Here are definitions of some of the words I’ve made up so far on this blog, my brothers and sisters.



Think Nolo Contendre, the “I’m not guilty of this, but just make it go away” plea that you can enter in most courtrooms in America. For instance, I’m not gay. Gay, to me, is weirder than words can say. I mean, why?!!? But anyway, I’m also not a hater or a sexual bigot, so do whatever you do. Just don’t invite me behind the green door. Nolo.



I shouldn’t have to explain this one, but oh well. POTUS is an acronym for “President Of The United States.” When I do my “Chivalry is Dead” campaign discussion about Obama vs. Hillary, I use the term “POTUS” a lot, but I’ve been getting questions about what it means, even from my best homie who’s a medical doctor. Come on; you’ve never seen 24?



Dewshery is defined as the continual and ongoing act of a person, company or group of people engaging in douche-like activity. If you always say stupid things, you should dead the dewshery. If someone says they’re going to do something and they renig, call it dewshery. If you read my blog and don’t laugh, you’re on that dewshery.



This one is pure fun. It can describe a transsexual person, or anyone who’s just too gay for TV. Nolo. A transtesticle can also be a punkdafied person who either won’t stand up for his/herself or a loser that hides behind a self-created image. A transtesticle is always on that dewshery. Actually, I stole this one from Andrew “Dice” Clay from an old HBO special. Dude was, and still is, funny as hell.



Shout to my homie, T-Peso, who invented this one. The Freak Ghost is what you get when you remember something wild you did and have a physical reaction, similar to the heebie-jeebies. Recently, I caught the freak ghost, while staying at the Birmingham Sheraton. I used to wild out there, back when my high school band played the Magic City Classic parade. We had 120 instruments, plus 40 dance team/flag corps girls for additional viewing pleasure, and we all spent the night in the same hotel, four years straight (Good God...). I was also a class president during my one-year stint at Alabama A&M University, so during the Classic weekend, years later, I got to escort the class queen to the game and get a free rental whip and hotel room for the weekend, courtesy of AAMU (Lawd Jesus… ).



No, not like Saddam or the Taliban. Then again, maybe... To understand this one, you’d first have to understand the term throwed. Hopefully, you do, otherwise all is lost and you should go ahead and hang yourself with a super-sized tampon string. In layman’s terms, overthrowed is a state of being gloriously drunk and happy, having a good time. It can alsu be used as a synonym for being “hung-over.” To be throwed is human; to be overthrowed is divine.



This should really be self-explanatory also. You’ve heard it before, in conversation with your thug cousins, or maybe even out of your own mouth when politicking with your people back home. The proper way to inquire about something is to ask. But if you’ve ever spent time in the hood, like THE UNDERWRITER, you’ve probably axed a few questions yourself when conferring with a ghetto colleague.

This should be enough to get you primed. I’ll come with additional definitions as necessary. Now get out of my face, you doo doo-head dummy.




Good JESUS! Your homie, THE UNDERWRITER, must have gotten overthrowed last night, because I have a mean linger right now and can’t understand why I’m so hung over. Honestly, I was surprised at my coherence and comprehension during my weekly phone convo with Mom this morning. She hits me once a week, early in the A.M., to talk politics, life, love and dreams. Mom is the truth. Matter of fact, shout to your Mom.

But lest we forget, your homie was/is throwed like a horseshoe last night/this morning. So, I’ll let that “journalist” idiot, Michael Jordan, fill in for me on this one. I’m going to have a warm, leftover Corona and two cups of hot white tea to soothe my bubbly stomach. Then I’m going back to bed, bitches.

Take it away, MJ…


(This is why I prefer to go out on Tuesday nights in Atlanta. You wouldn’t expect it, but this is when the Atlanta crowd is at its best.

First of all, you have a certain limit to your fun. You won’t get too crazy, because it’s still early in the week. Then, it’s like an insider thing. People come into town on the weekends in Atlanta, just to trick off a G stack and say they balled out in the A. It’s almost worth the following week of no electricity and no food, back home in Guntersville. On a Tuesday night, the cool kids know that you don’t have to spend any money besides gas and maybe drinks, so we have our fun when the OT crews are away.

Only a few clubs charge a cover on Tuesday, and those that do are definitely worth the price. My favorite club in Atlanta, THE MARK , which used to be Karma, always charges admission. The few times I remember walking in without paying, I felt like the Shogun of Harlem. It’s a rarity. But I still get “the freak ghost” when I go there, because of wild experiences in my early twenties.


But this night, I forsook The Mark for other options. After such a dead Monday night, I figured I should at least give it another shot. Luckily, Atlanta does have options, so last night there were three spots that I planned to hit after work. First was Café 290, located not far from me on Roswell Road. Next was the Brand Nubian concert at The Loft in Midtown, and last would be D’Jango’s.


