#MNR: MAMBA DAY
 
“Rest in peace Kobe and Nip, that’s off the rip. “
Nasir Jones
 
“Take my punches like a trooper, take my losses like a man. It come with the territory, take the good with the bad.”
Prodigy (LONG LIVE MY NIGGA BANDANA P)
 
My niece Zari’s earth day was 8.12. Baby girl, I apologize for failing to shout you out on the #MNR. Thankfully, I was present for her birthday function. Here’s to 85 more trips around the sun, my love. Her mom, my sister, is celebrating her earth day TODAY. HAPPY EARTH DAY JANAY! Love you, always.
 
It will come as a surprise to everyone in my family, but I was the second boy born to Shareon. Eighteen days prior to my grand opening, she gave birth to my twin Kobe Bean. Ok, I’m obviously lying. However, I am completely candid when I express my mother’s love for Kobe Bryant. She, like all of Archie and Mary’s chillun, eschewed the Knickerbockers in favor of other teams. I’m not exactly sure who my Auntie Cynthia and Uncle Archie’s favorite teams are, but Shareon was, and Alan is a Lakers fan. And – you guessed it – Kobe was my mom’s favorite. She loved the Big Fella (Shaquille Rashaan O’Neal), but Jelly’s boy was her ride-or-die. She even named her last doggie Kobe.
 
As for me, I was naturally a day one fan. He and I are the two most famous Americans of the storied class of 1996 (HCHS Blue Comet pride). I followed his career, beginning with his senior year at Lower Merion High School in the Philadelphian suburbs. I watched draft night when he wore a Charlotte Hornets hat for about three minutes (y’all forgot about that) before the great, late Jerry West pulled the heist of the 20th century, trading an aging yet still skilled Vlade Divac and some spare used car parts for the prodigy. I watched him experience his growing pains. I watched as Adidas made those ugly ass, oversized slipper looking sneakers for him to play in (I heard they were OD comfortable). I watched him win the most boring Slam Dunk Contest in NBA history (at that point) in 1997 with basic dunks that somehow were still the best of the bunch (a fucking snooze fest). I watched as he and Shaq figured it out with the help of Phil Jackson and Tex Winters (IYKYK). I watched a dominant dynasty three-peat, then break apart in the ultimate display of ego 2x. I watched SportsCenter on a Sunday evening in 2003 when there were reports out of Eagle, CO that he allegedly sexually assaulted a 19-year-old hotel employee. I was as shocked as could be. At the time, he was easily the most squeaky-clean superstar in all of sports. He’s my guy, but if allegations of epar are true, he’s not my guy anymore. I watched as charges were dropped. I watched him move on and mend his fractured image. I watched him shake Adidas’ mid ass and join the one and only swoosh. I watched him win two more ‘ships with Queens’ Finest L.O. (Lamar Odom) and the amazing Pau Gasol. I watched him drop a 60-piece in his final game. I watched him retire gracefully and become a global ambassador for Nike. I watched him embrace the role of girl dad. I watched (saw) nothing but smiles on Vanessa, GiGi (prayer hands & blue heart emoji), and the rest of the girls’ faces whenever they were around Kobe.
 
Sunday, 1.26.2020 was a tough day. My bro Ant text me around 13:00 or 14:00 (out of the blue) with an RIP. My heart fell in my lap. I immediately began checking the news and internet. NOTHING. I asked Ant if he was sure. He explained that he heard Kobe’s helicopter went down. Multiple casualties. No survivors. One of his daughters was possibly amongst the dead. I checked Wikipedia because MFs are OD quick to update a death date on Wikipedia. Nothing. I went back to Google. Nothing. Although it felt like an eternity, it was a good fifteen minutes of trepidation. I prayed my brother was wrong, that he’d received bad news. The internet has been known to lie here and there. Ironically, the first “legitimate” site to confirm his death was TMZ. Yeah, I know. As soon as they broke my heart, CBS News confirmed it. By then Twitter had exploded. I hate irony...we’d just lost the other Los Angeles gawd Nipsey nine months prior...on a Sunday. So many of us were in shambles. I’m thankful my mother wasn’t around to witness news of Kobe's death. They say the worst thing in life is having to bury your own child.
 
