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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Sometimes These Ni**as Need To Stay In Jail

You know for all the time and energy the bacon battalion puts towards locking brothers up, beating and/or shooting them and shoving Billy clubs up their various orifices and whatnot, they obviously aren’t doing a good job of keeping them locked in the clink when they actually get the chance to do so. And, given the frequency of which these idiots seem to find themselves in trouble, the revolving door theory has never been truer.

A personal theory of mine is that most cops were either bullies with some weird Napoleon complex, or dweebs that were picked on, teased and ridiculed during their years in high school which – thanks to an absence of self-confidence that subsequently prevented them from being able to partake in some whoopee – take their frustrations out on the first person that doesn’t use their turn signal, which explains their lack of intelligence to keep rappers under the earth. How asinine is it that there’s a task force solely dedicated to keeping rappers under constant surveillance, yet are unable to stop their revolving doors from spinning out of control?

A few prime examples would be the blatant fuckeries from DMX and Suge Knight. Earl has been locked up more times this summer than I’ve gotten ass this year, which is pretty sad on both parts, while Suge – who is obviously still rife with embarrassment from catching a two-piece and a buttered biscuit from a barber of all things a few months back, despite the fact he had 2Pac killed (don’t front) – was released from jail a few days ago, even though he was caught by a few people smacking the flames out of a woman’s ass. I’d say that they’ve been able to evade prison because of their notoriety in rap as well as being financially fit to diddybop out of jail, but we all know those two are probably the brokest people in hip-hop today.

Which is still way richer than my own menial bank account, but at least I’ve never had to shower with 12 other grown ass men at once.

My solution? Keep these jackasses locked up for at least a month or two, which will likely lead to their assholes being turned into funnel cakes. Let’s face it, people: everybody who’s been locked up for longer than a weekend has either been fucked in the ass, seen somebody being fucked in the ass, heard somebody being fucked in the ass and/or have been in the general vicinity of someone getting fucked in the ass, which is quasi-homosexual no matter how you slice it. Perhaps after seeing some burly inmate repeatedly getting taken dry by Fleece Johnson would compel them to think, “Hey, I might just get fucked in the ass while I’m here. Maybe I shouldn’t do dumb shit that would put my sphincter at risk so often.”

Shit, that video scared me straight!

You could be the so-called hardest one out, but just being around a dry reaming would make anybody squeamish. Think about it: if Suge Knight can get cold-clocked in front of everybody and the assailant can get away with it, who’s to say that he won’t be used as currency in prison? It’s not like anybody’s really scared of him now anyways. Imagine if Suge of all people did get anally violated in prison; I guarantee you nobody would rap about getting locked up for nothing anymore.

Oh, and *stop, eject* to this entire post.

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Politricks As Usual

News flash: I can’t stand politics, almost about as much as I don’t like when some random-ass person walks up on you and asks you about Jesus. Shit makes me want to punch them out, I swear. Same thing when it comes to asking me to discuss my thoughts on this political shit, because to me today’s representation is nothing but meaningless bullshit designed to make people look as if they’re serving in the best interests of the people they’re supposed to be serving, yet the powers that be are blatantly using their authoritative dominion to better their own personal ills.

Am I going to vote this year? Probably not. Realize that voting is no longer the preeminent shining beacon of the American citizen’s Constitutional given right to choose. With a seemingly simple yet absurdly complex so-called “electoral college,” the true power behind actually selecting who you’d like to see run your KKKountry is about as sincere as a pimp’s promise to a slore to give her a better life. Ask Al Gore who, although received more votes, got his spot swacked from today’s current harbinger of desolation. Or ask the Heinz Ketchup pimp who lost because “we the people” had to vote for the lesser of two evils. And if I were to vote, I’d solely vote from the Black guy because he’s Black, or at least since it says so on his employment applications. Nothing more, nothing less.

Which is why I’ve looked at the hoopla surrounding Decision ’08 with the same side-eye I did four years ago, except now this incarnation has turned into nothing more than an old White codger and a Black guy with an A-Rab moniker simply playing the dozens on a grander-scale. Debates have turned into old-fashioned mud slinging. The media would rather focus on rap’s Bizarro World association with the Demon-Cratic nominee or OD on the multiple shots fired at his character by his Pink Elephant Republican opposite rather than the reasons these two are vying for the presidency. No matter what the result is, we the people will remain the loser, because none of the two are sincerely out for our best interests.

