• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
• » Member Since: 04/09/07
• » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Pussy: The Real Black Gold

If pussy was a stock, it would be plummeting right now. Dave Chappelle

In case you were too busy trying valiantly yet failing miserably to convince me that Orange Juice Jones keeling over and letting his label’s overlords finish the job censorship fears started is the greatest thing to rap since sliced Wonder Bread over the past few days R. Kelly’s much prolonged trial recently started, and it actually seems that after over five years of procrastination duke may actually end up in the slammer for his actions.

I wonder if they’ll stick him in the same bing they stuck Ronald Isley in for his tax evasion case. Then maybe the two of them could stage those epic Mr. Biggs versus Kells battles they portrayed in videos during talent night. But I digress.

If you ask me though (and why wouldn’t you; that’s the reason you’re here reading this now) I don’t think the guy should be tossed in jail for nailing and pissing on a then-underage girl. For starters, he pulled that stunt with Aaliyah [1] years before, and none of us flinched, gave him the side-eye and most importantly stopped buying, illegally downloading and celebrating his music when he did. Second, I saw (and upchucked thanks to) the “evidence” in question, and whether or not that was Robert Sylvester is irregardless when not only the recipient of the Houdini took some sort of payment before getting splatted in her grill, she didn’t even have that combo look of surprise and disgust women do when they get splatted in – much less peed on – their face to begin with. Call me crazy, but something just wasn’t right about that whole thing. I don’t imply that this trial was a setup, I just think that it’s a load of shit to begin with.

To be honest, I feel that if some women weren’t as, let’s say, gracious with the poo-nah-nah, none of this shit would likely have happened. Think about it: men go through chutes, ladders and rings of fire to not only land that one ideal woman but also slide inside some dynamite snatch as is. Alas, most of us don’t really want to go through the rigors of going into debt consolidation because we purchased some ridiculously gaudy materialistic bauble with the hopes of even getting a chance to smell some pussy, so we jump at the chance when a slore such as the one who’s the central focus of the R. Kelly trial is willing to offer it to us for a stick of Fruit Stripe. As a side note, any woman that will shine you up for a stick of Fruit Stripe I’d steer clear the fuck away from, because that is one of the nastiest chewing gums ever produced.

At the same time some women feel the need to have to give up the ass in hopes of attracting a man to begin with. Unfortunately that almost always results in said female being treated like a doormat, essentially turning her from Mother Earth into the Ice Queen, usually shitting on the average male enough to force him to – you guessed it – go after the chewing gum taking city bussdown. And the circle of life continues.

My solution to this? Um, I don’t know really. If women stopped giving up the ass so much, there’s likely to be a spike in violent crimes because guys will use that pent up energy in other manners, but if they give up the ass more then more of these pedophile trials would exist. Lord knows I’ve seen my fair share of 17-year-olds I’ve wanted to pork; if that shit were legal I probably wouldn’t be blogging here so much.

Oh please. Like none of you motherfuckers haven’t thought like that either.

[1] Aaliyah = the prototype. Tell me I’m wrong.

48 Comments             

Second Nas Verse, Same As The First

One of the more interesting – and I use the term “interesting” sparingly – trends I’ve noticed is how off the average reader – and I use the term “reader” sparingly as well – will either stray off topic completely and go on some wild different tangent, or totally miss the point of whatever topic is tossed out here.

Or, in DX c-boy and my former nemesis Blaze1’s case, both. In his defense though, the things that jettison from his mad mind is fucking hilarious at times.

In any matter I try not to bother myself with these random-ass gravitations, since like clockwork they always happen, not to mention I have other, more pressing issues to attend to once I’m done trying to turn the kaleidoscope of colors that plague my mind into a short dissertation that usually ends up angering people more often than they should. Hell, my Xbox 360 just caught the Red Ring Of Death the other day; the fluck I care about some anonymous hump not getting my shit.

Fuck an Xbox 360. That stimulus check is going towards a Playstation 3.

