#MNR: A.I. (ANONYMOUS IDIOTS, ABSENCE of INTELLIGENCE)
 
“Try to put me in a box, I’m in the box office.”
French Montana
 
“This love that I have for you, it’ll never change.”
Aaliyah
 
“Or could it be that she’s the one I was supposed to be with? And together walk this twisted – staircase to something realistic.”
(Universal) Black Thought
 
“I speak in codes man, tú sabe? Always caya te. Bendición to my madre. Even though she never did nothing for me, acknowledge me, as I run down my life story.”
Black Rob
 
LONG LIVE BLACK ROB. IT’S A JEFF THING.
 
Nights like this I wish...that raindrops would fall.
 
Stop it. I’m not referring to the scene when Eddie Kane Jr. was fiend-out after the show. I’m referring to the scene when they performed it in concert and Eddie slow walked that thang. And right after, Duck, Choirboy, dem go straight into the hook. The ladies in the crowd went absolutely ape nuts. They shut that bitch down that night. They killed that shit. That’s some beautiful shit. Nah. That’s some legendary shit. Beautiful, legendary shit. The “shit” I’m referring to is a scene from the Negro classic picture The Five Heartbeats.
 
(in a seamless transition)
It's your boy Ty Monday, also known as Eddie Kane III, formerly and always known as Ty Nitty, formerly known as the Fly Gordo, and uniquely known as Baby T to my Auntie Cynthia. My brain is going 115 kph (one one five) and in hexagonal directions. We’re all over the place tonight, y’all. But, as always, I’m upstairs with it. Sit back. Get your aromatics ready. Matter fact, let’s pause for a moment while I take this bong rip. Brb.
 
I’m back. And I took two rips. Them shits were punching like a Sugar Ray flurry to end a round. You know, the sweet science. Big ups to my plug. He bring dem thangs, he bring dem thangs. Like I said, we’re all over the place yet on point as usual. I hope y’all had an amazing weekend, even if amazing meant binge-watching your favorite newfound program whilst feasting like royalty and smoking the stickiest of the ickiest – all whilst in your skivvies. Me? I had a good weekend. I don’t do much, but I do exactly what the fuck I want to do. That means it’s always good. I’m blessed. I have no complaints, you heard? Good. Let’s get it.
 
RANDOM: “Sharane” by Mic Geronimo is [in the] top five most brilliant rap songs I’ve ever heard. It was 100% original, 100% fly, and Irv Gotti’s hoe ass 100% murdered that beat. Go listen to it immechiately. Expand your musical palette, you trout-mouth heathen.
 
The only A.I. I respect is Allen Ezail Iverson. I don’t need a soulless tech program to interpret and disseminate my thoughts. With each passing day I feel like the movie Wall-E was eerily prophetic. But instead of a planet of fat asses, a planet full of empty minds seems hauntingly on the horizon (plenty of whom will certainly be fat asses). I did the knowledge the other day after watching an ad in which A.I. was being used to write product descriptions for websites. I (mentally) revisited the era of the catalogue when that was the job of a human or a team of humans. It sucks to see that another job that involves writing is relegated to being nothing but a relic in this digital world. I don’t fuck with any type of A.I. that isn’t video game based. I’d rather take a Peter Pan dive off the Edge in Hudson Yards before I capitulate to letting a program speak for me. I take pride in being blessed with the applied knowledge to eloquently communicate what I see, hear, and feel. I’m going to continue to yell my loud-ass truth through my gapped-teeth (until we get the porcelains) and through my blog. I don’t need your fucking program. I would and will never allow technology to think for me. Technology is devoid of soul. I am pure soul.
 
 
 
I got to light a J for this one. Y’all hold on right quick.
 
(exhales smoke)
 
I saw the footages of how y’all did my sister Sonya Massey. There’s always something, right? This time it was a damn pot of water. And all the other times? How about lethally subduing a man by placing a knee on his neck for almost ten minutes over a SUSPECTED NON-VIOLENT $20 offense? How about getting choked to death for selling loose fucking cigarettes on the island of Shaolin? How about claiming that you (a pig) thought a 12-year-old Black baby with an obvious toy gun was a 20-year-old man (Tamir’s case will always haunt me – rest up little bro)? How about the fact that I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO DO A FUCKING GOOGLE SEARCH TO ACCURATELY RECALL THESE TRAGEDIES? All those names, assassinations, and stories are still fresh in the front of my damn mind. I can keep going. There’s Freddie Gray. There’s Michael Brown. There’s my baby girl Breonna Taylor. What the fuck else do I need to say? And this cheesy fuckboy is teasing a plan for federal absolute immunity for pigs if he’s reelected? We must be living in the MF Matrix. This can’t be life.
 
