MNR: Diced Pineapples

Something about her, probably can’t live without her...
Wale

If you’re under thirty, happily single, and in no way prepared to handle the complexities of a committed relationship, feel free to read along, but this wisdom isn’t applicable to you. Not yet. Shit, I encourage you to try your best to cut errthang moving that delights the stirring within your young loins. Get that body count up my nigga. Two things: if you lie on it, always lie down to seem like less of a man whore to inquiring ladies (don’t lie [up] on your dick), and just be safe. They got the science down to a single pill a day. You may very well outlive others your age who are otherwise healthy. Your levels can get low enough that they’re undetectable and you won’t pass it off to a partner. But it’s still present. It IS the monster. Be safe. Wrap that shit up or get a thorough Pussy Fax report on her. And remember, Valtrex only diminishes the frequency of herpes cycles, but don’t get it twisted. Herpes are forever. Hopefully I’ve just scared the living shit outta your dumb ass. But I was once young, dumb, and horny AF. Getting sick was always in the back of my mind (and front) but my chubby down below said fvck that (my double entendres are amazing, let me tell it), and I always got accurate Pussy Fax reports. I’m not implying I went boogums err time. I wore my prophylactics way more than I didn’t. I’m just saying...Now, back to regularly scheduled programming. For those of us who are in committed relationships and plus thirty, stop playing with her and put a ring on it. I’m not just saying this because I did it. This has been my philosophy since back when, way before I knew Brandi was my queen. I was raised in a devout Christian environment where prudent wisdom said to never shack up, or live with a woman without commitment (marriage). I was also told to “give that girl a name” if I felt that she was the one for me. I am a firm believer in both but I will say that in 2019 marrying a person before getting a fairly accurate depiction of how they live and without prior coexistence can be a big gamble. But I still believe it’s the way to go from a moral standpoint (says Mr. Morals himself). I know, I know. As a nigga, you prolly feel like why should I have to marry her if she already knows I love her, that she’s the one for me, and we already holding shit down? Because it’s about her, dumbass. End of the day, it’s because she deserves it. She holds it down. In every way. She stuck by a nigga through it all. And she loves you unconditionally. Since she was a child the idea of marriage has been drilled into her mental whether at home, in culture, society, or on the screen. The sad part is that in every other culture marriage is a given. It’s a definite part of the plan, if for nothing more than tradition or as a “beard”. You can get diverse groups of ten random men per race other than the asiatic Black man in a room, each age 35 or better, and I guarantee eight out of ten are married or have been married at least once, kids or no. But for reasons of familial separation that (of course) date back to slavery, a lot of our views on commitment and matrimony are extremely fvcked up, from the Rolling Stone Theory to the idea of the player and his sexual conquest of the female species. It basically boils down from not really or never knowing pops to only seeing him in the streets or wherever he lives from time to time. Both suck, and paternal separation has far reaching consequences. It fvcks a kid’s head up forever, both male and female. A lotta of us know exactly how that feels. Some of us triumph, through it all. Some don’t. Either we we all gotta live with it. But many of us men pick up the same damn habit our pops had and do the exact same abandonment shit to our chirren. Anyway, they’re not the only group of us at fault. A lot of us get everything right except for the ring. We hold shit down. Her, the kids, errthang. I’m saying. Yes. Y’all good niggas for that. Damn good niggas. I salute y’all err day. But make her great. Give that woman a name. Let her shine on these bird ass bitches outchea and inspire her sisters. I hate the term baby mama when it’s not applicable. If you lay with her and she holding it down she’s your wife. Give her the precious gem and the piece of paper to confirm it. And if you can, let her walk that isle like Ric Flair in Starcade ‘86. She’s the main event. She’s your everything. Besides, it’s an excellent way to get a new tux, a bunch of gifts and a bomb ass after party. Not to mention a trip somewhere for a week with nothing to do but have brilliant (raw) sex, wine and dine, and enjoy the town. Black excellence is what I’m talking. Ossie and Ruby Dee. Archie and Mary (my maternal grandparents). Barack and Michelle. George and Weezy. Martin and Gina. It’s my time, y’all. Catch me at the intersection of Ebony Junction and Cheeba Avenue. Water. 

tymonday.com
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MNR: My Life, version 71490

CEO stopped asking me about it. But I know he wants me back on my post. My wife-to-be told me that it was time (yeah, you read correctly...I’ll expound shortly), and she was right. They were right. It’s time, again. Time to return to my grizzly. Time to talk my shit. It’s been a long time, I shouldna left you (yeah, you’ve heard that one time or three before)...