Gas is high like giraffe throats. The cost of living is beyond far-fetched. Muh’fuckers can’t even kill themselves properly because they can’t afford it. Why should I give three-fifths of a shit about false promises of hope when I can barely cover my rent at times? I hope that my landlord doesn’t put a lien on my no-room mansion; give a fluck about Clinton co-sign.

I long for the day where I can actually have some semblance of faith in our country’s future leaders. Perhaps then I’d learn how to walk on water, dunk from the three-point line and make an honest woman out of Kerry Washington all in one swoop. But since the likelihood of all those things are slimmer than that chick in Calvin Klein pantses, my third eye will stay wide shut with a smirk pursed across my face. Besides, that’s the shit that powers these posts in the first place.

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Adventures In Denver

Before I begin this shit, I’ll just say that I can see why Kobe fell into that trap while he was getting his knee fixed in Colorado. But more on that later.

Seeing as how I’ve split the better part of the past decade between New York and California – with journeys to Miami, Las Vegas, Tijuana, Trinidad and Puerto Rico spliced in between – I thought I’d seen enough to get a general idea of how other parts of the KKKountry works. So hitting up Denver should have been a cakewalk.

Never have I been so wrong in my life. And I tend to call the various ethnicities of the world their respective slurs, so that should tell youse something.

In my ever-so-humble opinion, Denver is not only the most random-ass city I’ve been to, but also it by far may be the whitest in the entire Northern Hemisphere. Add on the events prior to the Rock The Bells tour stop, as well as the city gearing up for this week’s Demon-Cratic National Convention, and my normally demure self was flabbergasted at all the shit that went down.

To describe it more eloquently, think of every White person stereotype your fragile little minds can formulate, then imagine that shit come to life, amplified by rap music and cheap booze:

* White people with dreads? Check
* White people with no teeth? Check
* White people getting shitfaced and subsequently punched out in public? Check
* White women wanting to partake in the Black experience? Check, and check. Now it all makes perfect sense…

Not to say that there isn’t any stranger things in the world, but when you spot a furry enjoying a meal at a bistro on a 90 degree day in between a bunch of random-ass protesters in between get-rich-quick schemers pushing buttons and an Obama minstrel puppet that resembled Bill Cosby circa his Jell-O Pudding Pop days, something is definitely not aligning with the stars with that city.

As for the festival itself... well, Denver lost on that one. With three of the better acts missing in action, Denver’s Rock The Bells was a shoddy rendition of the California show I attended, and I spent more time firing off free CDs and selling t-shirts like a Central American day laborer than actually watching the acts. Shouts to the peoples who stopped by the so-called bad guys’ booth just to give me props for all the charitable work I’ve done on this blog, though. Not to sound cynical (right…), but for all the talk from the faceless schmucks in the section below this shit threatening violence yet it still not happening, it really makes you wonder who actually says that shit in the first place. My guess is that they’re more bitchmade than period blood.

Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the experience, but visiting a spot like Denver on my own volition isn’t really on my to do list. But I’ll give props though: despite the fact their best wide receiver was Ed McCaffrey, Broncos fans are a dedicated bunch. And had I stayed longer, perhaps I would have appreciated the city for, errr, the fact that Wonder Bread originated from there. That shit is crack.

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Another Day, Another Rock The Bells

I’ve never been to Denver. I don’t even know what the fluck a Denver is. I’ve not heard of any form of rap from there, and I tend to get Denver mixed up with Utah for some reason. Seriously, the only way I decipher Utah from Denver is that in Utah you can have a harem of dust bunnies, while Denver you can’t breathe because of the elevation. And I think that’s the same place where Kobe dry-reamed that YT a few years ago also.

Whatever the case is, I won’t spend too much time rambling about wild nothing, because by the time you goobacks read this shit I’ll likely be some 30,000 feet (legally, that is) on my way to the Mile-High City to partake in another round of this hip-hop shit called Rock The Bells. Since I’ve never been to Colorado, I’ll admit I’m more excited about being in a relatively new world. Plans to try to partake in some of that viva la white girl McLovin’ is out of the question thanks to Mr. Bryant ruining that for Black men the same way Robert Sylvester ruined our inherent fantasies of mating with a nubile high school senior.

Don’t front.

In any matter I saw a good chunk of the show during my last excursion, so chances are that I’ll likely be scoping the scenery and perhaps trying to find a bedmate for the weekend instead. At the very least it’ll provide me with an escape from the random acts of fuckery going on in hip-hop. Rappers squabbling over a game of Madden is what’s popping in the streets now? That’s about as gully as Lamar from Revenge Of The Nerds.

