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No one under the age of 40 who values their nerves gives Grammy voters the benefit of the doubt. While they certainly have awarded younger acts in major categories, more often than not, it is in categories like Record and Song of the Year. And more often than not, when it comes to the largest prize of the night, Album of the Year, it is often reserved for an artist whose critical and commercial dominance have long peaked. When someone younger does win, it is for a body of work that sounds mature (re: old) and tonally somber. If it majorly sounds youthful, audacious, loud, and unapologetic, you can count on it being passed over.

It’s why both Ray Charles and Herbie Hancock have bested Kanye West twice in this category, and why Beyoncé was passed over last night in favor of Beck’s Morning Phase. Beck’s album is just as critically lauded as BEYONCÉ, though in terms of impact, it’s not even close.

Although he jumped the stage in jest at the time, Kanye West was very much upset that Beyoncé did not win, telling E! News in an interview after the telecast, “I just know that the Grammys, if they want real artists to keep coming back, they need to stop playing with us. We ain’t gonna play with them no more. And Beck needs to respect artistry and he should’ve given his award to Beyoncé.”

It’s a nice thought—Black artists boycotting a show that continues to treat them like a date that’s good enough to sleep with, but not to introduce to your family – though it’s highly unlikely to happen. Ever gracious, Beck said in response, “I thought she was going to win. Come on, she’s Beyoncé!”

Beck’s album was loved, but matter how you feel about his win, it has very little to do with him. When is the last time a Black girl singing (and rapping, at select points) won Album of the Year at the Grammys? Yes, Beyoncé now has 20 Grammys, but they’re largely relegated to R&B categories; she’s been cheated out of major awards in the past. She’ll probably win Album of the Year 20 years too late for some album that consists of performing jazz standards with Jay Z and Blue Ivy. Meanwhile, some other 20 or 30-something Black act will be in the position she was yesterday.

And this is why I enjoy the BET Awards more than the Grammys.

As for the Grammys, and its biggest winner, Sam Smith: yawn.

Again, Sam Smith can sing, but his Coke Zero version of soul is too blasé for my taste, and after that whole Tom Petty fiasco, I’m even less impressed. Grammy producers had better pacing for the show than in year’s past, though everything felt too ballad-heavy. The most energetic performance of the night belonged to 56-year-old pop deity and eternal attention whore, Madonna. Even so, she’s finally beginning to show signs that her eight-count ain’t what it used to be.

The seriousness of the Grammy set list worked in some areas. Katy Perry spotlighted domestic violence through her performance, though admittedly, I was thrown off by a few things: Her sounding good live; her wearing Solange’s wedding dress; White people doing spoken word and praise dancing.

Read more at EBONY.

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When Jazmine Sullivan finally returned with new music via “Dumb,” featuring fellow PhiladelphianMeek Mill, the moment sort of came and went. It’s not that people haven’t been yearning for her return since she took to Twitter exactly four years ago to say she was taking time away from music; but the track did not command attention the way previous offerings like “Need You Bad” and “Bust Your Windows” did.

Recently, Sullivan was asked if “Elevatorgate” involving Solange, Jay Z, and Beyoncé had something to do with the single’s lack of attention in an interview with Power 105’s “The Breakfast Club.” Sullivan answered: “I did feel like that situation kind of took away from it, but it’s cool. I got a lot more songs on the album that I personally think are doper.”

The Carters and Sister Knowles don’t have anything to do with it; it’s evident by the reaction to the “doper” songs.

Excitement was there for other offerings like “Forever Don’t Last,” which is simple in its production (just acoustic guitar and vocals) but far more of a statement because it’s Sullivan at her best: painting a picture with her lyrics, capturing the tone of breakup perfectly with her voice, and letting both carry the song. However, on the other release from her new album, Reality Show,“Mascara,” Sullivan sings with the immediacy and flair of a rapper.

“Yeah, my hair and my ass fake, but so what? I get my rent paid with it.”

