i digress.

Nigga got the itch... stay tuned.

http://www.twitter.com/bozackjenkins

I initially shat upon the Twitter movement, but I've been goin' in lately.. alas, my nonsensical ramblings have a home.. one of these years I'll blog though..

This is the illest shit ever.

Fuck you if you think otherwise.. seriously.

Click the above pic, and prepare to be amazed.

Once upon a dream, myself and my future ex-wife Beezy B reviewed Drake's classic mixtape (yeah, I said it) "So Far Gone" via Instant Messenger.. however, due to circumstances beyond my control, the review never saw the light of day.. would it suffer the same fate as Saigon's "Greatest Story Never Told"? Would it fade into oblivion like Karl Kani? Or would it just magically resurface, all fucked up, like Lil' Kim's top lip?

Regardless, the e-Streets were abuzz, and over time people would ask me repeatedly what the hell happened.. like, "Yo, what's the hold up, fam?".. and I was never able to provide them with a solid answer, since I honestly didn't know my damn self.. blaming it on Beezy's traumatic plastic surgery on her feet could only fight off the demand for so long.. it was beginning to look like the Lochness Monster had a better chance of making a red carpet entrance than the review did of seeing of the light of day.. Was Suge keeping it hostage in the Death Row vaults along with Dre's long lost heterosexuality?

But apparently dreams do come true, ladies and gentlemen.. because What's Her Face was kind enough to inform me today that the review has finally been granted parole.. so feel free to stop asking me about it, and peep it your damn self at her blog..

God bless America.

I'm in a bad way.

I dunno what my malfunction is, but I've been on some emo other shit lately.. my skinny ass has barely been eating for months, I haven't been to the gym since The Trackmasters were relevant, I'm getting 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night at best, I'm working way too gotdamn much yet still somehow knocking out roughly 12-20 hours of volunteer work a week, I have next to no desire to kick it with any of my "friends"..

The hell is going on here?

My sister was here a week ago and concluded I was literally driving myself mad.. as much as I love to help others, I'm starting to feel that it's evolved from a gift I'm providing to my community into a burden disguised as a 9 to 5.. the disdain hasn't settled in yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if it reared its ugly head very soon.. which essentially makes me a hypocrite.. how the hell can I expect to help out so many other people if I can't even put a smile on my own damn face? Niggas keep beggin' me to get up on this Twitter shit, but I'd probably scare the free world if they spent 30 seconds in my mind, random thoughts or not.. consider my lack of attendance on that junt as a favor.. seriously..

Add the fact that my "friends" apparent associates have been nowhere to be found in the midst of all this bullshit, and I'm feelin' like Lily Allen's "Everything's Just Wonderful" is the soundtrack to my existance at this moment.. I spent my morning at a fundraiser for the Special Olympics and as soon as I left, I whipped out my phone to share how incredible the experience was, and although I had a phone full of contacts, I couldn't think of a single person to call..

Not exactly the best feeling.

This emo shit ain't a good look.. I think I need to move.. this desert heat is impairing my sanity.

Poor taste or not, this shit is gold, got dammit.. this nigga went clean the fuck in with this junt right here.. so many quotables.. like I was telling my sister the other day, you know you're in some deep shit when Oprah dedicates an hour of her show to parking her foot in your ass..

It was nice knowing you, Chris.. I hope your savings account is almost as mean as your right hook!

Simon, Randy, & MC Skat Kat's jumpoff got it all wrong.

Every year they sift and stumble through thousands of men, women, and transsexuals (fresh off The Real World set) in hopes of finding that one shimmering ray of hope.. that one golden voiced harlot (penis being optional, of course) with the superhuman ability to bamboozle millions of gullible customers into dropping 15 bones on the sonic equivalent of gerbel feces.. armed with his quick wit and scathing insults, Simon serves as the ring leader of the clique, single handedly slaying as many aspiring careers as humanly possibly, while leaving their exhausted tear ducts and self esteem in his wake.. meanwhile, his accomplice Randy diligently rides that ever present fine line, dropping trout and defecating on someone's emotional stability when needed, yet kind hearted enough to grab the pom poms and get his Claire Bennet on when necessary.. lastly, we have Paula.. how could such a dense, blithering idiot be trapped in the shell of such a beautiful woman? Her genuine kindness is outdone only by the lies she bestows upon the contestants, as she commonly heaps praise upon those grossly deficient in the vocal art of song.. is it safe to assume she does so because she can't sing her damn self?

But alas, they are going about this process all wrong.. a true American Idol isn't somebody with a 7 octave vocal range, yet can't even SPELL 7 octave vocal range (yeah, I went there).. a true American Idol isn't a black voice trapped in the body of a white man fresh out of "The Three Wishes Of Billy Grier".. no, a true American Idol personifies the American dream.. they embody all that this great nation is capable of.. so with that said, please allow me to give Randy, Simon, and Paula their walking papers so that I, through the power of Al Gore's greatest invention, can provide a shining example of what a TRUE American Idol is.. one our country can be proud of, and ride behind.. let freedom ring, got dammit!

Andre Romelle Young is the American dream.

This man's paperwork gangsta is unparrellel.. can you name anyone else who's had such an incredible career doing jack shit for a living?

He's a rapper who can't rap AND doesn't even write his own shit (how the fuck do you make a song dedicated to your dead brother and don't even put the pen to pad? Even Diddy would frown upon such insolence), he's a producer who doesn't even make his own beats, and he's a record label executive who doesn't even put material out (the last Aftermath release was in '06).. yet he's sittin' on more green than a lawnmower.. for those keeping track at home, that's three seperate sources of very lucritive income, that coincide with zero effort.. how the fuck can you not love this nigga?

