#MNR: ETHERIUM
 
“Bitch please – catch the breeze. The yacht came with two speedboats attached. We don’t do them jet skis. That’s a prom date, I’m big paper. We can travel the world, wine taste, elevate...”
 
“I arrived stoned. Thuggish, Ruggish Bone. For the love of money, loved ones do you wrong. When they see you shining, they feel stunted on. You ain’t e’en know nothing ‘bout it. You were just going along.”
Curren$y
 
I light a L for Vernon [Blvd]. For niggas who would burn in hell for Vernon. 10th Street, 12th Street. Nightmares like Elm St.”
Nasir Jones
 
Raise your hand if you’re a selfish MF. Keep ‘em high. Don’t look surprised when you see my left hand reach high towards the heavens. I’m guilty AF. The problem is that I never realized it until the other day. God bless Ms. Baeza. She did an amazing job with her 1983-1984 kindergarten class. She taught me how to share. I’m thankful for her. My brand of selfishness is a bit different. Just know that I apologize for the jerk in me.
 
I’m always trying to fit a square peg in a circle slot. You’d think that I would’ve learned better after so many years of insanity, but I haven’t. Not fully. Now that I think about it, the definition of insanity might actually be the definition for relentless, assuming that impossible is nothing. Boss Lady’s going to have fun ruminating on that one.
 
The bottom line is that my desire is unparalleled. There’s a fine line between relentless and insanity, and I regularly straddle and two-step along that motherfucker. If I were much younger, I’d griddy that somabitch. Long live my nigga Rich Homie Quan. I done heard more than a few Atlanta niggas say “iuh” (short “I,” one long ass syllable) instead of “is,” but no one could say it like Rich Homie. I iuh relentless. I iuh a bit insane. But my God’s been known to make a way out of no way, and I’m made in my creator’s image. Like I said, impossible is nothing. But that’s assuming that your faith is at least the size of a mustard seed.
 
I wish that I could take your pain away.
 
I must say that I went from a suspect J roller to a solid spliff twirler in a year’s time. I make no excuses. However, I was raised up rolling blunts. I’m from the, “I left my Phillie at home, do you have another?” era. I went from Phillies to White Owls to Dutch Masters to Dutch cigarillos to Backwoods. I knew I had to let the tobacco go because my chest told me it was time. I used to feel like Tommy Hearns jabbed me in the left titty after a couple of Woods.  I studied several great rollers, woman and man, old and young, from old school Black folk to cool ass stoner white boys, from Dominican niggas to Jamaican niggas. I developed my own technique. It works for me. My spliff burns slow like that Target in Minneapolis. I’m happier than Dame Dash’s dentures on their day off.
 
A $2 book of 30 Raw papers beats a $6-$22 five pack of Backwoods every time. Yes, nigga. A pack of Woods in NYC costs anywhere from $17-$25 dollars. They are $6-$8 on the Jerz side. The tobacco tax in NYC is past outrageous. That’s why only rappers and visitors smoke blunts in NYC. Rappers can afford it (they really can’t), and tourists are dumb enough to think that it’s ok to pay the markup price because they’re in the big, fancy city. No, dummy. Bring your Woods with you if you’re traveling to New York. The real already knew that. They ain’t tourists. They come up top when they feel like it.
 
Barry Sanders was one of my childhood heroes. I never took the time to rank my childhood heroes, but it’s possible that #20 was my number one. I’ll never forget calling my Uncle Alan and telling him I made all-stars for my baseball league. He congratulated me and told me how proud he was of me. He told me to be like Barry Sanders. Barry was humble. He wasn’t a showboat. To this day I take my Unc’s word as my bond. He’s dad. But I was already a Barry fan. He was the original human video game, when Michael Vick was a schoolboy in Bad News, #2up2down. If I didn’t see him with my own eyes I would swear he was a product of A.I. He was unreal. He broke ankles (literally) with his moves – in Nikes. Nike ran a series of ads for their Zoom Turf shoes featuring the great, late Dennis Hopper as the “Crazy Ref” whose catchphrase was, “Bad things, man! Bad things!” His commercial with Barry was the most memorable. I just found it on YouTube. I was sixteen all over again. Salute to Barry. He’s my GOAT.
 
