#MNR: Lies, Rumors, & Hearsay
“You liable to see me dolo, ice in the Rolo, burner under the Polo. A lotta y’all is h@*o. Funny style cats that never ran with me, type to go to the bathroom, sit down, and pee…”
Jadakiss, “Fuck You”
“I’d rather, die today, than live tomorrow and watch you crab motherfuckers just steal and borrow…”
Styles P., “Fuck You”
We Are the Streets, The LOX’s sophomore album, turns 21 today. Released January 25, 2000, it was their first album under the Ruff Ryders label. For history’s sake and to enlighten some of my younger readers, WATS came after an acrimonious split with Bad Boy Records and label owner Sean “Puffy” Combs. Disagreements ranging from compensation to image, as pertaining to their debut album Money, Power, & Respect, hastened the move. The trio from Yonkers “Y-O” NY, composed of Jadakiss, Styles P., and Sheek Louch, allegedly felt that they didn’t receive all due compensation from the album. They were also (and possibly equally) allegedly upset in the direction Puff wanted them to move in as a group. He wanted the shiny suits and radio-friendly hits that helped propel fellow label mate Mase to stardom. The differences were that Mase’s debut album Harlem World sold multiplatinum and that Mase was cool with the shiny suits and “pretty” image. But not L-O-X. After a “calculated” strategy to free them of their Bad Boy label ties, Puff eventually let Dee and Wah take their contract. LOX already had a strong rapport with the RR label owners that superseded music (IYKYK). So, after months in limbo, WATS was released and it exploded onto the rap scene, cementing LOX as one of rap’s premiere groups. They, like many other successful artists of the time, benefited from a healthy album budget that awarded them the privilege of procuring some of the game’s best producers, including their labelmate Swizz Beats (who handled the majority of the project) , 757 GOAT Timbaland, and Gang Starr legend DJ Premier. “U Told Me,” “Ryde or Die, Bitch,” and the aforementioned “Fuck You” are my personal favorites. Big ups to the legendary LOX. “I’m back in the game, still ride the back of the train, and sit right next to Jake with a package of ‘caine.” [INSERT 3 AFRICAN AMERICAN STRONG ARM EMOJIS]
Have you ever been listening to a story, whether it was a one-to-one conversation or one nigga bumping his gums at a group of MF (you being one of said MF), and after the nigga who was talking left, the first thing you said to yourself or to the group of MF you were with was “that nigga lying!”? I know. That’s a smooth YES. But y’all know me. I like to do that next gen type of thinking. I gotta take it a layer or two deeper. So, my first question to you all out there in the universe is, doesn’t that MF know that we know he’s lying his ass off? Seriously? Does he realize that in most cases (definitely pertaining me) no one really gives a flying 747 fuck anyway? Y’all old school MF remember the quote “you ain’t got to lie to kick it.” It’s cool if you lead a boring ass life. We ain’t mad. Trust. Most of us do, too. Especially if you’re 30+ (40+ for me and the wife) and lived a kinda crazy to wild (maybe not as wild as me) ass life as youngn’s and/or young adults. We had our time. It’s quiet now, for the most part, save an occasional function and/or a trip every now and then. All that vivid imagination could be harnessed into writing fiction or perhaps volunteering at the local library as head storyteller. Circle time ended a long ass time ago. Miss me with these lies, please. See, as I’m typing right TF now, there’s a MF at work lying on Teams. [INSERT MEME OF MARTY MART LOOKING AT THE CAM WITH THE SARCASTIC MARTY MART SMIRK] I hate/love you all…
The lying naturally leads me into the next “burns my biscuits” discussion (I guess you can see the type of time I’m on today), MF who never shut thee fuck up. Like ever. Now, I know errbody who knows me is thinking to themselves, “nigga that’s YOU.” FACTS (PB Williams voice)! Of course it is. But damn it, at least I do know WHEN to shut the fuck up. And I’m also known to not say a word if I’m feeling a type of way or there’s another person dominating the discussion. I’m old enough and accomplished enough to not feel the need to compete for airtime in a discussion. Go on ‘head and talk all day. Dominate the discussion. I began to tune you and the discussion as a whole out minutes ago any damn way. But those never shut the fuck up types, smh. Aren’t they just dandy? There’s definitely a season’s worth of necessary shrink work (no disrespect at all to mental health) there. But personally, I’m not tryna hear all that shit. Go ‘head and keep talking. I’m quite unbothered, scrolling through my Twitter TL. Word (SWV voices). Perhaps these types of niggas should talk for a long, long ass time, record it on their iPhone voice notes (because EVERYONE owns an iPhone), and just replay it to themselves all damn day. Record a new note or three daily. There. Then they will always have their biggest fan sitting front row to all their vagina monologues. Fuck outta here. Go climb a tree.
