20060708

Love It

DJ Whoo Kid: "Change of Heart Skit #1"
DJ Whoo Kid and 50 Cent: Hate It or Love It (G-Unit Radio Part 21)

Like being a douchebag or dickriding in general, image posting is MH heresy. Still:



Apparently I'm supposed to look at this and say, "Oh shit! Game in leopard undies! What a fag bag! What a bag of dicks that guy is!" Read Mix Unit, it's all there. Clinton Sparks really wants us to know this is some funny shit so he just comes out and says it--funnier than W*ll White Chocolate D*kes writing about some buttery silk morning dew r&b chartreuse myspace chick he found facefucking her computer microphone.

The rest of the tape 50 Cent lays into a bunch of clowns but mostly the 'Cane. From what I can tell, this is why he thinks Game is a douchebag: Game was once on a pretty awesome, always hilarious TV dating show called Change of Heart, a show that every guy has definitely tried to get on because "I know exactly what I'd do if I were on that show, they wouldn't be able to say shit about me, I would bag every girl five times, there would be a Blind Date episode about me being on Change of Heart," etc.; Game has a really great body, nice enough that he can wear leopard underwear and look pretty good in them, no homo; on Change of Heart, Game was revealed to be one of those guys who actually treats women well, dotes on them a lot, cares about their feelings maybe a little too much, borders on "smothering"; Game started rapping late in the *cough*, game, and he was shot in a less violent, "it could have been anybody" type situation as opposed to 50 Cent being gunned at for that roffable paper-thin moustache; Game is not a great rapper. That's about it. Funny funny funny.

My question is: Who of us is a great rapper? I've definitely tried a few times and could probably get better with more practice, but that doesn't mean I'm great. Also, so what if Game was really nice to women? I mean, he learned soon enough that you're not supposed to hold the door for them, or leave notes in the morning because then they always expect you'll leave notes and then one morning you wake up and you're just like the last boring boyfriend she had, or say "thank you" after sticking your penis into her vagina. Surely he learned soon enough. Buttholes are a different story.

This is the beef that keeps on beefing, you know. I'm thinking a lot about that image in my science book from grade school, the one with the piece of steak left out on the table, fastforward six hours, the steak has generated thousands of angry flies. Just saying, G-Unit needs to step up its Frigidaire game.

20060707

It's Not Domino's, It's DiGiorno's

Lil Wayne: Walk It Off
Dedication 2
Gillie Da Kid: Friend of Mine
Internet

This isn't some typical cars-on-strings, SEPTA-ass bullshit. We know Gillie "bully from the 'burbs" Gill is doing his damnedest to turn Wayne into an illiterate check-writing fool, but now he's talking more-than-friends re: Weeze and his baby daddy, motherfucking Baby. At first, I scoffed--has Da Kid not heard of the blooming "Kerouac" movement? Then I thought for a month and realized his seemingly callous claim is the most on-target thing Gillbo has uttered since he compared himself to Tim Meadows.

Consider this dedication: "I ain't tryin' to fall in love/ I ain' t tryin' to get engaged/ You can meet me at the alter when a nigga really dead/ Everytime I'm tryin' to leave, she beggin' me to say/ And I politely fade away like my name was Em-Jay." Pretty gay. And the whole Wayne/Baby relationship has always been perplexing, kinda like David Copperfield and his dad. While many a Millionaire cried foul, Wayne continued to rep the franchise like Ross reps wraparounds; Ross loves wrappers, Wayne loves grown men named after generic infants. Of course, this revelation only widens Mr. Carter's "greatest alive" lead as double entendres go triple en route to civil rights heroism. So, Gillie, thanks for that.

20060706

I Need Some Mo' Ross: A Tribute

Rick Ross [feat. Dre]: Blow
Southern Smoke #27: Disturbin' Tha Muthafu**in' Peace

"Ever seen a fat boy in a big body?"

Noted linguist Kelis once said, "I woulda never talked to you if I'da known you was a popular thug." Such is the tale of Ross & Haze. Two men (maybe) caught in a vacuum, bound by obvious appeal, repulsed by the game. Tumbling around in the void waiting for something to happen, anything really, that might eject us from this desolation, this desperation, this desecration. I admit right now, right here and forever: I was wrong about Ross. I will not apologize, for I am a person of resolve, just as I am a person with designs on humility, even if it eludes me most of the time. I realize, now, when faced with "Blow" that I do not just admire Ross. I do not just tout Ross. The truth is, I am Ross. Shimmering in a red jumpsuit, red flags flying in my face, signalling dominance of the real Miami. The MI-Yayo. I fuck with my shoes on. I hustle. Everyday. I flip that. I am that.

This is no chain-tug or life-pose. I'm as serious as a heart attack (please no "Rick Ross is having a heart attack right now" jokes. Thank you.) Somewhere, I could prattle on about strident production and glistening keyboards and falsetto hooks. The Mix Hut is not that place. The Mix Hut is salvation -- shelter from the storm of Baltimore house posters. When I first decreed Ross the doer of all I expected and loathed, the scourge of scourge-declarers, the Osama to my Gillette Mach III razor, the Ernie to my Bert, the distribution to my At-lantic, the Rocksteady to my Bebop, and clearly, the Lennie Small to my George Milton, I thought our relationship was doomed. I said, "Hey, you're just like Young Jeezy, except you're a piece of meerkat shit." I meant it. Resistance wasn't futile, but it wasn't a piece of rumcake either. Submission is a tough thing for Haze, ask Swagger or Curious. I'm really into distribution just as, like, a hobby. But now I see: There is only Ross.

A BRIEF ASIDE ABOUT THIS EXISTENCE: Mortal coils are still coils aren't they? Like slinkys but with guts? I love guts.

20060702

I Got a Honeybun

S. Dot: Skit #1 (Diff'rent Coke)
The Def Jam Mixtape: Hustlin'
S. Dot: Skit #2 (Where Everybody Sells Cocaine)
The Def Jam Mixtape: Hustlin'

Lotta speculation 'bout the way I be leanin', bout the balls that I'm bouncin', 'bout the menus I be perusin'. Too much coke this. Too much sanctity that. Too much romanticism this. Too much rogue-championing that. My question: If Splash and Lenny S. say it's OK to pop shit and then follow up this stuff with Rick-Ay RAW-SS rapping horribly over "Poppin' My Collar," ("Gimme dem tonsils!" -- he's finding new ways to make you vomit every single bar) then I'm fairly certain we can all weather this game's vagaries. I'm glad that everyone is watching Gary Coleman re-reuns in the back room while Mom cooks Mac&Cheese cuz she had a hard day at work. Me? I'll be rewriting blisstory.

Listen to the last 6 seconds of Skit #2 and tell me I'm an asshole. These guys can fuckin' sing!