I spoke about Barry to set the table for my junior high school bestie Kevin Caudle and his GOAT, who passed today. Kev’s favorite ball player was the incomparable Peter Edward Rose, also known as Charlie Hustle. He played for a few teams, but he became immortal as the cornerstone of the Cincinnati Big Red Machine. He was a Natti boy who grew up to be his hometown team’s most famous player and the most prolific hitter in MLB history. Unfortunately, his penchant for gambling and lying to the powers that be earned him a lifetime ban from the most coveted of Halls of Fame. I know he broke the cardinal rule, but Rob Manfred please let him in. He suffered the last 35 years of his life. We get the fucking point. He’s gone now. I’ve been to that Hall. It’s amazing, but it doesn’t feel right without him there. Big ups to my bro Kev. LONG LIVE CHARLIE HUSTLE #14.
 
We love you Joji. Company A got you.

#MNR: NO DIDDY
 
“Pay me now. Play me, how? That’s one thing I don’t play about. Lay it down.”
Curren$y
 
“She my California love, we can Californicate. Want to party with a thug? You might have to take the case.”
 
“He run up on me, I’m a have to let the stick blow. She say she love me, I might have to let that bitch go.”
Vince Staples
 
I’m sick and tired of all you hating ass MF. Just admit it. Y’all hate to see a successful Black man. And the nigga was worth a billi? Yeah. It’s obvious that you devils just want to make sure a nigga doesn’t have shit. Y’all been hating on a nigga since Shyne shot the club up damn near a quarter century ago. You bastards wanted to bury him then. But you couldn’t. Why? Because he was Teflon Sean. I thought he told you that he won’t stop. Take that, take that. It’s plain and simple. A Black man built an empire from the mud and you devils couldn’t control him.  I’ll say it again: just admit it. Y’all wanted to ruin Puff’s life. Y’all made all this shit up. The Cassie footage was one lone mistake. Puff apologized for his actions ... and he paid her. But that wasn’t enough. Y’all had to ruin his life. I hope y’all are happy.
 
Shit, I am. Fuck Puffer.
 
Oh, y’all thought I was serious in the intro? How dare you think so lowly of me. Keep it a buck. How many of y’all judged me before scrolling down to find out it was the old 52 fake out. How many of y’all said, “fuck that fat ass nigga.” I ain’t mad. That’s why I did it. As for Puffer, I’ve felt a way about Sean Combs since Sunday, March 9, 1997. But we’ll get to that. We finna get to errthang.
 
Everything was all good just a week ago. Or maybe not.
 
Last Tuesday, Sean Jean “Puff Daddy” “Puffy” “Puff” “P. Diddy” “Diddy” “Brother Love” Combs (what a fucking joke) was arrested into federal custody and charged with sex trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy and transportation to engage in prostitution. He was denied bail on Wednesday and remains incarcerated in the dungeons of MDC Brooklyn, where he is said to be on suicide watch. How sad.
 
In the indictment, prosecutors allege that since 2008 Combs has been part of a criminal organization that engaged in or attempted to engage in sex trafficking, forced labor, kidnapping, arson, bribery, obstruction of justice and other offenses.
 
The indictment alleges that between at least 2008 and the present, Combs abused, threatened and coerced victims to fulfill his sexual desires, protect his reputation and conceal his conduct. There are allegedly multiple victims.
(CBS News)
 
