Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Unthanksgiving
At Thanksgiving, usually people spend a lot of time reflecting on all the fabulous things in their lives. Most people, no matter how hard-hearted or cynical, will at least take a few minutes to acknowledge the fact that it's great their houses haven't gone into foreclosure...yet, or that even if the Seahawks suck at least their number two favorite team the Titans are kicking ass, or that beer, dogs, and pepperoni pizza remain plentiful, or that or they got laid this month. I'm sure I'll have a misty little moment tomorrow when I've got my hand rammed up a giant Butterball's ass as I try to fill its body cavity with a tampon full of Pepperidge Farm stuffing. However, this year that moment will be brief because this year there are so many damn things to be pissed off and not one bit thankful about. In addition to obvious downers like the economy, the job market, my unnecessarily yet perpetually dramatic work environment, my Atlas-caliber workload, and the soul-manglingly depressing fact that I'm still in hell grad school, I've realized that this year, I'm more pissed off at the little things than usual.
Most Thanksgiving-time blog posts will be about the authors' gratitude for happy things like sugar cookies, Jesus and snow and free babysitters and other stuff Mormons like, watching Juno and Mamma Mia instead of dying of typhus in a concentration camp, the joys of making holiday feasts with semen, your ugly, breasticled husband, the inanity of Twittering, or tea, Byzantine costumes, and pussy, Hell, even Duff McKagan is blogging about how he's thankful for his wife, kids, friends, Seattle (which earns an eye-roll with a touch of side-eye from me), "Flight of the Conchords," and something Krist Novoselic wrote once about the '92 VMAs. Therefore, I thought I would take it upon myself to mention a few of the MANY things I am most certainly NOT pleased with, much less grateful for.
Peter Orszag's appointment as head of the Obama Office of Management and Budget
I have no idea what Orszag's job qualifications are to be America's top accountant other than he apparently passed the epic and invasive job application Obama was requiring prospective employees to fill out. One question the comprehensive vetting process missed, however, was "Is your haircut a variation on a nine-year-old boy twenty years ago?" Peter Orszag is like a halfassed Bob Saget impersonator rocking the same bowl-above, shaved-below look my brother rocked to the opening of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie in like 1990. If he can balance the budget in these trying times, then props to him, but he ought to celebrate with a new style. I hear they make some really fashionable toupeés these days.
Kanye West has a new album out
I've begrudgingly liked a few Kanye West songs in the last year or so, and this has disturbed me. Granted, they were mostly songs that also featured Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, Clifford "T.I." Harris, or Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, but still...normally I bear such a passionate hatred for Kanye West himself that this precludes me liking anything he's associated with. In fact, after admitting that I LOVED the "Lollipop" remix, I proceeded to convince myself that the "Kanye West" credit on the song was a misprint and it was really Faheem "T-Pain" Najm trying a new setting on his vocorder. Now that Kanye has a new album out, though, I get the feeling I'm going to be hearing a lot of Lil' Wayne, T.I., and Young Jeezy-free Kanye jams, and this doesn't bode well for 2009.
The 'Sprout is out
I've previously discussed my disdain for this blogger going by "Writersprout," because not only is her writing appallingly poor, she really pulled a head-job on my lesbian apprentice Twathopper. And I don't mean she gave Twathopper head; I mean this bitch dragged Twathopper to every open-mic night at every fucking intentionally dingy "performance space" in Williamsburg and the Lower East Side, probably while jabbering incessantly about jogging, subletting, and cupcakes, and then, after Twathopper went through all this pussy-grooming trouble, hooked up with some other bitches instead. People who manage to combine the world's most obnoxiously contrived personality with a track record of doing mean things to my friends are high up on my Enemy List. However despite my utter contempt for her, thanks to Writersprout I've had endless comic material for my friends' amusement, culminating in a recent blog I started paying homage to her upcoming graduate degree in popular fictional creative non-fiction (no joke) via a serious of riveting mystery stories. Sadly, before I could publish the first of the Brooklyn Cupcake Marathon Mysteries, Writersprout went and defaulted on her web hosting bill! How am I supposed to launch a parody Writersprout's insufferable, Roget-augmented wordsmithery when her site redirects to a "Error-Deadbeat Hosting Customer" page? You can still read her lame blog about subletting for fun, but it's just not the same. Thanks a lot, Writersprout, for so cruelly snatching away my dream to spend a lot of time ragging on you hard.
Beyoncé is SASHA FIERCE
This wasn't cool when Garth Brooks did it, so I don't know why Beyoncé thinks she can get away with it. Apart from acquiring a name that sounds even MORE like some kind of tranny hooker, Sasha Fierce and Beyoncé are virtually indistinguishable. They both do the same kind of fat-ass-chunk-shaking dance moves, they both dress like they're on their way to a black-tie leotard formal with the upper crust spice magnates from Dune, and they both sing the same songs about how dumping assholes and buying your own jewelry are the hallmarks of female empowerment. Would Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce please proceed to get Aretha Franklin fat like LL Cool Jew has predicted she will, and stop bothering us with her wack repackaging of the same old bullshit.
Besides, there's only one R&B superstar who can pull off an alter-ego, and that's only in the context of a musical soap opera about adultery, gay preachers, elderly neighbors with erectile dysfunction, midget-cuckolded highway patrolmen, lesbian diner employees, and mysterious packages. In other words, the only person with the combined musical and acting chops to effect such a feat is none other than the legendary and incomparable ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY playing the Beretta-wielding Chicagoan Sylvester.
The 2008 Seahawks
The Seachickens are 2-9, and about to get a festive Thanksgiving ass-raping from Tony Romo and T.O. to commemorate Mike Holmgren's final season as coach. I don't think I need to elaborate further.