You may not know it, but it’s festivals like these that keep the balance of hip-hop in check. Granted, you won’t see Rakim hit the 106 & Park stage any time soon, but fans still are able to see one of rap’s finest still rip shit like he’s bringing ’88 back. Or check out the antics of Tyga over on the second stage, if you’re bitchmade like that.

As usual I invite any and everybody to stop by the booth, or just be on the lookout for the self-proclaimed bad guys hawking cheaply-produced garbs and passing out free CDs at some nondescript booth full of meatheads, myself included. As always, the opportunity to be berated is always available, and I’m more than willing to oblige. And yes ladies, I am still single for those who are crazy enough to try out a Nigerian on a blogger’s salary.

L’chaim bitches.

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Why Rap Needs The Diplomats

Let’s be real: rap needs another beef like the Internets need another nude online “model.” I mean sure, it’s nice to see someone degrade themselves in the hopes of attaining the almighty dollar, but after a while the shit gets boring to the average person. Whatever happened to keeping it covered anyways? Part of the reason I dig women so much is because of how tantalizing their curves are when wrapped in the finest of garbs. When a chick is just butt-ass naked for the sake of being naked, the element of surprise is taken out.

I could go on about why women should stay clothed more often than not, but that wouldn’t be the point of this post.

One thing rap does need, however, are the antics of Harlem’s Dip Set crew. A few weeks ago I had the task of interviewing Hell Rell, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was one of the more enjoyable conversations I’d had with a rapper in a cool minute. Rather than wax poetics about the quintessential jibba jabba like his album and where the fluck Cam’Ron is (my cousin suggests he’s jumped into the real estate game with Harold Miner and the O’Bannon brothers), the gabfest turned into one of the most random-ass Q&A’s ever as duke answered every question I proposed, no matter how zany.

And that was the thing with the Dips: that whole not-give-a-fuck attitude that was refreshing before the shit became trendy like skinny jeans. Everything from their fashion sensibilities to their lexicon has been adapted, altered and molded into the hip-hop consciousness. Rock star chains? Check. The invention and subsequent frequent use of the term “no homo?” Check. The worst ad-libbing this side of Greg Nice? Check. Nevermind the Roc; the Dips were a dynasty unto themselves. And let’s not discuss the times Cam decided to pop up in televised interviews.

But like all good things, shit came to an end quickfast. Tru-Life made a habit of punching out Cam and sticking Jim Jones up, Juelz damn near fell off the face of the planet and today’s incarnation of the Diplomats resemble the Bad News Bears moreso than an actual rap group. Whatever happened to that Sizzurp (no Robitussin) drink anyways?

Like the tales of all short-lived rap dynasties, the story of the Dips ended the same way: a bunch of obscure rappers still trying to maintain a sense of relevance in the game. I will give credit for one thing: at least they’re not running around doing Garnier commercials like Bleek is. That shit was just an epic fail unto itself. I’m pretty sure Big L would be rolling around in his grave if his former protégés started turning tricks for L’Oreal to keep their lights on.

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A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Rap Galaxy

Real talk is that a nug needs to get up on his gwop game something terrible. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know there’s a good chunk of us who wish that buck that bought the bottle could have struck the Lotto, or at the very least that bullshit stimulus check stretched out for longer than a week. Me? I planned on hording my government-sponsored rebate, but I saw a nice pair of kicks with my John Hancock all over it. Then I dropped the rest on some random-ass shit I don’t even remember. Buyer’s remorse is a muh’fucker. Besides, with prices so dumb high it’s not like it could have stretched for too long.

I know one thing that my middling funding will not go towards: music. Although in a sense people are still paying for music indirectly via their Internets connections or dropping duckets on the local bootlegger, I’d say we’ve all gotten our money’s worth and then some. The simple fact that I just downloaded about five copies of L.A.X. the other day just to find the dirty version can attest to that.

It’s now to a point where I can do about five different things at once, as I’m wont to do whenever I sit around a computer, and two of those things involve the acquiring of music and the way-too-frequent-to-be-considered-occasional-anymore adult flick yoking. On a semi-related side note, that “Birthday Girl” chick Sasha Grey? I don’t see the hype at all.

Honestly, the peoples’ addiction and worship to the almighty Intel chip has gotten so out of hand that I sometimes have to step away from my shit for a weekend just to find some semblance of sanity. Then I find myself wishing I had a laptop, so sabbaticals don’t last too long.