Initially, I likened the track to Amy Winehouse’s “Fuck Me Pumps.” Yet, Sullivan is not bashing “those kind of girls” the way Winehouse once skewered. The point of Reality Show, and perhaps, Sullivan’s mission moving forward, is to lend voice to women who often find themselves the subject of conversation, but never with a microphone. In theory, that’s the purpose of reality TV, though as VH1, Oxygen, and Bravo have taught us, that isn’t always the case.

Read the rest at Complex.

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After the airing of the comically abysmal Aaliyah: Princess of R&B, Lifetime and first-time director Angela Bassett had it pretty easy when it came to their Whitney Houston biopic: just don’t be as awful as that movie and reap the benefits of low expectations. 

In that respect, Whitney won; it is not terrible, and if nothing else, watchable. However, a movie about an artist as captivating on and off stage as Whitney Houston deserves more than just passable competence (and that’s being generous). Similarly, if you’re going to call the movie Whitney, it should not come across as a project that would’ve been served better had it been called The Miseducation of Bobby Brown

We knew Whitney would cover the first five years of Whitney Houston’s tumultuous relationship with the “Kang of R&B,” Bobby Brown, but none of us were clued into how skewed the narrative would play in Bobby’s favor. In this movie, Bobby was some wide-eyed second tier singer who behaved as if he hadn’t ever been anywhere when he met Whitney. This, despite the reality that Bobby Brown had been famous since he was a very young teenager as a part of New Edition and netted his own colossal fame as a solo act in the 1980s.

That’s the least mind-boggling of the twists, though.

This sweet, suburbanized Bobby Brown remained sober with Whitney until well into an hour after the movie started. By comparison, Whitney and her nose were regularly deep snow diving within the first half hour. And she noticeably got high whenever Bobby pissed her off.

As for Bobby, you know, he was just a sweet man. He loved Whitney so much and did everything he could to make her feel her best self. Ever the gentleman, he unselfishly supported her booming career as his declined. Both Whitney and Bobby have made statements that counter that talking point, but why bother with accuracy when making a movie about someone’s life? At one point, I was waiting for Bobby to leave Whitney to go hang out with Jesus and MLK at Oprah’s house.

I am not one of those people still clinging to the pristine, upper class girl image that Clive Davis crafted for Whitney Houston. Nor do I believe Bobby Brown was a monster that brought Whitney down. Bobby could’ve very well been just a casual drug user and alcoholic who through his relationship with Whitney became a hardcore user.

Either way, what we see in Whitney feels unfair to its namesake.

Read the rest at Complex.

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When it comes to plastic surgery, there’s a thin line between Kelly Rowland and Lil’ Kim, any face after the La Bella Mafia album.

The general consensus is that some cosmetic work looks better than others, but far too often and more frequently than ever do we forget than it’s about choice and no matter how we feel about it, there should be some level of respect for people choosing to do as they please with their bodies. For Danity Kane standout turned solo artist Dawn Richard, she unfortunately finds herself routinely ostracized for her noticeably slimmer nose.

Last month, seemingly fed up with it, she took to Instagram and posted: “Same people saying this ‘she was prettier before’ crap are the people that said I was a tranny in 2009. Make up your mind lawd. Meanwhile I’m really a cyborg ( I see this post went over damn near everyone’s head) lmao.”

And on Twitter, she responded to a fan who wrote “God don’t recognize you,” with “as long as the checks still recognize me we good.”


Her clap back has not stopped the criticism. With every new Instagram upload comes a virtual back and forth about her new nose. One user left the comment, “The fuck u done to your nose?”

The answer is simple: what she wanted to do with it.

But, when it comes to surgery, particularly when a Black person does it and the target is their nose, the projections creep in. On some level, it’s understandable. One of the most famous Black families ever – the Jacksons – saw an overwhelming majority of its members chop their noses down substantially. Their father, Joe Jackson, beat it into their psyches that their broad, especially Black noses was a trait to cry over as opposed to celebrate – sending them all running to surgeons at light speed.