The 2008 Dallas Cowboys, Pittsburgh Steelers, New England Patriots, and Indianapolis Colts
I would hope that if my team is sucking stank Sasha Fierce balls, at least the teams I loathe would be too. Despite occasional flashes of glee I felt when I thought Tony Romo was out tampon shopping with Jessica Simpson for the season, or I realized that Ben Roethlisberger's abilities are embarrassingly overrated, or Tom Brady went down crying like a bitch in week 1, or Peyton Manning was going to be permanently overshadowed by his younger brother Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning, these assholes all seem to perservere. All are still in the running for their divisions (except maybe the Colts, but they've still got a very good shot at a wild card slot), and all are still existing solely to piss me off and perturb me. Oh, and did I mention the Cowboys are playing the Seahawks on Thanksgiving? I can only pray that Jessica Simpson shows up at the game and shines her Cowboys-disrupting energy full force on Texas Stadium during the game.
Now I have to go to work, but keep checking back. I am sure that all day I'm going to be thinking of stuff I'm NOT thankful for, so I'll update this list through the next couple days. In the meantime, if you are as depressed as I am with the state of the world today, I urge you to make like me and eat the pain away. Happy Unthanksgiving!
Labels: assholes, gluttony, NFL football, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Seahawks
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Like a cop car
The other day, J-Sexy and I were IMing about this girl I was jocking, and I quoted Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's masterpiece "Buy You a Drank" with respect to my seduction strategy. This got our chat going off on a whole other tangent concerning Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's masterpiece about cop-suspect sex, "Mrs. Officer."
Razzy: i'm totally wearing that gray and black dress
Razzy: like a straight up SLIZUT
J-Sexy: hahaha
J-Sexy: that is a great dress
J-Sexy: wear heels too
Razzy:: i'll buy her a drank
Razzy: maybe we'll be in the bed like ooo ooo ooo ooo
J-Sexy: we-o-we-o-we
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: jinx
Razzy:: all she want me to do is fuck the police
J-Sexy: i am actually lol-ling
Razzy: i am too!
J-Sexy: i like lil wayne
Razzy: me too
J-Sexy: he is super funny
Razzy: i just turned that song on
Razzy: what an awesome song
J-Sexy: it is so silly
J-Sexy: my god
J-Sexy: amazing
Razzy: lil wayne and kells both love to make their women make car noises
J-Sexy: it's so odd
Razzy: i have personally never simulated a vehicle in the throes of passion
Razzy: i certainly have never emulated a cop car
Razzy: although maybe i should
J-Sexy: i routinely make a honking noise
J-Sexy: the men love it
Razzy: are you serious???
J-Sexy: of course not!
J-Sexy: ewwww
Razzy: i am seriously LOLing hard
Razzy: imagining you honking at your boyfriend!
J-Sexy: that would be so retarded
Razzy: rodney king baby, beat it like a cop
Razzy: i think the next time i get laid
Razzy: i'm going to make some vehicular noises
J-Sexy: do it!!
J-Sexy: you have to
Razzy: and see how it goes over
Razzy: i'll do a kells/lil wayne medley
Razzy: we-o we-o wee
Razzy: toot toot beep beep
J-Sexy: haha
J-Sexy: man, if the dude doesn't know this kinda music he will think that you are nuts
Razzy: which will be even more hilarious
J-Sexy: but if he does, what a laugh!
J-Sexy: either way it will be hilarious
J-Sexy: toot toot
Razzy: beep beep
J-Sexy: i dare you to
Razzy: i'm going to!
The last time I got laid, I forgot to get automotive on the lucky fella's ass while we were getting down. However, the next time I get some action, I am definitely going to break out the literal car talk and see how that works out. I have to make sure the lights are on so I can see the other party's expression, which I only assume will be a combination of shock, confusion, and amusement. Then the person will probably be like, "Why the hell are you making a siren noise?" and I'll be like, "DUH, you're making my body sing like a cop car!" Unless, of course, due to some miracle of fate the next visitor to my boudoir is either R. Kelly or Lil' Wayne, in which case they'll probably congratulate themselves on a job well done.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, Lil' Wayne, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
I know I've heard a lot of tracks, but Twelve Play's what I want
Thanks to Google alerts, I was advised yesterday that, to my extreme excitement, an album by a certain Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly has leaked onto the internets in its entirety. I pray to the gods of R&B that this is a harbinger of TP Fourth Quarter bumping Tha Carter III from its lofty position as the almost constantly played collection of jams on my iTunes. I've been waiting for this day since LL Cool Jew and I heard the R-uh in R&B announce it as he bade adieu after blessing us with his mackadelic nightspot realness for two and a half hours on R. Kelly's Double Up tour.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
Because I'm approaching the ancient age of thirty, I have no idea how to find secretly leaked TP Fourth Quarter tracks available for illegal download. I don't know how these torrent doohickeys all the kids are using work! Sadly, I thus can't follow the instructions given by Kells in "Like a Real Freak" and "go up to your internet and download me, get my computer love right off the screen." I assume they don't make leaked mp3's that are compatible with the dual cassette boom box technology us old crones are familiar with. What I do know is that Kells better hurry up and release this damn album, because I am fiending HARD for it! I want him to make like he did for TP-2.com and put it on me like drawers, because Lord knows I can hang since he's horny as hell tonight. I'm ready for him to either sex my body like what, like diamonds in the cut, or alternatively tear my shit out, new millenium style!
