Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away!

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! Ep: 377

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sat, 30 Jul 2011 03:40:00 +0000

Super Kenshi is all new and today The Q addresses the questions that are on the minds of all Americans! It's all about Whole Foods, cupcakes and bears!

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! Ep: 020

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 03:52:00 +0000

What better way to hate your week than to suck down a steaming cup of Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away?!?!? This week it's all bout Beiber, babies, bunnies and bustin' into houses to save old ladies!

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! Ep: 019

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 08:01:00 +0000

An all new episode brings with it an all new gaggle of nonsense! This week Super Kenshi is all about polite crime, buttocks enhancements and Valentine's Day! You're welcome!

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! Ep: 755

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 07:37:00 +0000

It's another all new episode of Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! This time around we poke our noses in Egypt's business, follow up on that whole lion taco thing, and give college students ten bucks to change a light bulb.

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! Ep: 641

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 07:52:00 +0000

What up kids? It's time for the return of Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away! And this time it's all about break ups, George Clooney and road kill tacos!

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away: ep.4

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 03:54:00 +0000

The first Super Kenshi of 2010 and The Q gives you the info about the heads of sheep at Ikea! Truth.

On a sidenote: Church

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 17:26:00 +0000

Church is fine, but sometimes the people you have to deal with...not so much. A newly married young lady approached me today and she was carrying a handful of beige envelopes, obviously Christmas cards.

"Hey, Quincy...I have something for you," she said in a sing-songy voice. She then proceeded to flip through the stack of cards.

While waiting I tossed out: "How embarrassing would it be if you did not, in fact, have a card in there for me, after telling me that you did, essentially conveying to me that you thought that you cared about me enough to get me a Christmas card, but you forgot that you in fact did not care about me at all."|

My statement was made in jest, an attempt to help pass the time as she looked for the card that would eventually be mine.

She looked up at me and said, "Oh...looks like I don't have one for you."

My laugh of annoyance was loud.

"But...don't worry...I think I have some extras at home. I can get you one."

She then trotted off to verbally assault someone else.

You what kind of church I want? I want there to be a cave somewhere in the world where you walk in, have a chat with Jesus, and go on your way? That would be the best Christmas gift, a lot better than a card.

"Q"

The Warrior Roy

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 17:08:00 +0000

I woke up this morning and decided that I needed to get my haircut, due in no small part to the fact that I looked like a crazed jungle terrorist. When I called the my barber's cell phone and asked about his availability he informed me that he was no longer at the shop, but was now working for some other hole in the wall place that was thirty minutes away. My usual place is five minutes away from my house and I didn't want to venture into the seedy underbelly of Toledo. I declined Montel's offer, essentially ending what had, for the better part of a year, been a fantastic relationship.

I called Steve (owner of "Steve's Sport-N-Cuts), and asked him if there was any way I could get a cut today. His response, "If you come right now...I've...I've got someone." At this point I felt like I was looking to hire and assassin to carry out a hit for me. Steve's cryptic response was all the motivation I needed to toss on some clothes and rocket over to the shop.

Now, as fond as I am of embellishment, especially in the arena of storytelling, you must understand that this next bit is completely true. I walked into the shop, Steve pointed at a man I had never seen and said, "That's him. He'll take care of you."

I approached his chair, sat down, and this mystery barber whipped out the vinyl cape, snapped it, and draped it about me.

"Hey," he said, his voice a wave of smoky deepness, "I'm Roy. What's your name?"

As he turned me in the chair and I said, "You can call me Q" I noticed that this older, bald gentleman, had a scar that ran from his forehead to right below his left eye. He conveyed an air of sage-like brilliance and hardened gunslinger experience. These impressions were nothing more than ethereal markers until...he started cutting my hair.

In his hands, the clippers were sharpened implements of hair decimation. Imagine that Akira Kurosawa had directed the movie Barbershop...yeah...it was like that. It was a flurry of styling craftsmanship as this artisan blinded me with his prowess. The clippers would stop buzzing, I would hear clattering, and then a new hair-cutting sword would be unsheathed and he would lash at my head, my locks spinning away from me like the maimed rag doll bodies of O-Ren's Crazy 88s.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, for the final confrontation, he sparred with my beard. The blades of his clippers skimmed across my skin so quickly that I imagine that he slashed away, stepped back and the hair simply fell from my face.

When he was done his hands flew about my head and face, applying balms and salves, he whipped the cape away and I rose from the chair, not completely sure of what had just happened. But I gave him my money and walked away, hoping and praying that I would once again meet this...this being that had forever redefined the words Afro Samurai.

"Q"

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away: ep.3

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 18:15:00 +0000

On this all new episode of Super Kenshi, The Q gives you the info you need about exploding chewing gum and horrible children!

A faux open letter to Mr. Michael Moore

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 04:04:00 +0000

Dear Mr. Moore,

My name is...well...that's not important because I don't want any gun-wielding psycho hippies to come banging on my door only to shoot me for not agreeing with you. So...I'm going to call myself...Mr. Black Carnival. Anywho...while at school wallowing in the educational mire of my graduate degree my associates and I got into a discussion about you. We've seen and yawned our way through many of your movies and as the discussion drifted into the realm of nauseating boredom the question was placed before us...what would happen if you existed in a world where there was nothing to complain about?

Sweet fancy, Thor...what a world that would be? What would you do, Mr. Moore if there were no politicians to whine towards or no bitter men on the street to stick a camera in front of? Would you teach? I can only imagine how wonderful that class would be as you vomited up your cranky old man bitterness upon the willing minds of your students. Maybe a clown for hire, one that would prance about at birthday parties, making balloon animals shaped like General Motors devouring Flint, Michigan.

Alas, the group came to the realization that if by some stoke of fortune, the world shifted into this aforementioned utopia, you would simply...cease to exist. We imagine that as you were fading from existence (or Marty McFlying) you would continually try to convince every passersby that there are in fact issues worthy of complaint that they may have overlooked: the fact that there was never an EDtv sequel, the fact that Hannity never invited you over for Thanksgiving dinner, or the fact that the ladies from The View never seem to reciprocate your romantic advances.

Please know that this is nothing personal and that despite the fact that in a live action version of the Simpsons you would, most undoubtedly, play the part of Jeff Albertson the Comic Book Guy, these are just the ruminations of a group of young people that were sitting about one day, dreaming of a fantastical world...a world where, without anything to complain about...you would finally be quiet, disappear from existence and we would all know a sweet, long sought after peace.

"Q"

Super Kenshi Mobile Love Bus Cyber Squad Away: ep.590

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 23:00:00 +0000

An all new episode of Super Kenshi delves deep in the madness of Jesse Ventura and continues on an epic quest to unearth great gift-giving ideas.

The All New Super Kenshi!

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 01:05:00 +0000

Super Kenshi is back with a side of savory podcast gravy!

The Apocolypse

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 22:08:00 +0000

My wife had left me (to go to work), and it was just me and my son. We were here, in our humble fortress, protected by the insanity brought on by the post turkey day madness. GI Joe was on the television, the old stuff, when the Joes were REAL American heroes and Snake Eyes was content to break dance in a Cobra-owned nightclub while Shipwreck was in a kick line with a bunch of scantly clad ladies. My son began to show signs of hunger and fatigue, it made sense as it had only been three hours since he had eaten last. I rushed to find the boy some sustenance, opened the container of advanced "Go and Grow" formula, only to find it empty. Dusty remnants of the chalky powder stared back at me as I peered into the plastic vessel. What was I to do? My poor caramel-colored baby needed his nourishment. It was then that I knew I would have to venture beyond the confines of my bunker. I would have to go to Wal-Mart on the day after Thanksgiving.

I bundled up my boy, hugging him tightly and saying a prayer that we would, some day, be able to come back home. We made our way to the vehicle, the bitter winds reddening my son's tiny nose almost instantly. We drove through the streets, naked trees dancing this way and that in the angry, predatory winds. The parking lot of Wal-Mart was littered with dead vehicles...their cold, hulking masses cluttering up all the good parking spaces. I should have turned back, I should have killed a homeless and fed on that instead, but I was already there and my son need something other than good intentions in his bottle.

An old demon of a monster skittered towards me as I pushed the clattering, rusty cart through the front doors. Maybe she was trying to greet me, maybe she was trying to get close enough to attack me and inject me with her demon spawn so they could fester in the warmth of my stomach...I moved quickly, not looking back at her, but hearing her move on to her next poor, helpless victim.

I proceeded through the grocery section which was surprisingly empty and this gave me pause. Where were they? Where were the mindless vagabonds that stalked these aisles the day after Thanksgiving? Had the carnage come and gone? Would my life and the life of my child be spared? And then, just as my wild hopes began to blossom, they were crushed under the heel of reality. The formula was no there on the shelf...they were sold out. My journey, my travels, my struggles were for naught. My child, that angelic dollop of sunshine (who was pooping his pants at the moment) would go without his nourishment. And then, a passing stranger, a beacon of kindness wearing a pair of pink sweat pants with the world "Salty" arched across her derriere, told me that I had to go to checkout line 9, where they kept the cigarettes. The formula in question was apparently kept there because people would steal it in order to make crystal meth. I nodded a thanks to the salty patron and went on my way, realizing that the quickest way to my goal would be to cut through the electronics department. And just as my super sexy plan solidified my mind, I rounded the corner to look out upon the sea of degradation before me. The throngs of madness had convened there, rummaging through bins, yelling, crying out as they lost their humanity and turned on each other. They were all sullen eyes, bestial gaits, and odors that soured your stomach. Broken and battered they moved here and there, surrounding a small counter where a resistance of Wal-Mart employees were making their last stand. I could not get involved, I could not help the poor employees, their were a lost cause.

Once I was through electronics things only got worse as I traveled through the dark forest that was the Apparel Department. The floors were littered with clothing that told the story of a great and bloody epic struggle that had taken place here earlier. As I moved through the battlefield I saw the occasional employee, on their hands and knees, pulling super cute tops from underneath fixtures, and scooping up stylish yet affordable pants.

Then...it was time for checkout. The lines...oh sweet Moesha...the lines. Crazed patrons, struggling, fighting to be free, an exodus of cataclysmic proportions, lives trying to be saved, maniacs trying to escape with their carts full of Hot Wheels Sharkbit Bay Adventure sets, and Dora the Explorer whiskey shooters. But...in the end...I made it through, got the coveted formula, and made my escape. Now, as I sit here, recalling the harrowing experience, the adventure of a man struggling to protect his son, I see that I must share this story with the world. I was going to call my chronicle The Road...but since I'm black I know that I must call it The Black Road...which is really just Asphalt...so I'll probably go that direction.

"Q"

Late night side note

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 07:17:00 +0000

The easiest thing for us to do, outside of blowing our noses and succumbing to the urge to look at the contents of ye olde handkerchief, is ask for change. Change in our lives, our loves, in our situations. The only thing easier than asking for a change is to blame the universe for the fact that we cannot change. It is so much easier to roll around in self-pity than it is to get naked and look at ourselves in the mirror and see our flaws. Yeah, it's way easier to live in Miseryville than to get up and move. Why? 'Cause moving is the absolute worse. You fix me a maggot cream pie, with pig pustule pudding and I would rather eat that and wash it down with a cat hair and cucumber shake...than to have to move. When we move we have to pack everything up, we have to throw away the stuff that we shouldn't keep anymore, and we have to start all over somewhere else. So yeah...why not live in Miseryville for a little while longer. I'm sure that misery will turn into happiness someday...all by itself.

"Q"

In the beginning there are always many posts...

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 03:25:00 +0000

My mother has this thing where she is absolutely terrified of all types of social networking. She has this theory that you'll accidentally blab about something horrible, like the time you open hand slapped a rabid midget or something. (Which would be horrible because of how un-PC the term is. They would rather be called frothing, sanity-challenged little people.)

Whereas I do believe that her real concern is that people will use the computer to cast a web of crazy Caribbean voodoo magic on her, she has a point. What is this need we have for slathering others with bits of information about ourselves or the mundane nuances of our daily lives. Is superhighway the place to showcase all of our foibles and shortcomings? Is this the place to use our powers of passive aggression to call out our associates? We obviously want someone to read something or we'd whisk ourselves away to our beds where we'd hide under our blankets with our flashlights and be scribbling away with our pilot precise rolling ball V5 extra fine pens...lamenting the lack of attention from this person or that person and we would keep these musing to ourselves because we wouldn't want anyone to find these pages and believe them to be desperate cries for attention. But alas...this is not the case. Thank you Twitter, Facebook, Blooger, Blogspot, and Myspace. Thank you for giving us a place to hang what was, at one time, our unmentionables.

"Q"

Let's try this again.

qwindin@gmail.com (The Q) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 02:13:00 +0000

Ah, blogging. The art of informing people that don't care about things that don't matter. But, there is something to be said about jotting down the insanity of life on a virtual, electronic napkin. Who knows, maybe I'll get over my fear of shirtless Abercrombie models...you know the ones...the ones that hang out at the malls. I used to do that job. They called me Black Thunder. It was trying.