• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Hip-Hop Hypocrites

A funny thing happened to me the other day.

In my spare time I do freelance work on various commercial shoots around the city [1], which usually means I spend a good 12 hours a day hanging around White people. Honestly (and ironically) I feel more at ease working around a shitload of crackers than with a couple of, well, niggas [2], because Whites tend to be more on their shit and not fuck up my money. Dreaded n-words? Not so much.

Wow... I think I just turned my back on my own race right there. Hold on for a second...

*Checks hands to see if melanin is still intact*

OK, good. I was starting to get worried for a second.

In any case, working on set can be an incredibly tiring experience, so most of the down time is spent talking shit. What’s interesting (or disheartening, depending on your stance) is that I’m the least likely to shoot out a racially-biased joke. You know something is definitely up when YTs make more fun of themselves than Black people.

The point of this story, you may ask? In a world where cracka-ass geezers like Don Imus can catch wreck for describing the texture of an Afrikaan basketball player’s hair follicles [3], could it be that Blacks are more racially insecure than their paleface counterparts? Before the NAMBLA crowd organizes a Jena 6-style rally for my resignation, hear me out for a second.

If there’s one thing that’s oddly gotten my attention more often than not in hip-hop, it’s quite possibly its inane hypocritical nature. By their bizarre logic, it’s perfectly fine for smut-peddling dropouts like Snoop Dogg to call out the skanks of the world, which never made sense to me because he’s only doing what his TIs tell him to do. But once someone that’s not, let’s say, "hip-hop inclined," decides to use our own slanguage against us? It’s not shits and giggles anymore. I could correlate this ass-backward reverse leniency to the fact that Black people were pretty fucked over in their heyday and need something to feel some sense of worth in life, but then that’d just make me a phony militant, not unlike my alleged designated Negro emperors Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, not to mention set the porch monkey generation back a couple years.

Fuck Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. No homo.

My whole thing is this: if Blacks can call out fellow Blacks, Latinos, Asians and yarmulke-rocking yentas, shouldn’t they just as easily be able to take it as well? I mentioned a while back that I could give three-fifths of a shit if I got called out of my name because not only has it happened before, I’m not bitchmade like that. I wish I could say the same for others, but then I smell the Vagisil from way the fuck over here. And yeast infections are never good in the first place.

[1] Because talking wild racist jibba jabba doesn’t keep the lights on.

[2] Mind you, there is a difference between Blacks and niggas.

[3] Like we’ve never called out people because of their hair before. And I’m considered the Amazing Racist around these parts.

17 Comments             

Internets Fuckery

Want to hear a funny story?

Way the fuck back in my man-whore days when I had learned that using the Internets to yoke music was easier on my feet than running up in the local Circuit City and snatching tapes, one of my friends in junior college introduced me to this “social networking” site called Black Planet, and how his “cyber-hollering” led to an occasional bedroom romp with some random-ass hood rat he’d find on the damn thing. So naturally, I joined that bitch [1] with the hopes that I could get me some grade-A ass.

A few months into it I managed to wrangle a broad whom I’d thought was pretty dope. She was well educated, had a good job, puffed cheeba sticks and (from the looks of the pictures) had ass for days, not to mention very, errr, frank about her sexual prowess. I guess it’s true what they say about women who smoke loosies, but I digress.

We finally agreed to meet up one night to go see some Disney/Pixar movie that slips my mind at the moment. As soon as she stepped out of the door, I instantly thought of throwing my hooptie into D, as she looked just plain gross: ugly, dyed-blond hair, those painted eyebrows that women wetbacks usually paint on their foreheads and about 30 pounds heavier than her pictures suggested. Kerry Washington she sure as shit was not.

In any matter, I begrudgingly went along with the date because I’m a gentleman like that. And while her photographic representations were a few years old she was extremely right about her present-day knob-shining techniques, as she proved it to me in the theatre.

The point of this story? After my experience, my trust in the Internets (and women) more or less waned, as it can be nothing more than a place of lies where anybody could come across as the toughest talker in the (cyber) hood when in actuality they’re more bitch-made than period blood. But if it’s one thing I’ve noticed (and forgive me if I come across as “racist,” but I’m just calling it how I see it), it’s that White people (and some kites) are more susceptible to going batshit about what people spew on here. Case in point: a while back I’d mentioned how some YT fire fighter had tracked down, traveled over a thousand miles to and tried to burn down the house of some Internets heckler while he was still inside. And most recently, I found this article (on the message boards of all places) on how some parents used MySpace to fuck with a teenage girl, essentially causing her to hang herself. I may be a fucked up bigot, but even I’ll admit that that’s wrong. If parents of all people are contributing to the problem, who’s to say that silencing self-righteous asshole idiots like myself is the solution?