REST UP, SONYA. CONDOLENCES TO HER FAMILY AND LOVED ONES.
 
“Fuck ‘em. Can’t find peace on the streets ‘til the niggas get a piece, fuck police.”
Makaveli the Don
 
I have a very, very, very, very, very, very special cache of FUCK YOUs for every single police department from ‘Frisco to Maine and everywhere in between. There are about seven or eight police on earth that I fuck with, and one of them is Detective Lester Freeman from The Wire. Big ups to my brother Devin. Peace to Chatman and Cook.
 
All I have for you, for me, for us is this...the last shall be first. Just keep holding on.
 
Vice President Kamala Harris, I have talked about you like a – I refuse to disrespect canines. I think you get the point. My association with you prior to being a United States Senator was being responsible for putting a whole lot of brothers in those Level 5 prisons for football numbers as a ‘Frisco District Attorney. I know you ascended to becoming state Attorney General and continued to stick it to my folk. I have every right to say fuck you for that, and I do. I’m not completely ignorant. I know that plenty of my brothers deserved their punishments. My gripe is with the lengths of the sentences of too many young Black men who come from nothing, didn’t take a life, and deserve another chance at life. It is what it is on that note; I suppose we’re at odds until we’re even. But when it comes to King MAGAt...I can’t let that sockcucker get away with it. And by “it” I mean ALL of it. You may have the reputation of locking niggas up for numbers you need a scientific calculator to decipher, but that doesn’t put you on the wrong side of [the] law. The other MF is a 34-time convicted felon. The choice is simple. I will definitely endorse the attorney over the felon. Let’s see what the last hunna days have in store. This Democratic Convention should be as interesting as a family member coming out of the closet on a Thanksgiving evening. So long as I’m breathing, I’ll be tuned in, hating as usual. Let’s get it.
 
I’m as hungry as a runaway slave. I think it’s time to shake a leg and get up in the wind, sugar. Salute to all the real ones who support this blog on a weekly basis. Y’all actually check for a nigga and have an attitude if I don’t send the link. I think it’s absolutely fly that I can connect with you all in that way. You guys are the reason this blog continues to press on. And to think, a couple of you amazing humans have been with me since the iamdjgreen.com era. My, how things have changed in 15 or so years (IYKYK). But one thing that hasn’t is the fact that I’m still blessed to have a platform to speak my truth and an audience that receives it in love. For that reason alone, I am a wealthy man. I’m a see y’all soon, unless you see me first.
 
LONG LIVE POP HEMMINGS. YOU ARE FOREVER IN MY HEART. 

#MNR: ACCOUNT-ABILITY
 
“Guns, I bust ‘em. Problems with my wife, don’t discuss ‘em. Coupes and lear jets, I lust them.”
Francis White, the BIG fella
 
Big ups to Shamara, AKA (pun intended) Shay, my ONLY big sister from 1500 North Lombardy St., Richmond, VA, and a witness to the story I’m finna tell you children of God. Big ups to my brother Robert “St. Louis/Louie” Glaspy. He too was witness to the story I have for you beautiful folk on this blessed evening. The only other witness is a hoe ass nigga who shall remain nameless. Well, damn, Monday. What did the other person do to you? You’re right. He didn’t do anything crazy to me. But my folk don’t fuck with him, so neither do I. Anyway, back to the story. Back to? How about let’s START the fucking story, you sockcucker. How about that, Monday? Ok, ok. You’re absolutely correct. But calm your hostile ass down, Mr. Italics. I don’t play all that. I’m from the town. Anyway, here’s the story.
 
