Monday, November 26, 2007
50 speaks the international language
People (ie: J-Sexy) often wonder why I like my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson so much. He's a ridiculous, unreasonable, combative, violent, skeezy, bullet-riddled, possibly gay criminal, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I love his problem attitude, and the fact that he doesn't seem to take himself very seriously, but just says whatever the fuck he wants. I get the feeling that Fitty knows how funny most of the shit he spouts off with a poker face sounds, and as he admits in his song, is laughing straight to the bank about it. The latest news story about him is a case in point.
Being the consummate businessman, Fitty has decided to expand into new markets, and thus spent his Thanksgiving performing for an audience of rabid G-g-g-g-Unit fans in Mumbai, India. To promote this show, Curtis gave an interview to a website called desihits.com. The interviewer decided to teach Fitty a few things about Indian culture. After teaching him some Bhangra dances and offering him some delicacies from the local dessert cart, he decided to give him some tips on how to sweet talk the ladies. Specifically, he attempted to instruct him on how to say "beautiful girl" in Hindi. Apparently sick of language and culture lessons, Curtis stood up, unzipped his fly (causing hilarity to ensue in the form of the interviewer cowering in terror behind his shirt), and responded, "Everyone in the world knows sign language."
Ah, indeed. Everyone understands "suck my cock, ho" in international sign language. Fitty claims that his experience bears this out. "I am looking forward to coming to India. Every country I have been to, even if I don't speak the language, people know what I mean when I do this."
What I can't believe is that Fitty wasn't arrested and hauled off by India's morality police. Richard Gere and Shilpa Shetty earned arrest warrants for a tame peck on the cheek at an AIDS rally in India, so I find it hard to believe that when Fitty went to whip out his pecker there weren't some incensed conservatives demanding justice. It just reiterates Curtis Jackson's inherent invincibility. He can get shot nine times and offend the sexually conservative sensibilities of certain factions of Indian society, and still make $400 million hawking Vitamin Water and banging hot Bollywood actresses. God, I love my boyfriend.
And if you want to see about 45 seconds worth of hilarity, watch the video promoting 50's interview with D-d-d-d-desihits.com. Watch 50 Bhangra dance! Find out which Bollywood babe he thinks is hot! Watch 50 eat Indian desserts! Watch 50 speak Hindi! See 50 wearing an Indian cricket top! And reveal what lies beneath...
Those are desihits.com's words, not mine. But it's awesome, all the same. Enjoy:
Being the consummate businessman, Fitty has decided to expand into new markets, and thus spent his Thanksgiving performing for an audience of rabid G-g-g-g-Unit fans in Mumbai, India. To promote this show, Curtis gave an interview to a website called desihits.com. The interviewer decided to teach Fitty a few things about Indian culture. After teaching him some Bhangra dances and offering him some delicacies from the local dessert cart, he decided to give him some tips on how to sweet talk the ladies. Specifically, he attempted to instruct him on how to say "beautiful girl" in Hindi. Apparently sick of language and culture lessons, Curtis stood up, unzipped his fly (causing hilarity to ensue in the form of the interviewer cowering in terror behind his shirt), and responded, "Everyone in the world knows sign language."
What I can't believe is that Fitty wasn't arrested and hauled off by India's morality police. Richard Gere and Shilpa Shetty earned arrest warrants for a tame peck on the cheek at an AIDS rally in India, so I find it hard to believe that when Fitty went to whip out his pecker there weren't some incensed conservatives demanding justice. It just reiterates Curtis Jackson's inherent invincibility. He can get shot nine times and offend the sexually conservative sensibilities of certain factions of Indian society, and still make $400 million hawking Vitamin Water and banging hot Bollywood actresses. God, I love my boyfriend.
And if you want to see about 45 seconds worth of hilarity, watch the video promoting 50's interview with D-d-d-d-desihits.com. Watch 50 Bhangra dance! Find out which Bollywood babe he thinks is hot! Watch 50 eat Indian desserts! Watch 50 speak Hindi! See 50 wearing an Indian cricket top! And reveal what lies beneath...
Those are desihits.com's words, not mine. But it's awesome, all the same. Enjoy:
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, international intrigue, overcompensation, weiners
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I'm doublin' up with them
J-Sexy is always going off about how "silly" R. Kelly has become since the good old days (AKA "1993...check out this freaky style").
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Meanwhile, at his posh mansion in the Atlanta suburbs, Usher Raymond IV is doing the same thing. He has an album coming out, and a tranny wife who hates his mom giving birth soon, and he was inexplicably supposed to be in Cleveland yesterday, and he is BUSY. So he's pretty much regulating on the assistant tip as well:
Anyway, to relax, Usher and R. Kelly both take a step back and consider their options for chilling out. Since Kells doesn't have any time to twist trees and Usher doesn't have NEARLY the time to go unwind with a high colonic, they do the next best thing...call fellow R&B thugs to dish about their love lives, of course!
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Kells: Wanna introduce ya to this girl, I think I really love this girl.
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
No offense, Kells, but by your own standards, if she's driving a fucking DODGE DURANGO, then mere pesos is exactly what she's making. I'm sure a Durango is a fine mid-sized utility vehicle, but it's not exactly the world's most impressive whip. I guess it's pragmatic for the single mom, though.
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Usher: Do she got a kid?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Forensic evidence!
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Kells and Usher: We messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Usher: See, I met her at this party in Atlanta.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
Usher: I said, "Do you got a man?" She said "no," with no hesitation.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Usher: She whispered in my ear and said, "Can you take me home?"
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Usher: Man, I thought her body was calling when she said, "I want you."
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
I think that solves this mystery. Why is this bitch still shuffling papers and setting up programming schedules or whatever for TBS while in her spare time she's juggling interstate relationships with Robert Sylvester Kelly and Raymond Usher IV? This bitch is a pro ho at multitasking. Hats off to her. Seriously.
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Kells: She said she got me on her ringtone
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Kells: Man, she told me that was turned off. It's obvious that she's been playing us, playing us.
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Kells: Don’t like the way that she’s been goin bout it, goin' bout it.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Seriously, put R. Kelly and Usher in charge of the war in Iraq, because these two managed to solve a very serious problem in a matter of mere minutes. They are commendably efficient, managing to investigate, crack the case, and plot revenge without breaking a sweat. Well, okay, Usher broke a sweat trying to defend against R. Kelly's mad penetration skills on the court, but that doesn't really count. They've figured this shit out. Don't double up on a flirt and a closeted teen idol. They'll school you every time with their competence.
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
HEY GUYS, the jokes on you! High five, TT squared!
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
Okay, so they may be twins with identical cars sporting the same custom plate, an identical tattoo on the same body part, and an aggressive seduction technique who both answer to the same playful "TT" nickname, but they're still separate people. Honest and virtuous people. So they can go back to being the apple of Usher's eye (apple="BEARD," because unless she's the Adam's apple of his eye, Usher probably isn't concerned for any reason other than appearance's sake) or R. Kelly's potential wife (once he finalizes his divorce from his current wife). Everyone lives happily ever after. Usher is thrilled he has a new chick to offset the pesky gay rumors that circulate about him on the internets, and Kells, being a consummate businessman, is thinking about how this might make for a great song...
