#MNR: FTDC4LIFE
 
“I hate a bitch that’s hating on a bitch and they both hoes. I hate a nigga hating on you niggas and they both broke. If you ain’t coming for no chili, what you come for?”
Kendrick Lamar
 
“Hop out suicide doors, it’s the Hitta Man. You don’t want to see them doors sliding on the Caravan. I know killers who was catching bodies and not one fade.”
Hitta J3
 
“I see you. You see me. [We] both see what we want.”
SZA
 
I hope it’s not too late – to set my demons straight. I know I made you wait. But how much can you take? I hope you see the God in me, I hope you can see. And if it’s up, stay down for me...I got that part wrong. The last part. It doesn’t matter why I made the decision I made. I gotta live with that.
 
I remember when Chico Del Vec said (rapped), “I caught a case. Fuck that, I gotta live with that.” That still might be the realest shit I ever heard, and I was raised by the realest. I was taught by the realest. I listened to and continue to listen to the realest. The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Native Son, and Things Fall Apart are my favorite books (in order – that weren’t written by me), so ditto for the reading. It all reaffirms Del Vec’s bar. Don’t matter what happened. You must face and live with your tribulations and transgressions. My life and the way I was raised and conditioned taught me I had no other choice. You buy the ticket; you ride the ride. Over the years, I have been swift to emphasize this to the youth. A MF is quick to do some heinous shit but wants a mulligan when the heat comes. No sir. No ma’am. You caught a case, all by your lonely. Fuck all the excuses. Meh no care for your blood clot cryin’. You were super thug when you did what you did (allegedly). Keep that same energy, my nigga. You earned it. Don’t run crying to mommy and/or place the blame on her for your fuckery amidst free will. I don’t want to hear of any type of police activity, either. Informer dem = non-cipher.
 
The irony of the Del Vec bar is that I see it applying to grown ass men and women as much as these wild ass youngn’s. You are entirely too grown and experienced to expect sympathy from me or the state. I don’t give a fuck, my nigga. Whatever you did – you did (allegedly). I don’t feel sorry for adults, so my advice is to go and get a good pay lawyer and fight the case. If you have to sit still for a while, I’ll see to it that you keep a lil something on your books. You won’t have to use Cold Craft soap. You’ll be able to cop a few honey buns for your stash. Do your time. We’ll see you when you hit the bricks.
 
DISCLAIMER: ME ENSURING “A LIL SOMETHING” ON YOUR BOOKS DOESN’T MEAN THAT ITS FINANCING WILL COME EXCLUSIVELY FROM ME. I HAVE NO ISSUE GOING PAST YOUR AUNTIE AND GRANNIE CRIB AND COLLECTING THAT CHICKEN. DITTO FOR THOSE NIGGAS YOU GOT IT OUT THE MUD WITH.
 
This doesn’t only apply to criminal activity. If you committed an act of fuckery toward someone or some people, you can’t get upset if they don’t accept your weak ass apology or your “let by-gones be by-gones” plea. Some things can’t be pardoned. You don’t get to decide for the person or people you’ve wronged. That bridge has been burned, and you don’t have access to a canoe. You gotta live with it.
 
Oh... y’all wanted a Kendrick Lamar album review? That shit (GNX) is phenomenal. I’m not one to speak on the “C-word” too early, but it has the vibes of an instant classic. There’s plenty of fruit on this album, front to back. He dissed a bunch of niggas. You have to listen to decipher for yourself. Some were blatant; others were subtle. My favorite track is “dodger blue,” I think. I love damn near every track, and more than a few could be my favorite. “wacced out murals” is crazy. So is “tv off.” So is the title track (my nigga Hitta J3 went dummy). So is “squabble up.” So is “luther.” “reincarnated” seems to be a veiled tribute to Makaveli the Don. “gloria” is another level of special. Listen closely. This is an amazing album. SZA is so perfect. Her voice is tailor-made for TDE and pg lang. Buy GNX, stream it, or listen to it. Pure fireworks.
 
I’m sitting in front of this Mac with Kendrick “heart pt. 6” pumping through my soundbar. Behind the Mac is my library, my pic with Felipe that Luzpi gave me before our last session, and my Black and white postcard from a prior The Marathon Clothing purchase. The picture on the postcard is of a young Nipsy standing on Crenshaw in a TMC “THE MARATHON” tee. He’s smiling from ear to ear, loc braids dangling well past his shoulders under a fitted, chain and piece hanging low enough to make Prodigy smile down from heaven. Damn. Nip’s up there, too. That wasn’t even my initial thought. I wanted to talk about how his picture, Felipe and my picture, and “heart pt. 6” had me reminiscing about days past. I don’t reminisce much these days. I don’t know why. I cherish those times and their memories are sacred. It’s just that nostalgia has been rare for me after Shareon transcended. But anyway...here’s to life and love. Love for our dearly departed until we join them.
 
BLESSED EARTH DAY TO MY BROTHER SEAN. LOVE YOU ALWAYS, MY NIGGA. ENJOY YOUR DAY. 

#MNR: IGNORANCE IS BLISS
 
“When it comes to alter egos – I got at least fo’. But they reason why I’m always ready, listo. Aight, I’m sly lingual. Eyes on the prize, I’m fly. Make eyes twinkle.”
Earl Sweatshirt
 
“Going through the emotions of gun holding. Long shotgun down my pant leg, limping. Killa Black, you still living. Even my pops too. He taught me how to shoot when I was seven.”
Prodigy (Long live)
 
“Gold chain choking me. Coke head provoking me to live my destiny. Jacuzzi water soaking me.”
Cormega
 
“To the chicks that get high with me, smoke la with me. Come on girl, why don’t you come around my world?”
Nore
 
They said they need that old Monday back. Political Monday is nice, but we need that upstairs Monday back. We need that bat cave marauder Monday back. That pal who’s up at 7:00 on a Saturday morning to get his dawg out the pound because Bergen County bail bondsmen don’t answer the phone at 1:30 am on Friday nights (Facts). You kept it political for a minute, Ty, and that was cool. But it’s time to switch up your tempo like all those beautiful sneakers you possess and wear. You know how you be styling on ‘em, fat man. Fly Gordo, ¼ of the fabulous 4 Cornaz crew. Always putting your best foot forward and all that. We need the hood general back. We need you to take it back to the block. Do your thing as only you can, Tyrone Cronkite, hood reporter.
 
Bet.
 
Eastside get the money. Long time, no cash.
 
Good evening. I’d like to welcome you all to the den of iniquity, located far off the grid somewhere in the back alleys of the internet. It’s your guy, Slim Ty Monday. I’m glad and thankful that you fell through the spot tonight – or whenever you read this MF. You could’ve wasted five minutes on a YouTube video that was top tier ASS and been a bit pissed that you’ll never get those 300 seconds of your life back. But you made the righteous decision to tune in to 115.3 on your FM dial, WUNB radio. Buckle up. We finna take flight. Light your aromatics. Make it foggy in your domicile. Roll it all up. Get superhero high. It’s time for #MNR.
 