Anyways, during my free time (read: waiting for this Iron Man bootleg to finish downloading) I decided to visit yesterday’s post on Nazz folding like a bad hand at a poker table over the title of his upcoming letdown because a: I sometimes forget what I write literally 24 hours later (writing almost 250 of these will do that to you) and b: the c-section keeps me entertained for about five minutes every once in a while. Before some random-ass reader gets his Tampax too stuffed up his asshole, let’s all be clear: Illmatic > every other album he’s put out. Tell me I’m wrong. For all I know his next album could be a certified classic, but the unbeliever in me knows otherwise unless he makes another 10-track (nine, excluding the intro) LP using the same producers he used for his debut rather than Salaam Remi, a guy whose beats I haven’t liked since the ones he did for The Score way the fuck back in 1996. But that’s just wishful thinking.

My main gripe with the title change was that it basically deaded any and every hope I had that an artist would finally do what he wants to do for themselves and the love of the music regardless of what a mountain climbing, electric guitar playing A&R feels they should do to achieve sales, similar to the days of when Ice Cube was doing songs about smacking fire out of a Korean liquor store owner. Sure the album may have been (read: likely would have been) horrible, but I’d at the very least buy the thing just to see the words pop up on the cash register and my receipt. Shit, I probably would have framed both the album and receipt off that strength alone.

But thanks to “pressure” from the likes of Al “Sweet Daddy Grace” Sharpton, random-ass politicians and ironically the very label who supported his decision in the first place, Nas was, errr, Quick To Back Down, effectively contributing to why rap music is in dire straits right now: the sad fact rappers simply have lost the backbone to do something remotely meaningful with their podium time. But as usual my convictions didn’t quite hit home last time out, and the whole thing was lost in the Hollywood Shuffle of name-calling, album comparing and the everyday homo jibba jabba. Here’s to hoping that this time is different from the last. I doubt it though.

114 Comments             

Why Nas Will Never Make It

Growing up as a child I was never really into hip-hop as I am now, although I’m not as into it now as I was around my high school, junior college and regular college years. Raised in a Nigerian household of primarily women, I was likely to be caught bobbing my head to the likes of Lucky Dube or Lisa Lisa & The Cult Jam before, say, Kool G Rap or the D.O.C. If anything, my distaste for all things West Coast rap music related stemmed from a theory as an adolescent that West Coast rap makes you retarded.

I now see that I was off by a couple time zones.

It was in fact a pair of Left and South Coast controversies which initially exposed me to the music in the first place: 2 Live Crew’s obscenity case and N.W.A.’s spat with the Feds. Back then I was intrigued at the gall these two acts had to stand up to the government with a proverbial middle finger wagged in their direction, and still managed to come out on top of it all.

Nowadays the slightest bit of intimidation from the likes of a bloody tampon feminist, indignant congressman or Bill Cosby will cause a rapper to fold quicker than envelopes under pressure; like Lou Ferrigno on coke. This disturbing phenomenon could explain why there’s so many bitchmade personas running around rap today and why, despite all the vapid promises of bringing hip-hop back, rap will still continue to involve petty beefs about silly shit, like what shitty city a rapper was raised in, or why rocking jeans the size of a pasta stick has now become the thing du jour.

Which was why I had a smidgen of hope for Nas’ latest album to drop. Granted my favorite album from him happens to be something I haven’t really listened to in quite a while, or the fact that I haven’t really been too engrossed by anything of his since “2nd Childhood,” I actually wanted his album to be named Ni**er, not so much for the musical value than for the gigantic “Fuck you” to the trigger-happy censors that plague today’s media, similar to that one Eazy-E album where you had to scratch off that gunk they use on lottery tickets to reveal the entire title. Alas, thanks to the shakedown tactics of radical groups coupled with the departure of one Shawn Corey Carter, not only are fans stuck with what will likely be another mediocre album from an artist who reached his peak with his first album, there will be another blown chance to actually “save” this shit sammich called hip-hop.