On a much lighter note, I caught a dub on the Mamba Day restocks. The Kobe 8 Protro “Venice Beach” arrive tomorrow. That makes me 4/4 on “recent” Kobe releases: the Kobe 6 “Grinch” AND “Reverse Grinch,” the Kobe 8 Protro “Radiant Emerald,” and the aforementioned “Venice Beach.” I haven’t missed one time. A lot of sneakerheads haven’t been successful AT ALL. 0/4. Call me crazy, but that’s my brother, my niece, and my mother making sure I’m first in [the virtual] line every MF time. I love all three of y’all. I’ll see y’all on the other side. Give me about 35 years. I’ll be right there.
 
HAPPY EARTH DAY, BROTHER. LONG LIVE THE BLACK MAMBA.
 
HAPPY MAMBA DAY TO THE CITY OF LOS ANGELES AND ALL US KOBE FANS.

#MNR: THE 52 FAKE OUT
 
“You the type to send him out to crash but was not with him. He’ll be lucky if he make it to the hospital.’
Hitta J3
 
“What’s up with all them extras, nigga? You turned up and broke, that’s not a flex, my nigga.”
Slumlord Trill
 
 
Ooh! Ooh! Now I remember you! I even remember your nickname! They used to call you jawbone! I swear fo’ God. They say you can suck a bowling ball through a liquor straw. It’s true, ain’t it? Yeah, it’s true. I can tell. Your knee pads are worn out and there’s cereal milk dripping from your chin.
 
I had forgotten about the R. Kelly “Flashing Lights” remix. That nigga could turn a MF song all the way the fuck out, couldn’t he? Many of us typically think about another disgraced artist/CEO when the topic of discussion is the remix (take that, take that), but, in my opinion, Robert was the innovator. “Flashing Lights” is my favorite song from Yeezy; I’m sure I’ve expressed this in a past #MNR. I sincerely feel it’s his single best piece of work. It also has some sentimental value to me. Ty, who gives a Boeing 747 flying fuck? Back to Robert Kelly. That scandalous nigga is a musical genius. It just felt like he was the perfect person for the remix the first time I heard it, feel me? And don’t let me have a few cups of that firewater in me. I might just light a J, lean all the way back, and do a backflip clean off the balcony of a 75th floor penthouse. No worries. Doc Brown had the DeLorean floating just above the 74th floor. I landed on two feet and did that move Big Boi and Dre did in the “So Fresh and So Clean” video. Peace, Doc. Pass the reefa and turn that R. Kelly remix up. As I recall, I know you love to show off...
 
Send her your love. Write her a monthly haiku. Make sure that she knows it’s from the bottom of your heart.
 
Shareon was a master of the 88 keys. I dabbled for a taste as a child. The piano is officially my favorite instrument. But deep, deep down in my soul, lives a trumpet player. That damn horn. I’m a Miles disciple. Sketches of Spain is my favorite jazz album. The first movement, “Concierto de Aranjuez (Adagio),” is my favorite – shouts out to Amanda. I also love Birth of the Cool, Kind of Blue, and Bitches Brew. He, like many others, mastered and perfected the horn. I’ve always said a trumpet can bring a sunny or rainy day as effortlessly as one blinks. I don’t know what my first cinematic production is going to be. I probably haven’t even conceived it yet. But, irrespective of the type of film it is, the opening score will be a jazz piece. That piece will feature a trumpet as lead.
 
The following events took place over a 40-months’ time span. No one was hurt, other than my feelings.
 