I’m gonna close this blog out with a word or two on credit. The crazy part about credit is that it never matters until it matters. If you’re a young adult from a certain socioeconomic background coming up in many areas of this country, financial literacy may not be something that’s spoken about in the home. And chances are that it’s because the parents/guardians who raised you may have had shitty credit bred from credit related practices/tendencies. So, many of us progress as young adults with no regard for credit. And being that more young adults are choosing to stay at home longer into adulthood, credit may not be a real issue until later in life. And there they are, sitting with their significant other in a bank, hearts heavy because the bank officer just told them that they weren’t eligible for that house loan that would put them exactly where they wanted to be. Ok, maybe it’s not that dramatic. But that story is a true story. I know the individuals involved personally. Credit is a very serious thing for those of us who want to actually attain the “finer” things in life (things that are basic to others in America). And it doesn’t matter how many Nike shoe boxes filled with cash or how many bags of money you have buried in the yard or nearby. Certain things are not cash friendly. For those things, it is imperative to have your credit in check, bare minimum. Excellent credit is paramount. How do we achieve this goal? It comes early in life, age 18 for many who matriculate and find themselves somewhere at a college or university. They see the credit card companies with booths set up in the student union as soon as they arrive on the yard. They push a credit card in their face and let them hang themselves by the purse. For many, credit means “get it”. They have no idea what an APR is. They have no type of education in interest rates. In time, that initial $200 charge gets added onto with other purchases. They pay a bit off from time to time, but less and less as time progresses. Then the interest begins to compile. Next thing they know, they’re not even 19 yet, and they’re already 5K in the hole. They’ve never worked more than a 20-hour week in life. And thus begins a long stroll down a shitty avenue. The fight for financial freedom begins as soon as adulthood begins. Make sound decisions with regard to credit from day one. Don’t charge what you can’t afford to pay back in short time. Don’t use a credit card like it’s a gift card. There are so many more pieces of advice with regard to credit. Perhaps we will delve further in weeks to come. Y’all let me know.
I was going to talk about URL’s Volume 7 card from this past Saturday, but I need to see the battles again when they drop on the URL app. I kinda blinked out from Round 3 of the Jey/Twork battle and was in and out for Verb/Roc. But I did see Chilla 30 ball K-Shine (that shit hurt me) and Danny clearly beat Ars. But other than that, that’s about all for today. Love yourself and live the best life you can live. Stay out the next man’s pockets, planner, and old lady’s bedroom, and you’ll be alright. Stay out them cop cars. Stay out of Big Brenda’s House of Ribs and affiliated eateries as much as possible. We love the grub (we REALLY do), but the diabetes and heart disease are real. Stay out the liquor sto’ 6 days out the week. I mean damn, Eaddy dem love the flow, but your liver hates it. Your teeth and respect do too. And you don’t have to smoke ALL the weed, take ALL the pills, and drink ALL the lean. Take your time. Please. Take it from an older man who refused to listen as a younger man. I’ll see you when I see you, unless you see me first. 100.
#MNR: The Kyrie Conundrum
Picture it: Jersey, 2009 (Sophia Petrillo from Golden Girls voice). This fairly new phenomenon called YouTube was still in its nascent stages, for the most part, so even with the internet having been in full swing for some time, the high school baller mixtapes were yet to be superfluous. Still, legend of this brilliant young point guard from St. Patrick High School & Academy (Elizabeth, NJ) made its way up the turnpike and into my ears. They said he could handle the pill like Rod Strickland and shoot it like Chris Jackson (IYKYK). I had to see for myself, of course, so I began to do my research. He stood about six feet tall at the time. His pops was a baller as well, a #BXNYC native. The word was that his team was the best thing cooking in Jerz, from Bergen County to Camden. If you haven’t figured it out yet, the kid’s name was/is Kyrie Irving.
Kyrie, a sixteen-year-old junior at the time, ran the show for the eventual state sectional, group, and Tournament of Champions (New Jersey’s outright state champion) winner. The team included future North Carolina guard Dexter Strickland and future Kentucky forward and NBA vet Michael Kidd-Gilchrist. They were coached by Kevin Boyle, who now coaches the NBA factory disguised as a prep school in Florida, Montverde Academy. They were the talk of North Jersey.