The Feds seized three choppers (AK-47 assault rifles), extensive footage (he taped the freak-offs and kept meticulous footages for extortion purposes) and a thousand bottles of baby oil into custody – a thousand motherfucking bottles of baby oil. Damn it, man. Puffer has mainstreamed the terms freak-off and tusi. Freak-off is – pretty fucking self-explanatory. These fuck fests are said to have lasted for days at a time and consisted of all types of sex – pick one. Tusi, or pink cocaine, is a concoction of ketamine, MDMA, cocaine, methamphetamine, caffeine, opioids, and other new psychoactive substances (NPS). In the explanation of Prophetess Jaguar Wright, tusi was meant to keep you high out of your fucking face yet able to sexually perform over long periods of time, maintaining great amounts of energy and stamina – all with enough mind-altering shit to make your memories foggy at best. And oh yeah – the Molly keeps you happier and hornier than a fly on horse shit while you’re sucking prolific dick – and I’m talking about DJ Khaled dem. That was a direct shot. Fuck that sucker ass nigga, he doesn’t stand with his people. Free Palestine until it’s backwards.
 
Anyway, I’m sure you Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys have connected the dots and understand that tusi and freak-offs go together like Scoob and Shaggy. If not, ask Khaled, Rozay dem. Hey, that’s what Prophetess Jaguar said, and sister gal ain’t missed yet. Puffer kept tusi on deck like baby oil. They caught his drug runner months ago. The word is that he sang a well-known soprano note when interrogated. How sad.
 
I have so much to say, but so much has already been stated. I didn’t need last week’s arrest to affirm my feelings. I’ve known that Puffer is a piece of shit since 3.9.1997, the day that the BIG fella was gunned down in L.A. I’ve stated in a prior blog why it was unnecessary for him to be in Cali for that long. It’s almost like Bad Boy dared someone from out that way to do something. We know from Gene Deal’s telling ass that BIG didn’t even want to be in Cali. It was at Puff’s insistence. I know from my folk out there that the location of the party he was assassinated outside of wasn’t in a fancy area of the city. It was in an area where shit could have easily gone left, which it did. We have also learned that BIG was about to finish his contract with Bad Boy and do his own thing. He didn’t need Seabiscuit in the mouth or Bad Boy Records. He proved that with his Junior M.A.F.I.A. deal with Un at Undeas Records. Puff did everything EXCEPT pull the trigger. BIG’s blood has been on his hands ever since. You took the BIG fella away from us. I hope they lock your evil ass up in ADX Florence Supermax in the domestic terrorist wing with Moussaoui, Terry Nichols dem.
 
My heart goes out to Usher and Justin Bieber; they were babies. My heart goes out to Mama Wallace. My heart goes out to every artist and staff member he ever shorted or treated inhumanely. Long live Black Rob (Jeff Houses 4L) and Craig Mack. My heart goes out to Cassie. Shit, if you’ve been affected in any way by Sean Combs, my heart goes out to you as well. If you’re a fan of suffering, get the theater sized popcorn, a nice cold beverage and put your feet up. They finna slow roast this nigga. Pulled pork. 14 hours on the grill at a low temperature. From there it's Supermax until hell is his permanent home. Bon voyage, bitch nigga.
 
When recently asked about Puffer, Dapper Dan (I would say IYKYK, but you may not – he’s a Harlem fashion icon), who grew up in Harlem with both of Puffer’s parents, admonished us to understand that Puffer isn’t the first demon of his kind. This type of shit has been going on in music and Hollywood for generations. Just think of all the MF over time who have gotten away with it.
 
But not you, nigga. This is atonement.
 
LONG LIVE BIG. WE’LL ALWAYS LOVE BIG POPPA.

#MNR: MISINFORMATION NATION
 
“I’m a trill motherfucker after all. Haters is dressed in safety nets encouraging my fall.”
Curren$y
 
X, the social app formerly (and still widely) known as Twitter, was the ninth most popular social app of 2023, with 142M downloads. In contrast, Instagram was the most popular at 696M downloads. Twitter (fuck it, I refuse to call it X) had 600M active users across the world as of May 2024. I provided each statistic to show that even though its tentacles aren’t as long as some other apps, its reach is still impressive. Once upon a time, a man named Jack Dorsey was the CEO of Twitter. Dorsey was one of four founders (7.15.2008), along with Noah Glass, Biz Stone, and Evan Williams. They made it a public entity in 2013. Unfortunately, Dorsey and company sold Twitter to the world’s wealthiest piece of horse shit, Eli Musk. In October 2022, after months of negotiations, Twitter was sold to Musk for 44B.
 
