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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

The All-Seeing Eye Of The Government

For all the machismo and testosterone running wild on this site, I felt there was a need for a woman’s perspective on things. So without further adieu, here’s Drea...

With the ever so anticipated iPhone dropping today, all the hype got me thinking about technology's true impact on society.

Here I sit, behind one of my most appreciated pieces of technology, my laptop. If it wasn't for this thing, I'd probably be flunking out of college, and completely ignorant to the world. This one item allows me to get news, REAL news, not Fox News, about any and everything happening in the world. It allows me to express my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs to the public, which Meka is so graciously giving me an outlet for through his blog. It tells me if it's going to rain, it entertains me with music and games, hell, there's not much that it doesn't do.

But is it REALLY all that great?

No! Technology, and I do mean phones and other things besides computers seem to have made our society a much more dangerous and corrupt place. Essentially everything you do can be tracked. Every move you make, everything you download, everything you purchase, everybody you call, you name it. Around 1998 the FCC started to put a little thing called E911 into effect. By 2001 every cell phone sold in the US had to have the capability to be tracked, so that if you placed a 911 call from your cell they would be able to find your location quickly to come to your assistance. All of this is done by a wonderful little system called GPS. We've all heard of it, many of us probably have little GPS systems in our car, helping us tackle the maze of city streets.

GPS is a system of satellites constantly orbiting earth that use a quite simple system to locate a GPS unit on the earth's surface. Many people don't know however, that the GPS system is owned by the US Department of Defense, has been around for a couple decades now, and they spend thousands and thousands of dollars for it's upkeep every year. And we all know if it's not about the war, our government is stingy with the money, so why are they so interested in the GPS system? The government operates it at a different and more accurate frequency than the public has access to. They can see a penny lying on the sidewalk from the pictures our satellites are able to take. In that sense, you'd see that it's not that hard for the government to watch and see if your favorite rappers, weed carrier, bag holder or bling handler even jaywalks. The system was originally put into orbit for obvious military reasons.

Every one of our cell phones has the capability of being tracked, but how many of us stop to really think who might be doing the tracking?

Type in GPS tracking in Google, I dare you. You'll find a load of websites selling covert devices so you can spy on your cheating spouse or track your teenage kids. Wow, I feel so safe and secure.

Aside from GPS, 30 years ago, how much did you hear about child molesters? Granted, I wasn't alive 30 years ago, but I've been around long enough to notice the instances go on the rise. How do these people tend to find their victims? The glorious Internet, of course.

Microwaves, cell phones, video game systems...we've all heard that they cause health problems - cancer, carpel tunnel syndrome, eye problems, but yet when a new phone comes out or the PS3 drops, we're all lining up to buy one.

Sure technology gives us conveniences, but is it really doing us that much good? If anything it's distracting us from real issues. It entertains us while our soldiers are losing their lives in Iraq. It's taking away loot from your favorite music artist. It's bringing the dreaded illiterate voice of President Bush into my ears every night.

So rest assured that when the new iPhone drops, your local kiddie-banger will be enjoying his teenybopper porn on his new piece of glorious technology that he can take anywhere, some non-driving-capable girl driving an SUV in which she can barely see over the steering wheel to start with will crash into somebody because she was trying to use the damn thing while she was operating her vehicle, and a local drug dealer will get busted because he talked hot on the phone and didn't know it was tapped.

"Just put a rag on your face when you ride, you don't want them satellites to take your picture" - Dead Prez

38 Comments             

What’s Going On?

If there’s one thing we can all agree on here, it’s that Tuesday’s B.E.T. Awards show was a certified shit sammich. When I watched bits & pieces of the show on the television and Internets, I honestly didn’t expect something that horrendously awful to be broadcasted. At the same time, this is the same channel that’s feebly trying to pass off shitty straight-to-DVD movies as “blackbusters” (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean), so it’s not like I should have expected Topdog/Underdog or something.

If anything should be learned from all of this, it’s that the B.E.T. Awards should be considered a harbinger of more bad shit to come. I may be looking a little too deep into this, but it seems like as soon as some garbage rapper decides to step out of pocket and onto someone else’s face, the hip-hop world goes to Hell a little quicker than it should. As soon as that one guy treated Dr. Dre like Glass Joe at the Vibe Awards a few years back, in the months that followed Shirley Chisholm, Johnnie Cochran, Luther Vandross and Richard Pryor among others passed. And I’m not gonna even touch the kiss of death that was Hurricane Katrina. And look at this year; Kanye allegedly had too much “sippy-sippy” (is that what they’re calling it now?) and showed his ass Dirt McGirt-style at some random-ass MTV Awards show out in Europe to kick off this year, and everything’s gone straight down the shitter.

2006 wasn’t a good year for piff pocketers either. I’m pretty sure that if “bullet-taking” wasn’t left out of the job description, most people probably wouldn’t want to hold an umbrella over your favorite rapper for a living. We already know that Busta Rhymes’, T.I.’s and Eminem’s lackeys were picked off in a rather convincing fashion, but the worst one of all (though definitely the funniest of the bunch) may have been Nelly’s moolie Ali, who supposedly got tasered by the fuzz so bad he ended up shitting his pants.