Aubrey Graham. Oh, you insecure half Negro, half Jew, fully Canadian, sockcucker. Shame on you for sneak AND overtly dissing the good brother Pharrell because he sided with – his MF friend of well over 30 years and longtime collaborator who used to be his artist. I’m talking about Pusha T for those who may be lost. Shame on you for being exposed yet again. Why did you try to make it seem like you bought all of Pharrell’s old jewelry (all $2.6M of it) because he was in squalor or needed the bread? I found out that Pharrell sold his jewelry and other items on his auction site Joopiter to help kickstart the Black Ambition nonprofit, with proceeds to support Black and Latino entrepreneurs. The nonprofit invests in and amplifies entrepreneurs and creates business opportunities for Black and Latina female founders in fashion and wellness. Shame on myself and others who were lazy and didn’t do our due diligence, instead taking Aubrey’s word for it. I can sincerely say that I didn’t think too much about it because I am a Pharrell Williams fan. I’ve been one since “Super Thug.” Moreover, even if he were in financial difficulties, I don’t take delight in others’ calamity, tough times, etc. That’s not my nature – unless I super, duper don’t fuck with you. I definitely felt that way when I found out that bitch Vanessa got served her walking papers, but that’s neither here nor there. But yeah. This hoe ass nigga tried to shit on Pharrell, only for [the rest of] us to find out that, much like plenty of other issues Aubrey’s had with other artists, this too was all fraudulent. Pharrell was finally asked about everything in a recent interview. Being that gentleman he has always been, he took the high road when questioned, basically dismissing Aubrey as the fanboy he is. What a meat glazer. Pharrell is doing business with Lego. He is the Men’s Creative Director of Louis Vuitton. He didn’t have the time to meddle with that Canadian commoner. He, unlike Aubrey, refused to fuck the money up over foolishness. Big ups to Pharrell. I’m a catch your Lego movie as soon as it hits Disney+, you heard?
 
How’s NOCTA doing, Aubrey? Last I heard, you couldn’t give those ugly ass, overpriced sneakers and mid ass apparel away. Of course I’m lying. But I just went on Reddit because I couldn’t find any raw data on Nike NOCTA sales to corroborate what I’m seeing. I didn’t find any raw data, but I damn sure had a good laugh or 3 going through the threads. They roasted THE FUCK out of NOCTA, from prices of the products to those ugly ass sneakers (the Hot Step 2) he dropped earlier in the year. People said they were “bulky,” “chunky,” and equivalent to the lady Fila shoes all the Hispanic women wore a couple of summers ago – their words, not mine. Someone called those Hot Steps the Under 18s (six laughing emojis). I can sum it all up as nasty work. Oh well. You should’ve left Kenny alone, pussyclot. You’re cursed like the pharaoh when he wronged Moses and the children of Israel.
 
Married to Marijuana, stabilized persona. I bone the bitch anytime I wanna...stroking her down, provoking her now to go down. Stroking her down. Stroking her down.
 
Shoutout to my bro’s BM for taking a real nigga off child support. You did right, woman. You did right. Salute to you.
 
Fuck all you derelict niggas out there not taking care of your bad ass chillun. Don’t matter if they’re bad as hell. Don’t matter if your BM ain’t shit. Don’t matter if they stay at your grandmama’s house half the time. Sir, those are your chillun. Take your punk ass down the way to see the man and pay that lil child support right before you take care of your beeper bill. With your sorry ass. Your shift at the Taco Bell is over at 3:00 pm. Office don’t close ‘til after fo’. Handle that before we un-invite you to the next function. Please and thank you.
 
Part the crowd like the Red Sea...
 
I wonder...if I can successfully steal a house (mansion, a Beverly Hills mansion) like Axel Foley did in Beverly Hills Cop, can I too successfully cheat on my property taxes each year? What y’all think? Let me know in the comments section, on the Twitter, or in the ShopRite when you see me.  
 
Everyone loves a small dosage of ignorance in their everyday lives, correct? Shit, I do.
 
After years of discussion between CEO and myself, I finally found a good company to customize an Unbearables Crew varsity coat. It’s Black on Black (of course), with genuine leather sleeves. You vinyl sleeve wearing niggas are non-cipher. It has our fly guy logo on the back. I have one patch (for now) on my left sleeve that reads “1% Better.” On my left titty is lettering that reads CREW UNB with @tymonday underneath. It’s fresh. It’s a beautiful thing when a plan comes together, even if it takes close to a decade.
 
Matt Gaetz? Attorney General? PLEASE INSERT 10 LAUGHING EMOJIS. Rapey (statutory) Matt? I’m waiting for Demetrius Flenory Sr. to be named as head of the FDA any day now. Fuck RFK.
 
I’m done with politics until the midterms, but I’ll close tonight out with this. Everything that’s getting ready to take place in this country – y’all asked for it. I don’t want to hear SHIT. I don’t give a fuck. Let the chips fall, let the spit fly. We’re finna enter a four-year long The Simpsons episode. I’ve got my large cherry/cola/blueberry mix Icee and Cookie Dough Bites candy, and I’m well rested. This is going to be one shitshow of a movie, and I’ve got front row seats. I’m finna be like Ms. Celie when Sophia got to swinging in the Jook Joint on The Color Purple.
 
Mobb niggas to the exit, we out.
 
LONG LIVE PRODIGY, AKA BANDANA P

#MNR: I WAS WRONG
 
“You get what you ask for. So, get it cuz you asked for it.”
Jadakiss & Styles P.
 
“Players fuck up too.”
Powder
 
Last Monday night, I jumped on our platform and proudly proclaimed/predicted, after all my analysis for the past three months or so, that Vice President Kamala Harris would easily defeat former President Donald J. Trump and become the 47th president of the United States of America. Kamala offered positivity, hope, and initiatives which would energize the middle class. The polls said she was up. The experts said she was the frontrunner. I awoke early on Election Day and cast my vote, set to be a part of history. I saw and felt the energy. It was time.
 
Boy was I wrong. And much like in 2016, I felt the vibe by 10:00 pm.
 
Election night proved to be a slaughterhouse for Democrats at the federal level. Kamala and Waltz were the choice cuts. Americans overwhelmingly (relatively) rejected her plans in favor of Trump’s dark, xenophobic “America First” agenda. Trump received 312 electoral votes compared to Harris’ 226, claiming every swing state along the way. Did y’all hear me? Clean sweep. Nevada? Check. Arizona? Check. Wisconsin? Check. Michigan? Check. Pennsylvania? Check. The blue wall crumbled. The polling said Harris had slim leads in the three blue wall states, but all were within the margins of error. What happened? How did we get here?
 
