My STRONG Black Nubile Princes and Kings. I need you help. Just a little touch of help…

Tell me the difference between these two women.

and

Don’t worry. I’ll wait.

Oh! She has longer hair in the first one right?

Now before I continue, please excuse my EXCESSIVE use of profanity. Blame my head and not my heart. I still LOVE you guys to pieces. Above all others…but this shit right here has to cease and desist!

Back to what I saw saying. Take the lovely, eccentric, talented, TRUE TO HERSELF Solange here. As I mentioned before, the only difference in those two pictures is, in the aforementioned one, her hair is short. Well, stuff me full of fucking StoveTop and call me a turkey. I don’t re-fucking-member when beauty had ANYTHING to do with your hair. For the most part I thought it was about bone structure of the face, if I’m correct. Aesthetic beauty, anyways. And we can mention that gooey shit on the inside that makes us ALL beautiful….or so I’ve been told. Some of ya’ll is filled to the brim with that muck that was oozing out of that tree in Ferngully….Hexxus! Ha!

But the way black men are talking, you would have thunk that when she cut her hair off, she’d lopped off her boobs and stuffed a Oscar Myer wiener in her lady parts. You stupid sons of…….*calms down*

Black men in MASS are reeling in horror at the fact that black women are transitioning from weaves and perms to….holy fucking shit…THEIR OWN HAIR and TEXTURE. I mean, I could end the post with this. The ABSURDITY of that notion is enough to walk away, press Publish and go on with my merry day.

But this HAS to be addressed.

First of all, Black Men….PLEASE don’t sit here and tell us that you are the foremost experts on hairstyles.

We endured….suffered….put up with THIS SHIT..

So, first of all, shut your monkey asses up about OUR hair.

Has our society; our own very CULTURE (one that we hold sacred and very distinguishable from other cultures) been so CONDITIONED, so…white washed and Europeanized that black men would prefer black women with white women hair? Really? What’s that Drake line ya’ll keep putting in your status boxes and tweeting all over the damn place?

Sweat pants, hair tied, chillin’ with no make-up on / That’s when you’re the prettiest, I hope that you don’t take it wrong

Guess you mean if there is two packs of Yaki Weave or hair burnt to shit by creamy crack under that hair tie, eh?

Assholes.

In time, eventually, this…

….will turn into a beautiful healthy head of hair, that will have grown longer and stronger than 90% of women with perms. That woman you’re looking at right now with the long flowing hair…probably started off JUST like that. But you monk faced idiots are too superficial and shallow to see that shit.

But I’m done. All I’m saying is, if you don’t like it, #YeShrug, that’s on you. I can’t judge you based on your opinions, BUT, my loves, think very hard where you’re pulling this opinion from. Is it you OWN vision of beauty or what society has drilled into your head? Either way…think.

I WOULD like to get started on the women who are doing this just because EVERYONE else is doing it….but that’s neither here nor there right now…

Okay. Q & A time.

Question #1 Who is that?

Answer: What the hell you MEAN, who is that? That’s KESTON K-K-…whew. Hold on. My leg started to shaking and shit. -ahem- That’s Keston Karter. Period.

Question #2 Hold up, wait. Is he glowing?

Answer: YES the HELL he is. *raised eyebrow*. And what?

Question #3 What do you mean, Have a Baby WITH ME…You serious?

Answer: Would I have wrote it if I …you know what this isn’t going to work. Q&A, over with.

You know, I frequent ALOT of HipHop sites. The Smoking Section , The Rap Up , Nahright and 2 Dopeboyz are a few of my [madeupword alert!] favoritestestest in the world. I love these blogs with all my little black heart. But DAMN, I’m tired of going on these sites, trying to indulge my hip hop fix and I’ve gotta look at these butt naked hoes every other post. I mean. I understand the reader base is probably 99.99 percent male. But it would nice to have SOMETHING to look at other than coot and boobs when I click. [SMH.......nevermind. ]

So anyways. I decided that I’d put something up. Something to sooth my soul…and other places.

Keston Karter’s got that good old Trinidian and Tobagan special juice in his blood. It’s called “GAHDAMN YOU FINE!”. I don’t even know what he actually DOES for a living, besides be fine. And I don’t even care. He’s well educated and fine. The other parts are very minute in this situation.

And may we all say, Amen

I first noticed him on Myspace. Yes. THE Myspace. He added me as a friend. Probably so I’d buy his calendar. And I did. #kanyeshrug. But soon after, I came across this gem of a clip.

I don’t have much to say, hence the title of this post. I just blink alot and try to keep my drool at a minimum. I strive to o keep my male-goddess-obession at a small scale when in public places.

