#MNR: GUNS & BUTTER

#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.