Maury Show Baby Names

Working nights definitely has it’s advantages; not having to fight rush-hour traffic, no-stress 3 AM shopping, and the ability to watch afternoon talk shows without being unemployed.
Perhaps it is because I am not an unemployed welfare-mother that I take a special interest in the names that Maury Povich show guests saddle their young’uns with. It’s not enough, I guess, that your mother can’t figure out which one of 15 men she slept with in a 2-day period is your father, or that she has no problem with comparing their penises with your tiny baby penis, or even that all the potential fathers are so happy to not be your father after the paternity test, that they do a touchdown dance complete with back-flips, profanity, and hand slaps all around. No, to top it all off, your mother had to extra-ruin your life by naming you something like Snoog.
I’m not a perfect person, but watching these shows help me to realize that at least I’m a good enough person not to name my daughter “Honey”.
What follows is a list of names, given to children, by their Maury show guest parents.
Male;
(*)Connotes white trash name
(**) parent(s) should be beaten
Aiden*
Arik
Armani
Brealand
Breeze**
Bubba*
Cemerious
Chaunce (chawn-say)
Colione (like Corleone)
Cordarlyl
Coz
Cyntonio (sin-tone-ee-o)
Cyntrell **
Dahaan
Da'mari
Dariyon
Davonne
De antre
De shyland
De'antree (d-entrée)
Debo ** (dee-boe)
Del mase
Delite (delight)
Delmontre
De'marlow
Deville
Diondre
Domenick *
Donte (Dante)
Donyae (don-yay)
Earnell
Elante (ee-lahn-tay)
Gaige*
Hakee (ha-key)
Hazzar
Ja mean
Jalen
Jamar
Jameer
Ja'quai
Javion-Raytrell **
Jaylan
Jaylon
Juwan
Ke mauri
Kemo
Kemonte
Keyman
Kidd
K'veon
La Quinton **
Lakendrie
Latrell
LeBaron
Levron
Markettice
Markevair (mar-kay-vee-air)
Markice (mar-keece)
Namanuel
Nazijhir ** (Nazhir)
Nuri
Puba
Quadrai (Kwahd-Ray)
Qualan (quay-lahn)
Quintum
Raffe * (raife)
Rhaquann (ra-kwahn)
Rashard
Ravann
Scooby
Snoog
Timboo **
Traveon (tray-vee-ahn)
Trayvon (tray-vahn)
Trevion (tray-vee-ahn)
Tyron
Tywas
Tywrell
Xzavion (zay-vee-ahn)
Zayvion (zay-vee-ahn)
Female;
(*) Connotes white trash name
(**)Connotes future stripper
(***)Connotes materialism)
Ahriyel (ah-ree-el)
Alahnie (ah-lah-knee)
Alexzia (ah-lecks-see-uh)
Almarita (al-ma-ree-tah)
Ameera (ah-me-rah)
Anannie (ah-nah-knee)
Anaya (ah-nye-uh)
Anitra
Anniesha (ah-knee-sha)
Atouria (ah-tore-ee-uh)
Attoria
Avian ***
Azziria (ah-zee-ree-uh)
Breasia (bray-shuh)
Brooklyn*
Ca mya (kuh-my-uh)
Caydencee* (cay-dence)
Chade (shah-day)
Charnika (shar-knee-kuh)
Chekevia (sha-kay-vee-uh)
Chrystal (crystal)
Chynecia-chantell (chy-knee-cee-uh-shan-tell)
Cortnie
Darchae (dar-shay)
Datiana (dah-tee-ah-nuh)
Da'vonne (dah-von)
Destiney **
Deuangela (dew-angela)
Doncrita (dawn-cree-tuh)
Djuanique (Dee-wahn-neek)
Dreeka
Dymond ** (***) (diamond)
Ebonee **
Edcota
Esmeralda
Eternity **
Fantasia
Fayth* (**)
Forever **
Harley*
Heaven **
Honeem **
Inasence ** (Innocence)
Jaclyn
Jaila (jail-uh)
Jamirah (jah-mee-ruh)
Janiya (jah-nye-uh)
Jazellene (jah-zuh-leen)
Jazmilly (jaz-milly)
Jewells ***
Jontia (parents Jon and Tia)
Jonajah (ja-nay-shuh)
Kamacia (kuh-may-cee-uh)
Kehonia (key-own-ee-uh)
Kenyetta
Khanesia (ka-knee-see-ah)
Kinnettia (kin-net-shuh)
Kyesha (kye-ee-sha)
La jetia (la-gee-sha)
La shawn
Lakesha (la-key-sha)
Lashawn
Lashunda
Leha (lee-uh)
Leiara (lee-ah-ruh)
Letitia (luh-tee-sha)
Mariyah (Mariah)
Mckenna *
Mechelle *
Mioshea (me-oh-shay)
Montanna*
Moteisha (mo-tee-sha)
Moyiesha (moy-ee-sha)
Moyisha (moy-ee-sha)
Nakia (nuh-kee-uh)
Nashya (nuh-shy-uh)
Na'tae (nuh-tay)
Nataleigh* (Natalie)
Nevaeh *(heaven backwards) **(Bubba's Daughter)
Nyasia (Nye-asia)
Nyeasia (nye-asia)
Nyeesha (nye-ee-shuh)
Nykayla (na-kay-luh)
Otisteen (o-tis-teen)
Princess-Chakaya
Qyaira (o-yi-ruh)
Rayshawn
Ricktoria
Samara (suh-mih-ruh)
Samya (sa-my-yuh)
Saniyyah (suh-nye-uh)
Sanquenetta (san-quin-et-uh)
Schic (sheik)
Sha diamond ***
Sha'hollinie (shah-ha-leh-nay)
Shamella (shah-meh-lah)
Shamonique (sha-mo-neek)
Shanay (shah-nay)
Shante
Shardae (shar-day)
Sharnita (shar-knee-tuh)
Shawmika (shaw-mee-kuh)
Shawnalee
Shawnteona (shawn-tee-own-uh)
Shemica (shuh-mee-kuh)
Sherlitra
Shevetta
Sholonda
Shray
Sinquita (sin-quit-uh)
Spirit **
Spiritual **
Stefany (*) ** (Stephanie)
Tabethur (tab-ith-ur)
Taisha (tye-ee-shuh)
Tamika
Taneekua (ta-knee-kwuh)
Ta'neisseya (tuh-knee-see-yuh)
Tatiana-Ontavia (tah-tee-ah-nuh –ahn-tay-vee-uh)
Ta'tianna (tah-tee-ah-nuh)
Teaunyia (tee-ahn-ee-yuh)
Te'johnne
Tennessee*
Tesha
Tia Wanna **
Tiannuh (tee-ah-nuh)
Tiny
Tiwanna (Tiajuana)
Tkara (tuh-ka-ruh)
Torica
Treasure ** (***)
Tywanda
Uniqua (yew-knee-kwuh)
Unique **
Vichele (vih-chel)
Virgen **
Vondelere (von-duh-leer)
Yazmin
Zakeela
Zarriah (zuh-rye-uh)
Zieyanna
Zoesha (zoe-ee-shuh)
Honorable mention (names heard on other daytime shows)
Dijnae (Female pronounced Dijon-ay)
Yahauntas (female pronounced yah-ha-han-tus)