I do, however imagine this is my bed, but then that would have mean I’ve died and gone to heaven.

You can check out more of him, hell buy a calendar if you want at The Official Keston Karter Website

Adonis. Yesir.

Shawn Knowles-Carter.

Oh. I see you’re angry; you swarms of fire-spitting old timers and…wait. What is this? Are these people MY AGE? Oh. Wow. They are!

Foregoing and damn near ignoring the reasoning behind Mr. Carter’s request to become part of the Knowles family, not only in spirit, but in name as well, people are tittering on disgust.

Yes Beyonce. Yes Shawn. Yes. Yes…I understand.

The Knowles have no sons, and if subsequently Solange Knowles does remarry, the Knowles name will all but cease to continue on into the forefront.

I can relate to this because under my immediate family tree, there was only ONE son born by a male; my brother. He, of course can get married and our last name continues on into the future. But if my brother had in fact been my sister (born a female) , our family tree halts at my father and his siblings. That worried me, so strongly that I considered keeping my surname SOMEWHERE in my name. The pride of being a Wike almost persuaded me to keep my last name just that, regardless if I was married or not.

Oh, did that get the blood boiling in a few of my exes.

The argument lies in today’s society and the power of it over us as individuals. Our society of course, is patriarchal. The word patriarchal spans back into the age of Aristotle and Plato, under the teachings of Socrates; using the bible as a guide, deemed women the direct connection to divine punishment (that is punishment from God). Terms such as a woman is the halfway mark between man and ANIMAL or that women feel therefore do not think, were thrown around.

Hell, if I told you WHY the Salem Witch trials actually happened (and no it wasn’t based on any kind of Hocus Pocus, unless you believe that a woman being educated and seeking power to be voodoohoodoo) you’d be surprised. And I will suppress the temptation to delve into the absolute LEFT of good common sense of Adam’s supposed PATRIARICAL role over Eve’s life; when he succumbs to her wishes as if he were her child, instead of the head of her house. But I won’t go there. That would turn this into a feminist rant; I won’t do that.

I digress…alot. Where was I? Oh. To get EVEN deeper than I actually wanted to go, we as descendants from Africans are of a culture were surnames were not even a part of our actual cultural history, as the adoption of that practice surmounted as we began our lives as slaves. We have adopted a custom unknown to us in length, YET we are the first ones to throw stones when a man chooses to combine his name with his wife’s name. And we aren’t talking your run of the mill housewife. Beyonce Knowles net worth is 350 MILLION to his 500 MILLION and together (with the added boost from his Live Nation Deal) are worth a BILLION dollars.

Ya’ll think they give a damn about your opinions on what THEY do with THEIR names? Give me a Harlem Shake break. We’ve got a man, so secure in his love for his wife, that he is willing not only to share his last name with her, but allow her to share her last name with him. They are ONE under God’s eyes, so explain to me how taking his last name and his last name only means a hill of fire ant shit?

It doesn’t.

In truth, the word patriarchy is becoming more useless everyday as the divorce rate is sky high, more women are graduating from college than men, the word single mother is synonymous with BIRTH at this point, why do we have a problem when two highly successful and prominent people decide to defy the bounds of this society and do exactly what they want to do?

#kanyeshrug.

Sidenote: If you’re going to use the bible as an argument, don’t. There weren’t any last names in the Bible. Kay! Thanks! Bye!

“That’s a good word for it. NoMAD. Cuz I ain’t mad.” -Bizzy Bone.

All I know is that amidst either a holy ghost high (which I think Jesus would be ’smite’ingly upset as being the scapegoat for this catastrophically ignantbehavior) or with a very strong hallucinogen doing the stanky-bootydo-leg ( I would refernce “jerking”…but I don’t acknowledge that strange brand of shitism) through his system, we bare witness to one of the most public forms of intoxication fuckery to every hit the airwaves.

Now before I EVEN allow those unfamiliar with this clip to peek-a-crackhead, it cannot be said that this isn’t one of the FIRST. Oh no, people have been showing their whole entire ass on various forms of media for years.

Such as….

Commentary is almost unnecessary, as the Godfather of Soul (RIP J-Breezy) rips and runs through vowels, destroying any possible recognizable sentence structure, all whilst donning the funkiest, BADDIEST shades I’ve ever seen.

And this…

That’s just funny. How in the liverpudding hell, do you get THAT drunk? It’s torture enough for your family members, but we, citizens with full viewership to YouTube, are thus tortured with that mammoth wolly pectorals of yours, Mr. Hasselhoff. Hell kinda fertilizer are you using on your chest?