Well golly gee, Monday. What’s the big difference between when Dorsey dem owned Twitter and now? That’s an excellent question, Sir Scrotum Hair Lint. The answer is simple. When Twitter was owned by the 4 Dorkmen, there was plenty of fuckery. But they fiercely enforced their Community Standards. Shit, I remember being in Twitter Jail, for 12 hours at that. And why? Because I called Dak Prescott a coon. Apparently, calling an Uncle Tom a coon is racially insensitive. Fair enough. I did my bid. I also watched what I said after that. After the contentious Presidential Race of 2020, the fat-ass President who served immediately after Obama was banned from the platform in January 2021 for rampant misinformation. He, along with other MAGAts and all-around troglodytes from the right wing and beyond, were banished from Twitter for lascivious lies and hate. Regardless of like, dislike, or indifference, there were standards. Musk has shown that there is little to no regard for standards, and he often is the first stone thrower. Just recently, he’s pushed an A.I. picture of Kamala Harris in red communist garb speaking before a communist crowd AND told Taylor Swift that he would gladly impregnate her AND protect her cat (we’ll get to that fuckery in a bit). This is the world’s richest human, owner of a social media platform that wields considerable power and influence. Being a conservative capitalist isn’t a crime, but using your influence for malice is a moral crime. But hey, I’m certain Musk doesn’t believe in God. He’ll burn in hell along with tRump when he faces judgement.
 
 I believe Nas once said if money’s your religion, sky’s the limit, live life. There’s an amazing and morbid double entendre in that bar.
 
The article “X (Twitter) Statistics: How Many People Use X?” (backlinko.com) shared market research that stated 60.6% of respondents aged 16-64 use Twitter to keep up to date with news and current events. Unfortunately, Twitter is ripe with misinformation. Musk’s Twitter philosophy is wild, wild west style – anything goes. That can have catastrophic results. He knows this. You and I know. So why do you think he does it? That was a rhetorical question. We don’t e’en need to answer that.
 
Twitter shall not be the lone scapegoat for rampant misinformation in the world. Fake news is superfluous in diverse outlets, from Fox News to Discord to YouTube to Parlor, and so on. The standards of journalism have been forsaken, and there is no code. This is extremely painful for a journalist like me.
 
In the 9.2.2024 #MNR, I stated that the story about a Venezuelan gang taking over an apartment complex in Colorado was complete bullshit. I talked about how ain’t no cotton-picking way a 2A state’s residents would let that type of thing fly. Colorado is an OPEN CARRY STATE. That means that most residents 18 or older and legally able to possess a firearm can carry it openly without a license, permit, or registration. Opie and the Country Road Militia could’ve easily handled that after a spirited evening of Coors Light drankin’, doobie puffing, and fentanyl-free cocaine snorting. TRANSLATION: that story was absolute bullshit, and I first guessed it like I ALWAYS do. How did I know? Do I have a cousin who was “trapped” in one of the apartments giving me live updates? Fuck no. I maintained a 4.0 GPA and graduated with honors from the Archie G. Warren School of Common Sense. I smelled bullshit when I read the article, and I knew a bunch of readers were sure to step smooth in it. MF will believe anything that reaffirms and fuels their hate nowadays, especially in racial, political, and socioeconomic realms. People love to hate. Misinformation is supreme unleaded gasoline poured on a 6-alarm fire.
 
Sak pase? N’ap boule on my end. Big ups to all my Haitian folk in the tri state and all over. I love y’all. I’m certain that all you amazing supporters have heard the rampant disinformation regarding Haitian residents in Springfield, Ohio. I won’t waste my time or dignity to address the lies. I will correct the lies about them being here illegally. They are in Springfield on a federal program that enables people from Haiti who have a financial sponsor in the U.S. to apply to enter the country and remain here legally for two years. They do not receive green cards.  Others have applied for asylum, allowing them to remain in the country until their case is adjudicated in immigration court. And why have Haitians migrated to Springfield? Because businesses needed workers, there was an overabundance of housing at the time, and Haitians heard living costs were low.
 
