Those of you who know me know that I like to consider myself a lady. I say “please” and “thank you”; “bless you” when someone sneezes. I swear sparingly and cross my legs at my ankles when wearing a short skirt. I like to think these manners translate to my behavior when driving. Now, I’m not a braggart, but I have been driving since I was 15 years old. Not just because I’ve got skills- (Sure, you can call me the “Black” Danika Patrick), but in Texas, so long as you have an adult in the car you can get your license before 16.

So not only do I have time under my belt, I am I an excellent driver (said in my best Dustin Hoffman Rainman voice), but I possess what I like to think of as top notch driver’s etiquette. I use my blinker when I need to change lanes 97% of the time. If some kind soul let’s me cut in front of them I wave a thank you gesture. I even let other people in front of me especially if we’re in the same “car family”.

I’ve truly loved all the cars I’ve had and felt a personal bond with them that many may deem unnatural. My first car “Shelia” (Yes, I name all of my cars) was my girl! Sheila and I made countless trips back and forth to Missouri when I was in college. We made a 12-hour trip 10 hours many times over and only got one speeding ticket to show for it. She was my first and only sports car.

My second car “Jacqueline” who was a bit more sophisticated came with me to NYC, and although she spent most of her time in New Jersey she saw much of the East Coast from Virginia to Rhode Island and all the states in between as we spent A LOT of time driving to comedy gigs.

And my current baby, “Troyella” …or “Troy” as she goes by has also seen her fair share of Manhattan and the Eastern Seaboard too.

Like many Americans I can say that I sometimes live in my car. I even admit to doing some things in cars I probably shouldn’t have while driving and while parking (but that’s not for publication). I’ve eaten in my car, spoken on the phone and texted (bad Karith), I’ve even been one of those awful people who has applied make-up while behind the wheel. I am ALL about multi-tasking. But I think there comes a time in one’s life where they draw the line. And no matter how comfortable you feel in your car, how close you are to your car there are some things that should NEVER EVER be done while driving. At the top of that list should be at shaving your cooter.

I would have never even thought to advise people against something like that- thinking that oh, it requires a certain amount of attention to detail. More detail than going 65 miles an hour down a highway allow- that and maybe a shower. But apparently not everyone in America has the sense that God gave them. A woman in Florida was recently arrested for uh-um “grooming downstairs” while driving to meet her boyfriend. Again, I’m all for multi-tasking but C’MON!!! If Oprah’s pissed about people talking on their cell phones while driving I can’t wait to see this campaign.

One of the best things about having your own website is you can issue statements or rebut claims that have been made about you that aren’t exactly true or that don’t tell the WHOLE story. This past week I was teamed up with a woman I worked with when I first moved to New York City. She was, and still is, a host on the popular television show “The View” and back then I was a production assistant. Fast forward 10 years to a successful comedy career- one that’s spanned national and international television and radio; we meet again. This time I was a guest commentator on her show—the Joy Behar Show.

Well, I said some stuff about Tiger and his liaisons that ruffled a few feathers.

You can watch a clip of it here: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=352388200176&ref=mf

AND

Read the actual transcript here: http://edition.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0912/07/joy.01.html

Something I’m finding VERY interesting is that so far a couple African-American bloggers and journalists who seem to be extremely offended by what I said regarding Tiger Woods are not including the full context of what I said regarding Mr. Woods’ flagrant behavior; nor are they really taking into context what I do for a living.

As a comedian it is my job to speak the truth- my personal truth. Which is something, fortunately, and yes, sometimes unfortunately, journalists do not get to do as there is supposed to be no bias in journalism. As a comedian it is my job to use sarcasm and humor expose irony and hypocrisy. I did that and more in my comments on the Joy Behar Show. I also had the cajones to say what a GREAT number of Americans are thinking regardless of their race or ethnicity. The line I didn’t get in that’s still bugging me is that: Maybe Tiger’s allergic to chocolate?!

I am no way taking back what I said nor apologizing for speaking my mind. I will state again that I find its unbelievably ironic that Tiger who seemed to be doing and saying everything he could in the beginning of his career to water down his “Blackness” is acting like the quintessential the stereo-type of a Black athlete. And let me reiterate what I said on the show—“He’s acting like an athlete period!”—regardless of ethnicity. By which, I mean he wants the Barbie doll trophy wife and a few, or in Tiger’s case, ALLEGEDLY a dozen or so on the side.