Now…this shit right here? This shit right here? THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE?

No really…I can’t. I’m weak.

Are they real?

Yes the hell they are. I don’t know about you, but me? I’m am your typical twitter addict. And I mean ADDICTED. I’ll leave my Tweet Deck, get in my car, pull up UberTwitter, only to get to work and pull up web Twitter. The ADHD in me, won’t have it any other way.

So. Seeing as I spend an average of WAY too many damn hours on there, it’s no surprise that I ( and another one of my good good gals….What it DO @Candy_Girl6) would come across a specimen of male so fine, that I actually drooled. All over my damn keyboard. And I was upset. This keyboard cost alot.

First of all, I thought I was past the age for crushes. And I am. But in no shape, form or fashion am I too old for a TWITTER Crush. #dontjudgeme! Hell, you know how many HOURS I spend around my Twitter family? Do you know I replaced all text talk with hashtag talk? AND Do you know how GIDDY I get when @YeahyouthoughtIwasgonnaputhisnameheredidntyou replies to me. Hell, I actually smile. In Real Life, In Real Time. When’s the last time you typed LOL and actually Laughed Out Loud. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.

Shit’s ridiculous.

I mean. I ACTUALLY typed this on my feed.

#recklesstweet Sir, If you were to put a ring on it, I’d be the best storage shed to your seed EVER IMAGINABLE. You fine fine…#logsoff

Yeah. You don’t have to do it. I’m S.haking M.y H.ead at myself. I don’t need your pity.

Kooley High.

C’mon! I see your blank faces! North Carolina has alot of offer, and I am going to need for atleast one N.C. State Head to stand up in their honor. Best thing ya’ll got going for you, at the current moment. ( I keed Wolfpack, I keed!)

Simply stated. We got us here, six, count ‘em, SIX Wolfpack hip hop lovers who decided the need of a mammal to climb its way to the top of the game and bare its claws in triumph. What do you end up with? Kooley High. Former N.C State students, formed a group comprising of three emcees, two producers , a DJ and a patridge in a pear tree.

Throw all of that in the bag ( No Loso ) and you get this…

Yes. Enjoy.

I got one question for you. Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan you diiiiiiiiiiiiig iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit? You should. Its awesomeness to me. Awesomeness. North Carolina produces AWESOMNESS!!!

*cuts the lights off*

Harajuku. Do you even know what that means….*shakes her head firmly.* She obviously doesn’t and neither do you.

I hate Nicki Minaj.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Onika Maraj. Oh! Don’t know who that is, do you?  That was the woman who Nicki Minaj USED to be. You know before the alleged plasticfication of her form and the subsequent eradication of her personality and heritage.
Who is Nicki Minaj? A machine of regime? A dolled up black geisha, here to perform at snap’s notice? The voice of the urban young female?  Yeah, and I’m Tiger Wood’s 17th mistress ( Tiger. Call me. PuurMeowWink.)  

My question is, what makes a young woman, of African and Trinidadian decent, want to become a Barbie? As we all know or may not know, Barbie was engineered after a German doll, and remained a character of the Caucasian persuasion until the year 1967, when Mattel produced the doll, “Colored Francie”. Colored Francie technically was just White Barbie painted black, still equiped with an aqualine nose, and bone straight hair. And the name Francie. What in the high ”Hold My Mule” Hell, kinda name is that?

They even had an “Oreo” Fun Barbie in 97, that caught all kinds of negative attention for being, beside utterly ridiculous, racially insensitive and thoughtless. *cues Dorrough – Cream on the inside, Black as hell on the outside.*

So. Of all the things that Onika Maraj could have chosen to be. Why Barbie? Now, I know it would be remiss of me to squarely put this all on the shoulders of Ms. Maraj. She probably had little to do with her transformation from regular mediocre MC to….whatever she thinks she is today. She just sat back and watched as the music executives proverbially fucked her, pumping and prodding her already weak psyche with the adjustments that would bring sells, spins, and fans. Changing her whole persona, and allegedly her body, to make her the perfect female weapon in this male dominated genre of hip hop.

At the end of the day, who am I to knock her hustle? She’s a beautiful woman (if that is indeed her face) and has a flawless figure (if that is indeed her figure) that probably fuels a number of hand-spank sessions all across the urban landscape. Can’t hate on that AT ALL. Hell, she did exactly what she thought she needed to do to succeed and that, at the end of the day, marks the chest of a strong woman; mentally, perhaps. Spiritually….maybe not so much.