Yes, the pace of Haitians immigrating to Springfield has put a strain on the community. That tends to happen when news of opportunity spreads (think California gold rush or Atlanta in the ‘90s). But these folk are far from savages or criminals. The story has long-since been debunked, but that doesn’t matter to the nightmare holders who continue to run with it. All it’s doing is stoking [more] hate toward minorities. That’s how MAGAts want it.
 
Ohio governor Mike DeWine has pledged over 2M in aid to Springfield to help with any difficulties the community is facing because of the influx of Haitian immigrants. But unlike most Rs, DeWine isn’t a scumbag. He is sending money to help with social inequities that the community is facing. He has nothing but respect for the Haitian community. I have heard him praise them with my own ears. His late daughter did missionary work in Haiti, and he and his wife pledged to help the Haitian community in her honor. I don’t fuck with DeWine, but I’ m thankful that he’s a decent human.
 
I don’t find jokes about a minority group eating domesticated animals like wanton savages to be funny in any regard. Frankly, I find it disgusting. Haitians have been through hell the past decade or so, from natural disaster to extreme political corruption. They just want to live the American dream. Shame on you first world American-born fuckfaces for using misinformation as an opportunity to make ignorant Instagram posts about Haitians and cats.
 
And any Black person who can declare that Haitians aren’t your folk, I’m happy to let you know that you damn sure ain’t mine. Fuck you. I’ll spit in your motherfucking face if you ever part your lips to talk shit about Haitians in my presence. Big ups to Haiti AND the Dominican Republic. It’s all one island with no natural border.


HAPPY EARTH DAY ACEITO. LOVE YOU BABY BOY. 
 
Alright. I’m done talking. I done said all I had to say. Y’all can continue on.

#MNR: MY LIFE
 
“You don’t know how little you matter until you’re all alone.”
Frank Ocean
 
“My ‘fit cost a condo. My hip tote a Rondo. I ball like Lonzo and always stay Melo.”
Really Jaewon
 
“Staring at the world through my rearview. Go ‘head baby scream to God, he can’t hear you. I can feel your heart beating fast cuz it’s time to die. Getting high, watching time fly.”
Makaveli the Don
 
LONG LIVE RICH HOMIE QUAN
 
MY HEART AND PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU RICH AND KIM
 
In an instant, it became apparent how little I matter in this beautiful life. It came upon me suddenly around the midnight hour Saturday. A couple days prior, someone I love asked me what my plans were for my birthday weekend. I replied that I had no plans. She or he was incredulous. I insisted that I hadn’t any, and she or he simply replied “ok”. In the moment, it was no big deal. I don’t usually have people beating my door down to treat me to a good time. But Saturday night, in the solitude of Attica, I pondered it all amidst a by-myself meeting. And suddenly, after years of it not mattering, it mattered. Shit, I’m used to not having people hit my line to get up. I don’t worry about it; I spent so many years running the streets and gallivanting with friends and associates (some of whom are now in the essence) that I’m cool with retirement. But the reality of the question is that I don’t get offers to kick it. I’m a semi-loner, so I can’t sit back and cry when I feel like no one likes me. It’s just that it’s my earth day. But that’s just how it is. C’est la vie. I’ve done a lot of work on self lately. I’m trying to stay in good head spaces when I feel anxiety gently rapping upon the windowpane of my soul. I remind myself that I am blessed. I remind myself that I’m loved, although most of my loved ones are either long distance or on the other side. And, thanks to a talk I had with a colleague, I remind myself that I am a King, even if my reality is that I am a mad king. A solitary king. My right hand is Sgt. Pepper. If no one wants to rock with me, I’m cool with me, myself, and I. And the Sarge. Having said as much, some days are tougher than others. Gloria Gaynor birthed the concept but I’m a fan of Chantay Savage’s interpolation. Translation: I will survive.
 
Thank you Brandi and Marcus for being exceptions to the above paragraph. You both are loved and appreciated.
 