The answer to the questions is diverse and nuanced, though I’ve focused on the predominant four factors: improvement on 2020 numbers in key states/counties, Democrats lost the Black and Hispanic young, working-class male vote, white women voted for Trump (again), and woke is a no-go for much of America, especially in terms of sexuality and gender affirmation.
 
If you are a Steve Kornacki disciple like me, you take heed to his words. The smart board further illuminates his talking points, showing raw data in every state, county, and city. From the close of the first states’ polling and throughout the night, he spoke on key areas in swing states where Kamala needed to match or better Biden’s 2020 numbers and where Trump needed to take back 2016 gains he lost in 2020. Damn it, he did just that. Most notably were Wisconsin’s “BOW WOW” counties, which Kornacki said would prove to be a litmus test in the 2024 election. The BOW counties of Brown, Outagamie, and Winnebago are population centers in and around Green Bay, including Appleton and Oshkosh. Trump won the BOW counties in 2016, but with slim margins. The WOW counties of Waukesha, Ozaukee, and Washington were all won by Trump in 2016 with strong margins. A strong night in Wisconsin for Harris would have signaled a strong night for her nationally. She lost all six counties. Checkmate.
 
Every four years, it seems that the Black male vote is a hot button topic for Democrats. I damn near went to war with some of my own on Twitter in the summer of 2020. Many of my younger brothers failed to see any difference between the two old white men, claiming them to be two of the same. I tried to explain how Trump’s brand was far worse than Bidens, citing the racism, xenophobia, and lies that are still the cornerstones of his political existence. They countered with the crime bill of the mid ‘90s, which Biden’s signature seemed to be larger and in a bolder color than the other 95 or so senators on both sides of the aisle who voted along with her. When all the smoke cleared, I couldn’t even get mad at my brothers. They felt how they felt, and that was that.
 
The exit polls told us in bold letters that Hispanic men, both young and old, prefer Trump’s brand of fuckery. We learned in 2016 (as if we didn’t know better) that Latinos aren’t a monolith. South Florida Cubans don’t view their non-American countrymen the same way an El Paso Mexican may view theirs. Trump did an amazing job of telling them something to this effect – hey, you came here legally to escape them. Do you want them here, knowing they stole their way into this very nation you risked everything to come to...legally? Hispanic men view Trump as a celebrity hero of sorts. They love his brand.
 
What do both Black (some) and Hispanic men (especially young men of both races) have in common? They both feel that they had no voice in Harris’ political agenda. Few of her initiatives, aimed at the educated middle class, resonated with both voting blocs. Trump went on the Joe Rogan podcast and amassed over 35M views before the election. Harris declined the invitation. Rogan’s podcast appeals to the “everyday” man, many of whom have grown increasingly disenchanted with the Democratic party and its policies. Many viewed Harris’ snub of the Rogan podcast a mistake. It quite possibly may have been. My take from it all is that most heterosexual men, irrespective of color, hold similar everyday views of America and the world. Now, you could take my word for it, but I came with receipts. About 3 in 10 Black men under age 45 voted for Trump. That number is roughly double the share he got four years ago. Roughly half of young Latino men voted for Harris, compared to about 6 in 10 who went for Biden in 2020. Checkmate (again).
 
The common thread amongst American men of all races is their angst for “woke” policies. This brand of woke is NOT a direct correlation to the struggles of the summer of 2020. It is in correlation to the LGBTQ community and gender reassignment. Most traditional men of monotheistic faiths believe it all to be an abomination. Moreover, they have grown progressively more disgusted with what seems to them to be a “gay agenda.” I can’t blame the white or Hispanic man because I constantly hear these talking points in the barber shop and even in discussions with my brothers. Most men are willing to “put up” with LGBTQ, even though they aren’t fully accepting. But to push an agenda (their sentiments, not mine) is non-cipher. The irony of it all is the Trump ad featuring Charlamagne tha God and DJ Envy of the world-famous Breakfast Club morning show on 105.1 FM New York. It showed clips of the two men speaking on Harris’ support for gender reassignment and maintenance in the prison system. Both men spoke of their disdain, arguing that they didn’t want their tax money going to such nonsense. The ad also spoke on transgenders participating in women’s sports. It showed a big, brutish transgender female on a basketball team full of “normal,” regular sized girls. The ad played incessantly during the World Series and on Sundays during NFL football games. It reminded me of my trip to Richmond three years ago for Homecoming when McAuliffe and Youngkin were at war to be the next governor of Virginia. I saw an infinite number of Youngkin campaign signs on lawns and anywhere there was a piece of grass, from the northside to the southside. I noted this to a few people that weekend. McAuliffe was the frontrunner, but my eye test told me that Youngkin had a freight train of momentum behind him. I was correct. Virginia went with the Republican, shunning the former governor and his liberal agenda. The transgender ad should have issued me a similar warning. It did. I ignored it.
 
White women were the final drop in the bucket that tipped in Trump’s favor. They talked a good one. But at the end of the day, they still backed the man who threatened to further strip them of the rights their mothers and grandmothers fought so hard for. Exit polls said that 52% of white American women voted for Trump (newrepublic.com). So much for cancelling out their husband’s vote. So much for women’s reproductive rights. So much for not looking back. One of my old BCBAs, a decent lady in my estimation, never revealed what her political views were in our diverse conversations. She hinted at a few things, but she always had a blatant cutoff point. Last Wednesday, she posted on snapchat for the first time in over a year. It was a selfie of her smiling, donning (pun intended) the infamous red MAGA hat. Wow. It is what it is.
 
I should have known better. Perhaps America isn’t ready for a woman to run the country. Or perhaps Trump’s message resonated much more than Harris’. Perhaps it was an unhealthy blend of both. One thing is for certain: on 1.20.2025, Donald Trump will return to the White House for his second stint as president. Y’all asked for it. God help us all. 

#MNR: CIVILITY AND THE HATEOCRACY
 
“Reagan is the pres[ident], but I voted for Shirley Chisolm.”
Biz Markie
 
(Sophia Petrillo voice) Picture it. America, 2020: COVID restrictions and closures, police murders and civil unrest. Many of us sat at home and watched as cities throughout the country became hotbeds for protests and atonement. The people expressed their frustrations at the state of the nation by taking it to the streets. Long standing Confederate statues in Richmond, Virginia (home of my alma mater Virginia Union University) were taken down by force. Parts of Minneapolis, Minnesota burned to the ground after crooked policeman Derek Chauvin kept his knee on George Floyd’s neck for nine minutes as he begged for his life, killing a father, a son, and a friend. Whilst riding around with my ladies Brandi and Rhino, I personally witnessed two Manhattan protests. They shut midtown DOWN. I remember Rhino growing impatient one Saturday late afternoon as we sat at a light by Columbus Circle. We hadn’t moved for at least ten minutes. I explained to her that it was more than ok to have all the patience in the world at this very moment, for she was witnessing history. The last time something like this happened, Shareon was a schoolgirl about the same age as Rhino was at the time, and I wasn’t even a thought in her brilliant mind. This had to be the spirit of the movement. In many ways it reminded me of the Civil Rights Movement in its unity and determination. We were fighting for our rightful place at the big table, not the children’s table, apart from the grownups. Change was in the air, and change was imminent.
 