One, such as I, just wished that proverbial spintable in the sky, that in the genre of hip hop, a woman didn’t have to go to those extremes to be noticed. Would Onika Maraj, had been just as popular had she remained herself? Although, a very difficult plight to do whilst bathed in the limelight, it is hard to believe that the woman we see before us is ANYTHING like she was before the magic wand of success transformed her into a monster. Little girls around the world will see this and eventually will grow to believe that this is the correct avenue to perusing your dreams. Place your actual talent on the backburner with the baby’s milk, and make PaPa a meal. Appeal to the masses sexually, to be considered respectfully.

Therein lies the one problem I see in the culture of hip hop; its stubborn refusal to dismiss its misogynistic columns that has been a source of sustainment for years, probably since in inception. But to go into that would require, an agent and a book deal, and I have neither.

*Turns to the Little Girls of the World* Don’t listen to Ms. Minaj, or any Young Money executive when they approach you with a handful of cash and boxes of Tupperware for beautification. You ARE already beautiful. Just as you are. You are talented and worthy of this world. JUST AS YOU ARE. Don’t let them tell you differently. Now, go play with your Barbie.( #kanyeshrug)

I do. I really really do. Not in the, I’ll Derwin Davis-turkey baster-his ass, if I got a chance. That’s just crazy. I just love the dude.

Why? Because I can. (And before I get started, if I hear a peep out of any dude, I’ll go apeshit. Because I know a handful of nigglets RIGHT NOW that would lick the bottom of Rosa Acosta’s tub if given the chance. And I don’t even think she can “reed gud”.)

Here’s the deal. Hometown Hero. Although not BORN in Fayetteville, North Carolina, he did relocate here at the age of one. By my standards, anything under the age of four gives him the Fayetteville marker. Not that that’s neccisarily a good thing. I live in Fayetteville. It’s not the best place to live, by any stretch of the imagination. Its boring, dangerous, boring, and boring. Contructivly, how any place can be boring AND dangerous boggles the mind, but yet I digress.

With good sense, hopped his ass on the midnight train to New York after graduating from Terry Sandford. (Sidenote. I HATE Terry Sandford. Snooty bastards. And when I had the unfortunate luck to have played ball at Cape Fear, when we would play against Terry Sandford, there was this girl named Kendra Bell. Imagine me and my non dribbling ass going against an all star point guard. And she was nice person to boot. Hell!) But anyways, gets to New York, graduates from St. John’s University, Magna Cum Laude. You hear that? Magna Cum -F*cking-Laude. (Yeah look up at the scoreboard…racking points buddy.)

Then he somehow manages (through what I can imagine was an incredibly difficult,stressful, not to mention intimidating avocation) to catch Shawn Carter. Big Homie. Jay-Z’s attention. Becomes the FIRST signee to Roc Nation. Allwhilst through two solid mixtapes, shouting out Fayetteville, North Carolina, Home of the Murch and all things hood, at every corner and bend he can manage.

Why WOULDN’T I love him. Smart as hades-brimstone-fire hell, tettering on greatness with a lyrical game so fresh, that I call it Fabreeze. Potential to be one of the greats in the game given the oppourtunity and the correct exposure, humble as hell, (Yeah, I’ve seen every YouTube he has out there) and actually reps Fayetteville.

Now let me let you understand this. NOBODY reps Fayetteville, except if you’re the Military. Whomp Whomp. The only other person-slash-group we have to rely on at the current moment (excluding acts that haven’t gotten their just deserves-Shoutout to J.Gunn, F.R.A.T, ect) are Little Brother and …..(inhaleexhale) Peety Jackfucking Pablo. So excuse me if I’m over-excited that my city has produced talent. TALENTED talent. Cute, smart, talented talent.

On second hand…where IS my Turkey Baster?

Today at work, I seen two grown ass women damn near jump out of their skins in pure joy, when one of the patients produced the “Think Like a Lady” book. Now mind you …

A) This lady was on her fourth kid at the age of 22 and is depending on the government to pay all of her bill. She NEEEEDED the “Think” book, she says. What she NEEDS is to master common sense and birth control, to deter from fertile men with no jobs….but I digress.

When I seen the book, I cracked a…nothing actually. My face did nothing . I was not excited. And I’ll tell you why.

One. What I look like taking relationship advice from a man who looks like the Black Version of Mr. Clean?
The dynamics of relationships are quite complex. But the outline of them is pretty simple to UNDERSTAND if you ask me. This doesn’t apply to the PRACTICE *because I’m not good at practicing, #realtalk*of those dynamics…just the simple basic fundamental elements.

And here they are. Black and White.

He either WANTS TO…. or DOESN’T WANT TO (the wildcard is he can’t…but that is subject to situational conditions.)

Simple.