Around the same time, I’d just begun to work for a local newspaper, the now defunct Examiner.com, based in Newark. My work consisted of writing freelance sports articles. Kyrie was my first piece of copy. I’d like to think that I introduced the phenom we now know to some…who gives a shit? But, for the record, he is everything I said he’d become. He’s one of the best basketball players on this planet. He was a McDonalds and Jordan Brand Classic All-American, five-star recruit to Duke, and the first pick of the 2011 NBA Draft. He’s a perennial all-star, NBA champion, and Olympic gold medalist. His chop game (handles) is a step above A-1 (and A.I.). He’s the best below the rim finisher in the sport…ever. He’s everything I thought he would be, and then some. But no one’s perfect.
As I recall, word of Kyrie’s “diva” mentality began to surface the season after he won the whole damn thing alongside King James, Kevin Love, J.R. Spliff (respectfully), and a few other soldiers (2016 Champions). The scoop was Kyrie did not want to play second fiddle, bride’s maid, or Harold Melvin after Teddy P. moved from the drum set to lead vocals. He felt he was just as good as Lebron. I mean, he did hit the eventual game seven winner to seal the first championship in Cleveland Cavaliers history. He did have a lights-out series. He did cement himself as a top-notch assassin. But in his heart, he felt it was time to be THE man. Fuck that Robin/sidekick shit. So, he departed Cleveland via trade for Boston (I had to pause cuz I just vomited a bit thinking about the Celtics). He said he planned to sign the re-up and remain a Celtic when the time came. Not quite. Injury kept Kyrie from fully competing down the stretch in the 2019 Playoffs. To the surprise of many, the Celtics, led by rookies Jason Tatum and Jaylen Brown, made a spirited run to the Eastern Conference Final…WITHOUT KYRIE for most of the second round and the entire conference final. The whispers began to become audible. This was Kyrie’s third significant injury and Kyrie was injury prone, so it seemed. There were rumors that the locker room was a better environment without him. Cool. Kyrie took it in stride. He also took his ass to Brooklyn to play alongside former NBA MVP and fellow champion Kevin Durant, who also arrived in Kings County, NY via free agency. And here we are…
The Nets headlines should have been thoroughly dominated by news of the James Harden trade and how Brooklyn now had the most lethal scoring trio since the Big 3 in Miami, Agent Zero, Antawn (Twon) Jamison, and Caron Butler in D.C., and Run-TMC in Oakland (Golden State). However, it was forced to share the headlines alongside coverage of Kyrie’s sabbatical from the team. Kyrie said it was to deal with personal and family issues. I will not ever question a man who states the need for a step away from work to tend to family business. Family business is always paramount. This step away came amidst reports that his head coach Steve Nash was informed a mere half hour before the game. Yikes. Furthermore, Kyrie was later seen on camera at his sister Asia’s birthday celebration – unmasked, breaking NBA COVID protocol. The cement truck seemed to have sealed the deal when Kyrie’s teleconference with NBA reporters from a couple days ago began to be scrutinized. Kyrie basically brushed off questions about his actions and mental state. He did mention that he’d spoken to his teammates collectively and individually, made his peace with them, and was ready to move on as a unit. But for many, the interview concluded with little resolve regarding how he planned to move for the duration of the season.
Before I even clicked on the YouTube segment, the major thing that I noticed from the still frame of Kyrie’s interview was his disposition. He did the entire interview with his chin rested on folded arms, denoting boredom and defensiveness. It didn’t take much to see that. Kyrie was totally disinterested in the interview, as usual. This type of attitude coming from Kyrie is nothing new. People say that he feels that he’s always the smartest person in the room, whether physically or virtually. Shit, I can’t blame him. That’s usually how I feel. And both of us are usually correct. There’s my rationale for his apparent boredom. But during the Zoom, Kyrie did disclose that he’s got personal issues going on at the moment. That’s what I took from his expression in addition to his general apathy. I feel like there’s a lot more to this than we outsiders have been privy to. But who knows?
My only beef with Kyrie (other than breaking COVID protocol) was him waiting until a half a damn hour before notifying his coach of his absence. That really doesn’t work for 99% of us. Now, that’s not the reason for my ire. Shit, if you can get away with that type of fuckery on the job I lowkey Stan you. I just don’t like the message it sends to the babies out there that want to be just like #11 one day. I don’t want them to think that this type of business is square business. That type of mentality will prevent you from making it to the A or anywhere in life. But that’s not the focus. I want to speak on Kyrie’s mental health.
I’m not a healthcare professional. I have no formal training in psychology or psychiatry. I don’t even know which of the two is most apt in this discussion. But I do know enough to know that none of us should cast judgement on Kyrie’s mental state without being licensed professionals or without knowing everything that’s involved with the matter. Having said that, I’m going to speak for a moment on mental health and anxiety, as pertaining to the 1%.