Thank God(dess) for the Internets; I can go back to listening to my Cult Jam classics with ease now.

75 Comments             

Black People: SMH

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past year and some change and don’t know this about me, I happen to like dumb shit. Whether it was Papoose trying to break his, errr, boo Remy Ma out of prison with a handcuff key – what, he couldn’t fit a nail file into a cake? – or the guy who had to sit on a toilet for three hours during a JetBlue flight, I’m enthralled with the idiotic tendencies of humans because they make my frequently frustrating life seem less painful.

At the same time though, said dumb shit also influences the negative stereotypes everybody (don’t front) has towards Black folks, if not every race known to man. I’ve essentially based my opinions on life off of the most skewed ideals ever. I was asked one time how I sleep at night having such quote-unquote racist thoughts; to that I answer, “With a sneer on my face and a heart the color of the midnight skies. And every once in a while, an ass in my hands.” But I’m straying off topic here.

If you really think about it, who doesn’t hold some kind of bias towards anybody? Shit, even the Pope hates gays, which is ironic considering he’s the HNIC (no Cellblock P) of a religious organization that houses a shitload of boy touching fruitcakes. So needless to say, you can’t tell me nothing about hypocrisy.

Speaking of mendacity, it’s come to my attention that two shows I watch more often than I should thanks to their portrayal of today’s current generation as a bunch of oversexed, drunken idiots are brought to me by the same coterie of Tall Israelis I’ve secretly been battling [1] since my esteemed Gotdamned Editor threw me this piece of bandwidth here: MTV’s The Real World and BET’s College Hill. Granted, I kinda stopped watching Bojangles Entertainment Television’s half-tarded show about the exploits of a bunch of pickle Kool Aid eating future WIC recipients a while ago, the sole reason it kept my attention for so long was due to how incredibly muttonheaded the cast members were. It’s kind of like the times I’d try not to laugh at the Asian kid in my high school class who had Tourette syndrome when he tried to deliver a presentation speech in front of class.

I haven’t really watched The Real World since they had that one jackass who kept singing “Come and be my baby tonight” or some shit, but it’s this Hollywood edition which may take the title of my current favorite train wreck shows. Roid-raged drunks and dimwitted Southern belles (and I use that term very lightly) are the usual, but this time they done fucked around and got an albino stripper who can’t keep her gap to herself, some random-ass dancing jig who almost makes me want to hack off my locks and some uppity Black guy who swears his shit doesn’t stink. In other words, they’ve gone on and picked out the three top stereotypes I have towards Black people and plastered them on a television show that’s a few miles from my neighborhood for the world to mock.

And here I thought the goddesses were pissing on my forehead these past few days.

Seriously, if I wasn’t “too old” to be a cast member, I’d seriously try to be on that show, if only to experience my first taste of some unassuming YT chick’s night life, then to blog about my experiences with avoiding the Germ while reaming her. Not only would I bring in the ratings, I’d probably leave that show with miles of White stank on my hang low. And if that isn’t the Black Man’s American Dream, I don’t know what is.

[1] What? You think I make fun of those yentas just to piss people off? Perish the thought.

29 Comments             

Instigation Is The New Black

A long time ago back when I was in high school there were these two girls in my graduating class who were the best of friends. Both were particularly cute – well, cute by high school standards at least – and one which I had a decent sized crush on had a pretty dope frame thanks to her years of dancing. The other wasn’t as fit, but shorty had a banging fatty partnered with a pair of breasts so large – well, large by high school standards at least – that they were practically begging for someone to motorboat them.

I’d continue to rant on about my lust for wanting to have squeezed shorty doo-wop’s milk makers all throughout high school, but that wouldn’t be the point of this entire post.

