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I’ve long told my friends that I dance like a girl with a burgundy weave; thanks to SGT, I now have proof. Not that any of them needed it, but it’s always nice to have, you know? You can’t see me, but I am listening to the song as I write this post. In fact, I’m about to get up and get back to bopping. It’s very hard to be still to this.

Hold please.



Like, do these girls need a Kickstarter for more studio time? I will happily donate. I’m all about supporting the arts.

This fantastic gem entered my life a few weeks ago and I’ve been obsessing over it ever since. I made the mistake of reading the YouTube comments and I noticed lots of people were hating. Some people just cannot help waking up and being a useless hater bitch. It’s so sad.

I hope these musically gifted young ladies are letting their haters be their motivators. They are not thots, they are twerk ambassadors. Respect them, you bitches.

I’m so mad I wasn’t on the street set when they were filming. I would’ve gladly joined the big girl in the yellow and home girl in those spandex shorts and dropped it on the ground.

And before you respectable Negroes ask, yes, I wondered if they could all read. I said a little prayer to Jesus that they all graduated from high school and at least considered cosmetology school or becoming an astronaut just in case slaying these hoes on the rap scene doesn’t work out for them.

With that bullshit out of the way, let me go back to how great this song. These girls can actually rap. I love the choreography. It’s like the organic chicken wing of dancing, which is how I’ll now be describing my dance style to people for the remainder of 2014.

Ugh, I hope y’all know I’m not being sarcastic. I legitimately love this song. It is everything. So mad it’s not on iTunes. Ladies, please never stop rapping. I am flipping my air Chinese bang to the beat in your honor. Stay Black and blessed!

Back to bopping I go. #birdgang

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It is with trepidation that I tackle the song “Throw That Boy P*ssy,” which I’ve been sent 10 million times since last week because a) I’m a Black gay, b) I’m a Black gay from Houston, just like the artist behind the track, Fly Young Red c) because people like to send me things to get a reaction for their amusement. Well, here we are. You can’t see me, but I’m pausing every five minutes to reach out to God and Whitney Houston to be with me as I try to make sense of this.

First, let me start off with the positive.

“Throw That Boy P*ssy” has a very nice beat. It’s one of those basic, but catchy lil’ beats that’ll instantly have you bop before you realize this ditty is a mating call from an aggressive top who likes to play mix and match when it comes to naming holes.

Also, in its own weird way, it’s rather remarkable to hear a gay man – particularly a Black one – be so blunt about his sexuality. When asked for the inspiration behind this song, Fly Young Red said in response, “A few good ni**as…nah I saw a ni**a dancing in the club that I wanted to f*ck so I made a song about it..”

Who doesn’t love romance? Many of us can relate to that. And as one of my favorites, Rich Juzwiak, notes over at Gawker: “Many a rap song has been written about women using this kind of blunt, crass, anatomy-probing language. And now here’s one a gay dude wrote about dudes. I don’t know where we go from here, but I’m tickled that we got here.”

Agreed, though while I may be tickled a bit by this track, I’m mortified by some of the responses I’ve seen to the song and video.


Holy homosexual hyperbole, Batman.
Maybe I’m being saddity, but while I can salute the new hometown hero on his hustle (the video has already amassed more than a million views), it feels like a bit of a reach to pass Fly Young Red off as the Frederick Douglass of male on male fellatio. I’m not giddy about the fact straight women will continue to greet me with “What’s your real name and not your Jack’d name?” for anywhere between six weeks and forever.

The same can be said for how helpful lyrics like “Let me see you clap that ass like a b*tch” when at its core, that teases some of the very sort of patriarchy and misogyny that fuels anti-gay bias. I’m trying not to sound like the Spike Lee of the gays across the railroad tracks on the rainbow, but it’s mission impossible. Much of that has to do with people trying to make an ignorant albeit catchy ass song more than what it is.

Y’all, sometimes it’s okay to let an ignorant ass song you dance to at the club when the brown liquor has taken temporary custody of your intelligence be just that and nothing more. Damn.