Now here we are almost seven months into the year, and hip-hop hasn’t seen one platinum-selling act. On the other hand, Fat Joe got two random-ass Mexicans ethered, Cam’Ron got his retina crushed by Tru-Life for looking at Jay-Z with the  “come hither” eyes, Tony Yayo slapped a kid for wearing the wrong shirt, Foxy Brown’s shoulders, chest, pants, shoes and hearing aid got gaffled by her ex-boyfriend/pimp's nappy headed hoes and T.I. sucker-punched some hump who named himself after the African warrior who was killed by his own brothers at a brunch of all places. What’s next, somebody’s gonna get their ass kicked at a country club? Wait a minute...

Things are really fucked up in hip-hop, and if things continue the way they’ve been going, I may have to quit this rap shit just so I can hold on to the privilege of sleeping every night. The last thing I need is someone to pop my kufi off on some random-ass, Grand Theft Auto-style shit.

30 Comments             

Lil Wayne & Jay-Z Can Both Bite My Ass

In case you didn’t know, there is a difference between bloggers and writers. Writers are supposed to bring an unbiased, newsworthy sense to the masses. They’ve been responsible for the way many – if not all – of us think, what they prefer and what they listen to. With such a powerful influence on our very being, is it any wonder why journalism is one of the most volatile, dangerous and disrespected professions around? A journalist going out to cover the Middle East is just as much a target as a soldier.

Bloggers, on the other hand, are the Internets equivalent of that drunken uncle in your family who sits in that corner recliner at your family barbeque always stirring up some shit. Whereas writers are more or less storytellers, bloggers will shit on that story and give their own, often fucked-up point of view on it. The rules and integrity reserved for journalism goes flying out the window. Bloggers won’t win any Pulitzers, and some (like all of us humps here) are usually compensated in insults. I sure as shit won’t be able to pay my rent with a virtual “fuck you homo,” but I digress. However, bloggers are almost solely responsible for the cipher element in hip-hop to remain relevant today. So while bloggers may not be able to sit at the grown folks’ table, they bring forth much more entertaining – and in some cases better – debates than your average writer.

One of the things about blogs is that they usually (and sometimes unfortunately) garner more attention if they make a mention of some current craptastic artist. I knew that shit before I started even marking my territory, which is why I occupy a couple slots on that list to the upper-right of your screen [1], and one of my shits has hovered in one of the top-2 spots since I got here. Sadly, the ones that are genuinely enthralling (such as Brillyance’s Friday spotlights) are avoided like The Germ, which sucks for those who actually have something good to say.

Speaking of that top-2 blog, whenever I go back to read the shit from time to time, although it’s obvious that I was in a different state of mind then, I’ll still stand by my opinion of Weasel F. Fraggle being one of the most overrated and shittiest rappers of all time [2]. But as much disdain as I have for the rapping wombat, I will acknowledge his immense presence in the game today, albeit in the sense that out of all the artists out today, Wheezy sounds the least like the first 20 seconds of Cabbiedonna’s Dragon Ball Z-inspired “freestyle” on my blogging brethren Donwill’s recent post [3].

At the same time, I really don’t give a shit that he’s beefing with Jay-Z, as if the shit will make hip-hop forget that he likes to get rear-ended by his fake-ass father. Grandpa Simpson hasn’t done anything remotely fulfilling in rap for years now, and it seems like every shitbag hump who can rhyme “thing” with “bang” will go at him for a little face time on the Internets. But here’s the question that does intrigue me: do so many people feel like they have to go at Jay to build up their reputation? The obvious answer to that could pertain to Jigga being the greatest lyricist alive right now, and the theory that in order to be the best, you have to beat the best. Think about it: nobody’s going at Rakim, Slick Rick or Big Daddy Kane for props now, right?

But if you ask me (and I know you’re not), I believe that these humps are really attacking him out of a sense of envy and urgency. And as much as I rag on Jigga, I can respect that he has enough common sense not to jump headfirst into a meaningless beef. It’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t care too much about rap anymore with his current streak of lethargic rhymes, since he’s already made his impression on the game, not to mention he’s probably balls-deep in the hottest light-skinned chick of my generation while I’m switching out the coffee filters at my job. I can even understand his reasoning to throw a couple lazy jabs here and there as well; they’re not so much for the purpose of defending himself than they are for the bizarre, backgammon-like way of setting his opponents up to fall flat on their face when their album does drop. Jim Jones’ and Cam’Ron’s shit sammiches both failed to even go gold despite the buzz they got from their nonsensical beef with Jay, and I’ve already noticed that Weasel’s wig has been pushed back to next year.

But in the end, who gives a flying fuck what everybody thinks? One of the more prevalent arguments I’ve seen more often than not is the “he’s making more money to care about you” logic a lot of Wayne Staynes throw out to their detractors. By that half-tarded reasoning, wouldn’t that mean that he doesn’t give a shit about a random-ass c-boy’s virtual support outside of tricking them into buying their newest audio violation also? I’m pretty sure Jay’s not climbing out of Beyoncé (or Wayne climbing out of Baby, for that matter) to check this shit if it’s not making them richer than they already are.

