• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

The Red Coats Are Coming!

I was originally going to drop a post on how today is the 40th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s death but I thought against it because you already know how I feel about celebrating the life and times of somebody on the date of their death. Besides, another member of this ragtag bunch dropped some deep knowledge yesterday, so there wouldn’t have been a need for me to do so anyways.

So as I got home from the primary hustle [1] – my 8-to-7, that is – I go through the same routine I usually do to decompress: sift through the thousands of (il)legally-lifted songs on my iTunes until I’ve found something that holds my attention. I eventually stumbled upon an old Ms. Dynamite song I used to play while I was in college.

As a side note, if anybody has a copy of A Little Deeper and would like to share it with me, I’d be glad to make their day by not ripping into their culture for a week.
 
Anyways, I bring this up because as of late I’ve found myself playing more international sounds than the usual East Coast boom bap. Hell, I’ve even been playing more West Coast music than the usual East Coast boom bap, and everybody knows how much I don’t really like any West Coast music. Chance this due to a variety of reasons, but I’ve found myself listening to everything from Estelle and Kardinal Offishall more often than not.

Then again I spent a good week listening to nothing but the Dip Set playlist in my iPod, so needless to say my mood has ping-ponged from misogynistic to pensive to all over the place as of late.

Maybe I’m looking to deep into things, but perhaps this is yet another sign of American music becoming more flaccid than their international counterparts. With everybody from Polow Da Don getting exposed to Marsha from Floetry raping old Dr. Dre beats, it feels like I’m not the only person who’s not caring too much about stateside music nowadays. Is that to say that international music is inherently better due to their mishmash of sounds, or that they’re simply doing American music better than Americans? I’d like to think not, but you know I’m close-minded like that.

But perhaps this weighs more on an economical level also. With the US dollar at such a low state I figure nobody’s able to afford the six-figure production talents anymore, and are forced to create shitty jingles in hopes for mediocre success on Soundscan. Meanwhile the countries whose monetary value is double that of America’s seems to churn out better music because apparently they are able to afford it. If anything this could be the start of some musical takeover, but then again I don’t really care to begin with.


[1] Primary until my gift of pissing people off can become lucrative, of course.

48 Comments             

Crack Rap: Is It Really That Bad?

We all are aware of hip-hop’s influence on everything from the color of a person’s shoelaces down to they type of cereal that he eats [1]. Without us subconsciously believing whatever rappers tell us there wouldn’t be a website where I’d be able to talk my shit. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even convinced myself to get this giant sleeve tattoo that covers the upper half of my right arm (or the other six for that matter), although I have had second thoughts as to why I got a mural of the four elements permanently etched on my arm. Perhaps it detracts from the fact I sometimes think I have the body shape of a praying mantis, but whatever.

Body art notwithstanding, I can say however that rap music has never inspired me to turn to a life of crime. Granted I used to rob old folks and rip green cards back when I was in high school and junior college, but I attribute that more to a rebellious cry for attention more so than anything. Hell, I used to prefer Kid N’ Play, Lisa Lisa and Another Bad Creation before the Dogg Pound and Kool G Rap, so I know it wasn’t them telling me to do that. Hell, I’m listening to an old Supertramp song as I’m writing this shit now, so you can’t tell me anything.

Perhaps it was due to being primarily raised in a household full of women who used their mental to achieve their goals rather than their physical, but I never considered myself becoming a career hoodlum. It’s already bad enough I got pulled over for “not signaling when merging” less than 24 hours after I moved into Korea Town last month; the last thing I need is a trigger-happy cop clubbing open my skullcap if he found a couple packages in the trunk of Two-Face. It’s already a crime to drive when you’re a very dark-skinned Nigerian with a curious-looking name [2] and shoulder-length locks like myself anyways.