In the absence of the actual songs, at least the internets have advised me what the titles of the songs are. Since, with the exception of the exquisite ode to sex at the beauty salon, "Hair Braider" and the contemplative slow jam "Playas Get Lonely," I haven't heard any of these songs, I'm going to have to rely on my imagination to get a taste of what Kells cooked up in the Chocolate Factory this time around.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
02. Hair Braider: I've already discussed "Hair Braider" at length, but it never gets old. I'd like to meet this fabled hair stylist. Luckily, Kells's website gives me the opportunity to check out the stylings of many women who have their hair comb grease ready hoping the Pied Piper will roll through and rain on them like confetti.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
05. At the Same Time: Please, please, PLEASE let this be another ode to threesomes. I don't know how Kells can top descriptions of his adventures in group sex with two chicks who both got dizzy legs like "one massage my toes while one braid my hair," "the way they took me down like a forty," or "three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper," but I have faith that he can.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
07. Might Be Mine: At least Kells can write a song acknowledging that his penchant for both riding bareback and associating with loose women can result in some difficult paternity situations.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
09. Go Low: Based on the title alone, I'm going to go ahead and call club banger on this one.
10. Freaky Sensation: If there were ever a song with the potential for some true Kells ridiculousness, this is it. I predict he'll address topics along the lines than "you say you want to take first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips," "I got many styles when it comes to sex positions," "I promise it will be painless as we journey to Uranus," and "betcha I can make your body talk to me...all I need is my CD, a bag of weed, and some Cristie."
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
13. Relief: What I'm going to feel when I finally get my hot little computer hands on this damn album! Hurry up and drop it already, R-uh!
Labels: I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Just another day in the life of the goddamn boss
I have always had a somewhat suspicious view of thug rappers who brag about all the crimes they've committed and continue to commit in spite of being rich celebrities. I just don't believe that Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins is taking time out from recording club bangers with the likes of Usher and Christina Milian to cook crack in his microwave and sell it down at his local trap, any more than I believe that Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and Brian "Birdman" Williams earned those teardrops tattooed on their faces by murdering a combined five people or I believe that Sean Kingston can show me about the slums of the city from which he got his surname without having his fat ass robbed of his ridonk Crayola crayon chain. Like the vast majority of people who listen to gangsta rappers and R&B thugs, I find all the macho posturing incredibly entertaining but not necessarily believable. It doesn't matter that Khaled "DJ Khaled" Khaled probably only has occasion to outrun DEA strike teams at 60 miles per hour in reverse in his Bentley for the sake of music videos rather than actual major league drug trafficking. I enjoy watching it and listening to it and it's fun.
However, the lack of veracity backing many of these dudes' claims to major case perpetrator status has not gone unnoticed, particularly by The Smoking Gun. A while back, they discovered that Aliuane "Akon" Thiam's claims of running a notorious interstate stolen car syndicate were inspired more by playing Grand Theft Auto than any actual personal experience. Now, they've followed up on a photo from MediaTakeOut concerning William "Rick Ross" Roberts's inflated criminal past.
In case you don't know who Rick Ross is, he's cornered the niche market of cocaine kingpin rap. His stage name was appropriated from a famous Los Angeles cocaine trafficker named Freeway Ricky Ross, and he routinely refers to himself as "the boss" and claims to run something called the "Carol City Cartel," as though he's some type of morbidly obese Floridian version of Pablo Escobar. This might seem kind of believable, since he always has a really menacing expression, he's always smoking a cigar, he pays a lot of lip service to staying trill (which means "keeping it real" with regard to thug exploits) and he looks like Suge Knight's long lost twin. I will, however, say that I think his intimidating air is somewhat mitigated by his absurd self-portrait yellow diamond pendant:
Anyway, I was a little suspicious of how Rick Ross managed to find the time to build an international drug trafficking operation when he was busy attending Albany State University on a football scholarship, so I wasn't terribly surprised when MediaTakeOut posted a picture featuring Rick Ross working at his first job after college...as an officer for the Florida Department of Corrections.
Yes, I'm sure that on his graduation day from prison guard school, the biggest boss that I've seen thus far was keeping it trill, indeed. To recapture some of that trillness, Rick Ross responded by claiming that these were Photoshopped, and that he's never worked keeping his colleagues in the drug-running industry confined in the clink. Unfortunately, The Smoking Gun decided to get in on the story, and they managed to dig up old personnel records for the same "William L. Roberts" in the photo above with the same social security number belonging to Rick Ross. I can see why he got out of the DoC business, since he was hardly able to blow 15 million in one week (one of his favorite hobbies according to his lyrics, although I would interject that it's not the most sensible financial planning strategy) making 23 grand a year as a corrections officer.
I can't hold it against Rick Ross too much for simply trying to stack that paper. And again, it's not like I really believed his criminal CV, since all you have to do to suspect him of not being quite the trilla he claims is watch one of his videos. For example, the video for "Speedin," which is one of my favorite Rick Ross jams because the hook is sung by a certain ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. I defy you to watch this video and think that Rick Ross is entirely truthful about his legendary exploits in the criminal underworld:
I'm not sure what is more absurd, the notion that Rick Ross could actually escape the police by leaping off a Miami bridge and swimming to freedom (while callously leaving DJ Khaled in the Maybach with their slut masseurs to bribe the police), "Kells and Ross on the Hollywood scene" after engaging in some kind of Fast and the Furious-esque street racing, or Ross asking Kells to "meet me at the helipad" in order to evade pursuit by some law enforcement types. Hell, it might be completely ridiculous, but it sure is fun.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
R. Kelly is NOT a terrorist
I get Google alerts for "R. Kelly," and as a result I've seen quite a bit of what's out there on the blogosphere about the R-uh in R&B. There are a lot of people making bad "Pied Piper" and/or golden shower-themed jokes, a lot of other people agitating for his ruination despite his acquittal, and a handful of people talking about how awesome he is (and I get links occasionally to my site which fall under that category heading). Also, I have seen a lot of comments on my site and other Kells-related blog posts concerning how stupid and depraved I must be to love an obvious pedophile...WHO WAS PROVEN NOT FUCKING GUILTY BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS. Needless to say, I'm getting pretty tired of hearing what Robert Sylvester Kelly calls "the devil mouths" going on about how he's a child molester that deserves to spend eternity in a Bosch painting.