By the way, this is not a diss to aliya. Lord knows I don’t need to be cyber-pistol whipped by someone I respect here too.

[1] It’s also because I write damn near everyday, but whatever.

[2] I believe the proper designation was “Garbage On A Tape.”

[3] Seriously Don, what the fuck was that shit? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Vegeta would have popped out of nowhere, and the two of them would start exchanging Spirit Bombs or something.

302 Comments             

Rappers And Reverends Don’t Mix

At the risk of sounding less desirable to the three women who read this shit, I am not a religious person [1], nor have I been to church in months [2], nor have I actually stayed awake during a service in years. In my ever-so-humble opinion, religion is nothing more than hypocritical psychobabble scaring the shit out of its followers into following its “guidance” to near-fanatical levels of insanity. However, since I believe that there is a God(dess) out there who is responsible for the directions of all our lives, I don’t really have an issue with anybody who actually looks to religion as a means of “searching for the truth,” so to speak.

My major qualm with the church however is their immense contradictory lifestyle. Alongside a certain, sand-dwelling bunch of towelheads misconstruing the teachings of their random-ass God(dess) and running into crowded shopping centers with C4 strapped to their chests [3] ethering little kids and the like, I personally don’t get down with those who are guilty of doing the same things they preach against and attack.

It’s not unusual nowadays to see preachers running around stunting as much today’s rappers or the pimps of yesteryear. The final draw for me was seeing piss-poor patrons giving what’s left of their WIC checks to some gaudily-dressed minister in a car that’s rims cost more than the piece of shit I drive to work.

But what’s the most fucked up thing is a preacher’s inherent need to taste the flesh of another male, whether it’s the little choir boy who picks up the music books after service or some drugged-out man-whore with some shitbag Southern rapper’s namesake. I don’t know about you, but the last thing I need is some quasi-homosexual hump telling me I need Jesus. That’s some grade-A Fagitry right there.

So with all the internal problems they face on the daily, how does the church feel that they are fit enough to take on hip-hop? Last week I read about some random-ass church’s “Take Out The Hip-Hop Trash” billboard campaign or some shit, and now hip-hop’s first sell-out Kurtis Blow [4] now plans on "burying" the dreaded n-word alongside the NACCP, even going as far as holding a procession for the whole thing.  Pardon my Igbo, but that has got to be the most ass-backward hustle I've ever seen. I mean, who's honestly going to listen to the same organizations that have a penchant for giving dry butt service to little boys instead of Communion?

In light of cracka-ass geezer Don Imus’ infamous statements, I find it sad how every hump comes out of the woodwork to attack the language in hip-hop, as if it is the cause of all the problems in the urban society. What they fail to realize is that they are also perpetrating the issues that plague hip-hop as well. If anything, censorship should start in the family: if parents don’t want their children listening to the shit, then it is their responsibility to make sure they don’t, not some rich-ass fagboy priest. Come on now, would you take Ma$e’s rants seriously? That boy is more confused than anyone.

[1] I am, however, a spiritual person. And yes, there’s a difference.

[2] My moms made me go with her for my birthday.

[3] You know, for a country that’s supposed to have economic inconsistency, they sure do have a shitload of weapons at their disposal. I’m just saying.

[4] He was the first jig to start rapping about Sprite in its commercials. Tell me I’m wrong.

49 Comments             

It’s Cheaper To Keep Her

Question: When is it okay to cheat on your woman?

Answer: When your net worth resembles the national debt.

Contrary to the belief that I’m nothing more than a nihilistic, hypocritical asshole that throws the term “cracka-ass cracka” out like candy on Halloween, one of the few things I do believe in is the sacred traditions of a healthy marriage [1]. More than the primary means of preventing your children from going all Chow Yun Fat on a college campus, it’s pretty much the only way for a man to not have their balls tickled more than once a season. Pause.

But what happens when the love is gone? Before, the easiest way for women to hit men where it hurts was to take the children (which I don’t see as a bad thing at all). But thanks to this era of “women empowerment” anthems, more and more females find that it’s much more fulfilling taxing a man for almost half of his shit, which is just wrong.

Case in point: when news hit that former NBA champion and G.O.A.T. baller Michael Jordan was about to get taken for over $150 million from his horse face ex, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. It’s shit like this that makes you not want to wife somebody in the first place. Not to sound like the dick on this site (but let’s face it, it’s probably way too late for that), but you have to assume that the gold-digging skank probably had it in for his money from the gate. I mean, how could you not cheat when the mother of your children was known to come home smelling like Dickey Simpkins of all people?

Now comes word that Bugs Monkey’s babymuddah wants in on whatever money he made from Coke buying Vitamin Water. Not to say I’m Curtis’ number-one fan (I don’t even bother stealing his music off the Internets anymore), but that’s complete bullshit. Much like when Clear Channel sued the shit out of YouTube shortly after they were sold for over a billion dollars, waiting on someone to enter a higher tax bracket before trying to yoke them for their ends is on some extra-fucked up, borderline Mafia shit. While on the surface it may appear that the skeezer is trying to “support their child,” you have to be a complete dumbass to not know that this whore is trying to get some kind of personal gain from all of this. You know she already gets more than enough to take care of the little man and herself in the first place. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to need (or want, for that matter) more G-Unit clothing; that shit doesn’t even sell in Burlington Coat Factory anymore.