For some reason, a substantial number of Americans feel that financial wealth directly correlates to positive mental health. If no one’s told you, IT DOES NOT. Mental health could give two fucks about a bank account or net worth. If that were the case, then why did greats such as Robin Williams or Kurt Cobain take their own lives? Both were rich, yet there was still enough torment in their souls to lead them to their own demise. Exhibit A:
BY EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Anxiety is no joke. Anxiety does not discriminate. Anxiety has no regard for social status or wealth. Please don’t look at Kyrie and dismiss whatever he’s going through because he’s worth tens of millions of dollars (and a bit quirky). That doesn’t matter. When his soul is troubled, he’s no different from you and I, other than his ability to retain top tier mental health professionals to properly diagnose and treat his condition. The world would immediately be a much better place if we had true compassion for others, physically and emotionally. Age, gender, race, religion, politics, and socioeconomic status mean nothing in the face of anxiety and/or depression. Sure, Kyrie can afford the best mental health care, but you and I are too covered through insurance (Medicaid as well). Pay that damn copay and talk about it with a professional. I always ask naysayers this: if your arm is broken, you'd have to have it treated and repaired, correct? Mental health is the same way. It may in fact be more serious. Why? Well, at least we can see that our arm is broken and the general extent of the damage. The heart and mind are much different. Prayers up for Kyrie. Salute to my favorite NBA ball player. I pray he’ll be ok. I’m still holding him accountable for his failure to properly notify his coach of his absence and potentially putting his team in peril for breaking COVID restrictions, but I refuse to dog him for his time missed. I joked on Twitter that Kyrie is a part-time ball player. The reality is that I shouldn’t have done that. I have no idea what he’s going through. No one does except Kyrie. Think about that the next time you dog him or anyone else prematurely.
My final word is for my fellow Black men. Mental health deficiencies ARE NOT signs of weakness. Anxiety and/or depression DO NOT make you soft. The opposite is true, if you properly address your issues. Mental health is the other half of physical health, body AND mind. And health is wealth. Addressing your mental issues makes you stronger. It also breaks the vicious chain that could potentially harm your offspring and future generations. I can only use myself as an example. Take it from a guy who felt like offing himself about a decade ago. I never showed it. Few knew. Thankfully, CEO and my sis Rycki Waldeck had my back. From there it was on me. It’s been a journey, but I’m in a good place. I’d like to thank Dr. Sharon Bernstein as well. It may take a village to deal with your mental health issues. Don’t fight in silence. Confide in someone. Let them know how you feel. Seek help. In the words of a wise man, knowing that you’re weak is when you’re really being strong (Common is said wise man). God bless. God bless Kyrie. I’m still rooting for you, young fella. You’re still my favorite.
#MNR: MLK Day
“If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.”
I realize that there probably isn’t really much I can tell you about MLK that you don’t already know, short of knit picking for obscure or unnecessary facts. We are all aware of how great a man he was. We are all aware of his legacy. So, instead of trying to be Encyclopedia Brown’s dickhead cousin Tyrone, I’ll share some of my personal sentiment for the man.
Everyone 40 or older in Black America can remember visiting at least one household, whether it be your grandparents or older relatives, with pictures of three men hanging on the wall somewhere in the living room or kitchen. In all reality, most never met or knew two of these men personally, and absolutely no one alive has seen the third in the physical. The first two are JFK and MLK, and the last is Jesus Christ. The first two were usually grouped together on the wall. The portraits always had a blue background. The irony of it is that damn near forty years after seeing those pictures for the first time, my personal perspective on both men has changed somewhat.
Most of what know about Kennedy entails his charm and his assassination on 11.22.1963, to be honest. I was taught that he was a civil rights champion. I learned for myself that his lineage was that of bootleggers and that his inclination towards civil rights was mostly political. I won’t speak on his carnal nature. In short, he wasn’t the man many of my older folk perceived him to be. I’m not the morality police. I merely believe in learning and teaching history from a contextual standpoint.
As for Dr. King, I figured I knew the basics, and I did. I knew of his effort toward the struggle. I knew of his belief in nonviolence. I knew of the eloquent orator he was. And of course, I knew of his assassination on 4.4.1968. But the things that I’ve learned since truly define who MLK is to me. I read his letters from Birmingham Jail. It’s hard to truly fathom how real it is to sit as an innocent man in the jail of an absolute racist city during the Movement. Shit, I need to read those letters again. I’ve been reading a book on Fred Hampton, Chicago Black Panther and civil rights martyr. The book spoke on the fact that Dr. King actually moved to Chicago and rented an apartment in 1966 to mount a campaign against racial discrimination in jobs, housing, and schools. You think Chicago is crazy now? This was ten years before Good Times, twenty years before Ben Wilson was taken from this world the day before he played the first game of his senior season as the #1 high school basketball player in America, thirty years before Common dropped “I Used to Love H.E.R., and forty years before Chiraq as we now know it. Go ‘head on and marinate on that.