After a summer of epic civil unrest, the country braced for the most consequential election of this generation. The incumbent Donald Trump faced former senator and vice president Joseph Biden. Would the hate continue, or would it be curtailed? That was the question on about 53% of the nation’s minds. After a photo finish election, the former VP edged out the incumbent to become the 46th president of the United States, and everyone lived happily ever after.
 
THE END.
 
Not quite.
 
Trump and his ensemble of attorneys contested every election lost in every state until all legal options were extinguished. Trump and others filed 62 lawsuits contesting election processes, vote counting, and the vote certification process in nine states (including AZ, GA, MI, NV, PA, and WI) and the District of Columbia. Trump and his allies went 0 for 62 and took a corporate “L” back to Mar-a-Lago.
 
Ok – after 62 failures, Trump was certainly done trying to steal an election he’d already lost, correct? Wrong, again. He and his team of educated dummies planned and coordinated a plot to replace several states’ electors (in states he lost) with fake electors, which then VP Mike Pence would recognize as actual electors, thus flipping the result of the election from Biden to Trump. When it became clear that fly guy (I couldn’t help it) Pence wasn’t having it and planned to perform the duty which was specifically set forth by the United States Constitution, Trump took his coordinated plan to the next level. After an incendiary speech on the Ellipse, hundreds of his most ardent and faithful maniacs strolled to the Capitol building, where they would breach the entrance after 1:00 pm on 1.6.2021. I watched it live, having tuned in since the conclusion of my virtual school day at 12:45 pm. Their plan was to “force” Congress to replace a winner with a loser. Naturally, it failed, but it would result in a full-blown attempted coup-d'etat, something this nation hadn’t quite ever seen. Many police were injured. People died. After such disgrace and INSURRECTION, certainly the era of Trumpism in American politics was over. Surprise, surprise.
 
Immediate fallout from the infamous events of January 6 was shorter than Bushwick Bill taking a knee. The outrage soon evaporated. Then House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy made it a point to visit a disgraced Trump on his home turf. McCarthy left Mar-a-Lago having essentially re-legitimized an otherwise walking political corpse. Within days, the Republican party was again in lockstep with their demagogue, willing players in the MAGA movement.  
 
 For those unfamiliar with the term cased up, it means that a defendant has a stack of pending charges and court cases on his/her hands. Let’s begin with the federal charges. There’s the January 6 case related to efforts to overturn the results of the 2020 election. In addition, there’s the case related to possession of classified documents and obstructing efforts to retrieve them. I’m not done. The state of New York took Trump to trial over an alleged “hush money” payment to adult film star Stormy Daniels (born Stephanie Clifford) for sexual gratification. He was later convicted of all 34 FELONY counts related to falsifying business records in the first degree. He was given RICO charges in the state of Georgia related to efforts to overthrow the 2020 election results in the state. Although Trump has been able to delay his federal cases (with one being temporarily dismissed), they still loom large should he lose tomorrow. The Georgia case, much like the NY case, theoretically cannot be erased even if he is reelected. That’s if it ever begins. Oh yeah, Trump was civilly convicted of sexually assaulting E. Jean Carroll. He owes her a Larry Johnson Charlotte Hornets contract worth of money. Repeat after me – CASED UP.
 
I almost forgot...Trump was also convicted in a NY civil court for years of fraud relating to the values of properties he owns, to the tune of 355M, appeal pending.
 
2016 was a forever ago. So was 2020. But it is imperative that we revisit the midterm elections of 2018 and 2022. Democrats won a net gain of 41 congressional seats and reclaimed the House in 2018, stifling Trump’s divisive legislation proposals. They also gained seven governorships while losing none. 2022 will forever be remembered for the failed “red wave,” when gaudy predictions of Republicans winning a net gain of 60+ House seats fell horrifically short. By short, I mean they won a nine-seat majority. One of those seats was lost to our dear and beloved pal George Santos. Hey, if he can lie, so can I. Every state that had an abortion ban bill on the ballots saw its voters reject the measures, preserving reproductive rights for women in certain “red’ states. I guess I should mention that three Trump-appointed Supreme Court justices helped to overturn the landmark Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey cases that legalized abortion at the federal level, leaving it up to individual states (Dobbs v. Jackson). Yeah. That didn’t sit well with women across the nation. Or champions of civil rights.
 
So, let’s tally all this up. Donald Trump is a convicted felon 34 times over, a convicted sexual abuser, and a convicted fraudster. To clarify things, he’s not running for commissioner of his neighborhood fantasy football league. He’s running for president – of the United States.
 
For the true political zealots, I have closely watched every valid pollster (Times/Sienna, ABC News, Monmouth, amongst others) and looked at all the early voting returns in the swing states. I have also watched Trump implode (even more, somehow) from the infamous MSG rally to now. I have been spot-on with my election predictions at damn near every level of government since 2020. My prediction for tomorrow?
 
Harris wins.
 
And it won’t even be as close as the major news outlets want you to believe it will be.
 
If you haven’t already and if you’re eligible and if you’re registered – go vote. It’s your civic duty.

#MNR: THE ONLY ONE (UNB PRESIDENTIAL ENDORSEMENT)
 
“And since we all came from a woman, got our name from a woman and our game from a woman. I wonder why take from our women, why we rape our women, do we hate our women?”
Tupac Amaru Shakur
 
Traditionally, making a responsible decision when voting for a President came down to policy. It’s more than fair to make a claim that in the post-Civil Rights era, we really didn’t care about the personal lives of the white men we went to the ballot to vote for – mostly because we weren’t privy to this information. Yes, Kennedy and Clinton had marital infidelities – that we knew of. But even then, we didn’t know until well after the fact. And by "well after the fact," these things came to light AFTER both men were elected. I’d be a fool to assume that the most powerful men in the world don’t play every now and then. In that light, I’m certain most rational people would agree that tipping out on the first lady behind the seal of the presidency doesn't pack the predatory punch that asserting it’s okay to “grab them by the pussy” in entertainment interviews does. Or paying to fuck an adult film star Kojack (think about it) while your wife is home alone, pregnant (and being criminally indicted and convicted of 34 counts related to hush money payment for said incident). Or being convicted in civil court of sexually assaulting a woman. But hey -- who are we to judge? 
 
