In ya’ll ain’t shit, get out of the race news, one black woman is making headlines for doing her part to keep certain stereotypes about our cousins alive by beating the hell out of her 16-year-old daughter for not paying rent.

Indeed, police have accused 49-year-old Ranay Collins of knocking her daughter nearly unconscious with a cane. She’s also accused of slapping her across the face with an open hand and biting her breasts.

Yes, you read that correctly, this woman bit her own child in her breasts. Why did she treat her child as if she came with honey mustard and a strawberry soda?

Well, as she explained to police: “That bitch owes me $50.00 for rent.”

If you’re reading this from your phone, allow me to explain the cane swinger’s side of things.

She argues that her 16-year-old daughter is out of control. You know, the kind of bad ass teenager that allowed Sally Jesse Raphael to continue collecting checks long after the peak of her talk show. And apparently Bebe’s bastard has a violent streak of her own. She’s been accused of whooping up on her 66-year-old grandmother — scratching her face up and stomping her with her Timberlands.

That’s why Ranay warns, “I’m going to kill that bitch. Next time you come that bitch is leaving in a body bag.”

Oh, it gets better.

Ranay says she never wanted to be a mother (I guess that answers why she never raised her own child) and that her cane swings were the result of tough love. I’m not sure how one can truly show signs of love to someone they obviously didn’t want, but I digress.

Ranay also seems to follow the Saudi Arabian guidebook to dealing with crime.

Via ABC-13 (Las Vegas, these are your people):

“I put my cigarettes in my freezer. One day two packs is missing. I asked her about it. The next day all of mine are gone,” Collins went on to say.

On top of everything, this woman is dating Mr. Newport and/or Joe Camel.

Naturally, Ranay doesn’t think she deserves to be charged.

“She’s a trifling girl,” Collins added. “I said, Brittany you what, just like god punishes me, you’re gunna get punished.”

Now do you all see why I want to launch a national campaign to develop sterilization spray?

Well, Mrs. Plies, I suggest you floss in advance that way you can suck your teeth for the next few minutes without finding any surprises.

What in the I miss MC Hammer hell is this? Who says things like, “I want to turn you into a spoiled brat?” And not just an occasional spoiled brat, Plies wants to turn his lucky lady into one “sebum dayz ah weak.” Why is he talking like that? Negro, we know you just started a college fund. Quit fronting.

Only 23 seconds into this video I’m tempted to turn it off. But I suppose I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

Wrong! It gets worse.

Soon after Plies is possessed by the spirit of Ja Rule because he starts singing like the swamp remix version of the Harlem Boys Choir. Rappers want to sing. Singers want to rap. Why can’t anyone stick to what they’re barely tolerable at anymore?

Then come the trite lyrics for a song we’ve already heard a million times before. You know, one of those tracks “for the ladies” that inspires a bunch of women to continue to throw out their coochie for commerce with the hopes that one day some man with enough clout to get on a gossip blog can scoop them off their feet and send them regular child support checks before dropping their ass back on the ground.

Or as Plies sells it buying you fancy clothes, big jewelry, and sending you tickets to places most people can’t even pronounce.

Because you can have whatever you like. Say, you can have whatever you like.

As big a fan I am of T.I. I hated that song, too.

Although most rappers end up living off of Red Lobster’s cheddar biscuits once they spend their heavily garnished royalty checks on their car lease, their jewelry rentals, and multiple two-piece combos for their crews.

Are people not tired of being sold this ridiculous fantasy?

I guess not because I saw a lot of comments focused on how catchy the song is, how they can’t wait to lead a similar lifestyle and how attractive they find Plies to be.

It would be mean of me to wish for Mother Goose to scramble their eggs so I’ll just say bless your heart and your deductive reasoning.

In sum, I hate the song, hate the message, seen the video 120 times in the last five years already, and would love it if the world took a moratorium on trick anthems.