What most endears me to MLK is the fact that he was a genuine martyr. MLK was an educated Black man from a well-to-do family. He could have quietly sat in the pulpit of Ebenezer Baptist Church as an associate pastor, raised his family, and waited until dad retired to take over the most influential Black church in Atlanta. He chose to go out into the field and put in work, something he learned from literally being sent into the fields to perform manual labor as a child, at his father’s behest. MLK Sr. made Jr. work in the fields so he could respect the physical labor his forefathers endured. This humility made MLK’s front line stance second nature. He was willing to sit in a damn city jail in a racist ass southern city, innocent as a baby. He was willing to rent an apartment on the West Side of Chicago amidst the Movement. All I can envision is Bigger Thomas’ family apartment in Native Son. Yikes. He also ultimately gave his life to the cause. Please refer to the first few lines of the paragraph if you need a refresher. MLK could’ve stayed in his lane and enjoyed the best life a Black man in America could enjoy outside of being the heavyweight champion of the world. He would have also inherited his dad’s considerable political influence (another way both MLK and JFK are inevitably intertwined). He could have played the Adam Clayton Powell Jr. role and caked off until he stepped away from the spotlight or people grew tired of his antics. He chose the righteous path. He did it for us. He knew that it would one day lead to his demise, yet he pressed on. And he did it nonviolently. “Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God” (Matthew 5:9).
On this celebration of MLK (we also celebrate his real born day, 1.15), it’s a must that I play Game’s “Letter to the King” featuring Nasir Jones. Of course, it’s an homage to MLK. Both men spoke really serious on the song. And of course, the GOAT Nasir blew my brain to bits for the ten thousandth time. He talked about how he once viewed MLK as weak because of his nonviolent beliefs but came to realize that MLK was the first Braveheart (the name of his OTHER rap group). The more he learned about life, the more he realized how much courage it takes to choose not to react with violence. That’s a concept that’s hard for a young man to fathom. I know because I once thought along similar lines. I can’t forget about Game. He left me with something I’ve pondered since the first time I heard the song. We generally think of what losing MLK meant to us, to Black America. Now redirect that thought to how Sister Coretta felt, having lost her husband, her partner, her best friend, her king. With a single shot she became a single mother of three. I’m a leave y’all with actual bars from the Compton MC to marinate further on. Y’all be cool how y’all be cool. We love you Dr. King. We always will.
“I feel the pain of Nelson Mandela, cuz when it rains it pours. I need Rhianna’s umbrella for Coretta Scott’s tear drops, when she got the phone call that the future just took a fucking head shot…I wonder why Jesse Jackson ain’t catch him before his body dropped. Would he give me the answer? Prolly not.”
MNR: Sedition and Insurrection
Many blessings and a happy new year. I apologize for the salutations being a week tardy, but I’d long since promised the second part of “FTDC: SAT Day,” the first of three (perhaps four) 100 Blocks Stories prequels, for last week’s blog. I hoped y’all enjoyed both parts. More to come.
Anyway – I see a lot of folk (and I can’t blame ‘em) already claiming 2021 to be 2020 on water/leak/dust/matrix/wet/love boat/Sherm/butt naked/angel dust. I can’t blame y’all. All I can do is tell y’all the same that I’ve been telling y’all since back when: keep your eyes on the prize, whatever it may be. Every day you’re breathing is another day that you’re blessed. Ultimately, I feel the best advice I can give is for you to communicate. Talk to any and every person you trust about any anxiety you may harbor. Talk to your pet. Fido may not respond, but he’ll damn sure listen. I said that to say that in many cases it’s as simple as talking about it, getting it out. Your mind is no different from a cup in that when it’s past full it overflows. Mental overflow can be calamitous. Speak on it. Get that shit off your chest. You may be surprised to find that others may feel exactly how you feel and were desperately waiting to share their feelings with someone. Whether shame or shyness, something prevented them from speaking on it. Opening your mouth may save more lives than just yours. The more you know (pan the shooting star and play the accompanying NBC tune)…
My associate major in Political Science provided a rigorous course load. I was mandated to take two parts of Political Theory in which learning and interpreting the Constitution was coupled with learning the philosophies and ideologies throughout the course of modern history which shaped its creation. I also took a course titled State and Local Government and a course titled The Politics of Social Welfare. I ran down my credentials to iterate that I’m not just some backwoods, uncouth, conspiracy theory-laden political analyst. I also ingest a daily news feed from my phone consisting of the Associated Press, CNN, The New York Times, and Politico. MSNBC is my preferred cable news network. I’m on top of things, to say the least.