And so it does. And if this hasn't sold you, then just watch the damn thing! More people are jumping on the speeding freighter of awesomeness that is the Robert Sylvester Kelly bandwagon every day, and I'm certain that by now you're probably one of them, and will watch "Same Girl" followed by every Sylvester Films joint on YouTube.
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sluts
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that
Every time I think R. Kelly has set the new benchmark for ridiculous absurdity, he goes and breaks his own record with another offering of awesomeness. I'm so glad that FINALLY the world seems to have taken notice of Robert Sylvester's genius and waits eagerly for his latest blessing in the form of brilliant lyrics, heavily dramatic musical soap operas, or inspired and award-worthy videos.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Merry 9/11, y'all!
So today I am sorry to say I don't have time to do a "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" or "Daily Douchebag" today as I'm busting out a poster full of rhinovirology hotness for my department's retreat. J-Sexy's is so cute, complete with a catchy title ("Interfering with Interferon") and her trademark "polio-o's" (replacing the letter "o" in her title with little polio virions). Since she set the bar high for eleventh hour virology hotness, I've got to produce something equally aesthetically pleasing for the crowd of discriminating microbiology nerds to praise.
In addition to the science business, I was distracted this morning by all those depressing 9/11 memorials on TV. That shit is live from Ground Zero every year, and while I obviously understand the importance of having a 9/11 memorial service, why does it have to be on every single fucking channel? It is a lousy way to start the morning listening to a choked-up NYFD captain rattling off the names of all his dead friends, and I wish there was ONE channel that would pay attention to other important news. I think it would provide hope to us all to hear some GOOD news on 9/11 for a change. For example, the news that 50 Cent's album Curtis dropped today and it is AWESOME.
As usual, 50 Cent is the master of the diss and the unintentionally hilarious lyrics about his prowess in the bedroom (if the song "Peep Show" wasn't titled that, I would have thought Fitty and Eminem were inviting women to their "Creep Show"). I suspect that because of the Razzy-related drama between my top two boyfriends Curtis Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly, 50 had some choice words for Kells: "I'm pissin' on grown women...R. Kelly do it to children." That diss will be outdated when the R-uh in R&B is exonerated at his trial starting next Monday, but whatever. Fitty is the silver lining on this 9/11, or as he puts it, he's "in the cut like germs" and you should go celebrate the day we got seriously dissed by Al Qaeda by buying yourself a copy of Curtis and listening to the dulcet beef-fomenting tones of 50 Cent, the world's most accomplished hater next to Osama.
In addition to the science business, I was distracted this morning by all those depressing 9/11 memorials on TV. That shit is live from Ground Zero every year, and while I obviously understand the importance of having a 9/11 memorial service, why does it have to be on every single fucking channel? It is a lousy way to start the morning listening to a choked-up NYFD captain rattling off the names of all his dead friends, and I wish there was ONE channel that would pay attention to other important news. I think it would provide hope to us all to hear some GOOD news on 9/11 for a change. For example, the news that 50 Cent's album Curtis dropped today and it is AWESOME.
As usual, 50 Cent is the master of the diss and the unintentionally hilarious lyrics about his prowess in the bedroom (if the song "Peep Show" wasn't titled that, I would have thought Fitty and Eminem were inviting women to their "Creep Show"). I suspect that because of the Razzy-related drama between my top two boyfriends Curtis Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly, 50 had some choice words for Kells: "I'm pissin' on grown women...R. Kelly do it to children." That diss will be outdated when the R-uh in R&B is exonerated at his trial starting next Monday, but whatever. Fitty is the silver lining on this 9/11, or as he puts it, he's "in the cut like germs" and you should go celebrate the day we got seriously dissed by Al Qaeda by buying yourself a copy of Curtis and listening to the dulcet beef-fomenting tones of 50 Cent, the world's most accomplished hater next to Osama.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, grad school bullshit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, terror
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Oh hells yes, Kells!
J-Sexy's birthday was Monday August 13th, and to mark her 26th year, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly gave her the best present ever in hopes that she would stop calling him "ridicolos." He dropped the new installments of Trapped in the Closet on Monday!
Because I was so busy celebrating her birthday, I somehow made the egregious mistake of forgetting about this until today. I haven't had a chance to watch them all yet because my piece of shit computer keeps shutting down, but what I have seen is AMAZING. R. Kelly is a fucking genius.
So far only episodes 13-16 are out (they're releasing a new one each day), but they're promising we're going to learn a lot more about Twan, the fresh-out-the-state-pen brother-in-law of R. Kelly's character Sylvester, along with sordid details about the sex life of Rosie the spatula-wielding nosy neighbor and her husband Randolph (portrayed by R. Kelly in the greatest white afro wig EVER), plot twists related to his adulterous tryst with straight vodka-swilling Kathy (she of the down-low gay preacher husband), Twan's violent impulses and knocking-up of his archnemesis Tina on an aborted drug run to Atlanta, and Sylvester's eminent skills at mediating debates between estranged lovers.
Oh, hell, just go watch it at IFC.com. It's "crazier than a fish with titties," much like Twan's desire to smoke some chronic whilst driving. I can't wait for the rest of this to drop, because I'm getting impatient. To quote Twan: "Do I look like En Vogue? Because the way you've got me holding on..."
So far only episodes 13-16 are out (they're releasing a new one each day), but they're promising we're going to learn a lot more about Twan, the fresh-out-the-state-pen brother-in-law of R. Kelly's character Sylvester, along with sordid details about the sex life of Rosie the spatula-wielding nosy neighbor and her husband Randolph (portrayed by R. Kelly in the greatest white afro wig EVER), plot twists related to his adulterous tryst with straight vodka-swilling Kathy (she of the down-low gay preacher husband), Twan's violent impulses and knocking-up of his archnemesis Tina on an aborted drug run to Atlanta, and Sylvester's eminent skills at mediating debates between estranged lovers.
Oh, hell, just go watch it at IFC.com. It's "crazier than a fish with titties," much like Twan's desire to smoke some chronic whilst driving. I can't wait for the rest of this to drop, because I'm getting impatient. To quote Twan: "Do I look like En Vogue? Because the way you've got me holding on..."
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, August 13, 2007
Curtis shall overcome
I've obviously spent all morning dicking around on The Smoking Gun's website, and while there I came across one more reason why super douchebag Kanye West is going to SO LOSE to my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in their album sales throwdown on 9/11.