Only a week ago was I reflecting on fond memories about old Cash Money concerts, particularly the Ruff Ryders/Cash Money joint tour.

At the time, I was still really really trying to convince my penis that it could enjoy the taste of Starkist over the rainbow. The Cash Money crew assisted in these efforts by bringing out random women with no self-respect to hop on stage and shake their ass for free. If you’re wondering, yes, had they at least been shaking ass for money to pay the tax man I would be way more understanding.

In any event, based on those old tours I thought I had seen it wall — including vaginas with walls reminiscent of the one in Berlin.

Clearly, I am mistaken.

Never have I ever seen a mother-daughter coochie pop combo on stage. I can’t say that I’m surprised that it took place in my hometown. It’s even less surprising that Too Short is serving us this generational heaux off.

Considering that only a couple of days ago was I dancing to this same song in my car tipsy in Vegas (I was celebrating my birthday, I was within my right) I don’t knock the song selection. However, couldn’t they have saved this for a more appropriate event? Say an after Christmas dinner dance?

I mean, I’ve gotten my auntie’s to jig to Beyonce after we finished celebrating Indian murders and Jesus’ birthday, but I definitely held back on some of my routine. For example: When I want to swing under a rail and then drop to the ground I save that for the club and “Gimme More.”

Not with my people on camera.

I’ll be damned if you ever see me doing a dick dance with my pops on stage.

And you know what, even if Mama Sinick can secretly get low I don’t want to know that. That’s just wrong. Let’s keep our p-popping, separate.

Or maybe I’m being prudish. That’s fine, I’ll be that because these two look like a Maury episode waiting to happen. If your mama will try to out twirk you on stage, she’s probably not above trying to out sex your man.

Watch your back, daughter. Mama’s knees make me suspicious. As does letting Too Short call her own child a bitch and saying if he were her step-daddy he’d fuck her. Sounds like a former PTA president if you ask me.

We need to have a publicist drive. There are clearly too many sad individuals in the world suffering because of the shortage of legitimate image handlers. You would think with all of the money she made off my niece and her other Disney watching friends that this Cheetah Girl would have better people around her.

It’s bad enough she released that date rape leads to great sex song. Then she had the nerve to release a video for it and now come out with a bunch of excuses that make not a lick of sense. I don’t believe anything she’s saying, but I will advise one thing: Pick one lie and stay with it.

In the video she’s saying all songs don’t need a “message.” Or as she put it, “Sometimes a song can just be, ‘I kissed a girl and I liked it.’” Uh, and your song is I was face down, ass up after getting drunk and I’m not sure if we used a condom or not. Don’t be mad we’re calling hoe shit, hoe shit. If you want to show us something film the remix at the free clinic and splat those negative test results in front of the camera. Or the prescription the doctor gave you.

Whatever you do is your call, but don’t act like we’re making something out of nothing.

But wait in the video she’s saying it’s no big deal but in a previous statement argued that there was a message behind the song:

“I am an actor and performer. I have been so since my first role in a television pilot at five years old. I played a character when I was a “Cheetah Girl.” I am playing a character in the music video for the song “Spectacular,” as I did in the “Cheetah Girl” movies. The fact is, that sometimes women get intoxicated and have unprotected sex. My video puts this issue front and center. It is absurd to infer or suggest that I am condoning this behavior. Are Lady Gaga and Beyonce advocating murder with the “Telephone” video? Of, course not. Was Rihanna encouraging suicide with “Russian Roulette?” No. Was Madonna suggesting that young unmarried girls get pregnant with “Papa Don’t Preach?” I don’t think so. Is Academy Award winner Monique a proponent of incest because of her portrayal of Mary in the movie ‘Precious.’ Clearly, the answer is no. I wrote “Spectacular” and made the video to bring attention to a serious women’s health and safety issue. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Pull out your super soakers and spray her. After that, look into launching an investigation into whether or not Disney really employs tutors on their sets.

