Do We Need The Walking Mattresses of Georgia?

Hello, hell. You look a lot harsher than I ever imagined. Don’t get me we wrong: While I think the trailer of this show will prove to be all the rage on You Tube and World Star Hip Hop, I seriously doubt any network will order it to series. Then again, strangers things have happened. As have worse shows. Regardless of whether or not it does make it to the telly, one thing is certain: Similar pilots like will be shot. I find that quite horrific. However, I can’t be too pious about the matter because it’s people like me that are responsible for it happening.

I watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, The Real Housewives of New York, Mob Wives, Basketball Wives, Basketball Wives: Los Angeles, and Love & Hip Hop. I have seen several episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, The Real Housewives of D.C., The Real Housewives of Orange County, and The Bad Girls Club (which is awful). My Catholic guilt gene sometimes makes me feel sorry for things that I shouldn’t, but in this instance, I’m very much culpable. Even still, doesn’t The Mistresses of Atlanta sound trashier by comparison? Granted, mistress is a more appropriate title for many of the woman on the “wives” shows, but something about a show themed around infidelity hoe shit seems so…okay, fine, I’m not going to win this argument so I’ll move along.

From what I read, one of Drake’s ex-girlfriends is featured on The Walking Mattresses of Georgia. Just what the world needed: Another ex of Drake showing her ass on national television, potentially spurring more melodramatic lyrics from Droopy about the perils of fame. At this rate it won’t be long before The Real Cum Stains of Coke Rap is shot. After that, we can anticipate The Jezebels of Jig Music. Then once those two shows become huge successes, we’ll get the spin-off called The Jaws of Rap. No wait, it’ll be called Jocks & Jaws or Hoop Hoes. Whatever, this all makes me wonder whether I should retreat a bit on some of my viewing habits. I’m displeased that I even feel compelled to entertain such a question. I hate this new show already.

Now on a slightly unrelated matter, I’ve noticed quite a few criticism about the current direction of that Negro Telenovela now airing on BET. Many place blame at BET’s unpolished feet for the injection of various aspects of hood shit. Well, y’all need to quit it ’cause that’s not their fault. I have no reason to run to their defense, but those who make those allegations ought to look at their other original comedies and compare and contrast. If BET wanted to King Triton the crew at Sports Goes Soap to “color” up their show, they would have done the same to the other ones.

If anything, BET has become hypersensitive about past criticism and tries too hard to avoid doing anything that might cause the hair on the back of Jesse Jackson’s neck to stand. I hate it, because now I won’t ever find out why Rick Ross was smoking weed on camera (in this instance at least). I don’t give a damn if he’s getting high; just show a sad commercial of a crack head after with a stern warning. It’s probably more entertaining than a lot of these positively bad “positive” shows my remote control refuses to acknowledge.

I still don’t want to see On Call Asses of Atlanta, though. Nu uh. I have my limits. We all should.

Getting Laid

There’s a good an explanation for this lacefront, I swear. Before you dare even think it, no, it’s not mine, and please, I do not cross-dress. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that if you elect to make that one of your favorite pastimes. See what had happened was: I was kind of drinking a lot and doing hoodrat shit with my friends. After we gathered ’round the table to talk 2012 resolutions before a bountiful plate of some bomb ass nachos. Then while we made our way to the host, Mimi’s, bedroom to see its glorious transformation, I spotted the wig. Mimi, being the quintessential bad influence, told me, “Wanna try it on?” I was ambivalent and then she said, “Do it!” So I did.

I immediately thought of Funky Dineva and said, “My hair is layed” like Michael Jackson’s last years.” As soon as I threw that wig on I felt like I had been hit by a smooth criminal, ready to check on Annie’s little young pasty self and see if she was okay. I was named after the King of Pop, after all (my mama since claims that she named me after Saints Michael and Joseph, but my sister broke it down) so there’s nothing wrong with a delayed tribute. Well, besides dancing in the heat to “In The Closet” (for the record, Naomi snatched MJ’s thunder a whole bunch in the clip) on a public sidewalk.

Fresh says I look like Venus and Serena. I imagine if my mama saw this she’d say I looked more like a mortal sin. Or are those terms mutually exclusive? Kidding. Don’t wanna beef with Canada Dry or  Chicago’s Deepest Dish. I might as well be able to make fun of myself. The student loan corporations sure are doing it. Anyway, so feel free to point and laugh…now ’cause this shit will never happen again. Never. That is, unless someone offers me $20 million to do it. Or get me drunk enough. Then again, the economy might force me to go snatch Mimi’s wig from her place and make it do what it do.