Anyways, sometime around the tenth or eleventh grade year, the two of them had a falling out, quite possibly over one of the many homo thugs that’d ran through them back in the day (lucky bastards). Eventually, things had come to a head by my senior year in high school, where some words were misconstrued on some “he said, she said” shit, and ol’ girl with the rack walked up on the dancer chick during the break period for one of the many classes I’d failed like, “bitch, you don’t know me like that!” Some unpleasantries were exchanged – you know, the basic “you’se a hoe” bullshit that seems to really rile women up all the time – and, thanks to the goading from the rest of the students in the class (myself included) the dancer chick tried to style on her thicker, ample bosomed opponent, which turned out to be a huge mistake when she damn near got Rock Bottomed over one of the desks then punched the fuck out Glass Joe-style.

I guess it goes without mentioning that while I helped split up the decidedly one-sided mollywhopping, one of the thick girl’s breasts fell into my hand, causing it to spasm and involuntarily squeeze it while pulling her off of the other chick.

Anyways, the reason I bring up this lurid tale is because quite simply the people who got the two girls gassed up reminds me of the newest hat 50 Cent has put on after shitty rapper, shittier actor, really shitty video game maker and extremely shitty social networking site owner: that of the instigator. For some random-ass reason even I’m not sure of, Curtsy has had his name thrown in these beefs where he’d otherwise have no kind of involvement. When Papoose was supposedly in that squab with Fat Joe, Curtsy was the one spreading the news with his own take on things. Then a few days ago he managed to “secure” an exclusive interview with the jig who supposedly punched out Suge Knight last weekend, which was obviously a load of bullshit; never in my life have I heard anybody from Southern California sound that incompetent before, and I used to live in a city full of idiots for two-plus years.

The entire thing makes me wonder what Fiddy could possibly gain from any of this, if he can gain anything at all. We all know starting beefs has been his thing to do ever since he was doing shitty songs with Onyx, but even this makes no sense. Considering that these people aren’t really selling enough records – or any records at all – for him to try to stop, perhaps he’s just doing this as a favor to Dr. Dre and that OG TI that runs Interscope. But maybe it’s just a means of distracting everyone from the impending beef he’ll soon jump into with Young Buck, as if to avoid a stabbing along the lines of that guy who caught a buck-fifty to the liver after knuckleballing Dr. Dre at the Vibe Awards a few years ago. Whatever the case is, I can’t help but notice that the whole thing smells of bullshit, especially considering it’s around the same time his Jewish overlords are supposed to make some noise for the next craptastically awful G-Unit album. You’d have thought by now that this tactic would have long since stopped being used, then again you know how those Israelis – in all their rocket launching glory – like to work.

24 Comments             

Random Acts Of Fuckery, Take One

Not to say that I look down on people like they were crumbs (because that would make me really egotistical, and we all know that I’m not), but there’s time where I’m actually glad my “popularity” doesn’t stretch too far outside of the Internets. Sure I may struggle at times to pay a few bills on time and I’ve placed a higher value on the nose-down area of a woman than the lips-up region as of late, but at the end of the day I can sit down, decompress and be happy that at least I’m not, say, getting Zangiefed out of my socks.

I of course found the pictures of Suge Knight after catching a two-piece and a buttered biscuit to be the funniest thing I’d seen in a long time, but at the same time I know laughing at another person’s misfortune is just wrong. Then again I couldn’t keep it together when I saw a handicapped person get dragged across the sidewalk by his own electric wheelchair way the fuck back in junior college, so that should tell you something about the petrified lump wrapped with barbed wire I used to call my heart.

The funny thing about this is that while I was writing yesterday’s post I couldn’t help but think, “Gee, I wonder which dumb-ass rapper is going to top this one?” Lo and behold, Papoose the Ninja tried to use the ancient secrets of martial arts to smuggle a key into Riker’s to break his future wife Remy Ma out of the bing. Not to try to connect it back to my own selfish ideals, but I’d never risk my own personal well-being to break a gat-toting, former Fat Joe hash holder out of the pokey, nevertheless wife the bidge to begin with, nevertheless wife the bidge after she had her box chewed out by some bulldog he-dyke to begin with. I guess using the Shaolin Finger Jab isn’t hip-hop, but I digress.

