You know, it’s easy to see why the smarter women of the world catch a bad rap. Case in point: at a release party a few weeks ago I met a young woman who, despite currently attending graduate school to earn a master’s in finance with the hopes of returning to her native home of Washington, DC to start a program that would benefit children in need, commented that she was being hit on more times than Halle Berry’s dead ear by the mass amount of hunger-driven Stanleys that attended thinking she was a groupie.
And of course I’d be the only person there who’d talk to her about her background instead of her backside, but that’s because when you have something arguably much better at home already – and perhaps, ready to slice a piece off of me should I try to prove otherwise – you don’t need to do anything more.
It’s no wonder women catch a bad rap in rap. The media has portrayed them as, for the most part, sex meats only used for our mass consumption, all the while telling them what to do in order to keep “their man” happy. They have it all wrong too; women, you don’t need an article in Essence telling you how to keep us happy. To paraphrase Dave Chappelle, all you need to do is blow us, juggle us, make us a sandwich and don’t speak so much during the games. Is that so hard?
Some women seem to even thrive in that environment and somehow end up in better positions of life. Take note: the owner of those breasts you’re currently looking at on your desktop instead of actually working (KEEP IT REAL) may end up as your boss one day. It’s how Lisa-Raye went from bouncing around in 2Pac videos and making me grow up a bit faster thanks to her “starring role” in Ice Cube’s masterpiece disaster “The Player’s Club,” to inexplicably becoming the first lady of Turks & Caicos.
But why even try to disprove this theory when it’s so easy to cock-hop your way to the Promised Land for heauxshyt, which is about the equivalent of not having to wait in line at your local Waffle House, I wonder. Going back to the young lady I met at the release party, you have to wonder what, exactly, did and continues to go through to fulfilling her career aspirations, educationally (I never once liked stressing during finals week when I was an undergrad; doing that for a Master’s would drive me insane) and financially (word to the many folks who are still paying back their loans some five years after finishing school). In that sense, it’s nothing to simply suck off a rapster and end up driving around town with his card and car in tow.
While I’m sure most of (or at least I’d like to think that they would) the readers and c-sectioneers will choose the grad student over the Kat Stacks of the world, it’s easy to see why they would choose otherwise when the latter is more likely to make her femur touch her esophagus on the first date. By the way, if you know a woman who is a grad student and can make your femur touch your esophagus, I suggest you wife her. Immediately.