That’s why I want to break away with an ability no one has considered exploiting before: Severe ineptitude.

But Rob, you’re saying, employers see that all the time with applicants. Yes, true. But they weren’t self-aware. You can’t wield a power you don’t fully understand. It’s sort of like the X-Men. You need a bald man in a wheelchair to come and show you the ropes. I’m not sure how Professor Xavier relates to me in this case, but look, you’re already seeing poetry in motion.

I decided to be proactive in appearing terribly unqualified with The Employerzone, a site channeling an 11-year-old Robert Lombardi who loves Pokemon cards and despises deodorant. After all, weren’t times simpler then? Aren’t we all misty-eyed over Geocities and the golden age of Web design? I’m banking on this nostalgia for someone to see it and shout “Hire this man! His artful use of MC Hammer .gifs is the stuff of genius!”

This whole thing could be a failed experiment. But you know what they say — Compuserve wasn’t made in a day.

It was made in two.

Check out The Employerzone (4800 baud connection required)

I remember it well. Me, with sopping wet bath hair cascading onto my oversized T-shirt-turned-nightgown like a college girl at a spring break contest, running to the TV to watch the latest episode of Blossom. I couldn’t tell you much about the actual show, however. I remember Blossom as a homely girl who had a habit of wearing fishing hats and neon-colored leggings and frequently finding herself disgusted.

Then there was her brother Joey, the spiritual precursor to the Friends version, who filled the role of dumb jock admirably. I’m not sure what drew me to to the show, but the bar was set rather low, as Bob Saget commentating dudes getting hit in the unit repeatedly on America’s Funniest Home Videos was the pinnacle of my television existence.

Joey Lawrence’s memorable character jettisoned him to a family spin-off show and the chance to earn some gold-plated diapers in the music biz. His self-titled album came out in 1993 and, in a word — Whoa!

My brother won Lawrence’s album through a radio station contest under the pretense that people considered his album a prize. In the early 90’s, Lawrence was a Tiger Beat poster child, usurping those haggard New Kids on the Block and predating the iron-fisted rule of Justin Taylor Thomas (JTT, for those in the know).

His style was Disney Channel eclectic — shirts were optional, but must remain open; jewelry in the form of rings, dog tags and Native American artifacts were a must; and a flannel shirt waist belt became the perfect accessory to a bare-chested suit vest or oversized leather jacket. It’s sort of what a real-life bad boy would wear, if a real-life bad boy had sculpted hair and looked like his mom dressed him in a Halloween costume of Judd Nelson’s character from The Breakfast Club.

The album starts off with “I Can’t Help Myself,” a track title that isn’t subtle in its irony. But the real prize is the album’s biggest hit, “Nothin’ My Love Can’t Fix,” a saccharine dream of pastels and pinwheels. A breathy, wispy Lawrence backs it up with powerful lyricism, like this from the rap breakdown: 

Yes, you’ve read that correctly. Lately you’ve been acting like I smell like a zoo. You have to wonder how the executive listening party went for that song:

EXECUTIVE: …Like a zoo?

JOEY: YEA IT SO I CAN TAWK ‘BOUT DEH PHILLY TOWN EN I LIKE DEH ANIMULS

EXECUTIVE: Oh, I see. Is everything okay here?

EXECUTIVE 2: (Aside) Joey has developed a strong affinity for animals after he received a Garfield book for his birthday.

EXECUTIVE: But he isn’t even from Philadelphia?

EXECUTIVE 2: We know. But when we asked him to take it out he started flailing wildly and knocked out a sound technician.

EXECUTIVE: Oh, okay then. Well, let’s go with it.

The Nothin’ My Love Can’t Fix video, quality shown here suggesting a Betamax tape was dubbed from one of those children’s ViewMaster toys, is destined for the annals of the Library of Congress. Nothing exemplified edge more in early 90’s music videos than dancing in front of a graffiti wall.

In a bid to be a little less edgy, the wall has scaffolding thrown up next to it and people pouring buckets of paint. Were his handlers so square they didn’t realize graffiti is made with a trusty can of Krylon, not a bucket of Mautz that Joey was planning to paint his race car bed with?

The best part of the video can be easily overlooked, starting right around the 1:50 mark. I’m not convinced they’re extras, but more likely random people from the neighborhood who came to see why they were blaring obnoxious music. After pleading with them not to murder ol’ Joey, they were shouted directions from a bullhorn to hit a barrel like a drum and run around spastically behind him.

