As March approaches, some of hip-hop’s marquee players are making bids for The Big Dance.
My twitter buddy/top-ten favorite rap entertainer, The Real Noreaga, is having a MacGruber-like week. Mr. 57th Ave is finding new and amazing ways to lower his approval ratings.
[Blogger’s Note: He owe me a hunnid favors.]
Of all the down-to-earth and comically-inclined entities in music, N.O.R.E. is among the last I’d ever expect to sour his jugo de tamarindo over a half-hearted jab by any blogger, let alone Perez Hilton.
Being a blogger himself, I expect better.
For starters, it’s Perez fucking Hilton. If you’re in the news for any reason, he’s going to call you a douchebag or some shit. Considering that there wasn’t a penis or jizz trail drawn on El Pollo Loco’s face, I’d say he got off pretty easy. This is Negro Please. If you say or do some dumb shit, we’re gonna have to put it on the evidence table in the court of public opinion. This is what we do. Enduring reaction from the masses is the cost of being a public figure who may or may not have tossed a cosmopolitan into the face of an overanxious fan.
Speaking of which, how the fuck do you not know if you tossed a drink into someone’s face? Niggas [on the run eating] love to not know shit. For some strange reason, the nigga can readily recall every other important detail of the Fatburger incident. Yet, the most important one is surprisingly murky.
Way to insult our collective intelligence. That Jedi mind trick shit might work on the weed carriers. We’re a little too heavenly and divine for that shit round hurr.
[Blogger’s Note: It’s story time, children.]
I once, completely smacked out of my mind (no Trainspotting/Requiem For A Dream), told a homely young lady at a house party to stop tugging at my belt buckle while I was fading in and out of consciousness on my homeboy’s couch. I also remember peeling off a combination of diabolical hate that sent her to the bathroom all kinds of mortified. While I regret not being sober enough to handle that situation more responsibly—or remember what exactly I said—I absolutely remember doing that shit.
[Blogger’s Note: By “smacked out” I mean leaned the fuck out from an Asher Rothian night of underage drinking and gravity bong rips out of a bathtub with a 3-liter challis.]
The crime scene being Fatburger at 4am on a Sunday is likely fair indication that the N-O-R too was “smacked out.” Clearly he wasn’t blented enough to forget everything else about the evening. I bet he could tell us about the blowjob in the car, excuse me—“hed” in the whip–en route to the hotel.
The problem here lies in that, for a man who hates fame, N.O.R.E.—not unlike Xzibit–is making his shit public when it doesn’t need to be. This is far from thorough behavior.
Keeping consistent with advice given to many other rapsters and such, we at Negro Please suggest that when you’re mentioned in the media, especially fuckery of the Perez Hilton variety, here’s what you wanna do… nigga:
We all make mistakes from time to time. Case in point, I didn’t always escape the house party with dry nuts. With that said, our miscues tend to disappear quicker when we don’t draw attention to them, ya figgadeel me?
Maybe homeboy’s trying to eat yet again with the dust being kicked up. In which case, this ain’t the way. In fact, I explain as much in my last single, “Rapsters, This Ain’t The Way.”
Questions? Comments? Requests? Nothin’? Okay. email@example.com
P.S.: Just checked N.O.R.E.’s twitter. Looks like this shit isn’t anywhere near over. Nice. If it actually gets interesting, we may be back with The [Catastrophic] War[fare] Report.