I did not say (nor to I believe) that ALL athletes are like that and certainly not all Black athletes are like that. My comment was based on my observations of popular sports figures Black and White.

For the record, (unfortunately, this part was cut out of the transcripts because we were talking all over each other- like they do on “The View”) I said, “Forget Black or White. Forget color. What he did was wrong!”

I really do feel terribly for his wife and my heart goes out to her. Part of me even feels sorry for him because he obviously has some serious issues if he has “everything” i.e. money, a great career, a gorgeous wife, two beautiful children and he’s still pursuing other women in what is likely risky sexual behavior.

So there! I’ve said my piece and my peace. You can hear and watch more when I return to the airwaves of my very own talk show- Karith Foster: America’s Girlfriend on www.Shovio.com. I will be back on the air LIVE Monday December 14th, 2009 at 2pm EST.

Remember to Love and Laugh y’all; not enough people do!

xo,
~Kyf

I just spent an entire week in Las Vegas, Nevada performing at the Comedy Stop in the Sahara Hotel & Casino.

I knew it was going to be a trip when this was the first sight I took in when I got off the plane.

Let me preface by saying, this was the longest time I have ever been in Vegas voluntarily. If it were up to me the kitschy slogan wouldn’t be “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” But, “Las Vegas- where you can get more than just hope sucked out of you!” I think you’re already starting to catch my drift about how I feel re: “Sin City”. Now, I’ve been to Vegas a couple of times before. Staying the perfect amount of time—3, maybe 4 days max. There are cities all over the world like that. Perfect example: Pisa, Italy. You go see the Leaning Tower, grab a slice of margarita pizza or gelato; call it an afternoon then high tail it to Roma. Done. End scene.

Part of the issue is that I am a snob. I have no problem whatsoever admitting that. All of my previous stays in Vegas were in gorgeous hotels like the Mirage or the Bellagio which also happen to be right in the center of all the action. This trip, I was at the dead end of the Strip. Which is like the difference between living in the hood vs. living in Beverly Hills, shopping at Wal-Mart vs. Saks Fifth Avenue, eating spam vs. filet mignon. It was rough y’all. But in all fairness Las Vegas, Nevada is a different experience for different people. For some it’s pure heaven, for others it’s a hell they can’t escape.

I don’t gamble or drink so I was REALLY out of my element. I swear to God I have never seen a greater collection of people who were missing teeth but made up for it in mullet length. I didn’t stand a chance of fitting in where I was, because I wasn’t a morbidly obese tattooed chain-smoking gal whose wardrobe was made up of mostly spandex and halter-tops. But had I the urge to get inked up all I had to do was hit my hotel’s lobby and pay a visit to these guys (who were very nice by the way).

Most of the folks I encountered had waddles that put ducks to shame. Almost everyone I encountered just looked like they’ve lived HARD. I ran into a 5 year old at the arcade in the NASCAR section of the hotel (Yes, there was an entire section of space dedicated to NASCAR!) This poor kid looked like it was all he could do to make it to the first grade.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the highlights. And there were some. I worked with two really great and funny guys—Mike Donovan and Robert Duchaine; and all the staff at the Comedy Stop were wonderful. That said, if my dear friend Christy hadn’t come out from Ohio I probably would have started cutting myself. We went shopping- not one of my favorite pastimes, but I did find Lealah, my Chihuahua, a killer pair of red boots for this winter.

Oh, and on Halloween Christy’s friend, Nikki took us to Stoney’s—a local hot spot that was also having a costume contest. I don’t recall who won the grand prize of $1,000 but “Eve”…a girl only in green body paint with a g-string of leaves and an apple in her hand, came in 2nd place. My recollection is probably foggy because the most memorable event that evening was the 6 foot 8 inch cowboy, with a missing ring finger, who kept me on the dance floor for 3 different versions of the electric slide. Ah, Vegas… Good times.

When I was a little girl I had many instances where I thought I was being wronged or getting the short end of the stick. I know, you’re probably thinking who would intentionally rob such a sweet little brown girl of her joie de vivre? Well, let me tell you, I promise the answer will shock and awe you.