I therefore can understand how Kells wound up saying some wack shit in an interview, as he is often prone to do, especially when frustrated. This is one reason why R. Kelly's handlers keep him safely in the Chocolate Factory composing masterpieces of mackadelic nightspot realness rather than shooting off his yap to the press. It works when he describes himself as a marching band or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in a song, but grandiose comparisons don't always work in interviews, as evidenced when the World's Greatest decided to compare his troubles with being demonized in the media to Al Qaeda's Greatest:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Osama Bin Laden is the only one who knows exactly what I'm going through. They can criticise you without even knowing you, and hate you when they don't even know you. All of a sudden, you're, like, the Bin Laden of America.While I see what Kells is trying to get at, I have to advise him that a comparison to the man who orchestrated 9/11 and whose sole ambition is to see all of us Western infidels (including Kells, no doubt) consumed in a fiery conflagration of divinely sanctioned jihadist wrath probably isn't going to win him a lot of sympathy points with his detractors. In fact, I think he may have just exacerbated the situation. I can already anticipate the "hey, quit sticking up for this creep!" comments, so I'm going to try (probably unsuccessfully), to head them off by posting empirical proof that R. Kelly loves America and actually has nothing in common with Osama Bin Laden save his negative media image:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Labels: intentional buffoonery, media whores, Robert Sylvester Kelly, terror
Sunday, June 15, 2008
John Kass can go fuck himself in his hater ass
As buoyant as my spirits have been since June 13th, 2008, when the American court system produced the greatest triumph in the history of criminal justice (Robert Sylvester Kelly's NOT GUILTY verdict on all 14 of the bullshit counts of child pornography he was charged with), I just read an article that really pissed me off. John Kass, a columnist at the Chicago Tribune, penned a craptastic piece of garbage today entitled "R. Kelly verdict adds to his lawyers' list of greatest hits."
Kass then goes on to suggest that the men on the jury were a bunch of misogynistic pigs who weren't thinking of their female family members when they concluded that reasonable doubt existed. Surely if they had any modicum of decency or respect for women, they would want to convict R. Kelly just because they should share John Kass's paranoia that a big scary black man like Kells might despoil their daughters.
After these baseless, idiotic claims providing nothing save the knowledge that John Kass considers Kells guilty even after being proven innocent, he then goes to provide even more damning evidence. In addition to the notorious media mogul-turned-mail fraud perpetrator Conrad Black and drunken Walgreen's trespasser Shia LaBoeuf, Kells's attorneys have represented mob bosses, assassins, and murdered informants. Surely with such an unsavory client list under their belts, R. Kelly's legal dream team must have represented only guilty people. Ergo, R. Kelly must be guilty too. John Kass really has to stretch to find whatever dubious circumstantial evidence he can rework into a suspicious context, even if it means suggesting that R. Kelly's right to a vigorous defense alone proves his culpability.
After wading through several paragraphs of self-congratulatory attempts at coming up with catchy Cochran-esque rhymes like "If the mole's not a zit, you must acquit" and "If you don't see a mole, you must take a stroll," John Kass immediately launches into a deeply flawed analysis of how R. Kelly--portrayed as a certainly guilty dirtbag--was acquitted thanks to his dirtbag lawyers, who have built careers on releasing also assuredly guilty dirtbag mob hitmen back onto the streets to terrorize the Windy City.
Chicago R&B star R. Kelly—who also calls himself "The Pied Piper"—was acquitted of child pornography charges because of a mole or the lack thereof on a grainy video.John Kass obviously doesn't put much stock in fact-checking, because not only does R. Kelly call himself "the Pied Piper OF R&B," the mole was not the central issue that decided this case for the jury. When the defense gave its closing arguments, they pointed out that the prosecution had failed to identify the girl in the sex tape. If you can't prove the identity of the alleged victim, then you can't prove her age, and you can't prove that the tape constitutes child pornography. The jury actually cited the prosecution's failure to establish the alleged victim's identity as the primary reason why they acquitted Kells after only seven hours of deliberation. John Kass either doesn't think very highly of his Tribune colleagues' accurate reporting of the trial, or is so simply determined to hate a player that he is willing to overlook the fact that while neither the girl or her parents testified in the trial, both denied that the alleged victim was the girl on the tape before a grand jury in 2002 and the alleged victim's family were deeply divided regarding whether or not she was the girl from the tape. He also ignores the fact that the prosecution's star witness, "the woman" he mentions involved in the "plethora of perversions" (threesomes on R. Kelly's Space Jam-themed indoor basketball court), was largely discredited by the defense for attempting to extort Kells into buying her silence and to get leniency for her fiance who was facing felony gun charges.
The mole or mole deficit was a big issue in the trial. A tape of purported sex acts and a plethora of perversions involved a minor, a woman, and a man prosecutors said was Kelly. Defense lawyers said it wasn't a mole on the tape, therefore, it wasn't their client.
John Kass gets worse. He then goes on to mock R. Kelly's art, and suggests that the melodic ambrosia better known as his next album will include songs gloating about his undeserved freedom and hoodwinking of the justice system:
But now that he has been acquitted, he'll probably release a new album, titled "Mole-ishus: Daddy's Home!" Apparently, he loves being called "Daddy," and because he's being hailed as In-no-¢ent, what better way to celebrate Kelly's freedom than with song?Again, John Kass, if you had bothered to do the quickest of Google searches you would know that his next album is actually called TP: Fourth Quarter, and the obviously sublime (if the first single "Hair Braider" is any indication) tracks for this most recent installment in Kells's seminal Twelve Play series have already been laid down in the Chocolate Factory. They probably don't have anything to do with his trial, except to possibly excoriate haters like John Kass who are unfairly persecuting R. Kelly via media trickery and legal shenanigans. Furthermore, while in some R. Kelly songs he does answer to the term "daddy," if the lyrics to "I'm a Flirt" can be considered a reliable exploration into Kells's preferred pillow talk terms, he also makes women call him by his actual name since after a tryst with him, they tend to slip up and call their significant others "Kelly" when their name is "Tommy." Furthermore, as long as he's mining R. Kelly songs for pro-child fucking themes, he could at least acknowledge lines like "show me some ID before we get too deep" which indicate that R. Kelly complies with laws defining the age of consent. John Kass thinks that he is so goddamned funny that his readers won't notice that he has no grounds for implying with that strategically placed "¢ent" that R. Kelly bought his freedom in spite of overwhelming evidence of his guilt. There IS no evidence, and that's why John Kass has to resort to using punctuation and bad parodies of the R-uh in R&B's lyrical genius.
