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  DEDICATED TO

  Mr. “Why Don’t You Put All Your Bullshit in a Book!”

  All Those Out There Doing Their Dizzle!

  Those Who Said I Should . . . I Did, Muthafucka. Now What?!?

  The Ruckus, whether you seek it or bring it!

  All the Shit Talkers and Ass Tappers Everywhere!

  (Matter of fact I think I like that last one the best!)

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  NO TURNING BACK

  He Ain’t Wrong . . . He Just Ain’t Right

  The Front of This Damn Book

  Book Clubs

  The Shit

  The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

  Low Blow

  EARLY LIFE

  Pee-Pees and Johnsons

  Who You?

  And Vice Versa

  Roomies

  Style Master

  SEX

  Black Belt in Fucking

  The POHTA

  VD Gets Around

  Mattre-asses

  Those Taddies

  Fuckable Professions

  4 Play

  Call of the Wild

  COURTING, MARRIAGE, AND DIVORCE

  Sign Language

  Mouth on You

  Courtin’

  Tats

  Balls and Chains

  Wife Insurance

  Escape Clause

  RAISING KIDS

  Name Dat Baby

  Hard Head—Soft Behind

  It Takes a Damn Village

  Birds and Bees

  Ran-aways

  MANAGING MONEY

  In Me I Trust

  Walkaway Plan

  Man-Made

  Dine and Ditch, Bitch

  Always Bet on Black

  IKEA Parties

  Homeless Depot

  Jehovah Witness Protection Program

  GETTING OVER AND GETTING AHEAD

  Slow the Fuck Up

  Snitching

  Positive Snitching

  Self-Esteem Defense

  Shutting Shit Down

  In It to Win It

  INVENTIONS AND IDEAS

  Technology Speaking

  Uberstand

  Uberfeet

  Strip Pay

  Edible Underwear 2.0

  Cruises—Not the Kid

  HEALTH AND DIET

  Time to Get Ill

  Biggest Loser

  Part-Time Vegetarian/Full-Time Cannibal

  STAYING HEALTHY

  Spot Me

  Flu Dick

  Pussy Tea

  Drug Youse

  The Five Deadly Steps

  Dr. Doctor, PhD

  FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  Flix and Chicks

  Cat Dog Monkey Falcon Soup

  Sperm Bank Account

  Catfish and Grits

  Disneyland and World

  Souped-Up

  Camp Fuckthat

  Time Travel Agent

  OLD AGE

  Cougarland

  Vintage Sex Positions

  Speaking of Old Ass People

  Single-Serving Seniors

  Jiffy Lube for Seniors

  Kaput

  WORDS TO LIVE BY

  Mission Impossible

  Four-Legged Race

  Buffetarian

  WHAT I SAY—WHAT I MEAN

  Word Artist

  Bring the Ruckus

  Get in That Ass

  Topsy-Turvy (Flip That Shit)

  You Can’t Pause Toast

  Champagne-Filled Croissants

  Somebody Always Gotta Get Fucked Up, Larry

  82 Is My Shit

  END AND ENDINGS

  Step Out That Ass

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Apologies

  FUCK A FORWARD

  Thou hast madest thein divine judgement andeth procured my anthology of advisement of life loveth and death . . .

  Change this goddamn font—give these people something easier to read, like Times New Roman, or better yet, Arial . . . And fuck that—I can’t write a whole book like this! Damn, how did people communicate like that!?! I mean how would you order a slice of pizza? Or ask for your fourth refill of your Big Gulp? Don’t get me wrong; contrary to popular, I’m worldly. Shit, I watch Game of Thrones. Like if I was applying for a job at Medieval Times I would pull this Shakespearean shit out my ass just to impress the interviewer. Have you ever been there? Medieval Times? That’s that place where fine ass fair maidens serve you food while knights ride around on horses, which may sound nice but those damn horses shit while you’re eating. I mean, the horses don’t know any better, but they’re fucking horses. What do you expect? By the way no disrespect to any of you people who work there; that’s thou choice. Do you.

  Now since I was brought up correctly, let me start by introducing myself. My name is Leon Black. Some of you may know me as the President of Hitting That Ass, while others may have heard of me because of my black belt in fucking! While I take pride in both of those achievements, I’m here to tell you there is way more to Leon Black than just my prowess in the bedroom (and living room, dining room, Laundromat, public library, ER . . . yeah I said “ER”—you’d be surprised). First and foremost, I am a Ruckus Bringer! I capitalized that shit because it’s not just something I do on the side, it is my damn profession! You see, I am a natural-born shit talker! I’m a man who knows how to look life straight in the eye and figure it out! I’m a man who can take the worst that life has to offer and topsy-turvy that shit until I’m on top of life, choking that bitch out! The other day a friend of mine, one of those annoying types, always whining and shit—you know what I mean. I don’t want to name names, but just to put a theoretical face to him, let’s just say he’s a white man with glasses and bald as fuck. Anyway, this annoying ass friend of mine was like, “Leon, you’re so full of it, why don’t you take all your bullshit and put it in a book!” And I was like, “Fuck you, Larry!” So I took that naysayer’s words as a challenge (yes, I said “naysayer”—I told you I’m worldly) and wrote this damn book!