It should come as no surprise that I witnessed the overt acts of insurrection that occurred in the nation’s capital (namely the storming of the Capitol) in real time. I’d been watching since noon, and about an hour before the initial reports that seditionists/rioters had breached the Capitol, I tweeted that there was finna be a riot at the Capitol. Anyone with half a brain could see all-out fuckery was certain, fueled by tRump’s prior fallacy-filled speech (his usual) that urged his minions to march to the Capitol and give Congress a piece or their minds. I must add that he said he’d be marching with them to the Capitol. What he did, in fact, was march his fat ass back to the White House and watch the terror unfold as if it were the latest box office release from On Demand.
The first indication of an eminent shitshow was the hundreds of seditionists/rioters that flooded the front steps and main entrance to the east side of the Capitol. There were about fifteen (literally) visible Metro Police attempting to restrain hundreds of MF from entering. They were fated to succumb to the wishes of the mob simply because of numbers. About ten minutes after my initial observation, I saw a few seditionists/rioters waving and encouraging other seditionists/rioters to enter the building. This was around the time the Secret Service abruptly ushered VP Mike Pence off the Senate floor. The building provides the lone camera to the senate chamber and also controls the audio. The audio was cut long before the visual. From there updates continued to dominate the broadcast, and they only got worse as time passed. I quickly noticed that most of the visuals, whether from outside the building or within it, were the same loops. This took place for over an hour. Then the videos showing seditionists/rioters making their way through the building began to air, along with the alarming fact that Metro Police were heavily outnumbered inside the Capitol as well. Seeing random pieces of shit galavant through Statutory Hall was crazy within itself, yet it was only a precursor of far more sinister actions.
By the time everything settled down, we began to get a more accurate sense of the madness that ensued. I actually saw Ashli Babbitt, the seditionist/rioter who was shot inside the Capitol, carted out toward an ambulance. She was bleeding pretty badly before leaving this earth in the physical realm. I don’t wish death on anyone, but if you think about it, she kinda wished death on herself. Which brings me to the obvious point: if it were Black Lives Matter or Black folk in general attempting this coup d’état, there would have been bodies en masse. But let’s rewind. We wouldn’t even have made it onto the Capitol steps. The most damning evidence in my favor is the 2017 footage of Rev. Raphael Warnock (GA Senator-elect) kneeling in a circle of prayer with other members of the clergy in PEACEFUL PROTEST in the Capitol Rotunda. They were PEACEFULLY PROTESTING proposed healthcare cuts. They lifted Senator Warnock (and the others) to their feet, cuffed, and arrested them. Rev. Warnock was not a senator at the time. The arrest happened years before even he was certain he’d run, so you can throw politics out the door. And he wasn’t some “Antifa” member. He was and is (at the moment) the pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church, the same church and pulpit Dr. MLK called home, and was dressed in suit and tie. But back to the insurrection…
Pictures, video, and witness accounts from congressmen, congresswomen, and journalists who endured the insurrection began to surface throughout the evening, painting the true and grim picture of the sinister nature of the insurrection in the Capitol. This wasn’t just some horseplay from misunderstood, disgruntled patriots blowing off a little steam in D.C. This was a full-blown attempted coup. Glass was broken (a whole fucking lot). Doors were unhinged. Fire extinguishers were tampered with. Offices were ransacked. The senate floor became rogue’s gallery. And it’s only gotten worse in the days since. As of today, six people have perished from the attempted coup: two police and four rioters (including ole girl). We’ve learned that not only were key congressional personal offices ransacked, but it also appears that some were targeted (even obscure offices with no name plates). In even darker news, we know that several seditionists/rioters had plans to assassinate Pence, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, and Lord knows who else, had they gotten their hands on them. We also know that more than one IED (bomb) was found on Capitol grounds. Many of the seditionists/rioters were heavily gripped up, and some even brought their assault rifles with them that they left in their rides. And after all that, only 52 arrests were made initially, mostly for trespassing after the district issued curfew of 18:00 (6:00 pm).
