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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

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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