But anyways, you would think the powers that be would be more adept at stopping this shit, what with them owning 95% of the world’s wealth and whatnot. I just see this shit as a way of sticking it back to them, because shit is already all kinds of fucked up as is. How I look like spending $10.81 on an album when I get robbed for about a Benjamin every time I get a freelance check? I’m not gonna even talk about the Jay Jerkin tactics I deal with here sometimes. Guarantee you that Game is making money off this muh’fuck, and I don’t make money off this muh’fuck. So when I snatch his album off one of the many e-shelves I frequent, I’m just getting my proper compensation.

I’d honestly wish some people would stop talking all that “support real hip-hop” flim-flam as well. News flash, people: the radio isn’t interested in playing someone rap about society’s ills, nor are people interested in hearing it. I got my own problems as is; how I look like listening to another person bitch and complain about theirs? I use music to escape my problems, not remind me of those shits. That’s what “real” hip-hop is supposed to be, not because some dwyckhead from New York can cram 40 polysyllabic words into a 16-bar verse. That’s why I take pleasure in old heads looking like fools or rappers crying like a bitch because they get confused every now and then. In that sense, my life doesn’t seem half-bad.

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The Dunce Capping & Kazooing Theory

Real talk is that I had planned on doing some sort of reflection myself similar to my cyber butt buddy’s drop a few days ago, but honestly I’m too tired from the previous weekend’s events, as well as the fact I’ve somewhat burned out my brain thanks to a few late night Madden sessions (anyone else thinks it’s somewhat disappointing as always?). So needless to say I’d rather not use my brain too much. Kind of like what I always do on this piece of shit.

If for anything I would have even mentioned how the YT contingent of this problematic country won’t even be the majority population come some 30 years from now, give or take a few months, thus signifying an riveting, karmic-like 180 on ironically the original illegal aliens. You know what else is ironic? The facts that Zimbabwe’s first gold medalist was a blonde-haired, green-eyed YT woman, and India’s first ever medal came in a shooting competition.

I only wish I could make this up.

But I’m not here to wax poetics about the hypocritical nature of man and woman being on display at the Olympics moreso than rap music; that wouldn’t be the reason I (don’t) get paid to talk my shit. But while the Beijing Games are usually supposed to be portrayed as a beacon of worldwide unity before the bombs begin bursting in air from Yemen to Mali and everywhere in between, rap – which actually is the shit I (don’t) get paid to talk my shit about here – can’t stop canceling out its inherent bitchassness, interestingly enough caused by the Black people of its community who created it rather than the money-hungry, beak-nosed detachment which yoked all its publishing, perhaps to satisfy their multi-armed elephant deity or whatever.

After last year’s rendition I wasn’t entirely enthralled about the recipients of VH1’s Hip-Hop Honors, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that Slick Rick, De La Soul, Naughty By Nature, Too $hort and Cypress Hill were all being represented this year. Now if they can get some actual artists that won’t fluck up the lyrics to “Hip-Hop Hooray,” then maybe it’d mean something. The interesting thing is despite that I’m at a particular age where I’m too old to try to find a place in the tight clothes crowd yet too young to be considered an old head (although my favorite albums all came out when I was in high school), but I’m more gassed for this show and all of Dominican Lou’s hosting/fuckery duties than I am of, say, the new Game album which leaked the other day. Hell, I haven’t even unzipped my copy of that yet.

Speaking of Jayceon, while duke may make for an interesting story in music, his flip-floppy, swallow-the-rapper’s-bozack then-diss-the-rapper-because-he-didn’t-get-a-good-night-kiss shtick has gotten more tired by the day, and anybody with a nickel of a brain should easily see that he’s dissing Jay-Z for the publicity of an album I actually enjoyed when I covered its listening session a month or so ago. Maybe he’s bitten more of Fiddy than he could chew and knows exactly what he’s doing, or maybe he’s just a whiny little biggedy bitch. If I had to choose I’d obviously pick the latter, because a: if that tactic doesn’t even work for Curtis anymore, why in the blue hell would it work for Game and b: I’m just a nihilistic dwyck like that sometimes.

Then again, should we really be surprised with this behavior? Just last week Killer Mike and Big Boi reconciled with the help of Big’s own son, just days after Mike had promised to put a foot ankle-deep in duke’s colon. Then a few days later Mike Jones caught a mouth jammie at the Ozone Awards. On a regional scale this is yet another example why rap struggles to make it, and even more proof that next year’s move to the Rotten Apple can’t come soon enough for my stankin’ ass (though I’m a little worried Uncle Murda may stick me for my calculator watch if I’m not careful). On a larger spectrum however, this is yet another reason why neo-conservative pundits are quick to shit talk about rap as if playing it backwards will unleash the unholy forces of darkness upon the world. Whatever though, I still have my Madden to keep me busy until that day arrives.