For the third consecutive election, ethics trumps (pun intended) policy. I love to hear conservatives scream that the price of gas and groceries is so ridiculous that we need a change. I love it even more when they continue to insist that “Illegals” are invading our communities. I agree with anger about the cost of damn near everything. The price of common goods is ridiculous. But it is imperative to mention that the COVID pandemic had rippling, lasting effects on the economy. Supply chains were stifled for long periods of time, from the laborers abroad who experienced shutdowns in their own countries (y’all know I mean China and other parts of Asia) to the huge cargo container ships that transport diverse cargo (cars, sneakers, televisions) from one side of the world to us to the people at the ports who unload the shipped cargo to the truckers who transport the cargo from the docks to the employees in the stores who sell the diverse goods. The effects were long reaching and long lasting. Then there’s price gouging and shrinkflation. These evil, dastardly corporate deeds have persisted and continue to rob us blind. Ironically, one candidate has a plan to attack price gouging, but we’ll get to that in a bit. The superseding thought is this: the problems we faced/face post COVID were both unavoidable and had no quick fix. You can’t pin that on the next administration. It doesn’t work that way. You conservatives have it all twisted and conflated. I do not. I clearly discern what’s going on.
 
As for the immigrant issue, I agree that America isn’t equipped to handle the swell of those who have entered the country, whether by illegally crossing a border or through asylum. I love the idea of immigrants having a chance to live the “American dream” – through legal methods, including asylum. Otherwise, you must leave. Irrespective of how immigrants have entered the country, I believe that they should be treated humanely. They are human. Do not separate children from parents (again). That’s past inhumane and insidious. Do not speak of them as if they are of lesser worth than you. Do not dehumanize them for political gain. Outright lies are unacceptable. Some people need to have an earnest talk with God.
 
I love the term “first world problems” because it forces most people to pump their brakes and truly ponder its definition, after which discerning that their problems aren’t really problems. We get mad over things that 90% of the world can’t even fathom. And yet, somehow, they manage to make it without many of the things we bitch and complain about. Many find a way to flourish – through scrupulous methods.
 
People still complain about gas prices. Here are some quick facts for you crybaby ass Americans. The average price of gas in Germany is 3.55 euros. The average price is 4.13 in England. Italy, Denmark, Belgium and Sweden have prices between 5.80-5.90 in U.S. dollars. The price of gas down the street from me is $2.79 a gallon. Electric vehicles cost $0 per gallon. My point? Y’all complain about any and everything, completely ignoring how good you really have it. We Americans have this embellished, macabre mindset, and fail to realize how blessed we truly are.
 
The poorest American has access to public assistance. Third world countries (defined in political science terms as the countries with the highest populations, not strictly economic development) citizens wish they readily and consistently had access to public assistance. Your local grocery store has shelves fully stocked with groceries. Go to a store in Havana. Tell me if you see fully stocked shelves in Cuba. And for every complaint about prices and how they have affected our pockets, we have managed to endure without calamity. And should calamity come knocking upon your door, you can wake up the next day and take your ass down to the welfare office and fill out some paperwork. Don’t feel less than dignity-filled if you must make that type of move. 33% of NYC Jewish households received government benefits, according to the UJA-Federation of New York’s 2023 Jewish Community Study of New York. In sharp contrast, only 4% are even eligible for benefits in Mississippi, according to mississippippltoday.org. In many southern states, politicians undercut the underserved (mostly Blacks) with wanton intent. The point I’m making is that everyone, and I mean everyone has struggles in this country. Blue state, red state, Jew, gentile. Inevitably, it’s deeper than just policy.
 
In voting for a President, the ideal or at least best candidate (in my eyes) should be a champion of civil rights. They should fight for inclusion in all aspects of American life. They should vigorously fight and oppose discrimination and xenophobia of any type, irrespective of the community and/or group affected. And finally, the ideal candidate should fight to protect women’s reproductive and medical rights.
 
Civil rights are simply the rights guaranteed to EVERY American citizen. Race, gender, creed, sexual orientation and political affiliation do not matter. Everyone is awarded and afforded the same set of rights. This is non-negotiable. It is written in the United States Constitution. It doesn’t matter if you think homosexuality is an abomination. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want Blacks moving into your ethnic or religious neighborhood/enclave. It doesn’t matter if that American born Hispanic baby has two immigrants as parents. It doesn’t matter if your coworker wears a hijab and worships at a mosque. It doesn’t matter if that young, white couple is willing to pay $3,500 a month for a one bedroom in Spanish Harlem that your grandmother rented for $120 a month for 34 years before the rent control laws expired and she was given the boot because there was no way in heaven she could even afford $1,750, or half of the $3,500. Every American is entitled to every civil right, implicitly stated or implied.
 
All who are here legally or who aspire to enter legally are welcome in America. This is the original melting pot. Unless you belong to an American Indian (indigenous) tribe, you are a descendent of an immigrant. Inclusion is paramount. No American is “less American” than any other American. You can’t pick and choose who is allowed to prosper and flourish. We all are.
 
Discrimination and xenophobia have no place in society. Having to state this in 2024 is bananas.
 
A woman’s body and reproductive rights are hers and hers alone. No man, whether he be white, Black, or otherwise has any fucking right to tell a woman what she can and cannot do with HER body. How hard is it for you troglodytes to understand this simple concept? A court of nine said it was that way for 52 years until one day the same court with different actors (err umm justices) said it wasn’t. Suddenly, it became a state’s right to decide. Bullshit.
 
Only one candidate checks the boxes I just spoke about. Only one favors civil rights. Only one believes in absolute inclusion. Only one strictly opposes racism and xenophobia. And finally, only one believes a woman’s body and reproductive rights belong to a woman.
 
One candidate has laid out policy for all to see. It consists of economic opportunity and lower costs for families, including middle class tax cuts, rent affordability, attainable home ownership, growing small business and entrepreneurial investment, fighting price gouging, strengthening and lowering the cost of health care, protecting and strengthening social security and Medicare, supporting American innovation and workers, providing a pathway to the middle class through affordable education, investing in affordable child care and long term care, and lowering energy costs and tackling climate crisis. The other has Project 2025. I’ll let you do your own research.
 
The Unbearables Crew/#MNR 2024 presidential endorsement goes to Vice President Kamala Devi Harris.
 
She’s the only one. 

#MNR: DANCE WITH MY MAMA (SHAREON, NATE & ME)
 
“We’ll get over like a fat rat. Peas in a pod, bugs in a rug, we’ll never stop. We’ll get over like a fat rat. Snug as a hug in your arms.”
Fonda Rae
 
“There’s not a minute, hour, day, or night that I don’t love you. You’re at the top of my list ‘cause I’m always thinking of you.”
Luther Vandross
 
“You light my fire. I feel alive with you baby. You blow my mind. I’m satisfied. Outstanding (so outstanding). Girl you knock me out. Exciting (I’m so excited). Makes me wanna shout.”
Charlie Wilson (The Gap Band)
 
Shareon Denise Warren (Thompson, Smith) would have been seventy years young last Thursday, October 17. Happy Birthday, mommy. This blog is all about you. And Nate. I’m a guest star, I suppose, a secondary character.
 