I will never put on a bra, though. If I didn’t wear one when I actually needed it, I won’t be doing it now.

Now as I go debate whether or not I’m out of my mind for posting this, get into Funky Dineva, he who rocks that shit much, much better. My favorite clip is below the hood.

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Girl, Fall Through A Well

If you watch VH1′s Love & Hip Hop Rap & Relations, you saw Kimbella’s ass greet her old friend, the ground, once again following a track snatching themed brawl with one of her fellow reality personalities on the show. In Kim Vanderhee’s defense, she did precede that fall with a moving tribute to the fighting style (if you can call it that) of Evelyn Lozada. Her adversary this time was Erica Mena, another model who boasted of taking part in New York Fashion Week, hair care campaigns, and you know, other gigs that don’t involve ass cheeks and titty tantalizing. What’s that covering Kimbella’s light? Erica’s shade, of course.

While I’m not exactly Kimbella’s biggest fan given the way she opted to symbolically slap the taste out of Emily’s mouth with her sexual past (that includes Em’s baby daddy), this incident wasn’t her fault. She was being polite to that over eager beaver who came there with the sole intention of picking a fight with her as the cameras rolled. Then Emily had the nerve to call the laws after. To quote the great Pimp C, “You ain’t no pimp, you a fairy.”

If all of that weren’t bad enough, now this model turned aspiring singer is babbling to TMZ about how her appearance on The Real Housewives of Hip Hop has derailed her career. She told the site, ”My whole image in my career is now affected by this. I wanted them to pull this clip because I don’t want to show this side of me.”

This is the same person who shook her breasts in the face of another woman during a business meeting. The same person who picked a fight and proceeded to threaten the woman on camera. See a pattern here? I bet the producers of this show did when the first interviewed her in casting. I imagine Erica was proud of her stunt up until she looked at her mentions on Twitter and realized more people prefer her showing her ass in a thong over showing it via a fight with Juelz Santana’s lady. Oh well. Her bad.

You would think she’d know how to act by now. According to my own mentions on Twitter, Erica used to work as an “employee” of Dash on Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami. And my friend Google filled me in on some of her modeling work:

Word to the wise, Erica: Telling Kimbella you’re on a higher level than her because you got to lay on your back for King while Kimbella tooted it up for Black Men is like someone munching on dark meat from Church’s Chicken telling me I’m not worth shit for ordering wings and shrimp fried rice from the hood carryout a few blocks up.

If your aim was to transition into singing you should’ve went on this show acting like the person Olivia refuses to be. You either let the producers gas you up or you should really retrace your K-12 education and figure out where your critical thinking went wrong. Whatever the issue is, it is your own. This show’s ratchet levels were just fine without you. If you want to go, please. In fact, your segment could’ve gone to Somaya Reece, who I noticed is complaining about much of her footage being left on the cutting room floor. I can’t blame her. I would want to have my story of crawling out of the attic chronicled, too. Wepa! Or you know, whatever “gon’ girl” means in Spanish.

I Love You, Omar Lopez

Say hello to my first quasi-celebrity crush. Actually, that’s probably Will Smith, but Omar is the first person I saw on TV that I recall really doing his part to lend credence to the theory that girls are icky. That makes it more special, right? Why yes, yes it does.

Some of you might remember this image still from his appearance in TLC’s “Creep” video. Others might recognize him as one of Janet Jackson’s dancers. The one Damita Jo was fortunate enough to crotch grab in the “If” video, to be exact. If none of this rings a bell to you, that means you were born in the 1990s and are trying to make me feel like an old man versus the young-ish one that I am. Gon’ somewhere . Ye ain’t ’bout to make me feel bad, pimpin’.

Anyway, during that time both my sister and I had a crush on Omar. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was coveting him more than she was, but oh well.  This would be the perfect time to throw out the lyric “I may be young, but I’m ready,” but unfortunately since I was barely alive at the time of my first Omar sighting it would be inappropriate to do so. I guess. Shucks. I’m free to talk about it now, though.

Look at him. Meet my prototype. Is he not the perfect introduction to sin?

