Whattuuuuuup?! Wuz hatt-nen? Awll my hay-tas… Please get at me.
As the DDN Tournament winds down I’m glad to be getting back into the swing of exactly what the fuck it is we does round hurr, know’m tombout?
Much like any other fan of The King, I’d been watching Tea Eye’s Road to Redemption religiously. All things considered–like government pressure and incentive to convey contrition–I found Tip’s work with the select group of youngsters to be somewhat effective. It even looked pretty sincere, even if slightly off-base at times.
As the series progressed I grew increasingly worried about the precedent being set. Were snitching not a factor in T.I.’s incredible sentence reduction, the message had been sent. Convince the judicial system that you can use your celebrity to positively influence select youngsters while indoctrinating your massive fan base to federal initiative and you can serve your expected sentence at pennies on the doll—er, um—days on the prison year.
Succumbing to heartwarming success story after another—except for Edward, who ended up on the The Tyra Banks Show for beating his redbone baby mama, Chopper Mario, who’s currently fighting an attempted murder charge and Peewee, who had to ride down on some fools this past Obama Day Eve when he was supposed to be with Clufford in Chocolate City—I’d come to give Tippy complete and utter benefit of doubt. They’d sold me on the notion that at least some good had been done during the shit show that is the public autopsy of T.I.’s gangster persona. I still couldn’t believe that a several-time felon convicted in a new fed case that’d land even a first-time offender double-digit years in the pokey could George Jefferson strut out of the courthouse with only a prison year and a day to serve.
[Blogger’s Note: That's right. Try that shit for yourself. They'll hide yo' mawfuckin ass. T.I., however, will be home by Christmas. It’ll only seem like a normal break between albums. This nigga’s been on tour longer.]
Then, last Tuesday night came the episode we’d all been waiting for. “Who we workin’ wit’ today? Oh, that’s right. Cluffurd Hurris!” Knowing Sway and his inexplicable headwrap, I expect MTV Networks to steer clear of the tough questions. Instead, Can’t-Catch-a-Cab Calloway goes into full Toure mode and asks Tea Eye if snitching is, in fact, part of the comprehensive deal allowing him to only miss a couple barbecues and shit.
The following twenty-minute response to a very simple question removed any doubt in my mind that this man had indeed done some damn snitching.
“Ummm… Define snitchin, pimpin. If I hadda snitched, they’s got documents and Afro Davids and shit. It’s awwwl public ruccord, my nigga. You could look it up on the innanet. Besides, pimp. Who I’mma snitch on? Who got mo’ guns than me? Come on, now. I got mo’ gunz than a Somalian warlord. Y’awll so ridiculous. In fact, I ain’t een really goin to jail. I’m doin a Paper Trail tour on Neptune with The Neptunes…”
A simple “absolutely not” would have sufficed. Instead, your man gives the ultimate R. Kelly answer.
Maybe he didn’t snitch at all. Maybe this is how niggas will be purchasing their get out of jail free cards going forward. Maybe celebrities will never again be held accountable for their actions. If such is the case, Gucci Mane ain’t never goin down between albums again. Once his Southern Shine foundation provides enough personalized grills for the needy children of Georgia who otherwise couldn’t afford them, he’ll be able to partner up with the statehouse for an EZ Pass.
I know damn well my Dead Urban Poets Society for thriving young Harlem writers will come in handy when I finally go down for some dumb shit. I’ve got the blueprint laid out already. *wink*
My name ain’t gone be showin up on nobody’s Afro-David nuther.
Questions? Comments? Requests? I’m black, handsome. I sing. Plus, I snitch. email@example.com