There are generally two trains of thought pertaining to suicide. The first is the traditional Christian belief. For those unlearned, it’s the ONLY thing one can do to eternally damn oneself. God gave you life; who are you to take it? In addition, it’s seen as a selfish act. There are people who will forever be affected by your choice. What about them? And honestly, I could never argue that point. I came up with a pal who took his own life. I would’ve never guessed in a million years that he was going through what he was going through. I wish I would have known.
 
In contrast, I’m not mad about taking autonomy like Anthony Bourdain or Kate Spade chose to do. I have no clue why they chose to do what they did, but I have my theories. For me, it's the beauty of being able to write your own conclusion. It’s the calm of knowing that I’ll never be taken for granted or underappreciated ever again. People say all the cute shit. They babble on about how you’re loved and important. But do they really mean it? They don’t check in out the blue to see if you’ve been able to maintain your sanity for the day or week. They don’t hit you with a random “let’s go out and have a drink” or a let’s go do anything. But they don’t have to. It’s whether they choose to. That’s where the beauty of autonomy comes into play. Don’t e’en worry about it. There’s no need for the superficial “how are you” or once-in-a-blue check-in. It’s all good, coach. I’m calling my own game today. Willie Beamon.
 
I was in a low place, fully amidst an anxiety attack and staring crisis in the eyes. But then I paused for a moment, took a couple of deep breaths, lit a J, and grabbed my Mac. I decided it was better to type my way through it and put it on display to be interpreted and scrutinized. Being able to create is cathartic for me. Perhaps I’m just a petulant neurotic. I’m often caught in the paradox of trying to be a man who has finally embraced the emotions that come with being beautifully human while simultaneously attempting to continually suffocate my emotions because that’s what a man is supposed to do. I’m just glad I didn’t lose my way. I didn’t have anyone to speak with, so I had to land that 757 jumbo jet by my lonely. All the landing gear is in-tact. I pulled up to our spot on the Tarmac blowing kush smoke out the pilot-side window – with tears in my eyes.
 
I thank Andrell for agreeing to take this cross-country journey and see all the spots they told us were beautiful in those geography and history lessons. We’re going to end up in L.A., my spirit origin. Drell wants to see Old Faithful. I want to see those old white men whose visages are etched into a mountain. We both want to drive that highway from Vegas to Los Scandalous, but not before I step into MGM Grand (MY place) and bet it all on Black...or get my driver’s license. Literally. One good spin of the roulette shall determine my fate. If I lose it all, fuck it. Onward to the city of angels.
 
Pass me the chopstick, CEO. Time to catch a few bodies.
 
Allow me to introduce first – Ty Monday, the Don. I drank a fifth of straight Henny, pissed it out, and I yawned. Fuck the Feds and fuck the five-O, [I] was 45, now you can go and add one mo’. Me? A born leader, never leave the block without my reefa. Two, three shades, my eyes you’re not allowed to meet and greet them. I’m on the la until I’m gone. It’s Crew life running through my pen, so I’m strong. Bye, bye, bye, let’s get high and ride. Oh, how we do these lames? Fuck it, not gon cry. I’m a slave master killer, Jesse Waters die, too. Looking for Tamir’s killer, devil when I find you. Bigot motherfuckers don’t deserve to breathe. How many down to freedom ride with me, yay yayee! Eastside rider, the scope on your mata, should a never fucked with T. I want equality and true serenity. I won’t rest until Albert Bradley’s free. Bomb first. We – bomb first when we ride. Please – reconsider ‘fore you die. We ain’t even come to clip a wing tonight. But it’s my life or your life, and I’m a bomb first.
 
Long live Makaveli the Don.
 
Got nothing to lose. I gots nowhere to go. I only got one home, see me stranded on Death Row. I always thought that was one of the illest lines of my lifetime. E.D.I. Mean’s flow was unorthodox yet perfect. Long live Killa Kadafi and Fatal Hussein. Peace to all the Outlaw Immortalz. That’s word to the OUTLAW tatt on my left forearm.
 