Which brings me to my point: if there has been (and I know there has) anybody that’s been so influenced by rap music that they actually want to live the fabricated crack tales of an under-performing Soundscan artist, then it’s not the rapper’s fault that their audience reflects the intelligence level of his or herself. In other words, if you’re a dumbass who believes in any of that shit, then I can’t feel sorry for you if you end up becoming butt fodder for some burly inmate in San Quentin. Then again I don’t really feel sorry for anybody nowadays, whether you caught a case of the clap or if your ancestors used to be ashtray filler in a Jetta during the Holocaust, but that’s just my usual nihilistic self coming out to play.

[1] You’re right, Legend: Frosted Flakes > every other cereal ever made.

[2] Although in Nigeria, my full name is the equivalent of “Michael” out here.

45 Comments             

The Great Depression

News flash, everyone: the American economy is really fucked up right now. Unemployment is back on the rise, more people are back on food stamps and the prices of simple groceries such as milk and cereal have jackknifed to absurd levels. It’s a cold day when I can’t even afford Count Chocula anymore, and that’s nothing more than caramelized sugar clumps. “A part of my complete breakfast,” my ass.

If you really think about it, it could be that this recession has contributed to the downward spiral of lagging sales and general suckiness of not only rap music but also all music as a whole. Granted the RIAA could point fingers at all of us Internets pirates plundering music before they’re supposed to be released, but let’s be real: the only reason why those Jewbaccas are so aggy is because nobody is willing to spend double-digit dollars on a circular piece of plastic and lacquer when they can’t even afford Pampers for their seeds. Besides, unless Scott Weiland himself decided to one day show up at my door step performing “Plush,” the chances of me not copping an album the e-Ski Mask Way are slim to none.

On a semi-unrelated note, I’ve rediscovered my love for Stone Temple Pilots while writing that line.

Real talk is that this trend isn’t going to end soon, even when our beloved overlord is ousted from his tainted seat in the White House and we have yet another shitty president bestowed upon us to drive the country into an even deeper wedge. The Internets has become a more powerful tool than anything, yet labels still struggle to adjust to that fact. They can’t remove its influence, nor can they ever stop its progression. If anything they should adapt and assimilate it so that people will actually want to purchase the music. I have a few suggestions:

* Let shitty, one-hit wonder artists get punched out by their detractors
* Host “how to be a tall Israeli” sessions at local coffee shops and poetry venues
* The 500,000th and millionth buyer of an album should get a free hand job from said artist

If they allowed these and many other creative sanctions to pass, imagine the possibilities. Not only will the economy grow, but also the interest in music will skyrocket to the point where nobody would want to steal an album off of Rapid Share. I’d personally try to buy as many Cassie albums as I can: you know how the Chinese get the happy ending thing poppin’ off. Tell me I’m wrong.

64 Comments             

Cyber Beef Is The New Hip-Hop

Before I start this I’d like to mention how not too many people bothered to sign the petition I created to get myself removed from hip-hop the other day, so I figure I’m either not worth anybody’s time in the long run, or that I haven’t pissed off the remaining ethnicities in this world yet. And here I figured all that was left were the aborigines.

Anyways, despite my status on this site as the resident harbinger of Internets scrapping – which, in effect, is about as ridiculous a using one’s own bodily wastes to get high (which is just sick in every aspect) – I’ve always considered beef of any kind to been meaningless, and in the electronic case, ridiculous. Granted, there have been times where I found the shit to be hilarious – like the time Jay-Z deshierbe portador Tru-Life had his goon squad hack into Jim Jones’ MySpace page – and there are the (many) times where I have incited an e-riot or two but for the most part I try to steer clear from these petty contretemps because they almost never end on a peaceful note, not to mention the fact that it’s silly in the first place.

Besides, I don’t take Interweb threats seriously these days, as it’s pretty easy to sit behind a computer and spew wild jibba jabba under an alias, not to mention that as soon as beefing guilty parties step away from their respective keyboards any and all sense of the beef tends to fade away with it. In that sense, the point of the entire beef was moot to begin with.