When I was 4 years old I couldn’t blow a bubble to save my life. So it soon became the mission of all the neighborhood kids in our quaint close-knit suburb to help little Karith Foster blow her first bubble. We did everything—after pre-k tutorials, weekend workshops in the clubhouse – but nothing worked. My friends were disheartened and I was devastated. I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. Or as we say in Texas, that I was “special.” Well, turns out, that wasn’t the case; nor was it the case of my friends being incompetent teachers. It seems that Yours Truly was attempting to blow gorgeous masterful bubbles with the only product my mother would allow me to chew. Nope, I didn’t have access to Bubble Yum, Double Bubble or Hubba Bubba like the other kids had.

Nooo! Un-uh! I had a piddly teeny-weeny tiny piece of the gum that 4 out of 5 dentists recommend. That’s right I had sugar-free, cavity-fighting, spearmint-flavored Trident. And that tiny piece of gum gave me a complex for years! Years I tell you!

A little piece of happy my ass! Now I’m not casting blame. I get it. My mother, who I love dearly and who loves me more than chocolate, was trying to be a “good mom.” But I think we all know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Her loving attempt to keep me cavity free instigated much more psychological distress than a visit to the dentist for a few fillings ever would have caused. You want to know the sick twisted part of all of this? I actually liked going to the dentist as a kid.

Still do to this day. I’m not saying it’s natural, but if lying in an overly well lit office with my mouth held unnaturally wide open while someone with a medical degree scrapes, pokes and prods my gums all in the name of dental hygiene is wrong—then gosh darn it! I don’t want to be right!

I like to think I’m a pretty decisive individual. When I go out to dinner to one of my favorite restaurants it takes me around 10.7 seconds (yes I’ve clocked it) to decide what I’m going to have for dinner. When given the choice between chocolate or vanilla it’s always chocolate—unless we’re having cake and red velvet is an option. (I’m a Southern girl at heart- what do you want from me?)

That’s why it is so puzzling that I’m having such a tough time deciding what to be for Halloween this year. Several years back I sported this sexy nurse uniform with a stethoscope and Florence Nightingale hat and all. I was “Kinky Caretaker Karith” if you will.

This past year I was a sweet little puddy-tat. I even went on live television that way (only ‘cause Rob Barlett my co-host on Imus dressed up too…Can you guess who he went as?).

At night I switched it up because I was cold outside at the NYC Halloween parade. Now I may be daft A LOT areas, but when it comes to the weather and dressing appropriately this Texas girl is one smart pussy!

But this year, I wanted shake things up a bit. So I’m thinking, why not combine my past costume themes and be cute, sassy and a little whore-y. Which leaves only one option: A Kardashian sister. I already have the ass for it. So all I have to do is straighten my hair, get a faux baby bump, and find a really unattractive Black guy worth millions to either make a sex tape with or marry. I think I’ve found my perfect Halloween costume y’all!!! Watch out Vegas!

You ever have a bad day? Week? Year? Sure, we all have! But forget Paxil or Cymbalta or any of those other drugs whose side effects have progressively worsened over the years. Y’all remember when once upon a time the worst side effects from a prescription anti-depressant were possible headaches and explosive diarrhea. Now it’s paranoia, hallucinations and occasional thoughts of suicide—Really Pfizer?! Really Glaxo??!

I say screw that prescription crap and do what I do. When I’m feeling down I medicate the good ol’ fashioned Generation X way: ESCAPISM—via a mixture of voyeurism and technology. That’s right. I turn on the boob tube and let the magic healing happen. Don’t get me wrong I’m pro-active about it. I don’t just zone out to any television program. I go straight to one of the Discovery Networks many channels where I know in just minutes I’ll be feeling better about my own life. When I have a bad set at a comedy club I just go home and watch American Loggers or The Deadliest Catch. I assure you not getting a laugh on a joke is way less painful than getting my arm caught in a king crab cage or being squished by a Redwood. But I use Discovery’s programming to heal other areas of my life too.

Case in point Mat and I went to Virginia Beach for 4th of July weekend this past summer. It was probably the worst holiday either of us had ever had. We fought, he broke his brand new phone, we never made it to the beach and the best part—we watched fireworks from the 10 floor of our hotel room with our heads pressed against the glass so hard we left face prints.