PS—-if you’ve only recently began reading my blogs, this one may be a bit more Ozzie Osbourne than the recent and customary Jeffrey Osborne type MNR you’re used to. But my long time readers know the old school Monday. The iamdjgreen.com and early UnB blog Monday. The I couldn’t give any less of a fuck if I actually tried Monday. Yeah. It’s not vintage Monday, but it’s not far from heem. Just buckle up and put fire to your aromatics. Let ole Monday talk his noise. 

So, I’m sitting here enjoying the inner works of a rotund Dark Stout Backwoods and finishing one of my trademark 1.5 liter Poland Springs. Damn, another plastic bottle to put in its holding cell (the ubiquitous yellow ShopRite plastic bag), unless I take it downstairs to the inside recycling bin. If I took them down one by one I’d run an indoor marathon in a week’s time (something for my fat ass to seriously consider). But in a week or three they add up OD. I can damn near fill one of our outdoor containers up every couple weeks with PS bottles by my lonely. All 1.5L. Perhaps the occasional Jameson’s or Hennessy fifth, even. So, we recycle, right? That’s what THEY say they do. But when I’m on Twitter I see all these ocean waters in certain places full of plastic, straight bodying the marine life. And I believe EVERYTHING I see on social media. So it’s very safe to say that not everyone recycles. Such a fucking shame. But I came up with a solution. What if we took massive amounts of super melted plastic and condensed it into plastic balls and sling shot those MFs out the atmosphere into space? Straight supercharged projectiles shot out some amazing, Buck Rogers-type machine/weapon. I mean, the galaxy is infinite, correct? Those fuckers could just float out towards Pluto and parts unknown until they fall into a black hole. Ball game. And with space travel being a bit sparse nowadays, there’s a low likelihood that one of those plastic missiles would ever actually hit a spacecraft or station (according to my expert and highly classified calculations). And shit, if we shoot ‘em the other way that would be even better cuz the closer they get to the sun they...they...they...they melt, dumbass. They melt like marshmallows in a bomb ass cup of hot chocolate. Problem solved, case closed. Don’t steal and market my idea, you bastards. I’m already in negotiations with the Chinese government. I have a team of 19 monkeys working around the clock on the specifics. Good monkeys. Lab chimps boosted from Johns Hopkins. I’m finna get broke off. Low overhead, too. All my monkeys want is bananas and reefa from big Randy’s Tegrity Farms out Colorado, about 30 minutes outside South Park. Holla at Randy. He’s cutting deals. Picture me rolling...(pardon the double entendre). 

So, as you all know, my beloved Yankees were defeated in the ALCS, falling in six games to the evil Houston Astros. I could go on and on about our ineptitude, but this isn’t a damn sports blog. What I will state is the obvious: we’re good, but we still need to get better. Ultimately, Cole is the difference. We beat Verlander. We beat Greinke’s weirdo ass. But we couldn’t beat Cole (I know, I know, I’m avoiding the bullpen start game on purpose). So, in a legacy befitting the great, late Boss Steinbrenner, Lord please make Hal and what’s his name allow Cashman to overpay for Mr. Cole this December. You’d be doing us a really big favor (RIP Phife Diggy, Lord please tell him we miss him). Once again, please. And thank you, Lord...But if that wasn’t enough to strike up a good ole Fred G. Sanford Special within my chest, my Eagles got a mud hole stomped in our ass in Jerryland, Texas, home of the Cowboys. AND Coach Pederson guaranteed a win. AND our secondary still couldn’t cover a gospel song out the burgundy hymn book. AND we lost out on J. Ramsey cuz we got outbid. AND...AND...AND...quite frankly, I honestly think we are still sniffing fumes from our Super Bowl victory. That shit was two fucking years ago. It’s over. Brady has won another one since. May be on his to another. Let’s fucking go! By the way, did I mention that I’m a Knicks lifer? Smmfh. 

So...last week I popped the question...AND SHE SAID YES!!! I’m blessed beyond measure, and I’m already amidst spending the rest of my life with her. We’re gonna take 2020 to get our ducks in a row and plan this thing properly. We anticipate a Spring ‘21 wedding. Errbody and they mama gon be there—-excluding the law (RIP Bernie). But we gon have a time. And just to give a heads up, our wedding registry is at both Chase and PNC Bank. No donation is too small, but that simply means you should double it if you plan on coming shawt. Y’all been too good to me. 

I’d just like to conclude this blog by saying that my new fat man office chair is the shiznit, and my corresponding desk is simply amazing (I just wanted to add corresponding for no reason). My office nook is now up and running. Expect an avalanche of material from myself and 2NN Productions coming very soon. 100 Blocks: The Documentary COMING SOON. 100 Blocks Stories 2 COMING SOON. And that’s just for starters. Time to shake a leg and get up in the wind, sugar. Blessings. 

tymonday.com
theunbearablescrew.com