#MNR: THE NERVE OF YOU
 
“My next-door neighbor’s having convos with undercovers. Put a surprise in her mailbox, hope she get it. Happy birthday, bitch, you know you shouldna did it.”
Makaveli the Don
 
“They label my vocabulary abusive. I pack more knowledge than Confucius. I’m deadly.”
Kurupt
 
Peace, blessings and prosperity to the entire #MNR Family. Come on in, y’all. I know it’s cold and wet outside. Hang your parkas up. Rest your shoes. There’s hot cocoa on the stove. Come find a seat by the fireplace. Get comfortable. Twirl your aromatics. Let’s get blown. We’ve got some shit to discuss.
 
Last week, ‘round 'bout Tuesday in the evening time, I immechiately took a dumpy as soon as I got in the crib. The bubble guts were on full disrespect mode. It wasn’t near breech mode, but still. Anyway, I was enjoying my evening dumpy when I got a notification. Someone contacted me and told me that they took exception to something I mentioned in my blog. It wasn’t a difference of opinion; I welcome those. The beef was with my mere mention of something...or someone. Don’t e’en matter. Let’s begin with the obvious. Asshole, this is my MF blog. I can talk about whatever/whoever the fuck I want to talk about. You didn’t put in on this, man! You’re wild for that one. Next...if you read my blog in an ardent manner, you know politics/civil rights are a cornerstone of my discourse. Freedom of speech, the most referenced part of 1A, is a damn civil right. Amendment I reinforces my initial point: I can talk about whatever/whoever the fuck I want to talk about. It’s an inalienable right as an American. It's MY inalienable right as an American. Perhaps you should brush up on the constitution, jerkface. Finally...the nerve of you. And me, of all people. Smmfh. You had a better chance of kissing a Yosemite gap-toothed grizzly in the mouth than you had of successfully checking this gap-toothed grizzly for any motherfucking thing I speak on. This is my shit. I play with no referee. You must’ve smoked a K-2 spliff and sniffed a crushed xany on your way to the liquor store to buy crackhead beer. You trout-mouth heathen. Having said what I’ve said (and I mean every word of that shit), ain’t no thang. I forgive you. Just don’t let it happen again. (Baby Joker voice) Fucker.
 
I’m in the process of answering this long ass work survey about the job in general and about the efficacy of the supervisorial staff. These things are always weird to me. Sure, they’re completely anonymous (allegedly). Still, it’s kind of awkward critiquing their performance. I don’t see what they do all hours of the day. I don’t quite know what to say. Irrespective of my sentiments toward my supervisors, I don’t believe in going scorched earth on any type of evaluation: supervisor, coworker, subordinate, whomever. That’s just not my style. Having said as much, I think they do their damn jobs. That’s all I expect of supervisors. My boss lady has been good to me from Day 0. We talk more than just job shit. No human is perfect, but I have no ill words towards her. My lone critique of the supervisors is that they hover. But it’s kind of hard not to when you work in an area as limited in space as ours. I’m the king of pragmatism; I understand. That’s all I have to say.
 
Y’all know me. I couldn’t speak on critiquing others without critiquing myself as well. It is a short, brief critique: I am flawless. No, all jokes aside, I really am. In fact, I’m so flawless that I’ll speak on my greatest quality as a coworker: my ability to “build” the team as well as individuals. What, exactly, do I mean? I’m always going to compliment and encourage. I regularly speak with my coworkers about what they specifically do well. I uplift as much as possible. When I feel it’s time to encourage, I encourage. At times it’s to reinforce their confidence. Other times it’s to motivate them when they’re a bit down. I pay attention to everything, so I can detect when my teammate isn’t herself/himself. My words are fastidious and poignant. The intended result is always the same: let’s win.
 
Uplifting and edifying those who matter to me comes naturally. I make it a habit to encourage my folk as much as possible. Most of the time a simple accolade or acknowledgement goes a long way for someone’s psyche. When I used to live inside my head, I constantly questioned my worth. Having someone validate my efforts was everything, to the point where I actively sought validation. I had a situation where a family member failed to mention me in a shout-out roll call at a big event. It hurt my feelings. It led me to believe I didn’t really matter to them at the end of the day. After I got over that letdown, I promised myself I’d never allow that type of thing to affect me again. It took some time, but that type of thing isn’t that important to me anymore. But I see that that very desire exists in others. It’s natural. I feel that I possess a great deal of sagacity, or at least enough to recognize when someone special to me needs a quick word of encouragement. I’ll shoot a coworker a text of encouragement on a random Sunday afternoon. Why? Because I consider others’ mental well-being. I know that a random word of encouragement can go a long way. I don’t gas anything, either. There’s no hyperbole in my encouragement. If I give you a positive word it’s because I truly feel that way in my heart and spirit. I say what I mean and mean what I say. It’s not that others don’t feel the same way, but sometimes they fail to express these feelings. In turn, people tend to think that they’re not a big deal. If I fuck with you, you are abso-fuckinglutely a big deal. And even if you aren’t a big deal to the rest of the world, you are to me. I’m thankful for you and I’m blessed to have you as my family/homie/friend/lover/coworker. You matter. You matter to me.
 
In case you wonder why validation means little to me [anymore], it’s because the two greatest people in my life told me [in their own words] I’m that MF: Shareon and Me. The Lord is always with me, so whom shall I fear?
 
CEO and I are considering releasing audio versions of #MNR. What y’all think about that? If it sounds like a thing to do, send a quick memo to your boy on the Twitter @tymonday. I don’t half-ass anything I put my name on, so I’ll definitely make sure the audio quality is to my liking before we release anything. Archie Warren Sr. taught me to never halfway do a job. I don’t.
 
 Big ups to my girl Neek, an avid supporter of this blog and great individual altogether. Once upon a time she was the point goddess for the DMHS Lady Raiders. She could make water spill with the rock and had the flyest braids in the whole school. That was back when. These days, she’s one of the flyest with the dress code in the tri-state. She’s still funny AF. Still a real one. Salute.
 
Mobb niggas to the exit, we out (IYKYK).
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: BIG BAMBÚ
 
“Place your eyes on the guy, that has no type of worries if I die. So pussyclot try.”
Trigga the Gambler
 
“When she land she let the whole city know.”
Nasir Jones
 
 
I write for thinkers, reefa heads, fly ladies and street chemists, Jameson sippers and old school niggas with dark tints. When I was a likkle youth, early ‘80s era, at least a decade before I first smoked weed in a Phillies blunt, I remember my dad and uncle rolling their cheeba in Bambú. After decades of polluting my lungs with blunt papers (Phillies & White Owl), natural leaves (Fronto leaves & Backwoods), and a combination of both (Dutch Masters & Optimo), I have finally become an exclusive “papers” roller. I’m done done with the blunts, y’all. My choice of papers? Big Bambú. Pure hemp. Since 1764. Life has come full circle, you heard? I used to get down with Raw paper, but I now prefer Bambú. I’m just carrying on tradition, I suppose.
 
Big ups to all the black market “dispensaries” in NYC, Chelsea in particular. The spot near the corner of my work block has 3.5 of za for $25. My Black Atlas Mafia family and I just discovered a new spot on 22nd & 8th on our way to drankin’ Friday after work. They had 7 of Mac 10 for $30. I feel like I’m in a smoker’s utopia. I’ve still got my main plug, but Chelsea is becoming the best #2 since Earl Morrall. I’m thankful.
 
