• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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• » Random Acts Of Fuckery, Take One
• » Suge Knight Lost
• » Steal This Album
• » Damon Dash Lost
• » The Bitchmade List: Latino Edition

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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Random Acts Of Fuckery, Take One

Not to say that I look down on people like they were crumbs (because that would make me really egotistical, and we all know that I’m not), but there’s time where I’m actually glad my “popularity” doesn’t stretch too far outside of the Internets. Sure I may struggle at times to pay a few bills on time and I’ve placed a higher value on the nose-down area of a woman than the lips-up region as of late, but at the end of the day I can sit down, decompress and be happy that at least I’m not, say, getting Zangiefed out of my socks.

I of course found the pictures of Suge Knight after catching a two-piece and a buttered biscuit to be the funniest thing I’d seen in a long time, but at the same time I know laughing at another person’s misfortune is just wrong. Then again I couldn’t keep it together when I saw a handicapped person get dragged across the sidewalk by his own electric wheelchair way the fuck back in junior college, so that should tell you something about the petrified lump wrapped with barbed wire I used to call my heart.

The funny thing about this is that while I was writing yesterday’s post I couldn’t help but think, “Gee, I wonder which dumb-ass rapper is going to top this one?” Lo and behold, Papoose the Ninja tried to use the ancient secrets of martial arts to smuggle a key into Riker’s to break his future wife Remy Ma out of the bing. Not to try to connect it back to my own selfish ideals, but I’d never risk my own personal well-being to break a gat-toting, former Fat Joe hash holder out of the pokey, nevertheless wife the bidge to begin with, nevertheless wife the bidge after she had her box chewed out by some bulldog he-dyke to begin with. I guess using the Shaolin Finger Jab isn’t hip-hop, but I digress.

The real kicker actually takes place on this site’s very own message board section. Now I don’t really venture to the molemens’ lair that often because to me they’re nothing but a bunch of elitist schlubs who sit in front of their computers giving each other virtual reacharounds [1], but during I stumbled upon on particular topic where one of the few females there was getting pwned on a heavenly level by, coincidentally (ironically?), the same yenta who tried to ostracize yours truly from the music industry itself a while back because I’m a proponent of the racial epithet. I don’t know (or care for that matter) exactly what warranted such a vicious response, nor do I think that there’d be an egregious abuse of fate should I turn on my computer one day and find myself locked out of this site one day; I just think the phrase “Pot, meet kettle” (or something similar) just fits the entire scenario perfectly. We need a board.

[1] Think I’m joking? There’s a thread dedicated to beating your meat. That’s just all kinds of wrong.

10 Comments             

Suge Knight Lost

There was once a time in the West Coast (you know, back when the West Coast was relevant) where many things were unfuckwitable: whether it be the food at Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles, the year round warm weather or the faux aspiring models walking the streets, you couldn’t tell any Angelino otherwise. Sure, some denizens melted and looted the shit out of the rougher parts of town due to the acquittals of four cops who teed off on a PCP-addled, revolving door prisoner that resulted in billions of dollars in damage, 53 ethered idiots (half of which were Black. Go figure) and a ninja perpetually watching me with the steely eyes of doom prepared to do a Shaolin finger jab if I even think about running outside of their liquor store without paying for a Mexican soda, but if anything that show of violence was a testament to our unbridled unfuckwitability.

At the forefront of this was the rap scene. Many of the artists may not have had the same lyrical dexterity as their Atlantic counterparts, but many of them couldn’t match the sales of West Coast rappers. Whether exposing a young Slap-Box M to the debauchery of misogyny found in Doggystyle or relating to the stories of one-hit wonders like Skee-Lo and Ahmad, the rap game was the pinnacle of unfuckwitable. It set trends and made jigs start biting; where else would Bloods and Crips in New York yoke their idea?

Because of this invincibility some guy nicknamed “Suge” was able to finagle to game using nigh-terrorist tactics to bullyfoot his way to millions or record sales and dollars, having random people stomped out, threatening TIs with baseball bats (so that’s how you beat them!) and dangling Vanilla Ice over a balcony window to do so. In Vanilla’s defense, however, duke was more of a bitch than a bitch, but Lord knows I’d not to like to have been in his position. But after Snoop bounced down South, Dre getting tired of being slapped around like a two dollar whore (why else you think he’s on that Barry Bonds Workout Plan now?) and 2Pac being used as cannon fodder the aura of Suge started to break, and whereas people would only talk about snuffing Suge behind his back, people are now realizing how soft he really was behind those tales of rampage during Death Row’s run.