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The South: Why Must I Cry?

“Why is it whenever someone says they don’t like Wayne someone else is like, “Quit hating on the south!” – random-ass comment from a while ago

“Speaking of dunce capping and kazooing-influenced behavior, isn’t the Ozone Awards coming up soon? With all that gaudy jewelry, lowbrow groupies and weed carriers running wild, that place is like a ni**a moment waiting to happen. Somebody better hit up Constable Ross and request to bring some backup.” – myself, last week (I called it!)

Freeze frame on that last quote for a second.

The other day the mailman left the most recent copy of Blender on top of my mailbox; although it wasn’t addressed to me, it was for someone who’d moved out of my complex already. So naturally, I took the thing. “I may as well put it to good use” was my reasoning.

Oh please. Like you’ve never stolen mail before I’m still salty at how some of my issues of King came with pages torn out. But I digress.

Anyways, the issue’s cover story was on everyone’s favorite drug-addled rapper du juor, Lil Wayne, and the mad world he’s the sole denizen of. Whether chasing pills with Gummi Bears to quell a toothache or snapping at his assistant for failing to pack sizzurp in his luggage, the piece was surprisingly one of the more interesting reads in recent memory, if only for the sheer foolishness of his actions. It’s almost as if Baby’s favorite boy toy is still looking for his childhood like Michael Jackson, given that the tales of his mother come off as a social worker’s wet dream. Or worst nightmare, if you take into consideration the whole FEMA fuckedoverness thing. Whatever though; that’s not the point.

If there’s anything to be indicated from that article (and because I’m a ignorant asshole with an unreasonably large ego, or so it seems over the Internets of all mediums) it’s that one should essentially feel sorry for the South moreso than point, laugh and ridicule them, as crazy as it seems. It’s kind of like how nobody should laugh at someone when they get they whole shit fucked up, despite how hilarious it looks. Why you think those Ghetto Brawl flicks still come out to this day?

Speaking of mollywhoppings, Southerners have kept the years-long streak of acting all kinds of out of pocket at award shows, with this previous weekend’s Ozone Awards featuring the finest in dumbass debauchery since... well, the last Ozone Awards (mind you, this was before T.I. created his own lane of stupidity when he tried to cop some A-Rab gats before the BET Hip-Hop Awards last year). I’m sure you’ve heard the news of Mike Jones getting sucker punched by Trae, quite possibly fucking up his dental arrangement to the point he can’t actually use those silly grills as replacement teeth in the first place (when swap meets start selling those shits for cheap, you know when a trend has jumped the shark), and while I would have written something about it sooner, I was preoccupied with my downloaded copy of “My Daughter’s Fucking A Nig” to be bothered with that mess.

You think I’m kidding about that shit? Type that title in your Google and scroll down until about the eighth result. Even I had to shake my head at that one.

Where was I? Oh yeah…

If it wasn’t Mike Jones getting his motherfucking cranium cracked, it was their own voice of the people, David Banner, engaging in some random acts of fuckery and dry-humping an all extra thick-bodied chick. Now, I’m all for universal love for my brothers and sisters, but come the fluck on with that one. And I’m not even mad at the fact that ol girl is about three of me; I’m salty that she allowed herself to balloon to that size in the first place. Fuck a pituitary gland problem; that shit ain’t telling her not to put down that fifth Whopper.

Maybe it’s the fact that my mood has lightened somewhat since I moved out of Inglewood, but I see these shits and instead or jumping into some vitriolic rant I just shake my head. Had I known things were that royally fucked up down there, I probably wouldn’t have called Wayne all those names and suggested he was a quasi-homosexual. Um, my bad.

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Slap Box M’s Thoughts From Rock The Bells

Consider this a Mek Dot Twitter of sorts, as these were the things running through my mind during the course of the festival. Fluck a Twitter.

* I finally ran into my compatriot, the undisputed truth seeker, for the first time ever. A lot taller than I originally envisioned.

* Of course getting my press pass wouldn’t be a simple task.  This is a hip-hop festival of course, so an overabundance of nignorance would be omnipresent.

* Listening to Wale perform while still trying to get this muh’fucking press pass. Telling me my pass would be available at 11am, then not delivering until 12:15pm? Just who do these YTs think they are, black people?

* Ran into Wale after his performance. He recognized who I am from this blog. “I’m glad you’ve never talked shit about me.” Class. Sick.