Some got noticeably carried away and now the stigma applies to any famous Black person who follows suit. And as previously mentioned, Lil’ Kim has remixed her face to the point where she is completely unrecognizable from the woman we met in 1996. Yes, many of us have stigmas about big noses, but maybe it’s time we learn to give our peers the benefit of the doubt.

I don’t know why Dawn Richards decided to change her face. On some level, maybe the criticism – transphobic and audaciously ugly – got to her and sparked her desire to change. In 2012, Dawn was asked about the hardships darker skinned Black women face in R&B (in a very bleak period for the genre at that) and while discussing major labels liking her work but weary of signing her noted, “Why would you take a risk on a brown girl? There’s no brown girl considered pretty right now poppin’ in the game. A dark skinned game. Kelly Rowland? There are, but I’m talking about in that crossover world. They’re not allowing it.”

I don’t know if the new face is in conjunction with the promotion of her new album, Blackheart, out this week, or if it’s mere coincidence.

I am sure of a few things, though. Her work appears tasteful; she looks pretty, though she was a standout before the smaller nose. Even if the work is connected to the pressures of being a Black woman trying to excel in the entertainment industry, she should not be attacked relentlessly for doing what she thought was best to deal with the burdens of a disease she didn’t create. There’s also a difference between sending someone a positive affirmation in the name of promoting self-love and policing someone’s body.

Read more at EBONY.

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The best part of Empire’s second episode is the same as last week’s series premiere: Cookie (played by Taraji P. Henson). She’s rude as hell, abrasive, and randomly shows up at other people’s houses and asks for bacon. In other words, she’s perfect. Now, the worst part of this show thus far is the music we’re being subjected to between scenes, but let’s accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.

Cookie and Lucious continue to wrestle over control of Empire Entertainment, but more specifically, the fate of their two sons: Jamal and Hakeem. Cookie arrives at Lucious’ estate to demand that Jamal, the icky gay one in Lucious’ eyes, be allowed perform at the opening of Leviticus, Lucious’ new club. Just like Hakeem. Lucious says no and Cookie blurts out in front of Lucious’ new wife, Anika, that it was her $400,000 in drug money that launched Empire Entertainment.

Lucious reminds Cookie that she signed a nondisclosure agreement, though one wonders why he, an ex-drug dealer himself, would think an NDA would spook a woman who just did hard time for a drug charge.

Meanwhile, we learn that Cookie and Lucious’ other son, the scheming suit Andre, has bipolar disorder. He’s not taking his meds, though, so his wife pushes him to do so as best she knows how: by seducing him and performing fellatio…with a bib. That’s like head for neat freaks, but if that’s a turn-on for some people, salute.

Speaking of illnesses, Lucious’ assistant, Becky, uses his bathroom and after nosily looking up his prescription meds, realizes that her boss has ALS. No one else can know, Lucious explains, and since Becky seems loyal, it’ll be a while before the rest find out. One quick note: I’m glad Lucious lost the perm, but can we get Becky a new wig?

Andre may not be taking his meds, but he’s still pitting his parents and siblings against each other in a power grab. When Cookie’s assistant Porsha—who is amazing, by the way—suggests that Jamal come out via press conference, Andre tells Lucious, who instantly gets pissed and threatens to cut Jamal off financially.

Lucious tells Jamal that if he comes out, Empire Records will lose artists. This is where it gets tricky. On one end, we watch Lucious apologize to President Obama when Hakeem’s video of him acting an ass and trashing POTUS go viral, which suggests this show is set in 2015. But then we’re met with some homophobia in hip-hop scenario that reads as dated. Yes, there is homophobia in hip-hop, and in the black community too, but in 2015 would a gay artist on a label really scare a bunch of rappers away?

Some would immediately answer yes, but over the years Jay Z has voiced support for marriage equality while rappers like Fat Joe, Kanye West, A$AP Rocky, 50 Cent and others have disavowed homophobia. Frank Ocean’s success is pretty much a testament that the tide is changing. I’d love to compare this to the worlds of country and rock music.