I got off work and went right to another local wireless bar, to eat some fish and spaghetti and drink two Sweetwater drafts. After getting the preliminary business accomplished, I changed clothes and headed to 290. I’ve been there before, but it’s one of those spots that’s so remote that you need directions every time you get invited. When I got there, there was an artist’s showcase going on, promoted by my homie Rodney from Huntsville. On the low, Huntsvillians are making moves in Atlanta; back-and-forth scramblers. Only one artist performed – a cute female with a nice body and a decent voice, with enough courage to sing fearlessly. I actually clapped when she finished each song. Plus I met this cool-ass nig named Troy, who went to Morehouse and knew some of the same industry people I’ve worked with. I roffled (look it up) when he bristled at some chick who asked axed him to sponsor her Long Island iced tea. Dude is like the new Robin Harris, down to the look. A great comic; he needs his own HBO special.



After doing the polite networking thing, I got bored around 11:45 and bounced to The Loft. Brand Nubian (that’s Grand Puba, Lord Jamar and DJ Alamo – Sadat X is still in jail) had an RSVP-only, Scion-sponsored show, and I figured I'd come see if they could still bring out the faithful NY crowd in Atlanta. Unsurprisingly, the camouflage and hoodie crowd showed up en masse. I wasn’t mad, these dudes deserve some down south love. Nolo.

I arrived right on time at midnight, to see Brand Nubian take the stage and go through some of their catalog classics, like “Punks Jump Up to Get Beat Down,” “Love Me or Leave Me Alone,” “All for One” and Grand Puba’s, “I Like It.” Cool vibe. The tri-state crowd was definitely feeling it. Me being 5’6”, I wasn’t trying to fight my way through the sausage fest that bum-rushed the stage, so I sat in the back and took in the whole scene. I wanted to hear “Don’t Let it Go to Your Head,” “Steal Ya Ho” and “Slow Down,” but by the time I hit the $20 minimum for using a credit card at the bar, I was tipsy enough to be tired of hanging out. Plus, I was a little tight about this lame, up-north skeezer, who had the nerve to drop a balled-up napkin right in front of me on my table, while I was writing notes for this very blog. This hooka damn near reached over my arm just to put her trash in my face. I almost went Dipset, but in the name of national cultural understanding I let it go without calling her a chicken-head beeaieeatch to her face. Chivalry ain’t dead.


Seeing Brand Nubian in concert in 2008, in Atlanta, is like seeing OutKast in New York, ten years from now. You love it, because you remember the music and long for that feeling when you instantly loved the songs, but you feel sentimentally sad that this era is no more. It’s a reminder that Hip-Hop really may be dead, but as long as we’re here to celebrate the past and move into the future, we’ll always have fond memories. And on a different note, I prefer to see Brand Nubian - the whole group - than a three-the-hard-way version(nolo). It's true that I used to get upset with Sadat back in the day; he had a habit of coming slack with his rap game, but at least he brought raw energy to Grand Puba’s swagger and Lord Jamar’s 5% theory overload. It was a masterful equation.

So, free Sadat X, I guess. Bring back that good music in Hip-Hop. Support out of town rappers who deserve praise and recognition. And drink Sweetwater beer when you’re in Atlanta, because it’s a local brew and it’s good. Don’t forget to bring your own joint when you go to a rap show, because cats are stingy with theirs. And don’t think that Atlanta has nothing to offer you New York niggas. We’re international, and we still appreciate the pioneers of the game, even if y’all don’t.)

And that’s what you call a good night.

[Young Michael Jordan]



What had happened was…

In honor of that last post for my homie ToeJoe (R.I.P.), I was going to write this cool ass post tonight. On some real, “Michael Jordan – Journalist At Large,” type of blogging. None of that, “THE UNDERWRITER could care less about your dewshy-ass feelings,” type of thing. That real journalism that other Hip-Hop bloggers write about, like the Erykah Badu listening party that just went down tonight at Mid City Café. Maybe even the Rick Ross shindig, or even the local rock band’s show at Drunken Unicorn that my white homie told me about.

But alas…


(See, this is why the F*ck I don’t go out in Atlanta. Niggas like Blaze ask axe me all the time what’s poppin’ in the clubs. I give them the same fonky ass reason. This city is built for tricks, and tricks are for kids. I’m not the one to be out chea using my check card to finance a lifestyle I’m not so sure I condone anymore. Sure, I like to get swervy like the rest of my heathens, but not to the tune of $100 or more, just to be seen by other niggas while I’m doing it so bigly.

And this is why I’m hot. I’m mad cuz I drove, about a hunned blocks. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. I still spent a hunned dollaz - that I ain’t got. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. The spot wasn’t fly; promoter should be shot. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. So I’m back at the crib, with Coronas and some pot. This is why, this is why, … You get it.

So here's where the phuckery began...

It was supposed to be a night of Hip-Hop journalist research. I was done running errands by 5pm, so I figured I'd get a head start on the buzz, since I had to drive downtown from East Cobb County, where Ne-Yo just tried to ghost-ride the whip a few days ago and found himself in the hootie-hoosegow. Better to get the buzz early and let it wear off by night, Cobb County boys ain't nuthin' to eff with. By the way, Ne-Yo's mugshot DOME GAME (nolo) is pretty unbecoming. Anyway, I called myself hitting up my favorite wireless bar first, to get pre-scummy off gin and tonic and Bass ale, right around happy hour. Cheers!