  Now, from what I’ve been told, all books start with a forward, and since I’m not sure what the fuck a “forward” is, fuck a forward!

  Now, this is a long ass book. I know: I wrote it. In it, I have done my best to share with you my guide to getting over on life. Not to mention the fact that a book has many other uses. Unless you’re reading this on one of those damn electronic devices, you are holding an object that would make a good doorstop, an excellent coaster, and (if you bought the hardcover) an unexpected weapon. Think I’m joking? You know how many people are killed each year by dictionaries? That’s where the expression “Words can kill” comes from. Why do you think they stopped those encyclopedia salesmen from going door-to-door with those damn books? Because when people wouldn’t buy them they would kill you with those damn leather-bound sets of books. Look it up. So look here, what I’m trying to tell you is that you can’t put a price on the type of knowledge I’m about to drop on you. (Although Simon & Schuster did, and you paid it. I cashed the check—no refunds.)

  So the way I see it, you have a few choices: First, you can eithe
r put this book down now, hide it away in a closet—or, if you’re white, in a keepsake chest or a credenza and come back to it at another point in your life when you’re ready for it. Second, you can wrap it up or, better yet, get one of those gift bags from the Dollar Store, drop the book in, and gift it (or re-gift it if it was given to you as a gift) to someone who is ready for what I’m about to lay down. Third, if you’re reading this on a train, bus, or some other form of filthy public transportation, you can hand this book to the nosy ass person next to you who has been free-reading this shit over your shoulder since you opened it. Or last, you can search your soul and realize that you need this book, and you need me to straighten your crooked ass life out. If you choose this option, don’t take it lightly. I’m not bullshitting you. I’m trying to help your ass, so before you have the audacity to turn down my valuable assistance, take a minute! Now, I’m sure you’ll notice that there’s nothing but a picture of me on the next page, but it’s more than just a picture of me. That picture is a picture of me looking at you looking at me as you look at yourself. I want you to look into my eyes (please resist the urge to kiss me), and as you do, search your soul. When you’re done and you’re sure you’re ready, take your damn dirty ass thumb, lick it, and turn the first page of the rest of your life.

  HE AIN’T WRONG . . . HE JUST AIN’T RIGHT

  Whoever you are and whatever your reasons, clearly you made the right damn decision to sit your ass down and read the most important book of your life! So, since you’re here, let’s begin.

  You’re about to read a whole lot of shit in this book, and trust me, this knowledge isn’t for all of you, but I know for a fact that some of you will get what I’m talking about. “Who are those people?” you ask. If you have to ask, then it ain’t you, because those people know who the fuck they are!!!

  Now, people have different ideas on where and how to start a story. Some people like to start in the middle by saying some shit that sounds weird because you don’t know what the fuck came before it. The problem with that is that if you don’t know where the fuck you’ve been, you’re gonna have a hard time figuring out where the hell you’re going. Other, more creative people like to start shit toward the end, then jump to the beginning and then wrap back around to the end again. You know what I’m talking about? It’s what they do in every movie about a singer. Movies about people like Ray Charles, James Brown, and—just so you don’t think I only watch movies about black people—Johnny Cash. All of those movies always start with a dude looking tired and old as fuck. Like we’re catching him a day and a half before he dies. He’s always sitting somewhere reflecting on his life as he stares at something like a clock or a glass of water or some shit. All of a sudden everything goes black for a second, and then across the screen we see the name of some tiny ass town like “Broken Foot, Alabama,” or “Chipped Tooth, Tennessee,” and a date from years ago. At this point, we know we are in a flashback, so we are treated to bits of that man’s tragic ass life, complete with all his fuck-ups. And then, like a flash, we see him old again. That’s what we see, but the part that we don’t get to see is that old ass man sitting there staring at a glass of water for two hours while people tap the fuck out of him to get him to snap out of it. That’s a movie I would like to see: the day James Brown’s concerned friends tapped the shit out of his shoulder for two damn hours. “James . . . James . . . James!”

  Anyway, while I like that way of telling a story—I mean, they did that shit in Pulp Fiction too! I loved that movie! Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta! Playing hit men! Who the fuck doesn’t like Pulp Fiction? Besides I’m not trying to tell you my life’s story. I mean, I will be telling you some shit from my life, but not tragic shit and not for entertainment’s sake. I don’t need you judging my life. What the fuck do I look like?! Huh? What I share is for you to learn from, not to mock!

  Look, I’ma tell you right now, I know a little about everything but not a whole lot about anything, so get from this book what you need and don’t complain to me about shit!

  THE FRONT OF THIS DAMN BOOK

  Did you see the cover of this damn book? Woo, some deep shit, huh? Well, obviously, that’s me! Now, I could leave it there, but since this is a book and they’re paying me by the word, let me try to explain the cover to you in as many words as possible. If I was to give the version of Leon on the cover a name it would be Ruckus-Damus. That name of course being based on Nostradamus, which sounds like it could have been a great name for a nasal spray. Any of you bastards with sinus problems or allergies know what I’m talking about.

