Writers are mentally fucked. It’s not a theory; it’s a given. In my case, maybe you noticed that I took something like two weeks off from blogging. Let’s just say that life caught up with me recently, and there was absolutely no room for recreation. Of course, the title stays in the South, so everything’s fine and dandy now. I’m now back on my happy, creative bender.


But that brings me to this point. Why, I ask axe myself, are people like me so damn aggy sometimes? If I may speak for creative types, and I can, we’re always upset and brooding about something, and even though some great writers that I know are always cool and congenial, I can always find multiple frustrations in their eyes. And I understand; sometimes it takes a lot to be creative; other times it’s nuuuthin’. But to all things, there is a season.

This leads me to one of today's lead stories on AOL.com, which for some dumb ass reason is still the internet homepage of your homie THE UNDERWRITER. I’m looking at the normal sensational bullshit that AOL puts in it’s news headlines, and I see a link for a story on J.K. Rowling, the billionaire Harry Potter genius. Come to find out, this chick actually CONTEMPLATED SUICIDE.

Think about that. A woman who is now one of the richest in the world was convinced that her best option, during the fuckfest of life known as her “twenties”, was to say, “Fuck it,” and self-kick the proverbial bucket. Again, think about that. There would have been no Harry Potter. There would have been no billions. There would have been no famous J.K. Rowling.


That made me curious, so I Googled the phrase, “Famous+writers suicide attempts,” and was surprised at what I found. CHECK IT OUT, if you are interested in seeing how many pioneers of creative and intellectual thought actually believed themselves to be losers. For good measure, HERE'S ONE MORE. As it turns out, the best writers tend to be bipolar, like that “journalist” dewsh-tini, Michael Jordan. That dude is fucking crazy – take my word for it. But I can say with true faith that he’s never thought about committing suicide, because the idea is supremely stupid to him. At least in my opinion; not his. Jordan thinks he’s THE BEST WRITER ALIVE. I think he sucks, but at least he’s not a quitter.

But you might be surprised to find out how many of the most celebrated authors and writers of all time were mentally fucked. Is this a pattern, you ask? Does this mean that creative people are crazy? Should you hang yourself with a tampon string tonight?

Homie, I don’t have all the answers. All I can tell you is that Michael Jordan, being the moron that he is, is no fan of euthanasia, and THE UNDERWRITER is immortal. So, unfortunately, it looks like we’re stuck with each other for life. But it is somewhat comforting to know that sick minds think alike, and great minds are mostly fucked. Reassuring, to say the least.

As THE BEST WRITER ALIVE, it takes a lot of energy to extract myself from craziness as it occurs and to stay focused on this blog. The goal is to finish the book I’m writing - this year. Other goals are there, such as going back to school, leaving Atlanta (for a looong time, if not forever), becoming debt-free and moving out of my own shadow. My sincerest apologies to those who expected more from me in the recent past, especially with all this political fuckery, tornadoes in Atlanta, bullshit rap beef and even real Hip-Hop festivals going on that I could have been speaking on. But give a black man a break, for God’s sake. The business of dead shit is never over. Everybody deserves a vacation every now and then, especially when it’s your job to deliver the death toll. I like to think of it as a cycle. I can’t be too positive or negative for too long without needing to stop and smell the dead roses.

So go somewhere and get a life, you weirdo. And thanks for being a mental patient.


I’m back!!! (as if I ever left this bitch, huh baby?)


DEADLINES - A Writer's Frustration with Freeloaders


THE UNDERWRITER is the product of years of journalistic frustration and failed attempts at humility. As a reporter, a staff writer, an editor and a public relations consultant, I've been on the bad business end of the long dick of the literary field and entertainment industry (nolo) more times that I'd like to admit. Nine out of ten times, I’ve helped those close to me get on and get dough, only to see no bread when it starts baking. Now, I help no one but yours truly, unless of course I really want to do it. Hoes gotta eat too.

That’s the key, isn’t it? In my opinion, the media is littered with fame fluffers who most closely resemble something like a mole on my ball satchel. A plethora of nut huggers and assorted smegma. Plenty of people expecting you or I to deny our need for economic gain just for the chance to be involved. Friends and other fuckers with their hands out, asking axing for assistance when they know that business is business is business, and slavery ended with Lincoln. Even though I write from the underside of all things, I do have a humanitarian heart, even though there's not a charitable bone in my body (nolo). Especially when I know you're not starting a non-profit. You want to make money, and that takes money. Especially when you're dealing with the best.

HUNTER S. THOMPSON - The Inspiration


In other words, dear readers, I’m not the one to help you or anyone else further their PROFITABLE career, unless there’s something in it for your homie. That means, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t work for you without an incentive, and you don’t deserve my billable hours at the low-low rate of $Free.99. We’re just not that fucking cool. And if you can't afford my services, you need to get your weight up.



