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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Summer ’08: The Year Of The Bitchmade

Yesterday I got into a conversation with one of my co-d’s out in New York about how YTs were single-handedly fucking up ever-ree-thing because, well, we’re quasi-racists like that. And not to say that the melaninless segment of our fair country are the only ones responsible for the dearth of humane sensibilities, but I don’t remember any minorities forcing Indians (feather, not red dot) out of their own land and into what are essentially internment camps under the guise of Manifest Destiny, “graciously” allowing them to create casinos as if it’s a just, consolable trade-off for the centuries of gang rapes, razing and ethnic cleansing.

God(dess) bless Amerikkka!

In that extremely biased yet somewhat logical sense, us niglets can blame our colorless brethren for the rampant problems within our own community on them. Think about it: if things weren’t so fucked up to the point that some of our sectors have come pre-installed with a Darwin-esque, “survival of the fittest” mentality – thanks to the multitude of injustices, laws and crimes against Blacks that’s been around since their ancestors were forcibly supplanted from their homeland, persecuted, tortured into doing trivially hard labor and tainted thanks to said gang-rapes by their “owners” – I wouldn’t have been so nervous each time I walked to the mailbox when I used to live in Inglewood, lest some random-ass thug gank me for my iPod.

It’s that same mentality that follows people even after they sustain a decent amount of coinage to live off of. And if this summer so far has been any indication, a good chunk of us just can’t seem to keep it together in the public eye. The year has barely passed the halfway mark, and already Prodigy went from catching eye jammies on the regulack to clinching whenever he drops the soap when sharing showers in the bing [||] with Papoose’s husband Remy Ma, while Pap himself got set up by Cassidy to catch a mollywhopping by Fat Joe, while Fat Joe’s nemesis Fiddy - who can’t even sell records anymore – is reduced to Linda Tripping conversations with former allies, while everybody’s either been getting arrested for the most randomnest of random-ass shit, getting exposed for the frauds they are or publicly crying like a biggedy-bitch.

I’m pretty sure there’s a Kevin Bacon connection in there somehow.

Whatever happened to the good old days, where people would get robbed for their Jordans, not getting the ever-loving shit tazed out of them? Things have gotten so fucked up that I can’t even walk down my block to cop a churro from the bootleg DVD pusher without feeling the slightest bit of paranoia, and I moved the fluck out of Inglewood four months ago to evade that bullshit in the first place.

You know what’ll solve life’s ills? Breasts. Word to DP, titties are akin to the fountain of fucking youth. Personally I prefer an ass on a female that’s so wonderfully contoured that you can perfectly sit a red Dixie cup of grape drink on it while she’s still standing up, but I certainly don’t object to having a pair of mammaries gently slap me in the face every now and then. And I’m not talking about those ugly-ass shits that look resemble the back of a Gremlin whenever water hits it. Shit’s disgusting. I’m talking those round mounds of joy Photoshopped pictures strewn across the Internets tease us with. Imagine if every deserving man woke up next to a pair of chesticles lovingly gazing back at them: All this unnecessary ruthless aggression that compels us to do straight dumb-dumb shit would cease to exist.

A guy can only dream.

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