I read a full back page ad in a recent amNewYork (courtesy of my ace Ju) from a special interest group (don’t remember the name and don’t care to) spewing propaganda about how minorities are missing out on getting into the dispensary market because illegal shops are selling their product tax-free. It posted data that said NY state was missing out on hundreds of millions in revenue because of the illegal shops. Motherfucker, do you think a: we’re stupid? or b: we actually care about lost revenue? It’s a smooth c: for me doggie – I don’t give a Kathy Hochul/Eric Adams fidduck. Y’all don’t give a fuck about minority business owners missing out on the market. Y’all been screwing prospective minority owners since bidding began years ago. Y’all only care about missing out on tax revenue. Fuck you, your taxes, and all the slave owner presidents, GW through tRump (the last fuck was so unnecessary yet so necessary). I’ll kick you one extra...I don’t give a fuck about all the MTA lost revenue either. Keep hopping the turnstiles, savage New Yorkers. (I’m too fat). Fuck the system. I will never campaign for the machine. Power to the people.
 
Big ups to the hackers who shut down portions of Vegas over the weekend. They shut down slots, stole personal information, stopped revolving doors, and kept folk out of their rooms by disabling key cards. I don’t give a fuck. I wasn’t vacationing there over the weekend. And this is coming from an MGM guy (I LOVE the green palace on the Strip). They got hit. So did Caesars. Caesars paid a ransom. MGM did not. I love cyberattacks that affect Fortune 500 companies. F500 robs us daily.
 
Magic 3, the sixth collaboration album in a three-year span between Nasir Jones and all-world producer Hit-Boy, is a galaxy or three past amazing. I play it straight through every damn time although “Blue Bentley, “Superhero Status,” “Japanese Soul Bar” and “TSK” are my immediate favorites. “Never Die,” the only song with a feature, is co-piloted by none other than Lil Tunechi himself. Nasir and Wayne are the 2023 collaboration we didn’t know we needed. I think there are three classic albums in this six-album run: Kings Disease, Magic and Magic 3. Nas is the undisputed GOAT.
 
I’ve mentioned this to Brandi and a couple of other loved ones before, but Magic 3 has compelled me to mention it to you all. Of all the amazing songs over this six-album run, “Dedicated” (the first two verses and first beat) off Magic takes me to a place that I’m not certain a song has ever taken me (if you know me, you know that’s saying A LOT). It’s a bit of the beat Hit perfected, it’s a bit of the lyrics Nas effortlessly delivered, and it’s a bit of Shareon. I’m certain that she would love this song if she were still here gracing the earth with her presence. The first time I heard it on Christmas Eve 2021 (the album was a genuine Christmas surprise – no promo) I felt a bit of fear. In my superhero high thoughts, it sounded like Nas was close to calling it a career. He sounded so content on the track. He said so many things that made me think about this beautiful life I’ve been blessed with. In essence, I feel exactly how I perceived Nas to feel on this record. I’ve been blessed beyond measure. I have/had the best family a human could ask for, from my mommy to throughout both family trees. I don’t have any “true friends” because anyone I consider to be a true friend is my family. I have a few true brothers and sisters from other mothers. I’ve been blessed to have loved and been loved by a handful of amazing, beautiful women. I’ve seen and experienced so many things, from the church to the lecture hall to the B-stairs. “I dedicated my...whole damn life. If I wanted to now, I could live an old man life.” Nasir, you’re the only individual who could ever speak for me. Okay, maybe Marvin, I Want You – Here, My Dear era. But still...
 
“When Carlito was dying, you see the shadow of his girl dancing with the baby, like ‘fuck it, it’s my time’...”
 
“Everything come back like a boomerang. I’m Black as Paul Mooney slang.”
 
“The streets had its hooks in me.” I’ve never heard this point mentioned quite like this. Lord knows that was me. “Before I make a move I think about it karmically.” I’m convinced that this is one of the reasons why I’m still alive on this earth. Mr. Jones spoke to my soul on this one. That’s word to my lady Amy Winehouse. I know you would’ve loved this one too (IYKYK) baby girl. I love and miss you Shareon. I feel your spirit on “Dedicated.” I dedicate this song to you.
 
THANK YOU SHANTEE FOR THE EARTH DAY GIFT!!!
 
HAPPY EARTH DAY TO MY GODSON ASHER. 7 IS MY FAVORITE NUMBER AND YOU’RE MY FAVORITE HUMAN.
 
To the projects, I’m ghost shorty rock, one love.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: MS. MARCY'S SONG
 
“All these people that you love, go ‘head and give ‘em a toast. Because if they ain’t here tomorrow you gon miss ‘em the most.”
Mac Miller (miss you my guy)
 
 
I was in the safest place in Amerikkka on 9.11.2001 – South Boston, VA, at my mama house. Won’t shit to crash a plane into except tobacco fields and the racetrack. I was working at my alma mater HCHS at the time, getting daily assignments as a substitute teacher. I had the hookup because my favorite teacher Mr. [Pedro] Zamora was the principal whose office oversaw subs. However, I wasn’t working that day because the day before was my 23rd birthday. My guys big Vinny, Rob, some other folk I can’t remember and I celebrated with a bottle of something I can’t remember in the Caravan. We drank. We smoked. We got extra wavy. I left the Hali fucked up (still respectable though) and went home at some point. I basically said all that to say that the next day of work was a dub. Nope. I mos def declined that assignment, or at least my step pop Sam did on my behalf. All I know is I didn’t answer anyone’s phone that sunny Tuesday morning. What I do remember is Sam waking me up from a deep sleep around 9. He simply said, “You need to see what’s happening to your city.”
 
I KNOW Y’ALL ARE UBER INTELLIGENT BUT THAT’S ACTUALLY A DIRECT QUOTE. I’LL NEVER FORGET THOSE WORDS.
 
I got up. Immechiately. I didn’t even wash my face or brush my jibs. Something in Sam’s tone let me know that it wasn’t time for hygiene or horseplay. I entered our den and sat on the couch, wiping boogers from my eyes. All I saw was smoke coming from a puncture in one of the towers. The hole looked like someone stabbed a piece of cardboard with a butcher’s knife or like a fracture in an x-ray. To say what I was watching was surreal would be an understatement. I couldn’t believe it. SOMEONE CRASHED INTO ONE OF THE TOWERS? I thought it was an accident. But how? Who would be dumb enough to fly into a tower? Peter Jennings (RIP KING) pondered similar thoughts. I barely had time to make sense of things when I saw the second plane hit the other tower in real time. I didn’t need Peter or Ms. Baez (my kindergarten teacher) to put one and one together to get two. I knew we were under attack. But who? Why? At the time, I didn’t make the USS Cole correlation because I’d never heard of the Taliban and damn sure didn’t know they were responsible for killing all those young men my age and younger on that ship the autumn prior. I remember the attack, though. As for the “why,” if you know me, you know I didn’t feel that way because I look at Murrica like she can do no wrong. But damn. Fuck we done did for all dis?
 
I immediately began to think about all my family up top. I prayed everyone was ok. Making calls up top was null and void. The grid was jammed OD. My imagination began to run for a minute. What if every plane in America has been hijacked? What if this is the beginning of World War Z?
 
Y’all don’t need me to keep going. If you are old enough to remember, you'll never forget. If you’re too young to remember you’ve read about it like I read about Vietnam as a kid, meaning you’ve probably read as much propaganda as truth from the very history books you were issued. 9.11 is like some Facebook relationships: it’s complicated. I don’t have the time to speak on all the filth, which basically took place from the Cold War until long after 9.11. Instead, I’ll focus on something different. Someone different.
 