The real kicker actually takes place on this site’s very own message board section. Now I don’t really venture to the molemens’ lair that often because to me they’re nothing but a bunch of elitist schlubs who sit in front of their computers giving each other virtual reacharounds [1], but during I stumbled upon on particular topic where one of the few females there was getting pwned on a heavenly level by, coincidentally (ironically?), the same yenta who tried to ostracize yours truly from the music industry itself a while back because I’m a proponent of the racial epithet. I don’t know (or care for that matter) exactly what warranted such a vicious response, nor do I think that there’d be an egregious abuse of fate should I turn on my computer one day and find myself locked out of this site one day; I just think the phrase “Pot, meet kettle” (or something similar) just fits the entire scenario perfectly. We need a board.

[1] Think I’m joking? There’s a thread dedicated to beating your meat. That’s just all kinds of wrong.

37 Comments             

Suge Knight Lost

There was once a time in the West Coast (you know, back when the West Coast was relevant) where many things were unfuckwitable: whether it be the food at Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles, the year round warm weather or the faux aspiring models walking the streets, you couldn’t tell any Angelino otherwise. Sure, some denizens melted and looted the shit out of the rougher parts of town due to the acquittals of four cops who teed off on a PCP-addled, revolving door prisoner that resulted in billions of dollars in damage, 53 ethered idiots (half of which were Black. Go figure) and a ninja perpetually watching me with the steely eyes of doom prepared to do a Shaolin finger jab if I even think about running outside of their liquor store without paying for a Mexican soda, but if anything that show of violence was a testament to our unbridled unfuckwitability.

At the forefront of this was the rap scene. Many of the artists may not have had the same lyrical dexterity as their Atlantic counterparts, but many of them couldn’t match the sales of West Coast rappers. Whether exposing a young Slap-Box M to the debauchery of misogyny found in Doggystyle or relating to the stories of one-hit wonders like Skee-Lo and Ahmad, the rap game was the pinnacle of unfuckwitable. It set trends and made jigs start biting; where else would Bloods and Crips in New York yoke their idea?

Because of this invincibility some guy nicknamed “Suge” was able to finagle to game using nigh-terrorist tactics to bullyfoot his way to millions or record sales and dollars, having random people stomped out, threatening TIs with baseball bats (so that’s how you beat them!) and dangling Vanilla Ice over a balcony window to do so. In Vanilla’s defense, however, duke was more of a bitch than a bitch, but Lord knows I’d not to like to have been in his position. But after Snoop bounced down South, Dre getting tired of being slapped around like a two dollar whore (why else you think he’s on that Barry Bonds Workout Plan now?) and 2Pac being used as cannon fodder the aura of Suge started to break, and whereas people would only talk about snuffing Suge behind his back, people are now realizing how soft he really was behind those tales of rampage during Death Row’s run.

I’m not saying I’d personally run up on Suge like I was a process server with a paternity suit in tow, I’m just saying that I haven’t been too shocked as of late to see people testing Suge more than ever, especially when I started hearing the stories of his home being broken into, not to mention that time he was shot in the leg at a Miami party a few years ago. But now comes the story of Suge actually getting knocked the fuck out [1] which is, if you put it into a metaphorical sense, where West Coast music stands at today: a bunch of old farts still clutching onto past glory, only to catch a one-hitter quitter when they’re sleeping. But if anything it’s also proof that despite the fantastically terrifying tales the guy is still a mere human being, not to mention that the age-old adage “karma is a bitch” has never been more prevalent.

*waits for a random-ass Jew to punch me in the face at Rock The Bells this August*

No wonder we keep losing to the South.

[1] Is it safe to say that Suge Knight is now the West Coast equivalent of Prodigy?

