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Dallas, I’m grateful for the buffoonery and jigs you have provided me over the last year and a half, but ya’ll have officially lost me — that is, until you come up with another dance in about six hours.

When someone told me via Twitter (shameless plug time: follow me) that there was a dance named after Keyshia Cole’s mama I anticipated something ignorant yet danceable. Unfortunately, this dance comes a little too close to how a crack head would operate.

Wait, no saying that is disrespectful to all of the crackheads I used to see get it on Georgia Avenue.

Ya’ll don’t understand: I really wanted to like it despite no longer being all that great a fan of Franky (I thought it was spelled “Frankie,” which sounds better to me, but whatever) herself. But this looks really ridiculous. For a second I wasn’t even sure if this dance was really a homage to Franky whatever her last name is.

This is me after viewing dude in the front and the rest of the members of Day 26 show off the Franky:

That is not how I normally react to ign’t southern dances. What’s going on, Dallas? Are kids out there reading all of a sudden and now find themselves too busy to dance?

Like Kiki77868, I thought:

i am liking dis song but who da hell is franky

is they talking bout keyshia cole mama, frankie lymons, somebody from they crew…i just need to know who da hell is franky

Because clearly drop it the flo’, pick it back up, vibrate ya hips make a n—- wanna… would not dance to this. Not even after her eleventh glass of Hennessy. To tell you the truth, I don’t like the song that much either.

Thankfully, Fresh shared a new video that’s officially my song for April:

Now isn’t that much better? This is exactly why Crunk + Disorderly is my very own Huffington Post.

I know some of you will never understand my love for bird calls and hoodrat anthems, but mark my words: They’re not dying.

Proof is below:

Even Halle Berry is doing the Halle Berry. See why I blog about this stuff now?

C’mon Dallas, I usually talk slick (I’m from Houston, you understand), but lately the Dallas boogie has been on it. Do better.

Sidenote: Ellen is one of my favorite people in the world. Who knew she keeps up with the hood dances?

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I think Master P’s kids deserve their very own entry as it’s a litter of them with names out of this world.

I’m at the point now where I can properly pronounce most of the ‘unique’ names of children even if I don’t know what the hell their name actually means. Such is the Case for Percy’s daughter, Cymphonique.

In addition to little Cymphonique – who on the site posted a video about wanting to be an “inspiring actress, dancer, and singer” (she’s 12, ya’ll — I give her a pass) – there are her brothers and sisters.

Like Lil’ King, the 8-year-old rap sensation who boasts lines like, “This young man, I’m #1/That means I come second to none/With a nick, nack, patty wack, send them haters home/My name is King and I’m coming for the thrown,” from his single, “Wiggy Wiggy.”

Not to be outdone, there’s another rapping brother named Vercy. He’s not to be confused with another Miller boy named Hercy. Or Veno, who sings.

Per Siyclone, I’ve learned the kids P. has with his wife include, Percy III (Lil’ Romeo), Vercy, and Hercey. The girls include Itali, Tytyana, and Intylyana.

The others are from another mother. They’re all promoted as triple threats, however.

Did ya’ll get all that?

Last week the homie texted me that he met a girl named LaTiffany. I’m sure most of us will agree when compared to Cymphonique and Intylyana, LaTiffany’s name might as well be Julie.

Edit: Per an anonymous commenter: “Lil’ King isn’t Cymphonique and Vernen’s (Veno) brother…thats their cousin…Lil’ King is Silkk’s son not Percy’s.”

I read one thing, two people tell me something different, and now something else. I’m confused about who’s child support check goes to whom, but I do know all those names are still ‘unique.’

Thanks for leaving this, though!

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There seems to be a growing number of people who are anticipating Kanye West to one day throw on a pink scarf and step out into a room full of reporters and announce that he’s gay. I’m not one of those people because I don’t believe Kanye West is gay.

I’m put off by how so many people assume he’s gay for some of the most stereotypical reasons.

OK, so he’s not walking around holding his nutsac all day like half the Black male population between the ages of 6-30.

Alright, he’s had moments where certain expressions, mannerism, or outburst are deemed “suspect” by the general population. This, however, makes no sense to me given the fact that hip-hop is both homophobic yet homoerotic – yes, I’m talking about you greased up rappers in jewelry telling another man to suck your dick. No one calls them gay, so why does one odd face make ‘Ye a homo?

