I guess Kid Cudi isn’t done addressing the criticism he took over his Canadian bitch nigga moment. I would blame Kanye West’s influence, but I know the Cudi type all too well. He exhibits the same dangerous combination of Eastern European dictator megalomania and Ralph Tresvant sensitivity that have already consumed West, Lupe Fiasco and a slew of other artists whose unparalleled awesomeness keep us all awake at night.
The highlight of Cudi’s latest rant is that he insists the media and other rappers are out to destroy him, namely by portraying him as the poster child for violence. Now had Cudi felt he was being presented as the poster child for bitchassness, I’d have to agree. I would have been like, “Yes, Cudi. They definitely portray you in that light… when they show your actual and frequent displays of bitchassness.”
[Blogger’s Note: Remember Postaboy? Whatever happened to that fellow?]
How the fuck could a nigga be the poster child for violence when all we’ve seen is a single sissyslap at one of his sissified shows? That’s like Lil Wayne being the poster child for safe sex. Nigga’s probably only done it like once—and poorly, I’m sure. He must put condoms on his dreads like Jamaicans do. So long as you’re wearing it somewhere, right? But, I digress. Cudi plays to rooms filled with bitches—male and female alike—whom he knows he can assault with banter, whining and the occasional errant left hand.
That’s not to say everyone attending a Kid Cudi show is a whiny bitch. It’s just… well… you know what? I’ve yet to know someone who has purposely attended a Kid Cudi show who wasn’t a whiny bitch, so nevermind. I’ll pocket that one. The important people with the money say I should exercise more caution when I speak. There you go. Caution.
I thought people come to these shows to hear Cudi whine about being high and lonely over beats and shit. I guess they’re okay with a speech too, because this nigga is gettin all kinds of Obama love up there. The excitement in the crowd amazes me. He could have been reading the phone book. They would have cheered.
Despite the maniacal fans who will only let him see his mirror when it’s time to do a line, I don’t think anyone could possibly think about Mr. Solo Dolo as much as… well, Mr. Solo Dolo. There’s no concentrated effort by negro media to bring Cudi down. If there is, I surely haven’t gotten that behind the scenes email or press release. Granted, if I had I wouldn’t discuss it either. I am a professional, after all. But, no. Sorry. I’m not buying this “everyone’s against me” bullshit. Save that for the empty emo emu who need that sort of thing to feel alive.
People only write about Cudi for two reasons—well, three if you count that HBO show. Cudi makes music. Cudi makes ridiculous statements. I, like everyone else on the planet, assume that the Vancouver—er, umm—assault incident is an isolated one. If it’s not, then Cudi either gets his ass beat on the regular, or should have been a bookie. If that man gets into regular physical altercations, his true talent in life is picking spots and making odds.
My pops would take that nigga to Yonkers Raceway and bet the mortgage on “di numba tree ‘arse!”
In addition to promoting anarchy, Cudi claims he only got into the “game” to smoke his weed. At least he’s accomplished one of his goals. He must have smoked the entire Nick at Nite/TV Land rotation in one Dutch Master to come up with this shit right here, nigga.
[Blogger’s Note: This music shit is far from a game. It’s also nothing like selling drugs, despite the popular metaphor.]
Mr. Mescudi, this is my most sincere of season’s greetings to you. In order to avoid further embarrassment, I would like you to do a few things. Enjoy your new year. Make your little TV show. Quietly collect your non-Gaga tour money. Simma yuh poom poom.
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