I’m not saying I’d personally run up on Suge like I was a process server with a paternity suit in tow, I’m just saying that I haven’t been too shocked as of late to see people testing Suge more than ever, especially when I started hearing the stories of his home being broken into, not to mention that time he was shot in the leg at a Miami party a few years ago. But now comes the story of Suge actually getting knocked the fuck out [1] which is, if you put it into a metaphorical sense, where West Coast music stands at today: a bunch of old farts still clutching onto past glory, only to catch a one-hitter quitter when they’re sleeping. But if anything it’s also proof that despite the fantastically terrifying tales the guy is still a mere human being, not to mention that the age-old adage “karma is a bitch” has never been more prevalent.

*waits for a random-ass Jew to punch me in the face at Rock The Bells this August*

No wonder we keep losing to the South.

[1] Is it safe to say that Suge Knight is now the West Coast equivalent of Prodigy?

63 Comments             

Steal This Album

It’s pretty well documented here that I haven’t gotten an album legally for a minute now, and I know I’m not the only person who hasn’t gotten an album at least a week before it actually hit stores. There have been two exceptions where I actually bought a hard copy, but I don’t think it really counts when a) it’s been almost two years since I done so and b) I had the “special advances” beforehand. Perhaps in my misguided judgment I felt as if a portion of my $14.06 would have been put to better use other than line the pockets of a greedy TI, but chalk that up to my naïveté if anything.

* pats external hard drive * Never again.

Now if anything if I even catch a whiff of anything being leaked, I almost instantly scour the Internets with a fervor that’s equal parts forced cheapskate (where the hell is my “stimulus” check?”) and untrusting consumer. I think I can speak for everyone who’ll read this shit when I say that I’d rather spend my hard-earned wages on something that would actually prove beneficial in the long run, like ribbed condoms or something.

If anything, the fact record sales all around are down the tubes is almost deserving, given the gluttonous voracity of the game’s major players. Thanks to an unwillingness to adapt to the times and cater to their target demographic instead of forcing it down our collective throats and expecting we take it with a Coke and a smile, the record labels are now struggling to remain relevant, even resorting to shady tactics to do so.

A few days ago I came across an old Blender piece on the record company’s fuck-ups, and after reading it I couldn’t help but feel a little sense of pride knowing that my so-called illegal actions – as if payola, spyware and attempted monopolization isn’t – is responsible for such a radical change in climate. I wish I had known about this back when I was stealing limited-edition comic books back in high school. Then again, I always yoked albums from the BMG service in high school, so it’s not like I supported music in the first place.

Now in order to save face one of the majors are taking a page out of Radiohead’s book, offering a “variable pricing program” of sorts, which would make perfect sense had they not previously try to tack on an extra fee onto our basic Internets access bill beforehand, which was just asinine in the first place. If anything it shows how low these muttonchopped power mongers are willing to stoop, not to mention how little they actually care about the consumer. If that’s the case, I may start throwing full albums out; a proverbial “fuck you” of sorts. They’ve already sued a single, lower class mother for well over $200,000 for downloading music, so it’s not like they’re going to get anything of value out of me anyways.

29 Comments             

Damon Dash Lost

Not to be frank, but at my age I more or less stopped discriminating on the types of women I found attractive. While I’ve yet to actually date outside my race strangely enough – in a sense defeating the whole non-discrimination to begin with – I’m pretty sure if some random Hindi broad like Priya Rai (look it up) wanted to swallow me, I can’t say I’d reject the offer.

Hell, I wouldn’t even reject a grilled cheese sammich at this point in time. But whatevers.

My main basis with not dating women of a ethnical (or ethical) background, however, is due to the immense amount of bullshit I’d likely receive from my own "peoples," if you will, as if I went all Ron Karenga and joined up with COINTELPRO to take down the Panthers. Call me a self-hater, but I really don’t see the issue with interracial dating, especially since it’s been proven to produce some of the best looking women around at times. Amerie, Mya and Melyssa Ford anyone?

At the same time dating within my community can be as equally intimidating, with a good chunk of women scarred from either abuse, infidelity, daddy issues and baby mama drama. Needless to say it's getting pretty difficult to nab a girl who isn't likely to bug out on the train at any given time.

I could draw a correlation between a man's inability to keep his child supplied in Pampers and the increasingly expensive cost of gas causing said man from being able to purchase said diapers but God(dess) knows I have enough issues to worry about, and being unable to indulge in some gushy stuff every once in a while because I quasi-support baby bail jumping is something I'm not willing to give up at all.