But I suppose this is how the world we all inhabit works. When I think about it, sometimes I actually convince myself to lighten up the mood in my playground... for about four seconds. Then the cynical side of me comes back out to remind me that these fucktards either need to relax or - in some cases - be hugged on the inside. Pause, of course.

***
On a semi-related note (as I found it while “researching” for this post), this is one of the funniest (in a detrimental to society kind of way) shits ever.


[1] I just checked to see if my page still exists. Yes, it does. No, I won’t give you schlubs a link to it.

42 Comments             

Soundtrack To Your Life

Let’s face it, people: it’s been a somewhat slow and uninteresting fall season for hip-hop, to say the least. Silk Shirts West and Curtsy sold a shitload of records, making a whole heap of kites a lot wealthier than I’ll ever be. Female rappers are becoming gullier than their male counterparts, while male rappers are looking more like thugged-out figure skaters. I suppose the most intriguing thing that’s happened to me as of late were those yentas’ failed mission to get me extricated from this site a few weeks back, but those snake charmers couldn’t even sway a cobra out of a turban with a flute, much less get me fired.

Pause, no Punjab from Annie on that last line.

Anyways, the music from these Golliwogs has me reminiscing like Mary J. about the good ol’ days when music inspired many a fucking, stick-up and/or firewater influenced session, similar to how television shows always have the perfect background music for any particular situation. So instead of the usual shit-talk, I thought I’d dedicate a post to the soundtrack to any random-ass scenario. As always, feel free to add your own as well.

Soundtrack to when you’re smashing the preacher’s daughter [1]: Tha Dogg Pound – Bomb Azz Pu**y Before I got disinterested and stopped going altogether, I used to be regular visitor to the church, but it was only to fantasize about the brick-thick daughter of one of the priests. As it turns out, she was a lot of guys’ fantasies as well. Yikes!

Soundtrack to pushing off bottles of water during the Puerto Rican Day Parade: Fat Joe – Success If you’ve even wanted a means to move some kind of product without ever touching a digital scale, buy a couple 24-packs of Poland Spring water and sell those shits for a dollar while humming Fat Joe’s ode to hustling.

Soundtrack to (literally) kicking someone to the curb: RZA – Domestic Violence Male or female, if you’re fed up with the supposed loved one in your life, take two of these when you’re ready to catch a case. Speaking of cases...

Soundtrack to slapping the shit out of some random YT: dead prez – Hell Yeah If you’re too nervous about running up on five-oh with nothing but an open palm and kinetic energy, play this one when you’re about to smack fire out of the pizza delivery guy. Shit, they even tell you how to at one point in the video!

Soundtrack to your own paranoid thoughts: Beanie Sigel – Feel It In The Air The Geto Boys' "Mind Playing Tricks On Me" is too predictable, and Rockwell’s "Somebody’s Watching Me" is too quasi-homosexual. So why not the haunting, unhinged opener to the Broad Street Bully’s third album? Oh, and Beanie Sigel > Kanye West. Tell me I’m wrong.

[1] Honestly, I had to choose between two other scenarios, but those are essentially illegal in the United States. Child fucking is no joke, no matter if "To Catch A Predator" says otherwise.

24 Comments             

I’d Hit That

A quick disclaimer to all three women who read this shit: if you’re one of those broads who live to hate on any man who occasionally wants nothing else but to climb inside the walls of some dynamite snatch, you probably should go visit the message board section here or some other shitty part of the Internets, as this post is obviously not for you.

Anyways, one of the sections on this site I frequent is the infamous Beauty & Brains feature because, well, I’m a guy who likes to ogle half-naked women who at least give off the impression that they could put a grade-A spit shine on my johnson. I suppose that would make me a ManBearPig, but whatever. I like women as much as I enjoy hip-hop, and if rappers want to splash them with bottles of Jim Beam and ejaculate every once in a while, why can’t I?

Perverted thoughts aside, I thought I’d dedicate this post to some of the flyest specimens I’d slap dick to any random day. Not to be disrespectful or anything but if given the chance, I’d dent the thighs of each and every person on this list. Feel free to toss your input to this list as well.

Kerry Washington – I know I've made a mention of her in one of previous posts about dumb tight females but seriously, how could you not want a taste of that? Look at that woman standing behind Chris Rock in the picture. The look on her face screams, “I can smell the flavor from back here, boy! If you don’t scrape that, move the fuck out the way so I can!”

Mya – My friends would always get on my case because I would choose Mya over Beyoncé. Truth be told I’d kill both, but Mya looks more likely to wrap her thighs around your esophagus on the first night. Maybe a little small talk, a dinner date at the local Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles, next thing you know you’re swimming in that woman at her own condominium. Speaking of Roscoe’s...