Two rounds of each, then an Alabama Slammer, just for the good folks back home. That’s five. Now, to all you M.A.D.D. motherf*ckers out there, don’t get upset. The gin and tonics were short. Plus I had a stomach full of MSG from lunch at China Dynasty. So I was still pretty clear headed by the time I rode out, on my way to meet the Leprechaun, en route to hear the new Erykah Badu.

Come on, now. Don’t act like you don’t know the Leprechaun. There’s a little green man in every hood who might be elusive, but if you find him, he’ll lead you to a pot of gold. I caught his ass and got the prize.

So that’s another action item scratched off my itinerary. I’m now cruising down 75S, on my way to Mid City Café, which according to Mapquest, was located at 845 Spring Street. I even went the extra mile and wrote down the address and other helpful information on a bar napkin earlier. It was between 5th and 6th Street, near West Peachtree. It was close to the Georgia Tech Barnes & Noble. I know the area.


The question was, if I really know the area, why the f*ck am I driving around in circles in midtown Atlanta, looking for a place that doesn’t seem to exist? See, this is how MA$E got caught up a few months ago, except that I really wasn’t looking for transtesticle prostitutes; I was trying to find the new Badu album party. And it would be so much easier if the building numbers didn't just jump from the 900’s to the 750’s on Spring Street, with no other club venue in sight besides The Cheetah, the notorious trick factory strip club.

I finally get tired of doing block donuts and park on a side street between 5th and 6th, figuring that I couldn’t be that stupid. Mapquest said it was right chea. So I walk around the corner, still on Spring Street, and what do I see? 845 Spring Street – Mid City Lofts. Some high priced condos that look tricknificient from the outside. But where’s the club?

I see a sweet, old black lady sitting behind the front desk, behind the door. Security, I guess. She buzzed me in, and I asked axed her if she knew where Mid City Café was. She smiled, and said that everybody kept axing her the same question that night. The lounge was on the other side of the building. The side facing the other street. In other words, the club wasn’t really on Spring Street at all; it was on West Peachtree. Thank you Mapquest, for your directional dewshery.


So I walks in and see that it ain’t poppin’. Not at all. The venue was a slit in the building’s front skirt, wide enough to look into but not enough to be happy about. Plus I felt like I looked pervy for showing up alone, dressed semi-rugged for what I thought was a Badu-inspired party. I walked in, and west-side walked it out. Shit was lame.

So what next? Let’s see about that Rick Ross thing that one of my editors told me about earlier via Gmail. Of course, I had earlier said, “Eff Rick Ross,” in conversation, but I didn’t really mean it now that I had driven 30 miles, for a lame listening party with no host and no real Baduism. At that point, I was just ready to hang out. But I was reminded by my editor by text that the Rick Ross event was RSVP-only. And yes, they were checking names at the door. Eff Rick Ross.

That left Option C: the local rock band at Drunken Unicorn. D.U. is located on Ponce de Leon, which ironically is also known for transtesticles, winos, doo-doo head-dummies and various losers, but there are some cool hangouts as well. FYI: If you’ve been to Atlanta and never visited MJQ, you aren’t really connected to the real scene.

So I park and approach the door, when I see a sign above the door that says they accept cash only, thanks, at the door and at the bar. I reached into my pocket and found 2 fives and 1 one. Not good enough math for a good time. So I walk in, get carded and ask axe the doorman to direct me to the nearest ATM. He said it was right outside, and the cover was $8.

I walk back outside, probably looking like I had been rejected for having a fake ID, and head for the ATM. I get there and see a sketch of some lunchbox white guy who I guess had been robbing fools left and right at the ATM. Not my problem! So I go for my card, and get all revved up for a good swiping. Then I notice the screen says, “Out of Order.”



So I look at the only viable alternative: The Kroger across the street. Surely there would be either my bank or a Bank of America inside, which is usually the custom in Atlanta. So I start walking across what has to be the longest grocery store parking lot in the metro area, smoking a ciggy and cursing the devil. I walk through the automatic doors, right up to the fat bastard security guard who looked like he was one chicken wing away from heaven, and asked axed him to point me towards the ATM.

He said, “Oh, it’s right there, my brotha!” I looked behind me, and lo and behold, there it was. A shitty little ATM machine that you could probably lift and run away with if it weren’t cemented to the floor. But I didn’t care at all. I loved this little financial booger bear, because it was going to set the night to music for me. All would be perfect. I once again reached for my check card, and this time I let it rip proudly through the reader like Nelly in “Tip Drill.” PIN number? Yessir! Fee? No problem! Amount? $40, please!!

… waiting patiently…

“We’re sorry; this machine is temporarily unable to dispense money. Please try again later.”


F*ck this. Three strikes and I’m out.

So I start the long walk back across the parking lot, probably looking like a loser who's balance was overdrawn and couldn't buy crack for the night. Lucky for me, one of my all time favorite spots in Atlanta, Dugan’s, is located directly across the street from Drunken Unicorn and known for the supercrunk chicken wangs. So I moved the car about 50 feet, grabbed my laptop bag and ate 10 lemon pepper joints, had a glass of Heineken, checked my email, read some blogs, used my Visa check card and called it a f*cking night for Atlanta. Sayonara, bitches.