Kass then goes on to suggest that the men on the jury were a bunch of misogynistic pigs who weren't thinking of their female family members when they concluded that reasonable doubt existed. Surely if they had any modicum of decency or respect for women, they would want to convict R. Kelly just because they should share John Kass's paranoia that a big scary black man like Kells might despoil their daughters.
Nine men were part of the R. Kelly Jury of Liberation. You've got to think some have daughters, or sisters, or nieces who are young teenagers. If not, let's just think on it a piece, in a parallel universe.It never occurred to John Kass that the jury was actually going to do its job and decide R. Kelly's fate based on the evidence rather than a groundless sense of protectiveness toward their female family members. Instead, he'd rather paint a portrait of an alternate universe in which R. Kelly is having a creepy pedophile tea party and children justify flocking there by quoting chronologically inaccurate butchered "Ignition (Remix)" lyrics (come on, idiot...after the show it's the afterparty, and after the party it's the hotel lobby, and round about four you gotta the lobby and then you take it to your room to fuck somebody) to their ironically unhappy chauvinist pig juror fathers powerless to do anything except ruin dinner. Shut the fuck up, John Kass. Your lame fantasies about how the jurors should reap their ironic karmic reward for not ignoring evidence of reasonable doubt and participating in a legal lynching of R. Kelly do nothing save make the Chicago Tribune look like a shitty paper for employing witless demagogues like yourself as columnists.
Consider the daughter of a juror, coming up to dad in the back yard, humming "I Believe I Can Fly" as pops finishes grilling several thick steaks. And maybe, she asks:
"Daddy? Can I go over to the R. Kelly's Acquittal After Party? You know what R. Kelly says. He says, 'It starts in the hotel lobby, and then on to the after party.' "
That's about time the old man stabs the steak with a fork about 52 times, saying "No. No. No. No. No!," leaving it dry and tasteless as his princess goes off to hang with the Pied Piper, acquitted on all 14 counts with the aid of his stupendous defense team.
After these baseless, idiotic claims providing nothing save the knowledge that John Kass considers Kells guilty even after being proven innocent, he then goes to provide even more damning evidence. In addition to the notorious media mogul-turned-mail fraud perpetrator Conrad Black and drunken Walgreen's trespasser Shia LaBoeuf, Kells's attorneys have represented mob bosses, assassins, and murdered informants. Surely with such an unsavory client list under their belts, R. Kelly's legal dream team must have represented only guilty people. Ergo, R. Kelly must be guilty too. John Kass really has to stretch to find whatever dubious circumstantial evidence he can rework into a suspicious context, even if it means suggesting that R. Kelly's right to a vigorous defense alone proves his culpability.
I called this acquittal months ago on the grounds that there was no evidence to prove R. Kelly guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and that was long before John Kass's own newspaper began publishing exhaustive accounts of the entire sordid legal drama. It's a pity that now, with all the information about the case and the trial at his disposal, John Kass is determined to spread the word that Kells is guilty even though a reasonable jury disagreed. Rather than give credence to facts supporting an acquittal, John Kass prefers to play on people's fears that R. Kelly will piss on their daughters simply because he wants to believe that R. Kelly is guilty. I can't help but wonder about John Kass's motives. If John Kass is so determined to manufacture non-existent evidence of R. Kelly's guilt, he must have some reason. In fact, I'd wager that there are two reasons.
1. This is John Kass:
2. This is Robert Sylvester Kelly:
John Kass is a fat, poorly-equipped newspaper columnist known primarily for his hatred of Chicago mayor Richard Daley and his love of beer can chicken who drives a Passat, while Kells is black, handsome, sings, plus is rich, and is a flirt. I don't have enough to time to document all the cars that Kells purports to drive, since his musical repertoire describes a veritable container ship's worth of automobiles in his garage. Needless to say, R. Kelly's fleet of Lexus coupes, Jeeps (which actually refers to luxury SUVs of all makes and models such as the silver Lexus parked outside his beach home that makes you think he's from the swamp the way he steps out with them gators on), Maseratis (color: smurf blue), Benzes, Rolls Royce Phantoms, Maybachs, Hummer Vees (see "Jeeps," supra), Cadillacs with D's thrown on them, and "old schools" makes John Kass's Passat look pretty pathetic.