9.11, much like the HIV/AIDS crisis and true crimes/missing persons, has captured my imagination. And, as with anything that captures my imagination and heightens my neurosis, I was compelled to do extensive research to develop some discernment from everything we’ve learned about from that day. I had to dig deeper; I have the proclivity to do so. I’ve watched extensive footage and documentaries of that fateful day, including 120 Minutes that Changed America (it’s the best IMO and a definite must watch). In my research, some of the people have become a part of my forever thoughts. One is the firefighter who was en route to the towers but got stuck in the Brooklyn Battery Park tunnel. He got out and ran to the towers, five kilometers to be precise. He helped save lives before perishing. And by the way, he’d just gotten off his shift. He could’ve gone home and watched it on television like I did. He chose to go help. His name was Stephen Siller. His legacy is commemorated by the annual Tunnel to Towers 5K (3.2 miles, you filthy Americans), held every September.
 
Now for the other person.
 
Am I wrong for looking for my-skinned folk in all those documentaries and hours of footage I’ve watched over the past couple of decades? If so, then so be it. The press would have you believe that none of us were in those towers. Fuck that. I’m gonna always check for mine. We tend to be misrepresented when it comes to counts, if you can dig what I’m saying. Anyway, in my studies, I kept coming across a picture of a young Black woman covered head to toe in dust. It appears that she was standing in the lobby of one of the towers. This young woman was as fly as could be; a true Shero. I was a young man at the time. I’ve always had an affinity for the downtown professional [Black] ladies and their fly attire. I’ve always been on that type of time. I could tell, even though she was completely covered, save her eyes and mouth. She had on what looks like a nice fall sweater, a fly skirt, and a mean pair of calf-length steps. Her handbag hung to her right side. Her look in the pic is the ultimate WTF. I always wondered what her fate was. Did she make it out that day? Yes. She made it out “safely.” Is she ok [today]? Sadly, no. She passed in August of 2015 from stomach cancer. It is almost certain the dust from the towers and the air she breathed that day led to her demise. Rest in power, queen. You are forever entrenched in my memory. The press labeled you “The Dust Lady.” I always called you Fly Ma. Respectfully.
 
I know I’m wrong, but candidly, I’ve always had a bit of contempt for 9.11. My reasoning is totally selfish. It’s not about the events. Lord knows it was one of the worst experiences of my middle-aged life. I still mourn folk I’ve never met. My contempt comes because I don’t get to extend my bday high. Whether I want to or not, I’m deflated when the morning of 9.11 arrives. It’s impossible to ignore it. This morning, as soon as I approached the Garden on the 8th Avenue side, I saw about eight FDNY captains in full uniform, almost certainly on their way downtown to the memorial for the ceremony. They all appeared to be in their 60s. I can’t imagine how many comrades they lost that day. Please forgive my contempt.
 
REST IN PEACE TO ALL WHO PERISHED ON 9.11.2001, WHETHER IT WAS THAT DAY OR YEARS LATER FROM HEALTH COMPLICATIONS.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: THE 4-5 LIKE JORDAN
 
“Suicide drills get your cap peeled. Crossover’s ill, have you think water spilled.”
Shyheim
 
“Funky fresh, dressed to impress, ready to party.”
MC Lyte
 
For those of y’all who have seen the movie Seven, do you remember the scene where Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt entered the presumed killer’s apartment and encountered volumes of written notebooks the suspect possessed? I’m talking about packed wall-to-wall shelves. Each notebook had its pages (front and back) filled with writing. The shit was crazy. For full disclosure’s sake, that was actually my apartment door they kicked in. Those were my writings. I am the serial killer. Kevin Spacey was the fall guy. I pulled an eleventh hour 52 Fake Out and followed his Usual Suspects script.
 
Correction: cereal killer.
 
What up nuccas, how y’all? It’s Monday, the villain. I’m blessed. I have no complaints. All my needs are met. All my bills are paid. Well, other than the credit cards. But I put something on them. I’m current. Regardless, I’m good. Life is good. I spent most of last week in upstate NY on work-related bit-ness. I enjoyed my tine, but I’m OD happy to be home.
 
As I’m typing this blog, my screen went from light to dark mode. I’m almost certain that it’s coordinated with the day’s sunset. That shit is fly. Salute to all my Apple aficionados. I like uniformity throughout my tech, watch to phone to computer. That is all.
 
I’d rather you just call if you don’t have an iPhone. The green droid text box is nasty work. Plus, I can’t check your temperature with the read receipt.
 
You’re MF right I leave my read receipts on. I want you to know that I read your shit and that I also next your dumb ass. Fuck off.
 
If the Lord sees fit, Sunday will be my 45th trip around the sun. I’m thankful for another year of life. I’m in good spirits. I’m still on my NDO regiment. I’ve added a few more fly kix to my cache. I added some fly new threads to the wardrobe. I’m looking forward to getting out a bit more this year, beginning with the fall. Fall is my favorite season. Life is good. (Ab Soul voice) I just might be in your hood...
 
If you want to hit my CashApp to send a born day gift, reach your boy at $TyMonday. I also accept Zelle, Western Union, USPS, PlayStation gift cards, diamonds, indica, free dinners, and genuine HBD shouts. Give it up for the Virgos.
 
Tens of thousands of festival goers were able to leave the Burning Man counterculture festival in Nevada this afternoon after days of being stranded when rain led to thick mud which closed roads. Chris “Teef” Rock was amongst the attendees, which included artists, musicians and activists. Rock reportedly escaped through the desert north toward Reno, about 110 miles away. The festival has been held since 1986 and has seen its past share of issues/setbacks. There is only one confirmed fatality thus far. Attendees were said to have remained in good spirits, even though they had to ration food and shit in buckets for days. There are a couple of reasons as to why I would not have attended this festival, but none are of pressing importance. If you know me, I’m certain you can think of at least one.
 
I’ve got a couple of #MNR SPECIAL EDITION on deck. I’ve already conceived them. The keystrokes are merely a matter of labor. In addition to being released indiscriminately, #MNRSE always sticks to a lone topic. They are also usually pertaining to a certain special interest or popular culture. Soon come. Stay posted.  
 
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine, who’s world is this?
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: MONDAY’S [BLACK] HEART
 
“Slip me a xany at once. I got the earth in a blunt.”
Jermaine Cole
 
 
Hot damn hoe, here we go again.
 
 
Alas, another Monday has arrived. We endured the rigors of the weekend and made our way to the start of another work week. Yay!
 
No one in history has ever said that shit.
 
Many of us limped our lazy American asses into the slave, err umm job, on this blessed Monday morning. Personally, I’m ensured of a litany of complaints about shit that isn’t even a damn issue. The shit sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher: unintelligible yet audible enough to cause a distraction. Shut the fuck up, please and thank you. You sound like a petulant child. This message isn’t specific, but it is intended for every coworker at every job in America who does nothing but complain as a full-time sport. In the words of the legend Lamar Thomas, “I don’t mind you coming to me with a problem but come with a solution.” Right on, LT. I’ve never had a problem with someone complaining when there is genuinely a problem at hand...IF they are at least willing to ponder a solution. Not everyone is an expert problem solver. I’ll admit that much. But if all you bring to the table is a complaint, I feel like you just want to be a stormy cloud. Shut your ass the fuck up and figure the shit out. If not, lower your voice to immediately lower noise pollution. Stop your blood clot cryin’. Thank you. Jerkface. With your complaining ass.
 
You filthy Americans and your whiny first world problems...
 
I lost two of mine this week. Losing your folk is never easy. It’s painful. RIP to them. Naw, those MF aren’t dead. We just had to mutually part ways. The cutoff game is strong in the final quarter of fiscal 2023. My accountant said we had to make sure the books were in the black and not the red. That means some dead weight had to be cut. The scissors are sharp and strong, yet my will is even stronger. A thug changes, and love changes, and best friends become strangers.
 