63 Comments             

Steal This Album

It’s pretty well documented here that I haven’t gotten an album legally for a minute now, and I know I’m not the only person who hasn’t gotten an album at least a week before it actually hit stores. There have been two exceptions where I actually bought a hard copy, but I don’t think it really counts when a) it’s been almost two years since I done so and b) I had the “special advances” beforehand. Perhaps in my misguided judgment I felt as if a portion of my $14.06 would have been put to better use other than line the pockets of a greedy TI, but chalk that up to my naïveté if anything.

* pats external hard drive * Never again.

Now if anything if I even catch a whiff of anything being leaked, I almost instantly scour the Internets with a fervor that’s equal parts forced cheapskate (where the hell is my “stimulus” check?”) and untrusting consumer. I think I can speak for everyone who’ll read this shit when I say that I’d rather spend my hard-earned wages on something that would actually prove beneficial in the long run, like ribbed condoms or something.

If anything, the fact record sales all around are down the tubes is almost deserving, given the gluttonous voracity of the game’s major players. Thanks to an unwillingness to adapt to the times and cater to their target demographic instead of forcing it down our collective throats and expecting we take it with a Coke and a smile, the record labels are now struggling to remain relevant, even resorting to shady tactics to do so.

A few days ago I came across an old Blender piece on the record company’s fuck-ups, and after reading it I couldn’t help but feel a little sense of pride knowing that my so-called illegal actions – as if payola, spyware and attempted monopolization isn’t – is responsible for such a radical change in climate. I wish I had known about this back when I was stealing limited-edition comic books back in high school. Then again, I always yoked albums from the BMG service in high school, so it’s not like I supported music in the first place.

Now in order to save face one of the majors are taking a page out of Radiohead’s book, offering a “variable pricing program” of sorts, which would make perfect sense had they not previously try to tack on an extra fee onto our basic Internets access bill beforehand, which was just asinine in the first place. If anything it shows how low these muttonchopped power mongers are willing to stoop, not to mention how little they actually care about the consumer. If that’s the case, I may start throwing full albums out; a proverbial “fuck you” of sorts. They’ve already sued a single, lower class mother for well over $200,000 for downloading music, so it’s not like they’re going to get anything of value out of me anyways.

29 Comments             

Damon Dash Lost

Not to be frank, but at my age I more or less stopped discriminating on the types of women I found attractive. While I’ve yet to actually date outside my race strangely enough – in a sense defeating the whole non-discrimination to begin with – I’m pretty sure if some random Hindi broad like Priya Rai (look it up) wanted to swallow me, I can’t say I’d reject the offer.

Hell, I wouldn’t even reject a grilled cheese sammich at this point in time. But whatevers.

My main basis with not dating women of a ethnical (or ethical) background, however, is due to the immense amount of bullshit I’d likely receive from my own "peoples," if you will, as if I went all Ron Karenga and joined up with COINTELPRO to take down the Panthers. Call me a self-hater, but I really don’t see the issue with interracial dating, especially since it’s been proven to produce some of the best looking women around at times. Amerie, Mya and Melyssa Ford anyone?

At the same time dating within my community can be as equally intimidating, with a good chunk of women scarred from either abuse, infidelity, daddy issues and baby mama drama. Needless to say it's getting pretty difficult to nab a girl who isn't likely to bug out on the train at any given time.

I could draw a correlation between a man's inability to keep his child supplied in Pampers and the increasingly expensive cost of gas causing said man from being able to purchase said diapers but God(dess) knows I have enough issues to worry about, and being unable to indulge in some gushy stuff every once in a while because I quasi-support baby bail jumping is something I'm not willing to give up at all.

Especially when there are actually guys who are well off financially and still guerilla pimp their way out of child support payments. Take crestfallen entrepreneur Damon Dash and his latest legal entanglement. Now, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, as forgetting to re-up on your insulin shots everyday could fuck with your short-term memory, but I find it hard to believe that the same guy who came up with brilliant ideas like the iPod knockoff Roc Box and ugly, clear Pro Keds can't afford to provide some snot-nosed teen enough parental guidance to avoid being used as currency in prison, or worse, an extra in another State Property film.