Mark my words: One day when I’m a regular on TV and promoting my projects I’m gonna show up in a t-shirt with an image of Omar Lopez from the janet. tour book on it. Don’t tell my mama that. I left that tour book back home and she’d probably drown it in holy water or old bacon grease to spite me. I’m kidding! Maybe. No matter because I’ll also pay tribute to him in the acknowledgements of my very first book: “I love you, Omar Lopez! Thank you  for sending me on my first mental field trip to gayland.” Or something to that effect.

Apparently, these days Omar is a yoga instructor in West Hollywood. Yes, I have thought about grabbing a yoga mat and stretching for serenity in his presence. Sadly, I have yet to go through with it due to fears that such a move would have me teetering on Courtney Love levels of crazy.

That’s too bad as I’ve seen recent pictures of him and he’s still fine. Damn fine, to be specific. Is there no one in this city that can’t push me directly in front of him? Heaven, I need a hug.

Oh well. I suppose I’ll always have “Throb.” And the “Creep” video (although it’s a shame T-Boz is standing in his light so much).

Now do not leave me hanging, readers. Instead of trying to email this post to the police, share some of your childhood crushes with me. Or, turn that video on, bow in the presence of greatness, and proceed to get your ass up and butterflying. For love.

Your Something New Is Starting To Sound A Little Old

Even though the show was obviously secured through her celebrity, Toni Braxton has very little to do with why I watch Braxton Family Values. Don’t get me wrong. I love me some Toni Braxton and will continue to sing off key to “How Many Ways,” “Love Shoulda Brought You Home,” and “Always” whenever the spirit calls. But as a reality personality Toni is kind of dry. She’s gotten better, though I think the root of the issue has to do with her feigning shyness on camera. As you can tell from this clip, that quality isn’t limited to just her reality show.

Bless her heart for pretending like her inner slut is some imaginary friend who suffered a tragic fate not unlike a victim on Law & Order: SVU, but I’ve seen Toni Braxton’s tits and ass on multiple occasions for at least a decade now. In fact, her fixation with cooing and coochie popping has a lot to do with why her music has suffered over the years. Who exactly is she fooling? Never mind, there’s a bigger problem found in her interview with Chelsea Handler.

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You Sent It Now Call Your Local CPS Office

I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t considered launching a new career as a deep fried idiot with asinine yet undeniably ass shaking spurring songs. Seriously, where do you think the name “Young Sinick” comes from? But as increasingly cynical as the radio makes me even I know that you can’t just throw out some bullshit and expect to pop off (at least not without a catchier hook). Or better yet, before you download your illegal copy of Garage Band to start your music career you should have a plan. In some people’s cases, that plan should involve a babysitter and nursery.

Then again, this girl seems more interested in shaming the other safe sex failure who impregnated her versus becoming the next, “Remember her? No? Oh. Damn.” That’s more concerning because it makes the video a glorified PSA for condoms and tragic irony instead of just so stupid song to make fun of. God Bless her and all that, but why is she looking into the camera as if she’s either trying to seduce the viewer with her come hither eyes and heavy belly or let King Triton know that it won’t be long before she controls the ocean? I suppose I’m behaving like a masochist if I ask why doesn’t she know that Uncle Sam handles taxes, not rejected Maury guests?

Naturally, after her remix she goes into a tangent about fucking with her ex’s phone, putting a knife to his throat, and threatening to key his car. She said that as if she was delivering the keynote address to a flock of geese. Imagine if her baby daddy cared enough to forward this to her future probation officer. I find her body roll for twins especially unfortunate given that check is probably going to look like the sum of the cheaper side of the Taco Bell menu. In other words, there will be two babies wondering what in the hell their trife parents got them into. But you know, good luck to her and shit.

As for that other song at the end: I was hoping it wasn’t real. Of course it is.

See. I wonder if it’s on iTunes. No, I don’t want you to check for me. Let’s just keep that a mystery while I revel in the genius of songs like, “Damn, Bitch My Feet Hurt” and inventions such as the morning after pill.

Try Again, Tami

I haven’t written about the Baby Mamas of Miami Beach since that one post back in 2010, but let’s just say I got over my initial skepticism of the show’s cast members enough to enjoy it for what it is: a glorious mess.  For the record, I don’t think these women are bringing down my race. Do they make women look bad? Maybe, but so do The Real Housewives of New Jersey, The Real Housewives of New York, and The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Every group has an embarrassing faction of itself acting a fool on reality TV — and I tend to watch too many of them do so. Sue me. On second thought, don’t. I’m not trying to end up like Tami Roman.