I wake up every morning with envy in my heart, knowing that I have to wash my ass and go to work, while Dre, through God's gift of power of attorney, has somebody wake up for him, scrub the lint off his nuts, then go to work on his behalf.. Dre is so gangsta even his lungs are under contract.. "Breathe for a real nigga, I'll make you famous".. I bet the nigga doesn't even eat.. he's got goons who do it for him, then he cashes out the nutrients and vitamins at the bank.. real nigga shit ya'll know nothing about..

Plus the beauty of his success is everything about his life is fabricated.. how do you go from spinning records at roller rinks in rhinestone jackets and sequined gloves, to literally waking up the next morning and becomming the godfather of gangsta rap? What the fuck?

MC Hammer was dancing around in form fitted parachutes, put hits out on rappers for talking shit about him (don't believe me? Holla at Google), then WE ended his career cuz he wanted to throw on a beenie and bust a couple caps on record? Dre was on the got damn swim team in high school! How many gangsta ass niggas did YOU know in high school who spent their afternoons swimming in circles around a bunch of scandidly clad men? Everybody knows the real niggas either played ball or ran track in that bitch.. and if you were extra gully, you rocked with the school band like my black ass did..

But outside of all of that, I think Dre's biggest accomplishment is making it cool for rappers to still get on the mic after 40.. when I was coming up, it was unheard of to still be nice after 30, but between Camelback Hov & Dre, it's a new day, niggas.. for the record, Dre is damn near 50 years old ladies and gentlemen.. my childhood was spent watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air and slingin' GI Joes down the stair case.. his was spent dodging high pressure water hoses during his brisk strolls to school and having Calvin Coolidge autograph his yearbook.. this nigga probably had a pet Stegosaurus and shit..

But yet, he could drop a six song EP of somebody wiping their ass, take credit for it, put it out on iTunes tomorrow, and he'd be triple platinum by the end of the week.. that type of G is unheard of, and must be respected.. this nigga's entire career revolves around fucking bitches, busting guns, and riding around in expensive cars, but yet none of these things is unlike the others.. the nigga is married ('Pac commonly mistook his maritial bliss for homosexuality, that's why Dre killed his ass, or atleast took credit for it), he'd pull a hamstring before he'd even hold a trigger under consideration (shooting ranges & water pistols don't count), and if you think Dre is ever behind the wheel you're retarded.. did I not tell you already he's got niggas who got niggas who GOT niggas to drive for him?

I would KILL to see this nigga in his formitive years during Career Day.. coolin' out, rolling his eyes in the back of the classroom as his peers try to convince the rest of the class they're gonna be something when they grow up.. "I'm gonna be an astronaut!" "I'm gonna be a lawyer!" "I'm gonna be a pornstar!" Then Dre stands up, beaming with pride.. chest out, swagger on a million.. and proudly proclaims "I'm going to do jack shit for a living, and have more paper then all you niggas".. could you imagine the laughter that erupted from his peers? The look of genuine disdain from his teacher? I wonder which one of those present day burger flippers would gleefully trade their own offspring for a 5 mere minutes in the life of Andre.. well, I mean, if Dre didn't already take credit for their creation..




"Alright, readers! To vote Andre Romelle Young, call 1-866-385-7843.. that's 866-FUK-SUGE before the end of our telecast! Or AT&T mobile subscribers can't text "Check Your Sexuality, It's Fruity As This Alize" to 77413! Standard text message rates are applicable! Stay tuned for tomorrow, where our next contestant is quite a man about the town.. ladies love him, girls adore him.. yes, that's right! The notorious Kevin Federline will be with us tomorrow, readers! Stay turned!"

Disclaimer: Should you know me on a personal level and find yourself offended by the following, do us both a favor & give yourself a round of applause.. I'm on my naked D'Angelo shit right now.. "How does it feeeeeel??"

My apologies to all 3 of my readers for barely goin' in on here as of late.. my OG MySpace heads know I used to put it down about 3 to 4 times a week, so I'm definitely slippin'.. but I was thoughtful enough to bring my latest, DJ Drama-endorsed bitchfest to the masses (this is an exclusive, ya'll! Mr. Thanksgiving!), so let us bow our heads and give thanks..

I was having a discussion with my sister the other day concerning her wedding, when it somehow segued into the remote possibility of my very own, should the opposite gender collectively decide to get their act together and stop wasting my time with their frivolous bullshit (yes, I'm jaded.. thanks for asking!).. she asked who I'd pick as my best man, and much to her surprise, I was unable to provide her with an immediate answer.. she then casually asked why not just pick my best friend, to which I curtly responded that last time I checked, I was never given the keys to one of those.. she then proceeded to look at me like I just shit in her oatmeal..

I've come to notice that my views on friendship are much different than others; possibly because of how I was raised.. my sister and my Moms are the only family members I have.. I have no contact whatsoever with my father (that would require a blog in and of itself), no cousins, no uncles, no grandparents.. I don't have jack shit in regards to family.. the concept of a family reunion or swingin' by my aunt's crib for some Sunday nigger vittles is completely foreign to me.. so maybe it's because of that type of upbringing I don't pursue the sanctity of friendship as much as others, since I'm used to rollin' with such a small, dilapidated circle of miscreants..

So although I've never been someone who has hordes of "friends" (never forget, there is a clear distinction between associates and friends), the ones I do have, I hold very near and dear to my heart.. which is why I take it very much to heart when they change up and start acting brand new, which thus far, is the theme for 2009.. what exactly is opening up the flood gates & inundating the streets with bitchassness, you might ask?

