• » 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

Hipster-Hop Must Be Stopped

Way the fuck back in December – around the same a couple c-boys tried to dissent but failed miserably, but that’s neither here nor there – I made the mention how hipster-hop was turning into the new backpack rap. Back then I was somewhat leery of this new sensation of 90s babies running around trying to emulate the styles made popular in the 80s, though I’d notice it had been coming up for a long while now, because it just didn’t make any sense. For starters, I was born in the 80s, and not only do I not remember it being like that to me, I barely followed the shit when I was a kid to begin with. The only thing that kept my interest were Mario Bros. I played at my cousin’s house and the fake-ass Ninja Turtle action figures from the Paramount Swap Meet [1] my mother used to get me when I brought home good grades. Shit, I could give a shit about rap unless it came on early Saturday mornings. Word to Kid ‘N Play on NBC.

On a side note, to anybody who feels my “hip-hop pedigree” – which is about as valuable as a Happy Meal toy in the real world nowadays – is questionable allow me to call shenanigans on that thought, because I know I’m not the only one who was more into toys and cartoons than rap music and Jordan’s when I was in the first grade.

So obviously there’s a clog in the pipeline when some not-even-legal-to-drink rapper is talking about “bringing ’88 back.”

Not only that, this disturbing trend is solely focused on braggadocio, essentially devoid of any of the powerful messages a good chunk of the music from that era, making each and every acid-wash-meatcutter-jean-wearing hipster rapper look even more foolish. To take Sach O’s point to a different realm, this one-sidedness only makes them come off as insidiously fake.

The true test for most of these acts will come within the next few months at this year’s Rock The Bells Festivals [2]. With the majority of the concertgoers being predominantly anti-anything “trendy” hip-hop [3], I’m interested to see the response the likes of Kid Sister and The Cool Kids will receive. My guess is that they may get the ever-loving shit booed out of them, not unlike how Brillyance did Collie Buddz (who?) at that Zune (iPod Touch > Zune) concert a while back, because of their blatant attempt to gain crossover appeal by swacking the look, but not the feel, of rap music from over two decades ago. Then again, they may actually succeed in tricking the masses as they have the industry idiots who waste their money backing them. I doubt it though.
 
[1] B. Clipse, Malcontent and Brillyance, I know you three know what I’m talking about.

[2] On a side note, I will be attending both the Los Angeles and San Francisco shows, so feel free to stop by the DX booth and get insulted by yours truly at any time.

[3] Although backpacking against the system has gotten pretty trendy as of late also.

32 Comments             

For Once, I Agree With Lil Wayne

Despite the plethora of non-sequiturs I’ve lobbed here and there about the guy during my time here, at the end of the day I’ll begrudgingly admit I have some respect for Lil Wayne in the sense that, dubious uses of free time aside, duke seems capable of saying the most obnoxiously absurd shit and is still able to remain a focal point of music today. I think a part of this is thanks to a combination of slow, uninspiring news (because things like the conflict in Darfur are nowhere near as important as, say, Killa Priest contributing to the fall of the Wu by selling a laughable 840 copies of his latest hash tray), young-minded yentas like the ones who flooded the c-section erroneously proclaiming Nazz as a savior of all things rap last week (he’s not and never will be) and the fact he’s always doing something that makes it impossible to not be in the “news” but hey, he’s the reason I’m talking about him right now.

Despite the fact that he’s obviously trying to sucker me into saying some ignorant, stereotypically quasi-homosexual remark about getting fellated and not being able to have a romantic explosion by them – which I will not because that actually has nothing to do with the point of this rant – I will say that for once I actually side with Dwayne when it comes to his convictions on status of current mixtape DJ: fuck ‘em all.

With the exception of DX’s own Legend and Slimm, of course.

There was once a time where mixtape DJs essentially dominated and directed what us listeners should listen to, and for the most part they were on point. Had it not been for the likes of Mister Cee providing the sounds of one Chris Wallace, we may not have ever had a chance to be exposed to the unbridled greatness of The Notorious B.I.G. In that sense however, Puff would not have unleashed the likes of Fuzzbubble, Dy-lan, B5 and that one blonde chick from Danity Kane who looks like her middle passage resembles a compost heap. But you win some and you lose some, I suppose.

Now I can’t even take a shit without my inbox being flooded with some yenta’s mixtape. I mean, getting somebody’s shitty mixtape > receiving death threats via Yahoo! because I pissed a reader off when I made fun of their culture, but I digress. Plus, there are some mixtapes that I’ve actually enjoyed; I’m just too big a dwyck to mention which ones that doesn’t have the words “we got it for cheap” in them, so don’t ask.

Next to MySpace rappers, slores and random acts of YouTube fuckery, mixtapes are about as valuable as the State’s dollar in London. Not to say that I’m complimenting our snaggletoothed brothers overseas, mind you; I just find the likes of the Notorious BUM more interesting than a Zshare link from DJ Ass Milk. Then again, you’re talking to a person who barely gives a shit about anything outside of women, sneakers, my family and chicken. So perhaps I don’t quite fit that target demographic at all then.