The waitress at the local waffle house – Think about this: she has brick-thick thighs from walking around all day on nothing but greasy soul food as fuel. She has to pay you extra attention to get a few extra dollars at the end of the night. Best of all, she does what you ask her to with no back talk. This isn’t a waitress; that’s my stripper fantasy come to life.

Rosario Dawson as Gail In Sin City – She ran around with nothing but a thong and an Uzi, and she was the ringleader of a town full of prostitutes. Even better than that, after ol’ boy slapped her she responded by shoving her tongue down his throat. Yeah, i don't mind the whole "whore" stigma. Not at all.

The female bloggers of Hip-Hop DX – Yeah, I know. The best part about this is that I already know they’re hip-hop heads, which is a rare find in any woman nowadays. We could probably chop it up on the best albums of the past decade one moment, then curb servin’ each other on a shag carpet the next. Hell, I don’t even know how Ms. Bassa looks like and I’d still fuck.

 

UPDATE: This random-ass chick who supposedly busts 200 nuts a day. Yeah, she'd catch the Tenacious D any day of the week.

57 Comments             

Cam’Ron? A Winner For A Change?

After reading my future ex-wife-in-law AHLOT’s mention of Big L on her post about Cam’Ron and Ma$e yesterday, it actually reminded me of my younger, Max Payne ways where robbing blond-haired, blue-eyed YTs was much more serene while “The Heist” played in the back of my skull like some unruly soundtrack. Although it dropped during a time where rap was slowly coming out of it’s second grimeball stage – those magical years where I used to run wild on X-Men Vs. Street Fighter at the local junior college and got my first dose of brain surgery midday at a park full of kids – and into its current Dumbledore era where Harlemites are more known for looking like thugged-out figure skaters than for actual rhyme skills, L’s The Big Picture stood out as one of the last testaments to Big Apple lyricism.

So it’s pretty disheartening to see what his protégés have become as of late, what with the good pastor looking for he-bitches to peg (no wonder Curtsy dropped him; he doesn’t need another fag in his crew) and Cam going AWOL for a half-year. As much shit I’ve spewed about the Meaty Cheesy Boys, I’ll admit they were responsible for some pretty heavy heatrocks during their run. Real talk, I wished they had stayed on the Roc-A-Fella graveyard: before he got shot the fuck up, Big L himself was to sign to the label. So in a sense the Dips would have been honoring the legacy of the man that put them on.

(It does make me wonder, however, if Big L would have started rocking v-neck muscle hoodies and nutcutter slacks, like the rest of the battyboys in Harlem. Not to sound fucked up, but if that were to happen, then I’m glad he got ethered before he got the chance to actually do so.)

But in the days following Joffe Joe’s unceremonious disappearance, the already shit stain-thin foundation of The Diplomats dissipated even further, with Jim Jones going all Benedict Arnold and sharing meatwatcher jeans with Fiddy, leaving no-talents like Hell Rell and Max B to keep 40 Cal’s bench in Marcus Garvey Park warm at night. So when those goofy-ass “Where’s Cam?” videos started popping up, I more or less didn’t give a shit, what with their best days far behind them.

But lo and behold, Cam’s publicity stunt actually ends up working, albeit temporarily, and he’s now become the talk of the hip-hop town, next to that shitty Jay-Z album. And honestly, I ended up “acquiring” his new mixtape, and I haven’t had this much fun torturing myself to a Dip Set anything in like, ever. Granted, he’s not going to win any numbers race, but Cam going missing has quite possibly been the best thing to happen to his career in years, as he’s managed to swipe attention from Grandpa Simpson and make people forget about that horrible Jim Jones mixtape as well. Hell, he even got my attention, and I fucking hate everything.

32 Comments             

“Black Trash” > “American Gangster”

One of the perks of being in a position I’m in on this site is sitting back and watching the after effects of the mental havoc your opinions have wreaked on the masses. One of the things I’ve noticed and mentioned here is that unless you’re a knob shining buffoon who’s too eager to impress the sheeple no matter what, critics who go against the grain are essentially passed off as hate-filled dick takers.

And to think, I’m considered the biased asshole.

What makes my... errr... prestige that much better is when the self-serving gonzos attempt to take me to task for said opinions under the premise I say these things with some egotisitical ulterior motive behind it [1]. In actuality, the disparaging words I receive do nothing but increase my hunger for this game, not to mention stroke my pride somewhat. Because I’m uppity like that sometimes.