They obliged, and now must live the rest of their lives with people saying “Here’s my friend Barry, he was in that Joey Lawrence video playing ring around the rosy like a total fucking idiot.”

Then there are his backup dancers, most likely paid by being granted access to the craft service table, twirling on roller skates and various playground equipment. The director should have demanded his deli meat back, though, as greater dance can be seen at a tumbling class.

To demonstrate his jock sensibilities, Lawrence plays beach football with a bunch of women trying to tackle him in an innuendo for the ages. When the scene was over, I imagine the director backed his eye away from the viewfinder, let out a satisfied half-smile, and whispered “Got it”. This was the masterpiece that justified working in a meat packing plant.

♫ Joey Lawrence – Justa ‘Nother Love Song
♫ Joey Lawrence – Justa ‘Nother Love Song

“Justa ‘Nother Love Song” is the fourth song on the album and so raw that it doesn’t even care about proper spelling. Also, like “I Can’t Help Myself,” is ironically titled to the max. For the rap asides, Lawrence channels Public Enemy-era Chuck D. A dry heaving, talentless one. At some points in the song, I’m not even entirely sure real words are coming out of his mouth. Take this portion, starting at around 1:20:

What the hell exactly is going on here? Did they record Joey having a grand mal and give it a backbeat? When he was in the booth, did he finish a take and they said “Joey, can you give us a little more like you’re vomiting up blood? We really want to be able to feel it.” The guy that had to mix this song must of had a picture of his family on hand to quell his overpowering suicide fantasies.

Joey during a live taping of coitus interruptus with a studio audience member

But hey, that’s justa ‘nother love song. The real tour de force on the album is “I Like The Way (Kick Da Smoove Groove).” No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you — Smoove Groove. But it isn’t an arbitrary misspelling to seem cool and carefree. No, it is a Joey Lawrence-sanctioned dance that makes entirely no sense.

♫ Joey Lawrence – I Like the Way (Kick Da Smoove Groove)
♫ Joey Lawrence – I Like the Way (Kick Da Smoove Groove)

Before Joey unveils the dance at the end of the song, he petitions you for its necessary existence. “I like the way you love me so I made up a dance / A prance / So you’ll give me a chance.” Translation: I was hoping if did this box step here you’ll totally bone me. Sound good?

But before he even gets into it, he breaks down the fourth wall: “Your momma even said it was sorta hype / But when I show it to your daddy he said boy you’re just too white / And that kinda shocked me ’cause he’s actually right.”

I’m not fully sure of the reason for his self-deprecation. Was he feeling particularly sensitive about the dance he invented? Or does he know he sucks, and intentionally released a full-length album of satire? I’m inclined to believe the former rather than the latter, because no one can honestly produce this piece of dog shit as a joke and not want to go on a heavy drug bender for the awfulness you have bestowed upon the world.

Then he finally gets to the dance, and it goes like this:

1) Shake it to the left
2) Slide to the right
3) Do this to the rhythm while you hold your body tight
4) Make a full spin without getting dizzy
5) Up, down, all around … you got it right

Joey, this isn’t a dance. This is Nick Jr. choreography for hyperactive children. Drunk uncles have been doing this at weddings for years and nothing good has come out of it. Then he gives up at the end, with him essentially saying “Yeah, just move around and shit, whatever.”

It doesn’t really matter to Joey, because before the dance is even over he has thrown you onto his silk seats and removed his vest and jewelry, a process that usually takes over 15 minutes. Don’t worry — he has plenty of flannel shirts to wear for when you traipse around his apartment in the morning.

So that’s just a sampling of all that is be had with Joey Lawrence’s debut. Is it awful? Most certainly. But maybe this album was given to us as a lesson of the worst of humanity that we can all learn from. Like World War II, or pogs. Or maybe it just makes a really good stocking stuffer for someone you hate.

No matter what your intentions, with great power comes great responsibility, so choose how you kick da smoove groove wisely.
 

Download Joey Lawrence’s self-titled masterpiece (.zip, 115 megs)

“Sleeping, sleeping…” softly cooed a middle-aged and mustachioed Arab man into my ear, deep inside a labyrinth of tile along the outskirts of Marrakech, Morocco. I was far away from home and painfully, unapologetically white.

It was the sort of thing they warn you about in the study abroad pre-departure material, illustrated with clunky stick figures that narrowly avoid being raped or murdered. My gut feeling and masterful grasp of D.A.R.E. principles determined I was en route toward one of those outcomes, the latter seeming like a welcome respite. If you can believe it, though, I didn’t thrust myself into what became one of the most awkward, surreal experiences of my young adult life. You could say I just invited it in for a cup of tea. And a back rub.