We live in a world where Black fathers are largely absent in the upbringing of their male sons. You typically act like the people who raised you in one way or the other, so Black America, get used to it unless Black men start remembering that your parenting responsibilities don’t escape you as soon as you nut.

I don’t buy into these trite and extremely limiting gender roles anyway. I’m not saying should I have a son I’ll be taking him dress shopping at age six, but I’m not going to break out into convulsions if he gives someone the side-eye either.

I think what bothers me most of all about Kanye’s gay claims are that they’re now partially fueled by Kanye having the audacity to speak about gay people as if they’re not aliens or inherent heathens who will be burned in hell for all eternity.

Speaking about a human being as such shouldn’t warrant an untruthful association. It’s stupid and sophomoric and it makes it that much more difficult for tolerant Black men to speak about gay people as normal folk.

No one is going to want to openly speak out in defense of an isolated group if they fear it will lead to alienation from their own community and be detrimental to their career.

I will say, though, that I find Kanye’s ninetieth denial about being gay to be disappointing.

For someone who puts on airs that he’s so forward-thinking and recently asked people to show a little humility and tolerance, I find it odd that when denying rumors about his own sexuality he clings to the age-old stereotype about gay men.

His accusing those who accuse him of being gay of questioning his manhood is rooted in the notion that gay men aren’t “real men.”

If you are a man attracted to men you’re often tagged as effeminate, and thus, less of a man. This is why I often tell people homophobia is largely rooted in misogyny. Though we’ve collectively made some strides, society at large still hates women, and judges them as less than men. That’s why so many can’t stand gay men as being one is looked upon as yearning to be a woman.

Kanye’s blog entry buys into all of that nonsense, and only irritates me more – mainly because if we’re going by the logic of what traditionally makes a man a man ‘Ye ain’t but a few outfits and bitch fits away from being B. Scott’s sister.

This is a person admittedly with questionable choices in fashion and certain antics. Though I don’t personally think any of that suggests he’s a choker, not a poker, if we’re going by the idea that being gay strips one of their manhood, then what does dressing like one mean?

Particularly if this man is currently dating a woman who used to date a woman into men who pretend to look like women.

Like I said, I don’t think Kanye West is gay, but I’m really disappointed in him buying into a stereotype I thought he was helping to discredit.

Being the Louie Vuitton Don doesn’t make him gay, but that along with this statement sure makes him sound like a hypocrite.

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Last night I tried crab enchiladas. How fitting that I would wake up the next morning and be greeted with a video from a crab that was unfortunately not boiled a long time ago.

If you noticed, I haven’t talked much about politics on here lately. I like to mix it up when it comes to subject matter, and with politics being such a big interest of mine, it just made sense to incorporate some of that into the topics here. Lately, though, I’ve been turned off from the whole process.

I’m happy Obama won, but it seems corporations continue to be the big winners in the end, so there’s only so much I can say about heartless greedy execs getting over on Americans — and the politicians bought and sold who aid them.

But there are some things you can’t ignore.

I’ve been tempted before to mock Michael Steele and his campaign to “hip-hopize” the GOP, but I didn’t have the energy. However, the more this fool talks, the more I’m reminded of how much he irritates the hell out of me. I might as well get it out of my system.

This is a person who clearly likes to hear himself speak no matter how stupid he sounds — which is most of the time. He has a knack for embarrassing Black people, bald people, tall people, people named Michael — anyone that have some short of linkage to him no matter how minimal it may be.

When I think about the future of the Republican Party, laughter usually pours out as it’s clear if they think Michael Steele is going to lead them into the promise land they are sadly mistaken.

Now as far as his disdain for Obama: Jealous much? I don’t know what planet he lives on, but being the overlord for a fledging political party isn’t the same as running a nation — even if the nation in question is fledging itself.

As for his claims that Black people had no pride for him (which is what this all boils down to) when he ran for office in Maryland: That’s because the lying ass liar fronted as if he were running as a Democrat when he knew damn well he was a Republican. He tried to practically trick people into voting for him and came up short after people heard him open his mouth.