On my way home, I stopped and copped a six of Corona, ate my leftover egg roll from China Dynasty and called the Leprechaun to thank him for the pot of gold he had given me earlier.)


That’s what you call a happy ending.




As I said before, THE UNDERWRITER used to be a Myspace slave, until he called "To Catch a Predator" and realized that Myspace is for secret perverts.


So now, Michael Jordan THE UNDERWRITER works for himself. Sure, Blogger gets its share, but I gets mine too. Get like me. The following post is a direct copy from Michael Jordan's dead Myspace blog, which was insanely popular before THE UNDERWRITER deaded it. You can't cheat the Reaper...


BIG BROTHER (Worth breaking my promise)
Current mood: sad
Category: Life

I'm writing this blog, in all honesty, with tears in my eyes. Seriously, I've cried a lot in the last few hours...

It all started in good cheer. Like I said in one of my bulletins, I had just recently finished editing a book. It was a triumphant coup... Me, the exiled music industry guru, being immediately connected back to the top tier of the business through my unbreakable contacts. Shout out to DL... I don't give him half as much credit as I should for helping me build my career...

Anyway, the tears are still growing in my eyes. But before I had anything to be sad about, I was having a great time chilling with two of my homeboys who I never get enough time with - Brian "B-Heat" Washington and Lance "Digital Fingaz" Matthews. I brought the Corona; they had the nicotene. Black men relaxing, reminiscing on the high school days and how we still have every potential possibility to take back our city and the southeast region - all in the name of quality music.

It was at the very end of a great time, talking shyte and remembering "the good ol' days", when I discovered that a great friend of mine, ToeJoe, had passed on in the last few months. And like usual, since I live in Atlanta, I had no idea until the funeral had passed and the body had been covered and laid to rest.

It hurt like I would never have expected...

When I found out, I had to leave immediately. ToeJoe was one of those few individuals who could walk the line between hard-core, thugged-out and intelligent, impressive and instantly loveable. We met at J. O. Johnson High School, and he co-signed me before I was willing to fight, even though I was raised to defend myself at all costs. You could have called him a "gentle giant", except for the fact that he was street-affiliated and heavily respected. I was lucky to have a friend like him.


This wouldn't have hit me so hard if he had not recently commented on my blogs. He was still living in Huntsville, and was very expressive about my writing, telling me that I was "the real deal." He even asked me to help him write his life story. But because I was "so busy"... I was lackadaisical about getting back to him about making it happen...

Now he's dead. And I'm very, very upset about it. What's bugging me out is that I didn't even cry two weeks ago, when my Aunt Gwen died in a Chattanooga hospital. It was almost as if I was expecting her death, so it didn't affect me as much. But I loved my aunt, so I can't accept that her passing was impersonal to my life. ToeJoe just happened to be there for a very influential part of my life, when others weren't willing to be nice or passive. You can't expect a gangster to be a gentleman, but when it happens you feel very protected. But gangsters don't show pity or piety; gangsters recognize strength where others ignore it. They recognize real, even when it's futuristic...

I'm fucked up over his death, which occured months ago to my knowledge. It not only hurts that nobody told me it happened, but also because he was sending me messages over Myspace about bettering himself and breaking away from the definition that American society had created for him. He was going for it, and I missed a great opportunity to be part of amplifying a voice of truth.

This is not my last blog, but I had to break my promise to not write another one just to honor the life of a person who meant a lot to me and many other residents of Huntsville, Alabama. Who cares if I'm late in eulogizing him; ToeJoe was a great friend. I'll miss him. Matter of fact, my eyes are watering again, even as I type... no bullshit.


R. Niambi

My heart goes out to you, Mike, I know you're in pain. Love you.

Posted by R. Niambi on Friday, September 14, 2007 at 3:09 AM

The Original

Peace Mike,

Again, I'm touched by your eloquence in painting emotion through a universe of electrical nodes for our eyes to see your inner-being. I hope this isn't the only time you break your promise because unlike many promises, this one needs to continually be broken. I feel your pain and know your struggle brother. Comfort comes in the memories we cherish. Mike, cherish those memories of your fallen friend. Keep striving. I can't wait to read the book.

Posted by The Original on Sunday, September 16, 2007 at 11:48 AM

Young Hughes For President!!

Toe Joe.....yeah, that was crazy. I heard the news out here in Cali, and I couldn't believe it. I had also been getting messages from him on MySpace telling me about his daughter, and how he was glad to be moving past being the thug that everybody knew him as. The crazy thing is, in my last conversation with him, I said that he was the last of a dying breed. The era of the REAL "G's" is over, and the world will be hard pressed to find another complex brother like him......

Posted by Young Hughes For President!! on Wednesday, September 26, 2007 at 11:25 AM

Rest in Peace, ToeJoe. We miss you out there in the 'Ville, even though I don't come home that much anymore...




