Whenever I see images of Rick Ross the aroma of transmission fluid and parmesan cheese immediately flow throw my nostrils. And then out of no where I become constipated. Just like that. But for whatever reason I can’t help but give him my undivided attention. Not since the emergence of T-Pain have I focused in on a vagina dryer this much.
This past Tuesday while his beloved Miami Heat was in the locker room popping bottles, Rick was in New York City performing at Pier 63. It is rumored that he refused to perform until he had some Grey Goose in his system. Ah yes, there is nothing like watching a big drunk man sweating on stage. Excuse me as I wrench my panties dry.
I have some sort of twisted thing for ol’ Ricky. I’m can almost guarantee that he leaves a mean ring around the tub that not even 409 could tackle, but he does exemplify the spirit of Miami. But c’mon, you know that nigga is not that nice. Having a little swagger can open up many doors in life.
Now before you Southern cyber thugs curl your fingers to type some shit about everybody in the universe hating on someone from your region, you should know that your girl is Georgia born and bred. I just don’t see what all the fuss is about sometimes. But I’ll save my complaints for another day. While I’m on the subject of Rick, something has been on my mind for sometime and I thought I would share it with you all. I’m just saying . . .