Girlfriends, boyfriends, or whatever the fuck they're sharing their neither region secretions with.

It's only March and this shit is already tired.

I understand people come into our lives, and love has a tendancy to change things just a tad (actually no I don't) .. ok, I get that.. but what I don't understand is why (or how) people will completely disregard their friends just because they found a woman that will toss their salad to their hearts content.. that shit is just really wack to me.. since when was her tongue in your asshole more important than our frienship? For God knows how long we chopped it up damn near daily, but now that you've found some dude that will suck the paint off your toe nails, I don't exist? The fuck? I understand hearing from said offenders less, but these niggas literally pull a Harry Houdini.. sorry, I can't, won't, and DON'T respect that shit.. then when you call them on it, they either blow you off for being "crazy", or get all defensive..

I'm a forgiver, but I'd be lying my ass off if I said that shit doesn't hurt my feelings and paint these fuck niggas in a different light.. I'm a sensitive nigga, got dammit! I watch Lifetime and cry like a baby at the end of "The Notebook".. I sing Boyz II Men ballads into my showerhead, and I whistle Michael Bolton while I pump my gas.. see what these wack ass friends are doing to a thug ass nigga of my caliber?!

So knowing "friends" have such a tendancy to turn heel, I grown quite adept at dodging these Lil' Cease ass niggas like Amy Winehouse does her daily hygeine regimen.. I can't name a single friend I've had for more than 5 years, which is some gut wrenching, uber sad, deplorable shit, and I've been backstabbed and fucked over by more people DJ Quik.. so yes, this is why I try not to don't put much into friendship, cuz the same niggas that swear up and down they are down for you, are the same ones that will magically transform into figments of my imagination as soon as they find a woman who can burp louder than they can..

"Hoes Before Bros" is the mantra that I cry.. YOU SISSIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEES

Sidenote: "Born Like This" sucks.. fuck you in your tarnished eye socket for this pile of horse shit, Doom.

Real talk, who lied to this nigga on Career Day?

Ol' boy looks focused though.. he'll be got damned if he'll leave the state fair without at least one fried twinkie.. the illest shit is dude ran a fucking 5.21 and still beat his metabolism by about 2 hours..

“Why won’t you just do us both a favor & fucking die already?”

I suppose that’s not the most polite way to tell yourself good morning, but after God knows how many months of this Groundhog Day bullshit, proper etiquette has long ago gone South for the winter.. most people wake up to morning breath and a lovely wife cooking them bacon and eggs.. Me? I wake up to my fucking self.. breathing silently into God knows how many tubes.. I used to actually find the shit moderately amusing, but that was once upon a dream when I still considered myself sane.. but by about now, I literally don’t know who I am anymore..

The accident was supposed to be the Kevin Garnett to my lowly Boston franchise.. the Park Place to my Monopoly, but instead it ended up being my Get Out of Jail Free card..

I’m supposed to be dead.

But thanks to the diligent efforts of a medical crew who became instant celebrities after bringing me back from the cool, almost motherly embrace of death, I’m alive.. well, no.. he’s alive.. and my fucking ass is stuck here until he’s kind enough to take it upon himself to die..

Purgatory (pur⋅ga⋅to⋅ry) [pur-guh-tawr-ee, -tohr-ee] – Any condition or place of temporary punishment, suffering, expiation, or the like.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

At first I thought I was trapped in a bad dream.. it didn’t initially qualify as a nightmare per se, but I suppose that went South for the winter with my etiquette.. I really gotta stop watching so much TV, but when you’re stuck in a hospital room with yourself, one of which is clinically brain dead, what the hell else is going to keep me entertained? That hot nurse has been gone for months now, and my “family” stopped coming around a couple weeks after they were kind enough to sentence me to life support..

So it’s just me and my “twin”.

Our routine is down to a science by about now.. wake up yet again in the same hard ass chair, wait for my "nurse" to walk in and pretend to give a shit about me, then I present my case yet again to myself.. they usually keep the channel on CourtTV or something, so I’ve gotten pretty good with my presentation.. problem is, all that lawyer crap doesn’t work.. won’t work now, didn’t work when I was alive..

The bible says suicide is a sin, but considering how many times I stepped to the plate and struck out, you’d think God would show me some mercy.. but no, he was kind enough to hand toss me into a car accident (while I was still on my date, fuck you very much), kill me on the scene, pull a Lazarus and magically bring me back to the land of the living, THEN sentence me to no brain activity until someone is kind enough to pull the plug, which even my pussy ass family didn’t have the balls to do (fuck you very much as well).. so every morning I skip the bacon & eggs, and we do the dance..

God, I miss morning sex.

“Is this how you wanna live, Doug? Fucking die already, shit! If you wanna lay in a hospital bed for the rest of your fucking life, why can’t you just do us both a favor and die first? Maybe you missed the memo, but you’re fucking brain dead! You are not coming back to life! You’re a vegetable! Give it up already so I can get the fuck out of here and you can go feed some damn maggots!"

“Nobody gives a shit about you! Mom hasn’t been by in how many months, Doug? When’s the last time you saw Reggie or Pete? Oh, that’s right, you haven’t.. what great best friends you picked, you fucking loser.. the damn doctors don’t even want you here anymore! The nurses stopped washing your ass how long ago? And you think I wanna spend the rest of eternity, trapped in this fucking room with you, sitting by watching this shit!? Even the damn cancer that got us in this mess abandoned your ass! What the fuck do you have to live for? Answer me, motherfucker! Why won’t you just give up?!”