Verizon, you rich MF can kiss my natural Black ass. I didn’t have a conniption when I found out y’all hit me with the okie doke and I was on a three-year contract instead of a 2-year deal. I almost had a stroke, but I didn’t. I merely took note. THEN, the iPhone 13 Pro Max I bought brand new (the one with the aforementioned 360 slave rapper contract) blinked out on me. Y’all sent me a refurbished phone. Non-cipher. I was cool with it – AFTER I cussed Haji out AND got a month’s payment worth of credit. That was strike two. Today, I found out I was eligible for a “deal” on an iPhone 15 Pro Max. That “deal” meant I had to forfeit the benefits of my current plan. Strike three. You’re outta here! I’m sorry, but I just cannot acquiesce. I want a new phone, but I realize a couple of things. For starters, the 16 drops in a month or so. If I do fall for the 52 Fake Out, it must be with the current generation phone. I’m going to have it for the full three years. There will be an iPhone 20 the next time I re-up. I’ll probably relent (sighs), but they must give me something in return. If not...damn it, man. Verizon (by far) has the best cellular service of all the major vendors. They have the government contracts, so I’ve always been told. All I know is I had full bars in room 549 in the south building of DMAE. I didn’t need wi-fi to watch shows and/or movies during down time. In sharp contrast, it was damn near a no-fly zone when I had the Sprint. I couldn’t even get texts half the time. I had to go out into the stairwell for good coverage. Aye, Dios mio. I’m stuck between a pimp and a hard place (Money Mike voice, no Diddy). I damn near feel like Dookie when he accepted his fate and went with the old head fiends to begin his life as a West Side Baltimore teenage heroin addict. Damn, damn, damn (Florida Evans voice, naturally).
 
Oh Monday, you and your first-world problems. Shut your dumb ass up and spend some of that money.
 
Y’all ever just sat back quietly at the function in a room full of folk, looked around, listened to all the chatter, and cussed damn near everyone in that MF out in your mind? I’m talmbout heavy Tony Montana vibes in the “say goodbye to the bad guy” scene, but your vitriol remains internal. I’ll just be sitting there, possibly with a J dangling from my lips and a cup of drank in my left hand, pulling at the grey hairs on my chinny-chin-chin. I’m talking crazy about 2/3 of the MF in the room. I’m critiquing insane laughs, fake laughs, and all general acts of fuckery. I’m wondering who raised half the niggas in the room. I’m looking at ole girl in those turned over Uggs, wondering if she’s going to tip over on either side and/or dislocate one of her ankles. I’m genuinely interested in whether the brother with the hole in his natural is on a haircut strike because the hair on the back of his neck extends past the top of his crew neck and disappears into his shirt. The food is trash. I wish I could kill the nigga in charge of the Bluetooth (formerly the aux) because the music he’s playing is trash. I’m intrigued by the fact that two girls and a guy keep disappearing in the direction of the bathroom and returning geeked out and rubbing their Rudolph-like nostrils, genuinely convinced that none of us realize that they’re playing with their noses. It ain’t Pepsi, damn it. I hope someone has a can of Narcan. The scary part is figuring out who gets the goods if all three overdose. Sheesh. No me importa. No están mis primos. Who is the nigga over there with the sweatsuit from two different companies? Oh no. Not cross-drip. Technical foul. And that nigga really thought he was killing shit when he looked in his mama’s living room mirror right before he borrowed $20 from her to come out. Damn, sweetheart. That’s like three hefty plates. Did you eat today? Or have you stopped eating today? I ain’t mad, mama. Laugh at that corny joke while you gnaw the gristle off that drumstick. I saw you when you tipped your fat ass in here. You didn’t bring a got damned thing, with your freeloading ass. If the bitch makes a plate to take home on the way out I’m having an on-the-spot intervention. I’ll be damned. Good brother, good brother. We all know your girl has a strict 11:30 curfew on you, bruh. It’s 10:47. You might want to start planning your excuse for why you’re leaving before the first half gallon of Henny is finished. Look a here, look a here. Ain’t this a bitch (Robin Harris voice). I didn’t even realize that they still make shag carpets. Are Willona and Penny on the way over? Say, man. I just lost my damn J in this carpet! Shit fell and immechiately disappeared. I can’t with you niggas.
 