I also doubt that John Kass has had the pleasure of doing things like having fun on the freakin' weekend, Cristal-poppin' in the stretch Navigator, having girls up in his room screaming "Hercules, Hercules!", making the room go black with his love jones, throwing hundreds up for grabs with mama, walking out the club with a shitload-a women, putting women on the counter by the buttered rolls, promising that it will be painless when he journeys to Uranus, or being frozen thanks to Jacob the Jeweler. John Kass is not a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall, he cannot remind you that he is the king of R&B, he doesn't require three honeys just to make him feel rizight, and nobody is running their hands through his fro while he bounces on twenty fours. John Kass isn't putting the D on chicks like Wallace, he isn't making anybody's body come like the CTA, he's not doubling up with two chicks both got dizzy legs, and he can't think of anything cooler than red bikinis and some pump-heel shoes while he's lounging around at his rule-free crib butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes. John Kass's voicemail does not suggest that he's sure to get right back with you if he's not asleep, smoking on some trees, in the middle of having sex, if he's not faded, or making a baby. John Kass is not in the Prada spot or the car lot being like "two of these, player." John Kass is not a marching band, and he is not the people. John Kass is not three's company, bitch, and you can't call him Jack Tripper. While John Kass has a club date, Kells is fucking with arenas. John Kass is jealous of R. Kelly, plain and simple. R. Kelly is a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor, as is the fact that John Kass is not. That's why John Kass is hating because Kells is about to fool like he's fresh out of jizail. John Kass does not have cash money, isn't rolling on them things, he isn't drunk off in the club, he's not a motherfucking thug, he's not smoking on some dro, he's not off that Ecstasy, he's not sipping on some Cris, and he's not throwing up his shit, so by definition he cannot possibly feel this shit.
John Kass owes Kells an apology for continuing to bastardize Kells lyrics and play on his readers' latent racist fears to smear him as a pedophile--excuse me, a child pornographer--even after the not guilty verdict was rendered. I'd advise John Kass to call up RSK at the Chocolate Factory and offer a personal mea culpa in exchange for some real talk along the lines of "bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes with your triflin' ass...Milton!" but if John Kass thinks Kells is screening calls he's motherfucking right. That's for the haters; Kells returns calls to all the girls he likes.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, legal drama, retard rage, Robert Sylvester Kelly, scathing indictments
Friday, June 13, 2008
NOT GUILTY, Y'ALL GOTS TO FEEL ME!
So my computer is still not fixed and blogging is a no-no in lab, therefore this will be short and sweet. My phone started blowing up approximately 30 minutes ago with texts from fellow Kellsophiles informing me of the joyous news:
ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY WAS FOUND NOT GUILTY BY A JURY OF HIS NON-PEERS ("non-peers" because, as my friend Morrissey'sHair has pointed out, as "the World's Greatest," Kells is by definition peerless).
This means lots of awesome things are going to ensue: R. Kelly will tour to support his impending TP Fourth Quarter album, I will attend said concert tour, and for years to come I will be following the inimitable RSK like the obsessed stalker that I am. No sex offender tag for Kells! No sit-downs with Chris Hansen! No more defending Kells from all the haters who wonder why I like a pedophile...because he was ACQUITTED! My computer might be fucked, I might be broke as a Thunderbird-swigging homeless guy, and grad school may be hell on earth, but KELLS IS FREE! O joyous day!
Labels: crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the "Shaggy Defense"
DOB: May 20, 2008
Occupation: it wasn't Kells
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Cook County Courthouse, in the Chi
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Quite simply, because it is going to get Kells acquitted, and free him for touring to support his upcoming TP Fourth Quarter album. In turn, that will enable LL Cool Jew and I to geek out about how fucking awesome R. Kelly is without fear that the world's greatest will be snatched away by the so-called "justice" system and incarcerated in an Illinois state prison. What is the "Shaggy Defense," you ask? Remember that song "It Wasn't Me" by the faux-Jamaican singer Shaggy? She caught me on the counter...it wasn't me. She saw me bangin' on the sofa...it wasn't me. I even had her in the shower...it wasn't me. She even caught me on camera...it wasn't me. That's the Shaggy Defense, coined and as described by Slate's dedicated R. Kelly court reporter Josh Levin.
Of course LL Cool Jew and I spent a significant portion of yesterday chatting about this matter. Basically, we're not sure that Kells didn't bang this allegedly underage girl, but they'll never prove he did, and we'll praise the Shaggy Defense to our dying day.
LL Cool Jew: HAI ANDZI
Razzy: HEEEEYYYYYY
LL Cool Jew: R Kelly should have a papal name
LL Cool Jew: Innocent the Kells
Razzy: Innocent the Greatest
LL Cool Jew: "Kelly, wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a blue tie with diagonal orange stripes, his hair immaculately braided, tilts his head every so often, putting his chin on his hand to peer at the video from a different angle."
LL Cool Jew: you know, having attended a kells concert, i disagree with the following statement:
LL Cool Jew: "the R&B lothario's courthouse supporters are from a more uniform demographic: teenage African-American girls."
LL Cool Jew: actually, i'd say that the average age of attendees was a solid 28
Razzy: it's true, everyone at the kells concert was our age
LL Cool Jew: oh MAN
LL Cool Jew: classic, classic and unanswerable question:
LL Cool Jew: "How are we supposed to act when R. Kelly come?"
LL Cool Jew: INDEED.
LL Cool Jew: i'm reading this NYT article about him
LL Cool Jew: it includes the following quote:
LL Cool Jew: Mr. Kelly has owned up to unspecified missteps in interviews. He told the British newspaper The Observer in 2004: “In life, you have people that love to party. That’s me. People that love God. That’s me. People that love sex. That’s me. People that love people. That’s me. And people that make mistakes.” He paused. “That’s me also.”
LL Cool Jew: god
LL Cool Jew: he even talks like he's lyric-writing
Razzy: I KNOW
Razzy: he is truly the world's greatest
Razzy: in every way
Razzy: he is a star up in the sky
Razzy: a mountain peak on high
Razzy: etc
LL Cool Jew: i hope these girls get some recompense and therapy if they're messed up though
Razzy: well me too
LL Cool Jew: i mean, sucks that there are ELEVEN of them
Razzy: yes it surely does
LL Cool Jew: cmon kells
Razzy: indeed
LL Cool Jew: make them show you some id before you get knee-deep into it
Razzy: show some id before you get too deep
Razzy: JINX!