Yo, before I even start this, let me say that THE HOMIE is a good friend. I consider good writers, especially local ones, to be La Familia, no matter where you're from or what you believe. I'm all for some Hip-Hop writers' renaissance shit, where we all stay in contact when it's possible, just to trade ideas and bounce shit off of each other, or at least keep bullshit from spreading and infecting the culture we've helped create.

I was so throwed when I checked Garland's blog, REZIDUE, and saw an image of a big, metallic canister of ether above one of his posts. My first thought was, "Damn; who pissed of M. Geezy?"


Then, I read the post. He went in on himself, on some Little Brother, "Can't Win for Losing" type shit, describing and detailing how his name came under attack on the hate-infested internet. Garland kept it 100 and told the truth - he had recently been "ethered", or became an "LOL-COW," as they call it, on the extremely popular Hip-Hop blog, NAHRIGHT. And it all happened when he decided to co-sign the Cunninglinguists as a respectable act in Hip-Hop, on a post about Nas's alleged Nigger album commercial. For the record, I have to co-sign as well. Shout to my homie Chuck Babb, who's down with the Cunnys.

The beautiful thing here is that Garland went against the rules, and he just might end up on top of this whole fuckfest if he pimps the game. I mean, if you wanted to make a joke out of my name (which might be hard, since I'm Michael Jordan), I'd use it to my advantage as well. It goes with the greatest rule in public relations: There's no such thing as bad publicity. But it also goes against the biggest rule in business: Never acknowledge the competition. The point is, it's a gamble either way.

For the record, don't you dumb-asses out there get any dull ideas and try me like that. No disrespect to Garland, but I'll thrash you on some totalitarianism type shit. Plus, I have famous friends, like Garland, whose name may get to platinum status - all on the backs of haters. I will be completely unsurprised when dude flips this into some fame shit and makes internet haters into unlikely cheerleaders. Ain't it ironic?

Pay your respects.





I’m a little distracted. I’m watching Donna Brazile on Anderson Cooper (nolo) 360, giving commentary on the newest debate between Barack Obama and … uh… I forgot, but Ms. Brazile (if ya nasty) has my heart racing. Forgive me if this one gets a little freaky, but I started thinking about oral sex for some reason, and I have a question I'd like for you to ponder, in the hope of making a point.

The question is quite simple. If you had the choice of your preferred method of sexytime with the partner of your choice, assuming that you are looking for the opposite sex, what is your favorite? I’ve been pondering this one for a long time, and it comes up (nolo) in conversation on the reggie. In my opinion, nothing is more safe or moral than decapitation. You know it as head. Not to go pr0n on you, but the truth is that sex is natural; sex is good. No George Michael. I’m just saying that not only men but women also enjoy the metaphysical phenomenons known as Fellatio Alger or Cunnilingus Rice. But I can recall a time when I was younger, when girls would swear up and down that they weren’t down with the get-down. The reasons girls gave for this were usually as follows:


Now that I'm past the age of 25 and I spend time talking to women, not girls, they don’t seem so aggy about it. I’ve noticed that once women cross the sands of time and get college degrees or fatherless children of their own, they don’t have such a hard time with free trade. (Chuckle.) When you are old enough to be responsible for your own car insurance and have an ID that says, “I can get into the old folks club,” you hear life through a new set of ears. Women say things closer to this:


So you can imagine my dumbfounded mental state when I finally decided to do a lil’ research and found some disturbing statistics. It looks like the kids are way ahead of us, and as the world turns, they’re turning into booty freaks. Here’s the gist.

Supposedly – gasp! – teenagers are into sex. And they’re having it all kinds of ways. Below you can check out statistics provided by William Saletan of Slate.com. Remember, this is his quote, and I’m not co-signing until I’m done reading the report. I’m just too lazy and comfy to investigate fully right now. If you want to scan through the details for confirmation, please do you. I’mma do me!


“There's no delicate way to put this, so I'll just quote the survey report: ‘For males, the proportion who have had anal sex with a female increases from 4.6 percent at age 15 to 34 percent at ages 22–24; for females, the proportion who have had anal sex with a male increases from 2.4 percent at age 15 to 32 percent at age 22–24.’ One in three women admits to having had anal sex by age 24. By ages 25 to 44, the percentages rise to 40 for men and 35 for women. And that's not counting the 3.7 percent of men aged 15 to 44 who've had anal sex with other men.”

Word to T-Pain: NO-LO; NO-Lo, No-lo, no-lo!
More below:

“According to data released earlier this year by the Centers for Disease Control, the probability of HIV acquisition by the receptive partner in unprotected oral sex with an HIV carrier is one per 10,000 acts. In vaginal sex, it's 10 per 10,000 acts. In anal sex, it's 50 per 10,000 acts. Do the math. Oral sex is 10 times safer than vaginal sex. Anal sex is five times more dangerous than vaginal sex and 50 times more dangerous than oral sex. Presumably, oral sex is far more frequent than anal sex.”

To be fair, the author was actually trying to take the conservative high road after that last sentence, but I’m an excellent editor. I use what I need and throw away the rest, as long as I’m pleased. Sorry. In this case, I didn’t feel as if more needed to be repeated; head is good, and if people are going to be freaks, it’s better for our health care system and our ideals of reciprocated love for us to go oral instead of anal. Conservatives can be correct sometimes, when you decode their dookey.

