Y'all enjoyed it so much last time, fuck it, let's do it again. Next issue: Cover(s) and edit note. Feel free to cop it twice. You still can't see me. Word to Kimora Lee. I feel sorry for you muthafuckas.

We the Best

I’m the king of magzinos. This is how you spell “Preemo.” But I don’t do it for the people, truth be told—I does it for me. As the homie Clark Kent said in my favorite episode of the criminally-slept-on The Ultimate Hustler (Damon, holla at me, man!), you don’t do this, I do this. And I’m on the tippy-toppy like Tip or T.I. or T.I.P. or whatever you want to call the man who ruled the ’06 and is back for his re-up. Rubber band man. Wild like the Taliban. And when I tally up the numbers, the K.I.N.G. of the ATL gives Big Elly another one in the victory box. I’m all about a check. Check!

I know you rappers out there are gonna be cussin’ out your managers and crying to your publicists. How did Yellow Nigga (sorry, Russ, I got a brand here, pimpin’—ain’t nothing changing on this side, daddy) give the dude Clifford Harris two covers? He’s one nigga. Two covers. One nigga. Two covers. It don’t add up. And then you see the back? What you know about that? The original Murder Inc. and Fiddy (I love when White people call him that) and Yayo know all about that. Yup, we sell the back, but not the front. Take that shit somewhere else. Step into the Ozone, if you know what I mean. I stay keyboard strapped.

You know, last night (I see you, Puff) I was twisty-pissy drunk off an $85 bottle of the finest bubbly my lips have ever touched. (Pause. No Dipset beef. Double pause.) Me and the homie Jonathan Mannion were having a real talk, as you ’80s babies say. Or a real conversation, as grown-ass men have on occasion. Basically, the gist of the shit was this: In the hip-hop world, you think photographer, you think Jonathan Mannion. You think DJ, you think Funkmaster Flex. You think magazine editor—and guess what, nappy-headed hoes and my swagger-jacking foes—you close your eyes and you see me. Elliott Jesse Christopher Wilson II. That’s right, I’m a junior. I love pop dukes, and we don’t even peck cheeks. Must be a Southern thing.

And shit, that’s what XXL’s becoming lately. I told y’all last month my master plan. If things keep goin’ this way, YN might cop his next crib and recline below the Mason-Dixon Line. But I know the question y’all want an answer to. When does 50 mania kick in? When is Curtis coming home and setting off the summer madness? Well, it’s with great sadness that I regret to inform you that 50 is no longer fuckin’ with…Sike! The nigga’s on the next cover. Anything less is uncivilized. Yeah, you’ll see Ferrari on about 500 covers, but I promise you no one does it like us. Please believe, I keep the tricks up my sleeve.

Speaking of which, after Curtis comes our 10th anniversary issue. That’s right. That’s when I really get on my soapbox and slap box you chumps on your ears. Fuck lotto and you Mega Millions–dreamin’ morons, I got a new motto: A Decade of Dominance. Double XL. XXL. Extra Large. Extra Large. Whatever you want to call it. I had then. I got now. I don’t care who got next. Respect to the foundation of this brand, but give the god his due. YN and his elite fleet sure as hell renovated the hell out of this muthafucka. XXL La Familia, and I’m muthafuckin’ Bob Vila.

Before I go, everybody say “hoe.” Say “hoe.” Life’s a bitch, and then you die. Why try throw bleach in your eye? Anti-rap crusaders, get the bozack. We don’t need to explain ourselves. It’s our culture. Parents just don’t understand. Kool G Rap’s catalogue may be morally indefensible, but he’s one hell of a lyricist. Raise your crumb snatchers and leave them rappers alone. Jeans. Hoods. Guns. Crack. Oh my God, I think I’m having a rap attack. Get back, Loretta. If it gets warm, take off the hot sweater. It’s poetry, peons. Push, push in the Bush. Bring ’em home safely instead.

Afternoon nap time,

Elliott “YN Forever” Wilson


P.S. Jay-Z told Marley Just was the new Preemo. I’m just sayin’…