#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. 

#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. 

#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.