As we sit on the cusp of history, instead of being able to revel in the moment and bask in knowing that on Tuesday this country may elect its first Black president, someone just had to go and remind us that there are some simple ass folks out there that need the black beaten off of them because they’re dragging the race down.

OK, so maybe it’s not that bad – but it’s close enough. Although I finally realized that he may actually have more brain activity than a stroke victim, I take back any comments that suggest that a barking dog doesn’t make more sense than Soulja Boy at any given ruff.

Clearly never learning anything beyond MySpace and Casio, here’s what the education-deficient sometime rapper, all the time dumb ass had to say when posed with a history question:

Then came Soulja Boy Tell Em. I asked him, “What historical figure do you most
hate?” He was stumped. I said, “Others have said Hitler, bin Laden, the slave
masters…” He said, “Oh wait! Hold up! Shout out to the slave masters! Without
them we’d still be in Africa.”

My jaw, at this point, was on the ground.
“We wouldn’t be here,” he continued, having no idea how far in it he’d stepped,
“to get this ice and tattoos.”

I know, I know. Me, too.

Damn those history books for not having a catchy hook and Kanye West for not creating a dance for “Diamonds from “Sierra Leone.”

It’s not enough that he talks like slavery ended a week ago and is bound to create a dance that requires only one foot; he had to go and shout out slavery. Who’s his father? Uncle Ruckus?

In some respects, I’m not sure why anyone would even ask Soulja Boy a question like that. You have to stick to questions he can understand. Like, “How many fingers is platinum?” or “What’s your least favorite STD?” Maybe even something like “Do you eat cabbage?”

Anything besides something that would require actual thinking.

Even still, I can’t believe that fool shouted out massa.

I know today is Halloween, but to me, there is nothing scarier than an a dense Black celebrity with the intellect of a long-time crack addict being allowed to speak to the media.

Let this ignorant, sophomoric embarrassment serve as a reminder of the importance of education…and swallowing.

I heard this song for the first time yesterday. I see much hasn’t changed. He’s still loud, and he still ‘rhymes’ like his tongue is trying to break free from his mouth. I don’t knock his hustle (just his grammar), but what the hell is this? It looks like they’re making fun of retarded kids. After I finally heard the single yesterday, I remembered I had planned on posting about this and then my computer up and committed suicide. I take it that was a sign. Maybe I’m getting old but I refuse to do any dance that suggests I just made an escape from the set of Chicken Little or the main fryer at Popeyes.

Speaking of Chicken:

I wouldn’t want Ahmad waving a wing and a vanilla flavored Black-n-Mild in my face at Chevron, so I won’t be doing the Arab money dance either. That dance looks like an invitation to get your ass shot. And for those Arabs playing along, they’ll get it, too.

Oh yeah, permission for East Coast snobs to ridicule the south for its ‘stupid dances’ revoked.

Although I think many people from every region would look at the stanky leg and feel the urge to sit down. This dance is actually kinda old but will you catch me doing it? Aye…aye….aye…hell nawl. I’m still very much too lanky for it. (I thought about it, though.)

Two seconds into Barack Obama’s infomercial I was bored out of my mind. Five minutes later I came to one conclusion: I can’t wait until this is over. Don’t get me wrong, it was well produced, but it reminds me of why I initially looked to him as the Mariah Carey of politics. That’s my mistake, though. He’s definitely not Mimi. All the overkill makes him more like Beyonce.

I LOVE politics, but this entire election has been draining. I cannot wait until the final ballot is cast and the results pour in. Frankly I’m tired of all of them. John McCain started getting on my nerves years ago when he started to take the place of Bush’s favorite horse, so his time has been up.

It didn’t take long for me to become equally annoyed by Sarah Palin and her 90 kids. That woman and her you betchas, doggone its, and overall bullshit are annoying. I have a feeling she’ll be back before you know it, so I want to enjoy my break from her while I can.

And last but not least, I’m tired of looking at Barack Obama, too. I never want to see his rhythm-deficient self try to dance again. It’s embarrassing to us lanky and slim (yet sessy) folks who can get it. Yes, he has delivered some incredible speeches, though I know I’m not alone in growing tired of hearing the same old talking points.

I’m tired of all four of them pretending to be regular people. I’m tired of all of their ads. I’m especially tired of getting emails every hour on the hour from the Obama people. It’s the political equivalent of a begging ass crackhead at the corner store.

Did anyone else watch this infomercial? Most of you probably didn’t have a choice. I don’t know about ya’ll, but it had nothing on the Proactiv infomercials if you ask me. I know the whole point of it was to convince nitwits that he’s not this big scary colored Muslim man that’s going to destroy America in the name of Allah and Fidel Castro, but where was the oomph?

When they were showing regular Americans struggling, they should have booked me. They could have watched me hit up editors for work, and put in time at the gym and the club as I train to become a stripper. A vote for Bush is a vote for channeling your inner Diamond.