One of the most attractive reasons to study abroad in Swansea, Wales, isn’t the cuisine of gravy, curry and mayonnaise mixed in with things that can be legally regarded as sustenance. No, the month-long spring break is your one opportunity in life to stick your flag in the footsteps of where countless other obese, fanny-packed Americans traveled before you. You can see the leaning tower, jam a cannoli down your gullet and make it back to the hostel to drink your bodyweight in Birra Moretti before sundown.

And while wandering about Europe through the screen of your digital camera is all well and good, there was something in me that needed to feel uncomfortable. I wasn’t content with a tourism board’s revisionist view of history. I found no joy spinning stacks of colorful postcards that looked better than their real-life counterparts or perusing chachkas whose primary function is to collect dust on an end table in a living room. I wanted more. I wanted something to move me. I wanted National Geographic, E!’s Wild On and a splash of Fear Factor blended into a delicious travel smoothie.

The clear-cut answer was to get the hell out of Europe and take the next camel caravan headed towards Africa. Looking back, arriving at this decision gave me the opportunity to tell my grandkids a heartwarming tale of friendship, cultural differences and homoeroticism. Thanks, Morocco.

My travel buddy and personal hostel locator, Eric, assisted me in my journey around Europe’s hilltop vistas and tentative nights on scabies-filled cots. Near the end of our third week of roughing it Oregon Trail-style, sans dysentery or buffalo hunting, we were left at a crossroads as to where our metaphorical hot air balloon would descend to next. For me, it was a no-brainer: Morocco’s capital city, Marrakech.

I knew as much about Morocco as the typical guy. Casablanca, fez’s, and that’s about it. A movie and a hat. I felt that was enough to justify my visit. But beyond Bogart and bogarts, we conducted preliminary research that only stoked my apprehension; such gems as discovering it’s rude to do business with your left hand, as it is the hand the locals prefer to wipe with. And, interestingly, that hand is not wiping with the cumbersome aide of toilet paper. The truth is, I was willing to put up with fecal fingers if only for an opportunity to get back and tell someone ‘Nope, that’s not dirt under my fingernails, I just back from Morocco!’ and let out a hearty laugh as they run away screaming. Streptococcus be damned, I was Africa-bound.

Eric, however, had to journey back to France for a few days of classes before camelbacking across the desert with me like Lawrence of Arabia. I would arrive to Marrakech on my own. It was exactly what I asked for, even if in actuality it filled me with silent dread.

As my rickety plane prepared for landing, I peered out the porthole only to notice the curious lack of lights of any kind. No runway lights, no sprawling metropolis of yellows and reds, no tiny blips of traffic whizzing by. Just darkness. I let out a sigh, squinted hard at my Arabic in-flight magazine, and braced for landing.

Eric and I trying to wear traditional Berber garb, but looking more like members of Shredder's foot clan.

I stumbled out onto the tarmac of the Marrakech airport, my steps only illuminated by the flickering neon haphazardly attached to the building. The man who was to take me to my riad held a sign by the entrance.

“ROBERT LOMBARDINI”

Either my magician doppelganger had followed me to Morocco or this was my wheelman.

“Hello, that’s me! Are we ready to go?” I said, perhaps a little too cheery. The man let out a big grin and nodded. We both held eye contact for a moment, chuckled, then understood we didn’t understand each other. Finally, a moment when I couldn’t be directed to an English speaker standing a pace away. I had arrived.

My first task of the blindingly bright day was to move from one hotel to another, as I was only able to book one night at my original location. I heaved my monstrous bag onto my back and weaved in and out of the vibrant colors and smells of the Marrakech souks hoping to end in the general area of my new hotel. Nothing was marked, streets or hotels or otherwise, so I banked on luck.

As I drew closer, sweaty and unsure, I was approached by a man. “Anglais? Françoise?” The man brokenly assured me he lived in the area and could lead me to my hotel. I would later find out his name was Omar, a 50-something balding Arab man that was capable of unspeakable things.

Omar lead me to an unmarked door in an unmarked alley. He told me the best he could that the local mosque was open to the public for the day, which only happens once a month. I thanked him and headed inside. I thought it would be the last I would see of Omar, the 50-something balding Arab man.