I was feeling pretty crappy about our vacation until I watched a show on the Animal Planet called “Monsters Inside Me.” A young fun-loving couple much like Mat and myself had gone to South America for an adventure. And they got one! They hiked, met natives, saw artifacts, took in the local culture and they ate & drank the local cuisine.  The last activity was where they got screwed. In one of the dishes they consumed were teeny tiny microscopic parasites. Parasites that once digested latched on to their intestines, grew to about 15 feet and caused them each to drop about 20lbs. Now, I’m all about losing my extra weight but I’d rather not go the route of becoming violently ill because a worm is stealing all of my nutrients for itself.

Hell, after seeing that I realized Mat and I got off easy. And you’re full of crap if the thought of knowing you have never had to experience being hospitalized because a 15-foot tapeworm who suctioned itself to your ass and be surgically removed doesn’t turn your frown upside down. Please, if that doesn’t make you feel better about your own life and vacation from hell I don’t know what will.

Lately, it seems like every time we turn on the news all we hear about are people gettin’ their freak on like adolescent bunny rabbits hopped up on “E”. And it’s not just some phenomena with our political leaders—everyday  people, are gettin’ in on the  “horn-dog” action. Being the feminist that I am, I wish I could say it was just a case of “have penis will travel”. But women are doing it too!  I call that “have vajayjay will vacation”. Although I do think a woman’s appetite for getting probed is a tad less adventurous than a man’s appetite for probing options. From melons to apple pies- nothing’s off-limit for y’all.

After much consideration I’ve come to the controversial conclusion that—as great of an idea as it is: Monogamy is NOT a natural state, but rather a discipline that is either voluntarily or socially imposed. I’m not saying that I condone infidelity. I’m the product of parents who’ve been married for 40+ years. I want to believe you find that one person- your soul mate, you have your Jerry McGuire “you complete me” moment then you’re done- GAME OVER! But it’s not that easy ‘cause as advanced as we are—at the root we’re still animals. Animals who can text and hook-up anonymously on the internet. And so far the only animal, science has proven beyond a doubt to be monogamous is a flatworm. That’s right a worm! One that when it finds it’s partner fuses with it until they’re one; then a la Romeo and Juliet, they die together. Studies show that even the once thought faithful penguin show signs of infidelity.  But if there’s any species in the animal kingdom who should be absolved for cheating it should be the penguins. Cause the excuse of “Damn Baby, I thought that was you!!” is TOTALLY believable!

Being faithful isn’t easy- if it were Maury Povich would be looking for work and we’d have a single-digit divorce rate in this country.  It takes practice people. It’s like a muscle- you have to exercise it or it goes limp- OR it goes to the Days Inn. You like your co-worker that much?- Do wreck you’re life by dippin’ your pen in company ink?! ‘Course not!!! Hello that’s what fantasies are for? Your partner doesn’t need to know- and uh, David Letterman- nobody else does either! Come on say it with me F-I-D-E-L-I-T-Y!   F-I-D-E-L-I-T-Y!     F-I-D-E-L-I-T-Y!

Lealah in pearls

Yesterday, I received an e-mail from my Chihuahua’s vet saying that it was time for a parasite check-up. Which as it turns out means they need to inspect her cute little puppy poop. So being the good dog-mother that I am I called her vet immediately to make an appointment. To my surprise the receptionist said, “Oh, we don’t need to see her. All you have to do is just drop a sample off.” Well, that’s all fine and good and it wouldn’t be an issue if I lived IN Long Island where the vet is located. But I live in Manhattan about 50 miles, $11 worth of tolls and a quarter tank of gas away. Now, I love my dog more than chocolate and would give her a kidney if she needed one. But I’m trying to be smarter about money and keep my carbon footprint down.

So my quandary is this: would it be out of the question for me to mail in her poop? Part of me can’t even believe I’m writing this, but I really am torn. I mean technically it’s not illegal, right? It’s not a liquid, perishable good or flammable. And when you think about all the sh*t we get in mail on a daily basis- well this is just the literal version and it’s for a darn good purpose. Well, now I’ve just convinced myself this is the thing to do. So I’m going to throw caution to the wind package up my little darling’s tootsie roll in a discreet but hygienic manner and thank the good ole USPS for their service in getting my dog’s Priority Poop into the right hands and for the bargain price of only $4.05. Can’t beat that with a bat!…Umm, you don’t think someone will go postal over this do you?