Take yesterday’s post for example. After listening to it a good... two times, I’ve pretty much demoted American Gangster to the “casual listens” section in my iPod, right next to my copy of Food & Liquor and the greatest hits of Guy. Despite all of it’s acclaim, I’m still unconvinced that this is one of the greatest hip-hop concept albums of all time especially considering Sticky Fingaz’ Black Trash: The Autobiography Of Kirk Jones, a joint which went largely unnoticed when it dropped some seven years ago, does a far better job of telling that shit-soft “rise and fall of a hustler” tale.

Whereas Abe Simpson could rhyme about the smell of yak gooch and still sell a brazillion copies, Sticky essentially lost any and every sense of street cred once he jumped on MTV, talked a lot of shit then got beat the fuck up in a boxing match by some Zack Morris-type of YT during one of their shitty Spring Break weeks. So when Black Trash was released after a shitload of delays, it crashed & burned like a jihadist's remains from the sky, which is sad when you take into consideration the incredible storytelling that went into the entire thing. But due to his Onyx stigma (and the fact his cousin Fredro Starr used to twist out Moesha back in the day), the group Jam Master Jay found before Curtsy will never get those same props, as if Jay never did something that outrageously stupid.

It doesn’t surprise me when the humps bitch and complain; after all, opinions are like assholes. In a way I should be happy that I’m able to create a round table discussion. On the other hand, when the speakers are about as fruity as Dumbledore, I fail to see the point of their words in the first place. But maybe that’s why hip-hop keeps losing: when its so-called true-head denizens refuse to get along because of differing opinions. Sad, really.

***
As a bonus, I provided the best song from Black Trash. Don’t ever say I never do anything for you schlubs.

Sticky Fingaz – "State vs. Kirk Jones" featuring Rah Digga, Redman, Canibus, Scarred 4 Life, Lord Superb and Guess Who

[1] Word to the wise: men lie, women lie, comments lie; hits don’t. This is why I stay winning, people.

144 Comments             

“Return Of The Mac” > “American Gangster”

As is the slovenly custom of mine nowadays, I spent this past weekend lamping in my cousin’s basement with a couple friends, hunched over his 20-inch (ayoooo...) television and running through round after round of NBA 2K8. In between the random crude jokes about politics, women and Nollywood, the talk inevitably turned to hip-hop’s current rap du juor, Jay-Z’s “concept album” American Gangster. Interestingly enough my cousin – who’s Roc-A-Fella fanaticism is so extreme he once tried to convince me that Coming Of Age was a legitimately good album, not the audio rape it actually turned out to be – felt that the album, while better than Kingdom Come, was more or less flaccid than his pre-retirement releases.

While I’ll agree that Grandpa Simpson has definitely lost a step (or ten) since he decided to start playing for the Wizards, for the most part I’ve begrudgingly tagged along for the ride because a smidgen of me still holds out for some great music from his increasingly rusting mind. Perhaps due to my own inherent cynicism cultivated from years of abhorrence for today’s corn sauce material, I’ve simply refused to think that Jay couldn’t do anything wrong, Blueprint 2 be damned [1].

But after listening to American Gangster, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed despite the critical acclaim it’s received. For a supposed concept album, I couldn’t find (or follow) the concept at all. While there’s no “Beach Chair” type of bullshit on here, the album still lacks the punch I used to expect from before. In a sense, the album feels like a less-retarded, Mafioso version of Mr. 3000, where the old guy keeps coming out of his mason jar to try for one more score.

Ironically, the entire “rap album using blaxploitation beats” concept has been done twice this year, each with better results to boot: Camp Lo’s Black Hollywood and Prodigy’s Return Of The Mac. In the latter’s case, I never even thought that Sickle Cell P could ever make a decent album again, what with him preoccupied with being punched out on a daily basis. What makes it more intriguing is that his violent nihilism sounds at home next to The Alchemist’s murky, 70s-era beats, a stark contrast from the horny glitz of Mr. Proactiv’s Hitmen tracks bouncing off Abe’s sub-mediocre rhymes.

While Punching Bag P will never be able to reclaim that past glory (or his old skills. Or his manhood. Or my respect for him), he can at least lay claim to the fact that he was finally able to outdo Jay-Z for once. Granted it was the same way Trevor Berbick beat up on an old, out-of-shape, out-of-prime Muhammad Ali, but whatever. With his impending date with some dry butt service, he needs all the wins he can’t afford right now anyways.

[1] Sorry J, but “Hovi Baby” was, and still is, my shit.

38 Comments             

Ain’t This A Bitch

“i'm so sick of the sexism on this site. its foul. clean your act up boy. those poor anoerxic looking girls at the melissa ford party look terrible, and there you are looking at them, like a dribbling old man. it disgusts me.” – yet another random-ass commenter, thrrrs (Um, what?)

