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I Tried Being Humble—Humble Get No Respect

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Clyde Smith, proprietor of a suite of websites where novel ideas go to die, is an idiot.

Mind you, Clyde is far from the only eunuch(a) of his sort, as les internetes are full of such barren nerds, many of whom chose to disgrace the quality of commentary on these very pages with their still-born observations. Matter of fact, my favorite virtual whupping boy found new employment some time ago and I’ve promised to leave his punk ass alone for the time being(b). So what am I left with?

I’m left with Clyde.

Honestly, I’d rather not bore you future leaders of the free world with such trivial matters—what with all the very important subjects swimming through your craniums(c)—but if one continues to give chumps a pass it is not long before one becomes a chump himself. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bible. Old Testament.

Anyhoo, Clyde, who runs a press release cum rag (not unlike SOHH’s “news” section), is the type of guy who thinks that his having read a few books makes him an authority on hip-hop, much like many of the sensitive wiggers around here whom decry me as a racist(d). But, children and Mrs. Smith, as Robert Louis Stevenson once said: “Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life.” (And I know he said this because it’s written on my wall.)

You see, unlike the other chump, who passes off sloppy analogies and half-assed analysis as something resembling thought, Smith traffics in cultural indictments masquerading as intellectual debate. He’s the type of guy who won’t sit down and have a conversation with you to find out that you’re at your wit’s end on how to get the last $300 your mom needs for her life-saving operation, but the first to wring his hands when you crack some lady over her head for her purse.

Moreover, he’s the type to start a beef then run to the cops. And a snitch(e).

I’m pretty sure Clyde, who’s 40 if he’s 12, stopped listening to hip-hop about the time Professor Griff got kicked out of Public Enemy. Yet he still pops his head around, trying to turn conversations in kindler, gentler affairs where dudes adhere to Robert’s Rules of Order, or something. That would be fine and good were we running drug operations on the streets of Baltimore, but this ain’t that.

There’s not much that can be said about this turd that hasn’t already been said so I’ll wrap it up like this:

Clyde, keep the names of anyone remotley affiliated with this site off your keyboard or I will slap holy fire out your nose(f).

Okay? Okay.

Now, in other news: I heard this “Chicken Noodle Soup” song for the first time Saturday. Rumor has it that Jive was going to sign DJ Webstar and Young B to a nine million-dollar deal, but opted to go with K-Fed and The Buckwheat Boys.

And, apropos of nothing:

There are some things that you don’t discuss
Don’t ask me about the Neptunes and “What’s they fare?”
Don’t ask about the loud, screaming chick with the hair
Don’t ask about my music and “How that’s coming ’bout?”
Don’t ask about my album or “When’s it coming out?”

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TMW: Blender magazine and other assorted quasi-hipster assholes.


(a) My legal team has advised me to inform you that having never seen Clyde’s private parts—or lack thereof—there is little way for me to verify that he has, indeed, been castrated. No something or other. Standard.

(b) But, still—I want you to come out your face again. Please. I beg.

(c) See: sarcasm

(d) Which, of course, I am. Obviously.

(e) All 100% true.

(f) As it is physically impossible to make fire come out of a human nose at the present time, I trust that you will understand the metaphor, unlike the other little girl who claims I called her a “fag.” (Remember, children: Violence only begets violence.)

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