Is either relationship reconcilable? That’s a good question. Personally, I feel that time heals most wounds. But in one of the relationships, the fuckery has existed for far too long. That one’s Angelo Dundee. RIP. I may miss you, but I won’t be missing any meals. Translation: I’m a be alright.
 
I was on the Twitter the other day and I saw na tweet about “Niggas for tRump.” I’m not lying, “tRump for King” was a quote from the originator (I’m assuming) of yet another dumb ass movement. Derrick Gibson (the coon in the spotlight) conspired to attract attention in a play straight out of the “old-time n*gger shit” playbook. I listened to Gibson. He didn’t include a single fact in the soundbite, only ignorant propaganda. I wasn’t surprised at all. Niggas for tRump...are you fucking serious? I hate you troglodytes a bit more each day.
 
My thoughts and prayers are with the families of my sister and two brothers who were slain by yet another white supremacist. Those good folk were in a Dollar General in Jacksonville, FL...
 
Pardon self, y’all. Let me honor my slain folk by first stating their names:
 
A.J. Laguerre
Angela Michelle Carr
Jerrald Gallon
 
REST IN PARADISE
 
A.J. was only 19. He’d just begun life. The youngest of five, he worked at DG to help support the grandmother who raised. Him. Ms. Angela, 52, was a mother and an Uber driver. Jerrald, 29 and the father of a 4-year-old, was fatally wounded whilst entering the establishment alongside his lady. The killer was a 21-year-old, hate-filled pilgrim. Those who read #MNR in an ardent fashion know that I don’t mention the names of these cowards. Do know that he had a swastika painted on his assault rifle. He targeted our folk. And, in typical pussyclot fashion, he offed himself after his acts of fuckery. May he rest in piss.
 
Vile, disgusting Nazi Florida Governor Ron DeSantis found his raggedy ass way home from the presidential campaign trail to call the pilgrim a “scumbag” during a press conference in which his Black constituents booed his punk ass. No, Ronald. He wasn’t a scumbag. He was a violent, homicidal, racist coward. You’re the scumbag. That white boy was from a county over. How about preventing a future Floridian race war shooter from following in this pilgrim’s footsteps? Stop meddling with the education curriculum and policies and pushing anti-Black, revisionist history. We don’t know you don’t like us. It’s cool. History will look back and judge you for being the man you are: a racist, xenophobic, homophobic, and bigoted weirdo who wears polar bear galoshes and eats pudding with his fingers. You have the swagger of a home-schooled Oedipus Rex. Andrew Gillum still owes you a Florida-style ass whooping.
 
I’m tired of all you Oreo cookie ass, apologetically Black MF. I’m not saying that it’s cool to be a bigot. It’s not. What I am saying is that I’m tired of you Blacks acting like you have to compromise your Blackness to fit in. Stop capitulating because you’re afraid of being who and what you are. It’s disgusting. Why do you feel that WE always have to compromise? Fuck that. Also, stop adopting nicknames from other ethnicities. You are not Hispanic. Papi isn’t our thing. You are not a mafia boss, capiche? Steer clear of the frank stand. I am 100% unapologetically Black on both sides. I don’t want to be white. I don’t want to be Hispanic. I’m striving to ascend to the next degree of ultra-Blackness. I love ME. I love MY BLACK SISTERS AND BROTHERS. Get off your knees, lame ass house niggas. I hate y’all more than the KKK and Ron DeSantis. Now that I think about it, Ronald may be the Grand Wizard.
 
If I struck a chord, see me when you see me. Snowflake.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter (Fuck Elon X) & IG (Fuck Zuckerberg too)
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: SUICIDE DIARIES
 
“Life moves fast when you’re doing what you want. I guess I don’t know what I want. [I] hope you’re doing what you want...what we want.”
Brent Faiyaz
 
“Sometimes I look in the mirror and ask myself, ‘am I really scared of passing away?’ If it’s today I hope I hear a – cry out from heaven so loud it can water down a demon with a Holy Ghost ‘til it drowns in the blood of Jesus.”
Kendrick Lamar
 
neurotic - noun
/noo-rot-ik/
 
a person who tends to be emotionally unstable or unusually anxious
 
I remember the times when I over thought everything, and I mean everything. I questioned everything. I was eternally incredulous. I was eternally cynical. My outlook on life was dire at best. My personal outlook was even worse. The cause of my “tick” is far from a mystery. I don’t have daddy issues, but my issues began with daddy. I’ll spare the details; just know that it was juvenile hell. Fast forward to early fall 1994, the time period that I found out that Mary Warren, my maternal grandmother, nurturer, first educator and hero, had Alzheimer’s. That led to years of questioning everything – literally everything. How could the most amazing and benevolent person that I’ve ever known have an illness that promised to rob her of all the special memories she’d amassed over time? The toughest of tough days was college graduation; she was unable to attend. In TGI Friday’s at the post-graduation meal I cried the most since I was 5 and my mom told me that her paternal grandmother Beatrice James, my great grandmother, transcended. I went from experiencing one of the most amazing natural highs to sheer sorrow in about an hour. The one person with whom I most wanted to share my achievement was unable to attend. What was even worse was the reality that, even if she were there, she wouldn’t have been able to remember what happened. Years later, her death triggered emotional descent. I wasn’t much for religion by then, though I was raised in the church. Losing faith in the Lord is catastrophic. Losing faith in self could possibly be worse. I couldn’t land the proverbial “promised” career job, though in retrospect, 9.11.2001 played its own role in that situation. But instead of digging deep, galvanizing and doubling down on resilience, I lost all confidence in myself. I took all types of “underachiever” jobs for pay. I began to make my foray into the streets. I know, I know. Who the fuck cares, Monday? Get to the MF point.
 
Truthfully, there were plenty of other issues and heartbreaks that contributed to my near demise, but the enduring motif is that I have always overthought every damn thing. When you’re a neurotic, every thought is magnified and then ruminated incessantly. If I felt that you crossed me in any way, [in my mind] I’d immediately go from being cool to wanting to damn near you, or at least never speak to you again...in my head. Half the time, the perceived issue was simply a misunderstanding, usually on my end. I can think of plenty of times that I was prepared to sever all ties (or a head) from a friend or [dare I say] family member, only to have the matter amicably resolved in a relatively short time. I’ve come to realize that I couldn’t help myself; that’s how I was wired. I’m person enough to admit that I was in dire need of some re-wiring. I spoke earnestly with the Lord. I prayed for him to work on my shortcomings. I spoke at length with a dear friend who is also a psychologist. I had loved ones who encouraged me to remain calm in these types of situations. I’m thankful to say that I’m not the human I was a decade ago. I do all that I can to protect my peace and to remain positive through it all; my faith has plenty to do with that. I’d be a half-truth-teller if I didn’t admit that I still want to kill the entire world from time to time. The difference is that it’s only a fleeting thought. I remain calm and employ a certain measure of patience. My strategy is what Stevie (if you have to ask, ‘Stevie who?’, see me in my office after class) said in his thinly veiled tribute to Robert Nesta Marley, “...is to let all our worries, like the breeze through our fingers, slip away.” Believe it or not, it works wonders. In the words of so many brilliant ghetto scholars, “IT’S NOT THAT SERIOUS.” I had to discern.
 
Positivity is literally a culture – it is a way of life. I’m not the type to preach at the next human or have expectations that are derived from a selfish nature. I’m only speaking on how I went from a perennial Negative Nathan to an eternal glass half-full, smooth operator. I was prepared to end my own existence on two occasions. If I had completed the objective the first time, 100 Blocks Stories would have never seen the light of day. I would have literally killed my lifelong dream before it came to be...abortion.  That would have also meant that Shareon would have had to bury her firstborn second. What I failed to realize during those dark hours was that I have so much to live for.
 
