Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Let me remind you who is the king of R&B
When I get a barrage of texts from LL Cool Jew, it means one of five things.
1. Somebody famous just died (ie: Jerry Falwell, Anna Nicole Smith)
2. Some famous couple just broke up (ie: Britney and K-Fed)
3. Something important happened in celebrity legal news (ie: Paris Hilton sentenced to jail time)
4. She just saw one or more awesome, ridiculous dogs.
5. Robert Sylvester Kelly is off the chain.
Today, after reading the following texts, I realized that LL Cool Jew was on impetus #5 (below is translated from the text message):
-The song "Double Up" is the jam!
-"Leave Your Name"--roflmao! Lolz. "If you think I'm screening calls, you motherfucking right."
-"Sexosaurus"
-The conversation between Kells and Ush is amazing.
-"Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin clothes, you triflin' ass bitch, and that's real talk."
Yes, this can only mean one thing. The R-uh in R&B is at it again!
R. Kelly released his new album Double Up yesterday!!!--wait, I need to make this more exclamatory--!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that LL Cool Jew had to tell me this, because the first order of business yesterday morning was to get on iTunes, immediately download it, and torture J-Sexy by listening to R-dot's latest masterpiece four times in a row. Many of my friends appreciate R. Kelly--sort of--but not like LL Cool Jew. She feels me so deeply about Kells. We feel the same way about R. Kelly that Morrissey'sHair feels about Morrissey. The only musicians that MAY hold a greater position in our respective hierarchies are Mary J. Blige for her and Frederic Chopin for me.
Unfortunately, I've realized that for some reason, Kells's self-proclaimed but correct status as The World's Greatest is lost on many of my other friends. Last time I was home in the P-N-Dub, I crashed at HotLawyer's place one night, and we turned on the TV to the "I'm a Flirt" video, and he wondered what the big deal was. At the time, I was too drunk to fully articulate R. Kelly's phenomenal awesomeness. However, I'm not sure I could do him justice sober, either. Robert Sylvester Kelly is a fucking genius. Yes, he's a forty-year-old alleged child pornographer, but he's a fucking genius nonetheless.
In the past, R. Kelly has covered a variety of topics with style and panache. He has a unique perspective that I think you'll agree is completely and totally 100% right. He doesn't see nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind. He likes women who remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. He also likes women who run their hands through his fro and who act like football coaches, compelling him to play the field. He has no qualms about hovering by a woman's door in a trenchcoat and nothing else prepared to strip for her. He won't be taken advantage of by gold digging whores: he ain't spending no cash if she ain't spending that ass and if she wants to go on first-class trips then she better be prepared to let him work those first-class hips. No more wining and dining...he's fucking her tonight! His "love jones" is so gargantuan that it will blot out any visible light. Sex with him is similar to visiting a chocolate factory. He's not above helping his woman with dinner by tossing her salad (although the microbiologist in me would suggest that multitasking rimjobs--or any type of anal play, for that matter--with food preparation is inadvisable). He wants to know women who move their cho-chas provocatively. When he overindulges in rum and coke, he says, "So what? I'm drunk." He finds guns to be more efficacious weapons than spatulas, particularly when confronting an entire giant closet full of cheating lovers. He's obsessed with his zodiacal brethren, as both his penis and his prospective children are all Capricorns. His bedroom technique involves him jumping like an Impala. He'll compliment you on your pretty hair weave and your ability to back it up, but he's out after he gets a chance to feel on your booty. He's in his throwback and he has room keys (for the ladies). He likes to relax at his home, where there are 100 bottles of Cris in the cooler and he's frozen by Jacob the Jeweler, butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes (does that mean slippers?). He doesn't want to hear anything besides you saying that "yes" word. He is an R&B thug, babe, and he's just looking for some ass, babe, and for that he is my hero and object of numerous hilarious yet very sexual fantasies.
This album is yet another triumph on R. Kelly's already phenomenally mind-blowing curriculum vitae. As the Washington Post puts it in their highbrow review, "it's a smorgasbord of overblown lechery and quirky melodrama" and "a wild, funny, lascivious journey." The listener gets another amazing window into Kells's remarkable life and philosophies. He puts an S on his Maybach because it's his "Super-Benz." In response to queries about possible infidelity at the club from his domestic partner, he responds, "I don't know why you fuckin' with those no-man-havin' jealous assholes, and that's real talk...besides, what they eat don't make us shit." He wants a woman who looks like a big ol' piece of cake and whose middle tastes like Skittles because he has a sweet tooth. Sex with him is tantamount to space travel, as there's a rocket in his pocket FULL of fuel, and it will be painless when he travels to Uranus (although even though it's Kells, I'm not falling for that one...that's what they all say). He makes women cry out "Kelly" when their significant other's name is really Tommy. If you call him, you should leave him a message rather than blow up his spot, lest he's at the club, smoking on some trees, or having "a little sex." If you should happen to be a Georgia Tech graduate working at TBS who cheats on him with Usher, and Kells discovers this when he and Usher get together for beers and start gabbing about their love lives, then beware, you duplicitous two-timing bitch. And should you be fortunate enough to sex him, then you will experience the reality of the quote of the millenium: "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexosaurus, babe."
If this hasn't convinced you to go buy Double Up RIGHT NOW, then nothing will, because you have no appreciation for musical masterpieces. I don't that when Kells proclaims as he's often wont to do, "Ladies, it's ya boyfriend!", any woman is in a position to argue. I've embraced the fact that he's my boyfriend, because after all...
Y'all tell me, what's R&B without the R-uh???