So is this song a PSA, a cry for help, or just a song about random acts of sluttiness? All of the above according to the clip and comment. I’m not entirely sure how one would gather that this song really paints the subject matter at hand in a negative light.

All she’s saying is “the sex was spectacular.” How would one take that as a cautionary tale? If she were genuinely trying to get people talking about personal responsibility, we would’ve heard her moan, “The sex was spectacular…but now my vagina is enflamed.” Or show her buying a box of condoms at the end. Or again, calling the police because it sure sounds like he raped her in the song.

We don’t need your after school special inspired message, Keily. We got it all the first time. You were p-popping for publicity.

Now I hoped we all learned something about the dangers of talking when you’re face down, ass up.

There are some people out there willing to stand tall, go against groupthink (thank you, Erykah Badu, for giving Twitter and the blog world another term to beat to death) and say, “Fuck common sense! I’m going to say whatever the hell I want no matter how crazy I sound.”

Khia no doubt is one of those people.Khia doesn’t care about whether or not she sounds delusional. In fact, she goes one step further and actually dares to believe all of the crazy talk that comes out of her mouth. She is a hero to all of the batshit crazy people out there who refuse to take their medication.

At the same time, though, every now and then she’s able to articulate a point that actually makes a bit of sense. Such is the case for her comments on Nicki Minaj. Nicki is definitely an actress so while I don’t agree with Khia’s overall point, I do get where she’s coming from. I disagree that one has to be hood to be authentic, but I get it.

However, she’s questioning Nicki’s influence on young girls but this video clip begins with her promoting polygamy for rich people. She said, “When you have that type of money you can have as many wives as you like.” If that’s the case, why is Khia not snatching the cat back from Wayne and mailing it to Mitt Romney? He’s richer than Wayne (well, depending on how big a refund he got for spending so much on that failed presidential bid) and his religion approves of the lifestyle.

Oh wait, Mormons don’t like the colored folk, huh? Nevermind, Khia.

Seriously, though, is that where we are now? I noticed she follows the Steve Urkel guide to love when it comes to pursuing Wayne. She can believe Wayne loves her all she wants, but can she not be on the radio talking about how it’s OK to be some man’s madame for money? She says in the hood you frown upon hoes, but a few minutes prior she boasts of the beauty in being a man’s extra bride for cash.

If we’re talking about selling souls how is settling for a big house and nice things at the expense of a monogamous relationship that big a difference from getting ass injections for attention…that likely leads to getting nicer things?

Or should I be screamed at for actually trying to make sense of something Khia said?

Though I read the name “Kat Stacks” a few times last week, I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. However, now that I’ve seen this video I can say it no longer matters what the previous definition of “Kat Stacks” was. I think we can all agree that “Kat Stacks” should be the name of the next newly discovered STD.

I don’t knock Karrine Steffans hustle in theory (or do I?), but dammit if it I don’t hate how she’s inspired so many would be sequels to her heaux-shit empire.

This girl – who actually looks like the shim who had to tape himself down on Top Model – is one of those unfortunate souls who seeks social status via sex with famous rappers. Or in her case, famous rappers and their sidekicks.

I know it’s hard to make out what she’s saying given she speaks English about as well as a deaf person from Guadalajara, but Kat Stacks is complaining about the lack of stacks members of Young Money have. She’s surprised that rappers most people can’t name aren’t rolling in dough. She’s mortified to discover that Gudda Gudda, Mack Maine, and others are totally living off Lil’ Wayne. In his house, eating his food, and like…acting like a member of most rapper entourages. Bless her heart for shedding light on the obvious.

Now while Ms. Stack My Chip Crumbs with My Vadge obviously didn’t strike gold with the hip-hop paupers, as she makes it known she did get some money after spreading them wide for rap’s male answer to the Octomom.

Or as she eloquently put it:

“Yes, bitch, I been to Lil’ Wayne’s crib. I been fucked that nigga, that nigga gave me twelve hundred muthafucking dollars, hoe.”