I've already established that I think Kanye West is a pussified little twat with a big mouth and an annoying sense of self-righteous messianic egotism. That haughty expression constantly on Kanye's bitchy little face makes him look like a privileged prep school wuss on his way to go sailing or hit the squash courts, and certainly no match for a scowling, Louis Vuitton-holster-wearing, Heckler and Koch-wielding, highly motivated, extremely aggressive gangster-turned-businessman like Fitty. Okay, that "highly motivated, extremely aggressive gangster-turned-businessman" thing is actually from a Westside Connection song, but it works for Curtis too. Anyway, adding to his contrasting general impression of manicured pretty boy-ness, Kanye West's tour rider demands a whole host of faggotronic personal care items, from Nivea "Intensive" moisturizer to a fucking BARBER CHAIR. He also insists that each venue purchase socks and underwear for him, although he declines to specify his brand preference, which is surprising since he seems the fastidious, label-whore type whose coochie remains in the Gucci name. He seems the type whose patience you should never test on account of being high maintenance...HIGH CLASS, and if you ain't rollin', then bypass. Kanye's doing a terrific job of bucking those materialistic ideals prevalent in hip-hop culture that he loves to alternately embrace and criticize at his convenience. He also requires a new soft-bristled toothbrush and Neutrogena dandruff shampoo. Kanye West has a dandruff problem? No wonder he also requested a white crew-neck t-shirt...it helps disguise those embarrassing scalp flakes.
Kanye must also not be keeping up on his business news, because he states in emphatic capital letters, "NO COKE PRODUCTS ARE TO BE PLACED IN THE DRESSING ROOM" while simulaneously noting that eight bottles of Vitamin Water are a "must have." Vitamin Water is made by Glaceau, which was just acquired by Coca-Cola in a deal that made Fitty's stake in the company worth $400 million. I think it's safe to say that Fitty is going to beat the shit out of Kanye on the Billboard charts if he's such a dominant and pervasive force that Kanye himself requires a Formula 50 before each and every performance. God knows he can't shout "We want pre-nup! We want pre-nup!" satisfactorily unless he's pounded a bottle ofCurtis Jackson grape-flavored water. He probably needs a dose of Fitty's chutzpah before he can muster the stones to go preach to his audience full of socially conscious liberal arts college students.
Anyway, if anything ever indicated that Fitty is going to mop the floor with Kanye's preppy, metrosexual, dandruff-shedding ass, it's his own damn prima donna tour rider. Fitty's only requirements for general accommodations (at least according to his lyrics) are "stash box, laptop, fax machine, phone...bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." He's a sexily dangerous handful, I'm sure, but I bet he doesn't stoop to a level of diva where he specifies which brand of pistachio nuts he'll deign to eat. He also MIGHT be on the down low, but you'd never see him giving that away with demands for L'Occitane soap. Kanye not only has the audacity to insist that each concert venue provide him with toothpaste and deodorant, but insists on prefunking with 50's own eponymous Kool-Aid. What a fucking tool. Curtis is going to smote his thoroughly moisturized, Izod-loving ruin upon the mountainside come 9/11.
Kanye must also not be keeping up on his business news, because he states in emphatic capital letters, "NO COKE PRODUCTS ARE TO BE PLACED IN THE DRESSING ROOM" while simulaneously noting that eight bottles of Vitamin Water are a "must have." Vitamin Water is made by Glaceau, which was just acquired by Coca-Cola in a deal that made Fitty's stake in the company worth $400 million. I think it's safe to say that Fitty is going to beat the shit out of Kanye on the Billboard charts if he's such a dominant and pervasive force that Kanye himself requires a Formula 50 before each and every performance. God knows he can't shout "We want pre-nup! We want pre-nup!" satisfactorily unless he's pounded a bottle of
Anyway, if anything ever indicated that Fitty is going to mop the floor with Kanye's preppy, metrosexual, dandruff-shedding ass, it's his own damn prima donna tour rider. Fitty's only requirements for general accommodations (at least according to his lyrics) are "stash box, laptop, fax machine, phone...bulletproof this bitch and I'm gone." He's a sexily dangerous handful, I'm sure, but I bet he doesn't stoop to a level of diva where he specifies which brand of pistachio nuts he'll deign to eat. He also MIGHT be on the down low, but you'd never see him giving that away with demands for L'Occitane soap. Kanye not only has the audacity to insist that each concert venue provide him with toothpaste and deodorant, but insists on prefunking with 50's own eponymous Kool-Aid. What a fucking tool. Curtis is going to smote his thoroughly moisturized, Izod-loving ruin upon the mountainside come 9/11.
Labels: 50 cent, assholes, boyfriends, overcompensation, rap, scathing indictments
Friday, August 10, 2007
Vote for my boyfriend (buy his album)
A few days ago, my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson decided to accept an offer by BET to host a debate between him and bitchy prima donna Kanye West. Their third albums, Fitty's Curtis and Kanye's Graduation, both drop like the Twin Towers on September 11th, and the mock candidates' debate will allow both rappers to publicly explain why they are superior to each other. I'd say that judging by album cover alone, Fitty wins by a longshot. He looks hot and intense, while pretentious douchebag Kanye's album looks like it was designed by a fifteen-year-old wannabe Harajuku girl snorting Oxycontin and watching a marathon of "I Love the 80s Strikes Back" on Vh1.
Kanye claims the debate is a stupid idea, saying "what am I going to debate about? It's the stupidest thing. When my album drops and 50's album drops, you're going to get a lot of good music at the same time." Some might consider this tactful, but I would argue that it's actually a cowardly way of pussying out because he knows he can't hold a candle to Fitty's world-famous dissing skills. Fitty isn't taking diplomacy as an answer, and has decided to raise the stakes in his competition with Kanye. He is literally betting his career on being better than Cuntface West according to "my favorite hip-hop website's favorite hip-hop website" SOHH.com. According to Fitty:
Checks not trophies! G-g-g-g-g-unIT!
"Let's raise the stakes. If Kanye West sells more records than 50 Cent on September 11, I'll no longer write music. I'll write music and work with my other artists, but I won't put out any more solo albums."WHAT?! This cannot be. I will freak out if I can't buy new music where Fitty says stuff like "I got no pick up lines, I stay on the grind, I tell the hoes all the time, 'Bitch, get in my car'" and "isn't it ironic how erotic it is to watch you in thongs" every couple of years. Fortunately, it seems that my boy CJ is confident that he'll win. He also had this to say:
"And I bet this, when Kanye West's sales come in, he's gonna have a 70% decrease [the second week] 'cause Def Jam is gonna buy records to keep him closer to 50 Cent. So watch the first week and then watch the second week. Watch his ass drop off the planet. We keep our angles covered before we make a decent bet. I didn't get one trophy for ‘The Massacre.' ... I don't get trophies, I get checks. He gets the trophies."Whew. I'm glad Fitty has his bases covered. I would expect him to, because it takes an especially prescient business mind to parlay a small investment in Glaceau into an overnight $400 million Vitamin Water fortune, but still...gambling with a career like his is enough to send me into fits of hysterical terror. I'll do my part to ensure that Fitty continues making ridiculous CDs by encouraging you all to go pre-order Curtis RIGHT NOW.
