Tru Life: Breakfast of Champions
So, as I was saying Friday, I’m thinking this shit right here was filmed just before the DDN Tournament and woefully mishandled–not unlike Tru Life’s career. Aaron McGruder couldn’t have written this buffoonery any better.
We bask in your swagnificence, Lizzy.
[Blogger’s Note: I find it funny there’s so much controversy with Cam’ron and Jim Jones, seeing as how Tru Life looks like Jimmy’s angry, misguided little brother… with a splish-splash of Chino XL.]
Maybe Tru Lizzy and Puffy can partner with a cereal manufacturer, like Post or General Mills and work out a mimosa deal. If not, let’s at least get some Tru Life cereal.
I can hear the slogan now. “That shit taste like success.”
Is this self-etherization video the legacy of The Carter Administration? Are we gonna have to wait through Reaganomics and a Gulf War before there’s hope for the future?
Perhaps I shouldn’t blame Lizzy’s career on mishandling. I mean, I’m from Harlem. I’ve always hung out in L.E.S. a lot. I don’t know any fans of Tru Life’s music. Everyone can tell me who he’s supposedly manhandled or humiliated, but no one knows any Tru Life songs.
I know we’ve all shown our asses around birthday time before, but this clip is up there with Choppa Suit, Cheddar Gets Cheddar and Tyga Eats Money on the all-time Worldstar iCoonery hit list. Thank DJ Fusion for the term I wish I came up with on my own.
My favorite segment might be when Lizzy McGuire hits his associate off with the post drive-by, “hold this down for me,”—as if the box of Fruity Pebbles were responsible for the murder of a young, talented, cornrowed Puerto Rican boy who disappeared from the game far too soon.
Imagine the tragedy that could have been Lizzy getting caught out there on his birthday. Harlem niggas know the time. First Avenue ain’t the spot where Prince ethered Morris Day for all time. Niggas is hungry over east side. Anyone flashing money ‘round thurr before all the traphouse bailout checks have been issued may as well be wearing steak underwear in a piranha tank. For Lizzy to clamor on about gambling his life away is wonderfully ironic. Homeboy is a warrior poet.
Hoe-Man the Swag-garian never minces words—only thoughts.
“My head was cluttered. I couldn’t really think too much, man. I was just going through some things. A lot of fuck niggas in this industry, man. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. My album is basically done, man. I had Jay on the album, Nas on the album, Snoop on the album. All the biggest niggas… In the long of me grindin and coming up in that whole grind I lost that creativity. I wasn’t having fun doing what I do… I guess I had to walk away from the game to miss it for a while. For that year and a half, I been in the crib playin Wii. I broke two TVs damn near…”
Lizzy didn’t do that shit. He got high, watched a Southwest Airlines commercial and misfiled it into his memory bank. If you ride around in the rented Phantom long enough, you’ll hear about the time he and Dudley started hanging out with the child molester by accident. Apparently, Mr. Drummond sat my man down for some real talk. It was some real shit.
[Blogger's Note: Most inappropriate laugh track EVARR!]
Oooh! I have an idea on how to make some good of this. I’m like, a genius. Check me out right quick. Boom.
Attention all Myspace rappers: Here’s how you endear yourself to the public. Liquidate your entire advance and dance around the walls of Jericho with it on your birthday. If this only manages a Chopper Stack, borrow a knot from a local drug dealer for the evening. Be sure to do this in plain view. If the stuntage unfolds without a hitch, you’ve got standard issue hood DVD promotional fodder. At most this costs you a trip to the Hip-Hop Police persons of interest list. If a kerfuffle ensues, you get to shoot a nigga–which is also street cred gold. If you die, you’re a legend.
In any case, you win.
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