Did ya’ll catch that part? Bitch she got $1200 out of a multi-millionaire, hoe!

I bet you’re seeping with jealousy. That or you’re spraying your screen with Lysol. Hopefully a few of those dollars goes to the good people who created Hooked on Phonics.

Or perhaps a good attorney given there seems to be some legal issues surrounding one of her many conquests. Anytime you have to say you checked someone’s ID before you smashed chances are you had no business being with them anyway. Learn from Mary Kay Letourneau, Kay Stacks.

I wish I understood why male celebrities deal with simple groupies like her. I mean, I know what head they’re thinking with, but there has to be plenty of women with enough sense to play a game of duck duck goose without getting confused out there, right?

Oh, and if you have any fears that I might potentially take a sharp object to my wrist over this girl claiming she has a book on the horizon, fret not. She said:  ”I’m getting a lot of book deals and movie deals.”

The closet she’s going to get to a book deal is an image in a new pamphlet at her local free clinic. As for that movie deal, thanks to Flip Cam we can all be movie stars, now can’t we?

Say a prayer for this girl and all those who will surely follow her footsteps and infection rate.

Unfortunately, because of the day jobs I’ve had to talk far more about sideline hoes than I’d like to. Even sadder is my observation that more and more people have become more accepting of their positions as backup ass. And then I stumble along this video clip, which makes me want to reach out and spray myself with a can of Lysol.

Yet as much as I want to roast these women for using the Bible to perpetuate the status quo of the sideshow heaux, I have to acknowledge: Uh, she kind of has a point.

It’s another glowing example of how the Bible can be used to vilify one thing (people like me) and celebrate another (hoe shit).

Of course, at the time those scriptures were written the Earth was still flat and there was no Internet. Quite frankly, anything that happens before the Internet only matters so much to me. This is a glowing example of why.

These women are using scripture and science to pacify the cheating man. Clearly, somebody’s daddy didn’t hug them enough. Nor did anybody’s mama say, “You know, you can do better than him.”

It’s a cop out plain and simple. I also find it strangely ironic that these women are using religion to justify their sexual activity. Sexual activity they shouldn’t be having because as I recall, Christianity forbids premarital humping, no?

Same for masturbation, oral sex, anal sex, or any of those fancy sexual positions the heathens keep raving about. Don’t let me catch one of these girls in the club singing Shawnna.

Regardless of whether or not it’s Biblical to be a bullshitting cheater, why haven’t any of these yaki-down girls chirp, “Hey, what about that AIDS?” Solomon seemingly didn’t have it back then (I’m assuming), but let him live in 2010 with all of those wives and I bet his herpes bumps would be as big as Natalie Nunn’s chin. And I guarantee t his T-cell count would be lower than a Bravo housewife’s credit score.

For all of you out there that pray, can you drop one down to these girls? They need it. So much that I’ll be sending God a BBM after I finish this post.

Speaking of people who need help, can we please turn off the mics of these Tiger Woods girls? I don’t care anymore, hookers. I didn’t really care that much the first time all 92 of you jumped onto the scene to spread the news of you spreading your legs to a married man. The next one that opens their mouths needs a quick swing from Elin. I bet that would shut them up.

Or maybe not as evidenced by the interview John Edwards’ sidepiece gave GQ. The mistress who doesn’t like to be called what she is had the nerve to constantly bring up the word “divine” in an article themed around a woman blowing some man who is married to a woman dying from cancer.

Really, really classy. There’s a crab-infested toilet waiting for you in hell, Rielle Hunter.

I can tolerate people bigging up strippers who went from the poles to the streets of Paris, but I cannot take these women who are nothing more cum buckets having the gall to use religion to excuse themselves. If you’re messing with someone who is attached to someone else, you’re wrong. The natural urge excuse can only go so far. I can’t help it if I’m pro peen but I can control how I behave around them (as in being a hoe, not switching back to something I never was). Same for these women.

Get a life, get a check up, and then go find a man of your own.