Checks not trophies! G-g-g-g-g-unIT!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, rap
Friday, August 03, 2007
You had me at "Come take a walk with me through the streets of Chi town"
Man, this summer has been Kellsapalooza, and I'm not complaining. In addition to his dope Double Up album dropping and his case finally going to trial, (a case, I might add, which he is going to WIN), my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly is releasing another ten chapters to his magnum opus Trapped In the Closet. I don't know where else this can go, considering that in the last chapter a little person shit his pants as R. Kelly's expert couples counseling skills (and Beretta) negotiated peace between a chain-smoking cop and his trailer trash BBW wife Bridget (not a coincidence that her name rhymes with "pregnant by this midget"). However, I have no doubt that the R-uh in R&B will take it somewhere awesome. Here's a tantalizing preview, including Kells "reminiscing on all of the shit that went down" in the previous twelve chapters in case you missed them, replete with melodic "oh shit"s for emphasis:
These new episodes are going to be distributed by IFC--as in the fucking Independent Film Channel! I am so glad that Kells is finally being recognized as the true artist he is. Furthermore, it will be nice to see something on IFC besides pretentious indie films produced by boxy-spectacled Brooklyn artfags.
Man, the summer of R. Kelly just keeps on rolling on and kicking ass.
These new episodes are going to be distributed by IFC--as in the fucking Independent Film Channel! I am so glad that Kells is finally being recognized as the true artist he is. Furthermore, it will be nice to see something on IFC besides pretentious indie films produced by boxy-spectacled Brooklyn artfags.
Man, the summer of R. Kelly just keeps on rolling on and kicking ass.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, movies, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Mark your calendars
September 17th is the most important day of the year. Why, you ask? Because the trial of the century begins that day. Bigger than O.J., bigger than Scott Peterson, bigger than Ken Lay, bigger than fucking Nuremburg, bigger than ANYTHING ELSE IN THE HISTORY OF CRIMINAL JUSTICE. This case involves witnesses named Sparkle, watersports, and a defendant who is black, handsome, who sings, plus he's rich, and he's a flirt.
It is the day that Robert Sylvester Kelly, the self-proclaimed "Pied Piper of R&B" (in hindsight, that was probably the most inadvisable nickname for himself he could have chosen short of Humbert Humbert, The Mary Kay LeTourneau of R&B, or Minor-fucker) faces up to the 14 counts of child pornography he is being charged with. Per the Chicago Tribune, the judge finally announced the trial date. Since that's a mere six days after my other boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson's self-titled album Curtis drops (right in time to make a perfect 9/11 gift), I'll pretty much resign myself to going out of my mind with excitement that entire week.
Not that I'm worried for Kells's cocksucker red fur-clad hotness. Anyone who read my crack legal analysis of the case knows that not only is Nancy Grace sweating with fear that I might usurp her as one of the greatest legal analysts EVER (and I didn't even go to law school), but that the man who put the R-uh in R&B is going to be so totally acquitted. On September 17, 2007 justice is finally going to be served, in the form of a "not guilty, now go make more awesome outer space, jungle, home electronics, dessert, automotive, clothing, faux thug, astrology, marijuana, answering machine recording, or epicurean-themed songs about effectively working the first-class hips of strippers and gold-digging whores" verdict.
Not that I'm worried for Kells's cocksucker red fur-clad hotness. Anyone who read my crack legal analysis of the case knows that not only is Nancy Grace sweating with fear that I might usurp her as one of the greatest legal analysts EVER (and I didn't even go to law school), but that the man who put the R-uh in R&B is going to be so totally acquitted. On September 17, 2007 justice is finally going to be served, in the form of a "not guilty, now go make more awesome outer space, jungle, home electronics, dessert, automotive, clothing, faux thug, astrology, marijuana, answering machine recording, or epicurean-themed songs about effectively working the first-class hips of strippers and gold-digging whores" verdict.
Labels: boyfriends, crime and punishment, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sexual assault
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Because he was feeling left out
I've been raving so much about Skipper Sig Hansen and Robert Sylvester Kelly lately that I've been neglecting to laud my #1 boyfriend, Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. I was watching the MTV Movie Awards tonight, and after spending about ten minutes ranting to myself about how overrated and annoying Sarah Silverman and Dane Cook both are, and thinking murderous thoughts about the Pinkett-Smiths and their obnoxious kid, I was calmed by two things. First, a Transformers trailer (and HOLY SHIT, it looks awesome) replaced my feelings of rage with kid-on-Christmas-morning giddy excitement, and then a commercial for Vitamin Water starring none other than my boyfriend Curtis. The premise of this commercial is that not only has Formula 50 consumption given Fitty the business acumen to earn $400 million dollars last week when Coca-Cola acquired Vitamin Water manufacturer Glaceau (which Fitty owns a stake in), but the conductorial skills to lead a full symphony in a freestyle orchestral arrangement of "In Da Club:"
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
This makes me wish I actually liked Formula 50. Despite what the name might lead you to believe, it's grape-flavored, not Curtis Jackson-flavored. As much as I love Fitty, I can't stand grape-flavored anything, as it reminds me of Dimetapp and thus of being sick. Maybe if I could choke down enough Formula 50, I would graduate tomorrow, achieve fame, fortune, and wealth beyond imagination (the plan for that is TBA), buy the Seahawks, get elected president, and live happily ever after comparing myself to Beethoven. Since I can't tolerate it, though, I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way: plenty of stick-to-it-iveness, elbow grease, American pride, and fucking people in influential positions. In the meantime, however, I'll have to not hate, and rather congratulate. Nice marketing, Curtis, and nice symphonic skills.
**Golf claps**
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, hilarious shit, hot dudes, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, TV
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
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Amen!
My e-mail blew up today with my friends sending me the quote of the fucking year. As LL Cool Jew simply explained, "Truer words have never been spoken." Indeed not. Of course, the person who said these words is none other than my boyfriend and true love, Chicago's own R&B thug, Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly:
When asked whether he's concerned that his competition might defeat him for the title of "the R-uh in R&B" and/or "the king of R&B", he confidently replied:
At first I thought this thing was some type of sex toy (and immediately considered buying it), but then realized that it's not anatomically correct in the sense that it just has that generic lump in the crotch instead of a weiner. However, I think every girl who ever played Barbies can attest that proportionally, Kells's package is considerably more sizable than Ken's.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
"My greatest competition is, well, me . . . I'm the Ali of today. I'm the Marvin Gaye of today. I'm the Bob Marley of today. I'm the Martin Luther King, or all the other greats that have come before us. And a lot of people are starting to realize that now."You hear that, Jamie Foxx? Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up with your arrogant prattle about your superior singing skills, before R-dot reminds you who really is the king of R&B. Only a truly regal figure like Kells can rock a royal all-purple ensemble--complete with gun holster suspenders--with a blinged-up tongue-sticking-out belt buckle right over his--wait, what in the name of God is going on with those pants?! It's like the bastard child of the Pit of Sarlacc and the Purple Pieman. Anyway, you know Martin Luther King would be doing the same if his ass hadn't gotten shot before being iced out came into style. I realized this long ago. Besides, I don't think anyone can dispute this statement, given that Robert Sylvester has inspired a LIFE-SIZE KEN DOLL of himself.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
Labels: Bev Niner, boyfriends, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, vanity
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Let the healing begin
For those of you who thought that pain caused by Seung-hui Cho shooting up Virginia Tech would never go away, you can relax. My boyfriend is here to help, and he's dressed in an appropriately authoritative manner to put everyone's mind at ease. Never fear, Tech...Lieutenant Colonel Kells is here, looking for a few solid barely legal teenagers to piss on console.