It’s a well-known fact that men are not favored when it comes to divorce and paternity courts. So why even bother with marriage when you’re a gajillionaire? You’d have to spend more time worrying about what she’s not going to gaffle from you than the actual marriage itself, which in the long run would destroy the shit altogether. Rich people and marriage = Effed In The Ay.

Besides, it’s never been a cool thing to be married, much less have a girlfriend, in hip-hop anyways, what with every rapper claiming they have a main chick, mistress and a young chick on the side [2]. The exception to this rule would be Jay-Z, but obviously aware that in his old age he wasn’t as proficient in bagging a model chick when you more or less resemble Joe Camel, he inexplicably managed to get one of the hottest jaundice-toned chicks ever. But you know even he had to trick a little to pull that shit off.

My solution to all this? Whether you slide up in some random-ass chick raw and get her pregnant, or do get married and you can’t keep your johnson out from between a nasty groupie’s legs, screw around on the broad when you’re a broke-ass bastard. She can’t get you for half of nothing. Or just dump her and only have sex with white women altogether. Shit, it works for Polow Da Don.

[1] Which is quite possibly the complete antithesis of hip-hop.

[2] In R. Kelly’s case, however, they’d all be one and the same.

79 Comments             

Who’s Ready For “Graduation?”

You know, for all the... um... “criticism” I’ve given about the guy, somewhere down the line I guess I “forgot” to mention that I actually like Kanye West (pause) [1]. Granted, not in the way that I think he’s the new DJ Premier or anything (he’s not even the new Madd Rapper, for that matter), but in that similar, Dip Set love-hate style. Plus, he’s willing to take great lengths in getting his name out there, even though he ends up looking like a whiny little bitch most of the time, which I can admire.

For any artist, trying to make oneself appear as if they’re a deeply conflicted, tortured soul despite the fact that they’ve likely spent more money on gaudy baubles than I have in my savings account is like the quasi-homosexual alternative to the typical wave cap-rocking gat-toter. It’s hard for me to take the shit these fruitbag tendencies seriously: I mean, all top-selling (and even some that go plastic wood grain) artists should instantly know that certain amenities the average nine-to-fiver enjoys like the ability to walk outside in public without being mobbed by a shitload of groupies gets thrown out the window once they hit the big time. I don’t know about you, but my Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme isn’t any less fulfilling just because Eminem can’t go out and get one like I can.

Whatever the case may be, it appears as if Kanye is leaning more towards Slim Shady’s now-legendary bitch fits that’s left him a reclusive shell of his former self. For years I’d see glimpses of this behavior in certain songs here and there, but now it looks like he’s fully ready to unleash that “time of the month,” douchebaggy attitude as a full-length album.

Whereas that leaked, soft-ass single he “co-produced” with DJ Toomp was more or less a hip-hop version of “I Will Survive,” his latest crapterpiece, “Stronger, [2]” seems to be taking shots at the Internets schmucks - such as yours truly – that call him out on his phony “hip-hop prophet” ideologies. From the surgically-repaired-but-still-fucked-up-looking mouthpiece himself:

So I started reading the hip-hop blogs... where they would say Kanye, one of his shoelaces ain’t tied…he’s a bitch... So those are some of the things that led to ‘Stronger, that don’t kill me can only make me Stronger.‘”

Oh really?

Basically, Tooda is getting asshurt because there are still those out in the hip-hop world who refuse to acknowledge him as some driving slipper-rocking rap deity, which I just find hilarious. For someone who could literally buy and sell this site I write on, drawing inspiration from those who call him out on his sideways-softy attitude to make a song is about as sauce as me plugging my ears up and bitching whenever some hump calls me out of character, which is ridiculously ass-backward. However, in the unlikely (but probable) possibility that I’m partly responsible for him making this song, while I'll definitely take a masochistic pride in the fact that i had a hand in this latest ear violation, I may consider changing my profile picture back to its former photo. Lord knows I don’t need some random-ass hump asking me for an autograph while I’m shopping for some honey buns.

[1] I am a fan of shitty music, after all.

[2] If you haven’t yet, feel free to check out Donwill’s post on the screenshots for this damn thing. And to those that live in the Tri-State area, please support duke and his crew Tanya Morgan by coming out to that Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival going on this weekend.

25 Comments             

Downgrade You

Not to give away some ammunition for the humps that take my thoughts in another direction here, but I haven’t been on a meaningful date in almost a year. While part of me tends to think that this is due to my unwillingness to pay for the entire Denny’s check (surely it can’t be due to my strapping good looks straight from the darkest regions of Lagos), I can’t help but notice that I’m not the only one who has similar issues.

Before the Internets made it easier to cop a mixtape and rap was still in its pre-prima Donna phase, it used to be that if your means of transportation wasn’t a Huffy or a monthly pass, you could pull anybody off the bus stop with little qualms. Even fat asses like Big Pun and Frank White made the shit look easy. But somewhere between the time when Baby and Slim began tonguing down the Hot Boys and Diddy shot some random-ass bystander in the face and blamed Shyne did the public‘s ideals changed. Whereas you could roll up on a busted Peugeot and pull the flyest shorty on the block, now it seems a must that men have to literally wear their 401(k) in their mouths to even have a shot at talking to some random-ass ‘hood rat.

