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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Puff Daddy: The Gulliest Rapper Of All Time

A while ago I mentioned how today’s current hip-hop scene – in all its V-neck, questionable origins of teardrop tattoos glory – is loaded with more bitchmade material than a chick on the first day of what my friends and I lovingly refer to as “yuck mode.” In actuality this sideways-soft lifestyle has more or less been around since the beginning of (rap time), what with all those artists from the past all resembling the “tough guy” from the Village People. I mean damn, rocking smedium leather knickers in the summer? Kinda sorta suspect in my eyes.

But in any matter it’s gotten to the point where it’s more laughable (in a SMH/detrimental to society kind of way) than anything, because even the densest of listeners could (should?) be able to decipher the difference between what’s authentic and what’s bogus. Although the army of Stanleys came out in full force when one of this site’s own called out the questionable comments of one Weenie F. Bangkok (yipes!) last week, I was a little relieved that a few of them actually took those words with a grain of salt because not only does it show some traces of logical thinking in the youth (which is something I’m still a little unsure of), it also proves my theory of bitch asses bitches existing in hip-hop today.

If there’s something to learn from this trend, it’s that the more boisterous artists are probably the least likely to refuse a pegging behind closed doors while the ones you don’t expect are the ones putting in work. Case in point: Proactiv pusher and honest-to-God badass Sean Combs. Rappers should honestly study the blueprint from this guy, as he’s massacred more careers – both financially and physically – in his almost-20 year campaign than anybody.

As I’m sure you’re all aware Puff comes from a family of no-gooders. His pops used to run with that drug-dealing shyster Denzel portrayed in that movie I bootlegged but still haven’t watched. When he got killed, Sean and his moms were forced to move to Mount Vernon, where he began his reign of terror. Miraculously, Puff has gotten off each and every time he fell in trouble with the law. Getting people trampled to death at a Heavy D concert and selling clothes made with raccoon dog fur is one thing, but cracking people over the head with champagne bottles is only the icing on the cake.

Puffy and parties are like a dime piece with the clap: sure it looks tempting to enter, but it’s probably not a good idea to do so. Nevermind the fact that he put one club out of business for when Shyne shot at somebody who threw money in his face [1], the simple fact that B.I.G. got shot to high Heaven in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in Los Angeles that was loaded with people coming out of a party and nobody knows a thing damn near 11 years later shows how frightening his pull is. How is it that three months later duke gets Sauce Money to write a tribute song that sells a brazillion copies, turning him into a legitimate star in the process, and Chris’ moms hasn’t been able to sleep at night because she doesn’t know who killed her only son? That’s some extra fucked up shit right there. He might as well have been the one behind the barrel his got damned self.

I thought that Biggie’s death would have quelled his rampage, but already Puff still continues to wreck shit today, having already slapped the shit out of some YT who had the gall to try to stop Puff from macking his fiancé and gotten his goon squad to fuck another person up this year, and we still have a good two weeks left. I may need to just stay at my mom's place to get drunk for New Year’s; for all I know I could get hit by a bullet shot into the air from the joint Puff was holding.

And if Puffy doesn’t get a chance to murk you physically, he’ll simply fuck up your 401(k) to the point you'll be pushing brooms until you're 78. Just ask G. Dep, Loon, Craig Mack, Kane, Hoodfellaz, Dream, Total, B5, Faith, Carl Thomas, Ness, Babs, New Edition, Mario Winans and any other artist whose career has stalled like a manual transmission with a busted clutch while under his ill-advised care. Shit, Styles and Jadakiss had to beg Puff for their publishing back on live radio! In shiny suits you were the man, homie...

A word to the wise: if you want to show how gully you are in rap, take a few pages from Sean Comb’s diary of destruction. He’s danced and dodged his way to millions, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake like The Undertaker at Wrestlemania. Fuck Malcolm and Martin, these humps should aspire to be like Puffy. Raise your glasses and toast.

[1] I wish someone would toss money in my face. I’d pocket that shit and keep it pushing. But maybe that's just me.

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