But back to the issue; is this where the kids are heading? Is Soulja Boy Tellem responsible for this ass-pokery, or is it B2K and Chris Stokes? Can you blame all these oily, shirtless rappers that Interscope loves to promote? Hell, they know that everybody may not have breasts or a vagine, but we all have assholes and opinions. That doesn’t make either of them worth exploiting for personal pleasure or perversion. I don’t condone teen sex, but when I was a teen, I was getting busy, as you should have been. To me, natural sex includes V.O. That means vaginal and oral, and maybe a little Seagrams. I’m not telling teenagers to get more head, but I am telling them to chill on their A-game. It’s more likely to land you a disease, make your dong really stink and create a bad sensation within the soul. You don’t want that. You want decapitation. Head saves lives. Make sure you’re setting a good example for the future, oh my brothers and sisters.

Ain’t no shame. Don’t say I never tried to told you something good.




Say goodbye to the guy who once made you believe that you were a future Hip-Hop mogul. Say R.I.P. to the person who danced in Jodeci and Father MC videos in the early nineties. Say peace to the man who put out "It's All About the Benjamins." Say good riddance to the name by which we once knew Sean John Combs.

Puffy / Puff Daddy / P. Diddy is dead. Who knows, Diddy is right there in the bottom right corner of the YouTubery posted above, but if you listen to the man, he's telling you like it is. He's got, no tiiime for fake names. He's officially crossed the glass ceiling of Hip-Hop, which is usually "label head" status (nolo) and negro endorser of white-owned products. My man is a household name, so I guess it makes sense for him to use his very own name, since he can't change faces when he calls himself by various nicknames. I mean have you ever looked up the word "Puffy" in Google Images? As long as you're not at work, try it right now and see what comes up...

Don't worry; I'll wait...

None of us close to 30 years old can lie and say we didn't aspire to having what Puffy had back in the 90's. He was big, but he was still something of a hood secret. Now, he's executive producing the ABC version of A Raisin in the Sun, and playing the starring role alongside some heavy hitters. It'll be better than the Broadway version, I'm sure, because a TV production has editing. Broadway is live.


Sean John Combs wants you to know him as an actor now. He wasn't so pressed back when Oliver Stone first courted him for Any Given Sunday, but now he seems convinced that with his presence, money and power, he can move Hollywood his way. More power to him. But it is sort of depressing that he's showing us that he's too grown for Hip-Hop. Jay-Z is already wearing suits, and he hasn't been in the executive chair that long.

I've always wondered what would happen if Puffy fell off. Would rap music lose it's number one stunner and lose its standing in world culture if the biggest name in the business were no longer commerically viable as an artist? Well, look around, my brothers and sisters; it looks like we're at that moment. Are we as Hip-Hoppers too immature to see that even our heroes are abandoning us? Has the money in music dried up that bad, or is Hollywood poontang just that attractive that video hoes are no longer good enough? Or is Hip-Hop just dead?


Who cares, right? TIME MAGAZINE thinks he's still that dude, and I'm not hating. Unforgivable actually smells pretty damn good, to be honest. Eff it: Long live Sean Combs. He probably deserves to settle into being a thesbian, and we're just too blinded by his DIAMOND IPOD to see that not even precious jewels can sell wack rap music anymore. May the name remain, even if the character is no more.





I'm in a good mood today. In honor of the total lunar eclipse tonight, here are some links for you that I found while digging through the internet graveyard, combing for lost souls and free music.

To get information about how the moon will be red tonight:
(shout to NPR)

To see how someone spent a day of their own life to clown Angel Lola Luv on Myspace:
(shout to Fresh @ Crunk & Disorderly & Necole Bitchie)

To get all the free Cam'ron & Dipset music that matters in your life:
(shout to the SOHH forums)

To see another reason why hell is filled with false prophets profit$ and gay black reverends:
(shout to Marv & crew @ Bossip & Livesteez)

To learn why Gov. Arnold Schwarzennegger is a black plowman and white people were "niggers" first:
(shout to Billy Sunday @ Dallas Penn & XXL.com)

To understand why even Jimmy Iovine thinks that the music business is dead:
(shout to Eskay @ Nahright)

I'm heading out of town for a day. I'll be back Friday. Please don't cry.



This is going to be the crunkest election ever. Believe me or not, oh my brothers and sisters. Barack Obama BLACK ALABAMA is going to win the next election for POTUS, which will occur this year. You’re witnessing history in the making, and your punk ass had better be involved. I’ve argued my own Mom down to her last wits just to support the first realistic chance that a truly deserving Black man will ever get in our lifetime. She’s a Hillary supporter, which makes sense in her case, because she’s always been an advocate for Hillary. The lady does have a heart.


But really; there’s a difference here. Black Alabama has a great chance, and I’m not just thinking about my own racial pride when I say that I’m voting and promoting his cause. After all, he’s WON 9 PRIMARIES IN A ROW. Did Jesse Jackson ever do this? I think not. Like Snoop Doggy Dogg said in my last post, Jesse was a joke. Nobody really believed in him. But this is so different.