He either WANTS to come see you or he DOESN’T want to come see you. Give or take the wildcare which he wants to come see and can’t *no car, has to work, tired, FUCKING SOMEBODY ELSE AT THE MOMENT*…well that depends on the situation.

He either WANTS to take you out or he DOESN’T. If you’ve been with a man for more than….6 months and you haven’t seen the outside of his living room or bedroom…HE DOESN’T want to be seen in public with you. Look. Times is hard…but they ain’t THAT hard that his brokedomness confines him to his house and his house alone. Wise up. DVDs ain’t dates. That’s fourplay.

He either WANTS to call you or DOESN’T want to call you. Phones games are retarded. He’s either going to want to talk to you, pick and the phone and DO IT. Or he doesn’t want to talk to you, will wait till you call and find a way to get off the phone with you, QUICK. *Unless you offer head or something to keep his attention….which I advise you NOT do.* That waiting by the phone shit is for the birds. Phones, last time I checked in 2009, make and receive calls. So as much as you’re calling him, IF HE WANTED TO, he could be calling you. Stop wasting your minutes/texts on someone who doesn’t want to TALK TO YOU.

Here’s the biggie. He either WANTS to be with you or He DOESN’T. Ain’t no getting around this shit here. If he wants to be with you…He will be with you. Ain’t no game you gotta play, no hide and seek with your coochie, no nothing. He either likes who you are….or JUST likes how you fuck. Period.

I don’t need no damn book to tell me that. I know the shit.YOU know the shit. But like I said Practice and Understanding are two different things. BUT If you need a book to tell you when to have sex with a man, and when to hold your cards and blah blah blah…well….

Tough Break Hoe…If you need that much help, you’re gonna lose. Whatya gonna do 10 years down the line when you’re married and STILL clueless…get the Think like a Wife but act like a Husband……series of books? No.

I wrote it out just to let you know that Harvey running to the bank on ya’ll. I wrote everything you know and need to know if a roughly thrown together note. He just flapping his jaws and now He’s RICH BIOTCH.

One. Stop typing in all Caps. This isn’t YouTube. There isn’t a Audio button that we can hear how LOUDLY you’re typing. Get it, asshat? How Loudly you’re TYPING? Stop it.

Two. I forgot what Two was. #kanyeshrug

Three. I KNOOOOW you love your significant other. I’m so happy for you. Love is beautiful. Such a beautiful thing. But shit, Casanova. Do I have to hear about it, all through out the day. . C’mon. No really. Shut the f*ck up. You and Pookie Baby Girl may be attached at the hip. But its not MY hip.

*Said message does not apply to those who are married or in the process of said ceremony…

Four. Alphanumeric messages are for morons. I d0n’t car3 if y0u think this is cut3. ITs not, b!+ch.

Five. Typing like you have Shift Key turrets isn’t cute eitherThIs iS fOr FuCkInG ReTaRdS. Do You know how much time and energy is wasted doing that shit. If you are older than 3, you should type like you still don’t shit in pampers for a living. Damn eyeballs wanna commit seppuku trying to read that. Why is you GANGBANGING on the shift key, bruh?

Six: Thug-a-lisms. If you are planning on assaulting someone. Just do it. That menacing screw face sneer and autistic yelling at the monitor…isn’t scary. You can’t spacebar and Caps Lock the shit outta anybody. Your going to actually have to fight them. Why give up the element of surprise by letting your opponent know you’re mad …or whatever you call that you’re doing.

Seven: If you are having a bad day. EVERYDAY. Don’t tell us. We don’t care enough to CARE enough if you put it in your status. After the …third consecutive pathetic ass status message, I would recommend you LOG the hell off, and seek help. I don’t care if you gotta go down to the bus stop and talk to Jimmy Joe the crackhead. Come back with a smile on your perpetual e-face or don’t come back at all.

Eight: You’re “rich”. I get it. I’m not. So shut up.

Nine: If you’re going to put something extra witty or copy and paste your favorite artist/rapper/actor/poet....Know what the hell you are talking about. Make sure it “APPLIES TO YOU“. Not a thug…quote-ables from the hardest rapper on EARF won’t make you hard. Poppin a cap in someone’s ass does that. Beyonce…if you don’t have a boyfriend…or have been single for YEARS….Put a Ring on it DOESN’T APPLY TO YOU….and you ARE probably Replaceable, boo. You’re happy OBAMA won…but you didn’t vote.

Ten: Controversial status updates are fun. But why not just make it into a note? Gives you room to back up that bull hockey doo doo shit you’re talking…

That is all. Kumbaya and all that jazz. Sprinkles on your cupcakes and shit.

Peace.