This is not BEYONCÉ, this is Boy P*ssy.

Read the rest at EBONY.

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Although she doesn’t want or need my pity, I am often sorry for Mýa. A few of my friends will say “fret not for Mýa, for she is the Beyoncé of Japan or the Rihanna of Taiwan,” but we all know that’s not true. Beyoncé and Rihanna are the Beyoncé and Rihanna of everywhere in this solar system. Okay, Japan does seem to provide safe haven for Black artists of the 1990s, but Mýa should still be a thing stateside.

She’s pretty with a great body, can actually sing, is a trained dancer, writes, has made her own beats, and had legitimate hits. See “It’s All About Me,” “Best Of Me,” “Case of The Ex,” “My Love Is Like…Wo,” plus the “Lady Marmalade” remake and whatever that lil’ Rugrats soundtrack song was called. Wait, it was called “Take Me There.” Yeah, I never really liked that song, but I know it was hit. Whatever, you get it. The girl wasn’t like…Christina Milian, who only had a single hit and a half to her name (and Ja Rule’s).

And yet, we don’t even give Mýa Paula Abdul-levels of adoration. Hell, does she even get Pebbles or Jody Watley-like celebration? The Moodring was too good an album for Mýa to be ignored this way. Then again, it did come out the same summer as Dangerously In Love, Chapter II, and After The Storm. I’d include Mary J. Blige’s Love & Life album, but y’all hated that. So while Moodring went gold, it was overshadowed.

Story of Mýa’s life. Poor girl. See, there I go again. I can’t help it.

I’ve always wondered what exactly happened with Mýa. She didn’t have the sort of big personality that propelled many of her peers. And she clearly didn’t hire a publicist who could find a way around it. The only thing I ever heard about Mýa on a personal level came from Wendy Williams — and I’m not repeating any of that here.

Or maybe her application for the Illuminati was thrown in the shredder by a hater. I don’t know, but she had a nice little run (that still seemed overlooked at the time) and then she went to Tokyo and America went, “Sayounara, sis.”

That said, Mýa hasn’t exactly done herself favors over the years. When she wasn’t creating R&B for Japanese Disney Radio, she was recording birthday dance tracks that sounded like it was made primarily for Club Seventh Circle, hosted by your least favorite party promoter and the Towanda Braxton to the Jesus’ Tamar, Satan. Finally, her music has returned to something reminiscent of what made me like her ass to begin with.

With Love reminds me of Moodring, only it’s a slightly older and more mature cousin. I enjoyed it so much that I gave Mýa my $3.96 on iTunes for the EP. From my understanding, she wants to remain on the independent route. Mýa wants the control and lion’s share of whatever amount of albums she makes. Such is her right. That’ll make it harder for her to gain back even a fraction of the success she used to have, but what does it matter if the coin isn’t correct?

One thing is for sure, though: If she creates music more like this, she’ll continue to get my (monetary) support. I would also like to hear more songs like the unreleased track “Backseat,” produced by Pharrell. I wish Pharrell would go find her and help her out. The girl’s still got it. Do you all remember Janet’s ICON special? Mýa deserves another chance.

Hell, she deserves one of the many chances we kept giving to Ciara (in vain). Give the EP listen. Give Mýa’s new EP a chance, y’all. Good luck, girl.

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I think my friend is trying to kill me, only before I die, I’m going to have the loudest laugh Negronia has ever heard.

I wasn’t sure of what to make of Big Cynthia or new classic “That Nookie Thang” upon first viewing. I got easily distracted by the fact that both the song and video remind me of brown liquor and aunties whose stomachs have turned into giant Marshmallow Men, snatching away all of the attention their Duncan Hines’ used to get. Case in point, the blonde who looks like Khia as a senior citizen (so her in 2017, I suppose). For the record, she was working her nookie thang. Get it, ma’am. You and Tamar are proving that the twirking don’t stop past 30.