I put my things down and got ready for a day of aimlessly stumbling around town. As I picked a direction and started walking, I heard a shout from behind me. It was Omar, who informed me I was going the wrong way if I wanted to see the mosque. “I show you around, yes?” My mother-induced inordinate mistrust of strangers would’ve told me to decline, but he looked like a friendly enough older guy and we were in broad daylight in a busy, extremely confusing city. What’s the worst that could happen?

As we walked he trudged his motorbike alongside, telling me about the city and the different cultures that inhabit it. We ducked into a soot-covered building with an enormous wood furnace where the Berber people make bread for the neighborhood. I attempted rolling dough with friendly locals, and we had fun playing communication charades with each other. Following suit the rest of the day, Omar showed me countless other highlights of Moroccan culture. People weaving gelobas, carpet makers, craftsmen. It was an experience that no Barnes and Noble had an itinerary of. I had jumped over the velvet rope and made a run for it.

After a long day, dusk finally started to roll in with buildings of red earth seemingly coming aglow. I arranged a shuttle for Eric back at the hotel, who was arriving later that night. Omar sat at the café next door waiting for everything to get situated.

He was laying in wait.

All the free sand you can eat.

At the nondescript neighborhood café, Omar and I sat staring at a football match for a minute or two. Then, he leaned in close.

“Hey, you want to drink beers?”

He said it in a fashion that felt like secret police could crash through the ceiling at any moment. I guess he had reason, as drinking is not thought of highly in Muslim culture.

“Uh, sure?”

“How many?”

“Like three, I guess?”

Omar gestured to a man – a man whose apparent sole purpose is to sit ominously in Moroccan cafes as the black market beer hookup – and whispered into his ear. Fifteen minutes later the man came back with a paper sack full of sin. “Alright, let’s go,” he said purposefully, getting up and heading out of the door. I ploddingly followed.

Omar and I stumbled into a dirty parking lot, squatting behind cars like teenagers. He rattled off, in very broken English, about deep metaphysical things. About life. About how people pray to Allah everyday, but don’t practice what they preach. He only paused in his diatribe when he saw the flash of headlights or the voices of people nearby, which made him hide his sack of unmentionables under a car and stand up to glance around like a suspicious meerkat.

As I took it all in, only understanding a quarter of what he was trying so hard to convey, I drank four, five, six beers without even realizing it. I became light-headed, and squatting for so long left my legs sore. Then I made the mistake of telling him.

“We should go to massage,” he said.

While wandering to my hotel I saw signs for massages, all coupled with pictures of scantily-clad women giving backrubs and everything outside of fanning their clients with palms. After six beers, it sounded like it would be my opportunity to be the Tony Montana of Morocco, watching television in a jacuzzi full of bubbles while smoking a cigar, if only for a day. My eyes lit up. “Is it expensive?” “No no, not expensive.”

Omar started his bike. And by bike, I mean bicycle with a lawnmower engine fashioned to it. He ran to start it as I scurried behind him, jumped on, and held on for dear life. We veered around streets, taking me into a part of the city I never saw before; the part of the city where you can hold a hand in front of your face and still not see it. I didn’t know where we were headed to, I just knew I needed to return by 11 o’clock to get on the shuttle to pick up Eric. Omar assured me it wouldn’t take that long.

“Okay, take off your clothes.”

I’d like to pause for a moment to explain something here. This is usually the point in the story where people exasperatedly say “Uh, hello? I would have run right out of there!” Let me just say I was in the Middle of Nowhere, Morocco, in a neighborhood with no streetlights and no mode of transportation, slightly drunk. Also, I felt obliged to adhere to what was customary. ‘Be a good sport,’ I thought. ‘This is what you wanted, and this is what you get, idiot,’ the other lobe reasoned.

So, like a snake tattoo mesmerized by a flute, I stripped down to my underwear and handed Omar my wad of clothes. He went out of my field of vision as I sat hunched over, adjusting my underwear, near-naked and highly freaked out. This is the definition of buzzkill.

Omar came back in nothing but tight, gray briefs. Omar also happens to be the hairiest man alive. The combination is somewhat remarkable. His underpants had a sizeable hole on one of the cheeks, and I wasn’t at all curious how that came to happen. “Come,” he said in some weird foreshadowy way that I’m still trying to purge from my memory.

We entered a steamy room that had about as much class as a 70’s couch. The first thing I saw – and the only thing to see – was an obese man sprawled across the floor getting the hell scrubbed out of his back from an equally obese man squatting behind him with a sponge. At that point I started laughing in such a way that my body shook and started to murmur “oh no, oh god” repeatedly under my breath. God was not present in that bathhouse that day. He must have already been sufficiently scrubbed.