It’s not the people of Maryland’s fault that most would rather clean chitlins with their tongue than have you continue to represent them in government. Obama isn’t thinking about you any more than the people who didn’t vote for you are.

And this nonsense about there no being right or wrong side of history is exactly why I’ve never liked him. Yes, Michael person that needs a new name, there is a such thing as the wrong side of history. Examples include slavery, legal disenfranchisement of any kind, George W. Bush, and the day you started to head the RNC.

Go away and clean out of your office for Meghan McCain.

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You’re unlikely to find me often mention any place I’ve worked at on this blog as I am no fool. However, since the magazine is folding anyway, what the hell? Three and a half years ago I had two summer internships in New York. One was at Blender magazine.

I distinctively remember writing a cover letter that kicked off with references to Paula Abdul and MC Skat Kat. I wanted them to know that I was not only a fan of the magazine, but could easily follow the same snarky tone and wit that made them popular at the time.

Already scoring one internship for the summer, I had every intention to do just the one and work part-time to live in NY and not starve to death. Then sometime in March I got a call from a 212 number while in class and I immediately bolted out of the room to answer. I was called in for an interview with Blender and I was hella geeked. I really wanted to intern at a magazine and Blender was one of my top choices (if not the top choice at the time).

So, a few weeks later I was on the train headed to New York in my pank shirt and tie. Actually, I think it was a variation of pink. Like a hot pink, but not ugly — if that makes any sense. I don’t normally say this, but I looked nice, dammit. I wanted to look professional but not stiff, hence the bold color.

The train got stuck – on two occasions – for several minutes at a time. I believe we were stuck in between the NJ Transit stop and my final destination at Penn Station. I got so petrified while waiting. Fortunately, though I was almost an hour late, they understood as I called while on the train.

The interview went well and soon after I found out that I had been offered the internship.

When I got there, it wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be, but I certainly learned a lot. I think my fondest memory about my time with them was when I had the opportunity to assist at a photo shoot with Teairra Mari. This was the only time I did anything that would be considered the stereotypical intern duties.

I didn’t get coffee, but I was sent to fetch a dog collar for the killers on a leash Teairra was to hold as a part of her shoot. Oh, and I had to hand Teairra a Sprite — or something like that. Whatever, pet store and 7/11. There you go.

Before she got there, they needed someone to step in for the lightning. I was the only colored around, so guess who tested that out for Teairra? I wish I had the picture of me holding those dogs of death on me. It would’ve gone perfectly with this post. Yeah: My bad, yall.

I guess what I remembered most about it was how young Teairra was and how grown they were molding her. I had a to remind myself this girl was 17 when they had her vamped at as Vanity. And at the time, I noticed I had seen many of her handlers on TV or in some magazine — particularly Tracy Waples.

There they were these grown women with this young girl trying their hardest to make her some hood Lolita.

And then, a little bit before I left, I heard “No Daddy.” When her pimp stylist told me that was her second single in my head I was thinking, “Oh, it’s her last one, too.”

There was no way in hell that song was going to fly with the general public, but who was I, some lowly intern, to say anything to them.

My only other memories I have at Blender include my boss being annoyed that Michael Jackson was acquitted of child molestation charges, a senior editor calling me a Lamb (Mariah fans, you know), and that I briefly came across someone who would ultimately become the homie — Clover.

I don’t even have the specific issue on me, but I also wrote a tiny little blurb in Blender. Tiny yet meaningful.

I honestly haven’t picked up the magazine in years, but I’m a little sorry to hear that even more people are losing their jobs and that the publishing world is losing yet another major player. Who knows who’s next.

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What is the deal with YouTube? I can never find the right clip to capture the tone of my posts anymore.

My idea was to plug in a good scene from The Player’s Club then segue into the point of the entry, but since someone’s blocking over on the site, you’ll just have to play a good scene in your head and roll with it.

In these troubling times many people have thought, “Why not sell ass?” I hear it from my friends, spot in people’s Twitter statues (wait, is that the right term — whatever), and judging from MySpace, people seem to have been up on game.

I’ve been reading a lot of articles over the past couple of days and it seems strip clubs all across the country (even the corny states) are seeing a sea of potential p-poppers express interest in flashing ass for cash (thank you, 410).