Think about it, though: it’s pretty awful in today’s society where a website like a MySpace of a FaceBook can single-handedly be responsible for destroying families, not to mention that there was this story I read a while ago about a guy who traveled cross-country to try to burn down an e-heckler’s home. It’s bad enough we live in a time where people walk around with nuclear missiles in the back of their mail trucks a la Loc Dog in Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood; now I have to be worried somebody’s gonna attempt to punch me out of my unlaced sneaks one day too?

No wonder rappers drink so much Robitussin nowadays.

The reason I bring this up is because rap beef’s come full circle now, and even now my fellow untalented schmucks are getting into the mix, having their own issues with other bloggers. Not to question anybody’s trendsetting, but how silly is it when we – the lowest rung of the journalism ladder – duke it out with our fellow bottom-feeders? I don’t even like that site, but I have to shake my head at that one. I may talk my shit and cause a maelstrom, but beefing with my compatriots is something I’d never resort to.

Well, not anymore.

I guess the point of this entire rant is that some people need to just let things slide. I’m basically at the point now where if it’s not fucking with my cash flow, I could care less about beef. I don’t need to worry about if my pride is at stake anyways; my mom tells me I’m cool each and every day.

And to think: I didn’t have to toss in a racial epithet to capture your attention. Give the false braided bitch a gold star.

28 Comments             

Rainy Dayz

Am I not the only one who thinks that this rap shit took a topsy-turvy swing over the past week? It’s about time, too: I was starting to get bored with hip-hop and was going to drop a dissertation on why Islam is now the largest religion in the world. I’m sure there’s some crude, tasteless joke connecting terrorism with high-yellow Lakers bench-warmer Ira Newble but I wouldn’t want to come off as an offensive yeast infection to the Tampax constituent known as the message board clowns, because we all know how highly I value their opinions.

In any matter, it always has felt that hip-hop cannot progress into a spring season without a little bit of death and disruption. Sad to say I’d prefer the likes of Beanie Sigel, Remy Ma, Prodigy and T.I. getting tossed in the pokey rather than another rapper prematurely visiting the pearly gates, but unfortunately we now have to toss Screwball member KL into the mix of “artists we won’t eulogize once the anniversary of their death rolls around” next to Camouflage and that one guy from Sporty Thievz. Shit, back when I wanted to stunt for a skig-skag I considered getting a chain that said “F.A.Y.B.A.N.” The perfect conversation starter, I promise.

But I digress.

Still, I can’t help but feel slightly cynical towards these asscunts that – despite living in a moderately comfortable zone that’s still light years ahead of my current, meager situation – want to throw away a steady foundation for themselves and their families for apparently no reason. I know if I were able to afford purchasing a ridiculously gaudy chain that says my name on it chances are I wouldn’t care about my street credibility. Hell, I don’t even care about my street credibility now, and I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Geico.

I do understand why they do the things they do at times; sometimes it’s your actions that inspire disdain. Take for instance my well-documented back-and-forths with the message board part of this small section of the Internets, where having a good 15,000 posts (I know) makes you a God in their eyes. At the moment one Wreck Loose (or RMLondon. Or whatever World Of Warcraft-inspired moniker duke is going by this week) has decided to take matters into his own hands to not only eliminate the threat of yours truly from this website (once again, I know), but “outing” me (do I really need to say it?) from the entire hip-hop industry as a whole. Normally I’d simply crack open another bottle of Smirnoff for breakfast and pay it no mind like I’ve usually been doing, but since I’ve never seen such fervent determination before I figured I’d help in the crusade as well. Hence, I’ve started a petition to fire myself from Hip Hop DX, and I implore everyone who wants me ousted from this site to “sign” it. With enough signatures I’m sure we can rid hip-hop of this phantom menace for good.

The Official Fire Meka Soul Petition

As a side note, does anybody else find the term “Jews For Jeezy” as hilarious as I do? I seriously wish I had thought of that one. Then again if I had I'd be called a racist. Oh well.