1. Somebody famous just died (ie: Jerry Falwell, Anna Nicole Smith)
2. Some famous couple just broke up (ie: Britney and K-Fed)
3. Something important happened in celebrity legal news (ie: Paris Hilton sentenced to jail time)
4. She just saw one or more awesome, ridiculous dogs.
5. Robert Sylvester Kelly is off the chain.
Today, after reading the following texts, I realized that LL Cool Jew was on impetus #5 (below is translated from the text message):
-The song "Double Up" is the jam!
-"Leave Your Name"--roflmao! Lolz. "If you think I'm screening calls, you motherfucking right."
-"Sexosaurus"
-The conversation between Kells and Ush is amazing.
-"Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin clothes, you triflin' ass bitch, and that's real talk."
Yes, this can only mean one thing. The R-uh in R&B is at it again!
R. Kelly released his new album Double Up yesterday!!!--wait, I need to make this more exclamatory--!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not that LL Cool Jew had to tell me this, because the first order of business yesterday morning was to get on iTunes, immediately download it, and torture J-Sexy by listening to R-dot's latest masterpiece four times in a row. Many of my friends appreciate R. Kelly--sort of--but not like LL Cool Jew. She feels me so deeply about Kells. We feel the same way about R. Kelly that Morrissey'sHair feels about Morrissey. The only musicians that MAY hold a greater position in our respective hierarchies are Mary J. Blige for her and Frederic Chopin for me.
Unfortunately, I've realized that for some reason, Kells's self-proclaimed but correct status as The World's Greatest is lost on many of my other friends. Last time I was home in the P-N-Dub, I crashed at HotLawyer's place one night, and we turned on the TV to the "I'm a Flirt" video, and he wondered what the big deal was. At the time, I was too drunk to fully articulate R. Kelly's phenomenal awesomeness. However, I'm not sure I could do him justice sober, either. Robert Sylvester Kelly is a fucking genius. Yes, he's a forty-year-old alleged child pornographer, but he's a fucking genius nonetheless.
In the past, R. Kelly has covered a variety of topics with style and panache. He has a unique perspective that I think you'll agree is completely and totally 100% right. He doesn't see nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind. He likes women who remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. He also likes women who run their hands through his fro and who act like football coaches, compelling him to play the field. He has no qualms about hovering by a woman's door in a trenchcoat and nothing else prepared to strip for her. He won't be taken advantage of by gold digging whores: he ain't spending no cash if she ain't spending that ass and if she wants to go on first-class trips then she better be prepared to let him work those first-class hips. No more wining and dining...he's fucking her tonight! His "love jones" is so gargantuan that it will blot out any visible light. Sex with him is similar to visiting a chocolate factory. He's not above helping his woman with dinner by tossing her salad (although the microbiologist in me would suggest that multitasking rimjobs--or any type of anal play, for that matter--with food preparation is inadvisable). He wants to know women who move their cho-chas provocatively. When he overindulges in rum and coke, he says, "So what? I'm drunk." He finds guns to be more efficacious weapons than spatulas, particularly when confronting an entire giant closet full of cheating lovers. He's obsessed with his zodiacal brethren, as both his penis and his prospective children are all Capricorns. His bedroom technique involves him jumping like an Impala. He'll compliment you on your pretty hair weave and your ability to back it up, but he's out after he gets a chance to feel on your booty. He's in his throwback and he has room keys (for the ladies). He likes to relax at his home, where there are 100 bottles of Cris in the cooler and he's frozen by Jacob the Jeweler, butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes (does that mean slippers?). He doesn't want to hear anything besides you saying that "yes" word. He is an R&B thug, babe, and he's just looking for some ass, babe, and for that he is my hero and object of numerous hilarious yet very sexual fantasies.
This album is yet another triumph on R. Kelly's already phenomenally mind-blowing curriculum vitae. As the Washington Post puts it in their highbrow review, "it's a smorgasbord of overblown lechery and quirky melodrama" and "a wild, funny, lascivious journey." The listener gets another amazing window into Kells's remarkable life and philosophies. He puts an S on his Maybach because it's his "Super-Benz." In response to queries about possible infidelity at the club from his domestic partner, he responds, "I don't know why you fuckin' with those no-man-havin' jealous assholes, and that's real talk...besides, what they eat don't make us shit." He wants a woman who looks like a big ol' piece of cake and whose middle tastes like Skittles because he has a sweet tooth. Sex with him is tantamount to space travel, as there's a rocket in his pocket FULL of fuel, and it will be painless when he travels to Uranus (although even though it's Kells, I'm not falling for that one...that's what they all say). He makes women cry out "Kelly" when their significant other's name is really Tommy. If you call him, you should leave him a message rather than blow up his spot, lest he's at the club, smoking on some trees, or having "a little sex." If you should happen to be a Georgia Tech graduate working at TBS who cheats on him with Usher, and Kells discovers this when he and Usher get together for beers and start gabbing about their love lives, then beware, you duplicitous two-timing bitch. And should you be fortunate enough to sex him, then you will experience the reality of the quote of the millenium: "It's like Jurassic Park, and I'm your sexosaurus, babe."
If this hasn't convinced you to go buy Double Up RIGHT NOW, then nothing will, because you have no appreciation for musical masterpieces. I don't that when Kells proclaims as he's often wont to do, "Ladies, it's ya boyfriend!", any woman is in a position to argue. I've embraced the fact that he's my boyfriend, because after all...
Y'all tell me, what's R&B without the R-uh???
Labels: boyfriends, celebrities, hot dudes, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, perversion, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
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