It seems that while on his way to a mind-blowingly awesome show somewhere outside of the Chi, he became absorbed with cable news coverage of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, and immediately took it upon himself to right the wrongs done to the Hokie Spirit. His new song "Rise Up," which presumably will be more along the lines of "I Wish" and "I Believe I Can Fly" than "Feelin' on Yo Booty" or "R&B Thug" in terms of tone, is supposed to inspire the devastated community at Virginia Tech to overcome their grief and pain and will raise money for the memorial fund established in the names of those blown away by the socially inept loser and aspiring playwright Seung Cho. Besides, nothing brings a fresh breeze of hope to the lank sails of the despairing like the inspirational gleam of a 20-karat diamond pinky ring reflecting in a stage light:
Just looking at him soulfully exhorting the Hokie faithful to "Rise Up" in his finest funereal bling and his somber black do-rag is bringing a tear to my cruel eye and an uncomfortable sensation that I think could be characterized as warmth to my icy heart.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
I am a rarse clark, whatever that is
On account of recent out-of-town guests and LL Cool Jew's nuptials, I've been neglecting the site this past week, but that hasn't stopped the haters! I guess they took advantage of this rare period of silence from me to speak their minds. Someone complained in the comments that my "journal entries" are boring. To that end, I have upcoming stories about strippers, scotch, my amazing breasts, and lesbian sex, so, Dear Diary, be patient until I can bring that noise. Also, my e-mail had this waiting gem from yet another 50 Cent hater taking issue with my conclusions in the World's Greatest Rap Beefs section:
From: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: You're a retard
Claiming that 50 cent fucking wis every beef, even with some shitty excuses
like "Kim's in jail and So is Shyne so 50 wins" What the fuck is that you
rarse clark?
There isn't even beef from Shynes point of view and if you did your fucking
research G Unit keeps trying to sign him to their records, Shyne just keeps
telling them to get the fuck off his dick as he won't be involved in the
shit G unit keeps putting their artists in so 50 Cent ordered a verbal
assault on him. No other track was released by Shyne as he's in fucking
prison, only an interview where he states thet 50 Cent is a two faced mutha
fucka.
How is that beef you idgit?
Get of 50's dick.
I find these e-mails amusing because people are always so indignant that I like 50 Cent. I don't think people ever realize that my fondness for my boyfriend Curtis is more due to his humorous antics as opposed to his prowess at rap. I did, however, enjoy the rather Biblical-sounding "get of 50's dick." That sounds like some sort of antiquated version of the Liturgy of the Eucharist: "take this all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body which has been given up for you...do this in memory of me." I think it more likely that Benet's inferior typing skills resulted in omission of the letter "f" rather than a subtle reference to the transubstantiation of the host, but I couldn't resist making a crack about it in my reply.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
Subject: RE: You're a retard
Well, Benet, since this is approximately the 50th poorly composed e-mail I've received disputing my assertions concerning the venerable Mr. Curtis Jackson, I have a ready answer: it's my fucking opinion. If you would like to set up an internet shrine to Shyne's lyrical aptitude and dominance over the G-Unit from his cell at Sing Sing, be my guest. However, please be advised that in my experience, it's always much better to properly spell "idiot" before you use that term to defame someone.
I will, therefore, not "get of 50's dick." In fact, I'd gladly get of it, if he were to proffer it.
Regards,
Razzy
P.S. What the fuck is a "rarse clark"? I am curious.
I eagerly anticipate a reply from "Outlawz Benet", particularly concerning the etiology and definition of the term "rarse clark". Based on my internet research, only one person, some chick named Beckie on MSN, has ever been called this and per her message board queries, it means either "no way, Jose" or "I'm Rick James, bitch." Needless to say, I'm still confused regarding its meaning and whether or not it's an insult that makes any kind of sense at all. And Benet says I'm the retard.
From: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: You're a retard
Claiming that 50 cent fucking wis every beef, even with some shitty excuses
like "Kim's in jail and So is Shyne so 50 wins" What the fuck is that you
rarse clark?
There isn't even beef from Shynes point of view and if you did your fucking
research G Unit keeps trying to sign him to their records, Shyne just keeps
telling them to get the fuck off his dick as he won't be involved in the
shit G unit keeps putting their artists in so 50 Cent ordered a verbal
assault on him. No other track was released by Shyne as he's in fucking
prison, only an interview where he states thet 50 Cent is a two faced mutha
fucka.
How is that beef you idgit?
Get of 50's dick.
I find these e-mails amusing because people are always so indignant that I like 50 Cent. I don't think people ever realize that my fondness for my boyfriend Curtis is more due to his humorous antics as opposed to his prowess at rap. I did, however, enjoy the rather Biblical-sounding "get of 50's dick." That sounds like some sort of antiquated version of the Liturgy of the Eucharist: "take this all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body which has been given up for you...do this in memory of me." I think it more likely that Benet's inferior typing skills resulted in omission of the letter "f" rather than a subtle reference to the transubstantiation of the host, but I couldn't resist making a crack about it in my reply.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: benet thomas (outlawzbenet@gmail.com)
Subject: RE: You're a retard
Well, Benet, since this is approximately the 50th poorly composed e-mail I've received disputing my assertions concerning the venerable Mr. Curtis Jackson, I have a ready answer: it's my fucking opinion. If you would like to set up an internet shrine to Shyne's lyrical aptitude and dominance over the G-Unit from his cell at Sing Sing, be my guest. However, please be advised that in my experience, it's always much better to properly spell "idiot" before you use that term to defame someone.
I will, therefore, not "get of 50's dick." In fact, I'd gladly get of it, if he were to proffer it.
Regards,
Razzy
P.S. What the fuck is a "rarse clark"? I am curious.
I eagerly anticipate a reply from "Outlawz Benet", particularly concerning the etiology and definition of the term "rarse clark". Based on my internet research, only one person, some chick named Beckie on MSN, has ever been called this and per her message board queries, it means either "no way, Jose" or "I'm Rick James, bitch." Needless to say, I'm still confused regarding its meaning and whether or not it's an insult that makes any kind of sense at all. And Benet says I'm the retard.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, correspondence, grammar gestapo, rap, Razzy Haters
Saturday, March 10, 2007
John Duddy is the Hotness Monster
Not a boxing fan, I'll be honest. But there's something profound about the neanderthal experience of two men beating the sweet fuck out of eachother. There are rules, there's ceremony, but you can't erase the fact that it's a trashy way to roll. Step aside street fights. These men are serious.