Now, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t speak from a perspective birthed from the dark side. Candidly, the thought of death is something that I don’t shy away from. My thoughts are now far removed from those of [CENSORED]. I’m a reinvigorated believer, and according to the Good Book, that’s the one thing that is unforgivable in the eyes of God. But I’ve experienced so much death in half a lifetime. Weary thoughts have been stuck in my atmosphere, sort of like smog in Mexico City. Each day, they threaten to deplete me a bit more, until eventually there is nothing left. Lately, I have had visions of being 18 years late to the 27 Club. Maybe I check out without trying to check out. Fuck it. Many a night amidst a by myself meeting, I like to get extra low, sit back and let certain thoughts enter. At times, I have visions of making CNN. You know, going out in a true blaze of glory. Fuck it. Let’s go out like that. But I wouldn’t make the global news for any nefarious reason. It would most definitely be for the cause. Pick one. Fuck it. Don’t matter, so long as it’s for the benefit of my BLACK people. They gon remember me (Meek voice)!!!
 
And then there’s the grey somewhere near the center of it all...
 
Approximately 90% of the time, I begin my day feeling two ways: blessed and like I’m unfuckwitable. I’ll take my beautiful mind and razor-sharp tongue over whatever you bring to the table. I have supreme confidence in my skill set, fortified by my faith in God. I was raised by people with good sense. They instilled self-love and pride for my-skinned folk. If my back is against the wall, I know exactly who to call when I need a favor – in any situation. At my best, I’m Parker Lewis.
 
You definitely have to be my age to get that reference and its nuance.
 
As we near the end of this blog, the best I can tell you is that the mind is fragile. Stephanie Mills said it best: I’ve been up, and I’ve been down. I don’t have a prepared inspirational speech for you. Just take everything a day at a time. If you insist on dwelling on what you don’t have, count your blessings first. Then formulate a plan to go out and get it. Have faith in God and yourself. We gon make it, I swear my nigga.
 
 
 
IN TOTALLY UNRELATED NEWS BUT NEWS I’VE DEEMED PERTINENT BECAUSE THIS IS MY SHIT
 
Paz a mis primos de la tienda Gardenia Deli. The trio makes the best made-to-order “quick” food in all of Chelsea. The guys (the main grill man is a bit taciturn but he’s valid) always greet patrons with genuine smiles and light banter each morning. Primo means that you’re a regular and that you’re familial...cousins. They don’t have any idea how much of a blessing they are to my coworkers, me and all who enter. Thank you, guys. You are loved and appreciated. I got word that them people were all up in the spot and that it shut down for the day. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but I pray y’all are back open and thriving tomorrow. And not just because of the food, but because I rock with y’all. Salud. I told y’all I was going to give y’all a shoutout. If you’re in proximity to the Garden (that’s Madison Square, not Olive), fall through Gardenia Deli, located at 404 8th Avenue near the corner of 30th street. They are open 24 hours a day, but mis primos leave around normal quitting time.
 
Aye yo CEO, take us the fuck outta here.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG
 

#MNR: DIVE BAR AURA
 
“Various shades of Black, leaning off the roof of the Ac(ura). Don’t know how to act, wildin’ with a nonchalant pack.”
Geechi Suede
 
“While my Nikes match my Lo hat.”
Q(ueens)- Tip
 
Y’all know how many years I’ve spent making sure my Nikes match my Lo hat? Shit, me either. It’s been a minute.
 
PRAYERS TO MAUI.
 
Salute to all my folk out there who read the Monday Night Raw blogs in an ardent manner. Y’all are one of two the reasons why I fire up the old Mac every Monday night and make love to the keyboard. I cherish the support. The other reason why I do what I do is because there is an insatiable fire that burns within my soul. It compels me to create. I try my best to bring words to life every mother effing time. It’s my desire. My passion. I couldn’t ever possibly have an audience of zero. I write to delight my own soul first. I read my blog for the 74th time as soon as CEO texts me that we’re live...I read it like I’ve yet to lay eyes on it. Every time I finish reading the blog, I thank the Lord for the talent he has bestowed upon me.
 
Ok y’all. I’m done being gracious. Let’s get this shit jumping like David Thompson. Hell yeah, that’s my kinfolk. And if you think I’m lying, prove it.
 
I finally copped a bong. I wanted to invest in a sophisticated, $200 type of bong. But in all fairness, I also want Lauren London. I ended up settling for a considerably less expensive bong which I purchased on eBay. I put entirely too much flower in my Woods and papers. A bong will take me to the upper room much faster than a J or L, and with much less flower. I burn way too much greenery. I don’t live on a rapper’s budget. I need to call my boy Gary Payton and see if he wants to sponsor #MNR. CEO and I are cool with free GP in perpetuity. It’s my favorite strand. And furthermore, we know how to work that, you heard?
 
Proper. What you say, Hammer? Proper...
 
Shout out to the Lincoln Tunnel XBL, a 2.5-mile contra (against the flow of traffic)-flow bus-only lane that runs along Route 495 from the NJ Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel helix. It speeds up the morning commute by an estimated 15 to 20 minutes. It runs from 06:30-10:00 on weekdays. Anyone who’s ever approached the Lincoln Tunnel helix knows that you can sit still for a good while at damn near any time. The traffic sucks ass. The XBL all but ensures buses make time in the morning. I love it, and I wanted you all to know about it. Fuckers.
 
“You love to hear the story, again and again, of how it all got started way back when.”
M.C. Shan
 
Last week the dominant culture of my lifetime, hip hop, turned 50. A half a century ago in Sedgwick Projects, #BXNYC, a Jamaican immigrant named Clive “Kool Herc” Campbell brought his records and turntable set to the recreation room and made shit happen. I don’t know exactly what he did other than play records, but it was the start of something amazing. Here we are, two-and-a-half scores later, and hip hop has permeated every single aspect of life. I remember listening to commercial jingles growing up, and every score was rock inspired. I used to eat my cereal and wonder, “why don’t they ever have a rap jingle?” I remember when the Grammys didn’t televise any of the rap category winners. Look how far we’ve come. Nas’ label Mass Appeal threw a 50th birthday concert in Yankee Stadium (it had to be in the X). Damn near everyone who was anyone touched the stage. Lupe Fiasco set it off (fittingly). The stream is available on YouTube, completely free of charge. Check it out. Hip Hop is here to stay. Big ups to every aspect of hip hop: DJ, MC, break boys/girls, aerosol (graffiti) artists, and the unofficial fifth and sixth elements – the clothing (style) and beatboxing. Where would I be without you?
 
Big ups to MY favorite MCs: LL Cool J (my 7-year-old, 1985 GOAT), Q-Tip and A Tribe Called Quest (the ones who made me truly fall in love with this thing of ours – RIP Phife), Ice Cube (my favorite from the west side of things), the BIG fella, Makaveli the Don, Redman (Jersey’s GREATEST), The Roots (The World’s 8th Wonder), Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones (my personal GOAT; thanks for changing my outlook on life), Run-DMC (there’s no culture without y’all), the Wu (Wu-Tang is forever), Mobb Deep, CNN, Big Pun, Black Rob (RIP), Cam’ron, Snoop Doggy Dog, Curren$y Spitta (the only favorite I encountered as an adult), and the originator of hip hop/R&B soul, the GOAT Mary J. Blige.
 