My fists slam into the table next to you for emphasis, but there’s not a single sound.

I kick the door in frustration, but find myself on the receiving end of the same result.

I swear to God, if I could pick up that vase of dead flowers next to you, I would smash it against your fucking skull.

But I can’t.

So I sit back down, concede defeat, bury my face in my hands, and spend the rest of the day crying.. but coincidentally enough, a situation like this tends to warp your perception of time.. days, weeks, months.. what's the fucking difference?

Try as I may to convince you to concede, I'm the one already trapped in a coffin.

Today was the greatest day of my life.

Six passengers, three cars, two lanes, one highway, and no insurance.

To this day, I still don’t even remember how it happened.. all I know is, when either the smoke or rain (I’m still not sure which) was kind enough to wake me up, my beautiful Accord was reluctantly sandwiched between a Cadillac and a Range Rover.. I’m actually surprised I could even remember that, since everything else was a fucking blur right about then.. it’s actually kinda funny to me.. I’ve read several articles about people being completely oblivious to colors as they fight for their lives.. I don’t know what the correlation is between dying and going colorblind, but as my endorphins were certainly at war for my own life, I definitely saw colors..

Actually no, I only remember one.. it was red, and it was everywhere.

All over my hands.. my legs.. the steering wheel? Yeah, that was definitely red.. what was left of my windshield.. the air bag next to me, and the passenger unfortunate enough to be unconscious behind it.. she was a beautiful girl, but what can I say? My dates never seemed to end well.. she was covered in it too.. I could even taste it.. apparently colors are more adept at manipulating our senses than even I realized.. but it was everywhere.. I could feel it seeping into my lungs at a measured pace.. abstract and imperfect, free.. even the smile that peeked from between my lips shared the same gorgeous shade of crimson..

And as much joy as it gave me, it was nothing compared to the anticipation of what was coming.. relief warmed over me almost as quickly as that beautiful wave of red did.. the pain dancing up and down my nerve endings was a welcomed addition as well.. this was it, and I could barely contain my excitement.. I had waited weeks, months for this very day.. and finally, by the grace of God, it had arrived..

There wasn’t a day that went by where somebody wouldn’t ask me, “What does cancer feel like?” And as many times as I heard that question, I could never administer an answer I could truly put my belief behind.. was there even a definitive response? Sure, I could share with them the joys of chemotherapy.. the nausea, the weight loss.. the many nights I was lucky enough to flush bloody toilet paper.. and of course, being 25 and bald was good times.. but damn.. what DOES cancer feel like?

What’s fucking hysterical to me was for as many months as I marinated on that question, the answer didn’t come to me until my face was parallel parked in my windshield as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Imagine going through life as usual, then one day stumbling upon a book with the power of precognition.. as you flip through its pages, you quickly discover that this isn’t a regular novel, but this is in fact, your life.. you skip about the pages, grinning ear to ear as you stumble upon your first kiss or your lovely bride at your wedding reception.. but curiosity gets the best of you, so you skip towards the pages in the back in order to get a sneak peek at your unborn son, or maybe the world itself in the distant future.. but much to your surprise, the pages aren’t blank, nor red; they’re black.. and every time you frantically turn back the pages to try to find out how hot your prom date was, or what you got on your SAT’s, that page goes black too.. a whole lifetime spent on a story that no matter how hard you try to cue up Microsoft Word and change the ending, you can’t..

That’s cancer.

And this? The internal bleeding? The blunt trauma and multiple skull fractures? The beautiful, red silence? Is bliss.

Morbid? That’s debatable.. but what you have to understand is that this was the day that God finally decided to rid me of this unspeakable burden.. the same burden I didn’t have the balls to absolve by my own means.. the pills only earned me a couple hundred more dollars in medical debt & the indigestion from hell, and too much TV led to me slitting my wrists the wrong way and looking like an idiot to my mother.. I didn’t have the balls to hang myself, nor Chris Benoit to do it for me, or the brains to pull a Will Smith in “Seven Pounds”.. so after months of failed attempts, God just so happens to place me on the freeway on a rainy, Saturday night? He couldn’t wait until AFTER I dropped my date off?

That’s irony.

But I suppose I had carried the cross for too long.. I would stop bitching and be grateful, but dying is never as easy as it looks in movies.. especially when the paramedics show up in record time.

Even God couldn’t fucking kill me right.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

As bad as this week has been, the Lord could've been kind enough to keep today to himself.

I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I’m starting to have doubts about my choice of career path.. as heavenly as the highs are, the lows are on an entirely different level.. getting blindsided by another’s bad choice is one thing, but the strain of guilt and regret is just too much to bear sometimes.. frankly, I’m beginning to seriously wonder if I still have the cajones for this type of shit anymore..

Enter Her.

Roughly 6 months ago She and I met.. She was our newest client at job #2.. no, not the social work gig, the one where I’m the team lead for a detention alternative program.. in laymen’ s terms, that means I run a program that’s commissioned by the state to transition juvenile offenders back into The Real World, sans MTV.. we legally kidnap them for a couple months, clean their heads up, draw a smiley face on them, and when the courts give us the thumbs up, we kick them in the ass and send them on their merry way..

But She was different.

As much as it sometimes pains me to admit, & as often as I lie to their faces and tell them otherwise, most kids ensnared in The System don’t have shit going for them.. they come from terrible home environments, they’re unmotivated, etc.. but as I already said, She was different.. I knew it from the moment I saw Her.. bad attitude and reluctance to be my newest pet project aside, She had a certain aura about Her that I had never experienced before in someone Her age.. She often checked her peers on following their own treatment, She always had her head up high, She was actually about something..