To that end, I find myself thinking, “Times are hard and you need cash. Would it really be so bad if you showed some….”

Do me the huge favor of reading and commenting (that is, on the site of the page that is) on my most recent entry for my blog, “The Recession Diaries.”

Read it, love it (or not — that’s OK, too…kinda), tweet it, Facebook it, do all that and help the cause (keeping me from strolling the corner in Air Max’s).

The link to the entry in question can be accessed here. Thanks and such.

P.S. Thanks to everyone who left those nice comments in the previous post. I really appreciate it. Particularly at this very second as I sit in my computer trying to figure out if I can send a root through email. :\

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I’m not going to lie: I love the fact that my blog is getting more clicks even if it is from an entry on Ciara channeling her hole-in-the-wall stripper for attention.

I don’t even mind the hate mail. I usually respond to those messages with, “I hope you feel better now that you’ve released that.” and go about my day.

The only thing that sort of gets me is that people essentially sum up what I had to say with, “It’s a Beyonce stan ranting.” Eh, maybe next time I’ll bold the important parts.

I’ve noticed the recurring sentiment that Beyonce fans are idiots being expressed. These are primarily from people who act as if subject-verb agreements ought to be treated like the relationship between Rick Ross and 50 Cent. Not to mention many can’t read. Go figure.

Then there’s the whole “Beyonce steals, too.” Yeah, no shit. I’ve mentioned that quite a few times on here. Beyonce has contributed to the concept of originality about as much as a copy machine has. I’ve noticed. In fact, I wrote that in the post about Ciara, didn’t I?

Ciara’s copy cat bit was so blatant I couldn’t help but note it. That’s not my biggest gripe, though. I’m more so intrigued by how low she’s willing to stoop to succeed. I don’t care when people sell sex so long as they own it. I don’t believe Ciara and it seems desperate, and thus, irritating.

Before it got snatched down, I heard the clip of her song, “Feelin’ On My A!”

“Boy you better stop, while you feelin’ on my A!, feelin’ on my A!, feelin’ on my A!”

Really? If she decided to bend over backwards and show us her brazillian while she was still hot, I’d be more inclined to believe that the idea to be more overtly sexual was organic versus a contrived attempt to regain her spot. Yet she’s not so I don’t.

I bought her first album. One of the first reviews I ever wrote (on the collegiate level) was on Goodies. I enjoyed it. The second not so much. Now, I can’t tell who she is or what she’s trying to be.

It’s easier for people to focus on the notion of another stan war as it gives people the option to evade a legitimate argument: Every R&B singer is on a damn pole and soon they’ll all be on all fours.

Some people are a little upset that Justin Timberlake gets a constant pass in objectifying Black women. I saw the clip of Ciara calling Justin Timberlake her boytoy in the video, but I didn’t get that from the video. One of my female friends described it best: She looks like a video hoe in her own video. To that end, when it comes to the issue of Justin objectifying Black women, be more upset at the women who allowed themselves to be objectified.

Oh, and if you’re a newbie, welcome to The Cynical Ones. Spread the link as wide as Ciara spread her legs in the video. And do follow me on Twitter.


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This is exactly why I want to write a book called You Should’ve Be Spayed. One of these days someone’s going to have to muster up the balls to publicly declare that procreation should become a privilege, not a right. It didn’t take long for people to come up with songs themed around “Chris Browning a chick” in the “good, sexual” (that is, if you’re a sadist) sort of way. Now we have beat down themed fashion.

What’s next? Chris Brown boxing gloves? I myself am guilty of writing “Do I have to Chris Brown a bitch?” on this blog so maybe I ought to sign up for sensitivity classes with the makers of this shirt. I know in comedy there tends to be a little leeway in what one can make fun of, but perhaps some things simply need to be left alone.

Domestic violence is an example of such. The more I read about young people faulting Rihanna for her assault, or learning that so many kids think violence in a relationship is the norm, the more I realize that shirts like these and people like me making light of a serious situation need to be done away with.

I’ve written repeatedly about people needing to acknowledge how bad the situation is, yet I now see myself almost as guilty as some of the people I’ve criticized.

I say almost, because even I wouldn’t put ignorance of this degree to a beat.