Especially when there are actually guys who are well off financially and still guerilla pimp their way out of child support payments. Take crestfallen entrepreneur Damon Dash and his latest legal entanglement. Now, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, as forgetting to re-up on your insulin shots everyday could fuck with your short-term memory, but I find it hard to believe that the same guy who came up with brilliant ideas like the iPod knockoff Roc Box and ugly, clear Pro Keds can't afford to provide some snot-nosed teen enough parental guidance to avoid being used as currency in prison, or worse, an extra in another State Property film.

However, some of the so-called allegations are simply too ludicrous for their own good. While being unable to cook and thus needing someone to spoon-feed you Gerber's may be excusable (I know I couldn't give a shit about food when I was 16!), flunking out of school because your lazy ass can't learn a bus route and needs a driver (I wonder what the mother is doing if she can't take him to school herself. Hmmm...) is just stupid to begin with. Then again we're dealing with a generation brought up on Tickle Me Elmo dolls and other random acts of Faggitry, so it's not like it's surprising these days.

If any smidgen of the petition I glimpsed through (read: barely read) has any sort of truth to it, it's no wonder why we have so many tragic mulattos getting splashed with bum wines in cheap rap videos, with everyone getting the boxes smashed by some blonde hair, blued-eyed cracka ass cracka. But if countless Maury Povich shows have taught me, it's never to take these things too seriously to begin with.

17 Comments             

The Bitchmade List: Latino Edition

So originally I was going a post on the trials and tribulations one Damon Dash has encountered since he was unceremoniously ousted from the house he helped build with the black TI (no Clifford Harris) [1]. Unfortunately I got a little wrapped up with prior engagements (read: this random ass Kiara Marie [2] flick would not stop timing out) to really focus on the damn thing. Then I realized it was Cinco de Mayo... well, actually I didn’t, but I knew something was up because the front page of my Yahoo had this weird mariachi band GIF on the front. What most people don’t know is that the fifth of May is remembered more for the Mexican forces that stopped the French Army way the fuck back in the day, only for them to get ethered the next year. On the plus side, they did manage to kick the Frenchies out some four years later, but we all know that France is nothing but a bunch of pushovers in the first place.

Anyways, I was going to drop a few jewels on some of the doper Latino individuals that actually made an impact in this fickle rap game; then again being an asshole is a part of my essence, and I found it much more easier to shit talk my way through this week until something retarded happens for me to write about. I mean damn, by this time a good eight piff pocketers were murked by this time last year. What gives? Prodigy gets sent to jail, no everybody needs something to do other than punch him in the face for good luck? We need a board.

Wild random ramblings aside, here’s my shorthand list of the top bitchmade Latinos in rap. As always, feel free to toss in your input, or just talk your shit while unknowingly granting this site more hits which in turn will up the digit I make here a month. Who needs a stimulus check?

Irv Gotti. The sad thing is, duke produced my favorite Jay-Z song ever, “Can I Live,” but that was a simple swacking of an old Isaac Hayes song. It’s one thing to front like you’re a thug because of your associations with roughnecks. But having your momentum taken out from under you by another fake-ass thug who does the exact same thing your diminutive puppet did in the 90s but made more money off it? Damn like Ron Simmons.

Baby Bash, Chingo Bling and all those other minstrel Mexi-cRappers. Part of the reason I don’t like California is because on any given day I was forced to listen to the likes of Lil Rob and Pocos Peros Locos on the radio all day. True story is that my old job ended up producing the video for Baby Bash’s “Cyclone,” and none of the gig’s higher-ups liked the shit; they only cared if the check didn’t bounce. Capitalism is a muh’fucker. Speaking of fa-go Latino rappers...

South Park Mexican. Let’s be frank here: I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one (guy or girl, mind you) who’s thought of scraping, say, Raven-Symoné when she hadn’t quite turned 18 yet. Shorty doo-wop was thick as all hell. At the same time, I’m smart enough to know not to ever pull that shit, as 16 would get me 25 at the drop of a dime. Apparently nobody told Texas’ (of course) own South Park Mexican, who went down on his daughter’s nine-year-old friend while she was asleep, which is just wrong on every imaginable level possible.

[1] Shouts to eskay for providing the latest pic of Jigga coming home with his newborn seed, too.

[2] Maybe I’ll do a PAWGs are the new dark meat joint one day, if I’m inspired and not lazy enough.

