#MNR: 2AM ON LEXINGTON

#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.