As the time went by, I was privileged enough to spend many an hour dancing around in Her head.. Her story wasn’t much different than most of the others.. Her father was physically abusive, and after years of being on the receiving end, she erupted after coming home and finding Her mother beaten and bruised.. She picked up a bat, swung on him, missed, and put a hole in the wall.. out of fear, Her little brother called the police.. when the police came, Her father claimed She not only attempted to take his life, but beat Her own mother as well.. out of fear for her own life, Her mother co-signed his bullshit story.. cue the cuffs, assault charges, and yet another kid unjustifiably thrown in The System..

As if this story wasn’t fucked up enough, She was an All-State basketball player, with God knows how many D1 schools on her ass 24/7, foaming at the mouth to give Her a full ride.. only reason I know this is I saw Her gigantic stack of hand written letters from coaches my damn self.. basketball was Her entire life, and Her dream was to play for Pat Summit (who sent one of said letters) one day..

Unfortunately, with those kind of charges on your record, most of those schools withdrew their full rides.

But as I said before, She was different.

The only thing in the world that meant more to Her than basketball was Her girlfriend.. She talked about her all the time, and kept her picture on Her person at all times.. but Her parents were anything but fans of this particular young lady, and felt that She was a deterrent.. So they imposed a restraining order against the girlfriend until She was 18.. considering that was roughly 2 years away, She was devastated.. so much so, She sought legal council to get legally emancipated from Her parents.. being away from home was hard enough, but without any contact from Her girlfriend, She was broken..

She asked me if I would go to her emancipation hearing with Her.. She stated She needed the support, because if She lost the case, She “wouldn’t have a reason to live anymore”..

I obliged.. problem is, I never made it to court.

I had an emergency at Job #1, and couldn’t get to court in time.. by the time I could, I called Her therapist to tell Her I was on my way, and she said it was too late.. She lost the case, and was still under the legal guardianship of her parents.. She would never be legally permitted to talk to her girlfriend again until She was 18..

She was placed on suicide watch the same night.

She didn’t talk to me for almost a month, and every time I tried, She would turn her head and start crying.

A couple weeks later I had a really nasty sinus infection, and missed about a week and a half of work.. considering I almost never miss work (at either of my jobs), most of the kids there began spreading rumors that I had “ditched them” and quit.. one of which was Her, who apparently didn’t take it very well, even though She hadn’t said a word to me in God knows how long anyway..

The day before I came back She ran away.

Between the results of the emancipation hearing (which I discovered later that Her parents were trying to guilt Her into retracting, by stating that the stress of it had given Her mother cancer), not being able to talk to the one person in the entire world that She actually needed to, and me supposedly “ditching Her”, She decided to take matters into Her own hands and leave.. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about it after returning the very next day, and all the other kids and staff could tell me was how upset She was at me.. my staff informed me that they had repeatedly told her that I would be back and that I was just out sick, but apparently She thought they were lying to cover for me, since I was out so long..

Fast forward several months, and we never hear a word about Her whereabouts.

Fast forward to today and we learned that her own father was kind enough to have taken Her life late last night.

I would go into explicit detail as to how and why they believe he did it, but I assure you, you really do not want to know.

All I know is I’m growing more and more tired of waking up every morning and having to be reminded first hand as to why this world is such a fucked up place.

Seriously.

Alas, my prayers have been answered.

Dearest Stevland Hardaway Judkins,

The charade must end, dearest Stevland.. it's time.

You see (actually no you don't, my bad), your lack of sight leaves you at the mercy of your peers, and clearly those same "allies" are on a mission to embarress you & assassinate your public image as covertly as humanly possible.. when you smile for the cameras, little do you know these common mediums of digital photography are not only recording the happiness you bear within that legendary grin, but the tragedy continuing to transpire above your eyebrows..

Mr. Judkins, it's time.

For a mere $12 I can put you in contact with a certified hair care technician who can rid you of the shame and complete & utter lack of dignity clinging on for dear life north of the back of your neck.. and for an additional $2, I'll even have him line up that fucked up pube-stache you've been rockin' since like '73.. you may balk at the price, but don't consider it compensation, consider it an investment into your own peice of mind.. aren't you tired of your doo rag laughing manically at you as you go to cover up what's left of your braids every night?

Monday, February 23 @ approximately 6:59 PM. . . .

Harlem stand up!
Actually no, sit the fuck back down.. no wonder Cam dissapeared into "bolivion"..

Shouts to all my gorillas who checked up on a nigga yesterday.. had to get a CT scan and that IV dye is some shit.. supposedly it has a lot of adverse effects, but I wasn’t going for it.. however, too bad it felt otherwise after the scan.. that shit had me throwing up all day yesterday and writhing around like a bitch while my kidney’s felt like they were on fire.. hell, they STILL feel like I caught some of that Rhianna in my abdomen .. got me over here laid out, pounding the shit out of water to clean me out.. oh happy fucking day..

But seriously though, head to toe, I’m Carl Thomas’d out right now.. I’m on my "Emotional" shit, cuz I got an automated call from UPS stating that the triumphant return of Pain McCain (a.k.a. my Xbox 360) is scheduled for today..

“Look at me, I’m crying.. Inside my heart is, slowly dying..”

Sing that shit, Carl!

Life wasn’t the same without my daily dosage of some of that console jungle fever.. I had a wet dream the other night that I stomped some random online nigga out in some NBA 2K9, only to wake up disheveled and disheartened when I realized “it was all a dream” like Biggie.. I honestly don’t even play the muthafucka that often since I work so damn much, but with my self-imposed two week hiatus from the labor pits, now was the time to get reacquainted with the ex-wife..