While I’d like to believe that as the quality of life improves - what with technology making it easier to see a pair of breasts almost at will now – most people should rightfully expect more than pink cookies in a plastic bag for a gift, it seems to me that hip-hop may have a hand in this shift. With songs supporting the woman’s independent lifestyle meshing with television’s portrayal of men as either a flossed-out, shallow hooligan or gun-toting, drug-running wife beaters, it’s not hard to see how fucked this scenario is for the average nine-to-fiver. I particularly remember an outing from a while back where my date’s career aspirations were to “marry a rich rapper and live off their expense.”

If only it were morally acceptable to slap the ever loving shit out of a woman in public. But I digress.

That’s not to say that women need to lower their standards when it comes to the entire scene, lest they’d end up with one of the zombie crackhead types that flood my city. But at the same time they shouldn’t automatically assume that all men are trying to smash as soon as they make eye contact with them. Perhaps if they weren’t so condescending on the way they perceive things such as interracial dating (read: Black man with a cracka-ass cracka woman) as well, some women would probably spend less time shitting on their friend’s mate while secretly plotting to screw him behind her back. I’m just saying.

Bottom line, love is not supposed to have any monetary value. And if people would stop listening to rap music like it’s Dr. Phil or some shit, maybe there’d be a little more unity in the culture to begin with.

45 Comments             

People Don’t Dance No Mo’

Last week while I was discussing the somewhat unsettling trend where dead rappers tend to get better promotion, I mentioned that while it shouldn’t be the cultural norm, murder is unfortunately a part of hip-hop culture. Not surprisingly (and perhaps due to my reputation here), the entire thing was cast aside as nothing but more negative banter, much like the rest of the gems I drop here. Most humps are quick to say that I spit the way I do to get attention like some scorned bitch or because I assume that the hip-hop audience is a sensitive bunch of schmucks whose satin panties get bloodied up whenever I open my mouth, when they fail to realize that I - like everyone else at this section of the Internets - am a living, breathing embodiment of the rebellious, anarchistic mores that got everybody open off of hip-hop in the first place. If anything, blame hip-hop itself for installing a “take no shit, speak your mind” attitude in this body of mine, which is the antithesis of this country’s subservient culture. I shouldn’t have to explain myself, but there are still those who still can’t see past the candy-coated vernacular for the gritty truth.

I sometimes hate to have to elaborate - or in some cases dumb down - on my ideals here because it unfortunately proves to me that there are still those twits out there who think that all there is to hip-hop is simply either listening to a shitload of mixtapes, reading a gossip section, rocking a Jansport with chancletas while eating some tree bark or using slang and expletives when posting a comment. Dumb humps need teaching nowadays.

When I imply that hip-hop and murder are intertwined, not only do I mean it in the literal sense of some random-ass thug undeservedly pushing the wigs back of our favorite rappers-turned-martyrs, but also in the cultural and mental sense as well. Hip-hop is the most homicidal culture; you’ll hear about someone getting bodied in this shit more than any other musical genre.

For years the TIs have known that controversy creates cash (word to Eric Bischoff). So what better hullabaloo is there than murder? This is why you see and hear shirtless, ‘roid-raged drug addicts rhyming about killing each other more so than anything else every day. Is there any wonder why rich pricks across middle-class America would rather pop a cannon instead of read a book? As overrated as I think he is, I have to give it up to Kanye West for at the very least attempting to instill a smidgen of normalcy in hip-hop. It probably would have worked better if he didn’t run around with a murse all day, but whatever.

Quite a few of the readers here were up in arms because I felt no remorse for the likes of Stack Bundles. Honestly, I still don’t understand the logic of showing respect to anyone whose life ended in the same manner their lyrics were molded after. If anything, part of the cause of his death should be placed on the TIs’ hands, since they are primarily responsible for programming the shit into the collective consciences in the first place. By that bizarre logic, I suppose I should feel bad because the guy who supposedly ethered Stack Bundles got Stack Bundled himself, right?

That’s not to say that anybody deserves to die or should have death come to them just because they either rap about or are affiliated with murder all day long. At the same time, if a rapper (or any goonie goo goo for that matter) is heavily involved in that scene, it shouldn’t be a surprise when a green-eyed devil decides to light up a Camborghini or crush a retina, Kimbo-style. It’s sad really: violence only begets more violence. And unless the rest of the hip-hop nation wakes up, the shit will continue long after I’ve exhausted my pen.

30 Comments             

The Armchair Revolution

You gotta love this shit: humps worldwide come to this section of the Internets to read up on the latest news of their favorite half-tard rapper, listen to the next shitbag single that’ll make them uncontrollably do the Whop in clubs, read interviews by intelligent-deficient artists or simply come to the blogs to see who the fuck is gonna catch a mean one. Where else can you see a site host an online listening party for Pudgee The Arabian Fat Bastard one day, then jump on his ass because he likes to drop the dreaded n-word the next? Blogs are one of the few joints based on the forgotten element of hip-hop: the cipher. An e-panel discussion, if you will. Someone’s here to open up a topic of interest, and others come to respond back, or in my case, call me out of character and demand for my e-impeachment. I don’t mind, though; if I can get just one hump to expand their thought process a little bit past the dregs of media television, I know I’ve done my job. And it’s not like I do this shit for a lot of money either, so consider these my gifts to you. I spit these crowns to leave your heads wrapped with jewels.