LL Cool Jew:: WHOA
Razzy: like, i don't think kells targets 13-year-olds though
Razzy: i think he just probably effs whatever girls show up backstage, ass hurtin'
LL Cool Jew: 17-year-olds, maybe
LL Cool Jew: but if you're going to give kells a hard time for screwing a 17yrold
LL Cool Jew: then go lock up milo ventimiglia for banging hayden panettiere
Razzy: you can't, the age of consent in illinois is 17
LL Cool Jew: god it is like truly embarrassing that i can spell "ventimiglia" and "panettiere"
Razzy: FOR SERIOUS
Razzy: omg, on that note
Razzy: hayden panettiere is auctioning off dinner with her on ebay
LL Cool Jew: god i know
LL Cool Jew: hayden and the whales
Razzy: to help SAVE THE FUCKING WHALES
LL Cool Jew: "again"
Razzy: i would bid if i had money, go to dinner, and order dolphin
LL Cool Jew: i love that the org is called, savethewhalesagain.org
LL Cool Jew: like save the whales the sequel
LL Cool Jew: save the whales part deux
Razzy: free willy 2
LL Cool Jew: TOTZ
Razzy: i think that savekellsagain.org is a more worthy cause
LL Cool Jew: savekellsagain(andagain).org
Razzy: savekellsinfinity.org
LL Cool Jew: love it
LL Cool Jew: it really doesn't sound like the prosecution has much though
Razzy: no it doesn't
LL Cool Jew: how are you going to convict if the alleged victim staunchly denies
Razzy: i've been saying this for months
Razzy: AND her parents deny it
LL Cool Jew: she probably got PAAAAAAAAAAAID
Razzy: i think the defense will call her to testify that it wasn't her
Razzy: and that's it
Razzy: they can't prove kells is the guy in the video
Razzy: they can't prove who the girl is, much less that she's underage
LL Cool Jew: kells' consigliere paid a conciliatory visit to the south side
LL Cool Jew: with a briefcase full of cash
Razzy: it's a buttload of reasonable doubt
LL Cool Jew: good thing TP4 is coming out in time to replenish the old litigation coffers
Razzy: YES
Razzy: and after he's acquitted
Razzy: it's WORLD TOUR TIME for mr. showbiz
I'm telling you, the Shaggy Defense is going to free up the Pied Piper of R&B to double up with all the 17-year-old honeys he wants. And I'm sure by now, you are all thinking that the sooner this happens, the better, because you're undoubtedly sick and tired of hearing me wax on and on about how the prosecution will never prove that Kells is a child pornographer. Go Shaggy Defense! You saw him banging a minor? It WASN'T KELLS!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
LET THE KELLS TRIAL INNOCENCE-FEST BEGIN!
Thank you to CorporateCard and Morrissey'sHair for both being concerned enough with the legal fate of Robert Sylvester Kelly to advise me that his trial was off to a rollicking legal start yesterday. Also, thanks to Morrissey'sHair for pointing out how impeccably dressed Kells was (per usual) and for noting, "Can't fade a playa." True that.
Anyway, back to day 1 of the People vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly. The prosecutor came right out of the gate with opening arguments delivered in a self-righteous, "Law and Order: SVU" sort of way. Engaging in blowjobs and watersports with a 13-year-old is reprehensible when you're a R&B thug, or any adult for that matter, taping it is worse, and R. Kelly supposedly did all that.
The defense, however, is relying on what they can prove and, more importantly, what the prosecution cannot: the fact that there's a high probability of the guy on the tape not being R. Kelly. You never see the guy's face, and the girl in the video remains unidentified. The alleged victim denied that she was in the video under oath before a grand jury, the tape was sent to a newspaper from an anonymous tipster rather than recovered from the R-uh in R&B's suburban Chicago mansion, R. Kelly has a brother who looks an awful lot like him, the tape is a fifth or sixth generation copy, and even the FBI couldn't identify the man on the tape. It seems to me that if you can't prove that the girl in the video is underage, much less whether the man pissing on her is in fact Robert S. Kelly from the Chi, then there is no case.
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
The defense asserts that Kelly has a "significant" mole in the middle of his lower back that has been there since childhood. But he said the man on the tape did not have the mole.
"There is no mole on his back," Adam (defense attorney) said. "Robert isn't that man on the tape."
Sounds good to me. Not only does this sound like Kells's back mole is the blemish of innocence, but it also makes a great excuse for R. Kelly to get topless in the courtroom. In other words, it's a total win-win for Kells supporters. NOT GUILTY!
Labels: armchair barristry, CorporateCard, crime and punishment, legal drama, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, May 19, 2008
Post-Tits
I just got a comment requesting that I pose topless more often with stuff written on my girls. Apparently, when I wrote shit about the New England Patriots on my sweater puppies in the past, this was well-received by certain readers who considered them "extremely hot." This reader went on to suggest that, as it's not football season and I can't fit "MATT WALSH SPEAKS THE TRUTH" or "BELICHICK DID SO TAPE THE RAMS' PREGAME WALKTHROUGH IN SUPER BOWL XXXVI", I should write something like "90210," "VOTE JOHN MCCAIN," or "FREE R. KELLY." Okay...Brooks and DONE.
It's no coincidence that I just finished posting about Robert Sylvester Kelly's prolific courtroom Post-It note production. While he's busy scrawling messages of his innocence on everyone's favorite neon-colored office supply, I'm busy shouting a similar message with my version of a Post-It. Some people say it with flowers, R. Kelly says it with Post-Its, and I say it with bare breasts. Actually, I'm not so much saying it with tits as shouting it from the fucking rooftops, because I put that shit on with extended wear lip color, which means that even with some verifiably painful loofah action I'm going to have "FREE KELLS" on my chest for the next three days. Oh well. It's worth it.
Labels: crime and punishment, nudity, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
And this week in R. Kelly trial news...
I wish I had more exciting news to report about the greatest case in the history of American justice: the People vs. the Pied Piper of R&B, better known as Robert Sylvester Kelly.