If I keep looting... errr... borrowing these dumbass comments I receive in previous posts to open up new ones, I may just stop using my brain altogether. Plagiarism is the new hip-hop. But I digress.

Anyways, I mentioned last week (in between the hubbub over my lashon harah) that I attended Melyssa Ford’s Halloween Titty Tournament, where just about every woman that attended were standing around with their moose knuckles damn near hanging out of their stockings. So rightfully I – as well as every red-blooded, heterosexual male who was there – stood, gawked and prayed that a stiff-nippled honker would pop out.

Stiff-nippled honkers for the win?

What I don’t understand is when the bleeding-pants feminists are quick to call “nappy-headed hoes” on us guys, as if we did something wrong for looking at them in the "I Wanna Fuck You" eyes. In the never-ending case for male equality, I propose that every man run up on the next overly-sensitive, Marcy D’Arcy, faux freedom fighting bra burners and threaten them with a NO MA’AM-style lawsuit for each time they call bullshit on our right to look at half-naked women, as if we forced these aspiring scallywhops at gunpoint to strut around in a pair of coochie cutters and high heels.

Is it just me or are women seriously blaming men for their own fallacies? Colorful lingo in the comments section aside, the women who pose in this site’s Beauty & Brains features have to be aware of the somewhat misogynistic reaction they’ll receive once they decide to rock a thong before the camera. Hell, isn't the reason they do so is to cater to the man's most innate, carnal desires? Parts of me even think that they willingly subject themselves to such wild jibba jabba, as if they feel more complete from A to zinc receiving some ass-backward compliment. Hell, even one of our Beauty & Brains alumni, Khira “Kurves” Thomas, has The Game’s ode to video slores, “Wouldn’t Get Far,” as the theme song on her front page!

Seriously. I'm not making this up.

A long time ago when I mentioned how women weren’t going to make it, that ideal primarily came from the hope that they could if they would stop with the contradictory bullshit. Honestly, it’s hard for me to even attempt to give any support whenever I see the alleged “women’s rights movement,” when there are so many that readily show us their snatch without us having to pay for shit. If anything, those women should be at the forefront of that interest group. Not only would I be more interested in it (though I still wouldn’t support that shit, because I’m a chauvinist like that), but also it wouldn’t make them look like hypocrites in the first place.

20 Comments             

First Jesus, Now Jacob

“I can go look up snuff films on this shit and people are fucking transferring kiddie porn all around and your crying foul because the dude said a racial slur... as if you’ve never said one...” DX message boarder Decguin

I’m not gonna front, people: I was a little miffed at the events that transpired earlier this week, which is somewhat ironic for me to be because ever since I jumped on this site seven months ago I anticipated that I’d catch some backlash from the two-toned panty liners who frequent this bitch. Hell, if I were a relatively close-minded hump, I’d be pissed at the shit I’ve said also.

Thank God(dess) for that junior college education then!

In any matter, I thought that the verbal maelstrom I created would have simply ceased after a day or so. Hell, I never planned on talking about it anymore. But here we are four days later, still cleaning the shit off the fan. I would say that even despite the calls for my resignation, the fact that this little blog of mine still exists – as well as the hook up I got from my esteemed gotdamned Editor to the breast fest known as Melyssa Ford's Halloween party [2] two days ago – that little message board stunt to burn me in effigy worked about as well a levee in Louisiana, but then that would just make me an asshole.

Then again, being an asshole is part of my manly essence, so fuck it.

"You eat a dick, nigga! YOU eat a dick!"

Interestingly enough, the purpose of this blog was to thumb my nose at said opponents, as well as calling them out for their own hypocritical mannerisms. But after reading that blood diamond-pushing TI Jacob The Jew-eler could face up to nearly five years in the bing for lying to the Feds [1], maybe in a weird, karmic sense, all of the shit that transpired over here affected the outcome of that shit. If that truly is the case (and I surely hope so), then there’s no use beating a dead giraffe - or whatever’s considered kosher - now, right?

Besides, it’s pretty obvious who are to blame for all of this censorship shit anyways: Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. If it weren’t for A Pimp Named Slickback and Hymietown going all ambulance chaser on KKKramer and Don Imus (the latter of which didn't even work out in the long run) then turning on hip-hop, none of this shit concerning so-called “racial slurs” would have happened in the first place. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. The best part about my situation is the fact that – like Imus – I’ve probably gotten an entirely new audience to tune in to my shit, boosting and affecting the overall bottom line of this site. In that sense, I wholeheartedly welcome any and every shit these yentas throw at me.

*Gets up from desk, inhales deeply and starts Cranking Dat Mini-Me*

Damn, it feels good to see people up on it.

