#MNR: ABI SAID

#MNR: ABI SAID
 
“And it’s no competition, pool of blood for any opposition. You can be a known driller and be a fake politician. I can’t wait for it...the clock ticking. Can’t take my soul bitch, it’s God given.”
Hitta J3
 
"And if you can hear, smell, see, touch, and taste then you don’t need six senses to feel me punch you in the face.”
Canibus
 
I lost my light a while ago. Without my light, a #MNR blog or anything constructive is near impossible. I was done. ###, -30-, all that. It’s hard to see in the dark. But God is still merciful. He is still undefeated. He is still the greatest. After a prolonged pity party, He picked me up out of the dirt, dusted me off, and recalibrated me. He let me know that I’ll get through this. He told me what’s meant to be, will be. And then he allowed me to tap into my left brain. It told me that I may have lost my light in the traditional sense, but to explore other colors. Enter black light mode.
 
Tyrone [to many] was a good man. He was sho nuff my dad, but he wasn’t much of a father type. I don’t think he had much time for that type of shit. He was a hell of a drankin’ partna (AND druggin’), a hell of a foxhole mate, and a dear friend. But unfortunately, being a good father wasn’t on his list of accolades. Don’t worry, I got over my daddy issues 26 years ago. And it’s not like he didn’t teach me a thing or three here and there. But, by far, the best advice he ever gave me was to let her be if she wants to leave. If you love her, love her enough to get out of her way. Bear in mind that my dad was a controlling, abusive lush who terrorized the women he loved, but he certainly gave some solid advice. Thanks, Ty. Rest in peace, my nigga.
 
Hold on, Monday. I can’t let you get away without asking. What the fuck, exactly, is black light mode?
 
If you turn on a black light bulb in a dark room, you see a purplish glow. The black light bulb produces UVA light.
 
It ain’t that. But I wanted all you scientific MF to know that I’m not slipping. Relax.
 
Black light mode is figurative. When faced with blackness and zero visibility, we are forced to lean on our other four senses. Our hearing is especially heightened. We are forced to tap into ourselves a bit more than normal. We are forced to move with caution. We are forced to focus up. I am currently in the process of all the above. But my steps are ordered and measured. It’s a different feeling. I also feel like Carlito standing before the judge at the beginning of the epic and eponymous piece of cinema. This is where I talk my shit like he did. I hope I don’t get my goose cooked in a similar fashion to Señor Brigante from the #BXNYC. I’ll take living into my late ‘70s, early ‘80s in Virginia Beach or Hollywood Hills or somewhere on Oahu. Let me die in my sleep on my beach chair in the back of my beach house on a sunny and warm Ty Monday, an hour or so after lunch.
 
Ok. I got all that introspective shit out the way. Let’s dance.
 
This blog is dedicated to all degenerate gamblers, 1.5-star hotel frequenters, 0-3.25% tippers, peep show devotees, recidivist Bic lighter thieves, and niggas who eat all the damn school snacks of the kids whose mother they’re fucking – in the late night, right after they finish fucking. I think each and every one of youse are wretched and vile humans, but I respect the fact that youse move with impunity. Youse types are heroes to scumbags worldwide. As a former scumbag, I ain’t mad at youse.
 
Sometimes, when the lights are low, the room is full of Bombay (Uncle Elroy voice), and all the sick thoughts slowly enter, I drift deep into the cosmos. I think about how fly I am. I’m probably the flyest fat nigga you’ve ever met. Nah, fuck that. I definitely am. All my colognes are foreign. I’m tied in to Phil Knight and Uncle Ralphie like Jesse was tied into MLK. I’m slick as Nu-Nile on a sliding board and smooth as a silkworm’s finest tapestry halfway draped over your girl’s bare ass after we finish frogging. Fuck a chill button because the god told me the sun don’t chill. I can empathize with Anakin when he took that slow walk toward the Darkside. But I’m not finna mask up. I’m finna craft this next masterpiece, let my ace manage the project and step with the steppers, get this chicken, porcelain my teeth, and smile all on camera as your auntie watches while we skate to a Pulitzer. And me and CEO gon tell two streaming services to suck our dicks before we take a deal from the third. Picture me rollin’. F.A.M.E. You heard?
 
I love the fact that my first cousin is a bloody MAGAt. I find it intriguing as a motherfucker because I know that nigga. He sings all the MAGAt notes and chords. He’s ardent in his allegiance to that fat, cheesy skinned, diaper wearing, bigoted ass troglodyte. One thing about cuzzo, he’s going to go extra hard for any and everything he believes in, same as me. I admire him for that. And, at the end of the day, I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. He’s still my blood. You’d be a damn fool to think I’d kick him to the curve over his political ideology. He’s my lil nigga. We are always going to be good. Rich ass nigga.
 
Speaking of tRump...
 
Sleepy Joe, you dropped the ball in front of the entire free world. A good debate would have been a layup. Now, I’m not going to go extra hard in hindsight. I watched the entire debate. Of all the facts that were spoken from either man that night, approximately 95% came from the incumbent. The problem was that it took him way too long to land the plane. Shit, it often took way too long to get that MF off the runway. Cheesy was his usual bombastic self. He lied, lied, and did a little more lying to finish the night. But he lied with confidence and conviction. Joe sounded hoarse and faint. Half of the time he looked like a UFO had dropped his ass off at the lo[cation] five minutes before the debate began. It was a failure, but I don’t consider it to be an absolute failure. All hope isn’t lost. 45 has an entire summer of rope to hang himself with. I don’t think this is a fete accompli. I’ll know for sure by the Democratic Convention. Until then, y’all better coalesce around him, Dems. This isn’t the time to abandon ship, unless y’all feel like either Gavin or Gretchen is ready.  I don’t think Kamala can defeat Cheesy, plain and simple. Like I said, there’s plenty of time to go. Just wait until the masses do a deeper dive into Project 2025...
 
I must take the time to thank all of you who checked in last week to see what was up with the blog...and your boy. It meant a lot. My young’n Alex always checks in on the Twitter when something seems to be awry. He’s a good guy. We have to smoke a haystack, have a couple of steaks, or go in on a bottle or sum’n. Being able to express myself in this medium is therapeutic, cathartic, and vital to my mental well-being. I can always come here with all my bullshit and you wonderful folk listen to my dumb ass. Imagine that. I feel like Micheal Corleone in Godfather III. But it’s not that I’m being pulled back in. I am willingly reapproaching because it’s as innate as breathing. As long as the good Lord allows my brain to function and my fingers to move and my Mac is operable, I’m going to deliver #MNR. Or at least until the next time I’m disenchanted with all this mortal shit and want to blink myself away.
 
And then I’ll still be back after that.
 
Big ups to Andrell and the entire Flatbush, Medina. More fiyah!
 
Congratulations, Janay. I love you, sis. Let’s win.
 
#Desi (1M heart emojis)