Having said that, I still want ya’ll to vote for him to prove that it’s better to swagger jack Barney than Satan to win an election.

P.S. I was just kidding about the dancing. He can do a two-step at the inauguration…then stop forever.

I miss the days when a fan could watch a female rapper hit the stage, bend over (or not– hi, Queen Latifah), and curse like a sailor without worrying whether or not she was going to end up in jail for lying or being out of her rabbit ass mind.

I missed 95% of the BET Hip Hop Awards, but someone did catch me in time to check out the female rapper tribute during the replay on Sunday. Watching Coretta with Rage perform her one and only hit was dope, but my highlight was watching Yo-Yo. I didn’t realize just how much I loved Yo-Yo until I heard “You Can’t Play With My Yo-Yo” again.

When I wrote “The Why Chromosome,” I was feeling nostalgic and thinking about the days when hip-hop had a little bit more estrogen. And no, these male rappers spitting about designer clothes, wearing murses, and gossiping about each other online don’t count. None of them could carry Da Brat’s sac.

I think I’m just the type of person that likes balance. That and I’m tired of Foxy lying, Kim looking crazy, and Eve walking around with nothing to do. Besides, give Lil’ Mama and that Google girl that looks like MC Lyte Junior a chance. (Mike love the kids.)

In any event, enjoy the flashback and say it with me: Go Yo-Yo, go Yo-Yo, go.

I try to keep my knowledge of crooked pastors to a minimum, so I’ve never heard of Baltimore’s own Jamal Bryant. But after a quick chat with a friend and a read over at the Baltimore Sun I’ve learned Pastor Jamal has baby mama drama (with members of his congregation), a highly contested divorce, and a flock of 10,000 who help him earn [at least] $350,000 a year and maintain a multi-million dollar waterfront property.

I imagine his mounting wealth can be attributed to securing the checking account numbers of church goers who now look to God as their financial planner and church as Match.com. But, c’mon nah. You mean to tell me they can’t even see through this?

A sex writer and a pastor join forces to exploit lonely Black women, and no one has publicly called out the idea of an erotica writer sitting down with a pastor to talk about Biblical love? How gullible do you have to be to believe fall for this? Wait, who am I kidding. I’ll see a DVD of this on MLK in no time.

Ya’ll have fun with that. “How To Love A Black Man Bibilically” looks more like a summit on how to burn in hell. Different strokes (literally), though.


It looks like life linked up with time and decided to beat the shit out of Lauryn Hill. I used to think Lauryn was one of the most beautiful women in the world. Now she can’t even match up with the woman I saw riding a bike and drinking a 40 ounce up the street. What a pity.

If you look at Martha, yeah, she’s smiling, but she’s also holding her wallet with her other hand. I don’t blame her.

I’m happy Maxwell crawled out of his hole to start touring and may finally put out new music. I’ve never been a huge fan of his (he aight), but at least he can actually sing. These days I’ll take what I can get.

I’m actually more geeked about word coming out that D’Angelo has dropped the McRib and the McWeed and started training again. D’Angelo has always been one of my favorite vocalists and it’s good to know maybe, just maybe, he may finally decide to come back so long as he doesn’t get arrested again.

I actually gave up on the idea of Lauryn boarding the mothership and flying back to us, but I had a glimmer of hope once the other two ghosts of Christmas past decided to try a comeback. This picture just put a bullet in that wishful thinking. I don’t see it happening. Ever.

I don’t even care anymore. I only hope she finds peace of mind, a gift card from Ross, and Mr. Lee’s pity the next time she walks into the beauty supply store. Let us pray for peace and hair grease.

On a positive note, at least Lauryn’s 17 children look healthy and happy.

Though I personally wouldn’t touch her body with Uncle Ben’s dick, one can’t ignore the sexual swagger of Aretha Franklin. She may not be my type, but I know there plenty of people out there who like them big and thick filled with Bisquick. I ain’t mad at the chubby chasers who wouldn’t mind spending a week searching for her Mufusa. I ain’t mad.

Plus, I like Aretha’s version of “Touch My Body.” It says a lot when a woman who sounds like she can barely inhale besides gravy can out sing Mariah Carey on her own song. Still, let this video play over and over again in your mind until Sunday dinner.

Now somebody make me an MP3 of this and sent it on.

It’s that time again. Don’t pretend I’m alone when I say:

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And if you’re wondering if anything has changed since the first post like this, no, I’m still Bucky O’Hare. Eff you big teeth haters.

Just when you think you’ve figured out the certain bracket of crazy to place Terrence Howard in, he ups and changes the game.

Let’s play ten questions with the king of baby wipes:

1. Is that fool in a drum major’s uniform?

2. Why does he sound like Oscar the Grouch?

3. What song is that supposed to be again?

4. What is wrong with him?

5. Does he have nothing better to do?

6. Who invited him?

7. Was Don Cheadle busy?

8. Is this going to be in your head all day, too?

9. Am I the only one concerned the he walks the streets freely?

10. Can we trade him for Ed Norton?