from the fence and very close to the "target cow." I'm amazed at how relaxed she is. I can't tell if she's asleep or just hasn't noticed my presence.  But, the cow is much larger than I thought before entering the fenced-in pasture. There was no way that I could simply push her over. That line of thinking is where I made my mistake. I'd never asked Ty or Shaw why I shouldn't use my shoulder when "cow tipping." I guess that I should have.

As I got within striking distance of the cow, I took a quick peek back towards the guys. I could barely see them as the moon slid behind a few clouds. I faced my prey, took three strong steps, lowered my shoulder and prepared to put every inch of muscle that I had into toppling the bovine.

Well, some where between lunging at the cow and hitting the ground, I realized that cows really aren't asleep when they're standing around at night time.  That's just a myth.  The cow easily moved out of my way and I fell and hit the ground face first.

Memo to readers: cows tend to get pretty rowdy when you attempt to shove them.

The cow went nuts! It was mooing and stuff as I was trying to get off of the ground. Then I could hear the sounds of the other cows in the pasture mooing like some sort of alarm system. The sounds seemed to be coming from all over and grew louder and louder. How many cows were actually out here?  50?  100?  I hopped to my feet and started running back to the fence as the sound of hooves filled my ears. "I'm going to get trampled," I thought to myself.

(Source)

As I started running towards the fence like an Olympian, the guys started to come into view. "Run, Q, he's right behind you!" I heard one of them yell.

I knew that I didn't have time to stop and slowly make my way through the barbwire fence without being caught from behind. My only option was to dive over it. At this point, the sound of the apparent stampede no longer filled my ears. It was just my heartbeat as I got within a few feet of the fence. I dove over the fence like Michael Phelps dives into a pool, but because the fence was so high, the barbs barely caught me at the top of the chest and scratched me all the way to the top of my thighs.

I landed on the other side and rolled over a couple of times not even realizing that I'd been cut. I looked back to see just how close the "killer cows" were to me only to notice that they'd all run the opposite way. I was never being chased. The sound of hooves running that I heard were the cows running from me.

I glanced over at Ty and Shaw and they are on the verge of pissing on themselves from laughing at me. I looked down at my t-shirt and notice that it's ripped from a few inches beneath each shoulder and all the way to the bottom. The top of my short pants are also ripped.  I'm really thinking about leaving Ty and Shaw on the side of the road at this point, but they were already getting in the car.

I started to smile about the whole thing as we got back on the interstate and eventually I started laughing with them. Ty and Shaw continued to laugh until I pulled into a gas station and told them to fill up my gas tank or hitchhike back to school.  Funny or not, college students are broke and driving that far for a laugh comes with a cost.

We arrived back at the dormitory and they immediately started reciting the story to the few people still left on our floor. I shook my head and walked to my room to change clothes. As I got undressed, I noticed two long, lightly-bleeding scratches from my chest all the way down to my thighs. I stared in amazement for a moment and then thought to myself, "had that fence been an inch higher, then I would have seriously torn into my flesh."

Thank God there were no cell phone cameras or "Tosh.0" back in 1989 or all of you may have already seen what I've just described by now.

"Next time, we're taking out your knees, hoss." (Source)

Dazed & Confused

"I am the greatest!"

I'll give you this bit of info upfront: the moral of this story is to "always ask questions."  Sometimes, you can save yourself from a headache if you just ask "how" or "why?"  On to the story...

I used to think that my fighting skills were on-par with the best. That, of course, is despite the fact that I'd only been in one fight in my life at the time and that was in kindergarten. A kid and I had a dust-up over who would get the last swing on the playground. We were racing to the swing set and he pushed me down. I wasn't happy about him cheating and pushing me down.  So, in the end, I took a swing (at him) to get the swing.

But, that was 14 years prior to this incident. It was 1990 and I was an 18-year old freshman in his second semester. I'd started developing my "college personality" and had made plenty of friends. My school was located in the middle of nowhere, so we were frequently bored. We did whatever we could to entertain ourselves. This time, I wish I'd been studying instead of participating in relieving boredom on this night.

Someone on the 3rd floor had over-sized boxing gloves. Huge gloves filled with plenty of cushion, but still packed a punch like a well-swung pillow. A college guy's dream, right?  What started out as four of us swinging in the hallway for fun resulted in a crowd of 50+ people in front of the dormitory fighting for money.

I'm a huge boxing fan. I watched many matches with my father as a kid and in my mind, I had the technique needed to beat anyone. For a while, I was right. I disposed of my first seven opponents pretty easily. We would basically duke it out until someone gave up or got knocked down. For every dollar my dorm mates would bet, I'd get 50 cents of it if I won. So, I was making pretty good money with roughly 20-30 people betting on me each fight. 

