BIPARTISANSHIP IS DEAD

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PRIDE, DIGNITY, SELF-RESPECT - THEY'RE ALL DEAD

Warning. This shit is sad. You've been warned.

So I was riding along I-20 yesterday afternoon on my way back from Birmingham, taking in my daily dose of the best news program on the planet, NPR. Forget whatever you heard or thought; no television station, newspaper, magazine, blog or website does a better job of reporting the events that occur in our world with as much consistency and objectivity. Which reminds me, I need to go ahead and start donating money (whenever I get some).

But back to the point. While I'm enjoying my highway cruise, I was flabbergasted by a story about PRINCELLA SMITH, a 24-year old Republikkkan who is an African-American female and happens to be a member of Newt Gingrich's think tank, American Solutions. CLICK HERE FOR THE AUDIO. And if you will excuse me for a moment while you listen, I will now puke on myself.

*earling*


Ok, we're back. So anyway, this heifer intelligent black woman has decided to show her independence and freedom by being a token negro mascot for the GOP. She even had a blog post published at one of my favorite liberal bully blogs that attacked my beloved Hip-Hop. Check it out:

Sadly, the new slave master portrayed in many (not all) rap videos is the black man.

The executives and heads of these hip hop record companies are white males who sell 4 out of every 5 rap records recorded to a young, white, suburban, male audience. This image of oversexed black men who disrespect women, wear gun wounds as a badge of honor and brag of "bling and bills" is ingrained into the minds of white America, and thus becomes a new form of bondage for African-Americans. These young white men go out into the corporate world, and many are eventually sitting behind a desk to hire employees, and we want them to be objective. Yet, in their subconscious lies these images of African-Americans.

SOURCE: THE HUFFINGTON POST

Good try, sista. Now, let's examine that theory a little bit more. If we are seriously defined as a race by the entertainment that we created for our own enjoyment and is now an incredibly popular worldwide financial juggernaut, that would not be a failure upon our part in sending a clear message. The onus lies upon the anuses who listen and believe anything they hear, see and read. All art is open to interpretation, and what seems like mysogynistic and self-hating garbage to you might be comedy to me. In other words, I don't have to tell a joke or write a sentence that you like, if I don't wish to do such a thing. If you like it, great! If not, kill yourself!

Here's an example. I don't get upset at Oprah, Tyra or that other black woman on The View when they say dumb shit that I don't agree with or could shine a negative light on black men. I just think that they're entitled to their own opinions, and then I ask axe myself, "Why the eff am I watching Oprah?" Immediately following this revelation, I shake my head and change the channel. Problem solved. I don't sit around and wonder, "But what if white women believed that all black men were worthless, irresponsible, shiftless, immature animals with bad credit? Do you know what that would do to interracial dating and the population of light skinned babies? Oh, the horror!"

That was a joke. All I'm trying to get across here is that if you don't like something, don't watch, listen to or read it. Leave it the hell alone, like I'm doing with your beloved GOP convention. And I'm going to do my best to ignore you, my sista, because you are being used like a rubber dildo by the Republikkkans to sodomize the African-American race in a manner that Nelly could never achieve with a million "Tip Drill" videos.

My problem with Princella Smith is that she is a tool. If she doesn't know it, then there is hope for her yet. Ignorance is bliss, but nothing lasts forever. Now, if she does realize that she is letting the Republikkkans parade her around town as their new weapon against their own reputation of racial hatred, then she is despicable, stupid and a classic sell-out. And I'm sure that will put her on the path to the Supreme Court like another famous GOP ball-blower.





For the record, Ms. Smith, I do not judge you for being an opportunist. I'll pray for you tonight, even. Now go back to your aluminum shack behind Massa's house and finish shucking corn for tonight's GOP convention dinner. I'm sure they'll save the "chitterlings" for you.




Lord, give me a sign.

T.O.C.: Day 39 - THE REPUBLIKKKAN "PARTY" IS DEAD

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THE OBAMA CRUSADE: Day 12 - YOU CAN'T CHEAT THE REAPER

Truth be told, I was astounded - yes, astounded - at the comment that I received on one of my earlier posts. The comment appeared on one of THE OBAMA CRUSADES -you know, that series I've been posting for the last 12 days - and I admit that I really believed that some guy named John Maszka was one of those dudes who just started reading my blogs that I'd have to respond to. I mean, this dude went in on some foreign policy, self-righteous bullshit.