Read the rest at Complex.

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I’ve been recapping the Love & Hip Hop franchise for about two years now, though I intentionally didn’t seek out trying to write about the newest season of its flagship, Love & Hip Hop: New York.

As much as I enjoy Atlanta and now Hollywood, the New York edition tends to depress me. Even in the mess of Atlanta, there is a lot of humor there. Hollywood, too, only as the season dragged on, I noticed it was getting funny in “Ha ha, I’ll be dead soon, so fuck you pain, I’m leaving anyway” fashion. But with New York, it’s just sad on top of sad.

Like, I can find the humor in the neighborhood drunk saying outlandish things at the gas station, the liquor store, and the Church’s chicken drive-thru. However, it becomes less funny when you tell me he’s actually a schizophrenic who is self-medicating. Yes, I’m speaking from experience, and yes, I think this perfectly explains why I’m weary on writing about New York. I have been watching, though, and I have a few thoughts, particularly about the most recent episode.

Yo, these motherfuckers put the r-i-d-i-c-u-l-o-u in ridiculous.

For starters, there is Diamond, who admittedly went to New York without her child to live with a man she dated from a distance for two years. Oh, and she wants to pursue modeling because of course she does. They are so close as a couple, and yet, Diamond never told Cisco that she has a baby that’s old enough to say, “Mama, I want some McNuggets with a girl toy.” Once she arrives in New York, this boyfriend sets her up to live with someone else.

I don’t even know you and I hate you…

Once she finally decides to tell her “boyfriend” about the baby she had more than ’bout a week ago, he spazzes on her and proceeds to belittle her and whatever lil’ relationship they had. He has trust issues, which Darryl Strawberry’s daughter just triggered. But surprise, surprise, this man has a baby his damn self and he made it while the two were “dating.”

Diamond’s mama is like, “Bitch, I told you about this man. Bring your ass home.” Diamond doesn’t want to come home, but her mama wants to find him on the street. I like Diamond’s mama. Can she be on this show? She looks like Yolanda Adams, but without the wealth. So tanned, older Mimi Faust.

That’s no shade because based on mama’s conversation with Diamond’s sort of boo thang, she slaps the shit out of people with brass knuckles.

This man is not even the worst person on this show.

That contest is between Peter Gunz and Erica Mena.

The thing about Erica and Cyn’s relationship is that it was always like Tia and Tamera pretending to be lesbians, minus the incest aspect. They’re literally the same person – Latina women looking for a come up by way of companionship – so it was only a matter of time before another person’s genitalia smacked one in the mouth, and the other, in the heart. Cyn is mad at Erica because she licked champagne off the ass of another woman at a club party she got paid some money to “host.” Erica becomes mad at Cyn after he gay homeboy claims Cyn is fucking some dude in Dyckman.

What I like about Cyn is that she calls Erica on her bullshit. Plus, she’s really, really fine. I don’t swing that way, but I definitely wouldn’t mind forming an exploratory committee.

Now, my fellow Bison Yandy: Girl, look at your life and look at your choices.

I mean, yes Mendeecees is bae and kind of bae, but he’s on bond awaiting a drug related trial with the fucking feds. So, with that intel in mind, why would Yandy gleefully show up to the basketball court with a gift wrapped positive pregnancy taste? First of all, that’s one of the most hood sentences I’ve ever typed. Like, even more than, “My pops has gold trim and is still talking about stabbing niggas at 60.”

Even Mendeecees is telling Yandy how he love the kids, but I caught a case, remember? In response, she still grins to say, “Well, I mean, I’ll bring the kids to see you in prison.” He’s like yo-yo-yo, don’t say no shit like that. Wait, did I just top the most hood sentence honors already?

Then there is Tara, who swears she’s taking romantic getaways with the man who cheated on her and married someone else after spending his entire life being an unattainable bachelor “for the kids.” She fixed her mouth to say, “We are going to give the boys something to remember.” Yes, because your young children need to remember you backing your ass up on daddy in the Caribbean.