Hey, what a party (Albert Clifford Slater voice)! I’m having a great time! Did you say you had eighths of Gary Payton, my good fellow? I’ll take two. Do you have Zelle? Why yes, I do have a book of Raw papers. Help yourself.
 
RIP PHIL DONAHUE...GOAT.
 
Before you say it, zip it. Phil did it first, he never smoked crack, and he never hated on Michael Jackson. Fuck her book club, too.
 
Y’all know I’m a hater. But I love y’all. I’m out through the emergency exit. And yes, it was I who pulled the fire alarm. I’m a catch up with y’all next week.

#MNR: FINISH LINE STUMBLE
 
“Menace to society, cough up some blood like Kane did. If he survive from this shit he gon be brain dead.”
YS
 
“If I got legs, bitch you know I’m gonna get it.”
Young Thug
 
Teach, I don’t know what to tell you, other than the dog ate my homework. I know it sounds both absurd and cliched, but it’s true. I had my homework done – in its entirety. I promise...
 
Nigga. I had five whole Microsoft Word pages of #MNR paying tribute to the 2024 Paris Olympics. The blog was aptly titled “The Gold Standard.” I went downstairs to grab a bite to eat and came back to a Mac hotter than a genuine $80 Movado on 7th Avenue purchased from a gentleman posted just a few blocks up from Macys. I feared my beloved Mac had transcended to computer heaven. I panicked for (literally) 3.5 seconds. I regained my legendary cool and waited for my Mac to turn on. It finally did. But when I unlocked it, my blog was Swiss cheese. It was full of holes; only a small portion was saved. I swore I saved it a couple of times throughout the laborious process. I swore wrong. C’est la vie. The show must go on. Considering the tragedy, my Olympics wrap-up won’t be as extensive, but I will try to recreate a bit of the lightning I captured in that bottle.
 
The best part about the Opening Ceremonies was being able to watch about an hour of it in class with one of my babies. Bray and I watched as athletes from around the world grouped with their countrymen and countrywomen in ceremonial garb (Ralph Lauren for America) on boats that gently sailed down the Seine river. Bray took interest in the countries and number of participants. He pronounced many of the countries with a great deal of accuracy – an amazing feat for an eleven-year-old learner of any ability. He and I also watched our fellow 212 homegirl Lady Gaga do her thing. We had a good time watching everything together. His surprising interest in Opening Ceremonies meant everything.
 
The women’s track and field team commanded most of my attention and appreciation at the 2024 games. After all, who doesn’t want to see a plethora of beautiful and perfect physical specimens, complete with six-packs and angelic faces? Fuck what you think. I do. Ju and I went over so many names my first time around writing the blog. Track and field is her thing, and she, too, is an Olympics aficionado. The names remain, but a lot of the backstory was lost with the initial blog. Irrespective of my calamity, let’s try to make it happen again.
 
My niece Sha’Carri Richardson, after being removed from the team prior to the 2020 (2021) Tokyo games for smoking a spliff with my bro Drell and me, redeemed herself in Paris. After falling a tick short of gold and claiming a silver in the 100m, she led the 4x100m relay team to gold in dramatic fashion. Melissa Jefferson, Gabby Thomas, Tee Tee Terry, and Sha’Carri were behind 0.18 seconds (an eternity in real time) when Sha’Carri took the baton for the anchor leg. Not only did she walk (run) the competition down, but she also took a now iconic glance to her right as she blazed past Great Britain to first cross the finish line and secure gold for the USA. Big ups to Gabby, who also won gold in the 200m. Big ups to Melissa Jefferson, who also claimed bronze in the 100m. The ladies 4x400m relay team cruised to its eighth straight gold medal. Sydney McLaughlin-Levrone (who also won gold in the 400m hurdles), Gabby Thomas, Shamier Little, and Alexis Holmes smoked the competition on the world’s grandest stage. Big ups to Tara Davis-Woodhall for winning the gold in Long Jump. Way to get your Jackie Joyner-Kersey on, boo. I’m exceedingly proud of the ladies who dominated the Paris Olympics.
 
