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Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Designer Recliner (Along With Benefits)


Watching "Run's House," have you ever wondered when Joseph Simmons last rode the 7? I'm thinking 1980? '79, maybe? (Try and imagine Russell's last commute; your mind just might implode.)

This Kelis joint and "Weekend" = the sound of young Harlem. The latter finding Cam on some splashy '80s fly shit (pause). So much better when he's keeping it basic—which is to say, I don't need another "Get 'Em Girls" (I like the one I've got just fine, thank you). And really, who needs more Bey-Z baiting (unless it's, of course, from Rihanna)?

Speaking of shameless hussies and their increasingly shitty pop songs, "Ring the Alarm" is wack, dudes. Trust (see also: Goin' on a Whim, I'm on My Gladwell Shit).

Denice swears that B, as we sometimes call her, can't fuck. Judging by The Yonce's video performances, which are sexy in only the most sterile, Kubrickian ways, I'd agree. (Hey B, if you wanna successfully channel Tina, you might wanna put your back into a little, so that B’Day won't suck, and our friend Mr. Carter won't be so distracted.)

I’m so estranged from the rap crit elite. Somebody who got it like that (JShep?), put me on: How y’all mugfuckers all, at the exact same time, decide that Rick Ross is worthy of even half the attention he’s been getting of late a.) OutKast fell the fuck off b.) Coke rap and “swagger” > anything else, and c.) Mr. Lif is listenable.

My grandfather used to time it so that his dentures were finished soaking by the time "Walker, Texas Ranger" came on. Maybe that’s how y’all roll.

FYI, Ashanti, according to our friend Denice, can, in fact, fuck.

Had that dream again, where Eva Mendes is smiling at me with Great Britain’s overbite. This latest Vibe cover isn’t helping matters.

Not that I'm mad at JJ's saggy titties; they distract us from her increasingly mutant-like visage…

I'm sayin'.