Last night, Kitten and I kicked it in Woodside to do some research on boxing, Irish boxing, by going straight to the source: Irish people. I stood in as the stunt-drinker and general wingman, given my strong proclivity toward whisky and strangers. She did the talking, writing - the work - while I just perched on my barstool lookin pretty to keep up convesation while she dug for quotes. I also had an important job as translator: Kitten has had to swear off drinking these days, so as the only one drinking, I was at moments the only one with enough alcohol in my ears to understand the brogue. A fine time had by all - we met an actual retired Irish boxer, 21 and a grill peppered with pronounced gaps, in addition to many boxing fans that produced some substantial, albeit eclectic, research for write ups. Stay tuned.
As the non-journalist of the pair, though, here's what *I learned: John Duddy is smokin fuckin fine. Check him out here, in his press releases-with-pics, where you can see those baby blues sparkling in front of the Irish Ropes step-and-repeat backdrop. His opponent for the Erin-Go-Brawl next weekend is pushing the boxing age - a seasoned 36, versus hottie's 27 - so my man is poised to conquer. You never know with boxing, a lot like cock fighting (in more ways than one), but Duddy is the delicious ladies' choice for victory.
A pre-fight aired while we were there, with the bonny lad bedecked in emerald Irish green, and I also discovered that, despite a brief hiatus from the ring, this cat moves like lightening. The bob and weave, for we inexperienced. There's certainly a technical name attached to his style that I can't even bother to look up. But dang, y'all, there's no pause in his punch. Glad I'm not a Hell-Cat-Katie, Gangs of New York-era broad. I'd crumble like a Confederate Solider if I faced that in a back alley. Other lessons: the Irish are leaving New York. The World Cup adventure in 2K6/Year of the Slut had me convinced that the population was running strong, but some inside intel reveals the fact that the stand-by supply of Irish immigrants have fled their usual neighborhoods of Woodlawn and Woodside to, well, the actual woods of Ireland. The economy is on the up and up and the OOO-Ess-Ah Patriot Act makes it tough to get a driver's license, so it's back to the bonny isles for some real living. Woodside - and I remember this from my former hood hang out days in 2003 - was once crawling with fresh-off-the-boat faces. Now, the bars are vacant, you can actually sit down. A few blokes hurling darts at the board, the erstwhile viewer of the Rogue and Pogue show, the occasional Hurling afficiando and the mandatory four-old-guys-at-the-end-of-the-bar. Otherwise, you can walk in and obtain a drink on a Friday night in about 7 seconds. Bodes well for the boozehounds but bad for the bar. Journalists break even.
Next assignment: off to Dublin to top-of-the-mornin some Gaelic honies. Nothing quite like some Catholic trouble. Boo ya.
Last night, Kitten and I kicked it in Woodside to do some research on boxing, Irish boxing, by going straight to the source: Irish people. I stood in as the stunt-drinker and general wingman, given my strong proclivity toward whisky and strangers. She did the talking, writing - the work - while I just perched on my barstool lookin pretty to keep up convesation while she dug for quotes. I also had an important job as translator: Kitten has had to swear off drinking these days, so as the only one drinking, I was at moments the only one with enough alcohol in my ears to understand the brogue. A fine time had by all - we met an actual retired Irish boxer, 21 and a grill peppered with pronounced gaps, in addition to many boxing fans that produced some substantial, albeit eclectic, research for write ups. Stay tuned.
As the non-journalist of the pair, though, here's what *I learned: John Duddy is smokin fuckin fine. Check him out here, in his press releases-with-pics, where you can see those baby blues sparkling in front of the Irish Ropes step-and-repeat backdrop. His opponent for the Erin-Go-Brawl next weekend is pushing the boxing age - a seasoned 36, versus hottie's 27 - so my man is poised to conquer. You never know with boxing, a lot like cock fighting (in more ways than one), but Duddy is the delicious ladies' choice for victory.
A pre-fight aired while we were there, with the bonny lad bedecked in emerald Irish green, and I also discovered that, despite a brief hiatus from the ring, this cat moves like lightening. The bob and weave, for we inexperienced. There's certainly a technical name attached to his style that I can't even bother to look up. But dang, y'all, there's no pause in his punch. Glad I'm not a Hell-Cat-Katie, Gangs of New York-era broad. I'd crumble like a Confederate Solider if I faced that in a back alley. Other lessons: the Irish are leaving New York. The World Cup adventure in 2K6/Year of the Slut had me convinced that the population was running strong, but some inside intel reveals the fact that the stand-by supply of Irish immigrants have fled their usual neighborhoods of Woodlawn and Woodside to, well, the actual woods of Ireland. The economy is on the up and up and the OOO-Ess-Ah Patriot Act makes it tough to get a driver's license, so it's back to the bonny isles for some real living. Woodside - and I remember this from my former hood hang out days in 2003 - was once crawling with fresh-off-the-boat faces. Now, the bars are vacant, you can actually sit down. A few blokes hurling darts at the board, the erstwhile viewer of the Rogue and Pogue show, the occasional Hurling afficiando and the mandatory four-old-guys-at-the-end-of-the-bar. Otherwise, you can walk in and obtain a drink on a Friday night in about 7 seconds. Bodes well for the boozehounds but bad for the bar. Journalists break even.
Next assignment: off to Dublin to top-of-the-mornin some Gaelic honies. Nothing quite like some Catholic trouble. Boo ya.
Labels: alcoholism, boyfriends, FalloniusMonk, NYC
Thursday, March 01, 2007
No, in Diddy
I was unaware of this, but apparently Diddy was banned from going by "Diddy" in the United Kingdom, because there's already some DJ who goes by that name. He's that guy in the inset who looks like the bastard child of Chris Elliot and the construction worker from The Village People.
The existence of this old Diddy makes sense, because I have this Blondie CD where there's something called the "Diddy remix" of "Rapture", and it always puzzled me because it sounded more like gay club music than anything else, and it lacked the requisite "take that take that take that", "uh" sounds, and shout outs to Bad Boy that are a necessary part of any Sean Combs-produced song. I've now realized that version of "Rapture" must be a Eurotrash house remix engineered by the original British Diddy.
Anyway, the more famous Diddy promised to go by something else in England, but apparently decided that he could get away with reverting to using the name Diddy in his song "The Future." The British Diddy sued for breaching the agreement, and the judge handed American Diddy his ass in a London court. Not that I really care what name this asshole gets to go by (I mean, he's due to change it again anyway), but the judge's ruling is priceless:
In fairness, really, what is poor Puffy to do? "Mainline this new Sean Combs heroin" is even more ridiculous, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a song by him that ISN'T overtly self-referential. I'm amazed that there's only one song on this album that says "Diddy" or exhorts listeners to buy his crappy-ass music. Can you think of a single Diddy song not involving the Notorious BIG that's remotely worth listening to and that was produced post-1997? All I can come up with is "Pass the Courvoisier," and that's only because that song brings the word "cho-cha" to mainstream radio (although his lyrics will never be as deft as those belonging to the pioneer of "cho-cha"-containing verse, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly).