I want to give a special shout out to NYC native Lauren Scruggs for her gold medal as a part of the U.S. Team Foil-Fencing. She also claimed a silver medal in Individual Foil-Fencing. We love you, lil mama. Big ups to Queens County. Queens ladies to the exit, she out.
 
That was a Mobb Deep reference for those who don’t know. #Queensmatic
 
Congratulations to Algerian boxer Imane Khelif, gold medal winner in Women’s Boxing, 66kg. Though the name may not ring a bell, her story is well-known. She is the woman who has been accused of not being born a cis woman. The origin has been linked to Russian disinformation (innovators of the particular act of fuckery) and has been a talking point of ignorant MAGAt shitheads like Donald J. Chump as well as J.K. Rowling, the world’s most ignorant children’s books author. In the spirit of Snoop Dogg – 1992 Snoop, not 2024 Snoop, who absolutely stole the show on the world’s biggest stage, “Donald tRump can eat a big fat dick! J.K. Rowling can eat a big fat dick!”
 
The U.S. men also fared very well on the track at the Paris games. The 4x400m relay team claimed its third consecutive gold medal. Anchored by 400m gold medal winner Rai Benjamin (peace to Money Earnin’ Mount Vernon), the team also included Chris Bailey, Vernon Norwood, and Bryce Deadmon. Sadly, 400m winner Quincy Hall injured a leg and couldn’t compete in the final for the opportunity at a second gold. The “other” Quincy, sixteen-year-old prep phenom Quincy Wilson, received a gold medal for running the first leg of the first preliminary race. Noah Lyles was able to rightfully earn the title of “Fastest Man Alive,” claiming gold in the 100m. He was unable to double up and win the 200m, instead winning bronze and acquiring COVID along the way.
 
Perhaps the most “Olympic famous” athlete had to be shooter Yusuf Dikec of Turkey, who wowed the world with his deadeye shooting in the 10mm Air Pistol Mixed Team competition. Although he and his partner fell just short of gold, the world will forever remember Dikec for his calm stance, steady arm, and both eyes open accuracy. That man hit bullseye like four or five times in a row. I’m oh so glad he isn’t a park or drive-by shooter. Gangsta.
 
In a summary of U.S. team sports, Women’s Soccer claimed gold in a boring 1-0 win over Brazil. Women’s Basketball narrowly escaped Paris with its eighth consecutive gold medal in a one-point win over host country France. It was clear that the referees channeled their inner U.S. high school referee mentalities, as they tried their best to cheat in France’s favor. Sorry. Too much A’ja Wilson and Jackie Young. I BEGGED Coach Reeve to press those French ladies, but she didn’t listen. I’m glad we escaped with the gold. The men (yawns) also won its fifth consecutive gold since the debacle of 2004 (I, personally, appreciate any medal). Chef Curry cooked up four straight 3’s down the stretch to lead Team USA to an eleven-point win over host nation France and “The Alien” Victor Wembanyama. That’s that.
 
Final tally: USA won 126 medals in total, 35 more than second place China, although China tied us with 40 gold medals. Russian athletes were banned due to the invasion of Ukraine, although 15 Russians competed as “Individual Neutral Athletes.” Look, I don’t fuck with Commies, but I’m big on sticking to your side. I don’t know how many medals these 15 athletes won, if any. I also don’t give a fuck.
 
One thing about the Olympics I love is the national comradery. Slave labor built America’s economic system as well as lower Manhattan. Translation: this is MY shit. Fuck Francis Scott Key and Betsy Ross, but that flag is as much mine as it is anyone else’s. I’m proud of Team USA. I love the fact that so many of my fellow countrymen and countrywomen feel the same way. Sports unite. It’s always sad to see the games draw to a close. Four years seem like forever. But when it’s time, we are giddy and eager for the games to begin. 2028 is ours. I’ll see you all in Los Scandalous for the games. Until then, keep checking in every Monday (at times Tuesday) night. I’ll leave the door open and save a seat by the fireside. And you already know I’m going to pass my tree your way. It’s even better when you bring your own pack. 1+1 = more than one, damn it. Blessings.
 