I can’t forget my favorite DJs & producers: DJ P-Funk (the VUU resident DJ for my era at 1500 N. Lombardy – RIP my guy), Grandmaster Flash, Jam Master J (RIP), Erick Sermon, Ali Shaheed Muhammad, Doo Wop, DJ Clue (the GOAT of my high school era), Mr. Magic (RIP), RZA, Kool DJ Red Alert, Large Professor, Dr. Dre, Jay Dilla (RIP), DJ Premier, Marley Marl, Havoc, Pete Rock, DJ Quik, DJ S&S, Timbaland, the Neptunes, The Ummah, Q-Tip, Ron G., Doo Wop, Daz, DeVante Swing, Mr. West (we still love you – fuck what they say), Mr. 10, DJ Green, DJ Showtime and the newest on my favorite producer list – Hit-Boy.
 
Special shout out to my favorite b-boys and girls: Rocksteady Crew, New York City Breakers, and The Lockers (Los Angeles). The Lockers was Fred “Rerun” Berry’s crew. If you don’t know of Rerun, you don’t know what’s happening. Y’all like that pun? Yeah, you did.
 
Much love to all the aerosol art wizards: King Kase 2 (my personal GOAT; RIP), Skeme, Phase 2, Basquiat (bet y’all didn’t know he was a tagger -- #SAMO), and my guy, the incomparable Dez, better (later) known as DJ Kay Slay (RIP). Big ups to the movie Wild Style, the documentary Style Wars, and The Writers Bench on the 2 and 5 line @ 149th St. and Grand Concourse (#BXNYC). #ALLCITY
 
Beat Street and Krush Groove together have a unique place in my heart. My mommy took me to the theaters to see both. Yeah, she was absolutely, 100% hip hop (back then). I cried when Ramon (Ramo) died. The scene with the Fatboys crushing the Sbarro’s buffet to their song “All You Can Eat” will never escape my memory. If you know the movies there’s no need to explain which event happened in which movie. If you don’t, ask your mom, pop, or gma/gpa. RIP to Ramo and Shareon.
 
A unique set of shoutouts go out to the originator of the rap video show, the GOAT Ralph McDaniels of Video Music Box, the aforementioned Mr. Magic -- host of the first rap radio show titled “Rap Attack” on the former WHBI-NYC, the now defunct KDAY-LA -- the first all rap format radio station, and The Source, rap’s first exclusively hip hop-themed magazine (honorable mention to Word Up! and Vibe).
 
Most people think “Rapper’s Delight” by Englewood, NJ’s own Sugar Hill Gang was the first rap single. Technically, it was not. The first official rap song/single was “King Tim III (Personality Jock)“ by Fatback Band featuring Timothy Washington on rap vocals. It was released on 3.25.1979, half a year before “Rapper’s Delight” was released on 8.2.1979. Even though the former was well-received and charted (peaked at #26, R&B chart), the latter is far more famous and renowned. But I’m true to this shit. It’s imperative that Fatback Band and Timothy Washington receive their just due from me and the hip hop community. Salute to all ‘em. “Rapper’s Delight” blew the roof off the culture. We’ve been an open-air market ever since.
 
Salute to all the playgrounds, parks and clubs that made the culture what it is today. There are too many to name. Plus, I’ve never been to any of them. My only regret is not making a Sunday night appearance in The Tunnel. You got me on that one, Brandi.  
 
Salute to “fresh,” “word,” “dope,” “fly,” “phat,” “wavy” and all the other slang that hip hop introduced and were made staples in our culture.
 
Salute to the fly clothes, sneakers, hoodies, jackets, coats, hats, and boots hip hop made a staple in popular culture and fashion. Salute to Dapper Dan (IYKYK). Salute to Uptown Harlem.
 
“And just cool out, cool out and listen to H.E.R.”
Common
 
Y’all have no idea how many hours I spent playing sooooo many amazing albums front to back since Low End Theory (the first album I fell in love with). My high school friend Kristy said in tenth grade that you have to listen to an album in its natural order upon first listen. No skips. I agreed with her 30 years ago and I still agree with her to this day...and it sounds so nice, hip hop you’re the love of my life.
 
 
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: CRITICAL BEATDOWN
 
“If you ain’t nasty, don’t @ me.”
Brent Faiyaz
 
 
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: STD tests HAVE NOT gone out of style. Take your sexually active ass to the clinic or your private doctor and get some bloodwork done. This isn’t the ‘60s. There’s a lot of burning going on...and worse. I just got the complete A-Z done. Passed every test with a C+.
 
If you know my style, you know it’s finna be one of those. I feel good all over like Stephanie Mills in ’87. I came here to talk my shit. I’m finna be random AF. Please pardon the marijuana aroma, but my cologne would get a wink from Michelle Obama.
 
I wanted to stay away from politics this week. I wanted to keep it light-hearted. But there’s this one thing that scuffed my Nikes on the way to Happy-Go-Lucky Lane: the hate mail Fulton County (GA) District Attorney Fani Willis has received for the eminent indictments set to be charged to #45 for his “perfect” call and all the fuckery associated with him trying to steal the state of Georgia’s 16 electoral votes following the 2020 election. Unless you were in a coma from 1.5.2021 until two minutes ago, you already know what occurred, so I’ll spare the needless details. I’m strictly talking about some of the hate emails Sis. Willis has received from MAGA zealots regarding their disdain for having their god Donald Cheesy tRump endure a fourth case. Now that I think about it, this devil is more cased up than the entire State Property was that Friday night on Hot 97 in maybe ’04 when Young Chris had to give the phone interview by himself cuz like four of them nuccas were locked up at the time. But fatty has accomplished this feat by his lonely. Anyway, these hate spewing pilgrims are using n*gger in their emails like it’s one of the FAFSA or U.S. Census ethnicity bubbles to pencil in. An email. An email to an entire District Attorney. An email to a woman – a Black woman. Hate is a sad thing. Picture me being that upset if they attempted to lock a Dem president up for alleged criminal transgressions. Lololololol. ROTFL. CTFU. FOH. SMD. But then again, I’ve never purchased and flown a flag with a man’s last name and an inherently racist slogan on it, either. I don’t eat dick. If that last sentence made you feel sensitive, get the fuck up out of my blog.
 
I damn sure didn’t vote for tRump in 2020 (2016, either), so I obviously voted for Sleepy Joe. If it’s him and Fat Ass again, and it’s going to be, I’m likely voting for Old Man Biden again. I’m not a fan of either, but I’m not voting for a treasonous devil. I’m voting for the old-as-fuck white man with the questionable past regarding his views on my-skinned folk. And yes, I’m aware of his past quotes on the Senate floor, his vote and voice on the 1994 Crime Bill, and who his political mentor was. I’ll state the disclaimer that all this Hunter Biden bullshit hasn’t a leg to stand on. I’m more than acquainted with all of it. It may fall on the cokehead son if it can be proven that he used his dad’s name for financial gain and influence (it HAS NOT thus far), but Sleepy’s prints are nowhere on it. But, if by chance they are (they aren’t), I’ll sit on a federal grand jury and indict him. I’ll sit on a federal trial jury and convict his ass. I don’t give a flying 757 fuck about that man other than his capacity as Commander-in-Chief. You don’t have to agree with my politics, that’s your choice. I said what I said.
 
P.S. If my guy Dr. Cornel West is on the ballot in Jerz, I’ll probably vote for him because I’m in accord with more of his political views in comparison to Sleepy Joe and because Joe will win the state with relative ease regardless. I don’t fake, lie, or duck smoke, so I’ll say that if New Jersey were to be a toss-up, I’d have to go with Biden over Doc because it’s too risky to leave those electoral votes within tRump’s grasp. It’s political strategy. Politics makes strange bedfellows (pause if necessary) is the quote, I believe.
 
Now that I got that shit off my chest plate...let me light my shit up. I developed anxiety writing the last couple of paragraphs.
 