[1] Rule number one: never lie to the Feds. You’re actually better off snitching in that scenario.

[2] UPDATE: I'm not really a fan of posting my own pictures, but since Brains & Beauty All-Star commenter 420westcoast asked so nicely, i threw in a couple shots.

22 Comments             

Gone And Forgotten

A few weeks ago I went to check out a special screening of the recent DVD release of Tupac Assassination: Conspiracy Or Revenge. Throughout the screening I couldn’t help but realize how incredible the documentary’s underlying message – that Suge Knight essentially orchestrated the murder of Lesane in the most diabolically cartoonish way possible – had the entire audience eating out of the palm of its piss-poorly produced hands.

It makes me wonder if the level of love Lesane has would have happened had he not been shot the fuck up on two separate occasions. Questionable rapping skills and background dancing past, even I’ll admit it’s pretty gully to catch bullets on more than one occasion, because I know I sure as shit wouldn’t do that for a three-way with Kerry Washington and Tamala Jones while Malinda Williams and Lauren London are watching and getting each other off with a Klondike bar.

OK I’m lying. I would catch a slug for some girl-on-girl-on-Klondike action. But that’s beside the point.

It’s common knowledge that ‘Pac’s legacy has exponentially grown thanks in part to his frequent hospital visits. In fact, it’s hip-hop’s twisted infatuation with mortality that puts more emphasis on a rapper’s willingness to risk bodily harm for street credibility, which is sadly why you see more Terminators than teachers nowadays. Being able to inspire the masses has long since taken a backseat to being able to catch an eye jammie Tapdancer P style.

In that sense, why should fans be surprised when someone actually ends up dead? While I may feel some sense of remorse (if that’s even possible), I honestly don’t feel bad when a rapper that spits about his own demise actually gets ethered. Call me callous, but that shit’s not fucking up my day.

But it does bring to mind the fact that his death is perhaps what he’s known for now than his “poignant” lyrics. Hell, I even forgot the date of my grandmother’s passing 16 years ago yet still remember September 13th, 1996 like it were yesterday.

By this logic, we should all pop bottles in honor of the murders of Jam Master Jay, alongside the likes of Freaky Tah and Big L as well as countless others as we do 2Pac. But seeing as how we don’t (Hell, I even forgot about Jay’s date), why should we even give a shit if the guy was “assassinated” or not [1]? Perhaps I’m not seeing things in the eyes of the general public (and thank God[dess] I don’t), but I never understood the reasoning behind the placing of one man’s martyrdom upon a pedestal higher than the others, as if we should even do that in the first place. But maybe I’m once again just looking too deep into this, as I tend to do.

[1] He wasn’t.

12 Comments             

Give A Fluck About Racism

Just when I thought I was beginning to run out of breath on my small section on this part of the Internets, yesterday’s drop on MC Turkey Breast caught an unusual amount of attention. Originally it appeared as if it were nothing more than the typical knob-shining Stanley whom my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother Brillyance so eloquently put on blast a little while back, which I would have been cool with seeing as how I’ve received my fair share of disparaging comment since I’ve been here.

You see, I figure there’s a good reason why I’ve been here as long as I have. Aside from my natural charisma and natural good looks (as evidenced from the all-seeing eye up there), I’ve noticed I have the knack to pull people out of their comfort zones and voice their own opinions. I call those people whiny little bitches, but whatever. But isn’t that what the core of hip-hop is originally: the ability to call its denizens to action, albeit for reasons unrelated to the original topic sometimes?

In any matter, I’ll probably never understand the bozack-hoppers who inexplicably support a multiple-time ex-felon’s decision to “defend” himself with enough blammers with potatoes to outfit a small army, as if the shit wasn’t illegal in the first place. But I suppose that’s perfectly fine in a region that defends the motives of that shermed out, shitbag rapper from the lost city of Atlantis who plays Bathing Apes with his non-father father as “playful banter.” No wonder why Pimp C called out you geeks.

Internets thugs, you all need hugs.

Perhaps unsurprisingly though were the overly-sensitive ... errr... baby Israelis, SoundClick all-stars and faux-“conscious” tree bark chewers who tend to shout “racist” quicker than you can spell “Imus.” What intrigues me is that they’re quick to call me an ignorant hypocrite as if they’ve never been guilty of even thinking a stereotypical, racist or homophobic thought. Realize that this world is relatively all extra fucked up, so targeting my bigoted ass is not going to be the ends to your delusional means. Besides dickfaces, we’re all in the same shitty boat where long after we’ve become dead, rotting corpses the shit sammich-style hardships and dregs of society will still remain, so calling for my impeachment isn’t going to do shit to my shine, not to mention restore the balance of the Force. Plus it’s been done before, and that shit failed faster than those Chinese monk protests.