As for the men who consistently cheat, you better learn or your toilet bowl is going to think your penis is an Usher song.

Do you want a bigger booty the caption of this video clip asks? Are you tired of your life being described as, “Boys don’t make passes at girls with flat asses?” If so, the makers of Dime Curve Buttocks enhancement have the “solution” for you.

And by solution, I mean something that just may turn your ass cheeks green and lopsided.

I saw a link for this clip in my comments section. Apparently my spam blocker has its limits. No matter, because this is just the type of foolery to start your day off right (or greet you in the afternoon – I am West Coast based now, ya’ll).

Be sure to watch the clip because I want somebody’s off brand medical expertise to enlighten me.

According to this fauxmercial, you buy their magic pill and – bam – soon you’ll be able to use the phrase “chew this ass” and not be met with obnoxious laughter.

How does that work?

Is their cornbread in that mixture?

Better yet after you stop using this “medicine” what happens to your two fuller frames? Does your ass just deflate the day at your strip club try out?

Wouldn’t that be tragic?

As you can see my questions grow almost as fast as your ass is supposed to if you use this product.

I can’t say that I completely fault anyone for wanting to boost the booty. These days it’s so necessary. Still, I have a hard time believing a magic pill is the answer.

Or essentially buying your cakes a push-up bra. I keep seeing this commercial and I’m more dumbfounded each time. I suppose this is much safer than using a turkey baster full of Crisco like the trannies and project chicks, but c’mon nah.

Ya’ll are making me nervous. Who should I blame for this? Nicki Minaj? Amber Rose? Omarion? I can’t say that I’m a breast man unless it’s on a heated wheat bun with shredded lettuce, mustard, and maybe cheese (I’m lactose intolerant, I have my limits) so I get the power of the b-o-o-t-y, but like I said this all seems “interesting.”

If any reader here has bought or plans to purchase this please share your story. I promise I’m not using you the crash test dummy of ass answers. I’m just curious is all.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the Stairmaster and think of some ways to make money off folks.

In I don’t want to call you a name, but…news please check out your cousin who’s likely having the best week ever because she partied with Captain Caveman (from this day forward that is Drake’s new nickname ’round here) and got photographed performing a trick.

This girl could be somebody’s mama, somebody’s church usher, somebody’s favorite client at the beauty shop. Good for her, but that doesn’t change the fact that she looks the fool for clowning with a condom. Clearly, she’s a blowing behemoth so while I’m not going to throw shade at the  lips women with that hair color naturally pay for, I will say something about this picture doesn’t sit right by me.

Why would you blow a condom like a balloon? Why would you be photographed doing it?

No, really, why would you do any of that?

This picture was taken in Houston, so as I native I take full responsibility for this and her hair color, which some people like my friend, Whitney, swear is a Houston staple (although I might buy my mama her first weave — a jet black Malaysian ponytail for Christmas).

In all seriousness, Black folks comprise just 12 percent of the U.S. population but account for 46 percent of the country’s citizens living with HIV. And there’s new research that says Black females continue to have a higher rate of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) than any other racial or ethnic group.

And FYI:

Gonorrhea rates among blacks were higher than any other racial or ethnic group and 20 times higher than among whites. While blacks represent 12 percent of the U.S. population, they accounted for about 71 percent of reported gonorrhea cases, 48 percent of chlamydia cases, and 49 percent of syphilis cases.

Black females aged 15 to 19 had the highest rates of chlamydia and gonorrhea (10,513 per 100,000 and 2,934 per 100,000, respectively), followed by black women aged 20 to 24 (9,373 per 100,000 and 2,770 per 100,000, respectively).

I started itching just reading that.

So my point is that picture may have been made in jest, but at the very least, I wish someone would have added a caption like, “If you’re going to put a condom around your mouth…make sure a penis is attached to it. Safe sex!”

Or something pro safe-sex, you know. You see how I’m matching wit with informative prose, right? They can do it, too.