At some point during Freshman Week, let’s call it my first Thursday afternoon at Virginia Union University, I was in the lobby of Huntley World (our dormitory) with the aforementioned individuals. If you’re keeping score, that’s two godly humans, one hoe ass nigga, and Mr. Ty Monday, formerly Ty Nitty. To set the scene properly, the lobby (at the time – August 1996) was the only place where cable television could be viewed in the dormitory. Our rooms only had the four major networks, PBS, and The Box (not to be mistaken with Video Music Box). If you don’t know about The Box, ask your auntie. I guarantee she’ll tell you ‘bout it with a gleam in her good eye. The lobby was cavernous, with an emergency exit that led to a couple of unused rooms with dormitory furniture, much of which we procured to furnish Keith’s apartment senior year. FACTS (Piperboy voice)! There were a couple of soda machines, three tables, about a dozen chairs to match the tables, and some cheap ass furniture that a semi-homeless nigga in Chelsea may turn down on a good day. I can’t forget the pool table. Ah, what a beautiful place.
 
Like I said, we were in the lobby. We were just shooting the shit, nothing special. It was about 98 degrees with 193% Virginia humidity outside, so we were in the coolest place available. Amid shooting the shit, someone said something that was extra funny. I had all types of energy back then because I wasn’t really fat, so I decided to get up and take a lap around the lobby like a doggie in the living room. I had this thing where I’d run up to a wall, jump into it and push off with either leg. I’d do a 180 (more like a 165) and land facing the direction I’d just come from. I was still athletic, and I loved to do it. I ran up to the wall by the pool table and to the left of the emergency exit steps, platform, and door. I made the first jump. It was successful. Oh yeah. I was extra gassed. I’m pretty sure big sis and bro were looking at me like I was a damn fool. My adrenaline was pumping. I had to get one more off. I took off, sprinting towards the exit doors. I hung a sharp left and approached the wall to the right of the television and left of the soda machines (at the time). I lunged the exact way I did to the prior wall, only this time, my leg went clean through this wall. Damn it, man (Sean voice). Cheap ass sheetrock. I distinctly heard three synchronous Oh shit(s)!, immediately followed by everyone ghosting the lobby.
 
I was down bad. The hole in the wall was big den a MF. I was more nervous than a hooker in church with active warrants and the deputy sitting with his wife in the right third row pew. I pulled my Usain Bolt-like leg out of the wall and dipped out the lobby my damn self. At that time, the dorm was patrolled by Ms. Murphy, an old lady with an attitude. Her voice was annoying, and she reminded me of Mr. Furley from Three’s Company because she had the googly eyes. By day three or so, I already knew she was going to be a problem. She couldn’t wait to lock the lobby down every weeknight at 12, and she had already shown a proclivity to "writing up" young niggs. By young niggas, I mean me. In contrast, Ms. Segress, our dorm coordinator the last three years of my Huntley run, never once locked the doors. She also never wrote me up. Old Lady Murphy caught me twice and reported me for the Halloween Massacre of ’96. Heifer. I want to say RIP to her, but for all I know, Ms. Murphy is probably about 98 years old, telling on folk in the nursing home. You go, girl. I guess (Brandi voice).
 
I don’t remember how, but somehow, I managed to get all the freshman boys outside to line up against The Bricks, or the backside of Huntley Hall. There was a ramp that led to one of the doors, and there was masonry in front of it. We sat on the parts where our feet were still touching the ground. I was definitely a pioneer of The Bricks. But anyway, I had these niggas lined up like the pigs had Sonny and the crew at the beginning of A Bronx Tale. No, really. I had recently seen the movie for the first time and wanted to reenact that scene. I was a wild young’n. I went down the line while Louie, Rock, and a few other live niggas watched in laughter as I asked each and every one of those cotton-picking Negroes if they were the informer dem. I didn’t even ask a couple of them. I looked them in the eyes and told them they looked like rats. I was completely correct about one of them, but that story takes place a year later. Anyway, after I went down the line, looked all those niggas in their eyes, and asked them if they’d tell on me, do you know what I did in the end?
 
I waited a half-hour or so. I went to Ms. Murphy’s suite door and knocked. I told her that I was responsible for the hole. I received a $150 fine from Virginia Union University and a cuss out to a fairly well from Shareon. I always knew that she saved her best vitriol for her baby boy because I was the only bama she said the word “fuck” to when she cussed a MF out. I’m pretty sure it was said in the phrase “I don’t give a fuck...” Irrespective of the specifics, she dropped a triple-double on my punk ass over the phone. I’m talmbout in under three minutes. I smirked, shook it off, and went to place $5 on a bag of reefa. Peace (Pam from Martin voice, with the OD peace sign and cockeye)! I ain’t have to pay that MF fine. Love you, mommy!
 