  Now if you are educated and know your shit, you’ve heard of Nostradamus. He was a smart white dude from years ago who used to make predictions about shit and for the most part he wound up being right. As a matter of fact, he has been so right about shit that some people think he was psychic. Now for those of you who don’t think psychics are real, I’m here to tell you they are, because I damn sure am! And I’m not some bullshit long-term psychic. I mean, it was easy for Nostradamus to make predictions: He knew that he and all the muthafuckas who he predicted to would be dead by the time the moment came to prove his shit right or wrong. Nah, I’m an in-the-moment predictor: My shit plays out right away, so much so that I’m right there to say to you, “I knew you would fuck that shit up!” Not to mention, way back in 2007 I predicted big things for an unheralded candidate for president when I said I was Barack Obama and I was the president of hitting that ass. Now while I don’t know what that man does in his private life, and I have too much respect for him to speculate (just in case you’re reading my book, Mr. President—much respect!), he did become president of the United States, so as you see my prediction skills are impeccable.

  That paragraph just earned me $54 . . . Cha-Ching!

  BOOK CLUBS

  Although I’m telling you to read this book, I’ve got to be honest: I haven’t read it. I’m just not a big reader. I don’t have time to indulge in flipping pages. If I do read an occasional book, I do it while I’m watching the movie version of it just to make sure the two line up. Now, I don’t mind having someone read the book to me—maybe a friend of mine, or maybe Leonard Nimoy on audiobook. That way I can multitask: I can make a sandwich, go grocery shopping, take a cooking class. You can’t do any of that shit when you’re just reading a book old school. You’re wasting your life away like that, reading about what someone else is doing while you ain’t doing shit. I’m too busy living life, making things happen, traveling, pleasing women. If your only outlet for social activity is a fucking book club, then you need to toss that book into the trash! Tell your book club buddies you all are gonna go out drinking, but instead, get your book club to grind up against some strangers. Live life, so that way YOU can write a book about it and get a book club together around your shit. I would pay to have a book club sit around in a circle and read this damn book! Have people talk about your life every week, analyze it, tell you how it changed their lives. Bring the muthafuckin’ ruckus!

  On a sidenote, my favorite books are the ones with the wizards. I love me some fucking wizards. The way they cast spells on people’s asses and shit with them wands and their funny hats. How bad ass is that? Let me tell you something, if you see one of them damn wizards walking down the street, don’t laugh at him. I’m here to tell you don’t do it. One day you’ll be walking your dog with your lady by your side and you’ll see one of them wizards wearing that damn wizard hat and carrying that damn wizard wand and he’ll catch you snickering at him, wave his wand and cast a spell on you and the next thing you know he turned you into a dog and your dog into you. Now you’re a fucking dog man still wearing your man clothes and your dog is a naked you walking upright with your lady and all you’ll be able to think is “You hatin’ ass wizard, you ain’t shit!”

  But you can’t say that shit out loud because he’ll put another spell on you. Actually, you can’t even talk because you’re a fucking dog.

  THE SHIT

  Now, if you
are an observant person, I’m sure you’ve noticed that I tend to use a lot of colorful words. Some people’s curse words just kind of slip out by accident. They didn’t mean to say them, they just got lost in the moment. People are so embarrassed when it happens that they cover their mouths and apologize. If it happens on TV, the censors bleep it. And if a kid does it, they wash their mouths out with soap. Oh yeah . . . let’s just say when I was a kid I had the cleanest mouth on the block. That’s because back then just as now I have no shame speaking my mind; dirty words don’t slip out—I throw them out with accurate aim and purposeful intent! One curse word in particular you’re gonna read a lot is “shit.” If you’ve been paying attention, you know I’ve used it a lot already. To be honest, it’s an important word that has many uses in everyday life. I mean, we all take shits every day—that’s the base use of the word. But think about it: That same word that is used to represent the waste that comes out of our ass is also something we all strive to be. Don’t believe me? I know, you’re like, “Leon, what the fuck are you talking about?!” Well, calm the fuck down and let me elaborate! Say somebody came up to you, looked you in the eye, and said, “You ain’t shit!” You would be ready to fight, right? Why? Shouldn’t you be like, “Thanks”? No! You would be ready to fight that muthafucka just to prove to his ass that you are indeed THE muthafuckin’ shit!

  Confusing? I know, but if you keep reading, everything will be clear. Because, trust me, this book is full of shit, lots of shit! So let this serve as a de facto disclaimer: I might say some shit that could come off as sexist and—if you’re the sensitive type—maybe even damn near racist, but trust me, I’m not here to disrespect anyone. The shit I might say about you could easily apply right back to my black ass. It’s just that today, I’m the one laying it down. What I’m saying is that if you just hear what I’m saying, it might sound messed up; but if you really listen to what the fuck I’m saying, you’ll get the brilliance of it!

  So don’t write me no letters complaining. First of all, I don’t open mail. You never know what the fuck is in a damn envelope, could be bills, anthrax . . . I don’t know! And second, I don’t have a legal address for you to send it to anyway! Look, if you’re offended and wanna blame someone, don’t blame me, blame the one who told me to take all my shit and put it in a book!