Then of course, there’s the very large Big Cynthia, who looks like Big Moe as a stud. Well, I thought she was stud because at the end someone with a real penis is trying to talk to her, mentioning how much he likes her apple bottoms. That part was a bit of confusing. You know, a 2005 reference to a song that sounds like 1978. Where am I? Then there’s the part about Black Chaz Bono looking way more interested in Khia’s Kousin than the guy. Plus, Cynthia’s not sitting on apples so much as abdominal snowmen. Damn, I’m not shit for saying that, but tell me I wasn’t the only only thinking it. However, no shade to big love.

Maybe I’m stereotyping too severely, but that scene between Big Cynthia and Big Daddy looked very Queen Latifah.

Also, did I hear her Black ass say, “Oh, papi?” before taking the Shades guide to dating i.e. tell me your name, what car do you drive, how much money do you make, as long as you have, I’ll be around? This video is so many things, but none of which deter from this song being kind of catchy. If you somehow convinced me to sip some gin or Wild Turkey, I might get up, find somebody’s nana and get to two-stepping while I wait for the peach cobbler to finish baking. Don’t worry, that’s a huge compliment in country.

Now are you ready to work your nookie thangs?

By the way, Big Cynthia’s been doing this for years. Also, she’s kind of a hoe. Sorry, Cynthia, you might be a lovely woman in person, but you know damn well eating is cheating. Nonetheless, I’m going to create a “Trife Hoe” playlist and this right under the “He’s Mine” remix.

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As many of you readers know by now, Tamar Braxton is the hot sauce to my catfish fresh out the fryer. And as previously noted, my adoration for Ms. Dotcom started before Braxton Family Values. I’ve been patiently waiting for Tamar’s talent to get the p-pop it deserves so I’m quite excited to hear any news about what’s to come. Folks need to know Tamar is as good a singer as she is a reality personality.

A couple weeks ago a few of my friends, unfamiliar to Tamar Braxton’s solo album released in 2000 (for shame), watched the video for her debut solo single, “Get None.” In short: If songs were birds the track would go great with Christian Fried Chicken’s polynesian sauce. Despite that fun quality, most of them were less than enthused with what they saw. I, naturally, sang along to the song word for word (what lyrics I could recall anyway). Based on this clip, I gather we’re going to get a somewhat more mature version (relatively speaking, surely) of that. That somewhat concerns me because I feel like some people are going to say, “Tamar is too old for that.” The right side of me says to that idea, “Shut up. I’m only a few birthdays away from entering the third decade of life.”

And hopefully once I do, I’ll still want to be sweating in the club on occasion if the spirit beat calls upon thee. If Jay-Z can be played in the club at 100-years-old (dog years), I’m into the prospect of Tamar dippin, poppin’, twirkin’ and stoppin’ in her mid-thirties. Yes, a Beyoncé reference was necessary. Tamar would totally want it that way. Anywho, while I’m glad J.Lo continues to break people off in her forties on stage, she never released the video for “Good Hit” so lately we’ve only been getting shake something pop anthems of the Cher’s “Believe” variety. We need the urban black equivalent.

So bring it, Sister Braxton. I believe in you and your abilities to get the club going while you keep your edges tight. Give me something to aspire to. Lord knows when I’m her age I want to continue being the cool uncle, not the uncle who only does the stanky legg while he waits for his cranberry juice to kick in so he might finally relinquish fluids. Boom.

Oh, as for those of you who continue to deny my girl’s abilities, or maybe just don’t know about them, park yourself under the hood and check out my favorite Tamar Braxton song, “Words.”


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Disclaimer: As the title suggests, the following material may be inappropriate if you are subjected to a hating ass boss and/or co-worker, girlfriend, boyfriend, librarian, or are underage. What age? I’m not sure exactly, but if you suspect that I’d tell you, “You know you’re too damn young to be worried about some strippers, go fucking study,” look away now.

Actually, it’s not the material so much as the various images of strippers that accompany it. Oh, YouTube users: Don’t you realize imagination is increasingly becoming a lost art form? Let us try to preserve what little is left of it. Anyway, click on down if none of the above bothers you.