62 Comments             

The Holy Hand Of Fire

I’m not a violent person; never have been, probably never will be. And aside from the usually Dame Dash-style outbursts on others it’s been a good decade-plus since I was brought to the point where I had to knuckle somebody down, and I don’t even remember why I boxed her up in the first place. I got way too much going on – like the freedom to download and watch a Sara Jay flick without worrying about my mother walking in on me – to even want to slap out somebody, not to mention that I dress too well to do that anyways.

This is why I could never be a rapper: my inability to punch a girl in the face for no apparent reason eludes me.

On the plus side however I’d never have to worry about catching a domestic abuse charge, unlike the latest person to fall victim to that lean, former shitty hook man/current stroke victim Nate Dogg. If anything, beating the shit out of your ex-girlfriend only begets having an aneurysm and being unable to move or even have feeling in the same hand that would smack the flames out of her, but then again I’m just wrong like that.

But let’s face it: every red-blooded, hetero male has wanted to at the very least shake the shit out of a woman. But most of us don’t for fear of being ostracized from the community as a wife beater, and that tends to fuck up the chances of getting conch elsewhere. Besides, it’s not like having a domestic charge on your record is the epitome of gulliness either. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t bode well for the inmate who’s locked up with people who have actually done a fucked up crime, not just a civil service to the male society.

In all honesty, I’m not going to say that his ex-girlfriend didn’t deserve a good mollywhopping every now and then. With all kinds of laws specifically designed to keep men on the receiving end of a legal BuFu’ing (we’re not gonna even talk about the laws designed to keep Black men down), it’d be only a matter of time before any self-respecting guy would snap, leaving them no choice but to put a Spiz’Ike on their tonsils as if ridding the world of their injustices. Lord knows I’d have dropkicked the shit out of some these nappy-headed hoes if given the chance.

But that’s what some women want us to do, though; (sometimes rightfully) lump up their eyes when they step out of pocket, then have the audacity to act like they’re the victims. Perhaps if they did their research instead of looking at the materialistic advantages of bagging an artist, perhaps they wouldn’t have been chin-checked in the first place. In Nate Dogg’s defense however, I’m sure the woman has seen that old YouTube of him swinging on some random-ass guy with a golf club a while back, so if anything she should have expected a Dragon Punch or two. But leave it to these whores to only look at the wallet than the ashy knucks.

32 Comments             

The Kiss Of Death

So I guess to coincide with hip-hop’s bizarre trend of celebrating cemetery fertilizer, today marks the 13th year in which one Eric “Eazy-E” Wright would pass. While I’m sure most of us will start flooding the hallowed hallways of the comments section – or even worse, the Okayplayer boards [1] – to divulge our phony three dollars about how influential, trend-setting or flat-out great he was, me on the other hand could more or less give two-sevenths of a shit about the rotted-out corpse currently taking up space at Rose Hills Memorial Park.

Now before anybody gets their cyber-thongs in a bunch, know that in my defense I don’t even care about Biggie Smalls currently being used as manure in whatever grave Puff helped dig for him (possibly before raping him for his publishing in the process) before he even had a chance to catch those four slugs to the chest, and everybody knows that I ghost ride the Frank White raps like none other. But that’s just the dickhead in me, I suppose.

No, the real reason I could care less are for a few reasons: one, I never understood why anybody would celebrate the anniversary of a rapper of all people getting ethered (Stack Bundles! Big Moe! That one crackhead from the Furious Five who coined the term “hip-hop!”); and two, the way he was taken out was more shocking to me (not to mention less publicized) than, say, Lesane getting shot up a year or so later. AIDS isn’t a laughing matter, and even I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, but telling me that the difference between the “influence” of one mediocre West Coast rapper and another mediocre West Coast rapper is the number of metal lungies lodged in his sternum is just ass-backward.

What gets me is how some people front like they’re genuinely affected by said artist’s death, as if they were the greatest things since sliced Wonder Bread. More interesting is how some yentas interestingly become only after the guy dies in the first place. I’m pretty sure a good chunk of those glorified Al Bundies who tried to school me on J Dilla over at some nondescript sneaker shop probably used to get him and Jermaine Dupri mixed up back in the day.