The judge is really throwing the book at him, as he wants a full trial to address his repeated use of "Diddy" on YouTube and MySpace, and if Puffy doesn't excise all Diddy references from any material of his that might make it into the UK, he won't be allowed to perform his SOLD-OUT SHOW at Wembley Arena. Diddy can sell out an arena? I know he's like an entertainment mogul, but I thought that was just due to his shameless exploitation of the late Christopher Wallace and his ability to make popular sweatsuits, not because people actually want to hear HIS music. Since when did Diddy have the ability to sell out arena shows like it's 1985 and he's the original lineup of Van Halen? Since at least a few thousand Brits are eagerly mainlining this Diddy heroin, combined with my existing suspicions about whether the popularity of Jordan is the result of a pact between Katie Price and the devil, the re-election of their prime ministerGollum Tony Blair, and the disturbing trend of uber-asshole celebrities (Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow) moving there and talking shit about America, I'm beginning to wonder whether there are any sane people in England at all. Oh wait...there's at least two. J.K Rowling, and the guy who came up with this idea to sell tickets to Equus.
The existence of this old Diddy makes sense, because I have this Blondie CD where there's something called the "Diddy remix" of "Rapture", and it always puzzled me because it sounded more like gay club music than anything else, and it lacked the requisite "take that take that take that", "uh" sounds, and shout outs to Bad Boy that are a necessary part of any Sean Combs-produced song. I've now realized that version of "Rapture" must be a Eurotrash house remix engineered by the original British Diddy.
Anyway, the more famous Diddy promised to go by something else in England, but apparently decided that he could get away with reverting to using the name Diddy in his song "The Future." The British Diddy sued for breaching the agreement, and the judge handed American Diddy his ass in a London court. Not that I really care what name this asshole gets to go by (I mean, he's due to change it again anyway), but the judge's ruling is priceless:
“The second verse refers to Mr. Combs as ‘Diddy’ as he invites the listener to ‘mainline this new Diddy heroin’. Mr. Combs expressly refers to iTunes and asks the listener to ‘Download me in every resident’. He refers to his CD as ‘my CD’s in 3-D holograms’, and finally refers to his shows with the words, ‘the live show’s a hard act to follow man’.The phrase "mainline this new Diddy heroin" is absurd enough on its own (and I'm snickering at my computer just typing it), but imagining a British judge, complete with powdered wig, saying this out loud to room full of stiff upper-lipped barristers is fucking hilarious. Was there a single straight face in the room as the judge laid down his ruling?
“I see this as straightforward advertisement by Mr. Combs of his CD, his songs which can be downloaded from iTunes and his live shows, all under and by reference to the word ‘Diddy’.
“The listener will understand he is being encouraged to buy the Press Play CD, to download the songs, and that the live show is an event well worth attending.”
In fairness, really, what is poor Puffy to do? "Mainline this new Sean Combs heroin" is even more ridiculous, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a song by him that ISN'T overtly self-referential. I'm amazed that there's only one song on this album that says "Diddy" or exhorts listeners to buy his crappy-ass music. Can you think of a single Diddy song not involving the Notorious BIG that's remotely worth listening to and that was produced post-1997? All I can come up with is "Pass the Courvoisier," and that's only because that song brings the word "cho-cha" to mainstream radio (although his lyrics will never be as deft as those belonging to the pioneer of "cho-cha"-containing verse, my boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly).
The judge is really throwing the book at him, as he wants a full trial to address his repeated use of "Diddy" on YouTube and MySpace, and if Puffy doesn't excise all Diddy references from any material of his that might make it into the UK, he won't be allowed to perform his SOLD-OUT SHOW at Wembley Arena. Diddy can sell out an arena? I know he's like an entertainment mogul, but I thought that was just due to his shameless exploitation of the late Christopher Wallace and his ability to make popular sweatsuits, not because people actually want to hear HIS music. Since when did Diddy have the ability to sell out arena shows like it's 1985 and he's the original lineup of Van Halen? Since at least a few thousand Brits are eagerly mainlining this Diddy heroin, combined with my existing suspicions about whether the popularity of Jordan is the result of a pact between Katie Price and the devil, the re-election of their prime minister
Labels: boyfriends, celebrities, crime and punishment, Diddy, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, February 17, 2007
You can catch us at E and J's pourin' it up
LL Cool Jew's plane is probably taxiing into the terminal at JFK right about now, so I thought I'd give her a little shout-out to welcome her back to the Big Apple. She was forced to come here by the twin nefarious forces of her impending wedding shower (which she refers to as her wedding "colonic") and the insistent bitches at Vera Wang who are constantly pestering her to come in for dress measurements. Fortunately, she has a shitload of bitches around to negate the less desirable obligations of her weekend, and tonight we're getting together to drink 40s and watch either Menace II Society or more reruns of our old standby "90210."
So to welcome LL Cool Jew back to Mannahattas, I thought I'd post this video of my boyfriend Levell "David Banner" Clump. I'm sure that she'll desperately miss the Mighty Mississip while she's here, so I figure that a little "Like a Pimp" might take the edge off. Besides, it will remind her of my opinion that an interview with David Banner's grandmother, who apparently lives in the same county as LL Cool Jew's newspaper, would probably be the biggest breaking news story of the year. Seriously, LL Cool Jew...do that interview and you and BigBagel will be celebrating your his-and-hers Pulitzers along with your wedding this April! Okay, maybe not, but anyway...who doesn't love "Like a Pimp"?
Welcome back, LL Cool Jew!
So to welcome LL Cool Jew back to Mannahattas, I thought I'd post this video of my boyfriend Levell "David Banner" Clump. I'm sure that she'll desperately miss the Mighty Mississip while she's here, so I figure that a little "Like a Pimp" might take the edge off. Besides, it will remind her of my opinion that an interview with David Banner's grandmother, who apparently lives in the same county as LL Cool Jew's newspaper, would probably be the biggest breaking news story of the year. Seriously, LL Cool Jew...do that interview and you and BigBagel will be celebrating your his-and-hers Pulitzers along with your wedding this April! Okay, maybe not, but anyway...who doesn't love "Like a Pimp"?
Welcome back, LL Cool Jew!