24 Comments             

What The Hell Is A Weed Carrier Used For Exactly?

Not to sound like I’m bragging or to put out too much information about my other half’s primary hustle, but thanks to a few phone calls and the luck of the Naija I was able to attend a photo shoot for a high profile artist’s upcoming album yesterday. Compared to the blusterous, maniacal world of freelancing on such wondrous commercial productions like Kentucky Fried Chicken and, errr, Pros Vs. Joes, photo joints are definitely a lot tamer than its big brother.

The thing I could have definitely done without however were the plethora of doobie rollers that flooded the scene. It’s one thing where you have your wardrobe stylist choosing which fits are good for the shoot; meanwhile, a whole bunch of jigs standing around doing nothing but playing NBA Live? Not so much.

Shit, I wish I could sit around playing video games and still collect checks for a living. I mean I did do that for three months last year, but that was because I was on unemployment, and that shit was running out fast. So technically that doesn't count.

Undoubtedly the poignant highlight of the day was the one guy who was in charge of holding the blunt that ended up being used for shoot. I wanted to shake the guy’s hand actually; it was the first time I’d personally seen a weed carrier in action. Get that man a record deal immediately.

Then again, it may not be in the label TI’s best interests to give that weed carrier any reason to pick up the mic, lest they actually think that they can convince the music-gaffling masses to cop an Eli Porter type of mess. But there was that one time Jermaine Dupri – whom I’ve always suspected of touching that one cancer-ridden jig from Kriss Kross so much his dookie braids fell out from the stress that comes with being anally violated into making “I Missed The Bus” – likely made some curly muttonchopped overlord happy when he convinced enough people to cop J-Kwon’s shit sammich, so I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried to pull that off again.

“I’m the best mayne. I deed it.” The South stays losing.

I figure the reason there’s been an influx in weed carrying positions is likely due to the fact that rappers need enough bodies to stop all the hollow points flung in their direction. Why, I bet if Lesane had at least two of the Outlawz in that car the night a blammer hit his chest so hard his shoulders touched, not only would they have actually been put to good use but we probably wouldn’t have so many fagtastic rappers running around with vocoder pipes crammed down their throats. It worked for Fat Joe that one time his car got sprayed up in Miami last year, and all he lost were a couple of undocumented, fence-hopping migrant workers.

In these rough economic times, perhaps putting an excessive amount of ‘dro donkeys on your payroll isn’t the greatest idea. But damn if that position doesn’t sound tempting at time. Well, you know, except for the whole “catching bullets with your chest” part.

31 Comments             

Hip-Hop Does Not Care About The Roots

True story: while I was in the security check-in line at the airport last month, some tiny homo thug looking ass ninja was standing directly behind me. I had a feeling I knew who it was but wasn’t quite sure, not to mention I really didn’t give a shit about the bumbaclaat anyways. A side note to all aspiring rappers out there: it’s pretty quasi-homosexual when you’re draped up in chains galore but are still flying coach on American Airlines, where those chintzy bidges charge three dollars a pop for a fucking chocolate bar. Motherfucks American Airlines.

Anyways, apparently it seemed I was the only one who recognized the hump as most of the people in the airport shrugged off this diminutive Yenta Claus. All except this tweenage girl (or, according to the mad, mad world of Robert Sylvester, ripe for the picking), who ran up on duke as if he was a superstar.

It turned out this chump was none other than current Bow Wow nemesis Yung Berg. While I assume (or hope) that a substantial amount of people that fit my age bracket would ignore duke the same I did (or perhaps get real gully and crack his cranium with a cinder block), the pre-teen who got an autograph could have possibly done the same to, say, The Roots’ Black Thought if the rap world and hipster-hop brigade would get off of their high horse and allow the group to breathe.

Then again, The Roots have always been somewhat of an anomaly – or a precursor to the backpack rap Rawkus used to roll heavy with in their prime – in hip-hop. And outside of that mid- to late-nineties chewstick renaissance they were never really a good fit in rap to begin with, which is why I understood where they were going with “Birthday Girl:” rap fans don’t give a shit about them unless they were backing up Grandpa Simpson at some concert, so they tried to get that indie rock guap. Shit, if the Gym Class Heroes (who actually bit their style to begin with) can do it, why can’t they?

Unfortunately, that crabs-in-a-barrel mentality that envelops “true school, keep it real” hip-hop heads (many of whom also flood the Okayplayer message boards with their faux holier-than-thou sense of bitchassness) refused to let The Roots do so [1], eventually forcing the song out of the album with the “sell out” catcalls. I mean, I may do my part to prevent an artist from selling records by repeatedly looting them for their music semi-anonymously over the Internets, but at least I can’t force them to not make music.

