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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Old Man In The Club

im an attractive lady. im 16 with double d's nice slim a waist [Slap-Box M edit: What the fuck!?!] , thick 46 inch ass and a caramel skin tone... and i walk over to you and unbutton my top and ask you to do some bizzare things for me like buy me louis vuitton purses for $600... you would do anything i ask at the drop of a dime… – random DX yenta ladyintellect

36....26....eww u mu fuckas is old as a bitch im jus 14 mu fucka yep young n thuggin and i still think i am a little more mature than some of the mu fuckas that be on this site – random DX yenta Cap City

I think I can safely say on account of every tax-paying reader who reads, comments and/or beats off to the pictures in the Beauty & Brains section: lady“intellect” and Cap City, sit your hoe asses down please.

If there’s one thing I have a deep, grating disdain for outside of meaningless rap beefs between go-nowhere rappers, the backpack brigade and the metal screws that keeps my ring finger in one piece, it’s when aspiring Lolitas and upcoming homo thugs pretend as if they could even be allowed in the same club as the rest of us, much less able to carry our food order to the table. It’s bad enough most of them can’t even type a complete sentence without numerous grammatical errors thanks to a rapidly-declining public school system and their own unwillingness to rather try to crack their parents’ parental control code so they can sneak a peek at the latest episode of Tiny’s Black Adventures [1] instead of taking the initiative to learn something on their own volition, but now we have all these young schmucks actually believing that being in their 30s would make you a grandfather. Perhaps it does in some neighborhoods, where these little ass bidges are getting knocked up at the tender age of 12 and becoming great-grandparents themselves by the time they hit my age, but once again that goes back to the poor teaching habits I so eloquently elaborated on before.

Not to mention, each and every artist on every major label (read: not born out of your uncle’s garage one day during your three-month summer vacation) has to deal with a tall Israeli, and most of these beak-nosed power mongers have been running shit since before these mucklucks’ mother thought against swallowing that morning-after pill. Not to mention that everything from the Flintstone Kid Vitamins they chew on every morning to their style of dress – which ironically are designed by the same “old heads” these jackasses lament about – were formulated by people who’s held a heavy influence in the game for over twenty years. But I can’t knock these younglings for not trying to be innovative; I mean, they did invent that whole “Wite Out writing on cheap sunglasses” thing.

What makes the shit even crazier is that if many of these slores and pseudo goons are lucky, they’ll make it to their twenties and thirties; meaning, barring any unforeseen circumstances that would prevent them from doing so (like, say, spending more time trying to front like they’re more mature than the so-called elder statesmen on a hip-hop website – which is run by the same people they consider old, mind you - instead of learning some simple grown-man responsibilities like learning the difference between assets and liabilities, or at least footing the bill for a phone that isn’t on some Fagitry, pre-paid calling card shit), they’ll be in an even more difficult living situation thanks to rapidly-skyrocketing oil prices, crappy employment rates and the simple fact that one in every four teenage girls in Amerikkka have some kind of STD. In other words, good luck trying to fill your gas tank on a job that pays minimum wage and doesn’t provide the proper medical benefits that’ll allow you to get that prescription of Valtrex.

What young motherfuckers don’t realize is that you dickheads have shit easy right now: all you have to do is pass a few meaningless classes to earn allowance money. Get the dicks out of your asses and know your place however, because this game is for vets and your arms are too short to box with God.

[1] You’re right, Ketch: Lacey Duvalle post-preggers is bad. But I still can’t get that visual of the Ghetto Gaggers she did out of my head. Yikes!

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