Speaking of Tami Roman, my post-Real World idea of her was nothing more than that drunk auntie who might be one or two swings away from needing an anger management course and or a 12-step program, but for the most part was okay. After the last episode of Basketball Wives, I’d like to change my description to Tami Roman is nothing more than Deebo with a period. She’s a bully. A loud and aging bully who will likely meet her Craig in a retirement villa. Actually, she’ll probably meet several of them there.

While people cheered Tami on as she mushed Meeka over in some nice Italian man’s club, I started to think how much of a sucker she is. I mean, you huff and you puff yet when you get a clear aim at somebody all you you do is mush them in the face when they turn their head to speak to someone else. Not that I’m advocating violence – I’m not – it’s just that if you’re going to act like you’re so tough, why fight like such a weakling?

Ye ain’t bad, Tami. Ye ain’t nothing. Achahoo…and shit.

Hell, I’m glad Meeka is suing you. Maybe it will teach you some decorum (not much or anything…you are on VH1). I don’t know why those two never got along anyway. They’re both pressed as hell to be popular with the other women on the show. Thirsty ass people ought to share the sippy cup.

Tami’s not ’bout that life, though, and obviously Meeka’s not about getting attacked when she turns to speak to the walking teapot that is Suzie Ketchum.

But we can go back and forth all day about Tami’s sucker moves. Actually, wait, let me get one more thing out: Notice that after Tami sucker mushed Meeka and lunged at her as if she wasn’t about to do anything but wait for security to pull her off, notice that Meeka had Tami’s upgraded weave (better than that stuff she got at the gas station while waiting on her order of Lo mein and for her kids to pump $5 on #10) and the head it was glued to in a headlock.

Yeah, Tami. You’re so bad. Don’t let anybody sit down next to you.

Okay, I’m done now.

I stumbled along this video yesterday and I’d like to make a public service announcement on behave of people who know better: Dumb and/or country ass black people, please stop assuming that turning on your “professional voice” magically hypnotizes folks into believing whatever bullshit you have to say.

In terms of reality TV, this seems to come from the NeNe Leakes guide to ass backwards thinking.

I’ve met plenty of people in my own life who fall in line with this dimwitted logic and I now worry if videos like these will only make more people fall for the trap.

Trying to sound smart while explaining your dumb ass behavior only makes you look worse. So please do us all a favor and cut the shit.

And for the record, Tami, if that suit actually went to trial, this stupid little speech you’re giving in this video   wouldn’t work. That nonsense about “burden of proof” is dense, too. Uh, you hit her. She didn’t provoke you. She turned her head and you mushed her. You also have a history of swinging at people in their seats. Sounding “fancy, huh” won’t negate any of that.

That said, gon’ book some club dates or hit Meeka on Twitter like, “Yeah, girl can you send me a DM ’cause I was trippin’” and save yourself some trouble. We saw you, girl, and you reminding us that you can read isn’t going to change any of that.

This message was brought to you by the Center of Negroes Who Need Y’all [redacted] To Quit.

Shut Up, Steffans

Karrine Steffans has a new book coming out in two months. It’s a book themed on a subject that’s a noted area of expertise: blow jobs. Excuse me, the title of her book is SatisFaction: Erotic Fantasies for the Advanced & Adventurous Couple. So: bougie blow jobs.

I’ve already made my disdain for Karrine quite clear, but it’s not because she’s uses what she got to get what she wants. I don’t know mind her being a literary example of Ronnie from The Players’ Club top hoe quote. If anything, I wish she’d stick to that script. It comes across as far more credible than anything else she’s tried on us. She can’t, though. Maybe it’s because she’s that in dire need of attention or perhaps she just felt like flipping on the Web cam instead of the cap on her bottle of happy pills the day she filmed this. Whatever her reason is for the back, back, forth and forth stance on selling sex, I find it incredibly annoying.

She’s already lied to Oprah (to her face!) while wearing hair that looked as if it were scalped off some dead woman’s poodle. She’s gonna get hers for that alone, so why not just own what you perpetuate in the meantime? Oh, because she’s getting older. Yeah, she is and I guess after her marriage failed (shocker) she realizes she wants to change some of her ways.

That is, if you actually believe her. I don’t. I guess since I used to believe in Santa Claus for like four years, I might as well play along with Santa Slut, too. Alright, let’s play. This one last time.