A guy can only dream, though.

Can you really blame The Roots though? How awful is it when a Grammy-winning act can’t even get the same support a shitbag rapper like Rocko can get from the same label [2]? Maybe it’s time for ?uestlove and Co. to give a collective “fuck you” the same way Radiohead and Prince did and just drop music without caring about their fans, because it’s quite obvious their fans don’t give three shits about them.

[1] And yes, I know the song was pretty corny to begin with. But Curtis started yodeling like his old nemesis Jeffrey, and he went on to sell nine brazillion copies.

[2] And I still haven’t head any of his shit to this day. iPods > Clear Channel and Viacom.

64 Comments             

The More Things Stay The Same

Nobody really asked for my take on the Sean Bell verdict, and it’s completely understandable; given my reputation here, it’s likely I’d say something that wouldn’t sit well with the many readers of this site, kind of like the Menstrual Cramps P album review I did last Friday. But the truth of the matter is I really didn’t care about the trial in the first case, but not because I’m a venomous asshole whose sadism is so blinding at times my own cousin – who’s as equally if not more fucked up than I am, thus providing inspiration for many a sideways slick comment – has the audacity to wonder if there’s something wrong with me at times.

I just tell him it ain’t nothing to it; gangsta rap made me do it.

Now when I say I wasn’t concerned about the trial that doesn’t mean that I’m so shallow-minded and dumb, deaf and blind to the societal impact the entire situation will have on the community (read: none, but more on that later), mind you; when I say I didn’t give a shit it meant that I didn’t give a shit because I expected the result to be exactly as it turned out, with one man unable to hold his seed at the end of each day and a cache of bloodthirsty cowards with badges [1] who are able to kiss their own. It’s occurred a myriad of times for as long as I’ve been around, yet people are still shocked and appalled that it continues. Um, why?

Not to be the downer of the party or disrespect Mr. Burnett’s earnest call to arms, but times have drastically changed from the days where fighting for your rights meant also having to risk a Doberman tear a chunk out of your ass, and now most people are more concerned about their own respective random fucktascity to even bother starting an uprising. Hell, I even wanted to jump my adolescent ass in the middle of the Los Angeles Riots [2] (which interestingly enough “celebrates” it’s 16th anniversary this Tuesday. And we’re not pouring out our Boone’s Farm why?) to try to gaffle up a couple Super Nintendo systems. But seeing as how everybody was more concerned with murking each other that entire week, it likely would have not been in the best of my interest.

Did the murder suck? Unfortunately. Were the acquittals just? Of course not. But you know what? It’s going to keep happening, and nothing is going to be done about it. It may be disappointing to others that I’m so complacent at this point, but seeing as how I can barely afford gasoline right now - I’m not spending almost four dollars for a gallon of unleaded just to make the Molotov cocktails that’ll to be tossed into a Korean supermarket any time soon - I know I'm not the only one either.

Ironically, the same people who called shenanigans on the trial likely won’t say shit when – in a twist of fate – they’re pumping round after round of ammunition into a Black, virtual passerby in the new Grand Theft Auto game that drops tomorrow, so you can’t tell me the trial was going to spark something within the masses. Think about it.

[1] Note that there’s a difference between cops and bloodthirsty cowards with badges, though I understand it’s hard to tell.

[2] What’s amazing is that during those same riots, 25 of the 53 people who died were Black. It doesn’t take but simple mathematics to realize how frivolous the uprising really was.

37 Comments             

The Long Shaft Of The Government Pimp Hand

At this point I’m almost glad to be a quasi-Internets Celebrity, with all due respect to the “founding fathers” (or something). Granted I’ll likely be unable to use this newfound “status” to convince Kerry Washington and Dania Ramírez to reenact one of the scenes they shared in She Hate Me in the comforts of my studio apartment, but at the very least I have a legitimate reason to yoke music off the Internets without emptying my wallet for them.

By the way, that above video isn’t really safe for work, but I’m sure that won’t stop any of you from watching it. I know it didn’t stop me!

At the same time however, it’s also sort of a relief that I don’t make a substantial amount of money from my web campaigns (read: I get paid in MySpace rappers flooding my inbox with music, c-section hazing and other random acts of fuckery) for Medicare and Social Security to properly finish the job this country’s current overlord started. Perhaps this is why the government is supposedly firing off these “economic stimulus” checks to everybody in the coming months. I’d like to save that money myself, but knowing my luck (and somewhat questionable saving habits) I’ll end up buying some stock in bullshit, leaving me with a couple of fly sneaks but struggling to pay my rent and bills for the month.