Not to mention that most of us probably don’t even remember Eazy dying thirteen years ago today is quite simply based on the fact that we have more important issues to worry about, like making sure the number of socks coming out of the dryer are equal to the number that went in. Hell, I think Freaky Tah’s death anniversary is this Friday, and I probably won’t even bother digging through the iPod to listen to Legal Drug Money. I haven’t played “Renee” in months now.

If people really wanted to celebrate a person’s life, why not celebrate it on the day of his (because it’s almost never her) birth? Instead of pretending to pour our bum wines out on a typically morose day, why not rejoice in Eazy’s birth date?

Oh, that’s right: Lesane got shot the fuck up on September 7th. Damn.

[1] I guess I should stop ripping on that site because they do give the side hustle a shout out every once in a while, but you know how I don’t really give a fuck about everything most times.

58 Comments             

New York State Of Mind

What. The. Fuck.

I’ve been out of town for four days, and ain’t nobody had the decency to slap a blog up, people? I mean damn, anything would have sufficed: a poem, a picture of a titty, anything. Matter of fact, I decree that the next time something like this happens, I’m gonna start slapping up random-ass naked bitties just to pass the time. Lord knows I got a few thousand of those on this external hard drive.

Anyways, unlike my Long Beach blogging brother Brillyance out here or my partner in rhyme Shake in Atlanta (what up Strokers!), I avoided the concert scene altogether and touched down in New York to link up with my family and perhaps find a woman or two to mount. Obviously the latter of which didn’t happen, but whatever. I’m just picky (read: too nihilistic) to find a woman who I can tolerate (read: anybody who can tolerate me) for more than 30 seconds.

Usually whenever I hit up New York I’ve always been amazed by the immense cultural depth the city holds. Think about it: if it weren’t for a Jamaican immigrant spinning break beats in a small hall over at Sedgwick and Cedar, chances are you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Then again, if I hadn’t been for Kool Herc I probably wouldn’t have been “treated” to a group of teenage dudes taping themselves doing the Aunt Jackie, Uncle Ruckus or whatever fruitbag dance is all the craze right now when I stepped onto the LIRR Friday night. A little suspect, but whatever.

So I expected this particular venture to be no different; and in the beginning it was the same. Guys rocking Dunks with their bubblegooses, the women looking delicious in that New York, round-the-way-girl appeal and to top it all off Black Israelites cussing the shit out of unsuspecting YTs in Manhattan. Perfect place to be, despite the 40-degree weather.

Then, I saw a Jamba Juice.

A motherfucking Jamba Juice. In New York City.

For those who don’t know, Jamba Juice is a chain of uppity, too-expensive-for-its-own-good stores usually found in California. Think Starbucks for smoothies. Battybwoy teenagers Harlem Shaking in post-winter weather I can deal with, but this shit? I hate to say it, but no wonder why New York is losing: they’re losing all semblance of individuality. When did the Rotten Apple become a haven for skateboarders? Not to say I have a problem with that as I used to be one way the fuck back when the first Ninja Turtles movie dropped, but seeing predominantly West Coast trends seep into the East Coast ethos explains why New York hasn’t been the same since Daz of all people was treating their skyscrapers like Nerf footballs back in the day. What’s next, Bloods in Yonkers? Waitaminute...

Now, I love New York and all it has to offer. But if and when I do decide to leave California only to end up in more expensive, poorly constructed knock-off of Los Angeles, I may as well stay my ass over here and knock up the first Pacific Islander broad dumb enough to let me slap it up in them. Then again, Puerto Rican and Caribbean women > Mexican and Tongan women. Decisions, decisions.

Shout outs to Starr, Kevin, AHLOT and Darren. I think I may have found my wifey out there, too...

145 Comments             

Why Do I Even Bother

You know what sucks? My “new” Internets connection since I moved. That and the fact my cell phone gets no reception in my own motherfucking apartment. I have to do a phone interview for this very site on Friday in the car I lovingly refer to as “Two-Face” just so I can have decent reception and also because I don’t have a landline phone. But whatever, that’s not the point of this incoherent ramble anyways.