I give big ups to some of the peoples, places and things that inspire me to keep doing this shit. If it weren’t for this little thing called hip-hop, I’d probably be writing some quasi-homosexual bullshit about Jesse McCartney or something. I’m actually surprised at how many people are willing to jump down my throat in the name of their favorite rapper, even if said rapper reminds me of Rowlf the Dog and/or rock vice grip-tight V-necks and meatwatcher jeans. So I know I must be doing something right, regardless of the slander mail I receive.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that my other blogging brethren followed my lead and have carved out their own niche here. It was about time too; it was getting lonely being the only one that talks shit here. Had I known Donwill was gonna show up, I probably wouldn’t have yoked his crew’s album off the Internets. That shit took forever to find, but it was worth the search. Brillyance is coming correct giving love to local crews; I’m too much of a cynical bastard to attempt that. J-23 is like my paleface alter ego; he’s blacker than a lot of you suckers out there. I ain’t forgot about you either, Shake; keep stirring shit up. Andres is probably the only Latino I know that actually hates “Lean Like A Cholo;” can’t go wrong with that. And have you seen the women here? I don’t know why the humps would swoon over some shitty singer whose bobble head weighs the rest of her body down when you got genuine wifey material here. I know I wasn’t the only who fell a little bit in love with aliya after her ode to H.E.R. a few days back. A.H.L.O.T. got the style game on lock, and Soopa Starr’s like my e-baby moms; her swagger is a wonderland. All three of them are on some “flowers & candy,” old-school chivalry shit. That’s the prototype right there.

Extra shout outs go to the rappers that take the time out of their crazy hectic schedules and drop jewels here. Stimuli keeps the young’ns schooled and you’d be hard-pressed not to root for Termanology and Torae. Crooked I reminds me of that one live wire cat in your crew that doesn’t give a fuck and says whatever pops up in their mind. You gotta respect that.

Recognize that hip-hop ain’t dead because some cantankerous chump says so. If the shit did suck, I wouldn’t spend a good part of my life writing on it. The armchair revolution will not be televised, so either get down with it or lay down from it.

Fifty posts down, and I’m just getting started. Fresh for ’07, sissies!

22 Comments             

Rihanna? Are You Serious?

A few days ago when I dropped a post on another site I write for (which you can read here), I made the allusion that White people have been primarily responsible for resuscitating R&B and soul music, while shitbag no-talent Black hacks can’t seem to get it right. I’ve already admitted earlier how UK chanteuse Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black gets more play in my iPod than the likes of Illmatic nowadays, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and quite possibly “ether” my own credibility here (like I give a shit about that anyways) that perennially hip-hop producers like DJ Premier, Timbaland and Polow Da Don never sounded better in the past few years than they have providing the sonics for the likes of Christina Aguilera, Justin Timberlake and Fergie respectively.

To quasi-reference producer/crackhead Dallas Austin, perhaps the “magical elixir” between their legs provided such grounds for inspiration, yes?

In any matter, with all the pink toes running around moving platinum numbers utilizing a predominantly Black-oriented sound, it appears as if Black artists have resorted to trying to yoke the palefaces’ soundscape, which in actuality was a shitty hybrid of other shitty Black-inspired sounds to create one extra fucked up-sounding genre, more commonly known as pop music. Problem is, pop music stunk to high Hell to begin with, so it’s no wonder we’re seeing more and more no-hit wonders pop up and violate our minds more frequently than before.

Ironically, one of those eardrum crushers has managed to become more popular, which is something I’d never expected: Rihanna. With Def Jam’s machine as her backing, she’s managed to become a female Akon (who’s certainly no Marvin Gaye himself) of sorts: worldwide acclaim and high-selling albums yet still a sub par talent who couldn’t sing her way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in her hands.

It’s hard to imagine that in today’s climate (well, not that hard) that some random-ass island broad with vocals that remind me of my car brakes could be so revered. When I was in Trinidad earlier this year, I’ve never seen so many people go apeshit over Crash Bandicoot, which leads me to believe that either that country has a poor taste in music or they’re just so misguided and downtrodden by the harsh conditions there that they’ll praise some anchor-headed chick like she was the last king of Scotland [1].

It also doesn’t help that she has Grandpa Simpson in her corner, as he’s blatantly molding her into this weird amalgamation of Beyoncé and Machel Montano. Unfortunately, he’s tricked the most of the music world that she’s the greatest thing since peanut butter and chocolate sandwiches. He pulled that same stunt trying to force Memphis Bleek down our throats, and that shit failed miserably. Shit, for all I know, Rihanna could just be Bleek in a mini and a painted Alien Nation mask.