But if we are cool, and I believe in what you’re doing – and you aren’t secretly getting paid and leaving me with the pocket lint – I might be willing to barter. You scratch my back and vice versa (nolo). But don’t expect me to sympathize with your lack of necessary funding, and don’t believe that I’m so hungry to advance my career that I simply want to be “published.” No, hoe, I want to be paid like a pimp.



This past week, while taking a few days off from posting blogs, I was coming up with new personal slogans. This comes from my other side job as a copywriter; I tend to come up with a few classic lines every now and then that make it to national eyes and ears through my clients and connects. But I always save the best for myself, because I own it anyway. So I came up with my newest credo this week, and just so you don’t think I’m that stingy with the creative juice, I’ll share the wisdom with you heathens.

“If it ain’t me, it ain’t free.”

That means that if I’m not working for myself, I’m not working for zero down and no interest until 2010. I’m not a used car salesman; I’m the best writer alive, even though this blog is dead.


It also means that if I do decide, by some miraculous example of divine intervention, that I want to help someone else move forward without being compensated for my time and mental expenditure, I’m going to do it my way. There is no representation without taxation, and THE UNDERWRITER has already paid his dues just to keep the party going. You want my help, you’ll accept it as it comes. And without payment, you’d better expect me to be as late as I want to be. Or as rebellious with my ideas as I feel fit.

Sorry to subject you to this immaculate assholery that I’m on today. Contrary to what you might be thinking as you read this, I’m actually in a very splendid mood. I always meet my deadlines, even when they’re not benefiting me beyond knowing that my writing is still in the public view. I love being involved in new and upcoming things that are sure to break the mold. I get thrills and chills when I see something I’ve done make it’s way into the pantheon of literary f*ckery that we call The Beast The Media.

But I don’t work for free, so don’t ask unless you feel extremely lucky. The writer gets paid first, because being “The Best Writer Alive” means that you must believe in your own worth and value more than anyone else, or you’ll never reap the rewards for your hard work and dead-ication.

THE UNDERWRITER - The Best Writer Alive


Pay like you weigh, bitches. Live long and prosper.


CHIVALRY IS DEAD - Vote or Die pt. 2


If you've read the post below, which was written on Monday, you already know the scenario. That journalist idiot, Michael Jordan, wrote two versions of his monthly column, just in case Hillary stayed in the race.

The following is the O.G. version of the column, called, "Tell Your Mama to Man Up." It is in reference to the fact that some people are/were too afraid to vote for Obama, for whatever reason. Jordan believes that Hillary Clinton is splitting the black female vote with Obama, and I guess he doesn't understand why all black people aren't voting for him. What a tool. Anyway, here's what MJ had to say about this version:


I love my mother, but when it came to our debate over Hillary Clinton vs. Barack Obama, I was somewhat shocked that she had certain opinions that ran contrary to my own. After all, she raised me. It's weird when your parents stick with a political safety net, while your generation builds a new political reality right before their eyes.

It's also crazy that the Texas primary was called for Clinton, yet it is Obama who is now expected to win when the votes are fully counted later this month. So it's almost perfect timing for both versions of the column, which of course couldn't run next to each other, so I just figured that they should be put out there in some form. My Umi said shine your light on the world. Word to that throwback Jordan commercial...


Whatever. So here's the first one. I'm somewhat interested in your comments, even though I'm not tripping at all if you're too shook to leave one, what with all this quasi-schizophrenia you're currently witnessing.

And now, on to the show...



I have a politically-inclined family, thanks to genetics. Mom has a Ph.D. in political science, and Dad does his thing as well. This puts me directly in the line of fire to study this opera known as politics, just to be able to join in family conversation from time to time. The "quan" of the Jordan family is beer, barbecue, card games and politics. We go over everything from elections, laws, Supreme Court rulings, welfare, education and Iraq policy.


I had already left Morehouse when my father became the Chief Operating Officer of Atlanta, replacing Larry Wallace after he was indicted for corruption. Dad didn’t last long; he wasn’t feeling the pressure that the F.B.I. was laying down on former mayor Bill Campbell’s administration. He didn’t want to be involved and he felt the heat coming down, so instead of having to stick around and testify against his boss for things he didn’t know, he left office before Campbell’s term was up. And he was right in doing so, because not only did Mr. Wallace end up serving federal time, but so did Mayor Campbell. By the way, Campbell’s still locked up, and some people will tell you that it is an injustice. I try as hard as possible to stay impartial.

Campbell was quite an inspirational figure in his time. While he reigned over Atlanta, Atlanta reigned over the country in urban culture. I almost feel sorry for many of the current students in the Atlanta University Center, because you’ll never know college life during Freaknik or Bad Boy Weekend, or what Lenox Mall was like before the buffoonery.