I was some where around $70 when a suggestion was made that I fight James. James was a country, cornbread-fed, no-neck having football player from Clarksdale, MS. We nicknamed him "Donkey Kong" although I think James had more muscles than that barrel-tossing primate. Someone went to his room to get him while I pondered if I should consider an early retirement.

"Tim," I whispered to my roommate and holder of my money,"I don't think I want to fight James, man."

"Yeah, he is pretty big," he replied. "Maybe you should quit."

Since I had Tim's reassurance of me making the right decision, I got ready to take the gloves off until someone said, "$5 on this fight and the winner gets $3 per bet!"

$3 per person if I win? My greed choked out my common sense.  Don't judge!  Do you know how much that is for a college student? That thought quickly left my mind as James exited from the dorm into the parking lot where we were gathered. He was 5'6", 235 lbs. and was probably less than 12% body fat. He was a nice and jolly guy and always had jokes. "What's up, 'Chubb Rock?'" he started. "Someone told me that I can make $50 if I whip you."

"Chubb Rock" was a nickname I picked up in college. It came from a popular, chubby rapper at the time. James laughed as he slid on the boxing gloves. Tim collected the money from the gamblers. A group of ladies stopped by to see what the commotion was all about, so now there's the pressure of female presence making the stakes higher.

Someone said "ding, ding" to simulate a bell and James and I swung at each other like a low budget movie version of "Real Steel." The fight between us would later be described as "two guys throwing dynamite" as we scrapped like our lives depended on it.  I went toe-to-toe with a guy whose chest is so wide that he can't even reach across to scratch his other arm and I beat him. "You made $87!" Tim whispered emphatically.  Before I could respond, I heard a familiar deep voice say, "I'll fight him."

I turned around and saw our residential assistant. He was 6'5" and probably weighed about 240 lb. and his nickname was "Roughhouse." You would think that the origin of his nickname or his height would have concerned me, but I wasn't bothered by either. You see, Roughhouse was an ordained minister. And a minister can't fight. Right?  Besides, I'd just beaten "Donkey Kong."  I was 8-0.  I was invincible.

Roughhouse only agreed to fight if no money was placed on him as he slid on the gloves. Although he was much taller than me, I figured I'd wear out his stomach and once he dropped his guard, take out his head. I had it all planned out.

"Ding, ding." 

Roughhouse hit me so quickly that I wasn't sure if I'd been hit at all. Before I could make a decision on if I'd been hit, I felt two more blows that confirmed that I was definitely under attack. By the time I counted the fifth or sixth blow, I was dazed and confused. I stepped back to get my composure and by the time that I refocused, I didn't see him. I was facing directly towards Tim and he was laughing uncontrollably. "Where did he go?" I asked.

By this time, I'm noticing that I'm facing the crowd and that everyone is laughing. Roughhouse had hit me so hard and so many times, that I'd spun around and faced the other direction without even knowing it. I turned back around to face him, but he was taking his gloves off and laughing.

My undefeated streak was over. Not only did I lose, I didn't even get to throw a single punch. I never saw his punches coming.  I only saw them leaving my cheeks. I congratulated Roughhouse and asked him where he learned to fight like that. "Oh, I'm a blackbelt," he replied.  "You didn't know that's how I got my nickname?"

O_o

When Elevators Attack, Part II

Back in my college days, a lot of craziness occurred. Unfortunately, since this was before the days of cell phone cams and YouTube, most of the antics were unseen to the world. So, now and then, I have to do things the old fashioned way and tell you a story about the time I was at Mississippi Valley State...

If you thought Part I was bad, then imagine the horror I must have felt from this tale. This incident actually occurred on another college campus. The campus of Alcorn University. This was a rival to my school that was located about 150 miles south of Valley. My roommate and I traveled there to watch a basketball game between the Alcorn and Valley. Afterwards, we decided to stop by one of the dormitories to visit a high school friend of his. So, it was me, Tim, a guy named Bobby and another guy whose name escapes me.

We walk into the dormitory and proceed to the elevator. We get in, face the front, press the button and as the doors start to close, a freakin' armadillo walks onto the elevator with us as if he belonged.

Yes, you read that right. An armadillo. Now, despite watching many episodes of "Wild Kingdom" while I was growing up, my knowledge of armadillos was next to zero. The same must have been true for the other guys in the elevator because panic ensued immediately! We had no idea what that thing was capable of. We also had no idea that armadillos make a horrific sound and jump (quite high, I might add) when they get scared. Go here to open a new window and see an armadillo jump (no need to watch more than 30 seconds of the video). As for as how they sound when they're scared, just peep the video below or go here if you don't have Flash.