So many people are getting knocked up, setting toilet bowls on fire, and making their bodies go “bump, bump, bump.” It’s disturbing and we have to start being a bit more proactive and honest about sex ed.

OK, that’s my PSA for day. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go watch the video for “Video Phone” again.

Disclaimer: Song is not safe for work. Or brain cells. Proceed with caution and headphones if on the job.

As soon as I hear the beat of this song I instantly get the urge to get up, twirk, and shake what my mama didn’t give me but the Stairmaster helped provide.

This song, like many of the songs I like to dance to, is full of all types of wrong. It’s materialistic and if judging by the bird standard set prior, should probably come with a side of Cajun fries and a buttery biscuit. Of course, these traits tend to make me like a song even more.

I know, I know: Why would I like a song called “Independent Bitches?” I’m a sucker for a beat and a hot hook, ya’ll. I’m not perfect.

But as I give the song a few additional listens (because of course one jig is not enough) I started paying more attention to some of the lines.

“Ricky Bobby, Stanky Legg, Jig Get It Big…”

Alright, I’m with you. That line could go in my official bio.

“My man ain’t here, got a babysitter for my kids…”

Shout out to your cousin for helping the club cause.

“The oils on my eyes, Gucci on my body, shoes is a fool I do a Roberto Cavalli…”

If you like it, I love it, though I wonder if you’re a renter or owner.

“I’m with the gutter mamis, we looking at the brothers like, ‘Why the hell is all these niggas dancing with each other?’”

At this point I’m wondering did she show up to the club on gay night. Babysitters don’t give refunds. But, Candi Red makes her opinions very clear:

“In 2009 that nigga ain’t my man if he rocking a purse and wear the same size pants.”

At this point my reaction was, “She ain’t talking ‘bout me.” I mean, it’s not like I’m walking around like this every day:

At the same time, the song is called “Independent Bitches.” I’m a grown ass man enjoying a song called “Independent Bitches.” Chances are she would likely lump me into that category regardless of whether or not I walk like my wrist just suffered a stroke.

Then it hit me: Oh shit, I sound like black women from circa 1991 to now.

Ya’ll know what I mean. When the word bitch suddenly became the only acceptable way to identify someone with a vagina. And then lyrics that talked about sex in the most vile and vulgar of ways flew as fast from the lips of women as  “I’m Every Woman.”

Damn, I am becoming one of them, aren’t I?

“These lame ass niggas independent bitches, too. They get on the flo’ more than independent bitches do. These new breed niggas make me wonder, fag you want my digits but that ain’t my number.”

And as it were with women supporting so many of these rappers, “Independent Bitches” is the sort of song gay men will gravitate to. Well, a certain type of gay man anyway. The type of gay man that likely wouldn’t ask for her number, but that’s not the point.

So for a second, I debated whether or not I’m supposed to stop listening to the song. The beat is so catchy, though. You listened to the beat. Did you not want to jig?! What to do?

She clearly has a point of view about gay men. Yet, she also seems to have a certain view about herself as a woman. She calls herself a bitch boastfully so evidently she’s bought into a mindset men created and instead of challenging it has passed it on to a group arguably viewed similarly like women.

But, wait, wait, wait. The song is called “Independent Bitches” by a woman who calls herself Candi Red. Why look into this any deeper than need be? It’s obvious she has about as much insight as a rock. Should I just appreciate the song for what it is or should I not repeat the mistakes of the women who enabled these disrespectful rappers and created the monsters we have to day?

To jig or not to jig. That is the question, folk.

Now before you get to answering, I do have one thing to note:

“I’m sick of watching niggas switch they hips like bitches. Hit that booty dew and dip like bitches. Then ya know it’s perms and wearing flips like bitches. Then they gon’ get on the flo’ and get tips like bitches.”

Men already are doing that. After a long overdue visit back to New York this summer,  after a few extra Long Islands kick it some go-go boy got a tip from me.

My lap, my choice.