Back to the topic at hand: my suspect Internets connection. Yesterday I got a link supplied to me by DX commentator MisterLAX for the “banned” episode of The Boondocks, and I’ve spent the better part of some four-plus hours trying to download this bitch, only to have it “time out” on me each and every time.

And to think, none of this shit would even have to happen if Bojangles Entertainment Television could finally remove that self-righteous minstrel cock out of their vestibules long enough to realize that they’ve been on 14:59 mode for the past... I don’t know... how long has it been since Caribbean Rhythms went off the air?

Damn, Rachel was finer than a muh’fucka though. Since I’m on that topic, does anybody remember Idalis from MTV way the fuck back in the day? I think she made my first dick hair grow. Fuck Ananda and La-La.

Since I’m on the topic of fine-haired breezys, I checked out an episode of College Hill the other day, and I must say I’m impressed with BET’s cognitive thinking this go-round. Usually the broads that end up on the show remind me of the same ones at my alma mater who just give up the conch because they foolishly think that the lucky sumbitch who tagged would make all their dreams come true. Haven’t they learned that college nugs are just as if not moreso broker than they are? I was rocking 5-for-$20 tees and sweatpants throughout my entire duration there. I ain’t gonna lie though; I nailed a chick who thought that way about me once. I think she went all dyke now.

But this time around the show has a couple of at the least semi-decent trollops in front of the camera. Now if only they can find a way to mute their voices for 30 minutes, they’d have an Emmy-winning series in their hands. I have to mute that shit, if only to hear the screams of Kapri Styles or the like whilst getting dinged in the poo shooter from the illegal download. Is downloading porn really illegal in the first place? Whatever. Matter of fact, I sometimes mistake the slapping of a guys balls on ol girl’s hymen [||] for the actual sounds of the show, because I honestly can’t tell the difference sometimes. In my opinion that shit makes for better programming anyways. Now if only I can convince that fly Latina down the hall from me to watch an episode with me that way.

But I digress.

Waitaminute...

What the hell was this blog about again?!

27 Comments             

The Bitchmade List

I had planned on adding recently promoted New York governor David Patterson to the list for dropping dime on himself about his extramarital affairs, but then I thought against it on the über-gulliness of capturing the beefeater when you’re blind. Shit I hardly get pussy, and not only am I STD-free with no children and/or criminal record and am gainfully employed with my own studio apartment, but both of my retinas work.

Maybe I need to switch up career paths...

As I was saying, this particular list is dedicated to the complete opposite of the former jawnt from yesterday; meaning, to paraphrase the misogynistic genius of Kurupt, they’re more of a bitch than a bitch. As always, feel free to toss in your three-dollar bills as well.

Canibus. This is quite possibly the most agonizingly frustrating entry on this list because duke has legitimate rhymes coming out of his medulla, but damn if he just can’t get it right. An inane ability to pick out the shittiest, Casio-driven beats available and putting himself in the most retarded of scenarios (joining the Army in your mid-twenties is extra ungully) is one thing, but looking like the gay Silver Surfer at that one MTV Awards was the nail in the coffin.

Bow Wow. When the toughest thing you’ve ever done in your career was impersonating a kindergarten Snoop was the fuck back on Doggystyle, that’s definitely saying something about your faux-hardbody status. Threatening ice cream-soft Touré would have been dope if you actually ran up and slapped the kufi off his too-soft-to-be-hetero mop top, but hiding behind your security guards cancelled that shit. Then there’s that story I heard about him getting anally violated by said bodyguards way the fuck back when I was still using my resident advisor status on my college campus’ apartment complexes to nab some cheerleader twat damn near five years ago, which is just wrong on so many levels.

Paul McCartney. How is it that you were a member of one of the largest groups ever, only to see your group split up over some lettuce wrap-chomping China banshee, get the rights to your music yoked by a child toucher (Thriller is still my shit, though) and to top it all off get yoked for half your shit from some tree-hugging peg leg bidge? I personally would put trademarks across Heather Mills’ eyes on GP; at least then I’d have a legitimate reason for giving her a thick ass chunk of my life’s earnings.