I do not wish to put down the current student lifestyle that exists in Atlanta, but in all honesty, it’s not the same experience as I had before Bush took office. I went to Morehouse in the mid-Nineties, and my class has done quite well for itself. That includes Spelman, Clark and Morris Brown. This was the true A.U.C. experience, and because we had a Democratic president at the time, things were decent. You actually knew that you could score a job with decent wages because the whole country was optimistic. We had nothing to fear and everything to gain.


Next thing you know, Bill was replaced by Bush, and America was held hostage for the last seven years. I won’t get too political, but I think that besides a few readers who may be too brainwashed to believe, we all see that a Democratic president is best for minorities. And if you attend an H.B.C.U., you have no excuse to not vote in the blue category in 2008. Anything less would be profoundly stupid.

That doesn’t mean that you should automatically support Barack Obama. You should question him, investigate his positions and decide whether or not he is the best candidate for your precious vote. If he doesn’t meet your standards, don’t be swayed. If he does, don’t be afraid. My mother, who is divorced from my father and also a Democrat, is a supporter of Hillary Clinton. She and I went through pure purgatory last week, arguing and trying to make each other see our political philosophies regarding our chosen candidates. Truth be told, we’re different after all, which I never would have guessed before she tried to tell me that she didn’t believe that America was ready for a black Commander-in-Chief.


My point for this month is that I believe in Barack Obama, and I’m willing to tell my own mother when I believe that she is wrong about certain reservations for casting her vote in his name. We as a minority race have no more room for fear or worry. We have to take the initiative and put in place someone who doesn’t care if he’s black enough, as long as he’s good enough. Every time I hear this guy speak, I’m inspired at his eloquence and total confidence. It’s something I want my children to know about. And it’s something that my own mother is not yet convinced is possible.


Don’t worry; I’m working on it.


CHIVALRY IS DEAD - Vote or Die pt. 1

Just in time for what should have been the last Democratic primary contests yesterday, that journalist idiot Michael Jordan wrote another column for AUC Magazine. Actually, in true "Over-writer" fashion, dude went the extra mile and wrote two pieces, just in case. Here's what MJ has to say about this undertaking...


Most of the time, if there's a possible problem with the timing of an editorial piece, I'd rather just write something else instead of editing something I've already written. And in some cases, like this one, the outcome of a particular situation can make a story irrelevant, such as predicting that Obama would win at least two of the primaries yesterday and wrap up the nomination.

So here's what I did. After having written one column, called "Tell Your Mama to Man Up," I wrote a second column for the same issue, just in case Obama effectively knocked Clinton out of the race. As I figured, it didn't happen like that. But it has created a scenario where I can actually put up both column prototypes, because now they both make sense.


Whatever. Jordan thinks he's smart or something. I think he's on that dewshery. But anyway, here is the second version of his column, which will be the one that gets published. The first one will be posted immediately following this one, as Part 1.

Read 'em and weep.


BY: Michael Jordan


E-X-P-E-R-I-E-N-C-E-D… Do you know what that means?

My definition is that someone is qualified enough to be considered viable for a task. If I need a literary agent, I would look first among people who have proven themselves worthy of the job. Then I would look for someone that could understand my own vision, and I would investigate whether or not I could agree with theirs. Finally, I would look for a certain fire within each person courting the position. But it is not a prerequisite that we share the same racial heritage, and if we did, he would not owe me anything besides honesty and hard work for the chance to represent such a great client as myself, like anyone else.

When I look at Barack Obama, I see an anomaly rather than a black president. This is probably how many Americans of all racial backgrounds see him - very different; very presidential. Though he is an African-American, he is clearly not skewed towards making black issues the biggest issues in the country. Maybe that’s why it has taken the black “leaders” so long to either publicly endorse him or to discontinue their subliminal attacks on his commitment to his ethnic heritage. I certainly haven’t heard him say much about reparations under an Obama administration.

Tavis Smiley was recently reminded that no presidential candidate should ever attend a summit that promotes the cause of his own skin color. You would think that with Smiley’s intelligence, he would understand the political stupidity that a move like this would suggest on Obama’s part. Governor Bill Richardson didn’t try to be the Mexican Marcus Garvey while he was still running; he knew he had to be about commonality of people rather than his own culture. Obama is not so inexperienced that he would become, after coming this far in the presidential campaign, the new Mulatto Montezuma.

Experience is more than years of work or education. Experience is the sum of a person’s credible intelligence, while witnessing good and bad events along the path to wisdom. For all we know, basketball may have given Obama the foundation he needed to have arrived at this historic moment in American history, which is pretty black in my book. His best political offense has been the defense of his ideas and intentions during debates, interviews and speeches. He’s able to drive through the lane and drop countless lay-ups while drawing fouls from the other teams, and even scores extra points. Did you know that he has played basketball on the day of every state primary or caucus except New Hampshire? That’s the only one he’s lost (that counts).