Peace to Tina Rose. We’ll always have the 2008 Beijing Opening Ceremonies.
 
BONUS COVERAGE: Imagine being a MAGAt running for Vice President on a Republican ticket headed by a 34-time convicted felon. Imagine being a VP candidate with a strict anti-LGBTQ doctrine. Imagine college photos of you in drag surface: a wig, eyeliner, and a dress. Imagine that. Who needs fiction when you have the Republican Party featuring MAGAt (like a guest artist on a song)? I’m going to fillet James David in a minute. In the meantime, I’ll continue to watch him drop the ball every time he picks that bitch up. Psst – Aye yo Donny – Aye yo Cheesy! You can’t stop the rain (Lamar voice) ...
 
FREE ABDUL MALIK KA’BAH

#MNR: 2AM ON LEXINGTON
 
“But it’s Stone love, nigga or no love. Ask ‘em where they from, when they reply tell ‘em so what.”
 
“Pay us every dollar ain’t gon be no problems. If you don’t kill about it, ain’t no beef about it.”
 
Slumlord Trill
 
I never assume anything in this life, so it’s imperative that I mention that in addition to blogging I am also a published author. I’ve written two works of fiction, a book of love poetry, and co-authored a children’s book. I’ve been dormant since 7.4.2020 when I released 100 Blocks Stories II. Hibernation is over. I have begun working on my next piece of literature, an anthology tentatively titled Trauma. It will be a collection of nine stories. Seven will be stories about mi vida loca y peligroso. The last two will be works of fiction. My first three books were self-published. Trauma will be released via a publishing company. I have yet to secure a deal, but I have a strategic plan in place. My ace will play a key role in the process. I am not wishing a motherfucking thing. We will secure a deal within the next calendar year. Now, time for your weekly dose of fuckery.
 
Please check your shirt for holes and stains before you leave your residence. I implore you. This message is for all men, but especially for fat men. There’s more material and more belly under the material. I can see if there’s a slight dot on your shirt. Accidents happen. But if there’s a stain on your shirt the same size Ohio is on a map, take your nasty ass back to the closet and find a new shirt. Make sure your pants are up on your ass and your sneakers are laced. Don’t leave the crib looking all types of nasty. Love yourself.
 
If you’re cool with a white girl/woman (who isn’t alternative/grunge/just doesn’t give a fuck) who wears a pair of dusty ass Air Force Ones and/or shell toe Adidas on a regular (everyday) basis, please tell her that it’s not a good look. It’s all types of nasty. I hate to see a nice-looking gringa with body in a cute sundress only to look down at a cooked ass pair of AF1. It’s more disappointing than when your grandma’s lucky horse loses the lead down the home stretch, and she can’t cash in a winning ticket. Nana would’ve bought a fresh pair of white on whites for Becky if she cashed in on that ticket, too. Spend some of that money. Keep your feet fresh.
 
Please stop trying to scare us with these rumors of weed being laced with fentanyl. You bastards already sold us on the fact that it’s so powerful that super small amounts of it can turn a dub of yay or a glycine bag of dope into a death sentence. Look, I’m no Mr. Wizard or Dr. Nicholas Mack (my first cousin, MD/PhD Columbia), but I took enough chemistry to know that if that small of an amount of fentanyl can turn a bump into slow singing and flower-bringing, how in the fuck can you successfully spread that out over an eighth of weed to make it seem like it’s only world-class Za? That math ain’t mathing. No, seriously. One of you hood geniuses let me know. My big sis said that fentanyl-laced marijuana doesn’t burn well, and I believe her. Furthermore, I read about fentanyl-related deaths all the damn time. I have yet to have read one that involved smoking cheeba. I’ve read plenty that involved sniffing yay or snorting dope. It seems that we would have heard more than a few stories about fatalities related to smoking fentanyl blunts. But tell me anything. Pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining. Sell me a bridge from Brooklyn in the middle of a corn field in Iowa. The last time a nigga tricked me was Steve Harvey’s blowout afro. I thought that wide-nosed nigga had the freshest hairline in all of Black America. I was devastated years later when I found out he wore a man wig throughout The Steve Harvey Show. The nigga even cut that hoe down around Season 3, so I thought. But y’all can’t fool me on this one. This is merely propaganda to push commerce to the dispensaries. These demons are lacing some of the street weed with something, but I doubt it’s fentanyl. Stop with the scare tactics. You can get the finger – the middle.
 