Omar then lead me into another room that was steamier yet. The room was brown tile on all sides, with faucets and buckets along the walls that people were filling up and dumping on each other. It was reminiscent of that girl exiting the pool in Fast Times At Ridgemont High. But only with men. Hairy men.

Then Omar told me the bad news. “Sleeping, sleeping.” He said it like an anesthesiologist about to put the mask over my face. Yes, he meant for me to lie on my back, on the floor, near-naked in a steamy Turkish bathhouse in Morocco. And, against my better judgment, I obliged.

Omar exhausted after excessive loofahing.

At that point my nervous laughing was uncontrollable. It’s as if I had overdosed on nitrous and started to spasm violently. As I stared at the tile ceiling, Omar bent over to fill up a bucket of water, his exposed buttcheek dangling dangerously over my face. The image is burnt into the back of my retinas, and when I close my eyes really tight I swear it’s still as clear as day.

Before I knew what was coming, a torrent of fire water was thrown over my head as I squinted and spat and every muscle in my body braced for the worse. He started scrubbing – hard – with a sponge that had the consistency of 40-grit sandpaper. My feet, armpits, my chest, my legs. He was very thorough, I’ll give him that. Then, he rolled up my boxers so he could abrade my inner thigh, bumping right into my business district. I let out a laugh, but it was not funny. Well, maybe a little.

Then he told me to roll over. This is usually the second point in the story where people tell me I’m a little bit crazy and a lot of bit gay. But yet again I raise the question: if you were in sopping wet underwear, clothes nowhere in sight, in the middle of nowhere, what would you do? Shut off your brain and take it like a man, that’s what.

My chin was pressed against tile as I attempted to look behind me to see what was being plotted next. Turns out it was another bucket of water and yet more scrubbing. He started off scrubbing my neck and back. Then, pulling my boxers up, he wax-on wax-off’ed my buttcheeks and went for the gold. He got in there. Like, I’m talking all up in my beanbag in there. At that point I let out a muffled gasp, and as soon as I was not going to take it any longer, my underwear’s elastic snapped back and it was all over. I was waiting for a “That’s not so bad, was it?” and a lollipop.

I sat up, looking at the hunks of gray skin that were scraped off me, all of it clinging to me for dear life. To add insult to injury, another bucket of water was poured over me, Omar shampooing my hair with the love and fortitude of Vidal Sassoon. I began to chart an escape route; this was especially true if he told me I needed to knead his Brillo-covered body. I’d tell him I wasn’t well-versed in man-rub or that I didn’t have hands. There was no way. And thankfully, he didn’t ask.

After instructing me to go back to the other steam room, I glanced through the doorway and saw Omar working himself over with steel wool, his chest sweater impervious to any earthly element. I was dazed. It felt like I got sent through a very flirtatious washing machine. Omar came back, telling me to go ‘sleeping’ once again. Oh hell, why not. I laid on my stomach like Omar was a bear and playing dead would make him disinterested. His Yeti-caliber chest hair, in fact, may classify him as such.

As I acted dead, Omar saddled up on me, bending my arms up and pulling as far back as his hairy man mitts could manage. It hurt. “Ow-ow-ow?” I meekly protested. “It is good for the muscles,” he assured me. He then took his elbow and jammed it into the small my back. This also hurt. Badly. Then he crossed my legs and sat on them. What started off as a stretch all of a sudden became a Mexican wrestling match. I’m sure he got some sort of sick pleasure out of contorting me like a Raggedy Andy doll. My only conclusion was that I was in some sort of awkward snuff film where they massage the victim lovingly before severing off his head with a piece of broken glass.

After my experience being a real-life Stretch Armstrong was complete, Omar motioned me back to the entry room where I despondantly sat on a bench in my waterlogged underwear. Mr. Snake Tattoo was still there, angry as ever. Now I finally knew why. At this point I didn’t care who was looking at me or what people thought. Then it made sense: all this time they were trying to warn me non-verbally — “All ye molested who enter here.” They were right.

Omar held out a towel in front of me as I awkwardly took off my underwear and wrung it out onto the floor. I put my clothes back on and dejectedly followed behind him, my underwear grasped firmly in hand. I figured this was the point where he takes me out back, puts a sack over my head and offers me as a disposable pleasure to his other buddies. And honestly, nothing says spring break like being thrown into the human sexploitation circuit.