In the days since, several arrests of the key (prominent in their actions that day, not stature) players have been made. Chewbacca dude has been apprehended. So was the hick who put his work boots on Madam Speaker Pelosi’s desk like he was at home in his living room watching tonight’s college football national championship game. So was ole boy hanging one-handed from a ledge above a senate floor door like he was Kevin Johnson right after he dunked on Hakeem. So was the dumb MF stupid enough to riot with his work badge in full display, hanging from the lanyard around his damn neck (all jokes aside, you have to be the dumbest UNEMPLOYED motherfucker EVER). So were several persons with positions in government in their home states. All of them will be charged at the federal level, and additional charges may be filed in their respective home states as well. And like my bro Rock Lark (a CPA) stated the other day when we were building, they’ve forever put themselves directly in the paths of every alphabet agency we have in this country: the FBI, IRS (the only one I fear), ATF, and any other agency you can imagine. They’ll never be able to vote, legally carry a firearm, or fly internationally again, and that’s just for starters. Imagine being audited by the IRS on a regular basis. Imagine never being able to apply for any type of federal loan again. Imagine ALL your phone conversations being legally tapped forever. Now think of all the shame your family will have to endure because of your dumb ass. You get what you ask for, so get it because you asked for it.
This blog could easily go on for much longer because there’s so much more to it than I’ve managed to state, but I’ll leave you with this. Every last one of those seditionists/rioters truly believed two things: that the presidential election was “stolen,” and that they were really going to march their dumb asses to the Capitol and get the change and result they sought through hostile takeover. They really thought they could storm the Capitol like the proletariats (civilian insurgents) stormed the Bastille in France during the French Revolution. They believed that they could change the will of the overwhelming majority of their fellow Americans and force Congress and VP Pence to change the outcome of the election – which Biden won by over 7M votes in total. Now, either these are the dumbest MF ever, or they were enabled and encouraged by the most sinister and manipulative asshole we’ve seen since the Pied Piper. Both are true in this case. I’ll leave you with that thought. Until next time, y’all. #libertad #RIP Moses. I love you doc.
FTDC: SAT Day Part II
The fellas quickly made moves to #210. The intercom code on the door touchpad (which mimicked a house phone keypad) to get in was #005, but a sturdy tug on the door handle immediately after pushing in from Mambo was all it took to bypass the code. It, along with several Jeff building doors, were in need of doing whatever the fuck Housing did to make the magnets re-magnetize enough to prevent improper entry. Oh well. They quickly made their way up the A-stairs to the second floor, turned left, entered the B-stairs, and descended to the ground level of the B-staircases, affectionately known as the “Batcave.” To their pleasant surprise, it wasn’t too scummy (not that it mattered). There were only a couple of blunt guts on the floor. There were no used condoms or the stench of dried piss. Housing must have cleaned it the day before.
“Oh shit! My nigga Mambo the Don! What up my nigga?” Steez said as he dapped Mambo first.
“Summi Steez! What’s good, my guy? Chilling?” Mambo replied.
“You already,” Summi answered.
“What up fuckboy?” T.O. asked as he dapped Steez up after Mambo.
“Eat a dick, pussy,” was Steez’s quick response as he dapped T.O. They both chuckled.
“My nigga.” Monty was the last to dap his bro.
“My nigga,” Steez retorted as he embraced Monty.
“Let’s get this shit poppin’ so we can go take this stupid ass test,” Monty proclaimed. Mambo began to laugh.
“Y’all muhfuckers are not ready,” Mambo told them between laughs.
“Word. I know I’m not,” Monty quickly asserted. “This nigga T.O. got me out here trying to be all I can be.”
“Exactly,” T.O. quickly shot back, “and why not? Who knows where this life may take us? Shit, for all we know, me and you could be Ph.D.s and shit one day.”
“You right though,” Monty agreed. “I already got my Master’s in juxes. I’m sure I’ll have my Ph.D. in no time at all. And you, you in a Ph.D. program with the best heroin dealer on the whole Eastside of Harlem. You’re being taught by the best. So yeah. I can see us being all that shit one day. Now let’s get these cheeba L’s lit. Don’t you need a bag Mambo?”
“Sure do,” Mambo replied. “More like three of those things Summi.”
“I got you,” Steez said as he reached into his crotch for his stash.
Steez, like many other hustlers in these 100 Blocks, kept his work in a bag with a drawstring. The bag never fell down a pants leg because a part of the drawstring was left above the belt or waistline of the pants. Steez chose the traditional purple Crown Royal bag as his stash, being that his dubs were husky and usually plenteous. If a hustler tucked his stash correctly, an honest/rookie/lazy cop probably wouldn’t feel or notice the stash during a standard pat down/drug search. However, most cops aren’t honest or rookies. An experienced and savvy beat walker or undercover D.T. knows better, especially if they know you’re a hustler. They’d almost certainly check there after they search the pockets. Some dirty police will even make you take your shoes and socks off as you sit on the curve in freezing weather as they search for crack or heroin bags. Yeah, the game is that filthy.
“And your math was off, by the way,” Monty told Mambo as he and Summi conducted business.
“Refresh my memory, fam,” Mambo replied as he traded three Harriet Tubmans for three husky dub sacks of the loudy loud.