My sun Nate celebrated his fifteenth trip around el sol today. Happy earth day, young’n. Nate’s my student and spiritual advisor. He is the first person to point out that my mother’s name begins with “share.” I’ve looked at and spelled Shareon’s name for well over thirty years and never once noticed “share.” I immediately pondered how concise “share” was when it came to Shareon, and I dropped a couple of tears on the spot. Nate knows things about Shareon that only people closest to me know. Like I said, he’s my spiritual advisor. He knows that I wasn’t the best son when I was a bratty, petulant, ungrateful, hoe-ass teenager. I didn’t treat my queen as royalty. Prayerfully, I autocorrected as a young adult and cherished my earth for the rest of her time in physical form. Nate knows all this. He and his mom have an interesting relationship, and when he’s spinning the world on one finger, I try to be a catalyst for discernment. I’m judicious in my approach to dealing with our discussions, but I’m pro-Nate. I’m also pro-mom.
 
One day, I asked Nate to consider his mother in a different light. I reminded him that she too once sat at a desk in a school as a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old. She had her own hopes and dreams. As I progressed as an adult, I always thought about the events that shaped my mother as a human. I’m familiar with more than a few, and wholly aware that there are plenty of things she experienced in life that I have no idea of.
 
But I do know one motherfucking thing...
 
My mama was that girl.
 
My most cherished memories of Shareon & me are from the early ‘80s, when I was young world and Shareon was taller than the floats she took me to see every Thanksgiving day. She was my entire world. She was my protector. She was my best friend. She was my mommy. She was my hero.
 
Friday nights were usually cut and paste, but they were dearest to my heart. Shareon would pick me up from my afterschool program and we’d head back uptown. When we hit the block she always asked what I wanted for dinner. It always came down to Chinese (her favorite) or pizza (my favorite). The question was unnecessary yet enjoyable for her to witness me answer with glee. I always chose pizza. We’d get home, I’d clean up, and she’d set me up in the bedroom – good eats and cable television. I was good for the night. All my aunties and godfathers were on the way. So was Uncle Alan. The grown folk were finna have one good ass night of debauchery. I was oblivious to it all. I was in my cocoon, with nary a care in the world.
 
As I grew older, I delved deeper into music. Naturally, I spun the block and researched all the music I remembered from my childhood, the music Shareon, Ty dem cut a rug all damn night to. Puffer was using old samples all over hip-hop beats anyway, further stoking my thirst for insight on the music. I always gravitated to the early ‘80s, back to my favorite days with Shareon. I came up with three classics she loved, classics which I too love. The three? You have already seen the rollout. Let’s get to it.
 
“Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross (1981)
“Over Like a Fat Rat” by Fonda Rae (1982)
“Outstanding” by The Gap Band (1982)
 
Shareon and Tyrone had a good damn time in the early ‘80s. I should know. Plenty of my Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent walking past (and over) godfathers and aunts on my way to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. That was the 12” record era, with the record player on top of the twin cassette deck in something plywood and glass. Record covers doubled as surfaces to deseed and break up reefa. These were the jams that had Shareon on the dance floor all night. Sis had it going on: young, educated, and successful. She had a great job at R.R. Bowker, a well-known publishing company from back then. I’m blessed to say I had a library in my house/apartment/crib my entire upbringing. But back to Shareon. She was a symbol of Black excellence in the first decade that women of all races got a halfway decent shot at making it in the workforce outside of nepotism or fucking and sucking their way up the corporate and every other ladder. NO JUDGEMENT ZONE. Syke. Anyway, I smile when I think about Shareon enjoying herself back then. The world was still at her fingertips. Warrens AND Thompsons know how to party. I’m certain that was part of Shareon and Ty’s attraction for one another. But these and other countless jams blasted from my living room Friday and Saturday nights from my post toddler years through my formative years.
 
I wonder if Fonda Rae knew she had one the moment she stepped out the booth after recording “Over Like A Fat Rat.” I’m inclined to think that she did. I would have known as soon as I heard the bass line and piano drop for the first time. But I think that she couldn’t have fathomed the enduring legacy of the song in her most vivid and lucid dream back in 1982. It didn’t sell 10M records. Naw. It did much more in places where money doesn’t matter. It became an instant smash hit and enduring NYC party classic. This song belongs to New York Fucking City. My mama and every other Black and Boricua NYC resident got super busy to this track. It still rocks. I’m talking right fucking now. Be at a Black function and let this drop like an hour after the function really got lit, right around the time the third and fourth drinks are consumed. This song will shut the venue down. Truly legendary shit. New Yorkers love this song with a special affinity. It holds a special place in their hearts. You had to be there. You had to be outside. Shareon was.
 
I could go on and on about “Never Too Much.” I’ll begin with the fact that Luther was Shareon’s favorite artist. I was literally raised off Luther. I can remember being a bit more than a toddler and “Never Too Much” playing on the stereo. That’s how much it was spun in my house. It is one of Luther’s quintessential songs. It too is a staple at Black familial functions. Shareon loved it. It was her jam. It should come as no surprise that it too is my jam. I can see her now, dancing carefree on an uptown Saturday night, laughing and enjoying stolen moments with those dearest to her. You live on in my spirit, but you come to life when I hear “Never Too Much” at the right time.
 
Yeah, Marvin was still alive and kicking. Luther was killing the charts. Ronald Isley wasn’t Mr. Big yet. He was still with his brothers. Donny [Hathaway] was gone (teary eye emoji). Stevie kept reinventing himself and was on his fourth run. But no one (and I mean no one) was quite like that damn Charlie Wilson. This was way before his solo endeavors, back when he was still 1/3 of the baddest trio on the planet, The Gap Band. He and his brothers Ronnie and Robert had the R&B/funk thing down to a science. The Gap Band had plenty of hits, but “Outstanding” is their gold medal winner. Just like the other two songs mentioned, this is a staple at all Black familial functions and has a good chance of being played before the other two. Shareon jammed to this throughout my life. We were able to enjoy it together at functions when I joined the ranks of adulthood, which came with drankin’ in front of her privileges. But she cut a rug to it from day one. I know it tore WBLS up. Shareon used to record off the radio, and I spent my formative years listening to plenty of these tapes. “Outstanding” was one of her jams. Those were the days.
 
The last family function my mother attended was spring 2016 when her baby sister and my auntie Cynthia received her degree. Everyone came down for the celebration. The after party was at auntie’s house. By that time, my mother needed a wheelchair to get around. She chose to sit inside in the living room while most people were outside dancing as my MAGAt cousin DJ Green spun records for the event. I chose to stay inside and keep my mom company and run an errand if need be. I remember cousin playing “Electric Slide.” All the ladies ages 8-70 hit the patio, which served as the dance floor. I watched my mother as she stared through the patio sliding door at the ladies dancing. She didn’t have to say a word. I knew that she wanted to be out there dancing with her baby sister and family more than anything else. A piece of me perished that day.
 