In other words, exactly what I’ve been doing since I got out of college.

But I digress. In this day and age, I’d much rather be fending off destitution than, say, be in Wesley Snipes’ shoes right about now. I may not be able to keep my cell phone on at times, but that’s obviously much better than getting sent up the river for a few years. Not to mention that when you don’t pocket a couple brazillion dollars for something as insidious as acting [1], you can afford to jump bail on your taxes every once in a while. It’s not like the government can take 20 percent of diddly poo anyways.

Then again, it’s probably not such a good idea to do so in the first place, seeing as how we’re all nappy-headed hoes to the government’s proverbial pimp game. What makes this even worse is that if I turn out like one of those dumbass Maury Povich cases that end up paying child support because they mistook pulling out for practicing safe sex (haven’t we all?), the dry reaming I’d receive on my already menial salary would be far worse than any kind of Club Fed iron vacation Blade is about to take for the next three winters. In that sense, maybe it’s not that cool to be a broke, quasi-misogynistic blogger at all then.

[1] Ironic how I feel that way, especially considering that the career path I’ve chosen is directly involved in television and movies. Whatever.

14 Comments             

Give Us Free!

I think we can all agree that it can be relatively tough being an immigrant – legal or otherwise – trying to live in the States. The language, education and financial barriers tend to limit a good chunk of them to what are essentially the jobs I’d do back when I was still trying to impress the masses with fits so expensive I could barely afford to smile. I’m pretty sure nobody who reads this shit would ever consider applying for the position of “expressway orange, peanuts and flowers salesman” now, right?

If anything, I can see past my skewed ideals on the art of fence jumping to the side to appreciate their beliefs and dedication towards attaining this so-called American Dream that Walter Younger foolishly thought was in the form of a liquor store. Maybe Wally was on to something, though: attaining one’s personal goals in life via poisoning their communities with a variety of inexpensive, liver-annihilating alcoholic beverages.

And here I thought I just had to worry about catching a bullet to the sternum.

While we can sit, bitch and moan about the state of affairs in regards to their Diaspora-embedded emigrants [1] coming over and snatching up all of our “jobs” – as if any of us would actually want to sell Granny Smith apples and churro sticks at a freeway entrance in the first place – but I for one am glad I don’t have that dubious honor of peddling incense sticks and black soap bars on Crenshaw and Slauson for a living. And I sure as shit don’t have to worry about getting yoked on my way to work in a car that costs damn near $40 to fill up because I have family members who happen to be doctors and lawyers. If things are so bad that even Mexican drug lords are strapped for cash, I may have to start thinking twice the next time I decide to let a silicone-enhanced stripper toss her chesticles into my face whenever I go to Tijuana. Matter of fact, I may never go back there again; fake breasts in my face are so not worth getting the shit shocked out of me for ransom money.

Not to mention, a good chunk of them have to literally demote themselves to do somewhat demeaning tasks like selling toy guns that spit out bubbles in order to provide sustenance for their family. Being a first generation Nigerian American werewolf in Paris (figure it out), I’ve seen my own uncles and aunts – many of which are well-respected physicians in Africa – push a taxi cab or slang pizza pies once they touch down over here because their education accounts to nothing more than “witch doctor” status out here. So needless to say, someone’s catching the wrong part of the shaft.

Besides, most immigrants are like mice; meaning they’re more scared of you than you are them. I figure this: anybody’s who’s willing to risk it all by floating on a car door to a Miami port deserves at the very least to be my local dry cleaner. Lord knows I can’t even swim, so that shit is something I’d never think of doing.

***
What does this have to do with rap, you may ask? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. When you’ve been listening to old-ass samples and reading the news on the Internets more than the two issues of King I inexplicably get in the mail every month like I have, you tend to not find or care about hip-hop stuff. Reading is fundamental, people.

[1] And no, I’m not only talking about the Blacks who were shipped like Fed Ex packages to become a cracka-ass Euro trash’s ottoman but now have to gall to call us out because we’re better than they ever were in sports even though we’ve been “bred” to inadvertently be that way, I’m referring to the Native Americans whose land was razed via polio-loaded corn and blankets who now find sustenance yoking Social Security payouts from the old jigs in casinos. But I digress.

36 Comments             

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