MORAL OF THE STORY: I stood tall and owned up to my fuck-up. I didn’t necessarily do it because it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do, but I’m being completely candid.  If I didn’t own up to it, Murphy would have locked down the lobby indefinitely. It wouldn’t have bothered me if niggas would’ve felt a way. Take it in blood if you feel a type of way, nigga. You be aight. It would have bothered me that people would have had to suffer because of my bullshit. I’m built different. That’s fuckery in my eyes. I don’t endorse fuckery of any type. But back to the suffering part.
 
I have HEBREWS 11 tatted on my right forearm because it’s my favorite chapter in the Bible. If this seems like déjà vu, it’s not; I’ve mentioned this in a previous #MNR. My favorite part of the chapter, which deals with specific acts of faith from the Old Testament, are the verses that pertain to Moses (Hebrews 11, verses 24-29 NIV). They talk about how he chose to forsake being the right hand to the pharaoh along with all treasures of Egypt and lead his people, the people of God, through the wilderness and pass through the Red Sea “as on dry land” while the Egyptians drowned when they tried. I’m crazy enough to forsake all the money in the world for my people and the glory of the Lord. But like I said, I’m built different. And I’m always accountable. I ride and die with mine. Even if the die part is imminent.
 
Unless you truly hate politics, are completely aloof, or just awoke from a coma and read this blog first thing, you know that President Joe Biden dropped out of the race. I’ve read plenty of pundits who believe that Sleepy Joe is to blame for being so stubborn and dragging this thing past what many consider to be the point of return. They have long said that he’s too old to run. They are partially correct. He should have read the tea leaves, or perhaps listened to advice and strategy. He’s as old as dirt. But I don’t believe that he is incapable of running this country for another four years. I fuck with the policy he was able to have signed into law. The Infrastructure Act, CHIPs, Build Back America, and the child tax credits he provided his first two years will be seen in retrospect as amazing and very noteworthy accomplishments. But, in this era of social media, we run with whatever one or two MF say is what we should run with. And by “we,” I mean Americans. I don’t mean myself. I study. I know what Sleepy Joe has accomplished. I’m also aware that this inflation is a result of the pandemic he inherited. I have studied supply chains in-depth. You should as well in your spare time. I know one thing for certain; tRump is not the answer, for a plethora of reasons. I’ve named plenty before, and you already know more than enough. I also listen to his unhinged speeches. He fucks up way more than Biden does. He slurs words, mispronounces names and calls people the wrong name, and simply cannot pronounce certain words. He also lies through his false teeth. Incessantly. Oh, Sleepy. If it weren’t for that disastrous debate. C’est la vie.
 
If I were Biden, I would’ve held out for as long as he did as well because I, like he, know in my heart that I got the job done. I would have been impervious to all the criticism my damn self. Joseph Biden isn’t senile. He isn’t slow. He’s 81 fucking years old. Old folk fuck up language from time to time. They mix up names. They take a bit longer to recall things. I’m not a fan of ageism, especially when the other guy is a felonious sociopath who sexually assaults women in his spare time. And he’s only three years younger. Miss me with the bullshit. I’m not mad at you, Sleepy, and I guarantee that history won’t be either. I may not be around to witness it, but contextual American history will paint a more than favorable picture of Joseph Biden.  
 
Yes, he held out longer than he should have. But he was accountable in the end, even though he isn’t what he’s said to be. You don’t have to agree.
 
Kamala, you and I are going to take that walk. Tonight is not the night. But we’re going to figure it out the figure it out way, word to Mack Mel.
 
Goodnight, y’all. Remember, take a shower, change your drawz. Brush your teeth, too. 
RIP POP HEMMINGS

#MNR: E PLURIBUS UNUM
 
“See, if you believe – that you and me can change the world someday, then believe me when I say. I still love you.”
702
 
“I’d like to greet the sun each morning. And walk amongst the stars at night.”
Lionel Richie
 
“The Wally’s match the shirlon, the talk matches the aura. I’m still mourning losing Meek, I’m a liquor pourer.”
@tymonday
 
Let’s get straight to the meat and potatoes.
 