Labels: boyfriends, Dirrty Dirrty, LL Cool Jew, NYC, rap
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Must buys for my boudoir
A friend of mine employed by a major news network has just tipped me off to some serious breaking news in the business world. It seems my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson has just informed GQ that he plans on further broadening his line of signature products to include condoms and sex toys. And I quote:
"I need to make a 50 Cent condom, and a motorized version of me."While he has stated that he wants his condom line to promote HIV/AIDS awareness and safe sex, he doesn't quite have the particulars figured out regarding his 50 Cent vibrator. I applaud the amount of thought he's putting into it, though. Clearly he's trying to think from a woman's point of view, as he's considered many of the more practical aspects of vibrator use:
"A motorized version of me will definitely have to be waterproof, so you could utilize it in the tub. A lot of them (vibrators) aren't waterproof."I could add that, in my experience, a superior vibrator is one that plugs into a wall outlet. The Sharper Image sells a lot of "neck massagers" that are excellent for this purpose. I've found that the battery-powered ones, while having the advantage of portability, often lose their juice too quickly. However, it is true that there are precious few vibrators that can stand immersion, or more importantly, that won't electrocute you if introduced to the bath or shower. For years, women have been compromised with those variable-speed massaging shower-heads, which I've always found to be woefully inadequate for rubbing one off (it's easier to just do it the old-fashioned way with your dominant hand) AND potent inducers of urinary tract infections. Fitty would clearly be getting into a market with plenty of room to grow by making a waterproof vibrator. This isn't the only concern my man Curtis has for his line of G-Unit pleasuring devices, though.
"Blue is my favorite color, so it would probably be blue. But I don't know how big. I don't know if big is better, because I'm not sure a man wants his woman playing with a really big dildo."Typical men...always concerned first and foremost with their own stupid fucking penis insecurity issues. I wonder if this isn't a clever ruse to distract consumers from the fact that a "motorized version" of himself might not be the hugest weiner women have ever seen. I mean, I've obviously seen his penis like a zillion times, but I'm not at liberty to say how big it actually is because he swore me to secrecy. All I have to say to him is baby, if you want to make a product that women will want to use, that shit better have some girth and *several* different speeds! At least Fitty's final word on the project makes sense:
"I want to create something like that, that's fun and sexually exciting for women."If you pull it off, bitches everywhere will be glad to get in your car, Fitty!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, I LOVE IT, masturbation, perversion, rap, sex
Friday, November 10, 2006
Poppin' Razzy's thangs
I've gotten several queries about my feelings regarding Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. Why does he hold #1 boyfriend status? Why is he your top MySpace friend? Don't you know he's gay?
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, September 21, 2006
G-g-g-g-gay unit?
Yesterday while I was busy chopping up mouse fetuses in the tissue culture room, I heard the quote of the day on the Ed Lover show on Power105. Apparently there were rumors going around that Mya was dating my boyfriend 50 Cent. Fitty fucks around on me a lot, so I was more angry with him about being stupid enough to drive his Lambo recklessly around Madison Square Garden with no plates or tags, registration, insurance, or valid driver's license a couple weeks ago.
"You know how much this ticket is going to cost?!" I shouted at him, ignoring his pleas about how he's gotten rich and, by the grace of God, didn't die trying. "It's this kind of reckless disregard for wealth that cost Foxy Brown her fortune! One minute you're beating up nail salon technicians for doing a shoddy job on your tips, and the next you're recently recovered from mystery deafness and defaulting on settlements in court because your ass is dead broke!"
Anyway, I was too heated up about that to worry about a busted skank like Mya, so Fitty hasn't weighed in on the truth about the rumors that he was boning her:
However, according to Ed Lover, Mya had some choice words to say about 50. And I quote:
"50 and I never dated...despite what he chooses to believe in his own mind. I don't know how he would get Lloyd Banks confused with me."
SNAP! Damn, Mya! The bitch is not pulling any punches! Not only is her love, body, ass, and sex like whoa, I guess her ability to dispel rumors by outing people is as well. Presumably she either doesn't know or doesn't care about Fitty's fondness for diss tracks. I predict that she's about to get the same musical treatment as Vivica A. Fox and Kelis next time a G-Unit album drops.
And on another note, I'm going to have some face time with Fitty about all these gay rumors that keep going around about him. First it's his sentimental romanticism about George W. Bush, and now this. Even though he has photographic proof that this is what goes on when he and Lloyd get together for "poker night," I'm beginning to have my suspicions:
Sure, it LOOKS like it's all money counting, cigar smoking, Courvoisier drinking, and gun displaying, but I don't see any playing cards or poker chips or, for that matter, any hoed-out bitches around anywhere. Like, where is (fag hag) Olivia, guys? And that shotgun IS pretty phallic. It makes me wonder...
"You know how much this ticket is going to cost?!" I shouted at him, ignoring his pleas about how he's gotten rich and, by the grace of God, didn't die trying. "It's this kind of reckless disregard for wealth that cost Foxy Brown her fortune! One minute you're beating up nail salon technicians for doing a shoddy job on your tips, and the next you're recently recovered from mystery deafness and defaulting on settlements in court because your ass is dead broke!"
Anyway, I was too heated up about that to worry about a busted skank like Mya, so Fitty hasn't weighed in on the truth about the rumors that he was boning her:
However, according to Ed Lover, Mya had some choice words to say about 50. And I quote:
"50 and I never dated...despite what he chooses to believe in his own mind. I don't know how he would get Lloyd Banks confused with me."
SNAP! Damn, Mya! The bitch is not pulling any punches! Not only is her love, body, ass, and sex like whoa, I guess her ability to dispel rumors by outing people is as well. Presumably she either doesn't know or doesn't care about Fitty's fondness for diss tracks. I predict that she's about to get the same musical treatment as Vivica A. Fox and Kelis next time a G-Unit album drops.
And on another note, I'm going to have some face time with Fitty about all these gay rumors that keep going around about him. First it's his sentimental romanticism about George W. Bush, and now this. Even though he has photographic proof that this is what goes on when he and Lloyd get together for "poker night," I'm beginning to have my suspicions:
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, scathing indictments, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Another resounding endorsement of the Bush Administration
As usual, my boyfriend 50 Cent opens his mouth and, instead of showing off a rose gold grill, drops supremely quotable witticisms. Perez Hilton just quoted him as saying:
"You wanna know something? I actually like George W. Bush. In some ways, I'm the George W. Bush of hip hop: nobody likes me, but I'm still gonna run it for the next four years."
They are pretty similar in other ways, too. Bush loves Jesus, for example, and 50 is always rocking at least one platinum cross. Similarly, they both enjoy guns and warfare. Also, I'm sure Bush likes doing "presidential shit", and 50 has said several times that he enjoys smoking "presidential shit." Interesting.
I think an invitation to the White House is in order, so that these two can gaze lovingly at one another, exchange sweet nothings, and make sweet, sweet love. Down low poker night in the West Wing is surely inevitable.
Que romantico!
"You wanna know something? I actually like George W. Bush. In some ways, I'm the George W. Bush of hip hop: nobody likes me, but I'm still gonna run it for the next four years."
They are pretty similar in other ways, too. Bush loves Jesus, for example, and 50 is always rocking at least one platinum cross. Similarly, they both enjoy guns and warfare. Also, I'm sure Bush likes doing "presidential shit", and 50 has said several times that he enjoys smoking "presidential shit." Interesting.
I think an invitation to the White House is in order, so that these two can gaze lovingly at one another, exchange sweet nothings, and make sweet, sweet love. Down low poker night in the West Wing is surely inevitable.
Que romantico!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, politics, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
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