I read an editorial from today’s edition of amNewYork Metro (good looks Ju) that one of the staff wrote after being Cash App’d from an MTA official to carry water for those hoe ass MF. It spoke of MTA (the transit system that runs NYC subways and buses) and its looming $800M deficit. It placed the blame solely on fare evaders. Hey editorialist, I hope you wiped your mouth off after sucking off that MTA official. Fare evaders aren’t the sole culprits (although they do screw MTA out of a LOT of chicken), and you know it. Those fuckers have been found to have “cooked” books in the past. They were [recently] paying employees six digits worth of overtime annually to do absolutely shit. They’ve squandered and stolen left and right. The tunnels are still equipped with technology that dropped when Shareon dropped me out her vagina (no hyperbole). We don’t give a fuck about your deficit. Stop avoiding accountability. You are also to blame. This punk ass editorialist went on to show that she/he is out of contact with real New York Fucking City. She acknowledged that, although fiscally impossible, MTA should have employees stationed in the back of buses to monitor fare evaders, where there is rampant evasion. Bitch, are you dumb? Do you plan on A) giving them super-duper combat pay or B) arming them?
 
Now, when I think about MTA bus fuckery, I am forever drawn to the wretched BX36 that runs from Washington Heights/GWB area to Parkchester in the #BXNYC. Front to back, the ride is over an hour (I’ve ridden it in its entirety before), and it’s a torturous hour. Every MF neighborhood that bus travels through is hood, and the MF who ride that hoe are equally as hood. It’s ALWAYS dirty: sticky floors, trashy, etc. Having said that, I chose the BX36 bus as my test bus. It’s an extendo (two full-sized buses connected by what looks like an accordion), so the driver is 1.5 miles away from the back door. No MF body pays to get on the BX36. I told y’all that the last time I rode it I paid my fare and the bus driver looked at me like I was a runaway slave, like he hadn’t seen one of my kind since the last revolt. I’m trying my best to imagine a non-firearm carrier on the back of that MF telling a bunch of Hispanics and Blacks to pay their fare. One of them niggas would be on the front page of the next amNewYork Metro. Body. Shittin’ me (Mr. Ten voice). It's either that, or eight niggas and ten Puerto Ricans would quit in one summer day (ain’t no way in West Hell white folk would agree to work that route). There would be 72 death threats, 4 pistols brandished, and 9,345 of the most disrespectful jokes in recent ghetto American history rained down on those poor employees PER DAY. But hey, why not give it a shot? Go write an editorial about how you’re fed up with all the pissy projects elevators throughout the city, you goat-mouthed acolyte. New York City, keep stealing fares. Fuck MTA.
 
Heifer, even the MTA isn’t stupid enough to create that position. How about writing an editorial piece telling Governor Hochul to get off her ass and start the congestion toll? I don’t care what moral soapbox this broad is on. Get off that shit and allow that tolling to begin. It was already agreed upon. It isn’t just the MTA depending on that money. You’re shitting the bed on this one. And I kind of fuck with you a little bit. But you’ve failed the common sense test.
 
I know I’m in story writing mode because my last few blogs have come together and been completed within a couple hours. The juices are flowing. Scratch that. I don’t drink juice. The water is flowing. Be like water. I’m finna be like water and flow my ass to the kitchen to get some eats. I’m hungry as a hostage. Big ups to all y’all amazing supporters. I’m a catch y’all on the come up.
 
BLESSED BORN DAY TO MY GUY FELIPE. LOVE YOU ALWAYS, PAPA.