Check out the comment snippet:

"The really disappointing aspect of Obama is that he was supposed to be the peace candidate. But everything that he appeared to stand for- multiculturalism, religious toleration, peace, diplomacy- all are overshadowed by this foolish idea of moving the war to Pakistan.

Moving the war on terror to Pakistan could have disastrous consequences on both the political stability in the region, and in the broader balance of power. Scholars such as Richard Betts accurately point out that beyond Iran or North Korea, “Pakistan may harbor the greatest potential danger of all.” With the current instability in Pakistan, Betts points to the danger that a pro-Taliban government would pose in a nuclear Pakistan. This is no minor point to be made. While the Shi’a in Iran are highly unlikely to proliferate WMD to their Sunni enemies, the Pakistanis harbor no such enmity toward Sunni terrorist organizations. Should a pro-Taliban or other similar type of government come to power in Pakistan, Al-Qaeda’s chances of gaining access to nuclear weapons would dramatically increase overnight.

There are, of course, two sides to every argument;"

SOURCE: JOHN MASZKA

If you care to read the rest, the comment is on THE OBAMA CRUSADES: Day 11. Just scroll down until you see it.


Now, I was all good and ready to respond with fire, but then my wits kicked in. And I thought to myself, "What the fuck? Who is this guy? And what makes my dead-ass blog worthy of such a ridiculous rant?" I mean, dude wasn't wrong for stating his opinion, which even as respectable as it seemed I could easily backhand away with just a flick of my intellectual wrist, but come on now... who am I to make somebody, with that much to say on a blog, so self-righteous and aggy?

I had to investigate.

Lo and behold, I discovered the truth. This "John Maszka" guy is some type of geek lurker that wants me to publish his thoughts, just so that I can get excited enough to respond. I only found this out because I Googled the phrase "Thathiah Ravi (2006:119, 121)," which was included in his comment just further down from the segment I quoted above. I looked it up on the internet, and that's when I realized that homeboy was a fraud.


IF YOU CLICK HERE, you'll find the exact same quoted text that "John Maszka" posted to my blog.

That only means that this guy is a sucker, and I refuse to accept the same comment that you give to another blog, unless of course I happened to write the exact same shit as the other blog where you posted that exact same comment. And you know better than that. I'll post such buffoonery just once, just so you can see how I will thrash this shit in the future, even if it means it'll crash my desktop hard drive.

Either you're trying to size me up with a virus (nolo) or you're just an unimaginative loser. Either way, you ain't got no wins in mi casa. You ain't even in mi clasa. I never copy and paste comments. Me and that/those other blogs you visit have nothing in common. I'm the truth, and I'm deadly to dewshbags like you. Now run your sorry ass back to Rush Limbaugh's blog or something. Go suck Sean Hannity's dick.



"John Maszka", you are officially dead. Stay off my blog, even if it means you have to kill yourself. Besides this post, you and your kind will never get a response from The Most Deadly, especially if you can't even come up with an original comment.





"I ain't have to read The Art of War to slay men..."
Nas - "Nazareth Savage"



SHOUT OUT TO SNICKERS.

THE OBAMA CRUSADE: Day 7

TODAY:

Obama's European Vacation continues. He is now in Iraq, although how long he stays is anybody's guess. Reports have him leaving sometime tomorrow for Jordan and Israel.

YESTERDAY, it was pretty much understood that Obama wouldn't meet with Nuri al-Maliki, since that should be the job of the current POTUS, not a major candidate.

Despite the Iraqi leader's recent call for a timetable for U.S. troop withdrawal — not a far cry from Obama's pledge to withdraw all combat troops within 16 months of being elected — it remains unclear whether Obama and Maliki will even meet this week.

SOURCE: TIME.COM

But today, OBAMA DID IN FACT MEET IRAQ'S LEADERS.

After being greeted by General David Petraeus at Baghdad International Airport, Obama toured the capital via a Blackhawk helicopter with Petraeus and his two congressional traveling companions, Democratic Senator Jack Reed of Rhode Island and Republican Senator Chuck Hagel of Nebraska. Later, he visited wounded U.S. troops at a military hospital in Baghdad and held closed meetings with five of Iraq's top political leaders — Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, President Jalal Talabani, Vice Presidents Adil Abdul Mahdi and Tariq al-Hashemi and Deputy Prime Minister Barham Salah.

SOURCE: TIME.COM

The press is all over Obama right now. So much that the McCain campaign is bitching about some type of media bias. They're even saying that Obama is monopolizing the coverage, as if he had that type of power. Even worse, The New York Times refused to print McCain's recent op-ed piece in its newspaper, right after they printed Obama's.

