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Michael, Michael, Michael, You My Nigga!

It’s been a really fucked up year for niggas named Ron. First Browz, now Artesticles. I don’t know if I like being a Ron anymore. ☹

As I briefly mentioned on today’s podcast, I refrained from mocking Ron Artest’s simultaneous mockery of Michael Jackson’s death—and, well… all music—for reasons unbeknownst to… everyone.

Today I have come to terms with my hypocrisy. If I can make fun of something as heartfelt and awesomely awful as “It’s So Cold in the D”, I can tell you all that a touchdown nigga like Ron Artest ain’t doin shit right. He ain’t all the way special. This nigga knows better! He’ll be the first Tru Warier to tell you that he kinda sorta went to college for a little bit.

Doctor told his mama if he was born five minutes later (or “a fireman”) he’d have been mentally retarded. Sha-pow!

I went in on Michael’s memorial service because niggas deserve better than shoddy, self-seeking shit surrounding their caskets. I mean, please… keep such fuckery away from mine if you’re around when I go. Don’t let me see Ruthell Thimmonth Prethenth: Global Grind talkin about “Ron Methico wathen’t thrange! It wath thrange how they hated on the hate!”

You know they’ll do it. Then Jojo… I mean, Young Simmons will drop a memorial verse via satellite from the top bunk.

In the same vein, Michael deserves better than the worst song ever created. How hard did you laugh when you heard Artest say “I know you hittin on me, but you showed me love” or that he “hope to see [Mike] next year”? I laughed until I cried. It was some complex shit.

Michael Jackson is the world’s greatest trending topic of all time. Michael Jackson dedication songs generate accidental clicks. Much like The Game, Simple Simon knows he can Sharpton his way into a little shine for his own—oh, god. I don’t wanna say it—musical career.

Regardless how much he misses Michael, Artest effectively makes a mockery of himself and all music. He might be clueless, but he’s not new to this shit. Unfortunately, Artest hasn’t yet realized that celebrity alone doesn’t sell records. If he had, homie might not have wasted time and money on shit like Allure reunion albums. He wouldn’t keep rappers a hairsbreadth away from foreclosure hanging around his house playing NBA Live and mumbling throwaway verses into his expensive magical rapster equipment either.

This shit is not wavy, Ron-Ron. You’re a basketball player. Stop trying to live out the industry rap bible’s Revelation. It ends with a seven-headed, ten horned demon carrying you back to Queensbridge projects bitter, broke and toothless.

Nevermind that last part. Ron Artest been had dentures.

Questions? Comments? Requests? No. I’m not taking The Game’s bait. The nigga’s just trying for Negro Please at this point. ron@ronmexicocity.com

P.S.: I really really hope Ron Artest didn’t say “I know you hittin on me” about listening to Mike as a kid.

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