I have the same amount of empathy for tRump that I had as a teen for George Wallace when I learned about his assassination attempt. I’m not speaking from a place of hatred or ignorance; I’m merely being candid. If anything, I’m glad Cheesy didn’t get bodied. The last American I want to enter martyrdom is Donald J. Chump. It would all but usher in the American Civil War, Chapter II. Fat ass has about 23-35% of the country convinced that he's everything other than a lying, cheating, ugly, lying, stinky (Jaela voice), cheating, fraudulent, rapey, vile, lying, cheating piece of devil shit. My cousin DJ Green, in typical coon fashion, contends that all the sane Black folk who would flush tRump along with his kind down a shitty Port Authority toilet bowl are brainwashed. The nerve of you. You have convinced yourself that your intellect is something it isn’t. Nigga, sit your rich ass down somewhere and keep making those 82 MAGAt-exclusive Instagram posts everyday like you’ve been doing. You talking loud, fast, and in a high pitched voice does not make you believable or convincing. Let’s get a couple of colonizers to sponsor this debate so we can both get a bag, and I can wipe the floor with your red cap wearing ass. MAGAt versus the Centrist, First Cousin Edition. And I talk how I talk cuz in real life I’d [CENSORED]. I love you nigga. Don’t crash out behind this pissy, diaper wearing bumbaclot.
 
 
Democrats, you collectively are truly softer than baby shit. One round happens to pierce that fat ass devil’s ear and now it's time for kumbaya. Shut the fuck up. Republicans have no concern for life, especially when it comes to liberals or anyone on the color wheel. I’m lying? Ok. I brought receipts. Remember a couple years ago (10.28.2022) when Rep. and former Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s husband was brutally attacked after a psychopath broke into their abode and did him extra dirty? Do you remember any type of olive branches being extended? Do you remember any kind words of empathy for that lady’s MF husband? That’s her husband, got damn it. Fuck a political party. That woman deserved all the best in that moment. Do y’all remember any love being sent her way? No. No, the fuck you don’t. What you remember is the MAGAt world talking all types of crazy, including everything from it was a staged attack to [Paul] Pelosi being an undercover chuck and it being an attack wielded by a jaded lover. There was zero empathy or compassion. But now you libs want to sing “We Are the World” and shit while the cheesy fat ass and his sycophants laugh incessantly and move into kill mode. Democrats (as a single body) are soft and stupid. If that fat ass autocrat returns to office to officially kill America as we know it, it’s your fault. You jive turkeys stay bringing chalk to pistol fights. Lame ass niggas (Desi Banks voice – Black Air Force Ones IYKYK).
 
P.S. I called it. I knew fat ass was going to pick J.D. Vance. James David, I remember when you talked greasy about Channel Orange, back when you rocked a clean shaven and still had huevos. Do you remember when you compared fatty to Hitler? Remember? He was an “idiot” and “reprehensible.” Your words, not mine, although my words too are a bit acerbic. But you managed to dick eat and found your way far enough up tRump’s ass to tickle his prostate and secure the vice-presidential nod. Good work, you Ohio street walking hooker. I bet you could suck a quarter through a Capri Sun straw, you whore, you.
 
Ok. I’m done with politics. Pardon the cold intro, but It was a natural lead. Now, time for the fuckery.
 
First things first. Let me light my motherfucking J in this bitch and get in my zone. I’ve been hustling hard all day (Alfonzo Hunter voice). It’s time to get loose. Can I talk my shit up in this bitch? Can I? Thank you, but it was a rhetorical question. I’m a talk my shit, how I’m supposed to.
 
Good evening, America. How y’all? It’s your main man Ty Monday, no relation to Rick. Is it hot enough for y’all? It was so hot, I sang a Negro spiritual on my way to get lunch at the foo yum spot. I was humming with the baritone, Paul Robeson voice and wiping sweat from my brow like I had just finished picking my 28th bushel of cotton for the day. Harriet done left the night befo’. It’s sho nuff time for us to find some AC! It was so hot, I almost started crying like Cuba Gooding Jr did in that scene in Boyz In the Hood. Shit, I damn sure would’ve boo hooed if it would’ve gotten me the pussy like Cuba did. And not just any vagina – Nia Long’s vagina. Lawd, hammercy...
 
Sometimes I sit back with a hunnit sack. My mind is in another world, the glass is half full, but it fell and cracked. Get the gorilla glue, too late, the water spilt. By the time I was 25, I could name six or seven killed. I’m from a different ilk. The way I put words together, cooler than Herc or Keith in a Pelle leather. The Wally’s match the shearling, the talk matches the aura. I’m still mourning losing Meek, I’m a liquor pourer.
 
You remember Pinky. He used to be a player.
 