Wifebeaters. Contrary to the statement above me, I am actually not a proponent of firing off on a woman for no reason. If anything, should a woman try to act out of pocket on some KeKe Wyatt shit, by all means she’s due to catch a clean one across the jaw. But Super-Kicking her through a window just because she forgot to add those Pillsbury rolls to the dinner table is kinda fucked up, as hilarious as that may be.

39 Comments             

The HardBody List [||]

Real talk is that I was gonna lament about the recent story in the Los Angeles Times about Lesane getting set up by Puffy and Biggie Smalls – which I, absurdly ridiculous as it sounds, wouldn’t put it past a guy who beat the ever-loving shit out of Positive K of all people – but then I realized that’s why I don’t fucks with newspapers anyways. Most of the shit in papers are nothing more that improper propaganda and insidious drivel anyways. Kind of like my blog.

But I digress.

Interesting, Lesane’s ethering is perhaps what inspired this post. No, I’m not talking about the ability to shoot oneself in their lower extremities the night before you were sentence to a couple years of being some burly inmate’s bitch, but people who’ve actually done decidedly rough, rugged and raw shit all the while keeping their balls from looking like Roark Junior from That Yellow Bastard. Hell, I bet if Lil Waynker pulled off stunts like these more often, I probably could be around him without bending at my knees and clinching my asshole whenever I pick up something.

Yeah, right. He’ll always be a fag in my book.

Without further adieu, here’s Slap-Box M’s Hard Body List. Feel free to provide your own input as well.

Hugo Chavez. Everybody knows that the United States is one gynormous cesspool ran by an idiot of a president, but won’t say shit for fear that they’ll get the flames smacked out of them at the drop of a dime. Everybody except Hugo Chavez, that is. How raw is it that somebody who once tried to guerilla pimp Venezuela back in 1992 would end up being the country’s president for over a decade? Add to the fact that he uses international political forums to crack on Dubya and dares him to try to stunt on his lawn is the epitome of gully as all hell.

Anderson Silva. Think of the most brolic person you know; you know, that one person that’s always liable to put somebody on their wallets any given Sunday. Now imagine if duke got paid to do that shit, every single fucking day. Guaranteed that person still wouldn’t stand a chance against a non-English speaking, Muay Thai MMA champion. Add to the fact that duke comes from a country where not only do all of the women enjoy taking it up the ass, but they prefer it also, and you got hardbody written all over it.

Kratos. If you’ve ever played this game, you’d realize how insanely gully home slice is. Not only did duke have the balls to take on and slaughter the Gods themselves, he’s wearing the burned ashes of his wife and seed on his skin. Even funnier is the fact that the guy who played Kyle on Living Single is the voice of Kratos, and he does that shit with an almost Oscar-worthy voracity not really seen in video games today.

The New York Knicks. Their current coach is a former member of the Bad Boy Pistons of the 80s who tried to scientifically prove that calling a black woman a bitch was A-Ok. One of their greatest players yammed on 3 members of the Bulls – including Michael Jordan – back in the day. Charles Oakley, Chris Childs and Larry Johnson have all teed off on somebody just because they had the gall to trying to defend the rim. If I ever go to one of their games and don’t hear “Punks Jump Up To Get Beat Down” as part of the player introduction ceremony, I’d be shocked and appalled.

71 Comments             

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!

161 Comments             

Who Do You Love?

I’m gonna be honest, people: I haven’t been inspired to write for well over a month now (hence, the sporadic posts for the past minute and change). I’m physically drained from learning the ropes at my new job, uprooting myself from the claustrophobic confines of the home of such "influential" acts like Mack 10 into Downtown LA and trying to keep my fleeting sanity in check.