And because Peter has no soul, he lied to his wife, Amina, about his whereabouts. He told Amina’s ditzy self that he hopped on a plane to work on a deal for “an energy drink in Trinidad.” He used this as an opportunity to try and get back with Tara, and at one point, told her to own up to the reality that if she weren’t still interested in him, she wouldn’t have gone on that trip.

That seemed to spark the light her ass needed to finally blow up on his cheating ass. It was the best Tyler Perry scene ever. Think: If Tyler knew what he was doing.

Bottom line, she yelled at him a lot – deservingly so – and took a butcher knife to his bullshit. She let him know, “I want you to leave me the fuck alone. I gave you time.” Yes, Tara. Exhale, shoop shoop.

As for Chrissy, that white woman with Chink Santana, aka the dude who worked with Ashanti when the world really cared is a lot, what in the hell is this supposed to be? She comes out of nowhere to claim she was the Heidi Fleiss of the hood during the Reconstruction era and that Erica used to work for her. It’s not that I couldn’t see Erica as an escort; I could see that shit without my contacts. However, I believe Erica when she says that woman just wants to use her for camera time.

With respect to her relationship problems: Your boyfriend is married; case dismissed.

See everyone in Atlanta.

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To casual listeners, Anybody Wanna Buy a Heart? may sound like a total detour for K. Michelle. Such a verdict means one of two things: You haven’t been listening to K. Michelle very long, or if you have, you haven’t been paying close enough attention. As lovingly brash and vulgar as K. Michelle is, she’s always offered hints that she can be subtle. There are differences in terms of sound and tone, but ultimately, this is K. Michelle giving her softer side equal time.

The album does begin with some familiar terrain: K. Michelle singing about people being upset with her for saying the things they’re only thinking, and fuck them for that because only God can judge her.

Even if the subject matter seems standard (defiantly defensive), the theatrics of “Judge Me” make it the perfect opener. Its follow-up and the album’s first single, “Love ’Em All” remains equally the best introduction to the K. Michelle of 2014. Is a misandrist response to Chris Brown’s misogynistic “Loyal” sort of tit-for-tat? Maybe, though for years now R&B men have demeaned women in a genre traditionally about lifting them up in love. Who can blame K. Michelle for yelling a fuck you right back?

There is also noticeable bite in “Cry” as K. Michelle sings, “Feels so damn good to be cold, and I don’t even care if you know,” but it’s very much a country music-esque kiss-off. The other country-inspired standout, “God I Get It,” sounds like something the Country Music Awards would adore. Then again, Lionel Richie had a commercially successful country album and well…never mind.

When it comes to other new terrain for the Memphis native, one of my favorites is “Something About the Night.” Whereas many of her contemporaries are now chasing the goodness that is 1990sR&B, K. Michelle ventures back to some of the funk-lite fun of even earlier decades. K. Michelle said Anita Baker raved about when the legendary vocalist visited her during the recording of this album. I wonder if “Something About the Night” was the song she gushed about most. In my mind, Anita poured herself a glass of K.’s preferred brand of brown liquor and told her, “Gon’ and scat at this part, baby.”

Or maybe Anita’s favorite is the AWBAH’s second single, “Maybe Should I Call.” K. Michelle confirmed that the song, and the album at large, is about her past relationship with Idris Elba, but such a tidbit is trivial. What matters is that it is one of the strongest R&B singles released this year. Equally breathtaking is the J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League-produced “Miss You, Goodbye,” a song that showcases how much more fluid a vocalist K. Michelle is.

Read the rest at Complex.

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For those wondering why the second half of the Love & Hip Hop Hollywood reunion was dumped on Tuesday night as opposed to being stretched out for multiple weeks per the franchise’s usual, the answer is now clear: there wasn’t a whole lot to see.