I hate admitting this but I have a secret that I just can’t keep to myself anymore. I realize that the time to come clean is now or never. Now, I like to think that I’m a mature, together, intellectual woman who knows right from wrong, but I too am human, at times weak, and sometimes when I give in to my demons BAM! before I know what hits me there’s a 14-year-old boy inside of me just having the time of his life. Um, okay wait! That SO doesn’t sound right. Before y’all call the cops or more traumatizing, Chris Hansen from NBC’s Dateline: “To Catch a Predator”, let me rephrase that. Let me also make it clear that I couldn’t be a more polar opposite to the infamous Mary Kay Letourneau or Roman Polanski. Allow me to highlight just a few of the MANY things that set us apart. And by “us” I mean me and the grade school teacher who schtuped her 12 year old student not once- but at least twice in the back of a car I wouldn’t be caught driving let alone fornicating in.

The men I date must possess the following traits:

1) They’re mature. (Meaning they can vote, buy alcohol and most importantly their wisdom molars have come in.)
2) They have a job. (Hell no, paper boy doesn’t count.)
3) They’ve graduated (Not just from grade school- but college. Go ahead call me a snob!)

Okay, so let me rephrase my initial claim. For the record I have NEVER “been with” a 14-year-old boy! What I was trying to say is there are moments when I am a 14 yr. old boy on the inside. Not all the time- just sometimes.

And he, for the sake of argument let’s call him Chase, comes out at the most immature inopportune times. Like in the middle of grocery store when I’m perusing the soup aisle I see something like this: Not only does it amuse me so much that I laugh out loud, but I purchase it- not with the intent to use it, but to showcase to my friends when they come over just in case they don’t believe me when I tell them this exists.

The most recent display of my teenage wasteland mentality came up when I received an e-mail from a casting directory looking for women 18-45 of all ethnicities for the film currently titled “BEAVER”. Really? The adult animal-lover in me thinks, “It’s about time Hollywood made a movie about those adorable bucked-teeth furry creatures who are nature’s construction workers.” Chase, my inner 14 yr. old thinks “Hmmm, I wonder if that means I have to wear crotch-less panties to the audition.”

And the Beat Goes Down…And the Beat Goes Dooowwnn

The local Tri-State Area news never ceases to amaze, entertain and disturb me. A few nights ago it was local NYC anchor Ernie Anastos with the most unusual pass off to a weatherman I’d ever heard. For some reason unknown to man and probably God, Ernie felt the need to say, “Keep f*#king that chicken.” Um, okay.

Tonight though it wasn’t what any of the newscasters had to say that made my eyebrows raise but the news itself. The story of the night came out of Connecticut of all places. It was about a nurse’s aid, who as the anchor said in her anchorly way, “is nursing some wounds of her own after a bar fight.”…But this wasn’t your normal everyday bar fight. It wasn’t like girlfriend got caught in the crossfire of two goons having a pissing match over whose football team was going to take it all the way this season. No, this poor woman was attacked by 6 other women after they found her karaoke singing in a bar so offensive they took it upon themselves to let her know she sucked. Apparently they didn’t have the acerbic wit of American Idol’s Simon Cowell who would have told her that her singing made puppies cry. Nor did they think booing or throwing dinner rolls would get the message across. Instead,with their combined IQ’s of 420 they collectively agreed that beating the hell out her would convey their malcontent. Now there are many questions to ask here. But the first two should be: 1) How much tequila did these “thugettes” have to drink and 2) how god-awful was this woman’s signing? She couldn’t have been worse than William Hung- that Chinese kid who broke every law of melody. I also can’t imagine a song so bad worthy of bring about a beat down. No, wait. I lied. If this chick was singing Chumbawumba’s “I Get Knocked”- then yes, she should have faced corporal punishment. Don’t get me wrong I’m not advocating violence just a smack- enough to sting but not leave a bruise. I think it’s clear that I for one am not a big fan of karaoke. I absolutely believe the word “karaoke” translated from Japanese means “revenge for Hiroshima”. That said I still don’t think anyone no matter how awful they are should be seriously wounded for torturing the rest of us.