I just replied to a YouTube post with a pic of Phife and a question asking what his best verse was. Of course, “Scenario” and “Electric Relaxation” were mentioned heavily, but my choice is his verse on “God Lives Through.” He dominated that track AND that album, and, for absolute context, Tip was my favorite Quester from El Segundo on. But thinking about Phife no longer being here got me thinking about classic rap groups in addition to A Tribe Called Quest and all the brothers and sisters we’ve already lost. Here’s an off-top roll call with group names included for likely lesser-known rappers or groups (comment if I leave someone out): Cowboy (Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five), DJ Scott La Rock (Boogie Down Productions), Trouble T Roy (Heavy D & The Boyz), Jam Master Jay, Eazy-E, Professor X AND Sugar Shaft (X Clan), Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Prodigy, Bushwick Bill, Pimp C, DJ Easy Rock (Rob Base & DJ Easy Rock), Chris “Mack Daddy” Kelly (Kris Kross), Sean “Ruck” Price (Heltah Skeltah), DJ Subroc AND Zev Love X/MF DOOM (KMD), Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes (she has to be on this list), Big DS (Onyx), and Gangsta Boo (3-6 Mafia). Every man and woman, irrespective of the causes of their demise, perished relatively young. They all left indelible marks in their own unique way. Long live hip hop.
 
STOMPGOMERY, ALABAMA
 
Salute to all my beautiful Black sisters and brothers who came to the aid of our dock worker brother in distress down by the water in Montgomery, Alabama. The brother was simply doing his job yet got jumped by no less than seven white boys for his troubles. But guess what? Saturday was the wrong day for the bullshit. Salute to all my chocolate Alabamans down on that water who embodied “fuck around and find out” in 4K resolution for all non-believers. It was dark for like a good 20 seconds for that dock worker brother, but trust, the cavalry was on the MF way. And when the cavalry arrived, it got late early. Men AND women endured a thorough ass whooping in a true Pier-Six brawl. My first Co-MVP was Michael B. Phelps, the brother who swam across the waterway to Voltron with the rest of our kinfolk. That brother Aquaman’d up out that water, kicked one shoe off and kept stepping. The other obvious Co-MVP went to D-Von Dudley’s (IYKYK) first cousin Raheem Shabazz Dudley, the folding chair brother. I know an old-school ECW fan when I see one. Someone tell HHH dem to book Raheem Shabazz in the next Tables, Ladders & Chairs match. If he’s sitting still, someone shoot the GoFundMe information to my email. I’ve got some ones on his bail money.  
 
I try to keep things as tranquil as possible. But when it’s go time, it’s go time. I don’t harbor or carry prejudice around in 2023, but I am absolutely, unapologetically, 100% Black on both sides. My grandfather was raised in a segregated section of Tidewater, VA. He fought in a segregated Army in WWII. He instilled a vault of knowledge, awareness and pride within me. I ride and die for mine. You already know what MF time it is.
 
Kai Cenat, you’re a got damn clown. It’s only a matter of time before your antics and clout-chasing sends some lil nigga on the main line to the pearly gates. It got really crazy in Union Square the other day. Through the Lord’s mercy, no one lost her or his life. The irony is, that if one of the pigs would’ve eliminated one of those kids out there, the city would be on fire. Maybe the pig would’ve been wrong. Perhaps the kid would’ve been wrong. Who could say? But with absolute certainty, I can say that Cenat and his stooges would’ve been criminally wrong. These MF are still doing anything for clout. And these kids are dumber than ever. I’m not an old jerkface hating on the youth; I had my time. I pushed it all to the center of the table plenty of nights. I’m content. There are plenty of youngsters who are completely on point, about their business and aware of the time, both literally and figuratively. But there are way too many sheep. Imagine going down to 14th Street and dying in a riot over some PlayStation5 consoles that never were. Imagine having to live with being the cause of multiple casualties. Shit is always funny until it isn’t.


 
Salute to my guy Felipe on his 20th birthday. His party was yesterday. I was the only brother in the spot, but I was as comfortable as I was every session during our two years together. His stepdad (DAD dad) Wladimir is Brazilian, so I got to enjoy Brazilian-style meat (leave me alone, fuckers) rollouts. Steak, kielbasa and some other delicious sausage kept coming in waves. Felipe and mom are Colombian, so I got to enjoy all types of delicious Colombian dishes. I had a time and a half. Felipe, you are in my Top 5 favorite humans. I love you like you are my own. Thank you for allowing me to be a piece of your puzzle. When I make it to Capitol Hill to advocate for children with autism and special needs children alike, you’re coming to the Hill with me at least once. No IG posts or tweets. Just my guy standing tall with me. Life is good.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: NBA LIVE ‘95
 
“I know some goofies that want to scalp me (ouch). Wipe out my accounts, leave me needing mouth-to-mouth...”
Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones
 
 
Hot damn, hoe. Here we go again...
 
 
 
So...I’ve been working hard the past couple Mondays, on-time for the most part. I haven’t taken any excessive breaks in my time back. I’ve been on the clock full-time. It feels good to be back. It’s therapeutic. I’m up late with this one, but the thoughts are as lucid as can be. Go on ‘head and put a 1.5 or a 2 in that Wood, Fronto, paper or bong. Twirl that shit then light that shit then smoke that shit. Rip that shit. Don’t crash out. Keep the tree burning. We’re on one tonight. Now...can I talk my shit? Well alright then. Let’s get it (free my #eastside nigga Dep).
 
I am a master creator, an elite amongst the elite. I am one of the best craftsmen to ever unite the Pilot G2 with paper. I create thoughts that permeate the most rigid of brainwaves and soothe the voracious psyche. I am from the ilk of ancient griots or pedagogues from Timbuktu or Cush. So, in other words, what you should be deciphering from my vernacular is – they can’t fuck with me, not even on their best day. That would add +1 to the death rate. And who, exactly, is “they?” They are (is) any half-stepping, mumbo-jumbo, jive turkey, fish-eyed-fool somabitch who asserts that her/his pen can touch mine. Put us on the clock. Ask Fresh’s father what the result would be. By the way...Fresh’s dad is a damn good spokesperson, and he works for the low. I pay him in 40 ounces of Old English. I lost you at Fresh’s father if you’ve never seen the movie Fresh. Keep up, mother lovers. I’m in AMG Mode, you heard?
 
In the past 168 hours, we’ve seen and heard some shit. Nothing’s new under the sun. Magic 2, Nas’ 231st studio album is CRAZY...tRump’s in even deeper shit, it’s hotter than a motherfucker in most of America, Gunna is still a rat ass nigga for telling on the good brother Slime to them people – free that man, FREE THE MF WAVE TSUNAMI SURF (big Jerz), too, Ukraine is still getting Powerball + Mega Millions checks while the underserved in America are still getting the ass end of the stick, every damn thing in the grocery store is still higher than Marvin Gaye singing the national anthem at the 1983 NBA All-Star game (best ever, btw – yes, better than Whitney – RIP to boffum), gas prices are creeping up like DK Metcalf on Budda Baker on that INT return, Ron DeSantis is still a hoe ass pilgrim, Dr. William B. Allen is still a hoe ass nigga, Justice Alito strongly feels that Supreme Court justices are free to be scumbags with absolute impunity (he is also a hoe ass pilgrim), and one more thing...
 
THERE’S BEEN A COUP IN NIGER
 
President Mohamed Bazoum, elected in 2021, has been overthrown, according to Niger’s top military brass. Poor economic and social governance along with national security issues were the chief causes of the coup d’état. The regime change could spell a serious blow to the West (specifically France and the U.S.), who have strong ties to Niger. The West African nation is seen as a strategic country in the fight against Islamic terrorism (3 snooze emojis). You know, Al Qaeda dem. Word in the street is that those damn Russians may have fingerprints on this, but I’ll let you in on a secret: Russia has had ties with diverse African nations for a long time now. If y’all would read more about us, you’d know more about us. But anyway, the ties are both strategic as well as economic (of course). We shall see what happens. But something else happened last week...umm, let me see, damn, I can’t remember...oh yeah...
 