If Obama is indeed applying basketball strategies to his campaign, this alone should be enough to satisfy Tavis Smiley and every black person who believes that he doesn’t represent our interests. All sarcasm aside, the Senator’s resume looks a lot better than most Americans of any color. Plus, he has proven his viability by defying all rules and odds by lasting this long in the race. In my opinion, experience is not an issue because he has obviously paid dues. Obama owes black people nothing more than to keep up the good work, until we actually elect him. It is actually the obligation of those of us who believe he deserves the job to vote for him this fall. By the way, what has Tavis Smiley done for you lately?





In case you’re somewhat new to this seventh layer of Hell, which I like to call, “The Underworld,” you may not know that I keep track of who passes on, or in the funny cases, who kicks the proverbial bucket, from time to time. I mean, you’d think that a guy who calls his ink pen a "scythe" (and kills the competition) would at least keep an accurate account of who gets bodied along the way. Well, my weird friends, here is the bad news that you can depend upon me to deliver. In this case, we have one loser and two people who I don't think deserved their death sentences. But then again, I’m not God. Do me a favor, and please, pay your respects.



I’m sorry, but this dude is a f*cking idiot. This same guy BECAME A FUGITIVE years ago, while putting out mixtapes against his label, Priority Records. As if they were the reason why the law wanted him. I’m sorry again, but po-po doesn’t come after you for not releasing an album within the time limit of your recording contract. You’ve obviously broken a bigger rule than that.

So he goes on the lam, either gets caught or turns himself in (I don’t care enough to research it), and does a couple years or so. Comes out claiming to be “The King of L.A.” As if Snoop wasn’t still around. As if The Game wasn’t responsible for bringing the first multi-platinum plaque back to L.A. in years. As if Ice Cube wasn’t still selling gold – independently. Cube made more money off of one independent album than Ras-Kass probably received his whole career in label advance money. Which is, of course, recoupable (look it up). If you remember, Game was upset enough at some of Ras-Kass’s rhymes that he gave Kass a black eye, to match his black revolutionary disposition, I guess. Oh, the irony.

Now, according to Illseed, Ras-Kass is in the first few months of a three-year bidsky for who cares what. As in, right now, while I’m typing and drinking beer, he’s in jail. But if dude really thinks he can even start that, “I’m the king,” dewshery again, when he gets out in 2011, he’ll automatically earn one title: The Dumbest Rapper Alive. God knows, I don't want to see another rapper jailed, but - word to Lupe Fiaschoe – a good vocabulary doesn’t always mean that you’re smart.

REALLY DEAD (No Humor Intended):
Static from Playa and Juvenile’s Daughter



Do you know that Static was one of the best songwriters alive when he passed? Here’s what HIP-HOP ELEMENTS said about his passing:

Among the major hits Static wrote lyrics for are Aaliyah's "Are You That Somebody" and "Try Again"; Ginuwine's "So Anxious" and "Pony"; Nas and Ginuwine's "You Owe Me"; Pretty Ricky's “On the Hotline" and Truth Hurts' "Addictive."

Let me take it a step further. He also wrote “We Need a Resolution,” “Rock the Boat”, “More Than a Woman,” “Same Ol’ G” by Ginuwine, and one of my favorite songs that you’ve never heard, “Joy,” which was on Timbaland & Magoo’s first album. When I tell you that song is the truth, you should not only believe me; you should either go buy the album or download it. Trust me, the track is hard to find. But if you’re interested in finding out about even more songs he wrote that you might love, CHECK THIS SITE.

This is one of those stories that I find a little depressing, because dude was the serious truth. He could rap, sing and write, and I always told people that he was dope, even though I liked the fact that I knew something that other’s didn’t. Selfishness… yuck. He was probably one hit away from being a star in his own rite. Now, he’s gone, because of something nobody saw coming. R.I.P., Static. Cheers 2 U. At least it’s better than a bullet…



This one is… man. Four years old. Yo, I can barely even speak on it, because I have no idea how to comprehend it, how to cope with if I were a father, or how it could happen in the first place. Basically, Juvenile’s daughter – yes, that Juvenile – WAS KILLED by her older half-brother. He also killed his mother and another sibling.

When this type of tragic shit happens, it makes you wish you had the power to keep people from suffering in the first place. Then again, that might be vanity, which is a deadly sin. Let's just pray that Jelani is beyond the trials of this life, and is now freer than anyone on Earth - laughing and enjoying eternity, while waiting for us to join her and everyone else whose spirit was true enough to cross over into Nirvana while still somewhat innocent.

They say the good die young...

“This ain’t funny, so don’t you dare laugh.” – Slick Rick