Then on my first day of occupational freedom, she dies on a nigga.. figures.

A 72 hour bitch fest, a cop’s taser, and a call to some customer service rep who’s English is as good as the last season of “In Living Color” later and here we are.. at the cusp of marital bliss.. when the kind people at UPS (I’m down with that brown, fuck a USPS) return my bride, I’ll be rubbing toes, poppin’ bottles of her bath water, & tongue kissing her HDMI ports this fine evening to celebrate..

Just in time for “Star Ocean: The Last Hope”.. God is good.

1. Awwwwwwwwwwww man, All-Star weekend was the illest shit ever.. the private parties, the events, the energy of the city, the women.. this shit was truly an experience.. I REALLY need to get a camera.. I was gonna do a daily blog this weekend of just pictures of me acting the fuck up, but in true nigga fashion, your boy forgot to cop a camera before the festivities began.. it was kinda funny though seeing the spots that minorities refrain from usually going, being flooded with niggers.. that shit was gold.. I don’t even know where it’s gonna be at next year, but I’m there! Fuck the bullshit! Word to Maury, I think I got impregnated liiiiiiiiiiiiike 3 times this weekend.. later this week I might even be kind enough to share a story or seven on this very blog.. stay tuned or something..

3. If I ever get focused and decide to cop a camcorder instead of wasting my money on clothes, kicks, & condoms, you video blog niggas (I see you, Teef.. ho ass nigga!) are in a world of hurt.. I was lookin' at those junts last week and was shocked and amazed at how cheap they were..............then proceeded to take my black ass to the mall & dropped like $600 on Obey, Express, & Pumas.. consider yourself lucky, muthafuckas.. I did YA'LL a favor.. enjoy your sympathy views and blog hits while you can, niggas.. the video reign of the Incomparable Bozack Jenkins cometh..

My name is Jay and I love this fucking place.



No, not Blogspot, you dolt.. Sweet Tomatoes.

Hands down, it’s my favorite restaurant of all-time & shit.. she (yes, I am in fact referring to a inanimate object as a sentient being) and I share a bond that far exceeds human comprehension.. she’s the Bonnie to my Clyde, the Whitney Houston to my forlorn crack vial, the Fantasia Barrino to my illiteracy.. forbidden love be damned, she’s the soul mate I was brought into this plane of existence to adore.. and every time I visit her, I write her love letters on my napkins & ensure I lick the plate upon my exodus.

Cuz I’m a kinky nigga.

So yes, my girl is the fucking truth.. I'll fight anybody who dare think otherwise.. I’ve been down with her since that fateful day oh so many moons ago when I first touched down in the arid desert.. I take our time together quite serious, so after a long day of doing absolutely nothing, I decided to go pay my beautiful bride to be a visit.. as I hopped out my ride, I could feel her smile lustfully beaming down upon me.. I blew her a kiss, and continued on inside..

** ZACH MORRIS TIME OUT**



For those who have been unfortunate enough to have never been formally introduced to the love of my fucking life, Sweet Tomatoes is a gigantic salad buffet.. you make your own salad from damn near every ingredient under the sun, then you also have access to a bar that has various soups, italian dishes (pastas, pizza), breads, starches, and for you Hungry Hungry Hippo-ass fat niggas, even desert..

** ZACH MORRIS TIME IN**

I wipe away the waterfall of frothy saliva streaming down my chin, grab my tray & a plate, and begin work on my sinister salad creation.. I go for the tongs, get a nice helping of iceberg lettuce, and I’m already anticipating the orgasm I’m bout to have in my mouth once I finish this salad.. I'm the George Washington Carver of this salad shit.. I have it down to a science, and NEVER skip a step.. first is the lettuce, next is the chicken, then I handle my B.I. with the toppings.. cool.

Lettuce? Check.

Chicken?

Hold up.. where’s the chicken? It’s usually RIGHT next to the lettuce.. I keep my game face on, and politely show the lady behind the counter my milk carton with a picture of my fucking grilled chicken on the back.. to which she is kind enough to inform me that they no longer serve chicken with the salad.. this has got to be a joke.. I’ve gone to this place religiously for almost 9 years, and they ALWAYS have chicken.. this is the psychological equivalent to waking up next to your wife of 20 years, and one morning she inexplicably only has one titty.. the hell am I gonna do with one titty? It fucks our whole sex life up.. I can’t even hit it from the back, cuz her balance is all fucked up now.. you think Rob Base’s “It Takes Two” was just a song? I WANT MY GOT DAMN GRILLED CHICKEN.

Put THAT in your Pro Tools.

I’m salty as piss, but I keep it moving down the line, seething as I adorn my breast cancer ridden salad with an assortment of green peppers and a pinch of feta cheese.. by the time I reach the cashier, I’m seething like a forsaken mythological God.. the war within me is brewing, but I fight through it.. and while retrieving my wallet I hear something foreign.. something I’ve never heard before.. it’s almost alien.. an odd combination of sounds in a syncopated rhythm completely unfamiliar to my ear drums..

“That’ll be $13.07, sir.”

The fuck? $13.07?! For my female adolescent chested, wanna be Pamela Anderson-ass salad?! This is a joke right?! I’m looking at this chick like she’s crazy, and am left with no other recourse but to wonder out loud: “When the hell did the price go up to $13.07?! For a salad?!”.. She’s kind enough to inform me that, much like the grilled chicken, the change happened recently.. I suck my teeth loud as hell, hand over my debit card, and cringe at the mere thought of the bank account sodomy that I've just willingly been a participant in..