Shareon was gone 13 months later.
 
I still remember the look on her face.
I wish I could have gone outside and danced with her.
 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY
 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATE
 
I LOVE YOU BOTH.

#MNR: THE VAPORS
 
 
“But they can’t do it how I do it. Copying Curren$y, that’s counterfeit and useless. And stupid.”
 
“To stand in front this money train doesn’t make sense. I never hustled with no lames, why would I begin?”
Curren$y
 
In 14 hundred and 92, Christopher Columbus – brought venereal disease to the new world. What? What you thought I was going to say? And if you take I for joke, go on YouTube.
 
All jokes aside, have y’all heard about the nigga on Beyonce and Taylor Swift’s internet walking around with 3 STDs (one, two, three of them MF), openly promoting the fact that he’s “still fucking bitches” on Instagram Live as he strolls through the club? He is not only unabashed, but he also fancies himself as a figure of atonement, a catalyst for accountability. As expected, he comes off as an ignorant troglodyte, refusing to go to the doctor and get his shit checked. He says he plans to naturally cure himself through diet and self-affirmation. Yes, Niggarachi. Both are available by prescription at the local pharmacy. Smmfh. What in the Dr. Sebi (respectfully)? He also claims that he’s not suffering from “the big one” and knows who infected him. If you reside in the great state of Texas (specifically DFW), be careful. Everybody is a suspect.
 
I swear these stories write themselves...
 
I wasn’t even fishing. I simply went on the Twitter earlier for my daily six minutes of fuckery (I am a former Twitter addict) and the first thing I see is this nigga Gucci Third Leg (yeah, I know) is spreading the herpes simplex virus like Nazi propaganda in Germany in 1938. I didn’t know who this disease-spreading derelict was until today, although I’ve seen his face on the internet in passing. Apparently, he’s a porn actor who makes his own content with Only Fans models, aka [CENSORED]. He brags about having slept with three thousand women (that’s a lot of counting fingers and toes) and has been spreading the herpes since Covid travel bans were lifted (2021). The word on the social medias is that he’s bodied a lot of women that internet celebrities break their necks to fuck. As a journalist I do not spread hearsay, but if you go online you’ll see more than a few celebrity/influencer names caught in this disgusting web, both women and men. It appears we have a superspreader in the building. I’m not his doctor nor have I gone boogemz  in any of the women he’s allegedly infected, so I can’t confirm or deny this report. But when there are women on the social medias claiming that after fucking old boy they are infected with the simplex, it’s possibly in the Top Five of the safest bets in the history of betting. Be careful. There are all types of nasty work outside in 2024.
 
Can you feel it? Nothing can save you. Cause this is the season of catching the vapors. I know. I’m the one always talking about keeping it real and always staying loyal to the hood. Yup. That’s what I said. But as soon as they cut the check – I’m gone (Uncle Elroy voice)! I don’t owe not nayah nigga a MF thing. I’m throwing the Tyreek Hill peace sign while I enter the suicide door (I hate that name) of my four wheeled spaceship like that pimp in the old Vine reel. A nigga is going to have to hate on me from three time zones away. Go on ‘head. But make sure you tell your mama and auntie I said hi.
 
I’m not much for coincidence. I believe that it’s all a part of a well-crafted work of tapestry. Earlier today, Ju, Janay, Jorge, Aary and I were in the classroom vibing, chit chatting and listening to music. I played my favorite Ursher (Usher) song, which happens to be “Think of You.” I said that this was the first song of his I’d ever heard. I remembered that he was like 14-15 and that we must be close in age. Ju thought he might’ve had me by a year or two. I too thought that he was older, but only by a cuticle. Surprise, surprise. I went on Wikipedia to check his birth date. He is [in fact] a month and four days younger than me, born 10.14.2024. Today is his 46th earth day. How ironic. Many blessings, Ursh Raymond. It’s your born day, so I’m going to keep it positive. But there are a few questions that I have...
 
“On My Mama” by Victoria Monét is now over a year old. I haven’t heard a better R&B song in that time. I’ve heard more than a few good songs since it was released, but I can argue that none can fuck with “OMM.” It’s the bass guitar for me. And the trumpet. And Victoria got super busy. I guess it was imperative, but her putting Mama in the video touched my soul. I also loved the shot with Mama, Victoria, and lil bit. Three generations of Black excellence.
 
All I need? You know just I want, so do it.
 
A hero ain’t nothing but a sammich. I told you try-hards last week that all that knight in shining armor bullshit is taxing on your health insurance. Look, I respect a man taking up for a female stranger in public – if the situation involves a man that isn’t her man (I stay out of stranger domestic disputes for my own safety). But when it’s two women in disagreement, both of whom are strangers to one another AND you, stay your caping ass the fuck up out of their beef if your aim is anything more than being a peaceful arbitrator. You’ve got to be a damn fool to choose a side after a ten second assessment. Mind your damn business. It promotes good health.
 
It ain’t what you wear, it's what you drive. It ain’t what you drive, it's where you park. It ain’t where you park, it's where you live. It ain’t where you live it’s how you die. It’s either how you died or who you killed.
 
I can’t explain why We do some of the things we do. I know that some things are rooted in tradition while other things are used/implemented to mask or stifle pain and trauma. I never drank lean, which is a mixture of codeine, promethazine and sweet, sugary drinks like Fanta, Faygo, or even Kool-Aid. I was introduced to the term and DJ Screw mixtapes my freshman year of university when I met and befriended my brother Mel Patterson (RIP Pop Patterson). Screw (RIP) was the first known DJ to chop and slow songs down. It went right along with sippin’ drank. Lean slows you down. I’ve seen niggas literally leaned to the side, suspended in time. It inspires driving your slabs extra slow through the city. The double cups keep the ice from melting. Lean is said to have killed several known H-Town artists, from Screw to Fat Pat to Pimp C. I have my own theories, but I’m no doctor. I know outsiders wonder why in the fuck would anyone drink prescription cough syrup mixed with soda. I often reflect on what Bun B. said at the end of “Purple Rain” (Beanie Sigel’s version). The song (of course) is about pourin’ up. Bun’s verse is about the first time he drank lean. Screw put him on. He was extra faded, as stated in his bars. But the end is what captured my imagination, when he saluted all of his fallen palz who “poured up real big when they was here.” How in the duality of self can we affectionately praise the very thing that is the reason our friends are in the essence? Like I said, I have no answer. I suppose Mr. Cheeks said it best at the end of “Renee.” I’m from the ghetto, so yo, this is how I shed my tears.
 
Thank you all for stopping by and supporting the movement. You are all loved and appreciated. I’m a see you when I see you, unless you see me first. Au revoir. 