The Negronomicon

Comics drawn in notebooks while I should have been working 1996-2006

http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k104/al_frank2000/The%20Negronomicon/

Can you guess?

We need plenty of janitors at the University. Unfortunately the people in charge of hiring will not accept people who don't speak English. To go a step further they actually want people who are literate. Needless to say we have been without people for a while.
Contrast this to the Administrative Assistant that we have. If you can figure out the attached note without a secret decoder-ring then I'm going to suggest the CIA as a career-path for you.




Answer:
The translation is-

Albert, There has been a request to have the 3rd floor carpet at CMA cleaned. The client would like to know if this carpet has ever been cleaned, and if so please let her know the date of cleaning.
The contact is Laurie. She can be reached at 471-xxxx. Thanks.
-Mary

Luxuriation

Ballpoint on 16x16 handkerchief

In Defense of the Ballpoint Pen

There has been much contention over the use of ballpoint pen as a drawing medium from Academia. Even though the ballpoint pen has been in existence for more than a century now, art instructors have failed to embrace it, preferring instead even more ancient dip-pens or strangely-enough the relatively recent Technical-pens and markers.
I believe the reluctance stems from a desire (whether conscious or not) on the part of the instructors, to remove art from the hands of the Proletariat and to keep it in the hands of the few special individuals they have dubbed “artists”.
The ballpoint pen is an instrument of the commoner. It is an inexpensive tool that is cheaply and readily available. Contrast this to the rarified instruments that the Professors prefer which are expensive and available only from rarified outlets. Take for example the technical pen; it is an expensive tool that requires separately-sold nibs to accommodate varying line-width, requires special cleaning, separate ink purchase and by nature is limited to certain absorbent yet not overly porous surfaces due to the liquid nature of the ink, which tends to bleed. The ballpoint on the other hand can be found at any grocery, pharmacy, or convenience store for next to nothing. 10 BIC pens can be purchased for one dollar.
The Art professor (or even the “Fine Artist” for that matter) attempts to feed his own self-importance by convincing the public that what he does is somehow special or unique, while simultaneously downgrading the art of the common man with labels such as “Outsider” or “Kitsch”. Because of this the most ridiculous scrawling or concepts birthed by fine artists are embraced as genius and fetch hefty prices, whereas the clever and technically proficient representational art of an unschooled office-worker is dismissed in an offhand-manner.
The art clique is a silly gang of self-deluded con men.
I embraced the ballpoint as a drawing instrument at the age of 12. I found it to be the most comfortable and convenient instrument with which to draw comics in my spiral-notebook. When I took my first high-school art class the ballpoint was never mentioned, or perhaps “ignored” would be a better word. In my college art-classes an outright professional disdain fell upon my humble ballpoint pen and I was forced into using anything and everything with which a person could draw a picture except the instrument with which I was most comfortable. This is akin to taking Dirty Harry’s gun and giving him a crossbow. It is serviceable, but nowhere near as expedient or effective.
I pretty much ignored everything the Art Professors said because whenever they deigned to show the class their artwork it was either technically-sound yet as dull as cardboard (as in the case of my screen-printing professor) or else random abstract scribbling (my drawing Professors) that no human with a brain connected to a visual-cortex could take seriously as anything other than serious nonsense. Instead of following their advice, I drew my comics in ballpoint pen, using a #3 sable brush for variation.
I’m still working to master the ballpoint. I’ve chosen cloth as a base instead of paper, which brings its own challenges. Nothing worthwhile however (or so I’ve been told) is immediate, but I do know definitely what does not work well for me, such as quill-pens and Koh-I-Noor Rapidograph pens.
Half the distance to success is the discovery of what does not work. Finding what does work, brings you so much closer to the finish line.

