The Last Negro

Remember, Waneta, this is a new Negro ... Check your black male relationship baggage at the door.






Marci, can I help it if the last brother you hooked me up with cheated on me with a white girl?






Aww, shucky-duck ... Here we go again ...







Finding those soft gold hairs on his sweaters—







Waneta, you own two golden retrievers ... You'd find soft gold hairs on your mailman's sweaters.






But those Rascal Flatts ticket stubs I found in his sock drawer—







Those were Wreckx-n-Effect reunion tour tickets, and he went alone cause you fronted like you didn't like New Jack Swing.






But the Bob Evans take-out containers in his fridge ... the Wonderbread sleeves and empty Lunchables trays in his garbage—






What can I say? The brother loved bland food.







Can you blame him after eating your cooking?







Hey, now!! My great-great-great-grandmother's neckbone and chitterling cheese biscuits are a family tradition!






... Bet him and that white girl had some cute little mixed babies, though.







I really don’t want to talk about—
















[Wavy hair, light eyes, high yellow faces, freckles …]



Can we change the subject—?


























[Cute, historically self-conscious names like “Wheatley” and “Crispus” and “Barack.”]



Marci, drop it!







Taking strolls through the neighborhood with their beloved family pet, Waneta, a black Portuguese water dog with white paws.






Don’t make me take out these earrings, Marci.







Well, what about Terence, that guy I introduced you to who owned the car wash?






[Your boy Terence took my Camry to get it “detailed” and I never saw him again.]










Turned out he was actually running a chop shop!







Oh …







And that DeAndre fellow you swore by before him …







The venture capitalist.







[Yeah, DeAndre never ventured beyond my living room sofa …]











Until I stomped in his Playstation and pitched his wardrobe of football jerseys out my apartment window!























I swear, Marci, if I strike out with one more of your hook-ups, I’m gonna have to give up on black men altogether.



And go where? You know brothers have the market cornered on black women. Who else are you going to get to invest? …






American Indians? Indian Indians? White dudes?







Hey, I’m adaptable … Black women can do Jungle Fever, too …





















Rocking the feather headdress at the county Pow-Wow …















Trading up hot sauce and chicken wings for Zafrani gosht and garlic naan …




















Going sail boating on the weekends instead of, well …



Sitting in my apartment alone, waiting for some Negro I’m dating to come home and stop running the streets.






Waneta, serious up, though … You can barely tell Ted Turner from Ted Danson.






You look away from a white boyfriend in a crowded farmer’s market for one second, and you’d have no idea who to go home with.






Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that … So where is this Charley Negro, anyway?






I, uh … I think he’s being introduced right now.