* dead prez came on too early the way they ripped their set. And DJ Beverly Bond is ridiculously finer in person than any picture can depict.

* Rocking raw denim skinny jeans to the desert is even wronger than that “thing” that wants to work for Diddy. Someone’s parents failed them.

* Who is this fly, honey-colored honey with the curly Afro and the camo wifebeater? Someone’s parents won.

* Murs brings out DJ Quik. Nice touch. Now if he performed “Dollaz And Sense” or “Sweet Black Pussy,”  that would have made my day.

*  Immortal Technique is a really angry person.

* Chino XL? Where the hell did he come from?

* I can never listen to “Ante Up” without thinking of this now.

* One fat girl passing out, coming right up!

* I was just recognized again by two random-ass people. Maybe I need to change my picture. Eh, I’m too lazy.

* I wish Rakim was louder. I could hardly hear him over the beats.

* Ketchums will be pissed to know that Pos from De La Soul is rocking his dream sneaks.

* Backstage now... Raekwon looks higher than giraffe throats.

* Raekwon is higher than giraffe throats.

* Michael Rappaport? WTF?

* There are a lot of half-dressed women here. Can’t say that I’m mad though.

* Double-O’s eye: yikes!

* Let’s check out the second stage... *sees Tyga and some piff pocketer rapping to a shitload of high school hipsters, immediately turns around*... I’m never returning to that bum-ass stage again.

* Redman’s performance > Method Man and Redman’s performance > Raekwon and Ghostface’s performance.

* Another passed out fat person! I’m noticing a trend.

* What the fuck are the Black Eyed Peas doing here?

* *falls asleep during Black Eyed Peas’ performance*

* Pharcyde: back like they never lost a step.

* Black On Both Sides > everything else Mos Def has done since, including this bum-ass performance. If I want to hear someone singing fucking Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, I’ll go to a fucking Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes show.

* That was actually the first time I enjoyed a Nas show. Almost makes me want to write about his new album like some crumb has been emailing me to do for a while now. Almost.

* Oh great, Mos Def is back out, this time with Q-Tip. What, he forgot to sing a Minnie Riperton tune during his set?

* Interesting... I got quite a few emails people threatening to punch me in the face at this show over the past few months, and here I am leaving the show unscathed. I must not be trying hard enough.

So there you have it. Surprised the hate spewing was at a minimum? Don’t worry; my shirt did enough work for me.

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Tuck Ya Chains And Cuff Ya Bidges!

Before I even get into this shit, who else felt a slight bit of discomfort when you caught that Rick Ross and Nelly video for the first time, knowing that yakmouths like Flatfoot Ross and muh’fucking Snoop from The Wire swimming in women so ridiculously fine they obviously aren’t from this realm? And how awful is it that while I’m watching B.E.T. Late while typing this drivel that Maino’s “Hi Hater” video, which came on directly after “Here I Am,” looks incredibly low-budgeted compared to its predecessor? Good lord, can New York hip-hop get any lower?

Oh wait, it just did. Shesus Khryst, someone needs an intervention quickfast.

I guess all this rampant fucktascity going on Before Evolution Television (with the exception of Alicia Key’s excruciatingly fine, honey brown self) is making me slightly more gassed that I’ll be engaging in public drunkenness, disgusting food that will likely be overpriced (mental note: stay the fuck away from the orange chicken man), good music and free swag that is Rock The Bells this Saturday, despite I have to wake up all kinds of retarded early to get there. Living in Los Angeles is a bitch, especially when you have to drive an hour-plus outside of town just to hear rappers who came out in the 1980s and – if you’re not so lucky – a whole bunch of hipster-hop. But shit, I’m getting in for free anyways, so it’s not like I can really complain.

Actually, I’m more hyped about this year’s incarnation than I was 365 days ago. Whereas I saw chubby YTs slumped out in the lines from binge drinking before actually arriving to the venue and a guy going in on a girl’s love spot as if he was drilling for oil in between the four acts I actually stuck around to watch (two of which I can’t even remember), seeing Pharcyde, De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest for the first time ever has piqued my intrigue. Nas? Not so much (sorry, Amanda). I saw duke perform at Rock The Bells three years ago, and in the middle of the set he got his spot jacked from KRS-One of all people. I half-expected The Teacha to punt one of those Bravehearts bud bearers off the stage a la PM Dawn, but wishful thinking can only go so far.