So much happened during the season’s 12 episodes, but for one reason or another, the cast doesn’t have a whole lot to say about it. Yes, Omarion and Apryl had some contention in their relationship due to his mother’s antics, but that’s done now and they seem to have reached an accord to let that beef die. Frankly, it’s a testament to the maturity of Omarion. He’s the only known person to enter this franchise and come out completely clean. Then again, if he can survive Chris Stokes, what’s a Negro telenovela to him?

Like Omarion, Soulja Boy and Nia have had one hell of a rollercoaster with their relationship, which includes him finding out via social media—where the man truly lives—that Nia’s dad, Teddy Riley, isn’t her biological father, but like Omarion and co., none of them went into any real detail. They’re “good” now according to Nia, or, at the very least, were good the day of the taping. Soulja Boy isn’t as mature as Omarion, but he’s not completely lost the way Ray J and Yung Berg are.

Without those two offering much, much of what we were left with in the conclusion of this show’s first season were the same loud people arguing over the exact same things the day before. Well, Yung Berg did add a few new accusations. Like, him accusing Teairra Mari of giving him head in a back alley. That little fairytale was delivered via Princess, who I wish remained mute because she was never a big deal on this show and it should’ve stayed that way on its reunion specials.

Honestly, I don’t believe Teairra Mari would ever give Berg that much satisfaction. He’s an awful little Leprechaun who needs to go seek therapy to rid himself of whatever root issue has caused him to behave like such a fucking human being. This accusation did once again make Hazel E cry over Yung Berg. I really don’t know what to say about this woman other than lift her up in prayer, y’all. She’s so far gone over someone she admittedly feels is a self-involved, small dick-having sum’bitch. If you already believe this to be true, why offer anymore tears?

Better yet, why be so quick to believe a man you’ve also long felt to be a liar?

Berg has since been fired from the show for allegedly attacking his girlfriend, Masika, but I will note that Teairra Mari could probably take out the entire security team VH1 hired, so you best watch your tiny self, Berg. Detroit people don’t take kind to being tried. That said, “My head is good, baby!” was a wonderful declaration. Incorporate that into a future song, Teairra. Also: Get the fuck off this show.

We did get a little bit of Fizz and his baby mama, Moniece, along with Fizz’s now ex-girlfriend, Amanda. Moniece seems so many steps away from sanity, but dear God, is she ever hilarious. Long live Moniece for declaring: “I’m beautiful. I’m gorgeous. I’m funny as shit.”

Now, let’s get to this show’s biggest tragedies.

Again, Ray J is a terrible person. Terrible people are so often consumed with “loyalty” and the notion of people never bringing any “negativity” to them. This is awful person speak for, “I want people around me who won’t hold me accountable for my actions.”

Princess is the perfect match for him in this respect because she’s literally just here for the status and credit card statements she doesn’t have to pay. At one point, during an argument, with his former assistant, Morgan, Ray J instructs Princess to knock Morgan out. What does Princess do? Gets up and swings on Morgan.

Your name is Princess, but you’re acting like someone’s attack dog. In front of a studio audience for a program recorded on national television.

Read the rest at Complex.

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The shade was thick from the very beginning of the Love & Hip Hop Hollywood reunion as host and LHH executive producer Mona Scott-Young noted that nearly everyone on the cast exchanged bodily fluids. No one is surprised by this, but damn, how incestuous. Shout out to gonorrhea.

That revelation brought on the first question—aimed squarely at Hazel E—and subsequently Yung Berg throwing the first dagger. As soon as Hazel mentioned “girl code,” Berg immediately pounced on her by reminding her that once upon a time, she slept with Ray J. Hazel didn’t deny it, explaining that happened back when she was in college and Teairra Mari knew about it. So, that’s not a violation of girl code really, Berg, but it is further confirmation that you’re an asshole who takes too much joy in humiliating women—especially women named Hazel E.

After that exchange came the segment about Ray J and Teairra’s relationship where Ray J admitted that Teairra was not in fact “delusional” about their “off and on relationship” of eight years. For a few minutes there, Ray J sounded as if he had matured from the juvenile antics he displayed throughout this show’s inaugural season. Hardy har.