“You said your L was gon turn into four. But me and T.O. put in on this together. So that makes three, correct?” Monty was that type of nigga.
“You know what,” Mambo reasoned, “you both right and you wrong. Yeah, I just assumed you two money getting niggas both had y’all own reefa L. My bad. But, looking at these dubs Summi just threw me, I’m figuring that we can use two L’s instead of just one O.D. blunt, ya heard? And I just now reached in my backpack and seen’t I got two Owls left in the five-box. I thought I only had one left. I think they call it, how you say, serendipity. So, could you do me a solid and twist this other L my nigga?”
“A White Owl? No way, Jose.” Monty barked back.
“You a funny nigga, Monty. Here. Twist that for me my nigga. Please and thank you.”
“You did say please, my nigga. So I got you,” Monty said as he grinned and took the blunt.
“Before I forget.” Mambo passed T.O. the bundle he’d requested. “Just hit me when you flip that. It’s Saturday. I know that weekend flow gon be generous to you.”
“Bet,” T.O. happily answered. “You already knew I was coming back to see you later. I’m bouta double up on this security guard nigga.”
“As you should, young lion.” Mambo was proud of the rightful hustler he’d molded T.O. into. His young apprentice was quickly on the come up.
The first two L’s of the ciph had made a couple revolutions by the time the second two were twisted. Naturally there were moments when each man had a blunt to the face. At times one of the fellas had two at once. When this happens, it’s Clique Deep tradition to hit both at once. Of course, this only enhances the experience. Within minutes, all four men were as high as Richard Pryor in ’76. Naturally, that’s when the jokes began. And of course, T.O. set it smooth off.
“Yo Monty. Anyone ever told you you resemble the bullet from Super Mario Bros.? I’m talking the whole shit. Black, screw-faced, and your bullet ass head.” He cracked himself up.
“First of all, that’s type gay my nigga,” Monty began. “But I was pillow talking with your mother after I tapped that the other night. She told me not to tell you, but your biological father is one of them DeBarge niggas. Bobby, I think. They got a Bobby, right?”
Summi almost fell to the floor laughing. Mambo damn near choked on reefa smoke as he burst into laughter. T.O. was tight.
“Fuck you, my nigga. I’m not gon get started on your mother,” was the best T.O. could muster.
“Nigga,” Monty began, “you already know my moms is 7:30. So does the entire Jefferson and half the Eastside. Please, talk your shit. That bitch would prolly cosign that shit.”
“Nah, you got that one my nigga. That’s you.” T.O. knew he’d lost that round. But his focus was now on the peanut gallery. “And fuck you niggas. Y’all niggas was laughing a little too hard. Fuck you Mambo. I’m a go harass your baby mother later on while she on the clock at the Taco Bell. And Summi. Tell your father to Fabreze that fucking cab he drives. Extra strength, my nigga. Nigga shit smell like musty underarms and somebody foot stepped in dog shit.”
“Nigga, I saw your auntie hooking in her B-stairs for Enfamil, lotto scratch offs, and bust downs on dust joints. I ain’t know that bitch did something strange for a little bit of change. I heard the slurps were A-1 my nigga.” Summi wasn’t having it. He had a full clip on deck.
“Y’all niggas gon send my laughing ass to North General [Hospital] for choking. Y’all niggas is retarded. I got that headbanger off the choke O.D. I’m high as Yao Ming,” Mambo admitted.
“I see y’all niggas came prepared today. Respect.” T.O. joined in the laughter with this PALZ.
It wasn’t long before the last blunts were down to roach mode. The time said 7:55.
“It’s about time to make moves, yo,” Monty alerted T.O.
“Yup,” Mambo added.
“Nigga, I’m extra high. Fuck that shit. I don’t even feel like taking that shit now. Keep it a hunnit, I don’t even feel like walking to Manhattan Center. The ciph got me, yo,” T.O. confessed.
“It’s like that my nigga?” Summi asked as he sighed and laughed.
“Word my nigga. It’s like that. I’m smacked right now.”
“This nigga,” Monty began. “I knew it.”
“It’s over for that nigga,” Mambo reasoned.
“Pretty much,” Monty agreed.
“Fuck it y’all. I got open crib. Y’all delinquent niggas is more than welcome. You already,” Steez assured the fellas.
“Aight then, we out,” Steez told the squad.
“What you gon do about that stop you were supposed to bust with the security nigga?” Mambo asked T.O.
“I’m bouta text that nigga right now, my nigga. That nigga gotta work his shift anyway. By the time he ready to get off the clock I’ll be ready to serve that nigga. But I need to mellow for a minute, word. Aight my nigga.” T.O. dapped his big bro.
“Bet. I should be in the hood later. Just hit me.”