As usual, I invite fans, c-boys, c-girls, shit talkers and antagonists alike to stop by the DX booth, where you can cop some mass-produced bullsh… errr…a t-shirt and/or mixtape or – if you’re feeling particularly froggy – get berated by one of us schlubs here on this section. I know Brillyance will be lurking around somewhere doing drive-by dozens as well. And ladies, the offer to get impregnated by a quasi-bigoted, loudmouth Nigerian with a heart of gold (or is that chicken?) and an inconsistent source of income (I’m a journalist, remember) is still out there. Don’t let me make the mistake I made three years ago.

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The World Is Filled… Take Two

You know what I have a deep disdain for? People who fuck shit up for the rest of us. You know what I mean: the infamous ni**a moment. I get easily agitated whenever a few bad apples go out their way to irrevocably spoil things for the entire patch.

A perfect example would be how Chris “Don’t Call Me Lova Lova” Bridges attempted to show his support for Barack Obama last week, only for those other ni**as over at Fox to jump on his juggles, claiming malarkey, shenanigans, B.B. bridges, whatever, on his lofty proclamations. Luckily nobody tried getting some military-issue blammers in a van parked in a strip mall parking lot, across the street from the awards show they’re supposed to be performing at.

Speaking of dunce capping and kazooing-influenced behavior, isn’t the Ozone Awards coming up soon? With all that gaudy jewelry, lowbrow groupies and weed carriers running wild, that place is like a ni**a moment waiting to happen. Somebody better hit up Constable Ross and request to bring some backup.

If anything I can breathe a sight of relief knowing that such random acts of fuckery are only limited to various YouTube videos, mixtape raps and back-and-forths that never venture outside of said videos and mixtapes. But in the case of Maino and that apl. de. ap. looking fellow from Kidz In The Hall some are actually getting the cajones to try something nowadays, only to look foolish in the end.

Maybe some of them need more mouth love in the strangest places…

Real talk, I’ve been thinking of taking a cue from Shawn Carter’s and actually starting a board (of course on the Internets, though there’s already one I’m a part of) designed to alleviate, if not eliminate, such tomfoolery. If you ask me (and why wouldn’t you, you’re here reading this bullshit right?) the first thing that’d need to go is the ready access to a Handicam and DSL connection for most of these rappers; that shit is like unleashing a child in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory (no Robert Sylvester). It’s bad enough anybody with a second-grade intellect that can rhyme “trees” with “cheese” auto-thinks they’re a legitimate rapper worthy of a Koch deal. It’s not they could do much over at that label anyways; Sheek’s been the employee of the month there for years now. At the very least, maybe they can land a Garnier commercial. Bleek should definitely get some sort of plaque for creating his own lane of losing for that one. I wouldn’t lie; if shilling shampoo products got me one step closer to HNIC status I’d likely be diddybopping to a Lever 2000 radio promo, even though that shit makes me break out in hives.

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Adventures In Los Angeles

With Rock The Bells: Southern California Edition just around the corner, I’ve treated the preceding weekend as a sort of a tune up to the whole thing via hitting up the local happenings and – actually willingly – indulging in some random acts of fuckery, just to get used the imminent, rampant foolishness that will likely accompany the concert. Case in point: while I was waiting to get into the venue last year, a good amount of dumb-ass YTs were slumped out cold in the lines because – since they were unwilling to pay for an $8 red cup of beer (and I don’t blame them!) – they drank their own weight in firewater prior to arriving to the show.

For those 3 people that actually know me, getting me out of my tilt is easier said than done on account of a: I’m lazy; b: I’m Nigerian, meaning I’m naturally hot, which makes me lazier; and c: the most randomnest of shit continually happens when I do leave the confines of my no-room mansion. Another case in point: while trying to watch Baby Boy in theatres (I know) a few years ago, some slack-jawed yokel decided that he’d try to take his vengeance – or maybe it was due to his willingness to follow a gang whose ass-backward code of is to clap anybody wearing the wrong color – on another patron there, pulling out a heater in the fucking theatre.

Needless to say, I don’t really frequent that place anymore.

So I do go out, and like clockwork random shit happens. Allow me to reintroduce myself…

Friday: I hit up the Sneaker Pimps show, which had been moved to a smaller, crappier venue because the first spot lost their liquor license. Aside from the opening act and seeing Street Fighter 4 for the first time (I gotta play that game one day), the entire thing failed to generate or keep my interest throughout, despite the fact that Ghostface Killah and Public Enemy were scheduled to perform. However, if you’ve seen one GFK show you’ve seen them all: he comes out all extra late with his harem of piff pocketers, screams the first verse of a bunch of songs, tries to get slores to come to his hotel room afterward, exits stage left. I eventually left before both acts even performed to another random party across the street, but not before I catch some White chick go apeshit over seeing perennial crackhead Flavor Flav in the parking lot. And did I mention the Latino rock/rap hybrid group that chewed off the head of a bat – or maybe it was a Chihuahua? – off in the middle of their performance?