I ran behind his bike and jumped on, my underwear flapping in the wind like a shoddily constructed windsock. He didn’t tell me where we were going, and I didn’t ask. By now I’m a shattered man, and a very pliable one at that. We drove to another nondescript street and towards a dimly lit doorway. Apparently Omar wanted to get me drunker, as we were headed down into an unmarked bar.

I descended the stairs tentatively, hiding behind Omar with each step. The bar was a seedy basement bunker that had the look and feel of the Mos Eisley cantina and featured an intense soundtrack of a man wailing Arabic nothings with minimal musical accompaniment – think the Borat soundtrack blended with the sounds of a hospital’s gunshot ward. It was Morocco’s version of a townie biker bar, full of headwrapped men who shot fiery glances my way. I guess I can’t blame them. My molested locks were reminiscent of Nick Nolte’s mugshot and I was holding a pair of wet underwear. Something was obviously awry.

My first order of business after sitting down at the table was to place my underwear stealthily under it. If the owner of the bar is reading this, that sopping lump of blue-and-white-checker fabric that you found under the table a few months ago is mine, so don’t bother holding on to them, I don’t plan on coming back.

I sat down with Omar, trying to absorb everything that had happened thus far. He started to order beer after beer and I started to get exceptionally drunk, this time with gusto. As he talked to a woman with facial hair thicker than mine, I stared off into space and started what I can only describe as ‘trauma drink.’

When we were ready to leave, Omar started arguing with the door man about something or the other, and told me that the beers were expensive and it would be great if I paid for them. He lead me to an ATM, at which point mentioning how expensive the shampoo was. You know, Pert Plus would’ve been sufficient, Omar. I knew that he was likely shaking me down, but I reasoned that he provided me with the weirdest story of my life thus far and it was a small price to pay for it.

We got back on his bike and headed home, saying our goodbyes to one another. I never saw Omar again. As I entered my hotel, I checked the time – it was 11:45. The shuttle never came, and I figured Eric was probably lost or dead by now. By then, however, I was just too drunk to reason or care.

Eric somehow managed to get to the hotel after a harrowing experience of his own involving a hash dealer and the police several hours later. He shook me awake and I apologized to him in my delirium, told him I was drunk, underwear-less and was scrubbed down in a bathhouse by a middle-aged balding Arab man named Omar.

As he turned off the lights, he didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t elaborate.

Cheese-dripping feel-good synth pop? Check. Horrible, horrible fashions and dancing? Yep. A young Bobby Brown singing about peer pressure? Oh hell yes. And then to throw Mr. T in there … well, my mind nearly shattered at the thought. But it’s real. So, so real.

Not only does “Cop Killer” Ice T share writing credits for the music (many are unaware Ice T is Mr. T’s brother twice-removed), but many of the songs have Mr. T lending his golden pipes along with his chains. And believe me, they’re golden. Let’s take a gander at the bounty of riches Mr. T’s video has to offer:
 

The Epic Introduction

The introduction starts with a series of sepia tone photos of Mr. T doing what he does best, which is to look really pissed off and all badass-like. A celestial choir of children offsets the yell-singing of the T, who makes sure you’re getting the message with such lines as “YA HEARD ME?” and “…REACH OUT!” The video is a precursor for all that is to come, including singing ridiculous songs about treating your mother right and how anger can leave you covered in potato salad. The video ends with the T hopping around a sun-soaked city with a group of kids. In my mind, it seems like a window into what true happiness looks like.

If you’re not convinced this is the single greatest montage of all time, I can emphatically say you’re wrong.
 

Taking the A-Train to Fashion

In order to not be a fool, you’ve got to have a thing called “styling.” For example, to be a real hot dog, wearing mustard socks and a ketchup sash may be in order. Styling isn’t just the clothes you wear, however. It’s also about how you convulse in a photo studio while Mr. T watches on like Dr. Claw. If you don’t think you have the joie de vivre to pull off a bowler hat and a kimono with your name sewn onto it, don’t fret: these kids were most likely high on paint thinner.
 

Channeling Your Inner B-Boy

What makes Mr. T’s foray into the motivational video realm so powerful is that he goes beyond the traditional subjects of self-empowerment and peer pressure. For example, tripping in front of people. Watching this will undoubtedly give you a moment of lucidity, remembering all the times you could have been impromptu break dancing on the sidewalk and all the applause you would’ve gotten.
 
So reach out and download this now, fool. Ya heard me? I ain’t playin’.
 
Download “Mr. T’s Be Somebody …or Be Somebody’s Fool!” (.torrent file, use your favorite BitTorrent program such as uTorrent to download)