The habitual liar says, “I’m a writer, I write shit.”

And then says this about the book that made her a New York Times best-selling author: “It was all fabricated. I didn’t even name my books.”

As for all that media attention: “I don’t wanna be on TV. I want to be anonymous.”

Because: “Authors are supposed to anonymous.”

On the life of a writer: “We’re supposed to be sitting down, getting drunk, smoking opiates and writing some amazing shit. That’s what we all do.”

Wait, I can’t do this. She makes it so hard to play along.

Speak for yourself, oral slurpee.

Call me cynical, but people who stand in their bra and panties with a camera capturing her best side declaring that they don’t want to be famous coincidentally around the time of their next book release are hard to believe. Interestingly enough, had she not done all that promotional blitz and built her narrative around celebrity ejaculation around her truth-allergic mouth for the first book she’d probably not be all that successful a writer. Many folks have sex stories, but not everyone has them tied to a deposit slip. Even fewer of them have that slip signed by a superstar. Or whatever you call the rappers of yesterdecade who used to fawn over her tyrant tongue.

Fortunately for her, she lives in Los Angeles where delusional behavior and delusions of grandeur are considered positive personality traits (to other delusional people who think far too highly of themselves). But to those of us not sippin’ the Kool-Aid snorting the cool coke, she just sounds out of her mind. Then again, that could be her way of finally telling the truth.

Spotted at Miss Jia

YouTube Wives

Disclaimer: The video below contains lots and lots of cursing not to mention speech that will have you suddenly thinking about buckets of chicken.

Doesn’t this make you want to hug a copy of O magazine at the grocery store?

I blame Her Royal Crunkness, Fresh, for bringing this to my attention. I haven’t a clue as to who this girl is, but only a few minutes into watching the clip could I figure out her deal. Before you even ask, of course I didn’t watch all 13 minutes of her diatribe. In recent months I’ve had both an eye and ear infection. I’ve made a vow not to try my luck. Still, when things like this come my way I can’t help but comment — mainly because I know this video is the latest incarnation of a growing phenomenon.

As much as I try to avoid it, it’s hard to ignore the number of women who clearly have watched one too many episodes of Basketball Wives and Bad Girls Club with a green eye and subsequently embraced their inner copycat. That coupled with the collective obsession with fame (or at least infamy, which is same difference for many now), status and lives that mirror a cliche-ridden R&B/rap song explains why more people are choosing to stunt on their Web cam program for the entertainment of strangers versus having a phone conversation with whoever pissed them off. The latter option doesn’t make much sense to folks of this particular ilk anymore. I mean, nobody’s watching so what’s the point, right?

Seriously, see the description of this video:

Miss Hawaii discusses relationship with Duke University’s Kyrie Irving. Kyrie Irving and Miss Hawaii met on twitter and dated for a short time until Kyrie became too obsessed with her with harassing phone calls/text messages.

That’s actually a pretty succinct description. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was an audition tape for a reality show. Or if nothing else a ploy for more Twitter followers. She seems to place much value in that as she makes known that she has a bunch of ‘em. As a writer I totally understand so I don’t knock her for it. She does and says all the things many (but not me) do to get more of them, too. She’s calling herself a goon, showing off her bowling bowl size breasts, and quipping tried and true lines like the prostitute promoting, “I’m not showing my pussy to anybody unless you paying.”

And of course, she quotes Big Bird Evelyn Lozada. For her sake, I hope she’s flipping those followers into something that folds in her wallet. Then again, maybe not. The more “success stories” this sort of thing generates, the more likely it is to never ever stop.

I am well aware that I’m being a wee bit judgmental so I have to call myself out, too. Am I part of the problem for watching the reality shows that create spinoffs like this? It won’t make me stop checking out the shows, but I’ll at least know for future reference that as soon as the end credits roll my Catholic guilt needs to kick in. I’m asking in earnest. I enjoy Tami battle the temptation to snatch Evelyn’s wig on VH1, but I wouldn’t if the only camera around them was one hanging above a Dell computer. So y’all weigh in, but no matter how you feel do one more favor: Make sure you don’t send me the next episode of YouTube Wives.

Simpletons and Stilettos

I swear, if you made me a sandwich comprised of tuna fish left outside for three days topped with rabbit toe nails smashed in between two muddied pieces of bread I would still have the urge to vomit less than I do after watching this video.

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