So like Pookie to the pipe [||] I return to that one bitch that’s never let me down, even though that bitch is blinded by the science of flashing lights right now: music. I call H.E.R. my bitch because she used to make me pay to get that gift saran-wrapped between the legs of her jewel case when I was younger and fucking strippers in my mother’s bed. But now that her gap is stretched so wide across the Internets, it’s as simple as point-click-download to take that shit with ease. And unlike a good woman, my bitch lets me take it whenever and however I want to. She’s even been passed off to my cousin, and he violates her more than I do.

I realized though that you should never hurt the one you love, so I’ve been working the side hustle for the past few. Quite honestly I never even expected so many people to share my interests or at least be somewhat interested in my interests, because as most of you all know, my supposedly Jar-Jar Binks-looking ass has built a less-than-savory reputation on these here cyber streets. And despite the efforts to take me off this block I still stand here like Marlo at the end [1], except I’m rocking the flyest of sneaks other than tasting my own blood in a funny-bunny tan suit. You may not like me, but something is keeping motherfuckers coming back.

It’s at the end of the day, though, that matters the most to me. Not only do I get to wake up to yet another 24 hours, but I get to do so knowing that I’m rocking with a little somethin’-somethin’ in between that Eddie Bauer backpack between my ears I call a brain. And just before I take off to the main hustle, I sit back and reflect.

And it’s in those moments of tranquility where I can take pride that my musical tastes have actually become an outlet for the brazillions of people out on the web, despite that fact I’ve shot out nearly 200 posts of bigotry and quasi-racism interspersed with cynical nihilism mixed in with the typical fruitbag-bashing quotable. Had I known that this was going to happen, I’d have gave up on society a long time ago.

But I’m digressing from my point. Whatever the fuck it was.

Oh, and Rey: Death Row in its prime > Bad Boy in its prime. There’s my rebuttal.

[1] Fuck that show.

36 Comments             

Bitches And Sisters

A little disclaimer before I get this off my chest: this is in no way to disrespect, demean or devalue women. I mean, most scallywhops do more than enough of that anyways for me to further shit on the perceptions of the woman in today’s society.

That’s not to say I won’t try my best, however.

So during the rare moments a television show – like say, Floyd Mayweather popping up on at WWE Raw – keeps my attention, I often find myself flipping through stations (and/or pacing in my apartment while listening to my iPod because I can multitask like that) thanks to my self-diagnosed, part-time ADD during commercials or when the illegal download is taking longer than expected. Anyways, I flip the set to E!, where some random show about the hottest women on the Internets is on. While I normally don’t have any problems with stuffing myself inside the juicy conch of a woman who’s willing to damn near reveal their uterus online, I think I can say it for a good chunk of the viewers of this site (i.e.: all who take the time out of their “busy” schedules to talk shit in that section below) that it’s essentially shitting on the chances any of us have with getting some ass from someone who doesn’t mind that our Maybach keys eerily look like a bus pass.

Follow me on some hip-hop-slash-hippie psychology for a minute.

Think about it: whenever we see these exotically dolled-up tragic mulatto cases dressed in the finest of pseudo-hooker wears straight from Trashy Lingerie which supposedly gives off the sex appeal that usually commands some random-ass guy to drop an exorbitant amount of coinage on them (read: tricking) in the hopes that they could bag themselves a trophy wife. And because hip-hop has warped all of our ideals with its flashy, over-the-top materialism, convincing the male youth that success is now measured by either the length of your dick or the girth of your wallet, leading them to believe that all a woman wants are some bangles and some dope kicks instead of, say, long-term financial security and emotional stability, and the female demographic to believe that all they need in life are said bangles and sneaks rather than a strong support system.

My solution to all this flim-flam? Either beat your meat like it owes you money [||][||], stop giving a fuck about a bidge and handle your own business, or both. Either way you’ll keep your paper in your pocket and thus, a grip on your sanity. Got it? Good. We now return you to your regularly scheduled disdain for all things rap. Meanwhile, I’m going back to the Pinky video I just yoinked. Fuck this shit.

*takes off headphones, breathing heavily, and steps out of booth*

24 Comments