RIP to the last dirty cheeba spot on the filthy side of Chelsea (8th Ave, Port Authority to below the Garden). In true New York City weed spot lore, you reopened after recently being shut down by the pigs. Whenever I think of the true essence of New York City, I am immediately taken to memories of all the dirty reefa spots from my era, mid-90s through to motherfucking day. Do you MF know how many times the cheeba spot on [1]12th and 2nd Avenue got knocked, shut down, and reopened? Oh, y’all actually don’t? Damn. I was hoping at least one of you MF did, cuz I damn sure don’t know. All I can say is plenty of MF times. Next thing you know, word got around the Ps that it was active again. Then, low and behold, you slid your Alexander Hamilton under the door, and two limousine bags magically appeared. Wala! Sadly, those days are again gone (for now). There was way too much tax money being lost with the dirty shops. I get it. Mayor Teef Adams dem need all their ones. They have to put the migrants (who illegally crossed the border) up and feed them. And Teef needs his new tailored designer suits and alligator shoes. Do you know what I really loved about the dirty cheeba spots?  Every last one of those bitches accepted Apple Pay. I don’t always have cash on deck to pay rapper prices at the dispensary. Luckily, I’ve been smoking reefa since just after Bill Clinton admitted he did in college. Ok, a couple of years after. Anyway, I know the dread personally. And I have a guy who gets it shipped in by the metric ton. I’m good. But I’m the type of stoner who buys weed when he already has plenty of weed. Hey...it might be one of those weekends. A bruva might need a lil extra, you heard? Anyway, RIP to them niggas. It was a good run, I suppose. Hopefully, after election season, a crop of new/old dirty spots pop up, just in time for the holidays. Hoe, hoe, hoe!
 
Big up to all de massive rudebwoy pon deck.
 
Keep your head up, CEO. We got this. I’m heavily god-ed.

#MNR: ABI SAID
 
“And it’s no competition, pool of blood for any opposition. You can be a known driller and be a fake politician. I can’t wait for it...the clock ticking. Can’t take my soul bitch, it’s God given.”
Hitta J3
 
"And if you can hear, smell, see, touch, and taste then you don’t need six senses to feel me punch you in the face.”
Canibus
 
I lost my light a while ago. Without my light, a #MNR blog or anything constructive is near impossible. I was done. ###, -30-, all that. It’s hard to see in the dark. But God is still merciful. He is still undefeated. He is still the greatest. After a prolonged pity party, He picked me up out of the dirt, dusted me off, and recalibrated me. He let me know that I’ll get through this. He told me what’s meant to be, will be. And then he allowed me to tap into my left brain. It told me that I may have lost my light in the traditional sense, but to explore other colors. Enter black light mode.
 
Tyrone [to many] was a good man. He was sho nuff my dad, but he wasn’t much of a father type. I don’t think he had much time for that type of shit. He was a hell of a drankin’ partna (AND druggin’), a hell of a foxhole mate, and a dear friend. But unfortunately, being a good father wasn’t on his list of accolades. Don’t worry, I got over my daddy issues 26 years ago. And it’s not like he didn’t teach me a thing or three here and there. But, by far, the best advice he ever gave me was to let her be if she wants to leave. If you love her, love her enough to get out of her way. Bear in mind that my dad was a controlling, abusive lush who terrorized the women he loved, but he certainly gave some solid advice. Thanks, Ty. Rest in peace, my nigga.
 
Hold on, Monday. I can’t let you get away without asking. What the fuck, exactly, is black light mode?
 
If you turn on a black light bulb in a dark room, you see a purplish glow. The black light bulb produces UVA light.
 
It ain’t that. But I wanted all you scientific MF to know that I’m not slipping. Relax.
 
Black light mode is figurative. When faced with blackness and zero visibility, we are forced to lean on our other four senses. Our hearing is especially heightened. We are forced to tap into ourselves a bit more than normal. We are forced to move with caution. We are forced to focus up. I am currently in the process of all the above. But my steps are ordered and measured. It’s a different feeling. I also feel like Carlito standing before the judge at the beginning of the epic and eponymous piece of cinema. This is where I talk my shit like he did. I hope I don’t get my goose cooked in a similar fashion to Señor Brigante from the #BXNYC. I’ll take living into my late ‘70s, early ‘80s in Virginia Beach or Hollywood Hills or somewhere on Oahu. Let me die in my sleep on my beach chair in the back of my beach house on a sunny and warm Ty Monday, an hour or so after lunch.
 
