I Ain’t Making You The Butt Of My Jokes
Okay children, before you get all indignant and cry that your life is now scarred because your virtual surrogate father figure has broken his word, I’d like you to note that it was still Thursday in Oakland when I began writing this post(a).
Still, if you must know, when a man or woman gets of a certain age in this great country of hypocrisy, lies and wage slavery, the state in which they reside gives them to the right to imbibe as much alcohol as they want(b). Sometimes following up on this blue-eyed God given right is not such a good thing. Especially when it is hot as a Serengeti morning and conspiracy theories forbid you from investing in air conditioning. Such a confluence of variables can add new depths to the meaning of your soul burning slow from a self-ethering.
It also doesn’t help if you have to spend a good portion of your day holding palaver with whyte people who actually fall into the “genuinely cool individuals” category who just need to be sure you weren’t talking greasy the day before(c).
At any rate, after hearing this “Wamp Wamp” snippet that is inexplicably floating everywhere over les internetes but here(d), I can say I don’t see what the big deal is. See, unlike some Outkast Stans, I don’t claim that shit is the best thing since Southernplayalisticadillacmuzick simply because one of my favorite groups did it. Granted, I haven’t heard the whole song(e) and Push-a-Ton does have that great “give a bitch yellow fever, all these gold bottles” line(f). And I have yet to hear one syllable from Malice, who always comes just as good, if not better than, little brother Push.
And shit, it’s better any of that bullshit that Outkast has put out this year. Lie to yourselves all you want. All I want for Christmas in July is We Got It 4 Cheap Vol. 3. Or an Ab-Liva mixtape(g).
Now, I’m getting sick of saying fuck Jive Records, so I think I’ll just say that the Zomba Group can go to Hell in a vat of Uncle Wray’s on a hot summer day(h).
Anyhoo, SOHH is garbage—straight up and down. Trash in its highest digitized form. And the fact that some of you children read that poor excuse of a website would explain why you need little notes inside your shoes that say “toes go first.”
So. . .
1. Their Site Is Butt Ugly and Their Navigation Sucks — As I am far from alone on this observation, I really feel no need to go into it with any amount of detail.
2. Their “News” Section Sucks — It’s basically regurgitated press releases and shit that’s plagiarized from real news sources. Honestly, I don’t feel that they should be encroaching on Clyde Smith’s territory with such aplomb.
3. Their Blogs — You call those blogs? Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit.
4. Their Fruitflies Are Even Dumber Than You Guys — Which is really saying a lot(i).
5. They’re Grammar Sucks Orangutan Nuts — No homo standard, but I’m very anal about things like “they’re” vs. “their,” “whose” vs. “who’s,” “it’s” vs. its,” and so forth. But, judging from the erroneous syntax found in the comments across these pages, I am in the minority on this.
6. Their “Exclusive” Sources — These sources almost “exclusively” read like Ray-Ray from the barbershop. You can look it up.
7. They Tried To Stick Their Hand In The XXL Cookie Jar — I’m not one to tell tales out of school, but if they didn’t try to lure a certain blogger from this site with promises of mondo ducats, we wouldn’t have vicked Fresh and Eskay(j).
8. They Got Rid Of My Favorite Whipping Boy — I can’t front like a great source of joy derived from this gig was lost when they let him go. Like, what am I supposed to do now? Beef with some cornball who lurks around our comments sections?
9. “The Pulse Report” — Supposedly it’s what the skreets are buzzing about, but it’s basically a rundown of internet nerd shit that you’d already be up on if you had NahRight on your RSS feed.
10. They’ve Been The Number Two Hip-Hop Website By Default — How you gon’ be in the game for a decade and let AllHipHop(k) sun you? That’s just plain embarrassing. And don’t think we ain’t gonna do our numbers over here, bitches. Good night and good luck, your goddamnedselves.
TMW: Not a goddamned thing. It’s the weekend, children. Go get some sun.
(a) And sometimes that’s all that matters.
(b) Ironically, the age at which one can pick up a gun and murder foreign nationals “for their country” is much lower. Go figure.
(c) The fact that some of these people are gatekeepers to the little pieces of green paper that can get you more of those good spirits and wines means that it is in your best interest to have said conversations, for as we all well know, the hair of the dog that bit you is not free. Oh, no.
(d) Seems amongst thieves the honor is dead.
(e) I have resigned myself to waiting until the full album is in stores or online, whichever comes first. Which will be online. Standard.
(f) I love when he gets all Roy G. Biv with it. Eghck.
(g) If you don’t know why I say this, you’re clearly not listening. Clearly.
(h) Not that there’s any such thing as Hell, but still. That Uncle Wray’ll have you on your ass if you ain’t know.
(i) You children must understand that I only berate you because I love you. Trust me, this all hurts me more than it hurts you.
(j) Not for nothing, I—in a perfectly healthy and heterosexual manner—love the shit out of everyone on my squad and would put anything on us. We the Black Cards of this internet shit. Don’t get it twitted.
(k) Those gully bastards, I fucks with.