However, not much has gone on this past week except more jury selection. Apparently they've selected all 12 jurors and 2 alternates, so they only have 2 alternates to go. The good news about this is that once they get the last 2 jurors on board, they can get started with the business of proving R. Kelly not guilty so that he can tour for the TP Fourth Quarter album out this July, thus permitting LL Cool Jew and I to attend another Kells concert and have our minds blown by his mackadelic nightspot realness.
The jury selection has been remarkably uneventful. There was some chick dismissed for being as obviously pro-Kells as I would be (she declared Kells to be "a musical genius" under oath...NOT PERJURY!), and a bunch of other boring impartial jurors chosen instead. The biggest news was when one prospective juror said that "he's not very smart," a remark at which "Kelly looked up, a hurt expression on his face," according to the Chicago Sun-Times. Who does that bitch think she is? Does she not know that R. Kelly is the world's greatest? How can anyone reasonably say that the person who wrote lines like (for example, the song I'm listening to now, "TP-2") "taking off your Secrets with my teeth," "you can put it on me like drawers," and "I'm about to tear your shit out, new millenium style" is "not very smart?" I would argue that the author of such lyrics is VERY smart. R. Kelly is many things, including but not limited to a mountain, a tall tree, a swift wind moving over the country, so I think it goes without saying that he's "smart" in addition to being a giant, an eagle, and a lion down in the jungle. In fact, a common word like "smart" doesn't actually do R. Kelly's brilliance justice, and to suggest he's not even "smart" and hurt his feelings is inexcusable.
At least Kells managed to recover and return to what he has apparently been keeping busy with during most of the jury selection so far: writing copious Post-It notes and sticking them into his pockets. Undoubtedly those Post-It notes are filled with a combination of sure-fire winning legal strategies and real talk. I really like the idea of Kells instructing his attorneys by writing blurbs like "only thing I'm trying to extablish is not who's right and who's wrong, but what's right and what's wrong." Kells is probably also encouraging them to use the "Tommy did it" defense. If the lyrics to "I'm A Flirt (Remix)" are any indication, on at least one other occasion a guy named Tommy has been confused for R. Kelly. Yeah, that must be what's on Kells's Post-Its. I'm sure of it.
Labels: armchair barristry, crime and punishment, legal drama, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Friday, May 16, 2008
Now, usually I don't do this, but...
...go ahead and break 'em off with a little preview of the remix.
While normally you'd expect to hear "Now I'm not tryin' to be rude, but hey, pretty girl, I'm feelin' you, the way you do the things you do, reminds me of my Lexus coupe, that's why I'm all up in your grill, tryin' to get ya to my hotel, you must be a football coach the way you got me playin' the field" after that, but alas, this isn't a song by the World's Greatest R&B Thug, Robert Sylvester Kelly. This is, however, something almost as awesome: the dance remix of that video of O'Reilly flipping out at the "Inside Edition" teleprompter.
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
Genius.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Some would like to see him ball and chained...
...but he's a child of God, so his destiny is ordained. Who is he, you ask? None other than the inimitable Pied Piper/R-uh/King of R&B, Mr. Showbiz himself, the certifiable World's Greatest: ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. And what destiny is ordained? A NOT GUILTY verdict.
For those of you not obsessed with all things Kells, the trial of the geological eon, Illinois vs. Robert S. Kelly, started on Friday. So far nothing terribly exciting has happened, except the selection of three jurors. Jury selection is expected to last all week. Much more important is that R. Kelly has been coming to court stuntin' with tight braids and a custom suit. And since this isn't a fiesta, nobody's saying "my, my, my, my" when they see his frozen ice, as he left the three karat diamond earrings back at the Chocolate Factory. No need to showboat at his child pornography trial, although I'm sure his player's card is tucked safely in his money clip.
Now I've been hearing a lot of talk about "he's a pedophile" and whatnot, but apart from his damning marriage to the late Aaliyah when she was 15, I don't see how anyone can come to this conclusion from viewing the tape in question. If you haven't seen it, it's easily found with some internet searching, and I recommend you watch it before you jump to any conclusions about R. Kelly's guilt or innocence. It's absolutely not clear that Kells is the man in the tape, and even though I am one of the world's biggest R. Kelly fans, I can't pick his penis out of a lineup. All I know about his dick is that strippers keep it "on swole," it's a Capricorn, and if unleashed, it will "make the room go black."
Furthermore, since the alleged victim has denied that it's her on the tape, the prosecution has no way of proving the age of the girl supposedly involved in the child porn in question. All they can prove is that some black dude banged a chick in some mountain-themed room at R. Kelly's mansion. And I have no doubt that Kells's team of attorneys will work this reasonable doubt angle successfully, even if his head attorney doesn't really have much going on in the physical intimidation department:
Don't let the Lark scooter fool you; he may look like he's on his way to Costco to stock up on Ensure and Depends, but, according to the Chicago Tribune, "Edward Genson, the so-called dean of local defense lawyers, has represented high-profile personalities such as former U.S. Rep. Mel Reynolds, former Illinois inspector general Dean Bauer and media magnate Conrad Black. The 66-year-old attorney is known for displaying a stammering, disorganized courtroom demeanor that quickly transforms into a relentless, antagonistic cross-examination of prosecution witnesses."
In other words, the esteemed counselor isn't going to let his neuromuscular condition get in the way of totally owning the prosecution. There is no way Kells is going to be convicted and sentenced to 15 years. In fact, it's probably going to be a tougher job judging the hair braiding contest currently underway at R. Kelly's official website. Once they get a jury together, this trial's going to last a week and end in a verdict of "not guilty, y'all gots to feel me." He's going to be popping bottles of Cris with mamas to celebrate the release of TP Fourth Quarter this summer, a free man. Trust this.
Labels: armchair barristry, crime and punishment, legal drama, Robert Sylvester Kelly
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