Once Ray J’s girlfriend, Princess, hit the stage, it was pretty clear that Ray is very much the villain he portrayed for months on TV. Princess hit the stage and turned immediately to Morgan to say, “What’s up? Fake ass ho.” Your name may be Princess, beloved, but you are not the Puerto Rican Princess, Joseline Hernandez, baby. We don’t need you recycling her genius.

Minutes later Princess and Teairra had a war of words that included Princess claiming Teairra Mari choked on Yung Berg’s dick in a back alley. Why do people on this show upset Teairra Mari knowing those hands were made for cracking skulls and defying the hands of security teams? Princess, you can’t even take on a pool, so you definitely don’t want it with Detroit’s angriest. 

During the exchange, Mona tells Teairra, “So now you’re going to have to be babysat by security because I can’t trust you to not get up?” Has she watched the show she produces? You know what? Never mind. 

Point is, Princess used to date Floyd Mayweather, now she dates Ray J, and despite him tossing her into the pool—which everyone strangely laughed at last night, FYI—she says she’s committed to him no matter what he does. Even Mona looked at Princess like, “Say, word?” Some call it love. I say it’s American Express, PIN numbers, rent paid, all of the Instagram dresses and the designer bags they thotly pair them with.

The next moment of truth was for Hazel E and her debasing herself for Yung Berg all season long. Although the segment was more about Hazel E and Berg, Masika involved herself more than anyone else. LHHH is full of so many characters that are absolutely worthy of hatred. Like, more than any other reality show I can think of, which says so much.

Berg tops the list more than anyone, but Masika is a close second.

At one point, Hazel told Berg, “You’re the one who told me that Masika was an escort.” 

Listen, I can’t stand Masika, and to be quite honest, if you told me Masika let President Obama and Young Thug run a train on her at the same damn time, I’d be inclined to believe you. Masika gives “Karrine Steffans, but with much lower credits.” She, too, revels a bit too much in another woman’s humiliation. No wonder she and Berg remain a couple (however, I need her to go watch Eve’s “Love Is Blind” video pronto).

For some reason, though, that club promoter Sincere was on stage. He insulted Hazel, too, quipping he didn’t understand why Berg ever bothered with Hazel with so many other, “young, beautiful women around.” This man said this as he dressed like some old black pimp from 1973 en route to prom. I’m pretty sure he was the oldest man on stage to boot.

Eventually, Berg and Hazel had their own back-and-forth. Berg said he inserted himself in every hole she had. In response, Hazel said his dick was small enough to fit in her nostrils. Mona rightly then inserted herself, wondering if Berg’s dick was so tiny and unsatisfying, why did you make such a big deal about it all season long? 

Read the rest at Complex.

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Trey Songz’s cover of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas” is one of the worst things I have ever heard. No, I’m not being hyperbolic. I would never be hyperbolic about someone who makes me as horny as Trey Songz often does. It’s really that terrible. So awful that it’s making me angry just thinking about it.

It sounds cheesy and somehow dually under and over produced. It sounds like a Kidz Bop version of Mariah Carey’s holiday classic, which was already kiddie enough by default. I don’t know who is responsible for this cover, but they must atone.

Trey must’ve known this was a bad idea because he doesn’t even sound that engaged. And honestly, if Trey Songz was going to record a holiday song, shouldn’t it be something like “A Pantry Droppin’ Christmas?” Or “Sexing You On Jesus’ Birthday?” Maybe, “X Marks The Spot On X-Mas.”

I don’t know, something about sex ’cause that’s just what Trey Songz does. I’d be a done for a horny holiday number from Mr. Neverson. Anything but this.

Most of all, y’all know Mariah Carey is going through it in 2014. She already has to worry about Ariana Grande stealing her old costumes and riffs. Now she has to worry about men taking her holiday cheer and tossing it in a blender of bullshit.


That said, Trey is still bae.

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