So, what the hell is a Black man to do when it comes to portraying the look of leadership? Is he supposed to look like a surrogate of the Democratic Party? Should he have been nicer about the fact that he has the ability to draw more votes from the Republicans than his competitor in his quest for the nomination? Should he just succumb to the “reality” that American will never elect a Black POTUS? Eff the B.S. He has what it takes, and I just happen to be Nolo enough to admit it. Call me fearless, if you ain’t scared.

Dude is going to be the Democratic nominee. Deal with it. Dare to believe in the system again, because we unexpectedly have an opportunity to make history here. That is, of course, if these house-nigga ass-wipes have the nerve to actually vote their conscience. Don’t expect THE UNDERWRITER to believe in the intelligence of America just yet, but I do believe we’re witnessing a real, actual movement.

May the Black best man person win.






This following post is why you can’t be prejudgmental (is that a word?) when it comes to the intelligence of rap or rappers. You just never know; the same rapper who gets arrested constantly, associates himself with a gang and takes women to award shows wearing dog leashes might actually be a well-spoken, articulate, thoughtful, respectful and chivalrous gentlemen when asked axed about race issues in America. Even if chivalry is dead.


Conversely, a poster boy for nerd rap that would appear to have a superior I.Q., diversity in cultural understanding, a love for skateboarding, pop radio crossover potential and a legion of internet fans could actually be an intellectual Bozo, whose quirky image could just be a firewall that scares interviewers away from asking the deep questions - a “stupid shield” of sorts.


Because I have super powers and can read your fear-ensconced minds, oh my dear readers, let me go ahead and tell you what you think. You think that Snoop Dogg < Lupe Fiaschoe in terms of lyrical ability, therefore Lupe Fiaschoe > Snoop Dogg in the art of communicating his ideas. Snoop > Lupe when it comes to money, but not when it comes to brilliance, right?

Tha Doggfather:

Lupe Fiaschoe:

Right now, you’re thinking to yourself, “Wow. I never knew that Snoop’s intelligence >>> Lupe’s bullshit. Isn’t that ironic?”


THE POOL TABLE TIMES, VOL 1: The GOP is Doomed with Eternal Stupidity


THE UNDERWRITER is a beast on the pool table, and you can't see me. The following long-ass blog is a true story that only yours truly can properly tell. Grab a cold beer and relax; this will only take about five minutes, immediately following this image from our sponsors...


And now, on to the story...

I don't even argue or get into deep conversations with Republicans anymore. It's like Fox News. They keep talking crazy until listeners get tired and let them rant. So I just laugh, because I know that beneath the surface, those cats are finally worried. They weren't in 2000 or in 2004, but they are now. And this became clear to me after 20 racks of my favorite game - billiards.

I had a late night pool game session with a Republican youngster (TRIPLE NOLO) about a week ago. Normally, I’m used to thrashing my so-called “competition” on the green table. It’s nothing. But this time, my Slim Shady friend won every rack, like clockwork. I don’t know about you, but when I lose at something, I congratulate the winner and watch him or her like a hawk. This way, you pick up the traits of people who’ve studied something for a lifetime in mere minutes, like Cliff’s Notes.

I learned a lot from my young Caucasian buddy just from watching him shoot and asking questions. He told me something I wasn’t sure I liked hearing: my follow-through was shitty. Wow. It’s funny, hearing that from a white guy who is younger than you, especially when you’re black and it relates to a pool table. You have to check your ego for the sake of figuring out if he’s actually correct. In this case, he was. He told me that I was pushing forward and off to the side when I shot, which meant that my posturing was bad and that my shots were more likely to miss the hole. That’s all I needed to hear, but he continued. He went on to suggest that I should relax my stance a bit, and then he said that my head was too high above the pool stick when I was aiming for my shot. After I missed the next pocket, he gave me an example. “Your chin should touch the stick,” he said, “and your elbow should be close to your side. If not, you’re aiming on a guess.”


Dude continued to win all night, from place to place. We hit three different pool halls, just to see if the tide would change, which it didn't. But since I'm privy to the best secret in America (white people will buy all the drinks if you let them), I took my defeat in stride. And I mentally recorded everything he suggested. As a result, I severely defamed all challengers tonight, a week later at the same pool hall, with an undefeated record of 8-0.

Going back to a week earlier, after cats got tired of pool, we ordered another draft pitcher and started talking drunken politics. Oh, how the tides magnificently turned. Just as I felt that I was on respectable ground on the pool table and was bested, he found out that he was speaking to his superior in terms of political savvy and world affairs. Come to find out, Slim Shady was a true-blood Republican, and was intent on voting for Gov. Mike Huckabee of Arkansas for POTUS. Before that statement, cats had discovered that we actually had a lot in common, as far as upbringing. Still, imagine me being not surprised at all by this revelation. But dude was actually trying to act disappointed by my unofficial affiliation with the DNC, as if I had any logical reason to support a Republican candidate in 2008, if ever.


Just to amuse myself, I asked him why the hell should I be expected to cast my precious vote for a member of the GOP, when the party still employs the tactics of Richard Nixon’s SOUTHERN STRATEGY?

He had no comeback.

Then I asked him how a Republican candidate could win an election when the party's incumbent put us in a recession, while promoting a war that everyone except his friends considers to be one of the worst foreign policy disasters in American history?

Slim Shady nodded. Trust me, I gave him time to speak.

Then I told him that regardless of whether I was right or wrong, Republican turnout in the primaries has been drastically less than Democratic turnout. This meant that the Republicans are on course for a serious landslide, and a karmic shift in power. Oh, and what about the gay scandals? Nolo?

He started turning red, or maybe it was blood orange or hot pink. Anyway, in a frustrated tone, he asked me why I would support Barack Obama or even Hillary Clinton in a general election, and what was the most important issue to me. I told him that the answer was the same for both questions: education. This doosh-flower had the nerve to hit me with that, “Oh, you silly mortal,” laugh. In between the crackles of a faked giggle fit, he repeated the word “education” like it was a joke he had heard months ago from a Katt Williams comedy special. And his delivery came off just as lackluster.


And alas, herein lays the irony. Dude acted like I had called Jesus a Muslim when I told him that education is my biggest national priority. Yet I triumphed over all competitors tonight, in his absence, by using his methods. Not that I probably wouldn't have beat everyone anyway, but I actually used his advice, which worked. By being humble enough to watch and listen, I took his strengths and made them my own. And then I owned him in a one-on-one debate, and it felt great. But if I wasn’t always looking to improve my game, on all levels, I would be reducing confining myself to being a perpetual loser. This is the Republican fate in 2008; they are unwilling to accept change, therefore they are guaranteed to ultimately fail. I choose not to lose, and like I said at the top, I choose not to argue with Republicans. Me and Slim Shady are still cool, and I welcome more of his free beer and pool table politics. But if you want my honest opinion, it's like all those cats ultimately want is war and racism until they're rich enough to kill us all.

Reminds me of that pool scene in Boomerang, where Martin Lawrence explains the subliminal racism of billiards…





Damn the devil to hell; I'm so tired it doesn't make sense - the post I was going to publish tonight, that is. Your homie had a long week, and although I'm anxious to put up new material, which is fired up and ready to go (Obama '08), I just can't post this mentally-tarnished buffoonery that I just pooted onto my laptop screen. Really, you deserve better. Plus I might be drunk too. Just maybe.

Anyway, expect dopeness tomorrow. I'm about to have another Bud Select and a smoke, and from there I'm going to watch Superbad until I pass out. Hope your Friday night is as relaxing as mine. Just so you can't say I left you with nothing, here are a few vids of some of my favorite deceased comics below.

I'll holla at y'all tomorrow. Get like me.




"Ahh, death; where is thy sting!?"




That "Michael Jordan" character is a monthly columnist for AUC Magazine. The opinions stated in this post are not necessarily those of THE UNDERWRITER. But since they share the same brain, they sometimes get their blogs tangled (nolo).

(Written 2 weeks ago)


History will treat the New England Patriots kindly, because they executed a perfect regular season in the N.F.L in 2007, and fans of the game may be so excited to see history that few may remember later what they’re already willing to forget.

Looking back at 2007’s horrible year for sports public relations, a person might wonder what further catastrophes will present themselves in 2008. In an industry of competition with clear boundaries of fairness, we witnessed the hunt for a Giant, the grounding of Falcons and an assortment of sports idols murdered, jailed, or released from lucrative endorsement contracts. We had an N.B.A. referee betting on games he personally officiated, a Tennessee Titans cornerback whose entourage made it rain with both dollars and bullets in Las Vegas and an Olympic gold medalist who may lose more than she owns trying to redeem herself in the eyes of the law. Make no mistake; the new public enemy is the American athlete.

While Patriots coach Bill Belichick was given a $500,000 fine by N.F.L. commissioner Roger Goodell and stripped of selecting a first-round draft pick this year, it hardly compares to the treatment of Michael Vick, Marion Jones, Barry Bonds, Pacman Jones or even Tim Donaghy, all of whom allegedly broke the law, in all fairness. Yet according to ESPN.com, the actual fine Belichick received represents only 12% of his annual salary – perhaps more of a penance than a punishment.


The Patriots and their coach definitely deserve praise. Not only did they accomplish a football Ocean’s 11, but they got away with it with a relative slap on the wrist. As we celebrate the team’s success, as if we were either on the field between Randy Moss and Tom Brady or in the editing room with Patriots video assistant Matt Estrella, maybe we should just avoid the moral hurdles on the marathon to witnessing another glorious sports story in our time. Some people say that America was founded on cheating others. In this metaphorical sense, patriotism is alive and well in America, as long as you continue to win.

Michael Jordan is a copywriter, journalist and book editor living in Atlanta, Georgia. His company, Full Court Press, delivers public relations services to entertainment and media businesses nationwide. Jordan also works as a marketing consultant for Goldfinger Creative, and his blog, www.theunderwriters.blogspot.com, is updated weekly.


UPDATE: "And you all know how the story GOES!"