Cosby, Bill

Cosby, Bill: A twentieth-century comedian

“He used to be funny.”

I overheard someone make that comment. They were talking about Bill Cosby. They had decided he was no longer funny because he was convicted of sexual harassment and assault on women.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I thought to myself, did that rob him of his humor? Are we the sub-total of everything we create and do? Or is our creative life separate from our personal life, which we live out based upon the dictates of our own conscience?

Would Abraham Lincoln be as well-liked for freeing the slaves if we knew he was assaulting women who worked at the White House?

What if we discovered that Mother Teresa was abusing little girls while simultaneously and almost single-handedly touching the lives of the lost souls of India?

Religious people certainly seemed pretty upset when they heard rumors that Jesus might have kissed Mary Magdalene on the mouth.

Although we know better, we think that people who do good deeds should also be morally impeccable. How does one achieve that?

And for that matter, how is it possible to look objectively at Bill Cosby without coming across as if you’re trying to defend his iniquity?

Should we burn all the Michael Jackson records because it appears, from the testimony of several sources, that he molested children?

Should Catholic priests be forbidden to be alone with altar boys and girls because the history of such encounters is filled with sexual perversion?

Am I prepared to have the deeds I do and the person I truly am merged into one being, which is evaluated in totality instead of broken into two categories—the me I wanted to be and the me I was?

I honestly would have no problem listening to a comedy routine from Bill Cosby. But I don’t think I could tolerate hearing him postulate on fatherhood and how to get kids to behave better. And I do believe many of the accolades he received for citizenship and the leadership awards should be retracted.

He was still funny.

It may be the only thing he’ll have left when he dies in a cage.


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Condo

Condo: (n) short for condominium, a multiple-unit complex

Over the years, I have lied to keep up with the Joneses, who, by the way, ended up being massive liars.

When I realized that people expected me to have a higher education, I attempted to make up a college career.

When it occurred to me that the number of songs I had written seemed small, I inflated the tally.

In my youthfulness, I promoted myself as a tree-top lover, when within a few moments, the true status of my report became obvious.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Many times in my life I have shared, insisted and informed people that I lived in a condo. Why? Because it sounds affluent.

On those occasions, what I was actually living in was one of the following: an efficiency, a duplex, a flat, an apartment or the back end of my van.

But no one was impressed with these locations. I was young. I felt the need to blow minds.

Before I started really touring, I made up a schedule which made me seem to be a combination of Michael Jackson and Justin Timberlake.

I always worked on the simple premise that people are too lazy to actually check out your stats–but time and time again I was proven wrong. There are many individuals who live to disprove other people’s false reports–especially when you insist you have a condo, forgetting that you have invited this person over to dinner next Tuesday.

 

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Break-dancing

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Break-dancing: (n) an energetic and acrobatic style of street dancing, developed by American blacks

When my son was nine years old, he was controlled and swallowed by an obsession with Michael Jackson.Dictionary B

It included the need to wear a single glove, and to have both the black leather and red leather coats that Mr. Jackson wore during his videos for the “Thriller” album.

It also came with a sudden desire to dance. Not only was my son completely possessed by the spirit of the “moonwalk,” but he also became infatuated with break-dancing.

Now, this particular form of entertainment did not get its name because things are broken–even though, when you watch it performed, you might assume that was the reason. No, it got its name because in the midst of a routine, the dancer will occasionaly go into free-style improvisation, called “breaking out.”

So not only was my white boy mysteriously overtaken by the spirit of a black pop icon, but he also believed himself to be a street performer who lived near the projects.

One day, in Dallas, Texas, he found out there was a contest being held at a local club, to discover who the best break dancer was in a 25-mile radius (or whoever could afford the five dollar entry fee).

My son cajoled, begged and made promises to do chores–pleading with me to take him to participate in the contest.

I relented.

So he donned his single glove, white pants and vest he had purchased, and a head band, and we headed off for him to compete with his peers.

This probably will not surprise you, but my “Caucasian cutie” had absolutely no chance among those who were more geographically originated to the entertainment source.

He tried.

He spun on his head, fell over two or three times, slipped, slid and danced his way–in a charming sort of manner–producing great glee amongst the audience, which was a bit discriminating in its appreciation level.

Here’s the beautiful thing: he thought he did great.

I did not have to comfort him.

He did not care that he didn’t win.

He was so thrilled that he competed, that to this day, I have never heard him say a negative thing about the experience.

It is so wonderful when people suck … and they’re so oblivious that you don’t have to tell them.

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