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For years now, I’ve shaded the state of California for lifting their dances from rappers in Dallas, Texas. And before you dare try it, see Lil’ Will’s Dougie and a dance called the rack daddy. Yeah, I thought so.

So yes, a few rappers out in sunny Cali have a problem with taking things that don’t belong to them. It’s shame, too, considering their rich history of originality.  However, I have to give it to California rappers: One of them has tried to come up with their own thing.

As soon as I giveth, I must now taketh away: This is the worst dance I’ve seen since that shit Missy tried to get us to do in the “Get Ur Freak On” video. I wish CaliKiddRome all the luck in the world with his rap career, but this dance isn’t the move. In fact, this dance looks a lot like that same move Chilli is always doing on stage whenever TLC performs.

I mean, technically it has all of the components of a mindless dance that would get kids and people like who me who should know better to embrace it. The song attached to it  offers a simple yet familiar beat. The song’s lyrical content is so dense that no one ever really remembers any of the lines until the song is playing (and even then it’s just the hook). Everything is there except the dance itself. The nonsense they’re doing in this clip makes you long for the sophistication of dances like “Laffy Taffy.”

By the way, I’d like to know what is Kel Mitchell doing in the video? Keenan is on Saturday Night Live and this is all you’ve got to do, man? Maybe they saw him drunk at a local taqueria and said to him, “Hey, wanna be in a video?” That’s the only way his cameo will make sense to me.

As for the other trendy folks who take part in the presentation of “G Swagg,” I’d like to note that I’ve actually seen fake Chad Hugo and the Justin Bieber impersonator out before. They were trying to have a House Party-like dance off at some random “fashion show” (that I went to see a friend…and an open bar). Had they not move like Kid ‘n Play high off too much medication for treatment of arthritis leg pain maybe more people would’ve joined in on the “fun.” All they did was sober me up.

I’m pretty sure California is much better than this. So with that said, I encourage the resident regional rappers to dust themselves off and try again. The G-Swagg isn’t going to happen. Trust me. No one outside of CaliKiddRome’s cousins are going to do this. He’ll probably have to pay his cousins in Fun Dip packets to do this on stage with him, too.

And Cali locals reading this blog, don’t take it as shade to you personally. You all still have the better weather and red velvet everything. Still, if you’re going to try and do a dance tune in the style of the South, you’ve got to do much better than this. Or hell, you know what? Go steal something else. Now I understand. Just pay homage this time.

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It’s 4:45 a.m. and I have just discovered my new hero. Lately a wave of sadness has overcome me. It’s all rooted in my twirk. I have prided myself on my ability to dip it low, pick it up slow, roll it all around and make my back go. Pop, pop, pop, pop that thang, if you will. However, in recent weeks something has been amiss.

About a month ago I was doing my usual pre-writing all night ritual: Turning on some music and dancing really hard and ignorant to it in an effort to get my mind right. I was listening to Rihanna’s “What’s My Name?” and as I was body rolling I noticed an unnatural stiffness going on. The same for my drop. I tried to shake it off – literally – and still…nothing.

My heart began to ache. The pain only intensified as the struggle continued on at other places and times where I like to dance. You know, the gym, the side walk, the grocery store aisles. Oh and of course restaurants while breaking into random song and rap lyrics (however, make a note that I do not like karaoke). Other people noticed my growing problem and were equally taken aback.

If I’m not dancing then who am I? My best friend won’t be able to call me “Twirky” anymore. I’ll lose my “jelly knees” description. It all sounds so…wrong.

I mean, I still get it in. I’m actually in my chair body rolling to Jodeci’s “Pump It Back” as I type this. In a second I’m about to get up and try it a drop. Wait for it…


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I believe I’ve found my favorite new song for at least the next three hours. I don’t know exactly what a Toasters ‘N Moose is, but I find such knowledge irrelevant to the matters at hand. Let’s just say they’re the new Koffee Brown and move on.