I guess in the days of crappy albums and shittier record sales, some people will look towards anything for a hit. But I never assumed that music’s general population would be so gullible that they’d allow this no-talent to get so internationally known while simultaneously shitting on the ears of the world. On an off kilter but semi-related note, Amerie just put out an album ten times better than Rihanna’s, but it’s only relegated to the overseas markets. Plus, Amerie’s much easier on the eyes than her ass to boot. Where’s the justice in that?

[1] Sorry, aliya. But when that country blasted her music more than they played their own soca stylings, something is definitely wrong. I just call it like I see it.

143 Comments             

The Dreaded N-Word

Question: when did become culturally acceptable for non-black people to start saying the dreaded n-word? Never have I seen such furor over one word like it was the secret code word for a bucket of chicken or something.

But here’s the thing: did cracka-ass crackas, chinks, camel jockeys, wetbacks and other non-black ethnicities start using the word because they heard it in a rap song, hung around black people who say it all the time or because they know most black people are now too lazy to slap the ever-loving shit out of them whenever they drop the n-bomb? Personally I could more or less do without some random-ass jig saying the word all the time like it’d bring out Jambi The Genie, but I’ve rarely brought myself up to want to beat a jackass down for saying it because it doesn’t rile me up as much as it used to in college.

Besides, I can never be a thug; they don’t dress this well.

Not to say that I don’t understand why other Black people would want to fuck somebody up, as in the case of Timbaland snuffing some random-ass paleface a few days ago in Germany. I mean, if some honky ran up on me screaming out the dreaded n-word with malicious intent, I’d also be more than willing to put a foot on the back of his neck, Bloodsport-style. But I’d be hard-pressed to want to mow down some cracka-ass cracka who’s singing along to “Ratha Be Ya N.I.G.G.A.,” as I saw on the freeway while on my way to work the other day. Outside of looking like a general dumbass, people like that guy aren’t doing a disservice to anyone.

Since I’m on the topic of shitbag artists that don’t do shit for me, if Black people get so asshurt whenever some Iron Sheikh-looking DJ blabs it out on Rap City, why is it considered okay for Blacks to call him an sarong-rocking terrorist, other than the fact that it’s fucking hilarious? If a red-dot featherhead doesn’t get upset that we call them out of character, is it not a double standard to get mad whenever we catch it back?

While I do understand that the dreaded n-word is an expression steeped in slavery, discrimination, segregation and pretty much every other thing that’s been designed to fuck over Black people for centuries, it’s odd to consider how Black people themselves use it as if it were some sort of bizarre fraternal word. Not to turn the spotlight back on me, but I really don’t care if some random-ass gook blurts it out like it was going out of style. At the same time, other races shouldn’t get worked up whenever Blacks return the favor back to them. I mean, cracka-ass crackas take most of the good jobs in this world as is. The day I stop calling a honky a honky is the day they get ran for those forty acres and mules they promised Blacks all those years ago.

Much like all negative things, one must be ready for any backlash that comes from their actions. We already know that Black people have the most ripped off cultures as is. Can we really be angry when another random-ass ethnicity steals our slang, especially one as societally damaging as the dreaded n-word?

83 Comments             

A Weed Carrier’s Eulogy

You may not know it, but this Saturday would have marked Tupac Shakur’s 36th birthday. And while most people like to proclaim that the hip-hop society would be different if he or Biggie didn’t get shot the fuck up, I’m pretty sure the two would be lambasted and categorized as “old man rap” they same way we bitch about Jay-Z not wanting to give up the mike. On the other hand, had Suge Knight not held him up to the passenger window and used him as a human bulletproof vest, would he still be held in such a high regard as he is today? Hell, I bet if perennially grumpy old coot KRS-One caught that metal lungie in his neck instead of Scott La Rock, music critics, hipsters and message board hounds alike would be calling him the greatest rapper of all time. What’s fucked up is that while all of the good ones (with the exceptions of Soulja Slim and, of course, Stack Bundles, among others) are getting picked off, the shitty rappers are still running around violating the ears of the hip-hop world. Who would have thought that Lil’ Wayne would have more longevity in the game than Big L? That shit is astonishing.

The funny thing about death in hip-hop is that once some random-ass rapper catches an ethering, other random-ass schmucks start giving a fuck about the person as if he was Jim Morrison or some shit. Sure it may suck when some douche like Camouflage gets his brains turned into Gouda, but I’m not about to run out and spend my sneaker money on any of his craptacular albums like he paid my bills or something. If I didn’t give one-eighth of a shit about him when he was alive, it wouldn’t matter that I don’t give a shit about him now that his body is floating somewhere in the Gulf Coast, right?

And with so many people singing the praises of Biggie and Eazy-E, why doesn’t anybody care about the likes of Cowboy, Marlon Brando, Mausberg and the rest of those dead dickheads? We’ll never have a street named after Freaky Tah in Queens or some park bench devoted to Bloodshed in Harlem. At the very least I’d like to see a crack spot dedicated to Slang Ton. Latasha Harlins did more for hip-hop than the three of them combined, and that broad didn’t even rap. Why doesn’t she have a recognized holiday?