And a message to those chumps that feel inspired to start deleting comments: unless you’re either one of my editors or my Dope Boy in rhyme, I highly suggest you either keep your asses “back there” or take your menstrual blood-soaked, zebra-print, Cuba Gooding Hanes Her Ways and go play in traffic before you attempt to pull that shit again. Slap-Boxing With Jesus supports free expression [1], and I won’t have any “moderator” running up in my spot threatening to censor the commenters that either make or break this site [2], fucking up my whole shit in the process. Let this be the only warning shot because trust me, you don't ever want to get on my bad side (http://www.hiphopdx.com/blogs/meka/2007/07/05/my-dna-is-in-your-music.html).

UPDATE: I ran this by J before it got posted. Consider you humps lucky, because this was much worse.

[1] For the humps that are unfamiliar with my work, do a little research in that top-15 on the upper-right side of your screen of this section.

[2] By the way, it’d be hard-pressed for some “herb” from London to intimidate me when they like to rock smedium Capri pants. You couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight doggie, so play nice and don’t be the next contestant on that Summer Jam screen, because contrary to popular belief I'm not going anywhere anytime soon (http://www.hiphopdx.com/messageboard/viewtopic.php?t=38338). Then again, I thought my stupid dribble wasn’t even worth addressing in the first place.

58 Comments             

D.A.R.E To Keep T.I. In Prison

“I mean I can see if it was a real nigga. If you lost your hoe to T.I. I'll be like “’Hey, that's T.I.’” – The Boondocks’ Riley Freeman

"T.I. should not be in jail for some stupied shit like this its just guns...." – random-ass DX comments hump ashley

"It just guns why make a big deal out of it..." – another random-ass DX comments hump STOP HATTING

Obviously, one of these things is not like the others. The best part about the above comments is that the caricature ironically came off with the most convincing argument of the bunch.

Seriously though, how disheartening is it to see the bottom-feeders of society support a rapper with questionable rhyming skills (as does damn near everyone from the South not named Brad, Antwan or Andre) who obviously needs to still be in the clink? You can’t honestly tell me that motherfucker is a good role model for the kids, what with the hump risking life and limb to retain some semblance of his nonsensical “street cred” that got tossed out the window once he was roller skating in that one movie like that kid rapper who got raped by his bodyguard way the fuck back in the day. No wonder Bow Wow now stays hugged up on the scrotal sack of that You Got Served-ass lame. Bird chest rappers stay losing.

The obvious scenario here is the over-abundance of undereducated future burger flippers of Amerikkka who’ll be serving me my cardiac arrest-inducing Double Double with Cheese joints from the local In ‘N Out supporting someone of equal (but more than likely lesser) intelligence. It’s not like Clifford had the streets on lock in the first place: he started off doing the Hot Fuk dance in that god(dess)-awful video with Beenie Man way the fuck back in the day, then punched out another shitty-ass rapper from the South that likes to dress up as the Lucky Charms Leprechaun in his spare time. Not to mention his bottom bitch got shot the fuck up last year, the only promising thing coming out of that camp is some funny-style cat that rhymes about Franken Berry boxers and Cookie Crisp earrings or some gay shit like that and that half-Jew (hue?) DJ got busted selling second-hand Lil Wayne mixtapes. How the fuck do you get caught bootlegging bootlegs in the first place? Only battyboys who like to rock Capri pants and chancletas pull that dumb shit. I thought DJ Dram(a) would take from his tight-wad ancestors and know better. I bet you that was the Black side in him telling otherwise. You know how Blacks like to fuck shit up for themselves.

No wonder the TIs sprung T.I. from the pokey. They don’t give a shit about their moneymaking puppet: they’re trying to recoup their losses. Liar Con-Man wasn’t going to sit and let his favorite jungle monkey receive dry butt service in a jail in Atlanta, especially with all that down-low shit running rampant out there. Then he’d have to pay for Clifford’s herpes medication, and that shit would cut into the bottom line. So of course he’d get him out: shit, he has a movie with Denzel & Russell dropping soon! But you know the suspect shit in that flick? Clifford plays Common’s son in that shit. And we already know how confused Lonnie is already.

Pause, no homo “get my fucking pool in the back” on this blog, by the way.

44 Comments             

MTV Is The New Terrorism

In case the humps who aren’t living in the West Coast don’t know what’s going on, Southern California is in the midst of one of the worst firestorms since, I don’t know, the Cedar Fires of 2003, when one Sergio Martinez (of course) had gotten lost while “hunting” and thought it would be a great idea to start burning timber to signal rescuers, torching nearly 300,000 acres in the process.