So, imagine that noise and a creature jumping around the elevator with four grown dudes who are completely terrified. As the armadillo bounced around and made screeching sounds reminiscent of the snake in the old Q*Bert arcade game (for the 70's babies), the four of us visited every corner of that elevator multiple times in an attempt to get away. Four guys, the smallest being 220 lbs., smashed up in a corner like children. All of us were attempting to climb up the elevator walls like Spider-Man with Vaseline on his fingers, not wanting to be attacked by the armored rodent who may as well been a cobra by the way we were reacting.

We almost tore that elevator up. When the doors finally opened, we shot out of that elevator like a Roman candle. Two other guys, who were waiting on the elevator, stared at us as they started to walk into it. One of them saw the armadillo in the back corner, fell on to his back and proceeded to scurry backwards on all fours like something from "The Unborn."

The doors closed and the "threat" was over. How an armadillo got into the dormitory is beyond me, but my mom almost lost her youngest son to a heart attack that evening. I've gotta start taking the stairs.


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When Elevators Attack, Part I

Back in my college days, a lot of craziness occurred. Unfortunately, since this was before the days of cell phone cams and YouTube, most of the antics were unseen to the world. So, now and then, I have to do things the old fashioned way and tell you a story about the time I was at Mississippi Valley State...

If I were to tell you that I almost got killed on an elevator, then you would think that it had fallen, right?

I stayed on the 4th floor of my dormitory during my sophomore year. The previous year, I was on the 3rd floor, so the elevator wasn't much of an option unless we had groceries. However, that extra floor made it worth standing around and waiting on the elevator to come.

This one lazy Saturday, me and the fellas decided we were going to play some basketball. It was me, my roommate Tim and four other guys. We all get on the elevator, press the button and it makes its descent. Between the 1st and 2nd floor, there was an abrupt halt to the elevator and then an alarm.

"What happened?" Tim asked.

"I think it's stuck." I said.

At that moment, one of the other guys spoke up. His name was also Tim, but to avoid confusion, I'll call him Charleston (since that's the city he was from originally). "I can't stay in here!" he yelled.

I looked over my shoulder, not taking Charleston seriously. Being stuck in an elevator didn't seem like a big deal to me at the time. Boy, did he change my mind on that! Charleston pushed his way from the back of the elevator and tried to pry the doors open with his fingers. "I can't stay in here, man!" he yelled again.

By now, the five of us are staring at him and our collective light bulbs have popped on in our heads. This guy is claustrophobic. He can't bare being trapped in this tight spot. Especially with five other people crowding his space. One guy made the mistake of trying to calm him down by putting his hand on Charleston's shoulder. "Dude, chill out!"

The next thing we know, Charleston's arms are flailing around wildly. He struck two of the guys in the face. One guy tried to bear hug him from behind, but Charleston was from the deep country. He displayed the strength of six tractors as he broke out of the bear hug and went into a panic trying to get the doors open. The more he panicked, the more the elevator shook which was making us all nervous. We decided instinctively that we could only do one thing: take him down.

Each of the guys grabbed a limb. You would think that a group of guys putting a man on his stomach would be easy, but not Charleston. He thrashed around like a mad man and busted a few lips in the process. Finally, I put him in the headlock and the guys were able to pull his legs from under him. "Hold him!" started Tim, "Hold that fool!"

Charleston landed on his stomach and we all had a lock on him. It was about 30 seconds into the headlock that I realized that I was actually locked onto Charleston's neck a little too tightly. I felt drool running down my arm and realized that I was choking the dude out. "Whoa!" I thought to myself, "I don't want to 'Radio Raheem' the guy."

(If you don't understand the Radio Raheem reference, then you need Netflix in your life)

I eased up on my headlock and heard a gasp of air come from Charleston. By that time, we heard some voices from outside of the elevator, "Are you all okay?"

"Man, get us out of here before this dude kills us!" Tim yelled.

Within minutes, we heard the scraping of metal against the elevator and then the doors popped open. Once the doors opened, Charleston's fight returned as he scrambled towards daylight. "Be careful coming out, man, or you'll fall into the shaft!" one of the guys said.

Charleston scrambled out and was helped to the floor. Once he got there, he laid on his stomach for at least three-to-five minutes. We all slid out of the elevator, not even thinking that if it started again, that we could be sliced in half. 19-year olds don't fear much.

Once we were all out, the two guys who pryed us out just stared at us and our injuries: two busted lips, a nose bleed, cuts and scratches. "Were you all wrestling in there?"

"Pretty much!" I replied.

I'd almost been killed in an elevator... by a mad man. Not a serial killer type of mad man, but a man who was terrified. They may be more dangerous than a serial killer. I thought that would be one of the wildest stories I'd ever tell from my college days, but little did I know, it would be topped by another story involving an elevator...

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