Have y’all ever heard a biscuit sang about in a context so perverse? Thank goodness Pissy used to sing about women reminding him of jeeps otherwise I would have been totally unprepared for a song like this. Please get into some of the lyrical gems in this song:

Taste the honey sauce, taste the goodness of the biscuit with the honey sauce.

Don’t get none of that honey sauce on me, I don’t like the way it tastes with my chicken wings.

Taste the butter spread. Taste the goodness of the biscuit with the butter spread.

Don’t get your butter spread all on me. I don’t like the way it mixes with my mac-n-cheese.

When you’re at KFC you got that special sauce to stir my curiosity.

Just give me a five-piece meal. Oh, what a deal. A big ole box that’s all for me.

You know I’ll take cole slaw on the side. I could tell you wanted to try the potato wedges.

Is this how obese sex works?

Why haven’t these two been snatched up for a chicken commercial? To hell with Annie The Chicken Queen and her fake ass Louisiana accent. Have I told y’all that I heard that Annie The Chicken Queen from the boot is really some vegan Buddhist who needed to a gig to get the bill collectors off her back? Popeye’s could’ve at least hired someone who thinks hummus is the name of one of their chicken friers.

Moose would be the perfect replacement. Look at how she starts to move her body two minutes into the video. Clearly red beans and rice have a special place in her heart. If Popeye’s won’t hire her, surely Church’s Chicken will. I heard they sell tacos now. Obviously, they have no shame.

I promise that the next time I’m at a Popeye’s I will start singing and two-stepping to “Taste The Biscuit.” Y’all know they take forever to get your food ready. Might as well get a little exercise in before I piss my body off.


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This Saturday many of you of a darker hue may be asked to teach your auntie, uncle, and too cool for bingo grandparents to teach the latest dances. And by latest dances I mean the ones they’re only now hearing about because Wolf Blitzer, Barbara Walters, and Justin Bieber are all being featured doing them during the evening news.

Wait, who am I kidding? Half of them heard about it on radio but couldn’t “play it on the YouTube” because they got confused with the spelling (silly old people and being taught correct grammar). That’s where most of you come in.

More times than not, you don’t want to be put on the spot to dance or at least I don’t. Telling old heads this will usually result in elderly ridicule — the sucking of teeth, the non-sharing of alcohol, and the littlest piece of meat or you plate, what have you.

That’s where this video comes in. Child, old folks done found their own groove. I say this with the most sincerity: I am proud. Look at this video, people. It’s like Glee meets Soul Train. These VIP in the hole in the wall club older black people with friend have said forget you kids, we wanna jig like we used to. We should encourage this, which means if you’re asked to teach someone how to do a dance you quit doing this summer, pull up this video.

Personally, it’s too many damn steps in this choreography for me. However, my first vote in a presidential election was for John Kerry, not Jimmy Carter so this stuff ain’t for me. Still, I champion it.

Do ya’ll hear Pops kick off by saying, “Let’s bust this?!” Well go ‘head then, sir.

Why do I feel like after they finished this shoot they settled up on some ribs, Thunderbird, and performed Ashford and Simpson? And I bet Britney Spears’ mama in the front to the right kicked it all off with “Solid.” Get it, girl.

Also, have you noticed the song they are all dancing to was made by Jamie Foxx. I have stayed clear of as much of Jamie’s latest music as possible. Sorry, I’m just not comfortable with him making songs with Soulja Boy.

I hope someone sends this clip to him and reminds him that old people love him. If he keeps up trying to sound like a teenager all of the people in this video are going to turn him off and put that old Luther album back on. Then again, if you’re of a certain demographic making up dances and uploading them online chances are you think you’re “hip.” So “hip” that you’re probably making up a dance to all of  Jamie’s new album as I type.

In fact, someone’s pappy is telling nana, “Yep, that’s me. Yep!” at this very moment.

Whatever makes them happy. Anyway, if you or someone younger that you love don’t feel like playing the game of “get up and show me that dance,” here you go. You’re welcome.

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