I drag my black ass to a booth, put my tray down, and make a beeline for the food bar.. distressed but not broken, I still have two other items to attain that always accompany my beloved, now de-breasted salad: a baked potato; decorated with sour cream, cheddar cheese, and chives; and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.. I punch some old lady in the face, grab a small plate and some tongs, then—WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.. since when did the baked potatoes get so damn little?! I’m looking down at the potato bar in disbelief.. it looks like a got damn graveyard for The California Raisins.. what the hell is going on here!?

Then I go to get some of my forever exquisite chicken noodle soup (hold the soda on the side, please) and the bowls are HALF the size they used to be!! Are they TRYIN’ to make me go Chris Brown on these niggas? Tell me how you’re supposed to breathe with No Air?

A pink ribbon salad? Little M&M sized, Happy Meal friendly baked potatoes? Kunta Kinte’ rations of my beloved chicken noodle soup? This is not the woman I fell in love with all those years ago.. she was drop dead gorgeous, the envy of all the other broads on the block.. Apache was even kind enough to write a song in her honor back in like ’92.. she used to be a dime.. now she wanna charge a nigga a quarter? What part of the game is this? Why she actin’ brand new?

And right about then it hit me..



She’s fucking some other nigga.

I try to play it off, but I’ve seen dude around.. fucking up gas prices.. coming after my boys jobs and shit.. dude ain’t no joke, he runs deep.. but I dunno, yo.. I thought she was different.. I thought she would stay down.. but apparently, that pussy was too good to pass up.

The recession turned my girl out, and she ain’t gettin’ a damn thing for Valentine’s Day.

Never really fucked with 50, but this nigga is a certified lunatic for this one.. I don't give a shit what kind of problems I have with another man, as soon as you involve my family, I'm left with no other choice than to be proactive..

Proactive meaning I'm going to kill your monkey ass.

Talking shit about my Moms has limitations.. that would merely warrant an ass beating of epic proportions, with a serving of Stone Cold Stunner as a desert.. but going to my Moms place of business and insinuating you're going to somehow bring harm upon her?

Nah, fam.. I gotta park your ass six feet deep for that one.

See niggas don't understand.. the Air Force fucked me up.. both physically & psychologically.. I almost lost my life and spent 9 months in the hospital over that 9/11 shit.. to say I've been through hell and back would be an understatement.. that said, because I can't take a direct hit to my surgically sexy neck, I have next to no regard for entertaining a nigga in a fist fight.. if you try to swing at me, I'm going to try to kill you.. period.

You can call me paranoid, but a simple jab could fuck around and paralyze (or literally kill) my ass.. and threating my mother, in my mind, registers as more along the lines of a haymaker than a jab..

I realize this rap shit is on some WWF level of publicity and entertainment, but as soon as my Moms got involved, and you send niggas to her place of work?

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW man.. If I was Khaled, I'd get my bail money up.

Sweet Jesus, Christina Milian is so fucking BAD.. shit!

Please allow me to bang my head on the keyboard real quick.. kladvsnskaln sakl2p9o0fsa;'kdsamlfdsaldmsal;.. maaaaaaaaaaan, shit yo.. if God would permit me just 4 minutes and 59 seconds of liberation within the confines of her glorious vaginal corridors, I would willingly go gay for the rest of my natural life.. I'd be a shag rockin', gold leotard, Kanye ass nigga..

.........ok, not willingly, but please believe I'd still sign my heterosexuality away in a Johnny Gill/Eddie Murphy heartbeat..

I bet her bathwater tastes like Koolaid.. just looking at this picture makes my dick wanna leap from my pants and moonwalk across the room.. I've been stacking up karma for years, Lord.. when you gon' let a nigga cash that shit out?

“She want that lovey dovey (lovey dovey)
Fist fist (FIST FIST)
In my mind, I fantasize ‘bout hittin’ thissssss B”

So apparently this nigga Chris Brown lost his natural mind, got out of pocket, and beat the “Disturbia” out of Rhianna.. I can’t say I’ve ever considered myself a fan of this lil’ nigga, but I’m on my Joey Lawrence “Whoa!” shit right now.. talk about a PR nightmare, black people ain’t been this pissed since the McRib got discontinued.. this on the same level of public backlash as Eric Benet passing up on coming home to Halle Berry every night in order to satisfy his insatiable thirst for poon.. Was it worth it? Once Oprah finds out, it’s your ass, Chris.. how many times I got to tell ya’ll? Never trust a nigga that can do the splits..



Niggas thought ol’ boy was sweet, yet he’s gullier than the entire hip hop industry (yes, even you MySpace rappers).. rappers talk all this “my gun go off” “I murk niggas” “put you in a Gucci coffin” shit, yet every time they meet up, either nothing happens, or somebody just gets slapped.. not snuffed, not shot.. not dropkicked or jumped.. but slapped.. yes, that’s right.. apparently grown ass, gangsta ass niggas leave their knuckles in the trunk with their AK’s and Glock .45’s, but keep the pistols and open palms on deck for whoever wanna test.. I can’t even remember the last time I SLAPPED somebody.. oh, that’s right, I haven’t.. even the French are lookin’ at these rappers like they soft, and all they DO is catch L’s.. this nigga Saigon flex his muscles at every camera he sees, yet he couldn’t put the lean on Prodigy’s little midget ass? Oh that’s right, he was too busy getting a piggy back ride out the club to put that nigga to sleep, my bad..

