#MNR: THE 52 FAKE OUT

#MNR: THE 52 FAKE OUT
 
“You the type to send him out to crash but was not with him. He’ll be lucky if he make it to the hospital.’
Hitta J3
 
“What’s up with all them extras, nigga? You turned up and broke, that’s not a flex, my nigga.”
Slumlord Trill
 
 
Ooh! Ooh! Now I remember you! I even remember your nickname! They used to call you jawbone! I swear fo’ God. They say you can suck a bowling ball through a liquor straw. It’s true, ain’t it? Yeah, it’s true. I can tell. Your knee pads are worn out and there’s cereal milk dripping from your chin.
 
I had forgotten about the R. Kelly “Flashing Lights” remix. That nigga could turn a MF song all the way the fuck out, couldn’t he? Many of us typically think about another disgraced artist/CEO when the topic of discussion is the remix (take that, take that), but, in my opinion, Robert was the innovator. “Flashing Lights” is my favorite song from Yeezy; I’m sure I’ve expressed this in a past #MNR. I sincerely feel it’s his single best piece of work. It also has some sentimental value to me. Ty, who gives a Boeing 747 flying fuck? Back to Robert Kelly. That scandalous nigga is a musical genius. It just felt like he was the perfect person for the remix the first time I heard it, feel me? And don’t let me have a few cups of that firewater in me. I might just light a J, lean all the way back, and do a backflip clean off the balcony of a 75th floor penthouse. No worries. Doc Brown had the DeLorean floating just above the 74th floor. I landed on two feet and did that move Big Boi and Dre did in the “So Fresh and So Clean” video. Peace, Doc. Pass the reefa and turn that R. Kelly remix up. As I recall, I know you love to show off...
 
Send her your love. Write her a monthly haiku. Make sure that she knows it’s from the bottom of your heart.
 
Shareon was a master of the 88 keys. I dabbled for a taste as a child. The piano is officially my favorite instrument. But deep, deep down in my soul, lives a trumpet player. That damn horn. I’m a Miles disciple. Sketches of Spain is my favorite jazz album. The first movement, “Concierto de Aranjuez (Adagio),” is my favorite – shouts out to Amanda. I also love Birth of the Cool, Kind of Blue, and Bitches Brew. He, like many others, mastered and perfected the horn. I’ve always said a trumpet can bring a sunny or rainy day as effortlessly as one blinks. I don’t know what my first cinematic production is going to be. I probably haven’t even conceived it yet. But, irrespective of the type of film it is, the opening score will be a jazz piece. That piece will feature a trumpet as lead.
 
The following events took place over a 40-months’ time span. No one was hurt, other than my feelings.
 
Verizon, you rich MF can kiss my natural Black ass. I didn’t have a conniption when I found out y’all hit me with the okie doke and I was on a three-year contract instead of a 2-year deal. I almost had a stroke, but I didn’t. I merely took note. THEN, the iPhone 13 Pro Max I bought brand new (the one with the aforementioned 360 slave rapper contract) blinked out on me. Y’all sent me a refurbished phone. Non-cipher. I was cool with it – AFTER I cussed Haji out AND got a month’s payment worth of credit. That was strike two. Today, I found out I was eligible for a “deal” on an iPhone 15 Pro Max. That “deal” meant I had to forfeit the benefits of my current plan. Strike three. You’re outta here! I’m sorry, but I just cannot acquiesce. I want a new phone, but I realize a couple of things. For starters, the 16 drops in a month or so. If I do fall for the 52 Fake Out, it must be with the current generation phone. I’m going to have it for the full three years. There will be an iPhone 20 the next time I re-up. I’ll probably relent (sighs), but they must give me something in return. If not...damn it, man. Verizon (by far) has the best cellular service of all the major vendors. They have the government contracts, so I’ve always been told. All I know is I had full bars in room 549 in the south building of DMAE. I didn’t need wi-fi to watch shows and/or movies during down time. In sharp contrast, it was damn near a no-fly zone when I had the Sprint. I couldn’t even get texts half the time. I had to go out into the stairwell for good coverage. Aye, Dios mio. I’m stuck between a pimp and a hard place (Money Mike voice, no Diddy). I damn near feel like Dookie when he accepted his fate and went with the old head fiends to begin his life as a West Side Baltimore teenage heroin addict. Damn, damn, damn (Florida Evans voice, naturally).
 
Oh Monday, you and your first-world problems. Shut your dumb ass up and spend some of that money.
 
Y’all ever just sat back quietly at the function in a room full of folk, looked around, listened to all the chatter, and cussed damn near everyone in that MF out in your mind? I’m talmbout heavy Tony Montana vibes in the “say goodbye to the bad guy” scene, but your vitriol remains internal. I’ll just be sitting there, possibly with a J dangling from my lips and a cup of drank in my left hand, pulling at the grey hairs on my chinny-chin-chin. I’m talking crazy about 2/3 of the MF in the room. I’m critiquing insane laughs, fake laughs, and all general acts of fuckery. I’m wondering who raised half the niggas in the room. I’m looking at ole girl in those turned over Uggs, wondering if she’s going to tip over on either side and/or dislocate one of her ankles. I’m genuinely interested in whether the brother with the hole in his natural is on a haircut strike because the hair on the back of his neck extends past the top of his crew neck and disappears into his shirt. The food is trash. I wish I could kill the nigga in charge of the Bluetooth (formerly the aux) because the music he’s playing is trash. I’m intrigued by the fact that two girls and a guy keep disappearing in the direction of the bathroom and returning geeked out and rubbing their Rudolph-like nostrils, genuinely convinced that none of us realize that they’re playing with their noses. It ain’t Pepsi, damn it. I hope someone has a can of Narcan. The scary part is figuring out who gets the goods if all three overdose. Sheesh. No me importa. No están mis primos. Who is the nigga over there with the sweatsuit from two different companies? Oh no. Not cross-drip. Technical foul. And that nigga really thought he was killing shit when he looked in his mama’s living room mirror right before he borrowed $20 from her to come out. Damn, sweetheart. That’s like three hefty plates. Did you eat today? Or have you stopped eating today? I ain’t mad, mama. Laugh at that corny joke while you gnaw the gristle off that drumstick. I saw you when you tipped your fat ass in here. You didn’t bring a got damned thing, with your freeloading ass. If the bitch makes a plate to take home on the way out I’m having an on-the-spot intervention. I’ll be damned. Good brother, good brother. We all know your girl has a strict 11:30 curfew on you, bruh. It’s 10:47. You might want to start planning your excuse for why you’re leaving before the first half gallon of Henny is finished. Look a here, look a here. Ain’t this a bitch (Robin Harris voice). I didn’t even realize that they still make shag carpets. Are Willona and Penny on the way over? Say, man. I just lost my damn J in this carpet! Shit fell and immechiately disappeared. I can’t with you niggas.
 
Hey, what a party (Albert Clifford Slater voice)! I’m having a great time! Did you say you had eighths of Gary Payton, my good fellow? I’ll take two. Do you have Zelle? Why yes, I do have a book of Raw papers. Help yourself.
 
RIP PHIL DONAHUE...GOAT.
 
Before you say it, zip it. Phil did it first, he never smoked crack, and he never hated on Michael Jackson. Fuck her book club, too.
 
Y’all know I’m a hater. But I love y’all. I’m out through the emergency exit. And yes, it was I who pulled the fire alarm. I’m a catch up with y’all next week.