Thanks Todd for randomly checking in and sending an early earth day token of love. It blew holes in my theory – somewhat. I just wish the people I speak to everyday had the vision my pal Todd does. But I’m not complaining anymore. It is what it is.
 
Hand me the world on a silver platter, and what good would it be? With no one to share, with no one who truly cares for me. Some people want it all, but I don’t want nothing at all...
 
If it seems like this blog was all over the place it’s because it was. I wrote this #MNR over the course of three days, with this portion being written last. I know I gave a wonderful narrative about how my Mac saved me from the clutches of despair as if it were some mythical healing agent. Yes, it does work wonders. But even those wonders are fleeting. After sleeping it all off, I woke up Sunday, again immersed in a sunken place. Yadda, yadda, yadda – today, 9.9, was a tough day in the life of Ty. I woke up (late AF) with self-checkout all through my mind. I couldn’t shake it. I’m thankful for Brandi, Ju, Lynn, Joji, Marcus, and Drell for keeping me afloat throughout the day.
 
When I reflect on my mother’s last couple of years on this planet, I’m forced to realize that she inevitably threw in the towel. She had her reasons, and I’m not nor was ever upset. My grief came from a selfish albeit genuine place. I didn’t want to lose the most important person in my life – the very one who gave me life. Watching her suffer for the last couple years of her life was devastating. Prayerfully, she prepared me for the end before I even knew the end was imminent. When I was able to set my grief aside, I admired her for finishing the way she did. She had enough of the bullshit. She shut down. But I know why she shut down. She felt that she’d given her all. She gave her all to the Lord and New Arbor Baptist Church. She gave her all to her husband. She gave her all to her son (I’ll include the plural for Sam Jr. tonight). She gave her all to her family. She gave her all to Halifax County Middle School. She gave her all to anyone she felt deserved her all. And for what? For an adulterous, drug addicted husband? A career underachieving son? Unappreciative (at times) family? A school that forced her into early retirement, leaving her short of Social Security by a full year? She had E-fucking-nough. Mama, I too know how it feels to be vastly underappreciated. That, ultimately, is the reason for my pain. I give my all in everything I do. I give my all for everyone I love. There will never be a moment when I half-ass the effort. And, even as an altruist, it hurts because it makes me wonder if I even fucking matter. There’s no glory in this. Only death. Such a sweet reward. There’s no more pain in death.
 
Alright, Sarge, it’s time for us to keep it moving. We pulled up, said what we had to say, and they paid us for our time. Round up the Lonely Hearts Club Band so we can get ready to hit the road. It’s off to the next stop on our Infinity Tour. It’s a shitty gig, but it’s the only one they left us to play. Good night, folks. We’ll visit your amazing city again next Monday night, Lord willing. Until then, I’ll most likely be thuggin inside a project building, smoking that fire weed with them ghetto children. Plotting on a way that we can make a million. Lawd... (Juvy voice)
 
Happy earth day to me.

#MNR: THE COLLECTOR
 
“And I’m going to love me for the rest of my days. Encourage the babies every time they say. Self-preservation is what’s really going on today.”
Candi Staton
 
“’Member shorties that I used to crush on. Most of them is hit now. Either that or holding out for a nigga that’s rich now. Or a Chris Brown. And end up thotting and then they switch towns.”
RIP Jahleel
 
Picture this. Much of America is tired of a felonious, diaper-wearing, almost octogenarian who lies as effortlessly as he breathes, sexually assaults women, cheats and repeatedly fails at business, spews racist/sexist/xenophobic/divisive rhetoric, and is never wrong. I am shocked that women are revolting against men and ideology that wants to invade their doctors’ offices and bedrooms. I am even more shocked that most of us have yet to find the “millions” of illegal aliens penetrating our borders and invading our cities. And how many of us truly believe Harris is a Marxist/communist/fascist? Most of America doesn’t live under a rock or in a doomsday bunker. This repetitive act is tired and played out. Voters want to hear policy. I always knew tRump was a sociopath. I am convinced that he is in severe cognitive decline. His trademark quick wit has turned to shit. Some of his language is unintelligible. Most of what he does say is an outright lie. He never has data to affirm his outrageous claims. Remember what I said earlier -- he is never wrong. He is incapable of contrition. His brain is fried. All the political polls are the proverbial writings on the wall. It’s going to get dark on 11.5 for ole Cheesy.
 