I bought Barry White’s “Practice What You Preach” on cassette back when I was a kid (shut up in advance — that song knocked). If I could get the message when it’s coming from an overweight lover with a voice that could narrate a screw CD back then, I should have no problem getting it now.

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As I sit here digesting the whole pizza I just ate (it was flatbread and it had spinach on it — that makes it healthy, right?), I am so grateful to Pharrell.

See there: Those who can fit a small are willing to act up for some food just like members of the medium, large, and no-size-fits-you populations.

If you recall, he was a part of my shout out to the slim man crew last year, but after watching this clip he deserves his own post. He has provided living proof that a slim waist doesn’t mean you never yearn for the taste of a McNugget. Now some people – bougie people who act like they can’t eat mystery meat like the rest of us – are looking at this and going, “Well he ended up not getting anything, so I bet his skinny ass starved.”

That’s not the point. The point is Pharrell was willing to dance, sing, and act like he popped an x pill half an hour prior to arriving at the cash register just to get some a Filet-o-Fish. That is dedication, people.

Pharrell handles hunger much better than me, though. I remember a few years ago I damn near cursed out a friend over a chocolate Frosty. My friend told me they were good and worth trying. They were not and at the time I spent my entire break trying to get one. I ended up tossing that nasty chocolate crap in a cup and went back to work still hungry. I would’ve done better eating from the street meat vendors trying to pass off rat marinated in expired BBQ sauce as terayaki chicken.

I should’ve handled my disappointment the way Pharrell did — by annoying cashiers with an awkward Michael Jackson inspired dance routine.

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Despite writing about how sick I’ve grown of the word “swagger,” I think as long as I forgo the option of saying it every other second like some people, this feature can remain as is.

The premise of Ciara’s “Sex Love Magic” video is basically look at the kitty kat diva in her freakum dress getting bodied trying to be Justin Timberlake’s suga mama.

While I’m sure her intentions were to get me to focus on how sexy she is and forget how mediocre her material has been thus far, all I can think about after watching this is how much of a wack ass she is. This video looks like a tribute to the Beyonce anthology, and while Beyonce is not an originator by any stretch at least when she jacks something she makes it her own — which is what you’re supposed to do when you bite.

Wait, that bears repeating before anyone tries to drill that point home in the comments section:
Beyonce may bite, Alicia may steal, and Rihanna may have bought all of Fefe Dobson’s clothes at a garage sale, but they’re all much better actresses than Ciara.

All of them have sold sex (yes, even Alicia, too), but it never reeked of desperation.

Her fusing Beyonce’s video treatments with Madonna’s old hoe shit bit doesn’t seem like a woman embracing her new found sexuality. I think she looks like a prostitute trying to score a hit before her pimp puts her back on the street. I find her pathetic in every sense of the word.

She’s like that girl in high school that tried too hard that everyone ends up laughing at. I don’t doubt for a second that if every other popular singer out there shot videos of them in winter coats on the beach she’d toss on a Northface and proceed to do pull-ups on some monkey bars just to sweat a little more than the other girls out.

The interesting thing about her is that she’s doing everything antithetical to what made her relevant to begin with. In an attempt to appeal to a pop audience, she’s alienating the people who pushed her to platinum status. I would know, because I bought her first album. Then she came out with that pretentious evolution-themed album (who experiences that great an evolution in two years?) and her music went to shit.

Maybe if she focused on her music as much as she did her ever changing image and sound she wouldn’t be reduced to doggystyle positions and rubbing her ass cheeks on Justin Timberlake for a cheap hit. I thought this chick was supposed to be a great dancer anyway. How do you put Justin Timberlake in a video and not have any extensive choreography? Wasn’t her being some supposed great dancer what separated her from the other singers reduced to dip it, pop it, twirk it stop it dance routines?

Some feel I’m being too hard on her. I think the problem is I know Ciara had way more successful when she was seeking to give folks blue balls instead of full fledged hard-ons.

Far too many people rely on sex to sell forgetting one important fact: Thanks to the internet we can see hoes all day for free. In the end, she can get attention for this, and she’ll even score a modest hit for letting Justin the Negro career killer do the track, but what’s next?

Will she throw Lil’ Wayne on the next single and flash her lips in the video? Her Fantasy Ride is going to resemble that US Airways flight that landed in water.



Damn, homie.

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