I could more or less give a shit about a rapper getting his kufi shot off. Call me remorseless (among other things), but I can’t feel bad when some no-name ganja grunt gets annihilated in a pissy project hallway for their chain. My question isn’t who did the crime; it’s what the hell was that person doing still living on Section 8 with a fur coat and a chunky neckpiece like they’re the motherfucking man anyways? That’s ridiculously ass-backwards as is. Fuck “keeping it real;” the day anybody moves into a higher tax bracket they should “keep it alive.”

While I’ll agree that murder shouldn’t be the cultural norm as my fashion sister from another mister A.H.L.O.T. said, if their raps weren’t filled with such homicidal banter, most jigs probably wouldn’t have gotten killed in the first place. You don’t see anybody sticking up weenie-ass Pharrell for any of his big-ass chains or getting Common for his crocheted pants and fedoras, do you? On the other hand, celebrating the trials and tribulations of any artist is just as retarded. It’s a little surprising to see so many people support singing degenerate R. Kelly after he unloaded on that jailbait’s face more so than the fact that he squirted on her in the first place. In that sense, I suppose we should all laud that jig from Crime Mob who’s locked up for going all Peter North and touched his little brother on the inside, right?

Alongside materialism and misogyny, murder is unfortunately a part of the hip-hop society. While I know that the shit’s not gonna stop any time soon, I’m not gonna pour some of my box of wine on the ground every time someone gets murked. As tragic as their deaths may be, those shits aren’t fucking up my day. Hell, we’re probably not going to remember or give a shit about Stack Bundles in six months anyways. I know I’m not.

37 Comments             

It’s Not My Fault You Ain’t Selling

One of the many problems within hip-hop is that everyone wants to point fingers at someone else’s mistakes. Many critics attack the South for supposedly injecting a minstrel-flavored taste into today’s current musical melting pot, abandoning the lyrically driven concepts of the past for goose-stepping and hand waving, while one hump yesterday had the gall to call me out for preaching blasphemy and ignorance. The way that person threw such a bitch fit (I’ve never seen so many big words in my life!), you’d think I was the one who green-lighted “Lean Like A Cholo” or something.

If only I had that much clout.

In any case, throwing the blame on someone and hoping it sticks is a relatively weak reasoning for anything. For the most part, the music business (and pretty much all businesses that try to sell you something) try to convince its target demographic into buying whatever bullshit they put out, under the guise that it’s the “next big thing.” While I’m somewhat elated to have met people who have an IQ that’s higher than a turnip and are able to sift through the bullshit, there are still those that call a shitty album a classic since it can make you bust out the Robocop dance in the middle of a club, which is just silly.

A while back I mentioned how women are having the toughest time out of everyone in hip-hop. While I still allude to the fact that the chances of a woman being taken seriously were nigh impossible unless they either were the color of a yellow highlighter or were shaped like an hourglass, the basis of that observation comes from the decidedly male-run corporations that subliminally tell women the exact same thing. Let’s face it: in a climate loaded with machismo, nobody wants to have an image of thugged-out broad thrown in his or her face. I for one use music as a temporary escape from the bullshit issues I face on the daily. Call me a chauvinist, but the last thing image need when I watch television or listen to music are a bunch of chicks that remind me of Snoop from The Wire splayed all over the place.

Once women decided to drop the baggy clothes for some booty shorts, they actually started selling records. In an ironic twist however, that shit’s now passed off as nothing more than a sexist representation of the female population, and rightfully so. I probably would have never stolen all those copies of Hard Core if I hadn’t seen that promo poster of Lil’ Kim squatting with her monkey damn near falling out of that leopard bikini. And while many people are yearning for that “average Josephine” rapper to hit the big time, the reality is that the majority of hip-hop buyers prefer gun talk, crack sales, dance moves and other delusions of grandeur over “reality rap” [1].

A few days ago some hump was on this site proclaiming that females are fucking up hip-hop. I don’t really believe that when they’re only doing what their TIs are telling them what to do. And contrary to popular belief, there are some women in the industry that hold a lot of weight behind the scenes.  But it’s kind of sad if you think about it: genuinely talented (and jaundice-toned) rappers like Jean Grae and Rah Digga will always be passed over for some random-ass skeezer who won’t sell shit, all because they don’t have a closet full of assless chaps. And if that isn’t ignorant, I don’t know what is.

[1] And don’t give me any bullshit on Kanye West. Running around like a fake-ass “Evel” Knievel ain’t real.

30 Comments             

It’s Not All Good In The ‘Hood

On an interesting note, I was thinking of writing this over the weekend, only to find out a member or Jim Jones’ crew of, err, rappers was killed yesterday morning. Without giving my “thoughts” on the ordeal (it’s way too soon for that), I’d just like to send my condolences to the family, fans and friends of Stack Bundles.

Anyways, during the days of Cross Colours and African medallions, cities from South Central to Brooklyn and everywhere in between were some of the gulliest spots in the nation. While the ghettos made for fodder in some of your favorite “’hood movies,” the reality was that none of them ever came close to depicting to harsh realism of those cities.

A common mistake made by out-of-towners was rocking the “wrong colors” in the ‘hood. Whereas nowadays most hipsters can now roam freely with red laces in their shoes in Long Beach, lots of unfortunate people were either shot, stabbed or jabbed in their eye, alongside getting stuck up for their jewels for doing the same thing a good 20 years ago. Growing up raised by a ridiculously