(Aside)
I saw that bullshit about the Venezuelans taking over that apartment complex in Colorado. So, you mean to tell me that a few handfuls of illegals have taken over an entire apartment complex and all you proud, flag waving, 2A touting American tough guys didn’t pile up body bags from day one? I smell the bullshit from over 2K miles away. It makes no sense. I’ve seen the NYPD sweep a building as effortlessly as your nana could sweep a kitchen floor. And if the local police department lacks the manpower, pigs love to call their neighboring pig buddies in for reinforcement. This is political propaganda at its finest. Fear mongering doesn’t work. You Rs are as dumb as you look. That which makes no sense shall be regarded as bullshit and power washed away.
 
I know the Aiger. I know him well. His level is that of no other. His relentless nature is extraordinarily noteworthy. He is the most determined human being I have ever known. More determined than Moses. More determined than Mandela. More determined than Yastrzemski during the home stretch of the 1976 MLB season. He is the figurative island.
 
Most of the western hemisphere can attest to my love for fly sneakers. This love began in 1986, around the time that Rakim nominated his DJ Eric B. for president. It all began with a pair of white and blue Air Force 2 (yes, 2). The sneaker bug invaded my system and never left. Who wear it all? I’m an Adidas freak. Not quite. Big ups to my nigga Raekwon. That was the first bar of his song “Sneakers.” I thought that was the freshest way to begin an homage to sneakers in the history of the verbal expression of sneaker adoration. But I am an addict for sneakers, much like Nasir Jones, another professed Nike head. Foamposites are my gold medal winners and GOAT kix. The OG “International Blue” colorway that Anfernee Dion Hardaway immortalized will see a rare release three days after my earth day. I’m scooping them off the SNKRS app on 10am Friday, 9.13, barring any unforeseen calamity. I’m also a Jordan fan. It’s the 11s and the 4s that do it for me, amongst a few others. I think the Bred (black/red) 11s are the greatest sneakers of all time, all things considered. Other than the Foamposites coming out in 11 days...feel free to drop random acts of kindness into my CashApp @ $TyMonday$. Please and thank you. Err umm – yeah. I’m also an Air Max junkie, from the 95s to the Vapormax. Kobe VI and VIII are like Ruth and Maris in 1927. There are others, but that’s my best of the best.
 
I love New Era 59/50 fitted caps. I’m currently about a half a hundred deep. MLB World Series side patch caps are my latest fetish. I also collect Nike (and ACG) 5-panel hats. They wick sweat much better than the 59/50. I love foreign colognes and keep more than several in rotation. I used to be adamant about collecting DVD sets of my favorite shows and movies. I still have a “DVD player” (PS5), but streaming is so superfluous that it’s waned my thirst for collecting hard copies over the past couple of years. I’m about three years deep into my sports card collecting renaissance, something I hadn’t done since I was fifteen. Shouts to my brother Kevin for rekindling my enthusiasm. I don’t know, I can’t quite explain it. There’s calm and serenity that comes with collecting tangible objects. What do you collect? Leave a comment. Keep it clean. Lmao.
 
Dear summer, it’s been real. I always anticipate your arrival yet I’m always happy to see you depart. 100% humidity is flat-out hostile but being kissed by the summer morning sun is special. I love the privilege of looking outside my window and seeing sunlight after 20:00. Sunset before 18:00 is a criminal act. I’m thankful for indelible memories of so many unforgettable summers past. Every summer is a blessing. Play Kool & the Gang “Summer Madness” as you light your spliff and reflect as summer ’24 disappears in your rearview.
 
Peace to every Virgo, it’s our season. Peace to all the lovers. It’s our time to flourish and shine. I pray for good fortune and prosperity. May your pain be champagne.