However, some of the so-called allegations are simply too ludicrous for their own good. While being unable to cook and thus needing someone to spoon-feed you Gerber's may be excusable (I know I couldn't give a shit about food when I was 16!), flunking out of school because your lazy ass can't learn a bus route and needs a driver (I wonder what the mother is doing if she can't take him to school herself. Hmmm...) is just stupid to begin with. Then again we're dealing with a generation brought up on Tickle Me Elmo dolls and other random acts of Faggitry, so it's not like it's surprising these days.

If any smidgen of the petition I glimpsed through (read: barely read) has any sort of truth to it, it's no wonder why we have so many tragic mulattos getting splashed with bum wines in cheap rap videos, with everyone getting the boxes smashed by some blonde hair, blued-eyed cracka ass cracka. But if countless Maury Povich shows have taught me, it's never to take these things too seriously to begin with.

17 Comments             

The Bitchmade List: Latino Edition

So originally I was going a post on the trials and tribulations one Damon Dash has encountered since he was unceremoniously ousted from the house he helped build with the black TI (no Clifford Harris) [1]. Unfortunately I got a little wrapped up with prior engagements (read: this random ass Kiara Marie [2] flick would not stop timing out) to really focus on the damn thing. Then I realized it was Cinco de Mayo... well, actually I didn’t, but I knew something was up because the front page of my Yahoo had this weird mariachi band GIF on the front. What most people don’t know is that the fifth of May is remembered more for the Mexican forces that stopped the French Army way the fuck back in the day, only for them to get ethered the next year. On the plus side, they did manage to kick the Frenchies out some four years later, but we all know that France is nothing but a bunch of pushovers in the first place.

Anyways, I was going to drop a few jewels on some of the doper Latino individuals that actually made an impact in this fickle rap game; then again being an asshole is a part of my essence, and I found it much more easier to shit talk my way through this week until something retarded happens for me to write about. I mean damn, by this time a good eight piff pocketers were murked by this time last year. What gives? Prodigy gets sent to jail, no everybody needs something to do other than punch him in the face for good luck? We need a board.

Wild random ramblings aside, here’s my shorthand list of the top bitchmade Latinos in rap. As always, feel free to toss in your input, or just talk your shit while unknowingly granting this site more hits which in turn will up the digit I make here a month. Who needs a stimulus check?

Irv Gotti. The sad thing is, duke produced my favorite Jay-Z song ever, “Can I Live,” but that was a simple swacking of an old Isaac Hayes song. It’s one thing to front like you’re a thug because of your associations with roughnecks. But having your momentum taken out from under you by another fake-ass thug who does the exact same thing your diminutive puppet did in the 90s but made more money off it? Damn like Ron Simmons.

Baby Bash, Chingo Bling and all those other minstrel Mexi-cRappers. Part of the reason I don’t like California is because on any given day I was forced to listen to the likes of Lil Rob and Pocos Peros Locos on the radio all day. True story is that my old job ended up producing the video for Baby Bash’s “Cyclone,” and none of the gig’s higher-ups liked the shit; they only cared if the check didn’t bounce. Capitalism is a muh’fucker. Speaking of fa-go Latino rappers...

South Park Mexican. Let’s be frank here: I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one (guy or girl, mind you) who’s thought of scraping, say, Raven-Symoné when she hadn’t quite turned 18 yet. Shorty doo-wop was thick as all hell. At the same time, I’m smart enough to know not to ever pull that shit, as 16 would get me 25 at the drop of a dime. Apparently nobody told Texas’ (of course) own South Park Mexican, who went down on his daughter’s nine-year-old friend while she was asleep, which is just wrong on every imaginable level possible.

[1] Shouts to eskay for providing the latest pic of Jigga coming home with his newborn seed, too.

[2] Maybe I’ll do a PAWGs are the new dark meat joint one day, if I’m inspired and not lazy enough.

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