Saturday: Speaking of crackheads, this one dingy-looking muh’fucka was trying his damndest to spit weak bars at this reasonably attractive female my friend and I walked past, where I cracked the fuck up in front of their faces. The woman then asked why I laughed, to which I responded, “This crackhead-looking muh’fucka trying to talk to you is the funniest thing I’ve seen all night,” while duke was still standing there.

Sunday: Once again, if you’re not a resident of Southern California you may want to skip past West Hollywood if you visit, lest your inner homophobe (don’t front) comes out. In one square mile I saw a good five fruitbags, and way too many cross-dressers and transsexuals to want to remember. It goes without mention that most of these tangy peoples were Black, so that if anything should tell us how well single-parent households in the urban communities are working. This is why I hurt for my people sometimes. On an unrelated note I did find a bicycle lying on the street, and that’s something I’ve wanted for a while now.

If this past weekend didn’t prepare me for the shit that’s about to invade California in a few days, I don’t know what will. Still, I can’t front like my interest isn’t piquing as Rock The Bells draws near. Maybe I’ll get lucky like that guy who was drilling some broad on the fence during an intermission last year. I doubt it, though.

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The New Barber Shop Talk

A funny thing happened to me over the Internets of all things yesterday.

While I was digging through my emails trying to get my uncles in Nigeria to stop sending me those phony money scheme shits, I stumbled across the most wildly random of messages. Nah, it wasn’t the OG version of Ready To Die, nor was it the reports that two doctors from Houston of all places may have found the cure to the germ of all germs, and it sure as shit wasn’t that BangBros. clip with N.O.R.E. making yet another mockery of Puerto Ricans, Blacks and the Tri-State Area as a whole.

It interestingly enough was a clip of Fox News shooting the breeze about Ludacris’, errr, pro-Obama lyrics on his latest mixtape that nobody really copped, and the shit was for free! Good looks, Wemix. That’s what happens when you don’t get the Cartel to – for the right price – make your shit tighter.

But I’m not here to discuss all that. Nah, because in the clip the schmucks over at Fox decided to give the side hustle an unintentional shout out while trying to prove that Barack (Barak? Baraka? Barry?) was nothing more than a radical who hangs around with and gets co-signs from misogynistic, violent rappers. Where’s Correctional Officer Ross when you need him?

Seriously, check it out. Check at the 18-second mark, when they’re playing a clip of Chris Lova Lova’s song, then look at the bottom right corner of the still shot. Lather, rinse and repeat again at the 6:10 mark as well.

It kind of caught me by surprise really, knowing that someone from that network actually finds time to peep the site in between the shit smearing and all.

Oh, and I guess I’m supposed to divulge my opinions on what Sean Hannity tried to do too, or something? Something about how he’s nothing more than a hired goon who uses the widespread, mainstream resources of a neo-conservative network – which ironically has an ultra-liberal local sister channel that steadily wins Emmy Awards for Best Animated Series, but I digress – to try to once again pick apart hip-hop culture and deem it as the musical Anti-Christ while pretending as a pundit for all things right, right?

Sorry, you won’t find that here. I’m transcribing this Hell Rell interview and downloading a two-for-one flick starring both Lacey Duvalle and Olivia O’Lovely, so as you can see I’m kind of preoccupied at the moment. Not to mention I really don't give a fuck in the first place.

Much like this section has been a source of quasi-racist bigotry, smoothed out on the hip-hop tip with a Nigerian appeal to it for the past 16 months, there’s always gonna be a place where people are gonna speak their own opinions and – while they may listen to opposing views – will likely not give a flying fuck what anybody else thinks of them. It’s not like we’re telling you what exactly to think, say and feel, mind you; most people just spit their shit, then keep it pushing with their everyday lives. It’s up to the listener to either believe it or take the shit with a grain of salt.

For all you smart-dumb cats, think of it like this: is Vida Guerra – or some equally bad equivalent – said you could smash only if you believed that drinking period blood prevent wrinkles, cancer and halitosis, would any of you yuckmouths be dumb enough to actually accept that shit? Even if I rubbed her ass and a Robin Williams popped out to give me three wishes, ain’t no way I’m getting down with that. And at my age, I’m liable to do damn near anything within the legal boundaries to get some cream on my johnson.

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