26 Comments             

Jermaine Dupri Must Be Stopped

In case you haven’t noticed, the rap blogging game isn’t what it is anymore. Back in the go-go era when this site’s cyber crack game was at an all time high we had everyone from soopa starrs to wack ninjas getting in where they fit in. Even yours truly was hitting the masses with a nonstop daily flow of that ultimate (e-)high.

But as with everything else, the game got bloated. Everybody wanted a piece of that chicken blog pie, and soon enough most of the OGs either ghosted out or ventured into other avenues.

I’ll be the first to say it (errr, or at least the first to say it here):

BLOGS HAVE OFFICIALLY JUMPED THE SHARK.

Everybody wants to be the next big thing like Brock Lesnar. Rappers stopped rapping and started blogging half-assedly. Whereas before the blogging game was a zone to unleash your inner most thoughts, random freaky tales and pure black hatred (ahem!), what now remains is a swollen arena of carbon copies, stalkers and talentless schmucks, with a couple wannabe web saviors determined to help the dumb, deaf and blind from the likes of, well, me.

I can see why people try to get some getsome though. In this “new media” age where something like a Tay Zonday can land a Dr. Pepper’s commercial of all things, any and everybody can blow like Roxy Reynolds at any given moment. Another perfect example is this is the Black Shang Tsung’s latest signee, some random ass kid he found on YouTube. On a semi-related note, am I the only one who sees that JD plays with more children than Michael Jackson and R. Kelly combined? Something isn’t right with that, especially when that one dark-skinned rapper from Kriss Kross started losing his hair to “leukemia.” Is that what they’re calling it now?

Let me stop.

In his weird, dementia-ridden post (which is obviously edited by some low-level mailroom clerk before it gets thrown up in the hopes that the Huffington Post’s Ritz contingent can understand what he’s spewing) the leader of the Lollipop Gang may have a point. Fans of music want shit now; it’s common knowledge they flock to sites like this to read up on and listen to – or in my case, illegally download repeatedly – the current flavors of the month. At the same time, just because a one-trick pony is hot right now doesn’t mean that the longevity will last. And trying to find new means to acquire new means doesn’t mean a damn thing when everybody else is doing the same thing.

50 Comments             

What’s Wrong With Getting Married?

This post can go under “Mek Dot Soul’s Insomniac Chronicles,” as I’ve probably written this shit while most you gumshoes were doing more meaningful shit with your lives, like sleeping. On a totally unrelated note, I just caught Robert Sylvester’s “Hair Braider” for the first time. He must be stopped. Immediately.

Anyways, in less than 2 months two of my closest friends are getting married, and I’ve been asked to participate in the ceremony. Not to be the thunderstorm that could potentially ruin the sunshine, but honestly I’ve struggled to maintain a somewhat content demeanor about the whole thing thanks in part to recent events that’s left me more aggy at the world than usual.

Not to mention my stimulus check still hasn’t arrived, and I’m thinking that the bitchassness mechanics of H&R Block may be to blame. Fuck H&R Block.

Now, the shitty thing about this is that I one day would like to be wifed down as well. Real talk is that I’ve always thought nobody’s cipher is complete until they actually have their soul (sole?) mate around their arm, but given my current “talk to my money” attitude I honestly don’t see that going down for myself any time soon.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who has second thoughts on marriage though. With a success rate of barely 50 percent, on top of the fact that I don’t think today’s society is built for it at all right now, it’s easy to see why people are settling for baby’s parents, casual flings or – for all you anal plunderers out there – butt buddies instead.

In addition to that ridiculously low rate, there’s also the fact that men and women can’t keep their respective genitalia to themselves. Let’s not front, people: men and women alike are more often than not looking for someone to stretch out their middles than a fiancé nowadays. Shit, I wanted to have a wife by the time I bounced out of college. Then I found out that one of the more limber (and bisexual, to boot) cheerleaders for my university’s crapathetic basketball team wanted to take a meeting by me.

That’s spelled m-e-A-t-i-n-g. But now I’m saying too much.

It certainly doesn’t help that the supposed sacred virtues of marriage are marred by the likes of Tila Tequila bouncing around television sets and getting pounded by random-ass meatwads and lipstick dykes all under the bullshit premise of love, giving me pink eye in the process. Had I known that finding “true love” consisted of making as ass out of myself on Clear Channel- and Viacom-owned networks, I probably would have stopped trying to woo women with my awesome comic book collection a long time ago. By the way ladies, I have a limited-edition Captain America joint which probably is worth more than that Sherpa’s hair sewn into your scalp, so you know I’m no good like that.

Long story short, I don’t think that marriage is for everyone; if I can’t even fathom having a roommate, the fluck’s chance do I have waking up next to someone for the rest of my life?

*Thinks about it*

I’m lying. I can think of at least two women I could wake up next to. Hell, even all together. Now that would be my Make A Wish request.

48 Comments             

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             

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