Seriously though, it’s never cool to play pastor and lay hands on a woman.. well, unless she loses her natural mind and hits you first.. then you just return the favor by hiring lil’ bad ass kids to beat the brakes off her ass .. what she gon’ tell the cops? She got stabbed up by a 6 year old white girl? On the real though, I wish Rhianna (and her forehead) the best of luck.. I know she’s vulnerable right now, but I’m just the nigga to suck her toes & love her back to life.. a little Luther Vandross and quality time with Jay is just what the doctor ordered, baby.. I'll give you the same treatment 50 gave Officer Ross' baby moms..

Is it really that hard to flush the got damned toilet?

See, shit like this is why I don't really fuck with public restrooms unless it's a neccesity (no #2's over here!), nor do I allow just anyone to enter my humble abode and disrespect my hallowed porcelain goddess.. people think just because they drop a duece and flush, that they're good.



Just........NO, nigga.

On everything, its heads like you that got my nerves bad, yo.. got your boy paranoid as hell.. walking around itching like Tyrone Biggums, jumping at every little sound.. I can't sleep, I can't eat.. Hell, I can't even take a PISS cuz of muhfuckas like you.. see nothing irks a nigga more than talking a brisk stroll into the bathroom, only to stumble upon a gargantuan clump of toilet paper completely abandoned by western civilization; wondering around my toilet bowl aimlessly like a lost orphan.. on everything, that shit gets me tight.. like punch a baby in the face tight.. like “look what I just did to Nicole Brown Simpson’s neck” tight.. Christopher Columbus died how many years ago? Fam, I’m GOOD on the discoveries.. I’m on some gastric bypass, don’t have the stomach for this type shit when it comes to these low budget/BET Movie, toilet bowl treasure hunts.. if you wanna leave me a present so badly, you are more than welcome to make a charitable donation under my Christmas tree, preferably before December 25th.. but no cash please, niggas be hatin’..

Ya’ll probably sitting there like, “Be easy, Jay! You’re taking this shit way too serious..”

Fuck that! I’m tight for a reason.. if women can bitch for centuries about recreating Splash Mountain every time one of their clumsy asses fall into a toilet, I can go in on these dirty booty ass niggas who don’t know how to flush a damn toilet.. Seriously, I can’t be the ONLY dude on the face of the Earth who looks into the toilet after I handle my B.I.. so assuming that I’m not, that means YOUR punk ass wiped your punk ass, flushed, washed your hands, looked in that junt, SAW the rogue toilet paper orbiting around the bowl, did one of these:



And kept it movin’.. you sick bastard! Fuck is wrong with you?!

From this day forth, recession aside, I’m taxin’ niggas jaws for this type of ill behavior.. You mean to tell me that in this country I can go to court for having my Mek Denim dragging under my ass cheeks, but niggas are enabled by the court of law to deposit foreign objects into my toilet bowl without fear of legal repercussions?



Is this the brand of justice I involuntary subscribed to upon my descent into this plane of existance? Where's MY Million Man March?

Another thing I CAN'T STAND is when people try to talk to me when I’m talking a leak.. c’mon, fam.. I’m a man of peace.. I let A LOT of shit slide in public restrooms for the greater good of mankind.. if you spark up an Ozone Alert Day with your methane leaks, I don’t say shit.. If there’s like 10 free stalls and you opt to use the one right next to me, I might look at you half crazy, but I’ll let it go as long as you don’t piss on my foot.. but my dude, never, EVERRRRRRRRRR talk to me when my dick is in my hand.. EVER.. ever? EVER.. I'm like the Statury of Liberty, home.. I'm tryin' to let freedom ring and you're violating my civil rights and shit.. nigga, do you WANT war?

The bathroom is my sanctuary, the urinal is my pulpit, and for you to have the umitigated gall to interrupt my sermon with your paulty nigger speak is nothing short of sacrilege.. why can’t you let the spirit move in peace? Are you TRYIN’ to go to hell? I’m sanctified with this, homie.. solitude is a fundamental requirement for my breed of gospel..

Translation: Nigga, I’m peein’! Why are you talking to me?!

I really feel like I need to cake up and write a book on this to school these heads, yo.. this recession got folks acting out of pocket for real..

Easily the most honest interview I've ever heard.. why can't rappers keep it one-hunnid all the time? No more fried bananas!

Nore, for your brutal honesty, I forgive you for infamously informing the Neptunes you have a cocker spaniel.

Former Bad Boy rapper Mark Curry is releasing a tell-all book about his time at the Bad Boy record label, according to ThisIs50.com.

In the book, which is titled Dancing With the Devil, Curry speaks on Diddy's penchant for stealing artists' shine and charge them strange fees.

"Puff has an annoying habit of inserting himself into the songs and videos of all the artists on his label and its common knowledge that many Bad Boy acts resented him for this," writes Curry. "Asked about his practice in the July 1995 issue of a magazine aimed at black teenagers, Puff said: 'I like performing with my artists. I like talking on the records and I like being in the videos. It protects my interests in terms of what I’m going to do in the future. Say if a company tries to remove me. It's going to be hard to remove me and still have my acts and [have] the same level of intensity and the same flavor and feeling'."

"Puff charged the artists for his appearance on their records and videos, usually without [them] realizing it until they receive their royalty statements," wrote the rapper, who was known for his appearance on the hit "Bad Boy for Life." "That’s when they discovered that their large sums of money had gone to fees which were doubled, tripled and even quadrupled because of Puff's 'special appearances.' He charged artists, for example, for having his Bentley in his videos-which he insisted upon- then took tax credit for business use of a car."



Dancing With the Devil is slated for a February release.