#MNR: GUNS & BUTTER
 
“Scared money don’t make money. I got courage, I take money. God don’t like ugly, but he got to love hungry.”
Kasino
 
“To the Feds, catch me if you can. I’m a still transport with my man on the Peter Pan.”
Styles P.
 
“Spent too many nights on the Henny getting right.”
The Firm
 
“At a thousand degrees Celsius I make MCs melt. Fuck my record label, I appear courtesy of myself.”
Canibus
 
I don’t know how to start this shit.
 
Well, I do, I suppose. But this is the thing. Folks, we don’t have a set topic tonight. But frankly, we don’t fucking need one. Tonight, we come from the cuff. Tonight, we dine in hell! Or Jimbo’s. Personally, I’d prefer an egg on my bacon cheeseburger over a caliente mug of fire and brimstone. Jimbo’s it is. A nigga like me – I’m a rest the tip of my J on the rim of that hot ass mug and light my shit. I’m currently smoking on a pack of Apple something. I can’t decipher my plug’s unique calligraphy. But, in the words (pun intended) of our Uncle Elroy – It’s the Bombay!
 
Oh yeah. It’s one of those.
 
Ah, yes. Welcome to our show. I’m your host and proprietor, the insatiable, the incendiary, the incomparable Tyrone Monday. Salute to my partner in thought, CEO, your friendly, neighborhood plug. I pray that your day was well. If it wasn’t, oh well. That shit is in the books now. Here. Relax – your body and mind. Take this cheeba. Pull that shit. Hold the smoke in your lungs. Exhale slowly. Repeat the process a few times. Get superhero high. Pass that shit. It’s a cipher.
 
I’m glad you all are here. You could be anywhere on earth, but you’re here with us.
 
Big ups to all the try-hards. You provide so much comedic material. You geniuses really have to touch the frying pan to believe it’s hot. Listen, it’s not a crime to give it the old college try every MF time. But it is stupid to stress yourself for no reason. Relax. Touch grass. Find a Bob Ross episode on YouTube and smoke some grass. Chill the fuck on out.
 
#MNR is a lifestyle blog. We’re not [monetarily] rich – yet.  I don’t mean lifestyle from that standpoint, per se. We are perpetual stoners who keep it Boeing fly and casket fresh, even on store runs. We also try our best to see the cup as half-full. We love beautiful women, and we listen to great music. We watch nothing but classic shit on the idiot box and other devices. Salute to every ardent supporter who tunes in to keep their mental blades sharp. May your Nikes forever stay fresh.
 
Gas prices are looking good. Presidential elections tend to do that. Indictment season is on the way. It never fails. Niggas always get locked up en masse during election season. Especially during presidential election years. You see how it manifested on a large-scale level (ask Puffer). It also and most certainly applies to the streets. The powers that be love to send an authoritative message during election season. If you’re outside, keep your profile low. Remember that you are not going to make a million dollars in a day. All money ain’t good money. Don’t go outside with 27 cracks on you to sell three dimes. And if shorty keeps calling you back for hundred-dollar sales and hasn’t asked what the number is on an eight ball or better, curve that bitch immechiately. She’s an undercover DT. Use your fucking head. Stay dangerous.
 
Eric “Teef” Adams. My, my, my. I knew I was gon see you again. I knew I was gon see you again! That won’t hit right if you don’t say it like Bernie in your mind. Anyway – someone tell that ex-pig and part time mayor MF his time is up. I’m so shocked and appalled that you’ve (allegedly) taken favors from Turkish slimeballs (yawns amidst overwhelming sarcasm). I don’t give a fuck about the trips and whatever else you (allegedly) received. That’s how tricking works. Teef is the bitch, and the Turkish slimeballs are the tricks. This type of shit happens every day, B. Nothing is new under the sun. Another pig/politician, another crime. Allegedly. I just want to know what you gave them. Don’t matter. We already know you were on your crooked knees when you gave it up. Bitch. For those of y’all who own The Chronic or owned it at some point in life, sing along with your boy. Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. Lick on these nuts and...
 
Fuck Eric Adams. Get his crooked ass the fuck up out of here.
 
Everyday I’m a poli ‘bout who’s the best hottie out. And will they ever let Gotti out.
 
It’s so amazing how a song can immediately take you to a particular place in time. I’m a give y’all a few examples. Whenever I hear “I Like It” by Grand Puba (1995), I’m immediately a sixteen-year-old kid again, navigating through Times Square, fully immersed in a New York City summer. That’s close to the last days of old school Times Square. It’ll NEVER be like that again. Trust me. Imagine what it was like running through that shit dolo at 16.  Whenever I hear “When You Think of Me” by Eric Benet (2000), I’m reminded of TB and the first time she gave me the buns. Y’all don’t understand. I was on it from freshman year, day two. Early. She curved me. Doc Gooden status. With a smile. We fell out over some dumb shit sophomore year. We beefed smooth through junior year. We saw each other the first Monday back senior year, hugged it out, and laughed about water under the bridge. We flirted throughout our final campaign. I finally got upstairs to her room on a lowkey April weekend on the yard. Eric Benet was the performer on Soul Train that fateful northside Richmond Saturday night. I was negotiating like Chris Sabian while Eric performed “Georgie Porgy” alongside my children’s mother and ex-wife Faith Evans. By the time he began the second verse of “When You Think of Me” during the second half of the broadcast, I was smooth in the cuda. We got it in a few times over the next month, all the way until graduation day (literally). Whenever I listen to Mr. Benet croon one of the greatest and sweetest ahh ha, bitch songs of all time, I get a gleam in my eye. And – whenever I hear “Not Like Us” by Kung-Fu Kenny, I’m immediately taken back to Kendrick’s 6.19.2024 Pop Out Show featuring every gang member/artist in greater Los Angeles (except Game). Kenny performed the song FIVE TIMES CONSECUTIVELY. Five MF times. Back-to-back and tree mo’ after that. He zipped Aubrey’s Canadian ass the fuck up. Body bag. Pastor Kendrick performed Drake’s eulogy that night. I’ll never forget witnessing that moment. Music is soooooooooooo amazing. So is Black history.
 
I saw the new Joker movie. I loved it. I’m hearing that everyone hates it. I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but the musical aspect of the movie served a specific purpose. Read the last section of this blog again. When I think about classic R&B records from my childhood, the first thing I think about is that Shareon cut a rug to it. She was young and vibrant – and healthy. I know what it meant when Arthur and/or Lee sang. Look, I’m not trying to turn a stinker into pure platinum just because I spent some money and time on it. I’m saying that as a human who has had his struggles with mental health, I can appreciate the movie, the same as I did the first one. Wait for it to hit Max, I suppose. I loved it. I embrace the feeling and serendipity of escapism. Even if but for a fleeting moment.
 
Judge me as you may. I welcome it.
 
It’s about time to complete my annual viewing of Krush Groove. The ending song has been on my mind all day. Long live Jam Master Jay, Buff Love, and Prince Markie Dee.
 
 

#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.