You know, if the governor really wanted to curb the influx of fence-hoppers coming over and yoking jobs from tax-paying assholes like myself, trying to burn them is not particularly the best idea. But it's not like I don't have any bright ideas anyways, so whatever.

It’s gotten quite a bit of airtime over here, so much so that it sometimes cancels out some of the few shows I watch on the television. In essence this lack of quality programming should compel me to pursue a more active lifestyle, but seeing as how I spend more time on my computer than in the sunlight, I could more or less give a shit.

So lately I’ve found myself flipping to channels I’d originally boycott, as the shows on them have been scientifically proven (by me, nonetheless) to give its viewers eye herpes: Bojangles Entertainment Television and MTV. While I’m thoroughly convinced that BET will never be good for the children while its underwear-with-the-dickhole-wearing, closet lesbian CEO is running shit [1], I’m a bit hard-pressed to believe that MTV is partially, if not entirely, responsible for music’s currently shitty climate, if not society as a whole.

In BET’s defense, there’s still an adequate amount of music videos that come on during the day, albeit the spectacularly shitty ones. Since MTV has essentially eschewed music videos for fruitbags tongue-throttling each other on shoddy Flavor Of Love knock-offs, piss-poor dating shows and the like, even the dumbest of window lickers could see that the channel has fucked with America’s collective conscience, perhaps irreparably changing it.

In that sense, it’s easy to see why, say, I’m more likely to get passed over for a job for some dude-dressing dyke [2], because although we both like pussy, having the BuFu Fix isn’t quite on my radar. But perhaps the systematic mind wipe of MTV is a small plot in a larger scheme. With so many fruits and retards running around on the regular, it may provide ample distraction from what’s going on in the real world, causing right-wing pundits and ambulance-chasing truthers to treat insanely stupid topics like the n-word as if it were a harbinger of dissonance. But maybe that’s the conspiracy theorist in me talking.

***

Speaking of MTV, guess who's bizzack!


[1] I assume she would be the channel's tall Israeli, but I’m pretty sure the real TIs (and real men in general) wouldn’t allow a woman to run a major faction. Besides, you know how Black people like to run shit into the ground.

[2] Oh, I got something for them.

11 Comments             

Lil Wayne: The 2007 Version Of The 1990s-Era Method Man

On a totally unrelated note, am I the only one that noticed that Fat Joe of all rappers was a penguin in Happy Feet? Yet I wonder why this rap shit keeps losing.

Anyways, I actually had a chance to converse with my future ex-wife-in-law AHLOT this past weekend. In between discussing about the important matters in life – like whether or not sex is better either vaginally or “the real way” – she lamented about the recent BET “Hip-Hop” Awards were ran by, for lack of a better term, a bunch of porch monkeys. I couldn’t really say anything to dispute that theory, especially considering that I was a member of the crowd who was graciously pepper-sprayed after Young Buck sporked that hump who delivered a 2-piece and a biscuit to Dr. Dre’s face at the Vibe Awards a few years back.

But perhaps it’s not so much the fact that all Black people tend to act like an autistic jackass amongst the flashing lights and cameras than it is just people from the South [1] as a whole. In a sense it’s understandable; the poor public schooling system, combined with the fact that the hurricane turned a once-lush(?) town into something that resembles a traveling carnival, has changed its ass-backward (but loveable!) mogwais to idiotic, rabble-rousing gremlins.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody that the regions most popular rapper more of less looks like The Brain. All Joe Dante movies aside, it’s glaringly obvious that, despite his inane ability to get caught up in the most quasi-homosexual of situations, arguably remains today’s most highly sought-after “artist.” In essence, Lil Wayne’s inexplicable ascension to the top of the rap food chain (before T.I. shoots him down, that is) is eerily reminiscent of Method Man’s own rise in the nineties [2] what with their knack for making the most random of guest appearances [3], yet crafting underwhelming albums [4]. There was once a moment when even Method Man was proclaimed the greatest rapper of his generation, but we all saw how that shit eventually turned out.

If T.I. is supposed to be the king of the south, and Lil Wayne is supposed to be the best thing the South has, I may have to avoid that entire region altogether whenever I take a vacation. Then again, there’s always Strokers...

[1] For the record, both AHLOT and J. Burnett are originally from the Midwest, so they get the pass on this theory.

[2] Now before any panties get in a bunch, I must reiterate that I am basing this off their sudden increase in popularity, not their skills on the mic. However, Raekwon > Method Man.

[3] I know I’m not the only one who remembers Meth’s guest slot on Shaquille O’Neal’s “No Hooks.”

[4] I did like “Mo’ Fire” though, if that’s any consolation.

33 Comments