An open letter to the guy who draws on the elevator doors every day with his nose grease

Note: the acronym (CMA) is a University Of Texas at Austin building name abbreviation for the College of Communication Building B

Hey guy who draws on the elevator doors every day with his nose grease. I just thought I’d drop you a line and tell you about the sunshine that you bring me every day.

Y’know, sometimes I come in to work with a frown on my face because of the heady political and social times we are living through. I’ll be all cloudy and stormy as I walk into CMB but then, what do I see? I see a wonderful and original work of art that’s drawn on the stainless steel doors of both elevators. Yes, it doesn’t even matter which one I get on because you (as a true artist) have taken full advantage of every canvas that is offered to you.

I must admit, I am a bit jealous of your bold artistic statements and wonder what you are doing in CMB, when you obviously should be in the art department with the brave talent that you put forth. I mean, the average person might draw an alien smiley-face, on the door that the custodians have to clean every night, one time, but you my friend… you are a visionary. You do it day after day, and semester after semester. I often wonder, guy who draws on the elevator doors every day with his nose grease, what people on the elevators think when you reach around the edge of your nose and start smearing your oily discharge on the door like some sort of savant, or the proverbial mental patient. I know you must do it in front of others because to think that you do it in secret would be kind of weird, and creepy, and I don’t want to picture you that way. I’ve noticed recently that you’ve taken to putting your greasy face-print on the door, and it begs the question; what are you eating that gives you such a greasy face? Is that part of the grander scheme, that you saturate your body with only the finest fats, so that you may please us every day with the negative-image print of a mentally-handicapped individual that only eats McDonald’s foods?

And to think, you are so into your art that you would actually lay your face against a surface that is touched daily by God knows how many hands. But of course, art knows no bounds.

Anyway, guy who draws on the elevator doors every day with his nose grease, I hope to see you continue proudly to delight us all (students, dj’s, visitors, KUT donors, cleaning staff) with your fine art meanderings. And don’t get discouraged and finally y’know, graduate or maybe figure that drawing on the inside of an elevator door with your oily discharge isn’t getting the point across to us. We understand you. You are an asshole.

Extreme Sports

I was sixteen, and darkness had fallen

and we’re riding our bikes.

The boys I’m riding with

turn onto 95th street

and I follow

even though we’re headed towards

a white neighborhood.

I figured we were going to turn around

as the first set of railroad tracks

pass under my wheels

I feel fear

creeping over me.

I tell them we should turn

around.

They only laugh

and pedal faster.

I sure as hell

don’t want to go forward

but can’t go back

by myself.

So I plunge into the night

behind the fools on wheels

as we rattle over the

second set of tracks

I know we’ve gone

way too far.

Cars swerve close

horns blaring

laughter in the voices

of my friends

(years before extreme sports)

as the high-beams light on

our backs

and I see my shadow

splattered

on the ground

in front of me.

They laugh as windows

are rolled down

curses are flung

along with pieces of garbage

at us.

My nerves jangle

as cars slow down

then pass with a shout of

“NIGGERRRRS!”

I’m not ashamed to admit

that on that dark

summers night

my nutsack clenched up

like a peach pit

and shoved my testicles

up into my guts.

Along we rode

another mile

I’d given up on trying to say

anything

their bicycles were bigger

and they were stronger.

They slowly began to pull

away.

I followed as they

turned right on Pulaski

where blacks could get mobbed

and beaten

in broad daylight.

I wished for a street

without so many lights.

I felt like a cockroach]on a wedding cake.

The cars hooted and honked

and swerved at us

like mad bulls.

The passengers cursed

and spat and screamed.

I couldn’t even sweat.

We turned right on 87th street

and headed back east

back towards our mixed neighborhood.

They really began to pump

leaving me further

and further

behind.

My heart raced.

A wheeze rattled through my lungs

and I cursed them all.

As we reached Western Avenue

I broke away from them

and rode home

their laughter

pelting dryly

against my back.