Ok. I got all that introspective shit out the way. Let’s dance.
 
This blog is dedicated to all degenerate gamblers, 1.5-star hotel frequenters, 0-3.25% tippers, peep show devotees, recidivist Bic lighter thieves, and niggas who eat all the damn school snacks of the kids whose mother they’re fucking – in the late night, right after they finish fucking. I think each and every one of youse are wretched and vile humans, but I respect the fact that youse move with impunity. Youse types are heroes to scumbags worldwide. As a former scumbag, I ain’t mad at youse.
 
Sometimes, when the lights are low, the room is full of Bombay (Uncle Elroy voice), and all the sick thoughts slowly enter, I drift deep into the cosmos. I think about how fly I am. I’m probably the flyest fat nigga you’ve ever met. Nah, fuck that. I definitely am. All my colognes are foreign. I’m tied in to Phil Knight and Uncle Ralphie like Jesse was tied into MLK. I’m slick as Nu-Nile on a sliding board and smooth as a silkworm’s finest tapestry halfway draped over your girl’s bare ass after we finish frogging. Fuck a chill button because the god told me the sun don’t chill. I can empathize with Anakin when he took that slow walk toward the Darkside. But I’m not finna mask up. I’m finna craft this next masterpiece, let my ace manage the project and step with the steppers, get this chicken, porcelain my teeth, and smile all on camera as your auntie watches while we skate to a Pulitzer. And me and CEO gon tell two streaming services to suck our dicks before we take a deal from the third. Picture me rollin’. F.A.M.E. You heard?
 
I love the fact that my first cousin is a bloody MAGAt. I find it intriguing as a motherfucker because I know that nigga. He sings all the MAGAt notes and chords. He’s ardent in his allegiance to that fat, cheesy skinned, diaper wearing, bigoted ass troglodyte. One thing about cuzzo, he’s going to go extra hard for any and everything he believes in, same as me. I admire him for that. And, at the end of the day, I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. He’s still my blood. You’d be a damn fool to think I’d kick him to the curve over his political ideology. He’s my lil nigga. We are always going to be good. Rich ass nigga.
 
Speaking of tRump...
 
Sleepy Joe, you dropped the ball in front of the entire free world. A good debate would have been a layup. Now, I’m not going to go extra hard in hindsight. I watched the entire debate. Of all the facts that were spoken from either man that night, approximately 95% came from the incumbent. The problem was that it took him way too long to land the plane. Shit, it often took way too long to get that MF off the runway. Cheesy was his usual bombastic self. He lied, lied, and did a little more lying to finish the night. But he lied with confidence and conviction. Joe sounded hoarse and faint. Half of the time he looked like a UFO had dropped his ass off at the lo[cation] five minutes before the debate began. It was a failure, but I don’t consider it to be an absolute failure. All hope isn’t lost. 45 has an entire summer of rope to hang himself with. I don’t think this is a fete accompli. I’ll know for sure by the Democratic Convention. Until then, y’all better coalesce around him, Dems. This isn’t the time to abandon ship, unless y’all feel like either Gavin or Gretchen is ready.  I don’t think Kamala can defeat Cheesy, plain and simple. Like I said, there’s plenty of time to go. Just wait until the masses do a deeper dive into Project 2025...
 
I must take the time to thank all of you who checked in last week to see what was up with the blog...and your boy. It meant a lot. My young’n Alex always checks in on the Twitter when something seems to be awry. He’s a good guy. We have to smoke a haystack, have a couple of steaks, or go in on a bottle or sum’n. Being able to express myself in this medium is therapeutic, cathartic, and vital to my mental well-being. I can always come here with all my bullshit and you wonderful folk listen to my dumb ass. Imagine that. I feel like Micheal Corleone in Godfather III. But it’s not that I’m being pulled back in. I am willingly reapproaching because it’s as innate as breathing. As long as the good Lord allows my brain to function and my fingers to move and my Mac is operable, I’m going to deliver #MNR. Or at least until the next time I’m disenchanted with all this mortal shit and want to blink myself away.
 
And then I’ll still be back after that.
 
Big ups to Andrell and the entire Flatbush, Medina. More fiyah!
 
Congratulations, Janay. I love you, sis. Let’s win.
 
#Desi (1M heart emojis)