Sorry to dissapoint you Republickins, but it looks like Obama's being primed for the position (nolo). And McCain is just taking a farewell tour before fading into obscurity. Where he belongs.

JESSE JACKSON IS DEAD

JESSE DONE EFFED UP.

See, I've been telling people this for a minute, and it seems like nobody listened until today. But the old school class of black representatives is slowly dying off, in terms of political lifespan. Nobody cares what they think, or else their endorsements would have carried weight in the primary. This is what I call old geezers not recognizing that the times have changed without their consent. And that's what you call revolution.

If you haven't heard, Messie Jessie went off on a tangent and told UnitedHealth Group executive Dr. Reed V. Tuckson, in a whisper that was never meant to be caught by an open microphone (which it was), "See, Barack's been talking down to black people ... I want to cut his nuts off."





My question is why? Was Jessie planning to pickle them and serve them as appetizers for his next meeting with the Clintons? Nolo? Or is he just saltier than balls at the fact that Obama came out of nowhere and has managed to go further and farther than either he or Al Sharpton?





All I know is that this pretty much cements the fact that Jesse Jackson Sr., along with the entire elder statesmen group of the black Democratic electorate, is expired like bad chocolate milk. And he still doesn't know that his rhetoric, along with Bill Cosby's and Reverend Perm's is as outdated and questionable as LL COOL J . You're only still around because we used to love you as a performer, but now you're pushing it with this extra weird, persistent fuckery.

Big ups to Jesse Jackson Jr., who publicly denounced his father's bullshiite.





Out with the old; in with the new.

THE EXECUTIVE IS DEAD

Courtesy of OnSMASH and Smarten Up Nas, here is DJ Kay Slay's "Streetsweeper Radio" response to J.D., who recently took the piss and told his blog TheMostAccess.com that the Hip-Hop DJ is dead.


CLICK FOR AUDIO RESPONSE.


Living in Atlanta, you get used to Jermaine Dupri saying whatever he wants, and nobody says shit, because it is perceived that he holds the cards. And maybe he does. But if you ask axe Kay Slay, a lot of executives have been spending too much time at the Terrance Dean barbeque holding balls, which is the real reason why artists like Janet Jackson can't sell anymore.


DEADLY QUOTE:
"Another problem we got with the f*cking executives and the higher ups in the industry - too many of you niggas is f*cking each other! That's the f*cking reason why y'all can't pay attention to what the f*ck a hit record is, because you're too busy trying to find out where the hit asshole is!!



*I just died*


After all of the drama, Kay Slayed em. Wonder who's going to spin those TAG Body Spray records for Don Chi-Chi now?





UPDATE: Greg Street Weighs In.

BACK 2 LIFE... BACK 2 REALITY

Dear beloved readers: run yourself a hot bath and drop a bottle of black ink in your already dirty-ass tub water and get ready to scrub away the rigor mortis of bad writers and bitch-made editors. I’m coming back around.

Let’s just say that some weird cat had the nerve to post an anonymous comment on the blog of His Supreme Awesomeness, and it kind of made sparks. If you’d like to read it, just CLICK HERE and start at the actual blog post. Then look down at what this urethra sponge had to say about what was obviously intended as a joke. Gotta love those internet militants!





I mean, dude got sensitive. I read the comment and was taken aback by the sheer emotion. But come on, hoe, where’s the bravado? You mean to tell me I’m being stalked by an internet geek who can’t even make up a pseudo identity? “Anonymous” is just another word for non-famous, and since I have the microphone on this here stage, no no-name heckler will ever merit a response from me other than fuck you, whole fistedly.

Nolo.

On a positive note, thanks to the few of you who have kept coming back through my two-month hiatus. No apologies; no excuses. I just had to make sure I stayed up while shit was going down, if you will follow my lead.

So here’s some hope for the hopeless, anonymous haters out there. A slap on the ass for all the babies who can’t live and breathe without my help. Things are turning a corner of sorts for your humble and faithful narrator, and I’m just now feeling like I might know what to do with this blog.

Thanks again. Good night. See you tomorrow?

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...


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TELL YOUR MAMA TO MAN UP
by: MICHAEL JORDAN


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.

#######################################################

OBAMA'S DONE ENOUGH
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?

MONDAYS ARE DEAD

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.”





F*ck!!

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.

PUFFY IS DEAD

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.

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…