BUD BEAT SPENCE’S MF ASS!!!
 
I waited about a half-decade for last Saturday night. This fight was supposed to have happened years ago. But y’all know how boxing is when two prospective opponents have different promotions. We eventually had Mayweather/Pacquaio, but six or so years after it actually should have happened. Finally, we had Crawford/Spence. Spence took the first round on points. He threw more punches. But the trained eye could see that Bud was just lining him up. Bud picked up the intensity in the second round. He put him on his ass in the third for the first time in his career. Spence was lumped and bloody by the fourth. He felt the canvas a couple more times, the last time leading to the referee stopping the fight shortly thereafter in the sixth. In the words of the great, late Lawrence Peter “Yogi” Berra, it got late early. The card was well worth my $84.99. I AM NOT paying for the rematch in December. Who’s trying to get some wings and all that night?
 
I really want to go back to Vegas. No, y’all don’t get it. I REALLY want to go back to Vegas. But I checked my MGM Rewards last night and they were trying to front on me for the week leading up to Thanksgiving. I wasn’t even eligible for a stay at MGM Grand. I would have actually been good to go in The Signature. Now that I think about it, The Signature is a bit nicer than Grand. But I love MGM Grand. It’s MY spot. I’m loyal. I guess I’ll have to settle for The Signature. I’m finna start a GoFundMe for my November trip. No donation is too small, but I prefer a dub and up. It helps get to the goal faster. The goal? A smooth Andre Three Stacks should cover my expenses. I also take Cash App and Zelle. Holla at your boy. It’s thompsonty78@gmail.com for serious donation inquiries. I’m just playing. I’m just serious.
 
P.S. I could really use a 50-piece. Once that thang clears, this blog will from then on be sponsored by you, and you shall have your name on the blog in perpetuity.
 
Big ups to my lil bro CEO. He’s literally working harder than a one-legged NFL punter. He’s a man and a half. He’s always been there for me. I’ll always be there for him. I’m praying for our brother. Peace to Twin.
 
I’m out this bitch. It’s 01:03. It’s past my bedtime. I’m tied (tired if none of your folk are from down the way). I love you, Rhino. Peace to everyone out there getting to it every day. Oh yeah, y’all. I’m down 16 pounds. God is the greatest. Oh yeah. Peace to my 5-footer. We’re on our way to Platinum Ave. I just got the directions.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: THAT’S JUST HOW IT IS
 
“Adjust your pupils to see a dead bwoy walk.”
Tek of Smif-n- Wessun
 
Contrary to popular (my) belief, all Mondays ain’t Ty Mondays. I left the job early today. Yes. Yes, I did. I tipped my fat ass right TF on outta there. I took a head butt to the right eye/eye socket from one of our students ‘round high noon. Shit happens. I wasn’t concussed. I know because I have suffered a concussion in the past. I woulda stayed in the game if it were the playoffs. But it’s not. It’s summer league. I’ll see y’all bright and early tomorrow. I wonder if Amazon could deliver headgear and a mouthpiece before 19:00 tonight? My teeth aren’t as immaculate as the kid from Timmy Turner’s class, but they’re mine. I’m trying to keep it that way for as long as possible, you heard?
 
That’s 7:00 pm for those who don’t know how to subtract/add 12. I got y’all.
 
The show must go on. That’s word to my homie Nella.
 
In other news...I’ve been working my body out every (yes, every) day/night since 7.5. I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time. I’m extra motivated to keep it going. I have my reasons. I’ll share them in time. But I refuse to quit. As for eating, I’m doing much better than in the past. I eat a fruit (usually strawberries and/or bananas) every day. I take my Flintstone Kids vitamins because I’m amongst the ten million strong and growing. I’m doing better with portions. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had pizza (pain face emoji). I am not happy to report that, actually. I could be the fifth ninja turtle. But damn it, I’m working. I want to see where I am this time a year from now. I have a scale built for large humans. I know my weight up to the tenth of a pound. I’ll fill you in as I reach certain personal milestones.
 
The Fuckboy of the Week winner goes to...Dr. William B. Allen, a “longtime academic,” former chairman of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, and member of Florida’s African American History Standards Workgroup. His workgroup is responsible for the new Florida middle school curriculum (spearheaded by Gov. Ron DeSantis) that asserts that enslaved people benefited from slavery, developing “skills and aptitudes which served to their benefit, both while enslaved and after enslaved.” He has doubled down on his stance. I’m going to debunk his dumb intelligent ass in an Eastside Harlem minute. I’m also going to put on my Brother Khalid Abdul Muhammad beret and step on this spider monkey...at the same damn time.
 
I really wish A.G. Warren were alive for this one. I believe pop would say, “Doc, you can always count on an intelligent, dumb [CENSORED] to do a [CENSORED]’s job for him.” I concur, pop. Thanks for the alley. I’m a Aaron Gordon this one in spectacular fashion. I guess you feel good about your eloquent defense of your insidious curriculum, don’t you doc? I bet you and your “workgroup” have your crimson chins stuck out extra-long (pause, if necessary). You feel that marketable traits were learned during and after being a chattel slave? I have a two-edged sword of rebuttal sharpened for you, doc. A slave didn’t develop skills. Develop means “to cause to grow or expand.” I don’t see the enslaved as having grown or expanded, good brother. They were exploited, abused, and murdered. That meant growth, but only for the white man’s avarice and lust. The enslaved survived by doing what a slave master DEMANDED they do. So, tell me, doc...what about the slaves who didn’t “develop” the necessary skills and aptitudes? Were they released from employment that day and sent about their merry way? Or were they beaten incessantly, scarred, castrated, and lynched? And what were the incentives and rewards doc? Having our women raped? Being buck broken by sadistic slave masters? Having our families torn apart for profit? Let me know doc. And for part two...I’m sure you are also a great mathematician, doc. I have some simple math for you. If slavery ended with the Emancipation Proclamation on 1.3.1863 and officially with the subsequent 13th Amendment on 1.31.1865, how was a slave born during the first two CENTURIES of slavery able to benefit from said skills and aptitudes? Were they compensated financially? Were they given land? Did they die as free women and men? I rest my case. Go tongue kiss an eel, you worthless, watermelon patch dwelling, buck dancing coon. Fuck you, your workgroup, Ron DeSantis, and any motherfucker who agrees with any part of this fuckery.
 
In conclusion, I’ve mentioned this in a prior #MNR, but I’ll say it again. Irrespective of whether you are raising a Black baby in Duvall or Dade Counties, Fulton or Gwinnett Counties, Halifax or Henrico Counties, Bergen or Middlesex Counties, New York or Bronx Counties, or wherever. YOU SHOULD BE YOUR CHILD’S FIRST HISTORY TEACHER. It is paramount that you teach your child CONTEXTUAL history. NEVER leave it in the hands of your school system. That’s just common sense. Thank you, pop, for being my first history teacher. Much love and respect to the retired Jose Garrigo, formerly of the Englewood Public School System, for being the best educator of contextual history that I’ve ever learned from in my lifetime. For clarity, I was not his student. I was a one-to-one in his class one year.
 
I think I’ve said enough. I could go off on some other “You wanna know what scuffs my Nikes?” type of rant, but not tonight (Bernie Mac voice). Go ‘head on and marinate on that. I’m out through the back door, just out of the vision of the haters, tattletales, y la policia. Puercos coolitos.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG