Liars in Atlanta

Recently, I mangled myself into a seat on a flight on Delta Airlines into the city of Atlanta.  I attended a wedding in the new version of the historic Ebenezer Baptist Church.  Parenthetically, I have no idea who Ebenezer was in the Bible, but apparently he was quite important because there is no shortage of churches bearing his name.  At any rate, the wedding ceremony and following reception were beautiful.  There is something so calming and simultaneously exciting about being in the company of well-to-do Black people.  Whether celebrating life’s accomplishments or tragedies, I am always imbued with the sense that the Creator loves us.

Though I would very much enjoy recalling and recording the movements of the wedding, I am compelled to focus on exposing the native Atlanta liars who have burglarized my dreams of ATL.  In the greater Los Angeles area, a man can pay four dollars for a gallon of gas, visit a Ralphs grocery store, or even drive by a common bus stop, and in all of these settings and more he is likely to lay eyes upon a woman who defines what it means to be “LA fine.”  There are amazingly beautiful women all over the LA area–not unlike the two you see on either side of this paragraph.

If you’ve heard of Atlanta, you’ve heard of the city’s famous “Georgia peaches.”  If you’ve been to Atlanta, you know that those famous Georgia peaches are nothing more than a common fruit used in a pie that I don’t like very much.  To the left is an example of what I expected to find abundantly available like peaches that I could freely pluck from publicly owned trees.  As is clear, the sista in the pictures has some peachy attributes.  When I look at that picture, I find myself secretly hoping that a pie cobbler will just appear and do what is oh so necessary.  Alas, my dreams have yet to come true.

These brothas have given "gang bangin'" new meaning.

In Atlanta there were plenty of trees.  In fact, the landscape was very attractive; however, the fruit-bearing trees left much to be desired.  I drove through East Point.  I drove through College Park.  I drove through downtown Atlanta, and in all of these areas, I found no peaches like the one above to sweeten my tongue.  Instead, Atlanta’s most plentiful fruit is in fact a fruit salad of down-low brothas, effeminate thugs, brothas in pedal pushers, and Black men shablaming in and out of doors with more sashay than any neck-curling sista could ever hope to have.  I simply never saw any Georgia peaches or any peaches from any place–for that matter.  On the other hand, there was no shortage of men like the bloods(?) found in the picture to the right of this paragraph.

The reality of this hurt my heart in ways that I cannot fully explain.  It was like being eye fucked by a slowly undressing Halle Berry only for her to reveal a veiny penis bigger than my own.  This isn’t fair Atlanta!

Outkast is one of my favorite artists.  I like T.I.  Who doesn’t like Ludacris?  I like quite a few native Atlanta hip hop groups.  Gucci Mane can fall off of a flat Earth, but that’s just me acknowledging that not everyone who raps should continue to do so.  Anyhow, where were all of the beautiful women that my favorite Atlanta artists have been singing and rapping about?  You hurt me Atlanta.  You cut me so deeply.  You lied to me, and effectively hardened my stance that Los Angeles is worth the extreme cost of living if you are a heterosexual male looking for an amazingly attractive woman.

Georgia peaches my ass.  “LA fine” reigns supreme.

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